Season of Winds

Day 7,722

There was a fire somewhere out on the west side this week that broke free of the hoses and spread and spread through what must have been miles of empty warehouses. The sky was red and furious with smoke for days, the sun a malevolent dim orb glaring through the unbreathable air. It was the first time I’ve had all the windows shut in years, and I’ll tell you I suffered, sweltered, and sweated. The lights of firetrucks flickered up the sides of the urban canyons evening and morning for three days, and for a while I feared it might reach to my tower. Would I have to leave? Could I? I haven’t spoken to another person for so long, I have forgotten the trick of being human. Better, perhaps, to burn?

A needless worry, as it turned out; the fires were beaten down, and the sky cleared, and life went on. The cranes are up already, busy with activity in the blue haze of the summer, and in a few months, a year at most, there won’t be any sign of the buildings that burned. It has happened before, it will happen again; people, no less than ants, will rebuild and rebuild as long as they remain. In that sense we are still connected, I suppose.

When I opened the windows again today, it felt like breathing out, like this building and I stood that much straighter. The city below is green and blue, and from the lake below I can just make out the singing of the imported gondoliers.

The Baths of Saint Gellert

There’s a river that winds its way between the two cities, but the last time Cedar saw it was when she first arrived. It’s been weeks, and she must have crossed over it a dozen times or more, because the road signs change, the colors of the streetlights change, the paving stones changes, but she hasn’t seen anything but stone and brick and frosted glass underfoot. In the cafes and bars and libraries and public baths, she hears running water; the air is everywhere heavy and vibrant with moisture, but there’s no end to the concrete she can find.

She remembers bridges, but only in retrospect; when she turns back on herself to find them, they’re gone, hidden behind another gently curving row of buildings. She climbs to sit among the rooftop gardens with the birds, and off in the distance she sees the shifting reflection of sunlight on water, but each street she takes toward it curves back on itself or is shuttered by a rusted gate, a collapsed building, a pile of unmoving maintenance equipment.

The longer she looks, the fewer people she sees. When she arrived, the streets were choked with bodies, faces obscure behind upturned collars and downturned hats, eyes shining in the evening with malice or desire or good humor, but now? The streets are empty of everything save the wind, the sound of leaves against the pavement, the ghost of the river. Her footsteps echo off the buildings, double and triple themselves. Every door she tries is locked, every business newly closed.

Stratigraphy

Hylas has been doing the webcam grind for nearly a year now and he’s just barely breaking even. “It hurts… hurts to be… shot. Maybe if I’d known that, I’da shot… shot less people.” The ceiling was off-white. He wasn’t anyone’s prize. “Five hundred days, I said. Do the third row before the second tomorrow, that’s all.” His voice was thick and crumbly, strained.

“Who’s next?” says Karen as the last guy works his way back toward his friends, his lips a little purple with bruising.

“Ah, geez,” he says, and bends over the desk, already hard. Light from the city below travels up his body and over his face as the blinds rotate up leaving a thin oily film that he would feel as he crawled into his cold bed tonight with another half bottle of scotch inside him. First went the tall buildings, the new buildings, then the old, the sturdy buildings, graceless squat buildings, last the shacks and the shantys and the tents and the hoovervilles.

Xiksthan leans forward, kisses him over the many-legged remains of their meal. The kid went to the door with them and he was left alone with the couple. She laughed raggedly. They didn’t know Ed. Lightning flashed and the lights went out and Murphy screamed, high and shrill.

The Sport of Free Men

The batter steps up to the plate and the crowd gets baroque with it.

“Heyyyyyy, 25, you’ve got too many things in your pockets!”

“What do you have in there? Your cell phone?”

“A pack of cigarettes?”

“A deck of playing cards?”

Strike one.

“Is that a walky-talky?”

“You can’t bring your copy of House of Leaves to the plate, 25!”

“25, you’re supposed to put the potato down the front of your pants!”

Strike two.

“How do you slide with all that junk in your trunk?”

“There’s just too much in your pockets! It’s spilling out right now!”

“Aren’t you worried about tearing your pants? With everything you own in your pockets?”

“Emp! ty! out! your! pock! ets!” Clap clap clap clap clap.

A long smash to deep right field and—well, it’s a homerun, what did you expect? 25 rounds the bases, high fives his teammates, avoids eye contact with the crowd. Alas, it doesn’t work. As he returns to the dugout, one final chirp is handed down: “Good thing you hit a homerun, you might have lost your keys if you’d had to really run!”

They go on to win 16-4, but, you know, baseball’s about the journey, not the destination, or so I’m told.

All Children Are Wanted, All Dogs Are Loved

Walkable cities, they say. Jobs a-plenty. Drugstores that don’t lock everything behind glass. Grocery stores staffed with humans. Lights in living room windows, no cameras in the street, benches in the parks. Only a moderate amount of child torture. More kinds of candy bars than you can count. Fifty seven different kinds of cereal, all free of the bacteria that cause explosive diarrhea.

Really, you could do worse.

A riot breaks out, but it’s just mass hysteria; the rumors of flesh-eating cockroaches spreading ebola are just rumors. The fires, looting, assaults, mass shootings, just the byproduct of any complicated society. The sidewalks are paved, the buildings are accessible, wealth inequality is low, computers are new and exciting, winters are cold, summers are moderate, the hole in the ozone is rapidly closing.

Things can only improve from here.

In the urban core, all the Allan Kupers gather in abandoned theaters, deserted shopping malls, abandoned power stations, turn up the music to drown out the human tide. High stakes unsanctioned dance competitions, a wave of revolution on the crest of breaking. The hungering dust settles on food left too long on the counter, but that’s the nature of things. What is not eaten is consumed.