TR Vanguard - Part 2

“Tim’s portfolio? Yeah, I remember it. A little red vbox, just big enough for a half dozen jacks on it. Why are you asking about that, man?”

Eddie Castilion was the only living member of Timoteus Reed’s band. He lifted a hand rolled cigarillo to his mouth with a sleek white and gold prosthetic arm and lit it with a flesh and blood one. The crash that killed the rest of the band had taken his right arm and both legs. It had also badly scarred his face. The subsequent reconstructive surgery made the current Eddie Castilion look like a distant cousin to the one who played the bass eshamisen in the Masterdome back in ’72.

“Does it still exist? I read that Timoteus carried it around with him everywhere he went, right? Like it was a religious artifact or something. So do you think it’s safe to assume that it went down into the bay with the rest of the wreck?”

Mil feigned studying the fourteen foot tall gold statue of the Buddha that formed the centerpiece of Eddie’s loft. It permitted him to pretend that he didn’t notice the musician flinch when he brought up the subject of the crash.

For a long time, the only sounds in the loft were Mil’s shoes shuffling across the sharp white shag carpet, the electric crackling of Eddie’s cigarillo, and the bubbling of the koi pond. Mil started to wonder if he had pushed too hard too fast.

“It did, but it didn’t, man. I mean, yeah, Timmy never got up to take a piss without that thing. It was his crutch, right? A little pocket world he could visit whenever he needed a little escape time. But… yeah. It’s still out there. Hell, I could tell you who’s got it. But I’m not gonna because you still haven’t told me why you’re looking for the dang thing. We’re talking about a little piece of history here, man. A piece of ol’ Timoteus himself. Why would I turn a private dick like you onto it?”

Mil shrugged off the question and thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. He nonchalantly looked around the loft. It was opulent, yeah, but it was also a loner’s pad. A shut-in’s pocket universe. There was plenty of room to hold a considerable party, but only enough furniture and glassware to entertain one guest at a time. And the lack of wear on the carpet said that entertaining guests wasn’t something that happened too often.

If the box still existed and Eddie knew who had it, then that didn’t leave a long list of candidates for ownership.

Mil walked towards the door.

“Oh, Mr. Castilion, Is Sapphire Jay still throwing those um… little soirees she used to be so famous for?”

Eddie hesitated and gave himself away. And he knew it, which lent a bit of anger to his reply.

“Every fucking week, man.”

“Thanks for your time.  I’ll let myself out.”

Now Mil was going to need a forged invitation to a party and a chic shirt. He hated shopping, but he loved expense reports.

Lost Property

The calls were getting louder; the crows closer.  The little man picked up his pace down the ancient deserted highway. He had miles to cover before dark and his mimic box hadn't been working right in days.  The crows would find him soon and when they did it would be his end for sure.

Deciding that caution was the wiser choice, he turned south and began hiking through the woods.  It wouldn't shake his pursuers or even slow them down much. But he was low on ammunition and he calculated that the cover of the trees would force the drones to swoop in a little closer which, theoretically, would give him an easier shot at them.

For hours he moved through the trees.  Crossing small brooks and through occasional old world ruins of what might have been a family home or maybe a public building whose purpose had been forgotten. All the while he could hear the birds calling to each other; telling each other what they had or hadn't seen of him.

When he came to a river too wide and too fast for him to cross he knew it was time.

With his back to the water, he scanned the ruins around him. He needed a place with an intact roof and multiple escape routes; a good place to fight. There wasn't much in sight that met his criteria. Rubble blocked entrances and exits. Tree tops had burst through fragile rafters and shingles.  Everywhere he looked, either it was would be too easy for the drones to get to him or too hard for him to get in or out.

“Ca-caw!”

Fuck.

He watched one of the little bastards land about a hundred yards away on a jutting steel girder.  It turned its head to the left and stared at him with a trio of glossy green eyes. Snapping its head to the right, it considered him with its larger pair of red eyes.

“Ca-caw! Ca-caw! Ca-caw!”

He ran.  The time for thinking was over and the little man immediately missed its presence. Thinking time was an old friend in a cozy room with comfortable furniture. This was acting time.  It was none of those things. He wasn’t designed for this.

Between rusting hulks of public transportation and over the tops of piles of stone, brick, and asphalt. He tore a gash in his pants and shin. He smashed a little finger, peeling the nail right back so it hung loose. He recognized that each of these smallish injuries occurred but did not permit himself to dwell on the pain.  That could wait. For now he was focusing on the five circling black dots above him. They were preparing to strike.

Finally he saw what he needed. It was an old factory. Or maybe it had been a warehouse in its living days. Either way, there were large open doors that he could run in and out of and, judging from the lack of interior light; the roof must be mostly intact. The only problem was the twenty or so yards of open terrain between here and there. There would be plenty of opportunity for the crows to drop on him.  Even so, it wasn't as if he had any other choices. He un-slung his gun from his back, took a deep breath, and sprinted.

Immediately they dove at him. They looped and they circled and they cried madly at him. It wasn't an attack. Not yet, anyway. They wanted him to waste his ammunition on a fast target. Or maybe they wanted to see how good he was with the gun. Or maybe they were just robot assholes. In any event, he wasn't going to fall for it. He knew their games and he’d wait for a good shot before he pulled that trigger.

The moment he was inside the gaping doorway, big enough to drive a hauler straight in, before his eyes could adjust to the dim, he spun on his heel and leveled the lightweight combat shotgun at the space just where he’d run through.

They were fast but he was smart. It only made sense to him that they’d come in low to try to knock him down at the moment he was adjusting to his new surroundings. As their shadows passed the threshold he carefully squeezed a single shot. He was hoping for the lead bird but it was one just to the leader’s left side that flew into the shot. The machine fell to the ground with all the grace of a thrown anvil, its fragile wings splintering and exploding into dust on impact.

The remaining four wheeled around and scattered back out the way they came.

A huge smile bloomed on the man’s face. It seemed unnatural, especially to him. He had never been so successful in matters of violence and action before. He found the sensation of victory quite pleasing. Quite pleasing indeed.

He strolled over to the bird’s remains, casting only a brief look to the open doorway. The loss of a member of their flock would mean they would want to report the change in their situation and to request further instruction. That would mean at least a ten or twenty minute flight back the way they came just to get in communications range again. He had time to revel in his unexpected success.

With makeshift tools scavenged from the ruins, he took his time disassembling the creature. He removed the parts he found useful and buried the rest under a mound of debris. With these bits he could repair his mimic box and stay clear of the birds, possibly forever.

Or maybe he’d draw them in instead. He still had seven shells for his gun. The man imagined himself destroying the creatures one at a time. He smiled again.

He liked being an action guy.

Joni

Joni wasn't aware that she was trapped in the attic until later.  She was too distracted by the dog. It looked exactly like Snoop Dogg.  There was even a long joint dangling from its saggy dog lips, a spiraling white ribbon of smoke gently coming from its tip.

She realized she was just staring overly long at a pile of old clothing, toys, and unidentifiable debris that her mind had tricked her into seeing as a blunt smoking canine.  Joni was relieved.

But only briefly.

She turned back to the hatch in the floor she had come through.  It was jammed. Or locked? She wasn't sure which, but it wouldn't open for her.  It wouldn't move at all.  Not even a little wiggle.

Wait.

Did she even come in through this hatch? What did she come into the attic for? What house was this anyway?  Her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed in concentration.

Joni found herself staring at her dark reflection in the screen of an old console television. It was missing both its knobs and some of the wooden scroll work was broken. Piled on top of it were hundreds of issues of National Geographic magazine.  And the Snoop Dogg-Dog was staring back at her in the reflection of the screen.

Spin.

Stare.

Nope. Just a pile of clothes and toys and junk.

A violent shiver moved from her toes to her head, causing her to curl her hands into fists.  A drop of rain hit the back of her hand. Barely out of the grip of the shiver, she looked up to the sky and promptly hit her head on the rafters.

Down to her knees and both hands up to her forehead.

Dizzy and nauseous and dripping with sweat she put all of her effort into pressing her eyes shut.  The plank floor under her rocked and swayed.  Her long forgotten dinner threatened to make itself both seen and heard again. She fought the food and rode the waves for several minutes.

Click.

Bang.

Releasing one eye to inspect the sounds, she discovered that the hatch had been unlocked and opened.  Refreshing cool air bubbled up from below. She inhaled deeply and felt her sense of center return, accompanied by a slight chill.

"You're welcome" Dogg-dog drawled around a ring of sweet smoke. He contemplated her. Briefly. Their eyes in clear contact.  Then he turned and padded away.  First between rows of cardboard boxes before disappearing behind an eight-drawer dresser sporting several ages worth of worn paint.

Joni looked at the hatch. She looked at the dresser and its layered paint. She looked at the hatch again. Leaning forward on all-fours, she crawled after Dogg-dog, also disappearing behind the dresser.

In the morning, her parents filed a missing persons report.  The local police briefly interrogated Joni's ex-boyfriend about her whereabouts, but eventually dropped the case.  Joni's picture still hangs in the hallway of the house she grew up in.