Kzine Issue 13

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  Yet when the doors slammed shut, and I found myself chained up in the near-dark of the security van’s interior, I wasn’t so sure. The men in the overcoats began to hiss like snakes in the darkness, and I briefly saw the glint of a hypodermic needle. I recalled the Director’s words about ‘keeping my mouth shut at all costs’. Then, as their distorted faces loomed over me, I was no longer at all pleased that my former employers had remembered me. I wished with all my soul and being that they hadn’t.

  VICTOR MANURE

  by Gustaf Berger

  This wasn’t your friendly neighborhood poker outing; at Matty’s place, the house took a cut, the players only came to gamble, and the average pot equaled a week’s wages. I played in games like this three nights a week, saving weekends for the ponies.

  Matty’s dusky green, three-bedroom bungalow, like every house in the neighborhood, was built early in the century to house mill workers. I parked halfway down the block. The street was deserted except for two guys sitting in an old Caddy. Behind them lay a boarded-up factory and a parking lot sprouting weeds. When the guy in the driver’s seat lit a cigarette, with smoke oozing out the window, I thought of noir movies from the forties: Victor Mature, eyes shaded by his Stetson, machine gun on his lap, waiting to wipe out some punk.

  The full house was buzzing by the time I arrived, the air flush with smoke and staccato talk, nervous bravado before the action began. I recognized four regulars: Drunk, diabetic ‘Peg Leg’ Ralph, who never saw a hand he didn’t like. Wise-guy Tony, who needed a chair for each cheek. Straight-shooting “Calculator” Calvin who only played trips or better. And pasty face Matty, the house, who was a guaranteed winner. Plus, I didn’t see him at first: Ira, hidden by a pair of fig trees.

  Matty, wearing a green eyeshade, called us to the green, baize-covered table sitting under a light with a green shade. And he wasn’t even Irish. We bought chips, and the dealer’s choice, high-low poker game began. Unlike Texas hold ‘em, the math is complex, and that’s where I excel. I’m not denying luck plays a part but, over the long haul, that evens out; it’s knowing when to fold, like the song says, and you have to know the odds. Add good observational skills to ferret out opponents’ weaknesses, and you have a money-making machine – that’s me. Not to say I haven’t had my losing nights. Lady luck can be fickle, even when you’re prepared. One night, in spite of sterling play, I was coming up second best in every showdown, losing my limit in two hours. But I’d figured there was plenty of time for a comeback – the law of averages would surely kick in. Six hours later, I traded my Harley for the tab I’d run up.

  Typically, the game was quiet for the first hour or so, everyone feeling out the competition. I stole a pot by raising aggressively against one of the newcomers. After that, the action heated up, the pots grew and, by our midnight break, I was dead even.

  Ira was struggling. His ferret-like features: beady, close-set eyes and sharp nose (pointed for action he used to say) twitched more than usual. He went to the toilet twice, each time going the long way around the table. We were friends once. We met at Saratoga Race Track. He was best man at my wedding. We vacationed together at tracks all over the country. We had children at the same times. We divorced in the same year. But our friendship blew up when he slept with a woman I’d been dating. I couldn’t blame him. She was one hot chick. My problem is she’d never slept with me, before or after.

  Matty’s sweet wife, Joan, her ample bosom swaying gently under her breezy house dress, served delicious homemade lasagna, Caesar salad, garlic bread and cannolis. Pretty good for a Polock, and it would taste even better if I were ahead.

  “So, Matty, Joan lays out this first class spread and all you serve is cheap liquor. The vodka could pass for gasoline.” I liked nudging Matty; nothing seemed to upset him.

  “Since when do you drink?” Sloshing a tumbler of rotgut, ‘Peg Leg’ sucked it down, gasping and coughing.

  ‘Twin Cheeks’ Tony stuffed an entire cannoli into his mouth, spraying crumbs as he talked. “It’d mess with the poor boy’s head.”

  “I could take your money in my sleep.” I never drank while gambling. Drunks like ‘Peg Leg’ were easy marks. I almost felt bad, but he was on a suicide mission, so some of his cash might as well end up in my pocket.

  Ira, usually chatty and engaging, wasn’t eating, wasn’t flirting with Joan, and he’d poured himself a shot, something I’d never seen him do. I wandered over. “Is everything all right?”

  “It’s nothing.” He lit a cigarette and waved me off.

  “Hey. You can talk to me.”

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  “You’re playing reckless.”

  “I know what I’m doing.” He tossed down the rest of his drink.

  After the break – fueled by alcohol, the hour, and desperation – the room grew louder, the pots larger, and the smoke thicker. I was holding my own. A few small pots kept me level, but I could have used a big hand. Or two. Ira was pressing, forcing hands. His trips to the bathroom continued. Just before final round – eight more hands of hope for the losers – he got up, whispered in Matty’s ear, and they disappeared into the next room. I went to the bathroom. Through the wall I heard Ira say, “I might need a gun.” Or something like that. The words were muddled. When they emerged, Matty was shaking his head. Hard to read him. His face always seemed to be plastered-on glad hand, like an insurance salesman. On his way back to the table, Ira glanced out the window with a start. He sat, looking paler than usual, and wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  The stakes were doubled. The pots mushroomed, and Ira won a nice hand. But he was staring at each card as if seeing it for the first time. He dribbled his chips into the pot, hangdog, resigned to…what? Then I remembered: The car. The two guys. The gun. The drinking. The sweat. Ira was in trouble again. He didn’t tell me the last time, either. You’d think he’d have learned his lesson. Dumb pride. I knew he’d never admit it to me, but I had to ask. “Really. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yeah! Mind your own fucking business… Not really.” He stared at his fingers, riffling his chips.

  His remarks confused me. Not really? Next hand, my cards were too good to fold. Money poured onto the table with each round of betting, the losers trying to get even, the winners trying to pad. “Peg Leg” was drooling, scattering chips every time he tossed them in. ‘Twin Cheeks’ raised every time he could. Matty dropped out after seeing a couple of cards. ‘Calculator’ Calvin had to be poked; he spent more time figuring than a skater. As more cards were dealt, it seemed clear that, except for me, Ira had the rest of the table beat. By the time the final card hit the green baize, the pot had grown into one that would make me right – catch me up on the rent anyway.

  Ira went both ways, trying to take the entire pot, but I had a perfect low – I couldn’t lose – and, beating him, I’d take the whole thing. I was about to throw in a raise, then I remembered the car. Those two goons. I didn’t want to see Ira’s face messed up, again. I still cared for him. We have history. But I could sure use this pot. Might not be enough to calm those sharks anyway. Ira looked over his shoulder toward the window. Am I my brother’s keeper? Does he expect me to…?

  “C’mon, Lenny. Shit or get off the pot!”

  “Smart boy needs a computer.”

  “Screw you guys!” I needed a heart transplant. I tossed my hand in, and Ira raked in the biggest haul of the night, seeming to smirk at me for a moment. Maybe my imagination. The last few hands went quickly, and Ira picked up one more pot. I felt good. The rent man would have to wait. To a good cause.

  We all left together, except for Ira; he hung back, talking to Matty. I would have thought he’d feel safer in a group. When we reached the sidewalk, I looked across the street. The Caddy was gone.

  DELUGE

  by Derrick Boden

  Andy pulled into the flood-soaked car park and shut off the engine. Outside, muddy water sloshed around the big wheels of his van. He grabbed his clipboard a
nd scanned the lines of smudged ink. His finger stopped near the bottom. Darbyville, Florida. Population: unknown. Five flood reports in three weeks.

  Across the car park, a cluster of townspeople was gathered atop a floating platform. Nobody waved, or even moved. They looked tired and bitter, as if Andy had brought the damn floods with him.

  Andy pulled on his waders. It felt like he’d just been here, and he probably had. By the time he finished his route, the first towns were already waterlogged again. The whole damned country was underwater these days.

  A stained photo taped to his dashboard caught a flash of the afternoon sun. Little Tina. Always smiling, rosy-cheeked and pig-tailed. Andy swallowed the lump in his throat.

  He grabbed his toolbox and waded across the car park.

  The townspeople eyed him as he approached. A half-dozen canoes and rowboats drifted nearby, lashed to the platform. Down the main drag, children rowed from building to building. Dirty faces peered out of second-story windows. Laundry stretched across the street from rooftop to rooftop, a tapestry of torn sheets and old jeans. Andy pursed his lips. These towns were all the same, ever since the Crash. Damp and quiet.

  “About time.” A husky man frowned at Andy, arms crossed. He had a goatee and greasy black hair, and was dressed head-to-toe in denim like some kind of a retro cowboy.

  Andy nodded. “Good to see you too, sir.”

  Nobody offered a hand, so Andy hauled himself up onto the platform. He stood there, dripping, as the crowd appraised him. Their grungy faces were creased with frustration.

  He raised his toolbox. “I’m here to work your pump.”

  A lanky man nudged his friend. “And I thought he was here for the fishing.”

  The denim cowboy dismissed the man with a wave. “We sent word to the government three weeks ago. Got water up to our eyeballs. You’re late.”

  The thin man nodded. “Ain’t that the truth, Doug.”

  Andy said, “Listen, I’ve got a waitlist a mile long. There’s pumps that need working from Miami clear up through Charlotte. I got here as fast as I could.”

  Doug glowered. “Yeah, I bet. Fast as you could. Let’s go.”

  The townspeople turned to the boats. Doug motioned Andy toward a leaky flat-bottom and tossed him an oar. Andy sighed.

  A canoe bumped the platform from the side.

  “Andy McBride, well I’ll be damned.” A wiry blonde woman in an oversized flannel waved from the canoe.

  “Hello there, Miss Pratt. It’s been a turn or two, hasn’t it?” Jessie Pratt pushed a stray hair from her dirt-smudged face. She propped her elbows against her bony knees and leaned forward.

  “What brings you to town?”

  Andy raised his toolbox. “Here to work the pump.”

  Doug slapped his boat. “He’s late. Let’s go, waterman.”

  Jessie rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you a lift. Get in.”

  Andy nodded. He tiptoed into the canoe behind Jessie. She pushed off, and they cruised down the thoroughfare amidst the pack. Oars dipped into the water in a hypnotic pattern.

  Andy leaned forward. “Thanks, ma’am.”

  Jessie shook her head. “You always were stuck on old habits. Call me Jessie.”

  A hint of perfume crept through the musty air. Strawberries. It was the smell of a distant era.

  Andy looked around. Paint-flecked houses slouched on either side of the submerged road, showing signs of rot near the waterline. In the upper floors, men and women eyed Andy has he passed, faces awash with contempt. Mothers shuttered their windows as he approached.

  In the next boat over, two townspeople were messing with something beneath a burlap tarp. They caught sight of Andy watching, and glowered at him.

  Jessie glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t suppose you still live in Orlando.”

  Andy shook his head. “That place is a ghost town, ever since the Tech Crash.”

  “Yeah, I figured. How’s little Tina? God, she must be almost nine by now…” Jessie trailed off. It must’ve shown on his face. He tried to straighten his expression, but it felt like working with dried-out clay.

  Jessie bit her lip. “Oh, no.”

  Andy swallowed. “She died in the big flood, couple of years back. Along with her mother.”

  Jessie rested a hand on his forearm. “I’m…so sorry.”

  Andy looked away. So was he. Everything had turned sour that day. Things were already pretty rough back then, but at least people smiled when he came to town. The floods weren’t so constant yet, and everyone still had access to basic amenities. He got to be the hero. “Do your best, Daddy,” Tina always said when he left for work. But when it mattered most, his best wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t enough to save her. By the time he got back to Orlando that day, her bloated and bruised body was floating out the front door. He shuddered at the memory.

  Water splashed up ahead. Doug was standing in his boat, holding his oar over his head. “Hey, we don’t have all day.”

  Andy picked up the pace.

  Jessie turned back around. “You get this often?”

  “Most places. Everybody thinks it’s all about getting the pumps going. It’s hard to show them the bigger picture.”

  The lanky man from earlier snorted from a nearby boat. “You mean like how the government gave up on us?”

  Andy clamped his mouth shut.

  The man continued, eyebrows leaping and falling with each word. “Been ten years since the Collapse, and all we ever hear are promises. Gonna be phones again, soon. Gonna be internet again, soon. I just want a goddamned dry bed to lie in. Old Fred says there’s dry beds aplenty over in Live Oak. Coincidence, with the senator’s family there and all.”

  “Amen to that, Bobby.” Shouts of agreement echoed down the waterway.

  Andy sighed. “We’re doing all we can—”

  Bobby spat. “Said they were doing all they could last year, too. My old Ma and Pa would say otherwise, if they were still above ground. If government neglect hadn’t done them in. Don’t talk to me about the big picture, waterman.”

  Andy looked away and pressed his eyes shut.

  Jessie leaned closer. “They lay into me about this stuff all the time, too.”

  Andy opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

  Jessie dropped her voice to a whisper. “Don’t know if you remember, but I was a software engineer, before the Crash.”

  Andy pursed his lips. Of course. Most people still blamed the techies for everything. Never mind it was them that had been trying to keep the world on life-support after the economic collapse. And they almost succeeded, until the viruses hit. Andy shook his head. Not that it probably mattered by that point anyway. Global warming had already sunk the first Antarctic shelf, and the floods were on their way.

  Andy cocked his head. “So you came here? It wouldn’t have been my first choice.”

  Jessie smiled. It was a big crooked smile, but it warmed the air.

  “After the Crash, I needed somewhere to go. My aunt was the closest relative; she lived up the street there. Since she passed away, Doug and the others haven’t been so friendly.”

  Wood scraped against concrete. Jessie turned. “We’re here.”

  They docked against a broad concrete cylinder adjacent to the old gas station. Murky water lapped against the concrete. At least the damned pump controls were still above water.

  The ladder squeaked in protest as Andy hauled himself up onto the platform. A metal housing twice as tall as a man and four times as wide sat bolted to the center. Stamped on the rusted siding were the words: “Federal Water Relief—Authorized Personnel Only”. Four titanium deadbolts lined the door.

  Andy popped his toolbox open and dug out his keyring. The locks squeaked open, one by one.

  Bobby leaned over Andy’s shoulder and stared at the keyring with greedy eyes. His clothes reeked of mildew. “Don’t make any sense, why they don’t let us work our own pump.”

  Andy twisted the last lock. “We have to m
onitor capacity. If we run too many pumps at once, it’ll overflow the system. Or worse, break the pump. You don’t want to know how long it takes to get these parts replaced.”

  Bobby sneered, revealing a hedge of yellowed teeth. “Your big picture sounds like a whole lot of big excuses, to me.”

  Andy pried the door open. He ducked inside and flipped on his headlamp. The pump was old—they all were—but it looked to be in working order. To its side, rusty propane tanks crowded a hulking generator.

  Andy worked his key into the cylindrical lock and turned it to fifty percent. The generator spun up with a deafening rush. The pump churned, and the ground rumbled beneath his feet.

  Andy stepped outside. The water level had already begun to inch down. Scattered cheers filtered through the mechanical din.

  Doug and a handful of townspeople were digging around in the bottom of their boats. When they came back up, each held a shotgun.

  Andy froze. Doug fired his gun into the air. Andy flinched, then pushed Jessie behind himself. Doug cocked his gun and leveled it toward Andy. The others followed suit.

  Andy swallowed. “Easy, fellas. What’s this all about?”

  Doug eyed Andy. “This is gonna be the last time our town floods.”

  Jessie pushed past Andy. “What the hell are you doing, Doug?”

  The townspeople shared nervous glances. They held their guns with trembling hands.

  Doug snorted. “Outsiders weren’t invited to vote on this matter. I suggest you head home.”

  Jessie glowered, but stood her ground.

  “Suit yourself.” Doug turned back to Andy. “We’re gonna need you to leave those keys and the rest of your equipment. That’s the only way you’re gonna walk outta here alive. This here’s our pump, and from now on, we’re gonna run it ourselves.”