Free The Forever Man: A Near-Future Thriller by Pierre Ouellette

running board and then to the ground.
    “My coat, please. And my hat.”
    Arjun reaches in, removes the overcoat and the hat from a hook, and helps Zed struggle into them. The motion strains Zed’s connective tissue to the point of pain. He then hands Zed his cane and helps him down the embankment, one cautious step at a time.
    When they reach the truck, it still burns vigorously, with bright flames billowing out the broken windows and lashing out at the night sky, an angry furnace stoked by gasoline, oil, upholstery, and human flesh. About ten yards away, Arjun’s nose takes in the stink of the bubbling corpse. It repels him and he looks to Zed, hoping for a similar reaction so they can leave. Instead, Zed smiles and put out his hands to catch the warmth of the blaze.
    “It’s wonderful,” comments Zed. “There’s nothing quite as nice as a big fire on a cold night. Don’t you think so?”
    “I suppose.”
    “I mean, you can have furnaces, you can have heaters. But they just aren’t the same.”
    Arjun looks at Zed’s face. Only the eyes seem alive, small wet pockets that glisten in the firelight.
    “Have you ever been camping, Arjun?”
    “Yes, once or twice.”
    Their conversation is interrupted by a dull thud and the outline of motion inside the truck, followed by an extra rush of flames. For a horrible moment, Arjun thinks the man is still alive inside. Then he realizes that the seat belt has burned through and the body has fallen onto the ceiling of the cab. A flaming arm flops out the window and ignites little tufts of dry grass.
    Zed stares at the sizzling arm and continues. “I went camping once. When I was a young boy. My father and I took the trolley to the edge of town. We had a blanket, some bread, and a bottle of whiskey. We walked up into the hills and built a fire when it got dark. My father drankthe whiskey and passed out.” Zed pauses and wheezes out a laugh. “As soon he as he was out cold, I took the blanket away from him and sat by the fire until it went out. It was warm. It was wonderful.” He sighs. “Oh well, I guess nothing lasts forever, does it?”
    “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Zed.”
    The little wet eyes flash bright with fire. “Nor does anyone else. At least, not yet.”
    And in the center of his head, as he basks in the warmth of the ghastly fire, Zed feels a strange little clock spring forth, a clock that only tocks and never ticks. A clock whose tocks were launched so long ago, at the time of his birth, in the twilight of the nineteenth century. He tries to keep count, to see how far back the tocks will take him, but the lateness of the hour and pleasant blanket of radiant heat make it difficult to concentrate.
    As best he can tell, they stop when he is about fifteen.
    The crisp morning air invigorates a young Thomas Zed as he walks down Market Street and watches the first light of dawn paint the big buildings. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he feels the twin wads of dollar bills. He’s a smart lad, they say, the men on the waterfront that let him gamble with them far into the night. Got a way with numbers. Never forgets a card. Several have silently backed him, and he splits his winnings with them. The boy’s a moneymaker, and they protect their investment from sore losers and drunks.
    At Third, he looks up at the Hearst Building as he turns south off of Market. Someday, he will have a building like that. Others dream it, but he can feel it, and the power of that feeling propels his youthful legs down the deserted sidewalk. A wagon comes up from behind, the clop of horses’ hooves bouncing off the buildings and the pavement. As it passes, he sees its teamster stare stonily down the street, with a slack grip on the reins. The back is open, so he sprints and jumps aboard and rides the next few blocks before hopping off and heading west into the tenements, the ramshackle buildings constructed mostly of wood and rising four or five stories above street level.
    When