Waypoint: A Game of Drones

by C. F. WALLER

  “I’m honored, when are you going to be in my neck of the woods?”

  “This might seem a bit forward, but I am standing in the Kirkby,” I reveal, then pretend I don’t know exactly where his home is. “It’s just North of Waneroo. Is that near your place?”

  “The Kirkby,” he mutters weakly, then takes a deep breath over the buzzing line. “That’s maybe thirty minutes from me.”

  “You don’t say,” I chirp, trying to sound surprised.

  “What brings you to the bottom of the world?” he asks slowly, as if smelling a rat. “Wannero is hardly a tourist attraction.”

  “There was a mix up with some of our dive equipment. One of us had to be in Perth to sort it out. Thought I might surprise you.”

  Again, there is silence.

  “Was I wrong to come?”

  “No,” he assures me, but the pause that follows is long. “I’m just surprised.”

  “A good surprise?”

  “Yes, yes, absolutely.”

  “Well then,” I perk up, trying to steer this exchange in my desired direction. “I got a lift out to Wannero with a dock worker, but I don’t have a car. I don’t suppose you’d like to come buy a lady a drink?”

  “Of course,” he agrees quickly. “Where are you staying?”

  “At present, I appear to be homeless.”

  “Sounds like you need more than a drink?”

  “Well then,” I remark in a suggestive way. “You better get over here before one of your roguishly handsome countrymen makes me an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “On the way. Try not to be seduced.”

  “I’ll try to fight them off.”

  When I set the receiver back in the cradle, Ella is staring. I give her a nod to indicate the trap is set. I feel the slightest bit creepy setting John up, but am confident he’s not in the possession of all the facts. He really didn’t seem the type bent on worldwide extinction.

  “What now?” I ask, slipping on my stool.

  “Stay here,” she directs. “We are going to start down the road. “Keep him with you as long as possible. One of us will be back when we have the case.”

  “At which time you’ll haul him away in cuffs?”

  “At which time, your boyfriend will have the opportunity to tell his side of the story,” Cooper snorts. “Let’s go.”

  They exit the bar, passing by several local men tossing darts. The man about to toss pauses slightly to gawk at Ella as she passes. His leering is quickly imitated by the rest of the group. I suck down the last of my water, then spy an empty seat at the bar. Sitting alone at the table already feels exposed with Ella and Cooper gone.

  Passing the waitress, who’s now sitting in Ella’s admirer’s lap, I get a seat at the bar. I sit patiently for a few minutes and then wave to get the attention of the bartender. She’s an older woman with red hair that’s dry as straw with a bent felt cowboy hat. Her yellow t-shirt has the name STELLA in red letters over a line of smaller print. I ask for more water, then lay a ten on the bar, having no idea how much ten dollars is in Aussie money. She plucks up my glass and peers into the top, looking confused.

  “You drinking water?”

  “Yes please.”

  “Suit yourself,” she mutters, adding ice, then filling the glass from a corroded tap over a dishwashing sink.

  I nod my thanks, then she goes to service another patron. She must not get a lot of people asking for water in here. Against my better judgment, I take a drink, then another, the taste surprisingly clean. A third drink finally begins to soothe my dry throat. Thoughts of John coming have me nervous. How am I more worried about talking to him than all the other nonsense I have been party to in the last month?

  I pull the envelope given to me by Hal out of my blazer, and lay it on the bar in front of me. It’s a plain white business envelope with PIXIE printed in red marker on one side. This was Victoria’s pet name for me growing up. Older by eight years, she boasted that she had actually raised me herself. Our father was a nasty drunk who ran off when I was still a baby. Our dear single mother worked multiple jobs to keep a roof over our heads, leaving Vicky responsible for me. This might infer my childhood was unhappy, but that’s not the case.

  “It was pretty good until Dad came back.”

  On my eighth birthday, my father blew back into our lives and wall papered my mother with apologies and promises. Desperate for financial help, she welcomed him back even though Vicky warned her not to. Over the next two years they were at each other’s throats day and night. Vicky kept the old man away from me for the most part, but on two occasions wound up in the Emergency Room with suspicious trip and fall injuries. I was so young the reality of it never completely registered on me. My sister spent the last two years of high school in a deathmatch with a drunk construction worker.

  “You want I should top that off?” the ragged looking barkeep asks, her hand slapping the bar to my right.

  “Yeah,” I mutter, pushing my empty across to her side. “Hit me again.”

  “Take it easy little girl,” she chuckles, topping it off. “I don’t want you getting too hydrated.”

  …

  When John wanders in, several of the dart players welcome him with firm handshakes and back slaps. I wave, then turn back to the bar, leaning over the envelope. The stools are all filled, but the gal next to me exchanges whispers with John and then slips off hers. After a friendly hug, she makes herself scarce. It would appear he’s a regular.

  “You’re popular.”

  “There’s barely two thousand people in Two Rocks,” he suggests, holding a finger over my glass and receiving a nod from the bartender. “That’s counting Roos.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have taken it for granted that you’d be alone. If you’re already entertaining, I’ll get ride back to Wanneroo. No harm, no foul.”

  “Technically speaking I do have a houseguest.”

  “Oh,” I sigh, but wonder how to warn Ella.

  “It’s not what you think,” he shakes his head after watching my reaction. “I have a guy doing some work at my place.”

  “Putting in that dock I hope.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do have a dock now,” he boasts, as the bartender sets his drink down. “Thanks Stella.”

  “So, you bought the dream boat?”

  “Yup,” he nods, pulling a set of keys from a carabineer clip on a belt loop.

  The key fob for his car is joined by a tiny foam float in the shape of a fish. An odd-looking key that I assume is for the boat dangles from that branch of his key tree. He tosses them on the bar, then leans over to take a swig.

  “Very nice, I don’t suppose there’s a ride in my future?”

  “Almost certainly,” he replies, then wrinkles up his face. “This is water.”

  “I think you ordered what I was having.”

  “Stella,” he calls out like a wounded animal.

  She peers down the bar from the far end, then laughs, clearly aware of the deception she took part in. He tosses his hands in the air and scowls. She points for him sit down and goes back to whatever she was doing before he stood up.

  “You’ll live,” I snicker as he sits back down. “What have you been up to?”

  “Working from home these days,” he explains, then notices the letter. “Who’s Pixie?”

  “Me,” I sigh, plucking the letter off the table, then slip it back in my inside pocket. “Or I used to be her.”

  “That sounds like an intriguing story. Do tell?”

  I weight the pros and cons of unloading my personal nightmare on John. I don’t know how long I’m expected to keep him here and there is no doubt that the topic of my sister will drag on forever. People rarely accept the story on the first telling. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. I pull the letter out and tap it on the bar.

  “My sister, Victoria,” I begin. “She’s in prison back in the States.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “Don’t b
e. It’s not your fault.”

  “Where you two close?”

  “We used to be,” I admit, laying the letter back on the bar.

  “I have a half-brother who’s a right pain in the arse,” he offers, his accent more noticeable when he’s around other Aussies. “What happened with your sister?”

  “She had a car accident,” I reveal, pausing to take a deep breath. “She’d been drinking and she hit another car.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Yeah,” I choke out, pausing to swallow hard. “A surprising number of people. Most of them weren’t even in the car.”

  A strange look washes over his face. I should end the story here, before it gets too dark. During my pondering pause, Stella works her way to back us, standing there with hands on her hips.

  “Water?” he complains.

  “That’s what you ordered.”

  “You’d serve a hardworking man water?”

  “When I see a hardworking man, I’ll let you know,” she argues, then winks at me.

  “Gimmie a Two Rock,” he groans. “Leave it in the bottle.”

  “No glass,” she inquires, pulling a green bottle out of the cooler and popping the top with a church key hanging off her belt.

  “No thanks,” he holds up a hand as the beer is pushed across the bar.

  “Pay up,” she puts out her hand in a comical gesture.

  “Put it on my tab.”

  Stella pantomimes pulling out a notebook and flipping pages, licking her finger now and then. It’s so funny even John laughs. Pretending to find the correct page, she scribbles in the air with an imaginary pen, then pauses, looking at John.

  “You want her water on your tab as well?”

  “Yeah, he chuckles, watching her finish and replace the pretend notebook.

  Ending her routine with a stern look, she marches away to check on a waving patron. John takes a sip and sighs.

  “No glass.”

  “I always get one here,” he explains. “They keep them in a cooler and it’s right nice.”

  “But not today?”

  “Last week Stella put a Cleopatra beetle in my glass.”

  “You drink it?”

  “No, he shouts, eyeing Stella as she passes. “When I poured the beer in, it climbed out and walked along the bar.”

  “It was hilarious,” Stella assures me as she pops the cap off another beer bottle, . “I’ll show you the pictures when I get a minute.”

  “You will not,” he shouts at her back.

  “What’s a Cleopatra beetle?”

  “Coloptera or some such name. We just call it Cleopatra.”

  “Sounds dreadful.”

  “It was,” he assures me, then looks more serious. “You were telling me something about your sister.”

  “Wow, yeah, that’s a very long story.”

  Should I spin this yarn to keep him from going home? I’m pondering this when John pulls a vibrating cell phone out of his back pocket. He studies it, then frowns, scanning around the back of the bar, then at me. He pauses, wearing a pained expression, before sending a reply.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to go,” he stammers, still glancing about.

  “Let’s at least finish our drinks,” I press, hoping my depressing autobiography didn’t foul up the whole plan.

  “No, I’m sorry, but I have to get home,” he mutters absentmindedly, then looks panicked at the thought of abandoning me here. “Stella can get you a cab back to Wanneroo. There’s a hotel there. It’s not much, but they always have a vacancy. Here,” he mutters, tossing a wadded-up collection of multi-colored bills on the bar.

  “I have money.”

  “I’m sorry,” he stutters.

  “Don’t go. Don’t leave me here.”

  “Sorry,” he mutters again, his mind elsewhere.

  I receive a peck on the cheek, then he threads his way through the crowd. I snatch the letter off the bar and follow along, bouncing off one very large man in a leather vest. There’s no shirt and he’s what I would describe as furry. I lose track of John, but keep working my way to the parking lot in hopes of catching him.

  Only three cars from the door I hear him pop the locks with the fob. I dash between two women chatting drunkenly with the doorman. It’s close, but I get a hand on the passenger side door handle as the engine roars to life. It’s at older model Cadillac of some variety. Late nineties and well worn, but was obviously a fancy car at some point in the past. John frowns as I slip in the front seat and jerk the door shut with both hands.

  “Lydia, I can’t have you with me tonight. I can’t explain, just trust me that it’s important.”

  “What did the text say?”

  “If this is,” he protests, rubbing his brow. “Lydia, this isn’t about you and I. It’s work related.”

  “What did the text say John,” I demand in a more forceful voice.

  “I simply don’t have time—.”

  “Was the text from Darius?”

  “No,” he stammers, then turns to me wearing a confused expression. “Wait, how do you know that name?”

  “I’m more interested in how you do.”

  “I really have to get home.”

  “You can’t go back to your house right now. I lured you away and there are two Agents there now.”

  “Why would—,” he howls, squeezing the steering wheel in frustration. “What Agents? Agents of what?”

  “John, we need to stay here and wait for them to come back.”

  There’s a pause as his frustration boils, then he pulls the shifter down and the car rockets backwards. He enters the two-lane blacktop in reverse without looking, then squeals the tires as we race in the direction of his home.

  “John, who was the text from?”

  “Like I said, there’s a guy there doing some work. Apparently, your people disturbed him. What frigging Agents?”

  “You should let them finish up.”

  “I believe one of them is quite finished already,” he huffs, handing me his cell.

  The message icon has a red number two over it, suggesting he’s received several incoming texts since the one at the bar. I read the already open window.

  MATHIAS: Get back here. We have company.

  ME: What?

  MATHIAS: One down, but at least one more still on site.

  One down, I read to myself, then shudder. I open another window and see something much worse.

  DARIUS: Approach with care. The drone has been armed.

  “It says here the drone is armed,” I read aloud. “What does he mean armed?”

  “Why are you doing this?” he scowls, rolling his window down halfway as he passes a slower moving Jeep. “How are you involved?”

  “Darius isn’t who you think?” I plead, then wonder who he thinks he’s working for. “Wait, who do you think he is?”

  “Why would I tell you?”

  “Because this thing just went sideways in a massive way,” I wince as the front tire on my side momentarily slips off the edge of the road into gravel. “I can help you if you just trust me.”

  “How is lying to me helping?”

  “John, who do you think Darius is?”

  “I don’t know,” he shouts through gritted teeth, slapping the steering wheel. “On the way back, the sea plane got hijacked by the U.S Navy. I’ll assume you were in on that since you warned me not to go.”

  “Yes, but I was trying to help you.”

  “Thanks, next time a little more information would be useful. They were taking us off the sea plane into a skiff and shuttling everyone back to the big ship. They seemed more interested in separating Lee from the case. The skiff took the pilot and Lee off first, leaving me all alone. Then world war three starts. A rocket or something hits the ship and chaos breaks out. Huge turret machine guns on deck let fly, people were scrambling for cover. I’m trying to stay down, then realize the plane is moving.”

  “You said a jet?”

&nb
sp; “Yeah, no idea what country, but some sort of military fighter,” he explains. “You’re missing the headline. The sea plane started up and took off all by itself.”

  “Strange as this may seem. That isn’t hard for me to believe. What happened?”

  “I’m watching from the air as the fighter jet rolls over and kamikazes smack dab in the center of the Navy ship. The sea plane turned away, but the black smoke was visible for an hour.”

  The information is coming at me too fast, but it seems clear Darius was behind this mess. He probably hacked the jet and used it to attack the ship. Then, during the ruckus he hijacked the Bombardier, with John on board. Poor John is one unlucky guy.

  “How’d you get home?”

  “I’m sitting there in shock and then my phone goes off. When I open it, there’s a text from someone calling himself Darius.”

  “Perfect, then what?”

  “He offers me a ton of money to hang onto the case until he sends someone for it. The sea plane lands behind my house to let me off, then ghost flies away.”

  “And you have the case at your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “But someone named Mathias is there? Is he the person Darius sent to pick it up?”

  “Yeah, he’s been at my place for a week.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know exactly. He’s a German guy. He barley speaks English. He’s tinkering around with a couple of drones.”

  “Drones, how big?”

  “Small ones, like the ones that deliver Amazon packages,” he explains. “The other one’s decent size. Probably a meter and a half across.”

  “Is he putting the contents of the case in these drones?”

  “The small one I think,” he shrugs, seeming unsure. “The big one is some sort of security drone. He turned it loose when he got there. It hovers around the property like a guard dog.”

  “But the canister from the case is going on the small one?”

  “Yeah, hey, how do you know what’s in the case?”

  “That’s not important. What did they tell you was in the canister?”

  “No idea. Mathias doesn’t speak English and Darius never said. You tell me.”

  “Smallpox,” I groan, kicking the underside of the dashboard. “Might as well be the plague.”