by Rob J. Hayes
Terror: Freezing. Paralysing. Terror isn’t a big seller. Hard to experience, hard to sell. Not a big seller, but probably the most expensive emotion of them all. Harvesters can charge whatever they like for it.
I awake to a slowly-fading pounding in my head. The world is dark. Not just dark, but black. Thick and inky, nearly impossible to see anything other than my own hands. I’m lying on something, a metal table. Looks clinical, surgical.
I sit up, let loose and involuntary groan. The pounding in my head gives one last painful flare, then fades away. I try to think back, but I have no idea how I got to this place. No idea where this place is.
Slipping from the metal table, I turn my arm over to look at my PD. The usual time and date display is gone. It’s displaying a single line of text.
“Good luck, James.”
The message says it was sent by me just one hour ago. I tap the screen of my PD, but it doesn’t change. It’s locked. Frozen. Is it possible I put myself in this situation? Whatever this situation is. Why can’t I remember?
The only sound is my own heart beating, my own breathing sighing out of my nose. I start a quick search of my location, using my PD’s screen for light. I appear to be in a concrete room. The floor is cobbled stone, dark and cold. No one uses cobbled stone anymore, they haven’t for over a century.
I almost bump into another metal table. This one has a stark white sheet spread over something underneath. It looks vaguely body shaped. I have a bad feeling starting to spread through my gut and my heartbeat races. A bead of cold sweat drips down my back.
They say the best way to pull off a bandage is quickly, a rush of pain rather than a slow tearing. I reach out and whip the white sheet away.
A body of a middle-aged man lies beneath, or at least what’s left of a body. One arm is missing, cut off at the elbow, the skin sewn back in place to cover the wound. The stitches look fresh. More stitches cover the torso, criss-crossing back and forth, all seem to be located around major organs. His lower jaw and tongue are missing, chopped away with surgical precision. One eye is gone, a moist, raw pit where it should have been.
I’ve seen this sort of thing before on the news. Chop shops. Men and women taken, cut up so their parts can be given to others. It’s a procedure that preys on the poor and caters to the super-rich, those who can afford not to have cybernetic replacements.
The man’s left eye-lid flicks open and he stares at me. The shock sends a jolt of sudden fear and I stumble back a step, almost falling, but catching myself on my table. My table.
What am I doing here? How did I get here? I check myself, breathing a sigh of relief as I realise I still have all my arms, legs, eyes, and ears. The man is still staring at me, his eye rolled sideways. He doesn’t move. I don’t think he can.
I hear a soft groan from somewhere behind me in the darkness, but I can’t see the source of the noise. Sounds close, but it’s echoing all around.
My PD still reads the same message, sent by myself. Does that mean I put myself in this situation? I might deserve death. I do deserve death. But I don’t want to die and certainly not like this. My body chopped up and given to those with the money to afford it.
My heart is racing now. I can hear the beating in my ears along with the soft groaning of others trapped here, waiting to be cut up and used. It’s cold. Freezing cold. How didn’t I notice it before? My breath mists as I breathe out. There’s a smell, too. Almost like pickles. It’s making me hungry, and that’s making me feel sick. Formaldehyde.
I search frantically, still using just my PD for light. I need to find a way out, or somewhere to hide, or a weapon. I need to find something. Need to do something. Something other than waiting to be chopped up.
I find more tables, more people lying underneath white sheets. Some are men, some are women, some are just children. All have parts missing. One woman, her head shaved and both ears missing, along with both her hands, reaches for me, her eyes pleading. She opens her mouth and I see she has no tongue. I back away quickly, clutching my arms to my chest, and continue my frantic search. It doesn’t take long before I stop looking under the white sheets.
The horror of my situation dawns on me. I feel cold sweat running down my back and I’m struggling to calm down, to search for an exit rationally.
Footsteps echo in the darkness; they sound like they’re coming from all around. I turn and turn, holding out my arm, still trying to use my PD as a torch. The footsteps sound like they’re coming closer, but I still can’t see where from. I take a step back and bump into a metal table. The white sheet covers a small, wriggling form beneath it. I crouch down, hiding behind the table and hoping the footsteps pass me by. I cover up my PD and bathe myself in complete darkness. Hiding. Waiting.
The footsteps come close, slow and steady, so unlike my racing heart. I’m not use to feeling fear like this. Not use to feeling anything so intensely. I’m panicking, unable to think clearly.
The footsteps sound once more, closer than ever before, then stop. I hear heavy breathing, close. So close. Huddled behind the table, hugging my knees, I slowly look up. A face looms out of the darkness. A horrible face, scarred and sewn together with lips curling back to reveal monstrous brown teeth and shiny metallic goggles instead of eyes.
I try to run. To scramble away, but my limbs won’t move. I try to scream, but the only thing that comes out is a meek, squeaking breath.
A meaty hand shoots out of the darkness, grabbing me by the throat. I want to fight back and claw at the hand, but its too strong and lifts me up, slamming me down onto the table.
I struggle, trying to free myself. The white sheet falls away from the figure next to me and I see a man, looks a lot like me, with no arms, no feet, no eyes or tongue. Still the big monster holds me down on the table.
There’s something shiny and sharp in the monster’s other hand, a meat cleaver, spotted with dried blood. My own blood runs cold in my veins. I see the cleaver rise and then fall towards me.
I scream.
“OK. OK. Calm down.”
I open my eyes to a bright light shining down at me. My arms and legs are tied down. I struggle, letting loose a throaty growl, still reeling from the shock of what I’ve just seen, the image of the cleaver coming down at me is so fresh. I need to move. Need to be free.
“Calm down.”
I ignore the voice and keep struggling. I thrash my head and see a woman sitting at a computer, a man standing nearby, holding up his hands as he approaches me.
Shouting and thrashing, I try to pull free of my restraints, but I’m held down tight.
“Shit,” the man says. “This is why we don’t do this.”
I’m in a white room, one bright light shining down at me and three softer lights above. Strapped to some sort of table and there’s something attached to my head. Feels a lot like when Pascal attaches the harvester’s electrodes to the base of my skull.
“James,” the man says as he stops by the table I’m strapped to. “James Garrick.”
I stare up at him. He looks familiar, but I can’t quite place him. I glance at the woman, but she’s still staring at a computer monitor, paying neither of us any attention.
My voice comes out as a dry rasp. I cough. Panic is making me stupid.
“Yes. That will happen after what you’ve just been through,” the man says. “I’m going to untie you and get you some water, James. OK?”
I nod. My heart is still racing. I can still see the meat cleaver coming down towards me, still see the body, armless and legless, lying next to me. The poor man looked so like me.
The man reaches down and unties my left hand. I waste no time. Grabbing hold of his tie, I pull him close and then push as hard as I can, sending him sprawling. I reach over and fumble at my other hand, tearing the Velcro restraints away and then struggle with those on my waist and feet.
As I roll free of the table and back away towards the only door, the man struggles back to his feet. The woman helps him and then
laughs at me. Anger and humiliation and fear war inside of me. It’s a jumbled chaos of emotions and I don’t want any of them.
“James,” the man starts again as he takes a step forward and limps. “Let’s start again.”
“Let me out,” I shout out in a dry rasp. It dawns on me I’m only wearing a faded pair of boxer shorts and a white vest.
“I’ll handle this, Thomas,” the woman says and gets up out of her chair. She’s older, wrinkled, a kind face and friendly eyes. “James, my name is Evelyn Hart. You are James Garrick. Tell me, James, what do you remember from the past two days?”
My back is still pressed against the metal door, but there’s a keypad to the side of it and I’m certain I don’t know the combination. I try to remember how I got here, where I might be. Nothing. I can’t remember anything after jumping off the KuroWayne building. Well, nothing apart from the nightmare in the chop shop and the… the nightmare in the chop shop. The nightmare.
Evelyn approaches slowly, a glass in her hand. She takes a sip out of it and then holds it forwards towards me. I reach out with a shaking hand and take the glass, downing the water inside in shorts sips.
My heart is still pounding. The residual panic from the nightmare, still looming large over me. The panic from not being able to remember where I am or how I got here. Or why.
“It’s a memory block, James,” Evelyn says. “One you asked us to install.”
I try to think back, but the memories just aren’t there. I can’t remember asking them to install a memory block. Why would I ask anyone to install a memory block? They aren’t just illegal, they’re also dangerous. Too easy to wipe a person’s memory completely, leave them digitally lobotomised.
“I…” I struggle to understand. Fail.
“James,” Evelyn continues. “If you lie back down for a few moments. You asked us to remove the memory block when you woke up. You said it would make everything clear again.”
My PD beeps and I turn my arm over, but it’s not attached. On another table, over in the corner of the room, I see my clothes, my PD sitting on top of them. I cross quickly, keeping my eyes on both the man and Evelyn. She’s watching me, he’s now sat at the computer monitor. I glance down at my PD, press my thumb against the screen to unlock it.
I have a message waiting. It’s from me, sent four hours ago and on a delay. I open it up and it has just two words in it.
“Trust them.”
I take a deep breath and steady myself, forcing calm. The terror of the nightmare lingers, but I know now it was a nightmare. I can still feel it though, and I want rid of the emotion. A pressing need to get to Pascal’s workshop.
I approach the table again. Evelyn is still smiling, still looking warm and kind. I climb onto the table and lie back.
“What was that dream?” I ask, trying hard not to think about it in case the terror returns.
“Simulated experience,” Evelyn says as she reaches towards the back of my neck. I feel a sharp shock and then cold. “Tailor made to your specifications. You asked for that nightmare.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t ask,” Evelyn says in a kind voice. “Not asking is part of the service we provide.” That makes sense. Simulated experiences are as illegal as memory blocks. This place, wherever I am, operates with discretion and relies on it.
The cold at the back of my neck turns hot and my head aches, first dull, then stabbing. I grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut.
The flood of memories returning almost drowns me. Suddenly I remember everything, but not in any order. It will take time to sort through everything, replace it all on the right time scale. Right now I don’t have the time to order them properly.
Pascal had a special request for me. Terror. I couldn’t think of a way to simulate it without risking my life until I thought of this. A memory block and a simulated experience together. I let out a bitter laugh as Evelyn removes the electrodes from the base of my neck. She helps me sit up and passes me another glass of water.
“Thank you,” I say as I slip from the table again. My hands are shaking, I’m shaking. I put the glass down and cross over to my clothing.
“No need to thank us,” Evelyn says. “You paid a substantial sum of creds for the procedure. I’m just glad you came out of it alive. I explained the risks to you, but you said they didn’t matter. You were willing to take them.”
I nod. Every time I blink I see the cleaver coming down towards me and it freezes my blood. I need to get rid of the emotion quickly. Can’t function with it hanging over me. The sooner I get to Pascal’s workshop the better.
Evelyn waits for me to dress then opens the door and leads me out into a non-descript corridor, white on white with a serving of bleach on the side. A number of doors on each side of the hall, each one is numbered. I was in four. She leads me into an entrance foyer, heavily guarded with gun-wielding thugs.
“Thank you for your patronage, James,” Evelyn says. She stops by the front door and holds a card out for me. I take it. It’s just her name and a phone number. “Ask for me by name next time and you’ll get a ten percent discount.” She smiles and then pulls the door open. I get the distinct feeling she wants rid of me as soon as possible. Probably just in case something goes wrong after the procedure. She doesn’t want a brain-dead body on her hands.
I give the woman a curt nod, still groggy and trying to sort through my memories. Still trying not to blink so I don’t see the cleaver. I step out of the door and it closes behind me. Then I remember where I am. Mextown. Gangland.
Chapter 6
Loathing: Hatred. Boiling. Disgusting. Loathing doesn’t sell at all. Not even the pushers want their victims to feel it. A truly useless emotion. One I rid myself of whenever it pops up.
I can remember coming to Mextown now, but I can’t remember when. My memories of the past three days are like a deck of cards thrown into the air and left to fall where they may. They’re there, all of them, but I struggle to find the correct order. I’m still piecing it all together. It’s almost as though time has been fractured, shattered.
I remember leaving my wallet behind, no sense in risking it down here in gangland. Pre-paid the clinic beforehand, left my wallet back in my apartment. Made perfect sense at the time, but now I’m stranded here with no option but to walk out of the most violent warzone on Earth. It’s nothing compared to Mars though.
Gunshots echo, followed by a scream. No sirens. Never any sirens in Mextown. Any authorities that do come here, do it undercover. But most of the time the town is left to police itself. Laws are whatever those in charge decide they are and anyone who disagrees is either shot, or does the shooting themselves, then changes the laws. Mextown is anarchy in its purest form. It’s an effective form of government.
It’s hard to tell where I am. My memories are still a jumble and I can’t quite remember the way back to the city limits. I turn my arm over and unlock my PD. Bright eyes watch me from a nearby alleyway. I may have left my wallet behind, but that doesn’t mean I’m worthless. A PD is worth a lot of creds, even one already locked to someone’s biometrics.
Tapping the screen of my PD, I bring up my location and the quickest route back to the city. I’m a long way from home and I don’t look like I belong. My trousers are too clean and my jacket is too bright. I should have picked humbler clothing for a jaunt through Mextown. Easy to say now. The me of five hours ago didn’t even think about fashion in a warzone.
I pick a route and start walking, trying to ignore the eyes pointed my way. The streets are mostly clear so late at night. Sane people know better than to be out in Mextown after dark. Actually I’m pretty sure sane people know better than to be in Mextown at all.
Three gangers sit on the steps of an old apartment building. The town is still supplied with amenities. Electricity, running water. It’s a drain on the city’s resources, but it serves a valuable purpose. Keeps most of the crime where it belongs. Keeps most of the criminals where they belong. Not all of us tho
ugh, just the violent ones really.
Apprehension. The tickling nervousness that catches the breath and tightens muscles. A prelude to fear. Apprehension sells surprisingly well. I hate to feel it, but Pascal will take it from me soon and I’ll make a good few creds from it.
The gangers turn their attention my way as I pass. I briefly think about crossing the street, putting some distance between us, but that would only make them more likely to chase me. Like the wolves I’ve seen in documentaries.
“Ey!” shouts one of the gangers as I pass just a few feet from them. He’s tall and gangly. A red bandanna with a black spider web is tied around his head. The other two have a similar bandanna on their arms. I don’t know the name of their gang, but I guess I must be on their turf. “You need somethin’?”
I glance their way and shake my head. “Not a thing.” It’s too much to hope they leave me alone.
“You sure about that?” the man jumps up and then down the last few steps, striding quickly towards me and stopping in front of me, forcing me to halt before I walk into him. That would just give him all the excuse he needs. Not that he needs any excuse.
I hate Mextown.
“Ain’t many people like you come down here without needing somethin’,” the ganger says, raising his chin and looking down at me with a predatory grin.
If there’s one thing us Drones are good at doing, it’s pushing down our feelings and right now I push down my fear and stare right at the man. A blank stare. No emotion.
“I don’t need anything.”
I hear the other two gangers step up and close behind me. They’re all armed, I’ve already seen that. Each one of them carrying a pistol and probably a selection of knives. I remember my old training. Remember the rules to taking on multiple armed opponents in close quarters. It’s been a very long time since I was involved in a real fight. The best advice is usually to run.
I hate Mextown.
“You’re one of them,” the ganger in front of me says. He lowers his chin and stares into my eyes. The light from the street lamp behind him makes him look almost demonic.
