The Solution Read Online Free

Mr. Spires knew he didn’t have much time.
    “Who are you?” Mr. Spires said. “We’ve been looking for you a long time.”
    “No!” Elizabeth’s image turned to static and dissipated before Mr. Spires could ask another question.
    “A peach indeed,” he said, “I’ve found you.”
    He looked over at Elizabeth. She was sleeping peaceably again. He placed the wand back into the briefcase, then grabbed and plunged a needle into her arm and drew some blood, letting the red stuff pump into a vile. 
    M r. Spires said, “Hidden things do make monsters, but you’re much more than that, aren’t you? You’re practically glowing in it more than most anyone in your condition.”
    After enough blood was collected Mr. Spires wiped her arm with an alcohol pad and covered the insertion point with a cotton ball and bandage. He sat back down, reopened the program, and watched Elizabeth dream of the Lightning Fields and her family, knowing in the morning she’d be riding with him to the City.   
     
     
    Chapter Three
    Randal Markins, Lupercalia, Ultimate Reality
     
     
    The City.
    Trails of hot pink and neon green sketched the night. Pleasured faces swamped the streets with drunken smiles and leers induced by quality drugs. Each harlot projected a pornographic holoflick which hovered behind them like lascivious spirits, displaying what pleasures he or she could bestow upon potential customers; it’s simply advertisement, baby . A few musicians played instruments from violins to holokeys and let fly three-dimensional notes which surrounded listeners with a euphoric, personalized virtual reality—some of the listeners fell into distant imaginings where they rode unicorns, others were on a tropical beach. But all this was accompanied by the scent of star-crossed couples fornicating in alleys where halogen lights dimly illuminated them. Tonight was a celebration in remembrance of Lupercalia, a festival the ancient Romans eventually made into Valentine's Day. A block of the City had been closed off for the event.
    Among the festivities lumbered Randal Markins, appearing quite opposite of the celebration’s grandeur. He wore flannel pajamas and a white T-shirt, wrapping his arms around his chest to keep warm. No one really noticed, and if they did no one re ally cared.
    Randal was pale, tired, and wasn’t sure exactly what wa s happening to him—as a matter of fact he had no clue at all what happened to him. He was having a normal day. Everything normal. Normality was his thing. After work he had come home to his one-bedroom, near bare and claustrophobic apartment. He had one green houseplant beside his threadbare couch. He ate pasta for dinner, drank sweet tea (then one gin and tonic), and while lying down on his twin bed in his too small room he watched a report on a tsunami in the Pacific, then he for a few moments he read a Solution book written by Dr. Reverence called How to Find the Center of Self , then, listening to the drone of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the festival, he fell asleep soundly, and he snored. Randal dreamed of a green-eyed and auburn haired girl calling from deep in the dark, but he could not understand what she was saying. Her image was one of the most vivid he had ever seen, and the feeling of her—her presence—, even though only in a dream, intrigued and consumed him. And if he dreamed of anything else afterwards it was of nothingness.
    For all Randal knew he would sleep for millennia, and he’d never care if he had to work again. Then, suddenly he had woken by pulsating, bashing noises—penetrative static blasted in his head, popping and cracking as if someone were attempting to invade and tune into his mind and scramble his brain.
    He had no choice but to grit his teeth as acute pressure began building b etween his temples until it reached a crescendo. Yelling, Randal rolled off the bed and fell flat on his back knocking the wind out of himself for a moment. When he got it