I again crash into my bed, back first this time to minimize the lavender assault. I lay there for a few minutes, staring at the cream ceiling, alone and breathing. I tell the room to turn on the air conditioner and enable the odor reducer. It drones to life. An urgent message blinks in the corner of my vision. I only allow urgent messages to get through at this hour.
“Shit, what is it?” I ask the room.
“How may I assist you, Mr. Pomar?” the crisp, feminine voice of the room replies from everywhere.
“No, nothing,” I mutter.
“Very well, Mr. Pomar.”
I let out a nervy breath as I open the message. A red rectangular holotab flashes to life in my vision. The icon on the message is a gold pixelated 1980’s skull and crossbones with an eye patch. I grin because I know this logo is an old colleague’s. It’s from a user named D4663R, which reads as Dagger. I try to open it but frown as a red ‘X’ appears, indicating the message is encrypted. I run it through my current encryption keys with no luck.
Then I remember that Dagger likes old shit, the type that should be relegated to museums. He collects antiques and other junk you can only find in country stores. I run his message through an ancient decryption key we formerly used when we were on the same project in Erinas. We wanted to commiserate undetected beneath our manager’s nose. It works. In hindsight, the idea was fucking brilliant. The red ‘X’ becomes a green check symbol, then fades like an ocean wave beneath the sands revealing a plain text message.
I read it aloud, mimicking his cute Australian accent. “You’re being fucked, mate. This is a bullshit fall job. They’re coming. Watch your back. I’ll do what I can from my end. No BS! -D4663R.”
The well-oiled gears of my mind feel as if they’ve just been doused with a bucket of sawdust. I’m frozen. I read and re-read the message five more times. “I’m being fucked? No bullshit…” I whisper to the walls adorned with unremarkable stock artwork.
Dagger—Noel in real life—is a prankster. Is this another one of Noel’s pranks? No, his jokes were actually funny. This looks serious. My mouth goes dry. I notice the background drone of the news anchor in my AR squawking about the latest Mutant uprising and turn both it and the air conditioning off.
There’s a strange sound outside my door, like the creak of stiffened leather. My eyes go wide, and my heart hammers against my sternum. Maybe it’s just surprise room service, a friendly gesture sent up by the concierge. Perhaps someone is trying to win my favor. I have influence, and I am valuable. I lick my lips then gnaw on the side of my tongue.
“Shit,” I mouth the word.
All the years I spent neglecting any measure of self-defense training comes rushing into my head in a stream of self-loathing. I hold my breath and slowly rise to sit on the bed, noticing the soreness in my abs from my last workout. I’m barefoot, wearing only my fucking underwear and a t-shirt. I have no weapons. I scan the room for something makeshift. There’s nothing.
I’m utterly fucked.
My balls try to crawl into my stomach with a weird tickling sensation. This has to be nothing. This is just an ill-timed coincidence.
The sound like leather creaking resonates again, and there’s an imperceptible sniff like a dog scenting the door. I stare at the door. It is my world. My eyes feel as if they’re going to push out of the sockets. I grimace as my bed groans when I stand, fists clenched so hard it’s starting to make a cramp form in my left forearm. I’m going to laugh when this is over.
A suspicious silence falls on the opposite side of the door. I swallow. Seconds feel like hours. Every raging beat of my heart is a gong against my temples.
It’s nothing, I tell myself.
Suddenly, my neurons spark to life in a mad frenzy. I move with the quivering energy born of adrenaline. I slip on my trousers and jerk a blazer over my back. It’s important to be well-dressed before you die, I think with an inward chuckle.
A low growl forms outside my door. I imagine my killer snarling and foaming at the mouth. I got the security package for my room. My door has the latest in magnetic locks, reinforced titanium hinges, and titanium banded polymers. It should be nearly impossible to open. I start to smile, but that small gesture is dashed away when I hear the welcoming beep of an accepted AR door code. The door to my hotel room whispers open. A blade of light becomes an engulfing wall.
A tall figure is silhouetted between the brightness of the hallway, contrasting with the dim light setting of my room. My eyes burn as they adjust.
“What?” It’s all I can say.
The man is tall with a pink mohawk, the sides of his head shaved down to the skin and covered in tribal tattoos. The lenses of his mechanical eyes whir as they take me in. He wears black combat boots, tactical pants whose pockets bulge, and a tactical vest filled with magazines. There are two grenades on his chest and what I perceived to be firearms at his hips. Fucking grenades. My mind is fixated on them.
How did he get up here unnoticed?
My mind answers: Spectrals.
He grins and steps into the room without hesitation. My eyes are drawn to the gleam of chrome in his hand. It’s a karambit, a curved blade made for close quarters combat and ideal for slashing throats. I only know this because I read a lot. His gloved hand creases as his forearm clamps down tight on the blade’s haft.
There isn’t a shred of doubt that he is here to end me. My killer’s steps are true, his stride resolute. He’s a veteran while I’m a sack of meat ripe for slaughter. I never pictured my death at the hands of an asshole with a pink mohawk.
He steps. I want to drop to all fours, cry, and beg for mercy. I wonder if I resolved to give up all my debauchery that he’d turn and walk away. I’d promise to never objectify another human being again. I’d even be pleasant to poor people. In fact, I’d donate to them on a monthly basis. I’d smile at the ugly and downtrodden.
It’s true what they say.
I see myself eating French toast with my mother as a twelve-year-old. She wipes a glob of maple syrup from my chin. I see myself making out with my first girlfriend, urging her hand toward my groin to get her to touch it through my pants. I see my dad pushing me on a swing in an idyllic park whose name I can’t seem to remember.
No.
Today I’m not letting this pseudo-rebel with a passe haircut kill me. Fuck this guy. I reach, and my hand finds a half-full glass of water. I hurl it as hard as I can at the asshole’s face. It has a little weight behind it due to the water.
He raises his blade arm to block it but inconceivably misses, and it shatters against the side of his head in a glittering spray. It breaks his stride and blood streams down the side of his temple. He paws bits of blood-stained glass from the wound. I see the side of his face is also swathed in unoriginal tribal tattoos. I scan my desk and find the remains of my dinner. Beside it is a greasy steak knife. Its grip is cold and comforting.
“Gonna gut you for that,” Mohawk growls, glass eyes fixed on me.
I let out an embarrassingly womanish shriek as I charge him, the knife held at my front in two hands. His eyebrows rise in surprise. Good. I ram the blade deep into his side, guessing correctly his vest was made to stop projectiles but not edged weapons.
I run. I run harder than I’ve ever run into the hallway. I almost crash into the neighboring door but get my footing at the last instant. I’m not much of a fighter but running is something I’m good at. It’s what my first wife would’ve said. Running, always running from your emotions. Maybe she was right.
My bare feet grab at the stiff carpet. The hallway is endless. It feels like it’s collapsing inward and the walls are going to swallow me. Bright white LED sconces blur past. I spare a glance back as Mohawk spills into the hallway.
“Fucker!” he growls, blade twirling in his grip.
I tear past someone from the hotel staff piling soiled dishes upon a stainless-steel cart. He rises to spare me a curious glance before his eyes find Mohawk. “Cool haircut—” His voice is cut of
f with a wet gurgle.
Fuck. Shit.
How did I get here?
Where did I go wrong?
I spy a sign indicating the stairs. I never stop running but look back again and see the hotel worker slumped on the ground with a scarlet hand pressed against his neck. The wall behind him is slashed in blood. Mohawk grins. His knife hand is a bloody gauntlet.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper over and over. It’s my affirmation. It’s my happy place.
I slam my shoulder against the steel door, sending it squealing open, and stagger into the stairwell. It stinks like urine. I expected better from the Hyatt. The thought makes me both grin and draws tears to the corners of my eyes.
My legs feel light beneath my hips, struggling to keep me upright. My path down the stairs is less of a controlled run and more of a desperate fall. The walls blur, and my skin is slicked in a cold sweat. Hot piss burns against my inner thigh. I stumble down a few steps and right myself by bumping against the handrail. Piss further dribbles around my ankle and runs between my toes. I’m leaving piss footprints in my wake.
I’m two stairwells ahead of Mohawk when I hear the door shriek open again. “Stay there, and I’ll make this quick!” he growls, voice filled with rage. I snicker under my breath as my legs work the stairs. Fucking piss prints. Piss toes.
There’s a square of something red on the wall. A fire alarm. I smash my fist against its touchscreen surface and pull the adjacent confirmation lever, a nub of red plastic. Deafening sirens wail in the hallway. “Fire, fire, fire. Please depart the hotel at once. Fire, fire, fire,” it repeats from everywhere.
Mohawk is furious now. His breaths heave like bellows between calls of “Fire!” rasping over the alarm. He’s quicker, and every step tightens the gap between us. I imagine the cold plunge of his knife in my back. I picture severed major arteries and flayed kidneys. I wonder if the dead hotel worker’s blood is contaminated with an STD. I really don’t want an STD. There are some we still can’t cure.
I lost at least a stairwell with the fire alarm. I hope my gambit was worth the risk.
I grip the handrails and vault down the stairs six at a time. My knees scream in agony, unaccustomed to this sort of abuse. It works to create distance. I think I might’ve gained a stairwell or two. One of my ankles rebel in a stab of agony as I round yet another turn to descend the next flight.
“Fuck, fuck.” I hobble toward the handrails and again vault myself down. Three sets to go. Piss and flames singe my nerves.
The doors to the stairwells below and above us are all opening. People stagger in with both tired looks of confusion and grunts of annoyance. I shove past a group of six people, sending a small woman careening into a burly man, bumping a beer in his hand.
“Asshole!” the girl shouts.
“Goddammit,” the guy mutters, and I imagine him glaring down at the spilled beer foaming over his arm, not realizing it’s the least of his worries.
“There an actual fire?” someone else asks me, voice colored by worry. I say nothing as I plod on. I can only use my breath for running.
Now there are witnesses. Maybe it will stop him from trying to murder me. The start of a triumphant grin falls from my face as a scream of pain bounces from the walls.
I pause at the bottom of the next landing to glance up as Mohawk’s blade hacks through bodies in his way. The girl I shoved is clutching a gut wound, the big guy’s throat yawns open like a scarlet canyon, and another’s been stabbed through the cheek. Mohawk kicks a teenager down the stairs, behind him a trail of blood follows.
“Fuck!” I hiss, eyes wide, turning away before the teen collides with my knees.
I run, hearing the soft crumple as the poor kid strikes the landing. Maybe there’s a security guard on his way to save me. Maybe the Falcon is holed up here for a conference. Anytime now they’ll bust into the hallway and off this fucker. They’ll fill him with lead, maybe energy rounds, and cut off his head.
The staircase fills with more meat shields. They’re not the Falcon, but they’ll do.
I’m long and wiry and easily slip my way between bodies lumbering down the stairs. Mohawk is the opposite of small. Compassion and empathy is for the weak. The wolf doesn’t mourn for a slain rabbit. The antelope herd carries on while the slowest feeds the lion. This is a natural genetic pruning. My actions strengthen the human race.
“Out! Of! My! Way!” I hear Mohawk roaring, knowing he’s slashing his way through the crowd by the wails of terror. People in front of me are stopping to glance up at the commotion. I meet the eyes of a woman with dazzling brown eyes, and there’s a part of me that wants her to live. Her eyebrows rise, and her jaw gapes open, and I understand. Mohawk’s blade looms.
I seize her by the shoulders and push her behind me and against Mohawk. His blade slams into her back, then he shoulders her aside. He grunts, and his lips tug into a murderous grin, showing the bright glint of teeth that have been replaced with titanium prosthetics. His pale skin is speckled with blood, and his mohawk is flopping over in spots. The asshole is enjoying this.
I do what I do best, turning and starting back into a run, knowing full well that grin was for me. An iron grip seizes the collar of my blazer. I wriggle out of it, jerking and twisting my arms free of the garment and staggering onward without a backward glance. He growls like a feral dog. His knife whispers through the fabric of my t-shirt and nicks the middle of my back. I wince, and I’m pissed because that was an expensive shirt.
I crash into a pair of men staring at us open-mouthed. More sheep for the wolf. One of the pair screams as Mohawk no doubt stabbed one of them. I risk a glance over my shoulder to see Mohawk lunging at me for a reckless stab. Even I can see he overextends, and I simply leap to avoid the strike.
The last stairway before the lobby approaches. It’s crammed with bodies. I plow my way through, and they fill in with renewed density. Without hesitation, Mohawk starts hacking, chopping, and stabbing, his cuts landing in throats and through eye sockets to penetrate brains. He’s a professional. I would’ve appreciated him if he weren’t trying to end me.
Panic laces the herd with a frenzied energy. All at once, everyone sees what’s happening and who the predator is. People shout warnings. One minute everyone is stuck in their heads, wondering how long it will be until they can get back to sleep, and the next they’re one entity struggling for survival. The sheep close their ranks, the boldest and dumbest leading the charge against Mohawk.
The next to taste Mohawk’s knife is a massive guy with tree-trunk legs. Mohawk hammers his blade in and out of the guy’s neck in a series of rapid plunges like it’s made of paper.
“No! Stop! No!” a woman screams, hugging Mohawk’s arm to her chest. An adult man dressed in absurd space themed pajamas reaches over her back, fingers working to disarm the killing machine.
I glance back with a half-smile before I push through the door leading to the ground floor. I admire the sacrifices the herd has made for me. Their bravery is foolish, yet admirable. This is 2046, and he’s a fucking Merc. His body is more robotic than it is human. Human lives are nothing to him. They’re pebbles against a tidal wave.
Mohawk’s smile broadens, and I can’t help but watch. He punches someone else in the face with his blade while simultaneously hurling the woman grabbing his arm over his back and smashing her to the landing. He knees another in the groin. He sends an elbow into someone’s face so hard a nose is cavitated with the crack of ruined facial bones. Wails, grunts, and gore fill the last stairway landing. Blood streaks the walls as he works his blade through flesh with surgical precision, every slice nearly lethal.
“Fuck, fuck,” I hiss, shaking my head as I shoulder the door open, leaving the herd to die. I assess that he has left about ten corpses in his wake. They’re all dead because I pulled the fire alarm. Perhaps I should feel remorse, but I don’t. I survive. Grieving too, is for the weak.
My feet slap against the polished marble. The iron stink of blood and
urine is strong in my nostrils. Gazing down I find the front of my shirt dotted with red. There’s another odor too, one I truly hope isn’t born of my body: shit. Pissing myself in this time of duress is acceptable, shitting myself is not.
I ponder whose blood might be on my shirt, dodging around a vacationing couple staring at me aghast while lugging a dozen pieces of expensive luggage. A new wave of terror washes over me as the stairway door clatters off the wainscoted walls.
People are milling for the main exit. Some are murmuring their displeasure, while others dutifully comply with the siren’s wail. This group hasn’t met my killer yet.
There’s an attractive blonde woman with a gossamer thin dress that wonderfully hugs her breasts. She jabs an angry finger at a hotel worker behind the desk, tiptoeing to lean over its edge. “I demand compensation for this disturbance, and no, I will not exit the premises until I’m assured that—” A man that’s presumably her husband tries to lead her to the door, only to be rejected with a blazing glare.
“What’s going on?” an elderly man with rumpled clothing asks no one in particular. He looks poor, and I wonder how he could’ve afforded a room here.
“Run! Fire!” I shout at him. Then to everyone, “Fire!” It’s not because I want them to avoid Mohawk’s wrath, but because of the additional distraction they’ll provide.
Glancing back, I see Mohawk sprinting full speed down the hallway, expression contorted in rage, hand snatching a pistol from its holster. He is painted in gore from head to toe. Blood streams down his face and his boots leave scarlet footprints. Not a sole person exits from the stairwell after him.
My eyes bulge and throat clamps down. It’s suddenly hard to get the air I so desperately need. I scowl in disgust as my asshole involuntarily loosens. No measure of squeezing stops it. I shit myself again, and it confirms my initial suspicion.
There is no glory in survival.
I force my body to continue, always running. Some people follow my eyes to find Mohawk, and screams slice the air. Terror fills the lobby. Between the blood on my shirt and the speed in which I push through the main door, the meat shields predictably follow.
Backstab Page 4