Cold Reboot (Shadow Decade Book 1)

by Michael Coorlim

  ***

  I woke, drenched with sweat, sitting bolt upright, a scream on my lips barely swallowed. Fear, despair, and rage in my chest swirled together into a boulder, pulsing with my rapid heartbeat in the darkness.

  "Lights!" My voice croaked.

  A glow emanated from circular LEDs in the corners of the room, dim to start but brightening at about the rate my eyes could adjust. I was somewhere strange, a room I didn't recognize, and for a moment I was terrified that I'd lost my memory again.

  Then I remembered. Baxter. The mugging. The robbery. Scott. The hotel key-card I'd found in Baxter's jacket pocket. I'd taken another cab back up to Streeterville instead of home after leaving the automat... I hadn't felt safe going back to an unlocked apartment, not in that building, and Baxter had already paid for the room.

  I fell back onto the queen-sized mattress, so much more comfortable than the futon in my apartment, and tried to grasp at the last wisps of whatever I'd been dreaming about, whatever had terrified me.

  A man? An institutional building, all white walls and stark lines. The hospital? I was either pissed at someone or feeling sad for them or both. Baxter, maybe. No, that didn't feel right. Betrayal maybe. My father? My grandfather?

  Too late. I lost it. Maybe I should keep a dream journal.

  I turned my head, catching sight of the clock atop the mini-bar. Nine in the morning. An hour before check-out. Time enough to get cleaned up. I wished I'd brought something clean to change into. I wished I hadn't emptied so many of those little mini-bar bottles.

  Fuck it. It's on Baxter's tab.

  Baxter. I should go see him. See how he was.

  I'd have to stop at home first, get some things, change my clothes. See what I could salvage, if the monsters had left anything in my apartment. No way I could stay there, though. This room had been booked for two nights; maybe Scott could find me something new. Maybe.

  ***

  I didn't see any of the kids around the apartment block when I returned, but the neighbor lady from last night was checking her mail. I fixed my gaze and hastened my pace, trying to rush past her without drawing attention to myself.

  She backed up into me and I drew short to avoid a collision.

  "Hey," she said, her accent slightly lighter than it had been the night before.

  I felt my face warm. "I'm so sorry—"

  She clasped my hands. "Are you okay?"

  I stared into her watery eyes. "What?"

  Her grip was firm. "It's okay, yeah? Everybody has trouble."

  These people. Living here, they had to be in at least as bad shape as I was. What right did I have to snap at them, to look down on them? "I'm so sorry."

  She shook her head. "Shh. It's okay. You know? Everybody has trouble. But it's okay. Bad day. Bad night. Bad boyfriend. Bad husband. It's okay."

  She reminded me of my grandmother. I felt myself tearing up again. "Okay."

  She smiled. "Okay. You come up with me."

  Together we walked back up the stairs to our floor. I didn't see any of the punks from last night, but my attention was focused on the frail little old woman taking me by the hand.

  We walked past my apartment, and she stopped at her door. "Wait one second."

  She disappeared inside, and returned moments later with a casserole dish.

  "Oh I can't..."

  She pressed it into my hands. It was still warm. "It's okay. You take it."

  I took it. "Thank you."

  She smiled. "Everything is okay."

  And it was. A little.

  ***

  If anything, my apartment looked worse by the light of day. The sunlight shining through the jammed door was stark enough to highlight the wreckage and debris in high contrast. They'd done a great job rendering the place uninhabitable, smashing all the lights, tearing up all the furnishing, cracking the casing on the fridge and coffee machine.

  I didn't feel a sense of loss. I didn't feel anger, or even irritation. I just felt... tired. And distant, again, as I picked through what was left, looking for whatever I could salvage.

  A shadow fell across the door. "It wasn't us."

  It was the girl from before. "You're in my light."

  She stepped to the side, peering around the corner of the door. "We didn't do this."

  I didn't answer her, picking through my clothes. They'd been strewn out of the closet, scattered across the floor, but miraculously untouched.

  "I know you think we did. But I want you to know we didn't."

  I looked up at her. "You think that matters?"

  Her face scrunched up. "Man, fuck you, bitch. You're lucky we didn't fuck you up, waving a gun around and shit. You think you the only one ain't lacking?"

  "No lacking?" I had no idea what she meant.

  The girl made a face and pulled up the hem of her shirt, showing me the grip of the pistol stuck in her waistband. "Ain't nobody lacking."

  The gun. Right. I'd forgotten about that. It was still in my purse. I stood up straight and glared at her. "What do you expect? You guys have been giving me shit since I moved in. Then I come home to this?"

  "Yo, I told you, we didn't do this shit."

  "Right. Sure. Whatever."

  "You think we'd have left you any of that shit if it was us?" The girl gestured at the clothes I was gathering. "You got some high end shit, and ain't nobody took nothing from you."

  "How can you even tell?"

  She set her jaw. "Because Te Arawa didn't let nobody."

  I looked down at the suit jacket in my hand and sighed, putting it aside. "Look, um..."

  "Ruamano."

  "Ruamano. Listen. Why would you watch my things? You've done nothing but terrorize me since I moved in."

  "So you know it wasn't us." She folded her arms. "Look, woman—"

  "Erica."

  "Whatever, look. This is our block. Te Arawa owns this shit. We take care of it. Someone break in under our noses and we don't do shit, it looks like we can't hold our Block. Looks like we're weak. Like we can't protect the people in the field any better than the cops do."

  "Protection?" I couldn't believe my ears. "You guys haven't done a damn thing but lean on me, try to scare me since I moved in."

  "Ain't nobody give two shits about you," Ruamano laughed. "500 Block is a family, and Te Arawa takes care of it. But you ain't family. You're a short timer. Here until your assistance credits run out, or until you find a better job, and then you're gone. And the whole time you're here, you stay locked up in your room, don't talk to nobody, just look at us like we're gonna jump you soon as anything else.

  "Don't take much to get Te Arawa protection, lady." She pushed away from the door, pausing to look at the casserole dish I'd left on the counter. "Mrs. Karaiti give you that?"

  "The woman next door?"

  "Yeah. Be like her. Be a good neighbor, and the Block is good to you. Ain't hard."

  I watched her go, exhaling slowly. Maybe I'd been afraid. Maybe I'd been unfair. But could they blame me? And frankly, they were right. I just wanted to get out of there, and I wasn't interested in making friends with the local gang before I went.

  I dressed quickly, changing out of the dress I'd worn on my date with Baxter and into something more conservative, more comfortable, more casual. Clothes I'd printed up in the lobby. They were more comfortable than the paper outfit I'd been given at the hospital, but the texture was still coarse, the colors still muddy. Poor people clothes. Sweatpants, a hoodie, and sneakers.

  I made a quick circuit of the room to find anything else that was still salvageable, throwing it into my purse. A few bottles of water from the fridge, along with a couple energy bars. Flashlight. Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant. It wasn't much, but I didn't need much.

  The door didn't close when I left. Something wrong with the latch. As much as Ruamano had tried to assure me that Te Awara was going to watch over my place, there was no way I was going to sleep in a place with a broken lock. I could worry about that later... no
w I needed to see Baxter. See if he was okay. He'd know what to do. He always knew what to do.

  CHAPTER 12: SON OF A BITCH

  Northwestern Memorial's main entrance was a lot nicer than its emergency room, with faux wood paneling and synthetic marble floors that left me feeling under-dressed. A long line stood in front of the reception desk, but there was a prominently displayed set of automated kiosk booths in alcoves along the hall.

  The kiosks seemed new, or at least very well maintained, squat white cylinders about as tall as I was, with sloped tops sporting broad touch-screens. I was slowly getting used to this, the ubiquitousness of automated interfaces in place of human personnel. In a way I preferred it, dressed as I was, I didn't want to deal with judgmental nurses like the one I'd seen last night.

  As soon as I stood in front of it, the image of a nurse's head and shoulders flickered onto the screen. It was good, if it was computer generated... it looked just like a real person.

  "Welcome to Northwestern Memorial Hospital." Her warm and pleasant voice issued forth. "If you know the extension of the party you're here to contact, you may interrupt me at any time. How may I help you today?" The screen-image watched me expectantly.

  I didn't see any kind of on-screen menu or keyboard, so I cleared my throat and spoke. "I'm here to visit a patient."

  "We welcome visitors from 9 a.m. to 8:30 p.m. daily," the virtual nurse said. "Visitors should be free from colds, sore throats or other contagious conditions. Children under the age of twelve should never be left unattended. Visits by children may be restricted based on the patient's condition. Please check with the attending nurses.

  "What is the name or patient ID number of the patient you are here to visit?"

  I glanced around behind me before answering. "Baxter Collins."

  "Baxter Collins," the nurse repeated, and a still image of Baxter appeared over her shoulder, taken from his driver's license. "Is this correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Connect your ChicagoCard or other personal network hub device to the Northwestern Memorial network to check in."

  I pulled the card out of my purse. The surface had darkened, save for a glowing thumb-print, below which was written "Depress to authorize connection to NORTHWESTERN MEMORIAL PUBLIC NETWORK." I pressed my thumb against the mark.

  The surface of the card pulsed, then changed. The ChicagoCard logo faded, replaced by the hospital's, the words Visitor Pass forming underneath along with a digital picture of my face.

  The virtual nurse smiled. "Thank you, Erica. Access has been granted. Baxter Collins is in room 302. Augmented Reality guidance is available."

  Augmented Reality. The card was the only AR device I possessed, so I held it up in front of my eyes and turned around. Sure enough, through the lens of the card the digital approximation of the nurse from the Kiosk stood before me, slightly transparent, smiling, and waiting.

  "Lead on," I said.

  She didn't respond or react.

  I stepped forward and she started to walk away, taking a few steps down the hall before stopping and turning back to look at me expectantly.

  Virtual Nurse led me to the elevator, then up to the third floor. Room 302 wasn't far, and I slipped the card back into my pocket. My pace quickened, and the mental image of running through the ghost of a digital guide flashed through my imagination.

  I stopped short at the entrance to Baxter's room. He wasn't alone.

  There was a woman at his bedside, with short dark hair and subdued makeup, well dressed and with a concerned look on her face. She was cradling the back of his head and helping him adjust a tray of hospital food.

  A younger version of the woman, no more than six, stood by her side. She glanced over her shoulder at me at the door, took my measure, and dismissed me. She had her father's eyes, his indifference.

  They were talking, Baxter and his wife, but their words were meaningless to me, just noise that I couldn't parse. Their tone was clear enough. The compassion in her voice was unmistakable. The care. This was no stranger with whom Baxter was burdened, no mistake that he was honorable enough to see through.

  This was a loving family.

  I fell back around the corner, out of sight, heart sinking to the floor.

  Lies.

  More lies.

  I'd forgotten. Or rather, chosen not to remember. Baxter and his 'Baxterisms.' I'd always justified them as his peculiar way to frame a situation in a particular light.

  Baxter is a liar.

  The thought was stark, bold, clear, clean, and utterly alien, like a voice speaking into my cerebral cortex. Something that, while we were together, I had never let myself articulate, not even to myself.

  But it was true.

  He was a liar. And I was his enabler.

  That sob story he'd told me? That fucking cliché about his unhappy marriage and uncaring wife? Of course it was bullshit. I hadn't realized because I hadn't wanted to realize. I was grasping, reaching for anything, clinging to anything that might offer me some stability. Even Baxter's warm comforting delicious lies.

  That wasn't an excuse. I'd let myself be taken in by him before. Before I'd had the excuse of my present situation, I'd eaten up his lies, accepted his excuses because he was selling me the story of domestic bliss, of a coming perfect marriage, of a family life that would make me feel complete.

  The same lie he was now selling that wife of his, that daughter of his.

  The despair and guilt in my gut ignited, becoming a ball of molten rage.

  Did I think I was the first? The only opportunity Baxter had seized to step out on his marriage? Did I really believe that I was even that special to him, that I was the only one he'd cheat on his wife for?

  No.

  It was all too smooth, too practiced. The dinner. The sob story. The hotel room. Baxter knew what he was doing.

  I wasn't anyone special to him. Just another chance to cheat on his wife. Just another mark.

  I should tell her.

  I should march in there, expose his lies, throw the hotel key on the bed, shatter that poor woman's illusion of marital fidelity—

  I ain't got time for that shit.

  That voice. My voice, only older, more confident. The alien voice of reason. Maturity I'd gained over the last ten years that I just couldn't remember.

  It was right.

  The assaults, the robbery, Te Arawa, my lack of a job, my missing memories... I didn't need Baxter's drama. I didn't need Baxter. I had too much to deal with, too many real problems to handle.

  Fuck it. Fuck Baxter. Fuck this shit.

  CHAPTER 13: OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS

  The card in my pocket started vibrating as soon as I stepped out of the hospital. I'd missed a call, from Greg's office... maybe the hospital wasn't part of the city's communication network or blocked external wi-fi signals somehow. That made sense, and I wondered how many other buildings had some kind of—

  I stopped myself. Focus, Erica. A call from Greg. I should be thrilled... maybe he'd found something. But, as my anger at Baxter had abated, it hadn't been replaced by anything. I just felt empty inside.

  I gave the message a listen.

  "Miss Crawford, this is Yeong Dae, Greg Matthews's personal assistant? We met the other day? I'm just calling to let you know that Mr. Matthews may have found you something, if you're still interested in an employment opportunity with Novabio Medica?"

  A smile crossed my face. I knew Greg would come through for me.

  "The office is closed today, but Mr. Matthews will be there until five tonight if you can make it out — just buzz security and they'll let you up." He paused, and his voice became less professional, more conversational. "There's a small window on this. Miss Crawford, so don't delay."

  The recording ended, and a small meeting confirmation button popped up on the Card surface.

  I thumbed it. This couldn't be a coincidence. No. Coming to terms with Baxter's duplicity and getting this job offer, at virtually the same time? No. This was
things turning around for me. This was the universe giving me a break. This was destiny.

  It had to be.

  I checked the Card's transit app. Novabio's building wasn't far from here, just a half-hour bus ride into the Loop. No time to change... and I hadn't even tried to get the bloodstains out of my nice blouse yet. But so what? Greg could forgive me for dressing casually. I set out without hesitation.

  ***

  As each of the 13 stops between the hospital and Greg's building passed, the fog in my head cleared a bit, and my determination gradually evolved into enthusiasm. The anger and despair I felt at Baxter's betrayal were replaced by a sense of optimism and gratitude for my old mentor. Greg had come through. I knew he would. The old man had more than a few tricks left in him.

  I couldn't help it. By the time I reached the Loop, my toes were tapping, my face was smiling, and I was humming... something. Some song I'd heard, somewhere, but couldn't quite place.

  Didn't matter. What I couldn't remember didn't matter. Like Baxter, it was the past. Like Baxter, I had to let it go and focus on the future, on making things happen, on establishing my life and making my personal world a better place.

  I felt free, for once. The animated adverts on the train seemed more cheery than garish. The other passengers seemed a lot less depressed and malevolent. The skyscrapers on the street up above towered majestically, not oppressively.

  I had done what I'd never managed back in the 2010s. I'd recognized Baxter for the toxic bastard that he was, and I'd let him go.

  I'd set myself free.

  ***

  Novabio Medica's lobby was dark and the door locked when I arrived, so I pressed the buzzer on the intercom.

  A gruff male voice answered. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah, hi. Um. I'm Erica Crawford? Here for a meeting with Greg Matthews?"

  The only response was a buzz as the door in front of me unlocked. I pulled it open and slipped inside.

  There were a few lights on in the lobby, just enough to navigate by, though the lounge area and hall to restrooms were cloaked in shadow.