The Narrow Abyss ©
The following is an excerpt from my novel-in-progress titled The Narrow Abyss.
Dez didn’t see the speeder-hog zipping towards her. The rain was falling in thick sheets and looked as if it was falling upside-down from the way the droplets made tiny rhythmic splashes on the slate grey sidewalk. The hog driver was recklessly weaving through backed up traffic, zigzagging through the cabs and moto-carriages of tourists on their pilgrimage to the epicenter of religio-capitalism. As a nearby cab pulled close to the curb, the reckless hog burst through the gutter, spraying a fan of sloshing rainwater. In a sopping flash, Dez’s face and chest was splattered with the sewer juice, leaving her an unintentional and unwitting Picasso painting. Her black tank was covered with blotches of oily rank liquid and she gritted her teeth, using the sleeve of her black overcoat to wipe her face clean. She left a darkened smudge across her forehead that she didn’t appear to know or care about. Her blood ran cold with murderous thoughts that she was definitely capable of seeing through.
Reluctantly, she resisted this urge.
She growled bitterly at the floating vehicle as it disappeared into the packed traffic funneling between the domed circular temple, abbeys, and courtyards of the Peacebinder Enclave. The robed tenants of the district sidestepped her as they passed, the bottoms of their white robes turning gray as they trailed through the downpour. Each enrobed pedestrian carried a red parasol and their faces were shrouded by white hoods, hands folded in front of them beneath voluminous sleeves.
Dez had made no provisions for the rain and her platinum hair dripped murky droplets over her shoulders. She shook it out like a dog trotting out of a lake. She ruffled her pixie bob before pulling her coat tightly around herself, careful to hide the hint of deadly metal that shown briefly from the thick black belt slung around her hips. She slicked her hands over her silver thermal leggings, sending a small splash of water down onto the pavement. Their hydro-proof material wicked water away from her flesh and in the heavy downpour, water was running in thin streams down her legs.
As Dez strode down the sidewalk she kept her head down, eyes on her feet as the hammered determined purpose into the asphalt. She turned a corner and passed through the gated archway that allowed her into the financial center at the heart of the circular metropolis. She traded the domes and robes of the Peacebinder Enclave for business suits and gothic spires that sprouted high above her like impending stalagmites. The silver line of the sky ran parallel to the street below as it peaked through the twisting towers and high rises. The intricate architectural details immortalized in stone looked like antique lace with the sky shining through them. These buildings were the temples of Mecciah’s corporations. Each twisting spire erected a cathedral honoring the power of the almighty dollar on every street corner. Stone gargoyles peered down at the streets below, water dripping from each gryphon’s head or the wet wings of a demonic imp perched on a cornice.
A patrol of mechanical street cleaners used pronged staffs to pick up litter from the blackened pavement. Each vehicle emitted thick black smoke from its rear exhaust. They caught and disposed of the brown paper bags and coffee cups that rolled like tumbleweed through the city streets. No one seemed to care for throwing anything away these days, because eventually someone or something would come along eventually to clean it up.
Dez passed an electronics store on her right, windows blazing into the foggy grey afternoon with plasma TVs. A weatherman proclaimed exuberantly to his cyborg anchorwoman counterpart, “Looks like rain, Donna-3000!” The anchorwoman’s head buzzed with whirring cogs as her mechanical nature came to fruition. She opened her forehead and became a projector which began running the live footage of the weather patterns over a satellite map of Mecciah. It was covered with animated rolling cumulonimbus clouds.
The assassin tugged at the collar of her coat, refocusing on her task. She removed her solar glasses from where they hung around her neck and twisted the hem of her shirt to the cleanest section she could find. She wiped the droplets of rain off, trying to leave as few streaks as possible. She slid them on, feeling the familiar ear bands hug her skull snuggly. Once in place, they scanned her retinas and began logging onto the Spector’s network. A transparent map appeared, pinging her location with a small, pulsing, blue peg. She spoke huskily to her device. “Assignment 4386.” Immediately a red beacon pin landed on the screen a few blocks from hers. Her To-Do list scrolled on the left lens with the details of the day’s assignments. Assignment 4384: Theft, Assignment 4385: Delivery. Beside the current assignment labeled 4386, the word Assassination appeared in bold red font. It was her last bullet point for the day.
“S.I.” The image transformed from a graphic map to a live satellite image. “Zoom to target location 150%.” She was soon looking at the image of a townhouse on a residential block, buried in the middle of the skyscrapers. “Quadrant D1, A24 225%.” The front of the building looked like it was faced with white marble, showing only slight weather wear. All of the houses on the block looked similarly extravagant, each porch supported by ionic columns. This one in particular received regular attention to its facing judging by its immaculate façade. All of the houses were most likely owned by district councilmen and cartel financiers.
These two professions were the best paid in Mecciah. Councilmen ran local politics and judged religious courts. Many of them were holy men and worked in the Enclave. Others were successful merchants. The cartels pledged allegiance to each sect and funded its development. In return, they were given regular blessings and protection from the Crusaders. The Crusaders were each sect’s personal holy army and law enforcement.
Beyond the front steps of this particular home, there was a giant mahogany door with a shiny silver knocker shaped in the insignia of the target home. It was the seal of the Keilly Cartel. Their symbol was a thick, riveted circle inscribed with the head of a rabbit, the fabled icon of prosperity. The first recorded rabbits had been allegedly seen six hundred years ago. They were not indigenous and seemed to appear from nowhere. No one could pin their origins down. The white fluffy rodents had littered the green fields and quads of Academis, the district devoted to The Academy, the holy city’s most prestigious institution. The rabbis bred quickly and spread like rats into the rest of the city as it being built. Over time, their white coats darkened to help them camouflage with the cityscape. They became black and grey, skittering and hopping through the gutters and the underbelly of the city, adapting amicably to their new dietary and habitual circumstances. Seeing a white rabbit became a symbol of hope and an omen of good things to come, as they quickly became rare. The Keilly Rabbit, however, was black. It was a symbol of the hardiness and ability to adapt and thrive no matter what obstacles stood in their way. The eyes of the rabbit on the knocker were inlaid with red precious stones. Above the circle there hung a pair of manacles that looped around one of the rabbit’s ears like a bizarre pirate rodent earring. The Keilly Cartel dealt primarily in the slave trade and was regarded as one of the most ruthless families in the Cartel Collective. For the Keilly’s, business was notoriously personal. This consisted of breeding, wife rearing, adoption, concubine training, and laborers, not to mention putting a swift stop to any opposition.
Dez spotted the dark cobblestone alleyway that ran on the right side of the building between it and its neighbor. There were a few dumpsters lined up against the towering brick wall. Her lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk as she spotted a fire escape hidden in the narrow passageway that ran up the wall of the townhouse. This was going to be like taking candy from a baby.
The fire escape rattled as Dez bent her knees and launched herself upward, fingers grasping the bottom rung of the rusty ladder. She attempted to yank it down, but it stuck unexpectedly and she hung there on the edge, her fingers itching for a better hold. She clenched her jaw and began swinging her legs like a pendulum to gain momentum. On the third pass she managed to get her leg up onto the platform and she pulled herself the rest of the way, clinging shakily with her right thigh, feeling the muscles in her ass tense like hardening brick. She grunted out her final push and she rolled over onto her back, chest rising and falling heavily. She scrambled to her feet and began scaling the cascades of black ladders towards the third level. The paint on the fire escape was chipped and peeling. It wasn’t in nearly the same condition as the front of the townhouse. She got the nagging suspicion that the Keilly’s pristine façade hid many dirty secrets. After all, they were sewer rabbits.
When Dez reached the third platform, she pressed her back to the wall, removing her glasses and folding one arm down. She extended the mirrored lens over the lintel by the ear grip and used the reflection to scout the inside of the room.
The nursery was still, save for the constant turning of the mobile that hung over the crib. Instead of bright rainbows and fluffy livestock, there dangled small gold and silver insignias marked with the recognizable logos of the branches of the Keilly Cartel. A small silver anvil marked Labortech was followed by two interconnected rings, held together by a padlock. This was the symbol of Globa-Wife, the wife rearing and training subset of the slave trade. The last object was a posed female hand cast in gold. The middle finger was slightly lower than the pointer and ring finger and the pinky was raised, thumb pointed to the tip of the middle finger. It had an elegant grace and was with doubt the most intriguing of the three objects. It was a beacon all men relished and flocked to; the icon of The Silk Hand, the top courtesan training school. Silk Hands were bred to serve every desire and educated in all things that might please a man or woman, from learned conversation to physical release.
The crib itself was constructed of burnished stainless steel, with rounded edges that mirrored the ovular room. The wallpaper painted the room with thick powder blue and white stripes. Above the braided silver molding, the ceiling was a vaulted blue dome. In four spots around the room, there were tiny projectors that cast images of soaring skies on the ceiling.
Dez shook her glasses open and put them on, glancing back down the narrow alleyway towards the people making their way up and down the block in front of the townhouse. No one was looking. She turned back to the window, speaking under her breath. “Scan.” Behind the lenses a series of green rays could be seen dancing over the surface of the glass. After a few moments, the specifics of the material glittered across her vision.
-Bullet proof.
-Security system: Window lock requires palm I.D. or auto-open with fire alarm.
This kid was definitely being kept under lock and key and certainly getting in the way of her job.
Whoever she was, Dez was beginning to like her less and less. Dez muttered a few frustrated obscenities under her breath and squinted up into the glare of grey clouds shrouding the sun. A plan was beginning to formulate in her mind, but the sun wasn’t bright enough to pull it off. As she brainstormed, she couldn’t help but feel the nagging fear of being seen on her perch. The longer she stayed, the more she risked being noticed. She crouched down in front of the window trying to disguise herself and blend in with the black struts that held together the platform and the railing. Her tongue slid subconsciously to the corner of her mouth as she reached down to the waistband of her leggings. The gun was waiting in its usual spot. She held it close to her chest, forefinger moving from the safety onto the laser sight where she swiftly flicked the switch. Immediately a red beam shot out, shining a small red dot on the dusty and weathered sill.
She held out her glasses between her thumb and forefinger, pointing the laser sight through them as a slight sheen of sweat formed on her brow. She spotted a menagerie of stuffed animals piled on top of the white wooden toy chest beside the matching changing table. She aimed at the nose of a snowy white teddy bear knowing full well that once this began, there would be no rest until it was over.
For a few moments, nothing changed. “Come-on-come-on-come-on,” she spat impatiently under her breath. A small tendril of smoke curled up from the plush mass into the air. Dez gasped with relief and grinned, holding her breath and focusing her energy on the still execution of her aim. The wisp was followed by a growing steady stream of smoke. Then there was the blissful golden-orange eruption of a flickering flame that began to crawl and creep over the blackening fur of the bear, melting it into marbled disfigurement.
The alarm sounded a near deafening ring and with a hiss of whirring motors, the windowpane shot upward. Dez somersaulted forward through the open window, gun held in the crook of her right shoulder. She used the momentum of her body to spring to her feet. Her eyes darted around the room. As they landed on the dark wooden hallway beyond, she saw someone beginning to round the corner at a good clip. She shoved her glasses down over her eyes and leapt into the crook of the door, out of sight. It bounced against her arm as the woman entered. When Dez’s glasses caught the side of the woman’s face and scanned it, a green line moving up and down the field of her vision in an attempt to identify her with a match in the online database.
The tall blonde woman seemed to be about forty-five and had aged considerably gracefully. She had the look of a woman who cared about anti-aging cream and subtle facial muscle paralysis treatments. Her blonde hair was gathered with a metal clip in a French twist and her make-up was applied liberally, especially in the eye region. They were lined carefully and her lashes were thick with mascara. Dez noted that a stethoscope hung around her neck. In her frenzy, her knees bobbled together in the bonds of her grey tweed pencil skirt, her cream silk blouse billowing as she shielded her face from the immense heat radiating from the furnace of stinking polymers. Each stuffed toy was melting into its neighbor, creating a veritable teddy-freak-show amidst a columnar curtain of dancing flame.
Identity confirmed in database. A red box appeared around the woman’s head behind Dez’s glasses. Target 4386 locked and located. Record and report: Engaged. The words flashed across her vision in flickering crimson text. Dez switched off the safety with her forefinger, lifting the firearm so that that the red dot marked the center of the woman’s head.
As the mark dipped her arms into the crib, Dez pulled the trigger.
The body jerked and sent an arching spatter of blood against the headboard of the metal crib. Then it went limp like an old rag doll, hanging over the metal rail and knocking the mobile onto its side so that all the strings and objects swung heavily against each other. Dez thought she could hear the knelling bells of the incoming fire truck and Crusader squad car sirens. The authorities were on their way. The sound of the shot had been drowned out by the building’s fire alarm. The dresser, changing table and wallpaper had caught fire. By now, the paper was peeling up towards the ceiling in staggered sections. It looked alive, each curl moving of its own volition. The image of the moving sky flickered as the flames tongued one of the projectors. Dez ducked and covered her head as the light-bulb burst inside of the device, sending a shower of sparkling glass down on her head.
Dez dove towards the window when one sound broke through the droning cacophony. The wail of the baby in the crib pierced Dez’s gut as she stood on the ledge of the sill. She hung her head, letting the sound wash over her. It sent an odd shiver down her spine. She knew she had to jump but she was frozen in place. Her black-gloved fingertips drummed twice over the metal frame.
Dez altered her plan. She quickly rose and pushed the dead body to the ground, its face frozen in shock as it’s golden hair dusted the nose and face of the infant before thudding to the ground.
“Fuck you, Trust Fund.” She growled at the baby. There was a sudden stillness as her icy blue glare met the tearful green and gold flecked eyes that blazed up at her with such desperately annoying, innocent fear.Dez wrapped up the child and tied the corners of the blanket around her neck, shoving an arm through the hole to make a satchel that hung over her shoulder and nestled the infant safely against her chest. She zipped her trench around the bundle snuggly and leapt from the window, hopping over the railing of the fire escape, and leaving the roaring blaze behind her as their twin heartbeats thundered together in the great escape. She landed on the lid of the dumpster on all fours. The baby whimpered and began to wail into her chest. Dez let out a yelp as she felt the shock of the landing in her shinbones. She slid off of the lid and landed on the ground. A few large black rabbits went hopping rapidly out from under the dumpster, having been spooked by her landing. Once her boots hit the pavement, she took off at a run, the white mane of her hair whipping behind her as she made for the far end of the alley.
As she held the baby tightly against her, it dawned on her that this had been a terrible impulse.
