What Passing Bells - Part 3

But he doesn't.


Something makes him pick up the book a few days later, still damp and sticky, and read the poems again. Most of these he remembers from his childhood, along with the poetry of other authors, but all from the early twentieth century, and all of them English. He remembers his dad poring over them, especially Owens', like a Rabbi with a Torah. Searching for meaning. Reading and rereading late into the night, pounding away on his antique typewriter before handing it off to his mother to type up on a computer. Dad was always searching for meaning, until he wasn't. Until he found it at the end of a gun when Wil was fourteen. Sitting in front of his computer at two in the morning, playing online, far past his bedtime, hearing the shot ring out and the hard thump of his father falling to the floor. He still can't get the sound of that gunshot out of his mind and can't stand to be around guns. Can't forget the sound of his mother screaming or the sight of the clean up.


He also hasn't been able to read any poetry since, much less Wilfred Owens'.


So what possessed me to take this damn class? He thinks as he sets the collected works down, its pages torn and frayed but still readable, a lingering smell of mildew surrounding it. They're not even that great. And I haven't thought about this in years.

But he does read them, and they mean far less than he thought they would. So much less that he can't imagine what his father saw in them, can't see how they drew him towards a teaching career and towards a specialty in them. What led him to stay up late at night and clang away on that old typewriter, writing papers on poems that no one ever reads anymore. The poetry of programming is so much more meaningful, and so much more useful. Far more than the ramblings of a twenty-something from a hundred years ago. Wil knows that the work he does will truly affect the world and not just end up in a book that no one buys unless they're forced.

But he does read through them once and they pass through his memory like sand through a sieve, but somehow he manages to pass the exam and then the class is on to another writer. Another one that's not so familiar.

***

“Yukio Mishima.”

“Yu-what?”

“I know right? I've never heard of him either. I don't know how to spell it though. . .”

“What's the class and the professor's name?”

She's wearing tweed again, but he's pretty sure it's a different outfit. Maybe that's a fashion statement now? Not that he'd know, sitting in front of a computer all day. Suddenly he's very self-conscious about his ratty jeans and Mass Effect t-shirt.

“Um. . . 20^th Century Lit. with Daltry?”

“Holy crap, I'm not even going to try and pronounce this one, but we have it in stock. Are You gonna ask to borrow it again?”

“Ha, no. Sorry I was having kind of a shitty day the other day, I didn't mean to be rude.”

“Yeah right, that was nothing. You should see some of the jerks we get in here. The Asians are the worst. The don't wannna pay for anything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. How about you, Wil, is $15.78 gonna be to much for ya today?”

“Hey, you remembered my name too!”

“Yeah, the weird poet name. Hard to forget.” She smiles at him and it looks a little odd with her small mouth and big eyes, but it's endearing. Suddenly he's paying much more attention to what's going on. “I know you'll say you remember mine too, but I've got a name tag, so that's cheating.”

“No, I do though! Auggy, right?”

“Ha, yeah, a likely guess.”

And he smiles at her and it's kind of goofy with his big grin in a face full of freckles and unkempt hair falling over his forehead and his eyebrows. But she likes it.

“Hey, actually, I just remembered I have that last book with me too. Can I trade it in for credit?”

“Sure, as long as it's in OK shape. It's not water damaged, is it?”

“Um. . . maybe.” He pulls it from his satchel and several pages fall out as he lays it on the counter, the binding finally haven given up the ghost and let loose. “Yeah. . .”

“I told you to buy an umbrella! Here.” She pulls an umbrella from the little bin they keep by the register for impulse buys when it rains. “It's only ten bucks and it'll mean you get some credit for all your future books. Besides, it's gonna rain again today.”

“And how do you--”

“Hey! Remember last time? Now pay up.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.”

“And wait til you see the blue flashing lights.”

“I know, I know. Hey, are you doing any--”

“Don't slide yet! The arrows aren't flashing, are they?”

“No.”

“Oh, and I like that Thai place on Liberty. They're open late tonight. Eight o'clock okay?”

“Wait--”

She smiles. “You can slide your card now.”

And he smiles too.

Lower Level 42 (Pt. 2)

Layla scoops up Rectitude in mid-flight, plucking him out of the air and cradling his shaking body in her hands. His feathers shiver softly and she could feel the warmth of the monster's blood still on his claws, drawn tight to his body in the protection of her palms. The hammer swings back down on it's lanyard and she spins back around, still holding the bird as she remembers that there were two other companions down here with her.


And then a flash of leathery brown skin flies by as she turns around and Hope is snatched away in front of her, feathers drifting down in the place where he'd just occupied. Plucked from the air as swiftly as she had grabbed Rec. “NO!”


But there's no time to think and she can feel the soft press of Valor's body against her ear as he lands on her shoulder and she puts Rectitude on the other just in time to grab the hammer's handle and swing it through the still floating gray feathers into the head of another monster, just now barreling down the pipeline towards her the very moment before its head explodes in a crimson mist.


She can't help but reach down and grab at least one of the soft white feathers from the ground where it fell and stuff it into her overall pocket before bolting down the pipeline away from the rubble, swinging her hammer as she goes and hoping that her still living companions will follow closely enough to find safety with her. “Come on guys! Home!”


As she dashes down the hallway more than one tear falls to the metal grating of the floor but Layla forces herself to focus on the here and now. There are monsters to be killed if she ever hopes to make it back to her compound. Goddamn it, how can they be this close? It's only level 42! Unless they came from one of the other nearby compounds.


A brown head, followed by two grasping claws and a withered body fall out from a grate in the roof and land in front of her, howling in rage. This monster isn't as what she's seen in the pictures, in the training films, and she knows suddenly that these Broken Ones must be fresh. “Valor, find us a way home!”

The pigeon shakes on her shoulder but quickly obeys, launching itself upward before diving straight ahead down the tunnel and cutting a hard right at the next intersection. Three more monsters lay dying before she reaches the cut off, her breath pounding with every step. I have to get back and warn the council.

Up ahead, Valor is a blur of gray wings and the tunnel seems to stretch on a ways before turning right again but it is clear of monsters. Layla can almost relax for a moment, mentally at least, while her body pumps as fast as it can down the hallway, but then she feels a tap at the back of her head and her blood goes cold. She spins around again and it's Rectitude, flapping his wings at her as another Broken One lunges towards them. A quick swipe of the hammer and he is down but not before Layla takes a deep breath of its stench, wafting towards her as its head falls only inches from her face.

She nearly falls forward and her hands automatically land on her knees, the hammer once again falling gently to her belt. Gasping for breath she crouches hoping the creatures will give her at least this moments respite while each remaining bird perches on a shoulder, facing opposite directions, like sentinels for her safety but still shaking themselves. Their soft feathers still brush gently against her her ears and it is a full minute before Layla realizes the tunnel is quiet and she is alone but for weathered brown corpses and two living birds.

“Hope!”

But it's too late, and it's better not to think of it. At least she won't have to tell her mother that she lost Valor. It would break her poor heart almost as much as losing Hope had broken hers. Still, if I don't move on, I might lose everything, and Mother would hate hearing that I'd been taken by the monsters almost as much as she'd hate to hear that Valor was gone.

Taking no chances, she works her way down the tunnels, trying to find a way back to the elevator with Valor flying before her the whole time and Rectitude bringing up the rear. He's performed admirably for a first timer and she's glad to have him by her side. Pigeons, while silent, can be so much more reliable than people.

Aside from the beating of wings and the deep breaths she can't help but take at each step, though, the tunnels are quiet until she finds the next elevator entrance, two levels up. It's been at least two hours since she saw the last Broken One when she sees the weathered sign showing “Lower Level 40, Line 72. Please Watch Your Step.” Just in time too; she's had to switch out the cartridges on her gas mask and those of the pigeons twice by now and there's only one left for hers. She'd always said before that it was silly to have to carry three back ups but now she's not so sure.

There are extra cartridges for Valor and Rectitude now, though. And with that thought tears begin to roll down her dusty cheeks as she stands before the elevator door. She holds her posture, standing strong and erect. She can handle this. It's only the dust and the cartridge beginning to go bad making her eyes water anyway. Through the sheen of tears she can see that God only knows when the last time this elevator was used. Its doors are rusty and covered in a thick layer of dust and debris. Shriveled footprints show in the grime in front of the doors and she softly pushes the button marked “up.”

What Passing Bells (Pt. 2)

“Wilfred Owen…”

“Wilfred Owen Clark.”

She tilts her head to the left to get a better look at him. She’s short, but rather looks like a goose with her long neck and tweed cardigan. “And you’re gonna buy this book?” She holds up a copy of The Collected Poems of Wilfred Owen with an overly amused look on her face.

“No,” he says, “I want to rent the stupid thing.”

Her bubblegum clicks loudly in her mouth. “I’m sorry, but this is a new text book, it’s not available for rent.”

“How much is it?”

“Eleven, fifty four. Cash, credit or debit?”

“What? It’s at least a couple bucks cheaper on Amazon.”

“We’re just a local business, Wilfred, we can’t afford the discounts that Amazon provides.”

“Just Wil, thanks,” he snaps. Wil feels bad. She didn’t deserve that. Really, what retail associate wants to stand around with a costumer that came into their store expecting to have a bad day. It’s a self fulfilling prophecy. “Look, I just need this book to study for one stupid exam in my literature class. Can I just borrow this?”

“I really just work here, I can’t offer that kind of-”

“Nevermind. Debit.”

“Swipe when you see the green flashing lights…”

There were no lights. Wilfred stands there, pinching his lips together, making him look a bit like a goose himself. The moment is awkward, and long.

She senses his impatience. “It takes a moment.” This doesn’t improve his mood. “So… What’s up with your name?”

Wil raises an eyebrow. “My name? What’s up with yours…” Wil peers over the computer screen to glance at her nametag. It was crooked and water stained in one corner. He squints the name into focus. “…Augusta?”

She yawns, makes sense, she looks like she wanted to pass out the entire time Wil’s been there. “Family name. My great, great, great grandmothers or something. My friends call me Auggy,” She takes a long swig of her coffee. The steam veils her face and fogs up her glasses. “Your turn.”

Wil almost laughs. “Fair enough.” He holds up the book. “Pop’s a giant fan of this guy. Mom had to stop him from reading these as my bedtime stories.”

“A tad too dark?”

“A tad. Never wanted to read them once I was old enough to know Wilfred is a lame name.”

“And now you have to read them.”

“Yep.” The green lights appear, but then stop. “It is supposed to do that?”

“No. Lemme try again.” Wil sighs. Another few minutes pass. “Ok, try it when the lights flash.”
This time the lights appear immediately and Wil zips his card through, quickly punching his PIN after. “About time.”

“I know, right?” she laughs. Her smile catches Wil’s eye. It’s much prettier than he would have guessed. And her laugh sounds like bells chiming in the wind. I hear the bells jingles in his mind but he can’t remember where the phrase came from. “Just got to wait for it to be approved.”

This takes longer than either would have hoped. They start to talk about school. Auggy is a college dropout, said it was her own fault for never staying awake during class. Wil writes coding for computer programs and fancies himself a poet of sorts. “It’s a language no one can really understand,” he says.

“But that’s not the same thing as poetry,” she protests. “You’re telling the computer literally what you want it to do. Poetry is much more nuanced than that. You can’t tell anyone anything if you’re doing it right.”

“That’s an unfair assessment,” says Wil, “You can interrupt the words at literal or you can delve into the hidden meaning. I do the same thing, but with zeroes and ones.”

“Ha ha ha!” Another laugh. Good. “But seriously,” says Auggy, “Look a little deeper into his work. Owen’s. You may like it more than you think. And then the trenches of that class may not be so bad.”
“Trenches? Is that a pun?”

The machine produces a receipt. “Finally!” Auggy cries. The word spears him through the gut. “Here you go, Wil,” she hands him his coveted book and receipt in a small plastic bag.

He hands the bag back. “I’ll just carry it.” 


“You sure? It’s gonna rain.”

“It’s not going to rain.”

“Oh, yeah? Why?”

“Because I said so?”

Auggy laughs. “Alright. Well, remember you can’t return that book with water damage so, you know, keep it dry.”

It pours on Wil’s way home, his jacket barely keeps the binding together. An elaborate set up of fans manages to dry it out. He almost forgot about the $11.54 that he spent on it and rather lingered on his memory of Auggy’s wrinkled nose when she laughed. He knows he will fail the exam.

What Passing Bells

“What passing-bells, for those who die as cattle?” he murmurs to himself.

“What's that? Are you making poetry again, Wilfred?”

“Trying, as always. I don't know how you aren't, sitting here, nothing but the sun in the sky to keep us company here in this dirt and grime. This whole world screams poetry to me.”

August shakes his head, the steel bowl he wears as a helmet shifts back and forth. Right and left. It often does when Wilfred speaks around him, but more so lately. “Never read much poetry. Can't see how it has much to do with what we see 'round here. More like Revelations to me.”

“Maybe. Maybe. . .” Wilfred looks up, opens his eyes. He always keeps his eyes closed when he's composing. It helps channel the scene, the essence, the feeling of what's going on around him. He can see better with his eyes closed, where as August can't see at all. Or so it seems.

The sky is clear, though, and the sun still shines down on them. In another place, it would be a beautiful day. In other places, it is a beautiful day. But not in this corner of the world. Never here. In Shropshire, surely though, a beautiful day. The grass of the lawn drifting in a soft breeze, the sheep pulling at it with their teeth, chewing, shuffling about. The dogs watching closely by. Wilfred always feels comforted by the chewing of the sheep. The methodical way they seem to approach eating. No enjoyment there, but a task to be done. Like a war.

In the heat of midday tiny rivulets of sweat run through the crust of salt and sand that has built up on every uncovered patch of Wilfred's skin. Miniscule rivers and tributaries flowing along his face, watering the fields of grime and potential disease which always ride along on his skin, which have always ridden along with the armies. Since the time of Caesar. Since the time of the Assyrians. Since man formed armies to fight one another, and even before. The diseases, the viruses, the pestilences, have always ridden with men. Especially with the soldiers.

“Only the monstrous anger of the guns.” The guns. Always the guns. The artillery, the canons, always seeming far away, booming, booming. Sometimes whistling and landing close by, always coming from one side or the other. Often, August tells Wilfred that he'd be happier if one of the shells landed on them, struck them down and left them dismembered in the dirt like so many of the other men who've come here. Wilfred, though, just wants to live long enough to go home. He knows this too, shall pass. In his heart he knows. The passing-bells, the roar of the guns. Similar enough.

Wilfred knows too that when he gets home he'll be published. That poetry will be the great gift of this terrible war. He knows this in the same way that he feels the world around him better with his eyes shut. With fewer distractions, on a quiet day like today, he sees the world after. A peaceful world which will never see war again, after the poets and the artists show everyone what war is, and what a world can be with out it. That day will come, but not today.

“Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle.” A refrain for the dead. So many of them. But so few rifles rattling lately. In the heat of summer, no one seems to have the energy to start any skirmishes, to advance, to peak over the edge. Even the snipers are quiet. Lord willing, the generals will feel the same way about the heat and Wilfred will sit in this quiet hole long enough to finish a few more lines.

“Can patter out their hasty orisons.” But no, there are no funeral prayers for these fallen men. He opens his eyes again and looks over at August, dozing in the dirt, seemingly dead himself at first glance, just as so many of the corpses look like they're sleeping. He's laid out on his back now with his prized steel bowl doing time as a pillow. Just the two of them at this kink in the trenches, this lonely piece of open tunnel. Unlikely companions, kept together by the sheer will August. Wilfred would try to separate himself from him, but he feels a certain pity. Both of them come from Shropshire, and there is a kinship of a sort, but only tangential. One from a family with an ancestral home there and flocks of sheep to raise, the other from a poor family living in a tenement in town. One a poet and a dreamer, the other gruff and glued to the ugly ground.

Maybe it's the lack of wit that Wilfred pities, the simpleness, the shallowness. But how shallow? August seems to feel and think enough to have roped himself to another man, a stranger, so unlike himself. Why? Why Wilfred? Maybe there is more that goes on behind that ugly face that one might think. Maybe. Or maybe it is a fear and longing for something constant in the horrible world that they've found themselves for the past year. This hellish place that most days, as August says, reminds them of the Book of Revelations. No wonder the poor man longs for the end of days.

“No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells.” Today the world consists of earthen walls on either side and a bright sun and a sky with no clouds. Sweat streaked skin and chafing. Rough woolen clothes full of lice. The smell of corpses wafting over the top of the trench and the rot of flesh covered in flies and fermenting in the heat. Enough poetry for one day. No reason not to nap as August does. There will be little sleep tonight when the booming artillery wakes up.

Damn, That's a Pretty Bridge (Pt. 3)

In his dreams the sun is shining and earth is how it once was, green and blue and clear. As it once was, or at least the way Bobby imagines it was. He's seen pictures and videos of the way it had been, and in his dream he walks down a lush but well cropped grass path by clear blue water, shining like sapphires in the sunlight. Ten foot long alligators swim lazily in the river as flying fish flit out of the water on long arcs through the air. He reaches out to pet a deer that wonders by and it nuzzles his shoulder with its soft antlers. Up ahead, a group of cute blonde girls in pink bikinis splash around in the water, not a care in the world.


The soil feels soft and warm underneath his bare toes, and he lies down in a clear, brilliantly green patch of grass to bask in the sunlight. His skin is tanned and brown like fine leather, not the sickly green which he's so used to seeing. One of the blondes starts making eyes at him from the water and he winks at her, smiling. They always come to him sooner or later, but she's quicker than most and catches the attention of an alligator near by, hopping a ride over to Bobby's resting spot, crawling out of the water with a gleam in her eye and a bear in her hand, her large, round breasts jiggling as she moves towards him.

And then lightning strikes and the world shakes and she is gone, along with the alligators and the deer. The sky goes dark and electricity crackles along the peripherals of his vision. Something is wrong with the neural up-link. This system is glitching again. Maybe this is what it was like for poor Marty, right before the end.


Bobby wakes in a cold sweat, knocking the dregs of his beer to the ground and nearly jerking the cable from its port in his skull. Course it would happen right before the blonde gets to me. He pulls the connector out gently and pushes the reset button on the jack, counts to thirty in his head to give it time to reboot and plugs it back in. Guess we'll try that again.

***

As Bobby walks toward the elevator he sees that the hobo is still and lifeless on his pile of cardboard and detritus. They always bite it sooner or later when they try to sleep without their jacks plugged in. Every time. One of the cleaner robots should be by to clean up the mess soon though, and there'll be one fewer person to worry about in this part of the tunnels tomorrow. More fertilizer in the hydroponics bays too.

Ricky is standing by the elevator door when he walks up, adjusting himself inside the containment suit, trying to get it to fit correctly. From years working outside he's learned that no matter how much he tries to get it settled just right, it always chafes somewhere, so he sympathizes. “Another day, another dollar.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Guess we'll be mappin' out the last bits of the bridge for 'demo today then.”

“May be.” Ricky isn't as glib as usual this morning and Bobby doesn't care today, not after a night of restless dreams and input failures. It's hard to focus on the day at hand when he never found the release the neural jacks usually provide. “Long way up.”

“Yep.”

They both set their packs down inside the elevator and wait for it to spool up and begin its upward ascent. They can barely feel the acceleration, though they're traveling at something like a mile per minute. Eventually they reach the top and step out onto the windy surface, the concrete crunching under their boots and the robots already floating out in the endless blue abyss, staring out at them with their sensors and cameras.

“Excuse me. Hehe,” Bobby turns around puzzled. That didn't sound like Ricky at all.

“What the . . .” Standing in front of him is the blonde from his dream last night, and she's tugging on the arm of his containment suit, pulling at the thick kevlar fabric softly with her dainty little fingers. “You . . .”

“I think we forgot to finish our fun last night.” She giggles to him and begins to pull her bikini top down, her large round breasts flopping out from the tiny pink cubs of the suit, her nipples dark brown and pointing at him, almost distracting enough for him to forget that he shouldn't be able to hear her from inside the suit. Never mind how she could be alive in the methane wastes.

“How? Ricky –“ He looks to Ricky but he's not there. Standing five feet from him across the bridge, even with the blue wind whipping against the helmet, he can see that it's not Ricky inside the helmet, it's Marty. Marty who died in his chair when his neural implant shorted out.

“Come on baby, focus on me.” She's tugging at him again but he can't take his eyes off of Marty, standing silent across the bridge, staring at him. She's pulling at the back of his suit, tugging gently when suddenly alarms start ringing inside his helmet.

“Hey, what the fuck?” She's beginning to detach the suit, trying to open the seals on the back. “Stop!”

***

Bobby wakes up in a cold sweat and jerks the neural implant from his head, gasping for air. Ain't never had a dream like that, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.

The chair is soaked with his sweat and he takes a long hot shower before suiting up. It's almost time to go to the surface. Better not to think about the nightmare, just move on to work instead. Just a fluke. Must be. Go to work, it'll all be okay.

On the way to the elevator the hobo still lies cold and lifeless on his mattress and Ricky is there by the elevator adjusting himself. They climb on and it's just like the dream, but really it's just like every day. Doesn't mean anything.

“Hey Ricky?”

“Yeah boy, wha's up?” He's grumpy this morning, just like the dream, but Ricky's always grumpy. Isn't he?

“You, uh . . . You have any like, ya know, weird dreams last night or anythin'?”

“The fuck are you talkin' about Bobby?”

“Nevermind. Sorry for bringing it up. Don't worry about it.”

“Yeah.”

Ricky takes a deep breath and walks out of the elevator when it reaches the surface. The concrete grinds underneath his heavy boots and the two men walk side by side to the edge, where they can see the two robots floating on their platform a few hundred feet away, their strange inhuman mirrors. Something else is on the platform though. He can't make it out from here, with the wind and dust in the way. It's like someone is on the platform with them.

Don't think about it. As the robots float out there in the wind, the two men begin placing the small charges at regular intervals along the edges of the bridge, deliberately gluing them down to the concrete so they won't blow away in the hard weather. Each one goes down, snicking into place on the bridge.

“A girl'll start to think she's not liked if you keep this up.”

She's there again, smiling at him, seduction in his eyes. Her top is already off and she's pressing them together, massaging them to get his attention. “Please, you're not real. Just go away.”

“Aw, baby.” She touches him again and he flinches away, falling on his back and then scuttling backward.

“Ricky!” But Ricky isn't there. Instead it's Marty and the other two. He can't remember their names now, but they all look angrily at him and the buxom blonde waves to them.

“Y'all had your chance, it's his now.” Her smile gets bigger.

“No!” He clambers up as best he can in the cumbersome containment suit, the kevlar fabric grating against the concrete, hard under him. “Get away from me!”

Ricky begins running away, or the closest thing to running he can accomplish in his suit, clutching tight the satchel with the remaining explosive charges, running blindly with blue wind slicing across his visor, condensation forming at the edges from his heavy breathing, tears in his eyes.

And he trips. And he falls. And it's the edge of the bridge. And he falls. And it's over.

Ricky looks up just in time to see Bobby slide over the edge. “Ah, shit! Bobby!” He moves to the edge, but he stops mid stride. He knows it's too late and he's seen it happen before. “Bridge is damn cursed. Poor kid.”

[The other human has fallen from the structures surface. His survivability chances are 0%. Do you know why he fell?]

“Damn if I know. Damn bridge is cursed.”

[Cursed?]

“Ah, nevermind ya damn robot. Don't understand people at all.”

[You did not see why the other human fell from the bridge?]

“No I didn't, damn it. Damn shame. Still and all, that damn Bobby couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the 'structions written on the heel. Kids today. Poor kids.”

Devil At the Crossroads (Pt. 2)

“After the world's end there will come a spirit which will show its

misguided survivors the way home.”

“It will live in the land of unfurled dreams and still trapped daemons.”

“It will call out to each good soul in kind and in a voice only they will hear.”

“From the trees full of monsters, it will call out, and only the righteous shall answer.”

Her voice sounds further away now than she really is, but he spits in the dirt at his feet and frowns in the direction of the pale woman in brown. “I came to you for help, woman. Not riddles.”

“I am helping, you just have to have the eyes to see it, and the brain to put it all together. Do you?”

“Do I what? Have eyes? A brain? Sure, and it's telling me to get the hell out of Dodge. What the hell is going on here?”

“Well, boy, you said you came here for help finding someone, and help is what I aim to give.” There's a smile creeping across her face and he can see it start in the center of her mouth and work its way out. It looks backwards, like the look you'd get if you asked someone who'd never seen a smile to try to make one on the fly. “I do know who you're looking for, and she's alive too.”

His eyes narrow and his mouth goes dry. Maybe Alex was right about this lead. “How the fuck do you know that?”

She laughs and it's the rattle of dried bones. Dried bones hanging in a morgue not touched for centuries, miles underground and forgotten. “Oh, when you get to be my age you know all sorts of thing son. Shame you won't ever make it that far.”

“And what does that mean? Are you threatening me?”

“Well, aren't you full of questions now.” Her smile is gone in an instant and suddenly she looks fierce and determined. A gust of wind blows against the asphalt, kicking dust into the air between them, and suddenly her face is inches from his. “And I ain't gonna answer 'em all, but I'll answer you three. I'm done playing around, so get to it.”

From far away she looked youngish, late thirties tops. Cropped bleach blonde hair under her hat like an 80's rock star. Now he can see that she's older, but that the age hides a beauty that must have been deep. There's a feeling he gets that twenty years ago she would've been a bombshell, but those numbers don't add up. The presence she puts off, the . . . aura, feels older. He takes a deep breath and tries his best to be nonplussed. “I need to know where Rita is.”

“She's on up in the jungles, round South Vermont way. Thought you knew that.”

“But I was just there!” He knows he sounds like a petulant child, but he can't help it. It's been six months since his sister disappeared and for the last two, since the agent from the old government contacted him, he's been up in the jungles of what was southern Vermont, searching for his sister, searching for any sign of the caravan she'd been leading through the jungles. He'd been outside of the ruins of Boston, trying to find a safe way to the remains of M.I.T. when the scout had found him and delivered the message. For almost a year, off and on, he'd been searching for a way to get to the old research facilities. One long and frustrating year that seemed to stretch on and on. He'd heard rumors and stories of a project that was being developed at the Institute when the bombs dropped. A reference here or there was all he had to go on but if such a thing could exist as what they hinted at, he have to find it. Even now he can't bring himself to even think more on it, for fear of jinxing the chances of the project's existence, but he has to know, as soon as he finds his sister.

The scout had found him, pouring over a pile of books in a tent off of an abandoned stretch of I-93, and he'd been so distracted that he'd thrown the envelope to the side, not reading it until three days later, when it occurred to him that it might involve Rita. He knew she'd been working for what was left of the old government’s diplomatic corps for the last couple of years, but he hadn't seen her in at least three. Turned out she gotten a job as a guide through the jungles of Vermont and New Hampshire. Word had gotten round that she'd grown up there and someone needed to help the diplomatic envoy get through, so she took the job.

“Is she . . .” He stops mid sentence when he realizes he's already been told she's alive. “Safe?”

“Ha! Depends on what you mean by safe! Boy, I done told you she way alive, and that's all I'm giving you on that front. Will say I wouldn’t dilly dally on finding her, was I you though.”

The letter had been short and concise and signed by the Mitchel Hernandez, the man who they liked to call the Vice President of the United States, though if there had ever been an election for this administration, Reese had never heard of it. Rita though, probably hadn't cared. Probably hadn't asked many questions either, and no doubt that had been a strong mark in her favor. She'd always been the great outdoors woman, slinking her way through the forests back in the days before the forests became jungles and a time when the only predators to worry about were game wardens, whereas he'd always been the bookish one, spending his time in research and more excited about a new academic paper being published than finding a new trail through the White Mountains. Damn if I don't know a lot about backpacking now though.

Whether Rita asked any questions or not though, the letter likely would have answered them for her, as they'd answered them for him. She'd been hired to lead a crew north from the compounds in Virginia where the government survivors were holed up in, on through to some new “kingdom” up in Maine. Evidently someone had thought it would be easier to skirt way around the cities than to go direct. Nothing but good advice honestly as the whole area north of New York City was anyone's guess. Lawless and dangerous were words that couldn't scratch the surface, and the very fact that they were trying marked the mission as something special. Evidently some firebrand up there by the name of Kahl had started carving out a nice little potentate in the state mostly untouched by nuclear fire, calling it, quite unimaginatively enough, Kahlandia. Not the first or the only person to throw together a group of followers and try to start a country in the remains of the big empty U. S. of A., but evidently one which the federals would like to speak with, and soon.

When it had turned out that government scouts, searching for all of four months, couldn't find a trace of the convoy or his sister, they'd come to him, obviously desperate for help any way they could find it. And willing to pay out the ears for it.

It takes everything he has not to shake her like a dog for answers. “Fine. I get one more question then, right?”

“Ha, only if you hurry boy. I don't have all night.” Another deathly chuckle and a long pause.

“So, how do I find her?”

“You look!” In a flash she's back at her original distance and he's disoriented. That vague uninterested look has returned to her face but she speaks once more. “The second half of that prophecy will lead you to her, boy, nothing else but. But be careful though, them Green Mountain Boys don't play around!”

And she's gone. The space where she stood is empty and there are no footprints, though he'd been looking at her the whole time, focusing on her face for any clue she might give. Hoping against hope that she wasn't just some insane wanderer of the Capital wastes. Hoping that finding his sister would be as simple as asking for help. He's lost in thought, still standing in place when he notices a slight tremor in his hand and thunder claps in the distance. Fat, wet raindrops begin to fall from the sky. It'll be a long walk back and he has too much to think about on the way.

Damn, That's a Pretty Bridge (Pt. 2)

 Though the excessive exhaust pouring from the outlets would seem to express a great effort, the platform floats gracefully through the air like a paper airplane. It lands softly on the bridge like a leaf after the wind has gone. The two robots, large and constructed and inhumanly human as they look, walk smooth and silent like dancing ghost. [What is the expected time interval until job completion] one of them asks.

               “Aw, shucks,” says Ricky, “I’d say what with the lazerin’ done and them there alkaline shafts un graphed then all what’s there left’d be takin’ out the key shards, and you knows me and my boy, Bobby, here is some workers if you had never had seen none -“

               “We’ll be done in a few clicks to hifgh gray, gentlebots,” says Bobby.

               [Your shift ends at low black. This must be completed this cycle.]

               “We’ll take care of it.”

               [That is acceptable. Carry on.]

               They pirouette and start back to their “magic-carpet” when Ricky says, “Hold up there for a moment, bots, would you kindly, if yous wouldn’t mind me askin’ yous a quick question now would you?”

               “Ricky, we got work to do.”

               “If’n they got the time to hear me out it’d take but only a tic or two if’n they’d just hear me for a tic.”

               [Yes. What is your query.]

               “Well, yous see, it’s not that I’m complaining or nothin’ like that or the sort but I was just wonderin’ what with yous robo guys, or yous gentlebots if you’d have it, what with your being all mechanical like you are and what not, I was just wonderin’ whys it is that we even need to be the ones doin’ this, since you know, it’s just kinda’ what yous bots or what haves you seem to be really good at doin’ without us, ya know?”

               Bobby dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

               [What is the purpose of you inquiry?]

               “Just drop it, will ya, Ricky? We ain’t got too many ticks before high gray and I don’t wanna’ be here til’ the black sets in.”

               Ricky waves a hand dismissively in Bobby’s direction. “Well, yous see, I’m just askin ‘cause you know what with Marty and the other guys havin what had happened to them when theys was workin back when we was puttin the thing together and buildin it up and what have you, so whats with what happened to them havin happened to them, I was just askin ‘cause it seems to be just a bit more dangerous for us to be here and workin on this here thing this high up with these here rigs and what have you just to do somethin that it I would thinks with you being robots and such like you are, I just would thinks it would be somethin that it wouldn’t be that awful difficult for yous all to do yourselves with yous bein’ what you are and what have yous.”

               [It is required that these steps be completed by humans.] Pirouette [Carry on.]

               They finish the job fairly quickly when Ricky allows Bobby to work with the burden of attempting conversation. The elevator ride down two the surface takes nearly fifteen clicks.

               “Yous ever think these things here might get stuck what with ‘em being so big and tall and what have you?”

               “I don’t think so, Ricky.”

               “It’s just that it be a damn miserable shame to get stuck in one of these here elevators in the middle of going up or coming down from the Skyway cause then, you know, what would ya do?”

               “If it did get stuck, I’m sure some robots would fly over and get us out.”

               Snort, “Yeah, well, yeah, I’m guessin that’s what they would do if that there were to happen. Damn robots always the damn answer to everything what whichever problem it ya might have. Damn robots always flying around with their them magic carpets and walkin round like ballerina ninjas and what have you and talkin like they were some one of them things straight outta that there show, you know, the one with the doctor what with -“

               “Don’t bad mouth the robots, Ricky. We’d be fucked without ‘em.”

               “Yeah, well, yeah, I’m guessin you’re right but they don’t gotta be so fuckin’ self righteous or whatever it is or what have yous. And ya knows something there Bobby boy, if I remembers something for a change, I remembers that they used to says we’d be fucked without a sun too but we’s still here standing right here now not a bit as fucked as they’d says we woulda been without it, ain’t we?”

               “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

               They eventually reach the surface level. The elevator is attached to a small lobby and maintenance unit about the size of a studio apartment in queens. The lobby is empty except for a rugged and worn man sleeping in the corner on a matt amassed of cardboard scraps and discarded pieces of cloth. “Well, sees you around there, kid. Stay outta trouble, ya hear me.”

               “I hear you, Ricky. See you around.” They part ways and Ricky walks down Caulson heading down to the black light district and Bobby went up Hill to head home. After walking through his front door, Bobby removed his rig and under clothes and put them in the appropriate containment hatches before decontaminating completely and going through his second front door. A quick shower and a beer during The Late Show later, he decides to call it a night. In his room, he picks up the link cable and puts in the port behind his ear. Bobby, tired from a long day of work, plops down in his chair, and falls right off to sleep.