by M. H. Mead
He needed fourths.
He looked ahead. This section of 75 was stick straight, which meant more space between sensors. He had maybe five minutes. He’d need every single one of them.
He grabbed his datapad and scrolled through names one-handed. Contacting his own list would be a waste of time. It was laughably small for what he had to do. He needed to reach as many fourths as he could, as fast as he could. He only knew one person with that kind of network.
He commanded the datapad to call Bob Masterson.
[CALL REFUSED.]
Andre swore and called again.
[CALL REFUSED.]
“Damn it, Bob!” Andre tried a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth.
Bob picked up on the sixth call. “I’m not talking to you, so quit—”
“Overdrive is crashing, Bob. It’s not just one crash. There’s a guy on the move, taking out sensors all along 75. I need you to get as many fourths as you can and stop people from getting on the highway. You’ll need to use the ramps at East Grand and probably Holbrook and the Davidson if you can. Do not let cars get on the northbound highway. You understand? We’ve got to keep them off.”
Silence at the other end. Andre craned his neck to keep Topher in sight. How fast was he going, anyway? “Bob?”
“You need help.”
“I know!” Andre exhaled and gripped the wheel. “Start at East Grand. It’s about to get the worst of it, I think.”
“I never figured you for a flash addict, but it takes all kinds, I guess.”
“It isn’t drugs, okay? I am perfectly straight.” He flinched as Topher sailed past the Overdrive sensor.
Andre commanded the datapad to record and broadcast, then pointed it out the window. He slowed, letting Bob have a good view of the highway. “Look at this!” he shouted.
“Real-time data camera? Oh, that’s classy, LaCroix.”
There were no brakes this time. It seemed as if the cars sped up. Although there were fewer of them now, they still smacked into each other with all the force they could bear. Andre turned the pad to take in the first explosion.
Andre heard Bob’s sharp intake of air, followed by, “Fuck a duck!”
He pointed the pad back toward himself. “We did this. Fourths. That’s the spin.”
“No we didn’t!”
“That’s how they’ll play it. They have to blame someone and they’ll blame fourths. They’ll blame us, Bob. Please, you’re the only one who can do it. You have to stop this.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Throw a FIT. We can’t stop traffic coming in from 94, but if we can cut off the traffic from the side streets—”
“East Grand and Holbrook. Got it.”
“Once those are shut, try to get ahead of it. McNichols and maybe Seven Mile. If we can stop the highway from reaching critical mass, those already on it might have a chance.”
“I’ve sent the FIT.”
“We’re heading northbound. Stop it, Bob. Stop as much as you can.”
He threw the pad on the seat and hit the gas. A warning light appeared on the Challenger’s dashboard. It took him a moment to puzzle it out. Low fuel. The needle on the gauge hovered just above E.
Topher’s car was still too far ahead. Andre braced himself for another horrific crash as Topher’s car whizzed past the sensor. He chanced a look at the highway below and his breath gushed out of him.
Traffic on the highway below looked more like Sunday morning than Friday night. He saw a car clip the one beside it, sending it spinning into a third, but he also saw a sea of brake lights and people swerving out of the way. Cars had empty road to slide into, enough space between them to slow and move and avoid hitting each other.
“Thank you, Bob Masterson.”
They curved toward the next sensor and beyond. Had Topher even bothered tripping that one? There were so few cars on this stretch of highway that he couldn’t tell.
In front of him, the Facet slowed, as if Topher himself couldn’t believe it wasn’t working. Topher stuck his hand out the window, pointing his datapad toward the tower.
Now. He had to stop Topher now. Andre poked his gun out the window, trying to curve it around the massive windshield, knowing it would be a bad angle, especially trying to shoot left-handed. But he might get lucky.
His first shot went wide, but it was enough to get Topher’s attention. Andre watched as Topher pulled his hand in the car and darted forward.
Andre swore. He could shoot until he’d exhausted the Yavorit’s ammunition, and never get close to Topher.
But the gun wasn’t his only weapon.
Andre set his foot on the gas pedal and pressed with all his strength. He’d been thinking it ever since they’d started down the service drive, a nagging idea that he didn’t want to name. Topher would either slow down at the next Overdrive sensor or make a turn, trying to drive to a different one. Either way, Andre would be able to catch up.
More than catch up. A heavy car like the Challenger versus a lightweight like the Facet? Topher wouldn’t stand a chance. But there would be damage. A front-end collision would mean the end of the LaCroix family car, the end of any kind of whole, beautiful thing his Dad had built.
But better that than the end of all those people on the highway, the end of trust in Overdrive, the end of fourthing. The end of Detroit.
He kept his eyes on the road and ran his hand over the dash. His fingers touched the clever knobs and dials. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If there was any other way, I’d take it.”
The next sensor loomed ahead, and once again, Topher slowed and stuck his hand out the window, pointing it at the tower.
Andre aimed and took two shots. The first missed completely, but the second hit the Facet’s left rear tire, finally slowing Topher down. Andre sped up. He hoped the fuel would last long enough for one final burst. He braced his arms on the steering wheel and slammed head-on into Topher Price-Powell’s car.
He closed his eyes at the final moment, hoping the windshield wouldn’t shatter. The single airbag exploded in his face, and he fell into it. It felt like his head was being snapped off his neck. At the next moment, the car skidded sideways and the passenger window blew inward, sending shards into his right arm.
Andre sat back in the seat and blinked, trying to catch his breath. The impact had knocked the wind out of him and his chest felt like it had been hit with a sledge hammer. The same hammer had apparently smacked him in the face. But hadn’t he landed in an airbag? He brushed glass off his shoulder, unhooked his seatbelt, and tried to open the door. No good. It had bent inward in the crash, and he was unable to force the metal frame. He slid over the center console and used the relatively unscathed passenger door. He swept his gaze over the entirety of the damage, absorbing it all in an instant.
The Challenger’s grille was now a permanent part of the Facet’s backside. The hood had crumpled in upon itself, headlights turned to dust and wires dangling near the front tires. One hubcap spun noisily on the pavement and part of Andre wanted to circle the car to see if the other one had fallen off as well. But the time for grief would come later. He raked his eyes to Topher’s car.
The Facet’s trunk had disappeared somewhere near the Challenger’s engine block and the back seat had settled up against the front one. The rest of the car was intact. The driver’s side door hung open, empty.
Andre whipped his head around and spotted Topher running, vaulting over the divider that separated the service drive from the highway. Andre stared dumbly for a moment before following. Of all places to run, why run toward the highway? Then he caught his breath and sped after him, feeling like his bruised chest would explode.
The bastard. The absolute fucking bastard. Topher had already disabled the sensors on this side of the highway, and no more cars would be moving north. Now he was going to cross the highway, because he needed to get close to the Overdrive sensor on the other side, where traffic still flowed freely in the other direct
ion.
Andre patted his pockets, knowing that he’d lost the datapad in the crash. There was no way to contact Bob, no way to stop the southbound traffic, no way to prevent more deaths.
Unless he stopped Topher.
GUNS SHOULD BE LOUDER, Talic thought. They should roar like cannons, the way that guns did in old west movies. Guns should blare and holler and command attention and let everyone know they’d been fired.
Today’s weapons were far too quiet for something that put holes in people. Even a good service weapon like the Guardian only squeaked and popped. If it weren’t for the extreme pain in his left ankle, the searing sensation that seemed to burn its way up his calf, you’d hardly know the gun had been fired at all. Sonofabitch it hurt. It felt like every nerve in his body was clustered at his left ankle, and all of them had been ignited at once.
The coffee cart in the corner sported a stack of paper napkins and he’d already used every single one to staunch the blood. A white linen cloth lined the cart, and he pulled it from under the pot and cups. He sat on the floor and tied it around the ankle, trying not to look at it. The more he looked, the more his heart raced and his palms felt clammy and the rest of him felt cold. He could pass out later. Now, he had a job to do.
He held the Guardian loosely, but pointed it enough in Madison’s direction to give her the hint. He jerked his head toward Sofia. “Untie her.”
Madison didn’t move.
“Do it. Or I’ll put you in her place.”
Madison turned to him and clapped her hands together. “Okay, listen to me. I have a safe house in Chicago and drop accounts in Toledo. I will wire you the money. But damn it, Jae Geoffrey, you have to let me go right now.”
Talic sighed and lifted the Guardian, aiming it squarely at Madison’s face. “I said, untie her.”
“Fine. Your funeral.” Madison found scissors in the desk and stood behind Sofia. She left the tape over Sofia’s mouth, instead working on her ankles and wrists. Talic was glad of that. He didn’t want to hear what Sofia had to say. That last thing he needed was a thirty-year old Sergeant telling him how magnificently he’d twisted his own dick.
Talic scooted himself the few meters to the wall. Even moving that much made him feel like his ankle was being hacked with dull picks. He leaned his back against the wall and caught his breath, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He wouldn’t be moving again any time soon.
Sofia stood and pulled the tape off her mouth. “Ah, shit!” She bent over and spat. “That hurts.” She stood and rubbed her cheeks, caught sight of Madison, and stomped one foot toward her, chuckling as Madison shied back.
Sofia grabbed the roll of duct tape from the desk, then snatched up two plastic spoons from the coffee cart. She broke the handles off the spoons, lined them up on either side of her pinky and ring finger, and used the duct tape to splint it together.
Talic watched Sofia’s actions, keeping Madison in his line of vision at the same time. Careful. No sudden movements. Nothing that would spook either of them.
Sofia gingerly touched her left eye, which had swollen nearly shut.
“You okay?” Talic asked. “Can you even see?”
“I’ll be fine.” Sofia glared at him out of her good eye. “No thanks to you.”
“Hey, by the time I got here, you were already in the chair. I played the hand I was dealt.”
“You mean the hand you dealt yourself.” She nodded at the Guardian. “You got this? Because I need some water.”
“Bring me some.” Talic slowly bent his right knee, trying to get comfortable. His left leg, stretched out in front of him, throbbed with every heartbeat, a stabbing pain with every breath.
Madison swatted the blades of the scissors against her palm a few times, then put them back in the drawer. She fiddled with everything on the desktop, lining up the pens, the potted plant, and a series of power cords. Her movements had become jerky and manic.
Talic rubbed the handle of his gun with his thumb. He wanted to make Madison sit down and shut up, but his resources were limited. If he didn’t want to pass out, he had to sit still, conserve his energy. So he remained silent while she paced and muttered.
Madison patted her hair into place and headed toward the exit. “That was a nice little show, pretending to be on her side, but do you really think it will fool anyone? You’re not a good cop. You’re barely a good man. You’re lucky I’m taking care of you.”
Talic grabbed her ankle as she passed. With his other hand, he flicked off his weapon’s safety. He made a show of reading the load indicator. “If you get anywhere near that door, I will empty this gun into you. I’ve got seven bullets. I’m going to start with your legs, one bullet for each. Two for your arms. Two for your chest. Then I will stand over your dead body and use the last bullet to shoot your face off.”
Madison yanked her ankle out of his grasp. She took a step back, tottering on her high heels. “Two for my chest?”
“Not sure you have a heart. Better shoot twice.”
The door slammed open and Sofia burst into the room. She rounded the desk and turned on the companel there, flicking through options.
Talic stared at her. “Where’s my water?”
Sofia turned the screen to face him.
The corner of the screen showed the CI newsnet logo, but the voice was Ugly Ben, one of those moron spinners always trying to stir up trouble. He was shouting, but that didn’t mean anything. Spinners shouted about the weather. Talic ignored the jumbled words and focused on the visuals. The low-resolution image bounced in and out of focus as whoever held the camera walked through the scene. This was no edited spin, this was live. Even with the poor image, he recognized the 75/375 interchange, both highways empty of cars.
Highways were never empty. Never. Another Overdrive crash must have stopped traffic further upstream. But two highways at once? And why did Sofia look so happy?
Madison sagged onto her knees. She crossed her arms and gripped her shoulders, leaning forward. She seemed to have forgotten Talic, more horrified at what she saw on the screen than the threat to her life.
The spinner finally shut his mouth and a legit anchor took over the report. The camera swung around to an on-ramp, where men in suits and ties stood arm-in-arm, body-blocking the on-ramp.
“We have reports that the fourths have stopped traffic from entering 75 near East Grand and the 375 spur,” the anchor was saying. “Hundreds of fourths, perhaps thousands, have joined the effort. It isn’t clear how the fourths knew that Overdrive had failed, but their quick thinking and coordinated effort have saved countless lives.”
“No,” Madison whispered. “They can’t do this to me. They can’t.” She stood and turned to Talic. “Stay. Go. I don’t care. I’m leaving.”
Talic shot once, a tiny, stuttering pop from his weapon that seemed to boom into the room.
Madison froze, staring at the hole in the floor a centimeter from her foot.
“Well, shit,” Talic said. “I’ll have to kill you with six.”
Sofia advanced on her with the duct tape. “You are, as of this moment, under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” She ripped off a piece of duct tape and pressed it to Madison’s lips. “And I’m going to make sure you do.”
ON ANOTHER DAY, TOPHER Price-Powell would never have crossed the first lane. People who have a breakdown on 75 didn’t get out of their cars unless they were suicidal, stupid, or both. Not that drivers would try to hit someone, but—and the fact was becoming a thorn in Andre’s brain—the reliance on Overdrive made it less likely for a driver to notice a pedestrian and there was no way for the system to see them. Anyone whose car broke down called for help, sat tight, and waited for rescue.
Thanks to Topher and whatever virus he carried on his datapad, the crashes had stopped all forward movement in the northbound lanes. Topher ran across the empty asphalt, threw himself at the neck-high concrete divider, and scrambled over it like a monkey on flash.
Andre swore foully
and started forward himself, moving past tangled metal and angry drivers caught in the airwebs of their cars. He peered over the dividing wall to see Topher already on the other side. The southbound highway, though not empty of traffic, was less like a raging river of cars and more like a videogame about dodging sniper bullets. Whatever the fourths had done, it was working.
Andre stepped into the flow of oncoming traffic, trying to keep one eye on the retreating Topher and one on the cars around him. Individual cars whispered past him like ghosts before he could do more than flinch, the people inside just four oval mouths of surprise. He imagined what they must see. How many of them were already on their screamers, yelling about a maniac in ill-fitting kincloth with a wild tangle of black hair and a gun in his hand?
Topher stood in the breakdown lane and pulled weapons out of pockets. In his right hand, Sofia’s Guardian. In his left, a datapad. He lifted his head to look up the hill that led away from the highway and toward the service drive. At the top, silhouetted against the sky, was a crane-like tower sporting dozens of antennae. No doubt this tower housed the Overdrive node that watched over this section of road. Andre watched traffic, watched Topher, and attempted another lane.
Topher took one step up the hill, then turned and faced the highway. His eyes fixed on Andre and he raised his right hand.
The shot was wild, but it almost killed Andre anyway when he flailed to the side and was nearly hit by a passing Ford. Topher trotted upward.
Andre crept forward, scanning the berm, using his peripheral vision to look for the cars, afraid to turn toward them. He saw his opening and dashed across the remaining lanes. He reached the breakdown lane on the opposite side and put his hands on his knees for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control, then bounded up the berm after Topher.
Halfway up the hill, he roared out Topher’s name, told him to stop. Topher raised his left hand, brandishing the datapad, but the tension in his stance said it all. He still wasn’t close enough to the Overdrive node. He took another step up the slope of the hill.