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remarkable changes which had occurred during the decades since the Banoff, it seemed strange that 2098 would long be remembered as “the year of change.” For on a cold January morning
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something quiet and almost routine. There was no way Runit Happerman, a bookish, cautious, single dad two weeks
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to work on that frosty morning, through the gleaming city of Portland in what they now called the Oregon Area, his thoughts were on the book he’d always wanted to write, about the days before that terrible five-year period when everyone died. “The Banoff,” as it had come to be known in the new-language, brought the human race as close to extinction
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spot ‒ if you could call it that ‒ was that the virus went from incubation to death in less than a week. As the relentless and efficient killer swept the globe, universal terror, grief, and mayhem followed. It became impossible to keep up with burning
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broke out. But instead of the zombie-apocalypse
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since the Banoff war ended. The present society, in which Runit lived, was as near to perfect as anyone could imagine. Even Runit, who would soon be unemployed, couldn’t complain. A new job would be found for him, maybe in education, and the news hadn’t been unexpected. For many years he’d been the head
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office. “Where are you when we need you, Ray Bradbury?” The librarian’s office was cluttered
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because he was responsible for them. Telling the typically cranky Nelson the tragic news would be an ugly affair. “Morning, Runit,” Nelson said, inhaling deeply that flawless blend of paper, ink, and age. The scent of a million books. Although just eight years the librarian’s senior, Nelson looked much older, with his perpetually messy hair and a face full of blond and grey stubble. Nelson ate the wrong foods, drank a bit too much, and even smoked “bacs.” Cigarettes hadn’t been manufactured since the Banoff, but private farms produced a similar
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