THIRTY NINE

Kenny woke with a start.

‘Sleeping again?’ the old man in the bed beside him said. ‘One way to relieve the boredom, I guess.’

Kenny wore a blue gown, as if having recently come out of theatre. There were other beds around them, filled with other men. Mostly older, mostly zoning.

Kenny looked to the Box. They were running an interview with the Jesus VR’s first customer. The sound was down but text ran along the bottom of the screen. The wirehead’s name was Steve Croft. He was talking about meeting his Great Uncle Jack through Jesus, sharing time with him again. Of how Jesus guided him through the whole process and was there for him any time he needed.

‘Your mother’s just left. Poor dear looked beat,’ the old man continued. ‘I’m Saul, by the way.’ He offered his hand across the space between their beds.

Kenny went to shake but then noticed blood seeping from his palm.

‘Whoah!’ said the old man, backing away, ‘you’re leaking, buddy.’ He looked across the ward. ‘nurse! Boy’s dying on me over here!’

A tired looking nurse hurried into the ward, ignoring Saul as he continued to yell at her: ‘Fucking leave us here to waste! And get me some more water while you’re at it. I’ve been pulling this cord for the best part of an hour and none of you bitches have bothered your asses to come!’

The nurse grabbed Kenny’s hand. It was swollen, inflamed. Just looking at it made Kenny ill. He pulled away from the nurse, lifting the hand up to his eye. And then he noticed something even more disturbing; his other hand was also starting to bleed, and further down the bed, where his two feet rested, Kenny saw more blood.

He went to scream, but his mouth was dry.

‘Keep still. We need to dress it,’ the nurse said, grabbing his right hand again.

She reached inside her apron, producing some disinfectant wipes. Kenny struggled against her, fighting to pull his hand away, curling it into his other hand against his chest.

‘Look, if this is all too much, I can put you under,’ the nurse said. ‘Do you want that?’

She reached for the nearby coil and wiretap, waiting for Kenny to answer.

Beside him, the old man, Saul, continued to rant, waving as he preached his venom at all and sundry.

On the Box, Steve Croft still spoke of the marvel of VR, the miracle.

‘Yes,’ Kenny nodded. ‘Put me under.’

 

Steve Croft was one of over seven million people wired to the Jesus VR at that moment.

Great Uncle Jack remained in the sky where the sun should be, toking on his cigar.

Steve was dressed in military fatigues. In his hand, he held an assault rifle. He recognised it from the shooters he would play, the final variant of the Soviet Kalashnikovs, an AK 99, popular with the US Army right up until the end of the Holy War. It wasn’t battery-operated, like today’s charge guns. This was the real McCoy. Steve’s hand closed around its grip.

‘You ready, Stevie-Boy?’ Jack asked.

Steve was beaming.

‘You betcha.’

The beach scene morphed into war-torn desert terrain. The sound of battle filled his ears. Men were falling like dominos, their cries merging with the rattle of spent ammo.

Steve ducked behind an old barrel for cover.

Bodies littered the sand, their eyes locked into a gaze: that final, awful realisation of loss.

Steve was afraid. He was sweating profusely.

The scene automatically paused, the Jesus doll appearing beside him.

‘Want to go back to your safe place?’ he asked.

But Steve looked up to the sky, noting the anticipation on Uncle Jack’s face.

‘No. Jack will look after me.’

‘This will only be as real as you want it to be,’ Jesus said, taking a moment to mop Steve’s brow. ‘It’s your VR, and only you are in control.’

Steve smiled.

‘Well, then,’ he said, feigning bravado. ‘Let’s kick some ass!’

The battlefield kicked in again, Uncle Jack back in control. He spoke over the sounds of gunfire and screaming men.

‘Okay, boy, one to the left. Eleven o’clock. Nail ‘im!’

Steve jumped up from behind the barrel, aimed the AK and fired, felling a man cloaked in black robes. He knelt back down again, a rattle of bullets against the barrel.

‘Is he dead?!’

‘He ain’t for getting up!’ Jack roared, delighted. ‘Now, once it’s clear, you’ve got another sucker at three o’clock. Now!’

Steve upped again, aimed and fired, dragged his fat ass back down behind the barrel. This time he hadn’t noticed the man fall.

‘Did I hit him?’

‘Yes! Now on your feet, boy, and move towards the building dead ahead. Watch out for the guy behind the car. He nearly got me that time.’

Steve upped and ran, finger on the rifle, pumping, tearing holes through the cheap, rusty metal of the old car, taking out another one of the enemy. A few GI buddies joined him, one noticing a wounded insurgent struggling on the ground, trying to get away. The GI pumped several shots into the felled man’s back as he passed. Winked at Steve.

There was a rumble in the distance, a crack against the blue sky.

‘Quickly, inside!’ called Jack and Steve ducked into the shack, just as a huge white blast swept across the sand, tearing apart his buddy.

Steve shut his eyes, pressed his back against the wrought iron wall of the building. His rifle pressed against his chest, the tip of the barrel pointing up.

Jack was hovering beside him now like Wilo the fucking Wisp. He whispered, still excited.

‘On the next corner, boy. Gotta be careful. That’s where I got nailed.’

Steve swore under his breath, left the security of the wall and eased himself along the dark corridor of the building. Every window was covered with corrugated iron sheets, roughly screwed into the wall. The Floor was littered with bodies, mostly his own side, some rag heads woven in between.

‘Easy,’ Jack warned, ‘this is it.’

Ahead of him was that corner. This was where they got Jack, shooting him through the neck, earning him a ticket home and a lifetime in bed, talking through a machine, relaying tall tales to impressionable kids.

Steve crept along the corridor, pulse racing, finger on the trigger of his AK, waiting for the inevitable assailant.

A clicking sound from behind.

Jack was screaming,’ No, that’s what got me!’

When Steve turned, he found a rag head with a rifle trained on him.

A shot was fired. Steve braced himself, expecting pain to race through his neck. But instead the other man fell.

‘What?’

Steve turned finding the Jesus doll by his side, ammo belt wrapped around his white robed chest. He smoked a cigar like Jack’s. In his hand was an AK, similar to Steve’s.

‘Got your back, buddy,’ he said.