Only Shadows Ahead
Chapter Forty-Eight
"Took her back to my place," Isaac said, taking a swig of Coke. He crushed the can with his free hand, tossing it out the window and grinning at his colleague. "She's a gymnast."
Bruno grunted in response. In all honesty, he didn't give a damn about Isaac's extra-curricular activities. Car-pooling with this buffoon was already becoming problematic. The idiota had been caught driving while under the influence — losing his licence privileges for the second time — so now Bruno and another colleague were having to 'share the load'.
The man had a distinct lack of social skills. Only three topics of conversation ever came up and Bruno was pretty sure that most of the information recounted was heavily embellished anyway.
The rapaz had a vivid imagination.
Isaac lent back in his seat, propping his feet against the dashboard. "She was flexible."
"Great."
"Mamas grandes."
"Uh huh."
"Apparently Jose was kicked out by security after we left. Passed out in the gutter. They just left him there."
"Mmm hmm."
"Good night, though. Great band. Little loud for my liking, but they sounded okay."
Bruno grunted again.
"You should come next time."
"Maybe."
"Might need to stop off and get a coffee. My head is pounding, man. I swear that's the last time I —"
"We're late."
Issac shrugged, staring at the dirt road ahead as they made their way through the winding cotton fields towards the textile mill. "Boss won't know the difference."
Bruno rolled his eyes. If anyone was going to notice, their employer would.
"I heard he fired Maria?"
"Yeah."
"Her kid has leukaemia or something?"
"Mmm."
"That'd suck, man. Girl takes a couple of days unpaid leave for the kid's chemo and boom — no job! Guess it's no excuse, though. Plenty of others who need the work and will actually turn up, right? Can't be making allowances for —"
Bruno tuned out. He rubbed a hand over his face, making a mental note to slip something unsavoury between Isaac's slices of bread — picturing him biting into it during their ten minute lunch break.
"— then you've got all the kids on the looms and wheels whining about the state of their fingers. Just gotta man up and do it, ya know?" Isaac took another sip of his drink, nodding towards the pothole in the middle of the road ahead. "Watch out for the —"
"I can see it," Bruno snapped back.
"No need to get —"
"Do you ever shut up?"
They sat in silence for a while, bumping along the road. The dry heat was blistering — it was unseasonably warm for this time of year. The vehicle had no air conditioning so the windows were all down. The negative side effect was the dust — thick and choking, coating all surfaces of the car.
The boss was already unhappy with the discolouration of the crops. Processing times had doubled, leading to increased manufacturing costs. It had been a long time since they'd seen rain.
Uncomfortable conditions and the passenger from hell — a recipe for disaster. Bruno gripped the wheel harder, wiping the sweat of his brow using his shirt sleeve. The air shimmered but his attention was suddenly diverted.
"Who's that?" Isaac asked, pointing ahead, also having noticed the strange sight by the side of the road.
Bruno squinted, craning his neck and surveying two motorbikes beside the bordering fenceline, abandoned. A large bag was propped up against one. He looked out at the fields of cotton plants, stretching as far as the eye could see. He could just make out a couple of heads bobbing in the distance amongst the crops.
"That's Luis' Honda," Isaac said as they slowed, brakes squealing to a stop.
Bruno sat behind the wheel for a moment, staring at a long, narrow strip of white fabric that had snagged itself on the barbed wire fence separating the road from the field. It jerked and flapped in the breeze, as if pointing towards something beyond their view.
He suddenly felt uneasy.
He stepped out of the car and made his way over. On closer inspection, he realised the fabric was similar to thin muslin cloth. It continued to flutter, stretching into the air at least six feet in length; out of place even amongst the cotton crops surrounding it. He grabbed a section of it — passing his fingers over the fabric.
Streaks of red were visible beneath his fingers.
"Meu deus," came a rasping voice from behind him. Bruno spun around just in time to see Isaac staggering away from the bikes and the mystery bag, doubled-over and dry-retching violently. Isaac eventually fell to his knees and vomited into the grass.
"What is it?" he called, but Isaac didn't respond. Remaining where he was, Isaac wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, staring in horror at the incongruous package nearby.
Bruno turned his attention back to the field. More shadows bobbed amongst the cotton plants. "Hello?" Bruno called, gripping the wire and shielding his eyes from the sun. "What are you —"
"Bruno? That you?"
"Sim!"
Get over here!"
Recognising Luis' voice, Bruno lifted the wire and climbed through, darting between the cotton plants as the voices became louder. He looked around, searching for his colleague. "Where are —"
"Here," came the tense reply. "We've got something here. I've called it in."
"What was in the bag?" he replied, swatting a fly away. "I still cannot find you —"
"Here."
Bruno quickened his pace, spotting Luis's small form through the foliage. Another man was with him and they were both staring at the ground. Someone lay crumpled at their feet, face down. Still and unmoving; tanned, leathery skin covered in mosquito bites.
"Is he alive?"
"I'm not touching that," the other man piped up, and Bruno pushed him aside in disgust. He dropped to his knees, prodding and poking the man cautiously. Eventually he rolled the body over with Louis' help.
Short beard and moustache. Thick-set, ropy build. Hardened features — his bald head gleaming in the afternoon sun. Congealed blood covered his T-shirt. Bruno lifted the fabric gently. A deep wound was visible just below his ribs. His eyes swept over the man's face again.
Recognition flooded through him.
"Argos Bleak," he breathed, sitting back on his haunches and glancing up at the shocked faces. "It's Argos Bleak."
"He alive?"
Bruno leaned forward, checking for a pulse. Lowering his head, he felt the faint rise and fall of Bleak's chest. Slow, wheezing breaths. He didn't look good.
"Yes, I… I think so," he said. "Merda. You said you have called it in?"
"Yes. There was a body on the road," Luis explained, pointing towards the motorbikes. "Wrapped in bandages, half out of the bag. We nearly ran it over."
"Another body over there," the other man said, indicating to the left.
More vehicles were arriving. Bruno looked up, spotting his employer's security guards moving quickly through the crops. Burly, pissed-off looking men with their weapons raised. Bruno rose to his feet and stepped back, watching as the guards emerged and began barking orders.
"Get to work," one shouted, jabbing his rifle in Bruno's direction. "You are all late!"
Luis and his friend scrambled away, not even daring to look back. Heading for their bikes, they took off in a cloud of dirt and dust. The factory was still a ten minute drive.
"Move!" another barked, shoulder-barging Bruno aside. The guards were gathered around Bleak now, talking in low voices. He watched as a few began to divide up in order to search the rest of the field.
He turned on his heel, striding away as the guards took charge. Another piece of fabric rustled nearby, attached to a cotton plant. He changed direction, moving to grab it and nearly tripped over a pair of legs in the process.
A girl lay on her side, curled up in a foetal position. Mosquito-bitten like Bleak. Matted blonde hair and quite obviously injured — covered in cuts and bleeding from the hands and feet.
Bruno crouched down, checking her pulse and wondering how on earth they had both ended up unconscious in the middle of this isolated farming paddock. He bent lower, placing his palm across her forehead. Dark lashes framed against pale skin; her clothes were stained and bloodied just as Bleak's had been. A slender wrist was bent at an unnatural angle.
He hesitated, remaining low. Glancing back towards the guards who were just visible through the crops. They were moving Bleak out, man-handling him back towards their waiting vehicles.
In good conscience, he wasn't ready or willing to hand the woman over to their custody. He was a father himself. Two little girls. Plunder's guards were renowned for their bad behaviour and bullying tactics. The thought of what they —
"YOU!"
Bruno froze, scampering aside as a guard approached them.
"Over here! Another one!"
More shouts. Bruno jumped to his feet, moving away quickly and heading towards the road. He glanced back over his shoulder worriedly as they prodded her with their feet, talking amongst themselves. The guard with the long hair soon picked her up and Bruno watched the woman disappear amongst the plants. Her bloodied feet brushed against the foliage — one arm dangling limply towards the ground — and then she was gone.
"Won't ask you again."
The tone was threatening. A swarthy guard remained behind; weapon trained on Bruno. A salacious grin on his ugly, weathered face. Knowing the bastard would have no qualms about using him for target practice, Bruno hurried off.
The sound was beyond annoying. A persistent scratching. It would stop for several moments then start up again. A clock ticking. Everything seemed amplified to his ears, even the background noise. Muffled and distorted, as if he were underwater.
He rolled over. Exquisite pain flared through his mid-section and he groaned loudly, clutching his abdomen.
"Nice of you to join us."
Bleak's eyes flew open. The scratching sound started again, slow and deliberate. He pushed himself into a sitting position, disorientated. Hands lying flat against the couch beneath him. Dizzy and sick, he braced himself against the arm rest, glancing around in confusion.
"Wha —" he rasped, and a coughing fit overtook him, expanding his ribcage and nearly causing him to pass out from the agony. "Ah shit!"
"Where the fuck have you been?"
Plunder was seated at his favourite mahogany desk. His pen continued scraping against the paper. He looked up, levelling his steely gaze on Bleak; eyebrows raised as he waited for a response.
Bleak's eyes lulled closed again; trying to piece together his fragmented thoughts. His brain wasn't firing, no matter how hard he tried.
"Did it work?"
"What?" Bleak asked, sounding annoyed. He had a splitting headache and was craving sleep. Unwilling to be interrogated at this point in time. "I don't… what —"
Plunder's pen continued scratching away. He placed an official looking document to the side and started on the next one — neat, precise handwriting.
"How did she die?"
Bleak stared at him. He swallowed painfully. His mouth was dry as he glanced down, trying to make sense of the filthy, bloodied clothes hanging from his body. He had no discernible explanation for them and this lack of knowledge frustrated the hell out of him. "What —"
"Had to get the good doctor in to take care of that," Plunder said, gesturing towards Bleak's stomach without looking up. "Couple of units of blood. Antibiotics and a tetanus shot. Wasn't cheap."
"Someone stabbed me?" Bleak asked, words slurred. He raised his shirt, spotting the neat row of stitches and the inflamed skin surrounding it.
"Missed your abdominal cavity. An inch to the left and it would have punctured a major artery."
"I —"
"Wasn't cheap. Deducting the Doc's service fee from your pay," Plunder said, waving his hand towards Bleak. "I'm not responsible for that."
Bleak was totally bewildered. "Did I get into a fight?"
"You tell me." Plunder tossed the pen aside and clasped his hands together, leaning back in his chair. Looking Bleak over.
Bleak slumped against the backrest, looking down at his bloodied T shirt. Trying to piece together the details, to draw forth some explanation from his sketchy, muddled brain. Various scenarios ran through his head, but nothing tangible.
"I'm waiting."
"What —" he said, flinching as Plunder jumped to his feet, a vein popping out on his forehead.
"What the fuck is wrong with you!" The chair skittered across the hardwood floor, kicked aside. It hit the wall and bounced across the floor. "Where the fuck have you been?"
"I —"
"You've got some damn explaining to do!"
"I don't know," Bleak rasped. He sat rigidly, passing a hand over his head; noting the blood and dirt caked within his fingernails. His hands were shaking and he clenched them into fists. "I don't —"
"Did it work?"
"What?"
"DON"T YOU FUCKING PLAY GAMES WITH ME!" Plunder exploded, and for the first time that he could ever recall, Bleak shrunk back. "What the fuck happened? Did it work or not?"
He pushed himself to his feet slowly, wincing. "Just give me a —"
"Blight's fucking time machine! Did it work? You better have a damn good explanation about where you've been for the past ten weeks or —"
Ten weeks.
Bleak's jaw dropped as Plunder continued to prattle on, pacing the floor and throwing his arms around like a kid in the midst of a temper tantrum.
"Ten weeks?"
"Did the fucking technology work? Because you sure as hell haven't been here!"
"I don't re —"
"Don't give me that," Plunder snapped, rounding on him. The vein in his forehead was even more prominent than before. "I invested heavily in that technology and I now appear to have nothing to show for it!"
"You gotta —"
"Nothin' to show except you banged up to all hell, two mummified bodies and a half-dead planet pest! How did Blight die? Is the other one Kroi? Half of the bastard's face is missing!"
"Boss, I don't know!" he seethed. "I don't fucking know!"
"How convenient," Plunder said. He returned to the desk, dropping back into his chair and glaring at Bleak. "Just fucking wonderful."
Bleak pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, scratching his arms — covered in dozens of bites. "You mentioned a planet pest?"
"Got blondie locked down in the mill," he said. "Still workin' out what to do with her."
Bleak passed a hand over his scalp. This whole conversation was just so surreal.
"Don't remember anything," Bleak repeated. "You gonna contact her —"
"Are you kidding?" he replied, leaning back and crossing his legs. "Do you know how fucking uncomplicated my life has been lately?"
"Does she know what —"
"Still unconscious." He smirked, picking up the pen again and resuming his work. "Princess isn't in a good way, I'm told. I'll have someone question her if she wakes."
"And if she doesn't?"
"I'll have her put down in the next day or two anyway."
"Jesus." Bleak knew what that meant. "Got no memory of anything, Boss. Feel like I've been —"
"Go and get cleaned up," Plunder said, resuming his writing tasks. "You've been out of it for a few days. Had enough time off. Need you out in the mill to supervise."
Bleak glanced down. He was exhausted; craving sleep and needing something of the medicinal variety to knock out the pain.
"Is there a problem?"
The tone was dangerous. Plunder raised his eyes to Bleak. The pen had stopped again — the vein had reappeared and Bleak knew his employer was pissed. Angry at Bleak's lack of answers.
"No, Boss," he said, clenching his fists and hobbling out of the room. "No problem."
The shower was anything but enjoyable — the warm water stung his skin and his muscles felt like they were on fire. Bleak grabbed a clean set of clothes and dressed quickly, eyeing the new cell phone sitting idly on the small desk. Plunder's lifeline. There were already three text messages.
Old habits die hard.
He sniffed, reaching over and shoving the cellphone into his trousers. A foil packet of antibiotics lay on his stretcher bed. He dry-swallowed two tablets, pocketing the rest. The stretcher bed looked mighty appealing, but his phone vibrated again and he sighed.
You can sleep when you're dead.
His eyes settled on the bloodied clothes lying just outside of the shower. Unable to bend down, it took him several attempts to grab hold of them.
He'd never experienced anything like it. The pain was excruciating — like the lactic acid build-up felt the day after a vigorous workout — then multiplied by a thousand.
"Fuck," he muttered, still at a loss to explain his current condition. It was like huge chunks of his memory were missing. The connections weren't firing. Perhaps amnesia, or some form of nerve gas. "Fuckin' insane."
He clutched the bloodied shirt and trousers, tossing them on the stretcher bed, planning on lighting a few matches and burning them later. Bonfire night.
Aren't much good for anything else.
He heard a small thump as something struck the floor. A tarnished chain lay by his feet and he frowned, not recognising it.
Again, several attempts were made to pick it up. It was a woman's dainty necklace. Old and discoloured, the jewellery was rusted in places; the chain joined at the centre with a bolt-ring type enclosure.
He glanced at the trousers and sat down, beginning to rifle through the pockets. Finding odds and ends that he couldn't account for. A lone battery, a couple of wine corks, a mini flashlight.
None of it meant anything.
His fingers scraped something else and he pulled the last item out. Staring hard at the image in his hand, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Of who he was seeing. He flipped it over, reading the untidy scrawl on the back and glancing towards the main factory.
What the fuck?
He stood quickly, gathering his stuff and heading for the mill. He had more questions now... and still no answers.
The walk was a long one, mainly due to the fact that he was struggling to move efficiently. He entered through the back, passing between the employees working the spinning machines. They bowed their heads in deference, refusing to make eye contact.
The guards here were notorious for clipping those they believed to be working too slow. Hacking and coughing punctuated the sounds of the machinery from those already in the grip of cotton dust disease.
He continued on, searching the lunch rooms and offices, overcome by the need to equate the object in his hand with a face or an explanation for his distinct lack of memory. What he was seeing didn't make sense. It wasn't possible.
Yet there it was, in plain view.
He spotted an older woman leaving the utility room. It housed the manufacturing chemicals, and Bleak pressed forward, opening the door and sticking his head in.
The window had been opened to allow for maximum ventilation. His suspicions were confirmed as soon as he spotted her. Blondie was lying on her back; still unconscious and in the grip of a high fever. A man and a woman were sitting with her; sponging her face and talking softly to her. Tending to her.
He could see her feet were cut to pieces. An infection had set in. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The workers jumped; twisting and staring in fright at Bleak, looking equal parts guilty and worried for their own safety.
They moved to flee and Bleak grabbed the wrist of the woman as she passed, stopping her. She looked terrified, already flinching for the blow that was expected.
"Grab some clean clothes for her," he ordered, and she nodded, eyes wide and hurrying away with her head lowered.
He sighed, dropping down next to Blondie; gritting his teeth as exquisite pain flared across his mid-section.
Plunder was right — she looked ill. Cheeks flushed; her breathing was slow and labored. Her feet were a mangled mess and her hands were also in bad shape — fingernails torn; a long, vertical cut present running down her right palm. A small bottle of water sat beside her hip, probably an attempt by the workers to get some fluid into her.
He pulled his antibiotics out, opening two capsules and tipping the powder into his hand. By now the woman had returned laden with clothing, and he beckoned her over.
"Help me," he grunted. She dropped the skirt and blouse, kneeling on the other side of her. Blondie's head lolled against his shoulder as they pulled her into a semi-upright position. She was sweaty, warm to the touch as he tilted her jaw open and sprinkled the medication into her mouth.
The older woman encouraged her to drink and Bleak watched Blondie's throat pulse twice before she choked, body jerking as she spluttered water everywhere.
They repeated the process again, with more success the second time.
"Get her dressed," he said. The woman clutched the clothes to her chest, unsure of how to proceed. "Clean her up."
He left the room, closing the door behind him. He stood, gathering his thoughts, pulling out the photo and staring hard at it. Still trying to draw forth… something. Anything.
A memory.
A recollection.
A god-damn explanation would have been a good start.
A guard approached from the production area, chest puffed out and glaring at Bleak. Swinging his weapon in what was meant to be a menacing manner.
"What the fuck are you lookin' at?" Bleak snapped, and the guard doubled his efforts, slinking past with a great deal less swagger.
He studied the image some more, trying to make sense of it. Turning it over and reading the untidy message again and again, until the letters and digits began to blur into one another. His pocket buzzed again, no doubt another text from Plunder.
Back to reality.
Do this. Do that. Hurry up. Don't fuck it up. Just deal with it. I need it done yesterday.
Anger and resentment hit him hard.
It was unexpected.
Pulling his phone out, he ignored Plunder's message and began to dial.