Peter Liu - Bald New World

“You’re finally up,” he said.

“What do you want?” I demanded. “Trying to take me back?”

He raised up both his hands. “I honor my word. A man like you would rather die than turn away. If that is the will of God, there is nothing we can do. I figured you’d wash up somewhere along the shore.”

I would have spat at him except I had to save every drop of water in my body.

He went for his bag and I stepped back, wary of what he might get. If he tried to take me back, I’d have to jump into the water again. He took out a bottle of water and some rice porridge in sealed containers. “You’ll need these.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” I said.

“You won’t survive without these.”

“I’d rather die than accept anything from you.”

“You think I don’t understand your position?”

“How could you?”

He put his hand in his mouth and took his teeth out. They were dentures.

“That’s why I’m still here,” he said and grabbed the water again. “Don’t think with your pride. Think with your head. You’ll need these to get to Gamble Town.”

The name sounded familiar. “What’s Gamble Town?”

“It’s twenty miles north of here, a terrible gathering of vice and sin. You’ll be able to find a phone there along with anything money can buy. But you won’t get anywhere without these.”

I looked at him, a pensive glint in his eyes. “You were originally from Gamble Town?” I asked.

“No one is from Gamble Town. But I was an addict. After I squandered everything I had — all my wealth, sold my wife and kids into slavery for my debts — I came here. They took me in. But not before they destroyed who I was. You could have had a home here, you know? We need more strong-willed men like you here.”

“No thanks.”

He left the water and porridge on the ground, took out a small bottle of pills. “Painkillers. Take it with lots of water.”

“You expect me to thank you?”

“No.”

“What were you hoping to achieve?” I asked.

“Redemption.”

“You failed.”

“No. You failed.” He looked at me again, took off his shoes and his poncho, placed them on the ground, then walked away. I waited a few minutes, making sure he was gone. Then I took the bottle and drank the whole thing down. I devoured the porridge, greedily chewing. Almost immediately, my stomach growled but I ignored it. I had to eat. I felt tears in my eyes as I felt so desperate. I fought them back and welcomed the temporary burst of rejuvenation. There were three more containers left. I grabbed them, put on the poncho. His shoes were a bit tight, though better than nothing. I made my way towards Gamble Town.

I.

The humming sound was the first thing that struck me as I approached the glitzy lights and tall buildings that reminded me of Las Vegas, albeit with a much grungier facade. Firecrackers were going off, music blasted, and women in lingerie danced in a troupe. Drunks were passed out in the corners while other drunks were dancing as hard as they could. As I got closer, I saw the source of the humming. It was a massive glass cage filled with flies. Insects were everywhere. There were spider fights between female orb-weavers, roach races in elaborate tracks, and caterpillar leaf-eating contests. Cricket fighting was also on display, and there were hundreds of simultaneous matches. The crickets were screeching like a war cry and obsessed crowds cheered for their favorites. Cricket pilots were at their booths, interfacing with their crickets through a neural feed, fighting with a degree of precision and endurance that would have been unthinkable decades ago. This was how I used to burn the long hours between shifts during the African Wars.

There were five tall buildings around a central strip and I could tell from the faded logos that they used to be big casino hotels, targeting rich tourists and gamblers. Times had changed and it was the seedier elements that were welcomed now, the grated veneer discarded. 3D billboards for strip clubs and gambling saloons blasted gaudy advertisements. Workers making minimum wage passed out business cards for prostitutes that had naked pictures with little star graphics to cover the “secret” spots (standard 2D, no 3D, suggesting they had no budget to waste). Slot machines rang continuously with chimes that were addictively satisfying, although it was insect gambling that had the rapt attention of most of the patrons. I distantly recollected hearing about a place like this. It was subsidized by the government and became a booming casino town until the subsidies got pulled. Overnight, it turned into a ghost town. A few enterprising entrepreneurs decided to take a risk and rebrand it. Was this the result?

I needed to make a phone call. My options were limited and when I asked a few people if I could borrow their phone, I was refused. While the river had wiped most of my smell away, I could see from the disgusted looks of those passing by that they assumed I was a waif. I didn’t get far before plainclothes guards grabbed me and warned, “Don’t make a fuss. It’ll be easier for both of us.”

Actually glad for their presence, I went along. Perhaps they would allow me to use a phone and get out of this mess. The prospect of home gave me a glimmer of hope. I longed for my apartment, would have done anything to lie in my bed, smell my favorite pillow, sleep for a week straight, and eat Chinese food. But the hum of the insects was making me queasy. I hated bugs. When I was growing up as a kid, I slept with a mat on the floor. Big roaches would crawl up my leg and I’d wake up, feeling them run along my thighs. I’d sweep them away, turn on the light, and see them dashing madly for cover. It made me squeamish to see their wet black shells and their multiple limbs.

We went into an alley full of trash. One of the guards, a stocky fellow with menacing eyes and a chin that resembled an ass, asked, “Do you have any money on you?”

“It’s a long story,” I started. “If you can let me use your phone, I’ll have—”

“Do you have any money on you right now?” the ass-chin asked me.

“Not this minute, but—”

“We don’t take kindly to vagrants here.”

Seven of them swarmed me like locust on corn and were getting ready to strike. Here we go again . I shut my eyes, wondering how much more my body could endure, when someone asked, “Nick?”

I looked up and saw a man in the raggedy uniform of a two-bit security guard. He had a belly, was unshaven, and his hair was an oily mess. I almost didn’t recognize Dan. We served in the African Wars together and I helped him a couple times while he was shooting American Murder , a popular documentary filming real-life murders sanctioned by the government for popularity ratings.

“It is you,” he confirmed.

“You know this guy?” ass-chin wanted to know.

“Yeah. We served in Africa together,” Dan answered. “He was one of the best damn cricket fighters we had. Ain’t that right?”

“I was all right.”

“Don’t be modest. What the hell happened to you?”

“Like I was saying earlier, it’s a long story.”

“Can you still fight with crickets?” he asked.

His teeth were a yellow mess and his breath reeked of garlic. Even though he was smiling, I realized if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, he’d let the goons eat me alive. “Been a while, but I can manage.” I’d won my fair share of fights through the neural interface. Crickets were in many ways simplified versions of us: born, fed gruel, mated with a lover, fighting for their survival, then left to die.

There was a greedy glint in his eyes. “If I got you some healthy crickets, you think you can win a few fights?”