Humans, Bow Down by James Patterson
When I’m pretty sure I’ve lost the Bot-cops, I straighten up, weave through the stalls, and let out a loud, reckless whistle. Dubs doesn’t whistle back, but he’s got to be around here somewhere.
Then, in the distance, I hear the trumpeting blare of horns. I can’t hold back a shiver.
I clamp my mouth shut as the caravan rounds the corner. Ten black stretch limos inch forward slowly, ominously, their paint gleaming and their chrome blindingly bright. A rumor ripples through the crowd like a cold breeze: it’s MosesKhan, commander of the police and army. That pig.
When the limos stop in the center of the market square, my blood turns to ice. Just like on that first day of the Great War, I wait for the pop of gunfire. I wait for it to be my turn to die.
Instead, a loudspeaker from the lead limo announces, “HUMANS, BOW DOWN!”
CHAPTER 4
A HUSH FALLS over the crowd. There’s always a pause when a Hu-Bot gives that order, a heavy, dangerous, messed-up silence. Following the order means humiliation. It’s beyond wrong—it’s an abomination. I want to cry out to all my fellow humans: Grab a brick from the street and pick it up. Don’t bow down—FIGHT!
But I’m no leader. I’m a Rezzie loser, and a girl at that. No one’s going to listen to me, right?
“HUMANS, BOW DOWN!”
I hear the rustle of clothing as people start to bend. My teeth are clenched, my fists balled at my sides, but if I stand much longer, there’s going to be a scene.
Not that Hu-Bots engage in such viciousness—they’re evolved! That’s what they program the Bot-cops for, and the market is now crawling with those dutiful, murderous little workers.
I finally drop down, one leg at a time, and join my species on the cobblestones. The white brick digs into my skin through the thin fabric of my pants. But I’m glad it hurts. It should hurt to grovel.
The Bot brigade surges forward to crack down on “dissenters”—in this case, a frail, white-haired woman who can’t seem to bend her knees. You don’t see many old-timers these days, maybe because their hearts aren’t strong enough to be repeatedly broken. She’s thin and trembling. Something about her makes me think of my own mother.
Maybe it’s the faded red purse she’s clutching to her chest. My mom had a purse like that. I think so.
The loudspeaker voice chants, “BOW DOWN, BOW DOWN, BOW DOWN,” in an increasingly urgent loop. The woman is struggling desperately, trying to bend her old bones down to the bricks.
I stare at the ground when I hear the first crack of their billy clubs. I hear her cry out. Bile rises in my throat.
The Bots aren’t advanced enough to understand pain—or mercy. They’re just rotely following orders. That’s what makes it maddening.
But what about the Hu-Bots in those shiny cars? The so-called intelligent machines, supposedly more ethical, moral, and sane? That’s who’s giving the cold-blooded orders.
Each time I hear the old woman moan, the white bricks blur in my vision. Don’t let this happen, Six! I tell myself I can tackle a Bot. Or throw myself between the old woman and the clubs. But fear holds me back, holds me down.
I am… so fucking ashamed of myself.
It’s him! The door to the first limo opens, and the Hu-Bot commander emerges. MosesKhan is close to seven feet tall, with eyes cold and black as outer space.
Those arrogant, merciless eyes sweep the crowd, and everyone bows so low, their tonsils practically rub the pavement.
“Humans.” He spits out a comment. “In the posture that befits their base nature.” Then, with one last withering look at the prostrate crowd, MosesKhan climbs back into his limousine.
When I finally rise, I find I’ve bitten almost all the way through my lip. The last of the limos is pulling away. The elderly woman lies motionless on the cobblestones. Her legs are twisted beneath her. Purple bruises have appeared on her arms and face. She’s weeping.
I hold my hand out to her, and when she reaches for it, her grip is firm and leathery.
“What are you doing?” It’s Dubs, appearing out of nowhere.
“Something,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Something idiotic.”
“My purth…,” the woman lisps through swollen lips. She spits a mouthful of blood—and a busted incisor. “Has my paperth.”
“We’ll find it,” I assure her, sweeping the ground with my eyes.
“Thank you, dear,” she whispers. “You’re brave.”
I cringe, knowing how much of a coward I am.
“Yo, Sixie,” Dubs says. “Time to split.” He points, and I see that the Bot-cop who hassled us earlier is back—along with two of his buddies.
I hesitate over the poor old woman, but Dubs grabs the collar of my shirt in one of his meaty fists. “Come on, I’m not letting you get us killed. Not today. Maybe next time.” He shoots a glance at the old woman. “Sorry, lady.”
CHAPTER 5
WE’RE RUNNING AT top speed down the narrow back alleys behind trendsetting restaurants and dress shops. Not just to get away from the Bots, but because we’ve got to make it across the City in less than ten minutes.
Now comes the real reason I stole the bike. The real reason we’re here. It’s the last Tuesday of the month: viewing day at the city prison.
By the time we get to the quadrant, it’s 3:56. Late. The street in front of the Plexiglas gate is already teeming with desperate humans.
“No way we’ll make it all the way up there,” I say. “Damn it.”
Dubs squints at me like, Is that a challenge?
The next thing I know, he’s got his elbows out, head down, and we’re plowing through the crowd. He’s like a steamroller on legs—and me, I just hold on, rushing along for the ride.
We make it up to the front with half a minute to spare. The crowd is rowdy, anxious, pushing into us. Most of them are Reformed, but I spot a few Rezzies. They’re the ones with the crazed eyes and the missing teeth.
A surge in the crowd smashes me against the Plexiglas. It’s slick with other people’s sweat.
“Back off,” Dubs shouts at the crowd. “Don’t touch me, dude!” He balls his fists like he’s going to start swinging. He might just do that.
But right then the gong sounds, and we, along with the rest of the humans, turn to face the front.
At four o’clock on the dot, the prisoners come into the square. Clockwork, sick clockwork.
Everyone is trying to get the best view possible, trying to find their family members. Skinny arms wave frantically. Desperate voices cry out prisoners’ numbers.
Suddenly, I glimpse my sister, and it’s like a punch to the guts. Martha’s cheeks are hollow. She seems to have shrunk inches just from last month. She’s in the second row, maybe ten feet to my right. When our eyes lock, hers crinkle at the corners, a look of joy that hurts so bad, I almost have to turn away.
I don’t see my brother yet—It’s harder when the other person isn’t looking for you.
“There.” Dubs nudges me. Apart from his cracked-up dad, his whole family died in the war. He’s just here for moral support.
There. But is that really him? Every time I come here, my brother looks older. His hair’s going gray; his lips and skin match it. He’s how old—twenty-seven? Twenty-eight, at most?
The loudspeaker crackles. “CONSPIRACY, CURFEW VIOLATION, MOTOR VEHICLE OPERATION, THEFT…”
These are the visiting rights: the “privilege” to stare at our loved ones for thirty minutes while their so-called crimes are read aloud. We listen to the lies and witness how they’ve suffered. It’s a silent trial, and they are convicted again and again.
“…LACK OF PROPER IDENTIFICATION PAPERS, TRUANCY, ASSAULT…”
The prisoners stand still in their red jumpsuits. Red, to remind us of the blood that flowed in the streets during the three days of the Great War.
Three days—that was all it took to almost completely wipe out our species.
My brother’s eyes move over the crowd.
The half hour goes so fast—and I can’t let it end like this. Not today. Today, after all this time, he’s going to see me.
“HEY!” I yell, louder this time.
“Hey!” Dubs echoes beside me. He cups his hands. “Fifteen!”
It’s 4:27. The Bot guards are shifting, getting ready to pull the plug on this miserable sideshow.
“Goddammit, Ricky, look at me!” I slam my fist against the glass.
My sister puts her hand up. To stop me, or to gesture to my brother, or to wave hello. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. She moves, and the Bots charge her.
“Nooo!” I shriek, even as the first Bot-cop slugs her across the face. Martha crumples to one side, but her fall is stopped by another cop’s fist.
My screams ring out over the crowd as my sister slumps to the ground. I’m pounding on the glass.
One of the Bot-cops starts dragging her away, toward a windowless white building. Where are they taking her? What’s going to happen? I’m still slamming my body against the viewing window, and so is Dubs. I’m bellowing with rage.
That’s when my brother finally looks at me.
My face is crumpled with emotion, but his is stony. Ricky’s eyes are hard and filled with hate. I don’t understand it, and it just about cracks my heart open. My brother—Fifteen—Ricky—shakes his head once, slowly, before the doors close him back inside. I can read his lips. Fuck you, traitor.
Just like that, my family is gone again. I feel like crying—but I don’t cry. Not ever.
CHAPTER 6
“SIXIE, C’MON GIRL, we’ve got to get out of here!”
For once, Dubs is talking sense. He knows I could pound on this unforgiving Plexiglas until sundown. Or worse: I could get up and jump the next Bot-cop we see, just as a matter of principle, just because I want a beating.
“Come on, you gotta run,” he says, holding out his hand, hauling me up, “run like you just stole an old lady’s pocketbook!”
I wipe my nose and face. There’s an ache in my stomach that’s more than hunger. It’s fear and desperation. My brother looked like he wanted to kill me, and my sister—being pummeled and hauled away. There’s nothing I can do to stop any of this.
“Hey, let’s go get some food,” Dubs says. He can always shift gears like that.
“We don’t have any money, remember?”
He shrugs. “Hold that thought, pretty lady. That might not be the case anymore.”
I shoot him a look, but his eyes skitter away. Whatever he’s up to, he’s not sharing it.
We take the back streets away from the prison. Even here, everything gleams. There’s no litter, no graffiti—no sign of life. Just sterile buildings, mirrored windows, and that low, Bot drone.
I run my hand along the glass face of an apartment complex and smile grimly at the greasy streak I leave behind. My human stain.
“Or we could catch a flick,” Dubs says, too casually.
I give him a sidelong look. The only flicks shown anymore are the Killer Films. I don’t know if I can handle one of those right now. The last time I saw a Killer, I bit my tongue to a pulp, damn near ground my molars to nubs.
I say, “Depends.”
“On whether or not you’re a little baby?” he fires back.
I have to laugh—but I slug him one in the arm, too. He doesn’t even notice.
I know Dubs needs me to rein him in sometimes, and this might be one of those moments. The problem is, I’m on the edge myself now.
And if there’s one thing on the edge—it’s Killer Films. I mean, the Hu-Bot Freedom Brigade created them specifically to torture humans. Now they can’t keep us away. We live for high risk.
“Depends whether you’re buyin’,” I answer. I know there’s no way he’s got money.
But here he is, fishing crisp bills out of his pocket. Dubs shakes his head. “You don’t want to know,” he says.
That’s when I put it together. Yeah, I saw him toss that old woman’s red purse when he thought I wasn’t looking—not that there would have been cash in it. But, as the old woman said, there were papers. And Dubs must have taken them, sold them outside the prison.
I get a tight feeling in my chest. It bothers me a lot. But who am I to judge? In a world like ours, you do what you have to do. Sometimes that means stealing from the weak. And sometimes it means watching a movie designed to shock and possibly kill you.
“I’m in,” I say. “Let’s go die a little.”
CHAPTER 7
WHEN DUBS YANKS open the theater door, the stench that wafts out nearly brings me to my knees. It’s the smell of sweat and primal fear. I’m regretting this decision already.
But Dubs doesn’t even seem to notice the stink—and neither does the rest of the audience: vacant-eyed glue junkies, skinny Reserver wretches, even well-dressed but miserable Reformers.
Yeah, I feel sorry for all of us. I slide into a seat next to my friend. And then I see something that stuns me: Hu-Bots are in the audience, too.
The lights dim, and everybody leans forward in their seats. What’s coming next is not to be believed.
The movie opens on a plane hijacking, and if this were my first Killer Film, I’d think the vertigo I was experiencing was from the movie itself—the camera twisting and lurching as people tumble out of the tailless jet. But I know my body’s reacting to the low-frequency sound spliced in—audio that humans can’t hear but can definitely feel.
The nausea comes in almost gentle waves, but it builds until it crashes over me like a tsunami. I put my head down between my knees and retch—but my stomach’s so empty, there’s nothing there.
But when the seven-hertz sound stops and the nausea subsides, that’s when the strobes come, flashing so bright and fast that each flare is like a knife. There’s a car chase on-screen, but I can barely make out the action. This is much worse than I remember, coming in faster intervals and at a higher wattage, until I feel like I’ve been nailed to my chair.
But I can’t look away.
Really. I physically cannot blink my eyelids or turn my head. My gaze is mercilessly drawn forward—by mind control or magnets or magic, I don’t know.
Music comes crashing through the speakers now, a grinding, raging chorus. It’s some death-metal band’s anthem, looped and distorted and layered. My heart pounds like it’s going to burst. I can feel every cell in my body throbbing in some mind-blowing mix of pain and pleasure.
It’s the most intense experience I’ve had in my life. I’m scared and euphoric and sobbing and convulsing, and I know that the only thing I want in this entire world is to stare at this screen forever.
I’m seeing double now, and my ears feel like they’re ready to burst. The blood flows fast and hot through my veins. I can’t think. All I can do is stare.
And stare and stare and stare and—
My gaze is torn from the screen when I’m knocked sideways by a crushing weight. It’s Dubs, and he’s off his rocker. His eyes roll back in his head, his tongue’s lolling out, and he’s flopping against me.
The seizures have started. He might die on me. Right here, right now.
Avoiding his flailing arms, I shove the bandanna he always wears into his mouth. His muscles immediately relax. For a second I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I realize he’s passed out.
“Dubs! Wake up!” I manage to slide out from under him, gasping for breath. When I stand, I almost lose my balance again. My arms and legs don’t seem to understand the signals from my brain.
And it’s only going to get worse. We have to get the hell out of here. Now.
But how do I get Dubs out?
The people in the row behind me start yelling. I’m blocking their view. I look at them, pleading. “I need help!”
The guy nearest me snorts. Then he starts a chant that gets taken up all around the theater. “Die! Die! Di
I grit my teeth—I should have guessed that would happen. I turn back to Dubs and shake him hard, harder, as hard as I can. I slap his face, but his mouth falls open, slack.
Is he already dead? Did my best friend just die on me?
“Come on, Dubs, wake up!” I yell. “Wake up! Wake the hell up!”
I’m gasping for air. There’s a strange, electric whirring in the air, and my whole body starts to hum. My skin begins to burn, and I feel like I’m being cooked from the inside out.
I think that—but it’s so hard to form thoughts.
I think—
I think we might die here. Me and Dubs.
Then a shriek rips through the air. The film junkies turn toward the back of the theater.
Suddenly there’s silence. The movie sound goes off as the projector switches reels.
Dubs has been one-upped: someone else actually died. In the back row, a girl no older than I am—fifteen or sixteen—lies spread-eagled across three seats. Her face is turned toward me. Her lifeless eyes stare straight into mine. Her mouth is frozen in a smile. Everyone around her is clapping—like she’s just given the performance of her life.
Which, in a way, she has.
I slap Dubs one more time, a crazy-hard backhand across the cheek that’s either going to wake him up or knock out half his teeth. The movie blares back on, and a huge on-screen explosion thunders through the room, and, whether it’s from the triple-digit decibels or my beating, I don’t know, but Dubs’s eyes click open. I’ve never been so glad to see somebody’s eyes.
“We have to go,” I yell, “right now!”
He blinks for another second, then lurches to his feet, leans heavily on my shoulder, mumbles a groggy “Start running.”
We’re making a choice—to live.
CHAPTER 8
“WHAT ARE YOU, Reformed? Get in the car,” Dubs snarls. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood all over his cheek. His breath comes in harsh, wheezing gasps, and his eyes look crazy, like big black pinwheels.