Chapter Two
He ran. He ran so hard every step sent a shockwave up through his aching feet, his throbbing shins and protesting knees. His lungs burned with the effort, every heavy breath painful and ragged. The sweat stuck to his face and stung at his eyes as they stared wide eyed at the door. The door he knew he wasn't going to make in time. He pushed harder, his heart pounding in his chest, the awful realisation washing through him that he wasn't fast enough. It was gut wrenching.
The watch beeped on his wrist before he got there, and he was out of time. He thudded up the steps to the door and placed a defeated hand on the wood, hanging his head as the beeps carried on, a digital stab at him with every recurring chirp. He angrily pushed the small button to silence the timer and thumped the door, his display of frustration as effective as pissing against the tide. Less so even, at least you might add to the volume of the ocean that way.
He didn't even bother to check the actual time today. It didn't matter. He was getting slower. And with every second he went over his limit, Sam's hopes of passing the fitness tests slipped away. Except it felt like they were crashing down a mountain in utter freefall right then.
He bent over at the waist, hands on his hips and sucked in the cold November air. The nasty sensation of the lactic acid would be showing up soon, a final twist of the knife. He shook his hands and feet, trying to speed up the breakdown of the acid in his blood. Up and down the steps, up and down. He tried to calm his body, slow his pulse. Not so easy when you knew all your training was being pissed into the ocean.
He huffed out the frustration again. As if on cue, a fire truck went by at that moment. He watched it go past, his mouth hanging open. It was like a direct taunt. The truck turned right at the end of the road, and it felt like his hopes of joining the Chicago Fire Department went round the corner with it. It was just that kind of day.
Sam stuck his tongue into his teeth, pushing away the thought that he needed to get showered and ready for work in an hour or so. He shook his head, punching in the code to the door and shoving his way through into the lobby. The stairs were on his right, and he looked at the bottom most one, wrinkling his nose at the prospect of the climb up to the eighth floor. His knee chose that moment to send a stab of pain up his thigh, the ligaments and tendons spasming unpleasantly, unhappy with his recent treatment and stubborn attempts at beating the timed run he set himself every day.
The elevator doors opened and an old man shuffled out, his walking cane clacking on the tiled floor.
"Good morning Mr. Goldberg,'' said Sam, digging out a smile. The old man mumbled something at Sam from beneath his bristly moustache and shot him a glance through those enormous eyeglasses before shuffling out the door onto the street. Probably towards the nearest bar.
"Fuck it,'' murmured Sam, and he stuck an arm out and caught the elevator door before it closed.
The elevator made a sad ding when it reached Sam's floor, and the floorboards made a familiar groan as he stepped out into the corridor. The drab walls were flaking, and some plaster fell away from the edge of a door frame as the elevator doors closed behind him. On one wall, the number eight peeled away, the cheap paint used for the job showing its quality. Sam was sure it had only been painted six months ago. Not quite the place he'd ever imagined living. But then futures rarely turn out how you'd like. He wrinkled his nose at a vague smell of piss as he made his way down the hall until he found the door to his apartment.
He fumbled his key out and trudged inside, the smells of damp and piss fading as he shut the door and entered into his small slice of home and comfort. Small being very accurate, comfort being wishful thinking.
He hobbled to the fridge, knowing it was virtually empty but still hoping against all hope that it had somehow magically refilled itself whilst he was out running. He stared at the sad sight in front of him and plucked the last of the milk out, pouring himself a pitiful glass and switching the television on whilst he drank.
The screen revealed the morning news anchors, the female presenter looking professional and as if she had found the secret to success and perfect hair. She had a kind of smug yet appealing look to her as she spoke.
"…and as we draw to the end of what has been an incredible and historic November, the US House Committee has surprised nobody by signing off on the Ethical Negligence within Paleo-Genetic Resurrection bill, or the Gene Guard Act, as it is now being called. The Act comes into force following the incredible discovery in the wake of the San Diego Incident, earlier this month…"
Sam finished his milk, watching the re-runs of the shaky footage first aired at the start of the month. Footage he'd not believed he was seeing. The news woman carried on.
"…forward by Dr. Hammond, whose health has declined dramatically since the incident, the Act not only restricts the further cloning of extinct species, but it affords the current species on both islands the same rights as endangered extant species in the animal kingdom. Access to the islands, and indeed, the entire archipelago of las Cinco Muertes, has been completely restricted with not only InGen denied further entry, but the rest of the world. What do you make of that Tom? Do you think that's a good idea…?" Sam tuned out as the flapping lips of an overweight co-host moved and made some gibberish about those islands. Islands he couldn't give a damn about, even if the inhabitants were from another time. He agreed wholeheartedly with the notion of leaving them be.
The blinking red light from his answer phone caught his eye, and he let out a soft groan. Wandering towards it, he pushed the button with a look of trepidation on his face. The machine beeped, and the first message reeled itself off.
"Hey Sam, its Dad. I know its early, but if you haven't left for work yet give me or your Mom a call…"
Beep
"Hi Sam, its Josh. Listen, just give Mom a call. She's driving everyone nuts since you moved out there and…"
Beep
"Sam. Its Uncle Trevor. You…"
Beep
Yes, it was going to be that kind of day. No escape from them. Sam sighed, wondering if he'd ever enjoy the luxury of an empty answer phone and not the smothering worries of his family beeping through at him. It wasn't even eight yet. Aside from ignoring the shame of missing out on that scholarship, he'd moved out here to carve a new future and escape the overbearing shadow of his overbearing family. Could they not just leave him be for one week? He sighed again, then flinched as his knee spasmed.
Of course they couldn't. Ever since that tackle had ruined his chances of a future in football, they'd fretted over him. Worried about every little choice, especially if he was the one making it. He clenched a fist, wishing things had worked out otherwise.
Then he breathed it all away and wiped the answerphone with a satisfying push of that wonderful delete button. He'd prove them all wrong, his family and his damn knee. He'd be a firefighter one way or another. Just not today. He headed for the shower.
XXXX
Faces. A sea of them, and all of them fixed with a different look. The determined faces of the businessmen were the first wave, sweeping across the forecourt of the mall in a navy and grey current of pressed suits and white shirts, on-the-go coffee cups in one hand and cell phones in the other.
The next wave were the moms and women hellbent on beating the crowds to the stores for the first pick of the day, their faces looking more determined and more ruthless than the suited businessmen. Flashes of lipstick and the overpowering scent of bad perfume came with them, along with a crashing tide of chatter and tutting as they jostled for space.
The third wave were the kids. Fresh faced, wide eyed, and all chewing gum or sneering at others or shoving or spitting or chewing gum again or spitting the gum out. Kids playing truant. Kids dragged along in the wake of their mothers in the second wave or kids just having a go at being adults, shopping with their friends or who they thought were their friends, all chatting and gossiping and spitting that damn fucking gum again.
Sam watched them all as they filed in through the department store entrance, noticing the faces that shot his uniform a glance. It was something he had noticed quickly, since he started the job. The colour of authority always caught the eye quick, and there were some that always seemed to seek him out. Not that the light blue of his security uniform could be quite what you would call authority.
And he fancied the faces that did glance at him were more full of scorn or derision than anything approaching respect. A sighed inwardly as he watched a particularly sour looking set of teenagers lope in through the doors and off towards the inner labyrinth of the store.
Very quickly, the soundtrack of the day was set with the scuffing of feet and endless chatter and shouting, and Sam began his aimless patrols of the forecourts, the stores and food halls, casting what he thought might have been a baleful eye on the clusters of kids or sleazy looking guys hanging around the areas that guys shouldn't be hanging around. Most just looked balefully back.
The prospect of the days tedium of dragging hours was interrupted when a girl appeared at Sam's side. She couldn't have been more than fourteen, her eyes shining with wet tears. She held a skateboard in one hand.
"Please,'' she said, tugging at Sam's sleeve. "I can't find my mom."
Lost children were common in the mall, but it always took Sam a moment for it to register that this child needed his help. He was much more used to being called unpleasant names or spat at. He half expected the girl to grin and then spit at him, but she just kept looking up with that helpless look on her face. Large brown eyes looked imploringly at him whilst small hands plucked at his hands now, pulling him away from his spot near the wall.
"Alright, its okay,'' he said, trying to free one hand to reach for his radio. "I can put out a call and get it across the speakers. What's your name kid? And what's your moms name?"
The girl just shook her head though, wet eyes looking like they might get wetter.
"No! Please! You have to come with me. She was just down this way!" She gestured frantically towards the rippling waves of people. "She must be back here somewhere! Please, I'm so scared!"
"Okay, look, its alright. Don't cry. I can just…"
"Hey! Somebody stop those kids" Yelling, shouting and general commotion snapped Sam's head round towards one of the store fronts in time to see three boys running from it, the apparent owner fighting his way through other shoppers. "Hey!"
The boys took off towards the malls exit, each clutching what looked like clothes and maybe some shoes.
"Stop those kids!" yelled the owner again. Sam took off towards the boys, forgetting the small girl in the rush. He took that deep breath, the one he always needed to push the power through his legs and to bear the flaring pain in his knee. It always felt like taking a deep plunge into a cold pool.
Only the breath went flying out of him. He hit the ground with a painful thump, his chin striking the floor and crunching his jaw closed. It felt like his legs had been clamped together. Groaning, he twisted round, flapping a hand at his legs. There was a skateboard stuck between his shins, one of the wheels on the front trucks spinning idly.
The girl, eyes no longer wet or shining with upset, grinned at him and then spat at his feet, loping off after the boys as they slipped between the confused crowds of the shoppers.
"Fuck you, cock sucker!" she yelled at Sam, that little grin never leaving her face. The kids vanished, and Sam just stared after them, his mouth throbbing and tasting slightly of blood. With an irritable sigh he struggled up, feeling the pain in his knee coming back for another complaint along with that other thing he often felt. The thing he really hated. He felt his fists clenching, and the veins began to pulse on the backs of his hands.
"What the hell was that? Huh?" The store owner was stomping towards him, jowls wobbling in his fat neck. "What the hell are they paying you for here? And what the hell are you doing with that skateboard? You gonna skate after them? Fucking useless!" The man threw his hands up in the air, dragging the bottom of his shirt out of his belt and stomped back towards his store, grumbling.
Sam took that deep breath, needing it for another reason now. He kicked the skateboard away and tried to straighten his jacket, frowning at the gawking faces of those passing by. They all looked as if they found it highly amusing. His radio crackled.
"Summers. My office, now." Sam closed his eyes. It was just that kind of day.
XXXXX
It was late by the time Sam shouldered his way back into the lobby of his building, sullenly opening his mail hole and yanking out the three or four items of post. He flicked through them as he began the ascent up the creaking stairs, back towards his small slice of home and comfort. Back towards the place where he didn't get spat at, didn't get tripped up or yelled at for twenty minutes by an overweight superior about the benefits of being vigilant and alert and not falling for the oldest trick in the book. He could still hear Tony's voice echoing in his head.
"…dammit Summers, that's the third time you've fucked up this month! I can't keep letting this happen. The store owners pay a high fee for our security. If we can't give them what they are paying for, they won't keep paying. Which means you don't get paid. Understand? Sort. This. Out…"
That last word seemed to hang around in his skull, bouncing around and climbing in volume from the pissed off droning of Tony to the screaming voice in his head that wanted out. Out of this building, the job he hated, the pain of his knee and inevitable beep of his damn answer phone which would undoubtedly be blinking in eagerness with the stored calls of his damn family.
He flicked open the fourth and final letter as he climbed onto the landing of the eight floor and groaned. He recognised the headed paper of the bank. He skimmed the letter, wincing at the nasty words that sprang out at him.
Overdue.
Outstanding loan.
Account closure.
Bailiffs.
He pushed his door open and slammed it shut, screwing up the letter in his hand with a growl and then huffing as he tried to unscrew it and flatten it out on the nearest surface to re-read it. No matter how much of a fresh start you try to make. No matter how good your intentions. It all comes down to money in the end, and the banks will crush you as easy the crushing concerns of your family. It just wasn't fair.
The pit of his stomach opened up and he felt physically sick at the thought of going back to his parents, empty handed and tail between his legs, asking for help. Help that he'd told them he didn't need. Didn't want.
Except he needed all the help he could get. It was just that kind of day. He took a breath and risked a glance at the answer phone. The digital display showed one new message and that flashing red light to accompany it. Not the worst result.
The machine made that beep as he hit the button. Surely only one message could only mean his family had given it a rest for the day.
"Mr Summers, its Sheila O'Neil. Your Landlady. Your rent is overdue. Please call me back."
Sam thumped the machine and groaned. Just that kind of a day.