“Okay then, that’s more like it,” Rico said. “Remember we are all in this together. We’re a team. Ted, if you would please hand out the papers we put together.”
Ted passed a paper to each pair then explained, “This paper lists some of the things you can expect in your transitions. Also we put together a rough schedule regarding who is to work with Amy and when. Depending on each individual’s response to her—gift—this schedule might be pushed forward. We hope so. We’re in new territory with this everyone.”
“That will be all,” Rico said, “now follow me. Let’s head back down and lend!”
32. Canyon
In the weeks that followed Amy spent time with many of the lower-level lenders and was working her way up. It was discovered that each lender needed and average of four days with her in order to jump-start the DNA revert process. Was it the mind, as in mind over matter, the minds ability to change DNA as needed? Ted didn’t know and couldn’t figure it out, but it was working. He assumed it was a quantum level process yet didn’t have the advanced instruments to test any theory one way or another. So, they stuck to the plan, and revised the schedule for the shorter times: each was to have only four days working with her.
Each that had been exposed to Amy, inside any map, was performing optimally above and beyond expectations. Finally. As Ted had known for years the ability to lend and produce viable output had been decreasing steadily—now, the opposite. The broadcast feed held top outputs levels like never before. So far ten had been genetically reverted to one hundred percent—natural—untouched—clean. In return many received superficial flaws (weight gain or loss, baldness, acne or porous skin, sometimes even laser-breath or increased body odor) but health remained surprisingly, well. Possibly, it could be attributed to the pre-established and thoroughly ingrained community fitness plan, healthy garden-fresh diets, and overall salubrious and peaceful lifestyles within the town. And with the town’s present medical capabilities most issues could be managed or fixed altogether, without reverting to DNA or genetic modification—far beyond grasp anyway. Methods of the pre-2020’s were emphasized: diet alterations, natural remedies, and therapy or more specialized exercise plans. And all were dreaming—and excited about it—excited about life!
All of the subjects were instructed to manage two things: record a detailed log regarding any physical and mental changes, furthermore track their natural dreams in a journal, with details and descriptions of the dreams themselves. Dreaming itself, naturally, was a long lost virtuosity, and this was an opportunity to catch up, or as Ted saw it, mesh some data.
Ted consulted with Rico who made a short visit to the BROCC. He mentioned they will soon have enough data to estimate what would be needed to achieve the mysterious purple status. He advised relaxing a bit on the work schedule since it was becoming very easy to maintain status in the green.
“I think that’s a fine idea Ted,” Rico said. “Let’s get every one of the lenders taken care of, and then when we’re ready we’ll have everyone log in at once and make a go for it.” Ted nodded, although he wasn’t convinced the achievement could be had in such a linear fashion. The data pointed to it, so far, but—well hopefully. He deduced the idea while rubbing his chin, eyes floating up in thought. Rico headed back to the control room.
Tuesday morning, Amy was logged in with Myron, a friend from her graduation class. He was short, only 5 foot 2 with puffy freckled cheeks and bright light-blue eyes. An intense carrot-colored globe, his glossy straight hair convexed around his noggin. And he looked like he’d been sneaking extra food rations. The program was desperate for new lenders. He’d still barely made it in, and was only one of two from her class that even came close. Amy had liked him for a long time. He was the only person whom with she shared her artful drawings; for all others simply said that’s nice, and quickly lost attention. So, since forever and then, her art was a secret, between her and Myron only—with the sure exception of Bertha, aka Momma-Bee. He was sometimes clumsy, but mischievous and fun to be around—funny was more like it. Amy knew from the start he had more creativity than the others, and now knowing that’s what it took, knew exactly why he’d made it in—and she was happy about that. It was his fourth and final day with her.
Dry warm fresh air; Amy took a deep breath. “Ah…” They were enjoying the magnificent canyon view—a hugely popular tourist destination—and leaning over the rail looking down into the deep chasm. Spotty clouds speckled the red and orange desert with shadows for hundreds of miles. Tourists were sauntering to this side and that by the hundreds. A little girl on her dad’s shoulders pointed in elation, a mom passed a stranger the camera for a full family picture, and little ones dripped ice cream everywhere—down the crispy cone, gooing their grabby hands, sliming the grand glass-bottom overlook platform. The ice cream man, frantic in his ratty sticker-plastered truck beyond the rock wall barrier, sold cone after cone in exchange for green papers. A maintenance man made little progress to keep up—cleaning spit, puke, milky cream, and scuff-marks.
A boisterous family arrived, all in wedding attire, at least forty, tuxedo garbed men with women in light-yellow dresses. They yelled and laughed like blowhards, and bumptiously shoved Amy aside stealing the best overlook in the park. An older gentleman set up a tripod and ran back and forth taking picture after picture using the timer. Myron snuck into the side of the picture stretching his cheeks. For the next one he ducked behind and exposed a low moon through the leg forest. Amy giggled, and as he continued she could contain herself no longer. She burst out laughing so hard it hurt—until he got busted.
“Hey, get out of there you little shit,” yelled a robust older woman. “He jumped into our picture, redo it!” Anger forced her bottom teeth out and crinkled her face. She gave Myron the evil stare and widened one eye, brooming him with it. Myron retreated quickly, unable to fasten his pants. A couple of young teens from the far end couldn’t help but look over to Myron and Amy as they horsed around. The laughter was infectious and they even tossed Amy a wave, obviously bored out of their gourd by the wedding traditions. But patience was dwindling for the elders of the group. For the retake Amy leapt in front doing a cart wheel in front of the family. Snickering Myron ran to the camera with his jeans still drooping, exposing his butt crack.
“Perfect shot!” He said snatching the camera. He flipped through the pictures and found one with Amy in it. “Can’t beat that. You win Amy, check it out. ”
The tall man who’d set up the camera yelled, “Leave our camera alone!” Annoyed with the two pranksters, he speed-walked toward them furiously. The now un-posed family burst into rage, except for the girl and boy teens on the end who secretly rallied them on.
Amy and Myron bolted to the far end of the gridded glass platform that overlooked the canyon. They ran and ran, with elation on their faces, their hair blowing behind them. Toward the far side Amy began skipping. Myron watched her and copied. She laughed some more—he had no skipping ability, or any rhythm for that matter. There. They saw the black bag under a bench and looked at each other. “Well fun’s over, you ready Myron?” she asked, trying to get serious—but really to no avail. It was the funniest day she’d ever had.
“Yeah, let’s do this,” Myron replied. “Then we’ll go back to the other side and get some more ice cream.”
“Deal!”
Amy reached in, hesitated for a split-second to choose then pulled out a flame-thrower that was far bigger than the bag itself. By a double steel-braided line the bag next birthed a strap-on tank. Her eyes rounded. She strapped it to her back as Myron gawked then kicked the bag over to him. Its pilot was lit and she put her finger on the trigger. The wand was light but the orange pill-bottle shaped tank a little heavy. She brandished it like the sword she’d used so many times, waving and whirling, anxious to pull the trigger. A few onlookers gasped superciliously.
Myron peered into the bag next, deciding, his turn. He pulled out an old western single-shot muzzle loader. “Ah ha!” He
exclaimed proudly. It was long, very long.
“You have got to be kidding,” Amy said. He shed a prideful smile and tossed it over the guardrail then looked again. Digging around inside his eyes bulged before extracting an orange chainsaw. “Now that’s more like it,” Amy said slowly. She held in a laugh. Gotta see this, she thought. She really liked him, unlike others; the crazy little dude was unpredictable. Together they’d gotten into a bit of trouble in the school house, but this was different—they’d been given, unleashed and unlimited, carte blanche.
Myron pulled the string to start the chainsaw, but it didn’t start. He tried again, but because of the high compression the string locked and the bar flung upward. The blade nicked his forehead good. “Ouch!” A single gob of blood made its way down the center of his brow. He smeared it with his arm then sucked it up and tried again—with a better grip on the saw. He pulled it five more times and still, nothing.
“You dummy—look,” Amy said. “You have to pull the choke first. And pump this little gas ball a few times also. Look, says it right here.” Myron did what she suggested and it fired off, then died. “One more time, now without the choke.”
Myron pulled it as hard as his scrawny muscles could and it fired up, explosively. Reeeen! The tourists noticed and became wondrously and terribly unnerved. He looked funny holding the chainsaw and revved it. Reeeen, Reeeen, Reeeen! He and put it above his head and started screaming and held the throttle down constantly. Its muffler glowed molten-red and smoke pillowed above the mini-smoke stack that was Myron, deadly chainsaw master of massacre. Amy burst out laughing at him. She fell to her knees red-faced, holding her stomach. Accidentally the hair trigger on the flame thrower spit a 50 foot blaze along the ground. Oops.
She could barely stop laughing, but before everyone disappeared she managed to get up and say, “Alright let’s get it over with!” Her eyes were flooded with tears of laughter. Myron had already gunned his short legs—running with saw.
“Hee, hee, hee,” Myron laughed his funny little laugh. He and Amy burst into the crowd running.
Amy lit the flamethrower an torched everyone she could see. The flamethrower had a fifty foot reach so it made it easy to blaze numerous people in a single swoop, and once they were slimed with the fiery goo nothing they could do would put it out. Some rolled, in vain, and some fell to their knees then plopped. She torched many camera-necklaced touring seniors who were always the easiest due to lack of speed, and entire families that refused to leave a member behind. She was even able to reach the wedding family. Only two kids made it out, those that had waved to her; she paused her rampage momentarily and let them go. The tripod that held camera burned like a candlestick, letting out a small pop when the battery exploded.
Myron scurried after screaming people with the chainsaw but couldn’t manage to catch a single one. He freaked them out mostly, and herded them all the way into the parking lot completely clearing out the lookout area. Amy followed walking slowly but steadily, using every bit of fuel, shooting flames in every direction. She blasted it into the air, watching the breeze play with it. And it rained droplets of fire.
The two young teens Amy had spared earlier, now horrified, were frenzied with uncontrollable panic. Their parents teal minivan sported a bald donut spare, port side. It bounced on its coil suspension as they came to pieces within. Fumbling wildly the girl fought the ignition with a key.
Myron was revving his saw, heading right toward them.
Vrooooom! The van started. The girl, who looked only a year older than her brother, not more than fourteen, stomped the gas and it revved high enough to cause a pop in the engine—but it didn’t move.
Myron hit the rear taillights and plastic went flying. He unstuck the saw and re-revved it up, then ran it down the sides. Sparks flew as he carved the steel.
The boy reached over and yanked hard on the column shifter. Gears grinded and tires smoked. The front tires spun themselves bald. The little donut struggled to keep up and spit rubber. The van finally achieved motion and took off flying, bounced over the parking pylon and veered hard left. Myron threw his saw and leapt out of the way. The girl mismanaged the steering wheel, over and under steering until all direction was lost. The little out-of-control personnel carrier barreled left then right as the two wheel-jerkers fought each other inside. Through the pedestrian width concrete barrier they exploded, and onto the glass overlook. It cracked loud like a semi-frozen lake. The girl finally managed some control but they’d already built up too much speed. The van was bottle necked. The front corner hit, hard—this time the railing didn’t cede like the rock wall had. The pill-bottle shaped ride somersaulted up and over and into the canyon. Terrified hands flat-pounded the glass, their screams muffled by the wailing four cylinder revving far past maximum—a petrified foot held the pedal to the metal. Amy watched as it went over, so did Myron, both of them no longer laughing. The engine blew first, in a loud pop! Then another louder explosion as it touched down. Then, another loud pop—behind Myron.
Amy turned. He was shot.
Everything was ablaze, a fiery hell. She torched every remaining car, every remaining person, man, woman, child, baby, and pet, including the security guard who had gotten two off—into Myron's back. He plopped to his knees, and fell to the side.
“It’ll be okay Myron,” Amy said. She knelt at his side and rolled him over.
“It, hurts,” he coughed. Blood fell from his mouth. Two bullets in his back destroyed their way out the front of his chest, one in the center of his gut, the other his right lung. He wasn’t crying and tried to be strong. Yet the pain had him compressed, wilted, and tucked.
“Myron,” she said laying him out flat. “I need you to do one thing for me. I know it hurts but be still and try to relax.” Amy focused her gaze on the first of the two exit wounds. Like the green traffic light of the Future City map she let herself focus, and follow the growing intensity. The bloody gash took on a mountainous shape, like the red crater of a churning volcano. Its textures grew and became staggering. Its gushing blood became a lava flow, slowing each moment she held her focus. Time stopped and she allowed herself to be vacuumed in. She focused every sense: sight, until she was at the molecular level, and beyond that, sounds, until the lava coagulated into solid walls of pulpy gel; a world of gummy gloss. She could feel the edges of Myron's pain scathe her presence, and soothed it with a gentle touch. She heard his breathing, and went deeper inside until the world was anew, and perspective was malleable. A dense air wisped by and around her, until she let it pass through her essence. She took it in, all of it—now hers to manipulate. She focused intensely deeper until the realm she now commanded grazed her own emotions. Where the power resides, she found it, and knew instantly. She inflamed it, feeling love, feeling hate, feeling power, feeling, feeling all, and merged the perspectives. Ready now. She let the creativity seep in, the real true power, and held it. Slowly, slowly. Building, growing. Let it all mix together. Expanding, thrusting, pumping, living. She let everything in, and handled the totality of it without doubt, sculpting, molding, forging it powerfully. Every feeling and thought, like a hurricane, like a diver reaching for that breath—release.
She exploded out—back.
“What? I—” Myron gasped. He took in a mountain of air and his eyes bulged. Looking down at his chest, his bloody shirt with six-inch raggedy holes, he smiled, and felt himself. The bullet holes were gone. “How did you?”
“Next time be a little more careful—you crazy shit. Come on, let’s go. Although I think we’ll have to look for another ice cream truck.” They both laughed. The truck and all the ice cream was a gooey smoldering mess.
33. State Fair
Screams hijacked the atmosphere as the fully loaded mega coaster plummeted in front of her. It whooshed by, and Amy, with a full-toothed smile, followed it with her head. She sat with ants in her pants, but as patiently as one could be in such a stimulating place. Raucous rock music blared from afar and her foot ticked to
the beat.
She had arrived almost ten minutes ago on a bench across from the slivering snake that captivated her, and was still waiting for her partner. Finally after another five, the vague shape of a person fluttered the air beside her, and under them both, the black bag took form. The crowded State Fair bustled to the brim, and Nanny had arrived. She was instantly taken aback by the sheer amount of people, even before she had finished solidifying.
A slow logger-inner, Nanny was the oldest lender on the team and hardly produced a result, at least not steadily, but she was wise and experienced, still having the occasional whopping success. Her methods were unconventional, yet surprisingly yielding at times.
Amy greeted her with jubilation. Nanny just sat aghast with two hands flat on the bench at her sides and her head wandering about. The fair: wow—a rockin’ and a rollin’!
Compressed by the age of eighty-six years, she was only a thumbnail shorter than Myron, and not obese, but not skinny either—lumpy perhaps. Her long white hair was darker on the ends and curled into a bun that sagged onto her neck. Above some baggy mint colored pants, and under a teal sweater, she wore a light yellow collared shirt—from forever ago perhaps, but stylish in its own way. With flare her colorful flowered hat really topped the look. Had she an updated wardrobe she might even look young, especially with her almost incongruous skin—likely a result of the cleansing—overly smooth and silky white, like a cartoon. Semi-deep wrinkles only appeared when she made a face, making her assume true age semblance only half the time. She had trusting olive-green eyes, and when Amy took focus on them, much generosity and warmth could be sensed; a far contrast from the task at hand, seemingly. She also sensed much experience, an abundant life of happy ups, mixed with a few terrible downs.
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