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    Xenodu
    Xenodu
    Xenodu
    Ebook51 pages42 minutes

    Xenodu

    By E. G. Fabricant

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Dystopia Americana, anyone?

    "Xenodu" is my dark look--redrawn November 7, 2013--at our Nation's future, near mid-century. Fear, ignorance, greed, and a broken system of self-governance all have consequences.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherE. G. Fabricant
    Release dateSep 6, 2010
    ISBN9781476105871
    Xenodu
    Author

    E. G. Fabricant

    E. G. Fabricant is a writer living in San Jose, California, who’s interested in producing short fiction that’s contemporary, topical, and speaks to the human condition.His dormant interest in this pursuit was rekindled when he was selected as one of 10 finalists in the International Category of the Mark Twain Writing Competition: “A Murder, a Mystery, and a Marriage,” sponsored by the Buffalo and Erie County Public Library.E. G.'s determined to become the oldest, new best short fiction writer. He’s also interested in hearing from others with similar interests who want to become better at it.

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      Book preview

      Xenodu - E. G. Fabricant

      XENODU

      E. G. Fabricant

      Published by E. G. Fabricant at Smashwords

      Copyright 2008-2012 by E. G. Fabricant

      Discover other stories by E. G. Fabricant at Smashwords.com.

      Xenodu is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      Smashwords Edition—License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Toilet?

      Swirling liquid, pushed into a downward vortex around his pectorals, was his second sensation. Reflexively, he inhaled; a torrent of briny fluid burst from his lungs. Bracing himself against the lukewarm Plexiglas, he retched and gasped until he was exhaling only air. Hissing, the ducts above his head forced atmosphere around him until his glassine prison was dry.

      A fleeting shadow caught his attention. He strained to see in its direction, but the distortion in the tube’s curvature against the opaline dimness of the space beyond thwarted him. He heard a subdued mechanical whine and his enclosure whispered upward; simultaneously, hand rails and steps materialized. He staggered momentarily and caught his balance. The rush of cool air raised gooseflesh on his extremities. Three halting steps and he stood, wavering, on the dank, rubberized floor. He took in his surroundings. He stood to one side at the end of a long, corridor-like room. Against the faint luminescence from the other end, he made out a jumbled silhouette of abandoned equipment and counted 16 pods, including his. Only two others had been vacated and, judging by the state of their neglect, some time ago. The rest were sealed and pristine.

      A distant click. Bluish fluorescence marched down the center of the ceiling toward him. Startled, he shielded his eyes with his hands until his adjusting eyes brought them into focus. Slowly, laughter came until he arched his back and shrieked. He spied a large stainless steel refrigeration unit, doddered to it and shoved its double doors closed. In its brushed surface he could make out the fun-house contours of his naked physique. He stared until his amazement was consumed by a giddiness that made him punch at his reflection.

      I’m Adonis! Thank you, God—and glycerol, and liquid nitrogen!

      He broke into a makeshift jig that carried him deeper into the room, where he found against the wall what would have been a lab lavatory, with a sink and mirror. After reveling some more at the fine details of his smooth, muscled upper torso, he leaned in and traced with his fingers a barely discolored junction where his neck met the well between his shoulders.

      No scarring—must’ve used something besides sutures or staples.

      Something bumped his hip. He jerked his head around to see a small, wheeled cart, driven by—what? They both jumped away from the vehicle. What he saw was a slight, emaciated figure in a nondescript, hooded jumpsuit. His—Hers? Its?—skin was sallow and, through a pair of buglike, polarized wraparounds, the eyes were deeply recessed and appeared weak.

      Hey, the unclothed one started, extending his right hand.

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