Eating Money

The Last Tree Cut Down

                “Don’t let the water touch you,” the quartermaster told him.
                “Why not?” Miguel asked.
                Wordlessly, the quartermaster turned around and pulled a set of gloves, boots, and overalls from the shelf behind him. These, he threw onto the desk, where Miguel retrieved them.
                “You’re going to want to wear those all the time when you’re down there working. No exceptions.”
                Miguel looked at the leathers- well worn, well patched, slightly oily, which surprised him given the stifling, stagnant heat mere yards away, out in the open.
                “You’ll need one of these, too.” The man pushed a shovel into his hands. “You’ll receive further instructions onsite.”
                “Right.” Miguel gathered his things. “Thank-”
                “NEXT!”

The Last River, Poisoned

                The sound of the ocean filled his ears and matched his own breathing; every inhale following the receding water, while he exhaled alongside the breaking waves that reached shores he did not care for. Between the cool of the water and the warmth of the sun, he found his skin felt perfect, and in light of that, the rest of him did too. Creature comforts… He took another breath then, and some water found its way into his windpipe. A most unpleasant sensation. He exhaled quickly to relieve himself of such.
                “Mr. Melby, it’s time.” His butler.
                “Already?”
                “Yes sir.”
                Melby sighed. More of that unpleasant coolness in his mouth. He sat up, and with a flick of his fingers, the ocean faded away. “Clothes.”
                The Butler handed him the smooth slacks and his button down.
                “How long?” Melby pulled himself into his clothes.
                “Ten minutes.”
                “Tie.”
                The Butler looped the tie around Melby’s neck and proceeded to secure it.
                “Have you arranged transport?”
                “Your private track awaits, Mr. Melby.”
                “Good.” Melby cast one more look around the immaculate space. “I’ll be going.” He started for the door.
                “It’s not the same, sir.”
                Melby paused. “Excuse me?”
                “The simulator, sir. It’s nothing like the real thing.”
                “And how would you know?” Melby snarled.

The Last Fish Caught, Eaten

                “How much?”
                “What?”
                “How much will I get paid?”
                “Depends on how much you give.” The clerk nodded in the direction of the back room.
                “Does it hurt?”
                “What is this, your first time?”
                He nodded. “You see, I’ve fallen on hard times..."
                "Yeah, yeah, save it." The clerk waved his hand rather dismissively. "Ain't nobody special down here."
                "I suppose not." The man started toward the back room.
                "Well, now, hold up." The clerk squinted at him. “Yeah… yeah I think I’ve seen you.” He smiled. Not the warm smile of long lost sunny days, but a smile nonetheless. “It doesn’t hurt at all. Hurry on back.”

                Melby looked out at the sea of pale faces. “I think it’s obvious why we're all here today. There is a real problem here. A real threat. You all know it, and I know it.”  He gestured to the grand window, the one that offered a view of the Tower; he smiled upon level after level of apartments, the feeding stations, the tiered gardens. The smile had vanished when he turned back to the crowd.
                "Project Purify has failed."

                “What’s your name, sir?”
                “Does it matter?”
                The Doctor looked up from his table of tools, a face somewhere between stern and smile. “I like to know. For posterity.”
                “I’m just here for phish. Is there a problem with that?”
                “None at all,” the Doctor said. “But documentation helps with the process..."

                It  wasn’t the heat that reeled him, though that, along with being weighed down by the heavy gear and the heavier potted trees certainly hurt. Hoisting them off the backs of the trucks and half carrying, half dragging them to the surf took quite a toll on him, and by the looks of it, all the others too. Down along the beach, he could see rows upon rows of mangroves planted; closer, teams of men, dressed much like he, hauled more of the potted trees to the water’s edge, hacked off the pots, and placed them in the predug holes.
                Another worker thumped him on the chest, nearly knocking him down. “We don’t get paid to stand and gawk, kid.”
                “Right.” Miguel started back up the hill to the truck. He and  his partner Sal began to heft another one.
                A clamor of screams took their attention. Looking to the beach, Miguel could see a figure thrashing about in the surf, shrieking in agony.
                The others watched. Miguel too, for a second. Then he took off, much to the protests of his partner. Without another thought, he strode into the water.
                Now, so close, the stench of the water was overpowering; worse, the smell of sizzling, decaying flesh. He took a deep breath, and his stomach churned, but he grabbed the struggling man and began to drag him to the shore. The downed man's frenzied motions splashed some toxic water across Miguel’s face. The pain, instant and intense, caused him to stagger, and only by some miracle did he avoid falling down himself. He buried his cheek against his shoulder, trying to douse the agony as he continued dragging the man to safety.
                Then, the tide rolled out, and the other workers, formerly dumbstruck, rushed in to help the two.
                "He's not going to make it," Said Sal. "Too much water. Too long."
                "You don't know!" Miguel retorted. He patted the man's cheek, a  red and ravaged mess. "Hey. Hey!"
                No response.
                "Medic!"
                The other men began to laugh; some with honest hilarity, but bubbling beneath that like the toxic tide they'd narrowly escaped, nervous chuckles, laughs of bitter relief.
                "Listen kid," Sal laid a hand on his shoulder. "Just be glad it wasn't you. And if you want to keep it that way, don't ever do that shit again."

                "The trees are not being planted fast enough," Melby went on. "By the time we lay a mile of them, the previous has nearly died. The are not as resilient as we were led to believe. One step forward, and a half step back. And do you know whose fault that is?"

                Just then, another man entered. He looked between the first patient and the Doctor, and sighed.
                The Doctor took a look at this second man and let out quite the guffaw. "Oh, how I have been waiting for you. Mr. Raines. Sebastian, right?"
                The first man peered at the newcomer more closely. Between the two of them, this Raines managed to be the more disheveled. "Do I know you?"
                Sebastian stared at him in a resigned silence.
                "I should hope so!" the Doctor exclaimed. "Everyone down here should know Mr. Raines."
                "I would hope so too," Sebastian added quietly. "Were it the true me. I've already been murdered once."
                "Murdered?!"
                "Good sir," The Doctor said to the first man. "I apologize, but I must ask that you wait outside."
                "But I got here first!"
                "You may go before me," Sebastian replied. "In fact, I insist."
                "Nonsense!" The Doctor said. "You don't mind waiting, good sir? Mr. Raines and I have some things of import to discuss...."
                The man looked back and forth between the two of them- the Doctor, all smiles, joviality; this other man, Sebastian, the antithesis of the man in the immaculate white coat.
                "Fine," he said. "I'll step out for a few. Please hurry though."
                "No," The doctor said. "For a man like Mr. Raines, I must take my time."

                "That man!" Melby pointed. "He is responsible. It was his Laboratories that told us it would work. That the mangroves, when correctly engineered, would save our planet!" Here, he paced to the far side of the chamber. As he approached, the automated window cover slid away.
                "Look at it," Melby whispered. "LOOK AT IT!"

                A barren wasteland, brown and grey, burnt and cracked- green did not exist.  Beyond the tower, nothing rose from the ground, save for a narrow string of dark blotches in the distance, separating the stiff and fractured tan from the rolling, muddy sludge. Above it all, a dome of charcoal, a bowl of ashes overturned upon all of humanity.

                Quite a line had built up since his arrival. As he waited for the Doctor, it continued to grow.
                "What are you here for?" a fellow behind him asked.
                "Processing, I guess," He replied absently.
                "Just like everyone else," the fellow told him. "What I'm asking is, which grade?"
               

                "My family's company has taken care of us," Melby reminded them. He gestured to the tower, the city. "The towers, the last girdles of humanity. They work. They protect us! That's the work of my company!" He stalked the room, glaring at the men, many who would not meet his eyes. "For generations, this technology has kept us safe; and when I came into this broken world, I was promised a future- a green planet. And this man, Sebastian Raines, has kept it from me! He has kept it from all of us!"

                "Your mistake was giving a shit about someone else," Sal clapped him on the shoulder. "It's a good way to die, and there are enough ways to do that already, kid."
                "I could have saved him," Miguel said, bitterly.
                "It's out of your hands."
                Miguel looked around. The other men had moved back to their tasks; further up on the beach, a shallow grave. "Doesn't anyone care?"
                "It's enough that we buried him. We've all got to eat. We've got families to feed. Those are the people we can actually save."

                "Sebastian Raines," The proctor proclaimed. "Please come forward."
                Raines rose and moved to the front of the chamber, followed by glares as harsh as the sweltering heat, as salty as the dead oceans.
                "We find truth in Melby's account. It was your facilities responsible for developing methods to preserve this planet, to turn the tide."
                "And for forty years, I have done so," Raines replied. "Without discretion or secrecy on my part. Also, without the full support of those gathered here."
                "I beg to differ," Melby denied. "You hid the fact that it WOULDN'T WORK!"
                "You saw the numbers, Melby," Raines reminded him. "My scientists came to you with their work, and you cleared it."
                "And so it is my responsibility to make sure you fulfill your promises?" He turned to the crowd for support. "Ludicrous!"

                The sun, once a hazy glow in the sky, now faded completely. As such, the time for the nightshift arrived. Miguel, on account of his long day, and his injuries, called it quits. He had overheard that he could work the night if he wanted, but dayshift paid much better anyway.
                He followed the others to return his gear. The quartermaster took a look at the burns on his face, and shook his head with a wry smile.
                "It was you, wasn't it?"
                "Excuse me?"
                "They say a man died today. And y'know, men die on the line every day."
                "Do they?"
                "Yeah. But today, some fool tried to save one."
                "I had to try!"
                "Look where it got you." the man shook his head again. "Best pray your luck with planting holds up. You're worthless for Phishing because of your little stunt today."

                "My promises were contingent upon your resources," Raines countered. "When I presented my proposal to you, to those in this very room, I told you what we would need, and you all agreed then. And since then, you have all at one time or another decided it was too much, and withdrawn your support."
                "What you asked was insane," Melby protested. "If only we had noticed sooner, we could have put funding toward true solutions."
                "Cost was no object when we were drafting the plan," Raines objected. "I informed you of the resources necessary and the timetable for results. You all readily agreed." Raines looked around the room. They stared, expressionless. "You most firmly of all, Melby. And yet, when your companies would not provide all of the necessary resources, I was forced to initiate the plan without them. Now, Melby, you balk at the limited results and claim this entire venture a failure. But it isn't the science that has failed."

                "I wasn't aware there was more than one procedure," he told the fellow. Upon thinking about it, he recalled the clerk's words. "But I guess that makes sense. What are you getting?"
                "At my age, the full grade process is all I can ask for. I've done partial grades in the past, but the Doc says they won't cut it anymore."
                "That's unfortunate."
                "No, that's just the ish in 'phish'."

                "You're looking at the man responsible for our ongoing crisis," Melby told the board. "The man who assured us Project Purify would work. And yet, far too few mangroves are planted. The ones that are do not do nearly enough; I think the answer is clear, gentlemen."

                It took a long time.
                "Hey." The clerk. He gestured to the door. "You're clear to head back in."
                The man did a doubletake. No, no one had come out. He glanced at the others present, men slumped low and weary, clothing ragged. Most would not meet his eyes. Others would not look away, staring at him impatiently.
                "You going to go in or what?"
                "Right, right. I'm going."
                He rose and entered the Doctor's chamber.
                "Where's Raines?"
                "Hm?" The Doctor was straightening his various implements, things invisible from the doorway. "Who?"
                "The gentleman who was just in here."
                Now, the Doctor looked up, straightfaced. "Doesn't ring a bell, I'm afraid."
                "You insisted he come before me! Where did he go?!"
                "Come in," The Doctor replied calmly. "Relax." He set down a particularly shiny chrome rod he had been messing with, and gestured to the inclined chair in the center of the small chamber. "If you would have a seat."
                The man did not move from the door, his eyes searching the office. Cabinets and counters, most small. A rolling table which held Doctor's tools. The chair. No doors, no windows, but an odd drawer, two feet by two feet, built into the wall.
                The Doctor followed his gaze, then approached. He draped an arm around the man and ushered him inside, shutting the door. "Better?"
                Everything swam. The buzz of the light became a drone, and his steps echoed upon the tile floor. He stumbled and fell into the chair. "What did you do?"
                The Doctor cast aside some small needle, no more than a tac. "Oh, that's just something for your nerves. Try and relax. Everything will be just fine."
                The man looked around frantically, and the room spun with him. "I've changed my mind."
                "Don't be shy." The Doctor picked up the slim chrome rod again, and one side of its length gleamed. The Doctor approached, holding this tool reverently between his hands. "Let me show you the marvel that is Phish."

                They met in between the cells of elevator shafts on the lower side of the middle district. Here, the people were poor enough to ask no questions, but not quite poor enough to be on the streets.
                "Excellent work today, Melby." A hand extended from the shadows.
                With a coy smile, Melby eyed the stack of tightly bound bills, and held up his hands. "I only call things as I see them. I fight for what I believe in." Here, Melby pounded the resolute fist of one hand into the open palm of the other as he locked eyes with his benefactor.  "And I believe in a cloudless sky. A greener world, the things I was promised." He let his arms fall to his sides.
                "Melby, you believe in money. The board may readily consume whatever drivel you thrust at them, but you and I can be honest. You believe in money, and that is precisely why we get along."
                Melby looked left, then right. Other shapes scurried past without pause nor glance. They knew better."Sebastian was such a disappointment, wasn't he?" Melby tucked the cash away in the coat pocket of his suit.
                "We all have roles to play."

                Miguel made his way further downtown, past the Phishing office. At this hour, the lines were rather long, even  longer than the lines for work with the mangroves.
                "Hey, you!" A clerk called. "Get in line or keep it moving. No one likes a lookie-loo!"
                Curiosity won out. He pushed his way past the line to the front desk. "I have questions."
                "Buying or selling?"
                Miguel stared at him, confused he'd even ask. "Buying?"
                "That's not how it works. You're on the wrong end."
                "I don't understand."
                "This is the side for sellers. Buying is done uptown."
                Miguel looked over his shoulder at the line, sluggish, packed with the dirty and downtrodden, all emptyhanded. "What do these people have to sell?"
                He took a look at Miguel's cheek, then frowned. "I've heard about you. You're the guy who likes to save people, right? Too bad you're all banged up. You can't sell."
                "I'm not trying to sell," Miguel reminded him.
                "Well, like I said, buying's done uptown. Quit wasting my time."

                It was dark in his office. Dark in the foyer.
                "Butler!"
                "In the wasteroom, Mr. Melby."
                Melby proceeded to the one lit room in his apartment; sure enough, the Butler was there.
                "What's the bucket for?"
                "Mr. Melby. It's the most incredible thing. Have a look."
                Melby looked into the bucket. As far as he could tell, it held a clear liquid. He thought it oil at first; but when he dipped his fingers in, he found it not at all greasy to the touch.
                "What is this?" Melby asked. "Where did you get it?"
                The Butler grabbed Melby by his shoulders, forced his head into the bucket, and held him there until the bubbles stopped.

                "That, Mr. Melby, is the real thing."