The opened package lies on the upright end of the rusty metal drum, the paper wrapper containing a loose pile of dark and woody grounds. The blanched red string lies coiled nearby, one end terminating at the dented metallic teapot.
Through the murky window of the hut the shapes of two men in orange robes recede as they walk toward busy tables lined with baubles and curios. Inside the room, the flickering light of the dangling bulb illuminates six faces bearing varied combinations of apprehension, fatigue, and perspiration. The faces peer intently at the objects on the makeshift table.
“Psilocybe?” asks Elvis. “Isn’t that, like, magic mushroom?”
“Yeah,” replies Dominic, handing over the phone he’d been focused on. “In tea form.”
Elvis reads the information on the screen as Rebekah wipes sweat from her forehead.
“Remember how I said phantom dead drops freak me out?” she asks Brock.
“Umm,” he replies, trying to remember.
“Well I did,” she says before he gets a chance to reply. “And this is a fantastic example right here,” she indicates to the mound on the barrel with agitated sarcasm in her voice.
“Is this what you asked for?” asks Brock as he glances between Rebekah, Dmitri, and Dominic.
“When you’re formalizing the request,” explains Dominic with slow hand gestures, “you want to specify something vague. Too specific or too extravagant, difficult to procure in other words, and it’s unlikely to be fulfilled. I went with something” — he pauses for emphasis — “to help us achieve our mission successfully.”
“Same, ” adds Rebekah while Dmitri adds, “Me too”, in near synchrony.
“So this is the help that the agency sent? Through Gary? And Kevin?” asks Brock with uneasy skepticism.
Mirroring the feeling, Rebekah raises a questioning eyebrow.
With empty abandon Dmitri replies, “Looks like it.”
“You can refuse,” adds Mirabelle insipidly, suddenly joining the conversation.
“You gonna take it?” Brock challenges her.
“Yes, no problem,” she responds confidently. “Before I ‘ave take zis and also ze elle esse di. Ze mushroom iz more fun. More laugh.”
“How long does it last?” he asks.
“Maybe about four or five ‘our,” she replies.
“Who else has taken this?” asks Brock, turning his attention to the rest of the Section.
Rebekah holds up her hand, followed by Dmitri. Dominic and Elvis keep their hands at their sides, visibly anxious.
“What should we expect?” asks Brock, addressing the experienced members of Section B.
“You perceive things a little differently,” offers Dmitri. “Like leaning slightly out of reality.”
Rebekah leans in and says, “And under other circumstances shrooms can be a lot of fun but right now” — she finishes by shaking her head.
“So, could be positive,” suggests Brock cautiously.
“Well, yeah, but also…” she responds, pulling her head back and throwing up her arms in a wide shrug.
“Tripping balls can be pretty disorienting, even incapacitating,” explains Dmitri.
Rebekah points vigorously back at Dmitri, expressing silent but enthusiastic support for what he’d just said.
“I’ve heard they can increase your abilities,” offers Elvis, fingers interwoven nervously at his chest, eyes fixed on the pile of tea.
“They might,” replies Rebekah. “They could also shut you down. We have no idea how strong these are, where they came from, what else they’re mixed with.”
“But isn’t this agency support?” asks Brock. “Maybe this is exactly the sort of help we need.”
The tiny room falls silent. A few fidgety moments pass as the muted chatter of the Buddhist market outside permeates the thick and sticky air of the dense space.
Suddenly, Rebekah slams her palm on the barrel, causing the items on it to jump. Her other hand straddles her forehead as her thumb and middle finger massage her temples.
“I can’t fucking believe I’m doing this,” she says in a low voice.
“Okay, I’m in,” says Brock with assurance.
Dmitri shrugs his shoulders and nods in acquiescence.
“Let’s do it,” adds Mirabelle, casually lighting a cigarette.
“I asked for this,” admits Dominic, “but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shitting my pants right now.”
“So that’s a yes for Dominic. Elvis?” asks Brock, turning to look at the young man.
Elvis produces an unenthusiastic half-shrug and adds, “Not sure. Don’t think so.”
“And a no for Elvis,” finishes Brock.
With some hesitation, Dmitri picks up the wrapper and dumps its contents into the steaming hot water of the tin teapot. Replacing the lid he instructs, “And now we wait until it’s steeped.”
“In the meantime let’s pack our shit up,” says Rebekah hurriedly, already moving toward the pod. The rest of the team join her in dismantling the contraption and repacking their bags. Soon their belongings are arranged discretely along a shelf of the compact hut. Only the small bag containing the prepaid phones is left out.
The phones are distributed along with flimsy wired earpieces. Satisfied that each combo is working correctly and that group chat works, they devices are placed on the rusty drum.
“So obviously any sort of rehearsal is out the window but I say we go with the original plan,” starts Dmitri, hands cupped around a freshly poured cup of hot, earthy liquid. “Dom and Brock go into the Academy and try to get their hands on whatever’s in that locked room. Elvis and Mira’ll do wider area surveillance and give chase if our target’s on the move. Me and Rebekah will take point at the main entrance and run support.”
“I won’t recognize anyone or anything,” Rebekah reminds him.
“I’ll take point,” Dmitri corrects, “and Rebekah will run support.”
With solemn nods Section B raise their battered tin cups, clank them together above the makeshift table, and down large gulps of the murky brew. Everyone except Elvis grit their teeth and recoil in disgust. Moments later they repeat the ritual and finish the rest of the tea.
Brock and Dominic pull off to one side and begin going over their part of the plan.
“So what’s the office like? Should I be dressed differently? Should I act a certain way?” asks Brock, feeling butterflies in his stomach.
“Nah, it’s pretty casual. Mostly just a long corridor with a reception desk on one end, the secure room on the other, and a bunch of rooms in between. There are anywhere from ten to twenty people per room except for the last one which is the boss’ office. As far as I know they keep the pass card to the secure room somewhere in there.”
“That sounds pretty vague,” comments Brock with reservation.
“That’s the best we have,” explains Dominic. “But I wouldn’t worry too much, the place is lax. A lot of the time it’s a circus, at best it’s a smorgasbord. As I said, the employee churn means that they take on almost anyone. I’m pretty sure we could shit on the floor there and they’d just pull us aside and ask us politely not to do it again without ever asking our names.”
“And what are the customers calling about? What’s their operation supposed to be?” asks Brock.
“You know what?” replies Dominic. “I don’t actually know. Some sort of support if I had to guess. Software maybe. I usually flash my badge at reception and just walk in like I’ve worked there forever. Then I sit in an empty cubicle and listen to conversations or watch the office. Mostly I focus on the secure room and the higher-ups. There are three, Joanne, Victor, and the boss, Mister Shek Kai Cheng. Judging by their Mandarin we’re fairly sure they’re all mainland Chinese nationals.”
Checking the time on his phone he adds, “They should be heading home for the day any minute now. I’ll walk you in as a new hire. I don’t expect to run into any trouble.”
Brock nods at the information as he takes a deep breath. “Hey, Dom?” he asks gently.
“Uh-huh?” responds the hulking man.
“You never told me about what you can do. You know, your skills.”
“Other than punching people and enjoying food I suppose I fancy myself a bit of a writer,” replies Dominic, face taut with seriousness. “I’ve got two buns in the oven at the moment. One’s a sci-fi number about a world where the population is controlled with orgasm implants. The hero figures out how to bypass theirs, hijinks ensue. In the other one the names and physical characteristics of people change completely from day to day but no one notices. Until one day someone does.”
“Sounds challenging. But I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about your psi skills,” clarifies Brock.
“Oh, that. Well I have” — Dominic moves his hands over his body in circular motions — “extended somatic control. Turning off pain, controlling organs, stuff like that. It’s probably why I first got into boxing. To a certain degree I can even do it to other people, help them relax or heal, that sort of thing.”
“Rebekah showed me something like that. A thing with her heart. Did she teach you?”
Dominic laughs and says, “No, I taught her.”
“Ah, okay. So were you always able to do that?” asks Brock.
“As far as I can remember. I never thought anything about it until one day I brought it up with some friends. Just a casual remark. They all stared at me like I’d been knocked in the head too hard. It wasn’t until I met Rebekah that someone was open to the idea, let alone someone with documented suggestions to improve it.”
Brock nods and inquires, “How did you two meet?”
“Outside a hospital. I was getting a check up after a nasty K.O. Doctor told me in no uncertain terms that my career was finished. I’d already been thinking the same thing but that didn’t make the news any easier to take. I was at the main entrance getting some fresh air and sulking when she walked by. She said something like ‘You look like you’re having a bad day’ and I said that that was an understatement. Then she said she might be able to help, handed me her business card, and walked off.”
“Sounds familiar,” notes Brock, lifting his eyebrows. “Did you have to set yours on fire too?”
“No,” chuckles Dominic. “That was special just for you.”
“Like the instructions we received for the tea?” asks Brock, pointing at the teapot. “Those were somewhat vague, subject to interpretation.”
“Sure,” replies Dominic, “but you have to admit that they were quite specific at the same time.”
Brock agrees with a nod.
“And this is the first time we’ve been under the gun like this. Usually we set the parameters ahead of time and produce multiple outputs for any given request. In your case, for example, when I asked for identifying details I received ‘immune path’ and ‘dark doctor’. Pretty good, right?”
Brock considers the word combinations and nods as he recalls the circumstances under which they’d first met.
“For Rebekah’s first session her neural net produced ‘invisible name’,” continues Dominic. “In the next one she got ‘business card’. We weren’t sure if we’d be receiving a card or giving one so she prepared a couple just in case. Nothing fancy, just lemon juice. Dmitri had the idea to include the internet hint after his own neural net spat out ‘help online‘ and ‘bee stone’ .”
Brock raises a confused eyebrow.
“Bee-rock,” explains Dominic with an amused smirk. “Not obvious at first but when you emailed Rebekah your name we were, like, ‘That’s our guy!'”
“Oh,” intones Brock with mild surprise. “But how do you know you’ve understood it correctly? What if you’d gotten it wrong?”
“That’s pretty much guaranteed when you’re starting out,” responds Dominic. “That’s why Rebekah’s net is the most precise, she’s been training it for a lot longer. Dmitri’s needs some work. Mine’s somewhere in between. Every iteration improves the results, produces clearer, more exact, more direct outputs. But it’s also very individualized.
“I mean, there are some commonalities between us but the same transcriptions will produce radically different results when run through each others’ neural networks. I understand the functioning on a conceptual level but Dmitri knows more about how it’s implemented technically. I’m basically just a power user, if you know what I mean.”
“Sure,” accepts Brock, “but I still don’t fully understand what you’re communicating with.”
“Neither do I,” admits Dominic. “Rebekah’s been working with the agency the longest and she doesn’t know much more than we do. At least that’s what she tells us.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” asks Brock earnestly. “I mean, not knowing who’s in charge or what they want?”
Dominic pauses a moment to reflect and then replies, “Doesn’t bother me. Probably because I’ve never detected any hierarchy, as far as I can tell. My access is equal to Rebekah’s even though she introduced me to the agency.
“But probably my biggest reason for not worrying about the agency’s motivation is that for me it’s been beneficial, positive. I’m talking physically, emotionally, spiritually.”
“Okay,” acknowledges Brock. “But aren’t you even a little bit curious?”
“Of course I am,” replies Dominic with a warm smile. “My current theory is that the agency is some kind of sentient entity that we tap into, a part of the Jungian subconscious. After all, the pod” — he points at the case on the nearby shelf — “is just a souped-up meditation chamber with a microphone and an electronic pattern finder strapped to it.”
“Jungian?” asks Brock.
“Carl Jung. The psychologist. Hung out with Freud I think.”
“Ah, that guy. So what you’re saying is that it’s some sort of a … what … supernatural entity?”
“No, not really. I like to think of the agency as a vast covert intelligence network that extends outside of space and time. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were people like us on the other end of the line. Maybe it’s even us from another time or dimension.”
Brock grins, suddenly finding humour in Dominic’s face as it blurs with the slow movement of his head.
“I don’t know about you,” says Brock, addressing Dominic while slowly examining the dissolving features of the small hut around him, “but I think I’m starting to feel those mushrooms.”
Dominic is also starting to see small aberrations, the edges between light and shadow shimmering with uncertainty, details of objects separating from their backgrounds and gently shifting around. He also finds this amusing.
“I think we should get going,” says Rebekah, standing up slowly while examining her outstretched hands.
Slowly they all agree, pocket their phones, and gather around the hatch.
Suddenly, the hut goes completely silent. It takes the Section a few moments to realize that the mild din from outside has ceased. Curious, Rebekah inches up to the dirty window to see what’s happened.
Standing directly in the middle of the entrance stands a deeply tanned man with a wide-brimmed hat, dark glasses, black leather vest, black leather pants, pointy black cowboy boots, bare arms outstretched, hands clutching two of the largest handguns that Rebekah has ever seen. The customers are rigid with fear while the orange-robed monks hold their stances.
“Where is Section B?!” screams the armed man.
A few moments of frozen silence pass.
“The Section!! Where are they?!” he yells again.
At this point the rest of Section B has gathered around the small window to witness the commotion outside. The menacing man repeats his question in what sounds like Thai and is again met with silence.
From somewhere on the sales floor a voice begins to chant rhythmically.
A thunderous explosion goes off as the leather-clad man fires a warning shot into the vaulted ceiling above. Again he bellows something in Thai and follows with, “Last chance!! Where are they?!”
The rhythmic chant resumes.
Inside the hut everyone’s already back at the open hatch and making a quiet exit downward. “Impeccable timing,” notes Dmitri to no one in particular as they step cautiously into the adjoining alley. “This again,” mumbles Rebekah as part of an incoherent sentence.
In the hangar the chanting has suddenly ceased. A second later, all of the monks flip their tables on their sides in near-perfect synchrony, sending all of the baubles and trinkets flying toward the gunman. Diving behind the tables the monks immediately begin to crawl toward the canal.
Although none of the merchandise reaches him, the assassin is caught off-guard by the seemingly rehearsed nature of the maneuvers. A moment later he recovers and looks around, his gaze coming to rest on the elevated shed at the back. Firing one more explosive round into the air he scatters the remaining tourists as he advances. Checking for his targets behind the turned tables he moves swiftly toward the small structure.
Kicking the door open and leaning in with his guns the man enters the small space cautiously. There he finds a dark barrel over which hangs a bare light bulb. On the drum’s rusting end sits a flimsy teapot and six tin cups. Surrounding this are dusty shelves piled with more barrels, boxes, bags, and stark shadows.
The man places the edge of his hand against the teapot, looks around, and spotting the trap door he lets out an agitated, “Tch.” Then, holstering the massive weapons somewhere inside his unbuttoned vest he turns and heads hastily back through the vacated market. By the time he arrives back at the street Section B have disappeared into the dusky city.
A few blocks later Brock turns to Dominic and asks, “Do you know where you’re going?”
“Sure,” replies Dominic vacantly, most of him enthralled by a resplendent flower emerging from the dangerous leaves of a spiky tropical plant growing in a sidewalk planter.
This causes Brock to burst out laughing which inspires Dominic to join in and pretty soon they’re both doubled over with tears streaming down their faces.
“Hoo!” exhales Brock, straining to pull his face into sobriety. “We gotta straighten up. This is life and death. For real.”
He lets out a stifled snort, barely containing another bout of laughter.
With his tongue pressed into his left cheek Dominic is having difficulty stifling his own giddiness. He stands up straight, hands in his pockets, and curls his tongue over his smirking upper lip. “Serious,” he adds, biting his lip to suppress a giggle. “Serious business. Business transactions.”
Through the smeared neon and flashy whirl of Bangkok the two men continue to their destination, chuckling and occasionally breaking out into fits of boisterous laughter. The other members of Section B are also making their merry ways toward their positions around Shindan headquarters. Within ten minutes they’ve all communicated their arrival.
“This is the place,” says Dominic, looking up at the shabby mid-rise across the street. Up near the third floor, among a nest of electrical wires and coaxial cables is a row of barred, soot-darkened windows. In one pane sits a small square sign with two glowing Chinese characters on it. “Shin. Dan. New. Egg,” he explains, pointing at the emerald symbols.
Brock watches Dominic’s comically deformed finger slide between the rivulets of neon green light. The shadows between the iridescent ooze morph into dark green vines that snake silently up the side of the building. Soon the entire facade is covered in translucent green leaves that billow like sails in a subconscious breeze.
Dmitri and Rebekah are standing nearby, monitoring the psychedelic contours of the main entrance. Farther away at each corner of the building stand Mirabelle and Elvis, both occupied with their own surroundings.
With a deep breath, Dominic and Brock walk to the front doors, yank them open, and disappear into the building.
“We’re in. Everybody stand by,” says Brock over the group chat.
“Good luck,” responds the sincere voice of Rebekah, the noise of a loud motorcycle cutting in at the end.
The two men make their way up the stairs to the third floor and approach a large desk guarding a long and uninspiring hallway. As Dominic had described, the Shindan office is just a series of soulless rooms connected by a drab strip of stained beige carpet and harsh fluorescent lighting.
The far end the passage terminates at a single door with a boxy pass card mechanism incorporated into its handle. At the near end, behind the desk, sits a pert and pretty blond receptionist. She greets them with a smile as they pass by without a glance or a word.
Dominic immediately pulls Brock into a room and an empty cubicle. Ducking behind a brown partition and whispering, the ex-boxer lays out what he knows about the boss’ office and then lists a series of likely spots where he thinks the pass card might be kept. With the card Brock should be able to access the secure door at the end of the hall while Dominic keeps the receptionist occupied.
When Brock asks why he isn’t the diversion instead of Dominic, the large man explains that he’s about as familiar with the last office as Brock is but also that, “I can shoot the shit about office stuff.”
Cool reflections swim languorously over Dominic’s eyes as Brock considers the task ahead.
As the large man checks out the hallway Brock studies the slowly shifting texture of the high-traffic office carpeting beneath his feet. He pulls himself away just in time to see Dominic give him a thumbs-up and then disappear into the passage. Brock pokes his head out and briefly watches the bulky man walk back to the reception area. Turning in the opposite direction, Brock makes his way swiftly toward the final office and the locked door.
The walls wave gently like boat sails in a light breeze. The overhead light has become warmly yellow and comforting. The heads visible over the tops of cubicles resemble dark ocean swells and bobbing beach balls. Brock even thinks he can hear a seagull although it could also just be some office equipment.
Despite the relaxing atmosphere of the hallway he’s immediately filled with apprehension as he jiggles the handle on the final office door. It’s locked. Brock presses his face up to the frosted glass side panel but is able to see only swirling darkness inside. He tries the handle again, pushes the door, pulls it, and pushes it one last time. Gritting his teeth he turns down the hallway to see if he can get Dominic’s attention. The imposing figure is leaning against the front desk and facing the receptionist, away from Brock.
Running his fingers through his hair, Brock focuses back on the door and ponders what else he can try. Leaving a hand on his temple he leans his elbow to the side and against the door of the secure room. To his amazement, the door swings gently open into a pitch black space. He examines the handle and discovers that the latch is fixed in an unlocked position. Gliding his hand blindly up and down the inside wall he quickly finds the light switch and flicks it on.
The sterile white room is empty except for a few paper boxes sitting haphazardly in the corner and a bare steel shelving unit pushed up against one wall. An air conditioning vent in the ceiling makes a slight hissing sound as it spills cool air into the small space.
Brock enters, looks behind the door, examines the hollow boxes, and inspects the empty shelves.
Running his hands firmly down the sides of his face in exasperation he reconsiders the Section’s predicament. A moment later he throws his hands up and slaps them on his thighs in acceptance of their fate.
He turns out the light and gently pulls the door closed behind him.
Now looking down the hall, Brock’s worried demeanour catches Dominic’s gaze as he nears the reception area. With an apology the large man disengages himself from the conversation and takes Brock aside. There the newest member of Section B discretely describes the situation. More than once Dominic looks intently at the security door at the opposite end of the hallway as Brock reports his dispiriting findings.
Having confirmed the situation a third time Dominic stands with his hand wrapped around the back of his head, the other on his hip, a look of uncertainty on his face. Beside him Brock holds his hand over his mouth, squeezing his lips together anxiously. The small reception area is unnervingly quiet.
Suddenly remembering the mobile phone in his pocket, Dominic pulls out the device and broadcasts a request asking if anyone was seen walking out of Shindan after he and Brock went in. In quick succession Section B respond that they haven’t.
“What now?” asks Brock.
Dominic responds with an uneasy shrug.
They stand facing each other, uncertain, the all-permeating humidity slowly pasting their shirts to their backs.
Suddenly, a cheerful female voice punctuates their grim desperation. “Hey!” says the voice from somewhere just beyond their peripheral vision.
Spinning around, Brock and Dominic are thoroughly surprised to find the receptionist standing unnervingly close to them with a broad smile.
“Maybe I’m totally wrong here,” begins the bespectacled young lady in a muted tone, her bright pig tails and ruby red lips accentuated by her fitted yellow dress, “but it might interest you to know that they left about half an hour ago.”
“They?” asks Dominic, mildly detached from his deliberations.
“Boss. Joanne. That other guy, what’s his name…” she trails off into though.
“Victor?” offers Dominic.
“Yeah. Vic the dick. All of them emptied the mystery room” — she points down the hall to the secure room — “and got the hell out of here. Told me to finish out my shift. Pretty sure they’re not coming back. I’m also pretty sure none of us are getting paid.”
“Sorry, and you are?” asks Brock.
“Umm,” she responds, visibly pondering the question, “Hope, I guess. Doesn’t really matter.”
“Okay, Hope,” says Dominic impatiently. “Do you happen to know where they went?”
“Sure!” she replies with an agreeable smile. “One sec.”
Hope walks perkily back to her large black table, sits down, wiggles the computer mouse around, types some commands on the keyboard, grabs a pink sticky note from under the desktop monitor and writes down what’s on the screen.
Brock discretely mouths a silent “What the fuck?” to Dominic.
With ebullient energy she peels off the sticky note, stands up, and bounces back to the confused duo. The bright paper is deposited into Dominic’s large hand with a wink.
“Hope that helps,” she says cheerfully.
Blinking with disorientation Brock asks, “Wait … why are you helping us?”
“Oh, I don’t care what happens to this place. My job here is done,” replies Hope effervescently. She leans in and looks at both of them, placing her index finger just below her left eye and pulling down her lower eyelid. “Looks like you guys are just starting your shift,” she says with an oddly mischievous smile.
Then she quickly backs away, pointing finger guns at Brock and Dominic and playfully pretending to shoot at them while maintaining the same odd smile. “See ya!” she finally shouts, spinning around, pushing her handbag behind her back, and strutting out of the office before they can gather their thoughts.
With a bewildered look Dominic glances first at Brock and then at the pink paper in his own hand. With a very similar expression Brock alternates his focus between Dominic, the exit, and the note.
“What, indeed, the fuck,” says Dominic in a troubled yet slightly amused tone.