Urban Legends of the Future Page 3

  Flames kindle from dumbpaper magazines draped in paint thinner soaked rags. Jerome looks up from his pity party and freaks himself into action at the sight of fire. He stamps out what he can with a shoe then tosses the rags in the sink.

  "Oh man, oh skag, oh blessed fragging mother-father-child, what in oblivion is going on?"

  'Pull yourself together.'

  "Who the frag said--"Jerome whips around, those beautiful, widening, green eyes of his stare you in the face"--no. No-no-no-no-no, n-not possible." You can only guess he's scanned you for the first time in however long you've been here.

  'This coming from the guy who believes that everything is possible?'

  "But you're, d-de-dead."

  'No thanks to you. How could you let that happen to me? And who’s that slut you're banging. What kind of a stupid name is "Chica" anyway? If you were with her when we were together, I swear I will kill you.'

  "After I w-work through my stash, I'm getting clean. I c-can't take this bulltaco," Jerome rubs his eyes then passes a hand through you.

  His hand tingles through your intangible shape, you try to bat at it, 'Yeah, sure. I'm fragging dead because of you, Jerry. What are you going to do about it?'

  "What do I have to do about what? If you have some kind of spiritual baggage you need to unload, that's your deal."

  'My deal? Do I have to once again say that I'm dead and it's your fault? Why am I dead in the first place, Jerome? What kind of slaghead promise did you make to that Ralston creep that he'd kill me instead of you?'

  Jerome rubs the back of his neck, sweat beads dotting his forehead, "Well, it's kind of a long story."

  'Indulge me. I've got nothing but time.'

  Jerome loosed a great sigh and began, "Ralston's just like that. Alpha dog. Has to... wait, let me start over. When I worked at the grow farm, these dudes came into the place when I was hosing down the vats. They were making all these claims that they were related to the boss. I figured whatever, let them do their skag and get out, just don't get in my way I won't get in yours.

  "Then this big guy, Ralston, comes up and asks me if I'm interested in making some easy money. So I tell him, sure, whatever, everyone digs money. Group surrounds me and flat out tells me to take them to the tanks. No one pulls a gun on me or nothing, but I notice a few of them are kinda weird looking, not usual temper stuff, but like they're actually like monsters or something. So I lead them to the tanks and they tell me to open them. I try to tell them I'm just the cleaner and they say they don't care. So the tanks open and they start loading up a bunch of unactivated clones onto a dolly. Ralston tells me that if I can keep this quiet, I get to keep my job and make a nice bonus for every pick up."

  'That explains why you stopped hitting me up for creds. Why were they taking unactivated clones?'

  "To eat them."

  'What?'

  "I came to realize that Ralston was the pack leader of a local bunch of werewolves. Scavengers really. I don't know if their ties to Pharrel are real or not, but they're running a monster mafia with these fish people that F'n's part of."

  'Wait, werewolves? Fish people? What the frag, Jerome?'

  "You're a fragging ghost, or the onset of meth psychosis, and you're telling me you can't make the leap to real monsters?" Jerome pats his pockets, finding smokes.

  'Good point. I'm guessing you losing your job ties into them killing me. Why do they want to eat clone meat?'

  Jerome lit up, exhaling a blast of smoke, "Well, it's more me losing my job because they got everyone in on the meat racket. Apparently, Ralston, F'n and the like, have a real tooth for human. It was supposed to be a way to keep them from eating people off the streets, but then they started taking more than was being replaced. You don't get organic matter back when parts aren't being recycled. When I wasn't there to unlock the tank rooms for them before a full moon, Ralston thought I clucked out. He went looking for me but I wasn't home. You were here instead. There wasn't much left when I got back," he toed at the cracked unicorn head on the floor.

  'I don't remember anything about that visit. I can remember everything in my life before that day, but nothing after besides today,' You look for signs about the room.

  Jerome turns to the windows, rubbing his arms for warmth he answers a phone call inside his head, "Chica?… Ralston… l-look man, she doesn't have a-anything to do with this. I can't even help–"

  'Tell him you'll meet him at the grow farm. You have something for him.'

  Jerome says, "Meet me at the grow farm? What the fr–yeah, the g-grow farm. I've got something for you, just d-don't k-kill her or anything… well I hope that you're lying… okay, give me an hour for the Metro." Jerome swears and kicks the fridge door. It swings open, evaporated rust colored liquid stains the bottom, "Alright, just what did you get me… into?" Jerome turns about, "Where'd you go?"

  *

  Disuse attacked the grow farm with a vengeance. To Jerome's ears, the tank room's abandoned vats were silent. You hear the true sound of the empty space: a cacophony of confused voices. Recycled souls incapable of comprehending their own speech, screaming without bodies to call their own. Restless, Jerry climbs about the catwalks in between dry vats.

  Sounds of intruders rile the spirit voices in the middle of Jerome's fifth chained smoke. As is their tradition, Ralston and company make no secret of their presence. Howls of laughter echo through empty halls, growing louder and sharper until ungreased door bolts on the far end of the tank room gave way. Jerome flicks his cherried cigarette into a vat, stands, and fails at hiding his fear.

  Ralston sniffs the air, snapping his face towards Jerry climbing down the catwalks. The sharp dressed female grabs Jerome by the neck once his boots touch ground.

  Ralston, still sniffing around, contorts his face to a sneer, "I hope you didn't drag us out here, where no one can hear you scream for help, just to waste our time, meat."

  Jerome says, "W-Where's, Chica?"

  Ralston chuckled like a date rapist, "That spicy little dish? We've got her safe. She don't need to see what's going down in here."

  F'n and a couple other fish-face lackeys poke around in the control room. F'n sneers, "This skag's still dry, mate. There ain't no meat up in this joint, right guys?" F'n's fish friends make agreeable noises.

  "You play a very dangerous game, Jerry," The sharply dressed woman tensed her fingers, forcing a yelp from Jerome. She breathes him in, "We like danger. And you; stink like death."

  A loud clank and grinding sound comes from outside the tank room. Chains rattle overhead.

  Ralston barks to his pack, "Go check it out, knuckleheads. We could use some alone time in here," Ralston removes his duster, cracking his knuckles. He shoots dagger eyes until the retinue of goons exit through the squeaky chamber door.

  Jerome cowers before his three debt collectors alone in a massive room. At first, doing nothing until Ralston haymakers Jerome in the gut. The force makes The Lady lose her grip.

  "Where's our food, meat?" A fierce kick to the ribs for emphasis. "If this is a joke, you can bet the punchline is gonna be killer."

  Echoes of moans and wails emanate from the walls. You can make out pools of green light bubbling from the dry tanks. A static of agonized voices force a reaction from the living occupants. F'n pulls his gun. The wailing intensifies at the weapon’s presence. Glowing green ectoplasm spills like unset gelatin from the dried, disused, vats.

  The sharply dressed woman took a step back as it came too close to her feet. The spread ceases, lurches backwards, then splashes up about her. Clothing, skin and flesh are pared away as she fights for freedom. Jerome is on his feet and running towards anywhere but dead. F'n makes a run for the exit door. It slams shut in his face with more green ectoplasm seeping from its border.

  Jerome breathes too erratically from beneath a pile of identical Pharrel Inc. jumpsuits. Thuds strike the door metal. Jerome catches his breath. Silence. Bangs repeat in sporadic bursts. Door flings open, someone enters, door sla
ms shut on deafening shrieks of impending mortality.

  Cement mixer breathing and laughter with plenty of profanity confirms Ralston survived. You couldn't be happier.

  That bastard Ralston stalks the layout’s outer circuit. F'n splats against the outer window. Jerome gives up a sharp inhale. Ralston pauses to pick up the scent, grinning with pronounced canines at the uniforms. A hairy arm thrusts into the pile, yanking your coward of an ex closer to his end.

  "You planned this, you knew this kind of crazy skag would happen all along, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?" Ralston punctuates his question, by jamming your ex’s head backwards into a control panel. Ralston raises Jerome close enough to kiss only to slam him into a neighboring console.

  Jerry laughs with a mouth full of wet jagged tooth stumps. He sounds like F'n as he hacks bloody spit into Ralston's stupid face, "I'm-I-I," Jerome laughs from his wreck of a mouth, "I'm sorry. I w-w-was, st-st-stu-pid."

  "Yer hot damn right you were stupid," Ralston rages. That pretty face is bashed into the environment until Ralston ran out of both. Ralston stands panting in a puddle of blood, spark showers bursting behind him.

  You feel a nonchalant hand take yours. It's the old familiar way he used to do it. You pull your hand free. Jerome stares at you then stares at what's left of himself, trying to take in the scene. Ralston smears red across his face and through his hair, pulling it into a sticky ponytail. Jerome's corpse is pinkish-red pulp and clothing.

  'Don't worry, by tomorrow this time, you'll have forgotten all of this.' You don't know why you're bothering to comfort him, considering the fire in your chest still burns. Your loser ex-boyfriend said he was sorry, and it still doesn't make it any better with this Alpha Male wannabe stumbling around, scot-free. Jerome tries to touch anything, frightening himself with every failure.

  That mongrel Ralston licks his paws clean and moves towards the exit. He pops it open with a twist, laughs and whistles the first three notes of 'Taps'. Hitching up his black vinyl pants by the belt loops, Ralston takes a step forward as you slam the door in his face.

  'Running away you sonuvabitch?' Sparks smolder on the uniform pile. 'Do you remember any of your kills? Or are you a mad dog that needs to be put down?'

  Ralston sniffed, "Why don't you come a little closer, darlin'."

  'Why would I do that?'

  "The better to see you, my dear," Ralston chases echoes in the sparking dark.

  'Is that it? Do you feel all big and bad right now? All your friends are dead, and here you are. The lone wolf, trapped in the hen house.'

  "The acoustics in here are terrible," A blast of sparks draws Ralston's attention.

  'Maybe your hearing's going.'

  "I can hear just as well as I can eat,"

  You whisper into Ralston's ear, 'You should learn to cook.'

  Ralston’s eyes were dinner plates. His face, a perfect mix of confusion and horror. Your fiery heart leaps into your throat. Sparks blast from destroyed consoles, catching the heap of strewn about uniforms on fire. Fire spreads to Ralston's pants, melting them into his flesh. He yelps about the room, spreading flames and kicking over a bucket of chemical cleaners to speed up the process.

  Ralston, the canine torch, flings himself against the walls, the door, and the window. Each frenzied scream brings you waves of calm.

  Charcoal remains of the last two men in your life litter the room. Jerome sits, rocking his specter back and forth with arms wrapped across the knees. You have nothing more to say to him and that feels wonderful. Rapture overtakes your consciousness, forcing your view skywards where a dimly lit staircase leads to a plain opening into nothing. You give one last look at what's being left behind if you take those stairs to nowhere. Jerome stares quizzical in the direction you're looking and goes back to rocking himself.

  'Frag this place,' you say, and climb the first step.

  three

  Mind Your Manners

  [OC2090-2099CE]

  “Morning Shonda,” Karen hung her overcoat on the evidence room pegs. She shook her frizzy red hair out of a bun and smoothed it into a ponytail.

  Shonda entered through the sliding door, wiggling out of her own jacket. “Hey girl,” Shonda sipped SBUX snagged from the Express on Garfield and rubbed bloodshot eyes with her free hand. “What’s new in the world of clonehuntin’?”

  “No coffee for me?”

  “Don’t sell me that bulltaco.” Shonda yawned over the first two words of, “You drink MR trash and add creamer later.”

  Karen splayed a sheaf of smartpaper across a flimsy card table, “It doesn’t mean I prefer it”.

  Shonda stifled another yawn as she settled into the wallbench memory cushion, “‘Least it’s not Irish Cream like your brother.”

  “Gerry does a lot more than Irish Cream in his coffee these days.” Karen caught Shonda’s yawn, “Shall we begin?”

  “What copypaste are we searching for today?”

  “Domestic caste. Homicide’s been cleaning up her trail for a couple years.”

  “So this is our reward for busting that unsanctioned slave ring? Why aren’t two limpricks from Homicide in here?” Shonda took another pull of her nonfat no foam latte.

  “Because the last two ended up with matching broadsword stabwounds,” Karen tapped and swished at her smartpaper. Two PD files blipped onto the room’s holoprojector, “Wu is still in the ICU. Hollis, well...” A red [DECEASED] stamped across Hollis’ fresh from the academy grin.

  Shonda groaned, “Have I said yet that I really hate working Clone Crime?”

  “The day has just begun,” Karen said, “you have at least four more times to meet your quota.”

  Shonda rubbed her hands, “Then let’s kick this pig.”

  Karen nodded, “Evidence room. Detective Karen O’Corkstein. Present biometrics on file verify clearance for case file CHVC187-536049OCCC.”

  “Other occupant, Detective Shonda Rafferty. Present biometrics on file verify clearance for requested case files by Detective O’Corkstein.”

  Karen cleared her throat, “Begin holodisplay chronological breakdown of available footage and records of existence.”

  ‘Loading,’ in three-dimensional Helvetica, spun in the air. Scattered images blurred and glitched together as a lifetime reversed to its origin point. A row of grow vats at security camera angles filled the room’s negative space.

  Karen cleared her throat and synced her smart paper dossier to the room, “Five fifteen twenty-ninety. Spawn date for quickgrow domestic caste. Roplaxive subsidiary Takima-Kadesh Cloning, Lot#CC044517, unit DC111.” Karen took a breath, “Suspect goes by the moniker, Manner.”

  Perspective switched to the tank progress cam. Holograms swam through the process of growing and processing a cloned human being in fast forward. A translucent embryo, suspended in sealed liquid, bloomed into the shape of an adolescent human being. A process of five weeks condensed into twenty-five seconds.

  Rows of identical bodies built for manual labor floated unconscious in their growvats. Each designed to be invisible with the same forgettable attractive face and blonde hair. Shonda gulped cool coffee, counting clones to find which one was theirs.

  Karen picked a wild strand of hair out of her face. The image shifted to a storage room full of close-eyed clones fed through nutrient tubes. Karen said, “Manner sat around until six twenty-two twenty-ninety-two.”

  “Who bought her?” Shonda asked. She didn’t bother to go over the files. After seven years as partners, Shonda knew Karen always did the reading. She played the ‘loose cannon partner’ angle to Ms. O’Corkstein’s hard-nosed, by the bookworm stereotype. It worked in Shonda’s favor and no sense rocking the boat.

  “Actually, she worked here for a bit,” Karen aped surprise. “OCPD bought the lot wholesale and DC-111 was routed to our precinct by chance.”

  “Interesting. You’d think we’d remember that,” Shonda flicked at her own smart paper a bit, effecting a look of studiousness. The holo display showed Manner mopp
ing floors and emptying trashes in the Foundation Island 415th precinct, Shonda leaned back to the wall, “Then again, what’s one clone to another?”

  Karen exhaled through her nose, “It’s our job to make sure we can tell one clone from another. Otherwise we let them slip into the crowd.” Karen blew at the red corkscrew of hair that would not keep out of her face, “Which our suspect is apparently a master at. Blending in. Which is how she’s avoided apprehension thus far.”

  “Which is too bad they don’t go over that in the academy,” Shonda waved off Karen’s stank face. “Besides, big deal. Captain says orders came down from Roplaxive’s Decision Makers saying we’re s’posed to assist that plant in the rebellion movement by any means.” Shonda tapped on a .pdf thumbnail, a facsimile overlaid on the holoprojection, “And according to this, our Ms. Manners is with them. How’s that one sit with ya?” Shonda took a sip, shook her cup, frowned, and put it between her feet.