Foreverman PT 2 of 3 (with link to part one)

This is part two in a three part series. If you missed it, you can read part one here.

PT 2.
The first thing Peter noticed when he opened his eyes was that the sky was unusually blue. That sort of deep blue, which seems to absorb all the other colors into itself. He lay there for a moment trying to reason why he was staring at the color-absorbing sky. Then he noticed the second thing, which was the smell of coffee. It was very strong, and it was with that smell the reasoning behind his prone position came to him. He had been hit by a train. Sitting up, he examined his body. There was some bruising and discoloration on his right side but other than that he was fine. Fine and soaked in coffee.

Sighing and pulling his feet under him he stood up. The train had stopped, but it had flung him so far that even now he was still a ways away from it. Straightening his coat back over himself, he trudged back across the tracks just as a security bot zoomed over him, scanning the area, with its array of sensors, searching for what could’ve caused the crash. It paused over him, reasoning that he was about the same size and weight as whatever had hit the train. But then it reasoned that he was not in the condition as whatever had been impacted should’ve been, and so the bot buzzed on.

Peter barely noticed this as he went through the strip of artificial pine trees that separated the train track from the rest of the wasteland. He had come out of the city for this express purpose. Every few months or so he would try something new, sometimes it would be the same thing. But whatever the means, he was always on the lookout for a new way to end his existence. He didn’t want to really, but it had sort of become a game. How many ways could he dream up to commit suicide?

After passing across about a hundred meters of wasteland, he hopped onto his bike smiling softly to himself as he placed his palm directly on the ignition pad. This had been one thing that hadn’t changed with the centuries. People still loved the idea of rocketing around on the ground exposed to the elements. Sure this was a very different model than his first bike, but the concept was still the same. Called a Wasteland Dancer, Peter had lovingly named it “The go-go.” Due in part to the name, and in part to the fact that it was capable of speeds the body couldn’t withstand… The irony had been lost on most people in the last eighty years.

Thirty minutes later he had bathed in one of the outer cleansing houses, just outside what used to be Denver, now known only as Epizon. If you were to ask any of the current citizens why it was named that they probably wouldn’t be able to give you a solid reason. It was from the Greek for survivor. Peter knew that because he had been there when this name picked up popularity somewhere around 2050.

Photo by it's me neosiam!

Coming into his apartment Peter threw open his dredge (somehow through the years the word fridge had deteriorated to this word now commonly used in its place to designate the refrigeration apparatus) and grabbed a bottle of Clearview. Walking back to his working platform he pulled up the week’s tasks on the holographic fields that littered his living room. He took a swig from the bottle and began juggling through the various items until he found what he was supposed to do that night. Just then his muscles jerked to attention as he felt something move in the corner of the room.

---

I was walking slow and enjoying the night air of downtown Boston. There were a number of reasons that would make most people decide to stay indoors at this time, and in this city. I was one of them. I began whistling, a tune from the 80’s. I was just a little tyke then but I still loved the music.

As I came up to my apartment I found Rodriguez standing out front. “What’re you doing here?” I asked, already feeling my blood starting to boil. Rodriguez and I kept a working relationship, but if he was drunk on my doorstep looking for a ride…

“You remember the bonding tank project?” Rodriguez turned and asked, clearly sober.

“How could I forget? Must’ve watched close to thirty hours of presentation on it.”

“Yeah well it’s your newest assignment. We’ve been working on it but we just can’t seem to get it right. The boss men are getting impatient and want you on it.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text.

Great, so now I got to oversee the company melting some young kid into stew “But that doesn’t explain why you’re standing in front of my door at two o’clock in the bloody morning. Why didn’t you just give me a call?”

“Because we need you right now. The last subject just failed about an hour ago, and we want the next one in by morning. Let’s go.” A black SUV pulled up and Rodriguez swung the door open and motioned me inside. I hated him and I told him so with a look that would make anybody else wet themselves as I clambered into the SUV.

---

Peter had long ago given up fighting, realizing there wasn’t really a point, but he still had all the reflexes from his youth programmed into his entire being. No sooner had he identified the location of the intruder, than he had one hand on the throat, and had twisted an arm around unworkably with the other. But it only took him a moment to realize the situation and he let go, allowing his neighbor to sag against the wall.

“Looking for more injections, Eowyn?” Peter asked as he took a step back.

She stood up and took off the pixeled censoring mask revealing her lean and scarred face. She wasn’t unpleasant to look at by any means, and in her own way she was beautiful, but the scars that licked at the edges of her lips from who knew what, and the hollowness that was left in her eyes from persistent drug use, challenged the meaning of the word.

“Yeah, have any?” She asked. She never said very much, but Peter could count on whatever she said to be the truth.

“Look, you know I’m not going to give them to you. I know what you do with them.” Peter and Eowyn had an interesting relationship. She was the only one who knew Peter’s story, or at least most of it. So she knew that he didn’t need his injections. The government rationed out what were commonly called injections, to the general populace. Injections helped to keep the radiation sickness down in anyone who ventured outside the city. But there was a fairly high black market price for them, and Eowyn would sell them for money to buy her narcotics.

“I know.” She replied.

“Then why are you here?”

“Steal them.” She said and she looked up with an apologetic smile.

Sighing, Peter rubbed his eyes. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Why do you care?” She asked

“Because I don’t want you dying on me just yet, but you keep going like you are and you’ll get there real quick.”

She snickered. “I’ll live a hundred years, and I’ll still beat you there.”

Peter scowled at her and went back to the dredge and opened it, pulling out some ground up corn and liquid milk. He mixed them together and put them in the oven for twenty seconds. Then pulling it out he tossed the bowl onto the counter and gave her a universal utensil.

She looked at it for a moment and then sat down quickly and began devouring the slop. “Why do you care about everyone living so much? You’re always making sure that people are ok. Why not let the people who can ruin their own lives do just that. Live, and die.”

“Their lives will stop eventually, no matter what. I just want people to be alive long enough to actually enjoy their lives.”

“What’s there to enjoy?” She asked in almost a scoff.

“More than you’ll get to experience.” Peter replied, and they both fell into silence for the remainder of the meal. In that silence Peter sent out a couple of messages about various jobs. He was something of a freelance doctor. He would go out into the wastelands to visit the colonies and radioactive production plants. It was the quietest life he had led. He had his fill of adventure with the wars, and the period of anarchy. He had had his fill of violence.

Just then they both heard someone ringing the door bell at Eowyn’s apartment. It was easily recognizable because it sounded more like a dying hog than a song bird, unlike all the others in the complex.

“Expecting someone?” Peter asked as he went to the door to check who it was.
Eowyn’s eyes turned huge and she rushed to the door blocking it before Peter could get to it. “No, you don’t want... Please, just keep the door closed.” She said in a harsh whisper.

“Why? You in some trouble?”

“No, I just don’t think it would be good to open the door right now.”

Photo by Pixabay

Then Peter’s door began ringing its cheerful little song. “Well I have to open it now don’t I?” He pushed her out of the way and cautiously opened the door. He was faced with a military style Dresden double barrel. The man holding the other end of the gun took less than a millisecond to register that Eowyn was there. Then without even looking at Peter he pulled the trigger. Peter had already started to close the door but the blast took him full in the face and sent him flying back into the living room scattering the holo-panels in every direction.

The stranger turned the gun on Eowyn and asked something in New English Peter couldn’t make out. He pulled himself into a sitting position just in time to see the man pulling the trigger on the Dresden and to see what happened to Eowyn.

She didn’t take it near as well as Peter had. Not near as well.

Then the stranger turned and saw Peter sitting there blinking away soot and shot like someone might blink away dust and cobwebs. Peter stood up and faced the man, he was absolutely furious. And he intended to show it. The stranger looked at him with the expression that most people who tried to kill Peter gave: somewhere between confusion, shock and indignation.

Peter charged, determined to make sure that this man would never prematurely end a life again. But then suddenly the man pulled out some type of metal plate and threw it at him. Peter had, at the very least, been expecting a gun blast, or maybe some fancy moves to put him back down. Instead he was hit with the metal plate and was engulfed in black. He was conscious, and felt himself pitching forward, but then it felt like he never hit the ground, and instead just kept falling.

---

Thanks for reading! Foreverman was originally going to be a vampire short, but I realized I was more after the mortal immortal aspect more than I wanted any of the blood drinking and extra ciriculars that usually go with vampire stories. So I figured I'd go scifi instead.

No need to follow, part three is now up HERE!