Dear Bulent,
Thank you very much for letting us see "Life on Mars." We appreciate your taking the time to send it in for our consideration. Although it does not suit the needs of the magazine at this time, we wish you luck with placing it elsewhere.
Please excuse this form letter. The volume of work has unfortunately made it impossible for us to respond to each submission individually, much as we’d like to do so.
Sincerely,
Sheila Williams, Editor
Asimov’s Science Fiction
www.asimovs.com
[Author's note: Asimov's is arguably the best sci-fi magazine in existence so you'll excuse me if I keep trying all my material with them first. Buy a copy, worth more than your average trade paperback these days.]
ONE HUNDRED REJECTIONS
A fiction blog recording my rejections from publishers.
Where I collect rejections from publishers and the stories they rejected
In order to succeed, I must be prepared to fail as often as necessary to achieve success. Here, I aim to publish 100 rejections from publishers in the order I receive them together with the stories that were rejected.
To be good at one's vocation, one must simply avoid being bad.
To be great, one must purposely aim for awful.
Get up once more than you fall.
To be good at one's vocation, one must simply avoid being bad.
To be great, one must purposely aim for awful.
Get up once more than you fall.
Put your ideas into action.
This is near to a way.
Saturday 4 February 2012
Saturday 31 December 2011
SUBMISSION 007 LIFE ON MARS
SUNDAY
Gus sat at the bar and nursed his drink, a
cheap local whiskey too cheap to be spelled properly. A ton of ice made it last
but did nothing for the taste.
Holt greeted Gus by punching him in the
kidney.
"Gus,"
Gus grunted then slowly turned around, Holt
extended his hand and Gus took it. Holt's palms were still moist from the
toilet. Holt took the barstool next to Gus and pretended to examine the bottles
on offer. When the bartender looked up he ordered what he always ordered.
Aurorae Sinus No.8 Whisky.
Gus kept drinking until he decided he'd had
enough of Holt. When Holt took his next bathroom break, Gus paid up with the
bartender using small bills and broke for the door.
Outside, the weather was turning mean and
Gus clutched his jacket to his chest. It was already too cold for a jacket but
it was all he had until he got his coat back from the dry cleaners. Holt had
been a better friend back when Gus hadn't noticed that Holt was a drunk. If Gus
didn't watch himself, he'd end up like Holt. Gus didn't think in terms of
alcoholics, he thought in terms of drunks. Drunks blamed themselves, he
reasoned. Alcoholics blamed society. Gus decided this made drunks better than
alcoholics.
Home was a bachelor flat at the edge of the
right side of the city. At his age, with his means, it was mostly decent. He
started feeling sad about leaving Holt once he'd ditched his useless jacket on
the floor of his flat and poured himself a shot of 56% Pervatsch Vodka imported
from Valles Marineris. His only friend in the world and he'd left him alone. If
he was going to drink anyway he might as well drink with Holt. He took out his
phone to call him and saw he had a message.
"You arrogant prick! Are you coming
back?" wrote Holt.
"How about never, does that
work?" said Gus to himself.
After a few more shots of Pervatsch, he
felt sad again and decided to go back for Holt. He texted him to say Holt was
an asshole and that he was coming back for him.
When he'd got there, Holt had already made
a stink of himself. He had splurged on a whole bottle of vodka on ice. Something
the bartender let him get away with on the theory it would quiet him down.
When Gus came over, Holt was all smiles.
"Gus! Buddy, you came back."
"Yeah."
"Let's have another," said Holt,
all misdeeds overwritten.
"Let's finish up at my place," lied
Gus, anxious to get Holt out of there before they were thrown out. Despite the
dubious kindness of the bartender, Holt was starting to act up. Gus knew Holt
was only a quiet drunk for so long. In company, the meanness came up faster
every time. The bouncer was eyeing them and Gus waved the bartender over. Gus
reached into the coat pocket of an unresisting Holt and took out Holt's
billfold. Settled up. Gus was really in it now, if he couldn't get Holt out in
the next few minutes, Holt would have to be carried out. Gus wouldn't manage
it.
The promise of imported over-proof vodka
back at his place became the carrot. Gus and the bouncer under Holt's arms
became the stick. Outside, the bouncer let go and Gus couldn't manage on his
own. Holt slid very slowly to the pavement and lay there impervious and
oblivious. Gus hailed cab after cab and finally one took pity on him and
stopped. Making his apologies to the driver, Gus inserted Holt head first into
the passenger seat and shoved himself in afterwards. Gave his address to the
driver.
It was only when they were in the cab that
Gus realised he could have just called for one. Drunk logic working in full
reverse.
The taxi got them back to Gus' place.
Things seemed manageable for awhile as they were getting out. Gus paid the
driver from the billfold he had pocketed from Holt, who was in no state to be
carrying cash but then Gus thought the end had come for both of them because,
just as they left the taxi, Holt lunged at some pedestrians. A young couple.
The girl was frightened but, Gus noticed, so was the boy. The boy backed off
and reached for his phone to call, Gus assumed, the cops.
"No, please, he's harmless," lied
Gus "he's just had too much to drink, we'll be out of your life
momentarily."
When the threat had been neutralised, the
boy found his courage.
"Better get that fat fuckwad out of
here before I kick his ass."
Gus nodded. Making peaceful waving gestures
with his hands up, palms facing forward.
Upstairs, Holt didn't bother with coat and
shoes, he just made for the kitchen and took a long swig from the bottle of
vodka he saw on the table. Gus didn't stop him, Gus had the habit of hiding his
stash. He hoped that lone bottle would be enough and Holt would pass out soon.
Drinking with Holt wasn't fun anymore. Holt started singing and Gus couldn't
hush him without giving him more vodka so he fished another bottle out from the
space between the fridge and the wall and handed it to Holt. Gus didn't want
the neighbours to call the police again. It didn't take more than 20 minutes of
belting that second bottle for Holt to simmer down. He sat on a chair in the
kitchen for about a second then slid to the floor, became fully horizontal and
then passed out. Gus didn't bother trying to get him to the couch.
Sometime around 4 in the morning, he heard
Holt get up. Gus got off the couch and went to the kitchen. He turned on the
lights. Holt was trying to take off his pants.
"Ah shit," said Gus. He helped
the sleepwalking Holt to the toilet and left him there. Went back to the couch.
Holt could stay on the crapper till morning as far as Gus cared.
Gus felt alright despite the hour, he
hadn't had a drink since leaving his flat to go meet Holt. He relaxed into the
couch cushions. Let sweet oblivion wrap him in her forgiving arms.
Monday
Fuck! Holt screamed. Gus jolted into light
and wakefulness, the afternoon sun razoring through Gus' windows told him he'd
missed work again and would have to call in sick, he might even now be
unemployed, but he doubted it, there were no messages. Holt stumbled into the
living room wearing a shirt, jacket, boots and no pants.
"I've been robbed! Chrissake!"
Holt continued yelling. Gus looked at the empty billfold Holt was waving in one
hand.
"Yeah, and you own me for drinks and
the cab last night," said Gus.
"Ah shit man, I'm good for it, you
know I am," said Holt, a whining puppy you couldn't kick.
Looking into Holt's shattered face,
bloodshot, rheumy, gin blossomed, Gus realised all Holt's friends had left him,
except for Gus himself, and Gus was useless.
Gus lent Holt some of Holt's own cash out
of Gus's wallet. Saw Holt to his pants and then to the door. From his window he
watched Holt get ignored by every taxi on the street. Eventually, Gus called a
cab for him, a cheap line. Warned them they'd be picking up a drunk. At least
he'd gotten Holt to put his pants back on before packing him off.
When the taxi had carried Holt away, Gus
took the remaining bills he'd taken off Holt and hid them under the cutlery
tray in the drawer. All hundreds, lined up nice and neat under the knives and
the forks. Then he called his boss, explained what had happened, paid careful
attention to the details so Holt would take the blame. His boss made him agree
to make up the hours next Friday night. Gus agreed and hung up. He got
restless, he took a hard look at his seedy kitchen as if for the first time. He
took out his remaining bottles from their various hiding places and poured most
of all of them down the sink without thinking about it. Leaving one shot in the
bottom of each. There was no hope for either of them, thought Gus, they were
useless. Gus started to clean up the kitchen but gave up after not even 8
minutes.
TUESDAY
Gus took a look at his watch. He'd just
been able to buy it back from the pawn shop before the deadline, he didn't know
why he'd bothered. It's not as though he need it to tell the time. Tuesday had
come round and again Gus was alone after work with nothing but a bottle to
greet him when he got home. He hadn't called Holt, who he knew would also be
spending Tuesday alone with a bottle. Gus had had enough, something had to
change. His kitchen was a mess. He looked for a bottle but didn't try too hard.
Maybe he should do something about the rest of the flat before he got raided by
the local cops for negligence of homeowners duties, one thing about the city,
he couldn't get how someone like him who lived a fairly slothful life was
allowed to get away with it while guys like Joe downstairs got raided.
On his way downstairs to find some cigarettes
he'd passed Joe's and heard the man talking to someone between crying fits. His
jar collection must have been seized. 'No hoarders' was the not-so-secret motto
of the city. You had to use it or it didn't stay yours. Gus figured, they might
extend that to his flat since he mistreated it so badly, just slept there and
made a mess. He figured they might even evict him someday. Gus tried
unsuccessful to reassure himself, He kept a job and he kept to himself and had
to slantwise hope that's why they left him in peace.
WEDNESDAY
Holt surveyed his space, some new kind of
architectural Speed buzzing in his brain. He had to be pleased with himself. He
had actually done it. He had cleaned his whole flat. He had stayed away from
the bottles and he hadn't called Gus who he had decided deserved to be alone
since he hadn't had the intelligence to call Holt. He had taken his free day
and spent it well. Maybe he would inform on Joe, that bastard should get
evicted if anyone should. Holt turned away from the windows and the grey misty
light outside, it never rained on Wednesday, so the song went. It was a song
about the city, where rain was a programmed event, not a random act of a cruel
and loving god.
He made another sweep with his broom and
then tied up all the garbage and carried it down the stairs to the bins. He
would not be stepping into Thursday with clutter or mess. He looked at the
stained walls and felt ashamed. Maybe he'd get started on painting before the
end of the week. He didn't know. He looked hard at himself and realised his
flat might be clean but he was still a mess. Gus may be rough but he was the
only friend Holt had. There had to be some way of getting him to clean up.
Speed wouldn't help, Gus never touched the stuff. Why had they ever become friends
in the first place? Holt knew why, it was the drink. The worst excuse for a
friendship he'd ever made. He felt like a cliché. He hoped Thursday would be a clean one, but he always said
so?
THURSDAY
Gus was still asleep when the smell hit his
nostrils. He opened his eyes but shut them again. Dust, vomit, something or
someone had left a big shit on the rug. His field of vision was narrow but he
saw Holt's boot peeking out from the kitchen floor. Toes pointing skyward. Let
him deal with the shit, thought Gus. Holt probably did it himself. Gus was sure
it wasn't him this time. His eyes slapped shut on grit.
Holt picked himself off the kitchen floor and
got the kettle going. He poured it full of brown tap water and while the
electric coils of the kettle boiled up the stuff, he scraped around under the
dishes piled in the sink until he found a mug clean enough he thought he could
wash it. There was no soap in the kitchen but Holt found shampoo and body gel
in the bathroom, he used the gel to wash the mug . When he got back to the
kitchen the water had boiled and he opened the instant coffee jar on the
counter. The stuff was caked and smelled sour. Holt fixed it. He took a knife
from the cutlery drawer and chiseled two tablespoon sized chunks into his mug and
then added about seven spoons-worth of sugar which was moist but somehow not
crusty like the coffee. He was about to take a sip when he stopped, looked
inside the cutlery drawer again. There, just peeking out from under the cutlery
tray, was a small neat pile of hundreds. Holt put down the mug, his fingers
trembled. He took a small plastic sleeve out of his pants pocket in a practiced
motion and took a snort of Olympus. Clarity shattered to the floor of his
skull. It was hard to hold onto things on the mornings after a bender. He
noticed he hadn't taken his eyes off the hundreds, thought about it once more
and then reached down with twitching fingers and peeled off the top few bills.
He took the undrunk mug into the living room where he found Gus half on, half
off, Gus' couch.
"Here, I made you coffee."
"Mnpf, great," said Gus from the
vantage of the floor. he rolled all the way onto the floor and then picked
himself up into a sitting position with his back against the seat cushions. He
took the proffered coffee and let his eyes rest again while he took a sip of
the sludge Holt had made.
"this tastes like shit," said Gus.
"Your couch looks like shit," said
Holt.
"You shit on the rug," said Gus.
"Don't drink it then," Holt walked
back to the kitchen, a marionette on taut strings, making a point to go round
the shit. Gus drank. When Holt wasn't looking he added some vodka from the
bottle he'd hidden last night behind the cushions. He could hear Holt in the
kitchen doing what sounded to Gus like cleaning. Gus didn't really want to get
started but if Holt could muster the end-game energy to do the kitchen after
last night then Gus could too. First, he'd have to cut 'em off at the pass: he
was still drunk enough not to feel the full force of his head splitting psycho
fucker migraine. But it was slowly coming, like an axe murderer with a spoon.
He went to his medicine cabinet which he kept in his bedroom closet and took
one tablet of Aspirin, it would kill his stomach but if he could keep it down,
he'd have another in an hour. He chased it with sludge and vodka then he went
to the kitchen and helped it along with some flat cola he'd left in the
bathroom the night before. It tasted vile. He refilled the can with tap water
from the sink and hoped for the best. Gus took a hard look at his bathroom,
dirt, grime, dust, stains, scale on the shower tiles that belonged on a
lizard's back, Rings of Saturn around the tub, the rusted drain an angry red
storm. There were piles of old musty clothes, no way to tell if clean or dying.
No, he couldn't start here. Gus listened to Holt cleaning away in the kitchen.
This wouldn't do. He stripped off his clothes and got into the ruined tub in
his socks. Later he'd dry them on the radiator so he'd have some dry socks that
had at least technically been washed recently. The trickle of water from the
limed up shower head alternately froze him and boiled him. He turned the tap
left and right to help this freezing and boiling along. His old roommate in
college had called it a 'Swedish Sauna.' Gus had no idea how Swedish it was
but, as a hangover remedy, it was the second leg of his patented method.
FRIDAY
Holt reached into his pocket for the phone that
wasn't there. Gus had warned him that taking his phone was a bad idea. Holt was
used to his friends condescension. His hand touched the bill fold in his pocket
with the neatly creased hundreds. He could buy himself a new phone, he thought
to himself. First he needed a drink. The Bent Jar was open early but it was all
the way downtown. He decided a little taste would be enough. He popped into the
nearest off license corner store he saw and ordered a pocket flask of Amazonis
Planitia Rum. No back alley for Holt, no sir. He took the little plastic bottle
into a Starbucks and ordered a large black coffee 'Americano' with almond
syrup. Sitting in the rough corner where all the armchairs pile up by the late
afternoon, he took half the coffee and poured it down the liquid disposal. He
then filled the now half empty coffee cup with the rum and considered himself
an optimist.
MARSDAY
Gus worked to make money, it wasn't his
passion, he just did it so he could eat. It was a back office job working with
documents and keeping an index. To call him an archivist would be to insult
archivists. A proper archivist is a decent person who likes order and winds up
in archiving largely by accident and magnetic attraction. Whenever this sort of
person gets into an office, things start working better, things are no longer
lost, there is a place for everything and everything is in its place. The first
archivist at a firm makes it so that everyone who has felt the order they trail
behind them like a comet tail get used to having things that way and when such
people leave, one of the higher ups ensures that, while there was never an
archivist there previously, there will be one from then on. Gus was the last in
that line, in a medical administrators company that handled records for many
hospitals. It suited him because as long as his hours added up and so long as
the documents were available when they were needed, Gus could show up any time
he wanted and so he did. The weekend started tonight. Gus cleaned himself up
and shaved and took out his work clothes. However ruined his wardrobe got, he
made sure one outfit was always dry and clean. He ironed them up, he polished
his office shoes and put them in a bag. His lunch was a meagre thing. Two
sandwiches with the fatty greasy salami he bought when it went on sale. It
always went on sale. Nothing he knew, except perhaps Holt, could sweat like
that salami. At the door of his flat he looked himself over and passed the lint
brush over his coat. Turning to look once more at the mess inside, he noted
with pride that no one would imagine he lived the way he did if they saw him on
the street. He had clean pants, a white collared shirt, a simple tie, lucky for
him they didn't see the process, thought Gus. He wore sport boots to work, it
was a rainy mess out there. What sort of evil bastard had decided to put a city
here? Gus was glad for the coat. He had it back from the dry cleaners only
yesterday and it was a welcome return to warmth. That jacket he'd taken to
wearing was simply not up to scratch for Octember. He steamed up his working
glasses when he entered his office building through the revolving doors. He put
down his lunch to wipe them. Sandwiches flew, kicked across the foyer by a jerk
in a hurry. Apologies were yelled and then silenced by the closing of elevator
doors. Gus crossed the hall and collected his lunch from the far wall himself.
Crowds rushed on, Guards looked on. Gus felt his cheeks burn under the Octember
frost left over from the cold wet morning. He brushed the muck off the bag with
his gloved hands but only succeeded in mucking up his gloves. Sighing, he
stuffed the plastic wrapped sandwiches into his coat pockets and tossed the
ruined bag into the nearest bin. Upstairs he greeted the receptionist and
retreated to his lair, the archive. Behind its fireproof and bombproof doors
(the office used to be a consulate) he sat down at his desk, an antique made of
solid steel and changed his shoes before getting up to hang his coat. Nobody
went back here. Gus sighed, maybe next week would be better.
THE END
REJECTION 005 TROPIC OF THE RAT
Dear Bulent,
Thank you very much for letting us see "Tropic of the Rat." We appreciate your taking the time to send it in for our consideration. Although it does not suit the needs of the magazine at this time, we wish you luck with placing it elsewhere.
Please excuse this form letter. The volume of work has unfortunately made it impossible for us to respond to each submission individually, much as we’d like to do so.
Sincerely,
Sheila Williams, Editor
Asimov’s Science Fiction
www.asimovs.com
Thank you very much for letting us see "Tropic of the Rat." We appreciate your taking the time to send it in for our consideration. Although it does not suit the needs of the magazine at this time, we wish you luck with placing it elsewhere.
Please excuse this form letter. The volume of work has unfortunately made it impossible for us to respond to each submission individually, much as we’d like to do so.
Sincerely,
Sheila Williams, Editor
Asimov’s Science Fiction
www.asimovs.com
SUBMISSION 005 TROPIC OF THE RAT
One: Rules to live by
Things weigh differently
now and sometimes things change scale, but everywhere there are borders, a city
can lie in wait behind this tree stump and I wouldn't know unless I stepped in
just the right direction. It’s like we've all gone through the looking glass
and then it fell over and shattered.
Plans happened, were
abandoned. It’s all in fragments. Like the nutcracker suite in reverse, I still
remember crowds, colours, the perfumed scent of what felt like a thousand
burning censers.
The music of those times,
like city smoke and random fog in the sunrise, all gone now.
In my youth, when there
were still schools, we learned in classrooms, ate lunch with our backs to
concrete and brick. Cinderblocks coated with a history of institutional paint.
Beige, grey-green. Now, with my back to this tree stump, I miss unbroken
concrete, I miss unblemished brick, it doesn't matter, I don't want to care.
Still.
I miss asphalt, I miss
plastic, I even miss polypropylene. Time travel is not only about getting into
a machine and going back and forth. Time travel is also when the world we know
gets lost somewhen and we can’t find it again, however many times we return to
where we lost it. I haven’t much memory for the time before this life, everyone
ought to get crazy for awhile.
I broke my last
toothbrush yesterday.
Sometimes everything is
fine, birds still sing, bees still buzz, it’s just the scale and mass and time
of things is random. Cities appear and disappear, it’s like watching a person
slip on a polished floor, except it's the world that's slipped. This is not the
world we knew. I should say it's not the world I knew. We can't always agree on
our histories. The others I’ve met and known here have pasts I recognize more
by their difference to mine than by anything else.
I keep notes, I don’t
know why, I don’t think I ever wrote anything longer than a letter after I left
school. Now I write as much as I can on whatever I find with whatever I have. Everything is random, I can’t find my bearings,
I wake up in the morning and check to make sure I have all my fingers and toes
and that they're all in the usual places.
When I first came here, I
don’t remember when, it could have been years or days. I learned a few things.
Some are still true but I feel that if I don’t write them down as often as I
can, even these may change. Like a squirrel, I write my rules again and again,
hiding them as I wander. In tree trunks like the one against my back, in the
cracked windshields of discarded vehicles. In the mailboxes of homes that look
as though time has never touched them. This may be the literal truth. I spread
my rules as often as I can. I imagine sometimes, ridiculous as it sounds, that
writing down the rules helps keep this world from slipping any further into
randomness than it already has.
With my back against the trunk, I am about finished writing my
rules down for the day, on the back of a plastic placemat from a diner I passed
a few hours ago. I could see burgers still sizzling in their own stasis field,
but between the dining room and the grill there was a one meter swath of dust.
Accelerated time. It cut across the entire diner. Although it did not continue
beyond its walls. I didn't stay long, only enough to add it to my map. I'm also
a mapmaker. I didn't start it, someone gave me my first map, he could be
listening to my thoughts right now, when I left him, he had his radio tuned to
both me and my companion but once we were separated I do not remember if the
frequency was tuned to my channel or hers. We jokingly used to call it psychic
radio at the time and the name stuck, however it couldn't explain anything, it
worked. The new people, fresh arrivals, are still hungry for explanations, I
haven't any, all I can offer are my rules, such as they are. As for myself,
I've gone past explanations. On this world (so much, so little like the one I
left behind), things happen and if you're lucky, they happen to other people.
There's no other way to
survive. Anyway, if the person who gave me my first map is still listening to
my channel, then he knows I've done my best to add to what he gave me. Although
it didn't help me to find my companion again. It's some consolation. I need to
feel like I have some occupation greater than my own survival, so I can hang on
to my humanity. It's thanks to my self-appointed occupation that I have so much
of it left. At least I think I do. It's hard to judge, sometimes I think all
this has happened before.
I've finished writing out
my rules on the placemat, intentionally neutral to forestall panic:
Attention new arrival, these are the rules, they are not the only
rules, just the ones I know, they are subject to change at any time and without
warning, please try to improve on these rules if you can, and spread them
around, you may someday help someone out of trouble:
- Radios can tune
into other people like they once tuned into radio stations, even into our
thoughts, someone could be picking up your thoughts on their radio while
you read this. If you have something to hide you can try imagining some
awful pop song lyrics in the hope that eavesdroppers will change the
channel but personally I think the cure would be worse than the disease.
Sorry new arrival. No such thing as perfect privacy here.
- The time and scale
and weight of things changes here but there is always a border to the
changes, it can be the width of a cup or the size of a city. Notice the
borders or you could step into a patch of accelerated time and age a year
in a minute. It's not the worst that can happen to you though. Be aware of
your surroundings. Look for breaks of continuity everywhere.
- Everything is
mutable and strange, vehicles may work, even without motive power, all
radios seem to work without even having working batteries, but strangely
they need something in the shape of a battery to work, I use dowels cut
from wood. Vehicles are more complicated but sometimes anything that
resembles an engine closely enough may get them working. It's safer to
stick to basic mechanical contraptions, gears, pulleys, rope. They're more
reliable.
- If you find a working
computer, I'd like to see one. Haven't found one yet. Best of luck new
arrival! Write out this message and spread it around. Remember! You could
be helping someone out of trouble.
That's all I know. I
spend my time looking for food and water and leaving these notes, teaching what
I know.
I still miss my companion, even though her name is forgotten. It
happened long ago.
One day on the way to
somewhere else we got separated on either side of a border, it looked like the
same path but it wasn’t. She was a handbreadth away and then she vanished. I
retraced my steps but borders do not follow a 4 dimensional logic. I could as
much follow her as I could step into the same river twice. Someday I may find
her again, in the meanwhile I teach, whom? People, they keep coming, popping
into this world, no rhyme, reason or logic to it. They come. I teach them what
I know if they can learn. I keep moving, It doesn’t pay to stay in one place.
The longer you do, the stranger things seem to get.
I forget things, this may
have happened before, it may have happened to me. It may happen again, who
knows? While there's life, there's hope. I'm so scrambled I don't even know who
said that first, maybe I said it, I don't know.
I write because I don't know what else to do, somehow, finding my
next meal and shelter from the rough hard ground is easier when I give these
words to the universe. Who knows? I may be the last human being alive who
bothers to put a collection of words in a row containing at least one verb
together anymore. I may be dead by the time you read this. Or worse, I may have
forgotten.
Two: A New Arrival
Dissipation.
That’s its name. A collection of ruins and abandoned factories and huts in the
middle of a steaming pot of shit jungle somewhere. In the one serviceable hut
sits a young man far too healthy to have been here very long. His jeans and
t–shirt are torn and dirty, sure. His canvas topped boots are caked with so
much road dust they have no colour. His hands and face however, washed daily,
are circles of cleaner skin surrounded by a black dirty halo of greasy black
hair and flesh. In his hands is a disposable razor, his last. Into a cup of
water goes the razor and he shakes the blade. He shaves without a mirror, only
a broken pane of glass blackened with soot. He does this every morning. He has
done this every morning for six weeks. For six weeks he has been going into the
abandoned factory and collecting water from one of several collection tanks on
the roof and bringing it back to his hut. For six weeks he has boiled the water
on a small fire of broken furniture lit with his dwindling supply of matches.
For six weeks he has raided the nearly empty larders for tinned food and for
six weeks he has not seen or spoken to a single living soul. Not even to himself.
He is nearly
finished shaving. He squints into the blackened pane. He draws the razor across
his chin once, twice more. Then he shakes the razor in the bowl of water one
final time before drying it roughly on the cleanest part of his shirt. Then he gets
up and checks his bucket of boiled water. It is nearly empty. Soon, he will
have to go back up to the roof and get more. It’s dangerous. The factory,
though not long abandoned, has succumbed to the jungle. It rots, the floors are
dangerous, missing planks in the half-lidded dark are easily missed. Nails
protrude. Tetanus, blood poisoning, is his most likely cause of death out here.
During the most oppressive heat of midday, which lasts from 10 until 6, he
stays in the shelter of the hut, in the shadow of the factory, motionless save
to drink his daily ration of water and take a few salt tablets. He is also
running out of those.
He picks up
the plastic bucket and drains the last of his boiled water, letting the excess
run down his shirt and onto his jeans. The water dragging dirt behind itself as
it tracks down onto his boots. Where the water falls, the original green colour
shows through momentarily, but soon it is dry and colourless again. The young man looks to the factory and,
carrying the bucket by its corroding handle, walks to the debris strewn
entrance to begin the long walk up five floors to the roof and the water tanks.
At the
entrance to the factory, he suppresses a shiver. The interior of the factory is
absolute darkness until his eyes adjust to it. The cracked tiles under the
wreckage of the door, the ruined walls caking with mold, in the gloom a
staircase leads up to the first floor, where machines hulk in silence, save for
the chittering of the rats. The rats are one of the reasons he doesn’t stay
here, preferring the hut and his barricades, mostly complete door panels he has
ripped out of upstairs offices. The other reason, a floorboard creaks, is the
general unsafe feeling of the factory. The weakening structure groans under
him, in a thousand real and imagined fault lines. At the head of the stairs to
the second floor, he listens for the signal, it could be any sound, a crack, a
clatter, that announces the total collapse of the factory and his precious
water supply. When he hears nothing for a sufficient time, he walks carefully
up the right hand side of the stairs, the safest part, he imagines. On the
third floor are more machines, he has no idea what they do or what was made
here, he walks on. On the fourth floor, different machines from the ones
downstairs, lighter, smaller. But they are mounted on very tall tables before
monstrously large stools. He doesn’t dwell on that now though, there is work to
be done. On the fifth floor are offices and at the end of the corridor, a
ladder and hatchway to the roof. This is the most dangerous, he thinks to
himself, only it isn’t so much a mental articulation as a visual image of the
ladder falling away from it’s rotting anchors. He has long discarded verbalising his danger. He climbs the ladder slowly
and carefully, the bucket hooked through one arm bouncing against him slightly
as he carefully climbs. At the top he pushes open the hatch and lets the handle
of the bucket at his elbow slide down to his hand. Then he swings it over the
lip of the hatchway and climbs, feeling his way forward, onto the roof.
On the roof
are several large tanks of water. The rain is plentiful here and the tanks are
nearly always full. But they are rusted and some kind of algae or fungal growth
has attacked the water in the tanks, it has to be boiled. But before it can be
boiled it has to be brought down and before he can do that he has to fill his
bucket. The young man walks to the tank he has previously inspected as the
least fouled by algae and positions the bucket under a tap on its corner. He
takes care to always make the same journey from the hatchway to the tank and
back every time. If this part of the roof holds him once it will hold him
again, until he hears a crack, then he will have to chose a new route. For now he
sticks to the path his boots have made in the stink and rot on the roof of the
factory. At the side of every tank is a maintenance ladder. He checked this one
a week ago so he supposes he should check again. He climbs the maintenance
ladder to the top of the tank and leans forward, letting the edge of the tank
support his weight. From the top he can see how the water from the catch basin
on the far side of the roof feeds these tanks through thin pipes radiating out
from the catch basin to each tank like the legs of a monstrous metal spider.
The inspection hatch has four clasps that hold it in place, he thumbs these
back and carefully looks down. The water, to his relief, is still clear. The
algae hasn’t yet penetrated. He replaces the hatch taking care to thumb closed
the clasps and descends the maintenance ladder. His bucket is where he left it
under the tap. He turns the tap and clear water gurgles out into the bucket. In
short order the bucket is full and he is ready to descend through the factory
once more.
At the lip
of the hatch to the fifth floor, he has left a rope, He loops the rope through
the handle of the bucket and lowers the bucket, now heavy with water, down to
the fifth floor. Once it reaches the cracked tiles, he lets one end go and
quickly pulls up on the other end. Despite his efforts, a few flakes manage to
fall onto the water still sloshing gently in the bucket below. Oh well, he’ll
have to scrape some scum off the top anyway. He replaces the rope in its little
nook by the hatchway and slowly descends into the darkness of the fifth floor.
Once again, his eyes have to adjust. He waits until they do, the risk is still
greater now that he has a heavy load to return to with.
The bleak
darkness lightens enough for him to see his way. Occasionally grimacing with
the exertion, he makes his way to the fourth floor where he pauses by the
smaller, lighter machines. He risks a look around. Now he can wonder at it,
although eventually he gives up in bafflement, if these machines were meant for
manual workers, they would have to have been at least 7 feet tall. There is no
accounting for the high stools and out of proportion doors and fixtures. The
fifth floor offices are of another scale entirely, one more in keeping with his
memory of such places. He doesn’t dare to speculate on what it could all mean,
that would mean lingering. He doesn’t want to linger. The heat is getting
oppressive and he has much to do down by his hut.
He takes breaks on the third and second floors as
well. The bucket is heavy now, but he doesn’t wander from it. He pauses the
barest safe minimum and then picks up his burden again. At the entrance to the
factory he pauses a final time. Looking behind him, wondering what sort of
giant worked in a factory like this one, and what on earth such giants made.
Back at his hut, he pours the water from the bucket
into a metal drum of about equal size. The metal drum was obviously once an oil
drum but he has cleaned it carefully and now it serves to boil his water. He
has set the drum on a grill scavenged from the wreckage of the factory and the
grill itself is supported by bricks likewise scavenged. The clearance to the
ground is low but enough to pile wood and boil the water into drinkability. The
heat is mounting and if he wants something cool to drink he had best hurry, he
thinks. Boiling the water will take a few hours and cooling it a few more, he
can’t estimate better than that. His watch stopped working six weeks ago.
He piles broken wood and rags under the grill and
carefully lights one of his last remaining matches underneath the rough pile,
The wood from inside the factory is relatively dry and, together with his
tinder of fluff from his clothes and waste paper from an office on the fifth
floor, lights quickly, but not all. The sticks he has scavenged from the edge
of the jungle crowding in around him takes a long time to burn, at first
blackening and smoking. He blows into the smoke, encouraging the tiny flames to
leap higher, grow larger. He blows into it for quite some time before, satisfied
it won’t go out, he withdraws, letting the drum heat and sterilize his water.
He withdraws but he never takes his eyes from the drum nor the fire beneath it.
He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay here.
The sun
beats up into the sky, the young man draws away from the boiling water, the
fire beneath it beginning to burn out. He’s stopped feeding its flames and now
waits for the fire to burn out entirely, when it does he will bury some cans of
meat and beans in the ashes and let them heat up. He thinks that after lunch he
will nap while the water cools. Maybe think about a few things. Important
questions. What kind of story will he invent for whoever he meets out there
beyond the jungle, wherever he ends up. He won’t be able to avoid that now. He’s
hidden here as long as he can, he must abandon the factory for somewhere more
remote. But how to get there? He couldn’t come the way he had, that way was
gone. He pushes his mind from the bright grains of memory. He reminds himself
that he is just a man waiting for cool water and warm food.
He cracks
his knuckles impatiently, not bothering to stretch each joint independently, he
just interlaces his fingers into a double fist and squeezes, the joints pop
audibly. He also stretches his neck until the vertebrae pop as well, then he
shrugs his shoulders and they too reward him with a distinct popping sound. The
fire is dim enough now that he can risk stuffing the ashes with canned meat
without risking a rupture. He pushes the cans into the ash with a stick, their
labels burning quickly, when they come out the tins will be hot and slicked
with a blue cast.
While he
waits he scans the jungle with his brown eyes, it won’t be long, the meat
should be warm not bubbling hot, he made that mistake already and his fingers
still smart in memory. Towards one end of the jungle is the dimmest remains of
a road, gravelly and narrow, but that was the way he had come, no welcome back
there. On the other side of the clearing is only unbroken jungle. He doesn’t
enjoy the prospect of going through it. He imagines how many ways he can die in
there. Maybe the road is his only choice after all. Who knows what has happened
to the world out there since he came here. The prospect of returning that way
frightens him so much he once again, as he has so many times over the past six
weeks, resolves to wait it out just a little longer, until his matches run out
at least.
The canned
meat must be ready by now, he uses the same stick to drag them out of the fire,
3 cans, 2 of mean and beans and one of tomato soup. He uses a piece of torn
fabric from his jeans to hold the hot cans and with a small pocket tool he
pries up the tab on the lid and putting a small stick through the loop, he
pulls carefully. Steam escapes from the can. His mouth waters, he doesn’t have
a spoon or other utensil besides the pocket tool so he fumbles out the meat
with two sticks of roughly equal size and whittled smooth enough, free of bark
at least. Using them like chopsticks he awkwardly manipulates a piece of meat into
his mouth. The can is warm, even through the snatch of jean he’s holding it
with. When he had picked out all the meat the can has cooled enough for him to
put it to his lips. He drinks it all down, he needs every calorie he can get.
The remaining two cans are cool enough to hold on their own. He eats greedily.
Soon the only meal of the day is done. He has other delicacies. A few packages
of powdered coffee. Using the cup he shaved with he collects some of the
boiling water from the top of drum. He knows this isn’t a good idea, coffee is
a diuretic, but he needs the stimulant for more than just wakefulness, he needs
it for moral support, it reminds him of happier times, café boulevards, olive
trees, cushions, eating with a knife and fork. In short, his life. The packages
are prepared with artificial cream and sweetener, in any other circumstance, it
would not be to his taste but here and now, after a meal of canned meat and
squatting in the jungle, it tastes like a little slice of home. He stirs the
mixture slowly, careful not to spill a drop. Patiently forcing the clumps of
powdered coffee under the hot water. When it is as homogeneous as he can make
it, he begins to drink. Ah, heavenly. Perhaps the road back is the only way
forward after all. It can’t be worse than here. How wrong he is.
Towards the
west, the sun is nearing the tops of the trees and the water is cool enough to
decant into the bucket. He pours a little first and uses this small amount to
wash his hands and face. He’s waited until now to do so. Then he sloshes it
around a little before pouring it over the dead fire. No point in taking a
chance. Then he pours the contents of the drum into the bucket and carries it
with care to the hut. Once there, he puts an iodine drop into it and swishes the
water a little with yet another stick leaning just inside the door to the hut.
The hut itself isn’t large, like the others it was likely erected by wandering
nomads of the jungle. When they had left and when they might return is a
mystery he hopes never to get answered. He wants to be gone by then. They may
never return of course, Like the occupants of the factory, they may be gone for
good.
Darkness
falls like a thud in the jungle. The young man lights no evening fire for
company, rather, he cowers in his hut behind a makeshift barricade of doors
from the factory, the hut itself had not had anything to cover it’s entrance.
Likely the nomads who had tarried here used blankets and woven brushes to keep
out the jungle, and the rats. He hears them scratching around outside his
pathetic defenses. He must trust the barricades however, he must sleep, despite
their chittering. He forces himself to keep his eyes shut in the close
darkness, lying on a pallet of leaves and brush, his pack a rough pillow.
Eventually he succeeds, slipping into a narrow wedge of unconsciousness.
Perhaps tomorrow he will make up his mind. The jungle or the road, to stay or
to go. Decide, or the decision will be made for him.
Three: A companion
In the
morning, he wakes to familiar aching muscles and removes the barriers from the
entrance, stacking the panels along the side. Then he returns to the hut and
fills his cup with water. He squats by a soot blackened pane of glass and
shaves. When he has done that and washed his face and hands, he steps out into
the early jungle light. There can be no more dithering, he thinks to himself.
He had hidden here long enough. So, collecting his meager possessions in his
pack and filling every remaining space with canned food, he picks up his cup
and drinks gulp after gulp of water. What he leaves he leaves for the next
occupant of the hut. The last thing he does before heading back along the road,
for that is what he has chosen, is take a large sack from a tree where he hid
his only other possession six weeks ago. He opens the sack to examine his
treasure for damage. Everything is fine however. The object inside is an old
.22 target rifle. Not good for much, but together with the Eley boxes of tiny
bullets, he feels sure that the rifle means the difference between life and
starvation very soon. He slings the sack over his back to slap against his pack
and cradles the rifle in his elbows. Then, he looks to the factory once more,
considering, then shrugs and turns to the road, he has made his decision. He walks
down the broken road, hoping he can get out of sight of the strange factory
before the heat makes him stop. In other jungles he would be forced to go on
until he broke through or exhaustion overcame him, but this jungle was
different, it burned to a point of torture but not to the point of death, not
that is, if you stopped. As the sun climbs higher and the road widens into
usability and smaller track roads begin to cross it, he does, by an
incomprehensible road sign in green and white. Or at least a sign that was
green and white.
He stays in
the shade of the road sign, for that is what it must be, incomprehensible or
not, until the sun is well to the west. Then he gets up and continues to walk
along the edge of the road, ready now to dart into cover should he see anyone,
but he doesn’t. The road is empty. He walks on.
Night has
fallen but he continues regardless, the next time he sleeps he wants it to be
somewhere sheltered, a barn or maybe even a house, The road is eerily silent,
not a bird call nor even the rustle of a passing animal. In the deepest back
room of his mind he is beginning to wonder, has it been six weeks? Maybe more?
He doesn’t know for sure anymore. What has happened? Where, he wonders, are the
people? In the distance is the town, there should be many lights but there are
not, only the arches of light from the streetlamps, The town is as silent as,
well he might as well come out with it, a morgue. He had better come up with a
name and a story before he meets anyone, he better practice talking again too.
“Ah, erm,
hello, um, my name is, uh,” what should he call himself? He can’t tell anyone
his real name of course, not after what happened. He pushes the past from his
mind, the sooner forgotten the better. With mounting frustration he finds he
has no plausible explanation for himself, what after all, is a young man doing
walking along this empty road in the dark with nothing but a pack and a target
rifle for company? What indeed? As he nears the town he knew he slows his
steps, it appears completely depopulated, he cannot suppress the shiver that
runs down his back, the road beneath his feet is no longer packed gravel but
rough asphalt instead. The yellow lights glow helplessly down on empty cars.
Perhaps one still has keys inside, perhaps, if he heads for the coast, he might
meet someone along the way. Everyone couldn’t have disappeared, it must be he,
who is somewhere else, gone, like a kid on a carton of milk, disappeared. No,
that makes no sense at all. He shakes his head. He can’t be alone in this town
on the edge of the jungle. He isn’t but he doesn’t know that yet. Somewhere in
the shadows, he is being watched very carefully, very carefully indeed.
Then he
hears her scream, then he sees her, she’s lying just outside a pool of light cast
by an overhead streetlamp. He wonders how he didn’t see her before, as he
nears, his boots clicking across the asphalt, he has to control his stomach,
it’s a wonder she’s alive, he reaches her and gets on his knees, there is a
large and bloodstained hole in her abdomen, he imagines he can see bits of
slick concrete through the hole. He tears his eyes off the wound and tries to
calm her, it’ll be over soon he thinks, no need to try and stop the bleeding,
no one lives long when they have a hole in their guts large enough to step
through. He had laid his rifle by her head as he examined the wound, he reaches
for it now, brings it nearer so that it touches his knees. He needs that extra
comfort. Her eyes are blinking open and shut rapidly now, it should be soon,
soon he will only have to worry about whoever made that hole in this girl,
she’s quieter now, her screams are softer, filled with sobs. She will be gone
soon.
Then he
looks carefully, is the hole smaller? She isn’t conscious in any usual sense so
he can’t ask her what’s happening, it’s fascinating if it’s true. Bits of bone
are sticking back to her spine, her muscles are knotting themselves around her
ribs, her organs are collecting themselves from somewhere he can’t see. What is
causing this? She looks nearly fine, her clothes remain torn and bloody but her
abdomen is whole. He tries to imagine the stitch up work that must still be
going on inside her, decides that he has to take her someplace more comfortable
than this, He shoulders his rifle and walks to the nearest house and, putting
her down only long enough to open the unlocked door, not surprising if this
really is the town he remembers, carries her into the darkness and upstairs to
the first empty bed he finds. She is quiet now but totally unconscious, he
makes her comfortable under the covers of a large bed in the main bedroom then
goes downstairs and searches for the kitchen. These town houses are all alike
and he quickly finds the kitchen and snaps on the lights before shutting them
again quickly, he’s not thinking, he goes to the refrigerator and looks
hopefully for a beer. No luck. In fact, the fridge is as clean and empty as if
it had never been used. Oh well, he thinks, it was worth a try. He walks into
the dark living room and lies down on the couch in front of a corky looking
television set with faux wood veneer panels. Like something from 1979. He turns
it on and hears nothing, the volume is set to zero, the emergency broadcast
system is on every channel.
He gets up
and leans towards the television. Turning up the volume knob carefully, trying
not to wake the girl upstairs.
“This is a
test of the emergency broadcast system….,” whispers the television at minimum
volume. It goes on to warn that had this been an actual emergency the transmission
warning claxon would have been followed by detailed instructions of what to do
in an emergency. This doesn’t help. This lunacy, he thinks, can’t get any worse
or the best thing I can do is take my target rifle and blow my head off. But
instead, he just gets up and locks the front door, then the doors to the living
room, just in case she wakes up before the morning, he thinks. He’s never seen
a girl, or anyone, regrow body parts before. First what happened, then the
factory, now this empty town and that girl sleeping upstairs when she should be
dead. He closes his eyes, he has been almost asleep since he walked into town,
sleeping out at the factory wasn’t the lap of luxury, nor is the couch he’s on
right now. By comparison though, it might as well be a king size waterbed
filled with champagne. He’s asleep before he knows it, he doesn’t even wake
when she walks downstairs, tries the door and as silently as she came, sneaks
back up to her bed. The night passes uneventfully. He sleeps until the sun is
high in the sky.
He opens his
eyes and looks up at the living room ceiling, trying to get straight what
happened last night but there is a lot of competition for his attention.
Circumstances he doesn’t want to dwell on, the least of which is the fourth
floor of the factory where he had been squatting, but it’s the fourth floor on
which his attention remains. What was it for? Why had everything on that floor,
and only on that floor, been oversize? Had it really though? Could there be
another reason to have stools and tables with legs 10 feet high? Then there’s
the girl, whenever he thinks of what has happened, it’s like he’s watching
himself on a television screen tuned to a bad channel, there’s no detail, only
harsh contrasts and static. He watched her guts looping back inside her…
He gets up,
still clutching his rifle and unlocks the doors leading from the living room to
the hallway and walks up the stairs, careful to make a lot of noise so as not
to startle her. He finds her awake, still in bed, sitting up expectantly.
“I’ve been
awake for hours you know,” she says, looking at him expectantly.
He’s at a
loss where to begin, do you know you had a hole in your middle the size of
Jupiter sounds too harsh, he decides to ignore that angle for now, “Why didn’t
you come downstairs and knock?”
“I tried the
door last night but it was locked,” she pauses, “Do you know where this is?”
she says.
His heart
shrinks a little, he had hoped she could tell him. “It looks like,” he searches
for the words, “There’s a small town I was passing through about 6 weeks ago
and,” he lets his own words sink in his mind, “this looks like an exact replica
of that one,” he presses on with his wild theory before she has a chance to
respond, “I mean it’s in the right place and it looks exactly the same but
there aren’t any people, no sign of an evacuation, there are canned goods in
the cupboards of this house but the fridge looks as clean as though it has
never been used, like none of it has ever been used,” his shoulders sag against
the doorframe, “to be honest, I haven’t got a clue what’s happened, I came out
of the jungle the other day and last night I, I,” he breathes deeply, “I found
you screaming in the middle of the road with a hole” he stops talking, she’s
turned as pale as the bed sheets.
“You,” she
changes tack, “I didn’t imagine it then,” she looks out through the window,
“I,” then she’s crying softly. He doesn’t know what to do about this but feels
he ought to do something, he walks to the bed, leans his rifle against the
bedside table and pats her awkwardly on the shoulders, she clutches him, stupid
with tears now and sobbing loudly into his shoulder, a weight of terror slams
into him and suddenly he can no longer keep back the flood of emotions that
have been threatening to drown him for 6 long weeks, he lets go and soon
they’re both howling with inconsolable tears and they just seem to go on and on
with no end in sight. Eventually they cry themselves dry and are reduced to
trembling in each others’ arms and a long time later, that too subsides.
Finally he says, “This isn’t doing us any good,” he looks at her, his eyes red
and puffed.
“I need to clean up,” she mumbles.
“Yeah, the bathroom is on the left, I’ll be downstairs
in the kitchen, come down when you feel like it.”
Still sniffling, he picks up his rifle and walks to
the doorway, hesitating for no good reason, then leaves her in the bedroom and
goes down to the kitchen sink and washes his face there. He waits, filled with
anticipation and dread, whenever she comes down, they’ll both have to fill the
other in and he isn’t proud of himself or his story. He sits down at the
kitchen table and waits.
Four: Admission
He finds
some instant coffee and powdered milk in the cupboard. On the counter is an
electric kettle which he fills with tap water. It doesn’t turn on when he flips
the silver switch under the handle and that’s when he notices it isn’t plugged
in, he locates the end of the cord and plugs it into a wall socket mounted just
above the counter. The kettle starts to hiss instantly. Moments later, with a
generous dollop of sugar, he’s leaning against the back of his chair and
drinking his instant coffee as satisfied as if it were fresh ground blue
Hawaiian. His posturing is mostly pretense however, he wants her to feel as good
as possible when she comes down and if she enters the kitchen to see him
nervously hunched over his coffee like a criminal fugitive it won’t help either
of them.
It’s over an
hour before he hears her walking down the stairs, he refills the kettle and puts
it to boil again, he probably shouldn’t have another coffee but he sets up two
cups anyway. “Milk and sugar?” he asks.
“Lots of
both,” she smiles weakly. He prepares both cups the same way and soon they’re
both seated at the kitchen table drinking down their coffees like greedy
orphans at a banquet.
“Long time,
huh?” he says, eyeing the coffee in her hand.
“A very long
time,” she agrees, “I don’t know how long exactly.”
“Well,” and
then he doesn’t know how to continue, his mind burning with questions, all of
them bad.
“You passed
through here 6 weeks ago?” she says.
“Yeah, I
come from up north, just felt it was time to, you know, move on?” he doesn’t
want to say more than he has too but his neck and ears have turned scarlet.
“Hm, well,”
she takes a long drink from her coffee even though it’s still hot enough to
scorch his throat, “It’s a Torremolinos thing, isn’t it?” she says.
“A what?”
“I once read
this book about a town, I don’t remember if the town was real or not, it was
called Torremolinos and people who wanted to disappear went there, it was in
Spain or something, you know the sort of place, hot and sleepy by day, hot and
sordid by night?” she watches him over the brim of her cup as she gulps down
more coffee, “So after that, whenever I dreamt about going far away, from the
places and especially the people I knew, I thought of it as a Torremolinos
thing, an escape fantasy.”
“I get it,
yeah, like living behind a tropical backyard rum bar,” he says, “Um, my name’s
Joseph Byatt, but everyone calls me Joe,” he finishes his coffee as he says
this.
“Francesca
Donal, call me Jess though, it’s my middle name. I don’t use it when I
introduce myself because I think it sounds silly, you know? FranCESCA JESiCA,”
she exaggerates to make her point.
“Jess,” he
begins, “um, there’s no cute way to ask so,” he watches her drain her cup,
“Have any idea how you got here?” it’s as far as he’s willing to stretch.
“I,” she
puts down her cup, “I think my husband shot me,” she watches Joe trying to keep
his eyes from widening, “but I’ve no idea how I got here, what’s this town
called anyway?”
“I don’t
know, the town I came through was called Fos but like I said, this can’t be the
same place, so, you think you were shot?” he tries to sound casual but there
isn’t really any way a person can ask such a question casually,” he waits.
She gives
him a measured look and finally says “as near as I can make it out, I came home
late one night and he shot me, and then I was here,” she frowns and when she
speaks again it is almost as if she is talking to herself, “he didn’t have any
cause to do it, I didn’t even know he had a gun in the house, maybe it wasn’t
him, but who answered the door?”
He thinks
she’s being awfully calm about the chance that someone might have broken into her
house, killed her husband and then shot her as he left but soon realizes there
is no way to predict how a person will act under such traumatic circumstances,
it doesn’t take a very observant person to realize they’re both still in a
state of shock. Their outburst upstairs earlier did nothing to alleviate the
strain, it only confirmed his amateur diagnosis.
“I think we
ought to stay here, not long, a week at the outside, maybe as soon as tomorrow
we can drive out of town but I keep hoping that whatever has happened, it’s a
local disturbance and I don’t want to ruin that illusion immediately by driving
into the nearest ghost city.”
“I agree, I
need,” she looks around, “oh, time, that’s what, I need time and sleep, god, I
want to sleep a thousand years, but what will we do for food if the fridge is
empty?”
“Canned
goods, that’s all there seems to be, not a fresh vegetable or even a loaf of
bread in this kitchen, I don’t imagine the other houses will be different but
we can check, you can wait here and I can–”
“No,” fear
edges into her voice, “we’ll go together, okay Joe?” she stares right at him.
“Yeah, I
mean, yes, of course,” he says.
“Joe?”
“Hm?” he’s
wandered, she brings his attention back to her.
“Maybe we’re
not meant to understand what’s happened here, or maybe it’s us who’re
different, it doesn’t change the fact that we appear to be the only two people
in the whole world right now, whatever the reason is that we’re here, and maybe
there isn’t any, we still have to figure out what we’re going to do next and
how we’re going to carry on.”
Surprised at
her speech, he simply nods.
“So, I’m
going to go back to bed Joe,” she looks at him expectantly but when he doesn’t
reply she nods and excuses herself. Waitaminute, he thinks, wondering if she
just gave him a proposal, but rejects the idea on grounds of sheer weirdness,
it would be great but afterwards, who knew? He felt he needed some time as
well, time alone. Taking his rifle, he goes back to the living room and
hesitates before leaving the doors to the hallway unlocked, if she was going to
hurt him, or kill him, it wouldn’t matter in the long run anyway, he might even
thank her for it, because it would mean an end to this madness, he lies back on
the couch and cradles his rifle, the coffee seemed to have had little to no
effect, he feels bone tired. He closes his eyes. Upstairs, Jess drifts in and
out of wakefulness, rusty and dented dreams of a single gunshot, light and pain
and surprise and screams and twists of childhood nightmares of falling, she
stays in bed until dark, then walks down the stairs to the living room doors,
the knob turns, the door opens, she watches him sleeping for a moment then
closes the door again and returns to bed.
He watches
her go through carefully lidded eyes, awake only by chance, terrified. Shadows
of trees cast by streetlamps move over the drawn curtains, the wind picks up a
little then drifts back to nothing. Out in the night, a large shadowy form the
size of a pickup truck watches the house patiently. It isn’t time yet. It
waits.
Five: Psychic Radio
In the
morning, Joe finds Jess in the kitchen making more instant coffee and heating
up some canned beans in a frying pan. She smiles, he returns the smile but
neither of them says anything until they’re both seated, the beans are finished
and they’re on their second cups of coffee.
“God, I
could use a cigarette but I haven’t found any,” she says.
“We can
check the local supermarket, if I’m right, anything perishable will be missing
but cigarettes should be there,” he says.
“Yeah, we’ve
been here long enough, change of scenery might be good for us,” she says.
“Uh, Jess,”
“Hm?”
“Before we
do that, I’d like to ask you, I mean, it’s time we tried to figure out–,”
“–What’s
going on? where everybody is? all that stuff?”
“I don’t
want to put it off,” he says.
“But you
won’t be honest with me about what you were doing out there all by yourself,”
she says, meaning the factory.
“There’s
nothing to tell, you had Torremolinos fantasies, right? well, I was living
mine,” he stares at her then continues “I come from a good family I have a
bachelor’s degree and I wanted to see a bit of the world before settling down.”
“Do you
often travel armed?”
“This?” he
laughs, “it’s a target rifle I bought off a boy half my age my first week in
country, it’s nothing, a pea shooter,” Joe waits for her to react, she shrugs.
“Did you
hear something?” she says.
Joe gets up
wordless and silent, he walks to the front door with his target rifle ready to
fire, suddenly to Jess, it doesn’t look like a pea shooter at all. The door
isn’t properly closed, to Joe’s surprise, there is a note stuck to it.
It reads:
Answers? We
haven’t got any, but you’re spooked, we can tell, would you believe we are too?
Afraid you’ll shoot first so we decided you might want to meet us sometime at
the Sunshine motel on the coastal edge of town, we don’t know what today is or
what you’ll do but if you want to know what we know, you can come, if not, be
on your way soon, this isn’t your town. Sincerely, the rats.
Joe’s hand
shakes, the one holding the note, written on loose leaf lined college paper,
the kind you can buy anywhere, he closes and locks the door, brings the note in
to Jess, who reads it and looks furtively around for a cigarette that isn’t
there.
Getting ready
to leave takes very little time, they work independently, grabbing cans of
food, extra socks and underwear from the drawers upstairs, Jess takes a long
kitchen knife from the kitchen. Joe looks around for car keys, there are
several cars parked outside on the street, he eventually finds a set of keys in
a table in the entrance hall at the foot of the stairs. Once outside, he walks
towards the first car, a Honda and presses the car alarm button on the key
ring, a blue Ford sedan three cars away beeps and its lights flash. Jess
follows him to the car and they get inside quickly and lock the doors. Joe
tries the ignition, it turns over but doesn’t start, the fuel gauge reads
empty.
“Shit, it
was worth a try,” he says as they get out and walk down the street toward the
centre of town and beyond that, the coastal edge where the note tells them
they’ll find the Sunshine motel.
“Is it
really such a good idea to go?” wonders Jess.
“We can
ignore the note but we should still leave,” he says, “there’s no telling what
kind of threat we’re facing.”
They
continue to walk in silence, on edge, they pass stores and shops that look as
clean and empty as a movie set.
“Look,” Jess
points, “It’s a library, come on.”
“What? okay,
but–”
“I have an
idea,” Jess stalls his objection before it is half formed.
The library,
like the house and presumably everything else in town, is unlocked. They enter
cautiously, Joe looking behind them every few steps. She raises an eyebrow.
“I feel like
someone’s watching us,” he shrugs, “that note didn’t get on the door by
itself.”
“Maybe it
did.” she says, “with everything that’s happened, it’s not impossible.”
“No,” he
argues, “wherever we are, there are rules here too, different sure, but rules.”
The library
is small, with a single reading area with long tables surrounded by shelves of
books, one table is littered with open volumes, some of them open, they come
closer. Someone was here.
“Hey,
they’re all physics textbooks” says Joe.
“Here’s one
about string theory.”
“You sound
like you expected to find something like this,” he says.
“I had a
feeling, it came over me as I read the note, it seemed to suggest that whoever
wrote it had gone looking for answers too but come up empty handed, I thought
of libraries.”
“Here,” Joe
hands over the book he was examining, “what do you make of this?”
Jess starts
to read, after a few minutes, she sits down and continues, Joe picks up another
volume off the table and starts reading too, looking up now and again,
nervously expecting they’ll be discovered and feeling more trapped inside the
library with every passing minute.
“Let’s get
out of here,” he urges, “we can take a few with us.”
“Hang on,”
her fingers scan the page “this may explain what’s going on.”
“How so?”
“Well,
according to this book, what’s happened is like a geometric translation, like
if you rotate a circle off the page it disappears, only it’s still there, like
a guitar string with zero width got plucked sideways or something, you couldn’t
see it but the vibration would be felt.”
“I don’t
follow you, sorry.”
“This string
theory book says that everything is made of vibration with a rest mass of zero,
they only have mass when they move, it doesn’t make sense to me either. But if
somehow, they vibrated differently, then, then, oh, I don’t know,” she slams
the book impatiently.
“So you’re
saying we’re in another dimension?”
“Not
exactly, I think we’re in the same dimension but it’s distorted or we’re
distorted, like a ruler half in the water only looks bent but it isn’t. I feel like
if we just, I don’t know, adjusted ourselves a little to the left or the right,
we’d snap back into step with the world.”
“I don’t
know if tuning into reality is as easy as tuning into your favourite oldies station on the radio,” says Joe
skeptically.
“I don’t
know that either, but it’s an idea.”
CRASH.
“Come on,”
Joe has his rifle at the ready, safety off. Jess takes the book she was reading
and stows it in his backpack, goes for another, “leave the rest and come on!”
They move
quickly through the library and look out through the glass entrance doors,
nobody there.
“What was
it?” hisses Jess.
“Sounded
like someone tipped over a dumpster.”
“How? by
knocking it over with an empty pickup truck?”
“Let’s go,
we’ve nothing to gain by staying here and nothing to lose by leaving fast.”
“Maybe
that’s what they want,” she says.
“They?”
“One person
alone couldn’t knock over something big enough to make a sound like that,” she
insists.
“Maybe not
people,” he mumbles, thinking of the fourth floor of the factory.
“What?”
frightened, Jess clutches him close to her.
“Nothing, nevermind, let’s go, we’ve got to get to that motel,
if someone left that note, he or she could have killed us last night if they’d
wanted too, and I gotta get out of this town Jess,” he looks at her, fear and
determination crushing his consonants together like summer icebergs. She nods
wordlessly, staring at him, they move together out the door and once on the
street, begin to jog down to the coastal edge of town looking behind them at
every corner.
“Joooe!” she
screams. A rotting furred head with large black eyes the size of dinner plates
ducks back around the corner as Joe stumbles off a shot with his rifle.
They run.
Looking everywhere as they do, now and again catching sight of tails as thick
as a man’s thigh, but never another sight of their terrible faces.
“Joe!,
look!” Jess points. Three stores down Joe sees it, the revolving yellow
sunburst with the words “Sunshine motel” written in red neon. They run towards
it as behind them, the giant rats abandon all pretense at secrecy and rush
headlong towards them. Joe and Jess reach the door to the reception office
together and push.
It’s locked.
Joe turns to face the oncoming rats and begins firing, the tiny .22 rounds only
make the rats angry. They rush the door. Jess bangs furiously against the metal
and glass. The door swings open in a rush and Joe falls over backwards, strong
hands grab them both and pull them violently inside. The door slams shut. A
withered old hand locks and bolts the door. Joe and Jess turn to see an old man
in a clerk uniform walking slowly back to his post behind the counter where he
sits down and eyes them slowly with his milky blue eyes. Silence greets them.
Jess gets up and looks out the window. Empty.
“Where,
what” says Jess.
“What,”
echoes Joe.
The old man
produces a package of cigarettes from a drawer and lazily lights one, offering
the package to them. Joe shakes her head but Jess, still shivering from shock
and exertion, gratefully accepts his offer and inhales deeply on the first
drag.
“It’s been a
long time since I had to get out of this chair,” says the old man.
“How did you
know where to–” begins Joe, the old man switches on an old mahogany veneer
radio.
How did you know where to–begins Joe, the
old man switches on an old–
He switches
off the radio, “Should have tried the radio Joe,”
“That
radio,” begins Jess, “is talking about us?”
The old man
switches the radio on again briefly, so Jess can hear the narrator delivering
her words in a neutral baritone then shuts it off. “Took some time to find your
station but yeah, I suppose it is.”
“How?” says
Joe, in a watery voice.
The old man
watches them quietly through drags of blue smoke, he says slowly, “you know
Joe? Jess? I haven’t left this chair for about three years, until I heard your
show on the radio Joe, it turned up oh, about 7 weeks ago now.”
“So you
know,” Joe blanches.
“Nothing to
be embarrassed by, Joe.”
“Joe?” Jess
is looking at him.
“Oh, it
doesn’t really matter now, Joe.”
“I, I, she,”
“She was 12
years old,” says the old man.
“She looked
much older,” Joe mutters.
“She didn’t
look 18 Joe, 16 maybe 17.”
“Joe, how
could you?”
Joe looks
green. The old man goes on.
“You’re
lucky you didn’t get her pregnant Joe,”
“Her father was
going to kill me anyway.” He mutters.
Jess stares
at him, her mouth open. The old man continues talking, “It sounded like a good
story so I listened along for a time, then it got dull, everyday you just got
up and did the same things over and over, it got boring in fact, so I changed
the channel and found you, Jess.”
“Me?”
“Your
marriage collapsing around you, the shotgun your husband kept threatening you
with, when you finally used it on yourself–”
“What?” it’s
Joe’s turn to be shocked.
“I lost the
station then, just static, I guessed that was the end of it and went looking
for something else to listen to, there was an amusing story a few channels away
about two boys working on a kind of jet bike for a futuristic neighborhood
competition, like a go kart competition or something, anyway, they really
wanted to win and were very gifted in electronics. One day, they find some
plans their father brought home from work only they didn’t know that the plans
their father brought home from work at the jet propulsion laboratory were plans
for a faster than light drive intended for spacecraft.”
He takes
another drag.
“So anyway,
that story had a real twist of an ending, so I went looking for something else
around that end of the dial..”
“Then the
real surprise, you,” he points at Joe, “turning up on another station, I
recognized you right away, the narrator is good with characterization and then
you found her,” gesturing at Jess with his cigarette, still as long as when he
lit it.
“I realized I had something special here and kept
listening.”
“Mr,” Jess
has tears in her eyes, “Are we, you know, dead?” Joe is also shaking
uncontrollably.
The old man
looks at her kindly, “no Jess, although it must seem that way, like some sick
afterlife, but it’s not, it’s just physics.”
They don’t
seem reassured so he continues, “I used to believe that when a person died they
would have to relive, not every moment of their lives, but only the moments of
missed opportunities, with glimpses and catches of the lives they might have
led had they more courage, more initiative, that thought terrified me, to spend
my afterlife reviewing how many times I could have fallen in love, made a
difference, made a better life,” he pauses to take another drag off his
cigarette which never seems to shorten or go out, “so from my perspective,
things have turned out alright for me.”
“So we’re
not dead?” Joe needs to hear it again.
“Certainly
not, take me as an example, I haven’t left this chair in three years except to
deliver that note, and it was no picnic to bring it to you.”
“Why did
you?”
“There was
something stalking you, the narrator told me so, I was afraid you’d picked a
house on the edge of a scale shift.”
“A what?”
“Those giant
rats chasing you, they’re not giants, ordinary rats affected by a scale shift,
Joe, you were walking through one every day at the factory.”
“The fourth
floor?”
“Yup, a miracle you lived, rats aren’t the only
dangerous things out there.”
“But we’re
safe here?” Jess needs to hear him say so.
“Certainly,
it took me some time to find the right spot, on this world, scale changes, time
,moves differently, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, sometimes backwards,” he
eyes Jess in acknowledgement of her miraculous completeness after the shotgun,
“sometimes not at all,” he looks at his cigarette, “while I sit here, I never
tire, never hunger, never lose interest in life, never run out of cigarettes
and never even have to get up to use the toilet.”
They are
aghast.
“Out there,
you might find giant rats, pockets of fast time that will age you to death in
an instant, frozen moments of individual perfection,” he smiles, “You may even
find your tropical backyard barbecue and rum bar.”
He’s heard everything they said. Joe and Jess eye each
other. Weary and tired.
“Here,” the
old man hands Joe a pocket radio and a tourist map of town with strange borders
all over it, some you have to fold the map in odd ways to make complete shapes.
“I’m just being neighbourly, a man needs a radio just about everywhere on this
world, I know that much.”
“How many
others have you seen since you came here?” Jess asks suddenly.
“Oh, you’re
the first, but I knew more people would be coming, it’s the nature of things, I
think, now this is pure speculation, but after reading those books in the
library when I first arrived, I got to thinking, it’s possible that
consciousness is the force attracting people to this world,” He looks at their
faces then shrugs and takes another drag off his endless cigarette, “Just a
thought, no pun intended.”
“What’s your
name?” Joe asks, not having felt ready to ask before now.
“Clarence
Williams, Sunshine Motel clerk, a retirement job I told myself, , some
retirement heh? sorry I didn’t say so sooner.”
“Here,”
Clarence hands Jess a motel room key, “If you go out the back and to the left
and up the right stairs two floors, across the hall and down one floor there is
a really nice room with permanent afternoon sunshine, it’s a bit of a hike but
you’ve been lucky with these things so far, trust me.”
They don’t really have a choice.
“Clarence?”
asks Joe.
“Hm?”
“Why’d you
sign your note ‘the rats?’”
“I thought
about signing it with my name, but listening to you two on the radio, I felt
strongly that you lacked the sense of urgency you would need to survive long
enough to make it here, I took a chance and fibbed so you’d hurry your asses.”
“So you
meant it when you said we couldn’t stay in town?” Jess waits for his answer.
“Well, it’s
like what I said about consciousness attracting, for all our lives, I believe
we ought to put lots of distance between ourselves, between me and the pair of
you I mean,” they remain silent so Clarence continues on another tack, “I’m an old man who’s been sitting on the same
damn stool behind his counter for 3 years with a package of cigarettes that
never runs out and a radio that keeps me entertained, do you want to sit here
in my place?” he takes a drag, “as I made that map I nearly died several times,
I’ve no wish to repeat the experience. Especially because the town you’ve been
stumbling through is a lot more stable than the one I knew, the borders appear
to be the same but the force of the changes feels weaker, calmer transitions,
that fourth floor would’ve made me upchuck but you didn’t feel a thing did
you?”
Clarence looks at them, “feel tired?”
“No more
than when we came, maybe better.”
“I thought
so, I once read that the original housewarming gift was the body of a convict
or sacrificial murder victim buried in the foundations of the building, to keep
away bad spirits, like a supernatural guardian,” he takes a drag off his truly
endless cigarette.
“Doesn’t
that ever go out?” asks Jess, hers is long finished.
“Not on this
side of the counter. I stub it out now and again and put it back, oh, I’ve
thrown them out and once, early on, even the whole package but the next time I
opened the drawer, there it was again, a freshly opened package of my favourite
brand with 19 cigarettes inside, just like they were on the day I ended up
here.”
“I read
elsewhere,” Clarence is back on the topic, “primitive peoples thought the gods
slept under the hills, holding up the sky or holding down the ground, when they
rolled over in there sleep: earthquakes, I stay because I don’t want a reality
quake, and because I am in a perfect state here, it’s my, albeit small, heaven
on earth.”
“Don’t you
ever get lonely?” demands Jess.
“I’m in a
peculiar condition, my attitude remains whatever it was the instant I sat
down.”
“And we
can’t stay,”
“Joe,
understand me, wherever we are may be very delicate, if you want our new
situation to become safer and more resilient, though I might like company, I
feel you must travel as far away from me and as quickly away from me as you
can, for all our sakes”
Jess started
to see the situation from Clarence’s point of view, the sacrifice the old man
was making, living in his heaven–for–one or not, human’s craved society and
whether Clarence felt it or not she was sure he understood it intellectually.
She and Joe had spent only 3 days trying to solve the mystery of this world. Clarence
had spent 3 years. He didn’t have answers, like he’d said, but his speculations
had all the persuasiveness to her of facts.
Joe didn’t
have any interest in staying in any case, he only wanted to know his options,
this motel wasn’t his idea of paradise anyway. Maybe Clarence was right too,
maybe he and Jess could find their dreams out there, this thought fired his
imagination, he could almost taste the rum.
“Clarence, I
think we,” he looks to Jess then continues, “I think we understand, we’ll leave
in the morning,”
“Have a complementary coffee here in the morning,” and
find me on your radio before you go, I think we must part but we can stay in
touch?
When Jess
hears this she feels sure she’s right, Clarence will miss them. They follow his
directions to their room, through the back, up two flights, across the hall,
down one flight and opening the door marked 118. The room has two double beds
and smells fresh and light. Sunshine blinks through the curtains, Joe fiddles
with the pocket radio Clarence gave them.
His guests in their
rooms, Clarence tunes his radio away from their station, not wishing to disturb
their privacy now that it isn’t necessary, he regrets not having the chance to
voice his theory about radios on this world but then who knows how they work
really? They just do.
Joe clicks off the pocket radio, kicks off his boots
and lays himself down on top of the bed on the right. After a moment, Jess
joins him.
“12 year
old?” she says.
He stiffens,
“almost 13,” I didn’t know, really.
“You suspected
she was underage.”
“Yeah,” he
admits, “17, maybe 16, it wasn’t her first time, I figured, why not once?”
“I’m sorry I
lied to you about my husband shooting me,” her voice is distant, her mind in so
many directions she can’t pin her heart to a single emotion.
“I guess I
get it,” he says quietly, “there’s a limit to what a person can take,”
“What are
you thinking?”
“I’m
thinking Clarence is right, there’s a tropical backyard barbecue and rum bar in
Torremolinos out there and I’d like to find it with you,” he smiles.
“Would you
like that?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he
says, kissing her neck softly, his stubble prickles and she smells of sweat but
they want each other now, no time to lose.
Six: Torremolinos
In the
morning, they return to the reception area the same way they came, up the
stairs, across the hall and down two flights. They’ve both showered and brushed
their teeth and Joe has used the completely new, complementary razor in the
bathroom instead of his old one to shave. They’re dressed for a long hike, Jess
in jeans, t-shirt and canvas jacket from the house and Joe in a fresh pair of
olive drab army slacks he’d been saving with pockets fat with complementary
snacks, a fresh t-shirt and a travel parka. Clarence is waiting for them with a
lit cigarette and a pot of coffee on the counter.
“Where did
that come from?” asks Joe.
“It was
under the counter last night, fresh since the day I showed up.”
Jess and Joe
drink their coffee from Styrofoam cups greedily.
“Is that the
same cigarette?” asks Joe, not thinking.
“Still
smoking since I lit it yesterday.”
“You really
don’t sleep?” asks Jess.
“Would if I
wanted or needed to, hasn’t happened in years.”
“Are you
sure you’re not hungry?” Jess continues, concerned.
“Don’t you
kids worry about me or go offering me your canned stuff, you need it and I
literally don’t.” he smiles, always the same smile, “rest well?”
“Never got
dark,”
“Oh, it
does, but it takes about 6 years I reckon, was lighter 3 years ago.”
“That’s when
you came,” Jess accepts the cigarette pack from Clarence and before she can
return it he’s produced another one. Both are missing one cigarette. She lights
her smoke and inhales deeply.
“Nothing as
spectacular as your entries, I assure you, I took this job to supplement my
retirement income, one day I came for work, sat down, I don’t know how long I
sat there, nobody coming in, no check–outs at 11, no check–ins at 3, I started
to wonder. It must have happened then,” he sips at his own coffee and takes a
drag, “I suggest you head south, when our radio’s are tuned into each other,
we’ll be able to communicate, in a manner of speaking.”
Jess
imagines she hears how badly he must want to keep in touch in his voice but
maybe it’s just her imagination after all. Clarence is smiling and sipping his
coffee as if they were just another pair of motel guests checking out in the
morning.
“We’ll keep
in touch,” Joe assures him, “studying your map, it seems the best way out of
town is north along the highway?”
“Yeah, I
reckon, it’s the concrete and steel, nails reality down somehow, I didn’t walk
along it far 3 years ago, but I imagine that corridor will keep going all the
way to the gulf of Mexico,” he sighs, wistful.
“Sure you
want to stay here?” Joe offers.
“I’m sorry
Joe, I meant every word of what I said last night, I’ve thought long and hard
about this, I decided 2 years ago, if anyone should come along, I’d sit right
here and send them on their way. You’re right about this place, it has rules.”
“Well, so
long then Clarence, thanks for all your help,” it’s all Joe can think to say.
“We can
visit,” offers Jess, missing Clarence already even though she only met him the
night before. It seems criminal to abandon a human being to isolation like this
but he’s thought it over and over like he says, there’s no arguing with him.
“I’d like
that, but don’t. At least wait and see, we’ve got the radio’s, the further you
get, if I’m right, the safer we’ll all be.”
“What about
Jess and me?” says Joe, shouldn’t we split up too then? says Joe, not seriously,
just curious.
“If you’re
on the same radio station, I think it’s alright,” speculates Clarence.
“Well
Clarence,” Jess leans across the counter to give him a hug and a kiss on the
cheek. He blushes, Joe offers his hand and they shake warmly.
“What about
the rats?” he wonders.
“There’s
another door behind the motel, the alleyway is the right scale, follow the
sectors outlined in green on the map up to the highway and you should be fine,”
says Clarence.
“Thanks
again Clarence,” Jess says.
“Just being
neighbourly,” he says, “Go on, you’ve got a lot of walking to do before
nightfall.”
Joe
shoulders his pack and heads for the door, Jess follows, as they leave the
reception area she looks back and sees Joe adjusting the radio, the same even
smile on his face.
Outside, the
morning air is sharp and clean, they breathe deeply and walk to the end of the
alleyway. Following the green sectors on Clarence’s map, they zig zag through
the streets of town, sometimes going through back alleys and through buildings.
Eventually they reach a wide road and in the distance they can see an on–ramp
that leads to a highway that stretches out into the distance before
disappearing behind the jungle on the right.
“Follow the
yellow brick road?” mutters Joe.
“We’re not
in Kansas
anymore,” agrees Jess.
They walk
on, heading for Hell or Torremolinos, giant rats or giant mojitos.
END
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