by Kevin Gordon
It was a hot day, and consequently, a dusty day. Ever since the Countdown cataclysm annihilated all life not able to withstand fifty years of aging, grass no longer existed. Slowly it was coming back, as spores fell back to Earth and took root, but most of the land was still a sterile dustbowl that wreaked havoc on humanity with every extended dry period. The winters were brutally cold, as the dust from the Earth’s land mass rose and fell in an unending cycle, blotting out the solar radiation and pushing the temperature down. Conversely, the summers were dry and hot, with the Earth’s cycle of evaporation and perspiration upset by the Countdown.
Brian and Iris slipped out of the house early, opting to wait a little while longer at the bus stop than have Brian endure anything more from Joe. The bus was late, but at least the dust didn’t start swirling until they got on board. The dust pelted the hazy Plexiglas windows, seeping in through a few cracks, coloring the air and sky a rusty brown.
She wore a pair of dusty, torn jeans that hung too low and a tight yellow shirt that rode too high, but that seemed to be the default fashion for all the young girls. She had a woman’s body that was bursting out of her young girl’s clothes, but a chubby face, with baby-fat cheeks and a few blackheads dotting the surface that reminded any admirer of her true age. Under it all hung the eyes of a sheep—docile and innocent, unaware of what could come and naive as to what lurked in the world. It was hot and close in the bus, as the air cooling unit weakly pumped out air, and the windows were sealed shut against the dust. Iris reeked of her period as Brian reeked of fear and shame.
“I’m gonna do it tonight,” she said sullenly.
“Do what?”
“You . . . you know.”
Brian sighed, as he knew there was no fighting it. “Who with?”
“Akiri.”
Brian patted some dust off his khaki pants. “I don’t think I remember him.”
“He came over last night, when you had to work late.”
“Oh.” His head still ached from the bruising he took, but the pain wasn’t half as bad as the wrenching guilt that ate his heart. “Asian guy?”
“Yeah.”
“Haven’t seen many of them. You like him?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. He’s alright. He just doesn’t push like the other boys do. I think he’s a little afraid.”
A soft smile filled Brian’s eyes, as the bus pulled up. “I think that’s a good thing. But you’ve got your period.”
“So?”
Brian smiled, and shook his head. “Nothin’s gonna happen, when you’re like that. Wait a couple of days till it passes, then you can try.”
The bus made slow progress through the storm. It was one of the old ‘Greyhound’ buses, as they seemed to survive anything thrown at them, though the silver dog had all but faded away. It was almost as if a foot of snow had fallen, so high were the dust dunes, cutting visibility by over a half and making traction difficult and tenuous. By the time they pulled to the next stop, the grumbling of the riders was loud and impossible to ignore.
The old man who sat next them on the last ride got on, and made his way slowly back to their seats, as the bus lumbered on. As he plopped down next to Brian, grinning like a school boy, Brian finally took a long look at him, to understand better whom he was sharing his time with.
He was a tall, sturdy fellow, with a ruddy complexion under a mop of red hair. His eyes were thin, and his nose glowed like a fairy reindeer’s, with craters along its surface as if it was a small moon. He wore something similar to what he wore the first time he sat by Brian; faded khaki overalls with a thin white shirt underneath, and worn black construction boots that looked to be a size too large. Her smelled of unwashed masturbation, and it was the one thing that kept some part of Brian ill at ease.
“Well, hello young man. What happened to you?”
Brian quickly pulled down his sleeves to cover his bruises, hoping Iris wouldn’t notice.
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
Iris glanced over, yanking at his sleeves. “What happened to you?!”
“Some kids jumped me, last night.”
She pulled at his clothes, searching to see how far the bruises went. He tried to push her away, but she persisted, finally pulling up his shirt to see an angry purple and yellow bruise run from his hips to just under his ribs. “Did they get away?”
“No. Some archetypes surprised them.”
“Good—bet they got ‘em good!”
The old man nodded knowingly at Brian, as Iris wasn’t ready to hear the truth, and he had some inkling as to what it was. “So, did you think on what I said?”
Brian tucked his shirt back in. “Yeah, but what can be done?”
“Focus, and hope, young man. That’s what we all need. A goal, that is pure and attainable.”
“We’re . . . I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we’re trying to get a Shuttle up, to communicate with the Watchers.”
The old man grew pensive, and sat back, thinking on the possibilities. “A Shuttle? How could we get a Shuttle up? It takes a lot of manpower to get one of those off the ground. I even sat in on one of those launches, and . . . well, it was one big deal.”
Brian shrugged. “I dunno. I’m on a team working to prep one for launch, but it’s taking a long time. We keep finding rust, or tears, or major component damage.”
“Well, it’s been sixteen years since anyone did anything with them. We should be lucky they still exist at all!”
Iris got up and waved goodbye, the old man’s eyes following her exposed midriff.
“You’ve got a pretty sister.”
“Sister? I told you—”
The old man laughed. “Boy, I’ve seen a lot in my years! Though I’ve only got an EMA of thirty-five, it’s long enough to tell when there’s love but no lust.”
Brian nodded, thinking on all that could be gleaned through careful observation, making a mental note to work on his powers in the future. “What did you do, before Countdown?”
“Slept around, mostly. Did a lot of what people are doing now; watching TV, eating, and waiting. We humans did a lot of waiting. We waited for our kids to grow up, waited for bills to be paid off, waited for someone to love to appear in our door. Well, while I was waiting, I worked in a retail store.”
“Retail?”
“Yeah, like you see on the TV, where people bought things, with money, and credit cards.”
“Credit cards? Are they like the allotment cards?”
The old man chuckled at Brian’s ignorance. “Yeah, I suppose so. We got paid, just as people do now, when we finished a week’s work. Except back then, there were a whole lot of other ways to make money. For some people, it was their whole life. I never could understand people who were like that, only concerned with more money, more things. It’s like they were still a kid inside, wanting more and better toys. Sad thing is, we’ll get it all back, one day. All the credit cards offering money we don’t even have, all the magazines with dolled-up sluts grinning on the cover, all the flashy cars that can go too fast and go too many places to be of use to anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because that is what a human is. We have a drive not only for survival, but for success. And money is the most obvious indicator of that success.”
The bus pulled into a station, and Brian got up.
“Here’s my stop again.”
The old man held onto Brian’s shirt sleeve. “I hope I don’t seem like some bitter old man.”
“No, there’s a lot wrong with things today. The Homestead is evil and corrupt, and—”
“Now hold on,” said the old man, pulling him back by the sleeve. Brian was frankly surprised at his strength. “It’s always been real easy to see the bad side of everything! You know that world I told you about? Well it also had opportunity. Freedom. Wide open spaces, where anyone could go. Sure a man could occupy himself with making money. Or he could occupy himself with helping others, finding cures for diseases, nurturing the young
—any manner of uplifting things. We had that choice. Now the Homestead might be easy to speak ill of, but look around you. Everyone is being fed, clothed, and housed. No one is a slave, or is forced to work more than necessary. Everyone has light, heat, and entertainment. And are they trying to make a missile to blow up the Watchers, or finding tanks and bombs and planes to conquer what’s left of the world? No. They just want to try to preserve the human race, to build a foundation, on which we can all lean on. Those most vocal against the Homestead, are usually those who desire power. And we should be real thankful people like that aren’t running the show.”
Brian nodded. “I’ve gotta go!”
“You think on what I said!” yelled the old man, as he ran off the bus. “You think real good!”
Chapter 8