by Ed Jacobs
Shana sat against the back wall of Mike’s Sandwich Shoppe with her phone laying face up on the table. A parade of cars passed by the floor-to-ceiling marketplace window, every one in a hurry to be somewhere else. Across from her, Baptiste’s eyes remained firmly on his phone, Twitter or Facebook probably. Shana couldn’t tell which, they’re both blue when shining off Baptiste’s black shades and mahogany skin. Shana’s hand drifted idly to her hip, seeking assurance that her V-E 9mm pistol was still secure in its holster. She hadn’t had to use it so far, but the App recommended having one and it allowed her and Baptiste to take High Risk Collections. Those paid the good money, or so she had heard.
Mike’s Sandwich Shoppe was under a five year lease with rent due on the first of the month. The McDonald’s across the street did better business, but Mike’s got more gig drivers. Like the McDonald’s, Mike’s was under three floors of apartments. Rooms overhead were rented at monthly rates on annual leases. Not the most expensive in the city, but not cheap. Mike had never met his landlord and he probably never would. He had, however, met Shana and Baptiste.
Shana’s brown leather bomber jacket was stitched over with patches from various local punk bands. Some of the bands were even still together. Her dark roots were showing under her seafoam green hair since she didn’t have enough money at the time for food, rent, or a real dye job. A nylon holster was strapped to the outside thigh of her paint stained jeans. Open carry laws and the bright blue VIGILANT-E logo on her sidearm kept the pigs from harassing her about the piece.
Baptiste wore his long, black leather trench coat over a navy blue T-shirt and black cargo pants. The jacket had breast pockets, hip pockets, and a few hidden inside pockets. Baptiste liked pockets. His head he kept shaved, said it was cheaper than a barber. Shana sometimes wished she looked as good bald, but that part of her life was over.
Today had been quiet so far. Shana had logged into the Vigilant-E app just after breakfast and now it was getting close to lunch. Mike’s had gone from just her, to her and Baptiste, to a full house. Chairs squeaked as they were pulled out and pushed in. The din of conversation rumbled around the pair. Cars and time passed. The table closest to the counter, empty earlier, was now full of Uber Eats and DoorDash drivers. Rented people getting food in rented vehicles to take to rented apartments.
Shana noticed Mike coming out of the back. That wasn’t great, he only came out to the lobby to solve problems. And since no one else had caused a problem, Shana figured that she and Baptiste may have overstayed their welcome. Two breakfast sandwiches only rent you so much hospitality.
“We’re just leaving, Mike,” Shana said as she stood.
Baptiste shook awake from his reverie of doomscrolling. “What? Why?”
Mike pointed with his spatula. “I ain’t mad atcha, but I got paying customers and you ain’t them.”
Shana gathered her phone and Baptiste. “I know, I know. Like I said, we’re leaving.”
***
The icy breeze hit the pair as soon as the door to Mike’s opened. Shana pulled her collar up against it as Baptiste exited behind her. The smell of cold cleaned the dirt and oil from the air. High-rise buildings blocked most of the sky around the two and a gray sheet of clouds blocked the sun from the street. Drivers sat in cars waiting for orders; people bustled from door to door. The city writhed around them as they made their way downtown.
Shana’s phone made a happy chime sound and she opened it. The Vigilant-E app had an offer.
“Ugh, looks like they want us to deliver a summons.” Shana shook her head.
Baptiste perked up. “Oh? How much?”
“One twenty. Fifty bucks extra if we can do it in an hour. Crawford.”
Baptiste tilted his head back as he did the math. “Doable. Kinkos is within walking distance. You get the printout and I’ll meet you out front of the store with the whip.”
“Please stop calling your shitty EV hatchback ‘the whip,’” Shana said.
Baptiste flashed a self-satisfied smile. “Never.”
***
The whip was outside when Shana got there. Manilla envelope under one arm, she dipped into the passenger seat and hooked her phone up to the USB cable Baptiste kept for it. The map and directions to a James Miller’s apartment in Crawford appeared on the car’s entertainment and interface screen. Baptiste cracked the windows open to keep airflow through the car. With the EV every mile counted and heat takes power. Jackets are cheaper than charge in the long run.
Baptiste looked over at the envelope. “Didja’ get the good paper?”
“What?” Shana said.
“The good paper, 12 point.”
Shana rolled her eyes. “No, Baptiste. I didn’t get 12 point paper. It’s a summons, I’d scrawl it on one of Mike’s napkins if the app would let me.”
Baptiste shook his head as he pulled out into traffic. “Legal documents used to be written on vellum. Everything is disposable now. No one owns anything.”
“Turn left,” chimed Vigilant-E.
“What are you talking about?”
“Vellum,” Baptiste said while taking the requested left. “Calf skin paper. All great historical documents were written on it, so they’d last. We’ve spent so much time as a civilization living on the bones of our forefathers we’ve forgotten how to make things that last.”
Shana pulled a vape out of her jacket and pulled a drag. “Sounds like shitty leather to me.”
Baptiste shrugged as he pulled in front of a red Prius. “It’s more than that, Shana. Everything is digital now. Stored on hard drives that we rent access too. And when they decide—”
“They who?” Shana interrupted.
“What?” said Baptiste.
“They fucking who, Baptiste.”
“In one hundred feet, make a right.”
Baptiste looked over to merge to the right. “Just they. You know, whoever. The ones in charge. One day all the servers are gonna go offline and then, poof. Hundred years of culture gone. Like it never existed. That’s why I collect VHS tapes.”
“Your delivery is on the right,” chimed Vigilant-E.
***
James Miller’s apartment was 304, top floor of what looked like a motel. Manilla-colored stucco cracked at every corner of the building. Apartment doors were on the outside, no elevators. The stairs were brown wooden slats painted slightly darker brown, ready to collapse under the footfalls of some unfortunate resident. Or delivery person. Shana swore under her breath and pocketed her vape as she and Baptiste made the climb. Shana was huffing by the time they reached the top. Why couldn’t rich people with elevators and lobby bars get summons through the app?
Baptiste knocked on door 304. “James M.? We got your food.”
Shana huffed, catching her breath, “If this bitch runs I’m gonna kneecap him.”
“No, you won’t,” Baptiste muttered back. He knocked again. “James M.? I need to deliver this or I don’t get paid.”
The door cracked open. Baptiste grabbed the lip and opened it as far as the security chain would allow. Shana held the manilla envelope up, her eyes turned down to the spiel on her phone.
“James A. Miller, you are being served with a summons. You are required to…You are…” Shana stopped.
Her vision swam. Her fingers tingled. She shut her eyes tight and took a few deep breaths. Baptiste nudged Shana’s shoulder, holding out a Nature’s Valley bar he had produced out of a jacket pocket. She put the envelope under her arm and unwrapped the granola bar.
James looked from Baptiste to Shana. “Are you okay?”
“Fuck off,” muttered Shana through a mouth full of granola.
“Am I under arrest?” James asked.
Baptiste held his free hand out. “We’ll explain. My friend just needs a minute.”
A minute later, Shana brushed the crumbs off her jacket and continued.
“You are required to appear in court on the date printed on this,” she took the envelope out from under her arm and shook it at James, “official record of summons. If you choose not to appear you will be apprehended, either by police or a duly appointed contractor. Do you understand?”
James stammered and again tried unsuccessfully to shut the door against Baptiste’s grip, “What did I do?”
Shana shrugged. “Dunno. Not my problem. Take this so we can leave.”
James pulled as hard as he could until Baptiste peered around the door edge and said, “Sir, please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Shana’s eyes turned up to James’s face. “Just take the fucking envelope.”
James, defeated, reached out and took the envelope from Shana.
She nodded in approval. “Great. Awesome. Thank you. Say cheese.”
The flash on her phone lit up as Shana got the evidence of delivery that would complete their assignment.
When they returned to the ground floor, Shana flopped into the passenger seat of the whip. She laid her head back, eyes closed, and waited for the world to stop spinning.
Baptiste pulled an applesauce pouch out of his jacket. “You good, Shana?”
“Fine. Great. Just need a sec.” She reached out and took the pouch from Baptiste.
“You should check your blood sugar,” Baptiste said as he put the whip in drive.
“I said I’m fine.” Shana peeked over at her friend. “But thanks for the snacks.”
***
Shana and Baptiste ended up back at Mike’s. Reuben for Baptiste. Roast beef and havarti on wheat for Shana. Water for both. They split a bag of chips. A hundred and seventy dollars wasn’t a bad payday, but it wasn’t great and Vigilant-E had been quiet since. Mike’s dinner rush was in full swing around the two. Chairs scooted, customers talked, gig drivers waited. Fewer people passed the window this time of the evening. Most had called a DoorDasher or, god forbid, cooked their own meals like heathens.
Shana’s phone on the table chimed and the Vigilant-E app flashed green. This was good, it looked like real work.
“Hey Bap, it’s our first High Risk Collection. Fifteen hundred dollars! Wouldn’t be a bad night with that. You in?” She didn’t wait for Baptiste to answer. Her finger was already selecting Accept.
“Big time, huh?” Baptiste said. “Hope we don’t have to shoot anyone.”
Shana nodded. “Me neither. Job only pays half for a corpse.”
Baptiste shook his head. “Okay, that and I’m not excited to try and get a deadly force buy off from the app. I’ve heard some people get shot while waiting for approval.”
Shana shrugged. “Bring a backup then.”
“Are you kidding?” Baptiste said, “You wanna get a Wrongful Death charge? You need approval to use deadly force. V-E Guns won’t fire without the authorization, that’s why it’s Bluetoothed to your phone. If the police find out you used a personal heater, even if we have approval first, then boom. We’re explaining to a judge why poor Charlie Convict isn’t coming home.”
“Fine. Alright. Lets go get your ‘whip’,” she said while holding up air quotes. “Fifteen hundo. Two or three takes like that then we can afford rent AND food.”
***
The sun was setting as Baptiste and Shana drove out of town. With the windows cracked open the evening air was colder than the afternoon’s. Shana sat low in her seat, the collar of her bomber jacket pulled up around her ears.
“What ever happened to Molly?” Shana asked.
“Moved to Canada,” Baptiste answered.
“Ahh, land of opportunity. Free healthcare.”
Baptiste shrugged. “I think she still Ubers for most of her money. Rent still ain’t free there.”
“In two miles, take the exit on the right to US Highway 3.”
Shana pulled a drag from her vape as Baptiste drifted to the right hand lane. She leaned her seat back, vapor drifting up from her mouth.
Her stomach rumbled. “Fuck me, I’m still hungry.”
“You already ran me outta snacks,” Baptiste said. “There’s a Reuben in the fridge when we get home.”
“Fat lotta good that does me here,” said Shana, blowing the remaining vapor from her mouth.
“In twenty-one miles, take Exit 34B towards Modest Hills.”
***
The contract had taken them out of the city proper and into the suburbs. The woods closed dark around them for a while only to open on the right hand side to a bare field cut through with a newly paved road. A large faux wooden sign that rode the partition at the opening declared, “Modest Hills Living Village”.
Shana checked the car’s display. “Are we in the right place?”
Baptiste shrugged. “This is where the app is taking us.”
Shana sighed, checked the chamber of her V-E, and waited for Baptiste to stop.
Baptiste drove the whip past numerous identical homes. Two story duplexes, all pastel blues and greens and pinks. Each had 30 square feet of immaculately manicured lawn. No cars in the driveway, no cars on the street. It looked like a movie sound stage of a neighborhood.
“Turn right on Wren Street.”
Baptiste turned right. He then crossed Whippoorwill Lane, turned onto Bob White Terrace which changed names a mile after to Greater Sage Grouse Court.
Shana squinted as she looked out the window. No one had their porchlight on. “13258, 13258, 13258.”
Baptiste slowed and turned the radio down. “It’s even so it should be on the right.”
“13260, 262, Fuck, we passed it.”
“No,” Baptiste pointed, “it’s in the cul-du-sac.”
Shana swore, “Fuck, why?”
Sure enough, the headlights of the whip illuminated a pastel blue and white duplex. The curb between the twin driveways had been painted international emergency yellow and the numbers “13258” were stenciled in black. Baptiste pulled into the driveway on the left.
Shana laid the seat back, grabbed the pair of homemade flexicuffs from the back seat and tucked them in her jacket pocket. They were really just two thick black cable ties hooked together, but the cops could replace them after drop-off. She sat up and pulled the seat back with her. When she got out Baptiste had his V-E out and ready.
Shana put a hand on Baptiste’s arm. “Hey, you good?”
Baptiste turned his eyes down to Shana. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I think so anyways.”
“Cool, cool,” Shana said. “Put your fucking gun away then.”
Baptiste hesitated but complied. They walked up to the left hand door of the duplex. Baptiste knocked. It echoed like gunshots in an empty hall. Lights in the upper story illuminated and then the lower. The door opened to the length of a security chain. Baptiste grabbed it. A little gray haired lady, only as tall as Baptiste’s chest, peered through bottle thick glasses.
Shana presented the lady her phone, the Vigilant-E warrant and contract showing. “We’re here to arrest Terry Douglas for failure to appear in court on bail. If he could come out peacefully this’ll all be over really quick.”
Shana didn’t expect it to be peaceful or quick, but one could hope.
“I’m sorry miss, you have the wrong house.”
Shana shook her head. “13258 A Greater Sage Grouse Court.”
The old lady turned her porch light on and pointed to the now illuminated door, “This is 13258 B.”
The section of wall next to the door exploded, plastic siding and concrete spraying at them from the hole blown out by buckshot. The shrapnel of plastic and mortar was followed by the distinct mechanical cycling of a shotgun.
Behind the shotgun was a young blond man in blue and white striped pajamas. Shana and Baptiste ran for cover behind the far corner of the house. Another shell missed them both as Baptiste pulled his V-E pistol from its holster.
“You’ll never take me alive, pigs!” Smoke drifted out of the eject port of Terry Douglas’s shotgun as he racked another round.
“Does this asshole think that we’re cops?” Shana said as she rounded the corner, grabbing the edge as she passed to stabilize herself. Shana pulled her phone out and opened the Vigilant-E app. Baptiste positioned himself tensely against the wall. He leveled his gun at Terry, pulled the trigger, and nothing. A small LED under the back iron sight flashed red.
“Oh Goddammit!” Shana said. Both her and Baptiste ran around the back of the house, buckshot tearing the thin bark off a nearby birch.
Shana could feel her hands shake as she swiped through a maze of phone menus. She finally found the Current Contract option and selected Contractor Support. A friendly chime sounded and a digitized feminine voice came out.
“Hello Contractor! We hope your collection is going well. How can I help you today?”
Shana huffed as she pulled Baptiste around to the right hand side of the house. “We’re being shot at!”
A small blue circle appeared on the screen, rotating lazily. Another pleasant chime sounded a second later.
“It sounds like you’ve encountered a Violent Collection. Is this correct?”
The leaves of the bush next to them shattered in all directions as a rain of shot ran through it. Shana shouted in surprise, “YES! YES, GODDAMMIT!”
“I see. Have you attempted to use the De-escalation Techniques explained in your HIGH RISK COLLECTION training?”
Shana stared dumbfounded at the phone. “Are you fucking shitting me right now?”
“Sorry, I didn’t understand that. Have you attempted to use the De-escalation Techniques explained in your HIGH RISK COLLECTION training?”
Baptiste tossed his V-E to the side and charged their “Violent Collection.” Terry turned the corner and caught 280 pounds of scared black man dead in the chest.
Shana took a couple deep breaths, trying unsuccessfully to calm her rapidly beating heart. Through gritted teeth she forced, “De-escalation does not seem to be working. We would like to use Deadly Force.”
“Of course! Hold on for one minute.”
Baptiste’s hands reached for the shotgun, one hand grabbed the receiver and the other jerked back when it touched the red hot barrel. Terry’s blue and white pajamas darkened to a dingy brown as he and Baptiste struggled on the ground.
Chime “Our records show that you have completed the Vigilant-E Online Deadly Force Expert Course. Also, you have One (1) V-E Issue 9mm Parabellum Pistol connected via Bluetooth to your device. Is this correct?”
“Shit,” Shana said. “Baptiste? Did you connect your V-E Pistol to your own phone?”
Terry rolled over atop Baptiste but was still unable to wrest control of the shotgun.
Baptiste shook his head, “I thought it was on yours!”
“Would you like to connect another device to your account?”
“Shit shit shit,” Shana swore. “No time, just stick with what’s on there. We’ll figure it out.”
“Of course! Do you acknowledge that Deadly Force is That Force a Person Uses with the Intent of Causing DEATH or SERIOUS BODILY HARM?”
Terry punched Baptiste in the face, wrestling control of the weapon in Baptiste’s moment of pain.
Shana screamed, “YES YES YES!”
“Do you acknowledge that DEADLY FORCE should only be used as a Last Resort, when ALL lesser means have Failed or Cannot be Reasonably Employed?”
The shotgun went off. Not before Baptiste was able to push the barrel away from his head, blasting a hole in the ground next to him. Baptiste’s face was covered in dirt, the noise deafened him. Terry pushed off the other man, standing over him holding the shotgun.
Shana drew her pistol, leveled it at Terry, and screamed, “I DO!”
Chime “Congratulations! You are now authorized to use DEADLY FORCE.”
The LED on Shana’s 9mm lit green.
Shana’s pistol delivered a sharp report, answered by the bass blast of Terry’s shotgun.
In the following quiet, Shana heard an unobtrusive, distinct chime.
“It seems like there’s been an altercation. Would you like me to call emergency services?”
Terry’s blue, white, and dingy brown shirt bloomed red. His body fell with a dry thump. Baptiste lay still on the ground.
Shana whispered, “Yes. Yes, please call emergency services.”
She dropped the phone and stumbled to her friend’s side. A pump of blood hemorrhaged from the remaining stub of Baptist’s arm that had been severed by the blast of Terry’s shotgun. Shana pulled the cable tie out of her jacket pocket and secured it on her friend’s bicep.
Shana blinked away tears. “Baptiste! You’re gonna be okay.” She put her knee against Baptiste’s shoulder and pulled the end of the nylon cable tie until the flow of blood staunched. “I promise, help is on the way.”
Baptiste’s face was ashen and pale. His breathing was labored. “Good, Good.” His eyes drifted shut. “Two or three more jobs like this…we can make rent AND eat.”
***
It was after 2 a.m. when Shana got back to the apartment. There was paperwork when Baptiste was picked up by the ambulance, paperwork at the hospital, and there would be more paperwork tomorrow. All of it stained by the blood that Shana hadn’t had time to wash off.
Shana dropped her jacket on the floor. The frayed trim of her tank top itched her midriff. Her vision swam, her hands tingled. No one had a granola bar.
She shuffled to the kitchen, leaning on a cabinet for support when her knees buckled. Shana stayed there until her vision corrected itself. She opened the fridge, pushed aside the ketchup and the ranch, and grabbed the only leftovers there; half a Reuben wrapped in a Mike’s Sandwich Shoppe napkin. Shana shoved the corner of the sandwich into her mouth with ruddy hands. It tasted like sulfur, soil, and copper.
Author Bio
Ed Jacobs lives in Bremerton, Washington with his beautiful wife and four children. Currently, he is attending Olympic College and hopes to transfer to the University of Washington to pursue a degree in Creative Writing. When not writing, Ed plays disc golf, Dungeon Crawl Classics, and guitar, all of them poorly. When pressed, he will cite William Gibson, Margaret Weis, and Tracy Hickman as his writing inspirations.
