Head Trip

by D. L. Line

  They ran until Shelby couldn’t run any more. She huffed to a stop, trying to catch her breath and shout to Tasha at the same time. “Wait. I’m done. Can we stop now?”

  Tasha stopped running as Shelby dropped her luggage and bent over, hands on her knees. She was still clutching her toothbrush in one fist as she struggled to breathe. Tasha braved one look back toward the farm. “Da, we can stop now. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Shelby wheezed back, “I’m…I’m fine…just need…a minute.” She flopped down right next to the train tracks, making a seat out her duffel bag while Tasha dropped her backpack and began to pull out foodstuffs. Shelby watched as bread, a good-sized hunk of some kind of white cheese, something that looked like salami, and a bottle of homemade wine appeared on the ground before her.

  Tasha looked up from the picnic breakfast and smiled. “Eat, Shelby Hutchinson. It’s good for being hung over.”

  Shelby warily looked over the assortment of pilfered food. “Is there anything to drink besides wine?”

  “Oh, there is still some vodka, if you want it,” Tasha said with a smirk.

  “Um, no, thanks. Wine is good.” Shelby realized there was a problem. “Tasha, you didn’t happen to liberate a corkscrew when you grabbed everything else, did you?”

  Tasha said nothing. She just picked up the wine and broke off the top by striking the bottle against the steel train track, then she offered it to Shelby.

  “Well, that works too.” She held out one hand to accept the drink. “I guess I’ll give it a go.” As Shelby tried to drink around the broken edges of the bottle, Tasha pulled out a knife and began to slice up the meat and cheese. Shelby dug in with gusto.

  She ate until she couldn’t eat any more. “Better now.” She leaned back and patted her full tummy. Then she dug in her pocket for the aspirin bottle, shook out two more tablets, and downed them with a slug of wine.

  All that food went a long way toward making Shelby feel better. “Okay, I’m ready. Where are we going?”

  Tasha was already walking. “We will go into town to catch the train.”

  Shelby trotted to catch up. “How far is that?”

  “It’s not far. Only six or seven kilometers.”

  Shelby did the math in her head and realized she’d be okay for the three or four miles Tasha was talking about. Since it seemed like a long time to be walking in silence, Shelby attempted to start a conversation. “So, um, Tasha, where are you from?”

  “You already know this. I am from the Soviet Union.”

  “Well, no duh. I know that. I just meant things like, I don’t know, what’s your hometown? Where did you go to school? Did you have a dog? Whatever. I was just trying to make conversation.”

  Tasha glanced over her shoulder again, offering Shelby a slightly apologetic expression. “I am sorry, Shelby Hutchinson. Okay, I am from Moskva, how do you say, Moscow.”

  “See, that wasn’t so bad. What was it like, you know, where you grew up?”

  “It was like what you saw in East Berlin. It was not a big deal.” Tasha continued to walk. She seemed to be done talking.

  “Well, okay then.” Maybe trying to make conversation hadn’t been such a great idea. Especially considering Shelby felt like she needed a crowbar to get anything back from Tasha. Maybe she just didn’t like talking about herself. Some people were like that. Not Shelby, of course, but she knew one or two.

  After a little more than an hour of walking, the train station came into view. Not that hiking along railroad tracks through the Polish countryside with a hot Russian babe was a bad thing, but she was eager to get on with her travels. She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about Riley and her forgotten itinerary. The thought niggled at the back of her mind, like an unscratched itch, that she might be walking into an untenable situation, but there wasn’t a lot she could do about it now. As she watched Tasha walk up to the ticket window, she came to the decision she was worrying for no reason. It occurred to her that whenever she stared at Tasha’s butt, her concerns about spies and their motivations seemed to magically disappear.

  Tickets in hand, Tasha turned back toward Shelby. “The trains are slow today. We will have to wait for a little while.” She pointed to Shelby’s right hand, toward the toothbrush that seemed to have never found its way back to her luggage. “Do you need to brush your teeth? The bathroom is right over there.”

  Shelby held her hand up and studied the toothbrush. “Um, yeah, I suppose so.” She looked down and called herself a spaz as she walked across the platform toward the ladies’ room. Two doors at the east end of the building, both with cracked and peeling signs, lettered in an indecipherable script, presented themselves to her. “Well, there’s always eeny-meeny-miney-mo.” Shelby got as far as catching a tiger by the toe before she decided it didn’t matter. She chose the door on the right, held her breath, closed her eyes, and pushed her way gently into the small room. “Hello?”

  Shelby opened her eyes. Empty. She found the light switch, flipped it on, and headed for the sink. “Oh, toothpaste would be nice too. I wonder?” She dropped her duffel on the painted concrete floor and began to rummage through the bag for her toothpaste.

  The door swung open. Shelby looked up and squinted against the bright eastern sunshine that was partially blocked out by the silhouette of a man. In a trench coat. And a black Fedora. “Oh, shit.”

  “You have something that belongs to me. Where is the prototype grenade launcher?”

  Shelby wasn’t anybody’s idiot. “What?” She backed away from her luggage and pointed toward it. “This prototype grenade launcher? Take it. It’s not mine. I promise. I don’t mind. Really…I found it.” Shelby rolled her eyes.

  “Yuri, please tell her not to try so hard. And tell her to be quiet as well.”

  Yuri, all six foot two of him, stepped past the guy with the cool hat and drew his Makarov from somewhere deep within his black suit jacket. Shelby couldn’t help but notice Yuri’s two black eyes and the large hunk of white first aid tape that seemed to be holding his nose to his face. She felt like she should apologize for his injuries, apparently sustained when their tire had exploded and the BMW slammed into the guardrail on the autobahn, but she quickly decided against it. Instead, she slapped a hand over her mouth and waved with the other indicating she was more than willing to do anything Yuri wanted her to do.

  Tasha? What the fuck do I do now?

  Yuri stepped closer, urging Shelby back toward the wall with a combination of his menacing presence and his Makarov. She banged her head on the paper towel dispenser and stopped flat against the dingy white tile.

  The door swung open for a second time. “Shelby Hutchinson, you must stop fooling around. The train is coming, and it’s time—” Tasha stopped cold. Everyone froze. Tasha greeted the guy in the hat. “Comrade Sergei Dmitriev.”

  Fedora Guy nodded back. “Comrade Natasha Mikhaylova. You are looking well.”

  Tasha shot something back in Russian.

  “No, comrade, we will have conversation in English. I want everyone to understand everything I am about to tell you.” He gave Tasha a look, which she answered with a nod as he turned his full attention toward Shelby.

  “Shelby Hutchinson told me she found the prototype grenade launcher and she would like to give it to me. Is that okay with you, comrade?”

  Tasha smiled a little and slid her hands up to her hips. “Comrade Dmitriev, if Shelby Hutchinson said you can take the prototype grenade launcher, then take it.” Tasha held her hands out, gesturing toward the duffel bag on the floor. “It’s yours. I want you to have it. I do not care either way.”

  Shelby just stood there and watched. It was intense and she was scared shitless, but Tasha told him to take it, so maybe he might just take it and leave and Shelby could breathe again.

  As it turned out, it was over a lot quicker than Shelby imagined possible. As Fedora Guy leaned over to pick up the black duffel bag, Tasha reacted like a flash, pulling her jacket out of the way with he
r left hand as she drew her Makarov with her right. The gun went off twice and the two goons hit the concrete floor, dead, each neatly shot once in the forehead.

  Shelby freaked. “Oh, holy shit, Tasha. Look…wow, look what you did. Oh, jeez, this is bad.”

  Once again, Tasha was having none of it. “Shelby Hutchinson, all is okay. Grab the luggage. We need to get on the train now or we will have to walk to the Soviet Union.”

  “But…” Shelby was shocked and struggled to speak as she gestured toward the bodies on the floor. “What about, you know”—Shelby’s hysteria began to bubble up—“oh, the, I don’t know”—Shelby was almost screaming now—“dead guys in the public bathroom!”

  In two quick strides, Tasha had one hand wrapped around Shelby’s bicep and the other hand clamped firmly over Shelby’s mouth, and the look in her eyes meant business. “Shelby Hutchinson, you must calm yourself. All is okay.”

  Shelby was starting to calm down, but she still wasn’t sure. She reached up to pull Tasha’s hand away from her mouth. “But, Tasha, what about the bodies?”

  “You and I need to be on the train. Take the luggage, go out the door, and wait for me. I will lock the door and go out the window. The train will leave and we will be gone to the Soviet Union. You must do this now.”

  Shelby didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. She just nodded, squeezed past Tasha, picked up her duffel, and walked out the door. The lock clicked behind her. She turned to catch the backpack as Tasha handed it out the window and then followed right behind. Once the window was closed, Tasha reclaimed her backpack and started walking toward the train. Shelby still didn’t have much to say. Surprisingly, it was Tasha who broke the silence.

  “Shelby Hutchinson, did you really tell Comrade Dmitriev you found the prototype grenade launcher?”

  Shelby laughed at Tasha’s question. “Yes, Tasha, I did. Some badass courier I turn out to be.”

  “You are fine, Shelby Hutchinson. You can get on the train and then fall asleep like you always do when we are on the train, and when you wake up, we will be in the Soviet Union, and the scary work will be over.”

  Considering what had just happened in the bathroom, coupled with everything else, that sounded like a good idea to Shelby. This was all starting to get a little scary. Oh, and there was that niggling little itch at the back of her mind that just wouldn’t seem to go away. Maybe Riley had been right. Maybe she should have listened and gone with him. Shelby was getting extremely worried.

  Try as she might, once they were aboard and the train got to cruising speed, Shelby couldn’t stay awake. She tried to amuse herself with enhanced imaginings of a vodka-fueled roll in the hay, but the rhythm of the rails and her fatigue were just too great to overcome.

  Tasha nudged her with an elbow, waking her up. “Shelby Hutchinson, we are here.”

  “Cool. Wow, it’s still dark outside.”

  “Da, it’s early morning.” Tasha checked her watch. “It’s only three thirty.”

  Shelby yawned and scratched her head. “Did I just sleep for almost twelve hours?” Tasha nodded.

  “You had a busy few days. You are tired. It’s okay, Shelby Hutchinson. There are friends who will meet us at station.”

  Shelby silently agreed. She was so tired.

  The train hissed and rattled to a stop. Tasha made for the door while Shelby pulled her duffel from the overhead bin and followed Tasha off the train. The train sat for a couple of minutes, then the engineer blew the horn, and the train pulled out toward Moscow and other points east.

  It didn’t take Shelby long to notice that she and Tasha were the only people who got off the train. It was easy to see when Tasha’s people showed up. Boris was a familiar face, but Shelby didn’t know who the guy was in the cheesy pinstriped suit, which was fine because she was sure she didn’t like him. There was something about him. It took a moment for Shelby to find the right word. Sinister. Yeah, that was it. This guy was sinister.

  As Shelby looked around, she came to the realization this whole setup struck her as being a little on the sinister side as well. Dark railroad sidings in the middle of the night, steam from the train hanging in the chilly air. “Kind of creepy.” Shelby rubbed her arms, shuddered, and returned her attention to the three comrades now gathered. “Yeah, but if you want to talk about creepy, it’s this bunch.” A raucous conversation broke out between Tasha and the two men, in Russian, of course, so Shelby couldn’t understand a word of it. “Well, that just figures, doesn’t it? Seems friendly enough. Friends hanging out, catching up…wait.” It became apparent from all the finger poking and shoulder punching that the men were teasing Tasha about something. “Wonder what she did that they think is so funny.” It didn’t take her long to figure it out. “Oh my God, these assholes are talking about me!” She didn’t understand the words, but she understood the gestures and their accompanying sexual innuendo. “Hey now, that’s just rude.” Tasha said nothing in response to their taunts, but Shelby saw the evil little half-smile when it broke out on Tasha’s face, betraying the truth to everyone present. “You, you, you…bitch. You did not just go there.” The men broke into gales of laughter, pounding Tasha on the back, offering what Shelby could plainly see were offers of congratulations, apparently because Tasha had managed to bag herself a gullible American. “Yep, I guess you did go there. Bitch.”

  Shelby could only stare with her mouth hanging open. It got more surreal when Tasha came close to Shelby and pulled at her duffel, guiding the strap over Shelby’s head. Shelby got nothing from Tasha. No reassuring smile, no “thanks for the help,” no “kiss my ass,” nothing. “It’s as if I’m not even here,” Shelby thought. Tasha turned away and dropped the bag, pulled out the prototype grenade launcher, and tossed it toward Mr. Cheesy Pinstripe Suit. Shelby watched, even more puzzled, when he caught it and responded by pulling a large wad of cash from his pocket and tossing it back toward Tasha. She caught it with both hands, peeled off about a quarter of the roll of bills, handed it to Boris, and stuffed the remainder in the pocket of her leather jacket. Shelby still didn’t understand what was going on when Tasha turned back toward her. She didn’t seem to be interested in sharing her finder’s fee or whatever the heck the money was for. In fact, Tasha didn’t seem to be interested in much of anything about Shelby anymore.

  “So, Tasha. Does this mean we’re done? I can go back to Chicago and you can go rape and pillage your way through half of Eastern Europe, or whatever it is you and the rest of your Klingon shipmates here cook up? Is there anything else?”

  Tasha turned to leave. It appeared as though she was going to walk away, but she stopped, turned back, and held up her right hand in a gesture that looked like she’d just remembered something forgotten at the grocery store. “Da, Shelby Hutchinson, there is one last thing.”

  Shelby shifted her weight and crossed her arms over her chest. “What is that, Tasha?”

  Tasha crossed her arms, mirroring Shelby’s pose. “You never belonged here. This is not your world.” Tasha shook her head and stared at the ground. “It’s too bad, really.”

  Once Tasha reached for her Makarov, Shelby froze. Tasha brought it to bear and pointed straight at Shelby’s face. Shelby threw up her hands as if to block whatever was coming. It was already too late. There was nothing she could do but shout, “Tasha, NO!”

  “Do svidaniya, Shelby Hutchinson.”

  Shelby saw and heard everything. Tasha’s finger as it squeezed the trigger, the flash from the muzzle, the sharp crack of the blast. Then nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  Shelby’s eyes snapped open and she freaked. “What the? Where the? How the? Why?”

  She was fully awake now and confused as hell. It was dark. Pitch black, in fact. Shelby reached up to touch a spot on her forehead just above her left eye. It hurt. To be precise, it hurt like hell. Her fingers never made it all the way to her face. They stopped, forward progress impeded by something on her head. Something that felt like a h
elmet, maybe a motorcycle helmet.

  Shelby gasped as realization dawned. “No, doofus. Virtual reality helmet. This is Head Trip. I’m in Chicago.” She tried to sit up, but there was too much electronic rigging tethering her to the large black technological marvel of a recliner. “And I’m alive.”

  But Shelby quickly discovered she was something more than relieved. Shelby was pissed. Pissed in a way she had never before experienced in all of her twenty-seven years.

  “That bitch,” Shelby said softly. “That motherfucking bitch.”

  Shelby jumped a little when she heard a door slam open and feet pounding their way closer to where she was sitting. A concerned-sounding voice materialized right next to Shelby. She recognized the voice. It was Andrew.

  “Ms. Hutchinson. Are you all right? You’re not supposed to be back yet.”

  “Yeah…right…I’m fine…whatever. Please get me out of this chair.” She squirmed in her seat.

  “Oh, okay,” Andrew answered nervously while he attempted to explain. “Your vitals went nuts, so much so that it bumped you out of the construct. What happened?”

  Shelby relaxed and began to breathe a little easier once Andrew disconnected the wires and helped her to remove the helmet. She swung her feet over the side of the chair and scratched her head vigorously with both hands. “She shot me. Execution-style.” Shelby made a gun shape with her left hand and pointed to the sore spot just over her eye. “Right here.”

  “Who shot you?” Andrew asked, tilting his head.

  “Tasha shot me.”

  “Tasha?” Andrew rubbed idly at his chin. “Oh, Natasha. The bad guy.”

  “Bad guy? Tasha was the bad guy? Well, shit.”

  Andrew didn’t answer. He held up a finger to indicate she should wait. He trotted over to a nearby desk, picked up a file folder, pulled out a single sheet of paper, and began to read it aloud. “Okay, here she is. Comrade Natasha Mikhaylova.” Andrew looked up with an expression Shelby couldn’t quite make out. “Oh, yeah. She’s bad news. Let’s see here…” Andrew returned his attention to the computer printout. “Born January, 1957, in Moscow, so twenty-eight years old in your construct. Ex–Red Army commando and sharpshooter, ex-KGB operative, assassin for hire, rogue mercenary, wanted by Scotland Yard, the CIA, the KGB, and, well, just about everybody else.”