Chapter 15: When the Past Catches Up

Slave to Memory [16 of 44] - Murph's fragmented mind threatens to tear him apart. Can Omni piece him back together before the Seeker finds them?

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Murph walked through the dank corridor near Omni's lab, lost in thought. The acrid smell of rust and mildew filled his nostrils.

< Memory cascade imminent > Syn's voice snapped him back to the present.

"What the hell does that mean, Syn?" he said, his voice tight with tension. "You've not got much credit with me, so spill it quick."

< Your memories are returning. >

"That's good, right?"

< No, not quite. We've reached a kind of tipping point > she whispered, < I'm sorry. >

"You say that too often," he said, and then the images hit him.

Blood, so much blood.

Murph stumbled and fell against the metal wall, feeling the corrugated siding bite into his skin, the coldness seeping through his clothes.

A jolt of pain lanced through his skull as the memory took hold—

12:03 AM, September 23, three years ago

The Night of the Murder

Voices yelled at me, pleaded with me to stop, but I didn't listen.

I'd heard enough — I had to see for myself. I couldn't believe them. I would not believe them.

Until I saw it with my own eyes.

So much blood.

Her blood. All over the once-white sheets. Her face a ruin from the exit wound.

Exit wound in front, shot from behind.

A cold, detached part of my mind filed that piece of information for later. A small mercy that she hadn't been looking at him. Looking into his eyes.

"Where is he?" I yelled, my voice strange and constricted in my ears. Loud and animal-like, a snarl barely human with grief.

I stumbled into the bathroom —

The Present

Murph's face smashed against a rusting metal grate as he hit the floor hard. He felt the warmth of his blood against his cold, wet skin. The incessant dripping of his blood into a crusted drain pierced his ears.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

He didn't care. People stepped over him, their footsteps echoing and throbbing in his skull, muttering curses and insults about drunks impeding their progress.

No one stopped to help him. No one cared.

No, wait — someone stopped. A pair of hands reached down and flipped him over, feeling his neck for a pulse. His eyes cracked open, and he saw a silhouette gray against the falling rain. The wind swirled and bit at his exposed flesh.

"Do I know you?" he mumbled, but the person didn't answer. Their hands were busy, busy, busy, as they patted him down for valuables.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

They found nothing, and swore, kicking him in the ribs. Twice. Two hard cracks, and then they left him alone on his sore side as the rain continued to fall. Icy tendrils crawled down his neck, wetting him from the inside out.

He began to grow numb as another memory seized him—

12:04 AM, September 23, three years ago.

"Oh, God, Gabe, what did you do?"

Red. Too much red.

A massive spray of it up the bathroom wall. Gabe sat in the bath, gun in hand and face torn. I fell to the floor, kicking at the mat, trying to get away.

I tried to run like a child from the truth.

I tried to stand and fell.

I couldn't, I couldn't bear my weight. I couldn't bear theirs.

Nothing could contain the pain within me. I heard wailing and realized in a detached way that it was my own. Arms held me, rocked me, whispered kind words into my deaf ears as I fell, fell, fell into the abyss.

The dark hole called to me, and I leapt heart first.

The Present

Murph felt cold droplets hit his cheek, bringing him back to the present. He heard a voice calling out to him, pulling him back to reality. He opened his eyes to see a girl standing over him.

Do I know her?

Now she was kneeling beside him, holding the lapels of his coat and shaking him awake.

"Murph! Dammit, wake up," she yelled, her voice cracking.

I know that voice, those skinny arms pulling. Tugging at me.

"Let me die," Murph said, feeling like he was in the gutter again where he belonged.

"From wetness?" she said, looking up into the rain that had slowed to a blunt drizzle.

< Murph, get up. >

Leave me, damn you. Be gone, demon, he thought. Be gone.

"Murph, come on, we've got to go. They're coming for us."

Murph flinched, his eyes shooting open. "The Numbers? Yes, My djinn said to do something. Do something, Murph, do something,” He cackled and then sobbed, “But I didn't do anything."

His sudden shift from laughter to tears jarred the girl. He tried to get up and knocked her onto her backside. She cursed in colourful Stack Rat slang, the words tumbling out of her mouth like a stream of bullets.

"Your father won't like that," he mumbled.

"Murph?" she said, hopeful.

"Now they're dead. Both dead," he tried to stand and stumbled, slipping in the slick muck on the metal grate. "My fault. My damn fault."

"Get up. We can talk about this later, I promise," she looked over her shoulder, scanning the alleys for their pursuer. She leaned in close to whisper, "But get up, the Seeker is coming."

Murph twitched and flinched again, recognition fighting with total recall. She wedged herself under his arm and hoisted him back onto his feet. Together they stumbled like drunks down a dark and lonely path.

"Found us," Murph muttered endlessly, "Found us. They found us."

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