Chapter 8

“The fuck? Hyun exclaimed as they came to a big intersection.

“Blackout. A blackout that is causing gridlock in the streets and the pouring of bodies from the buildings,” Mikel said. “This is our chance to disappear in the crowds. You head to the office and I’m running for the airport.”

“You said there are two tickets,” Hyun said. “Are you screwing me over?”

“No, I’m shoving you out of the target zone,” Mikel said, as he watched the sidewalks fill with more sweaty bodies. “I’m the target; I’m the nexus, maybe. Whoever does not want the future that Aria projects wants me dead. You would be collateral damage and more important, you would still be late filing your story with Ned. You’ve got more than enough to start an article and more leads to follow. Besides, you’ve got more business kissing the girls and making them cry than following me. You know that, right?”

“You are so fucking reasonable about it,” Hyun said, giving him a shove. “I hate that about you.”

“I hate you too for what it’s worth,” Mikel said, stepping out into the street to weave around the cars. “Remember to send my column entries to Ned. You will buy me a couple of weeks.”

“I will,” she called before turning the other way. Mikel watched her run and dodge for two blocks until she was out of sight. Taking his own bearing, he mentally mapped out the potential paths to the train station, knowing that pedestrian traffic was going to force changes on the fly.

After eyeing the sidewalk from the other curb, he decided the fastest way to get through the mess was to stay in the street. As long as the streets remained gridlocked, walking alongside the idling cars and trucks appeared to be the best option. He took off at a brisk walk.

As he crossed one of the largest intersections in the city, someone yelled out, “Hey, Barajas!” He did a three-sixty, looking for the person who called out his name. “There he is,” someone else shouted.

He was not familiar with the man who called out his name, but his square jaw and overly muscular physique piqued Mikel’s fear. He dashed the rest of the way across the intersection and began running down the street, pushing people out of the way as necessary. He heard two other voices calling out his progress. Spying a small gap, he slid between two cars to the other side of the road. He pumped his legs for all he was worth. He squeezed between two construction rigs onto the sidewalk.

Mikel passed a cop leaning against the building at the corner as he rounded the curb. She was obviously playing PD Squares on her phone as she shook the device for every dice roll. She did not even bother to look up as he passed with his first pursuer hot on his heels. His pursuer was not as lucky as he clipped the cop, rounding the turn too sharply. Before Mikel could blink, he watched the cop whip out a taser thrasher seemingly without looking and flay the man with one crispy slap on his arm and back. Everyone in the vicinity cringed at the sound of searing flesh before the man cried out in pain. Mikel ducked into a tourist shop. He walked past all the glittery puke to the back wall. He purchased a new mask, a ball cap with the city’s name in gold, and cheap sunglasses. Most of his cash was gone, a circumstance he had to correct if he meant to go further underground. Thinking that a tourist shop in the middle of town was buried in digital data, he decided to take the chance.

He stepped over to the little ATM machine registered to some obscure banking concern, that was probably a foreign term for raping tourists with hidden fees. Taking his new blank credit card, which he swore he would only use in case of absolute emergency, he shoved it in the lock slot. The machine hummed. The screen went blank, switched to a replica of a music score across the screen, and then went blank again.

Mikel tried to pull out his card, but the slot was locked. He looked around helplessly before turning back to the screen. A text began scrolling across the screen. “Choo-choo muthafucka, go right, count three streets and turn right, count two doors, and enter. Second Floor. Attorney is waiting. Please take your cash and don’t forget to retrieve your card.”

He heard the rollers count out the bills. Reaching in, he pulled out a large stack of $20 dollar bills that he promptly stuffed in his front pockets. The card slipped out as the slot audibly unlocked. Taking his cue, he pulled his hat down over his forehead and stepped back out into the mess of humanity. He glanced momentarily at the police activity to his left before turning right. The destination was the locked entrance to an unmanned building. He pushed the button for the only attorney on the list, Rasmussen Esq., who promptly buzzed him in. The building was old, having not been renovated in decades. No power but there must have been a backup generator to light the stairwell and circulate air. He had four flights to climb. Upstairs, he found the door and walked into the office. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he turned the knob and stepped through the doorway.

“Remy?”

The nail technician looked up from her keyboard, giving him a big, broad smile. “You remember my name! I knew I made a good impression, but intuition is never a certainty.”

“You’re a nail tech or you’re not?”

“Trans Eye for the Straight Guy,” Remy said, licking her lips. “The production pitch never made it past the first cup of tea. However, I don’t pitch the style, I live the style. Ms. Rasmussen has completed her transition and she employs several of us who are saving up for the surgery. We can go where she cannot, like juicy-juicy nail salons. I gave you a superior manicure, did I not?”

Mikel showed her his hands, which she commented still looked perfect. “Ms. Rasmussen is not quite ready, so please give her about fifteen minutes.”

“How long has Ms. Rasmussen had my case?”

“I think it’s been a week or so,” Remy said, leaning back. “You’ve been a busy man. First, we prepped papers to spring you from federal custody. Apparently, you defeated that little trap. There were a couple of short-term leases, and someone filed a rape charge against you. We’re still trying to squash that one as a retaliation. We’ve filed several asylum requests with European and African countries, but it’s too soon to hear anything. Busy, busy, busy.”

“Rape? I need to sit down.”

“Take a few moments and rest your feet. Would you like a glass of water?” Remy asked, rising from her seat without waiting for an answer. “We have a topnotch filtration system. Clean water is a clean body.”

When Remy returned with a sparkling glass of water, Mikel invited her to sit down and tell him about her life. “Are you flirting with me,” she asked.

“Maybe,” Mikel said. “I could be a rapist though.”

“Sugarplum, I’ve met rapists and interviewed them as well,” she said. “You don’t match any of the profiles. I’m not worried about you raping my ass.” She then went on to regale Mikel with all her exploits as a daring teenager to plumber’s assistant and further on down the road to self-discovery. “A decent plumber can really plumb the depths, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s naughty,” Mikel said.

“No, it’s filthy,” Remy said, “and I’m speaking out of school. I apologize, but I feel comfortable sitting and talking with you. I forget the hetero norms.”

“I’m not offended, but I am curious,” Mikel said. “What happens after the surgery?”

“I find a dreamboat to fall in love with and we move to the suburbs where we live happily ever after,” she said. “Or I fall for a raging leather freak, and we open a BDSM dungeon in midtown, which caters to all the flavors.”

“O my,” Mikel said. “I can’t afford the suburbs or the leather. I did splurge on a cup of real coffee the other day.”

“How daring and bourgeois,” Remy said.

“Delicious and meshing in comfortable repose with the successful writer motif,” Mikel said. “I dream of setting up shop in a rent-regulated apartment with a lover, a cat, and evenings swamped with friends annoying me.”

“What kind of friends?” Remy asked.

“Now, who is flirting with whom,” Mikel said. “I write for a living and unlike the other 10,000 attempting to make a go at it, I make a living at it, most months.”

Someone cleared their throat. “Excuse me, but if the two of you have finished your coquettish dance, I would like Mr. Barajas to join me in my office.” The woman stood at least six feet tall, with a figure and lush head of brown hair that fell below her shoulders and curled above her bosom just so. Mikel shot to his feet.