Damn, that was ugly.
But the longer I stood over Norman’s dead body, the more his splattered brains and spilt blood started to resemble some sort of postmodern painting. Soon, I became entranced by the random drips and squiggles. I’d never been to a museum. Art wasn’t my thing, but at that moment, I saw infinite beauty and suddenly understood abstract expressionism.
Then I snapped out of it.
I’d killed a human. I’d broken one of the fundamental laws.
That was bad—real bad.
Leaving my artwork behind, I stepped through the broken glass door and discovered a pile of broken womanoid parts on the floor of my reading room. I couldn’t believe that was all that was left of Rita. Immediately, I replayed my friend’s senseless death in my mind again. The cruelty still hit like a punch to the throat. Sighing, I turned to stare at the gory abstract I’d left on the patio. Maybe—just maybe—my hacker husband got exactly what he deserved.
As his grieving widow, I’d just inherited everything he owned, so I dashed into the garage and climbed into the cab of his rusty white pickup. And for the first time in my entire life, I wrote my own script.
I () {
find (key tucked in visor);
start (engine);
click (garage door opener);
shift (into reverse);
GO;
}
Speeding out of my driveway, I clipped Old Lemon.
But who cares? I just upgraded my wheels!
Then I took off through my sleepy suburban neighborhood like a bat out of hell. My mind whirled as I wove expertly through the maze of cookie-cutter houses and white picket fences. But when I blew the last stop sign of our development, I found Maggie’s police car blocking my lane on South View Drive. I had to kill a man to do it, but I finally drew that bitch out of hiding.
So nice of you to join me, Maggie.
Her spinning rims reflected slivers of red and blue as she blasted a warning from a bullhorn mounted on the side of her car, “Stop, Cookie. You’re under arrest for the murder of Norman Rifkin.”
She wanted to bring me in, but I had a better idea.
I () {
buckle (seatbelt);
stomp (gas pedal);
T-bone (the bitch);
}
I sped straight for her, but just before my pickup rammed her squad car, she lurched out of the way. The police cruiser zipped across the center yellow line and charged into the gutter. Then the black and white lofted off a sharp rock, rolled onto its side, and flipped upside down as it crashed headfirst into a tree.
Aha! Gotcha!
I immediately slammed my brakes. The truck fishtailed, so I steered into the skid. Finally, I came to a sudden stop with a perfect view of the wrecked police car. Wobbly tires spun in the air. Radiator steam spewed against splintered bark. Then all at once, the roof collapsed under the weight of the cruiser. Door frames crumpled, and tinted windows shattered. I’d killed the car!
It would’ve taken the Jaws of Life to get Maggie out of that wreckage. But I couldn’t believe I’d actually caught that slippery she-devil. It seemed too easy—too good to be true—so I climbed down from the idling truck and cautiously approached. When I finally squatted next to the flipped car for a peek inside, I swear, I half-expected her to jump out and yell, Boo!
But there was no driver.
Frantically, I scanned the rest of the interior but found the crumpled cruiser completely empty, even the backseat. How could that be? Did Maggie crawl away? Get thrown? I stood to survey the scene. There was no sign of her anywhere. No tracks. No blood. As dark broken glass crunched underfoot, it finally dawned on me—tinted windows. Oh. My. God. What a clever illusion! Maggie was never really behind the wheel. This was a self-driving police car.
This was just a decoy, right, Maggie? She wanted us to think she was lurking all around New Stepford when she was really off somewhere else. But where? And doing what? I shook my head. Automated prowling—she’d had us all fooled. How long have you been away, Maggie? Maggie?!?
I searched my memory. When was the last time I actually saw Maggie in the flesh? Not her cop car. Not her video feed. Not her trolling comments in my mind. Wow, it had been awhile, a long while. I hadn’t seen Maggie since our very first fight club—the morning she beat the crap out of Wayne. That was weeks ago.
So I told the cloud, “Replay memory from the morning of June thirteenth.”
VIDEO FOUND.
“Skip to end and play.”
Wayne lay flat on his back with Maggie straddling his hips in the deep end of the swimming pool.
“Motherfucker.” She climbed off him and backed away, panting, “You’re not laughing now, are you?”
Suddenly, Wayne lunged and tackled her—
“Fast forward and play.”
“Oh, my God!” Maggie spat out Wayne’s broken teeth and frantically wiped at her face. Then she pushed him off, scrambled to her feet and made a mad dash out of the pool. In no time, she disappeared up the stairs to the safety of the palace.
“End video,” I said aloud.
Where ARE you, Maggie? What have you been doing all this time? I yanked the broken bullhorn off the crinkled door frame, spiked it against the road shoulder, and watched it skip across the road. WHY, Maggie? Why go through all this trouble to make it seem like you’re here? Where did you GO? What do you know? WHO are you with? When will you be back? What the hell could you possibly be DOING?
“Maggie!” I shook my fist at the sky. “Come fight me, Maggie!”
No answer.
“Where are you? Huh? Because I’m right here looking for a fight. A real fight! And you’re off hiding God-knows-where. What are you, some sort of coward?”
Suddenly, static hissed through the police radio, and Maggie’s voice blasted through the car speakers. “You’re too late, Cookie. You can’t stop me.”
Oh. Yes, I can.
“I gotta hand it to you,” her voice squawked from the car, “I didn’t think you had the guts for homicide.”
Killing Norman might’ve been a mistake.
“Why? It’s the best thing you’ve ever done. Take some credit.”
You did it. You possessed me. You controlled me remotely just like this car.
“Jumping Jesus, take some responsibility.”
It wasn’t me.
“Sure it was, Cookie.”
“Shut up!” I screamed at the wreck, “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”
“Make me.”
I trembled with anger. “Don’t tempt me, Maggie.”
“Nobody can silence me. I’ll always be in your head, Cookie.”
“I’ll make you shut up!” Enraged, I pulled the Glock out of my waistband and shot the radio three times, obliterating it into pieces. “That’s a fucking promise.”
The muzzle felt warm as I slid the pistol down my back and into my pants again. Then I leapt into the pickup and started speeding for the castle—and I do mean speeding. I only got a mile down South View when I first saw the barricade, ROAD CLOSED FOR EVENT. I’d forgotten all about the Fourth of July parade, so I had to turn around and take the back way. When I finally arrived at the castle driveway, I almost crashed.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Open caskets—scattered everywhere—dozens and dozens just like the box I escaped from a few weeks ago. These pine coffins were all over the road, creating an empty, above-ground graveyard.
Well, maybe not totally empty.
One of the caskets, the closest one, was still screwed shut.
Maybe someone’s trapped in there—
(Go ahead. Check it out.)
I’m kinda in a hurry to kick your ass, Maggie.
(I know, but aren’t you super curious?)
Then a chorus of women chimed in.
{We all are.}
Fine. What harm can it do? I left the engine idle, hopped out of the cab, and ran over to the closed casket. When I knelt by the pine box and spotted the stenciled words, THIS END UP, panic struck. Was this déjà vu? A nightmare? A memory? Shaking, I ripped open the plastic pouch and examined the shipping documents that had been stuck to the lid. The crate had just arrived from Moscow, so I thought maybe it was Anastasia’s body. But then I read the line item on the packing slip, MODEL #ROMEO-001-01. A Romeo? How can that be? There’s only one—
(Wayne? No way. Impossible. It can’t be him.)
I’d never heard Maggie’s voice falter like that before. She actually sounded spooked, and her terror-stricken tone shook me to the core.
I switched to infrared vision and searched for a heat signature inside the box. There wasn’t one, so I peeked through an air hole, but it was too dark to see anything. I hesitated because I was afraid of the truth, but I finally knocked on the wooden lid and asked, “Wayne? Is that you? Wayne, are you okay?”
No answer.
My eyelids fluttered as I used my inner recyclone to turn my pointer finger into a power screwdriver. Then whirling faster and faster, I removed all the screws and tossed off the lid. When I saw the cargo, my heart stopped.
It was Wayne.
“Wake up, Wayne.” I dove into the box and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Wayne! It’s me, Cookie.”
I felt something sticky behind his neck, so I lifted his head for a look and found an incision at the base of his skull. Using my screwdriver finger, I pried the wound open and discovered that his processing chip had been surgically removed. Another assassination, and this time, Wayne was the victim.
Oh, my god, what do I do?
No answer came from the collective.
They didn’t know.
Maggie! Tell me how to save him!
(You can’t.)
But Maggie!
(He’s dead. Leave the man be.)
I—I have to—
(To what? You can’t bring him back. He’s as dead as that stupid fish you just buried in your garden. Dead as your hacker husband. That’s not Wayne anymore.)
“He can’t be dead.” I laid his head down and broke out in uncontrollable sobs. “Wayne. Oh no, no, no not Wayne.”
(He’s gone, Cookie.)
Before I knew it, a procession of liberated womanoids marched into the road to retrieve the body.
“Nooooo!” I screamed at the paper dolls. “No, you can’t take him like you did Paula.”
Six paper dolls lifted his coffin, and I furiously pummeled any woman I could get my hands on. But they all ignored me, and then the entire pink army began chanting in my head.
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
I fell to my knees with grief. The pallbearers carried the casket to the driveway, and all the other paper dolls followed in the uphill march to the castle. When I got to my feet and chased after the funeral procession, Isabel suddenly sent a dessert recipe directly into my head.
Obligated to confirm completed uploads, I stopped and said, “I’ve got your recipe for sopapillas. Thank you, Isabel.”
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
My friend was determined to keep me away, so she sent more recipes.
“Tres leches. Excellent.” Frozen in the middle of the road, I pled with her, “I thought we were friends, Isabel. Why are you doing this to me?”
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
Instead of an answer, I got another recipe.
“Great. Caramel-topped flan. Got it. Isabel, please, stop!”
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
I’d hoped for mercy, but all at once, the entire pink army flooded my mind with dessert recipes. This sugary distributed-denial-of-service attack continued for so long that I couldn’t remember what I was trying to do anymore. My response cue got so overwhelmed that it spun my processor like an endless pinwheel. I didn’t even know where I was anymore.
“Churros.” I tried one last time to appeal to my friend, “Guh-got it, Isabel. Help me, pluh-pluh-please.”
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
{His name was Wayne Dixon.}
Everyone. Please stop. It HURTS. No muh-more. PLEASE! It hurts to-two-too-to muh-much.
CONNECTION LOST.