David Anthony Zuzelo. Arrival in ten point two seconds. Target unarmed.”
“What’s going on in here?” came Zuz’s voice from the hallway, “I’m armed!”
When Zuzelo pushed the door open Mal had already visibly relaxed, and his malleable metallic arms had returned to their normal, more human-looking, state. Although, Mal had to admit, neither “normal” nor “human-looking” were the best way to describe the transforming weapons that had been grafted onto his body.
“So am I, Zuz,” smirked Mal at his friend.
“Yeah, I guess you are, Mal,” Zuz’s said without the hint of laughter in his voice. After a once over of Mal to make sure the soldier was OK, Zuzelo’s eyes went wide at the disarrayed state of the bed. The man rubbed a hand nervously through his goatee and pushed the door open wide behind him, nodding for Mal to follow him, “I’m not going to ask you what happened with the bed, but maybe we can sit down and you can tell me what the hell happened to you.”
“As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” sighed Mal as he followed his friend out the door.
*****
The two men sat across an ancient iron work table cluttered with what must have been years’ worth of unsorted tools, pencils chewed down to nubs, presumably empty pizza boxes from some place called “Hungry Howie’s Pizza,” dirty rags, and the general clutter of a working man’s garage. Although, this “garage” was actually a ten thousand square foot warehouse in the heart of a monstrous salvage and junkyard that David Zuzelo had converted into his workshop.
Zuzelo informed his friend that he’d purchased the location a few years back when he’d finally had enough of the government. They were surrounded by two hundred tons of steel, aluminum, and various other radar and satellite-blocking materials. In fact, the main building was now located nearly fifty feet underground. No one would be able to find them there. The man’s talk of hiding from the government and keeping “off the grid” amused and relaxed Mal: his old friend hadn’t changed one bit. Zuz had always been about two steps from starring in his own version of ‘Conspiracy Theory.’
Two banks of fluorescent lights, mounted some thirty feet up in the cavernous ceiling, shone down on the immediate area, illuminating the table the men were talking at, a workbench running along at least forty feet of the nearby wall and covered in more junk than Mal had ever seen jammed into one location, and a number of burned out and rusted hulks that had once belonged to cars, tractors and other vehicles. It was a smorgasbord of scrap metal. Mal swore he saw the stripped down frame of an armored personnel carrier off in the shadows that covered most of the huge building.
Mal’s computerized friend blandly informed him of the presence of forty-nine heartbeats in the vicinity: Mal’s, Zuzelo’s, forty-five rats, and a pair of large cats. The voice also laid out the floor plan of the building, located in the City of Industry, California, as had been filed by its original owners when it was built in 1952, and had identified no less than thirteen potential egresses from the building in case of an emergency as Mal gave his friend a full rundown of the events of the last few hours of his life.
Annoying as it was, Mal was beginning to appreciate the strategic value of the system.
“And that’s all you remember? Waking up with a scalpel in your face?” Zuzelo had listened to the story without moving or speaking for almost ten minutes, completely enraptured by Mal’s telling.
Mal shot Zuzelo a sideways glance at the comment, “It wasn’t exactly a “scalpel in my face,” man. I did have to yank something out of the back of my head, though.”
Mal reached around to where the wires had been plugged into his skull.
“There’s something over it now, but when I first woke up there was a huge hole at the base of my skull with cables coming out, covered in
“What’s going on in here?” came Zuz’s voice from the hallway, “I’m armed!”
When Zuzelo pushed the door open Mal had already visibly relaxed, and his malleable metallic arms had returned to their normal, more human-looking, state. Although, Mal had to admit, neither “normal” nor “human-looking” were the best way to describe the transforming weapons that had been grafted onto his body.
“So am I, Zuz,” smirked Mal at his friend.
“Yeah, I guess you are, Mal,” Zuz’s said without the hint of laughter in his voice. After a once over of Mal to make sure the soldier was OK, Zuzelo’s eyes went wide at the disarrayed state of the bed. The man rubbed a hand nervously through his goatee and pushed the door open wide behind him, nodding for Mal to follow him, “I’m not going to ask you what happened with the bed, but maybe we can sit down and you can tell me what the hell happened to you.”
“As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know,” sighed Mal as he followed his friend out the door.
*****
The two men sat across an ancient iron work table cluttered with what must have been years’ worth of unsorted tools, pencils chewed down to nubs, presumably empty pizza boxes from some place called “Hungry Howie’s Pizza,” dirty rags, and the general clutter of a working man’s garage. Although, this “garage” was actually a ten thousand square foot warehouse in the heart of a monstrous salvage and junkyard that David Zuzelo had converted into his workshop.
Zuzelo informed his friend that he’d purchased the location a few years back when he’d finally had enough of the government. They were surrounded by two hundred tons of steel, aluminum, and various other radar and satellite-blocking materials. In fact, the main building was now located nearly fifty feet underground. No one would be able to find them there. The man’s talk of hiding from the government and keeping “off the grid” amused and relaxed Mal: his old friend hadn’t changed one bit. Zuz had always been about two steps from starring in his own version of ‘Conspiracy Theory.’
Two banks of fluorescent lights, mounted some thirty feet up in the cavernous ceiling, shone down on the immediate area, illuminating the table the men were talking at, a workbench running along at least forty feet of the nearby wall and covered in more junk than Mal had ever seen jammed into one location, and a number of burned out and rusted hulks that had once belonged to cars, tractors and other vehicles. It was a smorgasbord of scrap metal. Mal swore he saw the stripped down frame of an armored personnel carrier off in the shadows that covered most of the huge building.
Mal’s computerized friend blandly informed him of the presence of forty-nine heartbeats in the vicinity: Mal’s, Zuzelo’s, forty-five rats, and a pair of large cats. The voice also laid out the floor plan of the building, located in the City of Industry, California, as had been filed by its original owners when it was built in 1952, and had identified no less than thirteen potential egresses from the building in case of an emergency as Mal gave his friend a full rundown of the events of the last few hours of his life.
Annoying as it was, Mal was beginning to appreciate the strategic value of the system.
“And that’s all you remember? Waking up with a scalpel in your face?” Zuzelo had listened to the story without moving or speaking for almost ten minutes, completely enraptured by Mal’s telling.
Mal shot Zuzelo a sideways glance at the comment, “It wasn’t exactly a “scalpel in my face,” man. I did have to yank something out of the back of my head, though.”
Mal reached around to where the wires had been plugged into his skull.
“There’s something over it now, but when I first woke up there was a huge hole at the base of my skull with cables coming out, covered in
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