by Joshua Deutchman

The rain came with such fury it was all QV-27 could do to support production of the elixir without derailing the project. Istvan, the proprietor, had aggressive timelines: demand for the elixir was through the roof, and even a two-hour delay meant trouble. But they were working in impossible conditions, squeezed into an abandoned bus that had somehow landed in the middle of the Northern Westchester woods, with a few tarps strung between the trees.

It had been raining for a day and a half. Inside the bus, they heard raindrops thrumming on the roof. The ground underneath them was so muddy and malleable that QV wondered if the bus would slide all the way to the reservoir. This “wondering” was something new. Lately he had taken to imagining different scenarios, such as the moon spinning above the sky, or the Hudson River turning bright orange. He saw images in his mind but couldn’t quite understand what they meant or what he thought of them. They came and went like a leaf in the breeze; sometimes QV closed his eyes tightly in hopes of catching them.

Working in the bus was a challenge. There were five of them, all anthroids, crushing dried thistles with mortars and pestles, boiling the grinds on hot plates, introducing a blend of chemicals provided by armed militia men, and then pouring the mixture into tiny bottles for the benefit of end users everywhere. Space was limited, even with most of the seats removed, and there was always something preventing a smooth production run. Today was no different. So far, every bottle they filled became opaque and cloudy—a consequence, QV was certain, of the overpowering humidity. In less than an hour, Istvan would arrive, with the expectation that 200 bottles would be ready for their intended destinations.

He was sour-faced and prickly, Istvan, with a dirty beard and pockmarked cheeks. His visits were almost always the same: he would hop down from his truck and climb the three stairs into the bus, hands on his hips, complaining about the smell or the appearance of the anthroids. QV could not always understand him. He mumbled and spoke to the ground. Once he even shouted unintelligible words at the sky.

QV was not exactly certain how the elixir worked or what it did for humans. When he first started in his role as production manager, Istvan brought a skinny woman with wrinkled skin and jeans to the bus and asked QV to give her a bottle. She used a syringe to draw out the liquid, and then plunged the needle into her arm. With Istvan’s help, she lay against a tree, smiling and laughing to herself. After about an hour, QV saw the woman vomiting. She glared at him when he asked if there was anything he could do to help. QV wondered if they had somehow created a bad batch of elixir, but Istvan brushed away his concerns. “No, it’s perfect,” he said. “Don’t screw it up.”

Now he was unclear what would happen when Istvan appeared and saw the clouds inside the bottles. He and RP-89 tried using cotton swabs to remove the condensation, without success. The sound of the rain grew louder. They were running out of time. As far as QV knew, there was only one answer: they would have to put the questionable product in the bottom of the boxes, and arrange the good stock up top. Just like the indistinct images, the idea of deception was newly formed, but seemed absolutely necessary. There was no other answer. QV understood that Istvan was not a reasonable human.

QV and RP began assembling the product. They worked quickly but carefully, making sure that each bottle landed right side up within the corrugated slots. They were so focused that neither of them noticed when one of the windows opened and sent rain into the bus. Nothing mattered save for completion of the project.

With about 40 bottles left to pack, QV heard heavy footsteps and then a steady pounding. TK-98 opened the door. Istvan appeared, his beard longer since QV had seen him last. He wore a long green raincoat and his eyes were nearly glowing. After spitting on the floor, he shouted, “Still packing I see, when I told you to be ready by now.” He pushed TK against the steel post that sat opposite the driver’s seat. A wire came loose from TK’s forehead and buzzed loudly. QV felt his hand shake, and a bottle fell to the ground and exploded. “Get out!” Istvan said. “I’ll finish.” QV opened the side door and stepped out of the bus. He huddled underneath a tarp and watched the rain fall in the clearing where he had worked for three months—worked without stopping.

His own head was buzzing. There were tiny fissures and crackles and a skein of pink and purple coursed its way through his body. He saw the colors. They were as real as anything. They were as real as the dread he experienced, the feeling that Istvan would come out of the bus like a madman, railing about the poor quality of the batch, the money he had lost, the end of the world. QV closed his eyes and waited. Another, more frightening thought came: should Istvan’s anger reach a boiling point, would he be safe? It was the first time he considered his own vulnerability. He could not stop these new sensations, as much as he could not stop the animating fibers and filaments that unspooled within.

Istvan emerged from the bus; TK and RP were behind him, carrying the boxes. They placed them in the back of the truck. “Get in,” Istvan said to QV. They drove down the hill in silence, the only sound coming from the rain and the wipers. Istvan repeatedly pinched his nose and stared at QV. He drove fast, heading north at 90 miles an hour. QV watched the landscape change. They left the tree-lined highway and headed west toward a city whose buildings seemed to smoke, even in the rain. Upon their approach, they saw families sitting on the side of the road and men selling dead flowers. Istvan turned onto a street that went on forever. They passed one abandoned structure after another and neon signs that flashed and sizzled. A man stood on the corner, crying. Along with feelings of fear and uncertainty, QV knew that there was some kind of connection between the elixir and the man’s agony. He was sure of it. With this knowledge came another emotion: anger. It made him squirm. It filled his body with heat.

“Here’s what you’ll do,” said Istvan, as they pulled alongside a long brick building. “You’ll deliver the boxes to the man in the back. He will take them from you. And then he will give you an envelope. You will bring the envelope to me.”

Somehow, QV managed to get his arms around both boxes. He walked down the hill and behind the building, where he saw anthroids unloading cargo from large trucks onto loading docks. A skinny man in a raincoat approached. “You’re from Istvan,” he said, in a high-pitched voice. QV nodded. He followed the man up the stairs, through a warehouse, and into a small office that held a table and four chairs. “Let’s see what’s inside,” said the man, opening the boxes. He smiled when he removed a bottle. “I think I need a taste,” he said. As QV had seen happen once before, the man sucked the contents of the bottle into a syringe and injected the contents into his arm. “Oh, that’s niiiiiiiiice,” he said. “That feels good.” Before he closed his eyes and slumped in his chair, he handed over a sealed envelope that QV knew was filled with money.

QV was more confused than ever. He was frightened and angry and there were other emotions whose meaning he could not articulate. Returning to the forest was no longer a viable alternative, just as he could no longer remain under Istvan’s greasy thumb. He put the envelope inside his chest and grabbed the syringe, careful not to stick himself with the needle. So as not to attract attention, he walked slowly through the warehouse, watching the stacks of boxes grow higher, seeing sentient after sentient maneuvering through the bays with their forklifts.

The colors came quicker now. Some of them were dark and jagged, but they grew more distinct, their foundations settled and real.

He imagined jumping from the loading docks, walking back up the hill, and knocking on the driver’s side window, the syringe held tightly in his fist. Or maybe it was better to separate himself from the darkness, to assimilate the spectrum that came at him with implicit wisdom and wonder. QV grabbed either elbow and breathed deeply. He was ready.