It’s busy here. Men and women in dark suits crowd the bar and gesture at the holoscreens. He doesn’t belong. A blue collar sweat-stain among the business class. They try not to glance in his direction and fail. Two men with buzz cuts swagger through the archway and find stools at the bar. Big dudes with tribal tats on their cheeks. They catch him watching and turn their backs. No comradery among misfits.
His waitress is a pretty young girl with dark skin and wide hips under a black apron. She probably admires all these suits around, wants to be them one day but never will. He orders a Belgian ale with a real-beef burger and fries. It’s expensive but worth it.
While she’s gone, he turns to the holoscreens. That same generic space feed from earlier plays on every one. There’s a banner at the bottom of the screen but he can’t read it this far away.
When the waitress returns, he points. “Something happen?”
Her face lights up, mischievous. “Just the first definitive proof of extraterrestrial life.”
He grunts and takes his beer and swallows a gulp.
“My thoughts exactly,” she says with a smirk.
“What are they saying this time? More microbes that’ll turn out to be salt or whatever?”
“Supposedly, they found something big. Maybe a ship.”
“Right.”
“Mm-hmm. All hearsay, of course. Rumors and speculation.”
Jack raises his glass. “To rumors and speculation.”
“No official announcement yet.” She pouts. It seems genuine, this hint of disappointment. Like maybe, despite the sarcasm, she’s hoping for something big.
“I was holding out for another panel discussion,” he says.
She winks, and that flash of sadness is replaced by her friendly-waitress act. She says the food should be out shortly and turns tail back to the kitchen.
His portable buzzes again. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s the Dandy.
The food sits in his gut deep and solid and he drinks six beers and a shot of tequila for the road and leaves a generous tip. The holoscreens move onto something else and the alcohol makes them blurry. He burps, shoves from the table and sways, a sour cloud above his head.
He spots their shadows in his peripheral before they’re on him—two black shapes on either side. It’s too cramped to spin and fight, so he lets the hands slap his back and grip his elbows. Hot breath in his ear says, “Good to see you again, Jack. How long’s it been?”
The buzzcut tough guys from the bar. He doesn’t know them. They smell like aftershave and oil.
“We really oughtta catch up,” the other says.
“Let’s get some fresh air.”
These are not your run-of-the-mill HOPheads. Of all the richies at the bar, a couple junkies would choose the best-dressed, not the worst. They targeted him. Waited while he finished his meal.
Out into the cold again.
His legs are unsteady. As they drag him, he subtly pats his pockets, hoping to find a weapon he forgot about. There’s the small military can opener in his front hip pocket, a piece of metal about the size of a nail clipper, another object he depended on in the prison camp. He’s been carrying it and the canteen every day since. It’s still sharp, and the canteen heavy with water.
He stammers some halfhearted pleas. Whatever this is, guys, we can work it out…
They move him down the sidewalk, away from the hotel, into the shadows.
They shove him against a wall.
The first fist in his stomach sends the night’s refreshments onto the pavement.
“The fuck,” says the guy who hit him.
Doubled over, he fingers the can opener and snaps the canteen’s holster free.
The guys lift him upright and fling him back.
His head hits the brick. He drops onto his ass. Warm pain bleeds into delirium. His half-assed plan goes fuzzy. It’s hard to see. The camp is dark. The lights are out. He’s supposed to be asleep. Blood in his mouth. He bit his tongue.
The guards must have caught him scrounging.
They’ll kill him now.
He says, “I’ll work harder.”
“Damn right,” they say.
Sting of vomit in his nostrils. “I’ll choose. I can choose. I’ll choose anyone.”
“What’s he talking about?”
“He’s piss fucking drunk.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. He sobs. He doesn’t need to fake it.
Other men refuse to beg. They fight back. Sometimes the guards respect this. Sometimes they hit back harder. Sometimes they cut off your head and leave it outside your hut for your friends to find.
“Christ,” says one of the guards.
“This is just sad, bro.”
“Yeah well. We got a job to do.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You gonna tell that to Dandy?”
Dandy? Jim Dandy? In the camp? Was he here with Jack the whole damn time?
He’s probably been bribing the guards.
One of the guys lifts him by the lapels and lands a hard right cross under his eye. Jack sees white, then the alley, then the buzzcut beefcakes. They aren’t FROST guards in camp Gertrude. They’re a couple of ugly Americans in a New York City back alley.
“God dammit,” the guy says, and drops Jack onto the pavement. “I can’t do it either.”
Jack does not wait for them to change their minds. He pinches the can opener hard between the knuckle of his forefinger and his thumb and slashes upward, catching the fabric of one of their shirts. At the same time, he flings his canteen hard at the other guy’s head, jumps upright and runs wild and crooked through the night.
“Tried to cut me!” one of them yells.
Jack laughs.
“Catch him!”
Something rises out of the night in front of him. A black shape looming. He sees it but his feet are slush from the drinks and the punches and he can’t correct.
Whap.
He slams into a defunct USPS drop box. He flops to the ground, moaning.
The men catch up, their apprehension gone.
When they’re done, when his mouth feels like pulp and he can’t see from his left eye and there’s nothing in his stomach to puke up, they tuck something down the front of his shirt. A piece of paper. They walk off, muttering and shaking their heads. He digs the paper out and holds it to his face, but the writing won’t hold still. He tucks it back, rolls over and floats in the void.
Chapter 5
“God amighty,” a familiar voice says. “Let’s get him up.”
Arms grab him and lift.
“He’s covered in puke and blood.”
“And piss.”
“Are you sure he’s alive?”
Jack moans to let them know he is. “Hotel,” he says. “Room.”
“Okay, big guy. Just take it slow.”
He squints into the early dawn. Dino and Justin squint back.
“You could’ve froze,” Dino says.
“Not frozen. Doin fine.”
“Okay, man. No problem.”
“Canteen,” he says. “Can opener.”
“We’re on it. Just take it easy.”
They limp toward the hotel.
He wakes again in an unfamiliar bed. The light from the window burns. New clothes lie beside him, including underwear. Everything hurts. Neck, ribs, kidneys, face. He checks each tooth with his tongue. Nothing loose. A small mercy.
“Careful who sees you in those clothes,” Dino says from a nearby recliner. “The shops were all closed. We tested their window strength and they did not pass.”
There’s a nightstand by the bed. The holoclock reads nearly 8am.
“You tracked my portable?”
“You weren’t answering my calls. I figured with all the shit we’re in, better check.”