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Disconnected from reality.

That’s how John Hunter felt when he crawled out of bed Monday morning. The Dream still spun through his mind, tantalizing and yet somehow, frightening. Visions of hairy giants - - the only equivalent he could think of was sasquatch - - flowed together with strong feelings of being back in the womb . . . or at least, back in the bosom of family. The images were so strong, he had to look twice in the bathroom mirror to see himself. It was a pain being an orphan.

He splashed cold water on his face from the sink, recoiling from the iciness of it, then looked in the mirror again. Drops dribbled down his three-week beard into the sink.

He heard the rustling of sheets from the bedroom and his stomach lurched. Then he remembered, Jennifer had spent the night. In the midst of shaking the dream from his brain he’d forgotten, hadn’t even noticed her when he rolled out of bed.

What was he going to say to her?

He looked down at himself. Well, at least he was wearing jockey shorts. He wasn’t completely naked. Not really. He felt naked, though. He reached behind the bathroom door for his robe. It wasn’t there. A towel. Okay, it would have to do.

He wrapped it around himself and went back out into the bedroom. She smiled from the edge of the bed, half-dressed. It wasn’t a big smile, just a smile. Nothing stunning or earth-shattering, certainly not the kind of smile to expect from someone who might spend the night again tonight. Or tomorrow.

"Hi."

John cleared his throat and straightened up, trying to look taller than his five-feet-two-inches. "Hi." Nothing else came to mind.

She slipped her arms into her blouse, then stood to pull her jeans up and tuck everything in.

John tried to look even taller now that she was standing. His heels lifted slightly from the ground. He made a half-hearted motion toward the bathroom. "You can take a shower if you like." Bit late, John! She’s already dressed, for God’s sake!

Jennifer shook her head with just the briefest of glances in his direction. "That’s okay. I’ve got to go home and change anyway."

He stood by, helpless and feeling lost, as she found her jacket hanging on the closet door, put it on, crawled half-way under the bed to retrieve her purse - - thieves don’t think of looking there, she’d said - - then stood for a moment in the bedroom doorway. Not once did she look at him until she said, "Well . . . Thanks."

John was about to say, don’t mention it, then realized it might make him sound like an asshole. "Ah, thank you. It was . . ."

"Yeah," she said. A brief smile. Then she was saying good-bye, both of them stumbling through a parting that would be repeated over and over, with greater or lesser amounts of embarrassment on both their parts, for some time to come. By the time she walked out the door, he was relieved she was gone, dreading the next time he’d see her. He let out a long breath, unaware until then that he’d been holding it. It was his height. He knew it. His lack of height, more like. In the back of his mind, he knew that wasn’t the case. It was a straw to jump at, nothing more. ‘Jump’ was right. How high can you jump, little fella? No, that wasn’t it. Everything just felt . . . wrong.

"Jesus." He plopped down on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair. For three weeks it had seemed like a good idea. Both he and Jennifer had thought so. When he’d finally screwed up his courage and asked, she hadn’t hesitated. Dinner, a club on Granville Island, then Jay Brazzo in a comedy at the Arts Club. Then back to his place, one thing leading to another, but now . . . God. What had he done?

He considered calling in sick, then wondered if Jennifer was thinking the same thing. If he did, it would look like he was grabbing a long weekend. It was Monday. It wouldn't look good.

Half his morning ritual - - teeth, shower, e-mail on his Palm Pilot, cruising the Net - - felt like chewing sawdust. He just couldn't work up his usual enthusiasm. Finally, he gave up, got dressed and packed, and headed out the door.

Riding in on the SkyTrain, hanging one-handed from an overhead rail and trying not to jostle anyone else in the sardine tin, his heard a faint beep from deep inside his bag. Why did the damn thing always go off on the SkyTrain? And always when he was standing up because it was crowded and he was too damn polite to let older people and pregnant women dangle from the overhead rails. Letting go, bracing his feet and fighting for balance as the train swayed under him, he pulled out his Palm Pilot, then went through nearly all of his pockets before he found the stylus. He poked at the e-mail icon on-screen and a message appeared.

Subject: I quit man!
Date: Mon., 29 May, 2002 06:32:41 -0721
From: hphillips@bradley-communications.com
To: jhunter@bradley-communications.com

john

i gotta get the fuck out of here, man this place is getting weirder every minute first, a goddamn sasquatch (i shit you not!!!) jumps out in front of my car! three days later some woman got her downs syndrome baby stolen right out of the crib! they're still combing the fucking woods for it what do they think? it just fucking got up and walked away???? i say it was that hairy motherhumper took it. jesus he was big! seven feet tall, man! i'm on the next fucking plane back to sanity, man this ain't cool ain't cool at all whoever comes up to replace me can have the damn car i don't even care about the money get my chair out of storage i'm coming home!
HUMP

John shook his head and poked at his Palm Pilot with the pointer, typing in a reminder to call Hump later and try to calm him down. As strange and paranoid as Hump got, John still liked the guy. The e-mail message was a bit over the top for Hump, though. He never got that excited in person.

A half-hour later, he was still shaking his head about Hump's message. Humphrey Phillips, 'Hump' to his friends, was going off the deep end. Again. In the two years John had known him, Hump had freaked over alien invasions, con trails and robots in the Oval Office. Hump still insisted, if questioned, that George W. Bush was not, in fact, human, but a cleverly-designed android built in Area 51 for some nefarious purpose. What that purpose was, he wouldn't say exactly, but it had something to do with the New World Order. Now it was sasquatch and baby-thieves.

The SkyTrain ground to a halt and he stepped off, then rode the escalator up to the streets of downtown Vancouver.

Sasquatch again. Like in his dream.

At street level, the city hit him like a wall and he stopped. All around him was a blur of bustle and buses, cell phones and briefcases. Suits everywhere. And the roar of five hundred thousand commuters starting their daily routine. For a full minute he stood at the top of the escalator and just stared, unable to comprehend the stark difference between his surroundings and the quiet comfort of his vanishing dream. And mixed in with that was Hump's frantic message and the sickening starkness of Jennifer's leaving.

He shook his head and crossed the street, trying to think happy thoughts. That was what he was supposed to do. Count your blessings, right? He had a good job, got paid well, had a nice apartment, all the technology anyone in their right mind could want. Hell, he was even in line for promotion. Well, him and one other programmer. But his chances were good. So why was this thing with Jennifer - - and this Goddamn dream - - getting to him so much? Dammit, he was a happy person! Everything was fine until he started having these dreams.

He pushed all of it, all the crap, out of his mind and got in line to go through the revolving doors of the IBM Building.

Getting off the elevator at the tenth floor, the urge to turn around and go back home was suddenly overpowering. Maybe he could just wait here in the corridor until someone else from Bradley Communications, Inc. came along. If he could walk in with someone, talking and maybe laughing about something the other person said . . .

He looked back at the elevator. It was empty. The doors closed and he felt very alone. Sure he could wait. But in waiting, he'd only feel more strange than he already did. Bite the bullet.

Each step toward the entrance to Bradley Communications got harder than the previous one. He almost stopped, almost turned around. Then his hand was on the doorknob. He turned it. Committed now, he tried to look casual as he walked in.

She looked up from the reception desk, tried to smile, then simply looked scared. As scared as John felt.

"Morning, Jennifer."

Just act natural. Nothing's different than it was yesterday.

"Hi, John."

Should he stop and talk to her? What about? The going-through-the-motions sex? The uncomfortable silence while they both tried to fall asleep?

Oh, hell. He had to say something. Bite the bullet, John. Bite the bullet. "Look, Jennifer . . ."

She shook her head, a sad smile playing at her lips. "You don't have to . . ."

"I know. It's just that . . ."

"Yeah. Me, too. I wanted it to be, you know, but . . ."

John sighed, studying his feet. "I guess we're just not . . ."

She laughed. "Jeez, listen to us, will you? Hey. We can still be friends."

John looked up at her. She sat with her chin resting on her hand. The other hand twiddled a pen over the steno pad she'd been writing on.

She said, "Look at the bright side. The condom didn't break."

John found himself laughing with her. If only all of life's problems could be solved so easily.

The smell of caffeine grabbed at his nostrils. He turned away feeling a little better and headed for the lunchroom and coffee. Everything was going to be okay. With Jennifer, at least. As for the dreams and Hump going nuts . . .

Peter Hanson poked his head out of his office. "John."

John whipped around, leaning backward out the lunchroom door. "Sir."

"Get your butt in here, buddy. We've got issues."

"You and me?"

"No, not you and me. You and you . . . I mean, you and . . . Just get in here." Hanson jerked his thumb over his shoulder. John left thoughts of coffee at the lunchroom door and went into Hanson's office.

Hanson was just plopping down behind his desk. He waggled a finger in the direction of the hallway. "Button down. We gotta talk."

John closed the door and grabbed a chair across from Hanson. "What's wrong?"

Hanson rifled through the sedimentary filing system that covered his desk . . . actually, it covered every surface in the office. Part of it spilled over onto the floor under the window making a hell of a contrast to the upscale decor of the office.

John couldn't imagine how Hanson ever found anything in that mess. The two of them were friendly enough that John kidded him about it sometimes, but this morning Hanson was all business. John kept his cracks to himself.

Finally Hanson extracted a single sheet of paper from the pile and handed it across to John.

As usual, Hanson talked while John tried to read. It was a printout of an e-mail message. That was all he comprehended before Hanson got started.

"How's your JSP?"

"What?" John looked up from the message. "Oh. Okay, I guess."

"Just okay?" Hanson frowned at him. Hanson frowned at him.

"No, no. It's fine."

"Good. Because this fucking project is going down the crapper."

John looked up again from the message, stunned. Hanson almost never swore. Before he could say anything, Hanson went on.

"I told Jeffries not to get involved in net banking. It's over. The market's saturated, but no. He's gotta take on some piddly-assed credit union banking project up north. And of course it's falling behind because we don't have a solid JSP programming team anymore."

Between rants over the next ten minutes, John managed to get through the rest of the message. It was a rehash of Hump's message to him. A bit more formal, but pretty much the same stark raving paranoia. John rubbed his forehead, wishing he'd gone straight to a phone and called him. With Hump gone, that would leave the JSP team with no one to direct its efforts in getting the project done.

"Wait a minute. Why is this my problem?"

"Issue, John. Issue. We don't use the 'P' word anymore."

John stifled a smile. "Right. What's this got to do with me?"

Hanson leaned forward. "You want head-of-department, right?"

John nodded.

"Clean this up and I guarantee it's yours."

"What about Carmichael?"

Carmichael Industries was John's current project, an in-house, web-based document processing system written entirely in Java to replace the LyX/LaTeX system they'd been using for fifteen years. Carmichael Industries' CEO hoped it would cut down on training costs for new employees. He was convinced people were getting stupider every day. John didn't talk about his own theory, that people weren't actually getting dumber, it was more like industry had used up all the intelligent people already. Now they were stuck with the dregs.

"Carmichael can wait. You've still got, what? Sixteen weeks before deadline?"

"About that."

"Okay. This thing . . ." He pointed at the paper in John's hands. "Is one week from blowing up in our faces. Bad enough I let myself get talked into sending that loony up there in the first place. Now he quits on me! I don't want to go to head office on my knees over this. They'd love to get my nuts in a vice. Bastards."

Peter Hanson's own squabbles with head office were well-known throughout Bradley Communications, Inc. Scuttlebutt said he'd have been a vice-president five years ago if he'd toed the line. But he had his own way of doing things. That was why he was still stuck in a satellite office in the boonies, a thousand miles north of Silicon Valley.

John tore his thoughts away from worrying about Hump's state of mind and said, "I don't get it. If Jeffries got us involved in this, why . . ."

"Because Jeffries, the asshole, got himself fired yesterday."

"What? You're kidding."

"Nope. He was right on the edge and the stupid bastard jumped. Pushing and pushing for more JSP crap. You'd think he had shares in Sun and Allaire, for God's sake, the way he pushed that stuff. When the old man told him to move on to something else, Jeffries came back with another Goddamn JSP project. So the old man fired him."

"Just like that?"

Hanson nodded. "Just like that. Christ. Everybody knows Java is dead."

"Well, if Jeffries' couldn't keep his job . . ."

"Yeah. What's that say for the rest of us? I know." As if fear were written all over John's face, Hanson said, "Shake it off, John. Shake it off. We got catching up to do."

Hanson was on his feet digging through a drawer in a credenza by the wall. "I know Hump is your friend, but don't let that throw you. You gotta be strong for me up there." He found what he was looking for and turned to John, digging in a leather credit card case. "I don't want no stories from you about big foot and stolen babies, okay?" He tossed two credit cards on the desk. "There. Visa and American Express. They'll get you there and back."

John was out of his chair without realizing it. "What? I'm going up there? Can't I coordinate from here?" The last place he wanted to see was the little town of Waterston. Now that he was standing, he was acutely aware of the height difference between him and Hanson. He stretched to his full height. He still felt short.

"Nope. Two reasons. For one, there are no T-1 lines into Waterston. It would be all dial-up from here and it would take forever. And secondly, hands-on micro-management. That's what we need up there."

"But, Peter . . . I can't go back to Waterston."

"Sure you can, John." Hanson's hand came down on John's shoulder. "Make me proud, tiger."

The next hour was a whirlwind of telephone calls, cab rides, packing and reorganizing everything both in-office and socially. He hardly had time to think about Hump and his wild story.

Hump wasn't the sort to spout any old bullshit he heard. No. When Hump went off half-cocked, it was only after long and arduous research. Take, for instance, the Little People. Hump had heard about them first on a Usenet news group back in 1988, the year Hump got his B.Sc. and was set loose upon an unsuspecting world. But the Little People didn't become part of Hump's repertoire of strange phenomena until he'd searched every nook and cranny of the Internet and the Public Library. He'd told John about them once. John had bristled at first mention of them until Hump explained he didn't mean short people, but Little People. Apparently, those most undesirable in society were cast out, usually children, and they lived in the deep woods and in the mountains all over North America.

Probably Europe, too.

John shook his head. Now Hump had him doing it. All that talk about sasquatch and missing babies.

John sat back on the squeaky seat and tried to relax. More and more lately, he'd been getting tension headaches. Funny how he didn't notice them until he stopped moving for a few minutes. He rubbed the back of his neck with both hands, kneading out the tension as best he could.

"Can't keep up?" The cab driver's all-knowing eyes stabbed at him through the rear view mirror.

John looked away. "No problem. Just a stiff neck."

"You're working too hard. Moving too fast."

John, usually one to let this kind of thing go, wasn't in the mood. Annoyance crept in. After Jennifer and Hump and being uprooted to leave home and hearth for some Godforsaken little town in the middle of nowhere, this was too much. What the hell did this cab driver know about him? Or anything, for that matter? When he spoke, his voice held an edge of sarcasm. "Excuse me?"

"Sure. All you young bucks . . . rushing around, your cell phones glued to your ears, personal data whatcha-macall-its filled with all your appointments . . . I bet you think life-long learning is great, don't you?"

John closed his eyes. "Spare me the philosophy class, okay?"

The cabby laughed. "God, I ain't never heard that line before."

"What? About the philosophy class? Seriously?"

"Oh, give me a break. I was being sarcastic. All you pups say the same damn things. Spouting crap, is all you're doing. The whole damn world's going to . . ."

"Hell in a hand-basket. Yeah, you sound just like Father Troy. All you old bucks say the same damn things, too. When you gonna wake up and smell the twenty-first century . . ." The cabby's license showed his name. "Arnold?"

The cabby laughed again. "Laugh's on you, my friend. All this . . ." he waved his hand around at the city passing under the freeway. "All this will be gone some day. All your precious technology. Down the tubes."

John leaned his head back and closed his eyes, then started working on the knots in his neck again. He didn't need this. "How come you don't have a TV back here? Little satellite dish on the roof? Keep your customers happy."

"Better than talking, huh?"

"Damn sight better." As he thought about it, the idea got him excited. He sat forward, leaning an elbow on the back of the driver's seat. "It wouldn't be that hard, you know. I think my company could work out the details."

The cabby glanced at him in the mirror in the middle of making a lane-change. "What?"

"The satellite TV thing. For your cab." Now he was really getting into it. "" GPS system to keep track of where you are in relation to the satellite. That would keep the dish aligned. Pretty simple coding, actually. Hell, most of the hardware is off-the-shelf now. The only problems to solve would be interfacing."

The cabby gave him a wry look. "TV so important, is it?"

Feeling a bit deflated by Arnold's attitude, John slumped back in his seat. Hell, it was too much to think about right now anyway. And if the guy was going to be an asshole about it.

"Hey. Forget I said anything."

"Why? We're having a conversation here. Ain't this interesting to you? An exchange of ideas? Witty repartee?"

"Just shut up, will you? I'm tired."

"Christ, it's only eleven o'clock in the morning. How can you be tired?"

"Just drive. Please?"

The cabby shrugged. "I don't get you people. You shut yourselves behind closed doors, do all your talking over cell phones and computers. Trying to have a conversation with one of you's like trying to get momma lion to play. Gotta keep poking at you just to get a rise. And when you do speak, it's just to cut me down." Arnold shook his head. "Why do I bother?"

John found the knot of all knots just below his right occipital lobe. Digging his fingers into it he said, "I don't know, Arnold. Why do you bother?"

Arnold peered at him for a long time in the mirror, long enough that John looked away feeling decidedly uncomfortable

"Maybe . . . just maybe, I think there's hope for some of you young bucks. The ones that listen, anyway."

"Well, I'm not listening."

The cabby laughed at that. "More than most, kiddo. More than most."

At the airport, John hadn't intended to tip Arnold after putting up with his crap. But the old cabby looked kind of lonely sitting there behind the wheel punching in the charge. When he handed the input module out the window for John to punch in his charge code, John stared down at the display. 'Tip?' it said. Oh, what the hell. The old guy didn't mean anything by what he'd said. John pecked in a twenty for Arnold on top of the fare, then handed it back.

Arnold glanced at the display and did a double-take. Then he smiled as he handed John the company's American Express card. "Got to ya, did I? Thanks, kiddo."

Despite himself, John felt a smile creep across his own face. "No sweat, Arnold."

As he turned to walk into the airport, Arnold called out, "Hey, kid. When all this goes down, make sure you've got both feet firmly on the ground. Okay?"

John had no idea what he was talking about. The fall of civilization, perhaps? Arnold should get together with Hump. They'd make a fine team.

He waved and walked away. What the hell could a cabby know about the fall of civilization?

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While he waited to board the plane, John's cell phone rang. It was Jennifer. Shit. Was she going to make some demand on him, tell him not to forget her or something? Oh, God.

"What's up?"

"Hang on a sec. Mr. Hanson wants to talk to you." From the sounds coming over the line, she didn't transfer the call, just gave the receiver over to Hanson.

"John. I forgot to tell you."

"What?"

"That flight you're about to board? It only goes as far as Kelowna. From there you'll have to take a smaller plane the rest of the way."

"Yeah, that's okay."

There was silence at the other end of the line.

John said, "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's a small plane, John."

John took his eyes off the beautiful ass walking by and frowned into the phone. "How small?"

"I think the Hump said it was a single engine job."

"What? You sure?" John's gut lurched. This was not good. "Hold on, Peter. I can't do this."

"Sure you can, John. Just take it easy. Keep your mind on the promotion. It'll distract you."

"No, I can't do this."

"Chin up, buddy. I'm counting on you. Gotta go."

The line went dead leaving John staring off into space. He almost missed the boarding call, would have if a stewardess hadn't nudged him. Head in a spin, he followed along behind the other passengers, down the ramp and onto the plane.

Settled into a seat in Business Class, John stowed his notebook computer in the overhead rack. He'd been planning to get some work done in-flight, had even booked a seat with a satellite jack so he could Telnet to the Bradley Communications LAN server and check his office e-mail. With Hump on his way out - - probably packed and gone by now - - his box was probably flooded with new messages related to the banking project.

But finding out about the one-horse plane had his stomach in knots. First his neck, now his stomach. He suspected that before he got to Waterston, deep in the heart of the mountains, his whole body was going to be one big twist of tension. He asked the stewardess for Aspirin, ended up with Tylenol, took three and closed his eyes. It wasn't going to be a pleasant journey.

His eyes weren't closed for more than a minute when he forced them open again. What he saw behind his eyelids was worse than imagining the coming flight on a single-engine plane. He asked for water and gulped it down. It was a pitiful amount, no more than a mouthful. He asked for more and was told he could buy a pint bottle for three dollars. Three dollars? For water? Fuck it. He paid and finally satisfied his thirst. He did his best to stay awake, not hard during take-off and the climb to cruising altitude. After that, with clear skies and no weather ahead, he drifted off.

Beyond the windscreen, the prop sputtered and died. All he could hear was the rush of wind buffeting the tiny plane. He felt it slide sideways, gripped the edge of his seat with both hands.

"Father Troy?"

The old priest punched the starter over and over, saying nothing.

"Father?"

"Shut up, John . . . ! Come on, damn you. Start!"

John looked over at the kid beside him, Paul. The boy was three years older than John. Paul had made that very clear before they got onto the plane. He'd started shaving. Not every day. Not this morning. John could see sweat beading in the feathery stubble on Paul's face.

"It's okay, John. We'll be okay. Father knows what he's doing . . . Right, Father?"

Outside, the wind whistled. A gust slammed into them, pushing the plane fifty feet to the left in a heartbeat. John felt almost weightless for a moment. Panic was moving in and John just wanted to get out of the damn plane. Now!

At the wheel, Father Troy was swiping at his brow between jabs at the starter. Then he sat back, gripped the wheel in both hands and took a deep breath. He started mumbling to himself. John caught a few words here and there. Nothing solid. It sounded like he was praying . . . or cursing out the plane. It was hard to tell which.

Something hit them hard from below. John let out an involuntary scream. He was squashed down in his seat. When he got his head up again, the nose of the plane was pointing dangerously down. He started leaking water from everywhere. Eyes, armpits, scalp and bladder.

The ground got closer. In the front, Father Troy started to moan. John glanced over at . . . Paul wasn't there. In his place sat a sasquatch, its eyes closed. The hairy lips moved in silence as if this beast, too, was praying.

Without realizing it, John started praying, too. "Now I lay me down to sleep . . ."

A green hillside grew larger, got closer.

Civilization as John knows it is about to take a sharp turn ...

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