Hurt World One and the Zombie Rats (4 page)

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.’

*

Flames and acrid smoke were trailing through
the sky. The Stamford TF magno-chopper had suffered direct hits
from explosive spikes in the rotor mount and fuel distributors -
fatally crippling blows.

Hopital remained calm and in charge, standing
next to the pilot as she fought desperately with a violently
shuddering joystick.

‘How are we doing?’ Hopital asked, leaning
forward as though all those read out displays on the console
actually meant something to her.

‘Why have we been hit?’ said the pilot. ‘This
is not a war zone.’

‘Let’s worry about that once we have
landed.’

‘We won’t be landing, we’ll be crashing. All
power to the drive-thrusters is lost and the emergency chutes are
not opening.’

‘What chance do we have?’

The pilot considered the question a moment,
her eyes remaining fixed on the windscreen of super strengthened
glass and the mountainous jungle beneath them. ‘You would want the
ground beneath us to be very, very soft.’

Hopital put an encouraging hand on the
pilot’s shoulder. ‘You’re trained for this. I have every confidence
in you.’

He retreated from the cockpit back into the
cabin to find his colleagues anxiously gazing out windows.

‘Are we going to make it?’ one of them asked
nervously.

‘We have to get off this damned vessel right
now,’ Hopital bluntly replied. ‘Where are the jetpacks?’

‘We were waiting to ask you,’ one of them
replied. ‘There are only two in the designated storage space. Is
there another unmarked space reserved for emergencies?’

His name was Eblane, and Hopital gazed
intently at the two jetpacks in the man’s hands. ‘Only two you
say?’

The vessel jerked abruptly, knocking the man
to his knees. Hopital pulled his gun and shot him through the head.
The others had a similar idea and gunfire erupted in a deafening
roar and the unique bitter-sweet smell of laser-acid connecting
with human flesh. Hopital did not duck or flinch despite being in
an exposed position. He believed that bullets were similar to wasps
in that they were attracted to fear. His time in the Albanian
military head impressed on him that the bold were somehow less
often hit than the weak, even if they were the first to put
themselves in harm’s way. So, here he was, in a gun battle with
three other shooters and bullets ricocheting off the walls and
ceiling and he remained the only one not screaming. And with the
screaming came less shooting. Three shooters became two, then one -
the smell of the acid-lasered flesh was becoming truly abhorrent.
Hopital did not even consider ceasing fire. It did not matter if
there was now the equation of two people left standing for two
jetpacks available, a gun battle was as hard to stop as a train
without breaks, and trying was a shortcut to getting shot. And,
besides, the Stamson company obviously did not consider safety a
pressing expense: it wouldn’t be wise to take for granted that both
jetpacks were fueled and in proper working order. He would keep
shooting until one shooter became none.