Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  “But that’s where you come in, buddy. I’m going to need employees. And you’re the smartest guy I know. Want to be my business manager?”

  “Are you offering me a full time job? Like a really real job?”

  “Yeah. Well. Maybe. I mean that was kind of the idea.”

  “Before I jump out of my seat… what’s the business?”

  “Resale and repair of refurbished electronics.”

  “Do you know anything about repairing electronics? Don’t you usually just break things?”

  “No. And… not always. But I got some whiz-kid prodigy on loan and I figure he’s best put to work in a room full of broken crap instead of dismantling and reassembling everything in my apartment over and over again.”

  “Okay, just give me the rundown and let me know what you need.”

  I let out an audible sigh, glancing back to the trio again. Okay, she’s not dead. Her head lulls down for a moment, pops back up, then glassy eyes look between the two gentlemen on either side of her with a questioning gaze before flopping back again. “I made a deal with the techies to keep them from working with whoever it is that’s blackmailing them to do their dirty work and steal corporate secrets from major businesses. But they still need goods and medical supplies in order for their little community to work. I can open trade routes with some known back alley pharmacists and outland farmers, but that’s going to take creds and trade that we don’t have. So I’ll also be looking into dealing with the junkers to pick up old electronics to be refurbished and resold for cash to fund the venture, all the while keeping up a shop front and scraping in cash off of that as well. If I’ve got you as a business manager, Mathan on repairs, Charlsie and me on cashier and delivery, we should be able to make this thing float.”

  “And where do you propose to get the startup capital for all of this?”

  “Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. I met with a realtor and a banker this morning. We already found a location we like, but it’s a bit of a fixer upper. The bank says I can get the loan, but I’m gonna need a ten percent down payment and a bunch of paperwork to fill out. That’s where you come in.” The girl across from me starts to slump forward. Her companions loop their arms together with hers to keep her propped up. Not my problem.

  “I don’t have money for a down payment…”

  “No no. The paperwork. I don’t get how any of that crap works. I tried reading it over and the words start swimming across the screen. So I want you to write up a business proposal of how all of this shit could actually work and fill in all of the little boxes with numbers and words, then send it to me to sign.”

  “And you trust me to do all of this?”

  “I may trust you more than anybody else on this goddamn rock, Milton.”

  Silence. “Okay yes. Yes I’ll do it. Wait. No.”

  “No?”

  “I mean. Before I agree to anything. What’s my salary?”

  “Thirty plus benefits?” I ask hopefully.

  “That seems a little low. I mean, for a business manager and all.”

  “There’s room for growth. Let’s just get the operation off the ground first and we’ll see what kind of wiggle room we have for profits.” The monthly payments on the loan already have my butthole puckered. The scene across the tram isn’t helping much. “I’ll shoot the forms your way and let you work your magic. If something better comes along, I won’t hold you to it.”

  “I’m on board. But I have bad news for you. I’ve found hundreds of possible locations to hide bodies. They honestly own so much crap.”

  Watching the girl still, it’s obvious she’s drugged or overdosed. It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like this on the tram before. Honestly most riders get to witness this sort of thing at least once in their lives. What bothers me is the complexion of her skin. It’s not waxy. It’s not sweaty. It’s not scabby. There’s no redness around her nose or cracking on her lips or track marks on her arms. She’s not a regular abuser. Sad to say, those are the signs I used to look for before approaching a potential client. I wouldn’t approach this girl. But the way the men are handling her is the same way friends or dealers would drag a near-corpse to a crash house. Holy shit.

  “Do they own any crash houses?”

  “Any what?”

  “Crash houses. Cheap hospice care where they dump useless druggies.”

  “Oh. Umm. Let me see… hospice… crash… drugs… they have a few rehabilitation clinics. Is that similar?”

  “How many?”

  “Seven. Looks like they own one in every district.”

  “What level?”

  “Ground.”

  “That’s where they’re taking them.” I look at the girl across the way. She’s probably headed to one right now. Or to a legitimate crash house. Could be either, really. Not my problem. Anything I do now might alert the thieves to my investigation.

  “Hey Milton. Do they own the one on 27th street in Mobius District?”

  “No. Their facility is on Wakeland and Park near uptown. Why?”

  “No reason. I’ll talk later. Thanks, buddy. You’re the best. If you get a moment, shoot me the schematics of the rehabilitation center in the Frisco district.” Drawing my tranq pistol from inside my jacket, I let two rounds fly before the bodyguards can stand from their seats. They’re still stirring by the time I walk across the tram, so I double up on their dosage.

  The girl doesn’t have a purse or anything, but I scan the credsys in her wrist to get her ID. It’s a bit out of the way, but with her arm around my shoulder, we get off at the station on 24th and head south to the crash house where I leave her. Five cred charge to drop her off, then I make a quick stop by a payphone to make an anonymous call to her emergency contact to let them know where she is. The man fires off a barrage of questions, but I don’t bother trying to field any of them, just hang up and get on my way.

  “Great,” I swear under my breath. “Just set myself another timer.”

  Twenty-Five

  Crash houses are generally little more than squatter hovels, boarded up with scraps found in back alleys and run by poor bastards with degrees in social work making minimum wage and serving as little more than glorified janitors, cleaning up the refuse spilled by dozens of patients who have about the same control of their muscles as they do their addictions. Needless to say, they can generally be found by a half-decent nose and carry all the charm of a knocked over porta-potty. I never would have spotted Frisco’s rehabilitation clinic if I didn’t have an address for it.

  A concrete sidewalk with minimal cracks even has a few trees sprouting up between slabs with grates around the base. Off-white stucco walls start at the ground and go all the way up to the third or fourth floor with no signs of graffiti or propaganda. There are no windows or signs, just a pair of unmarked double doors. It’s not the sort of place you stumble into. It’s the place you’re invited to. Or taken to. It’s not a crash house of last resorts. This is the place you would go if you still have options.

  The interior has a pleasant, floral smell that I can’t place. A far cry from the unmistakable bile and ammonia mix I’m used to. The walls even have classy paintings and motivational posters in place of childish finger painting done in human excrement and god knows what else. There are no bouncers, the front desk is attended by a pair of middle aged ladies in crisp business attire who smile sweetly as I approach.

  “Good afternoon. Do you have an appointment?” Appointment? This may prove more difficult than I’d originally thought. Why can’t everything be more guns blazing and less business?

  “An appointment? Not directly.” What was that rich bitch’s name I used to deal to? “I’m here to see a patient, Leslie Burg.”

  My eyes dart around as she busies herself looking through files on a screen. The place is spotless and well lit. To add misery to my rapidly dropping confidence, there’s a camera staring down on me from the ceiling. In a place this nice, I doubt it’s just for show. So much for
being inconspicuous.

  “We don’t presently have a patient by that name. Would you like me to check with one of our other facilities.”

  I let out a sigh of annoyance. “Typical. I was told she would be in the Frisco facility. Perhaps she’s registered as a Jane Doe?”

  “Perhaps,” she coos, but I can see in her narrowing eyes that I’ve raised suspicion. “I can check on that for you if you’ll wait a moment, but visiting hours are from nine to eleven.” She nods to her companion, who quickly stands and walks through a back door and out of sight. And there goes the silent alarm.

  “I’m not a visitor. I’m her case-worker. She has several allegations against her at the moment and I need to get a statement from her as soon as possible in order to avoid unnecessary litigation.”

  “Oh, I see,” she says, eyes widening a bit in surprise. “Let me double check in our global system.” I’d like to thank the academy and my own case worker for filling my head with false senses of hope and a mouthful of vocabulary of made up legal terms.

  I watch her for a moment before moving to plan B. Leslie passed over three years ago from an overdose in the bathroom stall of some overrated fried chicken joint. I lean in and lower my voice, “We could really speed things along if you would just let me go back and look for myself.”

  She freezes, face contorting and I can see the color coming quickly to her cheeks and ears. Her eyes meet mine all ablaze. “Listen buddy. You may be able to pull that sort of thing at one of those seedy druggie dump places, but this is a legitimate establishment. Our patients are under the best of care and not on display for you to go pumping your manly needs into.”

  Wait, what? Now it’s my turn to be shocked and appalled. Did she really just insinuate that I wanted to go rape my way into some comatose vegetable? “Is that honestly what you think?” I try not to think of the number of ways I’ve been violated while wasting away in a puddle of my own filth. “Lady, look at me. I don’t pay for sex, conscious or otherwise. I don’t have a fetish for the cold and clammy. Truth be told, I could have you hiding that rock on your hand, hair pulled back, drooling from both ends, begging for a taste of my dick in under five minutes. I could have you tied up, hand on your throat, spitting in your face and pumping away while you beg for more, remembering when the expression “all-nighter” meant we fuck from dusk until dawn leaving us both dehydrated and sore in places we didn’t know could hurt like that instead of a five minute pickle-tickle followed by your man just passing out until the sun comes up again. I didn’t come to discretely deposit my DNA, I came to find Leslie Burg and keep her dust-loving ass out of prison. I have work to do and you’re either going to let me do my job, or I’ll have yours and leave you with nothing to do but sit at home watching daytime television and waiting for your disappointment of a husband to come home and run through his vicious cycle of taking without ever giving back.”

  I’d like to think I would have taken a more tactful approach if a certain dosage of hormones wasn’t pumping blood to all the wrong places and leaving me with an uncomfortable chaffing of loose slacks finding themselves excruciatingly restrictive. The lady stares blankly at me, the fire in her eyes doused by a swelling of moisture. Guilt wells up inside of me, the eternal struggle of being a raging asshole but hating to see a woman cry. “Let’s start over,” I mutter softly. “Good afternoon, my name is Mr. Hawthorne. I’m here to see Leslie Burg.”

  “Right this way,” she mumbles, voice as distant and vague as her newfound expression. She stands from her seat, straightens her blouse and skirt, then walks in a daze around the counter to meet me, brushing softly against me as she moves past and down a hallway to a set of double doors. It takes a moment for my own shock to wear off and I follow as she mindlessly scans across the security center and pushes the doors open, pausing for me to join her.

  Still shaken from the previous encounter, I take a moment to marvel at the professional appearance of the building. We pass by countless doors with small windows and I peer into a few, finding double cots in each with dressers adorned with personal items and pictures of loved ones. Vases of flowers, artificial or otherwise, and more motivational posters add splashes of colors to elaborate rooms. The inhabitants themselves seem to be busying themselves on datapads or listening to music, but most of them are sleeping, each dressed in loose-fitting scrubs or baggy sweats.

  My guide stops at an unmarked door with a window larger than those I’d seen thus far, but the glass is tempered with criss-crossing mesh running through it, impossible to see through. She unlocks the door and holds it open, waiting expressionlessly for me to enter.

  I take a few steps inside and find my surroundings to be much smaller than I had previously expected. In fact, the room is quite confined, holding only curio cabinets framed in metal and cased in glass similar to that on the door. Recognizing a trap, I spin on my heels to find the door shutting behind me and the woman standing only inches from my person, eyes ablaze once more.

  No words or explanations as one manicured hand slides across the nape of my neck, gripping firmly while the other travels south and fingertips explore the outline of my erection. Her subtle mouth presses hard against my own, sucking in my bottom lip and holding it sharply between her teeth as her grip on my southern steeple tightens. I open my mouth to her invasive tongue, getting caught up in the heat of the moment and the rage of testosterone, succumbing to my most primal of instincts.

  Pinning her to one of the cabinets, I devour her neck, inspiring subtle moans of delight and anticipation as her body squirms against mine, her hand already fiddling with the simple mechanics of my belt. With the efficiency of a professional, my pants drop under their own weight, hitting the floor with a soft clanking sound. My hands explore her frame, pressing hard against her breasts and running down to the hem of her skirt, up her thighs, and find the thin strip of her panties underneath before squatting to tug them to her heeled ankles.

  My head knows I shouldn’t be doing this. That I have no time for this scenario to play out, but my entire body is unwilling to cease its advances. Maybe pity for the woman’s unsatisfied needs or my own, a low growl gurgles in my throat before I bury my head up her skirt and push my face past the hair and up against the warm, wet flesh beneath. I’m awarded with a hard gasp as my tongue goes to work, lapping up the moisture and finding the hidden bump up top. I tease it softly for only a moment before kissing it hard, sucking it into my mouth and rubbing the rough part of my tongue against it. The woman cries and lurches, sharp nails digging into the flesh of my scalp and thighs squeezing against my ears as I continue assault, letting her clitoris loose before flicking it back and forth, up and down with my tongue in no steady pattern while her body heaves and tosses against me. Fire-like pain ignites in the back of my head as her nails dig deeper, pressing into my skull.

  Continuing until the fierceness subsides, I pull away and stand to meet her glazed expression, mouth open and gasping with quick, short breaths. I lean in and kiss her hard, her mouth opening eagerly and sucking her own juices from my face, but only for a moment before I spin her around roughly and bend her over. Her hands obediently grip the edges of the case before I lift the back of her skirt and slide the head of my dick up between her legs and find my target. I enter slowly at first, little by little, in and out, before gripping the edges of her tailbone tightly and hammering away at a steady pace. It feels amazing and the rest of my body tingles and goes numb as I pump again and again into her, my midsection slapping hard against her backside. Constant grunts from her mouth increase in pitch, getting higher with each passing second. Subtle blasphemies fly from her mouth mixed with sweat and spittle as her body stiffens more and more until her back is board straight and her knuckles are bare white across the frame. She lets out one last cry before her body practically collapses, spasms coursing across her entire frame and clenching tightly on my thick muscle inside her.

  I’m so close when a sudden realization makes my heart drop. Not only can I not l
eave any evidence behind that could be used against me, I’m firing live rounds. “Shit.” I mutter instantly, pulling out.

  “Did you finish?” she asks, starting to turn around. She catches my eye just as I’m retrieving my tranq pistol. “Oh my god!” she starts to panic, but fades almost instantly as the poison in her thigh enters the blood stream. “What did you…” She slumps softly into my arms before finishing her question. To be fair, the answer would most likely have been a lie anyway.

  I do her the silent dignity of lifting her panties up to their original position before pulling my own pants up carefully around a fully armed and ready to fire penis. Looking around desperately, I can’t find a single place to safely relieve the pressure. “Why can’t I have moments like this on a normal day?” I mutter to myself while relieving the woman of her security clearance. “Or at least in a bathroom or janitorial closet like a normal affair.” I glance back at the cases. Free samples.

  I try not to be greedy, but somehow end up with the pockets of my jacket and pants rattling with an abundance of prescription-strength depressants, stimulants, and pain killers. I bring up the floor plan of the clinic on my phone and try to assess my present location. Unfortunately, nothing on the map is labeled as “kidnapped victims hiding place,” so I do the best I can. For all I know, she’s in one of the rooms I passed by earlier. Doubtful, but they say the best hiding place is in plain sight. I continue to scour the schematics until I spy an anomaly. There’s a stairwell somewhere leading down, but no plan available for a basement level. It seems sketchy enough to suit my needs. Or else it’s a dead end and I’ve just wasted my time and possibly blown my cover for no apparent reason.