Chain Guard
by Gary Clifton
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
“Snot-nose little monster number eighty-five comin’ up, Dave,” Ritzy drawled in her hillbilly twang. Leggy, chesty, in skimpy shorts and large, red-rimmed glasses, she was, to quote the men who walked past her, one dopey, smokin’ hot babe.
Outside, twisting torrents of cold, early evening Christmas season downpour made foot travel treacherous in front of Clyde’s Discount House. A sign prominent on the front glass promised “A Free Gift for Every Child from Dave, The Magic Clown.”
The crowd, like most of the country, was hardscrabble. Civil war had broken out across the U.S. following the collapse of the dollar in 2051. The upheaval had surged like Godzilla.
Upward of a million lives had been lost, mostly civilians gunned down by the military to combat riots. The CIA had been elevated to command all U.S. forces. Then, a Russian, Chinese, Iranian coalition had infiltrated thousands of soldier-agents and drug cartel operatives into South America, ramping up the flood of drugs into the U.S. and wringing vestiges of savings from an expanding population of increasingly impoverished addicts.
Some of the coalition forces were AI-capable electronic warriors. Incredibly, those perfect mechanical soldiers could be disabled en masse when High and Mighty, the CIA master satellite, passed over, broadcasting a simple infrasound disorientation signal.
For that reason, the enemy was forced to rely on human soldiers in the jungle battlefields. Langley had responded in force, turning to mass execution of enemy aliens and narcotics traffickers across South America and any other area deemed by Langley to be a threat to the chain of command. Some executions were public, but most were ordered by a clandestine action code named “Cancellation” under direction of an ultra-secret program called “Chain Guard.”
Chain Guard: Protect the Chain of Command by any means, at any cost. The results were spectacular and arguably successful.Inside of Clyde’s, a loose line of people was strung along a jewelry counter. Adults, lean and threadbare, held their children by their hands and watched Dave raptly. A free gift — even a worthless one — brought an instant crowd.
In a gaudy clown costume, Dave sat perched on a raised platform on a folding metal chair. Slender and muscular, with close-cropped black hair, and a laconic expression and oddly cold, distant eyes, he performed magic gags with hands both talented and nimble. A jagged scar, partly hidden by makeup, ran from beneath his left eye to below his ear.Dave was painfully aware that his memory was not right. The nagging, persistent headache that followed him wherever he went was crippling. He thought he might have been a U.S. government employee, or a member of the military, but when he tried to dredge up details, his memory exploded in headache pain. He heard talk of war-damaged veterans but could not recall whether he’d been in or around a war.
Then he had the dream, always in a jungle with more men than women, but a woman was in charge. Her name might be “Circus” or something to do with a circus, except no one in the dream had a name. They were all referred to as bicycle parts.
Circus would hand him photographs of men he knew he was to “cancel,” i.e. kill. When he looked at them, he bolted awake. He couldn’t doze beyond a few minutes without the dream. Now, he worked as a clown magician with no idea how he’d gotten the job or why he had the skill.
While Ritzy filled balloons and boosted children up onto Dave’s lap, his cellular vibrated repeatedly. The display read, “Covered,” and he didn’t answer. He massaged his aching temples between magic tricks.
Ritzy leaned close again. “Dude, I hate this place. Maybe a margarita when we close.” Her accent was far-deep southeastern country. “Baby, I could lay these hands on that headache... and maybe something else, and then that ol’ headache would be long gone.”
Dave massaged his forehead, grimacing slightly. “Ritzy, I’ve been here a week. You gotta know by now I don’t drink.”He studied her long legs and outstanding figure, aware he should be attracted. The crying kid urinated in Dave’s lap. His cellular buzzed and flashed “Covered” again, and he ignored it. He handed the dripping child down to Ritzy. The headache throbbed. The tinny music in the store system quickened into a kaleidoscope of impending lunacy.
“Maybe jes’ come over to my place and we see what comes up, babe,” Ritzy persisted in her soft, country voice. “My goodness, Dave, it’s 2063. Ya’ gotta learn to live a little.”
* * *
Suddenly, two men in hoodies, brandishing old military surplus energy force laser pistols, burst through the front door, scattering customers. One wore a Goofy mask; the second was Mickey Mouse. Mickey fired a burst into the ceiling.
The high-pitched hiss sounded like a bomb in the tight quarters when it blew a hole through the roof. People screamed and hit the floor or ran in panic. Both men turned to the jewelry counter, their backs to Dave.
“Everybody down, this is a stickup!” Mickey shouted.
Ritzy ducked behind a post. Dave stood, casually picked up his metal chair, stepped off his platform, and smashed Goofy’s head. Gore spewed like a burst watermelon. Mickey whirled. With incredible hand speed, Dave slapped the pistol from his hand.
Mickey followed with the thrust of a switchblade that he’d palmed in his other hand. Dave parried the blade, then caught the man with a crushing forearm across the lower jaw with the loud and sharp sound of bones snapping. The man staggered, and Dave twisted him into a chokehold, snapping his neck. Mickey fell dead atop the body of his partner, Goofy, both twitching spasmodically in death throes.
Dave’s expression remained serene. He stood over the two bodies, stunned at what he had been able to do.
“The Clown’s a monster.” A mother ran for the door, slipping on blood and gore in the walkway.
“My God, Dave,” Ritzy breathed huskily, “you tore them two guys to shreds in seconds. Hottest thing I ever seen.”
Clyde, the owner rushed up, horrified. “Dave, what the hell have you done? This is St. Joseph, Missouri, not Chicago. Why?”
Dave turned to him, the odd eyes penetrating, piercing, but his demeanor remaining deadly calm. The icy expression terrified Clyde. “I... I don’t know, exactly,” Dave said lamely, his eyes deadly. “They were armed and trying to rob the place. They will not be repeat offenders.” His serene expression remained terrifying.
Ritzy twanged, “Clyde, it was self-defense. They tried to kill him.”
“Dave, it’s me... Clyde. Don’t hurt me,” he edged backward.
“Dave, your arm,” Ritzy gasped. Blood was coursing down his left forearm, pooling on the floor amidst the brains and blood of the two dead robbers. Now the cops had his DNA. The switchblade had found flesh. Dave pulled up the sleeve of his clown suit. The forearm wound was long, but superficial.
“Ritzy will help you to a hospital... I’ll explain to the cops,” Clyde stammered.
Dave’s cellular vibrated again. He looked at the display and ignored it. “Cops?” he asked. He knew he must avoid involvement with the law, but why?
“Uh... whatever you wanna do, Dave,” Clyde said softly, retreating a few steps more.
Dave calmly walked to the store dressing room and changed into plain clothes. He wrapped a towel around his left arm and walked out the back door into the rain. Ritzy hurried along behind him, clad in a light jacket, her long legs bare to the weather.
* * *
Dave drove his beautifully restored 2015 model F150 pickup through chilly sheets of blowing rain, Ritzy sitting tensely at shotgun. “Dave, I love this antique truck. I bet it’s older than I am. Is it one of them relics that runs on fossil fuel?” Dave didn’t try to explain that parts for the truck were easier to find than gasoline. His cellular buzzed several times. He didn’t answer.
“Dave, why don’t you answer that?”
He didn’t reply.
“Dave, this ain’t the way to no hospital I know about,” she said anxiously. “Dude, I’d kill for a margarita.”
Dave swung into a shabby apartment complex, parked and walked to a second-level unit, Ritzy again trailing behind. Dave stopped at the door, took a small remote from his jacket pocket, and punched in a combination of numbers before opening the door. “My God, this place is cleaner than a hospital,” Ritzy said as she stepped inside. She saw the bomb taped to the back of the door and grasped the relevance of the remote entry. “Got anything to drink around here?”
Dave shook his head and dug a small medical bag from beneath a bed, then sat at the kitchen table. He dosed the cut with a spray, pulled out a surgical needle and inserted several sutures in the cut.
“My God, Dave... that’s gotta hurt,” Ritzy blurted, breathing heavily at the crude surgery.
“The spray has some topical anesthetic... not much pain.”
“Doctor... I mean you shoulda been. How’d you learn to do that?”
“Uh... been around a lot... picked up some stuff.” The truth was, he didn’t recall what he may have previously been or why he knew how to stitch his arm, or even why he had a medical bag. He removed his shirt to change.
Ritzy looked hungrily at his muscular body.
His cellular buzzed again. He ignored it.
“Helluva scar on your hand, dude.” She examined the dime-sized scar. “Damn, Dave, looks like a bullet hole.”
His mind pictured a bloody wound in his palm, but he couldn’t remember any details. “Shaving accident?”
He squeezed his forehead.
She looked closely at the horizontal scar across his stomach, dissecting his navel. “Another shaving accident?”
“Fell off a church pew.” His cellular buzzed.
“Let it ring, baby. It’s Clyde from the store... Screw him... Better yet, how about me?” She pointed at a carefully made bed.
He started back out into the rain. “I gotta drop you back at Clyde’s.”
When they pulled into sparse evening traffic, Dave’s cellular sounded again. He looked at the display. This time instead of “covered,” the display read “Chain Guard.” Somehow, he understood this call needed to be returned but, again, didn’t know why.
He pulled into a parking lot and dialed a number, waited, then dialed another atop the first. “Leave me alone,” he said softly into the telephone. Then he said, “Chubby’s... Okay, ten minutes.” He cut off the phone. “Ritzy we gotta take a detour.”
Dave whipped his pickup into the parking lot of an all-night diner. A new, black SUV flashed its lights.
“Ritzy, stay in the truck.” He got out into the rain and slid into the SUV’s rear seat.
A slightly built, fiftyish man, balding with a thin comb-over, was sitting in the passenger seat. A younger, much larger, man was behind the wheel. The older man spoke in a soft, nasal whine: “Hello, Freewheel, I’m Voice. Remember me, old man?”
A re-burst of the headache threatened to blow Dave’s head apart. “Possibly. Freewheel? My name is Dave.” Surprised at a strange feeling of familiarity, he struggled to recall why.
“Okay, Dave, it’s been a while... nearly a year.” Voice continued in the same monotone, “This is Sprocket... just graduated from Genesis.” Dave wondered if one or both men were actually AI.
The big man nodded slightly, but neither looked back nor spoke.
“Genesis?” Dave asked.
“Training academy, old man, if you’ll recall. How’d you end up in this burg?” Voice smiled thinly in the semi-light.
“I don’t remember. Is that what you wanna to know?” Dave groped at his aching head in the darkened back seat.
Sprocket replied. “Hope we didn’t keep you from getting a little from that cute trick back at your apartment?”
Dave didn’t react.
“See that, Rook?” Voice said to his husky companion. “No reaction of any sort. Zero body language. A lesson to be learned there.”
Dave massaged his forehead. “What do you want?”
Copyright © 2026 by Gary Clifton
