Florida Reclamation Zone 2133


The boy was late and he knew it. Past curfew.

He could hear his mother snoring reproachfully which meant...

"It's me!" he called into the dark, over the sound of the whine of the arming laser pistol. Even under threat of death he was careful not to call loudly enough to wake his mother. No point to adding another target, moving in the dark.

"Charles?" a voice answered, and from the tension in that voice, the boy thanked his lucky stars that there had been any warning at all.

"Yes! It's me. Just me," the boy answered. Because he WAS Charles.

When he was younger, it was true, he had been Trip, third of his name. But then there had been a purge, and after this purge it had been decidedly unwise to make any reference at all to the first of his name. and so he'd become the second of his name.

And with "Charlie" taken by the man in the dark - by the man currently pointing a goddamn laser pistol at him, AGAIN - well, that made him...

"Yes. It's me, dad. Charles. Put the gun down okay. I'm sorry I'm late."

The boy stood perfectly still waiting for the tell-tale decrescendo of a pistol coil depowering, or at the very least the sound of a pistol being placed on the table.

But his father's answer was quite different. Words spat into the darkness. "You've been with HER again, haven't you?"

The boy sighed. "No dad. I've told you. I keep telling you. There IS no her."

"Don't lie to me, boy. I've seen her..."

"...No, Dad, you CAN'T have seen anyone, because..."

"I've HAVE seen her. I've always seen her. From the day you were born, I've seen her behind my eyes. The witch. Medea. She's coming for you. She's coming for you. And by the time she's done with you, you'll die on the executioner's block with her spittle drying on your cheek. You mark me, Charles."

The boy sighed and his voice grew thick. "Okay, Dad. I hear you. But I havent seen her. That weren't where I was tonight. I was just out on my boat and I decided to rebuild the engine and it got late. The only 'hers' I've seen today were 'gators, and they let me be. Gators and mum, I suppose."

Suddenly his father was laughing, and the pistol was finally lowered. "Gators and your mom! Aint much distinction, is there? She tried to poison me again today, if you can believe it. Wonder how long it will take her to learn that I always know when she's at it? Must drive her crazy that I know every time! Tonight, I lifted the fork ALMOST all the way to my mouth 'fore I just flipped the food onto the floor, cool as you please, grabbed me a fresh beer, and strolled on out to the porch. Shoulda seen her face!"

The boy chuckled hesitantly. "So… you haven't eaten then, Dad? Want me to fix you a sandwich? You can watch if you like..."

His father patted him on the back then, two great booming blows that almost knocked the wind out of him. "Nah, I don't need to watch. I trust ya. And bring me another beer while you're at it."

The boy scurried to the kitchen, where he quickly assembled several peanut butter and pickle sandwiches, observed only by his mother's sad-eyed Basset Hound. When he was done, he stacked the sandwiches on a white tin plate (one that would not shatter nor hurt to much were it shortly thrown in his face), grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge (that he'd just have to watch out for), remembered, at the last moment, the bottle opener, and tossed the loaf edge to the sad-eyed dog.

The boy had remembered to make the sandwiches in the dark so by the time he returned to his father his eyes had about adjusted. Enough to make out the hunched shape, enough to clock the pistol, still in reach of the shape on the table. "Here we go, Dad. You're favorite."

His father bit heartily into the sandwich, chewed appreciatively, took a long swig of the beer. "Dog dead?" he then asked casually.

The boy frowned "...No...?"

"Figures. Saw the mangy thing eating my slop from the floor, before the old bitch could clean it up. Figure, though, that she'd it an antidote. She always liked it better than he."

The boy stood perfectly still throughout this declaration, and throughout the following swig of beer. The one that finished the bottle.

But then the father stood. Stood, wiped his mouth, and reached for the pistol. "She's always liked that damn dog better'n me," he said, and, with the pistol, strode toward the kitchen.

The boy ran the other way. To his room. To his bed. Under his blanket. And he muffled the sound of the shot with his pillow.