Gary Carter, who died Thursday of brain cancer at age 57, will always be remembered for his youthful exuberance on and off the field.

Nowhere was that childlike spirit more evident than when a beaming Carter gave his Hall of Fame induction speech in 2003.

“This kid is in the candy store today – Cooperstown, where all dreams come true!” Carter said as he took the stage.

“Gary was one of the happiest guys in the world every day,” Mets teammate Mookie Wilson once said – and it shows in his speech.

Carter is perhaps best remembered for helping the new York Mets win an improbable World Series championship in 1986. but he earned his stripes with the Montreal Expos – and was the first player enshrined in Cooperstown wearing an Expos cap. Carter never forgot the team that drafted him in 1972 and he even spoke in French during his speech.

TAMPA — for more than 60 years, Ruth Wollter has wondered what became of her brother.

A Marine serving in the Korean War, Lt. Ralph H. Thomas was shot down over North Korea on Oct. 16, 1951. The military reported him missing in action, Wollter said, and though his remains were never found, he was eventually declared killed in action.

Wollter, 84, of Largo assumed the search for her brother ended there.

She was wrong.

On Saturday, Wollter joined nearly 200 others with a family member missing in action, attending a U.S. Department of Defense meeting in Tampa to receive updates on the search for their loved ones.

“We’ve made a promise,” said Maj. Carie Parker, a spokeswoman for the Defense Prisoner of War/Missing Personnel Office. “We won’t leave anyone behind if we can help it.”

Formed in 1993, the POW/MIA office is tasked with recovering and identifying the remains of missing American service members from all past conflicts. more than 600 specialists, including forensic anthropologists, policy officers and DNA experts, work year-round on the effort.

In Florida, there are at least 220 unaccounted for service members still missing from the Vietnam War, Korean War and Cold War. Those still missing from World War II are not separated by state but total more than 73,000 in the country, according to the POW/MIA Office.

Wollter, who was contacted by the department nearly 10 years ago, was surprised the search for her brother had continued long after most had forgotten him.

“It’s the most amazing thing that the government spends all this time, money and personnel to locate lost Marines,” Wollter said. “That the government is that concerned about bringing anyone home.”

Thomas joined the Marines during WWII and was disappointed when he wasn’t sent into action, Wollter said. his wish was granted in August 1951.

Just eight days before he disappeared, Thomas wrote his sister a letter. in it, he mentioned the tent he was sleeping in and the bullets flying his way.

“He made a comment of ‘I hope my luck holds out,’ ” Wollter said.

• • •

Thomas was 30 at the time and had a wife and two toddlers back home in Massachusetts. Wollter hopes his children will take over the search if the time comes.

It’s a search made possible because of DNA.

At the military’s Central Identification Laboratory in Hawaii, specialists try to match unidentified remains to DNA samples taken from family members at events like the one held in Tampa.

Not every case is that simple.

“One of the big challenges in older cases is when there are no living direct relatives,” said James Canik, the deputy director of the Armed Forces DNA Identification Laboratory. That’s when specialists look for alternative ways of obtaining DNA.

“It could be as simple as an envelope sent home to a family member,” Canik said. “We’re not interested in the letter but the licked seal that can hold DNA.”

Scientists have also successfully obtained DNA from articles of clothing, wrist watches, baby teeth and lockets of hair saved from a baby’s first haircut, Canik said. The state of the remains can make the task more difficult.

“Especially for remains returned by North Koreans that were commingled together,” he said. And the older the remains are, the tougher it becomes to extract DNA.

Other factors used in determining the identity of any remains found in the field include looking at military records of who was known to be in the area at the time as well as military equipment such as weapons, uniforms and dog tags.

“The puzzle pieces are all put together,” Parker said.

When remains are identified, families receive the same treatment as those with relatives lost in the current war.

Casualty officers guide families through a repatriation ceremony and full military funeral honors in Arlington National Cemetery or somewhere closer to home, if requested.

After all these years, Wollter is still hopeful she’ll see her brother laid to rest.

“It’s important,” she said. “It still hurts.”

Times news researcher Natalie Watson contributed to this report. Shelley Rossetter can be reached at srossetter@tampabay.com or (813) 661-2442.

Melrose Jewelers offers elite and trendy watches that are adored by people who like to vaunt rare and unique accessories to make a fashion statement. The scintillating watches are available at reasonable prices and designs to cater to the needs of watch lovers. Rolex Watches has been an icon among luxury watch brands delivering the finest and most distinguished timepieces available around the world. Rolex Watches have technically advanced features and enchanting looks that is loved and admired by watch lovers around the world.

Florida, FL (PRWEB) February 16, 2012

Melrose Jewelers has expanded its rich line of Rolex Watches by introducing Rolex Submariners that is the most recognized luxury timepiece in the world. Melrose Jewelers is a popular online retailer of luxury timepieces, fine diamond jewelry and other luxury timepieces like Rolex Daytona, Rolex President and Rolex Yachtmaster. each luxury watch ships in showroom mint condition and comes with comprehensive 2 year warranty, 30 day exchange offer and lifetime authenticity guarantee.

Krishnan Agarwal, President of Melrose Watches stated, “Rolex Submariner, which was introduced in 1954, is among the most recognized timepieces in the world. It is a must-have for any watch enthusiast because of its bold and luxurious design. Taking into consideration the increasing demand for these stylish watches we have decided to introduce Rolex Submariners for our esteemed customers.” The Rolex Submariner gained its popularity because of its association with fictional super spy James Bond. Also known as Diver’s Watch, the Submariner is intended for used in sea expeditions. however, it is not just limited to diving and aquatics but the submariner is also used casually by business executives and celebrities due to its sophisticated design and classy look. The fashionable watches are available in classic stainless steel and 18 carat yellow gold options.

Melrose Jewelers offers elite and trendy watches that are adored by people who like to vaunt rare and unique accessories to make a fashion statement. The scintillating watches are available at reasonable prices and designs to cater to the needs of watch lovers. Rolex Watches has been an icon among luxury watch brands delivering the finest and most distinguished timepieces available around the world. Rolex Watches have technically advanced features and enchanting looks that is loved and admired by watch lovers around the world.

Melrose Jewelers was founded in 2008 on a simple premise: to provide our customers with low, no-haggle prices on luxury wristwatches that have been meticulously restored to original factory specifications both internally and externally. Melrose Jewelers operates its retail websites in the United States, United Kingdom, Canada, continental Europe, Latin America, Asia, and the Middle East, and ship thousands of watches per year to customers all over the world.

For the original version on PRWeb visit: prweb.com/releases/prwebrolex-watches/rolex-submariner/prweb9201344.htm

The company, who were highly involved in Sky 3D productions such as The Bachelor King 3D and Flying Monsters 3D and major 3D movies like HUGO, plan to use the suite to show clients what their 3D productions will look like in a theatrical environment.

ONSIGHT have installed a Barco DP2K-P projector (the first UK facility to install this model of projector) with REALD 3D facilities.

The Barco projector exceeds the normal Digital Cinema Initiative specification with improved contrast, superior brightness uniformity and an extended colour gamut.  with increasingly more colour grading and stereoscopic finishing being delivered by the Post department, the addition of RealD 3D technology ensures customers see 3D just as cinema audiences would according to ONSIGHT.                                                                                                                                                                                                               

ONSIGHT’s first project in the suite was the opera 'Madam Butterfly 3D' – a co-production of RealD and the Royal Opera House, produced by Principal Large Format (PLF).  Robert Mayson, Managing Director of RealD Europe Limited, says, “Working with ONSIGHT during the final grade of the production of ‘Madam Butterfly 3D’ was an excellent experience.  The new 3D suite really delivers and we are extremely pleased with the final result.” 

Phil Streather, CEO of PLF and Producer of the film says, “By installing a RealD system in the DI Suite, ONSIGHT has set themselves apart from all other finishing houses in the UK.  a great step forward for 3D post and I am proud to be the first client to use the upgraded facility.” Julian Napier, the film’s Director adds, “I wanted to be able to watch the final colour grade of the film and be assured that what I was seeing would be how audiences would also see it. We’ve now been to the end of the process and I’m truly delighted with the results.”

In other news, ONSIGHT has been awarded a contract for operating the Flypack that will make use of three dedicated 3D camera rigs from 3ality Technica. The equipment will be used to produce live and recorded coverage of entertainment and sport events for Sky’s 3D channel. ONSIGHT’s CTO Richard Mills designed the system in conjunction with Chris Johns, BSkyB Chief Engineer, supported by Sony’s Professional Services division. This is the first commissioned 3D Flyaway constructed by Sony.

Richard Mills explains: “Sony P1 cameras, mounted on 3ality Technica Pulsar 3D rigs, will provide a flexible solution for both standalone documentary and multi-camera live event coverage. up to 4 rigs can be fed back via a fibre-optic cable to a Broadcast Production Gallery with full 3D vision mixing, monitoring and communications.”

Chris Johns, Chief Engineer, BSkyB, comments: “We’re deeply committed to leading the way in the production of original 3D content so we can provide our customers with the best and most diverse range of 3D programming around. The modular nature of the 3D Flypack system allows for a simpler and more coherent use of what is sometimes seen as a complex acquisition toolset. Thanks to this new partnership we’re able to be even more ambitious, and we’re looking forward to seeing the impact it will have onscreen.”

The system is now complete and will be available to be used on a number of forthcoming Sky 3D projects.

For more information visit onsight.co.uk

Who They Are

Otherwise known as “the band from that episode of American Dad,” or “that band David Letterman is in love with,” My Morning Jacket is a psychedelically-tinged southern rock band in the grand tradition of the Allman Brothers Band. They rock hard, but aren’t afraid to unleash a funky side.

Why They Would Work

They put on the sort of high-flying show that would fit the epic atmosphere of the Super Bowl perfectly. They are already live legends for their performances at the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival and are both guitar-heavy enough to get your dad doing the air guitar but funky enough to watch with your girlfriend or boyfriend.

Why It Won’t Work

Unfortunately My Morning Jacket is a bit on the obscure side despite numerous late night and Seth MacFarlane-related appearances. I honestly believe they are the perfect fit for the big stage, but they just aren’t well known enough.

Who They Are

Jack White needs little introduction. One of the most prolific musicians of the last decade, White is most famous as half of the already legendary band, the White Stripes, but also split time with the more traditional hard rock band the Raconteurs and the swampy blues rock of the Dead Weather.

Why They Would Work

White & company adapt perfectly to big performances and would put on a heck of a show. It would be a chance to see White, a modern guitar god in every sense of the word, do his thing on the biggest of stages.

Why They Won’t Work

If this was the White Stripes, they would be my no. 1 choice. unfortunately the Stripes broke up last year, so it would have to be the Raconteurs or the Dead Weather. Once again the problem becomes obscurity. not many people know either of his other bands that well.

Who They Are

OK, so maybe this one is cheating, but I have a good reason. the Flaming Lips are a band of weirdos from Oklahoma who specialize in a brand of over-the-top psychedelic stomp that combines Pink Floyd and Black Sabbath with a trippy kind of pop. And we already know who Madonna is.

Why It Would Work

Madonna has no bite by herself, but if she’s backed up by the Flaming Lips, it gives the show a rock edge that could make it awesome. Plus, the Flaming Lips have already recorded an excellent cover of Madonna’s “Borderline” that transforms the song into a rambunctious rocker so the transition would be smooth.

Why It Won’t Work

A: Madonna probably isn’t too keen on sharing the stage. B: the Flaming Lips are a very weird bunch and are probably too weird for national television. I don’t know if the NFL can handle Lips front man Wayne Coyne wandering over the live audience in a giant hamster ball, as he is known to do.

Who They Are

Akron’s finest. the Black Keys are finally getting the recognition they deserve for a decade of hard work and consistently great albums. the twosome have gotten comparisons to the White Stripes for both their simple drums/guitars/vocals set-up as well as their blooze rock sound. the Black Keys also bring T-Rex-esque funk and glam rock styles to the table.

Why They Would Work

Their popularity is peaking with Grammy nominations, commercial spots and appearances on late night and TV soundtracks. They play big, loud sing-a-long rock that would fit perfect.

Why They Won’t Work

They’re too new and shiny. the Super Bowl needs established superstars. Maybe in a few years if they can maintain this level of success, but for now they suffer from incurable obscurity.

Who she Is

Beyonce is the best songstress around and a super, no, megastar. Beyonce Knowles is a massively popular singer and former Destiny’s Child front woman. Since going solo she’s only achieved greater success and enjoys near universal likability.

Why she Would Work

She does everything Madonna does, but better. she can sing better, she can dance better, more people know her songs and plus she could get any of her famed collaborators—pretty much anyone who’s someone in hip-hop and R&B has worked with her—to appear with her.

Why she Won’t Work

Beyonce is absolutely perfect for this and would be my top choice if it weren’t for one issue: She’s pregnant. so maybe not this year, but maybe in the future.

Who They are

Now we’re entering the wishful thinking phase. Outkast is the wildly successful duo of Andre 3000 and big Boi. They dominated the late 90s-early 00s in hip-hop with a string of hits and albums that were hugely successful in both commercial and critical acclaim.They have been on extended hiatus since the mid 2000s.

Why They Would Work

Outkast are the sort of big-screen super stars the Super Bowl needs. their hits translate well to a big stage, and their personalities could just barely fit into Lucas Oil Field. Outkast are the hip-hop equivalent of Jimi Hendrix; explosive, propulsive, fantastically creative and unconventional and impossible to ignore.

Why They Won’t Work

Outkast has been on hiatus since releasing their movie Idlewild to mixed reviews. Andre 3000 has disappeared, occasionally surfacing for a movie role or a guest verse, but mostly staying quiet. in 2009 big Boi released his solo album Sir Luscious Left Foot: the Son of Chico Dusty to widespread critical acclaim. Both Dre and Boi have stated that until Andre releases his solo album, Outkast will remain on hold. so don’t hold your breath on this one.

Who They Are

The massively successful critics’ darlings from Montreal, Canada, the Arcade Fire’s style recalls such classic American acts like Bruce Springsteen, the Replacements, REM and other classic bands. They play all-together-now rock that often can feel like a communal experience in which you can’t help but sing along to.

Why They Would Work

The Arcade fire play music that is, in a cliche, epic. Over the top. Grandiose. Huge. Stirring. They play desperate end of the world rock and would give the Super Bowl a gravity that other artists simply can’t produce. Plus, they are already familiar with NFL fans due to their leasing of the popular song “Wake Up” to the 2009 Super Bowl, the proceeds of which went to charity for the Haitian earthquake.

Why They Won’t Work

Now the other shoe drops. To put it simply: Arcade fire are a bunch of snobby art school indie kids who wouldn’t be caught dead playing a commercial extravaganza like the Super Bowl (unless they could be convinced to do it for charity). somebody get Bob Geldof!

Ok, really quick here, I have a question. why is it that the blackest artist to play the Super Bowl (besides E Street Band saxophonist Clarence Clemmons, RIP) is the Black Eyed Peas? White America eats up rap and R&B like it’s nobody’s business, but when asked to represent the black community in the Super Bowl (in a sport rapidly becoming dominated by black athletes no less) they choose some homogenized swill like the Peas? Really?

Sorry about that little rant. Good thing I have the perfect solution.

Who They are

They are the greatest rappers currently in the game. sorry T.I., Lil Wayne, Waka Flocka Flame, etc., but Hove and Ye have you beat by a mile. Jay-Z is the CEO of Roc-A-Fella records, and when he’s not signing former enemies like Nas to his label, he’s putting out huge commercial smashes like his last album, the Blueprint 3. His only competitor for best rapper alive happens to be his best friend and label mate. love him or hate him, you can’t deny the spellbinding talent of Kanye West. Every album he puts out is raved over by the critics and produces a string of hits.

Why They Would Work

Hove and Ye thrive on big stages. their whole deal is making huge, world-beating rap songs. the Super Bowl is the biggest of stages, allowing them the chance to launch themselves and their personas into millions of living rooms. It would be epic. Just Jay-Z or Kanye by themselves would be great. But if they joined forces like they did on collaborative album Watch the Throne, the results could be tremendous.

Why They Won’t Work

White America is still afraid of rap. That is the only explanation for why no rapper has been asked to play the halftime show despite the huge popularity of the genre. Jay-Z and/or Kanye are absolutely perfect for the half time show, but the squeamishness of old, white men will keep them from the stage. which is a shame.

Who They are

Who are they? They’re Van (expletive deleted) Halen that’s who!  They are one of the greatest rock bands of all time with one of the best guitarists to ever take up the axe in Eddie Van Halen and one of the greatest singers in rock history in David Lee Roth. Eddie and David have put aside their mutual hate for each other and the band has (mostly, still no Michael Anthony) reunited.

Why They Would Work

Is that even a question? Van Halen is designed to rock the biggest of stages, and it doesn’t get much bigger than the Super Bowl. the classic rock band is one of the go-to cliches for the halftime show, and Van Halen would fit in perfect. They are safe enough for national television and exciting enough to get people into their show. Van Halen and the Super Bowl are a perfect match.

Why They Won’t Work

There is literally no reason this would not work, except maybe David Lee Roth’s ego. But if the NFL can handle Bono and Prince, they can handle Roth.

There. Ten choices who are better than the snoozefest that is a Madonna halftime show. Any suggestions of your own?

MLive points out that, yes, there is an influx of young, white residents but that the real problem here is that “the gentrification narrative in Detroit isn’t about displacement or quantifiable demographic change, it’s all about feelings.”. Which is to say, people like to whine about change particularly when not getting what they want in real estate. The better point made is this: Poorly maintained buildings at bargain prices aren’t exactly the same thing as social justice.

Aguilar makes some valid points about the fact that only three neighborhoods get all the attention these days, but goes a bit too far trying to dig up trouble with a quote from soon-to-be chairman of the Michigan Chamber of Commerce, Rodney Lockwood. He says, “Think about the conversation so many institutions, neighborhoods, media are having about growth, culture and entertainment. that dialogue, that investment is about downtown, Corktown and Midtown… What many people don’t realize is we have already begun the conversation that will lead us into splitting up Detroit into separate cities.” The article ends with Toby Barlow “one of the poster boys for the rising Detroit” disagreeing.

We fail to see how covering buzz-worthy development severs ties with the rest of the city. And let’s point out one more time, that if you see something we have missed (because 139 square miles is a shit-ton to cover), hit that damn Detroit tipline and we are on it.

· New challenges for Detroit [The Detroit News]· Complaints about Detroit gentrification once again rooted in feelings, not logic [MLive]

Ryan Boudinot’s Blueprints of the Afterlife is probably the strangest post-apocalyptic novel in ages, including a scale model of Manhattan built in the middle of Puget Sound. We talked to Boudinot about his bizarre story a while back, and now we’re excited to give you an exclusive look at one chapter from the novel.

Blueprints of the Afterlife comes out in January.

Al Skinner, witness to the bloodiest wars forged by man’s satanic imagination, presently feared forgetting his shoes. he kept his eye on them, brown Hush Puppies with Dr. Scholl’s inserts, paired on the bedroom’s spiral rag rug in his house in Scottsdale, Arizona. when you walked outside without your shoes in this neighborhood, you were on your way to assisted living. Sammy, a retired security contractor like Skinner, from two blocks over, had one morning walked without his shoes all the way to the combo Taco Bell/KFC. later, at the country club, gray heads slowly shook and the mouth parts of those heads gummed the words, “They found him with no shoes on.” Soon thereafter Sammy was ushered from this community of retired military personnel to a fortress of assisted living where one’s brain wasn’t expected to put on much of a show. Skinner didn’t want to end up at one of those places, shoeless, separated from his wife, eating apple sauce and watching the Smiling People channel.

Her name, the wife’s name, was Chiho Aoshima. Skinner watched Chiho move about the house and their life with precision and purpose. It had all culminated ridiculously in this house with two bedrooms, an upstairs and a downstairs, air-conditioning, and a glassed-in porch with a view of a sand trap and the seventh hole. she pressed oranges into juice in the morning and poured him glasses of strawberry soy milk at night. he opened the mail with a sword-shaped letter opener bearing the insignia of his company, the celebrated and bedeviled 83rd Section, aka a bunch of dirty muthafuckin newman-killing sunza bitches, aka the rats’ a-holes, aka the only men he could claim to have ever loved. Love: it was something more ludicrously huge than the destruction of entire continents. Love: the only thing that atrophied the dick and balls of warfare. when he’d of?oaded his worst memories he’d worried that some of the love he remembered would go with them, despite the technicians’ assurances. Gone into data storage were the mutilated streets of former Chicago, legions of semirobotic Chinese marching in formation through polluted exurbs, millions of hectares of inhospitable wastes stretching across geography like the pustulent crust of a chemical burn, traces of human tissue in underground torture chambers as elaborate and equipped with amenities as a cruise ship. He’d chosen to forget these things. What worried him were the things he’d chosen to remember.

Chiho didn’t appear to suffer from these worries. even without enhancement she would have been in ? ghting form. Walked ?ve miles a day, swam on weekends, and could still pull out a jump shot when occasion called for it. she appeared far younger than her 170 years. As she’d aged she hadn’t put on much weight, keeping her coat-rack frame. she still slithered into bed on top of him from time to time, tugged at the ? esh of his jowls and rapped on his forehead like it was a door. he brought her a blanket or a cracker blobbed with cream cheese. she took care of the bills. he gave the most heartwarming toast on her 150th at the country club. once a year she polished her sniper ri?e. Chiho Aoshima: Al Skinner’s will to live.

Today they were waiting for the hibernation crew to show up. Two guys and a truck. outside in the driveway in 120 Fahrenheit their freshly washed RV, stocked with supplies for the summer, sparkled and appeared to sweat. half of greater Phoenix had emptied by now and in another month only 5 percent of the population would remain, bunkered beneath the surface, suited up and equipped and tucked away for the season’s punishing inferno, sticking around to tend to infrastructure.

“Do we have everything?” Skinner said as his wife’s shape passed before him in the living room. how many times in the history of elderly-person road trips has that question been asked? Skinner spoke it ritualistically, not really minding when no answer came. Chiho whispered to herself, her bottom lip quivering with traces of speech. she was in her head again, probably plotting the logistics of their journey. by now it had become second nature, sixty years of migration, popping north before the sun landed its hammer blows on their gated community.

The hibernation technicians showed up at noon. a couple of young fellows with Latin America in their veins. While Chiho signed the paperwork, Skinner shuf?ed one last time around the house wondering if there was anything else he might toss into the RV. Ballpoint pen? he pocketed one just in case. Extra bottle of antacid? Can opener? he pulled open the top drawer of his ?le cabinet where he kept a stack of memory cards. They deserved to be hibernated. Come on, old man, just let them be. he put them in his breast pocket.

Back in the living room the tech guys were explaining their process, blurting it out perfunctorily, required by law to recite how the house would be sealed and ?lled with a proprietary, nonpolluting gas that, using a common ?eld generator, would be kept at a steady 72 degrees for the duration of their absence. their house had passed inspection and was considered airtight but an additional nonpermeable membrane would engulf the structure and essentially shrink-wrap it. Chiho nodded, initialed, and signed. They grabbed their house keys and followed the techs outside. a great deal of tubing and rolls of the nonpermeable membrane were produced from the hibernation crew’s truck. Soon Skinner and Chiho sat beside one another in the cockpit of the RV, watching the techs pump the proprietary nonpolluting gas into their home through a conduit designed speci? cally for this purpose.

“You really want to stick around and watch the house get wrapped?” Chiho asked.

“We can go,” Skinner said.

Chiho put the RV in gear and backed out of the driveway, then headed down Ironsides Avenue, through their mostly abandoned community. up and down the block houses had been entombed until their owners returned in the fall. once in a while stories surfaced about pets or occupants who accidentally stayed in their house during the hibernation process, to be discovered months later, perfectly preserved as if they’d died mere minutes before. the proprietary gas was that good. you could even leave food on the counter and it would still be edible upon your return, though this wasn’t recommended. House condoms, Skinner called them. Soon they were on an arterial, then the stop-and-go highway, the exodus in full swing.

“I always miss Arizona,” Chiho said.

“I miss Arizona even when I’m here,” said Skinner.

Chiho had packed the RV as securely as she could but something still rattled in the back. Rattling noises hurt her teeth. Maybe it was a jar of marmalade jiggling in the pantry. Or the coffee pot. Skinner rode shotgun, lost in road signs. a hundred miles could pass like this.

“I brought some memory cards from home,” Skinner said outside city limits. “I thought you should know.”

“Well that’ll be fun,” said Chiho. she knew what I thought you should know meant. War memories. Would Skinner come out and say this? she gave him an opening. “We can pop in the memory of that camping trip when my shoes melted.”

“I don’t know if that one’s in there.” Skinner was quiet for two minutes by the dashboard clock. Then he said, “I brought a couple cards of war memories. I thought I’d share them with Carl. If he wants to.”

“This is supposed to be a nice visit.”

“I’m not asking you to approve. I’ve got some memories I need to go over with Carl. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

The rattling. Maybe a spice bottle.

“You can do whatever you want with your own memories.”

“So what are you asking of me?”

“I’m not asking you anything. I’m just telling you.”

“You’re asking me to wake you up when you resurrect those nightmares.”

Skinner sipped his root beer, returned it to the cup holder. “We’ll be careful. We’ll stagger the memories, do it in doses, alternate innocuous memories from when I worked for the auto dealer or our trips to the Olympic Peninsula. We’re not going to go too deep.”

“Why is it that I forgot the same war but you insist on revisiting it?”

She had a point, and Skinner didn’t have an answer. In their worst arguments over the years he’d insisted she had no way of possibly knowing what he’d seen, having spent the war gazing through the scope of her ri?e or via remote cam. He’d witnessed it on the mud and the blood and the shit level, the severed heads and disembowelment level. the last time this line of reasoning trotted its diseased self in front of them he’d had a couple drinks.

“I promise I won’t muck things up by drinking,” Skinner said.

“You say that.”

Up ahead on either side of the freeway, behind chain-link barricades and a few dozen riot cops in full gear, had coalesced two groups of that rare Arizona breed, pedestrians, bearing signage. a hundred or so total. Skinner and Chiho couldn’t read the signs yet but knew what they were about. Traf?c slowed to a ten-mile-per-hour crawl as drivers passed angry human beings ? ltering their frayed-voice accusations through staticky megaphones.

“It’s worse than last year,” Chiho said.

“These losers just need to get jobs,” Skinner said. “Look at them. They’re perfectly capable.”

“I don’t understand how they expect anyone to offer them a ride when they’re behaving so poorly,” Chiho said.

The messages on the signs came into view. an egg cracked on the RV’s windshield. Skinner opened the glove compartment and located the Coca-Cola 9mm beneath a stack of expired insurance cards. It was an old ?rearm, an early model from when Coke, Nike, Sony, Verizon, and every other major conglomerate seemed to be rushing into the business of arming America. Coke eventually stopped manufacturing this model, returning somewhat sheepishly, post-FUS, to its core business of delicious sugared beverages. Skinner rubbed the faded red-and-white grip with the dynamic-ribbon logo.

“You’re being overly dramatic,” Chiho said. “Put that away.”

“I just want them to see that I’ve got it,” Skinner said, pulling the microphone out of the dash. he ? icked the ON switch and his voice blasted out of two loudspeakers mounted on the roof. “Warning. We are retired security of?cers who served in the Boeing militias. We are armed and won’t hesitate to blow your fucking heads off.”

A couple riot cops saluted or gave a thumbs-up. the crowds screamed anew and threw themselves at the barricades, their faces sore-covered and contorted. If they were lucky they’d get arrested and tossed into the air-conditioned underground clink. Maybe that was the whole point. Soon the traf? c picked up and there was nothing but saguaros, prickly pear, and distant scorched hills. Occasionally they passed a lone hitchhiker waving pathetically or pointing frantically at a water jug, begging for a re?ll. a man and a boy solemnly shoved their belongings along in a shopping cart. Skinner shook his head. What made it impossible for some people to prepare for the changing of the seasons?

Some memories were more painful than those forged in war. They’d once been a family of four sharing a home in Portland, Oregon, with a yard and a dog. Take a picture and upload it. Picnics, football games. their son Waitimu Skinner was born ?rst, then , three years later, their daughter Roon Aoshima. Two handsome kids with good grades.

At nineteen Waitimu enlisted in the same ?rm his dad had served in and shipped out to Detroit during the lingering days of the FUS. Swiss-cheesed by roadside-bomb masonry screws during a routine security sweep. What remained of Waitimu was buried on Vancouver island.

Roon now lived in Seattle with her wife Dot, working in a vague capacity for one of the contractors transforming Bainbridge Island into Manhattan. Skinner and Chiho hadn’t spoken to their daughter in ?ve years and here’s why: Thanksgiving, too much sake, money, politics, yelling, a broken heirloom candy dish.

These stories aren’t uncommon—an older child dies and the younger one can never live up to her imagined legacy. Skinner and Chiho kept the Waitimu memory cards in a safety deposit box in Phoenix and avoided talking about their confounding, troublesome rift with Roon.

Maybe the rattling was a spatula.

America didn’t used to look like this, Chiho thought from behind the windshield. there used to be people in all these houses. People shopping and walking their dogs. People yelling, “Hello, neighbor! Can I borrow a stick of butter?” San Diego scrolled beneath their tires, the ?rst of three urban dots one had to connect to experience coastal California. What remnants of old civilization lay between these points were scavenger-picked and surrendered to nature. incredible how quickly trees invaded pavement, foundations crumbled, brambles engulfed cars. They saw crows appear to dismantle a motorcycle. Whenever they pulled off the highway to stretch their legs they tried to park near the ocean. Skinner wanted to see the beached aircraft carrier. a couple hundred miles south of San Francisco it lay jutting at a nutty angle on the beach, like a sunbathing skyscraper. They stopped in Oakland, in what was trying to become little Boston. Fenway Park was half-?nished, and a few blocks away there was a lackluster attempt at Harvard Yard. Skinner bought a Red Sox hat from a street vendor who promised it had been manufactured pre-FUS in Boston itself.

“Want to stop at Hearst Castle?” Chiho wanted to know.

Skinner shrugged. might as well. They parked the RV at the visitors center and boarded the shuttle. a pleasant way to kill an afternoon. Skinner took a picture of his wife standing beside a statue of Poseidon by the grandest of the pools. the fact that one man had ever amassed this much wealth inconvenienced Skinner’s sense of logic. that this magnitude of fortune paled in comparison to the wealth attained by certain pre-FUS oligarchs was almost metaphysically impossible to comprehend.

Carl and Hiroko Taylor lived outside Portland in an A-frame home amid thirty or so former suburban acres of new-growth cedar and hemlock. Carl was negotiating with a solar panel out front when Skinner and Chiho rolled up the driveway. he didn’t look like a soldier anymore, just an old black dude with white hair wearing a plaid ?annel shirt and suspenders. Hiroko came out onto the porch clutching a mammoth mug of tea. Carl grabbed Skinner as soon as he had clambered out of the RV and the friends slammed their hands into each other’s backs.

“You dirty old fossil,” Carl laughed. when Carl laughed, his smile hung around on his face like the last guest at a party.

“Let me get some of this,” Hiroko said, separating the men to embrace Skinner. Carl lifted Chiho off the ground and the four old friends stood laughing and grinning, anticipating rich, copious food and stories, late nights of movies and video games. Skinner knew that the presence of their friends would put a damper on his and Chiho’s bickering. They were never as loving toward one another as when they were in the presence of friends. Spirits lifted, the four repaired to the kitchen where Hiroko zapped buffalo wings and Carl pulled out some blue potato chips with blue cheese dip. there were crudites and smoked salmon, huckleberry scones and homemade preserves, coffee.

“You’re sabotaging your solar again,” Skinner said.

“I might as well take a ball-peen hammer to it,” said Carl.

“You’re cursed. Put a machine in your hands and it takes itself apart.”

Hiroko said to Chiho, “I was worried you guys wouldn’t escape Phoenix this time.”

Chiho replied, “We ran into some demonstrators on the way out, but we did ? ne.”

“Yeah, because I showed off my Coke,” Skinner said. “There was a testosterone moment,” Chiho nodded.

“We got out of there in one piece is all I’m saying.”

“Those people just want to get out before it gets too hot,” Hiroko said.

“Then they should move out altogether,” Carl said. “I second that opinion,” Skinner said. “Slide that dip on over here, if you please. there are relocation programs, right? They can move up to Canada.”

“Or Alaska,” Carl said.

“And live in a camp?” Hiroko asked. “I hear those places are foul.”

“Some of them are,” Chiho said. “They’re improving, though. according to Reader’s Digest, anyway.”

The conversation was veering dangerously toward buzz-kill territory. They all seemed to recognize this, and with a collective breath moved on to other topics.

“School! How’s teaching this semester?” Chiho asked Hiroko.

“Fabulous. I taught Theory of Counterinsurgency, FUS History with an emphasis on the new England theater, a couple intro freshman classes. I had incredible students this semester.”

“Her students drove her to tears,” Carl said. Hiroko said, “Please tell us you’re staying a couple weeks, at least. We’ve got a pantry full of food that’ll go to waste otherwise.”

“Football, barbecue, a little walk in the woods,” Carl said.

“Our thoughts exactly,” Skinner said. “I don’t know how much longer we can hold out in the desert.”

“You said that last year,” Chiho said.

“Every year I mean it a little bit more. Putting a prophylactic on my house four months out of the year.”

“Let me see your garden!” Chiho said. Hiroko did an embarrassed and proud little shrug and motioned for her to follow.

When the women were gone, Skinner and Carl looked at each other and shared a laugh.

“Jesus, we’re still here,” Skinner said.

“Still looking like shit, a day late and a dollar short.”

“When you can live forever, all you’re doing is postponing the inevitable. You’re just going to die in some stupid accident.”

“Could come any day.”

“And a welcome day that’ll be.”

They laughed again, matching the cadence of their guffaws. Carl said, “Seriously. you bring the memories?”

“Right here.” Skinner patted his breast pocket. “I told

Carl nodded. “I told Hiroko. We got into a ?ght about it.”

“But we gots to do what we gots to do.”

“Sort through the bullshit.”

“Get our past in order.”

“I promised Chiho I wouldn’t drink. you help me out on  that?” Skinner asked.

“You got it. I’ll not drink with you.”

“You would for me.”

“True. you make these buffalo wings?” “I wish I could take credit but they came out of a fuckin’

“Wait, who—Cooper? Shit, no.”

“Lung cancer ?nally. One of those weird kinds of lung cancer that happen to people who don’t smoke. so rare the Bionet doesn’t have a reliable app to deal with it. he tried a cigarette when he was sixteen, puked his guts out, and never touched the stuff again, even when we were in combat. now that’s fuckin’ willpower. I talked to him a month before he passed. he blamed the cancer on that one cigarette from ninety years ago. Cigarette smoke was the least of what ended up in our lungs.”

“I can’t say I ever got along with Cooper that well. God rest his soul.”

“You barely got along with anyone. you were the crew’s resident son of a bitch.”

“But when the shit went down is what I’m saying.”

“You don’t even have to say it.”

“I’m trying harder not to be a prick. I volunteer at the local pool. Hand out boogie boards to snot-nosed kids. went door-to-door collecting toothbrushes for our church. Apparently they need toothbrushes in Alabama or someplace.”

“Guy on his ?fth set of dentures collecting toothbrushes. That’s a good one.”

Skinner grinned. “How you keeping busy besides busting solar panels?”

“Dude, nothing much has changed since you were here last. I do my Tai Chi in the morning and my yoga at night. I reread all of Dickens and am back on a Melville jag. It’s all about supporting the wife’s career. She’s working on a book about the FUS. Trying to spell out once and for all why it went down, who was responsible. Most of the time she’s buried in books.”

“How’d a dumbass like you marry a woman so smart?”

“My thoughts precisely. she could’ve just retired a long time ago but she’s got un?nished business with the FUS. she thinks she did too little to prevent it is my theory. like she was part of the whole propaganda apparatus that brought on the worst of it. It haunts her. I’ve been trying to tell her to give it a rest, what’s past is past. but she’s too much like you. Has to go over it and over it in her head.”

“An incredible woman. They broke the mold et cetera, et cetera.”

“Roon called here last week.”

“She wants to get in touch with you and Chiho. I think she wants to make amends.”

Skinner rubbed his face. Audible stubble. “I wasn’t expecting that. Is she okay? Jesus, I’m a shitty father.”

“She sounded good. I talked to her maybe ?ve minutes. she says she doesn’t have your new number. she wanted—I really should wait until Chiho is here to tell you this.”

“Don’t worry, man, it’s nothing bad. just wait for the ladies to come back from their little garden tour and all will be revealed.”

Five minutes and five buffalo wings later Hiroko and Chiho came back indoors. Chiho beamed. “Did Carl tell you Roon called?”

“Yeah, he did, what’s—”

Chiho knitted her ?ngers together and held her hands to her chin. “Roon and Dot have a baby!”

Skinner opened his mouth to say something, stopped, looked to the others to ?gure out how he should be feeling. “A grandchild?” he said.

“A little boy,” Hiroko said. “He’s two now.”

In this safe place, in the company of people who loved him, bewildered and unable to speak, Skinner found tears trembling at the corners of his eyes.

Now they’d have to see Roon. their stay would be shadowed by expectation and shot through with giddiness that they’d ? nally get to meet a grandchild. Skinner shook his head and gazed curiously at his open palms, as though he’d achieved grandfatherhood via some feat of manual labor. Carl suggested they go on a walk.

The path through the woods roughly followed where a sidewalk used to be. Here and there stood foundations of houses. If you kicked at the weeds or peeled back layers of fallen leaves, little artifacts of extinct Portlanders emerged. Bottles, cell phones, plastic toys partially covered in moss, the rusted whorls of a box-spring mattress. Trees had reclaimed the grid, reverting it to chaotic geometries determined by fallen seeds. Chiho loved the birds most, the wild ? ocks that had replenished themselves post-FUS, blotting the sky in great concentrations of feather, cackle, and wing. a woodpecker smacked its beak against a snag, probing for grubs. amid a copse of pines rose an old McDonald’s golden arches sign, boasting of billions served. Billions! the husbands and wives walked paired down the path.

Skinner said to Hiroko, “Carl says you’re working on a book.”

“More like the book’s working on me.”

“So what’s your angle on the FUS?”

“I’m considering it by way of a neurological metaphor,” Hiroko said. “I stumbled on some research from the 1950s, two scientists named Olds and Milner who ? rst identi?ed the pleasure centers of the brain. I guess their most famous experiment was when they stimulated the pleasure centers of rats whenever the rats pressed a particular bar in their cage. It didn’t take long for the rats to stimulate their pleasure centers to the point of exhaustion, to the point of not eating or taking care of their other physiological needs. my argument is that in the age of Fucked up Shit, human beings became like those rats, whacking the bars that stimulated our pleasure centers even as those very bars were what triggered our doom. In the last few decades of the twentieth century, we started to understand the terms of our self-destruction. our rational minds argued against using fossil fuels, against overeating and too much television, against accumulating too much wealth among too few, but a more powerful part of our brains kept pushing those bars. Push, push, push. the solutions, the ways we might avoid the FUS, were staring us right in the face. It was obvious and apparent: stop using oil, stop making plastic, control the growth of the population to a logical level so we could exist within the parameters of our ecology. If we didn’t do these things, most of us would die. but we were willing to die because a more powerful part of our minds, the old mammalian limbic system, was busy pushing those bars. the more recent, less developed part of our brains, the neocortex, was waving its arms and screaming for us to stop our destructive behavior. In this war between the limbic system and the neocortex, the limbic system won, hence the FUS.”

Carl picked up a stick to walk with. “So by the time we got tangled in the FUS, who were we ?ghting for exactly?” he said.

“We were ?ghting for Boeing,” Skinner laughed.

“Yes, but more to the point, we were ?ghting for the limbic system,” Hiroko said. “We were ?ghting to keep pushing those bars. when everything collapsed, there were few bars left to push. but now the earth’s renewing itself. Look around us. there are a lot fewer people to make a mess of things. the qputers are undoing the damage.”

“Still, Phoenix gets hotter every year,” Skinner said.

“True,” Hiroko said, “because not every place is recovering at the same rate. It’s going to take some places a lot longer.”

They came to an old intercity light-rail car covered in vines. through the dirty windows they read advertisements for colonics and undergraduate degrees.

Skinner said, “So you’re saying we fought on the wrong side, Hiroko?”

She shrugged. “In the FUS, everyone was on the wrong side. the very idea of sides was on the wrong side.”

The nocturnal animals of the forest performed their ? rst stirrings as light seeped out of the sky. the path widened and intersected with a hard-packed gravel road. Nearby leaned a bus-stop sign. In a few short minutes a bus arrived, a shambling, multihued contraption furnished with couches and love seats, a kitchenette in the back where a woman cooked a garlicky organic meal. a few other riders, swaddled in patchwork out? ts of Gore-Tex and hemp, sat reading alternative weeklies, about them hanging the whiff of weed. the four friends crowded together on a couch across from a balding man in glasses who was absorbed in a battered copy of Benjamin’s Illuminations, a scarf wrapped so many times around his neck that it appeared to be holding his head in place. the bus bumbled along the irregular road and the trees eventually gave way to deliberate landscaping and an actual paved arterial. Soon they were on Burnside through the vital guts of Portland. a block or two from Powell’s City of Books they climbed off the bus and squeezed through an alley to Hiroko and Carl’s favorite Thai place. As they approached the back entrance, a great wave of plates and cutlery crashed through the door and spilled out into the alley. Carried on this wave was a disheveled and quite stoned busboy, and close behind a chef rode a baking sheet like a surfboard, yelling obscenities at his young and now-? red employee.

“Asleep on the job!” the chef bellowed. “What kind of dishwasher are you!”

“Don’t worry. the food’s actually great,” Hiroko said as they climbed over the dishes, trying not to slip on a rainbow of curries.

During appetizers, Chiho proclaimed, “We’re so rude. We haven’t even asked about Jadie.”

Carl sighed. “She’s had her troubles with the Bionet. Became some sick bastard’s embodiment. We got her in a recovery center down here.”

“Christ,” Skinner said.

“It started out with dancing,” Carl continued. “She’d go to parties where everyone tried out these illegal apps, give over her codes to a choreographer and they’d put her body through elaborate moves. Soon it turned into an everyday routine. she surrendered some of her basic functions, like what time she’d wake up, when she’d eat and use the bathroom. Her DJ was good to her at ?rst, they usually are, got her to make new friends—other embodiments—made her feel popular, put witty comments in her mouth when she was in social situations. she got a bit part in a TV show they ?lm up in Vancouver.”

“Forensic Mindfuck,” Hiroko said.

“The one about the detectives?” Chiho asked.

“The one where they travel back in time and use modern forensic methods to solve crimes of the past,” Carl said. “Anyway. around that time she dropped out of school, which we weren’t too keen on, but it looked like she had a real career getting started.”

“When did you ?nd out she was getting DJed?” Chiho said.

“We were clueless,” Carl said. “We thought she was succeeding purely on her own merits. If we’d known, we’d have ?own up to Vancouver and tossed her ass in a recovery center straightaway.”

“We knew something about her had changed when we visited,” Hiroko said, “but we couldn’t identify it. I thought it was the pressure and excitement of her new life. sometimes her hands trembled like she’d had too much coffee.”

Carl rubbed his stubble. “Her show got canceled and she was out of school and looking for work. That’s when her DJ lost interest in her and set her on autopilot. he got her a job waitressing and wiped his hands of her, setting her loose on autogenerated subroutines. she described it as being like living the same boring day over and over again. she woke up exactly at 7:02 a.m., had the same cereal for breakfast, ran 4.2 miles on the treadmill, and went to the same stores and bought the same three items every day—a nail ?le from the drugstore, a copy of Nabokov’s Lolita from the bookstore, and a set of shoelaces from a shoe repair shop. Then she’d go waitress at a greasy spoon that served only regulars who ordered the same things every day. After that she’d come home, watch a tape of the same stupid comedy, take a shower, and go to bed at 9:00 on the dot. And every night she had the same dream, in which she separated bottles for recycling behind the restaurant where she worked. Brown bottles, green bottles, clear bottles. the dream always seemed to last a couple hours, but got more detailed every night. she started to be able to read the labels, see the air bubbles in the glass, feel the texture of the glue on the bottles. Her dreams became so high-def that they started making her waking reality look foggy. Then she’d wake up and start all over again. Treadmill, shopping, work, home, movie, shower, bed, dream. It went on like this for months. Part of her remained aware of what was happening, a weak little section of her brain, and she started to suspect that the regulars at the cafe were embodiments, too, retired embodiments also on autopilot. She’d become this reliable little machine, a component that did its part to keep the companies that made the nail ?les and the shoelaces and the copies of Lolita in business, programmed to be a battery plugged into the economy. On her days off the routines automatically changed, and she’d send us an email and tell us how she was looking forward to enrolling in school again and ?nishing her degree. very little variation to these messages. Hiroko and I kept trying to plan a trip up north and see her but stuff kept getting in the way. I broke my leg, Hiroko got a grant to write her book, all the usual we’ve-been-busy BS that keeps families from seeing each other. We were just happy to know she was planning to go back to school. so, ?nally, a couple months ago we got our act together and headed up to Vancouver. she kept trying to dissuade us from coming. I got suspicious. so we head on up there and found her new apartment, in some lousy part of town with people crazy and passed out, trash all over the place up and down the street. I ran up the steps to her door. We pounded on it and she told us to go away, so I knew something real foul was going down. the worst scenarios ran through my mind, you know how it is with a daughter. so I got all commando and broke down the fuckin’ door. really messed up my shoulder for the weekend, I might add. We found her looking completely normal, standing in the middle of her apartment. With a hundred ninety-seven copies of Lolita, a hundred ninety-seven packages of shoelaces, and a hundred ninety-seven nail ?les all piled up on the kitchen table. And she was standing there dressed, smiling, making the same repetitive motion with her arm, a little shuf?e with her feet, waiting for the clock to strike 9:00 a.m. so she could go out and do her shopping. Her smile terri?ed me. a smile a thousand miles from happiness. I just came out and asked her if she was an embodiment.”

“Christ,” Skinner said. “Did you ever catch the son of a bitch who did this to her?”

Carl shook his head. “The cops are still looking. They’re about ?ve years behind the technology, if you wanna know the sad truth. It’s shocking. There’s a whole underground economy driven by embodiments. People just set up to work at mindless jobs, to consume the same shit every day, punch in and punch out, keep products in production, services rendered, walking around numb and dumb and compliant, without an original thought in their damn heads.”

“She’s doing better,” Hiroko said, “but it’s a long recovery. the ego atrophies during the embodiment state. It has to be rebuilt little by little. It takes weeks for them to be able to introduce themselves or shake someone’s hand.”

Skinner said, “I remember holding her little hands. Giving her shells and sand dollars. your story breaks my heart.”

They moved on to discussions more germane to their surroundings. Skinner ?ngered the memory cards in his pocket, wondering at the horrors preserved in their wafer-like forms. why punish himself like this again? other retired private contractors, sitting in their deck chairs ?ipping channels and keeping their bowels operational with concoctions of herbs, didn’t seem burdened by the same obsessive need to recontextualize their former lives. for Skinner’s neighbors at the shrink-wrapped retirement community, the wars moldered. They were content to follow college football and steady their swing at the driving range. the FUS was to be actively avoided in conversation, not sought out. Skinner almost admired their ability to evade the terrors of their pasts. On his worst days he prayed for the strength to do the same. but his earlier life on battle?elds demanded accounting. This need was so consuming that the only way for Carl to remain his friend was to humor him and take part in the trip, to follow him down that ?aming hole of cunt-shit-molten-fuck. but now—this was a surprise—Skinner’d found some new psychic armor with which to fortify himself. he had a grandson.

Skinner took the cards out of his pocket and set them on the table. the other three regarded the cards with visible sadness as Skinner separated them into piles of innocuous memories and memories of war, the innocuous ones outnumbering the wartime ones three to one. Then, with the bottom of the pepper shaker, he smashed the war memories into pieces. when he was done, Skinner exhaled and ?ngered his fortune cookie, reluctant to ?nd out what it revealed about his future.

“You did it, my friend,” Carl said. “Good for you.”

Chiho rubbed Skinner’s shoulder and kissed his weathered hands. he swept the pieces of the memory cards into his palm and sprinkled them atop the remnants of his panang curry. All that remained now were memories of banal civilian life and the one memory from the war he refused to destroy, the one piece of un?nished business: the memory of the day he came back from the dead.

The next day after breakfast, the women left the men reclined on plush furniture beneath portraits of Carl’s and Hiroko’s ancestors that went back generations, to slaves and dynasties. On the coffee table were arrayed bottles of water and an Apple memory console, a black lump of elegant industrial design about the size and shape of a baseball, smashed in on one side.

“Sure you don’t want to watch the NCAA semi? nals instead?” Carl asked.

“Plug us in,” Skinner said, closing his eyes.

Carl pushed the card into the slot. a little pinwheel icon on the display indicated that the console was recognizing and syncing with the whatzits embedded in their skulls. This reality hung on for a while—the books on the shelves, the red rug. the scene trembled a bit at the edges as the stored memory worked to displace their surroundings. At this in-between stage, inanimate objects asserted more emphatically what they truly were. the water in the bottles wanted desperately to escape the plastic, yearning to become lost again in oceans and clouds. Skinner drew a Pendleton blanket around his shoulders, listening to individual wool ?bers creak, snap, and whisper memories of ewes grazing in valleys. Carl reached out and took Skinner’s hand, squeezed it to remind him he was there. a few minutes in, the living room went into rapid retreat. the effect was like looking at a department store window and not knowing what to focus on—the objects on display or the re?ection of the street. Slowly their senses adjusted to perceive more acutely what lay beyond the pane. They were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. a percussive frozen rain raked at them as clouds merged with plumes of smoke rising from all over the island.

“Carl?” Skinner said. he was trying to pivot his head but it was as if his neck was in a brace.

“I got you,” Carl said behind him, or beside him, or both. a representation of Carl sidled up, his old-man face superimposed on his younger man’s body, a weird bug in the software. “We’re in, man.”

“Jesus, the smell.”

“It’s always the smell that’s the worst.”

“I can smell the bodies.”

Younger Carl spoke, his voice fuzzy. “At least the smell of bodies don’t make you cough up your damn lungs. It’s those other smells we got to be afraid of.”

Up ahead in a pile of rags a baby cried beside its moth-er’s detached bodily components. As Skinner veered toward the baby a greasy hand dug into his bicep and yanked him around. Malmides, his direct supervisor, barked into his face, “Keep moving, shitstain.”

Skinner saw that he was in a vast video game of men that stretched back through Brooklyn, bristling with weaponry and trudging into death. he didn’t march so much as let himself get carried along. he looked down and watched his legs ?op retardedly forward, unable to stop. Piles of refuse burned in the East River, decapitated bodies swung from the bridge supports like demented mobiles. he strained to take in the magni? cent destruction ahead. Here, on the bridge, all was panorama, but soon those buildings would entangle him, a grid turning into an unforgiving labyrinth. Inexplicably, a herd of goats ran bleating past them, their hides scorched and speckled with boils. One of them sported an eyeball dangling from its socket. At the little park on the other side of the bridge he found himself in a congregation listening to the director of operations, a bull of a man with prosthetic eyes and a voice raspy from inhaling the particulate of decimated signature architecture. Castiliano was that bastard’s name and this was his rallying moment, a little rhetorical propane to get the soldiers hard.

“We bring death today to those who claim to become God! We slaughter under the banner of Christ! We butcher the hordes who’ve come to rape our children! Root them out, grab a limb, rip it off! Coat your faces in their gore! Stomp harder on the rising lids of their rancid cof?ns, Boeing army ? ghters!”

A great cry went up and Skinner, queasy, broke off into a unit with Carl and ?ve other sick motherfucks, as it were, guys with faces and names and homes that had been erased from Planet Earth. Supposedly they were to head west and root out a couple remaining pockets of newman resistance.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Skinner said in his memory.

“Fuck you, Skinner. you were born to do this,” Carl said.

One of the other guys in the unit looked exactly like the pre-FUS comedic actor Will Ferrell. another bug in the program. Apparently if you remembered a person as looking sort of like someone famous, the famous person tended to show up in your memory instead. “Guys?” Will Ferrell said, his voice cracking.

“Maybe we should just ?nd a Starbucks and get lattes? my treat? What do you say?”

Carl whispered in Skinner’s ear, “Come on, dude, you’re in command.”

“Listen, you sick Homo sapiens,” Skinner said. “The heavy lifting’s been done. We’re basically the janitors, scrubbing the newman shit from this godforsaken island. Let’s quit fucking around and move!”

They passed through acrid manhole steam and subway entrances piled with rotting body parts swarmed by mutated, screeching larvae. Skinner glanced down to see a woman’s shoe with the foot still in it, toenails painted lavender, sliced off at the ankle so cleanly it could have been done by a surgeon. It wasn’t the enormity of it all that fucked you, it was little shit like this. a headless body slumped in a doorway beneath an advertisement for Guns N’ Roses’ Chinese Democracy II. an arm protruded from beneath a ?aming and overturned taxi. Everywhere burned the obscene carbon stench of manufactured goods and organic forms returning to the elements. Will Ferrell had begun to whimper comically, eyes darting left and right. Carl slapped him on the back of the head.

In the East Village they came to a cafe, still operational amid the rubble. everything above the second ?oor of the building looked to have been vaporized. within the ground-level walls baristas steamed milk and a sound system blasted fusion-era Miles. In a corner, under a painting of ?ames, the scarred remnants of a company of mercenaries sat drinking. Seven guys speckled in concrete dust and dried blood, knocking back coffee spiked with scavenged liquors. their eyes barely moved when Skinner and his crew arrived, stepping over dead laptops and brick chunks.

“We’re the Boeing 83rd,” Skinner said. “What company you all with?”

“Who wants to know?” said a man in the rear. Jet-black hair, glasses, untangling a Rubik’s Cube.

“I’m Lieutenant Al Skinner.”

Carl said, “They’re the P?zer 190th. the insignia on their gear.”

“I thought P?zer ran screaming from this shit,” Skinner said.

“We are the shit,” Rubik’s Cube said.

Will Ferrell ordered a grande nonfat decaf mocha.

“This all that’s left of your company?” Skinner asked.

Cube said, “You want to know the difference between a war and a war game? a game comes with a reset button. but the only way to access that button is to die. want to test this theory?”

Skinner said nothing. Cube shrugged, asked his command, “Who would be willing to blow his fucking brains out to see if there’s a reset button?”

A young, stone-faced soldier drinking a cappuccino unholstered his sidearm and pressed the barrel under his chin.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Skinner said.

“This is the fuck and death party,” Cube said. “You don’t wanna see the death? how about some of the fuck? We’ve got a surprise downstairs. you fellows can help yourselves to the leftovers. We’ve had our ?ll. Go on ahead, indulge.”

“You don’t have girls, do you?” Carl said, his face falling.

“No, man, we’re following the code. We got ‘droid pussy.”

“Tell that idiot to holster his weapon,” Skinner said.

Cube nodded. “Goldberg, we don’t need you to hit the reset button just yet.” he turned back to Skinner. “You look like you’ve been at this for a while, soldier. Tell me, do the newmans make any sense to you? Has killing them made it any easier to determine whether they’re the human beings or if we’re the ones who come out of factories?”

“I kill what I’m told to kill,” Skinner said. “I don’t give a fuck if it’s got guts or chips.”

“Good for you,” Cube smiled and tossed his toy to Skinner. “Now mess this puzzle up and solve your way out of it.”

An iron stairwell led to a basement. the stairs opened into a dim, low-ceilinged space that smelled of opium smoke and industrial-grade lubricants. a soldier elbowed past them on his way out, zipping his ?y. the 83rd turned on their beams and swept the ?oor with light. the room appeared littered with dissected mannequins. an arm crawled out of their way and hid under a sofa as they advanced. They followed the sound of sex groans to a curtained alcove. when Skinner swept aside the curtain they found a fat, naked man on his back on a couch. Skinner blinked, trying to ?gure out what exactly he was looking at. As best he could tell, it was the lower half of a male newman, the legs wearing ?shnet stockings, mounted on the fat man, rocking back and forth while the man stroked the thing’s arti?cial cock. Where the torso should have been was a mess of organic newman technology, cords and sacs, severed tubes spurting clear ?uid. While this half of a newman got fucked, a severed newman head of indeterminate gender licked the fat man’s balls.

“Hey! Can’t a dude screw in peace around here?” the fat man complained.

“My God,” Skinner said. (Decades later, in Carl’s living room, Carl said, “Yeah, that shit was sick. And you don’t even remember it as gross as I remember it.”)

“Identify yourself,” Skinner said.

“And you are?”

“My name is: I’ve got a loaded Cherry Coca-Cola and your dick is up a robot’s ass.”

“Name’s Caponegra, senior regional manager of the P? zer 183rd.”

Will Ferrell spoke up. “Guys? Is it considered a threeway if two of the participants used to be one person? just wondering.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ferrell,” Carl said.

“We’re sweeping the ‘hood for insurgents,” Skinner said, yanking the newman body half off Caponegra’s lap. “And you’re going to data dump all your intelligence on us.”

“Dammit, ?ne. let me rub one out and I’ll brief you upstairs.”

Upstairs, over coffee at a table freckled with cigarette butts, Caponegra, now mostly clothed, told stories of raids, ambushes, casualties received and delivered. Skinner divvied the info into little piles, separating a soldier’s braggadocio from strategically relevant data. Caponegra’s blustery yarns did support the case that the newmans were in full retreat, escaping into the forests upstate where they were burying themselves under trees to hibernate.

“They’re like bears,” Caponegra said. “I got a report from a scout in the Glaxo-Wellcome 3rd infantry that they cornered four of them up near Saratoga Springs, all huddled in a hole in the ground, skin going pasty from lack of sun, eyes glowing red as they went into sleep mode. Interrogation revealed they had no power-up date. Meaning someone would have to come along, ?nd them, and manually turn them back on.”

“We’re sweeping west through Soho,” Skinner said. “What can you tell us.”

Caponegra rolled his eyes. “You guys got the easiest job in the world. There’s no one left out there. We practically bleached the place.”

“So what are you doing hanging around here?”

Caponegra gave him a look. “There’s somewhere else?”

They came to a building halved vertically by an explosion. Looked like an NYU dorm, a cross section of what appeared to be, more or less, normal collegiate life, a couple dozen hive-like stories of beds, computers, desks, a Jules et Jim poster, microbiology and civics textbooks with passages highlighted in pink and yellow, the pillowy forms of bags of popped but uneaten microwaved popcorn. Paper drifted in the smoke. Here and there a ?re. In one of the exposed dorm rooms on the second ?oor, a girl sat hunched over her desk, head in hand, reviewing self-made ? ash cards.

Carl consulted his handheld. “She’s human.”

“Hey you! Student!” Skinner shouted. “What are you still doing up there?”

Visibly annoyed, the girl called down, “Leave me alone! I’m studying! Midterms next week!”

“You need to evacuate asap!” Carl replied. “This ain’t the time to study! Come on, we’ll set you up in a library where you can study all you want!”

Somewhere on the island another building fell, rattling the earth beneath their feet and the teeth in their jaws. Helicopters in formation sliced across a sky too grimy and chemical-burned to be of any use to anybody.

Carl said to Skinner, “We got to get her out of there. She’s in shock, obviously.”

“Stupid bitch,” Skinner said. “Let’s save her ass.”

Skinner put Will Ferrell in charge of the unit while he and Carl climbed over the rubble looking for an entrance. the comic actor called after them. “Guys? This is against protocol, you know? Shouldn’t we all stick together?”

“Go fuck yourself, Ferrell,” Skinner said. “We’re getting this chick out of here.”

(Years in the future, in the living room, Carl said, “Not exactly how we remember it.”

“Yeah, but here it comes,” Skinner said.)

Carl pushed aside a Foosball table, found the stairwell. Walls covered in anti-newman graf? ti. Skinner doubted many of the students who’d screwed and crammed and gotten ripped in these dorms had made it off Manhattan alive. Ri? e drawn he kicked open the door to the second ?oor, exiting into a dark hallway where postpsychotherapy Metallica played faintly from ceiling-mounted speakers. In a corner beneath a ? re extinguisher lay a wounded Christian American soldier. Looked like a contractor from Toys “R” Us. Hard to tell exactly where he’d been hit; his whole torso was caramelized in bloody goo. Carl bent over him with the handheld and got his vitals.

“Soldier, where you from?” Carl said.

“Huh?” the fallen man said. “Who the f-f-f-fuck are you?”

“We’re the Boeing 83rd. We’re going to ?y you out of this joint.”

“The college chick—” the soldier said. “They’re using her as bait.”

“We got nooms up in this shit?” Carl said as a round pinged the ?re extinguisher over his head, unleashing a cloud of white vapor. Down the hall dorm rooms cracked open and out stumbled half-obliterated newmans wearing the collegiate T-shirts and hoodies of their victims. Carl’s face assumed the intensity of a man assembling a particularly tricky piece of furniture as he raked the hall with ordnance. Skinner’s head rolled to one side and he caught sight of a Mohawked, child-sized newman wearing a Led Zeppelin SwanSong T-shirt and nothing else, its crotch smooth and plastic with the absence of genitals, round after round perforating its jerking, humanoid form, an arm shot off in gouts of purplish lubricant, its cat-like eyes glowing yellow in the ?re-retardant haze.

(“Here it comes,” Skinner said in the living room.)

There it came, a round ripping through his chest plate, which put the kibosh on the velocity enough so that it lodged in his trunk without splattering out his back. Then another one to the leg, a kind of afterthought. he plunged into a pool of blood where all sound disappeared.

In Carl’s memory he dragged Skinner by the leg down the hall, unloading at other newmans lurching out of dorm rooms. the memory fritzed out a second, ?ipped perspectives, then Skinner had a close-up view of a busted iPod, its mysterious guts revealed. Rounds whanged off metal, the elevator doors. His eyes ?uttered and in the living room one hundred years later Carl squeezed his hand so hard it went numb. Here we go.

By Ashley Lutz and Matt Townsend

(Corrects number of stores in 10th paragraph of story published Dec. 14.)

Dec. 14 (Bloomberg) — Retailers have a case of Web envy.

Brick-and-mortar stores have long wanted to track consumers the way online merchants do and are starting to figure out how. They’re using security cameras to monitor shopping behavior and tracking mobile phones to divine which stores people visit.

The technologies mean retailers from discount chain Family Dollar Stores inc. to luxury pen-maker Montblanc can make changes on the fly — such as deploying more salespeople in a given department and moving high-margin merchandise to parts of the store where shoppers are more likely to see it.

“It’s really a game-changing experience, and this is only the beginning,” said Rodrigo Fajardo, a Montblanc brand manager, who says a six-month-old tracking system prompted him to move best-selling items to another part of his Miami store, boosting sales 20 percent. “before we were just working based on know-how and intuition. This is designing a retail business based on real statistics.”

As increasing numbers of shoppers migrate to the Web, retailers are using the new technology to boost sales and keep market share. This holiday season online sales may grow 15 percent to $37.6 billion, according to ComScore. that compares with the 2.8 percent sales growth to $465.6 billion for brick and mortar stores predicted by the National Retail Federation.

Online stores have advantages, including the ability to track how long shoppers linger and what they click on, said Lora Cecere, an analyst at Altimeter Group in San Mateo, California. By contrast, brick-and-mortar merchants wait for sales numbers to come in before taking action, she said.

“right now physical stores are only looking at dollars per person, dollars per store, and ignoring big problems until the numbers come in,” she said. “To compete they need to embrace this data so they have the ability to innovate.”

For years retailers have deployed security cameras, largely to deter and catch shoplifters. now some are using the cameras to watch how shoppers behave.

3VR inc., a security firm that made its first product for the Central Intelligence Agency, realized its cameras could be used to gather consumer data two years ago when T-Mobile USA inc. asked if the firm could count people entering its stores, 3VR Chief Executive Officer Al Shipp said in an interview.

T-Mobile, based in Bellevue, Washington, now uses 3VR technology in some stores to track how people move around, how long they stand in front of displays and which phones they pick up and for how long, Shipp said.

T-Mobile USA, which is owned by Deutsche Telekom AG, declined to comment.

3VR, which is based in San Francisco, is now testing facial-recognition software internally that can identify shoppers’ gender and approximate age. The software doesn’t identify a person; it would give retailers a better handle on customer demographics at specific stores and help them gear promotions to age and gender, Shipp said.

This year, Family Dollar Stores began testing a monitoring system using cameras in 20 stores. Designed by San Jose, California-based RetailNext, which is also working with Cie. Financiere Richemont SA’s Montblanc, the system watches how customers interact with store displays. Then it correlates the results with sales data to figure out the percentage of customers who buy something, right down to individual products.

In many cases, the data refuted conventional wisdom, according to RetailNext CEO Alexei Agratchev. Retailers often put high-margin merchandise just inside the store entrance, believing shoppers will stop and take a look. Turns out most don’t, Agratchev said.

‘Black Hole’

“The stores have been a black hole,” according to Agratchev, who says 40 chains are using RetailNext’s technology. “People were convinced something was true and spending tens of millions based on that. Then it quickly became apparent it wasn’t true.”

while retailers are starting to understand the potential of security cameras as intelligence-gathering tools, it will take time for the technology to become widespread because loss- prevention managers rather than marketing types still have authority over the cameras, Shipp, a former Apple inc. executive, said.

still, over the past year conversations with stores have more quickly turned from security to analytics, he said.

“You’ll have the ability someday to measure every metric imaginable,” Shipp said. “We’re scratching the surface.”

Monitoring foot traffic via shoppers’ mobile phones is another emerging technique. Path Intelligence, a Portsmouth, England-based company, sells a phone-tracking technology called FootPath that follows shoppers around malls in Europe.

FootPath consists of monitoring units that recognize signals from shoppers’ mobile phones, CEO Sharon Biggar said in a phone interview.

‘Heat Map’

The data is presented in two ways: a “heat map” that assigns colors to stores depending on traffic and an “affinity map” that allows retailers to click on a store and determine the probability of a shopper who went there visiting other stores in the mall. Retailers use the data to figure out where to place their stores, Biggar said.

Participating shopping centers post signs near entranceways and mall maps informing shoppers that their mobile phones are being tracked and that their personal information is not being collected. those who don’t want to be monitored are encouraged to turn off their phones.

“we have designed this service so that it’s impossible to detect any personal information or link the number to a person,” Biggar said. The phone number that the FootPath tower detects is changed twice before entering the database, she said.

last month, the Short Pump Town Center in Richmond, Virgina, and the Promenade Temecula mall in Temecula, California, began testing the technology, the first such trial in the U.S. The test, which was to run all holiday shopping season, was temporarily suspended after one day, following complaints from U.S. Senator Charles Schumer that the technology could compromise shoppers’ privacy.

Julia Yuryev, a spokeswoman for the malls’ owner, Forest City Enterprises inc., said the company might not continue with the study after customers complained it was invasive.

The privacy issues are overblown, said mark Rasch, director of cybersecurity and privacy at CSC, a consulting firm in Falls Church, Virginia.

“It’s no different from following someone in the mall, which retailers have been doing for years,” he said. “But most people aren’t aware of what stores already do.”

Since the 1970s, consumer behaviorists such as Paco Underhill have followed shoppers around stores and documented their behavior. By the 1980s, Underhill’s firm Envirosell was using hidden cameras to observe shopper habits. In the U.K. another researcher named Philip Graves dressed up as a construction worker and observed consumers for department and electronics stores.

Tracking phones or using cameras to glean shopping habits is not any “more intrusive than what online retailers do,” according to Rasch.

still, while consumers are willing to trade some privacy for the convenience of shopping at a Web store, “people are much more wary of an in-person monitoring device,” Cecere said. “Expectations are much lower online.”

–Editors: Robin Ajello, Kevin Orland

To contact the reporters on this story: Ashley Lutz in new York at ; Matt Townsend in new York at

To contact the editor responsible for this story: Robin Ajello at

The Iron Lady Directed by Phyllida Lloyd, starring Meryl Streep and Jim Broadbent (Pathé/Film4/UK Film Council) in a role that is already creating Oscar buzz, Meryl Streep stars as Margaret Thatcher, the first and only female prime minister of the United Kingdom. The Iron Lady follows Thatcher’s rise to power and her fight for control in a male-dominated political world. The film also examines the personal life behind the political figure.  Wide release Jan. 13

A New Leaf: Growing with My GardenBy Merilyn Simonds (Anchor Canada) In the paperback release of her most recent work of non-fiction, Merilyn Simonds traces a year of growing seasons at the Leaf, her acreage in eastern Ontario. as she works with both the soil and her soul, her revelations range from flowers that keep time to the strange gift of compost, and from the world’s great gardens to things lost and found underground. Jan. 3Be the Miracle: 50 Lessons for making the Impossible PossibleBy Regina Brett (Grand Central Publishing) Drawing from the stories she gathered over her 24 years as a journalist, Regina Brett shares lessons that will help people make a difference in the world in this collection of inspirational essays. Her upbeat, positive lessons range from “Do your best and forget the rest” to “Sometimes it’s enough to make one person happy.”  Jan. 6RuBy Kim Thúy, translated by Sheila Fischman (Random House Canada) The English translation of the novel that won the 2010 Governor General’s Literary Award for French-language fiction, Ru is the story of a journey. it follows a young girl from her palatial residence in Saigon to a crowded Malaysian refugee camp, and on to her new life as the mother of an autistic son in Quebec. The book celebrates life and its moments of beauty and brutality.  Jan. 17

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Liverpool will not appeal against Luis Suarez’s eight-match ban for racially abusing Manchester United’s Patrice Evra, the club announced tonight.

The Uruguayan forward was handed the suspension by the Football Association on December 20, following a lengthy investigation, as well as being given a £40,000 fine, while the independent regulatory commission’s 115-page report was released on new Year’s Eve.

Having assessed the findings, Liverpool have notified the Football Association they will not contest the ban – which takes effect immediately, ruling him out of tonight’s match against Manchester City.

An official FA statement read: "Liverpool FC have this afternoon informed the FA that they will not be appealing the decision of an Independent Regulatory Commission in relation to the recently proven misconduct charge against Luis Suarez.

"Suarez will be suspended with immediate effect for a period of eight matches, starting with this evening’s fixture against Manchester City.

"Suarez was also fined £40,000 and was warned as to his future conduct."

Liverpool and their manager Kenny Dalglish have been resolute in their support for Suarez since the now infamous October meeting with United.

Dalglish and his players wore Suarez T-shirts in the warm-up before their match against Wigan last month, leading to criticism in some quarters.

Despite deciding not to appeal, the club released a statement on their official website making their dissatisfaction with the case clear.

"Liverpool Football Club have supported Luis Suarez because we fundamentally do not believe that Luis on that day – or frankly any other – did or would engage in a racist act," it read.

"Notably, his actions on and off the pitch with his team-mates and in the community have demonstrated his belief that all athletes can play together and that the colour of a person’s skin is irrelevant."

The statement from Liverpool said: "It is our strongly held conviction that the Football Association and the panel it selected constructed a highly subjective case against Luis Suarez based on an accusation that was ultimately unsubstantiated.

"The FA and the panel chose to consistently and methodically accept and embrace arguments leading to a set of conclusions that found mr. Suarez to "probably" be guilty while in the same manner deciding to completely dismiss the testimony that countered their overall suppositions.

"In its determination to prove its conclusions to the public through a clearly subjective 115-page document, the FA panel has damaged the reputation of one the Premier League’s best players, deciding he should be punished and banned for perhaps a quarter of a season."

The statement went on to make clear Liverpool’s continued commitment to anti-racism measures in football.

"English football has led the world in welcoming all nationalities and creeds into its Premier League and its leagues below, and Liverpool Football Club itself has been a leader in taking a progressive stance on issues of race and inclusion," it continued.

"The Luis Suarez case has to end so that the Premier League, the Football Association and the club can continue the progress that has been made and will continue to be made and not risk a perception, at least by some, that would diminish our commitment on these issues.

"It is time to put the Luis Suarez matter to rest and for all of us, going forward, to work together to stamp out racism in every form both inside and outside the sport.

"It is for this reason that we will not appeal the eight-game suspension of Luis Suarez."

A statement from Suarez was also released on Liverpool’s official website. It reads:

"first of all I would like to thank everyone so much for all the help and support I have received during these last few weeks.

"Thank you to my family, my friends and everybody at LFC (the staff, manager and coaching staff, the directors, my team mates and everyone who is working on a daily basis for this great club) and thank you especially to all the fans who made sure I never felt let down for one second. during those days I understood more than ever what ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ means."Like many of you I was born into a very humble family, in a working class neighbourhood, in a small country. but I was born and raised learning what respect, manners and sacrifice mean. Thanks to my family, from my first club where I started playing, to my transfer to Holland in Europe, I learned the values which made me the person I am now. Never, I repeat, never, have I had any racial problem with a team mate or individual who was of a different race or colour to mine. Never. "I am very upset by all the things which have been said during the last few weeks about me, all of them being very far from the truth. but above all, I’m very upset at feeling so powerless whilst being accused of something which I did not, nor would not, ever do."In my country, ‘negro’ is a word we use commonly, a word which doesn’t show any lack of respect and is even less so a form of racist abuse.  Based on this, everything which has been said so far is totally false."I will carry out the suspension with the resignation of someone who hasn’t done anything wrong and who feels extremely upset by the events. I do feel sorry for the fans and for my team mates whom I will not be able to help during the next month. It will be a very difficult time for me."The only thing I wish for at the moment is being able to run out again at Anfield and to do what I like most which is playing football."Thank you very much."

The games Suarez will miss:

3 Jan, v Man City, Premier League

6 Jan, v Oldham, FA Cup

11 Jan, v Man City, Carling Cup

25 Jan, v Man City, CC

6 Feb, v Tottenham, PL

When he can return:

11 Feb, v Man Utd, PL