Eth and Tim

By K.D. Langston

In a near future United States, almost every function of federal, state, and local government has been shifted to the private sector. Tim, a young man from an affluent township meets a young woman, Eth, and he starts to question his guarded life. She was brought up in a harsh and cruel country just miles from his own.
As they elude violent and corrupt agents of those in power, the couple discovers bizarre realities, unusual places, and unique people, some with extraordinary ideas. Eth and Tim wonder what their future will be with each other, whether they can escape those who would do them harm, and if they can find an alternative to the America they witness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.D. Langston
• Release date: Feb 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310743238

K.D. Langston

I suppose I know K.D. Langston as well as anyone. In our numerous metal halide-lit discussions at the dumpster behind Krispy Kreme, I think I have learned enough to at least present a brief profile of this author. K.D. Langston is a pseudonym, although not at all a clever one. Through this device, he hopes to maintain some separation between his various works, whether fiction, non-fiction, or simply sub-standard. With extensive training in a number of social sciences, including multiple unnecessary graduate degrees, Langston has tried to explore the interactions between groups of people who live in starkly different ways. The political science fiction focus in several of his works derives from his close study of tribal, family-based societies as they interacted with larger, more complex groups of people, usually nation states whose organization was based on contract or coercion. I cannot say whether his use of scholarly knowledge in his fiction is a continued embrace of academia, a repudiation or even indictment of it, or maybe just a stain among many on a borrowed soul, overdue, by the way. Nonetheless, having spent years writing material that few in academia ever read, Langston decided to branch out into the fictional realm where he assumed he might expand the audience who could ignore his ideas. So far this supposition has been proved accurate. In most ways, however, the author remains a mystery, even to me. I have attempted to discern Langston's origins, difficult through accent analysis and the author's questionable grasp of English, even less from appearance. Early in our relationship, I had been convinced of a foreign birth, although I never asked to see a birth certificate, after all, why bother? But now I'm sure Langston was born to a southern American family like myself. Take that for whatever meaning it might have. I'm sure everyone will have a different set of misconceptions about the south with which to pass judgment on his character. I would have to guess at K.D. Langston's personal situation: an age near my own, that is in the middle of middle age, in middling health, of a muddled albeit vaguely European-American ethnicity, and of lower middle class origins. I should add that I was confused initially, as with many aspects of his life, since what I can see and hear of Langston leaves the impression of someone much older. After further thought, my conclusion was understandable given the author's primary diet, admitted distractability, and self-professed nano-phobia (particularly for gases dissolved in brown solutions, artificial, short-lived subatomic particles, and seed ticks). I hope to have a website operating soon. Whether I will use social media on Langston's behalf is another matter. The author refuses to have any connection to such means of communication, in large part, as best as I can gather, because of a fear of some sort of corrupting effect it might have. Also, he refuses to use most newly invented verbs, especially those made from recently coined nouns. He will likely continue resisting until FDA approves the use of these words as actions, or when emailing, tweeting, texting, facebooking and such become obsolete. For those hopeful that he may succumb to social media, he has described to me a sort of protective device that might be employed, but, unfortunately, I have yet been able to collect enough scrap tin to fashion the described headgear. No, aluminum will not suffice. And even with the approved accoutrements, Langston might still resist social media (but might give me leave to do so). Meanwhile he will continue writing. Ultimately, he hopes to assemble a vast collection of fiction and non-fiction, most dealing with arrangements of humans, hypothetical or real, interacting under different assumptions about how societies should be organized and what values they should possess. Some of these might involve true science fiction as well while others might incorporate elements of counter-fantasy or para-fantasy, both he sees as a possibility when tribal people seek support from their animistic religions when faced with well-armed foreigners amazed with their own prowess. Langston envisions a transformation of many of these works into movies for the Disney Deranged Channel, Lifetime single-episode miniseries, or aerial, mimed circus performances, all with the possibility of further extending his audience and the potential for people to ignore his work.

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Eth and Tim

By K.D. Langston

Copyright 2015 K.D. Langston

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Chapter 1

When the police cruiser crossed onto the superior pavement the roaring of the tires stopped, and with the sudden drop in decibels, Officer Reginald Lumpkin unclenched his jaw. He watched his new partner press the accelerator to the floor. The cruiser closed on the small black car in seconds. Since they had entered the township, Lumpkin knew they needed to attach the tracking device soon. This was no place to continue a high-speed chase. He also wanted to end the pursuit soon fearing his new partner, Sergeant Shadrach Crowell, was as reckless and dangerous as he had heard.

The car they were chasing did not slow down for the curve at the top of the hill and its tires shrieked on the smooth, even pavement. Lumpkin watched Crowell steady the steering wheel with his ample belly and shut off the siren with one hand and activate his microphone switch next to his giant Adam’s apple with the other. Crowell scratched the three-day stubble on the folds under his chin and sniffed.

Lumpkin felt relieved. Crowell had insisted they stay out of constant radio contact with headquarters in defiance of a policy requiring it during a high-speed chase. At least now Crowell might be less likely to do something dangerous with HQ listening.

We’re currently in Fieldcrest Township… don’t want to disturb any of the important people, Crowell said, speaking to Lumpkin and into the microphone. Lumpkin already knew that but had not wanted to anger Crowell by giving any appearance of correcting him.

Many of the wealthiest in the state lived here. There was no point in the siren now anyway. The driver they pursued had certainly heard it and seen the flashing lights. The scofflaw obviously had no intention of stopping.

Crowell had to tap the brakes to avoid rear-ending black unmarked car. Few vehicles on the road could match a Principle Enforcement pursuit car. Lumpkin checked the TrakMaster gun in his hands to make sure the probe was in correctly. Crowell glanced at him. His thick black eyebrows and bloodshot eyes made the expression more menacing. Lumpkin noticed for the first time that Crowell’s nose looked far too small for his face, just a small red button.

Do it now, you mor… Crowell said, but stopped himself before delivering the insult. Then he softened his tone. Look Reg… we can’t keep up the chase much longer. I don’t want the captain and the coop president both on my ass.

That last shot wasn’t my fault, Reg said. You hit a pot hole. He regretted the words the moment he said them. Blaming Crowell for anything was a bad idea. And he was already on his bad side.

What part of the road back there isn’t a pothole? It’s easier to avoid the good spots, Crowell said. His face was bright red now. Just shoot the damn thing.

Just keep it steady, Shad, Lumpkin said, not looking at the sergeant, a little closer.

Crowell seemed to ignore him and opted to sign-on officially with the command center.

Car fifteen reporting, he said into his microphone in a voice too high-pitched for someone his size. Pursuit proceeding into Fieldcrest southwest route eighty-one. Ready to initiate tracking of the vehicle in question.

A little bit closer, Shad, Reg said. Remember the memo the captain sent about how much these things cost. Shad frowned and seemed to be making sure his partner was aware of his mood. Lumpkin was beginning to think he could not say anything that would please Crowell.

He knew Crowell was not happy driving with someone else either. His previous partner, Ralph Hall, would be in the hospital another two weeks at least. Lumpkin had visited him with Crowell the day before.

The sergeant had brought his injured partner a bunch of helium balloons with unicorns, rainbows, and cute expressions printed on them. Crowell laughed when he pointed out the one that said ‘buck up lil’ trooper’. Lumpkin thought at the time that Ralph seemed to be able to handle Shad’s cruel ribbing better than he ever could. He wondered if people from the rougher parts of the state, especially the city, were tougher than township folks. He knew Crowell believed it and seemed to be harder on him because of it.

Maybe Crowell was too hardened to be a township cop. He had refused to admit his reckless driving had anything to do with Ralph’s broken collarbone and dislocated hip. In the locker room Thursday, Reg watched Crowell punch a guy right in the face who had suggested the possibility. He did not even seem to care about the department’s disciplinary measures.

Lumpkin put both arms out the window and pointed the launcher towards the rear of the black car. The TrakMaster device needed to hit a smooth surface in order to stick. The black car’s trunk was bouncing up and down too; the latch must have been faulty. The shot would have to be perfect, below the trunk but above the bumper.

Just a little closer, Shad, Lumpkin said.

You’re gonna have to do it now Reg, Crowell said, wiping sweat off his round, red cheeks, then pulling the visor of his black cap down to his eyebrows. With no taillights it’s hard to keep in range, and he’s all over the place. Would you shoot the damn thing?

I can’t get a good lock, Reg said, tremor in his voice.

I’m nearly up his fundament as it is, Shad said. Go ahead and shoot or give it to me. Lumpkin pulled the trigger and heard the dull pop of the gun and followed the path of the TrakMaster to its destination.

Got him! Reg said. Shad took a deep breath but still looked frustrated. Lumpkin knew he was trying to avoid saying something mean. He knew Crowell could not want to face the captain again this month for ‘behavior unbecoming an officer of the law’.

Crowell had said many times already that calling someone a moron or an idiot seemed like the right thing to do for some people. Reg wondered if he was one of the people Crowell was referring to.

Lumpkin watched the sergeant squeeze the steering wheel. He knew with his upper body strength he could have easily tied it in a knot. Reg wondered if there was any good way for Crowell to vent his anger.

I doubt he’s got a jammer, Shad said. But he’s a slippery devil. I want to take some good news to Ralph next time I see him. We’ll tail him a while longer.

You’re sure this is the same one? Reg asked. Shad’s face turned redder and he shot an angry glance at Reg.

Don’t question me, id… He seemed to redirect his anger. Lumpkin knew Crowell was taking yet another anger-management class. His partner’s tone changed and he spoke in an automatic way. We’ve always chased this perpetrator around. He’s been through five townships in the last year. Always works alone. But I don’t expect him to be able to jam the TrakMaster. We’ve encountered other type situations like this one. I’m not overly concerned at present.

Let’s find out. With a short, fat finger, Reg pushed the activation button on the command console in the center of the dashboard. The TrakMaster’s signal appeared on the screen, an orange triangle chased by a blue square. The triangle flickered a bit. He’s trying.

I’m surprised he has any tech at all in that rolling junkyard, Shad said.

It’s faster than you thought too, Reg said. Shad glowered at him. Reg tried to ignore the threatening stare and pushed a few more buttons in rapid succession. The orange triangle glowed.

There, he won’t be able to jam that. This one has the newest signal modulator.

Crowell slowed the car, to Lumpkin’s relief.

Both officers began to relax, their large bulks sinking back into their seats, as they watched the orange triangle move farther away from the blue square. They drove on, the two of them nearly filling the front seat space in the cruiser.

If he avoids the road block we’ve still got him, Reg said. Un-catalogued vehicle, no Freedom Pass, not even a Ride Meter, where do these people come from? Is it just a joyride?

He’s not with the NRM… that’s for sure, Shad said. They never work alone. Probably a swamp derelict.

With a car like that?

I dunno. It’s not on the stolen report list. It might not look like much, but that car’s been treated special, real special. We’ve never been able to tag him before. Slips into the swamp all the time and so forth; seems to be his center of operations. His activities have been all around it.

What’s the point? Why go to all this trouble?

Beats me. Don’t seem to be any financial type benefit in it, except he don’t pay for travel like everyone else… but he don’t really go nowhere neither. He’s sure in deep crap for all his mischief. We got a list so long he’ll be in main lockup for years. I’m ready to take a crack at him in interrogation. Reg’s eyes open wide. He knew Shad’s reputation as a brutal cop, especially when interviewing suspects.

And you don’t think he’s affiliated? Reg asked, meekly.

No. What did I say already? The NRM has issued several statements denying any connection to this one. Might be some former member or some crap like that. Anyhow, NRM never does seem to do much more than irritate us. People say they’ve got something in the works; I don’t know about that. If you ask me they aren’t any more dangerous than a broccoli fart.

You get that lead from the prisoner? About something brewing? Reg asked. Shad made a low humming sound to signify agreement. Reg knew he would be unwilling to talk much about the man he had killed in interrogation by accident, he had claimed. Lumpkin knew Crowell was lucky they had not sent him back to a search and destroy beat in the city for that error. He wondered where he kept the infamous hammer he used on suspects.

Shad eased the cruiser around the next curve.

Looks like he might’ve left the paved road, Reg said, studying the screen. He pushed a few buttons to expand the coverage. The orange triangle was now a small dot on the other edge of the screen from the blue dot.

That’s in the forest around the northern region of the swamp, his M.O., Shad said. I don’t know of any entry road around there. He gunned the engine.

Then he’s trapped, Reg said. They closed on the signal in less than two minutes.

It’s what I’d expect from this one... leaving the road, Shad said, grumbling. Might be a trick that is. He had to know there would roadblocks. He would’ve planned all right. Might be another one of his escape routes... unmarked.

Shad slowed the vehicle as the orange triangle grew larger. Then Lumpkin spotted the skid marks leading off the side road that Crowell had predicted. The cruiser slowed to a crawl.

Reg shined his spotlight on the well-trimmed grass along the shoulder. There, he left the road there. He trained his light on the location. Shad turned the cruiser and left the road following the tracks onto the grass.

The Fieldcrest coop council is gonna be mad about their grass, Reg said.

They can get sodded for all I care. I’m not losin’ that car for a patch of turf. We’ve got him now. I can’t wait to get him to lockup. There won’t be nothin’ left for the DA. As he turned the car, the headlights revealed a break in the trees and an old dirt road leading off into the forest, probably used by game hunters. Dust floating over the road reflected the headlight beams.

The TrakMaster says he went in there, Reg said.

The dust already told me that, m.... Lumpkin thought maybe he was getting better at controlling his temper.

We’re goin’ in there too, Shad said calmly with only a hint of sarcasm. He shifted his weight in his seat and hit the grass racing into the dust cloud.

It’s hardly wide enough for the car, Reg said. His car’s not as big.

If you’re scared you can get out and powder your nose, Regina. We’re goin’ wherever that car goes. If we lose him he’ll just stop and yank off the TrakMaster. We’ll find it stuck to the back of a snapping turtle or some crap like that. Shad growled the words. The cruiser bounced along the rough terrain.

It’s not just the trees. The swamp will start soon. We might get stuck. Then the captain will… Shad cut him off.

I’m going to put you out right in it if you don’t shut up. You can tell the gators all about it. I’m not lettin’ anyone else punch this ticket. We’re too close now. They splashed through a foot of water. Mud coated the side windows. Reg kept his mouth shut and gripped the armrests instead of speaking.

We’re climbing now, Shad said, getting out of the wet; looks like. What’s on the other side? Do you know? You’re a township boy, aren’t you? Crowell’s rapid-fire style of asking questions flustered Lumpkin.

I think… judging from where we are, Reg said, stammering uncontrollably, I’d say… we’re near the… Just then the front of the car dropped suddenly and a spray of coarse, bright white sand flew over the windshield. The back tires swerved as Shad gunned the engine.

Golf course? Shad asked, in a sugary, sardonic tone. The cruiser’s special tires managed the sand and the car leapt onto the green throwing sod behind it into the sand trap.

Oh, crap, Reg said. You know where we are?

You still worried about grass and such? You can get out and stomp divots later. Reg glared at Shad who returned the expression with even more emphasis. Reg looked away and frowned.

Both men knew they were driving through the very exclusive, very expensive Fieldcrest Golf and Country Club. Even Shad would realize the consequences. He didn’t seem to care.

I’m personally going to beat this driver to a pulp, Crowell said. I won’t even need the hammer for this one. My fists’ll do fine.

There! Reg said. He pointed up the hill. On the crest they saw the silhouette of the small, black car backlit by the pre-dawn sky. He’s found a golf cart path.

We’ll see if we can play through, Shad said, snarling. Do you have your putter? Of course you do. What else would you do with your hands? The cruiser made short work of the hill and jumped onto the gravel track sending a wave of rocks onto the grass on the opposite side.

Oh no, Reg said, under his breath.

He’s still on the cart path, Reg said, looking at the TrakMaster screen, I’m sure of it. Shad nodded. He took the next turn and the cruiser’s rear end fishtailed again. The lightening sky ahead of them still betrayed the small black car.

We’ve got him now, Shad said, almost growling.

We can let the TrakMaster do its job, Reg said. We’ve caused too much damage already.

I recall telling you to shut up. Shad slammed his foot on the accelerator and closed on the vehicle. Both cars lost traction on the loose gravel but the cruiser had better tires and was gaining on the renegade.

That covered bridge is for golf carts, Reg said in a conversational way, too timid to speak with determination. He knew they would never make it through but his fear of Crowell trumped his concern.

I’m not going to tell you to shut up again, Shad said. He’s going through it. We’ll follow.

But… Reg began but stopped his words just as the cruiser reached the bridge at fifty miles an hour. It was too late.

The cruiser entered but the narrow bridge could not accommodate the vehicle’s girth, as Reg expected. The timbers groaned and creaked as the car split the wall framing of the old wooden golf cart bridge; jerking back and forth like a rat working its way into a small hole as it bounced off studs on either side, slowing in jerks as it progressed, while both officers also lurched forward and back repeatedly.

The bridge was far too narrow for the police cruiser to pass all the way through, of course. And, their speed was sufficient to wedge the vehicle in well past back bumper. As soon as they came to a stop, both officers felt the bridge giving under them.

You've knocked off the cruiser’s mirrors, Reg said, his voice high-pitched.

That's what concerns you?

It’s going to collapse, Reg said, thinking of something more pertinent while sounding panicked. And we can’t open any of the doors.

I’m bringing a sewing kit next time you ride with me, Shad said.

You have a sewing kit?

No, but I can steal the one from your locker back at the station.

How did you know…? What would you do with…? Reg asked. Shad smiled menacingly at his partner and pantomimed sewing his lips closed. Reg turned away. Then the bridge groaned again and dropped another few inches.

Stay here if you want, Shad said. I’m gettin’ out.

How…? but before he could finish his question Shad had already shifted his bulk over the top of the seat and was aiming his large boots at the front windshield.

You’ll never… the captain… Reg stopped talking. He watched Shad slam his heavy soles into the windshield again and again until the glass was opaque with cracks and the seal gave way. Shad gave one final heave with his feet and pushed the shattered windshield over and off the hood of the cruiser.

He’s stopped! Reg shouted, looking at the tracking screen. The orange triangle appeared to be stationary.

Then we’ll bring that with us, Shad said. He reached over and tore the tracking device off the dashboard with a snatch. It has a battery, doesn’t it? Reg was still staring at the dashboard and nodded imperceptibly. Shad reached under the seat, grabbed a riot gun, and squeezed out the windshield opening and rolled over the hood. The bridge creaked again when he landed hard on the plank floor.

Come on then, he said, glaring at Reg. He tossed the tracking module to him. You carry this. You don’t seem much good for anything else. Bring a light too.

That way, Reg pointed down the lane and off to the right as he caught up with Shad. He’s left the path too. Maybe he ran into trouble too.

If he hasn’t already, Shad said, he’s going too. He was squeezing the shotgun so hard Lumpkin thought he might crush the steel barrel.

You can’t just shoot him, Reg said.

Then I’ll shoot you first, Shad said, then him. Reg held up his palms in surrender and backed away. Shad was already trotting up the cart path.

Right along here somewhere, Reg said, jogging behind Shad and studying the tracking screen. They had left the lane and were coming down the hill. Off to the right. Reg shined his spotlight into dense underbrush.

Looks light he went off the lane by accident, Shad said. Must’ve been worried we were right behind him. Reg panned the light along the length of drainage ditch in front of them, then back up the opposite bank and along the tree line. He locked the light on the small, black overturned car. It was covered in mud and fine, bright grass clippings.

It must have rolled in the ditch, Shad said, chuckling. Trying to get back into the swamp. He snatched the light out of Reg’s hand, slogged through the shallow water of the ditch, and climbed the bank to where the vehicle lay. Reg followed, huffing and puffing. He could not believe someone so large could move so quickly.

The driver? Reg asked, with little air to make to words. Shad was shining the light into the back window. Then he moved around to the driver’s side.

Buggered off, Shad said. Knew we wouldn’t be far behind. He tried to open the door. It was jammed and the window was broken. That was certainly the way the driver got out. Reg watched as Crowell shifted his bulk to keep his balance, knelt down, shined the light into the car, and studied the interior.

Blood, he said. Not a lot, might be enough to slow him down. Got a lot more tech in here than I expected. Filthy though. What a slob.

No markings, not even a simple Pay Pass, Reg said from his spot standing behind the vehicle. Flat black without a scrap of chrome.

Can you figure that one out on your own, Reg? Or do you need a consult with a kindergarten class? Reg gritted his teeth and tried to ignore Crowell, again.

There! Reg shouted, pointing towards a sound in the thicket.

Shad held the light up and aimed the beam into the thick, low pine forest. They saw a dark figure moving away through the trees like an owl's shadow. The dense underbrush obscured their view. For an instant, the light revealed the suspect was wearing a long, heavy olive-drab coat. He had short, dark hair.

Skinny fellow, doesn’t look like the injury is slowing him down too much, Shad said. He’s nearly on the edge of the swamp. There’s a narrow finger in there that leads back into the deepest part of the waste.

I guess the highway’s on the other side? Reg asked. Do you think he might just cross the finger and double back? He wouldn’t go deeper into the swamp; would he?

Maybe, who the hell knows, Shad said. I’m following him. You call it in.

Lumpkin realized Crowell had turned off his communicator several minutes before. He was happy to reopen the link. He tapped the button on his lapel and started recounting the story of the chase. He made a few suggestions for the captain to consider while he waited for his partner to return. Before he could finish his report, Crowell was back across the ditch standing in front of him.

He could’ve gone in any direction, Crowell said under his breath. He headed back towards the stuck cruiser without looking at Reg.

We’ve got no way of knowing which way he went, Reg said. I asked for someone to patrol the other side. We can wait for the reclamator to haul the car to impound. At least he can’t bother us too much anymore without a vehicle.

I want this one, Crowell said, growling the words. I want this one bad. He glared at Reg. You go with the reclamator. Slap all the tracking tech you can on that thing. I don’t want to lose that vehicle again. He'll try to get it back. Reg’s head felt cold because of his partner’s tone. He had never been so afraid of anyone.

Chapter 2

Tim Jackson stood on his bike pedals to get more leverage as he climbed the hill along the tenth-hole fairway of the Fieldcrest golf course. He took one hand off the handlebars briefly to straighten the pleat of his pants. There was too much cloth for his long, thin legs.

Tim was headed to the old covered golf cart bridge. He planned to stop at the bridge and return home from there to finish his morning ride. He rapped a long, thin knuckle on his trip counter and saw he had several more hours on his bicycle Freedom Pass for the month. He wanted to see where the excitement had been the night before. He was sure he was going the right way. The gravel on the path showed signs of high-speed car traffic. He smiled thinking of the outrage the damage would cause at the club.

He imagined the complaints and then heard his parent’s voices rattling around inside his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Even when he was alone he could hear their nagging. He usually exercised more than any of his friends yet his parents always bugged him about getting fresh air, moving his body, and such.

Now that he was riding his bike early on a Saturday morning they had to ask about that too. Do you need to go today? You should be careful with your ride time. When you get your car you need to know how to manage your mileage. And you’ll miss breakfast. They had said all that and much more, as usual. And then they couldn’t understand why the only answers they could get were grunts, as they complained many times. Could he not do anything right? He had to get away. He had thought about riding on the unfinished parkway again, no pass readers there yet, no one to scrutinize him, but he wanted to see the wreck.

Why did his parents try to run his life? He would go to college in a few months. He’d probably choose the wrong one even if he thought long and hard about which one his parents would like most for him to attend. He exhaled loudly in disgust. He would choose the one they liked the least, and one that wasn’t virtual, though he knew few of those remained, and there were none in Georgia.

He pedaled on reaching the crest of the hill. The golf course on his right stretched through the rolling hills flanked by neatly managed and precisely planted groves of trees and shrubs, not in rows, squares, or circles, but orderly nonetheless, with gentle, predictable lines. Many of the spring plants would be blooming soon. He would enjoy those on his rides. Something about the sameness of it all bothered him somehow and change was nice.

He felt a chilly breeze at the top of the hill so he pulled the collar of his pale blue windbreaker up to cover his long, thin neck. He looked towards the last finger of swampland that stuck into the side of the golf course, like a