“Are you telling me that you’ve not been back up here since?” Hauser asked.
“Yeah, about that . . . I’ve been meaning to . . .”
“You know, Jack, I’m sure you could pop over to the morgue and see your wife once more, but you’d only be visiting a shell of her former self.”
Until Hauser uttered those words, the thought had never crossed my mind. To actually go see her? As I thought about the possibility, I quickly realized that seeing her battered and broken body again would be too much.
“You’re not actually thinking about it, are you?” asked Hauser.
“Um, no. Honestly, I never thought that they would keep her body this long.”
“Your situation is unique, Jack. Because you’re not around to claim her body, and she had no family, right? She’ll probably remain in the morgue’s freezer until the investigation is complete. After that, I’m sure—”
“Okay, stop. I really don’t need to know what happens to the unclaimed bodies.”
“But you could probably see Wilson while you’re there . . .”
Ignoring his banter, I stepped around Hauser and walked right up to Abigail’s room. I took a breath and stepped inside.
Chapter 5
Walking into the room instantly brought memories of Cyndi to the forefront, but I promptly blocked them. I moved to Abigail’s bedside and looked down at her unconscious body. Her conditions so closely mimicked Cyndi’s when I’d first found her: multiple tubes penetrating her arms and neck, along with a tube that was through her open mouth. Pity enveloped me, and I began to wonder what I’d gotten myself into when I agreed to take over as a soul collector. I could only hope that the job would get easier with each new dying person I encountered.
“So . . . do I remove the air tube?” I asked, trying to make sense of the situation.
Hauser stepped beside me. “The medical term is that she has been intubated. It’s a little tricky, but her soul can be retrieved without removing the tube.”
“Then, what? Do I whistle for her soul? Like I’m calling a Labrador retriever?” I asked, my words dripping with sarcasm.
Hauser ignored my derision and said, “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary today. Besides, there’s really more to it than just sucking her soul out. The soul needs to be cleansed properly before it is sent on to its next borrower.”
“Cleansed? Wilson didn’t tell me anything about cleansing anything. What about his soul, or the soul I took from Cyndi? I didn’t—”
“I took care of both of those collections, after the requisition had been put in for their new placements.”
Listening to Hauser speak with such lack of emotion nearly made my head spin. “All right. Where do I begin?” I asked, trying to sound eager even though I had no idea what it all meant.
“It’s hard to explain, really. As you recall with Wilson and Cyndi, their soul vacated the vessel—their bodies—in the form of a stream of smoke. As soon as it enters the transportation chamber—the wood box—the cleanse can begin.”
“That doesn’t sound too difficult. What’s involved with the actual cleansing?” I pressed.
“That’s where it gets a little tricky. The soul can become a little agitated once placed in the box—”
“Agitated?”
“Maybe ‘agitated’ isn’t the right word here. Maybe ‘unbalanced’ is a better term, and not all souls react the same way. Some souls are much gentler and handle the process better than others.”
“Really. What about the old saying ‘walk into the light’? Wouldn’t that be easier here?”
“Ha. You can thank Hollywood for that one, although the old process was quite similar.”
Feeling more confused and overwhelmed by the minute, I pressed. “And?”
“Back in the day, there was no wood box to carry the soul from borrower to borrower. When a borrower passed on, the soul would slip from one dead body to the life of another, without incident. The job of the soul collector was nonexistent. That all changed a few hundred years ago.”
“How so?” I asked, becoming more intrigued, to the point that I almost forgot about the task at hand. Hauser, on the other hand, had not. He nodded his head in Abigail’s direction.
I followed his gaze and saw Abigail’s eyes staring back at me. I instinctively smiled and rapidly tried to think of something to say. Before anything came to mind, Hauser spoke.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitaker. Did we wake you?”
Abigail nodded her head slightly, although it was barely perceptible.
“I do apologize. My colleague and I were just making rounds, and we thought we’d stop in to see how you were feeling. Are you in any pain?” Hauser asked.
Abigail closed her eyes momentarily and then gently shook her head side to side.
“That’s good. Good.”
I remained silent as Hauser and the old woman had a brief one-sided conversation. Abigail’s consciousness only lasted a few moments before she drifted away once again.
“It’s clear that she can see us,” I said as I slid the box from my pocket.
“Put it away, Jack. She’s not quite ready yet. She’ll let us know.”
“How can you tell?” I asked.
“Experience, mostly. I’ve done this so many times that I’ve learned to recognize the signs.” Hauser stepped away to the far side of the room, motioning me to follow.
“You see, Jack, some souls need coaxing, and Abigail’s may need just that.”
“Is that like what Wilson did for me and what I did for Cyndi? Do I have to relive some day of their life with them?”
“Maybe yes, other times no. And sometimes a little outside influence is necessary. With experience you’ll learn to recognize the appropriate time as well.”
“What kind of outside influence do you mean?” I asked, really feeling the information overload.
“Take Mrs. Whitaker, for example. She’s been involved in an auto accident—”
“Are you sure?” I asked, shooting a quick glance at Abigail. I could see no physical injuries. “Besides her age, she looks fine to me.”
“When I’m not training new collectors like you, I collect souls myself. As a matter of fact, just a few weeks ago, when you decided to go all splitsville with your life, I was collecting a number of souls from a horrific auto accident upstate. It was a multicar pileup on the freeway, and most of those with severe injuries succumbed to death quite rapidly. Abigail and her husband were involved, but only in a minor fashion. Abigail’s husband was driving the car. He swerved to avoid the accident and ended up in a ditch. Abigail here was wearing her seatbelt, but her husband wasn’t.”
“Did you already collect his soul, then?” I asked.
“No, not yet. As a matter of fact, he’s here at the hospital, but he’s in much better shape than Abigail is. Because Abigail had her seatbelt on, she did not lurch forward as her husband did when their car stopped at the bottom of that ditch. She would’ve been fine had she not had a heart attack right after the accident.”
“Oh my. And you knew all this for the last few weeks and didn’t say anything to me?”
“Yes, that’s right. I knew that you would need time to adjust, otherwise I would’ve pushed you harder.”
“And what about her husband? I’m confused. You said that he did not have a seatbelt on and, what? What about his injuries?”
“He has a few bumps and bruises, but he should be fine,” Hauser said quietly. “Listen, let’s . . . get out of here for a while. I think we’ll have plenty of time on this one. Let’s head to the Bronx and do a little fishing.”
“Are you being sarcastic or do I need a fishing pole?”
Hauser only smiled before he vanished from the room. I chuckled and thought about the last time I was in the Bronx before vanishing as well.
Chapter 6
Moments later I arrived on a nondescript block, shadowed in uncertainty. Hauser was standing on the opposite side of the street, staring into
a dark alley. As I walked up to him, I began to hear rowdy voices emanating from the alleyway.
“So we’re not really going fishing, are we?” I asked.
“Well, sort of. You’re in training, kid. Over the years I’ve taken almost all of the new trainees to locations just like this.”
“To the ghetto? Is this an exercise in proving that we made the right choice—to no longer live in a crime-riddled world?”
“Not so much. Not all new soul collectors tried to kill themselves. That’s just you, my friend.”
I looked around for a proverbial rock to crawl under. When none could be found, I asked, “Then why?”
“Coming to a place like this, especially at a time like right now, will give you some invaluable hands-on experience with some quick soul collecting. You see, there are more than a hundred street gangs in the Bronx. And recently, the truce between two of the major gangs has come to an end, and a battle is imminent. It’ll be almost like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“But the name on my box is Abigail. How am I to get another box without filling this one first? Is that not how it works?”
“For the most part, yes. Until you’ve gained enough experience, you’ll only be allowed one box at a time. After your twenty-fifth collected soul, you’ll have the ability to collect a random soul that’s near your proximity. I’ve had that ability for more than a century now, and for these training exercises, you’ve been granted that same ability. Temporarily, that is.”
“So we just stand here and wait for them to kill each other? What if nothing happens?”
“Yep, we just wait. And trust me, it’ll happen. I’ve been in and out of this neighborhood a dozen times over the last week, and the tension between these two gangs continues to heighten.”
As if on cue, the sound of a gunshot echoed about, and I instinctively flinched at the report.
“See? What did I tell ya?” Hauser said with a smile before stepping into the alley.
Following a few steps behind, I began to feel a burning sensation on the palm of my hand. I held it up to see what was causing the irritation, and as I did, a new box materialized. A new name was neatly carved in the wooden lid: Alfonso Dorn.
“Hey, I’ve got a new box,” I called out to Hauser, “but I don’t see any dead bodies yet.”
“Give it time, kid. I think this is going to be a big night for you. I’ve already received four boxes. All we have to do is wait.”
Hauser and I stepped out of the narrow alleyway and into a large open area where two other alleys met. From our position we could see more than a dozen gang members along the perimeter. At the center of the open area, four young men faced each other. It appeared to be two members from each of the gang factions arguing about whose rights to the turf were being disrespected. Hauser ambled over to the edge of a brick wall and sat on a stack of crates.
“Take a load off, kid. We don’t know how long this argument will last before it comes to blows, or even better, until the heavy weapons come out.”
I sat down next to Hauser and noticed he did in fact have four boxes in his hands. He set them on the surface between us before sliding a stick of gum from his pocket and into his mouth.
“While we wait for the unfortunate outcome of the brawl, let’s talk a little more about the cleanse,” Hauser said.
My gaze had been intently focused on the gang activity when Hauser mentioned it. With my interest instantly piqued, I turned to face him.
“So, the cleanse. Every soul has a memory, or memories. Depending on how old the soul is, and how long it has been borrowed, will determine its level of toxicity.”
“Toxicity? Is it lethal?” I asked.
“Not exactly. Toxicity is a kind of . . . term to explain its current state. Our job, as part of being a soul collector, is to clean or eradicate those memories from the soul.”
“Just like that? The cleanse will eliminate all memories from the associated soul?”
“Well, not all of the memories. Obviously with new souls there are no associated memories present. But most of the souls in population right now are old souls. The older the soul, the more residual memories remain,” Hauser said. “Our best guess is that the cleanse removes about eighty percent of the memories present at the time of death.”
“Wow. A guess? And only eighty percent?”
“Hey, it’s not exactly a science, kid. Before we started doing the cleansing, as you can imagine, there were souls floating around with so much past life information running through their minds, the mental institutions all over the world were severely overpopulated, all because the soul borrowers couldn’t differentiate from the memories of their own and those of past borrowers. The Sentinel feels that twenty percent is an acceptable amount of residual memories, and that they add character to the new recipient.”
“Interesting. I guess that makes sense. I can remember having dreams when I was young that were of people and situations that I have never before encountered. I guess that those kind of dreams are triggered from past memories of the previous soul owner?”
“Quite possibly, but most dreams are delusions fabricated by your own personal experiences. I’m no dream specialist, but think of it like this: you can dream about a black cat without ever seeing one in person. If you’ve seen a white cat, and you know what the color black looks like, your mind can fabricate a black cat in a dream. That’s the simplistic explanation, obviously.”
I nodded as I processed Hauser’s information. What he was saying did make sense, and who was I to question its full meaning?
“All right. I think I understand the reasoning and the outcome, but what about the process?”
“Take your newest box. Do you notice anything peculiar about it?” Hauser asked.
I looked at the box and turned it over multiple times, examining each of the surfaces for something—anything—peculiar.
“Can I have a hint? This one looks the same as all the other ones,” I said as I held out the box for him to look at.
Hauser didn’t even glance at the box. “Look closely along the front edge, where it meets the top. You see that?”
I looked where he indicated, and sure enough, I saw an oval-shaped hole right along the leading edge.
“Huh. How’d I miss that?”
“That, my friend, is the extrication portal.”
I opened the box, looked at the inside surface behind the portal, and found a dozen smaller holes around that same area.
“Do all of these smaller ones lead to the larger one?” I asked.
“You’re very astute, Jack. I’ve had to practically draw a picture for the last three students in your position.”
Feeling somewhat proud of my inquisitive nature, I asked, “But what’s it for?”
“Oh, come now, Jack. You’re so close. Care to take a guess?
I closed the box and again looked at the orifice on the outside corner. The hole was about a quarter inch diameter and almost certainly had something to do with the smoke associated with the soul.
“Does the wisp of smoke have to go through it?” I asked. “It looks pretty small to make it through, though.”
“Oh, you’re so close,” Hauser chuckled. “Get ready for your mind to be blown.”
Hauser’s timing was uncanny. Within seconds of his statement, a full-on brawl erupted in front of us. At first the fight consisted of kicks and punches, but before long knives and clubs were brought out. One unfortunate gang member took a bat across the side of his head, the force jerking his neck sideways with an audible crack.
“There’s one,” Hauser said, holding all four of his open boxes in his hands. I quickly fumbled with my box, opened it, and waited for the familiar soul cloud to exit the body. As it began to seep from the lips of the dead kid, a loud pop-pop-pop echoed through the arena. Two more gang members dropped to the ground, and the fight stopped almost instantly.
“Is it over?” I asked. “Didn’t you get four boxes?”
Before Hauser c
ould answer, tinted vapors left the latest fallen victims and found their way into two of Hauser’s boxes. As I watched this, I noticed that the first victim’s soul had entered my box, which closed on its own.
Once Hauser’s boxes closed, he took one of them, placed the hole to his lips, and inhaled sharply. Seconds later, the box disappeared and was replaced with another. He looked at me, nodding at the box in my own hand.
Nervously, I brought the box up to my mouth and placed my lips around the hole, just as Hauser had. I inhaled deeply. An acrid taste filled my mouth and I began to cough uncontrollably, similar to the first time I’d smoked pot.
“Slow down, sport. Take smaller breaths if it helps,” he said as he patted me on the back.
“That . . . is absolutely disgusting,” I said. “I have to do this with every soul?”
Before Hauser could answer, my box disappeared and was replaced with another.
“Yep. Doesn’t get any better than this,” Hauser said with a bit too much enthusiasm.
“But the taste, do you get used to it?” I asked.
“Well, it’s interesting. Each soul that we cleanse really has a different flavor. As far as I can tell, the more sorrowful or disturbing the soul’s memories are, the more acidic the flavor. The more pure or innocent the memories are, the sweeter the taste. Sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.”
I sat next to Hauser, the rank taste still lingering in my mouth, and hoped that it would not last.
As I contemplated the unpleasant flavor, the fight resumed—a melee of swinging knives and clubs, along with more gunfire. The fight continued for another ten minutes, filling a total of nine boxes—three of my own and six for Hauser. With each cleanse, the flavor did in fact vary. The last soul collected and cleansed was practically tasteless. I noticed it came from a teen so young that I doubted he was even old enough to drive.
After some time, the surviving gang members fled in opposite directions, leaving the dead bodies lying haphazardly around the open alleyway. In the end I was left with only Abigail’s soul box. Even though the whole ordeal had lasted less than thirty minutes, I felt thoroughly exhausted. I slumped back against the wall, thankful that it was over.
The Borrowed Souls: A Novel Page 10
