The pair walked about a few blocks down the road from Marie’s apartment complex, where they got onto a bus stop, leading them into the city of Greater Columbia. Jones looked at the ruins of what was once known as Washington D.C. as they got off of the bus, slowly perturbing the other passengers trying to exit the vehicle.

“Goddamn.” Jones said. “Still a shithole.” They made their way down past the bombed out remains of the national treasury, to a diner on the corner of a numbered street and a non-numbered street. A large “Help Wanted” poster was hung on the door, which Jones noted as they entered the restaurant. They lit up a cigarette as Marie pulled a small vaporizer out of the pocket of her peacoat. They blew smoke into the air and talked as the waitress brought subpar eggs and instant coffee to the table.

“What were you doing?” Jones asked at one point. “When the blackout happened, I mean.”

“Playing the piano, as always.” Marie said. “When it happened I was so freaked out, I didn’t know what to do.”

“What did you do?”

“Scream, for a few hours.”

“Enlightening.” Jones’ voice went half an octave deeper as they exhaled more smoke.

“What were you doing when it happened?”

“I was about to log on, didn’t experience any of it for myself. I bet it was a fucking nightmare. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“It’s okay.” Marie lied. She still had nightmares about the blackout, that grey noise that engulfed all of her senses for the better part of a day. She worried that she screamed during these nightmares, something that Jones had not mentioned during their short stay.

“I was sitting in a cafe.” Said a voice from the booth beside them. It was an old, balding man, much taller than Jones or Marie. “Reading Harlan Ellison.” He said.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Pardon me?” Marie asked, spinning around in her side of the booth.

The balding man turned around to meet the pair. “When the static hit, I was sitting in a cafe, reading I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream.”

“How apt.” Jones said, taking a drag from their cigarette. The balding man chuckled a bit, nodding and mouthing some type of affirmation. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you, Mr. Ellison?”

“Does it really matter?” The man asked. “You might as well just call me Mr. Ellison.”

“So, tell me, Mr. Ellison,” Jones started, much to Marie’s chagrin. “What were you like in the system? How was that person different from the one I see before me?”

“Um,” Mr. Ellison said.

“I’m sorry for them.” Marie said. “We don’t mean to bother you.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Mr. Ellison said. “In the system, I was running a successful business, selling second hand instruments and trinkets and novels.”

“Did you ever sell a Carl Joyce a piano?” Jones asked.

“It’s hard to remember.” Mr. Ellison took a sip from his own coffee. “All of the records are gone now, but I think I do remember selling some oldie a piano a few decades ago, an off-brand Japanese thing, the name of which I can’t exactly remember. I was glad to get rid of it. It was just taking up space in my shop. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Jones said, standing up from their seat. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Ellison.” They bowed slightly at this, adding a bit of formality to their statement.

“I’m glad to give it.” Mr. Ellison said. Marie put a little bit of cash onto the counter and left the diner with Jones. On their walk back to the bus station, they saw an antique shop on the corner of a non-numbered street and a numbered street, with a Royal typewriter and a Yamaha upright piano next to each other in the window. They took a passing glance at these items, but had to make their bus back to Marie’s apartment.

A long silence wafted over the pair for the first time since Jones first came into the city of Greater Columbia. Marie took a drag from her vaporizer and looked at the bombed out remains of the national treasury. There were hazmat suited workers taking loads of United States currency into a large fire, billowing smoke into the air like a twisted ballet.

“What do bombs sound like?” Marie asked.

Jones ruminated on this for a moment before saying one word: “Loud.”