As many of you know, I write at a whole bunch of sites. When John asked me to write here, my first thought was “what can I do here that I don’t already do at another site?” My second was “what have I always wanted to do?”

The answer to both questions was “write a serial.” Here is the first installment.

No Such Thing As Tomorrow – Prologue

“Jack Palance lives,” cried Manuel as he bolted awake in the double bed he used to share with Allison. Disoriented, he felt to see if her side of the bed was warm, then remembered that she was gone.

Dream memories of himself in a soldier’s uniform following Sgt. Palance on some sort of World War II secret mission already fading from his mind, Manuel pulled the clock out from under his dirty laundry. 6:12 in the morning, “but really 6:02,” he thought. He always set the clock ahead 10 minutes so he would think he was running late.

Six weeks in the past, Allison was waking up for the last time. Manuel was sleeping like a log. She climbed over him, knowing that she wasn’t going to wake him up. Little floating spots surrounded her, as they did every morning before she splashed water on her face.

“Out of toothpaste,” she thought, making a mental note to stop at the (fatal) grocery store after work. No clean bras – she pulled one out of the laundry pile and figured out what she was going to wear.

“Shit, ten minutes late,” she thought, looking at the clock, so she decided to forget the shower.

She opened the front door, saw the government billboard that read “Kiss your relatives goodbye every day – because you never know,” and walked into the bedroom. She shook Manuel.

“Wha…”

“I’m leaving.”

“Oh. Bye. Kiss.”

She kissed him, recoiling a little at his morning breath, and left him forever.

“No toothpaste,” thought Manuel, six weeks later, opening the medicine cabinet with the worst breath of the day. He decided to grab some gum on the way to his appointment.

The water still wasn’t working, so he slapped on some after shave, threw on his dirty clothes and opened the front door. He recoiled at the rising sun. At least the billboard had provided some morning shade. Whether the billboard was going to be rebuilt or not was a subject of hot debate in the parts of the neighborhood that were still standing.

“I bet,” said Mrs. Conners, after a couple of drinks had made her foolish, “that they are going to replace the billboard but not replace the store. You watch.”

Manuel passed dozens of paper covered telephone polls, each with a message about how it was passed zero hour, or how everyone needed to keep their eye out for strangers, or about how the managers were there to protect the community.

Arriving at the morgue, he produced his receipt for the nice lady at the front desk.

“I’m here to claim Allison Bridges,” he said, calmly.

“Wife? Girlfriend?”

Manuel said nothing.

“A shame. She looks like a nice girl.”

“Provision 37,” said Manuel.

The receptionist rolled her eyes. “I’m not a risk. Everything I say is recorded.”

Manuel breathed a sigh of relief.

“Wife.”

“I’m sorry. Here she is. On behalf of the Department of Forensices, allow to apologize for the delay in turning her body over to you.”

The receptionist placed the urn on the desk.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Bridges?”

“It’s… uh, glass.”

“Yes?”

“I can see her ashes.”

“Well, it is either that or you would have to open it and empty it if a manager stopped you.”

“Of course. Of course.”

He lifted up the urn and looked at all that was left of Allison. Something caught the light. He tilted the urn slightly and narrowed his eyes.

“Excuse me, Miss? Is that a bullet?”

End of Part One