Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

The fires on the south side had been burning for years. That’s where the City had stored its fuel reserves, even after it had switched over to other power sources. The rigs offshore were still burning too, and daylight had taken on a dusky hue as a result. The occasional ray of sunshine would lance down between the dark, rolling clouds above the ruins, but ten years of twilight had convinced the scattered survivors in the Park District that they’d seen the last of a blue sky in their lifetime.

Things had been much worse when the City had been in its death throes, with widespread looting blurring into the block-by-block fight for the city center. By the end, no one had really know which side they were on; everyone had simply tried to take what they could and flee. Now that everything that could be easily stolen had been carted away, the gleaners were able to eke a living from the ground, digging up the remains of supplies that the Citizens had lain away for lean times.

By the time the odd drifter arrived, there were even some small children in the group, who would always know the City as a warren of ruins endless in all directions. The only electricity they’d ever experience would be the dim sparks that the survivors were able to coax from the shattered power grid. Still, they endured, even though the healthiest of them was lean with hunger.

One day, one of the oldest Park District survivors (they often called themselves Parkers now) struck out into the Financial District in search of more canned food. Kevin Vanderkum had been a mechanic before the collapse, which meant that the poorly-tooled rifle which had been shoved into his hands as a conscript in the last days of the battle still worked. When Kevin saw a shape bumbling through the rubble ahead of him, he leveled the weapon and called out a sharp warning.

The figure lifted his arms and came into view. An ordinary-looking man, middle-aged, but it was his clothing that struck Kevin as odd–the man was wearing a business suit that, aside from a few scuff m arks, looked brand-new. All the readily available clothing had been seized by looters or rounded up by the Parkers and other survivors; Kevin himself wore a motley assortment of rags with a necktie as a scarf.

“Who are you?” Kevin said.

“She isn’t here,” was the reply.

“Edenstein’s finished.” Crowley said.

Behind him in the corridor, Franke jostled for a better view, blocked as the doorframe was by his partner’s bulk. “What makes you say that?”

Crowley stepped aside, and Franke tumbled into the study. Edenstein was face-down on his desk, blood spilled like ink over his papers, with a small neat hole in the glass behind him.

“Do you think I’m wrong?” said Crowley. “Shall we take him to a hospital?”

Franke glared, then approached the desk. Removing a fountain pen from a tweed pocket, he poked at the man’s body. It was stiff. “Three to twelve hours since death,” he muttered. “Locked up, alone, unarmed, no pistol, and yet, if we believe the exit wound, self-inflicted.”

“How’s that?”

“The gun had to have been inside his mouth,” said Franke.

Even if there’s someone I have a lot in common with, nervousness usually leads me to flub it badly. I make wooden conversation, suddenly unable to seem interested or interesting, before desperately falling back on bad jokes and verbal fireworks to desperately impress how fun and smart I am.

It never works.

Doesn’t help that some of my material is a bit cerebral.

When talking about a mutual acquaintance who was known for being petty and superficial, I once quipped “If Stacie was any shallower, she’d be a hill.” I thought it was a graceful and hilarious metaphor.

I was wrong. “…what?” the girl said.

“You know, we say someone is shallow…like they’re a pool of water,” I said desperately as every last bit of humor drained out of the room. “If a pond gets to zero…shallowability…it’s a field. If it gets negative…shallowability…then it’s a hill…!”

“I don’t get it.”

Slim C. McWhit certainly earned his name. His momma had passed him off to an aunt and headed west as soon as she could travel, leaving him only with a daguerreotype and a given name. But if nothing else the woman was prescient, as people had often said–safely out of earshot–when observing Slim’s lanky frame and uncanny skill with the knife.

He made his living as a trapper, hunter, and occasional gambler, as did many of the old cowhands rattling around Prosperity Falls. Ever since the Ide raids had caused the settlement there to splinter–and drop its time-honored rules against gambling and making a dime off Ma Nature–there had been opportunity for folks like Slim.

A fellow Texan had arrived with Slim, one Coulton Baines. Colt Baines was cut from the same cloth and shared a similar story of growing into his name, even though he preferred Remingtons and Schofields for his trick shooting. Though they’d come as friends, the two soon parted as enemies over a woman, and not an establishment in Prosperity Falls saw one coming without a shade of fear over what’d happen if the other happened upon them.

“I just don’t see how a harmless little game of ‘Hunters vs Infected’ is such a big deal,” Mikey whined. “It’s bandannas and nerf darts. Nobody’s dying.”

“You’d do well to remember two situations, Mikey,” Dr. Jonsen said. “Osborn College and Southern Michigan University.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” said Mikey.

Jonsen sighed. “About eight years ago, a game of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ went on at Osborn. Things got out of hand thanks to a big reward for the winner offered by the fraternity council. By the end, the survivors holed themselves up in an abandoned dormitory with canned food and snipers on the roof.”

Mikey laughed. “That’s what they get for having a reward. Our only prize is bragging rights.”

“Then you might pay more attention to what happened at SMU. Their game of ‘Hunters vs. Infected’ coincided with an outbreak of cordyceps meningoencephalitis. Ninety people died and the rest were sick for months.”

“Are you…are you saying that a real zombie outbreak happened during the game?” Mikey said, eyes wide as saucers.

“Perhaps,” Jonsen said. “The official report was rather vague.”

“You’re going to have to tell me more about that.”

This post is part of the April Blog Chain at Absolute Write. This month’s challenge is to describe one of your characters in 50 words or less and then have that character interview you.

Peg Gregory has found herself in the place she’s always dreaded—a dead end. Stuck hauling supplies to a backwater planet no one’s ever cared about, there’s nothing to do but sell homemade beer and lob verbal grenades at her crewmates. They claim Peg’s being insubordinate; she finds it liberating.

“So, what special kind of madness has you thinking of signing on with the United Nations Transport Service?” said the recruiter behind the desk—Peg, according to her name tag.

“Well, I love to travel and see exotic places, but space travel is expensive,” I said. “I figure that a tour with the UNTS will let me get a good bead on spaceflight and maybe pay back a few outstanding student loans. See the universe, earn some scratch.”

“Of course. How do you feel about endless expanses of boring blackness, punctuated with beat-up hulks of stations and eight hours of leave on a pissant rock with fewer inhabitants than your high school and about as many opportunities for sightseeing?”

“Not…as good,” I replied sheepishly. “But a rock’s a rock, and I’ve only seen one so far. I also think you’re underestimating my high school. The ceiling tiles had some really interesting rust stains.”

Peg rolled her eyes and filled out he requisite line on the application. “Let me ask you this, then: ever get seasick?”

I nodded. “Once, but in my defense there was a swarm of jellyfish involved.”

“Imagine the worst, pukingest, colon-twistingest part of that, and multiply it by a hundred. That’s launch and soft landing, every time, all the time. Also happens when the gravity goes out, which happens a lot on the rattletrap tubs they throw you on. Ever see vomit in zero-g? You’ll be able to write a master’s thesis on it before you’re done with training.”

My stomach churned just thinking about it. “That’s why God invented dramamine.”

“Yes, nothing like a drowsy helmsman on a trillion-dollar tub.” Peg drawled, filling out another portion of the app. “Afraid of heights?”

“Only when I’m near the edge, and even then peer pressure will get me to the lip. I even went all the way to the very edge of Victoria Falls once, on a dare from my brother.”

Another part of the form scribbled in. “You do know that space is nothing more than one gigantic neverending drop, right? You’re always on the edge.”

I shrugged. “Seems like you are too.”

Peg gritted her teeth. “You know what? I was trying to save you from making the same mistakes I did. But if you insist, then screw it. I’m filling out the rest of your application for you. Top marks across the board.”

Check out this month’s other bloggers, all of whom have posted or will post their own responses:
Yoghurtelf – (link to this month’s post)
COchick – (link to this month’s post)
Steam&Ink – (link to this month’s post)
xcomplex – (link to this month’s post)
pezie – (link to this month’s post)
aimeelaine – (link to this month’s post)
auburnassassin – (link to this month’s post)
Della Odell – (link to this month’s post)
Juniper – (link to this month’s post)
Proach – (link to this month’s post)
allmyposts – (link to this month’s post)
jkellerford – (link to this month’s post)
LadyMage – (link to this month’s post)
dolores haze – (link to this month’s post)
Inkstrokes – (link to this month’s post)

“The Kirik Deep. Not particularly deep when compared with some of the great oceanic trenches, but nevertheless the deepest part of the ocean that isn’t an active or former subduction zone.”

Jenny fiddled with her microphone. “And…you’re sending a robot down there? One you built for the purpose?”

“Yes. We hope to collect some specimens of creatures living there, as well as a bit of diatomaceous ooze.”

“So…you’re going to an unremarkable part of the ocean to send a robot down, and you think that this qualifies as newsworthy?”

“Not unremarkable, no. No part of the ocean floor is unremarkable, but the Kirik Deep is part of the abyssal plain, not a trench, so the creatures there are subjected to pressures only a few orders of magnitude less intense but whose ancestors have not been subducted to that depth.”

Jenny switched the mike off. “I see. Well, we’ll be sure to let you know if the story runs.” She sighed to herself, wondering how she could spin something with such a low sensationalism quotient to her editor, if only to get reimbursed for coming all the way out to listen to a marine biologist prattle on.

“Why the hell do trees have to dump this shit on my car?” Lucas whines, clearing a swath in the pollen and plant debris covering his car with the back of his hand. “Why can’t they just drop their leaves and leave it at that?”

“You don’t want to know,” says Caleb. “Just wash it.”

“Yes I do,” Lucas replies. “You’re a bio major. Tell me.”

Caleb sighs. “No. You won’t like it, and then I’ll never hear the end of your whining.”

“You’ll never hear the end of my whining if you don’t.”

“Fine,” says Caleb. “The pollen? Plant sperm. The little stalks all over your car? What do you think makes sperm?”

“You mean…” Lucas begins.

“Yes. The trees have sex with the world and then their penises fall off. Onto your car.” Caleb is smiling by the end, as he sees Lucas’s expression turn to horror.

“UGH!” Lucas cries, recoiling. “Great, thanks! Now I’ll know that forever, thanks! I can’t un-know it!”

“You asked.

Companies and governments “seeded” vast sectors of space with remotely-piloted drones and the infrastructure to support them–automated repair stations and a network of tiny, cheap hyperspace relays. They took advantage of the fact that propulsion and communication technologies had evolved far faster than the ability to put a human in the driver’s seat. A person traveling at speed in one of the remote drones would be reduced to chunky salsa even if they’d had air to breathe.

But with the relays in place, a person with a decent connection on Earth could pilot a remote drone nearly in real-time, doing surveying and exploration work that completely automated probes couldn’t. And they could sell the minerals they found and potentially habitable sites for future colonization, if the technology ever appeared.

Cam had cashed in his college fund to buy a rattletrap of an RPD, and he spent close to ten hours a day hooked up to its interface, exploring places he’d never see with his own eyes and scraping together just enough cash from what he found to keep the operation going.

Big scores happened all the time–just never to him. So when he saw that a promising system already had a drone in orbit, he wished for the thousandth time that his tiny ship had some kind of offensive weapons.

“To this day, none know what happened,” Storyteller continued, drawing his audience in still further. “Some say it was the weapons of the old world, finally loosed form their old slumber. Others claim it was something new entirely. But all agree that on that day, and many since, the sky appeared to all the world like it had been sundered by flame.”

“I’ve met people who lived through it,” said Trixie. “Don’t think they’d even agree on that much.”

“I like Storyteller’s version better, even if it is a little embellished,” Kayla retorted.

“When Jasper left seeking the Legion, he claimed that a secondary purpose of his journey would be to learn the true story of those dark days, when so many died and so much changed,” Storyteller continued.

“What do you think happened?” Trixie cried.

Without skipping a beat, Storyteller responded. “I’m of the opinion that the world had grown hungry for the stories of old, which we still hear today. Stories of bravery, of heroism, of danger. The world wants us to tell stories like that, and to live them.”