Watchdog

by Will McIntosh

  Vick paid the woman her five, and then they left, skipping down the street, both of them singing, “Hundred dollars, hundred dollars” and laughing like crazy.

  With real money in his pocket for the first time since Mom had died, passing faces seemed friendlier, and colors seemed brighter. All these months he’d been telling Tara they could lift themselves out of the mess they were in, but he hadn’t really believed it, not deep down. Now he did.

  He reached over and patted Tara’s back. “You did it. You saved us. I’m so proud of you. Mom would be, too.”

  Tara gave him a big wide grin. “Now I want to have some fun.”

  “What kind of fun?”

  Tara threw her hands in the air. “Real fun. Like we used to.” She ticked ideas off on her fingers. “Cubs game. Art Institute. Ferris wheel. Mini golf. Buckingham Fountain.”

  That sounded so great to Vick, but some of those things were probably really expensive.

  “How about just the Ferris wheel and the fountain?”

  Tara shook her head emphatically. “All of it. A downtown fun day, like we used to have with Mom.”

  “But we don’t want to spend all the money we just made!”

  “We won’t spend all of it. Just some of it.” She grabbed his arm and pulled. “Come on.”

  “You’re pulling me the wrong way. Wrigley Field is that way.” At least, he thought it was. He was pretty sure it was a long way off. They’d have to take the el.

  Vick felt nervous about spending so much money when they’d barely had enough to eat for the past few months, but now that they had Daisy, it wasn’t like they had to worry about going hungry. And maybe they could pull the same stunt outside the gambling emporium a couple more times before word got around. By then Vick would have to come up with another way to make money with Daisy.

  Heading into the nice part of the city was like traveling forward through time. In the ghettos there were no robots, and the buildings were dingy, the brick blackened by pollution. As they crossed West Fullerton on the el, there was less brick and steel, more carbon fiber, the clean, colorful buildings twisting and swooping into the sky like they were made of taffy. By the time they reached North Avenue, most people Vick saw out the window of the train had domestic robots trailing them. Some of the robots resembled people; a few were even dressed in human clothes. Others walked on all fours or sixes, like big, colorful cartoon bugs. Most of the vehicles were sleek, auto-driven jobs that looked like they were made of colored ice. Inside a passing shop Vick could see waist-high munchkin robots scurrying around.

  The day they were kicked out of their apartment, Vick had headed toward this part of town, because it was safe here. There were lots of police around, both public and private. A half hour after Vick and Tara had arrived, they were picked up by the police. Vick had been so relieved. He’d thought they were saved, that the police would help them. The police drove them to the bad part of town and dropped them off in front of a shelter. Vick could still see the policewoman’s face as she opened the cruiser’s rear door to let them out, her eyes bored as she told them they’d have somewhere to sleep in that part of town.

  “I feel much better here.” Tara was watching out the el’s window in the seat next to Vick. “The inside of my head always feels like whatever I’m looking at. When we’re in the dump, it feels like garbage; when we’re here, it feels neat and clean.”

  Vick grinned at that. Tara had an odd way of putting things sometimes, but he understood what she was saying. “I’m glad you thought of it.” The train slowed. “Here’s our stop.” Vick glanced to the back of the car where Daisy was squatting in the robot storage area. He signaled that this was their stop. Daisy nodded.

  Moments later they were on the clean streets of Grant Park. Tara raced past the twin lion statues that bookended the entrance to the Art Institute, reciting at high volume, “American Gothic by Grant Wood. Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. Paris Street; Rainy Day by Gustav Caillebotte. Yellow Hickory Leaves with Daisy by Georgia O’Keeffe…”

  Vick was relieved to see that kids under fourteen were only five dollars each. The guards didn’t say a word about Daisy as they passed through the entrance. A few other people had domestic robots with them, pushing carriages or just following them.

  Vick followed Tara as she headed toward the first work on her list. She always visited the same paintings, and it was exactly that—visiting. To Tara, the paintings were just as alive as her T-shirts and Chloe. Each painting was a friend. Sometimes Vick envied her imagination.

  “Hello, American Gothic by Grant Wood.” She waved at American Gothic, and moved on excitedly to the next painting on her list. She’d hated going to the Art Institute until Mom got her to make a list of the paintings she was going to see. Once she had that list, she couldn’t wait.

  Vick’s chest got tight, remembering the trips they’d taken there with Mom. Mom hadn’t graduated from high school, but she’d always pushed them to do “smart” things—visit museums, see plays instead of movies. She loved trashy romance books, but her rule for herself was she had to read one classic—Moby-Dick or Jane Eyre—for every trashy romance she read. No matter how boring the book turned out to be, she read every word.

  Daisy had to wait outside Wrigley Field while they watched the Cubs game. Tara cheered wildly for the Cubs. She didn’t know any of the players; she just liked to cheer. She especially liked it when the crowd did “the wave.” Noise and chaos bothered a lot of people with autism, but it had never bothered Tara, as long as it was happy noise and happy chaos.

  The wheel on the Navy Pier had big, roomy gondola cars, and there was no line and plenty of empty space, so when Tara asked if Daisy could ride with them, the ticket-taker waved her on without a word.

  The ride cost twenty-four precious dollars, but while they glided along, the lake on one side, the city on the other, Vick felt like a normal kid. It was like the hunger and cold, the threats and taunts from people on the streets, had all been a bad dream. When the ride ended, Tara was hopping around like she had to go to the bathroom as they wandered toward Grant Park.

  “This is the best day. Cubs win. One hundred paintings. Ten revolutions on the Ferris wheel. An epic day.”

  Vick couldn’t argue. He felt like he was walking on air. He took in the fountain up ahead, three tiers of water cascading and spraying into the air surrounded by bronze sea monsters. With Daisy watching over them they could finally come out of the shadows. One way or another, there would be more money coming in. If Vick couldn’t think of anything else, Daisy could always repair electronics day and night. Maybe they could start that business Vick had been thinking about, buying broken TVs and stuff and fixing them to resell. They would rent an apartment. Maybe next fall they could go back to school.

  “Last stop of the day. Buckingham Fountain.” Tara’s gaze suddenly shifted. “Ooh. Italian ice.” She pointed at a silver cart with a red-and-white umbrella, where a silver-faced robot was scooping Italian ice into paper cups. “I want raspberry.” She ran toward the cart.

  “Come on, Daisy. Looks like we’re getting Italian ice.” Vick jogged after Tara, soaking up her good cheer like it was a vitamin he was deficient in.

  In short order, Tara’s mouth was blue. Vick tipped his paper cup and drank down some of the melted juice, knowing his own mouth was a smear of orange.

  An old man, his spine bent so badly he had to crane his neck to look straight ahead, shuffled toward them. He held out his hand as he drew close.

  “We don’t have any money.” Usually one look at Vick was enough to tell people that he couldn’t afford to give handouts.

  “No. I’m supposed to give you this.” The old man raised his hand higher. Now Vick saw he was holding a plastic, wafer-thin phone.

  “Who is it from?”

  “From the lady who’s gonna call you on it.” The old man shoved the phone toward Vick. “Just take it so I can go home.”

  Vick accepted the phone. As he studied it, it rang. B
efore Vick could decide what he wanted to do, the screen expanded to the size of a sheet of paper. Ms. Alba’s face filled it.

  “Do you understand how much trouble you’re in? I mean, do you fully grasp it?”

  The question caught Vick off guard. “Just leave us alone. We’re not bothering you.”

  He looked around for Tara. She was over by the fountain.

  “You’re not bothering me? You mean, besides stealing from me?”

  “We didn’t steal anything—” Vick closed his mouth. He’d been wondering if she’d figured out they had the chip. That answered his question.

  “One of my friends caught your act outside the Emporium,” she said. “Cute.” Her face was like a mask. She showed no expression at all—just a cool, controlled, businesslike neutral. And Vick suddenly remembered that he had orange lips. “Here’s the deal. Give me my chip, and you get a full pardon. None of my people will bother you. They’ll spread the word that you’re under my protection.”

  Once she had the chip and Daisy was gone, Ms. Alba would take them back to the sweatshop, or worse. Vick had no doubt. Who would be dumb enough to trust a woman who imprisoned kids in a sweatshop?

  Vick licked his dry lips and tried to sound cool and calm. “You know what? I’m going to go with no.”

  Ms. Alba tilted her head, just a hint of annoyance seeping into her tone. “Little boy, one way or another I’m getting that chip back. Are you sure you don’t want to do it so we walk away as friends?”

  “I’m sure.” Vick put on his best cheery tone. “You have a nice day now. Buh-bye.” He disconnected and stuffed the phone into his pocket. Suddenly he felt terribly exposed standing in the square.

  He raced over to Daisy, who was halfway between him and Tara, ever watching. “Time to find our new home. Watch for danger. The people who want to hurt us know where we are.”

  Daisy nodded.

  “Tara,” Vick called. “We have to get going.”

  Tara ignored him, or didn’t hear him. She was staring up at the water cascading down the three tiers of the fountain.

  “Tara,” Vick called louder.

  This time she turned. Vick waved for her to come over. Her shoulders slumped, but she headed toward him. “What’s your rush?”

  Daisy took a few steps in the opposite direction and growled—steel grinding against steel.

  Vick looked past Daisy with a sinking dread.

  A watchdog stood across the square, alone, waiting. It was the grizzly from Ms. Alba’s sweatshop—a jet-black steel hulk, even bigger than Tiny.

  Ms. Alba’s black Maserati was parked at the curb beyond it.

  The grizzly let out a metallic squeal and charged at Tara as bystanders, shouting in surprise and alarm, cleared out.

  Daisy bolted to intercept the grizzly.

  The two watchdogs collided; Daisy was knocked backward by the force of the much bigger grizzly but stayed on her feet. The grizzly slashed Daisy’s head with claws as long as Vick’s forearm, knocking her onto her back. Daisy rolled to her feet and ran toward the fountain. The grizzly chased her.

  Vick realized this was their chance to run. Tara had stopped short of him and was watching Daisy, her hands clasped in front of her like she was praying.

  “Tara. We have to go!” Vick grasped her shoulders, but she spun out of his grip, not taking her eyes off Daisy, who had climbed to the top tier of the fountain, the high ground. Water pelted Daisy as the grizzly studied her from the ground. He climbed into the water, stood on his hind legs, grasped the lip of the second tier, and boosted himself up.

  He was too big and awkward to reach the top tier. Like Tiny, this grizzly thing wasn’t nearly as quick or graceful as Daisy. Tara was way ahead of Ms. Alba’s crew when it came to body design.

  Daisy glanced around, and Vick knew just what she was thinking at that moment: Is there something up here I can use as a weapon? But there was nothing—it was an empty bowl of water.

  Instead, Daisy leaped, landing on the grizzly. The two of them hit the lip of the second tier and tumbled into the shallow water in the wide bottom pool. The grizzly’s jaws clamped down, his teeth closing inches from Daisy’s face. When he opened his mouth again, Daisy reached inside, attacking something she’d spotted in there. She pulled her arm out just as the jaws clamped down again.

  An instant later Daisy was up and running toward Vick and Tara.

  Vick grabbed Tara’s hand. “Run!”

  When they reached South Michigan Avenue, Vick kept going, right out into traffic. A bus screeched to a stop to avoid hitting them. Or maybe to avoid hitting Daisy, who had caught up to them.

  Vick glanced back. Daisy had done something to the grizzly when she reached into its mouth—it was listing to one side, and kept trailing off at an angle from them before correcting course.

  Everywhere Vick looked, people were running away.

  “Help us!” Vick called to a woman watching from a second-story window.

  “I called the police!” she shouted back.

  Vick was pretty sure calling the police was useless. East had said Ms. Alba told the police what to do, not the other way around.

  They fled down LaSalle Street. Even damaged, the four-legged grizzly closed ground quickly. Daisy dropped back, lunged, and feinted at the grizzly, trying to slow it down.

  Steel claws raked the sidewalk inches short of Vick’s foot as they reached the bridge.

  Vick was gasping for breath by the time they made it across. Head down, he nearly plowed into Tara, who had stopped short.

  A block away, Ms. Alba was standing in front of a van parked lengthwise to block off traffic, her arms folded. Vick counted seven watchdogs spread along the street and sidewalks in front of her. Some were as big as the grizzly, others the size of raccoons.

  They were surrounded.

  Daisy stood on her hind legs to grip the door handle on a minivan and tore the locked door open. She looked at them pointedly. Vick scrambled into the front seat right on Tara’s heels. Daisy closed the door behind Vick and turned to face the watchdogs.

  At least a dozen people were watching out their windows. Others had gathered a few car lengths beyond Ms. Alba. More onlookers were arriving every second, none getting too close, no one stepping up to help. Although honestly, what could they do?

  Glancing left and right, keeping her eyes on the watchdogs, Daisy reached under the minivan and tore out its muffler pipe. She climbed onto the roof as Ms. Alba’s watchdogs converged around them.

  The biggest watchdog now that the grizzly was trailing reminded Vick of a gorilla. It had long front legs and shorter back ones, a flat face more human than animal. It lunged for Daisy’s back leg, pulling her off balance. Daisy swung the pipe and flattened the steel gorilla’s hand.

  A six-legged orange thing with a head on either end, mouths full of razor teeth, leaped onto the hood of the van. One of its legs crashed through the windshield as it scrambled to get at Daisy. The pipe flashed into view, shattering one of its three eyes and knocking it backward.

  The van was surrounded by watchdogs, snapping and slashing at Daisy.

  Tara shrieked and clapped her hands over her eyes. A Doberman-sized watchdog was staring into her window. It was like something out of a nightmare: it had four eyes and a wide snout, and sections of its face were painted red, yellow, and blue, like some demonic clown.

  It drove its face right through the window.

  Vick wrapped his arms around Tara and backpedaled away from the thing. Tara was screaming; Vick’s mouth was cranked open but no sound was coming out, because his chest was frozen. He wasn’t even breathing. The thing kept coming, pushing its way into the van. When it opened its mouth, Vick expected to see a row of sharp metal teeth. Instead, there was a buzz saw.

  The saw began to rotate; a high-pitched whining drowned out Tara’s screams as the watchdog struggled to reach them. Vick pushed Tara, who’d curled up into a ball, between the seats and into the back, then scrambled after her as the blad
e inside the thing’s mouth lunged for his leg.

  The van’s ceiling dented as Daisy leaped off, clearing outreached claws, and landed on the sidewalk. Vick heard the screech of steel against steel, and then the van was tipping. Vick fell toward the side window, landing on Tara as the thing trying to reach them suddenly went slack, its back end crushed between the van and the ground. Daisy had tipped the van onto it, Vick realized.

  Through the rear window Vick saw Daisy on the sidewalk surrounded by watchdogs, bashing heads with the muffler pipe. Her front right paw was hanging useless, wires jutting from the wrist.

  The grizzly, its face crushed, charged at Daisy, eager to get at her. Probably realizing she wasn’t going to be able to hold them off, Daisy stepped on the much-slower grizzly’s head and tried to vault over it, but the grizzly managed to clamp its huge jaws on her ankle. It jerked her to the pavement. Daisy reached up and slashed the grizzly’s underside, disabling one of its hind legs and then the other. The grizzly’s hind end crumpled, but it stubbornly clung to Daisy’s leg as the others closed in.

  “Daisy. Oh no. Daisy.” Vick had to wrap both arms around Tara to keep her from going out to help Daisy.

  Daisy reached down with her good hand and detached the leg the grizzly was clinging to. Freed, she charged unsteadily toward Ms. Alba, who was all alone in front of her white van. Watchdogs closed in on Daisy from behind.

  Ms. Alba didn’t run. She held her ground, arms folded, expression as serene and unreadable as ever.

  When Daisy was four car lengths from her, Ms. Alba shouted a command. Dozens of white rat-sized robot bodyguards surged out of the open rear door of the van.

  “Look out!” Tara screamed.

  Daisy veered, trying to reach the line of stores, but without her back leg she was slow and clumsy. The tiny bodyguards swarmed up her limbs. Daisy bit the rat-things off, crushing them in her long, narrow jaws as they tore off her armored protective plates. Then the big watchdogs reached her.

  They had to get out of there while the watchdogs were distracted. Vick pulled Tara toward the back door. He swung the latch and pushed it with both feet. The door dropped open.