Grey

by Jon Armstrong

  Terrified that it would flatten me like a mosquito, I threw myself into the other lane and covered my head with my arms. As I clenched my eyes, a blast of air flattened me against the opposite wall. An instant later, I heard a tremendous crash.

  Out of a murky, purple darkness, I woke. I was lying on my stomach, nose flat against the burning tiles. My head felt like it was on fire, and I could barely pull air into my lungs. My right elbow throbbed, my neck was stiff, but I was alive.

  In the distance, I heard the whistling of another car approaching from the other way. Crawling on hands and knees, I scurried to the far wall and covered up. As it howled past, I was smashed into the corner, then whisked up, and tossed across the tiles like a piece of paper.

  I didn't black out, but landed on my back and slid for what must have been fifty feet. When I came to a stop, I stared up into the sky where the clouds spun around a center point. My head ached and my left leg felt broken.

  Thinking I heard another car, I pushed myself up and saw lights coming from both directions. If I wasn't run over, the opposing blasts would rip me in half.

  Ten feet away, I saw an orange tarp tied to the wall as though covering a repair. If I ran toward it, grasped one of the ropes, maybe I could somehow vault over. Although my legs ached, I got myself up and started for it. After two steps, I swear a bone in my left broke, but I kept going.

  As I neared the tarp, I knew I couldn't jump over and wondered if I should just fling myself at it in desperation. Then I saw that the far end was loose and that the tarp covered an opening. Planting my right, I clasped my hands over my head, and as if I were diving into water, leapt at the hole.

  The two cars whipped past at that instant and the sonic boom shot me forward like a flesh and bones bullet. The plastic-coated fabric smacked my face and wrenched my head far to the side. Then I was flopping head over foot down a sandy embankment and couldn't tell which way was up. I thought it would never end, and then all motion came to an abrupt stop with a splash.

  I lay in rank water that stunk of excrement and made me want to retch. Sitting up, I expected to find fractured bones protruding from my chest like a rack of lamb gone awry. And although my hands looked like they had gone through a zester and were well seasoned with sand and grime, I was okay. In fact, Mr. Cedar's suit was clean dry. Of course, I had never been sitting in sewage before, but I couldn't believe how clean it was. Dipping a sleeve into the goo, I pulled it out and watched the fabric shed the mud and sewage like water on waxed steel. Surely, its strength had saved me.

  Slowly, I crawled to dryer ground, collapsed, and caught my breath. I had survived the fall. I was off the Loop and away from the cars' whirlwinds, but I was also off the system, beyond the security cameras, and farther from the families than I had ever imagined.

  Then I started to cry. Although alive, I was doomed. And I wasn't going to see Nora! So much for touching her hand, or feeling the heat of her blood again. And so much for my declaration of independence! Now I was nothing more than a hurting body sitting in sewage somewhere in the slubs, waiting to die under the burning sun.

  In Pure H issue seventeen, a nothing of a salary man decided to become immortal. After an exhaustive study of his options, he submerged himself in a geologically perfect bog and dies knowing that his body will become a fossil in a billion years.

  I heard voices and laughter. Twenty yards away, in a muddy lot between what looked like abandoned warehouses, stood a dozen men. Half wore ill-fitting silvery jackets. The rest wore what looked like shiny white plastic bags. Their translucent khaki and brown pants hung like skirts. Most wore belts of rope or thick leather. Many had hair on their faces and what looked like purplish patches of skin.

  All I had ever seen of the slubs were images on screens: gangs of marauders in silver, whites, and beiges, the massive, dark factories, the hordes of bugs, the wretched workers, the running noses, and the miles of polluted cornfields.

  The men laughed again. Then, I heard glass breaking.

  Pushing myself up, I realized that the lower left pant leg had become stiff and thick. It was like my suit had sensed that I'd cracked a bone and turned itself into a cast. I'd heard of such things, but was surprised that my tailor had outfitted me so.

  Turning, I gazed up at the Loop atop a steep, sandy embankment. Before the men noticed me, I wondered if I could climb up, and walk beside it until I found a camera. Surely Joelene was monitoring the system for me.

  Making my way back from where I had just come, through the mud, wasn't easy. I couldn't put much weight on my left leg, and at one point, my right sunk in so far I wasn't sure if I could pull it out. What I had to do was fall back into the gunk and slowly wiggle it free. Several times, I stopped to rest and let what felt like white-hot embers of pain in my left subside.

  When I got to the base of the Loop, I doubted I could make it. It was thirty feet high and steep. After I took a breath, I started to climb, but when I dug my fingers into the sticky soil, black roaches scurried out of holes as if I had disturbed their sleep. I got maybe three feet before the soil let go and a half-ton of it avalanched down.

  After slapping the bugs from all over, digging dirt from my eyes, nose, and ears and spitting the stuff from my mouth, I tried again. This time I went slower, but my climbing had brought out so many waterbugs I spent half my time flicking them off my arms and legs. When I got four feet high, the earth let go again and half-buried me in a mound. Once I had pulled myself out and cleaned off, I felt sick. I vomited blood, and knew I didn't have much time.

  Turning, I watched the men. One had taken off his silver jacket and was waving his arms about as if explaining something. The sleeves of his undershirt—if that's what it was—hung to his knees like long pillowcases.

  The undershirt man began wrestling one of the others in white plastic. They pushed each other back and forth and shouted. When the plastic man fell, the others cheered. I feared they were going to start kicking him or pummeling him, but a moment later the fallen man was helped up. They all laughed as though it was fun.

  They were people, I reminded myself. They weren't unlike me. They just lived in a different place and wore different clothes. Some of them had to be friendly and polite.

  Pulling myself out of the sand, I stood, and started limping toward them, avoiding the deeper water and mud and muck. When I was ten feet away, the one in his undershirt pointed at me. He had frizzy-looking light brown hair, round, bloodshot eyes, a thin crooked nose, and a patch of oozing purple skin on his forehead. Up close, I could see that his undershirt was a ghastly nonwoven that looked as rough as unfinished oak plank. Just below the neckline was a small, blue bug-looking thing with text below that read M. Bunny. Pointing at me, he said, "I thought I recycled you!"

  The others laughed.

  I tried to smile, but felt instantly ostracized. One of them in a silvery jacket pointed to my suit, snickered, and nudged the man next to him. Another said something about my bride throwing me in the ocean and I wondered if they knew of Nora. Pure H issue seven had copy that read: Mechanical Man. Exquisite Oceans. After swallowing a knot in my throat, I said, "Hello. I'm Michael Rivers."

  "Who?" asked the man I presumed was Mr. Bunny.

  "First son of RiverGroup."

  "No!" said another. "What shitting team you with?"

  "He doesn't shit. That's why his jacket is that color!" answered someone else.

  They all laughed.

  "I fell from the Loop," I continued. "Can anyone help me back?"

  "He's the enemy!"

  "He stinks!" said another, covering his nose.

  "I used to dance," I said, hoping they might know me from my PartyHaus days. "I was on the channels." None of it seemed to register. Instead they giggled and pushed each other like schoolboys.

  "He's ill and delusional," said one.

  "Could be high-fructose psilocybin!"

  "Wait!" said Bunny, as he looked me up and down. "He thinks he's the one who dressed in gold."


  It was true. I had a twenty-eight-carat-gold outfit. "Yes," I said, glad he remembered if disheartened how.

  Bunny stepped beside me, and as if introducing me to the group, said, "You slubber idiots, it's the evil banging-boy. In the deadest jacket ever seen with his diseased face in need of serious recycling!" He got them to laugh again.

  I tried to smile to show that I didn't mind, but worried that no good was going to come of them. I wished I had blacked out in the mud and suffocated.

  "That's not him!" said another, who had hair all over his face. "That kid was the richest pill ever. He'd never be here."

  "Yeah," concurred Bunny. Wiping his dripping nose with one of his huge sleeves, he asked, "Who are you, and who do you shit for?"

  "I need to get back to the families," I said, as a ripple of fear, like gamma rays passed through me.

  "I don't want to hear any families!" The thing on his forehead oozed a yellowish puss, and he smelled like rancid frying oil.

  "If he came off the Loop," said someone. "Could be soaking with p'thylamine!"

  "Satins will zap a slubber dead if you get up there," said one of the others. "They electrocuted my uncle. Half his body was burned away. Couldn't get anything for him."

  I retreated a step from Bunny and tried to make eye contact with the other men. "Will someone help me?" No one spoke. "I could assist you," I suggested. "I know we're supposed to be foes, but I could have some clothes tailored for you." They looked at each other and laughed again.

  "What's wrong with our knits?" Bunny wanted to know, as he primped his sleeves and smoothed the stiff spunlaid material over his belly.

  "No, nothing," I said, taking another step backwards. "Sorry. Um . . . my family company keeps information . . . and . . . identity and . . . " Bunny glared at me as if I wasn't making any sense. My voice trailed off.

  "Michael Rivers," said a female voice from farther back in the group. A short, chubby woman in red shorts, a sparkling red bra, and a small, white plastic jacket stepped forward. Her hair reminded me of Mother's from last time—a stiff, multi-colored muddle shaped like a garden shrub—only hers was so laden with tiny silvery trinkets, it sparkled and tinkled like an enormous charm bracelet. Around her otherwise naked belly was a wide red plastic belt with a large button in the middle. "I heard he's getting married to that Gonzalez-Matsu girl next week."

  "I was going to," I said, "but there were complications."

  "Complications!" roared Bunny. "There's going to be more than complications when they grind your ass into pâté and spread you on bunny crackers!"

  Everyone laughed except the woman. Instead, she peered at me suspiciously.

  "I am Michael Rivers," I told her, and thought I saw a glimmer of recognition in her eyes. I quoted, "The moment became her life." Her expression darkened, and I cursed myself for thinking she knew Pure H.

  Tilting her head to the right as if sizing me up, she said, "You look like that boy."

  "If he is," said one of the men, "he is a big pill."

  Bunny said, "Pay for all of us to do Kandi's hole."

  "Shut up!" she snarled.

  "I was playing!" he said. "Next time you're at the clinic, get a humor implant!"

  Curling a lip, she said, "No more for you. Never again!"

  "I was just joking!"

  While the other men made cooing sounds, Kandi stepped forward and asked, "What are you doing here, honey?"

  "I don't know," I said, glancing at her belt. The thing in the middle wasn't a button but a plastic lid attached to her stomach.

  She noticed my eye-line. "You want it?" she asked, with a sly grin. "You have to wash, honey." She licked her lips and smiled.

  It felt like the cooling system in Mr. Cedar's suit had given out. "No, thank you," I stammered, ashamed. I knew what it was: she had a vagina implanted where her bellybutton had been. Back when I danced, some women had it done, but it was terribly out of fashion in the cities now.

  Meanwhile, the men were laughing at me again. Someone had said virginity. Another said spilling Grandma's gravy, whatever that meant.

  "Can't you help me," I asked the woman. "Please?"

  "You got money?" she asked. "You with Segu or Bunny or what?"

  I glanced at the logo on the front of Bunny's shirt, but didn't know what she meant. And since I didn't carry any money, I didn't know what to offer. Touching my chest, I said, "What about my Mr. Cedar jacket?"

  She curled a lip. "That thing?"

  It was Bunny who touched the fabric. "Weird thing is," he said, "you're covered with shit, but the knit is all sweet and pretty."

  While I wanted to tell him that it wasn't an awful knit, I thought better of it. "It's self-cleaning," I said, hoping it might impress them. "It also has a temperature control system. My tailor is famous. He's from outside Seattlehama. It's probably worth . . . " Since I had never directly paid, I had no idea. "Maybe seventy-five billion?"

  I saw green and red bits of food on Bunny's tongue when he laughed. "You're a fucking round sugar pill. Stupid and blank."

  "I'm not sure exactly," I said. "My family buys them."

  His fist came at me in a blur and hit me in the gut. Next, I was on the ground trying to get air back into my lungs.

  "Don't be stupid," he said, wiping the drip from his nose. "I'm intelligent, disease-boy! And your ugly, gray, sick jacket isn't even worth a good shit."

  As the woman came to my side, she said, "You've got a bad testosterone imbalance!" to Bunny.

  "Fuck you!" he screamed, then opened a small jar and tossed several tiny emerald tablets onto his tongue.

  When the rest of the men teased Bunny, he hit the back of the woman's head and knocked her across me. As three others helped her up, I saw that the lid on her belly had fallen off. Inside was a wrinkled daffodil of purple and pink flesh. I turned away as she grabbed the lid and snapped it back on.

  "No looking," said Kandi angrily. "That's ten right there!"

  "You contaminated whore!" said Bunny. "I'm taking him in for recycling. You take all your fake cunts and get out!"

  "Go have a cell storm!" she scoffed. From a beaded red bag, she got out a pill and popped it into her mouth. As though it gave her strength, she stood, and said, "Don't get near me." She grasped my arm, yanked me up, and nearly dislocated my shoulder. I tried not to cry out. "Come on," she said, tugging my hand, "we're going."

  "No, you're not!" Bunny grasped my other arm and the two of them played tug-of-war with me. I lost my footing, and when she let go, fell face first in the mud.

  Then I heard shouting and feet going in all directions. Pushing myself up, I saw three large men dressed in orange satin skiing down the sandy embankment where I had fallen. Family satins! I was saved.

  The one in front, who wore a helmet with a gold visor, hoisted a clear fashion rifle to his shoulder. He fired. An orange streak zipped through the air. To my right, I heard a soft thud. Someone in the distance screamed. Then it was quiet.

  "Michael Rivers?" asked the satin in the gold visor, as he stepped before me.

  "Yes." I coughed. "Thank you."

  Grasping me under the arms, he lifted me, and threw me over his shoulder. From there, I could see Kandi face up in the mud. Blood covered her implant. No! I thought, not her!

  The Loop was blocked in both directions and an air-conditioned tent had been set up. To the left sat Ken, Xavid, and the film crew on folding chairs. On a puffy, orange, over-inflated marshmallow of a couch were Father and one of his women, like king and queen of the Loop. In his right hand he held a glass of his fermented carrot gunk. With his big pink straw, he idly poked at the stuff.

  He wore white pants with little blinking blue dots all over them, a red shirt with RiverGroup logos and fornicating bunnies, and a tiny, frosty green vest that looked like it might properly fit an infant. His current girl had orange hair, blue lips, and the sort of haughty, upturned nose that he preferred. Her frilly, awful pink and green dress ended at her midriff so the whole worl
d could see the orange-painted treats inside her translucent bloomers. I didn't see Joelene and figured he forbid her.

  The satin had set me before them on a wooden crate. My whole body hurt. My right elbow throbbed as if it were shattered. When I wiped my mouth, I saw a brilliant smear of blood on the back of my hand. And even seated, I had trouble keeping myself upright. All I wanted was to be put out of my misery.

  "So," said Father, "how's things?" He laughed, winked toward his ever-present film crew, and then nudged the girl who had become absorbed with a tiny golden robot that lived in her navel. Seemingly annoyed that he hadn't gotten a big laugh, he said, "Hold this, spaceship!" and thrust his glass at her. After glancing at the hole in the Loop wall, he asked, "What were you thinking? First, it's illegal to go into the slubs. They are the enemy. The families are gonna fine us big for this. And second, they're all drugged-up savages down there. It's hell. There's no system, and there's not one good satin."