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“Ferris, first things first: do not hang up on me, no matter who tries to stop you. Second, put me on air.”
Ferris did as he was ordered.
“Anyone who can hear me, listen and obey! I am Kodos, your new insect overlord.” Simpsons references were timeless, Dillon figured. “You will immediately come to the Strip and attack any soldier or police person you see!” As an afterthought he added, “Whether they’re in uniform or not. Use your best judgment on that.”
What Dillon did not know, and Ferris did not mention, was that the station’s chief engineer was already halfway to Salt Lake City, having had the good sense to grab his family and flee hours earlier. So transmission was not all it might have been, and the order came out garbled.
“. . . immediately . . . Strip and attack any soldier or police . . . see!”
Dillon did not hear the broadcast—he was on the phone. But he ordered Ferris to continue replaying his order forever.
He heard frantic noises on Ferris’s end of the line, a loud banging, a rending of wood.
“Hey, I’m on air here!” Ferris yelled at unknown people.
“Not another f—king word!” a male voice yelled.
“Hey, this is my show, asshole!” Ferris yelled back. “I’m going to loop that and play it as long as I’m on the—”
The next loud bang was undeniably a gunshot.
Half an hour later came the first video from a news helicopter of a scattering of people standing stark naked outside their homes, many carrying guns, and glancing like metronomes up and down the street.
“Dammit!” Dillon cried. He really missed Saffron now. She’d had a good imagination, that girl. And in some ways she was more ruthless than he was. It had been her idea to make the two cops jump off the Venetian tower. Sadly, none of the Cheerios seemed half as bright, or half as ruthless. It was, he reflected, the downside of turning people into slaves: they only obeyed, they did not counsel or advise or suggest.
On MSNBC Rachel Maddow was warning that Dillon Poe had tried to get on air with a radio station. “I am sorry to even say this, but if you work at a radio station or broadcast TV station, you must not answer your phone unless caller ID gives you a number you know—absolutely know—is safe.”
“Oh, I’m going to hurt you, Rachel,” Dillon vowed.
How to assemble the mighty slave army he needed?
Old school? He could just sit and start randomly dialing Las Vegas numbers. But when he tried to get a line out of the hotel he just got the rapid busy signal.
He had a cell phone, but he’d sent the owner off to kill himself before getting his security code, so all he could dial was . . .
Dillon’s face split into a smile. He grabbed the cell, and yep, there it was, security code or no: 911.
911 was busy. Very busy. It took sixteen tries, followed by a very long time on hold. Then:
“911, state your emergency.” The voice was ragged with exhaustion.
“Do not hang up. Listen only to me. Tell me: Do you have access to an intercom?”
“Yes.”
“Something everyone there at the emergency center will hear?”
“Yes.”
“Can you connect me to that intercom?”
“I . . . I think so . . . maybe . . .”
“Do it,” Dillon snapped.
He listened to keys being tapped, and the operator’s muttered thoughts. “Don’t know . . . shouldn’t do this . . . maybe this will work . . . Hmmm . . . Okay, sir, I think I can do it.”
Deep breath. Get it right, Dillon, get it right.
