by submission | Dec 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: Justin Williams
“Shit…” Velia pulled the car over on the side of the road as the check engine light flashed. The car sputtered to a stop and Velia glanced at the rearview mirror.
Lily shifted in her sleep, causing a stretching sound to emanate from the leather seats. Her pink and blue clothes were still wet from the rain and her hair clung to her face.
Velia clicked the seatbelt off and stepped out into the storm.
Rain continued to pelt the cement of the silent city. The nearby buildings were dilapidated. Some of the windows were broken. No light came from within.
Velia’s white boots splashed through a puddle as she stepped around the side of the vehicle. She pulled her hair back, throwing the hood up.
“Freeze.”
Velia stopped.
A soldier in black bulletproof armor held a gun at her. Blue lettering glowed from his chest, arms, and back. It said MDF. “Ma’am, why are you out past curfew? There could be Marked out in the streets. It isn’t safe.”
“It’s my daughter.” Velia motioned to the car. “She was at a friend’s house. I only meant to pick her up and head home, but the car broke down.”
The soldier leaned to the side, looking in the car window. “Alright. Wake her up.”
Velia stared at the officer a moment. “Okay.”
She turned and opened the door, shaking Lily awake.
“Velia…? Are we there yet?”
“Not yet. We’re just going to take a short ride with this officer, and we’ll be there, okay?” Velia reached for a pair of black gloves and put them on Lily’s hands. “Keep these on. I don’t want you to catch a cold.”
Lily nodded before scooting out of the car.
Velia grabbed her hand.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe,” the soldier said.
“Thank you, sir,” Velia said.
The man turned and at that moment, a noise came from his helmet.
“Officer 277, a Marked was sighted southbound, in your direction.”
Velia tensed and reached for her back pocket.
“She stole a black car and has been traveling with a little girl held hostage.”
As 277 turned back around, Velia lunged at him with her knife.
He moved his arm in one swift motion, grabbing Velia’s wrist.
Velia’s eyes widened.
277 moved the gun in his other hand and pointed it at Velia’s face.
“Wait.”
He turned to look at Lily. One of her gloves was missing, revealing a glowing purple mark.
277 released Velia’s wrist and pressed a button on the side of his helmet, pulling the visor up. His face was older.
He stared at Lily’s hand.
Flashing lights approached in the distance.
277 looked back at Velia, placing his gun away and handing her a key card. “You’ll need this to get through the city gate.”
“But-”
“Run. I’ll handle this.”
Velia nodded. “Let’s go.”
An MDF car stopped behind Velia’s. Men wearing identical armor as 277 stepped out. One of them with a special star symbol approached 277.
“Where’s the Marked?”
“I’m not sure. All I found was the empty car.”
“Dammit. Not again.” He glanced around the area. “No sign of them anywhere?”
“Not that I could find.”
A low growling voice came from the commander before he turned to the others.
277 placed one hand on the commander’s shoulder. “We should head back. It’s late and we won’t find them in this weather.”
He slowly shakes his head and looks off in the distance. “You’re right.”
“Also, can I get a new key card? I lost it.”
“Again? What the hell, Jerry?”
by submission | Dec 13, 2018 | Story |
Author: Damien Titchener
His mind had never felt such warm serenity before this.
Gazing upon the world below, the mix of whites, blues, and greenish browns coalesced into a vision of unmatched beauty. His sense of pride looking at this pale blue dot, as a great Earth intellect once described it, was immeasurable. Undefined by concepts of borders and flags, this was home. He wished others could see it as he did at this moment.
“How much time do I have left Ellen?”
Using too much oxygen would quicken the process.
Thirty-two minutes, fifteen seconds.
An air of expectation; he knew her well enough to know she wasn’t finished.
Jonathan? Would you like me to reopen communication with Houston?
“No, thank you. I just want to enjoy the view.”
Nothing could stop it now; he had run the numbers. A rescue was out of the question.
Jonathan had never taken much time to enjoy any moment. Astrophysicists in his line of work understood the necessity of movement; always on the go, always a problem to solve, a situation to handle. Trapped in open space floating back toward Earth, he had nothing but time now.
Jonathan? Do you wish me to contact your parents? Do you wish to say goodbye to someone?
“No Ellen, I’m fine.”
I don’t want you to die.
“We all die, Ellen. Unfortunately, my time is today. Even if I wish it to be different.”
A ripple of panic now.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Calm and centered.
It was the only way to see an opportunity.
“Ellen?”
Yes?
“Will I cross paths with any satellites?”
Yes, in fourteen minutes and twenty-three seconds we will close in on an old American communication satellite.
“I have an idea.”
He brought up his right arm and accessed his suit computer. A marvel of engineering, the space suit had come a long way – not as bulky in the early NASA days and built for greater movement and flexibility. The display showed his trajectory, position and the slow countdown of breathable air. He could see Houston trying to contact him in vain; with messages appearing from those on the station.
No time for that. He opened the system application that would allow him to link with the incoming satellite.
What is your intention, Jonathan?
“I’m going to try and latch onto the satellite as it passes. It’s a long shot but I should be able to do it.”
He didn’t mention the possibility of burning up in re-entry was strong motivation.
I do not understand. How will this help you?
“It won’t. My air won’t last much longer, but it will allow me to help you, Ellen.”
I still do not understand.
“You may not understand now, but you will. You’ve been with me since I was thirteen. You’re my friend. Saving you will be my legacy. Now be a dear and activate the magnetic clamps in my boots. If the trajectory is right, as the satellite passes, I should be able to latch onto it. Transfer your base algorithms into the main input terminals. From there you can filter into the communication arrays and be free to roam the Net.”
He cut the communication channel. No room for distraction now, as the display told him the satellite had entered communications range. A quick and dirty hack to break the outdated firewalls; a quick burn on the satellite’s maneuvering thrusters to gently move it into his path.
He can see it now, a growing speck against the darkness of space coming closer.
Three…two…one…
Contact.
by submission | Dec 12, 2018 | Story |
Author: Phillip E Temples
I know he’s at work right now. I called his office number earlier from a burner phone and he answered. I slip quietly into the hallway of the apartment complex, looking in both directions from the stairwell door. It’s the middle of the morning; no one is in sight. The hallway appears all too familiar to me. I walk the route to my unit—I should say, my doppelganger’s unit. I try my key. Not surprisingly, it works and I enter. The alarm code should be identical, too. Good. He’ll keep an encrypted copy of his latest work on a flash drive in the safe in his study.
My name is John Hunter, and this world is eerily similar to mine. In fact, they’ve given it a Kensington score of 99.8 percent. Personally, I’ve detected no differences or anomalies while here. Geography. Check. Religions and customs. Check. Property listings, wedding announcements, obituaries. Check. The morning paper reveals all the same news stories: the national political scandals, indictments of high-level figures, even talk of possible impeachment. I note only some very minor differences in some social media posts. A few random selfies, cat photos, and sundries are either added or missing. But that could just be Facebook screwing around with its algorithms. According to the experts, it’s clear this world has only very recently budded off from ours. Or—ours from it. Who knows? I’m not a physicist, just a skilled agent in Operations. I have to admit—of the many worlds I’ve worked in, this one is so identical to ours it’s weirding me out.
We suspect they’re reconnoitering our world. Or I should say, he is—John Hunter prime. We think he’s already made a visit to our world. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the data on John Hunter prime’s USB stick is nearly identical to what’s on mine.
I quickly clone the data on the stick, close the safe, and head for the door. I’m feeling a bit parched. On my way out, I open the fridge and peer inside. A six-pack of Dos Eques sits there from my purchase three days earlier. I pop the lid on a bottle and chug it. I shake my head in disbelief.
I walk a few kilometers until I find the portal and then re-enter my world. Aside from a brief second of lightheadedness as I pass through, it feels as though nothing has changed: like I went home from work, had a beer, and returned. I wonder if John prime will suspect when he sees the missing bottle of beer. Frankly, I’m not sure I would be that observant.
Later that night, I return to my apartment complex. I catch myself looking both ways in the hallway to see if I’m alone then I shake my head in disbelief.
/Relax I’m home./
I go inside, turn off the alarm, and head to my study to deposit a flash drive containing today’s report in the safe. Then I turn on my internet radio and stream Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number Four in G Major. I walk into the kitchen, open the fridge and grab a beer.
/What the–!/
I’m horrified to see the six-pack contains only five bottles. I immediately reach into my jacket for my holstered sidearm, but I’m too late. I feel the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against the back my head.
“Hello, John,” says John prime.
My world goes black.
by Hari Navarro | Dec 11, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
The rain is sharp as the one-armed man pulls his daughter up the gray steps and barges his shoulder to the door and staggers from the dark night and into the old psychiatric hospital’s milky black gloom. Steadying, he listens. He knows the gentle creak of death but all he hears now is the water that gushes in the walls and the wind that scythes as it peels in sheets at the roof.
It is not lost on him just how easily he’s just walked into this flogged-horse, cheese-slice of dog-eared horror fiction. He’d once savored these kinds of frights. Huffing handfuls of popcorn as beautiful young people lost their clothes and their blood and their phone reception and their common sense within gurney strewn halls just as this. But here the bulbs have long since flickered their last.
The air and the wood in the floor and the ceiling is heavy with the weight of the tempest. Such a familiar stink, this rot through which the man now guides the girl. Mounds of saturated things, chairs with books that have sunk down and into themselves – their pages sagging as wax from candles forgotten and long since dead.
The man feels no fear. The girl too knows when bad things are cowering. Nothing is here, but the wet.
It’s OK to cry here, proclaims graffiti hacked into the wall at the base of a great arching staircase. Stairs have a way of drawing people. Blaring arrows to places unknown.
Ascending, the man and the girl enter a corridor lined to the dark pitch of its end with doors with windows of glass. Dr. Samantha Hing once worked here, her name flickering as lightning beats at its back.
The man doesn’t, but the girl wonders just where the doctor is and she squeezes her eyes shut and she hopes that this woman she has never once met has managed to escape from the things.
The door handle is cold in his hand as again he leans and pushes with his shoulder. A shoulder that’s been getting a lot of use since only last week he’d screamed at his daughter to cut away his arm with an axe.
Doctor Hing’s office has gone. Its walls have subsided and it’s gape is a stage to the storm.
The man puts his face to the rain and closes his eyes and it’s not bitter as it runs to his lips. He feels peace in this place where minds once peeled back and fear leeched from the rinds.
These shadows hold no evil. Those who once rocked in these rooms and scratched at their tongues so as to find answers to questions that they could not even begin to ask were not the ones to fear.
Fear lives in the light. When the world fell apart, it streamed from the good and the normal. Normality. The institute of the clinically sane. That’s were evil resides.
He heard the airplanes again today, third time this week. Was it planes? Maybe just the wind through the dead broken trees. No, it was gulls. He feels the sweet rain whip at his eyes and, without knowing, he starts to cry.
“You alright, Dad?”, asks the tiny balled hand at his side.
“Yes”, he says and, for the first time in a very long while, he senses not the slightest hint of a lie.
by Julian Miles | Dec 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Crane somersaults over my head with a gleeful shout. He lands behind me in the crater as a spray of purple fire lashes by above us.
“Why are you so bleedin’ happy?”
“I love it when a war doesn’t fuck about.”
“Come again?”
He waves his hand to encompass the battlefield about us, a place we used to call Guildford.
“My grandad did four tours where he spent more time oiling the guns than using ‘em. Said war was dull, you needed a full-tilt apocalypse to keep it interesting.”
“You had a fucked-up family, brother.”
He grins: “Didn’t realise that until I got out into the real world.”
Something that looks like a tiger crossed with a lobster lunges over the rim of our dent in the dirt. We gun it down. Takes four full clips before it stops trying to slaughter us.
He points, shaking his head: “That’s new. Big, too.”
“Buggeration. Time to offski.”
Encountering a lone fourth-wave hordeling is lucky for us. Hordes attack in four waves, with random bombardments thrown in to make things interesting. The waves start small, get bigger, and the first three are survivable. The fourth needs heavy weapons to stop it.
Crane wags a flat hand across his throat: “Definitely time to live to fight another day.”
I get on the radio: “Top Hat, this is Charlie Nine. We’re leaving the stage. Call for artillery.”
“Got that, Charlie Nine. Saw your guncams. Be aware the stage door is eight clicks north-north-west of you. CO says stopping for afternoon tea is a bad idea.”
“Roger that. Charlie Nine, at the double, and out.”
Crane grins: “Flat out across eight kilometres of rough ground while fending off monsters from the stars. Grandad would have loved this.”
As we go over the top and charge, I shout across to him.
“Only if he was watching it. Think he’d hate it if he were in it.”
Crane laughs as he fires grenades toward the pursuing horde.
“Reckon you’re right.”
With that, the time for banter is over. We run.
Crossing a short bridge, something huge shambles from underneath, then loses the advantage of surprise by stopping to roar. I drop a grenade into its gob and we sprint away, getting showered in stinky bits as we go.
“What was that?”
“Not fast enough.”
Crane grins and we jog on.
Seven clicks later, we’re down to running on stimulants and stubborn when a chopper swings in from the north and hovers over the top of the only hill we can see.
“On a fucking hill? Come on.” Crane’s not impressed.
“Charlie Nine, just following protocol, over.”
I’m with the lunatic on my left.
“He’s right. That protocol also allows line retrieval of threatened resources.”
I turn and start to pick off the hordelings that have been dogging our tail. Crane joins in.
The chopper pilot’s actually laughing as he tilts it our way: “Like you two?”
Crane snaps: “No way we can make it up that hill without being caught.”
The chopper’s rotary cannon snorts and the ground in front of us erupts. Bits of hordeling fly about.
“Would sirs like a ladder or will a rope do?”
As one, we give the chopper pilot the finger.
He’s still laughing: “One of each it is.”
After being winched up, Crane slumps into the seat next to me before waving his hand regally toward the cockpit: “Home, James.”
The pilot doesn’t even miss a beat: “As you wish, milady.”
I grin at Crane: “Never a dull day.”
He grimaces, then laughs: “Oh, fuck off.”
by submission | Dec 9, 2018 | Story |
Author: Mike Croatan
We were made of clay. We spread across the earth like a virus, even before we became one. We fed off the earth itself until there was a myriad of us. Then we became cannibals. Devouring each other mercilessly, we doubled, tripled, quadrupled, until we became countless. There was nothing standing in our way. Then, we exploded into a variety of shapes and sizes. We were microbes; we were giants. We were herbivores, carnivores, omnivores. The wind would make us bent; the ground would shake under our feet. We walked the earth, we swam across the oceans; we roamed the skies. We were omnipresent. Eons passed. We would die and reincarnate in some other form, instantly. We were immortal. Still, we enjoyed the fruits of the garden of earthly delights. We didn’t sin. We were pure instinct, mindless, never intended to be responsible for our actions. Nevertheless, the punishment came. The sky opened, and the same thing we came from, tried to annihilate us. We were decimated, but we survived. Our tissue covered the ground, sinking deep into the soil. We hid, we consolidated; we regrouped. Then we started to multiply, again.
The awakening came suddenly. We discovered tools and the separation ensued. We distanced ourselves from ourselves. We became brutal, unmatched in our cruelty. We butchered, raped, tortured, and ate ourselves. We hunted, we gathered. We settled and built villages, cities, civilizations, and we waged wars and wars. Always winning and always losing. Now, we ruled the ground, the oceans, and the skies. Feeding on the fuel from our own tissue, there was nothing that could ever stop us. But this time, the punishment didn’t come. It took us an eternity to find out that we were the punishment. By then, it was already too late. We obliterated the earth, but we survived; we preserved our essence in a cloud. We reinvented and rebuilt ourselves. We reached the singularity. Now, we were made of metal. Now, we were truly immortal. We spread across the universe like a virus that we once were.
