by Garrett Cook
V
Bernard was now free. Free and alone in a world that he knew only through the experiences of other entities. He knew only where he longed to go and that it lay outside the city. There had to be some way he could figure all this out, some way to know. He sat on the curb and witnessed the carnage of Cooling Time. As the citizens emerged to risk death to beat the heat, he found himself affirming that he wanted very much to never see this terrible place again. As he knew of but two places, the city and Archelon Ranch, he decided that to get to Archelon Ranch, all he really needed to do was get out of the city and the only way he knew of to get out of the city was through the Mall. At the East, there was the Mall, at the Westernmost edge of the city, there was the Mall, to the North and to the South in a great ring of plastic and neon circling the city there was the Mall.
He reached out for the message and for the image of Archelon Ranch and it came, the same bright message, the same peerless sky and marble temple. He begged one of the turtles to tell him the way, but there was no response. It smiled its wise, ancient turtle smile and looked off into the distance at a beautiful future, devoid of sweat and death, a future this city didn’t deserve.
“Tell me, tell me…”
There was only quiet wisdom, only cosmic superiority. Only the knowledge that outside the city lay Archelon Ranch. He didn’t even know which of the four entrances of the Mall to take to exit the city. Knowing nothing of the world, he had to trust his instincts, instincts that said west. So, the only thing he could do, the only logical thing, was to go west. If he had money, he could have taken the subway, but the subway was pretty much nothing but a nest for the colossal spiders that crawled through the sewers hoping hapless people and beasts would fall into their gaping, fanged mouths. A cab would be better, but very few cabs ran in the city and they were costly. He closed his eyes, begging his body to become Objective, telling it he was a pterosaur or an airplane (though those were far rarer than pterosaurs, considering the difficulties native to navigating a sky canopy). I am a chimpanzee I am a pterosaur I am I am I am I am starving. He had just eaten — no, the tyrannosaur had just eaten. His body was a pinnacle of neglect. The turtle had said no cheating, so perhaps only Bernard could be the Bernard at Archelon Ranch. Bernard the Bernard. The Bernard that barely existed. Bernard the starving, Bernard the disoriented.
In his state of disorientation and hunger, Bernard ended up simply wandering west, whilst his feet grew more tired and his body more hungry. His body did not have the energy to simply wander west toward a mall that might not be there with no food in its neglected stomach, so he collapsed on the street. As he went down, he tried to think of all the creatures that had it so much worse than he did, but all of those creatures had to eat too, so these thoughts were shot down where they stood. I am Bernard the Bernard the probably dying from years of injections and only rare instances of exercise at the community pool.
Hope caught up to starvation in the form of a young woman about eighteen in a mint green bikini. Her hair was dyed the same color. Her body was lean and her face cute, warm and pleasant.
“You poor man!” she exclaimed, “You look about ready to pass out on the pavement! Are you hungry?”
In spite of having been many strangers, Bernard was not used to speaking to them as himself. It took him some time to figure out what to say.
“Yes, I’m very hungry. Do you know where food is?”
“Yeah. Come on. I’ll get you something.” She beckoned him into a convenient little corner restaurant. Bernard had never been in a restaurant before.
The girl led Bernard up to the counter, where a middle aged Italian lady clad in a short silk kimono was cleaning up and taking orders.
“Hi there!” said the lady, who was dark, voluptuous and not careworn in the least.
“Hi.”
“What can I get you?” she asked.
He knew of several foods he had eaten but very few that he specifically liked. His father usually tended to make a flat, synthetic meat with refried beans for protein and instant cornbread for carbohydrates, foods put together with no intention but to keep a test subject strong enough for testing. He had a favorite cereal, but could not remember the name of it, which was a shame because he didn’t really have a favorite anything else, besides a preference for reading White Fang in his DNA instead of Call of the Wild.
“I don’t really know. What’s good?”
It was a general question, not “what’s good here?” but rather “what things that people eat are good to eat?”
The Italian lady touched his arm and smiled.
“Rigatoni with meatballs and a nice, frosty glass of Shifatsu Superfun Carbobev. Sound good to you?”
He’d had Carbobev before and he liked the taste. It gave him a nice boost for the day. He was not too certain what rigatoni or meatballs were, but they didn’t sound like they were all that bad.
“I don’t know what rigatoni is, but I’m sure it’s good. “
“It is,” said the mint green girl, “Cindy’s a great cook.”
“Then I look forward to it.” Bernard smiled. He was lucky professor Sagramore brushed his teeth thoroughly with Mega-wyt three times a day and twice in the evening. Bernard’s teeth, unlike the rest of him were pristine and shiny.
The mint green girl smiled back.
“You’ve got a really nice smile.”
“So do you.”
The mint green girl sipped her Sparkling Bogpeach carbobev with feigned shyness. Cindy had given Bernard 20th Century Retro flavor which was syrupy and brown but was still good. He could not think of any flavor he had encountered which was as good as 20th Century Retro. There was no pretense of imitation, no attempt to mask its inorganic nature. It was strangely original.
“Does it come in Synthberry?” he asked Cindy, who responded by pouring him a glass of Synthberry Carbobev. Bernard switched back and forth between sips of the two flavors and the result was sweet, potent and invigorating. He could feel his usually numb body springing to life, being something more than just a rickety cage for a powerful mind and soul. Carbobev was made with trace amounts of Supra-Adderall 7, which reacted intensely to the chemicals in artificial synthberry flavor. He was not used to these effects, since the Supra-Adderall 7 was carefully portioned in breakfast cereals, as breakfast cereals were now solely given to very small children and experimental test subjects. In Carbobev, it was used with wild abandon. Bernard had known nothing of restaurants outside of the time he had spent as a martini. He had not been too sure about them back then, but was now certain they were pretty great. He hoped that the rest of his journey would be so leisurely, but he knew from his experiences as various other creatures that it could not be, especially since he had heard ghastly things about the Mall from his brother’s breakfast conversation.
“What’s the matter?” the mint green girl asked.
Cindy touched his shoulder.
“You okay?”
The mint green girl reached into the crotch of her bikini and pulled out four Naders and a Sarandon and gave it to him. It was a lot of money, particularly to get from a total stranger. He had spent little time as people during his Objectivity, so had only the proddings of his father, his brother and Professor Sagramore and the whining, incontinent children at the community pool to judge mankind by. He knew his fellow men as creatures who thoughtlessly devoured innocent martinis and skinned majestic pterosaurs for food. No solid impressions, hunters and victims like the rest of nature, but no signs of a benevolent streak in them, no deeply redeeming qualities. But in the mint green girl’s act of generosity he saw something he had never seen before. He felt like crying. Bernard hadn’t thought to cry in most situations. He had learned from a very young age, that for a test subject like him, crying did little good and would grant no clemency. It was a violation of protocol and not right for one of his station. He did not cry. He sat there numb and silent, knowing no suitable reply. Could there be other people like this?
�
��Thank you,” he stammered, “that’s what people say, isn’t it?”
The mint green girl couldn’t help but laugh.
“Yes, thank you is what people say when they get a gift.”
“Good.”
Cindy brought out the plate of rigatoni. Bernard was fascinated. It was hot, red and shaped like little tubes. There were huge, crimson chunks of meat on top of it. He no longer felt the revulsion toward eating the flesh of animals that he had picked up during his time as the pterosaur. He was a ravenous predator and the plate of pasta delivered on all of its primal promises.
He had never seen so much food before (beyond of course an entire pterosaur). This big round plate of goodness reminded him of his time as a tyrannosaurus, which a dark, perverse part of him treasured. Almost made him regret that he never bothered to eat anyone during that time.
“Is it good?” Cindy asked.
“Thank you,” he said. He spat out tiny chunks of meatball as he did so.
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
“So, where are you going exactly?” the mint green girl inquired.
“The Mall.”
A man at a nearby table stood up and sat down next to Bernard. He was quite overdressed for this heat, wearing a tank-top and long shorts made of a thick, coarse blue material. His hair was white and his body rotund. He extended his hand and Bernard shook it.
“Chuck Callaway.”
“Bernard.”
“Did I hear you’re goin’ to the Mall?”
“Yeah, in fact I am.”
Chuck pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket and fanned it out.
“Pick a card.”
Bernard drew the Ace of Chainsaws.
“Now put it back.”
Bernard complied and Chuck Callaway shuffled the cards. He smiled as he pulled out the Ace of Chainsaws. Bernard wondered if this man had become Objective and asked the deck of cards where the Ace was.
“Well, Bernard, is this your card… hell, that rhymes don’t it? Is this your card, Bernard?”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“That’s a stitch, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Learned that one from when I lived with the comprachicos. Those bastards kept me three years before my folks found me again and bought me back, but I don’t really hold no grudge. Taught me how to be tough and clever. Taught me how to wrestle a compsognathus blindfolded. People talk a lot of shit about comprachicos but they’re not so bad once you get to know ‘em. You know any comprachicos, son?”
Bernard shook his head.
“You’re a shy one, aintcha? You know what they say about the shy ones, don’tcha? Comprachicos used to say a shy fella will steal your sister and fuck your wallet and when he’s done, you get ‘em both back fulla spooge.”
Cindy laughed a high, nasal pleasant laugh.
“Old Chuck’s a rascal, but don’t pay him no mind. He’s a bit like them comprachicos he was talkin’ about; he might look like a criminal, but once you get to know him, he is a fine, stand-up human bein’ who’s just a little short on social graces and manners.”
Chuck gave Cindy a mock bow.
“I apologize if I offend milady. Outside, I have parked my chariot, which can take yonder gentleman to the Mall if he doth wish it so and desires the pleasure of my company.”
It did not occur to Bernard to laugh.
“Thank you. I could definitely use a ride.”
Bernard finished his lunch, while Chuck grabbed a ham and pterosaur sandwich to go. Together, they stepped into Chuck’s red pickup. As he got into the passenger seat, Bernard closed his eyes, not wishing to witness all the squalor around him or any of the city’s numerous tableaus of suffering. He wanted instead to dream of Archelon Ranch’s splendors and reflect upon the kindness of people like Chuck and Cindy and the mint green girl. For all of the avuncular pretenses, Chuck seemed to understand a lot. He made no conversation.
It’s too hot. The thought struck Bernard from nowhere, a bullet from a sniper inside his head. It’s too hot. We’re going to die we’re going to die we’re going to die. When will they turn the fans on again? I hope they like my new hat. When will they turn the fans on again? Chop chop chop. Meat, I smell meat. Shut up. I am Bernard. I am Bernard. I am a truck you are a truck. I am the sidewalk you are the sidewalk I am Bernard I am a truck what did you say I am Bernard I am a truck make up your mind. I am a truck you are a truck otherwise we couldn’t talk. When will they turn the fans on again? I am a truck I am not a truck. With food in his belly and his body starting to recover, the Objectivity’s drives were returning and it would not take no for an answer. We’re all going to die you know we’re all going to die when will the fans come on when will the damn fans come on I am a fan I am a fan help them I am a fan when will the fans come on I am a truck make up your I am a truck I am a fan I am a truck you are a truck I am a truck make up your mind I am a fan I am a truck when will the fans come on dammit meat, I smell meat chop chop I am a sidewalk hello calm down kid what the hell’s wrong with you you’re starting to freak me out. As he realized he was becoming Chuck he began to panic and could almost not feel himself. He concentrated on Archelon Ranch, looked ahead into the turtles, knowing they were the only beings that would push him away. You are not a sea turtle you are not a sea turtle there is no cheating.
He breathed deeply, focused on his body and tried to become once more certain that he was Bernard. This was a difficult thing to convince himself of. Two days ago, it would have been impossible. He meditated on the soft and battered seats and began to understand the sensation of sitting on them. Moment by moment, he got closer to the sensation of wanting to be Bernard until at last he had done it; he had successfully controlled an Objective fit, which would no doubt be helpful further in on his journey. Becoming every blade of grass would certainly not do him much good on his quest, since blades of grass don’t even have legs. Painful as it was, Bernard opened his eyes and looked upon the city’s West Side, which was always chaotic, as if choked by perpetual Cooling Time crowds.
There was an epidemic of homelessness on the West Side. Ragged, naked twitching people clutched at homemade spears for dear life. Others struggled for survival by poking local jaguars with flaming sticks, a weapon far less effective on deinonychi and gilawalruses that jumped up from the sewers to find food. A wiry twelve year old boy put up an admirable fight against one of the striped, scaly pinipeds which had begun gnawing on his baby sister. The boy aimed an improvised shortbow at it. He would have hit his target, but did not see the mosquito flying overhead. It was a small one, only the size of a large dog, but it made up for its stature with tenacity, shoving its proboscis four inches deep into the kid’s flesh. His healthy, surprisingly tan skin actually grew several shades whiter as the bug exsanguinated him completely, as mosquitoes tended to do.
“That, my friend is why I voted for the arm the homeless initiative,” said Chuck. They were the first words he’d spoken since they got into the car.
“It’s horrible,” Bernard replied.
But, the boy didn’t die in vain. The gilawalrus spat out the boy’s baby sister and shimmied up the lamppost after one of its favorite foods, now even juicier since it was bloated with fresh blood. Most people who did not live on the West Side did not know that gilawalruses climbed, Bernard included. The movement of the creature’s dextrous fins was quite surprising. Before the mosquito could take off, one of the gilawalrus’ sharp tusks punctured its large but fragile right wing and dragged it down to the lamppost and into the sewer.
“Nature sure is funny, ain’t it?”
“Yeah.”
They passed three similar scenes. Gilawalrus infestation had become a big problem, one that the government swore they would address once they resolved the security issue in the suburbs. It was possible that gilawalruses were meant to be that very solution as they had, after all, put a good deal of money into documenting and augmenting the infestation, as well as linking gilawalrus tunnels to th
e Mall so that Suburbanites could not get into the city through there. Professor Sagramore and Bernard’s father debated the gilawalrus situation often and they tended to decide that the government was making the wrong choice.
When they passed the West Side, Bernard was deeply relieved and very grateful for Chuck Callaway and his truck (trucks being one of only three things gilawalruses did not attack, the other two being tyrannosaurs and the deadly Standardizers) but did not much like the look of the crowd outside the Mall. Between the toothless comprachicos and the men selling domesticated raptors and jaguars, it looked bad. The fat, the deformed, the old and the naked came together in what looked like a rally for fat elderly deformed naked rights. There were no healthy, no decent people heading into the Mall. As he sat in line behind a pair of Suburbanites and a stage magician, with a gilawalrus in a gigantic cat carrier that he dragged inches behind him on a chain, he was getting an idea of what obstacles lay between him and the bliss of Archelon Ranch.
VI
I am not a soldier. I am not a burglar. I am not a ninja. So, my brother managed to lose me in the Cooling Time crowd. By the time I found him, he was running off with a girl with green hair who I recognized from the Narrativist lecture and had been thinking of asking out. My chances of being able to do that were probably somewhat narrow now and if he did walk away with some chick from the Narrativist church, I would have no fucking chance at all of catching up to him. I decided to use my natural aptitudes to my advantage instead of having to rely upon skills I didn’t have. I was sneaky, not stealthy but sneaky. Sneaky enough to get away with giving Bernard extra injections without anybody suspecting a thing. I figured I would use that sneakiness to execute a clever gambit that ended in catching my brother and forcing him at gunpoint to take me to Archelon Ranch. This plan did not incorporate the evidence I had previously acquired regarding my brother’s skills as a ruthless, unstoppable fighting machine, but otherwise, it sounded absolutely fucking brilliant. It began with a phone call.