In The Hole

The bar, as Bren and a number of the other tunnel rats had called it, isn’t at all like Ace would have imagined.

He’d expected a large open space, brightly lit, tastefully decorated and pleasant. Instead, what he finds himself in is a small, dark and dingy space that is only semi-open yet packed to bursting full of people who all have to shout and scream over one another in an attempt to be heard.

Ace doesn’t like it. But he isn’t about to go swanning off. He doesn’t know this city. Or at the very least he doesn’t recall knowing this city. That concerns him a little, but it does make sense if he has indeed got memory loss, which at this point seems like a fairly safe conclusion to have reached.

However, the broad spectrum of almost unending questions the tunnel rats have been firing his way since their arrival here have only added to his sour mood. Mainly, that is because he simply just doesn’t have any answers that he can offer in response. If he did he would give them, for no other reason than to get the people off his backs.

Thankfully, Bren hasn’t buckled under the pressure to follow suit and has instead, more than once, respected Ace’s decision to stay quiet. At least, it’s a decision as far as Bren is concerned, which is why he has brought the rapid fire queries to an end, for the third time, by asking when the blabbing is going to stop and the dragging resume. It was like Bren was issuing those around him with a challenge and they seemed to take it as such and quickly return to their drinks.

Ace had learned a short time after the first utterance of the word dragging that it means drinking. It had been the first time the red haired man had ever heard the word used in such a context, and why he’s committed it to memory now.

But after a number of hours even Bren has grown tired of the ruckus and so guides Ace to a table in the corner of the oddly shaped bar. The huge man managed to weave through the crowd with surprising ease, not just because of his size but also due to him having consumed a good dozen drinks, or more. Ace can’t be sure how much Bren has actually poured down his neck, not that it matters in truth.

This table in the corner of the bar is quieter. Though the mild drop in volume still isn’t enough for Ace, who at this point would like to get out of here and go somewhere, anywhere else. The red haired man can’t imagine a worse place to be right now, though at least Bren doesn’t want to talk. Instead, he just wanted a place to sit and be able to sip away, more like gulp, at his drink. And that is precisely what he is doing.

Bren should pace himself, but seeing as he is very drunk already he sees no point in attempting to use restraint. That is why his sips are more like gulps. Gulps that could quite easily see the man begin to choke on the alcoholic liquid he is satiating his thirst with.

Ace has no idea what it is that Bren is drinking but he does have to admit that he is pleased to have company, and a place to sit. The red haired man has been stood, often awkwardly, for hours. As a result his back had been throbbing for much of that time, while right now he has to admit that it feels much better. He is sure it is because he is finally able to take the weight off his feet and straighten up.

Ace takes a small sip of his own drink. At first, he too had partaken in downing each of the beverages placed in front of him, just like every other patron in this bar. But that was then. Now drinking has lost its appeal entirely. He can’t say why, but it has and so instead he finds himself gazing down into the remnants of his drink, while he swirls it around absentmindedly. Ace is lost in his thoughts, yet nothing seems clear in his mind. He isn’t drunk. He knows that. He can remember what the feeling of being drunk is like and knows for certain that he isn’t being hampered by it now.

Having grown bored of staring into his glass; Ace raises his head and sweeps his eyes around the room. Wherever he looks, the view is the same and that sparks no interest in him, until he catches sight of the nanoscreen high up on one of the walls.

He focuses on the screen but can’t hear the talkshow that is rumbling on the paper thin crystalline display which looks more like a window than a screen projecting an image across its colourful surface. Ace wishes he could hear what’s being said, but is fairly certain that even if the roaring chatter were not present it would still be silent. He can’t say why he believes that or know for sure that it’s true. Still, it’s what he assumes and that leaves him feeling disappointed, yet unsurprised.

It is clear however, that he is the only person in the entire bar paying attention to the screen and having grown aggravated by the sudden continuous chops and changes of camera angles between the interviewer and interviewee instead moves his focus to the scrolling banner that takes up the bottom tenth of the displays real estate.

The banner gives quick, short updates on the latest headlines. Ace reads them one after the other until they begin to repeat and has to admit that none of them are positive in any way. It saddens him to learn that all the news relates to the latest waves of deaths, murders, criminal spates and seemingly unending investigations.

It’s why before much more time has passed; Ace concludes that he can take no more of the headlines and their rampant negativity but that he now feels the urge to urinate.

Ace turns back to Bren who without a question ever being spoken shouts, “The can’s in the back.”

The red haired man is astonished at Bren’s seemingly clairvoyant understanding of what Ace was about to ask. However, he says nothing and instead simply nods before rising from the poorly cushioned bench seat he’d been sat on and back onto his tired feet. His feet that throb in response, but he ignores their cries and instead begins to navigate his way through the mass of tightly pressed bodies. Many of the patrons writhe and shake in every conceivable direction making it significantly more difficult for Ace to squeeze between them and carry on his way.

However, after a while he manages to worm his way across the oddly shaped bar to where a sign is hanging from the ceiling with black letters and an arrow pointing left that indicate the direction of the toilets.

Ace follows the tip of the arrow to a wide open door through which he can see the interior of what is apparently being passed off as this bars toilets. At the sight of them Ace wrinkles up his nose and decides that they are in no way fit for purpose. What he can do about it however, he doesn’t have a clue, and then someone waves at him.

Ace covers the short distance, which takes him, much to his relief, away from the stinking toilets and over to the man who as soon as he arrives shouts, “Unless you want to try and wriggle through that shit house, I suggest you’re best going in the alley. Much cleaner I assure you.”

The man, who has a deeply wrinkled and gaunt face that is almost entirely drained of colour, delivers his words with a heavily slur, while his thumb points back over his shoulder at a nearby door.

Somehow Ace gets the gist of what the wrinkled man has said, thanks him and then as if on cue sees the battered and dent covered metal door swing open into the building. It’s followed by a burly man who comes pounding through.

Ace waits for the burly man to pass. He looks angry and Ace has no intention of starting any sort of fight. He doubts it would go well if he had to face a man of that size, who only just about managed to fit through the doorway that links the bar to the alley behind it.

Once the burly man has passed, Ace takes his leave. He makes a beeline to the flapping metal door, which he slips through only to instantly feel the cool night air envelope him now that he is out in the shadowy alley.

The cool air blanket is refreshing to Ace as the heat in the bar had become almost overwhelming due to the body heat of everyone inside. However, the drop in temperature in nothing compared to the sudden and drastic drop in the previously ear-splitting rumble of people shout-talking their conversations over one another trying to be heard.

Unsurprisingly, as Ace looks up and down the alley he finds that it is mainly dark. Though, it is nice to see that several spots along the rear outer wall of the building within which resides the bar are a series of illuminated zones.

The lights are the result of a string of small high up security lights which have been activated, whether by the presence of motion or on purpose Ace cannot say. But he isn’t about to criticise the light they provide him.

Ace notes that the alley is much wider than he would have anticipated. However, it is exactly as grubby and debris strewn as one would imagine a back alley to be, especially one that has a bar filled to the brim with patrons adjoining it.

Cleaner than that toilet, Ace thinks to himself. Not that Ace wastes any time in wandering a couple metres further down the alley, heading away from the door to the bar. The red haired man has already chosen his spot and that is why he comes to a halt at the edge of one of the nearby cones of harsh yellow light cast by the security lights. Ace doesn’t know exactly how far above his head the lights are and has no intention of craning his neck to take a look. Doing so will almost certainly result in him getting a face full of unnecessarily blinding pain.

Having reached the spot he’d chosen during his approach, Ace casts his gaze around once more to still find that he is alone. It is at this point that he reaches for the zip on his boiler suit. The zip is two thirds of the way to the top. It had been much higher when he’d been in the tunnels beneath the city but he’d been forced to drop the height of the zip because of the overcrowding and the heat it had generated. It’s yet another part of the whole late night drinking that Ace has now concluded is not to his liking. Though the discomfort of the bar is still better, he thinks, than the alternative, which would have been to aimlessly wander around a city he doesn’t recognise in the slightest.

Ace gets as far as lowering the zip to about just above his waist when a voice, deep and gravely says, “Well, well, well, what we got here?”

Without thought Ace yanks the zip back upward until it is at the base of his ribcage by the time he turns in the direction the voice came from, only to find that he is face-to-face with a trio of men.

All three of them have a similar appearance with their shaved heads, piercings and countless tattoos that cover nearly every available patch of exposed skin they have.

The man at the centre of the trio, who just so happens to be the shortest out of the group, says, “Who are you then? Never seen your face round here before.”

“I’m new.” Ace replies warily without actually answering the question.

The trio of tattooed men had already guessed that Ace was new and in response to his answer their faces contort into grimaces and snarls before each one remarks in some form or another, “We don’t like new. Especially new tunnel rats.”

Ace doesn’t offer a reply. He sees no reason to. Whatever he says will only help to fuel the trios rage and there is no point in doing that. It’s clear to him already that the men are spoiling for a confrontation and so he prepares himself for whatever might come next. He has no clue what that might be, but some feeling tells him that he should be prepared for anything. However, he has to admit he’s torn. One side of him tells him he should stand and fight, if necessary, while the other side of him screams that he should run, as fast and as far away as he can.

After a brief tussle with his own mind, Ace concludes he will stand ready for the fight that he thinks will soon come. Ace hopes that it won’t, but his hopes only lasts for a few further seconds until the trio of men descend upon him. It is at that point that it becomes abundantly clear that these men do indeed want a fight.

Two of the men pull knives as they approach. Ace wonders whether he still has time to flee. The thought is fleeting and in truth he knew the moment to run had already passed. Then the first knife comes slashing his way.

Ace ducks the first swipe and then dodges the second, third and fourth. As he evades the attacks he is forced to backpedal away from the men. They grin cruelly with delight to see the fear that is obviously showing in the red haired man’s eyes.

Ace isn’t aware of the fear in his expression, but if he were he would be able to do nothing about it. It’s a natural reaction after all when being faced with adversaries who clearly mean to, at the very least, do him harm. The blades of the knives aren’t large or wide but that doesn’t mean they can’t do real damage to Ace’s flesh. He knows they can and isn’t willing to find out exactly what that damage might be when the shortest attacker launches himself at the red haired man.

The short tattooed man explodes with a flurry of jabbing balled up fists. Ace bobs and weaves to evade the first several and then on instinct catches the next punch the man throws his way. The sudden halt to the man’s fist startles him but he manages do nothing in the moments before Ace squeezes the balled fist in his palm as tightly as he can.

The man whelps before long. He can feel his fist being crushed by, what he had been sure when he’d spied him, would be a weak, perhaps even cowardly, victim. Already the short tattooed man is starting to reassess his judgment on this pale skinned man. Especially, as he’s never met anyone who could literally catch a fist mid-punch and then squeeze it with such force that it might actually result in bones being shattered.

But Ace having taken note of the short tattooed man’s whelp and break in concentration throws a punch of his own.

His fist connects with his attackers’ jaw sending strings of spittle and the bone of his jaw violently to the side. Ace even feels the man’s jaw shudder under the force of the impact he’s delivered and why the attackers’ body spins away from him and just as the two knife wielders leap forward.

They had been waiting for an opening, which had never come. Instead, they’d been forced to react to the sudden advantage their target had gained over the short man, who is now scrambling starry eyed along the alley floor.

The two knife wielders however don’t quite attack in unison. That gives Ace the opportunity to dodge a flurry of slashes and swipes thrown his way and then deliver a kick to the man’s leg that sees him stagger out of the fray. The retreat from the one attacker comes just in time as the second knife brandishing villain explodes with far more ferocity than Ace had been expecting. In fact, the man is so vicious with his attacks that he actually manages to get a couple of swipes on Ace’s left arm.

The red haired man had been forced to offer it up as sacrifice to save the attacks from cutting the skin of his face to ribbons. It wasn’t a decision Ace had made lightly but was, he had concluded, the lesser of two evils. Not that having saved his face from being cut does anything to lessen the sting he can feel from the wounds carved deep into his soft flesh.

The thick dark crimson blood has already bubbled to the surface and begun to run down his arm and drip onto the damp back alley’s concrete floor.

Ace refuses to look at the wound. He is sure that if he does take the time to survey it panic will set in and he can’t afford to panic right now. If he does then he could, very likely, end up dead. Ace isn’t willing to let go of life that easily and that is why he wastes no time in answering the slashes across his arm with a hard punch to the man’s ribs.

The man hadn’t been expecting the counter attack and howls in response to the jab as he feels his ribs buckle under the force unleashed upon them. It’s a force which is enough to send the man staggering back and away from Ace. But the red haired man gets no rest as the other knife wielder, who Ace had kicked, rushes forward to begin his next attack. The thin knife in his hand is pointed toward Ace clearly ready to deliver a stab. However, before he gets the chance Ace rushes to meet the man who is astounded by the red haired man’s actions. Because of the astonishment the attacker hesitates just long enough for Ace to grab hold of his knife wielding arm with both hands to stop the stab.

Ace ignores the searing pain in his arm as he struggles with the man who is trying to sink the flip-knife into Ace’s gut.

During the struggle Ace realises that he isn’t going to be able to push against the man’s thrust forever and so seeing little other option shifts position and without letting go turns a eighty and eighty degrees while raising the man’s arm. The attacker is confused and doesn’t understand what the redhead is doing until it is too late and his arm is over Ace’s shoulder. Now that he’s realised what Ace intends to do he tries to retract his outstretched arm, but he can’t and that is why he instead has to watch as Ace suddenly and violently snaps it the wrong way.

The attackers squeals in response to his arm being broken, while the flip-knife drops out of his now disabled hand and clatters off somewhere into one of the near countless sections of darkness around them.

Unfortunately, before Ace has the chance to force the now partially disabled attacker away the short man appears again and he’s headed straight for Ace. The redheaded man doesn’t understand how this is possible as the short tattooed man would have needed to circle all the way around him to get to where he is now, and Ace should have seen him do that.

Ace quickly forces the thoughts aside, knowing that the danger is here and now and that, if he survives, there will be plenty of time after to contemplate now this or that came to pass.

Then Ace spots the flip-knife in the short man’s hand. The red haired man can’t be sure but his guess is that the short attacker used the shadows of the alley to conceal his circumnavigation around the outer edge of the fight so that he could reclaim the knife. Ace might call the man ingenious if he weren’t the target for this attack.

By the time all this has slotted into place in Ace’s head the short, now knife wielding, attacker is too close for him to have any hope of evading the incoming strikes. That is why again Ace is forced to raise his left arm in defence.

Why Ace keeps choosing his left arm as sacrifice he would not be able to say even if he was asked point blank. Instead, would probably in fact just shrug. Still, the reality is that right now, in this fight, it feels like the best option for it to be his left arm that he sacrifices to protect his other more delicate and more essential areas, such as his eyes.

Then the steel blade of the weapon makes contact, and before Ace can react, it bites and then cuts deeply across his already diced arm. It’s bathed in blood but these fresh wounds seem to do little to add to the copious amounts of vital red liquid that is already smeared across his flesh.

Ace winces and suppresses the cries that he could easily release because of the tearing pain he feels. Yet, somehow it doesn’t overwhelm his mind and in fact he manages to consider whether having rolled up the sleeves of his boiler suit hours earlier had been a good idea. If he hadn’t then perhaps his arm would have been partially spared the brutality of these attacks. Almost immediately however, he concludes that it would have made little difference as his boiler suit, while not made of thick or resilient material, is worn and torn. The blade would have cut through it with ease too and still resulted in much of the same damage, which Ace hopes isn’t too severe, that has been inflicted upon him thus far.

Then a voice calls, “What the fuck are you doing?”

In that moment Ace’s attacker hesitates and even looks in the direction of the voice, which presents Ace with an opening. Ace takes that opening as he grabs hold of the man’s wrist, ready to deliver a sharp stab to the red haired man’s chest, and then squeezes as hard as he can while turning and pulling all in a single clean motion.

The short man wails like a banshee as his wrist is shattered and his arm is pulled from its socket. Because of this the knife drops from the attackers’ hand whose fingers are now limp and completely unresponsive to any order the tattooed attacker may wish to issue them.

Then Ace shoves the man back and just as Bren and a number of the other tunnel rats come barrelling out of the bar and into the alley. The tunnel rats jeer and curse at the trio of attackers who all race off in retreat as fast as their injured bodies will allow them to, screaming and crying as they go.

After the beating they have suffered there is no way they were going to stick around and risk being in a fight with fair numbers. Especially considering as it they couldn’t beat a single man, who they thought looked weak and weedy, then there is no way they will have a chance, armed or not, in besting anyone else that might come their way.

In fact, the trio regret picking their target, but they’d had no way of knowing the fight would play out the way it had. They don’t regret their actions and it won’t deter them in the future. Next time they’ll simply pick a mark who they are sure they will be able to get the drop on, and use overwhelming force to get what they want, which is money and valuables. The men have drug habits to feed after all and debts they need to pay to the higher ups that they serve within the gang they are a part of.

With the fight over Ace begins to feel the stinging pain in his left arm and so cradles it. His adrenaline, which had been suppressing his pain and keeping him focused, is beginning to ebb now that Ace is no longer in imminent danger. In some ways Ace wishes the feeling of danger hadn’t subsided as it means he can think of little else other than the pain in his arm when Bren appears next to him.

Ace’s arm is a mess. There is no other way of putting it and that is why Bren urges, “Come back inside Ace. We’ll get you an ice pack and some bandages. Fix you right up brother.”

The red haired man doesn’t have the energy to argue with the huge Bren, which is why he simply nods his acceptance and then follows the man back down the alley, through the still wide open door and back into the bar.

As they go Ace continues to cradle his blood soaked arm, hearing Bren demand. “Make a hole. Move aside. Injured man.”

To their credit the patrons, of which there are far fewer now than there had been compared to when Ace had last been in the bar, do a decent job of creating a narrow avenue for him and his now tunnel rat protectors to snake through.

Ace has to admit that he’s impressed by the patron’s ability to still be able to follow orders considering how drunk they all are after hours upon hours of unrelentingly pouring strong viscous beverages down their throats with reckless abandon.

Finally, Ace reaches a stool at the bar. Until this very moment Ace had been sure that the bar had no stools, but it seems he’d been wrong and they had simply been enveloped by the parting workers trying to forget their problems and enjoy their night.

As Ace sinks onto the barstool still cradling his arm he notes that the previously burning pulses of pain have now become a continuous throbbing which has melded with the strong burning sensation he had been feeling previously. The redhead takes that as a good sign. He is sure that if he’d stopped feeling anything then it would mean, in his eyes anyway, that his arm was lost. If only the pain wasn’t so severe, Ace thinks through gritted teeth while willing himself to think about something, anything, else. If he doesn’t then he’s sure he’ll pass out, of that there is no doubt in his mind.

“…get this man an ice pack.” Ace hears Bren roar loudly at what Ace assumes must be the bartender. He doesn’t make any attempt to check if he’s right. Now right he really doesn’t care, but he gets the answer a short time later when the bartender appears in a section of his vision with an ice pack in his outstretched hand.

Ace looks at the young man, who he notes seems to have very soft cheekbones and a petite face, before attempting to reach for the ice pack with his blood soaked hand right hand.

Soon after Ace’s hand moves from covering the wound on his left arm the bartender catch sight of something and then his eyes go wide. A split second later the bartender withdraws his hand, along with the ice pack. Then his eyes narrow and he remarks, “You’re a Skin. We don’t serve Skins here. I suggest you leave and never come back. If you don’t…”

The bartender then pulls an old revolver from beneath the bars counter top and aims it right in Ace’s face before he finishes his threat, “…you’ll meet the lead from Old Single here.”

Ace’s own eyes go wide in response. He doesn’t understand. What is this bartender on about? What is a Skin? Why am I being threatened? My arm! I must look at my arm! A voice in his head declares and so Ace slowly turns his arm to take a look at the wound. Within seconds Ace catches sight of smooth grey metal beneath his flesh. His head goes into a spin as question after question well to the surface. He doesn’t understand. He’s confused. He swears this must be a dream. That this can’t be real. Then he looks up from his wound and finds that the bartender is still stood there with the barrel of a gun pointed at his face.

Then the air seems to turn cold and Ace feels the chill, which is why he risks glancing around at the patrons who are surrounding him. Immediately, the redhead notes that all of them, even Bren, have backed away from him to leave a semi-circle of empty air between them like a barrier.

Every face looks betrayed as they stare at Ace angrily. The red haired man still doesn’t understand which is why Ace goes to speak. Before he gets the chance however the bartender pulls the hammer back on the revolver. Ace swallows in response. He gets the clear message that the time for talk is over. Adrenaline begins to well up from deep within him again, numbing the pain in his arm which he’d almost forgotten about. Then Ace jumps from the stool and bolts as fast as he can across the bar, holding his arm.

He manages to cross the room and burst through the single narrow door of the bar that leads out onto the street. The street is still bathed in light from all the buildings around him. But other than that, and him, the street is devoid of life.

Ace turns back toward the door of the bar having heard something that worries him. Quickly his eyes come to rest on the doorway and instantly he understands why he feels terrified.

Many of the patrons, unable to let go of the anger they feel upon learning that they have spent the night in the presence of a Skin, try to squeeze through the narrow doorway en masse.

Ace wonders if they will pursue if he flees. He doesn’t know but seeing no other option that is exactly what he does, flee.

However, the most of the enraged patrons don’t give up now Ace is on the run. Instead, they race after him berating and cursing him for daring to try and mingle with them. They hate him, but Ace doesn’t understand why that is. He’s done nothing wrong. He’s the one who was attacked!

Why do I have metal beneath my flesh? And what is a Skin? These are two questions that refuse to stop twisting and turning around in his head as he tears down the middle of the wide empty asphalt covered street.