The radio hums through the hour’s headlines. Nothing about the Mayor. Perhaps it’s too early for any word on his condition. The announcer mentions some kind of biological incident downtown before shifting into the stock market’s latest gyration, and from there to yet another conflagration in the Middle East. Humanity, it’s a dizzying wreck, isn’t it? I still don’t get how some of you manage to stay sane.
Carrie steers down an alley, then into a fenced-in parking lot lined with black and white mini-cars, all with the same pizza logo on the door. The lot is attached to a squat building painted white, its rear door bracketed by dumpsters. Beside the dumpsters are stacks of flattened pizza boxes wrapped in twine.
Nudging into the one empty slot, Carrie shuts off the motor and opens the glove compartment. Inside is the promised bottle of hand sanitizer, plus a pile of loose bills (tens and twenties and a few fifties), some takeout menus, a screwdriver and a roll of duct tape.
“Give me the money the costume guy gave you.” She shuffles the bills from the glove compartment with the speed of a riverboat gambler.
“You earned all that from pizza?” Trent hands over his cash, which she slips into the stack before resuming her counting.
“Pizza’s not all I’m delivering.”
“Oh.”
Carrie slips the folded wad into her pants pocket. “Come on.”
As they exit the vehicle, Trent notes the keys still dangling in the ignition. “You want to take those along?”
“Nope. And don’t lock your door. It’s safe here.”
“You’re sure?” Through Trent’s nose we smell fried meat, curdling grease, the soft scent of bread baking, all of it courtesy of two steamy vents above the dumpsters. Trent’s stomach rumbles, and we think: God bless youth. Always up for food, no matter how bad the situation or intense the fear. We could use some high-cholesterol nourishment, as well. Expanding one’s tendrils through a living host is grinding work.
“Yeah. Big Jim, remember?”
That stops Trent in his tracks. “Wait, he’s actually here?”
“Yep. His office is upstairs, above the restaurant.”
“I’m not going in.”
Carrie grips Trent’s elbow. “Yes, you are. Trust me, it’s safer that way.”
“I thought you said the lot was safe.”
“Yes, the cars are safe. Someone pokes their head out, sees a kid they don’t know standing there, you might not be.”
Trent digs in his heels. “I got a bad feeling about this.”
“He’s just a weed dealer, okay?” She tugs his arm, failing to budge him. “Grow a set.”
“You of all people know I got a set.”
Her hand drops to his crotch, skimming his zipper. “And I will squeeze them until they pop, I swear, if you give me any shit.”
He finally starts to move again. “Well, if you put it that way.”
“Come on. If you’re lucky, he might even throw you some work.”
The prospect of money makes Trent’s brainstem buzz with animal need. They pass through the rear door into a bustling, fiery space. Chefs in floury whites feed raw pizzas into the roaring heart of a brick oven. Waitresses in short skirts run the finished pies through a pair of swinging doors that lead to the restaurant. Carrie guides Trent through a side doorway and up a flight of rickety wooden stairs, lit by a bare bulb screwed into the wall. At the top, they arrive at another door, plated with steel.
Carrie winks at the security camera embedded above the doorframe. Behind her, Trent stands with his hands in an anxious knot. We squeeze a little pick-me-up of dopamine into his blood, although we can’t fault his nervousness. We never felt in this kind of danger when Bill did his rounds, even when restaurant owners threatened to call the cops. Then again, Bill never dealt with a restaurant owner who was also a drug dealer.
The door opens, framing a sunburned meat-mountain in a frayed undershirt. The Mountain’s head is perfectly square and topped with a blonde faux-hawk. The tattoo on his chest is a black sun with wavy rays, a grinning skull at its center. He grunts, “Whaddup, girl?”
“Did the shit,” Carrie says, her voice dropping to a lazy drawl.
“Good.” The Mountain cranes his head. “Who dat?”
“Friend.” Carrie reaches back and grips Trent’s collar, tugging him close. “He’s cool.”
The Mountain grunts once more before standing aside, allowing the kids into the upper floor. The décor looks like something Vlad the Impaler would have chosen if you let him loose in a home-furnishings store with a limitless credit card: heavy velvet drapes over the windows, blood-red rugs on the floors, plush furniture upholstered in brass and dark leather, a fireplace with jewel-encrusted skulls on the marble mantel. From unseen speakers, classical music plays loud enough to nearly drown out the kitchen tumult drifting through the floorboards.
Against the nearest wall, equidistant between two thickly-draped windows, stands a low table topped with what looks like an altar: a shallow brass bowl with a red-stone figurine standing in it, multi-armed, ludicrously fanged, gloriously horned. Smoke belches from the incense sticks in the demon’s fists, blotting out the smells of grease and baking pizza.
“Well, this is unexpected,” Trent says.
Closing the door behind us, the Mountain slams the locks home.
At the far end of the space is an imposing desk of old and rough-hewn wood. Behind it sits a man as large and reddened as the Mountain, albeit dressed in a natty three-piece gray suit. The man’s hands, folded on the desk’s heavy blotter, are networked with fading blue tattoos, words and symbols almost lost beneath thick black hair.
“Hey Jim,” Carrie says, pulling the wad of cash from her pocket. “Had some good deliveries today.”
Big Jim nods to the Mountain, who takes the money.
“Anyway.” Carrie speaks a little faster. “I was hoping I could get paid out and get out of here? You know, stuff to do, bills to pay.”
“Carrie, I like you.” Big Jim’s voice sounds like a truck braking. “That’s why you’re up here, with me, instead of getting paid out by Seb in some alley somewhere. Who is your friend?”
“This is Trent,” Carrie says, since Trent seems stunned by the weirdness of the room.
Big Jim leans forward, eyebrows raised. “Is it that Trent?”
Carrie rolls her eyes. “Yes, that one.”
Trent snaps back to reality. “Sorry, which one?”
“You’re back together?” Big Jim asks Carrie, ignoring Trent completely.
Carrie stares at her feet. “No, we’re just friends now.”
“I’m surprised. I was expecting someone a little more . . . masculine.” Big Jim leans back, his leather chair wheezing in muffled protest. “Trent, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Trent swallows hard. “Nothing . . . sir?”
“Well, you’re standing in my office. What brings you here?”
“Carrie was giving me a ride home. I was, ah, stranded.”
“I heard she used to give you rides all the time.” Big Jim chuckles. “I dig the jacket. You pick up a lot of chicks with that?”
“No? I mean, it’s not really about that?”
Maybe if we seize total control of Trent’s body, we can force him to grow a bigger set of balls. Seriously, how did Carrie put up with his habit of ending every sentence with a question? Perhaps she’s into neutered boys.
“I always thought it was cute,” Carrie breaks in.
If only we could roll our eyes at that one.
“If it’s not picking up chicks, then what use is it? Unless you’re trying to pick up guys. You swing that way, Trent?” Big Jim wiggles his hand in the air. “You a little, ah, what do they call it, bi-curious?”
“No?” Trent says. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that?”
“I swear,” Big Jim growls, “if you keep using the interrogative instead of a declarative, I’m going to come around this desk and teach you grammar with a pair of brass
knuckles. Speak like you mean it.”
Thank you. Perhaps we should figure out a way to jump into Big Jim, instead. He seems to have a lot of fun, based on his choices in fine furnishing.
“I can assure you, he’s not gay,” Carrie interrupts, clearly anxious to keep things moving. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Just because he slept with you, doesn’t mean anything.” Big Jim snorts. “You’re so hot, Carrie, you could flip Liberace.”
Carrie’s cheek twitches. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Who’s Liberace?” Trent’s eyebrows crash together. “Someone on YouTube?”
“God, you kids. No respect for history. Trent, I want you to take that stupid jacket off.”
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
“Okay.” Trent shrugs off the jacket.
Big Jim’s jaw drops ever so slightly, and we think we know why. Bill encountered this a few times: tough guys (and they’re always guys) who want to show off their might by forcing someone else to do something against their will, like crawl on their knees and bark. Or smack themselves silly. Or tell their loved ones about a fetish involving jumper cables and a gimp mask. The details never really matter—it’s all about bending another human totally to your will.
Most victims resist. And why not? Nobody likes a quick castration. But Trent, maybe he lacked balls in the first place. His prized jacket drops to the floor, and he stands there like a dog anxious for the next command. At least Bill demonstrated a little bit of prickle, despite his emotional cowardice. We’re tempted to wrap a tendril around a prize nerve in Trent’s spinal column and twist until he squeals in pain, but he might misunderstand the lesson.
“That was astounding.” Big Jim turns to the Mountain. “Was expecting a little more fight there.”
“Sorry?” Trent says, the jacket bunched in his hands.
“No need to apologize.” Big Jim smirks at Carrie. “Trent, you’re going to go downstairs. Have yourself a pizza. I recommend the new one we’re serving, with the fried calamari and the extra cheese. What do we call that?”
“The Gut Bomb,” Carrie says.
“Accurate name. Couple slices, you fart loud enough to set off a car alarm.” Big Jim slaps the desk before reaching for the rosewood humidor at the edge of the blotter. He extracts a cigar nearly as thick as his forearm, clips the tip, and torches up with a gold lighter. “Anyway, Trent, you go downstairs. They’ll set you up with a nice table and everything. And while they’re doing that, I want you to throw that jacket in the oven, or the trash. I don’t care which, just destroy it. Looking at it makes my teeth grit.”
We can’t access his memories (yet), but it’s clear that Trent’s been through a lot with that particular jacket. Too bad we haven’t figured out which nerves control his tear ducts, because if he starts crying, Big Jim is liable to beat him to death on principle.
“Once he’s gone, Carrie, you and I have business to discuss. That’s why you’re up here. You’re getting a promotion, girl. Unless you somehow don’t like the prospect of sweet, sweet cash.”
“I like cash,” Carrie offers.
Trent turns to leave, the Mountain leading him. They’re almost to the door when Big Jim burps smoke and says: “Oh, Trent? What’s your last name?”
“Beevor,” Trent says, turning back.
Big Jim sets his cigar in a glass ashtray the size of a hubcap. “You wouldn’t happen to know a Bill Beevor, by any chance?”
“Sure. If we’re thinking of the same guy, he’s my uncle. He’s in the hospital right now, though.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“I can’t really say.” Trent locks gazes with Big Jim, who has gone very still. “Part of it’s a car accident?”
“Interesting. He ever introduce you to a man named Frank? He was an associate of mine.”
Trent’s breath hitches, and we are fast with the blessed dopamine, flooding his bloodstream before he can outright panic. “Frank?” He swallows and shakes his head. “No, never. But then, I don’t hang out with my uncle as much as I’d like.”
Big Jim flicks eyes at the Mountain, who moves to Trent’s left, his shovel-sized hands folded at his waist. “Gee, that’s too bad.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, you better get on.” Big Jim retrieves his cigar, puffs. “Carrie will be along presently. Enjoy that pizza. Burn that jacket.”
The Mountain unbolts the door and opens it, gesturing for Trent to pass him into the stairwell. Something in the way Big Jim looked at the Mountain makes us nervous, but we have no way to express our feelings to Trent, who actually tries to smile as he crosses over the threshold, his foot descending to the top step. We feel something cold and metallic against the back of his neck a quarter-second before his brainstem erupts in a thunderstorm, sizzling bolts straight to his tailbone, burning away our—
13.
From nothingness we emerge, into a red fog that reminds us of those first moments in the sunlit murk off New Jersey, when we were nothing but a strand of tissue no longer than a fingernail, thrashing amidst bored fish.
From our furthest reaches, we receive damage reports: some tendrils burnt to a crisp, mewling their pain to the void. Others vaporized entirely. We are not concerned. So long as just a few of our cells survive, we can overcome, stabilize, regrow . . .
Actually, we are a little concerned.
No, that’s a lie. We are very concerned.
What has happened to us?
The tendrils circling the brainstem issue fresh reports: Trent’s heartbeat is normal, along with his breathing and other vitals. No severed nerve endings, no drops in temperature that would indicate a severe bleed. Trent’s eyes are closed, and we can hear nothing through his ears except for a vague humming. It sounds like a distant machine.
The humming fades as the red fog clears, revealing a gray beach beneath a low sky. We are near the waterline, the tide lapping gently over our . . .
Feet?
No, not even close. We balance atop a tangle of brown threads, juicy with veins and thick red nerves, tips carving nonsense patterns in the sand: our tendrils, which merge into a central trunk, which branches midway up into still more limbs, smaller tendrils rippling along their lengths like hair. We resemble a weird, gnarled tree.
A small pale figure trots the waterline toward us: Trent, dressed in his leopard-print jacket. He stops a few feet away and places his hands on his hips, craning his head to examine us.
“This is a dream,” he says.
We realize this truth. “Yes.”
“Who are you supposed to be?”
This dream-space is no place for lies. “We live inside of you.”
“So that means you’re, like, an aspect of my personality?” Trent reaches out, running light fingers along the cool bumpiness of our leg-tendrils. “Like my anger or my sadness or something? That’s pretty wild.”
“No, We’re more physical than that. Obviously.”
He removes his hand. “I don’t understand.”
“In real life, we’re no bigger than a few clothing threads. We’ve woven ourselves into your spinal cord, parts of your brainstem, and some of your organs.”
“Like a parasite?” He steps back. “Ew, that’s gross.”
“The term ‘parasite’ is a little pejorative, but we’ll live with it. For now.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult.” Trent chuckles, shaking his head. “Then again, this is a dream. Not real anyway, right?”
“All dreams are real, in a certain way.”
“That’s heavy. But I only see one of you, and you keep saying ‘we.’”
“We are many entities bound into one. No command node. All cells communicate with other cells, all cells share resources equally.”
“If you’re real, why don’t I have a fever or something? My uncle had a tapeworm once, from this poke bowl pop-up, and he got real sick, stomach pains, barfing all over the place, you name it.�
��
“We don’t know. We are highly evolved, clearly, if we’re talking to you. Maybe our cells have a quality that tricks your body into thinking we’re a part of it.”
“If I go to the hospital, have a scan or something, will they notice you?”
“If they’re good, sure. Then they will give you a round of antibiotics, maybe conduct some surgery, and we will die.”
Trent smirks. “Why shouldn’t I do that?”
“Excuse us?”
“Why should I let you live?”
“Because we aren’t harming you. In fact, we can help you.”
That annoying smirk disappears. “Help me? How?”
“You’re trapped by some very bad men who plan to kill you. You have a plan for dealing with that?”
Trent shakes his head.
“We didn’t think so. Forgive us for saying so, but we think that you lack . . . conviction. Spine.”
“You’re wrong.”
“You’re courageous?”
“I step outside every day wearing jewelry and a funky coat.” He tenses his jaw. “You think I haven’t been beaten up? You think I haven’t seen some shit?”
He’s right. Maybe Trent was just having an off day when we took over parts of his nervous system. “We stand corrected,” we say. “However, unless you are very effective in the next few minutes, you will probably die. However, we can help. We have some skills.” Extending one of our arm-tendrils in the air, we whip it around, smaller sub-tendrils stiffening like the spikes of a viciously flexible mace. We try to give the impression of bone-crushing violence delivered with the silkiest precision, and we think Trent gets the point, because he steps back, well beyond the radius of our swings—
“What kind of skills?” Trent asks. “You don’t even have hands?”
Actually, we take that last thought back: the boy is too dense to live in any society except this one. “You remember that little fight you had in the restaurant?” we ask him. “When the lady tried to hit you with that sawed-off pool cue, and your right hand blocked it? That was us. We gained control of your right arm long enough to do that.”
Absolute Unit Page 5