Nostalgia

 Harlan felt panicked that far down the dark alley. The lights reached far enough to leave everything in shadow or silhouette. Something scurried between his feet. His shoes stuck in God knew what. He was waiting to be knifed by a junkie looking for a few credits to feed his habit or arrested by the cops for just being there.

He felt out of place. Clean-cut and dressed nicely. He had a good job. He had close friends and family. What was he doing?

Harlan was here with two men. One was Walsh, his friend and the contact for this underworld figure. The other man was someone who could kill them and take what he wanted just as easily as give them what they wanted.

There were the sounds of animals crying out and hissing. The smell of urine as some homeless guy pissed against the wall. Rats ran through the garbage looking for a meal. Harlan could hear someone coming up behind them but when he looked, nothing.

Police drones flew by, lighting up areas as they searched for criminal activity.

He wouldn't get out of here alive.

The risk was worth it for Gramma's apple pie.

Harlan had been at home in his apartment eating dinner. It was chicken and vegetables. But it wasn't. It was, despite what they advertised, a near-flavourless meal with the texture of slices of rubber glued together.

It could drive you to suicide. 

Twenty years ago, they banned eating animals so Everyone ate synthetic meat.

Next were mass-grown fruits and vegetables. They took up too much land and destroyed the local flora and fauna so again, synthetic produce.

Next salt and sugar were banned because of the health risks.

Finally, it was herbs and spices. They were limited to being grown in their native environments. Again, the concern for the flora and fauna that mass production interfered with.

Harlan dumped his meal in the organic collector. He wasn't hungry enough yet to eat that abomination to cuisine.

He walked to his bedroom and sat down. He barely remembered the flavours he enjoyed as a child. Harlan pulled out the old trunk his grandmother had left to him. It was vintage even by his grandmother's time, a combination of aging plywood, rotting leather straps, and a patina forming over the bronze corners. The dust fell off as the hinges creaked when he opened it. There was a scent of her, a last touch of her perfume that had been trapped in a quilt on top that was now forever gone. 

Harlan started sifting through the riches in it.

There it was. Gramma's old cookbook. The cover was peeling. The pages were stained from all of those meals and desserts made from it. Harlan flipped through the pages, wishing to taste those seasonings, smelling those aromas again.

And then he saw it.

The recipe for Gramma's apple pie. It brought back memories of Gramma working with such patience and mastery, preparing the crust, and creating the filling. That aroma filling the house with the aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg. Harlan and his cousins trying to sneak a tiny bit of the flaky crust before anyone would know. It was family get-togethers on holidays and Sundays. Harlan always asked for as big a piece as he was allowed. It was his favourite.

Right then and there he decided. He would make that pie.

Harlan needed sugar, cinnamon, salt, flour, and nutmeg. Apples? Butter? He hadn't seen these things in years. Where to get these ingredients? 

Walsh. His buddy Walsh. He seemed to have some questionable materials and goods. If someone knew where to get this stuff it would be Walsh.

"Harlan, I don't know where you got this idea I'm some kind of crime boss."

"I didn't say crime boss. You just seem to have a lot of interesting . . . stuff."

"Like I've told you before, it's just things I've inherited."

"Walsh, I'm serious here. I need your help. Can you do it?"

He took a moment to look at Harlan. Friends for years. Probably no one he could trust more.

"Alright. Let's just say I know this guy . . ."

"I've never seen someone who looks more like a cop," the man in the dark alley said. "Walsh, what are you doing to me here?"

"Hey, I know the guy. He's my friend. He's a good guy. You can trust him."

The man took out a device, turned it on, and moved it between Harlan and Walsh.

"Let me see the list."

Harlan handed it over and the man scanned it.

"Most of this I can get. It'll take a day. Apples? I don't know. You'd be better going with synth. Butter? No way. Doesn't exist. That stuff is hard time if you get caught. The rest? Twelve hundred. Come see me tomorrow."

"Twelve hundred credits?" Harlan said.

"What? You think this is corner store stuff?"

"We hear you," Walsh said. "Here tomorrow. Twelve hundred."

The men nod and head away.

That night Harlan dreamed of that pie. That delightful smell. The mix of sweet and sour taste. The warmth of the slice as he ate it. Gramma's smile.

He woke up and laid out the tools he found in the trunk. The bowls. The mixer. Spoons. Formers. Sifter. He looked at his watch and saw it was time to go.

Harlan and Walsh were in the alley. The man appeared. He had a bag.

"Do you have the credits?"

Harlan fumbled with the credits in his pocket. "Yes, right here." He put them in the man's hand.

The man handed Harlan the bag. Harlan opened it. He could smell the cinnamon and nutmeg. There were bags of white crystals, the sugar he needed.

Harlan started to say, "Thank you . . ." when drones filled the air. He could hear the footfalls as the man disappeared into the dark.

"Citizens. Freeze. Remain as you are," the drone said. "You will be subdued if you do not obey."

Harlan and Walsh ran. The stun bolts hit the wall and ground about them. They heard the sirens coming from the ground and the sky. They dashed into alleys and back into the street. The drones stayed with them. Police aerocars appeared over them. Spotlights were everywhere.

"FREEZE!" Came from behind them. "GET DOWN! GET DOWN!"

Harlan and Walsh turned around.

"THEY HAVE GOT A WEAPON! THEY HAVE A WEAPON!"

"No wait!" Harlan yelled.

PUT IT DOWN! PUT IT DOWN! GET DOWN!"

The yelling confused Harlan. The lights blinded him. He looked to Walsh.

The first shot missed and sprayed Harlan with brick from the wall next to him. He turned and ran.

Harlan couldn't feel the shots hitting him.

Harlan couldn't hear Walsh holler no.

Whatever was happening, he held on to that bag.

Out of nowhere, the man from the dark alley jumped out into the street.

"HERE!" He said. As he fired at the police he tossed Harlan a block of butter. "You get this done! For us!"

Harlan ran down an alley to another street, jumped on a bus, and slipped away.

Soon, Harlan slipped the unbaked pie into the oven. The aroma was heavenly as he waited. Minutes later, timer went off. 

He pulled out the pie.

He cut a piece.

As he thought, heaven.

As he savoured the taste, a light came through his apartment window. It slowly got brighter until he couldn't see anymore. Voices started from someplace. He was confused.

The pie was so wonderful though.

"I've still got a pulse here, but he's bleeding out. Get the EMTs!" An officer said.

Harlan laid on the street with two bullets in the left side of his head. Blood flowed everywhere.

The EMT shone a light in Harlan's eyes.

"I'm not getting a response." She said as her partner tried to bandage the wounds.

Walsh was on the ground, restrained. "What did you do? What did you do?" He screamed.

As he faded, the EMT looked at Harlan's face. 

"Is he smiling?"