Thursday, February 23, 2012
PEST CONTROL 1:1
They arrived in the spring of 146, quiet narrow wheels and faces whispering through the green orgasm eating the city. The children were very quiet, even more so than usual, but the...wariness was gone, their eyes light and quick with motion as the ancient new place slipped by. Their mother's sure, slim fingers turned the car absently, perfectly, her own eyes following each looming grey hulk as they passed. The guide slipped back to green from amber and straightened up, beginning to blink gently. Their father, not looking up from his lap as he muttered into a headpiece, tapped a finger inaccurately on the small green arrow as it flashed on the dash.
"I know, dear." Norah spoke gently in the unaccustomed quiet of this place. Her low voice was somehow just as penetrating now as it had been back on the Deck, as she roared and bellowed orders and warnings to her dirtscrapers, the endless distant rumbling her only argument, constant machine-clatter and drill hiss her involuntary punctuation. "We're almost there. I hope it's in better shape than the rest of these."
"Hmmp. Better than the farm. Ohhh, shit...recomp, 7, 3, interrelate. Pause. Sorry."
"Might as well close it, dear. We're here."
The skinny, battered torpedo of their new car (a proudly reconditioned 2073 Hong Spandler Zipper, in jaunty, uneven yellow) slowed, making the final turn from the tree-lined and littered street. It drew to a nearly-silent halt, faint hum of braking power and crunch of rubber on leaf disappearing into the warm stillness.
All text ©Peter A. Greene 2012