“Lord love a duck,” Burgess exclaimed as he and the others eyed what was inside. On one side of the organized contents was a tall and wide stack of dollar bills.

  “We didn’t bring enough bags,” Rossmon breathed.

  “No time to sightsee.”

  O’Connor extracted a rolled-up nylon equipment bag and went to work stuffing it with cash. There was a sizeable amount of gold bars in the safe, but they knew in advance they wouldn’t be transporting any of those, given the weight. Romita was next to O’Connor, gleefully plucking loose handfuls of money as if a supermarket were giving away free avocados.

  As they gathered the money, O’Connor went into the control room. He’d been instructed by the hacktivist on his next steps. He removed what looked like a TV remote control from his messenger bag. On one end was an HDMI fitting. This he inserted into a slot on a hard drive tower and pressed a button. What the device extracted or deleted or did both, he hadn’t inquired as to its function. The deal was as long as he performed this task, whatever he stole from here was his and the crew’s to keep. Finished, he walked out, noticing what he could only call a treasure chest on a pedestal alone in a kind of alcove. But it was small, like it belonged to a child. Curious, he picked it up and put the locked wooden container in his duffle bag.

  He joined the others, Romita studying him.

  “The hell is that?” Rossmon said, looking around.

  They all heard the sound, a whine like a small turbine had started up. As one, the four produced their handguns. O’Connor pointed toward the direction the whine came from. It was a far corner of the third level. The drone increased as whatever it was got closer. They all pointed their weapons.

  Rounding the corner were two alien-like robot dogs out of a science fiction movie. Built into the top of each was armored housing, from which spouted the barrel of an assault rifle. The yellow-tinged artificial eyes in each thing twinkled as they sighted the quartet. As this was the first appearance of the artificial guards, the four absently concluded it was blowing the safe that had set them in motion.

  O’Connor had seen clips on YouTube of constructs like these in action.

  “I bet the family has a chip in them that’s ID’d by the dog’s computer brain,” Romita breathed.

  “Ain’t this a bitch?” Rossmon began and then fired at one of the dogs. The bullets ricocheted off metal skin and bounced off the walls as well. The eyes in the artificial dogs turned from yellow to red.

  “Aw, shit,” Romita swore.

  Automatic rifle fire ripped at them as the four sought cover. O’Connor and Romita crouched behind the safe’s heavy door momentarily protected. Burgess slid across the polished tile floor like a baseball player stealing third. He made it inside the control room.

  Rossmon was caught flat-footed and knew it.

  “Fuck you, you fuckin’ oil-for-blood fakess,” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  He didn’t get the chance to empty his gun’s magazine before the twin fusillade of rounds from the robots tore his body asunder. The auto fire was such that, for several seconds, the impact of so many bullets in him kept his dead form upright. Eventually, what was left fell over, pieces of his flesh and bone splattered on the floor and walls.

  The simulated canines advanced. Burgess rolled a small black canister toward them. It exploded. The back legs of one of the robots took damage, a leg hanging from its housing socket. Hydraulic fluid spurted from this aperture, and it fell over, the thing’s auto gyros affected, too. The automation managed to spin about on its side, the alloyed beast’s weapon firing wildly until the rifle clicked dry.

  As this happened, the other machine, tilting at an angle but still mobile, kept attacking. In a weird stop-motion-like gait, it bounded toward the room where Burgess was. O’Connor rushed from around the safe’s door, coming up behind the automaton. The dog’s head telescoped from its body on a trunk of flexible cable, eerily swinging around to look at him. He brought the pry bar down hard and fast. Gritting his teeth, he gouged at the juncture of cable and head several times. The robot couldn’t get its body around to shoot him as sparks erupted from the tear O’Connor had opened. The head reset on the body, and for a few seconds, O’Connor, breathing hard, wondered if he too would be eviscerated as Rossmon had been.

  To his relief, the robot dog’s red eyes went black. The machine froze where it stood. The pry bar down at his side, O’Connor said, “Let’s finish up.”

  “You ain’t got to tell me twice,” Burgess said.

  He got busy loading his unfurled bag as Romita finished with hers. When he was done, Burgess zipped the bag closed and joined the other two. The rolled-up bag Rossmon had on him had several bullet holes in it but was still nonetheless useful. They filled this one half-way.

  Eventually Romita and Burgess each hefted over two million each in their bags as the bills in the safe had been neatly segregated in tens, twenties and hundreds. Naturally, they opted for carting away the larger denomination, but the lesser ones invariably got mixed in. O’Connor had his full bag, and the partially filled one that had been Rossmon’s.

  Romita and Burgess started up the stairs. O’Connor paused by Rossmon’s body. He’d included him on the job because he was a pro, and if matters went south, reliable to have your back. Too a fourth member also meant a larger haul to divvy up. Rossmon’s fearlessness was his rep, and he’d lived up to it to the end. He considered setting his body on fire to make identifying him harder. Once the law had that information, they’d develop a list of known associates. Romita’s name wouldn’t surface, but possibly his and Burgess’s would. Though, of course by then, they’d utilize pre-established alibis.

  Understanding his hesitation, Burgess said from the top of the stairs, “Unless you’re going to take the time to smash up his teeth, why bother?”

  “Yeah,” O’Connor agreed and ascended as well.

  Romita side-eyed the two but remained quiet. They were back in the living room on the first level. It was then that hidden speakers came to life.

  “The fuck?” she began.

  O’Connor frowned, looking around. The tune playing was the funky “Pass the Peas,” by the JB’s—a band composed of musicians who backed James Brown but recorded their own material as well.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Burgess said, already stepping back into his hazmat gear.

  “There,” O’Connor said, pointing at a built-in sound system. Green lights were on in the deck. He stepped to it, and after randomly punching a few buttons, silenced the music. “Explosion must have caused some sort of ripple in the computer system.”

  “If you say so, Marconi.” Burgess zipped up his suit. “But for all we know, this goddamn bunker is a hive of artificial intelligence, and it’s messing with us.”

  Romita snickered as she started getting her suit on as well. O’Connor also got dressed, and the three carried their swag toward the exit. As they approached, they heard something like a tumbler falling into place. Behind them, a metal sliding panel banged into place, sealing off the rest of the bunker.

  “Run,” O’Connor yelled as he took off toward the stairs opposite leading to the top. He was too late, colliding with the opposite barrier that slammed home.

  “A failsafe on the failsafe,” Romita remarked coolly.

  “And not on the blueprints,” Burgess said.

  “A cautionary add-on.” To see better, O’Conner removed his headpiece, which was attached like a hoodie.

  Romita said, “At least they’re not moving in on us like in some old Fu Manchu movie.”

  “If we try to blast the new wall,” O’Connor began.

  “The amount of C4 we’d have to use would kill us instantly,” Burgess finished.

  O’Connor unstrapped the prybar from his back. “We dig under,” he said. Getting back out of his hazmat attire, he set to work breaking up the tiles where the sliding panel met the wall. Grasping the prybar in two hands, up he took it and down it came with pile driver intensity. Again and again, rhythmically, as if hydraulic fluid pumped in his veins, O’Connor attacked the tiles in front of the new wall. Hunks of glazed ceramic and dust flew about as he went to work with dogged precision. The other two regarded him as if he too were a construct, an amalgam of human and gears spawned from the electronic software of the bunker. When he did take a break, sweat sheeting him, one of the others would go at it. In this way, they uncovered the concrete beneath.

  Burgess came over and rolled out a line of C4 on the concrete. As best they could, they stacked the money bags and laid flat behind them in the far corner on the other side of the hallway. The munitions expert triggered the explosion, which deafened their ears but otherwise didn’t harm them. A combination of hand signals and yelling followed. The three used the prybar and their hands to tear away the loosened concrete to the earth below. Again, using the prybar, they were able to tunnel some under their obstacle. O’Connor had emptied Rossmon’s bag and used that to help shovel dirt aside. More C4 went into the hole, blasting through the floor on the other side.

  By the time the sweaty, dirty trio got back in the barn, it was getting toward dusk. Tired and wishing to be as unobstructed as possible, they took a chance on no wind carrying toxic fumes this way and ditched the hazmat suits. A helicopter zoomed by overhead.

  “First light, and the town’s going to be hip deep in who knows what kind of law,” Burgess noted.

  The hazmat suits in a pile, O’Connor poured acid on them from a metal lined flask. The synthetic material gurgled and bubbled as the hazmat suits transformed into a soupy ooze on the hay. The three then moved out, heading toward their pre-arranged destination where they’d left a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Taking a mapped-out route away from the main roadways, they hoped to avoid detection. As their trek took them closer, O’Connor slowed. It was dark now, and he led the way. He had on a headband light.

  “What?” Romita said.

  “I saw a flashlight light click on and off in the tree line.” O’Connor said, having lowered his voice and clicking off his own light.

  “Cops?” Burgess whispered.

  “Don’t think so,” he said. He took a knee in the dry prairie grass, and the other two did as well. Quiet as they were, night sounds drifted to them. O’Connor spoke into Romita’s ear, and she did the same with Burgess. They moved several yards away from him and he went prone in the field. Momentarily, two people approached, O’Connor estimated.

  “You better stop where you are,” he called out. “I’m armed.”

  “So are we. You one of them government lackies?”

  “Go on about your business,” O’Connor warned.

  The flashlight snapped on, illuminating him. “Yeah, you look like you work for FEMA. Damn affirmative action hire.”

  “He sure do,” his companion agreed. He carried an assault rifle. The other held a pistol and the flashlight.

  “Get your hands up,” the first one demanded.

  O’Connor complied.

  “What’s in them bags?” the second one asked. “More of that poison you spread around town? This so-called evacuation an excuse to start putting us in your concentration camps?”

  “That’s right,” O’Connor said. “You caught me red-handed.”

  “You admit that?” the second man declared.

  “I’m going to get this on tape.” The second one fumbled to get his phone out.

  O’Connor eased closer to the two, raising his voice as he did so. “Actually, I got millions on me.”

  “Huh? What are you yelling about?”

  The signal to Burgess was when O’Connor said “millions.” The munitions man tossed one of his small black canisters, and it exploded in sound and bright light.

  “The fuck was that?” The one with the assault rifle said as both turned toward the blast. O’Connor leaped on the one with the long gun. He spun the man’s body to use as a shield as the other one fired his handgun. His bullets penetrated his buddy’s back while simultaneously, O’Conner squeezed the trigger of the assault rifle, the rounds cutting into the other man, killing him instantly.

  Romita and Burgess came over.

  “We need to do something with these corpses,” O’Connor said, looking briefly at the bodies cooling in the tall grasses.

  “Why?” the electronics expert said.

  “We buy more time if they aren’t found right off,” Burgess answered. “Who knows when the bunker will be checked. But carrying them back there is going to be a mother.”

  “Yeah,” O’Connor agreed, looking off and pointing. “Over there, darker shapes against the night; another barn, farmhouse, and grain silo.”

  “Hope whoever that place belongs to aren’t like these yahoos and didn’t stay put,” Burgess said. He and Romita took hold of one of the dead men, and O’Connor used a fireman’s carry to haul the other one. First, though, he’d removed his shirt down to his black T-shirt underneath. The structures were about a football field and a half away, and they had to stop midway and catch their collective breath. Standing motionless, air in, air out, O’Connor’s arms hung still at his sides, his face devoid of expression. It was as if he were made in a lab awaiting activation again to complete his work. Only the wetness on his brow informed an observer he was human. Finally, the three arrived at the farmhouse. No lights shone from inside.

  “There we go,” Romita said, chancing to use her flashlight. Her beam found the entrance to the storm cellar on the near side of the house. She shone her light on the padlock securing the weathered double wood doors. O’Connor picked the lock, and they carried the bodies downstairs. There was a lot of clutter and several rats skittered about. Some rolled up plastic tarp was found, and they wrapped the dead in that. This would slow the aroma of decay being noticed above. They went back up and closed the padlock. As they walked back to retrieve their loot, O’Connor put his shirt back on. The T-shirt now had bloodstains on it from the leaking bullet holes in the dead man.

  Off a mile or so to their right, a low pall of grey smoke rose in the moonlight. Something burned, but they had no idea what that might be. They arrived at their vehicle. Once O’Connor thumbed the fob to unlock it, they loaded their haul into the back and drove off. On a low ridge were the outlines of various vehicles and persons going about the business of containing the contamination.

  The four-wheel drive was almost to the perimeter of town, heading toward the off-road path previously determined. A Humvee came into view from around the corner of a building and stopping at an angle, blocked the street.

  “Shit,” Romita swore. She sat in the passenger seat next to O’Connor, Burgess in the back seat. She put a hand on her gun.

  “Be cool,” O’Connor said. “We’re going to talk our way out of this. Take off your gloves and go with the flow.”

  “Identify yourself,” came the command from the Humvee. A spotlight clicked on, the light shining through the windshield of the thieves’ SUV. Two armed National Guardsmen now stood nearby.

  “Here you go.” O’Connor held a laminated identification card on a lanyard. One of the Guardsmen took it and walked it back to the Humvee. O’Connor had it hanging from the rearview mirror. The fake ID stated he worked for Pegasus Insurance, the actual firm representing the train company. Romita and Burgess had similar IDs.

  “What are you doing out here?” A stern-faced female captain now stood next to the driver’s side of the SUV talking to O’Connor. She eyed him and the others. The armed Guardsmen stood at the ready. The light was still on them.

  “We wanted to get an early start. We represent the Southern Midland line.”

  “At night?”

  “We got here later than we wanted and came through to take a brief look at the crash site.” They weren’t far from the bridge. “Then figured we drive over to the next town to find lodging until daylight. Our office communicated with ORR,” he added, meaning the Office of Restore and Restoration.

  “Who’d you talk to there?”

  “Al Clevinger.” That was a real person he used. He also hedged at this time of night, he might be hard to get ahold of.

  She regarded O’Connor once more and his ID. “The all-clear hasn’t been announced yet, Mr. Coe. Call in before you come back here.”

  “I will, Captain.”

  She handed his ID back and she and the Guardsmen returned to their vehicle. The spotlight snapped off. O’Connor drove on, keeping to the paved roadway.

  “Glad you did your research, O’Connor,” Burgess said.

  “You mean you don’t have to change your boxers yet?” O’Connor cracked.

  “I do,” Romita joined in.

  The three shared a nervous chuckle.

  Consulting a Google map on her phone, Romita navigated and got them into the woods a few miles from where they’d initially intended to enter.

  They took turns driving and crossed the state line in the afternoon of the following day. They’d been monitoring the scanner they’d brought with them. The bodies they’d left behind hadn’t been discovered yet.

  Some days later, when O’Conner was back in his garage turned workshop in the sub-division townhouse he shared with his significant other, he had the small treasure chest on his worktable. He easily sprung the lock and opened the lid yet. Hollow intonations like ghostly sirens sang to him and a light illuminated O’Connor’s face where a cold sweat soaked the skin. He kept staring into the depthless maw before him, utterly fascinated and fearful.

  Illustration Credit: Nicolò Arcuti

  Illustration Credit: Nicolò Arcuti

  Back to TOC

  Shootout at Mister Hip’s

  (inspired by the song “Mister Hip”)

  Jim Fusilli

  DeWalt Perkins exited windy 14th Street and entered Mister Hip’s, stamping his feet to shake off the snow. Passing the deserted bandstand, he removed his topcoat and cap, then sat in a booth across from the waitress station to pull off his rubber overshoes. His bus driver’s uniform now visible—short jacket with the DDOT logo on the upper sleeve, matching slacks, white shirt and clip-on necktie—he settled at the bar where Wardell Fontenot had waiting a foamy Stroh’s and a shot glass brimming with Seagram’s Seven. Perkins, who had kept his hair short and walrus mustache trimmed, threw back the whiskey and closed his eyes as it swept away the chill.