Blood Money: Into the Cellar

A Story by brian_navarro

The second in the Blood Money series.

The fair�"skinned man, dressed in a plain work shirt and blue jeans, planted his soft shoed feet at the cellar’s grassy base, and with both hands wrapped about the handles pulled backwards like there was no tomorrow.

“Put your back into Mort,” shouted his boss from across the yard, glaring at the spindly man struggling to lift the metallic doors even an inch. Mort’s boss then looked ahead again, stretching his bronze and nearly nude body, save for the pale blue shorts he wore, out across a lavish lounge chair on the many�"colored bricked patio. This patio, overlooking the Atlantic ocean, blessed him with a breathtakingly beautiful view of white waves beating against the hewn rocks of the New York coastline.

Morton kept at it, doing all he could to dig his heels into the hard clay and withered grass, grunting curses with each pull. By the third one, a soft whoosh greeted him when the doors flew open.

The young man reclining on the patio then looked back. “Well done, my good man. Now be quick about it.” The boss man then turned to his friend beside him, a man well endowed of years and fat about his jowls, and added, “It truly is hard to find good help these days. Wouldn’t you agree, Joffrey?”

Joffrey nodded, jowls jiggling about his broad brown face. His eyes, glistening as green as the Rolling Rock beer he raised in agreement, widened when he spoke. “Truly Jacob. Workers used to be so more appreciative at the start of the century, but now . . . well, forget about it. It’s like pulling teeth, I believe they used to say in the 20th century.” The two of them laughed and pounded beers together to make that familiar clink before returning to the soft ripples of white waves and surfers beyond the patio.

Morton, grunting and swearing under his breath, swung his head back in gloom. The eyesore that was the Great Wall of York off to his right, standing miles beyond the estate and stretching far into the sky as if to touch it, reminded him of home. Charlie . . . he thought with remorse, pausing a moment before taking the first step down.

The steps were numerous�"nearly thirty planks of narrow plastic wood�"and the place cramp and getting colder the further he descended into the earth’s underbelly. The sunlight overhead rapidly shrank, disappearing entirely by the tenth step.

Paying careful not to trip, the green darkness of the passageway distorting the path ahead, he slowed his descent. On passing the halfway point, a white holodisc suddenly jutted out from the brown and pitted rock face to startle him. He nearly lost his footing.

“Morton, I’m waiting,” expressed his boss in annoyance. The young man simply nodded and continued down, gripping the railing more firm.

At the bottom of the steps, the passageway opened up to a boxy room from the right. One fairly dark and dank, save for the sporadic blinking of tiny lights that flickered throughout the place, which appeared to stretch out into oblivion. Morton walked in, and the inlaid lights above began to flicker, following his footfalls to a tee like a spotlight. Cheap b*****d, can’t even light the whole damn place.

“Ok, so f****n’ year did he want?” Morton grumbled, walking across the room while eyeing the freshly illuminated signs posted at the front of each aisle.

“2020 . . . no,” the young man soon said, shaking his head as he stepped further left to the second row.

He did the same sidestep several more times, ignoring the best he could the incessant beeping noise that accompanied the blinking lights. When he reached the 1980’s, Mort paused briefly to double check the list of years. Once satisfied, he began to walk down the narrow aisle, eyeing the individual names and years posted along the way on each of the metallic slabs, which were stacked up to the ceiling like server racks. The overhead fluorescents continued to light his way, highlighting the bodies on the racks whenever he lingered.

He noticed that the chill of the place grew thicker the further he’d walked, the briefest of reprieves coming when he’d passed the central power unit, a device likened to that of an old world space heater, some thirty yards ago. It wasn’t until nearly the end of the aisle that Morton finally found the right rack.

After drawing his hands together to blow on them, his head then drifted up and down with an unsettled interest in the tall stack of metal beds. After quick scan of the names and dates ahead of him, he finally took a knee by the lowest shelf.

“There you are Mister George Michael,” he whispered aloud before reaching underneath the silver shelf, trying to avoid pressing his face into the thigh of the white glistening body that rested above, grasping for a single bottle. Looks pretty good for a hundred, Morton thought after pulling out a long, cylindrical bottle. He then took to his feet and slid the corked bottle to the spout hanging off the tall, gray machine that stood between shelving compartments.

Standing before the machine, Morton then tapped George Alan Michael on the touchscreen.

“Request acknowledged,” replied the computer in a deadpan voice. “One moment please.” Then some soft music began to play.

Morton waited and stared at the man’s living corpse, thinking about how things were never quite what they seemed anymore. The man looked dead, but was not. The cork was not really a cork, but made of fibers that mirrored wood, allowing liquids to spill through under the right conditions, otherwise hermetically sealed.

He stood there quietly but tense, watching the red liquid fill the bottle with only a song and blinking lights to keep him company. Why would they play that song, he thought after hearing Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, an ode to joy, begin to play.

The music brought back memories from when he arrived nine years ago, the song playing in the foyer of the main house as he had walked in through the ivory doors.

“Morton Ashby, never look at the people,” Jacob Zedd had told him when he arrived. “They aren’t people, but property, until their debt is paid.” His boss went on to tell him how he was a lucky one, how his service pays the debt his family had accumulated in the old world, and feeds him now.

Morton didn’t know if it was better, but had heard that when those people woke up, they were never quite the same. Years of drinking the green nourishment juices, the soco green they called it, triples the nourishment of their blood, but halves them mentally.

Before long, the computer beeped twice and the liquid stopped. “Filling complete. Do you wish to fill another?” asked the computer, its voice further creeping him out with questions that seemed so casual.

“Umm. . .” Morton started to say, but stopped short. I could take a few bottles. Maybe smuggle them out somehow. A few bottles here and there could�"

“Mr. Ashby,” a voiced said overhead, echoing throughout the cavernous chamber. “Do not dabble, Mr. Demir is waiting on his payment.”

Morton simply nodded and told the machine, no. The bottle then released into his hands, filled to the brim with blood.

As Morton ascended from the cellar, his hands and feet grew warmer, his breath no longer visible in the shine of the sun overhead, which drew across the sky, stealing away thoughts of rebellion. He then looked back. It’s better than being down there. Or there, he again thought with guilt, turning toward the Wall that separated the haves and the haves not.