by G A Chase
She listened to the slow crunching of grass under leather boots. Bartender Smooth stepped into the clearing just ahead of the leather bags. He stopped, sandwiched between the two snakes, who were coiled up and rattling their warnings. “Friends of yours?”
“They don’t take kindly to me being chased. The engine’s high vibration disturbs their sleep. Since they’re a might bit grumpy, you probably shouldn’t make any sudden movements.” Especially if they involve attacking me.
He lifted his head and looked behind her. “That leg looks pretty bad. I’ve got an emergency medical kit on my bike.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll be dead if we don’t get you medical attention.”
“We don’t need anything. You need to get back on that penis compensation of a motorcycle and ride out of here.”
He eased back onto his boot heels and put his hands in his back pockets. “For your information, I prefer slow and gentle when it comes to sex, not fast and loud—though like my bike, I do have some skills when it comes to handling the curves. At least let me look at that wound.”
“No fucking way. And if you think you’ll just stand there until I pass out, my snakes aren’t going anywhere.”
He pulled her knife from the back of his jeans. “I can handle a couple of little worm-lizards.”
She struggled up higher onto the gas tank. “Give me my knife back.”
“Call off your snakes, and let me look at your injuries.”
“Why?”
He took a slow step forward. Though the snakes increased their staccato, they remained coiled at attention without striking. “You know, offering you help is like reaching out to a hellcat. You’re hurt. If you really don’t trust me, I’ll just call 9-1-1 and be on my way.”
She aimed her fingers at the snakes. “Do that, and I will end you. No doctors.”
“Fine. But I’m not leaving you here to die. Sorry. That’s just not in my nature.”
The swirling black dots in front of her eyes were forming up into dark globs like thunder clouds building on a sunny day. “You’ll give me back my knife if I let you look at my wound?”
“After I look at your wound.”
Her options where dwindling. If she passed out, it’d be difficult to get hold of Joe. “Fine.” She waved her hand at the snakes, who slithered back into the comfort of her saddlebags. “Try anything funny, and those two will shoot out at you like they were fired out of a gun.”
What do I still have available? The gas in the tank would make for a blinding eye attack. Three out of four useable limbs means once he’s close enough, I can incapacitate him with a well-aimed blow. And the backpack full of shotgun shells would make for a good bludgeon.
He knelt down beside her leg. “Looks like Riley got you good. We’re going to need to get those pants off and clean the bullet hole. I need to see if it’s still in you or passed right through your leg.”
“I’m not dropping my jeans for you. Hand me my knife, and I’ll cut the pant leg myself.”
“Relax. I don’t hit on injured women. What kind of sick fucks have you been dating?”
Not all of her sex-bot encounters in hell had been with nice, wholesome doppelgängers. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
He used the dagger to slit the seam from boot to belt. Gently, he peeled the denim away from her flesh. “That’s a lot of blood. Are you sure you don’t want an ambulance? Even stitching this up isn’t going to get you back on that bike.”
The storm clouds in front of her eyes were starting to display lightning accompanied by a roll of thunder. She reached into her bra and pulled out Joe’s card. “Call this guy.” As he reached for the slip of paper, she grasped his leather jacket and pulled his face down to hers. “If I see anyone other than Joe when I come to, I will end you. That’s a promise.”
“Why didn’t you call him yourself?”
Sere was losing her grasp on his jacket nearly as fast as she was losing consciousness. “Cell phones don’t work around me. Any wireless electronics go haywire…”
The sting of a tube being shoved into Sere’s leg brought her back to consciousness. “Fucking ouch!”
“Nice to see you’re back with us.” The sound of Joe’s unconcerned voice made her settle back against the motorcycle seat. She opened her eyes and saw him leaning down over the plastic shell of a ballpoint pen, which was imbedded in her leg.
“We should leave the bullet in her.” Bartender Smooth hovered over Joe like a meddlesome supervising surgeon. “It could be lodged in an artery. Removing it could cause her to bleed out.”
Joe wiggled the tube inside Sere’s leg until it hit the lead slug. “Normally, I’d agree with you, but this lady’s anatomy isn’t typical. We need to get this foreign matter out of her.”
Sere was happy to leave the explanation—or lack thereof—to Joe. Bullets in bodies had a way of calling forth the loas of the dead for a quick look-see in case they were about to inherit another soul. She really didn’t need those fuckers hovering around in the afterlife only to discover her body wasn’t strictly human.
Joe drove the point of his knife into her thigh opposite the plastic tube that held the bullet in place. She focused on her breathing to distract herself from the field operation. “It’s only pain, girl. Nothing to cry about.” Joe’s words from a decade earlier after a humiliating defeat still rang in her mind as he jabbed the knife farther into her leg.
“How is it she’s not bleeding to death?” Bartender Smooth was missing his leather jacket. He bent over her, tall and muscular in his tight black jeans and sweaty white T-shirt.
Joe gave Sere a knowing smile. “I told you, Sere isn’t like most people.”
“So that’s your name. I’m—”
“I don’t give a fuck what your name is,” Sere interjected between clenched teeth. “Bartender Smooth works fine as far as I’m concerned.”
Joe shoved the plastic tube harder into her leg, forcing the bullet to follow the tip of the knife out of her flesh. “That is kind of a mouthful.”
“Could we at least shorten it to Bart?”
Sere grabbed the leather jacket behind her head as Joe forced the bullet out of her leg. “Cartoon bad boy or Western outlaw?”
Bart laughed and nodded. “Maybe a little of both.”
“With some military training thrown in.” Joe pulled the plastic tube out of her leg and pointed the bloody shaft at the man’s arm. “I noticed the lower edge of your tattoo under the shirt sleeve.” Joe pulled up the sleeve of his own cotton shirt to reveal the Special Forces emblem emblazed on his bicep.
Bart dropped Sere’s knife, point down, into the grass beside Joe’s leg. “I would guess you’re the friend who gave her that dagger.”
“‘Gave’ nothing. She won it off me in a knife fight when she was twelve years old. Some students learn deceptively fast.”
“So you’re the one who taught her to fight?” Bart asked. “I’ve seen her moves. What was that, anyway—Krav Maga?”
Sere flexed her toes. Though there was pain in her leg, at least the mobility was coming back. “Defendu mixed with traditional gymnastics.”
“Impressive.” Bart pointed at the blade still stuck in the ground. “I know a number of guys who carry Fairbairn-Sykes knives but not many who’ve studied the close-quarters combat system the same men developed. Mixing in a tumbling run was a nice touch.”
Joe poked his fingers against the path the bullet had taken through Sere’s leg. “Her education has been eclectic to say the least.” He ripped the sleeve off his shirt and fastened it around the two holes in her leg.
“If you two are done discussing my attributes, do you think I can go now?” Sere flexed her knee. The leg of her jeans was nothing more than a wet rag that slapped bloodily against her skin.
Joe wiped his knife off in the grass. “I’d like to get you back to the cabin, where I can connect you to Professor Yates’s equipment and regenerate that flesh.”
/> “I was headed your way anyway,” Sere said.
“Mind telling me what you two are talking about?” Bart once again had his arms crossed in his judgmental pose.
“None of your business,” Sere said. “You got a look at my leg, and I got my knife back. That was the deal. You can be on your way now.”
“I’m not even sure why I bothered stopping.”
She glared up at him. “Why did you? And why have you been chasing me? Other than wrecking your bar, what the hell did I ever do to you?”
“You told the truth,” Bart said.
“I always tell the truth. That’s hardly a reason to pursue a woman like a deranged stalker.”
He pointed at her boots. “You got my attention with that story about the gator. Clearly, you’re on the hunt for something you don’t want to talk about. I’ve got a sixth sense when it comes to danger. Maybe it comes from my military training. When I get the squirrelly feeling that shit’s about to go south, I start looking for whose side people are on. I’m still not sure if you’re about to be the cause of my problems or the solution, but either way, I’m not taking my eyes off you for long.”
Joe helped Sere to her feet then lifted her Triton out of the grass. “Well, you won’t have to worry about her today. She’s in no shape to be dealing with any more monsters—motorized or otherwise.”
5
“What the hell were you thinking?” Joe looked pissed. He stood behind his workbench with his hands on his hips in the main room of his one-bedroom cabin.
Sere sat on the bar stool and rubbed at the holes in her leg. They still smarted, but at least they weren’t bleeding. “It was just a bullet.”
He tossed the technology-laced ace bandage at her. “I don’t give a shit about your leg. I don’t even care about the bar brawl. Stealing a boat from a legitimate businessman, however, carries with it the threat of a police report. I’m just glad I was called out to tend to your wound and not to bail you out of jail. If you want to keep your identity secret, you can’t create a paper trail. I thought I taught you better.”
She kicked off her boot, leaned against the backrest of the chair, and put her bare leg on the workbench. The rags that had been her jeans separated to her waist like the slit of an uncomfortable dress, revealing her cotton underwear. As she wrapped the strip of rejuvenating cloth tightly around her thigh, Joe plugged the cord that dangled from the end into his archaic desktop computer. He was right. An arrest would have meant authorities checking on her identity.
Jennifer Ellen Cranston
448 South Jefferson Dr.
Metairie, LA.
Wife of Henry Charles Cranston, Attorney at Law.
Mother of William “Bobby”…
Shut up! Sere rubbed her temples, trying to drive the woman’s specifics out of her brain.
“Are you listening to me?” Joe asked.
Her leg grew stronger from the electronic buzzing that regenerated her flesh from Professor Yates’s original projection. “Sorry. Stealing that boat was stupid. I did, however, need to get out to the deep swamp.” She lifted the heavy backpack off the floor and dropped it on Joe’s workbench. “Andy crossed out of hell to give me these. Mind telling me what’s going on?”
He reached into the top drawer of the battered metal desk behind him, pulled out a folder, and slid it across to her. “Have a look.”
She flipped open the gray-green cover. Clipped to the inside was the picture of a smiling fifty-something-year-old dude in a suit. She scanned the pages but couldn’t find anything even remotely interesting. “He’s not my type.”
“Right? Montgomery Fisher. CPA. Honestly, that was as far as I got before I lost interest. Professor Yates sent the information out to me.”
Sere held up the folder. “I don’t get it. What’s the joke?”
“Last week, Mr. Fisher’s doppelgänger got up from his desk and walked straight out of town.”
A cold chill ran down her back. Cody’s an idiot. This can’t possibly be the city slicker he said had wandered into the swamp. That story had to be an exaggeration. She only hoped she was right in her assessment of the gator hunters’ desire to embellish their gossip. “So? He wouldn’t be the first to commit disintegration.” Though it happened rarely, Professor Yates’s projection of the real world into hell did develop glitches without any of the doppelgängers becoming sentient harvesters or their prey. The self-correcting program directed the reproduced person to self-destruct, and then a new one was created in his or her place.
“He headed out toward the swamp. Professor Yates lost track of him as he was walking along Highway 10.”
Sere reopened the folder. “His real works in the Quarter?”
“Yep. He’s been there for twenty years.”
Shit. “So he was around during the time of the blast.”
“Exactly. What do you remember?”
Though the act of terrorism that leveled the bank building—and the gates of hell that had been hidden in her father’s old office—had freed Sere from her father and the loas of the dead, she had done her best to forget the night in question. “Not much. I was only seven years old at the time. Sanguine flew me out of town while you, Kendell, and Myles conducted your little act of subversion.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Do we really need to go over this again? “As I’ve told you a zillion times, I have no idea what goes on in the minds of those zomb—”
“We do not use the Z word here.” Joe never yelled, but the intensity of his words could cut off the most impassioned debate.
“Fine. Doppelgängers don’t have independent thoughts. We’re not talking harvesters here. Those cock stealers have no interest in leaving hell. From what I saw, when a typical projection breaks free, it’s like Peter Pan’s shadow. It doesn’t think. Without a sense of self, a doppelgänger’s actions are based on purely random emotions until it dissolves into nothingness.” She remembered chasing one of them as if it were a butterfly until the storm scattered it like dust. She toyed with the Velcro strap at her leg.
Joe picked up on her irritation and checked the progress bars on his computer screen. “Leave it be. We’re only halfway there.” He turned back to her. “I’m just trying to understand Monty’s motivation. What do the doppelgängers want?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They don’t want anything. For the most part, they think they really are living the lives they’re portraying. And once they step out of the spotlight of their projections, they cease to exist. The professor is brilliant, but sometimes that brain of his takes him down some improbable thought paths.” She slid the folder back toward Joe. “If this guy left the Quarter, he must have dissolved into thin air. That’s why the professor lost track of him. Whatever crossed out of hell is more likely to be some animal from Agnes Delarosa’s original hell dimension. Sanguine never did fully understand her grandmother’s creation. My guess is I’m hunting a nutria. Those damn swamp rats can survive anything. Lefty’s already proven animals can make their way out of hell.”
Joe leaned over the workbench and thumbed through the file. “Are you ready to tell me how you and that alligator pet of yours managed the transition?”
Joe’s casual question was an attempt at getting through her defenses. Sanguine’s words blared in the forefront of Sere’s memories like a recorded warning. “If you do this, you can’t tell anyone how you accomplished the crossover. I’m serious, Sere. I can cover for you on this side, but if the concept of entering or escaping hell is discovered, we’ll be looking at the apocalypse. Anyone you tell would be in beyond-the-grave danger from the loas.”
“You know I can’t do that,” Sere said. What happened to you, my guardian angel? If it really is this doppelgänger, how did he slip past you?
Joe continued staring at the file. “Hopefully, your prey turns out to be just a swamp critter, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared for any adversary. Professor Yates wouldn’t have sent me this informa
tion unless he was genuinely concerned. We’re not talking about a normal doppelgänger. Monty didn’t just work in the Quarter. At the time of the explosion, he lived in a flat on Bourbon Street. His projection was one that got torn to pieces.”
Even as a young child living in the 1800s, Sere had never cared for visiting the Quarter, where her father conducted his business. Once Sere had been resurrected into Jennifer’s bodily projection—and after the explosion that leveled the bank—Sanguine had told her horror stories about what might happen if she ventured into the shattered projection. The warnings ended up being the foundation of her nightmares. Each doppelgänger in the Quarter who survived the blast is like a puzzle that has had some of its pieces exchanged with its neighbor. In your reproduction body, there’s no telling what would happen to you if you crossed Canal Street. Other human puppets might steal your pretty hair or innocent eyes.
“The blast was years ago,” Sere said. “Professor Yates assured me the virtual-reality projection in the French Quarter was stabilized long ago.”
“Yeah, I heard that too.” Joe kept looking through the folder as if searching for an answer.
“You don’t believe him?” Sere never could fully reconcile the ghost stories Sanguine told her with Professor Yates’s assurances of the Quarter’s safety. Her nightmares wouldn’t let her.
Joe frowned and pushed the folder across the workbench as if it were a puck on an air-hockey table. “I don’t know what to believe. Humans—at least as I experience them—use other people to help define our reality. But listening to you, I think it sounds like doppelgängers aren’t fully self-aware beyond what’s projected into them. These mixed projections might be getting a glimpse of something external to themselves. The question is, what would that show them about their true natures?”
While in hell, Sere had never given much thought to her real. The parallel girl in life was like an unloved doll that she kept locked in the closet. “What would you do if you found out you were just the mirror image of someone else?”
