“FIRE EYES”
by Adam Bender
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Fire Eyes
Copyright © 2016 by Adam Bender
www.adambenderwrites.com
We, The Watched
Copyright © 2008 by Adam Bender
Cover design by Belinda Pepper
www.wethewatched.com
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“FIRE EYES”
A We, The Watched short story
By
Adam Bender
The trick to successful tagging is finding a blind spot between the cameras. There aren’t many in a Monorail station. This one—Cemetery—has twelve security cameras posted up and down the platform, six to a side. The black machines swivel in 180-degree arcs and take seven-and-a-half seconds to make a full turn from one side to the other. As an outdoor stop, Cemetery presents the added challenge of not having much canvas for me to work with. There are a lot of railings and not many walls, leaving even fewer options of places to tag.
I think I’ve found a good spot, though. It’s a patch of concrete wall next to a snack machine. The potato-chips dispenser blocks the camera located up and to the left. I only have to worry about the camera on the right, and it can only see me when it’s turned all the way to the left. Oh, yeah, and there are about three cameras on the other side of the tracks with a view, too, but in a few minutes they won’t be a big deal.
Cemetery is one of the few stations I’ve yet to tag. I’m kind of here just to knock it off my list. It’s a forest stop pretty far outside the Capital, but I figure it’s still important because it’s a memorial for the veterans of the Great War. I don’t know. I guess I’m a completionist.
Except for the soldier of the Guard I saw downstairs, the platform is completely dead. That’s why I came here so late. No one visits a graveyard at midnight.
An electric hum. I put my hand on the stencil inside my jacket and turn to face my canvas.
The train hisses into the station along the white pole track, perfectly blocking the cameras on the opposite platform. The doors slide open, but like the station, the train is empty.
As the camera to the right of my spot turns away, I slap the stencil on the wall and spray black paint all over it. With the electronic eye returning, I pocket the items and lean against the wall to cover the head-shaped silhouette I’ve made. When the camera turns again, I reach for a can of red and add fiery eyes to the dark visage.
The train issues a warning bell. All aboard.
I shove the red into my coat pocket and sprint toward the train.
“Doors closing,” reports a smooth, feminine voice.
I have to turn sideways, but I make it—I just fit through the entrance. Two seconds later, I’m off, racing back to the city at one hundred miles per hour. Soon, the Guard will see Fire Eyes. Soon, the Guard will see my tag and realize that Ignatius was here.
* * * * *
I’ve got my biggest client yet sitting still in front of me. I can’t get comfortable. Maybe it’s the candles and the incense. I hate churches. I go every week because I have to, even though I know God doesn’t approve of people like me.
This isn’t like my church. The churches in the city are new buildings made of harshly angled glass and cold steel. Inside they are like sports arenas, with people seated in a large circle of bleachers around the man of God. When the priest gives the sermon, a close-up of his face is projected on a Jumbotron monitor hanging from the ceiling.
Only VIPs like politicians and the very rich come here to the Head Church. This church is built like a castle with large wooden doors and a stone tower. The inside is somber and it took my eyes a long time to adjust. I had to ask for a light just to see my canvas.
The Headmaster, my client, is frowning at my hair. Today it is dyed scarlet, which clashes enormously with the Head Church’s drab interior. The high priest mumbles something to his assistant, but all I pick up is the reply: “They say he is the best.”
That might be so, but it’s going to be hard to make the Headmaster look handsome. He’s just not a very good-looking old man. The high priest has a hooked nose and eyes like coal. His cheeks are gaunt and he appears to be physically unable to bend his thin lips into a smile. I consider reaching into my bag for the plush elephant I employ for portraits of toddlers. Probably not a good idea.
I brush a little rouge into the Headmaster’s face to make him look more alive, at least in the painting.
I wish I didn’t have to take jobs like this, but it pays the bills. I’d also like to skip church and sleep in on Sundays, but I can’t do that, either. I only risk my life when it’s for something meaningful.
* * * * *
I’m drinking away my tension on a trendy couch inside a rock club called the Red Lion. It’s a big smoky place with a black stage in front and a mezzanine balcony hanging over the back. My girl Ana brought me here for the album launch party of ... what was their name again? I didn’t think they were all that good, but you know, at least there’s booze.
My supposed friend left me alone a while ago, but that’s actually been pretty good because it’s given me time to think about my next project—if only I could figure out what that should be. The thing is, I never know anymore what to tag next. I’m starting to feel like there are no places left in the Capital to paint ol’ Fire Eyes. Sometimes I even paint him more than once in the same place, because he tends to get painted over by the Guard. Well, not actually the Guard—painters they hire. Or maybe interns. Does the Guard have an internship program?
Yeah, yeah, I know—it’s good work I’m doing, and the Underground is always encouraging me to keep with it. Danny, son of the big boss himself, calls what I do “dissident street art.” He says it lets people know that there’s a revolution coming. But I don’t know, last night at the train station was fun, but the feeling didn’t last. It never does, anymore. I’m just not so sure if I’m still making much of a difference. Maybe I was at first, but lately I’ve just been spinning my wheels. I mean, is anyone really looking at my work as anything more than a piece of wonder on their commute home? Maybe they don’t even notice it. Or they do see it, but they don’t care and just forget about it.
What I need to do is something big, something people will remember me for, something—
“Iggy! Are you seriously sitting by yourself?”
Ana stares disapprovingly at me through tortoiseshell glasses. She has her arm around a guy in a tight T-shirt who I don’t know but looks familiar.
“I ... meet ... singer.”
It’s so damn loud in here, so I yell back, “What?!”
Ana shouts, “I said I wanted you to meet the lead singer!”
My Underground colleague puts her arm around the guy, pressing wavy black hair into his neck with the crook of her elbow. The gesture puts a goofy grin on his face.
Oh, now I recognize him. He was in what’s-their-name, the band that played earlier.
“I’m Adrian. Thanks for coming out!”
I assume Ana wants to bang him. It’s a relief, actually, because the last time she introduced me to someone, she was trying to play matchmaker. What a disaster.
I reach
up lazily to shake the kid’s hand. “Iggy.”
“You’re both artists, actually,” says Ana.
Seriously? She should know better than to tell every random guy she meets about the Underground or—more importantly—about me. She sees the mean look I give her and adds, “It’s okay, Iggy, he’s cool.”
“You play music?” asks the singer.
“No.”
Ana chimes in, “He’s a street artist.”
It is sort of funny—Adrian’s jaw literally drops. “Wait...you’re Ignatius? The Ignatius?”
“No article necessary,” I reply with a smirk. I guess I’m kind of famous. Or is it infamous? I always get those two mixed up.
“You know what would be cool, man?” asks Adrian.
I raise my eyebrows to display excitement. Now he’s going to suggest a spot to tag. Everyone does this. It irks me.
“The Capitol Tower, dude. Like, I don’t know, go up to the roof and paint it on the side or something. That would be killer!”
I stretch my lips into the biggest grin I can muster. “I’ll add it to the list!”
The conversation fizzles out pretty soon after that. Ana grabs Adrian’s butt and I watch them disappear into a dark corner. Good for them.
But anyway, yeah, I need to think of something big. Something that will get the people of this country talking.
I do have to laugh. I mean, the Capitol Tower? Really? What a dumb idea! How would I even get in there? I’d need to have a fake ID, a disguise ... probably at least one other guy with me. I could ask Baz. Painting on the side wouldn’t work—the stencil I normally use would be too small for anyone to see, and it would take too long to do anything bigger. They’d arrest me before I was half-finished.
I guess what I could do is make a banner, go up there and roll it down the side. That might be big enough. But even if I reach the roof and get the banner down, there’s no way the Guard will leave it up there long enough for anyone to notice.
Maybe if I got someone to take photos ... maybe from another building? Baz might know a guy. He could capture the moment and send it around the Web for everyone to see. I’d be a legend!
Know what? The more I think about this, the better an idea it sounds.
* * * * *
“This is a terrible idea,” Danny tells me over the phone the next morning. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s also pretty awesome. But you’re going to get arrested. You might even get dropped when they find out you’re the guy who’s been tagging the city all these years.”
I’m only half listening. I’ve been planning the whole thing out in my flat ... basically since I got home last night. I called Danny because I need him to get me maintenance worker IDs for the Capitol Building. I’ve already called Baz—he’s in, naturally, and he knows a photographer, too. I also found a huge propaganda-sized sheet of canvas I’d been saving for a rainy day. I’m just waiting for the paint to dry on ol’ Fire Eyes, and then I’ll pretty much be all ready to go.
“Iggy, you hearing me?” nags Danny.
“Yeah, yeah, I might get caught,” I reply. “But this is going to be my biggest piece of work ever, man. It’s going to be huge. When people see it, they’re going to freak out.”
“I don’t know....”
“Look, if you can’t help me, I’ll figure out another way. But I’m going to do this project no matter what. I think this way is the safest, but I really will—I’ll figure out another way.”
That gets him, and he agrees to make a few calls.
Honestly, I don’t really mind if I never see my flat again. My place was sort of nice when I moved in, but now there’s paint splatter everywhere and it smells like chemicals. Like seriously, I probably have already cut ten years off my life. At least.
“So you roped Baz into this, too, huh?” asks Danny.
“Dude, that clown is psyched.”
Baz is a frequent collaborator. He’s pretty clever. He came up with a great riff on that slogan the Guard posts everywhere, PATRIOTS ARE THE TRUE / HERETICS ARE THE DAMNED. Baz likes to cross out the last three words with spray paint so that it just reads, PATRIOTS ARE THE TRUE HERETICS—I’ve always liked that gag.
“So when are you doing this?”
“No time like the present. Tonight’s the night.”
I hear the exasperation in Danny’s silence. “That’s a pretty tight deadline you’re giving me.”
“Sorry, man. It’s got to be tonight.”
See, tomorrow is Sunday. Maybe this is a dumb reason to break the law, but if I get arrested tonight, I figure I’ll at least get out of church. Sometimes you’ve got to spin your own silver lining.
* * * * *
I forgot how impressive the Capitol Tower looks at night. Rays of fuchsia, amber and azure bounce off the chrome exterior. It’s like this otherworldly rocket ready to take off into space.
God, I wish it would.
I admit the building is not the most rational place to try to tag. It is, after all, the home of President Drake and the headquarters of the Guard. You might say security is pretty tight. I’ve got a plan, though.
I’ve got the banner wrapped inside a big carpet. It’s pretty heavy, which to be honest is the main reason I brought Baz with me. We’re both dressed in tan polo shirts and matching baseball hats, the garb of maintenance workers. We walk straight through the front door and head to reception. A Guard on the other side of the desk checks our IDs, while another one puts the carpet roll through a scanner to check for weapons.
“Is it just me,” whispers Baz, “or are these two identical?”
I smile. All the Guard look about the same. Most are men. They all shave their heads to a stubble and have the same toned, muscular build. And obviously, they all wear the same midnight blue uniform. Really, the only visual distinctions you ever get from one Guard to another are race and height. These two sellouts happen to both be white and about six feet tall.
Reception Guard gives us the “all clear,” and Bag Scanner Guard points the way to the service elevator. Baz takes one end of the rug and we lug it into the lift.
The doors slide shut, but even though we’re alone, we don’t say anything. There’s a camera and we don’t want to expose ourselves just yet. I select the highest level of the building, where I know there’s a fire door with roof access. The top floor, of course, belongs to President Drake. But he’s out giving a speech in the Engine Valley, so I figure security will be light.
There’s a Guard coming down the hallway as we step out of the elevator with the big roll. He eyes us suspiciously. We flash our badges. Baz points to the rug and jokes, “I guess someone partied too hard last night.”
The Guard laughs and moves on. Good old Baz. What a class act.
We make it out through the fire door and I spring up the steps. I haven’t felt this excited in years. The thrill is back!
The roof is darker than I thought it would be.
“Hey, who are you?”
The bright orange end of a cigarette floats in the darkness. There’s someone up here already. I make out a white-collared shirt, which means he works here but isn’t a Guard.
“We’re maintenance,” I say, hoping that will be enough.
He stares us cold in the eyes, calculating. “You shouldn’t be on the roof.”
White Collar reaches for his phone. Baz drops his end of the rug and the full weight of it explodes into my arms. My muscles give out and I drop the roll to the ground. When I look up, Baz is grappling with the other man. My colleague has wrested control of the guy’s phone and is clubbing him over the head with it. White Collar goes unconscious.
One threat down, but it means we’ve got to act fast. Baz helps me unfurl the rug so we can remove the canvas. We bring the banner to the east end of the building where our photographer will have a view.
Amber light from below blinds me temporarily, but I don’t let it stop me. Using a couple hooks and some rope, we tie the canvas to the end of the roof. Then we drop
it over the side.
It’s a sight. Fire Eyes on the side of the Capitol Building. Just like we planned.
Three consecutive flashes from the skyscraper across the street. That’s our guy!
More lights come on behind us.
“Hands in the air!” a man roars at us.
We turn and see two Guard pointing semiautomatic pistols at our chests. I put up my arms, but Baz just yells, “Go to Hell!”
Something explodes. I can’t work out why.
“You bastards!” screams my partner.
Two more strikes of thunder and Baz falls. I watch crimson paint pool around his still body.
It’s like my voice gets what happened before my brain. “Oh God,” I hear myself whimper. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
One of the soldiers steps forward and snaps handcuffs around my wrists.
* * * * *
I’m so thirsty. They stuck me in this holding cell hours ago and still haven’t brought me the water I asked for.
I’m still in the Capitol Tower. The Guard brought me down to the basement. I didn’t realize they had holding cells down here. I thought I’d get one last look at the outside.
I wonder if people have seen Fire Eyes yet. I saw the flash of the camera, but did the pictures come out? How do I find out?
The heavy clap of boots against concrete lifts my attention from my feet to the circular door of my cell. With a loud whir and click, it rolls opens and two Guard enter. One approaches me while the other blocks the entrance.
“You are Ignatius,” he states.
That makes me smile a bit. “You’ve heard of me, huh?”
I see a blast of light as his palm crashes against my temple. Throbbing pain follows. I’m whimpering again.
“For your crimes against the nation, you are to be dropped in one hour.”
So quick? “Don’t I ... don’t I at least get a trial?”
The Guard grits his teeth. “Heretics are not entitled to trial.”
“And what about Baz? You murdered my friend!”
“Your friend was a Heretic.”
They let me order a last meal, and a priest joins me while I eat. He is young and has a kind face. He’s not at all like the priest at my church. He doesn’t even scold me when I decline his offer of prayer.