Last Run

Pflugerville, Texas, July 12, 2038:

It’s always that last run of the day that gets you. Another soul draining adventure into the great known. While most people never leave their cozy dwellings and computer reality systems anymore, my adventurous personality got me a gig delivering supplies to the bunker condos on the edge of town. Well, my bright disposition and my civic duty to Travis County for community service.

It would be an understatement to say that the trails have gotten pretty rowdy; I had to put my tanker treads on the truck this morning. Before I left the North Depot, I heard that there is another storm coming and I’m thinking it would probably suck to get stuck in it. They don’t pay me to think, though, so here I am. The wind is blowing the dust so bad I can barely see out of the triple reinforced safety glass. I suppose the sun’s still out, but who knows. Luckily, it’s pretty chill inside the cab of my delivery truck, the grey air outside really accents my blinky light space age cabin interior. My only real decoration, a beat up old gold locket, dangles loudly on the rear view mirror smacking the inside of the window with every bump I hit. Blah blah blah, do I ever shut up?!

“Blip! Blip!” Two bunker condos left on the run pop up on my center console computer, 1137 and 1139. I softly wonder what happened to 1138. I follow the blips on the screen. The tracks get me over what looks like the surface of the moon but used to be a normal suburban neighborhood. This whole area is just a bunch of partial shells of house frames that have mostly blown away over the years. Hard to believe people live out here still, not that the city has much more to offer.

“Unit 6, we have a severe storm approaching. Please be advised. Over.” My radio chirps.

I pick up the com unit and make a funny face to myself.

“Approaching?! I think it’s already here, buddy. 2 more to drop and I’m headed back. Over.”

The storms have blown so much dirt over the buried containers you can barely make out their distribution boxes. The first one on the beginning of Ransom Street is visible via a dim light on a pole sticking about 4’ out of the ground. I roll up next to it, stop the truck (always leave it running), and throw my full cover helmet on from the passenger seat. It’s a process: hooking up the tubes and wires. It used to feel like overkill, but on a day like today, it makes me feel invincible. Phoosh! A crisp compressed air sound lets me know it’s good to go. The fog from my breath disappears from the glass. I step from the cab into the back shelving area and grab one of two supply containers. I hook a steel wire rope tether from the supply box to a steel locking carabiner on my suit. I hit the rear hatch button and the rear seals off from the cab and opens to the desolate landscape. The filthy airstream smacks me in the helmet like the back of an angry hand. I step out with the delivery box hovering next to me. I approach the distro box and wave my hand over the lit box. “Bleep.”

“Thank god, you’re here!” A barely audible voice comes from the box, smothered by the sound of dusty wind blowing by.

A coffin size pod lifts up out of the dirt and opens. I levitate the delivery over the pod, and it magnetizes to the pod and connects. The pod closes and lowers.

“Have a good one!” I gesture to the box.

You are never so alone as when in the presence of absent people. Or something like that. It’s a good day to be inside!

I walk into the back of the truck, hit the button, and the truck consumes me. I enter the cab, unhook the hoses and cables to the helmet, “phoosh,” take it off, and drop it along with a pound of dust into the passenger seat. I sit and take a deep “cabin air” breath. I put the truck in gear, and I drive down the road about a quarter mile, stop the truck, hook the helmet back up and go back to the rear of the truck. I grab the final delivery tote, 1139, and tether to it. It hovers out next to me. I hit the button; the rear latch opens. Yep, the storm is here, and it is not taking it easy on me, the truck, or the landscape. I wince inside of my helmet as if the dusty debris being shoved in my face could somehow get to my eyes through the multiple layers of safety glass. I walk to the distro box and wave my hand. No response. No bleep. I wave it again.

WOOOSH! The bottom falls out of the sky as muddy rain and ice starts falling and take out the truck window and knock me down. I unhook the tether to the supply box and hook it to the distro box to secure myself. The supply box falls in the mud and slides away with the murky water. I reach for it, but it’s too far gone. I open the command module on my wrist and pull up a code for the bunker house. Muddy ice pounds my suit as I scramble to enter the code into the screen on the distro box. “Bleep, whir, phoosh.” The coffin pod comes up and opens and starts filling with mud. I unhook from the distro box and crawl desperately through the stormy debris to get to the pod. I roll in and it closes and takes me down. I feel an elevator drop in my gut.

Beep! Beep! Phoosh! The pod opens and out me and a bunch of muck roll into a bunker. I drop from table height and hit the ground hard. I jump to my feet as fast as anyone in a fifty pound suit can, flinging the muck around the room.

“Hello!” I shout. I can’t see out of my helmet it is so filthy. I wipe the glass. It just smears the mud around more. I can barely make out my wrist command module. It says air level is good.

“I mean no harm! I got stuck in the storm. I’ll be on my way as soon as I can!” I unhook my helmet to get a view of the room. I remove it and set it down.

There is a rumble from outside. This storm is huge!

The bunker is lit dimly with one single strip of light down its very center, falling off on its dark, dirty edges. The room appears devoid of life, it is only the size of a standard 8’x 40’ shipping container. At the end of the room is a 2 stage bunk bed with one tidy and one disheveled layer. Shelves line part of one side of the room, low on supplies for sure.

I walk the room carefully but urgently, searching for signs of life. No one is home. Where the hell could they be? There is a desk with a computer on it. I tap the keyboard and an image comes on the screen, a security camera view of my truck getting pummeled by the storm. There is a com unit next the computer I pick up the receiver and try and find frequency 211, the North Depot.

“Depot 9, this is unit 6, I’m trapped in bunker 1139 off Ransom Street. Over.”

Nothing but fuzz. On the security screen a mudslide grabs my truck and washes it down the road. Ha! Well, isn’t that something! It’s nice to be inside for once!

I disrobe my heavy suit and look for something to dry off with. I find an old towel on the bunk bed and use it. I go sit on the bed in my underclothes. As I look in the tiny room there is something just so familiar about it. I lay down and nod off.

As I awake, I immediately notice something in the room is definitely different. I look around and take in the scene, shaking off my daze. There is no way to know the time anymore.

Wait a minute, my suit isn’t on the floor where I left it! Actually, it is clean and hanging nicely on the wall. And there is no mud in the room from my fall in from the pod! Goosebumps and a shiver down my spine. What is happening?! No one is in here but me!

I run to the desk and hit the keyboard and the security cam displays it’s still a mess outside. I search frantically around the tiny room. If someone was here playing maid, where are they?

That’s when I notice it: a miniscule door behind the pantry shelving. What in the world? I pick up the cans on the shelf to move it and notice they are all empty. Sucks, I am really hungry. I touch my tiny gut.

I move the shelf away and reveal the door, which is half my height and has a very peculiar antique looking handle. I bend down and put my hand on the golden knob to open it.

Bleep! Bleep! The computer awakens! I look over to the screen. A delivery truck with tank tracks is outside. A man in a full cover suit exits the back of the truck with a delivery pod. He approaches the distribution box and waves his hand. The pod raises to go outside. I pick up the communications unit.

“Thank god, you’re here!” I plea.

There is a beeping coming from a gold locket that is around my neck. I pull it up to look at it. It’s worn from constant contact. I open it. It’s a digital clock readout. “182.5.” It blinks three times and resets to “0”

The supply box magnetizes to the pod, and it closes and retracts into the chamber.

“Have a good one!”