Amped (16 page)

“Autonomic delegation,” says Jim. “Your body acts and reacts faster than you can think. Action without thought. Your true self
making the calls. The deeper you go, the harder it is to turn it off. And once you go down a level, you’ll always go that deep. No coming back. It can take you to dark places.”

The banging stops.

“It’ll turn me into a weapon,” I say, my voice suddenly loud.

“All you got to do is curl your hands into fists and you turn into a weapon,” says Jim. “Your body is just another tool. This technology changes nothing; it only amplifies. You decide how to use your tools. Whether to do good or evil.”

There’s a scratch on my bedroom window as someone hoists his face to the crack. “Owen,” says a familiar high-pitched voice. “It’s Nick. Lyle sent me. C’mon, you gotta come see this!”

Nick leads the way, stubby arms swinging. He’s so little to be in the middle of this. Just a baby on the railroad tracks. Once we’re out of earshot of the trailer, I put a hand on his shoulder. Slow him down so we can talk.

“Nick,” I ask, “has Lucy said anything …”

“About you yelling at her?” he asks.

I blink, surprised. I didn’t know it was that loud.

“Nope,” he says. “But you should apologize.”

“I am sorry for that. And I will. But I meant … about Lyle,” I say. “Is something going to happen around here? Something big?”

Nick shrugs. “Who knows? He’s always telling her to buy a gun. But the guy is weird. You can ask him yourself here in a second.”

As we approach Lyle’s trailers, I see a crowd of about a dozen of his followers loitering around. They’re peeking in the dusty windows of a rotten, spray-painted trailer. I recognize some, but they give me a lot of space. I’ve got Lyle’s aura on me now—it demands respect, and fear.

“This is messed up, man,” says Nick, breathless.

“Go home,” I say. “I’ll tell you about it later. Go on.”

Noncommittal, Nick backs away into the crowd of legs. The others step away from me, forming a ragged patch of space. I knock on the waterlogged front door. Instantly, the hinges squeal and the door parts. In a stripe of light, an eye appears.

“Get your ass in here, brainy smurf,” whispers Lyle. Turning sideways, I squeeze in through the door. Lyle shoves it closed behind me.

My stomach sinks when I see what’s going on.

In the dim, damp interior of the trailer, I see two teenage boys. Strapped to plastic lawn chairs with lots of duct tape. Not struggling. And they don’t look like they have implants. They look like those kids from the field, probably sixteen or seventeen.

God only knows what Lyle is doing here.

“Thanks for coming, doctor,” says Lyle. “These boys are just about ready for their implants.”

My mouth pops open audibly.

Lyle puts an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry about your tools, doc. Your nurse is bringing them. Should be here any second.”

The two strapped-in teenagers are watching me, a strange mix of fear and anticipation on their faces. I know I should hate these little bastards for what they did to me, but they look so young and stupid sitting there. A couple of dumb kids who just fell into a shark tank and don’t even know it.

“What?” is all I can get out.

“Besides,” continues Lyle, “before you get started operating, we’ve got to make sure and get permission from these young men. Ain’t that right, boys?”

“Y-yes, sir,” they both say.

“Now, where do y’all live?”

The bigger one speaks up. “Just across the field there, sir.”

“And why exactly are you here?”

“To see about getting an implant, sir.”

“We wanna get amped,” says the other one.

Lyle looks over at me, smiling. Keeps on questioning the kids, watching my reaction to their words. “And why is that? Why do y’all wanna get amped?”

“Cause we heard you could do stuff. Fighting type of stuff.”

“Like it makes you faster and smarter and stuff,” chimes in the sidekick.

“And stuff,” repeats Lyle. “Your parents know you’re here?”

The kids glance at each other. Try to have a conversation with their eyes. Fail at it. The big blond one rolls his eyes as the smaller one admits, “No, sir.”

“That’s fine. We don’t care about that. Y’all two are young men. You can make your own decisions. If you want to get an implant put in your noggin so that you can get smarter and stronger
and
stuff
 … why, that’s your call.”

The kids smile hesitantly at each other as Lyle continues. “
Men
fight. Think about the Zulu War. Africa. 1879. A few hundred British troops used Gatling guns to mow down a horde of over two thousand enemy soldiers. Not a single British casualty. There were gods on the battlefield that day. When we’re done with you, you’ll be the same as them.”

“The British?” asks the small kid.

Lyle throws his head back and cackles. It reminds me of the first day I saw him, shirtless in the street and hurting people. A manic energy is building inside him as he speaks. “No, you little dumbass. The
Gatling
guns
. A new standard. Human beings, perfected by our own technology. Only to be wielded by the chosen few. Not by the sheep but by those who are
better
. Those who are willing to make it to the stars through blood.”

“Oh,” says the kid.

The teenagers are glancing at each other now. Panic starting to
build. Lyle keeps going. My teacher instincts are kicking in, and now I’m thinking about how to get the two of them out of here.

“I won’t lie and say the procedure isn’t painful, because it is. Gonna be a lot of bleeding. Lot of drilling and sawing. When it’s over, y’all gonna have a big old mark right here.”

Lyle taps the dot on his temple.

“Everybody is going to know exactly what you are. Only they won’t know what you’re capable of. Not at first.”

The smaller kid is starting to squirm under his duct tape. His breath is coming in quick shallow gasps. It’s pathetic and I don’t want to see Lyle torture them anymore.

“So you see, guys,” I interrupt, “you don’t want to do this. Why don’t you just go back home and forget about it?”

Shaking my head at Lyle, I kneel next to the blond kid’s chair. Start ripping off the duct tape.

“C’mon, what’s the matter?” asks Lyle, throwing his arms out.

“Well,” squeaks the small one. “Can we get it so that … I mean, we can’t have anybody know.”

“Whatcha talking about? Spit it out, kid,” says Lyle.

The big one blurts, “Can you do it without the maintenance nub? On the temple? Otherwise our folks’ll find out. We’ll get in trouble. You understand, right? I mean, we don’t wanna be
amps
.”

That word “amp” just seems to lie there like a dog turd on the carpet. I urge my fingers to move faster on the duct tape. These kids are brainless and Lyle is unpredictable and the whole combination is going to explode any second.

Lyle chuckles harshly. “Amps, huh. We sure wouldn’t want that. Talk about wanting your cake and eating it, too. Ain’t that right, doctor?”

“Meaning no disrespect, sir,” says the blond one.

“No can do, little amigo,” says Lyle. “No nub means no fixing the implant. Have to cut your head open every time we need to
adjust the contacts. Besides, you gotta coat that thing with bio-gel. Otherwise the inside of your brain scabs up until the whole thing shuts down. Lights out.”

A knock comes from the flimsy door, hard enough to shift the walls of the whole moldy trailer. I hear the wet wood splintering.

“That must be our nurse,” says Lyle.

He dances across the room and yanks the door completely open. At first, I think it’s dark outside. Then I realize the Brain is standing in the doorway, huge and slump shouldered. Both the kids blink in fear, trying to grasp the size of this human being.

I finish freeing up the blond kid. Move on to the smaller kid. Curious faces are gathering in the clouded window.

The Brain steps inside, plywood floor groaning under his weight. He says nothing. Leans forward to avoid brushing his bald head against the mold blooming on the ceiling. In this enclosed space, the sound of his breathing is epic. It’s like being locked up in a room with a prehistoric animal.

The kid in front of me starts squirming harder.

Lyle shakes his head at me. “Wanna do good cop, bad cop, huh?” He holds up three fingers on his right hand, preparing to activate his Zenith.
Three.
Smiles at me, lowers a finger. “All right then.”

Two.

“No, Lyle,” I say. “Why?”

One.

“We’re sorry,” sputters the younger one, wriggling to get his hands free. “It was his idea. He dared me to come.”

Zero.

Lyle’s eyes go hard and mechanical. Like somebody blew out the candle in a jack-o’-lantern. Face gone slack, he spits out his words in a torrent. “Did you little reggies think you could just show up here and we’d welcome you in? Make you one of us?”

And then Lyle’s face is inches from the blond kid. I blinked
and while my eyelids met, Lyle
moved
. I keep tearing at the duct tape, frantic now.

“You
can’t
be one of us,” says Lyle. “You haven’t got the grit. Your hearts are full of fear. You dumb fuckers belong in that field, holding on to a spotlight like it was your dick. Afraid of the dark and for good reason. You
better
keep that spotlight burning bright. Because there’s something out there in the dark. Something dangerous. Not fully human.”

Lyle smiles and his canines flash. There’s that dullness again in his eyes, like he’s acting or watching this unfold on television.

I’m done. The kids are both free.

The smaller one looks over my shoulder at the window. I follow his gaze and see Nick’s face. He’s got the Rubik’s cube in one hand and the windowsill in the other. A moist Band-Aid still clings to his forehead. No emotion on his face. I can’t tell if he’s happy to see these bullies punished.

“Enough,” I say. “C’mon, Lyle.”

I reach for Lyle’s shoulder, but he isn’t there. Now he’s standing in the middle of the room. The way he moves is sickening, fast.

The little kid’s lips are shaking. “I’m sorry about Gunnin’ Billy,” he says to me. “He told us to watch the field.”

The bigger kid shoves him, and the little guy shuts up.

Only now do I realize my opportunity.

“Billy?” I ask. “His tattoo. What does it mean?”

No response.

“Answer me,” I say, “and I’ll make him stop.”

Blurry faces crowd the window. Lyle doesn’t look, but I know he sees them. He’s putting on a show for those gathered outside.

Lyle breathes in hard through his nose, savoring the fear. “It’s me out there in the dark, boys. Me and mine. And we’re not human. Not like you. We’re better than human. Better than you.” Lyle taps his temple. “Scared little rabbits. I can feel your hearts all aflutter. I can make them freeze up just by thinking about it.”

The blond kid has started shaking. The trailer is warm and moist as the inside of a fresh-cooked biscuit, but he’s got his sunburned arms wrapped around his torso and his elbows are bouncing around like he’s riding in the back of a pickup truck.

Lyle curls two fingers back and makes his right hand into the shape of a gun. He steps back, extends his arm all the way, and lowers it. Points directly at the middle of the blond kid’s heaving chest.

“What’s the symbol mean, kid?” I ask. “Elysium? The
EM
? What?”

I’m a ghost to Lyle, invisible. Not part of whatever show is playing in his mind.

“Ready to die, kid?” he asks. “The United States Army gave me this power. They did this to me. Took away my life and made me good for one thing: killing.”

The little one has started crying. Eyes closed, hands unbound but down at his sides anyway. Helpless in the shadow of the Brain. “It’s a secret club,” he blubbers. “They call it Elysium. Billy and them have special meetings and stuff. Only the ones with the tattoo get in. I don’t know nothing else.”

“Shut up!” shouts the big kid.

Eyes half lidded, Lyle presses his fingers into the big blond kid’s chest. “You are going to die today,” he says.

The blond kid whimpers, shaking uncontrollably now. “Please,” he’s trying to say in a strained whisper, “please, no.”

“Who’s in charge of Elysium?” I ask.

“Vaughn,” whispers the blond kid. “Billy knows him. He’s the boss. The spotlighters are out there because he said so. Please.”

Lyle lifts his hand. Then he abruptly drops it, presses his fingers into the kid’s chest. The kid takes a deep breath and holds it.

“Boom!” shouts Lyle, and bursts into a hyena cackle.

The blond kid shrieks. Keeps shrieking. Goes rigid and slides
off the chair onto the soggy floor. Scrabbling and screaming. Eyes open but blind. His little friend slumps, sobbing in his chair.

All of it against the backdrop of Lyle’s wild laughter. And under the gaze of the Brain. The giant man stands motionless save his breathing, a placid boulder.

I try to pull the blond kid up off the ground, but he’s lost his mind. Grunts and shrieks. Lyle leans over and slaps the kid across the face. He keeps screaming, so Lyle tries to slap him again.

I grab Lyle’s bicep, pull him back. It takes all my strength. “Brain,” I say, putting Lyle into a full-on bear hug. “Dump them in the field. Don’t hurt ’em.”

The Brain says nothing, glances at Lyle. I’m not a general like the other Zeniths: Stilman, Daley, Valentine. But the cowboy has gone vacant, so the Brain obeys me. Grabs both the kids by the back of their shirts, one in each hand, and drags them out the front door. Two sacks of squirming meat wrapped in T-shirts.

I let go of Lyle and he drops to the floor. Scoots back to lean against the wall. He rests a tattoo-stained arm across one knee. His forehead wrinkles as he tries to come out of it. His limbs quiver and he grimaces, shakes his head. I start to breathe normally again. I could puke, but damned if I’m going to lose it in front of Lyle. Not ever again.

“What the hell was that?” I ask him.

Lyle wipes his face with his sleeve. He stands up and peeks out the window. Grins, daylight flashing from his shark eyes.