Read Online Grey by Jon Armstrong - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jon Armstrong
Tags: Science-Fiction
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right sunk in so far I wasn't sure if I could pull it out. What I had to do was fall back into the gunk and slowly wiggle it free. Several times, I stopped to rest and let what felt like white-hot embers of pain in my left subside.
When I got to the base of the Loop, I doubted I could make it. It was thirty feet high and steep. After I took a breath, I started to climb, but when I dug my fingers into the sticky soil, black roaches scurried out of holes as if I had disturbed their sleep. I got maybe three feet before the soil let go and a half-ton of it avalanched down.
After slapping the bugs from all over, digging dirt from my eyes, nose, and ears and spitting the stuff from my mouth, I tried again. This time I went slower, but my climbing had brought out so many waterbugs I spent half my time flicking them off my arms and legs. When I got four feet high, the earth let go again and half-buried me in a mound. Once I had pulled myself out and cleaned off, I felt sick. I vomited blood, and knew I didn't have much time.
Turning, I watched the men. One had taken off his silver jacket and was waving his arms about as if explaining something. The sleeves of his undershirt—if that's what it was—hung to his knees like long pillowcases.
The undershirt man began wrestling one of the others in white plastic. They pushed each other back and forth and shouted. When the plastic man fell, the others cheered. I feared they were going to start kicking him or pummeling him, but a moment later the fallen man was helped up. They all laughed as though it was fun.
They were people, I reminded myself. They weren't unlike me. They just lived in a different place and wore different clothes. Some of them had to be friendly and polite.
Pulling myself out of the sand, I stood, and started limping toward them, avoiding the deeper water and mud and muck. When I was ten feet away, the one in his undershirt pointed at me. He had frizzy-looking light brown hair, round, bloodshot eyes, a thin crooked nose, and a patch of oozing purple skin on his forehead. Up close, I could see that his undershirt was a ghastly nonwoven that looked as rough as unfinished oak plank. Just below the neckline was a small, blue bug-looking thing with text below that read M. Bunny . Pointing at me, he said, "I thought I recycled you!"
The others laughed.
I tried to smile, but felt instantly ostracized. One of them in a silvery jacket pointed to my suit, snickered, and nudged the man next to him. Another said something about my bride throwing me in the ocean and I wondered if they knew of Nora. Pure H issue seven had copy that read: Mechanical Man. Exquisite Oceans . After swallowing a knot in my throat, I said, "Hello. I'm Michael Rivers."
"Who?" asked the man I presumed was Mr. Bunny.
"First son of RiverGroup."
"No!" said another. "What shitting team you with?"
"He doesn't shit. That's why his jacket is that color!" answered someone else.
They all laughed.
"I fell from the Loop," I continued. "Can anyone help me back?"
"He's the enemy!"
"He stinks!" said another, covering his nose.
"I used to dance," I said, hoping they might know me from my PartyHaus days. "I was on the channels." None of it seemed to register. Instead they giggled and pushed each other like schoolboys.
"He's ill and delusional," said one.
"Could be high-fructose psilocybin!"
"Wait!" said Bunny, as he looked me up and down. "He thinks he's the one who dressed in gold."
It was true. I had a twenty-eight-carat-gold outfit. "Yes," I said, glad he remembered if disheartened how.
Bunny stepped beside me, and as if introducing me to the group, said, "You slubber idiots, it's the evil banging-boy. In the deadest jacket ever seen with his diseased face in need of serious recycling!" He got them to laugh again.
I tried to smile to show that I didn't mind, but worried that no good was going to come of them. I wished I had blacked out in the mud and suffocated.
"That's not him!" said another, who
When I got to the base of the Loop, I doubted I could make it. It was thirty feet high and steep. After I took a breath, I started to climb, but when I dug my fingers into the sticky soil, black roaches scurried out of holes as if I had disturbed their sleep. I got maybe three feet before the soil let go and a half-ton of it avalanched down.
After slapping the bugs from all over, digging dirt from my eyes, nose, and ears and spitting the stuff from my mouth, I tried again. This time I went slower, but my climbing had brought out so many waterbugs I spent half my time flicking them off my arms and legs. When I got four feet high, the earth let go again and half-buried me in a mound. Once I had pulled myself out and cleaned off, I felt sick. I vomited blood, and knew I didn't have much time.
Turning, I watched the men. One had taken off his silver jacket and was waving his arms about as if explaining something. The sleeves of his undershirt—if that's what it was—hung to his knees like long pillowcases.
The undershirt man began wrestling one of the others in white plastic. They pushed each other back and forth and shouted. When the plastic man fell, the others cheered. I feared they were going to start kicking him or pummeling him, but a moment later the fallen man was helped up. They all laughed as though it was fun.
They were people, I reminded myself. They weren't unlike me. They just lived in a different place and wore different clothes. Some of them had to be friendly and polite.
Pulling myself out of the sand, I stood, and started limping toward them, avoiding the deeper water and mud and muck. When I was ten feet away, the one in his undershirt pointed at me. He had frizzy-looking light brown hair, round, bloodshot eyes, a thin crooked nose, and a patch of oozing purple skin on his forehead. Up close, I could see that his undershirt was a ghastly nonwoven that looked as rough as unfinished oak plank. Just below the neckline was a small, blue bug-looking thing with text below that read M. Bunny . Pointing at me, he said, "I thought I recycled you!"
The others laughed.
I tried to smile, but felt instantly ostracized. One of them in a silvery jacket pointed to my suit, snickered, and nudged the man next to him. Another said something about my bride throwing me in the ocean and I wondered if they knew of Nora. Pure H issue seven had copy that read: Mechanical Man. Exquisite Oceans . After swallowing a knot in my throat, I said, "Hello. I'm Michael Rivers."
"Who?" asked the man I presumed was Mr. Bunny.
"First son of RiverGroup."
"No!" said another. "What shitting team you with?"
"He doesn't shit. That's why his jacket is that color!" answered someone else.
They all laughed.
"I fell from the Loop," I continued. "Can anyone help me back?"
"He's the enemy!"
"He stinks!" said another, covering his nose.
"I used to dance," I said, hoping they might know me from my PartyHaus days. "I was on the channels." None of it seemed to register. Instead they giggled and pushed each other like schoolboys.
"He's ill and delusional," said one.
"Could be high-fructose psilocybin!"
"Wait!" said Bunny, as he looked me up and down. "He thinks he's the one who dressed in gold."
It was true. I had a twenty-eight-carat-gold outfit. "Yes," I said, glad he remembered if disheartened how.
Bunny stepped beside me, and as if introducing me to the group, said, "You slubber idiots, it's the evil banging-boy. In the deadest jacket ever seen with his diseased face in need of serious recycling!" He got them to laugh again.
I tried to smile to show that I didn't mind, but worried that no good was going to come of them. I wished I had blacked out in the mud and suffocated.
"That's not him!" said another, who
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