Skullcrack City

by Jeremy Robert Johnson

  Nozomi brought her back to your lab terrified, but alive.

  After Nozomi had crushed the head of Samantha’s initial captor under his foot, she’d soiled herself in fear. Your first instinct was to let Nozomi make a meal of her and extract info that way. However, you knew you’d have greater leverage with Doyle if you could offer a chance to see his dear old mom. How many times had you watched those sentimental ties bring people to their death? And yet you never tired of it.

  Once Samantha Doyle was properly restrained on a surgical table, you removed her pants and underwear and roughly cleaned her, ridding yourself of the mess and leaving her feeling exposed and vulnerable. She began to cry. “Please, don’t.”

  Something vibrated across the room—Samantha Doyle’s pants were moving on the floor near your micro-incinerator.

  “Nozomi, the bank is probably still capable of tracking that phone’s signal. Can you please retrieve it?”

  Nozomi crossed the room in two bounding strides and returned. You remembered how much of him was a man, and resisted the urge to pat him on the back and say, “Good boy.”

  Fourteen missed calls, all the same number. “Someone is very anxious to speak with you, Mrs. Doyle.”

  You connected the phone to a gridtracking input and answered the call, holding your hand over the mic in case Mrs. Doyle was smart enough to understand what was happening and yell a warning to her son.

  Twenty seconds passed. You should have had an image in five. Doyle must have acquired a cracked phone. Thirty seconds, and the linked signal finally turned into a location and camera number 42016 zoomed in on an alley entrance. There was Mr. Doyle, eyes closed, murmuring, “Pick up, mom. Please pick up.”

  You double-tapped Mr. Doyle’s exhausted face on the gridtracking screen and selected “Follow—Yes” and “Wait if absent from view—Yes.”

  “Looks like we’ll be having a family reunion shortly. Nozomi, please destroy Samantha’s phone and then watch our friend.”

  “Yes, Dr. Tikoshi. Perphenadol?”

  “We’re behind schedule, aren’t we?”

  Nozomi nodded. “The people from the hospital. They’re still hurting and they won’t let go. They’re like a flood. It’s hard to think.”

  You administered Nozomi’s meds and left him to his surveillance.

  You prepped Mrs. Doyle for leverage during her son’s interrogation, stocking a tray of scalpels and retractors near her feet.

  Nozomi stood up. “Got him. Lost external cameras, but I signal-shared with a DEA drone. Got his heat signature up to a penthouse, then voice confirmation. Two humans with him. Maybe one very small, slow dog.”

  “On your way then. Can you gain access?”

  “Rear fire escape has a blind spot. Probably trigger vibration alarms on the upper floors, but I’ll be fast.”

  “All that effort and you’ll be hungry. Please feel free to satisfy your appetite with Mr. Doyle’s companions, but bring him back alive.”

  You imagined a number of possibilities for Doyle. Perhaps delivering his body to the Vakhtang would bring a return to good graces and a youthful disposition. But first, you needed to explore the depth of his knowledge.

  You were looking forward to the work that might entail.

  Samantha Doyle moaned. Gooseflesh coated her wrinkled legs.

  “Your son should be with us soon. He’s going to tell me everything I’d like to know, and you’re going to help me ensure that happens. If you don’t cooperate, things are going to become very painful for him. Do you think you can be a good sport, mom?”

  Samantha Doyle’s face changed. The threat to her son shifted something inside. She looked right at you, read something in your eyes. “He’s not going to tell you anything, cocksucker.”

  “Really? Such language from a woman of your age. I can assure you, though, I have never had any interest in cocks, or vaginas, or any other mediocre, animal forms of experience. I have known the human body in far more intimate ways.”

  “You think so? Or is it that you’re some shrimp-dicked loony who likes to hang out with gorillas and tie up old ladies, and love has been a little hard for you to come by? And you want to talk about intimate? Try having a child. You’re just a sick twist.”

  You’d heard a thousand variations on this theme—the attempts to hurt always dwindled when pain rendered it a petty instrument by contrast.

  “You’re lashing out because it’s all you have. I’m the one with your life in my hands.”

  “The fuck you are, sicko. I’m already dying from Pelton-Reyes. All you’re going to do is speed up the inevitable.”

  “It’s not so much death you should concern yourself with, but the question of how much you may suffer on the way to your end.”

  “Shit, little man. I’ve already had my share. Lost my husband early. Got this goddamn disease. My son drifts off, tries to pretend he doesn’t have a drug problem, and barely talks to me. Then fucking media vultures show up on my front door asking if I knew my kid was a cross-dressing bank robber and if I ever thought he’d be capable of going on a killing spree. Do you know how it feels when somebody asks you something like that about your kid? Jesus. I’ve been shoveling shit for decades, you fuckin’ creeper. So know this—you can put electrodes up my ass and pour lye down my throat and do whatever else it is that gets off your broken shitbag of a brain, but you won’t get anything out of it and my son will never tell you the truth.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because he never tells the truth in front of me. Because he loves me and he thinks that’s how he protects me.”

  “And when I put this retractor in your mouth and start twisting…won’t he want to protect you then?”

  “Maybe…I…”

  You watched the anger drain from her face. The truth settled into her bones—she would suffer great agonies. Her son would break.

  You bent close to tighten the straps which bound her wrists. They’d loosened during her tirade. The right strap would not latch fully. You’d have to check the mechanism later.

  Samantha Doyle said, “Hey, you,” and you turned toward her as she spit and a gob of her saliva splashed warm across your cheek.

  The madwoman smiled. You wiped her wetness away with a gauze pad.

  Your phone vibrated on a tray near the gridtracking station. Buddy the Brain asked if you could move his appointment a few hours earlier. With all the developments in the Doyle situation, you’d forgotten how central this session with Buddy was to your test of the animus ciborium.

  You turned back from the call in time to see Samantha Doyle’s right hand snake free from the faulty restraint. You ran toward her, but not quickly enough to stop her from grabbing a bottle of mercuric cyanide. She smiled and tilted the brown bottle and poured it into her mouth and choked down enough antiseptic to ensure she would be dead within minutes.

  Before the seizures began, she looked up at you.

  “Cheers, shitbird. I hope my son…” The poison tore through her, eyes rolling back.

  You tried to induce vomiting. You cursed yourself for not testing your restraints. You shot Mrs. Doyle full of n-acetyl penicillamine, but it was a lost cause. And though you doubted she’d known this would happen, you were sure she’d be proud to discover that her brain was devastated beyond any salvaging.

  All she left you with was a half-naked, gray-lipped, poison-soaked corpse.

  Waste not.

  There were a few hours before Buddy was scheduled to arrive, and you were certain, given the security risks in raiding a penthouse in the NoBu district, that Nozomi would be proceeding at a cautious speed with the Doyle acquisition.

  You worked quickly with your scalpel, salvaging what you could from the wrecked woman. There was still hope that you could graft some of her musculature onto the replacement arm you were crafting for Nozomi.

  Alas, Samantha Doyle had lost much of her elasticity over the years, and getting any of her tendons to attach properly proved a Sisyphean t
ask. By the time Buddy arrived for his appointment you’d nearly given up. It was then that you heard the extra footsteps on the stairs and turned to greet the man who appeared to be S.P. Doyle, a piece of his mother’s corpse hanging from your hand.

  After all that time, Doyle had come to you. Was it really him?

  I.

  That eye patch didn’t

  I am still here.

  fit his face. You realized that it was too late

  I’m Doyle. Not erased. Not you. That’s me across the room. I remember this.

  I remember this differently.

  to call back Nozomi. No matter.

  No. These are your thoughts.

  I’m still here.

  Travelling down the same memory. A different stream. The light is brighter in my eyes.

  Two minds.

  The important thing was to seize this opportunity, as you had all others in your past.

  You think of yourself as taller than you are, Dr. T. My face is less handsome than I’d believed.

  You remembered the pistol Nozomi had acquired on the night you almost lost him.

  You fucking parasite. I’ll never be you. I know you can hear me.

  Where was it? Under the surgical table? You guessed from the way they stood that Mr. Doyle and the woman were both armed. Best to execute her first

  You wanted to show me this moment. How weak I am. How brilliant you are. How close I’d been to the body of my mother. You want to overwhelm me with quicksand revelations, to punish me for desiring the truth.

  and gain the upper hand. Then you’d cripple Doyle, kill Boudreaux. Force Doyle and Buddy onto your tables and

  But this was a mistake. You’ve created a schism. I’m clinging to my own memories of this time. I’m here.

  work could finally continue. Did you dare to test the animus ciborium on yourself? You now had access to Buddy’s conduit. Perhaps you could save yourself an interrogation and feed Doyle’s brain into the pack. You could even

  These will never be my thoughts. They never should have been anyone’s thoughts. You want me to fear you, doc. To see your ruthlessness as something transcendent. But you’re broken.

  sedate Akatsuki on his return and attach the pack to his body.

  You’re not wise. You’re delusional. You can’t just paint over mold. It grows back. I’m still here.

  And if you could trust Shinori to perform the work, he could transfer you to the animus ciborium and you’d never worry about gray hair or aching joints again because you’d take control of Akatsuki and show the world a new type of god.

  You’re no god.

  This would be no fantasy. Believing in you would require not faith, but submission.

  You’re just an absence. A vacancy with fast little hands and no connection to the humanity that surrounds you.

  You’d finally be able to taste human meat without worrying about prions or encephalitis. You’d train your hands to destroy in ways your medical invasions couldn’t.

  You’re just another terrible human.

  You’re me, doc.

  But I'm separating from you because that's all you'll understand. This is my hallway. My memories. They're a lot like yours, only I kept my fascinations from hurting others, as best I could. But you hurt so many, and for what? Curiosity? Pleasure? I don't believe you feel a thing.

  No. You can’t do this. This is my body now.

  You heard about feelings and saw them as a probable justification for what you did. But there's nothing in your voice. Nothing in your eyes. Were you born dead inside? Could your mother feel it as she was nursing you, the black-eyed insect suckling at her breast?

  Your mind is too weak to stop me. You’ve given me exactly what I wanted. You won’t stay strong for long. It’s not in your nature.

  You think you're better than human only because you're less. You want to live forever and you never lived at all. Is that what keeps you up at night, destroying things you don't understand? I can't fathom it. To be honest, I'm barely trying.

  You’ve got to give in. I know how this virus works. I built the structure which surrounds your mind. If you don’t relent, I’ll bring everything down. I’ll induce an aneurysm. I’ll reach out and wrap your hands around Dara’s neck and watch her eyes bulge as she dies and the last thing she’ll believe is that you killed her.

  You've hurt me. You've hurt everyone I love. That has to stop. Something good must come from this.

  You killed your mother. Your petty fantasies brought her to me. This will be all you’ve ever accomplished. You might as well have fed her the poison yourself.

  Do you want to watch her die again?

  No.

  Please. No.

  You're a broken machine. Stop.

  Let go.

  Not broken. Immortal. You granted me the keys and I’ll rule over you forever.

  I'm not so sure about that. What did Nozomi say about the voices? "They're like a flood."

  There are other voices here. A few are sick like yours, but still alive somewhere inside. All of them have a reason to hate you.

  The flood is coming. We're going to wash over you and flow through you until there's nothing left but sand and maybe, if we're lucky, we keep some of the knowledge that our shitty world saw fit to grant you. Or you disappear entirely. That's okay, too.

  You will watch her die. Again and again. She cries. She rages. She swallows the poison. She must have been so cold on that table. Where were you?

  Where were you?

  Stop.

  Please, stop.

  I wasn't there.

  But she loved me, and she knew I loved her. At least there's that.

  I'm opening all the doors.

  The other doors in our mind burst, thoughts spilling loose like cold black water from a broken dam.

  We are the deluge. We are the undertow. We are watching a fire killing a man hoping to heal wishing there was anything else we could do with our life. We are swimming we are selling our self in tiny pieces called time we are thinking that maybe we’ll quit but the knife always feels right. We are hoping that someone will notice us, someone will lie well enough to make us happy.

  We are inside of your ears your mouth your nose your lungs. You cannot stop us.

  We picture you as a man with eight arms and we shackle each appendage to a concrete floor beneath the sea of us.

  You are Dr. Tikoshi.

  We are closing the door. We remember words which saved us once. Maybe they will again.

  BY SMOKE FROM LIPS BY LIGHT FROM BLOOD BY THOUGHT FROM THOUGHT ALONE WE CLOSE THIS GATE AS STONE.

  The time of broken machines is over.

  We live here now.

  The blue curtain beneath my body was stained purple with fresh blood. Dara held a cool, damp washcloth to my forehead. Her other hand held a syringe, its needle still buried in my left shoulder.

  She’d used the last of our perphenadol to bring me to the surface.

  “Were you in their realm?”

  “No.”

  “But your nose was bleeding. I barely got it to stop. And you were mumbling one of our prayers.”

  “It was…we had to hold him…there was a flood…”

  “It’s hard to explain?”

  Somebody was going to have to strip Ms. A.’s Understatement of the Year award and give it to Dara. I checked the alarm clock on the bed stand. I’d been out for eight hours. Had she been with me that whole time? She drew the spent syringe from my arm.

  “I made coffee. Would you like some?” She wanted to pull me from my orbit with the gravity of common, comfortable things.

  “Sure. Little bit of cream, please.”

  She brought it over and set it on the bed stand and sat down in a plush hotel chair. She said nothing, waiting for me to find my way. I watched her sip her coffee, steam curling from the cup and drifting across yellow lamplight. After all I’d seen, the beauty of her kind, patient face put a dull ache in the center of my chest.

  S
he stood after a few minutes and ran a dermal thermometer across my forehead. “Temp’s down two degrees. I think the z-pack is kicking in.”

  “That was our last perphenadol?”

  “Yes. For now.”

  “I need to rest, then. Just for a few hours, before the voices come back.”

  “The voices don’t have to come back. We can find more blocker. I can reach out to other missions.”

  “No. I think I need the voices to return. We’re all that’s holding him back, for now. I don’t know if he could eventually find his way past the effect of the drug. I don’t know how anything works anymore.”

  “What did…”

  “I can’t tell you right now. I will, but…I can’t. I need none of this to be real, for an hour or two. Please.” I couldn’t talk about what had happened to my mom. That would make it true.

  “Okay. Maybe you’re right. I’m about to pass out anyway.” She placed a dry hand towel over the puddled blood by my head. “Can you scoot over?”

  I could. I tried to pretend I didn’t feel the weight of the pack on my back or the tugging at the base of my skull.

  Then Dara turned off the light by the bed stand and stripped off her clothes, and I was about to say something, probably the wrong thing, until I saw the look on her face.

  She said, “Be here for a moment, okay? Only here. Only now.”

  She crawled in next to me and turned her back to me and brought my left hand to her breast, then her mouth. I felt her reach back with her other hand to unbutton my pants and then she was pulling roughly on me and opening herself and putting me inside of her. She brought my left hand down between her legs and I could feel myself in her and she said, “Hold me open and push down hard with your hand,” and then her left hand joined mine and her fingers found a rhythm and she twisted and pushed back and forced me deeper and her thighs tightened over our hands again and again until she arched and the sweat from the back of her neck brushed across my lips and she was laughing like she’d lost her goddamned mind and it was the best thing I’d ever heard in my life, and nothing was real for an hour or two and we fell into sleep like intertwined hands, confused as to which was the other.