Daniel Suarez - Daemon

The clattering of metal tools.

“They were the ones who invented rhyme and meter—the programming language for human memory in preliterary civilizations. It was a cultural checksum —a mnemonic device. You couldn’t fuck with the code or the rhymes didn’t work; and if the rhymes didn’t work, people noticed. And so the knowledge of a people was passed down intact. It was a shamanic code. If you fucked with the code, then society lost its collective mind. Smell me?”

A pause.

“Hey, I think our boy’s coming around.”

Sebeck opened his eyes and slowly focused on a pasty-faced twenty-something kid sporting a tangled mane of black hair. A few days’ beard shadowed the kid’s neck and climbed higher than usual up his cheeks. This was a hairy guy.

Sebeck blinked at the overhead lights. He coughed and tried to sit up. A rock-hard surface greeted his elbows when he tried to push up. He immediately abandoned the attempt as his head began to swim.

The hairy kid leaned in close. “Hey, bro, sit back for a few. You’re still trying to metabolize the meds.”

Sebeck noticed the kid was wearing a lab coat. He tried to remember where he was. His brain was mashed potatoes.

Sebeck’s voice croaked. “Where is this?”

“Phoenix Mortuary Services. I call it PMS.”

Sebeck tried again to sit up, and he pushed aside the kid’s hands when he tried to help. “Who—” He stopped short; his throat was sore as hell. He put a hand to his larynx. No exterior damage.

Sebeck leaned to one side and looked around. His eyes tried to focus to a greater distance. He was in a long room with several medical examination tables. Oak cabinetry lined the walls. A strong chemical odor assaulted his nose. He’d smelled this before. Formaldehyde.

Sebeck snapped alert; the body of an old man lay naked on a nearby metal table. The old man was definitely dead because his body had the pallor and flattened appearance that comes when blood pressure and breath leave the human frame.

“Where am I?”

“Like I said, my man: funeral home. That’s where they send dead people. It’s the law. And you, my friend, are legally dead. Got the paperwork to prove it.”

Sebeck looked around for a few moments more, then brought his gaze back to the kid. “Who are you ?”

The kid wiped his hand on his lab coat, then extended it. “Laney Price. Body prep. I take out the pacemakers and shit like that. That stuff’ll blow up if it goes in the furnace.”

Sebeck ignored Price’s hand and tried to shake his head clear. He glanced down, then swung his legs over the edge of the table and sat up.

Price rushed to hold him steady, but Sebeck pushed him back. He glanced down at his own body. He was wearing casual slacks and a pullover shirt. Next to him on the table lay his crumpled prison khakis. He picked them up, balling them up in his fists. That’s right. He remembered now. He had just been executed for murdering federal officers. He was the most hated man in America.

He dropped the khakis and sat motionless, staring at his own hands. A wave of emotion overcame him, and he started to breathe in fits.

He was alive.

Price clapped a hand around his shoulder. “Hey, Sergeant, you’re not dead, man. Relax.”

Sebeck threw off Price’s arm and grabbed him by the throat. “What the fuck is going on!”

Price extricated himself as Sebeck nearly swooned from the effort. “You tell me. You brought me here.”

Sebeck was still trying to clear his head. God, his throat hurt. “What are you talking about?”

“Look…” Price stomped off and tore a newspaper clipping from its place on a nearby bulletin board. He came back to the examining table and pointed at the clipping—a file picture of Sebeck below the headline Sebeck’s Macabre Message.

“Message received, compadre.”

Sebeck grabbed the article. It was months old. His head started to clear as the adrenaline kicked in. It worked. The Daemon had saved him.

But why?

Before he could ask another question, Price tossed him a plastic water bottle. “Electrolytes. Better drink up.”

Sebeck realized just how thirsty he was. He cracked open the water and drank deeply. His throat throbbed.

Price continued. “Ol’ One-eye’s been asking for ya. He’s all up in my grill, an I’m like, yo, back off, Methuselah. That sprite is a screen saver from hell, I swear it, man. He’s a fourth-dimensional stain.”

Sebeck finished the bottle. “You want to say that again in English?”

“For being in charge, you seem woefully uninformed.”

“What do you mean, ‘in charge’?”

Price threw up his hands. “See, you gotta talk to One-eye. Hang on a sec.” Price headed over to a locked cabinet, pulled out a choked key ring, and started cycling through the keys. He talked while he searched. “You know, it’s an honor to finally meet you. You drew a lot of ink. Most of it said you were evil incarnate, but we all know that’s horseshit. That Anji Anderson chick is out to get you, but evil or not, that bitch is fuckin’ hot. I’d do her. Evil Daemon bitch. Laney likes the bad girls….”

Sebeck was looking around the room again. “You were talking to someone earlier. Something about myths and rhyme.”

Price paused. “You heard that?”

“Is someone else here?” Sebeck glanced around cautiously.

Price just snickered to himself. “Yeah, bad habit from working with dead people.” He stuck a key in the lock. “They’re good listeners, though. Haven’t heard a complaint yet.”

He rummaged around in the cabinet and came out with a sealed plastic box. Price walked back to the examining table, struggling to open the seal. “Damned things. It’s the Asians that do this.” He fished around among the scalpels on his worktable, near the body of the old man. “You know, the average Chinese factory worker must think Americans are insane. Picture this: you work at a plant that makes Halloween stuff—you know, like, rubber severed heads. And you’re all like: Americans decorate their homes with severed heads? These fuckers are savages, man.”

Sebeck slowly leaned forward and tried to stand. He still felt woozy.

“I wouldn’t do that yet if I were you.”

“You’re not me.” Sebeck managed to stand, still holding the table to steady himself. “So, you say I created this place?” He glanced around. “By sending that message to the Daemon?”

Price got the box open. “All will become clear, young grasshopper, when you talk to One-eye. Then maybe he’ll get off my ass.” Price pulled an intricate and expensive-looking pair of sports sunglasses from the box. It was sealed in yet another plastic bag. “Why do they do this shit?” He started biting into the plastic and twisting.

“One-eye?”

Price gave him a look. “Do you have several one-eyed undead freaks stalking you, Sergeant? Should I be more specific?”

Sobol.

Price now pulled the glasses out of the bag. They were stylish, with yellow-tinted lenses and hip frames, but the posts were unusually thick. Price also pulled a thick beltlike device from the box. He glanced at Sebeck and started adjusting a strap. “Just take me a sec. You’re a what, size thirty-eight?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Damn. I’ve gotta lose about forty pounds myself. But then again, you were on the”—air quotes here—“Lompoc prison diet.”

Sebeck just pointed at the glasses.

“Oh, HUD—heads-up display. It’s an interface to the Daemon network. Check this shit out.”

“The Daemon network?”

“Can’t see the TOP without the HUD.”

“Stop with the acronyms.”

“I’ve got acronyms for my acronyms.” He held up the belt and clicked a battery into place. “Ready. Here, put this on.” He handed it to Sebeck.