Strange Perceptions (9 page)

"You have one new message and three saved messages.

"First message left Wednesday 9:06am"

“Comprehensive Wellness Incorporated calling for Alex Gardner. It’s time for your annual physical. Please call our office at 555-8241 to schedule your appointment. Thank you.”

"End of new messages."

"You have two new messages and four saved messages."

"First message left Thursday 2:13pm"

“Mr. Gardner, this is the Department of Licensing Automated Renewal System again. Perhaps you are unaware that driving with an expired license is a class two misdemeanor with maximum jail time of six months. Our Breeze-E Pass records show you passing two different toll booths today. Please contact your local Department of Licensing office at 555-4149 immediately. Have a nice day.”

"Next message left Thursday 8:53pm"

“Hey Al, it’s Jimbo! Get your butt over to O’Hanley’s. We’re arguing over one of your theories. The one about fluoride. Does it dumb us down or make us docile like sheep? I can’t remember. Get over here and I’ll buy you a cold one. I know it’s a Thursday night but, hey, it’s not like you have to be at work tomorrow, is it?”

"End of new messages."

"You have one new message and six saved messages.

"First new message."

“Mr. Gardner, this is the Department of Licensing Automated Renewal System again. We are worried about you. You have ignored our repeated attempts to contact you. We have generated a comprehensive behavioral analysis as mandated by the United States Health Care Freedom Act and have discovered several disturbing items. Your recent bank activity shows not only tobacco purchases, but an inordinate amount of alcohol purchases. This combined with your refusal to schedule your annual physical shows a blatant disregard for your health. Your lack of employment may indicate depression. Your public library record indicates possible subversive tendencies. These facts have raised a red flag. In order to protect both you and those around you we have issued a warrant for your immediate arrest. Have a nice day.”

"End of new messages."

Fantastic Goulash in the Streets

Favel pushed the shopping cart containing her fake possessions into the alley next to the warehouse. One thing was certain, no way was she going to join dozens of Lowers inside the warehouse. How stupid to put yourself in a confined space and be trapped like rats. Why make it easy for the Uppers to disappear you?

She scanned the side of the warehouse, looking for a window to watch the gathering through. If she couldn’t find one Jesper could always tell her what happened afterwards—if there was an afterwards.

She could hear the speaker’s muffled voice. It was Mr. Grady, the vegetable merchant from the Eastside Market. Each week he brought goods from country farmers to the City to sell or barter from his market stand. He was a good man. A generous man. More than once he’d given damaged merchandise to Favel and other Lowers. Nothing wrong with a bruised melon or misshapen squash, but the Uppers wouldn’t touch them. Uppers were too good for anything but perfect produce.

The crowd inside the warehouse cheered. Favel cringed. What was he saying? The crowd quieted down and Mr. Grady’s muffled voice continued. She strained to make out his words but couldn’t.

Shadows created too many hiding places in the alley. Favel was on high alert, ready to bolt at the first sign of ambush. Her cart contained nothing valuable, well not much anyway. She’d miss the atom cooker, but everything else was worthless—bait in case she was attacked. If assaulted she’d abandon the cart and the attacker would search its contents, rifling through papers and cans and boxes of garbage she collected, allowing her time to escape. Lord knows she had left her fake possessions behind more than once.

Some women were attacked for their bodies, but that wasn’t an issue with Favel. She wouldn’t let herself get pretty and she had a secret weapon, cheese. Stinky Grouden Cheese to be precise, the foulest smelling cheese in the City. She always kept a chunk in a pocket of her patchwork overcoat. She couldn’t even smell it anymore, but people on the street gave her a wide berth. Just the way she liked it.

She eyed the fire escape attached to the warehouse’s side. The rusty contraption looked ready to fall if a strong wind hit it. The ladder’s bottom rung hung a couple feet out of reach. If she climbed on top of her shopping cart she’d be able to reach it. Second story windows just might allow her to see the goings on inside.

She pushed her cart against the brick wall under the fire escape and locked the wheels. Then she climbed over the handle, careful not to tip the cart. She stood in the basket, feet mashing the contents, and grabbed the ladder second rung from the bottom.

When she put her weight on the ladder, it groaned and squeaked and lowered three feet. Favel looked around, worried the sound may have attracted somebody. Nobody around. The crowd inside must have drowned out the noise.

She climbed up ladder to the second story landing.

The window over the fire escape was blacked out so she couldn’t see through it. Favel pushed it up, straining to move it, but it wouldn’t budge. The window was either locked or painted shut. She leaned out as far as she dared, trying to look through an adjacent window. She could see into the warehouse, down into a cavernous room. Mr. Grady stood on crates, addressing a crowd of at least a hundred.

Favel put her hand against the rough brick, bracing herself. She watched and listened.

“Why should we fear the Uppers?” Mr. Grady asked. “There’s more of us than them. We could overpower them.”

“They got the Sentinels,” someone answered.

“True,” Mr. Grady said. “But let me ask you, if the Sentinels were not a problem, would you be with me?”

Favel felt a warmth creep down her neck. They were talking revolution. If the Uppers discovered this meeting, the whole building would be obliterated. She climbed back down the fire escape, grabbed her cart and ran toward the alley’s entrance, pushing the cart in front of her. On the main street she turned left to avoid the front of the warehouse. One cart wheel spun circles as she pushed it, creating a drag, but it didn’t slow her down. She crossed the street and went another block before stopping in front of a brick building.

What were they thinking? You can’t assemble publicly and talk about overthrowing the Uppers. That was a one way ticket to disappear. Hopefully Jesper would wise up and leave before it was too late.

She felt the rotors before hearing them, a dull but rapid thump-thump-thump. Sentinels. Favel pushed her cart out of sight around the corner, stopped, peered back around the building, and watched the warehouse.

Two Sentinel ships descended in front of the warehouse. The ships were clear bubbles with large spinning propellers on either side, like wings. The props rotated, providing vertical or horizontal thrust as needed. Each ship could hold three Sentinels.

Favel watched as three Sentinels exited the first ship, humanoid metal forms, a mockery of real humans. Two Sentinels exited the second ship. For the briefest second Favel was tempted to not watch, to continue down the street, but morbid fascination kept her focused on the scene.

The five Sentinels formed a line and marched toward the warehouse entrance, arms extended. Each arm contained a weapon, an atom blaster. Or maybe a laser. Favel didn’t understand the technology.

The Sentinels marched forward in unison. A bright red beam shot forward from one of the Sentinels, and the warehouse entrance disappeared, replaced by a smoky haze.

As they stepped closer to the warehouse, the Sentinals fell forward, and crumpled onto the street. Metal limbs and torso clanked against the street and then there was silence. It was as if an off button had been depressed.

Favel stepped forward from around the building, staring, not understanding what had happened.

Several people rushed out through the hole that had been the warehouse entrance. They went to each Sentinel and pried a box from its chest.

“All clear,” one yelled.

Mr. Grady exited the warehouse. He spoke, but Favel couldn’t make out the words. The people who had pried the boxes from each Sentinel’s chest boarded the ships. The ships rose straight up and disappeared from sight.

What the hell is going on?
Favel thought. She grabbed her shopping cart and hurried away from the warehouse and pile of dead Sentinels. When the Uppers struck back, the warehouse—maybe the entire block—would be vaporized. She wanted to be away when that happened. Far away.

Favel and Jesper sat inside a white plastic cube, one of hundreds, lined in rows in the free shelter area. The Uppers, in a brief moment of humanity, provided them for the homeless. Of course, six foot cubes with walls a mere eighth inch thick did little more than provide relief from the rain and wind.

“Mr. Grady is so smart,” Jesper said, through a mouthful of bread, gravy sliding down the gray stubble on his chin. He wiped his face with the back of his shirt sleeve. “I heard someone say he even reads books.”