Amped

by Daniel H. Wilson

  “The assholes who did this don’t seem afraid,” I say.

  “They’re terrified. Waiting for an excuse to start shooting. If we set one angry foot in that field, it won’t end out there. It will end here, in Eden. We have to swallow this. Nick is safe. It’s a small price to pay.”

  “It’s a price we shouldn’t have to pay.”

  Jim kicks the coffee table, shouts. “We’re lucky to pay it! Because Joseph Vaughn will take any excuse. Any excuse, Owen. His Priders would love to come in here tonight and shoot us down like dogs. We are sitting on gasoline-drenched kindling from sea to shining sea. You want to be the match that lights the fire?”

  I blink at Jim, surprised. His sudden rush of anger has sapped the venom from my veins.

  “Owen,” says Lucy, softly, “we have a bigger problem.”

  A wiry hand clamps onto my shoulder from behind. Gently, I’m shoved out of the doorway. A skinny cowboy walks past me and into the trailer, boots clomping on the linoleum. He smells like gasoline and beer.

  “My nephew all right?” asks Lyle, impassive.

  “He’ll be fine,” says Jim, moving to block Lyle’s sight of Nick’s temple. He’s too late.

  “Spotlighters did that?”

  Jim says nothing. None of us do.

  “You with me, Gray?”

  “We can’t go into that field. Not tonight.”

  “Okay then,” he says and turns on his heel. He strides out the door and into the warm night. Just the ghost smell of gasoline left behind. Gone so fast it’s like he wasn’t even here.

  Except we all know where he’s going.

  * * *

  BLOGGING THE NEWS

  Police Use Tear Gas on Pro-Amp Protesters

  Are you there? Share your photos and videos.

  Last Updated 7:48 p.m. Riot police in downtown Phoenix have fired canisters of tear gas at protesters, dispersing the crowd of thousands after it refused to move off the steps of the state capitol building.

  Phoenix police explained their use of tear gas in a statement:

  “Our police officers deployed a limited amount of tear gas according to established protocol to clear a small area of protesters who had turned violent. The protesters were throwing objects at police officers, including rocks, firecrackers, paint, glass bottles, and paving stones. In addition, protesters were destroying public property on the capitol grounds.”

  Last Updated 10:43 p.m. In a similar show of force, hundreds of officers in Chicago have coordinated an operation to clear out a group of about 1,000 demonstrators who refused to vacate Lincoln Park. At least 200 people connected to the Free Body Liberty Group were arrested, and small amounts of tear gas were used before the camps were dismantled, The Chicago Tribune reported.

  “The city is committed to protecting free speech rights, but our duty to protect the safety of our officers and the public welfare of our citizens must always come first,” Chicago police said in a statement.

  Thirty seconds later I’m trotting down the empty main street of Eden, listening to my own whistling breath, and I can’t help but picture it: the end of Lyle’s sad, furious life. Inescapable as the sunset.

  The skinny cowboy strides into that dry field, talking about war and new worlds and retribution. Takes a shotgun spray to the belly. Goes down cackling and firing his pistol, guts in the grass. Nails one or two of those beer-soaked morons and they go down like sacks of mud. Then, spotlighters flood into Eden on a rampage.

  The scene plays out in my mind so clearly, it’s got the familiar feel of a memory. I jog faster down the dirt path, past dark trailers and buzzing streetlights.

  The shouts are already starting from beyond the fence. Rising on the breeze, thin and shrill. Lyle must have marched straight into the field. He’s pure anger and military trained, but he’s alone and the spotlighters have firepower.

  Five Zeniths left and it looks to be four real soon.

  Coming around Lucy’s trailer I have to push past gawkers. People stand in clumps, keeping away from the porch lights. Some of their faces are familiar in the twilight, but many more are newcomers. The stream of cars packed with blankets and groceries hasn’t let up. Every day it’s another family, another car parked in the lot, another dog leashed to a tree. And now just about all of them are watching the field, worried.

  I see why pretty quick: it’s just Lyle out there.

  From behind the fence, I make out a semicircle of maybe two dozen spotlighters standing two or three deep around Lyle.

  Thankfully, none of Lyle’s soldiers in Astra have figured out what’s happening. Otherwise this wouldn’t be a fight. It would be a war.

  Guns and beer bottles and clenched fists. The mounted spotlights blaze down on Lyle’s thin frame and a flurry of handheld spotlights hit him from odd angles. In a wifebeater and dusty jeans, he’s a prizefighter slouched in the ring, outmatched. There’s nothing to the guy, just that thin silhouette burned in crisp detail. A dozen narrow shadows splaying out behind him like knife blades.

  The fighting hasn’t started yet, but I can see in the angle of Lyle’s shoulders that it’s close.

  A twinkle of light flutters past Lyle’s head and he doesn’t flinch. An empty whisky bottle bounces into the grass, thunks into the fence a few yards from me.

  “You ready to fuckin’ die, Frankenstein?” calls somebody.

  I clamber over the fallen wooden fence, scale the new shiny chain-link, and jog into the field. My breathing isn’t coming easy. Moving toward Lyle, I’m having to concentrate on pushing my breaths out. Each pant squeezes out of my mouth as a strained, grunting curse.

  Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck this.

  As I cross the field, a few lights swing my way and shove my shadow out behind me. Light-kissed moths flutter overhead. For one absurd second, it feels like Little League baseball. Like I’m trotting onto the field for a night game. Must’ve left my glove on the bench.

  Then someone fires a shotgun into the air, and a cold tickle of fear crests my scalp and cascades down the back of my neck.

  “Here comes your girlfriend, cowboy,” calls a voice from behind the lights.

  Laughter.

  I get close to him, but Lyle doesn’t turn around. He’s swaying in place. I can hear him humming a tuneless song. I grab his shoulder and turn him around. Thank God he doesn’t have a weapon in his hands.

  “This isn’t happening,” I hiss.

  Now that I see Lyle up close, I get the feeling he isn’t seeing me back. His eyes are black and dead, half lidded, like they were in that rotten trailer. Just a pair of lifeless doll eyes anchoring an idiot grin to his face.

  Lyle has gone inside his own mind. Letting the machine step in and do the work. Now I know we’re in real fucking trouble.

  “Where are you, Lyle?” I whisper. “Come back.”

  The circle of spotlighters is closing in. Catcalls coming louder. Another bottle flies past.

  Lyle’s eyes finally flicker to life, speckled with lights. With an effort, he focuses on my face. A ghost of a smile surfaces. His eyes are shining with tears.

  “We’re gonna change the world,” he whispers.

  “Don’t do this, Lyle,” I say.

  “I’m whole hog, man,” he replies. “Level five. It’s fuckin’ beautiful.”

  One hand clamped to Lyle’s shoulder, I turn and face the circle. Try to smile while I pull him away. “We don’t want any trouble,” I say.

  Lyle starts humming again, like a slack-jawed escapee from a mental ward. He’s taking deep breaths, savoring the breeze. For just this one second, it’s nearly silent in the field. Only the far-off puttering of the generator and thousands of pounds of cool night air sighing, dropping down onto our shoulders out of the infinite black sky.

  The circle of men around us is complete, closing in like wild dogs. Reflexive group movements unfolding according to an ancient script. Everybody knows his part. These guys have probably all been practicing since grade school.

  “He�
��s just drunk and wandered off,” I say. Lyle smiles at them, still humming. “We’re going.”

  A flannel-shirted guy steps out, and my legs go numb with adrenaline. This is him. The guy who watched, laughing, while those teenagers worked me over with dirt clods. The one with the tattoo. Gunnin’ Billy.

  “Hey, buddy,” he says, “we’re all drunk. That ain’t getting you nowhere.”

  He’s flashing a strained smile through a week’s growth of stubble. He holds a black pump-action shotgun with the butt propped on his hip, casual. The weapon’s not tucked under his armpit with the muzzle down, like a hunter, but arrogantly aimed at the sky. More like a bank robber.

  Watching me, Billy digs a cherry-red shotgun shell out of his jeans pocket. Shoves it into his shotgun, then rams it forward with the ball of his thumb. Digs out another shell. And another.

  Snick. Snick. Snick.

  “Told you not to come back, didn’t I? Already gave you the score and here you are again. You ain’t just getting beat down this time, amp,” he says.

  Somehow, the oxygen has rushed out of the field. The main spotlight is behind Billy and his face is in shadow. Except for his teeth. Straight and long and yellow. His teeth glint as he talks quietly.

  “Y’all got to know your place. We’re here for the safety of the town. We men are the only thing standing between you animals and our wives and families. Our kids.”

  I can’t hold back. “You nearly killed a helpless kid tonight.”

  Those yellow teeth wink at me from the beard. “He ain’t a kid,” says Billy. “He’s an amp. There’s a difference. Besides, we was trying to help him out. Did a little surgery. Tried to make him into a human being. It was a goddamn favor.”

  “Little shit’s lucky we let him keep his robot eye,” says a man and nudges the guy next to him. They snicker.

  “Yeah, he is lucky,” I retort. “His retinal recorded everything. We’ve got video. All your faces. And it’s going straight to the police or the FBI or whoever will listen.”

  A wave of chuckles erupts around me.

  “Oh, that’s precious. I’m the sheriff, numbnuts. Billy Hardaway at your service. And any evidence you want to share, well, I’d suggest you stick it straight up your ass.”

  The group breaks into guffaws.

  Lyle joins the laughter, chest heaving. Expressionless and standing straight-backed, he barks out a repetitive cackle. The sound is mechanical and grating, and it goes on for a long time.

  The circle of men seems to shrink away from us like shadows from a campfire.

  “I know this amp,” says Billy, pointing at Lyle. “I know you.”

  Lyle keeps on barking, and I notice his hands are closed into fists now.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t you fucking do it. Let’s run.”

  Billy steps forward, closer to Lyle. I tighten my grip on the cowboy’s shoulder. But I can feel the black hole forming, the light sucked into it, too deep and old to stop.

  “You’re the one who ran off my deputy the other night. Where’s all your little buddies now, huh? Not so tough with just your girlfriend here.”

  “Respect,” mutters Lyle.

  “What the fuck you say?” asks Billy. His eyes gleam, boring into Lyle’s face. He steps back and pulls the shotgun up across his chest. A hand curled under the forestock and a finger on the trigger. Its barrel-mounted flashlight stabs a ray of light into outer space.

  “Respect,” says Lyle, clearly this time. And when he moves it is inhuman. The cowboy shrugs out from under my hand and just goes. I hardly see any movement from him yet he’s already flying forward. A prairie king snake gliding through the grass, disappearing in plain sight.

  Lyle’s worn boot heel catches Billy dead square in the sternum like a lightning bolt. Snaps his collarbone audibly. His shotgun goes off and a tubby guy standing a few feet away loses his hat in a spray of buckshot.

  “Ah fuck,” shouts somebody in an oddly high-pitched voice.

  Billy carps his mouth, stunned. Drops heavily onto his ass. Next to him, the fat guy who used to own a hat pulls a finger out of his own ear. It’s bloody.

  “Goddamn, Billy,” he whines.

  But Lyle has not stopped. His fists are slashing and those tattooed crows are in a frenzy as he leaps to the next man in the line. And then the next. I can hear him breathing hard, making little grunts with the effort of each tight swing. Moving quicker than an electrical current. Punches coming in flurries, three- or four-strike combinations, the dull smack of calcified knuckles on soft body tissue. Throats, eye sockets, temples.

  Whole hog.

  Three men drop before I notice Billy has got his bearings and has the black eye of his shotgun staring me in the face. We make eye contact and I see the way Billy’s jaw tenses. His upper lip curls into a snarling murder look and I dive to the ground. The shotgun booms, and I feel the shock wave wash over my neck. Speeding shrapnel rips through the air over my head.

  I’m on my hands and knees now, and there’s no hope. I’ve already heard the schlick-schlock of Billy’s shotgun cocking and its flashlight is throwing my shadow out in front of me. Three guys have got hold of Lyle, and from the yelling and cussing it sounds like the cowboy is already down to biting people. It won’t be long before I feel that lead shot burrowing under my skin. Even so, I keep crawling as fast as the loose dirt will let me.

  Spotlighters in front of me are scrambling the hell out of the way, and I feel the hot presence of that shotgun on my back.

  “You’re fucking dead,” Billy says, and I don’t doubt it.

  I dive forward just as the shotgun goes off, and it’s like somebody shot out the lights. The field goes dark. A spray of dirt tattoos my neck, the sandpaper grind of tiny rocks. My body hits the ground with a rubbery thud. For an instant I’m wondering if this is death. Then there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears. The tail end of a breath caught on the back of my tongue. I’m alive.

  Somebody killed the generator is all.

  A half-dozen flashlights flicker toward the silent machine. Across the black field, I see a pale face peeking over the rusted generator. Eyes shining, Lucy looks like a possum caught in car headlights.

  “Get that bitch!” someone shouts.

  Shotguns start to belch flame. Pounds of lead buckshot hit the generator in a hellish symphony. Lucy’s face drops out of sight between flashes.

  Lucy.

  I don’t remember deciding to stand.

  I’m stalking, head down, toward the nearest spotlighter. My right hand is out, three fingers splayed and my eyes are half closed. I’m picturing the Zenith in my mind huge, the way a floating gray zeppelin is enormous in the sky, trailing tethers in the wind. It’s time to see what I’m capable of.

  Three. Two. One. Zero.

  And the amp speaks to me.

  It’s a startling, synthesized voice in my head: Level one. Diagnostic access. Battlefield situational awareness. Mission essential fitness. Mobility and survivability. Do you consent? Do you consent?

  The amp is inside me and speaking directly to me for the first time after lying dormant for all these years. This piece of plastic is alive in a terrifying new way, yet the voice I hear is as natural as my own thoughts. Just a part of me, after all.

  My eyes are closed now and somehow so are my ears and my skin and nostrils. I’m completely inside. The darkness of my own mind. And in this still womb, there is nothing except for the question. So I answer.

  Yes, I say. Oh, yes. And I can feel again. I open my eyes.

  Exhilaration. Air surges into my nostrils, and I swear I can feel my blood being oxygenated, the liquid fuel coursing into my limbs and making them strong. My skin embraces the breeze, sweat evaporating into the atmosphere. The threshold between my body and the world evaporates with it.

  The field is singing.

  Strange flashes of light streak over my vision. Nonsense lines and pinwheels. I blink them away. Things go black and then erupt into almost unbearably intense flashes
of white. The shotgun blasts.

  Between flashes, my fists fall gracefully through space in a way that feels inevitable, guided by fate. A gurgling choke as the palm of my right hand smacks into a random man’s bearded throat. As he falls, I grab the shotgun out of his hands and hurl it out into the darkness. It tumbles end over end far into the night, like a UFO.

  “Where’s the cowboy?” shouts Billy. “Keep shooting!”

  I can see only faint outlines of the grass, clouds twisting overhead, and frantic shapes of men around me. Infinite fingers of white light sweep the field.

  I snatch another shotgun and toss it away.

  A dark blur lurches past. Lyle is dragging a mob of four men. One of his arms breaks free and it cuts the air like a scalpel. More screaming.

  Another shotgun coughs into the night. One of the spotlighters shouts in alarm. “Did I get ya?” asks another. “Shit, buddy.”

  A couple of dark shapes are running away. Hustling and limping toward the row of houses on the other side of the field. “Fuck this,” mutters somebody.

  “Come on, y’all!” shouts Billy. He’s wheeling around, strafing the scattered men with the light mounted on his shotgun. “Get your asses back here.”

  Then Lyle strides past me, knifing straight for Billy. Slides right up behind him and pauses. Before I can stop it, he sinks a bony fist into Billy’s kidney. And I mean he really sets his feet and follows through.

  Billy’s knees go slack and he drops into the grass, writhing and trying to breathe. His shotgun drops, its attached flashlight illuminating a small round patch of grass in exquisite detail.

  Lyle stands over him, a slump-shouldered shadow, black on black.

  “Come down with me, Owen,” whispers Lyle, gesturing at the stumbling shapes fleeing into the night. “Come down in the dark and let’s go hunting. Whole hog, buddy.”

  Down, down, down. I want to go. This Zenith feels stupendous. The tingling awareness of the world flooding through my eyes and nose and dancing over my skin. I can see my eyes seeing. Happiness. Madness. I’m falling into myself. And as my thoughts drop back to the Zenith, I see her silhouette stumbling my way.