by J. Thorn
The encounter with the woman in black and the fight in the alley left me excited. I lay on the bare mattress. It sank in the middle and reeked of dried urine. I could hear screaming and the reverberating thumps of tear gas canisters echoing through the urban canyons as the government continued to process the thousands who showed up to claim their Lottery wristband.
I heard screaming through the wall on one side and heavy breathing through the wall on the other. Before I could get off my bed and decide what to do next, there was a knock at the door.
I peered through the peephole and noticed her lips first. It was the woman in the black dress, the one who propositioned me on the street before she realized I didn’t have a wristband. She saw my eye and held up her wrist, now adorned with a Lottery band. I opened the door.
“A kid.”
“Excuse me?”
“You should take one from a kid because you don’t have this,” she said, her eyes moving down the front of her own body, “so you’ll have to be clever.”
“C’mon in,” I said.
She stepped through the doorway with a grin. I stuck my head into the hallway but it was empty. I pulled the door shut and threw the locking latch into place.
“How did you know I was here?”
“I’m leaving in fifteen minutes. Do you want to waste time asking pointless questions?”
“No,” I said.
“Good. Me neither. Can I sit down?”
She looked at the bed. After what I imagined she had to do to get her wristband, I was sure sitting on a flea-ridden mattress in a cheap motel in Times Square was not going to bother her.
“Go on.”
She sat and crossed her legs. I noticed her red lipstick was smudged at the corners of her mouth and her hair was tangled.
“Do you believe in good and evil?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Just evil. Good is nothing but weakness.”
She giggled and put the tip of her index finger on her bottom lip.
“I’ve never heard someone put it like that before.”
“You’ve never asked me.”
“I haven’t, but I have asked a lot of men. They all believe in good. Except you.”
I waited, sensing she was following some type of internal script. Her comments felt rehearsed and I was still wondering why she came to my room wearing a wristband. She clearly wanted something more.
“So,” I said. “I don’t really care.”
“But I do. I’m in the Lottery and if I win a seat, which I most definitely will, I will be able to choose a travel partner.”
The woman knew more about the Lottery than I did. I figured her chances of winning were excellent if she knew this much. A bit of government bribery went a long way.
“And you want to take me?”
“Not necessarily. I want to take a like-minded man. You see, I don’t believe in good either. I’m a hedonist, and for me, what feels good is what is right. Most people call that evil. Most people would call your beliefs evil, too.”
I raised my eyebrows. She must have purchased access to the government's citizen archive. Being a coder myself, I knew how easy it was to pay for access to anyone's life. The government kept a record of every word spoken, every keystroke on a computer, and I could bypass its firewall in a matter of seconds. Whether the currency she used to gain access was cash or flesh didn’t matter, she had my information just the same.
“You know about me.”
“I know about some of the things you’ve done.”
“And that doesn't frighten you?”
“It excites me.”
I considered the possibility I was being manipulated, but a glance at her wristband reminded me she already had what she really needed.
“So what do you want from me?” I asked.
“You looking at my eyes instead of my legs, for starters.”
I stared at her. The woman licked her lips, uncrossed her legs and crossed them again the other way.
“I have needs. You can fulfill them. It's really not much more complicated than that.”
“You could take any man.”
“I could if I wanted to deal with the weak, annoying emotions—love and attachment. I don’t want to be burdened by those. All you have to do is say yes.”
“What if you don’t win the Lottery?”
She stood and put her hands on her hips, tossing her hair back with a sigh.
“I’ll win. That’s already been arranged.”
***
I strangled her to death. I stared into her eyes and saw the shock followed by the look of acceptance. I've come to savor that moment in all of my kills.
She persuaded me to have a romp with her on the filthy mattress, a way to test the physical compatibilities to see if our DNA could spend an eternity together. I have to admit she was the best I ever had. She did things that would make a sailor blush. But in the end, she provided nothing but physical pleasure. Her mistake was in letting me know her wristband was a Lottery winner. Had she kept that information hidden until the Lottery began, she would have lived longer. She would have eventually become a liability and I had already begun to think about ways to delete her DNA code from the database.
I decided to leave her naked body where it was. I would be gone by the time anybody found it. Once the DNA was sequenced and encapsulated into Colony, it would be impossible to retrieve. Again, I’m thankful the government never plans beyond the moment. They were about to launch DNA with Colony through time and space, yet had not considered what to do should they discover a tainted or misplaced strand. Their problem. Not mine.
Now you know how I got here, speaking back to you through the ages and the millions of miles separating us. You can probably put it all together. The woman’s wristband was indeed a winner. Stealing it meant I was able to secure my DNA to be sent digitally by Colony into interstellar space. The rush to colonize did not leave enough time to cross-reference the DNA strands, which allowed me to join them as if I were a legitimate winner.
Our group of five hundred, just like the first expeditions, was hours away from departure when we received word we would be the first sent backward in time. Rather than being propelled into interstellar space, we would be sent billions of years into the past. I don’t know much about all of that and I honestly don’t care. We arrived on Venus one billion years before the first creature crawled from Earth's oceans. Colony assigned the tasks and the machinery, delivered through an interstellar wormhole, went to work setting up our habitat on a planet that looked much more like Earth than it ever would again.
None of my fellow colonists suspected my motives, which made it easy to eliminate them in a variety of ways. I almost tired of thinking of new ways to kill. Almost. The last fifty were the most difficult to murder. By that time, they suspected me. One simple explosion took care of the rest, leaving just me and Colony. I hacked that version of Colony. The computer algorithm was still suspect to loopholes. I exploited one and inputted my trajectory for the next trip through time. I had a record of the other Lottery winners, so I knew where to find them. I destroyed the first several easily and, like anything, became better at it as time went on. The government pursued me in an attempt to save its precious program, but with my knowledge of the Colony algorithm and my experience as a coder, I was able to stay one step ahead of their interstellar manhunt. To this day, I leave them no clues as to my position in time or space, nothing but a trail of destruction.
Colony made calculated decisions on where humans would flourish, but nothing in the algorithm accounted for me. Like a hawk that flies into a jet engine, I would not be a concern to the scientists until it was too late. But like that seemingly harmless bird, I would prove to be catastrophic. I’ve traveled to all of the planets where Colony tried to establish a settlement. I destroyed all of them except Earth. I’m not educated on the laws of time travel, so I did not want to risk wiping humanity from Earth in the distant past for fear of what implications that would
have for me in the future. The other planets, however, were shown no mercy.
I find pleasure in breaking things whether its computer code or human beings. The more I do it, the more pleasurable it becomes.
I love the warmth of destruction, watching life extinguish like a flickering candle. I feed on the power of death, the euphoric high being stronger than any drug. Humans can create but only the Gods can kill.
Look up if you need evidence. Dark matter comprises ninety-nine percent of the universe. It swallows the heavens and all but a few pinpoints of light.
You wonder why it appears running water was once on Mars, and the planet has archaeological evidence of a past civilization? Both existed. I destroyed it all billions of years before you appeared on Earth. Is it possible life could exist on the moons of Saturn? It did until I arrived. What’s on the dark side of the moon? The remnants of Colony and the explosives I detonated before the dinosaurs roamed the Earth.
Humans are a proud species. Proud and foolish. We believe we are so clever, yet with every advance, we sow our own seeds of destruction.
We don’t have the right to send Colony anywhere in the universe. We destroyed our own home and rather than clean it up, we’ve crawled from beneath our rocks in hope of finding more planets to infest. But don’t mistake that observation with anything resembling righteousness. I would have killed regardless, because that’s what I do.
Are you worried someday I’ll return to Earth, to your time and place? Are you fearful for your children and grandchildren? You should be. I could arrive anytime, anywhere and finish the job—wiping us from existence. This is what evil does. Without reason. Without compassion.
This is who I am. What I am. Some save. I kill.
###
Lost Track (A Dystopian Short Story - From the World of The Beam)
First Edition
Copyright © 2013 by J. Thorn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Edited by:
Sean Platt
Talia Leduc
Rebecca T. Dickson
For more information:
http://www.jthorn.net
[email protected]
Screams punctured his sleep like a tenpenny nail through the skull. Ben fumbled through darkness as his fingers snapped the light switch up and down. He knew the Historic French Market Inn was old and some of the wiring dated back to the 1920s, when Decatur Street was a rough neighborhood teeming with sailors, prostitutes and shady dealings. But the lights were dead.
More screaming from the streets, but Ben couldn’t tell if it was someone in trouble or clamoring for beads from atop a French Quarter balcony. He collapsed back onto the bed as the room spun in circles. He’d sat up too quickly and puked the rye whiskey from the night’s Sazeracs. As he wiped the sweat from his forehead, Ben felt the humidity creep from the swamp and engulf the timeworn hotel room. He looked out the window and down into the brick courtyard, where ivy crawled the wrought iron railings. Several people had collapsed under the lion head fountain. He wondered why security let the drunks sleep there.
“Contacts,” he said.
The room stayed silent except for the shrieking still coming up from the streets.
“Contacts,” he said again.
Nothing.
Ben felt for the Doodad hanging from his neck in its stylish black onyx case. He paid extra to have his molded into the shape of a triskelion to represent his Celtic heritage. He remembered his grandparents’ talk of texting and smartphones and he wondered if this new communications device was really that much better. He could access the internet faster but if the main communications grid was down, his Doodad was nothing more than a hunk of plastic. The device had no moving mechanical components, yet Ben felt the need to shake it and place it close to his ear. He heard nothing.
“Fucking crap,” Ben said, stomach flapping like a fish on concrete, threatening to expel more whiskey. “Search route.”
Still nothing.
Ben stood and considered throwing it against a wall before he remembered how much it cost. He spent three months’ salary on the new technology, more than he had saved for Emma’s engagement ring. He wanted a fancy one, rather than the bottom-end ones they were shipping to villages overseas. He pushed a strand of shoulder-length blond hair from his face and tried not to think about her. Coming to New Orleans for the bachelor party while telling her he was going to Cleveland for a client meeting was a lie, one he had to swallow and forget to get through whatever this was.
A banging on the door startled Ben from thoughts of Emma in Chicago.
“Room 335, this is the hotel manager. Are you in there? The police called for a mandatory evacuation.”
Ben looked at the air-conditioning unit hanging from the ancient window and wiped the sweat from his upper lip.
Another round of knocking preceded more warnings from the other side of the door. “If you’re in there, please open the door. I apologize for the inconvenience at such an early hour, but there’s a mandatory evacuation in effect for New Orleans from the EOC. You must open the door now or you could be endangering your own life.”
Ben stood and planted a hand on the wall to keep his balance. Most of what he drank at Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar was soaking the carpet. His blood alcohol level tripped his Doodad at midnight, but Ben ignored the alert. Not like he was driving. He would stumble back to his hotel and sleep it off until he was blinking his eyes to the scent of fresh beignets and chicory coffee. Just like most people in the French Quarter at last call.
Before Ben could respond, the wall’s biopad flashed green and the old, oak door swung inward to reveal two men in the hallway.
“Hey,” Ben said. The most he could manage.
“Sir, we must leave immediately. The waters are rising. The grid is down.”
“Internet?”
“Yes,” the voice in the hallway answered. “Electric, internet… and Pumping Station 6.”
“But the weather… I didn’t hear ’bout no hurshicane.”
“The surge came from a hurricane over Cuba. It knocked out the NOAA Hurricane Barrier and water is now filling New Orleans. Sir, I can’t explain any more. We must evacuate.”
The second figure stepped through the darkness and grabbed Ben by the wrist. Ben smelled cigarettes and sweat. He caught a glimpse of handcuffs hanging from his belt.
“You arrestin’ me, offiffer?”
“I’m security, and I ain’t havin’ no fatalities on my evac chart. Once I get you outta the French Market Inn, you’re someone else’s problem.”
Ben closed his eyes as the massive man dragged him from the room and pulled him down the tight stairwell at the hotel’s rear. He heard others crying, some screaming names into chaos. As they descended from the third floor and into the main lobby, Ben thought the marble floor had been polished by a high-speed buffer – until he realized it was the shiny surface of six inches of water.
“What am I s’posed to do?” he asked the guard. The severity of the situation started to neutralize the alcohol in his bloodstream.
“Get to the Superdome. Dey give ya some blankets, lagniappe. It’s the shelter the city is savin’ for those that can’t git out.”
Ben’s family moved to New Orleans five years after Hurricane Katrina and lived in the Crescent City before moving to Chicago. He wasn’t a native, he understood what the security guard meant, and remembered stories the old folks told about the last time the Superdome had been used as a shelter.
“Take Canal to Loyola, then you’ll see it.”
Ben to
ok one last look at the guard’s dark, worried face before turning in a sprint towards Canal. He’d run for Loyola, but not the Superdome. Ben refused to die in that massive, metal mausoleum. He had to reach Emma, get back to Chicago. Make things right.
***
Black water oozed through the streets and left bloated bodies to litter the highest parts of the sidewalk. The surge had overpowered the sophisticated pumps, upgraded after Hurricane Katrina paralyzed them more than two decades before. The United States government funded most of the NOAA Hurricane Barrier project in order to protect the low-lying coastal areas. Since the barrier failed, New Orleans relied on a crumbling, decayed system. Levees that held the water off in the early part of the twenty-first century were no longer tall enough to compensate for rising sea levels. As the surge lifted the stone sarcophagi in the elevated graves of St. Louis Cemetery, it became harder to distinguish between the elegant dress of those long-since buried and the newest victims of another New Orleans catastrophe.
Ben stepped over corpses as he ran down Decatur towards Canal Street. While six inches of water stood in the lobby of the French Market Inn, he was now running through twelve on the street. The pumps may have delayed the initial storm surge before succumbing to the water’s overwhelming force, but now that they were no longer operating, Ben knew what to expect.
He sprinted past a man dragging a woman through the rising water and towards the door of a cigar shop.
“Soc au’ lait! My wife, her leg is broken―”
Ben ran past the man and his spouse. He felt the heavy August air in his lungs, and the physical exertion began to sober him in a way that coffee couldn’t. Ben heard more shouts from a darkened building on the Mississippi side of Decatur, followed by an explosion that lit the sky by the casino. Shattering glass and cries came from the thick, soupy darkness of the French Quarter at 3:30 in the morning.
