Husk (22 page)

To say Baxter chewed me a new asshole would be an understatement, but it still didn’t go half as bad as I expected. She’d had time to calm down. The focus was on professionalism and punctuality, nothing more. Exclusivity with Winslade comes with plenty of
cons, and Baxter was careful not to add insult to injury. When she slid the contract across her desk, I simply stared at it. When she slid the pen across for me to sign, I stared at her. She took pains to remind me that I could cut loose and start from square one with not a penny to my name if that’s what I wanted. She added that finding employment might be difficult without a reference from her.
That and the fact I’d be blackballed wherever she or Winslade had an ounce of influence, which was damn near everywhere. It didn’t take much more arm twisting for me to put pen to paper.

It’s 8 a.m. on the morning of my session with Winslade. I’m sitting naked on the edge of my bed, looking out of the window over Tompkins Square Park. The aerial drones are staying longer every day now, pushing
their luck in the early light. I slept alone last night, all fourteen hours of it. Ryoko left a message on my Liaison at some point, but I haven’t listened to it, haven’t called her back. I don’t want to tell Ryoko the things I’m about to do, don’t
want her involved in any way. My pillbox lies open on my nightstand and I flick glances at the Ejector lying among my coma pills. The USB key turns
in my fingers as I mentally commit the importance of its immediate integration into my Ouija upon re-emergence. It has to be my first thought the second I get my bearings.

I put the key back in the pillbox and consider my timing. Winslade wants a long jaunt, a seventy-two-hour session to start the new propriety. I don’t feel sick any more, just drained. I fail to go through any of my usual routines.
No exercises. No beauty care. No hearty breakfast. I drink a beer, smoke a cigarette, laze the fuck around. I don’t bother shaving or brushing my teeth. I don’t apply make-up to my injuries. The only thing I do is take a long mist and try to soak in the tepid spray. Afterwards I dress like shit, old jeans and my CBGB T-shirt, slip my feet into worn sneakers. What does it matter anyway? Winslade
will have me dressed in one of his slick suits minutes after he takes me over.

I’m about to leave when it hits me that I haven’t seen Craig in days. Opening his bedroom door a crack, I peek in and see him sprawled on his bed, forty-ounce bottle of Jack Daniels almost empty on his nightstand. He looks peaceful, snoring away in his boxers. I fight the urge to wake him and recount everything that
has happened. He’s another person I trust, but don’t want to involve. I sneak to his nightstand, open my wallet and leave more money than I owe him for the night he covered me at the Rochester. Craig doesn’t even stir as I leave the apartment.

Outside the air is cool and damp, sky overcast. The neighbourhood looks sapped of colour. Even the green of Tompkins Square Park seems more of a sickly
grey. I walk through the square, watching rats and squirrels of equal size dart across the pathways. I buy a coffee from a vendor and have another cigarette. People scurry on the street toward their destinations, shoulders slumped, eyes cast to the concrete underfoot. As I flag down a cab on Avenue A, one person in particular catches my attention. It is Javier, rooting through a garbage can across
the street at the bus stop, wearing an Occupy Central Park hoodie. I expect he’s waiting to transit down to the protest. He watches me with dull eyes, face expressionless. I wave, beckoning him to come catch a ride with me, but he makes no show of recognition. His unresponsiveness suggests he’s drunk or high. Still, I get the feeling he has been watching me for some time.

The cab drops me off
at Central Park. My session isn’t until noon. More than two hours to kill. I make my way to the middle of the park and find a grassy spot under an oak tree where I can look out over the entire Great Lawn. The sea of protesters is incredible. They idle in a giant mass, some standing, others sitting, none of them moving much in the grey morning light. Every fourth or fifth person has a coffee or cigarette
in hand. More than a few sneak sips from hip flasks or beer cans in paper bags. The scent of marijuana is in the air. I’m positive the protesters have grown by another twenty per cent since I was last here. It isn’t long before agitation begins to swell inside their ranks. They grow more audible, arguments and
accusations against the status quo breaking out. I keep my eyes open for Javier, expecting
him to show up any moment, intending to buy him a coffee or hot dog or something to help him out. He’s nowhere to be found.

I chain-smoke, filling myself with nicotine to keep myself awake, not giving a shit about the damage I’m doing to the lungs I don’t consider mine any more. By the time the bearded man takes the podium and starts addressing the crowds with his megaphone, I’m already walking
toward Winslade’s place and swallowing the Ejector. A call comes in on my Liaison. It is Renard.

‘Do not be late today, Mr Rhodes.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ I reply and hang up.

Renard slams the penthouse door behind me and looks me over, opening his mouth to give me shit about my appearance. I hold up a finger and give him cut-eye.

‘Save it, man,’ I say. ‘I’ve had a rough couple days.’

‘Unacceptable,’ he mutters.

The robot, alerted by the sound of my voice, emerges from a doorway and walks toward me. We meet each other in the centre of the living room, where Mr Winslade embraces me. Inside his arms of metal and silicone I feel frigid. The robot’s eyes glide over my new split lip and black eye. I touch the injuries lightly with my fingertips.

‘I apologize in advance for the
wear and tear you see, Mr Winslade.’

‘Apology accepted,’ the robot says. ‘May I ask what happened?’

‘It’s just from other clients,’ I lie. ‘Clients who haven’t been as … considerate and respectful as you, sir.’

The robot seems to smirk. ‘Well, you won’t have to worry your head about that any more, now that you’ve signed the new deal.’

I’d like to tell Winslade I didn’t have much of a fucking
choice in the matter. I’d like to tell him that he alone is the main source of my worries. I want to tell him to go to hell, but I don’t. A forced smile comes instead.

‘I’m looking forward to our new arrangement.’

‘You are mine and mine alone now,’ the robot says with a hideous grin. ‘My boy, this is truly a wonderful day.’

‘The first of many.’

‘Fix us a drink, Renard,’ the robot snaps. ‘To
celebrate.’

We walk to the leather armchairs and sit. Soon Renard serves us both a priceless Scotch. I sip from my tumbler and watch as the robot pretends to sip from his. When I’ve downed mine, I take out my Liaison and Renard begins preparing Winslade for upload. Once I connect to my Ouija, I open my pillbox and select a green seventy-two-hour pill lying beside the USB key in its case. My first
and most important emergent thought repeats over and over in my head as I look Winslade in the eye and see myself reflected in his silvery lenses.

‘Let’s dance,’ I say and swallow the pill.

At first there are no dreams, only dark. I simply wait. Everything feels like it is in real time. Minutes go by, then hours. Eventually a spark shows against the black. Miller’s face appears in the glow of
his cigarette ember. There is a
rumbling sound, agitation permeating the night around me. I feel instability rushing through the air, coursing through my body. Miller approaches, stopping inches from my face.

‘What’s happening?’ I ask.

‘You’re finally waking up, sleepwalker,’ Miller says, placing his cigarette between my lips. ‘I suspect you’re about to see what I feared all along.’

I inhale
deep, sucking in the acrid smoke. The blackness around me ignites, burning white hot, the void irradiated.

The absence of colour is spread before my eyes. Soon I’m seeing starbursts on white that start to dissipate the pale fog. I’m closing in on my own perspective through a tunnel of sleep, sliding toward a porthole at the end that grows larger with each passing second. It is a familiar feeling.
I’m a slumped passenger awakening in the backseat of a car, sitting upright, watching the road from behind the driver of the vehicle. As I move forward, my sight expands and presses up against the porthole until the convex glass becomes my own eyes. An attractive raven-haired girl lies beneath me on a bed, biting her lip dreamily. One of her wrists is handcuffed to the bed frame. My nostrils
fill with the smells of sex and sweat. I am naked, as is she.

I start to reconnect with parts of my body, but control none of it. I feel my hips rocking rhythmically, plunging myself into moist warmth. My erection is beyond hard, beyond aroused, almost Viagra-worthy. My ears are returned to me next, hearing feminine moans and sighs.
My fingers squeeze breasts, grip ass, scratch nails down soft
young skin. I reach toward the girl’s mouth, thumb caressing lips before being sucked. Then my hand slips down to her throat, palm pressing against her jugular, feeling the young woman’s quickened pulse. I try to pull away, resulting only in a flinch. Instantly I’m aware of the other awareness. Winslade knows I’m here. Our thoughts intercept one another. He is displeased. We become one.

We begin
to fuck the girl harder and she starts to come. The sex is rough, but from what I can tell it’s consensual. Instinctively I understand Winslade is speeding up whatever he has planned now that I’ve crashed the party. His thoughts race through our shared consciousness, but I can’t understand, can’t grasp them. He keeps our eyes on the climaxing girl while our right hand strangles her in an act of
erotic asphyxiation. Our left hand reaches under the pillow beside her head, fingers curling around something cold and metallic. Deeper thrusts come now, slow and deliberate, causing the girl to close her eyes and throw her head back in orgasm. To my horror Winslade pulls a straight razor out from under the pillow and flicks it open over the girl’s throat. I can’t stop any of this.

Don’t do it
, I think and these words escape my lips.
Tell the girl to run.

Control … I have it for a moment. Suddenly concerned, the girl opens her eyes and they immediately fall on the razor held below her chin. She hitches in breath and screams, her trapped wrist straining against the handcuffs. I scream too.

‘Go! Get the hell out of here!’

But she can’t. What little control I have slips away. I’m just
a spectator again. Her free arm flails, striking me weakly as my hand pins her neck to the mattress. I watch helplessly as Winslade raises and readies the razor. Using sheer willpower I try to wrestle control of it away from him. He stalls his strike, fighting back, blade suspended above the squirming girl as our two minds fight over the use of one body. Opposing intentions collide inside our head.
Somehow he manages to shuck me off, sending my thoughts spinning. He brings the blade down in an arc just as I recover enough to launch my consciousness at his. The hit feels solid. His grip loosens, arm flinches, screwing up the accuracy of his strike. It still connects, catching her on the left side of her neck, blade sinking into skin, though nowhere as deep as Winslade wanted. In the following
moments I regain more control. For the next minute we know each other’s thoughts completely. I see what he has done and who he has harmed.

With great effort I force him to throw the razor across the room, hearing it clatter off the wall. The girl keeps shrieking beneath me, bleeding profusely under my withering grip. I release her and she rolls over, trying to crawl away on the bed, her one free
hand clutching her throat to stem the flow of blood. I sweep terrified glances around the bedroom, over the upscale decor. It’s an apartment of some sort, sparsely furnished and windows covered. There is a digital camera on a tripod nearby with a red light glowing atop it. The lens is pointed at the bed.
My clothes lie in a heap in the corner of the room. I suddenly remember what was supposed
to be my first and most important thought.

The key,
I think, panicking.
Connect the damn key.

My instinct is to help the girl, but I won’t be good for shit if I end up having a psychotic break in the next few minutes. I get off the bed and stumble to the corner of the room, Winslade fighting me every step of the way. I rummage through my trouser pockets until I find my pillbox. A few of my coma
pills spill out as I open the lid. When I lay my eyes on the USB key inside Winslade becomes enraged, understanding at once my intention to remove and capture him. He begins throwing himself against the confines of my skull. The meat and matter of my brain will start tearing soon if I don’t get him out.

All my focus and determination are needed just to slip the key out of its case. Between my
finger and thumb, the miniature drive feels too delicate, too pathetic. I bring it up to my head, pointing the proboscis behind my ear, trying to stab it into my Ouija. Three inches from my skin, it suddenly stops. I can’t move it any further. Winslade’s response is violent, both in mind and body. He briefly reveals more memories of the brutality he’s inflicted on others, harm he wishes to do to
me as well. I recognize Dennis Delane cornered in an alley, refusing to come quietly, telling me I will pay for what I’ve done. He manages a single cry for help as I launch a savage attack, beating him beyond recognition before finally strangling him with my own hands. I hear a police siren sound nearby, see Delane’s lifeless body being dragged and dropped behind a
dumpster by Renard, evidence
that couldn’t be properly dealt with in the heat of the moment.