When Cars Fall From The Sky: John Wheeler Novels, #1

By Joseph Weisnewski

Twenty-two years after an alien race has successfully invaded our world, John Wheeler, a down on his luck private investigator, is sitting in the baking heat of what has become the new 'normal' of earth's changed climate.

A beautiful woman approaches. She hands him a thick envelope full of cash and wants help finding her missing brother.

Wheeler needs the money. 

He should have said, "No".

 

Ride along with Wheeler as he discovers a world of hurt, navigating parallel dimensions, stumbling into worm holes, dodging the chaos of state sanctoned violence, and avoiding the police and aliens who mean to stop his investigation by any means possible.

John Wheeler vol. 1

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Weisnewski
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393320005

Book preview

Chapter 1

Present Day

The name's John Wheeler, 47, ex-Army Intelligence, if that's not an oxymoron, and now a two-bit shamus. If this was some movie back in the 1940s I'd be wearing a fedora and have a closet sized office in some third floor walk-up next to a flop house. There'd be a flashing neon sign across the street and a bottle of cheap whiskey in the bottom drawer of the scarred three-legged army surplus desk that sits against a wall with a phone book standing in for the missing limb.

But this ain't the 1940s and this sure as hell's not the world those guys lived in. My 'office' is a storefront in a rundown strip mall. I've soaped over the cracked, plate-glass window to have a little privacy. There's a little hand-lettered sign out front stating,

J. Wheeler, Investigator

Tojio's Teriyaki joint is next door on one side and Mitch's Used Books is on the other. The rest of the mall is vacant and boarded up except for Effing A's tavern at the far end by the corner. Huge weeds thrive in the parking lot and the sidewalk has crumbled to the point where it's not safe to walk.

Perolli Inc.

Seems they were the last tenants in my spot before everything changed. It's still painted on the wall. The carpet was blue, industrial grade, and faded now to an indistinct grimy grey-brown, with well-worn, frayed traffic paths. The walls have big black scuffs on the yellowed white surface and there are a few holes I can't be bothered to patch. The roof leaks in places with the inevitable result that the place is more humid than a soaking sponge in a Louisiana bayou. It reeks of damp. A lot of electrical outlets cross the floor and I imagine that once upon a time, rows of desks with computer monitors filled this space and bright techie types busied themselves with whatever bright techie types once did.

I wasn't supposed to sleep on the premises but I had a folding cot set up in the backroom. I'd lost my apartment three weeks ago.

It was the 10th of August. Two weeks before the day. Yeah, I mean that day. People back in the 20th century thought that December 7th was a day that would live forever in infamy and at the start of the 21st it was 9/11. Well, these dates had nothing on August 24th. Twenty-two years ago, an August 24th changed our world forever.

Damn, the day was another scorcher.

Frankly, I was doing nothing and had been doing nothing for what seemed like a long time. The year had started well enough with a nice long easy job. It only required me to follow a woman whose husband suspected her of having an affair.

She wasn't.

It turned out that her suspicious behavior was due to having a secret job where she made extra money for herself. Her jerk of a husband didn't believe me and kept me on the case long after we should have quit. When she found out her husband was having her tailed, she left him. The bastard deserved it. After that, there were a few missing persons to track. Those cases kept my rent paid until late May. Since then, nothing. My landlord had become a nuisance and I'd begun to think it was time to say, Adios.

I dozed in the afternoon heat. It was too airless and stifling inside so I sat on my one bent folding chair just outside the open door. I heard footsteps approaching. Just someone coming for teriyaki I thought but the sound stopped next to my chair.

A female voice said, Mr. Wheeler?

I struggled to open my eyes.

They wanted to stay shut.

Finally, I surfaced and turned. She was not the kind of woman you were used to seeing in this part of town. She wasn't wearing shorts a size too small nor did she have love handles protruding from under a stained, too tight tank top stinking of vomit. Her hair was not broken brittle blond, her face was not burnt hard by the sun, and her eyes were not bloodshot from too many benders. Like I said, she wasn't from around here.

In her early thirties, she wore nice sandals. Her shorts were soft salmon pink. They looked expensive. Her blouse was crisp white, collared and sleeveless with perfect bumps in all the right places. She looked like something you'd see in a magazine ad before the invasion. She was a knockout. Soft red hair bounced gently against her shoulders. Her left hip moved east as she shifted her weight. She stared at me over her Ray Bans. Christ, Ray Bans! Where did she get those? Her brows were raised in a query. She wasn't smiling.

I barked, Yeah, I'm John Wheeler. Who wants to know?

Mr. Wheeler, my name is Jessica Blaine-Redding and I've been trying to find you for three weeks.

I stood up too quickly, felt faint and put my hand out to steady myself. It rested on her shoulder. She pushed it off, taking a step back. I managed to regain my balance and apologized.

Mr. Wheeler, this visit is strictly business. I may have a job for you. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?

I looked around. Nothing moved except the waves of heat rising from the ruined parking lot. The Sahara could not have been more vacant.

It looks pretty private right here.

No sir, she replied. We can't be seen speaking to each other. Please, let's go in and close the door.

We did. I carried my chair so she could sit. The room was hot enough to simmer soup. It stank of mildew and me.

Okay, we're out of sight. I leaned against the old metal desk. She had class. She didn't mention the smell nor complain about the heat. Didn't even wrinkle her nose.

What job are you talking about?

Mr. Wheeler—a

I interrupted, Lady…uhh… excuse me… Ms. Blaine-Redding…I feel funny with the 'Mr. Wheeler' stuff. Everybody calls me John. At least everybody who likes me does.

Mr. Wheeler, my brother Charles is missing. The police have been no help whatsoever and a Captain Jay suggested I speak to you. That was several weeks ago. The address he gave me for you was not current. I had to spend quite a bit of money finding you…

Ricky Jay. He and I went back to the army days. When the A's arrived twenty-two years ago and the shit hit the fan, I resigned, hiding out for a few years. He joined the cops: sounds like he made Captain. I was hoping he was still a good guy.

She was still talking. I hadn't been paying attention.

…so you see, it's very urgent that I find him. He's been working on a project of extreme importance and a great deal of money is involved.

I'd like to believe that I stopped thinking with my dick a long time ago, but being close to a woman this beautiful was making me feel like Mr. Schoolboy with a crush. I made my voice sound hard like Mr. Pro Private Eye but knew I'd be volunteering to erase the blackboard soon.

Well Ms. what makes you think that I can find your brother when the police can't?

She looked at me hard. You know as well as I that the police really work for the Aliens. They don't have any incentive to find a missing person unless he's wanted by the A's, and then they have a hard time getting human cooperation.

She was right. The police were like capos in the old Nazi camps. They kept order to a point but what they really did was enforce any decrees sent down by the A's. If people rebelled, the police put it down. If the cops ever needed help from fellow humans, very few gave it. I was wondering why she had bothered going to the police, who Jay had become and why he had sent her to me?

She opened her handbag, removed a thick envelope and held it out to me. I took it. I whistled as I counted the dough—enough money to pay my office rent for the rest of the year, get an apartment, take a vacation and maybe even buy a car.

That's just a down payment, she explained. We will pay you two more installments of the same plus a generous per diem expense account, no questions asked. Just find my brother and tell me where he is. That's all.

How long has he been gone?

She paused. Eight months.

I jumped. Holy shit lady! Eight fuckin' months? He could be anywhere. How am I gonna pick up a trail that old?

She looked bored. Captain Jay assured me that you are resourceful and honest. I know you won't cheat me. Please try.

She had me. I knew it was entirely hopeless, but Christ the money! What a beauty too! The temptation to take the money and run was strong, but in my heart I knew I couldn't live with myself if I did.

Big mistake: I should have run.

She gave me a large manila envelope containing information about her brother Charles, including an address where I could reach her. We agreed to regular updates here at my office. Then, we heard a hell of a loud sound outside. She looked at me and asked if there was a back door. I walked her to the rear and unlocked it. She went out quickly and didn't look back.

I went out front. After twenty-two years, I had no doubt about what had happened.

Yeah, a dropper.

Out on the weedy street was a car. Correction, what was left of a car and likewise, what was left of its passengers. The car looked as though it had been dropped from a great height.

It had.

Another one dropped by the fucking A's.

The car, a thirty-year old faded blue Feldo, had hit hard, bounced twice then fallen to bits. It had carried maybe five people, maybe four. Hard to tell. Glass, blood and debris spread over a forty-foot area. I shuddered to think of it landing on my roof, but hey, this was now normal life on earth, at least normal life for humans. Occurrences like these were so common that the term RV now stood for Random Violence. A small crowd of salvagers gathered.

It looked like slim pickings.

Chapter 2

There was no way I was going to find Charles Blaine-Redding on my own, not after eight goddamned months! So, a day later I went out and bought a car with some of the money. Again, I felt the urge to take the car, the money and disappear. What I ended up doing was getting in touch with my old buddy Roscoe Green.

The car was an old T-Bac, a white one, the XLC model. It still ran well. They made 'em good in those days.

Roscoe was still living at the same address with Molly. I hadn't seen them in years but once upon a time they'd been my best friends. Wisteria still grew over the porch. The house needed some fresh paint. The lawn was dead but flowers bloomed in nicely maintained beds.

Roscoe and I had done Intel-security duty all over the world with the army. I had introduced him to Molly. She and I had been a pretty hot item once upon a time but she got tired of my cheating and cut herself loose. I realized my mistake after she dumped me. I drank heavily to ease the pain. I stopped being a drunk when I set her up with Roscoe and watched the two of them take off. It was one of the few truly decent things I had done in my life. For a while I was able to hang out with them and enjoy her vicariously, but after a few years it got too hard and I had to bail. I wonder if either of them suspected why I always had an excuse to turn down invitations.

With telephone service a distant memory, I just showed up hoping he was home. Lucky me, they were both in. I knocked. Roscoe answered.

Jeezus H. Christ, it's Johnny! Hey Molly, it's Johnny! Fucking hell, it's good to see you. What have you been doing? It's been what…five, six years? Let me see, the last time I saw you was at little Jenny's birthday… God, which one…Oh my god, it was her seventh. Shit, Johnny it's been ten fucking years! Molly, come out here!

Molly walked out of the kitchen. She looked good but also looked tired. Hiya Johnny. It's been a long time. Nice to see ya. You look like hell.

I hugged her. I saw myself in the mirror over the sofa. It wasn't a pretty sight. I did look like hell. The bags under my eyes could hold a week of dirty laundry, I needed a shave, a haircut, and my shirt was out at the elbows.

Molly stepped back, her eyes full of mischief and said, You stink too, but I'm glad you stopped by.

Roscoe piped up. Wow, look at your car. It's a T-Bac. Did you get the XLC or the Turbo?

XLC. I'll take the two of you for a spin later if you like. How are the kids?

Oops, big mistake. Molly's eyes teared up. Roscoe turned away.

Roscoe composed himself, turned back to me and said in a flat dead voice, Jenny got caught out on a Curfee Night about two years ago. She was badly injured, now she's quadriplegic. We kept telling her to watch the time but…teenagers! Jerry's dead. The third plague got him.

He couldn't go on. My heart was breaking. I really loved this family and regretted the time I had spent away from them. Random violence was now part of the fabric of our lives. How had ten years gone by so fast? I felt my deep hatred for the A's stirring. All of this mayhem, this random terror, this hell that life had become was because of these Alien bastards.

Yeah, the A's. You can imagine the excitement when they first showed up. It was no longer Sci-fi. Real beings from another world had arrived. Whoopee! Yeah, twenty-two long, long years ago. If only they'd been bug-eyed monsters we might have been more on our guard. What a surprise it was to see them all so good looking. They could easily be native movie celebrities. The main physical difference is the eyes. All pupil. Oh, also when you kill 'em they bleed green. There's a whole new generation of humans who think our new lives are normal, that this is the way everything should be. Some fashionistas even have contact lenses to make them look like A's.

Back then, the scientists were falling all over themselves trying to get interviews and analyses. The new arrivals (people were calling them the A's even back then) were more than happy to oblige but somehow the findings were never made public. Then the scientists were gone. Poof, they disappeared.

Were people suspicious? You bet, but the A's were very clever. There were several highly publicized miracles. The papers called it the Lazarus Phenomenon. A's would arrive at some hospital to undertake a healing. They made the blind to see, the lame to walk and cured the incurable. Usually there was a child involved. The cameras were always rolling and the stories touched the hearts of millions.

Next the Alien priests began converting the masses. First there were thousands then millions of new believers. After all, how can long dead prophets compete against real life miracle workers? So now there are a substantial number of in-crowd humans. They have a pretty cushy lifestyle as long as they do everything the way the A's like it done.

Christ, they had great toys too. They had toys so advanced that we felt like children. There was this one, oh man was it cool! It was a handheld device that enabled its user to levitate over short distances. You can imagine the envy as world leaders had their smiling pictures taken while floating five feet off the ground.

The A's were very apologetic about interrupting our electronic services. It was just accidental, a result of energy fields used to reach us and they would have all systems up and running ASAP blah, blah, blah. Radio and TV resumed fairly quickly but with a difference. All formats revolved around our new visitors and how they were going to help earth step into a new age. Electronic inter-human communication was never re-established. The first incident to prove we were all in the toilet was the Airspace Massacre. News of the agreement was in all the papers. The A's wanted to have use of the airspace around the planet. Certificates were drawn up and payments were made. Some humans got really rich that day. No one dreamed that the A's had bought our airspace for their exclusive use. It wasn't until fifty planes were vaporized for trespassing that we began to get the picture.

Where was the military? Well, with so much weaponry relying on computers, there wasn't much they could do. But mostly, the order to launch any kind of attack had to come from the top and the top guys all over the world were not giving those orders.

The big Disease came next, three waves of it. It's been downhill since.

I looked at Roscoe. Hey buddy, you want a job?

He flinched. Johnny, I haven't worked in ten months. I want a job so bad I was thinking of joining MCS.

I smiled. Whew, well I guess I caught you in the nick of time. Methane Collection Services will have to stink without you.

He shrugged. Yeah, lucky me.

I pressed on. So, it's still early, no need to worry about curfew, I'll take you out for a drive and a drink. What do you say?

Molly was quick to answer. Sorry Johnny, but I'm behind on work. I take in washing and mending now and two clients will be around tomorrow for pick-up. You two go. If it's not too late, come back and you can have dinner with us. I'd really like that.

As I turned to go, I caught a glimpse of her hands. Noticing, she put them behind her back but not before I saw red, cracked flesh. Shit, she used to have beautiful hands. I remembered how nice it was to hold them.

I wasn't sure I wanted to come back but what I said was, Yeah, sounds good.

I followed Roscoe out to the curb. We climbed into my cool new car and took off in a haze of blue exhaust.

Chapter 3

We ended up at a dive called Jakxie's. At least the beer was cold. As required by law, the TV was on. The screen showed a picture of a child's severed head. The reporter was talking about the unfortunate family that strayed too far into the Kootenai Mountains. She said their names had been Mortenson, five of them. They'd gone out to gawk at wildflowers. The poor schmucks got attacked by outlaws so desperate for food, they'd been cannibalized. How stupid can you get? Everyone's regularly warned not to go into wilderness areas. If folks go out there and get killed it's their own damned fault. I couldn't watch any more of it. The image of the reporter was replaced by that of an A. He wore this sincere look of sympathy and had mastered a Kentucky accent. He expressed condolences on behalf of all the Aliens to the friends and surviving kin of the Mortensons. As soppy music accompanied soft focused photos of the children, he repeated all the wilderness warnings. The basic message, Don't go there.

Roscoe and I turned away. This crap was the norm. The rest of the Jakxie crowd was quietly staring at the tube. We kept our voices low, ordering three beers each at happy hour prices.

Roscoe spoke first. So, Johnny, tell me about this job.

I told him about the meeting with Jessica Blaine-Redding, her missing brother and the fact that Ricky Jay had sent her to me. I didn't hold anything back, not even the part about the money.

So the way I see it Roscoe, you're in for a third. What do you say?

Hey buddy, that's really generous. I appreciate it. Molly and I really need the bread. Jenny's in a care facility and any savings we had put away are shrinking fast. But I have a few questions.

Shoot, I said.

Well, I remember Ricky Jay. We had our ups and downs but basically he was okay. So, now he's a cop. We know what the cops are all about now. Can we trust him or anything he sends our way?

I shrugged, then grinned. I don't know buddy. Hey, I wonder if he still combs his hair back with olive oil?

Roscoe had just taken a swig of beer. He started laughing so hard that some of it came out his nose.

He coughed a little, caught his breath and said, Damn, I forgot all about that. Sometimes his hair was so shiny it nearly blinded you. He'd walk around smelling like a salad. Yeah, he swore up and down how good it was for his hair. I wonder if he still has any?

Has what, hair or olive oil?

Moving on, Roscoe asked, Johnny, do you know anything about this Blaine-Redding broad? Is she on the level? What was it that her brother was working on that had so much money tied into it and whose money was it? Sounds like there's a whole bunch of stuff we don't know. We could end up in some shit if we're not careful.

I had no answers but I agreed with him.

And Johnny,

Yeah?

Just how do you plan to pick up a trail this cold? So many people disappear these days, nobody knows where and most don't care. Back when, we could have run an Internet search, followed a money trail, credit cards and all that stuff. We don't have those tools anymore.

All I've got is the packet of info. his sister gave me. Old work contacts, names and addresses of university professors, that kind of stuff. I'm not sure we're going to have much luck but the lady was very insistent. She's also very rich. I thought about taking the bread and disappearing but I haven't quite reached that side of low yet. Besides, I've got nothing better to do and she's willing to pay more.

I showed him the photo of Blaine-Redding from the packet then the rest of the stuff.

Same old Johnny, he taunted. You're so full of shit! I can see right through you. You're talking tough but you're mister knight-errant. She must have been some looker, bro. Hell, I bet you'd do this job for a quarter of what she's paying. Hell, you'd probably pay her to do this job.

I replied, Look who's talking. You're ready to dive in with both feet and three legs!

He looked sheepish. Amen, brother but I need the cash. Don't think I don't appreciate you bringing me on, but we are either going to find absolutely nothing or we are going to find major trouble. I'm hoping it's going to be nothing.

Then Roscoe pointed something out. John, look at the photo of Blaine-Redding. It looks a bit like you did twenty or so years ago.

Mmm, I mused. Maybe.

We paid our tab and got up to leave. The news item about the slaughtered family was recycling for the millionth time and it was getting close to curfew. The legwork would start tomorrow. I gave him a big wad of cash. It was embarrassing how grateful he was. I was now hungry and looking forward to Molly's meal.

I started the car. A high-speed road—used to be called a freeway— sat fifty yards away from where we were parked. Traffic was thick and brisk. As I shifted into gear we heard the screeching of brakes and a series of crashes.

It was RV.

A solid ten-foot wall had just popped up out of the freeway's roadbed. I'd say twenty to thirty-five vehicles had plowed into the wall and into each other. There were going to be more than just a few fatalities. Some cars were already burning. It wouldn't take long before there were more. Roscoe said it first.

Goddamn A's having fun again! I hate 'em! Why do you think they do this shit?

Chapter 4

The table is round and precisely twenty-four feet in diameter. The top is thick, dark black and shines with a metallic mirror finish. It is like nothing on earth. The table is centered in a circular white room with a domed ceiling twenty-four feet high. The walls are bare. Around the table sit twelve still, human-like figures. They are deeply involved in a conference although no sounds are audible.

Are you sure?

Yes, we are sure.

How do you know?

The human RXT1078 has assured us.

Do you trust this human?

Absolutely.

It is imperative that this mission not fail.

It is unlikely that the humans will prevail even if we cannot locate.

We must not take any chances. Even a small risk is unacceptable.

The humans are unpredictable. They can be surprising.

The humans are stupid, vain and self-serving. They will never, as they say, 'Pull their shit together.'

Sounds that resemble some kind of laughter.

These humans and their expressions!

Can anyone explain to me why chickens crossing the road are amusing?

They laugh at nonsense.

I believe it has something to do with—

The humans will remain terrified and unable to unite. They do not have the slightest inkling of what is really going on here.

We shall have to monitor this current situation closely. After all, we are a long way from home. If there are any failures or transport interruptions it could go badly for us.

At all costs, there must not be a cessation of product.

Supreme Mind is very unforgiving.

Can we increase our intensity yet?

No, we reached ceiling last year.

Bukeva help us!

Yes, indeed.

Chapter 5

Ispent the night at Roscoe and Molly's. It was almost like old times. We got roaring drunk, relived older, happier times and lamented mankind's current plight. Next morning I stumbled into the kitchen with a hell of a hangover to get the coffee going. It was already late but I didn't care. It was unlikely we'd get leads that day or any other. Molly rolled in next. She didn't look good.

She moaned, Man, what I'd give for some really good pot. You never have to feel this way after getting high on weed.

I agreed and raised my eyebrows. Is Roscoe getting up soon?

She held her head. How the hell should I know, Johnny?

I yawned. Here, take him some coffee. I made it strong.

She took a sip. Jesus Christ, did you use up all my Joe for this one cup? This shit's expensive.

I took out a twenty and put it on the table. That should cover it.

Forget it Johnny, I'm sorry. I guess I'm just used to scrimping.

I waved my hand at imaginary gnats. No, it's okay. Keep the money. We might as well enjoy it while it's here.

She smiled at last. Thanks. You're a real friend and I mean that.

I couldn't hint that I'd like to be more than just a friend again so I nodded and told her to wake up Roscoe. She took the cup then swayed her way to the bedroom. Her shoulder hit the doorframe as she passed through, spilling half the brew. I could hear their voices. She laughed; Roscoe swore. Then he said, Holy Shit. He must have tried the coffee.

An hour later, after scarfing down a quick breakfast, we were almost ready to face the day. To make it fair, we wrote down the potential contacts on little slips of paper, put them in a hat and drew. There weren't very many. Ten total. They consisted of co-workers, casual acquaintances, a couple of university professors and an ex-girlfriend, Jane Elson.

I spoke first. I think we should start with the more distant ones then gradually work our way back to local.

Roscoe complained, Shit, who knows if any these people are still around or even still alive?

I know what you mean but hey, we have to try. We have a couple of professors here. Let's start at the U. They both work at the same campus.

We stepped outside. Man was it bright! We got in the car. I started her up.

Roscoe looked over at me and said, We need to keep track of the time. Tonight's Curfee Night.

I don't need remindin' pal.

Curfee Night. What a nightmare. There was a nine-p.m. curfew every night except once a month. On that exception, no sane person wanted to be out after nine. It was a free-for-all with no rules. The term Curfee was a bowdlerized version of Curfew Free. On Curfee Night, crazies and drugged-out lunatics swarmed to create as much chaos, death, and mayhem as possible. Neighborhoods constructed barriers with armed volunteers standing guard to prevent any of the celebrants from invading their homes. The police swore they would prevent any unnecessary violence but were never around when you needed them. Occasionally a band of the freaks would get into a protected area, cause a lot of mischief and usually get shot. Most of the time these tribal gangs were content to tear around the main streets engaged in their own brand of revenge warfare. Sometimes normal, life-loving people got caught out when they hadn't been paying attention to the calendar, the time, or maybe they were just kids out looking for adventure. It's hard to tell sometimes. Roscoe's daughter, Jenny, was lucky she hadn't been killed. Back at the bar Roscoe told me that a bunch of Curfees dropped her off a three-story building. They were so stoned that two of them jumped after her, probably thinking she was a balloon. The lunatics landed on their heads, dying at the scene. Fortunately for Jenny, she hit a stack of garbage bags. The rest of the mob, thinking that all three were dead, proceeded on their merry way. The cops found her the next morning and took her to what passes for a hospital these days. She now spends her days in a wheelchair.

Just imagine, this shit is sanctioned, given the official OK. It's sort of like the old Pamplona running of the bulls thing. Try to picture the morning after! Bodies on the streets, burning cars, blood and bits of people everywhere. Some smart-ass dude in the news a few years ago said that events like Curfee Night were the logical result of extreme poverty, hopelessness, heavy-handed control, fear, and addictions. He might be right but I say that no one I know wants to participate and we're all in the same boat more or less. So what makes some of us do it and not others? My guess is that some people are just meaner and some are just more stupid.

We were pulling into the university parking lot. There weren't many cars but there were lots of weeds. My guy, a Professor Kalmus, was in the math department. Roscoe was going to talk to a Professor Sidney over in the Humanities Building.

The U was holding up pretty well. There were a few broken windows, some missing bricks and one burnt out shell of a dormitory but mostly the buildings were well maintained. The grounds were another story. There wasn't a live blade of grass to be seen and all of the shrubs were brown, broken and bare. The weeds always manage to survive though. I thought about that as I walked across campus. The cultivated lawns of human civilization had perished in the last twenty-two years. Those of us who have survived could be called weeds. Yes, we were the human weeds.

It took close to ten minutes of wandering around the corridors before I found Kalmus's office. I knocked, waited, then knocked again. I tried the knob. Locked. I was swearing to myself when a gangly woman with bad teeth came down the hall.

Are you looking for Professor Kalmus? Her voice was unpleasantly shrill but not unfriendly.

Yeah. I have some important information for him. He's won some money.

She actually clapped her hands. Oh, Marty will be thrilled. I hope it's a big sum. He's been wanting to retire.

She smiled. It wasn't pretty. She wanted to know how much the old coot had won. I politely told her I wasn't allowed to divulge the amount. She shrugged, introducing herself as Professor Blakely, Advanced Calculus. We shook hands. I pitied the students who had to listen to that voice.

I'm afraid you won't find Marty in today, she squawked. He received notice that he had to report for MCS duty this week. You'll find him at the Elm Street collection center.

Once upon a time (it sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale!) we all dreaded getting notices for jury duty. We should be so lucky today! MCS was an obligation that fell on all of us at least once a year. Energy was in short supply. Petroleum was a thing of the past. Today everything ran on methane and every citizen had to do his or her part to make sure the cars ran, the stoves cooked, and the houses stayed warm in winter. If you failed to show up as scheduled you were arrested and had to spend double the amount of time producing gas. Methane Collection Services. MCS, every citizen's sacred duty. You showed up in the morning, were fed some god-awful concoction of something based on beans and cabbage, given the special Collection Garment and then you sat around all day farting. At least the Collection Garment was leak proof so you didn't have to suffer the stink of hundreds of fellow sufferers. The cramping was intense and accidents were common. Fortunately, the garment was tailored to deal with those as well. The last time I had MCS duty the exhaust hose got blocked and my Zootsuit inflated. The staff is almost always surly and we had a great screaming match. Speaking of matches, the duty and the job are very dangerous. Six years ago a leak caught fire and the whole damned place exploded. No survivors.

I thanked the old bag, swearing to myself as I walked out of the building. Going to any MCS center was not my idea of a good time. Elm Street was not far though, so I left a note on the car for Roscoe and walked over. I muttered the whole way.

Goddamn heat, motherfuckin' job, shoulda turned it down.

As I passed a high, rusted, corrugated fence I heard angry voices on the other side making plans for tonight's Curfee chaos. A few loud bangs sounding like a club hitting sheet metal were followed by insane laughter. I quickened my pace down to Elm.

The day was heating up, another scorcher coming our way. The temperature inside the center would be intense, the donors miserable. It wouldn't be an easy interview. I checked at the desk and was told