by Peter Giglio
“That guy’s a wacko, a nutjob. You’ve said so yourself.”
“I know, but…”
“Now, Ms. Stewart,” Lingk said, “certainly you’re not taking the public’s pulse by listening to the ramblings of hate groups?”
“Journalists take the pulse by listening to everyone,” the reporter replied.
“But you always listen a little harder and look a little closer when something bleeds, don’t you?”
“So do doctors,” she replied. “What’s your point?”
Standing, Melody yanked the engagement ring off her finger and slammed it on the table.
Eric didn’t turn away from the screen.
“Aren’t you afraid?” the reporter asked.
“Afraid? Why should I be afraid?”
“Of hate groups,” she said. “Aren’t you afraid that you’ve made yourself the target they’ve been looking for?”
“Yes,” Eric whispered. It was the question he’d been waiting for. But he didn’t see any fear planted in Lingk’s eyes as the image tightened on him, and that was disquieting. Either this guy was a great actor or a bona fide lunatic. More than likely both.
Melody stormed toward the exit.
“I’m not afraid,” Lingk said. “Why should I be?”
“Afraid that while your message will undoubtedly be rejected by any reasonable, thinking person, it may be embraced by those looking for an excuse, any excuse.”
Lingk’s smile widened. “Ms. Stewart, I find that question absurd. After all, did Christianity die with Christ on the cross?”
Eric took a sip of beer and turned around. That’s when he noticed Melody gone. He glanced down at her engagement ring, then picked it up and put it in his jacket pocket.
And he smiled.
* * *
Julie Stewart felt like she’d entered the ninth level of Hell. Here she was, in a make-or-break situation, her interview with Lingk streaming via satellite to all corners of the world. It was, of course, the opportunity she’d dreamed of, but it was also a damned risky proposition. It felt too soon, and she could see in the pastor’s confident eyes that he knew that.
“So you’re comparing yourself to Christ?” she asked, mad at herself for making the question open-ended. For making it a question at all.
“I’m not making comparisons,” he said. “I’m just trying to put this into words everyone can easily understand. If for instance—”
“No,” she said tensely. “You made a clear comparison, Mr. Lingk.”
“Once again, please call me Steve.”
She smiled, sure that her resistance to his request was some kind of victory. She leaned toward him, then signaled her cameraman to move closer. “Familiarity,” she said. “Is that important to you?”
He spread his hands wide. “I’m a man of the people. Of course it’s—”
“You remind me of a used-car salesman or a politician.”
“Excuse me?”
“Be careful,” the producer’s voice warned in her earpiece. She ignored the notice and leaned even closer, smile widening. “You seem like a man with something to hide. What are you hiding, Mr. Lingk? What is your deep dark secret, your motivation for spreading wild fantasies as fact?”
Lingk frowned. She had him. No matter what anyone thought of this man, she’d cracked his facade, and that would go a long way toward discrediting him in the court of public opinion.
After a moment of silence, Lingk looked down. When he looked up again, his grin returned, but it was different, strained. “Are you calling me a liar?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. A bold move, she knew, but she felt the winds shifting in her favor. “If I were sitting at home watching you and it were some other poor devil you’d thrown to the wolves and not me, that’s what I’d be calling you right now.”
“I’ll gladly take a polygraph if my word isn’t good enough for you, Ms. Stewart. Would that be sufficient proof to back my claim?”
“No.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Because I’m not entirely convinced you know you’re lying, Mr. Lingk, and that makes you the worst kind of liar. The most dangerous kind.”
“Ms. Stewart, how can I satisfy—”
“You waited fifteen years to tell your story. Fifteen years. You built this church on the foundation of helping others in need, of bringing dignity to what you call Glory’s Children. Your doctrine consists of a seventy-page self-published pamphlet, which you’ve used to qualify for tax-exempt status in an economy that’s already pushed past the breaking point. And in those scant seventy pages you somehow failed to mention that Glory was a teenaged girl you had a crush on back in high school. So, in essence, your entire ministry is built on lies. I don’t have to call you a liar. You’ve already exposed yourself.”
“Ms. Stewart—”
“Frankly, if I were a member of your congregation, I’d leave. You think your following will grow stronger? You’re mistaken. It’s going to crumble. You think this is big news because of your revelation? No. It’s the beginning of the end for you.” To hell with journalistic integrity, she thought. They want red meat? Here it is.
“I disagree. My followers are devoted. They understand what I’ve done, why I’ve waited.”
“And you waited because…?”
“Because no one would have believed me before.”
“That’s an egotistical viewpoint, don’t you think? Why should they believe you now?”
“Unlike you, Ms. Stewart, not everyone abandons their faith when it’s challenged.”
She nodded and leaned back in her chair, finally comfortable. She’d won, the pastor now struggling to maintain composure.
CHAPTER 3
The sun was setting as Monika followed the two men in dark suits through the entryway of the brightly lit living space.
“This is your new home,” one of them said. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
She ran her rough fingers over the couch. Although she couldn’t feel the fabric, she liked it. It had a nice give, unlike the furnishings in her old place, which were hard as rocks. It made no difference in terms of luxury. True physical comfort, like pain, was an impossibility for Monika. But realizing someone had gone to the effort for her was nice. She sat down, and one of the men sat beside her, a computer tablet in his hands.
“You’ll find new clothes in the bedroom closet,” he said. “Real clothes. Suits for work. Sweats for leisure. You are to put one of the suits on each morning before the car comes to take you to your new assignment.” He handed her the tablet, which displayed two imitation buttons: one red, the other blue.
“Please press the blue button if you understand,” he said.
She did as he asked.
The other man in the room, pacing behind the couch, turned and said, “I gave her the cognitive tests in the field, Paul.”
The man on the couch turned to his partner and smiled. “I’m sure you did. Just have to be certain.” Then he returned his attention to Monika. “Please give me your Red Card, Ms. Janus.” She handed him the card. He handed her another. “This is a Blue Card,” he said, “charged with eight-thousand credits per month. You will no longer be required to attend public decontamination. You will find in the restroom your own cleansing chamber, which you are to use twice a day: once in the evening, once in the morning.”
He asked her if she understood. Again, she pressed the blue button.
“There’s a laundry chute by the chamber. You’ll deposit your clothes in that before you enter. Fresh clothing will be delivered on Tuesday and Friday mornings before work. Do you understand?”
Something chirped behind her, a loud birdlike noise. She turned and watched the man behind the couch draw a phone to his face. “Yes, Mr. Allen,” he said, “thanks for calling me back. Yes, the plan is a go.” He laughed. “Well, sir, better last minute than late, I always say.”
The man on the couch drew her attention back with a snap of his fingers and said, “You
will also not be required to follow occupation hours. Your apartment will be cleaned while you are on assignment each day at AdCorp.”
Though confused, she pressed the blue button when she was asked to, then followed the man through the apartment for what he called a “tour.” She liked the look of her new clothes, her personal cleansing chamber, and was especially excited by the plentiful stock of whiskey in the cabinets and ready-to-heat burgers in the fridge.
Everything was controlled by the simple push of a button: one for the cleansing cycle in the bathroom, one to cook the burgers.
Finally, as the men were leaving, the one who’d first approached her said, “This is a better life for you. What you do and how you act will in many ways determine how people view your species. Do you understand?”
She found herself reaching for the computer tablet before remembering the tour-man had taken it back. She nodded instead.
“You’re different than the others,” said Tour-Man. “A clear step in the right direction. Please don’t prove us wrong.”
She nodded again.
“Good luck, Ms. Janus,” the first man said.
The door closed and she was alone. She looked around the unit, which was at least five times larger than her old place, and felt weak. She ambled to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. Unscrewed the cap and took a swig, then closed her eyes as the warm liquid washed through her otherwise numb body. She didn’t know why booze, particularly whiskey, worked this way, although it had been explained in her presence many times; something like gas in a car, fuel. But she didn’t care. It worked and that was all that really mattered.
Monika tilted the bottle for another drink, and then it happened.
Music started playing, distant but familiar.
Still holding the whiskey bottle, Monika moved toward the music, and the world around her seemed to vanish. She didn’t even notice the bottle shatter on the hardwood floor when it slipped from her fingers. All that counted was the song that played.
Her mind flashed to another place…
She’s in a car. Daylight slices through the windshield…
This was the song. The song she’d died to. She pressed a palm against the wall. Felt the vibrations, rhythm unmistakable.
The song.
A man tells her about the song, how much it means to him. But she doesn’t listen. She doesn’t care. Her eyes are caked with tears from an argument. A narrow country road unwinds. The sun glares around a bend.
She couldn’t remember the man’s name, but she was getting somewhere. This was good. She’d never remembered this much before.
She’s angry. At him. At the song. At the idea that he loves the stupid song more than he loves her, because she loves him. Loves him so much it hurts. It hurts bad.
Where were we heading? she asks herself. Was it just a Sunday drive? A joyride?
She grabs the steering wheel and screams. The car careens around a bend. Too fast. She yanks the wheel hard. Mad as hell. Tires screech…
She pressed her hand harder against plaster, the music pulsating through her core. She couldn’t feel the wall, the air around her or the floor beneath…
But she could feel the music accompanied by painful shards of a brutal past.
She’s dying, the air filled with smoke. Her lover’s face covered in blood, hair shielding his eyes. She’s too weak to check his pulse but can feel her own slowing. Breath coming hard and shallow. Darkness fast invading light.
What was his name?
His eyes shoot open. He gasps. The song keeps playing.
Eric…
She mouthed his name.
He’s shouting at her, and she can’t tell if it’s anger or concern in his voice. She’s fading…fading…into darkness.
* * *
When Eric stepped out of Luigi’s, he was dismayed to find Melody waiting for him. She folded her arms and rapidly tapped the toe of her shoe against the sidewalk.
“I thought you would’ve taken a cab home,” he said.
“And what, make this easy for you?”
“Mel—”
“It was bad enough you took me to a stupid chain restaurant, Coop. But then to ignore me in favor of a wacko’s ramblings, after I spent two hours trying to look my best for you, after you’ve spent the last three days ignoring me?”
He almost wanted to laugh. Her face was plastered with makeup, which he hated. And her dress was the gaudiest thing he’d ever seen; more feathers than dress, really. She was painting her self-involved bullshit as sacrifice. But he was trying to let that slide. “I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Nothing I’m ready to—”
“Wow. Just, wow.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“So I’m stupid?”
Yes, he thought. “No, no…” he started, then he spotted an approaching form shambling through the gloom.
“Well?” she asked, tapping her foot faster.
The interloper passed beneath a nearby street light, mumbling indistinctly. Decayed, gray skin. Pallid eyes. For one of them to be out this late, during hours of occupation, was rare. He wished it were also illegal. A new riser? No. The burn marks from daily-applied chemicals, which kept second-life skin from separating, were present, and the thing wore government-issued paper. But none of that frightened Eric. What really got his pulse pounding was that its eyes were trained on Melody, arms extended toward her as if in supplication.
“For Christ’s sake,” she said, turning to see what held his fascination. Then she glanced back at Eric, took his measure, and broke into laughter. Pointing at the zombie, she said, “Is this what’s been worrying you? Is that why you were so interested in that stupid interview tonight? Look at you, you’re scared to death.”
She was right. He was terrified. The thing’s mumbling grew louder, and it was clear that it was trying to say something. Eric took an aggressive step toward it. “Back! Go back!”
It ignored him and kept moving closer to Melody.
“Oh, Coop,” she said. “I probably look like someone he knew in first life. Happens all the time. He’s harmless. Let’s just walk to the car. He’ll never be able to keep up.”
Eric dismissed her lack of concern with a grunt, taking another stride at the advancing zombie. “I said back! Are you stupid or something?”
“Of course he is,” Melody said. “He’s a second-lifer. C’mon, this is ridiculous.”
Eric’s senses, all of his anger, were squarely aimed at the undead intruder. He clenched his fists, his heart throttling his rib cage, and felt a surge of adrenal strength like none before. Taking another aggressive step, Eric hauled back and punched the zombie in the face. It stumbled backwards, clearly dazed, blood running from its nose, then collapsed.
“Eric Cooper!” Melody shouted.
Shaking his hand, which hurt like hell from the blow, Eric kneeled in front of the fallen corpse and started shouting. He didn’t even know what he was saying. Panic-speak, meaningless obscenities, rendered even more futile given the recipient’s inability to comprehend.
Dead eyes stared up as Eric unleashed his fury. They didn’t plead. Didn’t cry. There was no pain in this hollow shell’s world, and Eric knew that. Knowledge, however, was a long way from acceptance.
“C’mon,” Melody pressed. “Let’s go. Now!”
Rapid-fire insults kept flowing while every fleeting fiber of sanity clung to Eric’s disoriented mind, pleading with him not to pummel the thing’s skull beneath his boot. The Curse, his reptilian brain warned. Don’t forget The Curse!
Standing, he raised his foot above the zombie’s head, about to end it all, no longer giving half a fuck, when the sudden blurp of a police cruiser pulled him out of his fog and back into the muggy Horizon City night.
* * *
He always played the music after her special bath, hoping it would ignite something deep within. Every evening, the same process. And the same
result.
Nothing.
She gazed at the ceiling with vacant eyes, and despite the chemicals he bathed her in with loving care, which kept her skin from falling away, he knew she didn’t have much longer. Time was no longer on their side.
The needle of the old turntable hit the last groove and rose from the 45, which Lingk had gone to great lengths to procure from a rare vinyl dealer in Nebraska. Only one hundred original copies of “Lesser Creature Love Song” had been pressed, and who knew how many of them were still in playable condition. This one was ultra-rare, damn-near pristine. The needle gently dropped on the record’s outer edge, the song once again counted in by the clack of drumsticks.
But Glory, even with her Sigler-Sutton Amplifier (SSA) in place, just kept gazing at the slap-brush texture of the ceiling. He twisted the knob of the SSA to the highest setting. Still nothing.
When two of the church scientists, Andrew Sigler and David Sutton, designed the prototype five years earlier, Steven had been hesitant to use it on her, afraid it would end her second life prematurely. He had also been unable to resist. Reaching her was important. He had to tell her how much he loved her and how sorry he was for not ending her despair.
The despair that had ultimately been her demise.
He often wondered what he’d do if he could turn back time, how he might make things right, how he could keep her from cutting her wrists. Despite everything he tried to do now, the only two words she’d granted him through the amplifier, back in the early days of testing, always echoed through his mind.
“Still time…”
She hadn’t uttered those words with her mouth, of course; rather, via the device wired to electrodes on her head. He would pay any price now for one more syllable, any sign she was still in there.
The needle hit the final groove on the record, speakers filling with snaps and pops before the arm lifted again. This time, however, silence didn’t fall on the apartment; instead, a faint scratching sound came from the front door.