Othella (Arcadian Heights)

by Therin Knite

  Waverly’s stone face melts into a pool of rage. "Why the hell do you need to do that?"

  "Because the person who received the files was not the hacker. It was someone else."

  "Do you know who?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I’ll tell the FBI and let them apprehend him."

  "I would much rather apprehend the suspect myself."

  Waverly flicks an accusatory finger in my direction. "And I would much rather not have those things running around."

  My muscles tighten. "Things?"

  "Yes. Things. That’s what they look like. Faceless. Voiceless. They’ll terrify civilians."

  I relax. For a second, I thought I had a problem that would require a high-profile assassination.

  "Look, Q, I appreciate what you’re doing with the Heights. It’s a good program. If you wanted more funding or something like that, I’d give it to you in a heartbeat, like Jameson did all those years back. I would get your needs in the budget—I swear it—Congress’s partisan politics be damned." He licks his lips. "Because, yes, the community is important, even more so today. It protects our country’s best assets, our allies’ best assets. And we need that protection in these difficult times."

  These difficult end times, he means. Unless the man is deluded enough to believe he can save a failing world singlehandedly. A world running low on fossil fuels and political cooperation and the ability to withstand worsening natural disasters. A world where eighteen countries have gone under in the last ten years.

  "Not to mention the community keeps people upbeat. Those kids who go inside, who dedicate themselves to creating a better future—when people see those kids, they feel good." Waverly has fallen into his grand hand gestures routine, complete with the patriotic double peace signs and alternating thumbs up. "You’ve produced some great advances in the past few years. I truly appreciate that. The country appreciates that. The world appreciates that. But you’re not a sovereign entity, Q."

  I beg to differ.

  "So I can’t give you free rein to send your creepy guards traipsing around my country in search of some thief. What’s he got that’s so important anyway?"

  "Files related to community security. Their public release could compromise the Heights."

  Waverly rubs his chin. "Okay, so I get why you’re upset."

  No, you don’t, you pompous dick.

  I raise a single finger to shush him. "Mr. President, I understand you believe in your methods wholeheartedly, but I must inform you that the man I’m on the hunt for is not someone who is going to surrender to a few FBI agents. He’s smart, creative, calculating, and out of his mind."

  Waverly balks at my defiance. He adjusts his collar. He cracks his knuckles. He fortifies himself against persuasion. "Oh, yeah? Who is it? Because I bet my guys can take his ass down in no time."

  I place my hands on my thighs, lean closer to Waverly’s face, and say, "Marco Salt."

  Fifteen minutes later, I saunter out of the office with a signed executive order.

  4

  Georgette

  ( 4 Days Ago )

  The ditzy cashier dies while scanning a hideous cashmere sweater.

  She greets me when I shuffle into the store, head bopping to her music, and I respond using Adele’s squeaky excuse for a voice. I mill around the sparse selection of women’s clothing and pretend to search for a shirt in my size as I analyze my surroundings. Six other people are in the store, two men and four women. The men are digging through a pile of suit jackets discarded near a dressing room. Three of the women are grouped together in the lingerie section. The other is trying on shoes.

  No music plays from the ceiling speakers.

  Using what fashion sense is relevant in this situation, I choose the cashmere sweater for my "Adele Impersonation Test." Someone turned the hanger sideways, and the sweater was obscured by several revolting orange winter coats. A diamond hidden in the dirt? Not even close. But I can picture Adele donning it without a second thought, and since my goal is to be Adele, the sweater it is.

  Moments before I reach the checkout counter, I notice the men in black hoodies. They’re loitering near the children’s play-pin-slash-orphanage. One of them has a duffle bag strapped to his back, a rifle-shaped bulge deforming one end. Subtle.

  I should head for an escape route, and any other day, I would without hesitation. But I’m Adele today, and she’s not as observant as me. In fact, as I watched her pack for her permanent relocation, I noticed she seemed unaware of the most basic things. She kept tripping over chair legs and forgotten socks and stubbed her toe against her dresser three times in two minutes. I thought she was shaken from the Heights revelation at first.

  Then I did more research on her. Found out using her social media that she earned the nickname "Oblivious Addie" in high school.

  So, no, the real Adele wouldn’t notice the threatening masked men creeping toward the department store. I stay put and throw up my nervous Adele smile, the one with the twitchy bottom lip. I sit my hideous sweater on the counter and offer it to the cashier. I flutter my lashes and refuse to make eye contact that lasts more than half a second.

  I am Adele Marks.

  Who shrieks in terror when the cashier’s brains burst from the side of her head. The high-caliber bullet disintegrates her skull, and her lifeless body vanishes behind the checkout counter, last year’s top rock hit still blasting from her earphones. Now I notice the masked men. I scramble backward and turn to observe the "newly perceived" threat. The guy with the poorly hidden rifle has removed it from his bag. He trains the barrel on me. Judging from his first shot, he has damn good aim.

  If I were me and not Adele, I’d drop-roll into the sea of clothing racks about six feet to my right. Tactical evasion. A move I first successfully used that time in Peru with the trigger-happy terrorist. But I’m Adele and not me, so instead, I stagger into the empty rack four feet behind me, screaming repeatedly at the top of my lungs.

  Rifle guy isn’t going to shoot me, after all. He would have done it already if he intended to. So I’m safe being Adele’s cowardly ass for the moment.

  I scamper around the rack and dash toward the emergency exit, where the three lingerie women are heading. But Adele is no track star. I slow it down a few notches. Huff and puff like I’m running for speed. Rifle guy pursues me, his brethren not far behind. They fan out into the store, several of them shouting at the two men and the other woman to get on their knees and take their wallets out. Petty thieves, now armed with semiautomatics.

  Rifle guy closes in on me, his breathing guttural. I fake a speed-up attempt, an exasperated whimper working its way out of my throat. The emergency exit is twenty feet away, and the door hangs open, flapping in the wind. The lingerie women are long gone. They didn’t even bother to hold the door for me. Ugh. Bitches.

  An arm wraps around my waist. Full stop. I lose my footing. Rifle guy cheers and squeezes my waist as hard as he can, my back flush with his chest. He’s strong. The air rushes out of me, and I’m left gasping. I flail, kicking at the man’s legs with half my strength.

  He chuckles, chest rippling against my shoulders. "Where you going, honey? We ain’t even acquainted yet." His arm releases me, but before I can move, he tangles his hand in my hair and throws me to the floor. My head bounces off the tile with a sickening crack, and I cry out—genuine.

  I twist around to face the bastard, only to see him tugging at his zipper. He’s hard. Great. He’s one of those men. Gets off on fear and dominance. He chased me because I seemed his favorite flavor of vulnerable. Now he wants more than a brief lick. He wants the full meal.

  My purse overturned when he threw me down. Its contents litter the floor. There’s a small mirror in the pile of junk. I lean toward it and check my face.

  Good God Almighty.

  Adele’s faded brown hair is a bird’s nest, tangled locks clinging to skin. Her pitiable face is warped with terror, eyes wide, lips quivering, nostrils flared. Her cheeks, pu
ffy from plastic surgery, are pallid. She is the powerless kitten in a corner I need her to be for my mission to the Heights.

  She’s perfect.

  I’m perfect.

  Rifle guy has said rifle hanging off his arm as he tugs his cock out. Ha. That must have disappointed a girlfriend or two, if the man’s ever managed consensual sex. He beams down at me with teeth coated in gunk that resembles last month’s lunch—yuck—several of them on the verge of falling out, black and brown and mushy. "Now, honey, here’s what you’re going to do. You want to get out of here, you take a few good minutes and—"

  "Shut up, you dumb fuck." I peel Adele off my persona and stuff her in a closet. "You’ve gone far beyond your usefulness." I bring out my smile on Adele’s face, and I don’t quite know what it looks like, since I’ve been practicing Adele in the mirror, but it must be horrifying. Because rifle guy recoils like I’ve flashed him vampire fangs. He fumbles for his gun and turns his head to call his buddies, who are busy accosting the suit jacket men.

  In the time it takes him to do this, I reach underneath Adele’s baggie blouse and pull out my SIG Sauer from the chest holster. When the guy’s head snaps back to me, he’s staring into the barrel.

  "You..."

  "You going to let me leave in peace?"

  His face turns beet red. "Fuck no, cunt! I’m going to rip your—"

  I shoot him in the dick first. He folds, howling, hands trying to block the blood gushing from his crotch. He screams. Two. Three. Four times.

  Then I shoot him in the head, and he shuts up. Thank God. He sounded like a broken bass guitar.

  The rest of his crew stare at me. Open mouthed. Confidence vaporized. I meet every single shocked gaze before I bend over, collect my things, and walk out the emergency door, hips swishing all the way.

  Phase Three: complete.

  ... [ Chapter Six ] ...

  1

  Marco

  ( 2 Years Ago )

  I discover the blueprint the morning I vomit on the bug-ridden carpet of a hovel in Memphis. Bad night. I went through so many beers I lost count, and the bartender cleaned my wallet out before tossing me into a cab with a cabbie who ditched me ten blocks from home. I’m not sure how I managed to enter the correct homeless shelter masquerading as a hotel, but I wake up on the floor at ten in the morning and vomit. Everywhere. Six times.

  The smell alone has me dry heaving for half an hour.

  After I manage to wipe up my mess, I crawl to the bathroom, shed my soiled clothes, and lie in the tub under a lukewarm spray. Everything is hazy, like I’m viewing the world through thin cotton. My head pounds. My stomach makes noises that rival the obscenities I vaguely remember screaming at the bartender.

  This is rock bottom. From rich and powerful and smart and successful to a nervous, drunken wreck. This is how you lose the game, how you fall from the top of the pyramid and get eaten by the crocodiles. Over four words. And too many pictures.

  I turn the shower off, but the head drips, so I rest my bare back against the tub rim and listen to the patter with my eyes closed. Try to conjure up one of those peaceful moments people use to distract themselves from the shitty lives they lead.

  I’m lost. I don’t know where to go from here, and every week, I have another run-in with the Heights patrolmen.

  My stomach cramps, and I breathe shallow air to avoid the pain.

  The shrapnel wounds on my ankles are an angry red. Reminders of my last encounter with Q’s minions. Those damned mindless men in suits who follow kill orders without emotion. They used burst bullets in an enclosed space. A convenience store. At least eight people were hurt, but I couldn’t stick around to help them. I ran for my life.

  I observe my surroundings. The dingy tiles and the cracked ceiling and the rusted fixtures. Some life. God. I admit it—there are times I’ve wondered if I shouldn’t let them kill me and get it over with.

  Then Clarissa’s dead face appears in the corner of my eye.

  And I’m overwhelmed with this ache for vengeance. It keeps me going. From Miami to Houston to New York City to Richmond to Raleigh to Memphis. Train hopping. Car stealing. It’s a senseless need for violence. I want to strangle Q to death with my bare hands.

  Does that make me a bad person?

  I used to be a bad person. After my parents died in an accident that wasn’t one, covered up by a corporation I later squashed with South Sydian’s colossal thumb. But when it happened, I was eighteen and powerless. And angry like I have never been again...until now. Unstoppable rage consumed me, and I dived down, down, down into the darkest corners of society, aligned myself with the sickest shadows. I made a few decisions that will stain me forever. I pulled a few triggers I shouldn’t have pulled.

  And then Reggie...he pulled me out. Channel the fury into something constructive, Marco, he said and sent me off to college. Where I met Anise and the world became a few shades brighter. And the anger repainted itself into ambition from which South Sydian was born. And it grew into a titan that could devour everything in its path, including that which I hated so much.

  Reggie. Anise. South Sydian. And finally, Clarissa. They remade me into a person worth being.

  But I don’t hold South Sydian’s leash anymore. The titan is out of my control. Anise vanished in a fog of cancer drugs, the fallout from the Russo-Chinese nuke accident off the coast of Japan. Clarissa is a decaying corpse inside Arcadian Heights. And if I contact Reggie, he might end up on Q’s hit list.

  So who’s going to stop me from a second descent?

  Or better yet: should someone stop me?

  I climb out of the tub and dress in ratty street clothing I snagged from a thrift shop. Booming business these days, thrift shops. Unemployment is so high it could rival the average temperature in Florida.

  My breakfast consists of the powder at the bottom of a corn flake cereal box. While I’m pecking at it, I check the news on the beat-up TV in the corner of a closet-sized area I think is supposed to be a living room. The news anchor prattles on about the usual disasters. Global terrorism. Catastrophic weather patterns. The stock exchange is down again. If the world doesn’t screw its head on straight soon, it’s not going to be spinning much longer.

  I toss the box toward a trash can next to the refrigerator, but it misses by a mile and hits the floor, cereal dust spilling out. Some of it puffs into the air. Some of it sticks to the photo collage on my wall.

  The dead scientists. I don’t know what possessed me to print out their pictures and affix them to the wall—every wall at every hotel for the duration of my stay—but there it is, an entire panel of corpses. Clarissa’s is the top left corner. I always put her first.

  A car drives by through the narrow street behind the hovel—hotel—passing my window, and the light in the room flickers. The shadows bend and ripple over the collage, and for an instant, I see something there. A straight line, accentuated by the cereal powder, that shouldn’t be there. Cutting across the face of a young black man whose name I don’t remember.

  When the light stabilizes, the line is gone, but I remember where it was. So I totter to the collage and analyze the picture closely. Stick my finger beneath the invisible line and grab a lamp from the table beside the sunken-in sofa. I hit the button on the lamp, and the bright yellow light that burns my hung-over eyes also illuminates the line again. It’s the result of a subtle shift in color, something I’ve never noticed before.

  I almost dismiss it as a printer issue, but to humor myself, I hold the lamp at various angles to shine the light on other pictures.

  More lines. Some of the pictures have ten, fifteen, twenty lines. Some straight. Some curved. There are circles and triangles, squares and pentagons, and shapes I learned in ninth grade geometry but whose names I’ve long forgotten.

  Some kind of nervous energy surges through me. I grab a pencil from my shabby backpack and begin tracing the lines. They don’t match up from picture to picture, but I know from instinct that they will when I reor
der the images. To the sequence they were in when I received them as a folder in the message that damned me.

  They will match up.

  And I know from the sizes and shapes of the buildings, the outline of the massive fence, the X’s that mark the spots where security cameras rule, the guard towers denoted with extra-thick bars...I know exactly what they will show.

  The full blueprint of Arcadian Heights.

  Including its defense grid.

  2

  Quentin

  ( 2 Years Ago )

  Reggie Martin attempts to run when he spots me in his chair. The patrolmen waiting in the hallway take him down. Howard has long shut off his capacity for mercy, so the scuffle ends with a broken wrist, a crushed pair of glasses, and multiple facial contusions. Rough hands drag the man into the living room and chuck him on the sofa. After a few minutes of pained gasping, he cradles his wrist and sits up to face me.

  His cheek is already swelling. A torn bottom lip drips red.

  "Thought you were supposed to stay inside the Heights." Martin’s voice is weak and quaking.

  "I got a little claustrophobic. Needed some air." I pluck a handkerchief out of my coat pocket and toss it to him. It lands on his left thigh, but he doesn’t touch it, even as the stream of lip blood dribbles down his chin.

  "What do you want?" He speaks in the tone of someone who knows precisely what I want but refuses to admit his awareness. I can’t imagine why he bothers with the pretense.

  "I have a task for you. It regards your whereabouts on a certain day at a certain former CEO’s home. A day a rather special message was received."

  A siren blares through the streets, louder and louder then softer and softer until it’s a baby’s wail in the distance. Martin lives in a two-story townhouse in one of the last remaining safe havens for the wealthy in New York. Good taste for a computer scientist. Lovely artwork on his walls. A pastel color palette. Not at all the sort of scrappy frat boy type you’d take him for at first glance.