Apocalyptic Fears II: Select Bestsellers: A Multi-Author Box Set

by Greg Dragon

  “Why can’t you crazy footers remember the drill? Robot sweepers clean the even numbered address sides of the streets on odd numbered days of the month and odd numbered address sides of the street on even numbered days of the month.”

  “Uh…”

  “Your smart watch’s records show you were reading it while walking. You can lose your walker license for the next offence like that. I’m shutting your smart watch off until you enter a building. Look where you’re going from now on.”

  Tim wondered if the delay had cost him a job because he was now late for his appointment. “You got any hot tips for a story I can sell, Hal?”

  “Go on. Get out of here before I bust you for loitering.” Tim’s sheepish grin changed the cop’s mind. “Oh, all right. If your meeting with Bud Lee doesn’t get you a job, get back to me. Maybe I can point you in the right direction for a story.”

  “But how did you know about Bud Lee?”

  “You know the drill. Your violation of Pedestrian Code 681 triggered an automatic search warrant of your smart watch and computer at your apartment.”

  3

  Bud Lee glanced through the tinted glass window for the eighth time in three minutes. A sign distracted him:

  SMOKING ROOM. AGE 14 & OLDER ONLY ALLOWED. STATE LAW REQUIRES PARENTAL OR ADULT SUPERVISION FOR THOSE UNDER AGE 16.

  BUSINESS AND HEALTH CODES FORBID CONSUMPTION HEREIN OF ANY SUBSTANCE NOT SOLD BY BARNEY’S REFUELING CENTER. ROLLING PAPERS, HOOKAHS, AND PIPES AVAILABLE FOR A NOMINAL FEE.

  A digital screen updated the latest prices per gram of the marijuana available inside the room:

  Synthetic cannabis available with 24-hr. advance order. Warning: the Surgeon General has determined that smoking marijuana…

  Bud stopped reading when the smoking room’s double doors swung open, grazing Bud’s arm. One bloodshot-eyed patron stepped on Bud’s foot and another sneezed onto his face. A tuxedo clad robot blocked their exit.

  “City, County, State, and Federal laws require that I test the levels of THC in your systems. Please exhale into these tubes.”

  Two rigid blue tubes projected from either side of the robot’s bow tie. The patrons exhaled, coughed, inhaled, and exhaled five times before producing a valid sample.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but my sensors indicate you both have unacceptable levels of THC in your circulatory systems. By law, you must wait in our detox room to your left until your levels are under legal limits. Please follow me.” The robot led the way, but one customer walked out the front door.

  “Sorry, waiter, but I’m gonna be late for work if I don’t leave right now.”

  The robot’s metallic neck spun its plastic head 180 degrees. “Attention, control computer. We have a runner. Dispatch bouncer robot.”

  Four seconds later a two-foot tall bouncer robot flew into the lobby and out of the open front door. Bud and the obedient stoned patron moved to the window to watch.

  The runner turned toward the familiar whirring sound unique to bouncer robots, akin to the sirens police vehicles used. It gave him one warning. “Return to our establishment and you will not be reported to the authorities. If reported, you can lose your marijuana user license.”

  Before his next step hit pavement, the net propelled from the bouncer robot’s chest engulfed him. Summoned by the café’s control computer, a drone dropped from its normal quarter mile high patrol level. Its prey struggled to get free from the net entangling his thrashing arms and legs. The drone read him his rights.

  “You are under arrest for public intoxication. A vehicle will transport you to the detention center. Anything you say can be used against—”

  Bud shook his head and sat in one of the foyer’s overstuffed chairs. Another five minutes of clock watching passed before Tim introduced himself.

  “Mr. Lee?” Tim spoke before the front door closed behind him.

  Bud stood and shook the sweaty hand. “Mr. Beheard?”

  A waiter led them to the deserted dining area. “You may pick any table. May I get you something to drink before you order?”

  Tim blushed as he wondered if his inability to buy anything would squelch this deal. “Some water for me, please.”

  “I’ll have your Morning Blaster, five fruits, no vegetables, with yogurt and protein powder,” Bud said.

  “Genetically or non-genetically modified?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Tim relaxed as he sat. At least he’s not picky. He stared at his potential client.

  “Does my ethnicity surprise you, Mr. Beheard?”

  “Not as much as how young you look.”

  “I’m twenty. Do you mind taking on an Asian such as me? That’s the trouble with the name Lee. It can belong to an Englishman, cowboy from Texas, or even a third generation Chinese immigrant like me.”

  “No, no problem.”

  “A literary agent recommended you to me. Ann Underwood.”

  Tim tapped his smart watch and repeated the agent’s name. He blinked when her image and then a description of his work for her flashed on the screen. “Wow. Forgive me for not remembering her, but it says here that the last job I did for her was back in 2075, twenty years ago.”

  “She said you were reasonable. You see, my funds are limited.”

  “What do you need?”

  “A ghostwriter. At least she thinks so.” Bud frowned.

  “Ghostwriter?” Tim savored the words and calculated the large payday such assignments could generate. “For what? An article?”

  “A book.”

  “Oh…” His estimate skyrocketed and smile broadened.

  “So how much to help me write it?”

  “Depends. Is it fiction or nonfiction?”

  Bud pulled an object from his pants pocket and set it midway between them on the hemp tablecloth.

  “What’s that for?”

  Bud winked. “This is just in case the robot waiters eavesdrop on us. They do that to tailor their conversations with customers to get them to order more expensive items.”

  “Oh, it’s a conversation cloaker. Those are illegal here in California, you know.”

  “Wait a minute and you’ll understand why I have to be so careful. A little over a year ago a couple named Dr. and Elani Graves hired me as a manservant. For all I know, he could have hacked into the computer that controls our waiter. There’s nothing he can’t find out. It’s scary. I don’t trust him because he fired me.”

  “In South Dakota, right?”

  Bud sat back in his chair until its brass legs began to bend. “How did you know that? Has he already gotten to you, too? I know he fed lies to all those literary agents I contacted, all eighty-two of them.”

  “I just researched a little about you. That’s standard in my line of work.”

  A wry smile replaced Bud’s glare. “Guess I can’t blame you for being careful. Anyway, at first I just cleaned, cooked, did laundry and yard work, and drove them around.” He paused as his drink arrived. “Thank you.” He sipped the orange, lime, papaya, mango, and banana-based concoction. “Then Dr. Graves sent me all around the world to get DNA samples from eighteen applicants for The Club.”

  “The what?”

  “The Club. He advertised for this.” Bud handed him a copy of an ad.

  Tim read it aloud, “Bright minds needed. Qualifications include the following: age 20 to 30, IQ of at least 130, proficient in speaking English, interested in global unity. Apply…”

  He stopped reading.

  Other jobs had turned into quagmires, ending when neither he nor the client was satisfied by partial payment and nonfulfillment of unrealistic expectations. He shoved the ad back at Bud and tried to force himself away from this client.

  But visions of impending days of no showers, electricity, and maybe enough water to stave off dehydration and death kept him seated. At every end of the month at least one resident from his living complex exited on a gurney for the crematorium or a trip to the healing center. Few olde
r patients returned from there. Almost sixty, he feared the healing centers more than those used for detention.

  “Why did he need DNA samples?”

  “To pick the final six from the candidates. Dr. Graves got thousands of applicants. He and Elani narrowed it down to 100 finalists. Then they let the computer pick the top eighteen out of those. So I traveled all over the world to get their DNA.”

  “But that would cost a fortune. Why didn’t he have them use a local company to get the samples and then send them to him instead?”

  “Dr. Graves said it was too risky, because applicants could bribe the company to send in a better specimen’s DNA.”

  “Specimen? He makes those who applied sound like lab rats.”

  “I know. But Elani called the final six, ‘her children.’”

  “So you want to do a book on how this club is going to save the world? I think it might have possibilities. That theme is doing really well as we get closer to the year 2200.”

  Bud slammed his palm on the table. “The Club is Dr. Graves’ plot to take control of the world, not save it. His final six are on track for positions of power.”

  “You think we should contact law enforcement about this guy? I’ve heard of mad scientists before, but…”

  “You’ve got your head in the sand worse than all those agents put together who turned me down.”

  Tim stood. “Finish your meal. I’ll be right back.” He walked into the restroom and spoke to his smart watch. “Help me out here. Any chance what Bud Lee is saying is for real? Is he psycho or what?”

  “Even if his story is not factual, you can always steer him to have you write a science fiction novel for him instead.”

  “I hate writing fiction.”

  “Then stay with this client as long as his story remains feasible. Partial payment is better than none.”

  Tim returned to the dining room five minutes later carrying a bag.

  “What’s that?” Bud asked while he swiped his Federal Social Identification Card through the robot waiter’s built-in scanner.

  “Part of the leftovers from the kitchen,” Tim said.

  “Health codes require that we dispose of all opened or exposed food and sanitize the entire facility daily to ensure that any pathogens deposited by our clientele are eradicated before we reopen at 11 a.m.,” the waiter said. “Would you like a reservation for lunch? My sensors indicate your metabolisms are low, especially Mr. Beheard’s.”

  “No,” Bud said. He waited until he and Tim walked outside to offer his last bait. “It will be a best seller.”

  That’s why almost a hundred agents turned you down and Ann sent you to me, Tim thought. I don’t care if it sells. I get my money up front.

  “What do you think?” Bud nudged Tim’s arm as they descended a stairway to the tube trains.

  “Look. Put yourself in my place. You are either a), crazy, b), your story is a figment of your over ripe imagination, c), you are mad at your former employers and want to get even in a book, or d), you have a story which might make you rich and famous and give me some work.”

  “So you’ll help me?”

  That depends, Tim thought. How much are you willing to pay me to write this book? “I don’t know. If this Dr. Graves character of yours is as evil as you claim he is…”

  Tim ran his forefinger across his throat.

  4

  “You did what?” Elani Graves snatched a nearby vase and hurled it at her husband.

  Dr. Graves ducked as the vase shattered against a wall. “I did it for you. You have been so depressed by our being childless. It was the only way. We can even have one of the children come live with us.”

  “Live here? In Dr. Graves’ Mad House of Horrors? That’s what Bud Lee called it whenever he thought no one was listening. Why did you fire him? At least with him here I had someone to talk to.”

  “His usefulness to us was over once The Club members gathered here.”

  Elani grabbed her purse and stomped to the garage. “Well, perhaps my usefulness is over as well. I need some time alone.”

  As Dr. Graves listened to the jeep speed off, he concluded Elani was bound for the casino where she would again gamble and drink away all her credits. He turned to the one he always considered more rational. “Computer, put a thousand credit limit on her card. What are the chances Elani will tell someone else about The Club?”

  “If she drinks enough alcohol at the casino, there is a ninety-seven percent risk she will tell someone, perhaps even a stranger. If she remains sober, but finds a friend to tell her troubles to, there is a sixty-one percent risk that she will mention The Club. Is it time to implement Plan A?”

  Dr. Graves looked at the door leading to the lab where he spent days and nights consumed by his vision. “First update me on The Club’s members.”

  “Mr. Africa, Ms. Asia, Ms. India, and Mr. Island Nations are acting normally. However, Mr. Americas and Ms. Europe are not. There is a high probability that they will either remember what happened here or go insane while trying to remember what you did to them.”

  “I thought you doubled the memory suppression impulses for them.”

  “I did, but it’s not working.”

  “Begin Plan A.”

  The computer contacted the largest moving company in Rapid City. An hour later, a hovercopter lowered an empty steel pod onto the Graves’ driveway. The human pilot supervised two mover robots while they tagged every object pointed at by Graves in his laboratory. Within a half hour, they had the equipment packed and locked inside the pod.

  “Where’s it going?” The supervisor tilted the clear visor downward in front of his face.

  “Take it to St. Philomene’s Orphanage in Laredo, Texas. They can use the equipment in their school.”

  The supervisor spoke to his visor. “Gross weight 2,974 pounds to Laredo, Texas.” Options flashed onto his visor and he read them to Dr. Graves. “It’s 12,239 credits by air, 10,846 credits by truck, or 9,260 credits by rail.”

  “Rail is fine.” Dr. Graves ran his hand over the pod’s door. “Take good care of it.”

  “Will do.” The supervisor ordered his helpers onto the hovercopter.

  Dr. Graves waited until the cargo appeared to be a fly on the horizon before he stopped focusing on the pod dangling below the hovercopter. Back inside the house, he searched for items he feared might reveal his link to The Club and put them into the hoverbot’s basket. After inspecting every drawer and shelf twice, he ordered the robot outside.

  “Take the items out and destroy them.”

  The robot exited into the garden and dumped Dr. Graves’ notebooks, discs, and books, and the gifts the six members of The Club had given to Elani. It then aimed its built-in laser at the pile until ashes remained. Returning to his master’s side, it listened to Dr. Graves’ conversation on the vision phone. Chief Red Bear’s face filled the screen filling most of the den’s north wall.

  “No, I haven’t seen her,” the Chief said. “You have another fight?”

  Dr. Graves sighed. “Just a misunderstanding as usual. You ever go the extra mile for your wife and instead of her thanking you as she ought to, she gets angry?”

  The Chief nodded. His wife did not suffer fools either. He ordered the casino’s 179 cameras to search for Elani, but each reported no sighting of her. “How did she get here?”

  “The jeep.”

  The Chief ordered the drone patrolling the 300-acre parking lot to search for “a 2093 black jeep registered to Dr. Graves.” A minute later the drone relayed an image of the vehicle.

  “That’s it,” Dr. Graves said. “Perhaps she’s in the bathroom. Do you have cameras in there?”

  “No. But cameras outside of them would have picked her up. Let me check the shuttle and taxi logs.”

  He tapped a key on the four-foot wide keyboard that ran his casino of 45,000 electronic games, 200 blackjack tables, 120 poker tables, and other games of chance and forms of entertainment designed “to eventuall
y scalp any customer foolish enough to keep playing.” Chief Red Bear surveyed the 109 wigs and toupees splattered with buffalo blood he had mounted as trophies on his office wall. Underneath them were names of the biggest losers at his casino: bureaucrats, executives, politicians, and film and music idols, who continued to arrive in personal jets no matter how many times they lost.

  He smiled when Elani’s name flashed on the screen.

  “Here she is. She boarded a taxi at 2:19 for Rapid City International. Boy, you must have had some fight.”

  Dr. Graves sighed. “Thank you, Chief.”

  The hover robot sensed the shift in its master’s brain waves. “May I fix you a tonic, sir?” His growing dark mood foreshadowed a storm of hurricane force if temper replaced depression. The robot’s rudimentary artificial emotions dreaded such storms, which would be directed at him because of Elani’s absence.

  “Yes, I think I need one.”

  The robot glided to the kitchen and activated the Happy Box, one of Dr. Graves’ many inventions. Its screen displayed various moods and scales of 1 to 10 next to each one. Because the robot selected 10 for anxiety, depression, funk, hubris, malaise, melancholy, and sadness, the mechanism prepared a mix of endorphins, beta blockers, kappa enhancers, and theta stimulators. The powders ran from the box’s many bins, down tubes and into the glass the robot held under the dispenser.

  “Would you like it flavored with kefir or root beer or unflavored?”

  “Kefir water. My digestive system is starting to act up again.”

  The robot placed the glass under the tube that projected from the refrigerator. “Kefir water, triple strength with extra bacteria to calm the doctor’s upset digestive tract.” The command released enough liquid to cover the powders. Then the robot shook the concoction to dissolve them.

  Dr. Graves swallowed the self-prescribed remedy in a single gulp. A minute later, his brain seemed to emerge from a dark fog. “Ah, much better. Computer, see if Elani bought a fare at Rapid City International.”

  “Yes sir. A one-way seat to Atlanta, Georgia.”