Afterlife: The Resurrection Chronicles

by Merrie Destefano

  “Focus,” I said, pulling another key phrase from my limited bag of tricks. “This is Day One.”

  “Day One.” She looked at the ground, shoulders sagging as the weight of the world came rushing back. “Then William is really gone.” Her voice faded below a whisper. “And that means I must be dead.”

  “No, Angelique,” I guided her toward the elevator, away from the concierge, who looked concerned. Few people see or remember the anguish of a Newbie’s first week. If they did, they might not be so eager to jump.

  “You’re alive,” I told her as the elevator took us almost instantly to the thirty-third floor.

  But she just shook her head and kept mumbling the same dark phrase over and over.

  “That means I must be dead.”

  Sometimes this job is enough to break your heart, if you’ve still got one.

  1:58 A.M.

  Fresh Start keeps its word when we say we give our clients a new beginning. I may be part of the family, but I don’t have access to any “secret files.” I honestly didn’t know who the hell she was or who she used to be, any more than she did. And I didn’t care.

  Like I always say, I don’t make the rules.

  So, I tucked Angelique into bed, made sure she was safe and sound and asleep; then I locked all the doors and windows. It’s habit, of course—no one has wandered into a Babysitter’s suite, even by accident, in more than twenty years. Still, it makes me feel better, so I do it. Lots of things make me feel better. Like black-market whiskey. Like jazz clubs. Like a midnight session alone in a VR room.

  The moon had all but forgotten about us. It disappeared behind the rugged skyline, and headed off to seduce other countries with silver shadows. I was long past tired. But I needed absolution.

  I shut the door to the room, slipped into a VR suit, then snuggled down in the sensory chair and closed my eyes while it morphed to fit my body. With a thought command I switched on the Grid. Narrow bands of red, blue and green light shot across the room, sought and defined its dimensions, creating a chart of horizontal lines. The light quickly formed a graph of horizontal and vertical bands.

  The Grid was up.

  I went to my home page, a glittering seascape where waves crashed against a mountainous shore. Sandpipers waddled across the narrow beach, following the tides like tiny Charlie Chaplin impressionists. I took a deep breath, sucked in the smell of saltwater, felt the charge of negative ions.

  I always have a hard time leaving my home page.

  It was well past midnight in my tiny corner of the universe, sometime between rest for the weary and insomnia for the troubled. And yet—elsewhere on earth’s canvas—dawn painted gray skies; sherbet colors layered the horizon; and the earth waited to run a rough tongue over the flavors of tomorrow. I spun a VR globe with my right hand, looking for places where the sun still cast long shadows, where the inhabitants had reached that point in the day where they could pause and catch their breath.

  I have ten preselected locations around the world, ten different time zones, places I can visit whenever I have a chance.

  Not everybody has a regular nine-to-five. I’ve learned over the years to find my solace where and when I can. Tonight it waited for me in a tiny stucco building in George, South Africa. I always start on the outside, on the dusty street. I know I stand out from most of the regulars, me in my glittering VR suit, them in their brightly colored caftans and turbans. But there will be others like me, visitors from around the globe. One man comes from China; his almond eyes watch me as we stand beside each other. I’ve never actually talked to him, but he nods and smiles, glances down at my right hand.

  I’m carrying my sax.

  The building glows from within, the glimmer of a thousand candles. I’ve come to fill up all my empty spaces, to patch the holes in my heart, to revive my ever-dull, ever-disobedient soul.

  I sit in a back pew, my eyes closed, letting the song wash over me, cleansing me. Already I can hear her voice. Beulah. An old black woman, frail and tall, her nubby hair cropped close to her head, her neck long: her wide lips lift praise in a velvet-rich tone, her lungs an instrument as pure and clear as mountain sky. Then I lift the saxophone to my lips, joining the song. Somehow we always manage to stop at exactly the same moment. There is a hush, an expectant selah-pause as angels themselves draw nearer, eager to know more about this thing called salvation.

  Sometimes I wish I fully understood it, how my part is going to add up to anything of significance in the end. Most of the time I think I’m fooling myself, trying to convince myself that I really matter at all.

  But for now I just have to take it like every other One-Timer does.

  Like credit in the bank. Invisible, but there when you need it.

  Like faith.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chaz:

  Night brings peace for some, for those who can sleep. Personally I think it’s all a ruse. Go ahead, close your eyes. Tomorrow will be better than today. Go ahead. I dare you. Well, I’m not taking any bets. When I stand and look out at the night sky, I have a hard time believing that the sun is really going to rise again.

  The landscape of George faded away, faster than I wanted. I was alone. Remembering that freak in the jazz club. He left a bad taste in my mouth. Almost like I’d swallowed a glass of his jive-sweet take-me-to-the-sky high, and now his snake-in-the-skin was going to rub off on me.

  I’ve never liked gen-spike addicts, the way their skin ripples and shivers, like it’s crawling with a hundred snakes. There’s something primeval about them, as if evolution somehow reversed, imploded in upon itself; maybe Darwin stood up in the middle of the night and pushed a cosmic button and then suddenly all his clever theories began to unwind. Not that I ever believed in them in the first place, but somehow the gen freaks have his name tattooed on their souls.

  And I hate to say it because it sounds so déjà vu, but I felt like I had seen this guy somewhere before.

  A bad feeling slipped up my tailbone, lodged itself in the center of my chest and then twisted.

  Had we been followed tonight? I thought I’d seen that guy earlier in the evening, outside the museum. He had turned around, watched Angelique when we got in the taxi and headed for the jazz club. And then in the cemetery, a flash of eyes watched me, between the crypts.

  Was my imagination working overtime just because my Newbie collapsed and went off-line? Or—this one was even worse—was somebody after the Newbie?

  Her identity was a secret: even she didn’t know for sure who she had been in her previous life yet. That was all part of the deal. Fresh Start. Nobody knew who you were or what you’d done. Even the mugs couldn’t come after you for a past crime, as long as you hadn’t committed a capital. It was a little bit like redemption. I know that sounds corny, but it was true. Sign on the dotted line and then when the time comes, everything gets washed away. Your family can’t find you, your creditors can’t find you, even your best friend won’t know where you went. A brand-new beginning. And if you planned everything right, there should be a nice little sum of money waiting, investments accrued over lifetimes.

  Still, people have cracked the system before.

  We pretend to be this omnipotent organization, but we’ve got our weak points.

  “Run a track on marker number”—I paused and checked my log—“sixteen-point-four-three-eight-eight. Check to see where it’s been tonight.”

  I tried my best to settle back and relax while the Grid ran a search on the gen freak I’d tagged a few hours ago. I knew he wouldn’t keep the marker long. Within a few days he’d find somebody in a back alley with barely enough techno-skills to take it out. I just hoped that they would accidentally yank out some muscle and nerve at the same time. Our markers have tentacles that lace for at least five inches on either side of the insertion point. Not many black-market geeks have the talent to remove one. Or the guts.

  The search paused and skittered, jammed to a stop sooner than I expected.

  �
�Parameters?” a silver voice asked.

  “Where and when. Give it to me on a satellite map, include street names. Make it ‘up close and personal.’”

  It flashed across the VR screen. Shorter than it should have been, both in distance and time. Either the jerk went home and fell asleep, or he had already found someone to remove the marker.

  “Closer. Zoom in on the street names.”

  The map sizzled, then jumped, razor-sharp exact. I immediately recognized the beginning of the glowing yellow trail. I smiled. The brute must have taken a while to catch his breath. He didn’t leave the alley behind the club for about half an hour, long after the Newbie and I left. Nice. I wish I could have put him down for longer. It’s illegal, but with some of these Mongoloid jerks, I feel like the limits need to be stretched.

  Nobody tells me yes or no. Nobody but me. And that little voice, almost too quiet to hear sometimes.

  I stood up and walked closer to the screen. Read the street names out loud as I followed the trail with my finger. Something strange about the way he traveled. Stop and go. Almost made me think he wasn’t alone, like he was with somebody else.

  “You got any real satellite shots of this?”

  A duplicate map, sans the yellow tracking line, shot up on the far wall. I walked over, examined it. I was right, there were four goons down there.

  I went back to the first map, continued the trail. Stopped. That bad feeling was back. His trail led to the City of the Dead. The same time the Newbie and I were there.

  He had followed us.

  And as far as I could tell, there was only one way he could have found us.

  That was as much evidence as I needed, but for some reason I continued to follow his trail. He didn’t track us after the cemetery, didn’t come here. I paused. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was a one-in-a-million fluke, like winning a lottery ticket. Maybe he hadn’t followed us.

  I took his trail to the end.

  It had to be wrong.

  “Is this data corrupted? Any chance somebody tampered with the marker?”

  A long, reflective whirring pause. “No. The data is correct.”

  That Neanderthal’s trail ended at Fresh Start, at our main headquarters.

  This was beginning to look like an inside job.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Neville:

  The Mississippi churned with froth and mud, and here, on the Toulouse Street Wharf, the wind blew chill. A steam whistle sounded in the near distance as the Natchez slugged closer and the river echoed with the captain’s voice, calling through a vintage megaphone. Ambiance. It was all about mystique and how to charm tourists out of another fistful of cash.

  I turned up my collar, shivering in the damp cold as I glared at the three-deck steamboat edging its way toward the dock. Somewhere, hidden in a private room, a steam calliope sang a thirty-two-note forbidden song.

  Luring me and my boys.

  The laughter of children, innocence bought and sold.

  “Has you been inside before, boss?” one of my gutter punks asked.

  I nodded, then flashed a dark grin. My spike halo was fading, and with it, the world was coming back into focus. The crowd began to shuffle up the ramp toward the boat, river water sloshing onto the first deck. Hidden in my pockets, my fists curled in anger at what I had seen less than an hour ago, a laboratory filled with empty cages—just like my boss expected.

  We had been betrayed. The dog and the research were missing.

  But for now, I followed the crowd, one step at a time, ignoring the stench of sweat and the press of flesh, forgetting about the near impossible task set before me by the latest turn of events. I vowed to push it out of my mind for the next two hours.

  Instead I listened for the strains of calliope music.

  And waited for the decadent pleasures that could only be found in the Underground Circus.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Chaz:

  Angelique slept on her right side, curled in a tangled fetal position, legs tight to her chest, head buried in a pillow. One fist pressed against her mouth. Her eyelids twitched. She must have been dreaming.

  I slipped into her room as quietly as I could. I’m always a bit clumsy when I’m tired, but right now exhaustion had been replaced by a jagged adrenaline rush. Fear isn’t one of my favorite highs.

  I took her left hand in mine as gently as I could. Ran a scanner over it. Nothing.

  I wanted to feel good, I wanted to say, hey, one out of two. Chances are high that I was mistaken. But I’ve never been an optimist.

  I reached for her other hand, twisted beneath the pillow. Tried to pull it forward. She moaned, tossed her head, stretched both arms and then repositioned herself. I waited. We each took a deep breath and sighed at the same time, one of those odd in-sync moments that catch you by surprise. I blinked and reminded myself that this was another human being lying here, with as many rights as I have. One of them being violated by Yours Truly right now.

  She settled back into a deep sleep, her right hand draped over her thigh.

  I ran the scanner again. A pulse of red light flashed.

  She had a marker.

  I gave myself a couple of minutes to think, paced back and forth in front of her bedroom window. Stared down at the almost empty street, then up at the starless sky. If I was waiting for a flash of brilliance, it didn’t come. The only thing I got was a nagging list of questions, one that cried for attention louder than the others.

  I was her Babysitter, so how and when did she get somebody else’s marker? Messing with a Newbie is a capital, and none of the morons who run the kidnapping rings have access to this kind of hardware.

  I decided to take a break, went out into the kitchen. Made myself some café au lait with chickory, then found a couple of cookies. I sauntered back into the VR room, rested in the chair and waited for my home page to boot up again, munched on something that tasted like chocolate chips but was probably a soy-based, lactose-free imitation.

  Waves washed back and forth. Each one clean, fresh, new. White foam curling. Gulls complaining overhead. The sandpipers were gone. Now a baby seal and its mother glistened in the afternoon sun, sliding over the sand, chasing each other, barking like dogs with sore throats.

  I wished my father was still alive. He understood this business like nobody else, had a way of explaining how it never compromised his faith, how he was more like a watcher on the wall, making sure Stringers kept their rights, while at the same time the One-Timers kept theirs. He believed that one day our family might be the only ones left with enough political power to stand up for the One-Timers.

  Of course, the other One-Timers never saw it that way.

  Dad wouldn’t think twice about all this, I know. He’d confront my brother, Russell, in a heartbeat, ask him what the hell was going on. Why did this Stringer have a marker? Why had that goon been following me? And who did he know over at Fresh Start?

  But underneath all of it, I still had a feeling, one of those stupid gut-intuition things. I couldn’t believe Russ was involved in this. I mean, he’d made a few bad business decisions in the past several years, but he’d never actually crossed the line, never broken the law.

  I was the one who always got stuck with the dirty work.

  The café au lait was gone and I wiped cookie crumbs from my face as I stood in the doorway to Angelique’s bedroom. I was going to have to use a couple of Keys I usually avoid. And do something that could get me thrown in jail.

  “Sleep, Angelique,” I said. “Deep sleep.”

  She sighed, rolled over on her back. She lay perfectly still, almost not breathing. It was creepy.

  I took her right hand.

  “No Pain.” My words were clear, loud, firm.

  She smiled.

  I ran a tracker over the back of her hand, made a mental note of where the marker was. Swabbed her skin with disinfectant. Held my breath while I made a small laser incision, then carefully removed a tiny metal and plastic chip with twee
zers. Fortunately, it didn’t have long tentacles like Fresh Start markers, but there was more blood than I expected. I wrapped her hand in one of the hotel towels, pressed it tight enough to stop the bleeding.

  She just continued to smile.

  Once the bleeding stopped, I put a flesh patch on top of the incision. Then I cursed softly. The color wasn’t quite right. Well, I hadn’t planned on doing minor surgery tonight. It made perfect sense to me that the skin patch wasn’t the right shade. I just hoped that Angelique didn’t freak out and decide to press charges in the morning.

  I slipped the marker into a plastic bag and stuffed it in my jacket pocket.

  I honestly had no idea what to do next. I was too hyped up on caffeine, sugar and adrenaline to sleep. So I decided to do what came naturally.

  I went out on the balcony and played my sax.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Chaz:

  I was eleven years old the first time I saw a Newbie, the first time I saw life and death trade places. I guess my life had been pretty sheltered up to that point.

  A state-appointed teacher came to our cell, wearing one of those government suits with the high collar, his breath a mixture of coffee and mint. My brother Russell and I, we sat in the back and pretended to pay attention while the guy peddled the Ideal Plan, we even made faces at each other behind his back. We only had seven kids in our cell, but we could tell that we made him nervous. Seven kids in one room was enough to unnerve almost anyone. I’d heard of cells with as many as sixteen kids, but personally, I don’t know if I really believe it.

  We each had two bodyguards inside the room, armed and able to kill with their bare hands in less than three seconds if necessary. And outside the room there were at least fifteen more. A crackle of handset communications buzzed continuously between the teacher’s sentences, a hoarse whisper of monotone voices.