Sliders: Your Ad Here (8 of 8)

by Nigel G. Mitchell

Washington looked at Rembrandt. A trickle of sweat began to run down his cheek. "Brown? What's the meaning of this?"

Rembrandt shrugged as he backed away from him. "What can I say, Larry? I got business to attend to."

Wade ran into the studio. The armed men immediately took aim at her. Arturo backed into the room with her, his lighter's flame singeing the edges of the cards.

"Call them off," Arturo said. "If any one of us is harmed or obstructed in any way, this campaign becomes a torch."

"Don't shoot, men," Washington yelled. "Let them go!"

Wade ran up to Quinn and threw her arms around him. "You okay?"

Quinn winced. "Yeah. Just a little sore. I feel like I've been holding this position for hours. What's goin' on? How'd you guys get in here?"

"Long story. We'll fill you in later. We gotta get out of here."

She ran for the door. The photographer moved to block her.

"I don't know what's going on here," the white-haired man said. "But I still have three more rolls to shoot."

"Not today," Arturo said. "Now back off or this campaign gets it."

Washington grabbed the photographer and pulled him out of the way. "For goodness sakes, man, let them pass! That's the Coca-Cola campaign he's holding!"

Wade, Rembrandt, and Quinn ran out of the studio. Arturo backed out of the room after them.

The four of them headed down the corridor to the stairs. They made their way down to the ground floor. During their entire trip, armed guards followed them down the steps. Washington was among them, sweat soaking his collar as he watched them go.

They ran out of the stairway into the lobby of the building. More guards had filled the cavernous chamber, watching Wade and the others with vicious glares. Arturo led the way to the front door, still holding the cards to the fire. He wore a big smile as he sidled up to the exit.

Washington thrust out a hand. "No! Don't you dare take those cards out of this building! If it gets out, our competitors will get a hold of it! We'll lose billions!"

Arturo waited beside the door as Wade, Quinn, and Rembrandt bolted outside. Then he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, it's been a delightful experience visiting your little branch of the Gestapo. But I'm afraid it's time for us to leave. Goodbye. And good riddance."

He ran through the door.

Wade ran to the taxi idling at the curb. She threw herself into the backseat. Quinn jumped in after her, followed by Rembrandt.

Arturo was running across the sidewalk to the cab. As he did, he hurled the illustrated cards into the air after him. Washington lunged out of the W and L building to see the cards sail to the pavement.

"No!" he screamed.

Arturo jumped into the passenger seat of the cab. He turned to Pavel, who was behind the wheel, and said, "Step on it, my good man."

"Da," Pavel said, then hit the gas.

As the cab drove away, Wade looked through the rear window at the scene they had left behind. It was as if hundreds of photographers had appeared out of nowhere. They all clustered around where the cards had fallen, snapping pictures. Washington and his guards frantically tried to stop them. Just before they turned the corner, Wade could see parts of the mob breaking into violence. Cars honked wildly as the fight spilled into the road.

"Wow," Wade said. "I guess he was right. The competition here is pretty intense."

* * *

It was almost a full day before their next slide was scheduled to appear, and they spent it hiding out at a Motel 12. As night was falling, Quinn was in the bathroom rubbing his face with a damp towel.

Wade appeared at the door behind him, leaning against the wall with a smirk. "Are you still trying to wipe off that makeup?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "They really packed it on. The stuff is like glue."

Wade turned away, giving him a sly glance. "Now you know how we feel."

"Ha, ha," Quinn murmured.

He gave his upper lip a few more scrubs, then gave up. It would probably be a few more days before he got it all off. He washed his face once more, dried it, and walked out.

Fast-food boxes were still piled on their table. Rembrandt was there, eating, while Arturo poured himself a glass of whiskey. As Arturo brought the glass to his lips, Rembrandt dropped his hamburger.

"That's it," he said. "I can't eat this junk. And I thought nobody could screw up a burger worse than Fever World."

Arturo winced and peered into his glass. "Mm. I must say the same for this whiskey as well. I can only assume that, with the rampant advertising campaigns of this country, the quality of food is secondary to how well it is promoted."

He set his glass down, then smiled at Quinn. "Ah, Mister Mallory. If you're done with your preening, might you enlighten us on how long we have to remain in this odious dimension?"

The timer was resting on one of the beds. Quinn flipped it open, read the display, and tucked the device into his coat. "Two minutes."

"And not a moment too soon."

Wade was lying on one of the beds, watching the TV that murmured on the desk across her. She sat up, pointing at the screen.

"Hey, it's Rembrandt," she said.

Rembrandt sat down next to her. "Turn it up."

She turned up the sound as Quinn and Arturo watched a reporter seated next to a photo of Rembrandt. Her voice grew louder as Wade clicked the remote.

"...Brown," she was saying, "also known as the Crying Man, was arrested today on charges of industrial

espionage and kidnapping. There are still leads on the whereabouts of Washington and Lambert's latest model prisoner, Quinn Mallory. The agency has put forward a six million dollar reward for his safe return."

"Six million," Rembrandt said. "Didn't think you were that good-lookin', Q-Ball."

He laughed in a high-pitched voice, ducking Quinn's hand.

"Very funny, Remmy," Quinn said.

The report continued with the reporter's smile falling into a frown. "In other news, the San Francisco

police released a statement from a group of unidentified Middle Eastern terrorists. The group claimed that the city's reservoir system has been poisoned, making it lethal to drink or even come in contact with. Though police say no evidence has been found of tampering, the city's water supply has been suspended until further notice."

The reporter broke into a beaming smile. "However, the Pepsico Coporation came forward with a generous offer to replace the city's water system with Classic Pepsi. Arrangements have been made to drain the reservoir and refill it with their sparkling soda until the crisis is resolved."

"Well," Arturo sighed, "it seems the competition got a hold of those plans, after all."

Wade looked up at Quinn. "We should call the police. The newspapers. Tell people that it's all a hoax."

"Wade," Quinn said, "they own the newspapers and the police. You think they'll let us get through?"

"Well, we've gotta do something."

Arturo pulled on his long tan coat. "Miss Welles, we have less than a minute left on this world. Hardly enough time to warn the entire city."

Wade got up, resting on her knees to stand upright. "So that's it? We're just gonna leave without doing anything? We're gonna let 'em get away with it?"

Rembrandt zipped up his leather jacket. "Sweetheart, these people ain't robots. You think they're gonna stand for this?"

"Maybe," Wade said. "They've stood for everything else these jerks have done to them. I mean, who knows how far they'll let it go."

Quinn rested a hand on her shoulder. "Wade, the ad agencies and big businesses may not realize it, but they're dealing with human beings. Human beings who will only stand for a certain amount of manipulation and control before they fight back. Now, come on. Let's go."

Arturo and Rembrandt headed for the door. Quinn glanced back at the room, then switched off the lights. He stepped out into the night with the others. As he closed and locked the door, Wade leaned

close to his side.

"You really think it'll happen, Quinn?" she whispered. "I mean, do you really think these people can stand up to the ads and the subliminal messages and the commercials and all that?"

Quinn looked up at the stars above them. "I dunno, Wade. But it's not our fight. The people of this world allowed the ad agencies to take over their lives. They didn't speak up when they had the chance. It's up to them to decide when enough is enough and get themselves out."

"I guess so," Wade said, then looked out at the empty parking lot. "I just...feel so sorry for them."

Quinn aimed his timer at an open space and pressed the button. The parking lot convulsed, collapsing into a glowing blue vortex out of which blew a cool breeze.

"Me, too, Wade," Quinn said. "Me, too."

Arturo, Rembrandt, and Wade jumped into the portal. Quinn was about to, then looked up at the moon. He squinted at the glowing orb in the sky, then felt a chill come over him.

"I really do," Quinn whispered, then jumped into the wormhole.

But as he slid to the next world, he couldn't stop thinking about the moon he had seen. At some point, someone had carved huge chunks out of its surface so that it spelled out a message that could be seen from Earth.

The moon was now a billboard that read "Eat At Joe's."

THE END

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