Benjamin Allocco - Deathform

“All the way out here?”

“He’s everywhere.”

“So he knows.”

“He knows.”

“Those look like coordinates.”

“Yeah.”

“Any ideas what they correspond to?”

“Other than our deaths? No.”

“The barber needs a haircut. The hell does that mean?”

“Well.” Jack takes a big gulp of water. The glass hurts his mouth, but the water melts his throat. He sighs and drinks until its gone. “You know any shaggy barbers?”

The door swings open and in pops Justin with a bag of fast food breakfast.

“Thank the stars,” Dino says. “I’m starving.”

“You’re looking pretty messed up, Uncle Jack.”

“I hadn’t realized.”

“Sorry.”

Jack throws the covers back. Streaks of blood here and there. The cleaning lady’s going to love him. “I’ve been through worse,” he says. A statement that will always be true.

There’s time to rinse in the shower. Filth sloshes off and he keeps the water icy for his bruises. He holds himself against the wall, nearly falls as he towels off.

They stop at a pharmacy kiosk for hangover pills and painkillers. He swipes the front of his portable against the machine and makes his selection and a few tabs pop out of the dispenser. They help with the nausea but not much else. He calls for an autocar and they mill at an empty intersection. They breathe into their fists and hike their collars and bounce on the balls of their feet. The world seems very still. There are no people out, no cars. A typical winter morning in a crumbling Earth city.

“Back to the ship?” Dino says.

“We need a med tech.”

Dino thinks. Realization hits. His face screws up. “Are you kidding me?”

“We’ve got barely eight hours. Can you think of anyone else?”

“We could ask around.”

“It’s too late.”

“You’ve got a soft spot, Jack.”

“She’s good at what she does.”

“And she hates your guts.”

“So do you.”

Dino grunts. “What if things go south? You really want her onboard?”

It’s a valid point. Asking her back now might condemn her to death with the rest of them. Jack says, “If things get hairy, that’s all the more reason to have a qualified tech we can trust. Besides. Like you said, she hates my guts. Chances are she won’t even see me.”

“Which raises another point. Where is she?”

“Long Island. I keep an ear to the ground.”

“Christ. Starvation City?”

“She’s always been an altruist.”

“Are we thinking of the same person?”

“You didn’t know her like I did.”

“It’s been five years.”

“Four years. Four and a half.”

“Whatever.”

Justin has been following this exchange with darting eyes. Finally, he says, “Who the hell are we talking about?”

Mr. Emcee Doyle has pneumonia. Lana can tell just looking at him. The labored breathing, the bags below his eyes, the wet cough like there’s a sponge in his throat. She goes through the motions. Stethoscope here, there, breathe for me, deep breath, thank you, how long have you had that cough and you should have come in sooner. If he could sleep in a warm bed and rest and let the antibiotics do their work he would recover. But there is a good chance when he gets out of here he will trade his meds for HOP or some new addiction makings its rounds. There are the old standbys too. Heroin, HG, meth, crack, P-puff. He lied on his form, said he does not use, but she can see old track marks in the crooks of his arms and when she checks his feet for camp rot there are needle punctures between the toes. Her speech is rote and tired and she delivers it that way. Do you really want to die in this place? You need to take care of yourself. No one can make these choices for you. They can only give you the means. Nod, nod, yes, yes, Emcee Doyle avoiding her eyes and then looking into them all watery and guilty and sincere, but it will not last beyond the front door.

The morning has been slow for once. She lets the next patient wait five minutes while she slips into the back and fills a mug with the last dregs of coffee. She sits under the monitor, mutes the sound, and reads the captions with zero interest. More about that so-called “breaking story,” no longer breaking, no longer a story worth reporting. Rumor control is in high gear. Media apologizing for their hasty conclusions. No sign yet that the object is of extraterrestrial blah blah. Same old. Everyone gets anxious at the mention of aliens. She is sick of them and sure they are not out there and it is time to stop waiting for a savior. They couldn’t save us anymore than she can save Emcee Fucking Doyle.

She swirls her coffee. They are out of sugar again, overdue for a Red Cross shipment. Low on bread and clean water, low on antibiotics and antiseptics and ibuprofen.

Just plain low.

But that’s typical.

The camp’s official title is The Midland Housing and Medical Center for Those in Need, shortened simply to Midland, and later nicknamed Starvation City for obvious reasons. She hasn’t seen a distended belly in a while, but ribcages often show though. It was supposed to be a temporary relief center, formed at the start of the Space Boom, shut down for a few years, then revamped in the aftermath of FROST’s defeat. Still buzzing from victory, the newly re-named Star Nation (previously the Solar Alliance) felt it was high time to fix the solar system’s most miserable cities. NYC and the surrounding areas had been in ruin for years. Finally the risen seas were fought back with levees and pumps and the city reclaimed, as if that would solve the economic realities. A few bankers returned, but not enough to make a genuine difference. She grew up around Saturn and worked there during the war, and it was the same story then. Some places never recovered. Some had been vaporized. Camps such as Midland kept the have-nots out of sight and out of the way of progress. They still do. Physicians like Lana help mop up.

She collects her next patient’s paperwork and reads it on the walk down the hall.

It’s definitely a false name. James Wankerfist.

Ha-ha. Big laugh.

The rest of the form is blank. She’ll rip into the nurses for that later.

She spins inside the room. She says dryly, “Mr. Wankerfist, is it? Looks like you failed to complete your paperwork, so I’ll just have to—”

A man she has not seen in years sits on the table with a bashful—if mangled—smile.

She is supposed to say something clever here. Have some emotional reaction like to guffaw and throw him out of the room or get all pissy about tricking her with a false name. She’s too tired. Plus it looks like he could use some medical attention.

“Hello Jack,” she says.

“Sorry about the name. Dino just blurted it to the receptionist.”

“What happened?” He is clearly in pain. He holds himself crooked on the table, and his left eye has practically swollen shut. Another one of his barroom confrontations, no doubt.

“Had a run-in.”

“Anyone I’d know?”

“A few of Dandy’s guys.”

Jim Dandy. She remembers him all right. Corrupt politician. Extremely rich and even more dangerous. They took jobs from him in the past. Always high priority.

“You’re still running around for those idiots,” she says.

“I run around only for myself.”

“I recall.”

That shuts him up.

“Take off your shirt,” she says. She plucks a couple gloves from a box on the counter.

He blinks.

“You look like hell, Jack. I might as well write a prescription.”

He does what he is told, reveals a torso covered in contusions. Some purple, some greenish yellow. He’ll be pissing blood, judging from the damage around his kidneys.