Dead Mann Running (9781101596494) (17 page)

I pointed at the tablet. “You want to make a note of that?”

He shrugged, making his cigarette bounce a little. “Maybe next month, if you’re still funny.”

“I don’t, don’t, don’t want to! No way, no way!”

The commotion came from behind one of the screens. The hanging fluorescents didn’t cast any shadows, but as the hubbub grew, someone staggered into the screen, pushing the cloth back and giving us a look. I didn’t really have to see who it was. I’d recognized the voice, the way the pitch jangled what nerves I had. It was Hudson.

Two interns were trying to stuff him into a straitjacket. As one tightened the straps, the other pulled the privacy wall back into place. Hudson’s voice grew muffled, like he’d been gagged.

I felt like I should try to get him out so he could spend his days happily twitching in a field on some farm, but there wasn’t much I could do. Dr. Death had buried his head in the tablet as if he were trying to pretend nothing had happened.

“Hey,” I said. “That’s my roomie. His name is Hudson. I don’t think he wants to go.”

He kept looking down. “According to our tests, he
doesn’t know what he wants. He’s paranoid, delusional. Besides, legally he doesn’t have a choice.”

“Is it really paranoia when some people are out to shove you into a straitjacket and experiment on you?”

“That question is above my pay scale.”

I was going to say flipping burgers was above his pay scale, but I asked, “Why take him and not me?”

“Dr. Maruta’s doing a study on chakz with severe nerve damage.”

“Maruta? I thought he was dead.”

He eyed me like I was still failing his fucking test. “Dr. Rebecca Maruta. His wife. She’s head of the department now.”

I’d read that somewhere. “Right.”

Once the muffled protests faded, Dr. Death sent me on my way. “See you again in about a month.”

A month. I was afraid by then I’d forget why I was here, but I headed out like a good little corpse, following the exit arrows along the cinder block, glancing around to see if I could tell where they’d taken Hudson.

I was almost out of the building when I saw Jonesey coming in. I slowed as we neared each other. “Can some of those strings you pull get me into the lab?”

He stopped short and stared at me. “You failed? They don’t want you?”

“Sue me.” I needed him, so I tried to be conciliatory. “Look, if I get in and find out ChemBet’s on the level, I’ll give them the stuff, okay?”

The right side of his lips shot up in a wry half smile. “You’re so convinced they’re evil, it wouldn’t matter what you found.”

“Evil’s a big word. Let’s just say I think they’re wildly incompetent.”

He shook his head again. “I can’t help you.”

“Come on, Jonesey. For Misty.”

“I didn’t say wouldn’t, I said I couldn’t. I just pulled in every favor I had, and even then it wasn’t easy to get them to let me go until I said I’d cancel the Kyua meetings. You may think you’re powerless, Hess, but our chat had an effect on me. It made me decide to stop talking about faith and put my money where my mouth is. That was my surprise, but I thought you’d be coming with me.”

It took me a second. “You’re going to the lab? How soon?”

“Today. We load up behind the meeting hall at four p.m. It’s a nice big bus, I’ve seen it, air-conditioning, cushioned seats, LCD screens, the works. They may even have a movie for the drive. I’m going to Kyua in style, Hess. And I have you to thank for it.”

“They just dragged my roomie off in a straitjacket, kicking and screaming. He says it’s like a torture chamber. Thank me if they don’t cut you up into pieces.”

“Hudson, right?” Jonesey tsked. “I think he’d be in pain no matter where he was. Just doesn’t get it, just won’t let go.”

“Ah…I’m not even going to bother trying to talk you out of it. Is there any way you can sneak me onto the bus?”

He bobbed his head. “Residents are encouraged to say good-bye to friends, and a few always show up. It wouldn’t be strange for you to be hanging around. You’d never make it onto the bus, that they’re real careful about. Don’t pay much attention to the baggage holds, though. I
could pack a little something to put there, try to wedge a strap into the latch so it doesn’t close all the way. The rest would be up to you, but I
know
you can do it.”

He was wrong about “a few” chakz showing. Once word spread that their high priest was ascending, anyone who could walk, slouch, or crawl had to be there. They all said their good-byes, some to Jonesey, some to fellow chakz, others to fence posts.

The guard at COC usually looked pretty calm, but there were so many postmortem well-wishers, I could tell they were worried. They looked even more tense when they had to pry a few residents off of Jonesey. The ear-biter was back, and she was the toughest. When they pulled her away, she started in with the sobbing again.

Once he was a safe distance from her, Jonesey turned back. “It’s okay! It’s okay!” Thumb to his ear, his pinky to his mouth, he nodded and said, “You can still call me until after I’m in orientation, like I showed you. One for fun, two for you.”

She reached into her pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and stared at it like she was going to eat it.

With that little kindness crossed off his to-do list, Jonesey, a rucksack over his shoulder, walked to the far side of the bus. He reappeared without it, waving to the crowd.

“You can
all
call. Kyua is coming!” he said before climbing into the bus.

With him no longer sucking up all the attention, I spotted someone else I knew among the boarders. Surprise, surprise, it was Bad Penny. I hadn’t seen her since we arrived. They’d put her in some cheerier, more childlike
clothing that didn’t quite go with her skin or disposition. Looking miserable, she marched on in behind Jonesey. I hoped the hell I hadn’t rescued her from the frying pan just to shove her into the fire.

The other passengers, hepped up on Kyua, all looked thrilled, all except Hudson, that is. Even in his straitjacket, he had to be forced on.

With Jonesey out of sight, the crowd didn’t thin as much as dribble off. The last few chakz still boarding, I made like I was leaving, but headed to the far side of the bus. Like Jonesey said, it was a big sucker. The chak heads pressed against the tinted windows looked like senior citizens being taken to Atlantic City.

Eyes on the guards, I put my back to the aluminum side and felt along the lip of the first baggage compartment. Locked tight. I shifted to door number two. It looked just as closed, but when I pulled, it popped open into the back of my legs.

Good old Jonesey.

Speaking of mixed bags, I went to my knees, slipped in, moved the rucksack off the latch, and yanked the door shut. When nothing happened for a minute, I figured no one had spotted me.

It was cozy for a luggage hold, roomy, and not completely dark. The seams let in some light from outside. A tug at the lining gave me a view up into the seating area. I saw Jonesey in his comfy chair, head bopping to a tune only he could hear, pleased as could be. If the bright socks and buckled shoes were any indication, Penny sat next to him, looking like she was trying to ignore him.

He leaned forward, tapped on her little knee, and said with a smile, “We’re going to Kyua.”

I heard her voice answer: “Are you fucking nuts?”

If I ever had a daughter of my own, Penny would probably kick the shit out of her.

As the bus farted exhaust and rolled out of Camp Chambers, it finally came to me.

Steven. The doctor’s name was Steven.

C
hemBet was undead itself in a way. It started life as a pharmaceutical company in the early nineteenth century, back when folks like J. Marion Sims used a shoemaker’s awl to move around the skull bones of enslaved babies. Now he’s called the father of gynecology. Anyway, they expanded into things like medical devices and women’s sanitary napkins. They were the world’s third-largest drug company when the Marutas came to work for them.

Consistently named a great place for working mothers, they were trusted a bit more than their competitors. ChemBet was top-notch, as well liked as giant corporations get. That’s one reason the RIP spread so quickly. Another was, of course, the whole bringing the dead back thing.

They were number one for a while there, but when people saw the results, fingers pointed, heads rolled, and a CEO or two resigned in disgrace. Ultimately,
though, ChemBet was too big to fail, and went on its merry way.

Like me, it’d gotten this far. Must mean something, right? Then again, if you drive a car off a cliff, you can pretend you’re flying right up until you hit bottom.

The wheels on the bus went round and round. It was warm on one side of me, cold on the other. I drifted off, but wouldn’t call it peaceful. I dreamt I was alive. Dad was there, storming around the house, looking for his fingers, insisting I’d misplaced them.

“If your fucking head wasn’t attached, you’d lose that, too!”

Even then, I couldn’t do anything right. Where the hell had I left those fingers? Dad was so pissed, he forced me to chew on the neighbor’s collie.

“Chewing dogs is all you’re good for!”

It was weird, even for him.

When I woke up, my wig was off and half in my mouth, which explained the part about the dog. The real hairs on my head, exposed to the air for the first time in a long while, hurt. The engine thrumming was gone and it was dark even along the cracks.

Once I finished pulling synthetic strands from my teeth, I felt the wig. In the dark, I couldn’t tell if there was enough left to bother trying to wear. For better or worse, I’d eaten my disguise.

Reluctantly, I tried to peel away the scar-putty. That didn’t work, so I pulled, and then yanked. There was a disturbing tearing sound as a big blob of something came free. Harder bits seemed stuck in the gunk. It felt wet to the touch. I hoped I hadn’t yanked out my eye. Pain is tricky with chakz. Sometimes we feel it, sometimes we don’t.

Well, getting caught as Hessius Mann
might
be the better move. Legally, they’d have to turn me over to the police. Corporations always follow the law, don’t they? And maybe pigs would fly out of my butt and give everyone in Fort Hammer a free e-reader.

At least knowing where their precious McGuffin was hidden gave me a bargaining chip.

All undressed with no place to go, I listened to the stillness, then pushed the door halfway open. A lack of wind coupled with the feeble glow of a distant emergency exit sign told me I was inside. I rolled out. My eyes, or maybe
eye
, as adjusted to the dark as it was going to get, I stood. My legs wobbled precariously, the muscles stiff from the trip.

The space was cool, tall and wide, the air mixed with the smell of concrete, gas, and oil. Calling it a garage would’ve been an insult. I was in a full-fledged vehicular depot. A huge vent system, for exhaust fumes, ran above three buses, four vans, two utility vehicles, and three golf carts.

Otherwise, it was empty as a tomb.

I made for the exit sign, eventually hearing a soft buzz. I thought it was the sign, but it came from behind the gray fire door below it. Either the door seam was completely sealed, or there was no light on the other side either.

I put my ear to the metal. The hum was louder, but I didn’t hear anything else. Not seeing any alarms connected to the handle, I pushed. It opened into a cinder-block hall, dim, but not completely lightless. Stepping in, I lost any sense of the hum’s direction. It was all around, like generators, or warp engines.

Twenty yards to the right, a set of double doors oozed bright light at the edges. Once I was in the lab, staying out of sight for long would be tough. But staying out here would be pretty useless.

The hall beyond the doors was wider and more finished, lined with two-tone drywall, lit by fluorescents. Faux wooden doors sat at regular intervals, each with a chart hung in the center. Wheeled metal carts sat near the doors, all with instruments like scalpels and probes. At the end of the hall stood a tall canvas laundry cart, a sign designating the contents as medical waste. But you could say that about any chak.

I crept to the closest door and had a look at the chart. The name at the top rang a bell. One of the chakz from the camp. Checking more charts, I found Jonesey’s, but decided to keep moving. Bad Penny might be around, but I didn’t know her real name. Hudson was here, and that was about it for names I knew.

I was almost at the end of the hall when the handle on the door to Hudson’s room turned. I’d barely ducked behind the laundry bin when the end of a gurney emerged. Judging from the way the legs vibrated, Hudson was on it. He shook so much, the gurney slammed the sides of the doorway, making it tough for whoever was pushing to get it into the hall.

I heard tsks of disapproval, then male grunts. The gurney straightened and wobbled into the hall, revealing Hudson’s struggling arms, one wrist sporting a thick plastic tag. His head appeared last. It looked like my former roomie had a lot to say, but the black strap holding the gag in his mouth made it tough to make out.

Two strong men, one pale white, the other African
American, but otherwise looking like a matching set, manned the gurney. Behind them, a troll-like figure emerged. It was my first glimpse of Maruta’s widow, Rebecca, the dominatrix.

As her men straightened the dolly, she marched in front of them. Petite describes her size, but compact’s a better word. She was compact with razor blue eyes, red hair coiffed with deadly seriousness and a nose so pointy you could impale fairies on it. Her thin arms elbow deep in black rubber gloves, her yellow lab coat flowed around her shapely figure like a gown. But even her curves looked like something you’d cut yourself on.

Once in the lead, she looked back. “Keep the gag on until he’s in prep. Make sure the doors are sealed and the monitors off. I don’t want any records of this.”

Her tone had the even clarity of an instruction manual, but as that last bit sunk in, her lackeys eyed each other.

“Come now, it’s the end of a long week. I’m allowed some fun, aren’t I? I just want to see what exactly causes the dyssynchrony. It will be the only useful thing he’s done since he died.”