The Nervous System

by Nathan Larson

  Do I shoot it? Of course not, though this creature could give a feline fuck either way. It’s taking its own time sashaying in my direction, then describing a slow circle, tail aloft, and I find myself pointing an automatic weapon at a kitty cat’s asshole.

  A freaking cat. I jam my gun in a belt loop on this clown suit, unlock my helmet, and haul it off as I stand. Jackass that I am. Take this opportunity to swallow a pill.

  So the Koreans dropped a cat in here, that’s what brought about this ruckus. Pretty crafty.

  Let me clarify some things that might not be obvious, and pardon the jargon. I’ve read up on this here subject.

  In brief, taking us back to 1985, domesticated cats in China were ID’d as the incidental host animal for a nasty hemorrhagic fever epidemic. Transmission was carried out via fleas. All very simple. It was perhaps the first observation of the house cat as a carrier for medium-scale outbreak. Not far behind were typhus, Rocky Mountain spotted fever, and H1N2, all of which were found to be transmitted, among other routes, via feline fleas.

  Which brings us to the superflu pandemic of 2013, otherwise known as H3N3, responsible for perhaps four million deaths worldwide.

  Prior to H3N3, the cat was known to be a secondary host, which is to say that the organism hosts the virus for a brief stretch of time, but is not the source from which the mature virus emerges.

  This all changed with the H3N3 pandemic, in which domestic cats from Damascus to Des Moines were found to be primary hosts. That fact changed the game.

  Governments in all corners of the globe enacted aggressive feline euthanasia programs, in which most militaries wound up playing a large part.

  Not exactly proud of this, but I have no emotional response when I recall participating in the mass gassing of house cats outside of Thessaloniki. We used a crop plane, and amused ourselves picking off the dazed survivors as they tried to claw their way out of the hole we’d dumped them in.

  That event either actually happened or is a figment of some perverted technician’s brain, inserted at the National Institutes of Health. Doesn’t matter.

  And the fact remains that I am immune to this particular feline-borne strain. I was inoculated against my will at NIH during my captivity there as part of a test run of the never-distributed vaccine.

  In the now, the cat disappears into the Rose Main Reading Room. There’s something … I inhale. I sniff the air. I really suck it in, heat going to my head.

  Cellulose. Carbon. Burning. Paper.

  Drop my headgear and I am running, though I can no longer feel my extremities, my peripheral vision is neutralized, and I’m plunging down a cloudy and narrow tube, begging any god to exhibit mercy, if any goodness and kindness remains in the intelligences that monitor this vile dimension, please let it not be so.

  Between the columns of the entryway, I do not have the will to look directly at the darkened expanse that is the left half of the great room. I peer to the gilded ceiling, heavenward to the frescos, renditions of clouds moving in on a blue, blue sky …

  Reduced to powder … many hundreds, many thousands of books.

  It’s so vastly worse than I could have conceived, I experience a kind of minifreeze. A wedge of time, don’t know how long, slides away, and I come to on my knees, my hands quivering in drifts of silt and small irregular pieces of leather, the debris still radiating heat that finds its way through my protective suit.

  This action, this meticulous desecration, is a recent one.

  A second wave of anguish hits my stomach as I absorb the realization that this, very specifically, is the sum totality of my own work. Untold effort. But fuck me, fuck that. Irreplaceable things, irrecoverable. Singular items obliterated. The dizzying permanence of this.

  Titles and covers flip through my brain at random, I am thinking of the second category in 000, this is the subsubheading “Knowledge,” contained therein is the one and only first edition of the English translation of Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, dated 1782, bound in a very early example of “straight grain” Morocco goatskin by the great Roger Payne in London.

  On my elbows, as if praying to Mecca, I am nearly choking on my own snot, repeating a single syllable as if in repetition I might reverse this tragedy, “No,” could I have been so arrogant as to simply walk away from these helpless jewels, my one true purpose, my only charge, leaving it all unguarded, open to all manner of harm, am I that much the motherfucking fool to have thought I could endanger this place so recklessly and not see any consequences whatsoever?

  This. Is. On. Me.

  I have disrespected the System, toyed with it. Treated it like a stepchild, a hood rat. Betrayed the spirits here. I have brought darkness and suffering to all that I have loved, and destruction to the only thing that has ever loved me in return.

  What does such a creature deserve?

  Cat rubbing against my leg. Resist a strong urge to stomp on it. Looks at me woefully. Something in its mouth … jerky. My jerky. My cubbyhole.

  I’m across the room in a flash. Nobody fucks with my cubbyhole.

  It’s wide open, emptied out. Motherfucker. No, not completely empty … a handwritten note, single sheet of paper, weighted by a six-ounce container of PurellTM. Next to the cubby, a stack of DVDs and a couple hard drives, clearly meant to be found.

  Grab the written note, biting my tongue, fucking furious.

  Cyna-corp letterhead.

  Read it, tremor in both hands making it hard to focus.

  Son,

  It’s been an age. Won’t say I haven’t missed you, because I have. You’ve always been a resourceful little punk. I figure you’ll find your way back here, so I figure this is the best way to get in touch, if slightly old-fashioned. But then I’m an old man now.

  Son, we want you to come in from the cold. It’s the only thing to do. So you didn’t complete the operation. Let’s let that lie, and honor our long relationship. To me, you’re still that skinny street kid from the projects who brought down a serial child-killer. To me, you’re still the finest deputy any manager could ask for.

  To have watched you grow over the years, to see you fulfill your potential, this is of great value to me. It’s time to heal this rift. Come back to your home team, and let us leave the past where it belongs: in the past.

  Son, this includes any business with the senator. We have him in a secure location and he is under our protection. What’s past is past, and I need you to let it go. Whatever you may have in mind regarding the senator, understand I run his security, so if you’re fucking with him you’re fucking with me. I would just hate to see that happen, so if there’s anything of that nature going on, let’s just nip it in the bud.

  Simply hand over any weapons you may have, along with this missive, to any Cyna-corp employee, and let’s begin again.

  Your friend always,

  Nic Deluccia

  p.s. You owe me approx. 1.3 million U.S. dollars, the cost of a MD-530 chopper. Things being what they are, shall we simply say this and any other outstanding debt is hereby forgiven? ND

  I read this. I reread the whole thing. I stare at this paper until I can no longer see it. I reach for the bottle of PurellTM. Let the note fall from my grip, and lather up. It hurts so good, especially with my shattered hoof. I want it to hurt.

  “Yo, asshole!” It’s Kim.

  I jerk back to the present. How long? Must’ve fugued out. Standing here rubbing my hands clean down to the bone, wringing them out for who knows how long.

  Kim has his hood off and rocks a dumb look of accomplishment on his chiseled mug. Holds up a clear plastic box with the cat in it, and gives a thumbs-up.

  “Got the fucker. He’s not dead, I don’t think. But yo, if you got what you need, best we bounce before bitches start looking at this whole thing too close.”

  Okay. Okay. Gotta pull it all together. Tell myself: this is going pretty well, despite having just suffered perhaps the second biggest loss of my ridiculous tenure on this big blue ma
rble.

  Got my hand to my forehead, swaying.

  “What’s the dilly, chief?” says Kim. “Hit your head?”

  Rally.

  “I’m good. I’m good, Kim, thank you.”

  I collect the hard drives, DVDs. Shove them in my spacesuit.

  Retrieve my gun from the pile of ash where I dropped it. Embers still glow here and there like fireflies.

  Kim hands me another hard drive. Has today’s date on it.

  “What is this shit?” I ask the kid.

  Kim rolls his eyes. “Fuck if I know, man, white guy just said get it to you, I was all get out of my grill, he was all just get it to him. So this is me doing what I’m told, yo.”

  I take the hard drive. In addition to the date, I read NYPL RRR. Surveillance video? Stick it in my suit as well. Pull my helmet back on. Say, “Lookit here. Gimme that cat.”

  “Yo, though. Hold up. It was me who caught this motherfucker. You try catching a cat, shit’s hard.”

  I’m getting impatient with this child but I need him, so I make an effort at controlling myself.

  “Kim, you’re a fuckin American hero, I’m not trying to take credit for your brilliant work, homie, I gotta go downstairs to pull some important shit. Need the cat for cover. Promise I’ll tell everybody you saved the fucking day. Now, I gotta go alone so just do your best to hold it down for me up here. Can you do that much, my brother?”

  Kim doesn’t look thrilled, but he carefully hands over the plastic box with the unconscious cat, him saying, “Bitches trying to tell me what’s up …”

  “That’s right,” I reply, taking the bulky thing from him awkwardly. “Put your helmet back on. Heard me? And anybody comes upstairs who isn’t part of our team, you shoot ’em. Chalk it up to friendly fire. Dig?”

  The kid has more to say but I speed-limp out the door, holding the box, headed for the Map Room, hoping those fucking cameras are still on the blink.

  Nic and company. Burn my house down, murder my babies, I come burn down yours. With you in it.

  _______________

  Tuesday

  The dank, familiar subbasement again.

  I am stuck, staring at the mystery trunk, the one full of explosives. I’m looking at it for familiar markings. I see nothing I recognize and yet what I do see looks familiar. These markings … starting to think … starting to think impossible shizz.

  Funny, as long as I’ve occupied this place, I have known where this trunk was, and what it contained. Never meditated on it, never paid it much mind. The whys and the wherefores.

  It’s an interesting state I’m in. Sort of a mental semifreddo. I listen to the two halves of my brain duke it out. One section, on the right, says the following: we are starting to understand why the name Nic Deluccia has been so familiar. It’s all in that letter, really. He knows me, has known me all my life.

  There is another section of my brain, distinctly on the left, that calls bullshit on all of this. Player, please, it scoffs. Anybody could have written that letter, just to throw Dewey Decimal for a loop. Anybody could have put this crate here. Full of military-grade explosives. Sure, why wouldn’t they? Because … because …

  With a huge effort, as if this steamer trunk were magnetized, I turn and limp away. And with even greater determination I shut out the warring brain factions.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, I am currently on the j.o.b., and Decimal slacketh not. Either way, the correct move now is to dig up Deluccia. For which I will need every neuron firing properly, lest I be struck down.

  _______________

  Blame the head hiccup but it takes me a little longer than I would have liked to reappear upstairs, my whole crew plus Officer Fucking Friendly rotate their plastic faces toward me, and I come gimping out of the Map Room.

  Officer Fucking Friendly is on me, grabs my arm and steers me to the stairs. I fumble the cat-in-the-box, holding it as I am with one hand and a wrist. Within the box, the animal is starting to stir, and the fat Clarence Howard file I grabbed downstairs giving me mad grief, jammed under my shirt. I’m hog sweaty and the manila is sticking to my flesh. I’m dying to spritz. Hose me down with PurellTM. The very smell of my upper lip makes me want to puke, which would truly suck balls in this here spacesuit.

  “The cameras are live again, okay?” she says between her teeth. “Don’t know about audio, but just keep it shut.”

  Team Yellow jogs with us. I’m holding the cat-box out in front of me the way we used to handle unexploded ordnance back in the shit. Who says I never use my training?

  “Coming out! I want a clear path to the vehicle, and at least a twenty-meter perimeter, okay? Move everybody back out there!” says Officer Friendly into her radio. Then to me: “There’s a car waiting, okay? Stick the specimen in back and then let’s roll out as fast as possible, okay?”

  Bam, we’re out the front door. The fat cop is still shouting, there’s a general din. Fat cop screaming, “Coming through!” Everybody backing up, away from the “biohazard.” Plenty of folks talking into radios, me thinking shit shit shit.

  Clouds have moved in since we were inside. I yearn for a pill but I got an armful and countless peepers on me …

  Four of our crew peel off, leaving two yellow suits, the cop, and myself, bearing the cat-box. The four departed members of Team Yellow are replaced by two Cyna-corpers.

  What the … all this action vibing bad bad.

  Another female voice. It’s one of the two remaining yellow suits, the smallest of the two. “This is fucked. We’ve been made. Hey. In case we get separated.” It can only be …

  “Rose??”

  “Shut up. This operation is a snafu.”

  “Rose, why would you come out here like this? It’s just straight-up stupid.”

  “Didn’t trust you. Wanted to make sure you weren’t going to just dodge out,” she spits, keeping it low. “Clearly a fucking mistake. Remember what we talked about, about the wife. Eight p.m., West 30th heliport. MPs making pickup. Diplomatic limos, UN garage, it’s unguarded. License plate starts with KKK …”

  I’m trying to process all that and she falls back behind me. We’re being run down the stairs and toward what looks like a small refrigerated truck idling at the curb, the side proclaiming, Peter Luger’s—

  Hold up. This is out of fucking bounds. I’m not getting in there. Try to throw on the brakes but I’m being pushed from behind, I can’t tell by whom …

  “What the fuck is this?” I manage.

  Officer Friendly is breathing heavily. Sounds like a smoker. “NYPD probably don’t have a free vehicle, okay?”

  A pair of soldiers get in front of us and jerk open the rear cargo doors, and before I know it the cop, two yellow suits, one of whom I know to my great dismay to be Rose Hee, and myself are inside, me saying, “Wait a fucking second.” The doors are slammed shut and the vehicle peels out … We’re in some sort of cold locker, nearly pitch dark, freezing back here, smells like carrion.

  The driver has the divider open between the cargo hold and his area. And he’s not alone, another human-fly CC soldier is facing us, and I recognize too late the barrel of a pistol peeking over the seat.

  Fuck me. There’s nowhere to go, we’re in an enclosed six-by-twelve space. If this dude starts shooting, we’re screwed. I consider trying to wrestle out my own gun, but I’d be a goner before I even found the fucking thing.

  Officer Friendly goes down hard, bouncing off a box that reads, Peter Luger Old-Fashioned Sauce, falls flat on her face mask. Apparently dude has started shooting, which is unhappy news. I didn’t hear the report but an exit wound is visible even in this half light. Happy trails, Officer Fucking Friendly. You weren’t paying attention, darlin: didn’t have the highest of hopes for you.

  “Which one of you is known as Dewey Decimal? Indicate, fast!” says the shooter, his voice muted by his helmet.

  To my eternal dismay I see a yellow-suited hand go up, and it’s not mine. It’s the shortest of the three of
us. Goddamnit.

  The shooter flips his weapon in her direction, and I take this opportunity to hurl the plastic-boxed cat his way, with no small effort. The cat within flipping out and yowling.

  I just glance the man with the weapon, but it does the trick and his gun is knocked loose … the shooter, cursing, tries to bring another weapon around.

  Yellow suit I know not to be Rose kicks the back door once, twice, and it comes open. Poor excuse for daylight pours in.

  We cut right hard and I lose my footing, and as I’m recovering Rose shouts to me: “Go! Go!”

  I am about to make a noble speech to the effect that I would never leave her in such a jimmie-jam when my legs are swept out from under me, Yellow Suit #2 executing some sort of martial arts move, I think absently that it’s racist to assume it’s a tae kwon do number just because these are Koreans here, all this as I pitch backward out the rear doors of a fast-moving vehicle.

  My next thought is that, seeing as I’m coming down on my head, this is what will probably kill me, this fall, and that seems pretty motherfucking anticlimactic considering. But no such luck: several inches of hard plastic somehow manage to keep my skull in one piece as it strikes the pavement, I bounce ridiculously a couple times, going limp like a rag doll, something I learned somewhere at some point which may or may not be effective, find myself sliding to an abrupt stop against a decrepit billboard.

  Dazed, I look up at a massive photo of a female crotch in a see-through leotard, the word APPAREL in huge Helvetica font.

  Get up, says the soldier who lives in my cranium. Not thinking it through, I attempt to push with my fucked-up flapper. The pain has me seeing blue pills and green clovers, and I’m still on the ground.

  Brakes squeal and protest, they’re making a U-turn, I gather pretty quick that we’re at the corner of Third Avenue and 42nd Street. The van is a block away, driver must have not immediately realized what was going down.