Smog City, 2019

The scorching touch of the rectangular boiler sends a familiar shock up my leg and I press down on the accelerator in retribution. I hunch forward, arching my shoulder blades and rotating my wrists in the futile attempt to make the speedometer on my Hildebrand Seamstress push past 40. 

The condensation sticks to my goggles like leaches - tiny bubbles obscuring the pebble-filled roadway in front of me. If the water droplets are lucky, they’ll drift off my goggles, run down the leather of my suit, and be on their way. Otherwise they’ll meet the back of my glove and burst into a thousand pieces.

The road is empty at a time like this, clear signs that my father’s absence really does have an effect on Smog - another stupid name created by S.T.E.A.M. It’s not easy to navigate through the fog, especially with the heavy weight of my radiation mask both agitating my jaw bone and eliminating all hopes of peripheral views. I look like Hannibal.

The lulling rhythm of my tires on the pavement would hypnotize me if I didn’t have one thing on my mind: revenge. Not on S.T.E.A.M. - they did what was necessary to revive a post-apocalyptic shit show, can’t blame ‘em. I’m seeking revenge on him. Evan Hamilton. He doesn’t even deserve the respect of such a prominent last name. Hell, he doesn’t deserve the steam he inhales while he enjoys himself to his saggy excuse for a wife.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I should slow down, both in the devilish speed my bike is nearing and in the recollection of how I ended up here, flying down Route Seven with five shots of Kentucky Gentlemen running through my veins. Yes, we still have some of that. And no, I’m not from Kentucky. My suicide rampage starts, as most stories worth telling do, with a shot of the good stuff.

∞

The bar is dark. Eh, what am I saying, the bar is always dark. The steam billows up to the ceiling, where it sticks around for a while before finding the pipeline in the center of the room and entering one of S.T.E.A.M.’s cavernous tubes.

If you don’t like sweating, you’re better off in the wastelands with the lepers. But if you want some liquid courage, Fell’s Tavern is the place to go. Now trust me here, I don’t like sweating profusely. I’m in leather for God’s sake, but I need a damn shot and they shut down Baily’s package store two weeks ago.

No one knows this joint by the prominent landmarks nearby, or by some fancy sign hanging from chains that came out of a John Wayne flick. There aren’t any fancy signs in Smog. Everything is the same – rusty, dilapidated planes of sheet metal crudely forced together with stripped bolts and cheap screws.

The white paint has faded off of the bar sign for two reasons. One, because the constant rain in Smog erodes away any trace of artwork, and two, because the owner recently dug into her last seven barrels of whiskey and can’t afford to fix it. It’s safe to say she’s retired all attempts to update the place. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old lass had a couple barrels stashed away in her home. In fact, I’d be jealous.

I scan the bar and see nothing but the usual suspects. Mallory is bartending again, and it looks like she’s popped more pills than an Alzheimer’s patient. There are some haughty floozies that are most likely strippers, though I don’t recognize any of them from the backs of their heads. And there’s your average man in his 50’s who has yet to succumb to the radiation poisoning that has killed stronger men decades younger.

I stretch my arms along the width of the bar. Oak – always a nice change from the monotone steel and scrap metal I’m used to. It’s usually a spectacle of saddened blokes drinking their worries away, a scene I enjoy much more than the disillusioned people that think producing enough steam each month will solve their problems.

I’m sure that I’m coming off as one who always seeks the negative, a drag, or a downer; you could even attempt to label me as such, I don’t give a damn. I probably would have killed for a drag or a downer just after I received the news, but cigarettes won’t stay lit here and prescription drugs are hard to come by. One thing that wasn’t affected by the fall of the power grid, or the destruction of the banking system, or the biological clock of the Pope for that matter, was the demand for drugs. The infrastructure and mechanisms to manufacture them, however, had gone to shit. We cherished what we had and stole from those that had them.

I’m sure you’re entirely too confused by this point. I’ll attempt to explain, but I don’t have much time because in two minutes one of those floozies walks up to me and ask why I’m wearing all leather, and yes, she’s worth it.

To start, no, the Mayans didn’t predict the apocalypse, at least not this apocalypse. What happened was a lot more depressing, and a lot less exciting, than the fantastical theories of some naked Indians emerging out of the forest or a comet hurling towards Earth.

In June of 2014 the largest solar flare ever measured hit Earth, rendering children under seven unable to speak. Not because of some biological side effect – but for the sole reason that they were scared shitless. I’m exaggerating, I’m sure they spoke again, but most people found it pretty terrifying. For me, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I had only viewed the Northern Lights in YouTube videos, so a real live demonstration in the heart of southern Thailand was a life changer, regardless of the horrific consequences that came later.

It was your average run-of-the-mill apocalyptic situation. The astronomers called it a Coronal Mass Ejection, which sounded more like a porn flick than a global game-changer. Nonetheless, it wiped out the power grid for six weeks. Banking systems, air traffic controls, emergency communications, and even the British gal’s voice on the GPS guiding you to Starbucks all stopped working.

That wasn’t all it wiped out. Nearly 90% of the population in the mid-latitudes and higher elevations died within five years. Most of the deaths were attributed to skin cancers. Then you had the people that experienced severe eye cataracts, rendering them blind. Some resorted to suicide; others depended on the care of their family members who were probably dying along with them.

That is the reality of it all. We are all dying – and there's no escaping it. Every month S.T.E.A.M. counts our vapor output and makes sure we’re above quota. If we are, we gain some more time. If we’re not, we’re banished to the wastelands. I hear they’re peaceful after you get over the graveyard of decomposing bodies.

Ah, S.T.E.A.M., the agency responsible for Solar Transition and Environmental Acclimation Management. Quite the mouthful. Their leader? None other than Evan Hamilton. His grandiose idea was that if Smog produces enough steam on regulated intervals, we’d have a constant cloud layer, and the solar fluxes would be deflected, giving us all more time and less radiation. There was no telling if it worked, but people weren’t exactly dropping like flies in the streets either.

I remember the days when all we had to worry about was Iran nuking Israel, some dude named Kony, and polar bears dying in the artic. This, however, was reverse cap and trade on crack. And that’s my two minutes.

She walks through the door like she owns the place, dangling more clocks from her corset than Father Time. Besides the hanging mechanical timepieces, her burgundy hair catches my eye next. She has the type of body that doesn’t need the decorative top hat, or the olive-colored feather that sticks out of it and bounces from side to side. And I won’t even comment on the golden mechanisms glued to every crevice, probably weighing a ton. It’s overkill. The garb surely doesn’t protect her from the radiation, and given that it’s 5 in the morning, I’m betting she’s a top-rated prostitute. How long would it even take to get that stuff off?

She approaches the empty bar seat next to me, and I realize I’m staring, but the tiny mole perfectly placed near her upper lip begs for a longer look. She glances at me before placing her elbows on the bar and leaning in for a drink. Damn. Speaking of ridiculous garb, the entire back of her skirt was missing. A prostitute for sure, but one I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

“Two shots of whiskey,” she says, shifting forward a bit before cocking her head towards me. I see the bar tender role her eyes, clearly draining her of the already precious whiskey reserves. “See something you like?”

I nearly drop my radiation mask from my grasp. “Not sure yet. You wear that out in the daylight?”

She looks even more striking from close up, rare for the types of girls this bar normally brings in. She glances back to the bar tender, checking on the progress of her drink. The steam that emerges from the brewery station breaks the awkward silence.

“No, of course not. Don’t really come out during the day. The business comes to me.”

“I’m sure it does,” I mutter, turning my head towards the bar. The reflective surface of the aluminum confuses me a bit, before I notice it’s my own reflection staring back through the illusive material. Perhaps it’s just the bends in the aluminum, but I look like shit. The brown of my hair looks more like a glossy gray from the grease build-up, and my facial hair has all but overgrown the chiseled jaw bone I once proudly sported.

She turns towards me and smiles. “You wear that S&M suit out during the day? I think that’s one of your customers leaving now.” She points to the old geezer exiting the bar, and I can’t help but laugh. She has a sense of humor, I like that. It’s too bad she’s probably dirtier than the stamp tramp on her upper thigh.

“No, but I’d be happy to show you my flawless skin beneath,” I respond. “The radiation out there is really a great moisturizer.” She blinks, and I’m aware that I’ve done it. The drinks have hit me and I’ve taken us both down a slippery slope.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” she says, grabbing the shot glass from Mallory.

“I’m only kidding. But yes, I wear this suit because of the radiation – it’s all but eaten away at my skin. Drink with me?”

She raises her shot and I do the same. I’m not sure why I’m relieved of her acceptance; I’ll probably be offed soon anyway. I can feel the whiskey seeping down my throat, then warming my stomach and slightly burning its sides, which I can only assume is from the stomach ulcers.

“So what’s your story?” she asks. “What brings you out here at 5 in the morning?”

I look at her eyes once more if only to make sure she’s actually still invested in this conversation and then I say, “I wasn’t sure you knew the time.”

She laughed, lifting a finger and swatting one of the dangling clocks from her side. “These are gifts.”

“Kissinger clocks are quite the indicator of status. Gifts from?”

“My employer,” she tells me. Gifts from her pimp. I won’t push further. No use in beating a dead horse.

“I’m not judging. What’s my story?” She nods, finally sitting in the stool that her hands were flirting with a minute ago. “Well, two days ago my father and brother’s bodies were found in an alleyway near the docks. Then, last night, S.T.E.A.M. authorities knocked on my door and kindly informed me that without them I wouldn’t be able to meet my vapor quota. I have two days before I’m evicted.”

She falls silent. I raise my second shot and tap the edge of her glass. The size of her eyes finally start to contract, perhaps in realization that I’m not about to burst into tears in front of her.

“I’m not sure what to say,” she says. “That’s horrible.”

“Isn’t it?”

Our conversation falls quiet again before she breaks the stillness, thankfully. “How did you know these were Kissingers? Are you some kind of collector?”

Ha, some kind of collector. I guess you could call me that. “Because my father invented that piece of scrap metal,” I say. “Clearly you haven’t had it for very long; it normally runs out of steam around the second week, no pun intended.”

“Your father is Francis Kissinger?” She places her elbows on the bar again, almost knocking over her empty shot glasses, and turns towards me.

“The God? Yes,” I reply. I’m feeling overly sarcastic today.

She doesn’t laugh. “Not fond of his inventions?”

“Very fond, he built my motorcycle. I’m just bitter,” I tell her, “and pretty pissed off.”

“They say his airships are the best in the industry.”

“They are. Seems odd they would want him dead.”

Wrinkles appear above her nose and she tilts her head to the side. “You don’t think…”

“I don’t think. I know. Someone else had a hand in this. Look, I grew up with the man. You can’t be a master inventor and a great father at the same time, just doesn’t work like that. But I always had respect for his creations. And I’m not so sure that his newest ones would benefit S.T.E.A.M.”

She leans on her left hand, clearly scanning my face for signs of weakness. I realize I don’t even know her name. “A bit late for introductions, but I’m Daniel,” I say, outstretching my leather-covered hands.

“Sydney,” she replies. My immediate reaction is that I’m not sure whether Sydney is a stripper name or not, but I kind of like it.

“So why do you think S.T.E.A.M. has any involvement with your father’s death?”

“Well, I’ll probably be dead soon anyway, so I don’t think it’ll hurt to divulge.” Her expression doesn’t change. It’s normal to talk about dying around here. It’s a topic that everyone can relate to. “My father was inventing a new way to redirect the radiation, to reflect it even. Augmented solar panels.”

“But the solar panels were destroyed, and there’s not enough material to even think about them as alternatives.”

Well, clearly the girl must have had some education. She probably was like the rest of the prostitutes I took home, educated at a university nearby, probably was tanning when the solar flare hit, and once all her monetary sources dropped like flies she resulted to what she knew best, wooing men.

“Think bigger. What do we have a lot of?” I ask.

“Shitty steal, sheet metal, scraps,” she says.

“Exactly. He developed a thin film that’s able to cover any flat surface and not only reflect the radiation, but absorb some until another substance can neutralize it. Think ping pong, just back and forth until the radiation simply disappears. The time between the flares would allow for the panels to recuperate, and the process would continue.”

“Well why wouldn’t S.T.E.A.M. want that? It sounds like a genius solution.” I think at this point Sydney is either too involved in the conversation or is hoping I meant business. I wish there was enough time for both.

“It’s not S.T.E.A.M. that wouldn’t want it,” I tell her. “Who would be the single person to lose all power, all bargaining strength, from the creation of a solution that didn’t require families to think about outputting steam 24/7?”

Sydney titled her head back a bit. She doesn’t get it yet. She bites on her lower lip. Ah, there she goes.

“You asked what my story was and I told you,” I say. “Now what my story will be, that’s a very different question. In about an hour, I hope to stand over the scorching corpse of Evan Hamilton. Thanks for drinking with me. Once I kill him maybe I’ll come back to expend some frustration.”

Sydney is speechless. I stand up and the leather crevices of my suit moan as they loosen themselves from sore positions. I’m sure somewhere within her she was turned on by my aspirations of dominance over that scrawny runt, but I couldn’t cloud my mind with thoughts of clocks flying and legs spreading. I was on a mission, and I was fueled up. Thanks Kentucky Gentleman.

∞

So, here I am, speeding down the dark highway, the massive scrap-metal buildings towering over me, probably about to topple to the ground at any moment. It wouldn’t be the worst thing that’s happened.

I can hear my twin blades rattling against their holsters. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to wind up and deliver a critical blow to Evan’s neck or make it slow and painful. Regardless, my blades will be by my side. Another gift from my father, perhaps my favorite one.

You must always know how to protect yourself, Daniel, he had told me. But remember, always do so with style. The old man was always about style. He said the whole appeal of airships was their aesthetic appearances. They fly like a wounded seagull, and smell like a port-a-pot from the methane, but when someone sees that massive balloon coasting over the city, that’s all it takes. One perfect gem in a city full of waste.

I’d never ridden in an airship since the first one was manufactured four months ago, so hopefully my Intel was correct on Evan’s boarding time. That’d make today my first trip, and probably my last. It should be a glorious one.

Soon enough I’m cruising past enormous loading crates that are about to find a new home in the steam-powered tankers bobbing up and down in the ocean. They're probably heading to a sister city. I can see the deckhands inflating the airships. The top of the tan balloons contrast with the blues and whites of surging breakers. The airships double-over as traditional sea-faring ships, courtesy of the genius design my father thought up. Thanks Dad.

I dip my body to the left and turn sharply. The engine hums as a couple spurts of steam fly past my leg. I can already see the mass of people assembling outside of the airship, each person inching forward as if they won't make the cut. For stealth purposes I take my radiation mask off and hook it to a belt buckle. I’m hoping the blue of my knife blades is hidden within my leather suit. But who am I kidding, people walk around these streets with weapons all the time. 

"Ticket?"

Before I respond I let out a chuckle, though this guy could probably kick my ass. If it wasn't for the excessive amount of metal pasted on his suit, he'd be the spitting image of Yosemite Sam. His bushy beard looks more like a cowcatcher deflecting debris away from a train. I don't know whether to hand him my ticket or ask where the other Flanders family-members are. Yet he's not the one whose day I want to ruin, so I pull out my ticket and place it in his burly hand.

He looks me up and down. "You one of dem contractors?"

"No. I am not one of them contractors. Now can I board the ship?"

He nods, rotating backwards and clearing my path to the plank leading up to the airship. The balloon is completely inflated now, perhaps too much - I notice some deckhands running to the air valves, probably to release pressure before launch. I know this ship like the back of my hand, even though I've never been on one. My father would leave the schematics scattered across his desk. Let's just say when the world has gone to shit there's not much to do but sit inside and look at drawings.

I'm taking my time walking as my boots hit each plank and I can hear the annoyed grumbles of someone behind me, probably eager to run up this plank and find a seat. I extend my arms along each side of the rope. His haste is the last thing on my mind. 

When I clear the elevated platform, I move to the back of the group and scan the masses for any signs of Evan. The two brawny men dressed in armor, their steam-powered weapons holstered on their backs, are my first clue that he's arrived. I'd have bodyguards too if I were that piece of scum.

"Good morning. I'm glad you all could make it." His voice silences the pattering feet and grunts of the peanut gallery. I hone in on his gaunt frame. I had never seen him this close before. His nose looks even bonier than I thought, his skin even paler. Now I realize why there isn’t a busty woman on each side of his arm. Who would want to stand close to him? It must be lonely up there in his iron office.

He smiles to the crowd and paces back and forth on the airship deck. “I’m glad you’ve all made the journey from your perspective districts. Today marks the start of one of the largest business mergers in Smog’s history, a new contract between Eastern Shipping Company and the business ventures of all of you.”

A surge of clapping emanates from the audience before Evan silences them with his hand. I reach behind my back and make sure the holsters of my swords are still within reach.

“So what do you get with stock in our company?” Evan asks. “I’ll show you.”

Evan nods to one of the crew members and four men simultaneously unhook the ship from cables attached to the docks. A hissing noise fills the deck caused by the expanding balloon.

“Our standard balloon sits at 320 feet with a capacity of around 200,000 cubic feet. We’ve achieved maneuverability never before imagined with the installation of three stabilizers and additional ballonets. Our main problem was speed, but that’s something of history now. Our innovative steam-powered engine runs the main dual 20-foot propellers, and our new bow and stern thrusters allow the airship to reach an upwards of 22 mph.”

Our engine. The words make me want to jump up right now and shut this sad man up, but I’ll give him a few more minutes of the spotlight.

“Buoyancy control is unmatched,” he says to us. “To increase lift, the pilot simply ups the re-boiling rate above break-even, and the steam lift gas does the rest.”

I already figured out his tactics. You throw in some rich bankers, a hefty vocabulary, and the awe of flying over a steel city, and they may as well grovel.

“Your stock not only creates a bond between the future of Eastern Shipping Company and yourselves, but it renders your steam quota for your entire family null and void. These babies put out enough steam to create thick cloud-layers for all of us. But don’t go telling the common folk that.”

The crowd erupts into laughter. The old men look at one another as they laugh, their wrinkles vibrating like angry sumo wrestlers. One of them takes off his glasses and dries them with a cloth before turning back towards Evan.

“This is all possible only with the hard work of our innovation team, led by none other than myself. We may miss the olden days, the electronics, the iPods, the television shows, but this technology secures our future for a radiation-limited city, and gives us the time to once again find energy sources to enjoy those luxuries. Now enjoy the tour, and don’t inhale too much steam. Thank you, I’ll take a few questions.”

We’re now hundreds of feet over the city, and the dozens of audience members are laughing and spreading out, peering over the edges of the airship with wonder and awe. The air valves above me hiss with steam and the ropes securing the ballonets waver in the wind.

The city looks like it’s been hit with a nuclear warhead. Steam rises from the central pipelines of every household, through the tubes leading to the steam-concentration centers, out of the strategically placed air ducts and into the lower atmosphere. I can’t wait to blow this place to smithereens. The crowd disperses around me, making visible my raised hand and nonchalant stature.

“Yes, you there in the back,” Evan says, the smile still pasted on his obnoxious face.

“What about the work of Francis Kissinger and his pending invention of an alternative to steam-power?” He actually looked like he hadn’t considered the possibility of such a question. “And can you comment on the surviving son you evicted because of Kissinger’s murder? What is he to do now that he can’t meet his quota?” I had another question in line but the dimwit lifted his hand to silence me. I’ll give him the respect of providing a response.

“Kissinger’s ideas have been unmatched, and we all mourn his loss.” This guy isn’t worth the time, but I’ll play his game.

“His ideas? Are you the one who nailed these planks together or designed the lightweight plastics necessary to allow lift?”

The heads of the onlookers are bobbing back and forth between Evan and me. A red rash runs across his face. I at least want to embarrass the man before I stand over his corpse.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Daniel Kissinger, son of the man you murdered.”

Evan immediately lifts both of his fingers and nudges the guards next to him. They’re your stereotypical machine-men, but even those types bleed. They walk towards me, parting two separate seas between the now-concerned onlookers. I waited for the right time, and when a yard stands between their fat stomachs and my arms, I sling out my dual blades and deliver swift horizontal slashes across their abdomens.

I don’t think the audience has registered the attack yet, but the two bodies fall backwards and blood gushes from the newly created crevices. Evan nearly stumbles backwards like a school girl before reaching to his right and grabbing a weapon attached to a long hose near the captain’s wheel.

I can’t help but laugh. It’s none other than one of the steam-powered poison guns developed by, you guessed it, my father. It’s another trinket I know everything about. It’s seven pounds, soaking wet, has a polished wood base, brass barrel and glass vial that holds the water and whatever poisonous agent my father decided on, most likely potassium cyanide. If Evan was to hit me with the dangerous flow of liquid, I’d drop dead within seconds, but he won’t.

I pull my radiation mask over my head and the flow of burning hot water bounces off my leather suit. He continues spraying as if I’m some super-human, but I’m closing in the distance and his aim is horrible. I’m two feet from his face and I can almost see the hint of regret in his eyes.

My plan was to release my blades and in one quick swipe send his head toppling down the galley of the airship and rolling into the feet of some old guy resembling the Monopoly Man, but instead he drops the gun and I pick up an idea. I reach down, my leather suit now squeaking from the recent moisture, and pick up the gun.

“Please, don’t,” he begs, attempting to back away towards the bow of the airship.

I remain silent, grasping the brass gun in between my two hands. “You really should have installed a less torturous weapon on board,” I say. I release a flow of steaming hot water, which splashes off his face and leaves craters of eaten flesh. I’m assuming the poison worked, because within ten seconds his body is lying lifeless between my legs.

I already see the shape of Skully’s airship approaching us from the rear and I smile. The hard-headed man who stood by my father since childhood actually came through. I don’t have any time to waste and I am probably a bit behind schedule. I walk to the storage container located near the entrance of the airship and pull out the parachute that Skully had hid for me. That wasn’t his real name, but it was way better than Thaddeus. What was his mother thinking?

I drop my blades and strap on the device, peering one last time at the faces of all the bankers. They look confused, like they weren’t sure what was about to happen. I feel a bit narcissistic at this point, but these men have nothing to offer the world but their hoarded gold and snotty attitudes.

I look to the rear of the airship. The view is beautiful. Despite the endless billows of steam, something I’ve grown to hate, the horizon above the sea is a peachy bliss. I can make out the rising ellipse of the sun only from a couple segments where the clouds have parted and no longer diffuse the radiation.

The bankers are running around frantically as the pilot attempts to reduce the rate of water condensation to decrease our altitude. His efforts are in vain. I hear the blast of the cannons before I see the balls of fire flying towards us. Either way, I know that’s my cue.

I pray to God that Skully checked the parachute before he shoved it in that tiny compartment, because I’ve already jumped from the side of the airship and I’m now coasting at a dangerous speed toward the serene ocean below.

Pulling the trigger on the parachute release, I’m jerked upwards in an extremely uncomfortable tug. I’m glad the parachute is tan, because through the thin material I can see the silhouette of the flaming airship above me. I don’t think my father would be happy that I destroyed one of his creations, but I don’t think he’d be happy with a lot of things I’ve done today. I hope those bankers can swim.

I probably have a few minutes before I land in the water. Hopefully Skully’s navigation skills are good enough to land near me instead of on top of me. We’ve already designed our escape route to one of the sister cities. They’ll be excited to see the gift we’re bringing them: the schematics for augmented solar panels that my father had created.

I think I’m experiencing a moment of nostalgia. Perhaps I should have brought Sydney along with me. Perhaps I’ll go back to Fell’s Tavern and find her, take a few more shots. We’re all dying, so I might as well get laid.

It’s funny; one thing has never changed since we were all forced to adopt this insane lifestyle. No, it isn’t the archetypal theme of revenge, or a troubled son angry at his father for having more interest in machines than his own kid. It’s not the lure of women and whiskey and all things tempting. Those are personal problems.

It’s something much more universal, much more palpable. It’s a truth that regardless of your upbringing, your radiation levels, or your vapor quota, it will still exist: steam burns.