The Variant Effect: PAINKILLER (4 page)

Borland made his way into the room between 15
tables and 50 strangers and found himself exposed...too exposed.
But then he’d walked too far, was up against a table full of
patients snacking on cookies and drinking coffee, just a wall
beyond them; nowhere to even sit and shield his eyes.

But a hand reached up on his left and patted
his arm, drew him down to a seat between two total strangers. There
was a group of five chairs around the table, and he sat closest to
a man who looked about 35, was broad shouldered in his pajamas
under a tousle of dark locks. That left an empty chair on Borland’s
right, and then a rough-looking woman with rusty, over-conditioned
hair. She had a denim vest over a stained pullover and green
slacks. Her earlobes sagged from the weight of cheap brass
jewelry.

Borland kept his eyes low after he sat, and
then bucked up enough to nod quickly to the other guests,
confirming their existence without drawing too much attention to
his own. Then he started nervously arranging his utensils.

It was a mixed group in the dining room. New
patients were being served lunch, and others in the repair process
were cadging an extra bite or snacking, while healing day patients
tried to make up for missed meals.

Borland didn’t like it.

His discomfort must have thrown his instincts
off too, because he got a gut feeling just then that something was
wrong but he disregarded it. Too much was happening. It could have
been brought on by the hockey dad, or been coming from the woman.
Maybe it was the weird little Chinese guy across from him listening
to loud symphony music on his ear-buds, and slurping his water, but
Borland got the feeling that something was wrong.

He could also blame the fact that he was
drying out—sober, worried about spooks and zombies.

Why
zombies
?

Without the numbing effects of alcohol, he
was flying sighted; his professional instincts frayed by
awareness.

He still needed a drink
.

And without one, his company was starting to
draw him in and make him real with panic.

He tried to calm down by listening to the
conversation from the man on his right. Deep-chested and
kind-faced, a hockey dad who had introduced himself, but Borland
had missed the name. Luckily he was content with Borland’s input of
a strained half-smile and nod because the fellow recapped the table
talk. He waxed poetic about his kids on skates, and early mornings
on the ice.

Sounded like hell to Borland but...

The hockey dad’s companion, the rough-trade
woman was convinced; but it was a selfish interest. Somehow she
took the hockey dad’s nostalgic dream and twisted it to talk about
her Shomberg Clinic roommate.

“She had a bad day.” Rough-trade nodded. “She
wants to go home but the doctors won’t let her—so she wants to go
even more.”

“She had a reaction to the painkillers, you
said?” asked Hockey Dad, giving Borland a concerned half-nod.

“Yeah, and now she’ll only use an ice pack,”
Rough-trade replied, “for the pain.”

A waiter sped by the table and dropped a
small plate in front of each of them as he passed. Borland started
shoveling the meager portion of rigatoni and Caesar salad into his
face—then paused when he caught the startled looks of his
tablemates.

He was hungry.

Borland kept his skinned right hand hidden
from the other diners. It was easy to miss at a distance but
obvious up close so he hid it when forced into company. The
scarring overrode whatever social manners social media and
isolation had left, so he held his fork in his left hand, and
bunched his napkin up over his scarred palm with the rest of the
material draped over his knuckles.

He didn’t want to go into it, and he didn’t
always want the responsibility that came with being a Variant Squad
Captain.

“No wonder she’s having trouble,” Hockey Dad
continued. “Not using painkillers is crazy.”

“She’s tough. Used to be a cop,” said
Rough-trade proudly. “
Shush
—here she comes.”

And Borland reflexively shared their hunched,
guilty postures as they turned to watch a tall, well-muscled woman
with caramel blonde hair approach.

Borland remembered seeing her on his way back
from the accounting office. Pretty woman, she’d caught his eye
through the big bay window in the patient lounge. He’d stepped out
onto the balcony to watch as she relaxed by the ‘contemplation’
pond.

Her golden skin had caught his eye.

The woman had pulled her sheer black pant
legs up over her knees to expose long clean calves and thighs to
the sun—before leaning back, letting her sharp profile cut the
fresh air.

The woman was very pretty in a bitchy sort of
way. She had lovely loose features that hormones or disappointment
could easily tighten to petty, mean and selfish.

Borland remembered her.

As she approached the table, he appreciated
her long legs again—and he especially liked the way she pressed the
bright blue ice pack over her abdomen, accentuating the flare of
her hips.

She shot a hesitant smile at Borland, quickly
looked away, and took the empty seat between him and
Rough-trade.

“What are they serving?” the woman
whispered.

“Chicken,” Rough-trade reassured brusquely.
“And you can’t eat chicken can you?”

The strange woman dipped her head and glanced
at Borland as he almost cracked a tooth on a whole-wheat roll.

She can’t eat chicken. So what?

A young black man, one of a group of kids
doing the serving, hurtled near and the strange woman stopped
him.

“I can’t eat chicken,” she stated, both hands
raised.

The young man stared. He had a tray of
dinners balanced over his shoulder.

“So I need the vegetarian menu.” The woman
pushed her explanation forward.

“I got to ask them in the kitchen,” the young
man said, delivering his tray of orders to the next table before
spinning back through the kitchen door.

“She can’t eat chicken,” Rough-trade
repeated.

“Is she vegetarian?” asked Hockey Dad, like
the strange woman wasn’t sitting just the other side of
Borland.

The woman piped up, “Not a vegetarian...but I
can eat fish.”

“Fish isn’t good for vegetarians is it?”
Hockey Dad pressed her.

“It’s the only thing they serve that’s worth
eating,” Rough-trade clarified as the strange woman nodded, sharing
a silent smile.

Suddenly the woman looked around the
table—panic in her eyes, before she noticed her water glass and
Borland’s were upside down and unused.

She flipped her own and filled it from the
pitcher and then smiling, looked at Borland’s and gestured with
trembling fingers. “Would you like some water?”

There was something in her eyes, some spark
in the dark brown setting that dried out Borland’s throat, really
made him thirsty, so he said: “No thanks, I’m having coffee.”

The pitcher hit the table with a
thump
.

There was a pause
.

The strange woman’s features fell,
registering a rejection. A wounded look softened her eyes as they
shifted off the table and over to Borland’s belly. Then a tear
rolled down her cheek, and she nodded, mouthing a silent word of
comfort to herself.

She glanced at Borland’s belly again and
blushed. He knew he didn’t have a chance with her so he let it hang
out.

She smirked and shook her head, then squeezed
the ice pack over her injury.

The young black man whirled out of the
kitchen and deposited a rigatoni dinner in front of her.

“No meat!” he announced. “Only cheese.”

“She can’t eat chicken,” Rough-trade said,
for some reason, as the strange woman popped a few pieces of
rigatoni into her mouth and chewed.

There was another pause. More
tears
?

She glanced a final time at Borland and then
stood, left her meal and hurried across the dining room and out
without a word.

Borland watched her go—a strange sensation—an
instinct ignored rose in his gut again—but it flickered and
disappeared when Rough-trade said: “She can’t eat chicken.”

CHAPTER 7

Turned out to be lunch after all. Borland
blamed the small portions for the fact he managed supper two hours
later. After entering the dining room a second time, he grabbed a
chair at the closest table—a group of middle-aged men. Hockey Dad
and Rough-trade waved from another table across the way.

Absence makes the heart grow
fonder
.

There was no sign of the strange woman.

Mind your business
.

Rough-trade said:
She used to be a
cop
.

So she can take care of herself.

Borland knew from his days on the Metro
police force that the ranks were full of burnouts and nut-jobs.
Couldn’t hold a candle to the Variant Squads back in the day, but
law enforcement took its toll on everyone, even the enforcers.
Thinking back, he decided that the squads inherited wild characters
from
all
the services. Where else could you get drunk and
hunt people?

Ssskin
.

Strange idea coming from a captain. Borland
kept his eyes on his lap.

He shouldn’t have thought that
. He was
already a marked man if the truth got out and irresponsible
thinking led to stupid actions. Internal investigations were
usually close behind, and that was out of the question.

The inner debate kept him out of the table
talk. He tried to appear withdrawn, possibly dangerous or crazy. He
handled any niceties with a scowl.

Borland downed his meal and hurried out of
the dining room. Tall windows opened onto the contemplation pond.
Long orange bands of sunlight were growing but he had a couple of
hours to kill.

The orientation meeting had described the
evening for new arrivals. After dinner they were free to wander,
but had to be in their rooms by eight-thirty where they would be
given sleeping pills and sent to bed. Some would be showering that
night and others with operations later in the day would shower in
the morning.

Easy as pie
.

Borland had to shower before bed.

Perfect
.

As he hurried past chairs and a piano in
another recreation area, he tapped the flask of whiskey in his coat
pocket. He planned to take a couple blasts, watch the setting sun
and then toothbrush and shower away all evidence.

Borland rammed through a set of glass patio
doors and stalked quickly across the flat stones around the
contemplation pond. His shoes scraped on the asphalt path as he
passed under pine trees.

He had to reach the acres of grass and trees
where the grounds butted up against the rear of the Shomberg
complex. He followed the path as it wound in and around groups of
trees and manicured lawns that grew beside the buildings.

If he could find a bit of shadow, he could
enjoy a drink.

His hand instinctively hovered over his flask
but it dropped when a silhouette appeared against a golden sky
where the path rose. Patients were wandering all over the grounds
some new, without a limp, others hunched and mysterious—most were
in the dining room eating, but they’d finish soon, and start
walking. What else was there to do?

Goddamn it
.

He didn’t have a lot of time.

There was a huge patio on the back of the
complex—a thousand square yards of concrete surrounded by wrought
iron. Borland gave it a grunt but pushed on past, followed the path
where it crossed a staff parking area and then slipped between some
tall billowy bushes.

His hand rose to the flask again, but fell
when he realized three stories of windows leaned behind him. Could
be anybody up there, watching.

Borland altered his course, set his broad
shoulders toward the building and paced away. His guts hurt.

He needed a drink
.

The path wound around thick tree trunks and
bushes. It passed cedar benches ringed by stone and flowers.

But he kept running into patients.

So he walked toward the sun; off the path the
fluorescing grass whipped his shoes.

Borland hurried toward a cedar bench that
faced away from the complex, in the shadow of a large flowering
bush.

Perfect
.

He dropped onto the bench and slipped a hand
into his coat, felt the cold metal and then...

“Hello.” An old man walked out of a deep
angled cut in the lawn that was hidden by the bush. A footpath
wound out of the shadows and cut across in front of Borland.

Borland dropped his hand and looked up at the
clouds.

Goddamn
.

The old man folded his hands behind his back
and limped away.

Borland studied the clouds and was
immediately reminded of clouds. He didn’t look up at them enough to
be inspired to any other thought. His world was too close, and he
had to look down to watch for traps—or it could have been the past,
heavy with infection and outbreak pulling his attention to
hell—full of loss, fury and the sounds of ripping skin.

Zombie, I had to do it
.

And he couldn’t really call it the past
anymore, with it pressing against the insides of his eyes. The
clouds were clouds. He was out of practice and his idleness was
never contemplative. It was all about not thinking and avoiding the
broader view. Anytime he got close to it, something would reach out
and slap him. Real life was just a kick in the groin away. So keep
your eyes peeled.

He needed a drink
.

Bad
.

Then he heard music. A young man limped into
view and moved past, the sounds squealing around his ear-buds. He
gave Borland a passing glance.

Sharp features. Early twenties
.