Blood & Tacos #4

by Brad Mengel

  A cruise ship flickered into existence, its cloaking shield deactivating. A deck-mounted electromagnetic pulse cannon pointed straight at L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. and a sound cannon straight at Brick. L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. went dark, Brick seconds later.

  Single frames raced through Brick’s unconscious mind. A beautiful island. A beautiful island woman. Beautiful island sex. Oh, no. Guns. Guns. More guns. Bullets from those guns. Screams of pain. Screams of rage. Generic screams. The deep roar of a motorcycle engine from the sky.

  The zip of a nylon rope around Brick’s wrists truncated his nightmare. “Memories,” Brick thought as his consciousness awakened. His eyes opened to discover that he was tied to a chair in a cruise ship cabin.

  The clean lines, the Airsoft™ bed with thousand-thread-count sheets and modern, yet sophisticated décor; it had to be a Carnival® cruise ship. Brick could recognize its elevated luxury and style anywhere. And while the cabin could fit a family of four comfortably or act as a luxurious escape for a solo traveler, two people occupied the room in this instance: Brick and a wiry, leather-skinned man in a lab coat. Brick had seen his file at X.Y.L.O.P.H.O.N.E. H.Q. This was Doctor Death.

  “I am Dr. Death,” said Dr. Death.

  “I know who you are,” Brick croaked, mouth dry. If only he could reach the complimentary Fiji® water bottle that came standard in every Carnival® room.

  “Thank you for delivering the Land Able Neo Destructor-class Boat (with) Optimized Automated Tech, Mr. Argus,” Dr. Death said. “It will be a boon for our drug trade.”

  “His name is L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T.,” Brick said defensively. “And his loyalty protocols are octo-quadruple encrypted. He’ll never work for you.”

  Dr. Death positioned an IV stand above Brick’s head. “I’ve broken the wills of countless men, Mr. Argus. I don’t think a boat will be that difficult. My will-breaking talent is the reason your old friend The Captain hired me.”

  Brick stared into Dr. Death’s dead eyes. “I don’t know any The Captain.” Brick turned away, recalling his amnesia. “But then again, I don’t know much of anything, anymore.”

  Dr. Death placed an IV bag filled with liquid onto the stand. “Do you know what Chinese water torture is, Mr. Argus?”

  “Yes, but I hate to break it to you, Dr. Death—you aren’t Chinese. You’re Korean,” Brick said, calling forth his impeccably accurate ability to discern Asian races. “So this isn’t officially Chinese water torture.”

  Dr. Death smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re right. Mr. Argus.” His corner-mouth smile dropped. “I’m also using acid.”

  Dr. Death turned the nozzle, and a drop of acid dropped. Brick leaned over and the acid burned into his shoulder, sizzling. Brick gritted his teeth but released no sound.

  “Well, that won’t do,” Dr. Death tsked. Dr. Death’s tulle-skinned hands gripped the sides of Brick’s head, keeping it still. The next drop fell towards Brick’s eye.

  At the last possible millisecond, Brick tilted his head back and let the acid land in his mouth. He swished it around and spat at Dr. Death’s face. The thin man emitted a fat scream. Brick flung his legs back, kicking Dr. Death into the rich mahogany walls of the perfectly arranged cabin. Brick’s bound hands reached into his boot and retrieved an SPR-422 compact hand spear gun. He quickly calculated trajectory and velocity, as was his way, and fired. The harpoon whizzed through Dr. Death’s eye socket and didn’t stop until it hit brain cavity. Brick scooped his arms under his legs and spat at his bonds, the nylon melting. Brick tore his bonds away like they were acid-melted nylon ropes.

  Brick went to the adjoining bathroom and gargled the complimentary Crest® mouthwash. It refreshed him with Winterfresh™ goodness. He loaded another spear into the SPR-418 compact spear gun and left Dr. Death’s face to its melting.

  Brick dashed onto the deck and tactically maneuvered past the fun for the whole family Family Fun Time™ Waterslides. He spoke into his wrist communicator, which Dr. Death stupidly forgot to remove. Stupid Dr. Death. “L-B. What’s your status?”

  “I electrocuted two gear-monkeys trying to tinker with me, so my electro-shielding works. Hyper-weaponry inactive, self-repair protocol at fifty-three percent, mega-engines functional, but they won’t do me any good where I am.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Suspended in a lifeboat rig, alongside plenty of lifeboats, enough for everyone on the ship plus backup, as is Carnival®’s way.”

  “Of course.” Brick said, already mentally planning his next vacation as he moved through the ship like a one-man SWAT team. “I have a plan. We rig your thermo-induced hyper thruster engine to blow, and when we’re safely off the ship ... blamo, we destroy the ship, the drugs, and the bad guys.”

  L.A.N.D.B.O.A.T. processed the statistics of success. “Good plan.”

  Brick peeked into the dining hall and immediately changed his mind about the goodness of the plan. Right beside the plentiful buffet of steak, lobster, and chicken fingers for the kids was another buffet. A buffet of problems. And it was all-you-can-eat. Just like the other buffet, which was also all-you-can-eat. There, bound and gagged, sat the cruise ship’s staff and passengers. They were guarded by guards who fingered their guns’ triggers like twelve-year-olds at camp.

  “Abort plan,” Brick whispered into his communicator.

  “But it’s a statistically perfect plan!”

  “Add this variable to the equation, L-B. Hostages.”

  “It’s no longer a good plan, Brick.”

  “We have to take over the ship,” Brick deduced.

  “By force?”

  “That’s the only way I know how.”

  The guard looked down at the protruding polycarbonate meta-barbed projectile that had just thunked into his chest. He tried to gasp, but instead he fell. The other guard did a double take: one take, then the other, then opened his mouth to produce a warning cry, but no air escaped his throat.

  Brick, still reloading his SP-480 compact spear gun, looked up to find a twenty-one-year-old raven beauty strangling the silent guard from behind with zip-tied hands. There was fire in her eyes. Almost as much fire as in Brick’s loins. A sex fire. And that fire was big enough to take out a five-acre swath of unsexed forest. Brick watched in erotic appreciation as the girl waited for the guard’s death rattle.

  Brick pulled the spear out of the other guard and cut the girl’s bonds. “Who are you and what happened?”

  “Well, I ...”

  “Make it quick, sister, we don’t have all day,” Brick interrupted.

  “We were ...”

  “There are sure to be more guards on their way. Spit it out,” Brick said, becoming annoyed.

  The girl smiled at Brick, enjoying his forcefulness. “Lily Kershaw. My family and I were taking a Carnival® cruise. A perfect vacation for any family, whether you’re on a budget or not.”

  Brick nodded in agreement. “Well, you made a great choice. The best, actually.”

  She rubbed her raw wrists. “Then these criminals took over the ship.”

  Brick eyed Lily from head to toe and then eyed all of her non-head and non-toe parts. “You look like you can take care of yourself. Can you use an SPV-437 compact spear gun?” Brick said as he tossed her his side-spear-arm.

  “Of course,” Lily said, catching it.

  Brick grabbed the guards’ machine guns and turned to Lily. “Come with me.”

  Lily winked at Brick. “Yes, I will, eventually.”

  Brick cocked his head quizzically. “What do you mean, ‘eventually’? I need you to come with me now.”

  “Right, but ‘come with you.’ You know, it could mean two things, depending on the context.”

  “I don’t follow. Are you coming with me now or not?”

  “I am. But I’ll also come with you later. In a very different way.”

  Ten seconds of silence passed.

  Finally, Brick spoke. “So ... you’re coming with me now ...”

  Lily dropped her h
ead. “Yes.”

  “Good. We have to act fast. If the guards find out I escaped, they’ll come, quickly and all over the place.”

  Lily looked at Brick deadpan. “So you did get the double entendre.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, baby. Never learned French. But time’s a-wastin’ and we don’t want to lose the element of surprise.”

  “Surprise is the best weapon,” Lily added.

  “Well, it’s the second best,” Brick retorted.

  “What’s the first?”

  “The best weapon,” Brick said, “is two machine guns.”

  Brick and Lily fought upstream through a river of hench towards the boat’s steering room, drug runners falling at the snap, crackle, and pop of Brick’s machine guns and the silent whispers of Lily’s spears. They reached the steering room, a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of blood behind them should they ever want to get back. But there was no going back. Unless back meant forward, into danger.

  Brick punched open the door and stepped into the steering room. It was dark. Too dark. Which made it the very definition of dark.

  “Bravo, Argus,” said a manhole cover scraping concrete.

  A name shot through Brick’s amnesia.

  “Grid!” Brick growled.

  “I’m happy you could be here to see this historic collaboration: the drug runners and the tech cartel, working together to get drugs into your country. For a healthy profit, of course.”

  Lily scowled. “I’m going to spear him like an hors d’oeuvre.”

  “Cocktail hour hasn’t started yet, baby,” Brick said, holding his arm out. “I need answers first. About my past.”

  “Oh, you’ll get answers, Brick,” Grid seethed. “Gun-answers!”

  The lights slammed on, blinding Brick and Lily. But not seeing wasn’t something that ever stopped Brick from firing a gun. He opened dual-fire while Lily snapped spears towards the voice. When their eyes adjusted, they saw a plush chair riddled with holes and spears and a speaker lying on the seat.

  Brick squinted at the unoccupied chair. “I may have amnesia, but I know that’s not Grid.”

  A voice from behind them scraped, “You’re telling me.”

  The butt of a gun slammed against Brick’s temple, shooting sparks, comets, and shooting stars through his corneas. These weren’t the delicious kind you find in every box of iron-fortified Lucky Charms® cereal, but the concussiony kind. Grid appeared behind Lily, a vicious Bowie knife sliding around her neck.

  Grid had an expressionist painting of a face, clearly made in the artist’s Ugly Period. Four facial scars created a tic-tac-toe grid, but in this game, the only outcome was ugly. He was ugly. Grid lifted an enormous hand-cannon towards Brick. “Oh, Brick. Will you never learn that I always win?”

  “What do you mean, always?” Brick said, quizzically, staring down the nose of the housecat-sized revolver.

  “Hahahaha!” Grid ha-ha’d. “You really don’t remember! What do you have, amnesia?”

  “Yes. I have amnesia.” Brick said, remembering the words necessary to form the response, but not his past.

  Grid harrumphed. “Killing you won’t be nearly as sweet if you don’t remember who I am and what I did ...”

  “WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DID YOU DO?” Brick roared.

  “I think I’ll leave that mystery”—Grid cocked his industrial heater—“a mystery.”

  He squeezed the trigger.

  A spear snapped into Grid’s foot. Lily had covertly loaded her spear gun and waited for the perfect time to fire it. Which was then. Grid’s shot fired errantly into the ceiling as Brick lunged. With the power of a front-kick, Brick punched Grid, causing the antagonist to fall back and drop his pocket-mortar.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Brick said as he lifted the wrist-breaker, giving it a couple cowboy spins. Brick aimed the handheld-Howitzer at Grid but only found Lily in his sights. Grid was using her as a shield. A shield made of human.

  Grid dragged Lily out of the steering room and down the deck. Brick followed, keeping his distance, the really, really big gun trained on Grid. He wouldn’t dare take the shot, for risk of leaving a football-sized hole in one of Lily’s football-sized breasts.

  Brick followed them down the starboard side of the Fiesta Deck, with its comfortable lounge chairs and endless supply of Martha Stewart Signature™ towels, and up to a helicopter pad. Brick was impressed. “A helicopter pad,” he thought. “For mid-voyage resupplies, flown-in entertainment, and flying island tours. What hasn’t Carnival® thought of?” Brick refocused on the task at hand: killing Grid with his bare hands then putting those same hands all over Lily’s body.

  Grid dragged Lily towards a large, jet-black motorcycle that lay dormant in the middle of the helicopter pad. Brick had been briefed on the Aeronautical Intelligent Robobike Built for Immediate Killing and Extermination. Oscilli-rotor slug cannons framed either side of its spiked front wheel, a laser-guided Mach rail gun shone in the moonlight, and installed between the handlebars was a cyclone sensor hydro-vacuum launcher. It also had a sidecar, for passengers.

  Grid sat backwards on the bike, slinging Lily onto the seat in front of him like a sack of hamburger meat. Brick grimaced. He knew she was a prime cut of USDA Choice Angus steak. He wanted to put her in his mouth and taste her juices. But the steak would have to be for desert, because the main course was revenge. And that meal was about to be served. Cold. Like a chef salad or some other cold entrée.

  Brick approached. “You got nowhere to go. Except a grave. And I hope you like your graves watery. Because we’re on a boat. Your account has run dry, Grid, and I’m the debt collector.”

  “Oh, are you?” Grid retorted.

  “Yes,” Brick seethed. “And I don’t take kindly to late payments. And my interest rates? They’ll kill you. And also, so will my guns.”

  Grid waited for Brick to finish, then spoke. “Remember that first part, where you said I had nowhere to go?”

  “Of course. I may have amnesia, but when it comes to threats, I’m like an elephant. I never forget. To destroy my enemies. With my guns. And I’m still sure that you have nowhere to go.”

  “Nowhere to go but up!” Grid turned his head. “A.I.R.B.I.K.E., activate!”

  The motorcycle lit up like a Christmas tree plugged into a nuclear power plant. As the weapons whirred awake, an all-too-familiar roar screamed out of the exhaust pipes and straight up Brick’s spine and into his memory.

  “Ow! My memory!” Brick said.

  Then, the motorcycle spoke. “Ready to engage.”

  As the motorcycle lifted into the air, life became slow motion. Lily let out a deep scream, her hands clutching the sides of the motorcycle for dear life as the bike flew farther into the air. A sidewinder missile erupted from the bike towards the cruise ship, exploding into the lower hull and ripping a giant hole into the beautiful curves of the ship. Water rushed in. The cruise ship began a slow descent into the dark blue.

  “What a shame,” Brick thought to himself. “This cruise liner could have taken countless families on vacations to the Bahamas, Trinidad, or many other affordable destinations. Fortunately, Carnival® has the largest fleet on the market. And the most advanced.”

  Brick’s lamentation was interrupted by the formal introduction of a steel-mesh motorcycle tire going eighty miles an hour to his face. The force sent the back of his head against the immaculately clean deck. And in the case of Deck v. Head, Head was guilty of being softer than Deck. Brick saw airborne motorcycle taillights disappear. Then the stars faded, leaving him in simple black space.

  Brick woke up in bed, soft floral sheets a haphazard knot that could only mean one thing: wild, passionate lovemaking. He looked to the thatched roof of his hut, turned, and smiled. There was Dalia. Her naked D-cup breasts lay flat against her chest; they were natural. She blinked herself awake and smiled at Brick. Brick closed his eyes and kissed her, his tongue making its way all the way into her mouth.

  When Brick’s ey
es opened, he found himself on his fishing boat, mending a net that had been cut by the local youth. They were good kids, but they needed guidance, as their fathers chose to work jobs far less noble than fishing. Unless, of course, you consider drugs fish, which they aren’t. Brick looked to shore to see Dalia waving at him. They played a long-distance game of peek-a-boo; a game that had brought them together before Brick learned her island language. She laughed and blew him a kiss.

  Brick woke with a start to the deep, bassy throb of an engine. Brick could aurally identify every boat on the island, and this definitely wasn’t a boat. Brick took his harpoon off the wall—the one he used to fight the great whites that sneaked into his nets—and stepped out of his hut.

  Outside, the frogs croaked, the crickets chirped, and the wabu bird let out its soft nighttime lullaby. But no engine. Maybe it had been a dream. Brick turned back to his hut, excited at the prospect of eating a midnight snack, the snack being Dalia. Then the island went silent. The wind stopped whispering, the air grew still, and all the animals fell quiet, even the wabu bird. And you know how wabu birds are.

  The vacuum was broken by the hiss of a missile snaking past Brick. It flew directly into the hut and exploded in an explosion of fire and other, smaller explosions. Then, the gunfire began, Dalia’s screams somehow rising above the cacophony. Brick’s mind was blank, his new realities causing a neural traffic jam and bottlenecking his paralyzed psyche.

  Out of the fire, a form formed, forming the form of a man riding a motorcycle. It was a man with tic-tac-toe face scars. And he was laughing. It was a guttural, bassy, machine-gun laugh. Much like the engine of the motorcycle he was flying.

  “GRID!” Brick screamed as he woke, the cool deck of the cruise ship cradling his face. He rose wincing. If only he has some Tylenol® Extra Strength™, it could help him with his headache and the pain of rediscovered memories. And while the generic brands were cheaper, he just felt better buying a name he trusted: Tylenol®.

  Brick remembered his life before X.Y.L.O.P.H.O.N.E. He remembered learning the ways of the sea. He remembered meeting Dalia at the tiki bar where she served drinks and danced the hula. And he remembered all the way back to his arrival on the island, a broken man struggling with amnesia.