Halfskin (13 page)

Avery continued about what kind of dog she wanted and what she would name him.

Cali leaned her head against the window. The glass felt good. She wanted to stop thinking but didn’t want to leave Avery all alone. Her head was filled with a white noise, like static, electric cotton. It fogged her focus. She hoped these weren’t side-effects to the new breeds. She didn’t have time to test, just seeded herself in the basement lab. It was stupid but there wasn’t a choice. If they were failing now, well then, it was game over.

"What's your favorite ice cream?"

Silence.

"I like chocolate chips in mine but not too many. Have you ever put peanut butter in your ice cream?"

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

"WILL YOU ANSWER HER?" Cali swung around. "She's not asking you to put your gun up your ass, she just wants to know what your favorite ice cream is."

James turned his head, regarded her without expression. Avery pulled her legs onto her chair and wrapped her arms around them. She hid behind Mr. Pillsbury.

"I'm sorry." Cali flopped into the chair next to the bed. She pulled her legs under her, rubbed her tired face, scratching her scalp.

"You need something to eat," James said, his voice deep and demanding.

"I know." Cali laid her head back. "I'll get something soon."

Avery shuffled across the room, leaning against her mother. Cali made some space for her to sit. She squished next to her, nice and warm and cuddly. Cali laid her cheek on top of her daughter's head.

"Tell me a story," she whispered. "A good one."

Avery started with a bright sunny day. She was on the porch with her mother and Uncle Nix was in the backyard digging a hole to the middle of the world where they would make their home. Where no one could hurt them.

Cali closed her eyes. She smiled.

Then she projected a thought, one she hoped would be heard.

[Wake up, Nix. Wake up.]

24

Trapped in a long night.

Pain wrapped around Nix like a coffin. He willfully fled into unconsciousness. The new breeds kept him alive, but they couldn't heal. The longer he stayed in bed, the less they helped.

He got worse.

It got painful.

Not what he expected.

Minutes were days. Hours, months.

There was no rest. The large blank periods were not measured in time. He returned to self-awareness somewhere in the formless space of his mind. He couldn't sense the confines of his body, just the agony. He couldn't move his fingers, his toes. Couldn't open his eyes.

He sensed pressure. Felt disharmony. Experienced floundering organs and broken pieces. If he could disconnect entirely, he would.

Death.

That would be a good deal.

It would only take a thought-command directed at the new breeds working so tirelessly to keep his body alive.

Cease
, and it would be over.
Cease
, and peace would be on him.

No more suffering. No more hurt.

No more, period.

He could rest. Finally.

All his life, he'd gone from one disaster to another. He'd seen those around him die, seen them suffer. Watched them breakdown. And after all of that, here he was imprisoned in his own body. Life was hardly fair. In fact, it was vindictive.

He often wondered what he had done in a previous life, if there were such a thing. He often wondered what the point of continuing to live would be with such suffering. It made no logical sense. Death was a prime option.
Why suffer? Why live a miserable life?

He couldn't answer that. At least not with anything that made sense, not to his little mind.

But, live, he did.

He continued, and didn't know why.

The night appeared to be endless. He imagined Cali sitting by his side, watching him fade. Perhaps it was best if he stopped this madness. She could let go of him, finally. Stop taking care of him.

Face her demons on her own.

He didn't want to do that. She needed him. But if she could look inside him, if she could see the night, even she would tell him to let go.

Let go.

Let go.

And the ceaseless night brought him to the brink where he loaded the thought-command to cease. He placed it in his mind. He felt the new breeds hesitate, sensing it. All he had to do was confirm it as a purposeful directive and they would stop. The organs would fail. His brain would fade.

And Nix would rest.

He could find peace.

BrrrrrrrrrTHG.

Something engaged.

A switch was thrown. Followed by—

MmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMM.

A whine.

A thrum.

Light.

Warmth flooded his consciousness, trickling through streaks of pain, taking away the sparks and bites and stings and pressure...

It went away.

Disappeared.

She did it. She activated all the biomites!

Nix felt as if he was smiling, even though his body lay as still as death. Inside, he smiled. Inside, he basked in the glory of suffuse light penetrating everything. It was blinding and good and flowed with a silky essence.

Pure existence.

And from somewhere in its endless penetration, a form took place. He heard the water rushing, heard it crashing. He felt the foamy fingers slide over smooth sand. Felt the craggy rocks rise up.

The light condensed.

It was white. Then yellow.

Orange.

It solidified into a ball just above a sharp line. He felt its warmth. He was the warmth. The water thrummed a beat on the shore. It crashed inside him.

He pulled away from the sensations.

Felt a body that was separate from the sun and ocean and beach. Feet on the wet sand, toes buried beneath it. A bare chest for the rising sun to kiss. Hair falling over eyes that could see.

Could see.

See.

Far to the right, hundred of yards, she walked down a steep dune, between the sea oats and the soft sand. She reached the hardpack where the water skimmed over the top in bubbly sheets. Her skin dark and unblemished. Her feet flung the water as she ran.

Nix turned.

He ran.

He went to her. To the girl in dreamland.

They embraced. They fell in the water, rolling over and over. His face buried in her thick hair. Inhaled her.

And the sky broke open.

Rain poured from the heavens.

The lagoon wept with joy.

Nix is home. Nix is home.

"Raine," he whispered.

M0THER

Biomite Dreamlands Obscuring Reality

Rick Mansfield buried his hands in his coat, hunched his shoulders against the cold. Traffic ripped down the street, turning snow into ashy slush. The sky felt like a steel plate.

He skipped across the road, all six lanes, and dropped his foot in a pothole. Icy water soaked his sock. He hopped over the curb and hustled into the building with blacked out windows, through a door below a bright sign: DREEMITE.

He stomped his shoes on the rug, his foot already numb. He grimaced. His upper lip cracked. It always cracked in the winter from the dry furnace-air. In Canada, there was a lot of furnace-air.

A few people sat at a small round table, sipping coffee and cappuccinos. Two men—one bald, the other reading a paper—sat at the bar, a woman worked behind it. The foamer whooshed with steam. The bald guy dropped his mug on the bar and started at the door.

"I got minutes, I got minutes!" Rick raised his hands, surrendering. "I got minutes, Stan, I promise."

Bald Stanley didn't listen, grabbed Rick by his army green coat and hoisted him toward the door.

"Mr. Connors, I got minutes, I swear, I do!"

Mr. Connors didn't look up. "Scan him."

Stanley stopped like a Labrador hearing a whistle. He dropped Rick's coat and stepped back. Rick straightened himself up and spread his hand out, palm down.

"This a goof, Mansfield, I'm throwing you in the street," Stanley said. “Head first.”

"No goof, Stan. No goof. See, real deal." Rick flexed his fingers. "It's my hand, not synthetic. Not a fake one, not like last time. Go ahead, scan away. I got minutes."

Stanley eyeballed him. He pulled a tablet from the inside of his jacket. Stanley put his hand on it like he was in court, swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but.

"Two minutes?" Stanley held the tablet up for Mr. Conners to see. "Kid's got two minutes. What the hell’s he going to do with two minutes?"

Mr. Connors shrugged.

"Two minutes is two minutes," Rick said. "I'll take what I can get, you know what I mean, Mr. Conners." He raised his voice. "I'll take what I can get, even if I HAVE TO PAY DOUBLE!"

"You're about to go on the street," Stanley said.

"I'm just saying, if you want to make some money, I'll pay double."

"Feds are watching, Mansfield. Skimming minutes will pull our license. Losing our license for you ain't worth it."

Rick shrugged off his coat. "Then two minutes it is."

The barista slid the cappuccino to Mr. Connors. She went to the computer, punched the screen. "Eight is open."

"Pay first," Stanley said.

"Cash," Mr. Connors added.

Rick dug into his pocket, dropped two crumpled twenties on the bar. "Two minutes, forty dollars."

The barista ran a pen over the bills to make sure they were legit. She nodded. Stanley took Rick's arm and guided him through the black curtain hanging over a doorway to the right of the bar. Rick yanked away from him.

The doors were numbered. Odds on the right. Evens on the left. Eight was at the end of the hall. Stanley pushed it open, revealed a solo chair in a closet-sized room.

"This won't take long," he said. "I'll wait."

Rick closed it behind him. A light came on and he locked the door. He dropped his coat and sat down. The chair was thick and comfortable with a firm headrest that cradled his skull. He leaned back, stared at the hanging light, pressed the back of his head into the cradle until his biomites communicated with the plate embedded in the chair.

Closed his eyes.

Heard the winding, like a rocket preparing for liftoff.

His brain swirled.

3-2-1…

And the bottom dropped out. He fell into the inner world. The plate made his brain biomites sizzle with excitement, releasing hallucinatory hormones. Rick saw colors. Warmth bled down his shoulders.

Lights.

Sounds.

And... crowds.

He saw the bodies. Saw the people. A nightclub full of them. All jumping to the beat, lasers fired in time to the music. And when he stepped onto the floor, they all knew him. They were all happy to see him. They raised their hands, they hugged him, slapped his back, wanted to take pictures with him.

Rick pushed them out of the way, sorting through them like collector’s items. Each woman was hotter than the next. Black, white, Asian, Pilipino… it was so hard to choose.

And he didn't have much time.

He put his arms around two women. One was a blonde, at least six-foot, sparkly dress that revealed half her rack. Her lips were full and her breasts ripe. The other was a limber Chinese girl, perfect skin, big eyes and delicate fingers.

His groin twisted like a wet rag.

He sprinted for the stage. The band welcomed him. The guitarist started a slow, rhythmic solo. Rick wanted everyone to watch. And the crowd roared. The crowd adored him, paid to watch him perform on stage. That’s all he wanted, was everyone to recognize him. He deserved that.

He hooked his finger beneath the blonde’s strap, tugged it off her shoulder. Her ample breast popped from the top, revealing a large, circular hard nipple—

The light turned off—

Silence.

And Rick Mansfield fell back into his body. He opened his eyes, looking at a naked light bulb. Hands holding winter's chill.

And he hated life.

He hated it.

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.

25

Marcus swirled the tumbler of tomato juice and ice, looking out the 22nd floor of the Allerton Hotel. Chicago at night, Michigan Avenue was electric fire. The streets were streaked with taillights. He lifted a small pair of binoculars, spied the janitorial worker in an office building across the street. He scanned the other floors. No one working late or otherwise. He could always find someone up to no good. The month before, while in New York, he watched a couple getting busy on the roof. They both faced the same direction, watching the city lights while he thrust from behind. Their bodies synchronized.