Vivisepulture (19 page)

     ‘Very, and completely prohibited.  I don’t have to tell you how hazardous this one could be.  So take care.  Just assess and report, OK?  And if things get choppy pull out and let the police take the strain.’

     ‘Got it.’

‘Come on then, out with it,’ Duthie urged.  ‘What’s the job?’

     They were heading for the centre of town.  Rush hour was nearing and traffic was building up, but Anders resisted the urge to switch on the siren.  

     ‘We’re going to be looking for one of the rarest distillates,’ he said.  ‘Luck.’

     ‘You’re kidding me!  Luck?  I thought that was just an urban myth.’

     ‘No, it’s real.  But it’s kept under tight wraps and seldom used officially.’

     ‘Officially?’

     ‘I’ve heard rumours of diplomats breathing it before tricky negotiations with foreign governments, and special forces using it on hard missions.  I’d guess the intelligence services are fond of it.  Other than those kind of things, if they really happen, Luck’s strictly forbidden.’

     ‘And now it’s on the market.’

     ‘Maybe.  But it’d have to be incredibly expensive, something only the very wealthy could afford.’

     ‘People who’ve had enough luck already.’

     ‘Yeah.  And there’s a lot of grumbling about the widening gap between the rich and poor as it is.  If this stuff’s starting to circulate we could see that getting much worse.  It should be called Good Luck, by the way, ‘cos nobody’s going to want the bad kind.  But if it’s poorly made, who knows?  Maybe it would be
un
fortunate.  That’s another problem.’

      Duthie soaked that in for a moment, then asked, ‘So where’re we going?’

     ‘Parker’s.  The casino.’

     ‘What would they want Luck for?  They like their punters to be
unlucky
, don’t they?’

     ‘I reckon they’d use it to let the gamblers win a couple of times.  That tempts them to stake more.  But they don’t get exposed to Luck when they come to lay the big bets, so they go back to the usual odds.’

     ‘Which means the house wins.  Why doesn’t the casino just rig their wheels?’

     ‘It’s not all roulette, for a start.  Buying a banned distillate’s easier and they don’t risk their licenses.’

     They rode on without saying too much more.  The main thoroughfares were clogging, so Anders took to the back doubles where traffic was lighter.

     ‘How much further?’ Duthie asked.

     ‘Nearly there.’

     They stopped at a set of lights.  At the same time an unmarked truck approaching from the opposite direction also came to a halt.  It was open-backed, with its load covered by a tarpaulin.  The truck’s windscreen was grubby, but it was just possible to make out who the driver was.

     ‘Isn’t that Jerry Grogan?’ Duthie said. 

     ‘You’re right, it is.  And he’s seen us.’

     The lights changed and the truck surged forward, turned sharply, cut across the line of oncoming traffic and took a right.  Anders revved, crunched gears and went after him, ignoring the angry hoots of braking motorists.

     Duthie was shaken.  ‘What are you doing?  What about the job?’

     ‘He’s coming from where we’re going.  Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

     ‘He’s picking up speed.  What do you reckon he’s got in there?’

     ‘Nothing he wants to get caught with, the rate he’s going.’

     There were fewer vehicles on the street they were travelling along, so Anders put his foot down.  Ahead, Grogan shot over a junction.

     ‘He just went through a red light!’ Duthie exclaimed.  ‘Shouldn’t we call this in, Craig?’

     ‘In a minute.  Let’s see where he’s going.’

     Duthie thought Anders was going to run the light, just like Grogan did, and gripped the dashboard, knuckles whitening.  But it flicked to amber a second before they got there and they sailed across.

     Anders hit the siren button.  The throbbing crimson and orange warning lights reflected on their bonnet. 

     ‘Can we do that?  We’re not the cops.’

     ‘If he’s got something he shouldn’t have in that load we’re justified, Bob.’

     Grogan took an abrupt left without indicating.  Anders managed to follow.  The street they entered was run-down.  Grimy terraced houses stood alongside deserted light industrial workshops and roofless warehouses.  The truck put on a further burst of speed.

     Then Grogan tried for another last minute turn, to the right this time.  The turn was acute and the truck’s velocity was high.  Its left-side wheels came off the ground.  For a split second it looked as though it might just manage the bend.  But the angle was too much.  The lorry tilted and its load shifted.  Control was lost.  The truck hit the kerb and flipped onto its back with a tremendous crash.  Its cargo of cylinders scattered in all directions.

     Anders stamped on the brakes.  The van skidded to a halt a block to the rear of the wreck.

     Duthie cried
‘Jesus Christ!’
  Ripping off his seat belt he got the door open and leapt out.

    
‘No!’
Anders yelled.  ‘Stay here!  It’s dangerous!’

     The youth ignored him and dashed towards the truck.

     Anders groped for his mask and slipped it on.  Grabbing another for Duthie, he scrambled out of the van and headed for the wreck.

     A stiff wind was blowing, churning litter and brown leafs.

     Duthie was at the truck, crouching to stare into the upturned cab.  A couple of the vehicle’s wheels were still spinning and smoke was rising from it.  Afraid it was going to explode, Anders began to run, cursing himself for being so out of shape.

     He saw Duthie back off from the wreckage, then turn and run away in the opposite direction.  Baffled, and in shock, Anders shouted, frustrated that the mask muted the sound.

     Breathing hard, he reached the scene.  Bits of the broken windscreen crunched under his feet.  Scores of canisters were strewn across the road and pavements.  Many of them were fractured.  

     He knelt and gazed into the cab.  Grogan was still strapped in, hanging limply like a puppet, covered in blood.  He looked badly injured.  Possibly dead.

     There was a din of breaking glass from along the road.  And again.  He saw Duthie kicking in shop windows as he moved farther away.  Anders resisted the urge to lift his mask and call to him.  Reaching for his mobile, he swore when he realised he’d left it in the van.  He decided to try getting Grogan out.

     As he stooped again his eye was caught by fragments of a shattered cylinder.  One piece had the letters
NA
on it, stencilled in white; presumably part of the name of the distillate it held.  Or had held.  Another read
RCHY
.  He struggled to open the truck’s door.  Its frame was twisted and he couldn’t budge it.  He was considering whether to go back to the van for the phone and his tool kit when he heard more glass breaking.  Not just from the way Duthie had gone but from several different directions.

     He straightened and listened.  Car horns were sounding.  Shouts and screams were coming from all sides.  He saw what looked like a crowd gathering outside a building way down the road, and although he couldn’t be sure he thought there were flames issuing from it.

     Feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather he was again aware of the wind.

     He trod on another jagged shard of canister.  As he kicked it aside he noticed that it was marked with the letter
A
.  

     Anders heard distant sirens, and what could have been gunfire.

SNOT

by

ANDY REMIC

I

FRIDAY

It all began when he blew his nose and a good pint of thick orange snot spewed from his nostrils, filled his cupped handkerchief, overflowed his trembling fingers and pooled in a wide bright circle on the carpet.

  Ben Sherikov sat for a long time, silent, unmoving, staring at the brown office carpet and thick gelatinous pool which glinted spookily under white flickering strip-light.

 
That didn’t happen
, he told himself with a shudder.

  That just didn’t fucking happen.

  But it had - and the evidence stared back at him: solid, real, accusing, and orange.

  Slowly, he reached for the tissues on his broad teak desk and wiped the sticky mess from his fingers. Carefully, he wrapped his ruined handkerchief in tissue and dropped it tenderly into the bin. Then, glancing around at the office internal window to make sure nobody was observing from the sanctuary beyond mottled cream blinds, he got down on his knees and began to scoop up the mess.

  It took him a full fifteen minutes, and five large boxes of Helix Tissues. He got the... the
stuff
on his trousers, his shirt, and his tie. There was a faint metallic smell in the air. The stuff burned his skin.

  The -
hell
, he thought, just say the word! - the
snot
was dense and coagulated in the manner of honey or glue, and left a circle of ruined bare carpet in its wake.

  Ben stood with hands on hips for long, long minutes, staring down at the oval patch of grey. "Shit," he said at last, and reaching behind to his drinks tray, poured a small glass of Bausch & Lamb Peach Schnapps. He downed the liquor in one, and hearing the office door open, shuffled almost instinctively to stand over the grey patch of guilt and accusation before turning with a weak smile and raised eyebrows. “Yeah?”

  "Ben, man, we’re going into town for pizza. You fancy it?"

  Ben stared hard at Sylvester’s face - wide and smiling and good-natured, with its crop of curly blonde hair and shining eyes.
Does he know?
screamed Ben’s mind suddenly.
He must know! How could he fail to see it? To fucking smell it? To taste it through the ventilation slits?

  There was a long and uncomfortable pause. Finally, Ben shuddered. "No," he managed, voice barely more than a croak. He coughed, aware that grey accusations, an unfurled petal of snot-destruction, squatted under his boots. "Strangely, I’m not feeling very hungry," he said.

  "Come on, Ben man, it’s Friday! Weekend’s here! Time to party! Eat pizza! Pick up chicks! Drink beer! Come on, man, don’t be a fucking dreg!"

  Ben slumped into his executive chair and swivelled presenting the broad denial of his back. "Just go," he whispered, and listened as the door clicked shut and the outside office noises - the tap of techboards, chatter, the occasional hum of the coffee machine – faded, and Ben was left alone with his thoughts. Alone with his thoughts – and his
snot.

  What is it? Just what the hell is it?

  Reaching over, he grabbed a few papers from his desk and screwed them up, then dropped them tactfully over the orange mess in his little basket bin – now full to the brim with tissues and hardened orange snot.

  Scratching his chin, his stubble, he edged his chair closer to the desk and switched on his HELIX PC!!!. He watched the flicker of alien letters as the machine booted, but his brain would not operate, would not engage - all he could picture was a stream of orange disgorging violently from his own body, from his own damn face... and relived that strange, breathless, weightless feeling as his nose spat its unsightly contents onto the waiting carpet.

  “Shit.”

  He sat for long minutes, then reaching up tenderly touched his nose with shaking fingers. There was no pain, no swelling, no indication of anything whatsoever amiss. Ben took several exaggerated deep breaths. He had no tightness in his chest. No shortness of breath. And he suffered from no illness to the best of his knowledge...

  "Shit!" he said again, angry now, and pushing away his chair he left his office and hurried across the wide carpeted aisles, past rows of techboard operators and towards the restroom and the mocking, watching, capering homunculus symbol on the door. Was it a gents or a fucking circus? 

  He burst in, strode across glittering tiles, stood before the mirror examining his face with painful, strained intensity. It stared back.

  No deformity.

  No swelling.

  His nose looked just - fine.
Fine?

  Ben lifted his head, looked up his nostrils, but could spy nothing amiss. A few hairs that needed trimming, perhaps. But no blood, no pain, no bucket of orange mucus... no snot!

  Suddenly, Ben realised a suit was pissing in a urinal further down the chamber; coughing in embarrassment at his nasal inspection, Ben turned on the taps and washed his hands, then smiled and nodded in greeting as the suit left the toilet and afforded Ben some precious privacy.

  Back to the mirror. He examined his face, contorting, stretching and gurning. Still nothing presented itself and Ben decided to take the ultimate test, the ultimate fear-filled challenge -

  Reaching out, he tugged free a paper towel and braced himself, legs apart, paper towel held in cupped hands, face targeted above a gleaming, sparkling sink. Tense. Ready. Frightened!

  He blew his nose...

  Nothing ... nothing came out! Ben’s eyes searched the rugged paper landscape with two powerful emotions fighting for precedence in his spinning mind. One, he was so glad, so thankful that his nose hadn’t flooded the sink that he almost wept with joy. But in contrast, a feeling of strangeness and detachment overcame him, and he looked up into his reflected orbs, into his own bright blue eyes as if searching for answers, for explanations, for... hell, for
anything.

  Was he imagining it?

  No... He shook his head.

  But was he?

  He scuttled back to his office, and closing the door with quiet care he pulled back his chair and fell to his knees before the circular grey patch on the carpet.

  It sat there like a turd on a rug. Large as life. Real as sin. Dirty as a motherfucker.

  Ben ran his fingers over the grey surface and found the whole patch of ruined carpet hard, brittle almost. There was a smell, lingering but non-specific. The carpet fibres had been blitzed by his nasal napalm. Mutilated by disgorged detritus.