Dead4u Read online

  DEAD4U

  H.E. Johnson

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  House Rules

  Waking Up Is Hard To Do

  Playback

  Mirror, Mirror

  Instant Replay

  Mission Statement

  Me & Mr. White Coat

  Zoo Tour

  In-House/Day1/Start

  Usual Suspects

  Feeding Time

  Killing 101

  Day1/End

  House/Day2

  House/Day3-7

  House/Day8

  Test Drive

  Ghosting Along

  Scratch & Sniff

  House/Day9-13

  House/Last Day

  Making Nice

  Insertion

  First Contact

  Dangle

  Taken

  Monday's Moron

  All Work, No PLay

  Spa Time

  Beddy Boos

  Tuesday's Wild

  A Mouthful of Sugar

  Wednesday Play Date

  Jackie

  Fun & Games

  Gotta Run

  Thursday's Her Day

  Gangbanged

  Heart 2 Heart

  TMI Friday

  The Opposition

  Running in Circles

  All's Fair

  In & Out

  Home Sweet Home

  Saturday's All Right For Dying

  Party Time

  Game Faces

  Leaving the Scene

  Second Time Around

  Fat Lady Speaks

  Sunday, Fun Day

  Life & Death

  Clean up

  Happy Ever After

  Copyright © 2019 by H.E. Johnson

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by podpeoplepress.com

  Morituri te salutant.

  House Rules

  Waking Up Is Hard To Do

  “How do you feel?”

  The black man in the white coat smiled. Looked like a doctor. Talked like a doctor. Trying to act casual the way people do when bad news needs spilling. I swallowed and found my throat dry. Whatever had gone down wasn’t good. I had no recollection of being in a hospital or feeling sick. White Coat Dude scratched his scalp. Yep. Something was wrong.

  Took a sec to nerve up. I raised my head to look down. I was lying on a plain, metal frame bed. Couldn’t see below the cotton sheet tucked under my chin. I made a fist with my right hand. Nails dug into the palm but felt . . . different. Tried flexing my toes next but no luck. Maybe I didn’t have toes. Or feet.

  “Did you understand the question?” asked White Coat. Making that fake smile people use to demonstrate empathy when they don’t give a shit. “You can hear me, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said in a voice sounding a couple octaves deeper than my normal squeak. Clearing my throat, I gave it another shot. “Yes, I understand.”

  Hmm. Voice still resonated way too low. Which might be a side effect of medication. If so, it should be temporary. Like me being stuck here, wherever “here” was. No doubt there’d be forms to sign with tiny disclaimers at the bottom of each page. Health insurance might grumble at the cost of a private room, but they’d pay in the end. Bullet holes, stab wounds and blunt force trauma came under the heading of “work-related injuries”. That was the upside of police work.

  And there was this. The flip side of that coin was a cold grease of fear pooling in my gut.

  “Good,” said White Coat.

  Good? I inventoried my immediate surroundings. No legs suspended overhead in traction. No telltale tubes in arms or nose. No beeping, blinking monitors of any kind. So maybe everything was good.

  To test this theory, I tried raising my right knee. Felt a twinge but that was all. Left knee . . . nothing. That wasn’t good. Not good at all.

  White Coat dropped the smile. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The bluntness of the question stunned me. Course I knew my name! I was Nikita Chen, Detective First Class, attached to Cybercrime Unit, Metro Division. First instinct was to blurt this out, but something felt off. I shut my mouth. Felt the breath of those unspoken words choking me.

  Had a car accident left me hideously deformed? Did Mr. White Coat here suspect brain damage? Hmm. Being paralyzed from a car wreck would explain both the numbness in my toes and that thick wad of cotton wrapped around my skull.

  “You first,” I told him, mimicking the man’s brusque tone. “I seem to be experiencing trust issues.”

  The smile returned. “You don’t remember?”

  First instinct: smash that stupid bedside face to pulp. But action required effort. And this bed felt so very comfy. Face pounding could wait a hot sec.

  Pasting on what I hoped was a jaunty smirk, I replied, “What’s to know? I’m in bed; you’re not. We’re fuck buddies, and you’re shoving off home to the darling wife and two-point-four kiddies or . . .” I paused, hoping White Coat would fill in the missing bits. When he didn’t, I sighed. “Okay—whoever the hell you are—I don’t know how I got here, why I’m here, or what this place is. Happy?”

  White Coat chuckled. Now I really wanted to hurt him. Might’ve tried if my damned brain hadn’t felt frozen.

  I sized up the opposition. Dude was tall and lean with shiny black skin reflecting the room’s fluorescent lights. He looked a tad young for my taste—mid-twenties or so—but a decent bod and killer smile didn’t hurt. Making him easy on the eyes—if not the ears.

  I closed my eyes to refocus. Don’t get distracted. You know better, Nikita. Snap out of it! Now!

  Reopening my eyes, I found White Coat’s smile replaced with that worried face a parent makes when you arrive home at 2 a.m. with black eye and boozy breath. Seems no one had briefed him about me.

  Nikita Chen didn’t do pity.

  Feeling irritable, I snapped, “I hope you’re having fun, coz I’m not. If you don’t want my foot up your ass, tell me how I ended up here.” Exhausted from this outburst, I closed my eyes a moment. Reopening them, I mustered a glare. “Now would be good.”

  White Coat held up his hands in mock surrender. “No problem, Nikita. I’m trying to ease you into this as gently as I can.” He arched an eyebrow. “Given the delicacy of the situation, I thought it best to avoid overloading you with information.”

  “You’re too kind,” I told him. “Now stop fucking around. Who the hell are you? And why am I in this bed?” The words echoed unpleasantly inside my skull. The pain made me wince. “Where the hell is this place anyhow?”

  “Whoa. Let’s take this one step at a time. I’m Griffin.”

  “Griffin?” That didn’t ring any bells. “Is that a first or last name?”

  White Coat smiled. “Neither—or both, if you prefer. Call me Griff or Griffin. I answer to either one.”

  Fuck my life, we have a comedian.

  I said, “Okay, Griff–or Griffin–I’m not up for games today. Let’s fast-forward to a condensed version of why we’re in this cozy little space. If that’s not too much trouble.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  I tried to sit up and nearly fainted. My head did the whirly thing with cartoon birds circling. I eased myself back down to give the question a serious think.

  Holy fuckaroni. I’d been drugged all right—but why?

  Last thing I remembered was sitting in a chair with my head wired to a machine. Human Resources needed to field test a new polygraph for police academy applicants. And I was one of the lucky grunts “volunteered” for the project.

  I looked around the room. Had something happened to me? Had the machine blown up? If so, how many bits of me had gone missing? And could someone put them back? Correctly? Maybe upgra
de face and tits in the process . . . no harm in asking, right? Taking a few miles off the odometer seemed like a reasonable request.

  Then I remembered. McCord! Head slap time. I had to meet McCord—my new snitch—in a couple hours. Fuck me! No time for chitchat or twenty questions. Crystal McCord was a big fish. And I needed her to bait an even bigger fish.

  Getting McCord onside meant promotion and a decent pension plan. Losing her: one giant step downward to traffic duty. That couldn’t happen! Anger burned through the mist blocking my thoughts. I felt rejuvenated. Focussed.

  “What time is it?” I demanded. “I’ve got to motor out of here. Places to be, people to see. You know?”

  Griffin sighed.

  “About that,” he began . . .

  ◆◆◆

  I stared at him.

  “Why am I guessing I won’t like what you’re about to tell me?”

  “I’d say you have remarkably good instincts, Detective Chen.”

  “I felt dizzy just now. Concussion? Drugs? Or is my brain about to go boom-boom?”

  “Postural hypotension. It’s caused by low blood pressure when you sit or stand up. Gets your head spinning like a merry-go-round.” He gave an approving head bob. “That’s a normal side effect, nothing to worry about. Your neural pathways have been rerouted. Symptoms include temporary paralysis, memory loss and disorientation. All of which varies from person to person. Probably feels like you’ve been hit on the head.” Griffin paused. “I’ve also administered a mild sedative.” He held up a hand. “That’s to ease the adjustment.”

  Normally, I’d have been furious, probably violent. But my mood seemed oddly . . . relaxed. Sluggish. Had to be drugs. A bemused reaction seemed out of place in this room.

  I felt like the one semi-sober guest careening about at a wild, drunken bash.

  “There’s more, right? Spill the beans, dude.” Then my inner nice girl took a turn. “Please?”

  Griffin nodded. He said, “You’re here to recover from a traumatic event. I’m a neural programmer. Getting you functional is my job.” He hesitated. Then cleared his throat. “To be clear: we’ve never met, Nikita. That was a test.”

  “And I passed? Good.” I paused to let this info dump sink in. Nope. Something still felt off. I said, “You’re a ‘neural programmer’. Is that even a thing?” As he opened his mouth to explain, I sighed. “Never mind. I’ll let that pass for now. Give me the bad news, Griffin. Coz there has to be bad news, right? That would explain why you’ve sedated me.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. Here comes the bad news. You died. Seven days ago.”

  What the fuck? This had to be a practical joke. Or some nutbar cult had kidnapped me and this was the part where poor Nikita’s brain got neatly laundered. But why go to so much trouble to mess with my head? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy me a few drinks? And just as effective? Hell, I wasn’t that shy. Just ask my sweet little IUD. The stories that baby could tell . . .

  “Nikita?”

  “I’m dead? This is heaven and you’re going to show me around, right? Oh wow! Is this a group tour? Can we stop at the zoo? Please! I love the monkeys.”

  The art of sarcasm appeared to have been lost on this dude. Or maybe he thought caging helpless creatures an act of benevolence. Either way: I was looking at an asshole. Yet I still found this whole business inappropriately—yet hysterically—funny.

  More drugs. Please.

  “If you were dead, this would be a séance.” Griffin laughed. “Well, technically, you were dead—but you aren’t now. And that’s all that matters.” Crossing his arms, he smiled smugly.

  So Mr. White Coat had dragged my ass back from the Land of No Return, No Exchange. Leaving one large unanswered question:

  Why?

  “And this place is some kind of halfway house for lovable shitheads like me?” I looked around. The blandness of the room needed a spot of colour. Fresh blood splatter would add zing. “Do I get to meet famous dead people or learn to play the harp? What?”

  He shook his head. He seemed annoyed. I couldn’t tell if he was pissed at himself or me. Maybe it was both of us. I do tend to annoy people. And this dude was a pain and a half. Six of one . . .

  An unpleasant thought struck me suddenly. Like a crowbar to the not-so-funny bone.

  I said, “Wait a sec. You mean I died on an operating table, right? My heart stopped beating, so I was clinically dead, but you managed to resuscitate me and now I’m okay and ready for discharge. Yeah?”

  “No,” he replied flatly. “You died: clinically, medically and legally. In fact, your body was cremated yesterday. There’ll be a memorial service in the next couple weeks. Paid for and put on by the department.” He shrugged. “You’ll actually be able to attend your own funeral.” Griffin made a wry face. “If you want to, that is.”

  “Yeah? Well I call bullshit.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. Take a look under the covers. Tell me if what you see is what you remember.”

  I stared at the white sheet cocooning the indecipherable shape below my neck. What if I found a hideous patchwork quilt of body parts? Would I beg for a clean death and be denied? What if . . . oh, fuck it!

  I pulled my hands out from under the sheet. Oops. They were definitely NOT mine. Tattoos marked the backs of both hands: a sun on the right, a moon on the left. These hands belonged to my new snitch, a young Caucasian female. And those tattoos linked her to a series of heinous crimes. But if I had her hands, what the hell was she using?

  Griffin said, “From here on out, you’re Crystal Alice McCord. Congrats, Nikita. You live to fight—and die—another day.”

  ◆◆◆

  Lot of stuff crossed my mind. Maybe Griffin was cool. Or maybe he kept a black hat under that white coat, and I'd need to waste his ass once these happy pills had worn off. But right now I needed time to process.

  “Nikita?” Griffin coughed. “Still with me?”

  “Give me a moment,” I told him.

  Griffin said fine. He looked at his watch. Tapping it, he told me he’d be back in ten. Then he turned and left the room.

  ◆◆◆

  What now?

  For fifteen years, my life had revolved around a job. There hadn’t been much time for a personal life. Now that life and job were both kaput. I was a cop stuck in a criminal’s body. Reversal of fortunes? Nah. This was total mindfuck territory. Shit.

  I took. a moment to reflect on missed opportunities for weekend brunches and hot hookups. Yeah, I’d had a few boyfriends—lived with one for six months and another for three years—but no keepers. Nothing serious. Or funny. Friends? Pushed away. Family? Ignored. I’d been so focussed on climbing that corporate ladder, only to find it went nowhere. Fuck my life.

  Okay, I told myself, enough self-pity. Time to rewind.

  Crystal McCord hadn’t been on my radar—not at first anyhow . . .

  Playback

  A series of disappearances had the city in a state of frenzied panic. For nine straight months, a man and a woman had vanished without a trace—a total of eighteen citizens from a broad cross-section of the social strata. All were healthy, young adults in excellent physical condition. None had exhibited signs of mental instability. None had ties to organized crime. Given the regularity of these disappearances and the quirky gender pairing, we—we being the police—suspected a bisexual sociopath with sadistic inclinations. Hoping to prevent mass panic, the Chief gave the case to Missing Persons rather than Sex Crimes.

  Dumb police work.

  Smart PR.

  Being attached to Cybercrime, this round of office politics didn’t affect me. Online predators and scam artists made a full plate and then some. No room for dessert, thank you.

  Then our tip line got a call from a robotic voice using a burner phone. According to our robot tipster, these eighteen missing persons had been kidnapped and forced to fight in a live-streaming combat game called DEAD4U.

  Shit, as they say, flows downhill. And lucky me—Dete
ctive Nikita Chen of Cybercrime—was next in line to catch the random droppings of fate.

  Now I’d heard of DEAD4U. Cyber being my turf and DEAD4U being the web’s most popular site, blissful ignorance wasn’t possible. But I’d never bothered checking it out. Games bored me. And DEAD4U, despite the lurid name, seemed like any other virtual reality combat game played by twitchy losers. Personally, I couldn’t wrap my head around the notion of eSports. Ditto their so-called athletes. But this one had the largest pay-per-view audience in the world. And the online casinos linked to its site were making a fortune off the usual suckers. Still, I told myself, it was only a game.

  Virtual reality never killed anyone.

  Yet duty called, so I answered. Ever dutiful, I visited DEAD4U’s site. The game had been running monthly for nine consecutive months. Two challengers—one male, one female—armed with medieval weaponry, took on DEAD4U’s undefeated champion. Running total: eighteen challengers to date had bitten virtual dust. Which dovetailed neatly with our nine pairs of missing persons.

  Sigh.

  All previous games had been archived and were available on site for download. Stifling further sighs, I binge-watched those nine matches.

  Yuck.

  DEAD4U featured battles to the death using medieval weapons—swords, axes, maces, etc.—between two anonymous online guests and its hammer-wielding house champion, Madam Crunch. Not permitted: shields, armour, throwing weapons, projectile weapons and weapons exceeding 1.5 metres or 4.92 feet.

  Gladiator combat at its finest.

  According to the site’s FAQ, two participants were chosen at random from each online audience to take on Madam Crunch. Challengers used standard videogame controllers to control their virtual selves or avatars. Although free to fight each other, challengers inevitably ganged up on the house champ first. And lost every single time.

  DEAD4U’s champion, Madam Crunch, was a large breasted, heavily muscled female who polished off opponents by crushing their skulls to bloody pulp with a massive sledgehammer. This Madam Crunch—billed as “The Merciless Madam of Dangerous Delights”—was DEAD4U’s star attraction and winner of nine consecutive matches. Her gaming skills and reflexes impressed me.