The Unfortunate Expiration of Mr David S Sparks

by William F Aicher

  “… and the power stations are secure,” David finished.

  “Right! So, the data we’re grabbing is funneled out, at a tiny undetectable trickle to our hacked node in Sage’s network, as part of the power ration allocation algorithms for the general population. Sage transfers it to a data stick, it goes through some unknown variety of hands—secure hands, and ends up here,” Calvin gave David another pat on the back. “See Bethany, I told you Sage would be worth more than his cocktails.”

  Bethany sighed. “Right as usual, Calvin. But still, these are small pieces of information. Anything too big and we’d be noticed. Of course, we have algorithms in place to parse and prioritize anything appearing to be worth further investigation, so that comes our way first in the data stream—but the only way we can access all the information we need is to wait. A long time.”

  “Couldn’t you just, I don’t know, have it upload the data into some sort of brain storage or something the next time I’m in for an uplink?”

  Bethany explored Calvin’s reaction, her eyes eager, and started, “It’s something we could do—"

  “—But won’t unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Calvin cut Bethany off with a stern glare. “We’d much rather wait. There are potential limitations associated with a data upload to an organic storage unit—”

  “—Which is why we’re taking you offline. We need to get you out of here while we’re gathering data.” Bethany clapped, signaling the end of the conversation.

  “Where? Should I just hang out in my apartment?”

  “No. David. Out of here. Out of Plasticity,” Calvin said.

  Bethany grabbed David’s hands in hers and bounced up and down, like a little girl waiting for her birthday cake.

  “We’re going home, David.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  WE’RE OFF TO SEE

  THE WIZARD

  The pressure locks let out an icy hiss as the canopy bolted into place. David’s ghost-like echo stared back at him, his rapid breath fogging the glass until his reflection disappeared. The firm cushions lining the pod should have felt uncomfortable, but despite their cold and unwelcoming appearance, they cradled his body. Hooks of looped padding tightened over his chest and around his waist and ankles, pulling him snug to the foam bed. He wanted to struggle. To escape. But he took a breath and resisted.

  “You locked in?” Calvin’s voice sounded muffled through the layers of glass.

  “I guess so. I feel like I’m about to take a ride on a rollercoaster.” The warming air stunk of stale mildew and sweat. David again fought the impulse to panic.

  “Yes, I do suppose it will be something like that,” replied Bethany. “But these pods are going to go way faster than any ride you can imagine.”

  The Aeropods were some of the last remnants of the mass transit systems from the time before The Chemical Wars wiped everything out. The old networks of road and freeways were long ago swallowed up by resurging vegetal growth. And the fossil fuels required to power the few remaining vehicles capable of the type of off-road travel their trip required had dried up or expired decades ago. Though the rails and mag trains between cities still stood, the power stations running them also no longer functioned—and years of disuse and exposure to the chemical-infused air rusted them away to the point where they too, were unsalvageable. Aeropod transports, personal methods of transportation exclusively available to the super-rich, were all that remained.

  Unlike most forms of travel, Aeropods were limited by strict boundaries. Although capable of tremendously high speeds, their movement was purely linear. Each trip started at a single launching station to a destination depot, with no variation of paths or stops between. Many members of the upper class, like this one’s previous owner, installed stations in their homes. Not only did Aeropod units allow for quick mobility, faster than any airplane, to most major cities, but due to their hermetic seal were also the safest way to travel through the now chemically toxic rural areas.

  Many firms with sufficient capital even installed launch stations and destination depots in their corporate headquarters, for quick travel to and from the office for the C-Suite and members of the board.

  Unfortunately, most of the Aeropod network had been rendered inoperative due to combinations of neglect and lack of stable power supplies. There were, however, a few remaining bastions where the requisite power seeds endured. Mostly these could be found at the previous homes of the richest and most powerful of the old society. They were the only ones able to afford the prohibitive cost of self-renewing nuclear reactors in their homes—and the only ones able to grease the palms of regulatory agencies.

  Most of these reactors had long ago been looted for whatever useful bits they might have. Some had been refactored into suitcase nukes, as Seattle well knew, while others simply became unstable, poisoning and killing anyone within the vicinity when some fool unsuccessfully attempted to extract a seed from its reactor.

  David, Calvin and Bethany were now at one of the few remaining functional launch stations. Discovered through a backtrack of a FloatNet node they found in the basement of an office in old Chicago, it somehow managed to survive decades of disuse. Apparently, a hedge fund manager had kept a small vacation home in rural South Carolina. A remote diagnostic analysis confirmed it as still fully operational.

  Situated on a private lake in the middle of nowhere, no one came across it in their travels after the war. The home had been built offsite and airlifted into location, set up to be self-sustaining through a personal nuclear unit, and only accessible via air or Aeropod. No roads reached it, and the only way in—if you knew where you were going—was through miles of native forest. A perfect fishing getaway, a place for this man to step out of the city and realign with nature, but still be back to his office on short notice.

  A few electric motorbikes stored in a shed on the outskirts of Bandleshore provided enough horsepower to speed through the fields and forests overnight and reach their destination just as the sun began to rise. A few hours rest in the cottage’s untouched beds, and they were ready to make the switch to Aeropod.

  ----

  David sipped his coffee as the crimson sun breached the tree line. Dew dappled the grass and leaves, refracting a shimmer of sunlight, like all that lay before him had been born that morning. The air buzzed with the morning twitter of birds. Insects buzzed in the tall grasses as they woke from their nighttime slumber. A fished splashed in the lake and the coffee tasted like heaven.

  “Remind me again why we can’t just keep driving?” David asked.

  “For starters, our batteries are almost dead.” Calvin’s booming voice sounded out of place here in this tranquil setting. “And even if we could recharge them or swap them out, there’s no way into Chicago anymore. The highways are all destroyed. Same with most of the bridges along the way.”

  “We also can’t risk being spotted,” Bethany added. “We have no idea what kind of surveillance they have on you—”

  “—and by the time we get to Chicago you’ll be way too far for any of the wireless networks to pick you up,” said Calvin. “Satellite, maybe—but they’d have to know where to look … and most major cities are blacked out from satellites after everything that happened to their grids during the meltdowns.”

  “We can’t run the risk of them tracking us any further,” Bethany continued. “After we launch, we’ll blow the reactor here. They’ll know we left, but they’ll have no idea where we’ve gone.”

  David strolled to the edge of the deck, looking out over the placid lake. In silence, he stood leaning against the railing, as the sun above beat down with glorious warmth. The idea that all of this beauty could be lethal seemed impossible. He loosened his grip on his cup and watched it slowly tumble down to the rocky shoreline. A pop of shattering ceramic echoed across the lake, leaving a starburst of brown on the stones as the only proof any human had been here in decades.

  “Alright then. Let’s go,” David said.

  Betha
ny let out a disgusted sigh, turned and stormed back inside, leaving the sliding glass door open behind her.

  Calvin shook his head. “Do you have any idea how much that was worth? This place was like a sealed time capsule. You can’t find organic beans anywhere anymore. Those beans were over a hundred years old.”

  -----

  As the screen on the Aeropod counted down the final seconds before departure, the roof opened and exposed the sapphire sky above. Unsure of what to expect when the contraption finally launched, David braced his body for liftoff.

  Just get there. Don’t talk to anyone. If anyone asks, say you’re a friend of Bethany’s. If they understand, they’re a friend. Otherwise, stay in one place and wait for the others.

  “Chicago is not a place you want to be wandering on your own.” Bethany’s final warning echoed in David’s mind.

  Lay low. Wait. Don’t go for a stroll. Easy.

  “We’re shutting you down, David,” said Calvin.

  “When you wake up, you’re going to feel nauseous. It takes a few trips for your body to acclimate to the Gs,” Bethany said. “Just get out and put some distance between you and the pod so it can return here and we can catch up. And remember—”

  “—I know. Stay put.” David took a deep breath and held it.

  “Good boy.” Calvin slapped his fleshy hand on the glass. “Sweet dreams.”

  The lights in the pod dimmed and a rush of air hissed around David as the sleeping gas discharged from the interior vents. He breathed out, then in … and let the gas do its thing.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ASK ME ABOUT

  MY GREAT-GRANDSON

  The black hunk of plastic sat there, its digital readout unresponsive. He pressed a few buttons and wiggled the card. Pulled it out, jammed it back in.

  “Chip reader don’t work yet.”

  David pulled his credit card from the chip reader and swiped the magnetic strip. Technology, he thought.

  “Need a receipt?” The heavy-set cashier behind the counter didn’t even bother to look up from his magazine.

  David shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “You’re all set then.” The cashier glanced at David and added, “Congratulations, by the way.”

  He left his pickup truck parked at the far end of the gas station parking lot. As he strode across the black pavement, he sensed eyes on him. An elderly gentleman, hair gone gray and wiry whiskers sprouting from his sunken face gave a friendly wave, and shouted, “Congratulations!”

  By this point David detected a pattern, though the pattern made no sense. He considered stopping to ask the man what he was talking about, but confrontations were something David tended to avoid. And so, confused, he continued to his truck.

  The reflection in the pickup window gave David his answer, although he still was unable to understand it. On his shirt, he made out in reversed type, “Ask Me About My Great Grandson.” He looked down to the shirt to confirm the reality of what he read, and saw the same message staring back at him upside down. He fingered the shirt’s soft material. It was cheap discount store quality, and the message was screen-printed in simple black block letters. It was real—but David had never seen it before, much less remembered putting it on that morning. Not only that, but at the age of 33 he was also far too young to be a grandfather, let alone a great grandfather. Something wasn’t right, and David could feel it—could feel a slow unfolding of his mind as this realization set in and realized he was either dreaming or hallucinating.

  Stepping closer to the truck to see a better look at his reflection in this strange delusion, he noticed the passenger door ajar. He pulled the driver door open and climbed to pull it closed from inside when a grunting sound from the back of the truck seized his attention. A man in the backseat stared at David, eyes wild with a mix of terror and confusion. The two locked eyes, and after a moment the feral stranger shoved the passenger seat forward and escaped through the back door.

  David scrambled back down from the truck and rushed to the passenger side to see what, if anything, had been stolen. His body convulsed and his stomach wretched when he saw the pile of feces on the truck floor. Backing away, he gave himself time to regain his composure. After a few seconds he returned to the truck, averting his eyes from the steaming pile on his back seat, but even without looking he was reminded of its presence from the stench alone. He pushed the seat back to its regular position and continued his search of the truck. The binder of CDs that had been sitting on the floor of the passenger front side was missing. All that remained was a sole circle of plastic with the words “Toby Keith” scrawled on it in black marker.

  Irate at the mess and, even more so, the theft of his music collection, David thrust his hand under the passenger seat and searched chaotically until he found the reassuring chill of bare metal. Careful not to cut himself, his fingertips traced the sharp edge until they found wood and clutched the handle of his emergency hatchet.

  “Come back here you sonofabitch!” David yelled and took off down the street, hooking a left where the man turned. Before he made it too far, however, the heat from the summer sun and the exhaustion got the better of him. He stood panting on the sidewalk and searched for any clue where the man went. Then he saw it, a head poking around the corner of a hedge, spying on him. David forced a second wind, reared the hatchet above his head, and continued his pursuit.

  The man disappeared behind the bushes and by the time David reached the spot he last saw the intruder, the man was gone. He continued down the alley.

  The hedge broke further down and opened on a cracked concrete driveway leading to a rickety old house. From the decrepit state of the house, the piles of rubbish on the porch and the straggly, overgrown lawn, David knew he was no longer in the affluent neighborhood he called home.

  A resounding bang sounded, and David’s focus shifted to the front door. The screen rebounded in its frame, hitting a second time, as the steel entrance door closed behind it. A click of the deadbolt sealed it shut. David paced the porch as he desperately hunted any view of the interior, but unfortunately, the sidelights were boarded over, and the windows covered in newspapers, blocking any view of what might lie inside. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and considered calling the police, but the adrenaline pumping through him didn’t allow for that kind of bureaucratic wait. A swift kick ripped through the screen, snapped the deadbolt from its frame and busted the door in.

  Inside, the house was in no better shape than out. Muddy footprints caked the floor leading from the entrance. Empty takeout containers littered the coffee table and piles of dirty socks, shirts and other laundry were scattered everywhere. A heavy cloud of dust hung in the air, disturbed from its rest by the violent slamming of doors. A muffled yelp caught David’s ear, and a dim rectangle of light at the far side of the room vanished as another door slammed shut.

  David bolted for it, flung it open and bounded down the stairs into a partially finished basement. He dashed across the concrete floor through a corridor of unpainted drywall and stopped at the door to the room where the man hid. David took a deep breath and bent his head to the left and to the right, his neck popping like firecrackers as he prepared for confrontation.

  Gingerly, he pressed his fingers against the door; it had no handle and swung effortlessly on its hinges. Someone on the other side pushed back and David responded with a swift kick, slammed the door against the man and sent him to the floor.

  The man scrambled to his feet, scurried to the back of the room and seized a pair of rough cut 2x4s. Bringing the wood down on David like a pair of Neanderthal clubs, the man lunged at David and screamed, his eyes wild like a rabid opossum. A quick feint to the left dodged one impact, while David blocked the other with his hatchet. Like a medieval battle, the two of them sparred until one of the boards splintered to bits. The man stepped back, lifted his remaining board like a baseball bat, and took a powerful swing, only to be stopped short by David’s hatchet. With a strong yank, David pulled
the makeshift weapon from his attacker and pried the board from his blade. The 2x4 banged against the floor and he raised the hatchet high above his head, ready to deal a killing blow to the stranger.

  Tears welled from the man’s eyes as he covered his head and collapsed onto the floor. In response to this man’s expression of pure terror, David hesitated, his weapon still held high and gradually lowered it to his side. The man began to rock back and forth on the floor, whimpering. To his left, on a makeshift table made of plywood and sawhorses, lay David’s binder of CDs. In silence, he picked them up, gave the man another look, and walked out the way he came, ignoring the sound of tears and snot splattering pathetically on the bare concrete behind him.

  On his way out, the roughed-in hallway opened into the larger open area David hadn’t noticed in his earlier pursuit. To his right a pair of men sat hunched over on a dingy black futon, staring at a television screen, video game controllers in hand. Somehow, they hadn’t noticed David come through earlier, likely too focused on their video game—but this time they saw David and froze. A smile crept across David’s face and he dropped his CDs and broke out into a run. The two men let go of their controllers, sprung from the couch and gave chase.

  The sound of metal dragging against concrete pierced David’s ears, and he looked back over his shoulder to see the larger of the two only a few feet behind him, a four-foot black and yellow striped steel pipe in hand. His smaller friend followed close behind.

  As he cleared the top of the stairs, a brush trimmer hanging from a hook on the wall caught David’s eye. He wrenched it from its hook, gave the cord a strong pull, and the motor roared to life. He spun to face his assailant, swinging the trimmer threateningly at the big man and his yellow pipe. David attacked, and the man raised the pipe to block the spinning end of the trimmer. The whirring blades bounced off the metal with a screeching ping and sent a burst of sparks into the air as the two makeshift weapons collided. The blades snapped on impact, clattering against the walls and stairs, rendering the makeshift weapon useless. David threw the trimmer at his pursuer and bolted for the front door.