Shadow Life

by Jason Mather

  Shadow Life

  by Jason Mather

  Copyright © 2017 by Jason Mather

  e-Book Edition

  Published by

  EDGE-Lite

  An Imprint of

  HADES PUBLICATIONS, INC.

  CALGARY

  Notice

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  * * * * *

  Publisher’s Note:

  Thank you for purchasing this book. It began as an idea, was shaped by the creativity of its talented author, and was subsequently molded into the book you have before you by a team of editors and designers.

  Like all EDGE books, this book is the result of the creative talents of a dedicated team of individuals who all believe that books (whether in print or pixels) have the magical ability to take you on an adventure to new and wondrous places powered by the author’s imagination.

  As EDGE’s publisher, I hope that you enjoy this book. It is a part of our ongoing quest to discover talented authors and to make their creative writing available to you.

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  Brian Hades, publisher

  Contents

  Shadow Life

  Publisher’s Note:

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  If you enjoyed this read

  About the Author

  Need something new to read?

  The Genius Asylum

  Milky Way Repo

  Beltrunner

  The Rosetta Man

  Details

  PROLOGUE

  The dead woman was crying.

  Rain poured through a hole in the roof, the bleak sky beyond the shattered timbers indistinguishable from the dirty, peeling white ceiling, ready to come crashing down. A chandelier hung improbably underneath, its filthy sconces filled to overflowing, its once ornate iron rusted and shabby, providing a makeshift sluice for the rain to wander down, pooling underneath the shallow arches at its bottom, combining and impregnating one another with grime from metal and sky, falling heavily onto the charnel house below.

  She sat nearly upright in a chair that had once been some kind of plush red fabric, head cocked slightly, hair cascading over the hole in her neck. Water fell from the chandelier above, landing in her hair, making its way slowly down her face, pooling in the crevices of her glazed eyes, dripping down pale cheeks, curving up under her chin, down neck and torso, mixing with the slowing blood flow, some soaked up by the low-cut top, some making its way down the curve of one naked breast, torn from its covering.

  Rarely can one cry for one’s own death. He certainly couldn’t. Couldn’t cry, couldn’t yell, couldn’t move, couldn’t feel anything beyond face and lips. Probably a blessing. Whatever had hit him had not left much worth feeling. Something had torn its way through this room, a tornado of whirling metal and flying shrapnel, before exiting through the roof. Had the other two escaped? Unlikely.

  It was not how he’d imagined dying.

  He was not afraid to die, merely angry that it was right here, right now. It was his reputation he grieved for, here among these dead lowlifes. Chiding himself for pointless vanity, he tried to shut his eyes. Let death take him. They wouldn’t move.

  She was smirking at him, privy to his thoughts and the great cosmic joke that had brought them both here.

  Five hundred. That’s what he’d been offered. A man on a corner waved it and the package under his nose. Five hundred to walk the package three blocks and up two flights of stairs. Five hundred that would pay to get him outside the city limits and onto a monorail headed home. Five hundred he desperately needed. Five hundred that now sat, wasted, in his jacket, currently piled on the floor by the dead woman’s impractical stilettos.

  Her smirk taunted him. Smirk all you want, lady, you’re just as dead as me, even more so at the moment, sitting there obscenely exposed to a perfect stranger, lacking even the propriety to cover up that bloody tit of yours.

  She’d met him at the door with a slightly raised eyebrow and a frown, before melting back into the dark apartment, which did not yet have its meager skylight. Two men had frisked him, both in identical suits and overcoats. She’d handed him the money without a word, gingerly taken the box from him, and had turned to leave when … something … had ended it all. A mere breath or two. Three dead crooks and one dying idiot.

  A keening sound was coming from a direction he couldn’t identify. Maybe sirens. Maybe it was his oxygen-starved brain. The light coming through the skylight flickered slightly, though the possibility of it just being his eyes finally giving out was more likely.

  There were worse ways to go, he guessed, and worse final sights, though he’d never been a breast man.

  CHAPTER 1

  He opened his eyes, startled. The bland normalcy that greeted him approached the surreal. He was propped up in a small bed with a deep mahogany footboard. The headboard was likely of the same material, but, as he was currently unable to move his head, he would make no assumptions. A window made up the whole wall to his left, the view dominated by immense vertical farms. Great glass spires filled with the machinery of the new agriculture, enough to feed the population of millions, with food left over for trade with other city-states. Bridges seemingly made of crystal connected them together every dozen floors, landing pads sticking out like misshapen ears.

  Beige walls. Beige floors. Beige curtains. Beige sheets. About the only thing in the room that wasn’t beige was a small viewscreen showing a stream of numbers and graphs that could have been anything from stock market figures to vital stats.

  A hospital then, the assumption based on a dawning realization that he had somehow survived. He wasn’t counting out dying just yet, though, mostly because of what he could, and couldn’t, feel. He could feel his feet and hands, move his fingers and toes, though only just. His stomach felt slightly hungry, his lungs breathed easily, heart pumping calmly, any elevation due to the strangeness of his current environment. More importantly, and critically, other than a slightly dry mouth and some mild discomfort from some kind of restraints on his hands, feet, and head, he felt no pain. Last he knew his guts had been spread around a small, empty apartment, blood covering ancient blue shag. If he was really still alive, and he still couldn’t quite assure himself of that, then he was thoroughly confused … and pissed off.

  He pulled weakly on the restraints. It did no good, but it didn’t matter. He’d never been able to handle any sort of restraint, physical or mental. When he pulled hard enough he noticed the viewscreen numbers started to scroll faster and turn slightly red; even harder and a speaker set in the ceiling began to beep softly. How fast could he get them to scroll? Could he get the beep any louder? Pulling against all the restraints simultaneously produced the most satisfying results. He balled up his abdomen and legs, pulled as strongly as his weakened state would allow. He had no illusions about breaking the restraints; he just hoped he was annoying so
mebody.

  The door opened and a man entered. He didn’t appear to be a doctor. No white coat or green scrubs, just a tweed suit and loafers.

  “Those restraints are designed to stop psychiatric inmates in the midst of a psychotic episode, pulling on them like that is just going to bruise your limbs.” He turned and tapped the screen, causing it to go black and the beeping to stop.

  His snappy retort was stopped by a coughing fit.

  “Really, Hans, pulling on your restraints to get my attention was unnecessary. There’s a call button right underneath your right hand.”

  Hans did not try to respond this time. This man had the advantage of knowledge and freedom over him, and Hans would not participate in this glib charade.

  “There is a water tube just to the left of your mouth. I’m going to release your head. Don’t drink too quickly, as your digestive track is not accustomed to food and water yet.” The man tapped the screen again and Hans could move his head. He found the water tube and sucked mightily on it. After three large gulps, his stomach revolted and sent most of it back up over the sheets covering him, and, in his partially prone position, nearly drowning him. He lay coughing and staring petulantly at the ceiling.

  The man laughed heartily.

  “If you’re trying to kill yourself, I can bring a morphine pump or something equally efficient. There’s no need to drown yourself.”

  Hans’ choked epithet elicited another laugh. The man sat in an unseen chair by the headboard.

  “I was told you were a bit strong-willed, and I know you’re confused by your current situation. I’m here to answer your questions. My name is Doctor Laud.”

  “Where…?”

  “You are currently on the fifty-sixth floor of Denver General. The hospice wing, though you are no longer dying, as you may have discovered. Before you ask, you are not a prisoner. Those restraints are there to keep you from rolling over and suffocating yourself. You’ve been in medical stasis while we repaired your injuries.”

  “How long?” Hans was stupidly pleased that he had managed to choke out two words back to back without coughing.

  “Fourteen months.”

  Hans’ eyes widened.

  “I have seen very few people recover from the injuries you sustained. We had to replace nearly forty percent of your internal workings. New heart. New lungs. Two new kidneys. Twelve feet of small intestine. One third of your liver. A completely new pancreas. It takes quite a while to grow these things, and you being conscious would have been a hell of numb paralysis while the machines kept you alive.”

  Hans kept silent at this news, suppressing anger by staring out the window. The sun sat low behind the buildings. He didn’t know which way the window faced and the buildings obscured possible mountains, so he did not know whether this meant morning or evening. He’d lost over a year, and did not expect to assimilate this knowledge well or quickly. More importantly, the system had ignored his express wishes. His medical file spelled out explicitly that he was not to be revived or rebuilt.

  “The decision to keep you alive was not mine,” Laud predicted his thoughts. “You were nearly killed under highly suspicious circumstances in which you were the only survivor. This is all the information to which I was privy. I imagine others will want to talk to you.”

  Hans rolled his eyes. The doctor chuckled again.

  “That is for later, however, and entirely up to me. I am your doctor, not your jailor. Let’s get those restraints off.”

  Laud walked over to the screen again, tapped it. Hans’ hands and feet were free. He began weakly checking that everything was in place. Doctor Laud laughed.

  “Never fails. I’ve been rebuilding people for forty years. Women always check the face first. Men go straight for the jewels.”

  Hans moved his hands quickly to his sides. Doctor Laud turned and continued.

  “We have managed to rebuild almost forty percent of your body to optimum efficiency, with a minimum of scarring. All your organs are essentially your own, making the possibility of rejection infinitesimal, but brand-new. Based on the state of your old lungs, you might consider ending what was obviously a heavy smoking habit.”

  “I was greatly looking forward to destroying another set.”

  “Well, I’ll see you again soon then.” The doctor’s smile showed no sign of sarcasm, though he may have winked, it was hard to tell. Hans had no physical craving for a cigarette, though whether that was because of medical meddling or from being nearly dead for fourteen months was hard to say. He planned to get a pack as soon as possible anyway.

  “Did I also get the penis enlargement?”

  “Your penis sustained almost no damage, and should function normally. Seeing as how you never had any work done previously, I assumed you’d want to retain the familiar.” Another possible wink.

  “So, I’m as good as new, maybe better. Does that mean I can get the hell out of here?”

  “There are a couple of things currently preventing your exit. The first is that, while they should be in working order, it will be a few days yet before your muscles are able to support and transport your weight. It’s a side effect of the stasis we had you under.”

  “And the other’s your bill?”

  “Your rehabilitation has already been paid for.”

  “Who?”

  The doctor shrugged. “All I know is that your bill has been handled. Also, certain agencies that have power over our funding would prefer you stay here until they can talk to you.”

  Hans huffed and laid his head back.

  “However, because I am your doctor, I have full discrepancy over when that may be.”

  “Great.”

  “You are not a prisoner.”

  “Of course not, I’m just not allowed to leave.”

  “At the moment you would not be able to leave anyway.”

  “Is that door guarded?”

  “Which door?”

  Hans just stared.

  “Yes, there is currently a man monitoring your room.”

  “What kind of ID is he carrying?”

  Another shrug. “He hasn’t shown me any.”

  “Don’t you think you should have asked?”

  “If he was not authorized to be here the central computer would have let us know.”

  “Another soul with complete trust in his machines.”

  “I take it you don’t trust computers.”

  “You can’t trust something that has no reciprocity.”

  “True enough, though computers do have something that makes them very trustworthy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A distinct lack of humanity.”

  — «» —

  Hans desperately had to take a piss. He’d been informed that, though somewhat un-natural feeling, the bed was designed to absorb any waste products, whisk them away, and disinfect. But he was damned if he was going to lay there and piss his bed like a child. Modern medical convenience would have to take a back seat to his dignity.

  He could see a door about four feet to his left, in the wall behind his head. He hoped it led to the bathroom, because, after the effort it would probably take to get there, he was going to piss on whatever was inside. His arms were working at about half efficiency, and he still had very little feeling in his legs. Laud had informed him that it would be another forty-eight to seventy-two hours before it all came back, but Hans was planning on beating the timeline and getting out of this pit as quickly as possible.

  For now, he’d start with demanding his essential male right to pee standing up.

  Step one. He’d have to either climb over the bed railings or lower them. The only controls he knew of were at the viewscreen across the room. A quick search of the side and headboards revealed no obvious way to lower the railing. Climbing it was.

  Hans was surprised by the effort that it took to even turn on his left side. The sheet covering him bunched under his abdomen, applying extra pressure to his bladder. The urgency increase
d greatly. It was a near thing, but he continued to hold.

  A little shifting and pulling got the sheet out from under him. A quick yank and he was uncovered, mostly. He had nothing on underneath. He was about to drag himself naked across the floor. What was that about dignity?

  After a little manipulation, Hans managed to swing his right arm over the rail and get a grip on the lower bar from outside. His plan was to pull himself over and … well, he actually hadn’t thought any farther than that. He guessed if he could get past the tipping point gravity would handle the rest.

  A quick initial pull did little. Half strength was being generous. He pulled harder. It felt like his whole lower half was just a pile of wet socks. Stronger pulling, still no luck. Hans tried to rock back on his left shoulder a little to gain momentum. That helped a little.

  The urgency in his bladder was peaking. It was now a race between his own strength and the inevitable. Hans tightened his fingers into a death grip on the bar and leaned back for one more try. With a grunt, he threw himself at the bar and pulled as hard as he could manage.

  Three things happened simultaneously.

  He pulled his body on top of the railing, far enough that he pitched over the other side of the bed and landed askew on the tile flooring beneath. Pain shot through his left wrist as it twisted underneath him. The door to the hall opened and a cross-looking nurse came in. She began yelling at him when she saw him topple over the side. Then the inevitable won. As the urgency faded, Hans hoped that the floor had the same disinfectant abilities as the sheets.

  — «» —

  The nurse brought in what looked like a small, articulated forklift to help him back into bed. Its arms were padded and warm. When the nurse, whose nametag alternated between the name “Toni” and an animated hologram of a smiling bear, finally got him situated and covered, she began checking him for injuries. He winced when she manipulated his wrist.

  “What were you doing, Hans?”

  “I was trying to take a piss.”

  “The bed is perfectly capable…”

  “Yes, I know, the bed is designed to whisk away all piss and shit and wipe my little tushie for me, but that’s hardly dignified now, is it? Have you guys starting selling these things to the masses of useless trolls out there yet? They could just intake and excrete without ever leaving the comfort of bed. Why ever do anything else again?”