The AC was out again. Hitting the heel of his palm against the dash did nothing. He’d checked the coolant yesterday. It was just too fucking hot.
The driver reached for his water and found the bottle empty. Just for good measure, he stuck his tongue into its mouth and licked up condensation. It cost him a third of his water credits to fill the bottle this morning, and he’d need the rest for a shower after work. The only reason his nose wasn’t flooded with his own stench was the wall of smell from the MunchBucket in the passenger’s seat.
“Right at the next stop,” the GPS said.
“Got it.”
“Twenty minutes remaining for delivery,” she added helpfully.
Wind buffeted the east-facing side of the car. They drifted in the gust. The driver jerked left. Dust played across the glass, the road disappearing behind it. He squinted.
Screeeeee- the left tires hit the rumble strips. He lurched back to the right. If there were another car on the roadway he might’ve thought twice, but they’d been alone for an hour. He leaned forward, hoping the stop sign would reflect through the gloom.
“Readjusting route,” the GPS said.
“Shit,” the driver muttered. The client was rich – tipped ten dollars with a promise of more on delivery. The food was still hot, but wouldn’t be by the time he’d gotten through whatever insane back-road U-turn the GPS was calculating.
He swerved. The car fishtailed. He slammed the brakes, praying they wouldn’t roll, ignoring the screech and the scent of sulfur.
“Driver error,” the GPS said as they slowed. Her voice edged with static, the sound of AI-generated fear.
“Readjust back,” he ordered. A three-note chime played over the highway noise. The back wheels skidded over the rumble strips. He flinched, then relaxed as the car finally stopped and the noise faded.
“Take Clementine Memorial Highway,” the GPS said. “Ahead at the stop.”
He put the wipers on. Visibility did not change.
“Ahead?”
“Roughly.” She paused. “Fourteen minutes remaining.”
He floored it.
Tickers on the dashboard leapt and stabilized. The driver white-knuckled, didn’t even catch the food as it flew back.
“Collision alert,” the GPS yelped just as the faded bloodorange sign appeared. He swerved again.
The road stayed smooth. He couldn’t see a thing, but he wasn’t dead.
“Not bad,” he said to himself.
“Your risk rating has been automatically adjusted,” the GPS announced.
Godfuckingdamn- Risk rates determined a driver’s pay rates and gig opportunities; after passing a threshold, a driver could be eliminated from the app entirely. “How much?” he said.
She paused. “15%.”
He could make up for that by nailing the rest of the delivery, but if one more thing went wrong…
It wouldn’t, he thought. It couldn’t.
The dust thinned. Both sides of the road were lined with dead trees and decrepit wooden fences. Another shape, long & horizontal, laid in the oncoming traffic lane.
“Collision risk detected,” the GPS said.
“You don’t say.”
He tapped the brakes, curious. The client information suggested this man lived alone in a gated complex. Any other residences or businesses that once existed along this road had long since fled north with the American Empire.
“Eleven minutes remaining,” the GPS warned.
Peering out the window, he caught sight of red – gore – the purple of a small intestine – tendons twisting in directions they weren’t supposed to – some kind of roadside accident. It was too mangled to identify.
“Ten and a half.”
“I get it,” he said, and tapped the accelerator.
They soon approached a rusted iron gate over the road. It was set in chain-link topped with glistening rolls of barbed wire. An ancient talkbox sprouted from the sand.
He took the mesh off his window and reached for the call button. Just out of reach. Only three minutes left.
Grumbling, the driver pushed his upper body through the window, hitting the button with the end of his middle finger. Sand in the hot wind nipped his skin, and he knew he would be applying ointment to the pock marks in his cheeks tonight. He returned to shelter and dug grit from his tear ducts.
“Clearance?” a male voice asked through the box. He sounded vaguely like a TV star, though the driver couldn’t put a name to him.
“Security code listed on order instructions is ‘0937’,” the GPS supplied.
The driver repeated the code.
“Identity?” the man asked immediately. His voice was uncannily smooth.
“I’m from ZipRush? I have Harold’s MunchBucket order,” the driver said.
“This is SecurityGPT v7.23-0890. Verifying.”
Who could afford custom language software? Suddenly the generous tip seemed much smaller.
“Confirmed. Welcome to 1246 Clementine Memorial Highway, Clayton, Republic of Florida,” SecurityGPT said. With an earsplitting creak, the gate pivoted into the air.
“Hold up, Clayton?” the driver said. “The receipt said Tallahassee. We’re still in Tallahassee.”
The gate held at a 90-degree angle and went silent. No sound from the talkbox.
He glanced at the dashboard, expecting the GPS to explain. Nothing. “Confirm address?” he said.
“You have arrived. Dropoff timer will begin at the end of the delivery timer, or when you enter the property.”
He stared ahead. The vibes were not great. He could cancel the order, walk away… but he’d forfeit pay. His performance measurements would tank. It would be a week before ZipRush cleared him to work again, and another three before he could save enough credits for a shower.
“If you aren’t coming in, security demands I close the gate,” the talkbox said.
He swallowed his anxiety and put his toe to the accelerator.
Half a mile of downhill gravel roads later, visibility improved. Settling sand revealed he was passing through some kind of village, built of plastic tents, vinyl sheds, and lean-tos. One man crouched in the dirt, clutching a broken bottle, and watched the car pass. Two elderly women dressed in matching blue uniforms sat, smoking, on the open threshold of a sliding van door. Further on, three adults and a gaggle of kids gathered for a smoky trash-fire that smelled like cooking fish.
“Is this ‘Clayton’?” he asked the GPS. No response came.
Above the windshield, the hygrometer leapt. Tall shapes emerged from the blur of horizon, and as he stared, he realized they were palms and cypresses. He hadn’t seen a cypress tree with his own eyes since 2038.
“What in the hell..?”
The shantytown petered out with a final prefab sitting under an enormous Cuban palm. The gravel road became dirt, and he slowed.
“Dropoff is across the bridge. Five minutes remaining,” the GPS said.
Waxy swamp plants fingered the windshield, then disappeared just as quickly. He boggled at the view.
Beyond that thin strip of greenery was the largest stretch of fresh water he had ever encountered. It must have been as long as a football field, and wide enough that, in the dusty air, he couldn’t see where it ended. Entire clouds of mosquitoes and flies floated on hot, wet winds. The shores grew stands of cattails and ferns big enough to hide classrooms’ worth of children. Near the base of the wide concrete bridge, a massive, mossy log supported at least six painted turtles as well as the egret eyeing them hungrily.
“Holy shit,” the driver breathed.
“Four minutes remaining,” the GPS said.
Reluctantly, he drove on, fighting to keep his eyes on the road.
As he approached the far shore, it began to resolve itself. Past another thin strip of greenery was a mess of peaked roofs over red brick and stone, marred by enormous uncurtained windows, architecture straight out of the Guzzling Twenties. A few yards past the end of the bridge, the road turned into a dirt culdesac that kissed the house’s front walk. The building was surrounded by an intensely, almost frighteningly well-groomed lawn – another indulgence he’d only ever seen in photos – and more cypress trees. Something glittered in the shrubs, ringing the grass, and two military-style Jeeps rested under a carport on the house’s eastern side.
“This guy has a moat,” he said aloud.
He pulled up next to the walk, marveling as he got out of the car. The sky was nearly clear. Through yellowed clouds, he made out patches of dusty topaz.
“Two minutes remain,” the GPS said, her voice echoing from both the car and the delivery bag.
The driver walked to the house. Set in the inhumanly tall door was a knocker shaped like the head of an American crocodile, the Republic of Florida’s critically endangered national animal. Absurd. He pressed the doorbell. It played a twelve-note electronic melody.
In comparison to the house, the man who answered the door seemed almost normal. He had a decent haircut, a day-old graying beard, and a loose white polo hanging over his paunch. Still, the driver noted the expensive watch.
“Harold?” he said.
“I’m he.” The man thumbed himself in the chest. “Harold Clayton.”
Of course. This was some kind of weird tax haven compound.
“Well…” the driver said, wondering again if he should take off and knowing he couldn’t. “I’m your ZipRusher. I’ve got your order from MunchBucket.”
“Fantastic!” Harold said, and beamed. “Please, come in, get out the sun a minute.”
Helpfully, the delivery bag piped up. “One minute remains.”
“Let’s take care of that,” Harold said. He waved for the driver to follow him into the house. “You can put the food on my kitchen counter. I’m eating in front of the TV tonight. You favor an NFL team, son?”
At first, the driver was too shocked to respond. Through the door, it felt as cold as the inside of a refrigerator. Every surface was white, nothing was dusty. Every shelf held hardback books, printed photos, and other valuable-looking trinkets. He even spied a hearth in the living room, over which hung an enormous screen.
“New Jackson Cougars,” he finally said.
“Good man.”
The kitchen was somehow even more absurd than the entry hall. A huge awning window above the cabinets looked into the leaves of a stand of palm trees. There were two refrigerators, and an extra stove embedded in the island.
The driver put the food on the counter.
“Delivery complete,” the delivery bag announced.
The driver said nothing, waiting for Harold to offer more tip. When he didn’t, the driver folded his bag.
“Thank you for using ZipRush today,” he said, holding a smile firmly in place.
“Would you like a glass of ice water?” Harold said.
The driver couldn’t help it. His jaw dropped.
Harold chuckled sensibly. He filled a pint glass from the nearest fridge. Condensation sparkled and sluiced between his fingers as he handed it to the driver.
The pint vanished, morning dew on a hot day, cold and sweet and fresh.
“There you are,” Harold said, eyeing him. “It’s really absurd how few credits they allocate you.”
The driver wiped his mouth. “What do you do?” he said.
It was a blunt and inadvisable question, but Harold chuckled again. “I’m American, kid.”
Of course – there was no special water distribution system in the US, just old-fashioned money. That was almost even wilder. Even if Mr. Clayton’s only water holding was the swamp outside, acquiring it alone must have cost hundreds of millions.
Harold continued speaking without pause. “I had the moat installed back in, oh, must have been ‘53? Actually, it was supposed to be a swimming pool, but the staff couldn’t keep it clean once we got Bala. Never hire little old housekeepers for men’s work, I suppose.”
The driver had busied himself with checking his keys, checking his wallet, arranging the folded deliver bag in the pocket of his cargo shorts, trying to look like he was listening but not too hard. He glanced up. “Bala?”
“Love her more’n life.” Harold beamed again, white-hot. “You have a kid?”
He thought of the empty bassinet in the corner of their studio, the box of lightly-used onesies and booties collecting dust on the built-in shelf. The IVF jar, which hadn't been touched since they'd inserted the inaugural dimes. “Not yet.”
“Well, that’s wonderful, son,” Harold said.
He strolled to a section of counter covered with papers, pens, and magazines. After a brief search, he selected a framed photo and turned back to the driver. “But kids are overrated. Selfish little bastards. My opinion? Nothing beats the affection of a reptile.”
It was a picture of a crocodile – visibly thin, but fierce.
Rich people, the driver thought. He wondered how many questions he’d have to ask about the dinosaur to get another glass of water.
“She’s beautiful,” he said aloud.
Harold winked. “I think so, too.” He put the photo back. “Whole staff hates her. Intimidated. But it makes sense. I did name her for a war goddess – you been to India?”
The driver, momentarily floored by the implication he could ever afford such a thing, found himself shaking his head even as Mr. Clayton continued talking.
“I went after my divorce to get right with karma. I learned it all. See, the Hindis’ Bala slew forty men in battle. But my girl’s a sweetie. Never nipped a fly.”
He didn’t seem like too much of a jerk, the driver thought. As far as multimillionaires with pet crocodiles went, Mr. Clayton seemed.. harmless? Lonely, and maybe overtalkative, but generous.
“Anyway, I know you’re busy. Need any moisture for the road?”
A hysterical bark rose in the driver’s throat, and he wrangled it into a smile. “Yes, please,” he said, touching his tongue to his lips. “Could I have a little more ice, too?”
The smile fell from Harold’s face.
“Well, see,” he said. “The house is connected up to Floridian water.”
The driver wouldn’t have minded waiting to freeze some of Mr. Clayton’s American water, but he knew how to take a hint.
“I didn’t mean to presume, sir, thank you,” he said, getting his expression under control.
“Perfectly all right, son,” Harold said, pleased. The driver might have resented the old man's desire for supplication, except he was too thirsty to find any fire in his gut.
“Tell you what,” Harold continued, “You can refill your bottle from the moat. You carry iodine, right? Plus, if you like, you could take a dip and cool off.”
“Oh, I should probably get to my next delivery…” the driver said.
Muffled by layers of fabric, the computer in the delivery bag chirped, “Gigs available!” as though to underscore his point.
“Don’t you poor fools get any breaks?” Harold said, shaking his head.
It could have been the driver’s imagination, but he swore the computer in the bag was an iota less enthusiastic as it said, “Since 00:00 today, you have accrued twenty minutes of paid time off.”
“Oh, that would be more than enough. I know the moat’s not as clean as a shower, but…” Harold looked the driver up and down. Very, very slightly, his nostrils wrinkled and flared. “It would certainly help.”
The driver swallowed, ears hot. It was a generous offer, in this economy. He’d have to be stupid to refuse. A terse nod was all it took.
“It’s my pleasure,” Mr. Clayton said.
He found his voice. “Have a wonderful day, sir.”
Mr. Clayton did not respond; he’d already picked up his MunchBucket and was wandering toward the living room.
When he started the car, the AC coughed a single gust of chilly air into his face and promptly gave up in the face of unbeatable odds.
“Eighteen minutes and fifty-seven seconds of paid time off remain,” the GPS said.
“Why does ZipRush hire drivers? Can’t you do this?” the driver said.
He watched a small white bird hop from branch to branch in the cypresses. Finally:
“Consumer studies indicate customers prefer interactions with human drivers. Many find AI-driven delivery to be impersonal. Reductions in cost of labor did not match the projected loss of revenue.”
Right, thought the driver, he and Mr. Clayton had gotten real chummy just now. The white bird vanished. He turned on the car.
They maneuvered to where gravel bonded the concrete bridge and the dirt road. Water lapped at the front tires. The driver peeled his damp T-shirt from his skin as he stepped out. He filled his water bottle and dripped in the iodine before shucking the rest of his clothes.
The water was warm, but the air was roasting. The driver sat at the shore to dip his legs. The edge of the water was sheer concrete wall. Not so much a ‘moat’ as a canal, apparently.
His legs felt bouyant, and he slipped the rest of the way into the water, noting the brackishness. He’d been to the ocean a fair few times, but Florida’s surviving swamps were miniscule, so most were closed to the general public. This place was the exception, a secret oasis. Mr. Clayton was an accomplished conservationist, if only by accident.
He kicked off, swam about twenty feet, and floated, crossing his arms behind his head. Four anhingas took off from the water some ways beyond him, flapping vigorously toward shore.
Watching them fly, he found himself wishing he were one of them: or a bug, or a frog, really anything except a human delivery driver during history’s worst drought. Mr. Clayton hadn’t liked him any more than he liked the overgrowth of the moat, the beautiful wildlife blessing his property. Surviving in the margins, all of them.
The driver kicked out for shore. Under his leg, the water flowed strangely.
Something slammed into his calf, a shock, electric. He cried out. Whatever it was dug in, and it was heavy. He flailed. Couldn’t shake it. The water rose, past his shoulders, past his mouth, he gasped one last mouthful of air. Then the thing beneath twisted and he felt his leg crack as he was dragged behind.
He caught one clear glimpse of her, the crocodile, Bala, when she whipped him around and he looked up. Liquid columns of scarlet rose from her mouth on either side of his leg. She was so thin she reminded him of his girlfriend’s pet dwarf frog, a slip of a thing, legs bending awkwardly, spine jutting, but she still had plenty of teeth in that dark shrunken head. Bala was nearly as dark as the water, silhouetted against the surface, and then she looked down at him with one ancient, limbic yellow eye, a spotlight.
She dove, snapping at his torso, and he screamed. The air bubbles exploded from his mouth, fleeing for the surface, where they popped. Minutes later, they were followed by hunks of flesh.