Human++

by Dima Zales

  The elevator crawls past the tenth floor, then the ninth. I look at the door’s reflective surface and see the nurse was right. My shirt is covered in blood. Fortunately, most of the blood is from a nosebleed. I’ve been prone to nosebleeds since I was a kid, and I’ve learned not to worry about them. At MIT, I used to get nosebleeds from the dry air caused by the dorm’s central air system. Mitya, my then roommate, used to tease me about it, saying the reason I get so many nosebleeds is because I have such a large schnoz. I’d retort that big noses are considered a sign of virility in many cultures and that they also accurately correlate with a certain part of a man’s anatomy, similar to shoe and hand sizes.

  Besides the blood, the right side of my face has a bruise so big I think it might develop a few bruises of its own. On the plus side, the nausea has subsided, or maybe I’m just getting used to it. Overall, the pain in my body has gone from agonizingly burning to unpleasantly pulsing.

  I pass the fifth floor without stopping and start thinking the elevator might make it all the way down without interruption. Is this trick with the close-door button actually true? Or is everyone coming to the hospital at this hour going up? Whatever the cause, I hope this continues.

  I pass the fourth floor, then the third. When the elevator passes the second floor, I let go of the button and all my muscles tense, ready for action.

  As soon as the door opens, I try to sprint but end up staggering out of the elevator. Ignoring the returning lightheadedness, I hurry toward Zapo and look around.

  I don’t see anything, but I do hear a large-vehicle engine starting in the distance.

  Fishing my car keys out of my pocket, I press the Start Engine button that was originally meant to warm up my car in the winter.

  Most Priuses start so quietly I wouldn’t be able to hear my car from where I’m standing, but Zapo isn’t a typical Prius. I can make out its tricked-out engine quite distinctly.

  I also hear the sound of screeching tires from the same place I heard the other vehicle’s engine start.

  Picking up speed, I swallow my heart back into my chest and say to both the AI on my phone and in the car, “Einstein, I’ll be driving on manual.”

  “You asked me to remind you to never drive drunk or tired,” says Einstein’s voice. For the sake of understandability, the AI’s German accent is subtler than the one the famous physicist actually possessed.

  I fight the urge to curse at the AI, as that would simply waste valuable seconds. Besides, worrying about my safety is something I usually want Einstein to do; it’s just that today, it would be better if Einstein were smart enough to worry about my mom instead, a task that’s still too generic for Einstein to tackle, no matter how much I anthropomorphize the AI by calling it a “he.”

  At least, as always, Einstein saves me a few precious seconds by pulling my car out of its parking spot and sliding the door up. Yes, Zapo’s door opens vertically, like the DeLorean from Back to the Future.

  “I’m not drunk or tired,” I say as I leap inside. “I’m in a big rush.”

  Before I can get a lecture, I buckle up.

  “According to my settings, you also asked me to be wary of you being in a rush,” Einstein says.

  A cartoony version of the famous old man with fluffy white hair shows up on the large dashboard screen and looks at me with carefully calculated grandfatherly concern.

  “Activate manual drive,” I demand. “This is an emergency override. Code red. 911.”

  One of the code words must work, because Einstein says flatly, “Manual controls activated.”

  I grab the wheel and slam on the gas pedal.

  “The speed limit in this parking lot is eight miles per hour.” Einstein stares at me with unblinking disapproval from the screen. “You’re going twenty-one miles per hour.”

  “Get used to it,” I say, though I know full well he won’t. “This is why I needed the emergency override.”

  “It’s not safe.” Einstein’s white hair seems to get wilder as he frowns. “Please consider slowing down.”

  I swerve toward the exit, all my focus on catching up with the bigger car I heard.

  When I see the parking lot exit a few moments later, I become the first New Yorker in history to be grateful for traffic.

  A line of four cars is waiting to leave the lot, and the second from last is a large black minibus I strongly suspect is the vehicle I’m after.

  I try to see its license plate, but the Honda behind it is blocking my view. I text Ada what I know about the car so far, typing out, “Tell the cops the perps are driving a Mercedes Metris minibus. I’ll text you the license plate number when I have it.”

  The cars move, so I pull up close to the Honda before clicking send.

  “One out of every four car accidents in the United States is caused by texting while driving,” Einstein says. As always, his German accent is almost undetectable when he’s doing his favorite task—quoting stats.

  “I’m not driving now.” I try not to sound defensive. “I’m sitting in traffic.”

  “Texting while driving causes a four-hundred-percent increase in time spent with eyes off the road,” Einstein retorts. In many ways, he’s just an advanced version of those annoying customer service answering machine AIs, and his arguments can be just as circular.

  “What are the statistics of accidents caused by people who are arguing with their navigation systems?” I move forward to take the space created by another car moving up.

  “No data,” Einstein says.

  “I bet once more people have something like you in their cars, those stats will be high.” I drum my fingers on the dashboard.

  Einstein doesn’t argue—yet another bit of proof that he isn’t that clever. If he possessed a generalized intelligence, he would’ve noted that it’s him, not me, who usually does the driving, and since an AI can multitask better than I can, no accidents would occur.

  When the minibus pulls up to the exit, my whole body tenses and I forget about Einstein. As soon as the Metris starts moving, I do the most dickish parking lot maneuver I’ve ever done. I floor the gas and circle around the Honda, pulling my nose into the opening the minibus just left.

  I can practically hear the woman cursing over her blaring horn, but I don’t care. Mom’s safety trumps social mores. As soon as the Metris moves a few inches forward, I boldly cut in front of a Crown Vic, following my prey. This time, it’s a guy who curses at me, so I keep an eye on him in my rearview mirror. If he’s aggravated enough, he might exit his car to start a fight with me, and that’s the last thing I need.

  The guy doesn’t get out, but about a dozen cars behind him join in on the honking, their joint blaring synchronizing with my pounding heartbeat.

  Ignoring the noise, I orient myself. This is First Avenue, and all four lanes are jammed. At least I’m right behind the minibus, even if neither of us can move.

  I use this chance to text the license plate to Ada. I also consider leaving my car and running up to the Metris. Before I can do so, the cars inch forward. The left lanes are moving a bit more freely, causing everyone from the right lanes to make matters worse by trying to switch over there.

  A few cars up, I see the source of the traffic—a double-parked car. I’ve lived in this city long enough to loathe people who double-park. This particular offender is a Poland Spring water delivery truck, as evidenced by the paint job on the sides and the man wheeling an empty water container into the vehicle.

  I’ve never wished for a cop to appear this badly. First, this imaginary cop would help me stop the kidnappers. Then, once my mom was safe, he’d write this idiot a juicy ticket, since even commercial vehicles aren’t allowed to double-park and block traffic in Midtown. Then I remind myself that this Poland Spring guy is why I’m able to follow the minibus, so in a way, he’s doing me a favor.

  When the Poland Spring truck starts moving, so do all the other cars.

  “The speed limit is twenty-five miles per hour,” Einstein ch
imes in.

  “That’s my speed.”

  “You’re going twenty-six miles per hour,” he says.

  Since we’re approaching an intersection, I ignore the AI and tighten my grip on the wheel.

  The Metris turns right onto 34th Street and cuts off three cars as it slots itself into the leftmost of the three available lanes.

  Tires screeching, I attempt to duplicate the minibus’s rude maneuver and pass a Lexus and a Hyundai. When I screech by a super-aggressive NYC yellow cab, I’m not surprised that the idiot scrapes my bumper. At least the touch is so light it doesn’t impede my turn.

  “You’ve been in an accident,” Einstein says. “You should pull over.”

  I contemplate hitting the LCD screen, but figure it’s best to just ignore him.

  We pass by the ever-present orange cones that seem to proliferate in Manhattan. When I spot the nearest green directional sign, my stress level climbs. I can guess why the Metris turned into the rightmost lane. In a few feet, it’s going to make a right to get onto the FDR Drive, one of the Manhattan highways. I should’ve thought of this back in the parking lot—not that it would’ve helped. Langone Medical Center is right next to the highway, so any kidnappers worth their salt would take advantage of that fact. On some level, I hoped to chase them through the congested streets until we passed a police car. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ll follow them into the surrounding ocean if I have to.

  My knuckles go white on the steering wheel, and my calf muscle tenses as I hit the gas again. In an instant, I catch up to the minibus, and our bumpers nearly kiss.

  “We’re too close,” Einstein whines and blurts out more safety minutia, but I ignore it all because my already hyperactive heart is threatening to jump out of my ribcage, Alien style.

  In the tinted glass of the Metris’s back window, I see the protruding forehead of the ape-bison asshole.

  He locks eyes with me and shouts something toward the front of the car.

  With smoke coming out from under the minibus’s tires, the vehicle shoots forward and makes a sharp right turn, ignoring the red light in front of us.

  Chapter Seven

  I nearly floor the gas pedal as I turn the steering wheel all the way right.

  The tricked-out motor roars to life, and Zapo accelerates like no other Prius before it.

  “You’re passing the red light at double the speed limit,” I hear Einstein say over the screeching tires and the pounding in my ears.

  I ignore him and focus on the road.

  The minibus is already merging onto FDR, and I fly onto the highway after it.

  The middle and fast lanes are unusually free today, though the rightmost lane is beginning to clog up.

  The kidnappers cut in front of a black Jeep Wrangler in the middle lane.

  I let the Jeep pass and look in my rearview mirror. A red Cadillac is gaining on me on the left. I normally wouldn’t dare switch lanes in this kind of situation, but today, I signal the turn, say a prayer to the Cadillac’s brakes, and swerve into the middle lane.

  The Cadillac’s burning tires make an unhealthy squeal, but nothing hits me.

  Einstein spews a laundry list of infractions, but I tune him out so I can focus on the minibus as it switches lanes again.

  After successfully swerving in front of the Cadillac, I decide to really push my luck with the Honda Accord in the fast lane. Though it’s at least a couple of feet closer, I’m hoping the driver saw my earlier stunt and started driving more cautiously.

  I signal again and swerve.

  There’s a loud thump as the Honda’s bumper crashes into mine.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’ve been in an accident,” Einstein complains again.

  “No shit,” I grit out and push the pedal harder. Something clangs behind me, and a look in the rearview mirror confirms what I already suspected. My back bumper fell off.

  If I had time for caution, I’d probably pull to the side of the road. Instead, I slam on the gas.

  My tires squeal. The car pulls left, and Zapo leaves its paint on the shoulder of the highway. At least I didn’t go over the rail and fly into the ocean.

  “The car alignment is off,” Einstein says.

  “Now you tell me,” I say and do my best to adjust to the constant leftward drag of my ride.

  For the next few minutes, the minibus continues to speed up and jump from lane to lane. I follow, and given my lack of bumper and the car’s misalignment, the fact that I only lose my right mirror is some kind of miracle. Einstein doesn’t agree with my assessment. Throughout the chase, he unleashes a torrent of complaints about my driving. The highlights include going triple the speed limit, leaving the scene of multiple accidents, not signaling when switching lanes, and driving in a damaged vehicle.

  As we get closer to downtown, I feel a glimmer of hope, and when we pass the Brooklyn Bridge, the hope congeals into a possible plan. The kidnappers are likely heading into the Battery Tunnel. Their only other option is to get off the highway and face downtown traffic. If I’m right, after they exit the Tunnel, they’ll encounter the tollbooths, and with any luck, there’ll be cops around. Even if the cops aren’t present, I can make a big scene once we get there, maybe by crashing into the minibus or one of the booths—whatever it takes to get attention. There’s even a small chance I won’t need to do anything. If Ada gave the police the minibus’s license plate, the cops at the toll stop—assuming there are any—may simply do their jobs.

  My target goes around the diminutive Smart Fortwo car in the middle lane, so I swerve after it, hoping the environmentally conscious hipster chick inside that tiny coffin doesn’t get a heart attack. The minibus whooshes into the Tunnel on the left side, and I nearly crash into the wall as I squeeze in behind it.

  Handling my damaged car was difficult up to this point, but it’ll be particularly tricky in the enclosed space up ahead.

  When my eyes adjust to the Tunnel’s darker environment, I blink repeatedly, as though that’ll change what I see.

  The left-side window in the minibus is open, and the now-familiar ape-bison hybrid is sticking his head out. Then his tattooed hand pulls out a gun as big as my head—which is where the weapon’s barrel is now pointed.

  On pure instinct, I duck in a move worthy of a Ninja Turtle as a shot rings out.

  The Tunnel must somehow amplify the sound, because this is what a cannonball would sound like if it were fired directly into my eardrum.

  Scenes from my early childhood don’t flash before my eyes, and I’m not hit with the pain of getting shot—all good news. Somehow, the guy must’ve missed, though I have no idea where the bullet ended up.

  When I look up, he’s still there, aiming the gun in my direction.

  A new spike of adrenaline rekindles my body’s last reserve of energy, and the world gets sharper and clearer. Trying to make myself a more difficult target, I turn the wheel toward the orange cones that separate the lanes inside the Tunnel. The nearest cone flies up behind me and hits the green Ford Mustang on my tail.

  Alas, my reprieve only lasts seconds. The shooter leans out of the right-side window, and without much ado, he fires at me again.

  My ears ring and my windshield explodes, raining tiny shards of glass all over me.

  I slam my foot on the brake so hard I hurt my ankle. Or at least the brake is what I meant to slam. In the heat of panic, I must’ve pressed on the gas, because Zapo suddenly lurches forward.

  I hear another shot.

  My shoulder feels like it was hit with a burning-hot baseball bat, then skinned with a potato peeler and sprinkled with alcohol and salt.

  At the same time, the steering wheel jerks in my hands, and I register the weather-beaten wall of the Tunnel rushing toward my face with the inevitability of tax season.

  Somehow, in that brief moment, many thoughts rush through my head, but the highlights are: “A bullet must’ve hit my tire” and “I’m going to die, and I haven’t saved Mom.”

>   Zapo smashes into the wall, and I see it start to pancake before the world becomes one violent explosion of whiteness, followed by the nothingness of unconsciousness.

  Chapter Nine

  “Where am I? What the hell is happening?” I try to say, but my lungs are empty.

  I gasp for air, but something is obstructing my nose and mouth. It feels like someone is smothering me with a pillow after an elephant sat on my face.

  I hear the creaking of plastic and metal as someone’s thick-gloved hands grab me. Pain explodes throughout my body, and oblivion reclaims my consciousness.

  I feel like I’m inside a meat grinder. I open my left eye a sliver and close it before the blinding light can ruin my retinas.

  “Damn,” I attempt to say, but my lips feel stuck together. “How much did I drink last night?”

  “You’re going to be okay,” says an unfamiliar voice. “We’re taking you to the hospital. I gave you something to make you more comfortable.”

  I feel warmth spread from my arm, an itchy sort of warmth that takes the pain away.

  A splinter in my brain doesn’t let me enjoy the relief. My mind resembles scrambled eggs, but I remember the problem and try to say, “No, I need to stay conscious. My mother was kidnapped. They shot at me—”

  Realizing I’m just mumbling, I focus on not letting the drugs put me under, but the warmth spreads above my neck and my awareness slips away.

  I try opening my eyes, but I feel like I’m too stoned. What the hell did I smoke?

  “Will he be okay?” asks a familiar female voice from somewhere far away. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He was shot, but the bullet only grazed his shoulder,” an unfamiliar male voice responds. “He was also in a car accident, so he has a mild concussion, bruised ribs, whiplash, and a slew of other minor injuries.”