Husk

by J. Kent Messum

  ‘Smoke?’

  His eyes light up. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

  Javier takes the pack, pulls out a cigarette, and goes to give it back. I hold up a stopping hand, shake my head.

  ‘Keep it.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Very.’

  I put the lighter to my cigarette before passing it to Javier. He takes a deep drag, holds it in, looking me up and down. Nearby, I overhear a couple protesters passing by, talking about the police and Integris in hushed voices.

  ‘Well, you certainly don’t look a victim of unregulated capitalism, my man,’ Javier says, expelling smoke.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Said the same damn thing myself a few months ago, back when I thought I had a home, some job security and a few solid investments.’

  I nod. Javier, as with so many others, likely got cleaned out from the ongoing aftershocks of the second housing market crash. Makes me feel glad I never bought into all that property ownership bullshit when condos made of second-rate glass and Chinese steel were going up everywhere over at an unsustainable rate. I haven’t really been paying attention, but the speech from the podium behind me has grown louder and angrier, as has the crowd’s reaction. I sweep a glance over the Great Lawn and turn back to Javier.

  ‘It’s gotten so big,’ I say. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘You wanna know what’s really crazy?’ Javier says and nods toward the guy spewing vitriol through his megaphone. ‘The organizers have already been contacted by a few big conglomerates about corporate sponsorship.’

  I laugh. ‘This revolution is brought to you by …’

  ‘There really is no such thing as bad publicity.’

  ‘So, are you part of all this?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Javier coughs, heavy on the lung butter. ‘I’d say it’s more like I’ve got no place left to go.’

  He turns and spits, hand shielding his mouth, trying to make it as polite as possible. The gob that lands in the grass is discoloured enough for me to wonder about his health. I check my Liaison. It says I’ve got less than ten minutes to get to Winslade’s for upload. Javier points to the pile of flyers in his hand, then motions to the one he gave me.

  ‘This speech is happening in less than an hour onstage over there. I recommend you check it out.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got somewhere I have to be.’

  Javier shrugs, unaffected. ‘Guess I’ll see you around the neighbourhood then.’

  ‘You look like shit,’ Renard says.

  ‘I’m getting that a lot lately,’ I reply.

  He leans against the doorframe, peering at my Eldredge knot. ‘Mon ami, when will you learn to tie a tie properly?’

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  He sighs and steps aside. I walk through the penthouse door, leaving the two guards in the hallway. One of them now has an automatic shotgun slung across his back in addition to his other firepower. Security has doubled since my last visit, more armed personnel stationed in the building’s foyer. I noticed even the doorman was packing a sidearm. Renard shuts the door behind me and follows close behind as I walk into the living room.

  ‘You are late as well.’

  ‘I got held up,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t easy getting through Central Park with all those protesters about.’

  I can feel Renard staring at the back of my head. I don’t need to see his face to know the look of dissatisfaction he’s giving me. When he speaks his tone is accusatory.

  ‘What were you doing in Central Park?’

  Irritation swells in me, one part incensed by his question, one part guilty over it. The response that I’m thinking in my head is suddenly ejecting from my lips.

  ‘What?’ I snap, turning on him. ‘You got something against a fucking stroll in the park now?’

  Renard’s eyes widen, his jaw flexes. Clearly nobody has spoken to him like this in a long time. I hold his angered gaze before my own slides down to the Rapier at his side, making me wish I’d shut my mouth. Before he can reply, we hear the soft whirring of machinery and the sound of approaching footsteps. I turn to see the robot shuffle into the living room, rubbery face stoic. When the silvery eyes fall on me, the visage tries to reform into a look of concern, as fake as the question that follows it.

  ‘Is everything all right, Mr Rhodes?’ Winslade asks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie. ‘I just had to work my way through those squatters in the park.’

  ‘Yes, I find them quite irritating as well.’

  Winslade walks to the leather couch in the centre of the room and motions for me to sit. I comply, watching as he takes the seat opposite me. A data port sits on the coffee table, connected to a terminal nearby. On top of the terminal I spy the small cobalt-blue device, two small red lights glowing on its side. I jerk my thumb toward it.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you what that little blue thing is over there.’

  ‘A new toy,’ Winslade says, ignoring it. ‘Nothing important.’

  ‘And none of your business, Mr Rhodes,’ Renard chimes in.

  Winslade holds up a hand. ‘Renard, please. This man is our most welcome guest. He may ask any question he likes.’

  I give Renard a sneer. ‘Thank you, Mr Winslade. I appreciate that.’

  ‘The device in question is just a new piece of technology that I’ve put some money into researching and developing. Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to discuss the details. It is company policy to keep information confidential on product development. I might upset the shareholders if I say much more.’

  There are no tells on a fake face, no ticks or twitches or giveaways, no way to know if a robot is lying or not. His airbrushed lips peel back from his ivory teeth in a truly inhuman smile.

  ‘Is that enough of an answer?’

  ‘More than enough, Mr Winslade, thank you.’

  The lenses scan back and forth over my face, up and down my body. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking again, but are you all right?’

  Anxiety plumbs my stomach. Pressure puts a knot in my throat. I’m not even remotely okay. I look at an old silver-plated .45 automatic displayed in a glass case on the wall. I picture putting the gun to my temple and think about how much relief could be attained if I took my mind outside my head for a moment. The idea doesn’t even register as suicidal until I realize I haven’t thought like this since the time between my father’s death and my mother’s impending one.

  ‘I’ve been working hard as of late, that’s all.’

  Winslade nods, says he understands, then cocks his head at me. The lenses fix on my neck and do not move.

  ‘Oh my, how did you get that bruise?’

  ‘It’s from another client,’ I lie. ‘I apologize.’

  ‘Unacceptable,’ Renard says. ‘I’ll file a complaint with Baxter immediately.’

  ‘No, do not,’ Winslade replies. ‘I do not wish to cause trouble for my boy here. I’d prefer to rent Mr Rhodes with a blemish or two over any of the other options.’

  I try to smile. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘It is the truth. I am very much looking forward to our session. A mere day of your services is nowhere near enough. In fact, I find even three days together somewhat disappointing. Not with you, you understand, simply the allotment of time.’

  I shrug. ‘It’s the maximum, and for good reason. Anything more and serious problems start to arise.’

  ‘Oh, I’m aware. Would you care for anything before we begin?’

  ‘Thank you, but no. I’m ready when you are.’

  ‘Very good.’

  I reluctantly boot up the Husk program and plug into my Liaison. Winslade reaches forward and takes the other data cable. From my pillbox I fish out a red pill that will put me under for twenty-four hours. My mouth is dry and I have trouble swallowing it. One goes down like a golf ball. As I watch the program sync on screen, my Ouija clicks and I’m hit with a flash of brutality, eyes rimmed with mascara, wide and terrified, looking into mine. Thi
s I try to remember as the edges of my world begin to blacken.

  ‘Wait …’ I mumble. ‘Stop …’

  ‘We’re well past that now,’ says Winslade.

  22

  At first I dream of sex. Young girls come to me in the dark, soft and supple, high-schoolers and university sophomores pressing their naked bodies against mine. I’m licking them, sucking them, riding them, fucking them as they moan, groan, squeal. They are all one in the same; straddling, bucking, bending over before me. Their eyes change colour as I look into them, short hair growing long and refashioning in my grip. Breasts swell and shrink, faces morph, skin turning different shades as tattoos and piercings appear and fade. These girls are all familiar, though I can’t remember any of their names. I revisit every page in the history of my little black book for moments at a time, revelling in these days gone by when I indulged for pleasure and not payment.

  Before I was a Husk I was a whore. Something in my past planted the seed of it long ago, but university is where it actually started. It began at pub nights and frat parties, me nursing the only beer I could afford, hoping some girl might offer to buy me a drink or two. One night I got an offer I couldn’t refuse. Some sassy rich bitch named Patricia, whose advances I’d been deflecting for a month, appeared in front of me at a kegger and drunkenly proclaimed she’d pay outright to take me back to her dorm for a good fuck. With all the student debt I’d amassed, it was an easy decision. She came once and paid me a hundred bucks before passing out. When we woke next morning, I was informed that we could hook up in the same fashion anytime, for the same rate. I took her up on the offer. Patricia had wealthy brat friends too, and had no qualms about offering my ass up to them. Pretty soon I had a semi-regular rotation going on. The girls ranged from hot to not, but I couldn’t argue with such easy money. I needed it. Soon after graduation I fell into escorting. The fast cash that came in made the student loan payments on time, kept the creditors satiated while I tried and failed to find real and decent jobs.

  It is Patricia atop me in my dream now, hips gyrating in a reverse cowgirl, her breath coming in short hitches. I rest my forehead between her shoulder blades and watch her ass grind on my lap. She arches, throws her head back, letting long hair dangle in my face as she bucks and rides. I lean back for a better view. As we near orgasm her pale skin begins to change, growing pink, then seemingly red with sunburn. She arches more and more until her inverted eyes are looking into mine, until it appears she can bend no further. She’s squealing with delight. I’m close to being uncorked. A few more thrusts and I begin to erupt. Her skin suddenly becomes maroon and wet, blood smearing on my body wherever she touches.

  ‘What have you done?’ she cries.

  I’m coming inside her when the squeals turn to screeches. Horrified, I hear a crunch and watch as her neck breaks, causing the back of her head to hit her spine. Then I’m screaming, trying to push her off me, still tethered to the hellish vessel. More cracking sounds come, shoulders splintering and vertebrae snapping as she folds inward, oozing fluids, her body compacting, crumpling, tearing until she is a tangled mess of shredded skin and crushed bone draped over me.

  Shrieking, I watch as the mess melts into an indistinct pile of slurry meat that could be any questionable order from a butcher’s backroom.

  ‘Jesus, shut up already,’ a voice behind me says.

  I stop screaming and whirl around to find Miller standing in a recess of my mind, most of his face enshrouded by the dark. Below his chin are a shirt and tie topping off an expensive grey suit. I realize it was the one he was buried in. He steps forward, shadows peeling away from his head. A Miller more like the old one I knew appears. He’s been repaired, looks much better than the last visitation.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  ‘You wanted to see me one last time, remember?’

  I remember looking at the closed coffin at the wake and thinking it. Miller gives me a tentative smile, though his face looks brittle, as if too much expression might strain and break the skull under his skin, undo the careful work that’s been done.

  ‘You Husked for Winslade,’ I say.

  Miller looks sheepish in light of my accusation. He adjusts his tie, straightens his jacket. I wait impatiently for him to answer while he fidgets with his cufflinks. When he speaks he avoids eye contact.

  ‘He liked being me, but he didn’t love being me. What he really loves is being you.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m getting that impression.’

  ‘How was my wake by the way?’ Miller asks.

  ‘Your dad got drunk and punched me in the face.’

  ‘Wish I could have been there to see it. Did they say how I died?’

  ‘They told everyone it was a prescription drug overdose.’

  ‘Well, that’s better than the truth.’

  ‘What is the truth?’

  ‘The truth is for you to find out.’

  Miller sits down beside me and lights up a cigarette, brightening our pocket of night with a surprising orange glow. I look down at my lap. It is empty.

  ‘What was all that?’ I ask, my hands feeling the space where Patricia had been.

  ‘The girl?’ Miller exhales smoke. ‘She was your first gig, the start of your career. She was the beginning of you as you are now.’

  ‘What just happened to her?’

  Miller looks around at the darkness beyond the reach of his ember. ‘What happened was a forecast, or a broadcast, or maybe a report of the weather outside. Some kind of perspective, I think. Beyond this cocoon awful things are transpiring. Part of you is already aware. It has been eating you up inside, sickening your sense of self. Your consciousness and Winslade’s consciousness are becoming more connected the more you share body and mind, just like it happened with me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will if you want to.’

  ‘I want to, but what am I supposed to do?’

  Miller takes a heavy drag and flicks the remainder of his cigarette into the dark, the light of its ember trailing, a tiny shooting star in this inner space between waking and dreaming, living and dying. I watch it trail off into nothingness. It hits the ground, sparks and rolls, coming to rest at someone’s bare feet. In the glow I see fingers pinch it, lifting the cigarette to a new pair of lips. The ember glows brighter with inhalation and I see Dennis Delane’s face. The cigarette is passed on. Next, I see Tiffany Burrows bathed in orange. Another pass and it is Clarice Patton. Each face that appears in the dim light is that of some missing woman reported in the last while. They all watch intently as Miller turns and blows acrid smoke in my face that vaguely smells like cooked meat.

  ‘Like I already told you, sleepwalker … It’s time for you to wake up.’

  When I awake I’m restrained. My re-emergence is slow, but panicked. Again my head feels like a writhing nest of hot worms, the squirm of them pushing against the back of my eyes, lashing my optic nerves. I struggle until my vision clears and I can comprehend what’s going on. I’m tied to a chair in Winslade’s living room. Renard stands before me with arms crossed. In one of his hands is a pearl-handled switchblade. My first real thought is that I’m about to be interrogated, or tortured.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘Safety first,’ Renard says. ‘I’m not taking any chances with you.’

  ‘Untie me,’ I demand.

  ‘Once you calm down, I will.’

  ‘Let me go!’

  Another voice speaks. ‘Patience, Mr Rhodes.’

  To my surprise the robot walks into my line of sight, awkwardly holding an old-school straight razor. Winslade approaches me, blade held out in front of him. It looks as if he’s pointing it at my neck. I’m convinced this will be one of the last images I ever see.

  ‘I do apologize,’ Winslade says. ‘But due to the unpredictability of your last re-emergence, we thought it best to limit your movement this time.’

  Renard and the robot kneel before me and saw away at
the ropes tying my wrists and ankles. As soon as my right hand is free I raise it to my ear to pull the proboscis from my Ouija, only to find it absent. Renard must have already unplugged me, which is against the rules. It’s clear in the contract. Husks are responsible for their own gear. As Winslade cuts through my ankle restraints, I notice the cobalt-blue device in his other hand. The ropes fall away and I stand.

  ‘There,’ Winslade says, rising.

  He reaches forward with mechanical hands and slowly straightens my clothes like a father readying his son for a recital. I come very close to recoiling from his touch. My body does not hurt like before, but my head is one giant exposed nerve. I don’t bother to ask how the session went. I don’t care. All I want to do is get away, back to whatever I can call my own life.

  ‘I would like you to stay for lunch, Mr Rhodes.’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Winslade.’

  ‘Please, I insist.’

  ‘I’ll have to take a rain check. Perhaps next –’

  ‘It wasn’t a request, you idiot,’ Renard snarls.

  I shoot Renard a glare. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  I turn back to Winslade, expecting him to reprimand his uncouth subordinate. The robot simply stares back, lenses cold and calculating.

  ‘Renard is correct. It was not a request.’

  The meal of roast pheasant threatens to fly out my throat as I walk down Central Park West, though I try hard to keep it marinating in the pool of champagne at the bottom of my belly. Nausea waxes and wanes in my nose and neck. I attempt to walk in a straight line, my pace erratic, bumping into tourists who don’t know enough to get out of a staggering man’s way. I’m berated in different languages, given all sorts of rude gestures. Even a challenge to fight is proffered. The looks I get, people must think I’m drunk or high or crazy. What I actually am is no longer comfortable in my own skin. Fantasies of cutting it off and peeling it away invade my head. I want to shed it, leave it in the gutter, start anew.