Shadow Dragon

by wade coleman

  “You’re getting work done on your implant, so I can’t give you anything for the pain. This shot will help you forget.”

  “Do you have a name, nurse?”

  “Doug. Get into the tub, dunk your head a few times and sit on the bench.”

  I get in, immersed in a weak, lukewarm tea and think about what a friendly, sociable place this is. Maybe they act this way to protect our identity, or I’m just one in a long list of steady customers. Either way, their customer service sucks.

  “Tiny machines made of protein are going to bore into your skin. “It’s going to burn and itch. I’m here to make sure you don’t scratch.”

  He touches a screen, the water swirls, and suddenly my skin is on fire. It feels like I’m being pierced by tiny hot needles. Screaming, I try to get out of the tub, but my legs are rubber, and Doug holds me down firmly. He grabs my hands. “Look at me.”

  I stop screaming for a moment and look up, trembling.

  “It will pass.” he looks me in the eye.

  According to Natasha, I spent five minutes in hell. I get out of the tub filled with pink water from my blood. I down on a table while he sets up a sunlamp. Lying on my back, I wear sunglasses while the warmth soothes my skin, the pain subsiding into a distant memory.

  “The nanites have embedded themselves deep under your skin. Now they’re sending out tendrils and forming a web. The web can change your white skin up to a medium brown.” He looks at his tablet. “Seems the doctor likes you. He added radiation shielding for free. Lucky you.”

  “What does it do?”

  “The mesh under your skin absorbs radiation. It triples the amount of energy you can be exposed to without ill effects.”

  I turn over, and the lamp bakes my other side.

  “I hear that you have a Mark 5. An implant is not a notepad; it’s got a life of its own. It needs respect.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Doug helps me off the table, and I head for the showers. A robe is waiting for me when I’m done. He leads me into the next room, and I sit in a dentist chair.

  A woman in a green scrubs comes in and sits at a terminal. “Let’s skip the introductions since you won’t remember anything in the morning.”

  “Fair enough.” I am resigned to being treated like the person who called them on a Sunday.

  During my time as a hospital orderly, I observed surgeons that are trained to be logical and efficient. They see the human body as a machine and not a person. Sometimes specialists have difficulty cultivating a bedside manner. I learned not to take it personally, and I let her do her job.

  A man wearing a green mask comes in. “The implant reads your brainwaves, so I can’t give you an anesthetic.” He adds something to my IV. “This will paralyze you.” He turns his head to face the woman, who is staring at the screens. “Doctor, the patient is prepped.”

  “Implant the upgrade in the host,” her eyes are glued to the screen.

  The medication kicks in, and suddenly I’m paralyzed.

  The man with the green mask opens a small glass jar. On the bottom is a snake made of silvery black ink. He takes out a small net, scoops it up and then pulls back my lower lid, dropping the creature into my eye.

  I feel it move, swim around, and then it finds the back of my eyeball. It pushes through, and there’s a lot of discomforts, but not as much as last time. It seems Natasha made a path into my skull.

  Within a few minutes, the drug wears off, and I spend some time scratching my nose and rubbing my eyes. The man with the green mask hands me a tissue, and I blow.

  He puts on a swimming cap with electrodes, and the doctor looks at a screen. “Your Mark 5 is getting a memory and control upgrade for your facial prosthetics.” She stares at the screen. “Everything looks good. How are you and the implant getting along?”

  “Good, really good.”

  “The suicide rate drops off after about two years. How long have you had the implant?”

  The color drains out of my face. “Uh…a week.”

  The man in the green mask laughs. “Don’t be upset. You won’t remember any of this by tomorrow.”

  “That’s even more unsettling.”

  The nurse rolls up a cart. On top, the table is a mask lined on the inside with needles.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Beads of sweat form on my brow.

  “Close your eyes and try to relax,” and he puts the mask over my face. The little needles wiggle around, finding the contours of my face.

  “This device injects a liquid crystal that sticks to your bones. It can expand up to twenty times its normal size to change the contour of your face.”

  “You don’t want to be around for this,” green mask says and injects something into the IV.

  * * *

  I’m sitting at the bar at Rick’s Café Américain. The barkeep comes over. It’s Bogart, and he pours me a drink.

  I slam it down and say, “Leave the bottle.”

  Bogart pours me a second. “I know that look, kid. You have trouble with a dame.”

  I slam my drink. “Yup, my girl left me for another woman. How ‘bout them apples?”

  Bogart pours and drinks for both of us. “Tough break, kid. I try to act shocked, but nothing surprises me after being married to my first wife, Mayo.”

  We clink our shot glasses together. “Cheer up, kid; I’m sure the right girl will come along.”

  I wake up at in the middle of the night for some reason, troubled, like there’s something I should remember but can’t. I try to think but my thoughts are a blur, so I drift off to sleep again…

  * * *

  Waking up in the morning I feel hollow like I spent the night shadow walking.

  Pam closes the curtain around my bed, “Rise and shine. Dr. West released you an hour ago.”

  I dress slowly, putting on my pants. “Is the food any good in the cafeteria?”

  “Well, it's cafeteria food. I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” She pauses, then continues: “Normally, there’s a waiting list to use our facilities. Your name showed up out of the blue.”

  I zip up my pants. “That’s because I’m so special.”

  “Everyone who comes in here is special. The question is: what makes you especially special?”

  I put on my shirt. “Jason Baron is making a virus that kills mutants. I need all the help I can get to stop him.”

  I pull back the curtain. Pam is dressed in green scrubs with her red hair pulled high in a knot. She has freckled cheeks, fair skin, and green eyes. Her ears stick out a little.

  “You’re staring.”

  “Sorry…I didn’t mean to…your hair is amazing.”

  She smiles. I look down at my shoes and tie them. I expect a beautiful woman like her gets stared at a lot.

  I put on my running shoes

  “Our Monday appointment is checked in, and we need the bed, so I’m supposed to make sure you’re fed and get in your ride home.”

  Pam leads me to the cafeteria on the first floor. I fill a plate with eggs and find the condiment bar.

  “Is this cow’s butter?”

  She nods, and I load up on the little squares wrapped in paper. We find a table next to a window with a view of the ocean. The waves are crashing in, but silent behind the glass.

  Making a depression in the center of my eggs, I unwrap the butter and fill the empty space.

  Pam sips coffee, and her brows come together. “What are you doing?”

  I dig into the eggs and melted butter in the center. The fat seeps into the hollow of my bones, and suddenly my hands and feet warm up.

  After Pam hands me my third glass of milk and asks, “What was that all about?”

  “Type 3A mutant. We heal fast, but it takes lots of calories.”

  “Hermes, I’m a registered nurse, okay? Don’t lie to me.”

  “I do heal fast, Even for a Type 3A. Plus, I grew up on goat butter. Goats are a lot easier to raise than cows. Real cow’s butter is a tr
eat.”

  “So, you’re not going to answer my question.”

  “Answering that question proliferates more questions. Best leave that sleeping dog along.”

  “You’re not military or an ex-corporate spy. Who do you work for?”

  I finish the milk and switch to coffee. “Just a private citizen who was in the right place at the right time to… do a good deed.”

  “Who happens to have two million credits to spend on upgrades?”

  I shrug. “Had a string of good luck.”

  “You're a gambler, too?”

  “And a thief.”

  “What?” Pam coughs coffee. She grabs my jaw, turns my head and looks into my eyes. “You’re still high. Some people metabolize drugs slower.” She sits back in her chair. A playful look comes into her eyes, “How much did you steal?”

  I shrug. “Oh, roughly…eight million credits.” I look out at sea. The tide is moving out.

  “That’s a pretty penny.” She studies my face, elbows on the table, her chin hid behind the coffee cup. Her phone rings, and she takes it. “Your ride is here.”

  Pam walks me to the front door where there’s a car waiting at the bottom of the concrete steps.

  “Goodbye, Hermes,” Pam shakes my hand. “The drugs are only just now leaving your system. You’re probably not going to remember me.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m burning that beautiful red beehive into my brain as we speak.”

  She smiles, turns her head, then turns back, her face neutral. “Your driver is waiting.”

  I walk down the steps, open the car door and get in. Looking out the window, I see her standing at the entrance with her arms crossed. I put my hand up, and she waves as I drive away.

  Using my backpack as a pillow, I lay down in the back seat. There something hard in my pack so I open it. Inside is a vacuum bottle the size of a thermos. It’s got a biohazard symbol and a “caution live nanites” on the label. I put it back inside my pack and lay down. I’ve been sleep stealing again. I always do that when I’m under stress.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I sleep in the car, and once I’m finally home, I stumble to the backyard and find my hammock. All these changes have taken their toll, and between the fat intake and the implants, all I want to do is sleep. I send Dr. Nick a text before taking a nap.

  I wake to the sound of the doorbell. The late afternoon sun a few hours from going below the Coastal Mountains. I got to the front door and open it. It’s Dr. Nick.

  “That was fast,” I say and head to the kitchen.

  “That was eight hours ago,” Nick replies.

  I open the fridge, retrieve the vacuum bottle and hand it to Nick.

  He uses a barcode app on his phone to read the label. “Combat Body Mesh.”

  I nod. “That what I got.”

  “You got this?”

  I nod.

  “Now you give to me?”

  I nod.

  “What do you want?”

  “A favor?”

  “What kind of favor?”

  “I don’t know yet, but when I do, it will involve your skill set.”

  Nick nods and smiles. “I understand.”

  I walk him to the door and Nick leaves.

  I go upstairs and into my change into my spider-silk suit, vest, and armor resistant clothes. I walk outside to get a breath of fresh air and inhale mom’s cigarette smoke.

  Mom is on the front porch, smoking, and frowning.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She looks off into some remote part of the yard. “I used a computer that an intern left logged on when he went to lunch. That’s how I found the hospital administrator address. The intern didn’t show up for work yesterday or today. I’m worried.”

  Dr. Anderson was the one that ordered his staff not to administer anti-virals to the sick mutants. They were given a vaccine laced with a mutant-killing virus.

  “Maybe you should quit.”

  Mom takes a long drag on her cigarette and lets it out. “Not yet…it might look suspicious.”

  “Kim and I are going out tonight.”

  “I feel better now that you have a partner. I always worry when you pull one of your stunts, Hermes.”

  “It’s a simple job. I’ll be in and out in no time. No one will notice.”

  “Honey, last time you said that you came home with Vike. Before that was Kim. “Not that I’m complaining. I’m glad you found someone you can trust.”

  As if on cue, Kim pulls up on her bike and parks on the grass. She notices that we’re watching her, so she puts on a show. She takes off her helmet and cast it in an arc while swishing her hair back. The chin strap catches on the handlebars. With one graceful movement, she takes off her spider-silk riding jacket and tosses it on the bike seat.

  Walking up the sidewalk, Kim is wearing a skintight red dress with matching running shoes. Her stripes are iridescent as she moves through the light. Her hairstyle is like the woman from Avengers.

  I stand up. “Wow.”

  “Damn right, ‘wow.'” She puts her hands on her hips. “How was your doctor’s visit?”

  “Fine, I talked to a guy, sat in a hot tub, then they drove me home.”

  “What augmentation did you get?” Mom asks.

  “Natasha, darken my skin and eyes and square the jaw.”

  Over a few minutes, my chin widens, my skin and eyes darken to a medium brown. Bev and Kim sit transfixed, their mouths hanging open. Whether in awe or horror, it’s hard to tell.

  “How do I look?”

  “Handsome,” Kim replies. “You don’t look like a teenage boy.”

  I shrug. “Type 3A mutants age slow.”

  Kim looks at her bike and then at me.

  Standing up, I check my pockets for tools. “Mom, we have to go.”

  She stands up, gives Kim and I a hug, “God be with you.”

  We get on our bikes, leave Ceres and head into Frisco. A checkpoint troll guard questions us, and we show him our fake IDs:

  “What are you two doing out this time of night?”

  I take off my helmet. “Going to the rave at Alexander’s. We got a late start.”

  “Yes, sir.” His tone is respectful. He thinks I’m a Pureblood. “It’s past 10 PM, so we check everyone.”

  “I’m not a sir, just two people who want to get high and dance.”

  He gives me a broad troll smile which exposes his sharpened teeth. After pushing the button, the gate opens. “Fuck her once for me.”

  This time of night it is mostly delivery trucks driven by dwarves, the cabs designed especially for them. Dwarves are a subtype of mutants which are typically five feet tall, wide square shoulders and barrel chests. Dwarves have a mutation that allows their blood to collect more oxygen. They’re also strong for their size. Kevin from grade school picked me up and ran a forty-yard dash. He still beat my best time, a fact he reminds me of every time I see him. What can I say, I’m a long distance man. It takes me a few miles to warm up.

  Kim and I drive down the center of the street dodging delivery vans. Trucks are banned from the streets during the day when people are at work and getting around. It cuts down on congestion and traffic accidents, so they are out and about during the late hours.

  When the sun sets, delivery trucks roll, and trolls go to work unloading cargo. Trolls are walking forklifts that don’t need gas. They also prefer working in the dark, their eyes sensitive to light, which is why they’re mainly the hired hands for this kind of work. It works well for both sides.

  Eight blocks away from the rave is a four-story parking garage. Security is at the entrance to handle the extra traffic. We’re required to take off our helmets before entering.

  Parking on the top of the garage, Alexander’s is lit up with flashing lights. Because of trolls and other mutants’ sensitivity, the colors are limited to reds and dark blues. To the east is the city center, the moon rising over the high-rise buildings.

  The bass from the music in t
he distance is like a heartbeat. We go down the stairs and follow the low thumping melody. A man stands on the sidewalk, and when we get close, he opens his trench coat, presenting an entire pharmacy within. “Everyone is doing Ecstasy tonight, boys and girls. Whaddya say?”

  “Already dosed. Thanks anyway.”

  The street in front of Alexander’s is blocked off and converted into a dance floor. We get in line, leaning against a brick wall. On the other side is a two-story billboard the length of the alley. The full moon is high, giving everything a pale glow.

  A display advertisement runs over and over showing an old woman in a rocking chair, holding a white pill. “Grandma’s old fashion Molly. Trust your Grandma for purity control.”

  Grandma Corp was formed just after the war by a group of people who stole gold out of the New York Mint during the riots. Now Grandma’s got her hand in every pie, including pharmaceuticals. Only in California can you find a granny pushing ecstasy on a billboard.

  Kim and I get patted down, and they let us into the rave. A wall of speakers surrounds the parking lot. LED lights strung over the street pulsate. We weave through the crowd like a stop action photo. The heat of peoples’ bodies mingles with the smell of weed, patchouli oil, and alcohol.

  Kim leads me to a dark corner and while I stand in front of her; she reaches down, retrieves her Berretta and puts it in her clutch purse. We put in our earpieces, and I dial Kim’s phone.

  She and I move through the crowd. At center stage a woman is singing Donna Summer’s, I Feel Love. Someone grabs my shoulder and turns me around.

  “I like your vest,” a mutant shouts, with a square head and wide jaw. “Give it to me.”

  His hold on my shoulder is like a vice, and I smile. “Fuck you, asshole.”

  He pulls me in close. “What did you say?”

  “I’ll say it slow, seems you’re mentally impaired, ‘Fuck. You. Ass. Hole.’” I decide to use hand gestures to get my message across. I give him the bird, point to his chest. Then make my thumb and forefinger a hole while drilling it with my index finger.

  He slams his blocky head into the spider-silk protecting my skull. The silk stiffens and spreads out the blow. Bouncing off my head, he falls back and leans against a light pole, stunned and rubbing his head.