There's Only One Quantum by William Bryan Smith Page B

ran behind him, elbowing people, knocking them over—completely turning them around—in pursuit of the man in the fedora. He knew about the Gibson, but how—
    The vid phone—he must have bugged it.
    Coe ran out onto the street, zigzagging between cars idling in traffic that seemed forever-gridlocked. He found it easier to run around the stopped cars rather than to move his way through the crowded sidewalk. He could see the fedora just ahead. Coe slid across the hood of a stopped cab.
    “What the—” a mustachioed cabbie cried.
    The fedora was parallel with him now. Coe cut into the flow of people, grasped the man by his arm , turned him around, and—
    It was a vagrant.
    “Your hat,” Coe said.
    The vagrant smiled a toothless grin. “A man gave it to me. Just slapped it right down on my head...”
    Coe looked ahead. He could see the now hatless man running away. He still wore his trench coat. Coe ran back onto the street, nearly being struck by a black sedan. An angry horn sounded. He ignored it and continued through the streets.
    The man turned down an alleyway. Coe knifed his way through a family nearly knocking over a child. He stumbled into the alley, glimpsed the man scale a wooden privacy fence and disappear behind it. Clotheslines of laundry crisscrossed the alley above, hanging heavy with rain like forgotten prayer flags. He leapt toward the fence, grasping onto the top edge. With his feet he propelled himself over and saw the back of the man, his long coat trailing behind him, hurtle an overturned trash can. He jumped on top of a dumpster, reached the retracted ladder of a fire escape, and pulled it down. He climbed onto the fire escape and begun to ascend.
    Coe did the same. He had little trouble with the dumpster or the fire escape ladder. As his shoes slapped the rusty metal of the fire escape he looked up and saw the man ascending to the roof. He loosened the pistol from his ankle holster, held it awkwardly in his hand, and rushed up the steps. He reached the rooftop and found the man standing there motionless, his arms held down at his side—the ridiculous smile on his face.
    Panting, Coe said, “Tell me the message.”
    “Message?”
    “In the envelope. It was meant for me.”
    “Envelope?”
    Coe raised the gun and trained it on the man. “I’ll—”
    “Shoot me?” the man said, still smiling. “Don’t shoot me, please.”
    “I’m going to ask you one more time—”
    “How can you ever soar with the eagles?” the man said, “When you’re stuck down here with all these turkeys?”
    “I’m warning you—”
    “Time to soar.”
    The smile faded. His expression turned blank. A trembling overtook him. “Got to soar,” he said. “Got to fly...”
    Vapors leaked from his collar. He slipped his finger behind his tie, loosened it. Smoke poured out. “Bye-bye,” he said. Metal wings sprouted from the sides of his head.
    “Stop it,” Coe said. “Stop it.” He waved the gun at him.
    The skin fell from his face; his head lifted off from his neck. It became a fat, mechanical bird. Its wings flapped, propelled it skyward. It circled once, squawked at Coe, and was gone.
    Coe briefly considered shooting at it, but his inaction ultimately enabled it to escape. Meanwhile, the body—now headless—slumped to the ground in its rain coat and continued to smoke. Flames erupted from beneath the shirt and engulfed the entire torso.
    Coe could do nothing but watch it burn.
     

Five.
    You: the weary businessman. You work hard, 52 weeks per year. You’re the wage-earner, the breadwinner, the provider, the stalwart protector of your wife and children. You love your career, your family, and your life. But where is your reward? That’s where we come in...
    We’re Erotopia—“Your Garden of Eden.” Set on a small man-made island (3 sq. miles) just off the coast of Key Joaquin, we are the premier all-inclusive resort destination for hard-working businessmen seeking erotic adventures. With over