Shelf Life

by Bob Crosley

  Praise for Shelf Life

  "Very rarely can an author say that a work set in his own created world is as good, or better, than the original. That is certainly the case with Shelf Life. I enjoyed every minute of this read. Shelf Life is an exciting, fantastic journey into the world of Pennsylvania with twists and surprises that kept me turning pages. I was sad to see it end." – Michael Bunker, author of Pennsylvania

  “Bob Crosley's Shelf Life – with its visceral depictions of Gutierrez's interrogations and heartfelt description of one man's love for his invalid mother – will leave you emotionally spent by the end. And that's good storytelling.” – Chris Pourteau, author of Tales of B-Company: The Complete Collection

  "A gripping vision of the harsh realities of life under Transport" – Philip Harris, author of The Girl in the City

  Shelf Life

  by Bob Crosley

  Copyright © 2015 by Bob Crosley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  The quote attributed to “a wise man” is from George Orwell, taken from his 1945 essay, Notes on Nationalism.

  Cover design by Jason Gurley.

  For more information, visit http://www.bobcrosley.com/

  For my sons. Sometimes, you have to put yourself out there, do something crazy and see if anything interesting comes from it.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  “We’re out of tea again, Jacob. The damn terrorists, you know?” Mr. Abbas’s face wore a pleading look. His elbows were close to his sides, hands up in a tight shrug. There was nothing he could do, his hands seemed to say. The war was the war.

  “TRACE doesn’t want me to have herbal tea?” Jacob was having a hard time understanding how the war against the terrorists was affecting his mother’s tea, but he was having a hard time understanding anything right now. Behind Mr. Abbas, the large Internet display showed ads and clips from various Internet sites, games, and shows. On each ad, a small geometric LNKCODE provided quick access to let BICE users go right to those locations. It seemed that even with a direct line into users’ brains, advertisers still did everything they could to get attention.

  The Beta Internet Chip Enhancement gave every human direct access to everything the Internet had to offer, but that huge flow of information could be overwhelming. To cope, users stayed dosed with a drug called Quadrille, or Q. For those users, the constant stream of LNKCODEs in the ads simply opened new windows for users to access when ready. But Jacob didn’t have any Q to make it easier, so what he did have was a headache.

  “It’s not just the tea!” Mr. Abbas pleaded, “Look at my shelves!” He gestured toward the half-filled shelves. “I can’t get anything anymore.” Life in the cities of the Great Shelf, never easy, was even harder during this war. Jacob struggled to be polite and look Mr. Abbas in the eye, like his mother had taught him. The slight turn of his head brought the Internet display into his central vision. Every code that flashed on the screen opened a new window in Jacob’s head. Every window was a hammer blow to the base of his skull.

  “What do I owe you for just the milk, then, Mr. Abbas?” Mother would have to get by with leftover tea bags for one more night.

  Mr. Abbas just smiled and looked at Jacob expectantly. Jacob furrowed his brow and wondered for a moment why the shopkeeper didn’t answer. Then he realized the store computer would’ve sent a message to his BICE unit. It must have gotten lost among the advertising windows. The hammer blows became a jackhammer as he sorted through the windows to find the message from the store register.

  “400 Unis? For a half-gallon of milk?” That was up over 100 Unis from just a couple days ago.

  “It’s the Amish.” Again with the shrug. Nothing he could do.

  “How do the Amish control the price of milk? They keep to themselves, don’t they?” Jacob was looking at the plain countertop. Listening, but avoiding the display behind Mr. Abbas.

  “Ah! They produce all of the milk, but because they won’t pasteurize it, it won’t make the trip to the Shelf. It all goes to the City to be pasteurized, and then the markets there scoop it all up! I get what I can, but it’s expensive!”

  “I see.” Jacob wasn’t sure if what Mr. Abbas was telling him was right, but his head hurt too much to argue. “I’m sure the government will get it all sorted out.” Jacob looked up at Mr. Abbas, but his eye caught a glimpse of the display just as a special offer with a trio of codes flashed on the screen. The stab of pain caught him off guard and he gasped slightly as he clamped his eyes shut.

  “Mmmph.” It was clear Mr. Abbas didn’t agree with Jacob’s opinion about a government solution, but he noticed his pain. “What’s wrong, Jacob?” The sudden realization showed on his face. “Are you out of Q? You can’t use your BICE without Q, Jacob! It’s not good for you!”

  “Yes, I’m out. Q gets expensive. There’s not much left over from what I get for taking care of mom after we pay for everything. Especially not if milk keeps going up.” Jacob smiled at his own little joke in an effort to alleviate Mr. Abbas’s concern.

  Mr. Abbas took a key ring from his belt and opened the small cabinet behind the counter. He took out the familiar white bottle, removed a pill, and grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler. Returning, he placed it and the pill on the counter. “Take it.” He held up his hand to stop Jacob’s protest. “It’s on me. Take it.”

  Jacob popped the pill into his mouth and washed it down. He immediately noticed the comforting smell of orange zest as Q entered his bloodstream. The constant pounding pain faded, but didn’t disappear completely. His young brain was already damaged.

  “Take the bottle. The water, too. And here, take this.” Mr. Abbas held out a piece of paper. “It’s a program to get extra Q for people who need it. You know… if you run out… for whatever reason.” He smiled understandingly at Jacob.

  Jacob tried to return the smile, but was too embarrassed. He just looked down, thanked Mr. Abbas, and left.

  Chapter Two

  Jacob stepped out onto the sweltering streets of New Detroit, hearing the bell on the shop door jingle as it closed behind him. The heat of the afternoon sun didn’t compare to the heat of the shame radiating from him. Mr. Abbas knew about his mom, and he took pity on Jacob. Pity! It wasn’t his mom’s fault that the terrorists kept the medicine from the cities and it certainly wasn’t Jacob’s fault. He didn’t need anyone’s pity.

  Jacob turned west, toward home, squinting to save his eyes from the glare. He turned up the narrow paved road, and started walking down the middle. As every resident learned in school, the ‘roads’ in New Detroit weren’t traditional roads. Barely fifteen feet wide from storefront to storefront, they were designed solely for pedestrian traffic. Every three blocks, the narrow
road opened into a large circle. The clearings were designed to allow small, automated airships to touch down regularly, ferrying passengers to their destination. These People Mover airships never arrived. Terrorist attacks in the City made people afraid to emigrate to the Shelf. So New Detroit, designed for half a million souls, held less than twenty thousand. Every year, local Transport officers would visit the schools and regale the young students with pictures and videos showing the People Movers in action, carrying people around a glittering version of New Detroit, promising the students that it would be their future once Transport defeated TRACE and won the war.

  Jacob remembered, during his primary grades, watching the Transport officers in pressed uniforms show off videos that must have been older than the officers themselves. The images were of the shining city with thousands filling the streets, walking to shops, work, and home. People Movers touched down and took off, carrying New Detroiters across town quickly and comfortably. There was never any sign of the hazards of city life. No delivery trucks barreling down the streets. No homeless people begging for food or cash, and no gangs or street thugs harassing people or stealing from shops. Jacob had lived here all his life. He’d never once seen the city in the videos. Nothing glittered.

  In Jacob’s New Detroit, the harsh white dust from the limestone cliffs of the Great Shelf was everywhere. It added a dull, white sheen to the ‘glittering’ buildings. When the dry Santeras winds blew, the dust filled the air, turning the blue sky white, with the sun a slightly brighter spot of white. The one similarity between Jacob’s city and the video was that there were no homeless people. With a city built to hold twenty-five times more people than it did, there was no shortage of places to live. And while delivery trucks didn’t barrel down the street, they sped down the wide alleys that cut through the middle of each block. Street gangs conducted business in the alleys as well. Even with only twenty thousand people, there were still those who sought to terrorize the innocent. Learning what he had lost, what the terrorists had taken from New Detroit, made Jacob eager to help Transport. He would have signed up to fight if it weren’t for his mom.

  Jacob liked the street. Virtually empty as it usually was, he could walk down the center unmolested, as if he was the last man alive from an old apocalyptic movie. And today was actually a pretty nice day. Allowing himself a brief moment to notice, he took in the blue sky, the clearly yellow sun, and the cooler breezes that punctuated the dry heat of summer. He walked tall, standing straight and taking in the world around him. Realizing that today should have been his first day at University ended his brief respite. His thoughts quickly returned to his mom and her illness, and the pity Mr. Abbas showed him. Instantly his posture changed. He slouched and his head drooped, as all of his problems, the problems of New Detroit, and even the problems of the entire planet seemed to settle on his shoulders. He was a modern day Atlas, one too skinny for the job.

  Reaching his building, Jacob walked three flights up to the small apartment he shared with his mother. He turned the key, and as he always did, paused before entering. Closing his eyes and lowering his head, he wished for the strength to go through the door. Opening his eyes and finding his wish unfulfilled, he went through anyway.

  As he entered, he heard his mother cry out from her bedroom. He opened the door and walked into the dark room. The air was so heavy and thick that it felt like the dust from outside filled this room, blocking out every source of light, of life.

  Mom had been sleeping for too long on one side, since Jacob had forgotten to turn her before he left. He walked to the side of the bed, reached across, and grabbed her hand. He pulled her hand up and rested it on his shoulder. Stretching her arm caused the damaged nerves to fire and her hand to clench his shoulder tightly. He put his arms under her and, stepping back, was able to easily turn her to her other side. When he then leaned forward, the death grip on his shoulder loosened. He took her hand and lowered it back to her side. Sometimes he would take her hand and straighten her arm, just to feel her grip his hand. It wasn’t real affection, but it was all Jacob could get from his mother most days. The Wasting had left her only a cruel imitation of human contact.

  Returning to the kitchen, Jacob put water on to boil. Opening the refrigerator, he removed the small glass that held 4 used herbal tea bags in a tiny bit of water. With the shortages, Jacob was an expert at getting every bit of tea from any tea bag.

  While the water heated to a boil, Jacob opened the new bottle of Q Mr. Abbas had given him. He felt shameful again as he took three pills from the bottle, crushed them with the bottom of the tea cup, and brushed the powder into the cup. Adding the bags and the water, he let it steep. This was the secret Mr. Abbas understood. There was never enough pain medication in New Detroit to help those with the Wasting, but given enough Q, you don’t care about the pain.

  After helping his mother finish her tea, Jacob settled down in the one comfortable chair in the living room, laid his head back, and gave himself a brief break from the world around him. The familiar white flash told him he was online. He left the dusty wasteland of New Detroit for the mythical land of Gorath, and prepared to earn glory as the best dragon slayer in the Northern Territories.

  Chapter Three

  Morning found Jacob’s destiny as a dragon slayer unfulfilled. His battles had gone well, until the burdens of the day caught up to him and he fell asleep. Fortunately, the server kicked him off for inactivity before his character could be overrun and destroyed by the dragons that plagued the towns of Gorath.

  While water for morning tea was nearing a boil, Jacob busied himself with getting ready for his mom’s visit to Dr. Antonov. He pulled her aging wheelchair from the closet, and set about unfolding it and preparing all of the restraints. Newer chairs were equipped with power sources, a cushioned ride, and other luxuries, all beyond their budget. Any power source or cushioned ride would have to be provided by Jacob. The whistling kettle summoned him to the kitchen, and as he prepared the tea, he took a Q for himself. Maybe he could get some game time in on the airbus.

  After bathing and dressing his mom, Jacob began the process of getting her into the chair. As the Wasting ate her muscles and nerves, parts of her body would seize up as the remaining muscle tissue tightened. Other parts would go limp, as the nerves stopped sending signals to make the muscles work. How her body behaved would change from day to day, so no two trips to the chair were ever the same. As he fastened his mother into the wheelchair, Jacob was reminded of watching a parent strap a baby into a stroller or travel seat. It just wasn’t supposed to happen like this though, with the child securing the parent.

  Lower the chair. Step down. Lower the chair. Step down. Jacob repeated this over and over for three flights of stairs. If he moved too fast and hit the lower step with a bump, it caused his mom to groan from the pain of impact. Twice, it was a two syllable groan, aaah-oh: Jacob. What was once the sharp, snapping sound of her calling his name when he did something wrong was now just a slightly different moan than usual. Only Jacob could tell the difference.

  Drenched in sweat, Jacob wheeled her out into the hot, hazy day. There’d been no rain in days, and the Santeras winds filled the air with white dust. It was still early, but you could already tell it was going to be a white-sky day. He turned toward the Transport station on Woodward and started on his way to catch the 10:15 shuttle to New Chicago and Dr. Antonov.

  ***

  “I’m telling you Jacob, people aren’t meant to live this way.”

  This was how it was every time, with Dr. Antonov expounding on the issues of the day during the exam. While talking, he took each of Mrs. Alders hands in his, and slowly stretched out each arm to see how far it could go. He then put her hands back in her lap, and made some notes on his tablet computer.

  “Isn’t that right, Annabelle?” Jacob’s mother lay on the examination table in the center of Dr. Antonov’s small medical center, a low, one-story building on the outskirts of New Chicago. Despite the use of her name, her
slack, emotionless expression never changed. Dr. Antonov said it was important to talk to patients with the Wasting, even if it seemed they didn’t listen. Something about keeping the brain active.

  “How do you mean, Doctor Antonov?” Jacob had learned long ago that not responding wouldn’t make the conversation end any sooner. Plus, Dr. Antonov had an interesting way of speaking, with an accent from the Earth country of Russia.

  “Call me Vasiliy. You’re eighteen now, aren’t you? A man? We talk as equals. What I mean, Jacob, is that you can’t build a complete city, with everything you think people need, and then move people into it. Cities don’t work that way. Cities are living organisms. They grow, adapt, and change depending on their environment and what’s happening within them. There’s no good way to build a city for half a million people and hope you got it right. They can’t even decide where I need to be. I used to be five blocks from you and now I’m the only doctor in two cities.”

  “Don’t they have planners and designers who know how to do this? I mean, they’ve done this so many times, don’t they know what they’re doing? They’re not going to build an entire city if they don’t think it will work.” Jacob had plenty of experience with listening to the men of the city as they solve the entire planet’s problems over coffee. He was starting to think the same thing about Dr. Antonov. If you’re so smart, why aren’t you running things?

  Dr. Antonov smiled, the way an adult would smile at a small child who thought the rain was God’s tears. “Jacob, they think they know what they’re doing. They’re certain of it. They’re convinced that they’re the smartest people on the planet, and if their plans don’t work out the way they intend, then it’s usually the common folk like you and I who did something wrong. At least according to them. Those who think they can lord over other men have no doubts about their abilities.”