Hurt World One and the Zombie Rats

by Stuart Parker

  *

  ‘Come and join us,’ came a voice through the darkness. ‘The anti-venom is taking effect. You are still on the right side of oblivion.’

  Mas felt herself returning to consciousness on the back of the voice. It was the waiter’s voice. She didn’t like how comfortable and assured it was sounding. She would have an enemy more vulnerable than that.

  She opened her eyes to see that she was handcuffed to a chair and her arm hooked by intravenous drip to a champagne glass containing a cloudy pink liquid. Her heart beat quickened and she forced herself to take a deep calming breath to slow it back down. Then set about taking in her surroundings. It was a small dark room with evenly spread box-windows and a rhythmical hum of engine emanating from the arched metal ceiling. It was the inside of an aircraft. A cargo hold. But there was no sensation of forward movement. The aircraft must have been hovering. Possibly a magno-chopper. Mas’s neck was starting to throb with pain where the scorpion lobster had bitten her. The handcuffs kept her from rubbing it. Leaning into her shoulder was the best she could do.

  The waiter was standing beside her. He was dressed in the same black shirt and trousers though now was without the apron. Mas realized the apron had been hiding a paunch and a gun holstered at his hip. The man had thick brown hair, hard eyes and a crooked nose. Mas guessed he had a military background or in law enforcement. Judging by his method of snaring her, he was well versed in dirty tactics.

  ‘Who are you?’ she snapped.

  ‘My name is Mlit Hopital,’ said the man calmly. ‘And the name of the creature you encountered in your soup is Scorpius Acquakillus. The scientific name that is.’

  ‘I’m into science too,’ Mas spat. ‘I’m particularly fond of thanatology.’

  ‘Please do not be like that. Although the poison injected into you is fatal, the antidote is reliable. You are in no danger. I have even had the soup washed from your face and hair. You see, your face fell into the soup.’

  Chuckles directed Mas’s attention to the cargo hold’s other occupants. They were standing back behind Hopital. Two females and one male. The male was familiar to Mas, having been loitering out on the street when she first approached the Desear Restaurant. Obviously he had been a spotter. Mas glared at him and tugged furiously on her restraints. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Soon,’ said Hopital. ‘This extreme measure has only been authorised by the firm because you are such an extreme client. You see, although the scorpion lobster poison comes with an antidote, the toxin you are seeking to purchase does not. Dr Gustavo Fall does not feel comfortable conducting the transaction himself. And with good reason. There are many dangerous operators in the black market who are quite ruthless in the way they tie up loose ends.’ He pointed behind him. ‘My colleagues and I are field operatives of Stamford Transaction Facilitators and Dr Fall has hired us to ensure there are no double-crosses in your dealings with him.’

  ‘You’re trying to say this isn’t a double cross?’

  ‘Certainly it isn’t. The Stockholm Compound is on board and will be presented to you once payment is confirmed. If you have been considering trickery of any kind, I would suggest you accept the predicament you are in and fulfil your obligations in the transaction.’

  Mas temporarily put aside her burning desire to avenge herself on these people. The compound was her priority and she had to secure it no matter what. The exorbitant price attached to it was of no concern to her as her clients had accepted it without pause - she just had to hope that they didn’t suddenly develop a case of cold feet when payment was required.’

  ‘I will need to see the compound before I initiate payment,’ Mas said.

  ‘One of the personnel lurking at the back promptly stepped forward, holding up a steel canister that had previously been out of view.’

  ‘As a sign of good faith,’ said Hopital, ‘Dr Fall has added twenty five percent extra of the compound. Enough to do a lot of damage. Unfortunately, because there is no safe way to open the canister, I would humbly ask you to refer back to the laboratory analysis for its authority.’

  ‘Give me my glasses and free my hands and I’ll make payment.’

  ‘Very well. Before I do, however, I should inform you that we are hovering above a Guatemalan swampland where a body is unlikely to ever be found. To remain on board you will need to be on your best behaviour.’

  The assistants set about removing Mas’s handcuffs and her utility glasses were returned to her.

  ‘If you please,’ said Hopital.

  Mas put on the glasses and with a series of voice codes and a retina scan, payment was made.

  The co-pilot emerged from the cockpit. ‘You wanted to know when payment was made,’ he said to Hopital.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hopital. He smirked at Mas. ‘You have been very professional. The canister you have just bought will be handed over to you on your departure from our craft. First, though, let us cast our eyes to the future. There is a danger to Dr Fall that you may feel you have unfinished business. At Stamford Transaction Facilitators we take steps to ensure such things do not happen. It is a part of our after care service.’

  ‘You mean after service care,’ snapped Mas with an angry glint, taking off her glasses and rising from the chair.

  Hopital signaled to his team with a nod, prompting two assistants to rush at Mas’s flanks, grabbing hold of her arms.

  ‘Need I repeat my warning?’ said Hopital. ‘We sell canisters of toxin but we do not sell parachutes. And we are very high up. Fortunately for you, we are willing to share. It just requires compliance and a little patience as I introduce you to a friend of mine.’

  He whistled sharply and a black Jack Russell terrier ran to his feet. ‘Her name is Blast. She is a trained signature dog. Do you understand what that means?’

  Mas just glared.

  ‘It means when I give the command it will take in the target’s scent and it will remember it permanently. In this case, the target will be you.’ Hopital clicked his fingers and the dog busily started sniffing at Mas’s feet.

  ‘I ain’t no street post,’ said Mas, pulling back.

  ‘Don’t worry. She’s only sniffing. And that’s all we need. You can change your appearance, you can alter your fingerprints, you can fake your ID card, but the one thing that can never be manipulated is your scent. That’s what makes a well-trained K9 so useful. You can rest assured if we need to find you, you’ll be tracked.’ Hopital clapped his hands two times and yelled, ‘Blast, remember!’

  The dog took one more sniff at Mas and sat erectly at her feet.

  ‘The command has been given,’ said Hopital. ‘Your scent has been recorded to memory and Blast will never forget it. That is Dr Fall’s insurance policy.’

  Mas glanced at him coldly. ‘I value my privacy.’

  Hopital shrugged indifferently. ‘Then we will give you some privacy courtesy of Stamford TF.’ He looked to the assistants grappling onto her arms. ‘Throw her out.’

  Mas was promptly dragged to the cargo hold’s side door, which shot open to the roar of rotor blades and a rush of cold air. Hopital came up from behind, strapping on a backpack in provocative fashion.

  ‘That’s the canister and a good old fashioned parachute,’ Hopital yelled into her ear. ‘Nice doing business with you.’

  A firm push sent Mas flying out into space. She could see now that it was indeed a magno-chopper they had been flying in. The cloudless sky below enabled her to gage that it would take a good few minutes for her to reach the ground – less if in fact there was no parachute. She recognised the San Paul coastline below and realized they had more or less flown straight up. The docks were coming into focus as terminal velocity brought her ever closer. Not yet close enough to pick out the Zopez but Mas was becoming convinced that she had only left it a short time earlier, that she had not been unconscious for too long and that it was still late afternoon. Possibly the magno-chopper had plucked her right off the roof –
with her face still covered in soup. Although most people bitten by a scorpion lobster never woke up, Mas did not feel privileged, not even as the parachute on her back opened. It was pure rage that flowed through her. She held out her arm and waited with no thought to steer her descent as she drifted with the wind. Zelda swooped in a moment later to land on her wrist. ‘There you are,’ said Mas. She unclipped the black box from the wedge-tailed eagle’s long stubby leg and activated the central control system. She scrolled to the missile function and had a satellite missile lock on the magno-chopper now heading east. She fired the missile from the Zopez’s lookout tower. The puff of smoke visible from amongst the docks let her know which vessel she was aiming for. She shook of Zelda to free her hands on the parachute steering lines and turned that way. The missile roared up past her, leaving behind a sweet smelling smoke trail in its wake. If the Stamford Transaction Facilitators were as efficient as they claimed, their magno-chopper would be equipped with a missile defense capability to keep out what was coming its way. Still, the missile warhead was potent; it would shoot out high explosive spikes at the engines while itself locking onto the fuel chambers. A lot of ordinance to repel.

  Mas would follow up on the result later. There was unlikely to be a catastrophic explosion in the sky. Not unless the fuel chambers completely erupted. More likely, the craft would stagger a distance before finally succumbing to its damage. A long way from where Mas was descending. Putting it out of mind, Mas focused on her landing. The parachute was quite responsive and nimble, and the winds lessened considerably at a lower altitude, making for ideal conditions as Mas steered for the Zopez. The rush of the freefall had helped Mas shake off the throbbing headache that the scorpion lobster toxin had inflicted, and the roar of the missile shooting by had helped dissipate the fury suffocating her. She skillfully negotiated past the Zopez’s lookout tower before landing on the foredeck.

  Titov hurried out from the bridge to meet her, surprise etched upon her face. ‘You’ve been in the air? What’s been going on?’

  ‘There were complications.’ Mas scooped up the ultra-light parachute and gazed out into an empty sky. ‘Has the radar picked up any explosions?’

  ‘You mean, as a result of that missile that had the crew diving overboard in panic?’

  ‘Sorry about that. My drone brought it on board during the night.’

  ‘The back-flame has ruined our fishing nets.’

  ‘I was after a bigger fish. So, did I hit anything?’

  Titov shrugged. ‘I jumped into the water too. It was hard to know which end of the missile we were dealing with.’ She looked at the canister which Mas unslung from her chest. ‘What is that? Another missile?’

  ‘It’s what I came to San Paul for. It’s a chemical formula that induces homicidal madness. Don’t let yourself get too close.’

  Titov’s mood darkened. ‘If you got what you wanted from them, why did you fire a missile?’

  Mas recognised in her reaction a healthy fear of betrayal. ‘Don’t worry, I pay my bills. As soon as the crew has dried themselves, we’ll get underway. And tell the cook there will be no soup on tonight’s menu. No soup ever again.’