Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy, page 17
At the end, for yet more obvious reasons, I observed her as she watched her creations come to life—seeing her previously silent lips spreading themselves into a lovely smile. It was a moment that seemed to make what was left of the world worth something—something unique—something vastly more profound than simple devastation.
Little did I know that this device, although just a brief assortment of disconnected ideas at the moment, would become unlike anything she’d conjured before.
“You gotta name for this contraption?” I asked, hoping to catch her before she’d launched herself into another trance.
“Wraith,” she answered, without even the slightest delay.
Alice prepped Zeke for departure as the hours began to settle upon dusk. The cooling air had grown thick and heavy above our cavern, sending audible creaks to crawl through the encompassing metal as the sun began its westward descent.
Zeke would be taking my Jeep tonight. Along with the payload with which it should be returning, it just seemed like the more logical mode of transportation. There were disadvantages as well, of course. The Jeep, given the dusty conditions of Earth, wasn’t too difficult to track if one were so inclined. Fortunately the post-apocalyptic debris grew scarce the farther one got from the city, and we lived far enough that I wasn’t too worried about someone following the tire treads all the way back to the cavern. I was mostly concerned with Zeke leaking hydraulic fluid onto the interior of my Jeep, which wasn’t exactly a critical complaint at the time.
Zeke tossed on a few of my garments; among them was a black t-shirt depicting a picture from one of my favorite movies. There was a man on its front, his head tilted and mouth slightly ajar, as his hands were held shoulder-height and his fingers curled inward.
In the story, this certain hero—a semi-charming and quick-witted smuggler—gets himself encased in a kind of life-sustaining carbon alloy, in order to ensure his safe transport to a grotesquely obese alien gangster.
It had been the t-shirt I’d worn when my daughter entered the world. And although that remains to be one of the most casually dressed introductions I’ve ever been a part of, it’s an article I could never bring myself to discard.
Alice and I watched as Zeke started up the Jeep’s engine, mimicked my sideways salute, then drove up and out of our underground garage. I entered the night only to lock the perimeter gate and returned to the earth to seal that steel heap of a freight door. I was visibly nervous and Alice picked up on it instantly.
“It’ll be fine,” she said.
I nodded. “He’s a capable machine, I know. I just hate the suspense.”
“Would you rather all three of us go, then?”
She knew the answer to that, which is why she’d asked in the first place. I hated the thought of putting Alice in danger again, even though she’d proven herself well suited for peril; but she was my weakness, and I knew I wouldn’t be in my right mind with her out there, too. So I was fine leaving it up to Zeke; perhaps it’s just difficult for one stubborn hunter to pass the torch to another.
We entered the workbench area; Alice took a seat there, but I couldn’t sit just yet. I instead found myself pacing, but trying to look busy doing so. I checked on various switches and visuals, attempting to pass this as an air of diligence instead of what it actually was—just an intense case of riled nerves.
“Sit down,” Alice said. “Relax a little.”
I came to sit beside her. She smiled at me.
“Take a breath.” She ran her hand through my hair. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“There’s never been a day like this,” I said.
“Which reminds me ... ” Alice reached below the table to retrieve a thick, leather-bound sketchbook. She opened it and started flipping through its yellowish pages, which were thoroughly decorated with both written and pictorial entries. This book is where Alice had recorded every project in each stage of its development; and even though all of her drawings were done in simple, black, ballpoint pen, they were nearly photographic.
I recognized a good dozen of the projects, while others remained rather obscure in their exploded views, which spanned across their vast lines of orderly text.
Alice nicknamed this book her Codex Atlanticus, after the magnificent, collaborative works of a famous fifteenth century artist and inventor.
She found the nearest virgin page and started to apply thin, methodical strips of ink to it, creating the Wraith yet again, but this time in only two dimensions. She quickly mapped the machine’s inner-mechanical workings, then split it up to show each minute side-system. Next, Alice added the words—lines of neat English, accentuated by the occasional number in metric units. She preferred the metric system, as opposed to the standard measuring system, which had been mainly used by only us mighty Lockwashers.
She’d long since refused to utilize it.
A great many pages of her Codex Atlanticus had been devoted to none other than the Zeke machine. The entity continued to grace a staggering percentage of the book, and remained her most prized accomplishment to date.
I, too, had finally started to fall prey to pride, bending to the temptation of congratulating ourselves for a job well done, and glorifying in this wondrous being that, by all odds, simply should not be. So I suppose we were equally guilty then, allowing this seduction to gradually creep over our precious and God-given instincts, much like a reptile handler who personifies a snake with a host of incapable emotions.
And how many have died due to such an occurrence? The answer would surely surprise even me.
Alice completed her drawings and notes on the Wraith, and flipped back to admire her previous work on the kinetic entity. One page had been of the machine’s earlier hydraulic systems, while another had been of its right forearm, which, due to a notable lack of resources, was subtly different from its left. There was something in that shoddy, yet professional assemblage that made the machine that much more sinister; there was a control to its chaos—a method to its madness— which hinted to the level of intelligence that one must possess in order to construct such a beautiful and ghastly thing.
Alice slapped the book shut, returned it to its cozy niche below the table, and looked up at me with her bright, green eyes.
“You might want to freshen up,” she said, giving me a once-over. “You probably want to look like a guy who’s got his shit together.”
I gave her a sideways glare. “You sayin’ I’m scruffy lookin’?”
She managed to laugh and roll her eyes simultaneously. “Miles,” she said, “go shave.”
I pulled the bathroom curtain shut and switched on the overhead light, then pulled my razor free of its charger and flicked it into resonation. The man in the mirror was a darker, more amber-toned version of the man I envisioned myself to be. My wife used to say that I was ruggedly handsome. What would she say if she could see me now? Ruggedly barbaric, perhaps. My hair was longer than she had liked, and my scruffy chin was reaching the stages of an early beard. The razor carved one hairless path into the side of my jaw, then another, and another, starting to reveal the face of a man I used to know. We were strangers now, he and I; and I doubt he even recognized me anymore. We’d lived worlds apart for far too long.
Zeke returned an hour or two later. I heard the Jeep’s engine on the rise and met the machine at the gate to open it.
“How’d it go?”
“See for yourself.” Zeke reached into the backseat to uncover the very thing it had been sent to acquire. The item was a man—his face wrapped tightly within a pillowcase, despite the fact that he was unconscious.
“Mission successful, I see.”
Zeke nodded, returning both its hands to the steering wheel.
“Good.” I slapped the passenger-side door. “Bring him in then.”
Once inside, Zeke dropped the man into a chair by the workbench and double checked his restraints.
“It’s the man of the hour,” Alice said as she entered the room. She grabbed the nearest seat and placed it before the hooded man, then straddled the chair to face him. “I can’t wait for him to see your face, Miles.” She smiled. “Then I can’t wait for him to see mine.”
I shook my head. “That’s not gonna happen, Alice.”
“Why not?” she huffed. “He’s a dead man anyway.”
“Yeah, but not soon enough for us to be getting sloppy. We can’t afford any loose ends right now.”
Alice grunted something and rose from her seat; but she didn’t argue, which meant that I was right—and she knew it. Alice disappeared into the hallway as soon as the man started to show signs of waking. He rolled his head and moaned lengthily, calling out for someone who, beneath the mound of junk and miles between them, could no longer respond to his helpless appeal. Once his fingers began inspecting the restraints, and his head jerked about, I signaled for Zeke to remove the pillowcase.
And so it did.
The man’s features were wild, his eyes darting about the cavern before settling on me. I leaned against the workbench and crossed my arms.
“You!” he blurted, “I’m gonna kill you!”
“My, my,” I chuckled, “looks like you’ve caught a lively one here, Zeke.”
The robot nodded, punching one hand into the palm of the other.
The man’s face, beaded with an oily sweat, was sharp and narrow; and from his chin protruded thin and wispy strips of facial hair, growing off in several random patches across his sloping jaw.
He bared his teeth at me and scowled, “I knew I shoulda killed you when I had the chance!”
“Yes,” I smiled. “Curious how the tables turn, isn’t it, Governor Crayton?”
18
TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER
“You sonofabitch!” he spat. “You stupid sonofabitch!” He twisted his wrists and tried to yank himself free, but Zeke had both metallic hands firmly planted on the governor’s shoulders, keeping him in place. “Get your hands off me ... ” Crayton looked up at the machine as his face slackened a bit. What his first impression of the robot was, I’m not sure, but fear must have been at the frontline of that psychological cascade. “What the ... ” I watched the shifting of Crayton’s expression as he tried to make sense of what he was witnessing. “What the hell is this thing?”
“That is Zeke,” I told him, “But you might know him better as The Reaper.”
Crayton seemed to be at a loss for words, allowing me further uninterrupted dialogue: “It’s no coincidence that you were attacked the same night you sent Tim to see me,” I revealed.
“But ... ” the governor began to sputter, “he told me you weren’t there.”
“They can’t all be bad eggs, Crayton,” I said. “You’ll eventually recruit someone with a conscience.”
Crayton shook his head, chuckling out a small, disheartening comment: “That little bastard.”
“Zeke,” I mentioned again, “in case you’re wondering, is an acronym for: Zolaris Engineered Kinetic Entity, and we built him here.” I spread my hands out wide, presenting the modesty of our cavern, but Crayton refused to remove his eyes from me. “Zolaris,” I continued, “should ring a bell for you, Governor; that’s where I ran into a few of your boys.” Crayton’s jaw solidified itself again, thrusting a muscle to throb at both sides of his skull. “And you remember what happened to them, don’t you, Governor?”
“You sonofabitch,” he whispered. “I’m gonna kill you!”
“Let me remind you!” I reached out and grabbed him by the back of his head, yanking backward to stare straight into his face. “The first guy, I snapped his arm just above the elbow. The second guy, I blew out his knee cap. And the third guy ... ” I grinned at him, “the third guy I hit in the face with a crowbar.”
Crayton hissed at me, growling and bucking until Zeke had to remind him of his manners.
“Wasn’t he your nephew?” I asked. “Tell me, Governor, did he ever wake up?”
The governor spat at me and I punched him hard in the jaw. The hit was incredibly solid, smashing his teeth and chin as his head ricocheted violently off his own shoulder.
“And that’s for the old man!” I pulled out the 45 and shoved the barrel into his forehead. “God, I’d love nothing more than to end your miserable life right now.”
But, as blood began to trickle down from the crease of his mouth, I was met only with Crayton’s defiant gaze. I found his eyes as grey and lifeless as freshly poured concrete, and in them I saw a vast nothingness—a great and desolate place, void of compassion, kindness, or anything else one might deem as good or just.
“Unfortunately, Governor,” I continued, “we’ve got other plans for you.”
I lowered my weapon and reached over onto the workbench, retrieving the bulky device Alice constructed that day. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Crayton,” I said sarcastically. “It’s more for insurance purposes—for peace of mind.”
The governor studied the device in my hands, its angular design causing him to twist in his chair, as I shifted its weight in my palms.
“This will keep you honest.”
Zeke grabbed the governor’s wrist, keeping his arm steady, as I rounded the chair to place the device on his forearm and tightened it in place. Crayton struggled, but beneath the hydraulics of the robot, it was as if his arm had been locked in a vice.
“What are you doing?!”
“Just relax,” I offered coldly. “As long as you’re cooperative, Governor, there won’t be any need to use this.”
After giving Crayton further instructions, we wrapped his head again in the cotton blindfold and loaded him into the Jeep’s passenger seat. I took the driver’s side while Zeke jumped in back.
“I know how we can settle this,” Crayton began, the thin linen rustling on each word. “Just like men of this new day and age.”
I looked at him, my right hand willing itself into a hardened fist, wishing I could smash it through that pompous pillowcase; but I refrained myself. “And how’s that, Governor?”
“Women,” he answered. “We got a lot.”
My teeth dug into each other, my flesh grew hot.
I did not speak, so Crayton saw fit to continue, “You like brunettes?” he asked. “’Cuz we got this one ... ”
He managed to make a slimy kind of whistling sound, reaching out with both hands as if to caress her body, “she is so smooth, and the best part is ... ” he filled his lungs, breathing in the very thought of her, “she doesn’t even struggle anymore.”
I tried to calm my nerves, imagining what I might say next and the sound of my words as they slid off my tongue. In my head they were cold and firm, for if my anger manifested itself there, Crayton would surely dig.
“The kind of woman I’m looking for,” I’d started, pleased enough with the iciness I portrayed, “you don’t have at your Land of the Damned.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Crayton argued, “unless you’re a faggot.”
A guttural growling was emitted from Zeke’s voice chamber as it lifted a metallic hand to strike the governor, but I’d raised mine to ease the thing back in its seat.
“I like my women free, Crayton,” I corrected, “and I like them happy.”
But Crayton only laughed. “Freedom is overrated,” he scoffed. “And it’s dangerous. It’s freedom that brought on the war.”
“Really.”
“Fear is the only way to rule anything. If the people don’t fear you, then they don’t respect you. Freedom of speech is the most dangerous weapon you could give a man. That’s what really caused this country to tear itself apart.”
“You don’t say.”
“If the government hadn’t allowed the media to rile up the people, they would not have lost control.” Crayton paused for a brief moment, then said, “But now we have a new government.”
I really had no intention of discussing politics with this man, and his opinions thus far were beyond meaningless to me.
“Yup,” I said, rather uninterested, “sounds like ya got it all figured out, Governor.”
I teased him openly, but Crayton did nothing in return. I half expected him to lunge at me during some point of this short trip, but he remained surprisingly composed, almost like he were at peace with where this would inevitably be heading.
I would hate, even now, to admit there was a single facet of this man that I remotely admired, except that I found in him the same ability that I’d recently discovered in myself—the ability to separate from a harsh reality, almost like an out-of-body experience. The result of this ability, when exercised properly, was this very docile and carefree demeanor, even in the face of great threat.
The conversation ceased until we reached the city’s outermost establishments. And there we dropped him off.
“Remember,” I said, “we’re watching you.” And with Crayton’s head still wrapped in cloth, we drove away.
Zeke kept the man in satellite’s-eye before it was free to sprawl the governor’s hologram onto the workbench when we’d arrived home. I saw he’d removed the pillowcase and was in the process of completing his assigned task. He was now well within city borders and walking deeper, his free hand prodding at the mechanism we’d installed on his forearm. But the device was secure—too secure for him to loosen by meager manipulation of his fleshy digits.
“Make sure he stays on course,” I told Zeke, “and let us know if he gets any bright ideas.”
“He will,” Alice foresaw. “Like all rats, he’ll start to chew on the wires of his confine.”
And she was right. Crayton had soon buckled over in pain, wrapping his free hand over the instrument. He’d done as Alice anticipated, taken a wrong turn down an adjacent alleyway. So we flipped a switch to remotely activate the device attached to him, driving a thin blade about an eighth of an inch into his skin. Blood began to trickle just above his wrist, sliding the length of his fingers, and coming to splatter the asphalt in neat, single droplets.
