Bloody Knuckles (And Other Tales)

by T. W. Anderson

  The man shrugged. “The short version? I’m you. But you can call me Jay to avoid confusion.”

  “Right.” Jerid shook his head. “Even if I did believe you, it’s impossible.”

  “Not impossible, Jerid. Improbable. At least for your world.” Jay spoke around his cigarette as he pushed himself up into a standing position. He wobbled for a moment, then leaned against the countertop for support. “Believe me, I had a hell of a time getting funding for this little experiment. Thankfully my wife is better at negotiating than I am.”

  “The woman on the phone?”

  “Sara? Yeah. Wonderful woman. Smarter than me, but that’s why I married her.” He exhaled and ground his cigarette out in the sink next to Jerid’s.

  “What did you mean when you said you weren’t sure it was going to work?”

  “To be honest? I had no idea if you would pick up that phone or not. But I tried to guess what I would do in the same circumstance and it looks like it turned out alright, yeah?” Jay grinned and reached for the device Jerid had set back down on the countertop.

  “What about the screams I heard over the phone? Is she ok?”

  “Oh, that? We aren’t sure what it is yet, but it has something to do with the connection. As far as we can tell it’s just some random distortion. All the tests we ran came back negative to it registering on the human vocal scale.” He touched his finger to the screen a few times, then turned to look at Jerid. “Ready to have your mind blown?”

  “What?” Jerid felt his heart speed up again. “Hey look, Jay or whatever your name is, I don’t know that I believe all this mumbo-jumbo about experiments and stuff, I just wanted to get the phone back to its rightful owner and….” He found himself running out of breath as Jay waved a hand and cut him off.

  “Relax, Jerid. It’s science.” He tapped once more on the screen.

  The phone rang.

  The lights went out.

  Space paid a visit to Unit 407.

  *

  Darkness. A thick blanket of darkness. And voices.

  “Is he alright?” A woman’s voice, panicked.

  “How the hell should I know?” Thick, southern accent. Definitely male.

  “You’re the doctor!”

  “I know as much as you do, Sara! Now stand back and let me do my job!”

  An incessant beeping over his right shoulder. A bright light directly above him. Someone shouted “Clear!” and he felt lightning strike the center of his chest.

  Minutes? Hours? Days? How does one measure time when floating in a sea of emptiness? He could feel feathers against his cheek, could feel the sting of bleach in his nostrils. Voices, drifting.

  “… not him. It’s not the same.”

  “I understand your pain, Sara. But you have to look beyond yourself. Think about what he proved!”

  “It proves nothing if he’s dead!” She was screaming now.

  “We don’t know that for certain. All we know is he didn’t come through with the other one. Given time, I’m sure we’ll be able to re-open the connection and….”

  “No. The playback is enough. My husband is dead. I’ve watched that viewing over a hundred times now. The only thing that came through the connection was this other version of him.”

  “Sara, he knew the risks when he went. Even you knew that opening a connection so close to a copy of one’s self was something we had not figured into the equation. I still don’t know what he was thinking.”

  “He wasn’t, Jim. You know that as well as I do. Jerid always was so impetuous when it came to his experiments. He got excited, and he didn’t think. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead.”

  The sound of a chair scraping against the floor. Heavy footsteps that drifted away, then stopped. “The board is moving ahead with development, Sara. They’ll want to speak with him, once he’s recovered. I’m sorry.” A door opened, then closed.

  He felt fingers against his face. He could feel breath against his cheek, smell her perfume. Peaches. “You are not him,” she whispered into his ear. He felt wetness on his shoulder.

  Darkness.

  *

  He opened his eyes. The light hurt, and his eyes felt grainy. He tried to move his arms to rub them but only managed to twitch his fingers. It shot pain up his arms. He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. His chest hurt, ached even, where that bolt of lightning had hit him. He blinked several times and looked around.

  He was in a hospital bed. The curtains were open and he could see trees outside his window and sunlight. It looked to be mid-afternoon. Someone had put flowers and a get well card on the table next to his bed. That was odd. His parents were both dead, he had no close friends, no girlfriend. No one who would know him well enough to bring him a card.

  “You’re awake!”

  He knew that voice. He turned his head. He hadn’t seen her curled up on the chair next to his bed. Her raven hair was tousled and the blanket covered her up to her neck. She had been sleeping in the chair form the look of it.

  “Yeah.” His voice cracked. She moved quickly, grabbing a cup of water from the table next to her and holding it to his lips. He drank slowly, easing his throat. “Thanks. Where am I?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Instead she put a hand to his forehead, checked two monitors above his head. She was small, he noticed, lithe, with a runner’s body. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She smiled at him as he caught her eyes. Dark brown, restless. “You took quite a beating. How do you feel?”

  “Like hell. How long have I been here?”

  “Seventeen days.”

  His hands shook. “What… what happened?”

  A shadow crossed her features. “You… there was an accident. But you’ll be better soon, Jerid.”

  “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

  She smiled as she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “I know everything there is to know about you, Jerid. Now sleep. You need your rest if we’re going to get you on your feet again.”

  She curled back up on the chair, her dress riding up around her thighs as she pulled the blanket back over herself.

  “Sara?”

  She looked up at him from her chair, her eyes dark pools as she smiled at him. “Sleep, Jerid.”

  He closed his eyes and followed her instructions.

  Substance

  By T.W. Anderson

  I don’t remember exactly when Substance was first written in the order of “stories completed”. Sometime in 2008. I think it was the fifth story I ever wrote. The idea was that there was a new drug that was being tested on innocent civilians, a drug that could basically inject an identity into you. It was also my first attempt at working with substance abuse in a story, thus the title; Ray’s experiments always focused on existing drug addicts, as they were easier to lure in.

  In the back of my mind it was a military project, though I did not really write that heavily into the story. When I first saw Joss Whedon’s show, Dollhouse, I was like “holy shit, this is a high level version of the same concept”. It’s probably why I loved the show so much!

  Nate watched, entranced, as the light in the distance began to drift slowly towards him. A strange feeling of expectance rose within his breast, as if he were suddenly on the brink of a discovery that was worth a lifetime waiting for. His eyes began to ache as the approaching globe drew closer. He shielded his eyes with his hands, felt the warming of his skin as the heat began to affect them. Voices sprung suddenly from the void, no longer the almost-heard word of friend or enemy, their separate qualities slowly beginning to unfold into individuals speaking amongst themselves and him, the insect at the window, listening to a conversation he cannot possibly understand, cannot comprehend, cannot repeat. He quivered with apprehension as a new voice suddenly cried out of the chaos, deep and powerful, sliding across the waves of existence like visible air, sinuous and deadly. He strained, blanking his mind and grasping for something that was gleaming in the distance, a be
acon of reality that pulled him to it.

  His glass of wine.

  He stared at the red fluid for a moment, eyes still glazed and floating in some place near reality. Slowly, he reached a trembling hand for the glass, his dark eyes spiraling into focus as his hands grasped the actuality of the moment. He tasted the sharpness of the shiraz. A shudder wracked his body and he closed his eyes tightly to shut out the bright light of the surroundings. The brilliance hurt his head, wracking pain that bordered on his threshold. He swallowed the last of the wine in a single motion and hurried towards the exit, ignoring the hostess as she bade him farewell.

  The outside world was a blur as he staggered down the street, his mind a whirling eddy of currents that tugged him this way and that, pushed him into the darkened embrace of an alley, the comfort of the curb where he slumped suddenly, hands clasping at his head as a sharp pain shot through his skull. He grit his teeth as he sagged against the cold brick wall behind him, the cold of the filthy water and litter blowing against his body forgotten for a moment as he pulled the injector from his pocket, set the dose, felt the prick against his wrist. He felt the wave crash into him with the force of a train, but the fall was feathers and smiles. Zero-g and ecstasy. He took a moment to re-adjust, then pushed himself away from the curb and back to the street. He blinked against the noon-day sun, hailed a hover, and gave the driver the address.

  *

  Ray was gone. Police tape criss-crossed the doorway into the apartment, just as it had for the last four days. The landlord said it had been a surprise to everyone. Ray was well known for his mild-mannered personality and helpful nature. He never played his music too loud, never caused problems with the other tenants. He helped Mrs. Crichton, her gnarled hands grasping her metal walker with the last vestiges of her strength, up the stairs whenever he saw her. He always paid his rent on time. He was an all-around pleasant individual.

  None of this helped Nate feel any better. Somehow he always found himself wandering back here, to see if the tape had been removed, if he could somehow get inside, make sure that Ray really was gone. He knew, he just knew, that if he could rummage around inside he could find something to still the effects of the drug that coursed through his veins like fire, burning his thoughts, searing his mind. His hands trembled and he forced himself to take several deep breaths, push past the dizziness.

  The police said Ray had been deported back to Earth, to spend time in a rehabilitation facility. Nate didn’t buy it. Ray had never been an addict. A little over-dramatic about his need for release, perhaps, but never an addict. Nate sighed, frustrated, and took the elevator back down to the ground level, past the manager who never nodded from the confines of his padded office chair, and emerged into the chilly streets. His vision blurred for a moment and he felt that all-too-familiar itch at the back of his skull, pushing into his thoughts. That… presence. Always lurking, pushing the edges of his tolerance, reaching for control. He felt a moment of disorientation and leaned against the building, the rough brick cool to the touch beneath his palm. He forced his breathing to slow. That night with Ray….

  “Nate! Good to see you. Been a couple of nights. Thought I might have lost you to one of those sleazers downtown. Damn man, you know what crap they deal.” The twig of a man held the door open to let Nate into the apartment, the drab furnishings contrasting his income, which Nate knew had to be sizable considering the rates he charged for some of his wares. A threadbare couch, well-worn coffee table that was imitation wood—impossible to get the real thing out here on the Edge—two matching chairs, and monitors everywhere. At least six that Nate could see. All of them were spooled up to the Net, giving Ray a constant feed of information. Everything was dust-free and nothing was out of place. The living space of a perfectionist.

  Nate made his way to the couch and slumped into it with a sigh. There was a throbbing beat coming out of the speakers in the walls, and he found himself bobbing his head slightly to the ambient flows. It felt good to have the weekend ahead of him and a couple of mornings to sleep in.

  “How’s work going?” Ray raised his voice slightly to be heard above the rattle of chains as he closed the door and slid all the bolts and chains back into place.

  Nate shrugged. “Busy. The club’s been getting a lot more off-worlders lately, for some reason.” He reached down and picked up one of the half-burned joints in the ashtray, eyed it briefly, then smiled ruefully as he put it back. “Personally, I’m sick of dealing with ‘em. Fresh in from Earth, thinking it’s going to be some grand adventure out here on the Edge. Then they get here and they find out it’s not all that different from back there. Other than you see a few non-humans from time to time. Same old shit, different planet.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Ray’s skeletal frame sagged into the couch next to Nate, his tattooed arm reaching for the joint in the ashtray. He lit it, took a long drag, exhaled slowly. “Don’t sweat it, man. You know I’m always here for you. Put your mind at ease, brother!” I got some new spruce in, and it’s totally ticking. Supposedly it’s from the Rhudeans. I’ve only tried it twice, but it’s a trip. A ticking trip.” He waved the smoking stub in his fingers at Nate. “You want some of this?”

  Nate shook his head. “Nah, not right now. Not really in the mood. What about this Rhudean stuff, though? Is it any good?”

  Ray choked on his smoke, coughed hard for a few moments, then turned and eyed Nate incredulously. “Are you kidding me?” he wheezed. “Christ, it’s out of this world, no pun intended. I thought I was going to flip the first time I tried it.”

  Nate nodded slowly. It could be an interesting weekend. “What’s it like?”

  “Like nothing you’ve ever experienced. It’s like living a dream, man. You actually think you are someone else.” Ray’s eyes were taking on a slight haze from the smoke, but Nate knew his mind was functioning at top-speed, if not higher. The skinny man set his joint down in the ashtray and clasped Nate on the shoulder. “You’ve got to try this, Nate. It’s like the best mem drug, five times enhanced. And it lasts for a couple of days. I’ve got plenty of food and drink here, so you don’t have to worry about going home if you’d rather crash here.”

  “Sure. Let’s do it.”

  Ray leapt off the couch with a whoop and went running into the kitchen. “Hell yes, man,” he hollered over his shoulder as he disappeared into the other room. Nate heard him rummaging around the fridge. He looked down at the smoking stub and shrugged, picked it up and took a drag. Within moments he felt his skin start tingling and let the smile ride across his face.

  Ray suddenly soared into the room, riding on a cloud of smoke and leading a crowd of diaphanous figures that stirred in his wake. Nate shook his head and Ray solidified into himself, the figures disappearing, his feet firmly on the floor. Wow. That’s some good stuff there. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

  Neither could Ray, who was grinning like a school-boy who just stuffed a snake into the girl’s locker room. “I’m gonna do you first, man, so I can do myself after. Just remember, flow with it, man. The first few seconds can be a bit disorienting, but after that….” Ray smiled even wider. “Just ride the wave, Nate. It’s like nothing else.” He set a small bottle on the table, and two plastic-wrapped syringes.

  Nate felt a moment of panic. He had made a personal choice over the years to never shoot up. It wasn’t just a fear of needles. It was just that as long as he didn’t stick himself he wasn’t a hardcore addict. He was just a recreational user. Needles were the step over the cliff, that jump you made before plummeting to your demise. He shook his head. “I don’t think I can do this, Ray. Let’s just stick to the usual mem stuff, ok?”

  Ray’s black eyes burned into Nate’s skull. “You won’t feel a thing, Nate. And it’s well worth it, I promise you.”

  Nate fidgeted in his seat. C’mon man, you’ve gone this far. Don’t chicken out now. Just pretend you’re at one of the holo films. He forced himself to stop shaking. “Fuck it.”

>   He turned his head away. He could hear the crinkling of plastic as Ray unwrapped one of the syringes, heard the click of fingernail on needle as Ray flicked the air bubbles to the top, heard the droplets hit the floor as Ray cleared the last air out of the needle. Shit, shit, shit what the hell am I doing, I can’t believe this, man I’m going to freak out, man oh man what the hell am I doing, should just get my regular spruce and get out, oh shit, damnit, what! A sudden prick in his arm and the room faded.

  Euphoria. Orgasmic pleasure. Someone was licking the back of his neck. A chill up his spine. His aching hard-on. Mist and shapes, darkness and light, the low murmur of someone’s voice beside him. A light, there in the distance. A wave of emotion, the crashing of waves on the beach of his mind, eddies and currents pulling, thrusting. He rode the wave, was one with the wave. Moving faster than thought, and suddenly he was there. In a room. With hundreds of people in the crowd. Himself, in a tuxedo, seated in front of a cherry-red baby grand.

  Euphoria faded. The sweat was pouring down his back, soaking the shirt beneath his tuxedo. He was flushed, his skin slick and his heart raced with adrenaline as his fingers flew, the music pulling him along, his body swaying and moving in time with the crescendo of notes that led him through the dance of precision timing, precise pressure, the flow of memory that was the notes springing from page into his mind and sparking down the synapses of his brain to his fingertips and somewhere off in the distance a tiny voice, a dimly muted thought… I don’t play the piano....

  The moment passed. He was there, on the street, alone. Nate shuddered. Every few hours instead of days. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep track of what day of the week it was, what he had done in the hours before. Last night he had found himself suddenly coming to in the cushioned seat of a piano bench, his hands resting on his knees, the fading notes of some concerto fading into the recesses of the lounge, thirty-odd people applauding his performance. He had gone pale then, enough to frighten the closest people in the audience, and ran for the bathroom. He spent the next hour violently heaving the contents of his stomach into the toilet. There were too many moments like that recently. Holes in his memory, time lost that he could not account for.