He turns to Claude.
--What happened?
--We got them. Well, we got all of them but one.
Nathan chimes in.
--Come on, we need to go.
Ernie pushes himself to his feet. He is stronger than before and he ends up pushing so hard he almost falls back over the other direction.
--You OK?
--I’m fine. Let’s get out of this slum.
Ernie’s equilibrium is shit, his body is buzzing and unfamiliar to him. He walks as well as he can toward the door, becoming more familiar with his appendages after each step. As he approaches the front door he catches his reflection in a mirror. He looks like hell. Blood-drenched shirt, bullet-riddled clothing.
The men all exit through the back door, quickly maneuvering between the dark shadows of the buildings until they reach Nathan’s parked van. Six bangers are inside, their hands bound behind their backs and canvas bags over their heads cinched at the neck. Nathan has already gone through the motions to sedate them, but most are so injured they wouldn’t have had much heart for struggling anyway.
--Ernie, you sure you OK? You really look like shit!
--Yeah, I’m OK.
Ernie hops into the back of the van. Nathan closes the door behind him and latches it. Ernie can hear each footstep as Nathan moves in to the driver’s seat, feel the engine rumble to life and the van lurch forward toward “intake.”
Ernie reaches into his pocket and withdraws his now mangled pack of cigarettes, takes out the least smashed one, with only a small circle of blood on it, and lights up. As he draws the smoke in the scent is almost overwhelming. He swallows his disgust and forges ahead, equating the process to just more of his own brand of immersion therapy.
He sits in the back of the van as it rolls quietly out of Morris Heights and starts to take notice of more peculiarities. His night vision, already amazing, is even more improved. The men in the back with him all give off a luminous glow, and with each heartbeat Ernie sees what can only be described as the pulse of their blood. Millions of illuminated channels flowing like incandescent estuaries out from a pulsing hub in the center of their chests, branching out into capillaries in their limbs.
Ernie shakes his head, rubs his eyes, and the effect goes away. As he is rubbing his eyes he notices his hands, perhaps for the first time since he awoke from the bliss. They are no longer the delicate-looking hands of new skin but rather a more weathered and leathery texture. He strokes the lines of his finger and palm prints. The texture of his palm is more like stone than skin, calloused and coarse. His nails are slightly longer and far stronger than before.
Realizing that he is clothed, he wonders to himself what else may have changed, desperately hoping that his member is not a calloused lump now as well. He never gets to use the thing these days—well, really he hasn’t had a proper fuck in a decade, at least not one that he wants to remember. But still, it would be hard to explain to a willing participant should the opportunity arise in the future. Never considered to be a man of overwhelming modesty, he proceeds to check on the status of his dick. He is relieved to find it shipshape and not a calcified caveman club.
***
Ernie finishes three more cigarettes before they get back into the city, each subsequent one declining in quality. He raps on the panel behind Nathan and asks if he can be let out here.
--Ernie, you sure you don’t want me to let you out by your place? You got a solid two-mile walk from here.
--If you don’t mind? I need the fresh air, and these fucking losers aren’t going anywhere.
Nathan reluctantly obliges and Ernie steps out, carefully ensuring that the doors to the van don’t open too wide or allow any wayward eyes to see the back filled with handcuffed and bagged gangbangers. He walks up to Nathan and thanks him for the lift. Nathan hands him another few dram vial filled with product.
--Here you go. You’re going to need
--What happened?
--We got them. Well, we got all of them but one.
Nathan chimes in.
--Come on, we need to go.
Ernie pushes himself to his feet. He is stronger than before and he ends up pushing so hard he almost falls back over the other direction.
--You OK?
--I’m fine. Let’s get out of this slum.
Ernie’s equilibrium is shit, his body is buzzing and unfamiliar to him. He walks as well as he can toward the door, becoming more familiar with his appendages after each step. As he approaches the front door he catches his reflection in a mirror. He looks like hell. Blood-drenched shirt, bullet-riddled clothing.
The men all exit through the back door, quickly maneuvering between the dark shadows of the buildings until they reach Nathan’s parked van. Six bangers are inside, their hands bound behind their backs and canvas bags over their heads cinched at the neck. Nathan has already gone through the motions to sedate them, but most are so injured they wouldn’t have had much heart for struggling anyway.
--Ernie, you sure you OK? You really look like shit!
--Yeah, I’m OK.
Ernie hops into the back of the van. Nathan closes the door behind him and latches it. Ernie can hear each footstep as Nathan moves in to the driver’s seat, feel the engine rumble to life and the van lurch forward toward “intake.”
Ernie reaches into his pocket and withdraws his now mangled pack of cigarettes, takes out the least smashed one, with only a small circle of blood on it, and lights up. As he draws the smoke in the scent is almost overwhelming. He swallows his disgust and forges ahead, equating the process to just more of his own brand of immersion therapy.
He sits in the back of the van as it rolls quietly out of Morris Heights and starts to take notice of more peculiarities. His night vision, already amazing, is even more improved. The men in the back with him all give off a luminous glow, and with each heartbeat Ernie sees what can only be described as the pulse of their blood. Millions of illuminated channels flowing like incandescent estuaries out from a pulsing hub in the center of their chests, branching out into capillaries in their limbs.
Ernie shakes his head, rubs his eyes, and the effect goes away. As he is rubbing his eyes he notices his hands, perhaps for the first time since he awoke from the bliss. They are no longer the delicate-looking hands of new skin but rather a more weathered and leathery texture. He strokes the lines of his finger and palm prints. The texture of his palm is more like stone than skin, calloused and coarse. His nails are slightly longer and far stronger than before.
Realizing that he is clothed, he wonders to himself what else may have changed, desperately hoping that his member is not a calloused lump now as well. He never gets to use the thing these days—well, really he hasn’t had a proper fuck in a decade, at least not one that he wants to remember. But still, it would be hard to explain to a willing participant should the opportunity arise in the future. Never considered to be a man of overwhelming modesty, he proceeds to check on the status of his dick. He is relieved to find it shipshape and not a calcified caveman club.
***
Ernie finishes three more cigarettes before they get back into the city, each subsequent one declining in quality. He raps on the panel behind Nathan and asks if he can be let out here.
--Ernie, you sure you don’t want me to let you out by your place? You got a solid two-mile walk from here.
--If you don’t mind? I need the fresh air, and these fucking losers aren’t going anywhere.
Nathan reluctantly obliges and Ernie steps out, carefully ensuring that the doors to the van don’t open too wide or allow any wayward eyes to see the back filled with handcuffed and bagged gangbangers. He walks up to Nathan and thanks him for the lift. Nathan hands him another few dram vial filled with product.
--Here you go. You’re going to need
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