by submission | Oct 25, 2009 | Story
Author : Ali Simpson
“Sew him up…and we’ll see what happens.”
The letters were crunchy and a distinct scent of Fritos wafted from them. Dr. Paul Marshall’s name tag would go great with bean dip, Leroy thought. He smacked his dry lips and squinted against the bright light hanging above the operating table. A dull pain pulsed slowly on the top of his melon, but otherwise, he felt fine.
“Can I have my 500 dollars now?” Leroy slurred at the watery figures standing above him. Someone was having a hell of a barbeque nearby. “And some chicken?”
One of the figures flapped his arms like an ungainly seagull, fat on scraps from Coney Island. “It worked! We’ve got one, sir. We’ve–”
Dr. Marshall shushed him. He put a hand on Leroy’s shoulder as he struggled to sit up. Leroy grasped Dr. Marshall’s nametag and sniffed. He scratched his stubble and stuck his gray tongue out to taste. The doctor swatted him away and grumbled about the fat one’s exuberance. He motioned to his fat colleague.
Leroy slapped his hand over a sudden sharp pain on his head. He felt fresh stitches. Tastes rolled over his tongue in tangy waves and a thousand smells swirled in his nostrils, tickling every oily nose hair. Ms. Lamar at the Italian ice stand, strawberries. Annoying kids in the park where he slept, spray paint. Bongo player on the A train 23 years ago, chives and pine and concrete. Wednesday was booze, last Saturday was copper. Leroy groaned, when he looked up, the doctor and his colleague were gone. He slid off the table and shuffled out of the operating room. Leroy concluded that the abandoned warehouse he was in was not a hospital. He had been scammed.
Cages holding lumps in ratty jackets lined the opposite wall. People like him were trapped in there. They were drooling and vacant like they had been lobotomized by damn dirty apes. They smelled like barbeque. Pork. Leroy picked up a rusty piece of scrap metal from the floor and crept toward the nearest door. From the same door, Dr. Marshall emerged carrying a clipboard.
“We thought you would be our breakthrough.” He scanned the clipboard, “Mr. Leroy…Vonnegut IV… Sadly, extreme synesthesia was not achieved, you’re no manmade savant.”
Leroy glanced at the caged veggies and pork chops. “Neither are they. And I’m going to sue your balls off man. There was nothing about brain surgery on that form and my nose feels weird.”
Dr. Marshall was still and gave him a cool glance. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Leroy’s nose tingled. The fat colleague in a white lab coat flapped behind him with heavy chains in hand. Leroy tangled them with the scrap metal and fled, bowling over Dr. Marshall.
He ran through a dark hallway, out a dark door, into the outside. The smell of the New York summer pumped through him with each dusty gasp.
by submission | Oct 24, 2009 | Story
Author : Sam Davis
Personal Log of Dr. Marcus Milton
163 Years After, Archeological dig site 10.
This room was different from the last six. In fact, this room was different from anything either John or I had encountered. It took quite some time to even open the door, so well had this person sealed himself in. Inside we found a treasure trove of artifacts from Before. It was fantastic; we knew that we would get to spend months working on the categorization.
The Klien counters barely went off in this room and the dust was almost imperceptible. Whoever lived here had been prepared. Probably some sort of survivalist nut worried about…well who knows actually. One of the documentations we found was an audio account about a war with zombies. Our analysts later concluded that it was fiction, however it could have been exactly what this person was afraid of, why he lived so long.
The fear that had apparently dominated his life (I say his because the skeletal shape is larger indicating what we believe to be a dominance in development built to protect the child bearer) had also encouraged him to gather a large amount of canned goods as well as a projectile weapon of some sort, and presumably munitions though much of what we suspected he had stockpiled was now spent. Such a combination probably allowed him to survive just long enough to decide that the situation was hopeless, which lead to his suicide.
Shame really, because from what we’ve been able to gather from his rather primitive journal type device, assuming of course that it was at all accurate, had he stayed alive another few months the Sweepers would have been through and picked him up and he might have been able to explain everything. He could have stopped the war and everything that came after. He could have saved so many lives. Damn shame.
Apart from the one moment, every detail is completely sharp and totally inconsequential–the brand of beans and the color of the blanket in which he was wrapped–all unimportant in light of what we actually discovered there. Our philosophers were oh so pleased that we actually brought back a relic that could be analyzed and understood. What’s more is that we knew it must be important for this lone “survivor” to keep it with him through the three relocations that he mentioned in his journal.
John and I were given honors for our discovery. That was six months before the translation was finished and about a year before the first signs of dissent cropped up. We thought we were kings and we lived like it. Pity he became a Calvinist. He and the other heretics of Fev’n were eliminated three months after the war became official.
I remember now, John almost lost it due to his excitement and touched it. We didn’t know what book it was. Hell, we didn’t even know that it was a book at the time. That it was The Book. The Book that made all of us think, that made all of us make a choice: Calvin or Hobbes?
by submission | Oct 23, 2009 | Story
Author : Lillian Cohen-Moore
My marriage was a good idea while it lasted.
I know my more romantic neighbors, the idealistic journalists who wanted interviews–they all said The Dillinger Act was what ended it. Legally, it’s not untrue to say that. Mikaela and I ceased to be united in legal terms when the Act passed; Mikaela was deported the same day as all the other non-citizen spouses. December 25th, 2085.
I’ve been called a lot of nasty names, by the pro-homeworld faction. I’ve betrayed homeworld by marrying an off-worlder, an off-worlder whose planet broke from ours, broke from our government. We offered them protection and advancement, scientific marvels and astounding mathematical insights.
But Earth didn’t want to be under our thumb, and made noises. Earth broke the Galay Accord, and we came down on them every way we could.
And we came down on everyone who supported Earth: starting with the forced annulment of every marriage between someone from homeworld and a citizen of Earth.
A week before they passed the Dillinger Act, Mikaela told me she’d been sleeping with one of my students. She said the ‘fire’ had gone out of our marriage and she was bored. I started drinking too much, after that. She acted like a truant child, difficult and prickly at home, when she was home at all. It was an entire academic cycle, spent in that holding pattern, before the deportation day arrived. She came back long enough to pack and tell me she’d never really enjoyed the sex, before they took her away to the docks.
I watched the live feed of the deportations. I know her. It wasn’t because she loved me anymore. She knocked that official in the face on the way off planet out of spite.
Mikaela had always fought like that—if she couldn’t win the argument, she’d at least try and look as if she didn’t deserve it. I’ve sat up late, drinking and watching her on the news, on the evening shows. She always wanted to be famous–though, as much as I love her, I have to say that she looked pretty wretched on the last newscast. I never realized how brassy her last hair colour was till I saw her on the news.
It was in principal, that I was wronged by my government, when they punished me for taking an alien wife. But privately, I acknowledge the truth: that my alien wife wronged me just as much, in a far more personal fashion.
by submission | Oct 22, 2009 | Story
Author : William Tracy
The moonless night was interrupted by a bright flash of light. A demolition round gouged a neat twenty-meter hole in the jungle. A light jumper craft settled into the fresh clearing.
A group of people emerged from the vehicle, lights casting hazy cones in the muggy air. “The liverwort was reported less than ten kilometers from here. Let’s move!”
Beneath the shadow of the jungle canopy, plant growth was thin enough to easily walk through, and the party fanned out among the trees. Nobody knew if the newly discovered plant might have medical uses, or whether it might produce an enzyme capable of catalyzing biofuel production, or if it would even be useful at all. All that mattered was that the Northern Union had to get the plant before the Pan-Alliance did.
After two hours of searching, the party found what it was looking for. A botanist scaled a tree trunk to a height of three meters, and scraped from the trunk a sample of the tiny epiphyte for genetic sequencing.
They hurried back to the jumper. “Let’s go—the package is on its way!”
Inside the craft, status lights winked in lockstep with the biocomputer’s nervous system. The jungle outside dropped away, and the jumper sped toward the coast.
“Damn. Company’s coming!” Four dots appeared on the radar. In the distance, enemy ornithopters rumbled faintly.
The jumper launched two missiles. They spread leathery wings for guidance, and rocketed into the night. An ornithopter cried as it went down.
A flickering light appeared in the sky behind the aircraft, a projectile launched from an orbital missile platform. “Here comes the package!”
The jumper crossed the shoreline. The black waves below reflected the running lights of the jumper—and the rapidly approaching ornithopters.
“Package here! Cover!” The jumper crew bent away from the windows and covered their eyes. The night lit up as the neutron bomb detonated, wiping away the rare liverwort and its jungle home.
The ornithopters were still gaining on the jumper, and began opening fire. “Hang tight!” The jumper began evasive maneuvers, rolling sharply.
Then, three jet biofighters peeled down from the sky. Their strong wing muscles flexed around polymer fiber skeletons, giving the airplanes fine control that would make an inorganic aerospace engineer weep. In minutes, the biofighters gunned down the remaining ornithopters and returned to formation.
Soon, the fighters and the jumper touched down on a waiting carrier. As the air crews disembarked, a clamshell roof closed over the flight deck. The aircraft carrier sank beneath the waves, and swam away.
by submission | Oct 20, 2009 | Story
Author : Ken McGrath
I’m taking my time, figuring it’s best to be patient. By letting him feel secure and safe he’ll never suspect what’s happening. Never realise that I’ve been slowly bleeding him dry all this time, running him to bodily ruin.
I read something once about the Matador’s of old Earth, something they used to do when bullfighting. During the show, when the bull was running by them through that coloured cape, they’d slice their blade along its back. Scouring it deep. Each bleeding furrow on its own wouldn’t do too much damage, but over the course of the bout they all added up. The bull never realised how much blood it was losing, slowing it down, weakening it and eventually leading to its death.
So like a Matador I fight against him playing the long game. I smile at him in the streets when we walk by each other. I lean over our common fence and between lung splitting coughs he talks to me about the strange weather we have on this still unfamiliar world. Not once does he realise that I’m continuously cutting long, deep slices in him.
And all the time he’ll never really know who I am. He thinks I’m just some old guy who made my fortune using family money to fund the wars back home, the wars which finally tore our old Mother Earth apart, driving us off planet to this new Terra we now call home. But it will never really be home to me because I have nothing here.
It was those wars that took my family, wiping them out quickly and ultimately. Gone in one final, fatal moment. But of course he’s going to die a lot slower than that. I’m planning on taking my time with him.
His company manufactured the bombs that obliterated a whole team of Safe Earth Aid Workers. All they were trying to do was help victims and without warning they were reduced to almost nothing. Little more than radiation dust blowing in the wind. Not even a handful was left of them for me to bury.
I got off planet as soon as I could after that. Cashing in my bonds and life policies, looking for a new place to run and hide, to be alone with my grief. I assumed a new identity and buried that pain inside, lashing out at myself in anger but never brave enough to end it all. I wanted no-one to know what I carried in my heart, didn’t want them talking in hushed whispers anytime this widower walked near by, this one time great chemist now reduced to nothing. I told them I was from old money and they accepted my almost cloistered existence, putting it down to snobbery.
So imagine my surprise when I found out he’d purchased the plot next to mine. Imagine how difficult it was for me to not lash out immediately, instead calming myself and formulating a plan.
So now, with a steady supply of homegrown germs, I’m bringing him slowly into a world filled of pestilence, where his defences are slowing over time, causing his organs to fail one by one. It’s not a quick process by any means but I’m a patient man. He’ll rot slowly while still alive, his body becoming a mausoleum with what’s left of his blackened soul trapped screaming inside and none of their medical advances will be able to rescue him. I’ll see to that.
This is my revenge.
