Yet, I am getting ahead of myself. I can hear you asking, Hunters, what are they hunting?
I will go back to the beginning. The critical event happened in the early twenty-first century, long before I was born. A decision was made in the administration of one of the Irish presidents of the United States. He lifted the restrictions on the use of embryonic stem cells. Most people, other than the religious, were in favor. It was expected that a great many diseases could be cured if stem cell research was unfettered. And they were right. A cure for disease after disease appeared.
In February of 2086, life expectancy was 245 years and world population had soared to twenty-seven billion. I was born into this world on February 17, 2086, one of half a billion births that year. Fifty million legal births approved by the United Nations World Population Control Agency, and four hundred and fifty million illegal births. I was one of the illegals.
Population growth pushed world resources to the limit and workers refused to work in dangerous activities such as farming, mining, and construction. Work on basic production and services stagnated and food and shelter became scarce. Speed limits were reduced to ten miles per hour to eliminate the risk of accidental death.
My parents took me and moved to the country, where they could grow their own food. Illegal children were not allowed into the disease control program, and they worried about me constantly. When I was fifteen, word began circulating; those raising illegals would also be taken off the program. In the cities, many parents, we came to call them the soulless, abandoned their children. The younger children died and a few older ones formed gangs that plundered the legal population. They used fast motorcycles and high-performance cars. They plundered and escaped before the police arrived in their speed-restricted vehicles.
In desperation, the government set up a Hunter Force. Their purpose was to exterminate the gangs, but soon their mandate grew to include all illegals. We were far from the cities and thought we could live in peace. It would not be so; the Hunters were slow, but they came, and we moved.
We were living in the mountains, where the Hunters were afraid to venture when a new threat arose. Researchers had finally cured all disease. Those in the program became immortal. To avoid a world war, government and business leaders divided the world into continental region: North America, South America; Africa; Australia and Euro-Asia. They prohibited intercontinental migration and agreed to restrict access to life-extending technologies. Each area set the selection criteria for their own citizens. In North America, it was decided that they would exclude; anyone of color, anyone professing any religious beliefs since they might not be prepared to exclude others, and anyone over the accepted ideal age of thirty-seven.
The colored, the holy rollers, and the oldies joined us. We were happy to accept all into a life of peace far from violence in the cities. However, the soulless were not content. They enlisted many of these new outcasts. If they joined the Hunters and hunted us, they received the treatment necessary to prolong their lives. The Outcast Wars raged for twenty- five years and the Hunters, with their new reckless foot soldiers, almost wiped us out. Then the soulless abandoned the campaign and turned their soldiers out to die. Some joined us but most died quickly once treatment stopped.
In 2141, peace came to those of us who remained. At fifty-five I was still strong and was elected leader. Our band began to grow again. Babies’ cries echoed through our little village. Then we received a peace overture from the soulless. They came to our village with a proposal—lasting peace in exchange for our babies. We were stunned.
Why, you ask, did they want our babies?
The answer is simple; their women refused the risk of childbirth, and they could not replace their very small death rate. They were dying out.
We refused to give up our children.
They left, but as they returned to their vehicles, they released a virus. A few days later the epidemic began. It attacked the weak and those under fifty. Those over fifty, past childbearing age, seemed to have an immunity developed by some long forgotten infection.
The soulless had decided that if they were to ultimately vanish the rest of us would too. The random attacks began again. Pointless, because we would all die eventually, and we were no threat to them. But they kept attacking, slowly killing us off. We moved into the high mountains. There, we were safe from attack but not from time. Our numbers dwindled. Only two remained.
Last night, my mother died in my arms. Now I am truly alone.
As she died, she wondered if the ancient Irish president, Mr. O’Bahmer, would have made the decision had he know the ultimate outcome. I think not
Martini Money
Reg wandered down Main Street waiting for the bar to open. The ripped pocket of his olive green sports jacket flapped in the brisk breeze. He broke stride occasionally to kick at a paper cup or a small stone on the pavement. Geriatric buildings hugged narrow arteries that used to flow with life. Life sucked out by a nearby development that offered a pleasant mix of upscale condos, retail outlets, and a pedestrian mall. Ann wanted one of the smaller condos, but they couldn’t muster the down payment even now after ten years.
Across the street, a dim neon sign flashed “OPEN” through peeling letters. Theatre Martini Bar, they falsely proclaimed. Reg stood for several minutes looking at the sign. A tear tried to leak out of his left eye; he looked up to keep it in place.
The tear ran down his cheek as he remembered. It was dark, the play was finished, and he held Ann close as they walked from the Prestige Theatre towards the Theatre Martini Bar.
“Did you like the play, Reggie?” Ann asked.
Had he liked it? What had the play been about? He couldn’t remember the name, but it was one of those depressing things, something about some dopey guy and a mouse. Yah, that was it. And his brother killed him.
“It was great,” Reggie answered.
Ann poked him in the ribs. “Reggie, once you start lying, you never know where it will end.” Her green eyes laughed in the reflected light from the neon sign.
The tear dripped onto his jacket.
“Let’s have a martini,” he suggested.
“Reggie, aren’t they too strong for me?”
“Nah, we’ll just have one. You know. To see if we like them.”
They walked into the bar and found a high table for two under a large poster for the night’s play.
Reg crossed the street and opened the door to the Theatre Martini Bar. On his right was a long coat rack with a leg missing. A broken table lay in front of the coat rack ensuring no one would attempt to use it. The floor was bare concrete, mottled by stains from the glue that once held a rich red carpet in place. Tape that had held posters had pulled off pieces of paint, and white spots dotted the red wall. There was a table for two under remnants of a poster. ‘Of Mice an…’ the faded type proclaimed.
Reg stared. Could it be?
“Can I help you?” Reg turned to see a toothy grin approaching. It carried with it a slim Asian man with long hair pulled back in a pony table. He wore a stained white apron, carried a broom in one hand and a couple of menus in the other.
“Are…, are you open?” Reg said.
“Never close, what can I get you?” the grin asked as he laid out two menus, one for food and one for martinis.
Reg took a quick look. “Ah, bacon and eggs and, and ah…just coffee.”
“Reggie, what do you think I should have?” Ann asked. “Something that’s fun, sweet. Not gin, I don’t like gin.”
“How about this, Redbeard’s Pleasure? No gin, it’s vodka, amaretto, and grenadine. Sounds sweet to me, how about it?”
Ann nodded and giggled. “What about you?”
“Just a plain vodka martini.”
Ann looked around. “Can you believe this place? Look at all the posters. Aren’t they beautiful?”
“Not as beautiful as you.” Reggie winked.
Ann’s face reddened, and she lowered her gaze. “Cut it out, Reggie. I
’m serious. Hasn’t this place got atmosphere? I mean, look, the cast is here and everything. When we move downtown, we can come here as often as we want, even on non-theatre nights. Won’t it be great?”
“Ann, please. We talked about this. We can’t afford a condo down here on my salary. Maybe someday, if I get promoted.”
“But…but.” Tears threatened, and Ann’s glow faded.
“Ah, forget it. I was just teasing. I’ll find a way.” Reggie said.
“Really?”
“Yah, really.”
A little smile appeared and Ann’s reached for Reggie’s hand.
“Ah, here are the drinks.” Reggie paid the waitress from a small stack of one-dollar bills. He fanned the remainder out on the table and counted them silently to see if they could afford another round.
Ann looked at her drink. “I can’t drink this. It looks like blood.”
Reggie laughed. “Remember, Redbeard’s Pleasure. It’s the color of his beard.”
Ann took a sip. “Yuk.” She screwed up her face. As she set her glass on the table, an errant elbow bumped her arm. Her glass tipped soaking the money on the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” a voice behind her said. “Let me buy you another.”
“No thanks, I was finished anyway.”
Ann looked back at Reggie. “Your money. It’s all red. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. We’ll call it our Martini Money. We’ll save it, and once we get the condo, we’ll come down here and spend it.”
Reg pulled his wallet from his breast pocket and looked under a flap where he had saved the red stained Martini Money. He looked up—the grinning waiter approached with his eggs. “Shit.” He threw a couple of unstained bills on the table. “I can’t do this.”
He left the Theatre Martini Bar and headed for the Bull and Frog.
****
It was three-thirty, and Reggie was well into his third beer, head to head with his buddies at a corner table, when Tony, the bartender, signaled him.
Tony clasped his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Reg, it’s your wife, something about an appointment with a gambling counselor.”
Reg waved his hands back and forth and shook his head vigorously. He looked at his watch. “Tell her I just left, and bring us another round.”
He turned back to his friends. “So, Andy, run this by me again.”
Andy obliged.
Reg listened, a smile slowly forming on his lips. “You sure? Dancer’s Charm?”
Andy nodded.
Reg took a sip of beer, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I got to make a phone call.”
He talked quietly on the payphone for several minutes. “Okay, Rolf. I’ll be there at nine.”
He returned to the table and finished his beer. The questions in the eyes of his buddies went unanswered. They’d just have to wait to find out what old Reg was up to.
****
The fifty thousand dollars nearly slipped out of Reg’s hands. He was shaking, and a bead of sweat slithered down the small of his back. He glanced over his shoulder up the dimly lit stairs. Rolf stood there, a threatening grin on his face. Reg stumbled against the steel reinforced door, forced it open and lunged into the alley. He took a deep breath of cool night air and exhaled slowly. He looked at his watch. “Shit.” He ripped open the door to his old Lincoln and threw the bundle of bills on the passenger seat.
He had an hour and fifty-five minutes to make it to Tony’s. He owed the bookie forty thousand. That would grow to sixty if he didn’t pay by midnight. And another sixty thousand was due tomorrow by midnight to pay off the fifty he’d just weaseled out of Rolf. Things were getting complicated. But, the solution was in the seat beside him.
At tomorrow’s running of the Derby, Dancer’s Charm was giving show odds of ten to one. And Andy was sure Dancer’s Charm would come first or second. A show bet was a sure thing. So, pay Tony the forty thousand and bet the remaining ten on the Dancer’s Charm to show. Then, by three-thirty tomorrow, the ten would return a hundred. He could pay off Rolf and be forty grand to the good. Simple, all he had to do was get to Tony’s before midnight.
He checked his watch, an hour and twenty minutes. He’d take the back road since there was construction on the freeway. It would add maybe ten minutes, but at least there would be no traffic problems.
He was flying. A hundred miles per hour. Better than the freeway, he thought, as he flew over a small hill. “Damn.” He slammed his foot on the brake pedal. A young woman stood in front of a small car waving her hands. The car was broadside and completely blocked the road. The old Lincoln almost rolled as it skidded to a stop about five feet from the woman.
He rolled down the window and shouted, “What the hell are you doing you silly bitch, I could have died. Get out of the way.”
“My father is sick and my son, my son, he’s in his car seat. I thought you were going to run into the car and kill them. You were going so fast.”
“Yah, well, I could have killed myself, too. Get out of the way.”
“I can’t. I got a flat, I jacked the car up and took the tire off, but the car fell off the jack. Now the jack and the spare are stuck under the car. Do you have a jack that we could use to finish changing the tire?”
Reg looked at his watch, just fifty minutes. “What about your dad? Why doesn’t he do it?”
“He’s sick; I’m taking him to the hospital. Can’t you help? Please.”
“No, I don’t have time. Just back your car up and get it out of the way.”
“I can’t. I told you. There’s no wheel. It’s stuck under the car.” She had her head almost in his window. “Please, you must have a jack.”
Reg shook his head, looked at his watch. Forty-nine minutes. No time to go back. He’d just have to solve this little problem. “Okay, stand back,” he said as he opened the car door. He retrieved his jack, a large old-fashioned bumper jack. He tried to get the jack under the bumper of the small car, but it kept slipping. “This isn’t going to work. Where are your keys?”
“Here,” she said, holding them close. “Why?”
“I’ll back the car up and get it off your jack; mine won’t work. We can try to change the tire with your jack. Give me the keys.”
She looked at him for a long moment and then handed him the keys.
Reg slipped into her car, looked at the figure slumped in the passenger seat. He didn’t look good, but the kid looked okay. He started the car and tried to ease it off the jack and the spare. The wheels spun, kicking up stones. He tried again; the car seemed to move a little then it flew backward. The passenger flopped to the side, the kid in the car seat started crying, and the girl started screaming.
The car was partly in the ditch, but the jack and the tire were free. Reg checked his watch, only thirty minutes; he couldn’t waste any more time. “Look, lady, there are the jack and the tire. Do the rest yourself.” He walked to his car got in and floored it. As he approached the top of the hill, he looked in the rear-view mirror. The young girl stood in the middle of the road clutching her kid. He looked at his watch. Twenty-nine minutes. He’d just make it.
After paying off Tony and placing the new bet, Reg got home late and decided to sleep on the sofa. No need to get into a fight with Ann. Sleep came but never stayed long. Each time he woke his heart was pounding. Sweat was beginning to soak the sofa. Ann would be mad. He slipped out of the house before Ann awoke. He drove around for a while then headed for a little spot overlooking the river. He used to bring Ann here when they were dating, and before Ann, the other girls. He turned the radio to the golden oldie station and leaned back. He’d stay there until the three-thirty, listen to the Derby on the radio and then decide what to do next.
****
Reg walked out of Tony’s with a big smile. This should make Ann forget about the damn gambling counselor. He held a large brown paper bag stuffed with a thousand hundred dollar bills he’d counted three times. Sixty thousand to repay Rolf, and forty
thousand for Ann and Reggie. Well, maybe just thirty—he’d need a little stake for next week’s races. One more win like this and they could afford the condo. He slipped into the Lincoln and set the bag on the seat beside him. Maybe, on the next big score, he’d get one of those new Lincoln Town Cars. Yah, Reggie and Ann in a big Town Car. That’d be nice. They’d go to the new theater, find a nice bar and spend that old red Martini Money molding in his wallet.
He flew down the old back road, windows open, a warm breeze swirling through the car. The radio switched from Elvis to a news bulletin. “Ms. Raleigh, you say your father’s life could have been saved if…” Reg switched stations just as he hit a bump and the bag of money tipped over and opened. He looked down, grabbed the bag and made sure nothing fell out.
He looked up as he crested the hill. “Shit.”
There was a tow truck hooking up to a car. It took up most off the road. He swerved to the right, missed the truck but he was too close to the shoulder, and his right wheel caught the loose gravel. He wrenched the steering wheel to the left. The old Lincoln’s power steering responded with an overabundance of energy. The Lincoln was free of the loose gravel but now aimed at the left-hand ditch. Reg tried to correct again, but it was too late. The car flew off the road and hit the far side of the ditch nose first.
The Lincoln did an awkward pirouette and began rolling sideways across a green meadow adjoining the road. Each time it rolled, a spray of hundred dollar bills streamed from the passenger side window. Three small spiral galaxies of hundreds formed as the car rolled three times. The windshield shattered and tiny glass particles sprayed the inside of the car. A piece of the window trim whipped through the open passenger compartment and slit Reg’s jugular. Blood began to spurt from his artery. The Lincoln came to rest on its roof as the hundred-dollar bills slowly dissipated, a rich confetti blowing across the meadow.
Reg hung upside down from his seatbelt looking down at the few remaining hundred dollar bills that lay in the roof of the car. He blinked. Blood was running from his forehead into his hair. He wiped it away. He blinked again. Someone was spraying the money blood red. The Martini Money? He felt for his wallet in his breast pocket. It was still there. The spray slowed, and the money blurred into blackness.
Not As It Seems Page 2
