Chapter Twenty-Four – Ingenious

Chapter Twenty-Four – Ingenious

“Trash Island is probably the most famous location filled with human waste, but there are other, larger deposits. Notable examples are the Cambodian trash castle, Malaysia, and the Philippines.

Such as Florida.”

–“Where’s the Trash?” Death Magazine article, 2046

***

“Ouch,” I said to the dirty ceiling of the decontamination room.

Something banged against my shin, and I folded my knee so that whatever it was could get past.

The door closed, and the room thumped as it locked. “Cat! Are you okay?”

I swallowed, then raised my head. Gomorrah was standing next to the heavy door, a hand on the handle. She’d closed it, which, all things considered, was pretty clever. I looked lower, towards my chest. There was something flat and shiny squished under one breast.

Reaching over, I tugged at it, then inspected the almost flower-shaped disk that must have been a bullet a moment ago. “Oh,” I said. “That’s what hit me.”

My armour had a small smear, the paint over that area scuffed. No dents though, which was nice. “Are you injured?” Gomorrah asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said. I climbed onto my elbows. “What the fuck was that?”

“A gun. I think it’s a turret—I didn’t exactly stop to stare,” Gomorrah said.

“Not the nicest welcome,” I said.

“I can’t detect any electronic switches, or any program designed to fire a weapon in the vicinity. It’s possible that the trap is entirely mechanical,” Myalis said for our benefit.

Grunting, I half-turned, then stumbled to my feet as the shower started to spit and gush water back down onto us. “Great,” I said. “Should we try again?”

“You want to get shot again?” Gomorrah asked.

I chuckled. “No. I’m standing to the side this time.”

Gomorrah did the same, stepping back so she was pressed up against the wall. I reached over and tugged the door open, the massive thing creaking even as the water from the decontamination shower finally stopped.

Nothing happened.

“Alright,” I said. “Myalis, do my shoulder guns have cameras?”

They do.

I deployed one of my railguns, then leaned over so that it could poke out around the corner. Myalis helpfully filled the vision of my cybernetic eye with the fish-eyed sight from my gun’s camera-sight. There was a plain corridor, relatively wide, with pipes here and there and a lot of fifty-five gallon drums to the side. In the middle of it was a rickety table, one with fold-out legs, and atop that a gun in some homemade rack.

“That thing looks like it was put together by a kid,” I said as I flicked my railgun back off and moved into the corridor.

A glance to the side revealed the trigger. A bit of rebar, held in place by a few nails welded into the wall next to the door. A piece of cardboard was taped on the end. Opening the door shoved the cardboard aside and made the rebar drop, which tugged at what looked like a piece of fishing line that ran through some rings all the way over to the gun.

Gomorrah inspected the booby-trap, then hummed. “Primitive,” she said.

“It worked though,” Rac said.

I rubbed at my chest. “Yeah, it did. Very creative. I’d give the asshole that put this together a gold star if I could find him.”

“I don’t know if this alerted anyone,” Gomorrah said. “It looks like the kind of trap that you just need to know about to avoid.” She reached into the decontamination airlock and pulled out a long bar with a crude hook on the end. Something to disarm the trap from within, I guessed.

“There are marks on the walls,” Franny said.

“Where?” I asked as I looked around.

“In the airlock,” she said. “I thought they were graffiti.”