by Andrew Post
Brody snatched the pistol up again when Thorp fired, striking against the glass as if hammering a nail. The two-inch-thick pane came down in broken, laminated sheets, flakes the size of his thumbnail. He swung again and again, another volley of tranquilizer rounds hitting and shattering upon the window frame beside him, one even puncturing the sleeve of his coat and left dangling, not striking him.
“Throwing lachrymator,” one of the guards shouted to his compatriots.
As Brody had expected, there it was—the sound he dreaded. The snap of a pin being pulled and the heavy thud as the tear gas grenade was tossed in their direction. The canister burst and spun on the floor, spewing a thick gray fog.
Immediately, that smell of burned sugar of the broken darts was replaced for Brody—to that of cayenne pepper, of melted tires, of spoiled fruit. He hammered at the window, but each grunt was becoming heavy. He yielded fits of violent hacking instead of another inhale. Pulling the bandanna back up did precious little to keep the choking gas out. The hole to the outside world he’d made through the glass—perhaps big enough to fit a pinky through—became a blurry dot before his eyes. The carotene lenses reacted to the gas, his vision stacking doubles and triples.
“Keep with the darts. I’m changing to slugs,” one of the guards said.
Brody took this as his cue to duck behind a cubicle wall. He heard the guards switching their magazines, slapping in clips that had actual bullets.
Thorp ignored the gas, popping up to fire, with tears running down his cheeks and off his chin, the flesh circling his eyes a deep ruby. He wiped at his eyes with the length of his arm.
“They’re switching to live fire,” Brody shouted to Thorp. The smoke grenade spun in his direction, and he kicked it away where it bounced, gliding across the floor, hissing angrily.
The muffled whistle of the fire was now different, a denser, meatier sound. The bullets smacked into the cubicle walls with more punch to them. The air over his head was filled with sawdust, bits of semiburned cubicle upholstery.
Brody remained in his hiding place, feeling useless, still holding the Franklin-Johann.
Thorp noticed him trying to bat the sting of his weeping eyes. “They’re going to fucking kill us. You’ve got to shoot back.”
Brody, his eyes teeming with bloody spider legs reaching from one corner to the other, shook his head.
Thorp dropped down into cover, yanked his bandanna from his face, and shouted at him, his voice rising to a desperate shriek, “You take out your fucking sidearm and you shoot, soldier.”
“I can’t.”
Thorp snarled and stood up to fire.
There was a clap of sound when a shot connected with Thorp, hitting him in the chest. He was thrown back, stumbled, and dropped. He let go of the rifle to grip the wound. Brody noticed the vial of glass, the miniature plunger within pushing forward, the clear liquid being shoved into his bloodstream. Thorp tried to pluck it out, but the drug took effect immediately. His head lolled forward, and his fingers loosened on his assault rifle.
Brody started to crawl across the aisle when the carpet came alive at his fingertips with fire. Three smoldering holes where the guard using live fire had taken divots out of the carpet, digging into the cement floor beneath.
Remaining in cover, Brody watched as Thorp attempted to fight the drugs, pushing his eyes open wide, even though they were slowly curtaining closed on their own. He fumbled around for the gun.
Brody took out his cell and checked the time, saw that it was exactly half past one. The train would be coming at any moment. He could very well escape with what he had in his in-box.
The guards filed down the aisle.
But he thought about finding and rescuing Nectar on his own only to have her come out of her bonds to freedom and discover that her brother had died in the struggle—she would surely blame herself. Most likely carry an unspoken resentment toward Brody for not doing more. He’d be doing plenty of that himself to make up for any animosity she might have toward him.
What would be worse?
Brody looked at the envelope in the corner of his cell’s screen denoting the new massive e-mail, all of Silver Fox waiting there, ready for viewing. He highlighted the e-mail and selected Nathan Pierce from his contact list as the addressee. The phone momentarily halted, all activity on the screen freezing. Brody tapped send over and over, and just as the armored men stepped into view, training their muzzles on him, the e-mail vanished, sent.
And not a moment too soon. A boot swung in and knocked the phone out of his grasp, and by the feel of it, broke one of his fingers as well.
Brody slumped to the floor, and he could see across the aisle as Thorp finally succumbed and spilled backward with his limbs splayed out.
Standing, Brody put out his hands, leaving the handgun on the floor.
The guards lowered their weapons. One went for a zip tie looped through his belt. Another telescoped a baton with a swing. The closest planted the toe of his boot on the Franklin-Johann and sent it skidding away behind him.
The guard who had been using slugs stood over Thorp’s motionless form. He kept his back to them and flicked Thorp’s rifle from his hand with his foot. “To the van,” he said, his voice muffled from inside the goggled mask.
They closed in around Brody. A hand gripped the lapel of his coat, as well as his wrist.
“Easy now,” one said.
Brody drove his free hand into the pocket, and when it was pulled free, it was armored across the knuckles with black metal. Squeezing the knuckleduster directly before impact, Brody sunk a punch into the closest guard.
Mayhem cut loose in immediate reply. The armored men turned the butts of their rifles on him, swung at him with batons, punched him with gloved fists. Brody swung and connected with another one’s neck, aiming for the provided slot in the high Kevlar collar. The man let out a panicked wheeze.
Another stepped forward, swinging his rifle like a bat. Brody ducked, let it pass over his head, and threw a jab at the man’s belly. He cast the rifle aside and caught Brody’s fist. They grappled, falling to the floor in a scrambling heap.
The one with the baton took Brody’s open back as an invitation, the steel ball on the end of the telescoping club easily finding his kidneys, his spine, glancing off his shoulder blade, and in the same pass colliding with the back of his head. Pinning the man beneath him with his knees, Brody struck repeatedly with the knuckleduster—got a solid seven hits in—when he felt the suppressor-equipped muzzle kiss the back of his neck. He was in midswing when he heard the muffled thwack.
He sunk the final punch, the man’s head twisting away in the impact—and everything grew a shade darker. He raised his arm again, having to consciously pull the arm up and away. The motion caught gravity, and he felt the world sucking at him, pulling him back. He had no choice but to let it.
In the plunging tunnel of shade that enveloped him, as Brody sunk to the floor beside the guard he had knocked unconscious, he saw it blinking there, like a divine spark being cast over a fog-throttled gulf. Six digits and two colons, all in red: 00:59:59.
Flat on his back, he could feel the faint vibrations as well. The “L” passed below, rumbling over its trestle without its new passengers. The digits blinked two more times and were gone—and he with them.
32
A rapid series of metallic clicks and an abrupt slam jarred Brody awake. Naturally it made him think of his many visits to county lockup.
He blinked a couple of times and saw nothing before him, just limitless black. He heard scraping steps all around him, treading on dirt floors. He surmised; the charge on the lens died when he was out and now he was completely blind.
Brody struggled as much as his drug-fogged brain could perform. The cuffs were warm; he had been wearing them for a while. He twisted in the seat, metal biting into both wrists. Rope or tape or a combination of the two bound him at the ankle, knees, elbows, across his chest and waist.
Not just blind but
blind and tied to a chair. Peachy.
00:14:59 lanced out of the dark.
No, blindfolded.
He heard a croaky voice. “Hey, man. Dude, hey. Look. He’s up.”
He felt the heat radiating off a feverish body and then the mirthless tug at his eyebrows as a band of duct tape was ripped away. In the action, the tape dragged his eyelids along, far enough to allow his lens to drop out. He saw it go, a flashing transparent disk tumbling away. He blinked and blinked, but his sight in the left died.
He still had one lens.
Brody looked up at his captors. A pair of young men, both with messily shaved heads. Patches of blond spiked off their skulls in places while a majority had been buzzed to pale flesh. They stood dressed in tattered jeans, threadbare T-shirts, and one of them wore Brody’s peacoat and his bandanna. Brody recognized the look in their eyes: a partly erased dullness. Something clearly was missing.
It took a moment, but Brody recalled seeing one of them before. Bait & Tackle, the rat-faced kid cutting onions with the nametag that read Rice. He decided it better not to say anything in case it set them off. They looked like the types that could easily switch from tepid to scalding.
Brody looked around him as far as his neck could crane. There was no sign of Thorp in the room. The walls were corrugated steel, weakened and patchy with rust. The ceiling low, also rusty metal with naked bulbs hanging from frayed wires. A barrel in the corner had a fire burning in it. The unmistakable reek of burning hair loomed in the air.
He looked down and saw two dirty, rubbery wheels astride his hips—a wheelchair. He was bound to a wheelchair.
On the dirt floor before him was a display of everything that had been in his pockets. The knuckleduster, his cell, his wallet, the sonar case, the lens charger, his cigarette lighter, his ring of keys—on which was still Nectar’s spare he had gotten from Paige.
One of the emaciated thugs held Seb’s jigsaw card. He was peering into it, his twig-like arms trembling from cold and/or withdrawal or just the excitement of the prospect of hurting someone. “Hey, hey,” he said, elbowing his partner, “I know this asshole.”
The second thug took the jigsaw and held it within an inch of his right eye. “Yeah, that’s the motherfucker hustled me one time. Said I’d get higher than I’ve ever been. I went home and packed the pipe and didn’t feel a goddamn thing.” He brought the picture of Seb’s unsmiling mug close to Brody’s face. “I was going to feel a little bad about killing you, but if you’re friends with this asshole, that changes shit.”
“He’s dead,” Brody said, hoping it would put him somewhat in their favor. If he had to die, he at least wanted it to be quick. He didn’t want to spend hours suffering, smelling junkie sweat, and listening to them slaughter the English language as they took turns sticking him with screwdrivers and sharpened pencils.
“Yeah?” the thug asked, looking at Seb’s face again. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” Brody said. “An Artificial killed him.”
“An Artie, huh? That sounds like bullshit. Doesn’t that sound like bullshit to you, Rice?”
Rice nodded.
“Yeah, it sounds like bullshit, man. Seb being taken down by an Artie. You know them plastic-faced bitches at AFA won’t lift no finger to nobody about nothing. They ain’t allowed.”
“Not in their programming, chief,” Rice added. “Want to try again?”
“Not an Automat Artificial, a farmer Artificial.”
“Shit damn,” Rice said, taking the lead in heckling Brody. “I didn’t realize there was farmer Arties. I always wanted to be a farmer. Raise cows, goats, pigs, chickens, ducks, and shit. Yeah, man. I’d love to be me a robot, no emotion and shit, no need to eat or shit or drink or get high—just do and do and do and do and do my goddamned job forever.”
“That actually sounds kind of shit to me,” the other thug confessed.
“Yeah.” Rice sighed, staring at Brody. “It does kind of sound like shit, doesn’t it?”
They lost interest in that notion and returned to Brody’s pile of belongings. They opened the lens case, poured out the enzyme water, cast it aside. Rice picked up the knuckleduster and slid it down onto his knuckles, fanned it out before him like he was admiring a bejeweled hand, then moved on to other things while continuing to wear it.
When they got to the sonar case Brody winced slightly, trying to keep his extreme discomfort under wraps.
“Denny,” Rice said, picking up the sonar case, “what in the hell do you suppose this thing is? His diaphragm or something?”
“His what?”
Rice chuckled. “Nothing. Before your time.” He opened the case and looked at the white disk inside. He turned it over, and since it had no buttons to push, he took it out of the case and started spinning it end over end, stopping when he realized the underside had a ring of adhesive on it. He applied his finger and peeled it off with fascination. Rice looked at Brody. “What is this thing?”
“Helps you concentrate,” Brody said.
“Oh yeah? How does it—work?” Rice touched the sticky pad, pulled away, stuck his finger back on, pulled it away—the sound a gummy thhhk with each pull.
He must’ve known or had seen something on TV about it, because after turning it around to look at the sonar’s plain front—Rice slapped it to his forehead. He stared straight ahead for a few seconds, blinking. A light flashed on the side of the sonar, and Rice’s posture shot straight. Crackles could be heard from the vicinity of Rice’s head. Synapses by the million overloaded and burst. He was dead before he hit the dirt floor.
Denny dropped Brody’s phone and scrambled over to Rice, patting him and shaking him as if trying to rouse him from sleep. He screamed his name into his lifeless face.
He sat back on his haunches. “Ah, man. You overdid it again. I knew you took more than just one, you fuckin’ liar. Stupid fuck.” After a few halfhearted slaps to his friend’s chest in an approximation of CPR, Denny stared into Rice’s somber face, defeated. “That sucks.”
Denny peeled the sonar from Rice’s forehead and examined it, angling it around and pinching it between two fingers. He glared at Brody and held out the sonar accusingly. “Did this do it to him? Did this fucking thing do this to Rice?” Anger swelled in his voice with each question. “Did you fucking do this to him? What the fuck is this thing, anyway?”
“I think your friend is just tired.” Brody looked at Rice brain blasted on the floor, his fiercely bloodshot eyes at half-mast. “Let him sleep it off.”
Denny reapplied the sonar to Rice’s head. “Come on. Wake up.”
Getting no results, Denny sneered at Brody. He slid the knuckleduster off Rice’s fingers. Approaching Brody and making a fist, Denny hissed, “I think you did this to him.” He was nearly impossible to understand; the teeth remaining in his head were tightly clamped together. “I think you fucking did something to him to make him die. What was it? Was it that thing?” He pointed at the sonar stuck crookedly to Rice’s greasy forehead. “Some kind of other brain-mixer trick that Mr. Ward can do? Tell me, you fuck. Tell me what made Rice go dead.”
Brody swallowed, preparing himself for the inevitable blow. “I did it.”
“How? Tell me how you did it.” Denny punched Brody in the face. He had surprising strength in his ropey arms, and the strike genuinely stung.
Before Brody could say anything, Denny hit him again, this time in the nose. The crunch of cartilage and bone beneath the metal was as audible as the fireworks that had gone off in Rice’s head. The knuckleduster bit into his upper lip and made his head snap back. He groaned, letting his ringing head loll to the side. He spat blood. He hadn’t been punched with the knuckleduster before—he now understood why it staggered the biggest of men.
As Denny pulled back to punch him again, the door behind Brody rumbled open, causing the junkie to pause his swing.
Brody glanced up and saw Denny shrinking back, apology rapidly spreading on his face toward the person standing out
of view. He shook his hand, and the knuckleduster flopped to the floor. He tripped over Rice as he backed away, slinking to the corner of the room and reducing himself to a stooped ball with his knees held to his chest. His eyes transfixed on whoever was there—with esteem, trepidation.
“What happened?” a gnarled voice asked.
Denny pointed a crooked finger at Brody. “He killed him.” His voice was small, childlike.
“Take him out of here,” he said.
“Who, him or him?”
“That one.” A long-fingered hand, the nails caked in black, pointed at the corpse on the floor.
Denny did as he was ordered and got to his feet. Brody noticed when he stood, the crotch of his pants was dark. Ignoring it, Denny obediently took his friend by the arms and dragged him out of the room. As he drifted by, Rice’s body shifted and the sonar fell from his forehead to the floor, back among Brody’s other belongings, landing with its white plastic facedown.
00:07:59.
Eight minutes and he still had no idea whether or not Thorp and Nectar were alive. The place didn’t echo, and no sound came through the doors. He figured the walls were thick and they were being kept in separate rooms.
He watched as the man came around to stand in front of him. Blood dotted the man’s hairy belly and droopy chest, and his hands were slathered in red, dripping from the fingertips. On his belt hung a collection of long, rusty blades among other mundane cutting implements: a utility knife, a scalpel, a pair of hook-nosed shears intended for pruning tree branches.
Titian Shandorf searched Brody’s face, a small pink smile tucked into his bushy beard. He took a deep breath that hiked up his shoulders and let it out, as if bored. He surveyed the different items Denny and Rice had taken such an interest in and regarded them with indifference, all except for the lens charger. He picked it up and turned it over until the coiled cord that Thorp had grafted onto it unraveled. Titian looked at Brody. “You’re blind?”
Brody nodded. A steady stream of blood was pumping out of his flattened nose. The pain made his already burning eyes water all the more. He felt a steady drip land on his lap, falling from his collapsed nostrils.