Ninetynine

By Aaron M. Patterson

The next century is still a year away, but 2099 remains. It is a time when the world's population is fully relegated to colonies within tall walls, walls built by the omnipotent Appalachia Company. Life has been so for over 40 years.

2099 begins for Duncan Cuddeyer with a trip to Chicago Colony, the destination for his new job. He's transplanted before, but from the start the air feels different in Chicago. People are louder, harder, more leery, and more desperate than ever. Duncan has seen dissonance in the past, but not at this level. His allegiance has always been to the Appalachia Company, whose home colony is also his home.

Seeing and feeling the heightened tension, Duncan secures a spot to become a Guardian Angel, the 'protectors' of the Appalachia Company and, with his mother a Colonel within the unit, a family tradition. But Meta, a rogue faction from overseas, sets off on destroying everything the all-powerful Appalachia Company has made in the world, and Duncan's plans are sharply thrown to the ground.

What follows is a long and dark chasm of blurry loyalty, mistrust, matricidal thoughts, and the shoddy piecing together of a question that only gets longer through each failed answer. It becomes Duncan's world in which to live and die. In 2099, every lie has a reason, but every truth has a shadow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aaron M. Patterson
• Release date: Jan 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301802265

Aaron M. Patterson

Aaron M. Patterson writes fiction--some general and others science fiction--but always entertaining. He has a wide array of strongpoints in his writing. His poignant tales are dialogue-driven, character-developed, and plot-rounded. Patterson creates novels in the spirit of writers like Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury, and Robert Charles Wilson. While Patterson is as of yet unpublished, he revels in the plethora of self-publishing options recently opening to new authors. He plans on self-publishing many of his full works of fiction on Smashwords, Lulu, Kindle, and other forms of publishing in the very near future. Patterson lives in South Charleston, WV, originally from Ravenswood in the same state, and holds both a BA and MS in Geography from Marshall University.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Hardline to Chicago rumbled through the terrain with a bulk of weight that would make a colossus envious. The sound from the outside would hammer against the ear had there been anybody to hear it; anybody mostly alive, that is. And the weight came not from the cargo on board, but rather from the train itself. Not a window save for the conductor’s car. Instead, this Hardline train, like all the others, commanded a steel shell seven feet thick. And the rumble was not fast. Instead, this Hardline train peaked at a full forty miles-per-hour.

And the passenger in the sixth seat on the left in the second of only four cars, Duncan, was not a normal visitor to Chicago; the Chicago Colony, that is. No, Duncan Cuddeyer was born and raised in Appalachia Colony, where the Appalachia Company originated and where it currently poured its regulations and laws to the entire world. And even though he’d been living and working as an adult English teacher in the Bangor Colony in what used to be Maine over the past seven years, the broad yellow band permanently sewn into the left bicep of his shirt, like every article of clothing in his possession, informed all who saw it that he was and always will be, in fact, an Appy.

Once the moniker starts it stays like a stubborn stain. In Bangor, Duncan wasn’t so much hassled for the yellow band as much as he was feared. If one comes from Appalachia, one is as close to untouchable as it gets. The Guardian Angels, employed solely by the all-encompassing Appalachia Company, saw to their perfect treatment. The Angels also saw to everything else. World police, in a sense, with secrets to boot.

Duncan wanted to be Duncan no more. It was a fresh start in a fresh new colony as Mr. Cuddeyer, if he could help it. As it was, it took Duncan an entire year to garner permission from the Appalachia Colony to change colonies. From Appalachia to Bangor was one thing. But to change it again? Most would have never been granted the chance, but Duncan’s yellow band insisted on privilege over chance. His assignment would last two years, teaching English to the very few remaining adults who spoke other languages.

On every occasion that Duncan rode the Hardline, be it from Appalachia to Bangor or that one business trip from Appalachia to Florida, he got the sense that the train was indeed a moving prison, unable to witness the world beyond the steel. Had he been allowed that vision, Duncan would have seen skeletons, corrosion, filth, and the sparse devilish wanderers who still peppered the world’s landscapes outside of the 100-foot-wall-encased colonies in 2099. Once-picturesque mountain vistas were now toiled in overgrowth and anxious eyes of woe, but those eyes belonged to ghosts. The beaches where people long ago flocked to vacate their daily troubles were now adjoined by coastal waters utterly seeped in Isis, the virus that caused the whole thing. To drink it was to die, but not before succumbing to ravenous, mindless mania for days or weeks. To simply touch it was a long, agonizing death, and a far more stretched-out period of mania, hence the ‘zombified’ masses that brought on the steel walls surrounding every colony.

To see a little in this environment was to see it all, and at just twenty-eight years old, Mr. Duncan Xavier Cuddeyer had seen more than everything. In that, he felt especially incarcerated in the new colony system. The United States, once lauded for its freedom, was now a symbol for humanity’s containment all in the name of survival. The Appalachia Company, helmed by the seminal Gagne family, made it happen. They drew the lines, erected the walls, hired the Angels, and instituted the laws, and all because they controlled the one resource that drove the economy in 2031 when Isis awoke: coal.

The American government folded into the warm, caring, deep-pocketed arms of the Appalachia Company. Soon after, all meaningful governments around the globe shared the very same outcome, only America’s new colony system was the beacon that every other nation coveted. Consensus was mutual. Without the system, Isis would devour the world. Once more, fear was the victor.

Duncan was smarter than most who came out of Appalachia Colony. Theirs was an educational curriculum that heavily rotated around the company and the entire idea of coal. In other words, not all truths made it to light. Duncan, along with a handful of others, saw it very differently thanks to his free-thinking parents. He hugged his father and kissed his mother’s cheek the previous day before boarding the train in Portsmouth in what used to be Ohio. It was New Year’s Day after all, the day of fresh beginnings, so he wanted to bid them farewell with dumbstruck pageantry. His sister, Georgina, balked at the scene before aiming at her slightly older brother for a kiss of her own.

On this train, however, Duncan brought with him not his family, but the handsome memories of them. His dad, Wes, pushed upon Duncan the idea to do better things in the world than what he was given. The hundred-foot walls didn’t necessarily have to be barriers. So he was proud of Duncan. And Gina, his mother, also displayed her heart for her son. Hers, though, was a unique situation.

Gina Cuddeyer was a longtime veteran of the Guardian Angel Unit. She ranked high, in fact. Colonel of the Charleston Precinct, robust home to some two million of the nation’s nine million Angels. And even then, she never truly wanted her son to follow in her career path. It was often dangerous, very tedious, somewhat dehumanizing work. But it paid well, perhaps higher than most other professions of the late 21st Century; some Angels made more than surgeons. But Gina never allowed regret to slip through the cracks, seeing her sometimes souring occupation as a necessity for her family.

As for Duncan, he frequently wondered if something someday would shift his motives and cause him to actually follow in his mother’s career path. They really did pay well, as opposed to brief stints in teaching. He knew the Angels regularly made patrols outside colony walls in order to ‘clean house’ a bit. But he also knew that the Angels’ technology was superior to most others, and the chances of being harmed by the masses in the wild were close to nothing. Nevertheless, it would take something drastic for such a shift to happen, as Duncan was stalwart in his general attitude toward the Appalachia Company.

The following day would bring the third of January, his assigned date for reporting to work. A cozy little apartment had been set up for him in one of the many high-rise buildings that had recently popped up in downtown Chicago City. He worried. The yellow on his sleeve would give eyes his way, and Chicago was well-known for its dissent toward that color, more than any other colony. He’d never been, but he was a wiz at finding his bearings quickly. Perhaps he could find a girlfriend, or at least a friend to share his experiences with. It looked grim, though, based on his days in Bangor, a slightly less angry colony.

His watch read 5:45. It was probably getting dark outside if it hadn’t already. The train stopped, well short of the Gary Station as seen on the digital progression monitor glowing on the wall of the car. ETA was supposed to be 8 o’clock anyway. He stood, black suit sans tie around his short, very slightly overweight body, and walked to the nearest of three Angels on the train.

Excuse me, Sergeant, he said, his normal-pitched voice very calm. What is this?

Be patient, sir, the abnormally tall Angel replied. It’s a common occurrence.

But what is it? This was of concern to Duncan because Hardline trains, the only means of transportation between colonies, were usually very punctual, at least when he rode them.

It’s just a body on the tracks, the Sergeant said.

Duncan gasped. A Lump? Lumps were the names given to the nearly-lifeless, mindless humans infected by Isis.

Could be.

Sergeant, they’re saying the strand is strengthening! That means it could be airborne! You have to get this train moving!

Calm down, sir! Just calm yourself down! The Angel would have been quite nastier had Duncan not wore yellow.

Duncan sat back down in his chair. The train began moving again. He was always the worry-before-think type. If ropes were conclusions, he would jump rope all day long. But there was an education behind his worry.

Isis seemed to be in check following the successful completion of the last American colony in 2052 in Idaho. Few bodies could be found, and most places were cleaned of all large forms of life, including animals. As the new colony system began to show its nastier side, scores of citizens began wandering beyond the walls. From the mid-50’s to around 2090, the Lump population exploded, giving even stronger justification to the colony system. And scientists began examining the strand, known as Beta R-9, mutating with the changing atmosphere—less life meant less carbon dioxide, meaning change. That is also why the walls of the train on the Hardline were so very thick.

A hearty breath taken, Duncan could relax in knowing Chicago was now only hours away. He pondered the days long before he was born, long before Isis had awoken. What was life like when everywhere contained fresh water and air? How did the people act toward each other with no threat of death every other step taken? How would the world look if around every corner there was no Guardian Angel to examine the color of the band worn around the arm or hat or to ‘keep the peace’? What was life like in 1999? History was skewed, but Duncan knew it.

****

Chapter 2

All the stories told to Duncan of the towering structures in Chicago City were true. As he exited the train inside the walls of the colony, he gazed up at the countless wondrous lights powered by, of course, coal. And although he was technically still in Gary slightly away from the city, he realized this place was special. Sure, Appalachia Colony had more buildings and more people and far more wealth than any colony, but that was done to him. He was bored with it. This new place was exciting.

The sign to his taxi shown brightly before him. ‘Cuddeyer – Qualls Towers’ it read. That was his man, ready to take him to the brand new, reasonably luxurious Qualls Towers complex downtown. He followed the plain man to the cab parked away from the station and hopped in, his bags already somehow in the trunk.

So, the cabby said, old and surly. You’re the one who got the gig.

Pardon me? Duncan returned.

Listen, daisy. Not many people get into Chicago Colony, let alone a daisy.

Daisy? Why are you calling me that?

A daisy’s yellow, kid. That’s the color on your jacket. So Appies around here are often called daisies. No hard feelings. You’re probably good off.

Strange, Duncan said. In Bangor, they called us canaries and nanners, you know, for bananas.

Nanners! Ha! I like that. Gonna have to change some thinkings now.

Anyway, sir, I’m not like the rest who come out of Appalachia. I’m looking for new things.

Oh, you’re just like the rest. They all say that, kid.

I thought you said you don’t get many daisies around here, Duncan said.

Used to, before the new Lump infestations began. Once they sprang up, ole Doc Gagne put the clampdown on traveling and especially relocating. I have to admit, kid, it’s not easy to speak with you cordially like this. I’ve seen good men get backs turned on them for as much. Like it or not, with that gold band on your clothes, you’re hated here.

I figured as much. What is your name, by the way?

Hans, the cabby said. Hans Reed. And lucky for you, I’ll be your chauffeur for the next three months as written here in my quarterly dossier. We’d be friends if not for—

I know. The band.

Sorry, kid. Cabby Hans moved flawlessly in the nighttime city traffic. He’d obviously done this a long time, and with great success. To be perfectly honest with you, daisy, it’s not a wise time to be an Appy in Chicago.

Was it ever? Duncan said.

Now is worse than ever. I’m talking the raw whispers of a big change. I’ll say no more, kid. I can’t.

Yeah, I think I’m reading it well enough, Mr. Reed. Big things coming down the pike. I heard the same language in Bangor. Three years back, in fact. Nothing. Never materialized. And by the way, I’m not apologizing for the yellow band on my jacket. I was born in Kingsport and that’s a history that cannot be rewritten, so don’t sit there all nasty-like and tell me it’s my fault that I’m an Appy. If I’m so goddamn despicable, why are you still sitting there talking to me? Better yet, why did you even decide on picking me up in the first place and chauffeuring me for three months?

It shut the cabby up, if only for a moment. Kid, the balls it takes to say that. You got ‘em. But watch the poison on that tongue. This is Chicago City. We still have murders here, and almost all go unsolved.

We have murders in Appalachia, too, Duncan said.

Yeah, but those are fluff jobs. Small and few. You say the wrong thing to the right buster and you’re looking at a burial at the cones.

The cones?

An endless yard of large cylindrical concrete cones way out in Rockford against the wall. It’s a giant blind spot for the Angels. People are erased there. Kid, I’m not threatening you, okay. I’m teaching you how to stay alive with that yellow band.

And why do you want to help me stay alive, Mr. Reed?

Hey, I can recognize a sturdy soul if I come close enough. You’re good. Didn’t I already say that? Anyway, we’re pulling into the garage now. Your new home is this.

As he peered out through the cab’s clear windows, Duncan saw cars, nearly all the same model and color, as far as the eye could see. He sometimes failed to remember that there was only one manufacturer of automobiles in all of the colonies. A sea of cherry red cars with little in the way of difference made him think of home, where his parents drove the same silver Neptune Weave that nearly everybody else drove. He’d ridden in that car ever since he could remember, as most cars were usually just updated rather than replaced. His parents’ Weave, he assumed, was a ’56 model. Most of the cars in the garage to Qualls Towers appeared to be around the 2060’s versions of Neptune Auroras. He always found it charming that Neptune ran advertisements telling people to buy their cars when there was absolutely no competition in the market.

Hans the cabby parked the car, a white Neptune Ocean like the other taxis, and went toward the trunk. Welcome, Mr. Cuddeyer. Welcome to Qualls Towers. He pulled out the two large bags of Duncan’s. I will be here at 7 a.m. almost in this same exact spot to take you to work tomorrow. You’re not a fragile old lady, so you can carry the bags up on your own. He was now being playful and amusing.

Wait, Mr. Reed. I don’t know the apartment number, and I don’t have a key. Hell, I don’t even know which tower it is. It’s like a jungle of towers.

This foul is mine, Hans said. It’s all mine. Apologies, kid. Here. He pulled the pen-like key, thumb-sized and chrome, out of his pocket and handed it to Duncan. It’s tower number 4. Your apartment is 1876. That’s the eighteenth floor, you lucky shit. Good view. Fireworks over at Grant Park every Friday night, so you have a tremendous view. You might even smell them, you’re so close.

Thanks, Duncan said, not overly interested in something as petty as fireworks.

"One more thing. You can’t see them now, but the Guardian Angels are looking. They’re everywhere, including in their booths watching the surveillance of this very conversation. You may have the urge to do so, but do not assume you’re ever out of view or ear-shot from them. The bastards are like locusts and they’ll swarm quick."

In truth, Duncan had no intentions of caring about the Angels. It was not part of his M.O. Besides, it was the same in every colony, including his own Appalachia Colony. Nothing to get worked up over.

Ach, but what am I talking about? You’re an Appy. Invincible. I forgot that part. Anyway, I’m off to my hovel up in Niles. I’ll see you here sharp, at 7 o’clock. Goodnight, Mr. Cuddeyer.

Duncan did not return the farewell. Instead, he nodded like a tired person normally would. He walked over to the nearest elevator section and saw just how confusing the complex was, two heavy wheeled bags in tow. After emerging onto the pavement of the complex outside, he followed the paths that said ‘To Tower-4’ only to end up at Tower-6 and then Tower-1. It took another half-hour to finally come upon Tower-4. The elevator seemed to be like a laser, taking him to the eighteenth floor at a dizzying speed. Then came the second maze. Finding 1876 was harder than he had anticipated. It was becoming apparent that these buildings were built with some sense of haste rather than streamlined concentration. Once he found his room, he went inside, drop his bags, and flopped down on the bed in the large room. For a hastily-built apartment, the bed was ridiculously comfortable. The room itself was not that bad either. Much like an everyday hotel room.

The third of January awaited him the following day. The time was 9:30, well before his usual bedtime. Exhaustion, though, owned the evening. He planned on calling his father, although his voice card stated that it was unwise to make out-of-colony calls after nine for the sake of security. But it never would have happened anyway. Fully dressed, room lights dim but on, and his body mildly stinky from the hot Hardline train, Duncan caught a very long nap.

****

Chapter 3

The telephone, a steel picture-frame looking thing dangling from the wall near the bed, began to sound in its traditional telephone ring with the flash of ‘T-4 Concierge’ in white letters on its face. Duncan sprang to life from his blankets and went over to the phone. The laced-together image of a very old yet strong looking man came into the frame.

I’m awake, Duncan said.

The old man in the frame smiled, his white beard clean and soothing. We didn’t get to welcome you to the Qualls Towers last night, Mr. Cuddeyer. Welcome to the Qualls Towers. The time is 6 a.m., your assigned wake time. Once you’re ready, Mr. Cuddeyer, why don’t you make your way down to the cafeteria for some breakfast of eggs and sausage? Your taxi will be waiting for you at 7 o’clock.

Thanks.

No, Mr. Cuddeyer. No need to thank me. It’s my job. Please, have a nice day.

Duncan donned his suit of dark blue with tan pants and shiny grey shoes. He combed his curly, thick hair and trimmed his goatee before throwing on the most obnoxiously smelly aftershave. He took the bullet of an elevator down to the cafeteria on the first floor and ate two waffles and an orange, likely from Los Angeles Colony or perhaps Florida, one of very few imports or exports that get traded amongst the colonies.

The coffee was black and gross, the milk was fantastic, and the mints seemed to lack the ‘kick’ added to the peppermint formula in recent decades. Suffice it to say, the ‘kick’ was abused and peppermint was outright banned in four colonies—Denver, Appalachia, Austin, and Idaho, or half of the colonies not including the Guardian Angel Outpost, regularly not considered a real colony. Regardless, it was legal and available in Chicago Colony, but it was not very good, obviously tweaked a tad to remove the ‘kick’ and prevent abuse.

So it was now 7:13 out in the parking garage. Duncan waited for his cabby, Hans ‘Whatshisname’. The man was late, meaning Duncan would be late. Oh, this would be a great time for cellular phones to be allowed once again, he thought. Deemed a superior security risk, cellular comms were outlawed by the lawmakers in Appalachia in 2090, after five young men in Bangor used them for spying to a very shoddy and unsuccessful extent. Now, there were voice cards with allotted time limits. The institution of communication instantly went backwards from then on.

As one minute till 7:30 approached, the Neptune Ocean he’d ridden in the previous night skidded through the garage and abruptly stopped its forward motion just feet from Duncan. The gruff, aging man emerged from the driver’s seat with a mighty gasp of air. There you are, daisy, he huffed. So, Mr. Cuddeyer, ready to go to work?

Duncan was so perturbed that he opted for silence to display his agitation at the driver. He simply sat down in the backseat and slammed the door.

Hans began driving, void of any real urgency. Believe me, kid, it wasn’t my doing. I’m late for a reason, and you’ll want to hear this.

Mr. Reed—

Call me Hans.

Hans, it’s my first day. I’ve pulled teeth to get this teaching job in Chicago Colony and your tardiness might jeopardize that.

Yeah, well, I told you something last night that’s rightly making itself known today here in Chicago City. Hell, the whole damn colony!

The bitterness in Duncan sharply shifted to concern, always the worrier. Tell me.

Fights, Duncan. Gun fights. In the street. I had to take North Elston Avenue to get downtown. Planned route, right? So as I’m approaching Logan Boulevard, a swarm of Angel patrol cars flies past me in the same direction. They all stop right beside the Kennedy Expressway and leap out, guns blazing. They’re shooting up at a big scene on the expressway where all I could see was fire and smoke. Then an explosion. Radio chatter says it’s a standoff and...and I think I heard one of them say ‘Lumps’. Oh, I shuttered, man.

Sounds impossible, Duncan said. Are you sure?

No. I’m not. But every time someone mutters anything about Isis being inside the walls, this colony goes nuts. Riots in ’87. Remember them?

Not really, Mr. Reed. I was too young.

Oh yeah. Anyway, rumor had it that a clothing shipment in a comex unit near Lake Michigan contained a single vial of Isis no larger than a glass of milk. People freaked out. The south side was torched, thinking it was the end, that Isis would consume Chicago Colony. It was a hoax or a mistake, I can’t recall, but it was ugly. I’m telling you this, daisy, because when that happened in 2087, a total of four Appies were killed in the mayhem of the two days. No reason other than the yellow bands they wore on their arms. I’m taking you to work now because the adult education school is next to Washington Park, far south of that shit I saw on the expressway. Do you still want to go, or should I book a Hardline back to Appalachia before things get out of hand?

Listen here, cabby. I was subjected to a few ruses back in Bangor to get me to leave and I overcame them all. That’s really what this is starting to sound like.

Oh, but it’s not. I don’t lie, kid. I’m only giving you a fair warning. So, to the school we go?

Yes, Duncan said. To the goddamn school we go.

He was dropped off at the front of the school and told he would be retrieved at 3 o’clock sharp, unless, of course, more absurdity arose. Duncan turned to see a very old, wildly rustic red brick building of only two stories with seemingly countless low archways leading to and from every breezeway in the facility. In the concrete sign above the gate was the word ‘Massilon School for the Deaf and Blind’, a title obviously decades out of date. It was now simply the Massilon School.

He entered and said hello to the female secretary, who didn’t return the kindness after seeing the yellow on his arm—she knew an Appy was coming today to teach adult English grammar, but she did not have to like it. She told him the room was 112, down the hall a short ways and on the right. Duncan entered the room to find but four people sitting far apart from each other, each with an anxious look in their eyes. The two gentlemen, one apparently fresh out of high school and the other likely retired from a factory job, eyeballed Duncan with cynical darts of aggression. The two women, very much twin sisters in their mid-lives with an apparent affinity toward old, unattractive dresses of yore, gave the handsome new teacher smiles.

Hello, Duncan nervously announced as he stood and leaned on the ugly podium at the front of the class. The lone ceiling fan dangling from the ceiling squeaked loudly, enough to take his attention away from his occupation. But he persevered, writing his name on the chalkboard behind him. My name is Duncan Cuddeyer. That’s Kuh-die-urr.

Cut the shit, Appy, the younger man said suddenly. We’re not idiots.

What? This is English Grammar of the 20th Century, isn’t it?

Yeah, said the older gentleman. Did you think it was real?

Listen, people. I’ve taught for years. Went to extension school for it.

Where? the young man said. Appalachia Colony? Then it’s probably not a real degree.

Excuse me, sir, but what is your name?

Hector Lawson. And I’m not deficient in English, nor is this man beside me.

No, Duncan argued. This is my assignment.

Settle down, jackass, the older man said. We get credit for these classes. Credit means bonuses, and in case you haven’t noticed, Chicago isn’t exactly ground zero for money.

Especially what’s going on outside this morning, Hector added.

Duncan sighed and breathed in very deep with his eyes shut, an attempt at settling down. Okay, okay. Let’s start from the beginning. You four know my name. It’s Duncan Cuddeyer. You, the youngster, are Hector Lesman.

It’s Lawson, my friend. And I’m nineteen, hardly a youngster.

Whatever. Now you, sir, are?

Artemis Donovan III, but Art will do.

Okay, Duncan said. The sister on the left.

I’m Mary Napier-Jones. And my sister there is Helen Napier-Richter. And I must say, we’re not threatened by the yellow you wear.

Oh, of course not, Helen finished.

Duncan smiled for the first time since arriving in Chicago Colony. That business is out of the way. Now to this whole thing about credits. I need an explanation.

I’ll explain, Art said, standing up regally. I work for Neptune in Milwaukee. Twenty-three years. But I’ve not gotten a raise in fifteen years. They said if I attend some grammar classes, which is some ridiculous enrichment decree of the Appalachia Company, I’ll get a hefty bonus.

So how much of a bonus? Duncan asked.

I make a healthy wage. About three dollars an hour. But with these classes, I’ll receive a one-time payment of a hundred dollars, which goes a long way.

Mine is eighty dollars, Hector said. Still good though.

And I get around fifty, Mary said. I’m not working. It’s the spouse rule. Helen, too.

Duncan had worked hard to get his English degree. He honestly struggled to teach in Bangor, a challenge he loved. But now it appeared his talents, his knowledge was useless. So you people don’t need taught grammar?

No, Hector said. Hell, Mr. Cuddeyer, you could leave the Massilon School and not come back and still get paid, what with that yellow thing you wear. Hector’s band, like the bands on nearly every other person in Chicago Colony, was navy blue. The clash was prominent. You kind of stepped into an easy thing here.

And we don’t mind if you skip out, Helen said. We get our money by just showing up here.

You’re all okay with this? Duncan said.

The group agreed. Useless and forgotten he may have felt, but Duncan would use the time to perhaps see the colony a bit, as small as it was versus the gargantuan Appalachia Colony. He left the Massilon School, eyes of the Angels caringly on him, and went to a nearby shopping center.

As it turned out, the scene at the Kennedy Expressway was one of many small yet violent uprisings showing their faces in the Chicago Colony. But Duncan had no trouble with any of these splinter events or being leered at because of the band on his arm. He went home peacefully that afternoon, with the cabby Hans saying nothing important along the way. Duncan had no idea how he was going to spend all the free time he’d just discovered was his for the foreseeable future.

****

Chapter 4

Beer taverns draped the sides of Taylor Street, the lane containing Qualls Towers. Some places appeared seedier than others, but they all essentially served the same purpose. While only a recreational drinker, Duncan needed to feel the pour of a smooth lager down his throat after a wild and unpredictable two days. After all, he’d already dressed down to his non-work clothes consisting of an everyday puffy silver coat to block out the brisk January chill. He settled on Terry’s, halfway dodgy in appearance but very comfortable in its unassuming splendor. It was in the basement of a large brick commercial building.

Hey now, the bartender, a tall, rock of a man, said to Duncan. That band on your arm might be a problem, good boy.

No it won’t, said the girl who quietly grabbed onto Duncan’s shoulder.

Ketra, your soft spot for daisies is going to bite your ass some day, you know?

Better a soft spot than a hard fist, she returned. Don’t mind Hal, good boy. He gets blurry tunnel vision when it comes to seeing yellow. Anyway, I’m Ketra.

Hi. I’m Duncan. So innocent and scared.

Duncan. Wandering around the way you are is a dangerous balance. Her bright, real smile countered her helpful warnings. She wore it so well. Do you know where you are, Duncan?

Yeah, I’m in Terry’s Tavern.

Right, and Terry’s is a blind spot. No Angelic presence here, Duncan. Besides, I think you kind of knew it already.

No, I’m new here, Duncan said. New job nearby. Duncan’s normal smooth form of speech was severely stymied by not only the smile, but the kindness this beautiful woman displayed. Her straight, long hair of brown cut neatly across at the bangs complemented her outwardly pleasing demeanor, and somehow also her olive drab jacket of youth rebellion, or something like it.

Yes, but an Appy doesn’t simply to decide to move to Chicago Colony where hatred toward him is automatic and fervent. You’re here for other reasons too. Otherwise, you would’ve been more careful in selecting a place to get drunk. Hal! Duncan here will have a Jackson!

Please, Duncan said, I didn’t come for trouble.

You already got it, the formidable Hal said as he put the green bottle on the table where Duncan and Ketra sat. Ketra is like our mother around here, daisy. She never misfires on judgment. But keep in mind, there’s a first for everything. He walked away.

Is he always that angry? Duncan asked Ketra.

It’s not his fault, Duncan. Things have happened to him in the past and I’m afraid to say that it was pretty much the workings of those wearing yellow. Her casual form of speech rather masked the insult she threw Duncan’s way. She was damning in a mightily charming sort of manner. What are you? Thirty? Thirty-one?

What? Oh, I’m twenty-eight.

I see. My age. How convenient.

Duncan finally grasped the negativity darting in his direction. Ketra, I think I shouldn’t be here. Everyone’s staring at me.

As they should. First Appy to brave Terry’s or most of the bars in this city for some time. But Hal was right. I like you, so they can’t touch you.

It appeared Ketra was putting the moves on Duncan. He’d seen it many times, and on many occasions he would have acted on it. But Duncan was just too afraid of the volatile atmosphere. I’m sorry, Ketra. I can’t do anything with you. Maybe at another point in time.

Excuse me? Duncan, I wasn’t looking to get you in bed. The dance always starts this way.

Dance?

"Duncan? The expressway? That was you today, right? You and the other headless?"

It startled Duncan. He clearly stated in an angry voice, Pardon me?

Yellow in Terry’s. You’re the liaison, aren’t you?

Liaison? Ketra, I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Ketra forcefully took Duncan by the arm and dragged him out of the bar to the relative quiet and privacy of the stairs outside. She gnashed her teeth and spoke an inch from the young man’s face, not letting go of the puffy coat. If I’m to believe you, then you really are just an average schmuck in yellow who wandered into this haven for anti-Appy activities.

I was telling the truth.

Goddamn it, you ridiculous asshole. Nobody does that. Nobody. Shit.

It was an accident, Ketra. Sorry. His fuse was about to blow, sending him all the way back to Appalachia amidst the comforts of his parents’ wings.

Hal has a rifle behind the bar and he’s used it before. Angel grade. Had he any notion that you weren’t the liaison, there’s no doubt in my mind that you would have ended up buried at the cones.

Again with the liaison. What is this?

Well, first of all you should realize that this is not for any Appy’s ears, including yours. Secondly, it’s confidential.

I already know there’s a liaison, accidental as it may be, Duncan argued, wisely. A liaison that had some part in the explosions my cabby was describing to me earlier. Obviously a blue in Appy colors.

Blue? No, Duncan, we blue bearers in Chicago Colony call ourselves Demons. It’s directly against—

Directly against the Angels, yeah. It’s easy to decode that one.

But Ketra had no rebuttal to Duncan’s statement. She went quiet, frighteningly so. Her eyes meandered around the area, everywhere but on Duncan’s quaint face.

Ketra?

So that shit about looking for a new job and new things, that was honest.

Again, I was being truthful.

Then you’re imprisoned up Gagne’s asshole like everybody else who wears yellow.

No, Duncan insisted. There’s yellow, then there’s people like me and my family who wear a much lighter shade of yellow, figuratively speaking. We’re free thinkers. We know the Appalachia Company is far from right on many of their concepts. I can’t help where the world dropped me though, Ketra.

Nor can I. Alright, Duncan. Your candor is good, and so I believe your heart is. Are we in business?

Huh? Listen, I realize you’re like a large group of dissenters here and I respect that. Things aren’t level and they should be. But I also think all this stuff about colors and who’s from where has long muddled a more important, far more important problem.

What, like unifying with other continents? Ketra said.

Not even close, Duncan said, frustrated. Each time I see beauty in a park or forest, I know it’s fake because it’s enclosed within the walls of a colony. When I rode the Hardline here yesterday, it was the same prison, only smaller, and with no windows. When is the last time you saw a picture of the world beyond the colonies?

That’s what I’m getting at, Duncan. The Gagne crew won’t allow us to see it because they’re afraid we’ll escape. We’re oppressed.

Again, it’s petty. Yes, the Appalachia Company employs some pretty nasty tactics that I will never like, but the intent is still there. And don’t say that phrase about the road to hell. It’s tired.

Okay. She sat on the cold concrete step halfway down the stairs. Enlighten me, Duncan.

It’s the Lumps! Isis! Beta R-9!

Shhh, Ketra nervously said. We’re not exactly in the blind spot out here.

I just realized something today. I’ve been trying to set my life straight by going from colony to colony and teaching English grammar to people. I’m a crock. What’s it going to matter when the resources run dry? Not every farm in Chicago Colony or Idaho Colony or wherever is going to produce every year, and the trade system is purely a joke, Ketra. A joke. Sooner or later, we’ll have to attack the source of all our troubles. Isis needs to be destroyed so the walls can come down.

Calm down, Duncan. We need to talk about this more.

People keep telling me to calm down and it’s only getting me hotter. I’m right about this, but it seems all anybody else cares about is making their way of life the one to live. A society in a prison is still in a prison, period. Dress it up all you want, but it won’t change that fact.

Ketra lit a cigarette.

Where did you get that? Duncan said, curious. Those things ran out twenty years ago.

There’s means to getting what the Company wants you to think no longer exists. Tobacco grows, Duncan. Do you know where?

Used to be the east, where the Carolinas were.

And still is. You see, the Appalachia Company runs the Guardian Angel Unit %100. The Guardian Angels are trained exclusively at the outpost. The outpost is in the area of Virginia and North Carolina where tobacco ‘used’ to grow. Are you getting the puzzle pieced together yet, good boy?

They’re hoarding tobacco for the Angels in secrecy?

It goes much, much higher than mere tobacco, Ketra continued. They hoard for themselves something more devastating to the rest of us, in fact. The Appalachia Company, they hoard information. Data. Truths. Truths that would make the entire world turn on them in a heartbeat, if only the entire world wasn’t run by them. Full circle, Duncan. They’ve won and will keep winning unless we uncovered the truth. God, I can’t believe I have to describe this to an Appy himself.

Describe what?

Did you ever wonder how the Appalachia Company took over the planet? How their convenience in coal made them the world’s government?

Timing, Ketra.

Very true. But tactical timing. The Beta R-9 strand, it popped up at the height of the Company’s old-days success, long before any of us were born, or even our parents. And it popped up in Kentucky, a state where coal was not only prevalent, but also flourishing in the fall of oil.

But it was far from the coal mines, Duncan contested.

More tactical decisions.

Ketra, I’ve heard this conspiracy theory a few times in the past. There’s no merit.

Oh? How about the published photographs of a blueprint of the wall and its projected location that was dated August 2029?

That was proven to be fabricated.

Proven in the minds of those who were afraid, Ketra said. Seeing that photo, I never once believed it to be a fake. Furthermore, I know there’s more out there like it.

So the Appalachia Company created Isis and planted it in Kentucky, so close to their main branch in Charleston, knowing it would kill billions of people in the matter of two years?

Think ill of me what you will, Duncan, but I can’t sit back and let Doc Gagne and his recent ancestors get away with this. I understand that you believe we need to fight Isis at the core, and that dream is likely impossible at best, but you should realize that as long as the Appalachia Company is driving your future, it won’t allow that.

"In your mind, it’s fight the Company then the virus. But it’s all unfounded, Ketra. I’m real sorry. It’s a theory. If you drop a hammer against the Company and it turns out you were wrong, more than all will be lost. Listen to me, I sound like a poet."

The heated moment cooled a bit and allowed the two to chuckle. Then Ketra saw someone approaching and her smile soured.

What is it? Duncan said.

I think that’s the real liaison. Yeah, you’d better go, Duncan. I’ll set this straight with the others.

How? They’ve already seen me. Once they see him, I’m dead.

But they won’t see him. I’ll chat about the event today and send him on his way. He’s apparently from Austin Colony and leaves tomorrow. Neither here nor there. But you have to go. Now.

Wait, will I ever hear from you again?

She sighed. Fine. Where are you staying?

Qualls Towers. Tower number four. He was being forced away quickly by Ketra’s stern waving motion. Duncan Cuddeyer. Room 1876. My job’s a sham, so I have plenty of time. And then he was gone, illuminated and gone.

****

Chapter 5

Hating the idea, Duncan went to bed that night thinking Ketra, the rebel with the perfect bangs, would come to his room. Admitting to himself he was aroused hurt, especially after what Duncan could say was one of the heaviest, most important conversations of his life. But the man had needs, like all men.

The night came and went without Ketra’s presence, however. The beginning of the day saw Duncan simply appear at the Massilon School, tell the four pretenders inside hello and goodbye, and head back to his apartment to wait for any word from Ketra. Other than a meal here and there, this pattern continued for the next two weeks. Even in the throes of a virulent blizzard, he could think only of those bangs. Re-entering Terry’s Tavern at any time would have proven disastrous and Duncan knew it, so it was no option. Even walking on the same sidewalk was too dangerous. He was the mouse in the game with that feline.

Looking at the calendar, Duncan was taken aback at the current date. January 18th, a Sunday, a day when he usually worked. Two weeks had passed with triumphantly blazing speed. His bank account continued to get moneys inside, all thirty dollars per day. Yet, he hadn’t taught a thing and not a person dared care. He wondered if it even mattered to show up at the Massilon School. The test worked. Sunday through Thursday, and not a single day spent at work. The cabby, Hans Reed, never bothered to ask about it. His job was to drive, not chat. But on Friday morning, Duncan was beyond deprived of human interaction. It didn’t appear Ketra was coming by either.

You know, Duncan said to Hans, I’ve been ditching work.

You don’t say, Hans replied.

You keep dropping me off at Massilon this week, but I don’t go inside.

What do you do?

Doesn’t matter.

Finally getting some meat into the conversation, Mr. Cuddeyer. I like that.

How do you mean? Duncan said.

Three weeks of being a boring rock and now you finally get interesting. Listen, I don’t care that you cut out of work. You’re an Appy. You get special treatment whether I like it or not.

That’s not important to me, Hans.

I know. Nonetheless, I’ve seen your eyes scouring the scenery each time I drive you. Something’s up with you.

"Well, for one,