The House

By Jalen Cole

How would the United States government respond to an endless deluge of climate disasters barraging its western coast? By converting the land into Unincorporated Territory and selling it to the highest bidder. A new region, called Kingcardine by its sculptors and inhabitants, has been consolidated into a single city that stretches from Portland to Seattle, altered forever by two of the most powerful forces known to man: climate change and capitalism. It is a haven for the ultrawealthy and the destitute alike, but few call it home. One such person is Amelia Moreno, who returns to Kingcardine with her mother after more than a decade spent away. On her pilgrimage, she tries to understand the intricacies of the new city and the elite who control it but discovers a depraved secret at its heart. Will the same forces that transformed her home change her as well, or will she overcome Kingcardine and its many trappings?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662467240

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The House

Jalen Cole

Copyright © 2022 Jalen Cole

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-6723-3 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-6724-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Bucket and the Beggar

The Days I Spend with You

Friends in High Places

Invitational

The Third Estate

The House

The Days I Spend without You

A Terrible Thing to Waste

Wake-Up Call

Tall Tales

Gray Spaces

Domino

Longest Night of the Year

Chapter 1

The Bucket and the Beggar

It was Monday morning. Thin rays of sunlight had just begun to break through the overcast sky, the air was equally humid with rain and breath, cars and equally loud pedestrians screamed over one another, and I roamed the largest city in the world. There was a corner ahead, one I’d been perching on for the last couple of days. It was perfectly situated between two of the lesser financial districts, big enough that people still carried plenty of cash, but minor enough that they still walked from place to place. Even better, the competition has been getting thin in the area; I practically get four intersections all to myself. I started half jogging to try to beat traffic there so I could set up on the empty corner properly.

My backpack was stuffed with plastic shopping bags, enough to fill its volume without it looking bulky. It made a decent cushion, far from ideal, but a big step-up from solid concrete. I pulled the hood of my raincoat down and undid the scrunchie keeping my hair neatly tied, roughing it enough that a passerby would get the impression I had woken up without being able to maintain it. Finally, from the smallest pouch of my bag I grabbed a small handful of dirt.

In an endless expanse of sidewalks and roads, this was one of the rarest finds possible. It was my leg up over the competition and the most valuable thing I owned. I gently applied dirt to my nails and fingers, enough for them to be visible, without oversaturating them into obviousness. When each of them was properly sullied, I reached into the gutter to gather a bit of rainwater. Getting my hands muddy without washing away the dirt was a delicate process that required an eye for detail and very fine motor control. Once everything was ready, I grabbed a tin cup from inside my bag, took my seat, and pointed myself toward oncoming pedestrians. One finishing touch, a last detail that brought the whole image home, a small chunk of asphalt I dropped into the bottom of my cup.

As the morning rush began to come through, I rattled my can at them. Spare change?

One of the benefits of my work was that I had plenty of time to get lost in thought. I thought about the people that passed by, the clothes they wore, and what kind of job they might have. I thought about how to stretch a measly $400 across a whole day. I thought about the buildings around me, the unending range of city grids and towering structures soaking under the rain like steel sponges. Despite it, I still preferred the rain to the alternative.

The American West is an oven. Since the turn of the 2040s, the Pacific Coast had been drying into a tinderbox. It finally reached a tipping point where there were more disasters than could be kept up with, more than could even be documented. Nothing grew, the sky was permanently dark with smoke, and nonstop fires raged year-round. The government tried to contain the damage, but all the disaster relief in the world couldn’t prevent the mass exodus of ’52. Entire communities picked up almost overnight, fleeing east, away from danger. I was four when we left Olympia, moving by foot over uneven ground, carrying as much as my mama and I could hold.

We thought the coast was going to burn away and sink into the sea. Everyone said this place was all dried up and it was time to move on. Washington and Oregon States converted the burned areas into Unincorporated Territory and let the feds sort out the wreckage. For a long time, everyone thought they would turn it into a reserve or quarantine everything off or watch it sink into the sea. But instead something even stranger happened: a bunch of companies came together and bought the land.

I was too young to remember the legal battles, but once the dust settled, there were corporate townships all over the West Coast, private municipalities with their own power grids, their own laws, and their own police to enforce them. They varied dramatically in size, but even the biggest handful were only a few square miles. That was, until 2053, when six corporations came together and executed the largest merger in history. They combined their wealth and bought all the land from Seattle to Portland, assimilating all the tinier settlements along the way and folding them into a new place. Too big to be called a city, not quite large enough to be recognized as a state, the land became known as Kingcardine, the Big Bucket itself.

Construction began immediately, starting with an interconnected system of highways and through-roads that brought in materials and crews from every corner of the globe. It took days of bumper-to-bumper gridlock to even reach the city. The first major project was an international airport, built to withstand every natural disaster imaginable, to more effectively transport people in. While it was being built, we were still searching for a place to settle. I remember riding Mama’s shoulders, looking out across a never-ending stretch of cars that bent beyond the horizon, red lights twinkling toward the dawn. Sometimes I would turn to see what it was they were headed toward, a broken, dead place being propped up with a rebar skeleton and a concrete transfusion. They must have found what they were looking for.

We roamed for twelve years, with Mama doing whatever work came her way. She jumped from one odd job to another and brought me along for every second. There was no time for her to find a babysitter, so she would wait tables and leave me in the back with the kitchen staff. Learn about your food groups, Amelia, she would tell me. She would clerk for a grocery and leave me in the storeroom, then pointed at shelves of produce. How high can you count, Amelia? She would run thousands of sheets for an accounting office and leave me with last year’s figures. Amelia, do you know your multiplication tables?

Mama decided I was old enough to start working when I turned sixteen in the spring of ’64 and told me she was considering going back to what was left of home. Prospects were running thin in the East, and with Kingcardine attracting every nearby business into itself, it was fast becoming our only option. We left the next day, carrying little more than what we originally arrived with, returning to Olympia on a pilgrimage. I was too young to remember the coast, but Mama always called it home.

Could this really be the place she was talking about?

Tall, sky-piercing gray structures were spaced a few feet apart like the bristled fur of a great and horrible beast. Thick and impenetrable. Drones buzzed around the air, bouncing in between buildings or fluttering down to street level, carrying advertisements and billboards full of shining letters like neon fleas.

Every day at 6:00 a.m., the streets filled with a green-gray haze that slowly floated into the sky. Putrid, humid, lurid, it idled along roadways for hours before finally crawling into the cloudy barrier above. They said it had some insulating effect, that the wildfires made the air toxic and the fog kept it out. The irony was, now the rain was never-ending. Since 2060, drizzle or downpour, the steely grid of streets and skyscrapers always glistened under sheets of warm water, the commerce sectors most especially.

Anything having to do with trade or business got referred to as Downtown Kingcardine, as if it were a smaller section of a larger organism. Everything in the city was commodified; every square foot of space or cubic foot of air had a price tag. Downtown Kingcardine was a hundred and more miles of identically gaudy buildings and millions of people rushing between them at any given moment—a big glowing tumor flanked on all sides by high-end residences and luxury apartments. Even if we could afford to live in it, these buildings could never be home. Not that it mattered; Kingcardine was never the place we were going to live, only the place we were going to work.

Just outside of the expanse that was downtown, right between the end of the city limits and the beginning of federal land was a permanent encampment of makeshift housing where anyone who couldn’t cut it in the Big Bucket got punted. The people who lived there called it Tent City, which wasn’t inaccurate. A place where miles of vinyl and polyester canopies were stitched together into a single hammock that caught the rain and distributed it to those below. There were the gutters, where the layer above bent down intentionally to all manner of buckets and collection underneath. Then there were the bloats, areas that had to be completed with cloth or linen, saturated and dribbling water. Then there were the leaks, lacerations that formed over many years and under constant weight.

I saw a passerby in a bright-blue suit coming my way, a perfect candidate for a donation. Spare change? He raised a hand to the side of his face and flashed a churlish gesture.

Everybody else got tired of looking at Tent City, so they built the Rim in ’66, a huge barrier that wrapped completely around Kingcardine on all sides and stood over seventy-five feet tall. Now the only ones who could see the tents outside had to look down from high-rises or helicopters, and they could see tens of thousands of people trapped under a tide of captured water constantly threatening to flood their provisional town, the Drowners.

Between these two places, between these two people groups, that was the sweet spot. Where a girl could sit in the rain with a tin cup in hand, at all times nearby the homeless and the wealthy, and make a few hundred bucks a day from people who cared about looking like they cared. And pickings are good these days; I’d been the only beggar on this block for months. Even better today, an older man had steam and water droplets covering most of his glasses before he dropped in my cup. I thought he meant to put in a $20 bill but ended up dropping a $200.

I wanted to stay out even longer than usual tonight for some more good luck, but…but…it had been a while since I’d gotten a donation. The streetlights were starting to blink online. Sitting on concrete all day had my leg stiff again, so I squatted and stretched a few minutes before taking off down the road back home. The walk wouldn’t be far if I used the nearest checkpoint to me, but all the ones within two miles were tollgates. I had to stroll three miles uptown before I got to S94, the only gate on this region of the Rim without a fee. It was one of the first dozen checkpoints to be made and was built as an extension to I-5, so most of the people using it were entering town. I knew the guys at this gate; they were real laid-back. I was supposed to surrender my belongings for inspection, but a lot of the time they didn’t seem to mind my coming and going. Problem was, whenever they did, I always got to the other side of the Rim a few dollars lighter. I entered the line with about nine people ahead of me and more getting behind every few minutes. As it got longer, I began to tighten my hold on the tin cup, pushing it deeper into the pocket of my sweater. As I got closer to the desk, my heart rate picked up and I started thinking.

What if they take everything in my bag? What’s to stop them? Why didn’t I just pay the stupid $45 toll and avoid the risk?

Only two people were before me and the checkpoint, and my mind started racing. Today, please, please let it be…

Damian! I said, a smile stretching across my face as I stood before him.

Good evening, Amelia, he responded lethargically, head cradled by his right palm on the other side of a glass divider. Any possessions to declare?

I shifted my weight from the ball of my foot to my heel and back over and over. Noooope! Just cash.

He sighed and reached for the drawer at his side, dragging a packet of papers from inside, pushing it through a slot in the bottom of the glass. You’ll need to fill out these forms for any amount over $376.

I took the opportunity to put both my hands on the counter and look him in the eyes. I’ve told you a hundred times before, Mr. Reithgard pays me in cash. I can give you his information again— I said, beginning to reach into my bag.

No, that’s… He sighed again. Amelia, you have to fill out the forms. What if you’re trafficking cash for drugs or something?

Then you should be happy we’re friends. I leaned a little bit closer. I’m late for dinner. I’m in a rush. C’mon! I stretched up as far as my achy legs could extend. Help me out here?

He leaned forward, scanning both sides of the checkpoint, noticing the line behind me becoming longer with a few belligerents at its end. Okay, fine. I’m sure I’ll have plenty more paperwork for the folks behind you, so just—he pushed a pen to me—just sign here and I’ll finish this document for you later.

With a curtsy and a laugh, I signed away. Thank you, Damian. Good night! I had already cleared the other side of the Rim before he could even wave back.

Leaving the Rim and heading home meant passing through a parade of vendors, merchants, scalpers, and more. Every time I came through here, I pulled my backpack around to the front and closed my coat over it. They mostly knew to avoid people dressed like me, people without the cash to buy their trinkets and baubles. Most of them had been doing it long enough to tell at a glance; the rest stared until I started walking under the canopy.

Tent City didn’t have a power grid; it barely had any electricity at all. Navigating the roadways and making sure nobody was lurking nearby meant sticking to whatever light filtered in from over the Rim and through the water above. When it was as dark as it was now, the sensible thing was to wait for a passing beam to light the way. But with this much money on me, standing still might be almost as bad as moving blind.

There’s no reason for me to be scared. Nobody knows I have it but me. If I just act natural and stick to myself, no one will even know I was here ten minutes from now.

So I took a deep breath, unfurled one fist, and reached out to the side. I found the grit and cold exterior of a metal wall that I knew could lead me down the block. When I got to the end of it, I counted my steps and turned to the right, found another wall, and repeated the process. Most of these houses were built right into discarded and damaged shipping containers. Sturdy, unmoving things that held up to humidity and salt spray for-basically-ever. They only needed an interior lock installed and some spray insulation along the walls and they were perfect for multifamily units. I moved past a handful while rushing to the end of the block, doing my best to avoid puddles and ponds on the way. I tried to distract myself on the way home, partially to make the trip feel shorter and partially to avoid thinking myself into more paranoia.

The Rim is thirteen minutes behind me. Almost halfway home.

No matter where you were in Tent City, there was the constant sound of water dripping. The streets were usually so full of people you didn’t hear it, but this late at night, when everyone knew better than to be out, you couldn’t help but listen to the echoing, pulsating sound. It was like being caught under the ocean while it drained. Slowly. I needed to stop my mind from drifting, so I focused. I focused on the number of ridges passing under my fingers, the number of darkened streets I rushed through, the number of steps I took, and the number of steps I heard.

The numbers aren’t matching up.

My ears found the tune of dropping water, instructing my feet to avoid the rhythm. There was a click; it was just after the splash, a heel scraping concrete. I started over, hoping I made a mistake counting. I had taken twenty-seven steps; I heard them take thirteen. They had long legs and a wide gait; I could just barely hear them getting closer with each stride. I came to an intersection and gripped the steel wall of a container as I rounded it, my heel sliding across standing water.

This could be my chance to make a break for it. Would they hear me from all the way back? Are they faster than me? The echo sounds like it’s getting louder—is that them or the rain?

There were eleven containers between here and mine, just under one hundred feet. I made a break for it. With no time to avoid puddles, I shot straight through them, kicking up a flurry of spray into the wind behind me. I felt eyes emerge from all around, the sound of rattling change attracting them to my position. Whether it was curiosity or contemplation, I didn’t bother to wonder. I turned my chin so slowly I barely noticed my vision beginning to shift before I was looking over my shoulder, trying to find the figure. I found only darkness in that direction, inspiring my feet to move even more quickly. I overshot home by about a yard before I slid to a halt and fell on my butt. I gave a cursory glance in all directions once again before jumping back to the door and placing my hand on the improvised knob. My hands were wet and unsteady, rattling the door open so quickly it skipped the usual metallic groan and went into a shriek. It was twice as loud when I forced it shut and threw the lock bar into the down position. My forehead fell against the steel as I gathered my breath in the low yellow light of home.

Amelia, a voice called from behind, a light clattering as I heard dishes being set down.

I tapped my head against the door and sniffled. Mama? I turned to face her, hands shivering and face glowing red. She stood at the other side of the room, a ramshackle kitchen island supporting two plastic plates and cups. She held a rag in one hand and a pan in the other, a low fire on a metal stovetop flickering a yellow glow across her and the rest of the container. I looked to the sidewall, a line of dead bulbs laid across it. The lights are out.

It’s nearly nine o’clock, she said, swatting a drift of smoke to a nearby crease in the metal. Where have you been?

I was in line at the Rim—lots of traffic tonight. I did my best to even my breaths as I spoke, gasps escaping as I sucked air in.

You’re soaking wet. She reached under the counter and pulled a homemade candle from underneath, a fat stub of wax that could barely hold the fire it borrowed.

It was a really long line. I felt moisture moving around my upper lip and sniffled again. I ended up waiting in the rain.

She changed her expression. It was hard to tell from this distance, but I was certain she had raised her eyebrow and frowned slightly. She began to walk over to the door, carrying the candle with her. Our living room didn’t have much to stop her from taking a direct route, a rocking chair in the corner and a single-seat futon across from it her only obstacles. Amelia, where have you been?

I told you, I was at the ring, I redoubled.

She set her candle down on the futon and crossed her arms. Mrs. Sutherland works in town. I asked her to check in on you today and give you some fresh clothes.

My face filled with red, and I shook my chin from side to side. Yeah. Yeah, I got off work early today.

Baby, she said, furrowing her brow, I asked her to talk to Mr. Reithgard too. He says you haven’t been in the café in weeks.

I could almost feel my heart jump up into my throat. What do you want me to say, Mama?

I want you to tell me where you were today. Where do you go when you leave the house in the morning?

I pressed my back against the steel door, refusing eye contact. I got sick of waiting tables, so I decided to pick up some odd jobs.

She scoffed and unfolded her arms. Amelia!

I just got tired of that place. I slowly began stepping toward the kitchen, hoping my rambling would be enough of a distraction. I didn’t want to be trapped there for the next five years, so I started broadening my horizons, looking for new opportunities—

Amelia. She placed both her hands at her hip and looked straight into me. You haven’t taken your hands out of your backpack since you came inside.

I stopped and inhaled sharply. Right, I uttered, slipping each arm through the straps and depositing the bag on her rocking chair. I brought my hands through my hair in an attempt to tidy it as I continued into the kitchen to inspect the dishes. What’s for dinner?

Beans and things, she said, thumbing through zippers and pouches.

Is it any good? I asked, leaning over the counter to inspect the plates more closely, the beans separating away from the things like water and oil.

It was good when it was warm. She shrugged, finding her way to the middle bottom pocket of my bag.

I stuck my finger into it to test the meal’s integrity, a soupy slosh spreading under the weight. Good as in tasty, or good as in edible?

She released a puff and stared over her shoulder at me a moment, flashing a smile briefly. You know, when I was your age, I knew how to stop digging. She returned to the bag, undoing the seal to find a change cup and nearly $900. Amelia… She grabbed it and pulled it into view, waving it at me. Have you been begging?

I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to scavenge for a good response. It’s good money, Mama.

You should be working. She set the can down, retrieving her candle and returning to the kitchen, inspecting me with a scrutinizing glare. You should be earning a living instead of—

Instead of what? I threw both hands up. You think I should be begging as a waitress instead of begging on the corner?

She looked into me, a mixture of shock and disbelief on her face as she reeled from my response. You aren’t homeless. She set the candle down and attempted to collect her thoughts. You aren’t crippled. You aren’t incapable of working. You need a real job and a real income history.

I made more money in a night than you make all week. Why are you acting like that’s bad? I thought the response up but was too scared to maintain eye contact, looking off to the side, hoping the wall had some courage to spare.

¡Mírame cuando te hablo! She snapped her fingers. I raised you better than this. I taught you to be honest, to have dignity!

I turned on my heel to face her. Not like I had much of a choice. Whenever she started shouting like that, my survival instincts would tell me to do whatever she said. There’s nothing dignified about working at that place, about walking around in a dress with my hair tied up in a ponytail and smiling at every person within a half-mile radius for a marginally better tip! I couldn’t help but build my voice into a shout and throw my hands around wildly.

She shook her head and drew a long breath, leveling her voice out into lecture tone. I know it isn’t perfect, but you aren’t supposed to work there forever. You can’t be a tin shaker for the rest of your life! You need the experience so you can climb, so you can build something sustainable.

I rolled my eyes. I know, Mama. I began moving slowly to her.

You don’t act like it. she retorted. How many times have I had to scold you after you acted out? You should know by now this behavior is beneath you.

I set myself into her rocking chair, crossing both arms and kicking myself into a back-and-forth motion. "It wasn’t beneath