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I edge towards the open frame, once again on this plane as my spirit returns to my ravenous hulk. Closing the door gently, my teeth clench in bemused anguish. The building fades from view, a slow vapor rising as I return to the jungle.
Fail. Failure. It rings in my head.
5. GORDON
Strapped to a cold metal chair in a grass hut at the edge of the dock is not the ideal way to come to. The asshole that made me mop up my own vomit has a large syringe in his hand and it’s meant for me. Zeke, always so melodramatic. That needle could knit an afghan for a battleship. This will hurt. They want me to forget. Where I came from, why I’m here, the outside world, the island we’re on. But I won’t. I made sure of it.
When the sentence came down, I started doing research. All part of the plan. They wanted me in, and I took the job, but it had to look legit to the cops, the judge. Like a Trojan horse virus I was going to destroy from within. The implant was the easiest and safest way to do it.
“Now listen up, fucker. You vomit on my shoes again, and it’s lights out. Got it?”
Arms tied behind my back, my shirt on the floor, the room bakes me like an oven. His eyes run over my sinuous frame. Deceptive, my weight. It’s all muscle. The surgeries changed my frame, as well as my face. He doesn’t recognize me.
He’s been here too long, that I can tell. He’s reacting to me like a wolf to a wounded sheep. I could have been a thirty-yearold blond MILF or an innocent girl scout. It was all about the power, and the opportunity. I doubt if he could get it up if he tried. They put potassium nitrate in the chow down here. Saltpeter to us citizens. Keeps you from getting an erection.
“This won’t hurt a bit, Gordon. Well, me anyways.”
He leans over me, drops of sweat splashing onto my bruised chest. He shoves the needle into my left arm, grinning the whole way. It didn’t hurt until it hit the bone. A deep, sharp stab that makes me wince. He expects me to pass out, so I do. In theory. The ancient art of self-meditation, Gong Rhass, the serpent mind. I can slow my heartbeat to almost nothing, so that I appear dead to the layman. A quick check of the pulse and nothing. I can stop my heart for up to 12 seconds. This has come in handy on more than one occasion. Waking up in a body bag is claustrophobic and foul. The key is to get out before the mortician gets in.
As my hearing fades, footsteps enter the room. Lilac.
“Is he out?”
“Of course, that’d put a horse under, Marcy.”
The room shifts from grey to black and I enter the center of my being. Somewhere in the distance a sea bird caws. A fire is burning, leaves and sassafras roots. Rain clouds are forming, it’ll be here before dark. His partner stands outside smoking a Marlboro Red. My hands are pink and starting to swell. The drugs were working, damnit.
I hear a zipper go down, and a panic comes over me. Then another zipper, and the rustling of clothes being pulled off. Faintly, in the distance, but still audible, she speaks again.
“I’ll take care of you after I take care of him.”
The microchip isn’t working. The chip has failed. Losing my focus. Her hands, her mouth.
6. ASSIGNED
//
Reboot
12349+34234_12
check
check
Camera 1: West coast
UP
Camera 2: East coast
UP
Camera 3: North coast
UP
Camera 4: South coast
down
power out
[crew notified at 0631:31]
Camera 5: PIT
UP
Mail system in full operation
AUDIO: conversation, machinery
SCENT: cannibis
Camera 6: X
down
status: clearance required
approval code 141
Camera 7: Dock
UP
Unloading in progress
AUDIO: laughter
no more information available
Camera 8: Caves
UP
N/A
Camera 9: N/A
UP
no more information
Camera 10: St. Louis
UP
Jimmy last sighted 04032024:0812
no more information available
Camera 11: Chicago
down
x last sightING unknown
audio: screams, metal
no more information available
Camera 12: NYC
UP
apartment
AUDIO: vomit
SCENT: smoke
Camera 13: Conway, AR
UP
Mobile/Alley2415
AUDIO: gun shot, trash can lid
no more information
Camera 14: no more infomioasije ipjoweiu
uieowoa
REboot
END
//
7. ROLAND
In and out of the small house that is our home. No sign of mom anywhere. Probably working. Could be anywhere really. The row of tiny buildings forms haphazard streets, but there are no mailboxes, no lampposts. Back to the basics. Standing in the middle of the quiet village, t-shirt in hand, the sweat pours down my back, stinging the cuts that run up and down me. I know she isn’t here. I can sense it. She is with him.
A beeping at my wrist causes me to look down at my watch. Diary entry. I have no time for this. Maybe it’s time to see if they really pay attention. I’m tired of being a second class citizen in a third world existence.
Back into the hut, the coolness of the dark feels like I’m walking into a refrigerator, although in reality it is only going from 90 to 80 degrees. In the corner of this barren home is a tiny desk, and on top of it, an ancient computer monitor. Apple II it says. Sitting down in the wobbly folding chair I decide to pour my guts out and see what happens. Fuck them all.
//
ID: Roland_Descartes
MEMBER: #298632
PASSWORD: Biteme
DIARY ENTRY: 412 - 05122024:1145
How am I feeling? Like nobody has any time
for me. Like I don’t matter. I’m sure you
can’t understand how that feels, whoever you
are, since you obviously must be in a
position of power to be reading this. Well
guess what I found? Guess, go on, I dare
you. I double dare you. Idiot. I found a
dead body. In the caves. I didn’t get a good
look at it, but it was pretty nasty. It was
missing its hands and feet, I noticed that
much. It wasn’t as gross as I thought it
would be. They just ended. It looked like
sliced deli meat. There were so many flies,
it sounded like a plane landing. The buzzing
made me sick. I poked it with a stick and
then ran out. Maybe you did this and already
know. Maybe we have a killer in our happy
little family, so go do something about it.
My favorite color is black.
My favorite food is pizza.
My favorite tv show is the simpsons.
My favorite way to masturbate is with the
shop vac from the mailroom, sticking my dick
in there until the vibration gets me off.
Why don’t you try that sometime, and then
stick the nozzle up your ass.
I’m getting out of here. Mom, since you’re
already spending all of your time with him
anyway, why don’t you just marry him? You
can all kiss my ass. I’m getting out of
here. I know where a bike is, and I’m
heading out. Come catch me if you can. I
know more about what is going on here thAn
you think I do. You think I’m jus
t some
stupid nineteen year old kid. My IQ is
higher thAn most of yours. You’ll never find
me. Whatever you’re thinking right now?
It’s wrong. Am I going to the caves? NO. Am
I heading to the eastern paths? NO. The
highway? Are you kidding me? I’m going
someplace you’d never guess. But then again,
maybe this is all lies. Maybe I’m making it
all up, and you’ll just find me sitting in
the shade sipping iced tea. Maybe.
ENTER>>
END
//
CHAPTER THREE
2018 - Six years prior
1. JACOB
Arsenic over time is just as lethal as a gunshot to the back of the head. Especially in tiny amounts - two drops in the chicken noodle soup or a dash in the pot of Texas style chili (steak, no beans). It takes time and patience. I have a bounty of both.
Sitting at the Formica kitchen table, the faded grey and yellow swirls dancing, the chrome edge dinged and dull, I smile as her dinner comes to a boil on the stovetop. I reach out and turn off the stove with a dull click as the boiling liquid quietly gurgles. I run my hand over my bald head and feel the sheen of excitement that I get every day at this time. Mealtime. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. I find a way. Orange juice hides it really well. And she certainly loves her soups and stews in the wintertime. You have to watch the broths, the bisques, the refined dishes that would reveal the bitter snap of the poison. With the right tea, at bedtime, it actually makes it taste better. A little zing. She says she loves the new blend, the exotic Chai in the orange Asian packaging. I nod and dip the bag in and out, letting it steep to its fullest potential.
The tiny bell rings upstairs and my eyes shoot to the clock on the wall. The ridiculous Felix the Cat, with his bulbous eyes tracking back and forth, my every move recorded for the detectives. I hate him with a passion that I usually reserve for her collection of Hummel figurines in the dining room - the babies, kittens and angels that I will crush under my boot the minute she is gone. Well, not the minute. There are appearances to keep up. Maybe just one. That little fucker with the fishing pole has always rubbed me the wrong way.
“Coming dear,” I yell up to her. “Wouldn’t want you to scald your mouth.”
And in an instant I’m back there, at the parking lot outside the Nordstrom department store. I saw them walking out to the car together, my Elise and this man. Marc was his name, Vice President of Operations. They had a lot of meetings together since she handled the whole midwest. Regional Sales Manager, she was. I drove my car across the crowded minefield of shoppers that was the parking lot. My eyes stayed focused on them the whole time, unable to get to them as fast as I wanted to, as they stopped at her beige Camry and continued the conversation. I was stuck behind this beast of a silver Hummer. Irony, I’d later call it. Hummer. What I was expecting was a warm hug between friends on this cool autumn afternoon. A nice gesture, she was a friendly woman. What I wasn’t expecting was the kiss and their faces mashed together, tongues probing, as their hands wandered up and down their coats, handfuls of cashmere and wool, clenched and squeezed over straining breasts and perky nipples, a taut ass cheek, muscled and clenched. If I had let the brake go for a moment longer I would have rear ended that beautiful monster of a car in front of me. He probably wouldn’t have noticed. An elephant wondering if that nip at its flank was a fly that had just bit him. I caught myself as the car drifted forward and slammed my foot onto the brake. Lunging forward, the seatbelts restrained me, leaving marks where they bit into my flesh. She never did see me. And I never spoke of it. It’d been going on for awhile I discovered.
When she got the cancer, I decided I could forgive her. I’d take care of her and she would go back to being mine. I didn’t mind the work, the responsibility. When the enormous arrangement of roses and lilies arrived, with the simple note of “Get well. Love, Marc” it brought it all back in a flash. I changed my mind. She was done. Since the cancer hadn’t done it, and the bitch had survived, it was up to me. Don’t call it a relapse. Slowly, over time, the arsenic would get her. And everyone would think it was the cancer.
The bell rang again and I shot upright, the chair clattering to the tile floor. Picking up the white stone bowl I filled it with her favorite - chicken noodle. The eyedropper did the rest.
“Coming
sweetheart.”
2. MARCY
“...and the nice thing is, you can hide it in your purse so nobody will even know it’s there. I personally like to use mine on the long commutes home when I’m stuck in traffic. You just have to be careful when you orgasm not to cause an accident.”
The room full of soccer moms and newly wed wives laugh out loud, some mouths hanging open, and at least one face beet red.
“Hey ladies, you have to be responsible for your own orgasms. And with full-time jobs, kids, and husbands to take care of, sometimes those little moments alone are all we have. Well, that’s my presentation, and my name again is Marcy. Thanks Julie for allowing me to do this. Finish your crantinis, and then you can come in the back room one at a time to browse the merchandise. Don’t be shy. We all do it. So whether you want a simple vibrator or anal beads and nipple clamps, step on up, and I’ll discreetly bag your goodies. Nobody has to know. Thanks!”
The women applaud lightly, some of their eyes glowing with the possibilities of secret pleasures and long forgotten orgasms. Some are sickened by the subject matter but are already making a mental note to get my business card on the way out. At least one woman is trying to figure out which credit card she can hide it on so her husband won’t ask any questions.
It’s better than stripping, and way less money than porn, but it’s a lot more laid back, and you have a much better chance of getting home without being raped. As I head to the back bedroom to lay out the goods, I can sense the presence of one of the women behind me. I’m sure it’s Crysta without turning around. She’s been undressing me with her eyes all night. The possibility has crossed my mind but there are too many people here, and I’m not nearly drunk enough. But still...I’ve always been a little weak for skinny blondes with long hair and big tits. Maybe it was narcissistic, actually desiring myself.
“Can you give me a second, Crysta before you attack me, let me put out the toys,” I mouth over my shoulder.
Close behind me, her hot vodka breath mixes with her perfume, hints of patchouli under sandalwood. She smells good. I can feel her excitement as she presses up against my back.
“Crysta, easy...” I breathe.
“Okay sugar. Sorry, just all this talk about orgasms and vibrators has really got me going. I thought maybe we could close the door for a second before the rest of the girls came in, ” she purrs as she pushes it shut with an audible click. She is on me before I can turn around, pressing up against me, her lips on mine, her hungry tongue violating my mouth as her hands grab my waist and pull me to her. I can hardly resist and after all of this talk I don’t want to, so I let it go for a second. She kisses me with an intensity that borders on force and I can feel things moving too fast. Her hand shoves its way down the front of my jeans as our gaggle of girlfriends titter outside the door.
“Hey, Crysta, easy...” I begin, pulling her hand out, and giving her a gentle shove away from me. Her ankles get tangled up in the fuck-me pumps her eyes still overflowing with lust, the hunger turning to uncertainty as she falls backwards towards the vanity. I’ve always loved that marble counter, the muted colors swirling around each other, earth and amber with specks of obsidian. Her head smacks the corner with a wet crunch, like a pumpkin on a sidewalk, and her lifeless form falls beside the bed, out of sight.
“Crysta...” I squeak. “Damnit, not again.”
3. JIMMY
The shovel bites into the dirt as the cold nips at my exposed neck. My hands are raw and red already, the wind chapping them as I dig deeper
still. The forest around me howls empty regret while the leaves swirl and the branches creak with age. My eyes water and I tell myself it’s the weather. The wind and cold slap at my face, and the tears that well up have nothing to do with the two bodies over there.
“Please step out of the car, Mr. Dugan.”
“Michael, what are you doing? Is this some kind of joke?”
I am up to my chest now in the double-wide grave. The shiny blade slices the roots like a hot knife through butter. The price tag is still on the handle, Ace Hardware, $12.42. I curse the air for not bringing a second pair of gloves. So much I didn’t anticipate. The blood soaking through the black leather mitts she’d given me for Christmas three years ago was one thing. The suitcase of heroin in the trunk had been another.
“Please step out of the car, Mr. Dugan,” he repeats, unclicking his holster, putting his right hand on the butt of his service revolver.
“What? Michael, what is this about?”
“One more time, sir, please turn off the ignition, and step out of the vehicle.”
“But...”
His left hand clicks on the mic at his shoulder, while the right pulls out his gun.
“Car 24 requesting backup. I have a 148 in progress, suspect is armed and dangerous, possible 95 and 966.”
“Michael?”