Wind blasted Thomas' face as he raced into the bend, the howl of the air and the roar of the engine almost deafening but still not loud enough to muffle the yells of the cheering crowd, a roiling wave of people packed side-to-side on the stadium seats. He was bumper-to-bumper with the car in front, its exhaust hitting the visor of his helmet. He blinked to get sweat out of his eyes. They cleared the curve and accelerated as they entered one of the straights of the track. He weaved, trying to pass the vehicle stubbornly blocking his path. He squinted as the sun shone directly over the end of the straight, the light scattering in the transparent eye-covering and forming starbursts and colored beams, so he was racing towards an incandescent gate to the beyond. The only thing in his way was the leader of the race, moving side to side like pendulum intent on stopping his advance. Its red light seemed to grow larger in his eyes, and the muscles of his jaw tightened as he stepped on the gas more heavily, intent on running the car of the road, aiming for its back bumper. To his surprise, his car refused to turn. He looked down to the wheel: the car wasn't at fault here, instead his hands refused to move, paralyzed and grasping the wheel spastically. Behind him a car horn sounded, the beeps quite high-pitched and regularly paced, not really sounding like car horn at all and more like—
A beeping heart monitor was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes, his vision slowly focusing on the undulating lines on its screen. Bustling sounds came beyond a door left ajar, and over his head hung an iv bag from which a plastic tube snaked its way to the back of his hand. His left arm hurt, the pain oddly distant. He lifted the light green blanket to see his arm in a hard sling, the movement tugging at the IV drip taped to his flesh. The brown hospital clothes he had been dressed in were a bit too short at the wrists and ankles. He ran his tongue across his teeth; all still accounted for. The tongue rubbing against his cheek was like sandpaper grinding on raw lumber. His lower lip stung as he opened his mouth. Feeling it with his hand it was swollen and hurt, the stubble on his chin revealing he had been out cold for two days at the most. He grasped the rail of the hospital bed, the cool metal feeling more real than the blurry sights and dampened sounds the room had to offer. He slowly sat up, shutting his eyes when he was upright to combat the sway of the floor. He assessed the room, turning his head deliberately. He wasn't alone; there was a young sleeping woman on an identical bed to his right. She was shackled to the bedrails with two soft, yet sturdy binds locked around her wrists. There was a clear tube running under his blanket, the rest disappearing over the side of the bed. Still foggy, he pulled at it experimentally and then tensed, eyes shooting open. He had found his urinary catheter. He was looking for a way to lower the sides of his bed when a nurse walked in. She was in her forties and had brown skin and black hair.
"Take it easy, Mr. Walker," she said, stepping by the bed. "There's no rush."
"What happened?" He was seeing double, the woman appearing to be accompanied by her transparent twin mimicking her every movement. He pressed his eyes closed and when he opened them his vision was normal.
"How about you tell me? What's the last thing you remember?" Her eyes quickly moved over the readings of the medical equipment while she spoke.
Memories surfaced in flashes, snapshots of the last seconds before a total void in his recollection. "I crashed. Two cars, one behind the other. Self-driving. What about the kid, Jason? Is he alright?"
She hesitated for a moment. "The boy is fine; he was the who called the ambulance."
"What about me? Anything permanent?"
"You got lucky, considering the odds. Apart from a compound fracture in you left humerus and a few scrapes there was no visible damage. Your arm was operated as soon as you came in, the surgeons fixed with some plates and screws. You should avoid any heavy lifting for a few days, but otherwise you can use it as you please. You're currently recovering in the surgery ward."
He made a fist with his left hand. It felt as strong as before, although moving his shoulder still ached.
"How do you feel? Dizziness? Ringing in ears? Hazy vision?"
"Some but getting better all the time."
"If that continues you might get home tomorrow, if the doctor discharges you and after the police have spoken with you."
He raised his eyebrows. "The police?"
"The other driver, Mr. Walker," she said, voice quieter than before. "He didn't make it."
An image burst into his mind, clear as day; the last split second before the collision he had caught a glimpse of a black-haired man in the runaway vehicle, mouth open in a scream hushed by the insulation of the vehicles, twisting the stuck steering wheel with all his might to no avail.
"There was something wrong with his car," he said, a bit too quickly even for his own taste. "It would not turn."
"I'd tell that to the police. I'll bring you some supper, make sure to use the call button if you need anything," she said, nodding politely and walking over to the other bed.
"I'd better work on my delivery before the official questioning. I barely believed myself."
He looked over the nurse checking the girl's binds and changing her IV fluid bag.
"What's wrong with her?"
"Patient confidentiality," she said in a tone that announced there would be no further debate on the subject.
He pressed on. "Why is she tied down? You can't keep her here if she's mentally sound. I'm not locked in some psychiatric hospital, am I?"
She seemed to consider a moment. "She'll be institutionalized when her somatic health allows. She sliced up her face under some psychotic break. Poor thing."
He took a closer look at the sleeping woman, but the dimmed lights and bushy hair obscured her face. He lied down, pulling the blanket to his chin.
"Maybe things will look brighter after the meal."
He doubted it.
"They aren't real."
He woke up, the last remnants of some dream still echoing in his mind. The room was barely lit by a few dim lights, most of the illumination falling from the window. The Venetian blinds allowed only narrow lines of lights inside so only the feet of their beds were visible in a space of dark silhouettes. The digital clock on the wall read 4:37 in its green numbers. He closed his eyes, ready to fall back to whatever fantasy his mind had been subjecting him to.
"None of it is real."
His eyes shot open. He hadn't imagined the words; they had come from the darkness where his roommate resided. He rose to a sitting position, peering into the blackness. A curtain had been pulled partially between them, so he couldn't see the head of the bed.
"Stop talking," she shouted, the exclamation sounding loud as an explosion in the silence. Even the beeps of their monitors had been muted for the night. He couldn't help but jump, elbowing the supper tray resting on his nightstand. The eaten-clean tableware clinked together, the high notes seeming to take forever to die out in the silent night. He waited, not moving a muscle.
"I know you're in there," the voice said in a conversational tone. "They told me. They know everything."
"Is there anything you need?" he said, thinking it best to just ignore her ramblings. "Should I call the nurse?"
"Need? Need? I don't need anything. They choose what we want. What we need." The words rapid-fired from the unseen like a volley of an ambush. "We want what they want us to want."
"Calm down. Get some sleep."
"They put the thoughts into our heads," the rat-a-tat intensified, his recommendation going unheard. "Ampere. They control us."
"Heard that one before," he thought.
She continued without waiting for him to reply. "They choose what we see, what we know, what's right and just. We're all their puppets."
He closed his eyes to think, suppressing his urge to state his agreement. "Is this how other people see me? A madman for not celebrating the wonders of modern society, suspicious of its spoils?"
"You have to cut them out," she said in an excited twitter. "It's the only way." She jumped up quickly and rigidly, like a rake whose spikes have been stepped on. Her eyes appeared in one of the lines of light cast by the window. The right one was closed, a jagged scar running across the lid. The other one shone maniacally, staring at him. "That's how you get free."
He pressed the button to call the night orderly. She soon came in, switched on some lights and seeing the young woman fighting against her binds quickly turned around and shortly returned with a syringe filled with clear liquid. The psychotic growled as the nurse injected the syringe's contents into her venous catheter, then quickly fell asleep.
"Do you need anything else?" she asked and left after Thomas shook his head.
He lied down on his back, staring at the ceiling, sleep repelled by the thoughts swirling in his head.
He was already up, looking outside the window overlooking the parking lot, when the police came. Their helmets and uniforms covered them from head to toe, so the only difference he could identify between the two that one was a bit taller than the other.
The taller officer spoke up: "You're Thomas Walker, correct?"
He nodded. He had removed the support around his arm and had dressed up in his own clothes without any difficulty.
"Do you know why we're here?" His voice was processed, giving it an artificial quality like he was speaking through a megaphone before it was blasted at him from speakers at the sides of the helmet. The officer himself didn't seem particularly hostile underneath, but they made him appear harsh and inhuman.
He nodded again.
"Tell us what happened that day."
He told them in short sentences about the sales trip and the incident on the way back. When he was done, the officer interrogating him shook his head, sighing.
"We know exactly what happened, Mr. Walker. There's no use lying, so just give it to us straight."
"That's what happened," he said, keeping his voice calm. "Check the tapes from the other car, or the van even."
"We've gone through the video recorded by surveillance cameras in that area. There was no van. The footage we managed to pull from the wreck of the other car was badly damaged, but the image reconstruction shows only your vehicle on the wrong lane just before the impact."
That gave him a pause. His eyes moved between the officers' visors, trying to find hints of the bluff they must have been pulling. They didn't flinch, clearly sure of the truthfulness of their claims.
"What about the kid, Jason Green? He must have seen the whole thing."
"Have you had any contact with him since the collision?" the officer barked, the sharpened edges of his modified voice cutting into his ears.
"No, I haven't. Why?"
"He also spoke of a third vehicle and matched the description you've given us. Are you sure you haven't instructed him in what he needed to tell us?"
"What he told you is the truth. Editing video is even easier than lying these days, one has to at least look their mark in the eye when sweettalking them, anybody can tell some program what to remove from a film.
"The recordings came directly from the company server, so no outside influence is possible. This is your last chance to change your statement."
He didn't speak, letting the silence between them stretch. The more outspoken officer harrumphed, the quiet one shook his head.
"Don't leave town, Mr. Walker. The prosecution wishes to evaluate the evidence before deciding on pressing charges." They turned to leave. At the doorway the taller officer stopped, turning his face to his side.
"If it was up to me," he said over his shoulder, "I would just lock you up right away. Put this is the way higher-ups wanted it, for whatever reason. I'd enjoy my time out if I were you. While I still had any." He briskly walked out.
He stared at the empty doorway.
"What the hell is going on?" He hated the feeling of his fate not being in his own hands and not having any say in the way his life played out. Somebody had played him, he was sure of that now; the way the cars had set him up, the revised footage. There had to be a force working against him. But who? And why? He glanced at the scarred woman, sleeping soundly in her bed.
"You have to cut them out. That's how you get free."
He pulled his jacket on and walked out.
He stepped onto the street holding the hospital bill in his hand. The morning sun made him squint. He stopped to consider his options and pulled out his phone to call a cab. He lit a cigarette as he waited, gazing at the passing cars in deep thought. A yellow taxi pulled over to the curb, the door opening automatically.
"Good day sir," a familiar artificial voice spoke from the backseat speakers. "This is a non-smoking area. Please put out your cigarette." He inhaled the smoke deeply and threw the butt to the roadside with a flick of a wrist before closing the door.
"Thank you, sir. Where would you like to go?"
He leaned closer to a microphone integrated to the console between the two front chairs. "Jack's High Gear car dealership," he said, articulating slowly and clearly. He knew the speech recognition software was advanced enough to decipher even sentences marred by heavy accents and speech impediments but couldn't break the habit of speaking to machines like they were slightly demented pensioners with hearing impairment.
"Right away," the computer said as the car entered the traffic, the fare, traveling distance and other numbers being displayed in the passenger monitor. He leaned into the seat and pondered his predicament.
He barely noticed as he arrived in his destination.
"How easy it is not to pay attention when somebody else is doing the driving."
Naomi raised her eyes from her monitor as he entered, her usual customer-service smile turning to astonishment as she recognized him.
"Thomas," she said, surprised as she skittered over to him, high heels rapidly clacking on the floor as her knee-length skirt limited her steps. "What are you doing here? You should be at the hospital, or home at the very least."
"I'm fine. The faster I can get back to work the better. I've got quite of bit to make up for since the car I totaled wasn't exactly cheap."
Worry exuded from her face, with a hint of something else.
"Is that pity? But why?"
"Really, I'm fine. No need to seem so concerned."
"How long have you been up? Have you had the time to check the news?"
"No, I haven't. Why?" She took out her phone, tapping the onscreen keyboard.
"Well look what the cat dragged in," a robust voice called out before she had the time to show whatever she was searching. Jack had come in with Jason in tow, carrying a toolbox.
"Back already? Now that's what I call work ethic," he said, slapping Thomas' shoulder with his large palm. Jason nodded his greeting.
"Good to see you up and about," he said, placing the toolbox on one of the chairs.
"Good to be back. That hospital coffee was some swill." Jack's smile did not reach his ears, the look in his eyes uncertain. That was when Thomas knew he was really in trouble.
"As I was saying," Naomi said, extending her arm so he could see her phone, "the news isn't good." The front page showed his old picture juxtaposed with an image of a wrecked car; a blurry shape of a body barely visible in the driver's seat.
"They are spinning this hard," Jack said, uncharacteristically serious. "Haven't seen this much hysteria against human drivers in a while. They have even dug up your past. Our store's page has already filled with one-star reviews and angry messages."
He clenched his jaw. "I have to go. The best thing you can do is publicly distance yourself from me. I won't bring this place down." He stared Jack in the eye, and he returned the gaze, moving his jaw slightly, ruminating.
"Surely that won't be necessary," she said from the side, wringing her hands. "This'll blow over."
"Yeah," Jason said. "People forget."
"I think we should do as you say," Jack said with a defeated look. "Our competitors are pushing to close us, and this is giving them just what they need. Once the storm passes, we'll just quietly rehire you. You'll get your severance package, of course."
"You need it more than I do."
"The crashed car was insured, that'll get us forward. And the compensation mandatory in case of termination of employment by the employer by the contract we signed when you first started working here."
"Then I quit. No need to pay me then, right?"
"Thomas, please think this over," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder.
"Just did. There must be some forms I need to sign." His face was placid. It was easy to seem calm when you felt so empty inside.
"Get the man what he wants," Jack said in a muted tone, indicating towards his office with a jerk of his thick neck. She looked from one man to next with her doe eyes before slumping, resigned, and fetched the papers which he signed without reading, the sentences not making any sense to him.
"Goodbye," he said, looking them all in the eye one by one. They mumbled their farewells.
His car was still in the spot he had parked it a few days earlier. He turned the ignition and grasped the wheel.
"And where should I go now?"
His mind drew a blank.