by Jack Cuatt
On shaking legs, Machine clumsily draws the 9mm from under his jacket. His vision sharpens and his mind clears with the feel of the checkered grip. Back to work. He squeezes the trigger and the 9mm's flash lights the room, revealing the blood and the bodies.
Machine’s first shot rips into the chest of the skinhead on the left. His T-shirt blooms red and he buckles at the waist. The second slug crashes through the top of his skull and drives down his spine like a meat plow. Machine pivots to line the sights up on the second, but the Hammerskin is done fighting now the odds have turned against him. He dives for the hall door. Machine tracks the leap with the Smith, but he is shaken, beaten and bloody. He could risk a shot and probably hit his target, but he doesn't dare try. The walls in these old buildings are too thin, and some of the apartments are still occupied. He won't risk killing a straight or a kid. He lowers the weapon as the Hammerskin drags the door open, runs onto the landing and pounds down the stairs.
Machine rises and the room spins before his eyes. The Hammerskin with the fractured shin is sobbing, shoving himself across the floor with his undamaged leg, holding his hands in front of his face. Machine raises the Smith and takes careful aim at the center of the skin's forehead.
“Jesus, dude, don't do it! You won't see me again!” The crippled skinhead pleads breathlessly. But there is no forgiveness in Machine. No compassion. No pity. He pulls the trigger twice. The shredders shatter the skinhead's forehead and slap him down.
Absolute silence. The room looks like a slaughterhouse. The smells of feces, blood, sweat, and fear would be overwhelming to someone unused to death. To Machine it barely registers. He slaps a fresh clip into the Smith. The loss of blood and the pain of the many shallow cuts make him dizzy. His vision warbles. He sways drunkenly, almost loses his balance, but remains on his feet.
For the first time since the attack, he thinks of Stanley.
He feels like he's walking through cotton laced with razors as he crosses to Stanley's bedroom door. For a moment he leans against the wall beside the door and bleeds. He knows he won't make it far in this condition. Stanley is flat on his back, the mattress beneath him red and sagging with dried blood. The old man's throat has been slit to the spine. His eyes are open. His face is twisted in a gruesome rictus. Dried blood covers his neck and chest. He's been dead at least a couple of hours. That means the skins had killed him and then hung around waiting for Machine.
He turns his back on the corpse and staggers across the dark living room. He pauses in the doorway and looks out onto the even darker landing. Even now he remembers his years of training the same way his lungs remember to pump air. As valuable seconds slip by, he waits, allowing his vision to adjust to the gloom of the stairwell before stepping out.
“Hey, chopper,” a whisper comes from the shadows on the steps leading up to the fourth floor. Machine spins to face the voice and almost falls. He has to lean into the wall or go down, but the Smith is steady in his hand, aimed at the stairs.
“Don’t shoot, chopper,” the voice says as its owner steps down two treads. It’s the Asian teenager who was part of the crew that gunned down the trio of Militia men in front of the Den of Thieves.
“I'm here to help,” he says. “To bust you out before the Jesus creeps lock you down. They’re on their way now. Your buddy Stanley still has friends downtown. They won’t go easy on you.” As if in response to his comment, Machine hears distant sirens begin to wail, growing nearer fast.
“What's in it for you?” Machine asks. Nothing in Low Town is free.
“Nothing, but I'm doing it anyway,” the Asian informs him stiffly. “You coming or you just going to stand there and die?” He turns his back and starts up the stairs. After three steps he pauses, almost hidden in the deep shadows. “You got five seconds to make up your mind, chopper.” He turns back to the stairs and resumes climbing.
Machine listens to the oncoming sirens. He has no choice. He follows the Asian.
The Asian hurries up the steps and across the dark landings to the next flight. Machine clings to the railing and tries to keep up as they climb to the sixth and final floor.
The hall is unlighted. Dust coats everything. The single window at the head of the stairs is painted-over. None of the apartments on this floor are rented. Overpopulation is not a problem in Low Town. Machine stops and hangs on to the stair rail. Blood droplets patter on the floor beneath him as the sirens choke off in the street below. The thunder of jack boots and the rattle of body armor announces the Jesus creeps have entered the building.
The Asian ducks into an empty apartment, the last on the right, and crosses the living room, surefooted in the darkness. The window onto the alley is already open. He steps through, out onto a rusted metal fire escape that clings to the building like a dead spider. Machine is right behind him.
The fire escape sags under their weight, giving Machine a spiraling moment of vertigo. He grabs the window casing for support. By then, the Asian is already down one flight. Machine grabs the handrail and starts down as quickly as his injuries allow.
The Asian stops on the third floor landing and waits for Machine to catch up.
The building across the alley is three stories high, its asphalt and gravel roof only a five-foot jump from the fire escape. As Machine reaches the third floor platform, the Asian leaps smoothly over the railing and lands with a crunch on the neighboring roof.
Machine feels as if his feet are made of stone. His heart is pounding, struggling to push a diminishing amount of blood through his body. He throws his right leg over the railing and straddles it for an unsteady moment before dragging his left leg after. For a moment he hangs above the alley's pavement, his knees sagging, about to collapse. He jumps before his legs are fully committed to the effort, stumbles across the gap like a bird struck by a stone and hits the neighboring roof hard on his right side.
The pain is incredible. His entire body screams. Nerve ends burn out, pain swells and darkens his vision. He gasps in a lungful of cold, bitter tasting air, shakes his head, rolls to his knees, and manages to rise.
The Asian is gone. The dark roof, dotted with vents, standpipes and heating units, is deserted. Machine limps across the roof to the far edge and looks down on another fire escape in worse condition than the last. The Asian is halfway down it.
The fire escape’s top platform is eight feet below the roof. No ladder. Machine will have to drop. He almost laughs. The Asian is trying to kill him by dragging him over an obstacle course. But he has no choice but to follow. He crouches, rolls onto his stomach, lowers himself over the edge, and eases out to his fingertips. He’s about to drop when a black wave flows over him.
He falls.
A jarring collision and the whine of sheering metal almost bring him back to consciousness. His eyelids flutter, try to open, and then blackness swallows him. He feels himself spiraling down into warm oblivion, far from the pain. And then his shoulder sends an agonizing lightning bolt into his brain. His vision returns like snapping on a light and he is staring up into the Asian's face.
For a second, Machine doesn't know where he is. He grabs a handful of the Asian's jacket and palms the blood-crusted razor. The Asian doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t even make a move to protect himself. He just pushes the razor aside and whispers, “We ain't got time for this shit. Get on your feet.”
Machine sags back against the metal grating. White dots drift across his vision like luminescent snow. “Leave me,” he mumbles as he starts to fade again. Again, hands are on him, under his shoulders, lifting, bringing fresh pain. The Asian hauls him erect, supporting the wounded teenager with his shoulder, draping Machine's arm around his neck.
“You've got to walk,” he breathes in Machine's ear, “You’ve got to help me.” A faint note of desperation stretches his voice tight.
Machine nods and takes a step. And then another. They stumble down the stairs, the old metal creaking and shifting beneath their feet as the sounds of the city, cars, music, and shouts
drift up from below. Showers of rust, shaken free after years of idle decay, fall on their shoulders and heads.
They reach the last platform where the fire escape ends in a final flight of steps that are hinged at the top. Rusted steel cables bolted to the steps pass through metal pulleys and are attached to a set of lead weights that hold the stairs suspended twenty feet above street level. The Asian hesitates.
It's Machine's turn to be impatient. “Move,” he says as he shoves past the teenager and steps out onto the stairs. The cables scream, the weights rise, and the bottom of the stairs rushes toward the ground. Machine rides them down. His feet hit the pavement a split second after the steps do. The Asian is right behind him.
“This way,” the Asian whispers as the stairs screech back up. He trots to the far end of the alley.
Machine feels a little better with his feet on the ground. A little steadier. But just a little. The pair cross the street and head down the next alley, Machine barely keeping up. The Asian takes a right, toward the river. Two more alleys pass in a blur. At the end of the second the Asian pauses, steps close to the wall and looks the street over. He steps back, cursing.
“Fucked,” he says shaking his head. “We're fucked.”
Machine moves around him and takes a look up the block. Not Jesus creeps as he had expected, but the Children of The Blood Militia turning out a crack-house, having a little fun with a branding iron and a couple of stun guns. Junkies are abandoning the building on the run. Most of the escapees already bear an “A” for addict seared into their foreheads.
Machine watches the scene for a moment, his mind dulled by the pain. It's obvious they can't risk crossing the street.
“We'll have to turn back,” he says.
“That's where I was taking you,” the Asian whispers back angrily. “There's a doctor that cracks it up over there. I don't know anyone else.”
Machine says nothing. He knows a doctor, a plastic surgeon and general practitioner for the criminal elite. Well-paid, very good at what he does, and very cautious. He wouldn't risk treating someone as badly wounded as Machine. One of the doctor's aides would put a scalpel through the teenager's temple as soon as the anesthesia kicked in.
“We can't stay here,” Machine notes tonelessly.
“All right. Let me think.” The Asian waves a hand for quiet.
“Think while you move.” Machine turns his back and starts walking. His brain is working at seventy percent, his body at forty. He doesn't have a lot of time left even at those levels.
“Fuck,” the Asian whispers, but he turns and follows the wounded chopper back down the alley.
Machine leans against the wall at the end of the narrow passage and waits for the Asian to catch up.
The Asian spits into the trash drift, shakes his head in disgust then looks sidelong at Machine. “Looks like this is the end of the line, hit-man. Best I can do is take you to the free clinic and drop you there.”
Machine shakes his head.” I'm not going in for a few stitches and a tour of the prison factories.”
“You're going to die if you don't get to a doctor,” the Asian reminds him.
“Then I die, what's the difference to you?” Machine asks without malice, genuinely curious, wondering what the Asian’s motivation is.
“Nothing, motherfucker. I'm just trying to keep you from getting chopped.”
Machine doesn’t bother to ask why again; he wouldn’t get a straight answer anyway, and the Asian is still his best chance of escape.
“I need a place to get off the street. I'll doctor myself. Take my chances. If you know someplace, lead on. If not, I'll do what I have to do.”
“You need a doctor, not a flop.”
“A flop will do for now,” Machine returns inflexibly.
“Fuck.” The Asian shifts his weight indecisively. “Okay,” he agrees unenthusiastically. “It's a long walk. You probably ain't going make it.”
“I'll manage.”
“Fuck,” the Asian says one more time under his breath, but he doesn't hesitate further. He heads to the end of the alley and looks left and right. Satisfied, he steps out, waving for Machine to follow. For fifteen minutes they walk, skirting the Free Zone, sticking to alleys and abandoned streets, the Asian leading the way. He finally stops at the end of another alley, turns and peers into Machine’s eyes. The teenaged killer’s pupils are dilated, his face bone-white. Blood drips from his fingertips like a leaky faucet.
“You look bad,” the Asian intones softly.” I can’t believe you’re still on your feet.”
Machine makes no reply. He steps around the teenager and leans against the building. The world is shifting colors and spiraling pavement. His chest feels tight, his head light.
“How much farther?” he asks, his voice almost too low to hear. Speaking saps his strength, uses up his air.
“Not far. Probably too far.”
“I'll take care of myself from here,” Machine says. His shoulders slide on the moist brick. His eyelids flutter. It takes all of his strength to refocus his vision and attention. He attempts a smile, but achieves only a predator's flash of fangs.
“Fuck you.” The Asian pushes off the wall and paces across the alley and back, looking from Machine to the street.
“Fuck the world,” he hisses. “We make it or we both die.” Without further conversation, they cross the avenue and go through a crumbling apartment complex taken over by homeless people. Small fires burn inside the dark units. Shadows move through the night. Broken quart bottles and disposable syringes litter the asphalt. Machine can smell the river and the sharp odor of chemical waste. Instantly, he knows they are near the Easter Industries Chemical plant. Very near, by the smell of it. On the edge of the Daylight Restricted Area. Machine is unsurprised by the destination. It’s the perfect place for a careful man. The cops are easy to avoid, and the area is free of thieves and gangbangers.
Six blocks later, the Asian leads him through the door of an abandoned building then closes and bars the door behind them. Girders, rusted equipment, stacks of paper, and unwanted goods fill the dusty space.
“We're almost there,” he says.
Machine tries to nod, but only manages a twitch. He blinks his eyes and pushes air in and out of his lungs, trying to gather his strength. The effort is too much.
“Three flights,” he says. “The cops won't climb higher than that.”
“Let's go,” Machine mumbles, takes a single step and collapses. His head strikes the wall then the concrete floor with a sound like pool balls on a hard break. His eyes stutter and close.
“Fuck!” the Asian screams. For a second, he isn't sure if Machine's chest is rising and falling.
“Don't die now,” he says as he grabs Machine under the shoulders one more time. He drags the unconscious teenager in a half circle and starts up the stairs, breathing hard with the effort, Machine’s feet thumping on every tread.
30
Machine awakens from darkness into darkness. For a moment he forgets to breathe. The fading landscape of a nightmare seems real in the darkness of an unfamiliar place. His hand instantly moves to his forearm for the razor, but it is not there. He realizes he is nude, a ghostly white cotton sheet draped across his chest and legs.
He looks around, the act of turning his head bringing instant pain. He's in a small bedroom without windows. He tries to rise and feels a restriction across his chest and upper arms and pain everywhere. The musty smell of dust and dampness rises from the mattress as he settles back. Abruptly, he remembers Stanley sprawled on a mattress stained red and realizes where he is: the Asian's flop.
Machine lifts his hands. They're bandaged, cartoonishly large. He pushes back the sheet. Matching white bandages cross his chest and upper arms. Competent work. Professional.
He slips back into unconsciousness.
When he awakens again, there is a fat man bending over him, his face inches from Machine's own. The man's breath is foul, blackheads dot his nose and cheeks and
he hasn't had a shower in recent memory. In contrast, his hands are antiseptic and pink, the nails neatly trimmed. An open black leather bag rests on the sheet beside Machine's thigh.
The man's eyes shift to Machine's face and he steps back. “Our patient seems to have come around,” the fat man reports pompously, glancing over his shoulder as his clean pink hands rove the lapels and pockets of a vomit-green houndstooth jacket.
The Asian teenager steps from the shadows into Machine's line of sight.
“Thought you were dead, chopper,” he says, his voice as flat and cool as his gaze.
“How long,” Machine croaks.
“Three days,” the Asian replies. “You're one tough bastard.”
Machine blinks and shakes his head.
“Lucky you came along.” He coughs and closes his eyes again. “Water.”
The Asian reluctantly leaves the room as the doctor leans over his patient once more. Machine lies back and lets the man do his job.
“You've lost a lot of blood, young man,” the doctor says as he smoothes the last strip of white tape. “You're very lucky to be alive.” He backs up and picks up the leather satchel as the Asian returns.