SIABW - Chapter 17

(Index)

...I’m still trying to scream in total terror when a suddenly uncooperative throat inconveniences this pursuit. I stop banging around, and send out a few feelers to work out what’s up. The pain in my head and stomach has ceased completely.

Cautiously, I climb out from under a heavy blanket of insanity, feeling exposed and silly to be wearing it now. I stare at blurry whiteness. Blinking is not possible. I must be paralysed. Even my eyelids won’t obey me. Using all my concentration I force them to move, and control the path of each eyelid down and then up.

That brain stabbing device has severely messed me up; worse than usual.

Completing the blink does not bring anything into focus. That thought brings the ceiling zooming crazily in and out until I tell it to stop.

A strong sense of déjà vu layers this reaction I’m having. Not the unreality of losing my memory; this time I’m totally siezed inside myself. Maybe this is what a coma feels like. An unending existence of nothingness.

“If you’ve quite finished freaking out so melodramatically, maybe we could discuss what you are doing INSIDE MY SYTH?”

The shock of this very close voice breaks a lock on my numb neck. It creaks as I turn it to look around. Across from me is another body-form bed. I’m lying on it, pasty white and still... Uhhhhh, wait a minute, this is weird. Why am I looking at myself?

“Who... said that? Is that me?”

“You’re that truck driver aren’t you? This is Government property. I’ll see you prosecuted. I’ll have you deleted like so much corrupt data.”

What the hell is he talking about? Sounds like that creepy doctor.

These blurry eyeballs roll about loosely doing their best to find the source of the voice from my prone position.

There’s no one near me. Even mother has disappeared again.

“Who is that speaking? I demand to know what is going on. I cannot see. Has something gone wrong with the transferral?”

Oh shit! Another voice; distinctly different. Have I finally gone properly mad? Having my brain drilled could do that I suppose. The second voice sounds as frightened as me, yet contains an inbred arrogant; used to being obeyed. The doctor replies to it formally; deferential in his speech.

“Sir! I am your data technician, code name Zachariah. Your emergency procedure was interrupted by a series of unfortunate incidents. I was damaged in a hijacking attempt and have arranged to transfer myself to your Synth in order to protect your PDF. It appears my ‘assistant’ has blundered rather severely. Somehow all of us have been transferred.”

“Preposterous! Isn’t that dangerous? Mind integration! I don’t want to integrate with you people.”

“That has crossed my mind. Did you partition the Personality Data Files? Driver!”

He’s shouting at me again. I find it quite irritating.

“I don’t know. And my name’s Sam. The guy that was gut-shot, remember? Not that you cared. I used the bed to diagnose myself... and then...”

“Jesus Christ! It’s like putting a monkey in charge. I’ll handle this, Sir. I have participated in opts requiring multiple personality downloads to a single Synth before and had no ill-effects. It’s an approved procedure, though not usually done under these circumstances. Driver! I order you to transfer dominance to me.”

“No, Tech. I demand dominance. This is my Synthetic.”

Bloody Hell, they’re going to fight over this body.

“Sir! I respectfully refuse. We have a situation here. We are still under attack and it is my duty to protect you. I cannot do that in an advisory capacity.”

It’s slowly coming together for me; and I dislike the scenario more and more by the second.

Mother! She’s transferred me and the other two minds in the data banks into this Synthetic. I look at the poor old body I’ve been yanked from and my brain whirls unhelpfully. Some things never change. The other two are still chattering away, leaving me out as I should expect.

“Give me you most basic sit-rep. Am I in danger?”

“Yes, sir. Hi-jackers; possibly for your assassination.”

“Very well, Tech. I am too important to risk. You have my authorisation to command this vessel!”

Although still circling the drain of insanity I almost laugh at his cowardly, abrupt change of heart.

“Upload me immediately, and transfer the PDF to...!”

Zachariah interrupts.

“Sir! Do not divulge that information. We have a civilian here. I will do as you ask as soon as I regain dominance.”

“Oh, ahh yeah. Hello? Is this thing on?”

“Yes, moron, we can hear you. Stop thinking so loudly. You have zero self-discipline. I’ll give you one last chance to redeem yourself. Go to the terminal. I’ll have this situation fixed in an hour or two.”

“Do as he says, Driver. That is a direct order from the Supreme Command Group.”

Impressive. To someone who gives a shit.

“I’m not in the army.”

“I will not tolerate insubordination. You will be shot.”

“Well! Incentive to help you out... gone.”

Being a smart arse never got me very far in life, but what do I have to lose.

There’s a gap in the chatter as they are both stymied by my lack of concern. They begin muttering quietly between themselves, although I can eavesdrop on the mixed conversation.

“He is too unpredictable. Find a way to make him cooperate. Threatening him isn’t going to work. Fix this or you know what will happen.”

Closing them out is as easy as wishing it to be so. I need some time to consider my position.

I’ve been transferred to another body! Get your head around that one Sammy-boy.

Although my own over-weight, beat up body isn’t much to look at, I feel a perverse need to be safely back inside it. It’s mine; for better or for worse.

Maybe I can get the doc to repair my body and then I can upload both of these people. Data can’t hurt me. Worth a try.

“Hey! Ok. I want me out of here as much as you two do. But you better come up a better deal than killing me. First fix my body.”

Seeing a simple way out, they are suddenly most agreeable; keen to get the maniac away from the steering wheel.

“Agreed.”

“Agreed. Get up.”

“I have other conditions.”

I just haven’t had time to put together a list yet.

“We must move quickly. We’ll give you whatever you want.”

Yeah, right now they’ll agree to any damn thing but it’s bound to be a different story when I no longer have the upper hand.

“How? This thing is locked up.”

“That's just a safely feature to prevent damage and accidental deaths while the subject acclimatises to the body. The Synth will pick up the dominant’s intention. Concentrate hard. Try to sit up.”

“Oh, wow, we’re flying.”

“At least one of us is dominant. I was rather worried you’d transferred us all without it. Now, get a hold of yourself. Adjusting to the POV takes days of training in one of these vessels. You’ve got minutes. Now concentrate!”

“Ohhh, moving is really effortless. This thing is so strong.”

“Be very careful. It is military spec; very powerful. You’ll crush items without meaning to. All you have to do is get us to the computer and everything will be back to normal for you.”

If Zachariah gets hold of my data file my erasure is imminent.

“That simply is not true. You can trust the word of a General. We will keep our promises.”

Shit. He can hear everything I think. This is not a good way to comprise a covert plan. Lalalalalalalalalalala.

Christ now even I can’t think. How can I keep these two dangerous men at arm’s length? It’s a difficult proposition with us all crammed in here at once.

A burst of static goes through my brain and I clutch at my ear. The static becomes a crackling, hissing sound.

I can hear!

I smell burning.

I can smell! Very clearly. In fact a breakdown of the air’s molecules is scrolling across one eyeball until I think it to stop.

I feel cool.

I can feel! Actually I feel good! Strong. I swing the Synthetic legs over the side of the table in much the same way I would with my own. Through my new, perfect eyes I see a shower of spark erupting from the end of a burnt line.

We’re well out of time. The attackers are cutting their way in.

I wobble over to my old body. It does not look in good shape at all. The face is all puffy and red, the skin is turning grey and my mouth hangs open moronically.

I think I'm dead...

Chapter 18 - Coming Soon.

SIABW - Chapter 16

(Index)

Weary, pained and high as a kite, I lower myself onto a low-backed swivel stool. I could use some reassurance, medical attention and sympathy right now. There’s none to be had from the very old, fat-gutted, shrivel-faced dead guy; the Synthetic doctor is coldly indifferent to my existence; leaving the inactive Synthetic, my absent mother and the men outside with the machine guns.

The persons on this list have effectively zero interest in me, except as a target or their whipping boy.

I hold my bleeding belly and groan; deeply depressed.

The doctor is untroubled by my torture. He has retracted the bed’s cushioning from around the old man and shoves the body onto the floor. I wince at the sound of loose flesh slapping against the metal plate and soften my groans in case similar treatment is directed at me.

A muffled boom of another RPG rocks the trailer on its suspension reminding us that Ernest and his crew haven’t forgotten about us; and they are eager to get in.

The doctor positions himself on the vacated bed which reinflates to enclose him with two words; ‘Prescribe - diagnose’.

“My body is failing. There’s no time to program an auto-run, you’ll have to assist.”

“Huh?”

“That Synthetic is for the recently deceased General Liang down there. Fortunately he’s still in psycho-stasis since the transfer was not initiated. I will be making use of it instead.”

I look at the naked, ancient body sprawled on the floor.

“Really? You can swap bodies? Isn’t he gunna be pissed when he finds out you took his?”

I’m accepting this premise of mind transference with casualness normally difficult to pull off. However, these drugs allow me to calmly accept an alien landing or a monster appearing from another dimension right this second.

“There’s ample memory space in these data banks to hold up to twenty minds. He’ll get a new Synthetic after we relocate to a more secure clinic. Now shut up! We’re out of time. I need you to perform several post-operative processes.”

“Ummm, what?”

“Can you please use as much of your miniscule intelligence as possible for a few minutes? It is merely a matter of following the prompts. Not overly taxing, even for Sub-IQ. Or perhaps you’d like me to put you out of your quite obvious misery, and ask your mother in here instead.”

Insulted and afraid, I straighten against the fiery pain that spreads against the medicating flow of drugs through my system.

“I’m not a Sub-IQ...”

“Shut up! New subject, patient commands, terminal override until unconscious. Refresh data capture cycle, set neuron activity at conscious, pain suppression on, imminent death.”

Hopefully he isn’t talking to me because I don’t have a clue what any of that means. The black hugger-helmet suspended above him is attuned to these commands. It unfolds thickly cushioned, stumpy tentacles and silently lowers itself from the roof, dragging coils of thick cabling down with it. The helmet’s padded fingers reach the doctor’s skin, and it feels its way around his head until properly positioned. Only his face is left exposed.

I’m torn between staying silent and voicing a last, very important question I have.

My dithering dance of indecision is hard to ignore.

“For Christ’s sake, what is it?”

“Well, umm I was just wondering... what about me? I’m shot.”

He makes a valiant attempt to allay my fears.

“Yes. Of course, you’ll need tending. Do as I say, and when I am revived in about thirty minutes, I’ll take care of your little problem. Good enough?”

I nod unhappily. I’ve been ‘taken care of’ before.

“Listen closely; no, wait, you’ve get the brain of a scrambled maggot; get something to write with. I’ll do most of the steps, but once the electrodes are inserted, I won’t be able to complete the procedure.”

A cursory rustle through files lying about the bench behind me uncovers a stylus, but the clipboard with the pressure sensitive plastic is out of arm’s reach. Too bad, I’m not moving.

“OK. Go.”

“Press the options in this order. ‘Upload’, wait for ‘upload complete’ to come up. Select ‘transfer to host’ and ‘confirm’. Got it? A child could do it. It’s just a few buttons. Do this correctly and you’ll be well rewarded, I’ll owe you my life.”

Oh, the sincerity. We’re to be best buddies now too?

I busy myself scratching the initials of each option into the monitor frame. Before I can spin the chair around to ask him to repeat the steps I’m pre-empted by the arrival of a critical state. A machine attached to the bed beeps urgently.

“Organ failure! Upload! Upload!”

I jump at his shout and jab the upload option repeatedly. I turn back to watch in fearful fascination as the helmet contracts tighter around his head. A giant robotic arm swings smoothly from its cabinet above me, unfolding its limbs and displaying its sharp tools and attachments. In any other circumstance this type of activity would make me run. I do roll the chair backwards until I reach a safe corner in case it decides I am more interesting than its newest patient.

The arm extends an orb to scan the doctor’s head closely. It then selects a slim drill bit which extends from one finger-like digit. The drill spins up to speed with a high pitched whine, hinting at what is about to occur. I’m about to cover my eyes when by the arm jerks forward to rapidly drill a series of holes, with great speed and dexterity, into the doctor’s skull.

The procedure only takes several seconds and the artificial man grimaces throughout. Flaps open in the body of the helmet and thin electrodes extend and are neatly dipped into the bloody holes. His face writhes through the gamut of human emotions as they are deeply embedded.

Suddenly the doctor’s body arcs and then flops in a relaxation only death can deliver.

The whole exercise looked pretty painful, even for a Synthetic.

The weapon he clutched clatters to the floor from nerveless fingers. As soon as the robotic arm packs its equipment away and refolds itself I sidle over and pick it up; delicately; expecting it to go off with a wrong touch. I place it gently on a bench, pointing away from me.

Then I wait while the complex machinery processes a human brain. It literally hums with power and the air warms noticeably as heat pumps overwhelm the cooling system. Finally, a quiet descends and briskly turning fans slow. The helmet releases its grip and retracts the wires from the Synthetic doctor’s brain as it lifts.

It occurs to me that I’m in a room full of corpses.

So, is that it? What an anti-climax.

I return to the terminal. The screen flickers with several options and confirmations. ‘Upload complete, patient deceased, mind transfer ready to initiate, confirm multiple subject packaging, partitioning, multiple channel mode, dominance.’

Shit. He never mentioned all this crap. The initials I’ve scratched into the monitor don’t equate to any of these options.

‘Power supply low’ is counting down a flashing timer in one corner of the screen.

‘Fifteen minutes.’

Damn. The power cell is being sucked dry rapidly now that the computers are off the turbine’s teat. I better hurry if I’m to complete the transfer so he can fix me up. Under pressure to perform I shrug and press ‘Confirm’.

I look worriedly at the Synthetic for advice. It doesn’t move or blink.

Another option flickers into life. ‘Partitioning’.

Indecisively I tap at the screen and it obliges by rolling over several more options.

‘Multi-channel mode’.

Shit, what? Hell, that’s not right. Where’s the ‘back’ button.

There is none. I push on, trying to beat the countdown.

‘Dominance’.

I waver and then press ‘yes’ twice, since there is no ‘whatever’ button.

‘Deliver Multi-Transfer’ blinks on the screen for a second and then disappears, leaving a very slow moving progress bar to begin a long crawl across the screen.

Relieved my duty to him has ended I am mildly confused at exactly what I’d just done. I do not ponder it for long; I’ve got better things to do, like looking after myself. Having watched the doctor initiate his own scans I’m sure I can get this equipment to at least medicate me. That way I’ll be ready for the doctor to rip this bullet out when he rises from the dead.

I get up, shuffle over to the bed and bend over the doctor’s damaged Synthetic. A few presses on the bedside buttons make the cushioning material retract. I shove the broken body off the bed to land on top of the General, and lie down in its place.

I strain to remember the commands to activate it. What was the first thing the doctor had said?

“Prescribe?”

The bed closes around me tightly. Oh, good, something I’ve done has worked. A screen above me reacts attentively; awaiting orders.

“Diagnose.”

The bed takes readings from my body and delivers them for my viewing pleasure. It also finds the bullet lodged in my stomach without being prompted and displays an ultra-sonic picture of it. The foreign object is highlighted, and now that I can see the hot little bee it makes itself felt more acutely.

“New subject, patient commands.”

The screen prompt faithfully checks off these options.

“Fix me! ... Repair! ... Medicate! ...”

These non-jargon commands are ignored. I fall back on the doctor’s previous commands. Throwing caution to the wind I repeat his steps, figuring an option useful to me must be amongst them.

“Umm, refresh data capture cycle, neuron activity at conscious, high pain, imminent death.”

The hugger helmet lowers towards my face like an enormous spider.

“Oh shit. Back up. Whoah. Wait a minute!”

It reaches my face, firmly grasping my cheeks to immobilise my frantically shaking head. The stubby tentacles touch and probe, and inexorably slide around to grip the top of my skull tightly.

“Do NOT stab my brain!”

“Who ya talkin to?”

Mother chooses this moment to reappear.

“Ma! Shit, I’m stuck. Don’t touch anything!”

“Don’t touch what? Oh, that nasty man is dead is he? Who’s that under him? What ya done now?”

She moves away from the corpses and hovers at the terminal I’d recently been operating, examining the screen myopically.

“Ma?”

Her finger is hovering intently.

“Whassamatter?”

“Is there a ‘release’ option on the screen? Tell me what it says but don’t touch anything.”

“No. It says ‘Repeat procedure for new subject’ an a whole bunch of ovver junk. Where’s the 3D? Ahh, this must be it. ‘Upload’ might get the satellite.”

“It’s not a fucken 3D. Don’t touch UPLOAD!”

Either her touch or my shout causes the helmet to brace my head even tighter while the robotic arm unlimbers from its cabinet. The buzz of the high speed drill turns my blood to ice and I scream so loud something tears in my throat. I’m spitting blood and the drill hasn’t even touched me yet.

It whines and purrs around the back of my head and I am fully aware what is about to happen. That knowledge does not lessen the electric fire that blasts into my brain along with the stabbing drill bit, but it does perfect my shrieks...

Chapter 17

SIABW - Chapter 15

(Index)

“Didn’t think ye’d lose me just like that didya, Sammy, ya little fucker?”

Oh, Christ. It’s Ernest; crouched and pointing a weapon at me. He’s looking very pleased with himself, if a little worse for wear.

“Weren’t easy ta get these lads together on such short notice but its surprising what ya can come up with when someone blows up their relatives.”

I’ve started a family vendetta. The possibility of forgiveness drops below nil.

“I want to be the one who blows your fat, fucken head off, Sammy. But first I’m gunna shoot you in the balls for trying to kill me.”

Ernest duck-walks under the fuel tanks, holding the laser sight very steadily between my eyes. For the first time I feel that the option of being shot in the face is a preferable one. Ernest gets close enough that I smell his charred, dusty clothes. Obviously he hadn’t been far from the truck when he’d triggered the bomb.

And now, here he is, preparing to kill me for the second time today. A soft scraping noise interrupts his enjoyment. Still mesmerised by the gun barrel that has lowered far enough to castrate me, I look out the corner of my eye. The distraction that lends me a few extra seconds of manhood is a panel gliding open very quietly beneath the first trailer.

Ernest points a finger at me and then presses it against his lips. I promise to remain statue-like. A scared, unhappy statue clutching its testicles.

Our friendly escort from the warehouse dips his head through the opening and reacts as lithely as a cat when Ernest raises his weapon. The guard drops flat onto the ground and fires a stubby machine gun. Ernest responds by emptying a clip on full auto.

Mother chooses this crazy moment to either fall or jump out of the engine bay. She lands on Ernest’s back and claws at his face, screeching about betrayal and revenge.

Bullets bounce off the road and undercarriage, zipping around me like hornets. Then the world explodes again. Our rescuer cops the worst of another RPG which detonates directly behind him. The blast flattens the rest of us as well. My ears ring but I crawl away from the fire and acrid smoke and poke my head between a set of tyres into clear air.

I’m faced with the hopelessness of our situation. Organised men with guns surround our wreckage, and they are moving in. They see my frozen rabbit crouch.

“That’s the fucker! Kill im, so we can go home.”

My identity confirmed, they shoot. Bullets ping off the side of the trailer and a fist slams into my stomach throwing me back under the rig.

I’m doubled over in unbelievable pain!

It wasn’t a fist, there’s a bullet hole in my shirt. There’s a corresponding bullet hole in my stomach. God, it hurts! Blood seeps, then dribbles from the hole.

I’ve got a bullet in me!

I could die!

Eventually the firing stops. I hear them reloading and decide not to wait around. Crawling; trailing blood; I drag myself towards the trailers in the direction mother has gone. I pass by Ernest who is moaning from his second concussion in a matter of hours. He is clutching at his torn face, courtesy of mother’s sharp fingernails.

Speaking of mother, I see her jump up into the hole our guard dropped out of. I scrape the skin from my hands and knees in a crawling race towards the closing panel; jamming my fingers in the gap to prevent it closing.

“Ma, ma! I been shot. Don’t lock me out! MA!”

She hesitates. There’s a small chance she will stomp my fingers. The bitch actually hesitates before tugging the trap door open again.

“Oh, hurry up then. Stupid boy! Why ya always getting yourself hurt?”

I’d love to know that myself.

I lunge upwards and flop halfway in, landing on my stomach. I scream, of course. Mother flutters about pulling at my hair and treading on my grasping fingers; this must be her way of helping. None of what she does hurts more than the fiery bullet wound in my guts though. I buck and push with weakening legs but the blood spreading under me is slippery and I can’t get my hips over the edge.

I come to a standstill, breathing hard. I’ve collected the last of my strength to throw a knee at the edge of the hole when a hand grips my ankle and pulls me back. I screech some more and look down. It’s our guard. He’s in a bad way. One eye is hanging out and his clothes are torn and bloody.

“Driver?”

I nod; fixated on the weapon pointed at me.

“Both of you. Help me up there.”

Since he holds that gun in an iron grip I decide not to use his face as a step. He uses me as a ladder however, and drags himself up my body. Mother’s token tugs at his sleeve are shaken off. Even badly injured he has the strength of a horse. I see him contemplate shoving me out the hatch. But a spray of bullets that zing around my legs gives him the impetus to grip my belt and drag me bodily into the trailer.

Mother slams the panel closed and looks us over for a few moments not knowing what to say.

“Looks like ya both gonna’s to me.”

Mother has all the bedside manner of a mortician. She backs away from the bloody pool leaking from me and slips through a door into the next compartment; probably looking for something to steal. I’m left alone with the dying guard.

It’s quite dim in here. An odd hospital smell of antiseptic, metal and ozone are the pervading odours. Everything is shiny; stainless steel, glass and plastic. Banks of unidentifiable instruments and machinery with one end of the compartment closed off by a pair of smoked glass door. Shut tight.

“This body is too badly damaged. You’ll have to help me.”

“Can’t. I’m hurt too. Got shot.”

His single remaining eye glitters strangely in the mess that used to be his face. His total disinterest in my injuries evident. I stop pointing at the tiny bullet hole in my belly, meekly conceding his wounds are much worse than mine. His legs are shredded meat. In fact, he should be dead.

I will be soon. My shirt front is sopping with blood and the area the bullet has disappeared into is hot and swollen. It pounds in time to my rapid heartbeat. But no one cares. I heave myself up in puffs and grunts, slower than a glacier; fearful the wrong movement will unzip my belly. Braced against a bench I lend the guard my arm and he rises, stoically accepting his pain.

He catches sight of himself in a large mirror and without further thought, locates a pair of scissors from a tray of surgical instruments. He picks up the remains of his eye and snips the trailing nerve bundle, showing as much emotion as plucking an errant nose hair.

Watching this act of self mutilation, and the professional way he plops the eye into a stainless steel basin, is shocking. But I’m already in a state of shock so instead of throwing up I swallow queasily, quite unwilling to bring on the pain contracting stomach muscles would bring.

“Are you a doctor?”

I ask in the hope he will take this bullet out.

“I have medical training, so yes, if you like.”

The doctor continues to root about amongst the instruments. He finds an umbilical-corded pistol-like object and loads it with an ampoule. Before I can stop him he presses it against my bicep and pulls the trigger twice. Tiny puffs pass a powerful pain reliever into my bloodstream, and my pain-locked muscles instantly relax.

He drops the injector and turns away, searching for something. I sag, almost overcome with pleasure before the feeling begins to level off. I grab the injector, and give myself three more puffs. It drops from numbed fingers.

Ohhhh, yeahhh. Now that’s more like it. That’s really nice. Dreamy, floaty, nice. Air waveringly, need somewhere to lie down and giggle helplessly, nice.

The doctor is annoyed.

“You fucking idiot! If you pass out you won’t be waking up. That I promise you.”

He slides me across the floor. My feet have become olden day sailing ships that float in different directions to each other. I knock over a rack of liquids and weird surgical instruments. The way they dive headlong at the floor, crashing and tinkling makes me burst out laughing.

“Ish thish a operashun feerter.”

I’m slurring drunkenly and this too makes me crack up until black thoughts intrude, quelling the mirth. This is a dissection lab. I’ve heard about them. Travelling freak shows, picking up vagrants to strip them of organs. They dice what’s left up for dog food.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

I’m struggling with him to get away.

“I don wanna be dog food. Lemme go ya big bully.”

“See this gun. Yes, it is up your nose. Now settle the fuck down. I need you to help me at the operating table.”

He removes the gun from my nostril after I have remained very still for several seconds. His aggression has ruined my trip. Rational thought is returning, mixed in with a lot of drug induced wooziness.

There is no operating table that I can recognise; just two extra deep body-form beds. They are behind the smoked glass doors at the back of the trailer and both are occupied. The closest contains the very still body of an elderly man.

The doctor slaps a bloody handprint on the scanner. The doors slide open releasing the smells of death and drain cleaner. I enter and admire the strikingly handsome adult male body in the farthest bed. Not that my sexuality leans in that directions but it is a perfect representation of what a man might aspire to be.

A bit like the guard. Hmm a lot like him.

“Hey, mannn! Issat your brovver?”

Their features are so similar they might be twins. Then I see its unfocused, silvery coloured eyes. Cybernetic organisms have eyes just like that!

Uh oh. Cyborgs. Evil, military toys, packed with every known method of death and destruction. The doctor is one as well. It’s obvious now.

And I’m locked in here with them. Psychotic murderers on the outside; and two killing machines inside.

Chapter 16

SIABW - Chapter 14

(Index)

The monster rig whines up to walking pace without further help from me; multiple gear changes clunk precisely in its guts. I’m immediately bored as my role is reduced to overseer, approving a checklist of processes that scroll up my HUD visor.

The software is similar to the on-line levelling games we’re encouraged to play. There are no critical decisions to make so I think this is more of a ‘dead man switch’ to ensure the driver is paying attention. Tick the boxes, fill the progress bars, and build reward points to exchange for drug injections.

Hmm. Free drugs.

Suddenly I am interested.

I’m getting quite good at clicking the vigilance button before it goes orange. The reward of an adrenaline shot is almost mine, only three more points... the glare of that global screensaver, ‘A Better World’ interrupts me. A communication request, forces through the ‘do not disturbs’ I’ve plastered onto every screen. I resent the intrusion, although I bite my tongue as our security agent’s face appears. A reminder of who is truly in control of my life, at the moment. Far from being the master here I’m still just the rat in their cage.

“Lucker! Watch the auxiliary power supply. Go to manual and ram your way out if you need to. Out!”

Ramming government property sounds like fun. Except I effectively have zero visibility through the bullet-proofed windscreen. It is a deep green slit, absolutely useless for vision.

“I can’t see shit!”

I’ve complained to myself but the artificial intelligence is very good at interpreting truck driver vernacular. A drop-down menu of cameras mounted around the rig and trailer rolls down the visor screen. I cycle through them and marvel at the size of the load I’m dragging. It’s as wide as the truck and segmented into several long compartments, like a steel-jointed caterpillar. A warning about the auxiliary power supply to the trailers is flashing. They draw a heavy, priority load from the rig’s turbine. I watch the turbine ramp up to service whatever it is they are doing back there.

We are slowing. A rear entrance security hut holds up a long, crawling line of other freighters trying to get out. Waiting at the back of a line is unacceptable; evacuation has been stipulated.

Daring to take control, I delicately grasp the pistol-grip joystick. How hard can it be to drive this thing anyway? I ease the stick forward and a big, ‘override’ message reminds me I’m in manual control of several hundred tonnes, being motivated by several thousand horsepower. I tilt the stick sideways and the rig jerks out of line and roars down beside the waiting machines in the wrong lane.

Hoping our minder can adequately explain my actions later, I continue to gain speed. The fancy pendulum gates are no match for the Stannick’s reinforced front. We smash through without slowing. I travel a long way in the empty incoming lane until a break in the traffic island allows me to rejoin other vehicles fleeing towards the interstate motorway.

Experiencing the power of the rig, the turbines hearty wail, and the belching dark exhaust that plumes into the sky with each movement of the joystick is quite intoxicating. It’s an extremely touchy beast however, and I am under-experienced to say the least. Still accelerating I maintain the stipulated heading along our highlighted route towards a freeway slip-road.

I’ve neglected to take into account the traffic which slows before they merge onto the freeway. I see the bottle neck late and brake hard; an overreaction the rig does not appreciate. Lots of alarms and warning chimes sound off. I overcorrect and we drift off the road in a howling power-slide towards a ditch. Abandoning the stick I cling to my armrests.

“Uh oh. It’s all yours, truck. Auto-Drive!”

The overworked AI of the Auto-Drive scrambles all its resources to prevent disaster. A violent manoeuvre has the rig regaining the breakdown lane. It is a rough ride that ends with us careening onto the freeway.

For my part I belatedly toot the air-horn. Anyone in danger of being crushed has already taken their own evasive manoeuvres and several long, angry blasts of their horns are returned to me in our wake.

“What’s going on up there? Are we under attack?”

The questions come from the mussed up security man. He hangs tightly to a strap in the trailer and I’m certain he will hurt me when this journey is over. I let falsehoods overwrite my ineptitude.

“Ummm. Yes. Possibly. I seem to have outrun them. The Auto-Drive is not functioning correctly but don’t panic, I think I’ve sorted it now. Umm, out!”

I vow not to touch the controls again.

Almost an hour later I’ve eaten most of the food, found a hack to inject myself twice with adrenaline, and discovered a syth-metal music channel to drown the noise of mother’s aggravating snores. The only excitement is a vandal who throws a brick at us from an overpass. It bounces off the bonnet with a dull clang and I understand how the rig gets its battle scars. I track the running figure with the roof-mounted gun turret disinclined to fire on someone brave enough to fight back at the system. Moreover I feel guilt that I never have. To salve my conscience I eat the last snack bar.

Each kilometre we howl across puts us that much further from the industrial city I grew up in. Whatever we are heading towards remains frighteningly unknown. All I really do know is we are the only vehicle on this stretch of road, the rig is in the green, and I am being advised to exercise.

“Driver is advised to momentarily unseat or run circulatory massage program.”

Bloody ESL translators. I decide to get up for a stretch. It is strange leaving the thundering monstrosity to its own devices even if my influence is minimal while I’ve been seated. In fact the only interactions in the last ten minutes was to take a suck from a beverage tube and to check the screens that race with lines of various information; updated traffic reports, SPUD warnings, check-point locations. It also cycles through the Red, Orange and Green zones that spread and contract like amoeba across various areas.

There aren’t many Green zones left.

Our destination continues to flash an ‘unavailable to driver’ message but it’s not hard to deduce where we’ll end up if the route doesn’t deviate. We’re headed to the country’s Capital city, Guangming Xin Shijie.

The truck is rolling at 160 kilometres per hour when a huge bangs rocks the suspension. Godammit, I hope I don’t have to change a flat tyre. I scramble back to the seat and check the proximity alerts of several vehicles closing on us. A curtain of flame obscures several cameras.

We’re on fire!

“Ma, we’re on fire! Get up and help me, dammit!”

A dozen warning lights glow on the dash and we are slowing. Another detonation on the left hand side of the cab breaks the armoured glass. It slips from its frame and the once peaceful cab fills with smoke, noise and wind. The truck decelerates at a faster rate and yaws to one side. I grab the joystick for manual control and pump unresponsive brakes wondering what the hell is going on. Yet another explosion. Again on the left hand side. We dip heavily onto a rim that screeches across the road surface. The joystick’s movements translate flaccidly when the steering servos fail to respond.

“What have you done, you stupid boy!”

Yeah, that’s just great. Thanks for your help, mother.

The dash is a sea of red flashing lights and my HUD is a useless distraction. Something whacks me in the head. I swipe the headset off to silence its unreasonable demands, wishing I could do the same to the old woman who gripes at me.

Hot blood splashes from a forehead gouge. I wipe it from my eyes and stare in horror at the red palm. This is bad. Worse than the unhealed bang on the head I got yesterday.

The truck is coming to a shuddering, grinding stop, losing momentum fast. We have to get out. I shout incoherently while running across the sloping floor to the trapdoor exit. Mother follows down the ladder into an engine bay that is a smoking mess. I cough and shy away from the rapidly spinning flywheel. It has sheared through its cover and adds its unbalanced death throes to the noise of a turbine tearing itself apart. I shoulder past a bunch of hanging, spluttering wiring aside and feel the sparks burn my skin, slapping and swearing at the pain.

I pull up and mother crashes into my butt. The retracted stairs we’d used to enter are a crumpled mass, covered in melted, shredded tyre rubber.

There’s only one other way to try. The catwalk extends past the ladder to the sleeping quarters, towards the back of the engine compartment. Maybe there’s a maintenance hatch under the rear of the cab. I push my raving mother out of the way. She pounds at me uselessly with tiny, sharp fists, demanding that I save her. Hyperventilating, I’ve stopped screaming myself by the time I find the other hatch and lift it to reveal the road no more than a meter below us.

Mother is still hysterical. She deserves the slap in the face I intend dealing to her but she sees it coming and dodges. I lose my footing, falling through the hole into a pool of boiling coolant. I’m burning! I crawl beneath the truck’s three diffs and then freeze

There's someone prowling along side of the trailer; and by the look of the weapon's muzzle being trained in my direction I don't think they have come to rescue me.

Chapter 15

SIABW - Chapter 13

(Index)

There he goes making fun of my weight again. With a bit of luck, that will be the very last time.

I strain my ears, expecting to hear a small popping sound in the distance; therefore I jump convincingly when a powerful blast tears apart an entire corner of the warehouse. I hadn’t counted on them parking so close the depot.

The glass panelled anteroom we’re in provides me with a clear view of the pressure wave that races across the warehouse. It smacks against our glass enclosure, starring it into opaqueness.

Immediately, sirens, gunfire and flashing lights provide an accompaniment to the sounds of destruction. All the trailers near the source of the explosion are in flames, and men are shouting themselves hoarse requesting fire crews.

A second explosion, involving munitions or chemicals, is even larger. Some of the freight down there has an aversion to heat. Most of us have already hit the floor. I certainly have; protectively clamping my hands over both ears. Those foolish enough to get up are slapped to the ground again when the broken, laminated sheets blow in completely. The roof thrums with the concussion, adding its years of dust and pigeon shit to air already choked with rolling clouds of smoke.

The radio, still pressed to my ear, crackles. I must get rid of it. It damns me as the trigger man. Unexpectedly I hear a tiny voice from the grave.

It is Ernest; raging.

“Ya blew me lads up... how did...!? What the fuck...?! I’ll find both a ya! I’ll fucken kill ya with me bare fucken hands!”

I toss the radio into a bin. Can’t win them all. Ernest must have left the truck. The sadistic bastard probably wanted to appreciate the fireworks close up and got more than he bargained for.

The security escort men are well trained for exactly this type of emergency. They get up for a second time. Ours dusts himself off fastidiously, holding a pistol stiff-armed at his side.

“You and you, come with me. Right now!”

I’m side-tracked by gathering up the food I dropped. Then the burger machine ‘bings’ and I must juggle the collection of drink packs and snack bars to make room for the steaming food parcels retrieved from its dispenser.

The other drivers are already being ushered through the AAA doors, leaving us in last place. Either my lack of discipline or our butler’s competitiveness makes him very cross. He gets in my face.

“Do what I say, when I say it or I’ll snap your nose.”

His forced politeness is gone. I’m cuffed like an unruly child. Only he uses a large calibre hand gun instead the edge of his hand.

Mother is unsympathetic.

“That’s what you get for disobeying your betters.”

Bloody woman. She’ll take Satan’s side when we get to Hell, I just know it.

We are raced through the interrogation rooms, where our lives were supposed to have ended. Our prox-cards are swiped by a harried clerk who is rather keen to be elsewhere. With stiff fingers prodding our backs we are propelled into a smaller warehouse, built within the main structure.

Very large motors in gargantuan machinery are howling into life around us. We stop running and presume we are in front of our rig when the finger ceases its poking.

They want me to drive this gigantic metal mountain? Its insignia is as big as my head. ‘Stannick Special’. It doesn’t look very special. In fact it’s filthy, with paint missing, and dents and scratches all over it.

I stand in wonderment at its size and look for a way to ascend to the cab. I assure myself that a vast majority of people would be similarly ignorant. Hardly anyone can drive or operate machinery these days.

Ninety percent of privately owned vehicles were taxed or banned from the highways twenty years ago. What’s left of our transportation is largely robotically controlled; reserved for the privileged rich. ‘Traffic’ is nonexistent unless the crush buses are counted. And these monster rigs are relegated to motorways only, which, for the most part, are routed well away from housing sectors.

A good thing too. This big bugger would have to straddle two average car lanes. The wheels are taller than I am.

Our agent flips open a panel embedded in a bumper bar wide enough to sleep on, revealing a keypad. He punches in a code and ducks under the rig, waving for us to follow. I crouch but stay where I am. It’s probably tall enough to stand under there if you stoop, but I fail to grasp his reasoning.

Does he want me to check the oil?

Someone will have to hold my food, and I have trust issues.

A hydraulic whine precedes a short stairway unfolding underneath the truck.

“Oh, isn’t that clever.”

For Christ sakes mother we’re supposed to be seasoned truckers. Luckily the agent has more pressing issues.

“Get the fuck up there. Start it up. Pull out as soon as you can. Drive the route given to you. If you screw up I’ll kill you.”

Why do people always insist on tempting my fate; and then threaten to kill me?

Acting as though I’ve done it a thousand times, I swing under the bumper and bash my head into a big red emergency button. A whooping siren goes off, which is hardly an attention getter in the current chaotic environment. Our frazzled guard slaps the button again, stopping the siren. His eyes narrow to angry slits.

The imminent prospect of violence hurries me to the stairway. On the way I crash my forehead and my knee into yet more protrusions. I climb on wobbly legs past a massive, deep-treaded tyre, into a dark, oily cavern. The engine bay. Mother chuckles at my misfortunes nastily, swanning up behind me without needing to duck.

A light strip senses our presence and glows brightly, illuminating a catwalk. We continue on past cubic metres of indiscernible engine parts and follow the lights to another short ladder. We emerge through a trap door into the sleeping quarters. Mother slams shut the floor panel as I check out our new digs.

It’s spacious compared to what I’m used to. Two bunks, kitchenette and a tiny fold out bathroom. Oh this is nice; these cots are the body-form models with hypno-sleep assist. Most restful sleep you can get. People pay good money to use them in clinics. I could get eight hours rest in under an hour in one of these. Or a whole week’s worth in a single day.

“Ma. You’re driving. I need a lie down.”

“Get ya arse in that seat, boy. Your mate Dennings said t’was auto-drive. Juss turn it on and let it drive. Ya only in ere for mergencies, not that ya much good for them neither.”

Happy to live up to her low opinion of me I slouch into the low-ceilinged cab. It’s comparatively small but the central driving position is wired and plumbed with all driver comfort accessories. It even has a piss tube.

I throw my armful of squashed food into a large storage compartment and flop into the armchair-sized seat. There’s no steering wheel. I’m surrounded by an overly complicated dash containing rows of gauges, switches and lights. The only one currently illuminated is a worn dash sensor marked ‘retinal scan’.

Retinal scan?

What do I look into?

A headset HUD display hangs from roof mounting. Cool. I’ve used very crude versions of these in my youth. That was before video games were banned. Gingerly; expecting all sorts of alarms to go off, I place the headset on and flip down the slim visor. This action releases the genie from the bottle. I jump around in fright as lights brighten, flicker and pulse; gauges twitch; whines and heavy thumps occur with accelerating frequency.

The mounting fear is surpassed to terror when a cheery, computerised voice hails me, seemingly from inside my head.

“Hi... Samuel. Our route is plotted as... unavailable to driver - highest priority. You have emergency clearance with no speed or check-point restrictions. Currently you are... one minute behind schedule. Please select... Fast-Start.”

Christ. This is too much. What the hell is it talking about?

The laser tracking my eye movements does well to keep up as I madly scan every dial and switch on the wide wrap-around dash. Finally I realise the visor has already located the Fast-Start switch and waits on my command. Before I can reach for it my intention is picked up and the light turns green automatically.

I sit back with a grunt and ask the obvious question.

“Where’s the Auto-drive button.”

“Confirm... Auto-drive.”

“Ahhh yeah. I confirm it.”

“Auto-drive activated.”

“Hey, Ma! I think this is going to be pretty easy.”

“With ya big dumb hands fiddling wiv evryfing? I doubt it.”

She’s already flat on her back, testing one of the body-form beds. That’s exactly what I’d had in mind.

I listen to a thousand electrical circuits switch and click. Fluids rush here and there under my feet, and a fast whine of a deep reduction drive starts something massive and heavy. The HUD shows me the rigs vital signs in a confusion of graphs, charts and rising numbers. Everything spikes red as motors stutter and grumble at the unconventional start up.

The turbine ignites with a bang and its low whine increases as it warms up. Vibrations climb then smooth out that makes the chassis tremble in sympathy with my nerves.

The Stannick wakes from its slumber.

And I am its master.

Chapter 14

SIABW - Chapter 12

(Index)

Mother’s brutish reality check deprives me of a dream. Freedom, justice and the ability to slob around with no cares in the world were mine for several brief seconds. All I’m left with is the anticipation of a large bang that will send Ernest and his men sky-high.

I stand beside mother in a line that moves swiftly. We arrive at the dispatch clerk’s high-set window with no cover story concocted, and no time to read the sign marker ‘Important – read before proceeding’.

“Next.”

The clerk behind the bullet-proofed glass has a gold embossed name tag affixed to her blouse. Glenda. I smile innocently at the sour visage of glowering, scrunched brows and thin lips that pull back from dry, yellow teeth in a permanent snarl.

“Hi, Glenda.”

The woman’s arms fold and she deliberately sinks back in her chair. Surrounded by the trappings of clerkdom she is the master of her self-importance, and quite obviously I’ve done something wrong. Finally a nicotine stained finger stabs at a button and the shielded speaker on my side crackles into life.

“New, are ya?”

I nod.

“Can’t read either?”

I shake my head and then nod, confusing both of us.

“Your card, retard. Gimme it.”

My polite smile slips. I eye the small, silver snap-lock case beside her and the white powder dusted around her nose. I rub at my own nose before I can stop myself and hand over the Prox-card. She takes it between two finger tips, in case I’m in the habit of carrying it between my butt cheeks.

“Lucker. S. Where’s ya offsider?”

Too short to see over the counter, Mum reaches up and slaps her card down. Glenda leans forward and does well not to recoil from mother’s confrontational, sullen face. She leans back again and clickity-clacks the keys of her terminal. My heart rate tries to keep up with the fast, jittery drumming of her stylus against the desk. A few bings later the monitor flashes red.

I see the word ‘PRIORITY’ flashing in red, reflected in her glasses, and my nerves sing with the escalating tension.

Glenda straightens up, changing her bored superiority to something approaching interest.

“Oh. It’s that load of ‘pomegranates’. Be glad to get it outa here. Hope your background checks are up to date; and enjoy your body-cavity searches. Your escort is on his way.”

She thrusts the Prox-cards at me.

“Next.”

Dismissed, I absently hand mother’s card over and cast about for an exit. Having already established the suspicion that Ernest doesn’t intend us to survive this job, I strongly doubt these Prox-cards will stand up to high-level government scrutiny.

We have to get the hell out...

“Lucker... and Lucker. A family affair is it?”

The man who speaks looks perfect in every way. Clean clothes, shiny shoes, clean shaven, handsome and austere. Mother and I examine him far too blatantly, although he does not appear to be embarrassed by our open-mouthed lack of response.

“Right then. Come with me. See these yellow lines? Please don’t step over them or the guards will shoot you.”

This restriction puts a crimp in my plan to skedaddle.

The perfect man shepherd’s us towards a set of plastic door flaps. They are protected by two alert guards who run a professional eye over both of us. I’m sweating, only partly due to the warm air inside the building. The smells of oil, rubber grow stronger. Underneath it all is the sharp smell of ammonia.

“The cloak room. Please leave all weapons, drugs and explosive devices here.”

It’s like having my own personal butler. One that smirks at our stunned faces. Paranoia screams ‘he knows!’

We are placated with a small laugh.

“I don’t care what you’re carrying; just don’t bring it any further. The repercussions are necessarily harsh for those who do.”

Our escort leaves us to divest ourselves of contraband in the locker filled room. Mother is rightfully worried and makes a run for it, leaving me to fend for myself. I shrug under a heavy load of doom. Moving along the nearest row of lockers I claim the first one showing a green ‘vacant’ light. For the last time I remove my coat and stare inside the open locker door.

Pity I can’t fit in there. My coat barely does.

There’s a large mirror above a row of sinks. It shows me up as a bit of mess. These are my second best trousers; the ones with a mouldy patch and an almost unnoticeable hole in the crotch. I take no responsibility for the shirt I’d picked from the floor in haste and under duress. Only now do I realise it’s the pink one with the large flower motif. Also I’ve got it on inside out and back to front. Performing the world’s fastest weight-loss program ever I remove the shirt to spill its load of filthy rags. Feigning indifference to the shirt’s message, I redress correctly, this time avoiding the mirror’s self-assessment.

Mother has completed a full circuit of the cloak room. She’s puffing and worked up.

“There’s no way out. No way! Jesus, Lordy, we’re dead meat, boy. Whadda we do?”

She must be desperate to be asking for my help.

“Nothing we can do, Ma. End of the line.”

Profundity escapes me. Maybe prison isn’t so bad. Years of starvation and torture with a purported seventy four per cent chance of survival. It’s probably not much worse than living out here.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Ma is a shaking wreck. Feeling a tiny spark of pity for her, I reach over to help remove her coat. She elbows me in the gut.

“Don’t touch me. If I’m going down I’m taking some of these fuckers with me.”

She lifts her blouse, showing me the head of a hammer she’s stolen from Ernest’s truck, jammed into her waist band. I shy away from a view of her saggy breasts as she shakes out the rags stuffed in there.

The insane bitch doesn’t need any encouragement to kill someone. Maybe I can plead ‘accessory under duress’ after she gets shot for braining someone.

Our butler re-enters, raising an eyebrow at my appearance. We must be on a tight schedule as he refrains from mocking me.

“All done in here? Good. Shall we?”

The order is obscured by fake courtesy.

Mother’s scowl and my downcast face are of no interest to him. We are tools to fill a purpose, and he cares nothing for our personal problems.

We enter the warehouse and I’m awed by its size. It is well over a kilometre long, filled with giant rigs and trailers. Forklifts and men are in constant movement, loading and unloading machinery and crates.

The threat of walking its entire length before we’re found out almost makes me surrender. However we are directed through another set of guarded doors where several other pairs of drivers are already lined up waiting to be processed. Each have their own minder. They turn to scrutinise us and lose interest when we prove unrecognisable.

Their escort has more interest in our handler, pointing a handheld scanner at him which he reciprocates with his own scanner. A non-contact handshake is exchanged and they nod at each other approvingly then return to a constant, roving gaze of the surrounding area.

Obviously we are in the highest zone of security. The above the doorway we’d come through designates it as ‘AAA’.

As the moment of discovery draws closer I stem my panic by gripping mother’s arm. I’m not lending her support; she’s breathing loudly and fast, readying herself to attack everyone and everything around her. I’m concerned her break-down will be premature as I haven’t found somewhere safe to huddle before the shooting starts. Preferably somewhere soft that I can lie down with my hands behind my neck.

My fear is manifesting itself to our minder.

“Would you mind not grinding your teeth?”

Well excuse me for being terrified. I check my pockets for a spare protein bar or something to chew on.

What’s this? Oh. The radio. My hate swells at this reminder of Uncle Ernest and his thugs. The chances of them discovering the bomb, being arrested, or any number of scenarios where they don’t get blown up plays on my mind. I have a burning need to spring the payback trap we’d set for them. It may be the only thing that’ll keep me warm and amused while in prison.

I devise a rough and ready plan that falls into place when one of the drivers wanders over to a bank of auto-dispenser. Turning as casually as possible to my minder I nod towards the bank of vending machines.

“S’ok if I score a drink?”

“One at a time, don’t talk to the other drivers, stay in sight at all times.”

He rattles this off with disinterest.

“Ya want something too, Ma? I need ya Pox-card. Mine’s empty.”

I shake her arm which raises her from the psychotic state she is spiralling into. Asking her for money has always been a sure fire way to a beating, lengthy abusive lecture and then, if the amount was low enough, a repayment rate the local loan shark would be embarrassed to demand.

Her expression barely changes when I hold out my hand to show her the radio concealed in my palm. Without a word she lifts several layers of skirts, causing the butler and I to look elsewhere, while she slips the card from a pocket tied to her inner thigh.

“Get me an Orange Stim.”

I receive an approving nod and sly grin. The shared moment of conspiracy to murder is touching.

The first machine supplies me with something to snack on while purchasing several drinks. Then I take my time checking out the selection of soy-burger meals, spending mother’s dwindling wealth without restraint. If we’re going down it’ll be broke and full. Slurping a drink while the food is being irradiated I make sure I am unobserved.

There’s no 3D screen, paintings or pot-plant to look at in here so just about everyone in the room is watching my spending spree. Improvising, I turn the volume down low and press the transmit button several times, and then lift it to my ear in the pretence of scratching an itch. A low, eager voice answers immediately.

Ernest.

“Ya at the rig?

I key the mike several more times hoping he’s smart enough to get the message

“If ya can’t talk, key the mike once for yes, twice for no.”

I key the mike once.

“OK. Great, ya doing great. Now, gimme the rig serial number...

I key the mike twice.

“What...? Shit...yeah, ya can’t talk, right? Shit...”

Right now he’ll be staring at the actuator button in his hand. But Ernest is a careful, cagey critter. He didn’t get to his position on violence alone.

“Are ya at rig 905477AA?”

I key once before remembering the signs all around me are marked. ‘AAA clearance required for all personnel.’

I key the mike once more by reflex.

“Ah, musta read it wrong. As it got triple A hash at the end.”

Second guessing him from this point is pointless. I take the chance and press transmit once. Ernest voice deepens into a deeply satisfied growl.

“That be fine then. Say goodbye to your slut mother, ya fat fuck."

Chapter 13