“We’ll need to take some of them back to Goldman Dome for study. Three should be enough for now.”
Nora takes a step toward the man. “I said get out.”
We notice things about Nora Greene that interest us. Many small scars darken the skin of her arms and face, and her left hand is missing a finger: chapters of her life written bold on her flesh, calling us to read them. The man in the white shirt notices these things too, and they concern him. But not as much as the pistol in Nora’s right hand, which she is tapping emphatically against her thigh.
The man pulls out his walkie. “Management? Request assistance in the Medical building.” He looks from Nora’s blood-smeared scrubs to her blood-shot eyes. “We’re encountering resistance.”
I
I DON’T SLEEP well. I’m not good at it. Sleep is a ceasefire with life, and I don’t trust my opponent. I lie awake all night expecting ambush. In my Dead days, sleep meant lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling, trying to regather my decomposing consciousness. I would go months without it, and when it came it was always a terrible collapse. No peaceful descent into a feather bed with a book and a cup of chamomile; more like a surprise bullet to the kneecap, dropping me to the floor in a confused and frightened pile.
Since the first night I closed my eyes and truly dreamed, lying next to Julie on a stranger’s mildewed mattress, my relationship with sleep has improved, but it’s still dysfunctional. Most nights find me listening to her soft snores deep into the morning, passing the time by trying to decode her twitches and whimpers and half-formed words, imagining what colourful horrors her brain has prepared for her and wondering how to comfort her when she wakes up. If I’m lucky, I’ll drift into a shallow slumber for an hour or two, but my mind, traumatised by years of death, remains wary of anything that resembles it.
So in a way, getting knocked unconscious by the butt of a gun is rather refreshing. I haven’t slept this well in ages.
Deep in a dark alley of my mind, a grizzled street prophet is muttering news of fire and judgement, but I ignore him and stride past with my chin held high. I feel light. I am on a tropical island, swimming in warm blue water while gulls soar above and dolphins glide below. My abs are cut gems and my skin is a healthy bronze. Julie is on the beach in a bikini and sunglasses, oiling her flawless body, her huge breasts, her endless legs; we are on vacation, we are in love, we are—
We are in a nightclub and the music is pounding and I am dancing with Julie. I dance well; my hips and limbs swing in perfect rhythm, pantomiming sex in front of a hundred strangers without a hint of shame. My pockets are full of money and drugs and Julie is grinding into me with abandon, her long hair whipping into my face, her red skirt hiking higher and higher and everyone is watching us with envy and lust. I smirk at them and take Julie home to our high-rise condo and we fuck all night without pause or reservation, not looking at each other but at the city below our windows, spreading itself before us like a submissive whore offering us everything—
I am on a private plane, ensconced in soft leather and bathed in tropical jazz, looking down on endless miles of ruined cities and all the poor fools still inhabiting them. Julie sits next to me, and the sight of her brings a stern frown to my face, because I am dressed for serious business, silver shirt and red tie, but she’s not wearing a pantsuit or pencil skirt or even a shoulder-padded blazer; she’s wearing jeans and a plaid flannel, a red stocking cap pulled over her tangled hair. I am about to scold her when I notice my own outfit is also a little off. The fabric of my shirt has a thick, tough texture, and instead of classic Italian wingtips: heavy black boots caked with mud.
I look up at Julie. Her face is tight with sadness and fear, pleading with me. The edge of her cap is wet; a trickle of blood runs down her forehead and pools in her eye.
I glance to my right and see two men and a woman wearing the same outfits I’m wearing. One of the men has a silver briefcase. He winks at me. I feel myself lifting out of my seat as the plane dives, hurtling down into an endless expanse of dark green trees. The music gets louder as we fall, the marimbist striking the tines in a rage, breaking the mallets.
“Please don’t leave me,” Julie whispers into my ear. “Please don’t go back.”
• • •
My eyes open halfway, but I’m not confident that I’m awake. The music is still there, down to a reasonable volume now; the tropical jazz fades into an upbeat country number, still watery and nondescript but with a faint twang to indicate we have shifted cultures. I’m in some kind of dark chamber and the music is emanating from a speaker in the ceiling, but it’s hard to make out details through the profusion of colourful spots in my vision, like a Fourth of July firework show between me and the outside world. My head pounds.
I hear the squeak of hinges, and a blurry silhouette hovers in the doorway. The face comes into focus for just a moment before my eyes slacken again, but it’s enough to pour a sludge of fear into my delirium, because I recognise the face, and it belongs to someone who is dead. Perhaps I’m dead, too. Perhaps I died years ago, and Hell is a flooded planet of starving children and walking corpses and endless, senseless war.
I summon air into my lungs and croak, “Perry?”
I catch a glimpse of startled eyes, then the firework show resumes, the pedal steel swells—
I’m on a ranch. I’m holding the rope while Julie trots the new colt around the arena; I’ve never seen her happier; her face is—