Day 77: Lucky 77!

I'll put all my money on black today.  And I'll spin that wheel until I lose it all.

Good indie rock band name:  Jimbo's Belt.  In case anyone was wondering, it's an extension cord.

            “Where we’re going,”  Jim said, wrapping an american flag bandana across his head and now really looking like Willie Nelson ready to go out on stage.  “There’s going to be a lot of violence, a lot of unpredictability.  The impropability variant is going to be high, we don’t know what we’re going to see.  You should probably just keep your eyes on what’s straight ahead of you.

            “But we do know where we’re going, then?”  Roger sounded relieved.  He fingered his earlobe with a grimace.

            “Yes, it’s where I was working before I came here.  My old employer.  He had a freak accident and it landed him in that metal facade.  Let’s just say I jumped the coop.”

            Jim explained how the particle stabilizer had misfired, and the room’s door was closed, with him inside it.  Mr. Grey, who at that point was just a confident if not arrogant young scientist only had his goggles and led vest on, when the rooms sirens started to blare and the red light began to flash, lighting up the granite bomb shelter walls.  Jim sat outside with a few other scientists, an inexperienced young bunch that were collectively dreading the ramifications of this experiment.  He remembered saying, “If he doesn’t end up killing himself, he’s going to get cancer.”

            “It was supposed to speed up time,”  Jim said, shaking his head.  “Instead, it created more time, it revolutionized time in that one spot.  The quarks ate Mr. Grey’s skin and instantly recreated what was there.  He was… no longer… human.  But the bright side is, I’m pretty good with machines!”

            Jim pulled out a fancy phone, fiddling with the touch screen for a minute.  He clicked and dragged, clicked and dragged, clicked and dragged.  The screen produced a picture of an outdoor facility, it looked like there was a front desk and the offices were carved into the trees somewhere, but the virtual tour didn’t have clearance to get through it.  They both stared on at the tiny screen, Roger looking perplexed and confused.

            Jim looked at the lapel he handed to Roger, who twisted it in between his fingers and placed it in his pocket.  He smelled the air, no traces of the metallic residue that the robots left on their path.  He recognized that smell so clearly when he held the pin for the split second, they might now recognize Roger as one of them, and see Jim as the only intruder.  That was, once they reached the outdoor bunker.  It seemed like a far off dream, so the anxiety wasn’t creeping in yet.

            The front door opened itself before Jim could walk through it and the Bully Bot stood there, his foot stuck out in a tripping position.  Jim recognized it immediately and knew it would try to trip him, since that was what he had programmed it to do, and slammed the door quickly.

            “Going somewhere?”  The robot said in a perfunctory monotone.  “You will stay in the house until you meet your maker.  Me.”

            Jim moved a coffeetable sideways into the door, ripping a long hole in Roger’s nice blue carpet in the process.  He apologized with his shoulders.  The robot clawed at the other side of the wooden door like a cat, a sudden red dot appearing that seemed to soak through from the other side.  A hand poked through the hole, rotating around and making it wider, and long snakelike fingers stretched out for the doorknob.

            “I didn’t teach it to do that, or say that.”  Jim said, panicking.  He hunted through his toolbox, turning it over on its side on accident.  He reached down with one hand to grab the lid and lift it back up, the the lid popped off and he fell onto his back.  Screws, washers and nails rolled out like doors to a clown car had just opened, and they rolled freely across the alcove. 

Roger ran to the sink and turned the knob to full blast, fumbling around in the compartment underneath it for a bucket.  He filled it and the hot water sloshed freely, soaking his T-shirt as he scrambled over to the door.  He threw the bucket in an overhand heave at the robot, sliding forward on the floor.

Jim gave off an agitated yelp, as the robot grew faster and shined a metallic red.  The robots function on heat, he would later explain.

“Come on!”  Jim called, already out of the back door, the swinging gate creaking in the wind.  The robot barged through and stepped directly through the glass coffee table, wearing it over its body like a person who had a painting smashed over his head.  Roger threw the knock-off Van Gogh at it from off of the wall, it smashing ineffectually against the robots body.

“Nice shot, Tex.”  It said, whistling between its teeth.  It shook its entire body with a violent vibration and turned its lower half into a round spiked ball, shooting glass around the living room like a chandelier falling on concrete.  Roger caught some shrapnel to his sweatpantsed ankles, gimping his way up the stairs to Jim who was waving enthusiastically like a runway guide.

Jim pulled a shiny metal discuss out of his sweatshirt pocket and hurled it down the stairs at the robot, and the metal disc gave off a blue light.  It pulsated once, distorting the air around it, and the robot was temporarily phased, holding its head like it was drunk and walking around woozily.

They scurried out onto the overlooking porch, Jim looking around decisively and grabbing a hold of a branch.  The robot hulked its way up the stairs, losing some of its humanlike enamel as it continued.  Roger was standing by the foot of the bed, looking forlorn.  He spotted a picture of his daughters with the Easter Bunny on the dresser and pocketed it, throwing a cross necklace of his wife’s around his neck as well.  Jim waved and they jumped off the porch together, landing softly in the bushes.

Jim looked at the necklace and then up at Roger.  “There’s no God where we’re going.  There’s nothing at all there.”