Blocking out the Noise

Someone was knocking at the door. He wasn’t going to answer, but he was getting sick of it all. Once he turned himself over to them, it was vial after vial until he was so ill they'd have to stop. Just the sound of knocking turned his stomach; he would curl up and wait for it to cease, and the dogs to stop barking. 1

It was just a matter of time until their efforts would be adjusted to match his delinquency. At the moment, though, all he had to deal with was the hollow knocking on his door, the noisy mutts, and his pathetically weak heartbeat. 2

When the rapping stilled and silence settled in the hallway, Alestor crawled out from underneath his desk. They keep shortening his recuperation periods, he thought, as he slowly rose to his feet. Dizziness followed, sending him to the bathroom where he lost the contents of his stomach. When he emerged, he returned to his table and began organizing his designs. 3

Then his phone rang. Expecting Infections Research Control, he ignored it. Six tones bleeped before the machine picked up and a welcome voice spoke:4

“Les, are you there?” asked Renold. “I’m checking in on you.” For a moment Alestor wondered if this was an Infections Research ploy. “Don’t crap in your pants when I knock on your door. I’m passing by.” Alestor was already refocused on his works when Renold hung up. His train of thought was short.5

When Renold arrived Alestor was startled out of his chair. He hesitated to answer, but the dogs were silent so he stood reluctantly and let his friend in.6

“Are you jumpy again?” Renold said, wiping his nose with an overused tissue. “Pickup isn’t for another five days.”7

“Well, that should be true,” replied Les, shutting the door, “but they came by today.” 8

“And?”9

Les went on to explain the I.R.C.’s last few visits and his decision to stop going while he poured himself whiskey, and Renold grapefruit juice. 10

“Yeah, the dogs were going off like there’s no tomorrow,” Alestor said, sitting down onto his living room couch. “Maybe they’re right.” 11

Renold remained standing. “Speak for yourself, I’m lasting forever.” His glance fell onto the sketches scattered over the table and he squinted. “Besides, the I.R. needs you ticking, right? Immunity is still too rare.” Renold leaned over the worktable and raised an eyebrow. “You still drawing buildings?”12

“Yeah.”13

“Why? If you took up something more practical the I.R.C. would even be gentler with you.” 14

“I know. I can’t help it. I was made for this,” Alestor answered, walking over. “In a world this fragile, there’s not much demand for people with my interests.” He paused and looked at Renold, “I imagine the demand wasn’t much different when you were a writer.”15

“No,” he acknowledged, taking a minute to clear his nose, and his coughing fit.16

“Well, you can see, then, how no burden of immunity will force me into losing the life I was meant to live. I knew the moment I tested negative for the sixth time that Infections Research would find me, and I would never get into a program. It didn’t matter.”17

“Can you say that when they’re dosing you, or exposing you? What about the extraction—18

“Stop. I don’t dwell on the decisions I’ve made. If I did, I’d have no sight on what I’m doing now. Knowing when to let go of the past, and the possible, is a delicate process.” Alestor looked at his friend, and then his sketches. “I’m actually glad you came by, Ren.” He retrieved the rest of his works. “Will you take my pieces—all of them?” 19

Renold’s tone grew somber. “Don’t think you’ll be needing them anymore?”20

“No, and please be careful to keep them in order; they won’t be masterpieces if the tropic structures are in the desert section, or if the concrete is found with steel.” 21

His friend carefully browsed through them. “None of them are complete? How will they be built?”22

“Are you crazy? I don’t want them to be; I have no training. I’m hoping they’ll inspire someone. I should get to sleep now though. If they come by again, I want to be rested.”23

That was the last time I saw Alestor. I could never find anyone to take his works, so I hung them up on my wall. I try not to dwell too much on what might have happened, but as a commitment to what he meant to me, I picked up writing again. I think he would be glad to know I’m doing so, and even happier to know that I’ve joined the ranks of the few who have beaten infection. Unfortunately, though, I must cut my own story short because someone is knocking at the door.