Sangamon Taylor rolled over, and fluffed his pillow in an attempt to dislodge it from the tree branch or rock or whatever Debbie had apparently pitched the tent on. He slid over, trying to find her. Whether it was to whine at her about the accommodations, or just for some old-fashioned sharing the warmth, he hadn't quite made up his mind. But she wasn't there. And it had been months since the last camping trip. Besides, he'd sworn he wasn't going anywhere without room service and a honeymoon suite without a really good reason.
So why was there a flashlight under his pillow? Why was his bed trying to supplement the already-astronomical salaries of the local practitioners of Chiropractic? He rolled his head, emitting a series of satisfying popping noises from gases releasing in the synovial membranes in his neck, and opened his eyes.
This wasn't the Least Insulated Studio Apartment in Brighton. He really did need to do something about those windows. Come winter, he'd be bleeding cash on heating oil like Union Oil's Platform A had bled oil all over the California coast. Nor was it Debbie's apartment. It looked like a dorm room, but without the tell-tale scent of stale beer and heaps of unwashed laundry. Just a little bit of antiseptic and soap -- some of it coming from his own skin. And the artificial chemical freshness of cheap laundry detergent. Clearly, whoever owned this place didn't give a fuck about dumping massive amounts of phosphates into the local water system. Where the fuck was he, anyways?
He got out of bed and took stock of the room. Flashlight, spare shirts -- he pulled a long-sleeved shirt on over the short-sleeve one he was already wearing. "Very retro," he said, to the yellow face on the shirt. It had been evidently been long enough since the 70's for nostalgia. Hopefully miniskirts would be next. The desk coughed up paper and pen, and then paydirt -- a radio. S.T. flicked it on, and started twirling the dials. Static. Just static. Radio fucking silence across all bands, like they were in the middle of a blackout. Cover the windows and turn out the lights and put your head under the bed. Even on the res they'd picked up a half-dozen stations loud and clear, and a dozen more if you didn't mind your news intercut with country music. Like watching scrambled porn on cable television; the message still got through, but it wasn't nearly as satisfying.
He shut the static off and listened. Not only was there nothing on the radio, there wasn't much noise at all. A few sounds of people moving outside the door. He'd go out in a minute, but if this was all some elaborate joke by Debbie and Tricia -- no, Bart -- this was a guy's prank, he wanted to be ready to show them the error of their ways. Otherwise, it really was quiet. Too fucking quiet. He should have noticed it a long time ago. The usual sounds of the city were completely gone. No slamming car doors, fire engine sirens, immigrants chewing out small children or spouses in every language imaginable. Just silence, and that wasn't easy to counterfeit. He snapped his fingers by one ear and then the other -- tympanic membrane, auditory nerve, and temporal lobe all accounted for and functioning normally.
Time to figure out what the game was. The hallway beyond was dark. Maybe they really were in a blackout. But then when had the U.S. gone to war, and why didn't he remember it? Why hadn't he been invited to any protest marches? He went back for the flashlight, switched it on, and left the room. There were a handful of people in the hall, none of whom he recognized. Politely avoiding eye contact, he walked towards the nearest intersection.
So why was there a flashlight under his pillow? Why was his bed trying to supplement the already-astronomical salaries of the local practitioners of Chiropractic? He rolled his head, emitting a series of satisfying popping noises from gases releasing in the synovial membranes in his neck, and opened his eyes.
This wasn't the Least Insulated Studio Apartment in Brighton. He really did need to do something about those windows. Come winter, he'd be bleeding cash on heating oil like Union Oil's Platform A had bled oil all over the California coast. Nor was it Debbie's apartment. It looked like a dorm room, but without the tell-tale scent of stale beer and heaps of unwashed laundry. Just a little bit of antiseptic and soap -- some of it coming from his own skin. And the artificial chemical freshness of cheap laundry detergent. Clearly, whoever owned this place didn't give a fuck about dumping massive amounts of phosphates into the local water system. Where the fuck was he, anyways?
He got out of bed and took stock of the room. Flashlight, spare shirts -- he pulled a long-sleeved shirt on over the short-sleeve one he was already wearing. "Very retro," he said, to the yellow face on the shirt. It had been evidently been long enough since the 70's for nostalgia. Hopefully miniskirts would be next. The desk coughed up paper and pen, and then paydirt -- a radio. S.T. flicked it on, and started twirling the dials. Static. Just static. Radio fucking silence across all bands, like they were in the middle of a blackout. Cover the windows and turn out the lights and put your head under the bed. Even on the res they'd picked up a half-dozen stations loud and clear, and a dozen more if you didn't mind your news intercut with country music. Like watching scrambled porn on cable television; the message still got through, but it wasn't nearly as satisfying.
He shut the static off and listened. Not only was there nothing on the radio, there wasn't much noise at all. A few sounds of people moving outside the door. He'd go out in a minute, but if this was all some elaborate joke by Debbie and Tricia -- no, Bart -- this was a guy's prank, he wanted to be ready to show them the error of their ways. Otherwise, it really was quiet. Too fucking quiet. He should have noticed it a long time ago. The usual sounds of the city were completely gone. No slamming car doors, fire engine sirens, immigrants chewing out small children or spouses in every language imaginable. Just silence, and that wasn't easy to counterfeit. He snapped his fingers by one ear and then the other -- tympanic membrane, auditory nerve, and temporal lobe all accounted for and functioning normally.
Time to figure out what the game was. The hallway beyond was dark. Maybe they really were in a blackout. But then when had the U.S. gone to war, and why didn't he remember it? Why hadn't he been invited to any protest marches? He went back for the flashlight, switched it on, and left the room. There were a handful of people in the hall, none of whom he recognized. Politely avoiding eye contact, he walked towards the nearest intersection.
[to here]
Reply
Leave a comment