Lost Friday Page 27

  “Oh, Roger,” she moaned, her hot breath searing my left ear. “Let’s do it.”

  I thought: Roger? Who the fuck was Roger?

  Chapter 35… The Welcoming Committee

  “Jesus. Get a room.”

  It was Romano, standing in the doorway. “How long have you been standing there?” I called as Remington continued to grapple with me.

  “Long enough.”

  “I think there’s something wrong with her.”

  “Gee, looks like everything’s working pretty well to me. How’s your wanger?”

  Roy walked up just as Remington stopped trying to rip my pecker off. She’d suddenly gone completely limp, and her skin was the color of paste. “What the hell happened in there?” I asked, deciding she could wait a minute.

  His silver .357 at his side, Roy said, “We had a welcoming committee.”

  Synthetics, I figured. “How could they know we’d be here?”

  “Maybe they were looking for the same thing we were.”

  Romano said, “And that’s a bad thing, right?”

  If that wasn’t the ultimate understatement…. If the Synthetics found those formulas, the world order for the next 190 years and beyond would be changed quite possibly forever. I felt the heebie-jeebies as I looked through the garage door window. “They’re out there, aren’t they? Looking for us.”

  Roy picked up Darlon’s DNA-controlled Glock, which had skittered across the garage floor when I’d tackled Remington. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “First, to see if those formulas are upstairs.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  “Then we go to plan B.”

  “What’s plan B?” Romano asked for me, his forehead beading with sweat.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” Roy replied. Nodding at Remington’s prone body, he added, “Paul, I need you wake her up and find David. Find him, hide him where no one would ever think to look for him, and don’t let him out of your sight. I don’t care what happens. Can you handle it?”

  “Not like her,” Romano said as he covered his crotch. “Just for chuckles, do you want us to ask the kid where those formulas are?”

  “You can try, but depending on which David you encounter, you may not get that out of him.” Roy handed me Darlon’s Glock. “Don’t wait for them to shoot first,” he said. “That only happens in the movies.”

  * * * * *

  It was a typical kid’s room, except for the fact that the previous Sunday’s Asbury Park Press crossword was sitting on David’s desk, completed, in pen. I thought, yikes! I mean, being a reporter, I thought I was pretty good with words, but, in pen? I heard sirens in the distance, and they were closing in quickly. I guess one of the neighbors must have called 9-1-1, which made me think that any Synthetics that were present had to know the lay of the land, seeing as they’d gone totally undetected by the stay-at-home moms and busy-bodies in the neighborhood. Then again, for all I knew they could have been teleported directly into the house.

  Roy had his .357 raised and ready. As if I knew what I was doing, I decided to do the same with the Glock. “You said David kept the formulas in his desk.”

  “They were in a plain spiral notebook, the kind kids use in school, red cardboard cover.”

  I remembered that too. I walked to the desk, opened the right side drawer, and pawed around in there: nothing. With the sirens now overwhelming any other sound, I said, “Do you think the Synthetics found them?”

  Roy said, “If David was a replica, he may have known enough to move them.”

  Suddenly, I heard voices, and then footfalls clunking up the stairs. I expected Roy’s men to blow through the door any second, but I was wrong. What blew through the door were a Barbie and two Ken Dolls right behind. While I had to admit that the Barbie filled out the uniform better than the butterballs on Roy’s staff, it wouldn’t have bothered me a bit if he’d popped her one right then and there. I guess it was the three Glocks pointed at our heads that prevented him from doing that. “The formulas,” the Barbie said.

  Raising his hands slowly, Roy said, “They’re not here.”

  The Barbie stepped closer and pushed her Glock into Roy’s cheek as she took his weapon. “Would it help if I said please?” She pulled the hammer back and nodded at the two Ken Dolls. One of them stepped toward me, his expression just as threatening as the Barbie’s. I figured there was no way we were going to get out of that room alive. I had Darlon’s Glock in my hand, down low, behind me, and I pointed it directly at the oncoming Ken Doll, who smiled, the prick. I guess he recognized it as a DNA-specific weapon and figured I couldn’t fire it. He found out he was wrong when I blew a hole the size of a grapefruit through his ribcage. The second Ken Doll went down like a box of bricks right after that, and I still can’t remember how it happened. Shaking like a leaf, I started to look around for Roy and the Barbie, but I vanished before I could locate either of them.

  * * * * *

  Vishal was checking me out. I was lying down, not on any bed this time, but on something that felt as hard as a rock—because it was. “What?” I asked, wondering where the hell I was this time. I was really getting to hate this waking-up-not-knowing-where-I-was crap. It looked like someplace where Batman would hang out. “Are you gonna say something?” I asked testily—testily like I was going to bite Vishal’s head off.

  “Did you find the formulas?”

  “No.”

  “They were supposed to be there.”

  “Right, just like the instructions that were supposed to be waiting for me at the other end of the wormhole.”

  “They weren’t there either?”

  “The only thing waiting for me was Darlon.”

  “Who’s Darlon?”

  “Jesus, Vishal. He’s my clone, remember? I take it you didn’t know he’d be there.”

  Vishal actually said, “Shit.” That was the first time I’d seen him upset, and let me tell you, it didn’t make me feel very warm and fuzzy. I mean, the frustration was oozing out of him, and it made me think there weren’t many chances left for historical alterations during my little blip in the continuum. I figured Vishal and his ICTO boys would have to go back further in time and leave me, Roy, and anyone else who got caught up in this thing, stuck in whatever pickle we were in until someone figured out how to unfuck things up.

  “Remember how you showed me how to operate one of those ITD things?” I asked, knowing I had to take control of my own destiny. Vishal nodded. “Get me one. I know where those formulas are, and I think I’m the only one who does.”

  “We’ll arrange for you to—”

  “You aren’t going to arrange anything, Vishal. If you want my help from this point forward, you’ll do this my way.”

  Vishal walked over to a stone wall and one of those invisible panels suddenly materialized. He gave the order and informed me that I didn’t have much time. Then, he looked at Darlon’s Glock, which had made it through the teleportation with me and was still in my hand.

  * * * * *

  Now you might figure that I’d zap myself right back to the last time I’d seen those formulas, which was the night Aryeh was killed, the same night of Murph’s bachelor party, and the night before Lost Friday second time around. Uh-uh. No way José. Fo’getabou’dit. First of all, I wasn’t about to teleport my Greek ass anywhere where I didn’t know what was waiting for me. Been there, done that, didn’t like it. Second of all, I didn’t think I had the time, or the patience, to convince people of what was happening—meaning Lost Friday—all over again. I mean, how many times had I been through that? I needed to insert myself right where I’d come from, where I knew the important players were present and aware of what was happening. And that’s what I did, about two hours before Remington tried to detach my weenie.

  When I got back, Remington and Romano were, like, duh. There were several issues of the A
sbury Park Press spread out on the table, all of them with the byline Kelli Remington under huge headlines. There were some good ones like FUTURISTIC TERRORISTS INVADE, and PRESIDENT TAKES BRIBE. My favorite one was BETRAYED! Last time, at this exact moment, I asked, “Where did you get these, Roy?” This time, I said, “In about two hours, we’re going to be ambushed by a squad of Synthetics inside David Robelle’s house, and it’s possible that some of us might not make it out of there.”

  Roy’s eyes, which had been darting to every corner of the pizza joint for the last ten minutes, settled on mine. “They’re here too,” he said, indicating the entrance. “I can see them outside checking out the truck.”

  “We have to get the hell out of here now. Everyone hold hands,” I ordered.

  Roy took my hand, staring at me through narrow eyes. “Are you in a teleportonic state?”

  I showed him my teleportation remote, and said, “I have an ITD locked on to me now.” I then took Romano’s hand and told him to hold on to Remington.

  “Why are we doing this?” Romano asked.

  “I know where those formulas are.”

  Romano put Remington’s hand in mine. “You guys go,” he said. “One of us has to stay here and write this story.”

  Well, that was Romano for you. I took Remington’s hand and pushed the activation button on the remote, knowing that I didn’t have time to argue with Romano. The last thing I remembered before we were all turned into another replica was that Remington’s skin felt silky soft in my hand, which was causing something else inside my pants to get hard as a rock.

  Chapter 36… Third Time’s A Charm

  One thing I found out about teleportation was that it was tricky. Entering the wrong coordinates could rematerialize you in some very precarious situations. Take rematerializing in the middle of the ocean, for instance. That could prove to be quite annoying, as in being annoyed to death. I also found out that not entering coordinates at all would rematerialize you in exactly the same spot you started from, which could also prove hazardous to one’s health if the spot you started from had become occupied by something like a car crusher. I didn’t know how to enter coordinates, however, so the location was indeed going to be where I started from, which was the pizza joint. I programmed the target date and time into the remote, which brought us back to September 23rd, the night before Lost Friday, again. I woke up to Roy slapping me on the cheek.

  “C’mon Johnny, wake up. We don’t have much time.” Slap, slap, slap.

  “Stop that, goddamn it.” I shoved his hand away. “How come I pass out when I get beamed somewhere, and you don’t?”

  “It helps if you hold your breath to keep your brain supplied with as much oxygen as possible.”

  Now I find out. “Where’s Remington?”

  “Over there.”

  There were a few customers in the pizza joint, all of them watching us and looking quite stunned. Remington was laid out in one of the booths. Stumbling over, I immediately started fantasizing again when I saw that she’d fallen asleep with her mouth open. Okay, I’m a pig. I admit it. But you know, when a DNA lock-on can zap you to the fish food factory any second, your brain gets a little wacky. Okay, it wasn’t wacky, it was just me suffering from deadly semen backup, but I felt better blaming it on something besides my perverse fascination with Kelli-with-an-i Remington, which seemed to be getting more intense as I edged closer to battle. And I knew there would be another battle; I could sense it, and I think Roy did too. I managed to prop Remington up and bring her back to coherence, sort of. “What time is it?” I asked.

  Roy glanced at a pepperoni pizza clock up on the wall. “7:22. Mean something?”

  “Yeah. It means Aryeh isn’t dead yet.”

  * * * * *

  It was three peas in a pod, me, Roy, and Remington in Roy’s truck, bouncing like popcorn kernels in hot oil every time we hit a bump. Roy had the old girl smoking as we barreled down the parkway back toward Sea Beach; any faster and she’d have thrown a piston right through the hood. The rushing air was September cool, but humid, fragrant with the salt smell of the Atlantic only a mile or so to our left. Remington wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and she held on to my left arm to avoid being tossed around like a rag doll. This calmed me considerably, seeing as her right boobie was making friends with my elbow. Halfway there, a state trooper ran up behind us, lights flashing, and Roy waved him forward. The trooper pulled up alongside doing about eighty, and Roy pointed through the windshield as if the trooper would know our destination. The trooper must have recognized Roy because instead of pulling us over, he waved back and blasted down the parkway ahead of us, plowing a path into the night all the way to Sea Beach. That Roy never ceased to amaze me. He flashed his high beams at the trooper and we pulled off the parkway into the parking lot of Norm’s WaWa, which was only about a mile from the Robelles’ house.

  “What time is it?” Roy asked as the truck tick-tick-ticked away heat.

  “Almost 8:30,” I replied, knowing what he was driving at. “Last time around, we were inside the Robelles’ house dodging bullets about now.”

  “So Aryeh should still be out there hunting Synthetics,” Roy concluded.

  Remington just sat there looking confused, her head swinging back and forth like a bobblehead doll. I adjusted the lump digging into the small of my back, which was Darlon’s Glock, and said, “Last time, Aryeh showed up at the house with you, Roy. The events are different this time. He could be anywhere.”

  “Why do you want to find him?” Remington asked, having ridden in almost complete silence the entire time. “Doesn’t he have to die in order for you to get hold of that notebook?”

  I reviewed the events as they’d previously transpired: we visit David and his parents; all hell breaks loose, and Aryeh and four Synthetics bite the dust; I drop the notebook in the back seat of DiNardo’s squad car before I get snatched away for my visit with Roarke. “Shit,” I said.

  Roy’s eyes cut to mine and he pulled on the brim of his skipper’s hat. “What’s up, Johnny?”

  “If we wait until that notebook is in DiNardo’s car, it’ll be too late. I’ll get snatched by a DNA lock-on to see Roarke, and the whole series of events will start all over again.”

  “Doesn’t that mean you have to find that notebook, like, now?” Remington asked, lobbing another logic grenade at us.

  Looking at her, but talking to Roy, I said, “We need to haul ass, Roy. Step on it.”

  * * * * *

  Roy slammed the gearshift into park, and said, “Without Aryeh we could be sitting ducks.”

  Just peachy. This was my third time around at this jamboree, and I had about as much confidence about what would happen next as I did predicting the path of a hurricane. In a tone that masked my insecurity, I said, “It’s quarter-to-nine—show time.”

  Roy pulled the keys so as to avoid the ding-ding-ding of the ignition, and dropped them into the cup holder. He got out of the truck without saying a word, his .357 glinting in the foggy haze beneath the streetlights.

  “Where the hell are you going?” I asked as if I had some say in the matter.

  Roy pinned his eyes on the Robelles’ house up the street. “I’m going to get those formulas.”

  “But we don’t know who’s out there, Roy.”

  “Neither do they.” He checked the tumbler on his revolver, and disappeared into the shadows beneath the giant oaks that dominated the neighborhood. A moment later, the first bullet rocked into the truck, but I never heard the shot.

  I yelled, “Damn!” just as the back windshield of Roy’s truck exploded into a million flying cubes of jagged glass. I put an arm around Remington and literally dove into the floorboards, slithering us both out the passenger side and nearly pulling her shirt off in the process. Normally, I would have taken pause to admire my work, but the ground around us erupted as bullets as big a role of nickels thudded into the dirt. The dome light in Roy’s
truck was lit and I tried to close the door, noting that the seat back where we’d just been sitting was splayed in half a dozen places and the truck had a new ventilation system. We couldn’t have missed the barrage by more than a second, and I suddenly felt very, very sick. The shots had to have come from behind the truck, so I dragged Remington around to the front. Futuristic Glocks fired a variety of ammunition, I recalled, and I guessed that what they were firing at us was meant to take down an asteroid, or something. I pulled Darlon’s Glock from the small of my back and remembered Roy’s advice about not waiting for anyone to shoot first. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in a position to take the offense, and I didn’t know how many rounds I had left. More rounds thudded nearby as Remington and I tried to burrow into the asphalt. Again, I didn’t even hear the shots, and I figured maybe the shooters had silencers. I suddenly found myself incredibly angry, and a myriad of thoughts tore through my brain. Where was Roy? Was he still alive? How about the Robelles? Did they know what was happening outside their house? And where the fuck was Aryeh? More thuds, exploding dirt, bullets plinking off the sidewalk right next to us. Would any of this be happening if the formulas had already been found? I felt my ears heating up with rage blood.

  “Goddamn it,” I cursed, grabbing onto the bumper. “We have to get the hell out of here.”

  Remington pulled me back to the pavement. “You’re not going anywhere, Pappas.”

  It was more of a command than a statement, and I knew why as soon as I looked down. Something had ripped through the meaty part of my calf, but with all the tumbling around on the pavement and all, I’d never felt a thing. There was some damage there, however. My Dockers were soaked, and the blood was pooling on the asphalt. My extreme rage suddenly gave way to extreme panic. I mean, the blood was pouring out of me.