Written by Zachary and Joshua Forbes
Dick Kennedy from Three Rivers Plague and Foot In The Grave
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It wasn’t until the third day of the convention that Kennedy had finally gotten his hands on a cigarette. He’d had to bum one—along with a new lighter—off a suspicious individual in a detective costume, though the outfit was more plaid and baggy than Kennedy’s own. Plus the man underneath it didn’t look much more analytical than a Boston terrier.
It was some sort of cosplay, no doubt. There was no shortage of people dressed up around here, which helped make Kennedy look less conspicuous in his tan coat and sunglasses, he supposed. Everyone apparently desired to look and act like someone else. You could find more people being themselves at a congressional hearing…if those were still held around here.
Unlike a congressional hearing, however, no one but the costumed investigator seemed to be very interested in smoking. In fact, the very sight of one drew shuttering looks from the other attendees. Like it was some primitive expression far beneath their own sensibilities. Not dissimilar to a 20th century man watching a monkey fling excrement.
Kennedy felt the tail of his coat flap behind him as he settled out of the flowing crowd and stopped in front of some vendor stands. He fought back a shutter. Being around this many people was a lost experience for him. Where he’d come from, there didn’t seem to be this many people left alive. Now endless hordes were bustling and shouldering all around him. The back of his brain was flaring up with all kinds of pained warning signs. Instincts from a much crueler world.
More people moved behind the vendor stands. They were mostly cheerful and energetic. Excited to show others the things they had made with their own sweat and tears. A soft fog seemed to carry over the room, trailing with it a cold acrid scent. It blurred Kennedy’s aviators and forced him to occasionally wipe them off on his coat. While looking down, he noticed a table of weapons in front of a vendor. They looked hard and hefty. Old school revolvers and handguns. At first he refused to believe they were real.
But then he picked one up, and it had all the texture and weight of a classic .44. Something out of a cop movie. There was a row of brass bullets beside it. He flicked open the cylinder and popped in a few rounds, with permission from the vendor of course. Everything clicked and locked like a genuine piece of machinery from Kennedy’s own time.
“Do these work?” he asked.
The vendor nodded. He had a strong neck and a bloated face with a smile. His outfit was something between a cowboy and an astronaut. “As intended.”
“Is that normal here?”
The vendor shrugged. Kennedy decided this place was more to his liking than he’d previously thought. The wide purgatorial halls actually carried more freedoms than most settlements from the American wasteland. He kept the hammer down and practiced his aim against the floor until he heard a voice call out from behind him.
“You can’t do that in here, sir.”
Kennedy turned, pulling the weapon close and controlled against his chest. He came face to face with a younger woman, maybe in her 30s, with blonde hair tied up behind her head like she meant business. She had a vest and a badge over her breast pocket reading: Security. The uniform fit her well. It was tailored to all her sharp curves. Not cosplay.
“Just shopping around,” Kennedy replied, still clutching the weapon.
“No, I meant that,” she said, pointing up to his mouth.
The cigarette shifted between his lips, damp and tiny. He sucked another breath before plucking it out with his fingers. “Is there a problem?”
“We’re getting complaints about the smoke. There’s designated areas for stuff like that. Can’t just stand here stinking up the halls.”
The fog was blurring Kennedy’s glasses again. He removed them, getting a clearer look at the woman’s badge. It was more of a name tag, and it said: Hied Fjera. She had brown eyes and fair skin with arms strong enough to make themselves known beneath her sleeves.
“This isn’t me,” said Kennedy, waving a hand through the fog. “You’ve got a generator leak or something. One cigarette isn’t gonna-”
“We have a duty to keep our attendees safe and comfortable. If you have a query about the rules,” Fjera began stiffly, “I can put you in touch with our organizer, Mr. Guffin. He writes them, not me.”
Kennedy paused. “Guffin?”
“Yes, sir. MacDonald Guffin.”
Silence.
“Maybe I’d rather talk to you,” he said.
Something lurched out from the fog over their heads and snatched at both of them. Kennedy felt the flaring in his head pulse a bit harder and bobbed to the left just fast enough to miss a slash from a thorny tendril. He heard a gasp of breath from Fjera before turning to see her completely upended and strung up by her legs.
There were tentacles yanking her up into the fog. Sharp protrusions dug into her legs like they were chewing her. Kennedy jumped up and grabbed her by the hand just in time to stop her upper half from disappearing. The tentacles were strong and the fog was getting thicker. He did all he could think to do and pointed the .44 up at the creature, then squeezed on the trigger.
It popped, but not like a canon. More like corn on a frying pan. Underwhelming, and entirely unhelpful. He turned back at the booth and waved away some of the fog with the phony revolver, discovering in small print at the bottom of the vendor’s sign the words: fully simulated replicas.
The tendril yanked again on the woman, and Kennedy felt her ponytail flap over his arm as the other attendees backed away. He tossed the fake gun to the floor and planted his feet hard, trying to create friction. They were dragged across the carpet towards a vent on the wall.
The cigarette fell from his mouth, and he decided there was only one thing left to try. He dug into his pocket and came out with his new lighter, then planted one of his feet up the wall in front of him. The added leverage gave him the chance to hold the lighter up to the creature’s flesh. He flicked it on and smelled burnt seafood almost immediately. Crisp and fishy.
An insect-like screech came from the vent and the tendril reeled back with loosened resolve. Fjera reacted by removing one foot from its grasp and throwing a swift kick upwards. The creature reeled again and retreated into the vent as both its intended victims crashed down to the floor. The impact knocked the wind out of Kennedy–his lungs weren’t the best–but Fjera was up on her feet again in an instant. She huffed and panted like she’d just run for a mile before finally deciding to call for backup. The last traces of the fog followed the creature into the vent.
“Security at the vendor stations,” she began. “We need fans. Lots of them. There’s some kind of thick cloudy mis-”
Kennedy touched her shoulder, on his feet now. She looked back at him with a fiery intensity in her eyes. They were full of righteous adrenaline. Fierce, but controlled. He picked up his cigarette, took a long drag, then held it out to her.
She stared back at him, full of anxiety at first, then reluctant, then obliging. She accepted the offer and let him hold it up to her lips as she leaned in. She puffed and blew her own cloud, watching him the whole time. There was a cough, then a nod, then she returned to her duties.
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