Текст книги "Amped"

Автор книги: Daniel H. Wilson

Соавторы: Daniel H. Wilson
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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Sir, I am serious. I will shoot your ass. I will not hesitate.” The officer reaches down and unbuttons his gun holster. Rests one palm on the butt of his gun. “I will not make another request. All of y’all need to back up.”

A grimace flashes across Lyle’s face. Something quiet, scary. Surging anger just below the surface. He opens his mouth to speak but stops as a pale hand closes around his upper arm. Lucy. The cowboy turns his head as she whispers something into his ear, gives his arm a little shake.

“Fine,” says Lyle. “Fine, Lucy.”

Lyle tugs his arm away, cocks his head, and closes his eyes. A dreamy smile flutters onto his face. He lifts his hands, palms out. The officer draws his gun, drags it from the leather holster with a squeak. Puts it on the high ready. Aimed at Lyle’s chest.

“On your knees,” he demands.

“Hush,” says Lyle. “I’m listening.”

The cop looks around at the neon temples. “What’s the matter with this guy?”

“Static, Officer,” says Lyle. “All I’m hearing is static.”

Lyle takes another step. The cop holds his ground. Lyle leans into the gun. The barrel presses into Lyle’s chest, dimples the fabric of his shirt, nosing into lean muscle.

“Got no backup coming,” says Lyle, opening his eyes. “Your radio’s all jammed up. Can’t you hear it hissing like a rattlesnake?”

“Enough shit,” says the cop. “Get on the ground! Now!”

The cop reaches for Lyle’s shoulder, but the cowboy shrugs away like a shadow. His face is suddenly an inch from the officer’s.

He is speaking to the cop fast and quiet. His voice rises and falls like water over stones. “Two hundred milliseconds. Takes that long just for your brain to tell your finger to pull the trigger, understand? Reaction time. Damn central tenet of mental chronometry. Trigger pull takes a hundred and ten milliseconds with a factory-set pull weight for that Glock of yours. Trigger releases the firing pin. Detonates the primer. Wait for the chemical reaction. Get your explosion and the bullet travels the length of the barrel, about four inches. Whole process takes a second and a half. Shit, man, might as well be an eternity.”

The kid lies on the ground, watching this unfold from a worm’s perspective. Breathing fast. Mouth open in wonder.

“You know why I know all that?” asks Lyle.

“You’re some kind of goddamn freak,” says the cop.

The crowd of neon thugs has moved closer. Almost imperceptibly. Lyle’s gang is a wall of seething anger. Fast little movements as guys light e-cigarettes, flick empty nicotine cartridges to the ground.

“Careful talking like that. All by yourself. What with your legs not working.”

The cop’s eyes go wide. He grunts, trying to lift a leg. Nothing happens. The motors in his stepper are frozen. He slaps his thigh, punches it. Twists at the waist, too hard. Off-balance, he teeters on paralyzed legs, arms out. His gun glints darkly in his right hand as he paws the air.

Before the cop can fall, his legs come unfrozen. He catches himself. Red-faced, he glares at the crowd. Grabs his gun in both hands and clutches it against his chest.

“Let me ask you again,” Lyle says. “You know why I know these things?”

The cop sputters. “I don’t know, okay? Why? Why do you know all that shit?”

“Because I can dodge your bullets, Officer.”

Lyle is not lying.

Abruptly, I wonder just what the hell is perched on my temple. And if Lyle is the only person who can tell me, I wonder if it’s worth knowing. Maybe it’s better to just let it lie dormant for the rest of my life.

The police officer looks at his own hands, wrapped moistly around the grip of his gun. “You’re out of your fucking mind,” he says.

The cowboy watches him, not blinking. “You can walk through us like we are ghosts, Officer. You got all the power in the world. But try and tell me power don’t recognize power.”

The cop isn’t listening anymore. Taking those measured mechanical steps, somehow childlike now, we can all tell that he is trying not to run. He beats it out of Eden. Maybe he’ll come back with more cops. Maybe he won’t.

Just before I go inside, I notice the beaten-up kid. He’s sitting in the dirt, staring at Lyle. He’s got this odd look on his face, eyes shining. It’s pretty obvious: the kid’s got a hero now.

It takes a second to place the last time I saw that look. It was in the eyes of the audience watching Senator Joseph Vaughn give a speech outside his offices at the Cathedral of Learning in Pittsburgh. The day my world ended.

Lyle just turns and walks off. Ignores the kid and everybody else. Falls back into that sea of floating neon pixels. He still has a dreamy look on his face. I glance past him and notice Lucy. She’s watching me watch Lyle, a concerned look on her face.

“Be careful around her,” says Jim.

“Lucy? Why?” I ask. “She’s the nicest person I’ve met so far. No offense.”

Lucy seems like the most normal, well-adjusted person I’ve met in Eden. Bringing an old man his supper. Probably saved that cop’s life. She’s human.

“You see goodness in her because you’re good.”

“Are you saying she’s not?”

“I don’t know. But it’s worth thinking on. Hell, your life might depend on it,” says Jim. He pulls the half-finished six-pack out from behind his back and dangles a beer at me. “Her name’s Lucy Crosby, son. Lyle’s her twin brother.”

TURN ANGER INTO ACTION

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“So?” asks Nick. “Can you turn it on? The Zenith?”

The kid whispers that last word, clearly enjoying it.

I’m sitting on Jim’s deck, holding a crummy old watch set to timer mode and keeping track while Nick manhandles his faded Rubik’s cube. Solving it for the thousandth time, his fingers twisted around the toy like melted candle wax.

Apparently, the laughing cowboy kicked up his heels and disappeared after facing down that cop. It was the smart move. A group of sheriffs came back the next day, sunglasses and beards and biceps, huddled up shoulder to shoulder like ducks. They snatched the runner from the night before and served warrants on a few others. Dragged them all out of here with a look that dared anybody to say anything.

For the last week, a sort of local order has emerged in this new world of chaos. I get off work from the construction site at two o’clock. Put on a low ball cap and push my way through Pure Priders and sometimes counterprotesters from the Free Body Liberty Group. Walk two miles home and never show my face to the traffic. Drag ass back into Eden, quietly counting the new amp families that have arrived.

Nick picked up on my schedule pretty quick. Lately, I’ve found him waiting, crouched inside the rotten old hot tub sitting on Jim’s porch. I can hear his giggles from the porch steps. Every day, he jumps out to surprise me—a demented jack-in-the-box.

And every day, I go ahead and act surprised.

“One thing is for sure,” Nick is saying, studying his Rubik’s cube and leaning back in a plastic chair, “we know you ain’t

supersmart.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, sorry. Autofocus’ll make a smart person smarter, but it won’t make a dummy a genius. Except sometimes people who seemed dumb just because they were distracted all the time can end up being pretty goddanged brilliant. Done.”

He holds up the Rubik’s cube, each face washed in solid neon colors.

“Twenty-two seconds,” I say, resetting the watch. “Yeah, you’re real smart.”

“Shoot, it’s just the government cheese.”

Nick waves his hand at me in an aw-shucks movement, then tosses over the Rubik’s cube. I mix up the colored squares, not paying particular attention. Nick watches my hands intently, probably memorizing the reverse series of movements to solve it—the little schemer.

He continues: “I’m guessing the soldier stuff works because the amp reacts automatically. Like when you prick your finger and your arm jumps back. I mean, you don’t tell your arm to jump back. Some other part of your brain is in charge of that. The part that keeps you from getting hit by a bus and stuff. Your amp must be like that, except it can do more than just make you flinch or blink your eyes or whatever.”

Nice, I think. An alien brain is coiled inside my head, able to make complex decisions without asking. Sounds wonderful.

“It can make you do soldier stuff like karate chops and shoot guns and—”

“Leap tall buildings in a single bound,” I interrupt.

“It can make you dodge a bullet,” says Nick matter-of-factly.

“Schoolteacher,” I say, pointing at myself. “Remember?”

“Well, those Priders in the field don’t care what you used to do.”

I toss the cube back and start the clock, the tiny silver watch button digging painfully into my finger. Nick’s hands are already moving when he catches the cube. So is his mouth.

“And we can’t know what the Zenith does until we turn it on.”

“No way, Nick,” I reply.

The kid nearly falls off his chair, cube temporarily forgotten. “Aren’t ya curious?” he nearly shouts.

Curious. A little. Afraid? Petrified.

“It’s complicated,” I say. “It’s a weapon.”

“Your dad gave it to you, right?”

I watch Nick carefully, my face flat.

“Yeah.”

“He wouldn’t do nothing to hurt his son. He loved you. He must have meant for you to use it.”

“In an emergency only,” I respond. What did my dad say to me back in the lab? You have to give it permission. Were those his last words to me? I can’t even remember. Thoughts of that morning are shards of glass, too sharp to sift through.

Nick jumps up and spreads his small arms. “What the heck do you think this is?”

The kid slowly steps forward, beady eyes locked on mine, voice rising. “We’re stuck here on this island. All alone and surrounded by bloodthirsty sharks. Running out of food and water. Getting desperate. Something’s gotta give. I’m telling you, man. Our situation that we’re in here is dire. Very dire, Owen.”

He’s been reading the dictionary.

“Plus,” he says breathlessly, “every speed cuber knows that you got to think a bunch of moves ahead. Every move you make is part of a bigger series. Whether you know it or not. You got to be ready.”

The kid is right. If and when an emergency comes, I won’t have time to figure this out. There’s a lot you need to learn about yourself.

I tilt my head at Nick. “What’s your plan?”

Nick grows a little grin, hops off the porch. “Follow me,” he says.

We walk down the dirt path toward the fields. On the way, I catch myself glancing into Lucy’s backyard to see if she’s out there, maybe hanging laundry on the clothesline.

Nick catches me looking. Makes the inference immediately.

“Are you gonna ask her out?” he asks.

I shrug. Nick starts chattering in his matter-of-fact way, leading me past his empty front yard. Lucy, he says, is perfect for a guy like me. She’s pretty and smart. Has kind of a mean brother in Lyle. But Lucy herself, you got to remember, is really, really nice.

Nick says this word—“nice”—solemnly, as though it has deep meaning to him. I wonder how many nice people he knows.

“How did you end up living with her?” I ask.

Nick keeps walking as if I just asked him a regular question. The hollow timbre of his voice tells me it isn’t. “My folks were reggies,” he says. “They didn’t like it here. Not sure they really liked me much either. Anyway, Lucy took me in once they were gone.”

I slow down and follow the kid over to the fence. Give him some space for a minute. Finally, he turns and stands across from me like we’re about to play catch.

“Getting back to the point. You got a brain implant,” says Nick. “Switch must be in your head.” He taps his temple. “Can you feel it in there? Can you concentrate on it?”

I frown at Nick. He shrugs and continues. “Because sometimes … I can feel the cheese, sort of, pushing me. Like standing in a creek with the water flowing against your legs, you know?”

Yeah, I do know what he means. I know exactly. I’ve spent most of my life ignoring this feeling. Trying not to notice that a foreign object in my head is affecting every minute of my life.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll try.”

Nick puts his arms up, quietly cheering.

I close my eyes. Send my thoughts out like tentacles to wrap around the chunk of plastic cocooned in my neurons. I can almost feel it there, shuddering with every heartbeat. Fwish, fwish, fwish.

Now, I hear the soft roar of the ocean in a seashell.

The white noise grows louder, collapses into patterns, waves of sound lapping at my consciousness. Words? The implant is trying to speak to me. Sounds coming together, growing louder, more distinct. One word: Nick.

I open my eyes.

Nick is smiling at me when the rock hits him in the face. It’s a nasty little hunk of concrete. Smacks that crooked jack-o’-lantern grin right off his face. Leaves a ragged gash in Nick’s forehead that wells up with blood, turns to a pendulous red stripe before it starts streaming down his face.

On the other side of the fallen-down fence, a blond kid hoots. There are maybe three or four of them, hiding out there in the tall brown grass. I can hear their harsh adolescent laughter.

Nick doesn’t cry. Just puts one palm over his forehead. Squints at me sadly through the blood. A baby gargoyle. Clutches the Rubik’s cube in chubby fingers, finally still.

Pure anger dumps into my veins and throbs through my body. My concentration breaks as all the rage ignites at once like jet fuel. Before I know what’s happening, I’m striding toward the grass. Awkwardly pushing the wooden fence down, walking over it.

I climb the chain-link fence and hop it in one movement, limbs quaking from adrenaline. The field is mostly empty, save empty beer cans and trash. A ripped camping chair some spotlighter left behind. And three teenage boys.

“What’s your fucking problem?” I hear myself shouting. “Hey!”

The teenagers don’t run away like I half expect them to. Instead, they surround me quickly, naturally. Gathered around me, they take on a new form. Each of these kids might be okay on his own, but together they’re a hydra: one monster, three heads.

“Why’d you throw that?” I ask. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with you?” mimics a towheaded kid in falsetto. “What a retard.”

More laughter.

“Amp retard.”

I turn to see who said it, and a dirt clod catches me in the mouth, busts my lip, and explodes into dust. My eyes clench shut, trapping dirt behind my eyelids. I double over, blind and gasping in pain as tears cascade down my face.

“The fuck?” I sputter.

A burst of surprised laughter quickly turns raucous, takes on a vicious edge.

“Boom, baby!”

The first shove catches me in the lower back. I trip in the grass and fall to my knees. Another dirt clod catches me in the back of the head as I wipe my eyes.

My tears are turning the dirt to mud.

“Boys,” bellows a deep voice. The laughter dries up instantly. The flying dirt clods stop long enough for me to clear one eye. Squinting, I make out a big guy with a ratty little beard. He’s lumbering across the field with a can of beer in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

“Thanks,” I call, climbing to my feet. “These kids are out of control.”

“Shut the fuck up, amp,” says the man.

The words are like a hard slap across the face. The kind you don’t feel until later.

“Lucky I don’t shoot your ass, out here fucking around with my kids,” he adds, stomping toward me through the grass and getting in my face.

“Damn right, Gunnin’,” calls the blond kid.

“Shut your mouth,” orders the man.

“Sorry, Billy,” says the kid.

I’m backing away. The alcohol-fueled hostility from “Gunnin’ Billy” here is like a poisonous mist. Unlike the taunts from the kids, his words have a lethal momentum behind them. As I back away, he marches forward. Building up steam.

“These kids are citizens of the United States of America, amp. And you’re not shit. You get that?”

Billy shoves me in the chest. My head snaps forward and I’m staring at a mark on the web of his right thumb. A tattoo of two tiny block letters. It’s the EM symbol that I haven’t seen since the Pure Pride rally in Pittsburgh.

I blink at it.

Then a kick connects with my side. Pushes me off-balance as I try to step backward through the grass. More kicks come in from all around. Laughter. Another dirt clod. I fall to my knees, trying to wipe my eyes and fend off the soft-soled tennis shoes jolting me from random directions.

“So keep your worthless amp ass inside your rat hole,” says Billy.

I fall onto my stomach. I desperately try to clear my eyes while more dirt clods rain down. Climbing to my hands and knees, I hear sly laughter.

A wetness spreads over the back of my neck and I stagger to my feet in shock. With one arm shielding my eyes, I stumble back toward the trailers. More clods bounce off my back as I retreat.

“Don’t come back!” shouts Billy.

They don’t follow me past the other side of the fence.

Nick is gone. There’s a spatter of blood where he stood. Tree branches swaying quietly overhead.

“Nick?” I call.

Just the seesaw buzz of cicadas in the trees.

I reach back and touch my neck where it’s wet, smell my fingers. Piss. Those kids pissed on me while I was wallowing in the dirt like a helpless baby. Like an amp retard. That’s what they called me. A worthless freak.

I wipe my hand on my pants and then freeze. Lucy has come around the corner of her trailer. Watching me. She’s in blue jeans and in the morning sunlight I can see she’s got a smattering of freckles beneath serious eyes. She’s even more beautiful in the light.

“Nick is okay,” she says. “I cleaned him up and gave him a Band-Aid. What about you? Do you need help?”

Me? Well, I’ve got a cold ball of shame wedged tight under my rib cage. Hot piss drying on the back of my neck.

Lucy steps toward me and I put on an unconvincing smile, try to speak—to tell her it was just a stupid thing that I’m laughing off. No big deal. But the words dig their heels into my throat and refuse to come out.

An aftershock of anger rolls through me, and I tuck my hands on my hips to hide their shaking. I want to smash skulls, gouge eyes, and—hell, I don’t know—cry. Instead, I drop the trembling, not-fooling-anybody attempt at a smile and turn my back on Lucy.

“Owen,” she calls, walking closer. “It’s okay.”

Pity is in her voice, twisting like a knife between my shoulder blades.

“I’m fine,” I say.

She puts a hand on my shoulder and touches the warm urine, and now I know that I have got to get the fuck out of here immediately. I shrug my shoulder and she hangs on.

“Owen—” she’s trying to say.

I wrench away from her. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I shout. “Damn.”

“What is the matter with you?” she asks, plaintive, wiping her hand on her dress.

Oh my God. Anything. Anything to get away from this shame. I’m walking fast, away, away, away.

“Nothing,” I call over my shoulder. “I don’t need help. I’m not another stray for you to take in.” Immediately, I flush scalp to spine with hot regret. I break into a trot until I can’t hear her. Along the way, I yank my piss-soaked shirt over my head, ball it up, and hurl it lamely into the grass.

Back in Jim’s trailer, I slam the flimsy broken door shut behind me. The sink piddles a weak stream of warm water and I let it pool in my dirt-caked fingers. Splash it on my face and let it carry away the snot and tears and dirt.

In the fart-smelling freezer, I find a plastic tray of shallow ice cubes. I twist the cracked tray and let the slivers of ice fall on the counter. Wrap them in a napkin and push the mass against my swollen lip.

Would things be easier if I were a reggie? Yeah, they damn well would be. I wouldn’t stink like urine and humiliation. I could sit in my nice apartment and feel sorry for all those poor amps out there, instead of taking my own lashes here in this trailer park.

The reality of this new world is settling in. Spotlighters watching the fringes of town every night. Protesters outside the job site every day. Hiding here with nobody to talk to. “Head down, antennae up,” as Jim says. And now, my ass handed to me by a bunch of teenagers. With poor Nicky there to watch.

And so much for Lucy Crosby. I guess I fucked that up pretty good.

I open the freezer again, more slowly this time. There’s a bottle of cheap vodka wedged in the back, bearded in frost. Three-fourths full. I pull it out and set it down on the counter and let it sweat.

I slide open the silverware drawer. Pick up an ice pick with a worn wooden handle. Turn it back and forth in my hands.

Nick told me I was going to do something here in Eden. At this moment, nothing very good comes to mind. But if I’m here because of this goddamn thing in my head, then I think I’m ready to go face-to-face with it. Turn it on and find out what it is, one way or another.

I’m going to see what all the fuss is about.