Dennis slumped, work-weary, into his worn armchair. He flicked the cap off a bottle of supermarket-brand beer and sighed deeply. Another damp, lonely day at the scrap yard. The sky colours were bright today, at least, although the static shocks from the car bodywork always took him by surprise. He fished the TV remote out from between the seat cushions and turned on the set.
Cowboys shot at each other on horseback. A Wilhelm Scream. An Indian toppled from a clifftop. He pressed a button on the remote.
A spinning crystal skull; eyes shining from an unspecific light source. Hard drives for exobytes of data, encoded by lasers. He pressed a button.
A news reader, looking glum, a still from a burning house propped on her padded shoulder. Dennis sighed again, flicked a fleck of rust from his knee. He pressed a button.
A documentary on a hole the Russians once dug, so deep that they reached hell itself. There was a recording of the screams of the damned. Dennis was unmoved. He heard worse every day, just riding the elevator to ground level. Hell exists on the earthly plane, no need to go any deeper. He pressed a button.
A music video. A young woman wearing fishnets and a leather hat was dancing with a dead crow in formaldehyde. Dennis yawned. He pressed a button.
Behind the glass, Dr Terence turned to Rokus. “He’s not improving,”
“Not in the way we want,” countered Rokus, keeping his eyes on Dennis.
“Another week,” said Terence, “then we run the closedown.”
Rokus nodded in agreement. Terrence pressed a button.