He waited on the balcony, as he tended to these days, bathing in the late afternoon sun. Around him, the help scurried like ants, continuously resetting the abode for no one in particular. “Ditillio,” the man spoke, eyes trained on the ashen slopes beyond his villa. “What is the date? Can you remind me?” “It is the 19th of September, 2109,” Ditillio sighed, “As it was yesterday, too, sir.” The man’s bloodshot eyes blinked rapidly, “And the date out there?” With a shaking finger he pointed beyond the wavering jade field doming the villa. Ditillio’s brow creased, though not to the awareness of his master. He straightened his collar and coughed. “We’re… not sure, sir.” The man nodded, mouth hanging open. His nerves were shot, a cryonic side effect; veins seemed to shudder under the skin as he considered the scorched earth and fire-ridden skies outside the plasma field. His sight fell to the kinetic dome’s perimeter where the ash ended and his pristine patio began. “And my name?” he spluttered through a mouthful of bacon and defrosted coffee. “Mr Armand Riffolk, of course,” Ditillio said. “Huh.” The short-term effects of the flash freeze chamber were wearing off, bringing a return to his appetite. In a few hours, he would feel like a smoke and a stroll around the estate; then perhaps luncheon by the pool, where he liked— according to Ditillio— to look eastward over the bay. Riffolk was also reminded that the bay lay in ruin, bordering a polluted sea. This was a reminder previously left by Mr Riffolk himself, scratched into a notebook nestled in his manservant’s breast pocket; a reminder to soften the blow of the news. The good master had already seen the northern hills prematurely, after staggering free of his sleep chamber and the maids’ grasp. Rubbing the greying stubble on his chin, Riffolk stared into his mug to digest the news.
...
Mr Riffolk felt a restlessness in his blood. Pylons of solid steel jutted out from the patchwork patio slabs, each one holding a heating lamp in place. For all intents and purposes, it was eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit thanks to the bulbs. Riffolk stooped to let his hand glide through the crisp blue of the pool, and marvelled as a servant approached with a solitary drink on a tray. He gasped with wonder at the sight of the furious red sun above, its harmful rays deterred by the energy dome. “So, what happened?” he said, looking out over the crumbling remains of the coastal town. “It would be remiss of me to try and explain concisely, sir,” said Ditillio. He had made such attempts in the past. “What do you remember of the war?” “Not a great deal. Soviet sleeper agents were revealed in D.C, that I do remember.” “Of course. That was some time before the missiles launched.” From his patio, Riffolk watched the rotting black shape of the town on the bay, suddenly realising he was fading out again. His butler had been speaking the whole time. “That’s enough, please. I need to sleep. In an actual bed.”
...
The skies outside rarely changed. Sometimes clouds rolled in, but it mattered little. The staff switched off the heating bulbs around the estate as a ritual to signify the evening, an act that Riffolk found incredibly unsettling. Plucking an orange from the tree by the front gate, he tore at the flesh and tossed it into the plasma barrier. It rapidly disintegrated with a quiet sizzle. His fragmented memory returned in segments. He knew that the orange tasted great, that it used to be one of his favourite fruits. He was told that his mother planted this very tree on his fifteenth birthday, though her face was a void in his mind for the time being. “Huh,” he looked wistfully at the two mansions sitting diagonally across from his own; neither were consumed by an energy field, standing as twisted mirrors of their former selves. His gaze rose to meet a pair of eyes watching him from a top floor window across the way. “Mr Riffolk, you had the maids petrified,” a voice suddenly stabbed him from behind. The stern features of Ditillio came into view. “You haven’t slept well again, have you, sir?” “The bed is taking some getting used to.” “Certainly. We can source a new mattress, if sir wishes?” “No, that’s not necessary. I just—” The window across the street was now shrouded in shadow. His sight must have been reacting to the cryonics, it made sense. His manservant noticed the cogs turning. “Sir?” “Forget it,” Riffolk chewed on the last pieces of orange, and enjoyed the fresh night air from the filter struts. Hopefully it would help him sleep better.
...
Riffolk counted six cycles of day and night, judged by the status of the heating bulbs. In the early morning of the seventh day, he crept down the spiral staircase leading from his bedroom to the second floor. A maid was dusting across the hall, her back to him. He slunk into the study, his memory thawed enough to recall a tight staircase zigzagging to the left of the bookcase. Pulling on a pair of walking boots from the rack, Riffolk slipped out. The help rarely walked the grounds before seven a.m. He’d watched their patterns, every morning like clockwork; they moved along predetermined paths, turning on lights, checking the perimeter. Their circuit was only ever disrupted by the sight of Riffolk himself, upon which they would halt and offer a “good morning, sir,” before continuing. A jagged arm of forked lightning struck at the midsection of a hill to the north. Rumbling thunder followed. He breathed deep, the artificial air now grating on his throat; he always found a strange form of relaxation from thunderstorms. Aside from the weather, the outer world presented a kind of goosebump-inducing macabre beauty. As he turned to head back inside, he clearly saw the gaunt face of Ditillio in the window of the master bedroom, staring down at him.
...
Bacon didn’t taste the same. It refused to taste the same. Riffolk couldn’t bring himself to ask the staff what was going on with the food, or why it had started to taste unusual. He contemplated ordering more toast but thought against it. Though they wouldn’t admit it in front of their master, there was a storm brewing below stairs; short comments exchanged between servants under heated breaths. After leaving most of his morning meal on the plate, Riffolk checked his watch: the hands were spinning again. He weighed up taking a swim and reading on the front patio. “Will that be everything, sir?” asked a young waiter with slick black hair. “That’s fine, thank you,” Riffolk said, slightly startled. “I’ll be taking my coffee to the front patio.” His subconscious pushed out all thought of finishing breakfast within view of the eastern bay; the hills to the north were calling. No sign of Ditillio so far, a great relief. True enough, the head manservant had been vacant since last night. Hushed whispers permeated the airwaves but had been too gentle for Riffolk to catch; the whole house dripped with a growing disquiet. At that moment, raised voices tore across the lawn. Riffolk set his coffee down with a clink. Thirty feet away two servants, a waiter and maid, paced the grass. Rage bubbled on their faces, and Riffolk found himself shrinking in his seat to avoid catching their eyes. The two then tore at each other’s clothing, pale flesh unveiling as they tumbled to the green slopes. Their mouths interlocked, the young waiter peeling back the maid’s stockings with his off-hand. Riffolk stared with tired eyes, hesitating to amble back into the uneasy bosom of the villa. A fire burned deep within him, the last of his faculties to return after the freeze. He watched the passionate lovers for seconds before shaking his head and stomping into the house.
...
“It’s the 19th of September, 2109, sir.” Grunting his thanks, Riffolk waved away the servant. He gnawed at the cold toast and tossed it back onto the plate. His sleep had been disturbed numerous times over the course of the night; once during a cacophonous thunderstorm— the likes of which were becoming more frequent— and twice more for domestic reasons. Footsteps had creaked outside his bedroom door, as if a watchman was on patrol, while outside, a trio of staff members had had a blazing argument on the lawn. With a headache pushing against his eyes, he moved to the window in the lounge, the room basking in the reddish morning glow. The villa strained with the busy movements. Every echoing footstep or lingering voice in the hall gave him a shiver. He pulled his robe closer into his breast. His watch continued to spin. It wasn’t clear how many days Ditillio had been missing. His absence was becoming more and more unbearable, evidently so for the body of waiters and maids that populated the arteries of the building. Their behaviour grew stranger. Riffolk settled into an armchair by the fireplace, his back facing the wall. The poker for the fire was close at hand, enough of a safety blanket for him to close his eyes for a few minutes at a time; he tapped at it with a wandering finger as one of the housekeepers strode by, smiling widely. II
If sleep was hard to catch and hold on to the week previous, it was near impossible to lure now. Even a sleeping tablet from the old bottle in the medicine cabinet failed to take effect, at odds with his employees’ sporadic movements in the twilight hours. Staring at the ceiling, his right hand squeezed the bed sheet. His left clutched the poker that he had smuggled upstairs when no one was looking. The floorboards on the landing creaked. Riffolk sat up and watched shadows move back and forth under the door, cursing himself for not having a lock put on there. What good would it have done? One of the hired hands would have had a spare key. His mind raced. His limbs twitched with exhaustion, stomach gurgling; even eating in the presence of the staff made him wince with dread. It wouldn’t be hard for any of them to slip him something. Perhaps they already had. Even still, Riffolk didn’t get the impression that they were even in league with each other. Tempers flared frequently, their relationships fraying every day cycle. He found they put on a brave face for their employer, but the cracks on their masks were becoming tougher to ignore. “Here! Over here!” He shot upright. The voice rose again, and he realised it was from outside. Peeling back the curtains, he saw five, maybe six staff members spilling from the front door. They stepped with haste, moving with the mischievous sway of horny teenagers, past the dark bulbs hanging in their pylons. Something had them riled up. He saw the staff disappear down the lawn past the end of the stone walkway, gathering with a larger group. Individuals were too far to distinguish, but he could plainly see a familiar bod in the crowd— one whom he could not mistake for anyone. Ditillio. And he was turning and heading out past the plasma field as the congregation stood by.
...
“Mr Ditillio gave strict instructions not to wake Mr Riffolk,” one said, pulling on a baggy foil suit. His colleague did the same as they stood at the stairs on the second floor. “And watch his door at all times.” The maid nodded. Riffolk ducked out of view as she ascended, her shoes clacking on the steps. Bent double, he scurried back to his room and closed the door, heading down the staircase in the alcove opposite the bed. The second floor seemed quieter than the rest, unburdened with the bustle that was going on downstairs. Movement to his right, the brief crinkling sound of foil. He shirked backwards, grinding the handle of the poker in his perspiring palms. The suit charged into the room opposite him, the second-floor bathroom, and began rummaging in the cupboards. Now, you have to do it now. They’ll see you for sure when they turn around. Then who knows what they’ll do… His breath caught in his throat. Closing the distance in two strides, he brought the poker down across the waiting back. They cried out, and he fumbled to knock the door closed to muffle it. Another whack, this time across the head. Riffolk worked swiftly to undress them, pulling on the foil suit over his t-shirt and boxers. He recognised the guy as one of the housekeepers, one that was normally present during breakfast. A pang of guilt washed over him. He slid a folded towel under the guy’s bleeding head like a cushion, propping him up.
...
The crowd were still at the foot of the front garden by the time Riffolk left the house. Looking over his shoulder, he was struck by how intimidating his own home appeared tonight, a looming black beast squatting on the hill, the few lit windows like eyes of flame. He neared the group, pale faces turning to greet him. “Ready?” another lad in a foil suit emerged. “Uh, yeah, I guess so,” said Riffolk. He spoke a tone slightly higher, fearing they would recognise his voice. One or two looked straight at his visor for longer than he was comfortable with. The other foil suit handed over a weighty silver firearm, their voice muffled by the mask’s breathing apparatus but ominous all the same: “We’ve orders to kill tonight.” Riffolk’s mask was filling with condensation, his skin slick with sweat. He could barely see their expressions through the mist on his visor. “Move, Mr Ditillio reported sighting the runaway not far from the house.” He followed, a tightening in his chest. They hadn’t guessed, and if they had, they just weren’t saying anything for now. The runaway? What did it mean? Plus, Ditillio knew better than to cross the boundary; he’d said so on plenty of occasions. The suit ahead crossed through the plasma barrier. Again, he waved back. Riffolk hesitated. He recalled what happened to the orange skin he’d thrown into the energy field: disintegrated, just like that. The lad before had passed by unscathed, though. Maybe it was deactivated, to some degree. A non-lethal setting, but still acting as a visible deterrent. Filling his lungs, Riffolk jogged at the buzzing green barrier. Light engulfed him.
...
The first thing that struck him was the bitter scent of the world that now seemed to permeate the very fabric of his suit. It reminded him of his kitchen after attempting a drunken fry-up, the kind of stubborn odour that would not leave. Two large homes sat on the opposite edges of his vision. Who had previously lived there, Riffolk couldn’t recall; he determined this was again due to memory loss by cryonics, but ultimately remembered how little he had bothered to know his neighbours back then. “Are you coming along?” A waggled finger from the foil suit ahead. Gravel crackled underfoot as Riffolk plodded onwards, transfixed on the decaying edifices leering down at him. This gave way to an alarming snap, and he jumped back with a yelp. Littering the street were blackened bones, masked by char. He kneeled, batting away soot from a shrivelled yellow placard among the dust; the words ‘LET US IN’ reached through all manner of detritus and began a storm of acidic guilt in his stomach. He couldn’t remember the time of the actual missile launch but a memory hovered in his brain of the hysteria beforehand, the floods of vehicles piling into the lane. Some had crushed or trapped others as they fought to the front, hoping the plasma field would shield them too. “This is the place.” The two-storey home to their right was little more than a blackened frame; crumbling columns struggling to hold aloft the upper floor, absent walls where there used to be huge glass panels. An empty pool hid in the gloom to the right of the pathway, filled with brown leaves swept from blasted trees. Riffolk spied two skeletons cowering down there, too. What would have been a piece of pristine real estate had been kissed by atomic fire; the remains of furniture, no doubt expensive pieces, reduced to ash or swept through the house itself. Riffolk stopped at the kitchen counter to prop his head in his hands. The acrid aroma of the lane, the gardens, the house, was making him faint. “Mr Ditillio?” called his companion. “Richard? Finally! Upstairs!” The lad, Richard, jogged around the corner and up the partially collapsed stairwell. Grumbling, Riffolk followed. On the second floor, all was quiet. “Ditillio?” he yelled, holding back the urge to vomit at the stench of the place. Something caused a loud thud in the bedroom to his right, and he spun sharply, remembering the weighty pistol on his belt. Crooked shadows were projected up the walls by dying daylight. Swallowing hard, Riffolk crept into the bedroom. The door was lying flat on the floor alongside scattered magazines and clothing. He leaned in and craned his neck to the right to see around the corner into the room. A dark hand fired at him suddenly, an open palm catching his breathing mask. Riffolk stumbled backwards into the wall, swatted at the advancing figure. Its shape was jagged, wild almost. Snatching at a limb, Riffolk restrained the figure; they swung their legs frantically, connecting with his shins. He yelped and shoved the attacker backwards, where they stumbled on debris. Riffolk unclasped the gun from his belt. “Who the hell are you?” asked Riffolk. He saw the dust-smeared face on which clung a crusted beard. “Wait— you’re the one that was watching me that night? You were in the house next door.” The man looked him up and down, panting, unable to say anything. That’s when Riffolk noticed: the weary eyes, the narrow bridge. The hair was longer, but not as groomed as his own. Impossible. “You’re—” he gasped. The man squinted, curious. Riffolk checked the hallway. Still no sign of his wayward manservant and the lad in the foil suit. He approached the stranger, who was clinging to caution like a cornered animal. “I guess you’ll start talking if you know who you’re talking to,” and he pulled off the hood, taking the mask and visor with it. Sour air flushed into his lungs immediately. The man was visibly taken aback to see Riffolk’s face. “How is any of this possible?” asked Riffolk, pulling his mask back on. “It’s not. Not without money, that is.” Riffolk edged over to the stranger, keeping his voice low. “Can you tell me what’s going on? They’re after you, aren’t they?” “Something like that,” said the stranger. “This isn’t the first time they’ve done this. Nor is it the first time they’ve hunted me. The bastards tend to kill in order.” “Who have they been killing?” The stranger levelled his blood red eyes at him. “Armand Riffolk. Us.” A chill rattled through Riffolk’s bones, even in the suffocating warmth of the suit. “Us? Us?! There shouldn’t even be an ‘us!’ I am Armand Riffolk and have been for over forty years.” “Wrong.” “You’re some aberration, a trick of the fallout. I have to get back to the villa.” Riffolk made for the door. “Wait—” The stranger latched onto the sleeve of the suit. “If you walk back to that house, you’re playing their game. Go back to your sloth and your routine, the silly shit with the daylight bulbs and the terrible breakfasts. Your time will come, eventually. They’ll toss you on your ass, as they did me, and then set the dogs on you.” A gentle breeze coursed through the dead house, rustling strewn papers and dried branches on the trees in the yard. All else was silent. “So, you were around before me?” “And the one before you, even,” said the stranger. “I’ve been out here a long time.” The crunch of boots on the debris in the hall, picking up speed. Two bodies stomped through the open doorway. “It would seem that your good fortune has finally run out, sir,” came a nasally voice navigating its way through a breathing mask. Ditillio blocked the escape, a rifle in his hands. Following him was the lad, Richard. “My faithful manservant,” said the stranger, words dripping in sarcasm. “At your service. Or was, I suppose,” Ditillio turned to the masked Riffolk, who had pressed himself against the back wall. “You: excellent job catching this one. We knew he would tire of the chase eventually.” The stranger said, “Why do this? Do you really loathe me this much?” Raising his rifle, Ditillio sneered. “I cannot think of anything I detest more in this wretched world, Armand Riffolk. Your existence makes the collapse of modern society look like a minor inconvenience by comparison! Decades I have waited on you and your family, watched your poor mother wither as her brain robbed her of her memories, only to leave me stuck with you— the ungrateful master— and bear witness to all manner of depravity and foolishness as you drove your parents’ legacy into the dust!” His seething voice quivered. “Cloning me doesn’t make sense, in that case,” and the stranger stared at Riffolk, who was frozen in place at the back. “Your father’s equipment and lab space made that all possible, God rest his soul.” Ditillio chuckled. “My boy, it’s been so long since the original Armand were around, I can’t even recall what year it was. But I do know I’ve enjoyed overseeing the end of each and every iteration since.” At the mention of time, Riffolk unfastened his glove and looked at his watch. The hands weren’t spinning out here; they now read a quarter to nine. “And what about the staff? Why are they acting bizarre?” his voice struggled to come out. “Next you’ll be telling us they are clones too.” “Ridiculous! The staff are suffering; temporal sickness, whatever you would call it. Too long inside the plasma field—” Ditillio now glared in his direction, realisation slowly crossing his features. “Mr Riffolk, also!” Behind him, his subordinate suddenly appeared very sheepish, inching for the door. “The staff will let anyone wander the ruins at night, it seems.” On the sill, the stranger was coaxing something into his hand. Debris, a jagged rock, Riffolk noticed. Ditillio pointed the rifle between the two, internally debating when to pull the trigger. He scoffed at Riffolk shakily holding a gun. Here was a man who knew the master better than himself, a man who had burrowed down into his very core at the genetic level. “I trusted you, Ditillio!” shouted Riffolk, lip shaking. “Forget it. There’s no reasoning with the help these days!” the stranger called to him. “Oh, don’t make this more of a chore, masters,” Ditillio said, panting like a riled dog. “Let me have this, God help me, let me have something!” The stranger then hurled the rugged rock, roaring. Gunshots lit the remains of the house, popping in and out of existence like the light from a camera’s flashbulbs.
...
Parts of the group broke off, returning to the house out of boredom or cold. Even under a burning sky, the grounds still got chilly at night. It wasn’t long before one of the housekeepers spotted the two figured on the horizon, ambling amongst the wrecks in the street towards them. The groundsman nearest started for the path with a groan. “Where are you going, then?” “Mr Ditillio will want the next Mr Riffolk brought out of stasis, won’t he?” The housekeeper snorted. “I suppose he will, yeah. There’s still one sleeping in his room right now, though. The current one. He’ll have to be dealt with first, I’d say. But we can do that when sir gets in.” The groundsman halted. He cast a look back at the street, the two specks having gained considerable ground. One had a rifle slung on his back. The thought of Mr Ditillio returning and bringing some order to proceedings once again was a relieving one. “On second thought: go rouse another of the masters from cryo. We can have another hunt to round off the day. Even if it’s just ‘round the estate.” Scoffing, the groundsman marched off up the path with one of the maids in tow. The plasma barrier buzzed away gently, a poor substitute for cicadas, the housekeeper thought. His mind ran free with anticipation for the next chase, an excitement that made saliva collect at the corners of his mouth. Another hunt. The specks were just about at the front gate. He reached for one of the bricks in the wall and removed a plastic cap, pressing in the four-digit code on the keypad underneath. The barrier’s tone dropped in pitch, and the two passed through. Excitement was building among the help that waited on the wall. The housekeeper resumed his dream. Another hunt. Another chase. Maybe this time, he thought, I’ll get another go at the master. Ascending the curling path and stopping in front of the scattered crowd, the two foil suits removed their masks.
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