Category: Fiction Factor

Brady Lark walked into the Windy City Auction House, surveyed the marble floors and white columns leading up to the ceilings, and then sheepishly waved at the woman stepping out from behind a glass counter.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Are you the manager?”

Amanda Archway extended her hand and smiled – providing a quick once-over of the young man adorned in gray high-waisted, wide-leg trousers, a V-neck polo shirt and black Oxfords.

“I’m actually a specialist here at WCAH, but I suppose that qualifies as being a manager. Is there something I can help you with?”

Lark handed over a crisp bill he pulled from an envelope.

“Gee, I certainly hope so,” he said. “My name is Lark – Brady Lark – and I don’t really know who I should talk to, but I was just wondering what this is worth.”

Archway eyed the currency, put on the reading glasses that had been dangling around her neck, and carefully studied it.

“My goodness,” she said. “A $10,000 bill. I’ll be completely honest … I’ve seen many antiques and antiquities, but I’ve never even seen one of these up close before. I’ve certainly never held it in my hand.”

She was hardly alone; very few people in the new millennium had seen an actual $10,000 bill. It hadn’t been issued since 1945 and was taken out of circulation in 1969.

When it came to monetary collectibles, this was one of the rarest of finds.

“Just by looking at its markings, it appears to authentic,” Archway said. “And it’s in pristine condition … truly remarkable. May I ask how it came to be in your possession?”

“It’s my grandfather’s,” he said. “He’s a scientist – was a scientist, I mean – and he was always curious to learn how much it had increased in value. He, uh, left it to me in his will.”

Archway walked over to her counter, gently laid the bill down, and began typing furiously on her phone.

“I’m going to get our on-site appraiser to look this over,” she said. “If he can authenticate this, I think we can make you an offer you’ll be extremely pleased with.”

Lark didn’t notice any chairs, so he nervously paced back and forth – hands in pocket – as Archway signaled the appraiser over to study the bill.

Although only a couple of minutes had passed when Archway approached him, the wait seemed interminable.

“Mr. Lark, sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “There is no question that this is, in fact, a very real and truly exquisite $10,000 bill. There are only a handful left in the world and I can’t imagine ever finding one as well-preserved as this one.

“We’re prepared to offer you $100,000 for this bill.”

Lark’s eyes widened.

“Holy mackerel!” he exclaimed. “I really had no idea what you might offer. That’s a lotta clams.”

“Indeed,” she said. “You make a huge profit, and I’m quite sure we can do the same at auction. It’s a win-win for us both. It’s up to you, of course, but we can make this deal right here, right now. I just need some identification.”

Lark reached into his pocket and produced a driver’s license.

“Those are my credentials,” he said. “Oh, and you can just make the check out to me.

“Absolutely,” she said, quickly completing the necessary paperwork. “We truly enjoyed doing business with you and if your come across anything else from your grandfather’s estate, please keep us in mind. Here is your check.”

While the money was real, the fake ID he had purchased only hours earlier had allowed him to open a bank account and fool Archway. With the windfall from the sale of the $10,000 bill, he was supposed to spend a couple of days buying as many books on quantum mechanics as he could find and use the rest to purchase silver, which would power the time portal constructed by his grandfather.

Unfortunately, the device was good for only one, two-way trip – transporting at 8:34 Eastern Daylight Time on July 12, 1940 and retrieving at 8:34 Eastern Daylight Time on July 15, 2022.

Lark stared at the check and felt the color drain from his face; his grandfather was a genius, but even geniuses make miscalculations.

“I’m just looking at the date on here,” he said. “I thought it was July 12, 2022.”

Archway shook her head.

“No, Mr. Lark,” she said with a chuckle. “It’s July 12, 2023. Don’t worry … we all get our years mixed up sometimes.”

Reggie heard the loud buzz of the generator more clearly as he trudged up the hill, weary from the climb and aching due to carrying the two large, full gasoline cans. His near-constant, splitting headache wasn’t helping matters, either.

Time was he’d have never paid much attention to the sound; in fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever even heard it before. But these days it was like a beacon.

Not only did it break the eerie silence that blanketed this part of the city, but it meant he was about to have breakfast with a friend. Actually, his only friend.

Esther – a middle aged woman who was almost as round as she was tall – opened the door to her bakery and gave Reggie a wry smile.

“Just put the gas next to the generator,” she said. “And then come in and wash up.”

Reggie sighed as he set the cans down, feeling immediate relief as his thin arms were finally free from strain.

Manual labor was hardly his strong suit, and never had been for his thirty something years. To be fair, it was never really required.

Growing up in an old money mansion came with old money perks, meaning much of the “work” that required doing was almost always done by someone else.

He had more cash than he knew what to do with but he often felt invisible, even to his own family. Being wealthy gave Reggie plenty of advantages, but his social awkwardness and C-student intellect hardly made him a favorite son.

Times had changed dramatically, though – and quickly.

Six months earlier the thought of lugging gasoline cans for miles seemed ludicrous. Now he considered it his job.

“So, what’s on the menu this morning, Esther?” Reggie asked.

Esther cracked her neck and then put on an oven mitt.

“Just pulling out a pan of biscuits,” she said. “And I also opened a can of bacon. It’s all yours … I’m so nauseated I can’t even think about eating.”

Reggie winced.

“Is it bacon from a can that makes you nauseated?” he asked. “I can see why. I didn’t know bacon in a can was even a thing.”

“It is,” Bertha said. “I grabbed a bunch of them the last time I was at Durbin’s Supermarket … it’s over there with the potted meat. I could load it all up but going back and forth is about the only exercise I get these days.”

Reggie leaned over and took a whiff of the biscuits, watching as Esther emptied the bacon into a pan and turned on the front eye of the stove top.

“You know I can go to Durbin’s any time that you need me to,” he said, massaging his temples in a losing effort to ease his headache. “I can do more than fetch gas for your generator. I’ve never really done much for anybody, so it feels good to help.”

Esther tossed the empty bacon can into the trash and then grabbed the skillet, taking it to the sink and pouring the excess grease into a pot.

“Nah,” she said, forcefully scratching her cheek with her free hand. “I’ve spent over 40 years cooking, and part of cooking means rounding up food. I mean, it’s not hard. I just grab what I need, put it in a buggy, and leave. It’s not like there’s much else to do.”

Reggie looked out the window and stared at the empty street.

“I know. I just ….”

“Just what?” Esther asked.

“I just sometimes feel bad that it’s all come to this. Every day when I go to the pump and get gas, I find myself looking around to see if anyone is about to catch me stealing. Hell, I still select ‘credit’ at the pump out of habit. Does it ever bother you to just wander into a store, snag whatever you want and walk away?”

Esther reached under the counter and grabbed a plate.

“No,” she said. “The owners are dead. Except for me and you, the customers are dead. We’re scavengers, but dead people don’t care. I’d gladly buy something if there was someone to buy from, but there isn’t.”

Esther put two biscuits and a wad of bacon on the plate and pushed it toward Reggie.

“I’m glad we got to know each other, even if we are scavengers,” he said. “If this hadn’t happened, I doubt we’d have become friends. so, you know … silver lining.

“Still, there have to be other people who survived the bomb … have to be. Maybe we’ll find them … or they’ll find us. Tomorrow might just be the day you’ll have more people to cook for and more people to talk to.”

Esther looked at her left arm and started lightly rubbing the radiation burn that was spreading over the top of her hand. She didn’t have much time left, and she doubted Reggie did, either.

“Yeah, maybe tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong with having a little hope.

“Now, eat your biscuits before they get cold.”