Jerusalem Returns to Alien City
By thobey
Jerusalem Returns to Alien City
Author: thobey@gmail.com
The insistent ringing sliced through the cabin's quiet like a shard of glass. Rick Jerusalem, tangled in a nest of blankets and beard, flinched. He hadn't heard that sound in… years. Muttering a string of grievances to the dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight, he lurched toward the ancient rotary phone clinging to the wall. "Yeah?" he grunted into the receiver.
"Rick? Dexter Gordon here. Vertex Publishing. Remember us?" The voice was smooth, almost oily, and instantly dredged up a tidal wave of regret.
Rick sighed, running a hand through his matted hair. "Dexter. What do you want?" He already knew.
"Those two books, Rick. The contract. You owe us." Dexter's voice hardened. Rick felt a familiar knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He was going to have to leave the cabin. "Get yourself to San Francisco, Rick. We need to talk." The line went dead. San Francisco. He hadn't been back in a decade. Now, as he packed a threadbare bag, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into a very different world, and a world that wanted nothing to do with him.
The drive was a blur of pine trees and regret. As Rick neared the familiar outskirts of his old life, he saw it – The Rusty Mug, the mountain bar he’d frequented during colder nights. A place that never once offered him a free beer, despite his patronage. A bitter smile twisted his lips. He pulled the truck over, the gravel crunching under the tires. Reaching behind the seat, he retrieved his old shotgun, the cold steel a familiar comfort. With a primal yell, he unleashed a barrage on the ramshackle building, the roar of the shotgun echoing through the mountains as the bar's supports gave way, collapsing in a cloud of dust and splintered wood. A final farewell. He slammed the truck into gear, the tires spitting gravel as he sped down the road towards San Francisco, leaving the wreckage, and a part of himself, behind.
The battered Ford coughed its way to the outskirts of San Francisco, and Rick stared. A shimmering, colossal glass dome encased the city, reflecting the harsh sunlight like a mocking mirror. Checkpoints bristled with armed guards and automated scanners. As Rick passed through, the city exploded into a lurid spectacle. Fat cat tech tycoons, dripping in chrome and arrogance, strolled past, trailed by silent, polished robots. Junkies, eyes glazed, twitched and mumbled about "Flak," the new drug craze. A knot of transients shoved a humanoid drone against a wall, its synthetic face blank with terror. Rick grinned, a genuine, almost feral expression. Hardboiled futuristic cyberpunk San Francisco 2035 in all its demented glory. "Home sweet hellhole," he muttered, a spark of something akin to joy flickering in his chest. He loved it.
Story Content
The insistent ringing sliced through the cabin's quiet like a shard of glass. Rick Jerusalem, tangled in a nest of blankets and beard, flinched. He hadn't heard that sound in… years. Muttering a string of grievances to the dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight, he lurched toward the ancient rotary phone clinging to the wall. "Yeah?" he grunted into the receiver.
"Rick? Dexter Gordon here. Vertex Publishing. Remember us?" The voice was smooth, almost oily, and instantly dredged up a tidal wave of regret.
Rick sighed, running a hand through his matted hair. "Dexter. What do you want?" He already knew.
"Those two books, Rick. The contract. You owe us." Dexter's voice hardened. Rick felt a familiar knot of dread tighten in his stomach. He was going to have to leave the cabin. "Get yourself to San Francisco, Rick. We need to talk." The line went dead. San Francisco. He hadn't been back in a decade. Now, as he packed a threadbare bag, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into a very different world, and a world that wanted nothing to do with him.
The drive was a blur of pine trees and regret. As Rick neared the familiar outskirts of his old life, he saw it – The Rusty Mug, the mountain bar he’d frequented during colder nights. A place that never once offered him a free beer, despite his patronage. A bitter smile twisted his lips. He pulled the truck over, the gravel crunching under the tires. Reaching behind the seat, he retrieved his old shotgun, the cold steel a familiar comfort. With a primal yell, he unleashed a barrage on the ramshackle building, the roar of the shotgun echoing through the mountains as the bar's supports gave way, collapsing in a cloud of dust and splintered wood. A final farewell. He slammed the truck into gear, the tires spitting gravel as he sped down the road towards San Francisco, leaving the wreckage, and a part of himself, behind.
The battered Ford coughed its way to the outskirts of San Francisco, and Rick stared. A shimmering, colossal glass dome encased the city, reflecting the harsh sunlight like a mocking mirror. Checkpoints bristled with armed guards and automated scanners. As Rick passed through, the city exploded into a lurid spectacle. Fat cat tech tycoons, dripping in chrome and arrogance, strolled past, trailed by silent, polished robots. Junkies, eyes glazed, twitched and mumbled about "Flak," the new drug craze. A knot of transients shoved a humanoid drone against a wall, its synthetic face blank with terror. Rick grinned, a genuine, almost feral expression. Hardboiled futuristic cyberpunk San Francisco 2035 in all its demented glory. "Home sweet hellhole," he muttered, a spark of something akin to joy flickering in his chest. He loved it.
Synopsis
Rick Jerusalem, a reclusive writer, must confront his past when Vertex Publishing demands he returns to San Francisco. Haunted by unfinished books and old regrets, Rick steps into a city rife with secrets and mystery, uncovering dark truths that threaten his sanity and survival. Can he escape the ghosts of Alien City?
