Last year I dusted off the outline for this story, which had begun to nag at me again, in considering what I was going to attempt for NaNoWriMo, the National November Novel Writing challenge that tries to get participants to pen an entire novel in the month of November. But I put it aside to write a Sci Fi horror piece that would tie into the world of Galactic Gun. Little realizing that there actually was a way to creep myself out so bad I had to put The Marigold away until I could get my head better around it... without horrifying myself over what was coming out of my own imagination.
Let's just say I have a lot of respect for authors like Stephen King who write that crazy shit, but don't actually go out and do it.
Meanwhile, a couple years back, I had used my little Sci Fi romp to create a quick sketch for an assignment in a Graphic Design class. And now sitting up here in a new city, in another state, with no social life and a huge urge to create - which, no doubt, is my subconscious' attempt to keep me from losing it - I've started working up that novel legitimately, in hopes to see it published; by an established publisher or Kickstarter I don't care at this point. (Though, Del Rey, you've been my favorite publisher, so...) Those of you that read Galactic Gun, and hopefully the little backup stories under each page that help to flesh out the universe of that comic, know that my "voice" is usually friendly and familiar; which, I hope, makes my stories easy to get into and inviting to read. I'm hoping I've captured it with this book, and yet still able to create a vivid word of tomorrow with a story that's both riveting and thought provoking; as all Sci Fi hopes to do.
I admit I'm undecided if I'm going to try and power this out in November, or try and take a little more time with it. I'd really like this to be good, as it's my first outing into real Science Fiction. But it's starting to pour out of my head really well, so who knows.
And now, as a tease, but also looking from some feedback, I present to you the first chapter of The Runner; an independent Science Fiction adventure from the creator of Galactic Gun: The Adventures of Justin Bailey. And, Del Rey, if you're reading, I'm unsigned. Just saying.
***
The city hung out against the emptiness of forever like a lit jewel in so much crushed black velvet. Looking out the window, as he brought his seat back to its upright position, Toru saw the streaks of night life whiz through the streets that twisted like a maze around the tall, colorfully lit towers perched on the edge of the coastline, tall and straight, against the inky night and its ocean reflection. He adjusted his tie and smoothed his blazer.
“Konbanwa, watashitachi to hikō shite itadaki arigatōgozaimasu”, the intercom interrupted, in very awkward Japanese. “We will be landing shortly. Local time is 10:15pm. The weather is warm at 87 degrees and seventy percent humidity. This is the final destination of flight 2552. On behalf of the flight crew we’d like to welcome you to the Pan-Pacific Coast.”
Toru’s neighbor, a much older business gentleman, leaned over, seeing over the top of his glasses how transfixed Toru was with the sight of the city against the inky night. “Your, uh, first time here,” he asked in a rusty voice.
“Yes, it is,” he answered with an awkward smile. “It is…” he searched for the right word, “very beautiful.”
“Well, yeah; everybody looks good with the lights off.” He could see that Toru hadn’t understood his joke. “Seriously, it’s not bad. Now when I was younger – maybe a little bit younger than you – it was better. Of course, to hear my granddad talk about it, it was the last bastion of the great civil age.”
Toru didn’t understand his neighbor, but smiled politely. As the rumble of landing, and the subsequent taxi to the gate brought the jet to a stop he, like the rest of the cabin, stood, stretched, and started grappling for his items. As he reached for his bag from the overhead compartment his elderly neighbor turned to him again. “So, what brings you to the city; pleasure… or business?”
“Business. It is a short trip to make a delivery. But I am hoping to see the sights.” Toru gave his neighbor with a slightly apprehensive look. “I would also very much like to have real American pizza,” he quickly added.
“There’s a ‘Little Italy’ just east of the wharf. Put your nose to the air and follow the smell of garlic, you can’t miss it.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a business card and a pen. Scrawling a name on it, he handed it to Toru. “Here, find this place. They have some of the best. Tell them Billy Mitchell sent you.”
Toru looked at the card and then back at his neighbor with a smile. “Ah,” he said with both surprise and relief. His neighbor tapped the side of his nose with a smile and, having no luggage, moved to the front of the jet and disembarked. Toru grabbed his bag and pushed his way through the other passengers but by the time he got to the top of the gate ramp, and into the terminal, there was no sign of his neighbor in the busy airport. He tapped the front of his blazer and felt, with relief, the small box in his inside pocket. Giving the card a full once over, he dropped it into the pocket alongside the box and, slinging his bag over his shoulder, straightened his tie and began to make his way through the crowd of hustling travelers. From another pocket he felt the vibration of his phone ringing.
“Kon'nichiwa, koreha teddesu. Ikaga nasaimashita ka?” He was answered by a strong, confident voice.
“Good evening, Toru; I trust you’ve landed safely and are in the city?”
“Hai, Mister…” his voice trailed off in hesitation. “I have, thank you. And I have met our friend. He was most helpful.”
“Good to hear. Now I don’t want to keep you, so you better get heading out of the airport and on your way. And step carefully Toru, it’s a beautiful city, but it can be dangerous. I can’t always keep an eye on you.” And with that the caller hung up.
Toru looked up from his phone and into the crowd. He wasn’t sure if he had understood that last line properly, but suddenly felt as if he was being watched. A little unsure, he dropped the phone back into its pocket, and gripping firm his bag he strode out of the airport and into the warm moist air of night in a foreign city.
From a bank of pay phones across the terminal Toru’s neighbor watched him leave. Smiling, he rubbed his neck just behind his ear and let out a little sigh of discomfort. It was then he noted the figure skulking behind some large potted plants in a light blue wind breaker, appearing to be reading a newspaper. He gave him a smirk and then joined a small rush of travelers making for the men’s room. The man behind the paper watched over the next few minutes as other men came and went, but not the old man who had been on the phone, the man he was there to intercept.
As the lull between arrivals settled in the terminal, the man behind the paper became nervous and agitated; his quarry had still not come out. Folding and tucking his paper under his arm, he crossed the hall and entered the men’s room, drawing a small pistol from under his winder breaker; a suppressor fixed to its barrel.
The men’s room appeared empty and quiet; save the unique smell that only an airport restroom could know, and the quiet hum of fluorescent light fixtures. With his gun aimed, he tested each stall door to find them also empty. Getting angry, he checked his memory over the past few minutes, trying to think if he could have missed something. It was then that he saw the cuff of the coat sleeve just visible under the paper towels in the wall mounted waste basket.
Dropping his pistol back into its pocket he pulled the coat out of the trash, sending crumpled paper towels everywhere. Searching, he found the coat pockets were empty except for a lump of something rubbery. He pulled it out and unfolded it to find it was a face mask and a pair of costume glasses.
“…the fuck,” he uttered in frustration.
“’The fuck’, indeed”, came the voice from behind him. He tried to go for his gun, but before he could draw it fully out his assailant was all over him. The first strike landed with incredible pain into his left clavicle. Then it felt like a shoe heel had his wrist pinned to the wall, the pain of it digging in caused him to drop his pistol. Then it was a barrage of fist strikes until he could no longer hold himself and began to tumble. That’s when the arms closed in around his throat from behind, choking him just enough to make it the only thing he could focus on.
“What’s the deal, Jimmy; getting paid to creep on old men too much for you to handle?”
Jimmy gasped desperately. All he could see was the blue and white tiled wall of the men’s room. He tugged at the arms, but they had a gorilla grip. His vision was dimming around the edges.
“I thought a hit man like you was so much better than this, Jimmy. I hope someone isn’t paying you for this kind of piss poor service. Are they?”
“Screw… you…,” Jimmy managed between gasps.
The arms relented a little. “Oh, you’re right, Jimmy boy; this isn’t quite fair, is it?” And with that the unseen assailant shoved him face first into the wall. Jimmy collided with it and tumbled to the ground, choking and grabbing at his throat. Wildly groping, he patted the floor for his gun, but it wasn’t there. He looked up to the shadowed form of his attacker, backlit from the mirror lights. His eyes still blurry from the assault, Jimmy blinked rapidly to try and see the shadow better. His attacker wore dark glasses and a red mock turtleneck under a black leather jacket. His hair was dark and slicked back.
He now had Jimmy’s gun, and was aiming it at him. “Holy shit,” Jimmy said through coughs, “what the fuck, man?! You’re not supposed to be here.” He pointed to the disguise where it had fallen to the floor. “Look, man, he gave me the slip. He wasn’t who you said he was.”
“You ever been on safari, Jimmy? I mean really hunting; in the wild, among the brush, against a foe who could quite literally rip you to shreds with razor claws?”
“Wh…what?”
“I thought not. You see, Jimmy boy, who he was wasn’t important. It literally didn’t matter. If you were a good hunter you would have seen your opportune moment and seized on it; earned the money I had paid you. But you failed miserably to see that opportunity, no matter how many I gave you.”
Jimmy’s eyes went wild with a realization. He threw up his hands to plead as his assailant drew the pistol on him, but he never got the time to utter a single word as the pistol flashed and made a small pop that echoed in the men’s room. Jimmy went limp.
***
Night in the city differed very little from day; maybe just a little darker with the limits of the LED street lights blasting brilliant white light into focused spotlights every few feet down the crowded sidewalks. Otherwise, business carried on nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Well, for the working class, anyway. Not that Manny minded, too much. At least, not now. He had a job that kept him on his toes, kept him paid, and helped keep his mother and his little brother and sister fed and the lights on in their small apartment.
People pushed past as he locked his bicycle to the rack and adjusted his black canvas messenger bag tight to his back. Approaching the lobby doors to the large glass encased office building he paused to check his reflection in the large lobby window; making sure he didn’t look disheveled: keeping the company image that Personal Allied Couriers insisted on. The one his station boss regularly yelled at him, and all the other runners about; image, image, image – that was the key to impress the clientele.
He smoothed out his yellow leather company jacket with its black striping down the sleeves and gave it a once over where his name was embroidered onto it under the company logo; Manuel Costilla. Against the all black dress code of Pacific Allied Couriers the jacket practically glowed. It was probably the single nicest thing he had ever owned, and he took care of it as such. Smoothing back his hair he entered the building and made his way to the security reception desk.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said to the uniformed attendant behind the counter. She looked up from her desk with a glassy eyed stare. “I’m from Pacific Allied Couriers. I have a package for Mr. Bruner of Texacorp in suite twenty-six.”
The attendant blinked a number of times as Manny’s words registered and a very artificial smile parted her lips. As she shifted the slight whisper of pistons could just barely be heard from under her. She bobbed in very broken movements as she addressed him. “Hello. ‘Pacific Allied Couriers’. You are here to see. Package. In suite. ‘Texacorp’. Is that correct?”
“Oh, usted tiene que me bromeando,” he said, rolling his eyes in frustration. “No, my name is Manuel Costilla. I am from Pacific Allied Couriers. I am here to deliver a package to Mr. Bruner. Mr. Bruner Works for Texacorp. Texacorp is on the twenty-sixth floor.”
There was a small pause as the attendant sat motionless, except for her even spaced blinking. “My apologies. ‘Manuel Costilla’. I will let. ‘Mr. Bruner’. Of. ‘Texacorp’. Know that you are here to see him. Once he has confirmed your appointment I will send for an elevator to take you to the. Twenty-sixth floor.” Her head dipped and turned in a very mechanical motion as if she were responding to someone that wasn’t there. After a moment she turned back to Manny with her vacant stare and artificial smile. “Please proceed to elevator. Three. ‘Mr. Bruner’. Is expecting you. Thank you for your business at Jegug Tower. And have a nice evening”
Manny walked past the front desk toward the hall of lobby elevators where the chime of the arriving car sounded out. Looking past his shoulder he could see where the attendant ended – at would have been her waist, and where the pistons, supports, and cables ran up from the floor and under her uniform jacket. She returned to a resting position that simulated her reading some imaginary book, log, or display.
Manny didn’t know what Texacorp did, but even for the smallness of the offices it had they were well decorated, for sure. The carpet was bright and clean; complementary earth toned colors with an interlocking geometric pattern in red running down the middle, the darker borders hugging the walls. The front desk was either made of real wood, or a laminate so good you needed to be an expert to really tell. The sitting chairs were plush and very inviting.
Long, the front desk sat facing out against the wall that separated the lobby from the rest of the office. It sat off centered some, with a heavy wooden door that led to the rest of the office. The rippling of the small glass window inlaid in the door caught the shadowed movement of people on the other side, without revealing anything more than the office was busy. The receptionist – a real receptionist – sat behind the desk, partially hidden, doing paper work and occasionally checking her computer monitor.
“Ole, Manny,” she said in a flat, awkward Spanish, looking at him over her glasses, “coma estas?”
“I’m good, Genie, thanks. How are you?”
“Me, too,” she answered with a smile, partly relieved she wouldn’t have to put any more of her spotty street Spanish to the test. “Mr. Bruner’s documents?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pulled his bag around and fished out a clipboard like box with a small screen and a couple lights on the front of it. “They’re secure with confirmation receipt, so I need Mr. Bruner.”
“Not a problem; let me ring him.” After a quick exchange she set the phone receiver back on its cradle. “He’ll be out in just a minute.”
Manny nodded and scanned the lobby. He’d been here a few times, but he always enjoyed the look and feel of the place. And, inevitably, he’d be drawn to the view from the huge window that made up one wall of the lobby. Stepping closer he peered out into the night from the twenty-sixth floor out into the city. The buildings were bathed in wet, watery hues of blue and violet. Down below the black streets twisted around them like a maze of yellow dotted paths that shuffled all manner of cars, trucks, and other service vehicles about as people darted to and froe.
“It’s like a big living watercolor painting, you know,” he said.
Genie stopped her work and looked out the window across the night sky. “Huh, I’ve never heard it described like that, before. But, yeah, you’re right; it does look a lot like a big watercolor.”
“I wonder what it must have looked like back when it was bigger; had more buildings. You know,” he said looking back at her, “when it was still a country.”
Genie continued to work. “I don’t know. I immigrated here from the Midwest territories a few years back.” She looked up at him. “I just wasn’t meant to work a state farm, know what I mean?”
Mr. Bruner came through the office door into the lobby like a man who was relieved after hearing good news. “Manny the man,” he exclaimed jubilantly. His tie was lose and a bit crooked, and his sleeves rolled a little off his wrists. He wasn’t all the old, but seemed to be, just the same. Manny often wondered if it was the price of success.
“Hey, Mr. Bruner. Your documents cleared and I got them here as fast as I could.” Manny held up the sealed clipboard like box in front of Mr. Bruner. His smile got even bigger as he pressed his thumb against the little screen. After a moment a small green light lit and the box unlocked. Bruner opened it eagerly and clutched the manila envelope inside.
“You are a life saver, Manny,” he said, patting him vigorously on the shoulder. “You know that, right; a real life safer. Genie,” he said, turning to the desk, “call Bob and tell him to get the team together. And get on the horn to that place downtown that makes those awesome salads, would you? Find out what they serve for breakfast and how fast they can get it here.”
“For how many,” Genie asked, as she lifted the receiver.
“Ask Bob what the final head count will be.” He turned back to Manny. “Dude, you have no idea how much you’ve saved my ass today. You want to stick around and grab a bite?”
“No thanks, Mr. Bruner. It’s late, and this was my last delivery,” he said, turning to go. “Besides, my brother and sister will be getting off to school and I need to help my mom before she’s off to her shift. But thanks for the offer.”
“Ever the busy, responsible guy, huh?” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small wade of bills. Manny tried to hide the shock of that much money in someone’s pocket. These weren’t small notes; blue bills, orange, and yellow meant some serious cash. He tugged a couple out and stuck them into Manny’s hand. “Here, get yourself a real breakfast, mister working man. You’ve sure earned it.”
Bruner turned on his heels and quickly went back through the office door, digging eagerly into the envelope Manny had just delivered. Manny stood there with the crumpled bills in his hand, a little unsure of what had just happened. Genie gave him a congratulatory smile and went back to her work. Outside in the elevator lobby, as he waited for a car down, he smoothed the bills out as crisp as he could and, taking his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, placed them alongside his small green backs; all faced and turned the same direction.
At the bike rack Manny pulled his mobile from its belt holster and unlocked the screen. Tapping a few times, he opened the Pacific Allied Couriers time card screen and punched put; his shift finally over. He closed the application and tapped his contact list. After a scroll, he found the number he was looking for and brought the phone up to his ear.
“Hello? Yes, I’d like to order a large pizza for pick up, please.”
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