Extinction Point: The End

PART ONE - New Years Eve — 2042 -

One

Do I dare disturb the universe?

T.S. Elliot

– New Orleans -

The noise from the street was deafening. Shouting and singing blended with the occasional burst of raucous laughter, which in turn combined with the happy squeals of drunken women. The whoop of a police car’s siren clamored to overcome the combined voices of thousands of inebriated revelers. Instead, it became a counterpoint to the melody of yelling and singing rising from the mass of dancing bodies as the squad car slowly pushed its way through their midst.

Jim Baston, his eyes red and tired, tried to concentrate on the paragraph he was writing, but the blare of the rowdy crowd below his window was just too distracting.

“Save tonight’s work and forward a copy to the house’s inbox, please,” he said quietly.

“Yes Jim.” The female voice of the computer’s AI was soft and comforting. “I’ve done as you requested Jim,” the AI said a second later. “Is there anything else you would like?”

“No thank you. You can shut down. I won’t need you for the rest of the night.”

“Very well. Oh! And Jim…”

“Yes?”

“Happy New Year.”

“You too,” he whispered.

 For the past ten years, he had been coming to this same hotel. Same room, every time. On first name terms with the owners (a pleasant couple from North Carolina), he didn’t even have to tell them his name when he called two months ahead to confirm his arrival. His reservation for the following year penciled in each time he ended his stay.

This was the quiet part of the city, too; he could only imagine what it would be like in the more popular areas. He felt like throwing open the windows and screaming at the crowd to shut the hell up! Couldn’t they see he was trying to work? Didn’t they know how important this book was to him?

Of course, who could blame them? It was, after all, New Year’s Eve, and if he had even half a life he would be out there too, welcoming in the New Year in as much of a drunken stupor as the rest of the city.

Instead, he stood, stretched his aching arms — careful to avoid the ceiling fan that twirled almost noiselessly overhead — and walked stiffly to the window, pulled up the blinds, pushed open the French doors and stepped out onto his balcony.

The noise that had been a grumbling rumble now became a cacophony, bolstered in part by Jazz and Salsa bands scattered throughout the city. The sound swelled up like a wave over the balcony, washing over him. From his third story vantage point, Jim looked out over a significant part of the city, its incandescent glow helping the full moon to fight back the darkness. Far off to the south a thick roll of thunderheads, black and roiling, threatened a damp end to the year. But Jim didn’t think a sudden soaking was going to do anything to squash the spirits of the thousands of revelers walking the streets this night.

Resting a shoulder against the doorjamb, he pulled an already opened soft pack of Marlboro’s from his shirt pocket. Tapping out one of the remaining cigarettes, Jim lit it with an antique Zippo, sheltering the fragile flame from the light breeze gusting over the rooftops with a cupped hand.

He took a long drag, held the smoke in his lungs for a few moments before exhaling it into the cool evening air in one long, slow breath. He was trying to give the things up, weaning himself off them by using them as a reward. When he completed five pages of the book, he got to have a smoke. Of course, he had been using the same excuse for the last ten years or so — didn’t look like his technique was working too well.

At twenty dollars a pack, it was amazing that anybody could still afford to smoke the damn things. Countries and presidents, ideologies and industry; they all came and went, but cigarettes outlived the lot of them. Jim wasn’t sure whether that was a testament to the resilience of people’s freedom of choice or just to the obscene amount of money that tobacco companies still threw into their marketing and advertising campaigns.

He hadn’t completed his five-page quota today; it wasn’t for lack of trying on his part, and he’d be damned if he was going to take a ride on the guilt-trip-express just because he fell down this once.

Its New Year’s Eve for God’s sake, he reminded himself.

Glancing at his wristwatch, he realized it was almost 10 pm. Still another two hours left until the ball would be falling in Times Square.

 He could have chosen a hotel closer to the festivities; instead, he booked himself into his usual room in the small family run place on Royal Street, just a block or so away from the Old Ursuline Convent. If he was quick he could change into some fresh clothes and head for one of the bars that littered Bourbon Street. Jim didn’t want to see in the coming year stuck in a room on his own.

He would take a wander down Bourbon Street and see the sights; have a few drinks and maybe he would even treat himself to a cigar.

That’s what he loved about this city, you could amble through the streets drinking a glass of wine and smoking a big fat stogy if you wanted, and no one would look at you sideways. If he tried doing that in LA, he would have half-a-dozen unemployed actors — between jobs, they would be quick to correct — yelling in his face how much harm he was doing to himself, how he was depleting the ozone, blah- blah-blah. He’d heard the same arguments for the last half-a-century. Even good sense can start to stink if your nose gets rubbed in it for long enough, he thought.

Jim laughed at himself, a quiet half-mocking snort. A cigarette, the promise of booze and a cigar, damn he was living dangerously these days.

What the hell! Why should he care? He was sixty years old, after all. A couple of smokes and a few drinks weren’t going to shorten his life by more than a couple of minutes. He deserved a break. He had thrown himself into the latest book with more gusto than usual. It had consumed him for the past four months and it had also taken a toll on him, both physical and mental. A few hours away from it would do him good, give him a chance to clear his mind and reset his imagination.

Jim Baston had never once encountered writer’s-block during his career as a writer. Twelve books, all of them in the top ten of all the right bestseller lists. The books had flowed from him. He had written them on the fly, straight from his imagination to the computer. The completed novel invariably needed little in the way of editing; such was the clarity with which he was able to visualize the story and its characters in his mind.

But this one was different.

It was a work of non-fiction, his autobiography of sorts. Facing his past was hard and painful. So many mistakes locked away, hidden in the darkness of his previous life. And, as he released each memory out of its mental holding-cell, carefully removing the psychic padlock that had kept them safely locked away, he was forced to confront them in all their horrible glory.

As he watched the thunderheads moving closer to the city, he realized how weary he was. It was a weariness that started deep in the marrow of his bones, radiating out through every sinew, along every vein and nerve ending; resonating in every atom of his body.