The Humid

By Russell Cordner

Gun violence may be out of control, but it's nothing compared to the wrath of Mother Nature.
Jack just wants to raise kids without fear and give them a comfortable life, and that's what the move from Chicago to Tokyo was meant to achieve.
But with 40 million neighbors, tensions at home, and an ever-rising thermostat, expat life isn't all it's cracked up to be.
The first day of summer is city's hottest on record and the sweltering metropolis is only getting hotter. With hospitals overflowing and a power grid on the brink of collapse, there's a  whole lot of fear and not much comfort.
 

(WARNING: This story contains strong language and graphic situations not suitable for all readers.)

 

NOTE: This 2nd edition has minor corrections, formatting changes, and a new cover. It contains no germane additions or changes to content. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell Cordner
• Release date: Apr 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9798201968205

Russell Cordner

Born in Toronto, Russell Cordner has lived across Canada and Japan. Exploring multiple genres, including crime, speculative, and general fiction, he writes both adult and young adult fiction. 

Book preview

The Humid

by

Russell Cordner

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or place, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and predicaments are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Copyright © 2019, 2021 by Russell Cordner

Published 2021.

First edition published 2019. Second edition 2021.

31 °C

Houston smirks at me, shaking his head. He says, You ain’t felt nothing yet.

You mean it gets worse?

Much worse. This ain’t even close to hot.

I don’t want to believe him. I want to think my boss is just messing with the new guy, but his tone says otherwise, and the weather seems to agree. It’s not even officially summer yet, and I’m already showering twice a day.

I wait for him to elaborate, knowing full well he will. I’ve only been on the job two weeks, but I already know he’s a talker.

Hell, it’s not so much the heat, he continues. A subtle Texan twang adds a dash of spice to a plain Midwestern tongue. Turning away from his desk, he spins his chair to face me. It’s the goddamn humidity. That goddamn fucking humidity.

Yeah, it’s pretty muggy here. Even worse than Chicago.

Houston scoffs and shakes his head. "This? This is nothing. If you think this is pretty muggy, wait a couple weeks, you’re in for a real treat. I mean, I’m black and from Phoenix, so I can handle the heat. But I’m from the desert, not the fucking tropics."

Two things about my boss: he’s the best network security engineer I’ve ever met, and he’s got a mouth like a trucker. He’s also built like a pro football player. To say he stands out in the Tokyo financial sector is an understatement.

My first two years, I was incorrigible from the start of June to the end of September. A downright miserable motherfucker four months outta the year, can you imagine that?

It’s hard to picture.

Thankfully, I’ve acclimated.

That’s probably a good thing for everyone.

Houston smiles. You will too. If you stay long enough.

Don’t worry, I say. I’m not going anywhere soon. We just moved halfway around the world. That’s not something I want to do too often.

Right. Houston’s heard it all before. You mentioned your wife just had a baby?

Almost a year ago. Delilah turns one this August. And Jordan, my son, is two-and-a-half going on twelve.

Houston grins out of politeness. Kids don’t seem to be his thing.

Just so you know, western women can have trouble acclimating here. And I’m not talking about the weather.

She seems to like it so far. Besides, it’s Tokyo. It’s not like we’re living in some Buddhist colony on top of a mountain.

You’ve only been here two weeks. I’m just giving you a heads-up. Ask her how she’s doing from time to time, or you might regret it. Trust me, I’ve seen happen a hundred times.

Okay, thanks for the advice.

I’m surprised at his concern for my wife. Touched even. Maybe that hulking frame holds a big softy.

And I know a good place you can get a small apartment. They come fully furnished, have cleaning and laundry service, and not that expensive.

We’ve got a place through the firm, I say. It’s more than big enough.

Houston laughs.

I’m not talking about for your family, I mean for you.

For me?

For you and anyone you might happen to meet.

Reading the confused look on my face, a wide, toothy smile spreads across his own. Don’t tell me you don’t play around?

I lower my voice and lean toward him. Are you talking about cheating on my wife? No, never.

Slapping his knee, he releases a booming laugh. Not yet, you mean.

That’s apparently the end of our chat. He spins his chair around and goes back to work.

32 °C

Our first day of summer in Japan is one for the history books. Tokyo’s hottest June 21st on record.

Do they seriously expect you to wear that? Alison asks, watching me straighten my necktie in the front hall mirror. It’s ninety degrees out there.

Thirty-two degrees, actually. I shoot her a wink with my reflection. "Remember, they use Celsius here.

Right, I forgot. Just another one of the wonderful things about living here. Not only do I not speak the language, I can’t even read a thermometer.

Her mood quickly sours. Again. I let out a sigh.

I told you, it’s easy. Celsius times one-point-eight, plus thirty-two, and you’ve got Fahrenheit. Simple.

She glares at me, resisting the urge to tear into me. But she can’t raise her voice. She’s holding Delilah, and our little angel is finally asleep after a night of endless crying.

You may find it amusing, but I don’t. I shouldn’t need math to know if my kids have a fever. And don’t even get me started on these stupid air conditioners. One in every room? I thought we’re in high-tech future land. They’ve got robot girls to flirt with creepy losers, but can’t figure out central air? Seriously Jack, why did we move here? Life wasn’t so bad back home.

Her eyes begin to water, but I don’t have time for tears. I need to get to work.

We agreed to give it a year— I pause before repeating what’s been said a dozen times since the move. It’s time for a new approach. Listen, if you’re still this unhappy a few weeks from now, maybe we’ll need to rethink things. Okay?

Do you mean that?

I nod, clutching to my use of the word maybe.

A few weeks? There is hope in her voice. In her eyes. She’s dying to move back home.

Can you try and do that? Give it a few more weeks to see how things go?

It’s her turn to nod. She’s clutching to the word try.

Alison sniffles. She’s holding back tears of a different kind. Happy, hopeful tears.

She steps closer, shifts our daughter into one arm, and puts a hand on my chest. Leaning forward, she kisses me on the lips. She whispers thank you and I force a smile.

I gotta run. Call if you need me.

One of our apartment’s selling points was its proximity to the office. After years of sitting in rush hour traffic twice a day, I can finally walk to work. It takes twenty minutes and helps me get the extra steps I need to stay in competition with my friends back home. A group of us got fitness trackers, competing to see who walks the most. Those living in NYC always lead the pack, but that’s about to change.

Beads of sweat hit my forehead the moment I step outside. A block later, I tear off my necktie and stuff it in my bag. Ten minutes later, I’m drenched. How can I go to work like this?

Yanking open the office building front door, I suck in deep breaths of ice-cold air. Streams of people flood the lobby from below, up the escalator like lava from deep inside a volcano. I’m the only one using the street-level doors. Standing there, flesh burning and dripping wet, it’s clear why everyone takes the train.

Annoyed tsks and huffs sound off as I cram my sweaty body into the elevator, pressing against strangers. But I’m not the only one sweating. Almost everybody is. I raise my chin, stealing short breaths of less crowded air. It pays to be taller than everyone else.

When the doors open to the twentieth floor, I make a beeline for the bathroom. Grabbing sheet after sheet of paper towel, I wipe and dab, then wipe and dab again, hopelessly trying to stop the perspiration.

Good luck with that. My boss appears from nowhere.

For such a large man, Houston is uncannily catlike.

With what?

Trying to get dry. You just need to wait it out, until your body temperature cools.

I frown, continuing to fill paper towels with sweat. But I know he’s right. As soon as I wipe it away, my pores produce more.

How am I supposed to work in this? I say, holding my arms out to the side. It looks like I just ran a marathon.

That’s why I keep my work clothes at the office. I change when I get here, then change when I leave.

They don’t mind? I thought we were supposed to be wearing a tie when we walk through the door.

Of course, they mind, but fuck ‘em. They’re just jealous anyways. Besides, they’re not going to fire us. Come on, I’ve got a shirt you can borrow.

Back at my