Apex Risen

by Scott Medbury

  “Go ahead, do your magic Mr. Technician,” said the other, gesturing to the console.

  Tom took a deep breath and began typing.

  11

  Garcia had just grasped the door handle when the robot spoke in a soft voice.

  “Accepting new programming…”

  The sentence was followed by two distinctly machine-like beeps and a low humming sound that quickly faded. The thug then made the mistake of turning around. The robot was walking towards him.

  “What are you doing? Get back in your corner.”

  She continued towards him, smiling like an idiot, and it horrified him. He turned back to the door handle, his sweaty fingers slipping as he desperately tried to release the latch he had locked earlier.

  Finally, he did it and turned the handle, ripping the door open. He had barely taken a step when her hand grabbed him by his hair. The scream he let out was decidedly unmanly, and he scrabbled at the doorframe as the robot effortlessly dragged him back into the room. The last thing he saw was her pretty face, still smiling, as her hands gripped his head and twisted it sharply. His body dropped to the floor.

  The truncated scream was enough to alert the men in the guard's room. The robot heard raised voices and running footsteps, before the door burst open.

  The beautiful but now deadly robot lightly stepped over Garcia’s body to the threshold of the doorway. Marco, the new guy was keen to impress and beat the others to be the first man through the door of the Red Room. Inga grabbed the wrist of his gun hand and slammed the heavy red door against his shoulder twice, while pulling his arm back at an unnatural angle.

  The weapon dropped from numb fingers and his bloodcurdling screams spooked the others into shooting ineffectually at the metal door. The robot, still smiling, began to slam the door repeatedly, pulverizing the unfortunate Marco’s shoulder and upper arm. He passed out just before she wrenched his limb from the mangled mess of his shoulder.

  He fell backwards out of the doorway to the floor in front of his horrified co-workers as the door closed with a heavy thud.

  “Jesus! What the fuck!? Hold your fire!” yelled a chubby guard named Ray, who also happened to be Danny Garcia’s best friend.

  He bent over Marco and then began to drag him away from the door. The gravely injured man was unconscious, with blood pumping from his ruined shoulder at an alarming rate.

  “Milos, go and get a towel! And call the boss or Andre or someone!” Ray screamed.

  Milos ran back to the guard's room.

  “Was it Danny? Has he fucking lost it?” Ray asked as he tried vainly to staunch the flow of blood with his bare hand.

  “I don’t think it was Danny…” said the other guard, Charlie.

  Ray took his hand away and stood up, looking at the other man in disbelief.

  “What… the girl? Bullshit!”

  “I’m pretty sure the hand that grabbed Marco had painted nails…”

  Ray stood up and charged at the door, hammering on it with his blood-soaked hands.

  “Danny, come on out! What the fuck…”

  The door was snatched open, and Ray found himself face to face with the beautiful girl they had lusted over earlier. Her white, polka dot dress was now marred by a large blood spatter. On the floor behind her lay his friend Danny, his head turned at an unnatural angle, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling, a look of permanent surprise on his face.

  Confused, he looked back at the petite girl. That was when he saw she was holding Marco’s severed arm, swinging it slowly back and forth like a batter warming up as he approaches the home plate.

  Belatedly realizing the danger he was in, Ray began to bring his gun up. He was too slow. Inga swung the arm, clubbing him on the side of the head. The heavy blow poleaxed him, and he fell face first into the floor, his gun clattering onto the concrete.

  The man behind Ray, a 24-year-old called Charlie, looked at her, stunned at what he had just witnessed. As her eyes fell on him, he took a step back, and reached for his belt. His hands grasped at nothing and he realized he’d left his gun behind when they’d run out to see what the commotion was.

  Never mind. He pulled the switchblade knife out of his pocket and flicked it open.

  “Come on bitch!” he said, baring his teeth.

  He was still not quite willing to believe that the slender girl had been anything other than lucky. She had simply taken the others by surprise. Well, ole Charlie was ready for her. He crouched and began to weave the blade back and forth in front of him.

  Surprising him completely, she dismissed him and turned away. Still holding the severed arm in her left hand, she bent over and picked up Ray’s gun, placed the muzzle against his temple and pulled the trigger.

  “Fuck!” yelled Charlie, the concussion of the gunshot still ringing in his ears.

  The girl looked up and stepped over Ray’s body. Charlie decided it was time to get the fuck out of there. He turned and ran, weaving as he went, waiting at any moment for a bullet in the back. Again, she ignored him and walked over to the gravely wounded Marco. She bent over and also shot him through the temple.

  A quarter of the way to the stairway that led to the upper levels of the house, Charlie squealed at the gunshot and ducked, almost tripping before righting himself and continuing. Inga turned away from the body of Marco and stood up, raised her gun and aimed at him.

  Before she squeezed the trigger, Milos ran out of the guard's room, gun in one hand, towel in the other. He took in the fan of blood and brains around Marco’s head and immediately squeezed off a panicked shot at her.

  It missed completely. Inga turned, bringing her gun around to face this new threat. His second shot grazed her shoulder. He didn’t get a third. Inga’s shot took him in the chest, throwing him onto his back.

  Milos groaned and put a hand over the wound, hoping to stem the blood. His whole body felt numb, and he could hear his breath whistling with every ragged breath. He could only watch as the beautiful young woman walked over to him. He held up his hands in surrender as she aimed at his forehead.

  “Please…”

  She squeezed off two shots, then bent over and felt for a pulse. Satisfied, she stood up again and scanned the basement for the target who had run away.

  She spotted him in the distance, now three-quarters of the way to the other end of the basement.

  “Target acquired,” Inga said, to no one in particular and jogged after him.

  Looking back over his shoulder, Charlie saw the smiling girl begin to pursue him. She still had the severed arm in one hand, and a smoking pistol in the other. Badly out of breath, he whimpered in fright and somehow found a way to run faster.

  “Yes, yes, yes…” he panted as he closed the gap to the open doors that led up into the boss’s home.

  He almost made it.

  Slowing as he approached the opening, the murderous robot dropped the severed arm onto the basement floor with a meaty plop and skidded to a stop, raising her gun and steadying it with one hand as she aimed at the center of the fleeing man’s back.

  Luckily, or unluckily, for Charlie, pistols don’t allow for expert marksmanship at a distance. He was five feet from the door when her shot took him high on the right buttock. The force of it sent him skidding face first into the polished concrete, coming to rest right on the threshold of the doorway. With a supreme effort and moaning at the burning agony in his butt cheek, he crawled through.

  Over the sounds of his struggling breath he heard distinctly the sound of her bare feet padding on the concrete as she began to run again.

  Adrenalin gave him a new burst of energy, and he dragged himself to his feet, bleeding from the ass, but alive. He began to pull the heavy double doors shut. If he could just get them locked and make it up the stairs…

  12

  Much to Ivan’s disgust, the reunited lovers spent most of the drive home tonguing each other’s mouths while he pretended to study the wet Chicago streets through the tinted window. Back
in the Arrivals lounge of O’Hare, the couple had reunited with an ostentatious but somehow hollow display of affection that had drawn furtive glances from other travelers. Tatiana Molenski had barely acknowledged Ivan.

  That suited him fine. He wasn’t fond of her either. She was the Russian equivalent of white trash, a girl from the slums of Moscow who had won the lottery by hooking up with Molenski on one of his frequent trips home. Not only that, she wore too much makeup and was loud and obnoxious. He couldn’t deny, though; she was a beautiful woman under all the shit she plastered on her face. Unfortunately, her beauty was only skin deep, and not in Inga’s league.

  His mind turned back to Inga.

  Interestingly, Molenski hadn’t mentioned his new toy to his wife. As a rule, they shared the same carnal tastes, whether it be girls or drugs, and Ivan often had to bear silent witness to their debauchery. Clearly, Molenski wanted to enjoy this particular ‘item’ all by himself.

  Not soon enough for Ivan, they arrived back at the estate. They were waved through the gate by the sentry and the driver carefully negotiated the long drive up to the front of the house. Ivan got out and held the door open for the boss and his wife. He was about to follow them in when Molenski turned and held up his hand, leaning in close.

  “Go down to the basement with the car and check on my package, will you?” His lipstick smeared lips curled into a smile. “Tatiana and I will be busy for a while, so don’t hurry back.”

  Ivan nodded and returned to the car. As he settled into the front passenger seat, he had a small, happy smile on his face. What a break! He would avoid having to watch the Molenski’s go at it like rabbits, and he would get to see Inga.

  He watched until the guards at the front door had ushered the couple through and then closed the door.

  “Let’s go.”

  The driver followed the winding driveway around the flamboyant fountain in front of the mansion and then headed towards the ramp that led down into the basement.

  Molenski had told him not to hurry, and Ivan decided he would push that boundary to the limit. He felt like an excited schoolboy at the prospect of spending more time with Inga. Again, his mind turned to the fantasy of taking her and escaping before the evil bastard got his hands on her again.

  At the bottom of the ramp, the driver swung the car right, heading towards the limousine’s parking space. Ivan looked towards the Red Room, but the basement was dark, and his eyes hadn’t yet adjusted from the late afternoon brightness.

  Why were the florescent lights in the ceiling off?

  The driver switched on the headlights, illuminating the floor ahead of them. They both saw the pale shape on the floor at the same time.

  “What is that?” asked the driver, leaning over the wheel. “Trash?”

  “Stop the car,” Ivan ordered.

  As the car containing Ivan was beginning its descent down the ramp just 200 feet away, Inga fired again. The bullet struck the door Charlie was closing just inches from his face. A splinter of hot wood flew into his eye.

  “Fuck!” He clapped a hand over his wounded eye and turned, forgetting about the door, and scrambled up the stairs as fast as his wounded body would carry him.

  In hunter mode, Inga heard the car engine coming down the ramp but ignored it. She crossed the last fifty feet purposefully and kicked the still ajar double doors open with a crash and walked through.

  Charlie, with his strength fading, had managed to struggle to the first landing but had now fallen to his knees, crawling across the marble as fast as his injury would allow. He had just placed his hand on the first step of the second flight when he heard her sweet voice below.

  “Target reacquired.”

  Charlie sobbed.

  He didn’t hear her stockinged feet upon the stairs but sensed death approaching, nonetheless. He collapsed and rested his cheek against the cold marble and waited. Perhaps she would think he was dead and pass by?

  She didn’t pass him by. From his vantage, he saw her come to a standstill next to him, her petite feet just inches from his face. A single drop of blood stood out starkly on the top of one of the white socks.

  “Do it…” he croaked and closed his eyes as he waited for the bullet that would end his life.

  A second passed. Then another. He was still alive. He opened his eyes. One of her feet had disappeared from his view, he understood why when he felt it’s soft, warm sole come to rest on the nape of his neck.

  It was when she began to apply pressure that he felt her enormous strength. His life ended with a whimper and a gruesome cracking sound. The human form robot looked down at him emotionlessly for a moment, then bent over and closed his eyes before continuing up the stairs into the quiet house.

  Ivan didn’t waste any time. He got out and walked straight across to the object. When he saw what it was, he stopped dead in his tracks, reached into his jacket and pulled out his Beretta. He crouched and immediately began to make his way back to the car, scanning the darkened expanse of the basement as he kept the car between himself and the guard’s quarters.

  “What is it?” called the driver, inching the car forward for a better look.

  Ivan made a slashing movement across his throat, but the driver didn’t see him. He was too busy staring in horror at the severed arm, the chunky gold ring on one of its stiffened fingers glinting in the headlights.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Turn the fucking lights off!” Ivan whispered, as he reached the driver’s side window.

  The driver did just that, thankful when the relative darkness of the basement fell like a shroud over the gory offering.

  “Stay in the car. When I’m clear, drive over to the internal staircase and wait with the engine running, we may have to evacuate the boss.”

  The pale faced driver nodded. Ivan eyed him a bit longer as though to make sure he wasn’t going to flee, then ducked again as he made his way to the wall. Keeping in the shadows, he began to move along it towards the southern end of the basement and the Red Room.

  As his eyes adjusted to the filtered light coming in the windows high on the basement walls, he could see that the door was open and that there was at least one shape on the floor in front of it.

  So focused was he, that he didn’t even hear the driver put the car into drive and begin to move it slowly to the opposite end of the basement as he had been instructed.

  Truth be told, right then, Ivan was more worried about Inga than Molenski. If they were under attack, the boss had many guards in the house, but Inga, well she had been left all alone in the Red Room and if any fucker had hurt her he would… well, he didn’t know what he would do, but the thought of someone touching her, let alone hurting her, drove him wild.

  When he was close enough, he left the perceived safety of the wall and, with weapon in hand, ran to the last pillar in front of the guard's room. There were three bodies that he could see; all appeared to be men.

  He paused, gauging the situation and ensuring there was no movement in either of the open doorways. When he was satisfied, he rounded the pillar and headed for the open door of the guard's room.

  He passed the first body. Milos. There was no need to check for a pulse. He quickly glanced into the guard’s quarters and confirmed it was empty before edging along the wall and carefully stepping over Ray’s body.

  He stopped beside the open door of the Red Room. A smeared trail of blood led from the doorway to the bloody, one-armed corpse of the new guy, whose name he couldn’t recall.

  He cocked his head to peer into the partially open door of the Red Room. By the pale light, he could see nothing. There was no point delaying. Whatever had happened was now over, and he had to know what happened to Inga.

  With a roar, he charged through, his gun at the ready. One shoe slipped in the blood on the floor, but he managed to keep his balance as he swung his weapon this way and that. Inga was nowhere to be seen. The sole occupant of the room was the lifeless Danny Garcia.

  “What the f
uck did you do?” he asked the corpse, as he lowered the gun.

  The muffled sound of semi-automatic gunfire answered him instead. It was coming from inside the house. He ran out of the room and sprinted for the staircase.

  13

  Ivan passed the idling Cadillac and reached the doorway of the staircase that led up into the house. He paused, taking a deep breath before glancing quickly around the corner. Another body was sprawled face down on the steps on the middle landing. There was no sign of anyone else. He turned back and waved to the driver before entering.

  The bodyguard sprinted up the steps two at a time, slowing when he reached the body. Charlie Matuzzi had clearly died a horrible death. He was covered in blood, and his neck had been crushed, almost flattened against the marble step on which his head rested. The walls seemed to close in a little and Ivan reeled as a feeling of déjà vu rocked him.

  When it had passed, he continued up the stairs until he reached the ground floor. On his haunches, he peeked through the ornate balustrades into the living area. It was clear, but to the left, through the opening to the kitchen, he could see the legs of another body. A man. He thought of Isabella with a sinking feeling in his guts.

  There was another burst of automatic gunfire and yelling from the floor above. It was quickly followed by more shots. It was clear Molenski was the target, and for the first time in a long time, Ivan wasn’t there to protect him. Spurred into action, he rose to his feet and staying side on to present as small a target as possible, headed for the kitchen.

  Apart from the body he had spotted from the stairs, the kitchen was empty. The dead man was another of Molenski’s guards, one that Ivan didn’t know by name. He had a neat bullet wound between his staring eyes and his automatic weapon was missing. Ivan noted a discarded pistol resting on the floor a few feet from him. He looked around the kitchen, and then through the large window above the sink. Another man slumped over the railing on the patio.