Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [49]
There is a scritching sound. I feel like it's been going on a while, subconsciously, and I'm only just clicking on to it – too involved in the goddamn moo. Or maybe it's only just started. I turn very quickly, in case it's the tick of claws on the concrete behind me, yanking out the Luger from the back of my jeans. There's only one shot, and that's if it doesn't jam.
But there is only the clank and creak and dripping. The factory floor is empty, as far as I can see into the dark recesses on the other side. The slices of light coming in from outside make it harder to see, but I've already freaked myself out too many times straining to detect movement in the shadows. And anything could be lurking among the carnage of decrepit machinery and tumbled crates and the stacks of packaging. (Styrofoam. Already cut one open, spilled out the spongy S curls onto the floor – was using them like a trail of breadcrumbs until I twigged that it would lead other things to me as much as leading me back.)
The scritching comes again and I realise, only now that it's been absent for a second, how close it is. Right here. I bring the Luger up real slow, watching for the hide to stretch and distend cos I know, I just fucking know, something grotesque is scratching patiently on the inside, like a dog at the door.
There is the faintest hint of movement and it takes me a second to pinpoint it. Light shifts on the hooves and I ease the Luger up, please fuck let it not lock up now, placing one hand against the hide for balance, which is warm now and moving steady cos the fucking cow is breathing, and the sequins aren't sequins at all, but nails, fingernails bruised black and stained, and I can tell this because there are rotten fingertips emerging behind them, scraping out and over the other nails, so that there are six layers of intertwined wilted hands tearing their way out from the wall.
As I throw myself back, pulling up the gun to fire, two things happen simultaneously. The Luger clicks, cold. And my sudden shift topples the pyramid of crates. The air opens up behind me, so I'm looking up, falling back, as the things seethe out like gas – murky, taloned things, clawing past each other to get at me, making a rustling like rice paper. And what hits me as I strike my head on the concrete is that it wasn't even the gurgler that took me out.
>> GAME OVER
I toss the plug-in to one side in disgust and wedge myself out of the gamewomb and into the barcade, lit cosily dim so that pulling out into realworld isn't so jarring. I stumble over to the bar and get distracted by a girl with relaxed curls and a mole above her mouth, old-Hollywood-style, sitting alone in one of the perspex booths. The only game she's playing is voyeur on everyone else's, multiple screens projecting the action.
'You buying?' I say, pulling in next to her.
'Excuse me?' she says, all cold surprise, like she's never been hit on before.
'C'mon. I'll get the next one. You can make it expensive. But you buy this round. I just got fragged one time and I need a commiseratory drink.'
'Oh right. You're the one who just got torn limbless by the Dark.'
'That's me. Toby. And you are?'
'Julia.'
We sit in silence for a long moment. She's waiting for me to get uncomfortable and leave. But I'm not shifting a millimetre and eventually she can't resist, if only to drive home her superiority.
'You need the BFG automatic. It's in the substation behind the geysers.'
'I looked there.'
'It's up, not down, wedged behind the pipes. And you missed the key.'
'So, if you're the resident expert, how come you aren't playing?'
'How do you know I'm not?'
I tap the tabletop to pull up the drinks menu, skim it, but it's same old. 'Tequila?'
'You are incredibly forward.'
'Do you play?