After Oxygen

By Redbrook Publishing

Soon...

After a frantic but doomed attempt to stop the unparalleled ecological disaster, Max Ziegfeldt – a wealthy philanthropist – strikes out across a wasteland of his own creation. Death and insanity accompany him as he encounters his victims, forcing him to face the depths of his guilt. Terrifying visions push Max forward until he encounters a group of teenagers who’ve taken refuge in a domed greenhouse. His dark path ultimately puts him on a collision course with fate when he decides to take control of the garden; a place he’s come to believe is Eden on Earth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Redbrook Publishing
• Release date: Jul 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990280016

Redbrook Publishing

Redbrook Publishing is an independent Canadian publisher

Book preview

PART 1

JUNE 14, 0000AO (AFTER OXYGEN)

CHAPTER 1 – BREAKFAST WITH THE DEGRENIERS

There had always been homes along the old road, but never so many as now. A decade before, when the family had settled into their modest two-storey house, they'd only had a few neighbours within shouting distance. These days, if one of the kids put their music up, there would probably be a noise complaint before the song ended.

Sam was a practical mother.

She would remind her children to keep it quiet – after 9:00pm – per the municipal bylaw. She had been married for eighteen years, worked for the city as a full-time mechanic for twenty, and was the mother of two teenagers. She had little time or energy for misguided notions of community-building.

Past the spread of town, away from the beaches of Lake Simcoe and the city core, Barrie's Little Lake had remained a beloved local vestige of nature. The dense, marshy forests that encircled it were crested with wetlands whose brilliant green and gold shoots flowed out in tremendous, intertwined profusions all along the water.

From the family room window, Sam often watched lone or sometimes paired anglers drift quietly by, pressing gently through the long-grass shallows. When their catches were in and the time for fishing was done, poles and tackle rested on dripping, bobbing decks. No one ever seemed rushed.

It was idyllic – or at least it had been.

Big companies had suddenly bought up most of the surrounding area, and without warning, dozens of plots were abruptly turned over and churned through the various stages of construction. Entire rows of newly printed homes appeared literally overnight – so many that the lake was hardly even visible through the family room window anymore.

Today, Sam just needed to get everyone to do their part. She'd served cold breakfast tarts and scrambled eggs with sticky glasses of orange juice and steaming coffee. They had to plan for the next twenty-four hours, despite the unfolding of the logistical nightmare known as breakfast.

Nice face, pus-head, Casey teased his younger sister.

Ass! Ashley shot back, perfectly aware the makeup wasn't hiding her zit very well.

Their dad, Mick, looked up from reading the news on his flexi. He absently rolled the paper-thin, glowing display into a tube and pointed it at his children. Guys, if you can't say anything nice to each other, keep it inside 'til it turns into an ulcer.

Sam chuckled. She loved her husband's sarcastic sense of humour, for the most part. After serving everyone else first, she dumped the remaining portion of eggs from a hot pan onto her own plate. The pan's searing metal sputtered angrily as she dropped it into the sink.

Okay, everyone... Listen! she shouted, raising her voice above the clang of cheap cutlery scraping cheaper dishes. Mick, because your dentist appointment is at nine, you guys… She eyed the kids to ensure their attention. You guys will be going to school beforehand to empty your lockers for summer break.

Casey reached for the coffee, but Sam's scolding hand intercepted him. Gripping his wrist between pinched fingers, she carried his hand to the vicinity of the orange juice and released it there. He poured a fresh glass without any argument.

Ashley snapped her fingers. Zing, chicken-charmer! Mom power!

Mick gave her the evil eye, and Casey shot back, Shhh! Stop talking. You might pop that thing and get cheese in my breakfast!

Gross! Mick shouted. Don't talk like that! He carefully finished chewing his mouthful of eggs before going on. This is serious, kids. My tooth's killing me. Please listen to your mom. And what the hell's a chicken-charmer anyway?

Ashley looked at her dad dubiously, warning, I don't think you wanna know.

It has to do with making yourself really, really happy, Casey offered in a wise tone.

Would you all shut up and listen? Please! Sam realized she'd shouted a bit too loudly, especially considering all the windows were open. More quietly, she tried again. I'll drive the kids to school first. We'll be back by a quarter to nine.

Mick nodded his head. His cheek was puffy and red over his bad tooth.

Sam turned to the kids, making eye contact with each of them. You will be ready to go by five minutes to eight. When we get to the school, you will not stop to speak to a single soul. She looked at her daughter intently. Not a soul, Ashley.

What? The girl's eyebrows went up in feigned innocence. Can I thank my frigging teacher for all his hard work this year?

No chatting! No thanking! No nothing – at all! Get your stuff and leave the frigging school, silently. And don't say frigging! It obviously means fucking! I'm not stupid, you know. Sam took a cleansing breath. We need to be back here so I can get your father to his appointment on time. Casey, you'll make sure?

The boy nodded.

Good. Then I'll drop you off on the way to shopping and get back to your dad an hour or so after. Then, home again. Sam took another breath, and her Flexifone rang in her pocket. She stared mournfully at her untouched breakfast. She knew who was calling, and she absolutely had to take it. Getting up and leaving the kitchen for the next room, she answered, Hi Terri…

Ashley dropped her fork onto her plate and peered wistfully through the window toward the sorrowfully diminished view of the lake. Dad…

He grunted a friendly acknowledgment.

How long's Aunt Theresa gonna stay in my room?

’Til they find a place, baby. He tried to sound apologetic, to show a grain of empathy for the girl’s plight. He was pretty sure he’d come across as insensitive when the topic first came up, days ago. We’re gonna fix the basement up really nice for you and Constance. Mick didn’t like Constance. The kid was bad news – as far as he was concerned, that whole side of the family was. Ashley wasn’t the only one who was going to be affected either. Casey?

Uh huh? The young man looked up from his second serving of juice.

You alright with everything?

I don’t mind sharing with Gerard – for a bit… if that’s what you mean. His voice was hardly convincing, but the truth was that Gerard, their other cousin, was taking his parents’ situation quite badly. He needed a friend, and Casey was the obvious choice.

Why don’t they just move out of that big house and rent an apartment in Ottawa or something? Ashley suggested.

Mick always wished at times like this that he wasn’t obliged to reveal the uglier truths of the world to his kids, but he considered the ample pustule on Ashley’s face as stark evidence that she actually was sixteen years old. Lately, it seemed that his instincts to protect and guide were a lot sharper than she had need of. It was more apparent every day.

He decided to put it to her simply and honestly. They don’t have the money, sweetie. Your uncle gambled absolutely everything away. They’re going to need our help for a while, ’kay?

’Kay, Daddy.

Sam reappeared from the other room, her every word more urgent than the last. They – will – be – here – in – two – hours!

CHAPTER 2 – PHANTOM INSIDE

Max was simmering with frustration because of the extra time it had already taken to travel by car from Toronto’s Pearson Airport all the way to the tiny strip in a microscopic town called Markham. His AI assistant had assured him it was absolutely necessary if he was to meet his schedule, but he didn’t pretend to be happy about it. As it was, the back-country facilities could barely accommodate the needs of his small business-class jet. To add insult to injury, he was told – scolded, really – that they were lucky to receive clearance on such short notice.

If nothing, Max was happy to get a little peace and quiet. He wanted time to think. Traffic was light, too – another bonus. From his plush couch, perched along the passenger side of the limo’s midsection, he watched absently while the steering wheel spun expertly. There was, of course, no driver – nor had there been in years. The car drove significantly faster and smarter than any human could ever manage. And his phantom chauffeur had a cleaner record than any driver, ever.

Vestiges of the vehicle’s previous incarnations were still apparent enough. Resting faithfully in their traditional places were an empty driver’s seat, a steering wheel – even an accelerator and a brake pedal. No one drove this vehicle, nor was anyone ever likely to. The real reason for the redundancy was clear. There was still a driver’s seat because, for most people, the appearance of being in control was more important than actually being in control. He’d seen it a million times. When workers felt like their destiny was their own, even in the absence of any actual evidence to that effect, they tended to remain content.

In a way, he realized, that same reasoning was precisely why he was pulling into this outhouse of an airport. He knew that in a few moments, the limo would move beyond the front parking spaces, pass through a drab, green fence and stop on the landing field. Dr. Marin would be waiting for him, and Max would wear his sternest expression. That was precisely when the show would begin. That was when he would step into the proverbial driver’s seat and become a mirage called leadership.

He thought back to years ago when he was first getting involved with pharmaceuticals. During those early days, Max had learned by experience that a show of leadership rarely needed to be much more than just that – a show. Rallying the troops under the banner of a blockbuster drug just meant another speech, another handshake. He would say a few words about a product, point to a couple of dots on a profit chart, and share a profound quote by some dead person. That was all. It was completely shameless, and he was very good at it. So good, in fact, that he’d amassed a small personal fortune using that very same formula again and again.

One day, an old friend of his – Burt Buttons, a finance lawyer – had suggested that he explore the world of philanthropy to reduce his tax burden. The man had made some mention of a client who’d done quite well by those means. It was a practical suggestion as much as it was a joke. As a skilled Machiavellian, Max Ziegfeldt made no secret that his concern for humanity was about equal to a dozer-bot’s concern for rainforest ecology.

Those around him did not realize that because of a block of new regulatory burdens, an understated yet persistent spike in Max’s overseas earnings was going to translate to a reduction in revenues of over five percent in the next two quarters. He needed to offload into a project that could deflect the taxman and ideally turn a profit of its own.

The shape of that venture had come to him one afternoon at his condo in L.A. He had been enjoying a light lunch on the deck, chatting with his sister over the cloud. She was a tiresome sort of girl – a creature of intense expectations whose unrelenting frivolity made him seethe. In truth, he couldn’t stand the sight of her, but she was the mother of his only nephew. Together, the three of them represented the remains of his entire family. Thus, he endured her insane rants about rude store clerks and her ceaseless descriptions of her many other petty troubles.

She’d babbled and prattled inside the invisible borders of a small holo-player he’d placed on his lunch table. Then you know what I told her, Maxi? Her likeness shifted in the sparkling holo-light. I told her she doesn’t even know what she’s talking about. I say, you see a sale like that, and sweetheart, you know something’s wrong.

The words she said became an increasingly distant din to him. His mind wandered, and he found himself thinking of the view.

He loved L.A. He loved it for its culture of money and opportunity, for its mountains and skyline. Maybe not the skyline, he reconsidered. After all, it was a filthy mess by mid-morning and only got worse as the day went on. Often, by noon, the smog all but blotted out the sun.

He mentioned this to his sister. It’s awful, he said.

She didn’t even notice he’d opened his mouth.

In the spaces between the glass-shattering noises her voice made, Max had realized he might know someone who could help him do something about the air. There was a brilliant fellow who happened to be on staff with his company, an atmospheric chemist. Dr. Marin was his name – Dr. Tony Marin. He wondered if the old man would be up to the challenge. Surely there were easy discoveries to be made, existing technologies to be leveraged and improved upon.

The Doctor had already modernized his company’s fine-particulate sequestering systems. He’d overseen the installation of game-changing upgrades. The whole operation was cheaper and more efficient than the old setup, and in a few years, it would even be profitable. It was also the Doctor’s exclusive design. Max toyed with the idea of being his benefactor, wondering what a mind like that could do if given the right resources.

Max hastily excused himself from the lunch table, already lifting his Flexifone to his ear. His sister was still talking, oblivious to the fact that he’d left.

By Monday morning, he’d spoken to the money people and the legal people. By Tuesday, he’d set up a think tank chaired by the Doctor and attended by Burt Buttons. By lunchtime that Wednesday, he was busily shaking hands and quoting long-dead famous people.

That had all happened three years ago.

Since then, Ruah had been born. Not a child, but a thing: a synthetic molecule with a name that meant ‘Divine Breath’. Ruah was what had actually brought him and his prized aircraft to this tiny airfield.

Tony Marin was patiently waiting under the late morning sun for his benefactor’s arrival. As planned, Max wore his sternest expression while the vehicle came to a precise stop mere inches from the Doctor’s feet. He emerged from the limo’s dark interior with the soles of his expensive shoes meeting the perfectly flat, searing tarmac. Standing up straight, he adjusted his forest-green business suit, which shimmered faintly in the early light, before settling perfectly and unwrinkled over his stiff frame.

Dr. Marin smiled in greeting and extended his hand.

Max reached out to shake it. You look good, Tony, he lied. It’s nice to see you.

The Doctor’s black-and-platinum beard was frayed and unkempt. His clothes were years old and showed signs of having been through far too many washes. Max noted with impatience that the man’s eyes were kind and his smile was genuine.

As they walked the short distance toward the waiting aircraft, the Doctor said polite things like, It’s very good to have you, and, I hope the travel wasn’t too taxing. Max could hardly bring himself to respond verbally. He merely raised a hand and dismissed each statement with little more than a grunt or a grimace.

The Doctor seemed not to notice his rudeness.

As men and women scurried past, making final preparations for the flight, the sight of an arrow-like antenna attached to the nose of his plane struck Max as a grating new addition. He wondered how much science hardware had already been stowed onboard and exactly how long it was going to take to get his jet back to the way it was.

The Doctor brought him up to speed succinctly. As you know, we lost control of the delivery blimps at 11:15 last night. They were moving into position for an 8:00am dispersal over Metropolitan Toronto. Telemetry shows they’re currently flying level at forty-two thousand feet, drifting north-northwest from their target.

Max allowed his eyebrows to rise above the rims of his sunglasses. This was a signal to expand on some point. Where are they now? he prompted.

The Doctor consulted a worn paper he’d produced hastily from a jacket pocket. Over a place called Barrie. It’s not far from here. The plan is to establish a direct data link with the lead blimp via laser. Then we’ll order it home. The other blimps should follow it.

We still can’t link from the ground?

Dr. Marin seemed to be anticipating the question. The blimps’ vertical lines of sight aren’t scanning. They currently have some horizontal sensing, but only to a small degree. In basic terms, they can speak side to side, but they can’t look up or down. Unfortunately, there’s no way to tell the leader to let the others know it’s time to come home. So they just keep following – all the way up to the edge of space, if that’s where she leads them.

My AI mentioned something about a cubic mile sampler? Max was concerned about this exceptionally expensive appropriation.

Yes. We also needed a gas chromatograph and a spectrometer. There are a couple of other things… The Doctor suddenly looked mysterious. I don’t suppose you were informed, then?

Informed? Max felt the pit in his stomach deepen.

It would appear several of the blimps were ordered to deliver their payloads.

Max glared.

It happened less than an hour ago. We haven’t figured out the exact reason yet. But the fact remains that there’s Ruah vapour in the atmosphere at an altitude where it has never been tested. We’ve also had some strange readings from the last dozen or so micro-sat passes. We need to understand as clearly as possible what’s happening up there, so we’ll also be taking direct samples during the flight.

Strange readings? Max saw his profits dipping, investors backing out, regulatory interventions… lawsuits. This was quickly becoming the worst meeting of his life – a complete nightmare.

We’ve seen some atypical atmospherics. Nothing definitive, Dr. Marin assured him. That’s why we need all the extra equipment. Max was rubbing his temples, and the Doctor suddenly realized this was the first time he’d ever seen the man even remotely overwhelmed. Don’t worry, Max. He reached out a hand. We’ll get them down.

Max hated him for his empathy. How did this happen? Any theories? He carefully controlled his voice, afraid to betray the weakness he felt – his desperation to regain control.

The ageing scientist looked up at the shining, silver fuselage of the waiting aircraft. It loomed close. Dr. K’s already on board the plane and studying the problem, he said. She thinks it could be a virus. Industrial sabotage.

CHAPTER 3 – A DRIVE WITH THE MEYERS

From the back seat, Constance tried not to let the welling tears roll down her cheeks, past the double shields of her dark sunglasses and brooding, black bangs. She didn’t want her mom or brother to see her crying – again. A road sign impersonally welcomed their worn-out station wagon to yet another city – the latest signpost marking the ever-greater distance between her and the life she was being forced to leave behind.

The sign said, ‘Welcome to Mars-ham’ – or something stupid like that.

She felt like she was on Mars – a stranger everywhere. Just passing through, she whispered to herself, hardly moving her lips.

Traffic and buildings shot past in a teary blur. Stifling a sniffle, Constance forced down yet another salty gulp from the back of her throat. She blinked three times fast and held her gaze up and to the left for a bit longer than was comfortable. Her sunglasses recognized the command instantly. The sounds passing discreetly through her skull, beamed directly to her inner ear, changed abruptly. She was tired of sad songs and wanted something angrier.

Chancing a peek to the front of the car, she saw her brother, Gerard, sitting stiffly in the passenger seat. He was looking straight ahead, his expression icy. Their mother gripped the steering wheel with one hand as she felt around frantically for a coffee she’d finished an hour before.

Theresa wanted to keep a strong face for her kids, despite being a complete mess on the inside. She tried to focus on the road, but it was a huge effort. Ever since the previous year, when they’d purchased the Spirit CI5, she’d quickly gotten out of the habit of actually driving by hand. She’d felt like she was dying when it was repossessed, just like she’d felt when they lost the house and everything in it.

Shaking her head, she willed herself away from the precipice and back to the miles of road that lay ahead. This looks like a nice town, eh, guys? You like Markham?

Neither kid said a word.

The oily smell of stale french fries loomed from a discarded fast-food bag somewhere in the back. Theresa rolled her window down, imagining that if she could just get the kids’ thoughts on the future, they all might feel a little bit better.

Remember what a beautiful place Barrie is, kids? You used to have a great time there in the summers. We could end up staying there, or we could settle down somewhere else instead… once I get some work. Never hurts to start looking, right? She paused to allow for an answer from either one of them. Kids! Do you hear me?

Gerard finally spoke up. She’s plugged in, Mom. Total cloudiac. Want me to throw something at her?

No! Keeping her eyes on the road, Theresa reached around with her right hand and smacked the girl lightly on her jeans. Hey, brat!

Constance blinked three times and looked down – the mute command – and disdainfully peered over the rim of her sunglasses. What? The word came out with greater impudence than she’d intended, though she hardly regretted the error.

Don’t be so rude! I asked if you like this city. We might move here someday!

The girl peered out the window somberly. Her answer poured out like acid. I hate it. We should go back to Ottawa. I don’t want to go to Barrie or Mars-ham. And you can’t be a brat when you’re a teenager. I’m too old for that crap.

Her exhausted mother sighed deeply.

When the repo people had come to the house for the Spirit, Theresa had managed to salvage a few items from inside before they took it away in a flash of iridescent, beetle-shell blue. One of those items was a small rear-view mirror ornament, fashioned roughly from twine and twigs. Just as it had once hung proudly in the luxury car, it now dangled haltingly in their fifth-hand, gas-guzzling rust bucket.

But to Theresa, the piece was more valuable than the Spirit ever was.

She thought back more than a decade to the day it had come into her possession. She’d spoken with Constance from a young age about her beliefs as a Pagan. One day, they were discussing the lessons of the Seasons: Spring as new life, and Fall, its decline. Sometime later that same day, the little girl had emerged from her bedroom with something hidden behind her back. When the child revealed the item, she presented a circle made from twine, suspiciously the same diameter as Theresa’s favourite coffee cup. The shape was broken by two protrusions close together along its edge, making it look like a space alien helmet with little antennae.

She had no idea what it represented, and young Constance didn’t say. Years later, the object was captured in a family holo-image. The cloud had automatically identified it as an obscure glyph from a Pagan tradition that was not familiar to her. Apparently, it meant Spring. She imagined Constance must have looked it up without direction – the girl was only four years old at the time.

Theresa knew her daughter had a special gift for the cloud. Other kids had made fun of her when she was younger. They’d called her a cloudiac and that ridiculous term, chicken-charmer. It only encouraged the girl, sending her further and further away from her tormentors and, sadly, from everyone else in the real world as well.

Theresa’s heart ached when she thought of how her daughter only ever found solace soaring through the endless dimensions of every virtual world imaginable, but never on land with the rest of them – never in the flesh with her family. Theresa focused beyond the bobbing ornament and across the highway. A small airport came into view where a private plane was taxiing down the runway. "Look, kids!