Whatever future comes, one thing is fairly certain, excepting total American collapse—the goods will continue to flow. By human, by vehicle, by automaton, or by some combination of the three,stuff will be distributed, sold, and speculated upon across the land. This story, an exceptionally vivid, harrowing, and potent vision of one such tomorrow from two of our leading arthouse dystopians, charts that flow, up close and personal, alongside the poor souls who make it possible. I'd call it cyberpunk, but we're way past that now; this is whatever comes next, or after that. And it's just part one, so stay tuned next week for the finale. Enjoy the ride. -the ed J’s eyes pop open as Bigurl downshifts, some forty tons of steel and composite sucking through a tank of rarefied earth pus, muscling up the grade over the mountains. Passed the border between Great Basin and the Unified Plains States some seventy miles back, forty-five minutes ago according to Tablet in the glasshield mount. Used to be a river, or a city, or some shit. J’s not supposed to sleep of course, but withdrawal is starting to clench up his neck, and he’s got his googly eye on. The randomized headband reflector pushed up his sweaty forehead fools Bigurl into thinking he’s paying attention so he can close his eyes for more than a blink. Cost one scrap in the lot. The headband hurts, even the subtle hint of elastic feels like it’s squeezing his brain. J rips it off and adjusts the seat back to get his blood flowing. Just one bump would do it right now, push everything that’s coming back down his spine. Big Clock on Tablet is counting down to resstop: another two hours in the box, another two hours until scrap and score. Fuuuuuck. Flesh Moves
