Loadstar 161/161.d81/sr.pack rat

Text File | 1997-01-01 | 26.5 KB | 917 lines

         P A C K    R A T

       by Andrew Mushynsky
          New Smyrna Beach FL


     The First Place Winner in

  LOADSTAR's PROSEQUEST '97 Contest



  One

    Harry the Bagman stood in the
shade of the ruined gas station, a
slender figure silhouetted against
the glaring sunlight. He sucked
slowly on the frazzled end of a twig
and scanned the lonely expanse of
buckled concrete ahead.

    "Too wide", he rasped. "If
there's trouble, I'll never make it
across." The sound of his voice hung
in the dry air, startling him. It was
the first time he'd spoken in days.

    With a sigh like a parched croak,
Harry slid the heavy leather bag off
his shoulder. He poked gently among
its neatly wrapped contents until he
found the water flask. He took a few
small sips, wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand, and placed the
flask carefully aside.

    Kneeling in the cool dirt, Harry
slowly removed several small packages
from the bag, unwrapping each in
turn, laying them out on a clean
cloth in orderly rows. Not much to
show for almost three months of
work....

    A cracked 1541-II that might,
Gates willing, still be usable. A
handful of 64 motherboards, rescued
from badly smashed casings. A 128
Programmer's Guide, complete and with
only slight fire damage around the
edges. A scattering of individual
chips... SIDs, VICs, VDCs, PLAs. And
a score of 5 1/4 inch diskettes that
might or might not be any good.

    The disk labels looked promising
-- word processors, databases, even
some copies of good old LOADSTAR --
but he wouldn't be able to trade
promises for food or winter supplies.
He needed to find something usable
and substantial, or this whole trip
could prove to be a costly waste of
time..

    With another tired sigh, Harry
the Bagman tenderly re-wrapped all
his finds and replaced them in the
large scuffed leather bag, along with
the flask and the tools of his trade.
He stood up and gazed out into the
harsh sunlight once again.

    He was pretty sure there were
Ludds around. Hell, there were always
Ludds around somewhere, destroying
anything useful, expunging the past.
For days he hadn't come across a
Shack or a Depot or a Circuit City
that hadn't been totally trashed and
burned to the ground. Hadn't found so
much as a usable flashlight battery.
And there had been that smoke in the
sky two mornings ago, a dark angry
smudge across the sun.

    He gazed intently at the tumbled
buildings, the shattered walls and
scorched roofs surrounded by acres of
what had once been a vast parking
lot. Here and there the rusted hulk
of an automobile cast scant shadows
in the relentless sun.

    "Too wide and too damn little
cover", he repeated to himself.
Still, the site was reasonably
intact. There was a chance that there
was a good dig there, and with the
traders' Gathering coming up in the
fall, that could mean the difference
between making it through the winter
in comfort ... or not making it at
all.

    But why had the Ludds, if they
were in this area, spared this
cluster of half ruined stores?
Something didn't feel right...

    "Aw, Gates", he swore. "I've got
to see what's in there." And with
that, he lifted the heavy leather bag
onto his shoulder and began trotting
steadily across the open plain of
cracked concrete, on a straight
course for the crumbling facade and
flaking letters that spelled out TOYS
R US...


  Two

    "Once upon a time," Harry the
Bagman would say to whomever would
listen, "this world was a paradise.
It was filled to the brim with people
and wonders, and life was as close to
perfection as it had ever been. Then,
of course, the people, being what
they were, naturally screwed things
up all to hell..."

    Harry, as he was fond of saying,
had seen it all. He had been only a
boy at the very beginning of the
Digital Revolution, and had watched
the first crude home computers
appear, with their awkward chiclet
keyboards and tape cassette drives.

    He had plugged into the first on-
line services at an astounding 300
bits per second, had seen the
Internet grow into the World Wide Web
and then into the all-encompassing
WorldNet, through which all data came
to flow, the electronic nervous
system for a whole planet.

    He had voted in the first
Electronic Elections, applauded the
passage of the Universal Access
Amendment, and witnessed the new
network of instantaneous
communications dissolve international
borders. He had seen the promising
dawn of the true Global Village.

    And then, as they used to say in
those days, the fecal matter hit the
cooling device.

    Somehow it had all come apart,
and no one in those fractured,
chaotic times really knew how it
happened. Some said it was the work
of a Unabomber cult, rabid
technophobes who would stop at
nothing to return the world to a pre-
industrial Eden. Others suspected
dis-spirited Fundamentalists, angered
by the coming of this satanic New
World Order of instantaneous
transmissions, of heretical words and
sensuous images, unstoppable,
uncontrollable, uncensorable.

    Some suspected those eternal
malcontents the Serbs, still nursing
their 500-year-old grudges and no
longer content to practice their
ethnic cleansings on a merely local
stage. Others were sure that the
cause of the catastrophe was a rogue
group of hackers, ex-Microsoft
employees, and disgruntled postal
workers, long on pent-up frustrations
and short on sedatives.

    But most put the blame on some
secret government Artificial
Intelligence computer gone awry; or a
Wall Street automatic trading program
that got horribly confused; or
perhaps even great Jahweh Himself,
destroying this new digital Tower of
Babel in an electronic Flood that
wiped it all away, and smashed the
hard-won civilizations of men back
into a new age of dark struggle.

    Whatever the cause, it happened.
Someone, or some group, or some thing
crashed the system, and toppled the
vast network that supported the
modern world. Unfortunately, this set
off numerous military alarms and
automatic defense programs, which
resulted in more than a few limited
nuclear exchanges, which caused
enough Electro Magnetic Impulse
blasts all over the world to fry
every computing device, large or
small, that was turned on and
attached to the WorldNet. And that
was pretty much all of them.

    Pretty much...

    Except for the most ancient
devices, the little 8-bit wonders,
the 'toy' computers. The ones that
everyone had started out with so many
years ago, that they had long ago
packed away into closets and attics
and basements and totally forgotten.

    Because, really, they weren't
good for anything any more, were
they?


  Three

    Harry ran on, his mind racing
faster than his feet.

    Just before the Great Fall, some
forgotten warehouses of the old
computers had been discovered and
they had gone on sale once again, as
curiosities and toys for children.
Harry had seen them himself in a
store just like the one ahead. There
they had sat, original Commodore
equipment, modest and beige and
ignored once again.

    He had never forgotten, and now,
during all his scavenging expeditions
through the ruined towns and cities,
he kept an eye out for the remains of
the giant toy emporiums, hoping to
find those rarities once again. Gates
knows that there was need for them
now, as small communities slowly
started to rebuild themselves,
desperate for any sort of technology
they could salvage from the past.

    As Harry ran, the bag slapping
against his side with every step, he
began to feel the excitement once
again. He began to let himself hope.
Maybe this site would be his jackpot,
the great motherlode, untouched by
the elements or the Ludds.

    He kept himself to a steady pace,
his gaze sweeping left and right,
alert for the slightest signs of
movement. The heat of the sun
reflected off the cracked pavement,
throwing up waves of heat in the
motionless air. It was like running
through a baker's oven, and within
seconds he was drenched in his own
sweat, his eyes stinging and blurred.
Blinking furiously and shaking his
head, he jogged on. He staggered
once, almost losing his footing, when
he misjudged his jump over a fallen
lamppost, but he kept himself from
falling and stumbled on.

    Chest heaving, lungs burning, he
detoured slightly to head for the
hulk of a corroded van, hoping to
catch his breath for a few seconds in
the small patch of shade. Scanning
the horizon, he still saw nothing as
he sprinted the last dozen yards to
the cooler side of the old wreck.
Closing his eyes in relief and
gratitude for even this smallest of
rests, he rounded the corner and
began to drop onto the small strip of
shade.

    A furious blur of black and brown
smashed into his face, startling him
into a cry of surprise. Suddenly he
was surrounded with raucous
shrieking, as something beat against
him again and again. Desperately he
raised his arms around his head and
fell onto the ground to protect
himself. As he rolled away in the
dust, he became aware of several
pairs of giant, fetid wings flapping
wildly in panic and frustration
against heated air. He kicked out
blindly, again and again, until the
sound of powerful wings receded into
the sky.

    Harry cursed. Vultures, three of
them, and probably more frightened
than he was, if the amount of their
droppings as they flew off was any
indication. Gasping, he rolled onto
his side -- and then wished that he
hadn't. Harry cursed again and
scrambled away madly until his back
hit the wrecked van.

    The man had been staked out in
the broiling sun for some time before
the vultures had found him. It was
difficult to tell what had finally
killed him, the heat or the many
wounds on his body, but there was no
question who was responsible for the
grisly spectacle.

    Onto each eye someone had pressed
a shiny computer chip, its delicate
silicon circuits glistening in the
light. And his poor ruined mouth was
crammed with more of the same. Harry
could read the logos from where he
crouched. It gave new meaning to the
old slogan, "Intel inside."


  Four

    Ludds did this. No doubt about
it. Crazy, sick, vicious bastards.
Harry shivered despite the heat and
fought back the urge to retch. He sat
for a few moments with his head
lowered between his knees, breathing
slowly and deeply, willing himself to
be calm.

    There were Ludds around all
right, and they were probably
watching him right now. Why had they
let him get this far? The neo-
Luddites were fanatics, like their
ancient namesakes. The original
Luddites had tried to destroy the
future by smashing the machinery of
the Industrial Revolution that
threatened their livelihoods. These
new Ludds, crazed with grief and
anger, were trying to obliterate the
past, wiping out all traces of the
science and technology that had so
angered the gods and brought such
ruin on humanity. Who knew what their
dark new theology would compel them
to do? Harry had a grim example not
five feet away.

    He looked around him again,
peering through the ragged gaps in
the old van. Still no sign of
movement anywhere. They must want him
to reach the buildings, he realized.
That had to be the answer. Was there
a trap waiting there for him?
Probably not. The site was surely
taboo. What better symbol of the
arrogance of the past than a vast
store that exploited vile technology
for the sake of mere children's
playthings. No, the ruin was too
'unclean' for any of the faithful to
dare venture within. So they would
probably try to capture him on his
way back out, the evidence of his
'sin' heavy upon him.

    It sounded like a set-up for a
ritual sacrifice of particular
nastiness. No, thanks, thought Harry.
What had Mark Twain said about his
own funeral? Aside from the pleasure
of being the center of attention, he
would just as soon decline the honor.
Something like that.

    If he were right, then there was
no reason to rush across the rest of
the scorched parking lot. He could
take his time and save his strength.
But he would have to go forward, to
take up the role they expected of him
in their ritual drama. If he tried to
retreat now, they would surely swoop
down on him at once and lay him out
next to his silent companion.

    So there was nothing to it but to
go on. And so he did, slowly and
steadily, at an easy pace. Once or
twice he was aware of scurrying
motion at the edges of his vision,
but he did not turn his head. As he
expected, they made no move to stop
him.


  Five

    The facade of the toy store, when
he finally reached it after
scrambling over an acre of loose
rubble, was pitted and crumbling. The
giant letters were still in place,
but hanging at skewed angles. The
entrance itself was framed with
freshly painted graffiti, a web of
intricate symbols that must have been
recently applied by the Ludds. This
worried him. Harry wondered how
strong the taboo around this place
really was -- perhaps they were
waiting for him inside? He tried to
peer into the darkness within, but
saw nothing.

    His mouth was suddenly very, very
dry and he could feel his heart begin
to pound wildly within his chest. The
air was heavy with heat and dread. He
licked his lips and glanced over his
shoulder; then he stepped gingerly
through the broken glass of the
doorway. Moving carefully, he began
to feel the cool of the dark interior
on his face, when suddenly the air
was filled with the hoarse roar of
hundreds of voices, an exultant howl
of triumph.

    Harry snapped his head around. A
pane of glass above him shattered
with a loud crash and the explosion
of shards drove him to his knees. A
small grappling hook on a thin line
wrapped itself around his upper arm
and he was pulled completely off
balance. They began to pull him along
the floor, back out into the
sunlight. As he kicked and struggled,
he could see them just outside the
entranceway, leaping and shrieking
with anticipation. They might have
been peasants from the middle ages,
clad in rags and simple smocks,
waving blades and sticks. He was
being dragged back through the
centuries, to a death once reserved
for witches and warlocks.

    He twisted and bent against the
pull of the line, eyes wide with
terror, mouth open, grunting. He
could not regain his footing. He was
going to die. And then he saw it. The
thin line that stretched from his arm
to eternity was already beginning to
fray, as it was pulled against the
jagged glass of the door bottom. He
rolled desperately to the right,
snagging the line against a large
shard, catching it in a small, sharp
notch. It parted with a snap, and
Harry saw a trio of sweating Ludds
lurch suddenly backwards into the
crowd, their hands still clutching
the loose line.

    He crawled painfully into the
welcome darkness of the store,
dragging the bag behind him,
oblivious to the shards of glass that
cut his hands. Outside they howled in
frustration and rage, pelting the
doorway with a hail of stones. They
spat at the entrance, their fingers
tracing mystic signs in the air. They
cursed and writhed, but they did not
enter. The taboo held, and he was
safe. For now.


  Six

    Harry wept with relief. For a
long time he could not stop shaking.
He knew that he was not a hero, so
his fear did not shame him. It was
just a part of the job. But the job
was not finished, the danger was not
over, and he must get control of
himself quickly.

    He closed his eyes and took long,
deep breaths. He thought of home, so
many miles away, of the small
community that was the center of his
life. Quixote they called it, after
the windmills they had built on the
surrounding hills. Home. A new hope
in a ruined world. Home. He kept
repeating the word, like a mantra. A
home was a precious thing. He would
not lose it because of these
screaming madmen. He would stay
alive. He would find the tools he
needed to rebuild his world. He would
carry them back. To home.

    He sat in the darkness, leaning
against a tall column, surrounded by
pools of light that poured in where
portions of the roof had collapsed.
Incredibly, he slept for a time,
while outside insanity reigned.

    When he awoke, the screaming had
subsided, replaced by intermittent
shouts and the low hum of chanting.
He did not know how much time he had.
Eventually they would tire of
waiting. They would smoke him out or
burn him up or come in after him,
taboo or no taboo. He might have days
or perhaps just hours. Groaning, he
struggled to his feet and searched
the old bag for a source of light. He
chose some candles, lit them, and
began to explore his surroundings.

    The vast store was in remarkably
good shape, for a relic. Here and
there the long rows of shelves had
tumbled over and their contents had
spilled out in disarray. Where the
roof had given way, the merchandise
below had been ruined, but much was
as it had been when when the Great
Fall came, those many years ago.
Harry searched through the aisles.

    The layout in these chain stores
was always similar, so if this one
was like the other in his memory, the
electronic gadgets would be along the
two right-most aisles. He worked his
way to that side of the building,
only to discover that major sections
of tiling and ductwork had collapsed
onto the displays below. The roof
itself was whole, so there was no
rain damage, but debris was
everywhere. Heartsick, he began to
clear away the rubble. He ignored the
pain in his cut hands. There would be
time enough to bind and treat them
later, if he survived.

    He worked on for hours in the
flickering light of the candles,
stopping only for water and the
meager rations of food he had carried
in with him. The noises from outside
kept up long past nightfall, but
eventually faded away. Around
moonrise, he finally uncovered the
right case. It had been protected
somewhat by a large ornamental
display that had fallen across it.
Impatiently, he threw aside the last
few shreds of debris.

    And there they were, in cracked
glass cases beside the fancy
holographic game systems, illuminated
by the light of the moon and the
candles -- pristine Commodore
computers, crisp 'new' 64s and 128s.
A handful out of the 10 million that
had been made in the dim prehistory
of computing, ready to go to work
again. And there were shining
monitors, perfect little 3 1/2 inch
drives, even RAM expanders, mice, and
voice recognition modules.

    He pressed his face against the
glass and just stared for a long time
in the silence. And then Harry began
to laugh quietly. In the ruins of the
past, surrounded by savage lunatics,
he threw up one arm and danced a
small dance of victory in the
moonlight and the shadows. His steps
echoed through the vast deserted
building.


  Seven

    Harry smiled a broad, wide smile,
even as he realized that most of his
treasure would have to be left behind
and might not survive the Ludds'
frenzy. He had to get out with what
he could and protect what remained
behind. Somehow. There was much yet
to be done.

    First he carefully removed the
glass from the case and picked out
the smaller, less bulky items that he
would take with him, especially the
1581s, the REUs, and the mice. He
folded them in bubblewrap that he
found and then neatly packed them
into a canvas backpack that came from
the old leather bag. In the bag
itself he placed as many flat 64s and
128s as would fit. In another canvas
side bag he placed his tools,
supplies, and the remainder of his
food and water. He would be weighted
down, but the load would be
balanced.

    For the remainder of his find, he
dug a shallow trench in a corner of
the store where the floor had buckled
from the impact of falling roof.
Working by moonlight, he hastily
buried the monitors, power supplies,
and other equipment, covering them
over with sheets of plastic cut from
kiddie pools, ceiling tiles, dirt and
concrete. Perhaps the equipment would
survive here if the Ludds ultimately
torched the building. Then he pulled
out a heavily taped old flashlight,
loaded it with precious batteries
from the side bag, and began to
search for a way out.

    As he roamed the store, he saw
the glow of the Ludds' watch fires
through cracks in the walls. They
completely surrounded the building
and were heavily manned, even at this
hour of the morning. It would be
impossible to simply sneak by them.

    In the warehouse section, where
giant floor-to-ceiling shelving units
had collapsed into a chaotic jumble,
he found a small staircase leading to
the roof. He managed to force open
the door, which was partially blocked
by debris, and took a tentative look
around. The roof was deserted, as he
thought it would be, and by carefully
skirting the collapsed portions, he
was able to make it to the edge. The
toy store was free-standing on all
sides. There were no neighboring
structures to which he could make a
desperate leap.

    Down at the front of the
building, he noticed activity among
the Ludds. Some were moving bundles
of scrub brush and lumber scraps to
the entrance. Others were carrying
long telephone poles and ominous-
looking cannisters to positions
around the whole perimeter of the
store. Sunrise could not be far off.
Were they preparing to set their
fires at dawn, or did he have more
time?

    He feared he already knew the
answer to that. They would use their
primitive battering rams to breach
the weakened walls where they could,
then throw in their gasoline or oil
and set it ablaze. And they would do
it very soon.


  Eight

    Harry paced desperately around
the edge of the roof, feeling like a
trapped animal. Already the sounds
from below were increasing as more
Ludds came drifting back after the
long night. He stopped abruptly and
leaned out over the parapet. Scanning
the grounds beyond the guard fires,
he saw what might have been a
drainage conduit that ran behind the
store and continued down the length
of the entire mall.

    He rushed back downstairs and
furiously pushed aside the fallen
rubble in the warehouse until he
found a maintenance room. Aside from
some cleaning tools and supplies, it
was empty. Breathing heavily, he
scrabbled on the littered floor,
eventually revealing a square hatch
cover. When he lifted it and peered
in, he found a small service room
with access to a tangled web of
electrical cables and plumbing lines.
Along one wall ran a concrete conduit
similar to the larger one he had seen
from the roof. Was this line
connected to the other?

    A faint crashing sound from the
front of the building made him jerk
his head back from the hatch. He ran
out of the warehouse section to find
a barrage of rocks shattering the
last of the glass doors. Then wood
and brush were hurled in after. He
could smell the scent of gasoline
wafting in from outside.

    He sped to the buried cache where
he had left his bags. Shouldering
them hurriedly, he ran back to the
warehouse, dodging the new debris.
They would set fire to the entrance
first, and soon thick smoke would
fill the air. He picked up a large
block of concrete rubble from the
warehouse floor and wrestled it to
the hatch. The smell of gasoline was
stronger now. Dropping the slab into
the service space, he quickly climbed
down after.

    He placed the bags in a corner,
and propped the flashlight on top.
Lifting the block once more, he
smashed it down again and again on
the conduit. When he stopped,
panting, faint echoes of the pounding
sounds continued, coming from
upstairs. They were starting to
attack the walls from outside. The
conduit was chipped but intact. He
continued to smash down frantically,
but this time with the sharper edge
of the slab. Now he could smell
gasoline even down here -- the Ludds
must have breached a nearby wall.

    Breathing in ragged gasps, he
pounded relentlessly, fury and fear
driving him on. The conduit began to
show a crack, but the block he held
was also beginning to crumble. A
deafening roar like an explosion of
air sounded above him. He dropped the
block and scrambled up the ladder. As
he slammed down the hatch cover, he
caught a glimpse of a roiling ball of
flame, surging wildly toward him. The
cover shut with a load clang as he
dropped to the ground.

    There was a howling, groaning
sound above him, like a hungry beast
that rattled the hatch and threatened
to collapse the floor. The Ludds were
using more than just gasoline. Eyes
wild with terror, he smashed yet
again against the conduit, pounding
it fiercely. The thin crack began to
widen. Gasping for air, he lifted the
block to his shoulders, staggered,
and crashed it down with full force.
With a sudden crunch, the conduit
gave way and shattered, chips flying
into his face.

    Scooping away the fragments, he
looked in with the flashlight. It was
dry inside and he thought he could
feel a movement of cooler air. The
interior seemed about as wide as his
shoulders. A tight fit. The floor
above him shook as the firestorm
raged. Pieces of the ceiling were
starting to fall. He had no way of
knowing where the pipe led or if it
would remain the same width, but the
air in the tiny service room was
getting heated and difficult to
breathe. The floor seem ready to
collapse. He had no choice.

    Grabbing his bags, he dropped
them into the conduit, and crawled in
with them. He began to inch his way
forward, pulling his bags along.
Behind him he could hear the roaring
of hell.


  Nine

    For the Ludds, the burning of the
store was cause for great rejoicing.
The coming of the infidel, his
trespass, his righteous sacrifice in
the fires of cleansing -- it was all
as it had been written in the sacred
Book of the New Earth. The Green God
was appeased. Another piece of the
old world had died.

    They would wait until the flames
died and knock down the remaining
walls with their long poles. Then
they would move on to another town,
to begin anew the task of purifying
the earth. There was abomination
everywhere. The work of the true
believer was neverending.

    But for now it was good to rest
and bask in the light of their
handiwork. They were contented. Their
angry gods were satisfied. They
watched the flames dance.


  Ten

    An amazing string of curses
drifted out from the culvert at the
edge of the woods. If anyone had been
there, they would have been shocked
to hear the gods of several different
pantheons mocked and insulted. The
sounds drifted out of a smaller pipe
that joined the culvert here. After a
moment or two, the words were
followed by a scruffy leather bag
that slid out and came to a stop, and
then two more, made of canvas.

    Then a red-faced, exhausted head
appeared, then two hands, one arm,
and then another. Gradually his
entire body flopped out, rolled onto
his back and gazed wearily up.

    After awhile he became aware of
the smoke in the sky and the dark
safe woods nearby. Only a few more
yards to go. Groaning, he staggered
to his feet, gathered up his
possessions, and stumbled to the
trees.

    Just before he got there, he
turned around and gazed at the dark
column of smoke rising into the air.
He slowly broke into a smile,
extended his arm, and gave the
universal symbol of derision. He
shuffled a little dance of victory,
and then hurried off towards the
woods, and to home.

              The End