Free Emergence by John Birmingham Page B

Or at least of outside air. The parking lot smelled of exhaust, oil, decaying rubber, discarded junk food, the sickly sweet syrup of an abandoned Coke . . .
    He stopped breathing and gagged.
    When he was an undergrad many years ago, he’d dropped acid before going to a party just off campus. When the tab came on, he experienced a few minutes of sensory crossover, seeing sounds and hearing colours. There was a word for that, he knew, but he’d forgotten it. The sensation had passed, leaving him with the raw certainty that he’d been inhabited by the spirit of a wild dog, and he had been able to smell even the most faintly detectable whiff of a scent drifting by on the breeze.
    This was what an acid flashback really felt like, he thought as he stood on the steps of the hospital, aware of hundreds of different odours, each of them separate and unique. It was strangely reassuring, providing an explanation for the psychotic visions he’d been having. One of the whores had totally slipped him something. Had to have. If he ever found his wallet again, it was sure to be light a couple of credit cards and most of his cash. And fuck them in the neck, anyway. He’d maxed out that plastic a long time ago.
    ‘Are you all right?’ Allen asked without sounding as if he gave an actual shit. He was just checking on his package. Heath was staring at him, too, concern creasing his brow and altering the planes of his face, which had been such an unreadable mask until then. The escort reached carefully for sidearms, not sure what to believe or expect.
    Dave took a few breaths through his mouth, trying not to smell anything, and closed his eyes until the world stopped spinning. He gradually regained his sense of balance. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I just had . . . I dunno. I just felt a bit weird.’
    Heath watched him as though he were standing on a land mine and any movement might kill them all. Satisfied that they could move safely again, he said, ‘Let’s get in the car.’

07
    O ne of the pirates drove the Ford Expedition while the other one took the shotgun seat.
    Dave had taken to thinking of them as the pirates, since nobody had introduced the two bearded and tattooed bodyguards. Or guards, or whatever they were. Hairy fucking SEALs, he supposed.
    Heath and Allen rode in the back with him. They were all big men, and it was crowded back there. Also, although he could totally imagine Heath being driven to a meeting or cocktail party or torture session in some undeclared black ops detention facility, Dave Hooper was a working man and usually rode up front.
    Not this time.
    A second identical vehicle followed them, presumably with more navy guys.
    Bad weather was closing in, blowing grit and drifts of rubbish, loose paper and plastic bags, across the road. Every now and then an unusually strong gust would buffet the car. He felt like an old man because of all the extra care he was taking not to break anything. The seat belt he pulled on slowly and clicked into place as though the clunky metal fittings were made of brittle plastic. He used his little finger to pick out Annie’s phone number on the burner again.
    The pirate with the black beard concentrated on the drive as Dave waited for his ex-wife to pick up the phone. Then, as he had so many times before, he corrected himself. She wasn’t officially, legally, his ex yet. But that happy day was coming soon. Heath didn’t even pretend to look out the window on Dave’s left. He kept his eyes on his primary mission, Mr David Hooper.
    They rolled down cracked asphalt streets that had last been resurfaced long before Katrina. Passed another hospital parking lot where hospital workers in scrubs moved about, perhaps coming on shift, perhaps taking five for a smoke. The New Orleans skyline was difficult to pick out at street level, but at one point he thought he recognised the Louisiana Superdome and wondered if they ever got that place cleaned up.
    Before long, they climbed a ramp