Eden

by Nathan Evans

  Akio leveled the gun with his off hand. Plug’s deadly stare took on a new shade. He actually smiled; the same condescending grin Akio had come to hate. “Well, well, well,” he said, “look at the big man now.”

  Akio said nothing. He held the gun aloft, his hand shaking, his face twisting, shuffling through every permutation of anger, refusing to settle on one.

  Plug cocked his brow. “What? You gonna shoot me? Way your hand’s shaking, I’d say there’s a good chance you miss.” His smile widened. “What then?”

  The gun rattled.

  Plug slowly put his hands up, palms out, the grin never leaving his face. “I’ll tell you what: you turn around—never come back—and I won’t beat you until you beg me to kill you.”

  Akio face hardened. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was in control.

  His hands stopped shaking; the gun wasn’t heavy anymore. His finger wrapped around the trigger. He squeezed.

  Click.

  The gun wasn’t heavy anymore. It hadn’t been since he’d fired the last round into the officer.

  He whimpered.

  Plug was on him before he could shout. His hand gripped Akio’s throat in the way one might grip a pencil. He snatched the gun from Akio’s palm and hammered it hard across his face in one swift, violent motion. Teeth shattered.

  Plug’s thick fingers then laced themselves through Akio’s scalp, collecting a fistful of long greasy hair. He tugged, turning back towards the Den.

  Akio stumbled behind, saliva and matter funneling from his destroyed mouth. His mind reeling, attempting to process the trauma he suffered, contemplating the agony to come.

  Plug relinquished his grip and he fell to the floor of the Den. He would’ve tasted steel had his tongue still worked.

  There was no mistaking the sound of the door closing, nor the sound of locks slamming home. “You come into my place of business. You threaten me!”

  The floor shook. Akio knew what it meant. His limbs were sluggish to respond, but he managed to get himself up on his palms before floundering.

  Plug’s boot pressed against his back, thrusting him to the floor. “Oh, no you don’t.” Plug pulled him up by the scalp. He dangled beneath Plug’s power before his boots caught a tenuous grip.

  Akio’s jaw, what was left of it, found its way into Plug’s hand. His ear was brought to Plug’s lips. “Bet you didn’t think this was how it was going to go.”

  With a spasm of Plug’s bicep, Akio defied gravity, crashing into the tangle of wires and pipes between the corner of where the Den’s right bank ended and the far wall began. Lashes of flesh seared as sparks showered him on all sides. His arm went numb, his elbow connecting with a rusted pipes, snapping it loose. It hit the ground at the same time he did.

  Every inch of him hurt. He couldn’t think. He turned, twisting amongst the mass of cables and steel, no idea of where he was trying to go; a cornered spider clambering for life.

  “Just remember, you brought this on yourself.”

  He was going to die. Plug would tear him apart with his bare hands. Everything fell away: Yuki, Irving, the guilt—everything; lost to one last overriding thought.

  The Girl.

  She stood amongst a field of green, her black hair flowing in the wind, the setting sun igniting the tips. She called to him, but he couldn’t hear. The fire spread as the sun dipped low behind the horizon.

  She was consumed.

  He twisted, righting himself on his back. By chance, his damaged hand fell on the pipe. The Girl, he thought. Something in his torqued finger snapped as it closed around the length of steel.

  “I’m going to tear you apart.”

  His jacket grew taught around his shoulders and he was dragged up by the scruff of his neck. The pipe came with him. With one violent pivot, both hands took hold as he brought the makeshift weapon around. Had he not been fueled by desperate rage, the sound it made would’ve made him sick.

  He faced Plug now. His feet spread wide like a fighter’s, the pipe rattling in his grip, ready for the next swing.

  Plug staggered in a daze, teetering like a wall about to be knocked down.

  The sight of his tormentor, vulnerable and confused, enraged him further. The abuse—all of it, everything he’d suffered at this man’s hands—came to the forefront; funneled and focused; a key that had finally found its lock. He charged, howling with rage. A shock jolted through the pipe and up his arm every time it connected. Rather than tire him, it spurred him on; each swing more violent than the last one. The crack of bone mingled with a sound like a tuning fork. By the time he’d driven Plug back up the row of machines his eyelids were flickering.

  Another man would’ve stopped. A man who hadn’t only ever tasted defeat would’ve known to quit then. A man who hadn’t only ever been bullied, forgotten and abused would’ve taken pity.

  Akio Yowamushi was not another man.

  The pipe became a lance. He ran at Plug with everything he had. The mangled end of the instrument connected, then went further. Plug’s chest made a sloshing sound as the pipe connected with the wall.

  Warmth coated Akio’s hands. They’d grown stiff on the pipe. It was wrenched from his clutch as Plug slumped to the floor.

  The sound of his own breathing filled his ears. He hadn’t realized his lungs were on fire until just now. The pain returned and he slumped as well, his legs crumpling like a pretzel beneath him.

  Plug held the pipe now, his massive fingers slipping on the metal as if he were trying to hold it up. He didn’t have to, his chest managed the task just fine. Air escaped his lips in a pained wheeze. He stared pleadingly at Akio.

  The pulpy mush that served as Akio’s mouth tightened. He thrust himself upon Plug, grasping tufts of the man’s hair with both hands. “Why?!” He sputtered. “Why’d you do it? Why’d you have to hurt her?”

  Plug’s eyes focused on Akio, confused. “Who,” he wheezed, a string of ruby red saliva bursting from his mouth, “your—your fantasy girl?” The only affirmation he received was Akio knocking his skull against the wall. “I… I can’t…” His eyes flickered again. His head attempted to go limp.

  Akio slammed him against the wall again, bringing the dying man to attention. “Why?!” He screamed.

  “I can’t… you’re the—you’re the software. I can’t ac-access her with-without you. I don’t… I…” This time he did go limp. Akio let go.

  Since he’d entered The Den, he’d been a machine fueled by rage. With Plug’s last words, it all left him. Like his victim, he went limp, his skull once again cracking against the steel floor. He didn’t feel it—he couldn’t—he was weightless—hollow.

  You’re the software…The words echoed in his mind.

  Plug, why would he lie? There was nothing to gain. No hope on the horizon, no one coming to help. Why, with his last breath, would he choose to lie?

  He wouldn’t.

  The thought was devastating in its simplicity. Suddenly, violently, Akio sputtered, a mist of saliva and blood coating his face as he twisted where he lay, clutching his stomach, his knees curling inward. He couldn’t breathe; every inhalation was a jagged wheeze.

  Those people—all of those people. He’d killed them; used them. What for? A figment, a fantasy? Yuki, what had he done to Yuki?

  His throat grew hot and his stomach convulsed. He twisted onto his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor, painful rasps escaping his lips. “Forgive me,” he whispered. He turned to Plug, “Please forgive me.”

  The dead man offered no solace. He merely paled, his bronzed skin already losing its luster.

  There would be no forgiveness, not from Plug, not from anyone else. When they found him, they’d kill him, if he were lucky. Most likely they’d bury him, somewhere deep, somewhere dark; alive, but just barely. It was what he deserved. He knew it was what he deserved…

  The pipe thrust through Plug’s chest took on a new gleam. Akio went to it, staining the caps of his jeans in the sticky scarlet p
ooling beneath the body. His fingers slipped on the instrument when he grabbed it. He was forced to wipe the blood off of his hands with his shirt. With a fresh grip he pulled. He struggled, but eventually it was free, offering up one last slosh as it was relieved from Plug.

  Akio admired the end of the length of steel, taking in the jagged tip where it had rusted enough to snap free. He shook the sleeve of his left hand, letting it fall, revealing his wrist. Even through the haze of pink, he could make out the thin blue line that snaked its way over his wrist and down his arm. He brought the pipe to bear on it and closed his eyes, determined to make his last thought a happy one.

  He thought of the Girl and her garden, and smiled.

  Just then, the thrum of the steel beneath him changed. The vibration increasing with intensity, but not pitch; somehow it was quieter than before. The vibration, the machine’s touch, was that of a lover’s. He allowed it to caress him. Allowed it to work its way through his body and to his grip; he allowed it to ease his fingers open, letting the pipe fall.

  He wanted nothing more than to lean into its embrace. He looked to the bank of access ports, a row of lateral tracks and helmets lying still and unused, then made his way over to Plug’s control console. As he had countless times before, he studied the dials that corresponded to each station along the computer’s banks. He’d never seen it from this angle before. He turned the switch for the station nearest him. There was a loud grinding noise before the track activated and the helmet lowered.

  The scanner on the metal slab glowed green, awaiting its proprietor’s barcode. Akio turned to the lifeless slab of meat slumped against the Den’s walls, too heavy to lift.

  He knew what he needed to do.

  He took up the pipe for the last time and got to work.

  When the grisly deed was done, he pressed Plug’s newly freed barcode against the control pad, smiling when the green glowed yellow, tossing the useless collection of digits as an afterthought. In an instant, the two metal arms of the station ejected, forming two empty half circles that awaited an occupant. He was all too glad to provide them with one.

  Slipping his slight arms through the restraints, he tripped the machine’s sensors. His feet left the ground and the visor shifted home. With his damaged mouth he grinned stupidly and was bathed in the familiar yellow glow… then blue… then green…

  The colors came and continued to come, inducing nothing, taking him nowhere. The visor warmed until it burned the bridge of his nose. Brilliance stabbed at his pupils. He closed his eyes—it made no difference. The heat simply rose, burning through the closed lids.

  He thrashed against the machine, tearing at the restraints. The thin film his eyes had secreted grew thicker, streaming down his cheeks. His top lip contorted at impossible angles as he opened his damaged mouth to scream.

  His scream became a rending howl.

  The machine burned hotter.

  EPILOGUE

  The smell of death billowed from the Den’s steel door. The pungent stench was captured, sifted and cleansed by the filtration systems in the helmets of the three red brows that entered the cramped room.

  Agent Wade, clad in his tie and brown coat, wasn’t so lucky. As he entered behind the men sweeping their rifles over the place, he found it impossible to breathe without having the rot of dead men assault his senses. One of the hazards of superiority, he supposed.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d smelled something like it and it wouldn’t be the last. He affected an old swimmer’s trick and resisted the urge to choke on decay.

  The scene inside, with its computer banks and sterile, metallic sheen, resembled an abattoir. To his left, a heap of flesh three times his width and two feet taller if it could’ve stood, was slumped against the wall, folded over on itself. The man’s chest was open, a perfect circle of what had once been crimson was now black and crusted to his yellowed shirt. Wade was so transfixed by the wound, it was a good three seconds before he realized the man had no hand.

  Without any concern as to the morbidity of the thought, he wondered what had happened to it. The thin trail of gore on the floor answered that question. His eyes traced its length until he landed on the cold, rigid fingers of the barcode behind the Den’s control panel. Somehow it had gotten away from the dead man. Maybe it had something to do with the bloody pipe Wade kicked at lazily with the tip of his dress shoe.

  “Sir?”

  One of the red brows stood beside the first rack on the computer bank opposite himself. The officer was looking up at a limp body suspended from the helmet and back at Wade. Even though the underling’s eyes were disguised by neon red, Wade recognized the universal gesture of a dolt awaiting orders. “What are you waiting for?” He said. “Get him down.”

  “Yes, sir.” The voice synthesizer failed to disguise the hint of fear behind the officer’s words. He waved one of the other red brows over and gestured for another to man the control panel. With a flick of the switch, the restraints retreated into their housings and the two officers eased the body down. They set the limp form on its back, turning to their superior when the task was done.

  Wade waved them off, and they stepped away, bracing their rifles across their chests and standing still. He took a few steps toward the body, the soles of his shoes resisting slightly as they traversed a pool of blood. His elbows found his kneecaps as he leaned over the still, pale flesh.

  The body was only a fraction of the size of the other and entirely intact, a few bruises or cuts here or there, but otherwise whole. The face was a different matter. The lower jaw was a sack that housed shattered bone, the nose was mashed and bloody. Wade would have had trouble identifying it if he hadn't spent his evening and early morning hours fixated on photos in Akio Yowamushi’s file. There was no mistaking the corpse that lay before him.

  As he gazed upon the body, he couldn’t help but feel as if he were missing something, some small, yet crucial detail. His chin found the crevice between his thumb and forefinger as his brain screamed at him. He was slightly embarrassed when one of the red brows spoke up.

  “Sir,” he said, “what happened to his eyes?”

  Wade cocked his head.

  He finally noticed the burnt, hollowed tunnels where Akio Yowamushi’s eyes should have been.

  …

  The earth cradled his naked form with the love and tenderness of a mother. Wind, soft and gentle, caressed his face. Its soothing kiss and the chirp of birds drew him away from sleep.

  He opened his eyes, brown irises in a sea of clean white, and gazed upon the woman standing over him. The sun rose high in the sky behind her, casting her in harsh shadow, her edges bathed in a gentle glow. Her hair danced with the breeze, flowing jauntily about her shadowed face. She offered him her hand.

  With his own, free from stress or marking, he took it.

  She helped him to his feet gladly, her expression serene; the look of a woman relieved of a great burden.

  He touched her bronzed skin with his, tracing her elbow and swallowing her forearms in his strong, healthy grip. They smiled at each other in a way that only lovers could. Lovers who'd borne witness to each other's ugliness and no longer cared. Lovers who’d been through a great trial and come out in the end stronger for it.

  Hand in hand they faced the horizon. A past life forgotten. Content with themselves. Content with each other.

  The ghosts in the machine, free to while away eternity amongst their own private Eden.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Nathan Evans is a father, husband, comic book lover, and independent author and podcaster based in Michigan. His first book, a collection of short story crime fiction, “Black Coffee: Tales from the City of Bludstone” is available in print and digital on Amazon and Createspace. His podcast about films, “Netflexing”, can be found on Soundcloud, iTunes, and Stitcher. For more information on the author himself, including future projects, you can like him on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/BlackCoffeeByNathanEvans. Thanks for reading.

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