Stephen walked North along the road that divided the two DoH&L buildings. To his left and to his right
the towering buildings shot straight to the sky for 75 stories. Directly above a black arc connected the two towers; part of the ring. The October morning sun used the towers and ring to cast a shadow framing most of cAAmp 237 on the North side of the city.
Men and women dressed in neon-green jumpsuits, cAAmp Guards, stood on the perimeter of the cAAmp. The guards moved slowly, many taking a few steps forward or backward as needed to stay in the warmth of the sun’s rays on the frosty October morning. Stephen could see these green beetles milling in and out of the shadows along the perimeter about a mile wide and a mile deep. Occasionally the sun would reflect off of the silver A.M.Y. dart tanks the guards carried on their backs. The movements in and out of darkness along with an occasional flash reminded Stephen of green beetles clamoring in and out of the sunlight near the perimeter to flash a mating signal to another guard.
He approached one of the green beetles standing in the full sunlight between the two towers. “I’m here for a Jeweler job,” said Stephen looking at the young man in the glowing green jumpsuit with the cAAmp logo on the left sleeve; two teepee-like tents stood where the A’s should be in the word.
The beetle replied coldly, “Band.”
Stephen held up his band and the beetle touched it with his. “You’re clear, stay on this road until you see a man in a red suit like this,” he gestured with pride to his green ensemble. “He’ll tell you what job you get. But stay on the road, otherwise,” he tapped the silver tank of the A.M.Y. gun slung across his chest, “you’ll get a kiss from A.M.Y.,” some of the other beetles within hearing distance chuckled.
Now within the perimeter of cAAmp 237 he didn’t know whether he was a worker, an employee, or a prisoner. cAAmp 237 was simply the two-hundred and thirty-seventh contract location of the Cemetery Acquisition Assessment & Materials Processing Co. Inc. who had contracted with the government to perform cemetery reclamation work. Although only one of several reclamation companies in the country, it was the most widely recognized company because of the way they treated day laborers. Rather than send them home each evening on an expensive ETT or slow, stinky cAAmp bus, they provided canvas tents for lodging and other amenities. Once a section of the cemetery had been reclaimed, the tents would pop up like moldy mushrooms where the reclaimed graves had been backfilled. Dark green tents were the chow halls or food tents. In reality, they were just heavily guarded bins of food pods protected from the elements by the green canvas. Workers slept in the large Black tents filled with hundreds of cots, each with a dirty foam pillow and hemp blanket. White tents, which were usually the first to be erected once a suitable area was cleared, were for the prostitutes. The white tents lined both sides of a well worn path from the Black sleeping tent to the Green food tent. It was like a sexual gauntlet the male and female cAAmp workers must pass through at least twice a day. This, of course, was by design since cAAmp received a portion of the prostitute’s earnings.
Stephen continued walking North on the road. On either side of him old headstones could be seen arranged in perfect lines stretching East and West. They appeared to rise and fall with the contour of the land like stone buoys on a grassy sea. This vast sea of stones of every shape, size, and color continued Northward over the crest of a hill. Great towering oak trees, some over 600 years-old were sprinkled throughout old cemetery. Their great limbs had seen the comings and goings of generations of men. At one time the cemetery offered them the promise of a long life, but soon it would be cut short. Beyond the crest of the next hill Stephen could see the towering Safety fence that surrounded CitySpace and protected the inhabitants from the Greenspace and vice versa, more beetles, and the cAAmp tents; two long rows of white tents, a large black tent on the right, and smaller, green tent on the left.
From behind a massive oak tree still clinging to it’s brown, quivering, leaves in the October sunlight a red jumpsuit emerged, “band,” came the voice as the individual adjusted his or her jumpsuit.
Stephen stopped and stared for a split second. The voice was plainly masculine, deep, and earthy like the old country songs he liked to listen to on his band when he was drunk out of his mind. However, the body beneath the jumpsuit was obviously feminine with slender legs, perfectly curved hips, a tiny waist, and ample breasts that surged against the top of the jumpsuit. He or she was bald, had beautiful green eyes, and soft, supple lips surrounded by a jet black goatee.
“Band,” said the person in the red jumpsuit.
Stephen stopped staring and lifted his band to touch the band of the red beetle. As the individual reviewed the information on his or her own band Stephen detected a slight movement behind the tree. On the ground behind the tree a naked boy of about 15 years of age sat cross legged on some old clothes. His face was flush and beads of sweat lined his brow. Below his right nostril a drop of blood meandered toward the boy’s upper lip. He reached up with his index finger and wiped the drop away from his lip and transferred it to the dirty clothes beneath his naked glistening body that began shivering like the leaves of the oak tree above. Beside him, the red beetle’s A.M.Y. gun, with it’s unmistakable silver tank, leaned against the tree.
“Stoner, pay rate 7:A”, said the red beetle taping his or her band. “Stoners are in yellow, over the hill to the right. You can’t miss them.” The red beetle began to unzip the top of the jumpsuit and turn back toward the naked, quivering boy behind the tree.
Stephen looked at his band as it vibrated. The screen displayed 7:A quickly and disappeared. It was replaced by a timer that counted up with yellow numbers 00:00:15.
“Wait,” said Stephen, “I signed up for Jeweler 7:D.”
The red beetle turned back toward Stephen. The jumpsuit was unzipped to his or her abdomen exposing a large amount of cleavage covered in black hair, “you were 2 minutes late. Someone else took that job. If a jeweler leaves or is removed, you’ll be next in line assuming you’re still around. Get moving, we’re not paying you to stand around and talk.”
Stephen continued on the road toward the North. He didn’t even consider looking back at the two beneath the stately oak tree whose brown leaves were tinged with a red hue as though it were blushing. Just a little ways further he saw a colony of bright yellow jumpsuits milling in and out between the headstones. To the left of the “Stoners”, as they were commonly known, “Diggers” armed with spades, shovels, buckets, and rakes stood around open holes in the earth. Their once bright-pink jumpsuits were now the color of trampled bubble gum. Some were standing on mounds of dirt around the open holes while others were neck deep; heads disappearing and reappearing with shovels and buckets full of fresh earth.
Not far from the Digger’s open pits stood raised platforms covered in massive, snow-white cloths. On these platforms were white tables upon which the freshly excavated and washed caskets were placed. Beside each open casket stood a man or woman in a white jumpsuit, white hair covering, white mask, white gloves and white shoe covering. These Jewelers examined the entire open casket for things of value. They removed watches, coins, rings, pocket knives, paper money, tooth fillings, belt buckles,and joint replacement devices.
To the right of the road Stephen saw another red jumpsuit carefully observing the Stoner crew. The red jumpsuit was nearly bursting at the seams filled with a man of about 25 years who looked as though he spent every spare moment training for body building competitions. His heavily tattooed forearms only existed to accentuate his verbal commands.
“No, lower, it has to be lower on the stone,” he said as he moved his hands from high in the air slowly down as if he were willing the thing to happen from a distance. “No, shit, like this,” he stepped forward and slid the hemp strap toward the bottom of the headstone, cinched it tight and called for the lifters.
As he turned around he saw Stephen watching the process with interest. The foreman eyed him up and down, puzzled.
“Got demoted?” he asked with a slight smile.
“Something like that,” said Stephen. “I was two minutes late so he”, Stephen caught himself, “or she told me to come here.”
The foreman laughed, “here, put this on before someone gets trigger happy. You can put it on over your clothes or take your clothes of and put them in the bag and drop it by the others, no one will mess with them.” He handed Stephen a mesh bag with a bright yellow jumpsuit inside. Stephen put the jumpsuit on over his clothes and placed the bag in one of the side pockets.
“The best way to understand the process,” began the foreman gesturing as he explained as if he were making everything happen with his words, movements, and will. “The best way to understand the process of reclamation is to start with the Stoners. Nothing happens without the Stoners. We’re the guys that everyone asks to pop the cork out of the bottle and get the party started.” As he said this he mimed the situation of pulling a cork out of a bottle and nearly smacked Stephen in the face.
Stephen watched the workers carefully to learn his new trade of being a Stoner or Cork Popper or whatever you wanted to call it. Two or three men dug furiously with shovels and picks toward the base of the white headstone searching for either the bottom of the stone or the footstone, both needed to be removed by the Stoners. Once the stone was exposed enough for quick removal, two people in yellow jumpsuits would move forward with a strange looking, thick hemp strap. On one end of the strap was a large spliced loop. On the other end there were six similar spliced loops but smaller. A worker would slide the six loops through the one. One man would slide this large loop over the stone and near the base while the other man held the six-looped head above. Once securely in place, six people stepped forward with long steel poles. The man holding the loops guided each pole through a loop. The poles were received by six more individuals standing on the other side of the stone. From above it must have looked like the spokes on a wheel without a rim or an unruly asterisk.
“Slowly, up,” said the tattooed man. His arms were either demonstrating or obeying. Stephen couldn’t decide which.
“Secure,” said a yellow jumpsuit as he stepped away from the base of the stone.
The red jumpsuit crouched down and eyed the position of the stone, the strap, and where each crew member stood. He stood and dropped both arms still by his side. He began to raise his right arm, “slowly.”
The crew, which had not taken their eyes off of him since he stood from his crouched position began leaning, moving, toward the East. Dirt around the base of the stone began to rise a little as the stone tilted. He dropped his right arm and the crew stopped moving. He repeated the same movements and words with his left hand. The crew moved slowly toward the West and the stone tilted the other direction.
“You all rock!”, he said enthusiastically. Many of the crew smiled at the silly pun they had heard hundreds of times already. The red jumpsuit stretched out his arms as if to gather the East and the West together. “Slowly, up,” he said as he raised his arms toward the sky.
The twelve bright yellow disciples began to lift in unison and the hemp strap strained against the headstone, desperately holding fast to the earth in which it was planted. Yet the stone was no match for the force exerted upon it and it began to lift from the brown dirt. Once it was free from the earth it was carried to a large wagon containing many other such stones. In the wagon, yellow jumpsuits wrestled the stones and placed them strategically so as to maximize the space.
The crew leader with the tattoos dropped his arms and turned back to Stephen, “and just like that, Pop!” He made the popping sound by placing his index finger in his mouth, closing his lips around it, and withdrawing it quickly at a slight angle, “...we get the party started.” He stepped forward and tapped an old man who had been responsible for digging around the base on the shoulder, “Good job old timer, why don’t you go help out crew 2 for a bit.”
“You,” he pointed to Stephen, “Come over to this stone and they’ll teach you how to be a Stoner.” The red jumpsuit walked over to the wagon and began offering guidance on the placement of the stones.
Stephen knelt down by the marble stone. Engraved on it was a cross with the words,
In Memory of Eugene “Gene” H. Sloan
WWII Navy
Born September 15, 1922
Died August 1, 2004
Husband and Father.
“Sorry, Gene. It’s just the way things are now,” Stephen thought to himself, “who were you? Do you have any living descendants?”
His partner in the work was a grizzled, gray-haired only man with dirty fingernails. A yellow jumpsuit, stained brown near the end of the sleeves from the digging work, hung drowsily from his thin frame. Old, wire rimmed glasses magnified his blue-gray eyes and dried blood dangled in crusty flakes on the gray and white whiskers beneath his right nostril.
The old man looked at Stephen for a few seconds, jabbed his shovel into the dirt, and offered his right hand rather than the “band hand”.
Stephen stared back, confused at the gesture. If it were his band hand he could understand that the old man was asking for money. He stared at the dirty fingernails and scarred fingers that were slightly curved from years of use. Each of his fingers were larger than Stephen’s thumb.
“Come on, don’t be afraid, son,” said the old man with tear-filled eyes. “I won’t hurt ya. It’s an old greeting we used to use back years ago.” The old man stepped forward and enveloped Stephen’s hand in his, “They call me ‘Deacon’. To be honest, I can’t rightly remember by given name. Oh well, it matters not when the Who knows your name.” He raised his arms and eyes toward the sky above. Stephen looked up and saw nothing but clear blue skies all around him.
Stephen lowered his eyes once more. Behind the old man the lifters, leaning on their poles, watched in amusement. A few were twirling their fingers in a circular motion near their temples while looking at Stephen. It was still a universal sign indicating that a person was crazy.
“Are you a believer, brother,” said the old man as his boot buried the blade of the shovel deep in the dirt by the base of Gene’s stone.
Stephen followed his lead and dug deep on his side of the stone, “believer in what?” said Stephen as he dropped the shovel full of dirt nearby.
“Not what,” said the old man not stopping his work, “but Who. Are you a believer in Who? The Almighty Who, the eternal Who! Three Whats and One Who as they say.” Tears streamed from his old eyes as he kept on digging.
“I’m not sure,” said Stehen trying his best to not cause the man any stress. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the man had stopped working. The free flowing tears mingled with a fresh drop of blood on his hairy upper lip. He stared at Stephen who was nervously trying to work with the old man’s eyes burning holes through his yellow jumpsuit, personal work clothes, skin, flesh, bone, and soul. The old man licked his upper lip taking in the salty tears and blood mixture. His tongue reached out again straining further upward, searching for a second taste. All the while the old man stared at Stephen, or through him.
Stephen could take the gaze no longer. He turned to look the old man squarely in the face. His eyes were still flowing with tears. Stephen locked eyes with the old man but realized quickly that the old man wasn’t looking at him. He was looking through him, through the safety fence beyond cAAmp 237, through the Greenspace, to beyond, somewhere. His gaze was locked on something or someone in space or time or in his mind.
The man came back to reality in a flash. His face relaxed and he was once more a man and no longer a savage, primitive animal. “The Who believes in you,” he said chuckling as he wiped his face with his sleeves and the inside of his jumpsuit collar, “yup, my brother, the Who believes in you.” He continued speaking or singing his nonsense adding his words to a long forgotten nursery rhyme, “The Who believe in you. The Who believes in you. Hi-Ho the derry-O, the Who believes in you.”
The old man continued humming his tune as the two worked together to dig the base of the headstone and footstone free for lifting. The rest of the work crew smiled and watched the Deacon and his apprentice as the old man hummed one tune after another blending them together in a way that made one long song of mere vibration. The entire crew found themselves caught up in the nonsensical humming sound that rose and fell, bounced off the stones, and seemed to vibrate to the core their heavy lifting rods. From a distance it may have appeared as a tribal ceremony or religious ritual; two men flinging dirt from beside a granite monument, surrounded by 12 other tribe members, all vibrating with a humming sound that seemed to tickle the earth as if trying to gently wake the decayed body below from its eternal sleep.
A loud yell that bordered on a scream shattered the vibrating, humming ritual as the entire crew looked toward the sound. Each and every person within earshot of the scream shivered as they watched the events play out.
“Runner,” came the shrill scream again, “there’s a runner.”
Stephen looked toward the screaming individual. He or she was standing on the white Jeweler’s platform pointing toward the Southeast, in the general direction of Stephen’s work crew and continued the screaming as if mad, “ruuuuunner, there’s a ruuuuunner.”
The crew watched as a naked black man wearing only the band on his left wrist ran at a full sprint up over a small hill towards them. The man strained every muscle as he hurdled headstones and weaved between others, all while continuing as fast as he could toward the beetle lined border between himself and CitySpace.
As the runner continued his jagged, broken trajectory in the general direction of Stephe’s crew, Stephen felt himself pulled to the ground by the Deacon who was lying in their freshly dug ring around the stone.
“Get yerself down, brother. Ol’ Amy’s about to blow some kisses this way,” said the Deacon giggling like a school girl.
The naked runner passed their crew like a black Hermes without his sandals. Stephen peaked around the headstone and saw a flash of silver beneath the tree he’d passed earlier. The red beetle now stood naked. The strange hermaphroditic creature held the stock of the gun between her shoulder and right breast while staring intently through the black scope mounted above the barrel.
A puff of air launched a small dart with fuzzy red plumage toward the intended target. As the dart struck the black Hermes it injected a dose of Amygdala MyoYokenella (A.M.Y.) into the hind end of the man. The man reached instinctively to remove the dart but the infamous drug was already in his system and traveling quickly to it’s end destination due to his increased heart rate and blood flow. The naked man took two more steps and fell to the ground between untouched headstones waiting their turn to be popped from the earth.
The Stoner crew moved toward the man, now in the fetal position, between the stones. The hermaphrodite strolled casually toward its prey, gun ready with another dart, while the young boy followed closely behind carrying their jump suits.
The face of the man on the ground was covered in tears as he convulsed and cried uncontrollably. As a small droplet of blood exited the cave of his right nostril he jumped to his feet like a cornered, wounded animal ready to die tearing its foe to pieces. The man lunged and snarled at the crew in the yellow jump suits. Foam spewed from his mouth as he spat curses at both the living and the dead. Then, as quickly as he sprang to his feet, he fell to the ground once more quivering and crying. Stephen thought he heard him calling for his mother or grandmother.
“Ha,ha,” chuckled the Deacon, “hit ‘em right where the good Lord split ‘em. First time seeing a kiss from Amy, son?”
Stephen looked at the black man who was now back on his feet snarling at those surrounding him. His naked body was covered in sweat, dirt, and grass. A full flow of blood mixed with the snot and tears on his face. Someone just arriving on the scene would have had the idea that he’d just been born from beneath the earth, a savage response to the work taking place among the stones.
He lunged toward the red jumpsuit with the arm tattoos who stepped to the side, grabbed the man’s shoulder and locked him into a bear hug to keep him from hurting himself or others. The shaking man thrashed for a moment and then his legs gave out.
“He’s good,” said the man as he lowered him to the ground addressing the hermaphrodite who was now nearly dressed. “He won’t need another dose. Not going anywhere, he’s almost through the worst of it.”
Stephen took in the entire scene in shocked disbelief. “What the hell was that?” he whispered to the Deacon.
The old man chuckled again, “That? That there is Amy. Step out line around here and she gives you a kiss to straighten ya out. I remember my first kiss. I did all that shit except I wasn’t naked and calling for my momma like this poor creature. May the Who have mercy on his soul, damned idiot. Ya ought not never run in a cemetery like this un. Shit, that’s a sure way to steal a kiss.”
Stephen looked at the man on the ground who was now still except for a twitch in his foot. “Is he dying?”
“No, no,” he said as he gave snort trying to recall some blood into his own nostril. “No, he’ll be right as rain here in a minute. He’ll never be the same, understand, but he won’t die. He’ll have a permanent twitch, maybe some crazy thoughts in his head, and lifetime nose bleed but he’ll be fine. Just watch ‘em.”
The man rolled over onto his hands and knees, placed his finger along the left side of his nose and blew out a stream of snot and blood. He stood and looked at all the men and women surrounding him. Realizing his nakedness, he used his hands to cover his privates..
Two men in white jumpsuits brought him his own white coveralls he’d thrown to the side when making his attempted escape. He dressed and walked away slowly, head down, with the men.
“Why’d they shoot him like that,” asked Stephen as red jumpsuits corralled the workers back to their work.
“Hell, boy, you are a green horn,” said the Deacon as he sidestepped a headstone. “That man was a Jeweler. He probably swallowed a weddin’ band or shoved a diamond up his ass somehow. That’s why I ain’t never wanted to be a Jeweler. There’s too much temptation. A man can’t, sorry, a man or a woman,” he said bowing to the lady walking along with them. “Can’t be placing yourself in that type of temptation and expect to not be changed.”
Stephen’s band vibrated on his wrist and he looked down: Position Open - Jeweler, Pay Rate 7:D. The band continued scrolling: Accept or Reject.
The old Deacon snorted, “looks like your up for a promotion, son.”
Stephen looked intently at the words as they continued to scroll. Without thinking too much, he tapped “Reject” and walked on with the old man to the stone they had been working on. A few minutes later it popped.
Are you interested in learning more about the world Stephen lives in and what happens next? Look for this new dystopian novel, The Greenspace, available Fall 2023. Email me to be the first to know about preordering and advanced copies for review.
is available now.
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