The Night Killers

by Senese, Rebecca M.

  By the time they landed back in Toronto in the country of Ontbec, the headache was no more than a tightening in the back of his neck. Not as bad as he'd expected. He retreated out of the shuttle to the terminal gate, where Dubas was instructing some CIU men on the unloading of the equipment. She finished up as he walked toward her.

  “They'll take care of everything,” she said. “Let's head out.”

  As usual he noticed the guards staring at him as they left. He didn't allow it to bother him. It took a certain type of person to be able to plug yourself into the VR Unit, exposing yourself raw to its cool technology, to allow the computer to manipulate your eyes and hands, to submerge your identity into the image, to fool you into seeing what wasn't there. Slipping out of the physical world, he plunged into a world of pure fabrication, built on the most minute measurements of reality. Most people couldn't handle the total absorption into virtual reality the way he could. They couldn't deal with the incredible bombardment, the constant stimulation directly into the cerebral cortex. Most people would go crazy. Grainger had learned to detach.

  “When doing an initial recording it is very important to allow impressions to enter into you, into the VR Unit, and to not impose your own ideas about what should be there.” He remembered Professor Gardner's voice, gruff and throaty, as he lectured on the diminishment of ego for virtual reality tapings.

  “You are as the camera is, as the recorder is, as the VR Unit is, merely observing the data. See everything, think nothing. Everything has the same importance. To allow one object to become more important in your sight over another is to impose judgment. Once you impose judgement, you are not seeing but thinking and thinking can be wrong. Only seeing is right.”

  Out of the class of five hundred students in the VR Training Academy which Grainger had attended only three of them graduated. Most people dropped out after the first semester. Those who survived second year found the onslaught of third year almost unbearable. For many it had been deemed medically unsafe to proceed. The few who defied such warnings barely survived a cerebral overload or died.

  For VR training, it was a successful graduating class.

  “Why don't you head home for a few hours.” Dubas's voice broke into his thoughts. “It'll take that long for the lab to come up with anything and at least that long for any info from the scene to be collected and transmitted here.”

  Grainger glanced over at her, seeing her sharp features, small pointed nose, wide green eyes, high cheekbones and narrow chin. Her expression was bland but he knew she was still worrying about the disconnection.

  “I'll be all right,” he said.

  Dubas allowed a touch of annoyance to show in her face. “Bullshit, I know what that does to you, don't think I don't. Go home and get some sleep. I'll call you when the data starts arriving. You're just going to be in my way until then anyway.”

  “Irene...”

  “Home,” she snapped. Keying open the door, she leaned forward to speak to the driver.

  “Take VR Officer Grainger back to his apartment. Do not listen to anything he says. Got it?”

  “Yes ma'm,” the driver said crisply.

  Dubas got out and crossed her arms, one eyebrow cocked up in challenge. “Well?”

  Grainger knew better than to defy her. He pushed a few light brown strands of hair out of his eyes and nodded. Satisfied, she stepped away from the door.

  “Call me as soon as anything comes in,” he said.

  “I will.” She shut the door.

  The car rose, leaving Dubas standing alone on the pavement outside the airport. As Grainger watched, another aerohopper landed, flaps settling, and she climbed into it. Her aerohopper also lifted, heading in the direction of downtown, toward their offices.

  Grainger leaned back in the seat, fatigue seeping into his body like the crystallization of ice. He was more tired than he realized. Over three hours of work plus traveling time and it was only noon in Ontbec. He closed his eyes, his temples throbbing. The real test would be reconnection, then he would see exactly how bad the disconnection had been. A bud of anger flared inside him and just as quickly dispersed, leaving him feeling even more drained. He wanted to be angry at the Salvadorans, needed the strength such an anger could give him, but he was too adept at detaching. He knew they hadn't acted maliciously, they just didn't understand.

  The driver dropped him off on the roof of his apartment building. As the car lifted away, Grainger walked across the roof to the door. He contemplated waiting for the elevator, but knew if he stopped moving he was in danger of falling asleep on his feet. He walked the two floors to his apartment.

  The lock checked his fingerprints, retina and voice print before letting him in. As the door slid back, he dropped his briefcase and jacket on the floor. The bedroom was down the hall on the left. Not more than thirty steps but each step sapped his strength. He ignored his personal phone, forwarding it directly to messages.

  Finally the bedroom. He managed to kick off his shoes before falling into bed. For a moment the image of the torn up Salvadoran girl swam in front of his eyes. She'd had luscious black hair, thick and healthy looking. She'd probably been a real beauty with that hair and those dark eyes. The image of the hair wavered, becoming lighter, curlier, and as he sank deeper into sleep, her hair turned red.

  * * * *

  He had been seven years old when he saw his sister die.

  They had gone to the mall, a rare treat since Mom Janice hated the mall and did most of the shopping for the family through the ComNet. But Marg had been itching to get out all day, her young sixteen year old sensibilities yearning for freedom. The only price was taking Max with her. She peered down at him over the rims of her new ultra-hip infra-goggles and snapped her fingers.

  “Come on, twerp.”

  With the slap of her hand on the door lock and the spin of her heels, she was out the door. Max scrambled to keep up.

  The mall was only a half a mile away so they walked, bypassing the North York supertrain. Max was just as glad to walk. The trains, with their high speeds, always made him sea sick and he knew how mad Marg would get if he threw up on her shoes.

  “Whatcha getting Dad Paul for his birthday?” Max asked. He brushed his straight brown hair away from his brow. It was Dad Ray's hair, the same bland brown tone and straight, stubborn style. Marg got her hair from Mom Debra with its rich red lustre and big, bouncy curls. She kept it chopped razor short on the sides with the back reaching almost to her waist.

  “I don't know,” Marg said. She flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture.

  Max fell silent for the rest of the walk. He knew not to push his luck with her. She would just as soon dump him at some playroom somewhere as cart him around the mall. He didn't want to go to some playroom. It was so rare that he got a chance to hang around Marg. She was so much older, almost grown up. She went out with boys and had her own phone, unlike his which was only hooked up to one of their six parents', whoever had watch that day.

  Overhead on the raised tracks, a supertrain sped by, flashing the date and time: August 28, 2227, 2:17 pm. Max watched it go by. Although he didn't like riding on them, he did like watching them.

  “Come on, Max, let's go!”

  Max glanced over to see his sister standing several yards away, gesturing impatiently. He hurried to catch up.

  * * * *

  Before they went into the mall, Marg snapped a homer button into the waist of his jeans. Max protested this vigorously; he was a big kid, he didn't need such baby devices. But Marg's harsh look shut up his protests faster than any of his mothers' quiet explanations or his fathers' sharp retorts. Her look told him that if he didn't like it he could go home.

  Max left the homer on.

  They wandered through the stores, spending a disproportionate amount of time in the woman's clothing stores. Max began to suspect that Dad Paul's birthday was only a ruse for Marg to hunt for clothing for herself. Mom Janice must have suspected this, sending Max along to act
as watchdog.

  Max grinned silently to himself. He couldn't very well disappoint one of his mothers.

  “So what are we getting for Dad Paul?” he asked as Marg looked at her umpteenth skirt.

  “Shut up,” she said.

  Max tilted his head, eyeing the skirt critically. His hair fell into his eyes. “I don't think that'll fit Dad Paul.”

  Marg's look tried to burn a hole through him, but Max had a secret weapon. He put on an innocent face.

  “Mom Janice said we should get him a present.”

  At the mention of one of their mothers Marg set the skirt back on the rack. “Come on, you little shit,” she said, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of the store. Max grinned secretly to himself.

  They ended up in a sporting goods store, one of Dad Paul's favourite hobbies. Marg pondered the prices of the holo-balls, complete with padded arm and wrist supports. Max watched from a safe distance. He and sports had never got along, his slender bones tending to break and muscles to strain. Dad Paul had expressed some disappointment in this, the family's only son was not going to be a champion athlete. However, Dad Ray and Dad Steve, as well as the mothers, expressed great relief in Max's more intellectual gifts. After getting fashion plate Marg, Max supposed that having one child with a brain was better than nothing.

  “I can't afford this,” Marg said. Max squinted at the price. Two hundred creds. A lot.

  “How much you got?” he said.

  She pulled out her card and looked at it. “Only a hundred and fifty. It'll be even more with tax.”

  She looked genuinely glum, not the overdone act she usually put on. It surprised Max. He hadn't really thought she paid that much attention to the family, what with her boys and her friends. Mostly she was a blur running out the door.

  Max dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out his own cred card. He had a summer job of rerouting faxnews through his computer at home and been saving up for a new bike. Actually a used bike, the one in the shop over on Triple Gate Street with the old fashion balloon tires and sleek handlebars. Only fifty more and it would be his.

  “I got eighty,” he said. He showed her his card.

  Her eyes widened. “Where'd you get that?”

  “Fax work.”

  She blinked and looked at him, her expression surprised. A dawning respect sounded in her voice. “You saved that much?”

  He shrugged, trying for nonchalance, feeling a flush of embarrassment and pleasure rise in his cheeks. He had impressed her, and she was so much older. His parents had been impressed but that didn't count, parents were supposed to be impressed. It was their job.

  But sisters were supposed to hassle you, no matter what. They weren't supposed to look at you like you knew what you were doing. For Max this was a huge step away from the usual family dynamics, but he found he didn't mind. He liked the look of pride on her face.

  “You can use it for Dad Paul's present,” he said. He pressed the card into her hand. For some reason, the bike which had been his every waking moment's obsession, suddenly seemed less colourful and exciting.

  Marg shook her head. “No, I can't take it. I wanted to get this for Dad Paul myself.” She pushed the card back at him.

  “No, you give it to him. Say it's from you. You can pay me back.”

  She looked down at the card and then back at him. For the first time in a long while her smile was not a superior, snarling one, but a gentle, honest one.

  “Thanks, Max.”

  As she went to pay for the holo-ball, Max waited, feeling a jumble of emotions that made him edgy. He wanted to bounce up and down the isle until Marg returned, hauling a large box under her arm.

  “Come on, twerp, let's go,” she said. The words were her usual condescending ones, but her tone was lighter.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. When they left the store, she took his hand, on the pretence of steering him out of the mall but both of them knew better. Etiquette didn't allow them to discuss it, but Max felt happy. There was going to be a change in their relationship from now on, he felt certain. She could see now that he wasn't a little kid anymore. He had more uses than just being an embarrassment in front of her friends.

  He heard the first crack as if from a distance, like the snap of a large twig. He didn't bother to turn around, it was disconnected from him, he didn't care.

  “What was that?” Marg asked. She turned her head a little. Her red hair spilled over her shoulder and brushed against his arm.

  Another crack, louder, more ominous. Coming from the left.

  Marg never completed her turn. The right side of her face dissolved. Her body shuddered with the impact of the bullet. As she dropped the box and crumpled to the ground, Max stared, hanging onto her hand.

  Another crack and the tiling in front of him exploded, sending up tiny shards in a cloud of dust. Max stared at Marg, holding onto her hand. A stain spread through her hair, matting the curls. He stared at the spreading stain.

  His mouth opened, and he began to shriek.

  Cascading shrieks surrounded him, echoing through his soul. Blurs of movement flashed through his range of vision, but he didn't notice it. All he saw was Marg's hair, her long luscious red hair. She spent so much time on her hair, curling it, brushing it, washing it. She's not going to be happy about this, he thought wildly. He knew she was dead, but he couldn't accept it, couldn't allow it to be real.

  From a distance he felt a hand touch his shoulder. A face swam into view, a harsh angular man's face. His expression was serious.

  “What's your name, boy?”

  Max blinked. His throat felt raw, his face wet.

  “Max,” he whispered.

  “Max,” the man said. “Can you let go of this woman's hand? We'll take care of her now.”

  “She's my sister,” Max said.

  “We'll take care of her now,” the man repeated.

  Max felt the blood rushing to his face, making it warm. He trembled, clutching Marg's hand tighter. Her hand gave no resistance. He noticed how limp it felt.

  “No,” he said. His voice rose in panic. “No, you can't. She's my sister, you can't take her.”

  In a rush of energy, he shoved the man away and stumbled to his knees. His right hand buried itself in Marg's hair. He felt the warm stickiness of her blood ooze between her fingers. The reality of it slammed into him, and he knew then that she was really dead.

  “No!” he screamed and burst into tears.

  * * * *

  The buzz in his ear jolted him awake, stopping the scream in his throat. He gasped in air, staring into the darkness, disoriented. The buzzing slowly brought him back. He was in his apartment. The darkness coalesced into the familiar shapes of his bedroom. With a trembling hand, he wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

  “Grainger.”

  “The lab's started sending up some of the findings and the Salvadorans are faxing in copies of the evidence sheets. The originals along with the bagged evidence should begin arriving in a few hours.” Dubas' voice was dull and thin over the line.

  “I'm coming in,” Grainger said. He disconnected.

  He walked into the bathroom, ignoring the trembling in his legs. His face looked worn and tired in the mirror, worse than before he'd returned to bed. Dark circles hung below his light brown eyes. His lips, thin at the best of times, almost disappeared into the paleness of his skin. Dad Ray's lips. Thanks a lot.

  He wet a cloth and rubbed his face until it tingled then stepped into the shower. He dialled in a brief five second spray of soapy water which he rubbed vigorously into his skin. He finished with a longer spray of cool water, a full thirty seconds. He felt the need to be self indulgent for once.

  He left his hair wet, shaking out the excess drops. When he finally stepped out of the shower, he felt almost human.

  As he dressed he noticed it was close to five o'clock. The lab would be finishing the day shift soon and he would get what he could out of them. When the Salvadoran evidence began to arrive,
he'd start collating it with the scan he'd taken this morning.

  He picked up his jacket from the floor by the door and slipped it on. The wrinkles weren't too bad. After setting the lock, he closed the door behind him. As he waited for the elevator, he glanced again at his watch.

  It was going to be a long night.

  End of Preview

  If you enjoyed this novel, check out some of my other titles:

  “Family Business”

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0057HZOKW

  “In Dwarf Land & Cannibal Country”

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0055AU66S

  “The Beginners Guide to the Recently Deceased”

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00528CP8A

  “Food for Survival After a Disaster, With Plates”

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00573XNJK

  “The Art of Embalming”

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00588V0OO

  Or my compilations:

  “Oh the Horror!: 5 Horror Stories”

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004Y04TJ0

  “Going to Hell: 5 Horror Stories”

  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004YDUUQ8

  Visit me at:

  Website: http://www.RebeccaSenese.com

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/RebeccaSenese

  LinkedIn: http://ca.linkedin.com/in/RebeccaSenese

  Blog: http://RebeccaSenese.wordpress.com