Carbon Run

by J. G. Follansbee

  Creativity is insanity under rein, and Martin hatched an idea, hoping his non-status would generate indifference. The last holdout of the local economy, a desultory convenience store, doubled as a bus station. According to the schedule, the next coach was due in a few hours. He had noticed a working faucet behind an empty café. He removed his monk’s habit and he washed his body in the filthy water, not knowing if he was exposing himself to an escaped genetically modified bug. Maybe if I looked more like a sojourner than a survivor of the Warming Famines, I might have less trouble.

  When Martin returned to the bus stop, several people stood under the sign. He had not seen them come in or vehicles drop them off. A sleeping child was draped over a woman’s shoulder. An old East Indian man sat on a portable stool, his hands resting on a cane, a day-bag at his feet. The old man and mother had open com signals.

  A couple, perhaps in their thirties, showed nothing on the open net. Both had set their com sigs to maximum privacy. The woman regarded Martin with suspicion, her drawn face signaling recent grief. A plain yellow dress was draped loosely on her heavy, though powerful body. Her long, stringy, blondish hair needed brushing, as though she had abandoned the most basic personal habits. The dark-haired, haggard man who stood beside her in a brown t-shirt and canvas pants was an inch or two shorter than his partner, and he was just as disheveled, though more from habit than circumstance. She whispered something to him, and he cocked his head, as if listening closer to a strange sound. The bus arrived in mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day. In contrast to the surrounding decay, the bus gleamed as if freshly washed.

  “Welcome to Greydog lines,” the AI said in a pleasant, ethereal female voice. “Please place your luggage into the cargo bay. Please be respectful of other people’s belongings. Once you have loaded your luggage, please approach the passenger door.”

  The suspicious couple threw their luggage into the cargo bay and pushed their way onto the bus. The old man climbed on next. Martin helped the young mother load her bags. Because he was dissed, she did not say “Thank you.” In the same way as the other passengers, she held her com near a reader by the passenger door. A red indicator light turned green. The mother and child boarded and disappeared into the vehicle. “Next, please.”

  Martin’s heart beat hard. He lifted his foot to the first step and put his hand on a short railing. A sharp chord sounded.

  The pleasant voice chimed. “I’m sorry, I’m not reading your com. Please hold it closer to the reader.” The AI would not let Martin aboard without checking his identification first. He held his pouch next to the reader. The light turned yellow.

  “Stand by, please.” The AI’s voice was amiable. “Please wait.”

  The cool air of the bus’s A/ C cascaded down the bus’s steps like a waterfall onto Martin’s face, drawing him closer.

  “Stand by, please, or authorities will be called.” The AI sounded as if it were an airline attendant asking Martin if he needed an extra pillow.

  A minute or two ticked by. Someone from inside the bus dipped his head into the short passageway that led to the seating area. He turned around and said something Martin couldn’t make out, but he did hear a collective groan.

  “We apologize for the delay, Brother Martin.” The boarding light turned green. “Please enjoy your ride aboard Greydog.”

  Curiosity got the better of Martin. “Thank you. May I ask the cause of the delay?” His voice sounded cancerous.

  “The security status of all passengers is reviewed at boarding. Further information on your status denied.”

  Martin puzzled at the explanation. BES was tracking his progress somehow, likely through his com sigs. Perhaps the colonel had purchased a ticket for him. He had no way of knowing. Martin’s heart sank. He would never escape the colonel’s power over him.

  The monk found a seat on the lower level of the articulated coach, in front of the private cabins. As he stepped into an empty row, the mother and her child exited a cabin and moved toward the rest room at the back. She squeezed past the suspicious woman, who eyed Martin with disgust. Though he was used to this sort of look from people, she was angrier than most.

  The coach pulled into Yellowknife eleven hours later. After a pleasant announcement by the AI recommending restaurants and an upcoming music festival, a handful of passengers departed. Martin had slept in the coach’s coolness the whole trip. He had left his begging bowl in the seat next to him, and someone gave him the remains of a sandwich, which he devoured when he woke. Martin wanted to continue north, but a security officer came aboard and stood at the end of his row. Martin understood the message and exited.

  Outside, the air was colder, and he wrapped his habit around himself like a cocoon. He had no socks on his feet, and the chill was invasive. A shelter for destitutes was across the street, and it had a clothing exchange box. Martin found two socks, of different sizes and colors, stinking of fungus, but both were wool. He also found a heavy flannel shirt, too large and threadbare. He had nothing to leave in exchange.

  The bus station was located near a park on the edge of a large lake. Tentative clumps of white and purple crocus decorated the otherwise dormant flower beds. The bus had reached the town in the early evening, and darkness would fall within the hour. Huddled at the base of a war memorial, Martin was comfortable in his wool habit over his flannel shirt. No one in authority bothered him.

  “Don’t move.” The female voice came from behind the memorial, a life-size statue of a soldier. Despite her order, Martin turned his head.

  “She said not to move,” a man hissed, “unless you want a hole in your head.”

  Martin’s mind raced to think who they might be. “I will give you all I have, but I have almost nothing.”

  “We’re not interested in your money, dead man.” The woman’s voice sounded as if one of her vocal cords was paralyzed.

  Away from the abbey, since his disidentification, Martin had spoken more words to AIs than to humans. The gifts in his begging bowl were a form of communication, of acknowledgment, but they never came with words, much less the anger, even hatred, in this woman’s voice. “What do you want, ma’am?”

  “I haven’t decided yet, but you’re coming with us.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Martin Scribb,” the man said. “She promised me she wouldn’t kill you.”

  Martin gasped, though not because of the threat. No one, except the colonel, Father Gonzales, and the other brothers in his abbey, ever called him by his name without the appellation “Brother.” He moved his eyes, snail-like, to see the threat. The woman and man were the suspicious people on the bus.

  “Get up,” the woman said to Martin. “Harry, lead the way back to the truck.”

  “Okay, Millicent.”

  “Our guest will walk with us like we’re old friends, so we won’t draw attention. Right, Mr. Scribb?”

  Harry and Millicent. Do I know them? The monk drew a breath. “I don’t think we’ve met. How do you know my name?”

  Millicent growled. “We’ve never met, but Harry and I know you well enough.” She turned to her partner. “Take his com.”

  “Give it to me.” Harry held out his hand, wiggling his fingers. Martin gave it to him, and he gave it to Millicent, who put it in her shirt pocket. The top of the com peeked out of the pocket like the cap of a pen.

  Millicent coughed. “If you try anything, you’re a dead man, a double-dead man, in a manner of speaking.”

  “ Hah, that’s a good one, darling.” Harry showed yellow teeth, with the left upper canine missing.

  Millicent pushed Martin into a grove of trees, which shielded the trio from the eyes of the few passers-by. Martin followed the woman’s instructions like an automaton, terrified she would shoot him if he did anything to displease her.

  “Tie his hands,” Millicent said.

  Harry lifted a length of twine from his pants pocket and turned Martin to face him. “Put your hands together like you’re praying.” H
arry wound the twine around Martin’s wrists and made a loose knot. They approached a mud-covered, dented pickup truck at least twenty years old. Millicent waved her com at the driver’s side door handle and the lock clicked.

  “Get in, Scribb, slow and easy.” Harry had already climbed in the cab. Martin sat in the center of the bench seat. Trash cluttered the floor of the cab, which reeked of rotting fruit.

  “Harry, that is the damnedest knot I’ve ever seen. Hold this.” Millicent handed the gun across Martin to the man. “Don’t drop it. It might go off in Scribb’s lap.” Martin froze when he saw the gun. He knew nothing about personal weapons, but he recognized the lines of an automatic pistol. The safety lever was in the “off” position.

  Harry said “Whoopsies!” and pretended to drop the weapon. Martin started, and he caught his breath. Harry chortled. “Sorry about that, Mr. Scribb. Millicent’s always going on about my butter fingers.”

  Martin sat still as a stone, not wishing to offend with that gun in such close quarters. He couldn’t call for help. He had no idea where they were going, and he didn’t know what the couple wanted.

  Millicent finished retying the knot on the twine. She started the motor, put the truck into reverse, and they bolted out of the parking spot. Martin braced for the crunch of a collision. She switched into forward and punched the accelerator. The motor whined and Martin smashed into Harry as Millicent turned hard left into the quiet street.

  “Don’t get too cozy with my man.”

  Harry giggled. “That’s my wife for you. She’s the jealous type.”

  Martin swallowed. “What do you want from me? I don’t have anything to give you.”

  “I want you to suffer, like I suffered,” Millicent said.

  “What did I do to you?”

  “You don’t know, do you?” Millicent gave Martin a sidelong look. “You, of all people. Fuck. I ought to kill you just for your ignorance.”

  “Millicent, you promised.” Martin couldn’t tell whether Harry was sincere or sarcastic.

  “Shut up, Harry. I’m driving.”

  The truck passed the edge of town into the surrounding countryside. The two-lane road wound into the hills, and the air in the truck’s cab grew colder, despite the vehicle’s heater, which was set to max. Millicent reached into a pocket on the driver’s side door and removed a paper sack. She pressed her knee against the steering wheel, while she unscrewed the top of a bottle and drank.

  “Oh-oh.” Harry tsked. “That’s not a good sign, Mr. Scribb. She drinks when some of those old memories come back.”

  The smell of liquor filled the cab.

  “Please,” Martin pleaded. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “You’ve done enough already, Scribb.” Martin smelled the cheap alcohol on Millicent’s breath. “You’ve done enough to me and my family.” She took another drink and screwed on the cap while managing to steer the truck. “You and your plans. Your plans killed my daddy.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.” Martin had no idea what the high-strung Millicent was talking about. He was looking for any way to keep her calm.

  “You should’ve thought about that before your grand scheme. Did you really think you could save the world?”

  She’s right. I did think at one time that I could save the world. Martin remembered back to the months and years before the Spike, when he and his investors believed they could satisfy the world’s energy needs and make a profit, at least until the newer technologies were advanced enough to take over from fossil fuels. The methyl hydrates were there to be taken and used. We decided to do it, and we thought we could do it safely.

  “The Warming was bad enough.” Millicent’s voice slurred as she worked at keeping the truck steady. “Grandpa and Daddy got through it. Lost everything, though. The droughts killed every fruit tree they owned. They tried again, failed, and tried again. They managed, and they always had the forest property. They owned those trees. Kept the family going through the tough times.”

  “I always liked your dad, Millicent,” Harry said. “Too bad he’s gone now.”

  “It was the Spike that killed him,” Millicent said. “The Spike caused by Mr. Scribb.”

  It’s true, but it’s not. If Molly hadn’t...

  Millicent took another drink, and the truck swerved across the center lane before recovering. Martin flinched at an oncoming car. Harry did not react.

  “Harry, darling, do you remember when we were first going out, and I took you to our land, and we camped there for a weekend?”

  “Oh yes, a fine weekend.” Harry chuckled. “I don’t think we left the tent.”

  “That grove, that meadow, the waterfall, it’s all just a pile of ashes now. The Spike, it changed the weather. Didn’t rain there for years. Dry as bones. The Warming made it sick, but it was surviving. Still pretty. Still peaceful. It burned to cinders. All because of him.” Millicent glowered at Martin.

  Harry pouted. “It’s a sad thing.”

  Martin said nothing to defend himself. He didn’t cause the fire that destroyed Millicent and Harry’s forest. It was true that the Spike shifted some weather patterns. If I could change the past, I would, but hadn’t I paid the ultimate penalty: identity death?

  “When they found Mr. Scribb hiding out in the mountains and arrested him, I was ready to break into that prison in California and murder him.” Millicent licked her lips from another pull on the bottle. “I had to let the law take its course, like everyone else. Somehow, the dissing didn’t satisfy me.”

  “I remember how angry you were.” Harry winked at Martin. “She gave me a black eye.”

  “I never thought I’d get a chance for revenge.” Millicent took her eyes off the road and stared at Martin. “Then I saw you get on the bus. I’m supposed to ignore you, like you don’t exist. A living death, because our society’s so civilized, but there’s times when you have to grab for your opportunities, and here we are.”A car honked and Millicent returned to her lane. Soon she turned onto a long gravel driveway, and parked near a rundown ranch house. Several dogs barked in unison.

  “Home, sweet home,” Harry said.

  Millicent leaned toward Martin, until he could smell the remnants of her strawberry-scented shampoo. Terror kept him from moving unless told. She stepped out of the cab and pointed the gun at him. Her breath formed a light fog when she spoke. “You, come out and stay in front of me. Follow Harry into the house.”

  Nothing except the porch light over a sliding glass door broke the pitch blackness. The thousands of stars and the sliver of a moon shed no illumination. The barking of dogs was strong but distant, as if they were in a kennel or fenced in on a nearby property. Harry opened the house’s sliding door. Millicent pushed Martin inside and turned on a light on a ceiling fan. The secondhand, torn furniture contrasted with the tidy kitchen, as if the cook of the house wanted to maintain a semblance of dignity in one small corner of the occupants’ lives.

  “Stay put,” Millicent said.

  Martin was left stranded in the center of the room. I could run, but where would I go? Harry had disappeared. A clanking came from the kitchen as Millicent rummaged in a drawer. She took one of the four chairs at the kitchen table and set it down next to Martin. “Sit down.” She held a long kitchen knife.

  Martin whimpered.

  “You’d better be afraid.” Millicent cut the twine that held his hands together. Like the blood cut off from his hands, relief flowed into Martin, but the emotion was short-lived. “Put your hands behind the chair.”

  Martin obeyed her.

  “Harry, where the hell are you?” Millicent’s hoarse vowels rasped at Martin’s ears.

  A toilet flushed. “Taking care of business, darling.” Harry returned to the living room.

  Millicent pointed her knife at the gun, which was in her jeans pocket, and she thrust her hips out. “Hold this thing on him while I tie his hands again.”

  As Millicent bound Martin’s wrists, Harry held the gun as if a
sticky residue covered it. “I’m not a violent man, Mr. Scribb. Just a supportive husband.”

  “Give me that thing.” Millicent snatched the gun away. “Get out of the way.”

  Harry plopped on the couch and dropped his feet on a coffee table. Millicent growled at Harry, and he shifted his feet to the carpeted floor. As she faced Martin, her breathing deepened, as if something in her was building pressure, like a balloon filled up too far. “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?” Millicent pistol-whipped Martin, arcing the barrel across his face, opening a gash under his right eye. Martin felt no pain at first; his mind registered the blow with a detached interest that something bad had happened to his cheekbone. The pain rose in earnest after a second or two, then shot up like a rocket. A sound came out of his mouth, but he didn’t hear it because of the pain.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?” Millicent repeated the question at a lower volume, but with as much intensity. “Everyone said you were stupid to do what you did, before you did it, to try to get that methane up, burn it in power plants.”

  Martin couldn’t defend himself, not morally, but he felt compelled to say something. “We thought we were doing the right thing. We needed—”

  “SHUT UP.” Millicent whipped Martin again, this time with a forehand any tennis pro would admire. The barrel caught Martin on the temple, and stars swam before his eyes.

  Harry propped up his head in his open hand. “Darling, be gentle. He’s a guest, you know.”

  Millicent ignored her husband. “Instead, it started burning, tons and tons and millions of tons on fire, like the ocean was on fire. What didn’t burn evaporated. We watched it. Everyone watched it on the netlinks. Can you imagine what we felt, once we knew what was happening?”

  Martin knew. He watched it himself, disbelieving that the engineers’ worst-case disaster scenario, which no one believed was possible, was playing out. Almost nothing traps heat in the atmosphere like methane, and millions upon millions of tons were vented into the air.

  “It was the end of my world,” Millicent spat.