by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 28, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Jack stood a few feet to the side of the station wagon, the door hanging open, the engine having just rattled and coughed into silence.
Ahead, bathed in the yellow glow of the headlights was Celine, barefoot in the jeans and tee she’d been wearing when she disappeared. Head tilted to one side, arms stretched out, not quite above her head.
Jack heard himself chamber a round into the rifle without really registering the decision to do so.
“Don’t you move,” his voice broke, hands shaking, “don’t you fucking move.”
Celine didn’t move, she just hovered there, in the road, toes pointing down to the oil sprayed gravel without actually touching it.
“It’s alright, Jack, everything’s going to be ok.”
Her voice was calm, and it soothed him, as it always did when things seemed out of control. She was ever the rock on which he could anchor his tenuous grasp on reality.
“It’s not alright,” his voice carried easily, all other sound seemed to have been erased around them. “It’s not bloody alright Celine, I saw that thing, saw what it did to you. I saw what you…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence, but instead took a tighter grip on the rifle and fought to steady the barrel before him.
“I’m still the same, Jack. I’m still Celine, I’m still your wife, I’m just something else now too,” she straightened her head and smiled, “something more.”
His mouth opened and closed noiselessly as memories flooded through him, the lights, the smoke surrounding her, penetrating her, consuming her where she stood to hang the wet laundry on the clothesline.
Now here she was, a hundred miles away in the road like nothing was the least bit wrong.
It wasn’t natural.
Movement just outside the range of the headlights brought him back to the moment, and his aim wavered slightly as a pack of wolves crossed the road far beyond her, their silhouettes just barely visible in the fade of the artificial light. Their eyes shone as they paused and looked before continuing on their path into the woods on the other side of the road.
One didn’t turn away, and instead, the curious creature padded slowly into the circle of light, ignoring Jack and his rifle, the car, and its headlights to circle around Celine, sniffing the air around her legs.
When it had completed several revolutions, it raised itself up on its hind legs and placed its paws on her shoulders, its body equally as long as she was tall, and rubbed its head against hers, before dropping back to the ground and wandering nonchalantly away in the direction the rest of the pack had taken.
She didn’t move, didn’t flinch, and even though she clearly wasn’t anchored to the ground in any way, wasn’t stirred in the slightest by the bulk of the massive animal.
Jack heard the rifle hit the road this time, without really registering the decision to drop it, and he staggered forward, taking slow halting steps with tearing eyes until he stood within inches of her.
“My Celine…”, his voice choked off.
Celine reached out and cradled his head in her hands, staring down into his upturned face and searching eyes.
“You know, Jack, you’re not a wolf,” she smiled, and with a quick twist snapped his neck, letting his lifeless body drop at her feet, “you’re just a man.”
by submission | Aug 27, 2017 | Story |
Author : Fred D. White
After crossing the interstellar void for more than half a century Captain Carey, now fully awake, and his passengers, still in cryo, escapees from the toxic nightmare that Earth had become, entered orbit around Proxima Centauri-b. The human species would survive after all. Mothership’s DNA banks of half a million flora and fauna, along with her vast digital library, would ensure that survival.
Of course, Carey had to be certain that this new terra was as firma as the probe seemed to indicate before its telemetry ceased—apparently (according to Shuttle’s assessment, the result of unusual weather anomalies over highly irregular terrain. “Do you want me to suspend descent pending further analysis?” Shuttle asked.
“Err on the side of caution, you mean?”
“Makes sense, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Except that, if a cyclone or something knocked out the probe, that could happen anywhere, right? I mean, you can steer clear of any bad weather, correct?”
“Correct. I’ll take that as an implicit Go for descent.” And without further adieu, Shuttle ejected itself from its bay. “Initiating descent at your Go,” it said.
“Go for descent.” With Prox-b at 1.8 earthgrav, this was not going to be a joyride. Carey hoped his past two days’ post-cryo strenuous exercise would hold him together.
After several moments Shuttle announced: “Prepare for turbulence, also for internal temperature increase beyond my ability to compensate.”
“Just so long the shield can handle the inferno outside.”
‘The least of your worries,” replied Shuttle. “I’ve been monitoring the surface and don’t like what I think I’m seeing.”
“Tell me what you think you’re seeing!” Shuttle typically avoided speculation, so this had to be something truly unusual. But so far the screen displayed only rapidly swirling clouds.
Shuttle stayed silent for several minutes. Finally, it said, enigmatically, “Possible life form.”
“Explain!”
More silence. Carey felt his teeth rattling from the heavy buffeting.
Several moments later, tendrils—dozens of them—no, hundreds, were wriggling through the clouds.
What the hell?
“Explain what I’m looking at, Shuttle.”
“Life form, per earlier speculation,” Shuttle replied. “I’m having a hard time locating the source of those tendrils.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“Give me a few more minutes.”
Carey felt both assured and unnerved by Shuttle’s stubborn adherence to protocol. He wanted to remind it that this was a watershed moment in the history of humanity. Would it care? Carey bit his lip as he punched the code to expose the ABORT button that would override Shuttle’s deliberations. Please, Lord of the Universe, not after a journey of twenty-six trillion miles.
Shuttle jolted violently. An alarm sounded.
“What’s happening?” Carey shouted unnecessarily; Shuttle had already displayed the problem on the screen: a hole, like a camera aperture, was now opening amid a gelatinous tendril-sprouting surface.
“I surmise,” said Shuttle, “that this planet is a single organism.”
Carey cursed, smacked ABORT.
“I’m sorry, Captain Carey, for not completing my analysis sooner,” Shuttle said as the screen displayed a mucous substance covering its hull. “Will you forgive me?”
Carey messaged Mothership: Break orbit! Go anywhere except back to Earth.
The screen picked up a spectacular fireball just seconds before Shuttle’s hull began to dissolve.
by submission | Aug 26, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Renney
Thomas was having a bad day. The bugs were everywhere, he was rife with them and he was writhing. He hated this – he knew how he looked. He had seen others like it, in a high level state and unable to control themselves and quite frankly he had thought it undignified.
No-one commented. They didn’t stop and stare. That had all stopped long ago. The jeering and the abuse, the low-level whispered disdain, the disbelief. Everyone suffered now and everyone understood. They were all too aware that tomorrow, or in just a few hours or merely minutes, it could/would be their turn.
Frantically trying not to scratch and claw at his body, Thomas was gesticulating wildly, Inwardly he was pulling away from himself and he wondered if he might be disappearing, moving in and out of the space he was occupying like an image on a screen, flashing on and off.
The more he thought about this the less outlandish it seemed. After all, the bugs weren’t real, they didn’t exist. Perhaps when he was suffering it wasn’t really him but a virtual incarnation somehow controlled by an external force.
There were so many theories about the cause of the condition it was impossible to keep up, to follow each and every train of thought. That the bugs were contained in the city was indisputable. Those out in the country didn’t suffer but despite this there had been no mass exodus. People had decided to stay and suffer, to live with it.
The media companies had been quick to defend against the idea that the bugs might be fallout from our digitalised addictions. They argued that life out in the sticks was just as immersive, that everyone, everywhere, had a tablet or a phone. But in the over-crowded city it was such an unholy mix. People constantly huddled over screens in an impenetrable clash. Thomas was convinced the bugs were the consequence of this, a digital flotsam as it were.
Thomas hadn’t ever suffered so badly. He had always managed somehow to cope but his levels hadn’t ever been this high. Always self-conscious of the writhing he was aware of just how desperately and manically he was squirming and gyrating but Thomas didn’t care how undignified it was or if anyone might be looking he just wanted it to stop.
And suddenly it did. It was almost as though someone had turned a switch and he was no longer there and no-one was watching or seemed to care.
by submission | Aug 25, 2017 | Story |
Author : David Henson
I turn around, push open the door to the clinic, then spin back around and march to Check-In.
“Ralf Pattersen,” I say to the guy at the desk. “That’s ‘Ralf’ with an ‘f’ and ‘Pattersen’ spelled ‘en.’ “
“Yes, Mr. Pattinson, how can I help you?”
I spell my name again. “Here for my corrective surgery.”
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I fling up my arms in exasperation.
“Hey, watch it,” I hear a lady behind me say.
“Looks like your arms are on backwards, Mr. ….”
“Pattersen. Ralf Pattersen. Can’t you people get anything straight?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll help you. Let’s get your information into the computer.”
“You already have my information. From six months ago. When I was here, and you reattached my arms backwards.” I take a breath, try to calm down. “It should all be in there.” I turn around and tap the screen.
“Let’s just make sure everything’s up to date.”
I spend the next 15 minutes telling him my medical history and that of my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. “Oh, and my dog had fleas once,” I finally say.
“I sense you’re frustrated, Mr. Parkinson. I’m here to help. Tell me how you lost your arms in the first place.”
I explain, again, about my rocketboard accident. “Just get them on properly this time. I’ve been living like this for half a year now.”
“Yes, I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of a waiting list. But now we’re going to take care of you.”
“I still don’t understand. How could they’ve been put on backwards?”
“Mr. Pattison, we pride ourselves on providing our patients with the highest quality medical services.”
I’m sorry I asked. I’ve heard this before.
“Among other precautions, our procedures are conducted under best-in-class antiseptic conditions.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Our expert team is never in the room with you. They work on your holographic likeness, and perfectly sterilized, precise robotic arms mimic the surgeon’s movements.”
That’s yesterday’s tech. Now here comes the excuse.
“On the day of your operation, there was a software glitch, and we had some mirror-imaging issues. Didn’t our post-op QA team go over this with you.”
“Yes, they did, but I still don’t —“
“Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you, Mr. Pakistan. Let’s get you admitted.” He looks at the screen. “Oh.”
“What’s wrong?”
“This is 9 August. You were scheduled for 6 August.”
“That’s ridiculous.” I turn on my virtu-phone and pull up the notice they sent me. “See.”
“This is embarrassing,” he says. “We had an orientation glitch in our communications software. We caught most mistakes. But 6 and 9 … I’m afraid that one slipped through. I’m sure you understand.”
“I understand nothing.” I wheel around and slap the desk with both fists. “I demand to see a supervisor.” The woman next in line shrugs her shoulders. I turn back around. “I demand to see a supervisor.”
“I’m afraid they’re all busy providing outstanding service to other customers,” he says. “But we’ve efforted our waiting list. We can take you in about five months from today. We’ll send you a notice with specifics.”
“This was your mistake. I demand to go to the front of the line.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” He leans forward and whispers: “You could try Elite Medical on Fifth.”
No way I can afford that so I reluctantly agree to return in five months. As I’m going out, I approach a woman walking in backwards. She has a very angry look on her face.
by submission | Aug 24, 2017 | Story |
Author : Amy Sutphin
She was perfect in every way. Her soft blond curls framed her perfectly proportioned face and amber, almond eyes. Not a single blemish marred her perfect skin. Yes God had made her perfect above all others. Of course in her case, God was a 3D printer and her programmers were the Devil.
***
Skin sagged at the cuffs and collar of a carefully tailored tux. Wrinkles creasing his eyes and cheeks multiplied as he laughed at a middle-aged woman in a sleek black dress. The bartender poured a generous glass of whiskey, the expense of which could have fed a family of five. His attention gradually turned to her as she moved with in range of his failing eyesight. He squinted slightly as his gaze moved up her legs to her tight red dress, lingered on her chest and finally met her eyes. In five seconds a lifetime of cultivated finesse was reduced to the sophistication of a school boy. He hid it well, but he couldn’t fool her sensors. He offered her a seat. The bartender poured her an identical glass.
***
She lingered in the mirror, assuring every detail from her silk red lingerie to the slight tension in her left arm. She swept into the bedroom, pausing for exactly half a second and glided, slowly enough to make his heart pump. Her sensors indicated his hormones reached ideal levels. She crawled onto the bed, pressing against his left side, stroking his cheek with her left hand and pressing her lips against his. The sensors in her hand confirmed heart rate and hormone saturation. His love was pure, real. He believed it with all his heart. She pressed against him. Numbers appeared in her vision. His breathing was shallow, barely enough to provide the oxygen he needed. All sensors indicated the moment was ideal. His hand caressed her neck and slipped down her collar and slipped the strap of her garment off her shoulder.
She seized up, threw her head back and gasped.
“Minny!” his frail hands could not stop her as she fell over onto the floor, clutching her chest. Wide eyed and drooling she attempted to draw breath.
“Michael,” she breathed her last.
***
“And so I humbly offer my fortune to the Minny Foundation for heart disease.”
She watched from her small TV in the robotics lab as Michael handed a ceremonial over-sized check to the Ross brothers. In a few months, no one would remember the event. The Minny Foundation would go bankrupt. The Ross brothers would become someone else, and they would wake her from hibernation, a new program installed, a new target set.
by submission | Aug 23, 2017 | Story |
Author : Vanessa Kittle
Something was wrong. Bear sniffed the air. There was no meat where meat should be. The sky was bright but there was no meat. The flocks of watchers were not watching. His stomach hurt. He sniffed the place where the greens came to bring meat. He pushed the place and it moved. He pushed harder, and got his muzzle in. He pushed with all his strength and he was through, into a new place he did not recognize. It was too small. He might be trapped.
He ran, crashing until he came to a better place. Here the ground was softer and wet. He would find his own meat. None of the smells were familiar. Where were the giant ones and their powerful calls? Where were the screaming ones with their terrible smells? He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He ran towards it faster than he had ever run before. The meat was small and would not fill him, but it was still meat. He leaped, mouth wide, and grabbed the fleeing meat in his mouth. A sharp pain rushed through bear’s head. Tiny fires bit his nose. He roared in agony and dropped the tasteless meat. It smelled like meat but it was not meat.
He looked up. There was a new smell. It was like the smell of the greens who brought his meat. He followed the scent and came to an open, bright place with soft earth under his paws. There were two watchers sitting on the ground. They were not green, but they smelled green, and they were eating meat. He charged towards them to get some.
The small one screamed and ran behind the larger. Bear reared up. He sniffed. The meat they were eating was not his meat, but their smell was good, too. Maybe they were his meat? Bear roared and raised his paw to strike. Suddenly, he froze. His paw would not move. His mouth would not move, nor would his legs.
The watchers were making the sounds of the greens that meant nothing to him. The small one picked something from the ground and threw it at him. Bear tried to move and roar but he could not. Something hard struck him on the head. The small watcher made sounds like the screaming ones did back in his home.
And now a large rumbling and howling beast came towards him. Its giant mouth opened. The greens came from inside the beast. They leaned bear over until he fell to the ground. Then they carried him into the beast where they were all swallowed together.
When bear woke he was home. His meat was where it should be as the sky grew bright. He went to it and ate. His stomach felt better as he devoured the meat. It was the best he had ever tasted.
