Intended Extinction (11 page)

“What are you doing?!” shouted Tara, grabbing at my pant leg as I stood up.

I rose above the countertop of the information desk and stood in the midst of the chaos. The lasers focused on me, but nothing happened. They shined on my chest, coming from each of the four marble pillars.

“Nothing’s happening,” I showed Tara, who was now more confused than before.

I grabbed my MLM and decided to end this.

“Mark, wait!”

In a storm of fury, I stomped over to the sofa, placed my left foot on the armrest and shoved the couch backwards.

Everything stopped. The lasers turned off. The voice disappeared into thin air. I sidestepped to my right, revealing what was behind the dust-encrusted sofa and blasted my LED light onto our perpetrator.

I stared
into the hyperactive cyan eyes of an emaciated boy. Curly, maple syrup hair matched his freckles, matted and frayed like a dirty mop. Around his neck were three sets of work goggles, all different shades of neon. He was wearing gray jeans, ripped and sprayed with mud. His baby blue sweater was sleeveless, revealing bony arms. Athletic tape was wrapped around his biceps and wrists. Grasped in his hands was a small electronic device, with a see-through interface window hovering above.

“Who are you?!” I blurted out, wondering why in the world a kid was alone in an abandoned Neuroscience facility—let alone, being responsible for nearly giving us a heart attack.

“Why. Aren’t. You. Running?!” asked the little child, crab-walking his way backward. He shielded his eyes from my blinding flashlight.

“What?” I asked again.

Tara remained motionless; she couldn’t conjure a coherent sentence.

“My perfectly designed alarm system should have made you go away!” he yelled, continuing to move backwards.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The boy was as eccentric as a rabid mouse. “Are you going to hurt me?” he asked, finally hitting the glass wall behind him. “Or am I gonna hurt you?!” He stood up abruptly and bore his chest.

“What? No—what are you . . .” I trailed off, realizing I was pointing my high caliber machine gun at a child. I slowly lifted the rifle, creating an umbrella of light that doused our little gang.

“Whoa . . .” said the boy, furrowing his brow. “You guys definitely aren’t them. Or maybe you’re just spies! No, because
you’re
too ugly,” he pointed to me, “and she’s like a-a-a twig insect or something!” He snickered loudly.

Tara and I stood in awkward silence. What the hell had we gotten ourselves into? It didn’t make it any better when he started to sing.

“
Two little creatures drop-into my arms! What can-I-do, but make them feel s’warm! I’ll give them something nice! Oh, what a great delight! But then I’ll rip their fuggin’ heads right off!
” He pranced around, stopping to glare at us on the last stanza.

He must’ve been using. It wasn’t uncommon for kids to be messed up with drugs, especially out here in the deserted parts of the city. Whatever he was on or wherever he came from, I doubt he was going to help us.

“You’re just like everyone else that comes in here,” he said, waiving us off. “Well, except dead, I guess”

“Look,” said Tara, “we just need some help. Mark’s leg is badly—”

“Oh! Eentsy weentsy, wittle little
leg!
” he retaliated, jumping onto the sofa cushions.

I tried to pair him with an age, but I couldn’t decide on twelve or thirteen. He was about four and a half feet tall and probably weighed a little more than a cracker.

“And what if you
are
spies?” he growled, bracing his arms. “Are you?!”

“Do we look like spies?” I said.

He mimicked my phrase in a higher voice, which made me boil with anger.

“No . . .” he said to himself, tapping his chin, “you’re definitely not Tarmucks.”

“Tar—what?” asked Tara.

“Tarmucks! You’re holding their weapons! Those big, metal, bag-holes!”

“Wait a second,” I said. “You’ve
seen
them before? They’ve been here?”

“Not here, idiot!” he said. “But I’ve seen ‘em.”

“
Where?
” I asked, stepping forward.

“In the streets,
dude!
What’s up
your
ass?”

“Are you all alone here?” Tara asked.

He shot her a look, as if she were clueless. “Um, yeah?”

“How could they have been all the way over here?” I asked Tara.

She shook her head. “Do you have
anything
that can help Mark?”

“Hold on,” he snapped, hopping off of the couch and whipping out his handheld. “I have to ask Jones.”

“I thought you just said you were alone—”

“
Jones
,” he repeated, lifting the device. “Jones, should I let these people stay?”

It was silent as the screen lit up.

“People are people,” said a butler-like, male voice coming from the device. “Do as you must.”

Tara and I exchanged glances, as we knew “Jones” was just a simple virtual intelligence.

“Jones said the lady can stay, but sorry dude, you have to go,” he said, shrugging.

“That’s not—”

“Ah, I’m just playin’ with ya! Come on guys, I’ll show you to my
siiiick
pad!” He turned around and hopped a little, emphasizing the word “sick” as he bounced.

If there was any time in my life where I needed to sigh, this would have been it. Tara looked at me and tilted her shoulder up.

“What’s your name?” asked Tara, before he scampered too far.

“Bloodface Vectorpus,” he said.

“Wait—what?”

“But you can call me Bloodface. Or Vectorpus. Or both. I don’t care.”

As he skipped onward, I grabbed Tara’s hand and whispered, “Let’s just get outta here.”

“We can’t just leave him.”

“And why the hell not?”

“
Because
,” she said, “he probably needs us more than we need him.”

“We’re not here to babysit, Tara!” I snapped.

“Bottom line, Wenton,” she pointed down at my shin, “you need to get that fixed. Let’s just see if he can help us, okay?”

“If he kills us in there,” I concluded, “it’s on you.”

“Bloodface” led us toward the back of the lobby, down the small, four-stair descent, and into a corridor. We walked through the musty hallway, where large tarps were laid on the ground. Buckets of dried paint and work tools were strewn all over the floor, completely covered in dust. Slabs of drywall and glass-like material were stacked in various places. We passed everything until we came to the end wall.

“Here we are,” he said, gesturing to a blue tarp draped over a section of the wall to our right.

He realized our confusion and pulled back the tarp’s corner, revealing a hole.

Astonished, I looked at Tara who wore the same expression.

“Welcome to my home,
snitches!
” he sang. “But there’s a toll to enter.” He quickly shut the tarp.

He barred the entrance with his body. The more he played his little games, the more I felt my leg crying out for help. I feared this was going to go on for a long time. Damn that stupid kid.

“You have to sing a song to enter,” he said.

Tara and I blinked.

“Listen, Blood—er—Bloodface,” Tara tried, “we really ought to get Mark some Medi-A—”

He held an open hand to her and said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk! No exceptions! I want singing. And don’t pretend like you can’t sing. Stop acting twelve and
do it!
”

“So, I should stop acting like you then?” I said.

“No,” he replied blankly, “I’m eleven, that doesn’t even make sense.”

Of course it didn’t.

“We’re not singing, you little shit,” I said. “If you don’t have anything to help, then we’ll find it ourselves.”

He looked at me with firmness. “Now we’re talkin’! All right . . . I’ll let it slide this one time. I’ve got what you need, big shit.”

I shook my head, avoiding eye contact with Tara.

As soon as we stepped over the threshold, Bloodface flicked a switch and the room became as bright as noonday.

Once our eyes adjusted, Tara exhaled, “You . . . you did all of
this
?”

The boy’s den was no bigger than a glorified janitor’s closet. Lights were hanging from the ceiling, wired together with tape and strung through the rafters. A sofa was pressed against the back corner, with a woolen blanket draped over the side. There was a three-tiered janitorial cart, shelving many miscellaneous items, and two armchairs nestled in individual corners. The floor was concrete, but a large rug covered most of it, guarding our feet with plush carpeting. A Fuse was placed in one of the upper corners, held by some kind of spliced mechanism. Below, boxes filled with tons of junk were stacked. The only weird thing I could see was the four-letter curse word, plastered across the adjacent wall.

“Unbelievable,” I mumbled.

“How did you do all of this?” asked Tara. She took a few steps toward the sofa, admiring the intricacy of the hovel.

“I’m not a friggin’ pansy-ass, that’s for one. It’s comes naturally, yo.”

He moved toward the boxes and started rummaging through one of them, humming a choppy tune.

“So you just knew exactly how to wire these lights?” Tara asked, glancing at a picture frame on the top tier of the janitor’s cart. I looked over her shoulder, seeing a young happy couple holding a baby boy.

“Ol’ Daddio used to work for GenoTec,” he said as he continued searching for something. “He let me come with him. Turns out I was ‘au naturel’ at this kind of stuff. I was passin’ up some of the top dudes there. Mo-mo-mo—
moh-rons
.” Finally, he withdrew a handful of Medi-A packets, piquing my interest.

“GenoTec? Wait, before Edge?” Tara contemplated, setting the picture down and joining us. “You would’ve been only five then . . . how in the world would you know about this kind of stuff?”

I knew what she was doing, and it bothered me. I didn’t want to learn about this kid’s past, present,
or
future. I wanted to grab his stash and scram, like we were never there.

“No,” he mumbled, ripping a packet open with his teeth, “I started going when I was six. Oh, by the way, what the hell are your names?”

“Tara,” she said, “and this is Mark.”

“Boring,” he replied, shaking his head. He pointed to me. “You’re Shinbutt.” He moved to Tara. “And . . . you’re Ladynuts.”

My headache pain was gradually starting to eclipse everything else.

Tara tried to recover from the new names. She wouldn’t look at me, even though I watched her, seething like a viper ready to strike.

“How long have you been living here?” she continued.

I sort of sat back and watched to see what kind of reaction he would have. Part of me wanted to see her to get burned.

“A month now,” he said calmly, as if that wasn’t something abnormal at all.

Tara raised her eyebrows. “A
month?
”

He stopped to look at her, making everything silent. “Yeah,” he said, “a month.” After staring at her for a good minute, he turned back to me and raised the packet of healing gel.

Even though I didn’t want to have anything to do with this kid, I started to feel bad for leaving Tara in the dust, so I put a hand up to him and said, “Wait a minute. Can we just . . . can’t you tell us why you’re here?”

Bloodface lowered the packets and bit his lip.

“What’s with you two bizz-woops?” he said, standing up. “First, you’re all like, ‘shut up and gimme meds!’, and now you’re all like, ‘pwweese, tell us yo story, Bloodface!’”

“Never mind then,” I concluded, ready to be knocked out cold. That was it. I tried.

He approached me and said, “Well, then let’s get on with it!”

I exhaled and looked at Tara. “Yeah. Let’s get it over with, I guess.”

Tara cleared off the wiring from one of the corner chairs and I planted my butt onto the plush seat. Bloodface examined my blood-soaked pant leg and looked as if he had smelled something foul.

“Wow,” he laughed, “this is gross, dude! Gnarly wound. It looks like the head of that cat I killed last week! Smashed-in and everything!”

“Just give me the packet,” I replied, shifting my eyes to Tara.

“You’re lucky I have something to stitch that up with. You’re lucky I’m
straight dope!
” he exclaimed, fluctuating his voice all over the place.

I hoped he wasn’t referring to dental floss as his suture.

Tara knelt and held the fissured jean material open so we could work on the wound. Bloodface handed me the packet of Medi-A and crouched, wearing devilish eyes.

Feeling the squishy gel in my hand, I hesitated. I looked at the huge gash and remembered how painful Medi-A could be, even on a small cut. I began to have second thoughts.

“Tara,” I said, “I think you’re going to have to do this. I might pass out.”

Tara gave me a look of hesitation. “Are you sure?”

I nodded grimly.

“I’ve heard if you spit in the wound, it helps, too,” said the boy, ready to pull a wad of phlegm from his throat.

“Nope, not gonna do that,” I said frankly, shaking my head in disbelief.

I handed the pouch to her and she asked our host to hold open the ripped material. I put my head back to the chair and closed my eyes, waiting for excruciating pain. I knew that Medi-A was going to be our best option, though. There was no other way around this.