The helicopter flew itself to a preprogrammed destination: the main storage lot of Move Kings, the rental service where they’d gotten the van after every option for a tactical vehicle had fallen through. They needed a place to put it now that it was surely being tracked and this was as good a spot as any. The helicopter lowered the van and its passengers onto the lot, then hovered nearby for want of a clear landing spot. Zoey left a note on the dash of the van, apologizing for changing the logo and getting the rear latch destroyed and the wheels melted and pissing in it.
Then the four of them hustled over to the helicopter itself, Zoey wondering what complex mechanism would be used to raise them up to the aircraft that was suspended about ten feet above the ground. It turned out to just be a goddamned ladder. A flimsy one that unfurled itself from the bottom of the side door. They climbed up one by one, Zoey feeling like the wind from the rotors would toss her off of it at any moment. Their hostage made no effort to escape. When push comes to shove, almost everyone complies.
Once inside, they slammed the door and the aircraft swept into the sky, coughing out shimmering airbursts that downed several drones that tried to follow.
Echo sat in the cockpit and said, “No fewer than four full-sized VOP aircraft have taken flight in search of us.”
Zoey thought that seemed like a lot just to prevent her from getting her cat back. Then again, up to that moment, she hadn’t known that the Vanguard of Peace had an air force at all. Will, however, seemed prepared for this and said their helicopter would enter a stealth holding pattern outside the city. Lights off, invisibility skin on, engines in quiet mode, skimming over hills in a way that would make it very hard to find. For a while, at least.
Thus, within minutes, they were flying low and slow, the glow and flicker of Tabula Ra$a’s animated skyline flashing and pulsing in the distance. They needed to remain ready and undetected in order to extract the two-man Screw Team of Andre and Budd if things went off the rails, or the two-men-plus-Stench-Machine Screw Team if things went well. It was then that the kid, still in his crude Zoey costume, apparently found an opening to make his case.
“Look. You guys … I understand things got way out of hand. I’m really, really sorry about that. We can work something out—”
Zoey cut him off. “We can set those handcuffs to shock you if you talk. Do we have to do that, or can you just voluntarily shut up?”
That wasn’t a feature of the cuffs as far as she knew, but the kid seem to buy it, or at least the sentiment behind it.
“Do we have some kind of hood or something we can put on him? I don’t like him staring at me. Does this helicopter have a cabinet full of hostage-taking supplies somewhere?”
Echo gave Zoey a disapproving look, but then said, “I guess it’s better if we’re not keeping him in the loop on everything we’re doing. Hold on.”
She found a headset in the cockpit, disconnected it, and used it to cover the kid’s ears. They did not in fact have a hood or a blindfold, but Zoey put the head from Wu’s cat costume on the kid, turned backward so he couldn’t see out. His cuffed hands were trembling. He smelled like pee. Zoey had a fleeting feeling like this was all a weird dream she was having.
They started this, she thought. If everyone had just kept to themselves, none of them would be here. She’d be at home, in her pajamas, prepared to curl up with a bottle of something and looking forward to not attending the Black Parade.
Will said, “I’ve got Andre.”
He put the call on the monitor. Zoey thought he and Budd would both be wearing black burglar clothes and draped in grappling hooks, but they were just dressed like they always were, sitting in what looked like a bar from the old west. Visible in the background was a mechanical old-timey bartender who was frozen in place while wiping a glass—probably designed to get shot in the face by an animatronic cowboy at some point in the evening.
Zoey asked, “Are you guys drinking?”
“This place is closed,” said Budd. “We let ourselves in, I’m buddies with the owner. It’s just outside the industrial park. We’re bein’ watched from the skies, needed to get indoors. Will’s text said you came up empty?”
Zoey glanced over at their hostage. “Sort of. We don’t have Stench Machine. Otherwise everything went perfectly. You should’ve been there.”
Andre said, “Well, no unusual activity so far at the Screw. Or, nothing that looks unusual to us, it is our first time watchin’ the place. We’ve parked a jammer drone on their roof, when we turn it on, it’ll kill any outgoing Blink feeds. And they’ll know it, too. Or, they’ll know they’re blocked, but hopefully will take a while to figure out why. The idea is if they want to eat your kitty on a live broadcast, they’ll hold off if they know they’ve gone dark. No audience.”
“That’ll stop them from eating him,” said Zoey, “but won’t stop them from killing him.”
Budd said, “We’re banking on them wanting the whole, uh, meat preparation process on camera. For maximum effect.”
Zoey was about to answer, but choked on the words.
Andre quickly jumped in. “So, uh, the stacks of storage units weren’t built to be residential, obviously, so there’s no gas running to the building, everything is electric. Figure if there’s no power, there’s probably nothing to cook with. We’re, well, assuming they’re not intending to eat a raw animal.”
Zoey absolutely did not want to cry in this situation, in front of these people. She made herself nod. At least the hostage couldn’t see her.
“Now, you’ve got the piss factory next door,” said Budd, “the grasshopper farm on the other side, trucks coming in and out of both at all hours. Next thing is we’ll arrange a little accident. Nothing fatal, but if we do it just right, it’ll knock out the power and also trigger a hazardous materials warning to evacuate the building. For the emergency crews that come, herding those people should be like trying to catch a fart with a fork. This should draw in a bunch of drones to see what’s goin’ on, one of which will be ours, which will be carrying our infrared scanner. If whoever is holding the cat evacuates him, we’ll find him in the crowd and track him from there. If they leave him behind in the building, even better—we’ll have a clear path to slip in to get ’em. We’ve got disguises for that part.”
Andre added, “One way or the other, the whole evacuation and cleanup procedure should take hours, maybe all night. With any luck, it won’t be until they all file back into the joint after the all-clear when they’ll be like, ‘damn, cat’s gone.’”
“You’ve already got a rendezvous point programmed in,” said Budd, “a soccer field not too far from here. You pick us up, we’ll all go home and have a good laugh about it.”
“Assuming the cat is there at all,” grunted Will, “and they’re not already set up at some third location.”
Zoey flicked a hand at him. “Hush. All right, guys, when do you go in?”
Budd answered. “As soon as our truck turns down this street here. Which is right … now.”
Absolutely nothing happened for a solid minute.
“Sorry, it looked a lot closer on the tracker. Here it comes.”
The monitor switched to a drone feed, looking down on a tanker truck as it rumbled into the industrial park.
Andre’s voice was still audible in the feed.
“We’re already in control of this one.”
The semi suddenly weaved in the road, swerving across the center line and back again. It didn’t look like they had that much control. Still, the truck did a passable job keeping in its lane, until it was time not to.
It suddenly veered to the right, jolting off the road and bashing through a chain-link fence, rumbling through the parking lot of the Screw. It ran through the outdoor cafe tables and chairs, knocking them aside like doll furniture. The truck then careened and overturned, the tanker skidding on its side and slamming into the base of the building, sprays of liquid flying in arcs, splashing against the walls. Then the tanker ruptured completely and several thousand gallons of human urine washed in waves over a junction box that the crash itself had already knocked askew.
Sparks flew. There was a flash and a sharp clap, like a tiny explosion.
Lights blinked and then, a moment later, the Screw want dark.
The feed cut back to Andre, looking relieved. He wiped his forehead.
“Just like I planned.”
Next to him, Budd watched the immediate aftermath on his phone. “Guards are swarming the truck, thinking it’s a suicide attack. Give ’em time, they’ll conclude otherwise. Even if they sense shenanigans are at hand, it don’t matter. The spill’s gonna send ammonia fumes up into those boxes and they’ve got no real ventilation. Everyone will have to be cleared out at the orders of the property owners, whether they want to go or not.”
Andre said, “They don’t wanna get sued after a bunch of unemployed nerds get piss lung.” He stood. “We have to get into costume.”
Echo switched the feed over to the drone, which was circling the Screw. Down in the darkness, flashlight beams were whipping around the scene of the crash and people could be heard yelling questions and accusations. The beginnings of the chaos they needed for their plan to have any hope of working.
Echo said, “Two more VOP aircraft have taken to the sky. They will find us.”
Will glanced at some dots on his monitor, which presumably marked the location of said aircraft. “That was inevitable. Once they do, it’ll just confirm that we’re not heading toward the Screw. It’s fine if they find us, as long as they don’t find Budd and Andre.”
Zoey said, “Can’t they shoot us down?”
“They can, if they try hard enough. All helicopters are made to crash. But they won’t try. Not as long as we have him on board.” He nodded toward their hostage.
“Why would they care about…”
Zoey’s words faded. She turned from the monitor and studied Will’s face. Then she got up, went over to the kid, and pulled off his furry costume head and headphones.
The kid’s face was covered in beads of sweat, either from fear or due to the costume apparently being designed to cook its wearer alive. His eyes were wide, looking like he’d spent his brief time in sensory deprivation imagining various torture scenarios he’d have to endure.
Zoey said, “You. What’s your name?”
This question really confused the kid. “I don’t—you know my name.”
“Yes, The Blowback. Tell me your real name, the one you were born with.”
The kid once again looked back and forth from Zoey to Will, looking like he’d been asked a question in a foreign language he didn’t understand and was hoping someone would translate.
Will, looking very much like he already knew the answer, said, “Tell her.”
“Marti?” said the kid, like he was now scared that he was giving the wrong answer to a trick question.
“The whole name.”
“Marti Chobb.”