American Omens

by Travis Thrasher

  “Tell me you got it, man,” Malek said as he stopped.

  “Yeah, I got it. I’m processing it to send to Reckoner. But I can’t get in touch with Lucia.”

  “Why not? Didn’t she leave the building?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t know where she is,” Jazz said. “That’s the problem.”

  “We’ll find her,” Cheyenne said.

  “We can’t go try—,” Malek started to say.

  “We’ll find her.”

  5.

  Only moments later Cheyenne was running as she followed Malek. Her confidence and calmness were gone. Any plans had been thrown out the window. Or, actually, they’d been confined to this floor, and it looked impossible to get off this floor and out of the building.

  Jazz had alerted them about all the alarms going off and all the chatter in the Incen Tower communications system. They knew their security had been breached, a natural result of Malek and Cheyenne’s getting into the company’s network and then sending out the data to a secondary source. Not only did security know they’d been hacked, but they knew who did it. Now exiting the building the old-fashioned way was impossible. So was trying to find Lucia.

  They had known this was a possibility, so Malek led the way to the first option for getting off this floor. He took a couple of wrong turns, but he generally knew where he was going—back to where they were and past the offices to reach a utility area with concrete floors and drab walls.

  “The garbage chute is right this way,” Malek said.

  Immediately Cheyenne stopped and shouted at him to do the same. “The what?”

  “Don’t worry. The one on this side of the floor isn’t used.”

  “We can’t just slide down a garbage chute.”

  “It’s large enough to—”

  “Are you five years old?” she said, looking back to see if anybody was approaching.

  “It’s not like a waterslide,” Malek said. “They’re big units the size of a dumpster that move from floor to floor.”

  “I shouldn’t have left the escape plans to you,” Cheyenne said, starting to think about other options.

  “I know you just don’t want to get your fancy new clothes dirty,” he said.

  “And I know you just want to live out your childhood fantasy of being in Star Wars. But we can’t just jump into the garbage disposal. This one really does crush everything before it moves from floor to floor.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Somebody committed suicide that way.”

  Malek looked at her, confused and disgusted. “Are you serious? When?”

  “It was after you left. That’s why you never heard about it. She wasn’t merely crushed. More like pulverized. We’re talking bones.”

  “Okay,” Malek said, looking around, searching everywhere, including the ceiling.

  “Why are you looking up there?” Cheyenne asked, marveling at how daft he could sometimes be.

  “This is me panicking.”

  “Where is robot maintenance?”

  Malek looked puzzled but pulled out the folded piece of paper from his pocket and examined it. “There are two of them. One is near the restaurant—back by the glass elevators. We don’t want to go there. And one is…Let’s see. I think it’s down there. That corner door.”

  When she took off toward it, Malek followed, asking how the robot maintenance room would help them out. The doors weren’t locked, maybe because this part of the floor was empty rooms that one day might be finished and made into a restaurant or very high-end condo. The robot maintenance room looked like someone’s workshop or garage, with a variety of tools hanging on the walls and several tables with sophisticated tools attached to them.

  “These were built when the tower was constructed,” Cheyenne said, scanning the walls. “This one’s never been used.”

  “Are you looking for a weapon?” Malek asked.

  She stopped in front of the two black panels at the center of the back wall. A silver slit could be seen in the middle of them. As Malek walked up beside her, she examined all around the panels.

  “You looking for this?” he asked, pointing at the black buttons that blended into the panels.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  She pressed one, and it didn’t do anything. But the second opened the doors.

  As Malek looked in, he began to laugh. “Are you serious?”

  Between the doors and the cement behind them was a clear tube, and at the bottom of it sat a silver cylinder, slightly more than two feet tall and wide.

  “Yeah. But you have to go first.”

  “What is that?” Malek asked, bending down and peeking in.

  “It’s like a pneumatic tube, the kind that once was used by banks. But these are advanced and large enough to transport repair machines in the building. It’s meant to carry only robots or other pieces. Obviously that’s why it’s this size.”

  “We can’t fit in that.”

  “Sure we can.”

  Malek laughed as he crawled into the container and already filled up most of its space. “For once, being scrawny is going to be an asset,” he said. “But you’ll still have to push me in.”

  He found the touch screen where a floor number could be entered. “How’d you find out about these?” he asked her.

  “Henry. My barista friend at the fourth counter in the 118th atrium.”

  “I knew it. You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew you had a secret boyfriend somewhere,” he said.

  “How about I help you in?” she said, placing her heel on his back and gently pushing.

  It took him a few minutes to fit inside, curling up in a ball with his arms wrapped around his legs and his head tucked inside them.

  “If Jazz isn’t in the lower-level parking garage, we’re going to be in a lot of trouble,” he said.

  “If another one of these cylinders doesn’t show up, I’ll be in even more trouble.”

  Before he could say anything more, she pressed 005 and backed up just as the doors to this unit closed. She could hear the suction of air as the container shot down two hundred stories.

  6.

  As soon as she pressed the same numbers for herself, she moved her arms and shoulders into a position like Malek had assumed in the cylinder. Only then did Cheyenne see her new black pumps sitting where she’d taken them off outside this repair transport elevator. She doubted she was going to need them anytime soon. The skirt she was wearing had already ripped as she squeezed inside the shaft, so she might have to retire this outfit after only one use.

  The cylinder began to drop, and Cheyenne felt herself plummeting to the ground, knowing something was wrong, knowing that this wasn’t working and that she was going to be flattened whenever and wherever she landed.

  What was I thinking doing something this careless and stupid?

  She felt the pressure of the speed, making her nauseous and dizzy. The cylinder shuddered and jangled, another indication it was broken. She could only close her eyes and wince and wait.

  There was violent jerking as the cylinder began to slow. Soon after, all movement stopped, and the doors swished open.

  “You okay?”

  Hearing Jazz’s voice made her feel a little better. She nodded as she grabbed his hand and let him pull her out.

  “Where’s Malek?” she asked.

  Jazz nodded to a row of Autovehs in the parking lot full of Autovehs.

  “I don’t think he liked the ride,” Jazz said. “He got a little sick.”

  Cheyenne had to fight throwing up herself. Jazz told her to take it easy, but she answered by telling him they needed to leave.

  “Where’s the Hummer?” she asked.

  “It’s up above on Michigan Avenu
e. It’s all done. I sent out the data.”

  “Did you get any confirmation?”

  Jazz nodded. “Reckoner confirmed they received it. I suspect there are about twenty cops surrounding the Hummer and searching inside it. We’ll be taking one of these out of here.”

  When Malek finally appeared from between two vehicles, his eyes were watery, and he looked pale. But when he saw her, he still let out a loud laugh. “That was insane,” he said. “I felt like I was going to die.”

  “Me too.”

  “Come on,” Jazz urged them. “Let’s get out of here.”

  TWENTY

  Paint It Black

  1.

  No, no, no, no…

  “Where are you?” Dowland stood on a Chicago sidewalk, leaning on a building, one arm against it, and staring at the sidewalk after getting the call on his SYNAPSYS from Margaux.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You need to get over to the tower.”

  She had contacted him to say a woman named Lucia was dead. Margaux didn’t need to specify that she had made it happen. Lucia was connected with the Reckoner and had been coming from the Incen Tower, where he needed to go now.

  “They might still be there. They hacked into Acatour.”

  “Heading there now,” Dowland said, walking swiftly. “Who’s there?”

  “The pair from Tulsa,” Margaux said.

  He started to jog. He hated talking on this stupid piece of technology in his head because he knew it allowed others to listen in. Dowland didn’t understand anything about the technology, but he understood what they were doing with these things. It used to be people wanted to know where you lived and what you said online, but now people wanted to get inside your soul.

  “Are you sure they’re still in the building?” Dowland asked, racing down another sidewalk.

  “Yes. How far away—”

  “Ten—five minutes,” he said as he gasped for air.

  “You sound out of breath,” she said.

  He cursed at her. “Not helpful.”

  Dowland plowed into an older man walking down the sidewalk, but he kept going. So what if the geezer fell over?

  “Anybody else with them?” he asked, his side aching.

  “I hate running with a hangover,” she said.

  He launched another insult and told her to be quiet.

  “Just speaking the truth,” she said.

  He took a breath and said, “Call off.” Then Margaux was gone. Thank God.

  Running and looking up, Dowland could see the spiraling, towering Incen building directly in front of him, looking like a spike aimed at the heaven above it. He slowed down and began to walk, taking deep breaths to overcome the dizziness. Then he stopped.

  Last night was way out of hand. I overdid it even by my standards.

  Dowland leaned over and vomited up everything inside his stomach, almost all liquid, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

  He cursed again as he felt his sides tighten like a knot. He wobbled. Then steadying himself, he regained his balance. He shook his head, fighting off the nuisance of the hangover as he began to walk again. Just like he always did.

  This is what I do, what I always do, and I’m doing it.

  “Call Margaux,” he said.

  He needed to find out if they were still in the building.

  “What are you doing?” the voice yelled at him.

  “I just needed to catch my breath,” he said as Margaux yelled at him, and he looked up and saw a blurry, whirling shape holding something in its hand and flying toward him.

  “You need to shut off your—”

  2.

  He looks up and sees only the sky. Dowland feels numb, as if he’s been struck by an Autoveh and has passed out for a second. He feels his backside on the cement, and as his eyes focus, he sees a tall figure standing over him. The man has to be taller than six and a half feet, but he’s not broad and muscular. At least he doesn’t appear so under the suit and tie he’s wearing.

  Dowland tries to get up but then collapses, feeling dizzy. He tastes blood and touches the side of his mouth. Half of his face is wet and warm. He then feels a deep, throbbing gash above his right eye.

  Again he moves his arms and tries to get away from the stranger by crawling on his elbows. He spots something in the tall man’s hand—the grip of a handgun, probably what was used to bash his head. Still lying on his back and elbows, he starts to reach into his coat to grab his Beretta.

  “Don’t,” the tall man says as he repositions his gun and points it at him.

  The barrel is short and wide and stares him in the face. Dowland takes his hand back out and shows that he’s unarmed.

  Is this Reckoner?

  “Look, hold off for a second until—”

  A shot cracks through the air, then two more right after it. Dowland shuts his eyes and grimaces and expects to feel the blows. Yet he feels only the pain from the side of his temple. He’s been shot before, so he knows he’s not been hit now.

  The next sound comes from the crumpling body in front of him—a sickening thud as the bones and the head land on the concrete. Dowland sits up now and looks all around him.

  Margaux appears out of nowhere just like the stranger who hit him. “Come on. Get up.” She grabs his arm and helps him to his feet.

  Once again she looks like a runner in an advertisement for the hottest new leggings on the market. Somewhere inside her running jacket is the gun that took down the tall guy.

  “You look worse than the dead guy,” she says to him. “We have to clean up your face.”

  Dowland looks down at the man on the sidewalk. “Who is this?”

  “I don’t know. Come on.”

  With her hand still on his arm, helping him remain balanced, Dowland keeps pace with her as they rush down the block.

  “You seriously don’t know who that was?”

  “No,” she says. “We’ll find out.”

  “Then how did you know to find me?”

  “There are eyes watching you.”

  Dowland stops and looks at her. “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t want you taking off and leaving me with this mess you’ve made. That guy had been following you for about ten minutes.”

  “And you didn’t want to tell me?” Dowland shouts, then spits out the blood in his mouth.

  “Come on. Let’s go before someone who thinks he has more authority than we do decides to show up.”

  3.

  For a long time Dowland stood near the glass, looking out to the spiderweb of life below him. The working day in Chicago was coming to an end for many. For men like him the work never ended. He never punched in or out on any sort of clock. The ticking never stopped and couldn’t ever be silenced.

  “Excuse me, sir…Mr. Dowland. Would you like to interrogate any of the—”

  “No,” he said, still looking through the clear wall as he ignored one of the young FBI agents in the room.

  He had heard enough. All that mattered was Cheyenne and her former coworker, a wiry nerd named Sef Malek, both managed to enter the building unnoticed and then casually took an elevator up to this floor, where they went into an office and hacked Acatour’s network. Then somehow they managed to disappear. Nobody knew where they were.

  “Hey, guys,” a woman with a shrill voice called out to the group. “Any of you think of checking the robot maintenance room?”

  This made even Dowland turn.

  “Are they in there?” the head of the security department at the tower asked. He was one of a dozen people Dowland wanted to personally strangle.

  “No,” the woman called from the hallway. “They took the repair chute down.”

  Dowland shook his head and laughed. This was unbelievable. As the conversation continued with the
police and FBI agents and security and all the other morons at the top of this building, he took the glass elevator back down to where Margaux was waiting. The ride felt symbolic of the state of his life and job.

  4.

  The woman the data files showed giving Cheyenne Burne and Sef Malek the keycard for the Incen Tower had been found, killed, and disposed of. Margaux had done her job.

  But Cheyenne and Malek managed to elude an army of security and FBI agents in the building and leave completely undetected.

  Dowland had not done his job.

  The system had been broken into, and data had been manipulated. They explained to Dowland what had happened, but frankly, he didn’t care if it had been erased or stolen or replaced by the latest version of virtual Minecraft. All that mattered was this job, one he was failing at. An assignment to find someone, a task he had not yet come close to completing.

  The only thing that calmed him was drinking away the worries, and he knew the weakness inherent in that, but it didn’t matter. He could figure out how to get sober after retiring. Of course, by then, all that would be left to do was to drink the days and nights away on a beach in Ibiza.

  At this point in the afternoon, after several quick drinks even the detestable Margaux was looking charming to him. He wanted—no, Dowland needed—something to take his mind off everything. Even if it was very temporary.

  “Everything boils down to this man,” Margaux said as she pointed at the screen on their table in the bar. “To Keith Burne.”

  “You think he’s capable of doing all this? There were acts by the Reckoner before Burne quit his job.”

  “Who knows when he lost his mind,” she said. “But for his daughter to be involved? When there were no hints whatsoever she had any issues with the company?”

  He went to the bar and ordered another drink, waited for a moment, and returned to the table. Margaux hadn’t even touched her glass.

  As he looked at her, he could tell something was wrong.

  “Do you have your SYNAPSYS on?” she asked.