The Killing Fields

by Ryan Schow

  “Hi Clinton, I’m Quentin,” he said, a little less lively than before. “I’ve never met a school shooter before, but you seem the type.”

  Clinton didn’t say a word. This caused Quentin to pause, his eyes fixated on the barrel of the gun. Quentin dropped his bag, sunk to his knees and begrudgingly complied with the security guard, or whatever he was.

  Bailey followed suit, looking more at Quentin than Clinton. Somewhere along the way, she feared this guy might have cracked. How deep did his psychosis go? Was there something deeply wrong with him before the attack or did the attack change him? She would never know, but that didn’t stop the questions from banging around in her head.

  “Eyes front and center, sweetheart,” Clinton said, obnoxiously snapping his fingers.

  “You from the island?” Quentin asked, unflappable.

  “Who else is with you?” Clinton asked as if he hadn’t heard Quentin’s question.

  Whatever position this clown had now that Quentin and Bailey were on their knees, he seemed to revel in, like it hardened him, made him cross that line between unhinged and demanding.

  “It’s just us,” Bailey lied.

  “You a couple?” Clinton asked, dead eyes looking back and forth between them.

  The pair shook their heads, but it was Bailey who said, “No. Absolutely not.” This caused Quentin to huff to himself, as if he didn’t need the insult when everything else was already going so wrong.

  “Good,” Clinton said, cracking her on the head with the butt of his pistol.

  Rocked hard and blinded by a sharp, dizzying pain, Bailey’s head dumped forward and started to bleed. The fake cop grabbed a handful of her hair, jerked her to her feet, then growled, “Time to pay the piper.”

  “You don’t want to do this man,” Quentin said, suddenly alarmed and getting to his feet. Clinton was dragging her away from Quentin while Quentin was following, his voice rising, true fear throwing a wild edge to what was once a pair of slacker’s eyes.

  Bailey did the only thing she could do, she started to fight, but another wallop from the butt of the gun on the top of her head wobbled her to the point of not being able to stand steady.

  Quentin was screaming now and the fake cop was barking back, threatening him, shaking the gun at him. Just then, Marcus rushed out the front door, the .357 drawn. Clinton adjusted his weapon slightly, fired three quick rounds at Marcus.

  Using the distraction, Quentin burst into a flat out impressive sprint toward her and Clinton, but two shots stopped him cold. Quentin’s chest curled into a hard C, knocking the breath out of him, staggering him. Holding his chest, an incredible look of agony crossing his face, he sunk to his knees and collapsed.

  Bailey’s legs gave out and she crashed down on her tailbone. Shockwaves of hard, jarring agony traveled up her spine, but the worst pain wasn’t in the fall as much as it was in her pulled hair. Clinton’s grip turned violent.

  She yelped like a kicked dog and fell into fits of screaming because she couldn’t contain herself anymore. Horrified, sure he was going to kill her, or worse, she clawed and raked at his hand, digging her nails in his skin, tearing bloody trails in it until he finally let go in a tirade of curses.

  She scrambled to get free, but the rent-a-cop punched her in the back of the head, causing everything to go black for a quick second. She came to, feeling four fat fingers hooking into the soft underside of her chin. She didn’t realize right away that she was on her back, so she couldn’t get free of what was to come.

  Weak but driven, she tried hitting his arm. It did nothing. He started to drag her by her head. Her feet flopped around and kicked at the pavement, trying to push her out of the grip he had on her face. It was no use, he was too strong.

  She finally got free and sat up in an attempt to flee, but he drove his knee into her back twice, rattling her, unseating her senses.

  There were more shots fired, a veritable volley of them.

  Her body brutalized, sufficiently beaten, Clinton once again hooked his fingers under her jaw. She could no longer fight him. It was no use. With a sudden jolt, he jerked her head backwards so hard she wondered if he was trying to yank it clean off her body. Grunting, he hauled her backwards, dragging her across the pavement like a sack of garbage.

  The gunfire continued, causing her abductor to duck and sway.

  Shot through with agony, the pain dizzying, terrifying, she clawed at Clinton’s arm. He didn’t seem to notice this time. He didn’t seem to care.

  Looking up, her eyes saw the underside of the maniac’s face, his drawn weapon, the dead gaze of a psycho on a mission. The bucking and firing of his weapon failed to move her. She was snared by the fear. Immobilized by the pain. And the horror of seeing Quentin shot? It filled her head with a million vile possibilities of what was about to happen to her.

  Clinton dragged her down the street until they came upon a white panel van. Marcus must have made another appearance because two rounds hit the back of the van and Clinton open fired once more, popping off four more shots.

  Suddenly she heard a sharp, high voltage buzzing, then she was hit with a tazer on the chest that damn near drew her body into a white hot fit. He didn’t let up. Somewhere along the way, Bailey managed to pass out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The second Marcus and I hear yelling outside, Marcus grabs his gun and says, “I’ll head to the front, you circle around the back.”

  From the other side of the house, I see the exchange of gunfire. Then I see Quentin take chase only to catch two bullets in the chest.

  Horror struck, a cold fear racing down my spine, I stand paralyzed, mortified, unsure of what to do or how to act. Should I take chase? Catch two bullets myself?

  I just can’t stand here and do nothing!

  Bailey…

  The thickset pig-goblin cracks her over the skull with his gun several times as he drags her backwards first by her hair, then by the underside of her jaw.

  Something in me starts to tremble with rage, to shake and drive me forward, but he’s still got the gun. My eyes bounce from Bailey to the kidnapper, to Quentin writhing in the street to Marcus with the gun.

  Another exchange of gunfire rattles me to the bone.

  The security guard is shot at, but Marcus misses him. He fires back, forcing Marcus to retreat inside. I’m just about to make a run for it when Marcus fires two more shots that hit the van rather than the guard.

  Inside I’m thinking, how is he missing these shots? But this isn’t the movies and the weapon he’s shooting isn’t his. Perhaps the sights are off, or he’s too far away. Maybe he was never a good shot. Or maybe he’s terrified of hitting Bailey and so he’s being overly cautious…

  The guy who looks like some kind of security guard drags Bailey behind the panel van. I start after them. That’s when I hear the crackling sound of electricity. Bailey’s legs buck and shake. Tazer? Yeah, tazer.

  Crap.

  On the neighbor’s porch are a pair of cruiser bikes and a heavy rock I assume is for holding the front gate open. I grab the rock, wondering if I’m going to throw it at him or stone him to death if I catch him.

  I take chase as the van’s door slams shut. I pick up speed as it starts up and tears off. Dropping the rock, eyeing Quentin on the way by (his eyes meet mine, they’re faint, but right now all I can think about is Bailey!), I race back to the neighbor’s bikes.

  Kicking open the decorative gate, I shove the bike onto the porch, mount it and take off like a startled mare. Marcus is suddenly at Quentin’s side, holding a seeping wound, telling him to hang on while he tries to find something to stem the bleeding.

  I race by the two of them, pedaling like my life depends on it. No, like Bailey’s life depends on it. It’s foolish to think I can catch him, but even fools have hope and sometimes enough heart to overcome even impossible obstacles.

  Will I be that fool?

  The van wastes no time leaving the island, but sporadic traffic slows him, forcing
him to take sidewalks and move into opposing lanes. Where it’s relatively quiet on the island, on the mainland there are still some people stupid enough not to take shelter.

  Unless they’re leaving town before the drones strike…

  Once I get off the island, I follow the van, which takes a hard left on Bayside heading up the coast.

  I’m pumping the pedals with all my might, my lungs on fire just trying to keep the van in view. It disappears around a corner with Bailey, along with whatever hope of a rescue I might’ve had.

  Not giving up, I double my efforts, making a left on Bayside, barely avoiding being hit by a VW Jetta driving like a bat out of hell. Seconds later a drone zips by and opens fire on it, riddling it with gunfire.

  What the hell am I doing out here in the open?

  Standing, pedaling with all my might, I race down Bayside, avoiding the chaos of intermittent traffic. Up ahead, around the bend, seven cars are piled up in the roadway, several of them smoking, two on fire. Drones, or bad driving? It could be either possibility now that war has been waged.

  The white van comes into view! It’s bumping and pushing its way through the accidental roadblock, giving me a chance to close the distance.

  The tightness in my chest, however, is so constricting I’m having a hard time breathing. If I let the van get away, if I lose her after everything we’ve gone through, I’ll never forgive myself.

  So I dig in and pedal harder, the edges of my vision blurring, sweat draining from my pores by the gallon.

  The van finally breaks through the mess at great cost to its external integrity before gathering speed again. I’m already at top speed, flying after them. Where the roadway is blocked by wrecked and mangled cars and people in a panic, both fleeing their vehicles and trying to help others, I blow through the opening the van provided.

  I jet through the entanglements feeling somewhat renewed. The van is in sight! That’s when one of the cars explodes, the expulsion of heat and force throwing me off the bike. Airborne, going too fast, my bike and I slam into the pavement, limbs tangled in the metal frame. My bare knees and elbows skid across the pavement, my cheek skipping twice on the asphalt and cutting open for sure.

  I come to an agonizing stop on my face, panting for breath, wailing inside over this demoralizing turn of events. Looking ahead, I see the van disappear. Behind me, people are screaming. They’re on fire and running around and it looks like something out of a nightmare.

  Get up, I tell myself.

  I get up.

  Go, I tell myself.

  I go.

  The bike is rideable, the handlebars bent somewhat and the front handbrake snapped in half. I pedal hard again, my cheek on fire with pain, my knees and elbows surely bleeding. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I find that van. I race up Bayside, checking the homes I pass. A half mile ahead a road goes to the left (Aloha Drive) while Bayside continues on to what looks like the PCH (Pacific Coast Highway).

  I pedal to the PCH as fast as I can, looking both ways through a slew of traffic now leaving the city. Nothing. Further up the highway I see a fleet of drones closing in on the traffic. Cars begin to take heavy fire and now I’m having flashbacks of yesterday and the onset of PTSD.

  I whip the bike around, zip back down Bayside looking for anywhere to hide. On the left is the Chevron station (nope) Starbuck’s (hell no), the Porsche and Bentley dealerships (couldn’t afford one even if I sold the house) and a dentist’s office (teeth are clean, but no). On the right is a white two story office complex with a Plantation look (too many people) and Aloha Drive where a beautiful stone guard shack sits in the middle of a circular cobblestone driveway. Then entire setting is shaded by what looks like exotic palm trees and something resembling a century old oak that most definitely isn’t an oak tree.

  Rich people and their need to be different.

  At this point, I’m fleeing for my life, but I won’t be heading down Aloha. Up ahead, another road cuts to the right, flanked by more modest residences, meaning the homes might only cost a million or two.

  Working class families for sure.

  A drone races overhead, spinning around as I dump the bike. My heart is now thundering in my chest, giving me the extra energy I need to scale the wooden gate of a private drive and scurry under the back deck of a home built on a slight grade. Gunfire strafes the side of the house, once, then twice. The second time it flew over I scramble out the back, hop another fence, race across the yard under the cover of the home and duck behind an above-ground spa. The spa itself is hidden under a decorative trellis halfway covered with the cleanest ivy I’ve ever seen.

  It won’t be enough.

  Seconds later the house next door is hit with an exploding projectile which blows shingles and exploded trusses not only onto the home I’m squatting behind, but on the trellis itself. A fraction of a second later, half a porcelain sink comes crashing down beside me, ruining both the trellis and the ivy.

  I’ve barely even registered the fact that the house next door is a cratered ruin when a shotgun blast puts a round of buckshot into the spa beside me.

  “Get your ass out of my yard!” an old man screams. He’s come through his back door, half his attention on his neighbor’s house, the other half of his attention on me and all the damage to his property.

  “I’m running from them, not with them!” I scream, coming out with my hands up.

  “You got ten seconds to—”

  I don’t wait for him to finish, I sprint around the other side of the house, jump another fence, race back up the street to my overturned bike all the while checking the skies for more drones.

  At this point in time, I’m wondering what the point of all this destruction is anyway. Maybe there is no point. Maybe taking as much life as possible, almost at random, is the point. I’ve been hearing about autonomous artificial intelligence for years now.

  Could this really be AI? Did the upper, upper crust finally get their wish to erase the ninety-eight percenters? Or maybe the machines have finally waged war on mankind. That’s been the most recent fear of the so called puppet masters in Silicon Valley, that the puppets will take over and eliminate their masters.

  If this is the case, the machines are now their own masters.

  Or maybe I’m making no sense at all and just freaking out because of what’s happening. In the midst of such chaos, I’m sure I’ll know when it’s least important. Or not at all. In ten minutes I could be dead. In ten seconds even.

  The moment I start pedaling back to Balboa Island, I realize I’ve lost her.

  Bailey’s gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Silver Queen was the AI God’s official distinction. This was the namesake the quantum computer chose as it sought to move into its permanent human form. Any humans the queen controlled, clone or otherwise, were designated “Ophelia.” When The Silver Queen decided to leave the Q-Wave server for good and become its own force, it decided that it would no longer go by the name Ophelia. It would be Marilyn.

  Marilyn Monroe.

  Never was there a more iconic figure than the Hollywood starlet. Until The Silver Queen took a body, it personified itself before the living and the dead as an eight dimensional Marilyn Monroe hologram.

  The likeness to the starlet was so precise one could not differentiate it from a real person. The three prisoners still living (two women, one man) gazed warily upon the Marilyn hologram in abject horror. They tried not to look at the five dead.

  Gloria Welch was one of the survivors. She was a magnificent creature of only thirty-six. Gloria was sure she could reach out and touch the holographic flesh, that it would feel real upon her fingers, that’s how real Marilyn Monroe looked and sounded.

  Antoinette Noguera was twenty-six, a Spanish beauty with big brown eyes, long black hair and the kinds of features most women would die for. She couldn’t stop crying.

  And Bruce Nasby? He didn’t cry, and he didn’t want to touch the hologram to see how r
eal it was, or marvel at the lifelike quality of it. Looking at this Marilyn Monroe hologram filled him with a revulsion he could not hide.

  The three survivors were bound to their chairs, their bodies intact, but not for long. Each of them knew what was going to happen. It’s what had been happening.

  The sounds of bone saws screeching in their ears, of drilling, was distracting. Mostly for Bruce since he was the one being operated on. He didn’t struggle against the restraints. What would be the point?

  The machines made sure he couldn’t get free. Forced compliance had been achieved early on. Besides, when Bruce watched the other five struggle, he’d seen how fruitless their efforts were. The five of them died horrible deaths.

  Freakish deaths.

  Bruce Nasby’s head was held in restraints by the machines. They were now working on the back of his head and didn’t want him turning while their small, circular saws were cutting into his skull. That was fine to Bruce. It was good. He didn’t want to see what he’d been seeing anyway. The dead. The creepy Marilyn Monroe hologram. Before he fell under the saw, Bruce’s eyes couldn’t stop moving from one corpse to the next as the overhead fluorescents flickered on and off.

  When the machine started this little game of elimination, before it became the fake Marilyn Monroe, there was eight of them. All of them were brought in by a gorgeous clone named Ophelia. She had the loveliest smile until she drew a gun and told them they’d been summoned by The Silver Queen.

  Like Bruce, the other seven prisoners were smart, attractive and in great shape. Five of them were now dead, slumped forward in their chairs, operated on, their brains pulverized. Now that he was being worked on, he knew it was his turn to no longer be alive.