Revolt of the Rats by Reed Blitzerman (ap literature book list .TXT) 📖

HOW LONG COULD SHE keep this up? Pressure spread from Margaret’s neck in feelers across her shoulders. She watched daylight flee across the lake and thought about going home. “There’s an issue with Hamish’s latest order.”

“The Boys” on either side of her glowed green from the light of her computer screen.

“Like how?” Kahle asked.

She watched his shuffling feet and bit back a reply. You want to be somewhere else? That’s right Kahle, go see your girlfriend. It’s only Margaret here. Instead she said, “It doesn’t use parts from the cage. They’re not rejects. We’re out.”

Margaret had been pushing her arms into her coat when Hamish called. Escargot had given him an order several months ago, they now demanded he deliver two months early. She had  felt to blame for the frustration in his voice, as if all of Frampton’s failings had begun with her.

The screen blurred. “I’ll have to look at these again when I’m fresh guys, sorry.” I have to go anyways. It was time for a pilgrimage to Walgreens for Grandma Fischback’s blood pressure pills.

There were none at home and driving was a burden for her. So was the eighty dollars (with insurance) from her social security check. Margaret would pick up. Margaret would pay. She watched the guys leave then slid through the restroom door.

Madge was applying blood red lipstick in the mirror over the sink, so Margaret took a quiet step backward. But Madge’s brown eyes caught the movement and she dangled a high heeled shoe from her foot in greeting. Too late to escape.

“I got a date tonight.”

“That’s great, Madge.”

“He’s a salesman with an expense account and a sharp dresser. Said he’d pay for drinks.” Madge dabbed her lashes with a brush then turned her neck, stroked the side with her hand. “I need it after today. Either the fucking new guy gets it together or he’s gone.” She shrugged to herself. “What a screw-up.”

Margaret knew who the new guy was. He was one of the stronger employees. The problem wasn’t him. She took a tentative step toward the door, but her curiosity got the better of her. “What do you mean exactly?”

“I had no trouble getting parts before the last guy quit. I mean, purchasing is not rocket science,” Madge said. “Now I have Alex but no parts and I'm choking on requests.”

A suspicion, small as a pilot flame sprung to life, dancing around Madge’s comment, niggling at Hamish’s order.

Madge brightened and tore herself from the mirror. "You could reduce the number of orders until we get caught up!”

Margaret asked, “And shut down the factory?”

Madge abandoned the lipstick to her purse and turned to stare. Her feet spread, arms crossed under her breasts: a challenge. “You make it sound so bad. It would only be for a little while.” Madge huffed. “We’re late on everything anyways.”

“I can’t do that, but let me see how I can help.” Margaret returned to her computer. The pilot light was now at full blaze. It took fifteen minutes of clicking to find settings for the bill of materials. A little gasp escaped her throat. She could fix this.  They didn’t have parts because none were on order.

She typed her supervisor’s password from memory and increased the orders. Costing Motomax another fifteen thousand dollars gave her a pang of guilt, but Hamish’s orders came to half a million dollars, easy. She hit ‘enter.’ A field at the end of the list glowed red, stopping the process. Defeated, she sent a text message and logged off. Maybe if she hurried the pharmacist would re-open for her.

Boomer’s pager awakened him, fast asleep at the kitchen table. Becky had taken the kids to soccer so he could have some quiet. He hit a button triggering the backlit screen and then sat motionless.

Margaret needed a favor. They were short of parts and his department was the problem. But she needed more parts than he could make. He was at an impasse.

He'd taken that little book home but hadn't seen anything that directly applied to this. He certainly couldn't just quit and relocate. He was thirty four. Not quite a kid. People were counting on him. Benji's school was good. Actually, it wasn't good, it was great. Becky worked. So a neighbor watched the baby like their own child. Taught her sign language on top of that.

The automatic sprinkler passed back and forth outside the kitchen window. He looked around the kitchen itself. The sink was full of dishes so he hung up his uniform shirt, washed his hands, and started with the plates.

He worked at a steady pace now, making sure to use a lot of soap. He was doing too many setups to keep up. Setups were taking too long. He needed to clone himself.

(Grab the next plate.)

The sprinkler outside stroked back and forth, lulling in its regularity. The connection dawned on him. He needed a robot. He was doing too many setups.

(Rinse.)

How could he do less setups?

No.

(Grab another plate.)

He needed a robot to do less setups, all at the same time...all at the same time. The dog stared at him, appearing concerned.

His people were forming and welding parts that often went into the same assembly. What if all those components were made at once in one part? The idea picked up steam as he started in on the forks. He needed a progressive die. It could make all those little parts at once, no welding, and no assembling.

He couldn't figure this out on his own. He fished in his computer bag and plucked out his pager. He scrolled to Margaret's name and started to tap out his question.

He got an answer back just before lunch on Monday.

The text was prototypical Margaret: upbeat but succinct. “Found a good one.”

Then she quickly got into a lot of detail he didn't have patience for. He read to the end where she said, “...You could combine a couple of these, it looks like. But I'm not an engineer. Sounds like another trip to Dieter Machs.”

Boomer was an industrial engineer but his heavy lifting was on submarines. Dieter could earn his bones. Boomer made a list and emailed it to Kahle.

Kahle's reply was almost immediate.

“Sounds good. Give me a few hours. Let's see him at 1400 hours.

Beat Navy,

Kahle”

Kahle finished printing all the drawings and got ready to go upstairs. By that, he meant he was writing another letter to his parents while he waited for a text from Boomer. He tried to sound upbeat without lying. It sounded like something written at band camp. "The food was good and he'd made a lot of friends."

He had made friends: Boomer, Margaret, maybe even Dieter Machs. Not only was he going to share what they had found about department 765, he was going to show Dieter the book.

He was even kind of getting used to not putting on a uniform. Everything the Army had asked him to do he'd been trained for. That camouflage suit made him feel indestructible. Now he wrote the manual as he went along.

He still missed the certainty. That he knew exactly the place to eat. That he knew exactly what his boss thought of him. That he knew without a doubt that he was included. He was accepted. This was different than that. He was walking places that had no roads.

Kahle added another line, "I feel I've been growing here in Frampton." And then he said below his breath to just himself, "I just haven't gotten what I wanted." He was jolted out of his thoughts by a page from Boomer.

“Not going to make it. Stop. Mission must go on. Stop. Please take plans to Machs. Stop. God Save the Queen. Boomer.”

Kahle sighed and hit ‘send’ on his email. He closed his computer, picked up the drawings, and ambled onto his bicycle. God Save the Queen, indeed.

Mounting the stairs to the engineering mezzanine, he knew that something was different. The door to Beezor's office was open, spilling green light from her desk lamp out into the galley.

His eyes focused on Dieter, seated at his desk looking very uncomfortable. Kahle was too far away to hear, but clearly, he was wilting under interrogation from Bee Wasikowska. Kahle's heart hammered. A giant hand squeezed it’s fingers around his chest. Her aura was a brilliant red, the color of anger. He thought of running away, but she'd already seen him.

She looked as good as always. She had on a pair of black slacks and that same oxblood shirt. Black lipstick covered those full lips. They formed a question that was clearly aimed at Kahle.

"What the hell have you two been doing?”

Fever Dream, 1939

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SEVEN YEARS OF PROSPERITY hadn’t come easy. Eli could feel it in the way his legs tingled as he tried to keep up with the rest of the family. They paced amidst undulating hills on the only piece of land that had any curve. Everett had been watching him these last fifteen minutes from the corner of his eye, when his hand clamped down on Eli’s forehead.

“Dad, you’ve got a fever.”

Eli pushed Everett’s hand away, impatient and irritated at the attention.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Everett said.

“Son, I’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else.” His own voice grated in his ears, childish and petulant.

“I don’t mean it like that. You know what I mean. Your shirt is soaked all the way through and we’re already out of water.”

Seven years after the pox and they still acted like he was a faded warhorse threatening to collapse in the dirt and die. He realized that this was why they had insisted on bringing the car. Involuntarily he raised his hands, staring at useless fingers that fumbled with bolts and struggled with buckles. Everett’s hands were larger than his now. His little boy was taller than he was. Broad across the chest with hands powerful as shovel heads, Everett worked sun up to sundown in the fields with ease.

Everett said, “Why don’t you go back to the house?”

Eli  looked at Judith for support and she bit her lip, shining red in the shadow beneath her straw hat. It was tilted forward, hiding her eyes. Dill avoided his glance.

“Please.” Everett was crying now.

Eli would do what his son asked. The outside had changed but the inside had not. He felt ashamed, guilty of scaring his little boy. He’s afraid. Eli looked at each of them again in turn. They all were.

“Fine,” Eli said. “I can make it back. Keep working.”

The walk to the car was harder than he anticipated, the dirt rising up to block him with every step. He was fine until he topped the rise. It tilted to the side, sending whirls of dust downhill to the Ford at the edge of the field.

He needed water. He hadn’t realized until Everett’s comment that he’d gone through the last of it. Right on cue, with the car in sight, his legs started to cramp. The pain started at the bone and radiated – bunching muscles into lumpen knots beneath his pants. They fired of their own volition forcing him to crab step, swinging forward at the hip.

The sun bore down depositing its heat inside him. It started in his head and poured into his extremities turning his body into living