Weary Traveler
Chapter 8

Mitch pressed his right ear against the door. A collection of voices bickered back and forth, too muffled to make out what they were saying. He leaned harder and pushed the door open a few inches, spitting a series of rusted groans.

“Come in, cabrón.”

Mitch filled his lungs with crisp air, puffed his chest, and strolled into the dimly lit office. Jefe stood behind his desk and the two trolls stood off to the side, behind him. They both tightened their jaws and scowled at Mitch as he made his way across the creaking wood floor.

“Seńor Mitch,” Jefe said, enormous arms spread out from his sides, morphing into a brick wall. “Bienvenido. You ready?”

“Sure,” Mitch said, shoving in-between the giant mercenaries. They smothered his slender body and weak limbs like he was a pebble squished by three boulders.

He could feel the trolls’ piercing leers burn through him. Could smell their primal urge to strangle him for making pathetic morons of them in front of Jefe.

“This is a layout of CorpoMax,” Jefe said, motioning to a holographic blueprint shimmering up from the desk. “Muy grande, eh? You three will head into the tunnels on the bus starting from somewhere in this area,” Jefe said, pointing towards a long tube on the far right side of the map. He continued to trace their path with his finger. “The bus will drop you off right around here, where you will be scanned for firearms. Once you are inside the facility you have to replace a way to escape from the chain gang and make your way into the lower levels. Aquí,” Jefe said, tapping a large circular object at the bottom of the blueprint. “This is where they are storing the Chrono-Suit. Then what, Sebastian?”

“We grab the suit and head back to the tunnels.”

“Then we run through the tunnels, pass over the landfill, and then hitch a ride back into downtown,” Felix said.

“Perfecto!” Jefe yelled, pounding the desk with his fist like a gavel. “Your janitor uniforms are hanging up in the closet over there. Put them on and then we go.”

The three goons shuffled across the floorboards, conducting a small orchestra of cracks and groans through the building’s foundation. They each slipped out of their tattered bum and mercenary garments and stepped into the vibrant, orange jumpsuits, zipped them up to the bottom of their necks.

Mitch pinched and pulled the cloth below his heart. A white patch was sewn on with the word JANITOR stitched in black thread.

“Bueno,” Jefe said. “Vamos! Out the back door.”

The four thieves marched through the door and dispersed into the back alley. Parked next to the curb, was a sleek, electric-powered, cargo van. Matte black like a Rotech stealth tank, but with tinted windows and black rims.

Jefe opened the back door and stepped aside.

“Entrar rápido.”

Sebastian and Felix stepped in first. Mitch crept in close behind and sat down crosslegged on the aluminum floor.

“Put these on,” Jefe said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out three pairs of handcuffs, tossed one to each of the janitors.

Mitch stared at them and then glared at Jefe.

“What the hell is this?”

“Those are called handcuffs, hermano,” Jefe said.

“I ain’t wearing these,” Mitch said, holding them back out towards Jefe.

“Listen, vato,” Jefe said. “You are supposed to be prisoners- my prisoners- serving a sentence as janitors for the pinche Crawlers. They won’t let you on the bus without restraints.”

“How are we supposed to grab the suit if our arms are tied?” Felix said.

“Mira, mira, look,” Jefe said. He slapped the handcuffs over his wrists and held up his arms like he was modeling the links. “See? Now all I have to do is…” he cupped his palms and lifted his right elbow. A loud, metallic pop burst from the hook on the right. It broke off and dangled from his left wrist like a silver bracelet for convicts. He pinched the hinge on the hook on his left wrist and broke off the second restraint.

“Not bad,” Mitch said, nodding slowly with a puffed lower lip.

“Comprende?” Jefe asked.

The janitors nodded.

“Preguntas? No? Bueno.”

Jefe flung the cuffs into the back of the van and slammed the door so hard that it popped Mitch’s ears. He flexed his jaw and shook the piercing ring reverberating within his empty skull.

The electric motor kicked on and the van rolled forward down the alley onto the main road. Mitch stared out of the side windows, watched the gray plumes of smog and streaks of neon whirl past. The tinted windows gave the lights of Rosenfell a sinister hue like they were colorful ghosts flying through the air under the cover of darkness.

With every swivel of Mitch’s head from window to window, his eyes passed over Sebastian and Felix. They both glared at him with fierce eyes. Silent, except for their heavy breaths and the popping bones from cracking their knuckles and necks.

“What?” Mitch asked. “Still fucking mad I boosted the railgun?”

“Nope,” Felix said.

“He’s pissed about the case you dropped on his head,” Sebastian said.

“Oh yeah? Shit happens, pussy,” Mitch said, chuckling. He turned and looked out of the back window, averting his gaze from their eyes.

“You know what, bum?” Felix said. ”One of these days your past is gonna catch up with you. Might not like what kind of dregs it churns up.”

“Present ain’t so nice either, trapped in here with you two buffoons. Looks like I’m fucked at all times.”

Two pairs of hands balled up into tight fists, veins like corded rope beneath their tanned skin. Mitch looked deep into their fiery eyes.

“Just wait, bum. Your time is coming,” Felix said.

“Whatever,” Mitch said, peering towards the driver’s seat. “Jefe, what you gonna do with the time suit?”

“That’s none of your business, cabrón.”

“Maybe I can borrow it sometime.”

“You think I’d let you borrow my suit? Pinche loco.”

“We can make a trade.”

Jefe belted a single cackle.

“Trade for what? Your fucking slingshot? You don’t own shit, hermano.”

Sebastian and Felix snickered, turned away from Mitch’s leering eyes.

“I got stuff,” Mitch said.

“I tell you what, esse… you complete this mission and don’t fuck me over with anything,” Jefe said, pausing to peek into the rearview mirror and project a glass-piercing stare straight at Mitch, “anything, comprende? Then we will talk about letting you use the Chrono-Suit.”

“Comprende,” Mitch said. He looked away from Jefe’s prodding glare and gulped the bulge pulsing in his throat. The synthetic taste of jawbreakers dropped and crawled down the path into his hollow stomach like a bomb had exploded from his navel and rippled out from the center of his existence. Consumed the world around him underneath a cloak of regret.

“We are almost to the tunnels,” Jefe said. “Strap those hooks over your wrists. Don’t say nothing and do as I say.”

The three janitors scooped the handcuffs from off of the floor, strapped them over their wrists.

Mitch lowered his head and peeked out of the front window. A gaping mouth of an enormous tunnel rested in the side of a mountain a few hundred feet ahead. Long rows of floodlight towers lined the left and right side of the fresh-paved blacktop, illuminating the road leading into the Crawlers’ underground fortress in a blanket of radiant light.

Jefe drove up to a sheet metal shack planted at the center of the road, slowed to a stop just outside its tinted window. A blur appeared behind the glass. And then, the panel slid open to reveal the scowling face of a nomad guard with a long scar that ran across the length of the right side of his head over his right eye.

“Name?” he asked.

“Hola, Seńor. Mucho gusto. My name is Pablo Escobar,” Jefe said, handing the guard a flat piece of illuminated alloy. The guard scanned the rectangular card, tapped a few tabs on the slab of fiberglass held in his hands, and then handed the card back to Jefe.

“Alright, Pablo,” the guard said, “who you got for us today?”

“I got three janitors to drop off. Got their documents right here,” Jefe said, holding up a chip between his thumb and index finger. He dropped it into the guard’s open palm.

“Lower your back windows,” the guard said, peeking out of the booth.

Jefe pressed a button on the side of his door and dropped the back-left window. The three janitors squinted from the artificial light shining down from the towers above.

The guard plugged the chip into the side of his tablet, giving the appearance that it was floating in the air. A series of images and long passages of text filled the screen, changed as the guard scrolled and pinched. He stopped on a specific paragraph, enlarged it by stretching his thumb and index finger away from each other, glared into the backseat and then turned towards Jefe.

“It says right here that these two giants worked security. We only accept bums without jobs.”

“Sí, Seńor. They did work security. But now they live on the streets with that other one.”

“Pull forward. I need to ask a few more questions,” the guard said.

Jefe rolled forward so that the back door was level with the booth’s window.

“Any of you have a family that will look for you?”

The janitors shook their head.

“All live on the streets?”

They nodded.

“Own anything? Material wealth? Possessions? Credits?”

They shook their heads.

“Very well,” the guard said, handing the chip back to Jefe. “Pull forward, Pablo. Drop them off at the tunnel up ahead. The bus will take them the rest of the way. Your credits will appear in your wallet momentarily.”

“Gracias, Seńor,” Jefe said.

He stepped on the acceleration and rolled across the blacktop up to the tunnel’s entrance. It towered above them like a cave for ancient, earth-dwelling giants. Swallowing booze and bonzo addicts for their mortal sin of falling into the pit of poverty. Trapped within the grip of inequality. Forever lost, abandoned. Wandering through the muck in the dark dregs of society. Forgotten within the streets of Rosenfell above the hidden opulence, the secret wealth, and clandestine power of the Crawlers operating beneath the earth. Moving levers and pulling strings. Altering codes and manipulating matter.

“Alright, amigos,” Jefe said, rolling to a stop in front of the tunnel gate. “Keep your heads down and don’t talk to nobody about nothing. Remember, when you get the suit, go through the landfill. This area will be swarming with CorpoMax security.”

A nomad guard crept out from the tunnel’s shadows and opened a small door in the gate on the far left side, waved for the janitors to come through.

Mitch slid open the side door and then stepped onto the pavement, into the artificial floodlight. He shuffled forward. Sebastian and Felix a few steps behind.

“See you in the next life, Seńor Mitch!” Jefe yelled, voice replicating through the tunnel.

Mitch lowered his eyes as he trudged through the open gate, peeked at the fiberglass gun slung from a strap around the guard’s neck. The muzzle was the size of a closed fist with a swollen, ribbed barrel encircled by bands of crimson like fire coursed through the weapon. He shifted his head to the left for a better look.

“Eyes forward!” the guard screamed, striking Mitch in the left shoulder with the butt of the gun. He stumbled forward a few steps before regaining his balance.

An electric engine pulsed up ahead. Mitch gazed into the shadows and found the tail end of a white bus radiating immense energy. He marched up to the front door and stared at the driver. A bald man with sunken cheeks and scraggly beard sat in the seat. Thin limbs and a skinny torso like he struggled to replace food.

“What the fuck you looking at, janitor? We’re late. Get in.”

Mitch stepped on. The shocks barely registered his skinny body as he shuffled to a seat directly behind the driver. Sebastian stepped on next, then Felix. Their bulky bodies rattled the entire bus until they found two seats at the back, behind the rest of the janitor prisoners. Their lips clamped, empty eyes and emotionless faces staring at the back of the head in front of them, who stared at the back of the head in front of him, up the entire length of the bus. A battalion of orange clones.

“Everyone stay seated and keep your heads down until we get there,” the driver yelled.

Mitch poked his head into the aisle without shifting his bottom too far out of his seat. The driver pulled a lever sticking out from the floor, closed the side door. He yanked the gear shift behind the steering wheel, rolled the bus into the sparse light hanging from lanterns along the walls of the tunnel.

The vibration of the powerful, electric engine and the crunch of the rubber tires rolling across gravel echoed through the tunnel, blocked out all other noise from the disappearing city shrinking in the back window.

Mitch leaned into the aisle, looked into the mirror hanging above the front window.

“How long you been a driver?”

“Keep quiet, janitor” the driver said, stone-faced, eyes focused on the darkened road ahead.

“You a Crawler or a nomad?”

The driver looked into the mirror, stared deep into Mitch’s eyes, studied him.

“Nomad.”

“You got any family up in Rosenfell?”

“Used to. They left me a long time ago. Didn’t want to be around my fuck-ups no more. Stop talking.”

“That how you ended up here?”

The driver turned around and glared at Mitch’s face for a few seconds as if he was shocked that a janitor would disobey his commands to shut up.

He turned back towards the road.

“Used to be a janitor. Crawlers let me… they let me…” he said, scratching the top of his head.

“They let you live?”

Silence from the driver.

“I heard that janitors don’t make it out,” Mitch said.

“Who told you that?”

“An acquaintance. Said this bus brings janitors underground and they never come back to the surface.”

“Yeah, well, I never heard anything about that.”

Mitch was silent, pondered the thoughts swirling around his porous brain.

“You ever hear anything about some kind of time suit?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Supposed to be down here somewhere. Heard Crawlers use it to control time. Sounds pretty fucking crazy.”

“Chrono-Suit?” the driver asked.

“That’s the one. What you know about it?”

“Haven’t seen it since I was a janitor.”

“What’s it look like?”

“To be honest,” the driver said, gazing at Mitch in the mirror, “looks like that jumpsuit that you’re wearing right now. ’Cept it’s the blackest black you ever seen and got a glossy shine to it.”

“Where’s it located?”

“Don’t remember exactly. It’s on the deepest level though. Why you care so much about it?”

“Sounds like a crazy piece of technology. Wanted to check it out, see if it’s a real thing.”

“Best stay out of the lower levels. Crawlers’ll kill you if they catch you down there without key card authorization.”

“Sounds like they’re gonna kill me anyway.”

“Just take it easy, alright? You didn’t hear nothing from me.”

“Sure, sure, will do. Name’s Mitch,” he said, reaching his cuffed hands over the back of the driver’s seat. “Mitch Henderson.”

The driver studied them for a long moment.

“Thomas Anderson,” he said, letting go of the wheel with his right hand and gripping Mitch’s cold palm. “Good to meet you, Mitch. Now keep quiet, Crawlers’ fortress is approaching.”