by David Wong
The shadow took a few strides onto the pond and said, “Come back off the ice, sweetie. You’re going to come with me one way or the other, and you won’t like ‘the other.’”
Will’s hologram replied, “Talk to me, not to her. We both want Zoey for the same reason, with the minor difference that I do not want to also eat her flesh on a live video feed. Your advantage is that she is worth more to us than she is to you. Our advantage is financial. It appears this leads to easy compromise—we’re more than happy to compensate you for what you lose by forgoing the contract on Zoey here. No authorities will be notified. You know my word is good, Lawrence.”
“Call me by my true name.” He paused, as if thinking. “The … Bite … Master. And you left out several important points. First of all, there is the fact that I’m here in person, where you appear to still be in the city, six hundred miles away. Second, there is the fact that you and I both know the girl is worth much more than that contract. And third, as you mentioned, I have a personal use for her afterward, which means more to me than any financial reward.”
“I am actually aware of all of those factors. I am, however, still confident that an arrangement can be reached. Mr. Livingston had substantial resources, as you well know, and again we’re more than willing to ameliorate whatever perceived losses you may incur by turning Zoey over to us. As for your … personal predilections, surely some dollar amount could be assigned to the loss of visceral pleasure. Perhaps, even, we could offer a substitute for Ms. Ashe here. We dare say we could produce a subject you would find even more satisfactory.”
The man laughed. A fake laugh, Zoey thought. For the camera.
“You are a piece of work, Will. But let me ask you—if you were to take a gazelle from the jaws of a lion, could you satisfy it by substituting a hundred and fifty pounds of Cat Chow? No, because as an apex predator, the lion doesn’t just want to eat. It wants the prize it won in the hunt. That is why you are to call me The Lion from now on.”
Will’s hologram, appearing completely unperturbed by this conversation with a serial killer, said, “I understand perfectly, and I see no reason we should permanently deprive you of your prize. We only need Ms. Ashe’s services for about forty-eight hours. And after all, is there no greater pleasure than that sweetened by delayed gratification?”
Zoey tried to process what Will had just offered the man, but the howling, frozen wind and the sound of ice clicking and wheezing under her made it difficult to think of anything but a sudden splash followed by endless darkness and paralyzing cold.
The silhouette in the headlights said, “If I was amenable to such an arrangement, I would of course need guarantees that my property would be returned to me at the agreed upon time. And I would need compensation immediately to make up for delaying my gratification.”
Will said, “I would suggest nothing less. How about a nice used Toyota Furia?”
Zoey’s driverless car came flying onto the ice, smashing into the man and throwing him onto the hood. A split second later, man and car went crashing through the ice, sinking into the frigid pond so close to Zoey that the splash threw freezing droplets onto her stunned face.
Will said, “RUN!”
Zoey did not need those instructions. She took off in the opposite direction of the car-sized hole in the ice, praying there was a solid path between her and the bank of snowy dead grass that marked the shore. She took a step, fell, crawled, stumbled to her feet, nearly fell again, then slid and skidded her way incrementally forward. She made frustratingly slow progress, like one of those nightmares where you run and run but the light at the end of the hall just stretches farther and farther away. She was about ten feet from the shore when she heard the ice below her shatter once and for all.
She was in freefall, the world gone beneath her feet. It happened in slow motion—first she felt the stabbing freeze of the ice water swallowing her feet, then her calves, then her knees. Then the bitter, frigid depths engulfed her knees, and then her … knees. This was when Zoey realized the water this close to shore was only knee-deep. She sloshed through the broken ice and climbed onto dry land, and only then turned back to see her poor Toyota gurgling as it pushed its nose deeper into the depths, taking the psychopath with it.
From the phone in her hand, Will said, “Are you all right?” Zoey faintly heard the other voice in the background, the man remotely operating the car, say, “I can’t believe that shit worked.”
Zoey said, “I’m hanging up. You offered to let that guy eat me to death.”
Will said, “That wasn’t a genuine offer, it was a delaying tactic. Half of negotiation is about dealing with people on their level. Speaking of which, we need to have a word.”
“I’m not negotiating with you. Go piss a centipede.”
“Right, overcoming resistance to negotiation is the other half of negotiation. Can you get somewhere where we can talk?”
“I’m freezing and I’m stranded. I have no idea where I even am.”
“Circle around the pond and take The Hyena’s car. He won’t be needing it.”
THREE
Zoey sat shivering in the serial killer’s Changfeng sedan, a cheap rental that nonetheless had a wonderful working heater that was pure bliss against her soaked pajama pants. She had driven away from the pond and parked in the shadowy rear of a building downtown that was marked as a real estate office but, by its shape, had clearly once been a Pizza Hut. Zoey put her head in her hands and tried to gather herself. The hologram man in her phone was now sipping from a glass of scotch, while under him scrolled a notification that her mother had tried to call.
Zoey said to her phone, “All right. Who are you again?”
“Will Blackwater. I worked for your father.”
“Right, and he’s dead? Did I hear you say that?”
“Yes. In an accident. There was … an explosion.”
“What, was it a meth lab or something?”
“No, nothing like that. Or maybe it was, no one is quite sure. I’m terribly sorry for your loss. He was … a great man.”
“Mr. Blackwater, I only met that man like two times in my entire life. The first time I ever saw him was when I was eight. It was my birthday. He gave me a football, because somebody told him I was a tomboy. The last time I was sixteen, so it’s been … six years at least. He was a total stranger to me. So why would him getting exploded to death cause people to come after me?”
“It’s just a misunderstanding. But there is a contract out on you and you’ll be in danger until we clear it up.”
“A contract? As in, whoever kills me gets paid a bunch of money?”
“They actually need you alive.”
“Oh, well, at least there’s that.”
“But the contract specifies that after you’ve served your purpose, they can have their way with you. It’s difficult to explain and also moot, as long as we’re both in agreement we don’t want you falling into their hands. Zoey, we you need to come to the city. Have you ever been to Tabula Rasa?”
The actual spelling of the city’s name was Tabula Ra$a, with a dollar sign instead of an “S,” because that’s what happens when a bunch of rich douche bags build a brand-new city in the desert and reserve the right to name it themselves.
“I’ve never been, and I’m not going now. I’m going to the police. And then I’m going to bed.”
“That would be a mistake. We’ve already made plans for accommodations here, we already have a car on the way. It will be there in a few hours. We’ll give you a location and a limousine will—”
“Wait, a limo? How many drugs did Arthur Livingston have to sell to afford one of those?” She was never going to refer to the man as her “dad,” since the connection was genetic only and she would disavow even that if she could.
“Listen, Zoey, this must be done quickly, for everyone’s sake. There could be other bad guys en route right now.”
“I … I’ll think about it. I have to talk to my mom.”
“It’s dangerous to involve her. You shouldn’t even go back home.”
“I’d need to pack a bag. And I have to tell her something.”
“Tell her that your father unexpectedly passed and his estate has requested that you make an emergency trip to meet with his associates. Tell her you were so stunned by this news that you drove your car into a pond. Tell her that to compensate you for the inconvenience, the estate is prepared to pay you fifty thousand dollars. That last part is true, by the way.” He paused, to let that sink in, then added, “That should cover the damage to your car plus pay you the equivalent of a year’s salary in addition.”
Zoey had a solid line of reasoning in her brain that demonstrated with perfect clarity why she should refuse, but it was quickly obscured behind a chorus line of dancing dollar signs. Fifty thousand was actually way more than one year’s salary—she worked at a coffee bar, after all. It was the kind of money that could get her and her mom both out of the trailer park, or to a nicer trailer park, anyway. It could get her back into school. She could get a degree in some lucrative field, like nanotechnology. Then she could open a quaint little nanotechnology boutique in Fort Drayton, next to the bait shop. Still, Arthur Livingston was a criminal, which meant this man who “worked” for him was also a criminal, regardless of what kind of fancy little suit he wore in his holograms. That meant the chase that had just occurred was really between two factions of bad guys—he had, after all, just told her not to go to the police.
She asked, “If I leave, how do I know more bad guys won’t come after my mom while I’m gone?”
“If you leave, they’ll have no reason to. The contract is on you, not her. But if you stay, then I guarantee you that more of them will come, which means that just by delaying, you’re putting both you and your mother in danger. Making this trip is literally the only safe option.”
Zoey remembered the psycho’s soft call—come back off the ice, sweetie—and shuddered.
She said, “All right, how do I know you’re not just more bad guys trying to collect on this ‘contract’ yourselves?”
“Honestly? We don’t need the money. And if we meant you harm, couldn’t we have just driven your car into an abutment earlier?”
That made sense, she supposed. Still, she wasn’t getting into a car with any of these people. Even if she decided to make the trip to Tabula Ra$a—which on some level she knew would be incredibly stupid and reckless—she’d find her own way there.
Will said, “Are you still there?”
“Prove the money offer is real.”
“Hold on. All right, check your account. I just sent you five hundred dollars.”
Zoey logged into her bank account and found he wasn’t lying—she now had a total of five hundred and seventeen dollars in her savings. Zoey sucked in a breath and thought, We can get the refrigerator fixed.
Will said, “The rest I can put into an escrow account, give me twenty minutes and I’ll set it up … if you agree to make the trip.”
“I’ll think about it. But don’t bother with the car, if I go, I’ll take the train.”
“Ms. Ashe, I would strongly, strongly advise you not to—”
She hung up.
It was seven PM; if she took the train out of Denver, she could be in Tabula Ra$a by midnight. She pulled into traffic, not realizing that a tiny camera The Hyena kept on his dash had recorded her entire conversation, or that more than 1.5 million people were watching.
FOUR
Zoey didn’t want to be paranoid, but there was something about the man in the loincloth made of charred doll heads that made her nervous.
He was at the opposite end of the train car, standing in the aisle muttering to himself, his only other item of clothing a pair of blacked-out welder’s goggles that made him look like he had bug eyes. When he had boarded at Salt Lake City—the last stop before Tabula Ra$a—Zoey had immediately assumed he was another crazy who had come for her, but then he had just silently taken a standing spot at the other end of the car and she felt bad for prejudging him. Still, Zoey studiously avoided looking in his direction; as any mass transit commuter can tell you, the only way to counter the dark powers of the mentally ill is to avoid eye contact. She gazed out of the window at the scrub brush blurring past at 250 miles an hour. She wondered if her head would go flying off if she stuck it out the window. Her cat meowed a complaint from inside the plastic carrier on her lap.
Zoey’s nerves were eating her alive. For the tenth time she pulled out her phone and logged into the escrow account, mostly just because she liked seeing the $49,500.00 displayed on the screen. She dropped her phone back into her purse and nervously started scraping black polish off her thumbnail with her bottom teeth. It was her first time on the high-speed rail and for about five minutes she had been awed by the speed, and then she had quickly gotten bored and started to notice how much this particular car smelled like pee. She had bought her ticket at the gate and the only open seat was this one at the very rear of the car, next to the restroom. Whoever designed the train had put the seat about three inches too close to the restroom door, so it bumped her seat every time somebody went in or out. It had happened exactly nineteen times so far, and what was worse was that each person who did it would stop and look down at her like, Whose idea was it to put this weird girl in the way?
Someone said, “What’s your cat’s name?”
Zoey gave a start, because for a moment she thought the male voice was the crazy homeless guy with the doll heads on his crotch. But it wasn’t; it was the stranger in the seat next to her, a fancy young man in an old-fashioned suit who had spent the entire ride constantly checking his e-mail via a pair of wired-up eyeglasses. She looked him over and got the sense that this kid had taken vacations that cost more than she made in a year.
Zoey forced what she hoped was a friendly smile and said, “Excuse me?”
“Your cat. What’s his name?”
“Stench Machine.”
“Really? That’s mean.” He grinned, flashing perfect teeth.
“Have you smelled him?”
“No, but still.”
Zoey finger-petted Stench Machine through a slot in the crate. He was a Persian, white except for his face and chest, which were black fading to brown. He looked like somebody had thrown a cup of coffee in his face and the fur around his mouth gave it a downturned expression that made it look like he wasn’t at all happy about it. He wore a black leather collar encircled with silver spikes. It made him look like a punk rock cat, Zoey thought.
Jacob asked, “Does he answer to that name?”
“Cats don’t answer to anything.”
“My name is Jacob, by the way.”
“Good to meet you.” Zoey realized she was supposed to give him her name at that point, but even when she wasn’t a target for abduction, she didn’t go trusting train strangers that easily.
Jacob asked, “Is this your first trip to Tabula Rasa?”
“Yes, and I’m already a little freaked out. I grew up in Colorado, a tiny place called Fort Drayton. It’s way out in the boonies. Just to give you an idea, at the entrance of the—” She almost said “trailer park” but caught herself in time. “—uh, subdivision where we live, there’s this big statue of an elk, made of concrete. And the whole thing is chipped with bullet holes where over the years drunken hunters have shot it by mistake.”
Jacob laughed, showing those perfect teeth. Zoey squashed the jealousy she always felt toward people whose parents had actually taken them to the dentist as a kid. She was missing a lower canine due to a skateboarding accident when she was eleven, and had a chipped incisor due to an encounter with a drunken stepdad. She suddenly wished she had more than just the one amusing anecdote about Fort Drayton to share with Jacob. She could tell him about that time the high school basketball team made it to the state finals and one of the players got diarrhea during the game …
Another person shuffled down the aisle toward the restroom, and they also gl
anced down at her, an act that was starting to seem intentional—Zoey swore everyone who passed was doing it. Did she still have chili stuck to her face? This time it was a black teenage girl with wired-up glasses like the ones Jacob was wearing, which meant for all Zoey knew the girl had the built-in camera on and was broadcasting a feed, maybe one called The Worst Hair Dye Jobs on Mass Transit Daily (today’s episode: “The Cat Girl in the Back Row with Cyan Bangs”).
Jacob said, “Well, you’re about to enter a whole new world out here. How much do you know about it?”
“I know it didn’t exist twenty years ago, that it was just an empty patch of desert in Utah. Then a bunch of rich people started putting up skyscrapers and suddenly there’s a city there. There’s no government, right? That’s all I know. Oh, and every picture I see of Tabula Rasa looks like the Blade Runner universe is holding a Mardi Gras parade.”
Jacob laughed again. “Yeah I’d say you’re in for a bit of culture shock. There is no place like it on earth. Your phone will never die, though, there’s wireless power coils under everything. Charges the cars as they drive.”
“Great, maybe I’ll get cancer while I’m there.”
Zoey glanced at Doll Head Man again, and thought she had caught him staring at her—it was hard to tell behind his bug-eye goggles. She watched as the man stuck a filterless cigarette between cracked lips. He then casually lifted his hand, touched the end of the cigarette with his finger, and lit it. With his finger.
Jacob said, “There’s construction everywhere. After dark, it looks like the half-finished buildings are full of fireflies, all the crews in there working through the night, welding the metalwork—”
“Did you see that? What that man just did?”
Jacob glanced toward Doll Head Man. “Yeah, there’s no smoking on these trains. You want to tell him or should I?”
“No, he … nevermind.” Zoey decided the guy must have had a match hidden in his palm or something.
Jacob stared at the guy in amusement and asked, “Are those tiny heads glued to his crotch?”