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After reading Mr. Bryce's story you will come to find out that Pulp Fiction extends far into the future...
Anonymous World
By S.C. Bryce
The truck swerved, barely missing my car, its
driver mouthing obscenities.
"What a grotesque caricature of a human
being."
"Newark is full of them," I agreed.
"How do you account for that?"
"What do you mean?"
We parked in our usual spot in front of
Charles Pascal's 2-D theater, an anachronism among the super-multiplex-aramas
and their hordes of wanna-be-hip teenagers, like the ones lined up at the new
theater across the street. There was no line for the 2-Ds. The marquee
announced two films: "Replacement Killers" and "Risky
Business." We bought tickets for "Replacement Killers" even
though we’d seen it four weeks in a row because Tom Cruise made Cyril question
his sexuality. Inside, stale popcorn formed puffy mountains behind a
glass-paned booth and a carnivaleque sign. I got an extra large with artificial
butter that squirted sickly from the machine. I shoved a stack of napkins in my
pocket and added a soda to my order. The theater darkened as we entered and
found our customary seats. I waved to Steve Compen, a fixture at Pascal’s and
the only other patron. Cyril coolly ignored him, the residue of a partially
remembered argument.
"I mean, why have we become a nation of
churlish savages?" Cyril asked, as always picking up the thread of
conversation exactly where we’d left it.
"You presume we have."
"Is there evidence to the
contrary?" I didn’t answer. "I didn’t think so," Cyril said.
"Well, maybe your social mores are
outdated. Maybe you can’t recognize the pattern of politeness today."
"You presume there is such a
pattern."
I hated when Cyril threw my words back in my
face. I never knew whether he was baiting me or just entertaining himself. The
two were not mutually exclusive: Cyril loved to argue. "There always is,
but sometimes only an insider can see it."
"I’m not an insider?" he asked.
"Well, if you can’t see it, you must not
be."
Cyril mulled
that over during the previews. I ate my popcorn and read the movie's opening
credits, waiting for him to speak. "It’s because we live in an anonymous
world," he finally said.
I took a sip of soda. It was already flat.
"Anonymous?"
"Yes. Individuals don’t know individuals
anymore. We go through life with a small circle of friends, barely more
acquaintances. Because we don’t know each other, we can’t respect each other’s
individuality. We don’t see friends or potential friends; we see strangers, and
strangers don’t have personality, feeling, or experiences. They’re
sub-human."
"You’re saying we’re rude because we no
longer interact on a personal level?"
"You disagree?"
A wadded napkin hit the back of my head and
Compen yelled, "Shut up, morons! The movie’s starting!"
I threw the wad back, nailing Compen on the
shoulder as he ducked. His candies spilled in a waterfall, pelting us on the
ankles as they bounced down the angled floor. "I think there’s more to
it."
Cyril sipped his soda.
The movie was predictable, not because it was
uninspired, but because that was the fifth time I’d seen it. I couldn’t wait
until the theater got something else.
When the lights came up, we filed out. I said
good-bye to Compen, then Cyril and I headed over to the next stop in our weekly
ritual, “The Choclat Bar.” We waited outside for a table and I dreamt about
sumptuous artificial desserts.
"We’re completely apathetic," Cyril
continued, the movie only a hiatus from his philosophical dialogue.
I stopped listening to read from the menu
posted in the window. Scrawled in red was “NEW! ‘Super Rich’ dark choclat, even
MORE FLAVOR than REAL chocolate!" Time to be bold, I decided.
"Aren’t you listening? What do you think
of that?"
I went back to the last bit I’d heard.
"You’re right. It’s easier to be obnoxious to someone you don’t
know."
"Exactly." I’d made Cyril’s day by
agreeing with him.
We followed the waiter who beckoned us to a
table. We ordered immediately.
"Take that kid at the theater for
example."
"What kid?"
"My point precisely. The concessions
kid. Did you even notice what he looked like?"
I had an image, but only of popcorn and the
sign. I remembered that he stood behind the popcorn bin because a shadow passed
over the kernels. I tried to picture him filling my soda. "Striped shirt,
right?"
"No, that was the sign. He was wearing a
blue shirt. He had brown hair and eyes. Looked like he was in high
school."
The description didn’t sound familiar.
"I remember now."
"You’re lying."
"Yeah." I suck as a liar. I looked
over Cyril’s shoulder at our waiter, who’d moved to the table behind us.
"Well, how about you? What does our waiter look like?"
Cyril caught himself just before he turned
around. His faced screwed up in concentration, then embarrassment. "I
don’t know, I was talking."
Our choclat came. Cyril made a point of
thanking the waiter. The super rich wasn’t any better than the regular choclat,
but it was good. After Cyril left a more generous tip than the waiter deserved,
we left to make our pick-up of bodies for the Cabal. Tonight's list was short:
one still in a dumpster near the Passaic.
We drove to Penn Station and the Gateways.
The buildings were abandoned once investors realized that Newark’s renaissance
was only temporary and raced out like rats off a sinking ship. I turned off the
headlights and stopped next to the dumpsters by the broken security booth and
shattered cameras that guarded the sublevel parking lot. I popped the trunk and
we hopped out.
"You don’t seem particularly interested
in social isolationism," Cyril said doggedly as we put on our surgical
gloves. I gave him points for persistence.
"It's not that." I climbed into the
dumpster while Cyril kept an eye out for the police. I ignored the stench and
squishing under my shoes. "I don’t see it as the earth shattering problem
you do. People complain about bad grammar, but languages change, evolve.
Manners are no different." I kicked aside a rat and piled stinking garbage
bags into a corner until I hit a carpet. "Pay dirt." I maneuvered the
poorly rolled carpet so that Cyril could haul it out.
"Now the Cabal are traditionalists. No
one uses carpet anymore but them," he said. "It’s plastic everywhere
else."
"Plastic’s lighter."
"Yes, but it doesn’t have
mystique."
"It also costs a lot less."
"Yes, but that ties into the respect
thing. These guys respect their traditions and this guy enough to get real
carpet instead of just offing him and dumping him in plastic."
"I think they’re just showing off the
fact that they’re the richest organization out here."
"Maybe," he said, unconvinced.
I pushed while Cyril pulled the carpet roll
over the edge of the dumpster. Cyril lost his grip and the carpet fell onto the
street with a wet thud, exposing the body inside. I climbed out of the dumpster
while Cyril tucked the guy back in. His body was thick and fat, the pale skin
stretched tight like a balloon; he'd been in water for a long time before being
left for us to take to the crematorium. Black hairs covered his arms, along
with bloody tears where fish must’ve snacked. If it weren't for the bullet
holes, I would've thought he was a plague victim.
Cyril tried to re-roll the carpet.
"Heavy mother. Come here and help me."
"You smell that?" I asked, covering
my nose with my sleeve and stepping back. The carpet's fall released the
corpse’s stench in a toxic cloud. "That’s why they should’ve used
plastic. Then we wouldn’t have to smell this."
"You see that bloat? He sure sopped up a
lot."
"Shut up, Cyril." I wasn’t
generally squeamish, but the guy was disgusting and I’d eaten not long ago.
Salt, butter, soda, and choclat churned in my stomach and the more I thought
about keeping everything down, the sicker I got. I ran to the Passaic River and
puked.
Cyril looked concerned when I got back.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Let’s hurry up."
Cyril finished re-rolling the carpet,
covering it with a plastic tarp to protect against the smell. We shoved the
bundle in the trunk and pulled off into the deserted city streets.
Cyril stared at me. "You don’t look so
good."
"I’m fine."
"I can drive if you want."
"I’m okay."
"All right." Cyril was skeptical. I
was lying again, but he knew better than to push me, so he let his frown talk
for him.
I hung on until the smell seeped through the
tarp. We opened the windows and put on the fan, but it didn’t go away. I
confessed. "I’m going to be sick again."
"Well for Christ’s sake, pull
over!"
It was too late. I leaned out the window and
let fly, trying my best not to spew all over the side of my car.
“Look out!" Cyril yelled, and I slammed
on the brakes. I didn’t know what I was supposed to look for until I hit it. It
flashed briefly, then cracked a headlight and rolled under the wheels, sending
the car into a lurch. I skidded to a hard stop. My head hit the car door.
Cyril’s airbag went off, popping him in the face. He fought with it until it
deflated.
“Damn." I’m not sure which one of us
said it. I wiped a trickle of blood from my hair and we got out of the car. It
started to drizzle. Behind us was most of a little girl. Her chest was crushed
and blood dripped from her mouth. Cyril picked up her arm from the side of the
road and tossed it with the rest of her.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I didn’t see her,” I pleaded.
“Tell that to her family.”
“What was she doing in the street anyway? She
should be in bed.”
“Sure, blame the parents.”
“Why are you trying to make me feel
bad?"
“You should feel bad."
“I do."
“Good."
I looked around. There was no one in sight;
I’d picked the street because it was dark and rarely traveled. Still, I worried
there was a street rat somewhere. I hoped he couldn’t make out my face or
license plate. “What are we supposed to do now?"
“Under ideal circumstances, we would call an
ambulance or the police. But an ambulance isn’t going to help her and the
police will take us in." He scratched at his hair. “Particularly when they
get a whiff of what’s in the trunk."
“Take her with us?"
Cyril shrugged. “We can burn her with the
others." He grabbed the girl by the waist and I took the arm. We wrapped
her in another tarp and put her in the trunk. "Well," he added,
"there's no vomit on the car. That stuff eats through paint."
“What do we do about the blood?" I
asked, seeing the stains in the street.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s already started
to rain."
We climbed back into the car and continued on
our rounds. My hands shook as I thought about that kid. Cyril lit a cigarette,
and I was grateful that it masked some of the growing odor from the trunk. “If
you don’t mind me saying so, Cyril, you seem a little callous about the fact
that we just killed a kid. I only mention it," I added quickly, “because
of your lecture on incivility."
“First, you killed the kid. I was merely
along for the ride. I offered to drive and I tried to warn you. Second, I'll be
pondering the premature loss of a unique light in the universe when we put her
into the fire. Third, if I could apologize to her family without getting a
lethal injection, I would."
“It seems inconsistent to me."
Cyril shrugged, a habit that was starting to
annoy me. “I’m a complex person."
We finished our pick-ups in near silence,
tying the trunk shut because it was too stuffed with corpses to latch. Worse,
we were late getting to the crematorium because an accident stopped traffic for
an hour. The road to Crematorium 6 was, as typical, deserted. John Monk was
waiting, theatrically checking his watch. “You’re late."
“No kidding," Cyril said.
“How many tonight?"
“Four."
Monk scratched his head. “Air HIV, okay? I
was ready to toast ‘em anyway."
I nodded. “You can do that."
“Okay, bring them in."
Cyril and I started unloading the trunk, each
throwing a body over our shoulders. We followed Monk into the crematorium.
Every time I went to Crematorium 6, I got a creepy feeling from the sterile
building. Sometimes I thought it was haunted, by ghosts or disease I wasn’t
sure. Maybe Crematorium 6 was less forbidding during the day, when employees
scurried through its halls. I wondered how Monk could stand being there by
himself.
We passed rows of massive treatment furnaces,
each with a label telling the burner what disease the chamber was set up to
scour from the corpses. We passed Influenza (Asian) Waves 1-9, Influenza (E.
Europe) Waves 1-4, Ebola Waves 1-4, and Ebola Wave 5 on the way to HIV
(Airborne). More furnaces filled the other wings of the complex.
“You’re almost out of furnace space,"
Cyril said, looking around.
“I know, but all Ebola will be consolidated
soon. The new multiwave treatment finished testing earlier in the week."
“Just in time for another terrorist to
release something."
“‘One step behind’ that’s our motto."
In front of the furnace was a slot. Monk
pulled a lever and a steel body board slid out. I dumped my load, laying the
wrapped body flat. Monk reversed the lever and the body board retracted, taking
with it the corpse. An air lock hissed shut behind it. Monk punched in a code
and the body was transferred from the board to a metal belt that jerked to life
and rolled the corpse past a second air lock. It opened just long enough for us
to see the body tilt and fall, joining the heap waiting to be treated and
burned. Then the process repeated and Cyril dumped the tarp-covered little girl
and we watched her fall too. Another trip from the car took care of the other
bodies and Monk began the treatment cycle. We listened to the chemicals rain
inside the chamber, killing everything in their path. Monk lit a cigarette,
contraband with real tobacco and nicotine. Its smoke was fragrant, filling the
hall like incense.
“You boys smell like hell. Even to a
burner."
I scowled. Cyril shrugged. “You should smell
his car."
As always, we waited during the chemical
treatment. I watched Cyril leaning, eyes closed, against the wall. I couldn’t
tell if he was being true to his word and thinking about that little girl or
just dozing. After twenty minutes, the treatment cycle ended and Monk set the
chamber on burn. Once that was done, there was no chance of someone collecting
evidence; not that there was evidence left to collect.
“Well," he said, “that’s that. Let’s
go."
Cyril’s eyes snapped open and we headed back
to the car. I pulled a wad of pre-counted bills from my pocket for Monk. He
counted again it in front of me like I would cheat him. I shook hands with him
anyway; the insult wasn’t worth parting on bad terms. Cyril and I drove away,
the stench slowly fading into the night. Some would linger until I got the
interior sterilized again; the smell of the dead clings. I dropped off Cyril at
his place, reminded him that I was going on vacation, and drove home to my
apartment.
I was tired and hungry. There was enough milk
to have a decent sized bowl of cereal, but I didn’t have any cereal, so I just
drank the milk. It was starting to turn sour and I wondered if my stomach would
go into another rebellion. After a few minutes, nothing happened so I dumped my
work clothes down the incinerator shaft, took a shower, and plopped into bed,
exhaustedly listening to the rain sprinkling on the roof. My vacation had
begun.
I didn’t pack until the next day. I wasn’t
taking much since I was going to a nude resort in Thailand. I threw in some
toiletries, Don Quixote, and a couple of video games and reminded myself
to pick up a bottle of “Melano-Not! the Ultimate Sunscreen” at the airport. I
turned off the lights and told the roaches to enjoy themselves. I dropped my
car off at Gail St. James’s garage for clean up, telling her extra heavy on the
chemicals and paying her in advance. She liked that. I had just enough cash for
the cab to the airport and a burger.
In Thailand, the resort wasn’t as
entertaining as I hoped. Most of the people were “clean living” types that
hadn’t invested in lipo, preferring exercise even though it wasn’t as
effective. When Cyril called, I wasn’t even upset.
“What do you want?" I pretended to be
angry out of principle.
“Uh, we really need to meet."
“What’s up?"
“You remember that kid?"
“The little girl in Rector Street, or again
with the guy from the movie theater?"
“The little girl."
“What about her?" I pictured her body,
still wrapped in tarp, falling into the furnace.
“I know who she was."
“Yeah?"
“Yeah. Lily, Varian Barish’s daughter."
My stomach cramped into a know and I got
goosebumps all over. I threw Don Quixote into my beach bag and grabbed
my towel. “No shit?"
“None."
“Shit."
“Yeah."
I tried to remember everything I’d ever known
about Varian Barish. Not one quality gave me hope. Varian Barish was born into
a multitude of crime families and consolidated her power through a series of
gruesome deaths. She was a empress whose territory included much of the
Southern Hemisphere from the Gulf of Mexico to south Asia, even pockets of
Europe and Canada. Long standing rumors had it that killing off her family was
not the worst she’d done, and new rumors were added to the list constantly.
“You still there?" Cyril asked.
“Yeah."
“We should meet," he repeated.
“Atlantis, okay?"
“Atlantis," he agreed and hung up.
The great thing about using “Atlantis"
as a code word is there’re a trillion places it could refer to. Since that new
island was christened “Atlantis", every city in the world had a dozen
sites using the name. But our Atlantis didn’t have anything to do with Atlantis
at all. It was just a short and random way to say, “Meet me in exactly 48 hours
at Eddie’s Bar & Grill in Johannesburg. And don’t tell anyone where you’re
going."
Paranoia set in on the way back to my hotel
room. I was in Varian Barish’s territory. Did she know who I was? Would she
accept that Lily's death was an accident? How angry would she be that we’d
treated her kid like a carrier, dumping her in Crematorium 6 where she’d become
part of an anonymous mound of ashes and hauled out to North Dakota for mass
burial?
I didn't bother to check out of the resort. I
dressed, packed my bag, and hopped the first bus heading toward the border. The
bus wasn’t crowded so I got a row to myself. I shifted through my stash of IDs.
I settled on Lee Brown, owner of a two-bit pool hall in San Jose and a usually
lucky alias. I realized I’d fallen asleep when the bus pulled into Vientiane
station the next morning and I didn’t have any memory of getting there. The
driver let us out for breakfast and checked the tickets of tourists waiting to
board. I figured Laos was as good a place as any to catch a flight to Africa,
so I bought three new outfits, changed in the men’s room, and jumped in a cab
to the airport.
Good ol’ Lee Brown. There was a flight
leaving for Cote d’Ivoire within the hour. I faked back problems and boarded early
so I could get a good look at who came in after me. No one looked ready to
drown me in the chemical toilet, but I wasn’t taking anymore chances. I spent
the flight keeping a steady, casual eye out. Once we landed, I headed to the
airport bathroom and changed again. From the airport, I took the rail to South
Africa. I'd be two hours late to meet Cyril at Eddie’s. He’d be angry because
to give him a reason for being there so long, he’d have to order some food and
Cyril hated Eddie’s food.
No matter what Cyril said, I loved Eddie’s
Bar & Grill. You always knew you were close because the smell of sauce and
burning meat wafted down the street to greet you. And there was the take-out
garbage that got denser as you honed in. The oversized door swung easily in its
hinges, like a saloon in a cowboy film, only instead of cowboys, semi-darkness
and acrid smoke greeted you and stung your eyes. Once you got used to it, you
could see the rows of diner tables and chairs with red vinyl seats, most split
open and bleeding lumpy cushion. In the back was the grill that made Eddie’s a
landmark. Flames rose two feet, hissing and snapping as cooks beat at them with
giant metal spatulas to rescue blackened meat. As far as I was concerned, Eddie’s
made the perfect burger: marinated, black on the outside and red and juicy on
the inside, and no ketchup or any of that crap smothering it.
I spotted Cyril sitting near the jukebox,
staring at his untouched hamburger with the drama at the grill playing out
behind him. He scowled when he saw me, his eyes bloodshot.
“You’re late," he said as I sat down.
“I know. Sorry about that."
“I can’t believe you made me wait for you in
this hell hole."
“Geez. I said I was sorry."
“Yeah, well. Can we get out of here? I’m
going blind from the smoke."
“Can’t I get a drink first?" I asked,
but Cyril snarled. “Okay, okay. Forget it." I grabbed his hamburger and a
fistful of coarse brown napkins, and tossed some money on the table.
It was cool outside as the harbor breezes
rushed over Johannesburg. I stuffed down the cold hamburger in a few sloppy
bites. Cyril grew more relaxed the further away from Eddie’s we got, but he
didn’t look any healthier.
“I hate that place," he said.
“You can chose the place next time," I
promised even though he would pick a place I hated to punish me.
“Damn straight," he said, pulling up
next to a park bench and sitting down. “What now?"
“I don’t know. How do we even know it was
Lily? That we’re not getting ourselves worked up over nothing?"
“We know because after you left, I ran into
Cristina Baylor at the Tango Queen. She wanted to ask my advice. We went into a
private room and she told me that Frank came home unexpectedly the night
before."
“Unexpectedly?"
“He was supposed to be in L.A."
“Oh."
“Anyway, he’s upset. He won’t tell her what’s
wrong or why he’s back. She worries he’s back on pills, so when he’s asleep,
she goes through his stuff. But instead of pills, she finds photos of guards, a
woman, and that little girl. Cristina’s too sweet to recognize them. She shows
me the photos and asks if Frank’s having an affair. But it was Varian Barish
and Lily. Dumb bastard or whoever hired him must’ve by some miracle snatched
Lily, hauled her back for ransom, then promptly lost her in the street where
you splattered her."
“That’s not good."
“No. It’s not," Cyril agreed.
“So what do we do now?"
Cyril chewed his fingernails. “It's been four
days since Frank snatched Lily. They must know Frank brought her to Newark, and
that she’s dead. Right now, they’re either wondering who killed her or they
already know and, as we sit here, they’re tracking us."
That wasn’t promising. Worse, it confirmed my
feelings, but I tried to be optimistic. “No one knows we killed her."
“You killed her," he corrected.
"And John Monk knows."
“Not necessarily." Monk saw a body
wrapped in a tarp. Still, if he guessed one of the bodies we dumped was Lily,
he would have sold us out. The bastard might’ve been in a penthouse somewhere counting
cash already. There was also the possibility I’d worried about at the time: a
witness. Maybe Frank was chasing his paycheck and saw her get hit. If they
caught him, he would've blabbed. I suggested that to Cyril.
“Maybe," he agreed. “If so, we’ve got
even less time."
We sat quietly, trying to think of something
positive and watching the sea gulls fight over wire trash bins.
“I wonder if there’s some way we can survive
this," I said, breaking the silence.
“Besides getting plastic surgery and moving
to Antarctica?" Cyril asked, as if that would work.
“Seriously. Who could save a pair of
star-crossed guys from Varian Barish?"
The sea gulls bickered as they settled down
for the night, covering the trees and lamp posts. A runt was ousted from a
statue, his castle of dung and patina.
“Varian Barish could," Cyril said
suddenly.
“She’s not going to."
“Maybe we could change her mind."
“I hope you’re going to follow up with a
realistic suggestion."
“No," he said sadly. “That was it."
“Fine. If that outrageous idea is our only
plan, then let’s figure out how it could work."
“It can’t."
“Why not?" I asked, somehow becoming
champion of the stupid idea.
“Because she doesn’t have an incentive
not to gut us."
“That’s true," I admitted. “What would
be a strong enough incentive for her?"
“Not money."
“No."
“Not another kid."
“No."
“Frank. We could give her the stupid bastard
and whoever he was working with."
“Well, not everything that happened was his
fault." I felt obliged to point that out since Varian Barish was
undoubtedly of the same opinion. “Besides, she probably has him. Does she have
any enemies we could deliver? A politician? Intelligence officer? Family enemy?
Meter maid? Anyone?"
“I can't think of anyone she hasn't already
gotten to herself."
“You’re very depressing," I said,
irritated. “You sound like you’re determined to let her shoot you off this park
bench."
Cyril didn’t answer. I looked more closely at
him. When I saw him in Eddie’s, I thought he looked terrible because of the
smoke. But we’d been outside for an hour, and he still looked terrible.
“You feeling okay? You look like crap,"
I said.
“Thanks."
“Seriously, Cyril. You look like crap."
“Once again, I thank you."
“Okay, what do I care?" I was pretty
surly myself. I ignored him and he ignored me, and we went back to watching the
sea gulls. Or rather, the lone sea gull still awake, gliding over the harbor,
swooping down to investigate scraps. It got boring quickly. “Got a room
yet?"
“No."
“Me neither." The bird caught a current
that carried it further over the water. I lost it in the darkening sky. “Well,
let’s go get one."
I got up and Cyril followed groaning. We went
to an old hotel with a reputation for being quiet. Lee Brown got a double room
on the third floor and paid in cash. I took a quick shower. By the time I was
done, Cyril was passed out. I checked that the door was bolted and chained
before going to sleep too.
A ray of light hit me in the face as the sun
rose. It was early and Cyril was still asleep, out cold like a man in a coma. I
washed up and left to get Eddie’s breakfast special and enjoy the cool
Johannesburg morning.
The city was a sharp contrast from Newark.
Newark was a decent town once, but fell into disrepair and never recovered.
Well-meaning politicians and philanthropists couldn’t wrestle it free of the
crime, poverty, and corruption entrenched in its dark streets and burnt out
buildings. Johannesburg, on the other hand, was built and sustained by gold and
gems. It borrowed the Danish model to clean up its slums and egalitarianize,
and was now one of the best cities in the world. It was a tough call between
this and Lee Brown’s San Jose pool hall, but I had more than once considered
retiring here. Came every chance I got.
Then I was shot in the arm. I didn’t realize
I was shot at first; I fell face-down on the sidewalk, my steak ‘n eggs popped
out Eddie's styrofoam container like a greasy jack-in-the-box and homefries
flew everywhere. There goes breakfast, I thought, stunned. I tried to
get up, but pain tore through my arm and ran down into my fingertips. My vision
narrowed and darkened like I was going to faint and I realized I’d been shot.
I panicked. I forced myself up and ran,
tripping and stumbling, weaving and ducking. I moved quickly through the near
empty morning streets. I was easy to spot, so I prayed the working stiffs would
come give me some cover.
I was a member at the local Y, so I
high-tailed there. It was being renovated, and its back wall had been replaced
by plastic. The construction workers hadn’t arrived yet, and I slipped inside.
The construction area was lit by a handful of security lights and was pretty
quiet, but over my panting I heard voices and machinery below me. I never
admitted it to Cyril, but I liked the Y. I even kept a locker there. I closed
my eyes and pictured the layout of the building. The weight room was below me.
The pool was in front of that. Locker rooms were upstairs.
I held my arm close. It was throbbing and my
run hadn’t helped. I would’ve fainted from the pain if I hadn’t been so
terrified. I tried not to think about the blood that made my skin wet and
sticky. It was congealing and I hoped that was a good sign, like the bullet
hadn’t hit an artery and I wasn’t going to bleed to death.
It was late enough that most of the early
bird crowd was gone. I slipped into the nearby stairwell. A receptionist and a
guard sat up front -– what passed for security at the Y -– but they couldn’t
see me from their desks. I jogged up the stairs and into the locker room,
making sure I wasn’t leaving a trail of red behind me. There was no one at the
lockers inside. I slid a stool in front of the door, where anyone coming in
would tip it over.
I went to the first aid cabinet, its red plus
sign a beacon on the wall. There was a mirror next to it and I sidled up to
take a look at myself. Blood stained my shirt from my arm to my fingertips and
soaked into the waist of my jeans. My face was pale and dripping, like the time
I had the stomach flu and spent nearly a month puking chicken soup and
crackers.
In the first aid cabinet were gauze and
bandages, tape, alcohol, smelling salts, and half a dozen other things. I took
a cautious whiff of smelling salts to clear my head. Gingerly, I cut off my
shirt with a pair of surgical scissors. At the row of sinks, I grabbed a bar of
disinfectant soap, and turned the water up. The heat was a mixed blessing, but
getting the gooey blood off was a godsend. Better, the wound wasn’t as bad as
the amount of blood suggested. The bullet took a chunk of meat and skin out; it
didn't sever an artery. I grabbed the plastic bottle of alcohol, tried not to
think about what I was doing, and soaked a gauze pad with it until it dripped.
I clenched my teeth and put the gauze on the wound.
Instantly, I dropped the bottle. I staggered
back, my vision peppered with light. Pain ran down to each fingertip and into
my chest. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was sit gasping against a row
of lockers. Then I heard laughing in the hallway.
The stool, my makeshift alarm, crashed to the
ground. “Oops!"
I grabbed my cut shirt, recovered the bottle
of alcohol, and crawled to the farthest row of lockers, still clenching my
teeth. I propped myself against the metal and waited.
“You’re so clumsy."
“I wasn’t the one who left the thing
there."
“Whatever." His companion's shoes
squeaking on the tile, as he walked through the locker room.
“You want to shower here or go home?"
“Home! You think I want to use these showers?
Please. Athlete’s foot I do not need." I heard him pull off the padlock
and open the locker. That’s right, I thought. Go home. I tasted
blood in my mouth; I must have bitten my tongue.
“Well, how about we pick up a light lunch on
the way. We can eat in the Jacuzzi."
There was more laughing and the snap of a
towel. This was why I didn’t tell Cyril I was a member of the Y; between the Y
and Tom Cruise, he’d have a breakdown. They finished quickly and left.
I replaced the stool in front of the door and
went back to work on my arm. I dabbed the fresh blood off with gauze and
bandaged my arm as best I could. Then I downed a few painkillers and found my
locker.
Inside was ID for “Roger Butler,” who I made
up to join the Y. Out of habit I'd left plenty of clothes, along with the
remains of a bottle of soda and a bag of cookies. Moving as quickly as I could,
I changed into jeans and a T-shirt, throwing on a jacket to cover my bandage
and a nice pair of leather gloves. I swiped a garbage bag from one of the bins,
wrapped the clothes I'd been wearing inside, and tossed the bundle into the
garbage along with the old soda. The cookies I pocketed; there was a chance they
were still good.
I went back to the surgical scissors and, to
alter my appearance a little more, gave myself a hair cut. I clogged the sink,
but managed to get the hair far enough into the drain that it couldn’t be seen.
I shoved the rest of the good clothes into the gym bag, raided the first aid
cabinet for as many supplies as I could, double-checked that I’d cleaned up
okay, and left the Y.
The morning commute was in full swing. Cars
and buses buzzed past, bicyclists and pedestrians fought over the sidewalk. I
was certain I’d lost any pursuit before I made it to the Y and now, with my new
look and in a crowd, I felt safe. Across the street was a HotDog Hideaway!, my
favorite chain restaurant. Remembering my steak ‘n eggs sprawled over the
sidewalk, I stopped in for breakfast.
I used the pay phone to call Cyril, but he
didn’t answer. I ate my hotdogs and wondered what to do. Somebody’d shot me; I
presumed that wasn’t random. The only enemy I could possibly have had in
Johannesburg was Varian Barish, who could be anywhere she wanted. What did that
mean? She knew about Cyril’s and my involvement -- however inadvertent -- in
Lily’s death. She knew we were in Johannesburg. She was pissed. I wondered if
bad fortune made me run into her people on the street or if she knew about the
hotel. Was Cyril asleep, in the shower, or dead? I called again, and again,
there was no answer. If Varian Barish knew about the room, couldn’t she have
come there and murdered us in our sleep? Why wait until I was a mile away and
in public to shoot me? That didn’t make sense, so I must’ve been in the wrong
place at the wrong time and the opportunity was too good for her goons to pass
up. I had to go back to the hotel for Cyril and hope Varian Barish hadn’t found
it. I grabbed my gym bag and left.
I was careful walking back. I took the long
way, doubling back on my tracks, and scanning the crowd for eyes that lingered
too long and faces that hid something. I was terrified, but alone.
At the hotel, I loitered in the lobby,
pretending to read the paper, making sure there wasn't a look-out waiting for
me. I tried to call Cyril again, but there was still no answer, so I took the
back stairs to our floor. I cracked the stairwell door and peeked into the
hallway. All was quiet. I decided to risk it since I'd come that far.
With a mixture of false bravado and caution,
I walked up to the door and unlocked it. I wished I’d had a gun, but I didn’t,
so I just swung open the door and hoped no one was waiting to kill me and laugh
about how stupid I was to come back. Part of me actually expected to die, but
no bullet ripped open my chest so I walked in, shut the door, and checked the
bedroom.
It stank of vomit. Cyril, pale and sweating,
was asleep underneath a mound of blankets. I sidestepped the puddle on the
carpet and pulled the blankets back. Cyril twitched and shook, his hair matted.
"Geez, Cyril! What happened?" I
asked, but he didn’t respond. I tried to get him to drink some water, but most
of it spilled down his shirt. I went to the bathroom and wet some towels. When
I got back, Cyril had half-heartedly replaced the blankets. I threw them to the
floor and spread the cold towels across his body.
We had a major problem: Cyril wasn’t mobile
and we needed to get out of the hotel fast.
I packed his stuff, rummaging through it as I
went. He told me the night before that he was under the alias Carter Galvan. I
looked at his other IDs, but I had no idea if any were safe anymore. I decided
to get rid of them all. Cyril would be my Philip Bolson. Fortunately, he was so
sick that no one would be able to tell the guy on the ID wasn’t him. They’d
assume that’s what he looked like when he wasn’t feverish and covered in vomit.
I compared the photo to me. With my hair cut, it wasn’t obviously me either.
I stuck Philip Bolson’s paperwork in Cyril’s
wallet and, because Varian Barish would trace the calls from the room the
minute she found it, I went to the lobby payphone to call an ambulance. I told
the dispatcher a man had been found on the stairs. I ran back up the stairs to
the room. I grabbed Cyril’s and my bags, threw them over my shoulder, and
hauled Cyril out of bed. He was limp and unbelievably hot, like he’d been
trapped in a sauna. I half-carried, half-dragged him from the room into the
stairwell. There we waited for the paramedics, Cyril moaning and clawing at his
stomach and me holding my arm where the blood was soaking through the bandage
after the strain of moving Cyril.
"It’s gonna be okay," I whispered
as they rushed into the stairs below us.
The first paramedic’s nametag said she was
from Harborfront Private EMS. "What’s the problem?" her voice was
slightly muffled by her face mask. She sounded like she spent time in the
military.
“I don’t know. I was coming from the gym, and
I saw this guy. He must’ve collapsed. I went downstairs to call you." It
was difficult to sound distanced, as if Cyril was a stranger and not my best
friend.
"You know his name?" she asked as
her partner hauled up equipment and starting pulling cords and tubes from a
black bag.
"No."
She searched Cyril’s pockets and pulled out
his wallet. "He’s got ID. Let’s hope Mr. Bolson’s got his insurance card
on him." I prayed I put it in there, and sighed when she found it.
"We can take him."
"Stand back, sir," said the
partner. "We’ll handle it now." He tore off Cyril’s shirt, strapped
sensors to his chest, and put an oxygen mask on his face.
"Is he going to be all right?"
"Sure. Thanks for your help." They
flipped open a collapsable stretcher, rolled Cyril onto it, strapped him into
place, packed up their equipment, and carried him out.
Cyril was gone in less than three minutes.
There was nothing left of him but sweat marks on my gloves. In my panic, I
never took them off. Distastefully, I stripped the gloves and dumped them in
the stairwell.
I waited another fifteen minutes then left.
I walked two miles before stopping at another
pay phone. There was a tattered Yellow Pages hanging from a metal cord securing
it to the booth. I brushed it aside in favor of the electronic directory. I
typed "H-A-R-B-O-R-F-R-O-N-T" and took another pair painkiller while
waiting for the list the directory would bring up. Harborfront Private EMS was
fourth. I dialed the call.
A man answered.
"My cousin was just picked up at the
Oxford Inn Hotel by your service. Do you know which hospital he was taken
to? His name’s Philip Bolson."
"Please hold." There was a click
and the news chimed in. It was raining again in Montana. "Radin-Morgan
General."
"Thanks." I hung up and hailed a
cab.
Radin-Morgan was neat, compact, and
"futuristic." Unfortunately, the future it predicted never came
about, so it just looked weird and dated. I walked past the ancient guard at
the front desk; I don’t think he even saw me. The public locker room was just
around the corner. I dropped off our stuff and set off to find Cyril. His
glassed-in room was ominously located in the infectious diseases ward. His
blinds were open, so I could see him lying in bed, surrounded by blinking
monitors. He had an IV stuck in his arm and a tube running up his nose. His
door read "NO ENTRY" and had a biohazard sign. The doctor told he was
positive for Ebola Wave 5.
"What?"
"I’m sorry, Mr. Butler. This must be
devastating for you," she said.
"I don’t believe it." I was in
shock.
"I need to know how he caught this.
There may be others at risk, so it’s important. Have you spent time with him
recently?"
I answered mechanically. "We just met up
him yesterday."
She wrote it down. "When did he first
show signs of sickness?"
"I don’t know. He was definitely sick
yesterday."
"Was he in contact with anyone who
seemed ill in the last two weeks?"
I shook my head. "Not that I know
of." It was unlikely Cyril picked it up at Crematorium 6 -– designed to
prevent transmission. Maybe we'd picked up a carrier on our rounds. I
remembered the fat guy from the dumpster the night we hit Lily Barish. Cyril
tucked him back into his carpet roll while I puked in the river. He had lesions.
The doctor continued, “I’m concerned not only
about Mr. Bolson, but also about you. You may have picked up the virus."
"What?" I hadn’t thought about
that. I thought back to our rendezvous at Eddie’s and was guiltily grateful
that Cyril hadn’t touched his burger before I scarfed it down. Maybe I’d be
spared. I looked at Cyril and wondered how far he’d progressed. He must’ve been
in agony, far worse than the pain from my gunshot wound. He might die, his guts
dissolving in his body. I asked the doctor about that.
She sighed. "I’ll be honest with you,
Mr. Butler. He’s already passed the initial stages. We’re bringing down his
fever, but hemorrhaging began in his spleen and liver before he came in. We’ll
work hard to save him. We’ve administered the new mutliwave treatment and, now
that we know it’s Wave 5, we’ll start wave specific treatment." She looked
at Cyril wrapped in his hospital sheets. "He’s lucky he was brought in
when he was." She sounded unconvinced and turned back to me. "Which is
why I’d like to start your treatment right now. With a few injections, we can
probably head it off. That is, if you test positive."
I didn’t test positive. I was lucky and
ecstatic, which made me feel guilty. Cyril was upstairs with Ebola liquefying
him, and the virus might yet kill him. I’d never see him again and he’d never
sail around the world like he dreamed. I spent the night on a bar stool,
nursing carefully spaced drinks.
Breakfast was more HotDog Hideaway! Then I
went to the post office. I stuffed my and Cyril’s IDs in an envelope to
Penelope Rabinowitz, a friend self-exiled in Mexico City, with a note
"Cash out to Michael Ferrentino." Penelope would transfer all
accounts under those IDs to the new alias. The new ID would be sent to my P.O.
box.
I spent two days waiting for the new ID and
trying to figure out how we could to escape Varian Barish, all the while trying
not to think too much about what Cyril. I go to the hospital to see him again,
but he was so drugged he didn't recognize me.
"The good news is that the virus has
slowed."
"Does that mean he's going to be
okay?"
The doctor looked upset and I got the feeling
she was deciding how much I could take. "Mr. Butler, let me be completely
frank. Your cousin is not going to make it."
I stood there, blank. How can you react to
news like that? That your best bud, the guy you work with, hang out with, and
fight with, has had it. It was the worst news I'd ever heard. I knew Ebola was
serious business; that's why terrorists used it. But I didn't realize how much
I hoped that Cyril was going to be okay, in spite of the odds, until she
snuffed out that hope. My head spun and I was suddenly incredibly hot. I wanted
to punch her in the face so that blood would gush from her nose and she would
feel half as badly as I did. I must've balled up my fist to do it, too, because
she glanced uncomfortably at my hands and shifted in her squeaky shoes.
She cleared her throat. "Uh, Mr. Butler,
I'm sure this comes as a terrible shock."
"Gee, Doc. You think?"
"Um." She started again. "Mr.
Butler, the virus had progressed too far. If he'd come in sooner, if we'd had
better luck ..." She continued, but I stopped listening. There wasn't
anything she could’ve said to make me feel better and she knew it. After a last
attempt at consolation, she gave up.
"How much longer does he have?"
She shrugged, reminding me how much I was
annoyed when Cyril did that and how much I'd miss it when he was gone. "A
few days. We're trying to keep him comfortable. He's declined euthanasia, so
we'll wait it out."
I watched Cyril through the large window. He
was propped up with pillows and breathing hard. I wished he were awake and I
could talk to him to know that he was alive; something to reassure me that
Cyril hadn't been reduced to a moth-eaten body in a stupor. But that was all he
was. I left.
All night, I thought "This is the
end." The same phrase over and over, like repetition would make it
comprehensible. By the next morning, I prepared to make my last visit to Cyril.
I was calm and rational, maybe in denial. I thought things like "I'm glad
it’s not me," and "Better to stop going to the hospital anyway if I
want to stay ahead of Varian Barish," and "My bullet wound's healing
nicely."
I packed my stuff and took it with me to the
hospital so I could leave Johannesburg right after my visit. I was surprised to
find Cyril awake. He looked like crap as, I supposed, he had a right to. His
skin was pale gray with dark hollows under his shrunken eyes that made me think
of old ghoulie films. Moisture beaded on his upper lip, a bubble moustache
meaning he was feverish. Beeping machines surrounded his bed. I stayed behind
the red "no-cross" line on the floor and wore bio-hazard gear.
"How's it going, Cyril?"
He licked his lips and said in an odd,
rolling voice, "How do you think, stupid? And apparently the name's Philip
Bolson."
"Okay, okay." Sheesh, I
thought stupidly, Cyril's pretty hostile.
"What are you doing here anyway? She's
probably traced me, you know."
"I guess I wanted to say good-bye."
"Yeah."
I felt awkward then because, really, what do
you say to a dead man? Luckily, Cyril kept talking.
"I've been thinking, maybe I can bail
you out of this mess."
"I doubt that very seriously."
"Don't be a jerk."
"Then don't you be a Fermat, telling me
you have a grand solution but croaking before you share it," I said,
lapsing into our standard rhythm.
"That's a callous way to talk. It's
hardly my fault I'm dying; you should be more sympathetic. After all, we're
practically family. Did you talk to your mother like that when she was on her
deathbed?"
"No."
"Damn straight you didn't." He
coughed, thick and wet, wheezing a bit toward the end. He mopped his face with
a damp towel and I regretted being a wiseguy. "Back to what I was saying.
The Cabal, those traitorous bastards, must’ve had us pick up a carrier to make
us sick, right?" I agreed. "But they don't know I was the only one
who got it. Now if Varian Barish knows we got tangled up with Lily, then she's
going to have a talk with the Cabal. They'll tell her they already took care of
us for reasons of their own by making sure we picked up Wave 5. Of course, she
tracked us herself to make sure. Varian Barish will find out I'm in the carrier
ward waiting for the Grim Reaper. For all she knows, Ebola could've gotten you
already."
"So?"
"So, maybe you were brought in around
the same time I was. Weakened by the shot in the arm, you died faster and were
already sent to the furnace. She won't have reason to believe otherwise,
particularly since my demise will be totally legit. She might even get here in
time to see me off."
I shuddered. "I don't think you'd want
that."
"What difference does it make?" He
sounded bitter.
"Well, for one thing, I don't think you
want her to torture you."
He shrugged, sick and pathetic. He'd lost
weight and I saw his collarbone peeking out beneath his hospital gown.
"Torture is an historically unreliable method of obtaining
information."
"Maybe, but she does it for fun."
"It's hard to get pleasure out of
torturing someone who's delirious more often than not. And she's not going to
easily find someone to come over here and get my Ebola all over him." He
pulled his arms from beneath the blankets. They shook with effort, covered in
sores where the virus had eaten through his skin. I took an involuntary step back
and Cyril smiled, the action setting off more wet coughing. He spat in the
bio-hazard container, and wiped foamy blood from his mouth. He tried to hide
it, but I saw pain in his eyes.
I asked him if the doctors were giving him
enough drugs.
"Yeah. You caught me in between
doses."
"That's good," I said hollowly.
Soon, Cyril would join Lily Barish in the North Dakota ash piles. I wanted to
streak to the nearest decontamination shower and stay in the chemical water
until my skin sloughed and peeled. And I hated the part of me that feared Cyril
now that he was a carrier.
"You'd better leave," Cyril said.
His speech slurred as a new wave of medication pumped into his veins.
"Yeah." No matter how much I wanted
to run, I couldn't move an inch.
"Don't worry about Varian Barish. Mock
up a John Doe in the morgue, send him to the burners and, if I'm still around
when she shows up, I tell her the Cabal got you first." Cyril quieted down
and closed his eyes. My heart pounded, filling my ears with thumping; I thought
he was dead. Then I saw the blankets moving gently, rhythmically, and I knew he
wasn't that lucky. I couldn't understand why he didn't take the euthanasia; I
would have killed myself in an instant.
When I left Cyril's room, I'd never been so
miserable or so happy to be alive. I was disgusted with myself for being torn.
I should’ve had no thoughts for myself. I should’ve been concerned only with
Cyril’s welfare. Yet even as I thought, I lingered in the decontamination area
and vowed to be more diligent with my vaccinations in the future.
After decontamination, I went to the morgue
to put Cyril’s plan into action. By-passing Radin-Morgan General's security was
simple. All I did was steal a clip-on ID, wave to the guy in uniform reading
the paper, and act as if I went to the hospital morgue everyday.
I walked past the ID lab to see the set up.
Through the pair of swinging doors with large windows, I saw there was only one
guy, drinking coffee dangerously close to the equipment. Bodies formed
"in" and "out" categories.
I went to the employee locker room to figure
out what to do. I needed a valid death certificate to stick on a John Doe in
order to convince Varian Barish I'd gotten bumped off by Wave 5; a fake would
not do. The problem was that I had to do that in the ID lab. And I couldn't
just bop the lab guy over the head, because then he'd just tell everyone that
some psycho attacked him in order to doctor ID cards.
I picked some locks, hoping to come across something
that would help me. I collected a decent watch, two cans of soda, a candy bar,
and a beat-up novel before I hit the jackpot: a vial of Seraphim, a liquid
barbiturate. After only a drop, you'd star as Adam in your own psychedelic
Eden. As I refined my plan and prepared to find a body, I donned a lab suit and
mask from a locker. I also grabbed the receipts off some dry cleaning, stuffed
the Seraphim in the breast pocket of my suit, and headed to the morgue proper.
I wasn't confronted until I was in the cadaver storage area, checking toe tags
of bodies laid out on gurneys by the dozen.
"Can I help you?" A guy peered
through the doorway.
Startled, I hit my head on a dead guy's foot.
The stiff's leg bounced on the metal tabletop with a hollow bang. The gurney
shifted and squealed, but the inevitable bum wheel kept it from moving far.
"Hey. Yeah. I'm from the ID lab. I heard you got a carrier John Doe down
here that we're supposed to run through the database." I waved the dry
cleaning receipts at him like they were my pick-up orders.
"You must be new. We don't keep carriers
down here. They go to the vault for special handling. We just have those two
drowned Johns over there." He pointed to the corner of the room where two
bloated bodies lay blue and rigid.
"Oh." I felt like an idiot. I
looked at my authoritative documents, the laundry tickets, pretty easily
appearing baffled. "Someone screwed up."
He shook his head sympathetically. "Not
the first time."
"Tell me about it." I folded up the
tickets and shoved them into my belt. "Well, as long as I'm here I might
as well take one of those drowned Johns right now."
"Be my guest." He left, probably to
the bowels of hospital and a corpse laid out on an autopsy table, skin pulled
back and ribs cracked open like a half-eaten Thanksgiving turkey. I grabbed a
John Doe and maneuvered his gurney through the rows of cadavers and to the ID
lab.
The gurney hit the lab's swinging doors with
a thud and the lab guy groaned through his mask. "Not another one."
"Yeah," I said, convincingly
apologetic because I was about to drug him silly. Most likely, he would be
found by a fellow technician and fired. "You want 'im over there?" I
nodded toward his "in" bunch.
"Yeah, that's good."
I wheeled my John Doe across the lab to join
some equally sorry looking stiffs. Once he was parked, I walked over to the lab
worker, fumbling to pull out my dry cleaning slips. "I gotta get your
signature, okay?"
He reached out, but I banged my hand into his
coffee cup, "accidentally" spilling the coffee all over the slips.
"Geez! I'm sorry," I said, catching the cup before it hit the floor.
"Your slips are ruined," he said,
seeing the ink run.
"Oh, man. I'm gonna catch it from those
guys. Look," I said like I'd just thought of it, "let me have them
re-do this paperwork. I'll be right back, okay?"
"Sure."
"Hey, can I buy you another cup?"
"Decaf."
"Okay. I'll be right back." I left
quickly still muttering about how sorry I was and how much trouble I was going
to get.
The vending machine produced a steaming cup
of coffee. I poured in the Seraphim. One drop was good, but I couldn't trust
him to finish the whole cup of coffee, nor did I have time. I put in a third of
the vial, swished it around, and hoped for the best.
The guy was surprised to see me back so soon.
"Yeah, they're back there working on the
paperwork. It'll take a couple of minutes, but I didn't want you to have to
wait on that coffee." I handed it him. "I'll be back in a few."
I made to leave, but doubled back in the
hallway. I wished I had a periscope so I didn't have to risk being seen, but
instead I had to make do with darting glances. Finally, he drank. After I was
certain he had a few swallows, I timed five minutes and went in.
The lab guy was staring intently at the
floor. Slowly, He leaned over until he fell flat on his face. I noticed he'd
had half the coffee. I jumped into his chair and swiveled to face the monitor.
The screen read, "INSERT SAMPLE". I plucked a hair from my eyebrow.
Wave 5 usually killed so fast that it didn’t show up in a hair sample, so hair
was safer should someone feel the perverse need to retest it. I took an empty
slide from the table, stuck the eyelash on, added a drop of a blue dye, and
topped it off with a thin slide cover.
I pushed the slide into
microscope/mini-scanner machine attached to the computer. The machine whirled
and twittered. The screen asked, "DOE NO."
I went back to my Doe waiting on his gurney.
He had a small toe tag that I ripped off and took back to the computer.
"215-568-9981," I answered.
"JOHN DOE 215-568-9981," the screen
read, and listed a bunch of information. I tried to type over "CAUSE OF
DEATH: ASPHYXIATION BY DROWNING".
"CORRECT ENTRY? Y/N"
I hit "Y" again and got a blank, so
I filled in "END STAGE EBOLA (WAVE 5)" and hit enter, confident
Cyril’s scheme would work. Then my stomach hit the floor and I knew my mother
would say I jinxed it.
"ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE"
I went over to the lab guy, still laid out on
the floor. His plastic ID tag had an employee number, so I typed that in.
"INVALID ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE"
I wasn't panicked. Most people, like me, have
very simple passwords. I'd never be able to get into anything if most of the
combinations, codes, account numbers, and other stuff I had to remember weren’t
easy for me to deduce. I typed in his first name.
"INVALID ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE"
I wished I knew his birthday, something
personal like that, but he didn't have his autobiography sitting around. I
thought about his job. Maybe he had a sense of humor about it.
"LABRAT"
"INVALID ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE"
"CORPSE"
"INVALID ENTER AUTHORIZATION CODE"
I tried "CADAVER,"
"STIFF," "RIGORMORTIS,” and "REAPER" without success.
Radin-Morgan didn't have a limitation on the number of passwords I could try
before the system crashed, but I was starting to give up. All the creeping
around the morgue, ransacking the employee locker room, stealing a dead body,
and OD'ing the ID guy were about to be for nothing. I stared at him, like I
might be able to see the authorization code through his skull. His eyes were
open and he was making a thick, foamy puddle of drool.
"CODE," I typed.
"ENTRY CORRECTED CAUSE OF DEATH: END STAGE EBOLA
(WAVE 5)" The instructions for disposal of the body were automatically
changed from the default about consulting the family to "IMMEDIATE
INCINERATION" with notification afterward.
Relieved, I checked over the other
information. Height and weight were close enough to mine to leave. Hair, eye,
and skin color were all pre-filled as "N/A." The categories were
relics of the days when those things were permanent. I sat back nervously while
the computer searched the database of 7 billion people for a match to the DNA
in my hair. I'd been in the hospital a long time and my efforts would be moot
if Varian Barish were waiting in the lobby when I walked out.
The screen blinked. "MATCH FOUND".
My name and social security number appeared, along with next of kin. They even
had an outdated photograph.
I okayed the
match and printed out the paperwork. As I put the toe tags on the body, pulled
the hair sample from the computer, put the appropriate ID sticker on the slide,
and placed it in a pile with others that waited to be filed, I realized that I
was officially dead. The police would tell my sister. We weren't close by any
means; I hadn't spoken to her since she told me I was a destructive influence
on her kids. Still, I suddenly realized that I missed them. Jake should have
graduated from high school by now, and the twins were probably gearing up to
go. I wondered what they would feel when they heard I died, and a carrier no
less. My sister would say she wasn’t surprised.
Gurgling from the floor brought me back into
focus. I wheeled my John Doe, now ID'ed as me, to the hospital's crematorium.
The resident burner was on a potty break, but I'd seen John Monk in action
enough times to work the equipment. I used the password of my self-sacrificing
friend in the ID lab to send "me" to the fire.
I dumped the borrowed lab suit and mask back
at the employee locker room on my way back to the public locker room where I'd
left Cyril's and my stuff. Slinging our bags over my shoulder, I went to hail a
cab. It was dusk, with alternating bands of orange light lingering in the west
and heavy storm clouds moving toward Johannesburg. I would have preferred the
dawning of a new day.
*
* *
I am a coward. I'm certain Dante designated a
circle in hell for my kind. For seven months, I was Michael Ferrentino, running
an ancient pub in the south of England that I bought for a song. It was a
beautiful place to be in exile. My pub was near a small dock where local
fishermen, working mostly from habit, brought their catch to show my cook.
Later, he'd whip up a storm of fish 'n chips while my bartender poured drafts.
I bought a house too. Most of it dated back
to the 1800s, with an even older central room and stone hearth. It had an acre
of countryside where my neighbor kept two cows and a dozen multicolored
chickens. The house was only minutes away from the town proper via narrow,
walled lanes that forced drivers into blind curves and on-coming traffic. The town
was a vacation paradise. City dwellers flocked to their summer townhouses that
lined the cliffs of the town like dormitories, staring out to sea. The
apothecary told me they had once been Coast Guard barracks. I don't know if
that was true, or just something told to transients.
Cornwall’s peacefulness was a narcotic I
greedily sucked down. I really became Michael Ferrentino, reacting naturally
when someone called "Mick!" and adopting the life like I'd been born
to it. I walked through the streets without fear, nodding to strangers, waving
to neighbors. I was part of the nameless masses Cyril and I always decried, the
ones that worked all day and paid their taxes. This, I thought, is
how the rest of the world lives. This is how my sister lives. I liked it.
I didn't think much about Cyril. I didn't
think about whether Varian Barish administered his last rites, or whether he
died eaten inside out by Ebola. I didn't think about whether Varian Barish was
coming after me or found something to distract her. I didn't wonder who in the
Cabal stabbed us in the back and why. The past was dead.
But I slept terribly, with haunting images of
Cyril creeping into my mind. He would be in his hospital gown, his face gaunt
and boney, and he would point at me accusingly, or sneak up behind me to lean
over my shoulder and place his sunken face against mine. He would cough up
blood and organs onto my clothes, show me oozing sores on his arms, and mouth
words I couldn't understand. Sometimes the dreams weren't bad. Sometimes we
would go out to the 2-D theater. I'd park the car, then we'd make jibes at the people
at the 3-D and argue over which film to see. Sometimes, we'd go to a bar or be
back in school. Once I woke up laughing, until I remembered he was dead.
Cyril would keep haunting me until I took up
his cause, figured out why all this misfortune befell us and gave a little
payback. It was just like him to nag me into insanity; Cyril never let anything
drop. Still, I didn't do anything. I figured that Cyril's accusations were not
too high a price for being alive.
I kept that logic going as long as I could.
One morning when I arrived at the pub, my
cook looked up from examining fish and asked me if I'd heard what happened. The
tabloids said woman had been murdered in her condo in Mexico City. Although not
otherwise newsworthy, this woman was internationally renown for hiding
criminals, ex-politicians, terrorists, and all sorts of others. The authorities
were eager to get their hands on her. She was so good at disappearing, though,
that they'd never been able to locate her. Someone else did.
They said she'd been tortured; fingernails
and toenails pulled out, fingers and ribs broken. One eye seared shut with a
metal rod. Skin neatly sliced with a thin blade to produce lots of pain and
little blood. It was a collage of a master technician. Maybe she talked, maybe
her torturers got bored. They finished her off by jamming a hook up her nose
and whisking it around, like Egyptian embalmers, until her brain liquefied. The
police found it dribbling down her shirt like overcooked oatmeal. My cook
couldn't remember her name; the rag lying on the bar said it was Penelope
Rabinowitz.
I freaked. Then I reminded myself that
Penelope dealt with very bad people and her heinous demise might’ve been
unrelated to the fact that she set up phony IDs for me. This was not
necessarily the work of Varian Barish. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that
my doom was upon me and, before I knew it, I was in the public library
searching the web for anything else that happened since I left Johannesburg.
The last seven months had been bad ones in
Newark. Frank Baylor, the dummy that snatched Lily in the first place, was
found flayed and crucified; his wife, Cristina, hung next to him. My mechanic,
Gail St. James, was found drawn and quartered in her garage. The old 2-D
theater where Cyril and I went every week burned to the ground. Pascal’s
charred skeleton was discovered chained to a radiator pipe.
As I read, a lump in my stomach grew,
festered, and spread. I went cold. There was only one explanation for the
carnage: my ruse in the morgue hadn’t worked. Varian Barish was hunting me.
After I disappeared from Johannesburg, she went to Newark for clues. Starting
with Frank, then moving to old haunts and acquaintances, she'd tracked me to
Penelope. I wondered what Penelope told her. I would have told Varian Barish
anything she wanted to know and a lot she didn't care about. I thought about my
sister and her kids. There was no news on them. I didn't dare contact them, but
I couldn't let Varian Barish kill them. I also realized that if Varian Barish
knew I was alive, then the Cabal almost certainly did too. Either way, someone
would be coming to visit.
Cyril was going to have his way. Since I
couldn’t hide from Varian Barish and the Cabal much longer, I decided to
confront them. If I couldn’t bargain with them, I could hope for a quick death
as a reward for turning myself in. I didn’t let myself think of the possibility
of anything worse.
I told my cook I had a family emergency and
I'd be gone indefinitely. He promised to take care of the pub and my house. I
packed my stuff and flew back to Newark. Every step I took toward the plane I
wanted to turn back. I forced myself to stop the inconclusive soul searching
about futility and destiny, pain and fear. It was only a matter of time before
Varian Barish and the Cabal did me in. The situation was greater than avenging
Cyril. My hunters killed people, and I couldn’t allow more to die so that I
could spend a few more days as Mick Ferrentino.I’m not certain that I would’ve
cared much before Cyril got sick. I would have thought of them as casualties of
war. Now, no matter how much I wanted to sit on the dock laughing with
fisherfolk, I couldn’t do it if it meant someone else was going to suffer.
Cyril would think the transformation worth a philosophical discussion.
Hours later, I walked out of the airport in
Newark. I hoped I wouldn't be recognized, but I wasn't afraid. I was going to
do right by Pascal, Penelope, Gail St. James, and Cristina Baylor. They died in
my place after all. Frank Baylor could go to hell for dragging us all into this
mess.
I figured out my rough plan on the plane. I
knew why Varian Barish was after me, but not why the Cabal betrayed us. Once I
had all the information, I could figure out which organization to approach. My
first stop was a slum in Newark where neither police nor the Cabal went. It was
filled with carriers and addicts who debased themselves for a fix. I traded
cheap liquor for two vials of contaminated blood from a junkie. Then I looked
up a couple of eco-terrorists that Cyril and I met a few years back while doing
rounds. Over a few pints and memories later, they sold me everything I needed.
It was good to have weaponry and cockiness
after hiding out, I told myself, psyching up for the job. It was facade but it
worked. I felt like the old me again, not Mick Ferrentino. Mick would never
track a member of the Cabal's middle-management like Leon Hill to his
apartment. Mick wouldn’t catch him on the crapper flipping through a magazine,
hammer him in the gut and face with a sauce pan until he choked on his teeth,
stab him in the jugular with a needle filled with junkie blood, and threaten to
hit the plunger. Of course, I wouldn't normally do such things either, but
there I was, newfound humanity on the fritz.
"Well?" I asked Leon.
"You didn't even ask me anything, you
prick,” He spat.
Careful not to jostle the needle too much, I
hit him again with the pan. He was right though; I hadn't asked. "Why did
the Cabal have us pick up a carrier?"
He spat at me again. I wasn't sure if he was
putting up a brave front or not as intimidated as I hoped. I moved to depress
the plunger, just enough to assure him that I'd really do it.
"How do I even know that’s junkie blood?
You probably took that it from the Red Cross."
He was getting
bold, wondering if he could take me before I could unload the syringe. Frankly,
I was wondering the same.
To hell with this, I thought. I slammed him with the pan until
the handle snapped. He was dazed, so I backed off, pulled out a pistol, and
blew off two of his toes. He howled and grabbed his foot, toppling off the
toilet.
"Are you going to tell me or make me
shoot chunks out of you until there's nothing left?"
"You know damn well why we stuck you
with the carrier, and you damn well deserved it." He mumbled something I
couldn’t hear.
"What was that?"
"Mother-"
I shot him in the ankle. The joint popped and
blood exploded across the tile. Leon screamed, alternatively clutching his
wounds and spewing curses. I let him think about what else I might do to him
before I asked again, "Why did they do it?"
"Cyril figured it out, man." He
gasped and I knew I’d been too harsh, but I wasn't in control of myself. I had
totally cracked. "He picked up that brooch from one of them scientists the
boss got sick of and popped. Cyril found the brooch, ran an ID of the guy and a
few other stiffs you'd been picking up, and he figured out everything. Or was
going to. But what were we going to do, man? Shoot him? Call in more attention?
Hell no. What better than a bug? Baggers are bound to catch something
sometime."
"What are you talking about?"
Leon looked at me like I was crazy. His blood
had splattered over clothes and onto the bathroom tile like a Jackson Pollock.
"You don't know, do you?" He started laughing. He was hysterical.
"We assumed with you an' Cyril being so close. But that bastard didn't
tell you jack. You almost got Wave 5 for nothing."
"Tell me what?"
"I'm not going to tell you,
mother-"
"I'll kill you if you don't."
"Don't even try to screw with me. The
minute you walk out of here, I'm going to tell the Cabal you’re back and
begging to be taken down. You gotta kill me."
"Maybe, but I could make it so miserable
that you beg me to finish you." He taunted me some more, but his bravado
was fading. I went into another world where I watched myself work him until he
could talk no more, although he'd become eager. It was strange to see myself do
horrible deeds. I stared at myself in morbid fascination, waiting to see what I
would do next. A year ago, I would have sworn I wasn’t capable of standing over
a man and callously experimenting. Yet I was doing it, sickened by the pleasure
part of me took in the act. I wondered if Varian Barish felt this way her first
time. I wondered if I could ever be Mick Ferrentino again; with this kind of
blood on my hands, could I be an ex-patriot barkeep on the southern coast of
England?
I didn't kill him. I injected him with the
junkie blood when he passed out and called him an ambulance. At the hospital,
they would test his blood and tell him he was a carrier. Maybe treatment would
work; maybe not.
Outside, I watched the ambulance pull up,
lights flashing and sirens blaring. The crew rushed in and, a few minutes
later, hauled Leon Hill out on a stretcher, covered with a coarse brown
blanket. I left, feeling the lump in my coat pocket where I had tucked the
proof that Leon offered me. I tried to picture Leon's face when he woke up,
realized that he was alive and a carrier, and wondered what the Cabal would do
when they learned he'd ratted them out.
Leon told me Cyril got me stuck deep in this
mess and left me to fend for myself without a clue as to what was going on. I
couldn't believe it. I was almost dead because of the jerk, and he wasn't even
alive for me to kick his butt. Between Leon’s rantings and some deduction, I
learned what set off the Cabal. A few months before we picked up the carrier,
Cyril pinched a diver's watch a stiff. Then he started noticing that a couple
of the stiffs we picked up had diver's watches. Cyril researched one stiff, who
turned out to be a marine archeologist. Turned out that the others were divers
and marine archeologists. One guy's claim to fame, such as it was, was finding
an intricate brooch, 24-karat gold and encrusted with gems, with the
goldsmith's mark faintly visible. It was from sixteenth-century Spain. More
accurately, it was on its way to Spain when its ship sank in the Caribbean. The
ship was never recovered. Except it was about three years before this guy
turned up on our rounds. Cyril also learned that all the commercial treasure
hunting outfits in the Americas were bought by mysterious purchasers.
Cyril assumed that the Cabal was behind
these goings-on, but couldn't figure out why. After all, why would the Cabal
gamble on finding shipwrecks? Being Cyril, he investigated. When he discovered
that more than one-fourth of all the gold ever minted was under the waters of
the Caribbean and Atlantic, he knew how the Cabal became the richest
organization in the U.S. The Cabal, still an upstart parvenu, was sucking the
treasure from Varian Barish's waters and competing with her using her own
money.
The treasure hunting companies had a general
sense of where many of these shipwrecks were. What they didn't have was funding
to retrieve it; the Cabal did. That the ships were in Varian Barish’s empire
didn’t deter the Cabal; it made them cautious. Three small, ordinary-looking
ships cruised the sea under the Cabal's command, nonchalantly scooping up
unimaginable wealth. Jewelry and artifacts were sold through discrete auction
houses, gold and silver were molded into new bars, and loose gems were sold to
wholesalers to end up in Fifth Avenue windows.
This secret cache got Cyril killed. Cyril
hadn't known half of what Leon told me, but enough for the Cabal to eliminate
us. The same information could save me. Varian Barish might let me live in
exchange for it. Maybe she would keep the Cabal busy explaining themselves and
they wouldn't have time to come after me.
I took a flight out of Newark to Panama, where
Leon told me Varian Barish was holding court. I headed to the hotel nearest her
estate the moment I landed and reviewed my options. The Barish family fortress
perched defiantly on the hill where explorers first saw -– simultaneously –-
the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Although the city expanded to meet the Barish
house, it granted the estate wide berth. The fortress was a monstrous European
mansion with ochre towers and bright white trim. Gardens and neat lawns
surrounded the house, which was ringed by an iron fence at the base of the
hill. A single, heavy gate with a tiny guard tower protected the winding drive.
My hotel had an unobstructed view of the
Barish house, and I surveyed the property through a pair of binoculars. A close
up of the windows showed that behind the bulletproof glass and expensive
curtains were walls with trompe l'oeil design and just enough light to make it
appear that the window looked into a room. Not many would have noticed that the
Barish house effectively had no windows; those that did would know enough to
mind their own business. Infrared and MIMIC-busting views were even more
useful. Three fuzzy guardhouses dotted the lawn. An electric fence ran inside
the iron fence around the perimeter. Guards lounged beneath rooftop satellite
dishes or leaned on mounted machine guns and grenade launchers. Depressed, I
put down the binoculars and the images disappeared.
Over several days, I confirmed Varian
Barish's personal vehicle: an armored Bentley escorted by two SUVs. One day, on
impulse, I followed them to a trendy Asian restaurant. I lagged behind, walking
in after I activated my personal mobile MIMIC unit on loan from the
eco-terrorists. MIMIC was a wonderful thing. A techie once explained to me how
MIMIC copied data of objects around it and projected the data onto the desired
target as camouflage. I paid closer attention to his warnings than his
explanations: avoid complicated surroundings and move like a sloth.
Slowly, I skirted the edges of the
restaurant, staying away from patrons and staff. Varian Barish’s guards were
outfitted with MIMIC-busting glasses and at times I crawled to avoid their
gazes. After heart pounding minutes, I made it to the back of the restaurant
with my camouflage bubble uncompromised. Without a real plan, I slipped into
the ladies' room. I took an assertive position -– my guns aimed squarely at the
door and a cyanide pill tucked in my cheek -– and waited. Unmoving against the
tile, I was invisible.
My arms were cramped when Varian Barish’s
guard opened the door. A quick glance under the stalls would have convinced
most that the place was empty, but she scanned the room anyway. Her dark
glasses clicked as they searched, her head moving slowly to face me. Her eyes
widened when she saw through my MIMIC and found a blurry pair of gun barrels
almost touching the side of her face. She jerked instinctively, stopping when
she realized that the movement gave me a clear shot at Varian Barish behind
her, just inside the doorway. The door swung shut, leaving the three of us in
awkward silence. I backed out of kicking range of the bodyguard.
“Well. You are not here to assassinate me, or
you would have fired by now,” Varian Barish said, looking right at me. I had
the uncomfortable sensation that she could see through my MIMIC. “Anything to
say to before I kill you?”
Her confidence in the face of gun barrels
unnerved me. “I’d like to speak to you –" I stopped mid sentence,
realizing that one of her eyes was artificial: a MIMIC-buster that gave her a
fuzzy image of me. I lowered the guns immediately and felt the reassuring shell
of the cyanide capsule in my mouth. “I’d like to speak with you a minute. Then
if you still want to kill me, go ahead.” I had nothing to lose by trying to
bargain; all I had to do was bite down to escape her and the Cabal. At least
there’d be no torture for me, or anyone else on my account.
“Go.”
I was succinct. “The Cabal is dredging your
oceans for gold to buy your business out from under you.” Her eyes narrowed as
I explained the process. At the end of my breathless presentation, she asked
for proof. I handed her the parting gifts from Leon Hill, the pouch seeming to
wink into existence in Varian Barish’s palm as I pulled my camouflaged hand
away. She pulled out a pair of emerald encrusted earrings and a folded
inventory.
Her face was a cool mask. “I assume there’s a
reason why you daringly infiltrated a public restroom to tell me this at
gunpoint rather than come to my office."
"I wouldn't have lived long enough to
tell you." I rolled the cyanide between my teeth as I deactivated MIMIC.
Her face became rigid as she saw me clearly. "I want a pardon."
"No," she said, her lips barely
moving. "The payment for Lily's death should be harsh and lingering, not
mere words." She fingered the recovered earrings. “Still, some reward for
your revelation seems appropriate.” She looked hard at me, then smiled. “There
is a price for freedom from the past. You may choose your method of payment:
swallow your poison and die easily, or cut off your hand and live."
"What?" I stammered, hoping that I
hadn't heard correctly.
She didn't repeat herself.
Once again I faced my cowardice. For an
instant, I though to kill Varian Barish were she stood. But her calm disdain
(and her bodyguard) made me wonder if they could cut me down before I lifted my
guns to fire. Even if I could, I'd still have to face the Cabal. Her offer
meant I could walk away, leaving my problems with the Cabal to Varian Barish
and safe from her. My other choice was to bite down, but preserving my life was
a big part of why I was here, after all. A hand seemed a small price; after
all, Penelope, Pascal, Cristina Baylor, and Gail St. James all paid more.
Varian Barish knew my choice without me
saying a word. "Get a cleaver and the ‘out of service’ sign for the
restroom," she ordered without taking her eyes off me. Her guard took my
guns before she left. Moments later she reappeared, tools in hand. She handed
Varian Barish the cleaver.
"Spit out that pill," Varian Barish
told me, balling up a wad of paper towels. "Bite down on this
instead."
Woodenly, I spit the poison capsule onto the
tile floor. Her guard placed the wad of towels in my mouth, holding my
tongue in place and nearly gagging me. She locked my arm flat on the
countertop. Varian Barish hovered over me like a butcher, savoring the moment,
before handing me the cleaver. Nearly choking, I started at my hand like it was
an alien thing. The fingers instinctively curled into a tight fist, bracing
against the bodyguard's grip. The skin mottled as the blood struggled to
circulate, reminding me of Cyril's lesions. This is where it ends, I
thought, pouring all the incarnations of myself into the clenched hand, making
it a vessel of every contemptible act I committed. When only Mick Ferrentino
remained, I raised the cleaver above the vile organ and brought it down.
The blade bit cleanly through muscle and bone
before sinking into the porcelain. The hand flopped into the sink and sat in a
pool of thick, red blood. Pain rushed through me like a tsunami. A few,
disjointed images later, I crumpled in shock. I remember hot blood splattered
over the sink and floor, the tiles like ice pressed against my back, Varian
Barish tossing the stained cleaver into the sink, the bloody groove in the
porcelain, her final instructions to her bodyguard, "Clean up this
mess."
I woke, hours later, in a hospital bed
beneath starchy sheets and a thin cotton blanket with the scent of flowers
wafting in from an open window. My arm was tightly bandaged and slung against
my chest. I didn’t feel uncomfortable; painkillers still lingered in my system.
I pulled off the gadgets and monitors attached to me, got dressed, and fled
back to England.
*
* *
After two years of tinkering, my new hand was
finished, crafted from seeds of skin and bone over polymer scaffolding. I'd
never be Vladimir Horowitz, but that was fine. I lived in a world without the
Cabal or Varian Barish, a member of the faceless masses. The day my doctors
pronounced me healed was notable for another reason. It was the anniversary of
the biggest gang war the U.S. had ever seen: all the Cabal's 236 members and
affiliates were murdered in a single day.
It was good to be free.