Skullcrack City

by Jeremy Robert Johnson

  Every few hours I broke from our prep routine and made the hike to my new phone.

  Every few hours I checked for messages and came back with nothing aside from a heavier heart.

  Huey performed some kind of herbal antiseptic lavage on Dara’s eye socket, sponging off Ms. A.’s crusted blood as it washed loose. After that Huey grabbed a scanner and held it over Dara’s good eye, then the empty socket.

  “What the fuck? Why are you scanning me again? You know who I am.”

  “This isn’t for I.D.”

  He disappeared around the corner and came back in twenty minutes with his hands cupped around something.

  “Check this out.” Huey extended one arm, displaying something in his palm. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  I came over to see. The false eye was perfect, an almost exact replica of the real one already in her head.

  “It’s mapped to the empty socket, since they’re never symmetrical. The material is designed for interior implant to prevent rejection. And here are some lubricating drops so your eyelids won’t stick to it.”

  Dara pulled her lids back and pushed in the eye. She blinked a few times, walked to a mirror in the kitchen area to check herself out, and returned beaming.

  “Okay—you’re kind of a doctor. But how did you make this? You know 3D printers are illegal.”

  Huey smiled. “Any law which runs counter to the good of man is no law at all.”

  “You fucking hippy.” She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Maybe it will help you to evade the Vakhtang.”

  Dara turned on me, anger creeping into her face (though I was totally distracted by how beautiful she still looked with two eyes).

  “He knows about the Vakhtang?”

  “Oh yeah, he knows all about the shapeshifting and the lion attacks and the undertongues and everything.” I smiled. Her shoulders dropped.

  Huey chimed in. “He didn’t tell me anything. I have my own sources.”

  The first rays of morning light fell through the window.

  “Doyle, if we don’t crash now, we’re going to be a fucking shambles by this afternoon.”

  “I don’t know if I can sleep. I need to keep checking my phone. I can’t stop thinking about my mom.”

  “Well, you checked a minute ago. How about we rest for a few hours? You can set an alarm.”

  “Alright, but I’ll probably just be laying there.”

  “I know.”

  She pulled her blanket from the couch and spread it out on the floor and put a few cushions down for pillows and waved to me to lay down by her, so I did, with my back to her, and I felt her fingers running through my hair and she said, “See if you can take ten deep breaths,” and the first breath was shaky, but by the end of the second I knew that this was a good moment, and that I should try to stay here for as long as I could, and I wondered why life couldn’t always be this, only this, and then sleep, long denied, finally came.

  “We’ve got two hours until Buddy’s expecting his delivery, and if we park the car early, in that part of town, it’ll be noticed,” she said. “Besides, I’m fucking starving and I can hear your stomach grumbling from over here.”

  She was right—Huey’s fridge had been a condiment museum. Exotic jellies, hot sauces from around the globe, and one jar of pickled jalapenos. All we’d had since landing at his penthouse was a bowl of stale corn chips.

  “I know a place. Low grid visibility and the owner is friendly to our cause.”

  Khao Tom’s was a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner, but the cinder blocks were coated in bright orange paint and the host couldn’t have smiled any bigger when he saw Dara.

  He swept a hand across the room—probably a grander gesture than the four tiny, plastic-covered tables deserved—and said, “Any seat.”

  We picked a table near a bamboo-print folding screen, where we could both place our backs against the wall and watch the entrance. The smell of jasmine rice and fish sauce hit me and I realized I was about to drool.

  The host walked over. “Dara, so good to see you.”

  “Thank you, Sunan. It’s lovely to see you too.”

  “So you know, you’re not paying today. Look at this.” The host pulled a phone from his pocket and showed her something on the screen.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. You must be so proud.” Dara stood and hugged the man. His arms were stiff at first, but he returned the embrace. I caught a glimpse of his phone and saw a young man wearing a bright blue cap and gown. Dara sat back down.

  Sunan said, “Kiet’s studying engineering at university next year. We’re nervous, but…” He raised his hands, palms open: What can you do?

  “He’ll be fine. I know it.”

  Sunan smiled and slid his phone back into his pocket. “Drinks?”

  “Two iced teas, please. And actually, we could use a big plate of pad kee mao with chicken. And some salad rolls with peanut sauce.” She looked to me. “Does that sound good to you?”

  I trusted her. “Sure.”

  He took our menus and the tiny space filled with the scent of sweet oil and crushed peppers.

  “You know their family?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sort of. Tim and I rescued his son Kiet around four…no, wow…around five years ago. Kid thought Hex would work for a study aid.”

  “But he’s fine now?”

  “Looks like he’s doing awesome. That can happen, you know? I think, maybe, sometimes things can go right.”

  Our drinks arrived. I took one sip of the sweet tea and my stomach flipped. I realized I might not be able to hold down my food. I was still so worried about my mom. I kept checking the entrance. Then I felt Dara’s hand reach across the table and settle on top of mine.

  “Hey. Hey. Be here for a moment, okay? Have some more of your tea.”

  “But I can’t stop thinking…”

  “Yes, you can. You have to, or what’s the point? Look at me.”

  And I did, and I remembered how I felt when I first saw her, and I sensed the warmth of her hand, and I decided she was right. We needed this.

  So we told jokes—hers about a penguin, mine about a squashed tomato—and we laughed and drained our teas and Sunan popped by with refills. Our plate arrived piled high with wide, spicy noodles and chicken and basil and pepper and onion, and we devoured it so fast we had to laugh again.

  “Where’d you learn to eat?” I said. “The prison commissary? The African veldt? You think somebody was coming after your noodles?”

  “You were. You looked like you were in a competitive eating tournament.”

  We leaned back in our chairs and sighed. Sunan brought us lemongrass waters with lime.

  “This is good.”

  “Yeah.”

  We sat there quietly and listened to what might have been Thai covers of Beach Boys songs. After a while Dara checked her watch, and stood. She yelled to the kitchen, “Thank you, Sunan. Give my best to Kiet. Tell him congratulations for me.”

  I stood and followed her out into the sun. It was only when we got into the car and she handed me a pistol that I remembered everything was still wrong.

  I couldn’t recall from the TV show if the box surrounding Buddy’s brain was bulletproof or not, so I kept the pistol levelled at his torso. It’s not like I wanted to kill him anyway—he was our ticket to see Dr. T. On top of that, I was kind of a fan.

  Buddy was lounging on a leather couch, shirtless, clearly already loaded. He watched us with an odd smile on his face, like he was enjoying a passable, if not hilarious, sitcom. His fiber-optic-linked brain rested three feet to his left on a small Doric column, coils of connective line piled on the couch next to him.

  Dara had Buddy’s unarmed bodyguard covered. She demanded he place thick yellow plastic cuffs on himself.

  “Fuck off, skeez.”

  “Aww, don’t be mad at me. Maybe redirect that anger toward you
rself. Take stock of your mistakes. Ask yourself, ‘What kind of security agent would let their client answer the door?’ or, ‘Why didn’t I take my service weapon into the bathroom?’”

  “Not putting these on. That’s a fact.”

  “Then there will be no next time for you to get things right. And I’ll have to use this to ensure your compliance.” Dara pulled what looked like a keyless entry remote from her left pocket and let her thumb hover over a bright silver button in its center.

  The bodyguard tried to conceal a shiver, but it was clear he wanted no truck with whatever it was she was wielding. “Okay, okay. I’ll put them on.”

  “Just a heads-up—more than ten pounds pressure in any direction and those cuffs activate. If that happens, there go your hands. So no wiggling. Now click ’em.”

  We heard the cuffs latch into place.

  I’ve never seen three hundred pounds of angry muscle calm so quickly.

  Some awful part of me wanted to rush over and start tickling the guy, to see what would happen, but Buddy pulled me from my weird flight of fantasy.

  “This is real?” Buddy rose from the couch and stumbled toward me. The cord extending from the base of his skull uncoiled from the leather cushions as he approached. “I’m awake?”

  Buddy reached out to touch me. Dara turned her pistol toward him and yelled, “Freeze.”

  Buddy stopped short of pinching me to verify I was flesh. He established eye contact and said, “That woman is very beautiful, but she is very serious. I have stopped trying to sleep with very serious women because they always want to pee on me when we’re in the shower together. They think I need it, because of all of this.” He gestured back at the vast hotel suite, the grand piano, the cityscape beyond the window.

  I pictured a small bird flying through the noxious cloud of Buddy’s breath and dropping straight to the ground, dead on impact. They played Buddy’s indulgences for cheap thrills on The League of Zeroes, but in close proximity his life seemed much less a bacchanal and much more a toxic meltdown.

  Buddy turned to face Dara. “Ma’am, you’re not here to pee on me, are you?”

  I’ll be damned if he wasn’t earnest. I started to laugh, but remembered how Port and Egbert had played my addled states for kicks, and refrained.

  Buddy’s bodyguard spoke, surely and softly. “Boss, this is real. You’re awake. I need you to take this seriously.”

  “Oh, Boudreaux—you could be saying that in my dream. What’s today’s password?”

  Boudreaux the bodyguard scrunched his brow, then the answer came to him. “Bluebird’s egg.”

  Buddy raised a hand to me, dismissively. “Pardon me, exhausted phantom. I have to find an envelope.” He started to walk away, but turned back suddenly and yelled, “EAT YOUR GUN, PHANTOM!”

  And I jumped, but I didn’t eat my gun, and that seemed to give the situation more gravity for Buddy. He returned to his hunt for an envelope.

  “Here it is. Here it is!” Buddy lifted a small yellow envelope from an ottoman near the couch. He opened the flap and pulled a small white card from inside.

  His eyebrows raised as he read. “Bluebird’s egg.”

  “Told you, boss.”

  “Well, then, I’m going to sit back down. Gun man, do you want me to be seated?”

  “Uh, sure.” I was kind of thrown off.

  Buddy settled back into the couch, air puffing from the leather beneath him.

  “So, gun man, how long have you known Boudreaux?”

  “What?”

  “I’m assuming this is for money, since I wouldn’t grant Boudreaux’s request for a raise…”

  “Boss, no. I don’t know these fuckers. I’ve never seen them before.”

  “I’m talking to gun man, Boudreaux. No need for your theatrics. How much do I have to pay you to discontinue this charade?”

  Dara walked over and stood beside me, then let out a huff.

  “She’s relentlessly serious, isn’t she?” I pictured the grim look on her face earlier as she’d placed an arm lock on Huey’s courier and then swiftly choked him into unconsciousness. Serious, for her, was just the tip of a pyramid built on persistence and drive. It was why it felt special when she joked with me and let me see beyond her default settings. I looked over to see Dara sweating, arms tensed, her mouth compressed to a thin line. There was something stunning about the tautness of her body, and I wanted to make a statue in her honor, or kiss the side of her face, but then I saw the massive guy in handcuffs on the floor behind her and remembered this was a hostage situation and we were in negotiations with a man who wasn’t quite sure if we existed.

  Dara remained focused. “I am serious, and I need you to understand that this is very real, and that if you don’t help us, you will find yourself disconnected from your fancy luggage over there.” She pointed her pistol at his brain, still sitting on its stately column. It hadn’t moved even as he’d fumbled around the room. I guessed the column was custom and had some kind of suction cups to keep the brain box steady. Did he fly with that thing, or have one fabricated for any place he was a frequent guest?

  “Doyle! Gun!”

  I’d let my arm drop, caught in the mental drift. The few hours of rest Dara and I had tucked away weren’t enough to return me to proper function. I righted my pistol.

  “Listen to your cruel mistress, gun man!” Buddy found us amusing. The expression on his face made me feel like a jester performing for a child king. “You two have a desperation in your faces which makes me like you. This isn’t a money squeeze, is it? You’d already have a wrench to my brainjack like the ogres AsparaGus sent to extort me.”

  “No money, Buddy. We’re looking for a friend of yours.”

  “Oh. I’m afraid you’re far too early. Bobby won’t be here for another week. He used to arrive day of show, but the Center fucked up his lighting last time, so he’s running an extra rehearsal. Even so, we’ll be waiting until next Thursday. Are we camping out? I’ll need my supplies. You must be the couple from…just a moment.” Buddy reached over and gave the top of his brain box two thumps with his fist. “I needed to jog my memory.” He turned to us, gauged the reception to the gag. Dara was stone-faced. I did my best not to laugh. Buddy shrugged off the dead air. “That’s right—the Stockholm couple. You guys really don’t give up. Bobby must have woven quite a spell on you.”

  Dara walked around the ottoman, raised her foot, and brought her heel down on Buddy’s instep.

  Buddy yowled and clutched his foot close to his body. Then he closed his eyes and said, “Change to bird. Change to bird.”

  He opened his eyes, dismay apparent, the absence of avian transformation finally forcing him to accept that this was truly happening. “Alright, invaders. What do I have to do to make you leave?”

  “All we really need is a medical referral.” I wondered why she wasn’t just saying Dr. Tikoshi’s name, then realized she was leaving gaps to allow Huey plausible deniability. “Who does your work?”

  “Oh, come on, you guys—you know I’ve got a private contract. I can’t divulge my doctor’s name or every two bit mutie on the circuit will be hitting him up for their mods.” Dara pulled the Keyless Entry Fob of Doom from her pocket and showed it to Buddy. He was unimpressed.

  “You’re going to open your car from far away if I don’t refer you to my doctor?”

  “No, boss. Tell her what she wants.” Boudreaux spoke as urgently as he could, doing his best to remain still and save his hands. “You could always go back to Dr. Shinori.”

  “Shinori never did a damn thing without consulting Tikoshi. Besides, he tried to bootleg my surgery videos. He’s dead to me.”

  “I know, boss.” Boudreaux sighed, clearly weary of having tended to this collapsing man’s whims for so long. He addressed Dara. “Listen, lady—what you’re doing now isn’t right. Buddy isn’t here, you know? He’s had a hard road since he lost his mom and between all the surgeries and the meds he’s…he’s somewhere else and if you use
that on him it’s like kicking a coma patient in the teeth. So, please, put the SoniScrape back in your pocket and talk to me.”

  Buddy beamed. “Boudreaux loves me!”

  Maybe Boudreaux did love Buddy. Maybe he loved his paycheck. Regardless, he could form coherent ideas and never tried to turn into a bird, so he felt like a much stronger resource.

  “Okay,” she said to Boudreaux, “we need to meet Buddy’s doctor, stat.”

  “I can make that happen. If we do that, you let Buddy and me go?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “Even though we’ve seen your faces?”

  He had a point. Dara had nixed the anti-rec masks, figuring five star hotel security wasn’t going to let us stroll through the lobby looking like we fronted a bad heavy metal band.

  “Yes. You know it doesn’t really matter who we are. We’re not here for your client, and we’ll never trouble you again. You seem like a reasonable man, which means you’ll be wise enough to know that’s the truth. You’ll move on after this is over. And that guy…”

  Buddy had closed his eyes again, and it sounded like he was whispering, “Lift as vapor. Lift as vapor.”

  “That guy might not ever know this happened.”

  The rear storage space of Buddy’s SUV was crowded. I guessed that the commercials for his rig never advertised, “The trunk area fits up to two full grown anti-Vakhtang missionaries and one man’s disembodied brain.”

  Dara was spooned into my body with her arms wrapped around Buddy’s box, her pistol aimed at the cable junction where the fiber optic lines ran into the container and transitioned to a baffling mix of wiring and human matter.

  The cerebrospinal fluid definitely needed a refresher. I didn’t know if Buddy’s gray matter was shedding a soup of dead cells, or if some chemical was tainting the mix, but his brain looked like it was floating in an unfiltered, long forgotten fish tank. No wonder the guy had gone loop-de-loop.