X blended into the crowd and got lost. She straightened up on her toes and looked ahead of her and then turned to look behind. She heard the people pushing against her grumble and curse. She got caught up in the crush and started to move with the crowd in hopes she wouldn’t get knocked off her feet. She hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going, and the crowd was now pushing her toward a platform she hadn’t noticed before. It was hard to breathe and impossible to go against the flow of the crowd. The hum of humanity was deafening. X was surprised by the headlights, and then the train roared to a stop with a screech that the din couldn’t deny. The train doors opened and the people pushed in, carrying X along with them. The windows had all been painted black and sealed. It was an air-conditioned train, or built to be, but the air-conditioning wasn’t working, or at least it wasn’t on. It was hot and there was no ventilation. Between all the bodies, the smell was making X sick.
The train started with a lurch and a groan. X had nothing to hold on to but the person next to her, and she wasn’t going to do that. But she couldn’t have fallen, as there were passengers tight on either side of her and it felt as if they were in her pockets. She didn’t even have enough arm room to pull off her gloves or open her coat. The overhead lights blinked on and off and X’s stomach turned with each plunge into darkness. The vibrations she felt through the soles of her feet rattled her knees and made her nausea worse.
It must have been an express train; she could tell by the change in sounds, the level of the racket to the rhythm and rattle. Just when she thought her stomach couldn’t take much more, the train jerked to a stop and she was sent like a slingshot through the open door. She couldn’t have cared less where she was; she was just glad to be out of that train. She gulped at the air and pushed ahead; she didn’t want to wind up back in that cattle car. She made it to the station wall and pressed herself flat against the tile and hoped she could catch her breath, settle her stomach, and get away from people. She reached inside her shirt and took a deep breath. She still had the necklace.
The train left the station and X’s head began to clear. She lifted her nose and sniffed at the air. It tasted sweet and she started to feel better. That’s when X noticed she was outside and wasn’t in Manhattan anymore.
“Must be Queens?” X said out loud as she watched the steam of her words dissolve in the air. “And that must’ve been Roosevelt Island,” X said, thinking of the train station she thought they had gone through without stopping.
The rejuvenation X felt turned to a chill. While the subway platform was far from empty, the crowd had dissipated. People had boarded the train before it had departed, and a number of people now seemed to disappear.
“This can’t be good for me,” X said, and watched her words puff in the cold air. “One minute I’m hot enough to pass out, and then the next minute I’m freezing.” She shivered, and with her back on the tile wall she slid down and pulled her knees to her chest for warmth as she surveyed the station.
It was the eyes that first attracted X to her companion and him to her. It wasn’t as if they were looking for each other, and it was hardly an attraction at first. Their gazes collided only to bounce off the other like opposite fields of a magnet; X couldn’t look away fast enough. But when X looked back, the eyes and the person behind them were gone, and for some reason she found herself disappointed. So instead she looked at the city and sighed.
“I’ll just go back the same way,” X said with a confidence she didn’t feel, because X wasn’t sure how she would go about it. She pushed herself up and pulled her coat closer. She was glad to have it, along with the gloves and the hat, but it wasn’t enough covering to be outside for long. Besides, as funny as it seemed to her, she couldn’t get comfortable being outside and exposed to the Conglomerate world. She felt like a target. And she didn’t want to think about the fact that since she’d become a Dyscard, she hadn’t been back on the outside alone until now.
X walked down the platform looking for a way to the other side of the tracks and the train going back. She didn’t see one. She walked to the other end and still didn’t see a way across. There was a short staircase that led to the track bed. The only thing stopping her was a small fence, and she knew she could get over that. And after all she had been through, she didn’t see the harm in crossing these tracks and hopping up onto the platform on the other side. She thought about it a minute and jumped the fence.
The first thing X noticed was the traction beneath her feet. Her feet crunched on the gravel and cinder of the track bed. This was different. She wasn’t sure of her footing should she need to move fast. She looked both ways and held her breath. No train had been through since the one that had coughed her out into this station. X exhaled and thought about it and broke for the other side.
Something had X by the ankle; she went down. Before she could do anything, whatever it was that had her, had her by the wrist as well and was pulling her under the platform. X was a good six inches beneath the platform before she could dig in to resist, and that’s when the train went by. Now it was X who was scurrying under the platform. She ripped her coat on the gravel, but she didn’t care. Sparks flying from the train wheels went over her head. The train was gone in a couple of seconds, and then she felt the swirl of air left in the train’s wake.
“Whew,” X said, and she looked for her savior. There was little light. She had trouble focusing on the silhouette in front of her, and then she saw the eyes.
“Thank you,” X said. “I didn’t see it coming.”
“So, I guess you’re not a cop,” the voice said. “Your attempt at crossing the track demonstrated a lack of training.”
“What are you doing down here?” X asked and patted the ground beneath the station.
“Getting away from you, actually.”
“Because you thought I was a cop?”
“Well, yeah,” he said.
Now X laughed. “Why’s that?”
“You seemed out of place,” he said. “Well, more lost than out of place. I thought you were on the job.”
“On the job?” X asked.
“Yeah. You kept talking out loud as if you were miked, and then you patted yourself down. And if you’re going to keep repeating what I’m saying, I’ll have to think of better things to say.”
“What’re you, on the run?” X asked.
“Aren’t we all?” he said.
X looked out where the train had just passed, and said, “Then, while we’re at it, maybe we can run out of here?”
That had happened a few days ago, and they had been together since.
“YES, MY NAME is X,” X said as they walked together. She stepped ahead of him as the passageway narrowed. “What’s yours?” she said, her heart in her throat.
“Y,” he said.
“Why!” X said, and stopped.
“Because I’m following X,” he said. She punched him in the arm and he laughed.
“John,” he said.
“John?” X said.
“That’s my real name,” he said. “Yeah, I know, not too fancy. Remember, I came here on my own, felt funny about taking a name. That is, until now.” He stuck out his hand. “Y,” he said, and smiled. “Johnnie Y.”
When It Rains…
Patsy’s head popped up when she first heard the shower running. She thought it was raining. She stared out the open door and into the blinding light. Patsy didn’t like this rain you could hear but wasn’t there.
She wasn’t going to take a shower if George didn’t give it to her; it wasn’t as if the idea of giving his wife a shower repelled him. Hardly! What bothered George was that Patsy wouldn’t think of taking a shower without him giving it to her. It was as if Patsy had forgotten about cleaning herself, and that wasn’t all. If George didn’t escort Patsy to the bathroom, Patsy wouldn’t go. She would wait all day. Patsy wouldn’t eat unless George fed her, and most mornings Patsy would wake up fully dressed from the night before. George knew this wasn’t r
ight, but sometimes he gave up.
“Can’t we leave well enough alone?” she would say.
Problem was that when Patsy got out of bed, she would walk over to her drawer and pull out a shirt and put it on, on top of the ones she was already wearing. It was as if Patsy had forgotten she was dressed. George thought that when Patsy woke up she knew she had to get dressed. What had been lost was the need to get undressed the night before.
Patsy’s rapid debilitation had made it difficult to leave the unit. George couldn’t predict what Patsy would do, or say, or where she would go. Each day was getting worse. But they did have to eat and exercise, and it wasn’t as if they had a choice.
When Patsy and George went to the cafeteria, he didn’t want to leave her alone for a second. Yesterday they walked up to the main door of the cafeteria and the two of them waited outside while George scouted out the crowd inside. It was busy and he looked for a break in the line. He had their two I.D. bracelets and his timing down. In this instance George was more concerned with speed than attention. Maybe he could be faster than their ability to notice him. George always forgot about the cameras.
He led Patsy around like a toddler, and he hated treating her this way, but he didn’t know what else to do. He balanced two bowls of oatmeal with two bottles of water tucked beneath his arms. Patsy was holding on to his belt and they were trying to find a table, when someone took George by the arm. It was the guy who had delivered the water, who looked down at Patsy’s fingers curled around George’s belt loop.
“Are you all right?” he said to George.
“Am now, thanks,” George said, a little quick in the reply. George placed the bowls on the table and took Patsy’s hand, trying as hard as he could to look relaxed.
“My truck’s not far,” the deliveryman said. “Why don’t I give you a ride back to your place?”
They had their food and they could get out of there and back to the unit. The offer sounded almost too good to be true.
“Not necessary,” George said.
“I think I should,” the man said. “It isn’t a problem for me and I’m going that way, anyway.” He noticed the change in Patsy. It hadn’t been that long, he thought. “It’ll get you out of here,” he said.
Soon they were all strapped inside the deliveryman’s truck, and it was a good thing too, because the guy’s truck needed new shocks and every bounce was a jolt. The truck was a hybrid of solar and electric power, a vehicle that may have been ideal for the sun in this region but was not designed for the roads.
“Wooo,” George said as his stomach dropped.
“Once a quarter,” the deliveryman started, “citizens of these camps are designated for ‘reassignment,’ as the authorities call it. But when the buses roll in, they round ’em up and ship ’em out in a massive Coot drive.”
“Coot drive?” George said.
“Slang term,” he answered, “referring to the collecting and gathering of the Coots, and the distribution of them to an appropriate facility.”
“How?” George asked.
“Usually a representative will come to your room to serve the papers.”
“Is there a reason given?”
“The blanket statement is that more appropriate accommodations have become available. That the guest would not only be more comfortable but, more important, would get more appropriate care. It covers everything. The procedure is used for its pacifying effect on the patient, but the result is to place us by need, so to speak. Convenience is more like it. There is no desire to service the need.”
“What criteria do they use?” George asked.
“Whatever criteria they please. Degree of nuisance, attention required, or anything else: being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” That answer brought George’s questions to a halt. “And that’s where the buses come in,” the guy said.
The guy seemed to be confirming what George had heard from the program on the bootleg laptop.
“Be on guard while you’re out,” the deliveryman said as they bounced along the road. “Don’t be fooled by the behavior of other people. They’ll all go. Lie low, and when you need to be out, be quick and careful. Let your wife walk in front of you, or figure some other way of staying together than the one you were using. Look, there is a place where you and your wife can go to get away from here, when the time is right. It is a place where your wife can receive help and respect. Just be patient, and be careful. For now, I shouldn’t say anything more about this than that.” And he didn’t.
“But instead,” he said, “let me tell you about this place and what to look out for first. The old Biltmore hotel in Phoenix serves as the Conglomerate headquarters in the Southwestern quadrant. While the Biltmore is still the elegant structure that the architect intended it to be, the fine old building is, well, old.
“The closest the board of directors of the Southwestern quadrant gets to the camps is the TV monitors that line their offices and conference rooms. The brass don’t ride buses, and they certainly aren’t about to go to the camps. Can you imagine watching us on TV?” He stopped for breath and their consideration. “Well, neither can they, and the only thing they monitor on the monitors is the productivity of their employees. And in most cases, they watch to make sure said employees’ productivity is for the good of the party and thus the board and not for the good of the self. The board doesn’t mind if an employee shakes down the patients; they just want to make sure that the results of any given investigation are returned to the board, the proper owners of all personal property. Sometimes the board can be pretty busy.”
“What do people have that would be worth it?” George asked.
“You’d be surprised what some people are able to get past security to bring out here with them, or what they can get ahold of once they’re here. But when it comes down to it and people feel they’ve got nothing left, you’d be surprised what someone will offer up to survive. Some of the agents for the Conglomerates got some pretty good deals.
“When the camp was first established, many of the workers saw these offerings as an opportunity to better their position and possessions, and they did so. It didn’t take long before their bosses noticed. Management found that the evidence of some of this independent contracting wasn’t detectable until the employees returned to their rooms. And that wasn’t determined until management started to monitor the personal housing of the employees.
“As you might imagine, one of the results of the constant monitoring is that morale among the staff is low.
“So, if the Biltmore has seen better days, the Conglomerate employees stationed in the camps have even less than people have at headquarters. Not much of a detail, and either way, they’re sentenced like the rest of us—probably worse for them. We haven’t got a future and they do.” The deliveryman took another breath, this one with a bit of a wheeze. “They’ll be all over you if they think you’ve got something to hide, like cash, or drugs, and they’ll separate you in a minute if they think it’s to their advantage, especially if they think you have something to pay to get a loved one back. Remember, you’re the enemy, and anything goes. It’s nothing personal, they just hate you. They believe they’re better than you.
“From the industrial revolution on, it has been the same. Every generation has reached the conclusion that their particular intelligence is singularly attained. Each generation perceives that they have grasped what others before them could not. And it is through their own unique efforts that they alone have been able to alter systems, eco and otherwise, to fit their will. Each feels that they alone have reached the prowess and the power to mold the world around them to their own unique situations. Each feels as if they alone have manipulated time to maximize productivity and the clock.
“The hubris that attends such an arrogant assertion only leaves its holder vulnerable to the counterattacks of experience and history. Since each generation has placed themselves above and beyond what has preceded them, they fall unsuspecting victims to the on
slaught of time, every time.”
He stopped the van and opened the door for Patsy. “Well, here we are,” he said. “We’ll pick this up another time.” George had wanted to know about the other place, where they could take care of Patsy, but he had gotten confused around the industrial revolution, and Patsy had long been distracted by something else, and now here they were. So instead George said, “Yes, maybe another time,” as the deliveryman drove away.
THAT WAS YESTERDAY. Right now George’s biggest problem was the shower. He couldn’t waste the water, but he had to coax Patsy out of her clothes and into the shower. George knew a bath would have been easier, but they didn’t have a tub. He had tried giving her a sponge bath near the sink, but that hadn’t worked either. Whenever George would get busy with something, Patsy would look out the door to see if it was raining. She said that she wanted to see what the desert looked like in the rain. Patsy was cooperative; it wasn’t that. But taking her clothes off could take time. She would wear shirt upon shirt, and sometimes she would freeze at the sight of the water spurting out from the showerhead. It was as if she had never seen it before.
George never knew how Patsy was going to react when he was able to get her under the water. By this time he usually had less than seven minutes left of water before their little tank ran out. He would have to soap her up, squirt some shampoo onto her head, rub it in, lather up her hair, and then rinse her off, all within seven minutes. He got it done.
But the shower was indicative of a larger problem. It indicated one more aspect of Patsy’s decline that called for a level of care George knew might be beyond his ability. It sure was beyond his experience.
GEORGE WAS WRITING on the laptop, something he was doing more and more. But it was never easy. He got anxious every time, and that made Patsy anxious. So George had taken to using the laptop when Patsy was asleep. It was funny how their roles had reversed. Now she slept and George broke out the machine.
The Age of the Conglomerates: A Novel of the Future Page 13
