Mayhem and Madness

by J. A. Dauber

  2. We used to tell each other everything.

  3. If I wasn’t letting her into my life, then it was a matter of self-defense for her to try other things.

  4. She had been walking on eggshells around me for weeks.

  5. She had been waiting for me to come to her.

  6. She knew whatever it was, it was about my dad, and it was big, and she was trying to be sensitive.

  7. But it was getting, as she said, “real old real fast.”

  Her words.

  I should have just told her then. I could have taken her down the trapdoor that night, shown her the suit. But instead I got offended, and huffy, and defensive, and walked away, knowing I was being an idiot but feeling powerless to do anything about it.

  Maybe if I had told her then, everything would have turned out differently. Maybe I’d be able to call her right now and tell her to bring me a crane. Or a can opener. Or something.

  Or I could at least talk to her while I wait for my fate to meet me. Right now, I’m just talking to you. And you’re not even really there.

  * * *

  I replayed every minute of the stupid fight that evening. Trying to find the perfect sentence, the one that would somehow get things back to normal.

  But things weren’t normal. And there wasn’t a magical sentence that could fix things.

  Well, that wasn’t true. There was one. Caroline, I’m going to tell you everything.

  But I couldn’t do that.

  Right?

  And then I got a text from Mr. Jones, the only thing that could possibly have distracted me:

  Get into the suit as soon as you can. Wait for instructions.

  It took forever for my mom’s bedroom light to go out that night, and I was in such a hurry to get to the lab that I banged into the bookcase right outside the guest room door and knocked over a shelf of books. I held my breath, but miraculously, the light didn’t come back on, and I was down in the lab and suited up in under five minutes.

  “Where were you?!?” Mr. Jones shouted, almost taking my head off. That warm, confidential tone from our last conversation was gone. He didn’t even let me talk.

  “The Golden Gate Bridge. Now.” I don’t live anywhere near the Golden Gate Bridge. I mean, a-thousand-miles-away not near. I started a question and he cut me off again. “If you’re not heading west at maximum speed in the next five seconds—with the cloaking on—”

  I was.

  Only then was I able to get him to tell me what was going on. And I kind of wished I hadn’t.

  Apparently, the Bloody Front was planning to blow up the bridge.

  On the bright side, Mr. Jones told me, a little calmer now that I was on my way to save the day, my previous screwup had had a silver lining. I’d rattled the Front, and now they were acting irrationally, getting sloppy, which could yield information for us. That was how he’d been able to pick up chatter about the bridge attack. If they hadn’t skimped on their standard security protocols, he’d probably never have known. And maybe they would even let something slip about my dad…that was the hope.

  On the other hand, their panicked, sloppy behavior might have been what was causing them to make this grand gesture—which could get a lot of people killed.

  “The Golden Gate Bridge is pretty public,” I said. “Aren’t people going to see me? And then everyone’ll know Mayhem’s back?”

  Yes, he said, it was regrettable we had to go public like this, but we didn’t have a choice. Lives needed saving. Which sounded pretty good to me, I have to be honest. After everything that had gone on, it would be nice to be a hero at something.

  “At least it’s far enough away so Mayhem won’t be connected with your home state,” Mr. Jones said, then barked, “Watch out for that jetliner!”

  I banked sharply. Not that I was anywhere near bumping into it—I’d set the proximity alarms properly—but I was getting close enough to be spotted. People look out the window every now and then and, of course, the cloaking devices don’t do anything to the eyeball or a phone camera. I didn’t want the Bloody Front knowing I was coming. Or anyone else, for that matter.

  And they didn’t.

  Which explains the hubbub when I landed at the foot of the bridge. Right in the middle of an anti-terror-solidarity midnight rally.

  My first thought was that the Bloody Front was more seriously sick than I’d ever imagined, trying to kill the people who’d shown up to prove they weren’t afraid. But that wasn’t it.

  I scoped the bridge six ways from Sunday on my way down. Explosives sniffers, radiation gauges, fourteen other types of threats identifiable via the drop-down panel. I couldn’t detect a single one. Nothing. Mr. Jones was talking away in my ear, asking me if I saw anything suspicious, telling me to use my instruments and my instincts, and I was coming up with zip.

  The news reports were nuts. I mean, what a story: thousands of crunchy hippie types, holding signs with flowers about peace and love and freedom to live their lives without fear, and then this gigantic metal robot flies down right into the middle of them.

  I was doing my best to handle it, making peace signs left and right—there was even that one shot that’s all over the Internet of the beautiful girl with the long hair putting that flower necklace around my helmet.

  And then the cops who had been sent to patrol the event started shooting.

  It had absolutely zero effect on me or my suit, of course. But the bullets were ricocheting off me into the crowd. When I yelled at the police to stop shooting, they just kept going, and when I picked up some sawhorses and threw them in their direction to get them to stop—not the best decision, in hindsight, but it wasn’t like I had much of a plan—they thought I was assaulting police officers, and then it was a whole new ball game. They had called for backup anyway—I mean, long absence or no long absence, Mayhem was wanted for all those bank robberies—and by that point I think they were on the phone to the National Guard. It was time to get out of there.

  I wanted to fly, but with the place so packed, I was afraid activating my boot jets might burn someone. Instead, I ran. Right through Golden Gate Park. I kept clear of as many people as possible, but I did barrel over one or two idiots who wanted to take selfies with the suit. One of them ended up in the hospital with a broken arm, I read later, but I don’t feel bad about that. It was her own fault.

  At least that’s one thing I don’t feel guilty about…

  The point is, I had no idea where I was going. And then I heard helicopters overhead.

  And the sound of Mr. Jones in my ear. He was humming this old song “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple. (Like I said, I’m a big classic rock fan.) I asked him—screamed at him, really—what was going on, where was the Bloody Front, how could he have gotten it so wrong, and most important, how was he going to get me out of here.

  “Bailey, you’re in no trouble whatsoever,” he said, smooth as ever, ignoring my questions. “Watch your readouts. Monitor the scanners. There’s nothing within ten miles of you that could make the tiniest dent in the suit. The only thing that can defeat you is your own panic.”

  Which happened to be spiking as one of the helicopters shone its searchlight directly on me.

  “If you’re going to fight the Bloody Front,” Mr. Jones went on, completely worry-free, “you’re going to have to learn to deal with the unexpected. To impose order on the chaos. You are in charge.”

  I almost lost it. This was a—to use one of the worst phrases adults have ever come up with—a teachable moment? Was the Front ever even supposed to be there? I started to tell him what I thought of him in no uncertain terms, and then realized that the helicopters were getting louder. Idiot that I am, I’d stopped running when I heard Mr. Jones talking. He was right, after all. I really did need to learn to focus.

  “So what do I do?” I shouted.

  “Well,�
� he said. “That is the question.” And switched off. Great. Teachable freaking moment it was.

  I took a deep breath, and thought: How do I get away? Keeping to the ground was no good—too many people around. I’d end up hurting someone by accident. And yes, my flight skills were getting better every day, but now there was a swarm of helicopters up there, and some of them might try to get too close. I had a vision of a spinning, flaming chopper, rotors smashed from contact with the suit, spiraling down into the crowds…No.

  So not by land and not by air. That left one other option.

  I checked the map and changed direction, heading straight for Fisherman’s Wharf.

  I’m sure you’ve seen the news footage. There were helicopters and searchlights and news cameras covering everything, and it was all very dramatic how I battered through this one boat on this one dock and then came out the other side and disappeared into the bay.

  As it turned out, the yacht belonged to one of those Internet billionaires, and when the police and Homeland Security investigated, because of course they did, they found computer files that showed the guy had been selling people’s credit card data on the Dark Web.

  At least I got to be the good guy once, even if it was by accident. I guess that’s something.

  * * *

  Mayhem was back, with a splash. Literally: I probably spent an hour underwater until I was pretty sure the helicopters had gone. It’s amazing what the suit can do.

  I’d like to say it was all anyone was talking about at school the next day, but I have no idea. I was exhausted from trying to avoid the coast guard—one of those things you never read about in the comics—and couldn’t concentrate on much of anything.

  There was lots of stuff on the Internet about it, but most of it was superlong and almost all the stuff I did read was wrong. I wasn’t an anti-corporatist or an ecoterrorist or a neo-nihilist. I didn’t even know what some of those meant. I was just trying to get my dad back. And based on last night’s fiasco, I didn’t think Mr. Jones was going to be sending me on any new life-or-death missions to save my dad anytime soon.

  And as the next few days passed with no messages, it became clearer and clearer that he agreed. I had blown it. I didn’t have the chops. I wasn’t even good enough to be given a third try.

  I had also irreparably ruined everything with my best and only real friend. That was lodged in there pretty tight, too.

  There was so much going on inside my head, in fact, that it took something on the order of a personal thermonuclear explosion to make me sit up and notice anything else.

  Which is to say, it took Rebecca coming over and talking to me.

  Coming over. To me. And talking.

  I know.

  * * *

  Something was up with her. That was clear right away.

  Part of it must have been Logan. He wasn’t back at school full-time yet, but he’d been coming more and more, and for longer periods—some booster had paid for an aide who walked with him, helped him carry his backpack, that sort of thing. Under normal circumstances, this would be when all the kids he’d ever tormented would be lining up to make fun of him and take their revenge, but Logan had never been that kind of guy. Plus the way he’d been taken out was so terrible that people were doing everything they could to make his life easier.

  Except Rebecca. Not that she was mean to him or anything. She wasn’t a mean person. If she was, I like to think I wouldn’t have been attracted to her, even from a distance. Cruelty has always felt like a turnoff…but honestly, who knows? Not the point. She wasn’t. But she was…distant, I guess. I don’t mean physically—she was always there for him if he needed additional help with his crutches, or navigating the stairs, that sort of thing. She was patient and she would smile and all that. But she wasn’t there. And he could tell. And so could everyone else.

  Anyway, I don’t know what was going through Rebecca’s head at the time. But this is what happened.

  I was standing in front of my locker getting my Biology loose-leaf, and I smelled her. There was only one girl in the school who wore that perfume.

  “Bailey,” she said.

  I hadn’t been sure that she knew my name; although I guess after the thing with Logan she did.

  I didn’t turn to look at her right away. I was afraid I would make the wrong face, say the wrong thing, and that would be it. Forever and ever.

  “Bailey, um…you know what? Forget it.” And she turned to walk away.

  I heard myself say no, and I saw my arm reach out to hers. I got the warm, soft part of her upper arm—I could feel that softness for days, replaying it at home, at night, in midair, wherever—and she didn’t freeze up, she didn’t pull away, she just looked at me.

  And then I said the wrong thing. Probably the worst possible thing.

  “How’s Logan?” is what I said, and even now, with my arms pinned by rubble, trapped inside a metal suit, all I want to do is smack myself on the head again and again and again.

  Because it got even worse. I figured she’d just turn and walk away, or laugh at me, but no. That would have been too easy. Instead, she started crying. My first conversation with the love of my life, and I had made her cry.

  Of course, being Rebecca, even her crying was kind of sexy. Just these two or three tears, shimmering on her bottom eyelid. I had a sudden urge to reach over and wipe them away, but I had enough self-control not to take that trip into crazytown.

  “Sorry,” she said, digging in her bag and coming up with some tissues. “Sorry.”

  “No,” I said, and I honestly did not know what words were coming out of my mouth. “No, I’m sorry, I’m an idiot—”

  “I mean,” she said, not looking at me, “he’s so good, you know? So strong? Well, you know.” She reached out in the direction of my nose, and for a second I thought she was going to touch it. I couldn’t breathe.

  She didn’t, though. She just went back into her purse to get eyeliner. (Or mascara: I’m not really sure which is which, or if they’re the same thing.) She still didn’t look at me. “I don’t know. I just…what I feel for him now, more than anything else, is…it’s pity. The rest of it—whatever it was—I think it’s been…driven out. You know? And…I just don’t think that’s enough.” Now she looked up at me and I could see she had done a terrible job with the eyeliner. Or mascara. “It makes me think…I’m worried that I don’t even know what was there to begin with. Was it just…curiosity? Because of…who he was?”

  There was only one thing to say, and I said it. “No,” I said, and was grateful it could mean pretty much anything.

  “He deserves more,” she said, and although I don’t know a lot about girls, I don’t think she was really talking to me. “Doesn’t he?”

  I managed to move my head slightly, very slightly, in an up and down direction. I probably would have said something else, and probably would have made it worse, or different, or something, but the bell rang and she practically fled toward the Bio lab. But she looked back at me, this time for sure, and as she did, I saw something in that look.

  Something that told me that I might, just might, actually have a shot.

  Something that told me that I had to have a plan. And soon.

  Looking back, that plan should not have involved my giant robot suit. But hindsight is a killer.

  NOW. FRIDAY. 9:33 P.M.

  Was that a crack? I think that was a crack.

  Something in the walls, hopefully. Or maybe it’s my suit starting to give in. I’m going to have to make another move pretty soon.

  Or was it someone’s voice?

  Probably just my imagination. I don’t think there’s anyone who doesn’t have a robot’s worth of metal with its own internal cooling systems surrounding them who’d risk coming in here. I’m sure even the National Guard is planning to wait it out and then pick up the pieces.

&nbs
p; Pieces of me, that is. Ha-ha.

  I’m starting to ramble. That’s not good. Gas from the building? Or the suit? Making me loopy? Come on. Focus.

  A MONTH AGO

  The Rebecca plan was clear, at least to me: use my newly acquired secret identity to make her fall in love with me.

  It didn’t fit in with Mr. Jones’s whole lay-low approach—at all—but I thought maybe there was a way to do it without attracting too much attention.

  I know, I know.

  Caroline would have fixed the plan. Made it perfect. This was the kind of thing we would have talked over, gamed out, rehearsed a hundred times.

  But the truth is, even if we had been on speaking terms, even if I had told her everything, I’m not so sure I would have run the plan by her. Probably because I wouldn’t have wanted to hear what I knew she’d say. Which would have been to abandon the whole idea altogether. Rebecca and Mayhem: don’t mix.

  There’s this line. I think it’s Bob Dylan, but he may have been quoting Mark Twain, I’m not sure. It goes something like, if what you’ve got is a hammer, then everything looks like a nail. I had problems. And Mayhem was the answer. It was going to be the answer…

  So. The plan.

  Now, stay with me here, because this part is a little tricky.

  I’ve given you the impression that every time I’ve talked about Mayhem flying, or fighting, or whatever, I’ve been inside the suit, at least since I discovered it. The thing is, I can operate the suit from the computer in my dad’s lab via remote control or preprogrammed routine. It’s not as much fun, but I can do it.

  And that was my plan to get Rebecca.

  Okay, so here’s what it looked like. It was all going to go down in the small courtyard on campus connecting the science building to the arts building. I knew Rebecca passed through that courtyard every Wednesday at some point between 11:37 and 11:40, going from her Biology class to her English class. (Yes, I knew her schedule, okay? I’m not proud of it.) The plan was to program Mayhem to land there, at exactly that moment. And then I would “scare it off.”