Dead Mann Walking

by Stefan Petrucha

  I didn’t tell him that. “Christ, Jonesey, if I’d been a liveblood you’d be . . .”

  He twisted his lips into a familiar shit-eating smile. “What? Dead?”

  “Well, in a lot worse shape than you are now.”

  “Worse? Oh, Mann, I know, I know. Funny, I used to tell people that death was just another form of consciousness. I had no idea. No fucking idea. What day is it?”

  He had big eyes, the kind that looked soulful back when they had some meat around them. Now they popped like the googlies on a cheap doll. You could still see it, though, the whole charismatic-motivational-speaker thing. Once that grin was exactly the sort a lost soul would trust enough to hand over his hard-earned cash on the chance Jonesey really might teach him the secrets of the universe.

  I hate con men. I’d have hated Jonesey when he was alive. Not a problem now.

  I checked my watch. “Tuesday. You need the date?”

  He nodded, so I checked my watch again. “August twelfth.”

  He looked up and groaned. Groaning is better than moaning. It’s intentional. “Six fucking days, Mann, that’s how long I’ve been out.”

  I took a step closer. “What happened? You’re usually Mr. Positive Thinking. Someone forget your birthday?”

  I was half kidding. Jonesey thought in extremes. He was either a self-styled superhero or a bug lying against the wall too worthless to crush. I don’t know if that was a result of being ripped or if he was bipolar beforehand, too.

  “My birthday? Hah. I don’t even remember that! I had a . . . uh, professional setback. One that interfaced negatively with my life plan.”

  I gave him a look. His grin widened, his roller coaster on a definite climb.

  “Fine, my afterlife plan. Two livebloods in a blue SUV stole my stash. I lost a half gram of meth. I tried to picture a positive outcome, focused, meditated, tried to make it real, y’know? But when it came down to it, I couldn’t face my supplier. He says I’m the only chak in the world he can count on, and I just couldn’t go there, not with him. I crawled in here to meditate and . . . zoned out.”

  “Six days ago. Ever happen before? The feral thing, I mean.”

  His brow crunched. “What feral thing?”

  I gave him another look. My memory wasn’t that bad yet.

  The grin faded a bit. “No. That was the first time. I swear.”

  He was lying, but I let it go. Making him think about it too much could send him off again.

  “Anything I can do? I’ve got some cash these days.”

  “Really? Good for you! I knew you could do it. Were you putting the vibes out there? Acting as if? Faking it until you make it?”

  “Sure. Something like that.”

  He pushed his head around like he was trying to snap it back into place. “Spot me five for a double espresso? Helps me focus. I know those two addicts. I know where they live. If I really bring the right attitude toward it I can talk them into giving me the stash back, or at least paying something for it. If not, at least I can go feral on someone who deserves it, right?”

  “Right. Espresso, huh? That . . . you know, work?”

  He shrugged. “Seems to. Maybe it just reminds me.” He tapped his temple. “Head game. But it’s all head games, right?”

  Head was the wrong word to use around me at the moment. I pulled out the photo, if only to change the subject. “This is why I was trying to find you. Know him?”

  He took it between his fingers, moved it around in the scant light.

  “Hair’s a little different, and he doesn’t have all that flesh anymore, but . . . of course I do. What was it? Pimple. Boyle. Frank Boyle. Lives in Bedland. Last I heard, anyway. You got that five?”

  I pulled out a crumpled bill, the last I had on me, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “I thought the doubles were only four bucks.”

  “I like to tip the barista,” he said. “Keep a good thought, Mann!”

  I watched him shamble off, hoping he didn’t go feral in Starbucks.

  Then again, he wouldn’t be the first.

  3

  Mr. Turgeon was full of surprises.

  “Tonight? You want to go tonight?”

  He could laugh his wobbly ass off at my last name all he wanted, but I wasn’t getting maimed for a few bucks, even for a lot of bucks. I tried to put it politely. “Look, Mr. Turgeon, I admire your tenacity, but even armed liveblood cops don’t go to Bedland after sunset on a Friday.”

  “I understand the risk.”

  “No, sir. I don’t think you do. Every meathead in Fort Hammer gets the weekend off from his shitty job. They spend it looking for more exciting ways to get off, and hakking is the number one sport. If the hakkers don’t kill us, the ferals they leave behind will. Add to that the fact that we don’t even know if your boy can still answer to his name. . . .”

  Pursing his lips, he looked out the window. The flighty evening glow had vanished into a more honest dark. “I told you. We have to find him before his siblings. There are four shantytowns, aren’t there? And the hakkers only attack one? Doesn’t that put the odds in our favor?”

  One in four. I looked at Misty. She shook her head, no way. I agreed.

  “Sorry, Mr. Turgeon. Bedland’s the favorite, the biggest target. They just use the others for practice. Unless you want to wait until morning, you’re on your own. Believe me, it’ll be well worth the wait, if only because you get to live another day.”

  I wanted to put the fear of God into him. He did me one better and summoned Mammon. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another envelope stuffed with cash.

  “Take it. There’s a third just like it if we find him.”

  Crazy son of a bitch. I reached for the bills.

  “No,” Misty said.

  I owed her, I should have listened to her, but the money would be too good for both of us. For that kind of cash she’d take the chance if she could. I nodded for her to step out into the little anteroom that doubled as her bedroom. She grimaced, but did.

  I hefted the envelope and finally asked a decent question. “How much is Derby paying you to find Boyle? Take it from someone who knows: It’s not worth being dead for a bigger flat-panel TV, even if it is HD.”

  If he was afraid, his face didn’t show it, but he rubbed the rim of his hat, turned the Stetson like it was a little steering wheel and he was trying to avoid an oncoming truck. Appearances aside, I got a strong sense of naïveté from his demeanor. He knew what he wanted, but so does an infant. I wasn’t even sure if he’d been out at night by himself.

  Finally, he spoke. “You know how some men slave all their lives in a job they hate to give their wives and children a better life?”

  I shook my head. “You don’t strike me as a family man.”

  The hat stopped moving. “That’s the point. I’m not. I don’t have a wife, children, or friends, just this job I do. Mr. Derby made it clear that if I didn’t find Frank Boyle, I’d be fired. I don’t want to work anywhere else. I just don’t. I can’t. I can’t let him fire me. I’d rather . . .”

  His voice sounded distant, but I didn’t have any reason to doubt him. It was pathetic enough to be true. If I didn’t go with him, he could toddle out there all by himself and get hit by a car.

  I tossed my hands up. “Your funeral, my mutilation. Do you have a gun?”

  I was still trying to scare him, but, surprise, surprise, he nodded. Maybe he wasn’t as stupid as I thought. If I didn’t know it’d come out more like a hiss, I’d have sighed.

  “Then let me get mine. Assuming that yellow Hummer outside is yours, I’ll meet you at the car.”

  He smiled like Mommy had pinched his cheek; then he rolled up to standing and ambled on out. The second the outer door clicked, Misty rushed back in, all teary-eyed.

  “No fair—you know I can’t cry,” I told her.

  “Don’t go, Hess. Even if they don’t chop you up, you shoot a liveblood, even by accident, and they catch you,
it’ll be worse than death.”

  “Like this isn’t?” I said. When she didn’t react, I grimaced. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but half an hour ago, Jonesey went feral and nearly had me for dinner. I shook him out of it, but it’s just a matter of time now.”

  Misty lowered her head. “Shit. He’s one of the smart ones.”

  I poked a thumb into my chest. “Smarter than me, Mist. So how long do I have? And who even knows if ripping is permanent? We could all go, any minute. I don’t make some kind of move now, I might never be able to, right?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Right?” I asked again. I sounded angry. I was angry, taking it out on her just because she was worried about me. It’s so much easier to think about not existing if you can be sure you won’t take anyone with you.

  She made a face. I let it go.

  I opened the lower desk drawer and removed the false bottom. I had two things hidden there, both contraband: a little vial of green liquid and a Walther P99. The vial’s its own story. For now, I took out the gun, a nice combo of stopping power and low recoil. Too little of the former, whatever I shot would still be coming at me. Too much of the latter, I could tear my arm off by firing the damn thing. It’s totally illegal for a chak to own a weapon, but you never know when breaking the law might suddenly become the best idea in the world.

  “You’re doing this because of the money?” Misty wasn’t finished yet.

  “Partly,” I said, checking over the gun. “It’s also something to do. I’m curious about this Boyle guy. Being curious is good. Better than watching TV.”

  Satisfied he’d perform, I shoved Walther between the back of my pants and the small of my back.

  I turned to Misty, looked in her eyes, and touched her cheek. The last of her tears, a big one, rolled onto my finger. The dead flesh sopped it up like a sponge. “We have to be realists, right? We have to be. More than likely, I’ll be back this time. But do me a favor, Misty? If and when I do go, make sure my head’s totaled. Crushed or something. Not just a D-cap. And definitely not fire.”

  “I hate it when you talk like this, Hess.”

  I forced my lips into a smile. It hurts to do that, ever since I died, but I had to show her I was still in here. “Me, too. But I’ll feel better if you promise. So?”

  “I promise.”

  I turned her head side to side, studying her a bit. Her cheeks were so hollow when we met, from the drugs, that her face had no affect. Now it was easy to see how worried she was. I was her lifeline. I really was risking both of us. “You’re looking better. Try not to worry too much. I like to think I’m not an idiot. And you heard the big baby. We’ve got a one–in-four shot at a quiet night.”

  I took a hundred from the envelope and held it out to her. “If you want to keep busy, you can get some more bleach and go down to Cruger. Flat-headed guy there has some finger rot. Can’t miss him if you follow your nose.”

  She eyed the bill. Depression meant one thing for me, something else for her.

  “Got anything smaller?” she asked.

  I looked in the envelope. “Nope.”

  “Too much temptation. Keep it. I still got some bleach left. Should be enough for some fingers. We’ll go pick up some more when you get back. And you’d better get back in exactly as many pieces as you are now or I’m taking that envelope, buying a shitload of crack, and smoking it until I get to see God face-to-face so I can demand an apology from his almighty ass for this fucked-up life. You got that?”

  I gave her a salute and headed for the door. “Deal. Say hi for me.”

  She tossed me my cell. “Call him yourself.”

  There’s better than the Bones, but Fort Hammer’s generally crappy. The city used to have a manufacturing base and a big insurance industry, but when hard times hit, it was just like that little old lady on the commercial who’d fallen and couldn’t get up. You couldn’t blame anyone here. The citizens were all doing exactly the same things we did during the boom years. But sometimes it rains, and sometimes it rains hard.

  These days Fort Hammer’s two big claims to fame are one of the highest murder rates in the country and the highest execution rate. Cheers went up in bars across town when we pushed ahead of Texas. One town, ahead of Texas.

  That’s where the rest of us chakz come from, myself included: the death penalty.

  It makes perfect sense, as long as you don’t think about it too much. The same year they started ripping the dead, improvements in DNA testing revealed an embarrassing number of wrongful executions. Ethically, the biggest argument against the death penalty was that it could never be undone. Thanks to our caring friends at ChemBet, now it could be.

  Sure, most livebloods decided real fast that it was better to leave their loved ones resting in peace, but the state saw it as a way of rectifying what was euphemistically referred to as “certain inadequacies in the judicial system.” Thanks to the Revivification as Restitution Act, (RAR), the wrongfully executed were brought back as chakz. Oops, sorry! No harm, no foul, right? If anything, it made it easier to give someone a lethal injection in the first place.

  Not that anyone ever asks the deceased. I’ve yet to see a new chak run around screaming, “It’s great to be back, Fort Hammer!”

  But here we are.

  I gave Turgeon’s car a once-over. I don’t go for gas-guzzlers, but the Humvee was probably the only model that’d make him look normal size. I opened the door, surprised to hear some particularly misogynist gangsta rap on the sound system, the lyrics going on about there being one less bitch to worry about. I gave him a look as I climbed in. After a little giggle, he shut it off and our great buddy movie began.

  Sure to be a classic.

  Other than the damage to the environment, the drive was uneventful. It’s a straight line to the outskirts of town, so it even lacked the excitement of turning. Soon, with the city lights behind us and a single-lane highway ahead, Turgeon made a stab at conversation. If only he’d decided to talk about the weather.

  “Do you really think we might die tonight?”

  “You might. Me? Been there. Done that. Got other problems now.”

  “I’m not afraid of dying, you know,” he said. Then he asked the question every chak loves to hear. “But . . . what is . . . what is it like? Being dead?”

  I stared into his blue contacts. “What’s it like? What’s it look like?”

  I don’t usually talk like that to a client, but I already had two envelopes full of his cash, I was risking my neck, and he had a habit of pushing the wrong buttons.

  He shrugged. “I don’t mean now. I mean before . . . when you were dead.” He kept his voice soft, as if that meant he was concerned about my feelings. “You know, really dead. Right after the execution.”

  I leaned back and stared at the headlight beams. “Oh, then. Everything went dark for a little while, and then I saw a bright, golden light at the end of a long tunnel. It felt warm, welcoming. I could see, on the other side, all my deceased loved ones, beckoning me forward to everlasting joy. I’ve never been happier.”

  His lips parted. They stayed that way a while, like his nose was stuffed and he had to breathe through his mouth. “Really?”

  “No.”

  “What, then?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Do you know . . .”

  “And no, I don’t know any other chak who remembers, either. One of us would have written a book about it by now, don’t you think? Had the money stolen by a publisher or an agent?”

  He wasn’t about to let it go, though. “So it was quiet for you? A big nothing?”

  “I don’t know means I don’t know.”

  “So strange. They conquer death and still don’t know what it is.”

  “Yeah, a real laugh riot, like Woody Allen’s early films.”

  I hoped that was the end of it, but no. He was like a kid asking why the sky was blue, just so he could ask why again.

  “Is it different?�
��

  “Is what different?”

  “The way you don’t remember death. Is it the same as not remembering whether you killed your wife?”

  Now he was back to pressing the other button. And here I had so few.

  “For the love of . . .”

  “I’m sorry. I’m only curious. Please tell me.”

  I squirmed in my seat, wondering if there was any other way to get him to shut up. Something told me there wasn’t. “Fine. Whatever. Yeah, it’s different. I don’t miss not remembering what death was like.”

  He had to think about that. “So . . . that means you do want to know about your wife?”

  “No. I didn’t say that . . . but with Lenore, I feel . . . a gap.”

  “Ever try to push at it, try to get it back?”

  “You should be a lawyer, you know? All the questions? There are some things you don’t want to push at.”

  He didn’t like that answer. “I don’t understand. What do you mean? Why not?”

  I felt like a rat trying to get out of a maze. Images started clawing at me, Lenore’s face turning into Colin Wilson’s head.

  Maybe I should tell him a bedtime story, distract both of us. “There’s something I do remember. It’s a story, but if I tell it to you, you’ve got to stop asking.”

  “Why?”

  Jeez. “Because if you can’t figure it out from this, I can’t explain it to you. Okay?”

  I’d never seen a grown man pout before. Frankly, I never wanted to see it again.

  “All right,” he said. “Tell me your story.”

  Satisfied we had a deal, I went into it. “Back when I was a cop, there was this suicide. Guy named Flitwick stuck a garden hose from his exhaust into the driver-side window of his Lexus and closed his garage door. He climbed behind the wheel and let the engine run until his heart stopped beating and his brain stopped doing whatever the hell it is a brain does. According to his friends and family, though, he had everything to live for. He didn’t suffer from depression, business was great, and he’d even brought his wife back from the dead.