THE ROAD BETWEEN HEMISPHERE AND the Sunny Day Trailer Park was mostly flat, but to Danny it felt like a roller coaster.
He’d left work with a lump in his stomach. The second half of the day had been torture. He’d accomplished nothing, and after ignoring the first of Jordache’s afternoon texts, she’d sent two more. Earlier, he’d been able to put her off, but things had changed. If he replied now, he’d have to either tell her the truth or lie. The gray area was all gone. He wouldn’t be procuring any designer Necrophage in time to keep Jordache from jonesing — let alone the ultra-exclusive PhageX, which he’d never even seen outside of Ian’s high-level inventory access. Officially, PhageX didn’t exist, so far as Danny could tell. It couldn’t be purchased at any price, forged prescription and absurd cost (Danny was willing to pay, if he had to) aside.
But maybe he could buy some of the more ordinary designs. He’d heard good things about Charm and Strange. Even Twisted seemed intriguing; he and Jordache had laughed over that one and its supposed inhibition-lowering add-ins, and Danny secretly hoped taking such a thing would loosen her enough to get Jordache boarding the Danny Express.
He couldn’t do it easily, though. He didn’t have personal access, even to samples. Asking the other reps might get him busted and get prying eyes where they shouldn’t be. He could try to buy some but wasn’t sure where — and, again, knew he’d need a prescription. Base Necrophage was like locker room tampons, according to Jordache. Nobody put barriers in front of either because nobody wanted you bleeding all over the place for want of a quarter.
Gross but apt. True Jordache at her most charming.
Thinking of Jordache — imagining her yearning and starting to panic — unseated Danny as his workday neared its end. He’d shoved his phone into a desk drawer and forgotten it. Literally. He hadn’t remembered to take it from his desk when he’d left, and now, on the drive, he couldn’t get any of Jordache’s fearful texts if he wanted to.
When he’d begun driving, Danny’s roller coaster had been at a low. He’d have to tell her he’d failed. There was no other option. She’d have to go on base Phage for at least a day or two or three. She’d be crushed. She claimed that PhageX was more than medicine. She said it was like a fresh start in a bottle. It was as if the drug didn’t merely keep her decay where it stopped. It seemed to have pushed her further back. Elevated her beyond her old station. She was becoming more interested in conversation. Curious about movies and books.
But as Danny drove, the sinking feeling slowly abated. He began to feel less terrible then actively better. He was making too much of this. He wasn’t taking away something Jordache needed; he was taking away something she wanted. And while Danny would love for his girl to have all she wanted, the distinction remained exactly that. Maybe there was a kind of addiction there, but it was mental, not physical. Her burning need for PhageX, above and beyond the base formulation that would keep her healthy, was all in her head. Jordache would be fine, if she could get over her preconceptions.
Her attachment to the designer drug was psychosomatic.
“Holy fuck,” Danny said aloud.
He hit the car’s brake. The vehicle behind, despite collision avoidance, nearly rear-ended him, swerving around with a long, braying honk.
Danny turned into the parking lot in front of the white building on Aberdeen’s outskirts — something old enough to be pre-Hemisphere but still safely away from the ghettos and the curious breed of crime unique to the poor infected.
He had an idea.
Danny got out, checking his pockets, digging his wallet out from under the avalanche of in-car garbage.
He knew what he needed to do. And if he was lucky, he could probably get away clean.