Day 5 - Dead heads (2)

The Deadheads were worse than ever now.  Several years had passed since Catherine had lost Gary to the devices.  Now screen and goggles zombies were everywhere.  She’d returned to the city, hoping to see if she’d see him.

Although the last time she’d seen him, it was fleeting, he appeared gaunt and dirty.  His clothes that he once filled hung loose, pants pulled tight with a string visibly hooked over his protruding hip bones.  Who knew if he dressed himself, or if he’d simply stood there zoned out as a missionary dressed him?

There were more of them now, in the past the Deadheads outnumbered the Addicts, it appeared the council's decision to extend the power mesh to cover the park had triggered a shift in the demographic.  Perversely Catherine thought this was probably deliberate, the deadheads were easier to manage, and less trouble than the drug addicts.  

Cleaner some would say, for when they collapsed, they simply collapsed, whereas the addicts would have needles, spew, and even shit themselves.  

Second, the council were perversely doing a service for people, by having the power mesh here at Central Station families could come and collect their screen zombies and take them home.  No need to drive in, simply catch the train.

Catherine sat on the park bench at the Eddy Avenue end of Belmore Park, facing away from the road into the park central.  A girl sat next to her, her goggles on, hands moving in front of her as if she was playing a piano.

She simply watched, she knew what she was here to do. She waited.

A siren sounded off to her left, from the Firestation facing onto Pitt St. running down the western side of Balmoral, it got louder as the fire-truck passed behind her before turning north onto Elizabeth St towards Redfern.

A woman, a mother from what she could tell walked past, barely glancing at Catherine. Naturally, there was a fleeting acknowledgement as they were the only two not wearing goggles, or staring at the screen oblivious to everything around them.

She looked at the slip of paper in her hand, ‘7285’.

Odd. Could all be undone just by entering those four numbers into a black box.

They said it was an EMP, Catherine had gone home and googled it. She was smart enough to do this using an anonymous browser.  Electro Magnetic Pulse.  They said it would be enough to destroy the power mesh and the wifi within several blocks.

I wonder what will happen, she thought.  She remembers when Gary’s Oculus was tethered, and the wifi would fail.  He’d go manic, screaming, yelling, demanding that it get turned back on, even when he was the only person to turn it on.  He’d never throw his goggles. No, not his goggles but he’d throw other things, vases, books, cups, anything within reach, anything that could hurt or damage the space.

What would happen here, not a lot to throw around, maybe they’d drop to the ground screaming, maybe they’d fight, perhaps they’d rip the plants out from the ground, who knew?

Screaming, yelling can from the centre of the park ‘Fuck Mum!!  What are you doing here? I was, I was about to wind, about to kill the BBEG, Fuck Mum!!  WHAT!!’

She’d found them, the woman looking for her loved one, she’d found them.

She waited, and the screaming stopped, replaced by sobbing, not one person but two. Catherine watched as the sound got louder, the woman walking with her arm around the shoulders of a young woman, skinny, wearing a singlet, her skin grimy from days without a bath.  

The girl walked, hunched over, hands forward holding a snapped headset in her hands. Sobbing over the broken goggles.

What was it that was so addictive?  Catherine did not know, she’d never been game to look.  She caught Michael looking once, he’d snuck some goggles into his room, they’re cheap and easy to get hold of.  Thankfully those didn’t work, thank god.

Doug didn’t know she’d gotten in touch with the Luddites.  That’s where she’d gotten the EMP.

They said noon sharp.  Her watch vibrated, and she glanced down. Two minutes.

She lifted the sports back from the ground beside her feet and placed it between herself and the piano player.  She didn’t even notice, but they never did.

It was leather, with a high-quality zip, and it slid open easily.

Pulling the bag open the keypad was revealed, touching it, simply moving her fingers near, the numbers lit up.  She’d done that a dozen times before leaving the house worried the batteries would go flat.

Glancing at her watch, only a minute now.

Electro Magnetic Pulse, She’d read a little more than its meaning, not enough though.

“EMP can be caused by a natural effect, such as a solar flare, lightning strike, or man-made effects, such as a nuclear explosion.”  She didn’t read anymore.

They said, just enter the number ‘7285’. She didn’t need to look at the paper, that was a habit, she knew the number.  They didn’t say anything about an explosion.  Her watch vibrated, and she looked at it.

7285

---

NOTE - This is an extension/re-write based upon a story-a-day entry in 2017 - Day 17 - Deadheads

Day 4 - Ferryman Wanted

 "Oi! Old man. What’s the story?"

    Charon stopped, his muscles relaxing, pausing momentarily, the oar thudding against the gunwale. Lifting his head, the smile lines, if that’s what they were, at the edge of his eyes tightened as he squinted, looking towards the shore. 

"Hey, Old Man! You got ears?" 

Odd. He is alone, where is the throng of people, of the dead waiting to cross the river? Even odder he can see the sign. Can he read it? Charon asked himself. The boat continued to drift towards the bank, running up the muddy incline. 

Charon stood, watching the boy before him. He is young for someone wanting to cross the river. It was not odd to get someone so young; this boy though did not look sickly, nor did he bear the marks of a fatality. At a guess, Charon would put him at 13, maybe 12. "Can you read it, boy?" 

"Yeah, what is it though?" 

"What do you mean what is it? It’s a job. Are you interested?" asked Charon.

"Know it’s a job, but what’s a ferryman?"

"What’s your name, boy?" 

"Brandon." 

"Well then Brandon, a ferryman is me, I am the ferryman." 

Brandon looked at the old man standing before him, gaunt, dressed in nothing more than a loincloth, his long grey thinning hair matted to his skull. His gnarly hands rested upon the pommel of his oar, its blade dug into the mud of the shoreline holding the heavy oaken boat still as the water of the river flowed past, pressing upon the hull, trying to pull it adrift. 

"You interested in the job, Brandon?" 

"I might be, what are the conditions?" 

Charon smiled inwardly. What are the conditions? Who is this kid, barely old enough to know of such things as conditions? He was able to read the sign though; maybe this is the one. There’d been few before, none successful, or none that lasted more than a few hours. 

"Have you got your coin, boy?" 

Brandon looked puzzled for a moment, and then he recalled, watching his mother place a coin in his hand. Looking down, he opened his hand revealing an old penny. He raised his hand, palm open to show the old man. 

"Good, good. Come, we can discuss the job as we cross," said Charon, gesturing for the boy to climb aboard, watching with some satisfaction as the boy nimbly, ably boarded the boat. 

Leaning upon the oar, pushing down, Charon lifted his weight, leveraging the boat free, the current grabbing and tugging the boat into a spin. Turning, dropping the throat of the oar into its lock, he turned, facing his destination, pulling hard on the oar’s improvised tiller to point the boat to the far shore. 

As if appearing from thin air, four paddle blades folded out from the hull, two on each side, and the forward momentum began; he had time, and all was calm. 

"What do I call you?" asked Brandon. 

"Oh, I’ve many names, all spelt the same way but pronounced differently. I am Charon with a ch, or it could be pronounced with a k, even a h or any other variation of this, even Aaron," replied the ferryman. 

Brandon looked over his shoulder briefly, towards what he assumed would be the other side of the river, then turned back to Charon. 

"You look like you deserve respect, so I think I’ll call you sir." 

Astute young fellow thought the ferryman. 

"So why the job ad? You going to retire or something?" 

Retire? Charon had heard that before, there was the fat banker, who complained on the whole trip that he’d never gotten to retire, then the spinster that complained her retirement was ruined by the death of her partner; boy when she got hold of him, he was in for it. 

"No Brandon, not retire. I need more hands to do the work. It’s almost like a seasonal effect where I occasionally need help." 

"Help? Doing what? I was the only one at the river today, at your sign, and now I’m your only passenger." 

"You use some interesting words, my boy. Conditions, retire, today. I know of such things, I’ve not experienced them. Today, as you put it, is a construct of the living, it is how they measure time or account for the daylight hours as compared to the dark, there’s none of that here." 

"You’ve not answered my question." 

"No, I’ve not. Help, you ask? Well, we have a season upon us and the dead amass on the shore, requiring passage into the afterlife; I can’t keep up. It’s not been like this before. It’s been busy in the past, but now, well, they all seem to be in a rush. Some can pay, and those who cannot. It’s not uncommon to have to hold off the rabble from the fair paying passengers; now though even the fair paying passengers are squabbling, fighting, pushing to get aboard; they complain I’m too slow, I take too few." 

"But I was the only one waiting, there was no one around me!" interrupted Brandon. 

"I know," responded Charon, leaning into his oar, angling the bow of the boat upstream, to not drift south too much. He knew now Brandon was to go the higher land, the land upstream; he was innocent, neither good nor bad.

 

"That’s what makes you different, it seems we are meant to have time to talk," he continued. "About what? About the job? About me becoming a ferryman." 

"Yes, I think so, Brandon. What brought you here?" What he really wanted to know, and would ask at the right time ‘What have you left behind?’

Day 3 - Dice Goblin and Me

Pick me, Pick me, I’m a Chonky D,

King of all the dice, all agree.

D12, 10, and 6’s have nothing on me.

Critical Success, Nat 20’s are all me,

No fumbles fail, or crit miss sprees.

Oh please, pick me, pick me.

Not broken, like others as you see,

My numbers are clearly, your destiny.

Oh Dice Goblin Mick, Pick me.

No dice jail, only thrones for me,

Never cocked, or thrown, you'll see.

My worst, a dirty 20, guaranteed.

Oh Dice Goblin Mick, choose me,

Though not overly discerning, I agree.

Oh Dice goblin, please, please, pick me.

Some Dice Lingo used/referred to inform the limerick:

A Chonk is a 95mm, 20 Sided Dice.  Designed to make rolls even more epic.

Dice Goblin - A dice goblin is driven by sheer quantity, collecting as many dice as possible with little consideration for their quality or sentimental value. They derive joy from acquiring new dice, often amassing an impressive hoard.

Dice Nicknames - bones, counters, craps, ivories, shakers and tombstones

Broken Dice - A dice with numbers that are illegible or unclear

Dice Jail - Concept used in tabletop roleplaying games such as Dungeons and Dragons (D&D), where dice that roll poorly or cause negative consequences for the player characters are put aside and not used for subsequent rolls.

Rolling a 20 - Critical Success, Crit or ‘Nat 20’

Rolling a 1 - Fumble, Crit Failure or ‘Nat 1’

Rolling Two Two’s - a tutu’s or ballerina’s

Dirty 20 - whenever you get a score of twenty that you didn’t get.

Day 2 - Five Sentence Story

He turned and, instead of walking, he ran back down the path towards his car, needing to escape before his courage faltered again; this was his limit, any further and it would all be over. Suddenly, the realisation struck him: he had locked his keys in the car, a subconscious act to create another barrier between him and his old life, as painful as it was. Without hesitation, thoughts of his daughters and Esther flooding his mind, he smashed the back passenger window with a rock the size of a melon, reaching through to pop the front door lock. Moments later, the car was speeding up the dirt road, the chilly air whipping around him, penetrating his skin and nostrils, his senses alive with the choice of life he had just made.

The above is an Epilogue to 2019 Story-a-day - Day 10 

Day 1 - Gorgongenics

The town car pulled away from the curb, accelerating, its tyres making a tearing sound as the tread rips through the water running down the street from the downpour that finished only minutes before he pulled himself from the car. Looking about, “Odd” was the thought. Why would a Cryogenics Service be in such an area? Looking at the business card in the palm of his hand, then to the street sign bolted to the side of the row of workers' cottages, ‘Downshire Place’, then to the street sign, Lower Fort St. 

The right place. Looking left, then right, the workers' cottages extended in both directions, all tidy and gentrified, the street quiet, the cold chill of the wet autumn morning occasionally interrupted as a car moved down the street. A long way from the bustle of what The Rocks area would’ve been back in the day.

Turning, the opposite side of the street was walled with three-story buildings, warehouses, the pulley beam at the highest point of each building revealing them as such. Scanning, he finally spied a building numbered 17, with 19 to its right. He turned left and walked up Lower Fort, looking to his left at the workers' cottages, 16, 14, 12, 10, 8, that’s it, stopping again at the rip of a car flying past. 

He looked at the face of his mobile, pressing hard, holding the power switch, counting but not counting until the power slide came up; he powered it down. He let his hand fall to his side and looked towards the number 8, in metallic gold on a green door, the stonework, paint, and trimmings all the same, duplicate reflective of the buildings on either side of it, the only difference being the green door and the metallic gold number 8. Pensively, he stepped forward, sliding his mobile into his jeans pocket, pausing momentarily before rapping loudly on the door.

An eternity, that is just a moment, passes before the sound of a lock clicking, a door chain sliding into place, and then opening, ajar. ‘Yes?’ the voice tired, aged as the face, half-covered, milky-eyed, scanning him. ‘Ghustaf sent me.’ 

‘Ah, Ghustaf, do you have the papers?’ Without speaking, his hand passed into his breast pocket and pulled out the long envelope, and passed it through the slit, not a word spoken, the door pushed shut. 

Click! 

Again he waits, this time though, a moment turns into an eternity. It rains again, he stands, back turned to the number 8, watching as a tear of a car passes by, its tyres like the others ripping as the water flows down the road, forming a river in the gutters on either side of the road. 

Another passes, the rain abates, the water flow slows, and clouds roll on before the door again opens behind him. Turning, the door fully opens, and a tall man, liveried in a suit and tails, stands before him. ‘Welcome, Joshua. Please follow me.’ He turns, not waiting for a response or acknowledgement, and walks down the long passage that runs the full length of one side of the workers' cottage, as in all such cottages.

Joshua steps in and follows; his sneakers, their soles now dry from having stood on the verandah for so long, make no noise, the floor beneath carpeted, suppressing the creak of old floorboards. The walls, although dark, appear to be covered in an old green wallpaper. What pictures he can make out in the dim light are generic, timeless images of landscapes, windmills, and the hall table, bare but for an empty vase. 

The man before him turns, pausing momentarily to look back at his guest before stepping through and onto a set of steps descending into the basement of the building. Here he pauses, waiting for Joshua to arrive. A small room, 10 feet by 10 feet at most, opens before him, the centre of the space occupied by a single pedestal, high enough and broad enough to hold a ledger and quill. 

Joshua’s envelope, it's content spread atop it beside the ledger. ‘Sir, your papers appear in order, the dates and conditions set.’ Open-handed, the man gestures towards the paperwork. ‘Please sign, and we will proceed.’

A moment later it was done, his host again wordlessly communicated and turned, exiting the space through the door opposite the one they entered through. Joshua, as before, simply follows. 

The hall they enter is narrower than the one above and darker, with no carpet, and no creak as the wooden floor, walls, and ceiling are replaced by sandstone. Lit by dim lights, daisy-chained together by exposed black cables pinned to the walls. 

After a short time, a good 30 to 40 feet, the hall is intersected by two passages running 90 degrees to the one the two men walked down, his host continuing past. As he passes, glancing to his left before stepping on again, he spies a passageway of doors, at least 10 aside, spaced about 4 feet apart at most, all shut, dark, redwood, gold numbers, polished, centred at head height on each.  No door handles, just keyholes.

The men walk on, through another two intersections before arriving at a third; the suit turns left, this time not waiting or looking back to see if he is followed. Joshua turns into the passageway behind him. Two doors down, on the left, the door, unlike all the others, is open, the man, his host, the suit, standing on the far side of it. “Your room, sir.” 

Joshua stops, and turns towards the space open before him; it’s 3 feet by 3 feet, the back wall a picture frame, the picture obscured by the darkness. Without looking around, at anything or anywhere beyond this space, his space, his room. 

Not even acknowledging his guide, he steps in. The door closed silently behind him, the only noise the click of the lock. Darkness. 

‘Thunk!’ 

What was the portrait in the back wall flings open; an alabaster face, two crystal green eyes gaze at him, a mop of hair, dreadlocked, no, it moves, writhing, framing the smooth, beautiful features. He more senses than feels the effect of the gaze. 

As if talking himself into a meditative state, he concentrates first on his extremities, his fingers, his toes, then his forearms, and calves, a stillness absorbing him from his appendages inwards. 

The stillness as it enters his shoulders, his neck, his groin, his lower abdomen, the calm reaching for his chest, he breathes, then stops.