Fourteen, 27 January

In the street, in the rain

Jan 27, 2025

There was no blood

‘Please set your Eyeto to “pay”.’

Zola settled in the back seat of the taxi while Amandine flashed her Eyeto at the payment monitor.

‘Payment received. Thank you. Destination, please.’

She entered the address, gave Zola a kiss on the cheek and closed the door, leaving him alone in the vehicle.

‘Hello Passenger Smith. My name is Frank. Please now sit back and enjoy the ride. I don’t have any record of you riding with us before, but no matter. We welcome everyone.’

‘Hello Frank,’ said Zola. Frank was a smiling rator who sat at the steering wheel of the vehicle. It had no control over it whatsoever as it was entirely self-driven. It was in place because the public had a clear, oft-stated preference for taxis with a driver at the wheel, even if they knew the car was driving itself. It also gave passengers ‘someone’ to converse with.

‘Frank, what’s the weather like en route and across the region for this week and next?’ asked Zola.

‘The weather? Yes, certainly Mr Smith. In the city the rain is continuing to fall and is predicted to get much harder in coming hours…’

Zola stopped listening and focussed his mind on the object that felt like it was burning a hole in his tunic pocket. He knew he should abandon the dronikus immediately. It was simple, he could just leave it wedged in the seat of the taxi. Even if he strongly believed it was dormant, he was taking too great a risk. He gritted his teeth.

He wrapped his fingers around the dronikus and squeezed it. Through the window he could see the rain continue to bucket down while the rator-driver rambled on about the effects of warmer ocean currents on the climate in the tropics.

Zola could find no reason for keeping the dronikus. It was ridiculous; he had no wish to be reminded of the island. And yet it was only the fear that the dronikus was actually still functioning that made him consider getting rid of it.

He was here now – in a taxi ploughing through the rain and gushing waters in the overcrowded and crisis-riven metropolis – not on the island, not in exile.

He made his decision and reached his hand into the pocket once more. It would fit easily down the side of the seat and would probably remain hidden there for a long while.

However, just as he moved to pull the dronikus from his pocket that car stopped and the lights came on.

‘Here we are Mr Smith. Safe and sound. There seems to be shelter in front of that gate. Just a short dash and you’ll make it without getting very wet.’

It was too late; the opportunity was missed. Cameras would surely see if he tried to dump the dronikus in the taxi now.

Zola thanked Frank and left the car. He ran quickly through the rain, as the taxi moved off down the road. He had been dropped at the complex’s delivery entrance; there was less chance of being seen, Roberto had said.

He began to enter the gate code when a hand grabbed his shoulder. He spun round to see a hooded face.

‘Zola, it’s me,’ in a whisper.

‘Toto?’

‘Shhh…come, we’ve got to go!’ He took Zola’s arm and urgently pulled him away. Sticking to the shadows, he guided him along the pavement through the pouring rain.

The night was dark. Zola and Roberto, wrapped together in a heavy poncho and cowering under an umbrella, moved along, buffeted by the rain and a strong wind. Despite the downpour and the late hour, many people were about, particularly as they entered the poorer quarters. They walked for a long time, avoiding people where they could. The rain hampered the movement of the surveillance dronikus and there was little evidence of patrolling rators. They were not stopped. Perhaps no alert had been posted for them as fugitives.

Vehicles and pedestrians moved cautiously through the rain and gushing waters. Dodging an overflowing drain, Roberto slipped on the pavement, hurting himself as he landed. He lay on the pavers, not moving until Zola helped him to his feet. He wrapped him in his arms, supported him, keeping him moving.

‘How did you find out?’ he asked.

‘They left him there for everyone to see, in the corridor of the office, his body cut open, slashed,’ Roberto said through his tears, ‘and his face beaten.’

‘Did you see him?’

Roberto sobbed, unable to reply.

Zola hugged him. ‘Come, Toto, we must keep moving.’ They inched forward.

‘There was no blood, Zola. No blood. He was cut all over but there was no blood. He was just hunks of meat.’ He stopped weeping but breathed with difficulty as he spoke. ‘He told me yesterday… He said that she is at Sesanti.’

He started crying again, more loudly now. He stopped moving, hanging his head, his shoulders heaving. Zola pulled him up onto his back and made his way down the street. They neared the area where Zola and Chesa had walked earlier and into a network of smaller laneways, which were also crowded but with far fewer people in movement. Many recently arrived refugees and squatters had found shelter from the rain under the overhang of the buildings. Others had no cover, hunkering down as best they could on either side of the open drains, which ran like rivers in the centre of the narrow streets.

After going down one laneway and back up another, Zola stopped in an intersection, holding his Toto on his back, lashed by the rain and the wind, and having no idea of where he should go or what he should do. He looked up the crowded alleyways one after the other. ‘It’ll be alright, Toto, it’ll be alright,’ is all he could say, as he turned again, rainwater and tears streaming down his face.

Out the corner of his eye he glimpsed someone waving at him. It was an old woman. She sat next to a tiny brazier wrapped in a thick poncho, nestled among her belongings, sheltered under a building’s overhang. Zola took a step towards her as she pulled her bags closer to her, making a small space on the paving stones. With relief, he eased Roberto down out of the rain alongside the woman, thanking her profusely.

A bundle of cloth was handed along the line of people crammed against the wall. The woman propped it under Roberto’s head as he lay on his back. Zola thanked the people, not even sure from whom the pillow had come.

Roberto began to breathe a little easier and Zola felt himself relax, even though both he and the old man shivered in their soaked clothing. The woman looked at Roberto, putting her hand on his chest, her lined face wrinkling to a smile: ‘He be okay.’

Zola cradled Roberto’s head in his lap, stroking his face, wiping his tears and softly reassuring him. They remained like this for some time, Zola glad to be still and protected to some degree from the elements. Roberto appeared to have found sleep of sorts, shivering and moving erratically on the hard cold stones. The old woman handed Zola a cup of steaming tea. He roused Roberto and helped him drink, allowing himself to relax just a bit, and take in all that had happened and was happening.

Hey, what's that sound?

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Hey, what's that sound?

Fourteen, 27 January

In the street, in the rain

Dronikus, a novel set on a burning planet called Earth.

Discussion about this post