by Mike McCrary
“What, you mean a bouncer?”
“I do.”
“And who wanted that?”
“Friends of yours.”
“Same friends you won’t talk about?”
“Those are the ones.” Johnny circles his finger in the air for another round.
Murphy pours while Johnny looks him up and down.
“Gotta say, you don’t ooze that standard meaty-boy vibe.” Johnny clinks his drink with Murphy’s. “No offense. I’m sure you can handle yourself and all that, but dudes who work that shit…” Thumbs toward the red, steel front door. “Those dudes weigh in at three bills and they still take a beating some nights. But hey, that’s the shit gig they wanted for you, so that, my good man, is the shit gig you shall have.”
Johnny Psycho clinks Murphy’s glass one last time before walking away.
Murphy stands to the right of the red door.
Arms crossed.
Pissed off.
Johnny gave him a tiny UV LED black light the size of a child’s thumb. Was told to use it on IDs to check the patron’s validity. It not only verifies the holograms imbedded inside their identification, but also simultaneously scans and feeds the data to servers at Johnny’s and the feds. Johnny uses the data for target marketing. He also sells his customers’ info to liquor companies, hook-up apps and attorneys who specialize in drunk driving cases and, oh yeah, divorce. Feds use the data for God knows what.
A pack of young, bubbly women bounce up to Murphy.
They make some eyes. Flash their party-proven smiles. Murphy can’t help but enjoy it. He flirts a bit, still a human being. Not to mention, Johnny never discussed how much he’s being paid, so might as well have a good time. He lets them in. The last one was maybe eighteen. He doesn’t care. Johnny sold him out to these friends he won’t discuss so, ya know, fuck that guy.
Sold to the they who will not be named.
His sight blurs.
The pain has come back to say hello. He rubs the back of his head. Feels like a cold spike is being wiggled at the base of his skull. Murphy feels his devil face tattoo itch. His teeth grind. The pain eases a bit.
Murphy scans an ID. She turns twenty next month.
“Have a good time.” Murphy thumbs her toward the door.
A line is forming. Thirty, maybe forty deep. The music bumps behind him. A mix of current underground beats with cheeky hits from the nineties and early two thousands. The bar is primed and ready. All dolled up for today’s drunk and horny to devour. The minutes crawl by. ID after ID passes by his eyes.
Tedious.
Annoying.
Some people bitch and moan. Some are douchebags just because that’s who they were born to be. Murphy feels the pain at the base of his skull begin to spread. This door gig is starting to get to him. His shoulders tense, inch up to his ears. Murphy takes a deep breath while he focuses on holding his cold, hard stare. Doesn’t want to reveal to the crowd—or to whoever might be watching—the machete that’s hacking away at his insides.
He’s sure someone has been all over him ever since he’s been out here.
Some tough guy with a face tat of a blackbird pushes through to the front of the line. Knocking people aside, he grabs a woman by the arm. Her head whips back as he yanks her toward him.
Murphy clucks his tongue.
As the pain in his skull fades, the itch in his devil face tat shifts into a soothing warmth spreading up his arm and into his chest like the best medicine on earth. Blackbird is the size of a tree. Three times the size of Murphy. Next to him stand two other, even larger dudes. The girl tries to twist away but still manages to put on a fake smile. Her eyes gloss over.
“We’re going in.” Black Bird shoves Murphy in the chest putting him back on his heels.
A few in line laugh.
“Okay.” Murphy scrunches his nose. “Do you have proper identification?”
The line of people collectively hold their breath while talking a step back.
Murphy feels like gears are shifting inside. The three men tower over him. They’ve got him by several inches and a few hundred pounds. Murphy snickers as if he’s in on a joke they’re not. He thinks of his gun.
Thinks he won’t even need it.
He’ll make a bone-crunching show of it. A bloody mess to keep everyone in their proper place. Hell yeah, Murphy decides, prison style this thing.
No, the voice in back of his mind pleads. He’s not worth it.
There’s a strange confidence. Confidence undeserved yet earned at the same time. Born from having done this in the past with the complete absence of certainty. His mind is a masterclass in leverage and aggression. Tears form. One sole drop begins to roll. He wipes it away fast, checking his fingers. Blood smears across them like red finger paint.
Black Bird shoves Murphy again.
The girl looks disinterested, as if she’s seen this routine many times before.
“Asshole.” Murphy grinds his teeth, holding back. “You should really get gone.”
Light floods the street.
A large SUV screams in from out of nowhere. Tires give a quick squawk as they jump the curb. People scream, scattering in every direction like roaches. Black Bird and his boys run. The brakes slam. Bumper jerks to a stop a few feet from Murphy’s knees. Halogen headlights burn high-firing thick beams of light directly into Murphy’s face.
There was an SUV in the street last night too.
The doors fly open.
Through the blinding lights Murphy can’t see much. Only shapes. Globs of people. Three, maybe more. All holding other, different shapes in their hands.
Armed and moving with extreme purpose toward him.
Murphy whips his Glock free from behind his back. The shadowy figures cut through the bubbling chaos. Murphy feels the blood-tears fall faster.
His devil tattoo aches.
His world tilts.
Vision is swallowed in black.
Chapter 10
Murphy’s eyes open wide.
Lids flutter like butterfly wings.
Slow to a blink, working… more than a little annoyed by this routine. Firing straight up, he ignores the pain furnace raging from where his spine and skull meet. The bumping throb from his devil tat is reaching unbearable. His chest heaves in and out. A sheen of cold sweat covers his goose skin.
It’s getting worse.
It was getting better.
For a little while, at least.
He’s feeling all the anxiety now. Every ounce. Wave after wave of unwanted feelings that seemed to have faded are back now with a crippling vengeance—kinda pissed about being ignored. The rational, understandable feelings of terror and dread he had muted are now loud as hell.
Emotions fire in all directions.
He wants to scream.
He wants to be alone. He wants to talk to someone. He wants to cry. Hasn’t wanted to do that in…well, never as far as he can recall.
The curtains open.
Sunlight parts the dark. Murphy shields his eyes from the jarring shift in light. Straining, he makes out blobs standing on the other side of the room. Looks to be three of them. The size and shape of them resembles something familiar. Last night. The street in front of the bar. The SUV from last night.
They were coming at him.
They were armed.
Murphy’s hand skims under the sheets, under his pillow searching for his gun. His eyes make a quick scan of the bedside table. Empty save for a glass of water and his bottles of pills.
“Missing something?” a man’s voice asks in a thick, southern accent.
Even through blurred vision and a gooey mind, Murphy knows the man has his gun. He doesn’t recognize the voice, but he knows the accent. More than likely Texan. There’s a flattened monophthong even in the two words he spoke. Murphy feels his mind run, accessing a knowledge of language and dialects.
One shape, a man, thick arms and wide shoulders, says nothing as he moves taking a power stance
in front of the door. Defense against Murphy making a hasty break for it. This man holds a gun out in plain sight, letting it swing by his side making sure the situation is abundantly clear.
He’s big, but big hasn’t bothered Murphy so far.
A woman steps into view, along with the man from Texas.
Are they with the muscle boys from the cheap motel?
Were they in the SUV both nights?
More importantly, are they here to kill me?
Away from the direct sunlight, they now stand a few inches from the foot of the bed. She holds a device, a tablet of some sort with a glass screen. The man from Texas is tall. He wiggles Murphy’s Glock playfully for Murphy to see then tosses it to the large man guarding the door.
“Do you recognize us?” The man from Texas bites a steel toothpick between his back teeth.
Murphy stares back, not answering. Buying himself time to think. A fool’s errand, there’s no great move to make here. Fighting to control the rocketing panic is job one at the moment. Murphy knows he’s capable of great damage, amazing at producing enormous pain, and wants to do both right now. But still, at this moment he lacks what it takes to access a part of himself that was so dominant.
Murphy’s hands shake. He hides them under the sheets.
“No,” Murphy finally answers. “Do we know each other?”
The tall Texan grins around his toothpick.
The woman looks Murphy over. Thinks.
“What’s the mix?” the Texan asks the woman.
“About 20% Murphy.”
“What?” Murphy’s face drops.
She studies him then taps and slides her fingers across the glass surface of the tablet. She watches Murphy as warmth spreads out from his forearm. Seemingly coming from the devil face tat, driving up his arm and deep into his chest. A similar fantastic medicine feeling as from the previous nights. An odd minty, antiseptic taste coats his tongue. That’s new.
Calm rolls over him.
His breathing slows. His heart slides slightly down from his throat. The sharp pain at the back of his skull pulses, but it is far less than a few seconds ago.
“More like 40% now.” She turns to Murphy. “Better?”
Murphy nods.
“I know part of you is considering snapping off various parts of us,” the man from Texas says. “Appreciate it if you’d consider reconsidering. Chat with us first?”
“Appreciate you telling me who the hell you are.” Murphy’s voice cracks. “What do you want?”
“Murphy, going to try and make this brief yet informative.” The man from Texas works the toothpick between his teeth. “There’s a lot to talk about. Some of it fairly complex, and we have little time to burn while you play catch-up.”
The woman seems to be biting her tongue. She bounces on her heels.
The man from Texas looks and talks like a cop. More like a fed. He wears a nice, dark suit with a nice tie. Cost some coin. More than a fed would fork out. It’s his shit haircut that’s confusing. More importantly, he has those government eyes. The gaze of self-proclaimed badass Murphy recognizes as clear as if he’s being reunited with unwanted family. Maybe he’s private sector now. Former G-man making some money selling out his past service.
Really wishes he’d stop working that damn steel toothpick with his back teeth.
The woman looks smart.
Academia, maybe.
Could be her glasses coupled with her sharp business suit that fires off this look of intelligence she’s pitching. Hard to trust, under the circumstances. She could be any number of things. Or, it could simply be she is an intelligent person who’s also here to gut him like a fish.
“You’re safe,” she says, tapping the screen again.
You’re safe rattles between Murphy’s ears.
“Do you believe me?” she asks.
“Is that a joke?” Murphy adjusts the pillows behind his head, getting comfortable. Some of his confidence is back. Feels nice to access this part of himself again. “Believe you? No, can’t say that I do. Why should I? I don’t know you, I—"
“I’m Peyton.” She introduces herself with a smile in her voice. There’s also a tone. Almost like she’s reintroducing herself. “Nothing familiar about me?”
Murphy shakes his head with eyebrows raised high.
“How about me, boss?” The federal dick from Texas holds his arms out wide. “Nothing?”
Murphy starts to say something combative as hell, stops, thinks better of it, then shakes his head.
“He’s Thompson,” she says. “Formerly, Agent Thompson.”
“She’s still Dr. Peyton,” Thompson adds.
Murphy takes some pride in getting his basic profiling correct.
“You can call me Peyton.”
“Tremendous. Again…” Murphy clucks his tongue. “What the hell?”
“Do you remember anything?” Peyton asks. “Anything about your life prior to the last few days?”
“No.”
“Okay.” She takes in a deep breath, preparing herself. “You may begin to remember things, but for now I’m going to assume you’re a blank slate of sorts. I, my company…” Peyton swallows. Resets. “My former company worked in the field of neuroscience. Research. Development. Applying those to real world—”
“Big brain shit,” Thompson interjects.
“May I?” Peyton holds a hand up at Thompson. Every word out of him seems to piss her off. “Can I do this?”
“Ticktock, Doctor.” Thompson looks to the window. “Why bury the damn lede?”
“Oh? Did you want to do this part?”
“Wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”
“Could have sworn we discussed this, former Agent Thompson.”
“Discussed we’d play it by ear, Dr. Peyton. Said we’d see how things played out.”
“After all that’s happened, after all that’s happening right now, you still—”
“Time’s still slipping the hell away. No closer to shoving the genie back in the bottle.”
“That’s wonderful, truly fantastic,” Peyton explodes. “How about you do the easy part, per fucking usual, and I’ll handle the big words.”
The man guarding the door shifts uneasily.
There’s a hard, teeth-rattling silence.
The tension between them seems deeper than people who don’t enjoy working together. Murphy can see it. Noticeable how they store stress in every part of their bodies. Maybe they are forced to work together. An unwanted partnership slapped together by a growing, ugly necessity. Mistakes have been made.
Time is an enemy.
These people, they are up against it.
Whatever it is.
“Neuroscience, you were saying?” Murphy would rather not bury the lede as well.
“Right. I’m going to talk big picture and work down.” Peyton clears her throat. Prepares herself again, dagger-eyes at Thompson. “My team, after years of hard work, did what we set out to do—to help people. You probably know this, but most behavioral issues come from various forms of mental illness. Some people have bi-polar or schizophrenia, some are psychopaths. Many suffer from an inability to control their impulses, and those impulses sometimes hurt others.”
She looks to Murphy, her eyes wide and warm.
A true believer unspooling her life’s work.
“We developed a new method to alter the potentially dangerous, the at-risk people, at a neurological level. We had a team of top-flight researchers, psychologists, brilliant neuroscientists, quantitative masterminds, all creating next generation therapy. We achieved results the psychiatric community could only fantasize about. Truly advanced techniques in helping the disturbed—”
“They figured out how to take deranged fuckers and jam-load non-deranged personalities into their deranged fucker skulls,” Thompson cuts in. Couldn’t help himself. “In a nutshell.” Thompson shrugs, avoiding Peyton’s stare, motioning to his wrist—clock is still ticking.
Murphy blink
s.
So many questions firing off that he can’t pick one to ask.
“What?” he gets out barely above a whisper. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Murphy, I know this is unreasonably difficult to understand.” Dr. Peyton steps toward him. Thompson puts a hand on her shoulder, gently reminding her to keep a safe distance. “We’re about to explain some things and they will seem very strange. I—we—understand completely.”
“Ever hear about some super-spy shit used back in the ’60s?” Thompson stops. Considers. Then. “Actually, in the ’50s if I’m not mistaken. Called MK-Ultra. Mind control stuff? Brainwashing, CIA voodoo shit?”
“Sorry. Missed that class,” Murphy says, having trouble focusing.
Thompson looks to Dr. Peyton.
She motions for Thompson to continue.
“Real cloak and dagger shit. Rumors here and there, mixed with some truth, but they were experimenting with a new tactic for the intelligence community to play with.”
“In general terms,” Dr. Peyton cuts back in, “they imbedded a code into people’s brains. Not physical, like a computer chip or anything like that, more reprogramming their minds through intense treatment. Sleep deprivation, along with experimentation with psychoactive drugs. Some illegal surgeries even. So they could—”
“Among other things, place sleeper agents into the general population,” Thompson continues. “Strategic locations. Foreign or domestic, to be triggered at any moment. To become cold, hard-hitting folks morally stripped and mentally equipped for murder and mayhem.”
Murphy’s teeth grind.
Turning away, he sees there’s a bottle with two glasses sitting on a bar near the window. Somehow, they knew he enjoyed a pour of whiskey even before he did.
“Any of this landing, Murphy?” Thompson asks.
Murphy gets up from the bed. Dr. Peyton’s and Thompson’s bodies go tight. They take a step back. The man at the door keeps his eyes locked on him. A finger on the trigger.
“Sixty percent,” Peyton says under her breath.
Their fear doesn’t go unnoticed by Murphy as he pours two glasses. He pinches the glasses together with his fingers, carrying them in one hand. He picks up the bottle with the other.
