by Hanks, Greg
The Vaxinators hadn’t arrived yet, and I had a beautiful woman standing next me—who I was supposed to stick with for the next few months. I think it was time I laid some groundwork.
“So where you from, Tara?” I said, setting down the Collector.
“My hometown? Hartford. I left for Manhattan when I was about ten,” she looked sad for some reason. “I’ve been here ever since.”
We talked for what seemed like hours. Our conversation felt easy and comfortable. We were about to become collecting buddies, so we ought to know last names, at least. Her story was simple, yet compelling. Tragically, her parents both died when she was young, which was the reason she had said she left Connecticut. The pain and sorrow associated with an event like that would have thrown me overboard. But she held strong. She was a fighter.
“I can still remember the place where I used to play,” she reminisced. “Back behind my home there was this huge tree—probably dead by now. It overlooked this beautiful valley—I wish I could visit for a day or two.”
Hearing her talk of her childhood only brought stained images of mine. But somehow I was captured by her voice, her cute laugh, and her love of the world.
After the death of her parents, she went to live with her aunt in Manhattan, who was almost nonexistent—too busy being an alcoholic and a drug addict. For that reason, her sister Olivia took up the reins of raising her and her brother, Taylor. When Olivia turned eighteen, they moved in with a friend from school. It was a million times better, Tara said, then being constantly disregarded and looked upon as if she were a pile of vomit on the floor.
After the move, things started looking up. She found new life through school, friends, and a healthy environment. She eventually found work as a journalist. I smirked and envisioned a stereotypical Hollywood reporter.
“So you were uncovering all the big scandals?” I asked.
“If new Broadway plays and temperature ratings were scandals, then yes, all the big scandals.”
I laughed and felt something flush within my body. It was warm and mimicked a rollercoaster dip.
“I’ve told you my story, Wenton, now let’s hear yours,” she said, gazing at me.
“Wait . . . your brother and sister . . . are they—”
“No,” she said, her smile fading into a frown, “no, they’re gone.”
Living in a world where death had become nonchalant, there wasn’t much of an awkward silence. I too had lost my family to Edge; it wasn’t something new.
I sort of smiled, but in a sympathetic way. “Edge took my family, too. They’re all gone.”
Tara shifted in her chair and said, “Edge didn’t take my sister, though.”
My eyebrows creased inward. “What do you mean?”
“It was an accident,” she said. “A year before Edge went worldwide; there was an explosion at one of GenoTec’s branches in Long Island. It killed a hundred and fifty people.”
Before I could answer, commotion from the entryway grabbed our attention.
8
“They’re here!” someone shouted. “They’re here!”
It happened like clockwork. Vax had arrived.
Tara beckoned me and we rushed toward the exit, passing numerous people heading to the same goal. We breached the magnificent doors and the cool, May air licked our skin. I peered down the street to find at least eight semi-trucks, taking their places like automated machinery. Crowds started to form around the trucks, sucked in by tractor beams.
Tara became giddy as we reached the crowd of excited survivors. Her attitude toward becoming part-time GenoTec servants might have been a little more eccentric than mine.
“Do you think Slate will award us with anything?”
“Yeah, a big trophy with your name on it,” I chuckled. “In big letters.”
“Wait, here come some men. There it is! The Vaxiniminator! Or wait . . .” She stopped and double-checked the instructions again, while I laughed.
The two men down the road carried a large metal cube with engravings near the top. They hoisted it on their shoulders and began their march toward the Turnmont.
“GenoTec Corporation,” I read, “coming up with better ways to save your life.”
We followed them all the way into the lobby. They set the cube down with a metallic clank. By now, crowds of people were gathering around the assemblers. I felt around in my back pocket for the Collector.
With four beeps and a whoosh, the metal cube opened and the two tree trunks grasped and lifted the contraption. Every eye was on the Vaxinator.
Then it hit me.
Vax was a cure. It was real.
I don’t know why it took me so long, but the idea struck me harder than ever. With GenoTec delivering these to every part of the world, we could punch a hole through this thing. I started to get antsy.
I watched as the Volunteers brought the symmetrical, slot machine mechanism to one of the walls in the lobby. Once they suctioned the box, the silvery words “Vaxinator” spread across the top. One guy ran his gloved hand on the sleek “life-giver” and smiled to his partner. He pressed a few more things on a touchpad, and the crisp voice of a man erupted.
“Welcome and behold. You are now a proud user of Vax. Can you feel the power? If you are new to this machine, step up to the touch screen and tap your ID card. Then press the orange button below and you will be verified to acquire Vax. Vax will need to be administered every week, for optimal results. To collect your own vial of Vax, simply touch the glyph on the side of the dispenser and it will slide out of the tube below. We at GenoTec hope that this is the beginning of a new age. A new age of cure.”
The angelic voice reverberated, and smiles spread all across the room. This was without doubt, the greatest moment in Edge history. Perhaps in any history.
A rush of people formed a line. The process went surprisingly quick; the dispenser spit out vials like a vending machine. We decided to wait for everyone to finish before we collected. We had no clue how long it was actually going to take us. It could turn into one of those “how many people does it take to change a light bulb” things.
“What kind of info do you think we’re collecting?” Tara asked, folding her arms.
I thought about it for a moment. I watched the next person carefully, and realized they hardly touched anything. Just two times—one for the ID and then the orange button. What information could we extract from that?
“Maybe . . . it’s the number of people who come here each week? I know it sounds simple, but who knows.”
“No, that sounds right,” she said. “Maybe my view of this task was a little too high.”
“Don’t worry,” I smirked, “you’ll still get that trophy.”
After we finished collecting the quota for the Turnmont, which took over four times to figure out, we decided to get some lunch at the next location, Brankas. It was one of the few authentic restaurants left. Even with GenoTec fulfilling our needs, this wasn’t exactly buffet town.
In fact, to maintain order and equality, GenoTec had come up with a detailed system—an economy of their own, you could say. A ten-digit ID number had been issued out to all of the survivors wanting to cooperate with GenoTec. That ID number was imprinted onto a small card, like the ones we used to use as credit cards. Once you had your number, you could be allowed or denied access to food, shelter, entertainment, and now Vax. With the current rate of goods being produced, a free-for-all was out of the question.
If you decided to go against that principle, you would find yourself living alone. If it came to violence—a lot of these cases did—they wouldn’t think twice about silencing you. Our world needs builders, not hoarders.
There had to be limits. Once you had your apartment secured, you couldn’t just go out and claim another. Those wanting more could find run down pieces of filth located in the Rift or the Dustlsum—the abandoned places of New York and its surroundings. You couldn’t acquire more food than was allowed each month. We were tallied metic
ulously for every item. About the only thing we weren’t tabbed on were the scrap shops—the pawn dens.
Nevertheless, this was how it had to be. It was either every man for himself—anarchy—or let GenoTec step in and manage things. I was extremely grateful, but I had this feeling that one day I’d have to own up and pay my dues. It also didn’t help that people would have a hard time once things started getting back to normal. We had become extremely reliant.
On our way to Brankas, we were helpless to the bombardment of Vax propaganda. It was on every television station and every page of the Internet. It was painted across the town in massive sheets hanging from skyscrapers, banners fitted with pictures of Slate, and jubilant crowds.
“Look!” said a scruffy man, approaching us. He lifted his shirt to show us his flabby stomach, healing from a recent splotch. “It’s going away!”
Tara half laughed. Before I could say anything, he dashed away, running like a naked man, free in the wild.
I turned back to Tara and said, “I’m starting to like Vax more and more.”
“There it is,” she said, leading me past a few more abandoned shops until we reached it.
Brankas was a Volunteer operated establishment, created for the sole purpose of trying to replicate a pre-Edge restaurant experience. GenoTec allowed two chances to eat here in a month, which meant Tara and I hadn’t broken our limit. Come to think of it, I hadn’t been to a restaurant in a year or so. It made me even more depressed about my already dysfunctional life.
That thought struck a different chord. Vax meant more than physical healing. This cure was emotional triage. It was a lighthouse, leading our infinitely misled ships back to the safe harbor of sanity, hope, and life. Vax was mending more than just wounds.
Brankas smelled like heaven—a cloud of lightly burnt barbeque, butter glazed bread, and spices of every combination. It was a party of aromas, and it was making me salivate. A waiter passed by with a truckload of pies, creams, and little chocolate cakes. My stomach growled, trying to rip through my skin.
We approached the kiosk, manned by a burly Volunteer. The behemoth took our ID cards and scanned them on a square device, then handed them back, giving off a heavy vibe of “hey, I hate what I got myself into, now get out of my sight.”
“It’ll be a few minutes before we can seat you,” he said in a dull voice.
Tara turned to me and said, “Come on, we can collect while we wait.”
Subdued for the moment, we passed a few tables to reach the newly placed Vaxinator. An elderly woman was trying to receive her dose of Vax, but “technology wasn’t what it used to be these days.” I looked at her frail body, covered in green, decaying skin. She should have been one of the first in line.
After I helped her on her way, Tara had already finished collecting, and we set off for the waiting lounge.
The feathered bucket seats accommodated my lust for relaxation.
“Tired already?” she smirked, waiting for my retaliation.
“I think its Vax,” I said listlessly, feeling more comfortable with Tara as each moment passed.
“So, Wenton,” she began, “I never got to hear your story.”
I straightened, glancing at her. “No, I suppose you didn’t, did you . . .”
She smiled, waiting for an exhilarating story. But there wasn’t going to be one. I wished something would happen again, sparing Tara the boring life and times of Mark Wenton. It wasn’t like I had some deep dark secret. Okay, maybe I had a few secrets, but they weren’t deep or dark. Truthfully, I just hated sharing “my story.”
However, I owed Tara. I tried to convey my lack of excitement in simple terms. I grew up in Maine, moved to Manhattan when I was eight, and went into the construction business when I was old enough to have a driver’s license.
Whoopee.
When Tara asked about my family, I hesitated. Memories of Savannah and Carly flashed. Carly’s little blonde curls danced in front of my eyes. Sav’s crying face haunted me. Just like the few people I came in contact with, I decided to not tell Tara about Savannah. I don’t know why I had to keep it inside. I guess I was too ashamed.
“I only had one little sister,” I lied. “Her name was Carly.”
“What was she like?” asked Tara with genuine interest.
“She was . . . young.” At least that was true. The last memory I had of Carly was seeing her in my arms as she died from Edge. Her little round face, button nose, and chapped lips. At least she died early, before exposure could really set in. We celebrated her sixth birthday only a week prior.
However, I knew Sav was somewhere glaring at me. I swear her acidic eyes followed me everywhere.
Tara understood the subject was dead, so she moved on.
Ten minutes later, we finally got called back, only to be kept waiting another twenty. Once we received the limited menu, we both decided on heavy items. Tara went with the country style meal: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, thick gravy, and a meager helping of corn. It looked as mouthwatering as it smelled. As for me, I got the steak. A nice, juicy, fall-off-the-bone sirloin, grilled to perfection. Needless to say, it was a much-deserved meal.
“Can I ask you something?” said Tara, wiping her mouth.
I choked down the last portion of my steak and coughed up my next sentence. “Go for it.”
“What’s your take on the whole ‘Volunteer’ thing?”
Her eyes darted between passing GenoTec Volunteers, garbed in yellow.
I took her question into consideration, and realized it was her turn to play the skeptic.
“What do you mean? Wait a second, weren’t you happy to be considered one of them just an hour ago?”
“I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking about it ever since it happened. Haven’t you ever noticed them? I mean, really noticed them?”
“I don’t understand.”
Tara moved in closer, putting down her silverware.
“Whenever I’m around them, I’ve never seen them cough or have bandages over their fingers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one struggling at all.”
I thought for a moment. Had I never watched a Volunteer for more than a few seconds? I turned to glance at the nearest one: clean-shaven, recently trimmed hair, and no sign of blood. Then I came up with a satisfying answer.
“Aren’t most of them Seraphs?”
She nodded. “I guess. Don’t get me wrong; we couldn’t live without their help. But I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. Why are we doing this?”
She was really running with this. My own thoughts reflected from her comments. Seeing it in this light made me reconsider some of my theories.
“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “But my stomach’s full. I’m alive. And Tara,” I sent a beam to her blue eyes, “if I became healthier every time I didn’t know something about GenoTec, I’d be cured three years ago.”
She sighed at my answer, clearly unwelcome. She wasn’t satisfied.
“No, you’re right,” she started, playing with her potatoes.
I gulped some watery milk. “Right now I guess I’m just glad I can feel blood returning to my body.”
After consuming the entire restaurant—or so it felt—we decided to burn some time before our next stop at the Constitution Hotel. We entered a small shop called “Terra-Masou”, a Volunteer-operated coffee store, with a rocky terrain theme. It was a unique place with lots of odds and ends stacked and shelved. I remembered passing the store a few times, but it almost seemed too trendy and lacked the necessary elements of a post-apocalyptic establishment. I mean, we’re all about to die, right? So, I wasn’t about to stop off and grab a cappuccino.
There went my cynicism again. Another reason why I’m not making a difference in the world.
The smell of coffee filled the basin of my nostrils and I started to breathe in from my mouth only. I hated the aroma, let alone the taste, but apparently Tara loved the place. We found a tall table in the back corner fa
cing a large window and sat down.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” asked Tara. “You have at least three cups for the month.”
“I’m good,” I said, watching people pass by through the window. Despite my concerns, today had been incredible. I could feel my body responding to the vaccine. I thought about life before Vax—just two days ago. Death, destruction, blood, gore. It was a stark contrast to how things were now.
As I gazed out the window, I soon began to be mesmerized into a memory. The sound of a beating electronic drum started to pound in my ear.
“Yes!” Patrick exclaimed, as he raised a fist into the air. His brown hair was dancing above the rims of his eyes.
“Settle down, Patty,” I retorted.
It was a warm night on the balcony of the Rissola hotel. The breeze tried to whisk me to other memories, but I fought it and stuck with this one.
More jeers and taunts egged us on as we laid down a few more cards. The game was taut. But he was about to break. I had him.
“Come on Wenton, give it up,” he spat, ravening for the lust of money.
I merely smiled, and knew I had him beat. His bluff was ridiculous.
“Play that one, Patty!” said his mistress, trying to encourage him.
Just shut up, I remembered thinking.
“Lucy, stop it, just stop it! Let me have some room.”
He was getting nervous. He knew the stakes were high.
He moved his arm and laid down his last card. That was it! I had him! I smiled and followed suit in a triumphant manner.
“No!” he roared.
The crowd around us taunted him and cheered me. I gloatingly bore my teeth and tried not to laugh. I shoveled the chips my way as he glared. His woman tried to comfort him, but he remained motionless and annoyed.
At first I thought it was the wind. But when the earsplitting shriek came a second time, the music stopped. Everyone left the table and crowded around the threshold leading to the dance floor. More screaming erupted from inside followed by “somebody call 9-1-1!”