DOA III Page 3

  “Jan?”

  Her body petrified. She didn’t sag or collapse. I held my eye and called 9-1-1.

  “The New England Journal of Medicine was the first to print a study,” I explained. “They called the psychotic break caused by my algorithm an acute case of hyper-rage that resulted in the subject’s dissociation. The part of the prefrontal cortex that controls reasoning shuts down, and the amygdale over-stimulates. Rage overwhelms the subject, leading them to commit homicidal acts against their partner, though it was not clear why. Then the mind, not able to accept what it’s done, goes into a long-term catatonic state.”

  “And that was the first incident of hyper-rage associated with your program?” my attorney asked.

  “She was right.” I shrugged. “We’d never had a fight in our life.”

  He summoned up more reports on his pad. “I’ve compiled some of the data from the CDC and FEMA. It started with your marriage. You were the first couple to use your equation. It spread in the order of your customers. The chronology of the data is unimpeachable.”

  “I’ve seen the numbers,” I said. My eye itched, and I played with the patch.

  “Do you have a theory to explain the homicidal side effect of your program?” he asked.

  “Humans aren’t designed to be happy all of the time,” I said. “They need to fight, and it just builds up.”

  “Your wife attacked you first,” he said. “Why didn’t you succumb first?”

  I finished the coffee, probably my last. “It varies between couples. Only eighty percent of my clients suffered the hyper-rage associated with complete marital bliss. The CDC released a report blaming personality variances, ways of dealing with repressed stress. I was a pothead even after my success. My wife never indulged.”

  “She had no outlet, I see.” He nodded. “When did you realize it wasn’t just your wife and there was a problem with your service?”

  I committed her to the facility at Penn. She still wouldn’t talk, and I visited her everyday to tell her that I loved her. A few weeks later, the news reported several cases of matrimonial homicide, and I made the connection, remembering the names of some of my earliest customers. I was in denial about what was happening. A few months later, the hyper-rage became an epidemic. Most of the world had used my site to find true love. By June 2014, One-third of my customers had murdered their significant others then burned the bodies, chopped off limbs or just bit off genitalia. International leaders had also used the service, understanding the appeal to voters of having a perfect family, and within days, I’d decapitated governments.

  I drove through Philly, dodging burning buildings and raging mobs. The National Guard tried to maintain peace by direct order of FEMA. Looters broke store windows and cleared out inventory. ATMs emptied. The power died. The broken hearted raged, burning the cities.

  The FBI issued a warrant for my arrest, but paid friends in the bureau warned me. My private jet flew me to France in July, and I hid out at an old vineyard. Then the International Criminal Court stated it would try me for crimes against humanity. The groundskeeper at the vineyard turned me in, and the ICC arrested me that July then imprisoned me in The Hague while they prepared their case.

  Number seven slowly nodded his head. “Well, I can file a brief for you, but the ICC will be the ones to decide. In my own evaluation, this trial has no legal foundation. It’s not like you ordered your militia to butcher thousands of Hutu with machetes. You didn’t open secret torture rooms in the sewers below Baghdad. Legally, you personally haven’t committed homicide on any scale, so I’m not sure where they will go with this. They’re doing this because they don’t know what to do.”

  “So you don’t think I’ve committed any kind of crime here?” I was still worried they would find something.

  He uncrossed his legs and leaned toward me. “I could argue this was an industrial accident, and that international law has no business trying a corporation. If it still existed, the WTO would agree and probably pay for your defense. Union Carbide wasn’t tried internationally after they killed thousands in Bhopal when their factory leaked pesticide. It was an unforeseen accident caused by a lack of oversight. You did have your customers sign a waiver, correct? Only entertainment purposes. That sort of language?”

  “Users agreed to a disclaimer when they signed up for my website,” I said. “No one read it of course.”

  “That’s their responsibility.”

  I started feeling a little relief. If logic still ruled the law during the collapse of society, I could have been released. So far, they’d maintained a semblance of order. Civilized people clung to such ideals desperately as the world burned around them, or they probably would have just strung me up by now. “So I could really beat this?”

  “You can’t prosecute one of those gangster rappers when a gang shoots up a neighborhood,” he said. “The heart and mind can be unpredictable. Your product had an unforeseen side effect through no negligence of your own. You didn’t act with any pre-meditation. It’s grounds for a civil suit, not the Nuremberg Trials.”

  He removed his glasses and began to clean them on a small microfiber cloth he pulled from his pocket. “Frankly, I think they are afraid more than anything. I think they’re just lashing out. This trial is a knee-jerk reaction. But the damage is now done, and you have no further involvement in it. Jurists live and die by the law, and most of them get off by defying the dictates of a vengeful heart to serve civilization.”

  “Even now?” I asked.

  “More so now. Their souls are all they have left.”

  It turned out he was right. He petitioned for a mistrial, citing the vacancy of international code in corporate negligence, and the ICC made its decision in November 2014. As predicted, they couldn’t pass a verdict under current international law. I was guilty of criminal negligence on a massive scale, but I hadn’t committed genocide. The current international body of laws lacks the understanding and cannot adjudicate the human heart. They set me free, probably with the understanding that I’d most likely be beaten to death by an angry mob before I could cross the border. I’d be punished more by the people of the world than any jail could impose. The United Nations declared that all couples brought together by my equation were to separate, many still happy.

  But I’d still broken the world’s heart. Thousands of civil lawsuits waited for me in court, once the court system started to work again.

  I chartered a private jet back to Philly, traveling under the alias Jay Wilburn. I landed at an airport in Doylestown—one of the few airports still functioning on the East Coast.

  I retrieved my corvette from a storage unit, happy it hadn’t been broken into, and drove to the city, dodging abandoned cars along I-95. Blackened bruises pockmarked the skyscrapers of Philly, and the brick buildings along the highway burned with impunity, without the remedy of a fire department. Smashed cars made a barricade at the Callowhill Street exit. A tank had been turned on its side, and bullet holes pierced the surrounding Septa station and trains. I turned off into Center City, driving slow onto I-76. National guard still patrolled the streets. I sped up into the heart of the city, passing the cathedral of 30th Street Station, but once I got to Center City, I had to drive slow, passing overturned police cars and abandoned troop carriers. The city itself was a nightmare, as if martial law had been abandoned altogether, favoring the citizens to raze themselves to the ground before the government came back to rebuild. Fires burned out of control in the skyscrapers, spraying ash and glass into the streets. I’d seen carnage during my days back in Philly, but what I witnessed reminded me of a cheap slasher film. Americans had made violence an art, and we had plenty of guns to go around.

  A mob of teens smashed store windows, breaking into an appliance store then tossing flat screen televisions and computers onto Penn Avenue. I slowed to avoid the missiles and turned to avoid a crowd of protestors running through clouds of misty tear gas. I turned and drove along the curve through a fire lane in front of
an apartment building, pausing behind an idling Buick. I had no choice but to wait for either the throng to clear or the car in front of me to pull out. An old man wearing his bathrobe loaded suitcases into the trunk while a woman, probably his wife or sister, sat in the driver’s seat, pleading for him to hurry. He shut the trunk, and she turned her head to look behind, staring at the man standing between our cars with a glassy gaze. Then, the old lady simply put the vehicle into reverse, knocked the guy backward and slammed into the front of my corvette.

  My airbag exploded, slamming my head into the window. She pushed my tinfoil car into a brick wall, and I felt a rib snap. Blood dripped down my face. I struggled with the air bag then pulled myself up and across the bucket seats to get out, collapsing onto the pavement. The pressure of the collision severed the old man’s body, and his torso slid down the hood of my crumpled sports car and landed near me. Shredded intestines slapped me with blood, shit and bile, smearing into my suit. I slithered out of there and got to my feet, keeping to the back streets.

  My head ached from the crash and stink of tear gas. I only had a few miles to hike to see January, so I opened the trunk to grab a tire iron and then maneuvered through the streets, ducking bullets and flying glass. I made it to Walnut Street, ducking through the occasional rain of spouses pushed out of windows, cracking their skulls on fire escapes or stabbed through extremities by rusty dumpsters. A young woman crashed into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. Blood smeared her face and dyed her wild blond hair pink.

  “Cindy’s gone fucking whacko!” she said, then took off up 10th Street. Her girlfriend, I presumed, ran after holding a length of barbed wire she must have torn off one of the alley fences. The razors had shredded her palms, but she didn’t notice. I watched, hurriedly crossing the intersection, as Cindy caught her prey and garroted her, sawing into her neck. The pink-blond woman screamed, kicking back then gurgled as the wire tore chunks of vein and flesh from her little throat. I kept going, didn’t turn back.

  Just before reaching the facility, I passed behind a rotund little man on his knees holding up a rosary to his wife just before she cracked his skull with a bottle of wine. Eventually, the bottle shattered, spilling the rich Merlot down his face. She scalped him with the shard, and I couldn’t watch anymore.

  I gripped the iron and limped to the side entrance of the mental facility. Dazed patients roamed the sidewalk and streets, and they crowded the halls of the wards. They were all men and women, no children. Some sat on the steps outside the hospital, staring into the distance, IV bags trailing from the catheters in their arms. Others wandered in and out of the rooms, seeming to be looking for things and then forgetting what they were trying to find. One woman was completely naked with bandages around her chest, blood seeping into the cloth where her breasts had been. The hospital reeked of urine, feces and blood, and my good eye watered.

  I searched the floors for my wife. The few remaining orderlies wearing filthy uniforms beat the patients, had tied them to pipes, or just ignored them. I asked about January, but most just ignored me.

  I finally found my wife on the third floor, strapped to a gurney. They’d shaven her head, and when she saw me, she lifted her head against the straps. Maybe she recognized me.

  “Baby?” I said. Her eyes moved, and I thought maybe she recognized me. “I did this to us.” She moved her lips as if to speak. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll have each other.” I kissed her forehead, and she tried to speak again. I could see the ice melting.

  But she never asked about my feet. God damn November was going to freeze my blood. Why had she never asked if my feet were cold? She’d never given a damn. I felt high, stoned off the smoke filling my head. Something switched off in my brain, and I gripped the tire iron. I had to make January understand how selfish she had been, and I raised the iron. I had to make her understand.

  T. Fox Dunham lives in Philadelphia with his wife, Allison. He’s a lymphoma survivor, cancer patient, modern bard and historian. His first book, The Street Martyr, was published by Gutter Books. A major motion picture based on the book is being produced by Throughline Films. Destroying the Tangible Illusion of Reality or Searching for Andy Kaufman, a book about what it’s like to be dying of cancer, was recently released from Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing, and Fox has a story in the Stargate Anthology Points of Origin from MGM and Fandemonium Books. Fox is an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and he has published hundreds of short stories and articles. He’s the host and creator of What Are You Afraid Of? Horror & Paranormal podcast. His motto is wrecking civilization one story at a time.

  Blog: www.tfoxdunham.blogspot.com,

  FaceBook: www.facebook.com/tfoxdunham

  Twitter: @TFoxDunham

  N WORD by Shane McKenzie

  SHANE MCKENZIE

  Calvin sat onthe toilet lid, tongue sliding across his lips, making them glisten like two sizzling sausages spinning over a fire.

  He hadn’t had his cell phone long, but since getting it last Christmas, he’d cleared his search history more times than he could remember.

  Who needs a girl when I have the internet?

  Of course, he would love a real girl. Would love to finally feel what it’s like to touch one, someone besides his mother. To find out how soft their skin is, to discover what a real breast feels like cupped in his hand. To actually kiss a girl.

  To slip inside of one. And let the wet pink flesh wrap around him and squeeze.

  Just thinking about it made his hands shake, his palms grow damp. His breath came out in short, rapid bursts, heart beating fast as he typed in his favorite website. As the images appeared on screen, as the GIFs of cocks pumping like well-oiled pistons and massive breasts bouncing in slow motion, he stood up, lifted the toilet seat, and began to unzip his jeans.

  Knock knock knock!

  “Calvin, you almost done in there?”

  The sound of his mother’s voice startled him so bad, the phone slipped through his greasy palm, and splashed into the toilet water. “Shit!” He only hesitated for a moment before plunging his hand in and yanking his phone out, immediately using his shirt to dry it off.

  “What did you say, boy?” The door handle rattled, but it was locked.

  “Shit... I’m taking a shit, Mom.” He winced as the words left his mouth. “Poo, I mean. Sorry. I’m almost done.”

  Her sigh was loud enough to hear through the door. “Watch your mouth, Calvin. Since when do you talk to your mother that way?”

  “Sorry.” He spun the phone through the fabric of his shirt, drying every last drop. The screen had gone black, and he hoped it was just the screen saver, but when he set it on the counter and pressed the power button, nothing happened.

  Oh no.

  “Well when you’re done in there, you come talk to me, all right?”

  Shit shit shit!

  He picked the phone back up, tried to slide his fingernail through the small gap down the side of it, hoping to pry it apart, maybe let the inner workings dry off. But no matter how hard he pulled, the thing wouldn’t open, and when he tried to use more fingers, the phone slipped again, clattered to the tile by his feet. A spiderweb of cracks fanned out over the screen, and all he could do was stare down at it, running his toilet-water-glazed hands through his hair.

  “Calvin, you hear me talking to you?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I hear you. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  After another few minutes, Calvin gave up, slid the phone into his pocket, then flushed the toilet just in case his mother was still close enough to hear. He shook his head, had no idea how he was going to tell her about this. She didn’t say anything about buying insurance for the phone, and he knew that if she didn’t have that, he was screwed. No way in hell she’d buy him another one. Especially not so soon after he got it.

  Maybe I can talk to Ms. Beasley about it. She’ll believe anything I say.

  Their elderly neighbor had no living relatives, or at least that’s what she alway
s told Calvin. She was probably the loneliest person he had ever met, and when his mother made him go over there for the first time, Calvin was annoyed. He had no idea what he would talk to a hunched-over old lady about.

  “Just tell her to write you a grocery list. You’ll be like her personal shopper. She’s so sweet, honey, and it’d be good for you too. Always good to do good deeds, never know who’s watching.” That’s what his mother had said almost five months ago now, but what she didn’t mention was that Ms. Beasley would hold him hostage afterward, stuffing food down his throat, telling him stories about the old days, of which she seemed to have an infinite supply.

  But Calvin had grown to genuinely like that old woman, enjoyed spending time with her. She could cook way better than his mom, though he would never tell his mom that, and she always let him keep the change when he bought her groceries for her.

  If I tell her I accidentally dropped the phone in the toilet, that it was a Christmas present from my mom and I’m scared of how mad she’ll get, maybe Ms. Beasley will help me. Give me the money to replace it. I can do housework or something in exchange.

  His spirits lifted as he strolled out of the bathroom and toward the kitchen where he heard the sink running and the clanging of pots and pans.

  “Hey, Mom,” Calvin said and leaned against the counter beside her. “What’s up?”

  “You ever use language like that with me again, boy, I’ll stuff your mouth so full of soap you’ll be burping bubbles for a month, you hear me?” She reached over, grabbed him by the chin with her wet, sudsy fingers, narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

  “It was an accident. I won’t do it again.” Calvin smiled despite the fingertips digging into his jaw. “I’m sorry.”