Dead Mann Walking (4 page)

“Come on out of there, Jonesey!”

Maybe the shirt really was lucky, or maybe it was just another random act of the universe, but he closed his mouth and shivered. I stepped back to put some distance between us, but his head bobbed like I was still slapping him. He brought his hands up to steady his skull. He blinked six or seven times and then aimed his pupils in my direction. They were still vibrating, but after a second they settled down.

“Mann, that you? I am so sorry. . . .”

“You and me both.”

Low-level chakz tend to go feral and stay that way. The “lucky” or smart ones drift in and out first. It's never a good sign. If a gun would work on him, and I had one, I'd be tempted to put him out of his misery.

I didn't tell him that. “Christ, Jonesey, if I'd been a liveblood you'd be . . .”

He twisted his lips into a familiar shit-eating smile. “What? Dead?”

“Well, in a lot worse shape than you are now.”

“Worse? Oh, Mann, I know, I know. Funny, I used to tell people that death was just another form of consciousness. I had no idea. No fucking idea. What day is it?”

He had big eyes, the kind that looked soulful back when they had some meat around them. Now they popped like the googlies on a cheap doll. You could still see it, though, the whole charismatic-motivational-speaker thing. Once that grin was exactly the sort a lost soul would trust enough to hand over his hard-earned cash on the chance Jonesey really might teach him the secrets of the universe.

I hate con men. I'd have hated Jonesey when he was alive. Not a problem now.

I checked my watch. “Tuesday. You need the date?”

He nodded, so I checked my watch again. “August twelfth.”

He looked up and groaned. Groaning is better than moaning. It's intentional. “Six fucking days, Mann, that's how long I've been out.”

I took a step closer. “What happened? You're usually Mr. Positive Thinking. Someone forget your birthday?”

I was half kidding. Jonesey thought in extremes. He was either a self-styled superhero or a bug lying against the wall too worthless to crush. I don't know if that was a result of being ripped or if he was bipolar beforehand, too.

“My birthday? Hah.
I
don't even remember that! I had a . . . uh, professional setback. One that interfaced negatively with my life plan.”

I gave him a look. His grin widened, his roller coaster on a definite climb.

“Fine, my
after
life plan. Two livebloods in a blue SUV stole my stash. I lost a half gram of meth. I tried to picture a positive outcome, focused, meditated, tried to make it real, y'know? But when it came down to it, I couldn't face my supplier. He says I'm the only chak in the world he can count on, and I just couldn't go there, not with him. I crawled in here to meditate and . . . zoned out.”

“Six days ago. Ever happen before? The feral thing, I mean.”

His brow crunched. “What feral thing?”

I gave him another look. My memory wasn't
that
bad yet.

The grin faded a bit. “No. That was the first time. I swear.”

He was lying, but I let it go. Making him think about it too much could send him off again.

“Anything I can do? I've got some cash these days.”

“Really? Good for you! I knew you could do it. Were you putting the vibes out there? Acting as if? Faking it until you make it?”

“Sure. Something like that.”

He pushed his head around like he was trying to snap it back into place. “Spot me five for a double espresso? Helps me focus. I know those two addicts. I know where they live. If I really bring the right attitude toward it I can talk them into giving me the stash back, or at least paying something for it. If not, at least I can go feral on someone who deserves it, right?”

“Right. Espresso, huh? That . . . you know, work?”

He shrugged. “Seems to. Maybe it just reminds me.” He tapped his temple. “Head game. But it's all head games, right?”

Head
was the wrong word to use around me at the moment. I pulled out the photo, if only to change the subject. “This is why I was trying to find you. Know him?”

He took it between his fingers, moved it around in the scant light.

“Hair's a little different, and he doesn't have all that flesh anymore, but . . . of course I do. What was it? Pimple. Boyle. Frank Boyle. Lives in Bedland. Last I heard, anyway. You got that five?”

I pulled out a crumpled bill, the last I had on me, and stuffed it in his pocket.

“I thought the doubles were only four bucks.”

“I like to tip the barista,” he said. “Keep a good thought, Mann!”

I watched him shamble off, hoping he didn't go feral in Starbucks.

Then again, he wouldn't be the first.

M
r. Turgeon was full of surprises.

“Tonight? You want to go
tonight
?”

He could laugh his wobbly ass off at my last name all he wanted, but I wasn't getting maimed for a few bucks, even for a lot of bucks. I tried to put it politely. “Look, Mr. Turgeon, I admire your tenacity, but even armed liveblood cops don't go to Bedland after sunset on a Friday.”

“I understand the risk.”

“No, sir. I don't think you do. Every meathead in Fort Hammer gets the weekend off from his shitty job. They spend it looking for more exciting ways to get off, and hakking is the number one sport. If the hakkers don't kill us, the ferals they leave behind will. Add to that the fact that we don't even know if your boy can still answer to his name. . . .”

Pursing his lips, he looked out the window. The flighty evening glow had vanished into a more honest dark. “I told you. We
have
to find him before his siblings. There are four shantytowns, aren't there? And the hakkers only attack one? Doesn't that put the odds in our favor?”

One in four. I looked at Misty. She shook her head, no way. I agreed.

“Sorry, Mr. Turgeon. Bedland's the favorite, the biggest target. They just use the others for practice. Unless you want to wait until morning, you're on your own. Believe me, it'll be well worth the wait, if only because you get to live another day.”

I wanted to put the fear of God into him. He did me one better and summoned Mammon. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another envelope stuffed with cash.

“Take it. There's a third just like it if we find him.”

Crazy son of a bitch. I reached for the bills.

“No,” Misty said.

I owed her, I should have listened to her, but the money would be too good for both of us. For that kind of cash
she'd
take the chance if she could. I nodded for her to step out into the little anteroom that doubled as her bedroom. She grimaced, but did.

I hefted the envelope and finally asked a decent question. “How much is Derby paying
you
to find Boyle? Take it from someone who knows: It's not worth being dead for a bigger flat-panel TV, even if it is HD.”

If he was afraid, his face didn't show it, but he rubbed the rim of his hat, turned the Stetson like it was a little steering wheel and he was trying to avoid an oncoming truck. Appearances aside, I got a strong sense of naïveté from his demeanor. He knew what he wanted, but so does an infant. I wasn't even sure if he'd been out at night by himself.

Finally, he spoke. “You know how some men slave all their lives in a job they hate to give their wives and children a better life?”

I shook my head. “You don't strike me as a family man.”

The hat stopped moving. “That's the point. I'm
not
. I don't have a wife, children, or friends, just this job I do. Mr. Derby made it clear that if I
didn't
find Frank Boyle, I'd be fired. I don't want to work anywhere else. I just don't. I can't. I can't let him fire me. I'd rather . . .”

His voice sounded distant, but I didn't have any reason to doubt him. It was pathetic enough to be true. If I didn't go with him, he could toddle out there all by himself and get hit by a car.

I tossed my hands up. “Your funeral, my mutilation. Do you have a gun?”

I was still trying to scare him, but, surprise, surprise, he nodded. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as I thought. If I didn't know it'd come out more like a hiss, I'd have sighed.

“Then let me get mine. Assuming that yellow Hummer outside is yours, I'll meet you at the car.”

He smiled like Mommy had pinched his cheek; then he rolled up to standing and ambled on out. The second the outer door clicked, Misty rushed back in, all teary-eyed.

“No fair—you know I can't cry,” I told her.

“Don't go, Hess. Even if they don't chop you up, you shoot a liveblood, even by accident, and they catch you, it'll be worse than death.”

“Like this isn't?” I said. When she didn't react, I grimaced. “I wasn't going to tell you, but half an hour ago, Jonesey went feral and nearly had me for dinner. I shook him out of it, but it's just a matter of time now.”

Misty lowered her head. “Shit. He's one of the smart ones.”

I poked a thumb into my chest. “Smarter than me, Mist. So how long do I have? And who even knows if ripping is permanent? We could all go, any minute. I don't make some kind of move now, I might never be able to, right?”

She didn't say anything.

“Right?” I asked again. I sounded angry. I
was
angry, taking it out on her just because she was worried about me. It's so much easier to think about not existing if you can be sure you won't take anyone with you.

She made a face. I let it go.

I opened the lower desk drawer and removed the false bottom. I had two things hidden there, both contraband: a little vial of green liquid and a Walther P99. The vial's its own story. For now, I took out the gun, a nice combo of stopping power and low recoil. Too little of the former, whatever I shot would still be coming at me. Too much of the latter, I could tear my arm off by firing the damn thing. It's totally illegal for a chak to own a weapon, but you never know when breaking the law might suddenly become the best idea in the world.

“You're doing this because of the money?” Misty wasn't finished yet.

“Partly,” I said, checking over the gun. “It's also something to do. I'm curious about this Boyle guy. Being curious is good. Better than watching TV.”

Satisfied he'd perform, I shoved Walther between the back of my pants and the small of my back.

I turned to Misty, looked in her eyes, and touched her cheek. The last of her tears, a big one, rolled onto my finger. The dead flesh sopped it up like a sponge. “We have to be realists, right? We have to be. More than likely, I'll be back this time. But do me a favor, Misty? If and when I do go, make sure my head's totaled. Crushed or something. Not just a D-cap. And definitely not fire.”

“I hate it when you talk like this, Hess.”

I forced my lips into a smile. It hurts to do that, ever since I died, but I had to show her I was still in here. “Me, too. But I'll feel better if you promise. So?”

“I promise.”

I turned her head side to side, studying her a bit. Her cheeks were so hollow when we met, from the drugs, that her face had no affect. Now it was easy to see how worried she was. I was her lifeline. I really was risking both of us. “You're looking better. Try not to worry too much. I like to think I'm not an idiot. And you heard the big baby. We've got a one–in-four shot at a quiet night.”

I took a hundred from the envelope and held it out to her. “If you want to keep busy, you can get some more bleach and go down to Cruger. Flat-headed guy there has some finger rot. Can't miss him if you follow your nose.”

She eyed the bill. Depression meant one thing for me, something else for her.

“Got anything smaller?” she asked.

I looked in the envelope. “Nope.”

“Too much temptation. Keep it. I still got some bleach left. Should be enough for some fingers. We'll go pick up some more when you get back. And you'd
better
get back in exactly as many pieces as you are now or I'm taking that envelope, buying a shitload of crack, and smoking it until I get to see God face-to-face so I can demand an apology from his almighty ass for this fucked-up life. You got that?”

I gave her a salute and headed for the door. “Deal. Say hi for me.”

She tossed me my cell. “Call him yourself.”

 

There's better than the Bones, but Fort Hammer's generally crappy. The city used to have a manufacturing base and a big insurance industry, but when hard times hit, it was just like that little old lady on the commercial who'd fallen and couldn't get up. You couldn't blame anyone here. The citizens were all doing exactly the same things we did during the boom years. But sometimes it rains, and sometimes it rains hard.

These days Fort Hammer's two big claims to fame are one of the highest murder rates in the country and
the
highest execution rate. Cheers went up in bars across town when we pushed ahead of Texas. One town, ahead of Texas.

That's where the rest of us chakz come from, myself included: the death penalty.

It makes perfect sense, as long as you don't think about it too much. The same year they started ripping the dead, improvements in DNA testing revealed an embarrassing number of wrongful executions. Ethically, the biggest argument against the death penalty was that it could never be undone. Thanks to our caring friends at ChemBet, now it could be.

Sure, most livebloods decided real fast that it was better to leave their loved ones resting in peace, but the state saw it as a way of rectifying what was euphemistically referred to as “certain inadequacies in the judicial system.” Thanks to the Revivification as Restitution Act, (RAR), the wrongfully executed were brought back as chakz. Oops, sorry! No harm, no foul, right? If anything, it made it
easier
to give someone a lethal injection in the first place.