The Laurentian War, Chapter 1

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Arlo had been stuffed into a suit and in the back of a limo as he arrived at his little apartment after work. A butler, sent by his benefactor – his cousin – no doubt, had his measurements down to the millimeter, so his annoyance wasn’t for lack of comfort, rather the extravagance of it all. It was a simple suit, but the gray sports jacket shone at the diamond studded cufflinks and glittered as the occasional glint of light caught the polyester and gold threaded tie. His shoes, made from an extinct animal he’d never heard of, squeaked as he slipped them on while the butler lightly guided them out of the apartment. The sleek, black limo met Arlo at the ground floor as he stumbled out, tying his shoes mid-hop and clasping the last loose button. The butler glided past him, coming to a rigid stop at the limo door.

“Sir, if I might suggest,” the butler said, presenting his hand, “try this. We must leave immediately.” He spritzed a rancid, musky cologne along the neck, wrist, and bending down, to the back of Arlo’s knees and promptly opened the door of the limo. Still caught in the whirlwind of sudden plans and cologne, he climbed into the back of the limo. As he looked up to thank the butler, the door slammed shut and the vehicle started moving.

A woman in a sleek, black dress with a thin gold stripe down each side beamed at him from a few seats down as he looked up.

“Drink?” she asked, extending a glass. He raised his hand to refuse, but the woman had already scooped ice from a compartment within a seat and began to pour a pungent whiskey. She scooted and slid down several of the leather seats to present him the drink. He took it and choked down a potent sip as the woman crossed her legs and continued to stare at him. Her dark eyes, behind thick-framed glasses, pierced his face for longer than he was comfortable with in the silence.

“Um, thank you –”

“Nahla,” she interjected, raising a silver-painted, manicured hand.

“Thank you, Nahla,” he said, shaking her limp-fish hand.

“Say,” she said, scooting closer, “don’t I know you?” She peered over her glasses and frowned. Arlo shook his head slowly – he had never seen this woman before in his life. “Yeah, I do know you,” she continued, “you’re that engineer. Ah, what was it? Arnold, no, no, Argo,” she fumbled excitedly. He was just a water engineer – her interest made him frown in suspicion, but it dissolved as he continued to sip.

“Arlo,” he finished for her as he took another sip. She nodded and smiled satisfactorily. He didn’t expect to be recognized, especially by a beautiful woman, perhaps it was the elegance of the night.

He tried to keep his eyes from wandering up and down her slender legs, along her glossy, dark hair. Her dangling earring caught the light from the window, illuminating the skin along her neck, where he noticed a necklace and the beginnings of a tattoo. The necklace was thin, silver, insignificant really, when compared to the glamor of the dress and earrings. But the tattoo piqued his interest – her skin was otherwise bare, but the tattoo was blue from age.

Nahla cleared her throat. He quickly looked out the window, blushing.

The squat apartments of uptown Old Detroit – Odetro to the locals – blurred past the windows as they wound through the city effortlessly. Countless screens bore down on the streets, relaying endless advertisements: athleisure, meal plans, healthcare, and the most abundant, Hydro-supplemental pills. A particular advert caught his attention, its message spreading hundreds of feet along a building on the horizon. The words crawled across the screen quickly as children and their parents played in a lake, jumping around, splashing, and swimming in the glittering water. He frowned at the idyllic billboard. No one could play in water like that anymore – not since the start of the war. It also reminded him that he never took his second supplement of the day.

The limo glided to a stop in front of a massive set of stone stairs leading to a white-columned mansion illuminated by hidden stage lights within pedicured bushes lining the forefront. She slipped out of the limo before he could say goodbye. He watched as her serpentine figure slithered up the stairs and cozied up to the arm of another woman headed the same direction. He shook his head and exited the car led by the butler who gave a reaffirming nod, pointing to a group of people dressed to the toe in aquamarine at the top of the stairs.

The group was circled around a porcelain fountain with four entangled mermaids spitting water out in each cardinal direction. Occasionally, a member would stick out a small cup and catch a shot of spit and drink. A hollow-eyed blond man, rather animated after a few too many non-water drinks, playfully splashed a couple passing by as he approached. The couple scoffed then chuckled nervously, quickening their pace. The shortest member of the group, frowned at the blond, who at once stiffened and regulated his actions.

“Ah, cousin,” said the short man at Arlo’s chest, “welcome. Come, grab you a sip, you look parched.” He patted him on the back, handing him a stemmed glass. The man, in ceremonial fashion, held his glass up to the fountain, caught the stream, and clinked.

“To a new future. What do you say?” The onlookers gathered closer and offered a cheer, followed by a shot.

“Hey, Quincy. Thanks for inviting me,” he said between sips, “to a new future.” He drank until the boorish taste of whiskey left his mouth and the burn left his chest. That’d save him a few supplements he thought to himself. He was still unsure of what the occasion was, but in fear of offending his host, he played along.

“Come inside, that’s where the party is.” Quincy led Arlo to the mansion doors that opened to a cacophony of noise and activity. Glass chandeliers hung from the high-vaulted ceilings, romantically lighting the lower room of the main hall. The center of the sprawling central chamber was hugged by a staircase on each side that amplified the New Jazz band playing within its center. The smooth croon of saxophone and trumpets echoed off the distant walls, mingled with an electronic beat, and crawled over and around the guests seated in the two long tables lined in front of the stage. Nearly everyone had a glass in hand, filled with either wine or whiskey, adding to the fervor of the crowd. A feast crowded the ornate oak tables, housing mountains of squash, potatoes, and fruits saddling the main entrée of roasted ox and what looked to be meals of chicken and cow.

“Aren’t those extinct?” Arlo chimed in as they passed the festivities and walked up the left staircase. He hadn’t seen either one in years, especially in a cooked form.

“Technically,” his cousin said slyly, dodging the question, “simulation meat, alternative. You know we can grow all sorts of stuff nowadays.” Arlo shrugged; he was never the one to question the nuance of the obscenely wealthy – a dissonance he developed through the repetition of these parties.

Looking out over the crowd as they climbed the stairs, he recognized some faces here and there. The shrewd face and pursed lips of the newscaster that hovered above his head during his commutes to work in the city, the lanky body of gold medalist high jumper, Nick Codswall, dancing elegantly with an equally athletic man, his partner, gold medalist sprinter, Antony Bower. Trillionaire philanthropist, Robert Nunn, hiding in the corner of the hall, soaking in the party. The hollow-eyed blond man was stalking around the main floor, looking for another drink, or trouble, whichever came first. The cousins reached the top of the stairs and watched over the crowd for a moment, directly over the band, before Quincy began to speak.

“You still okay in that little apartment? I can put you somewhere nicer. Closer to work and all that.” Their talks always began like this.

“No, I’m okay. I get along just fine.” This was true. He got along just fine; he was content with his little apartment and having enough to eat and enough supplements to keep him hydrated and happy. Quincy, uncomfortable with that complacency, often asked if he wanted an upgrade. He served as his benefactor, after all, a promise he’d kept after their parents died. Familial ties allowed him to pull strings, an extra water ration here, an extra meal there.

“They treat you alright at work?” He didn’t know they really had no choice but to. Everyone knew of Arlo’s quiet, distinct connection to wealth; Quincy was the largest source of money to the entire engineering branch at Soluble. Life as a water engineer was serviceable, given the demand during the war.

“Yeah, peachy.” Quincy furrowed his brow, annoyed at his nonchalant demeanor. Arlo still surveyed the crowd, avoiding his cousin’s eye. He opened his mouth to add something more, but his eye caught a streak of black and gold flashing across the dancefloor.

“Just making sure,” he went on, “we just captured the Mideast sector, you know. We’d been fighting there for months. Fucking Montreal, man. Toronto is all but ours now.” He nodded along as he watched Nahla swing from one dancer to another, her dangling earrings swaying with her body. “Your bright mind helped them set up camp in record time – water is already flowing down to New Detroit,” he smirked and continued, “I slid us some extra for this little gathering here.” Unimpressed, Arlo kept quiet. A short silence, then, “I have a proposition for you,” he blurted out.

“What do you know about that woman down there?” Arlo asked, ignoring Quincy and pointing down to the dancefloor at Nahla who was now dancing alone in front of the stage.

“Nothing,” he said dismissively, side-eyeing the woman prancing about the floor, “Like I was saying, I have a proposition for you.” Arlo grunted and nodded his head, urging him to keep talking so he didn’t lose sight of Nahla. “A raise of sorts, in exchange for a little expedited research.” Her skin glimmered under the low light of the chandeliers.

“We’re looking for more efficient supplements, ones that curb hunger and thirst. You know we lose all sorts of stuff in the modified food.” She had a glass in her hand, balanced between her middle fingers, carefully swaying as not to spill.

“You’ll have your own lab, a choice of location, more rations, whatever you need to be comfortable.” The crowd had gathered around her now – she danced with an old man, who grabbed a little lower than her waist. He was surprisingly dexterous for his old age, still able to lead the two in a feverous flamenco. Their feet never stumbled, and the man had to stand on tiptoes to spin her around as she towered over him. The man, some mogul of an industry he sold all his stock of before it collapsed, enjoyed every second, almost forgetting he was at least eighty years old. As the band reached a fever pitch, the pair finished their dance, extending their arms, and taking a bow before the cheering crowd.

“It’s for the best, you know? With the war and all,” Quincy said excitedly. Arlo scoffed and his cousin flinched and huffed.

“Arlo, wake the fuck up!” He pushed Arlo's shoulder and slapped him across the face to get his attention. Arlo pushed back, failing to knock him back as far as he would’ve liked. The scene atop the staircase caught the attention of a few in the crowd – some gasped, others whispered excitedly and pointed. Arlo, for the first time since ascending the stairs, looked at his cousin and saw his bewildered eyes and deep red face flushing. He was leaning on the front of his feet to appear taller and clenched his fists. Quincy straightened up, patting down his suit, and regained his composure.

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said, irritated, rubbing the right side of his face. He was hesitant to commit – the current supplements were still being investigated. There were suspicions they caused birth defects, among other birth-related insufficiencies, and the side effects were proven to worsen with abuse of the pills. And what use was more money in his pocket, he thought.

“You have three days.” Quincy stormed away, deeper into the labyrinth halls of the mansion and slammed a door. He cringed, he hated giving an impartial answer and Quincy always provided for him; but his short fuse made him almost intolerable. He never approved of Arlo’s blasé attitude after the death of his mother.

Series of wolf whistles snapped him back to the party. A small crowd had gathered near the front door. Standing next to a running Cupid birdbath, Nahla was staring back at him. She’d removed her high heels and her hair hung loose and disheveled at her shoulders. She did a sultry spin, slipping one of her dress straps off. She stuck her hand out and caught some of the flowing water, never breaking eye contact, and took a sip, then using her wet hand, slicked her hair back before turning and walking out of the mansion.

He stared as she strutted out the double wide doors, flipped a coin into the mermaid fountain, and slowly walked down the stone steps. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his jacket, and quick-stepped down the stairs to catch up to her. Those piercing, wide eyes, behind thick framed glasses were burned into his memory. Her golden, serpentine body dancing in the limelight and her glowing smile caught his attention better than she had in the limo. He reached the door and took a splash of the Cupid water to cool his face. As he walked out, the blond man, still lurking, was flipping the coin she threw in the water.

“Which way did she go?” he asked.

“Heads or tails?” The hollow-eyed man kept throwing the piece of tarnished silver in the air. Arlo looked up and down the stairs and the street, avoiding the man’s question. He raised his hands in frustration and mussed his slicked back hair. He turned back towards the coin tosser, and as he threw it in the air:

“Tails.” It landed in his hand, but he didn’t reveal its result, leaving his fist closed.

“What’s your name, kid,” the blond asked.

“Arlo.”

“Why are you here, Arlo?”

“Quincy is my cousin.” The blond flinched at the name.

“Ah, well, so be it,” he said, extending a spindly hand donning a solid gold ring, “the name’s Fischer.” Arlo took his hand, perturbed by his sudden interest, and felt the coin fall in his hand. He looked down at his hand – tails. When he looked up, Fischer was signaling behind him, down the road. He could just barely see a silhouette in the shadowy street heading towards the city. Arlo turned to give him one last nod of approval, but he was gone.

He descended the stairs and walked towards the dark road, occasionally jogging to gain a step or two on the fading Nahla. He found it odd, though, that she decided to walk back, especially through the city. The only people that lived in the heart of the city were the homeless and poor. The area was largely subsidized by the Great Lakes Committee, the city being where one of their headquarters resided. Anyone worth a damn lived uptown or in the hills, like the mansion where the party was. It’s a nice night anyway, maybe she’s enjoying it, he thought to himself.

Out in the hills, he could see the stars – they weren’t drowned out by the light of the city. There were fewer stars than he remembered when he was younger, and the moon seemed smaller, but with sundown, the cool October wind blew lightly through his half-undressed suit as the night caressed his neck. His leather shoes clicked along the pavement and the echo of the late-night newscaster reading monotonously of war efforts and casualty recaps filtered from the city. On some nights, if it was quiet enough, he could almost hear the pops of machine guns and muted booms from the St. Lawrence – since The Great Lakes dried up in The Great Drought all those years ago it felt like all he ever heard was war.

He could see the glow of the stacks of cool neon lights, towering skyscrapers, and weaving highways and bridges hovering above the street as he looked down on the city from the outskirts. Flashes of advertisements for the newest hydration supplements, call of actions for the Great Lakes army showcasing fancy new weapons, and numbers of realty agents lined the horizon and beaconed down from ad-blimps drifting through the air. “CRUSH THE CANUCKS,” one of them said, “join the fight today and receive free supplements.” The Army still needed bodies four years into the war, he thought, shaking his head. Further beyond Odetro, directly east, connected by a superhighway over formerly Canadian land, New Detroit sparkled on the horizon. It towered over the valley that once was Lake Erie.

As he entered Odetro, a blaring siren sounded through the streets. A red countdown clock set for midnight stained the glass of the tallest buildings. A blockade erupted from the ground behind him, shielding the entrance to the city. Yellow warning signs flashed along the front of the blockade as an electric car came screeching to a stop and died as it approached – wheels locked, lights turned off, and heads-up display disabled. An obviously displeased man got out shouting, pounding the translucent barrier with his fists.

“Shit, curfew already,” Arlo muttered to himself as he quickened his pace. The murmur of the city quieted with the announcement – cars on the highways disappeared, the newscast went dark, and no one roamed the streets. His shoes clicked and his heart thumped, curtailing the silence of the night. As he passed dark alleyways, groans and moans of the homeless arose from the vents in the ground. With curfew, they weren’t allowed to roam the streets, so they’d been forced underground, into the lower district where illegitimate traders and thieves dwelled. It was known an entire network of shadow market manipulation, weapons manufacturers, insurgents, and illicit substances lined the walls of the underground, but Great Lake enforcement never seemed to find any solid evidence – so they were left alone.

He was near the central plaza now. The signs of the shoddy markets lining the street were left on but remained unoccupied. The normal vendors selling trinkets of copper and silver abandoned their carts for cover. Only the buzz and flicker of lights and the machination of an automatic street cleaner sucking up paper and plastic remained in the open. Arlo had heard stories of what happened after curfew in Odetro, most including blood and violence, but he didn’t want to be the one to find out. Frankie Lano, a former star cyberball player who loved to party, got caught stumbling into the city during curfew a few months back. The next time he was seen, he walked with a severe limp, half of his face drooped, and he could only speak briefly in between long wheezes.

He picked up his pace along the plaza, sticking to the sidewalks. Screams would erupt from the underground vents, guttural, ear-piercing, and damning, causing him to jump every few alleys. The hairs on his arm and neck stood on end as the shadows loomed and grew darker under the dying lights.

He passed an alley absent of any noise, where the shadows seemed to move. There was no scream this time, but a cutesy laugh trickled through the darkness. He could just barely hear the plodding of feet from the end of the alley and make out a silhouette.

“Nahla,” he called out, “is that you?” Another laugh rang out, this time louder, and much closer. “I just wanted to make sure you got home alright.” Now that he thought about it, he didn’t know why he followed Nahla into the city. He lived uptown and could’ve taken the limo back or hitched a ride up the superhighway avoiding downtown entirely. Before he could come to a reasonable conclusion, another siren shrieked through the empty plaza.

“Curfew is now being enforced. Please remain indoors. Please remain indoors,” a robotic voice repeated. A spotlight beamed down from the sky from a flashing blimp and methodically scanned the plaza. From the center of the plaza over a supplement cart, along the sidewalk, peeking into ramen and athleisure shops, to the foot of the towering advertisements.

Arlo ducked into the alley where darkness pressed into his eyes. He felt his surroundings: grime-covered brick to his sides, the spotlight roaming behind him, and a dim light coming from the end of the alley. A warm breeze from the vents swirled around him, hugging his staggering legs. His heart pounded in his ears betraying his urge to be completely silent. A slow drip of water trickled onto the pavement, whispering.

“Arlo.” He spun around, clutching the wall. Nothing. He crept backwards keeping an eye on the still roaming spotlight surveying the plaza. Again, a whisper, “Arlo,” he could hear, hushed. He turned away from the spotlight and towards the end of the alley.

“Just keep walking,” he murmured to himself, “not even a peep.” Before he could take another step, he felt a graze along his neck and down his lower back. He swatted at his neck and flailed his legs out to deter the potential predator. Still, it circled around him, swallowing him whole in the darkness.

“Looking for me?” a hushed voice whispered in his ear. The soft touch of long nails traced his ear and along his chin to his mouth. He whipped around again and caught a glint in a pair of thick framed glasses with a soft glow of golden skin illuminated by the spotlight shining down through the alley. Nahla pulled him into the shadows, close to the wall, out from the spotlight and pinned him to the wall, standing nose to nose. “Don’t make a noise,” she said with a peck on his lips, “follow me, it’s not safe.” Stunned by her intimacy, he couldn’t respond. She dragged him through the darkness, hugging the shadows of the grime-covered wall. They walked towards the dim light at the end of the alley. As they approached, he realized it was a door marked with a spray-painted X and O. A dim light hung just above the door, covered by a thin layer of mold and mildew causing it to illuminate greenish yellow instead of white. Nahla knocked three times and the door swung in revealing a long flight of receding steps.

They descended the stairs for what felt like ten minutes. Every few steps, she would look back at him and smile. Their steps echoed on the stone steps and bounced off the walls of the passageway. The further they went, the more horrid the smell became. He twisted his face and flared his nostrils as the pungent air smacked him.

“Where the hell are we going?” he asked with a nasally voice, determined to keep the taste of the smell out of his mouth. She giggled as they reached a clearing.

The base of the lightless stairs opened into a large underground plaza. Arlo had never seen the elusive underground scene. The murmur of lively conversations and arguments buzzed in the air, filling it with a life unseen on the ground above. A brutish woman, much larger than both Nahla and Arlo, wandered in front of them, waving around a massive chrome weapon.

“State of the art shit right here, fellas” she bragged to no one in particular, “they don’t make ‘em like this no more.” It was true they didn’t make them anymore, but mostly because laser-powered instruments had been banned since the assassination of the 52nd president, Liz Winters, four years ago by presumed Canadian spies. The gun, as massive as the woman, shone under the dim light of the underground. Its sleek, aerodynamic design and ergonomic handling made it a force to be reckoned with in long-distance combat. No matter the skill level of the marksman, the instant, continuous firing rate of steel-cutting lasers destroyed everything in its wake, especially the remains of a human body. Its destruction was so gruesome that the reversion back to artillery-based weaponry was wholesale after President Winters, conveniently igniting a less destructive war.

“A bit overkill, no?” she said from the corner of her mouth as they passed the mountainous woman. She hardly looked like someone who needed a weapon, let alone a laser gun. With widened eyes, he nodded in agreement. They passed booths of weapons dealers, drug stands with pills in every color you can imagine, and half-dead beggars scraping for food or supplements. He winced at the sight of exposed ribs, flaking skin, and rotting teeth. He looked away and gagged when they scraped the floors with their long, uncut fingernails collecting the grime and chewed on it with their remaining teeth. A harrowing, cackling laugh rang out as a homeless man pointed at Arlo. Nahla’s hand tightened around his and they walked faster, nearly at a jog.

“Where are we going?” he asked again.

“My place. Is that okay?” He nodded and blushed. When he followed her into the city, he didn’t think he would make it quite this far. Deeper into the underground they went, past the plaza and into the shadows where apartments lined the walls. Leaned against some of the doors of the apartments were groups of huddled misfits playing games. Some played dice, others card games, the rest played five finger filet with an occasional yelp if they were unlucky. Piles of low denomination money always resided in the middle, being closely watched by every member of the group. Some of the people recognized her and either nodded or gave a meager wave then quickly turned their attention back to the game.

“555, this is me,” Nahla said as she unlocked the door. The dainty décor of the apartment was blinding compared to its dark and dingy outer layer. A light, fragrant vanilla wafted through the air complemented by a hint of stale wine from the left open bottles crowding the countertops of the kitchen. The bed, sitting in the right corner, was made nicely as if no one had slept in it for a few days. The pillows didn’t even have an indention where the head would go. A burnt orange sectional sat nestled in the left corner, just past the small kitchen, facing a muted television. Two paintings hung on the back wall: one abstract with blotches of blue, green, and brown splattered across the canvas; the second, Renaissance era, depicting languid scholars draped in blood-stained cloth, stumbling to the foot of the fountain of youth. Green-haired cherubs floated around the fountain, almost mocking the decrepit. Between the two paintings was a window, or a one-way mirror he figured, since it didn’t seem the people sauntering past could see into the apartment.

Nahla danced about, spot cleaning along the way, tossing clothes to a basket in the corner of the room, discarding supplement packaging, and re-corking bottles. Arlo stood just inside the door awkwardly, not wanting to intrude on the pristine nature of the studio. The rugged nature of the underground faded in his mind as he took in the new surroundings. She waved her hand in the air and a smooth lo-fi tune floated through the room from a radio to the right of the entrance. Amid her floaty housekeeping, she poured herself a glass of deep red wine.

“Make yourself at home,” she said from the kitchen, inviting him further into the apartment. He kicked off his shoes at the door and hung his jacket on a hook to his left, next to her keys. She slinked her way to Arlo, meeting him in the middle of the room, swinging her hips, glass in hand. She held the glass to his lips, he drank, and she tipped further, and he drank some more. She set the glass down on the counter and draped her arms around his neck. Her eyes were level with his as they slowly danced to the music, her long, slender nose touching his. He swayed with the music, the breeze of inebriation aiding him.

The longer and slower they danced, the more his confidence grew. His hands slid lower and lower down her back the closer their bodies got. She made the first move with a light kiss on his lips and tried to drift away. Arlo, unsatiated, wanted more. He braced her close, and with a kiss of passion, slowly unzipped her dress. With another wave of a hand, the music grew louder, and the lights went out. She unbuttoned his shirt and pulled him by the tie to the bed, their lust strengthening in the dark. Her white smile, golden complexion, and dark beady eyes shone brighter in the dark. A flurry of hot and heavy limbs and lips tumbled onto the bed. A stripped Nahla sat atop Arlo, finally ridding him of shirt and tie. She leaned in for another kiss and in the same motion, restrained his hands together with the tie and pushed his head back to the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, suddenly hopping up and running to the bathroom. He nodded and stared at the ceiling, allowing a dormant, yet invigorating, passion to build in her absence. She came back, now dressed in dainty, lilac lingerie, illuminated by the bathroom light. In her silhouette, Arlo could see she was holding rope in her left hand and something he couldn’t quite make out in the right. “Relax,” she said, spreading his legs, “this should be fun.” Nahla stripped him of his fancy leather shoes, peeled his pants off, and tied his legs to the bedposts. She continued her ascent, gliding her hands along every inch of his body. “You’re mine now,” she whispered in his ear. She closed his eyes softly with her hand, and with sudden force, stuck a sock in his mouth. The item she held in her right hand became clear to Arlo as he felt a sharp edge on his throat. His breathing quickened and he began to panic, but he couldn’t move under the weight of Nahla and his restraints. “The more you struggle, the worse it’ll be,” she spat, her demeanor now absent of the lust intoxicating them just moments before. He struggled, trying to flail his legs as dread and panic set in. She pressed the knife tighter to his neck, threatening to break skin. Still, he resisted. She got up from the bed once more and laughed as he tried to scream with his mouthful of sock. She grabbed the glass of wine from the counter, plugged his nose, and poured.

“That should calm you down,” she said. He had no choice but to swallow as the sedative slowly trickled through the gag. An ocean of creeping drowsiness washed over his body, and he could no longer resist. She sighed, running the blade lightly along his skin. Arlo, defeated, sunk into the bed.