Why Me? [ONC 2021]

1. The Note

Rain. I hate rain. Unfortunately, that is all it ever does here now. Since many of the world's governments agreed to spray the atmosphere with some chemical crap to make the greenhouse gasses dissipate, it has rained for the last four and a half months straight. They say it will pass, but at the moment I doubt it. The original estimate was just a month of rain, but we are well past that now. Some days it is little more than drizzle. Mostly though, it ranges from a light downpour to a heavy torrent.

It wouldn't be too bad, if the rain was safe. It isn't. Usually a moment or two in the rain is not bad, your clothes may sizzle a little. On some days, more than five minutes in the rain and you could end up with a minor burn or two. However, on heavy rain days if you spend more than twenty minutes outside they will definitely be picking up your charred corpse from the pavement. 

My friend Samar thinks it is all part of a conspiracy instigated by 'The Feds', as he calls them. Allegedly, 'they' were all running out of money so 'they' caused all this dangerous rain so that 'they' can tax the heck out of umbrella and waterproof retailers, and other products aimed at helping you to keep dry or just safe from injury from the rain. I'd be inclined to believe him if the rain protection being sold actually worked longer than two or three outings.

Standing under the bus shelter waiting for my bus home, almost crowded out by too many under too small a space, I stared out at the puddles. It was a light downpour day. This morning I'd showered in BurnStop, a new product you can buy online, so the likelihood of injury was greatly reduced. It had probably worn off by now, I have no idea how long it should last, so there was no way I was standing in the rain.

An elderly gentleman stumbled along the street. He tripped a couple of times, his bare hand landing in a small puddle. You could hear the sizzle for each raindrop. He was disheveled, and there were holes burned in his clothes. The rain had been taking its toll; you could see sores developing through the holes.

He stood up and ran his hand through his scraggly, grey hair. Again, there a sizzle as the rain water ran over his scalp. I started to feel sorry for him, but I didn't want to leave the protection of the shelter. However, I couldn't stop looking his way.

The old guy stumbled again as he stepped forward, but he didn't fall this time. We locked eyes; I immediately regretted it. He had this worrying look of recognition. When he pointed my way my heart began to race. This was one of 'the burned', a new underclass of people who were unfortunate, homeless vagrants. They took shelter where they could, but were often moved on by the autocops. Robotic police have no emotions, they have no compunction about moving people out of their temporary shelters.

"Gor-," he spluttered, still pointing at me. He swallowed hard and blinked a few times. "Gordon Twist!" he yelled.

I wanted to die. Everyone else in the bus shelter just turned to me with complete terror on their faces. Even behind their masks, the wide, staring eyes told me I was the object of their fear. They parted like I was infected with a deadly disease. I, like everyone else, was wearing my re-breather. My last virus check proved I was clean, as did my green health band on my wrist. I was no threat to these people.

A burly woman to my left grabbed my arm and flung me out of the shelter. She was so quick I had no time to react. Now I was standing out in the rain in the middle of the road, with this weird old guy stumbling towards me.

"Hey! I don't know the guy!" I shouted. I pointed at the old guy in exasperation.

"I, we," she gestured to the others in the shelter, "don't care." They closed ranks, closer than before, and would not engage with me at all. I was trying to shove my way back into the shelter, but I was being pushed back every time. I stopped, raised my hands in defeat and backed off as I could see autocops beginning to converge on the shelter. That was a level of trouble everyone could do without.

The old guy reached me by then, and grabbed my arm. "Gordon, you need this," and he pushed a piece of paper into my hand.

"Look, I don't want anything from you," I said and I tried to return the note.

The old gasped, and fell to his knees. "No, take it. You will need it soon," he gurgled.

"Why?" I asked.

"Read the note. Find the truth," he said as he fell backwards.

I tried to catch him, but the conditions made it hard. His sodden clothing just slipped through my gloved hands.

"Go," he said. It was his last action. His stare became glassy and there was a sickening evacuation of air through his wrinkled lips.

I stared in horror as the commotion around me grew. I was frozen in time and it felt like hours were passing instead of minutes. I had time to watch everything in slow motion as various groups closed in around me and the dead man. Medics had turned up for Dead Guy, autocops were there taking IDs and statements from onlookers, and a real crowd was building.

The note in my hand brought me out of my stupor somewhat.

I unfurled the balled up paper. No, this was thicker. Older. More like parchment. In a practised hand there were written some names, of which mine was one. There were nine names I total, and mine was the only one not crossed out. There was also a single line of neatly underlined text that read:

Your safety is of utmost importance to us.

"Yeah, sure," I thought, "except there is someone that just died a few minutes ago!"