by David Gullen
– Eye-witness, RT podcast, Orlando, FL
Novik got them moving earlier each day. The trail of maxed-out self-store units behind them was creating local back-pressure, convoys of Utes, flat-beds and SUVs loaded with excess possessions filled the highways bound for more distant facilities.
He watched the traffic with satisfaction. The more people on the road looking for storage, the fewer there were in the shops. It was a side effect he hadn’t anticipated, the law of unforeseen consequences.
Josie’s arm slipped around his waist. ‘Ready to go, babe.’
The morning air was fresh, Novik felt brim-full of confidence. ‘We’re having an effect, Josie. We’re starting to make a difference.’
Josie thought about the half-empty holdalls in the trunk of the ultra-hybrid they now drove, and the immense landscapes to the east and south they could not touch. ‘We sure are. It’s a good plan.’
At the end of each day, Benny, Josie and Marytha scoped out the next day’s targets while Novik booked the packaging wholesalers to arrange deliveries.
The overnight motel stops made life more bearable. Everyone was focused and hard-working, even Benny, to Novik’s pleasant surprise. The mission had become a routine, saving the world was no longer an ideal: it had become the day job.
They were heading towards a Russian Doll self-store when the power warning light on the dash began to blink.
Novik peered up at the overcast sky. ‘Not enough sun.’
‘How’s the flywheel?’ Josie said.
‘Flatlining.’
‘Bio-diesel?’
‘Sucking fumes.’
The car juddered as it cycled between power sources. Novik pulled into the nearside lane and slowed to the most economic speed. What he’d taken to be a blanking plate on the dash rotated to display a simple top-down graphic of the car and the road ahead. A glowing red dot showed at the edge of the road. It moved past the car and faded.
‘What’s that mean?’ said Novik.
‘I don’t know.’ Josie pointed at the screen. ‘Here comes another.’
Novik watched the passing verge. ‘I don’t see anything.’
The SUV was making about fifteen miles an hour and slowing. Josie studied the owner’s manual, a laminated sheet of simple pictograms. They were moving barely above walking pace when she reached out and touched the nearest red dot on the screen. Immediately the car swung onto the verge. There was a bump, a scrape, and they pulled back onto the road.
‘What did you do? We hit something.’ Novik said.
‘Nothing that hasn’t been hit before.’ Josie touched another red circle and once again the car straddled the verge.
Novik looked back through the rear window. Whatever had been there, now it was gone. A deep glutinous gurgle came from somewhere in the lower rear reaches of the vehicle. Josie tapped the screen a third time.
This time Novik saw something. ‘It’s a dead dog,’ he exclaimed.
The car moved over the sad little shape. With a dull rumble and thump the car scooped it up.
‘Roadkill fermentation,’ Josie explained. ‘Anaerobic maceration digests it down to useable hydrocarbons and methane.’
Muffled gloops and blats came from somewhere under the trunk. The warning light on the dash flickered and went out.
Novik tried not to imagine what was going on. ‘I really miss Mr Car.’
‘Me too,’ Josie sighed.
The engine coughed and backfired. The juddering woke Marytha.
‘What’s wrong? Are we going to break down?’
‘Just a hair ball.’
‘What?’ Marytha said.
Parp, went the car.
Novik pressed down on the accelerator, the revs picked up and they merged back into the traffic. As he drove, he replayed the events of the SpaceTime motel. However he looked at it there was one undeniable conclusion – he had acted like a complete jerk. Mr Car had been a bit of a jerk too, the same way a child is dangerous in its inexperience. That was forgivable. As a nominally mature and legally responsible adult, Novik knew he out-jerked Mr Car by at least an order of magnitude.
‘How about some food?’ Benny said.
The silence in the passenger compartment was interrupted by faint gastric rumbles and poots from the car’s digester and exhaust.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Novik said.
‘Where do you think Mr Car is now?’ Josie said.
Marytha grinned. ‘If I was him, I’d be hitting the beach.’
‘Head over to Daytona or Bonneville,’ Novik said.
‘Yeah, that car was fast! How fast could he go?’
‘He never said. We never asked,’ Novik said with a pang of regret.
‘Maybe one day we’ll meet up and find out. That would be cool.’
‘Yeah,’ Novik said wistfully. ‘That would be cool indeed.’
The next job was an hour away. Novik tried to listen to some music. Stations fought it out with classic rap, speed folk, nu-pop, woodpunk, and the ever-present Bariatric Babes. The sounds broke up as they passed from one station’s broadcast territory into another’s, each tune’s lead-in and fade abruptly terminated by hyper-fast adverts for hair products, sex aids, arctic cruises, pre-release Meeja, golf resorts, extreme weather warnings, mall openings, church arms dealers, secure storage, bankrupt stock sales, plastic surgery, mail-order shoes, eye tattoos, life coaching, logo launches, anal bleaching, Wiccan pensions and family-friendly porn conventions. Every station was overlaid by the muddy boom and sweep of pirate tight-beam channels from motion-sensing microwave transmitters on the roofs of the passing tenements. It was almost the exact opposite of what music was supposed to be.
‘Can we eat now? Please,’ Benny said.
Novik found a drive-through and they bought shakes, burgers and fries. Josie spelled Novik at the wheel.
Energised by the food, Benny said, ‘I’ve been thinking, and you guys really are in a mess. The counter-culture of Western civilisations transcended itself by embracing consumerism and the guilty pleasures of disposable possessions. Then everyone grew up and had more babies. The lie was pretending to recycle some of your shit made it all okay, but there was a feedback circuit everyone forgot about. Money is a symbolic representation of potential energy – you use it as a substitute for actual effort. As a result, consequences become once, twice, or several times removed. Possession replaced ambition and price ceased to equal cost.’
Marytha’s eyes were round as saucers. ‘You should stick that on a T-shirt.’
Benny shook his head. ‘Sometimes even T-shirts can lie.’
Sweat broke out on Novik’s brow. He tried to blank Benny’s voice by studying Josie – the way her long, elegant fingers gripped the wheel, the tone of her slender tanned biceps, the way her skin sank into hollows above her collar bone.
It wasn’t working. Even looking at her breasts, gently shifting with the movement of the car on the open road, her nipples taut against the windblown cotton of her sleeveless crimson top, failed to replace the ugly synesthetic sensations of Benny’s philosophising.
Josie’s smile grew as she felt Novik’s gaze. ‘You feeling horny, babe?’
‘No. I got the mind-patterns of a fruit bat crawling through my brain.’
Novik felt himself sinking down into the seat, deeper and deeper like Alice into the burrow.
‘Who was that White Rabbit?’ said a voice like Benny’s.
Jesus, Novik thought, Benny’s climbed right inside my head. Reaching up as high as he could, Novik wrapped his arms round Josie’s ankle and tried to shin up her calf. He flopped back in his seat, grey with sweat.
Josie eased back on the accelerator. ‘Bad mayo in the burger?’
‘I need a ladder,’ Novik gasped. ‘You should wear stockings.’
Josie laid her hand on his brow. ‘You’ve handled the money more than the rest of us, you’re having flashbacks. Just relax and ride them out.’
‘It’s Benny, he’s thinking my thoughts
for me.’
‘I can’t do that, man,’ Benny said.
‘I knew you were going to say that.’ Novik covered his ears and sank down in his seat.
‘I’m going to find a drug store’ Josie announced. ‘You need some vitamin C.’
‘Good idea, I tend to be selenium deficient,’ Benny said. ‘Zinc, manganese, anything from period four.’
‘I know you do,’ Novik sulked. ‘I can read your mind.’
‘No, you can’t,’ Benny said.
Brows furrowing, Novik tried again. ‘You’re right, I can’t. Gods, that is a relief.’
‘You’re getting through it,’ Josie said. ‘Let’s find that drug store.’
‘And some booze. Lots of booze,’ Marytha said. ‘I need a drink.’
Novik really was feeling better, he twisted round in his seat. ‘I know you miss Mr Car, we all do. Getting numb isn’t the way and believe me, I’ve tried. We – I dealt with Mr Car the wrong way, but it was still the right decision.’
‘That car needs to get a few things out of its system,’ Josie said.
Benny said nothing. Novik felt the eyes of that strange, intense young man on the back of his neck. ‘What we’re doing with the boxes and the warehouses was Mr Car’s idea. It’s his legacy, we should never forget, and we should do it the best we can.’
‘Amen to that,’ Marytha said.
‘We need to broaden this out. Get some help, spread the word, find some more people who will buy into the plan.’
‘Who can we trust?’ Josie said.
Marytha sat up, ‘Guys, there’s this stoner I busted last year up in Salem, Oregon. He knows Halifax, we used to–’ For the briefest moment Marytha looked sad. ‘So, he still runs a performance-art crime crew. We split when I did my cop thing.’
‘What sort of crew?’ Novik said.
‘Heavy but cool. No links to the Crips or the Bloods, or the C.O.P.S. for that matter. Underneath it all Halifax just wants to mess with The Man.’
‘Crime as art? It’s been tried before.’ Novik turned to Josie. ‘What do you think?’
‘We could use the help. It’s worth a look.’
The car let out a sustained and noxious belch. Sulphurous fumes seeped through the air vents, an eggy, eye-watering stench.
‘This car’s got to go,’ Novik wheezed as he cranked the window. ‘Next one’s a convertible.’
- 34 -
‘Hey, Rik, we’re getting reports of some kind of pilotless car. Described as ‘Awesome’, and ‘Really cool’ it sounds like some kind of super slick uber-vehicle.’
‘Ralf, we’ve got sightings in just about every state from Arizona to Ohio. Hoax or something new, it’s too early to tell. Make your own mind up if you got one.’
‘People are starting to call it the Grey Ghost. We like that. Here’s what they’re saying:’
“An Alien Car from Area 51.” lonelymomtollfree96942
“I wanna play chickeken.” Alabameejedi
“A stolen prototype. We’d like it back.” (Anon)
“A driverless car. The automotive zeitgeist for these troubled times.” T.H.Yousomuch
‘Woah! Lookit, Ralf, a post from the great T.Hank. It’s a real honour, sir. Anyone know what it means? Come to that, anyone know what a “chickeken” is?’
‘You catch a glimpse of the Grey Ghost, you ping us realtime. We want it fast, so no email, capiche?’
‘Ralf, you wanna play chickeken?’
‘Respectfully, cluck off. I’m going to call 96942.’
‘Let’s have some music.’
– Rik’n’Ralf’s Podneck Redcast
‘This is Ozzie,’ Oscar Gordano said into the receiver.
‘And this is me.’ The voice Gordano recognised as Mitchell Gould was full of tension.
‘We cool?’
‘Oh yes, we are so cool. What do you want?’
‘The party is heading towards the party, so you can get ready to party.’
There was a pause, then: ‘What?’
Gordano took a breath. ‘Crane’s heading back to Canada. When Manalito tells you he’s–’
‘Enough. We know what to do. Where’s my money?’
‘It’s all arranged.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘You will.’
‘See to it.’
The line went dead. Gordano put the phone down with a sweating hand. Every conversation with Gould left him feeling inadequate. Today his attempts at stylish subterfuge had sounded ridiculous even to himself. Then he had blabbed names. No wonder Gould spoke with contempt.
Gordano slumped in the office easy chair. A picture window opened onto a broad, rolling lawn of perfect green stripes. The water in his new pool lay still. Unoccupied sun-chairs and parasol-shaded tables stood in neat rows along one edge.
Salad lettuce, tomatoes and green beans grew in a small vegetable plot of freshly dug black earth, the subject of the ‘Gordano Digs for Victory’ viral propaganda White House analysts insisted would shunt Exec approval at least seven points.
Down on the lawn the film crew were setting up. Power leads trailed across the grass, light screens, lamps and cameras stood on tripods and telescopic stands. A bulbous-nosed man wearing khaki shorts, a pink shirt and a soft-brimmed hat issued a stream of instruction – the brilliantly erratic auteur director Guido Husqvarna. As Gordano watched, Husqvarna looked down at his cell, then up at the house.
Everyone was waiting for Gordano. He was the Vice President of a country at war, he had just given the go-ahead to have the richest family in the world murdered, and now they wanted to film him weeding the lettuce. It was humiliating.
A huge chestnut tree dominated the rear of the garden, an elaborate tree house in its sweeping branches. Husqvarna had set his director’s chair in the shade. One of the crew had nailed light cables and a pin-board to the trunk. Gordano regarded the activity sourly, he felt trapped, consumed with a total reluctance to go down, while also knowing that was exactly what he must do.
The tree house was where he and Shirleen used to party, just the two of them. Soft music and candlelight, a bottle of wine, some legal Pharma and a few toys. Shirleen had been hot, she liked bondage, being top, being bottom; she always swallowed. She even liked anal; she actually preferred anal.
Jazmin wasn’t into that, or much else. All she liked were her body mods and piercings, gold, diamond, platinum. Gordano thought her kink might extend to new areas of erotic play. He’d spent a fortune finding out he was wrong. If she walked out on him now, stark naked, taking nothing that wasn’t actually attached to her body, she could live on her jewellery for five years.
She stood in the doorway in blood red pants and an open, white leather jacket. ‘You don’t need me for this do you?’ Jazmin studied her nails. ‘I’m meeting some girls for cappuccino at the needle parlour.’
‘I do need you,’ Gordano said. ‘I’d really like you to be there with me. It’s meant to be a family thing, partners together.’
‘Sure, but you don’t actually need me. Pulling up weeds, squishing slugs, I mean, my manicure.’
‘You could wear gloves.’
Jazmin’s lip curled. ‘Sure.’
They looked at each other.
‘I got to go.’ Jazmin turned away. ‘Catch you later.’
‘Wait,’ Gordano said, but she was gone.
A door slammed downstairs. The house became still.
‘Dammit to fuckery,’ Gordano ranted. ‘That’s a level three violation, Jazmin. Sonofabitch, you owe me.’
Gordano glared at the thin black Meeja console on his desk, a gift from President Snarlow. He didn’t understand how it worked, or why people were so excited by it. It was all so unreasonable the way everything changed. He’d like to see Guinevere Snarlow do this, he’d like to see her humiliated on her hands and knees.
The idea of filming made his guts clench, the Meeja an ideal opportunity to delay. Gordano settled the wireless headset onto his scalp and turned on t
he machine.
The machine hummed, an internal cooling fan began to blow, a bank of LEDs phased from amber to green. Gordano waited a minute, then another. There was a piece of notepaper on the desk he hadn’t noticed before, probably a warranty or delivery note. He’d look at it later. Right now nothing was happening, either the console was broken or he hadn’t set it up right. Gordano reluctantly shoved himself to his feet and went down to the garden and the waiting film crew.
Much to his surprise he found Guinevere Snarlow talking to Husqvarna, one arm draped around the director’s shoulder. Her skirt was short, her legs bare and her normally crisp blouse rumpled and gaping.
‘Oscar, darling.’ Guinevere turned as she saw him, staggered, and fell into Husqvarna’s arms. Laughing, she gave the director a lingering kiss. ‘I came over to see you become a superstar.’
She’s drunk, Gordano realised angrily, then filled with alarm at the wider implications.
‘Listen up,’ Gordano said. ‘This is now a closed set. Any of the crew with recording devices must turn them off and check them in right now. That is an Executive order.’
Resentfully the crew filed past. One by one they deposited a range of micro, mini and full-size broadcast quality video and sound equipment. A ludicrously big stack of kit piled up. Everyone was packing, some with two or even three pieces.
A snub-nosed athletic young woman wearing a sleeveless black club-gear vest hung back. Gordano knew what the problem was straightaway. ‘Just a moment, young lady. That vest of yours has woven tech.’
She looked at him haughtily, hands on hips. ‘So? It’s my top. You want me to take it off?’
She was cute but Gordano wasn’t in the mood. ‘Change it or leave the set.’
Seeing his determination, her mood changed. ‘There’s not much gets by you. I like that.’ Coquettishly, she pulled the zip front open to her navel. ‘I’ll wait for you in the house.’
Husqvarna detached himself from Guinevere. ‘Oscar, are we expecting your wife?’
Gordano shook his head. ‘She’s gone shopping.’
Husqvarna’s sensual mouth pursed with disappointment. ‘The script calls for two people. Never mind, we’ll improvise–’