Like Clockwork (2 page)

At first, she couldn’t quite make out the face,
but a car passed and in the brief flash of headlights she caught that it wasn’t
exactly
human. It was sort of round, with rather simple circles for eyes
and a gap for a mouth. The top of the head was hollow, covered over with fine
filigree bands of copper and bronze, and the same witty individual who had put
a beer in its hand had rammed another can in under the metal there. She caught
a glimpse of the Kokanee label in the passing light. Its head was bent down, as
if looking at her or at the puddle at its feet, and the whole of it seemed
tinged with sorrow. Vines covered broad shoulders, and wild raspberries were
growing up all around it. The rain had gathered along the dome of its head and
was still dripping down into the puddle, and the whole thing had the look of
being completely forgotten. The arms were raised up to either side, hands
lifted to the sky, or maybe to the viewer. Whoever had made the statue had done
an incredible job, if they were hoping to evoke sympathy. There was no plaque,
there was no pedestal. Someone had just made this … rather strange and
beautiful thing, and had walked away from it. Yet that seemed fitting, given
what it was – a forlorn thing lost in the world. Evie reached out to touch it.

The rainwater ran from its half-empty head
down the bands of its breast in rivulets, and it was pitted and rusted from it.
Her palm brushed down to its belly, and she stepped into that frozen embrace to
look at the face more clearly, the world of the bus stop and Boston and
testosterone completely forgotten for a moment.

The eyes were little balls of copper, and
the small dent in each that served for a pupil were focused directly on the
ground in front of it. It
did
look sad, as far as a round bronze face
and little copper balls could. She knelt down in front of it, looking for an
insignia, a marker or anything that could tell her who had made it, and what
they had made it for, but there was none. And as she brushed some of the mud
away from the foot she saw something else, a quarter, buried under leaves and
sludge, half under the copper.

Thank god for small favors
, she thought.
Now I don’t need to beg the bus driver, or do a
breast lean and plead to get home.
But it was really under there. At first
she was worried it was part of the statue, but with a little wiggling (and a
lot of cursing under her breath) she was able to work it free.

But it kept coming out. She cocked her head
a little as she saw a point coming out with the quarter, and it was only when
she had it in her hand that she saw that it wasn’t a quarter at all. It had two
faces on it, to start. One was a face she didn’t recognize, and the other
looked quite a bit like the statue in front of her. The point was rather long,
coming right from the edge of the round two sided “coin,” and ended in three
little prongs that looked rather like a stubby key. It was all in silver,
tarnished of course, but she could see how much it would shine if she were to
polish it. She turned the key over in her hands, and looked up from the ground
to the statue looming over her.

There
was
a hole in it. Right in the
breast on the left-hand side, in the shape of a small heart. The moon slowly
pushed out from the ragged clouds of the night, and the statue twinkled a deep
faded bronze as if in response to the moonlight..

She had wanted to see. That was how it had
started. She had wanted to see, even if it was nothing. If it was nothing more
than a stupid wave (and it probably was) she’d be satisfied. The night had been
so shitty so far up until now, and this was such a … such a peculiar find. She
picked away the bubble gum that another wit had used to plug the hole, making a
face directed at all the brilliant passersbys who had discovered this thing
before her.
Goddamn savages
, she thought.
Barbaric mouthbreathers ruining
this … well, work of art, really.
Who would make such a strange and lovely
thing only to leave it here, in this little clearing? She put the key into the
hole and gave it a turn. There was a little resistance, and she wondered how
old the thing was, how ruined. She pushed again, and the key turned once more
with a satisfying click. Maybe there was an inscription on the key, she
thought.
I’ll take it home and polish it up. There has to be something.
She could Google it, come back tomorrow when it was daylight and see –

The clicking sound picked up speed on its
own, and the key began to twist in her hand. Evie gasped and fell back, letting
go. Somewhere in that narrow band along its chest a gear must have caught, for
now the key was turning by itself, slowly at first, and then so quickly it
became a blur, a flutter at its breast. The eyes which had been looking down
into the puddle started to raise up. And then they were looking right at her.

 “Pity,” it said. Its voice was low and
scratchy, warbling like an old phonograph recording, but it was still quite
loud.

Shit,
she
thought.
Boston.
But it was half a thought, really, because it was
actually looking
right at her.

With a shift and whir of gears from
somewhere inside, it straightened up, dropping the can it had been holding. The
head turned a little to the side, spilling the rest of the rain water, and then
jerked sharply to the right, making the can inside the head rattle. It reached
up, fingers probing for the can, but the fingers were too big to actually reach
inside. It dug for a moment, then, gave up, the eyes going back to her, “Please,.”
it said. “It is wet. Where is Stephen?”

“Shhh” she said, as if it could hear. But …
it was looking right at her.

It turned its head a little;, and the can
rattled once more. The hand went up again, to try and dig it out, but it was no
use.

“Have you done this to it?” it asked, still
groping for the can.

“Quiet!” she hissed. “Shut up!”

Someone on the other side of the thicket,
rather loudly said, “The fuck was that?”

The head of the thing turned to the noise.
It’s
here
.
It’s actually here
, she thought. It was looking to see where
the noise had come from, thudding on rusted legs to turn around. Still one hand
groped for the can, tugging at its own head this way and that, but the can was
firmly wedged in place, and rattled when it turned to look at Evie again.

“If you please,” it said. There was an
accent to that recorded voice, but she couldn’t catch it. The tone was flat, no
word had a single inflection. “This thing is lost. Do you know Shepherd?”

“Shut up!”

“Stephen Shepherd,” it said again, the
volume raised, and still no tone.

“Shut up!”

“Stephen Shepherd. It is looking for
Stephen Shepherd.”

“Gone!” she hissed. “He’s fucking
gone!
I don’t know! Shut up!” She crouched as she heard a crashing sound from the bus
stop.

“Gone?” it asked, and the crashing through
the bushes turned towards the clearing. The sound from the thing was too loud
to not have been heard clearly.

“Gone! Yes. Gone. Shut up! Keep still!”

It looked at the ground again. “Gone. Ah,” it
said. “Pity.” And it looked down at itself then, at its hands. “Pity,” it said
again.

There was no time to agree. Evie scrambled
farther back into the woods around the clearing, hoping, praying, willing the
thing not to turn around or point her out. While it was bad to be a girl alone
at a bus stop, it was even worse for a girl Alone-In-the-Woods. Whether or not
the bush-crashers would be gentlemen (which she doubted), she’d still feel
pretty stupid being found out here. She scrabbled back into the underbrush and
felt raspberry bushes tearing her dress.

Well. Fu –

Boston crashed into the little clearing
first, and pulled up short when he saw It. Evie held her breath, watching. She
heard a clicking as the eyes of the thing shifted from the trees under which
she had she run, back to face Boston. Creeper, and Bon Mots Misfits burst into
the clearing quickly after, Creeper breathing heavily.

“Hey, man,” Misfit said to the thing. The
moon had gone behind the clouds again, and it was too dark for them to see it
clearly. “You okay, man?”

“Gentlemen,” it said in that low, dignified
mechanical voice. “Please.”

“Jesus,” Boston said.

“This thing is lost.”

“It’s a …” Boston wove a little on his
feet. “It’s a …”

“S’a fuckin
Robot,
” Misfit said.

“It is looking for Stephen,” it said, and
took a step towards them.

“Thought they only had them in Japan,”
Creeper said. “Y’know, robot …waitresses and shit.”

“Robot strippers,” Misfit said, and
snickered. “Dude, you were gonna say robot strippers, weren’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Creeper said.

“Robostrippers,” Misfit cackled. Boston
grinned, but never took his eyes off the thing.

“Wonder what it does?” he said, moving
closer.

“Strip,” Misfit said, and Creeper shoved
him, and he tripped, weaving drunkenly towards the robot, almost falling before
the thing reached out an arm, and steadied him on his feet.

“Gentlemen,” it said again, looking at
Boston.

“Cool,” Misfit said, still supported by the
thing’s bronze arm. “Thanks.” He backed up all the same as Boston came closer.

“Do you happen to know Stephen?”

“Don’t know any Stephens buddy,” Boston
said. “Sorry.”

“So, like, what are you man? Like a T-1000
and shit?” Misfit asked. There was a whir. A click.

“More like T-1. Thing looks like a piece of
shit,” Boston said. And a fanfare blasted out from it. The three “boys”
staggered back from the noise, and Evie covered her ears where she was hiding
in the brambles.

“Behold!” a voice said, a different voice,
coming from its mouth. It was a higher, nasally voice, with a thick Eastern
European accent. “For the service of Sweet Stephen Shepherd! My latest and
grrrreatest crrreation!” The fanfare continued underneath the voice, a sound of
calliope music that had the smack of carousels and circuses to it. The fanfare
swelled as the thing took a rusty, lurching step, and then leapt into the
better light of the center of the clearing.

“It dances!” the voice cried, and the robot
did
in fact dance, a jerky little trot around the clearing, circling the
three men as its arms jerked out back and forth.

“It rrrrromances!” the voice cried, and the
fanfare turned to a sickly swelling of scratched strings as the thing, rusted
and half covered in vines, got down to one knee and reached out, looking up at
Boston, who jerked his hand back as the thing reached for it. Under the light
of the moon, Evie could see someone had spraypainted “I eat cocks for $$$”
along the side of its head. It leaned forward all the same, and kissed its own
fingertips, before getting to its feet once more.

“This wondrous. And Marvelous.
Auto-mat-on.” it said, in that scratched recorded voice, “has been lovingly
crafted to serve! To amaze! To entertain!” It stretched out its arms at the
three. “Come one, come all, and be delighted! And bewildered! Here at Sweet
Stephen Shepherd’s Cross-Country Cavalcade of Curi-osities!” The robot bowed
its head, and as the carousel calliope music started to fade, Evie could swear
(and would forever swear) that it was looking right at
her
, through the
bushes.

“Well,” Misfit said.

“That,” Boston pronounced, “was fucking
gay.”

“I’m glad it doesn’t strip,” Creeper said,
and Misfit snickered. Boston walked around it. The head swiveled then,
following him.

“Does the gentleman know where this thing
can find Shepherd?” it asked.

“Think it’s broken,” Boston said.

“S’a fucking beer can in there!” Misfit
chuckled, leaning up to peer into the top of its head.

“Wonder how it works?” Boston said. He
reached out and tapped the thing’s stomach. The music, almost faded, gave
another lurch and went still.

“Guys,” Boston said. “Guys. This is like … solid
copper.”

“So?” Creeper said

“Lots of money in copper,” Misfit said,
looking it over, up and down. Boston tapped its eye, probing.

“If we can take it apart,” he said,
standing back, regarding it. The thing did nothing. Even its gears were silent.

“Dunno,” Misfit said. “Looks pretty solid.”

“Maybe not,” said Boston, looking sharply
around the clearing, as if to see if he would be caught. Evie huddled closer to
the ground, praying that she wouldn’t be.

“Hold it down,” he said, after a moment.

“Sirs,” the thing said, as Misfit grabbed
one arm. “Good sirs, please.” Creeper grabbed the other, and with a grunt they
hauled it down.

“Fucking heavy,” Misfit said. The feet
kicked.

“Got it?” Boston asked.

“Lemme get a good – fuck – grip – Fuck!
Fucking thing keeps moving.”

The thing tried to turn over, to kick out
of their grip, its rusty hands squeaking and clutching and unclutching the mud
in front of it. Boston leaned down and grabbed the head.