[jerH]

Synopsis: It's the end of the world as we know it, and nobody meant to bring it about.



The Law of Unintended Consequences


The full moon shone down brightly on the dark metropolis below. Against a blanket of a million newly visible stars, it seemed to mock the dark windows reflecting its image below. At first glance the city appeared deserted, its sidewalks and streets clear of foot and motor traffic, the haphazard wandering of wind-borne trash the only discernible motion. It was also strangely silent, the sooty wind rustling through the yellowing leaves drowning out any hint of scurrying below. Branches devoid of birds swayed, casting uneasy shadows.


Closer inspection revealed solitary figures, darkly dressed, darting quickly from darkened corner to shadowed alley. They moved as if pursued, casting frightened glances over their shoulders into the darkness, some clutching the odd possession to their chest. Like water spiders gliding randomly, ever fearing the attack of predators both above and below, they avoided the illumination like animals grown accustomed to an electric fence. Warily skirting the edges of pools of light, they dare not contact the boundary.


Behind a broken window on the top floor of a broken, abandoned building, a young man lay on the floor. He'd come to this city alone in a desperate attempt to escape the chaos of the countryside, so no one here knew his name. It hadn't taken him long to realize he'd traded one hell for another in coming here though. The disorder he'd left seemed almost civil to what he'd witnessed among the angry mobs here. At times he'd wondered how he'd lived this long and how much longer he'd last. He would remind himself from time to time that his name was Trevor, lest it vanish from the world forever.


His stomach reminded him that this was his second day without eating, and he hoped that tomorrow's scrounging would be more successful. He had triple-checked the series of locks, chains and crossbars that held the door to the room securely shut, but he still made his bed near the window and the rusty lifeline offered by the creaking fire escape. He gingerly arranged his blanket of newspaper to cover his body, careful not to rustle the pages too much and attract unwanted attention.


Finding a fresh stack of newspapers today had been a lucky break, though not as lucky as food would have been. Like everything else since the lights had gone out, paper had been hard to come by. He'd never appreciated the utility of the newspaper in the old days, regarding it more as an anachronism, a comfort to the ancient who refused to read their news online. Now it was a treasure to be hoarded, alternately providing the sheets to his bed, the kindling for the occasional fire, reading material to distract him from the surrounding decay and, in a pinch, uncomfortable but effective toilet paper.


He'd hoped for more than paper when he snuck into the old grocery store. Everyone had been distracted by the news that a fuel convoy was coming to the nearby lab. At least the government's white-coated knights were still questing. That hope wasn't what drew the crowds out of their hiding places and onto the street though. Lately the gangs had been more adept and more brazen in their attacks, and scrounging afterwards could often turn up an overlooked can or packet. But today's convoy had been a small one, and it had passed quickly and without incident. Trevor had barely ascertained the store empty when he heard the rustle of returning occupants. The few papers stuffed under his sweatshirt were his only spoils.


As the moon continued its ascendancy over the tattered world below, its light crept slowly across the grimy floor until it cut a swath across the young man's face. Awoken by the purity of the white light illuminating the filth, he rolled slowly to face his back toward the toothless window, mindful even in his stupor to move slowly, silently. As he did, the moonlight briefly lit the page on top of his blanket and his eyes snapped to the top of the sheet. It was nothing more than an old classified section, where people had once sold for pennies items that would now command blood, but that wasn't what drew his attention. Against the blur of words the date shown with crystal clarity, as if the moon above was focusing its beams to highlight this single reminder of what he'd set in motion under another full moon, that the chaos around him was his fault.


June 20. Two years and an age ago.

***

Trevor deliberately overfilled the cup with ice. He'd have spit in it if he thought he could get away with it, but there was nowhere that offered enough obscurity. His job wasn't worth it, even if the Frankenfood scum deserved it.


"Grande non-fat no-whipped iced mocha," he said, trying not to sneer lest the manager notice his attitude. "That'll be $7.95." The tall, lanky customer seemed lost in a dream and Trevor had to prompt him again before he even produced his wallet. While he waited, Trevor stared disapprovingly at the man's identification badge. Roger Hallowell, GenTech Agricultural Research. He wanted to rip it off and stomp on it, to throw it in the blender. What would Roger Hallowell think of that?


He knew what his manager would think of it, and despite his roiling frustration he was rational enough to check his impulse. Like most other people in this town, sheep in Trevor's eyes, his boss was enamored with the genetic engineering lab that had sprawled like mutant crabgrass along the city's western edge. It disgusted Trevor the degree to which these people thought with their checkbooks, welcoming the horticultural abominations to their city because they came bearing jobs. Property values and the tax base had prospered, and that seemed to be all anyone cared about.


Roger Hallowell was, as far as Trevor was concerned, the ultimate embodiment of the evil of genetic engineering. He'd earned that accolade by virtue of nothing more than his routine. For, while he was a bright young PhD in genetic engineering, he could have been GenTech's janitor for all Trevor knew. But he ordered a grande non-fat no-whipped iced mocha every afternoon during Trevor's shift, his security credentials dangling from the lanyard around his neck, daring Trevor to show the courage of his convictions.


Roger finally produced his debit card and passed it to Trevor. It was well worn, the signature panel having long ago succumbed to friction. After four swipes, the magnetic strip finally surrendered its precious payload. "I'm sorry," said Roger, "I never carry cash so that thing gets used all the time. I should probably order a new one."


Trevor grunted and slid the PIN pad across the counter, suppressing the urge to throw it at his customer's face. And then, quite by accident, it happened. Trevor shifted his gaze, imagining his eyes were burning a hole through the security badge tethered to Roger's neck. Unconsciously, perhaps in response to the motion of the man's fingers, Trevor's eyes shifted their focus from background to foreground. 3-1-4-1. He knew the man's PIN number. In an instant a plan, or the outlines of one, materialized. He would drain Roger Hallowell's bank account. He would get that card and strike a small blow.


He quickly but discreetly canceled the processing transaction and then, trying to maintain the detachment of a few seconds ago, groaned and rolled his eyes. "It's been flaky all day," he said to a worried looking Roger, "there's nothing wrong with your card. How 'bout we say this ones on the house?" He glanced quickly over his shoulder to confirm his manager was beyond ear-shot.


"Thanks very much," said Roger.


"You're very welcome. Have a nice day." He even forced himself to smile.

***

Regardless of what the kid thought, Roger made a mental note to order himself a new card when he got home. He walked outside to the small patio seating area and pulled a chair into the shadow of an umbrella. The free coffee had been a nice ending to a thoroughly rotten day. Nine years of school and three years of research had culminated in today's meeting. Officially the company would make their decision over the weekend and inform him on Monday, but the looks on their faces and their platitudes told him their minds were already on containing the financial fallout.


The umbrella tugged restlessly as the wind gusted, fluttering the napkins on his table. Roger turned his back to the breeze and gazed across the highway at the waving bands of one of the town's hundreds of corn fields. He brushed a streak of black dust off his shirt sleeve, glimpsing the motes for a second as they rode the wind toward the field, then disappearing. The thought crossed his mind that he too might soon be like dust, swallowed by the stalks.


This was going to be a long weekend, full of introspection and big decisions. The biggest: to return to GenTech and try to pick up the pieces, or to move on? There were plenty of biotech firms on the west coast he could get on with. No more Midwest winters was an enchanting thought. He was barely 30, but today he felt old, and that he had been chasing this particular basket of gold too long.


In his more reflective moments, he thought about how he'd come to be on this road in the first place. There were a few pivotal moments, important at the time but paramount in hindsight, that had shaped his future. He'd been in middle school when the first one came to pass. Concern about global warming and carbon emissions had the nuclear power industry on the cusp of a comeback. The construction of several new power plants had been approved, and despite the controversy raised by those who still instinctively feared the word nuclear, ground was about to be broken.


And then came the collapse. Time and its close ally, gravity, won their struggle against shoddy Soviet workmanship, and the hastily constructed concrete retaining dome over the old Chernobyl reactor vessel collapsed. Sadly, a Western-led effort to construct a new dome to go over the first was nearing completion just a few hundred yards away. The giant structure of steel-reinforced concrete sat on rails, needing only a few finishing touches before it could be rolled into place and lowered over its crumbling Communist predecessor. In hindsight, the months spent at the beginning of the project arguing over who would get the concrete contracts had been fatal.


The actual radioactive fallout had been minimal, but the political repercussions profound. In an instant nuclear power became, once again, the demon who would steal your children in the night. Harsh words for the industry translated directly into rising poll numbers, and the candidates were all too happy to ride the tide. Hydrogen regained the spotlight as the darling technology that would deliver us all, and the vultures of Big Oil circling over the wounded nuclear industry sensed their opportunity. They announced a major investment to build the infrastructure to bring hydrogen to the gas station, burying the competition beneath the solidifying concrete islands of the pumps.


The future had seemed bright in those days. By his sophomore year in high school Roger was dropping hints to his parents about his driver's license, eager to get his hands on the keys to their new fuel-cell powered car. Like most of the new hydrogen hybrids, theirs had a small internal combustion engine as well, designed to run on either gasoline or ethanol in an emergency. Even his sleepy little Kansas town had hydrogen at the pump though. Carbon emissions were falling, the automobile industry was surging, and unemployment was virtually non-existent.


The West was generally too busy congratulating itself to care about the chaos their new found environmentalism was exporting. As gasoline consumption fell, prices went right along, as did crude oil prices. Oil exporting countries all over the world found the cash spigot slowing to a trickle, and regimes that had floated on petro-dollars began to sink with them. In Africa, South America, and particularly the Middle East, popular unrest overturned the status quo, with militants claiming their own brand of Marxism and religious extremism rising from the ashes. Whatever their motivation, these new rulers shared a common hatred for those countries they felt had abandoned them now that they were no longer useful.


Against that background, September 11, 2015 really shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone, but it did. No one formally claimed responsibility for the explosions, though the date made everyone point fingers squarely toward the Middle East. Years later, a quietly issued classified report would lay the blame on Venezuela, crediting them with the most ambitious, and ultimately most successful, terrorist attack in the history of the world.


The plan was simple, and worked beyond their wildest dreams. What was audacious was the scale of the endeavor. Explosives were placed at hydrogen offload ports, storage tanks, pipeline terminals, and distribution points in over 20 cities. L.A., Dallas, New York, Chicago, even Madison, Wisconsin. Detonated simultaneously, they caused billions of dollars of destruction. The bonus for the bombers came when the explosions ignited the volatile gas in underground pipelines. Miles of roadway suddenly leaped skyward, spewing car consuming fireballs through massive fissures. Washington D.C. was especially hard hit and three members of Congress were killed.


Overnight, hydrogen ascended and became the new plutonium. Outraged citizens declared the stuff to be too incendiary, too unsafe, to trust it in their neighborhoods. The President vowed that she would never allow what the perceived perpetrators wanted: a return to oil. Most of the former OPEC cartel felt dealing with the Americans was anathema anyway. And so the country proceeded down the path the real bombers wanted all along, a renewed embrace of ethanol.


The promise of hydrogen had drained enthusiasm away from ethanol research a decade earlier, and so attempts to produce it from switch-grass and other plentiful biomass had never come to fruition. The readily available technology still relied on corn, and the world suddenly couldn't grow it fast enough. Everywhere you turned, parallel rows were being plowed and planted with the new gold. The downstream effects on the economy were harsh, but not enough to overcome the stubborn zeal that now characterized renewable ethanol consumption as an act of patriotism. That pride insulated against the string of steep price increases that touched almost everything Americans consumed. From hamburger made from corn-fed beef to soda sweetened with high fructose corn syrup, they learned the hard way how many things had corn in them.


Others weren't even as lucky. In Mexico the cost of corn tortillas grew until the government had to subsidize them. Tequila practically disappeared from store shelves as farmers burnt their fields of agave to make room for the cornfields that brought far more lucrative harvests. And further south things only got worse, as weak central governments, preoccupied by their struggles to contain food price inflation and challenges to their power, were happy to turn the other way as drug cartels expanded into "legitimate" agriculture. Corn was the new cocoa. The one exception of course was Venezuela, where an aging Hugo Chavez looked like a genius for subsidizing the sowing of bumper crops.


Roger Hallowell was a young chemistry major by this point, wondering what he was going to do with his life beyond the cradle of university. Sitting in an economics class, a general education requirement and prerequisite for nothing that he had put off as long as he could, he was shown a film one day on supply and demand. The narrator droned about market forces, marginal utility and the unseen hand. It was the images, though, that drove home the message that Roger would take away. Skinny, malnourished people in Columbia, forced to plant, tend, and harvest corn. Not for their empty bellies, but for gas tanks. Surely there had to be a better way.....

***

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Trevor asked, interrupting Roger's moment of reflection.


"No, go ahead," Roger replied, puzzled as he surveyed the empty tables on the patio around him.


"I hope you don't mind my barging in," said Trevor, straining to behave as politely as possible. "I couldn't help noticing your badge earlier. GenTech, you guys do genetic engineering, right?" He immediately cursed himself for opening with such a stupid question. Of course they researched genetic engineering, everyone in this town knew it.


"Yes," said Roger, vacillating between enthusiasm at the opportunity to discuss his work and trepidation at why a barista would be asking about it.


"I'm a biology major," Trevor started. It was only a small lie. He had been a biology major once, after giving up on mechanical engineering and before switching to public policy. When his father, who made secret about his desire to forget school and prepare to take over the family business, found out that most of his math and science credits from the first two programs wouldn't carry over to his third try at a calling, he refused to pay for anymore courses until Trevor stuck with a degree program for a year. So now he was a full-time barista, saving up money to pay for a year of classes on his own. It sure beat another summer working for his dad. "I'm really not sure what I want to do with my degree once I graduate next year, and I was wondering if you had any advice on where to go next?" He figured this was a good way to get Roger Hallowell talking and he'd go from there.


Roger relaxed, sympathizing with the young man's plight. He often wondered what he would have done had he not seen that particular video in a class he almost skipped. "Sure. What would you like to know?"


"Well, I guess in broad terms, what do you do?"


"In broad terms. Okay...I'm sorry, I don't know your name."


"Sorry, I'm Trevor. Trevor Stillman."


"Pleased to meet you Trevor, I'm Roger by the way. Okay, so in broad terms I work on corn. I'm looking at ways of modifying the genome of the corn plant to be more resistant to disease, drought, insects, things like that. Ultimately the goal is to increase corn yields so that it can continue to be an ethanol source without having such an impact on food supplies, particularly in the developing world."


"More like so you can guarantee that people in th developing world have to buy your seed corn," Trevor thought to himself as he pretended to listen intently. "So what particular avenue of that are you researching?" he asked.


"I was working on disease resistance," Roger said dourly, thinking back to the meeting.


"Was?" Trevor arched an eyebrow.


The enthusiasm in Trevor's voice snapped Roger back to the present. Regardless of the Board's decision, he was sure they wouldn't be happy to hear him discussing it with someone free of the non-disclosure agreements that armor plated GenTech's operations. "It looks like my current line of research might not pan out, " he said, thinking to himself that was the understatement of the year.


"Sorry to hear that," Trevor offered, secretly delighted. "You seem pretty bummed out about it."


"I had high hopes is all."


"Bummer," said Trevor, anxiously working up the nerve to roll the dice. "Hey man, it's Friday right? You look like you could use a couple of beers and I'm off shift," Trevor lied. "Why don't we go grab a drink?" He couldn't believe he'd gotten the words out, and he regretted it as soon as he did. Surely Roger Hallowell would be freaked out that a complete stranger had asked him out for drinks after knowing him for about three minutes, "He probably thinks I'm hitting on him," Trevor thought nervously.


That particular thought didn't cross Roger's mind, though the invitation did seem a bit odd. But what the hell, he hadn't been anywhere but his apartment and work in weeks. "Sure," he said, conferring instant relief on Trevor. "There's a place near my apartment where I go shoot pool sometimes. I just need to go home and change."


"Sounds good," said Trevor, his nervousness instantly building again. "Let me just go let my manager know I won't be here to cover and I'll follow you there." He'd have to tell his manager he felt sick or something. Half of him wanted to come back and in a minute and tell Roger his boss needed him to stay on. He couldn't believe he was going to go through with this. Then he felt ashamed and cowardly, and his mind was made up.

***

The drive to his apartment was a short one, and he knew it so well that he could practically close his eyes. Roger's thoughts drifted back to the meeting, replaying the conversations, the tense scowls, the air of corporate anxiety as the management considered their exposure. He'd been allowed to say very little, presenting a few slides on what his team had done and attesting to their strict adherence to the established protocols. Beyond that there wasn't much he could say beyond pleading for more time. He didn't know how the fungus had been introduced to their carefully isolated greenhouse. Everything had gone through the standard sanitation procedures, they'd worn and disposed of their paper clean suits religiously, stopping under the ultraviolet sanitation lights whenever entering and exiting.


Wherever it had come from, whether it had mutated in the lab or gained genes somehow from the hybrid corn, one thing was for certain: it was nasty stuff. It had shown a strong resistance, practical immunity, to the standard array of fungicides. And it grew and spread with alarming speed, overwhelming the corn stalks in hours, bursting forth clouds of spore. It had wiped out an entire experimental planting in less than a week, setting off alarm bells that rang in the corporate boardroom. Their concern reached panic levels when it was also found to thrive on cotton, wheat, and soybeans. Roger's team was certain that, given time, they could isolate what made this blight so effective. They could learn from it, and make the next hybrid generation stronger. They could even use the stuff as a test of the resistance of future genomes.


But management had another idea: bleach. They wanted to pump his lab and greenhouse full of aerosolized bleach and bathe it in ultraviolet light until they were sure that nothing was alive within their confines. The meeting had been called to decide which path to pursue, study or destruction. The sheer volume of time spent discussing the monetary and PR ramifications made it clear to Roger which would be chosen, and he'd walked out of the meeting certain this experiment was over. His only real uncertainty now was whether his employment would be terminated as well.

***

As they pulled up to the gated entrance to the apartment complex, Trevor watched as Roger climbed out of his car and stepped back to tap on his window. "The gate comes down very quickly, so don't try to follow me through. My gate code is 3-1-4-1, like pi!" Roger laughed. "Just park next to me and I'll be down in a few minutes. We can walk there from here."


While he waited for Roger to change clothes, Trevor pondered the significance of this new piece of information. His debit PIN and his gate code were the same, governed by the same mnemonic. What else might those magic digits unlock?


"The bar's just across the street," Roger said when he emerged in a T-shirt and jeans.


"Fine by me. Is there an ATM there?"


"Yeah, but its kinda hidden back in the back. I need to get some cash out too. I'll show you where it is."


Trevor followed across the street and to the back of the car where a small standalone ATM stood in the shadows near the restrooms. He did his best to appear nonchalant as he observed Roger remove a card from his wallet and swipe it through the card reader. He was delighted that it wasn't the same card he'd used to pay for his coffee, and thrilled as he watched Roger's fingers from the corner of his eye: 3-1-4-1. When it was Trevor's turn he withdrew more than he could afford to spend, but it was important to get Roger good and hammered.

***

Six hours later, Trevor guided a surprisingly heavy and incredibly inebriated Roger back across the street. He'd paced himself well, and had switched glasses with Roger more than once as the pitchers of beer wore on. As he guided Roger toward the bathroom for the inevitable purge that was to come, he plotted his next move. He sat Roger down on the tile floor, where he promptly laid his cheek against the cold ceramic and professed his gratitude to Trevor. Trevor took the opportunity to investigate the medicine cabinet where he found exactly what he was looking for, and then excused himself with a promise to return with water. He dawdled in the kitchen until he heard the unmistakable sound of alcohol regret.


When Roger had finished, Trevor returned with a large glass of ice water and the Tylenol PM he had found in the bathroom. He offered them to Roger who nodded thankfully and swallowed them without inspection. Trevor guided him to his bed and sat nearby talking to him to distract from the room's spinning until the alcohol and the sedative combined to drag Roger into slumber. When he was sure Roger was well and truly unconscious, Trevor returned to the kitchen and retrieved the GenTech badge from the counter top and headed out the door.

***

Trevor had hated the summer's spent working for his father's construction company. It was long, hot, back-breaking work with one redeeming feature: the chance to watch Dave Connoley blow things up. The occasions were few when a basement or septic drain field encountered bedrock that had to be removed by explosives, but they were spectacular. Trevor's third summer with the company, Dave had taught him how to attach the blasting caps and detonation wires to the sticks of dynamite. He'd loved turning the plunger and feeling more than hearing the roar of the explosion. Last summer they had switched to using wireless detonators. They were somewhat less gratifying, but perfectly suited for what he now had in mind.


With his father out of town for the weekend, Trevor found the keys to the warehouse exactly where they were always left in a desk drawer. He hurried back to the supply shelves, quickly scanning for the demolition materials. Roger would be out for hours yet, but he still wanted to get this done quickly, if he could do it all. There wasn't much there, far less than he'd hoped for, and he again had his doubts. But he'd come this far. And besides, he told himself, what are the odds he'd even be able to get into the building?


But Roger was true to form, and the magic 3-1-4-1 had turned the keypad green and loosed the click of the magnetic door lock. Trevor was surprised that there was no security guard at the gate or patrolling the empty parking lot. The fluorescent lights in the hallways flickered on at his approach, motion sensors detecting his presence and assuming his need for light. The fact that they'd been dark reassured Trevor that he was alone in the sprawling compound.


As he walked down the hallways, windows on either side gave glimpses of huge rooms hosting small fields of corn, cotton, who knows what else. Each had a door again equipped with a card reader, and he assumed that Roger's card would not provide him blanket access. He had no hope of identifying which rooms Roger had access to, he needed to find somewhere more central. A sign overhead finally obliged. "Fertilizer distribution," and an arrow pointing down the corridor to his right.

***

He'd placed the dynamite sticks beneath what appeared to be the largest of a series of storage tanks connected to a spider web of pipes and valves. Now, as he stood outside the fence, transmitter in hand, his determination faced its final test. He faced the long, low building, its silhouette punctuated by lightening too distant to bring the rumble of thunder. The dark corridors and empty parking lot assured him that no one was inside the building. But the risk of human casualties aside, this was no prank. If the explosions didn't destroy enough of the buildings and their computers, there would surely be a record of Roger's card badging in, and it wouldn't take long to trace that back to him. From there it would be a short hop to his father's warehouse and the missing explosives, and at that point he'd officially be up the creek.


He could still go home he thought, brushing his wind blown hair out of his eyes. He'd have to go back in and get the backpack, but no one was there. He could forget all about this crazy idea and go back to his normal life. Save his money, go back to school, finish his degree, and fight the genetic witch doctors from within the system. Go back to the coffee bar and serve Roger Hallowell his iced mocha every afternoon, the GenTech badge dangling before him like a summer gnat he couldn't swat.


He pushed the button.

***

Neither the distant rumble of the explosion nor the whining sirens of the ant trail of fire trucks woke Roger that night. While GenTech's entire facility burned to the ground, and nervous corporate board members fretted about what might have escaped the blast to ride the wind, Roger dreamt. He dreamt of his last visit to his lab, immediately after his review with management. The lab was off-limits pending the decision, but it seemed the board had assumed the weight of their words would be sufficient, for Roger's key card still opened the door.


His dream was vivid and he still felt the rush of excitement when the keypad turned green and the lock released with a click. His brain told him that he could still smell the dampness of the leaves rotting under the weight of fungus, hear the clicking of the genetic sequencers in the background, feel the breeze of the filtered air conditioning. His paper suit crinkled and rustled as he walked between the drooping rows. His eyes watered as he squinted to take a last look through the microscope at the tiny organism that had changed his life.


For all its vividness though, Roger's dream could not recreate that which he was unaware of. And so, for the second time that day, he didn't see the defective bulb in the ultraviolet sanitation unit. Nor did he notice the smear of spores on his paper suit as it rubbed off onto his shirt sleeve, leaving a small black trail of dust.

[Syrah]

I really like this, and although I don't think you were planning on continuing this-- I would love to continue this story. I liked your switching POVs and you performed them well. The plot has enough depth to keep you moving throughout the story (I found the 12 pages to move a lot faster than I thought it would) and does well at keeping a certain voice throughout. Ready for the next installment.

[gonzoadrenaline]

Like water spiders gliding randomly,

striders right?

Lately the gangs had been more adept and more brazen in their attacks, and scrounging afterwards could often turn up an overlooked can or packet.

no coma w/ the word and

"Grande, non-fat, no-whipped, iced mocha,"

added comas

And then, quite by accident, it happened

Never start a sentence with the word AND, unless it's a quote, a character saying it. In this instance, just use the THEN.

He brushed a streak of black dust off his shirt sleeve, glimpsing the motes for a second as they rode the wind toward the field, then disappearing.

You've got a great vocabulary. You're not using the thesaurus, are you?

The actual radioactive fallout had been minimal, but the political repercussions profound. In an instant nuclear power became, once again, the demon who would steal your children in the night. Harsh words for the industry translated directly into rising poll numbers, and the candidates were all too happy to ride the tide. Hydrogen regained the spotlight as the darling technology that would deliver us all, and the vultures of Big Oil circling over the wounded nuclear industry sensed their opportunity. They announced a major investment to build the infrastructure to bring hydrogen to the gas station, burying the competition beneath the solidifying concrete islands of the pumps.

Wow, you're really good.

The plan was simple, and worked beyond their wildest dreams. What was audacious was the scale of the endeavor. Explosives were placed at hydrogen offload ports, storage tanks, pipeline terminals, and distribution points in over 20 cities. L.A., Dallas, New York, Chicago, even Madison, Wisconsin. Detonated simultaneously, they caused billions of dollars of destruction. The bonus for the bombers came when the explosions ignited the volatile gas in underground pipelines. Miles of roadway suddenly leaped skyward, spewing car consuming fireballs through massive fissures. Washington D.C. was especially hard hit and three members of Congress were killed.

I think you have incredible talent and should seriously work at getting published.
I literally cannot stop reading this and I'm afraid to be disappointed that there isn't more.

And so the country proceeded down the path the real bombers wanted all along, a renewed embrace of ethanol.

Again, the SO would be sufficient. I really don't know if this is real rule of just a guideline, but I firmly believe in it.

The readily available technology still relied on corn, and the world suddenly couldn't grow it fast enough.

Again, not sure if it's a guideline or a rule, but I do believe you don't need a coma w/ the word AND.

The downstream effects on the economy were harsh, but not enough to overcome the stubborn zeal that now characterized renewable ethanol consumption as an act of patriotism. That pride insulated against the string of steep price increases that touched almost everything Americans consumed. From hamburger made from corn-fed beef to soda sweetened with high fructose corn syrup, they learned the hard way how many things had corn in them.

Wow, I never thought about that. I love that you seem to have put a butt load of thought into this piece.

And further south things only got worse, as weak central governments, preoccupied by their struggles to contain food price inflation and challenges to their power, were happy to turn the other way as drug cartels expanded into "legitimate" agriculture. Corn was the new cocoa.

Again. FURTHER is a fine way to start a sentence.

When his father, who made secret about his desire to forget school and prepare to take over the family business, found out that most of his math and science credits from the first two programs wouldn't carry over to his third try at a calling, he refused to pay for anymore courses until Trevor stuck with a degree program for a year.

That's a tough sentence to read. I know all about it, I do the same thing, but you've probably already tried to revise it, eh?

"More like so you can guarantee that people in the developing world have to buy your seed corn,"

Personally, I prefer italics for thoughts, I think they'd serve your purpose better then quotations here.

Surely Roger Hallowell would be freaked out that a complete stranger had asked him out for drinks after knowing him for about three minutes, "He probably thinks I'm hitting on him," Trevor thought nervously.

Sweet, a seemingly open utopia. Again, hate the quotation marks.

Half of him wanted to come back and in a minute and tell Roger his boss needed him to stay on.

Typo? Because it's an unnecessary word.

And it grew and spread with alarming speed, overwhelming the corn stalks in hours, bursting forth clouds of spore.

The AND

Their concern reached panic levels when it was also found to thrive on cotton, wheat, and soybeans.

Unnecessary coma.

Roger's team was certain that, given time, they could isolate what made this blight so effective. They could learn from it, and make the next hybrid generation stronger. They could even use the stuff as a test of the resistance of future genomes.

You remind me, quite a bit in point of fact, of Michael Crichton. In the way you are so well versed in bio-tech. You did research for this story, eh?

My gate code is 3-1-4-1, like pi!"

That's great, you're sooo good.

Trevor followed across the street and to the back of the car where a small standalone ATM stood in the shadows near the restrooms.

BAR right?

Trevor took the opportunity to investigate the medicine cabinet where he found exactly what he was looking for,

and then excused himself with a promise to return with water

Trevor's third summer with the company, Dave had taught him how to attach the blasting caps and detonation wires to the sticks of dynamite.

Maybe you should add IN at the beginning of the sentence.

There wasn't much there, far less than he'd hoped for,

and he again had his doubts.

But he'd come this far.

And besides, he told himself, what are the odds he'd

even be able to get into the building?

As he walked down the hallways, windows on either side gave glimpses of huge rooms hosting small fields of corn, cotton,

who knows what else.

A sign overhead finally obliged. "Fertilizer distribution,"

and an arrow pointing down the corridor to his right.

From there it would be a short hop to his father's warehouse and the missing explosives,

and at that point he'd officially be up the creek.

Save his money, go back to school, finish his degree,

and fight the genetic witch doctors from within the system.

While GenTech's entire facility burned to the ground,

and nervous corporate board members fretted about what might have escaped the blast to ride the wind, Roger dreamt.

And so, for the second time that day, he didn't see the defective bulb in the ultraviolet sanitation unit.

Other than these few and minor mechanics problems, your story was flawless. Please don't think that I'm ripping you apart, I'm just cutting my teeth at the editing stone.

Overall a freaking fantastic story. I really got into it. Seriously, you've got the talent to get published. Like I said, you really remind me of Michael Crichton. Have you ever read anything by him? You had to have done research for this or maybe you're actually in the field yourself, though I doubt it. You are so real. I seriously can't put into words how good a job you have done with this; you could maybe even get a novel, or at least a novella, out of this story. I really hope you have more of this.

Really, really good work, write on!

Pure Gonzo

[jerH]

Stop, you're making me blush! Thanks for both the praise and the time to look this over in such detail. I was headed out of town and tried to get this types and posted in a hurry, and its obvious. I'll try to get around to editing in the next day or two....

I'm glad you enjoyed it. I didn't really research it (I'm just a geek who reads science mags for fun) and my biggest fear was that someone would pick me up on technical inaccuracies. I made that mistake with the last story I posted: in my eagerness to get it posted and gather feedback I overlooked some rather glaring inconsistencies.

I hadn't planned on continuing this, but given the feedback so far I may have to reconsider that.

Thanks again!

[gonzoadrenaline]

Absolutely reconsider. As far as I can tell you are dead on. Have you ever read any Crichton. You have that feel; the feel of a scientist writing a book about what he knows. Seriously, I will never be able to stop praising this peice. So blush on, big guy! Really, really gooooooooooooooooooooood!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!

[Syrah]

I need to stop editing pieces after midnight. PFT. Thanks Gonzo. And sorry Jer for not catching those.

PLEASE do continue. It's good work.

[jerH]

Don't worry about it...if it weren't for working after midnight it never would have been typed up at all!

[xtremelady]

I hadn't planned on continuing this, but given the feedback so far I may have to reconsider that.

Yes please do reconsider; this has managed to capture my imagination, leaving me with a craving to learn more - about things touched on. The flow and mechanisms were almost flawless drawing you in and the idea is excellent. N1.

[jerH]

Okay, so what would a continuation look like? A description of the slide from the night of the explosion to the dystopia its currently set in? Or further adventures in the current setting? I had a brief thought that maybe Roger Hallowell and Trevor might meet back up when Trevor helped attack a convoy Roger was in....

[xtremelady]

maybe he holds the key - whether or not knowingly to salvation - maybe he finds a reason to incorporate the need to do so...