Husk (4 page)

Ryoko and I stare at each other for a long time. Clive is a good friend of ours, one of the sweetest, nicest guys we know. Picturing him killing someone is next to
impossible. I want to ask
how bad the burns are, how much damage was inflicted. I know what Ryoko is going to say long before she says it.

‘Clive’s finished,’ Ryoko says finally. ‘Even if he gets sprung from jail, he’s –’

There is a yell and a crash from the back of the bar, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. I lean out of the booth and see the waiter wrestling with an Asian man near the front door. Broken plates and
utensils are scattered over the floor. It doesn’t take me long to figure what’s going on. Yet another customer trying to dine and dash. It’s happening more and more all over Manhattan, hungry people with no way to pay. A few punches are thrown before the waiter drags the man to the floor by his necktie.

‘I got no money,’ the man yells. ‘You can’t draw blood from a stone!’

The waiter grabs a
steak knife from the floor. ‘Yeah, but I can draw blood from your thieving ass –’

In the blink of an eye, the Asian man flips himself off the floor and delivers a swift roundhouse kick to the waiter’s head, sending him sprawling into three other men sitting at a table nearby. I’m getting up to offer assistance, not sure whether to help the waiter or the customer, when Ryoko grabs my arm and pulls
me back down. She shakes her head, looking between the scratch on my cheek and the waiter’s face that is now bloody.

‘Gotta stay beautiful, babe.’

The Asian man shoulders his way through the front doors of Harbinger’s and dissolves into the crowd on the
street outside. The waiter gets up off the floor and brushes himself off, shaking his head, muttering profanities. Within a minute he comes
to our table, blood smeared on his lips and chin, acting as if nothing has happened as he analyses my empty glass.

‘Care for another, sir?’

When I return to my apartment in the East Village I find Craig flopped on the sofa, immersed in a first-person shooter game on the new HG. I down another couple detox pills and barely say two words to him before collapsing in my room for a solid twelve hours.
Sleep is a degree away from death for the most part, brain shutting off, breath slow and shallow, body so still I could be a sculpture tucked beneath the sheets. But deep within that slumber something activates. As I lie in the dark, images float behind my eyelids, each lingering only for a moment. There are a few snippets I can commit to memory. A red light glows atop an operational device.
Hands entangled in hair. A mouth opening wide in a gasp of pleasure or scream of pain, I can’t tell.

When I finally awake, dawn is breaking outside my window. Soft yellow light licks the treetops of Tompkins Square Park and reveals the silhouettes of two hovering NYPD drones that have been using the cover of night to spy on the city. Naked, I sit on the edge of my bed and watch the sunrise until
it hurts my eyes. My optic nerves burn afterwards, pain attributed to what festers inside my head, I think, not the light. Another detox pill goes down to combat the fallout of my earlier substance abuse, but that rotten feeling hasn’t left. It’s like an emotional
tumour, malignancy growing in mind and spirit. Maybe I’m suffering some malady of the soul. Maybe this is the beginning of madness.

The drones move off in the direction of 14th Street before anyone can take potshots at them. I check my Liaison for fresh frequencies, turn on the old radio receiver by my windowsill, and dial into the new digits that have been released to the underground. Pirate radio has made a hell of a comeback, harder to shut down than websites. These illegal broadcasts are the only way you can get any real,
unfiltered news any more. Mainstream media is so censored, you might not even know about shit hitting the fan at the end of your own street. The conglomerate–political machine would prefer it if everyone didn’t feel the weight of the world’s increasing problems.

As I do my stretching exercises, the broadcast reports that the old Ebola virus has resurfaced and is making the rounds in India and
Pakistan. An avian flu epidemic ravages Asia, rumoured to have also shown up sporadically on the California coast. Treatment centres are opening, trying to combat the spread by isolating the infected. The vaccines for both viruses exist, this much I know, but if governments confirmed their existence they’d have one less form of population control. The Allies’ conventional wars in the Middle East
aren’t going well either apparently. What else is new?

By the time I’ve completed my rigorous routine of crunches, push-ups, and dumbbell reps, the broadcast has turned its attention to America. New food shortages
along the eastern seaboard have begun. Independent research has concluded that yet another FDA-approved food additive is cancer-causing. Occupy Central Park has grown too, estimates
of over 20,000 in attendance now. The mayor of New York is growing anxious, pressured by special-interest groups to remove the protesters by force. Authorities are not only becoming concerned over the increasing size of OCP, but also of a collective within the movement that call themselves ‘Integris’, a militant faction that in the past has been accused of various crimes and provocations.

As
political rhetoric takes over the airwaves I step to the punching bag hanging in the corner of my room and work on my Muay Thai. Most Husks partake in mixed-martial-arts training, perfect for maintaining peak form. Finding time for the gym has been impossible lately, but I cycle through punch-and-kick combinations until I’m satisfied that my skills are still sharp. Drenched in sweat, I turn off the
radio and hit the mist. Under the fine lukewarm spray, I can’t help but wish for the proper hot shower I enjoyed back in Las Vegas. I think about Navarette and Dante. I think about what the guard said to me outside the Emerald City. For a few seconds my mind isn’t only mine.

Proud of yourself?

‘Shut the fuck up,’ I mutter.

Hmmm, fuck-up … appropriate.

I dry off slowly, taking note of the pains
that still linger within. The detox pills are doing their magic, but my Ouija is still bothering me. It makes another click as I’m taking
a leak and for a second the cerulean blue in the low-flush toilet bowl becomes a watery human eye, wide and frightened. I make a guttural noise, something primal and scared. By the time my piss splatters the floor the image is gone and I’m already beginning
to forget it. In the bathroom mirror I look myself over and apply ointments to sore muscles, salves to the scratches, wondering if Navarette dropped any acid or peyote during his rental. Slipping on a tracksuit and sneakers, I take a mouthful of multi-vitamins and head for the front door. Craig is asleep on the sofa; video game paused on the HG. On the coffee table lies his firearm case, open to reveal
his Glock .45 nestled in foam padding next to three loaded magazines. His gun-cleaning stuff is scattered around it. Everyone is getting more concerned with their personal safety these days. As I unlock the front door, Craig stirs and strains open his eyes, giving me a dopey smile that turns into a yawn.

‘You off to work, man?’

‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘Off to work.’

Craig stretches, gives me a sleepy
nod in return. ‘Hey, look, if you ever want another job you only need to ask me, okay? Always on the lookout for bartenders …’

‘Thanks, but I’m cool.’

‘Just putting it out there,’ he says, nuzzling into the cushions and closing his eyes. ‘Stay safe. Don’t get into any trouble.’

‘I’ll try.’

In the early-morning light I make my way back to Harbinger’s for breakfast. The joint is almost empty
as I enter. The lights flicker on and off for a minute and I brace for a
blackout that doesn’t end up happening. The same beefy waiter leads me to a table in the corner. His eyes are tired, face bruised from the fight the day before. I figure he’s been on shift non-stop, since more businesses are running twenty-four/seven now. There is no recognition in his eyes as I ask him for a mimosa. When
I order a deluxe breakfast, he proceeds to tell me that the kitchen is out of real eggs and bacon due to food shortages, but products from Modern Harvest are available. The thought of that company’s ‘food’ makes my stomach turn, although I’ve had it plenty of times before. I order oatmeal instead and eat it slow, killing time until I’m sure Baxter and Tweek will be in the office. Above my table is
a flat-screen that I can’t see. I hear a male anchor relaying the city’s official news in a deep, confident voice. After reporting on a recent spate of violent cab robberies, he reveals a 22-year-old New York native named Dennis Delane has been reported missing. Police are suspecting foul play. The name sounds strangely familiar. I slide out of my seat and crane my neck to see if there is a pic
or footage of the guy, but the anchor has already moved on to the topic of sports. I notice Occupy Central Park never comes up.

A homeless Hispanic man comes into the restaurant, looking like he hasn’t eaten in days, asking if he can have a glass of water. The waiter abruptly tells him water ain’t free and to fuck off. I’ve seen this man before in the neighbourhood and remember when he had a
home and a job to go to, which wasn’t that long ago. The waiter isn’t impressed when I take out my wallet and give the man a fifty, telling him he can have a meal on my dime and keep
the change. I stay in my corner until the man gets his eats and is halfway through finishing them under the waiter’s watchful eye. He looks up from his meal only once to offer me a weak smile.

A cab takes me uptown
to the unlisted offices of Solace Strategies Inc. on 34th Street. There is no outside way to know where the company is, just a reinforced metal door with a keypad and a retinal scanner tucked in an alcove. I punch numbers and run my eye past the system before entering and taking the elevator up. On the top floor the doors open on a large office space decorated with polished black and streamlined
silver. All furniture is made of either reinforced glass or dark brown leather. Solace Strategies masquerades as a high-end business consultation firm, but in reality they’re pimps, negotiating Husks for the decadent dead with the deepest pockets.

Nikki, the receptionist, tucks her blonde hair behind her ears and greets me with little more than a nod. She looks like she’s been crying, but I don’t
ask. We haven’t had much to say to each other since we hooked up for a fortnight last year, a hot little fling that got awkward when we broke it off. Some days things feel fine between us, cordial and cool, other days are strained. Something’s up for sure, but I decide to leave bad enough alone. Tweek isn’t in yet, so I walk straight past his darkened control room and head for Baxter’s office.
Her door is wide open. I waltz right in.

‘Boss,’ I say.

Ms Baxter doesn’t say anything for a moment, doesn’t even look up. She’s busy typing furiously on a tablet
propped on her desk, expensively manicured fingernails clacking off the screen. Her expression is all business, make-up badly covering the bags under her eyes. I know better than to bug the boss further, so I sit and wait. The woman
only thinks about two things: money and how to get more of it. Rumour going around was that Baxter herself used to Husk, back when things first got started. Nice enough lady when she wants to be, quite attractive for a cougar too, but she’s got too many miles on her to rent out now.

‘Rhodes, my boy,’ she says finally, pulling her thin fingers away from the tablet screen. ‘How did the Vegas gig
go?’

‘Fine, as far as I know.’

Baxter nods and smiles. ‘It went very well. Mr Navarette has already booked you again for next week.’

‘Great,’ I reply, feigning enthusiasm.

She’s onto me straight away, eyes drawing to slits as she inspects the scratch on my cheek. I should know better than to try and fake out the boss.

‘How are things otherwise?’

‘Heard about Clive,’ I say.

‘Yeah? Where’d
you hear it from?’

‘Ryoko. Saw her yesterday.’

‘Clive hasn’t exactly been a secret around here.’

Baxter sighs, gets up and walks to the window, hands behind her back, fingers fiddling with her diamond rings and gold bracelets. She looks out over 34th Street and frowns at the morning crowds running their rat race on the sidewalks below.

‘Did you hear about Miller too?’ she asks.

‘No, what
happened to Miller?’

‘What I tell you doesn’t leave this office, understand?’ She presses her forehead against the glass, closes her eyes. ‘Miller’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘How did it happen?’ I cry. ‘
When
did it happen?’

‘Just before you left for Vegas,’ Baxter grumbles. ‘He died right here in Manhattan. A client tried to keep him going past three days, wouldn’t come in for download,
went psychotic and cracked Miller’s skull against the floor of a goddamn strip club. Miller was DOA by the time the ambulance got him to hospital. This information is strictly confidential, Rhodes, so I’ve been informing staff personally of the situation as they come in and as needed.’

I can’t find the air to speak. If I wasn’t already sitting, I’d have fallen to my knees. Disbelief and despair
twist around each other, forming knots in my throat and chest. My friend, my mentor, is dead. Miller was our alpha, our veteran. Everyone loved the guy. He worked at Solace Strategies long before I started; part of the payroll since the company’s inception. He and Tweek, they practically wrote the operative’s playbook, braided the ropes together. All other outfits in the game are riding the coat-tails
of what he helped start. Unconfirmed, but we all thought Miller was the longest-running Husk in the business. The hands laced in my lap begin to tremble as tears threaten to make an appearance. My shock turns to anger just before the realization kicks in and floods me with sudden guilt.

‘Oh God,’ I croak. ‘Miller died covering my gig, didn’t he?’

Baxter turns away, avoiding eye contact. ‘Don’t
do this to yourself. Miller was a grown man and made his own decisions. What happened was an accident.’

‘Who was the client?’ I demand.

Baxter glances over her shoulder at me, but doesn’t answer. She can’t. If she did, and it got out, it could easily be the end of her and anyone she tells for that matter. Our business has strict rules, internal and external. Rules that keep left hands from knowing
what right hands are doing, and vice versa. We haven’t had a lawsuit yet.

‘Fine,’ I snarl. ‘As long as the son of a bitch kicked the bucket as well …’

She doesn’t answer that either, which I suspect means the client may have survived, though that’s not possible as far as I know. Clients and Husks share death if they try to co-exist past the seventy-two-hour mark. That’s why it’s so rare for
that rule to be broken. Whoever was renting must have somehow managed to plug in and get out before Miller flat-lined.

‘This is bullshit,’ I mutter. ‘We’ve never lost one of our own before.’

‘It was bound to happen sooner or later. Inherent risks of the business. We’ve been incredibly lucky up until now, but a track record like ours can’t last for ever. Both you and I know it. Fact is we’re
two employees down at the moment, and we need to pick up the slack around here.’