by J Niessen
*****
09: The Champion
“You may proceed, Benson,” a female’s voice tells me.
Feels like waking up from a dream, to be walking through the jungle and then find myself standing in this plain room by myself.
I second guess if this doorway is the one I entered through. Just doesn’t feel right. The supplies in this room are all the same, and the atmosphere smells familiar. I consider changing out of my filthy clothes. The suit’s not working. It used to provide for my jungle fatigues, but now it fits tight, like a wetsuit. I leave it behind, grab a black tanktop I can wear, put on a pair of Urban Digital cargo pants, and slip on a matching jacket. The .308 rifle with an attachable grenade launcher is coming with me. Better grab this helmet too. The door clicks unlocked. My mind hardens from the unexpected sight. I step out into a desolate gray-city. What a toilet.
There’s a Huey that thumps past in the dark sky. I bet it’s monitoring what I’m doing.
Downtown skyscrapers are concrete skeletons. Streets are crumbled. The sidewalks are busted up and shouldn’t be walked on. Metal streetlights are all removed. Expected street-signs are missing. Other than iron support beams encased in cement, the city is stripped of all metal.
This inhospitable island is surrounded by toxic waste. I know this by the bitter odor the moat puts off into the air. I finally come to a spot that offers a way outta here. It’s an overpass connecting to the mainland. Waist high cement triangles, called dragon’s teeth, block both lanes of the bridge. Landmines are planted between the pyramids. A rust-brown web of barbed wire is woven among the car lanes. Death dwells from rotted heads mounted on pikes.
A white blur thumps at my feet. A note’s attached to the metal arrow. Two crow’s nests are up at the very top of the front beams of the bridge. The dark sky keeps hidden how many are posted in the lookout towers. I’m tempted to fire a ‘nade. into each of the nests with my launcher.
After crouching to retrieve the arrow I unravel the attached letter. The fee to cross is 1000 lbs of metal, the letter demands. On the back of the tax ticket is a crude map of the city. A docking harbor is located on the opposite side of the island, marked on the map with an X.
I get the sense they wanna shoot me in the back as I stomp away. A twisting pain in my stomach reminds me I need to eat. The map also displays the location of a trading post. I load an incendiary round into the recently attached lower tube, clip a 40 round magazine into my Saiga 7.62x51 Carbine, and travel the ruined streets to the outpost.
Shrill screams, probably a woman, could be a man, cry out in the distance. My thoughts begin to drift. Then my wits sharpen. I need to focus, consider my route back, and figure how I’m going to transport all that metal. It’d be simpler to take the guards out. But I can’t be the only one that’s thought of that. The heads indicate those that tested this idea, and failed.
Standing at the end of the street that I need to turn down, I spot the corner shop. Atop the roof a neon yellow/blue sign flashes the word MARKET. A crescent wall of sandbags is built at each corner of the building. I lift my gun to the sound of rapid tapping on street asphalt. The sour smell of infection seeping from dead bodies drifts through the air. An LCD screen on the wall of the Market flashes in neon-green a new message…WARNING.
The multiple barrels of a large mini-gun rise from behind the sandbags, at the front corner of the Market. The weapon is pointed at me. Another mini-gun rises at the back of the Market and aims in the opposite direction. The barrels to both machines begin spinning.
If that thing starts blasting, I don’t stand a chance. My throat’s too dry to swallow. The scurrying noises are only a block away, beyond a row of buildings. Vicious, human-like creatures, moving on all fours, turn the corner and wildly bound toward me. Their faces don’t have eyes. Their skin is slimy and appears thick like crimson leather. I’m about to pull the trigger when the front sentry-gun goes off. Stray bullets whiz by as I keep posted. The rounds thump into flesh, snap bones, and splatter organs. Gurgling noises, hissing, and screeches come from the pack of creatures as the rounds devastate. The entire group is decimated. The smell of drifting gunsmoke and freshly spilled fluid is exhilarating. The barrels hum while spinning. White flashes blaze from the ends of the barrels as they belch more rounds at another wave. My heart’s pumping with excitement. An invigorating arousal of adrenalin pumps through my head and veins. The guns shut down. It’s disappointing how short this lasted.
A Texas man’s voice greets over the loudspeakers, “Welcome now, partner. Should be safe to come on down.” The sound of machinery makes a droning sound from below the street. The raised sentry-gun-barrels lower beyond the sand bags.
Mangled appendages kick. I wanna fire a round into each twitching head. Gotta conserve ammo. I welcome a creature flying up at me and trying to tear me open with its scissor-like-claws. With one hand gripping its neck I’d tear its limbs from their sockets, then stomp open its head, to see what its spilled brains look like.
A lookout is posted atop the shop roof. The guy looks content with his sniper rifle resting against his chest. Staring at the end of the cigar in his mouth, I imagine the taste of a nice Primo stogie, while it glows a fiery-orange, then dims. I nearly taste the intoxicating bite in my throat, from the recollection of having one of my own, as dense grey smoke exhausts from his mouth.
Reaching the lower steps to the shop I glance past the sandbags. There’s a metal floor panel the sentry-gun has retracted past. A bell rings as I push open the heavy front door and step inside. A heavy aroma of smoked jerky and pipe tobacco is blended into the atmosphere of this shop. A Texas tycoon, with white hair and finely dressed in a pure white suit, stands at the back of the shop, behind an old cash register. The machine rests atop a jewelry-style display case.
“Howdy, Gent. I’m Dallas. What can I help you with?”
Think I’ll call him Tex.
Here at the doorway two long clothing racks are on either side of me. Looking them over, they hold various styles of military, law enforcement, and civilian gear. There’s a glass display case along each wall. Weapons are laid out behind the clear frames in each. I eye stacks of ammo boxes against the walls. Rifles mounted in racks are displayed behind Tex. Hand-to-hand weapons are mounted to the wall on my right. A door to the right of Tex leads to the back of the shop. The door to the left has a sign above it that reads “Supplies” with a cartoon hand pointing downward, to a flight of stairs. Now’s not the time to do some casual browsing.
The tycoon’s hands are behind the countertop. I wonder how many men have been shot dead here? I grin, thinking about ruined merchandise from bloodstains. Glancing at the clothes racks, my eyes harden. All the gear is covered with clear-plastic garment-bags.
A crisp metal crack. A short hiss. A light chime against the floor. My stomach growls. The tycoon places the ice-cold bottle of beer onto the glass countertop.
“First round’s on the house,” he cheerfully exclaims.
His white moustache lifts with his broad smile. I’m about to step forward when he raises the bottle to his mouth. The spout presses below his bushy upper lip. It’s aggravating to watch each over-eager swig he takes. I imagine the crisp carbonation mixed with froth spilling over my tongue and washing down my throat. Alcohol igniting my taste buds then warms in my belly. Another crack and a hiss from behind the counter, then another chime and my tense nerves relax.
Tex places the second beer onto the clear countertop. I take heavy steps toward him while staring hard into his eyes. Feeling the cold round glass gripped in my filth-covered hand is awakening. The bottles “clink,” then I tilt it back till the swill is gone.
The brew settles in my empty stomach. There’s a bloating pain. I belch in Tex’s face. I’m wrapped in a blanket of bliss. Reality reminds to stay focused, and I recall the map.
“Thanks for the beer,” I grumble
. “Name’s Benson.” I have trouble getting the words out, and nearly fail to say my name, knowing I’ll have to take care of matters later with Tex for sharing with him my identity. “What can you tell me about the docks?”
“Well now, that’s where the metal’s refined. There are several warehouses there.”
Memories trigger with the faces of the people I killed while there in the last warehouse.
Looking for answers I ask, “The city’s nothing like before. What’s going on here?”
The tycoon’s eyes gleam as he stares into mine. My body’s becoming powerless. Tex’s features along with his surroundings blur as he says from a great distance away, “You just take it easy and try to rest, partner.” His suggestion is convincing. Realization shocks my mind. I’ve been poisoned, slipped into my drink. And I’m going to be at his mercy if I don’t kill him first.
My body slumps as I try to remain standing. The glass bottle thumps against the hardwood flooring. I exert all my strength and focus to get up, but my muscles fail to respond. The last things I hear is the tycoon’s lighthearted instruction, “Locate his ID, then check to see if he’s a donor.” After that comes a hearty chuckle. It makes me nauseous as my brain feels like it’s spinning backward from in my head…
010: The Champion of Desolation
It’s cold when I wake up on this gurney. I’m lightheaded and there’s something of mine that’s been taken. My blood boils when I remember how I got here. Tex will get his. I got something special in mind for him. For now I need to relax and collect my thoughts.
I’m in a medical area, trapped in a small holding cell with thick glass panels to the front and sides. Behind the clear, back wall panel of my cell, the structure beyond is made of steel. A long, rectangular, sealed-off viewing window is built into the steel barrier. The hand scanner built to the side of the panel doesn’t respond. A row of manned medical stations are in the research area ahead. More rooms like mine are all along this back wall. They contain bedridden patients. The occupants are blindfolded and strapped to their beds. IVs are inserted into their bodies. A glass bowl hovers to the side of their bed. In each container an orange glowing object, looking like a clear marble, floats. To the opposite side, my 9 o’clock, are empty tanks. A feeble-looking man in the last cell down is crouched in the corner.
A tall, chestnut-redhead with her hair tied in a bun, wearing white high heels and a white lab coat, enters the open lab area and walks toward me. She taps lightly with her index finger on the front of the large glass panel. Her manicured nails do the tapping. Light-blue control buttons glow from her touch. A clear opening forms as a doorway and she enters my tank.
When our eyes meet I feel a lasso tighten around my heart. Knowing she has me roped she greets, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Benson. My name is Doctor Samantha Howell. My colleges and I have taken an interest in studying you. You are free to leave whenever you choose to. However I’m sure you have questions, which I would be happy to answer.”
Her eyes are seductive from behind her thin black-framed glasses. Her scent is calming. I don’t feel rushed to get out of here. If I walk now I’m gonna come to more closed doors and probably won’t make it out on my own. And I have questions. She’s no threat at the moment. So I’ll get what information I can from the broad.
“Tell me, Doc, what’s going on with the city? When I was assigned to this area everything was normal. Now it looks like a nuke hit the place.” She raises her glasses up on the bridge of her nose, and I realize whom she reminds me of. I seen a poster once of some hot dame. The signature that broad used said Scarlett Johansson. Everything about the doc is identical.
With a confident manner she answers: “When you stepped out of the warehouse you walked into another dimension. This realm exists parallel to the world you traveled from. The focus of the tournament is to gather together individuals who possess items from this realm. That is how you were able to enter this world. Benson, you need to discover the origin of your artifact, and return it to its destination.”
It’s still on the end of my dog-tag chain. I find the other artifacts in my cargo pocket.
“So why these other items I was supposed to fight for?” I sound dumb, I think to myself.
With sophisticated mannerisms she answers, “Each piece is an extension of the initial artifact you entered the contest with. Once you find all the parts to your artifact, then you will be able to locate the man you are after, Matthew. We studied your possessions and learned there are 3 parts missing. These 3 are in addition to the pieces of artifact metal you should have already gathered from the contestants. When you are ready to leave, I’ll instruct you on where to go from here, in order to gain these lost pieces.”
It’s frustrating to know Garrison was able to walk away with the extra pieces of metal. Doesn’t seem like I got much: there’s my partners, the two love bird pilots, and my own.
I think back to the time on my way to the Market. “What’s the deal with those things crawling around in the streets?” I got just the name for this pretentious broad. Seeming pleased to answer my questions, Scarlett tells…
“They’re called Scuttlers. They prowl the city in their host’s absence. Everyone has an “Aspect” they feed energy into. This dimension allows our Aspect to become physical. There are two different types of Aspects. What you have fostered is a creature.” I watch closely as she glances at the patients in the following rooms. The doc, Scarlett, clarifies: “These others will remain asleep, here at this facility, until it’s their time to wake. There are certain Aspects we’re looking for. Scuttlers are the basic race in the creature population. Yours is more advanced. It looks like a Scuttler, however its genetics are different.”
The scent coming from the doc is mind-numbing as she walks by to the viewing window at the back wall to my tank. When her palm is scanned by the reader, a holographic keyboard appears in the air below it. She types on the soft blue light-pad and the viewing shutter retracts.
I deduce that we’re at ground level. On the other side of the steel wall there’s a cement arena the research facility is built around. Viewing panels are located at each room; the entire metal-panel across from us slides away. The glass wall behind it disappears. From the room’s darkness a creature like the ones from the streets leaps out to the arena center.
I know why I woke up feeling incomplete. There’s something I’m trying to remember; has to do with being a donor. The glass viewing panel in my tank, in front of the metal shutter at the back wall, doubles as a giant computer screen. Info displays in the glass as the doc types on the glowing pad. Familiar words show up. They’re instructions. A scan of the creature, it’s my creature, turns from inside the viewing glass. It’s titled Dasher, with details listed below.
Scarlett smartly informs, “The next level up from a Dasher is a Mounter, which your creature, Benson, is close to becoming. This is another one of your goals: to excel your creature. After the Mounter phase they become a Torcher. From there they become a Slinger.”
She keeps typing and a door to the end of the arena opens. There’s another one of those creatures I saw in the streets. It wanders out. When I look at the room to the far end I see the scrawny man is standing at his viewing window. Looks like he’s talking to himself. The Scuttler races toward my Dasher. Within striking distance the lesser-experienced Scuttler raises its left arm and draws it forward. Knowing the strategy my Dasher’s has in mind I use a word called “Sarrent.”
In a flash of purple lightning my Dasher disappears, and flashes back behind the Scuttler. It’s waiting on me for an attack command. “Velmang.” On all fours my creature leans ahead as the Scuttler is finishing its swipe. Puke shoots from my creature’s mouth at the Scuttler. The stuff is like acid as it sprays over the other creature. It eats away the Scuttler’s body down to its bones. The remaining skeletal frame curls together like white-w
ire into a cotton-like ball.
I chuckle, hopping the man at the end down on his knees crying can hear me. His metal viewing window recedes into the ground and the protective glass disappears. Doesn’t take him long to notice the barrier’s gone. The fear in his eyes feeds my hunger for entertainment. The doc appears to be pleased also. The feeble captive retreats to the opposite panel and pounds on it. He shoots a nervous look at me. Now I know he hears my hearty laughter.
I feel the appetite my creature has worked up from the match. There is a certain word I use that means “Devour.” My creature leaps into the opened room, pins the man against the glass doorway, and reaches out with its scissor-like claws to the guy’s chest. My Dasher’s mechanics are precise. Its claws grip around the artifact dangling from a chain around the target’s neck. By ripping the necklace free my Dasher peals away strips of the guy’s flesh. It uses its other hand to scoop aside the victim’s guts. Then its sharp teeth sink into soft meat.
Scarlett turns to me, a pleased look glimmers in her eyes, and she replies with a voice nearly hoarse from stimulation, “We’ve fixed you with a view scanner.” Pausing to get her thoughts in order, she continues. “This way we can monitor your journey and track your whereabouts.” Her sinister gaze mocks me as she lightheartedly adds, “You’ll be my favorite experiment.”
She’s challenging me, and testing my limits. I can’t fall for her ploy. The circulation in my hands goes numb with my fists balled tightly. I see through my creature’s thoughts what it would do as it closely monitors through my eyes. There’s the sensation of a warm sharp cut that runs down my chin, throat, along my chest, into my belly, and below. My body becomes restless with this exponential yearning. I see Scarlett’s body divided into two portions from the fully piercing slice my creature would use to cut into her. Her head tilts back submissively as my creature’s claws force her open.
I think back to my initial questions to keep from focusing on this graphic hallucination. I let go, giving in to the calmness set by her fragrance. I take in a deep breath and exhale out my nostrils. My breath comes out like hot exhaust. Seeing I’ve cooled off, she adds with a laugh, “Maybe another day, Benson, I’ll let you have your way with me, after I chain your pet up.”
From inside those seductive eyes of hers, lurks a sadistic killer. She may not have a piece to my artifact, but I’m sure she has a jewelry box full of other men’s trinkets. Broads. You’re dead meat if you don’t recognize they’re a trap. They’ll give you the time of day, only when they know they have the advantage. I need to get out of here. She’s making me think off track.
“Aright, Doc. We should get going. You said you know where we need to go next.”
“Let me walk the two of you out,” Scarlett offers in a more than humored manner.
The front panel to the man’s cell disappears and Lethal takes a final bite before coming to my side. I like the name I have picked. The man’s thin slab of flesh flaps on the ground at my feet. With a balled fist I’m prepared to punch Lethal if my creature were to snap at me. I retrieve the bloodied artifact attached to the chain, and then slip the metal into my cargo pocket.
Making our way alongside Doc Howell she tells me, “You will have to be careful on the surface. Others will target your creature. Your safest way to travel is with it returned to you.”
I feel its body absorbing into mine. Feel its newly acquired energy. And also the insight my creature holds, as Lethal and I bond.
*****
[Click Here for Part 3: Forsaken Ties]