Pump

by Gary Denne

  The female voiceover feed him statistics and facts he knew he would forget the second he looked away. In fact, for a brief moment, Sean wondered if he’d even made a mistake in applying for the lottery, as crazy as that would sound to anyone on the outside. Out there, was a tough and gritty existence, but like many, it was a life he’d grown accustomed to. The world may’ve had some ugly new realities, but at least there was never a dull moment.

  Born on the West Coast in Southern California, Sean grew up in a time when the world was still normal—‘normal’ being a relative term, naturally. Even though serious and largely irreversible cracks were already beginning to appear in the fabric of society, no one could have ever predicted the slew of events that would come. Perhaps in hindsight, one could argue that the financial collapse was an inevitability. Predicting earthquakes, however, was still very much an unknown science.

  Like an evil madman demonstrating the power of his destructive new weapon to world leaders, all it took was 41 seconds for Mother Nature to destroy Los Angeles from the biggest earthquake ever recorded on the Richter scale. Much like a controlled demolition of a dilapidated city building to make way for a new development, the City of Angels finally had ‘the big one’. And, boy, was it big.

  Sean’s only memory of that fateful morning was waking to silence, trapped under the collapsed family home in Redondo Beach. His family, friends, neighbors—his entire street … wiped out. Having survived the quake in what was one of many miracle survival stories across the city that day, Sean was pulled from the rubble and given the news he was the only survivor of his household.

  The event, dubbed ‘41’ by the media, had changed the entire planet. Although the world gave generously in the weeks and months that followed, as coverage of the devastation beamed to the corners of the globe and horrified anyone who watched it, many knew rebuilding the city would be logistically and financially impossible for years to come, if ever. It was, to many social commentators and thinkers, the death of Los Angeles.

  In the years following, Sean spent his days without direction, soaking up the surf, chasing girls and racing cars. He fixed cars for little income while living in the coastal surf community of Laguna Beach, taking advantage of the quake fund left to him by the city, not to mention the waves that rolled in on a daily basis. Surfing brought him great peace. He felt connected out there in the ocean, sitting on his board, waiting for the perfect wave. It gave him time to think. Time to reflect on what kind of future he would have. And what kind of place the world had become.

  Any minute now Sean knew he was either going to fall face down on his workstation or backwards out of his chair. He forced himself to snap out of his daze and reach forward, touching at the screen to stop the video. It paused, and there was silence. He was thankful for the break. He snuck a sip of his coffee in, hoping it would give him a kick to wake up. It had been such a long time since he had tasted coffee that he’d almost forgotten how damn good it was. Boy, was he enjoying it. Glancing around him, others were at desks of their own, busy studying screens of data and numbers.

  Mentally exhausted, he got up from his desk. Not used to sitting in one spot for too long, he wanted to feel his legs again and walked over towards the subway map that covered the entire length of office windows, looking out over a bustling Columbus Circle. The network diagram of the transit system was projected onto smoked glass, masking the movement from outside. Trains were represented as colored circles and could be seen slowly pulsing their way along lines from station to station, following routes all over the island.

  Sean stood there, gazing up at all sorts of icons and graphics dancing in front of him like a Christmas light show. He hadn’t noticed the other worker next to him, doing the same, but had seen his face throughout the day. Sean briefly glanced at the old guy’s name badge. ‘McKinley’, it read. He returned his focus back to the board as the two of them stood there, admiring it all for a moment. Sean towered over the short and stocky McKinley.

  “Ya know what the best part about this job is? It’s that the AI runs everything,” McKinley suddenly said to Sean, gesturing up at the wall. “We don’t have to do squat.”

  “And what’s the worst part?” Sean replied.

  McKinley paused briefly before cracking, “The AI runs everything. We don’t have to do squat.”

  They both smiled ever so slightly.

  “It’s so damn good it runs itself,” McKinley added. “It knows when there’s a problem and knows how to fix it. Sure doesn’t need us no more. If you ask me, we’re the damn robots now, sitting on our asses, babysitting the damn thing in case it needs burping. But hell ... beats being on the outside, right?”

  Sean nodded. He pointed up to the map at the tunnels that once connected Manhattan to the surrounding boroughs. “So the tunnels are still open?” he asked.

  “Just one—the old Lincoln. MADDSEC guard it like a son of a bitch, but it’s the only way to transport goods in and out … mostly what they still need from outside and can’t produce on the island. Well, that and entrants, of course. But I bet ya’ don’t remember anything about that, right?”

  “I woke up in an apartment with a fruit basket on the table. The note said to make myself feel at home.”

  “It’s the way they’ve always done it, so everyone says. Mixed in with all those health shots they give ya’ is the knockout stuff. Guess they figure it’s less traumatic if we just wake up in the city, like somehow the outside was just a bad dream. Once they tag n’ bag you, they send you through from Jersey in a designated train.”

  Sean instantly knew what McKinley was talking about, lifting his jean leg up to show off a stamp-sized plate protruding from underneath the skin of his calf.

  “Yep, we win the damn lottery and all we get is that lousy implant. Don’t worry, you get used to it,” McKinley assured.

  They both looked back up at the map, in particular, the tunnels.

  “Have you ever been down there?” Sean pondered, almost to himself.

  “Once … years ago,” McKinley said. “It’s secure as hell and heavily guarded. Those MADDSEC guys sure are paranoid. They stop trains halfway for quarantine and clearance, right under the Hudson. They call it the scan n’ slam. Once the train’s cleared, they send it up north to the Warehouse District.”

  “What about people? I mean, could someone get into the city through the tunnels?”

  McKinley turned to him, as though Sean’s question was crazy-talk. “Oh, hell no,” he said. “No one gets in or out of this city through those tunnels. I’ve heard rumors, but they say before you could even get close, there’s areas down there that’ll turn you into crispy bacon before you even know it. The train line is a fry-zone, anyways. Not to mention that little piece of hardware in your leg which’ll light up MADDSEC’s systems like a damn Christmas tree if you get anywhere near the place without clearance.”

  “Yeah ... I guess so,” Sean said, glancing back down in the direction of his calf and the MET safely tucked away underneath his skin.

  “Hell, never met anyone as damn curious as you before. How long ya’ been in?”

  “It’s that obvious, huh?” Sean said.

  “It is when you’ve been here a while,” McKinley answered.

  “Today’s my first day,” Sean replied.

  “No kidding?” McKinley said, genuinely surprised.

  “You?”

  “Nine years and counting … and I thank God every single day,” he told Sean. “Wife n’ kids, we were part of the initial intake. They took a whole bunch of us when the paying population started to grow. I guess we were the guinea pigs. To see whether bringing outsiders into the city would work.” He moved in a little closer to Sean and said discreetly, “So, I gotta ask … what’s the outside like these days?”

  Sean thought about it for a second, wondering if he should describe everything he’d been through the last few years. Wondering if he should describe the violence, the despair, the loss of hope. The ruins of L.A., the
struggle for things that here in Manhattan were never given a moment’s thought.

  “It’s okay …” he finally said. “Out there, you do what you gotta do, I guess.”

  “Well, better here than out there, right?” McKinley said.

  “Well, yeah. Except I was expecting a little more hands on than this,” Sean said, looking around the office at others staring at their screens, still crunching and analyzing data.

  “Oh this?” McKinley said, “don’t worry, this won’t be forever, kiddo. Maddox have a habit of changing us around like a woman changes underwear. One minute you’re here, next you’ve been assigned to the rooftop gardens, sweltering in that damn sun for ten hours. So as they say, be careful what you wish for.”

  “I don’t get it. On the paperwork, I put down manual labor. I ticked all those boxes, the gardens, warehouses, maintenance. Then I get stuck with this crap. No offense.”

  “Ah, you’ll get used to it, kid. This is all about pushing buttons and enjoying the coffee and donuts,” McKinley said. “And, hell ... once the programmers get the kinks outta the AI altogether, we’ll all be assigned to some other sector in the city. Who knows, we might get lucky and end up as lifeguards up at the Beaches. Have you seen the women up there yet? Hoochie mama … it’s like you died and went to heaven, kiddo.”

  “What are the Beaches?”

  “A district on the Upper West Side. There’s a cluster of man-made beaches and an aquatic playground right in the city. It’s like you’re in ... I dunno ... the damn Caribbean or something. There’s private areas for residents, naturally, but there’s also a couple of beaches and lagoons for anyone to use. Maddox had to do something for the summer months, otherwise they would’ve have a riot on their hands if the Beaches were resident only. It ain’t a freebie for us commoners, though. I think from memory it’ll set you back about a $350 a day. But the way they’ve designed it, it blows your mind, kiddo. There’s golden sand, swimming, palm trees, banana lounges, bars ... you name it. And they even use the seawall. Whether you’re in the water or soaking up some sun, the seawall projects back this kinda looped video of an endless ocean view. You can sit there and imagine you’re in the Bahamas. Damn magnificent. It’s synced to the time of day too, so there’s sunrise, sunset, and yachts sailing by on the horizon. Man, do I want that lifeguard job,” McKinley gushed as he daydreamed.

  “Yeah, yeah ... where do I sign up?” Sean insisted.

  “You don’t. You get chosen for those kinds of jobs. I’ve heard a lifeguard in the private Beaches is the most coveted job in the city. You’re looking after some of the islands richest residents. And get this—some of these socialites will parade around topless, tanning and frolicking in the water. Can you imagine that? Sitting back in a tower and watching that? I’ve even heard some of them are willing to mingle with the staff, if you catch my drift...” McKinley said, winking suggestively.

  “Really?” Sean said, smiling at the old guy. “I’ll put that place on my ‘to do’ then.”

  “Well, that’s enough of my cheap thrills for one day, I think,” McKinley said. “Hey, speaking of women, if you want to mingle with local neighborhood girls rather than the stuck-up rich types, there’s a bar in the Underworld that’ll do the trick.”

  “Here,” McKinley said, quickly scribbling on a piece of paper and handing it to Sean. “The owner’s a personal friend o’ mine. If you see him, tell him ol’ McKinley sent ya’. Lemme tell ya’, a good-looking guy like yourself ... the girls’ll be all over ya’ down there.”

  Sean glanced down at the piece of paper:

  Benny, Red Planet.

  “Thanks. I’ll check it out,” he said.

  “Better get back to the ol’ post. Don’t want the AI to throw a hissy fit and have Maddox jumpin’ down my throat,” McKinley said as he headed off, walking down the corridor with a limp. He shouted back at Sean, “See ya’ round, kiddo … and welcome to paradise.”

  Sean waved back at the old guy.

  Maybe working there wasn’t going to be that bad after all.

  Standing there at the windows, he focused his eyes past the subway map, through the smoked glass. He could already see the crowds growing quickly on the streets below, as the dusk outside slowly turned to night and sunlight faded away. Above him, a full blue moon lit up the sky as several quick flashes of lightning connected with the horizon in the distance, through the few gaps in the Manhattan skyline. Sean knew all too well that somewhere out there in the outside world, a fierce storm was hitting the landscape hard. They had become commonplace the last several years, with unpredictable weather patterns now costing countless lives and billions of dollars damage on an ongoing basis across the globe.

  Just as McKinley had said, outside the window really was paradise when he compared it to the depressed urban landscapes out in the real world. It was still a strange sight to be looking down at the streets of Manhattan, a city he had only seen from archival news footage and old TV shows. Gone were city streets crammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic, road markings, construction signs and traffic signals from the past. The streets were free to roam now, and while most roads still remained clear for the existing vehicles and road transport on the island, many sections of the city had been replaced with quaint cobblestone roads and walking paths, complete with abundant green flora and thriving palm trees rising to street-lamp height. Maddox had invested considerably in transforming the once bustling Manhattan to a more relaxed, tranquil vibe and community, however, the scale of the city meant that it was always going to be a slow process to be completed in stages. The effect of this was that while some sections of the city had received makeovers with their own distinct look and feel, other sections had not seen a dime of investment and remained frozen in time, unchanged from the days when cars owned the streets. Maddox wanted to ensure that paying residents could wander through historic streets of old-world charm without the stress of having to watch for the delivery vans or service vehicles, so it was no surprise that residential areas were amongst the first to receive transformation from the old Manhattan to the new.

  Even from his vantage point—two stories up, behind smoked glass—Sean could still feel a good amount of energy coming from the crowds below. He stood there for a moment, watching in awe. Not just of the crowds, but of everything below. Buildings that had aged gracefully over the years, some with more wear n’ tear than others, such as rows of rusted air conditioning units or crumbling stonework and rooftops. Satellite dishes that were no longer of use. And the proliferation of wires and cables, crisscrossing from one building to another. Even many worn and faded billboards were frozen in time, offering a glimpse into advertising from decades past, with peeling and blistering posters of products that now seemed so foreign to the population. Hamburger chains. Cologne. Jewelry.

  He smiled to himself. No matter how many times he’d looked out that office window throughout the day, he had not gotten tired of looking down to the street below. The noise levels in the city were now much quieter than they had ever been, since traffic and honking taxicabs were now distant memories. Yes, it was hard to believe he was actually there, in the city, in this period of time.

  Amazing.

  Turning away from the windows, Sean walked back to his desk and powered down his workstation. The screen flicked off, leaving his area in semi-darkness. Without any fanfare from others still working around him, his footsteps echoed on the hardwood floors as he walked down a double flight of stairs, leading him out onto the streets.

  The Church

  As D.T. Roberts unbuttoned the dark-brown trench coat around his solid frame, the PUMP tech team took one final scan of his inventory. If they didn’t know better, they could have easily mistaken the old man as a time-traveller just arrived from the Wild West; a sheriff of a frontier gold-rush town, minus the badge.

  On the inside of Roberts’ coat, a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun was tucked neatly away and fastened by straps built into the coat’s fabric. Fully-loaded leather c
artridge belts were slung over both his shoulders, crisscrossing in the middle of his chest like an ‘X’ marks the spot of firepower. A vintage bone-handle knife was strapped tight to his leg in a leather sheath, and a bullet belt wrapped around his waist for the revolvers either side of him. Resting peacefully in holsters, these were antique six-shooters, reconditioned and maintained to good working order, but still perfectly capable of taking a man’s life. Perhaps by coincidence, his weaponry seemed to match the old man’s age, but also represented what had become a global focus on old, reliable technology and equipment. In these strange days of post-economic collapse, the most sought after items were interestingly those built back in the late 20th Century. Items and equipment that had easily stood the test of time, unlike the plastic junk culture that had dominated the early 21st.

  “We’re just about ready, Mr. Roberts,” one of the lab techs assured him.

  “You guys are damn thorough, I’ll give you that,” Robert’s said in his raspy voice.

  He was standing alongside a team of Maddox staff in an abandoned church on 116th Street, just north of Central Park on the fringe of the neighborhood known as Harlem.

  The neighborhood had been rejuvenated and cleaned up to become another pristine district for residents and entrants alike. It had become known by all as the generic-sounding ‘Market District’, where every morning traders would gather to trade and sell homegrown, rooftop produce and goods right on some of what were once the busiest city streets. If one still had access to satellite imagery, looking down on Manhattan rooftops would probably be like the once enormous market gardens of Asia, growing fruits and vegetables that thrived in the midday sun.