Flip (The Slip Trilogy Book 3) (5 page)

S
itting on Mars’s headless corpse, the Destroyer can’t help but to smile. He’s all over the news, his video being played on every channel and holo-blog, and reported by every news source. He’s gone mainstream. Disguised and hiding on the outskirts of the mob in the city center, he enjoyed the way his face filled the air, like a god. There was raw power in his words, in his actions, in the violent images that were projected to millions of devices across the country. The people
attacked
the Crows because of him. His video drove them to do it. Despite Mars’s attempts to hide him away like an unwanted child, he’s now the one sitting on top of the pile. Literally.

“You don’t mind, do you old man?” he asks Mars.

Without a mouth, Mars seems to find it hard to answer any of his questions these days. Not that he minds. In the end, Corr’s voice was beginning to hurt his ears. He’s far more likeable as a piece of furniture. Already he’s considering finding some more bodies to liven up the décor. Two corpses could be a loveseat. A teenager’s corpse could be an ottoman. Yes! That’s it! When he kills the Saint Louis Slip he’ll make him an ottoman. Once the decision is made, the Destroyer can barely think of anything else. He can already imagine resting his feet on Benson Kelly’s back.

“Arrrrgh!” The roar bursts from somewhere deep in his chest before he can stop it, all thoughts of human-furniture disappearing as
agonytorturedesolation
rips through him in a moment of blinding anguish. It’s like hot needles are being shoved into every human part of his body at once, capped off with a knife planted deep inside his skull, slashing his brain in half.

When the pain finally retreats, he’s horrified to find himself on the floor next to Mars, curled up in the fetal position, as if they’re on the same level.
But no, he hasn’t lost his head, has he?
he muses sardonically to himself. Compared to Mars, he’s a god. Hell, compared to anyone he’s a god.

Still…the flashes of blinding pain are coming more and more frequently. He doesn’t know whether they’re a result of the shock-inducing device Mars used on him repeatedly before he managed to kill his old master, or whether more damage was caused than he thought when that bitch Slip stabbed him in the eye. She could have damaged any number of machine and human parts. What was her filthy name again? Destiny. Oh how he’d like to finish what he started with her. However, he knows he can’t worry about her. She’s nothing to his greater plan, which he has to stick to. If his internal injuries become an issue, he’ll just move the timeline forward a little. No problem. Regardless, by week’s end, the Saint Louis Slip will be dead and he’ll be a legend and the new head of Pop Con.

The thought brightens his mood and gives him the strength to push his pain-weakened muscles off the floor. His Mars-recliner beckons to him, but he’d rather have a little fun before he goes back to tracking himself in the media.

It’s not until Michael Kelly’s screams fill his ears that he truly feels at peace again. A poke here, a twist there—as long as he doesn’t kill the guy he’ll continue to be excellent bait.

He laughs at his prisoner’s screams.

~~~

Article from the Saint Louis Times:

Breaking News: Ideal Population Further Reduced, Citizens Urged Not to Panic

Due to the recent series of tsunamis, as well as the reported crop-destroying storms in the Midwest, current population control models have been rerun. As a result of declining landmass and resources, and despite the lost population from the natural disasters, population control experts have determined that the Ideal Population must be reduced by another twenty million, or around four percent of the existing population. Although this is the second such reduction in the last two months, a Department of Population Control spokeswoman urged citizens “not to panic, as the situation is under control and further reductions are not expected.”

According to those close to the situation, there’s a plan in place to carry out the reduction over a ten year period, beginning with rescinding all Instant Death Matches and cancelling the program. Most accidental deaths will now likely NOT result in the issuance of a Birth Authorization, thus decreasing the population over time. However, Standard Death Matches and those awaiting a Death Match on the Prisoner Overflow List will not be affected by this change. Those who are currently on the Instant Death Match waiting list will soon be receiving notification of the change, along with a refund and instructions on how to apply for another form of Death Match.

Have a comment on this article? Speak them into your holo-screen now.
NOTE: All comments are subject to government screening. Those comments deemed to be inappropriate or treasonous in nature will be removed immediately and appropriate punishment issued.

Comments:

KerriLowe10: Thank God my husband and I paid extra for a Standard Death Match.

JohnPuck76: I hear you. My wife and I chose the Prisoner Overflow List so we’re all good. But my heart goes out to all those stuck on the Instant list.

Mary555: Comment removed and disciplinary action taken.

45,657 other comments removed and are under investigation.

~~~

Private Forum for Agriculturists, by invite only:

Password required: **********

Password accepted, access granted.

JoseCuervo: SamAdams, what the hell is happening over at Pop Con? Another reduction in the Ideal Population?

SamAdams: It wasn’t us. The order came from the very top. BloodyMary, you got anything?

BloodyMary: All I know is that the mayor’s office wasn’t even notified. This came from the president himself.

ShirleyTemple: Without consultation with Pop Con?

BloodyMary: Not sure, but I don’t think so. I think the stuff about landmass and destroyed crops is BS.

JoseCuervo: Here at the
Times
, we were only permitted to report what we were given, word for word. We literally copied and pasted the report sent from the politicians.

ShirleyTemple: The timing is suspect, don’t you think?

SamAdams: Meaning…?

ShirleyTemple: Well, first BloodyMary discovers a food surplus, which then magically disappears. Then there’s more nuclear testing in the Pacific. I can’t help but think it’s all linked.

JoseCuervo: Even what the Destroyer is doing?

SamAdams: Pop Con is in an uproar over the Destroyer. Heads are rolling over here. The president wants answers about how this happened, and no one has them. Mars kept everything he did with the Destroyer a secret. Off the books. I feel like the Destroyer’s actions are too random. It’s almost like he’s just looking for attention. Killing for the sake of killing.

ShirleyTemple: It’s not random. He wants the Slip. That’s all he wants.

JoseCuervo: Any chance of that happening?

ShirleyTemple: Not if I do my job.

BloodyMary: We can’t lose the key. Not when we’re this close.

ShirleyTemple: The key is safe for now. Less than six days and we can use it to open the biggest door of them all.

BloodyMary: Good luck. To all of you. Stay safe and don’t dig too deep. Everyone in our respective organizations are going to be on high alert.

JoseCuervo: On another subject…ShirleyTemple, have you told the STL Slip about his father yet?

ShirleyTemple: I haven’t found the right time.

JoseCuervo: Might want to do it soon. For some reason we’re holding onto the story for now, but the plan is to release it sometime in the next 48 hours.

ShirleyTemple: Thanks for the warning.

H
er sons are different people, like her.

Harrison with his false gray eyes—like gathering storm clouds—and spiky pink-tinged hair. His diamond-studded earlobes could be twinkling stars.

Benson with his blue-tipped hair, like a dolphin’s fin cresting the water. His eyes, always blue, are even bluer than before, unusually vibrant and almost glowing. Color enhancers are apparently all the rage right now. They make her think of the neon lights of some of the clubs her and Michael used to go to before they were married. Before the twins.

Are they really different? Janice wonders. Is
she
really different?

“Yesss,” she whispers, drawing out the word to make her tongue tickle. She giggles.

“Mom?” Benson says. “Did you say something?”

“It wasn’t nothing,” she admits. The Lab is bustling with activity, white-coated scientists playing with glass vials and tubes filled with various liquids. She’s been told they’re just pretending, but they look so real. Reality can be tricky sometimes, something she knows from experience. Mirages don’t just appear in the desert.

Past Benson is Harrison, pacing back and forth between the lab tables as if trying to catch something that keeps moving just ahead of him.

Benson tracks her gaze to his brother.

Janice says, “He’s going to wear his shoes out.”

When Benson turns back to her, he wears a thin smile. “He’s worried,” he says. “The Destroyer is still out there and so is Destiny.”

She remembers the way Harrison tried to cover her eyes when they showed the pictures of Corrigan Mars. She didn’t stop him because she could still see through the spaces between his fingers.
He
definitely looked different than the man she remembered. “We’re all the same dead,” she says aloud. “Bags of bones.”

“Umm,” Benson says.

“Zoran made me say it,” she lies, holding up her son’s old wristwatch. She doesn’t want to lie to him, but the horrified look on his face makes her want to un-speak the words.

“Good old Zoran,” Benson says, smiling grimly. “I still can’t believe you kept that watch all these years.”

“You were in it,” Janice says, nodding quickly. “Your smile. Your laugh. I could still feel you, even though you were gone.”

Benson takes her hand, and the warmth of his skin makes her think of sunny days spent in their old backyard. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that. I never knew. I swear I never knew.”

“Your father…” she says, but then stops because she doesn’t want to speak ill of the dead.

“He visited you often?” Benson guesses.

“No. Yes. Maybe. Time was a moving target.”

Benson nods, squeezing her hand tighter. “You know, whatever he told you to remember, whatever he told you to do, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to be a part of this.”

Her eyebrows feel as heavy as anchors. Weird. She tries to push them back up with her fingers, but they’re stuck down, creeping into the upper edge of her vision. “I am the key,” she says, remembering the four words that her husband used to make her repeat again and again when she was done memorizing the other things he taught her.

“But you don’t have to be,” Benson says. “No one can make you.”

Janice considers this, releasing her son’s hand so she can play with her dark hair. “Is someone making me?” she asks, simultaneously wondering who.

Benson takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them, they seem to shine even brighter. “No, I just thought you might feel pressured. Everyone just seems to assume you’ll march into Pop Con and activate the program.”

“March?” she says, raising her eyebrows. “Is that how I need to do it?”

Her son smiles and shakes his head and she knows she’s pleased him with her humor. “I’m pretty sure it will be more like tiptoeing than marching,” he says.

“I have some experience with that,” Janice says. When her son starts to respond, she presses a finger to his lips. “I am the key. Your father told me that, but that didn’t make it true. I made it true because I believed it.”

“Do you still believe it?” Benson’s expression is so serious that she knows it’s an important question to him.

She nods. “I’ve been away for a long time,” she says, looking at Zoran’s face, as if he might be able to tell her just how long. He stares at her stupidly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be a hero one time.”

At that, Benson pulls her into a hug, one she hopes will never end. “You’re already my hero, Mom,” he says.

~~~

He’s there, in the room with her. Destiny can smell the burnt flesh around his eye, hear the clink of his metallic footsteps, see the way even the darkness seems to shrink from his presence.

The Destroyer approaches, his smile as sharp and violent as a curved dagger, his lone remaining eye full of malice.

She tries to turn, tries to run, but her feet are molded to the floor. No,
in
the floor, sunk into dried concrete, her imprisonment complete.

The Destroyer steps forward, once, twice, thrice, until his hot breath touches her skin, seeming to linger around her face like smog. “Filthy Slip. Time to finish what we started.”

The red-hot knife blazes in the dark, hurtling toward her eye, which she can’t close, can’t close, can’t freaking close!

She wakes up gasping for breath, clawing at her face.

The Destroyer is gone, or was never there.

A dream.

A nightmare.

Her heartbeat decelerates, returning to normal. The Destroyer doesn’t have her. The Destroyer can’t hurt her.

Where is she?
she wonders as she stares up at a dome of endless white. Cold seems to leak through her clothes, worming its way into her skin and bones. She shivers. Is she…

She doesn’t finish the thought as someone groans nearby. She manages to flop her head to the side, stifling a scream with a hand pressed tightly against her lips. Flesh surrounds her. Arms and legs and faces. A somewhat familiar big dark face stares at her with wide open unblinking eyes, a trail of dried blood stretching from his bottom lip to his chin. She tries to scrabble backwards, bucking and squirming, but she’s penned in by the bodies, one of which won’t stop groaning, adding a horrifying soundtrack to her struggle.

In her panic, she’s forgotten to breathe, her lungs burning. She gulps at the air, closing her eyes and focusing only on breathing, pretending that the press she feels all around her are blankets and pillows on some exquisitely enormous bed in her top floor penthouse. It’s something her mother always did with her when she was little and she’d woken up from a nightmare.
Close your eyes. Pick a place, an amazing place, even an impossible one. Go there, if just for a minute. Dream of something better than where you are.

It works, a sense of peace washing over her as her inhalations and exhalations even out and deepen. She focuses on remembering what happened. The mob. The big guy she was trying to hide behind when the Crows showed up. The big guy who is now staring endlessly, unable to blink, unable to direct his silent gaze elsewhere.

An unexpected sob chokes out from her throat. She didn’t even know the guy, and yet she feels unbearably sad for him. For his family, if he has one.

Get control, she urges herself. What else do you remember?

The video of the Destroyer, the malice in his eyes, the saw he used to…

She turns to the side and throws up, just between two of the bodies. One of them is a woman in a smart business suit, her holo-screen still clutched in her hand, its screen cracked but still displaying ongoing news coverage of the tragic events in Saint Louis. Her chest is rising and falling. She’s alive, like Destiny. The other body is much smaller, crumpled awkwardly, that of a young boy, caught in the same tumultuous stampede of bodies that she was.

Although she feels weak and tingly all over, Destiny claws her way closer to him, pressing two fingers against his neck. Nothing. He’s dead. Like the big guy. How many others? she wonders, biting back the nausea that once more rises in her throat.

“Get up,” she urges herself, hissing through her teeth.

Her legs are wobbly, her knees like rubber, but she manages to force herself up, swaying slightly, surveying the street. The crowd control bots, including the one that shot her with a stunner, are spitting sparks, exposed wires jutting from their broken frames, literally ripped apart in the melee. Their Crow companions are down, too, and from the extent of their injuries Destiny suspects they’re dead. Besides them, there are civilian bodies everywhere, and it’s almost impossible to determine which are dead and which are alive. And anyway, what can she do to help them? She knows nothing about medical care, other than using simple bandages (which she doesn’t have) to cover wounds. Plus, she’s a wanted fugitive, she can’t linger here, not when reinforcements could arrive for the Crows at any moment. Other survivors, like her, are beginning to regain their feet, their dazed eyes scanning the scene with horrified expressions.

Something is rumbling in the distance. Thunder? No, she realizes. It’s a roar, like from an angry crowd. The mob is spreading through the city, which explains why no one has yet arrived to clean up this mess and sort out the survivors. Law enforcement is too focused on containing the situation to worry about the aftermath.

Her legs are beginning to recover their strength, and she attempts a step, carefully placing her foot between one person’s arm and another’s torso. She almost stumbles when her toe clips a man’s bent knee, but she manages to wave her arms enough to keep her balance.

As she picks her way through the human debris, she feels lighter somehow. With a subtle flex of her heels, her hoverskates lift off the ground. Her aimless wandering is over. She has a direction. A purpose. She won’t let the Destroyer hurt anyone else. The thought of facing him again sends charges of fear up and down her spine, but she doesn’t listen to them.

She knows she’s still alive because the Destroyer is too. And when it’s over, only one of them will survive it.

~~~

After a day passes with no sign of Destiny, Harrison is at his breaking point. Sitting around with his thumb up his rear doesn’t really work for him. The monotonous décor of steel counters, glass beakers and fake scientists make him want to charge through the lab breaking things, if only to prove that he’s still capable of doing
something
. Anything.

Minda and the others have asked him to be patient. Running aimlessly around the city won’t help Destiny. Supposedly Minda’s got “assets” looking for her throughout Saint Louis. He’ll be the first to know if she’s spotted.

If she’s even still in Saint Louis. For a lot of reasons, Harrison hopes she’s not, that she had enough sense to get out before the rioting began. The holo-news stations have resorted to 24/7 coverage of what they’re calling The Saint Louis Strike. Thousands have skipped work, taking to the streets to show their support, or disagreement with, the lowered Ideal Population mandated by the government. The big screen in the lounge room displays the mobs pushing and shoving each other and the Crows; it’s getting harder and harder to tell who’s who anymore. The city is truly divided. Harrison can only imagine the satisfaction Jarrod is probably getting from the chaos.

Much to his surprise, the door opens, creaking slightly. He thought that he’d chased off the last of his visitors with his broody mood and inability to control his sharp tongue.

Not everyone got the holo-memo, apparently. Refusing to tear his eyes from the screen, he promises to stick a Do Not Disturb For Any Reason sign on the door the moment the unwanted guest leaves. Which should be soon, if he plays his cards right.

“I heard someone call this ‘the fun room’ so I thought I’d check it out,” a familiar voice says.

Harrison turns, taken aback by both the unexpected voice and the even less expected comment. “I think they were being sarcastic,” he says.

The gargantuan French-Canadian Digger is propped up on a cane which looks far too thin to hold his impressive weight. “That’s exactly why I came,” Simon says, smiling broadly. “Too much fun could kill a guy my size.”

“Glad to see you on your feet,” Harrison says, scanning the ex-Lifer from head to toe. The fading shadow of a black eye (inflicted by Harrison) blankets one cheek, while his crooked nose provides evidence of a recently broken bone (also Harrison’s handiwork). His shoulder is heavily bandaged, as are his ribs, the strips of cloth wound tightly around his midsection. “Although you look like you’ve been mauled by a bear.”

“You should see the other guy,” Simon says.

“The bear?”

“Last I checked, your face wasn’t so pretty either.”

“That’s not what the ladies are saying,” Harrison says.

“I didn’t know we had any pet dogs around.”

Harrison snorts a laugh. “Funny.” He waves a hand. “Have a seat. You’re not nearly as annoying as you used to be.”

“Thanks,” Simon says gruffly, easing into an armchair that creaks so loudly Harrison wonders if it will split apart.