Autonomy: a novel

by A. R. Braun

  This better be his daughter.

  “Aw,” Bob blubbered, “here’s the Mrs. now. Sissy, say hello to Scout.”

  Scout wheeled on him. She squinted her eyes. “Got yourself a kiddie wife, huh?”

  A devilish grin broke out on his face, making his cheeks even fatter. “Yeah, and I thought we could throw you into the mix.”

  Scout couldn’t believe this guy. “Fuckin’ sicko.”

  He bounded up and stuck a finger in her face. “Hey, it’s legal! The chancellor’s new law!”

  “I don’t give a fuck about the Antichrist’s new law, you piece-of-shit pedophile! What you’re doing is wrong, and it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.” She moved backward quickly, retrieved the derringer from her purse and shot him, catching him in the left eye.

  He cried out while dark-red blood and ichor squirted out of his eye socket and onto the carpet. He put a chubby hand over it and his sausage fingers were soon painted in crimson. He went down to his knees. She shot him again in the heart, and he fell onto his face. Behind Scout, the child keened as if she’d been denied a candy bar.

  Scout turned on her heel. The sight broke her heart, the little girl’s face turning red while she boo-hooed. The child covered her eyes with her tiny hands.

  “Aw.” Scout walked over and bent down to her, taking her left hand in both of hers. The child stood on the last step of the staircase. Her wan body trembled. “Honey, that man didn’t have the right to marry you. You’re way too young for that. You probably haven’t even gone through puberty.”

  “Yes I have!” the child pulled her wan hand away and bunched both hands into fists. Scout noticed she had the RFID chip. “I loved him. You worship that God-dog!” She threw harmless punches into Scout’s stomach, but they hurt her emotionally. “You … brainwashed zombie.”

  That’s enough of this.

  Scout moved away from her quick-like, heading toward the door and seeing the cab as it pulled up and honked. She blew through the threshold and jogged after it.

  “You killed my husband!” Scout heard her say through the partly-ajar door. “I’ll call the cops, you holy roller, and they’ll … why they’ll … chop off your head!”

  Thank God the cabbie had his windows up. She opened the door briefly, dropped in like a nuclear warhead and slammed the door. “Rocket Ride Hotel in Wampum, and step on it.” She showed him her microchip.

  The driver put the cab in gear but, unfortunately, stopped to look at the porch. Scout snapped her head toward the stoop. The little girl was talking on a cordless phone, pointing Scout’s way.

  “What’s going on here?” This cabbie was a youngish man with long auburn hair and sunglasses.

  “She’s just mad ‘cause she can’t go to the pool. My little sis got grounded. Let’s go, before she pitches a hissy fit.”

  “Why’s she on the phone and pointing at you?”

  Jesus Christ! Just drive!

  “She callin’ Mom, sayin’ ‘No fair’! You know how the brats are.”

  He nodded. “Have a couple daughters myself.” Great guess, thank God.

  The cabbie took off, leaving the wailing kid to her own devices.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Scout had the cab driver stop at the first convenience store she saw. She ran in and bought black hair color. Then she got back into the cab and told him to hurry to the Rocket Ride. She promised him she’d tip well if he sped, so he put the pedal to the metal.

  When she paid him, got out and booked a room, she found she was broke.

  Time to call Bill and get some money, or I could get a job. No, probably too risky.

  She placed the call while turning on the TV … until a story came on about how Mowquakwa’s own Scout Marshall was wanted by Velvet and his satanic army.

  She chuckled and turned it off, then lay on the bed and enjoyed the magic fingers as she smiled so widely she almost broke her face.

  ***

  Scout sat up and dialed Bill from her cell phone. After a few rings, he picked up.

  “Scout?” he asked.

  “Roger-dodger.”

  A brief pause on his end of the line. “How you doing?”

  “Smashing.” She had to fight to keep from laughing over the phone. “I’m about to color my hair black.”

  The air conditioning soothed her flesh, though the device was a bit loud. If you told a male about it, they’d say it needed Freon, what they always said. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the headboard, and she could’ve been a sexy r&b singer.

  A long pause. “Look … Scout … I think you may be having too much fun with this.”

  She giggled. “What? Somethin’ wrong with havin’ fun for the first time in my life?”

  “But you forget, we’re not supposed to have life. We’re supposed to be in the death camps. You’re acting like you’re in some slick movie. The guillotine will get us eventually. We’re martyrs.”

  She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Well … the ‘over-and-out,’ and ‘roger-dodger.’ This isn’t a game, kiddo. We’re doing all the damage we can do, then we’re over—in a short time.”

  She laughed again. “Oh, I know that. Listen, I busted a cap in a child molester’s ass. The little girl was cryin’. I tried to help her, but she started bein’ a little bitch, so I took off.”

  “All right, you killed a child molester. But are we, as Christians, supposed to murder?”

  “Uh-huh.” She snickered again.

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Yeah-huh.”

  I look so fly.

  “Scout, please don’t get delusional.”

  She gave it some thought. She didn’t want to be crazy like Mack, Lelila and Muffy, not on a bet. “Well … we’re radicals! Any good Christian would’ve caught their death in the camp.”

  “Um-hmm, that’s true.”

  She ran her hand over her face as if trying to wipe away this conversation. “Are you sayin’ we have to worry about goin’ to hell? For ‘thou shalt not kill’?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with trying to make the Antichrist eat lead. Not unless you’re going to be a fanatic, then one could say killing a child molester is a sin. But fanatics go crazy; yet the Bible says not to be lukewarm. So, it’s actually a good question. A two-edged sword, if you will.”

  Oh boy, this conversation is going around in circles.

  “Is Tim there?” Scout asked.

  “He’s asleep. He’s been having a lot of nightmares about his kid lately, so I’m letting him rest.”

  Poor Tim.

  Scout said, “Okay, well, I’ve gotta color my hair, so …”

  “All right. I’ll let you go then. Hey, I apologize if I was too hard on you.”

  “No probs.” She sighed again. “Hey Bill, I need some money. Should I get a job?”

  “Good God! No! It’s too dangerous. I’ll be right over with the cash. Stay put.”

  She snickered. “Over and out,” she said, whether he liked it or not. Scout ended the call.

  I’ll be a big, bad espionage girl or OO Agent if I wanna be.

  Yet as she opened the hair color and went at her mane, she couldn’t help thinking he might be right. A radical martyr, that’s all she was. Things weren’t going to be rosy, conflict resolution all tidy in the denouement. She was going to the guillotine.

  As she finished coloring her hair, she considered her bloody end. Her head rolling down into the gutter like a bowling ball.

  This made her angry—no, furious—so after the color had set and she washed her hair, using the two-minute conditioner, she dressed and hid her gun. She was ready for some action.

  ***

  Scout had to wave, flagging Bill down when he came to the motel and stepped out of his SUV. She let him into her room, and he gave her the cash.

  He grinned. “I didn’t even recognize you. You cut your own hair well.”

/>   “Thank ya much.” She winked at him.

  He frowned. “Well. You take care of yourself. I’d best be getting back.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Wouldn’t be thinking I’m too weird and getting carried away, now would you?”

  He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. “I’m perfectly happy with the fatherly relationship I have with you—Tim is, too. You’re the daughter he never had.”

  “Aw, that’s nice. Give me huggers.” She held him tight.

  He pulled away. “I’m glad you chose to accept the mission.”

  She giggled. “Though it’s impossible.”

  He nodded. “This weekend, if we’re still alive, we’d like to have you over for a cookout. You could spend the night.”

  She smiled. “Sure.”

  “All right.” He looked her up and down. “If it weren’t for your freckles and thin build, I still wouldn’t be able to recognize you. Be … very careful.” He stepped out.

  “I will.” She closed the door. Scout pulled apart the curtains and watched him drive away, then exited the room and locked it up.

  A spy for God’s side. That rules.

  She’d never felt more like one. Now she had a new identity, looking like a sheikh, mysterious girl with short black hair. It gave her an air of dignity.

  She stopped by a drug store, wanting just the reading glasses with black frames, not a prescription, to make her even more anonymous, then took off for the bus stop.

  I really need a car. Maybe I’ll lift one. I’m a fugitive anyway.

  As she waited at the bus stop, a man with a medium build and what looked like a permanently scrunched up face strode by. He walked a black Lab’ and stopped before her bench, bent down and rubbed the animal’s chops and gave the dog sloppy kisses … on the lips.

  “That’s a good little wifey,” he baby-talked to her. “Good in the sack, too.”

  Scout cleared her throat. No response; he kept making out with the dog. She looked around. No one was watching them as far as she knew.

  “HEY SCUMBAG!”

  He rose up quickly and bared his teeth. “You talkin’ to me, toothpick?”

  “Yeah I’m talkin’ to you! That dog only loves you because you feed her. She doesn’t wanna mate with your manwhore, skanky ass!”

  He scanned the area, as if wanting to whistle for an execution vehicle. Then he snarled at her. “Listen, bitch, it’s the new law, and you know it! I can marry anything I want. First the gays got their way, and now I’m gettin’ mine.” He looked her up and down. “I see your RFID chip. Don’t tell me how to live my life, or I’ll snap your neck like a twig!”

  “Okay, that’s it, dog-fucker.” She whipped out her derringer. “Where do you want it? That canine needs a new home, I’d say.”

  He put his hands up. “Watch it with that thing. You don’t wanna do that out on the street. Satan’s police will get you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think they’ll care, so fucking try me.” She was impressed with how loud and boisterous she was being, yelling at the top of her lungs.

  He moved his head toward her an inch. “Oh, I see, this is a holdup. Tryin’ to cut in on my action.”

  She laughed. “Now that’s an insult. I wanna give the dog a new home where it won’t have to fuck a human. She can just be a canine and be happy, you freak of nature.”

  He turned up the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, right. You ain’t gonna do nothin’.”

  “You piece of shit, worthless failure of a God-hating fuck!”

  He gaped. “But … It can’t be … you should be in the camps.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” she said in her best Gomer Pyle voice, grinning ear-to-ear.

  He blanched. He gave the leash some slack, allowing the dog to sniff her shoes. “You can have her. I can always find me another dog. Just don’t shoot me.” He grinned, showing big, yellow molars that looked like they belonged on a horse. “Fuck her all you want, you lesbo.”

  Rage consumed her like an ogre’s short fuse. She remembered what Lelila and Muffy had done to her, against her will. She thought of how she’d been cheated of her youth, college, a career, love, marriage and having children—all taken from her by these … these monstrosities.

  She stepped forward, yanked the leash out of his hand, aimed the gun at his crotch and fired.

  He doubled-over, a dark-red stain blooming like a rose where his dick was. “OOOOOF,” he blew out, going down onto all fours. Then he screamed.

  She outdid him in volume. “You fuckers call us dog-worshipers? Well you’re a dog-fucker, and that’s twice as bad! And now you’re going to bleed to death. It’s what you deserve.”

  The canine growled at her—Stockholm Syndrome. Scout stuck the pistol to her head and bit down on her nose, her soft spot. The dog whined and backed down.

  She took off with the canine, who jogged along with her as sirens began to wail. “Hope I blew his dick off!”

  Someone had obviously seen her shoot him out of a business’s window.

  Scout didn’t even care.

  ***

  She came to a Dollar Store parking lot, looking in the cars for one with a key. She found a white Chevy Impala with the door unlocked—the owner one of those stupid sons of bitches who goes into a store and leaves the vehicle running with the keys in it.

  Well, this is his unlucky day.

  Scout hopped in and let the dog into the back seat. The canine wasn’t having it and burst into the front seat. Scout grinned at her as she took off. She thought she should find Mack’s house and get her own car. But that was too risky. They could track her that way, and she was wanted for attempting to kill the Antichrist. Better to drive back to the motel and park the Impala behind it. She needed to get to the cell phone tower before they picked up a signal from the chip.

  It’d be great if Bill could scramble it.

  She petted the dog. “I’m gonna call you Daisy.”

  Daisy barked her approval.

  Scout decided to ask Bill if he could scramble the signal from the chip when she got back to the motel. She didn’t dare turn the cell phone on out in public.

  Cherries in her rear-view mirror sent her nerves into panic mode.

  Oh God, this is it, the end. They’ll cut off my head!

  Scout floored it, weaving in between traffic, trying to lose the execution vehicle, but it kept a good pace with her.

  Soon there’ll be more cop cars, a roadblock and jack rocks thrown down on the road.

  She gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make her knuckles white.

  Bill was right. I ain’t no spy. I’m just a radical martyr, and what if I go to hell for killing those people?

  Helicopters buzzed overhead. The world seemed to wheel around her.

  From a megaphone: “This is the police! I’m ordering you to pull over!”

  She wasn’t going out like that. She drove off the road and headed straight for a brick wall of a cell phone store. Then she examined herself.

  Am I crazy? Don’t suicides go to hell?

  A memory came to her of the Philip the Apostle. He was teleported to another town after climbing aboard the carriage and witnessing to the eunuch who couldn’t understand the Bible.

  “Lord Jesus, please teleport me back to my hotel!”

  The car slammed into the brick wall in a clash of metal and tinkling glass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Scout fell onto her bed in her hotel room. She bounced and reeled from the rush of almost being destroyed. Scout had disappeared the moment the car crashed into the wall. She looked herself over quickly, searching for injuries—just a scratch on her right arm. Sweet relief rushed in.

  She fell to her knees. “Oh Lord, is Bill right? Have I been carried away by fantasy? I’m so sorry. I’m ready to be your martyr. Help me keep my head on straight. Amen.”

  She bounded up, forgetting who she was. “What a rush!”

  I want a bottle of Jose Cuervo and a date in th
e worst way. Goddamn Bill. He didn’t take the hint when I winked at him.

  She turned her phone on, and there were text messages from Tim, asking if she was all right and saying he’d heard of a girl with short black hair that had killed a man married to a dog.

  The dog! Where is she?

  Scout searched the motel room and came away empty. She’d forgotten to ask God to teleport Daisy, also. Sobbing, she dialed Tim’s number, but he didn’t answer.

  The dog I “saved” is dead from the collision.

  Hot tears leaked from her eyes.

  She fell to her knees. “God, forgive me … for being … a mur-der-er-her-her.”

  She stayed that way for some time.

  Her cell phone rang. She snatched it up. “Tim?”

  “Scout, thank God! I’ve been trying to reach you. Why are you crying?”

  “I … don’t wanna do it anymore! I killed a dog!”

  “What? Honey, calm down and make some sense here.”

  She paced. “You know I shot a guy that married a dog.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Satan’s cops came after me. I almost slammed into a brick wall, but got God to teleport me here. I forgot to ask him to teleport the dog and … oh, Tim, I’ve got bloody hands! Now I’ve gotta change my appearance … again.”

  “What are you saying, sweetheart?”

  “I’ve gotta turn myself in.”

  Silence strangled the line for a few seconds. Tim sighed. “Scout, I love ya, and you’re a good kid.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “But that’s crazy talk! Keep it together, all right? They aren’t gonna get us without a fight.”

  “I’m no better than they are.” She bawled. “I wanna let ‘em … chop off my … hea-e-ed.”

  Tim seemed speechless. Apparently, he was content, for a little while, to listen to her cry her head off.

  “Oh Tim,” she sobbed.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s good that you don’t want to be a killer anymore.”

  “Huh?” Scout sniffled. “Why?”

  “Didn’t you see it on the news?”