The difference it can make.

A short story for macabre monday, inspired by current events and a trip to the gym

“I hate the gym. Hate it. I have perfect health for a man of eighty plus. What difference can it make at my age?”

The Attendant smiled. “It won’t be the last time I hear that, Sir, but twenty minutes a day can make a lot of difference, at any age.”

“That’s what my physician said. He’s a great doctor, great, really, but that’s not going to happen. Not happening. I told him, I’m doing it for the photo op. and that’s it. Great visuals, my press guy says. They’ll be along any minute.”

“Whatever you say, Sir.”

“If I have to do this, I’m gonna be sitting down. Can we get more light in here?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir. Now, if you could just follow me over to this machine here, I can set you up with something not too challenging, get the ticker up over a hundred. You won’t even break a sweat.”

“What is this? Some sort of sex chair, all these handles and straps. Is that what this is? Hmm?” he grasped one of the smooth, black rubberised handles and grinned. “Get some pussy on here and you might get me back in.”

There was a pause and then the Attendant’s smile cracked wider, showing perfect teeth. “It’s a recumbent bicycle, Sir. Would you mind taking off your suit jacket, and maybe your tie? You’ll be more comfortable.”

“The tie stays on. Never lose the tie, not for a press thing.”

“Of course Sir, as you like it. Now if you could just put your feet into the pedals like so, and grasp those handles down by your side, I can get you set up with something perfect.”

He pushed his feet into the toe holds of the pedals and the Attendant tightened the velcro straps then started tapping on the touch screen. “What are you, six two and two hundred and forty pounds?”

“Who’ve you been speaking to?”

“When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you can size people up.”

“Too close for comfort. Say, can we get something more interesting there?” He jabbed a thick finger at the graphs and figures on the bike’s generous high definition screen.

“Of course Sir. I was just getting your baseline stats. We can choose from a whole range of scenery, but I thought you’d like something familiar to start; I’ve got just the thing.”

“Get me my phone, will you?” He waved an impatient hand towards his hanging suit jacket. “That moron press guy shoulda been here by now.”

The screen flicked over to a wintry, urban street scene. “If you start pedalling, Sir, keep that number between 12 and 15, and see where we get to.”

He began to move down the snowy street, passing parked cars and pedestrians, shop fronts and cafes. It looked familiar, ordinary but familiar. Up ahead, he could see a crowd was forming, waving signs, milling at the sides of the road.

“Where are we at? Is that a rally up ahead? Is that it?”

Two cars overtook at speed and rammed into another, forcing it off the road. Eight masked men in khaki fatigues leapt out, guns raised. More paramilitaries rushed in from the wings, dispersing the protesters with batons and pistol butts.

“I know where this is, you sneaky bastard!” He looked to the side with a crooked grin. The Attendant nodded ever so slightly. On the screen, the armed men dragged a woman from the car, swarmed her, rained down blows. Pedestrians with home made protest signs flocked in to help but were pepper sprayed and beaten back. As he passed he could see the woman’s bloodied face mashed into the snow.

Fuck around, find out.

The view changed as the bike turned a corner and the snowy streets gave way to sunshine and tropical greenery.

“Let’s go a little faster, shall we?” The Attendant leaned over his shoulder to tap the screen and the pace quickened. The road became dustier, buildings brighter but ramshackle, interspersed with palms and flowering trees. Ahead, an industrial complex came into view and then was obliterated in a series of huge explosions. Black and orange clouds of flame roiled into the sky. The view shook.

“Wow! It’s like actually being there. So realistic. Really terrific!”

He felt the warmth of the Attendant’s cheek close to his own as his eyes were fixed on the scenes of destruction looming closer. He cycled past burning corpses. Steelwork collapsed into the street. The bike weaved its way through the carnage.

“Gets the blood pumping, doesn’t it,Sir?”

The scene changed again and the pace quickened further. He cycled through featureless farmland, stretching to bleak horizons. A village came into view, the houses blasted, empty ruins, trees shattered to stumps. As they wound through the destruction, the screen began to shake and tanks and APCs rumbled into view and past on his right hand side. As the last of the convoy passed him it exploded violently, the gun turret popping into the air like a toy. One by one the armoured units exploded into chunks of scrap and fragments, the rhythm of destruction like a slow heart beat. Ragged troops fled from them, some burning, some firing wildly into the air.

The bike passed by it all without stopping. On the screen, the heart monitor hit 120.

“This is fantastic, but slow it down…drop the pace a little.” He struggled as he spoke, sweat streaks showing on his jowls.

“But you’re so close to the finish line.” The Attendant whispered in his ear. “You don’t want to stop now…just two more minutes, Sir.”

“I said slow it down! Did you hear me?” He jerked his head round, but the Attendant had disappeared from view. He tried to reach for the screen but he couldn’t let go of the handles.

130.

“Hey! HEY! Get back here! You are so fucked!” He rages, but the Attendant is nowhere to be seen. The room darkens, the screen brightens, the pedals turn faster and the heart rate climbs. The view changes again, wet farmland and rusting tanks give way to a hellish wasteland of skeletal concrete.

On the back of his neck he feels the breath of the Attendant. “Close now, Sir. Keep it up.”

140

On the screen, eyeless children and limbless fathers stumble and drag themselves to left and right, senseless and screaming as missiles blast pointless holes into their dead homes.

“Stop this fucking thing now!”

“But you’re doing so, so well, Sir.”

The pace quickens again as the bike weaves through a crowd of desperate filthy ragged people, clamouring for sacks of rice and bottles of water being dispensed from the back of trucks. Soldiers appear with machine guns, scything through them in bloody waves. There is nowhere for them to run. They cannot escape. They do not. The trucks are set ablaze one by one. The bike glides past it all.

156.

He grunts and gargles, pulse thumping in his ears, knives stabbing his chest.

150

120

60

15

0

20:00

The sibilant breath of the Attendant is a warm caress on the back of his neck.

“Well done, Sir! You made it!”

The screen goes black. His head lolls but the machine keeps turning, motor humming, pulling his legs round and round. The Attendant lifts his head by the saggy flesh of his chin and dabs at his forehead with a small white towel. He throws it, stained, into a wicker basket and snaps a fresh one from the pile with a flourish.