Between Two Minds: Awakening Read online

  Where am I?

  Awaking disoriented, I was instantly met with more darkness. My headache was not nearly as painful as it had been the last few times, which was a relief. I could distinctly remember the procedure and some of the progress I had been making with the recovery staff. Yet there were dreams or other memories and thoughts I had that seemed a bit off.

  There was a feeling that I couldn’t quite shake, nor could I easily describe. It was almost like walking into a room and completely forgetting the reason I had gone in there. That was a pretty common occurrence that everyone could relate to. I was such an introspective kid that I was always fascinated with those moments as I could almost pinpoint the exact second when my mind failed me. Right when the feeling of losing it would set in, I stopped everything. I wanted to take account of where I was and what I was doing. Then, like most people, I retraced my steps—or in my case, Auto’s tracks—and thought my way back to the reason I had entered the room. If I couldn’t remember after all of that, I just chalked it up to not being that important anyway. But I was always a little disappointed when that happened because most times I knew I had a good reason for entering the room. Occasionally, though, there was that eureka moment where I fully recalled the reason and carried out my original plan. To me, this was like scratching a mental itch, and it was so relieving even for the most mundane tasks.

  The more I thought about it, though, the more that feeling didn’t really describe what I was going through. With all the odd dreams I’d been having, it was sort of the opposite. It was more like walking into a room with a specific purpose, and that purpose was clear as day in my mind. I knew exactly how I needed to carry it out and could almost see my future self doing it to perfection, too. But once in the room, I got the overwhelming sense that I shouldn’t be there, that even though I knew precisely why I was there, I didn’t belong. I was hoping for some kind of eureka moment to help me overcome that feeling, but up until that point, I was still just feeling out of place. Part of the problem was that I couldn’t pull away any specifics from the dreams—only vague imagery and the feelings that accompanied. I was beginning to think there was some unknown force keeping me from fully grasping what was happening.

  My thoughts came screeching to a halt as I was overcome by another urge to open my eyes. Even though I was more than a little apprehensive after the last time, I was powerless to ignore the impulse. With another herculean effort, I was finally able to open my eyes to a blurry view. Just like before, bright light made it difficult to see, but my sight was quickly orienting. Upon reaching for it, the button under my left hand was nowhere to be found.

  “Where am I?”

  Straining to see, a hazy but familiar circular object appeared in front of me. I couldn’t quite make out what it was at first, but one possibility was a valve wheel. Then I wasn’t certain. With a little more effort, I settled on the fact that it was a steering wheel to a car!

  But that only lead to more confusion because if a steering wheel to a car was in front of me, it could only mean one thing. But I don’t know how to drive! That would be ludicrous since all I had ever done was test drive an auto-chair-compatible car once after my sixteenth birthday, and that had been far too intense for me. No, the only four wheels I was comfortable with were on Auto.

  Looking again, I traced my arms all the way down to my hands, and sure enough, I was gripping the steering wheel of the car. The accident! Wait, what accident? Shocking me out of my stupor, the blaring sound of a car horn forced my eyes to the road. Chaos!

  Cars were changing lanes, turning, and parking! Clusters of pedestrians were crossing the street! Vendors were yelling on and on about their foods and wares! Fighting to catch my breath, I came to a bizarre conclusion. I actually wasn’t out of breath, and to my surprise, I knew exactly how to drive. With a closer observation of the road, it was quite calm, and I felt right at home in the driver’s seat.

  The car had to be vintage or more like ancient compared to modern automobiles. Estimating its size, I seriously wondered how it was street legal being larger than most of the delivery trucks on the road. Some might sarcastically call it a “boat,” but even though I knew next to nothing about old cars, I was somehow certain of the make. It was a classic black Cadillac.

  From the backseat, a deep voice bellowed about a business partner needing to get his act together or there would be consequences. The voice commanded attention from another softer voice that acknowledged and complied.

  I cautiously peered into the rearview to see who I was chauffeuring. A colossal specimen of a man was taking up a seat and a half. He was burly, and by the looks of him, he could handle himself just fine in a fight. His jet-black hair was slicked back, but there were little speckles of salty gray here and there. His broad chin and the perfectly trimmed goatee circling his mouth provided a hint of nobility, but the subtle crow’s feet around his eyes gave away that he was probably older than the rest of his features let on. Both his black trench coat and gray suit were expensive and recently pressed.

  I inhaled deeply as a bit of dread accompanied the observation. Who was he, and where was I taking him? The scent of a nice but intense cologne filled the car, and at first, I thought it was mine, but then I had a realization.

  The Padre.

  It was his cologne, and I didn’t fear him. I respected him because he took care of me.

  In the back seat, the Padre was holding the oldest netphone I’d ever seen, talking to a low-resolution hologram. The fuzzy little man of light was pleading with him for another chance at something.

  “Please, Sir Padre. We made a mistake, but we really need this relationship to keep the business moving. What do you need to make this right?”

  His reply was very calm. “Your backers owe me. You’ll tell them to settle that debt. You have twenty-four hours.”

  “Twenty-four hours! That’s impossible—”

  Again, the Padre’s response was measured. “Twenty-four hours, Mr. Kline. Another mistake, and our business ties won’t be the only thing that will be severed.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Without as much as a goodbye, the Padre tapped two buttons on his netphone, and the backseat went dark. It was an odd conversation to overhear, that was for sure, but I knew not to pry into his business. Instead, I leaned back and slightly turned my head.

  “Thirty minutes from the site, boss.”

  The Padre groaned instead of responding, then cracked his window open slightly. Reaching into his suit coat, he retrieved a nice-looking Cuban, his cutter, and a lighter. He snipped off one end of the cigar, placed it into his mouth, and flamed up the other end with intermittent puffs. The fragrant cologne was replaced with a spicy smoke, and part of me liked it. Another part of me wanted to hold my breath.

  “We expecting any trouble tonight, boss?”

  I checked for his response in the mirror and caught the tail end of the cloud exiting his mouth. Taking the cigar between the fingers of his right hand, his impressively bulky sterling silver ring shined through the smoke as it always did. It was the skull of a dog, and it had ruby eyes.

  “Don’t we always?” There was not even a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

  “Good point.”

  Focusing back on the road, I didn’t really recognize the city we were in, but oddly enough, seemed to know exactly where I was going. We were making our way through a nicer part of town judging by the older but still luxurious condo complexes lining several of the streets. Seemingly omnipresent skyscrapers loomed over us for several miles, and the large intersections we passed were overflowing with business types crossing the streets and huddling on the corners. Based on the position of the sun, they were on their way home from work. Finally, the leaves on the various trees caught my attention. They were beginning to turn color, so it was definitely autumn.

  The niceness of the area evaporated as we entered wha
t some might describe as a ghetto. Boarded-up buildings and condemned homes were the backdrop of aimless wanderers floating along the streets and open lots. On the other side of the neighborhood, I could see a plume of thick black smoke ahead. Soon we passed a car burning out of control in a vacant lot. Driving past, I was fairly certain I could see the flaming skeletal remains of the driver, and a cold feeling washed over me for just a second before I shook it off. The sun melted behind the smoggy horizon in front of us as we drove through the city limits. A chill developed in the air as the day’s warmth gave way to dusk, and again, I felt compelled to lean back and ask another question.

  “What do we know about the buyers?”

  “Russian. Traveled a long way for the product. Expect quality.”

  “What’s their ETA?”

  “Thirty minutes after us. Though they sent a scout.”

  “He armed?”

  With a hiss, he put his cigar out in the ashtray and blew out a pocket of smoke. “No. She isn’t.”

  “Sounds pretty routine.”

  “Just stay sharp. There could always be an incident like the Korean job, and we don’t want to be caught flat-footed.”

  “Did you ever find out what happened with them?”

  “Those sons of bitches were tweaking when they came to make the deal. That’s the last time we’ll be working with them.”

  “Sounds good, boss.”

  The “bad” neighborhood vibe shifted to something even more depressing as we approached an old industrial strip. Like the entire area had been abandoned for a decade or more, the soot-covered factories and plants were shells of their former greatness. An area that had once produced quality products for the world and jobs for the locals had been reduced to a blight on the region. Many of the buildings had become gloomy squatter villages, apparent by the countless trash can fires dotting the scenery. Seeing dense gray smog piping from a few rooftops, it was encouraging to know that a few factories and plants were still in operation. Yet the air quickly thickened with a metallically sulfur smell, and a bit of nausea accompanied.

  Taken with the grungy scenery, my thoughts were only interrupted when the ride suddenly lost its smoothness to potholes littering the road. Focusing back on my driving, I did my best to avoid the craters, but the car’s loose suspension was the true savior, making the ride relatively smooth regardless. In that sense, it lived up to the nickname of “boat” as it felt like we were simply sailing choppy water. Just a few blocks farther and the top of a massive steel mill complex became visible in the distance, and I knew it was there that the exchange would happen.

  “Any special reason why we went with this site instead of one of the usuals, boss?”

  “They purchased our top-end product and requested a little more anonymity than usual. It used to be the only place we dealt back in the day, but it hasn’t been necessary for a while. Either way, don’t worry. It will be fine.”

  If the road wasn’t bad enough, we were headed for the oldest, rustiest drawbridge I had ever seen. At first, I thought it was designed with interwoven steel to make a waffle pattern. But getting closer, I realized it was just rusted out holes in the structure. Gulping hard as we got closer, my mind told me we should find another way, but my foot thought differently as it pressed firmly on the gas to speed up about ten miles an hour faster. The second we were on the rotting, reddish-orange structure, the iron let loose the deepest moan, which continued every second we drove. It was impossible not to think about it giving way and us falling to our deaths. The thought made me want to peer over the edge, but a part of me felt that I didn’t need to. Somehow I knew the remains of a once grand river were just thirty feet below. Countless cargo ships and smaller freighters had traveled thousands of miles, in some cases, to and from the steel mill, bringing raw materials in and taking quality steel out. It was painful to think that it had been reduced to a festering wound on the earth, weeping toxic sludge and low-grade radiation, the result of callous, negligent industry spewing tons of pollution into the air and local water systems. Rumor had it that the desperate locals were still able to kick up the occasional fish from the muck. The joke was that the fish had three or more eyes and felt like tinfoil in your mouth. I didn’t know who I felt sorrier for, the people or the fish, but one thing was for sure: it was a terrible place to live.

  Leaving the bridge, the moans died down as did my anxiety, and I leaned back to provide another update. “Five minutes out, boss.”

  Without a word, the Padre reached for the briefcase on the seat next to him and punched in a combination. The case popped open, and I peered into the mirror to see the assembly beginning. Each step was done with such precision that it was impressive to watch. With the leather and wood grip in one hand, he clicked it together with the silver frame in the other. Next, he connected the long-scoped barrel to the frame with a metal clink. The cylinder, full of cartridges, was put into the holder, and with an upward slap, it rattled into place. I noticed the dog skull insignia had also been forged onto the side of the piece, and I was a little jealous of his style. Finally, the Padre pulled open his coat, and the weapon disappeared.

  Ahead was a corroded archway over the road, its age-worn lettering difficult to read.

  PURITAN STEEL CO. - WHERE HARD WORK AND INGENUITY BUILD THE FUTURE!

  Just before the sign, the mangiest mutt I had ever seen caught my attention. It was on the side of the road viciously tearing up the remains of a dead something or other. Briefly seeing it pull chunks from the carcass, I wondered if the victim was another dog or perhaps an unlucky drifter. Shaking off the morbid thought, I drove under the archway and turned the car onto the mill’s campus. The main building stretched at least four or five football fields in length, and at the end, I was again presented with a sign that I could barely make out.

  “Employee Parking.”

  Driving next to the wreckage that was once the mill’s main building deepened the depression the industrial strip had brought on, but I was happy that I got to take it all in before we entered. I gently pulled the car into the parking lot and immediately noticed the rotting frames of abandoned cars sprinkled throughout, filling roughly half the spaces. I parked the car near the building, turned off the headlights, and took the key out of the ignition. Sinking into my seat, I was trying to mentally prepare for the deal. Most times, they went off without a hitch, but occasionally, there were issues. The Korean job was a prime example, and just thinking about it stressed me out. So I stopped.

  Rolling down the window, I reached into my shirt pocket to retrieve a menthol and my Zippo. With a snap, the cancer stick was lit and my nerves calmed just a bit. I was certain my addiction was just as much to the burn of the lighter’s fuel as it was to the nicotine. Still, that first deep, endless drag was heavenly. It always took off even the sharpest of edges from the day. I was certain that I was breathing shallow all day long in between smokes but that first puff reminded me to take things slow, to take it all in stride, and to relax. It was a shame that it was deadly poison that would eventually kill me.

  Interrupting my thought, I could hear the Padre dial up our eyes on the area. In between my drags, I heard him go over some of the standard logistics that made the job seem even more routine. We would enter the building in just a few minutes and make our way to the drop point. A table with a lantern on it had already been set up to facilitate the transaction. We would be waiting there with product in hand for about thirty minutes when the buyers arrive. We always insisted on verifying the amount of money brought by the buyers before ever showing any of the product. Once that was confirmed, we would allow them to preview the product. As long as both parties were satisfied, the buyers leave with the product, and we would wait for another thirty minutes to leave with the cash.

  Knowing we would be going in soon, I wrestled open the glove compartment and felt around for my 9mm. Locating the grip, I pulled it out, and in one motion,
dropped out the magazine and checked the chamber, then the action. Confirming its loyalty, I reloaded the piece while surveying the area for anything interesting. It was as boring as it was desolate. Finally, I ensured the safety was enabled, leaned forward in my seat, and crammed the piece into the back of my waistband.

  Maintaining weapons had come easy to me since my military service days. In fact, I wouldn’t have landed the gig with the Padre had it not been for all the things I’d done for my country. But as a vet, it was pathetic that I couldn’t find decent employment through normal means, and that fact alone was one of the biggest stresses of my life.

  Tossing and turning whenever I tried to sleep, I couldn’t help but constantly think about my squad. Even during moments of prolonged silence, images of my buddies flashed through my mind, and I relived them being shot, blown up, or gassed. I had been dwelling a lot on those who had died, the countless men and women who’d made the ultimate sacrifice, but lately more so on the ones who had survived. They—we—were never the same, though some of us were worse than others. Some needed daily assistance to deal with life after losing limbs or suffering brain damage. Others needed endless mental therapy to cope with what we had done or what had been done to us. Still, some of us needed all of it to lead some semblance of a normal life. The whole line of thinking never sat well with me because it was a damn shame that service people weren’t better taken care of in the godforsaken country they defended. Worse yet, politicians never missed an opportunity to pay lip service to vets and active duty right before they sold them down the river.

  The Padre’s netphone buzzed bringing me back to the task at hand, and the rearview mirror lit up from the bright hologram.

  “It’s time.”

  Putting on my game face, I was like a Little Leaguer before a tournament—nervous, excited, serious. Knowing the Padre had my back always gave me a sense of invincibility too. He’d been doing jobs for a long time, and he hadn’t had many major issues.