Into the Fire (31 page)

Mr. Meltoni was really grateful; he even insisted I took a spell off. For some reason, though, his wife was never the same with me again. Even worse, from then on she took to calling her mutt “Mitzi the Minder”—she even had it inscribed on its damn diamanté collar. Forget the fact that it was me who took the bullet, that I put my body between her and two gunmen.

But the point is, either you do or you don't, and despite what you might think now, you won't know until it happens. And I guess it's just as well that most of us go through our lives without ever having to finding out. It really depends on who you are and what it is you want to protect. Doubtless Jimmy was right: what I was doing was suicide. Someone was probably loading a bullet or firing up a laser that had my name on it even as I passed out. But I was doing what I could to protect the woman I loved, not to mention the child we'd created together, and when it comes down to it, we'd all do that, wouldn't we?

In a way, it was that convoy of white trucks that'd really set me thinking. The fact that they went into Infinity at more or less the same time on set afternoons. It didn't make any sense. They were “clean-up” vehicles for transporting the dead (leaving them in dumpsters, apparently), so why did they need to go to Infinity?

Of course, anyone with half a brain would've got it right away. When I told Jimmy, he didn't so much as bat an eyelid, as if I was doing no more than stating the all too damn obvious. If there was one thing Gordie falling victim to an enticer had taught us, it was that the transplant business was
way
out of control. And thanks to Jimmy, we also knew that satellite poisoning meant there was an
endless queue of people clamoring for replacement organs. Nothing was coming over from the Island anymore and the price had obviously gone through the roof, so I guess it made perfect sense for Specials to go through the bodies after a Clean-up, checking for any that might have something worth taking. Young people mostly, but others, too—like some old dude who looked like he must've recently stumped up the cash for a new young kidney? Who had the typical scar of a back-street transplant surgeon? He'd be taken to Infinity's hospital wing to be investigated . . . wouldn't he?

Okay, and if you're thinking that's a fair example of taking a bullet for someone, then you still gotta little ways to go. See, even if I stayed more still than the dead themselves on that grass, getting dragged off and heaped up along with other possible donors, there'd still be no chance of me getting into Infinity, 'cuz the moment they scanned the truck at the gate and checked life forms against Infinity personnel, it'd be all over. I wouldn't have to
play
dead, I would be.

For a while that was where I got stuck, there just didn't seem to be any way, then I remembered what Dr. Simon had done with Lena, how he was able to transport her without risk of being discovered. And that was why I went to see Jimmy, to get him to look up his analysis of what was in that syringe and make up some more.

So now I hope it makes sense? I was actually standing in front of the bullet. It was on its way toward me. Jimmy had warned me a thousand times I was relying too much on conjecture, that if I had one detail wrong, made one incorrect assumption, my whole plan would come tumbling down like a troupe of weak-kneed acrobats. He could've also added that it would probably cost me my life.

Whatever happened, the little guy'd been determined I'd come to no harm 'cuz of him. His role in this was absolutely crucial, his calculations had to be spot-on. I don't know how big the window was between me being scanned at the gate and when the bodies started getting cut up, but for comfort I reckoned I needed to start coming around almost the moment I was inside the compound.

At first he'd said it was impossible, that there were far too many variables—the strength of the mixture, my body weight, what I'd
eaten—any number of things. And he kept punctuating his sentences with that same warning, over and over: that he wasn't “any kind of chemist!”

I hoped he was setting himself up as usual, trying to make a task look even more difficult than it was, but there was an uncertainty about him I didn't recognize. Maybe this was too much even for Jimmy?

Anyways, I'm sure you can fill in the rest. After weeks of intense thought, walking the City, not sleeping at night, that was what I'd come up with—a shot so long it was gonna have to follow the curvature of the Earth. But what did you expect? People don't change: I'm just a dumb old big guy, and to tell ya the truth, it wouldn't've surprised me if I'd never woken from that long cold darkness.

I don't know when, but at some point I realized my eyes were open, and they'd been that way for a little while. There was no thought there, though, in fact, no connection between them and any other part of my body. I guess I'm dead. I have to be. I don't have any kind of physical presence at all,
nothing
to indicate I'm still part of this world. Finally it's happened . . . I stood in front of one too many bullets.

An automatic door opens somewhere, shushing wide, vibrating when fully extended, then shushing back closed again. Someone must've come in. But come in where? Maybe I'm not dead? Maybe I'm in a coma?

I hear muttering voices, but I don't understand what they're saying. It could be a foreign language, but I don't think so. It's my language; I just don't understand it. And where the hell's my body? Do I have one? Has someone taken it away? Only my eyes remain, sitting in a cold dish of some unspecified solution, with just my bloodshot old pupils staring out.

I feel it. Only dully at first, but slowly it becomes that bit more acute. Someone's taken hold of my dish and is moving it around,
slopping the solution over the sides, my eyeballs almost going with it.
Be careful, will ya! That's my only remaining contact with life.
Yet eventually the dish is set down, but along with something else, that I'm pressed hard up against and don't like. I think it's a body—right next to my dish—and at last I realize I'm not a dish at all, I'm still a bag-a-bones old big guy.

The body started rocking back and forth, as if something was causing it to vibrate. There was a saw working near me, buzzing away, eagerly going about its work. I didn't like that sound, not just the buzzing, but the material it was slicing through. It was soft, vulnerable, not at all right for the sharp whirling blade of a circular saw. And finally my mind clicked into gear enough for me to recognize what was going on: the body was being cut up. I could actually hear them going inside it, the slurping, squelching sound of them searching for anything worth taking.

Now I knew where I was. I was at the butcher's and he was going to slaughter me, cut me up into pieces and display me in his window: sell me in portions to be taken away and cooked, roasted or barbecued—Jeez, I had to get outta there. I had to cram myself back into my body, fill it from head to toe, and make it whisk me away.

I tried to move, but they must've secured me somehow; I couldn't budge, not even lift a finger. All I could manage was to open and shut my eyes. I tried again, my brain sending out the necessary signals, but still my body remained dormant, dead.

I heard more movement, the sounds of people lifting a substantial weight: another body, maybe. The one next to me, the one they'd cut up and ransacked, was dragged away. I heard it thump heavily down onto the floor.
Jesus! Was it my turn?
Someone ran something down my scar—maybe his finger?—and made some comment about what a botched job it was . . .

Hey! Wait a moment!
I felt that! My body was beginning to respond, to regain some sensation. And at that precise moment, the circular saw was turned on again, whirring back into life, and I could hear it coming toward me.

I wanted to jump up, to get away from there as fast as I could, but I still couldn't move. Time and time again I sent the message out, begging my body to do what I was asking, 'til finally, I tried so hard that body and mind collided and I sort of convulsed.

“Shit!” a male voice near me cried—I guess the guy who'd been holding the circular saw.

“What's the matter?” asked another male from the other side of the room.

“He moved!”

“Dylan!”

“
He fucking moved!
”

“He's just settling! It's rigor mortis—he's been dead for a day.”

The guy with the circular saw never replied but I could feel him standing there watching me. I dug down as deeply as I could, searching for the places where I was re-forming, where my mind and body were spluttering back into life, and finally I managed to turn and look him in the face.

“
Jesus!
” he gasped, dropping the circular saw and jumping back.

Despite my head feeling as if it weighed substantially more than my entire body, I still managed to raise it up a few inches. I hadn't been so wrong about it being a butcher's: that was exactly what it looked like, with bodies, parts of bodies, limbs and innards strewn everywhere.

“Kill him!” came the voice from across the other side of the room.

“Fuck! . . .
Fuck!
” his stunned companion kept repeating as he backed further away, and finally realizing I wasn't secured at all, I struggled up on one elbow.

I was on a long bench, one of maybe twenty or thirty bodies, most of them, it pains me to say, children. I tell ya, I've never seen anything so repulsive, so utterly inhuman, in all my life.

The guy on the other side of the room despaired of his companion and came at me with a large knife. I didn't know if I had the strength, the coordination, anything at all, to fight him, but grabbed this stool next to the bench and started swinging. The only problem
was, I was lurching and swaying around like I'd been on a bender for the last two weeks.

He started jabbing the knife at me, partly posturing, partly hoping to do me some damage. I waited 'til I thought he was in range then swung the stool at him as hard as I could, almost swinging myself off my feet and missing him by the proverbial country mile. But the effort, the need to make myself function,
was
starting to accelerate my recovery. I swung again, this time only missing by half a country mile. One further attempt and—I gotta admit, more by accident than anything—I managed to knock the knife out of his hand. He immediately tried to run but hit the bench and I was able to get in a good shot to the head and down he went. I turned, lurching toward the door, trying to cut the other guy off, managing to nail him just as he was frantically punching the door-open button.

But ya know, my body might've been swinging back into operation, but my mind was still fumbling around for the “on” switch. For several seconds I just stood there, frowning at the guys on the floor, wondering who the hell they were . . . Where was I? What was I doing there?

I went to the door, opened it a crack and peered out into a long shiny corridor smelling of antiseptic: a hospital, for sure, which explained the bodies, but not what was going on. Why were they being cut up? And where'd they come from?

And then slowly, I started to get a feeling, not remembering exactly, but a sense that something terrible had happened. Something was skulking in a corner of my mind; something I knew I'd regret remembering . . . People being killed . . . carnage . . .
slaughter
. And just like I was in the dark of that stadium and they'd turned on the lights, it all came back to me.

Jesus!
This must be Infinity! The plan worked! God bless ya, Jimmy, I knew I could count on you . . . And that meant—oh my God!—
I was somewhere near Lena!

I went to the door and checked the corridor again. I needed two things: one, to know her exact location, and two—'cuz it would've
been picked up by the scanner if I'd tried to smuggle one in—some kind of firearm.

I had to wait a while, but finally saw a Special approaching. I ducked back in 'til he was just about level with me, then leapt out and grabbed him, yanking him into the room. I hit him in the stomach, winding him, and as he collapsed to the floor, grabbed his laser. He started to struggle, but stopped when he felt his own weapon jammed up against his temple.

“Where's Lena?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Where's the woman they're holding? Where's Dr. Simon?” I demanded, pressing the laser harder, making an indentation on his forehead.

He hesitated just long enough for me to be sure he knew what I was talking about. “I don't know!”

I didn't have time to play games. I flicked the laser to “stun” and shot him in the leg and he doubled up in agony. “I'd try harder if I were you.”

He just lay there, moaning with pain, but I went to shoot the other leg. “No!
No—!
” he begged.

“Five seconds,” I told him, but he didn't need them.

“Top floor,” he cried, “Everything's up there.”

I upped the laser a little more and shot both him and the two butchers laying comatose on the floor in the head. By the time they came around, I'd either be far away or back lying on that table.

As I made way down the corridor an alarm went off. I didn't know if it was something I'd done, or what Jimmy was up to over by the fence, but as I searched for the elevator, several people who should've challenged me were too busy looking out the window, giving out with these little gasps and cries, the occasional stunned expletive, which I guessed meant the growlers were out.

I found the stairs and decided to take them, glancing out the window on my way up and sure enough, seeing a pack of growlers over by the fence. It took me a couple of moments to appreciate that they had someone down on the ground, that they were jostling each
other to get in on the kill. I briefly panicked, thinking it might be Jimmy or one of the kids, but I could just about make out a Special's uniform.

What the hell'd happened, I didn't know. Maybe there was some kind of misunderstanding or malfunction? Surely the growlers could be turned off if necessary? Or maybe Jimmy'd done something? Whatever, the guy was paying dearly; even from where I was, I could hear his screams.

It wasn't hard to work out why he'd gone over there. Someone—and though I couldn't see them clearly, with all that grace and poise, it just had to be Hanna—had climbed the fence and was now surfing the cameras; riding one, doing a couple of little ballet steps, pirouetting around, kicking out the lens, then stepping off and waiting for the next. That was probably what'd set off the sirens. The guy must've gone over there to stop her, maybe shoot her down, but with the aid of the growlers, Hanna's dance of destruction was carrying on unimpeded.

Knowing how competitive Gigi was, I would've expected to see her over there riding cameras too, but there was no sign, and it went through my head that maybe that was just the slightest cause for hope. If she wasn't with them, maybe she was overseeing a little inside help—for sure, it was beginning to look like I'd need it.

When I got to the top floor, it was the same story as below: more and more people were clustering around the windows.

“It left the lawn!” a woman squealed, obviously talking about a growler. “Look!”

“Some kinda malfunction,” an older Special told her, trying to sound reassuring. “They'll fix it.”

“How am I going to get home?”

I hadn't really appreciated just how much of a distraction the growlers would be. I saw this corridor leading off the reception area with a private sign over it and had almost sneaked down there without anyone noticing. However, at the last moment the older Special glanced back and caught me.

“Hold it!” he shouted, drawing his weapon.

I ran as laser blasts started instantly scoring the walls and floor around me. Turning, firing back, I managed to drop this young guy coming after me and made it to the end of the corridor and around the corner. There were several doors in front of me, but only one with a couple of guards posted on it. The nearest guy just about got his weapon up and pointed in my direction, but I got my shots away first, leaping over both bodies before they'd even settled. I tried the door, to my relief finding it unlocked.

Nothing mattered to me in that moment other than the person I was desperately hoping to see inside, in whose eyes I prayed I was about to live. However, when I got in there, I was met by an empty room, large, expensively furnished—they really were taking good care of her—and yet, the moment that thought entered my head that this was where she'd normally be, I knew something was wrong. Even if it was an unfamiliar place, I should still get a sense of her.

I heard a commotion out in the corridor and punched the button to deadlock the door, then, just to make sure, melted it with my laser, grateful to see that the whole thing was heavily reinforced. No one would be coming through there for a while.

I was tempted to just call out her name, to shout it in the way I'd wanted to for so long, but caution urged me to go quietly. I went through the door at the end of the room into a short hallway and was confronted by two other doors, one slightly ajar. A man's voice came from inside—Jesus, it was only a few words, but I knew who it was immediately. Dr. Simon!

I pushed the door open as slowly as I could, inch by inch, breath by breath, dearly hoping to see Lena. However, she wasn't there. It was someone else, and I gotta say, one of the most disturbing sights I've ever seen in my life.

Dr. Simon stood there in all his usual finery—immaculately tailored suit, pristine white shirt, shiny silk tie; hair that had never spent more than two weeks away from a hairdresser's scissors or two minutes from a comb—but this time, however, he was jacketless, and his sleeves were rolled up as he massaged someone on
the table. I say “someone,” but it couldn't've been more obvious who it was.

Nora Jagger was stretched out on her front, utterly naked, though that wasn't the first thing to strike me about her. The doc was working on her legs, or what little there was of them. See, Gigi had been right: she really had had all her limbs removed, and I tell ya, it really shook me. It wasn't what she looked like, it was what she'd
done
. How could she? What sorta person would have their arms and legs cut off so they could attach stronger—more
lethal
—artificial ones?

I must've made a noise, let out a groan or something, 'cuz suddenly they both turned toward me. Nora Jagger's reaction was instantaneous—she was off that table and scrambling across the room with surprising agility. The reason was all too obvious: her artificial legs and arms were lined up and plugged into the top of this machine, hands and feet in the air, maybe recharging in some way. Just for a moment the sight of her, naked and limbless, squirming across that floor, left me at a loss, not knowing how to react, but I recovered sufficiently to squeeze a laser-blast between her and her prosthetics. She lost balance and toppled to the floor, lying there without a stitch.