splotch. “It’s going away!”
Tara half laughed. Before I could say anything, he dashed away, running like a naked man, free in the wild.
I turned back to Tara and said, “I’m starting to like Vax more and more.”
“There it is,” she said, leading me past a few more abandoned shops until we reached it.
Brankas was a Volunteer operated establishment, created for the sole purpose of trying to replicate a pre-Edge restaurant experience. GenoTec allowed two chances to eat here in a month, which meant Tara and I hadn’t broken our limit. Come to think of it, I hadn’t been to a restaurant in a year or so. It made me even more depressed about my already dysfunctional life.
That thought struck a different chord. Vax meant more than physical healing. This cure was emotional triage. It was a lighthouse, leading our infinitely misled ships back to the safe harbor of sanity, hope, and life. Vax was mending more than just wounds.
Brankas smelled like heaven—a cloud of lightly burnt barbeque, butter glazed bread, and spices of every combination. It was a party of aromas, and it was making me salivate. A waiter passed by with a truckload of pies, creams, and little chocolate cakes. My stomach growled, trying to rip through my skin.
We approached the kiosk, manned by a burly Volunteer. The behemoth took our ID cards and scanned them on a square device, then handed them back, giving off a heavy vibe of “hey, I hate what I got myself into, now get out of my sight.”
“It’ll be a few minutes before we can seat you,” he said in a dull voice.
Tara turned to me and said, “Come on, we can collect while we wait.”
Subdued for the moment, we passed a few tables to reach the newly placed Vaxinator. An elderly woman was trying to receive her dose of Vax, but “technology wasn’t what it used to be these days.” I looked at her frail body, covered in green, decaying skin. She should have been one of the first in line.
After I helped her on her way, Tara had already finished collecting, and we set off for the waiting lounge.
The feathered bucket seats accommodated my lust for relaxation.
“Tired already?” she smirked, waiting for my retaliation.
“I think its Vax,” I said listlessly, feeling more comfortable with Tara as each moment passed.
“So, Wenton,” she began, “I never got to hear your story.”
I straightened, glancing at her. “No, I suppose you didn’t, did you . . .”
She smiled, waiting for an exhilarating story. But there wasn’t going to be one. I wished something would happen again, sparing Tara the boring life and times of Mark Wenton. It wasn’t like I had some deep dark secret. Okay, maybe I had a few secrets, but they weren’t deep or dark. Truthfully, I just hated sharing “my story.”
However, I owed Tara. I tried to convey my lack of excitement in simple terms. I grew up in Maine, moved to Manhattan when I was eight, and went into the construction business when I was old enough to have a driver’s license.
Whoopee.
When Tara asked about my family, I hesitated. Memories of Savannah and Carly flashed. Carly’s little blonde curls danced in front of my eyes. Sav’s crying face haunted me. Just like the few people I came in contact with, I decided to not tell Tara about Savannah. I don’t know why I had to keep it inside. I guess I was too ashamed.
“I only had one little sister,” I lied. “Her name was Carly.”
“What was she like?” asked Tara with genuine interest.
“She was . . . young.” At least that was true. The last memory I had of Carly was seeing her in my arms as she died from Edge. Her little round face, button nose, and chapped lips. At least she died early, before exposure could really set in. We celebrated her sixth birthday only a week prior.
However, I knew Sav was somewhere glaring at me. I swear her acidic eyes followed me everywhere.
Tara understood the subject was dead, so she moved on.
Ten minutes later, we finally got called
Tara half laughed. Before I could say anything, he dashed away, running like a naked man, free in the wild.
I turned back to Tara and said, “I’m starting to like Vax more and more.”
“There it is,” she said, leading me past a few more abandoned shops until we reached it.
Brankas was a Volunteer operated establishment, created for the sole purpose of trying to replicate a pre-Edge restaurant experience. GenoTec allowed two chances to eat here in a month, which meant Tara and I hadn’t broken our limit. Come to think of it, I hadn’t been to a restaurant in a year or so. It made me even more depressed about my already dysfunctional life.
That thought struck a different chord. Vax meant more than physical healing. This cure was emotional triage. It was a lighthouse, leading our infinitely misled ships back to the safe harbor of sanity, hope, and life. Vax was mending more than just wounds.
Brankas smelled like heaven—a cloud of lightly burnt barbeque, butter glazed bread, and spices of every combination. It was a party of aromas, and it was making me salivate. A waiter passed by with a truckload of pies, creams, and little chocolate cakes. My stomach growled, trying to rip through my skin.
We approached the kiosk, manned by a burly Volunteer. The behemoth took our ID cards and scanned them on a square device, then handed them back, giving off a heavy vibe of “hey, I hate what I got myself into, now get out of my sight.”
“It’ll be a few minutes before we can seat you,” he said in a dull voice.
Tara turned to me and said, “Come on, we can collect while we wait.”
Subdued for the moment, we passed a few tables to reach the newly placed Vaxinator. An elderly woman was trying to receive her dose of Vax, but “technology wasn’t what it used to be these days.” I looked at her frail body, covered in green, decaying skin. She should have been one of the first in line.
After I helped her on her way, Tara had already finished collecting, and we set off for the waiting lounge.
The feathered bucket seats accommodated my lust for relaxation.
“Tired already?” she smirked, waiting for my retaliation.
“I think its Vax,” I said listlessly, feeling more comfortable with Tara as each moment passed.
“So, Wenton,” she began, “I never got to hear your story.”
I straightened, glancing at her. “No, I suppose you didn’t, did you . . .”
She smiled, waiting for an exhilarating story. But there wasn’t going to be one. I wished something would happen again, sparing Tara the boring life and times of Mark Wenton. It wasn’t like I had some deep dark secret. Okay, maybe I had a few secrets, but they weren’t deep or dark. Truthfully, I just hated sharing “my story.”
However, I owed Tara. I tried to convey my lack of excitement in simple terms. I grew up in Maine, moved to Manhattan when I was eight, and went into the construction business when I was old enough to have a driver’s license.
Whoopee.
When Tara asked about my family, I hesitated. Memories of Savannah and Carly flashed. Carly’s little blonde curls danced in front of my eyes. Sav’s crying face haunted me. Just like the few people I came in contact with, I decided to not tell Tara about Savannah. I don’t know why I had to keep it inside. I guess I was too ashamed.
“I only had one little sister,” I lied. “Her name was Carly.”
“What was she like?” asked Tara with genuine interest.
“She was . . . young.” At least that was true. The last memory I had of Carly was seeing her in my arms as she died from Edge. Her little round face, button nose, and chapped lips. At least she died early, before exposure could really set in. We celebrated her sixth birthday only a week prior.
However, I knew Sav was somewhere glaring at me. I swear her acidic eyes followed me everywhere.
Tara understood the subject was dead, so she moved on.
Ten minutes later, we finally got called
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