The Humanitarian Cookbook - Post-apocalyptic sci-fi - First 4 pages

OPENING SCENE - Introduces the protagonist, setting and tone, and foreshadows the primary conflict

Chapter One

Iggy followed an insistent Keandra down the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard, until they finally reached the man being crucified. She pointed up at him and said, “Look.”

But Iggy was distracted by the crowd taking in the mid-day action. “There must be thirty people here,” he said, disbelieving. “Not one of which has recognized me, by the way.” He cast a grumpy look around at the dusty assemblage. They gathered in front of the charred remains of an eatery that had been burned to the ground decades before, payback for serving up so many lethal patties, nuggets and milkshakes. All that remained were blackened walls and those soaring golden arches that were occasionally used for a crucifixion or to hang a piñata.

Keandra squinted against the sun reflecting off the remaining windows over at Mandalay Bay. “A man’s getting nailed up, and you’re talking about the size of his crowd.”

“Nailing him? Nah.” This came from one of the two centurions doling out the punishment. He balanced atop an aluminum ladder while his safety-conscious compatriot braced it for him. “We use zap straps when it’s just a misdemeanor crucifixion.”

A teenager in the crowd with a sunburnt nose and a nail-studded baseball bat asked, “What’d he even do?”

“Card counting,” snapped the centurion on the ground. “Stealing from Caesar.”

Centurions were half soldier, half mascot, in bulky, ancient body armor and motorcycle helmets. Their gear, even the rifles, was covered in faded, flaking gold paint. And a stencil of Caesar’s face smirked out from their chest plates. Of all the casino bosses in Vegas, Caesar had the worst reputation and the best branding.

The one up the ladder clunked down to the ground. He left behind a painted cardboard sign hanging around the crucified man’s neck, with tidy painted lettering in, yes, gold. Keandra pointed it out for Iggy. “That’s why I came to get you.”

The (alleged) card counter saw Iggy and Keandra peering up at him. He spoke with a voice that sounded thirsty and resigned, even more thirsty and resigned than people in Vegas usually sounded. “What’s it say?”

Iggy read the sign aloud. “This Sunday. July 4^th BBQ. Caesar’s Palace. Free food. Free booze… Special appearance by celebrity chef Iggy Wiggins.” He turned to the centurions and said, “I don’t understand. Why’s my name on it?”

From their expressions, it was clear the centurions numbered among those who didn’t recognize Iggy.

“Because I’m absolutely not working for Caesar.” Iggy Wiggins looked to Keandra, maybe for reassurance, or maybe to reassure her. “Never even met the man. For sure, he never asked me to cook at some barbecue for him.”

“Caesar doesn’t ask,” said one of the centurions.

“I would never…” Iggy shook his head at Keandra. Then read the sign again. “How many people you figure’d come out for something like that?”

#

Out there somewhere, it was a relentlessly sunny Las Vegas morning. But down here in Treasure Island’s nether regions, the only light came from the occasional LED bulb, powered by a trickle of electricity from geriatric solar panels on the hotel’s roof. Most of the resort’s juice went to what was really important, a quartet of Wheel of Fortune slot machines in the casino, but a few lights got the leftovers.

Iggy was near the front of an early-morning lineup of his fellow Islanders. They collectively waited, chatting and bored, in the broad, echoing corridor outside the Nassau Conference Room. His next-door neighbor was right behind him in line.  Reginald wasn’t a young man, but he still boasted those lean, muscled arms that everyone except Iggy seemed to have.  

“Next,” called a voice from inside the conference room. The person at the front of the line hurried in, and everyone shuffled forward a step.

Reginald said, “Hope we didn’t keep you up last night.”

Iggy thought about denying it, but only for a moment. “Yeah, isn’t she pregnant enough?”

“Yvette’s birthday’s coming up fast,” Reginald said. “Wants a party. Like being old and married to me is something to celebrate.”

“I heard that.” Yvette eased into line beside her husband. Her red onesie pajamas stretched nervously over her hugely pregnant belly, looking like they might burst a button with every teetering step. “Peeing in this thing is no joke.”

“Next!” The voice beckoned again from inside, luring in another from the waiting line. Iggy would be up next. He mouthed his usual silent prayer he wouldn’t pick elevator.

Reginald said, “So this party. Can we ask you something?”

Iggy lit up. “For my neighbors? Of course. How many invited? And I always suggest finger food, so you don’t have to bring up all that water to wash dishes.”

Yvette and Reginald shared a glance, and she said, “We just need to borrow your chairs. You have four of them, doncha?”

“Oh. You don’t want me to cook,” Iggy said.

“Most of our people haven’t been in Vegas too long,” Reginald said. “You’re not really a thing to them.”

“Of course not,” Iggy said tightly. 

“Next!”

Iggy’s turn. He left the hallway to pace across the cavernous, almost empty conference room. A folding table holding a wire bingo cage full of numbered balls waited for him, along with the Scrum Master.  

She perched behind the table, a well-preserved older woman in a billowy, white silk shirt. Pirate-style. Rumors were rife she had a thing going with the boss of Treasure Island, Captain Stubing. And that’s why she got to be in here every morning doling out grueling tasks to the other residents, while she sat in a comfortable chair with ample lumbar support.

With eyes shut, Iggy poked a hand into the metal basket and pulled out a ball. ‘Casino bartender – day shift’. It would be a tedious twelve hours, but at least he wouldn’t be in the basement, tug-o-warring an elevator up and down all day.

The Scrum Master inspected the ball then scribbled his job for the day on a sticker, right under where it said, ‘Hello my name is’. She gave it to him and said, “Bell desk. One hour.”

The neighbor couple got on the same elevator to head back upstairs. Reginald couldn’t hide his grin. “Croupier! Something that isn’t garbage-related…”

Yvette was pleased, too. “She says I’m too pregnant for Service, finally. She said she doesn’t want my water breaking all over the customers.” Yvette put both hands on the stretched flannel. “And once the baby comes, I get to roll to see how many weeks of mat leave I get!”

They arrived back to their floor after an unusually jaunty elevator ride. A young kid, flush-faced and out of breath, waited outside Iggy’s door. He was a newspaper delivery orphan, dressed in yellow neon from head to toe. The paper had adopted the recognizable, high-visibility gear after a few accidental shootings during early morning deliveries. These incidents had been a problem ever since ‘Stand your ground’ was officially adopted as one of the church’s 19 Commandamendments.

When the neon-clad boy spotted them, he spoke up. “Message for Iggy Wiggins. You’re him, right?”

Iggy nodded. He could see Reginald and Yvette pause outside their next-door room to eavesdrop.

“Manali wants to see you down at The Tribune right away.”  

Iggy’s brain lurched forward an excited gear or two. “What about? Did she say?”

“Nope.” The kid turned and hurried away down the hall, calling out every few yards, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Right away. Iggy turned to Reginald and Yvette, moved towards them. “Of course, you can borrow my chairs. I just need a tiny favor. Just until I get back from this meeting. I have to go right away, you heard.”

Yvette looked down at the sticker as Iggy stuck it on her pregnant stomach: ‘Hello my name is Casino bartender.’ She started to say, “But what if my water-“

Iggy called back over his shoulder as he hurried away. “And I’ll cater your party, too. No charge.”

Reginald said, “We don’t need-”

“No charge!”