RIP Van Winkle, PI

and the Case of the Undeadly Plague

by Z.W.Vuts

It takes a minute to shake the spinning fog from my head. It had been a hell of a blow. Dried blood starches my collar and paints my chest. I feel around but can't find a wound, just matted hair speckled with flakes of skull. I'm lucky. If the damage had been any deeper it would've punctured my brain sac, and then I'd have joined the growing number of the well and truly dead. Maybe that was the intent. As it was, I've clearly been out for a good while, a short fugue. I look at my wristech to check the time, and notice that my wristech is gone. Also gone is my shockshot and the briefcase. And the keys to my slip. And my slip.

The sky is beautiful out here. I'm in the Southwest desert, the nearby road sign says 65 miles to Indulgence, the city where I was supposed to drop the briefcase. The moon isn’t quite full, its light sparkling through the shell. The shimmering ripples casting rainbows across orbiting scrap. The effect is kaleidoscopic. Transfixed, I stand out in the middle of the desert, surrounded by distant plateaus. The looming silhouettes of arches and towers are alight like an underwater scene, the moonlight reflected by the sky like a ball of mirrors. The entire Universe sparkles like a fine cut gem, and I’m standing in the middle.

65 miles. I should've worn better shoes.

A handful of slips pass by, clearly traveling too fast to see me, not that they’d stop anyway. If you’re headed toward Indulgence, chances are you’re already stinking blind, and the slip’s not making it all the way anyway. In fact, I don’t make it 5 miles before I start hitting the first few crashed and twisted metal carcasses, mostly rusted husks from all the years eating away at them, and not many more steps before they started to litter the banks of the roadway.

I hear the growing buzz of a motor behind and turn around to look, slowing backing further into the desert to avoid being in the wrong place at the time of a catastrophic accident. The pitch of the motor was too low for it to be traveling at any more than a crawl. It’s lights were off, which can certainly be thrilling in the dead of night, if one is so inclined. It took a moment or two to make out the dazzle from the moonlit shell glinting off of the slip’s glossy finish. I grow impatient and start walking toward the slip. It’s just rolling on its last breath of torque. As I reach the car, I recognize it as a Nectar 3, top of the line sportster. Two seater, much too much horsepower for such a delicate frame. I’m not a slip guy, but this is one of those everyone knows. The driver’s slumped over the wheel, not enjoying the luxurious leather interior. Stuck into his arm are 3 syringes. That’s one load of something with 2 chasers. Daring. I feel his belly and he’s cool as can be. He’ll be fugueing before too long. Won’t be the only one out here. The closer you get to Indulgence the more fugues you tend to see. There’ll be occasional collections of the wanderers, brought to local corals as space opens up. Some of them have standing contracts with private accommodations, picked up special, found with a tracking implant.

I pull him out and drag him to the other side of the wreck wall a ways. Should be relatively safe from joyrider shrapnel. He’s got about 35 clean in chips, which I drop into my coat pocket. If I had my wristech I’d check if he has a chip, see who he is. I’ve got access to enough data bases to figure it out. Just curiosity. Happens to be a consistent part of my nature. If I was nice I’d call the Tracker Team and give them a head’s up about their guy. I hate these Indulgence types, though. Think I always have. Annoying and loud. Serves him right. Hope he’s out for a hundred years.

The mass of Indulgence glows brighter as I’m driving closer. Thankfully, whoever clocked me left me my shades. When I’m a few miles out I put them on. Indulgence begins to burn as bright as the sun peeking through a gap in the shell. I've got the guy in the passenger seat. Look at me, huh? He's gone all zombie, so at least I don't have to listen to him talk. It's always "I put this in that" and "I put that in this" and "They put it in here, take a look." I'd have left him if he was awake. The last couple of miles are a slow, weaving crawl as the wrecks begin to pile up into jagged walls with crooked paths. The city becomes a towering collection of geometric light, every building made to stand out among every other building made to stand out. Garish. And tacky. Indulgence is a solid circle of mass, a walled city 100 miles across. Somewhere in there is a briefcase with a collection of ancient pages that took me a substantial amount of time and effort to collect for my client, and I intend to deliver. I have a sterling record over many lifetimes, and this one won’t be any different.