The motorcycle was a classic: unique and sleek. She had fallen for Drew at the same time he had acquired it and it became a physical manifestation of their love. Their courtship had involved ambling rides through the countryside. The bike had participated in their honeymoon, towing camping gear in the cargo sidecar. And most weekends of their marriage had included a leisurely ride. When they stopped at the dens of serious riders, they were not rebuffed. She loved when the hulking, hairy men called the bike “cute” and patted it as if stroking a kitten on its proffered furry cheek.
The motorcycle provided relief from a steamy day. It provided freedom. She was accustomed to sitting behind him, to wrapping her thighs around his hips and leaning into him as they wound their way through villages and farmlands. She had been a remora, covering his back and his need for company, while he led the campaign. They had seen places that they convinced themselves went completely ignored by the strait-laced in their coffin-like cars.
Then a coffin became something in their lives.
When Drew’s diagnosis became unavoidable, she had asked him what she should do with the motorcycle after… . There were no words for after after. She was convinced she would have no life after after.
Drew had requested that she keep it. He seemed convinced that she would be able to handle it, handle all of it—the motorcycle, his death, her loss—on her own.
After Drew passed, she could barely bring herself to enter the garage. So much of it was him. The tools, the exercise equipment, the motorcycle. She eventually was able to enter so that she could bestow some of his possessions on his friends. Then, she truly resided in the after. He was gone, most of his things were gone, and she was alone.
On a day that was too gorgeous to ignore, she decided to ride the bike. Drew had convinced her years ago to get her license, but she had rarely been in control of the vehicle. She wanted to feel that freedom again, she wanted to stop living with death and feel alive again.
She circled the motorcycle, noticing that at times her shadow split into two. And at those times, it looked like Drew’s shadow had joined her own, but that was just her mind playing tricks on her.
She put on her helmet and straddled the bike. She felt only the humming seat between her legs. This was so different from when his body used to be in front of her, acting as a shield, acting as a comfort.
She decided she deserved a ride into the mountains. She hadn’t been since prior to his diagnosis and the leaves were at their most colorful point. At times, and at turns, she swore she could still feel Drew, his solid hips, his long back, his ribs swimming in and out with his measured breath. It had been so long since she had felt him physically that this phantom sense made her ache.
She swore she could smell Drew and wondered if he had ever worn her helmet by accident. The smell increased the aching which had developed into a throbbing sensation. The warm, leather seat reminded her of his large hands and she sped up the bike with a sense of urgency that was all in her mind.
She saw lights flashing in the mirror on her handlebar and a quick “blip” from a siren behind her told her she had to pull over.
She slowed the bike onto a shoulder of empty road that was shrouded by trees. As the wind blew through the foliage around her, her shadow shifted and broke, splitting into two again.
She removed her helmet so that the police officer could see her face and she stepped off the bike.
She watched him approach and noticed that he looked up and down the road as he got closer. His eyes were covered with reflective sunglasses and he had a neck gaiter pulled up over his nose and mouth.
“Beautiful day,” he said through the gaiter. He was wearing leather gloves and a knitted skull cap pulled over his hair. She found the cap and gaiter odd and hoped he would give her a ticket and quickly leave.
He stood and looked at her without speaking, which, again, she found odd.
“Why was I pulled over, officer?” she asked quietly.
He shook his head slowly and made a “tssk” sound. “That’s kind of rude, isn’t it? I asked you if you thought it was a beautiful day and you completely ignored me. Only interested in getting down to business, aren’t you? Completely rude.”
Her stomach dropped, registering how alone they were. No one had seen them pull over; no one would hear her call out on this deserted road.
He reached in his pocket and as her eyes followed his hand, she realized his pants were swollen at the crotch.
She remembered a report on the news about a rapist impersonating a cop.
Before her mind could process these thoughts, his arm was around her neck and he dragged her away from the bike. His free hand held a knife which he pressed into her side.
“You are going to step back into the woods with me,” he instructed, “and you are going to keep quiet, or else this knife will find its way across your throat.”
She struggled against him, but his hold was tight.
Through tears, she watched her shadow as he dragged her. She had not one shadow, but two. The smell of Drew was stronger than ever.
The fake police officer shoved her to the ground, the knife sharp against her throat.
“Please,” she begged, “I haven’t seen your face, you could let me go.”
He laughed. “And why would I do that?”
She saw the motorcycle lights come on over his shoulder and heard the hum of its motor. “Because…we are not alone…”
I was crossing the University of Arkansas campus at Fayetteville with my wife, Rachel, when a young male student approached us and said something weird. It was Saturday and there weren’t many people around. Just a few moments before, I’d found an odd-looking pencil on the sidewalk and some impulse made me pick it up. It was lime green and about twice the length and heft of a regular #2 pencil. I figured it might belong to an artist or something and still had it in my hand when the kid made his comment.
“Looks like you could stab someone with that thing,” he said, pointing at the pencil. “Do some serious damage.”
Now, Rachel and I were older than your average college kid and both of us were dressed well. I wore a jacket and tie. Surely the kid would have thought of us as parents or perhaps considered us faculty. What student says that kind of thing to parents or to faculty members he doesn’t recognize?
The comment clearly made Rachel uncomfortable, so I just ignored the guy and walked on. We were here to see Rachel’s son and within a few moments found his dorm room and began our visit. A little while later I had to use the dorm’s bathroom and was standing at the sink washing my hands when the same young man came up beside me.
“Stabbed anyone with that pencil yet?” he asked.
Irritated, and not eager to have an uncomfortable discussion with a strange young fellow in the bathroom, I snapped, “No! And it’s not in my plans for today.”
He smiled crookedly. “Look,” he said. “I know you’re a psychopath. I recognize you because I’m one too.”
I sighed, then reached beneath my coat and drew out the silenced 9-millimeter I generally carried in a shoulder holster. Quickly placing the business end of the pistol against the young man’s chest just over the heart, I pulled the trigger.
“Phfhfft.”
The kid’s eyes widened but my movements had been too swift for him to react. He collapsed slowly to the floor, like a blow-up doll deflating. He kept looking up at me as life fled him.
“When psychopaths meet, it’s best for one to kill the other immediately and get it over with,” I told him.
Holstering the pistol, I left the bathroom. I kept the pencil. The kid was right. It was a great tool to put through someone’s eye into their brain. On a college campus like this, I felt sure it wouldn’t be long before the perfect target presented itself.
Corporal Daniel Reeves wiped the sweat from his brow, his uniform clung to him like a second skin. The Guadalcanal jungle was alive with the buzz of insects, the distant call of birds and the ever present whisper of the enemy. Somewhere out there, the Japanese lay in wait. Just as exhausted. Just as desperate.
Reeves and his squad had been ordered to patrol a section of the island near the Matanikau River. He looked over the documents. Intelligence suggested that the enemy may be moving in that area, but something about this mission just didn’t feel quite right. The feeling gnawed at him. The reports mentioned missing patrols, men vanishing without a trace, their radios sputtering nothing but static before going dead. A shiver ran down his back as he lowered the paperwork and looked out into the jungle.
“Keep your eyes open, “Sergeant Wilkes muttered. “The Japs ain’t the only thing lurking around in them trees. This place gives me the willies.”
Reeves frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”
Wilkes shook his head, scanning the jungle. “The locals say there’s somethin’ a lot worse than the Japs in those woods. They think it’s some kind of demon. I ain’t superstitious but two patrols have already vanished in the last month.”
They moved deeper into the jungle, the air was thick with decay and something else, something coppery, something wrong. Then they found the first body.
Reeves forced himself to look. The Marine’s skin was shriveled, stretched tight over bone, as if something sucked him dry. His mouth hung open in a silent scream and his empty eye sockets stared at nothing. Tiny writhing maggots squirmed inside the hollowed out holes. His fingers were gnarled, like he had died clawing at something unseen. His stomach had been torn open, the ribs protruded like jagged knives and the jungle floor beneath him was black with congealed blood.
“What the hell…what could have done this?” Reeves whispered.
“Not a Jap.” Wilkes said. “They shoot, stab, fight. Hell, even light you on fire if they have to. But this?”
They pressed on, unease growing with every step. The jungle felt alive, breathing. The trees swayed but there was no wind. Shadows moved when they shouldn’t. Then, as dusk fell, the jungle became alive with an eerie, inhuman wail.
A cry rang out. Reeves spun, rifle up. Private Jenkins was gone.
“Jenkins!” Wilkes bellowed.
The jungle swallowed his voice. Then a sickening squelch. A gurgling moan. And silence.
The squad tightened their formation, eyes darting into the jungle. Something was hunting them. Something that was not human.
Then Reeves saw it. A shape, almost human, but wrong. It clung to a tree, long limbs wrapped around the bark like a grotesque insect. Its black skin was almost fluid, smoke-like but slimy. It pulsed and shimmered with an unnatural sheen. It was mottled, dark, blending into the jungle like some kind of chameleon. Sunken eyes gleamed with malice and a long, gaping, tooth-filled maw dripped with black goo. It hissed at the soldiers.
“Open fire!”
Gunfire tore through the jungle, but the thing moved too fast. It darted from one tree to another. Then it was among them.
It ripped into Private Sanders, claws rending flesh. Blood sprayed in hot arcs, painting the jungle in crimson. Sanders’ screams turned wet as his throat was torn open, his vocal cords snapping like taut strings. His body convulsed, his guts spilled onto the ground with a sickening slopping sound. Reeves fired, but the bullets didn’t even slow the thing down. It let out an ear piercing shriek before vanishing into the underbrush. Moments later they could hear it chirping, almost mocking them. The sound slithered through the jungle, bouncing off of the trees, making it impossible to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from. It felt as if the creature was everywhere at once, surrounding them. It was hunting them from the shadows.
The remaining Marines ran, crashing through the jungle, fear overriding training. One by one they fell. Wilkes went down next, yanked into the darkness with a strangled cry. Then another. And another.
Reeves barely had time to register Wilkes’ absence when another scream erupted to his left. Private Hale’s body jerked violently as something unseen slammed into him. His rifle fired wildly into the air before his head snapped back with a revolting crunch. The thing was on him, its clawed fingers burrowed into his chest, peeling flesh away like bark off a tree. The creature’s barbed tongue shot forward latching onto his face. With a grotesque slurp, the skin collapsed inward. His skull caved in as his essence was drained. The creature let out a satisfied chitter before tossing the husk aside like garbage. Reeves sprinted into the dense jungle.
Reeves kept running until he burst into a clearing. The moon cast pale light onto the scene before him, a pit filled with bodies. American, Japanese, British, withered and hollowed out like husks. The corpses were tangled together, their limbs bent and twisted. Some of the faces were still locked in expressions of unspeakable agony. Bones jutted through rotting flesh, their marrow sucked dry.
A rustling behind Reeves made him spin around. Rifle up and at the ready. But it was too late.
The creature lunged, slamming into him with inhuman force. His ribs cracked as he was hurled to the ground, his rifle flying from his grip. A vice-like claw pinned him down, the thing’s face inches from his own. Its breath was rancid, a mixture of decay and something metallic, like rusted iron. Reeves struggled, punching and kicking but the creature only chittered. Its skin shifted like liquid shadow. Then, slowly, almost playfully, one claw traced down his chest before sinking deep into his stomach. Fire erupted through his body as it twisted inside of him, tearing muscle and organ apart with ease.
He saw those sunken, gleaming eyes and the jaw was open wide. A long, barbed tongue shot forward, wrapping around his neck like a serpent. Then came the violent yank that sent him tumbling into the pit of corpses. The creature was on him again, tossing him around like a dog with a toy. His vision blurred. He felt it. His blood draining. His body withering. The last thing he heard was the wet sound of something feeding.
Everyone’s queued up in the cafe, a string line of heads, some with hats, waiting. It’s a conventional queue and Drew stands with it. Good to have some order. The line’s almost out the door. Lights fall bright around him, and the sound of invisible music. Something by the Soul Twisters. He feels a huge space above him, compared to his regular quarters. His official security man Cody stands assertive and blocks the view ahead.
There’s women in short pants and nose rings, old men with ball caps and whiskers, a teenager with his skateboard, Moms and kids. A whole circus line of coffee wishers. No one bumps into anyone else.
A man pushes through the door carrying a sack of lumpy items and stands beside Drew. “Hey, I’m in a hurry, I’ve got a taxi waiting. Can I go ahead?” Drew says ‘Sure.” Cody nods, Drew steps back to let the man in. Cody chuckles. “Good move, Drew. Very pro-social. The man’s got to get some coffee before his sack of popsicles melts,” The pushy guy laughs too, head down. Drew forces a grin. Lots of time to look, see what’s around. There’s many interesting and differently dressed people on the sidewalk, stepping down the side of the strip mall outside these coffee shop windows.
Cody and Drew are on a fifteen-minute coffee break from delivering potatoes. Cody drives the truck and supervises, Drew loads. It’s all part of a back to the community program. Cody’s a real tall wide fellow, looks like a long-legged frog with glasses, his bulk helps hide Drew from prying eyes. This is Drew’s first outside coffee in quite a few years.
There’s panhandlers outside. Cody threw them a dollar each, even though it’s not considered normal. He says he’s supposed to act very normal, to impress Drew. “But I push the envelope sometimes.”
Drew notices how everyone moves slowly here, down the line. They hide their impatience, but he sees feet shuffling and eyes darting “why is that old guy at the front taking so long?”
Each person’s asked numerous questions at the cashier’s desk. It’s not simply a case of receiving a cup of black coffee. The dosing size must be determined, and the brand of roast beans, the number of creams and the type of sweetener.
Drew observes hard working people at the counter, “do you want double cups, or just one?” they all say. It’s like they have a script, they memorize it, and it becomes normal routine. A daily ritual of serving. As Drew inches closer to the till he feels more and more nervous. He’ll be asked a lot of questions. Questions are not his strong point. But again, what a privilege to be out in a community in a line of his fellows! The light goes beyond the windows here, as far as you can see. There’s sun on everything. So bright. Drew orders a coffee with cream. The yawning but smiling server lady asks if he would like big or small room for milk. “Big is better,” says Drew. He pays, keeps standing there. The lady doesn’t seem to get his joke. Cody motions him to one side, “the drinks are served over there, bud.”
It’s like a tunnel, this donut line, leading to a refreshment heaven, the light at the end. Drew takes his large Americano and stands over by the windows.
“Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?” It’s a man at the table beside him, a guy about Drew’s age, with black square frame glasses and a long ski slope nose, looking up from a silver computer.
“No, just picking up a doughnut,” Drew says, with a too large smile.
The guy keeps peering at him “Did you go to Surrey High School?.”
There’s a faint realization in his eyes, he’s sure of something.
“I don’t think so.”
There’s a flash of light. Drew glances behind him. Someone else is coming through the door. They just keep coming in and coming in.
“Well, got to get moving,” he says.
“I’m sure I know your name,” says the computer guy. “Your face seems damn familiar.”
Cody is at the front now, picking up some baked goods. He walks over and offers a huge muffin to Drew. “One for the road.”
Drew holds the muffin monstrosity. He swivels around. It seems that now everyone is watching him. They’re all looking up over their cups, or behind their sleeves, or maybe from under their hats. He senses the long reach of their eyes.
He notices the men’s washroom sign. He sidles to one side “I got to go in here a minute, Cody,” and he slips in with his giant cup and muffin, flips off the light switch and closes the door tightly.
Behind him, he perceives shadows. All the people outside of the door. He’s finally alone, in the darkness. His own shadow form profiles against the mirror. He imagines his mother, his father, his brothers and their wives floating above, waiting for him to lift his head. He must flip on the light and face their eyes, as they appeared, wide open before he shot them one by one with his dad’s rifle as they stepped through that other dark entrance, the big double doors of the family’s suburban rancher twenty years ago on a streaming rainy night after he invited them all over for a party, but it wasn’t for a party it was to fulfill a prophecy. To stop the apocalypse.
His brother Dan was alert enough to figure out the trap. He ran. Drew chased him through the garden, firing repeatedly. His brother screamed for mercy before the final shot. Six points of the star, six people had to die. To save the world.
Now, after nineteen years incarcerated and recovering at the Colony Penitentiary Drew knows the truth. He shot six people for a false prophecy. A plan hatched within a sick dream, born from a biblical vision taken from the book of Revelation. A plan gathered at random from all the flying crashing synapses within a deluded consciousness. Cody stands alone in the dark bathroom with these thoughts. Medication and treatment have shown him reality. He shot those closest to him. How can he ever deserve to go out again after what he’s done? To be even in the light? He should remain in this darkness, with the whirling forms and memories around him. That’s what he deserves. To be here forever with the shadows of his family as they hurtle and twist through this enclosed space.
He understands that someone could recognize him out here in the world, an old school acquaintance, a neighbour, the computer geek. It’s been so long, his face has loosened, dropped, and wrinkled.
Two decades ago, they called him the Marino Drive Killer. No one appreciates that he finished his college graduation by correspondence at the hospital school. He’s painstakingly carved a cedar jewelry box, and gave it to his 93-year-old grandmother, the only surviving family member who wants anything to do with him. That is of no consequence. He’s successfully repairing small appliances in the penitentiary vocational services program. So what?
If that guy who barged in the donut line knew who he was, he’d think twice. He’d never barge in anywhere again. Drew quickly removes that idea from his mind. No more thoughts about apocalypse.
He turns on the tap. He draws some water from the sink up to his face, using his open hands. He feels the water spread and fall between his fingers and the sink below, he feels the coolness.
He places the palm of his wet hand on the door and moves his fingers down the wood. He stops, looks down.
He must twist and pull the doorknob, and step outside to Cody. Walk past the customers, though the room may feel like it’s swaying. He must walk by the man with the laptop and the girls with the lip rings, glance nonchalantly over at the painted windows with their images of lattes and muffins. He’ll put all trash in the trash can on the way out.
“It’s all about rehearsing,” he thinks. “Act normal, til normal becomes real.” Just like the servers here, running their coffee script, over and over.
Drew and Cody have several more orders to deliver before returning to the hospital. The truck’s ready to go. Customers are waiting. Time to walk back into the light.
“Absolutely not, Herbert! I won’t have our house sullied with the heads of those poor beasts!”
After twelve years of (not much) connubial bliss, his bride put her foot down when he brought his latest trophy home. This one had been less expensive to hunt down, mainly because it was a young Koala bear. (His first shot missed the feral pig he’d aimed at.) Sheila all but fainted upon seeing the adorable animal – albeit only the stuffed head. “That sweet little face! How could you?” she wailed. From then on, he was incessantly nagged about “that horrid hobby” and orders to remove the trophy heads of moose, elk, zebra, and the tiger skin that adorned the living room, “or else!”. Herb knew she couldn’t complain about the cost, thanks to his generous inheritance. Still, when ultimatums didn’t work, she moved her bed into another room, ending all connubial visits. The situation displeased him, but the idea of changing his interests to save their marriage was out of the question.
He was considering an affair with a baron’s (rather homely) wife when he heard of the Reserve. It was located on a small island with a backward culture. The prize was not another trophy for his walls. On the contrary, it would be a young native virgin. All was totally legal according to the brochure. Of course, Sheila didn’t know that part. He had a hazy idea of keeping the wild bitch in his bedroom, tied or in a cage, depending on which worked best. After all, he planned to bring her back alive. Whether Sheila liked it or not, a man has needs. Bottom line, yessir.
When a friend mentioned the area he would be hunting in was rather weak on details, he’d laughed. “But why are there no reports or mention of this place by any hunters you know?” Herb was quick to explain that such brochures probably were only sent to the most reputable hunters, like himself.
***
She must be nineteen by now, all ripe for the taking. The brochure claimed that many a rich hunter had tried to capture her and failed. He’d paid well for the hunt in this Reserve. It was huge, only parts were open for free range hunting. From what the brochure said, it was a big game hunter’s paradise. There was something in the description of the Reserve about birds of carrion to watch out for, but his guide, Yobi, assured him they wouldn’t a problem.
As promised, the blind was well stocked with cold ale and sandwiches, essential to a pleasurable hunt. He smiled and nodded a thank-you, making a mental note to give Yobi a generous tip. Three hours later, he’d eaten all the sandwiches and drained his last bottle of ale. The afternoon dragged on. Insects swarmed around him, some leaving nasty welts, despite Yobi’s repellent. His mood soured and he began to question why he was here – was it going to be worth it? He hadn’t really thought seriously about how Sheila would take this. She might even divorce – his thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of tawny skin weaving through the leaves. Time for the pursuit!
Herb licked his lips, catching a flash of supple legs and bouncing breasts disappearing and reappearing. The air was still except for an occasional flapping of wings. He barely noticed the strange birds with hooked beaks alighting in nearby trees. And then, there she was, just ahead in the glade! Bushes rustled, parted. She crossed before him in bright sunlight, dark curls cascading past her shoulders. Suddenly, she stopped to look his way, her insolent brown eyes staring straight at him – the perfect moment! Anticipating his next move, Yobi handed him the stun gun. He fired, congratulating himself when she dropped out of sight.
“Now! The net!” he yelled, but Yobi wasn’t where he was supposed to be. The net suddenly dropped over Herbert and tightened.
The girl rose unscathed from the foliage to join her father. Together, they dragged him to the center of the glade. Yobi watched with pride as his daughter deftly slit Herbert’s throat. He helped her remove the head. After it was treated, they would hang it in their trophy room. They left the American’s remains in the glen. Their feathered sentinels would do the rest.
She had told them something was wrong. Time and again she had said that she wasn’t quite herself, that things were getting worse, that something needed to be done. First they said it was her weight, and told her to come back after a diet. Then they said it was her cycles, as though discomfort was the price of femininity. As her cycles ebbed, they said it was merely old age, as if the concerns hadn’t gone back to her youth. When at long last they opened her up, they were surprised to see what was left of her. Rust and dust and cobwebs filled the space where her heart and hopes should be. It was too late, they said, shaking their heads as if she were the one who let the clock run dry. Wheezing, creaking, rattling, she laughed as she left them. After an invisible lifetime, it was a relief to be seen.
The Operator Lee Andrew Forman
With blackened hands, The Operator approached the ancient mechanism; a rusty toolbox hung from one arm. After placing it on the cold floor he rubbed his palms together. He opened the top of his rectangular companion with care, splaying the trays apart on squeaky hinges. From within he retrieved an iron handwheel. With careful eyes he inspected its every surface. He blew the dust from its threaded center, then raised it above his bowed head. A symphony of desperate cheers resounded behind him.
The crowd quieted while he aligned the wheel with its intended place, and carefully screwed it tight. Silence made the room itself sweat. Then, a low hum came from deep within the machine. Its dormant innards turned and life surged through its pipes. The room creaked and shuttered as the bygone contraption was reanimated from its slumber.
The vents in the ceiling opened, and in flowed exactly what they wished and waited so long for.
The Eliminominator Marge Simon
It was a rusty old useless piece of machinery, that was obvious. Why we had to keep it in our one spare room was a mystery, but since it belonged to Grandpa, nobody dared suggest we get rid of it.
I grew up despising the thing. I wanted my own room and it wasn’t fair that this thing of Grandpa’s had priority. We weren’t even supposed to touch it. I waited years for the opportunity to destroy it. One summer, I had just turned twelve and everyone was gone on a picnic. I said I would be swimming with friends, and nobody questioned it. When they’d departed, I took a sledge hammer to it, whacked it up and down hard as I could. Nothing happened. I may as well have been using a feather.
After that, it had my full attention for other reasons. In fact, I actually tried to get Grandpa to tell me what it was for. To my surprise, he grinned really big like he was tickled I asked. Since he’d not spoken or smiled – or even moved from his bed since before I was born, that was a surprise. He motioned me close and whispered how it was a Eliminominator. Said it was his first and only invention and what it could do. He told me how to start it up, but he made me promise never to turn it on.
Okay, you probably think I didn’t keep my promise to Grandpa. You think I maybe tried it out on my stupid kid brother Bobby, the one I had to share a room with, right? You think I made Bobby lie down at the juncture where the knives popped up on the wheels after I’d placed a bucket for the blood in the space provided, don’t you? Well? Don’t you?
Programmed RJ Meldrum
Long after the end, the machines kept moving. The factory was fully automated and the machines, only artificially intelligent, had no sense their creators were gone. The factory was hermetically sealed so it took years for rust and decay to have an impact. Eventually it did and most machines ground to a halt, parts seized by rust or lack of lubrication. One machine kept running, mechanically building cardboard boxes for the product and after the supplies dwindled to nothing, simply going through the motions. Its arms mimicked the action of folding and sealing.
The human burst through the door onto the factory floor. The disease had destroyed humanity, but some had remained alive. They were here to loot. There was metal here, aluminum and other rare metals to trade. Electronic eyes followed them as the human moved down the manufacturing line, gathering precious material. The human stood in front of the only functioning machine, its arms blindly moving in obedience to its programming. The human craned over to get a better look and in doing so, stepped over a red line on the floor. The human, born after the disaster, had no sense of impending doom. The machine, similarly unaware, simply picked up the new raw material and did as it was programmed to do. It folded.
The Drip Kathleen McCluskey
The pipes hadn’t been touched in decades. Hidden deep within the crumbing asylum, they snaked through the walls like veins of a corpse, rusted and forgotten. The maintenance crew avoided the lower levels, muttering about sounds, the whispers and the dripping that nobody dared investigate.
Until tonight.
Evan, desperate for overtime pay, descended into the dark. His weak flashlight barely cut through the heavy air. It smelled like old blood and wet iron.
The pipes groaned, too, an organic sound. Evan told himself that it was just stress, fear. Nothing more. He found the main valve, rusted and covered in cobwebs, and reached for it. The metal was slick, greasy, almost sticky.
Drip.
Drip.
The noise was coming from behind him. He turned, shaking. Nothing but the endless pipes. He yanked on the valve, it didn’t budge.
Drip.
Drip.
It was coming from the pipes, like something trapped inside bleeding out. Evan leaned closer. In the cone of his flashlight, he saw that it wasn’t water.
It was red. Thick and warm.
The valve shuddered violently in his hand, the pipe screamed. A wet, gurgling shriek echoed from the metal. A skeletal hand clawed free, its fingers wrapping around Evan’s throat before he could scream. Rust covered nails punctured his skin, dragging him down against the pipe. As Evan thrashed, more arms slithered out, pulling him inside.
His last breath was a bubbling choke, swallowed by the twisted mass of metal and bone.
Above the asylum’s walls trembled as more pipes burst.
Deep below, something ancient laughed, and was still hungry.
Torn Asunder Elaine Pascale
More than anything, Clara wanted to discard the old relic that was rusting away in her attic. She thought she had discarded her family years prior, but her recently deceased Aunt Sophie’s lawyer had found her and bestowed the industrial fossil on her.
There was a belief, set forth by great-great grandfather Silas, that the iron shafts and gears preserved from the family’s first factory was what bound them together. “Anything happens to it, and the family is torn asunder,” Cara had been told many times when she was young.
“It didn’t bind me to anyone,” she muttered, frowning at the rusted albatross. It had come with a note, but the note was far too faded to read. She could make out the words “torn asunder” and she assumed the note contained more warnings about keeping the object.
At least I can clean it up a bit, she thought, get rid of some of the dust and cobwebs. She grabbed a towel and proceeded to rub the gears.
A puff of smoke emanated from the relic and a large shadow darkened her attic.
“Who dares to wake me?” A djinn asked, his voice ominous.
Cara was too frightened to speak.
The djinn eyed her. “You didn’t read the note?”
“N-no. I couldn’t.”
“I warned Silas that a note was not the best way to prevent disaster.” The djinn glared at her. “He promised me eternal rest in that.” He pointed to the factory piece. “And I would grant your family wealth.” He scowled, “But you defied the conditions and woke me.”
“It doesn’t matter, the family is already torn apart,” she insisted.
The djinn’s scowl transformed into a smile. “You misunderstood. You get wealth, which will bind the family financially. Whoever wakes me, will be torn asunder…literally.”
Just Like Her Father A.F. Stewart
Daddy lived and died in the company of machines.
It was what he loved, the purr of a good engine, the turn of a crankshaft. He was a first-rate mechanic, working shifts at different jobs over the years from garages to factories. He always called it his passion.
It wasn’t his only passion, though. Drinking ranked just as high.
He never took a sip on the job, he saved it all for home. A mean drunk too, swinging his fists, slamming me and mom against the wall, the floor, splitting our lips, giving us black eyes. Mom had enough when I was ten and walked out, leaving me alone with his rages.
At least that’s what I thought. Until the news showed the recovery of a buried skeleton wearing a gold necklace. Mom’s necklace. Then I knew what he had done…and what still needed doing.
Have you ever wondered what a running engine does to a face?
Daddy found out the day he died.
All it took was one quick shove and slamming the hood down with my body weight. Then it was over except the screaming.
A Wheel A Rollin’ Harrison Kim
Ezekial saw a wheel a rollin’ way in the middle of the air. This one’s stopped except for a single fresh screw with a shining thread. All out there alone in the Universe rusty and dead on the outside. That single oily protuberance pokes out, that last forlorn hope. Curiosity as Ezekial the space walker bobs near, a tiny, suited soul examining this humungous rusty thing…. attached cameras beaming back to earth what is discovered. He’s a fly on the rust, a piece of white dust against the brown, as he uses X rays and close microscopic focus, as he burns and parts the surface with his blowtorch. We must find out what’s inside everything, it is like that with all of us humans always looking for more, thinks Ezekial, he was a suicide case after the death of his wife that’s why they sent him up there, a disposable volunteer for this risky job, and he wanted it! The change in his life a miracle, and now to go out doing something interesting, his brain implanted with new attitude changing electrodes, he’s life loving now but it’s for the whole planet not just himself. He will go out doing something important for everyone. His welding torch opens the pipe, funny the hole widens so easily, becoming the face of his now-dead wife. How miraculous! He peers closer and inside the face he sees his whole existence inside that eye everything from his birth to his death…as that eye blinks and covers him. His space suited body and soul absorbed by that shape shifting mass blinking just under the rust on the wheel. After Ezekial disappears the screw extends out further and becomes slightly shinier. It’s found one more drop of oil and Ezekial has joined his loving wife.
The Pipe Charles Gramlich
“See that rusty pipe?” I asked my victim.
“What? Why are you showing me that?” he asked in his irritating whine.
“Because I’m going to chain you to it and leave you there.”
“No! Why…would you do that?”
“Too many reasons to name,” I said.
“Please, you can’t. I’ll starve to death.”
My chuckle echoed. “Oh, you won’t have time to starve.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t see them but that pipe is full of microfractures. Should have been replaced years ago but it’s still in use. And every day…. Several times a day, they pump boiling water through it. Those fractures are going to give way any time now.”
“That’ll cook me! Burn me alive!”
“Preach it, brother.”
“I didn’t know you hated me so much.”
“Hate isn’t a strong enough word. I can’t take another day trapped inside your sad, putrid, useless form.”
“Please!”
“Shut it,” I said.
I looped the chains I’d brought around the pipe, then fitted the manacles on my wrists and snapped them closed. A few jerks against the constraints showed that I—that we—were solidly bound. And already the sound of boiling water gushed through the pipe toward me. Would this be the moment when the pipe ruptured? Or next time? Or the one after? The sooner the better.
I should never have possessed this disgusting sack of human flesh. I’d never imagined how clingy a desperate mortal could be. But once the flesh and muscle boil away, the bones won’t be able to hold me. This devil will go back to Hell. It hadn’t been that bad a place. This time, I’ll appreciate it more.”
“We are gathered here today to repent of our wicked ways. To free ourselves from our sins!” The booming voice from the pulpit reverberated around the small church. “We must pray! Pray for our salvation. We must cleanse our hearts and beg forgiveness. Only through prayer can we walk amongst the godly and the angels!” Murmurs of assent circled around the pews, but one man cleared his throat. “We’ve been doing that, preacher, and it hasn’t worked so far. We’ve been praying hard day and night and nothing has helped. I’m not sure God’s listening.” The parishioners’ gasps slithered through the church. The man ignored his neighbours and continued, “Maybe we aren’t worth saving, Preacher.” “Repent, sinner, repent!” The man sighed, and bowed his head, grumbling, “Prayer won’t save us, Preacher. I don’t think we’ll ever be free…”
The sun rose the next morning, casting its warm light over the burned-out, hollow shell of the church. Three years since the catastrophic fire, since the storm, when lightning flashed from the sky and ignited the blaze. And that fallen tree blocking the exit, well, it sealed the fate of those that died that day, that small gathering of the church elders. A bizarre tragedy the papers called the fire, and the oddness of it started the rumours. Talk of the Almighty’s vengeance against the hypocrites and sinners of the congregation. No denying that the dead, even the preacher, were all sinners, indulgent in greed, lust, envy, pride. Adulterers, thieves, and liars, wrapped in the facade of faith. No denying very few were sorry to see them buried six feet under. And of course, there were the stories of the ghostly voices coming from the ruins…
The spectral parishioners shuffled to their seats once again and the booming voice of the preacher shouted, “Repent!” They all bow their heads in useless prayer, unaware they were already in hell…
A hairline crack starts along the side—one of many. It branches out in fractal patterns; the shell begins to split. Where fractures spread, a layer of mucus thins as it’s pulled apart by the breach. Tiny claws puncture the soft membrane and its mewling escapes into the air for the first time.
This newborn pulls itself out of the egg from which it hatched and looks upon the unborn. Its head pivots left and right, pointedly observing the rest of the clutch. It then feels something new, a deep wanting within its belly.
Predatory eyes see heat radiating from thin shells. Its mouth waters with instinctual preparedness. One hesitant step forward leads to the increasing urge to feed, which it follows without restraint. It sniffs its brethren as its eyes widen with elation. One by one, it tears each spawn open and feasts upon their new, unrisen flesh.
Her shadow was a sneaky thing, not quite doing what it should. She couldn’t say how long it had been acting up. She had been slow to notice and slower to believe. The fleeting movements at the edge of her gaze were too easy to disregard, too easy to dismiss as imagination. When watched, it would settle back into its place, follow her movements with tame obedience.
Or at least, it did. Lately, it had been acting out more. Even as she watched it would twitch and struggle. She could feel it tug on her body as it fought for control, fought to lead her—where? She didn’t dare find out, for deep down, she already knew.
She felt the tug most strongly in the liminal spaces where death was closest. Near the fast-flowing traffic, near the echoing drop of a too-far fall, even in the rattle of a month’s worth of pills. Oh, the shadow pulled hard in those moments. It was a struggle to keep herself safely in the light, safely in control. Tiring, exhausting. But she kept up the tired struggle, knowing that giving in would be the last thing she would ever do.
It was a lonely little spot, deep in the heart of the downtown sprawl. A small green space, neglected and forgotten. Developers had enthusiastically thrown up towering office and condo buildings all around, but for some reason this one spot had been saved. There was no particular reason for its existence. The towers surrounding it meant the space got very little sunlight and the grass and shrubs were anemic and wilted. It was rarely visited.
I was new to the city and frankly, unhappy. I hated my new workplace and I hated the people. It was all so…corporate, with ‘colleagues’ scrambling over each other to smarm their way to higher positions. Networking. Circling back. Thinking outside the box. Faking it until making it. Meanwhile, the companies my corporation owned continued to pump pollutants into the environment and pay huge dividends to the shareholders. After six months in the place, I was finding myself becoming a socialist. I decided to stick at it, but desperately needed a safe space during the day, to rid myself of the toxins generated by my colleagues. It was completely by accident that I wandered down a neglected alleyway between two buildings, a lane no more than six feet wide. There, I found the tiny, overlooked patch of faded green which seemed to be the perfect place for me, an oasis of calm for my lunchtimes.
The first time I entered the park I quickly realized that I wasn’t alone, something which initially disappointed me.
The small grey man sat quietly on the single park bench. He didn’t appear to notice me, despite my smile and muttered greeting. He simply stared ahead, ignoring me completely.
When I tell this story to others, the first question I always get is ‘what do you mean by grey?’. That’s probably in your mind too. That was just the impression he gave off. His fair, his clothes, his face. They all seemed drained of color. Grey.
Over the next few weeks, whenever I had time to take a lunch break I made a point of going to the park. Every time I went, the small grey man was there. Every time he ignored me, much to my annoyance. I was by this time aware of the legendary rudeness of city dwellers, but this was too much. I didn’t necessarily expect a conversation or even a greeting, but to completely ignore me after all this time was just beyond the pale. There wasn’t even eye contact, the most basic of human responses.
I decided to do something about it. Rather than settling on a bench as far as possible from him, I stood directly in front of the grey man. He still failed to acknowledge my existence. Feeling slightly enraged, I bent to touch him on his shoulder in an attempt to, at the very least, move his gaze from the middle distance towards me, his constant companion. To my amazement, my hand passed through his shoulder and, unchecked, bumped into the wood of the bench. I have very little recollection of my actions after that, but I came back to reality to find myself standing in the street, surrounded by people, cars and noise. I almost blessed the concrete jungle I had previously disdained. I glanced back at the narrow alleyway leading back to the park and shuddered at my recent experience, realizing the grey man was a permanent inhabitant of the park. No wonder it was always empty.
Pen of the Damned 