Amped

by Daniel H. Wilson

  They cross the intersection and are gone. An answering hoot echoes from somewhere on the other side of the trailer park. Glass shatters, followed by peals of drunken laughter.

  Lucy’s trailer is too close to the spreading flame. I unwrap my fingers from the fence. Try to estimate where the Priders are from their catcalls.

  I double over and scramble down the main path toward Lucy’s trailer. Glancing left and right, I notice lots of half-open doors. I step over clothing and kitchen utensils and kids’ toys. Dropped and left behind in the dirt after whatever mass exodus must have just happened.

  Maybe Lucy and Nick made it out already. This attack is no surprise; it’s been coming for a long time.

  I hear a scratching sound behind me and spin around so fast I nearly fall. Instead of the barrel of a shotgun, I see a flowery window covering fall back into place behind a rust-kissed screen. My breath eases out in a hiss. There are still people here in the burning trailer park.

  Amps hiding from Priders.

  I trot over to the occupied trailer. Knock lightly on the window. “Fire’s coming,” I whisper. “You’ve gotta run for it.”

  Nobody answers.

  Someone laughs loudly nearby. I turn to see the round lid of a cement birdbath pinwheeling through the nearest intersection. It crunches into the porch across the street. I press myself flat against the trailer. As the voices grow louder, I count down in my head. Visualizing my fingers. Already going back, eager for the taste of the Zenith in my mind.

  Three, two, one, zero—level four and the world becomes bright and crisp as newly fallen snow.

  Two men stride around the corner, joking with each other. They see me and pause. I nonchalantly raise a hand and wave at a scowling, bearded guy holding a shotgun. He’s wearing a sling around his right arm from the last time we met.

  Collarbones can take such a long time to heal.

  “Hey, Billy,” I say. “Long time no see.”

  The shotgun blast tears a messy hole in the siding of the trailer behind me, but I’m already moving. Head down, allowing the Zenith’s tendrils of control to flicker into my limbs. I’m off the ground, on a porch, then beyond it. Running, scrambling on all fours, climbing, and leaping. Sights rush past in fits, fast and slow, playing out on a broken projector.

  I hear a woman screaming from the trailer I left behind. That shotgun slug wasn’t harmless after all. It must have torn through metal siding and insulation and flesh.

  Guttural shouts ring out behind me, met by more hooting coming from somewhere in front. Now I’m on Lucy’s porch and headed for the flimsy door, reaching, fingers outstretched.

  And then, somehow, I’m on my knees.

  The world’s gone bright as a solar flare. Overexposed. I’m seeing angels dance, white spots brighter than heaven. I hear the sputtering boom of an explosion in the distance, echoes racing each other between the trailers.

  Blinking at the light, I cover my ears and watch. Two doors down, a cylindrical propane tank the size of a doghouse has detonated. It jets a sputtering plume of blue-purple flame, rolling loose over the dirt. The blistering clouds of flame push the tank, swiveling it toward me in vicious inching pirouettes.

  I shove myself up and grab the handle of Lucy’s front door. The stuttering eruption grows louder. With numb fingers I claw at the door handle. A sudden surge of heat rolls over my back and the world boils as I stumble into the cool trailer.

  Before my eyes can adjust, sharp fingers grab my shirt and yank me off-balance. A pair of thin pale arms twists me in a circle and throws me. I bounce off the wall and collapse onto my stomach. Instantly, a knee drops into my back and pins me. A barrage of punches cascade across my shoulder blades. I twist to get free.

  “Quit struggling,” says a familiar voice. “You’re on fire, for Chrissake. Let me put you out.”

  These are pats, I realize. Not punches.

  I roll over and look up into Lucy’s face. Her eyes are red. She’s been crying recently, but she isn’t now. At this moment, she looks sad and afraid and relieved. I want to lay into her, question her about everything Lyle said. I want to give her a hug and kiss her cheeks. I want to curl up into a ball and grieve for Jim.

  I do none of those things.

  “Where’s Nick?” I ask.

  The boy crawls out from behind the couch. Puts his arms around my neck. Hugs me awkwardly. He steps back, and I take him by the shoulders and inspect him. The kid’s got soot around his nostrils, sweat beading on his cheeks, but he’s fine. There is a Band-Aid over his temple.

  “Sharks came,” he says, simply.

  “I know, Nicky,” I respond. “You were right.”

  “We were waiting for Jim,” says Lucy. “Got trapped.”

  I work hard to keep my face empty. My sight hums from the Zenith.

  Boom. A hole explodes in the front door. It sounds like the tire of an 18-wheeler blowing out. A shotgun slug moves past my face and keeps going through the far wall. Daylight shines in through both gaps, illuminating fast-moving smoke outside.

  “Door’s on fire,” says Billy, faintly from outside. “Y’all go around. They’ll be out the back. I guarantee it.”

  Smoke is pouring into the trailer. The propane tank must have ignited the siding. Billy throwing gasoline on it probably hasn’t helped, either.

  No thinking. No time. I wrap my arms around Lucy and Nick, hustle them toward the back hallway of the trailer. We lean together and crawl, coughing through the acrid black smoke already gathering at the ceiling.

  Flames are consuming the trailer from the outside in. The sound has changed from a wind-fueled whoosh to a meaty chuckle. I can hear Billy outside, yelling at me over the din of the blaze: “Where you gonna go now, amp?”

  I cringe as another fist-sized hole punches through the wood paneling, spraying me with laminated splinters. As Billy reloads, I urge Lucy and Nick forward until we reach the end of the hallway. We crouch together. On my right is the door to the bathroom. On my left is the back door that leads outside.

  “Don’t go outside until I say it’s okay,” I say.

  I don’t have to look out there. I know that on the other side, two men with shotguns are waiting for Billy to flush us out like rabbits from the brush. Lucy tries to say something and I shake my head. I wrap her hands around Nick’s grimy little hands. I push them both down until they are lying flat on the floor. Raise a finger—wait here one second.

  A shout comes from outside: “Thought you beat Gunnin’ Billy?”

  Gently I push open the hollow bathroom door. Billy’s voice rings loud and clear through frosted plastic window slats. Cheap snowflake-patterned laminate curls up around the edges of the bathroom window, turning yellow from the heat outside. Fake plastic tiles line the floor and walls, blooming with mildew around the shower. A gray cinder block holds up the sink.

  I gently drag the block of concrete out, hoist it to chest level. Feel the gravelly bite of it on my chest. I step back into the molded plastic shower stall. Take a deep breath and clear my mind. Let the Zenith speak and listen close because it’s important.

  Level four. Gun schematics and evasion routes and room-clearing techniques flood into my mind’s eye, even teasing the edges of my vision. I stop my trigger finger from curling around an imaginary weapon.

  I’ve got one shot at this and I need to know where my target is standing.

  “There’s women and children in here, Billy,” I shout.

  Six inches from my abdomen, the bathroom wall disintegrates and a hunk of solid metal thumps through the siding. Before the slug hits the far wall, I’m pivoting, pulling my arms in tight and powerful like coiled springs—then, I shot-put the cinder block through the cracked window, channeling all my strength and will to survive out into the smoky unknown. The block sails toward that shotgun, the voice behind it, the threat.

  Crunch.

  Now I hear flames eating and nothing else. There is a piercing crack as the living room roof falls in. Doubling over
, I cough into the crook of my arm. Smoke is pouring out of the broken bathroom window, too much for me to see anything outside. In the hallway, two pairs of wide eyes stare up at me.

  “Let’s go,” I say. “Now or never.”

  Diaphragm spasming and eyes watering, I place a palm flat against the back door. I nudge it open a crack. Any second, I expect the shotgun slugs to come pouring through. But they don’t.

  Nobody is out back.

  The three of us scuttle out the door. Hop down three rotten steps to the sweet, cool ground. We cough into our hands, cheeks billowing, trying to stay silent.

  “Ah fuck,” says somebody from around front. “Gunnin’?”

  Nick hears and cranes his neck, but I plant a hand on his shoulder. Push him forward and keep an eye on the back of his head to make sure he doesn’t try to look back. Once you see something, you can’t unsee it.

  As Lucy and Nick scurry safely away, I drop to my hands and knees in the dirt.

  It’s just a split-second peek under the burning trailer. Through writhing waves of flame, I see heat shadows roil like ghosts playing. The sight hits me like a camera flash. Gunnin’ Billy on his back, laid out on the ground with his arms out, chest heaving. Shotgun dropped and forgotten. There’s a soot-stained cinder block lying next to his ruined face. Looks like he caught the corner of it in his mouth. Tried to swallow it. His blue eyes are wide and scared and looking right through me. But he’s alive. Two pairs of boots stand around him, placed just outside an expanding puddle of frothy red mud.

  “Well shit,” says somebody. “Let’s get him to the hospital.”

  Then I’m back on my feet, the heat of the burning trailer curling the hairs on the back of my neck. I wipe dusty handprints on my jeans and run to catch up to Lucy and Nick. Pretend I didn’t just see that.

  Lucy must see the flat look in my eyes. She grabs me by the shoulders. Pulls me in and stops me next to a trailer.

  “Come up, Owen,” she says. “It’s over.”

  She massages my shoulders and urges me, rhythmically repeating the words over and over. My eyes close for an instant. When they open, the world is smaller. I feel less alive, all alone without the Zenith to whisper secrets to me. I’m back.

  “How’d you do that?” I ask.

  “Practice,” she says, pulling me forward.

  Twisting between trailers, we bang on walls and doors. Shout warnings to empty trailers and to the occasional full one. Faces peek through cloudy windows.

  In one slick minute, we clear the trailers and hit the field. Breathing ragged, Lucy pushes me to keep running. Exhausted, Nick climbs onto my back. All three of us hustle for the tree line.

  “Jim is gone,” I say, and I can’t meet her eye.

  Lucy misses a step, stumbles, and I steady her. A breeze blows her hair in damp stripes across her forehead. Soot and sweat streak her face, but she keeps breathing through flared nostrils and trotting ahead.

  “And Lyle started this. Astra wants a war. He let me go to come get you,” I say.

  Lucy stops running. Looks at me with wide, honest eyes. She’s not the girl I thought I knew, but she looks just the same.

  “He let you go?” she asks.

  “That’s not good,” says Nick in my ear.

  “I’m going to disagree,” I say.

  “He means Lyle wouldn’t let you go unless he had a good reason,” says Lucy.

  “Does it matter—”

  A gunshot rings out before I can finish the sentence.

  At the tree line, four federal agents wearing Kevlar vests over business suits step out of the brush. Guns out.

  “Afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. You, sir, are under arrest for being part of the terrorist organization known as Astra. On your knees!”

  And so it ends in the middle of this field. I could reactivate the Zenith and make my move, but the guns are out and I can’t risk Nick and Lucy.

  So Lucy and I drop to our knees, eyes locked. I thought this woman loved me and she doesn’t. I thought we respected each other, but Lyle assigned her to me. Ever since he said those words, the betrayal has been eating me up.

  “Lyle wasn’t always this way,” Lucy says. “The amp did this to him. He wasn’t good enough for it.”

  This is probably the last minute I’ll have with Lucy and I don’t want to ruin it but I can’t help the way I feel. The anger bubbles up from inside. And so I blurt it out.

  “Don’t pretend to care. I know Lyle gave you to me. Like a birthday present.”

  Lucy doesn’t break her gaze. She considers. Blinks once.

  “Lyle told me to talk to you. And I went over to Jim’s house because I was afraid of what Lyle would do to me. And to Nick. But I liked you.”

  The four agents are here now. Two of them stay back, Velcroed holsters open, pistol butts peeking out. The other two agents spread out and approach, one behind each of us.

  “Am I supposed to believe that?” I ask.

  The closest agent steps around me. I feel cold handcuffs slide over my wrists. I’m lifted off my knees with a rough tug on my hands.

  “Do you know why I liked you?” asks Lucy.

  The other agent helps Lucy up, but he doesn’t cuff her. He takes Nick by the wrist. Holds him friendly but tight.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you stood up for Nick in that field. You stood up for Eden. And none of it worked out and Eden is burned, but it doesn’t matter. You tried. You’re … good. You’re a good man.”

  I try to shrug it off, but her words are warm inside me.

  Lucy smiles at me through tears, and I can see traces of Lyle in her features. A glimpse of the person he might have been in a saner world. “And because you’re sort of cute,” she says.

  “Because I’m cute?” I ask.

  “Sort of cute,” she replies, smiling.

  “This doesn’t count as our date,” I call, as my agent shoves me in the lower back. He nudges me toward an unmarked black van. Pushes me against it.

  “Let me ride with them,” I say.

  “You’re going to a different place than them, buddy.”

  “Yeah? Where’s that?” I ask.

  The voice behind me chuckles. “Elysium.”

  “Lucy?” I ask, panic infecting my voice.

  “Don’t worry about us,” says Lucy. “Worry about Lyle.”

  The distance between us is growing. The other agent is leading them toward a car. Its black doors gape open.

  “I’ll come and find you,” I say, craning to look over my shoulder.

  “Owen,” shouts Nick. “Owen, wait!” The kid tries and fails to wriggle out of the agent’s grasp, twists violently, hangs by one arm with his legs sprawled out.

  “Use it,” he says.

  The agent lifts Nicky and tucks him under his arm. He pushes the kid inside the car. As I’m shoved into the van, I can still hear the kid’s muffled voice: “Use all of it!”

  EXECUTIVE ORDER

  14902

  Authorizing the Secretary of Defense to Prescribe Holding Areas

  WHEREAS the successful safeguarding of the nation requires every possible protection against technological threats, be they from home or abroad, and the existence of persons made militarized by implantation technology poses a threat to their fellow citizens as well as to themselves:

  NOW, THEREFORE, by virtue of the authority vested in me as president by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, and commander in chief of the Army and Navy, I hereby authorize the Secretary of Defense, and the military commanders whom he may designate, to prescribe “safety zones” in such places and of such extent as he or the appropriate military commander may determine, from which any or all persons may be excluded, and with respect to which, the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions are deemed necessary.

  I hereby further authorize and direct the Secretary of Defense and the said military commanders to take such other steps a
s may be deemed advisable to enforce compliance with the restrictions applicable to each safety zone, including the use of federal troops and other federal agencies with added authority to accept the assistance of state and local agencies.

  I’m sound asleep when one of the guards slams his nightstick into my cell door.

  “I said wake up, pal,” says a deep voice from the other side of the door.

  “How the fuck is this guy even asleep?” asks a reedy, high-pitched voice.

  The blazing overhead lights never go off in here. I imagine that must make it hard for most people to rest. Me, not so much. Earlier, I dropped into my Zenith and asked my retinal implant to temporarily suppress my visual cortex. You don’t get this kind of mind-numbing darkness outside a closed cave system.

  I fell asleep in the absolute black, everything stripped away except for that goddamn question blinking in my head: Do you consent? Insistent. Steady as my heartbeat. Trying to take me down another level. Level five. Full sensory networking. Long horizon mission planning. Command and control. Enhanced mobility and survivability. Do you consent? Do you consent?

  Begging me to go whole hog.

  Real power is in the connections between things, Lyle said. The pieces are in place but it’s up to me to turn them on. Give the go-ahead to let the retinal talk to the neural. Cochlear talk to retinal. The world opens up to you in ways you can’t imagine. You have to see it to believe it, Lyle said. And then the skinny cowboy made that hyena laugh of his. Threw his head back and let loose like he’d said the funniest thing in his life.

  All you have to do is say the word. I refuse.

  Bam-bam-bam-bam.

  The sudden hammering at the door yanks me out of the deep cave of my mind and back into reality.

  I turn my eyes on and blink at the light.

  “Let’s go, buddy,” says a guard, speaking through the slot. “On your feet. Back to the door. Wrists together.”

  My knees are stiff and it takes a second to stand. Weeks ago, two silent agents put a bag over my head and drove me here in the back of a van. I don’t even know where here is. I’ve been in this cage ever since. Pissing in a metal toilet. Eating whatever comes through the slot. Until now, nobody has spoken to me. Nobody has responded to my questions. I’ve been forgotten.