Physical withdrawals can be managed. You can power through the same as you do with flu symptoms. Hydration and hash oil distracts from the worst pain. Without them, it’s 72-hours of cramps, sweats, fever, and distress. Even those symptoms can’t compare to the psychological hell visited upon a junkie. While the body revolts, the mind is hijacked by dependence, an unyielding need for a substance to make both systems function normally again. The most primal areas of the brain overwhelm executive functions. These areas identify environmental triggers in every smell, sight, and touch. Anxiety ratchets up to a level where the only escape is to crawl from your skin, as though it were a suit that had grown snug over time. When the physical torment subsides for a moment, phantom pain appears to complement the emotional turmoil. All working together toward one outcome that results in their disappearance. Until next time.
I regretted my choice the longer I sat across from the address given by Watt. I parked a half block up, across the street, with a clear view of the entrance, even through the falling slush. I kept the window down, letting cold air chill the car. It was low-30s outside, but inside my body, it felt like 102. More had exited than entered the building in the past two hours, none resembling Tarasov.
It was near midnight and the snow fell heavier. My lower back ached like I took the beating and not Watt. I needed to stretch or walk somewhere, anything to take my mind off the pain, but it wasn’t worth being made by one of the couriers. Doubtful Watt tipped them off, as my threat was clear and he feared being branded a sellout by his brothers and sisters of the USPS Local #8. The longer I thought about the den, the worse I felt. Watt wasn’t a bad guy, just someone like me trying to eek out a living. He was probably a federal employee, a real postal worker in a past life, now relegated to a hustle. A hustle where he was in danger of being maimed by a junkie on his night off. I went too hard on him and the security guard. I hadn’t discharged my firearm in months and while justified by the active case, relying on it felt cowardly. Though in my current state, I wouldn’t have made it past the security guard without it.
I hung my head out the window and let the snow melt against my face. I imagined steam rising as each flake transformed to water on my skin. I didn’t used to be like this, I had self-respect. A career. A life. I wasn’t beholden to a substance. Or a person—like a methadone clinic from the previous century. That was Esme, a walking methadone clinic, keeping me strung out, never really wanting me clean, convincing me I needed her. All in exchange for however much crypto was in my wallet on a given night.
I threw open the car door, the thoughts intruded until there wasn’t room for us both. I walked away from the union hall, down the middle of the quiet street. The wind whipped through my clothes, a temporary reset for my mind and body. I turned back toward the hall and focused on the door, a flicker of orange from a car down the street caught my eye. I appraised it through the snow, unsure how long it’d been there. The car sat on the same side of the street as the hall, maybe two blocks down. I started back in its direction, training my vision on the shadow in the drivers seat. Distance and snowfall obscured any meaningful detail. The driver, even the color of the car, were mysteries. I quickened my pace into a trot, passing the union hall just as the entrance swung open. I was a stranger, jogging down the middle of the street, in a snowstorm, at midnight. I was made before the door could close behind him. I skidded to a stop, as we stared at one another. I didn’t recognize the courier, but he’d been warned about me. I guess Watt thought it better to ask forgiveness from them than to cooperate with me. He turned and caught the door, then slipped back inside. The crunch of tires on snow drew my attention back down the street where the mystery car U-turned and sped away.
I ran to the entrance and found it locked. Tarasov had to be holed up inside. I placed my phone against the digital lock—Access Denied. I initiated the override granted Coursers and placed the phone near the lock again. The lock lit blue and a computerized voice came from my phone, “Locke, Logan. Courser #315317. You are granted access to this private facility under 18.USC.338. Federal law prohibits unlawful access unless in the performance of duty.” I pulled open the door in what felt like slow motion. Someone on the other side racked in a load. I stepped forward, but before my foot hit the threshold, I took in the surroundings like a fever dream. A dark bar room. A few digital screens. Cherry wood tables and chairs. A matching bar. Blue USPS long coats on chair backs. A large, vintage sign featuring the USPS logo and the American bald eagle with “#8” incorporated. Patrons sitting at the bar or at tables, pints of beer spread throughout. The barrel of a shotgun recently discharged, center mass, toward the intruder in the doorway.
The loud crack startled me, but worse was the pain in my abdomen. I wasn’t at the door any longer, but back outside, lying on cold pavement. Wet pavement. I couldn’t breathe as I stared up at the night sky, the snow fell heavier, covering me. I gasped again and again, struggling to move. I heard someone rack in another load, then voices spoke gibberish above me. I tried to right myself. In my head, I was staggering to my feet, ready to face the assailant, but in reality, I was squirming along the sidewalk. The shotgun discharged again, something slammed into my rib cage, then the lights went out.
Genesis Block #13
Oh no!!! There'd better be a chapter #14, Mr. Smith. If there isn't, I am going to have to jump in and add one myself! I like this bad-luck guy, addiction and all. Give him a break, please. By the way, you write the first part of this chapter as if you've actually been there. I won't ask.