by James Knapp
I love this so much. Why did I ever stop?
Her being gone did come, just like I knew it would. Before the night was over, Karen being gone hit me for real, but by then I was numb and beyond feeling anything.
6
Huma
Zoe Ott—Pleasantview Apartments, Apartment #713
I woke to the smell of smoke. Wind was flapping at my clothes, and I could feel grit peppering my face. I was lying on the pavement, but the rain had stopped. It was hot and dry. I didn’t hear any cars or any people. All I could hear was the wind.
I opened my eyes and saw the burned-out shell of a car lying on its side a little ways away, and scattered near that were big chunks of concrete with rebar sticking out. The road I was lying on was broken into big pieces, the cracks filled in with dust.
I got up on my hands and knees, my hair trailing down in the grime. There was rubble scattered all around me, crumbled concrete and sand along with something shiny, like powdered glass. Here and there I could pick out little pieces of metal peeking out of the dust. They looked like electronic components. Some were connected with little wires, and some had what looked like hairs or legs sticking out.
A few feet to my left, a long blade with no handle was stuck right through the blacktop. A tiny pink T-shirt, scorched and smudged with soot, had snagged on the top of it and waved there like a little flag.
I sat back on my heels and let the wind blow my hair out of my face. When I looked down at my hands, I saw there was a piece of broken glass stuck in one of them. I picked it out and dropped it on the ground in front of me. The sharp corner had blood on it. I closed my eyes, listening to the little girl’s shirt snap in the wind.
A shadow fell over me as I heard footsteps crunch on the pavement. I opened my eyes again, and a woman was standing in front of me. She was burned, and smoke trailed from her hair and clothes. Behind her, there was nothing but open space. The buildings were gone. Nothing was left but jagged pieces sticking up. I held one hand up to shade my face so I could see. The woman’s face was covered in soot, and cracked so that raw red showed through.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The wind blew again, fanning the embers that were buried in the ashes of her clothes. Black bits crumbled from her and were blown away.
“Why …?” she asked.
“Why what? Who are you?”
She held out her hands, and I saw that her fingertips were burned down to the bones. The wind ruffled her coat, spraying cinders. Tears ran down her black face.
“You did this.”
“What?”
“You did this …”
I gasped and opened my eyes. The wind stopped, and the woman was gone. I was staring at the ceiling of my apartment. Off to the side, I saw a cartoon playing on the TV.
My head hurt and my mouth was dry. My stomach was burning, and I felt like I was going to puke. I knew that feeling. It was how I was used to waking up, at least until …
A lot of times when I’d wake up from a binge, there would be this time where I blissfully forgot everything I did the night before. A lot of times it never came back, but sometimes it did, like a slap in the face. That morning, lying on my couch, I got two, one right after the other.
The first slap was that I fell off the wagon. After not having a single drink for so long, I’d blown it. It wasn’t a small slip, either. I went all the way.
“Shit …”
If I’d had the strength, I think I would have cried. I’d been working so hard. I’d really tried. I’d woken up from dreams where I drank and felt guilty about it, then felt relieved when I realized it hadn’t really happened. But that time it wasn’t a dream. I’d really done it. My whole body ached.
He’s going to be so disappointed….
I wondered if I should even tell him. He didn’t need to know. It was just one time. I could just get back on the program and forget the whole thing ever happened, right? It was just one slipup. What the hell was I think—
The second slap came then. My stomach rolled and I scrambled to my feet. I stumbled into the bathroom, just managing to get through the door before I fell down on my knees in front of the bowl. Everything came up; then I dry heaved on top of it to the sounds of cartoon music from the next room. I flushed and spit, leaning over the toilet while sweat rolled down over my stomach.
“Karen …”
I cried. I couldn’t do anything else, so I just sat there, staring into the toilet, and cried until I couldn’t anymore.
When I managed to get up, I walked on pins and needles, trying not to fall. Stumbling back to the living room, I accidentally kicked an empty bottle across the floor. It whacked against the coffee table. That’s when I saw Penny.
She was sitting on the arm of the couch, watching the TV. She had a bowl in one hand and a big spoon in the other, and was laughing with a mouthful of cereal when I came back in. How long had she been there?
She turned and looked over at me and she stopped laughing. For a second, she looked sad. She put the bowl down on the end table and dropped the spoon into it.
“Sorry, I ate some of your cereal,” she said. “Feel any better?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“I heard what happened.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. My head was spinning and I couldn’t think of where I would start. I didn’t want her there. I wanted to be alone.
“Lie down,” she said, pointing at the couch. “Come on, before you fall.”
The last thing I wanted to do was talk about it, but I really did need to lie down. I limped over to the couch and flopped on my back while she looked down on me from her perch on the armrest.
“Drink this,” she said, tossing me a bottle of vitamin water. She pulled a pair of pill tabs out of her pocket and tossed them to me too.
“Those will stop the nausea.”
I pushed the pills through the foil and swallowed them, washing them down with a gulp of water from the bottle. My stomach turned, but they stayed down.
“Look, I know you don’t want to talk right now, so I’ll keep it short,” she said. “Ai doesn’t want to see you like this anymore, and, honestly, neither do I. This, what happened here with your friend, it wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t fair. This kind of thing shouldn’t be happening to you, so it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Some tough love, I guess. We look out for our own, Zoe. I know Heinlein took her, but if you want to have a service, then Ai will take care of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing. None of it will cost you a dime. Anyone who wants to be there can be there, and we’ll stay out of it. How does that sound?”
I couldn’t think about Karen’s funeral. I didn’t want to think about Penny either, but Karen didn’t have anyone else to deal with that stuff. If someone else didn’t take care of it, I would have to do it, and I didn’t think I could.
“Okay,” I said.
“We’re getting you out of here,” she said, waving one hand at my living room.
“Out of here?”
“This place,” she said. “Is there anything left here for you?”
“No.”
“We’re putting you up in a new place, a better one, away from all this.”
“I—”
My phone rang in my pocket. When I fished it out, I saw the call was from Nico.
“That him?” she asked.
“I don’t want to talk to him right now.”
“I know, but you should answer it. Things are moving fast.”
“What do you—”
“He’s going to ask you to help him question a man named Leon Buckster. You should do it.”
“How do you know what he’s going to ask?”
“Just trust me. Quick, answer the phone.”
The phone was on its fourth ring. I picked up.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Zoe. This is Nico.”
“Hi.”
“Hi. Look,
I’m wondering if you would be available to do me a favor today.”
It was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn’t want him to see me like I was. He was smart; he’d pick up on it right away. No matter what I did, he’d figure it out. It made me mad that he’d call wanting a favor after what happened. It wasn’t fair because he didn’t know, and he wouldn’t have any way to know, but I didn’t care.
I opened my mouth to say no. I was tired and dizzy. I didn’t care what Penny said; I couldn’t do it.
“Sure,” I told him.
“Thanks,” he said. “I know this is an imposition, especially after what happened at the restaurant, but things are heating up. Did you have a good time, at least, before the shooting started?”
“Yes.” My voice sounded very small.
“Good.”
Penny had gotten up and stepped back from the couch. She took a little blank business card out of her pocket and handed it to me.
“Hang on,” I said, muting the phone. I took the card.
“Help him. Do whatever he wants,” Penny said, “but make sure you ask Buckster that.”
I turned the card over. On the back she’d written:
Where is Samuel Fawkes?
She smiled, and gave me a little wave as she headed back toward the door and opened it. I’d never seen the name before.
“Why?” I called.
“Because we’re pretty sure he knows,” she said over her shoulder. “Later.”
She shut the door behind her. I turned my attention back to Nico, unmuting the phone.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’m bringing someone in,” he said. “He has information vital to—”
“I understand.”
“Can you be here in an hour?”
“Sure.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“You’re nice to me, Nico,” I said. I don’t know why I said it.
“I’m your friend, Zoe,” he said, but he wasn’t, not really.
“I know.”
“Is an hour enough time?”
“One hour.” I hung up. Afterward, I sat there, staring at the phone in my hand and not moving. Those were the only times he called anymore: when he wanted me to come and do my tricks for him.
“Zoe, these people, I don’t think they are your friends.”
He’d said that. He kept saying that, but he wasn’t the one that showed up to see how I was after the night before. He wasn’t the one who offered to help when I really needed it.
He just called up and wanted me to help him. He didn’t care about me, not really. If I couldn’t do what I did, he’d never call at all. But it didn’t matter.
I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it for them.
Nico Wachalowski—FBI Home Office
Through the glass door, I watched the streams of people pass by on the sidewalk. None of them was Zoe. A dark window hung against the gray, rainy background, displaying the strange examination chair and the equipment surrounding it. Sean must have been wired right there, in that chair. The site wasn’t set up for full transfusion, which meant the revivors would have a very short shelf life. It also wasn’t equipped to do any kind of major surgical procedures or cosmetic procedures. That meant no physical augmentations and no weapon upgrades.
The JZI recording Calliope had sent over from the night before wouldn’t be admissible in any court, but it proved Leon Buckster knew more than he was saying. His statement about revivors remembering things they’d been made to forget implied he was familiar with Zhang’s Syndrome, the condition that Fawkes himself had discovered. If he knew that, he might be sympathetic to Fawkes’s cause. He might even have learned it through Fawkes.
A widespread, legitimate organization was possibly assisting terrorists. Revivors were being created with no shelf life, no weapons, and no cosmetics. Several had been rigged with bombs to strike soft targets and destroy evidence, and all indications were that Fawkes intended to detonate multiple nuclear weapons inside the city. It all spelled big trouble.
Hell of a night, Wachalowski. It was Alice Hsieh. She was sliding into Sean’s role almost too easily.
Yeah.
Three clinics bombed on the same night. The streets had already been crawling with police, and now the National Guard was moving in, this time padding their ranks with Stillwell Corps soldiers rather than revivor units. So far nothing concrete had leaked, but the media was beginning to speculate and the tension level was rising out there. Fear and a lot of anger had begun to brew.
Any evidence of revivors at the second site? I asked.
They didn’t find any, but they’re still looking.
Footage piped over appeared in a new window. All three places had burned to the ground. At the remains of the Healing Hands clinic, a camera focused on the remains of a large dentist’s chair with a twisted mechanical arm attached. It was the same as at Rescue Mission.
We got word back on that maritime ID you sent over. It was the KM Senopati Nusantara, an Indonesian tanker.
Was?
It disappeared close to a year ago on the open sea. The official report indicates it was likely pirated.
They never recovered it?
Never. The transponder went silent, and it was never picked up, even on a satellite sweep. It was presumed sunken. The shipyard put in an insurance claim, and six months ago they collected.
If Sean’s last message had any truth to it, though, then the ship was still intact and somewhere in UAC waters. Somewhere close.
How long you going to let Buckster stew?
I’m waiting for my operative.
You hit your head pretty hard last night. You sure you’re up to this?
I’m sure.
Outside the glass wall where I stood, people moved quickly past, heads ducked down against the rain. They moved behind the small window containing the JZI image, disappearing, then reemerging on the other side as they trudged by. I spotted Zoe in the crowd as she stepped out of the flow and started toward the front entrance.
She’s here. We’re on our way up.
I cut the connection. Zoe shuffled toward the entrance, looking half asleep.
Damn it, Zoe …
Even from a distance I could tell she’d been drinking. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. The dark circles were back. She trudged forward, staring out from under the rim of her umbrella like she was marching to the slaughter. When she saw me, she wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Zoe, this way,” I said. Her eyes were shiny as she closed the distance between us.
“You okay?”
“Can we just get this over with?” she asked, wiping her eyes.
“Yes. His name is Leon Buckster. He’s the head of one of the local Second Chance chapters.”
She nodded.
“Just follow my lead, but work inside the reference I gave you.”
“Fine,” she said, “and before you say it, yes, I’m sure. I know what I look like and I know what you’re thinking, but I can do this.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
She followed me to the interrogation room where Buckster sat, looking down into a paper coffee cup. He wasn’t happy.
“Mr. Buckster,” I said, holding out my hand. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting like that. My name is Nico Wachalowski, and this is Zoe Ott.”
He gave my hand a firm shake, then held it out to Zoe. When she didn’t take it, he leaned back into his chair with his palms on the table. He noticed the lacerations on the left side of my face from the explosion, but he didn’t ask about them.
“I’m here to help,” he said. “Kind of like to know what this is about, though. Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“I want to talk to you about Second Chance.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Second Chance? What for?”
“You’ve heard of the Rescue Mission Clinic?”
“Ye
ah I’ve heard of it.”
“Healing Hands? Mercy Medical?”
“Yeah, they’re free clinics we run downtown. What is this about?”
“When was the last time you were in contact with any of these facilities?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks ago?”
Galvanic skin response indicated curiosity and some stress, but it didn’t look like he knew about the bombing.
“Do you know what sort of work goes on there?”
“Yeah, they offer quality medical care to third tier citizens who otherwise can’t afford it,” he said.
His GSR jumped while he talked. The topic of Rescue Mission had him tense.
“Anything else?”
“They’re authorized to distribute methadone. They do basic blood work, mostly AIDS testing. Aside from that, it’s mostly handing out antibiotics and the like. Why is the FBI interested in a bunch of free clinics? The paperwork for the drug treatment program—”
“It’s all in order, Mr. Buckster. That’s not why you’re here.”
“Then if you don’t mind Agent, why am I here?”
“The Rescue Mission, Healing Hands, and Mercy Medical clinics were all bombed late last night.”
“What?”
“The facilities were completely destroyed.”
His shock looked genuine, but there was something else underneath it. He was shocked but not completely surprised. He knew something about those places, something he was hiding.
“That’s impossible,” he said.
“Impossible?”
“I just mean …why would—”
“Do you recall the Concrete Falls bombing, Mr. Buckster?”
“Of course.”
“The bomb that destroyed the Rescue Mission facility was of similar, if not identical, makeup. We have found links between the attack at Concrete Falls and your medical centers—”
“Hey, they’re not my medical centers. I’m just—”
“You’re the head of a local Second Chance chapter that covers Bullrich as well as Dandridge. We’ve combed security archives that put you coming and going from each of these facilities as early as three days ago. Are you sure you don’t want to change your story, Mr. Buckster?”