by Pieter Lars
Tom had just enough time to slip his headset over his head before Phillips burst in, his face red and blotchy, his chest heaving.
Tom held up his finger and Phillips paused with his mouth open, ready to start screaming. A little string of spittle hung suspended between his lips.
Hot lead, Tom mouthed. Phillips closed his mouth and glared, shifted his weight, then turned and quietly shut the door. He stomped down the hall to Grossman’s office where a muffled shouting match began.
That was fine with Tom. He didn’t really like Grossman anyway. He turned on his computer and flipped through his appointment book while it booted up.
3
Deadly Delivery Drones
Tom and Samantha huddled under the reception desk. Mr. Phillips was over by the copier, and Grossman had fled to the break room where he and the underwriters had barricaded the doors.
There was another flurry of frantic tapping on the glass of the front door, painfully loud in the otherwise silent office.
"You sure that one's dangerous?" Mr. Phillips asked. "I was expecting a package today."
"Feel free to go check," Samantha replied.
Phillips glared at her over the open paper tray. He had loosened his tie and his mustache glistened with perspiration.
The phone rang. Samantha winced and tapped her headset to answer. "Genesis Insurance Services. Can I help you?" Her voice was bright despite the drawn look in her eyes. "No, I'm sorry. Can you call back this afternoon? Yes. Yes, we are getting a delivery right now. Yes. Thank you for your understanding. I will have an agent call you for a quote." She hung up and gave Phillips an apologetic shrug.
"What were you getting delivered?” Tom asked. “Something for the office?"
Mr. Phillips muttered something under his breath. Something that sounded like Blu-Ray.
"You're worried about a movie!? That thing could peel your face off!" Samantha's voice rose to a dangerous level. As if in response, the tapping on the glass took a more urgent rhythm. It really wanted to get in.
"It's a Stanley Kubrick boxed set! The Criterion Collection!" Phillips hissed as he rose to a crouch, a look of determination on his face. He started to move towards the door but a beam of red light shone through the glass. It moved across the floor and up Phillips' chest to his face where it widened, scanning up and down. There was a high-pitched beep and then a series of crashes as the drone slammed itself against the door.
The glass broke with a tinkle and the lobby filled with a whirring buzz. The delivery drone circled under the fluorescent lights, its rotors spinning in a furious blur. The red light flashed again from its nose cone.
Samantha grabbed a three-hole punch from her desk and brandished it in the air, ready to fend it off. Tom was still huddled under the desk. He opened a drawer above him and searched blindly for a weapon, but all he found was a handful of binder clips.
Phillips peeked over the copier and the drone's light flashed on his face. It let out an electronic screech and whirled toward him. Phillips, in a panic, ripped the paper tray out of the copier and rose, swinging wildly.
The tray connected with a crunch. The drone crumpled and broke apart in mid-air. One of its rotor blades flew out and lodged in the center of the OSHA poster. Another struck the coffee machine which steamed and gurgled, spilling its contents across the reception desk. The drone fell to the carpet with a forlorn warble and twitched, releasing the brown package it had been holding in its clamped arms.
They watched nervously until it fell still.
Phillips prodded the sad little machine with the corner of the printer tray, then nudged the package with his foot. "You think we should open it?"
"I think YOU should open it, once Tom and I are out of the room," Samantha replied. She pulled Tom to his feet and they ran down the hall and locked themselves in Tom's office, listening for Phillips' scream, or an explosion, or some other horror that the drone had been so intent on delivering.
Nothing happened.
A minute later Phillips knocked and came in. "Look, guys! It WAS my movies," he said with a grin, holding them up for Tom and Samantha to see. "How 'bout that. You think we should order a new coffee machine?"
"How about we wait until next week," Tom said, straightening his tie.
"Yeah. That's probably a good idea. You two want to come over for a movie night?" He grinned for a moment, then his eyes widened. “Oh, god. I ordered a new golf bag, too.”
“Why can’t you just have them sent to your house!?” Samantha yelled.
“I don’t like packages sitting on my porch all day!” Phillips shouted back.
There was another tinkle of glass from the lobby, followed by a high-pitched warble.
4
Mega Flood
The 14th floor veranda of the Trustfree Bank building had been converted into an waterside cafe for the week, complete with hanging lights, candle-lit tables, and a full complement of uniformed wait staff. The destruction wrought by the Sandworms two weeks prior had largely been repaired. Whatever hadn’t been repaired was under water.
In fact, most of the city was under water.
Tom had awoken Monday morning with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He shaved, got dressed, made breakfast, all the while stumbling from room to room and cursing himself for staying up too late the night before, drinking beer and watching television (his Seinfeld boxed set had come in the mail). He wondered if his motion-sickness would stay with him all day.
Then he opened his front door to find salt-water sloshing over his stoop. A bright orange raft with oars bobbed in the water, tied to his mailbox. It had “National Eschatological Agency” painted on the side in big black letters.
Tom looked up to see that the world had flooded. The queasy feeling in his stomach came from the fact that his entire condo complex was bobbing in the water. The NEA, or the city, or friendly neighbors, had attached huge flotation devices to the foundations, connecting each of the condo buildings with thick metal tethers.
Well, he thought, at least it’s not just a hangover.
After that first morning, the rest of the week went by in a Dramamine haze, but on Thursday he managed to pull himself together enough to ask Samantha to dinner. To his surprise, she said yes.
They sat that night on the veranda of the Trustfree building, studying the menus and watching the various rafts and dinghies float by.
A makeshift billboard bobbed on a stack of shipping pallets. It read:
Find yourself underwater in your mortgage? Trustfree Banking can help! Ask us about our special new loans on coastal properties!
The billboard turned and the other side showed Mr. Phillips’ smiling face. A speech bubble read:
Need cheap boat insurance? Genesis Insurance Services can help!
Tom sighed and turned the page to the cocktail list.
“Wow. Phillips didn’t waste any time,” Samantha said. She was watching the billboard.
“No, he didn’t,” Tom replied. He took a sip of water while he tried to think of something else to say. A gray flash in the water caught his eye. Something sleek and pointy peeked from the surface and circled a floating dumpster. Was it a fin?
“Oh, look! The sharks are here!” Samantha exclaimed.
Tom spit water all over his menu. “The what!?”
“The sharks.” She gave him a confused look. “Don’t you ever open your NEA packages?”
He shook his head. “What package? I thought they just sent a raft!”
Samantha shook her head and chuckled, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a canister wrapped in a paper flyer and passed it across the table. Tom unwrapped it to see a can of shark repellant. The flyer read:
During the Flood you may see increased shark activity, but please remember that they are STILL ENDANGERED. A reward will be offered to anyone providing information on poaching activity.
“Poaching activity?” Tom asked.
“Sure. People kill them for fin soup, and boots and stuff. I saw a documentary,” Saman
tha replied. “So what do you want to eat?”
“I was thinking seafood, but now I don’t know….”
The waiter brought a basket of bread and Tom reached for a piece, thankful for the distraction. Out in the water, someone started singing. Another raft floated by, nicer than the others. This one was made of shiny blue rain barrels, lashed together on top a stack of old doors. A man stood on deck, wearing suspenders and a bow tie. He sang in Italian as he pulled a long oar. There was a couple sitting on a bench in the back, the woman resting her head on the man’s shoulder.
The shark left the dumpster to follow the raft and, to his credit, the gondolier’s voice barely wavered as he watched it circle.
“Aww. That’s romantic,” Samantha said with a sigh.
Am I the only one that has trouble adjusting to all this? Tom thought. He was about to ask if she wanted to take a gondola ride after dinner, but then Samantha shrieked.
“Kitty!”
“What? Where?” Tom scanned the water and, sure enough, there was a little orange kitten scrambling frantically across the back of a floating office chair. The chair turned in the water and the kitten clawed for traction.
“We have to save it!” Samantha cried.
“We do?” Tom asked, but when he looked back at her, she had a look in her eyes. An expectant look that suggested that this was the moment when she would decide if there would be a gondola ride after dinner, or if she would even stay past the breadsticks.
Tom gulped. He looked from Samantha, to the kitten, and back. What the hell, he thought.
“Gimme that shark repellant.”
Samantha grinned at him as she passed it over. Tom popped the top, pulled the pin and tossed it in the water. He wondered briefly if he should remove his tie, but before he could have second thoughts, he climbed the rail and dove into the water.
WhatamIdoing?WhatamIdoing?WhatamIdoing?
He swam as fast as he could, not turning his head, not looking for the shark, just keeping his eye on the kitten. He reached the office chair and the cat leapt onto his head, digging its claws into his scalp. Tom yelped, got a mouthful of sea-water, but managed to keep his head above the surface as he swam back.
Samantha helped him climb the rail, then took the kitten from its perch on his head and hugged it tightly to her chest.
They sat back down. Tom tried to wring the water from his sleeves and pant legs, but it was no use. Samantha made cooing noises at the kitten who, soaked to the bone and terrified, was clawing ribbons from her sweater.
“Tom, that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she said, beaming at him. To his surprise, she reached across the table and took his hand.
“Oh!” Tom said, managing to blush and shiver at the same time. “Well, you know, it wasn’t a big deal.”
The waiter came back and asked if they were ready. Samantha order tuna.
“I’ll have the rib-eye,” Tom said. “And a scotch. Neat.”
He could afford to splurge a bit tonight, couldn’t he?
5
Sulfurous Gas Clouds
Tom grunted in frustration as the Cranky Bird failed yet again to dislodge the Smirking Pig from its precipice. It was a hard level, and he’d been at it for at least twenty minutes.
He had tried to get some work done that morning. Honestly. But it was really difficult to talk to customers on the phone when you were wearing a gas mask. The fact that the customers were also wearing gas masks only added to their mutual frustration. Everyone ended up sounding like adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon.
The NEA forecast said the Sulfurous Gas Cloud should pass soon, but that another was on its way and would hit Phoenix by mid-afternoon. Tom scrolled through his emails, wondering if he could make any sales without actually having to talk to anyone.
Grossman knocked once and stepped into Tom’s office. The big man was wearing his rumpled brown suit, scuffed shoes, and three-day-old stubble which might as well have been his uniform. If their business wasn’t conducted over the phone, there was no way the disgusting man would be top salesman. Customers would take one look at him and assume they were at a used car lot.
“Gas cloud’s gone,” Grossman said between bites of the coffee cake he was holding in his bare palm. “Hit the phones, my man. Let’s make some money!”
Tom mouthed a profane insult behind the mask’s filter before pulling it off his face. He wrinkled his nose at the stink in the air.
“Blegh. It smells awful in here,” Tom said. Grossman just shrugged and walked back to his office. He seemed to be the only one unaffected by the sulfur stench but, being that he was notoriously flatulent, he was probably used to it.
Tom breathed through his mouth and picked up the phone, looking over his callback list. He started to dial, but then the walls began vibrating as a drill started buzzing down the hallway. He slammed the phone back down and walked to the reception desk.
“What’s going on around here?” he asked Samantha.
“They’re installing new air filters so we can work without our masks on.”
“How long is it going to take?”
Samantha shrugged. “Couple hours, they said.” The phone started ringing and Samantha tapped her headset to answer.
Tom returned to his office, put on his coat and grabbed his mask, then walked back to reception.
“I’m going out,” he said. “This day’s a wash anyway. If he asks, tell Phillips I’m working from home.”
Samantha frowned. “You alright?”
“Yeah, just stressed. It’s been a slow month for me.” He slipped his gas mask on and pulled at the straps to tighten it.
Samantha came around the desk and straightened his tie while he fidgeted. “Talk to you later?” she asked. He nodded and she grinned back at him, then slapped him on the butt as he turned. He blushed, glad that she couldn’t see it behind the mask.
“Be careful out there,” she said as he walked out the door.
He left the office and wandered across the parking lot and down towards the mall. The news had advised residents to limit their driving time as the gas masks severely restricted peripheral vision. The sidewalks were crowded with hunched, masked people, shrouded in the yellow haze that filled the air.
He thought about grabbing lunch, but the smell had made him lose his appetite. Instead, he walked through the rows of department stores, watching shoppers trying to pull sweaters on over their ghoulish masks, or holding watches up and peering at them through the little glass lenses.
He walked by a poster for his company that read:
Does your current insurance policy STINK? CALL US FOR A QUOTE!
After a half hour of wandering, he found himself in front of the movie theater and, on a whim, purchased a ticket for whatever was playing next. He exchanged muffled pleasantries with the clerk, then went inside.
The movie had already started, so he groped his way up the stairs, scanning the rows for an empty seat. Despite having no air filtration, the theater was full. A hundred tiny lenses glinted in the screen-light, each masked face staring blandly forward. It was a bit unnerving, but he sat down anyway, adding his face to the crowd.
The film was some action movie, full of gunfire and explosions. He tried to pay attention, but the plot was laughably impotent in light of reality. Why watch explosions on the screen when you can just look out the window on any given week?
Whatever escape he was hoping for wasn’t going to be found in the theater, so he left halfway through the second act. He didn’t know why he felt so depressed. Everyone else seemed to be coping. Just going about their lives in the midst of the ever-changing cataclysms.
Maybe he really was just stressed. He needed to make some sales by the end of the month. If he made enough money, maybe he could afford a vacation. Maybe Samantha would want to come with him.
As he left the mall, his phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Samantha:
DINNER AT THAT VIETNAMESE RESTAURANT YOU LIKE? 7 OK?
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He smiled and replied:
SEE YOU THERE :-).
Outside, the next cloud rolled slowly in, casting a yellowed shadow across the bustling city.
6
Some Sort of Parasite?
It was a strange sort of morning, oddly quiet. No blaring of air-raid sirens, no roar of giant monsters or screeching of hell-spawn. Just a calm, slightly overcast Monday. The air had that sweet, after-rain smell.
Tom had read an article once that linked the smell to rain activating dormant bacteria in soil, or the acid in the water reacting with various other chemicals. In Phoenix it was mostly the latter. The air had none of that thick loamy fragrance he remembered from his childhood in Oregon, but it was still pleasant.
The NEA package on the door-step contained a large bottle of hand-sanitizer and a note advising residents to stay away from heavily wooded areas, and to avoid gardening that week. Nothing about specific dangers, but the NEA could be maddeningly vague at times.
Tom didn’t have a yard, and he lived in the desert, so he ignored the warning, grateful for the chance to have a week where he wasn’t fearing for his life every minute.
On his way to work, stopped at a red light, he glanced out his window. There was a man hunched over on a bus-stop bench, coughing. He wore green, mud-spattered coveralls and thick leather gloves. The type that gardeners and groundskeepers used. As Tom watched, the man hacked up a thick, white glob of mucus and spit it into the gutter.
Gross, Tom thought, but then the light turned and he continued to the office.
The phones were slow that morning, so Tom took the opportunity to get caught up on his paperwork, checking underwriting memos and planning his calls for the afternoon.
