“On the house,” the bartender muttered as he slid the beers across the bar, carefully avoiding eye contact with David.
“You'll get used to it, I'm afraid. People here are paranoid, and for good reason. Things have been getting hotter than ever lately; the tension between the Futurists and The Progressives is thick as a cut of New York strip and rumor has it something paramount is coming. Those of us who aren't involved at that kind of level keep our heads down at times like this,” Conor said. “I'm sure you can fill me in a bit though, given the kind of company you've been keeping.”
“You mean Ca—” David stopped short of saying his name. “You mean the man I came in here with earlier?” he corrected himself. “I actually don't know much about him, other than I think he might be crazy. When I first met him he was waving a chainsaw around like a madman.”
“A chainsaw ... figures. Their weapon of choice. They think they’re being clever.”
“How so?”
“Irony, or something. Chainsaws are symbolic of the deforestation of the land back when everything was cleared to make room for more farm fields. If it weren't for the chainsaws, or at least the men who originally wielded them, none of this would have happened—or so the argument goes. People like your friend see the chainsaw as just desserts. It all would have happened anyway though, in my opinion at least.”
“So, what are they ...” David stopped himself, realizing it in his best interest not to give away he knew nothing about what was going on. If he was going to find any answers, Conor seemed to be his best bet. Right now, his best approach was to pretend. “I mean, what do you think about all this?”
“This war has been going on for too long, is what I think. It's an extension of The Chemical Wars, which themselves were extensions of The Class Wars—but no one ever talks about them.”
“Maybe you can?” David prodded.
“Heh,” Conor’s lips curled into the hint of a smile. “It figures you'd ask. If there's any place better suited to discussing them than here, I haven't heard of it.”
“Why's that?”
“Bandleshore's the epitome of what The Class Wars represented. The people who live here are at the edge of civilization, some of them by their own decision but most of us had this forced upon us. Displacement all over again.”
“You mean like when homelessness was banned in the old cities?”
“It reeks of the memory, what's happening here.” Conor nodded and scanned the room, double-checking no one had become keen to eavesdrop on their conversation. “The Class Wars started well before the banning of homelessness though. That was only one of the battles of the bigger war, albeit one of the key battles. No, The Class Wars went much farther back—back to the technology revolution—past that, even—although that's when it did start to become a real threat. Everyone thought we were past division by difference. Culture wars were a thing of the past. The field was levelling, and everything seemed right—or at least so we thought. But The Class Wars, the ones kids will read about in history books someday, those wars were the battles of The Futurists vs. The Organics and they didn’t see color or race or sexuality. These were philosophies of what it meant to be human and what it meant to be the predominant species here on Earth. They were the precursors of The Chemical Wars and today's battles of Preservation vs. Progression—the same war drums your friend is beating, I might add.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Of course, it's complicated! What in life isn't? When technology continued to grow at an exponential rate, the first space it expanded was in the availability of knowledge, something hailed by all the thought leaders as key to our future. Some called this spread of information through the network, with its availability to everyone regardless of their education, The Great Emancipator. Imagine that! Named after Honest Abe himself! What they ignored, the spark igniting The Class Wars, was though this knowledge was freely available, it was only available to those with the means to access it. Those with the means to purchase the technology to tap into the network were at an immense advantage over those who lacked such tools. Sure, government libraries and their declaration of basic network access as a public utility gave information and a voice to those who previously had none, but by then the gap between free technology and what those with deep pockets could afford had widened too far.
“Knowledge, of course, was not enough to start a war. The war started when it became clear those at the lower end of the social spectrum were unable to access the other opportunities new technology provided. By the middle of the Twenty-First Century immortality was becoming a reality, to those who could afford it. As soon as the government stepped in and started regulating information-sharing, it was obvious there was no money in that part of the business. Along with this regulation came the government's plan to provide health care for all, but the capitalist system society was built around made sure not to add any additional regulation to the health care industry. With more money pouring into the system, it was clear medical technology was where the money was.
“As health technology grew, so did the costs of access. Soon it became clear the government's plan of universal health care was one of the lowest common denominator, and although everyone had access, those who had the means could access much more than those who could not. As the population swelled, and technology continued to grow, overpopulation plagued the planet and along with it, unemployment. There simply weren't enough jobs for everyone. The government kept raising taxes on those with the money, but soon realized if they went much farther with this plan there'd be no incentive for anyone to succeed.
“Feeding this massive population became the next major hurdle, with most funding spent on chemical engineering and genetic manipulation, but by then it was too late. The geeks knew this well ahead of time, of course, and they had wisely sided with technology. Others were not so lucky. The streets of every major city were swarming with the homeless, and the President granted all cities the option to purge. It wasn't long before all of them did. First Chicago, then LA … New York, Vegas, Atlanta. Then? Dominoes. They effectively banned homelessness and an entire class of society up and disappeared.”
David’s stomach churned as he contemplated this disregard for human life. “Doesn't sound like much of a war, more like a genocide,” he said.
“True, although no one was actively killed. They kind of … died off. Especially as The Class Wars gave way to the Chemical ones.”
“Ca—he mentioned those to me earlier—The Chemical Wars. They were what wiped out our ability to live on land right? What drove us to build the cities on the sea?”
“Exactly. The geeks were right.”
“So then, what's The Cause?”
Conor’s eyes widened, alarmed at the flippancy in which David posed the question. He made a calming motion with his hand, pressing his palm down into the air in an effort to silence David. “I told you,” he whispered. “There are certain things you don’t want to talk about in public.” His focus switched from David to the space behind him. “Oh shit,” he muttered.
A hefty, well-manicured hand grabbed David’s shoulder firmly, pinching his nerves and causing him to wince in pain.
“Interesting company you keep, stranger,” boomed a voice from behind. David tried to turn to face his assailant, but the man’s strong hold prevented him from doing so. “We need to speak with you… outside.”
Conor turned his attention away from David and now focused solely on the mug of beer in front of him. He ran his fingers nervously up and down its handle, avoiding any eye contact with either David or the group of men behind him.
“What’s this all about?” David demanded. “Conor?” But Conor ignored his pleas, even as the men tore him from his seat and shoved him through the crowd out the bar’s side door.
“Keep walking. We need to find some privacy.”
David walked in silence, guided by the man behind him, still gripping his shoulder tightly. From the clack of the footfalls David gu
essed there were at least two men, possibly three, in the group besides himself. They led him to the edge of Vonshine’s and turned left into an empty alley. The light from the gas lamps in the street had no chance of reaching this far into its recesses and the moon had not yet risen high enough to illuminate the space. The noises of the bar filled the backstreet, the shouts and laughter only slightly deadened by the thin wooden walls separating the alley from the bar’s lively interior. As they reached the end of the alley, the man’s grip tightened further, forcing David to his knees. The man released his hold and David turned around.
With what little light was available to him, it was impossible for David to make out the men’s faces. From their silhouettes against the lights of the street’s gas lamps, he could determine they were tall—not Calvin tall, but still well over David’s own six feet. Their heads appeared to be shaved or bald, from the smooth round silhouettes. David tried to stand but was forced back down to the ground.
“We don’t know who you are, but we know who you came here with and we have a message for you to deliver to him.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
One of the other two men stepped forward. “Just give The Preservationist the message!” he screeched, before kicking David in the gut. David howled and buckled over from the pain. The third man stood back in silence, watching.
The first man spoke again, “Tell Calvin no one wants a war. We’ve seen enough pain already. Peace is near.”
“Funny way of showing it,” David bellowed, still clutching his stomach.
“Yes, I s’pose so,” the man conceded.
The third man who had remained silent until now dropped down to David’s level and put his mouth to David’s ear. “We have something else for you to deliver,” he hissed.
“What is it?” asked David.
The man righted himself and punted David square in the face. David’s nose let out a wet crunch and he saw an explosion of stars. Then … nothing.
EIGHT
HAVE A NICE TRIP
The crack of thunder rang, shattering the room in unison with the flash of lightning and, from the way the picture rattled, it may very well have hit the house. David’s eyes shot open from the scare, and he twisted to look at his alarm clock. Nothing. The power in the house was out.
David rose from his bed, stumbled sleepily out of his bedroom and down the two flights of stairs into his basement playroom. Along the way he tried a few light switches but none of them worked. In the basement he felt his way through the darkness, arms stretched and fingers splayed, probing the murk before him. Thank God the kids aren't here and their toys are put away, he thought. If I tripped and broke my neck, there'd be no one to find me for days.
He reached the door leading to the back storage and utility area of the basement. It was here he’d find the circuit breaker necessary to bring the house back to life, but there was no way to navigate through the mess of the space blindly. On the shelf next to the door, his hand found cold metal. He took it into his hands, weighing the military grade aluminum, and clicked the rubber button, bringing the half-dead flashlight to weary life.
The underpowered bulb did little to brighten the space, hardly putting forth enough light to illuminate the far wall. Swinging the dull beam across the floor, he maneuvered through a dim maze of storage boxes and outgrown toys. Aiden’s dusty rocking horse creaked like death against the concrete floor as he brushed past. Besides his flashlight, the only source of light in the room came from the small flicker of the furnace pilot light, not nearly enough to provide any meaningful aid.
His journey through the gauntlet of forgotten toys and cardboard caged memories ended as his beam fell on the circuit breaker. Nothing appeared to be broken—no sparks or smoke or smells of torched wiring. Mouthing a silent prayer thanking God they didn't still live in the old house with the fuse box, David reset the main breaker and the fan on the furnace roared to life. The basement, however, remained shrouded in darkness.
He slithered back through the maze of boxes to the door separating the storage space from the rest of the basement and switched on the lights. Some escaped through the open door, casting the rest of the basement in a lifeless glow. After propping the door open with the flashlight, he bolted through the playroom and up two flights of stairs, turning on the lights as he passed. Screw the electric bill; he'd turn the lights off in the morning when the sun was up.
When he reached his bedroom, his eyes immediately explored the dark space beneath the bed. He flicked the light switch, then quickly off when he realized he'd be unable to sleep with the lights on and made a run for his bed. In the dark it was impossible to determine if he tripped on some clothes left on the floor, or if it was due to something reaching out from under the bed to grab his foot and pull him under. The split second of time while his body tumbled forward onto his bed was not enough to be certain, and the crack of his skull on the headboard knocked him unconscious before he could give it a second thought.
NINE
HAVE A NICE TRIP, PART 2
“Stand up,” a voice commanded.
Opening his eyes, David made out the silhouette of Calvin kneeling before him. He was still in the alley, although the sun had risen since his altercation the night before. Busy voices echoed through the streets of Bandleshore as the people began their day. David tapped his nose gingerly, cringing at the prickle of broken bone and cartilage shifting under his touch.
“Put these on.” Calvin handed David a pair of brown loafers. “Size twelve, right?”
David slipped on the shoes and stood, grasping Calvin’s shoulder to retain his balance. His head still swam from the concussion and he expected to vomit but looking down to the ground where he spent the night, he realized that ship had already sailed. Beer and granola stained the pavement next to where his head had been, like a bowl of oatmeal tossed aside by a displeased toddler. He licked the inside of his teeth and spit, attempting to dispel the rancid taste.
“You look like hell,” said Calvin.
“I figured as much. Nice eyes, by the way. Blue suits you—much better than the dingy gray you were sporting before.”
“Thanks. What happened to you?”
“I had a run-in with some friends of yours. They wanted me to give you a message.”
“Consider it delivered.” Calvin waved his hand in dismissal and walked down the alley. “Come on. First train out leaves early. We need to be on it.”
“Can't we stop and eat something first? We can catch one of the later ones.”
“No. We're on this one. Let's go.”
Despite the cacophony of voices echoing through the alley, the streets of Bandleshore displayed far less life than David expected. No cars traveled the narrow roadways yet the few people who were out stuck to the sidewalks. About half of them donned workingmen’s clothes—dirty overalls and worn-out shoes—and appeared to be headed in the direction of the Eyefields. The other half wore freshly pressed but threadbare business suits and traveled in the opposite direction, presumably for the train to Plasticity.
“A border town if I ever saw one,” said Calvin.
Vonshine's doors were closed, as were the doors to most shops on the way across town. One shop, however, attracted David's attention. The smell of fresh baked goods wafted through the front door and open windows out into the streets. As it hit David’s nose, his stomach began to rumble.
“Seriously Calvin, I need to eat something.”
“Have you got any money?”
David turned out his empty pockets. Nothing. Not a gum wrapper or a nickel. Not even a wad of lint.
“Here,” Calvin handed David a roll of bills, none of which seemed familiar. “Buy me a scone while you're at it—and a cup of coffee—dark roast.”
A few minutes later David returned with Calvin's scone and coffee, and a banana and cappuccino for himself. He thanked Calvin for the food, and they ate as they continued on their way.
In the daylight, th
e massive structure of the mag-train station was staggering—a proud immensity utterly unappreciable in the moonlight the night before. Gigantic beams of gleaming metal jutted from the sand like spears, acting as the main support for the structure. An illustrious expanse of stone stairs extended up from the beach to a wall of glass doors. As they climbed the staircase David realized the steps, rather than stone, appeared to be made of crushed and reformed concrete.
“What is this stuff?” he asked Calvin, tapping his new shoes on the steps.
“Recycled from the freeways. All the plants and quarries and construction industries are long gone. If you want to build now, you have to use what you can find.”
“What about the train station? That doesn't seem to be recycled.”
“The train station was first constructed when they built the city. It used to be attached to the second floor of a shopping mall, but it burned down. The Progressives suspected we were behind it, although I never heard any proof to that rumor. At least no one on our side has ever laid claim. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if those damn Progressives did it themselves to try to shut down access into Plasticity once they were all out there. The Cause was a handy scapegoat.”
Calvin took a cigarette from a silver case he kept in his suit pocket, lit it with a match, and continued.
“Soon enough the city people realized they couldn’t survive forever out there in their plastic island at sea and they were forced to send crews out to build a new entrance to the station, reopening it to the public in the process. Since most everything had already been destroyed, they had to make do with what they could find. Most of the freeways are gone now, you'll notice. Everything's been looted and reused, but the land still hasn't recovered to a point where anything growing is new or useful for us—especially not trees.”
The climb up the stairs showed how out of shape David was. As if the run through the flooding fields and the beating in the alley weren't already enough, his calves burned like fire from this latest leg of their journey. The pain, along with the steep stone-like stairs, brought back stinging memories of climbing the stairs of the Sun Pyramid in Teotihuacan on his honeymoon.
The Unfortunate Expiration of Mr David S Sparks Page 4