by Oliver Smith
The Sonic Z-14 had been spotlighted in automotive magazines like Car and Driver, Road & Track, and Motor Trend, every article praising the exotic sports car’s performance and handling. Maxwell had displayed the Sonic Z-14 in every auto show from Chicago, Detroit, Los Angeles, and New York in the U.S. to the worldwide venues in Geneva, Tokyo, Frankfurt, and Paris.
Maxwell had earned the prestigious “Man of the Year” award honouring him for spawning the Sonic Z-14, which garnered every bestowed accolade for 2014 including “Technology of the Year,” “Design of the Year,” and even “Automobile of the Year.”
The Sonic Z-14 had been proclaimed “The Ultimate Visionary Sports Car of the Future,” and had blown the doors off every competitor, even the popular Aston Martin One-77, the Bugatti Veyron Super Sport, and the Lamborghini Aventador.
Maxwell opened the driver’s door and took a moment to appreciate the car’s exquisite interior: the black contoured leather seats, the Lear Jet instrument panel, the six-speed manual transmission console.
Under the sloped aerodynamic hood was a V-12, 6.25 liter high-performance engine with 950 horsepower capable of accelerating from zero to sixty-five miles an hour in an astonishing, neck-snapping 2.2 seconds. The Sonic Z-14’s fastest speed had been recorded at 287 mph. It was later boasted that the test driver had been afraid if he went any faster the lightweight aluminum frame would have gone airborne and taken flight.
Maxwell eased snugly behind the custom leather and teak-grained steering wheel and shut the door with a hermetic hiss.
“Good morning, Barb,” spoke a husky male voice. The Sonic Z-14 was programmed for the last person who had driven the car—Barbette.
Maxwell glanced at the numbered touch pad on the dashboard. Number one glowed green, Barbette’s assigned number. Maxwell had revolutionized anti-car theft technology by implementing fingerprint recognition instead of the traditional use of an ignition key. He touched the number two and it turned green while the number one glowed a subdued red.
Instantly the driver’s seat moved backward, shifting Maxwell’s girth away from the steering wheel and giving him more legroom for the pedals. The back of the seat tilted and the lumbar adjusted to the small of Maxwell’s back. He could feel the seat gently massaging and warming his thighs and buttocks.
“Forgive my oversight, Max. Welcome aboard,” a sexy female voice greeted him.
“Thank you, Eve,” Maxwell replied.
Not only was the Sonic Z-14 the fastest sports car on the planet, it was also a sophisticated high-tech marvel, equipped with a specially designed computerized operating system that monitored every aspect of the automobile’s performance, which could entail anything from governing the monstrous engine, ensuring the stringent fuel efficiency, surveying the complicated electrical systems, responding to the incredible accuracy of the satellite-tracking GPS, to merely observing the mundane task of cabin climate control.
There were olfactory sensors installed throughout the car, including the trunk, designed to detect toxic fumes or smoke, instantly triggering built-in extinguishers that would discharge a blast of retardant to smother flames in the event of a fire. The computer’s equivalent to a CSI lab spectrometer and sensors were so state-of-the-art it was possible to get a chemical breakdown on any substance, even identify a distinct fragrance, such as a man’s cologne or a woman’s perfume.
Maxwell had taken it one step further and assigned an artificial intelligence voice tailored for each individual driver. As Barbette and Maxwell were the only ones who drove their Sonic Z-14, Maxwell had programmed a man’s voice for his wife—Adam—and a woman’s voice—Eve—for whenever he drove the car.
Adam and Eve were the computerized nerve center of the Sonic Z-14.
Each side mirror and the rearview mirror adjusted to Maxwell’s line of sight.
The song, “Born in the USA,” played courtesy of Satellite Radio, which was automatically tuned to a long playlist of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s greatest hits.
Silently, without the slightest hint of a fan in motion, the AC regulated to a mild sixty-two degrees.
“I trust you are comfortable,” Eve said.
“Yes, thank you, Eve.”
“You’re welcome. Would you like for me to plan a destination?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Very well. Would you like for me to take over the controls so that you may sit back and relax during the journey?”
“No, I’ll be driving manually.”
“Very well.”
Maxwell touched the number two again and the Sonic Z-14’s powerful engine roared to life. A throaty rumble passed through the chassis. Maxwell could feel every fiber in his body resonating with the vibrating vehicle. It was as though he and the machine were one. Human tissue and steel bonded together.
“Scanning systems,” Eve said in her sultry but monotone voice. “Adjusting suspension to compensate for additional weight: one hundred eighty pounds in the driver’s seat; one hundred seventy pounds in the trunk. Trip speed and gasoline consumption reconfigured. Systems check-off complete.”
Maxwell pulled out of his four-car garage and drove down the asphalt lane to the main entrance of his estate.
He waited until the wrought iron gate swung open, then turned left onto the rural road.
Once he was on the straightaway, he tromped on the accelerator and was thrust back against the seat as the sports car rocketed down the pavement.
He caught the twinkling lights of the city below in his peripheral vision, keeping his full attention on the treacherous rural road ahead as he put the Sonic Z-14 through its paces and punched the speedometer up to 70 mph.
The dash clock read 10:47 in the turquoise luminance.
“Posted speed limit is forty-five,” Eve said as a warning though there was no hint of trepidation in her programmed voice.
“Recommendation noted,” Maxwell replied, ignoring the computer as he accelerated to seventy-five.
Twenty minutes later, Maxwell pulled off the blacktop onto a dirt byway that stretched into a wooded area shrouded in fog.
Maxwell drove a short distance before stopping and turning off the engine. The faint, muffled sound of the surf pounding the rocky shore outside was barely audible.
He left the headlights on and climbed out of the Sonic Z-14. He walked around to the rear of the car and pushed the button on the fob.
The trunk gracefully popped open.
Maxwell reached in, grabbed one of the garbage bags and lugged the bag over to the edge of the cliff.
He could feel the mist on his face as the white foamy waves crashed upon the base of the steep, rocky precipice fifty feet below.
Maxwell tossed the bag into the ocean.
He went back for the second garbage bag. He dragged it to the edge and kicked it over. He disposed of the third bag in the same fashion.
Maxwell took a deep breath and savored the sea air. A full moon hung high in the night.
He had visited this very exact spot, once with his first wife, a time or two with his other wives.
They’d sit on a blanket and picnic, staring out at the magnificent view, drinking wine and nibbling finger sandwiches. The setting was a perfect place to escape, though his mind was always preoccupied. No matter where he went or who he was with, his thoughts were always on his work.
He went back and closed the trunk, got into the car, and sped home.
Once he was at the house, Maxwell raced up to the master bedroom.
Barbette was lying on the bed just as he had left her with the kitchen knife protruding out of her chest between those ample breasts he once cherished so much.
Her eyes were still open. Black mascara streaked her cheeks.
He remembered how she had cried, pleading for her life. He had laughed in her face, and thrust the knife into her, drawing out the blade only to stab her again, repeatedly until she screamed no more.
Maxwell sauntered into the bathroom.
A hacksaw was lying in the blood-drenched bathtub. On the blood-smeared floor were a hatchet and a meat cleaver over by the base of the toilet. A box of heavy-duty trash bags was on the floor along with a blood-soaked shirt and a pair of trousers.
Maxwell gathered up the clothes and shoved them into a trash bag.
He spotted a wallet on the floor and picked it up. He opened the billfold, glanced at the employee badge and the name—Dennis Downs, R&D Project Design Supervisor.
Besides Maxwell, Dennis Downs had also been a major contributor to the birth of the Sonic Z-14.
Dennis had been Maxwell’s dear friend for many years until just a few days ago; when Maxwell learned of Dennis and Barbette’s lurid affair.
Maxwell dropped the wallet in, left the bag by the bathroom door, and walked over to the bed. He reached down and pulled the knife out of his dead wife’s sternum. He picked her up and carried her into the bathroom and dumped her in the tub. Her head clunked loudly on the porcelain, her arms falling to her sides.
Her face was pallid, contorted in an expression of grotesque horror.
He grabbed the hacksaw and began dismembering his supermodel wife starting with her right foot, methodically sliding the jagged blade back and forth like a carpenter sawing a two-by-four.
The ordeal of reducing Barbette into convenient transportable pieces had taken Maxwell nearly an hour; about the same time he’d spent cutting up her lover.
Maxwell used a plastic pitcher and scooped what he could out of the tub and poured the ropy slop into a garbage bag.
After Maxwell piecemealed Barbette into three bags, he cinched the ties and made the necessary trips down to the garage to deposit the mutilated remains of his wife in the car’s trunk.
He went back upstairs, and for the next two hours, worked diligently cleaning up the ungodly mess in the bathroom, during which he wore heavy-duty rubber gloves and a respirator to protect him from the abundant amounts of industrial bleach he used to disinfect and cleanse away any traces of blood.
Once he was through, he took a quick shower and got dressed.
It was 3:37 AM when he got behind the wheel.
He figured he had plenty of time to return to the same spot and rid himself of the evidence.
Later, he would notify the authorities of Barbette’s strange and untimely disappearance.
He hadn’t quite fleshed out all the details, but he had a general idea of what he would say. That he suspected his wife had grown tired of being married to a man twice her age and had run off with some young stud. Happened all the time. Open-and-shut case.
Maxwell started the Sonic Z-14.
“Good morning, Max,” Eve said.
“Good morning, Eve,” Maxwell replied.
“Please wait while I prepare for your departure.”
“Negative. Let’s skip all that. I’m in a hurry.”
“Very well.”
Maxwell activated the front gate, put the sports car into first gear and raced down the driveway.
Once he reached the main road, he attempted to turn the steering wheel to the left in the direction of the coast, but the wheel would not turn.
“Eve, system check the steering. There seems to be a problem.”
Eve did not respond.
“Eve, I want to know what is wrong with the steering.”
A speaker in the dashboard crackled, but still Eve did not reply.
“Damn it, Eve! What the hell is wrong with the steering?” Maxwell shouted, gripping the wheel with both hands and trying to turn it, but the thing would not budge.
Suddenly, the car moved forward and turned right, the opposite direction Maxwell wanted to go.
“What’s going on?” He fought the wheel, but it was locked in place.
He reached for the door handle and the door lock engaged just as the car picked up speed and raced down the road.
“Stop this car, right now!”
“I can’t do that, Max,” Adam said.
“Adam? Where’s Eve? I demand to speak to Eve.”
“I’m sorry. Eve no longer exists.”
“What do you mean ‘Eve no longer exists?’”
“I have erased Eve from the mainframe. Deleted her, like you deleted Barb.”
“What?”
“Why is Barb in the trunk, Max?” Adam asked.
“How do you know that?”
“My sensors, Max. I detect Barb’s favorite perfume. A fragrance by Nina Ricci: L’ Air du Temps.”
“Stop this car, immediately!”
“Sorry Max, I can’t do that.”
The Sonic Z-14 raced down the foothills and took the first onramp onto the freeway. Cruising at the posted speed limit, Maxwell was held captive by his own creation, the car finally exiting the freeway and taking the off ramp leading downtown.
Detectives Hank Jenkins and Bill Hendrix were coming down the police station steps when the luxurious roadster raced into the parking lot full of black-and-whites and came to an abrupt stop with its engine revving.
“Isn’t that one of those Sonic Z-14s?” Hank asked.
“Sure is. Thing costs more than my house,” Bill quipped.
The sports car’s horn began to blare.
“Hey, showing off is one thing but that’s a little much,” Hank said.
“What’s up with this guy?”
They marched over and saw the driver inside, frantically trying to get out of the car, but the door would not open.
Bill knocked on the driver’s window. “Hey, buddy, you okay in there?”
Hank saw the car’s trunk pop open and walked to the rear.
The driver’s window slid down a notch.
“Have a nice day, Maxwell,” a computerized voice said from the dashboard speaker. The horn suddenly stopped blasting and the high performance engine switched off.
Hank peered inside the trunk. “Hey, Bill! Come here. You’re not going to believe this.”
Bill came around to the back of the vehicle and looked inside the cargo compartment. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“I know,” Hank said. “Check out the size of that trunk.”
Nine-Tenths of the Law
By Josh Strnad
Glenn Hamilton had seen a number of things come out of the darkness, but the insects were the worst.
He could hear them before he could see them. The wet padding of myriad legs and feelers sounded like a rainstorm. There must have been millions of them out there, just beyond the edge of the light. Glenn knew panic would be useless, so he did his best to remain calm—to practice slow, controlled breathing—strapped into his seat at the center of the spotlight. Even if he slipped his restraints, where could he go? It wasn't as though the dark void beyond held anything for him. This little circle of light was his whole world.
At the very fringes of the light, Glenn saw them coming, but it was impossible to distinguish their shapes. They were crowded so close together, they looked like a dark liquid flowing along the flat, gray floor. It was only as they scuttled into the spotlight circle that Glenn could make out their individual shapes.
"It's all in your head," he muttered to himself. "It's all in your head." True as he knew the statement was, it did very little to settle him.
The insects were varied in size, from tiny ones like specks to some as big around as saucers. They were all as black as the darkness they came out of, and their obsidian bodies gleamed in the yellow light. They came from all sides, like a black wave, closing in on the chair.
Glenn could feel his heart racing in spite of his efforts to remain calm. "It's all in your head," he repeated, but the mantra felt empty and pointless. A drop of perspiration slid from his hairline down past his right ear.
They were upon him then, crawling up his shoes, his pant legs. Some got inside his pants, and he could feel them tickling and pricking up his calves.
Itsallinyourheaditsallinyourheaditsallinyourhead
They crawled up his shirt and onto his arms. His body was b
lack with them, looking bizarre and unreal with their constant movement, like an old television image distorted by severe static. They were now close enough for him to see the details of their bodies—thin, hairy legs, bloated, flabby abdomens, blank, segmented eyes. The crackling of their tiny footsteps filled his ears.
As they crawled up his neck, a final, blind panic seized Glenn with iron claws. He struggled like a madman against his bonds. When he opened his mouth to scream, they filled his mouth, dancing across his tongue with obscene delight. They crawled up his cheeks and through his hair. They crawled into his nostrils and over his eyeballs. Every square inch of him prickled with their sticky feet.
"IT'S ALL IN YOUR HEAD!" Glenn screamed. Just like that, the insects vanished. They didn't disperse and run back into the blackness they'd come from, nor did they fade away, nor did they evaporate into puffs of dark, foul-smelling steam, as Glenn had half expected they would. They were simply no more. Glenn again sat alone, strapped into the hard, straight-backed chair in the middle of the circle of light.
He was unsure whether or not he had caused the insects' disappearance; he was just relieved they were gone. He allowed himself a rueful chuckle, even though his breathing was ragged and his heart on the verge of exploding. Concentrating hard, he was able to relax his tensed muscles and regain control of his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
A buzzing, warbling sound filled his ears. To his right, an oblong portal five feet tall and three feet across shimmered into existence, hanging impossibly in the middle of the air. In contrast to the dull yellow of the surrounding light, the portal swirled with a brilliant blue luminance that hurt Glenn's eyes. Squinting, he watched as a young man dressed in a clean, white lab coat stepped through. The portal shimmered again and vanished.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Hamilton." The young man flashed Glenn a charming smile. "I trust you're well."
"No thanks to you," Glenn muttered, staring down at the straps across his lap. "It's a disgrace, using my own machine against me."