Free Dead Roots (The Analyst) by Brian Geoffrey Wood

are you--?”
    “I'm hailing a cab,” he yelled back into the limo. His feet thudded wetly against the concrete as he shielded his face. Streaks of rain lashed his face and soaked into his shirt. He zipped up his jacket. Behind him he heard more wet footsteps.
    “Tom. You don't need to take a cab. Come back, it's a short trip.”
    Tom snorted incredulously. “I'm not taking a cab, you are.”
    Keda stopped in place. Tom gave him a long, stern look and waved down a nearby taxi.
    Minutes later Artie watched as Tom climbed back into the limo. He pulled the door shut behind him. Artie's hands shifted in his jacket pockets.
    “What's happening?” he asked.
    “Keda's riding in a cab. He almost lost control of Aki this morning. He said something about Aki feeding off of me-- he could get into either of our heads and blow this whole thing.”
    Artie sighed as the limo sputtered to life again, the engine struggling slightly in the weather.  Tom drew a cigarette from his jacket and lit it. He saw Artie reaching quietly for the box of cigars on the shelf and stuck his index finger out.
    “No.”
    “What? You're such a buzzkill sometimes, Tom.”
    “You're here? Fine. You're operating, and you're going deep.”
    “I'm what? ”
    “Call Keda. Keep him together.”
    Artie sighed loudly. “Tom...”
    “Artie, don't fuck with me.”
    “You are unbelievable sometimes,” Artie said with a groan. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a medicine bottle. He unscrewed the top of the tiny bottle, and poured four white pills into his hand.
    “This is a dirty operation, Tom. These are for migraines, for fuck's sake.”
    “Just get it done.”
    Artie reached for a bottle of water out of the fridge, and downed the pills in a single swig. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed.
    “Yeah. Hey, man, it's Artie... listen, Tom's told me to operate for you... do me a favor and clear your head.”
    Tom blew out some cigarette smoke, sinking back into his seat to watch. Artie fished around in yet another pocket. He turned on his hip for a closer look, and swore.
    “Tom, I don't have any of my conduits.”
    “Fuck. Not even your crystal?”
    “ Nothing . Hang on, there's got to be something around here... hold on, Keda, I'll be right with you.”
    Artie sat up straight and looked around the limo. His eyes fell on the minibar.
    “Keda, did you drink anything from the bar?”
    A pause.
    “You have to remember for me, come on,” Artie said.
    “I think he took a shot from that whiskey bottle before we reached the hotel,” Tom chimed in helpfully. He motioned at a half-empty bottle of top shelf that rested in the glass cabinet.
    “Yes. Perfect. Hang on.”
    Artie opened the cabinet and took the bottle out. He shook it vigorously and then upended it, so that he was looking at the clear circular bottom. He held it in one hand, his phone against his ear in the other. Tom watched Artie's eyelids flit gently as he stared into the bottle.
    Tom waited, and waited. After a minute, he noticed Artie's eyes start to take on a milky, glazed-over appearance. The pupils became obscured behind what might appear to a stranger to be cataracts, giving them an ethereal quality.
    Tom sighed in relief. Artie slowly sunk back into the seat, his eyes staring intently into the bottom of the bottle. His mouth fell slightly agape and his eyebrows rose.
    “All go, Tom.”
    “Good. Keep him steady. Ask him how long the trip is.”
    “God... it's fucked up in there, Tom. Aki is... I've never operated on a host to something like this.”
    “Ask him how long it will be.”
    There was a long pause. Artie said nothing.
    “Artie?”
    “Hang on, hang on.”
    Tom grunted. “Sorry. I'm usually on the other end.”
    “Yeah, I know. Chill. This is... awful.”
    “Are you getting a clear reading?” Tom asked.
    “If that driver doesn't stop running over those little things in the middle of the lane I'm going to break through that glass and strangle