Machine City: A Thriller (Detective Barnes Book 2) by Scott J. Holliday

Author:Scott J. Holliday [Holliday, Scott J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503903401
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2018-10-15T22:00:00+00:00

It’d grown late. Luckily, Mancino’s was a twenty-four-hour joint. Barnes sat in his truck in the parking lot, watching through the plate glass as diner patrons went in and came out, cooks hard at work behind the counter, waitresses pouring coffee and gleefully throwing their heads back in response to customer quips. His spot at the counter was taken, so the thing to do was wait. The scents invaded his vehicle. Burgers, onions, fries.

Melodian and Brittanian protesters were stationed outside of the Three Aces Memory Shop across the street. They walked a pill-shaped circuit on the sidewalk out front, each holding a handmade sign—THE MACHINE IS GOD’S WRATH, SERUM = POISON, YOU ARE NOT BRAD PITT! A nuisance to memory men trying to make an honest buck. Shop owners were part of the good side, the side aiding people with med cards, people whose reality was truly worth escaping, but these nuts didn’t know any better. To them any machine was a tool of the devil and a sign of the apocalypse. Any shared memory was a sin.

One of the protesters, a Melodian who had clearly called it quits for the evening, was inside Mancino’s enjoying what looked like a burger and fries. His sign was propped next to him in his booth, the words facing down. His sideburn bangs dangled down toward his food.

Barnes’s attention was pulled back across the street. A man, likely the shop owner, had come out of Three Aces and started screaming something at the protesters. Barnes couldn’t make out his words. The protesters screamed back, jabbing their signs at him from the sidewalk. So long as they stayed on that concrete strip they were on public property, allowed to be there. But move in the shopkeeper’s direction and it was trespassing. The memory man reared back and hurled an object at the protesters. Maybe a rock? It fell harmlessly between them and bounced out into the street. One of the Brittanians turned around and waggled her ass. Or maybe it was his ass. Hard to tell.

Barnes turned on the truck radio and adjusted the volume. A low hum like static came forth. He reached for the tuner but stopped when the speakers sounded off:

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

There was a cassette in the old truck’s player.

“It’s Georgie,” a woman said, her voice frantic and wavering. “He didn’t come home from school. He’s got yearbook, but after that he always comes right home. In an hour it’ll be dark and . . . and . . .”

Barnes pressed the “Eject” button. The cassette popped out. It was labeled CASE #572486-627. He pushed the cassette back in.

“Calm down, ma’am. Can you tell me your name?”

“My name’s Alice. I . . . wait. Hold on.”

In the background there was the sound of a door hinge creaking. It was a light, tinny sound, followed by the sound of the latch clicking. Then there was a bang, presumably the phone clapping down on the counter or a table as the sound was followed by quick footsteps.

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