Neon Garden by Ryan Harris

The jukebox played behind Shelley Kimsey as she sat at her hover stool. It was a typical Tuesday night, sparsely crowded, at Downspout.

“Everett,” Shelley said, “one more double and I’m tabbing out.”

Everett, Downspout’s perpetual bartender, plopped the tall shot glass of bourbon in front of Shelley. “This one’s on the house.”

“Thanks,” she said, downing her shot in a single gulp.

“You okay, Shell?” Everett asked. “You look sick.”

“I’m fine. The doc says I need to cut back with my bum liver. Plus it’s a busy night at work,” she said, lifting herself from the stool to leave. Everett scanned Shelley’s card, she took it back, and went to leave.

“Wait,” said Everett. “Come here a minute.”

“I know you still love me and, yes, I’m still considering giving us another try. I have to get going.”

“It’s not about that this time.” Everett leaned across the bar and lowered the bass in his voice. “Are you on a transplant or nano list?”

“I don’t qualify for a transplant because I drink a lot. As for the nano list, my case is considered non-emergency. It takes a year to even be considered as a candidate and another two months for the organ to grow. I’ll be dead by then,” Shelley said.

Everett started wiping down the bar. “Will you at least try to get on a nano list? Maybe quit drinking so much? I’ll always care too much.”

“I’ll think about it. It’s still out of my hands anyways. See you soon.” With that, she turned and left.

Shelley caught the air tram back to her apartment complex. The ubiquitous squares of advertisements formed mosaics across their respective buildings as the tram raced along its shimmering path. Commuter Go-pods traveled along their assigned tubes between buildings, lighting up the night.

Feet aching, she flung herself onto her black leather sofa. Her back muscles oozed into relaxation.

Her work tablet binged at her. She’d forgotten to clock out.

A voice suddenly invaded her earpiece. “Kimsey, it’s Grid.”

Shelley sighed to signal her desire for rest. “Yes, sir?”

“You’re doing one more run tonight,” Grid said.

“I was just about to clock out. Can anyone else do it? There’s four other couriers in my quadrant tonight.”

“I asked you to do it,” Grid rasped. “Now listen up, you’re making a delivery to Orchid Hospital. Requisition number is OHL519765 and they need the product in two hours.”

He hung up.

Shelley decided on an air taxi as her tube pod was on the fritz. She ordered a pick up from her tablet and it arrived two minutes later.

“Nano-Med please,” Shelley said as she entered the taxi.

The taxi, automated, flew Shelley to her employer. From the service corridor, she rode the pneumatic elevator to the employee entrance. A palm reader accompanied the door in which employees entered the catacombs of Nano-Med. She placed her palm on the reader. “Kimsey, Shelley. Number 50005804.” The light on the reader flashed green and the door hissed open.

White lights illuminated the steelcrete hallways of the building, which were empty except for the droning hum of fluorescent bulbs. Shelley walked with purpose to the organ pick-up room, then to the technician who stood behind his counter.

Like a machine, he said, “Reference number please.”

“OHL519765,” Shelley replied.

“Wait here.” He retreated back into the lab behind a locked door. After several minutes, he returned with a cooler. “One liver for delivery to Orchid Hospital. Here’s the work order form.”

Shelley inspected the cooler. “No cooling unit or locking mechanism? I’m not losing pay over a spoiled organ.”

The tech glared at her. “It’s a stat order, genius. Only ice to cool this one.”

“Thanks,” said Shelley, rolling her eyes.

Shelley made her way back outside, inhaled the usual pollution, and ordered yet another taxi ride. There was something about a cab ride that relaxed her. Most were soundproof, shielding her from the electronic blare of topside Newark.

The cab door slid open at Orchid Hospital after Shelley ran her card. A neon orchid glowed above the Emergency Room entrance. She took a long look at the cooler and turned back to the cab docks.

Shelley ordered another cab to head home. Her heart heaved with anxiety during the trip back to her loft. Intense guilt made her nauseous.

At home, Shelley sat the cooler on the floor and went to her computer. She knew that stealing had serious consequences from Grid. His syndicate was an underlying power in Newark–topside as well as the underworld.

Fear was temporarily shrugged and Shelley went to work. Keyboard punches were like scuttling steps of insects. Hacking into Nano-Med was elementary. Firewalls, antivirus software, it simply delayed the inevitable.

Within minutes, Shelley had ordered the liver for herself along with the proper paperwork. She printed the form, after filling out the template, and shakily forged a signature. With a liver and the work order to accompany it, she felt easier about getting the organ she needed. Her only worry was avoiding Grid’s often-utilized cops, on his payroll, that would be coming for her.

Shelley ran outside and ordered yet another cab with her personal tablet, having tossed the one for work. “Daisy Hospital please,” she ordered. Shelley knew her trail would be sniffed out within the next hour.

At the hospital, Shelley rushed to OR registration. No queue at such a late hour. “Worker order for a liver transplant. It’s a stat order for tonight.” She slid her form under the glass window.

A thinly built scheduling assistant took the paperwork. “You sure it’s stat, ma’am?” she said, eyeing the form and smacking her chewing gum. “Oh, there it is. In that case, we’ll get you back right away.”

Post-Millennialism, just before Shelley’s generation, further empowered data and code to supplant the delays caused by human interaction. Forms and information replaced pre-op doctor visits and testing. The consequence was a slow and steady dissolution of malpractice standards as an era of immediacy distorted the modern medical field. Personal safety had become an afterthought in the wake of expedience.

The surgical prep area smelled strongly of bleach and fresh linen. Lights were blinding and IV alarms drowned out Shelley’s own breathing. She met her cheerful nurses, the stone-faced surgeons, and the sleepy anesthesiologist prior to the procedure.

In the operating room, the anesthesia entered her IV tubing and then her veins.

The anesthesiologist said, “Count down from ten.”

Shelley complied. “Ten, nine…eight–”

#

Shelley slowly flooded into consciousness in post-op care. She squirmed around in her bed before pain subdued any movement. The nurse walked to Shelley’s bed. Poufy red hair bounced with her cheerful gait.

“How long was I in surgery for?” Shelley asked.

The nurse looked at the clock. “You were in surgery for almost six hours and you’ve been sleeping for almost two.”

“Is everything okay? You look scared,” the nurse said.

Shelley collected herself and lied. “Just realized I forgot to do something.”

The nurse laughed. “I do that all the time. By the way, you have a visitor in the waiting room.”

“A visitor?” Shelley croaked. “What do they look like?”

“Hmm…he’s a taller man in his thirties, broad shoulders, and he was wearing a maroon paisley tie. Very nice suit I might add.”

One of Grid’s goons to get me, Shelley thought. The hit man, she knew, was restricted from the post-op area. She’d be in danger after going to a patient room.

Shelley said, “Where are my belongings?”

“They’re held in clean storage and you’ll get them when you’re moved to your patient room,” said the nurse.

Shelley was moved two floors up after another hour of observation. Luckily, the staff elevators were not visible from the waiting room.

Upon entering her room, Shelley grabbed the belongings bag by her feet. She held her wound as she bent forward and choked down a scream. Redressing with pain was like threading a needle.

After dressing, Shelley rooted through a cart drawer and threw gauze pads, her anti-rejection pills, and a roll of medical tape into her satchel.

Nurses and aides were nowhere to be found as Shelley left her room. The elevator led to the main lobby floor. A dirty cop, this one in a black patrol uniform, was waiting outside of the front door.

Shelley clutched her side and shuffled to the far side of the front door. She then slid into a booth, part of a nearby cafe, adjacent to the doorway. She was hoping he would come in after smoking his cigarette. The man touched his earpiece–communication with the goon upstairs, she thought.

Relieved, Shelley watched as the stout officer jogged inside to the elevators. She quickly walked out of the hospital and to a utility staircase. Thirty flights of back-and-forth concrete stairs would take her to underside Newark.

Shelley called Everett from her tablet as she left the staircase. The tone rang several times.

Everett appeared on the tablet screen, eyes squinting. His scruffy beard was matted down. “Shelley? It’s almost five in the morning.”

“I need to come to your place for a little while.”

“Are you in trouble? You remember how to get here right?” Everett’s voice filled with immediate concern.

Shelley winced as she tried to hide the intense pain. “Yes and I’m gonna die if I don’t have somewhere to go. I’ll explain when I get to you. I’m walking westbound on Mulberry.”

“All right. Let me meet you halfway. I’ll get ready and meet you at the corner of Franklin and Mulberry. If you’re not there yet, I’ll keep going in your direction,” said Everett.

After a pain-filled descent into Newark’s underworld, Shelley gathered her bearings amongst the rubbish piles. She continued to hold her surgical wound so her insides wouldn’t spill out.

Ragged-clothed people laid in the streets, some huddled by barrel fires.

Shelley kept walking but at a quicker pace. She knew the types of people who dotted the rubbish of the underside. Neon road signs illuminated an intersection she walked up to.

Shelley’s head swam and her equilibrium wavered. It was all she could do to walk and put pressure on her wound.

A baratone rumble asked, “Wow, what happened?”

She collapsed to the ground, still conscious. Dust plumed from the impact.

“It’s me. It’s Everett. Let’s get you back to my place.”

“What…Everett,” Shelly moaned.

She feebly held her wound as Everett held her up from her left side.

#

Lying on a bed, Shelley came to and looked up to see Everett changing her wound dressing.

“Did you carry me here?”

A caring look swept over Everett’s face. “I did. What happened to you?”

“Transplant. Stole a liver from Grid by hacking the system to switch up paperwork. Dirty cops are hunting for me. You knew I needed a liver, Everett. I feel bad for who was supposed to get it but…”

“So you’re on the run right?” He bit off a piece of medical tape. “This might hurt a bit. Need to put these gauze pads on.” He pressed down as Shelley clinched her teeth.

Everett snatched more tape and secured the pads over Shelley’s wound. “What’s your next move?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Shelley muttered.

“They’ll probably end up here,” Everett said, sitting on the bed beside of Shelley. “You’ll be safe, though, ’cause I will figure something out. Cops don’t know their way around underside that much anyhow.”

“I’m in a lot of pain, Everett,” she pointed out.

Everett said, “You didn’t get a new liver just to get snuffed out did you?”

“No, but I need to rest for a little while,” Shelley said.

“I tell you what. Remember my cousin’s husband, Marleau? He comes in the bar about twice a month.”

Shelley winced and adjusted her position on the bed. “The guy with that weird part in his hair?”

“That’s him. So he’s into smuggling humans, legally and otherwise, and he owes me a favor. Well…he owes me a lot actually,” Everett said.

“What the hell does he owe you for?” asked Shelley.

“For ten years now, as a family favor, I’ve given him free drinks. I’ll give him a call and give you time to rest.” He got up and went to his bedroom closet and pulled out a pump-action shotgun. “See this? Twelve-gauge shotgun. In case you don’t feel safe, this darlin’ can stop any man in his tracks.”

He started to leave the bedroom.

“Wait a sec,” Shelley called.

Everett whirled around. “Yeah?”

Smiling faintly through the perpetual throbbing, Shelley said, “I still love you. Even if I don’t act like it.”

“Love you too, ‘Chelle,” he replied with a wolfish grin.

#

“Shelley, wake up,” Everett said.

She woke without a drowsy sludge. “How long was I out?” Shelley asked.

“About two hours,” said Everett. “Marleau’s almost here.”

“Are you coming with us?” She was almost pleading.

“Of course I’m coming. I have to make sure you get to the train safely.”

“Train?” Her forehead wrinkled.

“The bullet train. Marleau got you set up with a ticket to the Canadian border. He said he talked to a cousin of yours in Toronto. I didn’t think you talked to your family.”

“She’s the only biological family I have…that I know of. We met once and then had a falling out. Haven’t spoken to her in months.”

Everett said, “Well, you two’re going to get reacquainted.”

“What about you and I?” Shelley asked. “Do you still want to be with me?”

“Well–”

A rap on the door startled the two. A pause and then four more knocks. Shelley figured it was a password of some sort. Everett opened the door and she heard him speaking with a man, presumably Marleau.

In walked Marleau with Everett. “Wow. Everett wasn’t lying when he said you looked like a cadaver.” He flicked his shoulder-length hair from his face.

Shelley aimed a rigid glare at Everett.

“Well…you do,” Everett said.

“I had surgery you know,” Shelly snapped.

Marleau, chuckling, said, “Hey, I’ve seen worse if it makes you feel better.”

“Forget looks for now,” said Shelley. “Promise you and Everett can keep me safe, Marleau?”

“I’m a smuggler extraordinaire, toots. You’re in good hands,” he quipped.

Marleau and Everett hefted Shelley from the bed. The three made their way out of Everett’s home and into the dark street. Loaded into Marleau’s car outside, they rode to the tower that would take them to top side.

“I’ll be right back.” said Marleau.

Shelley waited with Everett by a support pillar near the pneumatic elevators. She heard soft footsteps from afar. Everett pulled her around to the other side of the pillar.

“I’ll blow you away if you get any closer,” Everett yelled.

A booming voice spoke. “Mr. Grid is none too pleased with Miss Kimsey’s actions. Just step away, sir, and no harm will come to you.”

Everett popped his shotgun around the corner and fired. Shelley’s ears rang and she could feel the impacts of ammunition on the other side of the pillar. Several more shots rang out and echoed off of the concrete walls of the parking deck. Everett’s knees buckled before he crumpled to the ground in front of Shelley. A hollow silence followed the shootout.

“Everett?”

His girth was inert, lifeless. Maple eyes stared back at Shelley with stoic heroism.

Shelley tried to suppress her heartbreak but couldn’t. Sadness, anger, and fear released from her tear ducts.

“Your friend should have given you up, Miss Kimsey. It’s time to pay the boss a visit. Let’s go,” the officer said as he walked toward Shelley, who was still behind the pillar.

“I didn’t get a new liver so he can murder me,” said Shelley between sobs.

It was the uniformed officer that strolled around to confront Shelley. He saw her condition and chuckled. “This is sad. Now I have to drag you to the car.” The wiry criminal reached for her arm.

A hushed pop was followed by a red-pink mist. Grid’s goon collapsed and was dead. Marleau saw Shelley lying on Everett, holding him.

“Just remember what a good friend you had, what he did for you,” he murmured.

Shelley simply nodded.

She and Marleau laid a hand on their friend. “Let’s get going,” said Marleau after several long minutes.

“What about Everett?” Shelley asked.

Marleau gazed at his friend, trying not weep himself. “I’ll pick him up after I get you on the train.”

Shelley bent down and caressed Everett’s face before closing his eyelids. “Let’s at least cover him until you come back. Please?”

“I’ll use my jacket,” said Marleau as he took his synth-web coat off. He carefully covered the top half of Everett’s body.

Marleau helped Shelley through the damply lit garage and into the elevator.

“Take this document,” Marleau said as they rode up to the bullet train station. “It grants you asylum in Canada. You’ll have to gain citizenship or a work visa within twelve months but I’m sure you can handle that.”

A light smile from Shelley, leaning affectionately against Marleau. “Thank you for everything.”

“Don’t mention it. It was a favor for a friend. Well, friends I should say now.”

They exited the pneumatic elevator to the full glow of topside Newark. Shelley shielded her eyes with a hand.

An usher was waiting at the train gate. Marleau stuffed a fifty note in the man’s shirt pocket. Patting the young man on the back, he said, “Make sure she gets to her seat.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said the swarthy usher.

Shelley looked back at Marleau as the usher helped her onto the train. He waved and left to retrieve Everett–she hoped he would.

“This is your seat, ma’am,” the usher said, assisting Shelley to a window seat near the back of the train. In minutes the train was racing toward the border.

Admiring the cityscape, Shelley thought of Everett and smiled.

—

Mr. Harris lives in Arizona, but hails from North Carolina. His work can be found in Theme of Absence and Terraform, soon to appear in Galaxy’s Edge and The Centropic Oracle. He has also earned an honorable mention from the Writers of The Future contest. Ryan enjoys reading, time with his son, and a smooth hefeweizen.