cerulean, the crayon a kid might use for an ocean if he’d never seen one. I put both vials on the passenger seat, and turned to the briefcase.
There was something stuck in one of the hinges, a bit of pink nylon ribbon, smaller than a fingernail. I pulled it off, then tugged at the bottom layer until it threatened to tear. I got the sense it’d always been part of the case, that both were made just for those bottles. Drug trade gets pretty sophisticated, but I wasn’t thinking local distributor anymore.
I worked my way around the edge of the foam, pulling, getting the same resistance. When I tried the top, though, one corner peeled away revealing something underneath; the end of a plastic card—a credit card or driver’s license.
Ever try lifting a dime from the floor with wet fingers?The wrinkled pads of my fingers kept slipping over it. My nails were too short to get under. I could shred the foam, but might need the case for the vials.
I fished the proverbial last dime from my pocket and used it to pry the card up. I had to see only the corner of the stylized double-R logo, for Revivals Registration, to know it was a chak ID. If a cop or guardsmen asked and you didn’t have one, into the camps with you. And they asked whenever they could.
The embossed name on it—William Seabrook—had to be fake. Seabrook was the author of
The
Magic Island
back in 1929, the book that supposedly introduced the word
zombie
to Western culture. Somebody had a sense of humor. The number was intact, but there was no picture, the plastic split where it was supposed to be. It’d be easy to put a new one in. This was exactly what a chak would need to escape the camps and start over. Maybe the arm was what was left of an escapee.
The thought of shredding the foam gave me an idea. Everyone was looking for a briefcase, right? I pocketed the card, then tore off enough foam to wrap the vials in, secured them with duct tape and shoved the results into a cinder block. To make it look good, I wrapped the case in two plastic garbage bags along with a couple of bricks for weight, and sealed the whole thing up with duct tape. Then I found a great big vat full of water, tied a rope around the handle and dropped the sucker in.
By now the netbook had booted, so I checked Misty’s contacts. She’d had the thing only a few hours, but there were two. One was Chester, and the other a first name, Mary. Her sponsor in the program. There was a phone number.
I had the toad’s cell and mine, but wasn’t stupid enough to use either. There was a pay phone nearby. I’d used it to call Misty once, when I was bound with a leather strap around my neck. Don’t ask. And I had just enough quarters for a one-minute call.
After three rings, a female voice, ravaged by cigarettes to the point where it sounded like a cartoon, said, “Yeah?”
“Mary?”
“Yeah?”
I’d have swallowed if it would have helped. “Hessius Mann. I’m looking for Misty.”
“She’s in the can. I’ll get her…”
Something like relief flooded my bones. The other big addict in my life, Dad, tried getting sober, but it never stuck. He used to joke that he’d quit so often he should be getting better at it. Misty, bless her, still wanted to take care of herself. And if she was with a friend, she was safer than I was. Which meant now was not the time to stick my nose in.
“Wait. I don’t want her to know I called. I just want to know if she’s all right.”
A phlegmy laugh. “Well, she ain’t all right. She’s been fucked over, good.”
“Right. I know. I mean to say, are you helping her out?”
“Trying. You the dead Mann?”
“Yeah. If she told you half of what’s been going on, you know there’s trouble. I don’t think she needs more.”
“Shouldn’t that be up to her?”
“I’m not talking emotional stress. Cars are blowing up. People are dying. You tell me, is Misty in any kind of shape to deal with that now?”
Silence.
“Good. I just want her
There was something stuck in one of the hinges, a bit of pink nylon ribbon, smaller than a fingernail. I pulled it off, then tugged at the bottom layer until it threatened to tear. I got the sense it’d always been part of the case, that both were made just for those bottles. Drug trade gets pretty sophisticated, but I wasn’t thinking local distributor anymore.
I worked my way around the edge of the foam, pulling, getting the same resistance. When I tried the top, though, one corner peeled away revealing something underneath; the end of a plastic card—a credit card or driver’s license.
Ever try lifting a dime from the floor with wet fingers?The wrinkled pads of my fingers kept slipping over it. My nails were too short to get under. I could shred the foam, but might need the case for the vials.
I fished the proverbial last dime from my pocket and used it to pry the card up. I had to see only the corner of the stylized double-R logo, for Revivals Registration, to know it was a chak ID. If a cop or guardsmen asked and you didn’t have one, into the camps with you. And they asked whenever they could.
The embossed name on it—William Seabrook—had to be fake. Seabrook was the author of
The
Magic Island
back in 1929, the book that supposedly introduced the word
zombie
to Western culture. Somebody had a sense of humor. The number was intact, but there was no picture, the plastic split where it was supposed to be. It’d be easy to put a new one in. This was exactly what a chak would need to escape the camps and start over. Maybe the arm was what was left of an escapee.
The thought of shredding the foam gave me an idea. Everyone was looking for a briefcase, right? I pocketed the card, then tore off enough foam to wrap the vials in, secured them with duct tape and shoved the results into a cinder block. To make it look good, I wrapped the case in two plastic garbage bags along with a couple of bricks for weight, and sealed the whole thing up with duct tape. Then I found a great big vat full of water, tied a rope around the handle and dropped the sucker in.
By now the netbook had booted, so I checked Misty’s contacts. She’d had the thing only a few hours, but there were two. One was Chester, and the other a first name, Mary. Her sponsor in the program. There was a phone number.
I had the toad’s cell and mine, but wasn’t stupid enough to use either. There was a pay phone nearby. I’d used it to call Misty once, when I was bound with a leather strap around my neck. Don’t ask. And I had just enough quarters for a one-minute call.
After three rings, a female voice, ravaged by cigarettes to the point where it sounded like a cartoon, said, “Yeah?”
“Mary?”
“Yeah?”
I’d have swallowed if it would have helped. “Hessius Mann. I’m looking for Misty.”
“She’s in the can. I’ll get her…”
Something like relief flooded my bones. The other big addict in my life, Dad, tried getting sober, but it never stuck. He used to joke that he’d quit so often he should be getting better at it. Misty, bless her, still wanted to take care of herself. And if she was with a friend, she was safer than I was. Which meant now was not the time to stick my nose in.
“Wait. I don’t want her to know I called. I just want to know if she’s all right.”
A phlegmy laugh. “Well, she ain’t all right. She’s been fucked over, good.”
“Right. I know. I mean to say, are you helping her out?”
“Trying. You the dead Mann?”
“Yeah. If she told you half of what’s been going on, you know there’s trouble. I don’t think she needs more.”
“Shouldn’t that be up to her?”
“I’m not talking emotional stress. Cars are blowing up. People are dying. You tell me, is Misty in any kind of shape to deal with that now?”
Silence.
“Good. I just want her
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