Oversleeper

by Matt Mountebank

Genres: Dystopian

Synopsis

What do you do when you wake up one morning and find that everything you know has changed? On Monday morning Ignatius Inuus finds himself on the run in a New York he barely recognises. Helped by a mysterious young woman, he starts to learn about the new regime. And, the brutal society - in which people survive at the expense of their humanity - seems to be more nightmare than dream. In his quest to force change, he discovers that when you possess the power of life or death over people, choosing life is not as simple as it seems.

Release date: April 30, 2018

Publisher: Accent Press Ltd

Print pages: 300

Sample

Chapter 1

Monday morning, head throbbing like a sub-woofer, and the goddamn power was out.

Crusty eyes found the unlit bathroom. No hot water. A cold, dark shower. Reluctant muscles woke from their atrophy while my mind remained empty save for the dull ache of a hangover. I stretched and wrapped a white dressing gown around my pale body. No radio or TV to accompany breakfast. The fridge was starting to stink, so the outage must have been a few hours. The milk inside it tasted good, if unusually warm and creamy, sticking in lumps to the cornflakes. I couldn’t remember buying full fat. Hadn’t had that stuff since I was a kid. And in a glass bottle, too. Hadn’t seen those in decades. My sore head was grateful, though. I finished the bowl in silence, slowly bringing the room around me into focus.

The kitchen was my pride and joy. Not expensive, mostly IKEA, but good-looking and all put together by my hands in my spare time. It had everything needed to create a four-course dinner for six guests with ease. I had hosted some great parties in that kitchen. Maybe there had been a party last night? Couldn’t have been, though, because it was clean. Too clean. I’d never had it as neat as this. Not even when the old man came to visit. I liked to keep it a little cluttered, homely. This was weird. It was clinical, like an operating theatre. Scrubbed and organised. Everything that I usually wasn’t.

A seedy smile found its way onto my unshaven face. I’d scored. I’d had a party, got lucky, and some woman, who right now I couldn’t even remember, had cleaned up for me. Trying to impress me with her homemaking skills. Trying to show me she’d make a good wife. That had to be the answer. Maybe she was somewhere in the apartment still? I put the empty cereal bowl in the sparkling sink and explored other rooms. No one else around, but everything was spotless. Everything shone like diamonds in the morning sun. Even the windows had been cleaned. Up here on the eighth floor, that never happened. With my head for heights I rarely went near them on the inside, let alone on the outside. I’m all in favour of having a room with a view of the Hudson River, so long as that view can be enjoyed from the safety and comfort of the sofa. And what was with the sofa? Cushions plumped up like balloons, no sign of the familiar depression shaped to fit my butt precisely. What kind of woman sleeps with a guy, scrubs his apartment, then disappears having risked her life a hundred feet from the ground with a squeegee and a sponge? No woman that I’d ever met. There had to be another answer. I checked the time. Better get to work. Calling in sick with a hangover wasn’t an option if I wanted to stay in the running for promotion.

Heading back to the bedroom I glanced again at that sofa. Another oddity struck me. It was covered in a red fabric, but where the sunlight had hit it, the red was faded to orange. And yet it was only a couple of months old. Had it faded overnight? I made a mental note to send a strongly-worded e-mail to the store threatening to retract the five-star review I’d originally given them.

Inside my wardrobe lay the next surprise. My shirts were all pressed, lined up like soldiers, all facing the same way. My other clothes were similarly ordered. Something was definitely up. I looked over my shoulder expecting to see a film crew. I was part of a reality TV show; it was the only explanation. Cleaners had come in the night and I was secretly being filmed to monitor my reaction. Quite insulting to think that my place should have been considered disgusting enough to deserve a television makeover. But there was no film crew, and no cameras hiding anywhere that I could see. In any case, there was no electricity this morning to power them. Now convinced I was in the middle of a practical joke, I threw on my clothes and set off for work, my sore brain steadily churning its way through possible culprits and finding no answers.

After I left the building, I settled into the instinctive groove of a pedestrian commuter, trudging to work, head down, avoiding eye contact. My route only covered a couple of blocks and, before I was even aware of it, I was in the foyer and stepping into the elevator. Another day at the office: e-mails to answer, memos to write, coffees to drink, meetings to fritter away time, invoices to send to clients.

I didn’t recognise anyone riding with me, and was surprised when some of them got off on my floor and walked into my company’s suite. Some of them half-glanced at me, as if they almost knew me.

I thought I must have looked pretty rough after whatever partying had wiped my short-term memory, but when I saw Josie at reception I figured I’d got off lightly. Hot Josie, the bright and cheery twenty-something graduate, looked terrible. Her supple skin had lost its bounce. Crow’s feet pointed to her eyes. I couldn’t imagine the water-cooler banter would be the same today. Something had happened to her, something had toppled her status as the most desirable woman in the building. Josie was staring at her cellphone, like she was waiting for an important call. I gave her a smile but it washed over her, unnoticed.

Staff seemed thin on the ground this morning. At least half of the usual crowd of thirty or so was not in evidence. I guessed there was a big early morning meeting somewhere. Maybe I should have been there, but I really couldn’t remember. Until I checked the schedule on my PC I’d have no idea what was going on. Those who were at their desks seemed tense. I wondered if redundancies were on the cards. It had happened before, and everyone in the office had been so stressed wondering if they were for the chop that people barely spoke for a week.

Fat Eric always sat at the closest desk to my own. He was passionate about gardening, so what he was doing living in one skyscraper and working in another processing invoices on behalf of an elevator repair company I could never fathom. He’d spent twenty years working in Manhattan, and all he had to show for it was a colourful window box, a few dozen more pounds around his waist than when he’d arrived, and a 401k retirement fund that was still less than a quarter full. His two ex-wives were great pals with each other: he reckoned they conspired against him to milk him for every cent he earned. Mid-forties, single, still had some hair left. Should have been having some fun times. Instead, he always looked as if an invisible chain was dragging him down by the neck. He bounced from one mini financial crisis to the next, always cursing at the price of a coffee, never relaxed about buying a Subway sandwich for lunch if he forgot to make his own.

This morning Eric was gone. Someone else sat in his seat. Skinny, bald, but equally as downtrodden as his predecessor. The man worked in quick spurts, reading reports, sorting papers, checking his cellphone for messages, then repeating the cycle again. I watched him for a couple of minutes before I came to a frightening conclusion: this was Eric. Thirty pounds lighter, smooth as a bowling ball on top, but the same man. He looked crushed, defeated by life, old – as opposed to the Eric I remembered: still crushed and defeated by life, but younger.

Eric and Josie had both gone through some kind of terrible weekend. I couldn’t figure it out. Eric looked up at me and did a double-take. I guess I looked kinda ropey too. Maybe that was it? We were all part of a reality show together, not just me. One of those shows where everyone in the office does weird shit together in the name of teamwork. Usually they ended up stark naked. Something to do with breaking down barriers between co-workers, they would say. More likely a way to get ratings with some tits and ass. The way I was feeling there was no chance of my clothes coming off in front of any cameras.

Forget Eric, I told myself. I’d find out what the hell was going on eventually. In front of me was a tidy desk. Not at all how I’d left it on Friday. The computer was already on, so I wiggled the mouse to wake the monitor. I was in no mood for real work just yet, and figured a few Facebook minutes would set me up nicely. I clicked the browser button, but an error message came up. Thinking there might be a problem with the company homepage I tried the Facebook shortcut. Same message. The network server must be down. No social networking fix for me this morning. As a backup, I turned to my phone. Apple iPhone. A miracle of modern technology in glass and stainless steel. Fully charged before last night’s power cut. Should be able to check in to the world on it this morning.

I pulled the phone from the inner pocket of my jacket. It was dead. I glanced at Eric. He wasn’t using an iPhone. Seemed to have replaced it with some kind of brick and was currently arguing into it with a client.

‘It’s not new,’ he was saying. ‘The law changed more than ten years ago. In case of fire the elevator automatically descends to the ground and opens its doors. We have to retrofit the sensors and the software in every elevator we service. I don’t care if you don’t like it, but you do have to pay for it.’

I remembered those chunky phones from the nineties. Great for making phone calls, basic texting functionality, but incapable of any kind of computing experience. Perhaps he was using it out of some fanciful retro notion? I rummaged in my desk drawer for the USB charging cable. The cable wasn’t where it was normally kept, and in its place was an old-fashioned phone, just like Eric’s. I picked it up: it was fully charged. Must have been new company issue. Useful in an emergency, but a guarantee of social isolation. As I held the phone, it beeped. It wasn’t a call. Those primitive beeps meant messages. I looked at its tiny monochrome screen. In highly pixelated green letters there was a message from someone I didn’t know. I put the phone back in the drawer without bothering to read the message.

And that’s when it started.

‘You can’t ignore that!’ shouted thin Eric, suddenly ending his call. ‘You have to check the message as soon as you get it.’

‘All right, calm down,’ I told him.

‘Check the goddamn message. It’s important.’

I picked up the phone again and read the message. It told me to climb out of the window and stand on the ledge for thirty minutes. I laughed and shoved the phone back in the drawer.

‘What did it say?’ Eric gasped, a look of genuine fear in his eyes.

‘Nothing,’ I told him. ‘Just some dumb spam.’

‘It’s not dumb. You have to do it. Whatever it says!’

No matter how hard I studied his face I couldn’t detect any sign of irony. This guy was terrified of something. Again, I took the phone out of the drawer. Someone was playing a sick joke. I typed out a quick reply: ‘GO SCREW YOURSELF ASSHOLE’

I had no idea who might be the recipient of my instruction to perform such an act. I didn’t care. I wasn’t in the mood for anonymous bullshit so early in the day.

‘Hey, Eric – I told them to screw themselves,’ I boasted, showing him my message.

‘Don’t press send! I beg you!’ He ran towards me, moving with far more fluidity and ease than I remembered him possessing, and lunged at the phone.

It was too late. I’d sent it.

A line of sweat appeared from nowhere across Eric’s brow. He spoke deeply now, with authority and with a sombre tone that would have suited a funeral speech.

‘You have thirty seconds. Get the hell outta here! Oh God!’

It was a good wind-up. No hint of a smile cracking through his stony face. Very convincing. Others started to gather around me in apparent disbelief at what I’d done. Faces that were familiar, but all slightly different. All looking defeated by life, carrying regrets, bad memories, painful experiences. Suddenly they all shouted at me to go. I couldn’t keep a straight face. Someone had gone to a hell of a lot of trouble for this, and I had to show I was game for a laugh. Spurred on by my audience I walked over to the window, phone in hand, and tossed it out onto the street a dozen storeys below. I knew it was a service alley. Chances of it hitting anyone were minimal. Nevertheless, the look of abject shock on the faces that surrounded me was a little unnerving.

Then they started to panic. They ran to reception, piled into the elevators. This was getting beyond weird. I turned to Eric for an explanation. He was gone, already jamming himself into an elevator car. He couldn’t explain anything to me. He didn’t need to.

A window smashed, a smoke canister exploded on the office floor, and a figure dressed in black burst through brandishing a semi-automatic weapon. A second figure smashed through another window. My sense of humour left me. I looked at the elevator doors that were closing and decided against forcing myself into one of them. The stairs were just as close. I yanked open the doorway and threw myself onto the handrail and began to slide down it in the manner that I’d perfected years before at high school. Other than a quick bounce to change direction on each level, my feet didn’t touch the ground until I was twelve storeys lower. Smoke was already starting to fill the stairwell, and it wasn’t the canned variety: this building was on fire. It spread fast, spilling down the staircase at high speed, singeing the backs of my legs.

I didn’t look back. The building was history. I ran outside, passing a huge billboard that normally advertised Broadway musicals in neon lights. Only today, there were no lights. No musicals to promote. Just a paper hoarding in black and white about the importance of carrying a mobile phone at all times. Beyond the billboard was a checkpoint. Police were stopping pedestrians and drivers, checking something. The fire in my building must have been visible to them, but they didn’t pay it any attention. I needed to feel safe. I wanted their protection. I got in line with others waiting to pass the roadblock.

‘What are they checking for?’ I asked a woman in front of me. She said nothing, but wiggled her cell at me. Yet another brick. Perhaps they were offering upgrades to the latest models? Everyone around me seemed to need an upgrade from where I was standing.

Not having a phone to be inspected, I left the queue and started walking away from the checkpoint. The shouts that followed me were reminiscent of the chaos from which I had just bolted. One of the police officers was running towards me. Instinctively I ran. Around the corner I spied another roadblock and checkpoint, just two blocks ahead. How was the city supposed to function with this lockdown taking place? How could checking phones be more important than a building on fire? There were now two cops on my tail, both hollering at me. I didn’t know what the punishment would be for failing to carry a cell, but from the aggravation on their faces, I guessed it was more than a rap on the knuckles. I had to think of something fast. With my mind at once tired, exhilarated and confused, I couldn’t think straight. I just needed a miracle.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the miracle’s name was Tania.

Chapter 2

The basement was sordid, and I don’t mean in the dirty movie sense. The place was gross. Filthy. Like it had been abandoned by humanity and left for the rats and the pigeons and the stray cats to call their own. The creatures were gone now, but the ingrained shit, the mould and the stench remained. A fog of daylight fell weakly through a small, clouded window close to the ceiling. The place was furnished with a couple of stained sofas and a bed made from fibreboard that had become swollen from the moisture in the air. A faucet dripped noiselessly into a basin in the corner. Footsteps thumped through the ceiling from the floor of the store above.

Tania obviously wasn’t proud of this place, but she appeared to be attuned to it. As I sat cautiously on one of the dank sofas it occurred to me that she must have been waiting for me up on the street. She had spotted my plight instantly, thrown open the delivery hatch in the sidewalk and thrown me and herself inside before the cops had gotten close enough to see where I went. I was off the hook – a hook that made no sense to me.

I didn’t know what to say to her. My heart was still beating fast, and I might have been in shock. I didn’t even know if I was safe with her. She might have been an undercover policewoman. FBI, CIA, Men In Black – by now I didn’t care. I just looked up at the source of the footsteps above me and said, ‘Isn’t that the record store?’

She smiled and shook her head slowly. I started to wonder if she was attractive. Not really my type, although I was struggling to remember what my type actually was. She wore tatty, black overalls and worn-looking sneakers, and her hair was short in a kind of butch crew-cut. It seemed more likely that I wasn’t her type than that she wasn’t mine, but there was something in that smile that worked for me. There was a kind of magic going on when she looked at me. Appropriate for my miracle.

‘Tania,’ she said, offering me her hand.

I held it instinctively, like a child holds his mother’s hand for security. She laughed and forced a shake and a release. I cottoned on and mumbled an apology. I think she knew I was having a rough day. I read sympathy in her eyes.

‘Ignatius Inuus. Bit of a mouthful, I’m afraid. Call me Iggy.’

‘I know who you are,’ she told me, flatly. ‘We have been waiting a long time for you.’

‘You have? Look, sorry I was late. Had a bit of a weird morning.’

She laughed again. Somehow I felt like I was the butt of her jokes. There was something other people seemed to know and that I didn’t. I felt green, a new guy, alien to this place. Overnight I’d become a stranger in my own city.

‘What do you know?’ she asked me.

Big question. Wasn’t sure if the answer should include my acquired general knowledge from a decade of Wikipedia searches and the Literature degree I was given after three years at NYU getting drunk and failing to get laid, or whether she just wanted to know about the crazy world into which I had stumbled this morning. I guessed the latter.

‘Is this some huge reality show or what?’ I asked. ‘This is like the goddamn Truman Show on steroids. You gonna advertise a new chocolate bar to a camera behind my shoulder, huh?’

‘So you know nothing?’

‘About what?’

She sighed, but in a patient, sympathetic way. I sensed a story coming, something that would require considerable effort on her part. It took her a long time to start, as if she didn’t know how to announce whatever news the explanation would involve. She fidgeted. I looked up at the ceiling again, lost in a surreal morning, listening to the irregular thuds of the customers one floor above me. I wondered if their worlds were any different this morning. I wondered if I could go back to my apartment, sleep off this hangover, and find the nightmare had been and gone.

‘I don’t live here,’ said Tania. ‘No one does. It’s just one of a network of rooms and apartments that we can make use of. That’s why we keep it so disgusting in here: if we clean it up someone’s going to wonder why.’

That made no sense at all.

‘Why were the cops chasing me?’

‘I’ll come to that. It’s a long story. I, er, guess I’d better start at the beginning.’

Something caught my eye outside the grimy window up high. Just feet, nothing too out of the ordinary, but they weren’t going anywhere. I counted two pairs, shuffling, rotating around each other. Dark shoes, dark pants. Tania followed my gaze. We watched the feet head to the store entrance and heard them above our heads, louder and more ominous than those of regular customers. She put her finger over her lips, but I was already speechless. The feet returned to the window. Fear and confusion returned. The legs began to crouch. Tania threw me behind the sofa and dived on top of me. We couldn’t see the window from there, but I guessed that was the point. Someone was probably looking through the glass, down into this cellar. I held her in a tight hug to prevent her sliding off me and into view. I couldn’t deny the pleasure the forced intimacy gave me. A speck of warmth in a cold world. Her body was light, verging on underfed, but soft in the right places. She placed her face tight up against my cheek.

‘Don’t move until I say,’ she whispered.

The cellar filled with daylight as the steel delivery hatch opened with an ear-splitting screech.

‘Move,’ she said, louder this time, her lips brushing my ear as the word was formed, almost as if it were a kiss. She sprang to her feet and ran to the wall nearest the delivery hatch down which I had slid minutes before. I followed and pressed myself tight behind her, watching and waiting. Those same dark shoes appeared again, this time dangling into the hatch. Another pair joined them. Without another word Tania grabbed hold of a pair and yanked them down, and did the same to the other before he could pull himself out of the hatchway. Two policemen now lay stunned at our feet.

Tania pushed me up at the hatch, lifting my leg to help me climb out. One of the cops was already gathering his senses, trying to stand up.

‘Run!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t go home. Try to get to the Hudson. There are more of us who can help you there.’

I peered back down. Handcuffs were already being placed around her wrists, while the other cop was trying to climb up and pursue me. But without assistance from his otherwise occupied colleague he kept slipping back. I ran a few steps, then stopped. What would happen to Tania? What would become of my miracle? I couldn’t bear to leave her. She was my only source of sanity. A crazy sanity, I had to admit, but right now it was the best I had. I couldn’t take on two armed law officers, though. Friends used to say I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag. In any fight or flight situation I’d ever been in, the latter option always won with a comfortable margin. I’d never even punched anyone. Never felt the need, frankly.

Ignoring my unsuitability for what I was recklessly and foolhardily contemplating, I returned to the loading hatch. My mind was alive. This morning’s hangover was an ebbing memory. Ideas crackled back and forth inside my head at the speed of light, and while my body was operating at full revs, the world around me moved in slow motion. I found myself easily pushing the emerging cop back down, then jumped in, landing hard on his back.

My brain remained hundreds of moves ahead of me, making new connections and working out options, lighting up a synaptic path for me to follow until I was out of danger, filling my head with potential futures. And as I clumsily wrestled a key from the other officer, taking advantage of his shock at my unexpected reappearance, I noticed something occur amongst the adrenaline-fuelled thoughts. It wasn’t as clear as my visions of the immediate future in which Tania and I would be running along the street, hand in hand, free from persecution: we would make it to the Hudson, others would be waiting, others would take us in – we would be OK. The hazy images that slowly pulsed amongst my imaginings were not as fanciful as this. They were not optimistic fa. . .