Story #161 - Camp Out

Camp Out

Sharon Bastiuk hated camping.

It wasn't just the bugs and the rain; it was the smell on her clothes and the constant fear that overwhelmed her in the dark. Her husband, Dave, had finally given in and bought them a hard-sided trailer instead of demanding they sleep on the group like “real campers”, but it had taken a great deal of pleading on Sharon's part for that to happen.

Dave wasn't a bad guy, just set in his ways. When the pair had first started dating, she had lied and said that she loved camping so they could spend more time together, and Dave had told her that he wanted to come with her on all of the training runs she did for her biannual half marathons. Neither of them really meant it, but love being what it was meant that they both ended up doing things they would have preferred not to.

Now, struggling out of the small bed after another night of poor sleep, Sharon cursed herself for missing the last two marathons. If nothing else, it would have forced Dave to come run with her, or given her an excuse not to come camping.

A quick glance in the mirror showed her that her hair was matted and her face was worn and lined. She was pretty, but three nights in the trailer had taken their toll. With no showers and no access to running water in the government-run campground, there was nothing she could do but take a daily dip in the lake to wash herself, and that left her feeling greasy.

She knew they only had two days left before Dave's parents had to take their own trailer back into town, and that Dave might stay one more day if he was feeling stubborn, but right now that seemed like an eternity. Pausing by the small sink the middle of the trailer, she let herself break for a moment, and indulged in the glorious feeling of being sorry for herself.

Sounds outside caught her attention and she pulled herself together, then slipped on her sandals and opened the door to face the day. Both of Dave's parents were up, Cheryl making coffee on a small stove they had attached to their large trailer and Rob stoking the small fire he'd already started burning. Both Rob and Dave were obsessed with fire when it came to camping, and made sure that one was burning anytime anyone was around to take care of it. They found it comforting, but Sharon found that the smoke from it followed her no matter where she went. Sitting on the opposite side from the stinging white mist seemed to bring it to her, and while she did her best to laugh it off, her patience was running thin.

“Good morning, Sharon,” Rob said, and she mumbled something in return.

“Morning!” Cheryl said brightly, and Sharon made sure to respond in kind. Robert didn't care what she said to him - despite being her father-in-law he was a sucker for a pretty face – but Cheryl demanded a certain amount of respect. Not so much that Sharon would call her unreasonable, thankfully, though she and the older woman had endured their share of stand-offs.

The latest one was about children. Specifically, why she and Dave didn't have any. Despite her repeated requests that Cheryl should speak Dave about it, not her, the older woman insisted on giving her advice about conception and reproductive health, even going so far as describing various positions that were said to be aids to conception.

Sharon had halted the conversation at that moment, and pointedly told Cheryl that she was not interested in listening to any more. Her mother-in-law had been unhappy, but stopped talking. From what Dave told her, Cheryl had now started in on him, which was unfortunate but a better option than having to deal with the woman herself.

Movement from the forest surrounding the campsite caught her eye, but she did her best to ignore it. Since their very first camping trip, she'd been having a waking dream almost every morning, one that involved a thin man in a gray suit and sunglasses. He'd stand at the edge of the trees and stare at her, hands dug deeply into his pockets, lips pursed and body rigid. He made no attempt to hide, but was such a contrast with the surroundings that Cheryl knew he could not possibly be real.

Her dreams in the great outdoors were so scattered that assumed he was generated from there, and by the time breakfast was over, he'd be gone.

A large puff of smoke came from the wet-wood campfire Rob was making, one that was carried on the wind directly toward the man in the suit. Cheryl watched as it wafted over him, and distinctly saw his lips twist. His hand came up to cover his mouth, and he coughed.

Cheryl charged at him.

The man saw her coming and started to move, but it was far too late. She crashed into him at next to a large oak tree, slamming his thin form into its trunk. Years of cardiovascular and weight training had made her strong and flexible, and the man she held seemed as though he would break if she pressed to hard. He struggled, but to no effect.

“Who the hell are you?” It felt strange to be talking to a dream, but his reaction to the smoke told the tale; this was something more.

“I...” he hesitated, and she slammed him against the tree several more times for good measure. Behind her, she could hear Rob and Cheryl approaching, likely wondering why she had gone off the deep end.

“Dave!” Rob called. “Get out here! There's something wrong with Sharon!”

The man she held pulled a metal device from his pocket and jammed home a large red button. A small black hole appeared above his head, one that began to move slowly downward to cover his body. Sharon hesitated for only a moment and then crushed the man to her chest, slipping into the hole with him.

Sharon hated camping.

- D

Story #100 - Commanding Lead

Commanding Lead

I figured breaking into a lab would be difficult, but I didn't think it would take this long just to find the place. Still, at least I'm finally here, dangling from the side of Meech Industries, minutes away from finding out what the hell is going on in this country. Sure, it's an odd place for a political strategist to be, but we've all got to go after what we're interested in, and for me, this was the big one.

It all started – and ended – with Farper. Simon Farper was the head of the Traditionalists, a party that's led our government on and off for the better part of two hundred years, but as of five years ago had done a number of remarkably stupid things in office and outside of it. From sexual scandals to budget issues, the Traditionalists had been run up one side and down the other by liberal and center media alike, their only endorsements coming from a few neo-conservative newspapers and Web sites. Groundswells of support were happening for all three of the other major parties, and I was called in to mitigate the damage that was being done to the Trads.

We ran a hard campaign; aggressive and confrontational. We told our countrymen that other parties would plunge the nation into chaos, that other leaders were corrupt and in one case, that the long and storied career of a leader had been total fabrication, since he hadn't been born on our soil and was therefore ineligible to hold office.

Some of it took, but most washed off the shoulders of our friends and neighbors, and polls showed us well back, even among those who were typically our greatest supporters. We were getting set up to lose, but Farper never lost his smile, never missed a beat.

I never liked him.

Digging my next pick in hard, I took a quick look at the e-blueprint of the lab I'd downloaded to my phone. Two stories more and I should be there, and I'd find out whether or not I was just a raving madman. Either way, it would be nice to have closure.

Farper loved closure; he always wanted everything wrapped up into a neat little package before he moved on to anything else, and he didn't seem to understand that politics often didn't work that way. He was an uncompromising man, and imposing – at six feet, three inches and with short-cropped iron gray hair, he looked like someone who belonged outside of a bar keeping the riff-raff away, rather than the leader of a nation, let alone a leader of men.

He had the charisma of a tree stump, but somehow that endeared him to the common man – it was apparent he was no “better” than them, and they felt a measure of security in voting for him. From my perspective, he was easy to deal with. He'd take most of my suggestions to heart, and listen to anything I had to say, even if he didn't agree with it.

Still, I didn't like him.

It came to a head after the election. The polls showed us well behind two other parties, one with a history of federal leadership and one a relative unknown that had seen a great platform and charismatic leader vault it into popularity. We were poised to lose, and lose big – TV and radio announcers said so, the polls said so, and the people on the street said so. We were screwed.

But we won.

It wasn't one of the stunning, almost-absolute victories the party had enjoyed twenty years ago, but it was enough to get a majority in the Lobby, and that was enough to effectively govern.

I remember it distinctly; sitting on the arm of the sofa in the hotel, and looking over at Farper, who had a big grin on his face.

“We did it, sir,” I had said, and he looked right at me – something I tried to avoid, since his eyes were deep and full of a strange malice I'd never understood.

“No,” he'd replied softly, “I did it. You were merely for appearances.” His face had split in a grin, at once self-serving and oily, and I walked out right then, payment for services be damned. I'd done my part, but he'd believed he was the only one that mattered, the only one with any power.

It bothered me enough I went digging, and let me tell you that nobody can dig better than a politico who's looking for information someone is trying to hide. Even so, it took me three years to locate this place and another two to divine a way in that wouldn't get me killed. I might not get out alive, but at least I'd have my answer.

Glass shattered as I made my entrance, and I reached out to grab the neck of the guard walking by. A quick pull down and a hand over his face meant he went to sleep and would stay that way for two hours – plenty of time for me to get what I needed.

I found the lab section I was looking for easily enough, but the place looked just like I'd seen in movies, and had nothing I could understand. A small back office was my real target, in hopes that the computer there would have data I could analyze.

Halfway across the tile floor I heard a gun cock behind me, and I stopped, turning and raising my arms into the air.

“Robert,” I said calmly.

“Tony,” he replied.

Robert Lancaster was Farper's right-hand man. We'd gotten along reasonably well, but it was clear where his loyalties lay – and always would.

“You're a real pest, Tony, you know that?” Rob took a step forward, gun leveled at my chest. “Everywhere I went to warn them you might show up, you'd already been. You were ahead of me, Tony, until I realized I knew where you were going even if you didn't. For six months I've been waiting here, every night, and I've got to say I'm a little disappointed it took you this long to find us.”

“Been busy,” I said casually, and laughed to myself as I saw Rob flush. “Look, just tell me or shoot me, Rob – I don't much care. Farper didn't deserve that election, and we both know it. I'm going to find out what he did, and either die trying or spread the word.”

“Tony, tony,” he chided as he drew closer. I brought up my hands in front of the pointed gun – as if that would do any good, but Tony swung at my neck instead, a small metal device glinting in his hand.

I felt it pierce my skin, but other than a small prick, it didn't really hurt. Rob stepped back, and I slapped a hand over the wound, which was seeping a small amount of blood.

“What the hell?” What kind of crazy bullshit was going on here?

Rob chuckled. “There, now you're a part of the solution rather than the problem.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“It's easy Tony – let me walk you through it,” Rob said, pulling out a lab stool and sitting down. “That's a chip in your neck, one that will float around and eventually lodge itself in your brain-stem. It doesn't do much except hang out in there dormant, except for during one very specialized event. Voting.”

It what now?

“Doctors and nurses across he country had been unknowingly administering these for us thanks to flu shots and meningitis vaccines before the last vote, and when the election came, we turned on just enough to give us what we wanted. The device acts like a moral imperative – you might want to vote for the Publicans or the Orange, but when you go into the voting booth, you'll know voting Trad is the right thing to do.”

The world dropped out from under me. It made sense, as crazy as it was. After the last election, I'd talked to people I knew – smart people, sane people, who had said they were going to vote for real change, but still voted for the Trads. When I asked why, all of them said almost the same thing - “It just felt right – the other parties, I just don't know if I can trust them.”

It struck me as odd – the Trad government had been scandal-ridden for years – why would voters suddenly grant them such moral authority?

They wouldn't, not without help.

“Anyway, Tony – you're free to go. The chip isn't detectable and no one's going to buy your story, especially not with next month's election coming up. We can adjust chips individually, and yours is going to be high on the list. Two weeks out, you're going to get a compulsion to get out there and vote, and as soon as the polls open, you'll be there, casting your ballot for the Trad.” Rob smiled. “President Farper thanks you for your vote.”

I don't remember leaving the building, or where I wandered after that, but I do know I ended up at home eventually, staring out over the city, drink in hand.

So much for democracy.

- D