When I Wear the Mas

This is my submission for

Literotica's Magical Mystery Tour.

©Etaski, 2018

Dedicated to the creators of my favourite horror tales (and I am using British spelling in this story).

When I Wear the Mask

She always slept light.

To be snoozing when someone else was ready to play only left her disoriented, scrambling to catch up. Her reflexes were good, but not

that

good. She must have had more than her share of good luck so far, possessing a face prettier than the norm. Those two things coupled with the ability to study a game with a willingness to play was probably why she was both still alive and on the

outside

of the human cages at Depot.

A chain dragged along a gritty, cement floor. It was right by her ear.

She started awake. Eyes wide. Trying to pierce the dark.

Nothing yet. Listen.

No breathing but hers. No creaks of armour or scrapes of boots along the floor. The rain was on the outside, hitting a ceiling very high up rather than her cheeks and forehead. The constant patter and rattling metal drifted through empty space to settle over her like a blanket as if warning her to be still. To curl up and hide beneath it, and hope whatever made the skin prickle on the back of her neck went away.

Fat chance.

Bruises and scrapes were mild. A sore spot on her head. He had taken her clothes.

Fuck.

Her eyes adjusted to the deep shadows. It wasn't solid black in here as the place still had high windows with a catwalk along the wall to make them accessible. Distant streetlamps filtered wan particles of light through the falling water, orange but stubborn. Some of the windows were broken, letting in a louder call of rain yet appearing darker and jagged than the whole panes still able to spread the light around.

Gauging the main floor of this building—not simply a warehouse but some defunct operation, a factory—she learned that her neck still had its full range of motion and that it was collared. Her own neck dragged around that chain she'd heard at first.

Fingers touched the rough leather gingerly in case it pricked her, but it was plain, thick, and strong. Attached to it was a leash which led into the blackness around her. The first metal ring was smooth and perfect, without any clip or mechanism. It was a permanent attachment.

Her skin was cold where it touched the hard floor. She had ignored the smells up until now, though they had been there since she'd first opened her eyes before she could see. But now she couldn't.

Something's dead in here.

~~~~

"Can't say I'm impressed," Mason remarked without much inflexion. "You must have pissed off your bosses, sending you here to keep tabs on me."

Cammie kept her face placid and still. "I've been trained."

"I don't care."

The Stage Boss stood cheek and jowl to apathy since before closing the door behind them to talk. Wariness and weary bitterness seemed to be the only emotions he felt. He repeated there weren't any surveillance ticks to spray.

"This is a blind spot in the levels of Hell, kid. Your bosses always try, but not even my bosses can get the animals here to accept being watched."

Kid.

Michael Mason wasn't even ten years older than her; she could tell even with the tired face and rumpled, dark hair with the stubble on his jaw. He dressed fairly well for his position— business casual, being a manager and all—but it was clear he didn't really care about either.

His dossier suggested he just wasn't quite ready to die yet.

"It's a given where you come from that someone's watching, collecting video and data, waiting for someone to act out," he said, moving to sit down. "Here, best assume you're on your own. Even if someone hears you, they'll pretend they don't."

So she'd read. Terrifying if she clung to anything familiar. Exhilarating if she didn't.

Nothing had been familiar since Jareth had been taken away, so she might as well not be afraid of the vertical sheer of that figurative skyscraper. She had been required to scale or repel it every day since.

Like the man in this room, she wasn't ready to die yet.

Mason sat in a chair which seemed as though it was about to fall apart at any moment. It was covered in silver tape, dirty-white stuffing poking out, and it shrieked like an injured thing as he sat at the broad, green-metal desk that had seen at least one shoot-out. Cammie thought she recalled reading that the previous guy in this position had been ambushed and riddled with bullets in an office.

The report hadn't said where.

"So how about you practice keeping your mouth shut," Mason said, "while I give you an idea what you're in for, and how you can help avoid getting both of us killed."

~~~~

The heavy chain leash was wrapped around the leg of a five-hundred-pound, rusted meat processor that hadn't seen a fresh carcass in decades. It was secured with a combination lock; no key required except the right order of numbers that she couldn't read and were too small to trace by feel. Goosebumps crept up her arms when she nudged something right next to it, cautiously investigating that as well.

An extremely obvious lead. A penlight, whole and undamaged.

Turn it on, and he knows something's moving on the operation floor. Might as well click a stopwatch counting down the time when he'll appear.

But he'd like that cue. He already knew she was here anyway.

The penlight might not work. It might only be a tease.

She pressed the small, flat button.

Strong, yellow light flooded her vision, turned the metal surrounding her a reddish-black and the concrete floor light grey with dark smudges and spots. She didn't have to look far above where the chain was anchored to see what he wanted her to see.

You must be shitting me.

Freshly scratched in a crude hand on the belly of the processor was a jumbled word puzzle. Three nonsense words, with a matching number of empty boxes just below each letter. Two boxes of each word had a circle embedded inside. Like in an antiquated gamebook, it invited her to rearrange the letters into a word and collect the circled letters to create another word.

Cammie stared at it, grit and tiny pebbles and metal shavings digging into her thigh and hip and palm as she sat sideways on the floor, aiming the flashlight at the scratchings. The chain leash clinked quietly whenever she moved and she looked around her again, not able to see the windows now that the penlight was on. The production floor was quiet.

She turned back and studied at the jumble puzzle, then the combination lock, then the puzzle again, seeing the trio of twin circles in each word.

Alphabet equals numbers equals combination?

Maybe. He claimed once to work on crossword puzzles. Of all damned, outdated things.

~~~~

She'd made an early mistake after Mason warned her. Her training had seemed less applicable, for just a moment. Mistakes happened without sleep.

"Just because there's no cables or signals worth a damn around here doesn't mean there aren't always eyes on you soon as you leave a room. Any room."

There'd also be no safe room for her to rent at Depot, he said. "You're too pretty. Someone will try to break in, and the manager of those rooms don't care."

Mason wasn't letting her stay with him, either, even as he was one of two who knew Cammie wasn't her real name. The other was herself. Maybe that was the reason he wouldn't adopt her like a stray puppy. It would make things too obvious.

Mason had given her a pistol to defend herself since her bosses hadn't even provided that.

FLAK-34. Soft company made. Cheaper parts, flawed design, unreliable.

Or so her company reported. She'd better clean it now.

Better than nothing.

Cammie hid around Depot for the first night in between work shifts, but she didn't sleep. Cold. Damp. Hard. That's what she remembered. Her body was stiff, her mind dull. It wasn't good.

Maybe get out of Downtown for one night. Get a room in a better place. Need some sleep. I'll work on this. I'll adapt.

It was a long walk to the nearest working substation, but the Truck Boss who already wanted to recruit her away from her current job—

Probably because she wants to fuck me.

—gave her directions, and Mason backed their accuracy.

"Good luck," he'd said without audible concern.

She ignored the slight shake of his head and left.

"Where ye going, chicky-chick?"

Four punks from another truck had followed her from Depot despite her efforts; they waited until she'd passed too many hulls of cars to see the dim lights of Depot through the mist. They had no guns drawn, only bats, a knife, and taunts. Lucky her.

She pulled the FLAK without speaking, aimed, and it went off when she pulled the trigger. Hit the man centre-mass. She aimed, pulled again, got one in the thigh. Then the cheap, piece of shit jammed.

Fuck.

The last two weren't put off by their buddies groaning; they were furious. Blood-thirsty. None of their day-victims ever had guns, and they hadn't expected it from the new girl. Now, if they grabbed her, they would get both the pussy and the gun.

Cammie ran. If she could get to the sub, there would be people. They might not help, but there would be cameras. Maybe an on-duty LVR officer or two. She'd have to pitch the pistol before she got there.

Her endurance was good; they were surprised she kept going, maintaining the lead, keeping the dots of orange street lights in view even if two of every three were shot out. They got tired, fell behind, still shouting curses at her.

Then they stopped. They must have given up.

Eventually, she slowed. Heart throbbing in her ears, breath coming in deep rows, she had to. She turned, still walking, looked at the black no-man's land behind her. She was almost to the station out of Downtown. Some feral dogs had been tracking her as well; she saw their outlines at her flanks in the alleyways and heard their hungry whines and growls crawling along the brick walls.

Odd they're keeping distance like that.

Then the dogs retreated with a few yips, heading back in the direction where she'd left the punks bleeding. The coinciding sense of foreboding rolled over her like choking smoke.

Something flew out of the nearest alleyway to her right, catching impressive air and landing with a loud

BANG

on the roof of a car without wheels beside her. She jumped, blurted an aborted scream and covered her mouth as it bounced off and landed three paces away from her on the road. Her heart seized in her chest; training didn't help.

The fresh head still looked alive, if pale. Wide open eyes. The neck had not been severed but twisted. Wrenched off. Threads of muscle and ligament clung to dangling bits of vertebrae.

One of the punks chasing her. Not one she'd shot and left on the pavement.

Get out of Downtown. Now!

Nothing else tried to prevent her from reaching the substation. She skipped her next shift at Depot.

***

Cammie took a slow breath and looked at the first word. It had probably been cut by a meat hook above her while she'd been unconscious; she'd found some of the metal shavings and rust in her hair.

JEHCZQUA

Holy Hell.

Was it even in Anglish?

Second word:

MCREIEIO

What the fuck...?

"Said yah liked puzzles," his voice rumbled out in cavernous acoustics in the former slaughterhouse.

She gasped and looked around, unable to see him or tell quite where the sound had come from. The penlight didn't even reach fifteen feet out, so she shut it off and let her eyes adjust to the ambient light again.

"Yah do, don'tcha?" his disembodied voice sounded again.

She frowned and tried to decide what to say besides,

Fuck you, Piggy.

"Better answer, Blondie."

She still wasn't able to see him. The chain clinked again with her movement. It was a constant weight pulling at her neck and head.

"Yes, I remember saying that. I meant that I like 'Who Done It' puzzles, though."

His dark chuckle echoed. "Some thought you knew whatchu was doin'. Investigatin' and askin' around, lookin' fer the killer at Depot when most already fig'red it was me."

"He was trying too hard," she said with stubborn bravado, "planting to shift the blame to you and get away with it."

"Yeah. Ain't the first time. So yah found him. Surprised the fuck outta me."

"Some know talent when they see it."

"Woulda thought you were fakin' it tah get a safe bed."

"Yes, well. Results get better perks."

"Yer ass might've been enough."

"Brains last longer."

"Plannin' tah 'saggy-tit' days? Not from around here, eh?"

"You already know that."

"Yeah. Yah talk funny."

He stepped out of the inky shadows on wide boots, now above her on the metal balcony overlooking the old operation floor. He put his elbows on the railing. He held a meat hook in his left hand with the chain coiled around his massive forearm, and he began carving at the railing with the tip, squeaking against the old metal to send unpleasant vibrations through her molars. He reached to shift the bulge in the crotch of his pants and she noted he'd already taken off his codpiece and leg armour, and, most importantly, his tool belt.

Not planning to kill me.

That didn't mean he wouldn't if she crossed a line and set off that explosive temper. He liked her to talk to him the way she did. Few had the "'nads," he said, and her Uptown accent did seem entertaining, even if hers wasn't the only one at Depot.

But it was never long before he lost interest in any conversation.

"Get loose in five, an' you get a head start," he said, pulling out an antique watch from his pants pocket and looking at the face. "Make me come down there an' we skip the forr play."

It's 'foreplay,' you rube.

The private snark didn't prevent a cold rush from streaking down her arms and legs, from feeling weak. She felt the need to pee, but she refused to imagine how creative he could get with a tether-toy to bat around. Her stomach trembled and she swallowed, pointing the penlight again at the puzzle.

Five minutes. Calm down. Focus.

The third word didn't make any more sense than the first two, and Cammie wondered what she was missing. Her eyes transposed the letters in her mind several times but she quickly got the feeling she wasn't meant to find an answer in the jumble.

He usually jumps out of the periphery while you're distracted, looking at something else.

She stopping looking at the puzzle, her eyes returning to the lock, tracing the chain again, and she reached again to explore the collar itself. It was buckled and secured, yes.

Is it locked or soldered...?

No.

Pigman roared with laughter at his prank; she could think he sounded disturbingly excited as she unbuckled the collar, letting both it and the thick, chain leash drop to the ground.

"Way to go, girlie! Smarter than most I bring here! Jus' bought yerself four minutes and twenty-eight seconds!"

~~~~

"So. Seems you're adapting." Mason said during one of their talks when she was supposed to collect a "report" from him. "Didn't think you'd make it past the first interview, honestly. I was waiting for them to barge into my office after offing you."

"Glad I could surprise you, Mason."

"Don't be. Just worry about yourself. All anyone does."

She felt her eyes narrow a bit. "Do they? The 'Bones are pretty protective of each other. You were the one who recommended them to work here."

Mason nodded slightly. "Makes them good security, less likely to take bribes if their contract has perks rewarding all of them. But...you do know you're just a status symbol for Kai, right? You're not one of them."

She smiled the smile she gave whenever someone implied she was dumb. "Yes, I do. Kai's still far from my worst choice as a shield with a roger attached. At least he's competent at anal."

Mason actually blushed a little, which surprised her.

This is the crudest of places.

"How's the changeover to Sheba's crew?" the Stage Boss asked, changing the subject.

"I like her," Cammie said bluntly with a creeping smile. "She's a good boss. Strong orders. Only punches those who deserve it. I deserved it once. Not again."

Mason allowed a tiny response of a smile in return. Cammie had already gleaned that he and Sheba were in good with each other. Never lovers because Sheba didn't do guys, but if there was someone at Depot who might be considered "friends" with Mason, it was the Truck Boss with the half-shaved, purple-dyed head and twice as much muscle as he had.

Cammie would never have guessed that at the start, but she had managed to pick out those around Depot which Mason trusted more than others without blatantly asking. It worked in her favour. Mason noticed; he talked a little more than he did at the beginning. He seemed vaguely more interested in helping her stay alive.

"So I'm guessing you met Pigman by now," he offered. "Or is he still teasing you from the shadows?"

Cammie blinked. "How did you know? I mean, I told you about the punks. Do you think it was him, that first night, with the head?"

Mason pursed his lips, considered and reconsidered saying something specific. She could see it on his face. He just nodded.

"What do you know about him?" she asked.

A shrug. "What does the dossier say about him?"

"Private mercenary with minimal interest in getting hired," she summarized by recitation. She had already asked for the file and had gone over it. "Previously used for intimidation and 'warnings' between gangs and soft company bosses but has no loyalty to any and isn't an easy sell on a target."

"That it?"

"No. Two confirmed incidents where someone tried to arrange a hit on him and twice he's seemed to survive a bullet-storm with minor injuries at worst. He retaliated within two days, tearing apart the guys who tried to kill him with meat hooks and butcher's tools and making a nightmarish display to be found. A lot of stories about him being invulnerable or able to disappear into thin air. Reputation mostly as a boogeyman you don't want to meet."

Mason's face turned wry. "And what does all that tell you?"

Cammie shrugged. "He does what he does because he enjoys it. He's a lone hunter. Nothing else."

"Oh? He's not a supernatural creature to you?"

"I don't believe that."

"Alright. What else would you extrapolate from it?"

Mason used some of the larger words with her. He was well-read compared to many, and he didn't pretend he wasn't. She appreciated it.

"He knows his territory well," she said. "He likely rarely leaves it. He makes or steals most of what he needs since there are no known contacts for supplies and cash doesn't seem to be a concern for getting 'hired.' He has a base of operations somewhere he keeps private and well protected. He must know the sewer system extremely well since he uses parts from feral pigs for his suit."

Her contact smiled. "And walking away from a 'bullet-storm'?"

"Armour under the pigskin," she answered. "A high tolerance for pain, possibly enhanced with drugs. He's described as being much larger than when I saw him. Abnormally large. And he can hide a lot under that pigskin suit he wears. Especially if he has more than one for different purposes. Easy to protect the head and torso against bullets, and he's clearly strong with a lot of endurance." She paused. "And speed. Reflexes are good, and he's very quiet for a guy that big."

Mason chuckled briefly; he even seemed pleased. "Would you want to interview him about the recent murders around Depot? He might be able to tell you something since you seem convinced it isn't him."

Her mouth sagged for a moment. "You know him?"