Reaction

by Seth M. Baker

  With one hand he patted his pants pocket and felt for the statue. Still there. His father's life’s work. He needed to make a backup copy. This made him think of his father and his refusal to backup his data to the Tivooki Systems servers, the way he would say he didn't trust Tivooki, no matter what their adverts said about being safe and secure. No, he would rather maintain his own databases. Had that been the reason they raided his house? What if they had only wanted the data? No, they would've sent a thief, not a paramilitary hit squad.

  But, Amadeus thought, the one question I'm not asking is the most important one: who are “they”? He had an idea of what “they” wanted, but that was almost secondary. For now, he had to assume that “they” were out there, that “they” wanted him dead, just like his father. No, not dead. He couldn’t accept that.

  He realized he was over the speed limit by about forty kilometers and brought the bike back down to speed. A ticket or, even worse, an impound, wouldn't do him any good. The bike sputtered. Amadeus realized he needed fuel. Damn vintage bikes. Why hadn't his father outfitted this old thing with an electric auxiliary motor? What had he said? “Keeping it real” or “Keeping it original”? Some outdated notion, Amadeus was certain.

  He turned down the next off ramp and rolled into the well-lit filling station. The station had a red canopy and proudly advertised “all fuel and charge types here.” Amadeus rolled past the electric charging stations and hydrogen dispensers to the petroleum pumps, far on the outside of the station. They both got off. Grassal grabbed one ankle and began to stretch his legs.

  “You okay?” Grassal asked, flipping up the visor of his helmet.

  “No.”

  Grassal put a hand on Amadeus' shoulder. Amadeus hugged him and began to sob. “He's dead,” he said, their helmets clicking together. Amadeus stopped crying. He didn't say anything, just flipped the visor on his helmet down and held his wallet against the sensor. The LCD screen had previously offered dried squid snacks flashed an error message. He pulled his card out, the one linked to his main bank account, and tried again. Still, he received an error.

  “Maybe it's the pump,” Grassal said. “Here, I've got some cash.” He pulled out some crinkled bills from his wallet and handed them to Amadeus.

  “Who carries cash?” Amadeus said, taking the bills. He selected the cash option, but the clerks' face came on the screen and told him to pay inside.

  He started towards the counter, but he realized he was hungry. Grassal probably was, too. He laid two bags of barbeque squid snacks and a big bottle of water on the counter then bought twenty dollars worth of gas. He took his change, returned to his bike, and pumped the gas.

  “I'm getting dizzy,” Grassal said. “I'm surprised they haven't banned gasoline yet.” His helmet was off, sitting on the seat.

  Amadeus topped off the tank. Some gasoline rolled down the side. He wiped it away with a paper towel.

  “You ready?” Amadeus asked. With his clean hand, Amadeus shoved a handful of peanuts into his mouth, followed with a big gulp of water.

  “Sure, of course I'll go to Colorado with you,” Grassal said.

  “I, uh, just meant, I assumed,” Amadeus said. “They’re after you, too.”

  “You assumed that I'd just go wherever you go? Of course you did. I always have. Right?” Amadeus started to speak, but Grassal smiled at him. “I'm mostly only fucking with you, brother. You know your father was like a father to me. More like a father than my own father, really. And, if they want to kill you, they probably want to kill me, too, I've practically lived at your house the past few years. I can imagine them crashing through the windows at my house—”

  “Okay, okay.” Amadeus put his hand up to stop him. “Thanks, Grass.”

  “Thank me once we get to Colorado. What is it, ten thousand kilometers?”

  “Not quite. Might as well be. We'll need to find a place to sleep tonight.”

  “We could sleep at a rest area.”

  “Better than nothing.” Amadeus put his helmet back on, tightened his shoelaces, and checked the air in the tires. Back on the highway with a full tank of gas, the minutes melted away into hours. They passed a sign that read Interstate 78 to Newark and Points West. Now that they were farther from the city, they could see a couple stars.

  Somewhere in Pennsylvania they stopped at a rest area. They got off the bike and stretched. Amadeus waved his wallet in front of the vending machine’s card reader. The screen flashed an error message. Grassal tried his accounts. Same result.

  “Shit,” Grassal said. “Declined again. We’ve got to go, ditch the cards.”

  “I’m so tired. I want to rest.”

  “Then buy a coffee.” Grassal handed Amadeus some money. “And use cash. Every time we try the cards, that’s like sending up a flare and saying ‘hey, murdering assholes, we’re right here, come find us.”

  “How much cash you have?” Amadeus asked.

  “About fifteen dollars.”

  “Not enough to get to Colorado.”

  “That’s not enough to get to Ohio.”

  Amadeus drank a coffee too hot to enjoy, then they set off, drove six more hours, and found another rest area. Amadeus stretched out on a bench and tried not to think, tried instead to get comfortable, but his bony body and protruding joints ground against the hard wood. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed he was in a field, naked, watched by millions of unseen eyes. His father’s voice spoke, but Amadeus couldn’t make out the words, as if he were a man speaking a foreign tongue. Something rustled in a nearby patch of grass. Amadeus looked closer. A tiger sprang from the bush with a roar, swung at his face, and knocked him to the ground. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The tiger began batting Amadeus’ body like a housecat playing with a toy mouse.

  5

  A rest area attendant roused Amadeus from sleep by shaking his shoulder. “Wake up, son, you can’t sleep here,” he said. His skin was grey, his eyes sunken. “I let you sleep here a couple hours, only because I used to ride and I know how it is, but families going to start coming here soon and they’ll be needing these picnic tables. You’re going to need to leave. You understand.”

  “Yes, yes, fine,” Amadeus said, still not sure where he was. Wisps of purple dawn streaked the sky like jellyfish tentacles. Everything came back to him in reverse order, the drive, the gunshots, the crawlspace, his father giving him the drive, the popped balloon. He tried to shake it all away, convince himself this was a dream within a dream, tried to wake up, but the man with the sunken eyes still stood over him. Amadeus grabbed Grassal’s arm.

  “Hey buddy, wake up, this man says we have to go.”

  “I didn’t do it,” Grassal said, opening unfocused eyes, looking, confused. The attendant wandered off without saying another word. Amadeus went to examine the map nearby. “Where are we?”

  “In Pennsylvania. The seventy eight changed to the seventy six. Next it’ll change to the seventy, we can ride that all the way to Colorado.”

  “I thought we didn’t have enough money to make it all the way,” Grassal said.

  “I’m still working on that.”

  “You can start by checking coin returns.” Amadeus walked off towards the facilities. Grassal called after him: “I’m not serious.”

  Amadeus washed his face in the bathroom. The stubble on his face looked scruffy, but he wasn’t going to spend money they didn’t have on a razor.

  In the visitor’s center, Amadeus sat on a wooden bench and picked up a flex-screen secured to the bench by a steel cable. He stretched the plastic sheet to newspaper size and searched for news from the Northeast. The first headline turned his stomach. “Patricide in Providence! Police on the Hunt for Valedictorian Suspected of Murdering Father.” Below the headline, Amadeus’ senior yearbook picture, the one with his eyes half-closed. Amadeus set the tablet on the bench and took deep, deep breaths. He pulled a brochure for Amish country tours from the shelf, tore out a picture of a buggy, stuck it in his
mouth, feeling the calm spread over him as he ground the paper between his back teeth.

  “Police are looking for two suspects, possibly armed and dangerous, after the controversial physicist Tommy Brunmeier was found dead at his home.” Amadeus fought back the tears. There it was, in the news. It was true. His father was dead. He read more. “Police suspect Brunmeier’s son, Amadeus Brunmeier, 18, of the killing. Neighbors reported seeing him and a friend, Grassal Delgado, flee the scene on a motorcycle.” Amadeus skimmed the text for more. “An anonymous source told InterNews that, only the previous day, Brunmeier and Delgado had brutally assaulted a classmate before fleeing his own graduation, where, as class valedictorian, he was expected to give a commencement address…a representative for the family could not be reached for comment.” A small box showed video of a younger version of his father accepting an award.

  “No,” Amadeus said. “No, no, no, no.” Blood filled his face, his heart tried to leap from his chest. Lights flashed at the periphery of his vision. He stood up, letting the screen fall to the floor. He stumbled back outside, trying to keep his walk steady and his posture confident. When Grassal saw him, he cocked his head like an inquisitive dog.

  “What now?”

  “They think we did it. I mean, the police, they think we killed my father. They’re looking for us.”

  “Shit. Shit. No, that’s not, no way. They can’t. Why would they think that? No, that’s fucking impossible, they should know better.”

  “Anonymous source,” Amadeus said. Speaking was difficult, but he spit out the paper and it became easier. “They said we were armed and dangerous.” He realized how loud he was speaking and lowered his voice.

  “You know what that means? The police will shoot us down if they get a chance,” Grassal said.

  “They can’t shoot us if our hands are up. What about my lawyer?”

  “Your dad’s patent attorney? You’re a funny guy.” Amadeus nodded then glanced over at the facilities building. The attendant was looking at them through the window. Amadeus looked back at Grassal. “Our best chance is to find Jones like your father said and hope he doesn’t believe this shit story.”

  “My father trusted him, but I’m not sure,” Amadeus said “What if we went to the police, told them what happened?”

  “The police? You’re a funny guy. You really think that’s a good idea?” Grassal said. He put his hands on his hips. “The police are nothing but attack dogs for the highest bidders. They don’t care about what’s right and wrong. They just do what they’re told. When you’re a little kid, maybe it’s good to believe the police are your friends. But you’re an adult now. An adult wanted for murder. They’d love to beat the ever-loving shit out of you, just to get their rocks off while making a high-profile arrest.”

  “It looks worse if we run,” Amadeus said.

  “Your father is dead, we’re wanted for murder, and you’re worried about how this looks? I’ll tell you how this looks. It looks like shit all the way around. It looks like professional hit men were sent to kill everyone in that house. It looks like we shot up the house and killed your father because we’re crazed psychopaths. It looks like if we turn ourselves in, we’ll be locked up and prison-raped until our eyes fall out.”

  “I think you’re paranoid.”

  “I think I’m pragmatic. And if we’re locked up, what happens to the statue and your father’s research? You think they won’t find a way to get it? Especially if that’s what they’re after?

  “You’re really certain about this.”

  “I am as certain as the sunrise. We have to do what your father said and go to this man Jones.

  “I’m going to listen to you on this one, Grassal. I hope it works.”

  “Would I tell you wrong?”

  6

  They ran out of money in Indianapolis, having bought fuel, scissors, hair dye, and instant noodles from a Food Carnival grocery store, then cutting each other’s hair at a rest area outside Columbus, Ohio. Now they both had short, bottle-black hair. While cutting Amadeus’ hair, Grassal had suggested they sell the bike. Amadeus agreed.

  In Indianapolis, they tried to sell the bike at three separate car dealerships. All had turned them down because they had no title. On the outskirts of town, in a place with more vacant buildings than houses, they pulled into a dealership surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire. A sign said “We love to trade! We still buy gasoline vehicles! Come on in!” As they parked, a man in a suit came out and waved at them. He wore a plastic salesman smile. Amadeus greeted him.

  “That’s an eight fifty, right? Old V-twin? It’s vintage but it looks good. Sounded good too, heard you coming. Awful big bike for a boy your size, no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Though with that big friend of yours, you might need all the extra power.”

  “Offense taken,” Grassal said.

  “I jest, I jest,” the dealer said, putting up his hands.

  “Yamaha always made a fine bike. Could outrun and outlast a Harley any old day of the week.”

  “I’m glad you like this bike because I was hoping to get rid of it. It was my father’s bike.”

  “Well, I don’t normally deal in bikes, especially gasoline bikes, despite what the sign says. Most people don’t want a dinodrinker anymore; everybody loves their electrics. First high-speed rail, and now scooters.” He wrinkled his nose as if he had just got a big whiff of gasoline. “The Europeans really are taking over.”

  Amadeus laughed. He felt like he could talk to this guy. Looking at his unlined face, Amadeus guessed the dealer wasn’t much older than himself, maybe in his early-to-mid-twenties. Grassal laughed along with them.

  “What’s wrong with Vespas?” Grassal said, shaking his head.

  The dealer flashed them a big plastic grin then dropped his voice as if he were preparing to drop a big juicy secret in their lap. “Gentleman, I’ll tell you what. I know a guy that’s a huge fan of these bikes. He told me to keep my eyes peeled. Right now, my eyes are like a couple of oranges, because right here, in my lot, is exactly what he’s looking for. Now, I can’t promise that he won’t part them out, but I can promise to give you a fair deal.”

  “But there’s one thing,” Amadeus said. “I don’t have a title.”

  “If I touch it, will it burn my fingers?”

  “Huh?” Amadeus said.

  “He means, did we steal it,” Grassal said.

  “Oh. No, it belonged to my father, but he died.” Amadeus’ flat and emotionless voice surprised him. “And I need to sell this to pay for the funeral.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m really sorry for your loss. Look, I believe you, but without a title and out of state plates, I’m looking at a mountain of paperwork. Clean titles are expensive. I’ve got a lawyer, but you understand he’s got a couple kids that absolutely have attend Dartmouth.”

  “That’s fine,” Amadeus said. “Just give me enough to cover the funeral, I don’t care.” Amadeus didn’t consider himself a liar, he had always thought the truth was easier, but this lie felt easy and natural. Maybe he should’ve started lying sooner.

  The dealer leaned over to examine the bike. “Any problems? Ever been wrecked?” His tone became flat, precise, a little cold. He ran his hand over the spark plug wires. “You mind if I take it for a ride?” Amadeus said that was fine. The dealer put on the helmet and drove the bike off the lot. Amadeus and Grassal stood, watching the traffic blow by. After ten minutes, the dealer returned, more steady on the bike then when he left.

  “Runs great. I’ll give you seventy six fifty for it.”

  “What? It books for almost fifteen,” Amadeus said. He imagined his hands around the dealer’s neck. He reached in his pocket for a scrap of paper, found none. He balled his hands up into fists. Grassal grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side.

  “Amadeus, just take it. That’s as good as it gets. It’s only money. It’s only worth that under the best circumstances, and these are
far from the best circumstances. In fact, these are the opposite of the best circumstances. And once we get everything straightened out, you’re not exactly going to be wallowing in poverty.”

  “You really believe we’ll get this straightened out?”

  “I do.”

  “Fine. I see your point.” They returned to the dealer. “Eight thousand two hundred,” Amadeus said.

  “Seventy eight fifty,” the dealer said, the plastic smile returning to his face.

  “Seventy nine hundred…and a ride to the train station,” Amadeus said. The dealer considered this, looked at his watch, and nodded.

  “You’ve got yourself a ride.”

  7

  The dealer dropped them at the train station, another sparkling new station on the New Empire Builder line. Indianapolis had the second-largest station in the Midwest high-speed network. If a train was headed anywhere besides Chicago or Texas, it ran through Indianapolis. The glass-and-steel building towered above the old brick buildings of downtown like a metallic spider with its legs sprawled straight out. Outside the main entrance, people pulled little black suitcases. Through the silver doors and inside, more people hummed across polished marble floors. The station reached up ten floors to the sky, a tower of travelers with walkways crisscrossing the open space, connecting one side to the other. A steam-powered clock looked down on the concourse. A train-sized digital display showed destinations, train numbers, and departure times.

  “Have you ever taken the train before?” Grassal said.

  “Once.When I was younger. With my parents. We went to New York. But we usually drove or flew.” Grassal nodded then scratched the back of his head. Amadeus gestured up to the screen. “I don’t really know how any of this works.”