The Cigar Box

Friday is here again and it's been a bit of a rough week. My macbook died and then our dishwasher broke, flooding my kitchen, destroying the ceiling below that floor, in my basement, ruining the hardwood floor of my dining room, etc. Fun times. Hopefully someone from the insurance company will show up today and it will all be covered. The kitchen stinks like a dirty aquarium now. It's pretty gross. However, I managed to write this story. 

The Cigar Box

I was just shy of thirty that year when I took the job in Dalhover. It was a ways from Tennessee where I’d grown up, but I needed the work, so I packed it all up and headed north. Dalhover was a picturesque, small seaside community. I was to be a records clerk for the town and the pay would do me fine. I had set myself up to stay in the Dalhover Inn while I looked for a place to rent. The bus rolled into the station at half past ten in the morning, on a sunny, warm July day. I got my duffle bag and suitcase from out of the underbody baggage compartment and once I passed through the dingy, well-worn station, I was able to get my first good look at the town.

                Dalhover was perched on the edge of the world, where the ocean continually beat hard against the face of black cliffs with large, crashing, tumultuous waves. There was a small harbor protected by a breakwater which allowed for some fishing and commerce to go on. The fishing was suffering by the looks of it, as the town had seen better days. Surrounded on its remaining sides by coastal bogs limiting the expansion of its borders, the village was beginning to fade. The railway had once offered the hope of new industry, but that had never materialized. Now the rusted tracks lead along the back edge of town, on a raised gravel bed that kept them from sinking into the swamps. It made a good walking trail, easily accessed by the dilapidated station house. In fact, the old train station was also the bus station. The village had sturdy houses built tight into the shelter of the rocks. Roads and paths went up and down from the harbor. These were houses of character. Old New England houses, sturdy and tall, but now fading to gray, or with peeling paint, and sometimes broken windows. A number looked quite abandoned with collapsing chimneys and overgrown lawns.  I could see a theater though, and a sort of general store at which I could probably get some groceries later. I threw my duffle on my shoulder, hoisted up my suitcase and began to saunter down the main street until I came to the inn.

                The inn looked like a cozy affair, made of stone; it was in much better repair than its neighbours. Soon I was settled into a room at the back corner of the building on the ground floor. I had a view of a small backyard lawn with flower beds, beyond which was a bit of forest leading into more boggy territory. Looking out the window, I gave a sigh. What had I gotten myself into? Perhaps on weekends I could take the bus to the nearest metropolis. Anyways, I figured, better to make the best of it. The day’s paper was laid out on a table along with a pamphlet advertising a local restaurant called ‘The Mighty Fork’ whatever that implied. I tucked the paper under my arm and headed out for lunch.

                The Mighty Fork was kind of like a pub, where the grizzled locals hung about eating simple pub fare, drinking, and getting all the local gossip. It wasn’t bad food, but as I ate and perused the paper, ‘The Dalhover Daily’, I found I was getting some seriously curious looks. Downright rude I’d venture to say, as one old geezer pulled out his spectacles, tottered over, looked me up and down, let out a harrumph noise then made his way back to his chair. The place was run; I quickly discovered by an older couple named Mary and Ted. Ted had the personality and appearance of a large, dimwitted slug. Mary was in charge obviously, running about, serving dishes and yelling orders to her husband and bantering with the customers in a congenial way. As Mary came past, she re-filled my coffee, gave the table a quick wipe here and there with her tea towel, and leaned in towards me, “Never you mind these old gizzards. They’re just like the seagulls flocking about, useless panderers wanting a free scrap or a bit o’ beer! But, they’re not bad folks in the end.  Curious about you they are! Not much coming through here anymore. Can I ask your business here, if you don’t mind?”

“I accepted a position as the records clerk, supposed to start the day after tomorrow. My name is Andrew, nice to meet you!” I extended my hand, but she pulled me up and into a hug. Then she called for attention and introduced me to the locals as the new guy. Turns out that Dalhover people were actually a really nice bunch and I found the appeal to it right there in that restaurant. I go there for a drink every evening now between supper and bed, right after a good stroll. It was nice to be made welcomed.

                That first day though when I was nervous it was awfully nice of them to take me in, so to speak; small town charm and all that jazz. They sat with me and helped find me a nice place to rent, cheap. It was a small house, with one bedroom. I happily called the folks back home from the inn that night to let them know I was making out okay. My dad told me he was proud of me, which sure felt good. Over the next week I got myself settled in, had the necessary connections made for phone and electrical and began to get accustomed to my new job. I will not bore you with the trivialities and dullness though of records management. It does not pertain to this story. It was just nice to have that secure nine to five, and a good roof over my head.  It was maybe two and a half weeks after the move though when things got interesting.

I’d had myself a nice supper and as it was just entering into August, to go for an evening walk was just the thing. I figured I’d follow the tracks in back of the house to downtown, pick up something to read at the library and then head over to The Mighty Fork for a beer or two. I locked up behind myself and started on my short jaunt. As I walked I realized how still the air had become and I was just entering into a small wooded area. Ahead was a short, old rail bridge which crossed over a bit of greenish swamp. Grey, moss covered broken stumps jutted out of the water like smashed and broken teeth in an ancient rotten mouth. Although it was warm, for some reason a chill came up my spine, and suddenly anxious I hastened ahead to get to the other side. I had maybe another ten minutes to get to the back of the station house. I kind of regretted not having taken the shorter road passing by out front of my place now as dusk came on. I stepped onto the bridge.

                Planks had been nailed down across the old ties so that there were no gaps, making it easy to cross. My footsteps made their thunking, thump beat on the boards as I went. I relaxed a little, and took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh air. I heard a weird, watery blurp noise from below. Then, some more splashing movement in the water.  I looked over the side rail of the bridge and there, at the edge of the water was a man. However, not a regular looking man, he moved disjointedly, climbing out of the water on his hands and feet, slapping at the ground. His skin stained by the tannins of the water to the color of well-oiled leather.  I could hear him groan as he pulled himself up, scrabbling for purchase with his limbs amongst the dark leaf litter at the water’s edge. I watched as one hand drove down upon a stick protruding upward and it was driven right through the hand with a kind of schlock noise. It ignored this and just kept coming, pulling the hand free and moving forth. I came to the realization that I had not moved as if frozen in this horrible moment in time. The man or thing, whatever it was turned its head, looking directly at me with a cadaverous grinning face.

The mouth opened, and with a hiss of air it sorrowfully bawled, “Yoooooooouuuuu.”

My legs returned and I ran. I ran across the bridge and down the path, wondering how fast this thing could travel or if it even had to. Hopefully, if it was some sort of manifestation it was tied to the bridge or the water and I could escape easily. I chanced a look back. It had made it up to the railroad bed and was lurching after me. I ran again about another three hundred yards and looked back again.

                There was nothing there! What the heck I asked myself over and over, scratching my head. I moved on into town, confused and wondering. Was this a hallucination? Was I going mental? How could this even be? I decided at the library to check out a couple of ghost books. I was a deeply rooted sceptic when it came to this kind of thing. I suppose we all say this kind of thing until something happens that we cannot explain. The librarian looked at me a bit funny when she saw what I was checking out.

“A bit of spooky reading this time, eh Mister Ellis?” she smiled. Mostly I’d been checking out westerns and a book on local wild plants because of curiosity.

“Please, call me Andrew. Mister Ellis is my father.” I liked to occasionally throw out these witty gems. I continued, “Say, what can you tell me about local lore? Urban legends; that kind of thing.”

“Well,” she leaned over the counter conspiratorially, “the thing is we don’t have any! Ha, I got you, didn’t I? I suppose this village is too small and run down to have anything that way. Nothing ever goes on here.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?” I queried, “What about the stuff you always hear about, like say ghosts of the railroad or a haunted house the kids won’t go near? Any of that type of thing?”

“Hmmm, not that I can say. We’re just too gosh darn dull for that. Although, I do think I may have something here about stories from local fishermen.” She raised her hands, making a silly face and wiggled her fingers, “Strange tales of the sea and the spirits and creatures that dwell below!”

I laughed, “Thanks, I think I needed that chuckle. I don’t believe what I am looking for has to do with the sea though. I’ll just check out these for now.”

I definitely did not take the same route back home. I did not go for a drink either. I just hurried along, got inside and bolted my door. Then the back door, after which, I secured the windows and turned on a couple of extra lights. I settled down in my second hand but new to me comfy armchair and began to read. Although I did not find anything directly useful, I was able to draw some conclusions.

Firstly, I had decided I was still sane and rational. There was no evidence of a continuing or worsening delusion, at least not that I could tell. I wasn’t sure how to test that exactly, but it was what I had decided would be the case until proven otherwise.

Secondly, if this thing made another appearance, I should be better prepared. If it was a living, breathing creature then I should carry a physical weapon. Still in my suitcase was a hunting knife which I decided to have upon me from now on. If the creature was a spirit, then my reading suggested crosses, amulets of crystal, the burning of sage, reading aloud from the bible, and simply surrounding oneself with a circle of salt. The sceptic within rolled his eyes!

Thirdly and last, it was there on that path for a reason. I should attempt to uncover that reason which could lead to a proper resolution of these events. I should do what I could to conclude this incident and eliminate any mental or physical threat upon me.

I decided to begin with a thorough examination of the area of the railroad bridge. In the daylight, tomorrow morning, which would be Saturday. I turned out the lights and headed to bed.  I guess I fell right asleep, as I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow. The next thing I knew I was opening my eyes and I could just make out the hands of the clock on the wall. It was three o’clock in the morning. I was slightly annoyed as I couldn’t understand why I would wake up then. I rolled over and realized I was not alone. There was the man again looking out my window with his twisted leathery back silhouetted in the moonlight shining in. Startled, I jumped and as I did he turned his freakish grinning head toward me.

“Yoooooouuuuu muuuuussst,” It hissed in that ungodly voice as I guess I probably was making an attempt to climb backwards up my bedroom wall. The man lifted an arm and pointed his finger out the window. Then just like that he was gone again! I got up, turned on the light and checked all around. I was alone and nothing had been disturbed. I looked out the window but all I could see was an old maple tree in the backyard. Had he been pointing at that, or at the tracks beyond? What must I do? I did not sleep another wink. I paced about the house, frantic and wondering.

                After what seemed like forever, the sun appeared and in the bright light of morning, all seemed much improved. Instead of heading to the bridge, I wanted the company of people so I went out for breakfast. Mary and Ted were welcoming as usual. I ordered myself a farmer’s breakfast with a mug of hot coffee. When Mary came by for a top up on it, fishing for information   I asked casually, “What can you tell me about the place I’m renting? Is it very old?”

                She smiled brightly, “That house is about as old as the village. Now the person to ask though would be Jenny, you know, the librarian? I bet she never mentioned she’s a widow. Back a few years ago, that was her house. She was married to a guy name of Ben Fellows. Married about six years or so, if I figure rightly. Folks could see it all over that their marriage wasn’t working out happily ever after. Rumor was that Ben was shipping stuff that wasn’t legal in his boat to up north, and packing away the money. When he was on land though, he was drunk as a skunk and as angry as a fit of cats! Suspicion was he liked to take that anger out on Jenny. Got too drunk one night though and fell off the rail bridge. Probably gave his head a good bonk and drowned. Jenny shortly after moved out and took the library job. She seems to have a bit of cloud over her since, you know? Too many bad memories still haunting her, I suppose.”

                I thanked her for the information and said maybe I’d ask Jenny a few questions about the place. I headed back home, wondering about the information and if the man who I was seeing could be Ben Fellows. It was a head scratcher all right. Around mid-morning I could be seen though out in the yard, doing a bit of maintenance, weeding the beds, stuff like that just to busy myself while thinking. I looked over at the maple tree occasionally, but there was no sign of anyone else. I even walked over to that big old tree and looking up at it I could see how gnarled it was. Looking down, I noticed the grass around the roots had grown tall and for me, unsightly. I went down on my hands and knees and began to pull out the long clumps closest to in around the roots. My hand felt something odd down in the grass, more smooth and square then what should’ve been there. As my fingers grasped and pulled forth an old cigar box, a voice seemed to carry to me on the wind, a cold whisper, “Yooouuu muuuust.” I shuddered as I stood and carried the box into the house and took a seat at the kitchen table.

                The box was a bit weather worn but otherwise intact. It still had a bit of the La Palina label and I could make out the face of the lady fairly clear. I was a bit timid to pop open the lid but when I did I need not have worried. There was a simple folded piece of paper and the key to a safety deposit box. I unfolded the paper and began to read as follows:

                If you are reading this, my name is Ben Fellows. My bitch wife has poisoned me while eating supper. She doesn’t think I know and I’m making a break for it down the rails to try to get to Doc Stewart’s office before I die. If I do die and you find this, my wife Jenny Fellows murdered me. She wanted all my money I worked too hard for to let her spend on frilly dresses and shit. If I’m dead you can have my money, as long as it is not going to her. That bitch is coming for me.

                What followed was the name of the bank where Ben had been placing his money. I guess he hadn’t drunk it all away.  I’ve never seen Ben again. Jenny seems to be watching me though. So I’m careful. Everyone thinks I take my vacations back home, but I’ve been going down to my vacation place in Florida. Got a nice place on the beach where someday soon I’ll be retiring to, thanks to Ben.

The Sunshine Man

This is a little late in the day getting posted. I had to go to my parents after work, about an hour's drive away from my place. I needed to fix my mom's computer. I took my son and daughter with me. While we were there, she brought out a half full bag of pretzels and offered us some. We said no thanks, to which she said, "Oh ok, I thought I'd offer them to you because I want to use them up before they go stale. They're the ones I opened just before Christmas." Wow, five month old pretzels. Thanks mom. Anyways, I am home now, and not poisoned by a pretzel. Here is an interesting short story I threw together for you!

The Sunshine Man

The night was cool, paralleled with heavy darkness. The sunshine man stepped out of his house onto the black pavement of his driveway. It was time to bring the light.  

The sunshine man’s name was a direct contradiction to his appearance. He wore a long, black coat which was almost cassock like, black shoes, gloves and hat. His car, a sixty seven Eldorado, was also black. It suited him well, but yet the sunshine man hated the color black. 

He cruised down the road like a shadow slipping along over the tarmac. Before long, he was on his way from the middle class suburbs and entering the city limits. He had to bring the light. As he drove, he sang low to himself in an off key, husky voice, 

“I’m the sunshine man, 

bring the light the only way I can. 

I’m the sunshine man. 

Sunshine man. 

Can’t you see the light? 

KABLAM!” 

The sunshine man knew he was going to change the world, today like every day he was needed to; going to bring light where once was darkness. He drove along calmly, his car standing out amongst the common cars parked by the side of the road. It was early still, dark at this time, and even here in the city still and quiet yet with few people up and about. 

The sunshine man was happy. It would be a good day he told himself. He laughed aloud as he sat at a red light next to a blonde mid-fortyish woman. She was taking advantage of the ripened, red traffic beacon to light a cigarette. She flashed him a look, nervous, eyes narrowing. As the light flashed back to green, he quickly flipped her the bird and continued on. 

The city streets ran in every direction, but the sunshine man knew them well. This was his playground, and soon he came to where he chose to be today. No tall buildings here,only run down houses from the nineteen fifties, scruffy yards, surrounded by leaning chain link fencing. Wrought iron gated doors and sidewalks littered with old bottles and bits of cardboard and other trash. A homeless man shuffled on, pushing a grocery cart full of belongings.  

The sunshine man scanned his face as he slowed and coasted by, looking to see if this was the one. The one that would help him bring the light. Not the woman at the light though, and not this man. 

He rounded a corner and saw ahead on the sidewalk a man. The man on the sidewalk was Seth Philip Dykeman. He was not alone. The woman on her knees in front of Seth was his wife. As one fist grabbed her hair, fingers intertwining, twisting roughly, the other fist beat Mrs. Dykeman in the face, then the side of her head. She saw nothing and all she heard was blind ringing. The sunshine man pulled the car to the curb and stepped out. He lived for this. 

The sunshine man stood on the curb, watching until Seth in his drunkenness finally noticed him. Somewhere in the back alleys of his mind he knew he was doing the wrong thing. But the booze gave him confidence. Cowardice disguised as confidence to be a monster to his wife when she wanted the drinking to stop and spoke up. Liquid courage to get pissed at the man in black looking at him. That serene face, smiling made him want to plow his fist into it.  

“Hey man, what the fuck is your problem? You get your rocks off watching this shit or what?” 

The sunshine man took a step forward, calmly with no change of expression. This was the man. This sad man, with no significance that caused pain for no good reason, like his own father had done in the sunshine man’s youth. This was the man. The one chosen to bring the light today. 

The sunshine man spoke first, his hand reaching into his coat pulling forth his gun, “Allow me to bring you the light.” 

Now the gun spoke, “KABLAM!” 

Then twice more in rapid succession. Even before Seth hit the ground, the sunshine man had driven off.  The woman knelt still, sprayed by some of Seth, ringing louder in her head, screaming, pain, left behind by her husband bits of her hair still clenched in his frozen fist and the imprint of his ring on the side of bruised face. 

The sacrificed man had seen the light. The light was coming; coming with the new day just  brightening  the skyline. It could come now. The sunshine man laughed on his way back home. 

“KABLAM!” he shouted, grinning large, and slapped the steering wheel with his gloved hand, happy for another sunny day. 

The War For Tomorrow

Hello, another week is done (Happy Friday!!) and as promised, here is a new short story. Someday, this is one, if given time, I would like to increase in length and flesh out more. I feel like the ideas have more potential than what is hinted at in today's post. Let me know what you think! I'd love to hear from you. And now, please enjoy

The War For Tomorrow

 I awoke to silence. The space in the bed beside me empty and never slept in. I got up and went to the sono-shower. My suit from yesterday hung on a hook with some wrinkled jeans and a pair of socks lay on the floor. I stepped in and pressed the power button, closing my eyes and letting the vibratory waves wash over me for a second. I bent down and gave the socks a good shake, holding them up in front of me. It worked either way, but I did it anyways. The sono-shower was invented at the beginning of WWWIII, “The War For Tomorrow”. When the water was so limited that we could no longer have the luxury of having it in our bathrooms. Sonic waves used harmonics somehow to basically knock the dirt of stuff. I couldn’t pretend to understand. I have never been much of a man for science. I threw on the suit, now clean and wrinkle free, powered off the machine and wandered out into the kitchen.

                   My kitchen’s name was Peter Soyer. A name it had given itself one morning and announced after presenting me with a particularly noxious sandwich loaf. Peter, it declared, because it enjoyed the music of Peter and the Wolf, and Soyer after the inventor of the Soyer stove. This morning the kitchen was dazzlingly bright and I had to squint, “Peter, turn that light down!”

                  Peter complied, the light dimming to an acceptable pre-allocated setting, and then it began to express itself, “Ahoy my biological mortal. It appeals to me that you have lived through the night to see another meal.”

                  Peter had a glitch; well if you ask me it had any number of glitches, but this particular one was that it’s artificial intelligence couldn’t seem to grasp proper concept of ownership. In it’s computerized mind, I was its’ property or maybe I was a pet it had to feed. All leftover food within the building was recycled into whatever Peter produced which he (it) supplemented with food that was grown in a large community greenhouse. Peter spoke again, “Breakfast today is a jellied tomato with toast glazed in a cranberry faux mayonnaise and a glass of your own filtered urine flavoured as lemonade with a sprig of mint.”

                  I grimaced, “Peter, you need to realize that telling someone they get to drink their own urine does not add appeal to their meal. Secondly, was Heather in here this morning?”

                  “I do not recall the presence of your wife for breakfast. As per contractual obligation 354B, her breakfast has been reallocated for other or future consumption. Mister Josh, why is it unappealing to drink the self-made water? Shouldn’t you be proud to have this ability? I would be proud to make the self made water or especially tears. It would be a good skill to have; both crying and urination in my opinion.”

I let that slide and looked at the plate that slid out from a compartment in the wall. I really was hungry, but I wasn’t that hungry, was I? I pulled out my socard and checked the balance. I was lucky. I had more than enough on my budget for a coffee and bagel at the diner down the street. Socards; social cards because after WWWIII when the machines outnumbered humans about eight to one the machines began to do all the work. As the populace rebuilt itself the old way of working for pay just didn’t cut it anymore. The new system was that each person was issued a socard and one was issued to the parents at any birth. Credit was assigned according to age. A newborn had enough credit to carry it through the first eighteen years of life and purchase food, medicine, clothing, education and very limited entertainment. Only purchases from specific stores were allowed. Credit on the card could be added to as gifts from relatives, etc. Relatives of a child could purchase anything for the child if they desired. To earn credit people would go to social stations and receive a list of tasks needing done. These were things like reading a book to children at the library, cleaning litter, organizing a community concert, or working in the greenhouses. Each completed task earned credits and helped the community. Credits could be lost as punishment for crimes. There were no jails anymore. Murder would get you the loss of all credit and your socard for five years. You couldn’t steal a socard. The infamous three step verification scanned your fingerprint, read your DNA and applied certain behavioural biometrics. If you couldn’t be forgiven terrible crimes by the community, you would starve within it.

I slipped on my shoes and noticed Heather’s were missing again. When had it started, this wandering out in the night? If she’d found someone else, well good for her I suppose. We’d never even had a faint dalliance when the government put us together so it was no skin off my nose; unless she was caught. Then there could be hell to pay. It was according to the law, everyone’s responsibility to do their part to rebuild both infrastructure and population. Mates were selected scientifically and brought together to share an apartment. You were supposed to try as hard as you could to become a functional family unit. There were counsellors and therapists; doctors and life coaches. Ours was a sexual wellness coach. It struck me that they hadn’t been around lately either. How long had that been? I stepped outside heading to the diner. Maybe Heather was seeing the coach. Who cared? Having the apartment to myself was great.

Still though, I wouldn’t want her to get caught, especially out past curfew. I looked up as one of the berries hummed along overhead, the barrel of one of it’s guns automatically sensing and following me momentarily as it carried on down the road. “Bastard!,” I thought to myself. If Heather was out past curfew, then we’d both get taken in and nobody wanted that kind of undue attention. Another Berry hummed overhead. My body tensed automatically and I had to fight to force myself into a calmer state so I could walk on to get my breakfast.

I counted three more berries on the way to the diner. Berries was the slang for the weaponized drones operated by the police state we lived under. Originally when the war was over and communities reformed, the police would patrol a beat like in the olden times. Mostly they were ex-military and they wore berets. They began to just be called berets after awhile and when the drones replaced the men they were called berets as well. Over time and as a newer model appeared with a red light, they earned the term berries. We were told they were operated by the police forces still, but it had been a number of years since I’d seen an actual policeman.

I ate my breakfast and pondered what to do. I should look for Heather, but I didn’t know where to begin. I should be doing something today rather than mope about. I decided to go to work. Well, not really work, but a center where odd jobs were being handed out for credit. I worked for a few hours in a greenhouse, weeding and watering, just some general labour that earned me around 50 credits. It was cool. I went back to home, sono-showered and crashed in front of the screen in the living room. I watched a movie, but fell asleep half way through. There was still no sign of Heather the next morning when I awoke. I decided I should report her as missing to the authorities; mainly to avoid trouble for myself. I didn’t even know where to begin, where the police station even was. I had to browse for it on the network to get the address. It was not in the nicest part of town.

The walls of buildings stretched high, grey concrete, windowless and overbearing, creating long dark alleyways as I walked to the station. I wondered what it was like when vehicles had driven these roads, or even tanks during the first quarter of the war. Now, only the occasional bicycle passed along for couriers earning credits. They earned slightly more because they were also exercising more. The darkness opened into a large brick paved town center, a large empty circle except for the ominous building in it’s center. This was the station, here before me and very authoritative. As I began my approach, I felt edgy and apprehensive. I noticed three berries circling, and became sure they were focused in on me as I climbed the steps and pushed through the solid steel doors over which the word police was emblazoned in white light with electric paint.

Before me was a screen and looking at me from it was the weary face of a policeman. Was he even real, I wondered or just another intelligence meant to assist. He began to speak, “Name citizen?”

“My name is Alpha John Five Four Two.”

“Purpose today?”

“I want to report that my wife, Heather is missing.”

“For how long?”

I thought hard, it was a very tough question for me, “Um, maybe a little over a month. I waited, thinking she’d met someone but would be back. There’s been nothing though.”

The face looked thoughtful. I wondered if it was attempting to display empathy, “Yes, this does happen on occasion. You were correct to wait and not complicate us with unnecessary diversions. You have waited appropriate time. It will be investigated.”

“What should I do?” I queried.

“Do nothing. We have the information needed and will be in touch. Thank you, citizen Alpha John.”

The screen flickered and went dark. I turned and wandered back outside. The berries continued to circle, but only one, while the other two zipped along after a young girl, walking with a small bag in her hand. She noticed and began nervously walking faster. I wandered home again, went through my daily routine and headed to bed, wondering what would be investigated. The next few days passed by as usual, however with no sign of Heather or of any investigation. Then one Sunday I decided to go to the park, just to get out, enjoy nature and have a bit of a hike on a sunny day.

The park was not very big, but it had a nice, long, winding trail to the top of a steep hill that ended in a great view. I took a brief rest there and had a snack before starting back down. As I passed amongst some trees, I saw something in the woods that drew my attention. Barely visible, hidden off the path deep within the bushes and ferns was a tent. It had been there a while; with it’s weathered fabric torn in places. I approached it cautiously and began to smell something. It was so gross, the stench was overwhelming and I could hear the buzz of flies humming loudly spoiling the beautiful afternoon air.  When I got up next to it, I realized there were actually five old tarps, each set up as a tent in a cluster around the remains of a campfire. Then I saw the legs, sticking out here and there from these makeshift tents. One pair of shoes was very familiar.

I pulled out a handkerchief and holding it with one hand over my mouth and nose, with the other hand I reached out, gingerly and peeled back the old, leaf littered tarp, releasing a cloud of green bottles from what lay before me. There was a time during the war when scientists had wanted to combat PTSD. The idea was to use virtual reality to create the illusion of a safe environment for an afflicted soldier as a calming therapy I suppose. This technology became easily replicated and fell into more negative use. For a fee, you could get a VR implant on the black market. Then you could purchase cards that when plugged in, would place you in a fantasy world. As time went on biological integration improvements were made along with further development of the worlds themselves. People became addicted and fell into the worlds as an escape from their dislike of our own modern world. They dwelt as virtual junkies, trading cards around for sex or other favours. Eventually they found what they were seeking, a world so absorbing, so captivating, and biologically integrated that they would forget this one. They became like zombies, forgetting to bathe, defecating in their own clothes, mumbling nonsense, and eventually they would stagger off into society’s outskirts to curl up in fantasy, no longer thinking to eat even and they would simply waste away.

It appeared that this was Heather’s fate as I stared down at her body laying prone across the muddy ground. Flies and other insects came and went from her. Where her skin was exposed, it was bruised and bloated, covered in sores, bites and scratches. There was little resemblance to my wife. The skin on her face was sunken and her hair was falling out in clumps, exposing the metallic surface of her implant. Her unseeing eyes were wide open, but crusty and red. Imagine my utter shock when suddenly a sound came from her mouth, not words but just a strange low gibbering of sound which repeated over and over. Surprised I took a leap backwards, and terrified ran back onto the path, gasping for breath. What to do, I wondered? Do I just leave her there? I mean, I didn’t care for her per se, but we lived together, shared a house. She was my wife. Wasn’t this my duty to do something about? Could she be rescued even? I grabbed my water bottle off my belt, still breathing hard from the shock. I tipped back my head, eyes closed, gulping some fresh cool water, getting myself grounded and settled again. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and although even from here I could hear the faint buzz of flies still, I took some deep breaths and tried to relax. The humming of the flies sounded different, more consistent and when I opened my eyelids again, hanging in the air, a few feet away was a berry.

The red light of the berry blinked and the berry circled and zipped off into the trees, back and forth over the junkies and their tarps. I could hear the shutter sound over and over as it snapped and recorded the event in a series of stored photos. An eerie feeling of apprehension began to pass over me, and I began to back away, then I turned and almost running, quickly made my way back down the trail, as if nothing had even happened, but I was covered in a cold sweat. I wondered how this event would reflect back on me from the berries. When I reached home, I sono-showered and fell into bed, collapsing into a deep sleep filled with dreams of cold grey walls pressing in on me as I was chased by shambling, unseeing forms of rotting zombies. I awoke a bit later than usual the next day.

Getting up, stretching, I wandered out into the living room. Sitting on my couch, reading a book was a very beautiful, athletic looking, red haired woman. She let the book slip from her hand as she stood, smiling prettily, saying, “Well, there you are at last! I’ve been waiting for you all morning!”

Confused, I scratched my head and mustered only, “What, um who are you? Do I know you? How did you get in here?”

She looked at me like I was being a silly boy, and laughed giving her hair a twirl, which I admit was quite fetching, “So many questions! You’re cute. I like you. I am your new wife, Maria! Oh, before anything else though, when they brought me over here, the police wanted me to tell you a message, whatever it means to you. They said to say the investigation is over.”

She reached out and took me by the hand, “Let’s get breakfast!”

I began to wonder if I had gotten an implant.