Dead4u Read online

  “Here?”

  Novak shrugged. “You can discuss it with the instructor. That’s not my area.”

  I didn’t ask what her “area” might be. Torture maybe. Surely not intelligence? When Novak asked why I was giggling, I told her it was nerves.

  That was my area.

  Feeding Time

  I went to the lunchroom. As I neared the fridge, its silvery voice welcomed me.

  “Water is essential to good health,” the machine declared. “At your current weight, optimum daily intake is 2.75 litres.”

  “Thanks.” I opened the fridge. Grabbing a mineral water, I unscrewed the cap and saluted the fridge with the bottle. “Here’s looking at you, asshole.”

  “I see you also, Nikita,” replied the fridge. “Your sphincter muscles are functioning within normal parameters for your age and gender. Please avoid placing oversized objects within your anal cavity and remember to wash your hands after defecation. Thank you.”

  Everyone’s a comedian.

  ◆◆◆

  Hydrating burned six minutes. That left nine minutes for a bathroom excursion where I relieved myself of an earlier hydration. Washed my hands too, just in case the All-Seeing Refrigerator had its eye on me.

  Next stop: physical training.

  Killing 101

  The instructor was Wolseley. He didn’t bother saying hello. He tossed the hammer over the conference table at me. I grabbed it to avoid being hit.

  “Lesson number one: don’t catch a weapon barehanded.” Wolseley smirked. “Good way to lose a finger.”

  I kept quiet. Wolseley nodded. On the conference table was a katana (or samurai sword) sheathed in its scabbard. Taking the scabbard in one hand, he withdrew the sword slowly. Metal gleamed under fluorescent lighting.

  He said, “This is every wannabe warrior’s weapon of choice. They see a katana in a movie. Next thing you know, they need to play with one too.” He looked at me. “Your personnel record says you’re good with a sword or nunchaku.” He paused. “Anything else?”

  “Semi-automatics. Glocks preferably.”

  Wolseley barked a harsh, staccato laugh. “Too bad you can’t take one into the game. That’s life, huh?”

  I ignored his pathetic attempt at bonhomie to focus on my new toy. The hammer solid steel and heavier than I’d expected. Silver. Polished to a mirror finish reflecting a stranger’s face. I gave it a single-handed test swing. Good for close quarters, I decided, but getting inside a trained swordsman’s guard was easier said than done.

  Wolseley was watching me. The gleam in his eyes belied a stoic expression. Grasping the katana with both hands, he shifted into a classic stance with sword overhead. I found myself staring up at the blade’s point.

  “Against a downward strike, advance and block with the wide part of the head. Snag the sword, then slide the hammer down the blade to smack your opponent.” Wolseley’s tone was coolly clinical. “Sidestep and parry a direct thrust. Again: follow with a hit on the hand or hilt. That’s enough to disarm anything short of a gorilla.”

  “What do you recommend for the kill?”

  Wolseley didn’t hesitate. “Two-handed bayonet-style thrust to belly. Then wind up and whack a kneecap or two. Once an opponent’s down, smash the skull. Repeat till opponent stops breathing.” He paused. “Attacking like a berserker with wild roundhouse swings could overpower a weak defence, but why risk a lucky counter? Even an idiot can kill you with a katana. That’s why it’s such a popular choice with the idiot crowd.”

  “Okay. Got it. Anything else?”

  Wolseley sheathed the sword. Then he dragged an enormous gym bag from under the conference table. Unzipping this bag he emptied its contents onto the conference table. I recognized the bogu (or kendo armour) used for fighting with bamboo swords known as shinai. Also included: one sword and one oversized hammer but these too were bamboo mock-ups of the real deals. Blunted for safety.

  I looked at him. “Are we fighting in here?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? You need to be ready for anything.”

  “I’ve died before. I can handle the small stuff.”

  Piggy eyes narrowed to slits. Oops. Nikita wasn’t making nice with the porker in the sandbox.

  “Good,” Wolseley spat out. “Here comes the small stuff.”

  He sorted through the armour and made two piles: one for me, one for him. He asked if I remembered how to wear the armour. In truth, it had been a few years. But I wasn’t about to admit that now. Little Piggy needed taking down a peg or twenty.

  Putting on the armour I watched Wolseley for tips. If he noticed, he didn’t let on. When we were done, he took the bamboo sword and threw me the play hammer.

  I let it hit the wall and fall to the floor.

  “Reflexes off?” Wolseley sneered.

  “Lesson number one. Don’t catch a weapon barehanded.”

  He nodded. “Short term memory’s working at least.” He pointed at the hammer. “Well pick it up sweetie and let’s do this.”

  ◆◆◆

  There was no clock in the room. I don’t know how long we went at it. Credit to Wolseley: the man was a complete pro. No cheap shots. No ego crap. He was methodical and willing to answer any question.

  We started slow. First order of business was learning to defend against the most common sword attacks.

  “You have one advantage with that hammer,” he told me. “Sword fighters practise against other sword fighters. There’s no real-world application so why bother, right? Not likely you’ll meet anyone who’s fought against a sledgehammer. They’re pretty low rent. And this idiotic thing’s not even the real deal.” He sneered. “Medieval war hammers had much smaller heads. Most came with spikes and picks for close work. McCord’s is more like a carnival sledge. The balance is way off. Good for visual effects but pretty stupid otherwise.”

  I thought about it. Maybe that’s why McCord had chosen the whole Madam Crunch persona. Not for the image but the edge it had given her.

  “You need to get inside your opponents’ kill zones,” said Wolseley. He extended his bamboo sword toward me. “Once you close the gap, a smart sword fighter goes for the slice rather than a cut or parry. Luckily for McCord most of her victims weren’t that clever.” He snorted. “Of course you should never underestimate an opponent. Even an idiot . . .”

  “Might get lucky.” I nodded or tried to. Wasn’t easy underneath my “men” or kendo helmet. “Yeah. I’ve seen all those DEAD4U videos. McCord had a few close calls.”

  “One is too many. Remember. Controlled rage is your best friend. Keep moving and don’t quit till the other guy stops breathing.”

  Hearing this advice from a fellow cop surprised me. I knew SpecOps played by a different rulebook. But killing a helpless assailant went beyond reasonable force. That spelled murder in any civilized jurisdiction.

  We practised simple attacks and counters. Nothing fancy. Maneuvering around the table and chairs kept things interesting though. Once, working past Wolseley’s guard, I stumbled and fell over a chair he kicked into my path. The bamboo blade pressed against the back of my neck.

  “Lesson number two: don’t focus so hard on technique that you miss the bigger picture. Life is an obstacle course, Nikita. The one that trips you up is the one you never saw coming.”

  ◆◆◆

  We went through basic hand-to-hand that all police and military use: strikes, kicks, takedowns and chokeholds. I found my new size made the heavy stuff a lot easier. Against armed assailants though, it was strictly KYAG.

  Kiss Your Ass Goodbye.

  By the time Wolseley called a halt to our fun, my entire body was swimming in sweat. I sent a mental prayer of thanks to McCord for keeping in such great shape. Barring a lot of luck I was in for the fight of my life.

  “We’ll work on the changeover between two-handed and one-handed techniques tomorrow,” Wolseley said. “Make sure you stock up on Zs tonight. Nothing’s more important than a solid night’s sleep.” He wr
inkled his nose. “But take a shower first. Please.”

  Day1/End

  When a man—even a dirtbag—tells a woman she smells bad, matters have gone past overripe to rotten. Wolseley’s comment was all the incentive I needed. Hitting the shower, I scrubbed myself hard. I ran the water as hot as I could stand it and didn’t stop till my skin was red. I finished with a two-minute cold rinse. It’s supposed to boost your circulation and make your skin glow. Gritting teeth, I counted off the seconds. Halfway through it occurred to me that I was enduring this torture to maintain a rental body. Yet—perversely—the thought of being watched kept me going.

  I couldn’t let the bastards win.

  Griffin showed up at dinner. He joined me for a healthy meal of chicken breast with green salad. He even pretended to like it.

  Creepy.

  Next up was movie night. We went to the conference room and watched a newly released Hollywood blockbuster on the big video screen. There was lots of action with the usual inane dialogue.

  During the movie Griffin treated me to unbuttered unsalted popcorn. It was my turn to pretend to like it. So I did.

  After the movie, Griffin said goodnight and toddled off upstairs. I didn’t try to follow or beat him to death with my trusty hammer. Instead I went to bed.

  But couldn’t sleep. Feeling restless, I considered masturbating. The idea held an obvious appeal. Would it feel different with a different body? Or would it be the same old me in a new package?

  Then I looked up at the ceiling. Griffin would be watching, Novak and Wolseley too. The thought of putting on a show for those pigs convinced me to put my fingers away. Damn. I could feel that brand new clit throbbing for attention. Feigning a yawn, I let the backs of my hands brush casually over both nipples. Mm-mmm.

  Nice.

  My takeaway? Crystal had nice melons for a psycho. While Nikita Chen, good cop with heart of gold, had scraped by her whole life with eggs-over-easy. Leading to the age-old question:

  What price virtue, motherfucker?

  So I resorted to counting sheep. For fun I put Novak’s face on each one. And when those bleaters hopped the hedge, I hit them smack between the eyes with my trusty little hammer.

  I didn’t remember falling asleep but who does?

  ◆◆◆

  When I woke, the room was dark. In the distance a waterfall thundered and hissed like a chorus of squalling cats. Waterfall? Alarmed, I jumped out of bed. My feet landed in a damp puddle. The room was sinking into blackness. Taking me with it.

  I went to the door, opened it and peeked out.

  A sliver of light showed below the bathroom door. But the hallway was dark. Since the motion-activated lights stayed on for fifteen minutes, that meant whoever was in the bathroom had been there at least fifteen minutes.

  Doing what?

  I forced my feet to carry me across the hall. I stood and stared at the door. My hand fumbled a moment before finding the handle. There was no resistance. The door opened and let me in.

  A thick mist filled the bathroom. Someone was taking a shower. There was water everywhere. Even the mirror had steamed up.

  I wiped the mist from the mirror.

  Nikita smiled back at me. She said, “Nothing can hurt you in a dream, Crystal.” Her eyes angled downward. “Except maybe that.”

  I followed her gaze. The handle and shaft of a stiletto jutted dead centre from my chest. I pulled it out. There was no pain.

  Nikita held a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she whispered. “You won’t remember any of this. They don’t want you to know about me.”

  House/Day2

  Waking for Day Two, I kept still for a few minutes. Again I experienced that unsettling sensation of having mislaid a dream. And once more was unable to recall the haziest morsel of this phantom.

  I put it down to Griffin questioning me on the subject. No doubt he’d edited my “data” to induce suggestibility and this was the natural result. Unpleasant? Yes. But with extinction being the alternative I could live with it for now.

  The rest of Day Two followed the outline of Day One with several adjustments.

  First: instead of two “aspirin” for an aching head, I got one. I didn’t ask why. The reduced dosage implied improvement on my part. That seemed acceptable.

  Second: a ten-kilometre sprint interval replaced yesterday’s ten-kilometre jog. Again I ran down that gravel road. Stopped approximately where I’d stopped the day before, turned, then ran back. Tall trees, casting long shadows between dazzling pools of sunlight, pressed close. Spurring me onward . . .

  Third: following the wind sprints was an entirely new gym workout. This time the emphasis was on tumbling, box jumps, pull-ups and burpees. Functional movements. Getting me ready to fight, maybe end up dead again. I pictured a katana slicing into my neck and shivered.

  The daily briefing went over Sweet’s organizational structure. According to Novak, Sweet contracted out DEAD4U’s prep work. And he never used any contractor for more than one type of job, thereby avoiding overlap of the classic cell structure.

  So far we hadn’t identified a single one of these private contractors. Nada. Which worried me a tad. Contrary to popular imagination, criminals enjoy talking. By and large they’re poorly educated, undisciplined chatterboxes.

  Add drug of choice and stir.

  “Not to worry,” Novak advised drolly. “Now we’ve got you inside his operation, connecting the dots should be a snap.”

  “Except I’m not inside. And I’m one of those dots.”

  She waved away my objection as though swatting a fly. “You went on a binge. Got yourself fucked up. And soon you’ll be back, raring to go.”

  “But if McCord’s missing, why wouldn’t he just replace her?”

  Novak grinned. “There aren’t many like Crystal McCord. We’re talking about an elite female athlete who enjoys pulverizing skulls on live-streaming video. That’s a special kind of crazy. Why else would this Madam Crunch character generate so much buzz? Without her, online viewers would tune out. And betting action would drop.” A shrug. “DEAD4U would take a huge hit just when Sweet can’t afford to lose ground. Competitors are snapping at his heels, none of them successful—so far. But the only thing he’s got that they don’t,” said Novak, pointing a bony finger at me, “is you.”

  Gulp. No pressure, right?

  Following a short hydration-and-pee break was more training with Wolseley. As a change-up, we started off with hand-to-hand and went on to weapon drills. True to his word, we worked on switching between two-handed and one-handed techniques.

  His advice: “Start with a double-handed grip. Get your opponent focussing on the weapon. When you switch to a single grip, use that free hand to grab, trap or strike. This gives you a lot of options. Trust me. That simple change-up is enough to confuse your amateur types. They won’t refocus and adapt fast enough.” He stared at me through the bars of his kendo mask. “Don’t get cute though. I’ve seen the way McCord toyed with her opponents. She’s got a sadistic streak that’ll get you killed.”

  “Had,” I corrected.

  “Had what?” Wolseley seemed confused.

  “She ‘had’ a sadistic streak. Past tense. McCord is dead. Remember? Just because I look like her, don’t confuse me with that wacko bitch.”

  Wolseley responded with a cobra-quick thrust to my breastplate. Deflecting the attack with a single-handed parry and using my other hand to grab his arm, I pulled him toward the hammer’s butt end. There was a resounding smack against his helmet’s face grill.

  “Lesson three?” I asked with a smirk.

  Wolseley grunted. He hadn’t liked being one-upped. Not verbally. Not physically. Interesting. Here was the first chink I’d seen in that professional exterior.

  I filed this nugget away for later. In case things took a nasty turn. Which they inevitably do. Nothing lasts forever, right?

  ◆◆◆

  Later that evening, I shared another dinner with Griffin. The fridge declared my
vitals within normal range. Good news: I needed more calories. Bad news? More calories meant extra chicken breast, brown rice and broccoli. No salt, sugar or donuts. Healthy cardboard—if you like that sort of thing.

  I watched Griffin eat a Cobb salad. The scent of bacon had me drooling like a Saint Bernard in heat.

  Between bites Griffin asked, “So how was your day, Nikita? Ranked on a scale from one to ten.”

  A broccoli sprig had gotten stuck in my teeth. Dislodging it deftly with tongue, I mumbled, “Ten.”

  “Really?” Griffin pursed his lips. “That good?” A wiggle in his eyebrows voiced surprise. “You’re living in a safe house. You’re training to go undercover with one of the world’s most dangerous cybergangs. And that merits a ten?”

  “Trust me, it’s not the cuisine.”

  “If you’re crushing on Wolseley, his blow-up dolls will be crazy jealous.”

  Much as I disliked Wolseley, I wasn’t in the mood for banter. I said, “I died. Yet here I am. So every day’s a ten, Griff baby.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down while digesting this nugget. I pictured his mouth hovering above my hips, throat swollen and face slick with my juices. Was I really this desperate? I forked a hunk of broiled chicken breast into my mouth. It tasted dry. I chewed with more enthusiasm than I felt.

  “Okay,” he said with a nod. “Ten it is.” Then, casually: “No strange dreams or nausea? Headache under control, right?”

  Asking after specific symptoms implied apparent expectation of said symptoms. And here was the second flogging of that dead horse.

  My reaction: dry mouth, wet pits and a quivering spine. Classic horror shit. Which I concealed with humour. Clever me.