Furious Thunder of Silence

by submission | Oct 7, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Author : Kimberly Raiser

She stood there, in the middle of the empty street. The first snow of the season just beginning to enter the path of the street lights. Not a sound. Not a cry. Not a single human to be found. The street was bare of chaos, bare of life. It was as if nothing had happened, and nothing ever would again.

They came in the night, the night before. She couldn’t remember where she was when it happened, she only remembered waking up to the silence, and the cold. There were scorch marks on the pavement, on the sidewalks; perhaps where people had once been walking, or shopping. Cars were parked in the streets, like a still snapshot in a photo album, but with no people. Only cars.

The snow was beginning to accumulate.

She kept walking, hoping to see someone, or some thing that resembled life. There was nothing but more scorch marks. She noticed the lights on in the bakery. She walked inside. There were pies and cookies and cakes on display on top of the counter. Plates on tables of half eaten pastries, with half empty glasses of milk, and tea. But no people. Again, scorch marks. On the chairs, and the floor and one single faint handprint on the counter. It looked small, like it had belonged to a child. A tear formed in each of her eyes. She held her hand over the tiny handprint.

A sharp pain had ripped through her side. She felt wet, but when she looked, it was nothing.

She walked from the store. She heard a faint humming, but nothing in sight.

She continued down the empty, dark street. She turned the corner. Ahead was where she once lived. A beautiful little flat with pine flooring on the second story, overlooking the city park gates. It was quaint, but it had been a nice place to call home. She wanted dearly to be under her warm covers once again. She longed to hear the hustle and bustle of the streets, or something, anything.

Anything but the silence.

***

Death can come with a furious thunder or it can envelope with the sweet scent of jasmine wrapped in the wings of an angel.

***

She lay there. Under that street light. The gaping wound in her side cauterized by the brilliant heat of the robots unseen laser, yet she bled, furiously. She had blinked her eyes just once more, looking down the street at the emptiness, seeing everything in one single instant. The snow was falling above her, onto her, the streetlight warming her face. Somehow she had been missed, slightly. Somehow she had lived one second long enough to see that she was the last, and then—she was gone.

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Army of Me

by featured writer | Oct 6, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Author : Duncan Shields, Featured Writer

They’re in a line. Clones of me. Hairless and floating. Huge white numbers painted in nail polish on the cheap plastic tanks. They all float in blue mouthwash with half open eyes. There are white plastic umbilicals attached to their faces and crotches. There are weeds in this underground storage center, snuffling through the concrete walls and ceiling. It’s damp. The light stutters. It’s been abandoned.

A couple of tanks are dark and the liquid has gone a murky black. One near the end is cracked and empty except for a pile of rotting meat and bones at the bottom that colour the whole small bunker with a putrid swampy stink.

Fifteen are left with vital signs that look viable.

My thick boots make loud noises on the metal walkway. The silence down here is only broken by the fridge-like hum of the stasis containers. It’s quite creepy. The darkness would be total if the lights went out.

I found the technical PhD that was supposed to be guarding this place in a bar in Compton. He was a drunk who’d figured out a way to trick the systems into an orderly routine that would fool head office into believing that he was clocking in and out. His facility was stateside and small so it wasn’t monitored too closely. He hadn’t been there in months.

I ran into him in his usual hang out and struck up a conversation. We had some drinks together. We went back to his place after the bar closed and while he was rolling a joint, I jumped him and cut off his hands. Fucking idiot. He’d been guarding those clones for years and didn’t even see the resemblance. He lost consciousness quickly and bled out a few minutes later. I torched his place and left town.

I took his finger out of my jacket pocket and his eye out of the cooled medical locket I had around my neck. I put them in the right places. The computer read his retina and fingerprints. It was an old machine. I held my breath.

Pause.

Click.

I was in. I opened up the links. There was a hissing of steam and a gushing. The humidity increased and fifteen pairs of eyes opened in a panic. The locks cracked and the coffins slid up and open. The blue fluid gushed over the lips of the of the containers and pounded down through the now open grates on the bottom.

Fifteen pairs of hands reached up spastically and yanked at the face huggers that had been feeding them nutrients as they slept. Fifteen weak Kevins fell forward and fifteen pairs of hands dominoed onto the cold floor grating and shivered as their muscles adapted to the sudden gravity. Warm bags of flesh hit the cold metal grating. They slap the walkway. Have you ever let the water drain out of the tub without getting out? You feel like you weigh five hundred pounds. Everyone out of the pool.

One by one, they find me and focus on me with questioning eyes.

This is the third center I’ve hit.

There are almost sixty of me now.

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Red Tape

by submission | Oct 5, 2006 | Story | 0 comments

Author : A. Reynolds

The balding well aged man peered over the large desk as she entered. Looking over the woman wordlessly he turned to a screen and tacked at a keypad. After a minute of silence he turned back and sorted an indistinguishable pad from a pile of many more. He briefly scanned the contents before, eventually, turning to the now uncomfortable occupant of the sterile office’s only other chair.

“United Colonization has a legal duty to remain ethnically and culturally diverse, you are aware I am sure.” To kill any response he continued swiftly “Your records, unfortunately, show you’re failing to make sufficient contribution to your religious diversity. This is a matter we take very seriously.”

The woman bunched her fists instinctively “I know I haven’t attended temple in a while, but I’m still faithful, doesn’t that count for anything?”

The man frowned darkly “There is no point in lies. You have failed to partake in anything befitting your religion for a period of no less than a month. We’ve had POD’s on you for a while now. You will find the legal warrants on your card for you to look over, should you wish.”

The anger grew palpable as the assailed woman’s voice grew louder

“Damn right I wish! You must have messed up. I am devout. I live kosher. I do contribute to the diversity.”

“Kosher?” The man turned back to his screen.

“Don’t play a fool! If your little bots were watching me you’d know. I do contribute and I’ll take you to court if you say otherwise.” She rose from her seat and gestured at the mans back “I could go to temple more often perhaps, but I am quite devout. You’ve got the wrong person, I knew this was a mistake when I got the summons, my lawyer will… “

“You are Mrs Demsky.” The return of the flat emotionless voice stalled her and she sat again glaring. “Mrs Demsky, of 113 Landfall Plazas. Born, Barnum twelve three sixty, correct?”

She nodded once.

The man slowly smiled. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding.” The woman’s relief could not last in the uncaring gaze “You have been contributing to the wrong religion. Your records show you should be contributing to the Hindu faith.”

“But I’m Jewish” She faltered lamely, her anger now shattered in confusion “That’s, ridiculous”

“I am sorry. Our records seldom make errors. However, I will submit a report that states you have been misguided and will begin upholding your requirements from now on.” Smiling broadly the man filled his voice with mock warmth “If however you wish to make a change of religion you can find the proper forms at reception, I should warn, the Jewish sector is quite full at the moment.” The woman silently stared at him brows knitted in frustration “I’m afraid there is nothing else I can help you with.” Standing he gestured to the door. “Sudda sunaagan raho, Mrs. Demsky”

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Disconnected

by submission | Oct 4, 2006 | Story

Author : Justin W. Hall

It was 21:44.17 when Jani got the shudder, the one she always got right before something really freaky was going to happen, the twitch in her spine. She shrugged it off, refocusing her vision to the lines of text scrolling down the face of her contact lens, and grinned. Shinjara was arguing with some Australian boy about some band, Wicked Salmon. Shin was sure they were formed in ’30, and the Aussie claimed it was actually ’32. Shin got passionate about the silliest stuff whenever he got into arguments with people on the net. Jani remembered a few weeks back when Rory told Shin his shoelaces were –

Dark cloth wrapped around a shuffling mass collided with Jani’s shoulder and hurried past with a grunt. Jani squeaked in surprise, jerking her head to see the man stumble off the sidewalk and into the standstill traffic, weaving through the ten-centimeter gaps between autos. Rude bastard – obviously didn’t get the organic pattern to walking the streets. The crowd flowing down the sidewalk, watching their lenses and talking on their mobiles, they all got the pattern, no one interrupted the flow.

Strange, Jani thought as she studied him, his clothes, they’re not reflecting any light. Unconsciously thumbing to the channel, “Any of u ever seen cloth that absorbs light?” Everything was illuminated around her – programs and advertisements, glowing and shifting, on every surface of every building in New York, stretching up to the skies. Reflecting off the cars in the street and the glazed, distant eyes of pedestrians. Pinks and blues and purples, but the guy, a blot against the glow.

The noise was a smack, but louder, more violent. Jani spun to face the source – the alley from which the guy had emerged. She saw the crowd’s puzzled expressions for a brief moment before everything went dark.

Dark. Jani sucked in breath sharply, startled, pupils widening, both from the lack of vid glow and the fear. Dark. No images, screaming voices, clever theme songs shouting from the sky, urging her to buy pretzels and insurance. No music in her ears, no text on her lens, no hum of the wall displays.

Her eyes darted back and forth, uselessly trying to make out shapes. She thumbed her phone’s dialer. No tone. Lip quivering, NO SIGNAL suddenly flickered at the corner of her vision, her contact lens affirming the terrifying thought rising in the back of her throat. She was disconnected.

Jani’s breathing growing more panicked, felt herself shriek. Her arms covered her head as she ducked through the crowd, their wails of confusion amplified by the utter silence that she’d never heard before. Darting into the alley, stumbling, rolling in the dark, up next to a garbage box. Eyes welded shut, fingers clutching her hair, Jani sobbed, rocking back and forth on the ground. Silence. Darkness. Everywhere.

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