Shadow Memories: A Novel (The Singularity Conspiracy Book 1) Page 7

  Memory

  There was Cassie, standing like this was normal.

  Well, not quite. But she was handling this situation with more poise then I was.

  Because me, well, I was about ready to dial up the looney bin for an extended stay. I must’ve swallowed too much water during my fall off the cliffs. Brain damage from the car accident.

  Hell, maybe I was dead, experiencing the Rapture.

  Lights blinked alongside this—this thing’s—side. It was a smooth metal craft, maybe ten feet high. Wide. That wasn’t what was special, though.

  The metal moved, like it had a pulse. And inside, illuminated by all the dials, was a creature. Not like anything I’d ever seen before.

  I raised myself off the ground and took a step towards the downed craft. Wisps of smoke trailed from its back, disappearing a few feet above. The thing moaned and spoke in some indecipherable tongue. I placed another foot towards it, and the whole apparatus shuddered.

  I jumped back.

  “The hell is this,” I said, “a joke? You’re joking, right?”

  Cassie didn’t respond, and the craft kept making noise in low, muted bursts. I garnered up the courage to sidle up next to it. I reached out and touched it.

  The metal felt like skin. Soft, malleable. Not cold. Alive.

  I peered inside what could be considered a cockpit. A smooth head, bent over, smashed against the glass-like window, held in by its straps. A human being. Dead, or close to it.

  No movement, at least not on the inside. The spacecraft continued its lament.

  “That’s what you were doing on the computer,” I said, turning to face Cassie, “but how…?”

  She still didn’t have any answers; at least, none that she was willing to share.

  Then the thing said something I could understand.

  “Help me.” The words were crisp, clean, no dialect. Pure English. And then, with a shake and a stutter, the craft stopped moving.

  “That was the guy, right,” I said. “Tell me that was the guy.”

  Cassie didn’t have a response. She looked ready to search for a padded room herself, after those two words.

  “Uh, Cass,” I said. “Now would be a good time to know what the hell’s going on.”

  She extracted her curved blade and went around the back, jabbing it into the hull with a squishy noise.

  “Got its flight recorder,” she said, returning with what looked like a clump of blood and guts, then stomping it beneath her boot, “now we need to make it disappear for a couple hours. It can’t be out here.” I looked at her like she was crazy. I wasn’t a trained magician, but I was unsure how we were going to dematerialize a massive spacecraft with a wave of our hands.

  She began to gather up rocks from the beach’s craggy ridges. I followed her lead, unsure what they were meant for, but choosing to play along. Once we’d made a respectable pile next to the wreckage, she smashed the glass—it must’ve been just that—on the front with a sharp jab of her elbow. And then she began filling the cockpit up.

  It took about ten, fifteen trips to find enough stones to weigh that thing down, but we managed. Covered in sweat, I collapsed on the cool beach, exhausted. I wasn’t cut out for making people disappear. I’d have made a terrible hit man.

  Cassie sat down beside me and said nothing. A little while later, she stood up.

  “Now the real fun begins.”

  She leaned into the back of the craft and started pushing. I got up and did the same, my body about ready to give up the ghost for good. After heaving for a few moments, the ship careened onto its side and started rolling down the gentle hill towards the ocean.

  “Aren’t all the rocks going—” I said, but I caught a glimpse of the cockpit in the moonlight, and the glass was back, like nothing had happened at all. “What the…” But I didn’t have time to ponder that. My depleted muscles were needed to keep this thing rolling.

  We did it until the tide lapped at our ankles, and we kept going until a good head of saltwater was covering the thing up.

  Cassie exited and started walking back.

  “Isn’t it going to wind up on the beach again?” I asked, hurrying to catch up to her. “We didn’t get it out very far.”

  “It’ll be gone in two hours,” she said, “we just need to make sure it stays hidden until then.”

  And we watched, scanning for strangers that might not be cool with seeing a UFO. None came.

  That is, unless you counted the bright light that blinded everything out. I checked my watch. An hour and fifty-eight minutes.

  These guys, whoever they were, didn’t play around.

  I was set to ask for an explanation, but I fell asleep the instant my body hit the truck’s passenger seat.

  26

  Smash and Leave

  The next morning, I awoke in the truck. I did a double take at the new office door, went up the steps and turned the knob. Locked.

  It felt stupid to knock on the door to my own house, but that’s what I had to do. Thud. Pound.

  Nothing.

  My skills were coming in handy these days, and this lock, while new, wasn’t a test of my prowess. I was inside within half a minute. The place looked half presentable; better than it had in weeks. Fox yipped with joy once he noticed I’d returned.

  Terrible guard dog.

  I grabbed a beer from the fridge and walked about the apartment, inspecting the premises like a landlord about to give back a security deposit. Everything looked in order, more or less. The TV stand was still barren, and my heart dropped—just a little—when I realized that.

  But my—our, rather—twenty-five grand was on the table. I took off a sheath of bills. Some shopping was necessary.

  Before I did, though, I spied her laptop, open and unlocked on the table. Couldn’t hurt to check what was going on. I clicked past a couple ads—free pussy, free poker—and opened up a mysterious new program on the desktop. Password protected. But from the design of the window, I could tell it was the same thing that had gone off like a tornado siren the night before.

  The figurine sat next to the computer. I tapped it, listening for hollow points, secret compartments. Nothing.

  I shifted my eyes back and forth.

  Then I smashed it against the ground.

  Inside was the same metallic substance I’d felt the night before. Soft, like skin. And I could have sworn, just as it hit the ground, the thing had let out a tiny, inaudible shriek. Christ, I needed to get my head checked.

  On the screen, a notice flashed, replete with some warning lights. I read the message aloud.

  “Beacon destroyed. Please dispose of ASAP.” And then it spit some numbers out. Took me a moment, but I realized they were the coordinates to the office, where the coyote-mountain lion-whatever the hell it was lay in shattered glory on my faux-parquet. I was about to close the laptop when it spit out another message.

  “Please secure other five Beacons. Contact other Guardians.”

  Lest I be whisked away by blinding lights, I figured that it was time to get out of there. Even if the little—rather big—green men weren’t going to be pissed about it, Cassie sure as hell was.

  I brushed the stuff under the couch, feeling the strange organic material even through my sneaker, then jetted.

  If I was going to stay in the middle of this shit, I needed to be better prepared.

  27

  Full Tour

  Bayside Boogie was an escort service set up just down the road from Seaside Heights. Out here, that meant about ten miles. In between, there wasn’t much. A roadside diner, the type of place that seemed caught in the wrong decade.

  Other than that, it was sandy roads, sad looking trees, and this majestic, straight-outta-Vegas neon sign offering girls, good times and a steady flow of drugs and booze.

  And
guns. Which wasn’t on the sign, but I’d heard rumors.

  I pulled into the gravel parking lot. At about one in the afternoon, there wasn’t much happening. A couple sad souls were hanging out here, but the vast lot—which must have been a bitch to clear out—was sparse, a mere suggestion of what it would become later that night.

  I stepped out of the truck and hit the gravel, kicking up dirt and dust. Felt like I was in the Old West.

  Out here, the scent of salt was replaced by one of, well, not much at all. There was what looked like the beginnings of a haunted mansion, only instead of lots of spooky windows and cobwebs, the whole place was alight. If the entrance sign was garish, the neon garnish within was criminal.

  I went in the front door and sat down on a red plush seat, trying to keep my mind from the activities that had no doubt transpired in the waiting room. A bell on the door chimed to announce my presence, but it took a bit for a tired looking girl to greet me.

  “I’m Crystal,” she said, eyelids heavy with raccoon paint, “our menu.”

  She handed me a brochure and turned on a too-tall heel to leave.

  “Hold up,” I said, tossing the catalog of delightful titties and smiles on the seat beside me, “I’m here about something else.”

  She froze, like what was going to follow wouldn’t be good. “What are you hear about, sugar?”

  I could see a slight tremble in her spray-tanned leg as I stood and walked over to her.

  “I need to talk to the owner.”

  “Mr. Barston isn’t here right now,” she said, relaxing, “but if you’d like to…”

  “I know he’s here,” I said, not knowing at all, “and I need to see him. I got money. For, you know.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, and hurried off through the gold-trimmed double doors. I considered sitting back down, but I was too amped to be still. My bluff had worked. I was just beginning to congratulate myself when two big dudes marched through where Crystal had exited and latched their tree trunk arms around me.

  “Hey now, guys,” I said, trying to break free, dragging my sneakers against the patchy carpeting, “this is just a business visit.” They dragged me through the double doors, which opened on to a foyer with a large spiral stairwell. Like they were carrying a sack of groceries, they hauled me up the steps. My protests seemed to be falling on deaf ears. “Look, you know what, I rethought the situation,” I said as they threw me through a heavy wooden door that screamed executive, “I’m okay with not seeing…”

  “You were saying,” a deep voice said from behind the desk. All I could see were his shoes. The big guys retreated from where they’d come, leaving me alone on the floor, licking my wounded pride. I couldn’t imagine they were more than shout away, in case I had any funny business up my sleeve.

  Not that I did. Just normal business, of a crooked variety.

  “Well,” I said, addressing the man’s shoe, “I was asking the fine young lady downstairs—”

  “Crystal?” He snorted. “That broad has sucked more trash than all the vacuums in America.”

  “Oh,” I said, still trying the tactful route, “Crystal said that…” I stopped. Crystal hadn’t said anything, and I wasn’t sure lying again was the right way to start off this relationship. It’d already proven rocky.

  “Get up, get up you dumbass,” the voice boomed, “it’s like talking to a lap dog from down there.” I did as I was told. “Good.”

  The man in the chair eyed me up and down. Older, but still formidable—his presence, if not his posture. The giant throne-like seat threatened to swallow up his thin frame. But every pore oozed fire and confidence. His blue eyes burned like sapphires, the centerpiece of an oval, clean-shaven head.

  And those eyes, they were right on me. I wanted to look away, but it seemed like that was too much pride to swallow. So I sucked it up, and instead felt like my soul was burning.

  “Yeah,” I said, “so I’m guessing—”

  “Ben Barston,” he said, shooting out a hand, more business-like and automatic than kind, “owner of Bayside Boogie, the finest local purveyor of pussy.” He grinned at this last bit—or at least, a hint of the grin. It seemed a struggle for his body to generate even that much happiness.

  “Just the man I was looking for,” I said, and then I got bold, “can I sit down?”

  “No.”

  I stood there, hooking and unhooking my thumbs. “Okay, then I guess I’ll say it from here.”

  “You’d better,” he said, “those boys downstairs, they’ve been itching for a fight. Shortage of drunk assholes.”

  “Oh, business is down?”

  “No, idiots are down. Good for me, bad for them. Although today, they seem to be making a comeback.” He looked at me with those eyes. “Your business.”

  “I need weapons. A gun. A couple guns.” The words spilled out, stiff, unnatural.

  “Interesting.”

  “I got cash.” I pulled it out and showed it to him, but held on to it. Not that I could keep it from his Samoan tag-team wrestling duo if I wanted to.

  “Also interesting.”

  “Someone wants to hurt me.”

  “That’s why people want protection.” He eyed me up, like he was trying to determine my character. “You got a reference?”

  “I just heard…”

  Whatever opening was there closed up, his features going cold. “I don’t know what you heard,” he said, “but I deal in pussy. That’s it. And I think it’s time for you to leave.” He got up, and although he didn’t even reach my breastbone, I took a few steps backwards.

  “They’ll kill us,” I said, “they’ll kill me, and they’ll kill Cassie. And I can deal with me, but—”

  “What’d you just say?”

  I wiped my eyes. I think I was almost crying. “I said that they’ll kill me.”

  “I could give a fuck about you. Who’s this Cassie?” His eyes sparkled with curiosity.

  “Cassie Atwood.”

  He let out a low whistle, and now a real grin—dusty as all hell, having been in the attic for years—came across his face. He stepped out from the desk and walked over. I tensed up, unsure if he was going to crush my balls or hug me.

  He did neither. Just gave me a real handshake. “Damn, why didn’t you say so? What’s your name?”

  “Desmond. Uh, Kurt Desmond.”

  “Hot damn, so you’re him,” he said, his eyes losing a tiny bit of luster, “not much to look at. I think she could’ve done better. You’re a bit of a vagina, to be honest, kid.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Just my point. You’re thanking me when you should be threatening to kick my teeth in.”

  “Well, your protection—”

  “Whatever, whatever. You seem like a decent sort. But Cassie Atwood, that girl. How’s she doing? You said she was in trouble?” He looked at me, as if willing me to speak. “Let’s hear it, Desmond. Say your bit.” He sat back down and propped his well-shined leather shoes up on the oak desk.

  “I don’t know the full details,” I said, “but this guy promised us forty grand to do a job. Find an old cave.” I could see his face twinge, but Barston didn’t interject. “And when we found it—when she found it, Otto, that’s the client’s name, he had the jump on us. Was going to kill us, but then…well, some other shit happened. But he still wants us in the ground.”

  “Say no more, say no more,” Barston said, hopping up from the desk. “I know enough about that crazy shit her old man was into, and I don’t need to know no more. Bad for my health, bad for my mind, bad for business.”

  “Her old man?”

  “Yeah, Shadow was part of some secret ancient group or some bullshit.”

  “How’d you know him?”

  “Boy,” he said, “how do you think I know anyone?”

  Pussy.
Of course.

  I nodded, and he came over, arm extended. “Money.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and took an envelope out from my pocket. “Here it is.”

  He peeked inside and tossed it in a random drawer, like it was the change from his fast food order.

  “Okay,” he said, “what do you need?”

  “What do you have?”

  A glint crept into his eyes.

  “Allow me to give you the full tour.”

  28

  Odds

  A trip to the basement and two or three false doors later, and I was standing in what could best be described as an armory. Or, the biggest damn illicit gun emporium I’d ever run eyes across.

  Not that I’d seen one before, so it was the winner by default. But still, the point stood: this place was impressive.

  Floor-to-ceiling assault rifles, handguns and other assorted firearms stood on wire racks—and that was just the least interesting wall. On the other three stood the more colorful variants: grenades of all shapes, explosives, rocket launchers and some stuff that I couldn’t even identify.

  “Nice collection,” I said after surveying the goods, trying to pretend like I knew what I was looking at, “how much for one of those?”

  I had my arm outstretched towards a rack of shotguns. Pump action. I knew that, from all the times my old man had told me why he slept with it on his chest.

  Real reliable gal, he would say, putting in the fire engine red shells one by one, blow a man clean away.

  That about did it for bonding. Maybe it was nostalgia or just because everything else looked so damn intimidating. But the shotgun, menacing in its nondescript, functional, inky steel, was the ticket.

  “I can give you one of those,” Barston said, “and I’ll throw in one of these for good measure.” He handed me a pistol. “.38 revolver. Load it up with some hollow points and it’ll blow your goddamn brains clear across the wall.” He made an explosion noise and spread his hands out, simulating a big boom.