Darkness. A samurai sword slices through the air. A familiar face. An intense orgasm. Standing in an open field. Sunlight.
*~~*
Edward jumped up from his bedroll, shaking and sweating. He stood nearly naked, only a set of cotton boxers, as the sun beat through the arms of trees onto the basement floor.
“Holy fuck,” whispered Edward.
He walked out of the basement onto the grass, letting his bare feet glide through the dew covered blades. He ran his fingers through his hair as he looked up into the sky. The morning breeze rustled through the bushes around him as he spotted a fallen tree close to the basement to take a seat on. He took a small surface pen from his boxers and clicked it three times. Touching it to the cotton shorts they shifted quickly into a set of brown pants, a beaten blue and white striped button-up, and a dusty brown vest.
Edward took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with the silver lighter procured from his newly formed vest. He sat in the early morning for several hours, smoking and wondering just what the hell was happening to him.
*~~*
Witticker rustled from his sleep. He had slept in clothes which were now a bit soggy, but still mildly bearable. He sat up, noticing that Edward was outside the concrete shell, baking in the morning sun.
“Sleep well?” asked Witticker groggily.
“No,” answered Edward dimly from his tree throne, “Emphatically no.”
Edward blew a puff of smoke into the air and placed the cigarette into the crook of his mouth. Witticker walked out to Edward’s tree and sat next to him, hunched on his knees.
“So, why do you change your clothes so often? You never wear the same thing for more than a day.”
Edward shot him a sideways glance and looked back up into the sky.
“Before people started wearing clothes things were a lot simpler. People were concerned with food and shelter. That was it. You woke up in the morning and started looking for both of those things. Day in, day out.”
Edward took a drag and flicked his cigarette butt in the dirt. He pulled his leg from the its resting position and squashed the small ember beneath his boot.
“Then people started finding both of those things before mid-day and they had some time on their hands. It became about wants instead of needs. Fast-forward several centuries. I now have both food and shelter. I can take time to think about what I’m going to wear each day. I change clothes to reflect who I am.”
“But without those clothes aren’t you still you? What do the clothes reflect if not simply themselves?”
“This world is full of paradoxes, Witticker,” began Edward, hopping up from his seat, “We generally agree that you shouldn’t take a man on surface value alone, but most people agree that ‘the clothes make the man’. There are centuries of social constructs floating around in here,” said Edward as he pointed to his head. “Dogs always turn circles before they lie down to sleep. Did you ever wonder why?”
“I never had a dog.”
“Nevermind that. They do turn circles and they do because centuries ago their ancestors lived in tall grass and they had to turn circles to mat it down for a place to sleep. Now a dog will turn circles in the desert before it lays down to rest. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense. We do it because it’s inside of us and that’s what’s real.”
Witticker scratched his head and looked up into the sun on its way up towards the top of the sky. He took out his surface pen and clicked it three times. Hesitantly he touched his soggy clothes which promptly changed into a loose pair of blue jeans and a thick white button-up left undone by the top few buttons.
“You know,” started Edward, wandering off from the log bench, “I think I may have had one of those dream things.”
Witticker turned towards him, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Last night you said you never had one and now you think you have? What brought this on?”
“I hadn’t had one until last night. Nothing brought it on. I just think I had one last night.”
Edward pulled another cigarette out and began to light it.
“Well, what was it about?” asked Witticker.
“Not really sure,” said Edward, putting his lighter away in his vest pocket, “just a string of events leading nowhere. Is there something you’re supposed to see?”
“No, not really. It’s just what’s in your head I guess.”
“Well, I saw a lot of different things. Things from my past. And I ended up in this field full of flowers. It was so beautiful. I was running through the field. Just running as fast as I could and it felt great. I felt everything. The wind, the feeling of flowers as I rushed by, the sun on my body. It was amazing. But…nothing is different now…is it? Is something supposed to be different with dreams?”
Witticker thought for a long time about his own dreams. He thought about what he saw and the way it made him feel. He didn’t feel amazing. He felt alone, isolated. It was an unanswered question. A infinite remainder.
“I don’t know. Everybody uses their experiences differently. Just take from it what you can.”
Edward looked back up into the sky. A cloud floated overhead, blocking the sun for a short while.
“Sounds good. Well, it’s time to keep moving. Looks like we’re walking for a while and after that last little tangle we’ll take the back-way. I’m not sure if that guy was after me or you, but it would be best not to chance it. You ready?”
Witticker nodded. The two men gathered their belongings and headed off into the woods.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
Chapter 34
Backing up…
…step by step away…
…from men in black suits.
Click.
Witticker opened his eyes to the night sky through a hole in an ancient tin roof. Stars twinkled radiantly as a small, thin cloud drifted by, weaving in and amongst the distant balls of light. Several hours earlier, after a lengthy trek through the woods, the two travelers had found the remains of the abandoned farmhouse to rest in for the evening. Edward had started a fire in the cozy concrete hole and the two had, after a brief dinner, lain down. Witticker had managed to sleep for a while, but suddenly found himself awake, rolling from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position on the cold stone floor.
He sat up towards the glow of the fire to find Edward already awake, staring into the flames as he poked them with a crooked metal rod.
“Hey,” grumbled Witticker, “how long have I been out?”
“Just three hours,” replied Edward in a monotone drawl.
Witticker joined his companion, gazing into the fire, trying to find a black flame in the center, the existence of which he had read about years before in a short and possibly fictional record.
“Why do you shake in your sleep?” asked Edward, his eyes having shifted to focus on Witticker. Edward’s gaze was at once accusatory and worrisome.
Witticker, never having had an observer before, was not aware he did anything out of the ordinary when he slept. He thought for a moment on his response before finally answering.
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I’ve been having pretty shocking dreams lately. Could be that maybe?”
“What are you talking about?” shot back Edward, “You’re having what?”
Witticker was surprised at the inflection in Edward’s tone, much more foreign and removed than he had from him before.
“I said I’ve been having dreams lately that have been very, well, vivid. Almost real.”
“What are dreams?”
Witticker chuckled and shifted himself on the blanket he had been sleeping on.
“You know, dreams.”
Witticker waved his hands in the air around his head as if signifying everything inside. Edward looked around and then back at Witticker.
“What? You mean everything around your head is a dream? Or…what?”
Witticker shook his head as he was not quite sure what surrealistic conversation Edward was trying to have with him.
“No, the dreams in my head. The ones I have when I sleep.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about dreams. My dreams. You know, the things that…well, the events that occur in my mind…while I’m asleep”
Witticker found that it was becoming increasingly difficult to put a definition on exactly what it was he wanted to describe.
“So, you’re saying that while you sleep you see things. What do you see?”
“Haven’t you ever had a dream?”
“No,” said Edward unabashedly.
Witticker laughed nervously until he realized by Edward’s complete lack of expression that he was fiercely serious.
“You’ve never had a dream?”
“No.”
“So you’ve never been asleep and had images or ideas come to mind? Almost like you’re there, but not quite. Things that you can’t explain, but they’re just there. How you know where you are even though it doesn’t make sense to be there. You just know that you’re there and what is happening is happening.”
“What the hell happened to you why you were on that farm?”
“No,” said Witticker defiantly, “this isn’t strange. Nothing ‘happened’ to me on the farm. People dream. Dreaming is normal.”
“Nobody I’ve ever spoken to has ever described anything remotely like what you’re talking about and I’ve met a lot of people. Where did you even come up with this word? Dreaming?”
Witticker paused a moment to breathe. He had never had to argue his own reality before and he found it unbelievably infuriating. He closed his eyes, slowly took in a big breath, and, after a moment of holding, let it out.
“I didn’t come up with the word. I don’t know who did. Dreaming is just part of the human condition. People have been dreaming forever.”
Edward noticed the fire was getting low and he turned to pull a few sticks from a bundle he had gathered when they had first arrived in the ancient house. He pushed several deep in the flame and the fire crackled as several embers tumbled inside.
“So, let’s consider for a moment that ‘dreaming’ is real. What would I see if I were ‘dreaming’?”
“I don’t know. Everybody dreams about different things.”
“That’s very convenient. So far your definition of ‘dreaming’ is something that you see in your sleep that is different for every person.”
Edward laughed.
“No offense, but it sounds made up.”
Witticker glared at his companion through the fire
“Why would I make this up? What is my motivation to lie to you? About something that only affects me?”
“Good point,” replied Edward, “but it’s definitely strange. Are you sure you’re not just thinking about something right before you go to sleep?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s like…you’re not in control. It’s like you’re imagining something only you’re not in control of where it goes. Like a movie, only you’re there…only it’s not quite you…just, your point of view.”
Edward stopped for a moment to light a cigarette. He bent close to the fire and let the flames ignite the end of the skinny stick of tobacco.
“What do you see in these dreams?”
“Well,” said Witticker hesitantly, “that’s complicated as well. I usually can’t remember, but I know I’ve been dreaming. Just a feeling you have when you’ve had a dream. In the past the dreams I’ve remembered have been about things I’d read or things I’d seen or ideas I’d thought about before. It’s only recently that some of that has changed.”
Witticker sighed and stared into the fire. He didn’t understand why he was sharing any of this or why he had decided for the receiver to be someone he barely knew, but it felt intensely good to get it out. The more he shared seemed to feed a silent compulsion inside to continue until everything was out.
“What has changed?” asked Edward, shaking Witticker from his thoughts.
“Like I said, my dreams used to be random, but lately…lately they’ve been about something specific. I don’t know what it is, but…it…it’s tearing me apart. It’s the reason I left the farmhouse. The reason I knew I had to find out whatever it is that’s being hidden from me. The reason I’m here now.”
Edward took a long drag on his cigarette as he stared at Witticker over the flickers of the fire. Witticker looked back noticing that Edward was not staring so much as studying.
“What?” shot Witticker, “You don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t believe me. You’re the one that wanted to know in the first place.”
Witticker turned away from the fire and lay back down on his blanket. Edward took the last drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the fire.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. Disbelief is easy. It doesn’t take much to reject an idea. I can just decide not to,” said Edward, poking the fire with his stirring stick.
“What’s hard is that some part of me believes you. A state of mind beyond the immediate conscious. Intriguing and upsetting at the same time.”
Witticker remained silent on his blanket as Edward turned back to his own bedroll. The two men, both unaware of the other doing the same, gazed up into the night sky. The stars continued twinkling on the black canvas of limitless space as both men drifted off to sleep.
…step by step away…
…from men in black suits.
Click.
Witticker opened his eyes to the night sky through a hole in an ancient tin roof. Stars twinkled radiantly as a small, thin cloud drifted by, weaving in and amongst the distant balls of light. Several hours earlier, after a lengthy trek through the woods, the two travelers had found the remains of the abandoned farmhouse to rest in for the evening. Edward had started a fire in the cozy concrete hole and the two had, after a brief dinner, lain down. Witticker had managed to sleep for a while, but suddenly found himself awake, rolling from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position on the cold stone floor.
He sat up towards the glow of the fire to find Edward already awake, staring into the flames as he poked them with a crooked metal rod.
“Hey,” grumbled Witticker, “how long have I been out?”
“Just three hours,” replied Edward in a monotone drawl.
Witticker joined his companion, gazing into the fire, trying to find a black flame in the center, the existence of which he had read about years before in a short and possibly fictional record.
“Why do you shake in your sleep?” asked Edward, his eyes having shifted to focus on Witticker. Edward’s gaze was at once accusatory and worrisome.
Witticker, never having had an observer before, was not aware he did anything out of the ordinary when he slept. He thought for a moment on his response before finally answering.
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I’ve been having pretty shocking dreams lately. Could be that maybe?”
“What are you talking about?” shot back Edward, “You’re having what?”
Witticker was surprised at the inflection in Edward’s tone, much more foreign and removed than he had from him before.
“I said I’ve been having dreams lately that have been very, well, vivid. Almost real.”
“What are dreams?”
Witticker chuckled and shifted himself on the blanket he had been sleeping on.
“You know, dreams.”
Witticker waved his hands in the air around his head as if signifying everything inside. Edward looked around and then back at Witticker.
“What? You mean everything around your head is a dream? Or…what?”
Witticker shook his head as he was not quite sure what surrealistic conversation Edward was trying to have with him.
“No, the dreams in my head. The ones I have when I sleep.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about dreams. My dreams. You know, the things that…well, the events that occur in my mind…while I’m asleep”
Witticker found that it was becoming increasingly difficult to put a definition on exactly what it was he wanted to describe.
“So, you’re saying that while you sleep you see things. What do you see?”
“Haven’t you ever had a dream?”
“No,” said Edward unabashedly.
Witticker laughed nervously until he realized by Edward’s complete lack of expression that he was fiercely serious.
“You’ve never had a dream?”
“No.”
“So you’ve never been asleep and had images or ideas come to mind? Almost like you’re there, but not quite. Things that you can’t explain, but they’re just there. How you know where you are even though it doesn’t make sense to be there. You just know that you’re there and what is happening is happening.”
“What the hell happened to you why you were on that farm?”
“No,” said Witticker defiantly, “this isn’t strange. Nothing ‘happened’ to me on the farm. People dream. Dreaming is normal.”
“Nobody I’ve ever spoken to has ever described anything remotely like what you’re talking about and I’ve met a lot of people. Where did you even come up with this word? Dreaming?”
Witticker paused a moment to breathe. He had never had to argue his own reality before and he found it unbelievably infuriating. He closed his eyes, slowly took in a big breath, and, after a moment of holding, let it out.
“I didn’t come up with the word. I don’t know who did. Dreaming is just part of the human condition. People have been dreaming forever.”
Edward noticed the fire was getting low and he turned to pull a few sticks from a bundle he had gathered when they had first arrived in the ancient house. He pushed several deep in the flame and the fire crackled as several embers tumbled inside.
“So, let’s consider for a moment that ‘dreaming’ is real. What would I see if I were ‘dreaming’?”
“I don’t know. Everybody dreams about different things.”
“That’s very convenient. So far your definition of ‘dreaming’ is something that you see in your sleep that is different for every person.”
Edward laughed.
“No offense, but it sounds made up.”
Witticker glared at his companion through the fire
“Why would I make this up? What is my motivation to lie to you? About something that only affects me?”
“Good point,” replied Edward, “but it’s definitely strange. Are you sure you’re not just thinking about something right before you go to sleep?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s like…you’re not in control. It’s like you’re imagining something only you’re not in control of where it goes. Like a movie, only you’re there…only it’s not quite you…just, your point of view.”
Edward stopped for a moment to light a cigarette. He bent close to the fire and let the flames ignite the end of the skinny stick of tobacco.
“What do you see in these dreams?”
“Well,” said Witticker hesitantly, “that’s complicated as well. I usually can’t remember, but I know I’ve been dreaming. Just a feeling you have when you’ve had a dream. In the past the dreams I’ve remembered have been about things I’d read or things I’d seen or ideas I’d thought about before. It’s only recently that some of that has changed.”
Witticker sighed and stared into the fire. He didn’t understand why he was sharing any of this or why he had decided for the receiver to be someone he barely knew, but it felt intensely good to get it out. The more he shared seemed to feed a silent compulsion inside to continue until everything was out.
“What has changed?” asked Edward, shaking Witticker from his thoughts.
“Like I said, my dreams used to be random, but lately…lately they’ve been about something specific. I don’t know what it is, but…it…it’s tearing me apart. It’s the reason I left the farmhouse. The reason I knew I had to find out whatever it is that’s being hidden from me. The reason I’m here now.”
Edward took a long drag on his cigarette as he stared at Witticker over the flickers of the fire. Witticker looked back noticing that Edward was not staring so much as studying.
“What?” shot Witticker, “You don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t believe me. You’re the one that wanted to know in the first place.”
Witticker turned away from the fire and lay back down on his blanket. Edward took the last drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the fire.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. Disbelief is easy. It doesn’t take much to reject an idea. I can just decide not to,” said Edward, poking the fire with his stirring stick.
“What’s hard is that some part of me believes you. A state of mind beyond the immediate conscious. Intriguing and upsetting at the same time.”
Witticker remained silent on his blanket as Edward turned back to his own bedroll. The two men, both unaware of the other doing the same, gazed up into the night sky. The stars continued twinkling on the black canvas of limitless space as both men drifted off to sleep.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Chapter 33
The outskirts of the city were lit in a dim glow; a residue of light pouring out of the distrip. It was as if the light floated like a cloud, diminishing over time and resting its fog-like body downwind. Through the half-lit mist the silhouette of two men could be seen hiking on an anbandoned railroad track. The men were outlined by a centralized light they carried with them that seemed to emanate from a device slung on the back of one of the two men. The men walked with no words spoken between them; intent on their destination. The hum of brass and drums punctuated the air as if the two men’s walking somehow summoned the sounds from the remains of the city.
Suddenly the two silhouettes stopped as another larger silhouette appeared in the distance. The new silhouette appeared to be a creature grown solely for its utility. It stood a foot taller than the other two men with a skinny build and long, lanky appendages. The two men and the giant stood frozen staring at one another, waiting for the other to move.
From a distance one of the two men screamed, “Get Down!”
What transpired in the following minute felt as long as any lifetime.
*~~*
Edward pulled two revolvers from his side as Witticker hit the ground, holding his leather satchel over his head. Edward ran towards Jehovah firing several shots as the giant moved only slightly to miss their trails. As Edward ran out of bullets he threw the revolvers to his side and drew a sword hidden on his back. He jumped towards Jehovah, swinging the sword which was met by another, drawn by his opponent. The two weighed against one another, sizing the others strength, and then pushed away. Edward twirled the blade in his hand and lunged towards Jehovah who deflected it. They both rebounded and Edward ducked as Jehovah sliced through the air above him. Having caught his opponent off-balance Edward swept the giant’s legs out from under him, immediately cracking the hilt of his sword against Jehovah’s head. The massive body lay motionless as Edward walked back towards Witticker.
*~~*
After the altercation the two surviving men walked speedily away from the sight of the battle. Their silhouettes could be seen abandoning the railroad track yards away, leaving the light residue of the city for the wooded overgrowth. After several minutes the giant silhouette rose from its fallen position. It stood motionless, weaving for several moments and then staring into the sky; as if perplexed by some tremendous or complex question. Almost mechanically its head clicked back down to the earth. The mammoth shadow turned towards the city and ran at incredible speed towards the artificial light. A scream like an animal’s howl whistled through the air, a sound of rage and despair from the city of rubble.
Suddenly the two silhouettes stopped as another larger silhouette appeared in the distance. The new silhouette appeared to be a creature grown solely for its utility. It stood a foot taller than the other two men with a skinny build and long, lanky appendages. The two men and the giant stood frozen staring at one another, waiting for the other to move.
From a distance one of the two men screamed, “Get Down!”
What transpired in the following minute felt as long as any lifetime.
*~~*
Edward pulled two revolvers from his side as Witticker hit the ground, holding his leather satchel over his head. Edward ran towards Jehovah firing several shots as the giant moved only slightly to miss their trails. As Edward ran out of bullets he threw the revolvers to his side and drew a sword hidden on his back. He jumped towards Jehovah, swinging the sword which was met by another, drawn by his opponent. The two weighed against one another, sizing the others strength, and then pushed away. Edward twirled the blade in his hand and lunged towards Jehovah who deflected it. They both rebounded and Edward ducked as Jehovah sliced through the air above him. Having caught his opponent off-balance Edward swept the giant’s legs out from under him, immediately cracking the hilt of his sword against Jehovah’s head. The massive body lay motionless as Edward walked back towards Witticker.
*~~*
After the altercation the two surviving men walked speedily away from the sight of the battle. Their silhouettes could be seen abandoning the railroad track yards away, leaving the light residue of the city for the wooded overgrowth. After several minutes the giant silhouette rose from its fallen position. It stood motionless, weaving for several moments and then staring into the sky; as if perplexed by some tremendous or complex question. Almost mechanically its head clicked back down to the earth. The mammoth shadow turned towards the city and ran at incredible speed towards the artificial light. A scream like an animal’s howl whistled through the air, a sound of rage and despair from the city of rubble.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Chapter 32
Arnold Cavenstein stood half-naked in his kitchen, drenched in sweat. As he had anticipated, he had sweat through his first shirt of the day already and with this previously in mind he had taken the proper precaution of laying several dry shirts in store in the kitchen. He reached for one of the dry button-ups and, after putting it on, began buttoning from bottom to top.
The dining party had nearly reached their thirteenth course and, outside of the expected services, they had only required one bottle of wine and one extraneous use of the telephone.
Mr. Cavenstein walked over to the stove to check the filet mignon which would be their thirteenth course. It was broiling nicely inside the oven and as he could do nothing but wait for it he decided to move to the dining room and ask his guests if they were in want of anything. He took a moment to check himself in the mirror, straightening his hair and shirt before walking through the door.
As he entered the room he noticed that only three of the four attendants were seated at the table. The large, tan man known only to him as Simon had disappeared. His mind raced wildly for the answer to this situation as he masked his inner thoughts, calmly walking towards the table.
“Is everything to your liking?” whispered Mr. Cavenstein.
“Shh,” hissed Roland waving his hand in Mr. Cavenstein’s direction.
All of the muscles in Arnold’s body tensed as he waited. Thoughts began to cycle through his mind in quick succession. Where had the tan fellow gone? Had he become impatient with the service or had he been ‘taken care of’ as Roland had warned of earlier in the evening?
“Roland,” said Mrs. J, “this is ridiculous. I can’t hear anything and I can guarantee there is no one on the other side of that door. You’re just being paranoid.”
Suddenly Simon rounded the corner, bounding into the room from his mysterious location. He eyed Mr. Cavenstein suspiciously as he walked back to his seat.
“You know,” he said coldly, “your restroom is a bit small. You might consider pushing one of the walls out or perhaps a complete renovation. Just a thought.”
Mr. Cavenstein nodded and thanked his guest for the suggestion.
“Arnold,” said Roland as he took a napkin from his lap, “could you clear the table for our next course? We won’t be much longer.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Cavenstein as he darted towards the rolling cart in the corner of the room. He wheeled the silver cart towards the table and began to clear off the vestiges of the previous meals.
“So, Roland,” queried Simon, “you’ve sent Jehovah after the dreamer and that’s that?”
Roland nodded and reached for his glass of wine.
“But what if there’s more? He managed to find his way this far. What’s to say he won’t escape the city as well?”
The old man sitting at the other side of the table coughed which appeared to be a sign as it drew the attention of the remainder of the party.
“Because,” croaked Victor, “he’s not built for it.”
*~~*
Thirty years earlier…
Three doctors and a man in a gray suit stand in a room lit by very bright fluorescent lights. The room is a bright white with several metal apparatuses on the counter that have the look of medical design and function. Three doctors stand in a huddled mess in the corner of the room with a look of prolonged distress. The man in the gray suit appears relaxed, standing away from the three doctors, smoking a cigarette.
“So,” asks the smoking man, “why was I called here? I’m terribly busy what with the recent flip-flop of Perceptionist leaders.”
“You know, Victor,” says one of the doctors wiping the sweat from his brow, “that habit will take years off your life.”
Victor grins and blows a puff of smoke at the circle of doctors.
“There are no guarantees anymore, doctor. Global warming was supposed to wipe us out, but it didn’t. People die every day who never touched a cigarette and you know what?”
Victor looks at the cigarette as he flicks an ash on the floor.
“This makes me feel better. So, how about you tell me why I’m here.”
The doctors glare at the smoking man. One of them steps forward.
“You were referred specifically by the top to deal with this. There was a boy born here a few days ago that was having very poor reactions to the night hibernations. He shakes. His situation was reported and we were instructed to withhold the medication. The tremors increased. They happen every night.”
The doctor shakes his head.
“It’s something I’ve never seen before. We were told to let you ‘deal with it’.”
Victor chuckles and walks towards the doctors. As he reaches them he takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows the cloud of smoke up into the air.
“Case in point, gents. No guarantees anymore.”
*~~*
“The dreamer was never intended to leave the farm. He doesn’t have the capacity for travel.”
“Well,” said Simon, “it looks as if his ‘capacity’ is rising.”
“This is a moot point,” said Roland briskly, “regardless of his resourcefulness he’ll be recaptured within the next few hours. Jehovah has never failed us.”
Mrs. J sneered from her end of the table.
“You men have too much confidence in one another. I prefer to deal in the philosophy of random chance.”
Mrs. J rose from her chair and drew a small handgun from her handbag. Mr. Cavenstein’s eyes grew as large as saucers as she walked over to the door leading out of the apartment and swiftly opened it. She stuck her head out and looked both directions.
“You see, Roland, there is no one out here. Nobody knows we’re here.”
She walked back to the table and placed the gun back into her purse. Mr. Cavenstein stood frozen in place. The very real possibility of his own death had just occurred to him upon sighting the gun Mrs. J had in her possession. Seeing that these were a group of people who placed a very high value on secrecy he knew his ears had heard too much. His mind urged him to go back to the kitchen, but his legs refused to budge.
“Alright, Arnold,” said Roland, his tone belabored, “we’re ready the next course.”
As if Roland had flipped the switch on his musculature Mr. Cavenstein immediately became free and darted into the kitchen. As Arnold hastily lifted the thirteenth course from the oven he considered the likelihood of his survival from the fateful dinner party. He dreamed of a daring escape out the kitchen window. Dodging bullets as he swung down the rusty and ill-kept fire escape. His sprint down the street away from all the nastiness he had been forced to endure. Spending his days somewhere else, somewhere sunny.
Chairs creaked in the dining room as Arnold put the dinner plates on a large silver serving platter.
“Ah, well,” he thought as he barreled through the door, “I’m a horrible sprinter anyway.”
The dining party had nearly reached their thirteenth course and, outside of the expected services, they had only required one bottle of wine and one extraneous use of the telephone.
Mr. Cavenstein walked over to the stove to check the filet mignon which would be their thirteenth course. It was broiling nicely inside the oven and as he could do nothing but wait for it he decided to move to the dining room and ask his guests if they were in want of anything. He took a moment to check himself in the mirror, straightening his hair and shirt before walking through the door.
As he entered the room he noticed that only three of the four attendants were seated at the table. The large, tan man known only to him as Simon had disappeared. His mind raced wildly for the answer to this situation as he masked his inner thoughts, calmly walking towards the table.
“Is everything to your liking?” whispered Mr. Cavenstein.
“Shh,” hissed Roland waving his hand in Mr. Cavenstein’s direction.
All of the muscles in Arnold’s body tensed as he waited. Thoughts began to cycle through his mind in quick succession. Where had the tan fellow gone? Had he become impatient with the service or had he been ‘taken care of’ as Roland had warned of earlier in the evening?
“Roland,” said Mrs. J, “this is ridiculous. I can’t hear anything and I can guarantee there is no one on the other side of that door. You’re just being paranoid.”
Suddenly Simon rounded the corner, bounding into the room from his mysterious location. He eyed Mr. Cavenstein suspiciously as he walked back to his seat.
“You know,” he said coldly, “your restroom is a bit small. You might consider pushing one of the walls out or perhaps a complete renovation. Just a thought.”
Mr. Cavenstein nodded and thanked his guest for the suggestion.
“Arnold,” said Roland as he took a napkin from his lap, “could you clear the table for our next course? We won’t be much longer.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Cavenstein as he darted towards the rolling cart in the corner of the room. He wheeled the silver cart towards the table and began to clear off the vestiges of the previous meals.
“So, Roland,” queried Simon, “you’ve sent Jehovah after the dreamer and that’s that?”
Roland nodded and reached for his glass of wine.
“But what if there’s more? He managed to find his way this far. What’s to say he won’t escape the city as well?”
The old man sitting at the other side of the table coughed which appeared to be a sign as it drew the attention of the remainder of the party.
“Because,” croaked Victor, “he’s not built for it.”
*~~*
Thirty years earlier…
Three doctors and a man in a gray suit stand in a room lit by very bright fluorescent lights. The room is a bright white with several metal apparatuses on the counter that have the look of medical design and function. Three doctors stand in a huddled mess in the corner of the room with a look of prolonged distress. The man in the gray suit appears relaxed, standing away from the three doctors, smoking a cigarette.
“So,” asks the smoking man, “why was I called here? I’m terribly busy what with the recent flip-flop of Perceptionist leaders.”
“You know, Victor,” says one of the doctors wiping the sweat from his brow, “that habit will take years off your life.”
Victor grins and blows a puff of smoke at the circle of doctors.
“There are no guarantees anymore, doctor. Global warming was supposed to wipe us out, but it didn’t. People die every day who never touched a cigarette and you know what?”
Victor looks at the cigarette as he flicks an ash on the floor.
“This makes me feel better. So, how about you tell me why I’m here.”
The doctors glare at the smoking man. One of them steps forward.
“You were referred specifically by the top to deal with this. There was a boy born here a few days ago that was having very poor reactions to the night hibernations. He shakes. His situation was reported and we were instructed to withhold the medication. The tremors increased. They happen every night.”
The doctor shakes his head.
“It’s something I’ve never seen before. We were told to let you ‘deal with it’.”
Victor chuckles and walks towards the doctors. As he reaches them he takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows the cloud of smoke up into the air.
“Case in point, gents. No guarantees anymore.”
*~~*
“The dreamer was never intended to leave the farm. He doesn’t have the capacity for travel.”
“Well,” said Simon, “it looks as if his ‘capacity’ is rising.”
“This is a moot point,” said Roland briskly, “regardless of his resourcefulness he’ll be recaptured within the next few hours. Jehovah has never failed us.”
Mrs. J sneered from her end of the table.
“You men have too much confidence in one another. I prefer to deal in the philosophy of random chance.”
Mrs. J rose from her chair and drew a small handgun from her handbag. Mr. Cavenstein’s eyes grew as large as saucers as she walked over to the door leading out of the apartment and swiftly opened it. She stuck her head out and looked both directions.
“You see, Roland, there is no one out here. Nobody knows we’re here.”
She walked back to the table and placed the gun back into her purse. Mr. Cavenstein stood frozen in place. The very real possibility of his own death had just occurred to him upon sighting the gun Mrs. J had in her possession. Seeing that these were a group of people who placed a very high value on secrecy he knew his ears had heard too much. His mind urged him to go back to the kitchen, but his legs refused to budge.
“Alright, Arnold,” said Roland, his tone belabored, “we’re ready the next course.”
As if Roland had flipped the switch on his musculature Mr. Cavenstein immediately became free and darted into the kitchen. As Arnold hastily lifted the thirteenth course from the oven he considered the likelihood of his survival from the fateful dinner party. He dreamed of a daring escape out the kitchen window. Dodging bullets as he swung down the rusty and ill-kept fire escape. His sprint down the street away from all the nastiness he had been forced to endure. Spending his days somewhere else, somewhere sunny.
Chairs creaked in the dining room as Arnold put the dinner plates on a large silver serving platter.
“Ah, well,” he thought as he barreled through the door, “I’m a horrible sprinter anyway.”
Monday, June 11, 2007
Chapter 31
“It’s a straight shot out of the city,” said Edward up to Witticker as both climbed down a slick metal ladder originating from the street top in front of Edward’s building.
“What we do once we get out of the city, however, is still up in the air.”
Witticker was descending the ladder slowly due to the recently acquired leather satchel Edward had lent him. They had both decided that Witticker’s briefcase, while being both sturdy and lockable, communicated to the general public that there was something inside worth stealing. He found the satchel much lighter and easier to travel with, but was, in his current environ, experiencing minor trouble with it. As he eased down the narrow crawl space it seemed to snag every loose nail and stray bar in its path making it more of a nuisance than he had imagined.
“Watch out for the last drop,” echoed Edward’s voice from below.
Witticker felt for the next step with his foot only to find that there was little there to feel for. He hesitantly peered down and was surprised to see nothing, no walls, no floor, no Edward, jus black emptiness in the corridor below.
“How much of a drop are we talking about Edward?”
“It should be fine,” answered Edward, “I survived.”
Witticker climbed down further until he was dangling precariously by a forearm grip from the bar. He swung his legs in the air for a moment, pleased that they still both worked and hoping that they would continue to do so in the near future. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let go.
The drop seemed endless as he fell silently through the air. Wind rushed around him and a smell of chalky dust filled his senses. Without a warning the ground appeared and he came to an abrupt stop, rolling back from the blow. Dust billowed out from under his body as he rose from the ground.
“So, where are we?” growled Witticker.
Edward walked towards him, illuminated by the light of the white box he held in his hands.
“We are in a place that has long been forgotten by time.”
Witticker chuckled.
“That was very mystic. Where are we?”
Edward grinned.
“Indeed. This is one of the last remaining tunnels from the transportation system used by the old city dwellers. All of these tunnels were destroyed around the time of the Great Decline. I’ve spent a lot of time down here clearing a way out. Just in case I ever needed a way to leave quickly and quietly. Here, hold this,” said Edward, tossing the white box to Witticker.
Witticker looked into the white box’s screen as Edward lit a cigarette. The screen contained a map of the tunnel in which they were walking overlaid with a dim sketch of the city block above. Witticker followed the path of the tunnel with his finger until it reached the edge of the screen.
“Hey, how do I see the rest of the map?” hooted Witticker as Edward jogged ahead in the rubble.
Edward laughed and pointed his finger in the air.
“Use this. Just drag the map across the screen. It’s all touch-based. Treat it like a real thing and it becomes real. That is Perceptionism.”
Edward, obviously pleased with his own joke, snickered and blew a puff of smoke out in fuzzy rings. Witticker, oblivious to any joke, pressed his finger against the screen and moved it slightly. The map shifted quickly, appearing to follow even his slightest movement.
“Fascinating,” said Witticker as he continued to move the map around with his index finger.
“You think that’s neat,” said Witticker out of the corner of his mouth, “try this out.”
Edward walked over to him and took the white box in his hands. He tapped at the screen a few times and, as if they had suddenly been joined by a host of performers, a busy sound filled the air.
*~~*
At first there’s a busy piano with a light drum.
A trumpet, spitting out sound in spurts.
Drums chime in quick.
Sharp repeated taps.
Saying, “Listen Up!”
An alto saxophone jumps in with another line to counter the horn.
Pushing things forward.
Then they all move together.
First up.
Then down.
Then keeping it together for just one cat.
Sitting on top of a complex foundation.
Composition in the midst of performance.
Waterfalls of notes pouring into the air.
All affected.
All considered.
By what has gone before.
And what is just around the corner.
*~~*
“What is that?” asked Witticker, thoroughly affected by the sounds bouncing around the thin dark tunnel.
“That,” answered Edward as he tossed the white box back to his compatriot, “is Jazz. This one’s called ‘Parisian Thoroughfare’. Keep it on for a while. We’ll listen to more while we go.”
Edward turned around and started walking down the dark corridor. Witticker tossed the satchel over his shoulder and ran down the track after him. The rattle and bang of the music filled the ancient acoustic as the two wanted men walked out of the city in the dark.
“What we do once we get out of the city, however, is still up in the air.”
Witticker was descending the ladder slowly due to the recently acquired leather satchel Edward had lent him. They had both decided that Witticker’s briefcase, while being both sturdy and lockable, communicated to the general public that there was something inside worth stealing. He found the satchel much lighter and easier to travel with, but was, in his current environ, experiencing minor trouble with it. As he eased down the narrow crawl space it seemed to snag every loose nail and stray bar in its path making it more of a nuisance than he had imagined.
“Watch out for the last drop,” echoed Edward’s voice from below.
Witticker felt for the next step with his foot only to find that there was little there to feel for. He hesitantly peered down and was surprised to see nothing, no walls, no floor, no Edward, jus black emptiness in the corridor below.
“How much of a drop are we talking about Edward?”
“It should be fine,” answered Edward, “I survived.”
Witticker climbed down further until he was dangling precariously by a forearm grip from the bar. He swung his legs in the air for a moment, pleased that they still both worked and hoping that they would continue to do so in the near future. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let go.
The drop seemed endless as he fell silently through the air. Wind rushed around him and a smell of chalky dust filled his senses. Without a warning the ground appeared and he came to an abrupt stop, rolling back from the blow. Dust billowed out from under his body as he rose from the ground.
“So, where are we?” growled Witticker.
Edward walked towards him, illuminated by the light of the white box he held in his hands.
“We are in a place that has long been forgotten by time.”
Witticker chuckled.
“That was very mystic. Where are we?”
Edward grinned.
“Indeed. This is one of the last remaining tunnels from the transportation system used by the old city dwellers. All of these tunnels were destroyed around the time of the Great Decline. I’ve spent a lot of time down here clearing a way out. Just in case I ever needed a way to leave quickly and quietly. Here, hold this,” said Edward, tossing the white box to Witticker.
Witticker looked into the white box’s screen as Edward lit a cigarette. The screen contained a map of the tunnel in which they were walking overlaid with a dim sketch of the city block above. Witticker followed the path of the tunnel with his finger until it reached the edge of the screen.
“Hey, how do I see the rest of the map?” hooted Witticker as Edward jogged ahead in the rubble.
Edward laughed and pointed his finger in the air.
“Use this. Just drag the map across the screen. It’s all touch-based. Treat it like a real thing and it becomes real. That is Perceptionism.”
Edward, obviously pleased with his own joke, snickered and blew a puff of smoke out in fuzzy rings. Witticker, oblivious to any joke, pressed his finger against the screen and moved it slightly. The map shifted quickly, appearing to follow even his slightest movement.
“Fascinating,” said Witticker as he continued to move the map around with his index finger.
“You think that’s neat,” said Witticker out of the corner of his mouth, “try this out.”
Edward walked over to him and took the white box in his hands. He tapped at the screen a few times and, as if they had suddenly been joined by a host of performers, a busy sound filled the air.
*~~*
At first there’s a busy piano with a light drum.
A trumpet, spitting out sound in spurts.
Drums chime in quick.
Sharp repeated taps.
Saying, “Listen Up!”
An alto saxophone jumps in with another line to counter the horn.
Pushing things forward.
Then they all move together.
First up.
Then down.
Then keeping it together for just one cat.
Sitting on top of a complex foundation.
Composition in the midst of performance.
Waterfalls of notes pouring into the air.
All affected.
All considered.
By what has gone before.
And what is just around the corner.
*~~*
“What is that?” asked Witticker, thoroughly affected by the sounds bouncing around the thin dark tunnel.
“That,” answered Edward as he tossed the white box back to his compatriot, “is Jazz. This one’s called ‘Parisian Thoroughfare’. Keep it on for a while. We’ll listen to more while we go.”
Edward turned around and started walking down the dark corridor. Witticker tossed the satchel over his shoulder and ran down the track after him. The rattle and bang of the music filled the ancient acoustic as the two wanted men walked out of the city in the dark.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Chapter 30
Carmine Followorth sat on a wooden rolling stool in a small room, surrounded by various mechanical devices collected over the span of many years of life. While some of these items retained small amounts of functional use the vast majority were beyond repair. Carmine thought himself a master mechanic and upon acquiring a new gadget would go to work bringing it back to life. However, he was easily distracted and would no sooner be in the middle of one job before starting another, thus explaining his vast collection of broken machinery.
The dusty mechanic sat amongst his broken children, surveying their various states and deciding which project to tackle next. He longed for the day when he would flip a switch in the small room and all the devices would jump into life; all springing, spinning, or percolating into action as they had originally been intended to. As he rolled himself towards what was once a very effective coffee-maker one of the machines from across the room lit up and began to emit a static-like hiss.
“Hey, Weeble. You there?” crackled an aged voice from the hissing machine.
*~~*
As a child Jean-Paul Pickering was constantly left out of the loop. He was born into the family business of espionage which was, while loving, also extremely secretive. Family dinners were conducted in silence and there was never any talk of what had happened at work that day. As Jean-Paul grew older he learned to treasure even the smallest bits of information he could glean from his parents, recognizing that any whispered word could be useful in the right context.
Due to this predisposition for recognizing and collecting any information out of the ordinary Jean-Paul fell into a job as a scanner; a dispatcher filtering through radio signals; listening to silence with the dim hope of overhearing something he was not meant to hear. In the midst of any military conflict he was hired out by an agency to work for the highest bidder which, coincidentally, tended to be the winning side. After a lifetime in this line of work he left to pursue what are generally considered to be the ‘golden years’.
However, he found he could not shut off the sifting ear which he had so finely tuned throughout his career. He found himself sitting in distrip yards, waiting rooms, train stations; listening to conversations around him, trying to decode idle chatter. After eliciting one-to-many awkward stares Jean-Paul decided a change would have to be made. He holed up in his apartment and began listening again. He didn’t know what he was listening for, he just felt drawn to it, like an addiction.
He began the listening on his home radio to which he had attached a large set of headphones so as not to miss even one whispered word. He sat at his desk with a legal pad of paper; flipping slowly through the radio signals; listening to the dead silence in anticipation of a information bombshell.
His first bit of interest came in the form of an old mechanic who had managed to repair a radio long enough to transmit a signal so weak that even Jean-Paul strained in hearing it. The following is a transcript of their first conversation:
?: …Hello…Hello?
Jean-Paul: Hello!
?: What? Hello?
Jean-Paul: This is Ponce de Leon, what is
your handle?
?: Handle?
Ponce de Leon: …What do you go by?
?: Oh, my name? My name is Carmine Follo…
Ponce de Leon: NO! I don’t want your real
name! That isn’t how this works. Your handle
is your radio name. My handle is Ponce de
Leon, but people just call me Leon. What is
your on-air name?
Carmine Follow: hmm…okay, you can call me
The Weeble.
Leon: Okay, Weeble. How long have you been on the air?
Weeble: Just today…oh wait…radio’s on fire.
Gotta go.
Since their first introduction Jean-Paul and Carmine had spoken several times through the radio channel and had formed a friendship based almost entirely on their mutual loneliness.
*~~*
Carmine leaned back against the wooden stool as he held a radio receiver in one hand, a screwdriver in the other, and a shiny metal box with two slots on the top in-between his legs.
“This is the weeble. How are ya Leon?”
“Something’s up!” creaked the voice over the radio, “I’ve been reading my notes for the last few weeks and I’ve found a connection. Remember that guy Edward I’ve been telling you about? The one that I’ve been hearing about all over the channels in the city?”
Carmine popped the top off the silver box and set it on the table in front of him. He glared into the burnt innards of the machine.
“Yeah, I remember. So what?”
“Turns out all the radio chatter about him is because everyone thought he was dead. A few nights ago he was seen in the Long Spoon distrip on the east side of Recon-Chicago. And not alone! Turns out he’s got an accomplice. Got away though.”
“Damn,” said Carmine as he picked thin black pieces of charcoal from the gut of the ancient device.
“That isn’t the half of it. Turns out this Edward was a top-ranking official in that last skirmish with the Golden Acolytes. They want him bad. They’re watching every exit in the city. Jehovah’s out too, but as far as I can tell it’s for something else. Either way, the Spoon’s on lock down. It’s about to get very crowded.”
Having dusted off the newly cleaned gadget, Carmine secured its ancient plug into the wall socket next to his workbench. It slowly began to turn a vibrant red and the small handle on the side shot up. The red faded. Carmine depressed the handle to its original position and the machine glowed red again.
“Leon, I have to go. I think I fixed something, but I’m not sure.”
“Fine, but keep an ear out. I heard this morning they have a bead on where Edward might be. From what I can tell they’re blasting through the inner city with a demolition crew.”
“Sure. Sounds good,” said Carmine as he poked at the red part of the machine. “Good luck with your listening.”
Carmine laid down the receiver and the radio went dead.
The dusty mechanic sat amongst his broken children, surveying their various states and deciding which project to tackle next. He longed for the day when he would flip a switch in the small room and all the devices would jump into life; all springing, spinning, or percolating into action as they had originally been intended to. As he rolled himself towards what was once a very effective coffee-maker one of the machines from across the room lit up and began to emit a static-like hiss.
“Hey, Weeble. You there?” crackled an aged voice from the hissing machine.
*~~*
As a child Jean-Paul Pickering was constantly left out of the loop. He was born into the family business of espionage which was, while loving, also extremely secretive. Family dinners were conducted in silence and there was never any talk of what had happened at work that day. As Jean-Paul grew older he learned to treasure even the smallest bits of information he could glean from his parents, recognizing that any whispered word could be useful in the right context.
Due to this predisposition for recognizing and collecting any information out of the ordinary Jean-Paul fell into a job as a scanner; a dispatcher filtering through radio signals; listening to silence with the dim hope of overhearing something he was not meant to hear. In the midst of any military conflict he was hired out by an agency to work for the highest bidder which, coincidentally, tended to be the winning side. After a lifetime in this line of work he left to pursue what are generally considered to be the ‘golden years’.
However, he found he could not shut off the sifting ear which he had so finely tuned throughout his career. He found himself sitting in distrip yards, waiting rooms, train stations; listening to conversations around him, trying to decode idle chatter. After eliciting one-to-many awkward stares Jean-Paul decided a change would have to be made. He holed up in his apartment and began listening again. He didn’t know what he was listening for, he just felt drawn to it, like an addiction.
He began the listening on his home radio to which he had attached a large set of headphones so as not to miss even one whispered word. He sat at his desk with a legal pad of paper; flipping slowly through the radio signals; listening to the dead silence in anticipation of a information bombshell.
His first bit of interest came in the form of an old mechanic who had managed to repair a radio long enough to transmit a signal so weak that even Jean-Paul strained in hearing it. The following is a transcript of their first conversation:
?: …Hello…Hello?
Jean-Paul: Hello!
?: What? Hello?
Jean-Paul: This is Ponce de Leon, what is
your handle?
?: Handle?
Ponce de Leon: …What do you go by?
?: Oh, my name? My name is Carmine Follo…
Ponce de Leon: NO! I don’t want your real
name! That isn’t how this works. Your handle
is your radio name. My handle is Ponce de
Leon, but people just call me Leon. What is
your on-air name?
Carmine Follow: hmm…okay, you can call me
The Weeble.
Leon: Okay, Weeble. How long have you been on the air?
Weeble: Just today…oh wait…radio’s on fire.
Gotta go.
Since their first introduction Jean-Paul and Carmine had spoken several times through the radio channel and had formed a friendship based almost entirely on their mutual loneliness.
*~~*
Carmine leaned back against the wooden stool as he held a radio receiver in one hand, a screwdriver in the other, and a shiny metal box with two slots on the top in-between his legs.
“This is the weeble. How are ya Leon?”
“Something’s up!” creaked the voice over the radio, “I’ve been reading my notes for the last few weeks and I’ve found a connection. Remember that guy Edward I’ve been telling you about? The one that I’ve been hearing about all over the channels in the city?”
Carmine popped the top off the silver box and set it on the table in front of him. He glared into the burnt innards of the machine.
“Yeah, I remember. So what?”
“Turns out all the radio chatter about him is because everyone thought he was dead. A few nights ago he was seen in the Long Spoon distrip on the east side of Recon-Chicago. And not alone! Turns out he’s got an accomplice. Got away though.”
“Damn,” said Carmine as he picked thin black pieces of charcoal from the gut of the ancient device.
“That isn’t the half of it. Turns out this Edward was a top-ranking official in that last skirmish with the Golden Acolytes. They want him bad. They’re watching every exit in the city. Jehovah’s out too, but as far as I can tell it’s for something else. Either way, the Spoon’s on lock down. It’s about to get very crowded.”
Having dusted off the newly cleaned gadget, Carmine secured its ancient plug into the wall socket next to his workbench. It slowly began to turn a vibrant red and the small handle on the side shot up. The red faded. Carmine depressed the handle to its original position and the machine glowed red again.
“Leon, I have to go. I think I fixed something, but I’m not sure.”
“Fine, but keep an ear out. I heard this morning they have a bead on where Edward might be. From what I can tell they’re blasting through the inner city with a demolition crew.”
“Sure. Sounds good,” said Carmine as he poked at the red part of the machine. “Good luck with your listening.”
Carmine laid down the receiver and the radio went dead.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Chapter 29
Dark figures…
…against the horizon…
…reaching out to threaten.
Click.
Witticker opened his eyes to the ceiling of Edward’s apartment. His back ached and his head rolled. He slowly rolled off the chair that he had slept on the night previously and rubbed at his back and still battle-weary shoulder. He glanced around the room only to find that the his vision still swam in a hazy swirl. He immediately retreated to the refuge of the floor which seemed to be his only source of solid comfort. So close to the ground, Witticker felt vibrations pounding through the floor; becoming progressively louder until, finally, their source appeared in the doorway in the form of Edward.
“Somebody fell into a bottle last night,” chuckled Edward as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.
Witticker blinked at him in rapid succession in an effort to communicate his vibrant earthly pain, but, without any response, pulled himself from the floor with an extended groan.
“Not so much fell as drowned,” grumbled Witticker.
Edward grabbed the remnants of the previous night’s libations and carried them out of the room.
“You ought to clean yourself up a bit before we leave,” yelled Edward from down the hallway. “There’s a cleanser down the hall to your left. Make sure to take off all your clothes though. It’s a bit old and tends to light fabric on fire.”
Witticker popped his head around the corner and noticed a metal door a short way down the hallway. As he walked closer to it he noticed a small plastic sign hanging on the handle of the door. It advertised the words “Check your Clothes at the Door” and featured a small figure of a man engulfed in flames. Witticker noticed a hook, presumably meant for his clothing, off to the side of the door. A small curtain hung on one side of the hallway and, upon further investigation, Witticker found that it extended the length of the hall. Having not bathed since the beginning of his trip he shed his resolve and, after removing his clothing, hopped into the metal container.
As the door clicked behind him a small light activated at the top of the closet-like room. He looked for the shower nozzle and hot and cold water toggles, but found only a small panel on the wall, falling at his midsection, that blinked whenever he moved. He bent over to look into the blinking panel, contorting himself awkwardly in the small closet. As he peered into the surface it lit up with three options, ‘moderate’, ‘deep cleanse’, and ‘manual’. Witticker knew better than to trust himself operating whatever might come out to clean him, thus ruling out any ‘manual’ option. Left with only two options Witticker conducted a brief self-examination and upon concluding that he was rather filthy resolved that a ‘deep cleanse’ was necessary. As he pressed the button the panel went dark and the room began to hum quietly. Witticker stood clenched in fear, frozen like a rabbit in an open field; being both safe and exposed at the same time.
Suddenly a sharp blast of pressure hit him from the left.
Then the right.
Then in every direction all at once.
The pressure was not so strong as to push him in any one direction, but instead gusted at him like a stationary fan. Witticker breathed a sigh of relief as the gusts of air gently pressed at his body. Suddenly there was a prolonged beep from the panel. Witticker turned leisurely to see it blinking red, highlighting the words ‘HOLD ON’.
*~~*
Edward stood in his kitchen running the glasses of the previous night under the faucet. Immediately visible outside the window, adjacent to the sink, was a large tub that collected rainwater. Edward stared at the surface of the water in the tub, sparkling and bubbling in the sun, when a prolonged scream came from the cleanser down the hall. He ran to the hall to see the cleanser door flung open and a naked Witticker hanging on the curtain, gasping for breath.
“Everything okay?” asked Edward.
Witticker glared at Edward.
“Hold on! It said ‘hold on’ and then shot me around that closet like a ragdoll.”
Edward’s eyes suddenly widened and he hopped over Witticker into the cleanser.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’d been meaning to get that fixed, but things have been a little busier than normal. There are usually two handles hanging from the ceiling, but I removed them for an experiment I had in…”
Edward stopped short realizing that Witticker was in no mood to hear about his project and had, in fact, stopped listening.
“What exactly is this cleanser? Where I come from we clean with water and soap. Did I miss a step somewhere?”
“Yes,” answered Edward matter-of-factly, “during the Great Decline there were several instances of water contamination and the use of large scale water reservoirs was abandoned. When the relief centers were established the government introduced sonic wave cleansing as a new means of mass hygiene. It provided the utility to clean large amounts of people quickly ensuring that disease wouldn’t break out and eliminate an entire center. Savvy manufacturers still able to produce any kind of hardware started to build the cleansers into shower stalls, but found that without a metal container the waves could burst into a person’s home and set any fabric on fire due to a reaction known as the Priley effect. Usually the waves aren’t that raucous, but you must have asked for a deep cleanse. Do you feel any better?”
Witticker rubbed at his arms and to his surprise they felt much softer than they had before; not only clean, but moisturized.
“Yeah, I guess I’m better,” said Witticker as he reached for his tattered blue shirt. Edward watched him pull the beaten cloth over his head.
“Do you have some connection with this clothing that I should know about?” queried Edward, “because these rags are going to attract a lot more attention than either of us need.”
“Well,” said Witticker blankly, “these are all I have. I hadn’t banked being on the run so…”
Edward nodded his head in understanding, clicked his fingers in the air, and turned to walk in the other direction.
“Come with me. It’s time to suit you up.”
*~~*
Five minutes later Witticker stood standing in a gray plastic-like jumpsuit in the middle of Edward’s living room.
“So you see,” said Edward as he lit a cigarette in the corner of the room, “the need for more than one set of clothing is no longer necessary. This material, flexomat, was developed to respond to the electromagnetic signals of a device known as a sur…”
“Surface pen,” said Witticker in a regretful monotone drawl, “I know about those. I have one in my briefcase.”
Witticker pointed to his open briefcase in the next room.
“Oh, good,” said Edward as he walked towards the container, “You usually have to key a surface pen to someone’s DNA, but it looks as if that’s one more thing your benefactor took care of for you.”
Edward clicked the end of the pen three times and the tiny gadget began to hum. He handed the pen to Witticker who took it hesitantly, holding it away from himself as if it were on fire.
“Now,” started Edward, “just imagine what you want the material to shift to and the pen will read the transmission from your head and transmit that idea, by touch, to the material. In other words, imagine what you want to wear and it the suit will shift to match.”
Witticker closed his eyes and imagined the outfit he wore when he left the farmhouse. Slowly, he brought the pen closer, lightly tapping it on his left shoulder. He opened his eyes and was amazed to see an exact reproduction of the outfit he had just left behind near the cleanser, devoid of the wear and tear it had previously suffered.
“Not bad,” said Edward skeptically, “but you might want to choose something a little more contemporary.”
Witticker shook his head at Edward communicating a lack of an appropriate model.
“Here,” said Edward as he reached into the bookshelf and brought out the white box, “like this.”
Edward moved his fingers quickly across the screen and a picture appeared of a man dressed in a black suit with a bright blue collared shirt underneath.
Witticker winced disapprovingly at Edward.
Edward moved his fingers again and pointed to another picture on the screen of a man with brown painter’s pants and a white button-front held together with a black belt.
Witticker, weary of his decision, closed his eyes and clicked the pen.
One.
Two.
Three.
…against the horizon…
…reaching out to threaten.
Click.
Witticker opened his eyes to the ceiling of Edward’s apartment. His back ached and his head rolled. He slowly rolled off the chair that he had slept on the night previously and rubbed at his back and still battle-weary shoulder. He glanced around the room only to find that the his vision still swam in a hazy swirl. He immediately retreated to the refuge of the floor which seemed to be his only source of solid comfort. So close to the ground, Witticker felt vibrations pounding through the floor; becoming progressively louder until, finally, their source appeared in the doorway in the form of Edward.
“Somebody fell into a bottle last night,” chuckled Edward as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.
Witticker blinked at him in rapid succession in an effort to communicate his vibrant earthly pain, but, without any response, pulled himself from the floor with an extended groan.
“Not so much fell as drowned,” grumbled Witticker.
Edward grabbed the remnants of the previous night’s libations and carried them out of the room.
“You ought to clean yourself up a bit before we leave,” yelled Edward from down the hallway. “There’s a cleanser down the hall to your left. Make sure to take off all your clothes though. It’s a bit old and tends to light fabric on fire.”
Witticker popped his head around the corner and noticed a metal door a short way down the hallway. As he walked closer to it he noticed a small plastic sign hanging on the handle of the door. It advertised the words “Check your Clothes at the Door” and featured a small figure of a man engulfed in flames. Witticker noticed a hook, presumably meant for his clothing, off to the side of the door. A small curtain hung on one side of the hallway and, upon further investigation, Witticker found that it extended the length of the hall. Having not bathed since the beginning of his trip he shed his resolve and, after removing his clothing, hopped into the metal container.
As the door clicked behind him a small light activated at the top of the closet-like room. He looked for the shower nozzle and hot and cold water toggles, but found only a small panel on the wall, falling at his midsection, that blinked whenever he moved. He bent over to look into the blinking panel, contorting himself awkwardly in the small closet. As he peered into the surface it lit up with three options, ‘moderate’, ‘deep cleanse’, and ‘manual’. Witticker knew better than to trust himself operating whatever might come out to clean him, thus ruling out any ‘manual’ option. Left with only two options Witticker conducted a brief self-examination and upon concluding that he was rather filthy resolved that a ‘deep cleanse’ was necessary. As he pressed the button the panel went dark and the room began to hum quietly. Witticker stood clenched in fear, frozen like a rabbit in an open field; being both safe and exposed at the same time.
Suddenly a sharp blast of pressure hit him from the left.
Then the right.
Then in every direction all at once.
The pressure was not so strong as to push him in any one direction, but instead gusted at him like a stationary fan. Witticker breathed a sigh of relief as the gusts of air gently pressed at his body. Suddenly there was a prolonged beep from the panel. Witticker turned leisurely to see it blinking red, highlighting the words ‘HOLD ON’.
*~~*
Edward stood in his kitchen running the glasses of the previous night under the faucet. Immediately visible outside the window, adjacent to the sink, was a large tub that collected rainwater. Edward stared at the surface of the water in the tub, sparkling and bubbling in the sun, when a prolonged scream came from the cleanser down the hall. He ran to the hall to see the cleanser door flung open and a naked Witticker hanging on the curtain, gasping for breath.
“Everything okay?” asked Edward.
Witticker glared at Edward.
“Hold on! It said ‘hold on’ and then shot me around that closet like a ragdoll.”
Edward’s eyes suddenly widened and he hopped over Witticker into the cleanser.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’d been meaning to get that fixed, but things have been a little busier than normal. There are usually two handles hanging from the ceiling, but I removed them for an experiment I had in…”
Edward stopped short realizing that Witticker was in no mood to hear about his project and had, in fact, stopped listening.
“What exactly is this cleanser? Where I come from we clean with water and soap. Did I miss a step somewhere?”
“Yes,” answered Edward matter-of-factly, “during the Great Decline there were several instances of water contamination and the use of large scale water reservoirs was abandoned. When the relief centers were established the government introduced sonic wave cleansing as a new means of mass hygiene. It provided the utility to clean large amounts of people quickly ensuring that disease wouldn’t break out and eliminate an entire center. Savvy manufacturers still able to produce any kind of hardware started to build the cleansers into shower stalls, but found that without a metal container the waves could burst into a person’s home and set any fabric on fire due to a reaction known as the Priley effect. Usually the waves aren’t that raucous, but you must have asked for a deep cleanse. Do you feel any better?”
Witticker rubbed at his arms and to his surprise they felt much softer than they had before; not only clean, but moisturized.
“Yeah, I guess I’m better,” said Witticker as he reached for his tattered blue shirt. Edward watched him pull the beaten cloth over his head.
“Do you have some connection with this clothing that I should know about?” queried Edward, “because these rags are going to attract a lot more attention than either of us need.”
“Well,” said Witticker blankly, “these are all I have. I hadn’t banked being on the run so…”
Edward nodded his head in understanding, clicked his fingers in the air, and turned to walk in the other direction.
“Come with me. It’s time to suit you up.”
*~~*
Five minutes later Witticker stood standing in a gray plastic-like jumpsuit in the middle of Edward’s living room.
“So you see,” said Edward as he lit a cigarette in the corner of the room, “the need for more than one set of clothing is no longer necessary. This material, flexomat, was developed to respond to the electromagnetic signals of a device known as a sur…”
“Surface pen,” said Witticker in a regretful monotone drawl, “I know about those. I have one in my briefcase.”
Witticker pointed to his open briefcase in the next room.
“Oh, good,” said Edward as he walked towards the container, “You usually have to key a surface pen to someone’s DNA, but it looks as if that’s one more thing your benefactor took care of for you.”
Edward clicked the end of the pen three times and the tiny gadget began to hum. He handed the pen to Witticker who took it hesitantly, holding it away from himself as if it were on fire.
“Now,” started Edward, “just imagine what you want the material to shift to and the pen will read the transmission from your head and transmit that idea, by touch, to the material. In other words, imagine what you want to wear and it the suit will shift to match.”
Witticker closed his eyes and imagined the outfit he wore when he left the farmhouse. Slowly, he brought the pen closer, lightly tapping it on his left shoulder. He opened his eyes and was amazed to see an exact reproduction of the outfit he had just left behind near the cleanser, devoid of the wear and tear it had previously suffered.
“Not bad,” said Edward skeptically, “but you might want to choose something a little more contemporary.”
Witticker shook his head at Edward communicating a lack of an appropriate model.
“Here,” said Edward as he reached into the bookshelf and brought out the white box, “like this.”
Edward moved his fingers quickly across the screen and a picture appeared of a man dressed in a black suit with a bright blue collared shirt underneath.
Witticker winced disapprovingly at Edward.
Edward moved his fingers again and pointed to another picture on the screen of a man with brown painter’s pants and a white button-front held together with a black belt.
Witticker, weary of his decision, closed his eyes and clicked the pen.
One.
Two.
Three.
Chapter 28
Edward and Witticker sat across from each other over a table in one of the many rooms in Edward’s apartment. A small candle sat in the middle of the table throwing enough light to illuminate a bottle of rum and a few tumblers carrying the remnants of ice cubes just nearly melted away. Sitting next to the tumblers laid the H-card and its corresponding journal from Witticker’s briefcase. The journal lay open, having been perused only moments before by Edward in search of any information as to Witticker’s identity. Edward now sat back in his chair; staring into the white box. Witticker had given him permission to scan the small device after the search of the journal proved fruitless. Edward moved his fingers quickly across the face of the box only hesitating when the box would beep in a harsher tone than usual.
“Nothing,” muttered Edward, “not a damn thing.”
Witticker yawned in the chair opposite to Edward, his head weaving and bobbing in the air. This had been, unbeknownst to Edward, Witticker’s first round of drinks ever and he was not entirely prepared for the effects the drinks were taking on him. The room refused to remain consistent, constantly shifting a half-an-inch in every direction. Witticker closed his eyes only to find that shifting continued in the darkness under his eyelids. He immediately opened his eyes again to see Edward eyeing him quizzically.
“You all right?”
“I’m…fine,” grumbled Witticker, furrowing his brow.
“Well,” shrugged Edward, “it seems that there is no record of you in this thing at all. Only some music and documents with nothing but poems and short stories inside. You might want to try sometime though. Some of these things only respond with voice recognition.”
Edward tossed the white box onto the table with a thud. The glasses shook and Witticker stirred from his swirling world.
“However, if I’m reading this right, and I like to think that I am, you may want to consider being Brisby Jacobs.”
Witticker cocked his head to the side and grunted an inquisitive ‘uh’. Edward reached for the H-card journal and flipped through the pages.
“This guy has a fairly impressive resume.’
Witticker chuckled.
“While there might not be any information on you here I bet I know where we can go to find out. I need to get out of this place anyway. Too nasty anymore and there is so much…”
Witticker lost track of Edward’s voice in the swirl of clouds forming in and around his mind. He slowly began to lean back, the sound of Edward’s voice fading in the distance. His leaning back had suddenly turned into a different sensation. The structure of the chair gradually disappeared until he felt as if he were flying. His body was free as his mind arched and sprung towards different ideas.
Situations.
Faces.
People.
Suddenly everything hit a wall. The room stopped shifting. Witticker smiled. Everything went black.
Black.
“Nothing,” muttered Edward, “not a damn thing.”
Witticker yawned in the chair opposite to Edward, his head weaving and bobbing in the air. This had been, unbeknownst to Edward, Witticker’s first round of drinks ever and he was not entirely prepared for the effects the drinks were taking on him. The room refused to remain consistent, constantly shifting a half-an-inch in every direction. Witticker closed his eyes only to find that shifting continued in the darkness under his eyelids. He immediately opened his eyes again to see Edward eyeing him quizzically.
“You all right?”
“I’m…fine,” grumbled Witticker, furrowing his brow.
“Well,” shrugged Edward, “it seems that there is no record of you in this thing at all. Only some music and documents with nothing but poems and short stories inside. You might want to try sometime though. Some of these things only respond with voice recognition.”
Edward tossed the white box onto the table with a thud. The glasses shook and Witticker stirred from his swirling world.
“However, if I’m reading this right, and I like to think that I am, you may want to consider being Brisby Jacobs.”
Witticker cocked his head to the side and grunted an inquisitive ‘uh’. Edward reached for the H-card journal and flipped through the pages.
“This guy has a fairly impressive resume.’
Witticker chuckled.
“While there might not be any information on you here I bet I know where we can go to find out. I need to get out of this place anyway. Too nasty anymore and there is so much…”
Witticker lost track of Edward’s voice in the swirl of clouds forming in and around his mind. He slowly began to lean back, the sound of Edward’s voice fading in the distance. His leaning back had suddenly turned into a different sensation. The structure of the chair gradually disappeared until he felt as if he were flying. His body was free as his mind arched and sprung towards different ideas.
Situations.
Faces.
People.
Suddenly everything hit a wall. The room stopped shifting. Witticker smiled. Everything went black.
Black.
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