State of Decay (7 page)

My eyes drifted back to the TV. A reporter stood near a black car parked on a side street. The camera cut and showed some rich Asian woman dead behind the wheel, covered in blood. “The suspected serial killer has struck yet again,” a voice on the TV was saying.

“Flax,” a guard called, and I looked up through the bars. He was a big guy, on his way to fat.

“That’s me.”

“Let’s go,” he said. I looked at the guys in the next cell, but no one was calling them out and they looked as clueless as me.

“What for?” I asked.

“Today.”

Things I might have done went through my mind as I got up and went to the guard, who slid open the door. No way would Eddie come for me and not them. It must have been something I did, which was a lot of things.

“Out,” he said. I went through the gate and he slammed it shut behind me. He didn’t look at me twice, and just walked down the hall with me in back of him.

“Nice shiner,” he said when we got out of holding.

“Thanks.”

“You get that in the ring, or at the bar after?”

“The second one.”

The night before was a blur, but it didn’t happen at the fight. I got the cut over my right eye there, but not the shiner on my left. Someone caught me good at the bar.

“Well, Ms. Flax, it’s your lucky day,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yup. The guy you jumped dropped the charges, and in all the resulting bullshit of the little war you started, even the cameras couldn’t pin anything too bad on you.”

I shrugged at his back. That was pretty lucky, actually.

“Here we are,” he said when we got to the main entryway.

“Huh?”

“You got posted,” he said. “What’d you think, I was giving you a tour? You’re free to go.”

He handed me my leather jacket and I put it on.

“I left what I found in the pocket. Consider that a gift.”

He held out a big yellow envelope like I should take it, so I did. I ripped it open and saw my cell phone and keys inside. When I looked back, he was pointing like I should get the hell out.

“A couple of your buddies dropped your bike off last night so it didn’t get towed; it’s in the lot out back.”

“Who bailed me out?” I asked. He jerked his thumb toward the wall.

“Nice fight, by the way,” he said. “The first one, not the second one.”

When I looked at where he pointed, I saw pretty boy from inside the cell standing there, arms crossed and back against the wall like some kind of pimp. When I turned back, the guard was gone.

I looked back and pretty boy was still smiling that smug smile I was going to learn to hate in about five minutes. If he’d really bailed me out, I’d almost rather have gone back in, but not enough to actually have done it. When people did things for you, they wanted something back.

“You do this?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. He tailed me out. The sun was almost up.

“Why?”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

Bail, even for a back-lot brawl, was a big deal, but maybe it wasn’t a big deal for him. Maybe he was a fan, or maybe he did it just to pat himself on the back. Maybe it was to show off.

“What do I owe you?” I asked.

“I just—”

“Don’t screw with me. What do I owe you?”

“How about a ride home?” he said.

I still didn’t know what his game was, but a ride I could do. If that was all it was going to take, I could do that. A ride on the back of my bike in the cold might wipe that look of his face, even.

“A ride? Sure. Okay. You got it.”

His shit was so slick, I even bought it a little.
Just a fan
, I said to myself,
or some punk with an itch to walk on the wild side.
If it got his rocks off to be nice to a three, why not take him up on it? It beat a week in jail, and he was nothing to be scared of. Tight, but slight, and never fought a day in his life. Harmless, right?

What a crock of shit.

Whenever I was put under for maintenance, my mind always went back to the same place.

I never found out what knocked me down back then. Later I was told it was probably a concussion grenade. The last thing I saw was Sean turning from the radio as if he’d heard something; then everything turned to white noise.

I could see before I could hear; when I opened my eyes I was on my back, being dragged by one foot through the brush. Wet grass and branches whipped across my face, and I could see the night sky above me. I lifted my head and saw a figure trudging forward, the hand that was gripping my boot trailing behind him. There were two others with him.

Screaming and the tearing of cloth cut through the ringing in my ears, then the crunching of metal and electronics. Someone was shouting into a radio, it sounded like, and gunfire was being exchanged.

I reached for my gun, but it wasn’t there. My knife was gone too. I struggled, and three sets of dead, yellow eyes stared back at me from above. I tried to kick free, but one of them grabbed my other leg. They dragged me out of the brush and into damp, soft soil as I felt myself being pulled downward.

Dirt was forced up the back of my shirt, and ants and termites scattered as I was dragged underneath something. I craned my neck back to see the mouth of a tunnel getting smaller behind me, the earth swallowing the sounds of the screams and gunfire. . . .

“Nico?”

The memories scattered, and I opened my eyes. Sean’s gaunt face looked down on me, his narrow eyes serious. His once-black hair had begun to turn gray, and he looked tired. After a moment, he smiled faintly.

Sean Pu and I had served together. He was a tech man now, running the soft side of many operations in the field. He specialized in bioaugmentations, and kept a section of the Agency field ready. Unofficially, he was still more like my wingman; my pair of eyes on the inside when I was out there. Un-unofficially, he was more like my personal guru.

“You know those stims are for emergencies only,” he said.

“I know.”

Everything felt more or less back to normal. I took a deep breath and felt pretty good.

“You threw everything out of balance back there,” Sean said. “You shouldn’t drive when you’re like that.”

“Am I okay?”

“Your blood levels are back to normal,” he said. “I’m just finishing up replacing the stim packets.”

“Thanks.”

He continued working next to me. All I felt was a tugging at the back of my neck and an occasional tiny jolt down my spine.

“Why didn’t you put down the revivor?” he asked.

“I did.”

“The other one,” he said. “The one in the restroom.”

“Word travels fast.”

“It does.”

I sighed. The truth was, I’d had every intention of doing it; from the moment I walked into the building to the moment I walked into that bathroom, and even the moment I pulled the codes from it.

“Did they ask you about it?” I said.

“Yeah, they wanted to know if you’ve seemed unstable at all.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That you’re fine, which was a lie. Of course, if they listened to me, they wouldn’t have sent you in the first place,” he added.

“You recommended they didn’t use me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason they wanted to send you,” he said. “Because you have experience with revivors. But unlike them, I know what some of those experiences were. I questioned how you might react, and I was right.”

A strange sensation crept up my back and neck as he withdrew the thin series of tubes, the ends popping softly as they came free. He smoothed down the little dermal strip.

“Good as new.”

I stretched, flexing my muscles and cracking my back. Everything felt like it was in order. When I ran the diagnostics on my heads-up display, everything came up green. I swiveled my legs around and hopped off the chair.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “All the revivors are going down after they’re done with them anyway.”

“You did everything right. No one’s going to complain about the job you did, but why would you want to go back to that place? How often do that many revivors end up stateside?”

Sean had a way of echoing my own thoughts. The truth was, I could still feel that cold slab of meat crushing my neck, that saliva and breath that should have been warm but wasn’t. I could still see those eyes, just barely glowing in the dark like they used to at night, and that damn girl, that walking sex doll and the way it spoke.

“It mixed me up,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“The pleasure model they set up,” I said. “I was just talking to myself, talking out loud. It looked like a snuff job to me. I said someone was probably still looking for her. You know, the girl.”

“I get it.”

“It said, ‘He is.’ It said, ‘He’ll never stop looking.’ ”

“I see.”

I shook my head, remembering that wax doll’s face looking up at me.

“It’s crazy,” I said, “but I was sure it meant her father.”

Sean pressed his lips together.

“It got to you?”

“No. It wasn’t that. It was the way it said it. It was like something else was in there looking out. . . . It was like it paged through the memories there, and dredged up a piece of information it didn’t even understand.”

Sean didn’t say anything, and after a while, I thought maybe I should stop talking.

“I meant to do it,” I said. “I’d have been doing it a favor.”

He smiled a little, and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Nico, I won’t bar you from the case, but as a friend, my recommendation to you is to walk away from this one. It took you a long time to—”

“I know.”

“You have never been quite the same.”

“I know.”

“When they ask me, and they will, all I have to tell them is your body is chemically stressed, and I recommend a short time to readjust. No one would blink at that. This case will move on, and the next one will move in.”

My first reaction was to say no, but it didn’t come out of my mouth. Instead I shook my head. I grabbed my coat and shrugged it on.

“Revivors are not human beings,” he said.

People said that all the time. I’d said it too, early on. Revivors weren’t living, but they weren’t dead either. Their knowledge, their compulsions, were human. That I knew. I thought of the girl, her pale face and her dark hair. Her soft voice. She was not like the revivors in that hellhole, the revivors I had known. She was not like them, and she was like them.

I learned more about revivors than I’d ever wanted to when they dragged me into that hole. It made no difference what you were in life; strip away the brain chemistry, and you had a revivor. They were what lurked under the surface of all of us, even me.

“I don’t know what they are,” I said to Sean.

Sean watched from across the room, but he didn’t say anything more as I left the lab and closed the door behind me.

The sun came up shortly after we emerged from the tunnel. The lights from the previous night had flickered out, and the streets and sidewalks were thick with early-morning commuters. When the train joined the main railway, the concrete building facades flashed by, and in the distance, past the field of monorail tracks, the city sprawled for as far as the eye could see. Skyscrapers formed a mass of geometric shapes, dwindling to the horizon until they were lost in the haze of morning snow. Beyond that, the city proper’s skyline rose like a huge monolith above the rest. I watched it for a while with a sleepy stare as droplets streaked across the window.

The car was clean but showing its age, with worn trim and fading LCDs that scrolled schedule information, advertisements, and public-service warnings. It was packed full but quiet, as passengers stared at their computer screens, keypads, and styluses, whispering just over the hum of the track. They had the heat on a little too high, and the air smelled like coffee and cologne. Despite the attacks and the general unrest on the streets these days, it was almost peaceful.

I had managed to pinpoint the security camera closest to the corner where the murder took place, and had them send me the contents of its recording buffer for the hours corresponding to the time of death. I watched it on my computer tablet as another train whipped by the window, heading in the opposite direction. I could make out the vehicle in the lower left-hand corner of the frame and was able to pick out the license plate number. The sidewalks were crowded with people on either side of the street, heading back and forth and ducking in and out of shops. Everyone was bundled up against the cold, making it hard to pick out facial details. After an hour or so it had begun to snow, further obscuring the image.

A message came in, flagged urgent. Someone was on the line, waiting. Moving the footage off to one side, I brought up the image a second before I decided I should screen it. In a window I could see Serena’s face, lips pressed together as she waited. A receipt had already been sent, so it was too late to try to duck her. The expression on her face said I’d already been doing that too long.

I opened the connection and typed.

She looked at me from the screen and frowned, but not in an angry way.

She didn’t have to tell me that, but unfortunately, at the moment it was all I had. I was a second-tier citizen. I never served in the military, but I was wired for Posthumous Service. Making detective was the first step toward at least a first-tier retirement. My caseload would dictate the rest.