FIFTY FIVE

Kitty was dead.

During death, she was dreaming.

In the dream, she lay on her bed yet instead of wearing the black vinyl drains and New York Dolls shirt, she was wearing a long, white night dress.

She wasn’t in her Tomb Street apartment, either. Instead Kitty found herself in some old hotel.

She had been working there as a maid and was tired.

She reached forward to snuff out the old lamp at her bedside, jumping back as the apparition of a young woman appeared in front of her. It was her mom, hair hanging, limply, over her face.

She smiled at Kitty.

Don’t do it, she said. Don’t turn out the light.

Kitty’s eyes snapped open and she gasped for breath, finding only smoke infected air. She doubled over, coughing, black phlegm spitting from her mouth. Her heart was throbbing in her chest.

She rolled off her bed, onto the floor.

The dope was still dense in her system, the fire and smoke blending into her drug-addled dream with her mom and the old hotel and the lamp.

The flames were burning her face.

She lifted the mattress, taking shelter behind it. The mattress shielded her from the blaze, but she was still confused, still doped: she didn’t know where she was or how to get out.

She heard a sound, a banging noise.

Instinct kicked in, lucidity returning.

Kitty knew where she was.

She could feel the heat of the flames. She grabbed the mattress, pushing it forward against the heat as if it was a great big pillow to smother the fire with. The mattress caught fire, and she let go of it, finding her way along the smoke infested corridor towards the bathroom.

The bangs were louder, now, coming from the door to her apartment. Kitty went to open up, burning her hands on the door’s metal handle.

She screamed, falling back onto the floor.

The lack of air was causing her to cough, cutting through her throat.

She crawled into the bathroom, reaching for her small hand mirror and beating the glass window pane with it until it broke through, allowing fresh air to burst through. She used her elbow to break more of the glass, poked her entire head out of the small window.

She could hear commotion from outside,

 

In a way, Johnny knew it would be him the Jesus AI would get to first. His protection was limited, his wiretap slower and more vulnerable than the seven connections Charles manned.

He was easy to exploit.

A choice had been offered, a choice which only made sense to Johnny when he thought of Becky, lying on that bed dying, her only hope, her only salvation in the realms of VR.

But this girl can be saved, the Jesus doll had told him. This one can be saved for real.

And so Johnny had disconnected, leaving Charles 7 alone in the VR.

Sarah was waiting for him, back in the tech repair shop.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Did you stop it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, what are you doing back, then?’

‘I don’t know!’ he snapped, pulling away from her.

‘And where’s Charles?’ she said, looking at the zoning man’s body. ‘Did you leave him in the VR, Johnny? Alone?’

‘Look, there’s no time to explain,’ he said. ‘I have to get over to Tomb Street.’

‘Tomb Street? Johnny, are you insane? You know what it’s like out there.’

‘I don’t care.’ He moved to the door, started to unlock it. ‘Someone needs me.’

Sarah grabbed his arm.

‘Johnny, I need you.’

He looked at her for a moment, her hair, her eyes and for the first time felt something between them, something real. A spark, a yearning, a need.

‘Sarah, please,’ he said, touching the side of her face. ‘I need to do this.’

Sarah looked back to Charles, still zoning, then to him.

‘I’m coming with you,’ she said.

‘No you aren’t.’

But she opened the door and stepped out into the night, coming whether Johnny liked it or not.

Together, they moved through Tomb Street, the pulsing crowd growing more and more animated, streaming towards Titanic where a thick plume of smoke rose up into the air.

From the apartment block came more smoke and it was to there that Johnny ran, pushing through the doors, slamming against the panicked tenants as they fled the block.

Sarah followed, but stalled on the second floor, bent over double.

‘You okay?’ Johnny said.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Now, go. Whatever this is, just go and do it.’

Johnny kissed her on the cheek then bounded up the stairs, finding the entrance to the third floor and bolting down the smoke-filled corridor, coughing.

He reached into the pocket of his baggies, retrieving a hanky. Applied it to his face. The infected air gathered at the back of his throat. It smelled and tasted like burning rubber and Johnny was tempted to turn tail and leave.

Becky.

He couldn’t leave this girl to die!

Johnny found the right apartment, beat against the door, calling out despite the pain in his throat. But it was no good. He pressed his shoulder against the door. Again and again, he slammed against the hard plastic, banging with greater force, feeling the stress against his body with each slap.

It gave, smoke bellowing out of the apartment like thick cream, the heat of the flames hitting his face.

Johnny threw himself to the floor.

He crawled his way through, struggling with the limited vision he was afforded. He called out, again and again. And then, in the bathroom, he saw her. The Tomb Street Whore: sitting by the broken window, sputtering. Johnny called again, and she looked up.

He thought of Becky, of that cup in his hands during the VR.

He pulled himself to his feet, still staying low but moving towards the window.

The fire raged gruffly from further inside the apartment.

Johnny reached for the girl and she threw her arms around him, Johnny able to lift her tiny body with little effort.

He turned, still staying low, made for the exit.