by David Estes
And yet it was a night of lies. The warmth in his chest and cheeks fades, as Benson regrets the made-up stories he told Luce, about his parents both dying when he was just a baby, making him an instant orphan. How he escaped the abusive man who found him and took him in. How he ran and ran, taught himself to swim and fend for himself, until he washed up on the banks of the city of Saint Louis, where Check was counting his loot from a day of Picking. It’s a well-rehearsed story that almost feels real at times. Almost. “Fate brought us all together,” he’d told Luce, which was perhaps the only true thing about the story.
“I’m glad it did,” she’d said, and he had a sudden urge to reach out and rest his hand on hers, which was positioned between them, fingers open and palm up.
He’d chickened out and they’d gone to sleep on opposite sides of the room. Of course, he’d never told Check any of this, something he feels bad about every time his friend talks about how much he likes Luce.
“That was a good night,” Benson says now, flicking a glance at Luce.
She smiles at him, her eyes holding his for a moment, before slipping back to her book. She runs her fingers over the page she’s on, slides a thread in to hold her place, and closes it gently. After setting the book on the floor, she drops her arm between them once more. Hand open. Palm up. An invitation?
He stares straight ahead, where the holo-screen is showing a bot-truck removing charred corpses from the wreckage of the explosion. A new headline flashes beneath the images. “Anti-Pop Con organization known as the Lifers claim responsibility for attack.”
“I wonder why they targeted a bank,” Luce says. Benson thinks about it. The Lifers are getting more notorious by the day. They’ve hit several government buildings already, not including a failed attack on Pop Con’s headquarters.
“U-Bank is owned by the government, right?” Benson says.
“Everything’s owned by the government. Even this abandoned building. Are they going to bomb us next?”
“Nothing would surprise me anymore,” Benson says. And then: “Holo—off.” The screen goes dark. “Hey! Want some devil’s food cake?”
Luce laughs, and it sends a bubble of satisfaction through Benson. “You’ve got cake?” she says.
It wasn’t a formal Pick, but as he and Check were heading to the Tube to find their next Grunk, he’d managed to swipe the contents of a bag from a random woman who’d just exited a sweet shop. Although they weren’t real cakes, they were the next best thing.
He shows Luce the haul. Half a dozen food pills, each labelled in tiny white print. Two devil’s food, two triple chocolate, and two vanilla-strawberry. Brand names, too—the good stuff.
“You choose,” he says, holding his palm flat.
Still smiling, she inspects the capsules, her forefinger and thumb pinched together, hovering over his hand. She bites the side of her mouth, and with her attention on her decision, Benson openly admires her face. He feels like he’s falling as the sudden desire to cup his hand against her cheek strikes him. They’ve known each other for how long? Five years? Yes. It was about three years after he met Check. They were in the midst of a risky Pick, attempting to hit two Grunks simultaneously, when Benson saw her walk by. She had flashed him a stunning smile and turned away, her golden hair swirling behind her. And then she and her brother had stolen both their Grunks in an incredible display of Picking prowess. Even then she was so much more than just a pretty face.
Luce and Geoffrey had introduced them to Gonzo and Rod shortly after.
She selects one of the food pills—devil’s food cake—and Benson can barely contain himself as her fingers brush against his palm. “Good choice,” he says. “It’s my favorite.” He selects the other devil’s food cake pill and pockets the remaining four, which he’ll share with the others when they return.
“At the same time,” Luce says, grinning.
Benson grins back, hoping he doesn’t look too stupid. “One,” he says.
“Two.”
“Three!” they say at the same time, popping the pills into their mouths and crunching down.
The effect is instantaneous, the flavor exploding in Benson’s mouth, sending his taste buds into a frenzy. Luce is clearly experiencing the same thing, her eyes closing as she rolls the mangled pill around in her mouth. “Mmm,” she murmurs.
Although the devil’s food cake is delicious, he’s more interested in watching Luce experience it. Eyes still closed, she licks some of the sugary, chocolaty flavor off her lips and he wonders what they would taste like. On a dare from Check he kissed a girl from STL Prep once, about a year back. She was pretty, too, with smooth, chocolatey skin and big, brown eyes. She tasted like strawberries—not bad at all—but Benson has a feeling kissing Luce would be a whole new experience.
Luce’s eyes open slowly as the pill dissolves on her tongue. “Good?” Benson says.
“Best ever,” she says. “I’ve never had devil’s food cake before.”
“Really?” Benson says.
“Yeah, I was a real devil’s food virgin,” she says.
“Not anymore,” Benson says. Is she flirting with him? The very thought sends his mind into a tailspin.
Narrowing her eyes, she says, “You know, Benson, I’m glad my first time was with you.”
His heart does a flip.
“Me, too,” he says. It could be the heat of the moment, or the lingering taste of chocolate in his mouth, but he wants to come clean, to tell her the truth about his past. “I remember the first time I tried it,” he says, the words coming out easily. “It was my sixth birthday.”
“You were with that jerkwad that used to hit you, right?” Luce asks.
No more lies, Benson thinks. Not. One. More.
“Yeah,” Benson lies. “For once he was sober and he gave me a cake. I fell in love with devil’s food cake that night.” Benson’s stomach is hurting, as if he ate too much of the real thing, not some stupid pill.
“I’m not surprised,” she says. Her hand drops between them for the third time in recent history.
Angry at himself, at his life, at things he’s never had any control over, Benson feels bolder than ever before. This is his life and he’s in control of it. And if he wants to hold Luce’s hand, he’ll do it. He’ll do it!
He drops his hand quickly, settling his palm on top of Luce’s. Her fingers twitch and she stares at him with wide eyes.
Tingles run up his arm as she closes her fingers over his, the touch of her skin so warm and real.
He’s bold. He’s waited too long for this moment, and he won’t waste it. He leans in, his lips parting slightly, his eyes already starting to close. They’re so close, so close, and her hot breaths are like a drug, scented with chocolate.
Luce makes a strange noise and his eyes flash open, but she’s already pulling away, scrambling to her feet, her eyes wide with shock and her nose wrinkled in disgust.
Horrified, Benson raises a hand to his face, his skin still tingling from holding her hand. The tears are welling up faster than he can blink them away. “I—I thought…” When did his mouth get so dry?
Casting him a final look of pure pity and embarrassment, Luce says, “I’m sorry,” and rushes from the room, throwing the door shut behind her.
~~~
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Chapter Eighteen
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Each second that passes sends a thump through Janice’s skull. And yet she continues to stare at the face of the wristwatch clutched in her hand. It’s the last memory she has of her lost son. She found the watch when she was clearing out his room, taking all his
toys out to the backyard where she would later burn them. Michael wanted to give his things to charity, but she couldn’t bear the thought of any other child playing with them, smiling happily, wearing his clothes. Not when her son was dead.
But when she came upon the Zoran wristwatch gathering dust in a drawer, she stuffed it in her pocket. For the rest of the day she could feel it burning a hole in the cloth, until she finally took it out and let it burn her hand.
Was that where the madness began? If she had destroyed the watch along with everything else, would she have been able to move on, have a normal life, avoided the solitary misery of the asylum?
TICK, TOCK!
The ticking hits her harder now, and she thumps a fist into her forehead, trying to mask the pain.
TICK, TOCK!
She feels like screaming, like throwing the watch against the wall. But what’s the point? The padded walls and floor will protect Zoran’s grizzled face and preserve the memories she desperately wants to forget.
And the last time she launched the watch at the wall they threatened to take it from her.
So she continues to stare at the watch, letting its incessant ticking crush her brain.
TICK, TOCK!
The door eases open and she tries to remember how long it’s been since Michael visited her. She strains her mind, but can’t figure out if it was today, yesterday, or a month ago. Time means nothing in this place.
It’s not Michael. She hates that she feels a puff of disappointment in her gut at the same time as she breathes a sigh of relief.
Instead, it’s the only friend she has left. A kindly nurse who’s the only one who talks to her like she’s not crazy. Even Michael doesn’t talk to her like that.
TICK, TOCK!
Unfortunately the nurse’s presence doesn’t stop the ticking; nothing can stop the ticking.
“How are you today, Janice?” the nurse says. Alice. That’s her name. She’s the only one willing to obey Janice’s request to call her Janice and not Mrs. Kelly.
“This damn watch won’t stop ticking,” Janice says. “But thank you for asking,” she adds, about two seconds too late to be normal.
Alice doesn’t seem to notice, just glances at the watch. Janice’s hand is splotched with red and white blobs because of the tightness of her grip. “Shall I take it away?” Alice asks. “I can tell you the time whenever you want to know.”
Janice’s eyes flash with anger and she has the sudden urge to hit this woman. To hit her only friend. “No!” she growls.
“Okay, okay, no problem,” Alice says. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Alice’s voice has a way of calming Janice. “S-Sorry, A-Alice,” she says. “My nerves are lightning and thunder and sparks lately. It was my husband’s visit.” She’s asking a question without really asking it. Will Alice suspect?
“But that was a week ago,” Alice says.
A week! God. That means he’ll be back again soon. Sometimes it’s a week, sometimes it’s a month, but he always comes back. She wishes he wouldn’t.
“Any news?” Janice asks.
That’s her standard question, one that only Alice will answer, a secret agreement between them.
“No,” Alice says, and that’s the right answer. If she says Yes, then that means they’ve found another Slip. Another child to hunt. It doesn’t matter that it won’t be her child—the thought will destroy her. Because it will be her husband doing the hunting. She knows that his people hunt children all the time, but she’s managed to trick herself into believing that UnBees aren’t real children. They’re only dolls, pretend children who don’t have fears or sadness or pain. And their parents are doll-parents, as real as cloth and stuffing and nano-chips that make them talk and comfort their doll-children.
“Let me know if there is,” Janice says.
“I will,” Alice promises. “Anything else I can do for you?”
TICK, TOCK! Zoran says.
“Shut up,” she says.
“What?” Alice says.
“Sorry. Not you. Him.” She motions to the wristwatch.
Alice smiles in the way that Janice hates. “Call if you need anything,” she says, reminding her that they’re always watching and listening. Even when she’s sleeping, someone is watching and listening. Can they hear the ticking, too?
When Alice leaves, the watch says TICK, TOCK!
“Shut up.”
TICK, TOCK!
“I said, ‘Shut up!’”
TICK, TOCK! TICK, TOCK! TICK-TICK-TICK! TOCK-TOCK-TOCK!
Her head is thumping with pain, each thud of her heart an explosion in her skull. She squeezes the watch tighter, until the metal clasp cuts into her hand, drawing blood. For a moment, the pain grounds her.
It allows her to think clearly, to realize something:
The watch hands aren’t moving. Not the second hand. Not the minute hand. Not the hour hand. Stuck on 3:02.
The watch is broken.
Tick, Tock! it says.
~~~
Past article from the Saint Louis Times:
Pop Con Head Steps Down Amidst Controversy. Michael Kelly Promoted.
The tenure of John Davis, eight year Head of Saint Louis Population Control, has finally come to a bitter end. Amidst allegations of ‘going soft’ on Pop Con criminals, Mr. Davis was dismissed quietly. Neither government officials nor Davis were available for comment. In a surprising and unexpected move, the government promoted Michael Kelly, a Pop Con analyst, to the post. The city will likely be holding its collective breath until Kelly proves his worth. Although Mr. Kelly was unavailable for questions, Mayor Strombaugh said ‘We couldn’t be more pleased to have Michael Kelly as the new Head of Pop Con. He’s a levelheaded guy with an eye for detail. The city can rest easy with him at the helm.’
Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now. NOTE: All comments are now subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.
Comments:
NewsAddict4: Slips beware! Michael Kelly’s got you in his sights!
SammieJ: Who is this mysterious Michael Kelly guy? I haven’t seen a single holo-ad with a photo. I’m hoping he’s as handsome as he is mysterious. John Davis was uggggly!
HarryKnox33: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.
Chapter Nineteen
Michael Kelly stares at the holo-screen, remembering the day Mayor Strombaugh came to him with the job offer. He was excited—no, ecstatic—incredulous that he’d managed to rise so far so fast. He and the mayor went back a few years, when they studied at university together. At some point they separated, Strommy—as all his friends used to call him—going into politics, while Michael set his sights on population control studies. He liked the logicality of the field, how simply maintaining the status quo could have a significant effect on the social and economic strength of an entire nation.
Now, if he could get his hands on his old textbooks, he’d burn them to ash and scatter them in the Mississippi.
A three-rap knock on his door brings his focus back to the screen, which is projecting a series of floating statistics. Numbers and percentages and dollar signs.
“Yes,” Michael says, loud enough for the knocker to hear.
The door opens and he can see Corr’s reflection on the screen. Like everyone else at Pop Con, he’s wearing all black.
Corrigan Mars enters. Michael Kelly’s fists tighten, as they usually do when he sees his second in command. He wonders how they were ever friends.
“Sir,” Corr says.
“What is it?”
Corr steps to his side, his eyes flicking over the screen in that snake-like way of his. The room is dark, save for the light from the panel of holo-screens, which catch the silvery edge of Corr’s sideburns. “I think we’ve got something.”
Michael tries to breathe. Can’t. Subconsciously, one of his hands s
queezes the edge of the chair.
He forces out a sharp breath. “The UnBee Shack?” he says. Hoping. Praying.
“Well, yes. The takedown went off without a hitch. Thank you for trusting me with overseeing it.” Corr’s voice is as cold as an ice cube, as if they haven’t just murdered dozens of children.
“Of course,” Michael says. He should be burning with anger, but instead the iciness in Corr’s voice seems to have seeped into his bones, leaving him with an impenetrable chill.
“And to top it all off, I think we’ve got a rising star in one of our new Hunters.”
“Really?” Michael says, pretending interest. He still hasn’t looked at his second in command, his eyes glued to the floating numbers. Although cold to the point of needing to shiver, he feels a burst of warmth in his chest. Is Corr really only here to talk about a successful mission?
“Yeah,” Corr says absently. He seems to be as interested in the numbers on the screen as Michael is pretending to be. “God, the last two years have been special, haven’t they?”
Special isn’t the word Michael would use, but he says, “They’ve been something, all right.”
“One hundred percent mission success, a steady population with a standard deviation of less than a thousand, outperforming every other Pop Con department across the RUSA, setting a good example in the nation’s capital. We’re rock stars, my friend.”
Don’t call me your friend, Michael thinks bitterly.
“We make a great team, don’t you think?” Corr adds.
Finally, Michael looks at Corr and says, “The best,” trying to hide his disgust. They’re the greatest team of murderers the world has ever seen. “You said something about a rising star?” he says, trying to change the subject.
“Ah, yes. A new Hunter. Young, only seventeen. One of the first to enlist when they lowered the minimum age. He came back from the war with serious injuries, but they managed to patch him back together.”