Dusk
“Hurry, the sun is setting.”
She glanced back at him and frowned. Her bandaged hand waved dismissively as he shook his head in disgust.
“Look, you have to hurry. We need to get on the road. You know better than this.”
She reached down and grabbed the gun from her holster. The shot was quick. He tried to speak, but the bullet was quicker.
“Fast enough for you, jerk?”
She looked down at the bag she was packing, quickly thinking about the new travel arrangements. As she zipped the bag, she looked at the corpse on the floor. “The bag is lighter with food for only one. Idiot.”
She stepped over the dead man and made her way to the large, heavily bolted steel door. She worked on the locks, starting from top to bottom. They had to be unlocked in a specific order to free the mechanism.
Her concentration was focused as she worked on the last lock. She needed more than the combination to open it. The hinge had to be worked just so, or it would not come loose. She remembered her training. Don’t force it. Do not pull hard; let the lock mechanism do the work. If correctly placed, the hinge will pop open.
“There.”
She removed the large bolt and started to open the door. The wind knocked her back. Why so much wind? The force was much stronger than she had anticipated.
She pulled the bandana over her mouth and nose, lowered her head, and headed toward the only working vehicle left, a rusty Ford truck with a shaky transmission.
The wind was standing her up; she used all her energy to keep from falling back. She felt the wind suck the air out of her lungs. She struggled to remove the gas mask from her vest as the wind caught it and ripped it out of her hand.
She quickly turned, and the wind shot her back through the door, back to the body on the floor. She quickly tried to shut the door, but the wind was too strong. She moved to the side, stepping on the body, to get out of the wind stream. She waited patiently for the wind to die down so she could close the door. Her life would become complicated if the door did not close.
Ring. Knock, knock. Ring, ring. “Notification. You have movement at your front door.”
Sigh. The Writer looked up and over at the computer monitor. He saw a figure covered in dark clothes and a mask standing at his door.
“Back door view and notification.” At the command, the camera switched to the back door. He saw three men with sawed-off shotguns standing at the ready, their communication devices creating an asymmetrical pattern around their heads.
“Call the police, code 9.”
“Notification. Police called.”
“Prepare gas canisters, front, and back.”
“Notification. Gas canisters enabled.”
“Put me through to the police.”
“Notification. Police on the line.”
“Hello, I have a problem at 137, Section 1. Armed men at the front and back doors. I am asking permission to gas them.”
“Permission to gas granted. I assume you are using the cocktail “Easy Money.”
“Yes, they are all wearing masks.”
“Good luck to them.”
“Yes. Please send a clean-up team. I am in the middle of something.”
“Certainly. Release the cocktail, and we will be by in 30 minutes to claim the bodies.”
“Thank you.” As soon as the call ended, he hesitated for only a second. “Disconnect and release Easy Money.”
“Notification. Easy Money released.”
He watched the monitor. The A.I. knew the perspectives he wanted. He watched the men fall, struggle, and then go quiet.
“Notification. Extraction teams will be here shortly.”
The Writer looked at the screen with indifference, not even morbid curiosity.
“Notification. All clear. You may continue the manipulation of subject 5863.”
He glanced down at the keyboard he still used to seal the fate of nameless people, some deserving, others not. Everyone else in his department had moved on long ago to the spoken word or direct brain interfaces. He refused. He felt that the keyboard gave him a better feel for creating fate. The microseconds it took to type allowed him to think just a little about what he was doing. It made the process slightly less impersonal. Not that he cared about the people “out there,” he just wanted to feel a little better about himself.
He leaned back and thought for a moment of the woman in the room with the corpse. What was to become of her? His training taught him to never ask such questions. All it did was waste time, the only commodity people with his job had. Quick, decisive, impartial. There was no place for passion and certainly no sympathy. He got up.
“Notification. Writing chair is unoccupied. Why is writing chair unoccupied?”
He walked down the stairs to his front door, the large steel door heavily bolted with locks running up the length of the seam. He looked out the fortified window and saw that it was getting dark.
“Notification. If you wish to go out, you need to hurry. The sun is setting.”
“CUT,” yelled The Director as she stood up and took a few steps toward the proscenium arch. She paused and slumped her shoulders. As her hands touched her face, she started to tremble.
“This…is…awful! What are we doing here? We have a story that goes nowhere, has no tension, and certainly does not have an ending.”
The Writer removed his sunglasses, rose up from his chair, and approached her. “Listen, this is a required episode. We need to set up later action. All this episode is supposed to do is give a little context for forthcoming action.”
“Look, I understand I was hired at the last minute to get this episode shot, but this is terrible. If you insist we keep on shooting, I can not be a part of it. I will not allow my name to be attached to this project.”
“Not a problem. We can go the Alan Smithee route. All I would ask of you is that you keep your participation silent. Don’t go advertising that you directed this shoot and that you are unhappy with it.”
“I still get paid, right?”
“Of course, you will get your money. I can give you cash as soon as we are done.”
“Works for me. Have someone grab a garbage can and put it next to my chair. I am sure I am going to barf.”
“Sure, no problem. Can we get back to work now?”
“I can’t believe how low I have sunk.” The Director quickly sat down and adjusted her lanyard. “Let’s get this over with.”
With all once again right with the world, the people took their places, and scenes were shot. The actors worked to the best of their ability, and the crew acted like the professionals they were. The sun was low in the sky when everyone called it a day.
The Writer went home to his empty trailer. The Director did whatever it is directors do when they leave. No one bothered to invite her out for drinks. Not a single person bothered to say goodbye.
One of the actors, the guy from the front door gassed to death in the story, was slow in leaving. He walked around the set, slowly taking everything in. He knew the script was terrible and that the part was small, but it was work. He had spent the day earning his living as an actor, breathing in air as a true artist. As a young boy, that was all he ever wanted, all he ever dreamed. His mouth started to form a smile as he turned to leave.
