Disequilibrium

Z4233b

He leapt from his spot below street level as the resounding crash reverberated around the city lane's high walls; his vigilance had slipped, falling asleep some hours previously. Adrenaline surged through him, preparing to either run or defend himself. Beads of sweat appeared on his rough and dirty temples, running through the greying hair merging with his beard. His widened eyes took in the scene and he noticed the two bin lorry workers looking at him bemusedly.

"Alright brother? You ok?" said the first, a thickset man in his forties perhaps, a warm smile with concern communicated through his eyes and the wrinkles around them. The second, a woman in her thirties looked on, expressionless. Although they had jobs, in truth they were little better off than him.

Howell reached down and grabbed his bag, pulled his hood up and made his way deeper into the old town without responding to the workers. He could hear them chatter as he used any cover available to mask his swift progress into the shaded maze of the Wurningen micropolis. Within ten minutes he was far from the spot where he had been woken, checking corners, balconies and windows for anyone showing signs of interest in him. Howell wasn't thinking about it at present, but he would later reflect that he had never felt so forsaken.

Awake now, Howell found a sheltered rebate in a building and sat on a stack of pallets by the wall. Reaching into his rough leather bag he retrieved the remaining foil packets. The skip behind Morrison's Metropolitan, although chained and locked had had enough opening for him to get an arm in and rummage blind within.  It had been a lucky find and had resulted in him being slightly less famished than he had been before. He wasn't strongly motivated to eat; it was more of an automatic process. Howell allowed himself a few moments to drift in his thoughts as he looked blankly at a clock displaying the time and date in a grubby shop window.  10th July 2217, earth date, another day in the
remorseless march of his misery.  He wondered where he would be if he had done things differently.

Pete Brockenridge sat enjoying a brew so strong he could feel the caffeine taking effect through the vapours that rose from the burnished steel mug. He never really saw the point of drinking espresso in tiny cups; he preferred a more substantial hit. For him, there was no use in trying to start the day unless he was feeling giddy. Such was the monotonous nature of the work; he hated being a store department manager.  Endless micromanagement of staff squabbles because they couldn't take responsibility for their own actions or have enough regard for others to be helpful.  The crushing negativity, constant competition for advancement and pure spitefulness of the staff that succeeded in staying in their jobs quickly subdued any new staff with positive attitudes.  Brockenridge used to pride himself for his ability to formulate innovative staff training and motivation projectsu, the very ones he'd promised he would use in the interview he'd had for the post. He now had something of an insight into the interviewers grey faces, blank stares and implied snorts.  They just needed another cog to replace the last burnt out wreck, not someone with any career plans. The betrayal left him simmering with a neat distillate of hatred. Brockenridge had tried initially to prevent this black outlook from influencing how he perceived the world, but quickly succumbed in the absence of any support. The endless sleepless nights, gritty eyes and total lack of daily variety had ground him down until all that was left was a deep pool of bilious bitterness.

Relaxing with his coffee, Brockenridge watched the cctv footage from the night before. Nothing much to see other than some tramp behind the store trying to get into the bins.  He'd tell some floor assistant to make sure the chains were pulled tighter tonight. Why should anyone get a free meal after all? Anyone who can't be bothered to make something of themselves deserved to starve; not contributing to their frontier society was gross selfishness he reasoned.

The dark doors and windows in the grotty walls passed slowly as Howell shuffled forward. 'One step, next step, one step...,' he made his way joylessly after eating the last of his food. Every joint in his body ached, and he didn't want to think any further than the next step. He didn't know where he was going, in a way hoping that the foul stinking street would become narrower, darker and quieter with every footfall until he, the street and the world simply disappeared. He walked on nonetheless.