Weary Traveler
Chapter 14

Ur dead, bum! someone spray painted in blood-red on the slimy brick wall behind Mitch’s tent. His meager home was turned upside down and flipped inside out, robbed of the bag of bonzos.

Mitch hitched his hands on his hips and shook his head as he gazed at the dripping letters ooze bright crimson like it melted down the wall.

“Fuck it…” he mumbled, turning around and trudging back into the Twilight.

A desperate bum on the prowl. In search of a bite of synth-food to steal and some cloths to snag to cover his shivering body. His dead eyes leered down the middle of the street like invisible ray beams shot from his retinas, clearing a path for his broken body to blaze a trail.

Dense crowds of nomads parted as Mitch marched ahead. They scrunched their noses until their foreheads wrinkled, waved their hands in front of their augmented faces to fight against the stench exploding off of his rotten flesh. He clenched his jaw, growled through gritted teeth. His head swiveled, observing. His ringing ears listened to the snickering voices inside of his head. The pesky, squeaky ones that goaded and prodded him; and the angry ones that scolded and ridiculed him, tormented his consciousness.

Voices of passing nomads? Those brainless cretins that swallowed the city like a sick virus. That obedient society of freaks. Always buying and consuming, conforming like a herd of synth-sheep. Slicing off their flesh limbs and upgrading them with augmented implants.

Or were they the same voices that had taken over his waking and dreaming life since his childhood surviving on the streets of Rosenfell? Memories tucked deep down in the shadowy depths and dead-end corridors of his mind, crying out, grasping for a handful of polluted air or a crumbled building to escape the sorrow and anger swirling around his battered skull. Miserable thoughts forever yanking him down into his subconscious, never to escape the pain and darkness bubbling up from the seething wasteland at the ground of his hellish soul.

“What!” Mitch barked at the growing crowds swirling around him like stars around a black hole. “Never seen a bum in his fucking underwear? Fuck off!” He took off screaming in a stumbling sprint down the road, waving his spindly arms frantically over his head, releasing a booming roar that scared away the nomads buzzing, beeping, humming with their tech sewn into their synth-skin, vibrating with the electricity coursing through their charged bodies like overgrown batteries. Non-human entities.

The scent of booze tickled the bloody hairs in his clogged nostrils. The taste of bonzos wrapped around his tongue, crawled down his throat and filled his stomach with a bitter, pleasurable taste that made his mouth water.

The flashback to Zoxillian’s Memory Mod washed over his mind. It seemed so real, as if he had walked through the dark, empty corridors of his mind carrying a flashlight to illuminate the shadows that ruled over him for decades. Like confronting a part of himself that always existed, but never awakened. A collection of dormant memories masked by the layers of pain and trauma.

Mitch gathered enough sticky spit to swallow and soothe his dehydrated throat, coughed up a glob of blood and mucus and purged it from his mouth into a steaming grate in the ground. Then splayed his soiled fingers out like a claw and combed through the thin hairs on his blood-crusted, throbbing scalp, shuffled up to Elle’s Kitchen.

“Uhh… ma’am?” Mitch asked.

No answer.

He peered inside the front window.

“Miss Eleanor?”

Silence.

His heavy head drooped from his shoulders as if it weighed one-hundred pounds. His downcast eyes receded into themselves like they shot backwards through a narrow tunnel.

“Having a rough go at it, aren’t you, Mitch?” a woman’s voice said.

Mitch spun around.

Eleanor stood about ten feet back, clutching two, large, brown bags, one in each arm, swaddled by her chest.

Mitch grinned and bowed his head.

“You just gonna stand there or are you going to help this old lady with her groceries?”

Mitch jolted into action like he had been zapped by a bolt of lighting. He shuffled halfway towards Eleanor, froze.

“Excuse me, ma’am-”

“Please, Mitch, call me Eleanor. I hate that word probably as much as you hate the word bum.”

“Yes, of course. Eleanor…” Mitch said, scratching his head. “I’m not in the best shape.”

“I can see that, Mitch Henderson,” Eleanor said. Her kind face filled with a pleasant smirk.

“I’m sure my body odor is something horrendous. But can’t smell too good myself on account’a my nose being smashed in,” Mitch said, motioning to his mangled face.

“Don’t worry, Mitch. I can smell you from here. Ain’t a new scent or sight in this entire damned city that I haven’t experienced. So, how about this? You carry these heavy bags into my cart and I’ll get you set up in my powder shower.”

“That is very kind of you,” Mitch said.

“We’ll get you some fresh clothes while we’re at.”

“Don’t want you buying me nothing.”

“Nonsense. They are my husband’s old clothes.”

“Can’t take from him, neither.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind. He’s long dead. Besides, you need something to wear because you’re gonna help me open up my shop this morning. Should be a busy day. Got a CorpoMax and Rotech Convention at the Corpo Complex just down the street. Now, hustle over here before my frail arms drop these bags.”

Mitch jogged over to Eleanor and swiped the bags from her arms, followed her up the side steps and into her cart.

“Set the bags on the counter and then follow me back here,” Eleanor said, pushing past the black curtain at the back of the cart.

Mitch placed the brown bags on the stove then followed her through the curtain.

Eleanor flicked a switch on the wall, illuminated a large room underneath a single beam of yellow light that dropped from a bulb dangling from the ceiling.

Mitch’s drowsy eyes awakened, gazed around the room. Wooden walls had been constructed around a square perimeter, boxing in a chamber about thirty feet in length and width. The room was sparsely populated with a bed in the back-left corner; a bookcase filled with vintage, paperback books lined the entire length of the back wall; and a powder shower stall and toilet in the front-right corner.

A holographic, round rug covered the entire center of the room in the pattern of a mandala. A rainbow of color that shifted in the light, flowing as if the room breathed, moving like the sights seen under the hazy, psychedelic spell of jellies. Mesmerized by open-minded wonder.

“Ain’t much,” Eleanor said, shuffling in a slow circle atop the rug. “But it’s enough to keep this old body and mind off of the streets.”

“It’s a fine home,” Mitch said, shaking himself awake from the hallucination brought on by the rug.

“You ever used one of these?” Eleanor asked, walking towards the powder shower.

“I can’t remember,” Mitch said, shuffling over to Eleanor. “Maybe I snuck into an abandoned one.”

She pulled back a curtain, unveiling a drain surrounded by a tile ring and a metallic nozzle hanging overhead.

“When you are ready, press this button on the wall. A fragrant powder will shoot out from this nozzle up here and from the sides. Prepare yourself, it’s only got one temperature, ice cold. When your whole body is doused, just press the button again to turn it off. The powder will harden into a shell that will suck the stench from right off of your skin. Step over this drain beside the toilet and break the shell off. Then you will be a sweet-smelling human being once again.”

“Or for the first time,” Mitch mumbled, looking away.

“No shame in that. I will set some clothes on the bed. When you finish, come on out and we’ll start making some food for our hungry customers. How does that sound?”

“Thank you, Eleanor. Thank you for helping me. You’re very kind.”

A smirk and a wink flashed across Eleanor’s face before she turned and marched through the curtains, disappearing into her food cart.

Mitch stepped out of his dead, garbage-soaked boxers, and crept beneath the nozzle. The crusted blood and deep purple and black welts appeared like a permanent pigmentation across his thin, broken skin. He jabbed his thumb at the button sticking out from a small box on the wall. A clear, fiberglass cylinder rose from the ground, surrounded Mitch like he was a naked mannequin kidnapped off of the streets and trapped behind the window at a rich department store at Rotech Headquarters. The walls were lined with strips of metal pipes punctured with tiny holes.

The frigid shock from the icy powder sent jolts of freezing electricity through Mitch’s veins. The bright pink dust glimmered beneath the faint light of the room like a cloud wrapped around his body. He raised his arms and rotated, soaked his body in the mist, coated his skin until every trace of blood and bruise was masked beneath the pink shield. Then he peeked out from a slit in his right eye, reached through a slot in the fiberglass, and poked the button, silenced the hissing powder. The case’s hydraulic gears gushed, sucked the cylinder back through the floor.

Mitch waddled over to the drain, slowly started breaking the dried powder off of his body. Pink pieces fell through the grate like hardened candle wax. The blood and dirt that coated his skin peeled away, left his body with a smooth shine several shades lighter than before. Only the vibrant contusions remained like a moldy chunk of cheese.

He stepped off of the grate and turned towards the wall on the right, gazed at his naked reflection in a full-body mirror. His cheekbones protruded from his sunken cheeks like two, rounded horns; chapped lips a deep red like they burned with thin strips of fire. His pale, discolored skin was padded by patches of thick, brown hair, spotting his arms and legs and covering his chest like a fire-ravaged forest had crawled and died on his body.

He escaped from the reflection and marched across the room up to the foot of Eleanor’s bed. She placed a pair of pleated, black dress pants and a burgundy, button-down shirt on the mattress next to plaid dress socks and gray boxer briefs.

Mitch stepped into the fresh attire, then sat on the edge of the bed and tied a pair of fancy, black, dress shoes around his feet. He rose from the bed a new man. A different human being altogether. Like a bum had climbed into an antique phone booth and burst from the other side as a strange, mythical creature sent to rid Rosenfell of its crime, corruption, and misery. Vanquishing the past one memory at a time.

He smoothed out the wrinkles on his pants and shirt and pushed through the curtain into Elle’s Kitchen. She was cooking something over the stove that spread fragrant, mouth-watering steam through the air. It trickled through his nostrils, seized his senses, and consumed his awareness with a mind-melting euphoria.

“My, my…” Eleanor said, turning her head towards Mitch while stirring whatever tasty dish filled the fiery pan in front of her, “we may just get your life back on track after all, Mitch Henderson. How do you feel?”

“Feel better,” Mitch said, gazing down his torso. “Refreshed and renewed.”

“Sure looks like it.”

“Don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

“You can start by stepping up to that front window,” she said. “We’ve got our first customers waiting for you.”

Mitch looked towards the front of the cart and stared at the line of people that stretched past the front window and disappeared out of sight. He inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils, exhaled out of his mouth and then marched across the length of the cart, planted himself in front of the window.

“The menu and prices are scribbled on that slip of paper in front of you,” Eleanor said. “Use that device with the screen on your right to scan their credits. It’s voice automated so just speak the price and it will register and calculate.”

Mitch looked out of the window and into the eyes of the first woman in line. The sides of her head were shaved, revealing two plates of tech with colorful lights that flickered and flashed. Her lustrous, slime green hair slicked back over the middle section of her head, draped over her bare left shoulder painted with colorful tattoos.

“Hello, miss,” Mitch said. “How can I help you?”

“Gimme a basket of fries and a burger.”

Mitch searched for the item on the sheet of paper in front of him, grabbed the scanner, and held it in front of the woman.

“Ten credits, please.”

She pinched a piece of metal hanging from a necklace around her neck, waved it in front of the device. The screen flashed 10C with a melodic ding, turned black, reflecting his bony face.

“One moment, please.”

“What will it be?” Eleanor asked without looking up from the grill.

“Burger and fries.”

“Got one ready right here.”

Mitch reached back and swiped the container off of the counter, handed it off to the woman.

“Have a great day,” Mitch said, forcing an awkward smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth. Alien muscles unfamiliar with the strange feeling of feigned happiness on a face that had only known despair. A mind that had only experienced sadness in a dark city that had tossed him onto the streets. Abandoned him from the time he was a child.

The next customer stepped up to the window. A burly giant with wide shoulders dressed in a black suit and tie with a white button-down shirt. His right eye had been removed and replaced with a chrome, bionic piece that gave him the appearance of blindness.

“I’ll take a grilled cheese and onion rings,” he bellowed.

Mitch placed his index finger on the menu, traced his finger down the paper until it found the item.

“Eight credits, please,” Mitch said, holding the scanner out.

The man leaned forward and turned his head so that his chrome eye hovered over the device. The scanner flashed 8C.

“Grilled cheese and onion rings,” Mitch yelled over his shoulder.

“Almost done, side window,” she said.

“Thank you, sir,” Mitch said to the man. “You can pick up your order at the side window.”

“Next,” Mitch shouted.

He called forth the next customer. And the next. One right after the other in rapid succession, taking each of their orders and shouting them back towards Eleanor, hovering over the fiery stovetop covered in sizzling pans that spewed savory steam out through the small vents in the cart’s ceiling. Her movements were quick, agile. Eyes focused on the aromatic food cooking in front of her. Her hands sliced onions and potatoes, grilled burgers. They grasped fryer handles and dunked onions and fries into the vat of bubbling oil, tossing each steaming plate of hot, authentic food to the side window for every corpo and nomad to gobble.

“What’s it gonna be, sir?” Mitch asked the next in line. A silver-haired man with deep-cut wrinkles that crossed over his chiseled face. He wore a tailored, charcoal gray suit with a black shirt and tie. Foggy, black irises surrounding dark, dark pupils.

“Well, well, well… looks like old Eleanor finally found some help,” the man said. His voice was crisp, calm, austere, like he had been trained to control it to prevent any emotional fluctuations from meddling with his logical and rational meaning.

“Yes, sir. Eleanor’s been kind to me. She took me in and fixed me up, so it’s the least I could do.”

“Say, that’s a mighty fine shirt you got on there,” the man said, eyeing Mitch. “I wish I had one as slick as that. Maybe you can-”

“Oh, give it a rest, Vincent,” Eleanor said.

Mitch glanced over his shoulder. Eleanor continued with her work in front of the stove without making eye contact so he turned back towards the man.

“What are you having, sir?”

“Let’s see here…” the man said, gazing up at the menu. “Can’t believe it’s been an entire year since I’ve been back here. Seems like yesterday, doesn’t it, Eleanor?”

Eleanor was silent. Her head aimed at the stovetop, eyes focused on the food crackling in front of her.

“I’ll take a good, old-fashioned, American burger and fries,” the man said, grinning wide enough to reveal a perfect set of glistening teeth.

“Ten credits, please,” Mitch said, holding out the scanner.

“Ten credits, huh? I think I have that on me somewhere,” he said, patting his pockets. “Ah, here it is.” He slipped his hand into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a thin, matte black card with gold writing that glimmered from an inner light. He traced something on the card with the tip of his index finger and waved it in front of the scanner. “A little something extra for you and my old friend, Eleanor.”

Mitch turned the scanner around and stared at the screen. A bold 1000C flashed. He blinked, shook his head, brought the credit scanner closer to his face as if the distance deceived his tired eyes. But the number remained the same. He looked up, stared deep into the coal-black eyes of the silver-haired man. Then he opened his mouth, closed it, searching for the proper words.

“Thank- thank you, sir, thank you,” Mitch said in a hushed tone.

“My name is Vincent Walker,” he said, reaching his hand through the window. “What’s your name, friend?”

Mitch cleared his throat, fought the dust tickling his tonsil.

“I’m Mitch,” he said, stretching out his hand and grasping Vincent’s powerful grip. “Mitch Henderson.”

“Mitch Henderson, strong name,” Vincent said. “It’s a pleasure meeting you.”

“Yes- I mean- likewise, Vincent, sir. You can pick up your food at the side window,” Mitch said, releasing Vincent’s hand.

Vincent stretched his left arm so that the sleeve of his shirt and jacket crept upwards. A thick strip of curved crystal wrapped around his wrist. The entire band was illuminated by a bright, white luminescence.

“Tell you what, Mitch. Why don’t you finish the burger and fries for me? I’m sure you’ve had a long day taking all these orders. How does that sound?”

“I would appreciate that very much, Vincent. Thank you,” Mitch said.

“Just be sure to take extra care of Eleanor back there. God knows those old bones need it,” Vincent said, loud enough for Eleanor to hear.

“Goodbye, Vincent,” Eleanor said.

“You take it easy, Mitch Henderson,” Vincent said. He turned and marched down the street, disappearing into the chaotic horde.

Mitch turned towards Eleanor.

“Who was that?”

“Somebody that I used to know,” she said. She pulled a fryer basket from the oil and dumped the fries onto an aluminum tray beside a hamburger, handed it to Mitch. “Hang that closed sign in the front window and join me at the table so we can chat.”

Mitch grabbed the sign’s rope and strung it from a hook above the window, scurried back to the table. He set his tray down and plopped onto the cushioned seat across from Eleanor.

“Shall we pray?” Mitch asked, holding out his hands.

Eleanor placed her soft, wrinkled hands in Mitch’s, lowered her head and closed her eyes.

Mitch’s eyes wandered around their sockets behind his closed eyelids. They searched the depths of his mind for the unfamiliar words, sifting through the folds and ridges, shoving through the murky haze of booze and bonzos forever lingering within his dark unconscious.

“Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen,” Mitch said, exhaling a gust of calm breath through his parted lips. A genuine smile crept across his face, stretched until the corners of his mouth nearly touched his ears.

“Well done, Mitch,” Eleanor said. “Bon appétit.”

Mitch scarfed down the burger and fries like he had been stranded in the badlands outside of Rosenfell for months, fighting armies of Crawlers eager to drag him beneath the surface and back into the depths of the planet.

“You’re a great chef, Eleanor,” Mitch said, pushing the empty try away.

She answered with a smile and a slight bow of her head, nibbled on bits of her grilled cheese and onion rings.

“So, Mitch Henderson, what’s your plan?” Eleanor asked, staring deep into Mitch’s brown eyes.

“Plan?” Mitch muttered, wiping the grease on his lips with a tattered, gray rag. His eyes looked like a synthetic deer trapped in the bright headlights of an electric semi-truck. “Never really had a plan. Never really thought about one. Pretty much go where the streets of Rosenfell take me.”

“Where will you go next?” Eleanor asked, leaning closer. “What will you do?”

“Well… let me see,” Mitch said, eyes searching the top of his head, “I think I’ll…”

He scratched his head, sweaty with grease lingering in the steamy air. Then looked away from Eleanor, turned his gaze towards the left, stared out the front window towards the crowds of nomads and corpo players bustling to and fro, stomping left and right like a parade of androids marching beneath the dazzling lights of downtown Rosenfell, carrying booze and synth-food and bonzos back to their Rezi-Rizes.

“Met someone last night,” Mitch said, turning back towards Eleanor. “Think he might be able to help me with some of the memories trapped in my brain. The bad ones I can’t escape from. The ones that drag me down and fight against everything I do.”

“Very good, Mitch. It is important to confront the darkness of our unconscious mind and unite it with our waking reality. The darkness and the light are inextricably connected. A source of great power when one taps into that knowledge. But,” Eleanor said, raising a slender index finger, “also a source of great anger and misery to all that fail to confront the cruel memories stuffed into the repository of our minds. This is known as the shadow principle.”

Mitch stared back with empty eyes, nodded slowly as if trapped in a fit of slow motion, trying to process the words that flung from Eleanor’s mouth.

“Where do you see yourself at this time next year?” she asked.

Mitch leaned back in his chair far enough so that the plastic seat crackled, metal legs groaned. He filled his lungs with the savory scent in the cart, exhaled with the full force of puffed cheeks and a bulging chest.

“Never thought about these type’a questions before.”

“That’s just fine, Mitch. No need to answer them now. I just want you to think about them. Get the wheels of your mind churning towards a more positive outlook of this world,” Eleanor said. “Tell me this… what is your greatest wish?”

Mitch’s eyes rolled to the top of his head, searching the edges of his mind.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I guess I wish that I’ll be alive at the end of it all. When the Earth and Rosenfell and everything else bursts in a flash of fiery light. To know that the moment I leave this place is the moment we all do. Like when the servers go down on one of Rotech’s virtual reality games and every single person has the same, shared, lousy experience of nothing.”

Eleanor was silent, looked upon Mitch with a focused stare.

“Is that wrong to think?” he asked.

“Not if that is what you truly wish,” Eleanor said, sliding her hand across the table and giving the top of Mitch’s hand a few taps and a squeeze. “But I am going to ask you to remember that answer. Remember it until next year and I will ask you again. Simply live your life from now until then. Walk your path. Do what you must to survive and we will see what kind of changes you make. How does that sound?”

“Sure, Eleanor, sure,” Mitch said, “I can do that.”

“Terrific,” Eleanor said. Her face filled with a kind grin. And then she pushed away from the table and crept onto her feet. “I must run a few errands before it gets too late. Grab me that scanner and I will transfer some credits for all of your hard work.”

“No need to pay me, Eleanor,” Mitch said, rising to his feet. “It was a pleasure to help you after all that you’ve done for me with these clothes and the delicious food.”

She flung her wrists forward in a pish posh gesture.

“I insist,” she said. “I’m not going to be around all the time and you will have to eat something. Now, go fetch it for me.”

Mitch shuffled to the front window, snatched the scanner, and handed it off to Eleanor. She pressed a few rubber buttons on the side, held it out towards Mitch.

“Your credit wallet?” she asked.

“Don’t got one,” Mitch said with a pair of upturned hands.

Eleanor swiped a black disk from the counter. It looked like a miniature flying saucer with a frayed, brown rope attached to it. She handed it to Mitch and then hovered the credit counter over it. A circular screen on the front face of the disk flickered with a faint blue light and then flashed a bold 1000C in yellow-gold text.

Mitch stared at the screen in silence until the light clicked off. The number burned through his eyes and branded his brain. It felt like the blood flowing through his veins reversed, filled his heart and mind with an unfamiliar warmth he had never experienced before.

A weight had been lifted, barriers removed. He lifted his blank stare away from the credit wallet in his palm, looked into Eleanor’s eyes.

“A little something to get you started on your journey, Mitch Henderson,” she said, straightening the lapel on his dress shirt.

“Eleanor…” he said, stammering as words escaped from his lips, “I… I… don’t know what to say.“

“No need to say anything,” she said, holding up her wrinkled palms. “You need it more than I do. You just be sure to use this to improve your life, understand? Don’t use it for that booze and bonzo poison. That sinful stuff destroys your life and then leaves you in the gutter to fend for yourself.”

Mitch gulped down the ache stuck in his pulsing throat. The type of lump that swells just before the onrush of tears.

The fingers on his right hand started to tremble. Muscles above his left eye twitched, pulled at the skin beneath his eyebrow. His anxious heart beat against his chest, mind flooded with the onrush of booze and bonzo withdrawals. He cleared the phlegm in his throat, stretched out his arms and wrapped them around Eleanor for a warm embrace.

“You have my word.”