No Fear Page 10

  One of my favorite singers was on stage, just fifty feet away, and I couldn’t see him! Red Shirt bounced and staggered, yelled and sang. He groped the strung-out woman and she hung all over him. I couldn’t escape the view of the two of them.

  My mood instantly soured. How could I enjoy the show when I couldn’t see anything but a drunken fool? This was my big night out. I probably wouldn’t get out again for three or four months. I’d paid a small fortune for great seats, so I could see the band up close, and now I couldn’t see them at all!

  All of us around Red Shirt and Strung-Out Woman were beyond annoyed. Ten minutes of their antics and we could take no more. The woman beside me leaned forward and asked Red Shirt to please either sit down or stand in one place. She couldn’t see, either. He called her a name I didn't catch and sneered before resuming his antics. The man beside Red Shirt got tired of getting knocked around and told him, not so politely, to stay in his own space. Red Shirt said something not very nice in reply. Then Red Shirt spilled his drink on the woman in front of him and a scuffle started.

  I told Detective Longwood that I wasn’t clear on all that happened next. My husband had grabbed me, protecting me from the incident. It was only a matter of seconds. Then it was over and we all did what we’d gone there to do—enjoy the show.

  What I didn’t tell Detective Longwood was this:

  I only wanted to see Crimson Four! I didn’t pay to see a drunken brawl. The singer I had delightfully sinful fantasies about started in on my favorite song and I’d had enough. Red Shirt staggered back into me. My husband pushed him away, sending him teetering into a man in the row ahead. That man turned and blasted a fist straight into Red Shirt’s big mouth. He got tangled with Strung-Out Woman and couldn’t keep himself upright. As Red Shirt was going down, the man beside him jabbed an elbow into his side to help him along.

  Strung-Out Woman went down first, cracking her head on the cement floor. Her head was wedged beneath the seat in front of me. I saw the blood trickling from her forehead just as Red Shirt fell on top of her.

  For a moment, he stayed down. We thought he was unconscious. I could see that he was probably smothering Strung-Out Woman, but I didn’t care. A woman in the row ahead of me suggested we get security. A man said that would cause a huge commotion and we’d each have to explain what happened. We’d likely miss most of the show. We made a quick, collective decision to ignore Red Shirt and Strung-Out Woman and let them sleep it off on the cement floor.

  Everyone turned their focus back to Crimson Four. The song ended and there was lots of yelling and cheering. As the next song started, I saw Red Shirt stirring. He lifted his head and tried to get up on his elbows. He was going to try to worm his way out from under the chairs, directly where I was standing.

  I was wearing suede boots with a thick heel. And I’d surpassed my idiot tolerance level. I was not going to miss this entire show and allow an obnoxious drunk to blow my one evening out. Red Shirt inched forward, and I slammed the heel of my boot straight into his temple. He collapsed back down. With the toe of my boot, I pushed his head back beneath the chair in front of me. And that was where he remained for the rest of the show.

  To Detective Lockwood, I said, “We all thought the two of them had finally passed out. As I said, they were wasted. Did you check their alcohol and drug levels?”

  Lockwood ran a hand through his hair, causing more pieces to stand at attention. “Didn’t you think they might need help? That you should get security?”

  “Honestly, no. They were slumped together in the chairs and they were quiet. That’s all I cared about.”

  “Did you kill them?”

  I laughed. “Do you think I poured the alcohol down their throats?”

  “The alcohol didn’t kill them.”

  “What did?”

  “A beating.”

  “Really?” I shrugged. “I’m not surprised. But, like I said, the scuffle was quick. A big brawl would have brought security over, so it’s not like I could lie about that. I didn’t see any punches thrown. Less than a minute and the two of them were in their chairs. They were in front of me. I couldn’t see their faces.”

  “They were found on the floor.”

  I shrugged again. “That must have happened after I left.”

  Our conversation went round and round like this for another thirty minutes. Detective Lockwood eventually grew bored with me and excused himself. I waited in that room, with the mirror and a half cup of cold coffee. I was tired and hungry. Betty across the street was with my mother, at the request of the police. I didn’t think she’d charge me, providing I gave her all the details. Well, at least the details I was willing to share.

  What were the others telling the detectives? Did the man with the tattoos on his arms admit to elbowing Red Shirt in the ribs? Did the man in the Polo shirt confess to punching Red Shirt in the mouth? I doubted they were sharing any more details than I had. None of us showed the least concern as we’d quickly filed out of our rows, leaving Red Shirt and Strung-Out Woman on the floor where they belonged.

  Regardless of whether any of their consciences got the better of them, I wasn’t concerned. By the time Red Shirt had attempted a recovery, everyone’s attention was focused on the stage. Even my husband hadn’t seen me kick Red Shirt in the temple. And I didn’t think anyone had seen the blood or noticed the way in which Red Shirt had sprawled over Strung-Out Woman. The police had no way to prove I’d done anything wrong at all.

  Fifteen minutes passed before Detective Lockwood returned. He stood across from me, frowning. “Is there anything else you’d like to add, Mrs. Marillo?”

  His look and his tone were gruff, like he was doing me a favor by asking. Like he knew something I should be nervous about. He didn’t and I wasn’t.

  “No,” I said.

  “You’re certain you don’t remember seeing anyone punch Mr. Hagen? Maybe hit him with something?”

  “No.”

  “This all happened right in front of you.”

  “I was a lot more interested in what was happening on the stage.”

  Lockwood studied me for a minute. His eyes narrowed. I looked back, stifled a yawn.

  “You’re free to go,” Lockwood said. He handed me a card with his name and number. “If you remember any other details, please contact me.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Lockwood escorted me out to the squad room. My husband was there waiting. He took my hand and we stepped out into the late-morning sun.

  Once we’d settled into the car, my husband said, “I saw you kick him in the head.”

  My eyes widened. He chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “No one else saw it happen. The asshole deserved it. I just wish I’d gotten to him first.”

  I laughed and kissed him. “Since Betty is already at the house with my mother, do you want to go out for breakfast?”

  “Hell yes!”

  We had pancakes and eggs, and coffee that didn’t taste like it had been made from motor oil. We talked and laughed, stretching out our breakfast as long as we could before returning home to our mundane existence.

  My husband and I don’t get out often. But no one can say that we don’t know how to have a good time.

  One Toke Over the Line

  “They all look normal.”

  “Everyone does from a distance.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Dylan squinted, trying to focus on the people out ahead of them. “How do you know they’re part of this secret government superpower thing you’ve been talking about?”

  “I can see the beams of light emanating from their heads.”

  “Beams of…” Dylan squinted harder. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Of course you don’t. You are not a High Priest.”

  “A high priest of what?”

  “Quiet!” Steven hissed. “They can’t know who I am.”

  “If they have these super-whatever-powers, wouldn’t they already know?”

  “It doesn�
�t work like that.”

  “How does it work?”

  Steven waved off Dylan’s question. “You aren’t cleared for that knowledge.”

  Dylan shuffled his feet. His new Doc Martens were covered in sand and salty residue. He’d endured two solid months working at McDonald’s, smelling like a damn French fry all the time no matter how often he showered, just so he could buy these boots. And it only took two days for them to look like shit. He lifted his right foot, shook it off as best he could, then did the same with his left. Frowning at the sand stuck to his laces, he said, “So why here? What are they doing?”

  “Transmitting secrets.”

  “What secrets?”

  “Maybe yours.”

  “I don’t have any secrets.”

  “Everyone has secrets.”

  Dylan thought about the pipe full of hash he’d smoked earlier. That probably counted as a secret. “Yeah, you’re right. But why do they care about my secrets?”

  “They don’t care about your secrets,” Steven said, exasperation leaking into his voice. “They are information gatherers. Their mission is to break down all barriers, learn all of our secrets, and then transmit relevant facts back to their handlers.”

  “What kind of relevant facts? And who are their handlers?”

  “No time for explanations now. We have to kill them.”

  “What? No way!”

  “That is the only way to ensure our safety.”

  “But I can’t kill people!”

  “They are not real people. They are government automatons.”

  “They sure look real.”

  “That is the intention.”

  Dylan worried that he’d gotten himself into more than he could handle with his new friend. They’d met at the park a few weeks ago, and Dylan had been impressed with Steven’s intelligence. The dude could spout off facts like he was hooked up to Google. He was big, too—at least six-two—and good looking. Not that Dylan was into him in that way. But girls were always trying to get Steven’s attention, and Dylan was cool with taking any of the leftovers. He was not above riding his friend’s wave when it came to getting laid.

  At first, Dylan thought Steven went a little heavy on the conspiracy theory crap. He talked about shadow governments and plots to destroy the middle class. Dylan didn’t follow politics, but he had to admit the stuff Steven said—at least whatever stuff he understood—made sense.

  Steven warned that history books were full of lies, and teachers only taught government-sanctioned propaganda. The more Steven talked, the more it all made sense. So when Steven said he needed Dylan’s help, actually chose Dylan to be his aide today, Dylan didn’t even think to ask for specifics. But now he was thinking he should have.

  Still, Steven was a lot smarter than him. If the dude said those people out there were government automats, or whatever the hell, that had to be true.

  But kill them?

  “How do you kill an automat?” Dylan asked.

  Steven gave a little shake of his head, that thing he did when he was frustrated. “Automaton, Dylan. It’s a mechanical device designed to imitate a human being. A robot, if you will.”

  “Oh. Right. So, what, we have to yank out their wires?”

  “There are no wires.”

  “Oh.” Dylan did more squinting off in the distance. Automatons. He didn’t get it. They looked like ordinary people to him. “So how do we kill them, then?”

  “Perhaps we push them off the cliff.”

  “Yeah? Like, they’ll just line up there and we push them one at a time?”

  “No, Dylan, they will not line up for us, nor will they be compliant in our effort to dispose of them. They are programmed for survival. Naturally, they hold an intense distrust of humans, gravitating only to their own kind. This is a precautionary safety measure with the Secret Stealers. They are not equipped with the same defensive and offensive mechanisms as the Offenders.”

  “Are the Offenders also automatons?”

  “No. They are molecularly disordered humans.”

  “Molecularly disordered? What does that mean?”

  “That information is also above your clearance level.”

  “Oh. Well, that sucks. How do I get clearance for this stuff?”

  “You need to give yourself over to Reason and climb the steps to Intellectual Enlightenment.”

  Dylan didn’t understand this, but he didn’t say so because he didn’t want Steven to think he was a complete idiot. Was reason a person? And where the hell were the steps he needed to climb? He said, “Is that how you got to be a high priest?”

  Steven gave Dylan a sharp look. “I warned you about saying that too loudly. Don’t make me regret entrusting you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “The Secret Stealers are gifted with exceptional hearing.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Steven sighed. “My position is a birthright.”

  “You mean like with kings and princes?”

  “No. It is not in the bloodline, Dylan. My parents, alas, are very much average humans.”

  “Oh.”

  “I was chosen at birth by The Force governing human life.”

  “So, like, God?”

  “The biblical god is a fiction created by governments to keep us obedient to their laws.”

  “What is the force?”

  “That which cannot be spoken of.”

  “Is that above my clearance, too?”

  “No. It is beyond your understanding.”

  Dylan shoved his hands in his pockets. He was getting cold, but he didn’t want to say so. He was wearing a heavy jacket, zipped, with the hood up. Steven only wore a light chambray shirt, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he didn’t look the least bit bothered by the chilly wind. Maybe being a high priest meant Steven had his own kind of superpowers, like he didn’t get cold.

  “We must proceed soon,” Steven said, “or all will be lost.”

  “You mean, like the end of the world?”

  “The beginning of the end.”

  Sometimes Dylan felt like Steven spoke in riddles. He hated being stupid. He wanted to be like Steven, sure of himself, with an answer for everything. Maybe, after today, Steven would introduce him to that Reason person, then show him where those steps were so he could start climbing.

  How high was this lightning place, anyway? What did Steven call it? Intellectual lightning? Dylan wasn’t worried, even if it was really high. He wasn’t afraid of heights. When he was younger, he used to climb out the attic window and sit on the roof to look at the stars. Then one day his mother saw him up there and freaked out. She made his father bolt the windows so Dylan couldn’t get up on the roof anymore. Pissed him off, because he loved it up there.

  “Are you ready to be a hero, Dylan?” Steven asked.

  A hero. Damn! Girls loved heroes. “Yeah, I’m ready.” He looked over at the people who weren’t people, but still looked exactly like people to him. He felt a twinge of guilt about having to kill them, but they were robots so it wasn’t like they’d feel anything. Besides, they were Secret Stealers sent here to destroy humanity, or something like that. “But are you sure you want to push them off the cliff? ’Cause one of us could, you know, accidentally fall off.”

  When Steven didn’t answer right away, Dylan said, “Not that you’d ever fall. Besides, you can probably fly, right?”

  “I can’t fly. I retain the limitations of a human body.”

  “Oh.”

  Steven turned to Dylan, looking down at him with those piercing eyes. “Are you afraid, Dylan?”

  “Me? No!”

  Steven sighed, as if disappointed. Dylan swallowed hard, then said, “Yeah, maybe a little.”

  “Fear is a creation of the Shadow Government, pushed and enforced upon us as a control mechanism. We rarely endeavor to go up against that which we fear. This is important to remember when going up against the enemy. Fear is their weapon.”

/>   Dylan nodded. So fear didn’t make him a pussy?

  Steven continued, “Hate is Fear’s dirty cousin. Hate is a countermeasure, used by the Shadow Government when it wishes to incite action. The Shadow Government uses Hate against us, so we then turn against each other. Hatred of gays. Hatred of Jews. Muslims. By the SG implementing this countermeasure, we are programmed to think of the Other as something less than human. Therefore, we experience a sense of security and righteousness when we set out to destroy the Other. Use this Hate, Dylan, to counter your Fear.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you ready? We must move quickly.”

  “What should I do? I mean, how… how do we kill them? All at the same time, or one at a time?”

  Steven pulled the backpack off his shoulder and handed it to Dylan. “Use the weapon in here. That will be easiest for you. I have no need for weapons.”

  As Dylan reached for the backpack, Steven cautioned, “Do not pull the weapon out and wave it about. You must be discreet.”

  Dylan nodded earnestly. He could do this. He could be a hero.

  He set the backpack gently on the sand, then, squatting, pulled open the zipper and looked inside. “A gun? I have to shoot them?”

  “That is a highly customized weapon for use against enemy combatants. Your mission is sacrosanct.”

  “Sacro… What?”

  “Inviolate. Hallowed.”

  Dylan felt himself blushing. He didn’t understand. His mission was for Halloween?

  Steven sighed. “Very important, Dylan. Your mission is very important.”

  “Oh. Okay. So what do I do?”

  Steven told him how to use the gun. “Simple,” he said. “Point. Hold your arm straight. Pull the trigger. Readjust your aim and pull the trigger again.”

  “So I just point at one of those automated people, pull the trigger, then point at another one and pull the trigger?”

  Steven looked out at the people wandering up on the hill. His mouth tightened, and for a moment Dylan thought he looked worried. But his expression quickly returned to the passive certainty Dylan was familiar with, and he said, “No. I will handle all but one of the Secret Stealers. You, Dylan, will eliminate only one. Can you manage that?”