Dead Girl: Chapter One

When I died, I thought that was it. Go down the long black tunnel towards the Light, see your loved ones, if you had any. Maybe hear the angels or, I dunno, continue on in whatever you believed in when you were alive. I never thought that I’d actually be waking up in the same alley, with the same blood pooling around me, in the same stinking city. I was dead. Heart stopped, flat line, the whole shebang. At least, I was dead for a good fifteen minutes, if the old hobo had any truth about him. Said he saw the whole thing. Two scrawny guys on their last high for the night; me, minding my own business, counting the couple of dollars I had picked off of tourists fair and square; then bang, gunfire, and they grabbed all they could, and took their time about it. The guy said it was over before he could even blink.

I snapped his neck before he could let out a surprised yelp. Something inside me told me to, like, if he got away and told somebody about it, then what? How many gangsters are looking for a way in to their rivals’ squad? What would they be willing to put me through to get secrets, money, whatever their pulsing little hearts desired? In the hands of anybody else but myself, I’d be used. I’d be dissected, for Christ’s sakes. I wasn’t gonna let that happen. Not to me.

The day of my resurrection, Martin Luther King, Jr., walked the streets for equality. I had two younger sisters and an older brother. My parents divorced, and my dad was between jobs. Now, it’s 2200. The New Century has begun. I have come back 320 times, because hey – if you know you can’t die, you get a little reckless.

Despite what people want you to believe, nothing changes in the future ‘cept for the ecosystem. Those fancy cars with eco-crap you drove in the 2010s? Where do you think they build them? Factories. What do factories produce? Sludge, toxic smoke that rips a hole in the ozone layer. Oxygen Farms are planted in the late 2030s, but it gets bulldozed for paper. In 2035, "recommended exterminations" come into action. Basically, big cities take a vote on which little city should be bombed, shrinking the population for another decade or so before they need to do it again. Less people, less pollution, less problems.

Pollution wasn’t the worst thing we’ve had to worry about.

With our ecosystem being such a dump, we’ve welcomed a number of epidemics. Plagues, wars, uninvited guests – and I don’t mean the Russians. I mean big, beautiful, terrifying ships coming out of the skies glowing iridescent blues and greens, pointing guns with barrels longer than the Empire State Building at anything that got into their way. But it didn't break out in to global domination, like everyone – including me – expected. We learned to welcome all who cared to make a pit-stop on Planet Doomed. The slimy, boney, threateningly terrifying guests could stay for as long as they wanted – which ended up being indefinitely.

I stand today, for what feels like the hundredth time, on the corner of Barkley and Peach – two names that won’t mean anything to you if you’re lucky. The blinking neon blue and red of an arrow pointing to the open bar door screams Welcome! Buy A Drink For Your Girlfriend, And Please DO NOT DISTURB The Mobsters In The Back Booth. Thank You. I was still standing under the sign because I was thinking of doing just that, only I didn’t know which mob was at the back booth tonight. The Ferrell Brothers would shoot me dead before I got past the counter. The Patchwork Crew, they would knock me unconscious, peel apart my skin, and stich me back together before hanging me outside their two story apartment. There are a number of other gangs that share the back booth or the ones surrounding it, although it’s kinda like this – the lesser gangs, they crowd around any booth in the shadows, but only one gang gets to sit in the back at a time. You would think a lot more fights would break out because of it, but it’s the old “you snooze, you lose” concept.

And if there’s a gang in the back booth, you wouldn’t want to mess with them anyways.

I blow into my bare hands. Winter’s a bitch this time of year. I’ve died from frostbite three times already, and I’m not planning on making it four. So, I tie my scarf a little tighter, rub my hands together, and turn to walk into the bar with my hat hiding most of my face. To everyone else who didn’t care to look, I was a street beater – a kid with no home, no hope, who was every bit willing to do what I could for a dollar. Most of that being true, I am ignored until I get to the counter.

“We don’t serve minors, kid,” spits the balding ball of flesh who passes as the bartender. He fills a glass cup with brackish liquid and passes it down to the Sludge Buddy, (a harmless, fat, putrid alien with about a dozen eyes in places best not to mention) who sticks its elephant-like snout into the cup and slurps on it slowly. Its communications collar shouts at me in a raspy voice to get lost.

I lick my lips. “I just wanna glass of water.” The bartender frowns at me and gives me an once-over. It isn't too obvious that I am a girl. My ample sized bosom is tied back with linens and a sports bra, rendering my chest practically flat before I concealed it with two shirts, a sweater, and a jacket. With my short haircut, slouching posture and ash-covered face I looked, talked, and even smelt like a boy. The bartender seemed to think so too, and prepares for me a glass of water. I take it, nodding, and drink past the unfiltered flakes.

It is the cleanest water I’ve had in a while.

“Thanks,” I mutter, and he grumbles and leaves me on my stool to drink my water. I keep my head down, trying to see past the people who sit at the bar and to the back corner. Arms move back and forth between the people, shuffling and dealing a stack of cards. I think I see three, maybe for pairs of arms. Not the Patchwork Gang, thank God. Not Lumpy and his crew, either. Maybe the Ferrell Brothers? As I’m going through my list, I don’t notice the presence that stalks up behind me.

“Marley,” a sultry, gruff voice says as a black sleeved arms passes over my shoulder. He sets down two credits – two gold credits – on the counter beside my drink. The bartender appears, his fat rolls forming a smile. “Another round for the table,” the guy says, and his arm draws back, skimming my shoulder. A buzz goes through me and I swallow hard, reaching for my cup. The bartender looks at me, frowning, his gaze hard until I bring the glass to my lips.

“Give the kid something, too.” My stomach rises to my chest and does a jig with my heart. The bartender, not daring to object, reaches under the counter and pulls out a plate. On it, he drops stale fries heated up from yesterday’s leftovers, splatters them with ketchup, and adds a burger patty. Forget bread and the usual hamburger toppings. We haven’t seen that stuff in ages, and I doubt the bartender feels too happy giving his meat to a street beater.

I mumble a thanks as the guy drops another credit on the counter and walks away. The whole time I kept my face downcast, and when I finally look up he’s already lost in the crowd.

“Well, kid,” says the bartender as he collects his money. “Today must be your lucky day.” Despite his indifferent tone, there’s a threatening look in his eyes. It’s a, better not pass any alleyways, look, and he leaves me with my meal.

I dig in. Even if I can’t die, I get hungry. It’s worse when I wake up. It’s like my body used whatever energy it had left to bring me back, and it needs to refill. During those next few hours, I’m daring enough to eat anything. Road kill, some restaurant’s garbage, whatever it takes, because at that moment it doesn’t matter. Whatever’s inside me separates whatever virus could be in those things and harnesses all it can. Then I’m alive and ready to continue on like nothing ever happened.

Licking my fingers, I take a deep breath. For once, my stomach isn’t growling. In fact, it bulges out a bit as I lean back in my stool. I finish off my water, washing down the staleness of the fries, and drop the glass on the counter. The bartender gives me a look, but I don’t care. Now I’m actually ready to do what I came here for.

The bartender gives me a different look as I leap off my stool and make my way through the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, he follows me the length of the bar and stops at the end. Someone asks for something and he ignores them. Then, like he cares, he calls out to me, “This ain’t no place to go balls-in, kid.” I clench my fists and keep walking.

Toxic isn’t even a good word to describe the smell as I move further back into the bar. It’s nauseating, like tuna fish, body odor, and manure with a hint of rotting limes. My heart dances alone in my chest while my stomach does backflips, threatening to toss up my fries and burger meat. Eyes, hundreds of them if you count the aliens, follow me as I weave through the tables. But they don’t stop talking. They begin to bet on what my outcome will be as I get further back.

Snap of the neck to that scrawny beater and they’ll be done with ‘em.

I pass the Ferrell Brothers. Three of them, sitting at a round table, Joe’s eyeless pit stares at me until I walk by. I hear a chair scrape the floor, and in a picture frame’s reflection I see them stand and follow me.

The air gets humid. I get more used to the smell, and it’s a little less crowded. The lights have been dimmed down to near darkness, making the white-blue light of holographic piles of poker chips more prominent. The back booth is a half circle, with the round end facing the cushioned chair and the flat end allowing the one guy in a stool to sit and play comfortably. His back is towards me. A gold band holds up most of his dark hair, and he slouches in thought. I see the eye of Horus on the back of his neck peeking out from his shirt’s collar and I stop behind him and off to the right. The Ferrell Brothers stops inches behind me. I can feel the youngest one, Lu’s, breath on the top of my head. One of the guys taps his neighbor’s bicep and nods to me. His friend looks up, and soon all three of them are staring at me.

The first one who noticed me looks to be the most casual. His dirty blonde hair is cut to be short on the sides and spiked at the top. A golden hoop hangs on his right earlobe – a trait, I see, they all share – and his silk shirt is unbuttoned to reveal most of his chest. His friend, who wears a ribbed tank and brass knuckles, is black and huge with muscle. White ink, glowing in the table’s light, illuminates the tattoo of a nude woman sitting on an anchor on his left shoulder. He stares at me thoughtfully, like I’m a piece of art in a museum. The guy beside him is crazy. Blue eyes surrounded by black makeup look at me, green hair falling straight against his head, and his mesh clothes are practically glowing. He taps his spiked collar patiently, and his gaze flickers to the man who has his back to me.

“We’re busy,” says the man, and adds in his desired amount of chips before the turn is passed to the green-haired guy.

His cockney accent flitters up from behind his fan of cards. “They’ve got a beater.”

“This’un ain’t ours,” Lu says, his rancid breath filling the space around me.

“Just wanna see how it’ll all turn up,” Joe snickers and his brothers join in.

The man ignores them and studies his groups’ poker faces. I swallow hard, trying to say something – anything – but it’s like I’ve swallowed a tub of glue. One of the brothers grow impatient behind me as they continue on with their game. I can tell that Joe holds him back, and lays a hand on my shoulders.

“Go on, son,” he lets his arm lie lazily across my shoulders. His body odor is overwhelming, and I hold my breath. “Tell ‘em whatcha came to. Don’t mind us one bit.”

I released my breath, but couldn’t get a word out. It sounded more like a low screech, and I coughed. Joe’s grip on my shoulder tightened and he leaned into my ear.

“Now, I and a couple’uh folks here have gone a mighty long time without killin’ anybody.” He pulled out his pistol, cocked it, and rested the end of the barrel against the soft underneath of my chin. “But we don’t have a problem changin’ that.”

The table group looked on, ignoring us because of their game. The black man adds in a few of his chips before admiring his cards. I swallow hard. I could get shot and they wouldn’t do a thing about it. Not that it would cause me any damage at all, it still makes me angry. Joe’s breath fills my mouth as I try to say something.

“Thanks.”

Joe pauses. He blinks. The table passes around a confused look before Joe swears. Finding my voice, I look at the man who has frozen mid-turn and say it again.

“Thanks. For the food.”

“Hell,” Joe turns me to face him, backing me up until I lay on the table. His forearm is pressed against my throat and I struggle to breath. I grab his arm, throw my free hand at his good eye. My nails rakes the gelatinous surface and he cries out, releasing his hold on me. As he steps back, the guy who had sat at the head of the table stands up, grabs Joe around the throat, and slings him on the table beside me. Somewhere in between, he had grabbed Joe’s pistol and aims it now at his empty eye socket. Lu and Jack draw their weapons – as do the guys sitting around the table. The brothers rethink their moves and raise their hands, returning their guns to their holsters.

“Cowards,” spits Joe, and he gags as the man’s grip tightens.

“Dinner and a show,” I’m pulled off the table by the blondie and he sits me beside him, giving me a half-hearted grin. He props his arm on the back of the booth behind my head. I get my breath and grow quiet.

“You interrupted my game,” growled the man who pins Joe to the table.

“Hell with your poker game, Skinner,” Joe gasps. His face is turning a cherry red.

“You look a little tired,” the man, Skinner, cocks the pistol. “Let me put you to sleep.”

Before his brothers could shout, Skinner shoots Joe through his empty eye socket. I jump with the sound of the gun going off, and the blondie squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. Blood pools around Joe’s head and spills over the edge of the table. Lu and Jack look on, shell-shocked, as their brother’s lifeless body rolls off the table and hits the floor. Skinner wipes his bloody hand on his pants leg before sitting back down in his seat. I swallow, the sharp smell of metal filling the air. The bartender, with his mouth gaping open, shares a look with me before disappearing, probably to find a mop.

Lu and Jack move behind Skinner to pick up their lifeless brother. His face is caved in, leaving his chin and part of the right side intact. I feel my stomach kick and nearly lose what is in it. Looking away, I take deep, slow breaths until I hear the sound of Joe’s dragging body disappear.

Skinner looks up at the green-haired guy, then to me. His chin is bushy with a well-trimmed beard. A lock of hair had come loose from his band. Tucking it behind his ear – both, I saw, pierced with gold hoops – he smears a streak of blood across his temple.

“You’re welcome,”

I blink, suddenly realizing that he is talking to me. “What?”

“For the meal. I remember what it was like, living on the streets.” His voice is deep and rough, like he had just gotten out of bed. His face reminds me of someone, what's-his-name from The Matrix. Something Reeves. I can tell he wasn’t from around here by how clipped his speech was. Maybe he was from somewhere up north.

“Want me to deal you in?” The black man asks. I decline.

The green-haired guy smiles, big and scary. “Where are our manners? We’re obviously in the presence of a lady.” He whispered lady, but it is obvious that the group already knows that I'm a girl. “I’m Art. That’s Tanker,” he motions to the big black man, who smiles at me. “That’s–”

“Face,” the blondie takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

“Ever the charmer. And he,” Art points his thumb as Skinner, “as you already know, is our gruesome, fearless leader.”

Skinner turns to me. “You interrupted our game. I don’t let just anyone do that.”

I blink. “Good thing I’m not ‘just anyone.’”

The table laughs. Skinner crinkles his nose, like he caught a whiff of something bad. The bartender appears and scrubs away the pool of blood, grumbling under his breath.

“And who are you, then?” He asks, waving away Marley like a pestering fly. I swallow hard. I never thought I would get this far.

“My name's Li... You can call me Cat. I think I can be someone of great use to you.”

“Whoa-ho, little lady,” Art rests his elbows on the table, ignoring the missed droplets of blood. “Aren’t you a bit young?”

My cheeks flush. I avert my eyes, embarrassed. “It’s not – I’m not,”

Tanker interjects. “Shut your mouth, Art. Ain’t none of your business either way.”

“Maybe I’m a little interested,” Art retorts, blowing a strand of green hair out of his face.

“Is this true?” Skinner’s eyebrows seem to frown at me, thought his mouth it set more in curiosity. I shake my head, playing with the cuff of my jacket.

“No. No. I’m… Well, you see, it’s hard to explain.” I reach up and shake out my short hair. “It’s stupid. I’m special, you see, and since you guys are new around here,” I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. “I wanna help, you know.”

“No,” Skinner turns towards me in his chair. “Explain.”

Art grins. Tanker gives him a fatherly sort of look before turning to me. I realize that there’s really only one way to explain, and I let out a defeated breath. Taking Joe’s gun, discarded on the table like a piece of trash, I check to see if there are any more bullets before cocking it. The table erupts in movement; Face has got his own gun against my temple, Tanker holds out the knife he freaking pulled out of nowhere, and Art has his hand laser aimed at me. Skinner frowns, holding his gun. I can tell he doesn’t want to shoot me. I tell him he won’t need to.

“When I pull this trigger,” my voice doesn’t waver, and I’m proud. “You’ve got eight minutes to clear everyone – the staff, Marley, everyone – before I wake up.” I stand up. Face says Hell, before I press the barrel against my temple and pull the trigger.

It’s white hot at first, and then I’m freezing. I can feel my body convulsing as it tries to work again. First is my heart. I beats like a hummingbird’s wings until my brain kick starts, sending a shock of pain through my nervous system. Fires shoots through my veins as my blood starts going, making up for the loss when I shot myself. Voices call out and it seems like they’re shouting until I blink my eyes open. A face, unrecognizable at first, stands over me. Skinner’s beard is the first thing to come into focus. My breathing starts, lungs pumping, expanding, deflating, until I’m level-headed enough to move my fingers. It’s like and anvil is sitting on my chest and I’m gasping like a fish out of water until Skinner lifts up my head and places a seat cushion underneath it. He looks down at me, curious and the least bit shocked, and holds my head until Art comes up beside him.

“Bloody hell.” He mutters. “Bloody freaking hell.”

The room is quiet for a moment. I blink hard, my vision wavering in and out. The smell of body odor is trumped by the overwhelming scent of blood. My blood. I shake my head, which hurts but help me regain my composure.

“Everybody’s out – hell.” The swear goes up all around as Skinner helps me sit up. I give them all a half smile, my body wobbling like Jell-O.

“So,” I’m able to say before my stomach growls angrily. “Am I in, or what?”

Face blinks at me, then drops to his knees, grabs my face, and pulls me in for a wallop of a kiss. I’m dazed and slightly bubbly when he finally pulls back with a loud “Yea, baby!” I’m pulled up off the floor by Tanker, who throws me over his shoulder like I’m nothing but a sack of feathers. He spins me around, which isn’t too good on my head but I don’t saying anything, and he’s laughing. Art’s still swearing, running his fingers through his green hair. I’m dizzy and lose my footing when Tanker finally puts me down. Skinner catches me before I topple over, his face surprisingly sullen.

“This kid’s gonna take us to the next level, man,” Tanker claps. Face looks like he’s just ready to kiss everybody. Art has stopped swearing and just looks at me with his jaw on the floor.

“Are you sure about this?” Skinner’s blue eyes search my face. “I’m not going to sugar-coat it. We do some pretty heavy stuff.”

You ain’t got a clue, I think as I step away from him, forcing myself to stay steady on my own. “Try me,” I’m grinning, the dare hanging in the air like a party balloon. Then the smallest, tiniest of a smile perks the corners of Skinner’s mouth, and I know I’m in.