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

become strangely calm.
    With the immediate danger past, he slows to a walk. On the far side of the street, a few people huddle around a man hopelessly pinned in the debris of a collapsed building. He screams that the fire is coming, that the fire will burn him alive, that someone should shoot him before he suffers.
    A block later, he hears a single shot from a revolver.
    He continues on and decides to cross Market Street, the perennial border between wealth and poverty. Today, no one will scorn him for his dirty clothes or greasy hair. Today, no beet-faced cop will shoo him back where he belongs.
    On Polk Street, he comes upon a saloon, its windows broken and its door open. Inside, half a dozen men are at the bar, with big, foaming schooners of beer.
    “Come on in, lad,” yells a beefy man with red hair sprouting from beneath a bowler. “Have one on the house!”
    Zed does a cautionary scan up and down the street, and then enters. As he steps up to the bar and plants his foot on the brass rail, the redhead puts a big arm over his shoulders.
    “You lookin’ for work, boy?” the man asks with maniacal grin.
    “Depends,” Zed says as a beer is pushed his way.
    “Depends on what?” the redhead asks, taking mock offense.
    “Depends on what it is.”
    “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime, that’s what it is,” the redhead declares. “It’s a chance to get into the jewelry business. It’s a chance to get rich. So what else do you need to know?”
    “What if we get caught?”
    The redhead pulls back from Zed, looks at him in amazement, and then looks at the other men. They all explode in laughter.
    “And just who do you think might be catchin’ us on this fine morning? Your mother, maybe?”
    “I don’t have a mother,” Zed answers as he takes a sip of beer.
    “Well, to tell the truth, sonny, neither do I. But I do know an opportunity when I see one.” He puts his arm around Zed again and steers him toward the door. “So let’s take a little walk.”
    A few blocks later, they approach a large jewelry store. The displays are in chaos from the shaking, but the windows are intact.
    “You see, on a day like today, nobody’s going to know whether a little broken glass isGod’s work or man’s,” the redhead instructs. He picks up a fallen gargoyle off the sidewalk and hefts its mass of pitted stone. “Perfect.” He throws it through the glass door, which shatters inward onto the carpeted floor.
    “Maybe I better keep guard,” Zed volunteers. “I don’t know what’s valuable. I’d pick up the wrong stuff.”
    “Good thinkin’, boy,” the redhead says. “You see any kind of a uniform, you yell. I’ll go shoppin’ for both of us.” He ducks in through the doorframe and reappears in the front window, pawing through the display.
    As the redhead continues to rummage inside, Zed backs off a respectful distance and sits on the curb opposite the store. The sun goes red with wood smoke and a cat slinks across the deserted street. A few minutes later, he sees the soldiers. Seven of them with rifles slung, coming down Polk, right toward him.
    Without hesitation, he rises and walks down the block to meet them.
    The one in the lead has the chevrons of a sergeant on his sleeve and a nasty face with a broken nose. Before the man can speak, Zed takes the initiative.
    “Sir,” he says respectfully. “I saw a man break into that store down there.” He points down the street to the jewelry store. “I think he’s still inside.”
    “How long ago?” the sergeant asks.
    “Just a few minutes ago. He wanted me to help him.”
    “Good thing you didn’t,” the sergeant says. “Now get the hell out of here.”
    “Yes, sir.” Zed moves away as the soldiers ready their rifles and approach the store. He conceals himself behind a pile of rubble and watches.
    Two of the soldiers enter the store. A moment later, they march the redhead out at gunpoint. He is gesticulating wildly.
    “Didn’t you see him?” the