Fluffy’s Revolution Page 5

  “The remains of two bodies have been found in the wreckage. Police say it will be several days before their identities can be confirmed, but they are believed to be the two guards on duty inside the facility: Michael Burns and Lucien Epps III, twenty-year-old son of Epsilon president Jeremiah Epps…”

  “Noooo!” shrieks Janet, and she collapses to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. The posse gathers around her. All the liberated animals listen in silence.

  “What is it, Janet?” says Hacker.

  “I killed my brother!” she wails. “Lucien Epps was my kid brother!”

  “Then you’re the daughter of…”

  Janet looks up at them. “That’s right. I’m the daughter of that bastard, Jeremiah Epps.”

  The room falls under a long, oppressive silence. At length, Hacker speaks: “Prepare for a siege!”

  They back the two trucks up against the front door; they hang blackout curtains over the row of windows at the back. Earlier, they had made giant litter boxes out of lumber and sand. For the animals that knew how to use them, the toilets were fitted with animal potty seats―toilet seats with a smaller hole and a flat area where an animal can sit. They had also made feeding troughs, one for dogs, one for cats, and figured out that there would be enough food for ten days only, as long as no one ate more than one meal a day. Blankets and carpeting were laid out for the guests to sleep on.

  For the first day, the guests are well behaved, mostly because they’re scared. But, after that, the natives get restless. A couple of playful young dogs decide to chase cats, two dogs have a noisy dispute over a sleeping spot, two male cats mark the same territory, then get into a squalling match, there are complaints about someone eating more than their share. Fluffy and the others do their best to break up the fights and maintain peace, but for a while, pandemonium reigns.

  “You can’t make any noise!” says Hacker, yelling in a whisper. “The enemy can hear everything!” But they pay him no mind.

  Then, a venerable old Saint Bernard named Bernard steps forward and tries to get the attention of his fellow guests. Throat-clearing doesn’t work, so he fixes his gaze on the two trucks that block the entrance, raises them up in the air about three feet, and lets them drop. The ground shakes with the thud. Everyone shuts up, looks back and forth between the trucks and Bernard in silent amazement. Then, in a deep commanding voice, Bernard speaks. “Listen, brothers and sisters, we are guests in this place and under the protection of these brave animals and humans who risked their lives to save us. We have to learn to overcome our base instincts and use the superior brains we’re blessed with. Now, there will be no more foolishness!” After that, things get quiet.

  Twelve hours pass. Janet lies in the fetal position on her mat. She neither eats, nor sleeps, nor speaks―until the second day.

  “I want to give myself up,” she says in a loud, shaky voice. “My father won’t let them torture me, and I won’t give you up. I’ll die first.”

  “No,” says Rudy. “They have drugs that can make you talk, and you won’t even remember saying anything.” Rudy has more than a little compassion for Janet; everyone knew there was chemistry going on between them, although it was never spoken of.

  “He’s right,” says Hacker. “You have to stay here.”

  “We know you’re sorry, Janet,” says Fluffy. “If it makes you feel better, know that we forgive you… don’t we, everyone?”

  Everyone murmurs their assent. “Yes… yes, Janet, we forgive you…”

  Janet musters a little smile and touches Fluffy’s head.

  Outside the air is buzzing with police helicopters and air cruisers. Every road out of town has a checkpoint, which causes huge traffic jams that back up for miles into the heart of the city. All private air traffic is grounded.

  Chief Davis himself rushes to the scene when the A.C. trucks and the two drivers are discovered in the Sanitation lot. The drivers have just regained consciousness and, of course, remember nothing. Zvonar sits beside Davis in his robocopter.

  “Tell them to touch nothing,” says Zvonar. “Tell the drivers to stay exactly where they are and not move. The terrorists may have left some psychic ‘scent’ I can follow.”

  When Davis’ copter touches down, Zvonar moves close to one of the trucks, stands motionless for a moment, then to the other. He climbs into the cab and sits next to the driver, who, per instructions, remains motionless in the driver’s seat. The two men sit in silence for several minutes. Then, Zvonar gets down and returns to Chief Davis in the copter.

  “Well?”

  “They are very near here. Circle the neighborhood. They are in one of these warehouses.” Zvonar gestures vaguely in a semicircle.

  They fly in ever-widening circles over the neighborhood. Below are countless warehouses and industrial spaces, some abandoned. Eyes closed, Zvonar directs Davis’ copter, first this way and then that. At last, they are over the hideout.

  “It’s that one… right down there. I can hear them!” cries Zvonar.

  Davis contacts headquarters and, within ten minutes, the parking lot outside the hideout is filled with police vehicles. Davis and Zvonar are already on the scene.

  Jeremiah Epps, the grieving father, also arrives, wanting to personally take charge of the annihilation of the terrorists who killed his son.

  The hideout is part of a mostly-deserted industrial complex that includes several other old warehouses. The buildings are in a contiguous row; the hideout is the first one on the left. They all share the vast parking lot.

  Hacker has cameras mounted outside the front door, and when the police arrive, he can see the vehicles assembling outside in the parking lot.

  “They’ve found us!” cries Hacker, looking at the monitor screen. “There’s Epps himself!”

  There is a moment of panic in the hideout. Then Janet cries, “Let me go out there. Maybe they’ll let you go if I give myself up.”

  “Fat chance,” says Hacker. “Knock out the windows and make a run for it!” He enables a virus-like worm called Tapeworm on his computers, which literally eats all the data. Then, he hurls a large hard drive through the windows, and Hacker and Mitzi disappear into the wall.

  Then all hell breaks loose. Without even the customary bull-horned warning from the cops, a huge truck with a steel wedge mounted on the front crashes through the front door. It’s stopped by the two trucks that are parked inside but tears an enormous hole in the corrugated metal garage door. Rudy, Giuseppe, and Janet appear with grenade launchers and fire RPGs out the damaged door that destroy a couple of police cruisers. The parking lot is turned into an instant war zone.

  “This way!” shouts Fluffy from the loft. All the panicked animals run up the stairs to the loft, leap onto the workbench, and start fleeing out the broken windows.

  Fluffy frantically scans the crowd. “Jack! Jack, where are you?” But she can’t see him anywhere.

  Outside the windows, on the street side of the building, there is a strip of roof rimmed with a low brick wall. As the animals flee out the window, a huge unmanned gunship rises up over the street like a monstrous specter. It opens fire on the animals, mowing down dozens of them.

  Fluffy, Tigger, and Fang, seeing no alternative, follow the others out the window and run to the right, staying close to the brick retaining wall. Hundreds of bullets whizz over their heads. The cats stay low, but a bullet hits Fang in her side and she falls. Fluffy stops and Tigger keeps going.

  “Fang!” cries Fluffy. “Can you get up?”

  Fang lays on her side, her breathing labored. “Keep going, sweetie,” she whispers. She’s bleeding badly. “Get to the mountains, find that school…” And then she is gone.

  When
cats cry, there are no tears. But inside, Fluffy’s tears fall like rain. She looks up at the battle drone. “You killed my friend, now GO DOWN!” If looks could kill, that battle drone would be dead, and in this case they could. The huge ship spins out of control and crashes into the street below in a ball of flames.

  Another gunship appears almost immediately and starts firing on Fluffy. She runs faster than she knew she could. The bullets follow her, try to cut her down but miraculously none of them hits her. At the end of the row of contiguous buildings, there’s an alley about fifteen feet wide. On the other side is another industrial building the same height. It has an air vent that looks like a curved smokestack on the roof. Without thinking, and not really caring if she falls to her death, Fluffy leaps without slowing down, without looking down. She sails over the alley and her front paws are just able to grab the edge of the other roof. She runs to the air vent and dives in, just as it is demolished by a hail of bullets. She spirals down and down, through what seems like an endless aluminum vortex, and lands with a clang. She’s inside an air duct which runs horizontally beneath the ceiling of the warehouse. She stops, catches her breath, and huddles there, shaking. She thinks of her dead friend. She thinks of all her friends, and her brother, whom she will probably never see again.

  It’s pitch dark inside the air duct, but her cat’s eyes can see a faint light in the distance, straight ahead. She knows it’s probably a way out, but she just huddles there, unwilling to move. Then the earth shakes and there’s a horrendous roar. Fluffy knows the hideout is no more. She wonders if any of her friends have survived.

  Chapter Six – Loose Lips

  Professor James Riordan was despondent. It had been a long while since he had gone out of the house, but with Fluffy gone he had been drinking alone and talking to himself, so he forced himself to take a shower and go to his old favorite watering hole. He entered Scully’s and sat on his once-customary stool.

  “Professor! Where you been? You’re looking well,” said Tom Scully, the bartender and owner.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Tom. I look like hell and I know it,” said Riordan. “Glenfiddich. A double.”

  Scully’s was a few blocks from Riordan’s building. It was also one of the few remaining bars that actually served alcoholic drinks, which was probably why there were so few customers. Alcohol had gradually gone out of style with the younger generation and had been supplanted by euphorium-based drinks, a compound that was generally considered to give the ultimate euphoric high, without the discomfort of a hangover. But James Riordan had come from a long line of Irish drinking writers. He was old school.

  The bar was dark and cozy, all polished mahogany and brick. Scully poured him the drink. Riordan downed it and asked for another.

  “So, where ya been keepin’ yourself?” asked Scully, as he poured round two.

  “Nowhere. I just stay home. Day after day, night after night.”

  “Ahh, that’s not healthy,” said Scully. “Everybody needs to get out once in awhile”

  “Hence, here I am,” said Riordan.

  Just then, a thin, scruffy guy about thirty with sandy hair and beard noticed Riordan and moved down the bar to sit beside him. “Hey, Professor Riordan, right?”

  “Ex-professor.”

  “I was in your English Lit class―god, it must be six, eight years ago. Arthur Yellin. Do you remember me?”

  Riordan turned and scrutinized the guy for a moment. “Nope, can’t say I do.”

  “Well, I guess I wasn’t much of a scholar. I dropped out after two semesters.”

  “So now what’re you doing?” asked Riordan, trying to seem interested.

  “Art. See all these paintings?” He made a sweeping gesture, indicating five large paintings that hung on the brick wall behind them. Riordan hadn’t noticed the new art, but now he swiveled around gave it a long, hard look.

  At length, Riordan said, “These are good. Damn good.” He was not a man who doled out compliments easily. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Art. Art Yellin.”

  “Well, Art, your art is certainly yellin’ at me,” quipped Riordan. He smiled his still-charming Irish smile.

  “Ha-ha, good one!” said Art.

  “Have you sold many?”

  “Uh, not really. Wanna buy one?”

  “Maybe…maybe…”

  “Can I buy you a drink, professor?”

  “Why don’t you let me buy you one? Can’t be much money in painting.”

  “True, but I get the government subsidy, y’ know. But okay, thanks. Another of the same, Tommy.”

  Scully set up a brandy and soda for Art, and the two men raised their glasses. “To good old alcohol and hangovers!” said Riordan. They clinked glasses and bottoms up.

  The professor got up and, weaving slightly, walked the length of the room, surveying the paintings. They were abstract, but there were recognizable objects. You could make out bits of buildings, people, and creatures. They used bold, vibrant colors, and were painted with painstaking precision―a quality Riordan admired. They drew you in. Riordan sat back down next to Art. He took a photo out of his inside jacket pocket.

  “Do you think you could make a painting inspired by her?” he asked. It was a picture of Fluffy.

  “What’s this?” asked Art.

  “It’s my cat, Fluffy. She’s gone away.” And Riordan started to tear up.

  “Pretty. What do you mean ‘gone away’? Did she get out and wander off and get lost?”

  “No. She said she wanted to find her brother and join the animal resistance movement, and I let her go.” He started to choke up again. “I really miss her. Do you think you could make a painting? Not realistic; in your style. Abstract, but inspired by Fluffy? I’d be willing to pay―well.”

  “I dunno. Maybe I could,” said Art tentatively.

  “You can do it, Art―frame her ‘fearful symmetry.’”

  Art chuckled. “I seem to remember something about that in your class. Can I keep this?”

  “Yeah. Here’s my number. Think about it and give me a call.” He wrote his number on the back of the photo.

  Art fished a battered business card out of his shirt pocket and gave it to Riordan.

  It said, ART BY ART and gave his number.

  On the small screen mounted above the bar, the news came on. It showed the smoldering remains of the extermination center and the artillery barrage in the parking lot, ending with the cops blowing up the animal hideout. Riordan watched it with a terrible feeling of dread.

  “I gotta go. Great meeting you. Bye,” said Riordan, and he abruptly wheeled about and walked out of the bar and onto the dark street. He didn’t notice the nondescript bald man who had been sitting alone at one of the dark tables in back and who now got up and followed him.

  Riordan had just reached his building when his phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Professor, it’s Art.” His voice was stressed.

  “Hi, Art. Anything wrong?”

  “Yes. I think you were followed.”

  Riordan keyed in his code and opened the door of his building. As he pulled the glass door open, he could see the reflection of the bald man standing under a streetlight about fifty feet behind him. The man was talking on his handheld.

  “I think you’re right,” said Riordan, as he entered the lobby of his building and frantically pressed for the elevator while glancing over his shoulder.

  “I think you talked a little too loudly about your cat,” said Art.

  “Listen, Art. I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Yes?”

  “I�
��m going to leave my keycard under my doormat. It’s apartment 15005, can you remember that?”

  “I’m writing it down,” said Art.

  “The entry code is 34782. Write that down too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me in the morning. If I don’t answer my phone, I want you to come over here. Let yourself into my apartment. It’s nice, you’ll like it. You can paint here. The light is good. Make all the mess you want. I want you to stay here until you hear from me. I want someone to be here in case Fluffy gets back or sends a message. If the D.I.S. shows up, you have no idea where I am, but I asked you to house-sit for me, okay?”

  “Will I be in danger?”

  “Maybe. Art, I know you hardly know me, but will you do this for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bless you, Art. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck, professor.”

  Riordan got to his floor, entered his apartment. He hurriedly packed a few things, grabbed a disc containing his half-finished novel, put on a long trench coat and a broad-brimmed fedora. On the way out he stopped in front of the full-length mirror by the front door. He rubbed his upper lip with his thumb like Jean-Paul Belmondo in Breathless. “Bogie,” he muttered. On the way out, he left the keycard under the mat and left his home, maybe forever. He took the elevator down to the garage, which had an exit on the landward side of the building.

  He knew that getting arrested by the D.I.S. for animal terrorist activities might mean being taken away and never heard from again. He knew other people, animal activists, who had been “disappeared.” They had never been charged, tried, or convicted and their whereabouts were still unknown. Well, I said I needed to get out more…

  As he walked quickly into the night, he wished he had remembered to wipe the cache on his browsers and get rid of Fluffy’s tracking collar. But it was too late now. If they caught him, he was cooked. He wracked his besotted brain for where he could go, whom he could trust…