Husk (25 page)

Two hotel security guards draw their weapons and begin
shooting, turning the lobby into a battleground. People scream, fleeing in all directions. Others hit the floor. Ryoko and I are among them, dropping behind a sofa. I peek out to see Renard’s men take cover behind pillars while he sprints toward us. The Algonquin’s cat scampers across the floor and collides with his shins, sending him tumbling to the floor. The Rapier slips from his grip and is
sent skittering across the tiles. He gets to his hands and knees, cursing aloud, searching for his lost weapon. I stand, draw the Beretta and point it at him. He looks at me, defenceless, frozen to the spot. I pull Ryoko toward the rear of the lobby, keeping the gun trained on him. Near the doorway I pause long enough to fire three rounds that miss Renard completely, but make him dive for cover,
where the security guards keep him pinned.

We escape toward the back of the hotel, heading through the dining room and kitchen, hearing gunplay continue behind us. Everything is an electrified blur, sights and sounds soaked in adrenaline, rapidly passing to the beat of our thudding hearts. Eventually, I crash
through an exit door and drag Ryoko into the rancid air of a back alley where dumpsters
and garbage cans are scattered about. We stop for a moment, trying to catch our breath, casting nervous glances behind us. I hold Ryoko’s chin in my hands, make her look me in the face.

‘We have to split up,’ I say.

She shakes her head. ‘We have to stick together.’

‘They’re after me, not you.’ I look at her arm. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need to get that taken care of.’

My eyes inadvertently
lower to her stomach, to what is beginning to grow within. She won’t go to the hospital. There are many private practices in Manhattan where money ensures confidentiality. Ryoko knows how to take care of herself. We dash further down the alley and cut through another, looking over our shoulders for any sign of our pursuers. We finally stop in a darkened alcove. I slip the clip out of the
Beretta, make a quick bullet count, slam it back in and hand the gun over to Ryoko. She takes it reluctantly, giving me an unimpressed look as she tucks it in the back of her pants.

‘Eleven rounds left,’ I say. ‘Use them if you have to.’

‘You need protection too,’ she protests.

‘Don’t worry, I got a plan. I know where I can get a gun.’

‘You do?’

I nod, not even sure if it’s a good plan, but
it’s the best I can think up under the circumstances. I lead Ryoko out to the street and around the corner, where I flag down a cab. She grabs my hand, squeezes it hard.

‘I’ll contact you as soon as this is settled,’ I say. ‘Lie low and wait for my call.’

‘I will,’ she replies. ‘And Rhodes …?’

I turn to her as she slips a hand around the back of my neck and pulls me close. The kiss is tense
and long, her lips trembling slightly against mine. Next thing I know she’s getting into the cab and leaving me standing on the sidewalk. Once the car door closes, the window rolls down.

‘You make sure you come back to me in one piece,’ she says.

I nod again, look her in the eye. ‘I love you.’

She only mouths the words back and turns to the cabbie. Whatever she says makes him pull away from
the kerb with a screech. I cross the street and walk southwest for a while until I come to a discount tourist store near Times Square. Inside, I buy a memory card for the camera, and a cheap knapsack in which I stuff the lady’s handbag and all of its contents. At another store I purchase an NY hoodie and ball cap. I put them on as I venture out again, brim pulled low, hood over my head to conceal
my face as much as possible from the CCTV cameras and their facial-recognition software.

As I walk the streets, the horror and guilt over accidentally murdering my friend tie my intestines in knots, making me hunch over and moan aloud. People on the sidewalk cross the road to avoid me, assuming I’m some drunk or lunatic. I can’t get the thought of Phineas out of my mind, the image of his eyes
changing a second before I put a bullet between them. The only silver lining, is that Phineas died never knowing the horrors he’d committed, would never be haunted by it. I figure there must be peace in that, for him, and maybe a little for me too.

Ryoko would have called me crazy if I’d told her where I was planning to go. It’s the only place I know of where I can get my hands on a gun. In the
unending Manhattan lights I try my best to stick to the shadows as I make my way back to my apartment in the East Village on foot.

In the dark, I sit on a bench in Tompkins Square Park and watch the front door of my building from a distance. Everything appears normal, but I look for irregularities, people out of place, stationary when they should be moving, maybe someone on the street
or in a car casing the entrance to my home. For a long time I wait, uncertain. Eventually two girls sit on the stoop and smoke cigarettes, laughing aloud at each other’s jokes. I’m so focused on them that I don’t notice the dark figure approaching through the trees and bushes on my right. By the time he’s upon me, I have barely enough time to react.

‘I thought I recognized you,’ he says.

I close
my fist, readying it as the man sits down beside me. He turns his head and I’m relieved to see the unshaven face of Javier. He holds out his fist. I pound it with the one I was about to strike with, getting a whiff of bourbon and body odour as I do. In his other hand is a bottle of Jim Beam.

‘What are you doing in the park at this time of night?’ he asks, taking a swig. ‘Don’t you have a nice
warm bed to go to?’

I shake my head. ‘Not sure it’s safe to go home right now.’

Javier laughs. ‘Girl trouble?’

When I don’t laugh in return he infers correctly that it’s nothing so trivial. He looks to where I’m looking, squinting to see anything that might give him a clue as to what’s bugging me.

‘It’s been quiet, tonight.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Drink?’ he says, offering the bottle.

‘I’ll pass,’
I reply, though I could really use a shot of the stuff.

‘Suit yourself. Are you on duty or something?’

‘Just staying vigilant.’

‘What is it exactly that you do for a living?’ Javier says, looking me over with suspicion. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’

‘It’s complicated,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ he chuckles. ‘Ain’t everything in this world?’

‘You ever heard of Husking?’

‘Husking?’ Javier considers
a moment. ‘You mean the rumours you sometimes hear about those downloadable hookers for the rich?’

‘It’s kinda the other way around, but yeah.’

‘Thought that stuff was all science fiction?’

‘It’s not science fiction,’ I say. ‘Hey, can I still get in on that drink?’

Javier hands me the Jim Beam and I get some liquid courage in me, feel the bourbon burn all the way down to my writhing guts.
I’ve waited long enough, haven’t seen anything to be concerned about. I hand the bottle back and stand, slinging my knapsack over my shoulders.

‘Gotta grab something from my place,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘I’ll be right here, man.’

Five minutes is all it should take. I make my way through the park and cross the street to my stoop. The two chuckleheads don’t even look at me as I weave
past them and let myself into the building. Three flights of stairs and I’m at my apartment door. Before I can pull out my key, I notice the scratched and splintered wood around the doorknob. The lock is broken. The door is closed, but has evidently been kicked in at some point. I push it inward to reveal darkness beyond.

Every light in the apartment is turned off. Stepping inside, I try my best
to negotiate the dark, peering through the gloom for any sign of trouble. I tread carefully across the living room until I’m able to flick the main light switch on. The apartment is illuminated, revealing everything in its usual state. A window to our fire escape is open, letting in a cool breeze. I circle the living room cautiously, listening and looking for any sign that someone may still be
here. On the coffee table is a pair of night-vision glasses Craig must have brought home from the Rochester. I swipe and pocket them. My roommate’s bedroom door is closed. I call his name as loud as I dare and approach. No response. The Glock is most definitely in there. Carefully, I turn the doorknob and open the door. The scene inside makes me whimper.

‘Oh, God.’

Craig lies slumped on the
bed in his boxer shorts, dead. His eyes are open and glazed, staring at the ceiling. In the
middle of his chest is a hole the circumference of a tuna can, cut almost perfect, cauterized on impact, not a trace of blood; the kind of damage made by an M-6 Rapier at close range. I can see bed sheets through the wound on the other side. On the floor in front of Craig is his open gun case, the Glock
missing from it. Two magazines are discarded nearby, bullets scattered around them. He must have been trying to load it when the assailant broke in and shot him. I’m about to turn and run when I hear the front door of the apartment open with a bang behind me.

‘Don’t fucking move.’

I freeze, my hands held where they can be seen. ‘I’m unarmed.’

‘I don’t care. Make one wrong move and I’ll core
you like an apple.’

‘Whatever you say, just don’t shoot.’

‘Turn around slowly.’

I do as I’m told. Two men stand in my apartment doorway. I recognize both as members of Winslade’s security detail. Each has a Rapier trained on me.

‘Get on your knees, now.’

I drop to my knees. The guy doing the talking holsters his weapon and reaches for his Liaison to make a call. There is a sudden shattering
sound as liquid and glass explode over the head of the goon standing in the doorway. He drops to reveal Javier standing behind him in the hall, the neck of the broken bourbon bottle gripped in one hand. The first goon reaches for the gun inside his jacket, but Javier lunges forward, stabbing the jagged
remainder of the bottle into his shoulder, causing him to yowl with pain. Javier and I both
tackle the guy to the floor, pinning him with all our weight, working to keep him subdued. I drive my fist into the back of the man’s head, knocking his face off the floor. His struggling lessens enough for me to shoot Javier a quick look.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Saw these two assholes follow you into the building. Thought there might be some trouble.’

The guy underneath me tries
to say something, but I deliver another rabbit punch and silence him. I look up again at Javier, only to see the second operative starting to get to his feet behind him.

‘Watch out –’

The goon stumbles forward and throws all of his weight at Javier’s back, knocking him into me and both of us off the guy we have pinned. Our advantage is lost in seconds and we find ourselves grappling with an
assailant each. The guy that was below is now on top of me, trying to draw his gun. Javier and his opponent wrestle madly for control of the other Rapier. Amid grunts and shouts one of the weapons suddenly discharges. I watch as a streak of projectile and propellant shears my enemy’s right arm off above the elbow. I kick the screaming amputee off me as Javier throws his attacker over the couch. The
goon loses his grip on the Rapier when he hits the ground. We hear it clatter across the floor and come to rest on the far side of the room. The operative is on his feet in seconds, scrambling toward it. Javier and I glance at each other. No time to stop him. All I can do is hit the lights.

‘Fire escape,’ I say, looking at the open window nearby. ‘Go.’

I flick the switch and the apartment goes
black, leaving our attacker to search blindly in the dark for his weapon as we scramble out the window. By the time we’re two floors down I hear the Rapier fire from above, sending rounds streaking past us in the night.

‘Quick, get to the park.’

Javier kicks the latch, releasing the last ladder to the sidewalk. We practically slide down, then race into the traffic crawling along the street,
using slow-moving cars and trucks for cover as we make our way across. Rapier rounds slam into the vehicles and concrete around us, causing mayhem, becoming less accurate as we distance ourselves and disappear into the dark of Tompkins Square Park.

‘Christ, who were those guys back there?’ Javier asks as we slip into a cab on 10th Street. ‘And what the hell kind of pieces were they packing?’

I shake my head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘You don’t want to get involved, trust me.’

Javier
throws up his hands. ‘Well, fuck, I’m already involved now, aren’t I?’

I say nothing. The cab driver watches us warily in his rear-view mirror, already regretting picking us up. His voice wavers slightly when he speaks.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘Take me to Washington and West 13th Street,’ I say. ‘And step on it.’

Javier and I sit in silence, watching the nightlife slip by our windows, letting the
adrenaline drain from our systems as we try and digest what went down back in the apartment. He must be so confused, so scared. A part of me wants to tell him everything, but I don’t say a word. Guilt over getting Craig killed doubles down on the remorse I already feel over Phineas. I don’t want anyone else’s blood on my hands.

‘Why are we going to the meat-packing district?’ Javier finally asks.

‘
We
aren’t going anywhere,’ I say. ‘Tell me where you want to be dropped off.’

‘There’s nowhere to drop me off. You know I ain’t got any place to go.’

‘Then you should probably get out at the next corner.’

‘Well, I don’t want to hang out on street corners no more either.’ Javier shrugs and tries to smirk. ‘Sorry, you’re stuck with me, man.’

‘Javier …’

‘Look, when I was at my worst you bought
me food, gave me money,’ Javier continues, looking me in the eye. ‘Hell, you even donated your smokes. You’re a good man, Rhodes.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.’

‘Haven’t we all? Everything’s shades of grey, man, now more than ever.’

‘Shades of grey,’ I mutter.

‘Shades of grey,’ repeats Javier, looking down at his dirty hands. ‘Good and bad, right and wrong.
They’re just compass points. No one travels in a straight line. Life’s never as simple as we think it should be. There is darkness between the stars in the heavens, and even the fires of Hell shed light.’

He’s stone-cold sober now. I don’t know what he’s reciting, but his wisdom surprises me. I mull it over, feeling the truth, reconsidering my own recent stance on the stars. Javier is far sharper
than I originally gave him credit for. Having the guy at my side suddenly
feels reassuring. Still, I don’t want him involved in my problems.

‘If you don’t get out of this car, Javier, I can’t guarantee your safety.’

‘Safety has been an issue for a good while now, my friend. I have a chance to repay my debt, help you out with your little problem. And shit, I got nothing to lose. So, I’ll ask
again. Why are
we
going to the meat-packing district?’

‘I have to follow a lead … the only one I have left.’

‘And what are you hoping to get out of this lead?’

‘Evidence, leverage, truth … take your pick.’

I take the digital camera out of my knapsack and check it over, relieved to find it wasn’t damaged in the apartment attack. I insert the memory card I bought near Times Square and power
it up. The camera is state of the art, too complicated for the likes of me. All the menu options and their abbreviations on the screen start to give me a headache. After five minutes of my dicking around with it, Javier holds out his hand.

‘Do you even know what you’re doing with that?’

‘Not really.’

‘Give it here.’

I pass him the camera and he handles it like a pro, scrolling through menus
and changing settings, seeming to know all the ins and outs.

‘Bought one just like this months ago,’ Javier says. ‘It was the first thing I pawned for rent money when I lost my job.’

‘What was your job?’

‘Worked in advertising. I came up with campaigns to convince the masses to blow their money on products they didn’t need, selling crack to consumer addicts that couldn’t help themselves.’

‘What kind of products?’

‘Things like this,’ Javier replies, holding up the camera before handing it back. ‘All the latest and greatest gear, only to be replaced with new versions every six months. Advertising is a horrible, cutthroat business. Getting good at it … I’d say it’s the closest thing to selling your soul.’

‘I know the feeling,’ I mutter. ‘How’d you lose your job?’

‘How do any of
us lose our jobs? They’re taken away.’

‘You got a wife, kids?’

‘Had a wife, she went soon after the job.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. For richer or poorer wasn’t a vow she took seriously. And kids …?’ he snorts, shaking his head. ‘Who in their right mind would want to bring a kid into a world like this? What future would they have?’

‘You have a point.’

‘Losing my job was a relief in a way. Getting
fired from all that soul-crushing shit did me some good.’

‘I only wish I could get fired from my job.’

Javier eyes me. ‘Look, I don’t know much about Husking, my friend, but the rumours I’ve heard make it sound very unappealing.’

‘We all have our price, right?’

Javier nods and says no more. A few minutes later the cab pulls up to the corner of Washington and 13th, dropping us off in the meat-packing
district, the last location I
remember after fleeing the session in a panic earlier. I look around, trying to get my bearings, anticipating some sense of recognition. I had been too terrified to commit much to memory before. Ran blind out of there and didn’t look back, didn’t think to stop for one second. Returning to the scene of the crime would be the last thing anyone would expect me to do,
my one and only advantage. I try to retrace my steps, try to remember where I’d escaped from. Slowly some sense of familiarity returns.

‘What’s the plan?’ Javier asks.

I start walking west. ‘We’re gonna follow my gut.’

My pace quickens, Javier jogging intermittently to keep up. Instinctively I know where I’m heading. Within ten minutes I find myself standing in front of an old six-storey, brownstone
building. It is the one I ran from hours earlier, I realize, the one I left the murdered body of a young woman inside. Strangely, it feels more familiar than that. I’ve been here many times before. The upper floors look like they may be lofts or apartments. The first three floors are leased out to a business. The company name is displayed in large silver letters on a black sign over the
main entrance:
Modern Harvest NYC, Ltd.

Winslade’s other major business venture, producing much-needed lab-grown meat for increasing human demand, proudly made in the USA. He’s got plants in every state. I read the name over and over again, resisting the shivers that want to come. Javier looks back and forth between me and the sign.

‘Modern Harvest? You hungry or something?’

‘This is the place,’
I say. ‘We need to get inside.’

The front entrance features reinforced doors with keypad access and security cameras. We avoid it and circle the building, looking for another way in, making our way around back. Both of us freeze when we turn the corner. There is a white company van parked in the alley, pulled up to a set of double doors even though it’s the middle of the night. Parked in front
of it is a brand new Cadillac CTS, black with silver trim. We wait a minute, looking for any sign of activity. Dumpsters and bins line the alley, stinking of rotten meat, flies buzzing through the stench. Only one security camera covers the back entrance, hanging loose on its hinge, broken a long time ago. Javier and I move cautiously down the alley and approach the vehicles. Both are empty, but
the keys dangle from the ignition of the van. I move to the back door of the building and try the handle. It’s locked.

‘Shit.’

Javier pulls me aside, looking at the second-storey windows. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

We retrace our steps back along the alley to a dumpster positioned under a fire escape. He climbs onto it and motions for me to do the same.

‘Gimme a boost,’ he says. ‘I think I can reach
the ladder.’

I climb atop it and brace myself as I lace my fingers together for his foot. He steps into my hands and I lift him just high enough to reach the bottom rung. I watch as he pulls himself up, then releases the latch and lowers the ladder for me. We quickly find that all the windows adjacent to the fire escape are locked. Javier takes off his coat, holds it against a pane, and kicks
in the glass with a subtle
smash. No alarm sounds. Whoever is already in the building has turned off the security system.

‘After you,’ Javier says.

I slip through the window, careful to avoid the broken glass, Javier following close behind. Near darkness inside. My eyes take a minute to adjust. In the gloom I see a large open office space, outlines of cubicles stretching from one side of the
room to the other, tiny lights on desks from computers blinking in their sleep. In the far corner is a glowing red exit sign. We cross the room and find it leads to a stairwell. Inside the stairwell a sign denotes each floor of Modern Harvest NYC, Ltd.

3rd Floor: Laboratories, Research & Development

2nd Floor: Offices

1st Floor: Production, Shipping & Receiving

Javier and I take the stairs
down one flight to the factory floor.

Most of the lights are turned off on the production level. In the gloom the place looks fucking creepy, one part aquarium and one part slaughterhouse, something dreamed up in the mind of a mad scientist. We walk cautiously down rows of large glass vats, cloned headless and limbless pig or cow carcasses suspended in each, growing imperceptibly in green-tinged
amniotic fluid. We watch stomachs and sides expand and contract with breaths fed from oxygen tubes connected directly to tracheas. The feeling of déjà vu comes in a wave. I realize I’ve seen this all before, more than in my visions and nightmares. My gut churns as I look at these living, breathing, brainless meat-bags waiting to be used.

I can relate
, I think.

We pass a temperature-controlled
section of the floor where large glass partitions have been erected. Inside chicken breasts and lamb shanks are slowly being printed on stainless-steel slabs by industrial 3D printers feeding genetic code into base stocks of proteins and fats, building dinner portions cell by cell. The areas cordoned off beside it feature the headless bodies of cattle in long lines being fed nutrients and hormones
intravenously, their udders permanently connected to milking machines. The air is damp with a fine spray descending from nozzles in the ceiling. The stench is almost unbearable, ammonia and flesh and something else that smells like medicine. Javier retches. I hold my hands over my nose and mouth and continue on.

Suddenly we hear a loud whirring and grinding, some kind of machinery activated at
the far end of the building. The noises squeal and stop, squeal and stop. We approach in silence, advancing on a brightly lit back corner of the warehouse, trying to stay hidden among shadows and production equipment. Soon we hear voices of men talking. I recognize the French accent instantly.

‘Son of a bitch,’ I mutter.

Renard and his two enforcers come partially into view, hunched over something
laid out before an ominous-looking mechanism. A wide concrete pillar blocks most of my view, but I can make out enough as they move about. They wear white coveralls, rubber gloves, face shields. Red is smeared on both them and the metal surface of the machine they’re working at. When Renard and his men step back, Javier and I both have to stifle a cry of shock.

The naked body of a young woman
lies on a steel slab, her face turned out way, dead eyes staring past us. There is a deep, dried cut in her neck. It’s the girl Winslade used me to murder in the apartments above. The men move to the left, disappearing behind the pillar. The girl’s body slides away with them out of sight. Whirring sounds start up again. The pitch soon becomes a squeal, then falls off. This repeats over and over.
I can’t see what’s happening, but I dare not try for a better look. On the far side of the pillar I notice automated meat processers and grinders in operation. I realize the sound I’m hearing is that of a bandsaw, the kind used for sectioning meat. Everything comes together in an instant. This is how Winslade disposes of his victims, feeding the evidence of his crimes to the unsuspecting people of
New York City. My client regards the population as little more than livestock. He’s a case of affluenza gone critical.

‘Hurry up and finish,’ Renard tells his men. ‘There are other loose ends we need to take care of.’

He’s talking about me no doubt. I take the camera out of my knapsack and hit record. The pillar blocks too much of the view. Javier’s position a few feet away allows him a better
angle. I flag his attention, slide the camera carefully across the floor, motion for him to pick it up and film. He raises it and begins capturing the crimes, watching it all on the display with wide and frightened eyes. I realize I’m turning him into more and more of an accomplice and regret it. Among the whirring there is a loud grating followed by a sudden clunk sound. A chunk of something bloody
goes skidding across the floor,
disappearing under a table. Renard swears aloud. Javier covers his mouth, makes a whimpering sound. I watch as he lowers his face to the floor and pukes, trying his damnedest to keep it quiet. The stink of it wafts up, threatening to make me throw up as well. I choke it back and signal Javier to record more of the evidence while it’s relatively still in one piece.