Rig was cold. He opened his eyes as little as possible—just enough to get a clue to his whereabouts. A plastine bumper was parked inches from his face. Beyond the car was another, and, presumably, another.
It came to his fuzzed mind that the coldness had to do with the concrete upon which he’d been dumped. Worse, he was naked.
“Shit.”
The word echoed in the silence. He tensed, waited for telltale footfalls, but they never came.
He got to the balls of his feet and crouched at the car’s flared fender. Some little sport job. The next car was a solid family transport with a pricy label. He crept to the window of the sedan and looked in. Books, umbrella, a few other items, but no day worker clothing changes. The sports car yielded little more than a shiny new set of golf clubs in the cramped rear seat.
Machinery grumbled on the other side of the garage level. Rig ducked behind the sports car and watched where a pair of freight elevator doors rattled. The noise ended with a loud clang, and the thick doors creaked open. A worker held onto a heavy-duty cart as he sidestepped. The opening allowed a tall, thin, well-dressed man, to exit the elevator.
“Thanks for the lift, Charlie,” he called.
The worker nodded and waved him off, then the doors slid shut.
The passenger walked in Rig’s direction. Rig reviewed a number of options in the few seconds it took for the man to arrive at the sports car and settled on the most obvious, if least original. He crouched out of sight by the rear fender. When the man got within arms’ reach, Rig sprang.
Less than five minutes later, Rig sped out of the garage in the sports car. Another naked man lay cooling in the garage, only that man would never be warm again.
…to be continued
Filed under: SS-Science Fiction | Tagged: dark science fiction, donor, explosion, futuristic, identity shaper, jail break, journalism, MJ Twain, prisoner, reporter, rig, short story, writing
