“Hello, what’s your emergency?”
“My girlfriend’s been kidnapped.”
“Name?”
“Hers or mine?”
“Yours.”
“Zach. Um, Zachary Zemeritus.”
“Can you spell that?”
“First or last?”
“Both, please.”
“Jeeziz. Is this really necessary? Can’t I tell you what happened first? You can take my personal information after.”
“Just following S.O.P.16”
“What?”
“Procedure.”
“Ah . . .” Zachary recited the letters that made up his name.
“Thank you. All right, we place your location at 40.753359° North latitude, by – 73.989323° West longitude.”
“What?”
“Broadway and West 49th Street, Manhattan.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Is that the location of the incident in question, or have you moved on?”
“No, this is pretty much where it happened.”
“We are gathering all available video footage as we speak. This includes footage from cellphones connected to the ‘net in your current area, for the specific time. Which way did the vehicle travel?”
“For as long as I could see them, uptown.”
“We’ll focus on those cameras only for now. What kind of vehicle was it?”
“A taxi. A New York City yellow cab.”
“A cabbie kidnapped your girlfriend?”
“I don’t think he was a legitimate cab driver.”
“Okay, what is your girlfriend’s name?”
“Mallory Alexandria.”
“Spell that please—both first and last.”
“M-A-L-L-O-R-Y A-L-E-X-A-N-D-R-I-A.”
“Can you please provide me with a description?”
“Um. . . black, shoulder length hair. Thin. 5-7, 5-8. Mid-twenties. Cute smile, and her eyes twinkle when she—”
“Okay, I think I have enough. You should spot a patrol bot nearby.”
“What?” Zach squinted around. Across the street, approaching him above the roofs of the cars, was an NYC BlueBot.™ “Yeah, I see it.”
“The bot will take over from here while we analyze the digital data. Do you have any other questions?”
“No, wait. Don’t you need my contact information?”
“No, we’re all set. We gathered all that from your phone and connected to every database we needed, including GINKS.17”
“Great.”
“Have a good day, Mr. Zemaroots.”
“Zemeritus.”
“Right.”
Zach hung up and gazed at the bot as it descended with deliberation to hover at about Zach’s eye height.
“Well now, citizen,” the bot squawked. “It would appear we have work to do!”
CHIEF INSPECTOR ANTHONY BORGNINE
Zachary stared at the police bot, its blue-metallic casing shining in the early dawn. The steel reflected the sunrise like the old-school mirrored sunglasses favored by TV and movie cops.
“What are we supposed to do?” Zachary asked the machine.
“We are to work together, to track down the perp.”
“Did you really just say ‘perp’?”
“Yes. Perpetrator of the crime.”
“I know what it’s short for. . . Okay, so how do we find him? And her, Mallory.”
A small crowd of the curious had gathered. The usual legless in hover discs, as well as the headless with their mechanical skulls in a constant expression of astonishment. Beggars and the homeless, not be confused with each other18. The rest of the growing crowd was made up of business folks and delivery people on their way to their respective jobs. A few minutes ago, the sun had come up to awaken the city that never slept (except at night, of course).
“Excuse me for one moment, citizen,” the cop bot said to Zachary. The bot turned to face the crowd. A soft click emitted from its metal cranium, followed by a robotic voice echoing out a recorded announcement. “MOVE ALONG. THERE IS NOTHING TO SEE HERE. THAT IS ALL. MOVE ALONG. GET ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS. THERE IS NOTHING TO SEE HERE. MOVE ALONG. . .”
Simultaneous to this message being looped and broadcast at a high, but not deafening, decibel level, the bot whispered to Zachary, “Let us get going. I suggest we move uptown along Broadway, in the direction you reported the vehicle headed. While we are in transit, I expect to receive a download of relevant digital video footage. The system transmits to me wirelessly at over 100 terabytes a second. Did you know that? I find that specification fascinating.”
“Yeah, um, really,” Zach said. He followed on foot as the cop bot made its way north. The bot buzzed along with a noise similar to the one made by the Jetsons’ car.
“Ah,” the bot said. “This is interesting.”
“What? What? I don’t see anything.”
“Of course you do not. Please stand by. I am reviewing digital information in my RAM. Got it. We have located the alleged motor vehicle. New York license plate 9C09A. NYC Cab Medallion number 9C09A. Same alleged number.”
“You found the cab already? That’s incredible!” Zachary shouted. He wanted to fist pump the air, but it felt wrong, considering the circumstances. “Where is it? Can we go get the perp? Can you tell if Mallory is safe?”
“Well, yes and no. We can go examine the car, that part is easy. As to whether or not your friend is unharmed, I cannot say at this juncture. The motor vehicle rests in an alley off of 64th Street. However, it is burnt to a crisp. Windows shattered, including the windshield. No sign of life. Signs, I mean.”
Zachary was silent, not knowing how to process this information. He reached up to the floating, buzzing cop and tapped his metal shoulder, which clinked like an old washer.19
“What is it?” the bot said without revolving its headpiece around to view Zachary.
“What’s the plan?”
“We are to head to the location of the burnt-out taxi cab. At that point, we are to assess the vehicle, examining it for clues.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“Fingerprints. DNA.”
“Come on, if the car is a charred mess,” Zachary said, “can we realistically expect to find any of that?”
“Yes, citizen. We use the latest evidence-gathering techniques. Believe it or not, both fingerprints and DNA are burned into the metal. Not burned away, as they still believed as little as a decade ago.” The bot’s head swiveled left and right and up and down, in a pre-programmed pattern. “With today’s science, we know the image is impregnated, if you will, into the cells of the steel. Therefore, we read down into the internal, molecular information, and not just the surface data.”
“I don’t understand anything you said. Don’t take this the wrong way, but while we’re out here playing Dick Tracy, Mallory could be being, I don’t know—raped, tortured, killed.”
“More than likely,” the bot agreed.
Lost in his own terrifying thoughts, Zachary said nothing. The streets were soon congested bumper-to-bumper with vehicles running on quark–gluon plasma (aka “quark soup”), Bose–Einstein condensate, or the older hydrogen technologies. The sidewalks filled up beyond capacity once again, too. Zach was jostled by passersby, and he jostled back, as if in a jostling dream.20
“I am sorry,” said the bot. “My sensitivity settings are off. I was on interrogation duty last night. Hold on...” A series of almost inaudible beeps and clicks emitted from the bot. The cop bot spoke: “The name is Chief Inspector Anthony Borgnine. But folks call me Borgnine. Or Borgy. Or ‘The Borgmeister.’ You look fabulous today, by the way. Have you lost weight? Pull my finger . . . ” The bot stopped talking. “Hold on, I have overcompensated. One second . . . ” Another shorter series of bleeps and clacks, and the bot was back. “Chief or Chief Borgnine will do. I want to apologize for my insensitivity.”
“S’all right.”
“The truth is, statistically, it does not bode well for your Mallory person
. Nevertheless, ‘BlueBots’ work one case at a time. Personally, I am always open for a miracle or two, to tell you the God’s honest truth.”
“Me too, Borgy. Me too.”
Zach cracked his knuckles absentmindedly, using the interwoven finger technique. Tired of talking, he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Here we are, Mr. Zachary. This is the alley.” The bot hovered at an opening between buildings and turned in midair to face Zachary Zemeritus.
“Call me Zach.”
“Zach, then.”
The two, man and machine, stared into the backstreet, which was bleak with rotting garbage and lined with dented dumpsters. Zach was in shock. The full weight of the situation dropped on him like a Sumo wrestler. The cop bot known as Chief Borgnine attempted to break the mood hanging in the air with him.
“Dumpsters are where you drop dumb people. Get it? Hey-hey.” Borgy activated a brief laugh track file.
“What in the world are you talking about?” Zachary asked as the canned chuckling and applause faded.
“Never mind. Never mind. Just trying to lighten the atmosphere. Hmmm. . . I think my sensitivity regulator might still be sub-optimal.”
“Yeah,” Zach mumbled. “You think?”
The cracking of his wrist acted as the first clue for Zachary that he was in serious trouble. The bone snapped because Zachary had been grabbed by it and flung backward against the brick wall of the alley. His wrist was broken and it throbbed painfully. His head spinning, Zachary held back vomit and gaped at the towering monster in front of him.
The beast looked like Satan—a freakin’ large Satan.
UNDER ATTACK
Hell’s version of McDonald’s special sauce dribbled out the corners of the demon’s mouth. Bugs, cockroaches, and beetles scuttled up and down its enormous body. The clicking insects ducked behind hair and scum, and into miscellaneous openings: ears, ass, tear ducts, skin sores. The demon’s eyes revolved in its head with rage.
Thankfully, though, Borgy seized control of the situation.
“Cease! This is Chief Borgnine of the IPF,21 USA Division. You will put your—” Borgy looked the beast over. The thing carried no visible weapons. “You will put your hands on top of your head.”
The Satan thing’s fist was swift, swatting Borgy out of midair and sending him spinning across the alleyway. As he skidded to a stop, Borgy yelled, “Stop!” The foot of the monster was about to stomp on him, to smash the bot into a million pieces of bright metal. However, before the hoof smashed down, a small electro-wasp zipped out of the top of Borgy’s headpiece and buzzed through the air.
“Don’t fear!” the buzzing metallic insect said to Zachary, who assumed he’d hallucinated all this anyway. “Hold still.”
The beast took two giant steps (no, you may not, thought Zach). It loomed over Zachary, a mountain with cloven feet. It shouted at Zachary:
“DESPICABLE ONE! YOU? YOU THE HERO? THE ONE FROM ‘LES PROPHÉTIES’? HA HA HA!”
Orange-brown spittle sprayed around the alley, showering onto Zachary. At the same time, the robotic wasp drilled its way through the side of Zachary’s skull and into his brain. The good news for Zach was that the metal bug shot extremely effective and fast-acting painkillers out in front as it bore through.
“Stand up,” a tiny voice said from within Zach’s own brain. “I shall be guiding your neurological functions from here on. Or at least until you are dead. Hopefully, though, I can help you avoid such a negative outcome.”
“Borgy?”
“At your service, citizen.”
Zachary stood up, not having any real objections to doing so, as the beast hollered again.
“YOU WILL DIE NOW! I CAN KILL YOU SLOW OR KILL YOU FAST. WHICH DO YOU PREFER? DOESN’T MATTER, I WILL MAKE UP MY MIND AS I GO.”
Zachary next found himself floating through the air. He realized he had, contrary to his actual, natural, physiological abilities, jumped cat-like, five times his own height. He stood wobbling atop a billboard situated up on a rooftop, about a story or so above the demon’s head.
“Um, what just happened?” he asked.
“Like I said, I am directing your neural impulses from in here.”
“I got that part, Borgy. Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t get that. What I meant was, even with you at the ‘controls,’ I don’t have that kind of jumping ability, that kind of strength. No man has.”
“No man believes he has.”
Zachary stood silent for a second. “Granted,” he said.
The monster showed up, his ears perking at Zachary’s half of the conversation.
“THERE YOU ARE, YOU LITTLE SNOT! PLAYTIME IS OFFICIALLY OVER! HELLO. MY NAME IS ATRŌX MANZER. YOU DID NOT KILL MY FATHER. PREPARE TO DIE!”
“Time to go,” Chief Borgnine’s bug voice said.
Zachary found himself able to leap from building to tall building, in a single bound.
“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” Zachary said. “I know people can’t just jump around this way.”
“To be honest, I am not working alone. I have taken over parts of your brain and neurological functionality. My ‘thorax,’ which detached from my head upon first drilling into your skull, is acting independently now. It has bored into your right thigh and is injecting you with a steady, controlled dose of adrenaline, HGH,22 and assorted steroids. The effect will be short-lived, like cocaine—oh, that reminds me, it is also shooting high levels of cocaine into your system. You will ‘return to Earth,’ so to speak, with a killer hangover and some seriously sore muscles. It will suck to be you, in short.”
“Oh, great. Why are you doing this?”
“For your own protection. It is working, n’est-ce pas23?”
“What the hell—”
Satan’s lookalike body-slammed Zachary into the tar roof of the building he stood on, knocking him unconscious.
While Zach lay there, Atrōx Manzer licked its cracked and bloody lips. It picked at its teeth with blackened nails. Then it spat. The spittle was algae-green and burst into flames when it hit the roof, giving off a sulfur stench.
“Thorax, we have a problem,” Borgnine’s insect head alerted its other half, which was still embedded in Zachary’s thigh. “We need everything you got. More adrenaline. More HGH. More cocaineLITE. Got anything else?”
“Sir,WouldHeroinOrAnythingLikeThatHelp?” came the response from the thoracic implant in Zachary’s leg.
“Tomorrow, yes, some narcotics might be in order, during the citizen’s recovery period (which I expect to be extended.). But for now, we need something to wake this young man up and get his ass away from here. While you work on that, I will check his vitals:
Heart: hurting
Lungs: lacerated
Brain: battered
Muscles: messed up
Bones:
sacrum: sacked
coccyx: cracked
femur: fracked
tibia and fibula: cracked and chipped
cervical vertebrae: crushed
thoracic vertebrae: mushed
lumbar vertebrae: smashed
humerus, radius, and ulna: crumpled, ruined, and destroyed
Everything is a mess. Even the Pridal Node has taken a hit.”
“Sir,Sir?”
“His pride had been utterly crushed. That was what I am saying. Any luck down there?”
“YesI’mThinkingNitro.”
“As in glycerin?”
“Yes,Yes.”
“Go for it.”
“AllRightSir.OnThree. One . . . two . . . THREE!”
Zachary jumped to his feet as if someone had jerked puppet strings. “Where the—HOLY CRAP! WHAT IS THAT THING?!—am I?” As he regained consciousness, he tried to remember. . .
1. Who he was, and
2. Where he was . . .
Zachary’s train of thought was interrupted by the presence of the nearly 20-foot-tall Satan wannabe. The monster charged at him, arms outstretched for the bear hug from Hell. But
Zachary out-maneuvered him by shooting himself straight up into the air—a human rocket.
“This is freakin’ insane,” Zachary remarked, as if a casual observer to his own calamity.
“Prepare for landing,” Chief Borgnine said. “It is going to be a doozy.”
Zach landed on the adjacent roof Silver Surfer-style24 feet first, knees crouching. He skated across the asphalt, weaving between heating ducts and other metal obstacles.
This latest escape enraged Atrōx “Rocks” Manzer, who arrived on the new roof with blood dripping in angry sprays out of the corner of its eyes. Its ears had fire blasting out of them, and thorny vines wiggled out its belly button as if on growth hormones for plants.
“Can we go now, please?” Zachary asked.
“We are going to have to get a little drastic here,” Borgnine said.
Rocks chimed in: “WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?”
“What do you mean ‘drastic’?” Zach said.
“WHAT DOES DRASTIC MEAN?”
“You know how you were a kind of rocket just now, citizen?”
“Yeah?”
“This next move will be more along the lines of a surface-to-air missile. Fast and furious. You will arc through the sky to a spot about a mile from here.”
“You know none of this is possible, right?”
“You think you know. I think it is possible. Might not be much of your body left when you get there, but you will still be alive.”
“That’s good, I guess.”
“STOP TALKING, PATHETIC HUMAN!”
“Hang on, Zach. Ignition in 10.”
“I HOPE YOUR HOUSE IS IN ORDER, ‘HERO’! BECAUSE I AM GOING TO RIP YOU TO SHREDS—”
“9. . . 8 . . . 7 . . .”
“CHEW YOU LIKE SPAGHETTI WITH BLOOD SAUCE AND BRAIN MEATBALLS—”
“3 . . . 2 . . . 1.”
Zachary shot into the air and soon attained an overall speed of roughly 220.32 miles an hour. He arced over Manhattan, past the Brooklyn Bridge, over to the Manhattan Bridge, and crash-landed on an old mattress in an empty lot, one of the last in DUMBO25.
DEMON DAYS: Love, sex, death, and dark humor. This book has it all. Plus robots. Page 3
