by Dick Wybrow
"Take a seat, you two," the person commanded.
The marked difference, I supposed, if I were to compare that room to any other similar room I'd seen, was the giant, floating holographic head in the middle.
Never saw one of those before.
"Rasputin Frewer," the floating head said with an unpleasant smile. It looked like his teeth could swallow me whole. "Hell Inc. owes you a measure of thanks."
"Great," I said, anger swirling through my body. "You must be the prick who runs Hell Inc."
"Steve Janus," the giant head said with a bow that actually spun it a full three-sixty, top to bottom. It grinned at me again when it stopped. "The old man has been on, shall we say, an extended vacation since your little run-in with him. Funny, that."
I turned and whispered to the Actor. He gave me a nod and moved toward one of the walls, disappearing in the darkness.
"What are you doing? Don't play around over there. We've got import—"
"So," I said to the giant floating head. "Does that thanks come with some sort of payment or promise of a favor?"
The head snapped back to me. "I don't think the sort of favors we have available," he said with a sneer, "are anything you would enjoy."
I sat down on the circular sofa. "Why do you even bother? You can't win, Janus. Haven't you seen that?"
"Win? Win?" He laughed. "I don't need to win. This isn't a win-lose game, Raz. With the Devil out of the picture, at least for now, my organization, the de facto leaders of the underworld, will thrive."
"Ha!" I said, watching the Actor move around the edge of the room. He stopped and began pulling out dark glass sliding shelves. "Thriving in a losing game? What does that look like?"
The head spun in a circle then rolled. Tiny flames shot up around it, encircling it in flickering light. "Not winning? Have you looked around your world, mortal?" he asked. "Has humanity ever been so fruitful yet so miserable? On the brink of war at any moment, your kind soothing their weary minds with drugs, most of which we make by the way. Starvation, modern-day slavery—hell, we've even invented some new diseases for a bit of fun."
“No way.” I shook my head. “The coronavirus was you? The dead aren’t miserable, so how does that help?”
“You know nothing of the dead.” He smiled wickedly. “But it wasn’t about killing anyone. It was the beautiful, beautiful way that you all turned on each other. Greedy college kids who wouldn’t dare miss the parties, coughing spats on subways, full-on, knock-down-drag-out battles in the toilet paper aisle!” The big head hooded his eyes and shivered. “It was beautiful.”
"It can't be that easy," I said, watching the Actor dip deeper into a cabinet.
Janus's head grew, and his teeth looked like they belonged on an ocean creature that had never seen sunlight. "Look around you," he said.
"Still, you're on the losing team," I said and shrugged.
The head grew even larger, the flames licking at its virtual chin. "We can fix elections, downvote positive ideas, and set up virtual homes for like-minded sociopaths of all races and religions to foster their hate—and all of it away from prying eyes until it spills over like boiling oil," he said and sighed. "By then, there's little anyone can do to stop it."
The head appeared to look up to the ceiling. I realized then that it was a projection and that Janus was sitting somewhere else, casting his image there. His grin grew, and the guy actually trembled, shivering with delight.
"And in seven minutes, your friend will help take us to the next level, as the new spirit of FriendBook!" Janus caught himself then stared into the darkness behind me. "Where the hell is h—"
"Why him, though?"
The head lifted its eyebrows and nodded slowly. "Your friend did most of the work for us. We just finished the job." Janus sighed. "We've been losing our young users. We're becoming old news, so we needed someone the kids love. And he will do… such damage!"
"No, I won't!" the Actor called out from the darkness of the room.
"Oh, oh yes you will," the head said, again searching the darkness for my friend. "You'll want to! But if you hesitate, we can mete out punishment—pain and torture like you can't imagine—old fire and brimstone, one of the few things we took from the old man. It's intellectual property theft, sure, but we are a hell-bound organization," he said and shrugged. "What can they expect?"
The head looked at me then blinked slowly. "Stuff like this." The massive head was replaced by a sea of naked bodies, each being torn apart by demons with claws and bloodied teeth. Fires ripped through their remains, eliciting screams, then their bodies reconstituted, and the process began all over again.
"Holy shit," I said.
"Shit is right," the head said, giggling. "Holy? Not so much. And if your friend does not want to comply—five minutes from now—we will convince him. It's in his contract."
"Ah-ha!" the Actor said, running the length of the room, leaping over the couch, and holding up several bound papers. "Not if I tear this up!"
"You found it!" I cried with joy.
The Actor turned to me, nodding furiously.
The head lolled back and forth, as if killing time. He said, "Go ahead. Tear it up."
Smiling, the Actor gripped his contract, the one that detailed the terms of enslavement for his very soul, and pulled hard, but it didn't rip. He tried again—it would not tear. "Ah!" my friend shouted and leapt forward, pushing the contract into the gas flames. It would not burn.
The giant head looked down, so close to the Actor's head, it looked like he was about to lick his soon-to-be pet.
"There is nothing on earth that can destroy it," the head said. "Accept it."
"It… wait…" my friend said, his voice far away.
"Come on!" I shouted, and I ran for the door, but the moment I did, we were met with thudding sounds on the other side of it. When I pulled it open, I saw a wall of vacuum robots stacking in front of us—more coming behind them, at least three deep—each with their red lights burning, sparks shooting from their tiny electric prongs.
I heard the burst of laughter behind me.
"Where would you go?" the head asked. "Let's wait out these last few minutes together, shall w—" The head suddenly looked off to its left, muttering to someone off camera.
I turned to the Actor, my mind racing. "I have an idea," I whispered, but he wouldn't look at me. The expression on his face was slack, empty. "But we've got to get out of this room."
He said nothing, so I jumped up and ran to the windows.
"Ah, sorry, OSHA regulations prevent the windows from opening higher than the fifth floor," the head said as it fit a Bluetooth device into his ear. "Why don't you just sit on the couch. I believe there's a small fridge there… free sodas!" he said and popped his eyebrows.
I leapt back to the Actor's side and looked at the door. It was the only way we were getting out of there. But with fifty evil Roombas blocking it?
The head put its hand over the tiny microphone at his mouth. "I took the liberty of liquidating Marge's contract a moment ago since it seems she was becoming a troublesome employee. The facility is under emergency control for the next few moments. Mine."
"We've got to break through that door," I whispered to the Actor.
He looked at me, put a hand on the side of my face, and slowly shook his head. "It's over, man. I'm sorry. I don't think he's going to let you leave this place either."
"It's not over! When you've got friends, it's never over!"
The Actor mumbled, "You got a friend with a battering ram?"
"Oh," the head said, looking over. "Speaking of your friends, I've been informed Mr. Hood has the young lady and that dreadful old man. Listen, he's about to kill them—I wanted to bring it up on video, but naturally, he's in a dark area. Don't need recordings like that getting out." The head tapped on the tiny mic, and I could hear his booming voice, outside the room on a speaker system. "Hood? If you can hear me, I'm nearly wrapped up here. It's been a very good day, so why don't we meet at Spago's,
eight o'clock for a celebration dinner?"
"Hey!" The Actor had triggered an idea in my mind, and I shouted at the head. "I want to get a message to our friends."
"No, no," the head said. "They'll be dead soon. You can talk to them then, unless some demon is pouring hot lava down your throat, of course."
I gulped.
I tried again. "Wait! You said you owed me a favor."
"I did not."
"Fine," I said. "You said your side owed me a thanks, at least, so let me say goodbye, and you and me, we're square. Even."
The head smiled. "You've got chit with one of the most powerful fundamental forces of the universe… and you want to use it to say goodbye?"
I shrugged. "They're my friends."
He sighed and stared up at the ceiling again. "So be it. What's the message?"
* * *
The compactor's top doors slid open. Heavy and greasy, the hydraulic controls squealed as some bit of computer or discarded metal table scraped across the side of the chamber below.
Uncle Jerry looked down. "That don't look too comfortable."
Anza shook her head slowly, locked onto her friend's face instead of what was waiting for them below. "I miss Dan," she said softly. "I should never have left home."
"Well, call me selfish," Uncle Jerry said and put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm glad you're here with me." His smile faltered, then he stammered. "I mean, I don't mean that I'm glad you're about to be crushed to death with me, you know. Far from it, I mean—"
"I know what you mean," she said and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
Hood returned and waved his hands at the muscular, blue-clad guards holding Anza and Uncle Jerry. He looked down then turned back to the far wall. Lifting a red cover, he made a waving motion with his hand.
The two guards stared for a moment.
Hood rolled his eyes. "Throw them in!"
They fought against the men as they edged closer and closer to the lip of the compactor below.
Then the booming voice returned. "Hood, if you've not destroyed them, their friend wants to pass along a message. Let's do this and be done."
The CEO of FriendBook growled and put up one hand, flat. There was no way to communicate from outside the building so he could key back with an emphatic "No!" Instead, he just waited for it to be over. He had things to do.
The voice continued. "Raz says… you are two of the best friends he's ever had." Then just off mic, they heard, "Hell, is it all going to be this sappy?" Louder again, it said, "He says he's sorry he put all of you on this path a year ago… but doesn't regret a moment of it. Except… the bit where you're all going to die now. But you will forever be his friends. Are you finished, please? Last thing, wrap it up." The booming voice cleared its throat. "Finally, he says, just remember, when the going gets tough, the tough… what does that even mean? Fine, fine! When the going gets tough, the tough gear up."
Anza and Uncle Jerry looked at each other, tears streaming down their cheeks. Some of those tears were because they were about to die, but most were because their friend, who was obviously facing the same fate, wanted to tell them, in his way, that he loved them.
Still… it was an odd thing to say.
"Gear up?" the old pilot asked her.
Anza shrugged but smiled sweetly.
There was another loud crackle over the booming loud speaker. The voice cleared its throat and, at first speaking off mic, said, "Yes, yes. Doesn't make any more sense. I've got it, I've got it! He says, just remember, when the going gets tough, the tough…. giddy up."
* * *
A mile away from the compound, hidden by a thicket of forest by the road, an engine roared to life.
* * *
Hood waited for a moment, listening to see if there was any more to the message. There wasn't.
"Okay, throw them in."
Anza and Jerry again struggled against the two men pushing them forward, but it was no use. They were too strong. Seconds later, both fell into the compactor, landing hard. The hydraulic gears began working again, and the sky slowly disappeared.
* * *
"Two minutes now," the floating head said, humming to itself.
I stood up and motioned for the Actor to follow me.
He shook his head. "What are you doing?"
Grabbing his arm, I pulled him toward the side of the door. Outside, the whirring of robots hummed like the sound of thousands of angry hornets.
"Why are we standing here?" he asked, eyes blazing.
"It's best we stand out of the way."
A fraction of a second later, the door burst open. Shards of wood and metal and bits of robotic vacuum sprayed across the room. The air was instantly filled with smoke, a roar of engine, and the smell of oil, grit, and fuel—but not the sort we would find anywhere on earth.
"Hey, Boo," I said and smiled at the motorcycle, which spun and faced the door. The Actor was staring, wild-eyed, and I grabbed him, pushing him toward the bike. "Get on!"
"What are you doing?" The floating head grew larger, turning a slight tinge of red. He then laughed, again looking up toward the ceiling. It was clear, somewhere on his end, there was a clock he'd been watching. "There's no point! There's nothing you can do to destroy the contract. Accept that. The deal is done!"
"Move, Bucephalus, ground floor!" I shouted as I felt the Actor's grip slacken behind me. With one hand on the handlebars, I reached around to steady him. "Hold on, man."
The motorcycle shot forward, rocketing through the detritus of evil mechanized vacuums it had created moments earlier. But they weren't all smashed or disabled—dozens of them, up on their spindly legs, raced toward us.
The bike arched and dodged as we went round and round and round down the spiral staircase.
"I don't feel so good!" the Actor yelled over the bike's engine.
I felt one of the robots reach for me, its metal leg scraping across my arm. "Motherfucker!" I screamed and realized it wasn't trying to get at me. They were after the Actor.
My mind spun as we continued to circle the tower, moving farther down. "If we can get to the ground—" I said but then saw sparks flying and heard the gunfire.
I looked down to the left. On the hill, Sally was running forward, guns in the air, shooting at us. Just minutes to go, she had also targeted my friend.
"Sally, don't!" I screamed as the motorcycle went around and around and around.
"I'm sorry!" she shouted, and even at that distance, I could see the expression on her face. She meant it. "Can't let him live. Time's 'bout up."
She fired again, and I heard the bullet whiz past the back of my skull, barely missing the Actor.
"I have an idea!" I shouted back. "Give us a chance!"
A bullet ricocheted off the handlebars. I felt the Actor begin to pull away from me slightly, heard him groan and weaken. When I turned, I could see two of the evil Roombas had a grip on him, their remaining metal legs dragging behind us, shooting sparks in the air.
We lurched as another leaped onto the rack at the back of the bike, wrapping four of its legs around the Actor, pulling hard. My fingers tightened on his jacket, but they were weakening, bone white with the strain.
Another hail of bullets, one of them grazing the Actor's arm, spraying blood across my thigh.
"Sally, please!" I shouted, tears blurring my vision. If I can just get to the bottom…
The firing stopped, albeit briefly, and even that far away, I saw something on Sally's face change, then she started to shoot again.
I felt the Actor hitch and, in the mirror, saw sparks burst from the side of the clutching machine that held him from behind. It exploded. When I turned, I saw bullets flying, smashing into another one of the metal creatures, and it flew off, smoking as it fell to the ground.
The Actor looked at me with a dazed expression, a tiny smile at his lips. He looked down at the contract in his hand and again started trying to tear it up. "It's no use!" he shouted to me.
&nb
sp; "Hold on!" I called back.
We were seconds from the ground, and I looked over and saw Sally firing wildly, knocking the evil Roombas away from us. Finally, we were out of their grip, several of them leaping off and running toward Sally.
A moment later, we hit the ground with a thud and skidded to a stop.
The door to the red room was open. On the lounger was a magazine stained with red-black goo that had spread, dripping onto the floor.
Getting off the bike, I mumbled, "When they liquefy a contract…"
The Actor slid off the bike, and I ran inside the room. I thought if I could destroy the headgear it would at least buy us some time, but when I ran into the room, the turrets returned, taking aim and stopping me in my tracks.
I turned toward the Actor and saw that the smoldering robot, which had fallen, was damaged but not destroyed. Its red light grew brighter as it stalked toward the Actor, who backed up toward the circular wall.
I shouted to him and started to move to help, but when I did, the turrets fired a line of bullets, blocking my path. Above the door, I saw a large digital clock.
It was flashing all zeros. Time was up, and we had lost.
He was frozen, eyes wide, back against the wall.
I shouted, "Run! Run, man!"
He looked at me, mouth hanging open, and slowly shook his head.
Where would he run to?
I heard more shots ringing out, but I could hear the weapon firing it. Sally had reached the landing, just above us. The damaged robot extended its metal prong, shooting a bolt of electricity into the Actor's chest.
He buckled, and his eyes went white.
"Oh god, oh god," he muttered.
I knew what he was seeing. The visions of hell we'd been shown at the top of the tower. Or worse. "Oh god, oh—"
I took another step forward and shouted again for him to run, but the turrets fired once more, that time closer. Smoke and cement dust rose in front of me, and I watched him through the haze.
Two more of the robot arms reached out and lifted him off the ground.
Behind me, the lounger shifted, and the headgear came to life, white rivers of light flowing to it, preparing for its next mind.