October Rain

by Morgan, Dylan J.

  OCTOBER RAIN

  A novella of dystopia

  by

  Dylan J. Morgan

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Previously published in 2010 by Sonar4 Publications

  and 2013 by Hazardous Press.

  Cover art is by Deranged Doctor Design.

  http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com/

  To Gareth: my brother.

  05.23.67 – 12.25.09

  Always missed.

  PROLOGUE

  This rain doesn’t cleanse my skin, nor soothe my battered and broken body. It doesn’t hide my tears.

  It burns.

  Each contaminated raindrop tortures me, stinging my bruises and dribbling like acid into open wounds.

  Patterned with yellow and black contusions, my body is a mess: ankle, both knees, my jaw—all broken. My left shoulder is a shattered pulp, and what remains screams in suffering as if it has its own voice.

  Chained to the wall, I stare through ceiling vents at a dense sky bloated with volcanic storm clouds.

  Shutting my eyes against the downpour, haunting memories swim in the darkness behind my lids, contaminating my soul and twisting my heart until it feels like it will rupture.

  I wish I couldn’t remember.

  I wish I was dead.

  ONE

  A sign had hung in the enormous hall since the city’s construction. It stated: Welcome to Mars—our brave new world. No longer the truth, this brave new world had become weak and panicked, old and dying.

  Once a hub of furious activity, the Main Arrivals Hall now hummed with fading life.

  A block of travel shops distorted one boundary of the locality, and whereas once workers could be seen in every window, now only an occasional glimpse of life fluttered within the buildings. Further around the hall, beyond a bank of customs checks—the last such interrogation before entering the city—duty free shops stretched along the area’s entire eastern perimeter. No one had passed through arrivals in over three hours; inside the liquor stores, the clothing boutiques, the electronics and record shops, it appeared even the employees had gone home.

  A couple walked hand in hand across the expansive concourse, their footsteps lost in the hall’s vast openness. Children played in a distant corner while their parents sat on a bench. An employee at the alcohol shop wandered out to inventory the stock that remained unsold after the last shuttle disembarked. Near the side of the information booth, a sleeping man swayed with each slumbered breath he took.

  A young girl stepped from a transit pod and ambled across the concourse towards a solitary information booth. She cut a lonesome figure, head bowed, walking in a slouch, feet hidden beneath a long, multi-colored skirt. Her hair hung in a tangled mess about her face and she seemed oblivious to her surroundings.

  No one but me noticed the girl, a young woman who looked as austere as the world around her. When she disappeared from view behind the booth, I left the pub and walked across the hall.

  The alcohol worker lifted his head to look then returned to his stock tally. An employee at the information booth sat upright, watched me walk by, and then slumped his shoulders once more.

  I fastened a button on my knee length coat, rounded the booth, and sat beside the girl. Her eyes widened behind tangled tresses of grimy hair.

  I grabbed her hand as she stood and forced her back onto the bench. “Hello Charlotte. Not leaving already are you?”

  She gazed at the terminal’s coned roof and bit her lower lip. Unease fractured her voice. “No, I was just going to—”

  “Stay, sit with me and talk for a while.”

  She shrugged. “Okay.”

  “How are you?”

  “All right.”

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Drunk. Drugged up. Annoying.”

  “Are you staying clean?”

  She shrugged again, expected me to know the answer. “Well, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know. Where you been?”

  Charlotte pulled at her loose fitting skirt. “When?”

  “Now, when I saw you come here. Where had you been?”

  “Nowhere.” Charlotte’s voice held a defensive tone.

  Undoing the button, I slipped my coat open to reveal a semi-automatic weapon encased in its holster and strapped to my thigh. Leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder, we could have passed for lovers. Charlotte’s scent of faded soap masked by sweat seemed to compete with the musty odor of unwashed clothes. I squeezed her hand and she sucked in a gasp of pain.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “You scared of me?”

  She glanced at the gun, then back to me. “You’re a bounty hunter, Steele. You kill people.”

  I laughed. “I only kill those who deserve it.”

  The family had gone and now the couple was sitting on the bench. They kissed and then talked for a while with their mouths almost touching, before they kissed again. The next transit pod arrived at the platform but no one got on and no one got off. It whispered from view towards its next destination.

  “Have you seen Pierce lately?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “You know, Pierce, our mutual acquaintance? Where is he?”

  She shrugged once more and nervously bounced a leg. She coiled a finger in dirty hair.

  “Have you seen him recently?” My fingers curled tighter around Charlotte’s petite hand. Her clammy skin cooled my palm.

  “No, I‘ve never seen Pierce.”

  I looked at her, unsmiling, and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Seriously, Steele, I wouldn’t know what he looks like.”

  Her voice held its defensive tone once more and I believed her. Few people had ever met Pierce.

  “Ok,” I said. “You’ve met Hawkes before, I know that. Have you seen him?”

  “No.”

  “Preston?”

  No answer.

  “Where is he then?”

  “Who?”

  “Preston. You didn’t answer so I know you’ve seen him. How long ago? Five minutes? Ten? Has he just fixed you up with something?”

  “I don’t know anybody called Preston,” she insisted.

  “Come on, I ain’t fucking stupid. I know Preston supplies you with your shit.”

  She tossed her hair in frustration, but it flopped back into her face. She picked at her dress, leg bouncing, eyes never fixed on one subject for longer than a few seconds.

  Time pressed heavily on my shoulders. Throughout my working existence I’ve been controlled by the clock, and every government task held strict deadlines, with the dispatching of fugitives no exception. In order to get paid, whatever job I’d been contracted to do must be executed within a set timeframe—a second longer and the indenture became null and void. I had no intention of being late for the conclusion of this assignment. When the clock stopped this time around, I’d receive the biggest payday of my career. The chance of escape to a new life loomed larger than ever.

  As the saying goes, things had so far gone like clockwork, but three names remained on the list. Not knowing their whereabouts meant time was a commodity not to be wasted. My fingers squeezed harder around Charlotte’s hand.

  Charlotte cursed. “All right, all right. I saw him twenty minutes ago, okay?”

  “Where?”

  “In the museum.”

/>   “The museum? What’s he doing there, catching up on a school project he failed to finish all those years ago?”

  “No. He’s just—” she hesitated, then sighed. I squeezed even harder to coax the rest of the words from her. “Well, that’s where he makes all his deals. He owed me a few ounces, that’s all.”

  “He still there?”

  “I guess. I passed some other kids going in as I was leaving. I figure he’ll be there for a while.”

  “Which section?”

  Charlotte issued a groan of annoyance.

  “Which section?” My clenching fist twisted her fingers.

  “Section five, third floor. Ouch! You’re hurting me.”

  I eased my grip. “Thank you, Charlotte, you’ve been very helpful.”

  She turned to face me. “You won’t tell Preston I told you, will you? I mean, he’ll fucking kill me if he knows it was me.”

  “I won’t tell.”

  That seemed to calm her. “I’m not in the shit, am I? With you I mean.”

  “No, you’re not on my list.” I smiled, and then released her hand. Its skin, pale under the pressure of my grasp, flushed a natural color with a rush of blood. “Go on, get out of here.”

  “Serious? I can go?”

  “Of course, go home.”

  She stood, rubbed her hand, and walked away. Home probably wasn’t an appealing place to Charlotte.

  “Stay out of trouble,” I called after her.

  Charlotte turned, gave me an almost invisible wave, and then hurried up the steps to the transit platform. She picked at her skirt. A pod came, she stepped inside, and waited impatiently for the doors to hiss closed. Within thirty seconds, the pod had left.

  I covered my weapon and looked to my right.

  A landscaped area dominated the hall’s far corner but beyond the city walls, barrenness stretched to a polluted ocean shimmering on the Martian horizon.

  Large rocks speckled a baked, undulating terrain, swept by dust storms in the summer and unnatural rainfall in the winter. A world choking to death, its thin atmosphere, rich in carbon dioxide, glowed pink with extreme sunlight. Swollen and intense, the dying sun dominated the afternoon sky as it continued to cook the planet I had called home for the last five Martian years.

  Outside, a strong wind blew, and dust billowed into a large cloud of crimson grains that, for a moment at least, turned the sun orange.

  Checking my watch, I walked to the main window of the information booth and ordered a pack of gum. The guy working there smiled, happy to have an excuse to get off his ass.

  “Busy day?”

  The guy snorted. “Oh yeah, I’m rushed off my feet.”

  Why the information booth stayed open remained a mystery to me. No one wanted to know about the city, nobody cared anymore. Most of those who left would never return, and those who did come back didn’t stay very long.

  I chewed fruit-flavored gum, the walk to the platform a solitary march through a vacuum. The next transit pod arrived on time, its hushed atmosphere making me feel like the only passenger in an empty world. Without a ripple of disturbance, the pod headed for its next stop.

  The only real certainty about living in this city was that death could be quick and often painful.

  I knew something else for sure: when my turn came to leave, it would be forever.

  TWO

  Proclaimed the capital city of Mars not long after mankind colonized the planet, Olympia was constructed on plains near a six thousand meter cliff face which gave way to the slopes of Olympus Mons.

  Cowering at the base of the largest volcano in the solar system, the city rose in a pyramid of hollow steel support trusses, bedecked on the outside with three foot thick plates of interwoven glass fibers, each tinted to shield against roasting sunlight. Its external beams were layered with photovoltaic solar cells to convert sunshine into electricity and power for the city. Six similar cities had been built on Mars, with Olympia by far the largest, standing twelve-hundred sixty meters tall.

  At one time the city bustled with the lives of almost six-hundred thousand people but now less than fifty thousand lived within its walls. Its ghostly emptiness never appeared more evident than mid-afternoon when those few remaining souls were preoccupied with their everyday lives.

  The transit pod cruised through one of the support trusses until it slowed to a stop at a globular intersection node. As with all the other transit joints in the city, it served as a transfer point between districts.

  I stepped from the pod into a metropolis whose total silence was removed by the soft drone of air-conditioning units that gave the eerie impression Olympia was exhaling its final breath.

  Located in the first district of the third level, The Martian Museum of Human History had once been described as mankind’s proudest monument. Built entirely of stone salvaged from Earth, I considered the building nothing more than a confirmation of humanity’s failure.

  Large windows dotted its sculptured rock façade. Five elongated steps led to a wide entrance door, and four rounded pillars supported a sheltering portico. The museum towered almost fifty meters to a third floor balcony. A huge dome capped the building, with a second floor terrace built to the rear of the structure. A low-lying oasis of greenery surrounded the museum with a vast array of flora. On the far side of the district, paths meandered through recreational parkland.

  To my left as I stood before the museum, dozens of trees packed together to form a mini forest. Maple, birch, oak, and numerous others I couldn’t remember cluttered the district’s edge in a proud exhibit. All of the plant life on display was colorful, yet fake.

  The smell of garbage, converted energy, and fragile human life hung in the air—a tainted bouquet the reprocessing units were unable to disperse.

  An old couple wandered through the replica park, then stopped to rest on one of the seats. A quick scan of the vicinity told me no one else lingered outside. I climbed the stone steps and entered the museum.

  Blue carpet decorated the entrance foyer and scenic pictures of Planet Earth adorned the walls around me. The guy working the ticket booth paid no attention as I walked to the cubicle, dropped a coin into the slot, and pushed through an automatic barrier into the museum’s first section. Both the café to my left and the gift shop to my right had glass façades, and it didn’t take long to inspect their interiors. A young girl stood behind the counter in the gift shop reading a magazine. Two employees talked together in the café, while two women ate a late lunch close to the doorway. Only a minimal workforce remained, and no museum tours had been carried out for months.

  In the middle of the first section’s vestibule, a model of Earth spun lethargically atop a stone pedestal. Five meters in diameter, it depicted the planet’s rugged contours, with brown, green and white colored landmasses surrounded by the deep blue of oceans. Ten months ago I watched Earth’s transit across the fiery surface of our colossal star. It would be my only glimpse of the now burnt and lifeless planet my ancestors had abandoned when they’d fled to Mars. Hanging from walls around the globe were pictures of Earth’s vast seas, lakes and rivers. Information plaques told of the planet’s abundance of water and life’s dependence on it, throwing a disrespectful taunt towards Martian infertility. Water as a natural resource was difficult to obtain on Mars. The history books said mankind had transferred as much water from Earth as possible, but it hadn’t taken long to dry up. Once that resource became depleted, the ice caps at Mars’ poles had been tapped. The planet’s three seas, formed mere centuries ago, were laden with ash and choked with sulfur. The rain water was contaminated, falling from volcanic storm clouds. Beneath Olympia, mineshafts crisscrossed Martian bedrock; the shafts dug by convicts forced to work around the clock to find ice that would provide the city with another source of water.

  They now lay dormant, the prisoners dead or dying, and the water dangerously low.

  Along with the population.

  On either side of the foyer, staircases clim
bed to the second floor. Ahead, a long corridor led to the museum’s extensive second section.

  Charlotte might have been lying, and I couldn’t afford to miss Preston in this immense building. Neither could I rush to the third level only to discover a drug addict had deceived me and Preston loitered at the rear of the building’s first floor. Flicking a coattail to one side, I slid my weapon from its holster and walked down the passage towards a giant statue dominating the second section.

  Liberty Enlightening the World rose through the ceiling’s manufactured hole like a living organism that had outgrown its enclosure. The statue’s sculptured robe flowed with static inelegance, and even the tablet grasped in Liberty’s left hand looked weathered with time. Her shoulders and head extended to the building’s second floor as if she could not bear to look at her eroded form. Fully dismantled for transportation, the icon had endured many years of Martian neglect and her seams had fractured. Oxidization ate at her like a crippling disease.

  While standing at Liberty’s feet, I once again tried to make sense of history. Why had ninety-nine percent of the human race perished on Earth, yet an ancient copper statue and rocks to build a museum been transported to Mars? My ancestors’ stupidity never ceased to amaze me.

  To me it seemed no coincidence that Liberty’s torch of freedom no longer burned.

  There were seven open-plan rooms in section two. Each room portrayed one of Earth’s seven continents, emphasizing a vast diversity of cultures: the walls covered with fantastic photographic images; glass podiums holding valuable artifacts; open tables displaying replicas of ancient structures and monuments. Dim lighting cast shadows, but I saw no place to hide in any of the rooms. It took me two minutes to explore section two. Walking back down the hall to the staircases, I chose the one to my left.

  Silence greeted me on the second floor.

  Splashed with an incandescent glow from lights embedded in the floor around her, Liberty’s face glared at me with a forlorn somberness. Sharing the floor space around her head were models of other famous sculptures; ancient scholars and rulers long since shrouded in history’s miasma. Behind the statues, three sets of double doors opened onto an ornamented balcony housing eight telescopes. I had stood there only once, ten months ago during the last passing of Earth.