The Tower of Endless Worlds by Jonathan Moeller

echoing through the sewer pipe running under the driveway. 

    It didn’t matter. He had to pick up Katrina. She didn’t seem the sort to tolerate tardiness.

    He walked to his van and grinned. The mechanics had done a good job of fixing the damage from the crash. Simon even had enough money left over to fix the air conditioner. 

    It only took him about twenty-five minutes to drive to the South Side and the warehouse district. Simon drummed his fingers on the van’s well-worn steering wheel. Perhaps he should find an apartment in the city or in the South Side. The commute sucked up an ungodly amount of time every day.

     Simon pulled through the intersection and onto the road lined by the abandoned warehouses, the walls of Wycliffe’s complex coming into sight. Maybe he should find an apartment and move out. It was past time to get out from under his mother’s thumb. Yet guilt tugged at Simon. He was the only family his mother had left.

    A long line of semis sat before the compound’s gates, waiting to enter. Simon cursed and pulled to the curb opposite the compound and made sure to lock his doors. With luck, he could get Katrina and get back before someone stole his van. 

    “Sir. Sir! A word, if I may?”

    A thin man in a ragged black uniform hobbled toward his van. He had feverish eyes in a pale face and an tangled, unkempt beard. 

    The man looked like a drug junkie in withdrawal. 

    “Listen," said Simon. "I don’t have any money.”

    The man blinked. “Money? I have money, yes. I will give it to you, if you do something for me.” He had a peculiar accent, and his uniform had a weird symbol on the chest, a hand holding a burning eye.

    “I don’t have any drugs,” said Simon. “I’m not a dealer. I don’t want trouble.”

    “Drugs?” said the man. “I do not know what those are. And I, too, desire no trouble. I…” He darted a glance at the trucks pulling into Wycliffe’s compound. “I wish a service of you. Transport me in your…vehicle, and I shall pay you money.”

    Simon considered running for the compound. “Listen. I don’t have time to take you anywhere.” 

    “Please,” said the man. “I will pay you. Good money. I must go…purchase some food. I need some food. I am unfamiliar with your…country. I must have someone take me places.” 

    “Oh,” said Simon. “You’re an immigrant. Where are you from?”

    “Ah…I don’t know,” said the man.

    Simon felt dubious. “You don’t know? Is this some sort of con?” 

    “No…con,” said the man. “I am from a foreign nation, yes. I just do not know what the word for my nation is in your tongue.”

    “Right.” Simon pointed. “Down that way about five blocks is a bus stop. Just wait there, feed your money into the driver’s machine, and it’ll take you where you want to go.”

    The man blinked. “A bus?”

    “Yeah. You know. A bus.”  Simon pointed at his van. The man looked puzzled. “Like my van, only bigger. It’s public transportation. You can pay the driver to take you places.”

    “They will?” The man bowed. “Thank you, sir. I owe you a debt.”

    Simon felt uncomfortable. “It’s nothing. Take this.” He peeled a ten dollar bill out of his wallet and pressed it into the thin man’s hand. “Buy yourself something to eat, okay?”

    The man bowed again. “Thank you, sir.” He limped away down the sidewalk, his left foot dragging. 

    One met some strange people in Chicago. 

    Simon crossed the street and went to the booth besides the gate. One of the new security men manned the booth. Like all the others, he wore a hooded motorcycle jacket, a long beard, and mirrored sunglasses. Had Senator Wycliffe hired a biker gang? 

    “Hi,” said Simon. “Big shipment coming in, eh?” The bearded face shifted to look at him, and Simon saw his reflection in the guard’s sunglasses and felt a trickle of fear. “Um…I’d like to go in, please.”

    “Name?”  The guard’s voice