AfterLife™

Chapter 5

Darting through narrow alleyways in the dark, I search for Zephyr's lair. A heavy downpour has already ruined my chignon and gray business suit. That's what I need when I meet some criminal overlord--to look like a drenched rat.

A scruffy calico huddles beneath the tattered awning of an abandoned corner shop, their ears lying flat against their head. They scowl at me in disgust and give me a guttural growl.

I agree. Why the hell do they simulate crappy weather?

The faint glow from eco-lamps barely illuminates the abandoned streets. Half-broken shutters clatter in protest with each powerful gust. Caved-in roofs have sunk in the middle like collapsed cakes.

Lovely neighborhood.

Drunk old flecks slouch against the crumbling brick wall of a seedy bar from the late 1900s with neon signs boasting of cheap draft beer. Retro bikers, I guess, judging by their leather gear. These old flecks can't seem to let go of the past.

"Hey, Ninah, wicked haht," they drawl in a heavy Bostonian accent.

Nice stereotypes. Probably some jackass programmer from New York.

Leering at me as I march past, they blow me kisses and catcall. They don't come after me, though. It must be part of the background scenery, similar to the cackling tavern patron in a medieval fantasy game.

Can't be too careful, though.

I speed up with confident strides in case any show of fright triggers some latent subroutine in this neighborhood. Lightning cracks across the sky, illuminating the dark streets, along with a deafening clap of thunder.

There it is.

Interestingly, Zephyr has chosen the shattered ruins of a mall as their secret base. I size up the reconstructed bomb site with both shock and amazement. It's hyperrealistic. Complete with shattered glass doors and the gaping hole in the far west wall. Never have I seen such a perfect re-creation of the holographic scenes in our interactive history textbooks.

Dozens died here. It's one of many terrorist attacks by Econo-Warriors in the late forties, protesting against the automation of retail and gastronomy.

All the giant outdoor letters have fallen away apart from three: S-O-B.

Real classy, Zephyr.

As I step through the ruined entrance and tread on broken glass, a digital assistant springs to life as a staticky hologram. It looks like something out of a horror film. Old, half-broken tech.

What a weird choice for a superstar hacker.

The androgynous greeter flashes me a wide smile and laser-scans me for weapons. "Welcome to South Bay, Tara Walters."

I take a surreptitious look around me, but no one else is there.

They speak in a mechanical voice. It wouldn't pass the Turing test without thirty years of upgrades. "You can find Zephyr in the food court, located on the second floor."

"Uh, thanks?"

They gesture towards the escalator in the middle of the foyer, covered with a layer of dust and ash. "You're most welcome."

My steps crunch on broken glass, more simulated debris from the initial blast. Giant puddles of muddy rainwater spread across the tiled floor.

They mix with pools of congealed blood.

Every consumer item worth pillaging has long since vanished, leaving behind empty showcases and broken display cabinets.

Love what you've done with the place.