My eyes reach the window just in time to see something large and shadowy crash into the glass. Darkness. Wetness. Steam of breath. Flash of jagged teeth. Broken teeth. Stained teeth. Saliva dribbles down the glass. More steam from flared nostrils. No eyes. Not a bloody, one. I guess I should count myself lucky, I’m five seconds from pissing my-CRASH! Shards of glass and cold air blow in from the other side. “HOLY FUCKING SHITBALLS!” I don’t even bother to look at the other window before stabbing my fingers into the belt release and dropping under the steering column, snatching the pistol and arming it. Another crash. Truck shakes. More glass. Something warm. Something wet. Something snarling.
I jam my pistol up into something with give. Something alive. And squeeze the trigger with every desire to make it less so.
Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Click-
The giant head reels back, bangs around against the frame of the window, then disappears. But it’s that last sound that makes my chest sink. Oh hell no! This was a full clip! I point to the other window where another head awaits. Equally as hideous with giant paws, hands, claws, something attempting to tear back the door like the lid for a can of beefy Fallows byproduct.
Click- click- click- click-
More warmth on my hand. Something dark and sticky. Shit! Gripping the handle of the unoccupied door, I kick out hard, meeting with some resistance, but only for a moment before I roll out of the cab and up onto my feet, hitting the ground running. In my peripheral I catch a glimpse of a dark silhouette writhing on the ground. Three shots to the head and still moving. Not good. I only hope that it takes his buddy a moment to dislodge itself from the window to give me a bit of a lead.
Deep breaths fill my lungs, fast and hard as I spring in no specific direction but away. Eyes tearing up seek terrain, something to work with while simultaneously dragging the ground for anything heavy and blunt.
Finding nothing of favor save for bricks, I lean forward and scoop one to my chest, never breaking stride as I head for the jagged remnants of a leveled building. Behind me I hear the familiar pat pat pat from before. No time.
Continuing my momentum, I hop in the air, spinning to pinpoint the charging beast, then fling the brick at it. I don’t see it connect, but I hear it. No matter. The feet keep pounding closer.
Pat pat pat.
So near I can practically feel it on me, I dive to the ground, rolling to my back and bringing my feet up to the creature’s neck and chest, helping it along up and over me before regaining my feet and charging it.
Damn thing doesn’t even seem stunned, just lands on its feet and turns to face its barreling prey. Eyes on its massive paws, leaving shallow impressions in the dry earth, I time its lunge at me, skirting to the side just in time to let it sail past, a gust of foul stench breezing over me.
I let my muscles burn a little, pushing my strides even longer as I race towards the ruins.
Pat pat pat.
Damn thing didn’t miss a beat.
Dim light from the horizon faintly illuminates the remnants of an old flagpole. Not much to go on, but better than nothing until I can get my bearings.
Pat pat pat.
I close the distance to the pole only slightly faster than the beast closes its distance on me. Too late, I can make out the harsh grunts of its panting. Change of plan.
Full sprint, I dodge to the side of the pole and grip hard, kicking up my legs in front of me and using the momentum to bring them up full circle, both feet barreling into the hideous open maw of the creature, knocking it off course and off its feet. Finding my own footing, I lunge high, gripping the cold metal in my hands like vices and pulling hard, scaling desperately.
The thing leaps after me, but misses the heel of my boot by several inches before falling back to the dust below. I don’t give him a second chance, continuing my climb out of its reach and increasing my view.
From my vantage, I can easily spot the loader, resting uselessly too far away. The building beside me, or what’s left of it, is too far to jump too. Also too easy to scale. No signs of cover, just one big, dark floor plan of shattered walls and long lost stories.
Dong!
The flagpole wavers and shakes so violently I nearly lose my grip, hugging my body tightly to the old metal to keep from sliding down. I watch in agony as the ugly bitch rears back for another go, dashing forward and colliding its massive body into the base of the pole and sending more tremors up my way.
My hands begin to throb, muscles burning pulses from palm to fingertip. The sickening realization sets in that he’s going to outlast me. Probably by a long shot. If I stand a prayer of surviving, I have to bring the fight to him before my adrenaline fades and the weariness sets in.
I take a deep breath, watch his pattern, wait for the lunge, then release my grip on the pole and let gravity take me.
Still shaken from its latest encounter with the pole, it has no time to compensate for my move and I land hard on its back, smashing its bulk to the ground. I can’t keep my balance on the rigid body and drop to my knees, straddling it’s bulky shoulders and rapping my knuckles hard against its head.
The creature snaps back swiftly, but not fast enough to avoid the next punch. Then the next. And the next. The onslaught comes to a swift end as the beast remembers its instincts and forces its weight upon me.
Jerking at the last moment, I manage to switch positions before becoming pinned. I roll on top and drive my elbow under its jaw, digging deep into the damp fleshy neck. It struggles against me, flailing, snarling and biting.
Too strong, there’s no way I can choke it out like this. I try to switch position, but a massive claw rakes across my mid-section, spreading fire across my chest. Another attack slashes across my shoulder, ripping through layers of cloth and skin in a single swipe.
I grip the creatures forearms just above the paw with the same intensity I’d used on the pole. Readjusting my body, I slam my knee into its chin before pulling myself up to a standing position. I dig the heel of my boot hard into its windpipe, increasing the force by pulling its paws towards me. It thrashes and struggles, but I have it held firmly, twisting my boot deeper into its throat with spasm until the resistance ceases and the creature falls limp.
I hold on a few moments longer, muscles tight and stiff and refusing to relinquish control.
Finally letting the creature fall flaccid to the earth, I stumble to the building, uprooting a good-sized bit of stone before trudging back and smashing it repeatedly into the creature’s skull, just to be certain. Dropping the brick beside the corpse, I collapse beside the pole, the thin, cold metal barely offering any support against my sore back.
The blood is still flowing from my wounds, apparent now how deep the claws went in. I can feel my body getting cold. I need to get back to the loader. Need to get back to Doc. But the adrenaline is gone. Exhaustion has set in. Logic and survival fall prey to fatigue and pain as my oozing wounds continue to spill into dark puddles around me faster than the thirsty earth can drink.
Head heavy and spinning, it drops of its own free will and my eyes close. Just for a moment. A spare second, before the sound of crunching boots comes surprisingly close and alarmingly distant.
I hear muffled voices. Humanish. I pray they don’t belong to cannibals. Or junkers with their bizarre sexual appetites. But mostly I wish to sleep. Waking again is a distant second as my brick of a body becomes weightless in unseen hands.
Fifteen
The thick stench of cigar smoke and motor oil sends my heart double-time, like waking from a bad dream drenched in sweat. But I’m not in the Captain’s office awaiting judgment for failure to make a payment on time. The room’s too bright.
“Hey guys, looks like the little hero’s awake.” Too groggy to tell if there are any traces of irony in my new title, and too shaken to decide whether I’d prefer it if there wasn’t, I only respond with a groan, rubbing the back of a gritty hand across my eyes and waiting for the focus to kick in.
Three figures fade
into existence, the closest clenching a fat, burning cigar between his front teeth, a good inch of ash hanging off the end and dangerously close to spilling across my lap. Two figures are leaning against the wall behind him, a short, stocky man dressed in a white lab coat with a metal hand dangling from one sleeve and a tall, slender woman in black leather. Their difference would be comical if the pain across my chest and arm weren’t waking up with me. One glaring similarity stands out amongst all of them. They’ve all got cybernetics. I can’t see them, but I can hear the whine of motors when they move.
“Told ya the cuts didn’t look too deep,” the woman mutters in a raspy, unimpressed tone. She shifts her weight from the real leg to the metal one, then back again.
“But he did lose a lot of blood. There’s also the possibility of infection or disease to consider.” The doctor’s voice, while softer and slightly higher pitched, seems no friendlier.
“What ya say, hero? Think you’ll pull through?”
“I’ve had worse,” I grunt. Though the shaking in my voice suggests otherwise.
“Typical,” the woman scoffs.
“Like it or not, Marissa, Scott said he saw the guy drop a full-sized ugman with his bare hands. Might not be the sharpest tool on the cart, but he ain’t one to exaggerate.” Cigar leans in closer, reaching an oil-stained hand to my brow and lifting up my eyelids. “No yellowing. Think he’s past the worst.”
“Ugman?” The single word burns up through my throat and I try to cough, further igniting the burning across my body. “Water?” I mumble weakly.
“Benson,” Cigar barks. “Get our boy some water, would ya?” The stogie waggles in his teeth, but only a couple flakes break free and dance out of tune down to my bare stomach. Benson disappears through an opening in the wall, then my attention turns to myself. I can only see a bit of my wounds, but the bit I see isn’t pretty. Mostly dry blood and scabs, but it’s definitely deep. Bastard scraped bone on his attack.
“We don’t have much in the way of meds. The little that we do have we keep for our own, understand?” Not risking another go at talking, I meet his gaze and nod slightly. Even the small motion is enough to send my head spinning. Content with my response, he nods his head as well and sits back in his chair, giving me some space before taking a long pull of his cigar and sending a thick, yellow cloud through the air and up to the bright fluorescent bulbs. “Ugmen are just the name we gave to the things you were fighting topside. Ugly bitches that wish they were human. Old Pete gave ‘em the name. Just kinda stuck. We see ‘em out hunting from time to time. Mostly avoid ‘em where we can. Lost several good people to their attacks, even more from whatever nastiness they may be carrying on their claws.
“Benson picked up your truck on radar, thought it was worth checking out. By the time Scott and Bill arrived on scene, they realized you weren’t here for us. Fact of the matter is, wouldn’t have found you at all if you hadn’t been up some flagpole.” He looks me down for a spell, an expression like the bastard child of admiration and disgust. “Don’t guess you’ll be doing much climbing any time soon.” A part of me has to wonder if it’s my lack of cybernetics that bothers him the most. Jealousy perhaps? But that seems like a bit of a stretch.
The shorter one returns, a dented tin can in his good hand. The sight of it sends my dry tongue flicking out across even dryer lips. Cigar steps back to give Benson room and my shaky hand carefully accepts the offered drink. Up to my lips, the water trickles into my mouth slowly, warm and metallic, reviving dried saliva to make a thick ooze across my tongue.
It takes a moment before I can swallow, sending more pain down my throat and chest, but I ignore it as my mouth greedily sucks in more.
“Take it easy, buddy,” Benson says through a crooked smile, reaching for the can. I empty the rest into my mouth before he can snatch it from me. “You gotta name?”
“Heath.” No point in lying. I doubt they’d go in and check, but I sincerely doubt I have any notoriety this far outside of the districts.
“Good to meetcha, buddy. I’m Benson. This is Clark behind me. And the lovely lady hiding all that beauty in the shadows is Marissa.” An audible scoff comes from the back of the room. Not the type of girl you’d throw it all on the line for, but definitely worth a double-take on the streets. “Whenever you’re feeling up to it, you wanna fill us in on what you’re doing this far outside of the districts? That tech in your wrist looks up to date and your skin’s too pale to be working the fields.”
A million excuses flood through my still dizzy skull. Scavenging, prospecting, lost dog…
“Roadkill taxidermy,” I mutter. Where did that even come from? My companions seem even more surprised by my response than I am.
“Really? How do you get into that sort of business?”
“More of a hobby than anything. In my business ventures I stumbled upon an abundant supply of sawdust. My intentions had been to create plywood boards out of it, but despite the high value of wood in society, none of the big players were looking towards it as a viable replacement to plastics.” My lips keep lying like it’s going out of style. Digging me deeper and deeper into the hole they’d already started. I should just say that I was kidding, that this is all some ridiculous joke, but I’ve lost all control of my tongue at this point. “So one night I get drunk and stumble beyond the boundaries of civilization and come across a nest of rats. Ugly bastards that they are, and no doubt carrying more diseases than my aunt Mildred, I unload a few rounds from my pistol into their skulls.
Unblinking eyes and slack jaws let me know that they’re eating up every single word, even the icy metal mistress in the back. “Being an entrepreneur, and more than a few sheets to the wind, my mind instantly goes to dragging my kill back to the meat kiosks down at the station and seeing if I can haggle away their corpses for a few extra creds. At least something to put a dent in my most recent tab. Schmoozing clients can be a costly venture.
“Next thing I know I’m staring into the dead eyes of one of the things and muse to myself, ‘Don’t this ugly rat bastard look like my ex-girlfriend’s half-brother Steve?’ Rat bastard extraordinaire that guy. So I drag the damn things home, getting more than a few stares in the process, all drunkenly stumbling through the streets with four giant dead and dripping vermin dragging along behind me.
“Apparently there’s a learning curve on this crap because I botched the hell out of the first three, probably didn’t help that their carcasses had been dragged over the pavement and already missing patches of fur. Plus the intranet don’t have near as much information as you’d suspect on how to preserve bodies and just how much work goes into skinning, tanning and positioning the damned things.” Somebody please stop me before this becomes a thing and I want to run home and try it. Hell, at this point I’m near as intrigued as my audience. “Can you believe my first try was just stuffing sawdust into the still dripping bastard and sewing it back up? God that smelled my place up to high hell after a couple of days.
“Eventually I get around to making the Steve rat, at this point having learned a thing or two from the first three. It ain’t perfect, but I get my rat trophy and display it proudly on my coffee table as a conversation starter for guests.” And apparently anybody else who would listen to this crap. “Not a week goes by before I realize that the ladies aren’t near as amused with my new little hobby, calling it ‘grotesque’ of all things. So I run off and try to pawn the damned thing. Four shops later and this guy, Mark, I used to huff gas with back in grade school thinks it’s a hoot and offers me two-hundred creds for the silly thing. Even asks me if I have any more lying around. Still got all that sawdust in storage not doing me a damned bit of good, I start making a habit of taking the old loader out and scouring the outers for new game. Which brings us to today when I up and run across my first pair of what you fine folks call the ugmen.”
I gaze expectantly at my audience, still entranced by the biggest load of bullshit I’ve slung in at least three weeks.
&nb
sp; “What line of business did you say you were in?” Cigar asks.
“Restaurant management. But I do a fair bit of logistics on the side. Buying in bulk and selling down.” At least these are lies I know a thing or two about. Seriously, there may be some business in that taxidermy thing. Wait a minute. Why am I really here?
“You definitely sling a helluva story. At first I thought you were just pullin’ our legs. Now you’ve gone and convinced me that you are certifiably looney.” This coming from a pack of members in some cybernetic refuge? That was it, I need intel from them on the robberies. “You wanna tell us why you’re really here?” Nope.
“I’ve already told you why I’m here.”
“I ain’t in the habit of buying bullshit,” Pity, I can get you an amazing deal on it if you buy in bulk. “Guys like you with skills like yours are out in places like this for one reason and one reason only.”
I scrunch my face with mock guilt and shame. “Metal fetishist?” That one earns me a well-deserved smack to the face. A bit surprised it took this long, must have an unnatural patience out here. Or not used to dealing with many people from the districts.
“Honestly Paige,” Marissa sets in, “The poor guy’s been bleeding on our slab for the better part of an hour and you’re already conducting an investigation? At least have the decency of wrapping his wounds.” The big guy’s name is Paige? Doesn’t fit.
“Fine. He’s all into taxidermy. I tell you what I’m gonna do. Since I’m such a nice guy and all, I’ll go as far as to supplying a needle and some fishing line. Get those cuts all sewn up.” He turns and looks at me, no longer hiding the malice he’s been clinging to. “But he’s gotta do the job himself.”
All eyes on me again, the room goes silent. Even the buzzing from outside seems to have come to a halt. “Can I make a request?”
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