I grunt once, daring him to elaborate.
“If. You don’t. Do this. I will do it. For disobeying, you will be disassembled on return. Get that? Understand?”
I nod.
“Then off you go.” He pushes on the door, and it swings inward.
A soft, repetitive thump above us distracts me.
But I stare at the door then wrap my hands around his throat, tightly, so he can only gurgle. I pull the door mostly shut and drag him away. He kicks and punches, but it barely hurts and doesn’t slow me. After he stabs me, I break his hand and remove his fingers from the knife. He is bleeding somewhere, for I feel warmth and wetness. I’m not entirely sure why I am doing this, but…
It feels good.
And I hate being talked down to like I’m an idiot. I don’t want to kill the occupants.
Is this to do with morals? I know about morals, but if I’m not a real man, can I have real morals?
This question occupies me as I drag him over the fence. He kicks me again. In the garden, a scratching sound comes from inside a white boat, but nothing emerges, and I have other fish to fry.
Other men to fry?
You are bad and stupid, I tell my handler with my glares, wishing like hell I could yell at him and tell him to go fuck himself. Never mind. I can do that and demonstrate the act with his knife when I arrive at the old mine shaft where we planned to stuff the body or bodies.
Is this normal to want to kill so badly? So fervently. I think I can taste Death.
I shouldn’t do this.
There was abang. Perhaps a small explosion. My head hurts, ringing with sound.
I think…I think he triggered something. My thoughts arrive in fits and starts and fizzles.
The shine of a red puddle wobbles then firms, reflecting my face and my stitched torso, because I’ve bared myself by pulling up my shirt, perhaps to check myself for damage.
The rise and fall of the knife was punctuated by thuds and small squeals from my handler.
Blood swirls on the puddle of water.
I must have rinsed my hands in there. I don’t recall seeing my new face before. I’ve let my shirt fall but I lift it again to examine the scars and sutures. Some incisions have healed. Some have not. Some of the sutures are metal but how long have I had those? A year or a week or maybe a few months? I look like a quilt stitched badly by a blind person. One set of sutures circles my neck.
I run my finger over them, feeling the bumps. Another set swoops down my chest like a dotted line to neatly split my torso in half. Halfway up my forearm is also cut by a circle of suture marks, as if it might be an added piece.
Which parts are the original me?
A knife wound in my side shines with his blood and mine. A knife handle juts from me there.
I should extract that.
Red-red sticky blood.
They trained me. I remember this. Trained me in the Art of Death. In killing by knife, by gun, and by hand. In wall-scaling, grenade throwing, the tracking of boot prints, the silent approach, and the tearing of flesh—though the latter is a side effect and not an actual training method.
My handler triggered something to try to destroy me. My ear, when I reach for it, is a mite shredded although it has ceased to bleed. Whatever the explosive, I was distant enough to escape with only my ear damage, some concussion, and mild memory loss that is nothing, in truth, considering half my past has gone bye-bye.
I approve of whoever thought of the explosive. It is what I would do if I unleashed me on the world with only one handler. Five handlers would have been sensible. If I ever discover who made me, I doubt I will give them that advice. Me beating them bloody and ripping off their limbs until they reveal everything that they did to me is a far more likely reaction.
A headache returns, and I clutch my head while I wait for it to settle.
After throwing him into the mine shaft and climbing down, I stuff his body into a side tunnel. His phone fell from his pocket, as did his wallet. I gather them and put them into his pockets, leave the pistol clipped and holstered. The less evidence I carry the better.
