Chapter 25 – The Second Real Death of Ashley Fox
Friday Afternoon, September 23, 2310
Holding a wireless telephone receiver to his ear, Morgenstern opened the doors to the morgue for two medical techs. He wordlessly directed them to Ashley's corpse.
The nude girl hadn't been subjected to the usual a postmortem autopsy. The guards hesitated, staring at her naked body before beginning their task. Moving with exaggerated slowness, they transferred and zipped Ashley's body into a sturdy, white plastic bag.
Morgenstern pinched the phone between a shoulder and his ear. He stood at the desk, filling out the death certificate for the valiant teen. He folded the certificate into an envelope, sealed it and handed it to a young tech. He then handed him a clipboard and pointed to the address printed on the top sheet. The officer nodded.
Morgenstern handed him a thick envelope and a key attached to a scratched and battered can opener in the shape of a shark. Its jagged teeth were nicked and dented where it had pried the caps from glass bottles.
The tech silently pocketed the envelope, the key and the metal shark.
Morgenstern lifted an athletic bag and set it atop Ashley's plastic shrouded corpse, all the while holding the phone to his ear.
They pushed the gurney from the room. Down on the loading dock, they transferred Ashley to a medical vehicle. The technicians boarded, typed their destination into the onboard computer and pulled out into Angel City traffic.
Nelson Gransil, Ashley's public defender, finished shaving, toweled off and pulled on a shirt. He'd dressed in his nicest outfit, for an evening with friends. He unlocked and entered a room filled with framed artwork.
There were almost a dozen abstract prints mounted on the walls. A dozen more stood in neatly arranged stacks. Nelson selected several and moved them to the hallway before closing and locking the door.
In his house of red brick, Roger Courtland prepared for the evening. He stood naked under slate rock waterfall shower. Every surface was made of stone, all some hideous shade of pink, crimson or vermilion.
After treating his skin with a terillium-enhanced lotion, Roger moved into a massive closet. First, he pulled on terillium-weave tights, followed by a long-sleeve terillium undershirt. Then a pair of thick winter slacks, impervious to bullets, knives and objects intended to pierce his skin and do physical harm.
Soon Roger was dressed in a full three-piece terillium suit, the price tag for this particular outfit, a cool seven million. In return for which, he was exceptionally insured against physical damage. Even his hair was treated.
Governor Maime wrapped, stacked and bagged the various dishes she painstakingly prepared over the past weeks. The tiled corner where she kept her children, now empty; scrubbed spotlessly clean and liberally rinsed with bleach.
In the district's medical offices, Dr. Mallus opened the door to a tall cabinet. He photographed the dozens of statues, each elegantly lit, bearing hundreds of gleaming needles.
In his quarters on the upper floors of the Bolt, Colonel Keller stood before a mirror, his massive bulk supported by his palms resting on both sides of the sink. He stared into the mirror. He turned on the faucet, cleared his throat and spat into the basin.
The afternoon grew warm despite forecasts for stormy weather. Yet, the sunlight proved to be short lived, as dark clouds gathered over the ocean.
The techs in the medical van fiddled with the radio and smiled at pretty women in traffic, playfully arguing over whom the lustful honeys were actually lusting over.
Afternoon sunlight poured through a window in the back of the van. Multiplied by the glass, the light wavicles warmed the opaque sheet of oil-based polymer.
Under her white zippered plastic, Ashley's body lay still, her face serene. Her color was not pallid and dead, but healthy and promising.
Beneath her eyelids, the eyeballs twitched. Her brows furrowed and then relaxed.
Below the medical transport, on a mid-shelf street, a group of kids walked down an alley, near an upscale shopping cluster. Four of the five teens smoked cigarettes, sported tattoos, and the shredded clothing of lazy rebellious youth.
They enjoyed the glorious afternoon. Smoking, sipping from spiked drinks, and slamming occasional shots from a flask, they joked and drifted along the sidewalks.
An elderly bum passed them in the alley, huddled in filthy rags. They didn't abuse him, but don't acknowledge him either. Perhaps one day, long ago, he was as rebellious as they are now, but today, they inhabit entirely separate worlds.
As the kids stepped into the uptown shopping district, the limping homeless fellow made his way deeper into the darkness behind them.
A few minutes later, when no one was watching, he quickly scampered up a drainpipe and onto a nearby rooftop.
On the rooftop, the bum jimmied open a skylight and slipped into the empty building.
The building was set at the edge of the shopping district. The owners of the failing structure, unable to afford necessary renovations, rented the unit out as meeting hall. They hoped that one-day a developer might take an interest in the location, freeing them from the rotting shack.
Inside the meeting hall, the homeless fellow wandered among the rows of empty chairs. He pulled together a group of them and stretched out to take a nap, wrapped in his heavy coats.
After a few minutes, small bugs dislodged themselves from his clothing and made their way to the floor. Several roly-polys streamed off into the corners of the room. Larger beetles, insects and flies set off from various pockets and sleeves. A small squad of wasps zipped away from a lapel and made a b-line for the cracked window overhead.
Close to the janitor's face, REM cycles drove his eyes back and forth under closed lids, but sleep cycles were inconsistent with the keyboard work his fingers performed against his legs.
The sanitation engineer, whom Ash had seen at such odd moments during her time aboard the district, was now disguised as a bum. In command of a robotic insect army, the man soon finished issuing commands, relaxed and drifted off to sleep.
The medical transport made its way through the heart of the city and descended the side of a nearby urban corridor. The passenger smoked a cigarette while the driver took his turn fiddling with the radio.
Deep in the heart of the metal city, the truck dropped into the very same alley and docked at the back of the bum's meeting hall.
The driver, with his shark-shaped bottle opener and key, unlocked a garage door to the building and rolled it up, assisted by the unseen counterweight. They pulled the back of the truck open and slid their cargo from its interior. Together they carried the tray into the building.
The techs gently set Ashley’s tray on the concrete. The driver unzipped the body bag all the way to Ashley's naked feet. From the back of the vehicle, the passenger fetched the athletic bag. It contained a clothing issue in Ashley's size.
The technicians dressed her and then rolled her onto her stomach, cuffing her hands behind her back. Careful not to obstruct her nose, they taped her mouth firmly shut.
The driver turned to the passenger. "You got the hood?”
The passenger pulled a black hood from the bag and tossed it to the driver. He slipped it over Ashley's face and tied a bow at the chin. They left her lying on her stomach.
"I hope you don't toss your cookies when you wake up darling. I hear that's a terrible way to go," he said.
"We're out, then?" the passenger asked, glancing around nervously at their vehicle in the alley.
"We're out." The driver stood and pulled the overhead door closed.
Inside the truck, the passenger stared blankly out the windshield. "That fucking freak Morgenstern freaks me the fuck out,” he said.
"Copy that," his partner replied.
A few minutes later, deep in traffic, the driver handed his partner half of the bills from the envelope.
The slam of the metal door and pulling away of the truck roused the girl. She awoke with a start, rolling to one si
de and curling into the fetal position as the effects of the drug threatened to cause her to vomit.
Ashley took stock of her situation; her mouth was taped shut, her face hooded and her hands cuffed behind her back. She was dressed in cotton underwear, a t-shirt and hospital pants. She was wearing slip-on hospital shoes. They hadn't given her any socks.
Alone in the darkness, the haunting trauma of her execution came back to her in a rush. She became overwhelmed with fear, panic rising in her like a tide. She tried to push it aside and breath slowly. Losing her stomach under these circumstances would probably be fatal. After surviving Dunkirk and her fights on D13, the absurdity of drowning in vomit blown through her nose almost made her laugh.
She maneuvered into a kneeling position and waited for her head to stop spinning. She breathed as best she could though the hood. If she began to hyperventilate, that wouldn't be fun either.
The teen relaxed and focused on slowing her heart rate.
As her senses cleared she realized she could hear cars humming along above the nearby street. She could hear people. Ash tried to orient herself. She could faintly see through the hood. She was on a cement floor in some kind of urban structure. It was dark and details were elusive.
The hood smelled of synthetic fiber. The stench was horrible. She tried to breathe past it.
Ashley realized she was as calm as she was going to get.
As it grew dark and the building cooled, people working nearby closed their offices and headed home.
Sounds grow more distinct and yet came with less frequency.
Ashley’s options were few. Calm and patience required all the effort she could muster. She meditated, focused on listening.
Inside the building she heard a cough followed by the rustle of clothing. Soon the sound of rhythmic breathing could be heard. It came from the large open space some distance behind her, deeper inside the building.
Ash didn't know who might be sleeping nearby, but she was sure she didn't want to wake them.