Time And Tide

“It is confirmed, Mr. President.” the head of the Earth Security Forces said, ashen faced. “The alien's main fleet will be here in 6 months, and we have nothing that can stop them. As you have seen, their technology is so far beyond our own that we have no chance.”

The president said nothing, just carried on looking at the screens that showed the aftermath of the alien's vanguard attack ships. The world's military had done their valiant best, to no avail.

Smoking craters where the world's major cities had been, the inevitable survivors, the unlucky ones, slowly fleeing the destruction of their universe. The radio was a babble of pleas and accusations from around the globe. He cleared his throat.

“How many in the main fleet?”

“300 ships minimum, Sir. Tracking thinks there may be more, but we can't get a clear reading.” 300. And yet just two ships had crippled Earth's production and economy. He slumped. A soft cough from behind him brought him back to himself. He turned to face Dr. Heimdahl, the head of Directed Research as he said, “Sir, there might just be a way. We have readings on their weapons, and estimate needing at least thirty years to get our technology to a level where we can fight back successfully.”

“But there is less than 6 months!”

“There is always Project Shield.”

The president frowned for a moment. “That was banned for being too dangerous, wasn't it?”

“What,” Dr. Heimdahl gestured at the screens “do we have to lose?”

The president straightened. “Do it.”

* * *

A tap on the door caused Dr. Carter to throw down his pen in disgust. Another problem to deal with, probably. Chen Tzien squeezed his massive bulk through the doorway, a broad smile on his normally stern face. “We did it John! The Hawking beam's overheating problem is now solved, completely. The factory is gearing up to turn them out now.”

Carter smiled and picked up his pen again. People laughed at him for using such a quaint way of designing, until they realised the sheer volume of innovative and new technologies that poured from the keen mind through that pen and into being. “Some good news for once!”

“Indeed.” The engineer poured himself a mug of scarce coffee and added casually “And it seems young Lewis has worked the bugs out of that stasis field that was on your wish list. Not totally, but the field will now last long enough, at 99% reliability.” He looked around the office with approval. The warm wooden walls, the rugs, the crossed foils and two paintings of John's beloved Fredricksburg, all gave no clue that the whole complex, by now a bustling city of a hundred thousand people, was over a mile underground.

Carter dropped his pen again and swung around to gaze incredulously at his collegue. “That means …”

“Yes, precisely.” Chen's grin got even broader “We can go home.” Carter dug in his desk for a moment, emerging triumphant with a bottle of genuine Kentucky bourbon. “Grab a glass. We celebrate.” he paused “Pity old Heimdahl isn't here to see this. One drink, then we activate stage 2.”

* * *

The president had aged visibly in the 5 months since the first attack. Dealing with the riots, the panic, the displaced and the dead, all had taken its toll. Watching the alien fleet sweeping ever closer abraded his nerves like a refined form of the ancient water torture. The knowledge that he had sent a hundred thousand men and women on a certain suicide mission, with only one way to get in touch and no way to be sure of success cost him what little sleep he was able to snatch. He gazed listlessly out of the window at the rain drenched garden, the last words Heimdahl said to him before leaving running through his mind.

“Shield is one way. We can travel into the past, but those men and women will remain there. A seed group, should our Earth die. Should we win, they must die to keep the time stream intact and prevent paradoxes.” A suicide run, in other words.

The sound of hasty footsteps in the corridor, followed by a low muttering with the guard. The door opened silently and Jones, the new head of DR, rushed in.

“We opened the cave exactly where instructed, over the objections of the French.” he gasped “crates and crates of etched metal plates, all the records of Project Shield, with this plate carefully balanced on top. And some silvery dome thing that we thought better not to touch.” He dropped the gold plate on the desk with a dull thud.

Emblazoned across it in large letters was the phrase “Total success. Evacuate the Antarctic stations. The stasis field will collapse within the month. The person within has important information.” For the first time in months, the President felt a smile on his face as he gave the order.

* * *

Staff Sergeant Richard Estivez was disoriented. 25 minutes ago, he had done the final checks on the 500 person crew of flagship 2, unofficially known as Rancor. Outside the ship, the hanger's polished stone gleamed, brightened with murals to cheer the crews and make them forget they lived underground. He had set the timer on the stasis field as instructed and leaned back, then, with a jerk, was suddenly looking out on a dusty, time battered cave, the cheery murals long gone to dust and rubble. He glanced sideways at Hodges, the navigator, who was looking distinctly green.

“Remind me never to volunteer for time travel again.”

“You and me both, Sarge.”

A cough from the captain's seat behind him. “Estivez, get us out of this cave and into the air. We have things to kill.”

To be continued ...

The Night Before

He woke with a start. It was a bad idea, since his head promptly exploded in agony at the sudden movement. Roll desperately to avoid the remains of whatever the hell he had eaten last night soaking his chest and face as it decided to leave his guts for somewhere more hygienic and stable. His eyes popped open as his hand struck nothing but air, and he was treated to the sight of a trail of vomit falling 40 stories to the busy street below. It was then that Maxwell Jones discovered that sheer, bowel wringing terror is the best hangover cure ever invented.

Somehow he found himself suddenly leaning against the top of the elevator shaft, 20 feet from the buildings edge. Shakily reached into his jacket for a cigarette, pants pocket for his lighter. The lighter wasn't there. Nor were his pants. What the …?

“Think, asshole.” His voice comes out hoarse and quivery. Look around, no pants visible, not even hanging on the various aerials. Most of the night before is simply gone in a haze of whiskey and sex. The last thing he remembers is sinking shots with Tommy in O'Halligans.

Scrabble around in the jacket pockets and take stock. 7 Kools in a crumpled pack. A book of matches. A pen. $10,000 in used hundreds.

“What the fuck did I do this time!”

The great thing about New York is no one cares. In any other city, walking down the street in your lucky paisley boxers with a hangover at lunch time would get you some strange looks at the least, with a quick beat down and ride in a cop car more likely. In New York no one even blinks, you simply ain't their problem. Push open the door and enter O'Halligans.

“Hey, you, what you thi … Oh, tis you, Max. Wash yer face and put some fuckin' pants on, wouldja!” Mick gestures around the empty bar before flicking something shiny to him, “You are scaring off the thirsty hordes. Here's your keys, you asked Tommy to hold them.”

“You know where I went last night, Mick?”

“How the fuck should I know? You left here about 10, totally crocked, after totally failing with some woman. Now fuck off before the bankers start coming in.”

Pick up the keys. A dead end. At least he has his apartment and car back. Grab a cigarette as he passes out the door, and pull out the matches. Light up, inhale with relief as the nicotine rush starts kicking shit out of his throbbing headache. Glance at the match-book – The Blue Pearl in faux script on the cover, and an unreadable phone number written in eyebrow pencil. It is a clue.

Time to move. Coffee is needed. But first – buy some pants.

No one ever has a complete blackout. There are always flickers of memory, if you really concentrate. A deja vu as you walk the street that you should listen to. Muscle memory, if you will. So when his feet made a sudden turn into a dingy Mom and Pop cafe, Max wasn't hugely surprised. Instantly nauseated by the smell, but not surprised.

“Black coffee”

“Coming right up,” the elderly man behind the counter replied without looking up.

“Look, was I in here last night?”

“You'll have to ask my son. He does the night shifts.” Still with head lowered over the coffee machine he bellowed in a surprisingly strong voice “Paulie! Customer wants a word!” A grumbled response from the back room and an absolutely huge guy squeezes through the door. Stops dead and pales as he sees Max.

“I don't want any trouble, Mister. Just drink yer coffee and go. It's on the house.” Interesting.

“Was I in here last night?” the combination of the smell of rancid grease and the hangover making his voice harsh. Big Paulie slumps further.

“Yessir, you came in about 11 with your lady. Unless you say different, a'course”

“Which lady?” This coffee is fucking horrible, burning his stomach like tasteless acid.

“Trixie, Sir. The dancer from the Blue Pearl. Same one as always.” As always? Sir? As much as he hates to admit it publicly, Max is almost permanently between girlfriends and has never been called Sir in his life. This shit is getting deep. Grunt at Paulie, nod and leave. Dive into the nearest alley and get rid of the coffee roiling in his stomach.

As he pukes, a quick flash of memory. A bar on 3^rd, and a man in a booth. Concentrate. Nothing much, just the man's face and a wooden Indian with a three foot long peace pipe. Finish puking, wipe his mouth and shakily flag down a cab.

Do you know how many bars there are on 3^rd? A fuckton of them. The 17^th bar he tried was the right one. The Indian by the gents. The booths along the side wall. And, most convincingly, his pants wrapped, turban style, on the Indian's head.

Unwrap them. Wallet gone, of course. Head pounding like a freight train. Time for a beer and a shot. Snag today's paper from the rack, and let his feet do the work, picking third booth from the back. Start to skim the news, while hunting for more clues in the blackness of his mind. The usual shit. Politics. A car dredged out of the Hudson. A couple more murders. In his mind there is nothing. Just blankness. A shift of the seat alerts him to someone sitting down.

The man dimly remembered from last night. Different suit, same face and little pussy ticker moustache. Looks like an accountant.

“Fast work, even for you, Mr Walters,” he says, nodding at the paper and sliding an envelope over the table to Max. “Here is the other half, as agreed.”

Open it. A sheaf of used $100 bills inside. About a hundred of them. What the fuck is going on?!

As the man leaves, Max gives in to the impulse to bang his head sharply on the table. It hurts, and really doesn't help the hangover or his thinking.

Only one thing left. The Blue Pearl. Check the clock behind the bar – really should have bought a new watch – it'll be open by the time he gets there. Absently stuffing the envelope into his coat pocket, he picks up the paper and leaves.

The cab drops him outside a warehouse. Looks around dubiously as he pays the fare. The cabbie sighs.

“The Blue Pearl is there, asshole. Other side of the street. Jesus, why do I always get the morons!” he shouts as he drives off. Charming.

The Blue Pearl is a place that has definitely seen better days. Peeling paint, blacked out windows. A dive by any definition of the word. Fuck it, he has 20 grand in his pocket and not a fucking idea why. Going in. Head is still pounding, but he has to know.

Knock at the door. A rattle as the hatch slides open.

“Shit John, sorry, come on in” the bouncer says as he hurriedly unbolts the door. “Trixie is in the back, you know the way.” He does? “Dude, you OK?”

“Just a hangover. Got any coffee?” Who the fuck is John? The look of the club tells him nothing. The smell, well it smells like any strip club, an equal mix of sweat and lust overriding the ghosts of beers past.

“Johnny!!!!!” Her squeal climbs rapidly up into the ultrasonic and threatens to blow his head apart. “How sweet! You came to see me!!!!”

“Grfff,” he replies as a shapely girl wearing incredibly little wraps around him. Her delicate lips approach his ear to whisper.

“All done, and it is done well. We are gonna be so happy together!!!”

“What ...”

“Page 8. Sorry, I have to go get my costume on.” she whispers through a kiss like a promise of things to come. “I'll see you after my shift.” Settle at the bar, the taste of beer like a blessing. Open the paper to page 8.

A grainy picture of him, or close enough that is makes no difference.

Continued from page 1: One of the deceased in the car has been identified from his wallet as Maxwell Jones, an unemployed primary school teacher. The other victim is as yet formally unidentified, but has been provisionally identified as Two Finger Tommy, the notorious East Side gangster. Their car is assumed to have skidded and crashed through the …

Wait. I am dead? I don't feel it. People see me and react to me. So definitely not a ghost. The barman approaches.

“Same again, John?”

A spark in his mind, of dim and distant memories finally firing up.

He missed a stop. A nameless bar, a woman crying as someone who could be his twin hits her hard in the chest. Unreasoning rage and hit the guy once, hard with a bottle. No one treats a woman like that. The guy slumped and lies still. No one moves. No one really cares. The woman hisses something that makes the bouncers back off, and the two of them carry the still warm body from the bar.

The rest is lost in the fog of the blackout. Who killed Two Finger Tommy? Why was his wallet in this stranger's pocket? Why the hell did he take his pants off? He looks around. The mix of respect and fear towards him is like a fire, warming his very soul.

He smiles.

10 years later.

“Well, doctor, that is about it.” John Walters said with a smile to his shrink. “The story of my life. How a nobody became a power in the city – thanks to one drunken night.”

Saint Pytor

Check the gauges. No change. Accumulators at 98%, panels at full efficiency. Air within the limits he has set, thanks to the makeshift algae farm in Hab Pod B. It tastes like shit, an experiment run well beyond what it was supposed to, but it keeps him breathing and staves off the worst of the hunger pangs. Check the food stocks. About another 16 months worth, at his current rate of consumption. Maybe two years, depending how well the rats breed.
Shrug. Space is a risk. Everyone knows that. A soft chime. Accumulators at 99%. Swim to the window of this Pod, Sci 1, and look out. Over Eastern North America, this time, the slow orbit putting him over every part of the planet at some time or other. Flick on the radio and crank the power level to max. Civilian equipment isn't as good for receiving as the NASA rigs, but they no longer exist. Antenna's, long since refocused on Earth, listen for any whisper of news. Grab the mic, and get ready, the patter smooth in his mind.

"This is Cosmonaut Pytor Alexandrovich, aboard the ISS, calling the Eastern USA. You have chem clouds approaching from the North East, with an estimated 4 hour window of safety. Get under cover. The Algonquin region is still reading as totally safe by all sensors, so keep those groups heading there. Map references as before. This advisory will be repeated every ten minutes until I lose power again. Come back and give me some chat, folks. Now here is the news."

* * *

6 months earlier.

No one will ever know how it started. Maybe someone decided to take a chance that the other powers were not serious. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe a computer glitch. Who knows. It all happened so fast. Within 25 minutes, the planet was covered in ICBM tracks. The various satellite defense nets tried valiantly, before falling prey to hunter killer sats themselves. Automated response systems, working on the use it or lose it philosophy, flushed the rest of the launchers on secondary, tertiary and quaternary targets, without bothering to ask their ostensible masters for permission. Large expanses of the world simply ceased to exist in a boil of hellfire, radiation and neutrons.
The war was over in two hours. So was the world we knew.
For the three riding safely in orbit, 500 miles above it all, it was a lingering death sentence. As one, they pulled away from the view port.
Allan spoke first. "We have the escape modules. We can still return home."
Chloe nodded. "Better than slowly suffocating and starving up here. Pytor? Commander?"
He said nothing. Visions of a world burning filled his mind.

"Commander!" With a shake, he dismisses the thoughts. "You two go. I will stay as long as possible, and try to contact the survivors. Steer them towards safe zones and out of trouble. There are still some comsats in orbit, and I have the radio. Let us find you a safe LZ. I'll join you when I can."
Not a request. An order. They hesitated for a moment, then agreed. Chloe fumbled in her coverall for a second, then extended her hand, holding a flash drive.
"The access and control codes for every US and NATO satellite in orbit. You'll need them. We'll get your control station set up, then we will leave."

* * *

Brief flash of a smile. Been alone a long time now, but not lonely. No despair since the discovery two months ago that his lander was trashed by a micrometeorite. He is up here for good. At least he no longer needs to waste power on the centrifuge, meaning he has more power for the radios and the computers.

"Got a message just come in from a group on Highway 401, warning of treacherous road conditions and bad rad levels near Belleville. Groups are advised to avoid the area and head North earlier." Check the monitor. Next bit of news. "The Algonquin co-op asks that groups make sure to bring as much fuel as possible, and both nails and screws are in drastically short supply. Good news for the Co-op - a group is heading your way with 50 rolls of the industrial plastic that you wanted for the greenhouses. The group also has a doctor with them, so you are starting to look good. Moving on to New York state, there are reports of gang activity near Albany. All groups should avoid the area. Other upstate news ..."

He carries on giving encouragement, spreading news and requests, sending information, until the warning lamp flickers. "Well, folks, that is all for now. I should be overhead again with a full charge in three days or so. News, questions and requests, send in on 405 kilocycles, to the NOAA3 satellite, which rises at 17:50 your time, directly due East. Access code to deposit information is #73."
Click off the radio in the dimness of the emergency lights. By the time he is over the West coast, he should have about 3/4 charge. Enough to pass on information there, briefly, at least. There are not as many survivors there, thanks to the bombs and the earthquakes. The temptation to hook into the Hubble and check up on some of the settlements is immense, but he resists. Time enough to do that while he makes his slow way across the Pacific. It is time to sleep. Time to dream of a world in flames. Again.

* * *

22 years old. Straight out of university, yet the knifelike Siberian wind has no respect for degrees. As he drops from the truck, it hits him, ripping the breath from his body like a physical blow. Stagger, half blinded by icy tears, to the bunker. The access to his undergound home for the next two years. Just him, two hundred other men, and several thousand ICBMs.
He never sees them. Just their brains, in diagram form, on his computer screen. It is a challenge. Making a small, fairly stupid hardware package as flexible as it can be. Giving it as much decision making ability as possible, then pack more in somehow. After a year of 16 hour days, he is heading up his own department, recoding the missiles to be virtually autonomous. The fact that each one holds the fire of hell in it's shiny skin never makes it to the surface of his mind.

New orders. Baikonur, for training. His commanders are pleased with him. There is a place on the ISS he can go for. Going into space? The dream of every boy, and he gets to live it. If he is good enough. He is going to make damned sure he is.

He does. Life is good. Cosmonauts are still heros in the Soviet Union. Until he watches the products of his mind and skill set the world on fire. The flames never end.

* * *

He wakes with a start, the low growling in his stomach bothering him briefly. What day is it? Where is he? Check the display. He has been up here for three years now, since the world died. Living on algae alone for the past two months, trying desperately to balance oxygen production with a food supply of some sort or other. It has been a cold and hungry time that can only lead to one outcome.
Those Westerners, they never realised the immense power of the computers they made. What you can actually do with them if you understand how to. If you are willing to go beyond the self imposed limits that their beliefs force on them. Float almost drunkenly to the control chair. For the first time, strap in. CO2 levels too high, and the scrubbers are long since dead, makes it hard to concentrate.
Enter a command, with the ease of long practice. A flicker of images across the screen, as different communities are displayed. All growing. All healthy. In the background he hears the whisper of radio communication. People asking questions, getting answers. Rebuilding civilisation one step at a time.
Slowly, he fumbles a phial and syringe out of the arm pocket of his tattered jumpsuit. Carefully, concentrating hard, he fills the syringe. The phial goes back into his pocket. Don't want something drifting around to cause problems. He tapes the syringe to his fingers, to make sure it doesn't come loose.
Pick up the mic one last time. Over the Pacific, but it matters not. The satnet will run for the next hundred or so years.

"This is Pytor Alexandrovich, aboard the ISS. I am setting the system to automatic. May God bless you all, and forgive me for what I have done." Enter a command on the keyboard, then press down hard on the plunger.

* * *

Algonquin co-op, sunset, year 6 post apocalypse.

"Look up, children. See the bright evening star to the East? That is Saint Pytor, keeping watch on us and making sure we are worthy of him. He helped create the holocaust, then gave his life to save us from it. Remember him always, and keep his memory holy."

Nerves

He lives in the shadows of his mind. Flickering phantasms brought to life by his smallest thought. Fragments of memory shoot past like comets, trailing glory in their wake. He navigates effortlessly through the void, the unused parts of himself, and touches down where he will. There are none to gainsay him here.

Yet, like every universe, there are laws. A center. A dark, forbidding place, which draws him in time and time again, despite his best efforts to stay in the light. It always starts the same way. A snatch of a tune that he simply has to follow. One time when his will matters not. And the tune spreads its strands everywhere, like a patient spider laying in wait.

He is currently in a summers day. June 21, 2009, if he is not mistaken. Walking through the park, enjoying the sun's heat on his shoulders and the smell of new mown grass in the air. Children playing, couples lazing. Just another day in paradise. Head towards the icecream cart. Really fancy a cone - coffee and chocolate, today. It just fits with the perfect day.

A snatch of song. He tenses, then relaxes. It is OK, it is not the song. Just somebody's boombox playing over by the trees. Buy the icecream and walk on. All is right with the world. Everything is perfect. In the distance, he sees her walking towards him. Speeds up slightly, as does she. They will meet by the big Chestnut tree. Their tree.

Her smile is like the sun after the rain. He drops the remains of his icecream and sprints the last 30 feet to her. Picks her up effortlessly and spins her, while kissing her like he'll never stop. All is right with the world, and his joy overflows. A beat. Then that never to be sufficiently damned bassline starts. The one that tears him away once again, drawing him towards the dark vortex at the core of his mind.

That night. May 17th, 2022. Hell night.

Sure, in his line there are always risks. It goes with the job, as the saying goes. Thousands of very smart people work very hard indeed to minimise them. But they can't be totally eliminated. Accidents happen in a hostile universe.

Glance across the control cabin. She looks strange without most of her hair. Her crowning glory, he used to call it, so long she could, and frequently did, sit on it. To her usual disgust and his laughter. But fanned out across the pillow, it was like a magnet. Totally attractive. Totally irresistable. Gone now, thanks to the mission requirements. Oddly enough, the sacrifice of her hair had only bonded them deeper. Give her a half humorous salute and descend one level to the garden ring. He is the farmer this shift. Pick up an air mask and head through the airlock. The CO2 levels are kept high here, to increase oxygen production. Microfibre filters allow the oxgen out to the rest of the craft, while keeping the CO2 in the farm. Monitors overhead, showing the various parts of the Aries. A click and his favorite song start to play as he checks the nutrient levels of the hydroponics.

Will the world end with a bang, or a whimper. Neither. His world ended with a ping. Not a normal noise. He glances around wildly for a second, as a gentle wind start to blow amongst the plants, the subsides as the ventilator grills slam shut with a slam more felt than heard. He looks up to the monitors.

She is there on screen. What is left of her, anyway. Explosive decompression does not leave a good looking corpse. Throw up, and look away. The others, also dead. Floating shadows in the emergency lights. Just him left. Trapped in the farm ring with no suit. No way to get out. The computers will tuck us safely into Mars orbit in 100 days. He has maybe 10 days worth of food and water here.

Bolted down on every deck is a long coffin. A cryochamber. Still experimental, but included, despite the weight, as a last ditch attempt at saving lives in an ultimate emergency. He gives a wry grin. This probably counts as one.

Open it and settle in. Read the instructions carefully, three times. Not hard to do, they simply say "Lay down and hit the red button." He does so. As the lid swings shut, he sees her eyes in the monitor. The blood seepage makes it look like she is crying. Then a hiss of liquid helium from the reactor, and he starts to dream.

* * *

"Base, this is Aries 2, copy? We have successfully docked with Aries 1. We have 5 confirmed dead. One in cryonic suspension, presumed living."

The captain wearily wipes his hand over his face. It was not good.

"Cap? That guy in the freezer is still alive?"

"Yeah, Alvarez, he is still alive."

"Why does he look like he is screaming?"

Spirals

It is lonely here now.
I only really use three rooms anymore, and the bed is just too big. I miss him terribly. His warmth. His scent. Even his farts after eating cabbage.
His chair by the fire is just as he left it, with the creases in the throw cover from him sitting there and the worn patches on the arms where he'd rest his elbow while smoking. Sometimes, very briefly, I will sit there and pretend everything is OK again. Just for a little bit. His VC hangs above the chair like a talisman, reminding me that he did what he had to do. Small comfort, but better than none.

I remember when we met, as if it was yesterday. Momma was having one of her bad days, and was confined to bed. Which meant I could not go to school yet again. 16 years old, and unlikely to get my diploma. I am not stupid at all, just a lack of schooling. It was just me and her, as Daddy had left the farm and gone off to war years ago. We got one letter from him when he arrived in France, then a week later a telegram from the War Office. The sort of telegram that begins "We regret to inform you ...". She needed me. My needs did not matter. Such was the time and the expectation.
The quiet knock on the door was almost lost beneath the squish of the sheets as I ran them through the mangle. When your Momma has "accidents" most nights, you get pretty good at doing laundry fast, before it dries to an uncleanable, revolting mess.
The knock, repeated. Thinking it was the egg man, as it was his day to collect, I simply shouted for whoever it was to come in. The back door opens straight into the kitchen anyway.
The door opens and there is a soft thump as the person collapses across the threshold. A young man, horribly battered and burned in the tattered remains of his uniform. Almost unconscious. I rushed forwards and dropped to my knees beside him to check him. His pulse is slow, but steady. Blood loss, and a few broken bones, but it seems like nothing serious. They make sure we girls know first aid, it is all part of the War effort. Being able to look after our pilots if they crash. When they crash. It happens to all of them, according to my cousin. The planes they fly are not much more than fabric and string, held together by good wishes and faith.

He is much bigger than me. I cannot carry him upstairs, so drag him though to the sitting room and lay him on the sofa, my back burning like fire. He moans something I cannot understand, though I hear the words well enough. Dry and raspy voice, like he has been without water for weeks. Carefully squeeze some water into his mouth and watch him swallow. As I tend his injuries, he says the first clear words I hear:

"Thank ye, lass."

Then he passes out. Problem time. I am no fainting maiden, after all this is 1916, but it isn't right for me to take off what is left of his clothes. Yet he is still bleeding badly. Even if I send for him now, the doctor won't be here for hours. Our little village is not that important. Momma is asleep. Slow, Sophie, what did Daddy always say?

"Do what needs to be done, when it needs to be done. Worry about the morality of it later."

I get the large shears from the sewing box and cut off his clothes. As I stitch his wounds with boiled thread, I keep glancing at his face. He can't be much older than me. No more than 18 or 19 years old. Something stirs deep within me. Something primeval. Intensely protective. And a feeling I have never felt before, talking about the boys in chapel with my best friend.
Finish cleaning him up, the scraps of uniform go onto the fire. Blood makes them smoke a bit, but we have a good chimney. The smell doesn't spread though the house, and soon they are ash. Odd fabric, it didn't really feel like wool. Well, not my problem.
Over the next week he had a bad fever. Momma was the same as ever and never came downstairs, so my soldier belonged to me. Oh, yes, I was madly in love. I can admit that now. He even said my name in his fever dreams.

Sophie.

* * *

What the hell? Where am I? Pain all over my body, as if I have been beaten by a giant. The gentle pull of stitches as I try to move and shift the intolerable weight of the single sheet off my chest. Can't breathe.

"Rest, my soldier." The voice low, musical, with a bubbling good humor hiding under the concern. Familiar. Comforting.

Wait! Who am I? Start to panic, then gratefully dive back into unconsciousness. And dream.

"Smith, take these orders forward and delivery them to Captain Rikard personally, as fast as possible." Pick up the packet, salute and leave. A quick check of the map shows me where Rikard's company is supposed to be - twenty miles forward of the command post, two miles behind the front lines and bivvied in a farm outside some nameless shell of a town. Couldn't pronounce it if I knew the name anyway, French is a mystery to me. Kick my motorbike into life and jounce through the potholes and frozen ruts onto the road. The dim, shielded headlamp is almost useless against the dark, but that is immaterial. I have very good night vision and these dispatches are to get there as fast as possible. Settle into the saddle and open the throttle wide, the regular throb of the engine radiating a comforting warmth against my thighs, countering the icy wind.
It isn't bad, being a dispatch rider for HQ. Decent enough posting for a man right on the age limit for active service. At least I am not slogging towards Germany through mud and bullets with the other Tommies. And, warming me more than the engine, are the papers in my breast pocket.

Three weeks leave, starting as soon as I return from this ride. I am going home again. Back to our little hill farm. Back to Sophie. My love.

A loud droning above the noise of the engine as a plane flashes past overhead, it's silhouette pitch black against the moonlit sky, the squared off wings slicing through the air like razors.

Squared off wings? Oh, fuck, it's a Jerry! Too late to evade, crouch and open the throttle wide, the roar of my engine and the windrush concealing the whistle of the falling bombs. I am not going to die! I am going home to my Sophie!

The world goes white as the bombs hit.

No! Fuck this! I AM GOING HOME!

Agonising blackness.

* * *

As he got better, we found that my soldier couldn't remember much of his past at all. Just snatches here and there that didn't make any sense at all, of a huge war covering most of the world. Nonsense machines and occurrences that were obviously fever dreams. Nothing of his family, his friends, not even his name. We decided his name was Smith. First name William, as it is a name we both liked. The times just sitting and talking after the farm work was done were precious indeed. He helped as he could and steadily got stronger. Yet as he got better, Momma got worse. She died November first, 1916.

William was a pillar of strength. By that time he was pretty much mobile again, and active around the farm. He dealt with the Doctor and the Priest, with an assurance well beyond his years. And when Father O'Callahan suggested that him living here with me might lead to gossip, if not outright immorality, he simply turned to me and proposed, in front of witnesses. We were married two days after Momma's funeral, with the entire village turning out for the occasion. Even the old cats, who love to gossip and pick faults, were happy for us. There was some chat about the man from nowhere, but his scars, earned in the Great War, silenced most of that.

We had a good life. Farming is hardscrabble work, especially in the hills, but somehow William made it pay. It was like he knew from year to year what to plant and what to raise. When to increase the flock size, and when to sell them off. The other farmers, who started by laughing at his ideas, started to copy him. Or they went under, and we bought their land and flocks. We had a good balance in the bank, and were of good standing in the village. In '25, when we had our daughter, also called Sophie after both me and Momma, our happiness and our family was complete.

Even the Great Depression didn't hurt us. In September, 1929, William came home with a huge bag of gold sovereigns, our entire life savings, and said

"Put these somewhere safe, lass. We'll be needing them soonish." He was right. We did need them. And prospered while others did not. He jokingly referred to his luck, but something bothered me. I remember his fever dreams, the disjointed sentences he would speak during the time I watched him while he was healing. He saw all of this before it happened. Somehow.

His first ever words to me bother me now he is gone. I sit here, in my lonely room, with that empty chair in front of me, and try to puzzle out their meaning.

* * *

The blackness fades to leave me facing a very familiar door. Still immense pain, but I can move.

I knock. And hear a familiar and beloved voice call "Come on in."

As I collapse across the threshold, I see a young girl running towards me.

My mind expands. As my beloved drags me into the sitting room and hoists me onto the sofa, my mind fixes on the thought. How many times has this happened? A thousand times? A million?

"Oh, god, not again. Jut let it end."

Fair maiden, cover me

The Street is bustling tonight. It's Friday. Time for letting off steam, seeing friends, or simply indulging in your vices. You know the ones. The ones catered to on Holland Street.
Where the cops don't go unless they are called by the bouncers, or to collect their weekly pay off.

It is going to be a good night. Break time nearly over. Time to be getting back inside.

Glance across the street and up three floors to the dirty, peeling windows that look blindly out, heavy curtains cutting off all bar seams of light. Fourth window along. Know very well what is behind those curtains. One room with dingy and peeling wallpaper. Furniture that a hobo would sniff at. A few meagre possesions. The one I love more than life, who makes everything bearable.
The light is on. Not started work yet then. Drop the cigarette butt, carefully grind it out underfoot. Old habits. Strange how they stick with us, when no longer needed. The street is hardly going to catch fire. Turn to re-enter the bar. A second glance up, as the light clicks off in her room. Her shift is starting.

Moody, the bouncer, sees the direction of my gaze. He pats me once, gently, on the shoulder as I pass.

"We'll keep an eye on her, man. We always do." His voice is harsh, he is not. Not to the people who live and work here on the Street. Give him a nod of thanks. He'll do it. Last time a guy tried something on with her, Moody, and Silvio from next door, tied him in a knot.

Through the doors to a blast of noise. The smell of weed and tobacco is overpowering, the smoke hanging in the air like a fine fog. Sure, it's illegal. But this is Holland Street. Laws don't apply here. Get back behind the bar. My leg is killing me. Gonna rain soon. But not tonight. Drop into the mindless routine of serving up drinks. Some for the bar sitters, more for the tables. Hands working automatically. Gives me time to think. Too much time. The girls waiting tables get the big tips. They earn them. I get the odd drink bought for me by the rummys who sit at the bar. I pocket the money, and drink ginger ale. Every penny extra is worth it.
Longing for just a single glimpse of my beloved. To remind me why we are here. That it is all worth it.

Once upon a time, there was a small farm. Nothing much really, but we made a living by working hard. Just me, my wife and our daughter. Didn't have much money, but we had love and laughter aplenty. Music too. My mothers piano was in constant use. We had 9 happy years.
Then came the drought. Our savings dropped and dropped. We have been through them before. Hard, but survivable.

There she is. She always starts her beat near the bar and gives me a wave if she can. Looking fine tonight. Tight shorts, a gossamer top, heels. Just the right amount of make-up, hair artfully disarrayed. A guy walks up to her. Talks, smiles. She nods and they walk off down the street together. I grip the edge of the bar. Doesn't matter how many times I see it, that hurts so fucking bad. Like someone ripping out my heart. Every fucking time. Love hurts. Not loving hurts worse.

Then came the accident. A coma. Oh, we put her in hospital, sharpish, but treatments cost money. Money we didn't have. Getting to the city to see her was a nightmare. We couldn't even afford fuel, insurance, nothing. Ate what we managed to raise, and damned little of it. Every penny went on her.
With heavy heart, we decided to sell the farm. Then came the fire. I woke, in hospital, with a leg burned to almost uselessness. Of my beloved, there was no sign. Just the money coming in to pay the hospital bills. There is only one way here for a woman to raise enough money for that.
Holland Street.

As soon as I was discharged, I went looking for her. It really didn't take long to find her. My love. My life for the last ten years. As I healed, I started to work. There are good people here, they helped out. Found me a job, look out for her. There is a lot of love here on Holland Street.
We still have the hospital bills, true. Every single extra penny goes to them, to keep life support going. To stop them pulling the plug. We agree on that.

2 AM. Shift end. Not cleaning up tonight, that is Reg's job. Wearily limp across the road to the transient's hotel. Room 319. It isn't much, but it's home.

Make a cup of tea, and heat some soup on the hotplate. She'll be home soon, and hungry. Rattle of the key in the lock, and she enters the room in a blaze of glory. Beauty personified. Beauty soiled, by what she has to do. She smiles at me, melting my heart once more.

"Dad, can we go see Mom tomorrow?"

Sometimes they let us see the sun.

Prison doesn't work.
That was the decision of Congress, as crime rose, the economy collapsed yet again on the back of another resource crisis, and the populace's tolerance to paying taxes to house and feed criminals fell sharply.
Sure, many people had considered the decade long wait on Death Row for condemned criminals to be cruel and unusual punishment in it's own right, so the creation of a government department to purely investigate death sentences and a dedicated trio of Supreme Court judges to hear the evidence and decide on death was widely welcomed. The sixty day deadline for investigation was not as popular. Yet it was signed into law.
That still left over ten million people in prison, serving sentences from three months to multiple life sentences. Still too expensive, the people cried. Law abiding citizens are starving, while criminals get fed! Riots broke out, and were contained with difficulty. The prison population ballooned as hungry people broke the law simply to eat. It was time for drastic, and, in government terms, unusually swift action.
May 3rd, 2063, the National Indentured Workers Scheme was signed into existence. A partnership between the Department of Justice and several corporations was set up to run the scheme.

Almost 200 years after the Emancipation Proclamation, slavery once more became legal in the United States of North America, it's territories and it's protectorates.

* * *

It stinks in here. Been submerged too long, and the air scrubbers need recharging. Dripping water making the catwalks slippery as I hurry to my workstation to start my shift. Five minutes late is a day added to my sentence. It isn't fair, but who cares for us? No one. We are slaves. The invisible ones.
Arrive at the workstation and punch in. The ID chip embedded in my wrist stings as the time clock accepts me. Ken nods as I take over the rig. He is here forever - 5 consecutive life sentences - so he doesn't care about overtime. He'll never get out. He has no one on the outside working his case. Trying to get him a fair shake.
He knows it, we know it.
Eventually he'll go the way of all other multiple lifers. Go nuts, attack someone and be shot. It is the only way out for them. Poor bastards. Still, I'd rather take over from a lifer than a short timer. They can get aggressive. Nasty. Even attack you. That adds to both of your terms.
Again, unfair. No one cares. No one gets out of here easily.

An example.

We hot bunk down here, three to a rack. 8 hours bunk time. 12 hours work time. 4 hours for meals, hygiene and the laughably named "Personal Development." My tail bunk mate, Dan, the one who wakes me up, is not keen on the whole hygiene issue. Rarely washes at all. He fucking stinks. You can smell him two rooms away. My head bunk mate, Pete, in for 6 months for petty larceny, had words with him about it. Getting into a cot reeking of BO and rancid food is not fun. The words descended into violence, as happens a lot here. A broken tooth, a black eye. I wasn't there, I was on my shift. They both got an extra two years added to their time, for malicious damage to company property. I got an extra two months, as it is my bunk assignment. It happens to everyone. The system is there to benefit the system. We are merely company property. Biological machines. Cheap and easily replaceable when we break.

Keep eyes on the gauges. Hands on the controls. Otherwise you register as not working. You don't work, you don't eat. A simple way to ensure that the company makes it's money off you while you are in here. Delicate movements, to drive the harvester across the sea bed. Prefer driving a prospector, a good strike and you get time knocked off your sentence, but I lost that privilege. Got hit by accident in a fight in the mess hall, didn't duck fast enough when the guards opened fire.

A siren. We are surfacing. Set the harvester to standby and lock my panel. From the time the alarm sounds you have 40 seconds to do that. Longer and you get time added. Fail to put your machine into standby and you get dealt with. Those things are expensive. Those off duty have to deal with housekeeping. Strip the bunks of blanket and mattress, get them to the cleaning center to be sterilized. Send out the nets and traps to catch whatever possible as we rise to the surface.

Board locked, all telltales glowing red. Check the clock, well inside the time limit. Stand and stretch. The entire plant is groaning as it struggles to break free of the sea bed. An over-full load again. One of these days they'll get too greedy and rip the bottom right out of her. I should know, I used to be an engineer. Thankfully, surfacing time counts as work for those on shift, and we stay on shift until the plant re-submerges. I got lucky this time, missed the last two surfaces. A surfacing cycle normally takes 18 hours. 18 hours credit without having to work. And the most important thing of all.

A scream of rage from the next cubicle, followed by the dull thump of a beanbag round hitting flesh. The guards don't usually bother us when we are on shift, unless there is a fight or damage. Whoever it is must have missed lockdown time. The guards are too scared of losing their own rights and joining us again to interfere with the plant's production. Oh, yeah, they are cons too, multi lifers, mainly. It's the only way they can have a chance at getting out. Odd, that the overseers, murderers all, who mistreat us and sometimes kill us can usually get out faster than we can. Again, unfair as hell, but who watches out for us. It's the way the system works. The overhead mesh catwalk creaks as the guard stops to check my board. Lean back so he can see - all lights red, and the lockdown timer showing thirty two seconds. He grunts, lowers his weapon, and moves on.

The idea of free time is scary. Not used to it. Scratch the staph infection on my arm idly. We all have infections, despite the antibiotics in the food. Too humid down here. Too crowded. I have to stay at my station until the surface alarm sounds. May as well have a nap. Nothing will happen for hours while we are rising through the deep for management shift change and to offload the valuables.

Siren sounds. Snap awake, tap my chip against the reader, and run for the catwalk to the cargo bays. Two minutes to get there and swipe in again. A milling crowd of slaves, all animatedly talking. All of us here. They steam flush our quarters while on the surface, officially for hygiene reasons, but really to drive everyone out to the loading and unloading teams. It's just too bad if you can't get out of your rack in time. People die of that.
A creak and gush of water as the cargo hatch opens. Overhead catwalks thick with guards, beanbag rounds replaced with live rounds for the occasion. The Warden, the only non slave on the station, watches from his bulletproof cubicle near the deckhead.
The two slaves in whites, the ones who have served their time, board the supply ship, and new slaves come in and immediately log in to the system. They are put straight to work. They bitch and complain about it, as always. The poor fools don't yet realise that this is the best thing that will happen to them for a long time.

We line up, single file, and start offloading the gold, platinum and other metals too precious to be ballooned to the surface during normal shift hours. As the first guy passes through the hatch onto the deck of the supply ship, I hear a yell of pure animal delight. It is daytime! As the sunlight strikes me, I close my eyes in sheer bliss.

The system maintains itself. I was given a two year sentence back in '79. Negligence leading to the injury of a colleague. That was seven years ago. I am getting short time now. Another year, if I am careful, and I am out.
We are treated like animals in a cage. Worse, really, animals have rights. People who care about them. Yet people do serve out their time and become free men again. The company helps you find a job once you are free, it is in their contract with the DoJ. The food is OK, if you don't mind seafood.

And sometimes, just sometimes, they let us see the sun.

* * *

May 3rd, 2088

To John Davis,
Head of Supply,
Atlantic Sea Station Division.

This manuscript was found in the pocket of Indentured Worker #93467723; Jones, P. K, who's body washed ashore last week in Nantucket Sound.

Your crews are getting careless again, Jack. That is three floaters this week, all with still active chips. What the hell do we buy you concrete blocks for? Worse still, this one was still wearing his whites. We really can't have that getting out now, can we?

The board expects a report from you, in corpus, tomorrow noon. As one friend to another, you had better have your explanations in order and some heads to offer, or you'll be seeing a station from the inside. They are steaming mad about this.

Peter Mayhew,
Head of Personnel.

Truckstop Tales - 3

Hey! Welcome back, friend. Sorry we had to shut so suddenly last night, but it was a mark of respect, you know? Poor old Roger, taken before his time, though I always said he was digging his grave with his fork. Set yourself. White coffee, two sugars, right?

Grunt and a nod as he settles onto the stool. Stan makes fine coffee, is why he comes here so often.

It is quiet tonight. A couple of the booths by the big, plate glass window occupied. One tired looking elderly man, one very young couple, obviously not wanting to end their Friday night date. Dolores desultorily cleaning the griddle, while another young waitress stands by the coffee pot and ponders. Stan always has fine looking waitresses, despite their, shall we say, peculiarities. Charity cases and runaways, most of them. Hitchhike as far as here, and settle for a bit. Moonville, Ohio. Strange place to wash up. The truckstop on the interstate exit, a feedlot and about 16 houses, 10 of them empty and slowly decaying with the changes of the seasons. Nowheresville USA.

The old man rises and slowly walks to the cash desk. Dolores licks her lips and moves forward, slowly and sensually, until she is turned away by a quick hand gesture from Stan.
"Drive careful, stranger, and drop in again some time." Stan says cheerily as he makes change.

"Oh, I will," The old man replies, carefully tucking his wallet back into his pocket "Your pie is amazing. Just like momma used to make."

As he leaves, a fan of light flares across the windows as a car pulls into the parking lot and coasts up to the building. High beams on all the way. Stan squints, then mutters a curse and glances around.

"Dammit, he would show up just now." Dolores fades into the storeroom, seemingly without taking a single step. The lights go off. A dull thunk through the glass as the driver slams shut the door behind him. A tall, amorphous shadow, indistinct to dazzled eyes, passes along the front of the building and throws open the door. His dramatic entrance is somewhat spoiled by the door rebounding off the wall and nearly hitting him in the face.

A preacher.

Stalks towards the two kids in the window booth. Shoulders tight, head thrust forward pugnaciously. He starts shouting while still ten strides away about immorality and iniquity. A full on hellfire sermon is developing here, on two scared kids out past curfew.

Stan coughs. "Preacher, maybe you should let them head on home and have yourself a drink? Tishi, fetch Preacher McGuire his coffee." The pretty waitress pours a cup and, grabbing a bottle from under the counter, adds two drops as the preacher turns and stalks to the bar, his face flushed red with rage. The young boy drops a tenspot on the table and they both hastily scramble out into the night. Leaving three to bear the brunt of his ire. Stan, Tishi the waitress and the man, peacefully drinking his coffee at the counter.

The preachers sweeps his eyes over the three of them. Stan takes a tiny step back from the counter as he starts haranguing Stan on the shameful immorality of the waitresses uniforms. Tishi stands, seemingly oblivious to the insults heading her way.

The man at the counter finishes his coffee and clears his throat. He hates to get involved, that is not what he is here for, but rules are rules. Quietly enough, but it stops the preacher in his tracks. He is not used to being interupted by anyone.

"I appreciate women looking like women, not covered in tents to appease your lack of control and respect for others. Maybe you should look into your own heart first, preacherman, and deal with some of that hate you got stuck in there. Give me a refill please, Stan."

The preacher goggles, his eyes bulging as he make a noise something akin to a turkey caught in a driveshaft, his face going first red, then white with rage. The floodgates open. A ranting torrent of hellfire and damnation, hatred and bile, spewing out like vomit, the preachers face less than an inch from the man's. The man leans back slightly to drink his coffee. That is the only effect. Stan is cowering by the griddle. Tishi leans on the counter, watching the show with a smile.

Rigs drone past on the interstate. No one pulls in.

Eventually the flood subsides as the preacher runs out of breath. Still only the three of them there. He drains his cold coffee with a snarl and slams the mug on the counter hard enough to break the handle off, before storming out.

Silence.

Tishi looking eager, almost vibrating, which does interesting things to her uniform. Stan, almost ghost white, licks his lips. "Tishi, take your break."
She heads out the side door so fast she is like a streak of interestingly curved light.

From his seat the man at the counter can see her in the side parking lot, fingers fumbling in haste, as she peels off her uniform. He finishes his second coffee. and gestures to Stan for a refill.
Somewhat recovered, Stan complies. With a nod to the window, the man asks, "Tishi?"

"Tisiphone. strange what parents name their kids these days."

Outside, she shivers once, convulsively, and a swarm of bees flies away. Following a scent trail.

Love is ...

I hate people. Dumb, vacuous morons, using my oxygen, wasting my time. Getting in my way. Continuing to exist, despite my wishes.

Fuckers.

I try to avoid them. I spend 9 hours a day working with a bunch of bland, characterless meat puppets, feeding greedy, entitled fuckers and their screaming, snot nosed brats. No connection there, apart from bitching about the fryer that keeps overheating and burning the fries. I'd feel more comfortable trying to have a meaningful relationship with the ice cream machine. At least that works without much complaint. They are just faulty cogs in a machine that doesn't work well anyway. Constantly needing shouting at to do the simplest fucking thing. Organic, brainless robots.

Fuckers.

Shift end. Friday. 8 PM. They are all going out for a few drinks. All excited that it is the weekend. Turn away. Ignore them. My body language wishing they would all just fuck off and die. Who cares what they do. That they want to sociallise, despite being the lowest of the low is depressing. Proof that they are scum. Worthless. Have to shout about cleaning up, my typical Friday shouting.

Fuckers.

I go home alone. Shower for 25 minutes, scrubbing myself hard with soap and a loofah to get every bit of the day off my body. Clean up my never used kitchen, put my work clothes in the wash, and go to bed. Sleep comes. Eventually. As always.

I never dream.

Wake, just before the alarm. The coffee is ready, I set the machine last night. Drink it as I get dressed. Recite my mantra. It is total shit, but I paid for the course. Just another fucker taking advantage of people. Back when I cared. When I believed. About anything at all. The crucifix on the wall mocks me with my hollowness. Yeah right. I asked for help. It did not come. Should really get rid of that thing. Just another reminder of the dead past.

Saturday. I clean the whole apartment. It doesn't take long. There is nothing to gather dust. No pictures, no ornaments, no mementos. I threw them all out a long time ago. It is a bleak, sterile place. It suits me. The headshrinkers say if you want to know the man, look at his home. No one will know me by how I live.

No one.

Only my scrap book shows any of me. The real me. The secret me. Thinking about that reminds me. It is time to go to the library. I check all the papers there, to see if there is anything in them for me. If there is, I buy them on my way home, cut out the articles I want, and paste them in my scrap book. Sometimes there are other things to paste in too. Depending on what is in the papers.

Only one today, from the local paper. I don't travel much, so these things have to be pretty local. Within a couple of hours drive of where I live, maximum. The old, familiar feelings stir. The dull throbbing in my head.

Rage.

Force it down. Neatly fold the papers and return them to the rack. Being tidy. Being polite. Smile at the girl at the desk. She nods her thanks and smiles back. No idea who she is, they are all the same to me. Blank faced drones. Yet appearances must be maintained.

Buy the paper from the news kiosk. Cup of coffee and a danish in the coffee shop I always use. The one with free wifi. Idle over it. Just a single man, doing single man things. Browsing the net on his laptop while having a light lunch. Maintain appearances. Be just another one of the horde. Don't stand out. Don't be noticed.

Be normal.

One thing I am good with is computers. Databases. Information. I have a talent, and have trained it up to serious skill. Not that I admit to it. When the computer crashes at work, I call tech support like a good little boy. You never show your hole cards. Not to the useless fucks, not to anyone.

What I need to know doesn't take long to find. People are so fucking stupid now, especially kids. Put their entire lives out there for the world to see. Trying to validate their pathetic, ineffectual lives. Show an uncaring world that they exist. Stupid of them. But useful.

Home.

There should be another word for where you live. Home is too warm. Too friendly. Too family. Carefully cut out the article. Paste it squarely and neatly in my scrap book. Write the date above it, an address below it. I have good handwriting. Copperplate. Old fashioned, but so am I in some respects. There are still some things worth preserving in this world, even now. Outside, the afternoon is waning. Check my equipment. The knife. The gloves. The nails. The tape. The camera. Clean. Ready for action. Time to get dressed and go out to dinner, to my usual restaurant. A man with habits is invisible. Tonight, I rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.

Sunday.

I don't take my own car. Why should I bother? That would be stupid in the age of survailence cameras. Every scumbag has a car. I can borrow them when I like. It takes me 30 seconds to steal one. It is the sort of car I like. A few years old. A popular model and color. Inconspicuous. By 5 am I am at my target's house. One car in the drive. Toys in the yard, their bright colors dulled by the weather. I slip silently into the garage, disconnect the lightswitch, and settle to watch. Don't even have to pick the lock. Dumb. Rage pulsing in my head like a migrane, narrowing my vision, tinging everything red.

Wait.

Patience is the key. It is Sunday. It is the suburbs. My target will be out soon. The zombies follow routine. Follow the herd. Are stupid. I can smell them stirring.

A rattle from the door connecting the garage to the house. Merge into the shadows. Wait. Be sure. Hear a muttered curse as the lightswitch clicks ineffectually.

Male. Adult.

He makes his way through the gloom towards the main doors. Behind him the door to the house swings shut and latches. I glide forward. Vision narrowed to a pinpoint, red flashing in time to my pulse. He starts to turn, even the drones sense when there is danger around them. Too late. I slit his throat with one swift movement of my wrist, the shock of blade slicing flesh riding up my arm like a mini orgasm. He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a quietly bubbling breath. My knife blocks his vocal chords. He collapses to the floor and I follow him down, keeping the knife in his throat. He flails for a minute. He is strong, but not as strong as me. He merely fears. I am rage. His eyes both plead and question.

"Steven Hendricks. You have been convicted of drunk driving. Justice is served." I say my traditional words, as the light fades from his eyes.

Dead.

Slice off a lock of his hair, as he has no tattoos to skin off. Peel off my coveralls, pull out the camera and take several pictures. The best one will be printed and go into the scrapbook.

The scrap book with "In Memoriam" on the cover.

And a picture of the family I used to have.