by submission | Feb 26, 2009 | Story
Author : Matthew Banks
“It’s starting to hurt again,” said Kevin. Myrna stood in the doorway watching him with red-rimmed eyes. She pressed her lips together.
“It’s probably moving around.” Kevin clutched his stomach.
“It’s getting worse! Jesus!” He let out a long, low moan, like a man with the world’s worst indigestion. Myrna just watched him. She reached down to her belt and snapped her holster open, touching the grip of the pistol for reassurance. She kept watching Kevin as he squirmed and lay back on the bed, staring up with watery eyes and holding his belly. Myrna frowned.
“If you want me to…you know…” her fingers touched the pistol again “…just let me know.” Kevin looked over at her and blinked, then clamped his eyes shut and gripped his clenched stomach. The spasm passed after a moment.
“It’s burrowing out, isn’t it?” Myrna didn’t say anything. It wasn’t really a question. Her fingernails tapped the grip. Kevin was now staring at her hand. His eyes dripped with tears, and every few seconds, lines of pain engraved themselves on his face. “Just promise me you’ll get the Bug that did this.” Myrna nodded, then jerked backwards as Kevin screamed and curled into a ball. This time, it didn’t stop, and he started thrashing on the bed, pounding his stomach with his fists and groaning and screaming. Myrna took the pistol out of the holster but didn’t cock it. Kevin yelped and whined like a wounded dog, then uncurled and sobbed quietly. After a moment, he looked up at her. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot. His stomach was starting to bruise and swell. They exchanged knowing expressions.
“Tell me we didn’t do this for nothing,” he whispered. Myrna’s eyes got misty for a moment, and she gripped the pistol tighter.
“We didn’t. The flyboys bombed that hive an hour ago.” Kevin blinked.
“Are you just saying that…” he grunted and clawed at his writhing stomach “…to make me…feel better?” Myrna didn’t say anything. Kevin started groaning again. His body stiffened as he prepared for another wave of pain. Then, all his muscles started to clench. Even so, he still stared at her, blinking wetly. “All right…do it…” His speech dissolved into screams and grunts. Then, Myrna crossed the room, the gun fired, and Kevin lay still and silent. His stomach, though, was still squirming. With her tears now flowing freely, Myrna looked up at the ceiling of the bunker, trying to look through it, to the bombers that should have been there but weren’t. Soon, the new hive would be deep enough that no bombing run could destroy it. Los Angeles, like a dozen cities before it, would have to be evacuated.
Myrna stepped out into the hallway, pausing on the threshold to massage her own aching stomach.
“Tell me we didn’t do this for nothing,” she said to nobody, then pointed the pistol at her temple.
by submission | Feb 25, 2009 | Story
Author : Douglas Woods
:::Hash total error:::Download failed:::
Panic. The floor sloped away to a dark abyss, rolling me inexorably forward. Oblivion.
Heads around me turned, slow, dumb, cow-like eyes passing over me without recognition. Dull orbs blinked in unison. Arms moved, not towards me, not grasping. Echo of a persistent, hungry drum. Involuntarily my right arm lifted in the first impulse of a complex motion performed–how many times? Turning, I stumbled away from the clanking ribbon of machinery. The..man?..to my right froze in his motion, hand cradling a plastic wedge that suddenly had no orifice to mate with. Insert tab A into slot B. Part of the mechanism was missing.
I had to get out, but had no idea where I was, who I was. Green light, a relic of another time, told me of “Exit”. Exit I understood. Exit before the repairman arrived.
I was outside, the inverse of inside. Blue and white. The black ground reached for me, cracked with green filaments thrusting from the voids. Grass, I suddenly knew. On my hands and knees my stomach heaved, dry and painful. I was empty. I could not remember eating, drinking, sleeping…an empty vessel ready to hold–what?
Later, propped against a tree, rough oatmeal-colored clothing ripped, knees and palms bloodied by the part run, part crawl to cover. How much time before they came? Was I safe? Out of range? Involuntarily my hand covered the small, metal contact behind my right ear. I had a PIP. I had to be out of range before the next Connect. I ran some more, remembered more.
The change had come suddenly. The PIP was only a tool, we were told, a neural interface to the electronic shroud of data and services that clung to the surface of the planet to a depth of thirty-odd miles. Only those who could show need, or could use it productively, or could afford it would be provided one. I was a teacher, so was fitted with the device. In a small way I felt the way God must feel, all knowing, all seeing. I couldn’t recall if it had made me a better teacher. The PIP, I thought (was it my thought?) was the pinnacle of human invention. Then came Dobbs vs. Minnesota, and a Supreme Court ruling that the playing field had to be level. No one should have an “unfair” advantage, at least not one that had not been provided initially by Mother Nature. Everyone was to have a PIP, whether they wanted one or no. It was a short step from that to Universal Mediocrity, where even home and heredity were to be set aside. The human brain, it turned out, was ill equipped to fend off the kind of invasion that soon followed. Dampers were downloaded that spread like a slow smile over the face of the human race. All the same, all happy, made in the image of those who knew what was best for us.
I stopped. There was no flight, no “out of range”. The ground beneath me was asphalt, had been a road. From the overgrowth and lack of upkeep it was obvious there had been no traffic for many years. A hundred yards ahead the course of the road turned to the right, disappearing into the trees and undergrowth. I heard a bird. I smelled the sharp, acidic odor of the brown leaves and petroleum tang of the hot pavement. The sun beat down directly on my head.
Why not?
Log in…
:::New hardware found:::
:::Downloading:::
by submission | Feb 24, 2009 | Story
Author : Scott Alexander Rader
I wake with gunk in my eyes. Not sleep, or whatever the scientific term is. This is worse.
Shoot. Pink eye, I think to myself. Damn kids.
But this is thicker and gummier than the mucous created during pink eye. It’s more like, well, gum. Damn kids.
I desperately paw at my eyes trying to clean them out, all the while stumbling out of bed and stubbing my toes on random toys around the apartment.
“Allen. Portia,” I yell, still not able to open my eyes. My lids are so heavy, I haven’t been able to budge them. It could be tar, superglue, who knows what they’ve gotten into. They lean toward my own mischievous side. Grow up a terrible kid, run the risk of having to raise your own terrible minions of goddamned satan.
“Dad?” It’s Allen, he sounds small. Frightened. I reach out to where I think he’s standing. I’d be afraid, too. He’s going to get the beating of a lifetime. It’s a wonder Child Protective Services hasn’t been here. I’m no better than my old man. Drinking. Swearing. Hitting my kids . . . a lot. I guess I can’t really blame them for gumming up the peepers.
A miniature car or maybe an army man of some sort gets caught under my bare foot. I lash out immediately, hoping to catch one of them on pure instinct. Instead, a large hand catches my forearm mid-backswing. I know it’s large because it wraps all the way around my arm and squeezes, crushing my bones.
Feels like an ape, or a robot. It isn’t Allen or Portia, neither are ape. Or robot. I know, I had them tested. Sometimes it just happens, even to two purebreeds. Humans.
Shoot, I think, They’ve finally come. I hope it’s an ape, ape means I can keep my kids, ape means I’m not in much trouble.
“Mr. Hanlin?” It’s a robot. I’m screwed.
“Yeah? That’s me.” I raise my non-broken arm, awkwardly, sheepishly, and what I hope is somewhat charmingly.
“I’m Jameson McDonaldson Robinson Flint, the Fifteenth.” The names of his inventors. Fifteenth model. This is most definitely a robot, as if I didn’t know from his unpleasant vocal modulations and my broken arm. “With Child Protective Services.”
“Dad,” Portia screams. “I know I’m not supposed to let anyone in, but he looked official.”
“It’s ok,” I say, calmingly. But there is an immense fear deep in her voice. She’s scared, not of the giant (I’m guessing) robot, but of dear old dad. “What can I do for you, Fifteen?” I try to keep it casual. Maybe he won’t kill me.
“Nothing. We’ve taken care of what we need to here.” He pauses, probably according to a script. “We have found this an unsafe environment for your children. But being that the whole world seems to be an unsafe environment for children right now, we are letting you off with a warning.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “A warning?”
“We’ve removed your eyes, Mr. Hanlin.”
“But-”
“You can’t hit what you can’t see. We thank you for your time.”
I hear him clomping over toys. Portia and Allen are crying. Probably unable to look at their eyeless dad. I guess it serves me right.
After a few minutes I hear Allen laughing as Portia cries harder. He must be pulling her hair. Or is that something burning? I sit down in the nearest chair. Can’t do anything about it now. Damn kids.
by submission | Feb 23, 2009 | Story
Author : Greg R. Fishbone
Three Roman legions swept into the valley from the south. The defenders launched a flight of arrows while a line of pikemen prepared for an onslaught of armored men. The battle raged through the afternoon, but the outcome was never in doubt. The Romans were disciplined, engaged, and absolutely relentless until…
A Roman lieutenant gave a predetermined signal and the army withdrew, leaving a single legionnaire on the battlefield. The lone soldier was quickly surrounded by enemies who kept a respectful distance, suspecting a trick or a trap.
The Roman soldier removed a strange instrument from his belt. The item was less than two hands long and thinner than a human finger, with an opening on one end and a button on the other. The soldier held the item out and turned slowly in a circle. The enemies raised their spears but did not advance. “What magic is this?” their bearded leader sneered.
CLICK-CLICK. The enemies flinched at the sound, but relaxed when no effect was apparent. CLICK-CLACK. Again the men looked around, expecting one of their number to drop, but again there was no effect. CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLACK, CLICK-CLICK.
“Your gods have abandoned you, Romanus. Your weapon has no power against us.”
The soldier pressed the button again and again with increasing desperation. CLICK-CLACK, CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLACK. Emboldened enemies pressed in from all sides. CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLACK, CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLACK. Swords, spears, and daggers separated the legionnaire from his life. His powerless instrument dropped to the ground.
On a rise above the battlefield, the Roman general gave a sad shake of his head. He addressed a captive, bound in ropes. “Your deception is revealed, Mr. Time Traveler. Your retractable ballpoint pen is not, actually, mightier than the sword.” To emphasize his point he raised his blade and chopped downward at the unfortunate captive’s neck.
The Roman army advanced again, finishing what they had started by more conventional means. By sundown, the valley was theirs.
That night, a single legionnaire snuck out of camp and returned to the battlefield. He retrieved the discarded pen and brought it back to his tent. In the firelight he began to write a book that would one day make him Emperor of the World: “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres…”
by submission | Feb 22, 2009 | Story
Author : Dave Johnson
I have become a zipper.
The fad started out harmless enough. A person scheduled a visit to the zipper specialists. A few hours later the same person (for the true insides cannot be zipped) walked out a different gender. Some time later it got easier: a simple injection of the right gene triggers sent overnight signals to the appropriate glands. You woke a mister from sleeping as a mistress. Zip zip zip. The ultimate answer came in pill form.
My life partner and I signed an agreement. Each year we change, each year we take a few days off to zipper the glands. Sure, we have to wait a day or two as the skin settles into new patterns and the muscles assume new roles. For a year it’s another honeymoon. We get to explore, discover and enjoy the flesh again.
Ten years we’ve done this. Most partnerships don’t last this long. We’ve kept it going with the zip aid.
And here it comes. We dine at year’s end. As before, we’ll have a fine meal, chat a little about our day. The small talk will carry us to a toast. And the zipping sleep. In the morning we’ll wake and begin anew.
I pause in the conversation to think. Ten years have given her a few wrinkles about her eyes. The lips are thinner, the chin more taut. I admire her. They cannot zip age, try as they might. Time has it’s own pace, one that cannot be broken. Her age has a beauty, something I didn’t realize in younger days.
Did I miss something these years not seeing the beauty develop down below as well?
I tap the pill. A sigh escapes intentionally. “I’m not sure I want to swallow this tonight,” I tell her. My teeth clench.
The meaning of my statement is clear to her. She slows chewing, lets the fork descend. She casts a quick glance at her own, then back to me.
We took vows, we have an agreement. It has worked and nicely, too. The evenings are spectacular. We sink into each other wrapped in bliss. The zipping allows us sensory delights which can only remain indescribable. We long for each other, are melded into one. These things cannot just be cast aside at a whim. They are beyond value.
And having been the other, we can enhance it. We know the hidden spots, the areas to focus on. We know to linger with a kiss or hold a touch. When to tantalize, when to grip. The zipping has taught us much. The lovemaking dance unfolds in directions only meant to escalate the pleasure we feel.
So why am I messing up a perfect thing? Why do I take this chance?
“Let me explain,” I say quickly. “I think…. I think that change is good. Sometimes it happens fast and sometimes slow. But I’ve gotten to the point where I want to enjoy the gradual.
“I don’t want to zip into the next phase blindly tossing off what once was. I want to look at the photographs in year ahead knowing my love, you, is the same as the one next to me. I’m asking you to take a final change and stay with me.”
A final, slow, time-evoked zip. Let the exciting parts age. Let them match the rest. Maybe, even, let it bore us. Would she agree? Would we have a whole life together? My breath hung waiting her answer.
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Feb 21, 2009 | Story
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Detective Staind waited in the darkness of an empty doorway. He watched as the man, head down, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, crossed the street fifty meters away. Waiting until the man turned down an alley, he unholstered his weapon and followed. It was much easier finding someone when you knew exactly where they were going to be.
The man threaded his way through the refuse and rubble that littered the alleyway. It had been years since anyone cared for these buildings, only the crazy and homeless took refuge here now.
At the mid point between the two larger streets, the alley narrowed to just a shoulder’s width, and at this point the figure stopped, puzzled, his progress blocked by steel drums piled with broken stone. Something was wrong.
“William,” Staind yelled down the alley, causing the man to turn, startled. “William Heath. You’re a difficult man to find.”
The figure stepped back from the opening and cast furtive glances, looking for an alternate exit.
“That’s the only way through William. Unless you can get past me,” he motioned with his pistol over his shoulder, “but I don’t like your odds.”
William moved slowly towards the detective, hands still in pockets, but head up, alert. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Staind leveled his weapon at him, halting his approach.
“You’ve upset a lot of people William, you’ve killed a lot of women. You didn’t think that could go on forever, did you?”
William’s hands were at his sides now, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes locked on the barrel of the gun.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do William, yes you bloody well do. You’ve strangled thirty two woman in the last five years. Thirty two, you prick. You’re very careful, I’ll give you that, you’ve left almost no evidence behind at all. Not a trace of you anywhere, no bank accounts, no public records. You’ve done a very thorough job of not being anywhere we could look.”
“You’ve got nothing then, have you?” he smirked.
“Well William, I said you left almost no evidence. You did make one mistake, people like you always do. Yours was not making sure Mary Truman was really dead before you stuck your tongue in her mouth. She’s a diver William, big lungs, you should have kept the pressure on a little longer. That piece of your tongue she bit off, she was choking on it while you incinerated her face. We found that piece of you stuck in her throat.”
“There’s no way flesh you found in some dead whore could have led you to me. That’s impossible.” William shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes still fixed on the raised handgun.
“Normally no, as you’re not in the system. Lucky for us though, one of the fathers you left grieving owns a company that clones feed animals. He grew two good copies of you. One he kept for himself, for what I don’t want to imagine, but the other offered us a face to show, gave us fingerprints to trace. It gave us a trail, and that trail led me ultimately,” he paused, “to you.”
“Officers are crating and cataloguing your squat as we speak. We have quite the case and I expect William Heath will fry quite nicely when all is said and done.
William smiled, extending his hands as he resumed his approach. “I suppose this is where you take me into custody.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me.” Staind spat noisily, then squeezed off a round into William’s forehead, dropping him like a rock. “We’ve already got you in custody.”
