S.T.E.A.M.

Smog City, 2019

The scorching touch of the rectangular boiler sends a familiar shock up my leg and I press down on the accelerator in retribution. I hunch forward, arching my shoulder blades and rotating my wrists in the futile attempt to make the speedometer on my Hildebrand Seamstress push past 40. 

The condensation sticks to my goggles like leaches - tiny bubbles obscuring the pebble-filled roadway in front of me. If the water droplets are lucky, they’ll drift off my goggles, run down the leather of my suit, and be on their way. Otherwise they’ll meet the back of my glove and burst into a thousand pieces.

The road is empty at a time like this, clear signs that my father’s absence really does have an effect on Smog - another stupid name created by S.T.E.A.M. It’s not easy to navigate through the fog, especially with the heavy weight of my radiation mask both agitating my jaw bone and eliminating all hopes of peripheral views. I look like Hannibal.

The lulling rhythm of my tires on the pavement would hypnotize me if I didn’t have one thing on my mind: revenge. Not on S.T.E.A.M. - they did what was necessary to revive a post-apocalyptic shit show, can’t blame ‘em. I’m seeking revenge on him. Evan Hamilton. He doesn’t even deserve the respect of such a prominent last name. Hell, he doesn’t deserve the steam he inhales while he enjoys himself to his saggy excuse for a wife.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I should slow down, both in the devilish speed my bike is nearing and in the recollection of how I ended up here, flying down Route Seven with five shots of Kentucky Gentlemen running through my veins. Yes, we still have some of that. And no, I’m not from Kentucky. My suicide rampage starts, as most stories worth telling do, with a shot of the good stuff.

∞

The bar is dark. Eh, what am I saying, the bar is always dark. The steam billows up to the ceiling, where it sticks around for a while before finding the pipeline in the center of the room and entering one of S.T.E.A.M.’s cavernous tubes.

If you don’t like sweating, you’re better off in the wastelands with the lepers. But if you want some liquid courage, Fell’s Tavern is the place to go. Now trust me here, I don’t like sweating profusely. I’m in leather for God’s sake, but I need a damn shot and they shut down Baily’s package store two weeks ago.

No one knows this joint by the prominent landmarks nearby, or by some fancy sign hanging from chains that came out of a John Wayne flick. There aren’t any fancy signs in Smog. Everything is the same – rusty, dilapidated planes of sheet metal crudely forced together with stripped bolts and cheap screws.

The white paint has faded off of the bar sign for two reasons. One, because the constant rain in Smog erodes away any trace of artwork, and two, because the owner recently dug into her last seven barrels of whiskey and can’t afford to fix it. It’s safe to say she’s retired all attempts to update the place. I wouldn’t be surprised if the old lass had a couple barrels stashed away in her home. In fact, I’d be jealous.

I scan the bar and see nothing but the usual suspects. Mallory is bartending again, and it looks like she’s popped more pills than an Alzheimer’s patient. There are some haughty floozies that are most likely strippers, though I don’t recognize any of them from the backs of their heads. And there’s your average man in his 50’s who has yet to succumb to the radiation poisoning that has killed stronger men decades younger.

I stretch my arms along the width of the bar. Oak – always a nice change from the monotone steel and scrap metal I’m used to. It’s usually a spectacle of saddened blokes drinking their worries away, a scene I enjoy much more than the disillusioned people that think producing enough steam each month will solve their problems.