Dean looked back at Jazon Meyers. He’d much rather work with the taller robot, which seemed more like a powerful tool to be used, instead of a demon let out of its box.
“Come on up, Fulsome. I need your handprint.”
Doing as he was told, Dean walked up to the workbench and put his hand on the reader glass near Donaldo’s console. The laser underneath scanned quickly from red to green. Donaldo typed a few other things and then clapped his meaty hands together. “Success, you are white-listed. Neither of these robots can ever harm you, even if you are directly in their path of the Moon City Killer.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. These directives are outside their personality drives. Think of them as logical beings with a contained ball of crazy in their center.”
“You’re very reassuring,” said Dean.
A breathy whisper with no air behind it penetrated Dean’s right ear.
“Buy Sandra flowers.”
Dean jumped back and put his hand on his weapon. Mr. Loveman had snuck up behind him without a single sound. Those blank star eyes regarded him below a mop of short, jet-black hair parted on the side.
“What did you say about Sandra?” he demanded. “How did y--?”
“Oh, don’t freak, Fulsome,” said Donaldo with a chuckle. He scanned your cell phone. Probably read all your texts. He does that to me all the time.”
“Well, tell him not to do it. Goddamn.”
“Can’t help you there. These things have more freedom than other bots. That’s what drives them to be effective.”
“You can send the flowers remotely,” whispered Mr. Loveman. “Log on to 1800flowers.com or another website.”
Dean gasped. “Donaldo, what the hell is this thing talking about?”
“You wronged her, Dean Fulsome,” Mr. Loveman went on, interlacing his hands together at his stomach. “You left her alone to come to Moon City. She may never see you again. You should send her flowers through a delivery service.”
“Knock it off, Love,” Donaldo said, getting out of his seat with an exhausted grunt. He patted Dean on the arm. “Follow me. It seems you’ve had enough of our friends here.”
“No shit,” Dean agreed. With one more passing glance at the unmoving robot, he followed Donaldo out of the work area to the back. The big man sidled up to a trash can and observed the contents.
“This should do you fine.”
“What now?”
“You got a date with a crocoshark, remember? This will help bring one up to the shore. Got to pay those bills.”
“I should have stayed working in slaughterhouses.”
Donaldo hoisted up a beige trash bag, the funk immediately wafting off of it. “Hey I forgot about that. You should share that with Loveman, he’d love to hear about it.”
“I’ll pass,” said Dean, taking the revolting bag. “How long should I wait for these things?”
“Oh, I have a Mason jar back in the shop,” Donaldo replied absently. “I’ll go grab it for you.”
“Don,” Dean said with a sigh, “how long?”
“Oh, you’ll know if it works almost right away. Crocosharks have a keen sense of smell. Everything I’ve been told, they’ll begin emerging within minutes of the bag being dumped on the shore.”
Later, miles away in a dark, frightening swamp with only the light of a single lantern and his cell phone, Dean would remember being told this, and he would look down at the pile of trash he’d dumped along the shoreline, kick some of its contents around again to hopefully dredge up a smell, check the time again, and silently curse at all the No Picnicking signs posted on the nearby boulders.
An hour had gone by, and but for the occasional splash of a buzztoad, the surface of the water had not stirred once. And an hour after that, when Dean left with his empty Mason jar to go back to his apartment, the silent state of the murky swamp remained completely unchanged.
Chapter 16
Dean flopped down on the couch and rested the Mason jar on his knee. He tilted it back and forth, looking through the amber glass idly. He’d tried to call Sandra on his way back from the swamp, but the call was full of static and ultimately was cut short. She’d mentioned something about going out with friends to dinner, but he couldn’t make out any other details before the call dropped.
Butterball rested near his feet, purring in a small, coiled ball. Dean took another piece of toilet paper from the roll he’d brought over to the couch and dabbed the corners of his dripping nose. This cat was going to be the death of him before he even found the Moon City Killer.
He’d checked his phone again for more details on the hostage Zetú situation, but the story hadn’t developed all that much since he last looked. He hoped that Finny-Min and his brethren had made it outside the warzone, that they weren’t taken on that slave ship. If Dean concentrated on it too long, he felt like he might slip into some kind of pathetic despair, and despite never having his parents around to be disappointed in him as a kid, he somehow figured they might have been if he began to curl up into the fetal position next to Butterball the cat.
Suddenly, his phone rang and Dean jumped. He glanced at the number and his shoulders slumped. It was a Moon City number.
“Fulsome,” he answered.
“Yeah, it’s Donaldo. You back?”
“I’m back. Empty handed. Didn’t you get my three voicemails?”
“I left my phone at home. Loveman and I went to the café for a bit.”
“You take your SL-SHR along when you get coffee?”
“Nah,” explained Donaldo. “I went for the moon crepes. Mr. Loveman orders the coffee.”
“How does that work?”
“He doesn’t drink it or anything. He just likes to watch the steam.”
“Okay, can we just talk about the swamp?”
“Sure, calm down, calm down. What’s up? Didn’t the trash work?”
“Not at all. I was out there two hours.”
“Oh, you should have come back sooner.”
“Well, I didn’t, you asshole, and now I’m stuck.” Dean hissed a sigh through his hand and closed his eyes to rest them a second. “Is there any other way to get those surveillance feeds? Can’t you hack into them? You’re a hotshot programmer.”
“I absolutely can do that, but I won’t. I’d like to keep my balls attached thank you very much.” Donaldo gave a nervous chuckle. “Look, Dean. I’m sorry. Why not try to find something else to take out there? I’ve heard rotten eggs can work.”
“Where can I find those?”
“No clue. Start at every restaurant.”
“Shit…” Dean fought the impulse to just hang up.
“It doesn’t have to be rotten eggs. It just has to smell horrible. Take a bunch of garbage out there. Something will work, trust me. Maybe I just didn’t have enough rancid stuff in the trash. I do eat out a lot you know.”
“Thanks. I’ll try that.”
“Good luck. I know you can do it. I’m going back to the mayor’s now, so we have to stop communicating. Text me 666 when you’ve gotten access to the surveillance. I’ll send the SL-SHRs to meet you at that point. They’ll take care of this problem once and for all.”
Dean didn’t bother saying good-bye and ended the call. He dropped the phone on the couch beside him and groaned. He didn’t mind bringing more garbage out to the swamps, but what if it didn’t work again? He had plenty of time and wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon, yet he had the feeling this was a wild-goose chase, and his time would be better served hitting the streets and asking questions.
No. Those feeds have the Killer on them. What better source are you going to stumble upon?
He leaned forward and noticed the cat looking up at him, blinking sedately, content. Dean gently rubbed behind the cat’s ears and he instinctively sniffled. “You are a sorry sack. You know that, Butterdick? Pooping in the bathtub, spilling your food in the kitchen, messing with the papers near the incinerator. Yep, you are one… sorry… sack.�
��
The cat fiercely rubbed the side of its face on the back of his hand. Dean noticed a black flake stuck behind its left ear. “You got a little schmutz here.”
He pulled it off the cat’s fur and squinted to examine the black scrap. It almost looked like dried seaweed. Not like the turds in the bathtub which were small and brown and firm, so this wasn’t shit. Thankfully.
Nothing better to engage in, Dean brought the flake to his nose and smelled. Instantly, he recoiled and flicked it away. “Yuck! Good god!”
He couldn’t unremember the stench. It was that black moss from the tavern. The stuff that had been growing from the ceiling and floor like some devilweed.
Nastiest smell Dean had ever…
He was up on his feet then. From the kitchen he grabbed a garbage bag and immediately headed out the front door. He gave Butterball a quick salute of thanks and left for the tavern. The cat meowed a good-bye from where it stood near the incinerator.
* * *
The drive to the far end of the cave seemed longer this time. The boulders, stalactites, and torch-lit road hazard signs repeated in such a way that they felt hypnotic. Dean’s brain sent impulses to him that suggested the need for sleep, but then something recalibrated internally that reminded him, Oh, you’re awake, buddy… You’re awake and you’re going to be that way for a long while. As he reached the shoreline to the swampland, he heard a pinging sound under the hood of the car.
“Give me killer robots that won’t kill, a car that won’t drive, and a mission,” he grumbled to himself as he parked and killed the headlights. Immediately, the surroundings went black. Only touches of light from the nearby anti-picnic signs gave any shape to the area. As he learned the last time he’d come out this way, he needed about fifteen minutes for his eyes to fully adjust to the darkness.
He sat there and scanned the area. He really hoped the bag of moss he’d taken from the tavern would do the trick. The smell had made its way into the car even though he put the trash bag in the trunk. It was such a revolting odor, one so acute in its misery that Dean could almost taste it in his mouth. He grimaced and took a swig of water from Rick Agate’s canteen he took with him. Thinking about the mercenary got him more upset. This kind of thing, rolling around with swamp creatures, was more suited to Rick’s type. Dean would have emailed Tasha this with a few pointed facts about his job title as well, but he knew what she’d say. You used to wrangle and kill animals for a living, Slaughter Man. Don’t keep belly aching. Then she would go on to reinforce that it wasn’t her job to cheer him up. If he needed a hug, he should find someone who didn’t mind giving him one.
“Gotta love her,” Dean whispered, and at that moment his eyes drank in the outer reaches of the motionless swamp, the strange gray lily pads and cattails, the lichen-covered pieces of waste lumber that had been dumped here years ago after a large construction project, the dark blue vines that grew from the water, spread over some boulders, and dangled off the sides like rotten waterfalls.
He got out of the car and popped open the trunk. The contents of the trash bag struck him like a giant fist to the face, so bad he even took a step back, gagging. He’d discovered the black moss when gathered together smelled even worse than it did spread out and growing naturally. It was so rank he’d had to throw his gloves away. Grabbing the bag and the Mason jar, he headed over to the shoreline.
There wasn’t even a spare moment to hope it worked.
The response was immediate.
Not even reaching the shoreline, he saw three distinct, large ripples along the surface of the swamp. Unsettling faces lifted from the brine. They looked like crocodiles, but more aquatic looking with gray scales that color of shark skin. They had a dorsal fin on their back, and though their tails swayed in the water like a crocodile’s, it had a caudal fin on them like a shark as well. The other telling sharklike trait was the arrow shape of their heads and the rows of triangular teeth brandished in their half-opened mouths.
Dean tossed the bag of moss to the shoreline. It spilled out in a heap. The crocosharks swam faster to intercept it. The one in the back closed in on the leader, opened its mouth, and soundly bit the neck. Even in the dim light, Dean saw the eruption of blood around the attacking creature’s face and he could hear it rain down on the surface of the water. The victim thrashed for only a few moments before going still, and its decapitated head floated off.
Clutching the Mason jar in both hands, Dean watched as the animals crawled out of the water and nosed through the moss. Without much ceremony, the larger of the animals mounted the other, its black, jelly eyes rolling back into its head in an unsettling white. They lay there, breathing heavily as they mated in the disgusting moss.
Pretty kinky, thought Dean. He approached a few steps to see if they would move. When neither animal budged, he took twice as many steps and kept going until he was about a yard away.
Dean swallowed as he slowly lowered to his knees. Directly under the jaw hung a grayish-blue sack that folded in and out like a silent accordion retrieved from burning wreckage. Thin, amber cords hung out the bottom. He looked at them and rolled his eyes—the shit I get myself into.
He walked on his knees closer to the mating creatures, which continued to be in a motionless fugue state. Reaching forth, one hand poised to take the nipple, and the other holding tightly to the Mason jar, Dean found he needed to move even closer. He winced at the shuffling sound through the dirt and pebbles his knees made. This was hardly a stealthy ninja-like execution on his part, but so far the two beasts couldn’t break from their ecstasy.
Dean took the thick, warm amber cord between his fingers and positioned the Mason jar underneath. He had surprisingly never milked a cow, even though he’d worked around cattle for a large part of his adult life. He’d been around ranchers before and had seen the process though. How hard could it really be? This was no cow but the concept had to be roughly the same. Other than pinching and yanking downward on it, what else did one really need to know?
So he pinched. Yanked. Pulled downward. And nothing happened.
A slight gurgling ascended from one of the crocoshark’s stomachs. He hoped that didn’t signal their lovemaking coming to a close. Dean pinched harder and twisted on the hollow, fleshy cord. Something dribbled out. He worked harder and the venom-milk sprayed into the jar. Scooting closer, Dean wrenched at the reptilian udder repeatedly for almost ten minutes until he heard only slow drips in the jar. The sack collapsed into an unsettling prune shape. The jar was just under half-full. Dean cautiously went around to the other side of the animals to work at the other sack.
The second attempt took longer to get going than the first and this one had more of a sulfurous smell escaping while he milked—then again, it could have been that moss he’d brought; he wouldn’t have been surprised if the rancid odor had found its way out from underneath the bellies of the animals.
The jar was getting heavier in his hand. The second sack was far more engorged with milk than the first one, from the feel of it. Dean would have a full jar without any problem. A bit of the venom dripped off the side and stung his fingers.
Good enough, he thought, and from his back pocket he took the lid. Carefully, he spun the lid onto the jar and made sure it was tight.
The crocoshark’s eyes bolted open at the sound. The creature on top whipped its massive tail out and caught Dean in the side, sending him sprawling into the swamp. The brisk salt water caught in his nostrils and his chin slammed into a submerged rock, making him bite his tongue, and blood flooded his mouth.
He couldn’t tell what was happening, but he could feel the muzzle of one of the beasts turning him over and the sharpness of its teeth tearing through his pants. Dean kicked at the thing and it withdrew momentarily. Then another impact came from the side. Its lover. The jar slipped out of Dean’s grasp. He lunged to retrieve it. His face broke the surface of the water and he saw the jar fling up into the air. A crocoshark leapt from the water, its head bumping the jar high
er in the air and sending it back to the shoreline, most likely to shatter.
Dean slid his hand behind his back and pulled out his firearm. A crocoshark swam for him full force. He aimed for the head and squeezed the trigger.
It sunk below the surface before any of the shots could connect. Dean lost no time and trudged to the shoreline. The salt water burned his eyes and the darkness did nothing to help, but he spotted where he thought the Mason jar had landed. As he closed in on it, he saw the shape there, just a hint of electro-torch light playing off its shape. His eyes drifted to the sign that the torch illuminated and he almost felt like laughing. Danger. No Swimming.
Water thrashed behind him. Was it the crocosharks or his own legs pushing through the swamp? It was impossible to tell, but his mind began randomly spitting out possibilities. Maybe the crocosharks retreated after he fired shots. Maybe they were more afraid of him than he was of them. Maybe he really had connected with some bullets and he’d injured one of them.
Then something kicked into his lower back like the boot of a giant monster and sent him forward in a C-shape, some blasted away parenthesis that would never end an aside (and Dean wasn’t a reader, so this meant he had been struck so hard it had momentarily changed his personality and turned him into the end of this). His weapon left his hand.
He slammed. Down.
His eyes popped black.
Silver whirled overhead. Little metallic butterflies spun around, coming in for a landing on the part of the brain that needed them most.
He vomited.
Only for a second.
Because the water broke behind him and shark teeth expanded to accommodate a large bite out of his head and torso. Dean was punch-drunk, but his instincts fired inside him and he charged for the shoreline.
His foot caught between two rocks. He tried to back up and release himself. It didn’t work. His shoe was buried deep, beyond the laces. The crocosharks sped up, their long, reptile arms pushing the water behind them powerfully. Dean reached down and forced his fingers through to free his foot. A charged sound that followed with a crackle went off nearby and water spurted up. The jaws of the two fierce creatures spread open and the teeth looked like an infinity Dean never wanted to be part of. He pulled at his foot. It budged slightly, but not enough. It would take time.
Moon City Page 18
