We’re Fucked, Pt. 123 (Fiction)

On By Jon UreñaIn Arte, Escritura, Inteligencia artificial

When I step off the Benta Berri bus at the entrance of the business park, the sidewalk gets crowded with commuters, from recent graduates, their backpacks emblazoned with the logo of their programming company, to gray-haired technicians holding laptop briefcases. The morning chill nips at my exposed skin. I inhale the fresh, crisp scent of fall air, but passing cars taint it with the acrid bite of exhaust fumes.

Golden haloes light my way as I head towards the bare trees, their branches etching stark patterns against the office buildings, or blending like blackened veins with the darkness of this November morning. If nobody had invented electric lighting, maybe we would still wake up with the sun; in dark and cold autumn mornings, we would spend that much longer in the warmth of our beds and our loved ones’ arms.

Past the restaurant with a curved glass façade, its outdoor café terrace now deserted, I venture through the pathway that weaves between human-erected structures. The scattered, rust-colored leaves that crunch underfoot release the musty scent of decay. Like most mornings, the pervasive stillness reminds me that this zone isn’t meant for living: it’s where people come to die five to six days a week.

I turn the corner of our office building, that resembles a three-story-high shoebox. As I walk along the multicolored row of waste bins, a sight that has become familiar greets me: an assembly of bunny-sized alien slugs crowd the sidewalk in front of the entrance, spilling onto the parking lot. In the beginning they appeared as shadowy blurs; now, their black and dark-blue tints shimmer through the oozy, mucus-coated skin. Protruding feelers sway like anemone atop their undulating bodies, while underneath, six legs move in tandem among drips of tarry slime.

As a car maneuvers into a parking spot, it runs over several alien slugs, but instead of bursting in a splatter of guts, they yield through the tires like ghosts. However, can they interact with our native critters, slurping them up and, after digestion, excreting the leftover shells and bones? How long will it take for these creatures, maybe from an alternate Earth, to synchronize with our dimension and become visible to sane people? Will that happen before the universe teeters past a tipping point, causing space-time to fold upon itself like an accordion? Wait, isn’t the number of alien slugs dwindling?

A bright-blue shape swoops down and snatches one of the slugs, leaving a trail of slimy droplets. The shape, a beast, swerves upwards with wide wings covered in bioluminescent fur. Its four legs end in kukri-like claws.

The beast perches on the edge of the flat roof. Jutting out of its head, silhouetted against the predawn sky, two pointed appendages resemble horns. A pair of round eyes radiate an electric-blue glow as they stare down at me. The beast glides away, disappearing beyond the roof’s edge.

“Well then,” I say, and head inside.

* * *

I step into the climate-controlled air of our office, to take in once again the sight of these white walls, cabinets, and desk, along with that gray carpet; they give the impression that the colors have been sucked out. The fluorescent lights overhead bathe everything in a clinical glare. Like every morning, Jordi has beaten me here: he’s seated with his back straight, fingers tapping away on his keyboard. In this monochrome landscape, I’ll avoid dwelling on his red hair, or anyone’s copper mane.

After I take off my cardigan and hang it on the coat rack, I trudge to my chair and slump down into it with a sigh.

“Good morning,” Jordi says.

Although a glance or a nod would have sufficed, I waste saliva greeting him back. As my computer boots up, I realize that Jordi has turned his freckled, clean-shaven face towards me. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with a point collar and the sleeves rolled up. Either his garment is made of wrinkle-resistant fabric, or he irons them meticulously. I picture the inside of this kid’s wardrobe: a row of identical shirts and pants.

“You seem refreshed,” he says.

“You mean I look less disheveled than usual?”

“If you want to put it that way. Did you have a fun weekend?”

I’m tempted to reply, “why do you care?”, but after years of controlling myself around human beings, I’ll put on the mask of politeness to conceal my depravity.

“You know, I’ve had a lovely weekend. We visited Mount Igueldo.”

“Oh, the amusement park. I haven’t gone since I was a kid. Sounds like a great date.”

Jordi remains unaware that I abducted a girl from the Ice Age, so he must be picturing a couple of grown women taking a stroll on the elevated grounds of an amusement park, holding hands and eating cotton candy. It does sound like a great date.

“I used to waste my weekends recovering from the exhaustion of the previous week, and preparing myself for the next wave of stress to crash upon me.”

“That’s a bleak way to live, but you’ve clearly changed since you started dating Jacqueline.”

I have, haven’t I? My perception of reality has shifted: no longer am I alone in a barren void ruled by an insatiable worm, but instead, I’m tethered to two other beings who possess a universe within them. That’s why I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, put on clean clothes, eat breakfast, and come to this hellhole before dawn without regret.

“I miss listening to her stories,” Jordi continues. “During lunch break, I mean.”

A twinge of jealousy flickers through me.

“I bet. She’s mine, though.”

Jordi chuckles.

“Of course. She isn’t sick, right? She must be rethinking a few things.”

Crap. If this kid has figured it out, our boss must be aching to stir trouble.

“I’d say she’s come to realize that she’s meant for something more than this job.”

Jordi shrugs, and raises a corner of his mouth in a boyish smile. His allure, devoid of the hard edges and muscle bulk of a macho, may inspire contempt in men, but has the charm and kindness of a cinnamon roll.

“This is it, then. Please pass on my regards, and take care of her. I’m sure you’re aware that she’s more sensitive than she appears.”

I’m about to give our insolent intern an earful about mommy’s private qualities; this kid doesn’t know Jacqueline’s warmth, the weight of her breasts when she squeezes me tight, or the tickle of her pubic hairs against my face as I bury my tongue in her depths. However, I spot a headline on Jordi’s screen, belonging to the front page of the Diario Vasco: “Two More Vanish Amidst Growing Concern.” A cold ripple of unease trickles down my spine. I recall Jacqueline’s somber tone as she informed me of these disappearances during a car ride. Left to my own devices, I would have remained oblivious: I shun the news to protect my sanity, and I didn’t socialize with anybody outside of work. On the day of my first date with Jacqueline, didn’t I pass by a demonstration and a counter-demonstration concerning these vanishings? Drenched in a downpour, those protesters’ shouts were muffled by the drumming of rain while I huddled under my umbrella.

I picture a woman in her late twenties, her hair hastily tied back in a ponytail. She’s burdened with shopping bags that display the Carrefour logo. As she strides across a parking lot, she steps through an invisible portal to another realm. Her foot meets the crunch of ancient ice, or the slime of those alien slugs’ dimension, or the cracked clay of an endless desert. Maybe she has emerged in a world of ash and cinders, where the earth has been scorched black by a blast wave and the skeletons of buildings jut out like rotten teeth. Panic would seize this woman, clouding any realization that walking backwards could return her home. How many have fallen prey to these space-time traps while I fuck around without finding the reality-collapsing machine?

Jordi follows my gaze, then turns his head back to me.

“Leire, you’ve gone pale. Do these disappearances worry you that much?”

When I open my mouth to speak, my lower lip twitches. I force out the words through the knot in my throat.

“Maybe… I’m responsible.”

Jordi snaps his head back. His freckled features have twisted into bemused disbelief. As he straightens his spine, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“What makes you say that, Leire? How can you be responsible?”

An accusation rings in my ears, echoing and swelling into a scream. I may be a kidnapper of prehistoric children, but I have never been a killer; yet, I have contributed to the ruin of those souls.

“N-nevermind. Forget it.”

“Ah, you must be worried about it happening to you, right? What this headline, and many others, neglect to mention is these people were criminals. Later in the article, it reluctantly informs that the first of these men was a serial rapist who had been released, while the other was a drug trafficker. The way the media talks about them, you’d think they’re describing model citizens, even though most of them weren’t citizens to begin with. If only the media cared so much about the well-being of their victims!”

“S-so there’s like… a pattern?”

“Sounds like it. I don’t know, maybe they deserved to vanish. You’re a decent person, senpai.”

“Am I?”

“Of course! You’re just trying to get by in these tough times. Now, you’re even learning how to receive love.”

“Oh, I’m receiving lots of love every night. Some mornings too.”

“That’s great to hear. Leire, these disappearances aren’t your fault, not even in a metaphorical sense. But I shouldn’t be surprised that you thought so: you’ve always seemed like someone who carries the world on their shoulders.”

“Funny that, Jacqueline told me something similar.”

Jordi offers me a sympathetic smile.

“Well, there you go.”

I lower my head. Maybe this burden will sink me, and I’ll make a dramatic exit out of a fifth-floor window while Arachne clacks her chitinous claws with glee, her body lounging on a cosmic pile of bones.

“I guess it’s a lot to think about,” Jordi adds cautiously. “Let’s keep our minds on the here and now, though. We need to get through these tasks.”

My computer is waiting for me to type in the password, so I take the opportunity to disengage from this conversation. The keys clack in the awkward silence as I fill in the password box. Program icons pop up on the taskbar, and the desktop clutters up with files and folders over the wallpaper du jour: a tropical beach at sunset, complete with two palm trees that cast elongated shadows on the sand. Windows ten is mocking me, I can hear it: “You could have spent the day in such a paradise, smearing coconut oil on Jacqueline’s fleshy mounds, but instead you’re trapped here, doomed to waste eight more hours of your limited life obeying your boss’ whims.”

As if summoned, Ramsés barges in. The muscle fibers at the back of my neck tighten. Although I want to ignore his presence, I’d rather avoid another complaint about “lack of respect,” so I glance toward our boss. Same middle-aged man with combed-back, thinning hair and touches of gray at the temples, as well as a trimmed moustache. He reeks of cigarette smoke.

Why does he insist on tucking his shirts over that paunch? Does he want me to imagine it squashing against my lower back as he pounds me from behind?

“Morning everyone,” Ramsés booms.

Jordi greets him back confidently; I mumble. Our boss ensconces himself in his office, separated from ours by a wall of frosted glass.

I load up Visual Studio Code. Its dark-themed editor window shows rows and rows of code, color-coded and structured with consistent indentation, for a shopping cart’s Python backend.

Today I will raid the coffee machine until I start vibrating. Another mundane morning of programming website widgets, wasting precious hours that will never be regained, and risking permanent brain damage from a caffeine overdose. Ah, Jacqueline, why are you so far away? I want to hear your velvety voice whispering in my ear, your laughter rippling like a summer brook. But I don’t have time to fantasize about my French shapeshifting girlfriend, that plump ass of hers, the toned thighs that she loves to wrap around my head, those pillowy breasts that she thrusts in my face as she rides me.

No, I must focus on my job, despite the shitshow that lurks outside. Hasn’t it always been like that, though? I was born into a world teetering on the edge of obliteration; that bunnyman bastard only fast-tracked the debacle.

Author’s note: today’s song is “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked” by Cage the Elephant.

I keep a playlist with all the songs I’ve mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and five videos. Check them out.

I had to find three new voices to produce this chapter’s audio version. Check it out.