Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  Whilst Rodrigo was consuming his burritos, they observed the work of the latest local invention. The device was called ‘Mech Scav.’ A locomobile steam engine was spinning a large flywheel with a pulley attached to it. Scavengers would carry a steel anchor to the top of the garbage heap, then the anchor rope would be wrapped a couple of times around the pulley. The operator would shout ‘Stand back!’ and apply tension to the rope. The steam engine did the rest, pulling the anchor and ripping a shallow trench in the garbage. The fresh trench would be immediately crowded with the rag-pickers, while the anchor would be pulled back to the heap. The locomobile stokers with short spades, dressed in nothing, but shorts, with their backs shiny from the rain, sweat and black soot, fed the furnace with chunks of rotten wood. The locomobile stack emitted clouds of heavy black smoke. Mark once saw something like this in the movies. He could not remember the name of the film, some kind of science fiction or fantasy. There were the same monstrous contraptions of steamers belching the same black smoke, while the same blackened by soot stokers were feeding in spade-fulls of fuel.

  The officers slowly moved on. My hypothesis of a ‘generation gap’ did not hold, Mark pointed to himself. It was all my imagination. Not everyone in the older generation experienced a clear dislike to work at the garbage heap. They met two men, about Mark's age. The men had a long pole on their shoulders, under which they carried a bundle of packing cardboard, wrapped with a yellow plastic band. No dislike for work on their faces could be seen: both were flashing happy smiles. Obviously, their ‘catch’ today was good. Such a bundle of cardboard would fetch no less than two thousand dollars. Both lucky men were naked from the waists up and thoroughly smeared with dried mud. They had neither gloves nor boots. The man in the front was in flip-flops, and the second one had a tire sandal, but only on one foot. He was a typical vet, with one leg to the knee replaced by a primitive wooden peg-leg. Then, they met a group of elderly women, who brought lunch to the scavengers. Confidently stomping the garbage with their bare feet, the women were engaged with their favorite: passing on the local gossips. No sad faces here too, to the contrary, malicious smiles: “is it so, Rosalind? Unbelievable! And they did it right under your windows? Here are the youngsters for you, darling…” As if they were walking though a fancy shopping mall and not through a garbage heap.

  Probably, it was not the ‘generation gap,’ after all, Mark decided. The adaptability was different from person to person. The youngsters, on average, just adapted a little faster than the older people. This new hypothesis was probably correct. Take, for example, the modern transportation. If somebody told me back in 2008 that by 2020 I would ride a push-bike to work, I would have laughed! Back then, a bicycle in Houston was just a ‘sport.’ Exactly in the sense, in which the word was used in the Victorian England. ‘Sport’ meant ‘having fun.’ Overfed ladies and gentlemen, having nothing else to do, engaged themselves in fresh air exercises. In 2008, Mark and Mary had two nice, brand new, mountain bikes, on which they rode no more than twice a month. Mark would hang the bicycles on a special rack at the back of his ‘Ford Territory,’ and they would drive twenty miles to a public park. The ‘Territory’ would be parked, the bikes would be taken from their rack, and for an hour or two Mark and Mary would cheerfully pedal around. Enjoying the park and the fresh air. Then, a little tired, they would sit themselves in a picturesque picnic shed and consume sandwiches from their basket. The bikes would be placed back on the rack, and the proud bicyclists would be on their way home, speeding in a sport utility vehicle, at sixty miles per hour, along a six-line freeway.

  For sure, back in 2008, there were enthusiasts, who rode bikes to work every day, and in any weather. But they were few, causing just smiles and mild jokes from their automotive co-workers. And now? The bicycle was the only practical way of getting from point A to point B in reasonable time. Not counting the military charters, the motor-buses nearly stopped operating. The omnibuses which replaced them – were notoriously slow. For his work at the Frederick's plant, Mike assembled his three-wheeled monster with a cargo platform. The same tricycle proved to be handy for the daily clean water runs to the Reservoir. If Samantha decided to leave the school and work at the plant, this trike would be hers. Samantha and Pamela went to school on now much older, a bit scratched, but still reasonably road-worthy former Mary's bike. When Mark got his Police bike from the FBI, he passed his old mountain bike to the eldest son, William, who, in turn, passed his stunt bike to Patrick. Now William's bicycle was hanging idle in the garage. William could not ride it anymore, while Clarice refused to use it, and just walked – in solidarity with her husband. Let it hang – Patrick would grow up eventually to be able to reach the pedals safely, so this bike would be his. Mark smiled, imagining, what his kids would say, if somebody told them to take a two-hour ride in a park, just for the fun of it. As if they did not have enough pedaling while doing the everyday chores!

  Or take the school motor-buses. They were the only type of buses in Houston which were present in visible quantities. You brought the kids to the bus stop. At the scheduled time, a gorgeous yellow bus would roll in. The driver pressed some handle, – and at the left side, a ‘Stop’ sign would pop out. The schoolchildren would climb the steps, sit themselves on comfy soft seats, and the bus would take them to school. For most, their schools were never too far away – three miles, tops, except, maybe, for some special schools and the schools outside the metropolitan areas. Then, the Meltdown came, and all these yellow buses were stranded without gasoline. The city authorities discussed how to convert the school buses to the natural gas, – this stuff was still available, despite the crisis. After about a year and a half, they managed to modify the first few. And – quite amazing, the modified buses were running almost empty. The bus pulled to its regular stop, – but the students were not there! During the months the buses were not in operation, most adapted somehow. The ones who had schools nearby, went on-foot. Most figured out one could ride a bicycle to school. The parents would say: ‘It's a bit far, so what? Wake up a bit earlier, that's all!’ Well, those who lived too far from any school, had to do some home schooling. Or no schooling at all. As William said the other day: ‘the value of education is grossly exaggerated.’ For digging the landfill garbage, or for the vegetable patch tending, even the basic education was not too necessary. The city decided not to bother with the school bus program any longer, and all the yellow school buses ended up auctioned and converted into luxury slum accommodations.

  Or the synthetic drugs! Before the Meltdown, the Police was after all these underground ‘chemists,’ the makers of synthetic narcotics and ‘recreational pills.’ But by now, most of these ‘chemists’ became completely legal and ran very reputable businesses, producing substitute medicines. All those useful things, now impossible to obtain due to the mass bankruptcy of the pharmaceutical companies. Mark recalled a former conversation with one of the Station sergeants.

  “You don't believe it, sir,” the sergeant said back then, “I met this guy the first time when I was a trainee. I personally sent him behind bars, for making ‘Ice.’ And look at him now! He rents half-a-house on our street. A chemist shoppe! Want to know how he called it? Red Pill – Blue Pill! I kid you not! Like in the old movie, The Matrix. So I ask him: before the Meltdown, we were told to put gas masks on before breaking into your bloody labs. Whatever you are making now – is it the same crap, or less dangerous? And he laughed. Says: those gas masks covered not so your fat ugly faces, but your bosses' asses! If something goes wrong, like you do something stupid, your Sheriff could always say: but I gave the officers personal protection equipment, right? Then, the guy says: if the chemist understands his business, there is no danger. And the air pollution, he says, is no more than from any blacksmith or a soap maker… Well, he is not an unreasonable guy; doesn't hold it against the Police, if you see what I mean. He told me: before the Meltdown, you, cops, were doing your job, and I – was doing mine. No bad feelings, man. If you need some stu
ff: analgesics or sedatives, and such, please come. I'll cut a nice discount for my old buddy!”

  Preoccupied with his thoughts and distracted by his headache, Mark made one single biggest mistake one could make at the 'Fill. He did not pay full, 100%, attention to the stuff under his feet and around! The 'Fill made the swift revenge, although not deadly this time: Mark suddenly slipped, crashed on his stomach, and slid down the slope of garbage into a deep trench.

  “Oh, shite! What a bad luck! I said: look under your feet!” Rodrigo lamented, rushing after the fallen FBI agent. The Sergeant probably was cursing himself that he delivered a ‘one-sentencer’ instead of the mandatory full safety brief. It turned out it was just the opposite, – they had some very good luck after all. In front of Mark's face, a pair of skinny and tanned bare feet had popped up, and a girlish voice asked from above: “Did you hurt yourself, sir?”

  Chapter 16

  Slipping in the mud, Mark somehow managed to his feet. Now his office outfit was ruined completely. “I am OK,” he said to the girl and looked up.

  If he had not fallen into this trench, he would simply have gone further and missed her. She worked down below, with her face, and even most of her body shielded from above under a huge straw hat. The girl's face was covered with the familiar constellation of little scars, and her right eye was all white from the chemical burn. It was the girl he was looking for. Over the past three years, Jasmine Hobson grew up quite a bit and from an awkward pre-teen turned into slender and very pretty teenage girl. Her scars and her walleye did not spoil her looks, maybe, just a little. She was dressed like a typical garbage scavenger, and not without a hint of following the latest fashion: a bit short and a bit tight jeans with the appropriate number of strategically placed holes, a camouflage army T-shirt, and over it – a Denim man's shirt with cut off sleeves, also with plenty of holes, not buttoned, but tied into a knot at above the belly-button level.

  “Jasmine Hobson, if I am not mistaken?”

  “Yeah. How do you know me?”

  Only then, Mark realized it was impossible for Jasmine to recognize him. All his front side, from head to toes was smeared with mud. His face and his hands were covered in it too. “Where can I wash myself, please?” he asked, trying to wipe his face with his shoulder. The latter proved to be fruitless, as Mark's shirt at the shoulder was equally dirty.

  “Wait a sec,” Jasmine replied and ran down the trench.

  What a damn fool I am, Mark said to himself. Located the girl – and immediately let her go! Now we may need to chase her around the landfill. I hope Sarge is good at running. As for me, running in all this slippery mud is out of my league!

  However, less than a minute later, the girl was back – with a small plastic jerrycan in her hands. Right behind her, Rodrigo was puffing his way along the trench. As an experienced landfill policeman, he did not jump down the trench after Mark, but found a safe way around. Behind the Sergeant's broad figure, few curious faces of scavenger girls popped up.

  “Water, sir. Only, it's a bit rotten, if it's OK with you. We haven't no other water in here,” Jasmine apologized. She unscrewed the cap and began to pour a thin stream of water on Mark's hands. The water was yellow, warm and had the inescapable landfill odor. Somehow, Mark managed to clean his face and hands.

  “Oh, I remember you, sir,” Jasmine exclaimed, “you're an undercover cop, right? You were in those raids at the Day-Pay. You told me to go see the Police doctor, 'cause I had all these little spots – from the battery.”

  “I remember it perfectly. Actually, I am looking for you. It's about your older sister, Mel, and your step-brother, Nick.”

  Jasmine hesitantly backed away from Mark, apparently trying to figure out how to whack him with the water jerrycan and make her escape. However, the trench aperture was securely plugged by the Sergeant's formidable body, and she had nowhere to run.

  “What about my sister? I don't know nothing! Nothing!” the girl said.

  “Wait, wait, take it easy. Don't run away. We have not done anything bad to you, right? Is there a good place to talk?”

  “OK, let's go.” She looked behind Sarge and told to one of the garbage girls: “Mini, can you look after my basket? I'll be quick. Only show the gentlemen to the dam, fetch some water, and come back. Our 'can is empty.”

  They followed Jasmine through the landfill. The girl navigated the maze of trenches and holes, gracefully jumping over mud puddles. Mark was surprised her feet soles were pink, not black, and only slightly stained with mud. Her clothes appeared relatively clean too. The landfill filth did not stick to Jasmine for some reason. After about seven hundred yards, they saw the landfill pond, filled with the same yellow stinky water, as in the girls' jerrycan. Jasmine sat on the edge of a small concrete dam, dangling here bare feet in the air, and pointed to Mark to sit next to her. “Here we are, sir. At the dam, nobody can't hear us… But if somebody comes too close, I will go, OK? Some people here don't like if others talk to the Police…”

  After a little hesitation, Mark kicked off his heavily plastered with mud shoes and rolled up his stained sleeves. “I would rather sit like this,” – he explained his motions, “it would be too bad, if I drop my shoe into the pond.”

  He was not sure how to start the conversation. Technically, he was not supposed to talk to a minor without her guardian present. But Jasmine had no guardian at all, and no means of finding one. Mark considered if a female officer should be necessary, but dropped the idea too. All the officers in the 'Fill beat were male, and calling someone from another beat (Liz from the Mesa Drive, he thought) would take more than an hour. All right. We could call it unofficial. Besides, it was unlikely Jasmine would know anything about the Butcher, so Mark would not need to present anything of this in court.

  “Is it OK if I disappear for few minutes?” Rodrigo asked Mark, “while you do your talking, I'll run buy some snack. From all your falls, my adrenaline levels are too bloody high! And when I'm wound up, I always develop an appetite. Do you want me to bring you anything?”

  “No, thanks,” Mark refused, “I am fine.”

  “And for me – could you, please, buy one rice ball, sir? If it's not a prob,” Jasmine asked.

  When Rodrigo left, Mark took a deep breath and started the conversation. “Well, Jasmine, I did not introduce myself. My name is Mark Pendergrass and I'm not from the Police, but from the FBI.”

  “Is there a difference, sir? But still, very nice to meet you.”

  “I'm after a serial killer. Jasmine. Have you heard about the Sheldon Butcher?”

  The girl shook her head. “This was not the Butcher, sir! Not him. I am sure, Joe killed them! Why did Mel listen to Nick first place?” She started sobbing.

  Mark gently put his arm around her shoulders, trying not to smear the mud on her shirt. For some reason, I thought of her as an adult, Mark contemplated suddenly. And she, in fact, barely six months older than my Samantha! A little girl, wretched in the cruel post-Meltdown world.

  “Look, Jasmine. You mean: Joe Vo, right? I don't think it was him. In the FBI, we have some special methods how to distinguish a serial killer from the imitators, the copycats. I can't tell you all the secrets, but believe me, it wasn't Joe, but the Sheldon Butcher. For sure. Nick and Mel were in the wrong place at the wrong time… I… I'm so sorry, Jasmine.”

  “Not Joe? Really?” she sobbed again, “all the same, nothing we can do.”

  “Jasmine, could you tell me about your family? About your parents? About Nick and Mel?”

  “What's to tell? Our family were from New York. My Dad often sat me on his laps in the evening and told me wonderful stories! About New York! The Central Park, the Museum of Natural History, and that, yes, the Coney Island. Myself – I don't remember a thing about New York. I was too little. We moved to Houston when I was about two. When the Houston Museum was closing down, Dad said: let's go, visit it before it's gone. It was so exciting! But Dad said: the Museum of Natural History, in New York, – is hu
ndred times better…”

  “I know your father was killed in an accident. The neighbors told us.”

  “Yeah… He fell from the third floor to a pile of bricks. And broke his back. The doctor looked and said: he won't live. And Mom tried to save him, see? That was how it all began. We needed lots of money. For the medicines, and everything. Mom sold her rings, earrings and neck chain. All she had. Back then, the gold and stones got much cheaper. And then, she went somewhere and brought the money. Enough for a couple of weeks. Then, she went again. And again… But Dad died anyway. He… He lived… for almost three months. He could not move, he was just breathing and moaning…” She started to cry again, burying her face into Mark's shoulder.