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Mackney's Story: Part One
Written by Matt Secoy
They say that Neo-C is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Crime and corruption are so common that it virtually goes unnoticed. Desperation and despair are a companion to most and misery is everyone's friend. This is a city that most people fear to visit, let alone want to live in. The ones that are here wish they weren't. The ones that come wish to leave as soon as possible.
The buildings have seen better days. The once proud landscape is now a victim of time and apathy. The buildings only reflect the desolation that governs and lords over the attitudes and consciousness of the city's population. If you squint your eyes and tilt your head, you can just barely make out the former glory that was there many, many years past. Now, these monstrosities are a constant reminder of an era of beauty and elegance that is long gone.
The people here have become accustomed to the bleakness of the land. Most are indifferent to the plight of others. They have problems of their own to be concerned with, without worrying about the fool next to them. Others believe that this is their punishment for crimes they have committed in a past life; Their own, personal Hell on Earth.
The daytime is no safer than night. Pain and suffering are waiting behind every corner. Predators know no boundaries when it comes to light and darkness. A daylight robbery, mugging or murder is just as common as the terror that haunts Neo-C's nights. This is a city that has too few glories and accolades.
The Bowery area was known as one of the worst areas in Neo-C. At one time it had been a thriving upper class location with elegant restaurants and theaters for everyone. It was a place to take your family out for a pleasant night on the town. The wealthy and the middle class rubbed elbows with each other without a single care. Unfortunately, a terrible incident changed it all. The patronage slowly left the area never to return, finding newer, safer places to enjoy. Undesirable elements crept in and claimed the Bowery for its own. It had become a haven for the dangerous and notorious. This was an area to avoid at all costs.
The Clauer Hotel had been in Neo-C's Bowery longer than it should have been. In other cities a building as old as this would have been condemned and demolished, but the owner of the Clauer had paid off the officials and still had rooms let out to the despondent and desperate. Like most of the flophouses in the Bowery, The Clauer was a place to go if one wished to disappear and not be found. The tenants could not care less that the building is barely standing. They were more interested in privacy and shelter than five star accommodations. Room #14-C was just as luxurious and accommodating as a broken down tinderbox could offer. The sheets on the bed that should have been thrown away years ago were unceremoniously strewn across a battered and stained mattress. The carpeting was as filthy and worn as the rest of the room. You could almost tell it was a pale yellow at one time. The color had faded and mutated into a crude shade of gray. Large, gaping holes in the carpet revealed a shoddy wooden floor beneath. Cigarette burns and stains formed abstract designs that did nothing to enhance the carpet's aesthetic beauty. The viewing screen was an ancient relic as well. It was rare indeed to find a viewing screen that needs a remote in this day and age. The indifferent manager of the Clauer did supply each and every room with a curtain for their dirty, opaque windows. Most people would have called them old rags and towels but to the manager, it was simply a covering.
The occupant in 14-C didn't seem to mind. In fact he was oblivious to his surroundings and the filth around him. He had been sitting there for the better part of two days not eating or sleeping. Sitting and staring into a void that only he could perceive. He barely moved as he sat. The only noticeable movement was the slight rising and falling of his chest as he breathed long, slow breaths. The blinking of his eyes was the only other sign that he was indeed alive. The bottle of scotch on the nightstand sat half empty and not touched in hours. He stared out to nowhere, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Not even the incessant blinking of the pink neon letters right out side his window snapped him out of his hypnotic stupor.
Clutched in his right hand was a Magnetic Revolver. The black barrel reflected a sliver of pink from the hotel sign. The weight of the gun went unnoticed in his hand. He no longer felt the gun or realized he even had it. It was as if the gun was a part of his person. It was just a lethal, metal digit that caused no more of a distraction to him than a fingernail would be physically acknowledged by anyone else. The lamp on the nightstand gave a dull glow to the room. Any more would illuminate the hovel to the point of vulgarity. The glow lit up a newspaper that was neatly folded and placed on the stand. The paper was folded to expose a particular article. The article was encircled numerous times in deeply pressed black ink. The headline of the article was underlined repeatedly.
SLADETECH AND SLADE INDUSTRIES TO BUILD NEW ANTARCTIC RESEARCH FACILITY ON SITE OF LOST OUTPOST.
A deeply drawn "X" covered the photograph that accompanied the print. The photo was of a well-groomed man, barely in his early thirties. His features were strong and confident. His jet-black hair was neatly trimmed. His smile was warm and inviting without being arrogant. The man had an air of charm and class about himself. A captioned name went along with the face:
CHAIRMAN AND CEO OF SLADETECH, JASON SLADE
The man in the room stared straight ahead. His ice-blue eyes opened wide. Sweat poured from his brow, despite the fact he was sitting in a poorly heated room in late October. His long brown hair was damp, as was his thick beard. His facial expression was that of pure terror. He was a man in fear; fear beyond what most would understand or even accept. He was afraid, for himself and the entire world. For the first time in countless hours he gave any sign of life. His head slowly turned toward the newspaper. He looked deep at the photograph as if he were sending the man in the picture a mental message. His left hand reached over to the paper, trembling as he grasped it in his sweaty hand. Holding the paper he kept reading the words over and over again:
LOST OUTPOST
LOST OUTPOST
LOST OUTPOST
Methodically, he put the paper down. His gaze never moved, still experiencing the terror. The look of terror slowly metamorphosed into pure rage. His head started shaking in defiance. His resolve was set. He would end the threat before it could happen again. He looked back at the photo. His anger and outrage vocalized it self towards the image of the dark haired man. "Not again, not again," he hissed. He knew what he had to do. To end the threat before it could reoccur, to stop the horror from having a second chance of spreading, this desperate man would have to kill Jason Slade.