Category: fiction

After the Eclipse

It started a few days before the eclipse, with cats.

Cats and I are positive and negative magnets meeting. My ex-wife claims felines have secretly marked our house as a place for a nap and a meal. They’re always coming around, and often stay. But, two days before the eclipse, the cat count increased from seven to ten. The next day, the congress of cats doubled. Another eleven arrived on the day of the eclipse.

All were healthy and none fought, spooky, given how my four boys typically war with interlopers. The situation fed my imagination that cats knew something was happening. Sure, something was happening; it’s called an eclipse. Humans had been talking and writing about it, but none of my floofheads seemed concerned about the impending event.

That would be weird enough, but it wasn’t the weird, scary aspect of the post-eclipse day. Afterward, actually, that night….

I was in my study, as is my habit, imbibing a glass of tawny port, and watching a television show. Noises outside caused me to mute the sound, and then pause the show to investigate. Grabbing the flashlight, I turned on the front porch light and slipped out. It’d been a hundred and five degree day. Though we were slipping past ten P.M., the temp still shouldered eighty. Yet, it felt refreshingly cool.

The cats were on the front porch and yard. Every foot seemed to hold a cat. None watched me, or moved, but a few made soft mewling noises. They all stared outward. I turned my light in that direction.

Something was in the street past the rock rose.

The something stared back with large amber eyes. They narrowed as they watched me.

Not a raccoon or deer, I decided. Wolf? The shape behind those eyes were uncertain. Sweat dripping down my face and body, I crept forward with the flashlight. The amber eyes rose higher. I realized they were in a head on a neck as thick as my torso.

I realized it was a fucking dragon.

I realized that was fucking impossible.

I realized I was completely motionless.

I realized the fucking dragon was moving toward me.

I realized that I had no fucking idea of what to do. Some part of me seized the situation by the balls. I said, “Well, aren’t you a pretty dragon?” My tone suggested seeing a dragon was as common as seeing a cat.

Crawling forward, the dragon issued a creaky growl in response. The creature was bigger than my circle of light. My testicles climbed up into my body for protection. I tried swallowing, but there wasn’t anything there.

The cats all began meowing. The dragon shuffled forward, parting the rock rose like it was grass. My light revealed wings, scales, claws, a snout, and teeth. Yes, those were the primary dragon parts. I didn’t think running would do much good. I figured a dragon could probably take me, and that if it wanted to, I’d already be gnawed on like a bucket of chicken wings at a bar.

Stopping, the dragon thrust its head toward me. Taller than me, it lowered its head until our eyes were at the same level. Then it looked me over like a John sizing up a hooker. I did nothing but sweat and breath. I’m not positive about that latter, but I felt the sweat dripping off my hair onto my neck.

The dragon snorted. I jumped. I think I pissed myself a little. Realizing it was moving, I stumbled backward. With the cats meowing more loudly and intensely in a way that I’d never known, the dragon crawled forward into their midst on my front yard. Stopping, it curled up, drawing its tail around its body, and folding its wings against its sides. The cats swarmed over it. Many sniffed and licked the dragon.

He or she allowed it.

Finding body control and reasoning, I went into my house, brought out my cell phone, and took a photo.

The photo showed nothing there but the yard. Not even the cats were visible in the photo.

The felines were all settled against or on the dragon. All, dragon and cats, were looking at me. A chorus of purrs thrummed the air. Uncertain of what the fuck else to do – call animal control? – I stole back in the house. I left the front light on, opened the blind, and spent the night hours alternating between watching the dragon, searching the net for news about dragons, and trying to get a photograph of it.

It was still there in the morning, as the first people began their daily routines of biking, walking, jogging, and driving to appointments. None made it past my house. All drew up to stare, as I did, and try to photograph the beast and the felines on my front lawn. Dogs seeing the dragon, though, turned and fled.

I think this might be the beginning of a new era on Earth. Or maybe it was the return of an old cycle. You know.

Round and round.

 

1

Watching

I was a Watcher. It suited my personality. I like to watch…sex, cooking shows, dancing, sitcoms, dramas, sports (including golf, bowling, and NASCAR racing), I like watching. It started when I was young, and I watched cartoons.

It was natural that I’d become a Watcher. From there I became a Watcher who watches the Watchers to ensure someone was always watching. Otherwise, if no one was watching, someone could take advantage of what they saw and learned when they watched.

Eventually, moving up the hierarchy of watching, I became a Sentinel. That’s what they call us, Those Who Watch the Watchers Watching the Watchers.

As a Watcher, I watched five people. When I was a Watcher watching Watchers, I watched five Watchers. Now, as a Sentinel, I watch ten Watchers watching Watchers watching people.

I wonder how many people are watching me.

##

n/t to Little Fears

2

The Magic Beer Bottle

I’ve had my Magic Beer Bottle for ten days. It’s a harmless novelty, like Mattel’s famous Magic Eight Ball. You ask the Magic Beer Bottle a question and give it a shake. Then you turn it over, so the bottom is up, and the answer floats up to the bottom of the bottle.

Made by Magic Hops, there are caveats to using the Magic Beer Bottle. One, all your questions are supposed to be about drinking beer. That’s it, actually, except using the Magic Beer Bottle can affect your counting ability.

I find it an excellent aid for when I’m torn about having a beer. “Magic Beer Bottle,” I say, shaking it, “Should I have a beer now?”

Peering at the answer, I learn, “All indicators point to yes.”

That frees me from feeling guilty. After all, it’s fated for me to have a beer. Although your questions must all be about having a beer, the Magic Beer Bottle provides interesting answers. “Go with wine, this time,” it once told me. “Yes, drink an IPA,” it answered another time, while it suggested, “Yes, enjoy a lager,” at another questioning.

It has also told me, “No, you’ve had enough,” and, “Go pee first,” so it’s not all about encouraging me to drink. What really interests me about the Magic Beer Bottle are three things: one, the brown bottle is empty. There’s nothing in it. It doesn’t have a cap, so you can blow into the bottle.

I’ll get back to you on the second thing, as it escapes me now. Time to consult the old Magic Beer Bottle.

2

A Cold Summer Morning

Union Square was black with new snow, heralding a dismayingly cold summer. Raccoons, rats, dogs, and a cougar had set off the alarms during the night. I checked when each went off, not anxious, worried, or nervous, but wary, and I think, intelligent and proactive. The systems all worked; none of those creatures approached my vehicle. Except for those breaks, I slept soundly, accumulating five hours and forty-six minutes of rest. It would be enough. I’d nap once I returned to my place.

Coffee always helps, so I was gulping down fresh unadulterated French Roast. “Good coffee,” I said, nodding.

I’d already been out for four days, and was ready to return to my place. This was just a ‘let’s-see’ jaunt. My day was planned with broad strokes of where I’d go first, and then, et cetera, but looking at the windows and monitors in the cab preparatory to scavenging, I saw movement.

“What’s that?” I asked. “Could be a human,” I answered.  “Could be,” I agreed.

Walking the path of questions and accumulating details, I targeted the motion and zoomed in, confirming, it was a man. Four hundred yards away, he was beyond my perimeter alarms, so nothing had been set off. Snow didn’t cover him, and his path through the black sheet was clear. No animals had approached him, either. He was lucky.

“How lucky?” I asked, checking the temperature. Thirty-two, with the sun out. Systems noted that the overnight low had been thirty. “Pretty lucky.”

“Pretty lucky that I saw him,” I agreed.

Wasn’t he?

0

The Breakup

They were a sweet couple, and seemed so nice, as a couple, and individuals. No one suspected either of being killers or thieves.

We didn’t know anything was up, at first. But gradually as a slow-setting sun, we noticed snippiness nuance their voices, and covert hostility shade their glances.

Well, a little rain falls in every relationship. It’s not always smooth sailing.

The rumblings intensified. Witnesses reported seeing fissures open and smoke billow out. Still, they were young, or relatively so. They hadn’t been married that long, relatively, again. Of course there would be adjustments. Still, it was his second marriage, so…what could we make of that?

Two little girls came along. They doted on them. Photos and videos appeared on Facebook. They were everywhere, doing everything.

Then, he, gradually, slipped out of the photos and posts. Later, he began sharing his own photos and posts.

Word reached us after a few years, he’d moved out. He had a new girlfriend, and she had a new boyfriend.

Why? we asked ourselves. What had gone wrong? They were nice people. Neither were killers or thieves. But something, apparently, had gone wrong elsewhere. The unexplained that attracted them to one another had evaporated.

It was something that we just could not see.

0

Vaughn

To recap. The Beagle is a colonizing starship that arrived at a new world, Feynman. Juancho Ferrado is a bureaucrat who lives and works on the Beagle who was selected as part of the Coronado landing party. Shortly after the Coronado’s successful descent to the surface of Feynman, the Beagle inexplicably exploded. All personnel onboard were assumed to be killed. That left the Coronado’s crew as the only survivors. Four years later, only Juancho remains when Roger Lancey startles Juancho with his sudden appearance on the Coronado.

Then Lancey disappeared. 

Now, the tale continues. Don’t worry, it’s certified completely organic and vegan, GMO-free, non-fat, and with no added sugar.

###

“Hi, Vaughn.”

Opening his eyes wide, Vaughn Parks looked around Captain Mayhew’s office. Vaughn had once been a heartbreaker, a man with a slender, athletic build that prompted thoughts of grace, and green eyes that glistened like wet emerald jewels. Pronouncing, “I’ve seen enough of life, and now I want to experience death,” he’d chosen to age and die once they’d reached Feynman. “Captain.”

“How do you feel?”

“I feel like I was dead, and now I’m apparently alive again. I feel like warmed-over leftovers, something you may not know, Captain.”

Captain Mayhew chuckled. “I’m older than I look.”

“Probably.”

“I know what leftovers are. I like leftovers.” Captain Mayhew smiled at private memories.

Vaughn saw that and changed vectors. “Virtual stimulation via artificial intelligence?”

“What?”

“I’ve been brought back by virtual simulation via artificial intelligence?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“We need your opinion.”

“On?”

“I’m about to impart that.”

“Sorry. I seem to think very fast.” Vaughn gazed up at the ceiling. “It’ really interesting, like I’m experiencing time on a different level.”

“Perhaps you can follow up on that when we’re done here.”

“Oh.” Vauhn swiveled his look to the Captain and grinned. “Yes, you brought me here for a reason, didn’t you? What sort of emergency has invoked the virtual regeneration? This is the first time I’ve been back, right?” Face crinkling with humor, Vaughn continued, “Never mind, I’m catching up with my records. Unless you’ve manipulated my records, this is my first time back since I died, just two years ago.”

His expression changed. “Just two years? We’ve been on Feynman for two and a half years, and now there’s a problem that you think I can help you with?”

“Correct.”

“Well, fill me in, then.”

“It’s Juancho.”

“Juancho.” Recognition flushed Vaughn’s green eyes. “The ship’s artificial intelligence?”

“Yes. You should have access to Juancho’s logs.”

Looking inward, and mildly squinting, Vaughn said, “I do.”

“Go ahead and read them.”

“I have.”

“Already?”

“They’re digital, I’m digital…there’s a certain digital sympatico taking place.”

“Oh.” Captain Mayhew looked interested. “That’s fascinating.”

“But something to pursue after this.”

“Yes, if you’re interested, and willing to stick around.”

“Well, we’ll see. So I’ve read the document….”

“Yes, you’ve read the document.”

“What do you think?”

“Of it? I don’t understand that question.”

“Well, Juancho appears to be fantasizing about the Beagle exploding, and essentially, being the last human on Feynman and living on the Coronado.”

“Yes.”

“Is there reason for us to be concerned?”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s A.I. Do you think Juancho will act on it?”

“Oh his fantasy?”

“Exactly.”

Leaning back, Vaughn crossed his legs and stroked his mustache. “I don’t know.”

Mayhew exhaled. “That’s not thrilling to hear.”

“Sorry.”

She stared at Vaughn. “This doesn’t concern me?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“What about the part where he pretends one of the crew members is looking for you, and doesn’t know where you went.”

“I thought that was interesting.” Vaughn grinned. “I wanted to know where I went.”

“Does any of this worry you, though?”

Slicking down half of his mustache with one finger, Vaughn uncrossed his legs, and replied, “No. It’s just simple fantasy. My take is that Juancho is a powerful A.I. system. He brought the Beagle across the galaxy to Feynman. That required tremendous resources. Now, I suspect, he’s bored.”

“Bored.”

“Yes.”

“That’s what some of the engineers suggested.”

“They’re probably right, I think. Let me ask you this.” Straightening his frame, Vaughn said, “Have you asked Juancho about it?”

“We tried to. We’ve sent people in, but he plays games with them. He will only permit certain people in, in the first place. For example, he wouldn’t talk to me.”

“Yes, yes, I read that. He said you were disturbing his muse.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s why we’re worried.”

“But, other than this fantasy, he’s functioning normally, and nothing has gone wrong.”

“Yes, but we’re worried. You can see why.”

“Sure, sure, I can.” Rubbing two stubby fingers together and looking at them, Vaughn inhaled.  “What do you want me to do? Want me to talk to him?”

“Do you think that’ll help?”

Vaughn shrugged. “I don’t think it’ll hurt. Hang on a moment. I’ll be right back.”

Mayhew’s brown eyes widened. “You’re going to do it now?”

“Why not? You have a reason why I shouldn’t? I’m here, he’s there…let’s get it on.”

“Okay. Great. Do it, then.”

“Okay.” Eyes becoming lost in a nest of wrinkles, Vaughn smiled, flashing straight, white teeth. “I’ll be right back.”

Coming tomorrow: the conclusion.

0

Gone, Man

I, Juancho, finished my first blackberry margarita of the day. It was so refreshing, but I drank it so fast, and I was anxious, that I clutched my handgun and ordered another, to drink more slowly.

The man had not returned to the break room. I thought he’d be back by now. The Coronado is not large. There is the quarters car, and the community car, where I sit in the break room, also called the social club, because there is a break room in the biz car, and another in the ops car. I don’t believe the utility car has a break room. I may be mistaken. I’ve visited it, because that’s where the utility vehicles are housed, and because Madi used to spend her time there. I watched her on the security camera. There was nothing else to do. I was waiting to see who would be last, and I worried that she might be a killer. I don’t know why I wished to stay alive, in this terrible situation.

Holding the gun in my left hand, and my drink in my right, I visited the security post in the room’s corner. From there, I can set down my drink, or my gun, and change monitors and look for people. The system has said that Roger Lancey is dead, so I don’t know if it’ll find him on the ship. I have no idea how he entered the car. No alarms went off. He entered the break room as though he’d been onboard all along. This, I know, is impossible. I, Juancho, have been on the Coronado for four years. The last six months have been alone. Before then, it was Madi and me. We were the last little Indians.

He’d been asking questions about his Uncle Vaughn. Yes, his Uncle was an important man. Apparently, he disappeared before the Beagle’s explosion. I don’t know what that’s about. Perhaps it’s meaningful; a number of the Coronado’s survivors disappeared without apparent reason. It scares me, Juancho, to contemplate the meaning behind these disappearances, and whether they can be connected.

The system does not find Roger Lancey. I, Juancho, am not surprised. I use the manual features to check the cameras, going from place to place. The engineer was looking for Commander Alves, so I look where he should look, at her quarters, and her office in the ops car. Roger Lancey isn’t at either location. I look in the control deck. He’s an engineer, and this seems likely as a location for him to go. He can attempt to contact the Beagle from there. It seems strange that he does not know about the Beagle. But, then, if he is onboard, and it exploded, he was killed. This is why the system calls him deceased.

Yet, he is here.

This begins me on a new tour of my private circle of hell. He is either a zombie, or I am insane. If I’m insane, I could be imagining him, or I could be imagining this entire story. In that regard, as I said to Ricardo before his disappearance, we could be in a virtual simulation or game, couldn’t we? We wouldn’t know. That seemed to greatly upset Ricardo. He disappeared within two days of our conversation. Deceased, the systems say.

I can’t find Roger Lancey anywhere. I think, perhaps he’s gone to the utility car to take one of the remaining vessels and leave. I, Juancho, can’t conceive of where he would go, but other engineers on the Coronado discussed that as an option before their disappearances. The cameras don’t find him there. The vehicles remain.

I, Juancho, am disturbed. He is gone, as he came, without clues or warnings. This seems too much for my personal systems. That cannot happen.

That cannot happen.

He must be on the Coronado.

Yes, I, Juancho, realized. He was hiding, waiting for me to come look for him, so that he can kill me.

That can be the only explanation of events.

Well, I, Juancho, laugh at that. I am a bureaucrat. We are conditioned to wait. We must be patient. Everything takes time. The systems, decisions, and events, cannot be hurried. We understand that better than others. I, Juancho, decided I will have another margarita, and wait for Roger Lancey to give up on his ambush and return to this room to find me.

And I, Juancho, will have my gun, and will be ready for him.

He’ll be sorry that he plotted to ambush me. 

1

Zombie

I, Juancho, was concerned.

Science may explain many things, but not everything, not everything. Even the scientists will tell you so.

I am concerned when science and technology tells me the person addressing me is dead. My sanity may be abridged, or they may be a zombie. I lack the wherewithal to address my sanity. If I am insane, then I am insane. I inhabit a bubble of impressions and thoughts, do I not? Someone must help me from the outside.

I don’t know how to even think about how I can be insane. If this man is here, from the Beagle, but —

But, you see, but, I, Juancho, know that we on the Coronado know that those on the Beagle passed away. All were gone, killed for reasons we don’t know.

So I believe, if, I, Juancho, am sane. Perhaps I’m insane, and the Beagle never exploded and killed all onboard. Conversely, perhaps, I, Juancho, am as sane as I thought I was before this man appeared, and he is a zombie.

I, Juancho, am just a bureaucrat. I have shot weapons with sufficient accuracy to be awarded points and a carry permit, but that’s no matter, as I’m not armed.

The man across from me doesn’t appeared armed, either. He is wearing a standard Beagle utility uniform, the sort worn by engineering corps on the ship. The consistency of my possible insanity impressed me. “We have arrived at a frightening crossroads,” I said.

He watched me with narrowed eyes. “What crossroads?”

“My systems tell me that you’re deceased. If you were onboard the Beagle, then you must be dead.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowing more, a suspicious and irritated expression. “I was onboard the Beagle. I don’t see how that would make me dead.” He sounded petulant and childish.

Tread carefully, I, Juancho, told myself. “Do you know what happened to the Beagle?”

He became as still as a person can. I’ve seen such stillness in other aspects of my position when sharing news that surprises other people. He did not know what had happened to the Beagle. But, of course, if he was onboard it, it may have exploded and killed him without warning.

“What happened to the Beagle?” he asked.

“I, Juancho, can show you. We have records. I’ll show you.” I watched him carefully, and vowed that I would keep wary eyes on him. Whether he died onboard the Beagle or not, that was four years ago, if the Coronado’s records were correct. Where has he been in the interim?

Although he didn’t appear the least decayed, he could still be a zombie, which made him a threat to me. I, Juancho, could still be insane. It’s a conundrum. I feel haggard, and wish for a drink. I still have alcohol. The systems can compile it from collected materials, and has been doing so. If he’d arrived later in the day, I would have already been enjoying my afternoon alcoholic buzz.

“Let us go look,” I said. “This way.” I indicated for him to walk.

He eyed me. “You first.”

“No, I insist. You go first.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Nor can I.”

“Then I guess we can’t go.”

“Then we will remain at a troubling, frightening crossroads.”

His obstinance irritated me. “First you won’t tell me your name. Now, you refuse to go see the records which will show to you what happened to the Beagle.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

“I do not believe you would believe me.”

He shrugged. “Why should I?”

“Why should lie to you?”

“Because you’re alone on the Coronado.”

“Clarify what you mean.”

“I mean what I said. You’re alone on an exploration vessel that should have a crew of thirty. You’re being evasive and obstinate.”

“I am not being obstinate. You’re being obstinate.”

He smiled. “I don’t see it that way.” Standing, he stretched, flexing impressive muscles. “I’ve had enough of this. I think you’re a troubled individual. I wish I could stay and help you, but I need to get back to the Beagle. I’m going to go find someone who can help me, because you, obviously, can’t – or won’t.” He shrugged. “The difference is immaterial, because the outcome is the same.”

He walked off, a smug, muscular, broad-shouldered blond man in a tight Beagles engineering corps utility uniform.

I did not like him. I decided that despite the hour, I would get a drink. I decided that I would also get a weapon, because he, the prig, would be back, and I, Juancho, wanted to be ready.

The prig could still be a zombie.

1

Deceased

I, Juancho, stared at the man. “Why are you telling me this?”

He measured me with annoyance, which irritated me. That’s how it always happens. We bureaucrats deliver truth, and others take it personally. The truth here is, I didn’t care about his missing Uncle Vaughn. I knew who Vaughn Parks was, yes, he was a distinguished person, but he was on the Beagle. They’re all dead. I’m surprised this man was alive. That’s who concerned me.

“You asked me how I came here, so I was telling you my story.”

“Your story is gibberish. It’s garbage. Why are you spewing garbage at me? What have I, Juancho, done to you? I asked you a simple question, “How did you get here?” And you give me garbage. Stop giving me garbage.”

“It isn’t garbage, I’m telling you how I came to be here.”

“You haven’t even told me your name.”

He looked insulted. “Why should I tell you my name? Your system should have picked it up.” A frown of deep thought and suspicion creased his forehead and mouth. “Isn’t this the Coronado? Aren’t you from the Beagle? I thought you were. I pinged your systems. They tell me that you’re Juancho Ferrado, and that you’re assigned to the Beagle, and you’re on — we’re on — the Coronado, which was a Beagle research vessel commanded by Commander Alves that was sent down to Feynman.”

He was correct about all of those things. “Very good,” I said. “What’s your name?”

Glancing around, he reared back. “Say, where is everyone else? Where is Commander Alves? She’s a personal friend of mine. I’d like to talk to her, or her second.”

I saw his mind look for Cark’s name. I could have given it, but I let him ask his systems, or think of it for himself. Why should I help him, when he was being such an arrogant asshole? “Lieutenant Commander Cark. Where is he?”

“You haven’t told me your name,” I answered.

I saw the fury grow on his face like black mold. I refused to capitulate. I wanted him to tell me his name so I could watch his face and look for the truth. Our systems will indicate when others are lying, but I believe the systems that nature gave me remain more capable. Those technological systems can be cheated and misled, I assure you.

“Why can’t you ping my name?”

“I want you to tell me. Why can’t you tell me?”

“Why should I tell you when I can ping it?”

“Because I’m asking you, human to human, to speak your name to me. It’s the way we prefer to do it in my culture.”

“What’s your culture?”

“That doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have said that. Forget that I did, please.”

“I can’t. You can’t put your words back in your mouth.”

“Just tell me your name, please.”

“No. I want to speak to Commander Alves.”

“Very well. Ping her.”

“I have pinged her.”

“I’m sure she’ll be here at any moment, then.”

He stared at me.

I smiled back. “See, I know what’s going on,” I said.

He scowled. “Where is everyone? Who are you, Juancho Ferrado?”

“See how easy that was? You said my name. It was very easy. Why won’t you say your name? What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything, and I’m not going to answer any more of your questions.”

“Fine, don’t. Then I won’t answer your questions.”

He sputtered with indignation. “I’m a Level Ten Engineer. You’re just a bureaucrat. I outrank you. I order you to answer my questions, or better yet, summon Commander Alves for me. My systems seem to be malfunctioning, so if you would just summon her….”

“Summon her?” I showed him my amused derision.

“Yes, or point me in her direction.”

I chuckled. “What will you do if I don’t summon her, or point you in her direction?”

He stood. “Never mind.” He looked around. “I”ll find her myself. I know the Coronado. My systems know it, too. I know the operating deck’s location. I’ll go find her, myself.”

“Very well. Go, go find her. Tell her hello from me, Juancho.” I laughed. “Tell her, I, Juancho, say hello.”

He was snubbing me, walking away like he was a king. I was furious. “Of course, it’ll be difficult to do,” I shouted. “Because she’s dead.”

That drew him up enough to slow his step and prompt him to turn back to me. “Commander Alves is dead?” He appeared shocked.

I gave him the best mocking smile that I could summon. “Didn’t your systems tell you that?”

He came back more slowly. “No. No, it didn’t tell me. She’s deceased? How did it happen? When?”

I stared at him. His response surprised me. I pinged Commander Alves for myself. “Commander Alves is not available,” my system said. “She is deceased.”

“Your system isn’t telling you that?” I asked him.

“No.” He looked genuinely disturbed. Either this was real, or he was an actor worthy of awards.

I pinged his system to confirm his name. It gave it to me. Then I asked my system, “What is his status?”

“Deceased,” my system responded.

 

1

Stasis

“Do you need a break?”

Those were the words Coyote had awaited. “God, fucking yes.” Seizing the remote, he thumbed the volume up over the sirens passing outside and people shouting, and listened to the commercial. Details were confirmed in his head. He wrote down the website and then went to it.

Stasis. That was exactly what he needed – a month away from his life. Thirty days, technically, but still, fucking yes, he needed a month away from his job and his wife and the general malaise and ennui sucking the energy out of him. He’d dreamed about going into stasis since the first time that he’d read about it. But stasis wasn’t for middle-class people like him. The cheapest stasis was two grand a day. Two grand a day. Fucking outrageous. Like the rich needed stasis. Why would the rich need stasis? Just another thing to lord over the other ninety-eight percent, the bastards.

But this was different. This was a lottery. Tickets were ten dollars per. Proceeds were supporting school vouchers and health insurance subsidies, the usual beneficiaries of lotteries. Ten dollars per, ten winners picked per night. Tickets could be bought online, paid for with Bitcoin, debit and credit cards, or Paypal.

After skimming exceptions and warnings, because it wasn’t completely safe – nothing is completely safe – he sweated the math, established an account, and charged five hundred dollars of chances to his Visa, rationalizing it as an early birthday present.

Then he had to wait. The next drawing wasn’t until the next day, six thirty P.M. Pacific Time, twenty hours away. In the meantime, he wondered, how the hell had he missed hearing about this? Still, he didn’t mention it at work, nor to his wife. That was easy, because they weren’t speaking to one another, again. He thought about telling The Third, but he was on another fucking anti-government rant. Coyote decided telling The Third would be like tossing an M-80 on a campfire, so, no.

He didn’t win the first night, and bought fifty more chances. He didn’t win that lottery, either, causing him to scream at the fucking television as fire trucks and police cars roared by outside, sirens going as loud as a rock song. It wasn’t fair that he hadn’t won, but that was his fucking life, wasn’t it? He never won anything, never got any damn breaks while everyone else in the world was blessed. He consumed a case of Miller’s bemoaning his luck.

Fifty more tickets were purchased. He giggled as he did it. He was fully committed, all in. Yeah, he was committed all right. Heather would have a shit-fit when she saw the Visa bill. But if he won, that confrontation wouldn’t occur for a while. Besides, she would eventually thank him. This would be a vacation away from him for her, too, as much as it was a vacation for him away from her.

He didn’t win.

He was down fifteen hundred. He sweated over the number. Fifteen hundred. That had become a relatively large number in their financial world. Five hundred wasn’t bad, a thousand was okay, but fifteen hundred. Going into the Visa account, he checked the balance.

Thirty-six hundred.

Holy shit. Sweat poured over Coyote’s face. That had to be incorrect.

He brought up the statement’s transactions details and almost crapped his pants. They’d overcharged him for the stasis lottery tickets, charging him for tickets the day before he’d bought his tickets, and the day before that. Damn fucking crooks.

He chugged down a beer to consider his options. Truth came up with a burp.

Heather was buying stasis lottery tickets.

That bitch.

His jaw dropped as he went through the Visa statement again. Besides the stasis lottery tickets, she’d purchased airline tickets.

Coyote broke into her email. She hadn’t changed the passwords. She was a fool. He’d changed his passwords about a year ago, when the marital cracks seemed like the precursor to separation and divorce. He really thought the ice princess was going to leave him. Well, in a way, she had, hadn’t she? If – as he thought – she’d won the stasis lottery. When was the last time he’d seen her, anyway? Day before yesterday. No, two days ago, three. It’d been the night before he’d first bought tickets. She’d had a business trip. Yes, but was it really a business trip?

The etickets receipt was in her email. She’d flown to Montana.

Montana was where the stasis center was located.

Her ticket’s return date was thirty-two days later.

Then, he saw the other email.

She had won.

Sitting back, Coyote stared at the email in disbelief. She’d won – she’d bought tickets, and she’d won, and left – without saying a word to him. Not a word.

Unfucking real. It just wasn’t fair. Giggling, he popped another Miller open. Well, there were advantages to be had, here. Heather was gone, into stasis. So, if he bought more tickets —

A buzzing noise sliced through Coyote’s thoughts. A door opened. Blinding light streamed in. As he raised his hands to protect his eyes and squinted, Coyote asked himself, “What the fuck?”

“Hey, Coyote, how was it?” someone asked behind the light.

The room dissolved around him, becoming a tight cylinder. Cringing against pain, Coyote asked, “How was what?” 

But he knew as soon as he asked. He could take a break from his life, but it wasn’t the problem.

0

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑