Mardock Scramble

against his leg, then hauled his bag over his shoulder. He felt more rooted, more secure.

Suddenly his cell phone started ringing again. Shell gritted his teeth and answered.

–This is Oeufcoque-Penteano here, PI and Trustee for this case. We are going to take you into our protection. Remain there until we secure a safe route for your escape. When we arrive, we will expect you to hand over all your weapons and come peacefully.

“Fuck off!” Shell yelled, flinging his phone to the floor and grinding it with his foot. The phone was destroyed, the sound cut off.

Breathing roughly, his shoulders heaving up and down, Shell ran around the room quickly to turn all the lights out.

The bedroom was on the second floor. Shell hid behind the curtains, peeking out of the window to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening outside.

The lights in the room all flared back on. Suddenly, of their own accord. Shell watched in shock. The night lamp was on, the bathroom light was on, and the ventilator in the bathroom was on, roaring. Shell’s face was soaking wet—it was impossible to tell where the sweat ended and the tears started.

Then there was another sound. It was the old television, right next to Shell. There was white noise, and then the image of a girl appeared on the screen. Her mouth opened in a round shape, and her wide eyes and rigid fingers seemed like they were about to reach out for Shell’s throat at any moment.

–I didn’t want to die.

Shell watched in horror with bloodshot eyes as he listened to the girl’s voice.

–But I was killed by you anyway.

Shell pointed his gun at the television and fired repeatedly. The monitor exploded, and sparks flew out into the room. The image of the girl and her voice were wiped cleanly away. He had made everything clean. Clean—and he felt his gut wrenching inside. His mouth was filled with the taste of sour liquid, and he bent over double and vomited copiously.

His body heaved repeatedly, and sticky yellow liquid drooled from his mouth.

When he had finished, Shell stood back up and fired a shot at the ceiling light and at the bathroom light. He put his hand to the doorknob and gripped it tight.

He was so frightened that his hair practically stood on end. There was a horrifying shade on the other side of the door, he knew it. The thing that he had always fought to repel, to make disappear—it was back, alive again, and standing right there.

Shell flung open the door with all his might and jumped out, brandishing his gun. He was confronted by an empty corridor.

Shell’s last remaining shards of reason forced him to notice that something was very strange about this whole situation.

Despite all the noise and gunfire coming from his room, there was not a single person about. There was no sign of commotion.

He was suddenly struck by the feeling that whichever way he tried to go now, whatever he tried to do, the outcome would be the same.

A horrible place to be. Flashbacks—his whole body convulsed at the thought that he would never, could never, take another step again.

–Please do as I ask—it makes things so much more inconvenient otherwise.

The voice came from behind him, and Shell jumped. His whole body seemed to shriek. Shell’s eyes darted around looking for the source of the voice as if his life depended on it.

–You see down there? Room 202? It seems that you can use one of its windows to jump across to the next building.

The voice was coming from the intercom of the room he had just stepped out of.

He shot it, almost instinctively. Past the door and straight into the intercom. His bullets had run out before he even knew it. Shell stuck his hand back into his bag.

Some money fell out, bills fluttering about. Shell found the spare magazine he was looking for and reloaded his gun with a trembling hand, making for the elevator as he did so.

He had absolutely no idea what he should do next. If he saw something that moved, he planned to shoot it. His mind couldn’t conceive of anything other than to kill.

He pressed the button and an elevator appeared almost immediately. Shell suppressed a wave of nausea and jumped aboard. His fingers shook uncontrollably as he lifted them up to the buttons. Eventually he managed to steady them long enough to press the button for the first floor. But the door wouldn’t close. On the other side of the door was a wide stretch of open corridor that ran both left and right. He felt hopelessly trapped.

–You do make us work for it, don’t you? The first floor of the hotel is closed, off-limits. The emergency stairs, now, they would have been one thing. But I really didn’t expect you to try the elevator.

The voice was coming from inside the elevator. Shell held his breath, and a beat later his mouth was filled with sour liquid again. He kept it down, trying to steady his gun.

“What are you? Where are you speaking from?” Shell realized where the voice was coming from almost immediately after he said the words—the elevator’s emergency circuits.

–I’m inside the building behind this hotel. Come over here and you’ll have any number of escape routes.

“Who are you?”

–I’m one of the private investigators in charge of this case. A Trustee. Just think of me as someone you want to do business with.

“A PI…” Shell took a deep breath. His forehead was pounding. He squeezed his gun tightly and asked another question. “Are you planning to kill me?”

–On the contrary. You should think of me as your only friend for miles around.

“What sort of business are you talking about? What is it you want with me?”

–We’ll discuss that properly once you follow our escape route and make it out of there safely. Hmm, room 202 is no good anymore. I can sense that Boiled is watching it. Anyway, all you need to know is that I’m here to preserve your life. In return, we expect you to cooperate fully as an effective witness on our side. We will expect you to pay for your own crimes in full, of course.

“What are you talking about? How are you going to get me out of here? Where are you taking me?”

–Try and stay calm. Room 207—the bathroom window there. You should be able to reach the window of the building on the other side.

Shell’s breathing was all over the place, but he made up his mind, and with flashing eyes he stepped out of the elevator.

He made a beeline for room 207. He reached for the doorknob, and the moment before he touched it he heard a click. The electronic lock had been lifted. Shell pushed the door with the muzzle of his gun, and it swung lazily into the room.

There was no sign of life inside the room. No trace of a person that might have opened the lock on the door. Shell entered the bathroom as ordered.

There was, indeed, a window there. He looked out of it, and it did seem that he might be able to cross over to the next building. Shell shot the window frame to dislodge it, then kicked the whole window out of the building. A musty wind blew in from outside.

Shell stuck his head out through the rectangular space, and, bag still on his shoulder, he maneuvered awkwardly, stretching his leg out toward the next building, where an open window was already awaiting him.

His outstretched leg reached the window frame, and then his gun-wielding hand. Finally, he shifted his weight in one movement.

He was in. He dropped down from the window ledge, which was higher up relative to the floor than he had anticipated. He landed with a thud.

His Boston bag slipped off his shoulder, and Shell thought he would collapse from the impact, but he managed to stay upright.

There were no lights on in the room, but the natural light from the window was just about enough for Shell to make out his new surroundings. It looked like some sort of abandoned store. It was completely bare, with visible