Karma City

by Gardener Browning

  Jack nodded. “I like it. Let’s talk more about it tonight, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Donna gave Albert a kiss on the cheek. “You’re a good man. Never change.”

  “Don’t plan on it.”

  The cold autumn air blew through the trees in the Commons, sweeping up orange and brown leaves in swirling ribbons. Jack held Donna close to keep her warm as they walked to the bush plane resting in the middle of the grassy field. Tucked under his arm was a notebook, already filled with notes about the demise of Graves Enterprises and the rise of the new Oasis Wellness Center overseen by Dr. Albert Walker. Families grouped around the plane, marveling at its incomparable beauty. The children regarded Jack with excitement and praise.

  “I want to fly like you someday, Mr. Halligan,” said a young girl. Her sparkling eyes shined a hero’s light on Jack.

  “You’re going to need an airplane,” replied Jack. He tore a blank page from his journal and knelt beside the child. “Watch carefully.” Jack folded a small paper plane and handed it to the girl. “Now, toss it straight and gentle.”

  The little girl flung the plane and a light breeze scooped it high into the air. She laughed and ran to catch it as it whirled and soared.

  Donna pulled Jack in for a kiss. “I’m very proud of you, Hun.”

  “And so am I,” said a man near the bush plane.

  The hallucination of his dead father stood near the cockpit door. Jack looked closer at the vision. No longer did a grotesque corpse stand in grave-tattered rags. There, in a crisp blue flight suit, combed brown hair and light morning stubble covering his cheeks, stood Mark Halligan, just as he looked when Jack was a boy.

  “What is it, Jack?” asked Donna. “Is it your dad again?”

  “Yeah, but this time, I wish you could see him, Donna. It’s him. The way I remember him…the way I need him.”

  “I can see him, Hun…in you.”

  Jack blinked away the tears of happiness and walked Donna to the airplane. “Ready to fly?”

  “As long as you remember how,” she teased.

  Jack smiled at his father. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget again.”

  In her guest room at Oasis, Luna Briggs looped the old half-moon pendant around her neck and stuffed her combat vest into her bag. She tied the bag closed and slung it over her shoulder. Jameson waited in the doorway.

  “Are you sure you don’t need company?” he asked.

  “It’s better if I do this alone. I think it needs to be that way. Besides, Albert says you need to rest.”

  “I’m certainly fine with relaxing a while. How long are you going to be?”

  “A week or so.” She looked down.

  Jameson knew she was scared. He lifted her chin with the knuckle of his thumb. “It’ll be fine. Your sister is going to be real happy to see you again.”

  “Thanks. Are you going to be all right?”

  “Doc’s got me on some tweaked version of Quell. Haven’t heard the worm since the tower. It’s been nice.”

  “Good.” Luna kissed him. “Time to catch the train. I’ll see you soon.”

  Luna started down the hall. Jameson called to her. “No rifle?”

  “Not this trip.”

  When she was gone, Jameson looked back into Luna’s room. Her sketch book rested on her bed. A small folded paper sat beside it. Unfolding it revealed a note.

  Jameson,

  There’s a lot of room left in my journal. The empty pages are reserved for the memories we’ll make together. I left a new drawing for you. Hope you like it. It’s my favorite. Stay well and strong while I’m away. I love you.

  Luna

  A loose paper waited under the front cover. Jameson felt his heart swell to see the sketch of a man and woman standing atop a skyscraper, locked in a tight embrace, kissing with the sun rising behind them. With a smile, he tucked the drawing into his coat pocket.

  The late afternoon clouds drifted in tangerine tufts over the Oasis Campus. Jameson decided on a walk and some fresh air to clear his head. The stress of the ordeal lingered in him, as if there was some hidden lesson he needed to unravel or some experience he needed to contemplate to gain strength…a post-hardship habit of a hardened survivor.

  He walked the campus, stopping at the courtyard playground. The wind rocked the swings and the merry-go-round squeaked on its rusted pivot. Jameson sat on the bottom of the metal slide and lit a cigarette. He stared at the worn picture of his father, the picture he’d carried with him every day of his journey. The corners were torn, the edges creased and the color faded, but the memories of the man remained vibrant. And here I am again. Full circle. He had traveled so far, gone to immeasurable lengths to find answers to a mystery that proved darker than he could have imagined. What was gained? Still alone…the journey is over and I’m still…

  The patter of approaching steps alerted Jameson. He sprang to his feet with his hand hovering over the knife on his hip. “That’s close enough,” Jameson warned the man who now stood in front of him.

  “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  Jameson eyed his clean-shaven face, almond-brown eyes and tired gait. The man didn’t appear to have any weapons, and his left arm rested in a sling. Jameson relaxed. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke through his nostrils. “What do you want?”

  “I’m here to pick up my boy. He was playing here, last I knew.”

  “Well, there aren’t any kids here.”

  “I guess I’m pretty late, huh, Jamie.”

  Jameson dropped his cigarette to the sand.

  “Luna told me I might find you here. She knows you well.” The man stepped closer. “I’ve missed you, son.”

  Father and son, two tired survivors longing for better days, embraced; neither wanting to ever let go. Jameson and Eric Shoals shared quiet tears of joy. When Jameson pulled away, he looked deeply into his father’s aged face and saw a man that had endured torturous hell yet somehow prevailed, somehow stood strong and well enough to have come back for him, to care, to love and want to continue being his dad. Here was Jameson’s lost hero, the sole reason why Jameson pressed on as the years eroded everything around him; and Jameson knew that he must have been his father’s reason, too. Together again. So much to say. Where to begin? He wiped his eyes and asked the same question he did as a boy. “Are you okay, Dad?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  Brighton screamed a murderous war-cry, robbing Jameson of control. He drew the knife. Eric stepped back, but Brighton was too quick. He slashed the blade across Eric’s throat, spraying a cloud of crimson over Jameson’s face. Eric’s body collapsed to the sand, wheezing, gurgling, then lifeless.

  “NO!” Jameson bawled. The horror disintegrated his heart. He fell to his knees beside his father. “WHY?”

  Brighton laughed. “You killed my family. I killed yours.”

  ***

  The setting sun blazed in rose-gold banners. Jack brought the airplane out of the lavender clouds, looking down at the rolling landscape of the Void Lands. Tent towns of drifters and nameless settlements sprawled around the long and mysterious Route 88 that ran forever to the west. Pockets of abandoned suburbs and decaying towns served as monuments to lives long forgotten. Jack looked over at Donna seated beside him, who gazed at the world through binoculars. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s so pretty up here but there’s not much out there,” she commented. “It can be tough living in Karma but people really do have it hard outside of the city; don’t they?”

  “There’s no easy living anywhere. The Void Lands, and the ‘Strange Highway’ as they call it, are very dangerous.”

  “Hey, Hun,” Donna’s voice became serious. “I see a man running.”

  “That’s odd. Let me have a look.” Jack lowered the altitude and brought the binoculars up to his eyes. He gasped. “It’s Jameson! He’s covered in blood!”

  Jack lifted the radio and switched the frequency from the Oasis to Luna’s triba
l radio. “Halligan to Briggs. Halligan to Briggs. Do you copy?”

  The radio static seemed to last forever. Finally, Luna answered the call.

  “Copy. This is Luna Briggs. What is it, Jack?”

  “We have a problem. Jameson is running into the Voids. He’s a mess. Blood all over him!”

  “Shit! Where are you?”

  “Roughly five miles west of Lobos.”

  “My train just left Lobos station; I’m not far. I’ll take the big-rig off the rails and ride out there. Stay in communication, Jack. Don’t lose sight of him!”

  Jameson ran as fast as his Malad-X power allowed. Brighton taunted him.

  “Keep running, Jameson, because if you stop, I will kill Jack and Donna. I will set fire to the airplane. And when Luna Briggs returns to save you from yourself, I will rip out her heart.”

  “I won’t let you near them!” Jameson yelled.

  Fear, larger than any he’d ever felt in all his life, devoured him. Even with Albert’s formulated Quell in his veins, Brighton had still taken over. The parasite in his mind was now beyond his control and understanding. With the murder of Jameson’s father, Brighton had proven that he could do what he vowed. Luna would never be safe.

  With glowing eyes, Jameson looked up at the airplane, now wishing he had a radio to tell Jack to go back for help, to get Albert, to tell Luna to stay back until he—what?—he didn’t know what he meant to do, couldn’t think that far ahead. Too afraid. Desperate, he waved for Jack to turn back; it was all he could do and perhaps all Brighton would allow.

  The airplane drew nearer.

  Jameson pushed his legs to run faster.

  Ahead, the remnants of a dead neighborhood appeared. A chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter of the long-abandoned community. Decades of thick overgrowth claimed the streets and clusters of houses. He leapt high over the fence, dashing into the dense ruins, hoping to hide from the plane.

  “Halligan to Briggs…”

  “Go ahead, Jack.”

  “I lost him.”

  Acknowledgments

  A group of friends, with strange imaginations, helped bring this story to life. Special thanks to: Alan Ouellette, my best friend; Brittany Blazich, the real Luna Briggs; Patrick McGonagle, the man behind Jameson Shoals; Phillip Thibault, who is Dr. Walker; Chris Brownell, gamer elite and my creative consultant; and Jimmy Gilbert, a friend I can always count on.

  Heartfelt appreciation to Michael Neff, my editor and friend. Thank you for believing in me and my work. I’m a better writer because of you.

  Many thanks to literary agent, author and friend, Paula Munier. Your help made this story shine.

  Thank you, Sharon Arsenault. Your intelligence and creativity brought me inspiration and I’m grateful beyond words.

  And beautiful Devin, my wife, my love, thank you. This one wasn’t easy. It took a lot of years. Yet, there you were, encouraging, smiling, and making me feel like I am special…you always do that. It makes the difference every time. I love you.

  G. M. Browning