by JL Bryan
"Good stuff, ain't it?" Jebbie piled his plate high with mashed potatoes and gravy.
"How much can I take?" Raven asked.
"All you can eat, like the sign says." Jebbie chuckled and shook his head.
The idea amazed her. She took a warm plate and filled it with country fried steak, fried chicken, sausage, and every type of vegetable offered--fried okra, fried tomatoes, and fried squash. The entire kitchen must have been one giant deep fryer, she thought.
She sat down in a booth across from Jebbie and caught herself clutching her knife and fork, hovering protectively over her food. She glanced at the women in checkered pink and black aprons who staffed the place, expecting one of them to come tell her she'd taken too much food and had to put some back. Nobody bothered her. At the other tables, most of the truckers ate even bigger piles of food. Everyone appeared very well-fed, even excessively so.
The steak was chewy and slathered in a congealed, greasy sauce, but it tasted fantastic to her, heavy with fats and proteins to keep her alive another day. She chased her food with sweet tea from a tall mason jar, so thick with sugar it almost put her into shock.
"Look at that," Jebbie said. "I never seen a woman so little eat so much."
"Sorry, I'm hungry. It's okay to eat this much, right?"
"Hey, all you can eat."
Raven ate all she could. She finished her meal quickly, eager to get a room and finally study the contents of her backpack.
They crossed the parking lot to the small motel, where the elderly desk clerk looked suspiciously at the two of them. A calendar featuring Jesus and the Disciples hung on the wall behind him.
"Two rooms?" the man asked. "I don't see no wedding rings, and this ain't that kind of motel, hear?"
"Two rooms. What is the rental price for mine?" Raven asked him. She'd broken her hundred-dollar bill to buy dinner and still had over ninety dollars left. It seemed an unbelievably cheap price for so much food, just pocket change. She was equally surprised to learn she could rent an entire room, with her own bed, for under forty dollars.
They walked up the outdoor concrete stairwell, lit by a flickering, greenish floodlight, and followed the cracked second-story walkway to their rooms.
"Here's your spot." Jebbie gestured at her door. "I could, uh, come in, if you want some company."
"No, thank you." Raven slid the key into her lock.
"You sure?" He had a desperate look in his eyes. The man clearly wanted to stay with her. Raven balled her hands into fists, hoping he didn't get too forceful about it. He'd been nice enough so far.
"I'm fine," she told him.
"Be right next door if you need anything." Jebbie scurried into his room, looking away as though he were a little ashamed of himself for even trying, however slightly and ineffectively.
Raven entered her dim motel room and slid the deadbolt behind her.
Chapter Two
Raven's room was small, with musty curtains, a rusty old steam radiator, and a threadbare comforter on the double bed. The heat felt sweet on her cold skin, but it also filled the room with the stench of steamed mildew. The storm had passed over, leaving a quiet night outside.
She drew the curtain, but the size of the window worried her. It didn't have an outer cage or a barred panel to lock for the night, so anyone could break into her room with a brick or a hunk of cinderblock.
She closed her eyes and saw herself, fourteen years old, sharing a cigarette with the freckled, red-haired girl from her broken memories. They were dirty, dressed in clothes that were little more than rags, with old-fashioned lead-firing pistols holstered at their hips. They camped in an overgrown rail yard deep in the slum-sprawl of one horrible city or another. They laughed as they smoked. They'd succeeded at some scheme, maybe a petty robbery. It was a happy moment.
She tried to remember the girl's name, but couldn't. She opened her backpack, hoping for clues about herself and her past.
She brought out the clothes first, since she was still dripping wet. There were two pairs of slacks, two collared shirts, a necktie, socks and boxer shorts, and a pair of size 12 brown loafers. Not her clothes. They belonged to a man several inches taller than her, with bigger feet.
She shrugged off her long jacket and felt the flexible metal mesh beneath the tough, leathery fabric. Battle wear disguised as street clothes, she thought.
She draped it over her shower bar, then set her boots in the tub and hung her blouse and fatigues over the towel bar. It would all be dry by morning, but she had nothing to wear until then.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her black bra was frayed, and her gray undershorts had ragged holes. She clearly wasn't rich, wasn't accustomed to running around with a thick roll of money on hand.
Her body was lean, wiry, and marred with scars and burns on her arms, shoulders, torso, legs, and feet. It was the body of a soldier. I was a teenage child soldier, she thought, and it made her want to laugh for some reason, like an old joke linked to some happy memory. No specific memory surfaced for her, though.
She changed into a starchy white button-up shirt, too big and long for her, and a pair of boxers that were loose and baggy but dry. She dug into the backpack again, hoping for some object that would trigger her lost memories.
First, she brought out the thing that had startled her when she'd first seen it. It was a gun--specifically, a nasty-looking pistol, its barrel bulky with industrial coils and steel chambers clustered around a central shaft. It was tucked into a shoulder holster made from the same material as her jacket. She brought out a long, narrow, conical piece of metal, girded with more steel chambers.
Without a thought, she snapped the long piece onto the pistol, extending it into a long-range rifle. She checked the clip. It was loaded with a full cartridge, which contained concentrated hydrogen gas and a small fuel cell to power the weapon.
This was a plasma gun, and she knew how to break it down, clean it up, and put it back together in less than thirty seconds. The gun heated hydrogen gas by several thousand degrees to make plasma, like the material on the surface of the sun, and ejected the plasma ball towards a target. A single shot on the lowest-energy setting could burn out a man's chest cavity and leave a hollow, smoking corpse behind.
She knew all about the weapon, but she didn't know how she knew or where she'd received such training.
She set it on her bed, followed by a rack of twelve round cartridges, refills for the gun. She brought out pitch-black wraparound sunglasses and tried them on in the mirror. Dark glasses, a wet mop of hair, a shirt that hung on her like a bedsheet, and oversized underwear--she looked ridiculous. She tossed the glasses onto an end table by the bed.
The only other object in the backpack was a small cube that fit inside her palm. It resembled an ornate little music box, but carved from steel and silicon instead of wood. She traced her fingers over the geometric designs on the outside, not sure what they were--buttons, contact panels, or decorations.
She sat on the bed and slumped, disheartened. She'd hoped to find something more useful, clear identification that told her who she was. From the clothes, it was obvious the backpack wasn't even hers. Perhaps she'd stolen it.
Raven packed away everything but the little steel cube, since it remained an enigma to her. She turned it in her hands, pushing and prodding the little raised triangles, squares, and squiggly lines on its surface. Each side had a tiny aluminum circle in the exact center, so she tried pressing the tip of her index finger against one.
The aluminum circle opened like an iris, revealing a black glass lens. A scorching flash of blue seared her eyes, and she grimaced and threw the cube aside. She closed her scalded eyes, waiting for the intense blue afterimage to fade.
She rubbed her eyes and blinked. The cube lay in the corner, projecting a meaningless jumble of grids onto the walls. She nudged it upright with her toe, so that the glass lens pointed toward the ceiling.
A three-dimensional blue mesh diagram of a city unfolded in th
e air around her, made entirely of threads of light, as though someone had modeled it out of glowing graph paper. A highway ran right through her stomach. Raven backed away until she was outside of the holographic diagram, which took up most of her motel room.
One district of the city grew particularly large, while the rest of it vanished. The cube was zooming in her view for her.
The graphics were just a skeletal blueprint, but they were loaded with dense text. Street names and numbers were clearly labeled, as were businesses and other public locations. Homes and apartments showed the names of their occupants.
Two bright red dots blinked on the map. One was labeled LAST KNOWN LOCATION, with a time and the current date, at least according to the newspaper she'd seen. The other blinking dot was labeled NEXT KNOWN LOCATION, also with the current date but a later time, several hours into the future.
"What is this?" she asked. "Next location of what?"
The cube didn't answer.
"What city are you showing me?"
The text appeared in the air above the 3-D map like blocky skywriting above the city: NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT, USA, NORTH AMERICA.
"Good, now explain the red dot."
Red dots appeared all over the map, each with a date and time in tiny letters and numbers. A glowing box of a map legend appeared directly in front of her, containing only a single symbol: the red dot. Next to it was the word TARGET.
"Yeah, very helpful," Raven said. She noticed all the dates and times were in the future, hundreds of seemingly random moments scattered over the next few months, from October to December, in and around the city of New Haven.
She had heard of New Haven, but she couldn't remember any details. It sounded creepy, like the name a freaky religious cult might give its compound in the wilderness.
"What's in New Haven?" Raven asked the cube. "What target are you tracking? Is it a person?"
The cube did not respond.
"Do you have a start-up screen? A main menu?" Raven asked.
The map vanished, replaced by a rotating blue sphere that read TRIOD DATASYSTEMS in silver letters. Rings of tiny three-dimensional icons orbited around it.
"Now we're getting somewhere," she whispered.
A high-pitched metallic whine like a buzzsaw sounded outside her window. The pane shattered behind the curtain and broken glass rained down onto the carpet. The curtain bulged toward her, making a shape like a child's ghost costume. A horizontal gash ruptured across it.
A round metal-plated disk the size of a manhole cover emerged through the gash. A circular saw blade spun around its midsection, its steel teeth a blur. The disk hovered on muffled air jets. A turret gun the size of a pencil was mounted on top, and it swung toward her like a pointing finger.
Raven grabbed her pillow--about the only thing in the motel room that wasn't bolted down--and flung it at the floating, saw-toothed device. She rolled to the foot of her bed while the whirling saw blade shredded the pillow and spewed up a confetti cloud of sour, yellowed fluff.
The disk's little turret gun fired a bright blue laser that grazed her thigh, cutting and cauterizing her instantly, and she screamed as she tumbled off her bed. The laser carved the bed in half, and the air filled with the sound of sizzling and the mingled stench of ozone and burning motel sheets.
Raven hit the carpet on her stomach and grabbed the plasma gun from her pack. She rose up to peer over the foot of the mattress.
The disk fired another blue-hot laser at her, burning right through the mattress. She dodged aside, but it still skimmed her high on the arm near her shoulder, and she howled in pain. The disk dove toward her, letting out a high, buzzing whine as its cutting teeth accelerated.
Raven squeezed her trigger as she landed on her back, unleashing a blob of white fire the size of a tennis ball. It engulfed the disk, which swept past her and slid across the carpet, trailing flames, and crashed into the baseboard, instantly blackening the wall all the way up to the ceiling.
She heard a footstep. The motel's sickly-green outdoor lights outlined a shape against her curtain, a large man armed with a gun. He reached out to draw aside the sliced, sagging curtain, and she aimed for his head.
"What in hell's gravy is going on? You okay, girl?" Jebbie leaned in through the shattered window. He wore jockey shorts and a sweat-stained shirt advertising Chunky's Bowl-A-Rama. He waved a .44 Magnum Colt Anaconda in his right hand. His jaw dropped at the sight of the crashed silver disk radiating runners of fire up the wall and across the carpet.
"Jebbie, do you see any more of these out there?" She pointed to the disk.
"Naw, I think I'da noticed by now..." Jebbie looked out over the parking lot. "What in St. Peter's pooter is happening? You better tell me, now."
"Grab your keys," Raven said. "We have to go. There could be more of these on the way."
"What is that thing? Some kinda flying saucer?"
"Hurry! I'll explain later." She ran to the bathroom, crammed her boots and wet clothes into her backpack, and pulled on the damp, armor-lined jacket.
On the way out, she hopped over patches of burning carpet. As she grabbed her sunglasses from the end table, she noticed a tiny, blinking red light on the side of the crashed disk. It blinked faster and faster, and with each blink it emitted a beeping sound, almost too soft to hear.
Raven panicked as she realized what was happening. She ran outside and met Jebbie on the walkway as he emerged from his room. In addition to his underwear, he now wore his socks and MoonPie cap. He clutched his gun in one hand and his keys in the other.
"Hey, I was coming to ask, should I get my shaving kit, too? Do you figure we're coming back here? Cause the Big Porcupine Big Breakfast Special just can't be beat--"
"Duck!" She tackled him and knocked him onto his back on the concrete walkway. The motel quaked as the disk exploded inside her room. A wave of burning furniture fragments blew out through her window and over their heads. Most of it hurtled over the railing to rain down on the parking lot below, but the charred television set slammed against the walkway railing and crashed next to Jebbie, and he screamed.
She jumped up and helped Jebbie push his way to his feet. His mouth dropped as he looked into the smoking cave of her room, where nothing remained but swirls of ash.
"Devil's dingleberries," Jebbie gasped. "That thing woulda killed you all over the place."
"We have to run!" Raven took his arm and tried to pull him along.
"But my shaving kit--" Jebbie pointed back over his shoulder.
"Now!" Raven dragged him down the walkway to the stairs. They jogged as fast as he could manage down to the parking lot.
"What in the name of James Earl Jones was that thing?" Jebbie asked as they crossed the asphalt, dodging the scattered burning debris from her room.
"A drone," Raven told him. "They're remote-operated attack units."
"Sure, I heard of them."
"We have to keep moving. Let's get to your truck."
"Who sent it? And why'd they do a thing like that? Who's trying to kill you?"
"I don't remember yet, but I know they're good at killing people. Hurry!"
Raven dashed across the wide parking lot toward the lights of the restaurant, while Jebbie jogged behind, panting. Only a few cars were parked in front of the motel. Raven hoped the rooms around theirs had been vacant for the night.
"Hey!" a voice shouted. Raven raised her pistol as she looked back over her shoulder, but it was only the elderly night clerk, still on duty at three in the morning. "Hey! Y'all done blowed up my motel! Y'all can't go! Y'all can't go!"
"Keep going!" Raven shouted at Jebbie.
"Come back, you dang meth heads!" the clerk shouted. "I know what you done! I'm calling the police!"
They climbed into the truck, and Jebbie raced toward the ramp to the interstate.
Chapter Three
As they drove off down the highway, Raven looked back at the smoking motel. The flashing blue light of a police car approached it, and
she clutched her gun more tightly. Police were not her friends.
"Cop better not come after me," Jebbie muttered, looking into his side mirror. "I am not gonna get blamed for all that mess."
Raven couldn't help smiling a little.
"What the hell was all that mess, anyhow? Drones? You in trouble with the government?" He squinted at her. "It's drugs, ain't it?"
"I don't think so." She pulled on her black fatigues, still wet from the rain, and tucked in her oversized collared shirt. She strapped on the combat boots.
"What is it, then?" he asked.
"I told you, I'm trying to remember. It's not clear." Raven fitted the shoulder holster around herself and took it in by several sizes.
'What kinda pea-spitter you got there? That ain't no Remington."
"It's a Deuterion K-300 Adaptable Plasma Generator. Heavy combat pistol." Raven was surprised to hear these words coming out of her mouth, but she knew they were correct.
"Ain't never heard of that. Can I see it?"
"Be careful." Raven double-checked the safety before handing it over.
Jebbie whistled as he gripped the heavy pistol. His other hand remained on the steering wheel, guiding the rig down the dark, sparsely populated highway.
"What kinda rounds does this thing shoot?"
"Plasma."
"Like blood?"
"Like the fourth state of matter. Liquid turns into gas when you heat it enough. When you heat gas enough, it turns into plasma. That pistol uses hydrogen gas."
"Hot puppy shit, girl. I knew you was trouble, but..." He shook his head. He returned her pistol, then handed over his stainless-steel revolver, butt first. "Colt Anaconda. They don't make that no more. It don't shoot no hydro-fire or nothing fancy, but a .44 Magnum cartridge does the job every time."
"It's a good projectile weapon," Raven said, testing its weight in her hand. She didn't want to say the revolver struck her as antiquated, as though he'd proudly presented a handful of stone-tipped arrows. She returned it to him, then brought out the rifle extender from her backpack and snapped it onto her pistol.