Future 6

By Chris Snape

A couple attempt to escape the city to avoid prison for being unemployed. An alien spacecraft crashes in an isolated town; next thing everyone knows, a rescue party arrives. Aliens appear literally out of nowhere and a group of unlikely townsfolk band together to save the world from invasion. A time traveller is mistaken for a Soviet spy at the height of the Cold War. A man, alone in a deserted city, seeks an answer to the only question that matters: Where is everybody? A man hires a mechanical house sitter and gets more than he bargained for. Six views of alternate futures highlighting the struggle of common men and women to adapt to change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Snape
• Release date: Jun 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310340574

Chris Snape

Christopher Snape was born in the Midlands, England, and migrated to Australia when he was ten years old. He is obsessed with music of any form, but particularly The Beatles - he once met Ringo Starr and spent the next several days trying to convince himself it was not a dream. In between teaching History and English to senior school students, playing blues guitar and reading he likes to write fiction and travel articles. His work has appeared in The Adelaide Advertiser, Write Away, The Black Country Bugle and Aurealis.In his spare time he likes to indulge his passion for old television shows and trying to keep his blog up to date. He lives with his wife and two cats in Adelaide, South Australia.

Book preview

Copyright © Chris Snape 2015

Runners first appeared in Aurealis 44 published in 2010.

The right of Chris Snape to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

Runners

Rescue Party

World’s End

The Vanguard

Empty City

House Guest

Runners

Three months! … Defeated, Iverson wilted in his seat, shoulders sagging, the weight of the previous twelve weeks descending on him all at once.

‘You’re … my … last … hope …,’ he muttered disconsolately. ‘You know … what’ll happen …’

An administrator – immaculately dressed, midnight blue suit, crimson necktie – lounged on the other side of the desk. Iverson detested everything about him, detested his cod-faced expression, his forced regal air. Royalty – he had it now – that’s how they pictured themselves, these administrators ... And it was a stinking recycling company, for goodness’ sake …

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Iverson. You’re not what the company is looking for.’

‘My wife,’ Iverson croaked. ‘Did I tell you I have a wife?’

‘It’s all here in your file.’ The administrator lightly tapped a flexi spread out beneath his fingers.

Suddenly Iverson peered across the desk with renewed hope, glanced at the flexi, collared the administrator’s glassy eyes. ‘Perhaps if you look you’ll find–’

‘Everything’s been checked, Mr. Iverson.’

‘My qualifications clearly show–’

The administrator shook his head in a manner supposed to convey regret.

‘Problem, Mr. Iverson. Your skills level, your knowledge … The world has progressed. Machines and computers can do everything you can in a fraction of the time. Basic economics. Don’t take it personally, Mr. Iverson.’

The administrator slid his chair away from the desk, stood up, offered his hand.

‘Thank you for considering Southern Recycling Consolidated.’

Iverson lumbered to his feet. Without taking the other man’s hand he went into the waiting room, eyes fixed on the carpet, squashed through a swarm of hopefuls, sensing their terrible and shamed relief because he – Iverson – had so obviously not got the job.

Iverson stood on the pavement, Southern Recycling soaring above him, acres of shining glass, kilometers of impossibly slender girders – testament to its blooming economic muscle – reaching to a narrow point against an immaculate slice of sky. Above his head an electronic billboard flashed the message: Southern Recycling Consolidated – the future begins here … Or ends – it contained nothing for him.

As he watched the billboard’s letters erupted into colour, pixels swimming gracefully about the black screen, fashioning a new slogan – Entering a new ERA in 2035 … The Environmental Resources Act (2035) following the Oil Catastrophe – that’s when it all began to go wrong. His life, he meant. It changed everything by banning all motor transportation except for essential services. First Marta lost her job when the sorry state of public transport, really just a dire series of confusions too quickly overrun by hordes of new commuters, resulted in one too many late starts. Then him … Now, within a day or two, an Official Department of Employment and Reeducation Notification would arrive. He knew the DER would not neglect him. Attention to detail was its strength; its power. All else flowed from that fact.

He lifted his hand and immediately a Metropolitan Cab – yellow frame, black lettering – slid against the curb. Sharp eyes! The Rider was muscular, dark-haired, young, his eyes concealed behind wrap-around sunglasses.

‘The station,’ Iverson said, climbing onto the bench behind the saddle.

The Rider checked his mirrors, pushed on the pedals, slotted into the traffic. Iverson, facing backwards, shaded under a canvas awning, thought the street resembled the Tour de France. He pictured – actually, he longed for it to happen, just for something different – a cyclist making a false move and sending everyone tumbling onto the bitumen like skittles. Life had become so tedious and it would only get worse.

‘Bit cool today,’ the Rider, making conversation, said over his shoulder. ‘Not that I’d notice.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ Iverson said. A large sweat stain marked the back of the Rider’s loose yellow company-embossed shirt.

‘Hear the news?’ When Iverson didn’t answer, the Rider continued, ‘Riots in Salisbury.’

Iverson grew nervous. Salisbury was less than an hour by train. Recent history had shown that with only the slightest provocation disorder could spread quickly.

The domestic water budget had been cut – again – only this time the authorities hadn’t warned anyone, just announced it. Now a mob was smashing windows and burning police vehicles. The reserves were being called in.

Hearing the news, Iverson just wanted to get home. He pictured his wife, Marta, sitting on her haunches in front of the heater, huddling close to stay warm, her attention fixed on the cube, watching the situation unfold.

‘It’s no surprise though,’ the Rider said, and Iverson thought, My God, he’s one of those! He thinks he knows everything there is to know about how the country’s run.

‘We all knew it was coming. Remember who you’re doing it for,’ the Rider said in a fair approximation of the paternal commentary over the government resources campaign advertisements. ‘Join with us and help us save your children, your grandchildren – your great-grandchildren! … But I keep asking myself: how much more are we expected to put up with?’

Iverson half-turned in his seat, stared at the back of the Rider’s head, the slick twists of hair. He’d heard the same thing countless times – individuals sounding off over the latest cutbacks. Plenty of people talked about doing something, but no-one ever did. They were powerless.

They took a right turn, the Rider slotted them through a small opening in the traffic, then they were pulling up outside the station. At one end of the stone building a great crowd of people was spewing into the street; at the other end another crowd was disappearing down the ramp towards the tracks.

‘Notice how everyone holds hands?’ the Rider – leaning back in his seat, digging long fingers into his lower back – observed.

Iverson shook his head. ‘No.’

‘People are frightened of losing each other. Imagine being a kid in this crowd and your mother lets go of you. Terrifying.’

‘Hasn’t it always been the same?’

‘It’s getting worse.’

Iverson shrugged, paid his fare, waited until there was enough space for him to step onto the pavement.

***

At first Iverson started counting his three month probation in weeks, then days, now he was down to hours. At midnight, according to the DER public database, he’d be officially unemployable – no-one would ever take him on again! And with his options foreclosed there would be nothing left but to stay put and wait for his ODERN – his marching orders, a concise, clearly formulated outline of the next phase of his life.

These were his thoughts as he crossed the front yard – imagining Marta’s disappointment when he told her what had happened at SRC. Whatever he said would come as a blow. She’d put all her faith in him, Iverson, her husband, getting another position – somewhere.

Marta, who must have heard the lock slide open as he waved his entry card across the sensor, was waiting for him in the hall. She didn’t have to say anything; she could tell just by looking that all was lost. Immediately her eyes filled with tears, she pressed her hand against the side of her face in a heartrending display of helplessness.

After a moment she asked, ‘What are we going to do?’ Somehow it sounded like an accusation.

Hanging his jacket on the coat rack, Iverson, his voice a dry crackle, said, ‘We wait.’

Marta drew breath slowly while Iverson unwound his scarf.

‘Shall I start packing?’

Her stoicism was remarkable, a thing to behold. Yet, even so, within seconds she was crying freely and Iverson was gathering her in his arms. Her shoulders convulsing beneath his unblemished hands gave him a feeling of resilience; for a few precious seconds he considered himself free, like he wasn’t responsible for the way their lives had turned out. Then Marta said, ‘You’d think they’d make an exception.’

Iverson’s throat thickened. ‘As a word it no longer applies.’ And all the responsibility, the knowledge that he had cost them everything, came crashing into him.

‘But David … David! … At least – the very least – After what happened.’

After what happened … He didn’t like being reminded of it. She knew it too. Over the years it had been a cause of great contention between them, a dark cloud hanging over an otherwise peaceful and contented marriage. If only you’d discuss it! she’d say ... But who wanted to be reminded of the fact their son, Rob – their only child, for God’s sake! – had been one of the first casualties of the Oil Catastrophe? That, a junior in the Federal Police, he’d been called to quell a riot at a petrol dump on the outskirts of the city, he’d arrived only a minute or two before the main force – enough time for him to be dragged from his vehicle by an angry mob?

‘The state requires us to go.’

Marta pressed her hands against his chest, a starkness entered her voice. ‘You know what you sound like?’

Iverson stood completely still. ‘Like a man who suddenly finds he’s become a burden on the over-taxed resources of the nation,’ he said, aware of the tightness of his tone. ‘But I want you to remember one thing. I am also a man whose sole philosophical stance has been to face up to facts, whatever they may be. I face reality as I see it. There is nothing we can do, Marta. Tomorrow or the next day our ODERN will arrive and it will be time to go.’ He glanced at the ceiling, was alarmed to realize his eyes were misting over. ‘I am a man whose freedom of choice has been taken away!’

She took a step back, lifted her hands, pleading. ‘Aren’t you even a little disappointed?’

‘You have no idea!’

‘We gave them our son and now they want to send us to a work camp in the middle of God knows where!’

Iverson, unable to meet his wife’s eyes, looked instead at the floor. ‘Everyone,’ he mumbled, aware of his own lack of conviction, ‘must do their part. Maybe when the situation improves–’

‘My God! You’re living in a dream world. Things are not going to improve. We are now officially surplus population. Our status has been diminished. We no longer, in real terms, have rights!’

He wanted to argue the State assured the rights of all work camp residents, but, of course, Marta was correct. Instead he wrestled for a glimmer of understanding – not so much for Marta as for himself.

‘We live in difficult times,’ he said. ‘The Oil Catastrophe, water supplies, exponential population growth – it’s a triumvirate of disaster. In such circumstances it’s only natural the State should turn its attention to the unemployed. There are too many mouths to feed.’ He gestured impatiently with his hand. ‘But you know all this.’

‘Turn its attention to the unemployed,’ Marta said, incredulous. ‘You know exactly what they were doing.