When the River Ran Dry

by Robert Davies

  The ride up went quickly, even as Ricky hoped in quiet, irrational desperation the aging elevator might falter or become stuck, giving him one last chance to make an escape. Instead it slowed and stopped on the 25th floor, opening out to a wide, two-story atrium populated with only those shrubs and small trees whose survival didn’t depend on regular care. More a collection of weeds and scrawny bushes than the green, welcoming place it had once been in a distant past, the atrium was vacant and silent. Boris’ man, Galvez, met them as they walked from the elevator, pointing Ricky toward a wide, marble staircase where the wealthy elite once walked from trendy, opulent suites. Back then, he knew, the likes of Boris Konstantinou would never have been tolerated on 25, but things had changed. The Uppers stayed above and the Bosses moved into the spaces between, rooting themselves firmly in an economic and social ‘tweenland too high for Flatwalkers and too low for Uppers.

  Only the sound of their footsteps on the cool, stone floor broke the quiet and above, few of the once-expensive fixtures remained in working order to light their way. At the end of a long hall, a single door led them into a narrow anteroom, and from it, a broad staircase curved upward to where Boris Konstantinou waited at an ornate, iron railing.

  Dressed from head to toe in a garish, purple suit, Boris looked more the common street pimp than a feared, calculating syndicate Boss. A slight man with olive skin and thin, graying hair, Boris presented an almost fatherly appearance, but his reputation was more than enough to secure Ricky’s respectful silence; few who crossed swords with Boris lived to tell about it.

  He smiled and said, “Good evening, Mister Mills.”

  Ricky wiped the moisture from his palm by reflex, offering a nervous look at Bartel before turning his eyes upward.

  “Hello, sir.”

  “Please step inside, won’t you?”

  At once, Ricky felt the pressure coming on in waves. Boris’ conspicuous, civil tone was little more than a thin disguise, poorly concealing the brutal thug who lurked within. As it was with all mob big-shots whose money bought them the illusion of cultivated sophistication on the darkest fringes of society, Boris’ easy tone was false. He, and others of his class, bridged the awkward gap between street people and the Uppers who kept their questionable business practices carefully out of sight. Residence in the abandoned, lower levels of a mega-tower had been the price of their services to the faceless privileged above, which no one thought to challenge. Bartel and Junkyard stood deliberately behind Ricky while Boris poured Topaz from a cut glass decanter into two small goblets, handing one to Ricky.

  “No thanks,” Ricky said.

  Turning to hand the glass instead to Bartel, Boris came to the point.

  “I won’t pretend this is a normal social call, Ricky; we both know why you’re here. It is unfortunate, but the circumstances seem to have become unavoidable now.”

  Ricky said nothing.

  “Vaclav tells me you were unwilling to enlist the aid of your sister, Litzi; is that still true?”

  Ricky looked at Bartel for a moment before answering. Boris’ words made his true plans for Litzi seem benign, even helpful and Ricky fought hard to mask his disgust with the contradiction.

  “This has nothing to do with her.”

  “I see,” Boris replied. “That’s too bad because it would have made this a lot easier for you. I don’t wish to be unkind, but I’m told Litzi might not have found the experience anything to which she isn’t already accustomed. I don’t suppose it would change your mind, but I can assure you, she might not find the prospect so daunting if she would only try.”

  Ricky could no longer hold back the deep, seething anger building inside.

  “I told them, and I’m telling you; leave my sister out of this!” he growled.

  Bartel pulled his hands from his pockets, but Boris waved him away.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary, Vaclav. Mister Mills is quite adamant on this point, and I respect his position.”

  Bartel stepped back, but Ricky understood the thunder from Bartel’s hidden club was always at the ready.

  “Now then,” he continued. “Let’s get you prepared, shall we?”

  Bartel nudged Ricky to follow into a sparsely appointed study that seemed more a corporate reception area than a private retreat. Boris motioned him to a black, plastic chair in the middle of the floor.

  “You understand how this works, Richard?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Since you have never made the Walk before, I’m not sure you do. The video networks and their advertising customers are intolerant of mistakes, so it would be a good idea for us to review, don’t you agree?”

  “Yeah, sure, I guess,” Ricky replied with a shallow, indifferent tone.

  Boris nodded and took two small sips of his drink before placing the glass carefully onto the corner of his desk, positioning it precisely equidistant from each converging edge of its smooth surface.

  “Now then,” Boris continued, “a Walk, I should tell you, is not an option available to just anyone. Many participants are not fit for this sort of thing, so you should be grateful that you have been given the option.”

  “Grateful,” Ricky sneered; “I should be grateful?”

  With the sound of a giant, iron bell tolling nearby, Junkyard’s massive paw slammed into the side of Ricky’s head, nearly toppling him from the chair. A second later, he was pulled violently upright by the same hand with a whispered warning.

  “Try that shit again and there won’t be nothin’ left of you to make a fuckin’ Walk, understand?”

  Boris stepped closer.

  “Come now, Richard, you know the score! The others…well, most of them, die a slow, painful death. You, on the other hand, have at least a chance, don’t you? You’re young and fit, and they tell me you know your way around when things get rough. All things considered, this could be a lot worse.”

  Boris pulled a loose thread from his pocket, flicking it absentmindedly to the floor as he continued.

  “The Walk, as you probably know, is absolute and there are only two possible outcomes: You will successfully elude the chase units, or you won’t. The course varies from contestant to contestant, simply to avoid cheating, but the purpose remains; if you survive long enough to reach your goal, you will be deemed to have paid your debt in-full because the advertiser’s money will be transferred to my accounts by the network. If, on the other hand, you cannot, well…”

  Ricky looked up through tired, half-open eyes.

  “It’s to the death; I know that.”

  “Regrettably,” Boris continued, “there are no other considerations. The chase units are paid to find and kill you and they will do their best because it is in their interest to return a corpse; they’re paid bonus money for a kill, you see. I know it seems harsh, but there it is; you must survive by any means. There are no specific rules—only survival or death; do you understand?”

  Ricky nodded in silence.

  “Your chances are always fifty-fifty in this contest, Ricky, remember that. It may seem impossible now, but out there on the streets, anything can happen. Vaclav tells me you’ve been a survivor all your life, so it’s entirely possible you will make it through after all.”

  “You know I won’t make it through,” Ricky mumbled. “You’re betting on it.”

  “Others have made the Walk and survived, Richard; you might surprise us!”

  “What’s the goal?”

  “The organizers will meet you at a pre-determined location. Vaclav will take you there shortly, but the goal cannot be revealed until that time. In this way, no one can influence the contest improperly by alerting you or the chase teams. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Also, they wish to avoid enterprising onlookers who once cluttered the Walk courses like sports enthusiasts trying for a closer look at the action. All those gawkers became a nightmare for the organizers a few years back, didn’t they, Vaclav?”

  Bartel smiled and nodded as Boris finished his thought.<
br />
  “Anyway, it will be just you and the Chasers when the signal is given. Of course, the goal will establish the length of your Walk; some can be accomplished in a single night, but others have run for two or even three days.”

  Ricky leaned forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees. Boris’ words pounded inside his head like a hammer. There was no way out—no option or last-minute savior to pluck him from an ocean of despair. The mistakes had been his alone and it remained only for him to pay that most final price. As an antique clock ticked off the seconds from a wall behind Boris’ desk, Ricky raised his head.

  “What do I have to do? How am I supposed to prepare for something like this?”

  Boris smiled and held up a hand, as if to reassure.

  “Don’t concern yourself, Richard; we will give you all the preparation available.”

  Ricky only blinked in quiet confusion as Boris walked to where he sat, alone and solitary in his misery.

  “There is a harness fitted with several small cameras and a transmitter the organizers will give you in just a while. The networks broadcast Walks live, as you know, but we are also obliged to implant a device they call a Zorich—a small transceiver—beneath the skin to monitor your life signs in the event you…well, I think you understand what I mean, don’t you?”

  Ricky nodded slowly as Boris continued.

  “Doctor Cason can do that quite easily, right from here. When we are given the schedule, he will begin the process.”

  “Schedule?” Ricky asked.

  “Of course; they don’t simply release you at a random moment, then hope for the best. We are given a specific time, and you will be taken to a carefully chosen start point in order to meet that requirement. Give me a moment, won’t you? I’ll see if they have the schedule now.”

  Ricky sat motionless as Boris walked quickly from the room. Bartel and Junkyard moved closer to Ricky, if only to ensure he wouldn’t try anything as they waited. It didn’t take long before Boris returned, smiling broadly as if Ricky had won an award.

  “They’re ready for you, Richard. All we have to do is fit you with the Zorich device and you’ll be on your way! Doctor Cason will be here shortly.”

  Ricky ignored Boris’ cruel, jovial tone.

  “Let’s get on with it.”

  “Excellent; better to get the game started as soon as we can, hmm?”

  Bartel smiled from the shadows, but Ricky didn’t notice. Boris scrolled through a document on his monitor like a patron browsing a restaurant menu. At last, he stopped.

  “There’s one other item I need to cover with you, Richard, in addition to the procedures; it won’t take but a moment.”

  Ricky looked at the floor.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Walk is a contest. You will be released at a start point somewhere in the city, but its location, and the goal, of course, won’t be revealed until Vaclav and his associate are cleared to transport you. The Zorich device Doctor Cason is about to implant auto-connects to a receiver monitored by the organizers; when you hear three sharp tones in your ear, the Walk begins. You will likely recognize the start point as you arrive, and it will be up to you to elude the Chasers and make your way across Novum to reach your goal. If you make it through, the Zorich device will record and transmit a successful event, you see? The chase units will be given a general clue as to your starting point, and when you run, they will begin. It’s quite simple, really.”

  Ricky listened to Boris describe the Walk as though it was a scavenger hunt they used to arrange for college kids in the old days, but his isolation and desperate loneliness had become intense. The words filtered through a persistent ringing in his ears and thoughts drifted again to Litzi. The Walk was final, but he found some small relief in the knowledge it would bring an end to his torment. More than that, it would insulate Litzi and Helene from a future of misery lived at the whims of people like Boris. The debt would be paid and they, at least, would be free from retribution intended for him.

  Boris walked to his desk where the comm chirped its signal for an incoming call. The voice within told him all he needed to know and he nodded slowly.

  “Ah, I see. That would make sense, yes. I’ll let him know; thank you for the update.”

  He turned to Ricky.

  “The organizers have identified your goal, so the time has arrived. Oh, and remember, taking shortcuts through city center is not allowed; you must stay beyond the borders of the inner beltway. If the locator beacon paints your position within the boundary line, MPE will be alerted and you will be terminated by any responding officers. Stay outside the beltway and you’ll have a chance.”

  “What’s to prevent the Chasers from putting somebody in my path to kill me before I can make it a mile from the start?”

  “You misunderstand, Richard. Chasers are not gifted with knowledge of your goal or start point; if they were, your Walk wouldn’t be much of a contest, would it?”

  Boris turned with a laugh and spoke to Bartel.

  “Can you imagine such a thing, Vaclav? The advertisers would dry up at once if a contestant could be found and killed so easily!”

  Bartel chuckled callously as Boris returned to Ricky.

  “Reach the goal before the chase units catch you and your debt will be absolved. Also—and this is worth noting—you will be allowed fifteen hours at any Starlight theater in the city free of charge! Well, provided you survive, of course.”

  Ricky shook his head and smiled sadly at the absurd notion. His debt, made by an uncompromising need to be with Neferure had delivered him into the hands of murderers, yet they thought nothing of encouraging him toward a repetition of the very practice. In a sudden, insane moment of clarity, Ricky felt a compelling satisfaction, knowing his death would deny them the pleasure of holding him hostage to his weakness again. Boris held up a sudden hand.

  “One more thing, though. I almost forgot! There are bonus points available, and I can easily transfer them into hours at any of our Starlight theaters if you wish, but there are conditions. If at any time during the Walk you are engaged in battle with the chase units, you will only earn bonus points by concluding it with a fatality; simply rendering one of the Chasers unconscious or otherwise incapacitated will not be counted, I’m afraid.”

  Ricky nodded automatically and Boris leaned close to emphasize a final detail.

  “This last bit may appear unseemly to you, but it is worth considering.”

  Ricky looked up at Boris, unsure of what would follow.

  “Some of the Chasers are women. If you are presented with the opportunity and enough time, the normal credit amount for a defensive kill will be doubled if you can successfully execute a complete sexual assault beforehand.”

  Ricky’s mouth went agape. Before he could speak, Boris cut him off.

  “Do not dismiss this out of hand, Richard; the bonus points you could earn are considerable. And anyway, you must follow it up with a kill, so there’s no reason to be concerned with needless sentiment or misplaced feelings of morality. After all, they’ll be doing their best to kill you, remember.”

  Ricky stood suddenly and walked in numb silence to a window, stunned at Boris’ cavalier description of so horrid an act. Before he could answer, a tone sounded from outside, signaling Doctor Cason had arrived.

  “Ah,” said Boris, “Steven is ready for you, I see.”

  They took him to a brightly lit room off Boris’ kitchen where a low table had been cleared. After a moment, a figure appeared from the adjoining room. Ricky looked, but the man only set about pulling instruments from a gray, plastic container. Ricky knew at once Dr. Cason meant to avoid eye contact, and it made his feeling of isolation all the more acute.

  “Facedown, please,” was all he said.

  Ricky climbed onto the cold, smooth surface without a word, turning his head toward the cabinets that lined the far wall as Cason went immediately to work.

  “Lie still; I’m going to apply a local anesthetic, s
o this will sting a bit.”

  Ricky felt the pinch of a four-needle applicator piercing into his skin, but the discomfort was tolerable. In moments, he felt the effects as vision began to blur. From behind, he could hear the clank of the doctor’s instruments and then a slight pressure against his head. For a while, the sounds became mere echoes as the painkiller did its work. He couldn’t see or feel the doctor’s manipulation of a tiny skin flap, or even the careful suture of the Zorich device into place at the base of his skull, but the smell of burned tissue told of a cauterizing probe to control bleeding. In minutes, it was done and Doctor Cason tapped Ricky’s shoulder.

  “I’m finished; you may sit up now.”

  As Ricky rolled himself slowly from the table, he looked to see the doctor walking quickly from the room. No other words were exchanged and nothing more needed to be said. Boris returned after paying Cason, nodding quietly toward Bartel.

  “Not so bad, was it? And now you’re ready to go, Richard. Vaclav will take you to the start point. I would wish you luck, of course, but we both know your skill and inventiveness will be needed far more than mere chance. I look forward to seeing the outcome! Goodbye, Mister Mills.”

  Ricky waited a moment until Junkyard muscled him sharply toward the door.

  Ricky steadied himself against a sudden lurch forward as Junkyard’s delivery van squeaked to a halt. At once, Bartel slid the door open and hopped out, leaving Junkyard to follow Ricky as he stepped cautiously onto the dark, garbage-littered street. In seconds, Ricky found his bearings, recognizing the spot as a desolate field where Lafayette Park once welcomed families and joggers nearly a century before. It had been years since Ricky ventured so far out to the west, but he knew it well enough.