Subject: Short Story . . .The Traveler
From: The Passenger <Passenger@tpass.demon.co.uk>
Date: Tue, 09 Apr 96 11:39:41 GMT

This is a very short short I wrote a while ago.
I have written other stuf I would like to post here
but I am busy polishing it before submision.
The stuf I write is nothing compared to schwann's stuf
but any way here it is, not one of my favourite stories
but I have others yet to come which will hopefully be better.


The Traveler


By The Passenger




The cycle hummed as it coasted into the service station.
He surveyed the establishment as he slowed to a stop beside the archaic 
petroleum dispensers.  The two buildings were running in parallel,
one was a diner imaginatively named "Diner" and the other a motel named "Cheap 
Accommodation".  The entire site was lit against the dark by a huge crimson 
sign, which cast blood red shadows around the corners of the buildings.  
Milan stood up freeing him self from the embrace of the stiff leather 
seats and began to walk as casually as he could toward the Diner. He could not 
read the sign from where he stood, and even if he could his unaccustomed eyes 
would probably be blinded by its self assuming glow.  He was saddle sore from 
riding his bike along the Trans-american for the past seven hours and was 
beginning to get sick of the desert. As far as he knew some six years ago this 
had all been trees, but the nukes took care of that. 

"So what am I now?,
Im all alone.
Im all of the soft words I once owned,
I opened my heart, there was no space for air.
Because I wanted you."

The CdBox kept repeating the same words over and over again and from the dents in the side Milan assumed someone 
had beat the digital tracking out of it.  He stood in the doorway for a moment, 
feeling like someone in an old western, wrapping his fingers on the metal door 
frame  as he surveyed the clientele.  They were assorted biker types, like 
himself, all running from someone, or something.  No one came this far out into 
the northern toxic territory unless they didn't want to be followed.  He moved 
in and up to the bar. He cracked his thick knuckles on the bar to get someone's 
attention. "Look," he said "I just want some gas" Then just as the numbness he 
got on long rides subsided the bar came into focus, bombarding his weary senses 
with unfamiliarity's.  The inside of the Diner had an orange dim tinge to it, a 
few of the lights had been strategically popped to try an achieve a subdued, 
informal feel, but this only emphasized the seediness  of the place.  This was 
not  somewhere Milan wanted to stay . The air was rich with the heavy pungent 
odor of  nicotine cigarettes and more.  The only thing that made him
uncomfortable though was the constant bubbling chatter, given a discord rhythm 
by the broken CdBox. 
The EMP nukes had been designed to wipe out electrical installations hidden in the deep forested valleys, they had known that they 
would fry the neural system of anybody within a mile or so, but this was hi-
tech warfare and some people had to get hurt. They  had all been so exited at 
the thought of missiles that didn't blow up things or throw radiation out in 
every direction they overlooked the triviality of the trees.  They hadn't 
really thought much about the fact that the trees and plants had    a basic 
neural system too.  The trees had just all shriveled up and died and with the 
climatic changes ripping up the stratosphere most of Scotland was subject to 
spontaneous desertification.  Or at least that's what they had called it, 
spontaneous makes it sound like they just all got together and just decided to 
die, obviously nothing to do with the bloody Japs.
The Scottish government was tired fighting the Japanese, they had barely won 
their freedom when the massively expanded Japanese, who having exhausted their 
own supply came scouring Britain for minerals, and precious materials.  They 
had found them too, just not on any of their land.  There was no way the Scots 
could last out against the corporate giant so they did what they thought was 
the only honorable thing, they sold out to the Yanks. Milan spat on the floor, 
knowing it would go unnoticed. America was bursting at the sides with illegal 
immigrants, so they re-located most to the new CalAmerdonian Free State, put a 
few big straight highways here and there and forgot about it when  the Japs 
started pestering them.  Japs had nuked most of America with their non-lethal 
missiles before the US returned to more conventional, nuclear strikes that 
shut the Japanese up for good. "Never learn will they." The bartender said 
shocking Milan by reading his mind. It was then noticed the TV3 images of the 
Japanese struggling to rebuild their shattered dream, the walls of Jerico had 
finally fallen.
 "What was it you wanted?" The barman inquired, his voice weary, 
his sleep only held off by a few grams of PHK4. "Gas" the word hissed from his 
mouth, as he watched distractedly the TV on the wall showing a young Japanese 
girl who had been less than a few miles away from the blast.  I guess we'll 
never learn either he shuddered. "Be with you in a minute -" The barman started 
as one of the men sitting in the corner shouted something about " chinky 
traitors  in our midst " and how he had never considered himself racist he just 
" didn't take to the ones that smell ". Milan chastised him self for grinning 
and ordered a beer. It came in a luke warm bottle which read "Kirin".  Milan
wondered what would happen when the non-racist drunk figured out the beer he 
was drinking was twelve year old Japanese export, and walked through the door. 
He stood outside, soaking up the warm night air, trying to imagine a Scotland 
with trees, and valleys but they'd landscaped that out.  Hills didn't fit into 
the new corporate American dream.  He could'nt decide which were his greater enemy, the 
Japs or the Yanks both had destroyed his country. The pump was now active and 
Milan filled his bike watching the lights on the pump deducting funds from 
his American credit account.  He looked up over the buildings to read the 
burning red sign, as he mounted his now throbbing bike, "Last Chance" "Funny, 
thought that was the last one . . . . . . .", Milan thought and rode off into 
the Trans-american night.

--
The Passenger