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Description
There was something wet, dripping down my arm. I opened my eyes slowly, and groggily staggered out of bed. The blood was now trickling off the backside of my hand in warm red droplets. I looked at my arm in confusion and gradually became lucid. I stepped over the shards of fiberglass that had been part of my alarm clock minutes ago, and onto the cold, hard tile of the dirty bathroom floor. I turned the faucet to cold and cautiously put my wounded hand under the not-quite clear water. As the blood washed away and the sharp, stinging pain faded, the small, fiberglass hitchhiker was revealed. It was not larger than an antique piece of hard currency; the kind with the likenesses of old dead white men embossed on their faces. It was firmly lodged in the back of my hand and was still causing a bit of pain. I gingerly plucked the dime-sized aggressor out of my hand and tossed it unceremoniously into the stainless steel waste-bin. Since I had unintentionally smashed my alarm clock as it was trying to wake me, I had to find new means of waking up and yet another worry. That’s when I remembered the reason I had to be up at all at this hour.
I flew threw my morning routine and I felt like I had gone from 0-60 much to fast. Despite my best efforts, I still missed the Metro-Tran to the corporate district. I wasn’t even dressed when it left so I decided to take my time and walk. Besides, I didn’t have to be at the interview until 15:00 hours anyways.
The elevator doors on the 42nd floor of the apartment building don’t open. That means I have to go by stairs to the 41st floor to get the lift. As the heavy doors close behind me with a familiar ‘WHUMP!’, I begin to feel the chill of the un-insulated stairwell. I quickly descend the concrete steps, the soles of my shoes making a muted, echoing click with each stride, and arrive at a set of doors, identical to the heavy pair one story above me on the 42nd floor. I pushed open the redundant doors and strode into the slightly warmer hallway of the 41st floor. As I made my way to the elevators at the end of the hall, I tried only stepping on the green squares of carpet that were randomly distributed throughout the patchwork floor. I wouldn’t look too out of the ordinary, clumsily hopping from one green square to the next. Enough weirdoes come around that people get used to it. I stopped anyways, not wanting to disturb a high-strung passerby too severely, and walked nonchalantly to the elevators.
“Scott Duke, you have 84 hours to pay rent or your lease will be terminated.” I was curtly reminded of my financial issues by the robotic voice of the talking ashtray/garbage can in the glass foyer of the apartment building. I hadn’t had any income for at least three months and my remaining funds were strictly rationed for food. Luckily I was on my way to an interview with some prestigious sporting magazine. I was interviewing to write a story on the Barsoom Classic, a large-scale jet-bike race in the desert outskirts of the Metropolis. The antique, motor-operated Plexiglas doors squeaked laterally open and I began my laborious trek through the polluted streets to the Corporate District.
It was almost noon when I departed and it was still frigidly cold. The sun was just barely visible through the smog as a dim, yellow, inkblot. I brought my micro fiber scarf over my nose and mouth and snapped the protective goggles over my eyes. In terms of weather, this was a good day.
Fresh air. My lungs took in a much-needed gulp of untainted air. I then released a gratifying sigh of relief at being indoors. It wasn’t really ‘fresh’, but the stale air of the poorly ventilated magazine headquarters was much easier to breathe than the horrifically polluted, gaseous cocktail outside the heavy glass doors. The smog blanketed the metropolis like a heavy coat of nettles, stinging the lungs with every foul breath.
As I confidentially marched towards the brushed –steel panels of the lift, I brushed off my shoulders with a gloved hand. A few small clouds of the heavy smog that had condensed on my body billowed, into the eerily vacant lobby.
“Can I help you, sir?” was the high-pitched inquiry coming from behind an oversized reception counter.
“No, I’m just heading up to 22 for an interview.” I explained hastily to the presumably female receptionist.
“I’ll let them know you’re coming up!” she called as the elevator doors slid smoothly open and I stepped in.
The elevator interior was like any other, indistinguishable from the one in the apartment building. As I started noticing other similarities between the two I came to see one difference; there was no button for the 42nd floor. The numbers started at 1 and continued all the way to 68, but mysteriously there was no 42. I pushed the small inconsistency into the back of my mind and pushed the button engraved with the character: 22.
If all went well, in about one hour I would be walking out of this meticulously scrubbed establishment of journalism with a weekend trip out of the metropolitan shit-smear, an undetermined amount of cash, and unlimited credit for transportation, food and lodging. What if I decided to disappear with the cash and vehicle, and never return to the metropolis? I could blow the assignment and spend the company cash in a hazy casino, puffing Cubans and sipping mezcal…
Reality came rushing back like a Shanghai bullet train. The high-pitched whine of the lift gears grinding to a halt against the steel cable had flung me out of my daydream. I patiently waited, facing the automated doors, to exit the lift. After about 10 seconds of expectantly waiting, the doors finally opened. The lift appeared to have come to rest in between the 21st and 22nd floors and after staring, wide-eyed with my mouth hanging open for about 3 seconds; I hoisted myself onto the lobby of the 22nd floor.
The senior editor was a short, fat man, probably in his late fifties. He seemed to be the type of short-fused, high-strung person who was headed straight for cardiac arrest. He spoke with the familiar, hoarse rasp of a long-time city dweller.
“Had a bit of trouble with the lift?” He asked dryly. I sensed a layer of pompous contempt in his speech. I resisted the urge to point out that only half the elevator had made it to floor 22, and instead replied in the most professional tone I could muster.
“Yeah, but it’s no big deal.” I put on my business face, preparing for the interview. I had a feeling that it would not be pleasant.
The editor’s name, according to the brass-plated plaque on his desk, was Russ Billmer. He took a break from his theatrical paper shuffling to glance up. He seemed to be sizing me up but I couldn’t really be sure.
“Let’s get this thing started.” The editor’s voice took on a firm, superior tone. His questions were passive demands, hiding behind the question mark at the end. I wasn’t answering questions; I was putting on a show so that maybe I could con the editor into giving me the assignment. By the end of our hour together I had given a performance that to me, seemed to mirror Charlie Chaplain. I had been talking without saying anything, while Charlie never spoke; he seemed to say a lot.
The editor and I shook hands and exchanged the proper and polite dialogues and I then I left. To my disbelief, I had been given a sparkling new company vehicle, 600 currency units, and a trip out of the dim, suppressing, human anthill for 2 days.
The constant low hum of the company vehicle was rather calming. I leaned back in my chair as I engaged the autopilot, and I let my eyes wander to the top right corner of the vehicle’s HUD. I watched with a kind of smug, glee, as the black cloud that smothered the grimy Metropolis, approached the glowing horizon. I had no idea how this voyage would end.
It was well passed 21:00 and the sun was long gone when the company vehicle glided into the makeshift encampment of the finest collection of jet-bike riders, gritty reporters, and die-hard fans I had seen assemble. I wearily gazed around the camp, making small mental notes. Many ambient, blue cubes of neon, which had been trapped in frosted glass enclosures, were lighting the camp. It was a pleasant, yet somewhat ominous atmosphere. The vehicle came to a halt beside a sturdy, portable structure with a sign that read: “Press Registration” in blue neon letters.
The solar terminator line was now well past my current line of longitude and I was exhausted. The serpentine old woman behind the press registration counter had given me a lanyard with my press credentials and no further instructions. I then slowly dragged myself off to sleep in the back seat of the company’s loaner vehicle.
I awoke amidst the roar of hundreds of jet-bikes, idling in the sand and the bustling confusion of the spectators and journalists trying to get a good view of the start. I vaulted out of the back seat, fully clothed and wide-awake, just as a man’s voice came booming over the noisy commotion.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the fabulous, Barsoom Classic!” The public address system was battling with the roar of the hundreds of jet engines. I was now sprinting to the starting line, my feet sinking into the deep sand.
“Riders, start your engines!” the bikes were clumped at the starting line in no particular order and the riders were preparing themselves for a fight to the finish.
“On your marks,” I could see every rider’s eyes narrowing into slits, focusing only on victory.
“Get set,” I had managed to elbow my way through the mob of enthusiastic spectators and journalists rather easily and was now situated at the very front of the crowd, staring across the starting line.
“GO!” The riders took off in a blur of orange and blue jet tails. I was the first to see what was coming next.
The noise was deafening, my eardrums shut down immediately at the start. Even worse was the sand. As the riders accelerated through the starting line, their intensely hot jet-tails of exhaust were melting the sand into a glassy, sharp, material and this napalm-like matter was being hurled in all directions. The riders were wearing some type of protective get-up but the sign warning those with less experience with jet-bikes of the deadly phenomena had been obscured by a chillingly familiar vehicle, parked beside a press registration booth,
I had only moments to save myself from the deadly shrapnel of the desert sand. Dropping to my hands and knees I crawled in a panicked haze through the screaming labyrinth of legs while deadly projectiles cut people down like bullets fired from the many barrels of a buzzing mini-gun. It was like an old war movie, except this was the scene were the helpless civilians are gunned down by the evil dictatorship, claiming ethnic cleansing.
I continued to crawl frantically, blocking out all sensory stimulation. I realized that the roar of the jet engines was getting farther away and that the panicked screaming had been replaced by the moans and shrieks of the wounded. As the adrenaline left me, I stood up to assess the situation. I appeared to be the only one left standing out of everyone within 50 yards of the start line. There was blood and shiny, black lumps of congealed sand ribbing the desert sand. People in front of me were yelling and moaning in pain and agony. I let my eyes glass over and my brain descend into a trance-like state. Autopilot, engage.
I awoke in my apartment with a sick feeling in my stomach. I immediately remembered the tragedy in the desert. I didn’t know how I got home or even what day it was. There was dried blood on my arms and all over my clothes. I ached. I laboriously hobbled out of my bed, still in some type of trance. It seemed extremely important for me to get out of the apartment building.
I was still wearing the same clothes I had been wearing since Friday and the mirror in the hallway of the 42nd floor showed me something like Frankenstein’s monster. I continued down the hallways to the brushed steel elevator doors. When I reached the doors, they opened without so much as the push of a down button. I continued forward, into the elevator shaft. The floors were rushing past at the speed of earth’s gravitational tug. Somewhere between the 22nd and 21st floor I remembered that the elevator doors on the 42nd floor never open. I hit the bottom of the shaft moments after the robotic landlord had terminated my lease.

Description
There was something wet, dripping down my arm. I opened my eyes slowly, and groggily staggered out of bed. The blood was now trickling off the backside of my hand in warm red droplets. I looked at my arm in confusion and gradually became lucid. I stepped over the shards of fiberglass that had been part of my alarm clock minutes ago, and onto the cold, hard tile of the dirty bathroom floor. I turned the faucet to cold and cautiously put my wounded hand under the not-quite clear water. As the blood washed away and the sharp, stinging pain faded, the small, fiberglass hitchhiker was revealed. It was not larger than an antique piece of hard currency; the kind with the likenesses of old dead white men embossed on their faces. It was firmly lodged in the back of my hand and was still causing a bit of pain. I gingerly plucked the dime-sized aggressor out of my hand and tossed it unceremoniously into the stainless steel waste-bin. Since I had unintentionally smashed my alarm clock as it was trying to wake me, I had to find new means of waking up and yet another worry. That’s when I remembered the reason I had to be up at all at this hour.
I flew threw my morning routine and I felt like I had gone from 0-60 much to fast. Despite my best efforts, I still missed the Metro-Tran to the corporate district. I wasn’t even dressed when it left so I decided to take my time and walk. Besides, I didn’t have to be at the interview until 15:00 hours anyways.
The elevator doors on the 42nd floor of the apartment building don’t open. That means I have to go by stairs to the 41st floor to get the lift. As the heavy doors close behind me with a familiar ‘WHUMP!’, I begin to feel the chill of the un-insulated stairwell. I quickly descend the concrete steps, the soles of my shoes making a muted, echoing click with each stride, and arrive at a set of doors, identical to the heavy pair one story above me on the 42nd floor. I pushed open the redundant doors and strode into the slightly warmer hallway of the 41st floor. As I made my way to the elevators at the end of the hall, I tried only stepping on the green squares of carpet that were randomly distributed throughout the patchwork floor. I wouldn’t look too out of the ordinary, clumsily hopping from one green square to the next. Enough weirdoes come around that people get used to it. I stopped anyways, not wanting to disturb a high-strung passerby too severely, and walked nonchalantly to the elevators.
“Scott Duke, you have 84 hours to pay rent or your lease will be terminated.” I was curtly reminded of my financial issues by the robotic voice of the talking ashtray/garbage can in the glass foyer of the apartment building. I hadn’t had any income for at least three months and my remaining funds were strictly rationed for food. Luckily I was on my way to an interview with some prestigious sporting magazine. I was interviewing to write a story on the Barsoom Classic, a large-scale jet-bike race in the desert outskirts of the Metropolis. The antique, motor-operated Plexiglas doors squeaked laterally open and I began my laborious trek through the polluted streets to the Corporate District.
It was almost noon when I departed and it was still frigidly cold. The sun was just barely visible through the smog as a dim, yellow, inkblot. I brought my micro fiber scarf over my nose and mouth and snapped the protective goggles over my eyes. In terms of weather, this was a good day.
Fresh air. My lungs took in a much-needed gulp of untainted air. I then released a gratifying sigh of relief at being indoors. It wasn’t really ‘fresh’, but the stale air of the poorly ventilated magazine headquarters was much easier to breathe than the horrifically polluted, gaseous cocktail outside the heavy glass doors. The smog blanketed the metropolis like a heavy coat of nettles, stinging the lungs with every foul breath.
As I confidentially marched towards the brushed –steel panels of the lift, I brushed off my shoulders with a gloved hand. A few small clouds of the heavy smog that had condensed on my body billowed, into the eerily vacant lobby.
“Can I help you, sir?” was the high-pitched inquiry coming from behind an oversized reception counter.
“No, I’m just heading up to 22 for an interview.” I explained hastily to the presumably female receptionist.
“I’ll let them know you’re coming up!” she called as the elevator doors slid smoothly open and I stepped in.
The elevator interior was like any other, indistinguishable from the one in the apartment building. As I started noticing other similarities between the two I came to see one difference; there was no button for the 42nd floor. The numbers started at 1 and continued all the way to 68, but mysteriously there was no 42. I pushed the small inconsistency into the back of my mind and pushed the button engraved with the character: 22.
If all went well, in about one hour I would be walking out of this meticulously scrubbed establishment of journalism with a weekend trip out of the metropolitan shit-smear, an undetermined amount of cash, and unlimited credit for transportation, food and lodging. What if I decided to disappear with the cash and vehicle, and never return to the metropolis? I could blow the assignment and spend the company cash in a hazy casino, puffing Cubans and sipping mezcal…
Reality came rushing back like a Shanghai bullet train. The high-pitched whine of the lift gears grinding to a halt against the steel cable had flung me out of my daydream. I patiently waited, facing the automated doors, to exit the lift. After about 10 seconds of expectantly waiting, the doors finally opened. The lift appeared to have come to rest in between the 21st and 22nd floors and after staring, wide-eyed with my mouth hanging open for about 3 seconds; I hoisted myself onto the lobby of the 22nd floor.
The senior editor was a short, fat man, probably in his late fifties. He seemed to be the type of short-fused, high-strung person who was headed straight for cardiac arrest. He spoke with the familiar, hoarse rasp of a long-time city dweller.
“Had a bit of trouble with the lift?” He asked dryly. I sensed a layer of pompous contempt in his speech. I resisted the urge to point out that only half the elevator had made it to floor 22, and instead replied in the most professional tone I could muster.
“Yeah, but it’s no big deal.” I put on my business face, preparing for the interview. I had a feeling that it would not be pleasant.
The editor’s name, according to the brass-plated plaque on his desk, was Russ Billmer. He took a break from his theatrical paper shuffling to glance up. He seemed to be sizing me up but I couldn’t really be sure.
“Let’s get this thing started.” The editor’s voice took on a firm, superior tone. His questions were passive demands, hiding behind the question mark at the end. I wasn’t answering questions; I was putting on a show so that maybe I could con the editor into giving me the assignment. By the end of our hour together I had given a performance that to me, seemed to mirror Charlie Chaplain. I had been talking without saying anything, while Charlie never spoke; he seemed to say a lot.
The editor and I shook hands and exchanged the proper and polite dialogues and I then I left. To my disbelief, I had been given a sparkling new company vehicle, 600 currency units, and a trip out of the dim, suppressing, human anthill for 2 days.
The constant low hum of the company vehicle was rather calming. I leaned back in my chair as I engaged the autopilot, and I let my eyes wander to the top right corner of the vehicle’s HUD. I watched with a kind of smug, glee, as the black cloud that smothered the grimy Metropolis, approached the glowing horizon. I had no idea how this voyage would end.
It was well passed 21:00 and the sun was long gone when the company vehicle glided into the makeshift encampment of the finest collection of jet-bike riders, gritty reporters, and die-hard fans I had seen assemble. I wearily gazed around the camp, making small mental notes. Many ambient, blue cubes of neon, which had been trapped in frosted glass enclosures, were lighting the camp. It was a pleasant, yet somewhat ominous atmosphere. The vehicle came to a halt beside a sturdy, portable structure with a sign that read: “Press Registration” in blue neon letters.
The solar terminator line was now well past my current line of longitude and I was exhausted. The serpentine old woman behind the press registration counter had given me a lanyard with my press credentials and no further instructions. I then slowly dragged myself off to sleep in the back seat of the company’s loaner vehicle.
I awoke amidst the roar of hundreds of jet-bikes, idling in the sand and the bustling confusion of the spectators and journalists trying to get a good view of the start. I vaulted out of the back seat, fully clothed and wide-awake, just as a man’s voice came booming over the noisy commotion.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the fabulous, Barsoom Classic!” The public address system was battling with the roar of the hundreds of jet engines. I was now sprinting to the starting line, my feet sinking into the deep sand.
“Riders, start your engines!” the bikes were clumped at the starting line in no particular order and the riders were preparing themselves for a fight to the finish.
“On your marks,” I could see every rider’s eyes narrowing into slits, focusing only on victory.
“Get set,” I had managed to elbow my way through the mob of enthusiastic spectators and journalists rather easily and was now situated at the very front of the crowd, staring across the starting line.
“GO!” The riders took off in a blur of orange and blue jet tails. I was the first to see what was coming next.
The noise was deafening, my eardrums shut down immediately at the start. Even worse was the sand. As the riders accelerated through the starting line, their intensely hot jet-tails of exhaust were melting the sand into a glassy, sharp, material and this napalm-like matter was being hurled in all directions. The riders were wearing some type of protective get-up but the sign warning those with less experience with jet-bikes of the deadly phenomena had been obscured by a chillingly familiar vehicle, parked beside a press registration booth,
I had only moments to save myself from the deadly shrapnel of the desert sand. Dropping to my hands and knees I crawled in a panicked haze through the screaming labyrinth of legs while deadly projectiles cut people down like bullets fired from the many barrels of a buzzing mini-gun. It was like an old war movie, except this was the scene were the helpless civilians are gunned down by the evil dictatorship, claiming ethnic cleansing.
I continued to crawl frantically, blocking out all sensory stimulation. I realized that the roar of the jet engines was getting farther away and that the panicked screaming had been replaced by the moans and shrieks of the wounded. As the adrenaline left me, I stood up to assess the situation. I appeared to be the only one left standing out of everyone within 50 yards of the start line. There was blood and shiny, black lumps of congealed sand ribbing the desert sand. People in front of me were yelling and moaning in pain and agony. I let my eyes glass over and my brain descend into a trance-like state. Autopilot, engage.
I awoke in my apartment with a sick feeling in my stomach. I immediately remembered the tragedy in the desert. I didn’t know how I got home or even what day it was. There was dried blood on my arms and all over my clothes. I ached. I laboriously hobbled out of my bed, still in some type of trance. It seemed extremely important for me to get out of the apartment building.
I was still wearing the same clothes I had been wearing since Friday and the mirror in the hallway of the 42nd floor showed me something like Frankenstein’s monster. I continued down the hallways to the brushed steel elevator doors. When I reached the doors, they opened without so much as the push of a down button. I continued forward, into the elevator shaft. The floors were rushing past at the speed of earth’s gravitational tug. Somewhere between the 22nd and 21st floor I remembered that the elevator doors on the 42nd floor never open. I hit the bottom of the shaft moments after the robotic landlord had terminated my lease.