I hunkered down beside Buster, within touching distance of the ash shadow burned into the last wall of my home, and let him lick my face.
He had done his duty.
He had been my guide.
I was ready to admit the truth: that I had never walked away from that wreckage. That everything, the weeks and months that followed in that endless aching journey to get here, was my soul coming to terms with the truth.
I saw movement in the shadow as Em’s blackened outline slowly rose.
I saw her hand reach out.
Buster left my side, walking into the shadow beside her.
They were my life.
And now that it was over, they could be my forever after.
I was ready.
I could go now.
I walked towards them, my shadow joining with theirs on the wall.
A Word from Steven Savile
I used to say that I didn’t write stories; I wrote little pieces of me. Sure, that’s a bit pretentious, but the idea is that the author puts a lot of himself into his work, and in this case, there’s M, my wife (so not quite Em), and Buster. I was raised in Langley Vale on the Downs in Epsom, and it’s one of the few places in the world that truly feels like home. So, when I was asked to write something for this collection, it felt only right that it should be a sort of homecoming. They say you can never go home again. I like to think that isn’t true.
That’s the thing: I’ve changed a lot as I’ve grown older. I used to be all about the adventure. I’ve toured the States, backpacked across Europe; hell, I’ve even upped sticks and emigrated to Sweden, but now all I really crave from life are the simple things, and all of those are at home. So, just like the Steve in the story, I like to think I’d move Heaven and Earth to get back there when the End came. Sorry, I mean if… if the End came… if.
Steve’s latest novel is Sunfail.
Kristy’s Song
(a Pennsylvania short story)
by Michael Bunker
One
Brighton Boxes and Q
She won’t go in a store when she’s not working. It’s just a thing of hers. I don’t explain it, except to explain it away. I tell people that she’d rather lie just outside the door, out of the way, and watch strangers zoned on Q pass by.
The door to Marty’s slid closed behind me with a whoosh, and I watched through the glass as she moved to the side, circled twice, and plopped down on the cement sidewalk to wait.
“She can come in, you know,” Marty said from behind the counter.
“I know.”
“I’d probably even find her a treat around here somewhere,” Marty said as he gestured with obvious irony at the sparse shelves.
“What can I say? Kristy doesn’t come inside unless she’s working. I don’t want to make her come in.”
Marty cocked his head to the side and smiled. “What is it you two do again, anyway?”
Again? I’d never told Marty what I do.
I smiled. “I run errands. Do some off-book deliveries if you must know, or if you’re taking notes for Transport. Nothing big.”
Marty’s face worked hard to feign hurt and insult.
“I… I… You know I don’t deal with Transport. I’m no rat spy.”
I smiled again, showing him I was joking. I didn’t know if he informed for Transport or not, but it wouldn’t do to make him think I suspected him. For now, I didn’t.
“Man, you gotta be careful with talk like that,” Marty said mostly under his breath. “Ain’t much love for TRACE around here, but a guy could get shanked if some people thought he was spilling to Transport.”
“I know,” I said. And I did. “I was joking.”
“Well, don’t joke around like that,” Marty said. His brow dipped and he looked at me through narrowed eyes. “We’re all just trying to get by, man, and besides, I don’t care what you do. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t have some kind of extracurricular income. God knows I do.”
I nodded slightly and held Marty’s gaze, not giving anything away. As I expected, when I didn’t break in, he kept talking.
“Yeah, and on that note, I… And this is… you know…”
“I know,” I said.
“Well, it’s just that I have a large quantity of clean Q if you’re interested. Off-grid stuff. No tracking codes or tagents.”
“Nah.”
“Maybe if you were going out near the hangers or anywhere by a refusenik camp.”
“I’m not.”
“But…”
“I don’t use Q,” I said. “I’m still off-line and got no thought of logging on anytime soon.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I know,” Marty said. “I remember that. But… you move around a lot, you know. Doing whatever it is you do. And you meet people. Know people.”
I looked outside, and from up near the counter, I could see Kristy as she sniffed a passerby. I knew if she smelled TRACE or Transport she’d let me know. The real reason she chose to stay outside.
“Yeah,” I nodded at Marty. “I know people. I move around. But I don’t know the kind of people you’re talking about.”
Marty’s head rocked back a little and his lips pulled into a smirk. “I’m stuck here, man. I don’t get around. I have to make contacts when I can. Limited clientele and all that.”
“I don’t deal contraband Q, Marty.”
“Hey… Woah!” Marty said. His hands went out flat and he pushed them up and down slowly. They, the hands, said, “shut up, man. Keep it down!” He fidgeted with some protein packets on the counter. “I’m just saying, if you know anyone.”
“I don’t.”
“Okay, then. Just thought I’d, you know, keep you up on what’s down, you know? I gotta communicate to make a living.”
“No need for Q,” I said.
Marty nodded and shrugged.
“Got any Brighton boxes?” I asked. I made eye contact with the man, gauging his reaction. Looking for any information he might be hiding behind his words.
Marty’s eyes widened. “Woah again, my friend.” A smile touched his face. “Now we’re talking. Yeah, in fact I… Why? You moving some stuff? Anything good? Anything I… might want to know about?”
Brighton boxes are ultra-heavy-duty transport boxes of all sizes, from egg-carton size up to shipping containers, designed with some high-tech liner material that could obscure the contents from prying eyes, scanning, x-ray, infrared, or just about any other invasive technology, including all signal transfers. Transport uses them in moving ammunition and war materiel to hide the contents from TRACE rebels. Likewise, TRACE uses contraband or commandeered Brighton boxes to hide their own war goods from TRACER drones and crowd scanners. It’s the way of war. When a war lasts long enough and enough money is involved, both sides end up with most of the same technologies at some point.
Brighton boxes are also used widely by noncombatants. Bootleggers, forgers, and dealers in any kind of illegal contraband love the boxes… when they can get them.
I reached in my pocket and pulled out three small, solid-gold buttons and held them for a moment while Marty’s eyes focused on them. Then I let them slide from my palm onto the counter.
“What the f—”
“Easy, Marty,” I said, “I’m dealing in real money today.”
“Holy mother of many sons!” Marty said as one of his hands scooped the gold off the counter and into the other hand. “I… I have some boxes, but not that many!” He brought one of the buttons to his mouth and bit down.