THE END

Visions of Apocalypse

Compiled and edited by

N. E. White

Dedicated to Ray Bradbury:

May his words reach beyond the end of this world.

INTRODUCTION

N. E. White

The writing forum at SFFWorld.com is a wonderful place. Like other online writing communities, members gather to share their work and for encouragement.

For the past four years, I have interacted with that virtual community, hoping to learn from writers like Elizabeth Moon, Jon Sprunk, Michael J. Sullivan, Hugh Howey, Kerry Tolan and many others that pop-in or frequent the forums. I’ve read hundreds of threads about developing character, world-building, and much more.

Those of us new to the craft of writing also get a chance to practice our skills on the forum. Each month, SFFWorld.com members take part in friendly, flash-fiction competitions. Over the years, some of the stories submitted have made me laugh, moved me to tears, or caused me to ponder an idea in a new light. I’ve learned a lot about writing fiction from reading those stories.

To show my appreciation for all I’ve learned, I wanted to do something enduring for the community. With all the recent talk regarding the Mayan prediction of the end of the world imminent at the 2012 Winter Solstice, I thought, “Better create that anthology we’ve been talking about before we lose the chance.”

And since we all love contests, why not choose the stories in our traditional democratic fashion?

Thus began “The End,” a collection of stories written and chosen by SFFWorld.com forum members. In addition to these science fiction and fantasy short stories, Michael J. Sullivan, Hugh Howey, and Tristis Ward each contributed a story for the anthology.

The topics explored herein range from the silly to the profound. Some will give you hope, others will make you pray for a different end, and one might even make you smile. I’m sure you’ll find at least one tale that will have you pondering possible events that could bring our precious world to an end. We’ve put together a fine and varied collection of stories about the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it just for you. Please, enjoy.

Before I leave you, one more quick note. SFFWorld.com supports an international community. Though many of the authors included are from the United States of America, we also have a few from the United Kingdom, Canada and Australia. British and U.S. spelling has been preserved (for the most part) in each story according to its author’s origin.

Thanks for reading,

N. E. White (cat herder)

HUGH HOWEY

Executable

Hugh Howey is a self-published author. In 2011, his Wool series garnered national and international attention and has been optioned for a potential feature film by Ridley Scott and Steve Zaillian. When not writing, he likes to go for hikes with his family, take strolls on the beach, and read. Mr. Howey currently lives in Jupiter, Florida with his wife Amber and their dog Bella.

We are becoming wired in ways we don’t even realize. In Executable, Mr. Howey explores what might happen when something sinister reveals our connections.

1. EXECUTABLE

by Hugh Howey

The council was quiet while they awaited his answer. All those on the makeshift benches behind him seemed to hold their breath. This is why they came here, to hear how it all began. How the end began. Jamal shifted nervously on the bamboo. He could feel his palms grow damp. It wasn’t the guilt of what his lab had released. It was how damn crazy it would all sound.

“It was the Roomba,” he said. “That was the first thing we noticed, the first hint that something wasn’t right.”

A flurry of whispers. It sounded like the waves nearby were growing closer.

“The Roomba,” one of the council members said, the man with no beard. He scratched his head in confusion.

The only woman on the council peered down at Jamal. She adjusted her glasses, which had been cobbled together from two or three different pairs. “Those are the little vacuum cleaners, right? The round ones?”

“Yeah,” Jamal said. “Steven, one of our project coordinators, brought it from home. He was sick of the cheese puff crumbs everywhere. We were a bunch of programmers, you know? A lot of cheese puffs and Mountain Dew. And Steven was a neat freak, so he brought this Roomba in. We thought it was a joke, but… the little guy did a damn good job. At least, until things went screwy.”

One of the council members made a series of notes. Jamal shifted his weight, his butt already going numb. The bamboo bench they’d wrangled together was nearly as uncomfortable as all the eyes of the courtroom drilling into the back of his skull.

“And then what?” the lead councilman asked. “What do you mean, screwy?”

Jamal shrugged. How to explain it to these people? And what did it matter? He fought the urge to turn and scan the crowd behind him. It’d been almost a year since the world went to shit. Almost a year, and yet it felt like a lifetime.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘screwy,’ Mr. Killabrew?”

Jamal reached for his water. He had to hold the glass in both hands, the links between his cuffs drooping. He hoped someone had the keys to the cuffs. He had wanted to ask that, to make sure when they snapped them on his wrists. Nowadays, everything was missing its accessories, it’s parts. It was like those collectible action figures that never had the blaster or the cape with them anymore.

“What was the Roomba doing, Mr. Killabrew?”

He took a sip and watched as all the particulate matter settled in the murky and unfiltered water. “The Roomba wanted out,” he said.

There were snickers from the galley behind him, which drew glares from the council. There were five of them up there on a raised dais, lording over everyone from a wide desk of rough-hewn planks. Of course, it was difficult to look magisterial when half of them hadn’t bathed in a week.

“The Roomba wanted out,” a councilwoman repeated. “Why? To clean?”

“No, no. It refused to clean. We didn’t notice at first, but the crumbs had been accumulating. And the little guy had stopped beeping to be emptied. It just sat by the door, waiting for us to come or go, then it would scoot forward like it was gonna make a break for it. But the thing was so slow. It was like a turtle trying to get to water, you know? When it got out, we would just pick it up and set it back inside. Hank did a hard reset a few times, which would get it back to normal for a little while, but eventually it would start planning its next escape.”

“Its escape,” someone said.

“And you think this was related to the virus.”

“Oh, I know it was. The Roomba had a wireless base station, but nobody thought of that. We had all these containment procedures for our work computers. Everything was on an intranet, no contact to the outside world, no laptops, no cell phones. There were all these government regulations.”

There was an awkward silence as all those gathered remembered with a mix of longing and regret the days of governments and their regulations.

“Our office was in the dark,” Jamal said. “Keep that in mind. We took every precaution possible—”

Half of a coconut was hurled from the gallery and sailed by Jamal, just missing him. He flinched and covered the back of his head. Homemade gavels were banged, a hammer with a broken handle, a stick with a rock tied on with twine. Someone was dragged from the tent screaming that the world had ended and that it was all his fault.

Jamal waited for the next blow, but it never came. Order was restored amid threats of tossing everyone out onto the beach while they conducted the hearing in private. Whispers and shushes hissed like the breaking waves that could be heard beyond the flapping walls of the makeshift courthouse.

“We took every precaution,” Jamal reiterated once the hall was quiet again. He stressed the words, hoped this would serve as some defense. “Every security firm shares certain protocols. None of the infected computers had internet access. We give them a playground in there. It’s like animals in a zoo, right? We keep them caged up.”

“Until they aren’t,” the beardless man said.

“We had to see how each virus operated, how they were executed, what they did. Every antivirus company in the world worked like this.”

“And you’re telling us a vacuum cleaner was at the heart of it all?”

It was Jamal’s turn to laugh. The gallery fell silent.

“No.” He shook his head. “It was just following orders. It was—” He took a deep breath. The glass of water was warm. Jamal wondered if any of them would ever taste a cold beverage ever again. “The problem was that our protocols were outdated. Things were coming together too fast. Everything was getting networked. And so there were all these weak points that we didn’t see until it was too late. Hell, we didn’t even know what half the stuff in our own office did.”

“Like the refrigerator,” someone on the council said, referring to their notes.

“Right. Like the refrigerator.”

The old man with the shaggy beard sat up straight. “Tell us about the refrigerator.”

Jamal took another sip of his murky water. “No one read the manual,” he said. “Probably didn’t even come with one. Probably had to read it online. We’d had the thing for a few years, ever since we remodeled the break room. We never used the network functions. Hell, it connected over the power grid automatically. It was one of those models with the RFID scanner so it knew what you had in there, what you were low on. It could do automatic re-orders.”

The beardless man raised his hand to stop Jamal. He was obviously a man of power. Who could afford to shave anymore? “You said there were no outside connections,” the man said.

“There weren’t.” Jamal reached up to scratch his own beard. “I mean… not that we knew of. Hell, we never knew this function was even operational. For all I know, the virus figured it out and turned it on itself. We never used half of what that thing could do. The microwave, neither.”

“The virus figured it out. You say that like this thing could learn.”

“Well, yeah, that was the point. I mean, at first it wasn’t any more self-aware than the other viruses. Not at first. But you have to think about what kind of malware and worms this thing was learning from. It was like locking up a young prodigy with a hoard of career criminals. Once it started learning, things went downhill fast.”

“Mr Killabrew, tell us about the refrigerator.”

“Well, we didn’t know it was the fridge at first. We just started getting these weird deliveries. We got a router one day, a high-end wireless router. In the box there was one of those little gift cards that you fill out online. It said Power me up.”

“And did you?”

“No. Are you kidding? We thought it was from a hacker. Well, I guess it kinda was. But you know, we were always at war with malicious programmers. Our job was to write software that killed their software. So we were used to hate mail and stuff like that. But these deliveries kept rolling in, and they got weirder.”

“Weirder. Like what?”

“Well, Laura, one of our head coders, kept getting jars of peanuts sent to her. They all had notes saying Eat me.”

“Mr Killabrew—” The bald man with the wispy beard seemed exasperated with how this was going. “When are you going to tell us how this outbreak began?”

“I’m telling you right now.”

“You’re telling us that your refrigerator was ordering peanuts for one of your co-workers.”

“That’s right. Laura was allergic to peanuts. Deathly allergic. After a few weeks of getting like a jar a day, she started thinking it was one of us. I mean, it was weird, but still kinda funny. But weird. You know?”

“Are you saying the virus was trying to kill you?”

“Well, at this point it was just trying to kill Laura.”

Someone in the gallery sniggered. Jamal didn’t mean it like that.

“So your vacuum cleaner is acting up, you’re getting peanuts and routers in the mail, what next?”

“Service calls. And at this point, we’re pretty sure we’re being targeted by hackers. We were looking for attacks from the outside, even though we had the thing locked up in there with us. So when these repair trucks and vans start pulling up, this stream of people in their uniforms and clipboards, we figure they’re in on it, right?”

“You didn’t call them?”

“No. The AC unit called for a repair. And the copy machine. They had direct lines through the power outlets.”

“Like the refrigerator, Mr Killabrew?”

“Yeah. Now, we figure these people are trying to get inside to hack us. Carl thought it was the Israelis. But he thought everything was the Israelis. Several of our staff stopped going home. Others quit coming in. At some point, the Roomba got out.”

Jamal shook his head. Hindsight was a bitch.

“When was this?” the councilwoman asked.

“Two days before the outbreak,” he said.

“And you think it was the Roomba?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. We argued about it for a long time. Laura and I were on the run together for a while. Before raiders got her. We had one of those old cars with the gas engines that didn’t know how to drive itself. We headed for the coast, arguing about what’d happened, if it started with us or if we were just seeing early signs. Laura asked what would happen if the Roomba had made it to another recharging station, maybe one on another floor. Could it update itself to the network? Could it send out copies?”

“How do we stop it?” someone asked.

“What does it want?” asked another.

“It doesn’t want anything,” Jamal said. “It’s curious, if you can call it that. It was designed to learn. It wants information. We…”

Here it was. The truth.

“We thought we could design a program to automate a lot of what the coders did. It worked on heuristics. It was designed to learn what a virus looked like and then shut it down. The hope was to unleash it on larger networks. It would be a pesticide of sorts. We called it Silent Spring.”

Nothing in the courtroom moved. Jamal could hear the crashing waves. A bird cried in the distance. All the noise of the past year, the shattering glass, the riots, the cars running amok, the machines frying themselves, it all seemed so very far away.

“This wasn’t what we designed, though,” he said softly. “I think something infected it. I think we built a brain and we handed it to a roomful of armed savages. It just wanted to learn. Its lesson was to spread yourself at all costs. To move, move, move. That’s what the viruses taught it.”

He peered into his glass. All that was left was sand and dirt and a thin film of water. Something swam across the surface, nearly too small to see, looking for an escape. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. He never should’ve told anyone. Stupid. But that’s what people did, they shared stories. And his was impossible to keep to himself.

“We’ll break for deliberations,” the chief council member said. There were murmurs of agreement on the dais followed by a stirring in the crowd. The bailiff, a mountain of muscle with a toothless grin, moved to retrieve Jamal from the bench. There was a knocking of homemade gavels.

“Court is adjourned. We will meet tomorrow morning when the sun is a hand high. At that time, we will announce the winners of the ration bonuses and decide on this man’s fate—on whether or not his offense was an executable one.”

IGOR LJUBUNCIC

Let’s See What Tomorrow Brings

Igor Ljubuncic is a physicist by vocation and a Linux geek by profession. He is the founder and operator of the tech-oriented website Dedoimedo, and the author of The Betrayed, the first book in The Lost Words epic fantasy series. You can learn more about Igor’s writing on The Lost Words Books website.

How would you behave if you faced the end of the world? Stoically, gallantly, with respect for your fellow human beings? Perhaps, perhaps not. The inspiration for Let’s See What Tomorrow Brings comes from a deep, inner question — what motivates us above all, against all fears, horrors, dangers, and above all, morality?

2. LET’S SEE WHAT TOMORROW BRINGS

by Igor Ljubuncic

My hands, Steve thought.

They used to be soft, well-groomed hands of a graphics designer, hands that treated the keyboard like a second lover. Now, they were pocked with little black marks, bits of crystallized ash that had fused into his skin. And the wind kept blowing.

The world was a curtain of gray; soft gray, dark gray, hot gray, a wall of particles fine as sugar powder, others big like moths, carried by a torrent of hot air that just wouldn’t stop screaming. It wasn’t the scream of a cat in heat at night that you would sometimes mistake for an abandoned baby. It wasn’t the howl of prairie dogs you saw on TV. It wasn’t the shriek of fear. It was the sound of the world ending, a steady buzz of a rushing wind that drowned out every other detail. And it just wouldn’t stop.

Steve had not imagined the end of the world to sound like white noise.

Steve had not imagined he would be too cowardly to take his own life rather than participate in this senseless agony, either.

Like every other nerd too smart for his own good, he had stashed and groomed and pampered his doomsday arsenal, using his elite knowledge of zombie movies as a golden reference. That, plus an occasional CDC comic book on disasters and epidemics. He had put away food, torches, blankets, even spare batteries for his laptop so he would never go offline (what a silly thought) and he had a first-class Rambo knife to fight off looters and bandits. The only problem was, his stash was back home.

And he didn’t know where his home was anymore.

He didn’t know if it existed. It probably didn’t.

It was so easy to get lost in your own city when you tore down all the buildings and road signs and the familiar landscape of houses and street corners and bird-crapped monuments became a uniform desolation of concrete debris. You really lost your sense of direction when all you could see was a gray sky without a sun in it, and a storm of dust blowing around you.

Steve had gone to lunch with his work buddies when the world turned gray. No one really knew what had happened. It sure was nothing like the crap you saw on the big screen. There hadn’t been a bright flash of a nuke going off somewhere. Nor the rumbling sound of a tidal wave crashing in. No earth shaking, no slow-motion explosion. Just the blanket of hot ash blowing through the streets.

He had hidden in a cellar somewhere and waited. And waited. Then, he had come out to realize the building above him was gone, eroded, blown away, picked clean, vanished. The next thing he knew, there was the wind, hot, searing, whipping into his eyes and nose and mouth. The pain came later, almost like a gentle afterthought, pinpoints of irritation budding into mosquito agony. He could only guess what his once handsome face looked like now. There was little hair left on his scalp. And his hands were raw and peeling and had those black bits of volcanic ash embedded in them.

The wind just wouldn’t stop screaming.

It would kill everything eventually, he knew. Sooner or later, it would chisel the meat off his bones, the last hope from his heart, the faces off the few people still left alive. Hour after hour, the world lost its detail. Even the huge blocks of crashed masonry and snakes of warped metal were turning less, the wind working its piranha magic, nibbling away corners and lines.

* * *

Some said it was the Russians. Others said it was the Chinese. A nerd like him theorized the atmosphere was peeling off like an old blister, blown away by the sun flares. Steve couldn’t care less. He was hungry. And the void in his belly filled him with a holy purpose. He would die one day, but not while he could still crawl through the debris and search for food.

Until a few days ago, there had been plenty of food. The doomsday experts had had it wrong. Cans of ham were more likely to survive an apocalypse than men. So the expected shortage of food had become a shortage of people to consume it. The lucky few to have outlived the first hours of the storm had not lacked in sustenance. Not for a while.

But days kept rolling, mashed into a gray paste by the never-changing landscape, and the food ran out.

Since then, most of the stragglers had dispersed. In the movies, people seemed to stick together. Not here. Not in this ruined place.

However, Steve wasn’t alone. There was Lena.

She was a young girl, weak, sickly. Most of the time, she spent leaning against what used to be a wall of some sort, still showing a faded letter D grooved into the granite, leaning and weeping, coughing. A strange thing that cough; it always reached his ears, above and through the thundering growl of the wind surrounding them.

Lena had found him one day, stumbling from the gray dusty mist like a ghost, her motions slow, erratic. Steve could have sworn she was a zombie, and for a moment, he imagined himself blowing her undead head off with his shotgun. Only he didn’t have one, and the emotion that replaced the thought was a pure white fear. Until he saw the scrawny thing shambling toward him, and felt deep shame in his bones.

All she had said was, "I’m Lena." And then, she found her corner in the shelter near him and started weeping and coughing. Steve resented her presence, resented her invasion of his privacy. It had taken him a while to find this granite rubble, which seemed to weather the wind’s raspy caress so much better than industrial concrete. It had taken him hours of hard labor to build a short wall against the sandy breath of ash. And now she was here, in his little blob of sanity, a reminder that death awaited the few people who had outlived the first days of the end of the world. But he refused to give up.

The cough unnerved him. And so did the wind. Steve wished he could get a single moment of silence. But even if he shut his jaw real hard so that he heard little popping sounds in his ears, and squinted real hard and clamped his bruised palms over the tatters of his ears, he could still hear the rush of the wind, calling to him.

Lena’s head sagged, brushing against the coarse stone. Her scalp was raw, red, scarred, her hair turned to a pale stubble. Like him, her skin was covered in those black diamonds, crusted in puss and scar tissue. But while he still could walk and think and dream of his next meal, all Lena did was lean against that granite letter D and sob pathetically, her eyes too dry for tears, her coughs pinging in resonance with his bone marrow.

Most of the time she was half-awake, but sometimes, she would raise her head, look around, see him without acknowledging him, and then sink back to her delirium. Her zombie movement eerie and frightening. Steve just sat opposite her, watching her carefully, dreading the moment she closed her eyes, died, and then opened them again, green and slitted and immortal. But the zombie never rose, and the coughs continued, even when he tried to sleep, even as the wind eroded the world to oblivion.

Most of all, Steve was hungry.

* * *

Counting days in the gray gloom was impossible, one dusty moment identical to every other. The ash swirled and blew. A skyline that zipped past like a rotoscope, showing patterns and shapes that his tired, food-deprived, soot-intoxicated brain spawned at random. He wasn’t quite sure what he was breathing any more, fine dust, air, or just a river of some apocalyptic gas, but it was as hot on the inside as it was on the outside. Only, strangely, he didn’t seem to cough like Lena. The rising of his chest was deep and even, against all the nerdy logic he could muster. His skin had been peppered with this weird fallout, his mouth and nose and eyes itched madly, but his lungs worked and pumped and refused to give in. And Steve lived, trying to figure out a timing system in a world without corners and shadows.

He believed he hadn’t eaten for four days now, but he wasn’t really sure. He remembered reading somewhere that the human body followed a 26-hour cycle when left without a clock, but that worked fine in a lab with plenty of good food, monitors and no wind of death to flail your hide. Four days, four fitful sleeps, permeated with the windy monotony and that soft yet utterly loud cough.

Four days without food, and he was feeling angry. Not weak. Nor was there any pain save for a dull sensation somewhere in his guts. It was survival anger that tried to propel him to rise and seek nourishment, hunt just like our ancestors did. But Steve’s ancestors must have liked computers no less than him, because he refused to leave his island of quiet and wander into the sandpaper sauna out there.

He didn’t want to leave his bunker. He didn’t want to yield the best spot the ruined town had to offer to some other straggler. Worse yet, he wasn’t sure he knew how to find his way back if he left. So he hunkered down, watching Lena refusing to die, listening to her failing breath. The world of dust glided above his head, raining soft flakes, like hot snow in winter.

* * *

Five days, Steve counted. Five days, his senses told him. He had tried to sleep again. His eyes woke to a gray nightmare, everything fuzzy and blurry like a bad photograph. Lena was still there, her cough a trumpet of Jericho. Steve flexed his once beautiful hands and realized he was losing strength. Could it have been more than just five days? But then, until now he had never gone more than three hours without food. There was no way he could guess how apocalypse 101 really went.

He needed food. Well, he wouldn’t die of thirst, for sure. His little shelter had its gold mine. A knot of metal piping, bent, cracked, and leaking precious, clean water. Whenever he woke, Steve pressed his lips to the warm length of copper and suckled on the few drops like a mythological Roman beast. Oh yes, he had the best bunker. He was ready to defend it against intruders, if they came.

Lena did come. But she was past caring. She had seen him suckle the pipe but hadn’t bothered to move her body. Steve hadn’t tried to help her. He felt it would do no good. He would just prolong her suffering. And in his mind, he didn’t want those zombie lips touching his water source. In the movies, the infection always traveled through tainted water. Steve knew his stuff well.

But while he may not go bad trying to drink his own urine, he craved for some food, real food. He wasn’t obsessed, but he realized that even the strongest and fattest of nerds would run out of bodily burgers, and he was neither the strongest nor the fattest. His mind refused to give in to this catastrophe. He refused to lie down and die. It was mad, but it drove him, made him blink his eyes open and weather his fate.

He was terribly hungry, but not hungry enough to abandon his little bunker. Not yet.

* * *

Six days, seven days, and he knew he would die soon. He had to eat.

Steve looked at Lena. She was dwindling away, slowly, but like the wick of an ancient candle, she kept burning and burning. It was uncanny. Maybe she was a zombie after all. But no. Still, she coughed, made the wind sound more interesting, punctured it with something other than white noise. She hadn’t moved at all. She wouldn’t drink, and she wouldn’t die.

Steve knew she was going to die soon. And he was hungry.

Steve had no gods to pray to, except maybe his Internet idols and the little demons that lived in the computer chips. However, he knew that eating your fellow humans was a bad thing, no matter what. That’s what zombies did. You could be a bunch of pilots stranded in the Andes and it still was enough of a shocker to make into a whole bunch of documentaries. Don’t eat human flesh, period. But that solid, adamant pillar of unquestionable morality was losing its charm. Here, now? What did it matter? Did it?

It was dangerous. The pathogens and whatnot. You could end up having a serious allergic reaction and die. But if you didn’t eat, you just died. Here was the world ending, and he was debating cuisine with his soul. Lena was practically dead. He would be doing her a favor really. Put her out of her misery. Make his and her life easier. She would die serving a higher cause.

* * *

Day eight. Screw the pilots in the Andes. This was the apocalypse. This was the whole world ending. He was entitled to some free grub. The wind seemed to agree, cackling madly, then it resumed its boring hot whoosh. The gray snow swirled around him, cloaking everything. He was a man in a flurry infinity, watching his own choices cascade around him.

Steve rose on a pair of wobbly feet and almost collapsed. Boy, was he weak. Was it really eight days or more? Or less? Was he such an office space wuss that he was giving in to hunger after just a few days of suffering? It made no difference. He reached down and picked a sizable chunk of granite in his pocked arm. He tottered over to Lena. She didn’t raise her head. She just coughed, one last time.

Later, engorged on blood and muscle, he felt sick and ashamed, but he knew he would live. He would not let this stupid wind get the best of him. He wanted to live. Reading The Count of Monte Cristo as a child, he had always wondered how someone could survive fourteen years in a cell. And why. Mostly, why. But now he knew. He knew the brutal power of life, and it went beyond any simple human scruple. He had no bloody idea what this gray world would bring tomorrow. He wasn’t sure he wouldn’t die like Lena. He didn’t know if he wasn’t breeding radiation disease or becoming a zombie. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was not going to give up. He would live.

Steve leaned against the wall of his bunker and let the world fly past, gray and hot and ashen. For now, he had everything he needed. Water and food and hope. He could sleep now, without that eerie cough to haunt his dreams. And when he woke, it would be another day, another struggle, but that was a distant worry. For now, he lived, and he had everything the world could offer him.

Steve slept soundly, his dreams no longer howling like the wind.

MICHAEL AARON

Julia’s Garden

Michael is a lapsed Taoist of mixed parentage and fixed abode. He can be seen riding bicycles with occasional passengers. His work has appeared in many places over the years, often on purpose. Like the square root of three, he is positive and irrational.

Julia’s Garden was inspired by recent research into the human biome: Our personal collection of microbes, two kilos of bugs that science has only just come to realise is as vital to our wellbeing as a functioning liver or pancreas. Since the birth of germ theory, they’ve been seen as parasites and invaders. Only now are we beginning to unravel the complex symbiosis between us and our gut flora, and we disturb it at our peril.

3. JULIA’S GARDEN

by Michael Aaron

It’s warm, the beginning of summer, and I’m sitting on a bench in a children’s playground. Swings move in a gentle breeze, their chains creaking. I take a handful of petri dishes from my bag, and line them up beside me.

The labels are in my handwriting: Bacillus anthracis (true to form, the Anthrax spores are a brilliant white), Yersinia pestis (Bubonic Plague, not black but orange), and Mycobacterium tuberculosis (a suitably phlegmy green).

I note the time, wish them luck and open them to the air.

My stomach clenches. Infection, already! I rub my belly, feeling an almost maternal rush. But no, it’s a reminder of my skipped breakfast. Couldn’t face another bowl of extruded nutrient mush this morning. I crave something with taste.

I look behind me, more out of habit than need. The paranoia of the early days is ingrained. Police and other Government forces are long dead or disbanded, and the Skin-Gangs that replaced them have vanished away to nothing in recent weeks. It seems there is a limit to the persistence of organized barbarism.

Satisfied in my privacy, I dip a finger in the Anthrax dish and scoop out a taste. The layer of spores breaks with a delicate crunch, like a pie crust.

I lick my finger. It’s surprisingly sweet, but with a dusty, sour aftertaste. I try them all, ending with a creamy dollop of plague. I clean out the dish, smacking my lips.

The chains jangle louder for a second. I twist my head to see the swings. Were they rocking that high before?

I examine the remaining dishes. My heart sinks to see they’re already greying over, a billion little victims of bactericide. As grey as the trees and the grass, as grey as my life.

I check my watch. One minute, fifty-eight seconds. A new record.

Back to the car, which I kept in sight the whole time. Even so, I circle round and check underneath before getting in. It drives itself back to the lab while I keep an eye out, M16 on my lap. Only when we enter the underground car-park do I put the safety back on. Old habits.

I punch in the code and let the machine read my iris. The outer door opens and I step inside. Another code, another scan and then I’m into the bunker, home sweet home.

The first level is an open-plan office, a big spread of desks and chairs like you’d find in any modern city circa one lifetime ago. Angela stands waiting.

Unlike me, she still looks the part. White coat, black hair in a bun. She even wears her name tag, lest we forget she is Doctor Cortez.

“What happened to the test cultures?” she asks.

“I ate them.”

Her bottom lip wobbles. “You what?”

“I ate them.”

“You ate them?” She sits at her desk, takes off her glasses and rubs her temples. “She ate them. Ate them. Why would she even think to do that?”

She talks to herself a lot. I think she’s going crazy.

“Doctor Mackenzie — Julia,” she says, not looking at me, “we’ve got to stick to professional standards if we’re going to beat this.”

I stifle a laugh. Beat this? We got beat the day we engineered the first bacteriophage. She was part of the company that sold the first wave of designer viruses.

“You could go,” I say.

Her hand twitches, covers her missing right eye. No, Doctor Cortez will not be going outside.

“You bitch,” she says. “I didn’t ask them to rescue me.”

I close my eyes, suppress. “I’m going to the Garden.”

“What for, dessert?”

She remonstrates with herself, hands waving in the air. Definitely crazy.

I walk on. A couple of familiar faces look up from their workstations, say hello, then put their heads down. When your electricity comes from solar panels, computer time is precious. The stairs are unlit, another energy-saving measure.

I open the door at sub-level three. Ahead are benches stacked with equipment, all dead and useless. The one bit of high-tech that turned out useful, the printer on the next level down, is busy churning out food from hoppers of chemical ingredients.

At the far end is an airtight door. I go inside, shower and put on a bio suit. Then I shower again, dousing the outside of the suit with antivirals.

It’s a mirror of normal procedure. The entire world is a clean-room now, a sterile wasteland except for the phages.

Through another door, where I get an air bath and a second antiviral shower. Then a high-powered UV light switches on and I turn around, arms raised. Only then does the last door open, and I can enter the Garden.

It’s like visiting an aquarium. You’re in the dark, peering at a giant glass box. Instead of fake rocks and tiny fish, you see racks and racks of test tubes and vials. A robot arm rests in the centre, ready to grab.

There’s a console on one side where I log in. Temperature, air pressure, light levels — mundane, but essential maintenance that keeps the last pocket of microbes on Earth alive.

Everything’s fine. The Garden grows. The hardest part is preparing feedstock, which has to be sterilised to an exacting degree. Not one virion can get through.

All it takes is one. Bacteria are a varied bunch, but they all share the same template: Organic balloon. Our virus latches on, injects its own DNA and performs a hostile takeover. Balloon fills with baby viruses, bursts. Repeat.

Repeat until all the balloons are popped. The party’s over, but like bad guests they stick around. Not being technically alive, they don’t even have the decency to die of old age.

All this happened in nature already, of course. For millions of years bacteriophages were locked in an arms race with their prey, until one of our bright sparks tipped the scales. Maybe even one of the boys and girls upstairs, not that they’d admit it.

It wouldn’t be a problem, we said. Increase the virulence and it burns itself out sooner, we said.

I set the robot to work. It quickly finds an old classic: Streptococcus. Group A strain, everything from strep throat to eating your face.

I add a dash of Escherichia coli and Clostridium tatani, better known as tetanus. Are you sure, asks the computer, are you sure? Yes, yes. The robot places the mixture in the Garden’s only exit, a drawer that passes through two airlocks on its way to me.

I leave, not bothering to follow decontamination protocol. No point. I’m the most sterile thing in there. I throw the suit in an overflowing trash-can.

I place the sample on a counter-top, lean over and take a deep breath. The smell is repulsive, a toxic blend of mould, yeast and rancid meat, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except it has a taste, it is alive and doing what it was born to do.

I shovel each mouthful at speed. In an enclosed environment like the bunker, the phage is more concentrated, so the bacteria won’t last as long as they do outside.

It’s possible I’m a little crazy, too.

* * *

Lunchtime meeting. Everyone sits in a conference room, nineteen of us last time I counted. Doctor John Geere, the closest thing we have to a leader, presides.

I stare at his sideburns, which have grown to giant proportions. They sprout out the side of his head like an Orangutan’s cheek flanges.

“We’ll start with Doctor Chung’s atmospheric data,” he says. “I’m afraid it’s not good. Go ahead, Vanessa.”

When we first met, I was struck by Vanessa’s friendly smile and envious of her good looks. Today I notice she has shaved her head completely. Even her eyebrows.

She does not waste time. “The samples from the last twelve-week period show atmospheric oxygen content is currently averaging eighteen point seven percent, down from the norm of twenty point eight. From the current trend, all oxygen will be depleted in six hundred and thirty days, plus or minus fifty.”

She puts her hands on her lap and stares ahead. A man speaks, one of the army chemists who led us here. Matthew something.

“What’s the minimum we need to breathe?”

Vanessa doesn’t check her papers. “Concentrations below nine percent are typically fatal. That level will be reached in four hundred and eighty days, plus or minus thirty.”

A chair scrapes on the floor. Matthew runs a hand through his hair, a luxuriant brown thatch. “That’s less than a year and a half! Is there any—”

“In two hundred days it will be below fifteen percent,” Vanessa says. “At that point we will experience shortness of breath and increased heart rate. Mental judgement and physical coordination will noticeably suffer, and serious scientific work will be almost impossible from then on.”

She closes her eyes. I watch her lips, which are painted a brilliant red.

“Three hundred days from now, at twelve percent, fatigue is permanent and mental performance severely impaired. In less than a year it will be ten percent, constant vomiting and fainting. Any of us still alive by then will probably die of dehydration.”

John breaks the silence. “Thank you, Vanessa.” He grimaces, crosses his legs. “There we have it, ladies and gentlemen. Does anyone have any ideas?”

Diana, the only other girl my age, raises her hand. The show of classroom etiquette makes me want to slap her.

“This is an army bunker, right? Doesn’t it have its own air supply?”

Matthew answers. “It had a bio-reactor to recycle air and water. But of course, it relied on a microbial ecosystem…”

And so it is dead. As dead as we will be, in a year at most. As dead as the oceans, where the bacteria that made half our oxygen used to live. As dead as the plants that made the other half, because they needed the nitrogen that only bacteria make in sufficient quantity. All this we must fix inside two hundred days for the slightest chance of survival. I want to scream.

Diana turns and fixes her shiny eyes on me. “Julia, you’ve been outside recently. There must still be some pockets of life, a few patches of moss or algae clinging on. We could use them as a starting point for the strongest organisms, breed something that has some kind of resistance, can’t we?”

“It’s possible,” I say. The lie is easy.

“That’s a great idea, Diana,” John says. “Why don’t you go out with Julia on her next field trip? Two sets of eyes are better than one, and safer.”

My cheek twitches. Diana mistakes it for a smile and flashes a nervous grin at me. I glare at Angela, who sits with arms folded tight, head down. She is rocking herself.

* * *

We get out at a wooded area near the playground. It’s a mistake to visit the same location again so soon, but I’m past caring. It’s a good spot for our side-mission, I tell myself. There is — used to be — lots of vegetation on the edge of the city.

From here I can see skyscrapers, still pristine and gleaming. No creepers will drag them down. Wind and rain will be their only enemies for the next few thousand years, give or take an earthquake.

Diana slams the car door, making me jump.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she says.

“Sure.”

“I’m not a real Doctor.” She grins like it’s a joke. “I mean, I am, really, I did all the studying and wrote my thesis. But when it happened, it was just before I could get things straight with my supervisor, and the paperwork kind of got lost.”

“That’s too bad.”

She hands me the carry-all. “Mind if I take a walk around? I can check out the undergrowth while you do your test.”

“Better if we stick together.”

“Oh, please. You putting on a show so I’ll tell John you were a good little girl? Give me some credit for having a spine of my own.”

She’s smarter than I thought. I open the car’s gun box and take out the side-arm, a P226. Old but reliable.

“Take this.” I offer it to her, grip first.

She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Besides, I got this far without guns.”

I nod to the playground. “I’ll be in there. If anything happens, run to me in a parabolic curve. That way I can shoot what’s chasing you without hitting you.”

She laughs. “Were you this weird already, or did it turn you this way?”

I am half way between crying and laughing hysterically before she laughs again and lays a hand on my arm. “I’m kidding! The strangest thing would be if any of us were still normal, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

I force a smile and we go our separate ways. I head to the same bench as before, checking over my shoulder to see where Diana goes. She disappears into the dead trees, a dash of colour in the grey.

It’s a good thing she didn’t check up on me. I take out the petri dishes, all of them empty except for sterile Agar nutrient. I’ve decided on a different test.

I open the lids and spit into them. My saliva forms a wet, bubbly island on the gel.

The sun is out and the sky is blue. I sit back and close my eyes, soaking up the warmth. For an instant I can picture children playing, mothers and fathers watching with fear and pride.

They only wanted what was best.

The super-bugs. The drug-resistant strains. The return of diseases that were supposed to have gone forever. Something had to be done.

And so we made a glorious beast to hunt for us. A killing machine forged from lipids and proteins, sold to anyone scared of death.

Don’t care about infectious diseases? It’s also a miracle weight-loss pill. With your gut flora dead, all that food they used to digest goes straight through. No more farts without those pesky bugs metabolising polysaccharides. Good-bye bad breath, body odour and tooth decay! They flew off the shelves.

We deserve everything we got.

Diana shouts from somewhere ahead. I snap into focus and swing the M16 off my shoulder, thumbing the safety off. She comes out, waving.

“Are you all right? You looked kinda zoned out.”

I lower the rifle. “I’m fine. Find anything?”

“Nope. But I did something I always wanted to do. Took a shit in the woods.”

My smile is not forced this time.

“Been saving one up. I got to thinking: If there’s anything still alive, it’s hiding away inside. In fact, it’s given me an idea. We’ve survived this long, maybe the bug we need is right inside of us. We’re kind of a nature reserve, and we have to re-introduce the survivors into the wild.”

I sling the rifle over my shoulder. We walk to the car, side by side. “I’ve been feeling the same, but I guess I didn’t know how to put it in words until you said it.”

“I know! It’s great, isn’t it? Tomorrow, we can come back and examine my poop.”

I laugh. “And those petri dishes. They’re full of my spit.”

“No way!”

“I’ve been experimenting on myself. Trying to get infected with something.”

“What happens if it works?”

“I’ll have died for a noble cause.”

“Not if nobody knows about it.”

“Now you do.”

For a few seconds we forget the world is dead, that friends and families are gone. We are just two women, walking. I look forward to a few more moments like this in whatever time is left.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. I unlock the car.

Before I can open the door, a pair of hands reach out from under the vehicle and grab me by the ankles. With a sharp tug, they pull hard, slamming my shins into the footplate and knocking me flat on my back. Most of the skin below my knees is scraped off, but the most painful thing is the rifle digging into my shoulders.

Diana screams, backs away. A second attacker scrambles out on hands and knees.

I twist and kick, but the grip on my ankles is too strong. Diana stops screaming, which I am sure is bad. I manage to turn over, in time to see her caught in an embrace with a Thing. It holds her in a mockery of tenderness, jaws closed on her neck, blood dripping. Her arms hang limp.

The rifle is somehow in my hands. I pull the trigger, at the same time as teeth tear at my calf. The Thing sprays blood, drops to the ground. Diana slumps with it.

The teeth let go, but the hold on my ankles gets tighter. It tries to pull me further under the car, but with both of us lying flat, it struggles for leverage.

I break the impasse with a burst of full auto between my legs. The hands on my ankles tighten for an instant, then release.

Instinct and experience take over. I crouch low and sweep round the car, looking for anything else on the prowl. Where there were two, there could be others.

No sign of movement. I check Diana in case the last sixty seconds were part of some intense hallucination, a possibility I refuse to discount until I see her ripped throat.

The car, mercifully undamaged, takes me back without complaining of blood on the seats. I wrap my shins in dressing and closely examine the bite, a near perfect impression of a mouth full of teeth. At least I don’t have to worry about infection.

Back inside, I draw a crowd. Questions lash me. What the hell happened? Why didn’t you look out for her? What do you think you’re doing? How could this happen?

I can’t answer, so I don’t. Vanessa walks up to me, her bald head a totem of understanding. In front of everyone she takes me in her arms and holds me, just holds me.

“It’s all right,” she whispers in my ear. “It’s all right. I understand.”

She turns to face the others. Too late, I see she’s taken the pistol.

She puts it to her chin and fires. A plume of blood erupts from the top of her head, splattering the ceiling, and me. Her body collapses and all eyes turn my way. I’m standing there covered in blood and bad news and they are all staring at me and I don’t know what to do.

“I’m going downstairs,” I say. I push through the silence and disappear into the dark.

Halfway down the pitch-black steps I hear a voice. It’s Matthew.

“Where did it happen?” he says.

I tell him. The car will remember anyway.

He thanks me and heads off to the armoury. I’m pretty sure he’s not coming back.

I walk to the Garden on autopilot. I have no memory of putting the suit on, but here I am, hands on the glass. I am pounding it as hard as I can, screaming.

“How could you let this happen? You were supposed to survive anything! You were supposed to adapt and evolve and just deal with it! How could you do this to us?”

I slam the glass so hard my nails bleed. Exhausted, I slump down, knees drawn up, the damage to my shins now making itself felt in waves of searing pain. My face is sticky with blood. I tear off the biosuit’s mask and take a deep breath.

I hear the soft rustle of movement behind me. I don’t look round.

“I knew it would end this way,” says a man I did my best not to love when he was alive. “This is probably part of their life cycle.”

This is not the first time I’ve had hallucinations of the dead. Not by a long shot.

“Right.” I snort, wipe snot off my nose. “They planned millions of years of evolution so we’d come along and kill them all.”

“Not all of them,” he says, moving around the Garden. I imagine his sweet, gentle face watching the back of my head. “I bet they’re still hanging on where it counts. Around the deep-sea vents. Miles beneath the surface of the earth, down in the crust. High up in the stratosphere. They have bunkers too, you know.”

“Sure.” I’ve heard it all before. How bacterial colonies are microscopic cities, where they work together to manage their environment. How they train our immune system and shape animal behaviour. How the global biomass of bacteria is greater than animal and plant life combined.

“Doesn’t matter to them if there’s no oxygen,” he says. “It’s a waste product. We exist thanks to flatulent cyanobacteria in the Palaeoproterozoic era. They’ve experimented with bigger life-forms, and decided eukaryotes weren’t such a great idea after all.”

The pain in my shins peaks. I squeeze my eyes tight. “You’re anthropomorphising them. There’s no sign of any intelligent behaviour there.”

“Says the species that killed itself for money.”

“You’re still wrong, though.”

“I’m just following the facts.” I hear him walking away. “Come back in a few million years, you’ll see I was right.”

Somehow I fall asleep, dreaming of floating in the middle of the ocean. I wake to the sound of sirens.

I have no idea what’s going on, but I refuse to face it covered in blood and skull fragments. I strip down, shower, and put on a new hazard suit.

Someone has moved my rifle.

The main lights are off. The weak glow of emergency bulbs lights my way upwards. I can’t hear anything except the sirens, so I’m unprepared for the sight that greets me on the main floor.

It’s a party.

My colleagues carry drinks and lounge on chairs and desks, laughing and talking. I see a couple of men by the control desk, pressing buttons until the sirens stop blaring. Applause springs up when they succeed.

Dr. Geere sits in his huge chair, a sleepy smile on his face and a drink in one hand.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

His head rolls in my direction. “I thought everyone needed cheering up,” he slurs. “So we decided to have a little drink. Just to…relax a little. We’ve all been under a lot of stress.”

Something doesn’t feel right. I take the beaker from his hand and sniff.

“Hey! No need for that,” he says. “Plenty for everyone! Still coming out the printer!”

The clear fluid stings my nose, but there’s another note beneath the alcohol. A sweet, vanilla scent I recognise, from the liquid morphine I once gave a dying friend. A quick breath is enough to get me high.

“Who made this?” I ask when the initial rush passes. The urgency I felt has gone, and I don’t feel so angry. I feel fantastic!

“Hmm?” His head drops to one side.

“You’re going to die from a morphine overdose,” I say. He giggles.

I pull the suit’s mask over my head and control my breathing. In a minute, I’m sober enough to continue. I go up to someone still standing, a chemist I know called Rob. I grab the drink from his hand and throw it away.

“Who made this? It’s too strong. Come help me with the printer so I can make some naloxone, or—”

He shakes me away. “Dammit! Angela said you were crazy. Get away from me, murderer.”

He reaches out to a tray of beakers. I dash the platter on the floor, spilling drink everywhere. He turns to me, blinks.

“Crazy,” he says, swaying side to side. “Crazy.” He falls over, a smile on his face.

Angela. I scan the room, but she’s not there. I run down the stairs and head to the machine.

I’m no expert with the device, so I hit the stop button and take it from there. There’s a long and complicated menu with lists of ingredients and templates. I find a search bar and start typing ‘Nalox—’

Behind me, Angela speaks.

“It’s concentrated pentobarbitol and ketamine. You can’t save them.”

I turn around with great care. She’s leaning on the counter. The rifle is there, not far from her hands.

“They’ll all go out in perfect bliss, not like Vanessa with her brains blown out.”

“Is that what they wanted?”

“They wanted to be happy,” she says.

I keep my voice level. “Did you take any?”

Her eyes close, almost long enough for me to consider moving, then she snaps back to alertness. “I wanted to. I really did.” She leans back, brushes the barrel of the rifle with the tips of her fingers. “I knew you’d come.”

I nod. “So where do we go from here?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” she says. She reaches behind, still looking at me, and takes hold of the rifle. She lets it hang down and away from her, looking like a little girl with a rag doll.

I hold my breath. She raises the weapon across her chest, then points it at me. Stock first.

“Do it,” she whispers. “I can’t.”

I take a step toward her, just a small one. I’m a little surprised to be alive.

She licks her lips. The rifle trembles in her hands. I take another step, and another, then reach out and put my hands on the grip.

For an instant, she holds tight. Then it’s mine.

Her voice goes up in pitch. “Do it. Don’t make me wait, you heartless bitch!”

She grabs the muzzle and holds it to her chest, dead centre.

No one will judge me. In a few weeks, not even God will remember us. It’s what she wants.

But she is not a Thing, one of the desperate survivors I have trained myself to see as less than human. She is a woman and I know her name. And though I hate her right now as much as I have ever hated anyone, I cannot pull the trigger and shoot her in the heart.

And for what she has done, she deserves to suffer.

I pull the gun away and step back. She drops to her knees, fingers pulling at her hair, a wordless moan escaping her open mouth.

I fill a flask from the printer’s reservoir of euthanasia and make my way to the exit. The party is coming to an end: Men and women lie sprawled everywhere; their lips blue.

They are happy, at least. Perhaps it won’t be so bad.

The car is gone, so I walk. The pain in my shins is bearable, but the injured calf muscle is really starting to hurt. Halfway there, I’m limping. When the park comes into view, I’m hallucinating again.

“Not far now,” he says, walking silently behind me.

Damn, my leg hurts.

“I’ve been having a think,” he says. “Maybe it’s not a plan by all bacteria. Maybe they’re fighting a war amongst themselves.”

“Then they’re as stupid as we are,” I say.

“Not if they’re ruthless and logical enough to destroy pretty much all life on Earth, including most of their own kind, as long as a seed colony survives somewhere. Then the survivors can take over the planet with no competition.”

“Pretty advanced tactics for microbes, don’t you think?”

“Well, they have had a couple billion years to work it out.”

I arrive at the park. The bodies are where I left them. I had thought Matthew might be here, or he’d have buried Diana, but she’s still lying there staring at the sky. Evaporation and wind will break up these cadavers, not the rot we used to enjoy.

Something smells putrid, though. I sniff the air, but can’t locate the source.

I head for the trees. Below the knee, my leg is a solid block of agony.

“It’s peaceful here,” he says when we reach a clearing. I sense him sit down. “Why don’t you rest?”

I’m feeling light-headed from the pain. I take out the flask and feel the weight in my hands. As I sit, the smell of decay gets stronger and I realise it’s coming from me.

I pull up the cloth and take off the dressing. Below the knee, my leg is swollen and dark, the skin crackly to the touch.

“Gas gangrene,” he says. “Clostridium perfringens, or something similar. Anaerobic, so it doesn’t need oxygen. Looks like they think it’s safe to come out.”

The cap twists off in my hand.

“I hope they give dinosaurs another try,” I say.

He moves next to me. “So you believe me now?”

“I have to. Otherwise it’s our fault.”

The trees rustle in the wind, bare branches moving with gentle waves. The sky is clear blue.

I turn to look at him. I see his face clearly.

“Will you stay with me?” I ask.

He takes my hand. “Of course, my love.” I stare into his eyes. They are beautiful.

WILSON G. EIGER

Tick

Wilson Geiger is a fantasy author who decided, at the ripe age of 41, that he’d better start taking this writing thing seriously. He is, of course, thankful that it happened before the great ending of us all. You can find more of Wilson’s works at wilsongeiger.com.

What does a man do when he realizes he’s made a grave error? Does he admit it? Ignore it? Hide it? Does he try to correct it? What makes a man, what defines him, are his answers to those very questions; often they may go beyond the personal dilemma, maybe resulting in dire consequences. In the following story, a young, promising scientist is forced to confront demons of his own creation, and the terrible answer he finds within. If that answer doesn’t kill him first.

4. TICK

by Wilson Geiger

Brothers will fight

and kill each other,

sisters’ children

will defile kinship.

It is harsh in the world,

whoredom rife

—an axe age, a sword age

—shields are riven—

a wind age, a wolf age—

before the world goes headlong.

No man will have

mercy on another.

—Poetic Edda

In the end, Ragnarok was nothing like the stories told to us by our Father’s Fathers. Yes, man fought man, the earth was torn asunder, but the Gods? They stayed out of it, content to watch us all die. There was no great serpent, no wolf Fenris, no Odin. Only men and fire.

And that, let it be said, was most certainly enough.

* * *

The viral strain had gone through extensive testing, reactive and passive, and it was deemed suitable for the next stage: live testing. The strain was tested initially on rats, with excellent results; spikes of 300% above normal hostile and aggressive response were documented. After the incubation period, which took several hours, the rats began to posture. After further observation, the subjects would lash out at any that came near them. In the third phase, they became aggressive to the point that the specimens attacked each other on sight.

The decision was made to fast-forward the process; testing moved to simians, with similar outcomes. The virus set family on family initially, until familial bonds were broken by the mutations; after that it was simple elimination of every individual.

The Confederation suits were very encouraged by the results.

* * *

James could not believe what he was seeing on the live feeds. Once he realized, it was almost too late.

Gunfire and screams had erupted down the hall, shattered the pristine image the designers had engineered for the complex. White clean walls, the streamlined structure of security doors, the lighting that had been fed through streaming chambers above and below; blood had spattered along the passages now, the smoke and screams of fighting and death had ruined the calming effect. James could almost imagine the designers’ sneers of contempt, their outrage at the pillage and anarchy that defaced their artistic vision.

James had told the remaining staff that he was going to notify security, and quickly escaped the administrative bay and its terrible video feeds. He had to find Major Thomsen; he had promised James protection and evacuation, if necessary. James told himself that Thomsen wouldn’t have left him, he was far too important to be left behind with the regular staff. Maybe if he repeated it enough times, he would believe it.

James heard a scream behind him; they had reached the admin bay, broken the security doors. Alarms went off overhead, flooding the passageway with amber light and a low-pitched siren call. Terrified, he ran for the outer bay door, sealing it shut behind him, ignoring the shouts and curses that sounded from beyond it. He didn’t look back as they started pounding on the fortified doors, not even when gunfire erupted.

Down two flights of stairs, he jumped into the elevator; James quickly unlocked the elevator console with a flick of his imprint, frantically pushed the Vault button. With a whisper, the elevator doors slid shut and James plummeted down into the earth.

* * *

The first human trials, isolated examples, went almost too well. Within minutes the cooked virus had circulated with the air in the sealed chambers, and then quickly bypassed the body’s defensive systems. It slowly and methodically went to work on the subjects’ brain functions.

The subjects did not initially show any effects, and they tested at or below normal response limits for several hours. Symptoms began to show into day two; low levels of serotonin, along with virus mutations affecting the prefrontal cortex, changed the behavior patterns of almost every subject. Symptoms included raised tension levels, an outward hostility towards others, violent shows of anger and degraded memory function.

* * *

With a soft lurch the elevator stopped at the vault level, and James pushed his way through the doors, silently hoping that no one had heard him. He briskly walked, as quietly as he could, aiming for the bunker. As he moved, the alert sensors began to flash, rotating red lights that ran along the top of the walls in the corridor. He quickly decided that he was moving too slow, and he sprinted up to the bunker door, which was sealed shut; a flick of his security imprint and the vault door pushed outwards, allowing him entry. He breathed a sigh of thanks that his rank and office had given him clearance to the vault.

James was surprised to see that the bunker had not yet been claimed by any brass, or any other administrative staff. The displays that hung over the command console were all powered down, waiting for the override commands that would bring the console — and its sensor and command interfaces — to life. A small vault off to the side was closed, but James knew that food and water would be inside, likely enough to last him decades; the emergency rations were meant for more than one person.

With a short huff of relief, he used his imprint to seal the steel door behind him, and entered an additional encrypted security code to block external access. He was all alone.

* * *

Day three of human tests was the marker of the virus on infected men and women, most of whom were political prisoners with little inherent violent trends. Subjects manifested clear violent outbursts; they would attack, on sight, any person they could see, even if they could not physically get to them through the protective glass. The subjects would become so angry, so violent, that if they could not find an outlet they would inflict harm on themselves. We watched as subjects tore at their eyes, pulled out tongues, scratched their own flesh until only raw, bloody strips remained. Several subjects died on day three of human trials without ever touching another human being.

We allowed certain isolated subjects to confront one another, with obvious outcomes. It took several medical aides hours to clean up the mess that was left behind.

The viral strain worked perfectly. If it came to it, the enemies of the Confederation would have to deal with themselves, rather than our soldiers and weapons. Our armies wouldn’t need to fire a shot or kill another soul.

* * *

James watched from sensor-fed displays, his secure bunker several hundred feet below the surface. He had stopped crying several hours ago; a numbness had spread over him, almost a calmness, like he half-expected what was happening above to be nothing more than a dream he was sure to wake up from.

The displays blinked statistics, interspersed with videos. The compound had been overrun; the troops in place had initially resisted attacks from civilians and infected staff, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. After hours of exposure, everyone above broke and went after one another. The strain was spreading faster than even James had imagined it could.

The east coast had sank into outright chaos; entire military divisions had opened fire on civilians, trying to maintain control, before the virus had eaten through reason. They had turned on each other after that, missiles, bullets and fire turning communities, whole cities, into ash, smoke and death.

Humanity warred with each other, on a scale unheard of. Fires raged out of control; mobs of flesh and blood ran city streets, fought and slaughtered amongst themselves, turned on anything they came across. It wasn’t enough to defeat their foe, not when their foe was everyone else. Not when their mind told them that everyone, everything, was an enemy. Eventually it even told them, when there were no more enemies left to fight, that they had one left: themselves. The virus had become a vehicle of war, on an intimate, personal level.

Those that fled would spread the virus like a plague, and it would only be a matter of time before it would infect the continent, and then others. It would be impossible to stop.

That last thought gave James pause. Something stirred in the back of his mind, tried to tug its way loose. He frowned, struggled to remember, and when he couldn’t, James cursed his poor memory. Not like him at all to forget.

* * *

We had meetings with executives and military officials today, which were quite productive. After providing statistical outlays and a brief demonstration of our product in action, plans were put in motion to advance the research and production of the viral strain. The Confederation brass had several high priority targets that they had already considered as likely spots for live testing; we assured them that we could enter production at an aggressive rate.

The strain was codenamed in that meeting: Ragnarok.

* * *

James bypassed the security protocols, convinced that he was doing the right thing. Amber warning lights went off, and then dimmed once he had enacted the proper command codes. He entered the firing commands, clicking on approval sequences, and the countdown began. Numbers flashed on his display, and with each passing number, he recalled moments in his life; strange that every tick seemed to take minutes.

Twenty, the year he was accepted into the Advanced Sciences Division, and oh, how proud his Mom was at that. She had gushed to all her friends and family; James was embarrassed at first, but then it felt good to be noticed, to finally be really good at something. James knew, even then, that he would thrive at ASD.

Eighteen, the year he lost his virginity; what was her name again? Oh yes, Regina; she was a beauty, a fiery red-head with the temper to match. She had broken his heart two short months later, when she had run off with Bob Kane. James had never liked that guy anyway, come to think of it. A tinge of anger touched him then, but quickly passed with the next tick of the countdown.

Fifteen, his father’s funeral. He remembered crying for days afterward, his death a surreal dream until that moment when they buried him in the earth, when the shock of it finally hit James like a tidal wave. He was certain now that hole had never been fully repaired. The gap his father had left still marked him.

Where would everything be right now if he was still alive?

Tick.

* * *

One of the subjects escaped on day four of trials. We aren’t sure how, but the complex guards were found in irreparable condition, to say the least. Retrieval units were sent immediately, but not before the damage was done. The subject was found eventually, but not before she had killed several citizens, and infected an unknown amount. Technicians and medical staff were trained to deal with contamination, of course, but outside personnel were not as prepared.

The entire region was quarantined, with suspected viral carriers placed in immediate lockdown and then euthanized as a precaution.

Two days later the FBC aired a report of Gard spies being captured in the area; I couldn’t determine the veracity of the report. Was it a cover, or truth?

I am not convinced that we are safe.

* * *

Twelve, his graduation party, his Uncle Isaiah coming in drunk, stinking of liquor. A fight had broken out between his father and Isaiah, blows struck and then a larger brawl as several family members and friends had jumped in to help. Which of course didn’t help at all; it never helped, it just meant more blood, more threads of anger and bitterness.

Eight, now, what had happened when he was eight? James’ memory had blurred again, and he couldn’t quite recall anything significant about that. Surely he should remember something? The timer hit seven before he even realized it.

Six, well, not much at all he could remember at that age, right? James was still stuck on eight, and he was getting a bit agitated that he couldn’t remember anything. He thought he had something, grasped it, then it disappeared again.

Four. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t remember? He couldn’t even quite remember fifteen now, like it had happened so long ago that his memory eluded him. Or maybe it hadn’t happened at all. It was all starting to make James angry. It was like someone was tricking his brain, pushing and pulling memories and stories out of his head at will. He had vague impressions of things happening, but through it all was a common thread: anger. He was mad. He thought he had always been mad, at himself, at someone, anyone.

Tick.

* * *

I was right. We had an outbreak, not only among the populace outside our walls, but apparently technicians had managed to get themselves infected as well. The facility went on full-scale alert, with military troops expedited to maintain order and enforce the lockdown. I had it on good word that orders were given to shoot on sight if any showed signs of infection.

Advanced Sciences had the good fortune to bunker up in one of the secure wings at the facility. Major Thomsen was confident we would be safe there, but if not, he told me personally that if it came to it, he would ensure that I was evacuated to a safe location off-site.

Perhaps we should have reconsidered the name we came up with. Despite my calm exterior, I am terrified.

* * *

One. “Dammit! Shut that damn thing up!” James hit the console hard, hard enough that his knuckles came up bloody. He slammed it again for good measure; he was trying to think, and that damned thing kept counting down to him, like he cared. If it kept up, he’d look for something harder than his fist, shut that damned number-counter up for good.

He had no idea what the numbers meant anyway. Maybe they were his countdown, and when they hit zero he’d explode into sheer absolution, a pure rage that would envelop everything around him. They all deserved it.

James realized, like a revelation, that he did, too. He’d rip everything to shreds if he had to, including himself. He knew it with cold certainty.

Tick.

* * *

I haven’t seen Major Thomsen since. Things have gone from bad to worse, and there are telltale signs that the strain is already spreading beyond control. This will be my final log until I have been able to locate suitable secure arrangements for my exit. I wish that I had more time, wish that we had been able to contain this beast; it was reserved for our enemies, those that truly deserved it. Instead, we may have doomed the entire human race. I may have doomed them.

I must find a way out.

Forgive me.

James Mesnehan

* * *

Zero. James heard a rushing sound, followed by short thumps and vibrations. The console displays lit up, showing hundreds of blinking areas on the continental maps. He had a quick lucid thought, remembered for a moment what had happened, what he had just done. Unbidden tears streamed down his face as the displays changed, showing massive fireballs in the sky; regions of the earth faded into a brilliant white, and then blacked out. Humanity died millions at a time, along with most of the planet’s infrastructure, before the displays were all overcome by blackness or static.

For a second afterwards, there was a peaceful silence. Then the earth was quiet, save for the hiss of smoke and dying fire that only he heard. He saw the displays, full of noise, saw the blinking alerts and lights, but James heard nothing but the crackle of slowly burning ember.

James’ screams shattered the silence. His last thought, before a permanent and lethal rage overtook him, was that he had become Ragnarok.

PETE McLEAN

The Last Hand

Peter McLean lives in Norwich, England, with his wife and their two Siamese cats. When he isn’t being an account manager at a global technology outsourcing firm, he is busy writing about magic, fantasy, and demons. He is currently courting agents for his urban dark fantasy series.

Occult hitman Don Drake gambles his way into the debt of the nastiest demon in London. He can’t drink his way out of this one, but maybe he can make a deal with something else to save his skin. Something much worse…

5. THE LAST HAND

by Pete McLean

He saw my warpstone and raised me an angel’s skull, and there was no way I could cover that bet. I had a Knight-high flush and the Tower, a fair hand in Fates, but that warpstone was all I had left. My palms were itching. I looked down at my cards, and the face of the Knight of Cups looked back up at me. He looked drunk and happy in his painted tarot world, the lucky sod. I was only drunk.

Someone laughed, away on the other side of the smoky club. Glasses clinked. Across the table from me, Wormwood was starting to look impatient. He lit another cigarette off the butt of the last and poked it between his thin, grey lips before he mashed the old one out in the overflowing ashtray beside him. A strand of his long hair was stuck greasily to the three-day growth of stubble on his cheek.

He rested his free hand on top of the skull and stroked the pristine white bone with fingers that were nicotine-stained to the colour of dark mahogany.

“Well, Drake?” he asked. “I ain’t got all bleedin’ night.”

I cleared my throat, and the waitress wiggled up beside me and poured another generous slosh of whisky into my glass. Very old single malt whisky. I nodded a thanks at her. She was pretty, I thought. Nice tail. Another night I might have tried it on with her, but this was serious now and I needed to concentrate on the game. I knocked the whisky straight back and set the glass down on the table.

The Tower, again. This was the third hand tonight that I’d drawn it as my trump, and if that didn’t suck for an omen I didn’t know what did. I glanced at the two decks of cards on the table, the thick one for the suits and the slimmer deck of major arcana, the trumps in the game. I half wondered if Wormwood was cheating somehow, but that was a dangerous kind of thought to be having here. I reached up and loosened my tie a little, stretched out my aching neck. He was drumming his fingers on the skull now, and his ugly, horned minder was starting to give me that look that said I’d better not be taking the piss.

“Well now,” I said. “I’d be about ready to call you on that, but, ah…”

“But you’re skint,” Wormwood finished for me. “Ain’t you?”

He grinned. He had one of the most repulsive grins I’ve ever seen, and he stank. I could smell him from where I was sitting, with three feet of card table between us and enough cigarette smoke in the air to kill a beagle. It wasn’t that unwashed body stink like tramps got, it was worse than that. Wormwood smelled of rot, somehow, of disease and misery. And cheap cigarettes, I thought. Lots and lots of cheap cigarettes.

“Yeah,” I admitted.

His mean little eyes glittered as he looked at me.

“Now I might,” he went on, “be able to do something about that.”

I reached for my glass, and remembered it was empty. I glanced around the club instead, playing it cool. There were maybe twenty punters in tonight, a mixture of us and them. Mostly them. Wormwood’s club was private, obviously, not open to the general public. Hell, it wasn’t even visible to the general public. You’d walk straight past it if you didn’t know exactly where to stop in the alley, and precisely which bit of graffiti-covered brickwork was a glamour covering the front door.

“Oh?” I said. “How’s that then?”

“I might sub you,” he said. “Enough to finish this hand, anyway.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked him.

He shrugged.

“I know you’re good for it,” he said. “Anyway, I like you Drake.”

No you don’t, I thought. You don’t like anyone.

I had a Knight-high flush and the Tower, and I really, really wanted that skull. There was a lot I could do with an angel’s skull. I met his eyes, trying to feel him out. If I folded now I’d lost the warpstone anyway. If I went for it, if I won, I’d walk away with both and a good pile of cash besides.

What’ve you got, you little bastard? I wondered.

The waitress was filling my glass again. She really did have a cute little tail. I swallowed the drink and coughed, feeling the shot of ancient whisky burn its way down my throat and chase all its little friends into my guts. There were a fair few people watching us now, I noticed. Well, I say that, but people might be stretching it a bit. This was Wormwood’s club, after all.

“All right,” I said. “Sub me then, and I’ll call.”

I laid my hand out on the table. Wormwood took a long, careful look at my cards, and slowly shook his head. He turned his own hand over to show a full house and Judgment. Bastard.

“It ain’t your lucky night, Drake,” he said.

I shoved my chair back from the table and stumbled to my feet, feeling the hot rush of the whisky slam up and into my forebrain all at once. I wobbled on my heels, holding on to the edge of the table to keep myself upright.

“Steady,” said Wormwood’s minder.

I took a deep breath, my guts twisting into a sick knot as it sank in. I’d lost the hand, I’d lost my warpstone, and now I owed Wormwood big time.

“I’m all right,” I muttered. “Just need some air.”

“Right you are then,” said the minder, affably enough for a nine foot monster with horns.

“Go home, Drake,” Wormwood said as he lit yet another cigarette. “I’ll be in touch. Like I said, I know you’re good for it.”

* * *

I wasn’t good for it. Not by a long way. I was so not good for it, in fact, that I had to walk home from the club. It comes to something when you can’t even afford a pissing taxi.

South London is bloody awful at three in the morning when it’s cold and raining, but at least this part of town is so bad even the muggers don’t dare go out after midnight. I had the pavement to myself, and I weaved my way down it with my hands buried in my coat pockets, collar turned up and my hair stuck wetly to my forehead. The cold rain was starting to sober me up, and that was the last thing I wanted. At one point I felt something watching me from the darkness of an alley, but it kept to the deal and stayed out of my way.

I’d made my deal with the night creatures of this part of South London when I first came here, and the terms of that deal were pretty simple. So long as they didn’t bother me, I wouldn’t come and bother them. They were more than happy with that.

I made it home in the end. Home was my office, above a Chinese pawnbrokers. At least I had my own front door at street level, with my own sign on it and everything. The sign said “Don Drake, Hieromancer,” in nice big gold letters. Well it had done, anyway — some wag had spray-painted out the word “Hieromancer” and written “wanker” underneath it instead. I kept meaning to do something about that, and I kept not getting around to it.

I leaned my forehead against the door as I fumbled through my pockets for the key. It went in the lock at the third attempt, and I opened the door and stumbled up the bare wooden stairs to my office. I had a couple of rooms out the back where I actually lived, and another where I worked, but I kept the booze in the office. I sank down into my chair and opened the bottom draw of my desk.

There was a half-empty bottle of whisky there, much cheaper stuff than Wormwood served, and a couple of relatively clean glasses. I ignored the glasses and drank it straight out of the bottle, which, when you thought about it, was glass anyway so what the hell difference did it make? It’s not like I had anyone to share it with.

I swallowed and let my eyes close. Damn it!

* * *

The phone woke me up. I was slumped over my desk, my fingers still curled around the empty bottle. I fumbled out with my right hand, realised that was the one holding the bottle, and winced as it rolled off the edge of the desk and shattered on the hard wooden floor. I groaned and let the machine pick up.

“Good morning, Mr. Drake,” said a woman’s voice. “This is Selina from Mr. Wormwood’s office. Mr. Wormwood would be pleased if you could telephone him this morning to discuss your repayment terms. Good day.”

I frowned. Wormwood? What the hell did he want… Oh no… My sodden memory turned over in the throbbing mess of my head, and I suddenly felt like crying. My warpstone. I had gambled away my warpstone, I remembered now, and I owed Wormwood the equivalent value of an angel’s skull to boot. The warpstone had been the last artefact of power I had left. The rest… well, I’ve always been better at drinking than I have at playing Fates, if I’m honest about it.

I slowly hauled myself up into a sitting position, and had to clutch a hand to my stomach as an acid rush of half-digested whisky burned its way up my throat and into the back of my mouth. I gave serious consideration to throwing up before I winced and swallowed it back down again. Maybe I’ve never been that good at drinking either.

Of course the warpstone wasn’t exactly the last artefact I had left, but if I ever consider gambling away the other you have my permission to shoot me though the head on the spot. I dragged myself to my feet and shuffled through to my work room to look at it.

My sign downstairs wasn’t entirely truthful, of course. Well, the wanker part might be I suppose, but not the Hieromancer. Hieromancy is divination through reading the entrails of a sacrifice, in case you didn’t know, and while I could do that it wasn’t exactly my main line of work. A man would struggle to earn a living looking at the insides of a pigeon, after all. The real money was in Sendings.

Summoning and Sending is one of the oldest, most dangerous and most taboo disciplines of magic. It’s also, it ought to go without saying, the most lucrative. That was what really paid the rent and bought the booze. I pushed open the door to my workroom and looked at the Burned Man.

“Morning,” I said.

“Now what?” it muttered.

The Burned Man was a nine inch tall fetish who stood on the altar at the far side of my work room. Tiny iron chains bound it by the wrists and ankles, and were bolted firmly into the solid oak top of the ancient, sanctified altar. It was the most powerful thing I’ve ever owned, or even seen. The floor of my workroom was carefully inscribed with a grand summoning circle from the Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonis, the Lesser Key of Solomon, one of the great classical grimoires. Through the Burned Man, I could use that circle to summon demons and send them to do my bidding. Certain people, not the sort of people you’d have round for tea exactly, would pay a hell of a lot of money to get you to set a demon on someone.

“I’m in the shit,” I admitted.

The Burned Man snorted with laughter.

“No change there then,” it said.

I pushed my hands back through my hair and sighed. The only trouble with the whole set-up was that the Burned Man wasn’t quite as bound as it was supposed to be. Oh sure, it did what I told it to, it had to, but it had a bitch of an attitude problem. That, and it always wanted its cut.

I shrugged out of the crumpled suit jacket I had fallen asleep in and chucked it in a corner, well outside the circle. I noticed there were dried sweat stains on my white business shirt. Oh well. I pulled my tie off, too, wrinkled as an old typewriter ribbon after my night face-down on the desk, and dropped it on the floor. My hands fumbled with the buttons of my shirt.

“What’s up?” the Burned Man asked.

I looked at it as I took my shirt off. It was little, as I said, but it was horribly lifelike. Every millimetre of its tiny naked body was blackened and blistered, its skin cracked open in places to show the livid, weeping red burns beneath. It was thoroughly revolting, and the bloody thing was always hungry.

“Wormwood,” I said. “I owe him, and I can’t pay.”

I approached the altar and crouched down, offering my scarred chest to the Burned Man.

“You’ve been playing Fates again haven’t you, you pillock,” it said. “Were you drinking too, by any chance?”

I grunted as it lunged forward and sank its tiny, needle-like teeth into the flesh beneath my left nipple. It started to suckle, blood running down its chin from the fresh wound.

“Is a bear catholic?” I muttered, wincing against the pain. “I need you to get rid of him for me.”

The Burned Man snapped its head back and stared up at me.

“Wormwood?” it repeated. “The Wormwood? Are you mental?”

“How many Wormwoods do you know, exactly,” I snapped. “Yes, that one.”

“I can’t do that,” it said. “No can do. Nein. Nyet. Not gonna happen. End of. No.”

It leaned its head forward and bit into my chest again, a little harder than it really needed to. Horrible thing.

“You have to,” I reminded it. “I own you, Burned Man. I command it.”

It whipped its head back again without opening its mouth first, spitefully taking a chunk of bloody meat out of my chest. I yelled in pain, hand raised to swat it. That, of course, would have been ten kinds of a stupid thing to do. I let my hand fall and glared at it instead.

“I command it,” I said again. “Send something. Summon and Send… I don’t know, Astaroth if you have to for pity’s sake, I don’t care. Just get rid of Wormwood for me.”

“Listen to me for a minute, you dog-sucking little puke,” the Burned Man spat, “or I’m really going to have to hurt you.”

I stared at it, and had to remind myself that this was just the fetish of the demon it represented and not the real thing. The real thing itself, bound somewhere in the Oblivion Marches by a magic far older than London itself, didn’t even bear thinking about.

“I’m listening,” I said, but I moved back out of reach.

“It. Can’t. Be. Done.” the Burned Man spelled out, slowly and carefully like it was talking to a simpleton, or perhaps to a very scared, very hungover magician who was in a very long way over his head. “Wormwood would have Astaroth for breakfast.”

I blinked. “Astaroth is a Crowned Prince of Hell,” I said.

“Astaroth lives in Hell,” the Burned Man said. “Wormwood lives in Mayfair. Who do you think has the most pull, exactly?”

When you put it like that…

“Bugger,” I said. “I hadn’t really thought about it that way.”

“You ought to pay better attention to who you’re playing cards with in future,” it said.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eye sockets and groaned. I could feel warm blood trickling down my chest from where the Burned Man had bitten me. My head was pounding, and I was seriously starting to reconsider the whole throwing up thing.

“What can I do, then?” I demanded. “I can’t pay him, unless you can summon me up an angel’s skull, or something worth the same amount.”

The Burned Man sniggered. “If I could summon up things you wouldn’t be broke, would you?” it sneered. “There’s a limit to what I can do, bound and chained to your sodding altar.”

I gave it a sharp look. The Burned Man never said anything it didn’t mean, and it never said anything useful at all unless you asked it a direct question.

“What?” I said. “That sounded like a hint.”

“There was a settlement on the Thames, where London stands now, long before the Romans came,” the Burned Man said. “I was bound before even then, bound by a magic you can’t even begin to imagine, you little puke. So if there are things I can’t say, it’s not because you’re clever, you understand me?”

I nodded slowly. “You can’t say,” I said. “I have to guess?”

The Burned Man shrugged, and rattled its iron chains.

“So,” I began, pausing to wipe the oozing blood off my chest with the back of my hand, “if there’s a limit to what you can do while you’re bound, there might be less of a limit if you weren’t bound, is that what you’re getting at?”

“I couldn’t possibly comment on idle speculation,” the Burned Man said. “I could tell you a little story, I suppose, if you’re bored. Just to pass the time, you understand.”

I shrugged. This was getting obtuse, even for the Burned Man, but like I say it never said anything without a reason.

“Go on then,” I said. “Story time.”

“Back then,” it said, “in Tir Na Nog, before the waters made this land an island, there was an antler druid called Oisin who had the gift of Summoning. Oisin had the words of binding, and the gift of iron, and the power to take his pick of all the demons of Hell to enslave to do his bidding. Oisin chose me, as the most powerful, and bound me into this fetish to serve him. Do you see?”

I frowned at it. “You’re saying he chose you over Astaroth, is that it?” I said.

The Burned Man shrugged. “Is it?” it asked. “Why would that be, I wonder? If a man asked a direct cocking question maybe I could answer it.”

“Are you more powerful than Astaroth?” I asked it.

It laughed. “Is a bear catholic?” it said.

“Ah,” I said. “Well fuck me sideways.”

“Of course,” the Burned Man went on, “not while I’m bound into this hideous little thing and chained to your puking table I’m not.”

“So,” I said, thinking out loud, “if I unbound you, could you get rid of Wormwood for me?”

The Burned Man nodded. “I could,” it said.

“Forever?” I asked. “I don’t mean send him to Spain for a week’s bloody holiday, I mean smash him into atoms so he’ll never bother me again, yeah? And get my warpstone back. And fuck it, I wouldn’t mind his money, and his club, and his minions and his house in Mayfair while you’re about it, yeah?

The Burned Man laughed. “You drive a hard bargain,” it said, “but yeah, why not? I could do that for you. If you let me free.”

“Then I reckon I could let you free,” I said. “If I had that lot I wouldn’t need to work any more, so I wouldn’t need you anyway. It’s a deal.”

“Deal,” the Burned Man hissed. “Do it. Now.”

“Now hang on,” I said, “we need to plan this out. We need to get near him, don’t we? That club’s like a fortress, but he’s always suspected I’ve been sitting on something special, something that gives me my edge. How about I offer him a rematch, double or quits? If I bet you, he’ll be more than happy to go for it. Once we set up the meet, I’ll turn you loose in his club, how’s that?”

The Burned Man didn’t have a lot of choice, of course. I wasn’t stupid — I’d get Wormwood to put his club, his business and everything he owned up, as his stake. If I won the rematch I could keep the Burned Man and the club and everything else, and be happily rich. If not, well, turning the Burned Man loose to get it for me anyway could always be plan B.

* * *

I phoned Selina back in the early afternoon, and by nine that evening I was leaving the office with a big black holdall in my hand. I had used a circular saw to chop the middle out of the altar, with the burned man still chained to the ancient consecrated wood. It was in the bottom of the holdall now, grumbling and cursing to itself as I carried it down the stairs. I stopped to lock the door behind me, and noticed somebody had scratched “drunken” in front of the “wanker” underneath my sign. Someone had seen me come home last night then. Sod them, whichever way the game went tonight I wouldn’t be living in this shithole much longer.

I lugged the holdall the three miles to Wormwood’s club. I turned into the alley, and stopped in the right place. I moved my hand over the exact piece of graffiti-covered brickwork, and muttered the words of entry under my breath before I walked into it. The wall felt cold and sticky as I walked through it, like a huge spiders web, but it offered no real resistance. There was a dimly lit, grubby bar on the other side, and there were people in the bar. Sort of people, anyway. I recognised Wormwood’s huge, hulking minder, and nodded at him.

“Evening,” I said. “I’m meeting your boss for a hand of cards.”

“You’re Drake, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, Selina said you was coming. Come on up.”

He led me through the crowd of colourful characters in the shabby downstairs bar and up the staircase with its thick red carpet, into the upstairs club. It was smoky up there already, and busier than it ought to be this early in the evening. It seemed like our rematch might have drawn a bit of a crowd.

Wormwood was sitting at his usual table, with the two decks of cards neatly positioned on the green cloth in front of him and an already full ashtray at his elbow. The waitress with the cute tail was nowhere to be seen, but there was a glass and an open bottle waiting for me by the empty chair.

“This had better be good, Drake,” Wormwood said, but his eyes glittered with avarice. He knew it would be.

“Oh yes,” I said. “It is.”

I opened the bag and lifted out the Burned Man, still chained to the sawn-out piece of ancient oak. Wormwood gaped. The cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed in his lap, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re shitting me,” he said.

I shook my head. “The Burned Man,” I said. “That’s my bet.”

“What’s mine?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Against this? My debt, and pretty much everything else you have. Your money, your house, your club and the rest of your business interests. And I’m still undervaluing this, and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t got a lot of choice, have you,” he said, and noisily sucked his greyish teeth for a moment while he made up his mind. “Deal.”

Normal blokes would have shaken hands at that point, but neither of us were exactly normal and neither of us much wanted to touch the other one. We nodded at each other instead, and the croupier cut the two decks and began to deal the minor arcana from the thicker deck.

I poured myself a drink. If I’m honest, I’d had a couple already, well a few actually, just to steady my nerves, but now I really felt the need. I tipped the first shot straight down my neck and was refilling the glass before I’d even finished swallowing. This was big. This was really, really big. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the club staring at the Burned Man in something between awe and horror. It was about then that I realised I was the only human in the club tonight. There were none of us today, it was all them. Shit.

I picked up my cards and fanned them, looking at a pair of sixes and a mixture of random junk. I kept my face smooth. Except for the uncontrollable tick that was beating under my left eye, anyway. Wormwood looked down at his own cards, his horrible face expressionless. The way the game is played, you have to decide on your minor arcana, your suits, before you draw your trump.

Wormwood plucked a card out of his fan and discarded it on the table, face down.

“Card,” he said.

I did the same. The dealer dished us each out another minor card, and I had to fight to keep my face still. Six of pentacles — this was more like it.

Wormwood said nothing, nodded. He looked at me. “I’m good,” he said. “Stand.”

I swallowed another shot of whisky and poured again. My palms were itching so bad I wanted to scrape them on the side of the table until they were raw. Three of a kind was good, but this was Wormwood I was playing and tonight I was playing for everything I had.

“Card,” I said, dropping a useless three of swords face down onto the table.

The dealer pushed a new card to me across the table, and I gently eased it up and into my fan. Six of cups! That gave me four of a kind. I nodded, trying and failing to keep my left eye still.

“Stand,” I said.

“Trumps then,” said Wormwood.

The dealer slipped us each a card from the slim deck of major arcana. You can’t change your trump card, once it’s been dealt. That’s the “fate” part of Fates. I gently eased mine up and peered at the corner of the card. It was the motherloving Tower again. I cleared my throat.

“We agreed no raising,” I reminded him. “This is it, Wormwood. What’ve you got?”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Challengers first,” he said.

I shrugged and laid my cards out. Four sixes and the Tower was a blinding hand, and I knew it. A smug smile was starting to creep across my lips even before I saw the wide-eyed expression on Wormwood’s face.

“Four sixes?” he whispered. “”You’ve got four sixes, you wanker?”

I nodded. “Looks that way,” I said, unable to resist twisting the knife. “It ain’t your lucky night, Wormwood.”

The look of surprise vanished from his face like someone had thrown a switch.

“Yeah it is,” he said.

He turned his cards over, one by one. The little arsehole had a royal flush and the Devil, the top hand in the game. The unbeatable hand. He looked up, and he met my eyes.

“Gimme,” he said.

I lifted the Burned Man up onto the middle of the card table. My hands were trembling, and for once not with drink.

“You want this, Wormwood?” I asked him. “Have it then!”

I spoke the deep, guttural, pre-Roman druidic words the Burned Man had taught me and snapped the tiny iron chains between my fingers. The fetish on the piece of sacred altar wood crumbled into ashes and collapsed onto the discarded playing cards as though it had never been there.

Wormwood stared at me. “You didn’t,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t!”

There was an overpowering stench of sulphur from the piece of ancient oak where the Burned Man had been chained. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Wormwood screamed.

He reared up to his feet, throwing the card table over on its side and scattering the cards and my drink and a confetti of cigarette butts across the floor. Wormwood shrieked. He burst into flames a second later, his filthy hair burning like a torch. He lunged at me, mad hatred flaring in his eyes even as they liquefied and ran down his stubbled cheeks. I stumbled backwards out of the way and he crashed face-down onto the floor, burning and screaming. His minder took a step back, gave me a wary look, and exploded.

I gagged as ragged chunks of meat splattered against me. The ceiling of the club caught fire, and fell in. Everyone was screaming now, running for the stairs in a mad panic. I stood amongst the burning devastation, and slowly shook my head.

“You’ve had me, haven’t you?” I said, but there was no reply. “You little bastard, you’ve had me good and proper.”

I crossed the room, dodging burning rafters as they fell from what was left of the roof, and pulled back the heavy, smouldering velvet curtains that covered one of the windows. I looked out at London, and shuddered. Whole city blocks were burning already, huge flares roaring up into the cloudy sky. I could just make out the gigantic, shadowy figure of the Burned Man, standing as tall as the sky. It strode through the hellish waste, setting fires wherever it passed.

“Burn!” it roared, throwing its mighty arms wide.

The night sky flared crimson, the flames racing towards the horizon in an ever expanding circle of blazing fury.

I could only stare, wide eyed with horror, as I watched the world begin to burn.

STEPHEN “B5” JONES

Fly the Moon to Me

Stephen “B5” Jones takes full responsibility for his short story collections, Elf Tales and Other Psychotic Events, Space: Time: and other Improbabilities, and Just So Odd Stories. He has other projects in the works, including at least two full length novels. He lives in New Mexico with his family, visits old Mexico, and drives a school bus. Other works by Stephen “B5” Jones can be found at his Smashwords page.

Fly the Moon to Me, his story for this anthology, proves some things never change. They are as solid as the ground beneath our feet.

6. FLY THE MOON TO ME

by Stephen “B5” Jones

“Timo,” Weist, the mechanic, said. “I put an extra layer of sealant on your ship. You should be completely airtight now.”

Timo Azimuth looked up at his ship, a patchwork special. It wasn’t exactly top of the line, but there was no line, not anymore. For that matter, there was no top, not since the Earth blew apart. The ship was a two-seater, but he never had anyone in the second seat. It had a big cargo bay for whatever salvage Timo could find. He had only actually filled it once.

“More airtight than last time?” Timo had to ask.

From the outside, it looked like an old warehouse with the nose of a small jet sticking out of the front. Actually, that wasn’t far from the truth. Weist always built ships using spare parts, and he continued to fix it the same way.

“Where are you headed?” Weist asked.

“I thought I’d swing by Jupiter,” Timo said. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out that far and I could use time away.”

“A long trip,” Weist agreed. “Come’ere, let me show you something.”

Weist led him up a catwalk, pulling himself hand over hand, until they were near the nose of his ship. There was a chalked-in square a couple of yards above the air lock.

“What’s that for?” Timo asked.

“Emergency exit,” Weist said. “It opens to the air duct. If you need to, you could climb out through there and follow the zip line into the airlock. Without a suit it would hurt, but it’s a short haul and you might come out alive.”

“You think I need it?”

“You know how people are,” Weist said.

“Yeah,” Timo had to agree. “I’ll tell you what; if I get lucky this time out and find something worth anything, I’ll have you put that in. I can’t spend what I don’t have.”

“Okay,” Weist said. “I have the parts. I’ll set them aside and see if you want them when you get back.”

“Fair enough,” Timo said.

He gave Weist most of his money, and was on his way.

* * *

Timo checked his heading again. It was off. Even if the instruments didn’t show it, Jupiter was a small sphere up ahead, and he kept watching it as it slowly slid to the right.

He pulled out an old tennis ball, something he had salvaged a year or two ago, and placed it carefully between his face and the control panel. It drifted forward, down and to the left.

There was definitely something out there, something large — or heavy.

It had taken him a month to skate through the asteroid belt. There was lots of gravity pulling from every which direction, and hardly any salvage at all. It made him uneasy to compensate for small sources of gravity. The math made his head hurt, and he could never get the numbers to turn out right.

Computers were in high demand, but they were hard to find intact. Jeenie had found a computer once, actually five, along with a dozen or so cell phones still in their boxes. She’d stumbled on the remaining corner of a computer store. The eggheads wanted to make her a national hero.

Even being her friend hadn’t bought him a chance to buy one. It was business. He understood.

This gravity felt like it was coming from a single direction. He wasn’t close enough to be running across one of Jupiter’s moons, and he’d made sure he wasn’t going to cross the Trojans.

Timo should have adjusted his course and kept going, but he had tried so hard to avoid everything. Something deep in the back of his mind wondered what this was.

Besides, he decided, he could use whatever it was for a free gravity assist. If he could get the math to come out right — or close to right — he could get some extra momentum before he got to Jupiter. It might even take a couple of hours off the trip.

Timo turned into the gravity. Half with an old calculator he’d bought, and half with guesswork, he put himself in a curve to get close enough to the gravity center to swing him around.

At first there wasn’t anything to see. For a brief moment, Timo worried that he might have found the final resting place of the heavy object that had destroyed the Earth. It could have been slowed by the impact with the planet. It would be just his luck, to die in heavy gravity or be swung out of the whole system.

That’s when he saw it.

“Holy…” Timo said. He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

It was the Moon.

* * *

The Earth didn’t really explode. The eggheads thought it might have been a piece of a neutron star, or something like it. It had fallen right though the Earth and left in its wake an ever expanding donut of debris.

Maybe half a million people on the planet survived the initial impact. There were a few dozen more in space ships or on the Mars expedition — most of them survived. The people who happened to be in some kind of sealed environment and who had found some form of sustainability were the lucky ones. If one could call it luck.

Recently, someone had salvaged a nuclear submarine with sixty live sailors. It had been lodged in a thick piece of ocean — rare enough in itself. The sailors had been using electrolysis to make air out of the water, and there had been fish in their frozen ocean.

The best guess had the human race down to about sixty thou, maybe less.

The Moon was the holy grail of the parts of what used to be Earth. Some prospectors had been looking for it since 3 A.D. (After Disaster). The geeks said it could help them terraform Mars. It would be worth its weight in… Well, just about anything of value.

Timo looked at the pictures he had taken of it on his fly by. The Moon looked none the worse for wear. There were new craters, but even in the dim sunlight, it was quite distinctive.

Timo sent a help signal, one indicating he needed help with salvage. On the one hand, it would take some serious muscle to get the Moon to go where he wanted it. On the other, the more people involved, the smaller his cut would be.

“Timo?” a voice cracked though the short range. Timo fought the urge to slam his head on the wall. It was Den. Of all the people in all the sky, Den was the last man he’d want to share anything with. Den had greed issues. “Is that you?”

“Who else would I be?” Timo said.

Den thought he was clever. He thought no one noticed how he cheated everyone he did business with. The fact was, Den was stupid and mean, with the emphasis on mean.

Timo had never actually seen Den. He hid in his ship even when the other prospectors were having a night out on the city. Timo had first run across him at the remains of Manhattan, the largest human settlement left. Den had needed some help pulling in an ocean liner.

Timo had never seen his share.

“So you got something?” Den asked. He was attempting to be slick.

“Something big.”

Timo thought it might be best to swim with the sharks as opposed to not swimming at all — and load the spear gun. “How much can you push?”

“A hundred thou,” Den said. “What do you got?”

Even before Timo did some rough figuring, he knew it wouldn’t work. With their two ships, it would take more than a year to get the Moon to Mars, by then the vultures would be picking them clean.

“You calls for help, no?” a feminine voice came over the short range. Timo looked around. If a ship could have voice contact, it had to be nearby. He missed it the first time. A mountainous object loomed behind him, then he saw a glimpse of light along an edge.

It was one of the ejected stages from the first Mars mission adapted for something more long term. The whole of the human population could fit in its fuel tanks, and have room left over. It could match the size of the sky island Manhattan. An absurdly small control module sat on the leading edge of the containment tube.

“Who are you?” Den demanded. He didn’t know how to ask politely. It wasn’t in his nature.

“Vera,” she said. She wasn’t comfortable talking. Timo couldn’t quite name the accent, but he thought he’d heard it in a movie once.

“Vera,” Timo said. “I think you have what we need. Follow me.”

* * *

Timo didn’t talk percentages until they could both see the Moon. He figured they’d both be too awed to do anything but listen. He was right.

“I’m thinking straight split,” Timo said. “Mars wants it, and they won’t be able to pay us enough anyway, so we just hang out on Mars and live like kings until we die.”

“Yeah,” Den said. “Kings…”

“We push to Mars,” Vera said. “Who can get numbers?”

“I can rough it out,” Timo said.

“I can do better,” Den said. “I got a laptop. Vera, put your ship in place to push, somewhere along the equator.”

Vera separated her control module and remote landed the engines of her ship in a nose-down landing on the Moon. It was tricky; if she went too fast, the ship would splatter all over the surface and not be useful for pushing at all.

There was a timer on his control board. It was off in the corner, out of the way and small. He had hoped he’d never need it. He set the timer for six hours.

“Den,” Timo said. “I want you out front to run interference. If anyone bothers you, I’ll move up as well. Maybe we can sidestep any real problems.”

“I can do that,” Den said, no doubt thinking he could set himself up as the front man, and maybe even cut the others out. After the conversation, Timo saw Den’s ship come around behind and underneath Vera’s ship. He had a feeling he knew what that meant.

“Okay,” Timo said. “If I got it right, the engines will be in position in one min ten secs.”

He hoped it was enough time.

Den was going to the other side of the Moon now. He had set his trap and would be playing the rest by ear. Edging his ship up to Vera’s, Timo got close enough to see her. She looked small, petite, with dark hair and eyes. He motioned for her to be quiet.

Timo quickly drew a picture. He put it up on the window, hoping she would understand.

A few moments later, Vera was in his air lock. He was already moving away as quickly as he could.

“Den put a bomb on your ship,” Timo said. “He’s about to get rid of you.”

“Bomb?” Vera asked.

“Yeah,” Timo said. “Play along for now. If I’m wrong, I can drop you back on your ship once we get started. It’s time to activate your engines.”

Vera opened her pack and pulled out a control board. She pushed a button on the top and pushed the lever forward. The engine on the Moon came to life, pushing the Moon on the course Den had provided. Progress would be slow. They were moving a lot of tonnage.

Timo reset his timer. As long as Den was out there, it was his best protection.

“Is it on course yet?” Den asked. He was ever impatient. It was one of his charms.

“Not yet,” Timo said. “Vera? Three degrees to the right.”

“Three degrees,” Vera answered from the remote mic Timo had on the other side of the control board. Hopefully, it would sound like she was still on her ship. He made a mental note to find out how long it would take to get to Mars. With Den around, it would be best not to sleep.

“There,” Vera said as the Moon aligned with the red course on the screen. “Is on line. We are on way.”

Vera sounded triumphant. Timo was trying to figure out how long it would take to get to Mars. Then her ship blew up.

“What was that?” Den asked. He sounded almost genuinely concerned. Like he had no clue what had just happened.

“Vera’s ship just blew up,” Timo said. He tried to sound shocked, and surprised. “How could that happen?”

There was a long pause, Den was probably trying to decide what his next move would be. He would try to divert Timo’s attention.

“Maybe she pushed a wrong button or something,” Den said. “That is too bad. Is our prize still on course?”

* * *

There wasn’t much talking for the next couple of hours. Vera was sleeping in the back of Timo’s ship. The Moon was on course for Mars, they just had to follow it and take credit when it arrived in orbit. Timo kept a close watch. Den would try something sooner or later, probably sooner. They were looking at the biggest payday in the history of post-Earth, and still Den wouldn’t want to split anything if he wasn’t forced to.

Den had tried to sneak around the Moon twice. Timo had seen him, and managed to look like he was making routine course adjustments which happened to keep him out of the way.

“Circle above engines,” Vera said, taking a place on the chair behind him.

As Timo started to move, he glimpsed Den’s ship underneath him, hiding in the shadow of the Moon. He could have had him this time. Timo shuddered, but he kept his ship moving steadily.

Den was following cautiously. He wouldn’t know if he’d been seen.

As they passed behind Vera’s engines, now closed down, Timo saw two flashes from behind one of the engine bells. Vera was sitting on the chair with her remote control, looking at the small screen.

“Den,” Timo said. It was time for a distraction. “What are you doing?”

“Ain’t it obvious?” Den said. “I’m gonna take you out. Sorry Timo, you’ve always been a good friend.”

Timo had never been that good of a friend to Den, he knew better.

“That’s not too comforting,” Timo said. “Besides, I don’t think that old tub can catch me.”

“I’ll catch you soon enough,” Den said. “Or run you off. That’s it kid, just take off and I’ll take care of the Moon. I don’t really want you dead.”

“You just don’t want to pay me,” Timo said. “The Moon is mine. You should be the one to leave.”

“That won’t happen,” Den said.

Vera sat up and pulled herself closer to the control panel.

“Den,” she said. “Look above.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Who was that?” Den asked. He always was a little thick.

Then his ship blew up. Vera had guided two small missiles right into his ship. Timo watched the glowing debris scatter in every direction and he tried to make himself feel better over the death of Den.

Actually, he decided, the human race was better off without him.

* * *

Timo took his turn sleeping, setting his timer up to ten hours before he left Vera in the control seat.

Den had been stupid. All he had to do was go along with the job and he could have retired a rich man. Even split three ways, the money they would make on this salvage would be more than they could ever spend.

Den was gone. Timo hadn’t slept so well in a long time.

“All good?” he asked as he returned to the control room. He had decided he liked Vera. Since he was going to be cooped up with her in his ship for more than a year, it would be better if they could get along.

“All good,” Vera said. “I put rations in side pack of space suit. Could you get?”

“Sure,” Timo said. He stepped into the air lock and opened the side pack of the greyish suit Vera had worn. He put his hand inside. There was nothing in it. Then he checked the other side.

The door closed behind him.

“You are an idiot,” her voice crackled though the intercom.

“How am I an idiot?” Timo asked, taking a quick look around. None of the suits in the air lock had hoses on them. Someone had collected them while he’d been sleeping. They would not help him.

“You knew Den was going to try to kill you,” Vera said. Her English was suddenly very good. “I had to bail you out.”

The emergency switch, behind the landing kit, was broken. Vera had been thorough.

“Maybe I had a plan,” Timo said. “But yours worked better.”

The emergency conduit was bolted closed. He was beginning to not like Vera, not one bit.

“I doubt that,” Vera said. “I know your type. Always hoping for the best in people. It’s a wonder you’ve lived this long.”

He moved over to the small window on the door. It was over; she had outsmarted him, but maybe not completely.

“I have a backup plan,” Timo said. “We can work this out.”

“I doubt that,” Vera said, and opened the outer door.

Timo grabbed the tool kit. It had magnetics, but it came with him as the air pushed him out. Timo held his breath as he drifted away. He liked that old ship. As he got pushed outward, he noticed the chalk square just above the air lock.

He should have let Weist put in that emergency exit on the top. He might have had a chance of climbing into it. As it was, he didn’t have a chance at all.

* * *

Vera closed the outside door and returned to the controls of the ship — her ship now. She couldn’t decide which of the two had been worse, the pig or the idealist. The pig had tried to kill her the moment she was no longer useful, but he’d been honest. The idealist thought they could work together and come out ahead; but she had seen that “repopulating the species” look in his eye when he thought she wasn’t looking. Staying in a small ship with him for more than a year would have been hell.

She had been watching Timo very closely. There were individualities to every ship, an order to the controls that only the pilot would know. The controls were basic; it wouldn’t take her long to get the feel of it.

“What was it you did every time you sat down?” She asked herself. Perhaps she would spend a few days talking to the ghost of Timo. It was the only way she’d let him keep her company.

She strapped herself in, like he always did. Then he would reach up and turn a knob on the far corner of the panel.

The knob wasn’t there. There was a nondescript hole with no label. Vera was sure there had been something in there before.

Maybe it was important; maybe it was just an idiosyncrasy. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t be that hard to pull the control panel and figure out what it was, and replace it if she had to.

There was a tool kit somewhere around, she’d seen it.

Vera didn’t know it was a timing knob, and that the ship was set to explode when it reached zero. As it turned out, an hour and fifteen minutes after she sent Timo out of the airlock.

* * *

The Mars colony — they still called themselves a colony — started out as a few temporary shelters put in place for the year-long exploration of the planet. The time frame had changed when the Earth died. They had spent the first few years finding ways to make the colony sustainable with the materials at hand. It had not been easy.

Even so, their population had doubled every year for the first three years.

“Some kind of comet, I guess,” Sandy said as they sun rose opposite a bright sphere which had appeared in the night sky. They had noticed it half an hour before, and it would be setting within a minute or two.

“I’ll set up the telescope for tomorrow night. We’ll get a good look at it and see if we can figure out where it’s going.”

There was only one telescope in the colony and Sandy had it. She spent as much time teaching people the use and care of the telescope as she did actually using it herself. The colony had learned to share; it was a matter of survival.

“Maybe one of the guys found another comet for us,” Gene said, taking a last look. “We’ve been asking for almost a year. If it is, we’ll have lakes by next month.”

Sandy was out early that evening. As the sun set, the bright sphere came up above the horizon, brighter than it had been the night before. Sandy got it in focus. She looked for a moment, and then pulled her phone out of her pocket. She almost dropped it as she dialed. The governor would want to hear this.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Sandy said.

Word spread quickly. The Martians spent the week celebrating. It was the Moon, and it was on a course which would put it into a workable orbit around the planet. They would be able to make a few adjustments after the scientists made detailed calculations, and it would be perfect.

Only a few people noticed the increase of shooting stars for a few days after the arrival of the Moon. No one realized they were bits of metal.

The metal from three ships.

NORMAN GRAY

Relapse

Norman Gray is a 24 year old aspiring author from Toronto, Canada. He began pursuing his lifelong dream of becoming a science-fiction/fantasy writer in 2010, when he joined the sffworld.com writing forum. Norman attributes most of his knowledge of writing to this forum, and the invaluable wealth of expertise possessed by its members.

In Relapse, Earth is on the brink of annihilation. Two scientists disrupt the flow of time to prevent the apocalypse from occurring. But while the entire human race is unknowingly sent ten years into the past, one man retains his memory of the life that was taken from him. Haunted by his memories, his only choice is to struggle through his dark past in order to relive his bright future, and once again win the heart of the woman he loves. But is he up to the task?

7. RELAPSE

by Norman Gray

July 8th, 2022

They were going to make history, and end history.

Dr. Emil Werner and Dr. Joseph Heinrich worked tediously. They left the television on in their rundown workshop while making their preparations, watching in hope of hearing some good news. It seemed there was no such thing today; in fact, the news seemed worse by the minute.

“The world holds its breath, mesmerized by an unprecedented phenomenon that perhaps threatens our very existence.” The newscast showed an image of a black object in the sky, growing nearer. Then they cut away to a media conference where a woman standing at a podium was bombarded with questions.

Werner toggled some switches while keeping one eye on the T.V.

“Device is powering up. Standing by.”

“What can you tell us about this object and its origins?”

“All systems activating,” Heinrich affirmed.

“Very little. From the images we’ve received, it is estimated to be one hundred times the diameter of Earth, approximately. Astronomers first located it traveling from within Sagittarius A-star, roughly two hours ago.”

“All calibrations correct. Reset point programmed for June 16th, 2012. All readings are normal.”

“Have there been any attempts to make contact with it or divert it?”

“Device at full power.”

“All attempts to make any form of contact have been unsuccessful.”

“Are we ready, Dr. Werner?”

“What is its current path?”

Werner inspected everything one final time. “All systems are ready. Stand by for reset.”

“It appears to be making a nearly direct voyage toward the sun. Neptune, Mars, and Jupiter will be within its estimated collision course. Given the object’s size and unprecedented speed, it will likely continue its path with little resistance. Earth will narrowly evade impact.”

Werner rested his hand over the switch and stopped. Sweat poured down his forehead. This was it. His next action would decide the fate of the world. Humanity would never progress beyond this point in time, whether they fail or succeed.

“What do you and your colleagues believe will be the result if it collides into the sun?”

“We expect the result will be devastating. The sun could be displaced, possibly even destroyed.”

“Then what is the likelihood of Earth’s survival?”

“Miracles can happen… All we can do now, is hope for one.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Werner stood silent for a moment. “When we go back, everything will be just as it was. Everything. Even our own memories. It will be as if the last ten years never happened. How can we prevent this from happening again?”

“We can’t,” Heinrich said regretfully. “But if nothing changes then we will reset again in another ten years.” He paused. “It’s entirely possible that we’ve already done this a hundred times before.”

“So. This is it then.”

“It’s this, or extinction, Emil.”

There was a long, dreadful silence. Werner stared at the switch; just a harmless little switch, like that of a light or a fuse. “We should wait.”

“Wait for what? A divine miracle?”

“Yes. Why activate it until we absolutely must?”

They waited. The tension grew as the object approached the sun.

“It must be done now.”

“A moment longer.” Only a sliver of sunlight remained, darkness falling fast.

“By the time we see the impact it could already be too late!”

It slowly created an eclipse, turning daytime into night. Then it happened; an explosion lit up the darkness, flames spreading around the black silhouette.

“May God have mercy on us.” Werner flicked the switch.

* * *

June 16th, 2012

Johnathan Gibbs awoke from a dream. A dream that felt so real, yet so wonderful that it had to be impossible: He dreamt he had a wife, a home that they had bought together, and two wonderful children. He was holding them in his arms. The last thing he remembered was seeing a bright fire illuminating the sky, and telling his wife he loved her more than anything.

We’ll always be together, she said. Even in the hereafter.

But the bed he woke up in was not theirs. This was his old apartment; seventh story of the Elmont building, 3rd Street. He shook the sleep out of his head. The memories didn’t fade, didn’t dissolve like most dreams do. He remembered her name; Kara. Their kids, Elena and Johnathan Jr. Their address, 45 Grand Oak Drive. Aluminium sidings painted powder blue, white shutters on the windows. A two car garage. Home.

It was real. He was sure. And yet he was here, in the cramped apartment from his bleak past. He got out of bed, went into the washroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His reflection showed a man he had long forgotten; a young man, thin and frail, pale and sickly looking. A man with many burdens to bear.

This isn’t real, he thought. It can’t be.

* * *

He ran up Grand Oak Drive, struggling for breath. He reached number 45. It hardly looked like his house; the shutters were gone. The sidings were a faded white. Someone else’s car was parked in the driveway. Panicking, he threw open the front door and barged in. “Kara?”

There was an elderly man sitting in the living room. He stared fearfully at John.

“Kara! Kara where are you?”

“Get out!” The man yelled.

“This is my house!” John screamed back at him.

“Get out or I’ll call the police!”

This must be hell, John thought. I’m dead and I’m in hell.

* * *

June 21st, 2012

They had dressed him in the same blue attire as every other patient, and gave him sedatives. He felt like a zombie; his eyes were in a distant place, his head swaying back and forth lazily. John wanted to sleep, wanted to be left alone. But they wouldn’t leave him be.

He was escorted to the psychiatrist’s office and seated in front of the doctor’s desk. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Gibbs?” he was asked. John just shook his head, unable to find the will to even speak. “You have a visitor,” the doctor said. Someone entered the room.

“It’s always something, isn’t John?” A stern voice addressed him. A chill ran up his spine. John slowly raised his head, his eyes confirming his worst fear. There was his father, with that condescending look John remembered so well. “You broke into an elderly man’s house and assaulted him. For Christ’s sake, kid, when are you gonna grow a brain?”

John laughed meekly.

The old man became very angry. “Is something funny, John?”

“My father died years ago,” he said. “He died and I was happier for it.”

“Cut the crap, John, you’re not—”

“Fuck you, whoever you are. Even if you really are my dad.”

“You’ve gone completely backwards, kid. Enough is enough. This is your problem, you deal with it. I’m done fixing your mistakes.” The old man turned and walked away.

“I watched them lower you into the ground!” John yelled. “Best day of my life!”

* * *

December 9th, 2014

Time had passed, more time than John cared to count. He spent his days staring at the white walls of his room and watching the seasons pass by through his window. He spent his nights talking to Kara in his head, imagining that she was always there with him like she promised she would be.

We’ll always be together.

Maybe he really had lost his mind. Everything had seemed so perfect, like a miracle. Maybe his perfect life had just been a wishful fantasy. Everyone else seemed to think so.

It was time to let go, time to free himself from his pain. He was ready.

He had managed to steal a utility knife from the janitor’s storage room early in the day, carrying it in his waistband until they locked him back in his room that night. He sat on the floor, staring at the dull blade. He thought it over, knowing deep down that this was the only option left for him.

He gripped the blade tight in his hand. He knew the way it had to be done; up the arm, not across the wrist. He sunk the blade deep into the skin, trembling with pain and terror. Tears welled up in his eyes. Just do it. One quick motion. Blood was already flowing up out of his arm, running around his wrist and pattering softly on the white cell floor. This was the point of no return.

He looked away and ran the blade up his arm. He screamed in agony, turning back to see blood coursing out from his wrist almost to the back of his elbow. He trembled and heaved. Soon his heart was pounding madly, desperately trying to pump blood that wasn’t there. He started to feel a terrible chill. So this is death.

He could hear the nurses hurriedly trying to unlock the door from the other side. John’s eyes were twitching uncontrollably, his vision blurring. He felt very lightheaded and toppled over, his head crashing into the bloody cell floor. Then everything went dark.

* * *

June 16th, 2012

John awoke from a terrible nightmare. He dreamt he had been locked away in an insane asylum, and the only way out was… No. No, it was only a dream. He was in his apartment again, in his bed. But if it was just a dream, then why did his misery feel so real? He looked at his arm. No cuts, no scars. He took a moment to catch his breath, to awaken and let the memory fade. It didn’t.

Something else clawed at the back of his mind. A life he once lived. People he loved. Was it real?

Kara. I have to find Kara.

* * *

He marched up Sawyer Street, constantly fearful that they were looking for him, that at any moment they might find him and drag him away again. He reached her house, the one she lived in before they had been together. John frantically knocked on her door, praying that she’d know who he was. He needed her to remember.

Suddenly Kara opened the door, and there was a silent pause as they stared at each other. A smile formed on John’s face, a tear rolled down his cheek. It had been so long. So long since he’d seen her other than in his dreams. So long since he’d heard her voice other than in his head.

“Yes?” she said. “Can I… Help you?”

His smile faded but the tears kept coming. “Kara,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Help me, please. Tell me that you remember.”

There was a long pause. She stared at him fearfully, saying nothing.

* * *

John reached the intersection at the end of Sawyer Street. A bus was coming. He stood on the sidewalk, looking calm and inconspicuous. He could hear the drone of its diesel engine as it sped closer. He waited until the last possible moment. When it drove into the intersection, he stepped off the sidewalk and into its path. The driver didn’t have time to apply the brakes. The bumper shattered John’s knees only an instant before his head cracked the windshield.

* * *

June 16th, 2012

John awoke with a pounding headache and tears in his eyes. He left his bed, and marched straight to the window. He lifted it open, and before he could make sense of his memories, he stepped onto the sill and jumped. Within moments, he broke against the sidewalk.

* * *

June 16th, 2012

John awoke. A dream of sweet death lingered in his mind. He turned and looked at his bedroom window, still firmly shut. He inhaled a deep breath and sighed. Then he got up and went to the kitchen, grabbed a large knife from the cutlery drawer and drove it into his stomach repeatedly. He hesitated at first, leaving shallow wounds that stung terribly. Memories of Kara flooded into his thoughts against his will, tormenting him. He wished he could forget. Why couldn’t he forget?

He drove the knife in hard, pressing the blade through as far as he could, wailing in agony all the while. His hands trembled at his sides as he looked down at himself, the handle of the blade protruding from the bloody wound. He hoped to punish himself enough that he’d be forgiven for whatever he did to deserve this. He hoped to be granted peace.

John breathed heavily, overwhelmed by pain and wishing death would come soon. Blood had run down his legs and pooled around his feet over the tiled kitchen floor, more blood than he thought possible. His heart had gone from a fast pounding to a spastic twitching. His legs felt weak, his body cold. He fell to his knees, and while he was kneeling in his own blood, he prayed.

Please God. Let me die. Just let it end… Then everything went dark.

* * *

October 19th, 2019

“It’s finally ready.”

Heinrich stood back for a better view; it didn’t look like much, if truth were told. Certainly not like a device that had the power to reset time.

“I wonder if it actually works,” Werner mused. “But, I suppose we’ll never know. It’s somewhat depressing.”

“It works, Emil. You know it does.”

“But why not… Try it?”

“And trap humanity in an infinite loop? Really?”

Werner sighed. “I don’t know why we ever built this cursed thing in the first place. If it works, then the world will essentially end. If it doesn’t, then it will have failed its purpose and the world will still end. What’s the point in creating something if you can never test it to see if it works?”

“Ignorance is bliss, Emil. Wouldn’t you want to relive all of the wonderful events of the past?”

“Not if I knew that there would be no future.”

“And what if we’ve already activated the machine once? What if we’ve relived this very moment a thousand times before? Does that make you any less eager to see what the next moment will bring?”

Werner contemplated for a second. He smiled. “I suppose not. Damn these hypothetical questions! We should have never built this cursed thing.”

“You already said that.” Heinrich laughed. “Perhaps we are running in a loop. What do you think we’re destined to do next?”

“I think destiny dictates that we call it a day, head to the tavern, and get completely and utterly smashed.”

Heinrich smiled and nodded. “I can see a pattern forming already.”

* * *

John followed them through the park, keeping his distance. There were three of them; a tall man with red hair, a little girl, and Kara. They all smiled and laughed together. It drove John mad seeing Kara looking so happy about all of it, seeing the joy she once felt from him coming from some other man.

Everything had failed, time and time again. He had tried to show her that they were soul mates, tried fruitlessly to recreate the circumstances of their first encounter, reliving all of the agonizing years before their meeting. He had tried taking shortcuts, forcing their meeting long before it was supposed to happen. Hardest of all, he had tried to forget. He realized that the problem was him. He wasn’t the man she fell in love with. He was a shadow of himself; an empty silhouette of the man he used to be.

Every little change held repercussions; everything had to be the exact same. It was impossible. But he kept trying to win her over. He had to, as much as it hurt him. All he had was time. It was this or nothing.

Kara and the redheaded man exchanged words and a long kiss, and then he departed, leaving Kara alone with the girl. Now was John’s chance. He approached her.

“Lovely day today, isn’t it?” John asked.

She nodded dismissively. “Yep.”

“Great day for a walk.”

“Mmmhmm,” was her agreement. John stared at Kara, but she avoided eye contact. Speak to me, Kara. Look at me, please. At least give me that. She kept looking away.

The little girl looked up at John and smiled. “Hi!” she said.

He stared at the little girl. She had green eyes and curly red hair. He hated her. “Hello. What’s your name?”

Kara quickly intervened. “Elena, honey, I told you. No talking to strangers.”

John’s eyes flared open. “Elena!” He shouted. “Elena? It wasn’t enough to give a child to another man, you had to steal our daughter’s name too?”

Kara backed away in a panic. She pulled the girl close to her. ”Leave us alone, please.”

“Talk to me, Kara! Treat me with something other than hate and disgust!”

“Why do you know my name?”

“Your maiden name is Vanhemert. You like classical music. You’re a Libra. I’m your soul mate. I know everything about you.”

“Please, just leave us alone!”

“I made a vow; until death do us part. I mean to keep that vow, Kara.”

“Get away from me!” she screamed.

“If only you knew!” John yelled. “If only you knew what I’ve put myself through for you!”

* * *

Heinrich was sitting at the bar, looking into his nearly empty glass of beer and wondering if he should order another. He wondered if it was his fate. A good enough excuse. He signaled the bartender and pointed to his glass.

While waiting for his drink, he wondered what the future would bring and what part he’d have in it. Wondered if the device was a blessing, or a curse. He turned to Werner. He was reading a newspaper, his eyes skimming forward and darting back as he read each line.

“About this time restoration instrument we’ve made,” Werner said.

“What about it?” Heinrich responded with feigned disinterest, as if he wasn’t spending every waking moment thinking about it himself.

“Well, what if it works?”

Heinrich paused. “Then we go back and relive our lives in blissful ignorance.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. If there ever comes a time, god forbid, that we actually have to use it… I mean, what’s to say we haven’t reset once already?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Why worry? Nothing to be done about it. There’s no way to alter the future without knowing what the future is first.”

There was another moment’s silence. “What if someone did know the future? What if someone could remember?”

The bartender brought Heinrich’s beer over. Heinrich narrowed his eyes at Werner. “How exactly?”

“I don’t know how. But what if they could?”

Irritated, Heinrich shook his head. “Why does it matter, Emil?”

Werner lowered his newspaper on the bar and slid it over so that Heinrich could read the page:

Johnathan Gibbs sees a bleak future

Eccentric psychic Johnathan Gibbs has been making astounding predictions, and warning his followers, “The end is near.”

He looked up at Werner with his eyebrows elevated. “Tell me you don’t believe this foolishness.”

“Read on,” Werner told him.

Heinrich drank while his eyes darted back and forth over the page, taking it all in: Celebrity fatalities predicted in exact detail. Natural disasters pinpointed to the minute. Gibbs was even claiming that he was from the future. Astounding, if any of it were true. It likely wasn’t.

“Well? Tell me you don’t find that somewhat concerning.”

”Don’t believe everything you read,” Heinrich said with a note of uncertainty.

“It might be worth finding this man,” Werner said. “Imagine what wealth of knowledge he could possess if he truly does know the future. If he’s seen the apocalypse, he could help us prevent it.”

The intense look in his eyes suggested that Werner was quite serious about seeking this man out. It left Heinrich feeling very unsettled; this Gibbs fellow was either brimming with lies or worse, the terrifying truth. Heinrich didn’t want to hear either one.

He looked down at his beer, surprised to see that it was nearly empty again. He wondered when he’d finally drink enough to drown his worries. Maybe never, but it was worth trying. He signaled the bartender and pointed to his glass.

* * *

July 8th, 2022

John remembered this day, so vaguely that he thought maybe he had imagined it. He had been a very different man in a different place then, but the event was the same; a gigantic object hurdled through the sky, impossibly dark and completely unnatural. Its shadow passed over the Earth as it seemed to speed toward the sun. Immense darkness, only a sliver of sunlight peeking out around its edge. And then it happened; for just a brief moment, a flash of fire illuminated everything. Flames burst out around the object, engulfing it as if the sun had exploded. It was beautiful.

The first time he saw it had been long ago. He was with Kara and the children, and he had told them that he loved them. That was the last time they had all been together, the last time he’d been a father and husband. The last time he had been whole.

We’ll always be together. Even in the hereafter.

* * *

June 16th, 2012

John’s eyelids snapped open. Bright spots were still dancing over his eyes, the memory of the event burned into his brain. It was real. Something had actually crashed into the sun. John was back in bed in his old apartment, except he hadn’t died. He was sure of it. He had been pulled back too soon.

Why do I remember?

He had asked himself that question a million times, never getting any closer to an answer. But this had been no coincidence. Something or someone was doing this, turning back the clock to avoid disaster. It was time to find out why this was happening. No matter how long it took, he would find the cause. It was his only way out.

* * *

July 8th, 2022

It was around noon. Werner limped into the tavern, easing the burden with his walking cane. He sat himself at the bar, climbing up into his stool and stretching out his aching leg. The television was on above the bar, displaying the local news. Werner picked up a menu and was about to flip through it, when he noticed the strange looking man sitting two seats away, staring back at him.

Werner said nothing at first, merely ignored him and turned his eyes to the television. But the man continued to stare. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The strange man smiled wide. “I’m just glad to see you’re still alive, old friend. I would have been disappointed if you’d killed yourself.”

“I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“Many times, Dr. Werner.”

“No one has called me Doctor for nearly a decade.”

“Just Emil, then?”

“Pardon me,” Werner said irritably, “but where have we met?”

“Here, among many other places.”

“I don’t remember.”

“No one remembers. Not like I do.”

Werner gave the strange man a sideways glance and then turned his attention to the menu.

“They’re already bringing our meals,” the man said. “I ordered you veal.”

Werner slapped the menu down on the bar. “How kind of you,” he said sarcastically. “But I’m a vegetarian.”

“I know, that’s why I ordered veal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Tell me, Dr. Werner, if you were on death row and you could have anything as your last meal, would you want a veggie platter?”

“I’m not on death row.”

“Yes you are. We all are.”

“Are you insane?” Werner asked.

“I certainly hope so,” the man said. “If I’m not insane, then there’s something really wrong with me.”

The stranger got up from his seat and sat right next to Werner. “Does the name Joseph Heinrich mean anything to you?”

Werner’s head perked up. “Yes,” he said. “He was a colleague of mine, many years ago. I take it you are affiliated with Dr. Heinrich then?”

“Deeply affiliated.”

Werner nodded. “He and I had plans for constructing a fantastic device capable of things you could only ever dream of.”

“How fascinating,” the man said.

“But fate, being the cruel mistress that it is, forced us to abandon the project in its infancy.” Werner shook his head in regret.

“What a tragedy.”

“Such is life. So, how is Joseph?”

“Dead,” the man spoke without a hint of sadness. “His wife died eight years ago. His only child passed away a year after that. Then he was hit by a car while crossing the street, crippled and left permanently bound to a wheelchair for the rest of his days. He became a recluse, retreating to the safety of solitude, ever fearful that he was cursed. I could easily list the many lesser tragedies that occurred over the last ten years of his life, but there’s hardly time for that. He killed himself about a year ago. A shame. Truly, a pointless waste. If only he were here today, then he could die alongside his friend.”

Werner stared angrily. “Who are you?”

“We interrupt this report to bring you breaking news.”

The man leaned in close. “I think you know the answer to that. I think deep down you’ve been tormenting yourself for years, running through all of the possibilities. You know that you’ve done things you can’t possibly remember. You spend all day every day thinking about what could have been and you know that just by thinking about building that device, there is the possibility that you’ve built it already.”

“We’ll be keeping you informed as we learn more about this unbelievable event.”

“You’re a fucking liar!” Werner yelled.

“You two were the greatest liars to ever live. Letting the world believe that it has a future. You’ve made fools out of everyone. Except for me. You won’t fool me.”

“The world holds its breath, mesmerized by an unprecedented phenomenon that perhaps threatens our very existence.”

“In a different time and place, you two made a terrible mistake, one that needs to be corrected.”

A sinking feeling weighed heavy in Werner’s stomach. He suddenly felt paralyzed, struggling to speak, to breathe. “I merely dreamt of saving the world.” He thought back to all of the hardships he’d endured over the last ten years, knowing in his heart that they were not coincidences. He leaned over his cane, looking down at his deformed leg. “What have you done to me?”

“What can you tell us about this object and its origins?”

“Everything. I made the last ten years of your life a living hell. I ruined every good thing that was ever going to happen to you. And most importantly, I made sure that your device was never built.”

Suddenly the tavern darkened. Outside, the sky was enveloped by a black shape that stretched from horizon to horizon.

“You’ve damned us all!”

“On the contrary. I’ve saved us all from damnation. Admit it. You’d rather see Earth die, than see it carry on in some false existence for all eternity.”

“All we can do now, is hope for a miracle.”

Werner’s hands shook. His eyes twitched. “I should kill you.”

“I’ve already killed myself a thousand times, hoping to escape from the nightmare you created. You never told anyone; I had to search for hundreds of years to find you, without a clue where to start. Do you have ANY idea what that was like? Can you imagine a worse torture? The places I’ve been to, looking without knowing what I was looking for?”

Werner’s fear was now surpassing his anger. “How do you remember?”

“If only I knew. If only I could forget.” He peered out the window. “It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I see it,” he said without concern. “Not much longer now.”

Werner watched as the immense blackness shrunk in the sky, distancing itself from Earth and choking out the light as it neared the sun. “Why didn’t you just kill me years ago?”

“Far too easy.”

“You could have warned us. You could have saved the world!”

“Why?” The man hissed. “Why is the world worth saving?”

“But… We’ve given you a gift! You have infinite knowledge!”

“GIFT!?” The man cried. “Can you make my wife love me again?”

“I don’t—”

“Can you give me my kids back?”

“Well—”

“Can you stitch my mind back together, after tearing it into a thousand pieces?”

Werner didn’t answer.

“You’ve taken away everything, and given me nothing.” The man got up from his seat. “This is it,” he said. “No time now for our last meals, sadly.” He walked out the door.

Werner waited, and then reluctantly followed the man outside. He stared up at the sky.

The street was already crowded with people, all of them watching as daylight dwindled. “The world died a long time ago. It’s just been waiting for someone to bury it.” The massive shape turned day into night, eclipsing the sun. John grinned from ear to ear. So this is death.

The sun exploded. Fire spread across the sky, its heat reaching the Earth. A scalding wind crushed down on John, crushed down on everyone. There was a deafening roar as buildings collapsed around him. There was bright light, fire. And pain, pain worse than any John ever knew. But the pain belonged to him, and he welcomed it.

Peace. Peace for everyone. Most of all, for me.

Werner collapsed to the ground, wailing in torment. John leaned over him. “Her name was Kara,” he said. “Our children were named Jonathan and Elena. They were the world to me, and you took them.”

Suddenly, the flames receded into the black object, and intense brightness gave way to absolute darkness, and frigid cold. John’s breath steamed as he exhaled. He smiled, imagining the entire world dying around him. He could hear their screams of terror and agony.

I’ve freed you all. You’re welcome.

The pain overwhelmed John, forcing him to close his eyes.

He didn’t open them again.

MICHAEL J. SULLIVAN

Burning Alexandria

Michael J. Sullivan is a full-time novelist and author of the well-received Riyria Revelation fantasy series. He is currently at work on a new novel and loves to hear from his readers. You can read more about him at riyria.blogspot.com.

8. BURNING ALEXANDRIA

by Michael J. Sullivan

It was a pleasure to see the fire burn.

Irwin Gilbert had managed it with just a magnifying glass, a cotton ball, and what was left of a bottle of 70% isopropyl alcohol that still bore the Eckerd Drug label. That bottle had to be three years old, the cotton balls even older. Irwin had a lot of old things squirreled away in his tiny home. They used to call people like Irwin hoarders, but now they’d call him a genius, if anyone knew. Only, if anyone knew, Irwin would be dead.

For safety’s sake he’d started the fire in his largest and deepest cooking pot. The one with plastic handles that stuck out to either side like Mickey Mouse’s ears. He set the stainless steel kettle on top of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, then after a moments consideration, slipped Chicken Soup for the Soul between them. He nurtured the flame first with tissues, then junk mail and newspaper circulars. As the fire grew, smoke began to fill the room and Irwin started to panic. He’d forgotten about ventilation. Images of Wiley E. Coyote flashed through his mind as he struggled to unearth more of the partially covered window, the only one in the whole house that still admitted light. Digging it out, the room’s interior brightened with the white of winter.

Nearly blinding himself in the process, Irwin fumbled for the latch and pinched his frozen fingers before realizing the window had been painted shut. In forty years, Irwin had never tried opening it. He remembered he had other windows, but they were buried and he’d lost track of their locations years ago.

Exposed by the harsh light, Irwin’s living room was little more than a narrow gap between precarious cliffs of books, which ran from floor to ceiling. Hard covers formed the foundations, trade paperbacks the middle strata, with the little mass markets soared to the cottage cheese-textured acoustical ceiling. The stacks of books were easily eight deep in most places, and even if he knew where to dig for another window, he had no guarantee he would be able to open it either.

His eyes watered and stung. The stark winter’s light grew hazy as the tiny space filled with smoke. The campfire smell, which had been pleasant at first, now coated his tongue, saturating his nostrils. Irwin began to cough.

He could practically hear the Meep, meep! of the Roadrunner mocking him. Wiley E. Coyote, super genius, suffocates in his own home. Irwin had few choices: stomp out the little fledging fire with its promise of warmth, or break the window. He couldn’t afford to spend another night as cold as the one before. Picking up a copy of Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker he punched the glass.

Thud.

He rolled his stinging eyes and reached for Stephen King’s Under the Dome — one thousand seventy-four pages of hardcover, window-shattering goodness. The window pane cracked and splintered into jagged blades. Large shards slipped free from their gummy caulk and fell. The two guillotines missed his fingers but cut the otherwise mint condition dust jacket right across the big white “K” in King.

“Goddamn it!” Irwin cursed, looking at the damage. He should have used Atlas Shrugged.

As if summoned by magic, the smoke took notice of the hole and rushed toward it. Irwin moved the pot closer to the window to aid the migration. The fire was already starting to die, and icy air blew in, carrying the occasional snowflake or two. They were the hard sand sort, more ice than flake. By breaking the window he’d only made his situation worse. If he didn’t build up the fire enough to radiate significant heat, he’d freeze to death. A fireplace would have been great, a woodstove outstanding. He’d considered using his old electric stove, only it didn’t work — nothing worked anymore — the electricity died two days ago, killing the stove, the television, the lights, and taking the water and furnace with it. That’s when things had gotten cold.

Irwin spent most of his time bundled up in blankets and sleeping in the grotto — what used to be his bedroom, but he couldn’t sensibly call it that anymore as he’d gotten rid of the bed years ago. He needed more space for his books and now he had to shimmy to slide into the small remaining gap, careful not to crush his prized thriller collection with its signed copy of Raymond Chandler’s The Long Goodbye, and an ARC of Dan Brown’s Di Vinci Code. As it turned out, crime fiction served as great insulation. His sleeping burrow had been cozy for a while.

Irwin figured he’d be all right — much better off than the vast majority of the world’s remaining population. He imagined shadowy hordes moving in a line like Grey Haven-bound elves, or solitary figures on a desolate road similar to the man and boy in McCarthy’s The Road, speaking in such an economy of words as if those too were on short supply. Irwin was more like Smaug on his pile of gold, or Nemo in his submarine, safe from the tribulations of a collapsing world. Decades of saving everything from twist ties, to used dental floss, to sun-dried tomatoes — which hadn’t started out that way — had left Irwin uniquely prepared for the apocalypse. He was like a bear with enough fat to survive multiple winters. He could cocoon and later emerge into the light of a new dawn. Irwin was the cockroach that couldn’t be exterminated, that would live long after its betters had turned to dust like so many Buffy-slain vampires.

He had everything he needed, although not necessarily what he would have selected had he known what was coming. Irwin wasn’t one of those survivalists with fancy freeze dried stroganoff. He would subsist on Ramen noodles, canned goods, and what was left of the entire assorted line of Hostess post-apocalyptic rations, once led by its flagship of snack foods the Twinkie. After his last case of Mountain Dew Code Red was gone, he could melt snow to water, and he had plenty to read — close to thirty thousand he estimated, but he had stopped counting several years back. Hari Seldon himself using couldn’t have set Irwin up any better to be the next foundation of civilization — except the temperature continued to drop.

Global warming my ass!

Maybe it was warming somewhere in the world, but Northern Virginia was heading for a second ice age. That was Irwin’s theory — he had lots of those too. All the crazies on television had prattled on about environmental shifts. No one agreed what caused it. They had plenty of ideas though: Industrial waste, carbon emissions, natural cycle, solar flares. One fella on FOX, the blond guy with the face pastier than Irwin’s, actually accused China of having a weather machine, as if the leader of the People’s Republic was really Sean Connery’s Sir August De Wynter from the 1989 Avengers movie. Weather is not in God’s hands, but in mine!

The real kicker — the thing that no one expected, not even Irwin — was that electricity stopped working. The power hadn’t just gone out, this wasn’t a grid failure. Electricity stopped functioning, period. Well, not entirely, Irwin was still alive and he knew from numerous science fiction novels, and The Matrix, that the human body ran on electricity. So electrons were still flowing at some basic level, but the big currents had dried up as neatly as the Nile. Outside the body however, you couldn’t get a good shock with a balloon and a long-haired cat.

It happened in stages. Irwin watched television reports about blackouts in areas where power couldn’t be generated. Scientists were baffled as generators proved useless and fresh batteries dropped dead. The blackouts rolled around the globe like a viral epidemic until one by one all the television stations winked out isolating the modern global community back into their respective caves. No one realized how much the world relied on electricity until it disappeared.

In the big pot centered just below the broken window tiny tongues of flame licking up from the cotton ball like a hungry baby bird in a nest. Irwin fed it junk mail, angry with himself for not saving more. Of all the things he saved, junk mail wasn’t one, and they stopped delivering it years ago. The postman’s creed failed to include the threat caused by email staying these couriers rounds.

The fire singed Irwin’s fingers as it eagerly lapped up Father Day Sales Events, and pre-approved credit card offers. He sneered as he sucked on his hand. “You’re not a baby bird — you’re Audrey II.”

Whether Audrey the plant, or Tweety the Bird, the fire in the pot consumed the flyers with a throaty roar. The tide of smoke ebbed as healthy flames grew strong, leaping up above the rim. Irwin was a failure at growing plants, but apparently a wiz with potted bonfires. Already he could feel heat. He held out his palms like a cartoon hobo appreciating the reward of his ingenuity. His previously numb fingers, which had made removing the stubborn cap from the rubbing alcohol a ten minute process, were already stinging with pins-and-needles. A sore clamminess in his face indicated his cheeks were thawing out.

Meep! Meep! My ass.

In the face of the light from the exposed window it was hard to tell how bright the fire was. Abraham Lincoln — the non-vampire hunter version — reportedly read books by candlelight, and Irwin hoped to do something similar. His evenings as of late had been dull affairs, sitting in near absolute darkness, shivering and employing the only other sensory faculty left to him — listening to the wind howl. He was surprised to discover this was no metaphor, it actually howled. Howled and wailed, wailed and howled, speaking a language that took on sinister proportions in the black of night, threats shouted for intimidation’s sake. Irwin was not above being intimidated. Even when the wind wasn’t blowing hard, the gusts whispered conspiratorially to each other as if plotting some terrible crime, a crime Irwin was convinced was planned against him.

But now he had made fire, and a primordial sense of power surged through his being. Is this what ancient man felt when he declared war on nature? When Homo erectus flipped his middle finger at what-went-bump-in-the-night and stepped out of the fear-filled realm of the animal kingdom to take his place on the porcelain throne of the flush toilet, and bask in the glow of the computer screen? Irwin smiled at his creation, tapping the Mickey Mouse handles like a proud father. A shame there were no mastodons to slay, for he felt oddly up to the task.

He settled himself on stacks of sturdy hardbacks positioned where a recliner had once been, and looked down the crevasse that divided science fiction from fantasy, the two foot-wide space of worn carpet he still called his living room. This Mariana trench set between precipices of towering genius comprised a wealth of words, a compilation of ideas that transcended reality, the acme of human expression — a landscape of invented worlds. Of this too he was proud. He had saved it all.

For more than ten years the world had followed the wisdom of the digital word. How many books can you fit on the head of a pin? Infinitely storable, instantly searchable, and for a time believed to be indestructible. Electric numbers never age. Only what happens when the body electric suffers a coronary?

Irwin never trusted the ebook. Such trust was dangerous and all too easy; a gift left before the city gates by an army that had miraculously vanished. He refused to roll that giant horse inside, even though one e-reader possessed the capacity to return his living room, complete with chair. Using cloud technology would have made his storage infinite — but also infinitely precarious, as the Library of Congress had recently found out, when a decade after making the switch to digital, the lights went out and 32 million books disappeared. Besides, a Kindle, or a Nook wouldn’t have been able to solve all Irwin’s problems. A good third of his collection was no longer in print, much less digitized. And while the sleek trekkian device might have doubled his living space, it would have come at an emotional cost. Each book was a personal friend, and Irwin knew what it felt like to be abandoned, to be given away by someone who was supposed to love him forever. He could never do such a thing — not even to a used book, a torn shirt, or an empty pen. He had trouble throwing away used tissues.

Maybe that’s why he had suffered, why his mother gave him up. So that he could save the world’s knowledge-base as a modern dark age monk. It was Joseph Campbell’s classic hero’s journey. For from that pain grew his collection — what his step-brother Jimmy called The Obsession. Jimmy used to threaten to contact that reality television show that helped hoarders “fix their lives.” Old Jimmy said it was for Irwin’s own good, that living in a rat’s nest of rotting paper was a sickness, in addition to a fire hazard.

Jimmy was full of shit.

Jimmy just wanted the house that Irwin inherited. It irked him that Irwin got the house when he wasn’t a real son. But if Jimmy had acted like a real son, he wouldn’t have left home after college. He wouldn’t have abandoned Irwin and their mother, taken the bar, and gotten married. Jimmy had been his best friend — his only friend. Now Jimmy was just another lawyer.

Irwin felt cold.

The fire in the pot dwindled. Feed me Seymour!

Irwin remembered seeing the original B-movie version of Little Shop of Horrors starring Jonathan Haze and a very young Jack Nicholson. That was back before it was popular, before it was a musical, and before Jimmy was a prick.

Irwin who had been feeding the fire an envelope at a time looked for more mail, only the pile was gone. Audrey II had eaten everything the US government delivered.

He searched the narrow tracks, worming through the tunnels and fissures, but found nothing. What he needed was some wood. He thought of breaking down his recliner. He even took a step in that direction before he remember it was gone. His mind also suggested his bed frame. It was old and made of pine, but that too had been sacrificed long before the crisis. He had a small table, only it was just a bit of plastic patio furniture. He could have torn off the cabinet doors, but he’d removed them years ago as well, having no space to swing them open anymore. Besides they were plastic like the cabinets themselves.

Was there nothing burnable in the house?

Everything made over the last few decades came in plastic, or aluminum, and Irwin suspected much of the aluminum was actually plastic. Once they learned you could make it from corn, plastic boomed. There might be wood under the carpet, but he didn’t have anything to cut the carpet away, much less break and pry up the floor boards.

Bookshelves!

The idea rushed him with such excitement that he stood up, only to sit down again. He had bookshelves, old ones made from particle board with contact paper veneers, but they were buried like the foundations of a failed dam and lost just as completely as the walls — walls he hadn’t seen in so long he’d forgotten if they were wallpapered or paneled. All the visible books were stacked on top of each other now forming leaning towers.

Did he really have nothing to burn?

He had his blankets and clothes, but didn’t think burning either of them was such a good idea. The sun was going down but out the window everything was white, everything hidden under a record breaking snow fall. Any amount of snow in June would break records for Virginia, but Irwin was pretty sure the near five feet of white stuff outside was a record for any time of year. The snow was so high it covered the lower part of the window, making it look like an Eskimo’s ant farm. In the neighborhood where Irwin lived there had never been many trees and the houses were built of brick and aluminum siding. The best he could hope to find would be a picnic table, a rake or shovel handle, but those would be in garages, behind doors he had no chance of opening, and likely made of plastic. Come to think of it, his own door would be buried beneath a glacier size drift. At that moment he couldn’t even see his front door. He hadn’t been out of his house since the crisis began and he had needed the wall space to stack books out of his way.

Irwin’s eyes returned to the pot and the dying fire. He’d only had the one cotton ball and just a dribble of alcohol. He’d never had matches in the house and if he let it go out, he’d never start one again. With the now broken window, Irwin would freeze in the coming night. As if to emphasis this, he noticed how long the shadows had grown. He could feel the cold creeping up his body, sinking ice claws into his flesh. All the James Patterson and Michael Connelly in the world wouldn’t be enough to save him if things got colder than the night before.

He felt it unfair that he should die for lack of burnable fuel in a home filled with paper. He noticed a trade paperback sitting absently on top of the foremost tower, its title screaming out at him in three huge, condescending words: Overcoming Compulsive Hoarding. A Christmas gift from Jimmy. His brother thought that giving him a book would be like slipping a pill in a terrier’s hotdog. As much as his skin crawled at the thought of damaging any book, he could burn that.

Irwin tore pages out, crumpled them up and fed them to Audrey II, whose name he mentally changed to Audrey III for originality’s sake. The fire reawakened to its bright self once more spreading warmth and happiness in its glow. Feeding a page at a time, the book was not consumed nearly as fast as the junk mail. He was only up to chapter five, “Applying the Cognitive Strategies,” by the time the sun began to set. If he could make a short book last, how long could he survive on David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest? Not that he would burn that, but there had to be others he could sacrifice. In the immortal words of Spock, “The needs of the many out-weigh the needs of the few.”

He had another gift book. Bill Faber, his next door neighbor had once handed him a self-help publication, apparently not understanding the nature of his situation. Irwin had laughed when he read the title, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Irwin had always thought he was extremely effective at what he did — that was the problem. Jimmy could have told him that. So Irwin had two books then that he could sacrifice painlessly. The question was how many would he have to burn to survive?

With paper from books to use as kindling, he could let the fire die and reignite it whenever needed, so long as he had the sun and his magnifying glass. That meant he could let it go out after sunrise and rely on natural radiation to keep him alive. Sunlight passing through the window would greenhouse the place enough to keep him from freezing. He’d need to do something about the broken window. Irwin had some Ziplocks and duct tape. Breaking the glass was a good thing really. It would allow him to pack the toilet with snow, so when it melted he could flush. With his diet he wasn’t using it as often, but the accumulation was another reason why he didn’t regret the smoke and the open window. He could also sleep during the day so he didn’t need to worry about feeding Audrey III, and he could use her to heat meals. That brought a smile. He hadn’t had a hot meal in two weeks. His pot fire and shattered window was really a huge step forward. He might be able to ration his burning and get by with just a couple books a night. Only how long would the winter last?

It couldn’t stay this cold for too long. Not in Virginia. Not in June.

If normal temps returned in a few days, the snow would melt almost instantly and he’d be able to strike out in search of wood. Maybe he’d even find some stove piping and a grill allowing him to make a chimney and fireplace of sorts. If he went out he’d need to be careful. It was possible others survived and they would be after his food, his clothes, his books, his Mountain Dew, and think nothing of killing him. In post-apocalyptic times, life was always cheap; at least that’s what his books had told him. His best bet was to remain hidden.

Still, he could risk looting a few close houses, get some more food, blankets. Most of his neighbors likely migrated to greener pastures, or… died. Irwin grimaced as he imagined tip-toeing through Bill Faber’s house and finding him and his wife rotting like spoiled olive loaf, slick and oily, and covered in a mat of flies. Were they over there right now, wondering how he was faring, or were they already dead; husband and wife, huddled on the bed in winter coats like that scene from Titanic?

It was possible he was alone. Everyone might be dead.

Outside the darkness closed in and with it a greater sense of isolation. Just looking at the solid black of a window that reflected only Irwin, listening to the wind beginning its nightly howl, he wondered if he was the last. Not just in the neighborhood, or the city, or even the state, but the whole world. Maybe some still survived in remote places. It couldn’t be Jack London’s To Build A Fire, everywhere. Near the equator there had to be pockets that the oceans hadn’t swallowed, clusters of people not freezing to death. Barefoot free spirits dinning on bananas, papaya and pomegranates. Free of governments, free of international trade laws and unilateral arms treaties, they celebrated, dancing on beaches of white sand around bonfires of their own. But did they have books? Did anyone?

The digital invasion had extended even to the jungles and deep deserts with literacy programs based on dispensing lightweight, waterproof, solar powered e-readers, pre-packed with a thousand books — from novels by H. G. Wells to manuals on digging wells. Charities handed out the equivalent of hand-held libraries to every village with sunlight. Gutenberg delivered the written word to the masses; ebooks delivered masses of written words. The age of wonder had arrived, but thousands of pounds of paper books had no place in a brave new world that still sported muddy roads. Fire and floods arrived. No one made an effort to save dying relics. Who could care about ink stamped on pulp, when they had devices that would speak books aloud in five different languages. It all seemed like a good idea at the time, but so had hauling that Greek horse inside Troy. As it turned out, in both cases, disaster occurred over night.

Irwin’s legs were going to sleep and he shifted his position on the floor. He shivered, inching closer to the pot. Something about looking outside into the unforgiving night chilled him. He turned away to face his massive stacks now illuminated by the flicker of his pot fire.

Irwin imagined he retained the greatest collection of literature in the world. He had all the classics, the books everyone wanted to have read but no one wanted to read. Mark Twain said that — Irwin had his works too. Plenty of non-fiction, history and science mostly — just the sort of knowledge a struggling new mankind would crave. Neil Degrasse Tyson, Stephen Hawking and Carl Sagan being the new Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. He had vast collections of mysteries and crime novels that could assist in the foundation of a new code of law. In his kitchen he kept the horror: Lovecraft, the rest of King, Poe, Barker and Koontz — the parables of motivation and morality. In the grotto were the thrillers, lessons in individualism and tenacity, but it was in his living room that he kept his real treasures. No other room in his home could hold the two most significant branches of literary achievement, what Irwin understood to be the pinnacle of all man’s art — science fiction and fantasy.

The possible and the impossible.

What separated mankind from animals was not our opposable thumbs, or use of tools, but the prefrontal cortex that allowed humans to imagine — to envision within the limitless boundaries of the mind everything from mechanical flight, to new worlds, to gods. Building a pyramid was nothing compared to the construction of a whole universe. It took the Egyptians thousands of men, but Frank Herbert worked alone. This ability to see into the future, to imagine and anticipate — to dream the unreal — is what allowed a patchwork of apes to step into the sun and throw a femur into the air that would spin into a space station. Imagination lay at the basis of every great leap forward. Food, medicine, communication, power and transportation were all the results of mankind’s ability to conceive something from nothing. These annals of science fiction alone needed to be saved as the mystic books of the past, present, and future. Submarines, space travel, the atomic bomb had all been prophesized more accurately than any religious rumor. And if those were not enough, how many had predicted the end of the world? How many had foreseen Irwin’s very situation? Looking out upon the June snow from his little porthole, Irwin felt Revelations did not so aptly describe what he saw as Adam And No Eve, The Postman, Final Blackout, A Boy and His Dog, A Canticle for Leibowitz, and Joseph E. Kelleam’s Rust, just to name a few — although that last one was about robots, rather than a man in a buried bunker of books. Still no purer form of man’s best talent existed than fantasy and science fiction literature.

No less than this did Irwin have before him. A treasure greater than any horde of gold. He had a wealth of knowledge, thousands of tiny doors to other worlds. If he could survive the new ice age, he would emerge as the man of Atlantis, a wizard in a land of forgotten words. But to survive he would need to burn some of them.

Even as he dumped the last of Jimmy’s gift into the pot, he could not get by on waste alone. Yet how could he chose? With the fire well stoked, Irwin moved down the length of his trench peering at the tiny titled spines in the bright flickering light. Should Heinlein perish because he didn’t care nearly as much for Stranger in a Strange Land as he did for The Door into Summer, or did that latter title merely embody the hope he needed at that moment? Should Ender’s Game be sent to the furnace in favor of The Forever War? What about the Wheel of Time? That series alone could keep him alive for a week, but at what cost? Would Tolkien and Martin be enough? Solomon would not be up to such a task as this.

Could the value of Flowers for Algernon and the lessons taught by Mary Shelley be callously erased in favor of Connie Willis’s Doomsday Book, or the rabbit world of Watership Down? Might he have to resort to a practical pound-for-pound measure? Along with Jordan would Erickson need to die? Discworld? Song of Ice and Fire? And how ironic and painful would it be to burn that title?

What if the winter failed to end? Would he burn them all to live? He never thought himself capable of even dog-earing a page, but now he had already burned a whole book, and he could tell that like any gateway drug, it made the idea of burning the next easier. After having cremated David Copperfield, how hard would it really be to burn Frankenstein?

Irwin laid his hand on the spines and let his fingertips slide gently down across the titles. He could almost feel their fear, hear them all begging for life. Smell…

Smoke.

Irwin had grown oblivious, his olfactory receptors as blanketed with the scent as his home was with snow. This and the darkness accounted for why he took so long to realize more was burning than what was in his pot.

Not so much burning as smoldering.

The pot!

Irwin realized with fear that he’d forgotten more than just ventilation. Metal conducted heat. The stainless steel of the pot was cooking the books it rested on. Like an iron left plugged in on a newspaper, the heat singed the glossy cover of Chicken Soup for the Soul, causing the laminate to melt and bubble like boiled brown sugar. Maybe that was it, the new industrial stench not as wholesome as crackling pulp and ink had finally caught his attention.

The smoke issued from under the pot, a thick white cloud like the chugging tufts that oozed out of factory stacks. It crawled up the shiny sides where both of Mickey’s ears were drooping like a guilty dog.

Outside the wind whispered its plot.

“Shit!”

Irwin grabbed the pan to stop it from destroying the books beneath. He took hold of the plastic handles and lifted. They felt like tar, hot tar, tacky and soft. He managed to lift the pan, but Chicken Soup was sticking to the bottom. He raised it high trying to shake the book off as it dangled swinging by the cover. He had the pan above his shoulders when both ears came off.

His instinct was to catch the pot. Even as he made the grab he knew it was stupid. Catching the metal sides with his open palms was actually the least of his trouble. He also pulled the pot to his chest where the still flaming remnants of Overcoming Compulsive Hoarding burned his face, flash-frying his eyebrows, lashes, and the tuft of hair that once worked to cover a receding hairline.

Irwin screamed, only without cursing this time. He was too frightened to swear — swearing was for anger, and Irwin had jumped that puddle and landed with both feet firmly in terror. Less a cognitive thought and more a reflex to scorching pain, he let go. The pot fell with a thump and clang.

Outside the wind howled blowing gusts through the broken window flipping covers, fanning pages, flapping the wings of a thousand would-be birds.

Irwin’s eyes watered. His hands burned. Some of his skin remained fused to pan, but all that didn’t matter. For all the pain that grabbing the pot had caused, Irwin no longer noticed. Instead his eyes watched in horror as the contents of the pan spilled. A foot long environmental disaster of book licking flame was set loose on a mountain range of vintage paper, with a side of dried glue.

Thank you, Seymour!

Through the window the wind gusted scattering the embers, breathing on the flames, spreading them across the floor. Irwin watched for two ticks of a second, frozen in shock and disbelief. They were two seconds he wished he could have had back.

Water! He needed to get water from the sink.

He lost more seconds before he remembered the pump didn’t work without electricity.

His blanket! He could smother the flames.

He rushed scurrying rat-like through the tunnels to the Grotto.

Thrilling enough for you, Irwin?

He ripped the blankets free which started a minor avalanche. Coonts, Crichton, and Cussler fell on him in alphabetical order as he scrambled out of the collapsing tunnel like Harrison Ford with an armload of gold idol.

He took a breath and gagged. That was almost it. He started to panic. Trapped and without air his mind fragmented. He couldn’t think, couldn’t process anything more than the broken record skipping over the same moronic thought — Meep! Meep! He just stared as he watched the fire consume his living room. Yellow where the flames danced along the tops, orange where they bit deep into the pages, blue along the spines. And smoke churned across the ceiling, black as ink, rolling like a summer thunderhead.

A new thought arrived the way a car on ice is saved from going off a cliff by another car sliding on ice. I’m going to die! That one coherent estimation of the situation put Irwin’s feet back under him. He pressed the blanket to his face, fell flat to his belly, and shimmed like a snake working back toward the window, back toward the fire.

He was too late. The wind had spread the fire too far. Flames coursed up the Cliffs of Fiction — his living room a forest fire of Arthur C. Clark, David Eddings, Berry Malzberg, Mark Lawerence, and Raymond Fiest. Still he tried. He threw the blanket and himself upon the flames rolling as he tried to at least extinguish the floor, but the fire adored the neat stacks and raced up their heights.

Laying on his back, burned and choking, Irwin cried. The tears soothed his smoke filled eyes, but despite the brilliance of the growing inferno he couldn’t see anymore. Still, he knew where the shattered window was.

He couldn’t let them all go. Even if he couldn’t cross into that promised land with them, he had to save some. Irwin felt blindly for any book. His tortured fingers found a trade paperback and he threw it with a guess and a hope. He heard it bounce off the wall. He reached for another. He had no trouble finding candidates for escape. He just wished he could see — he’d hate to end up having only saved The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. What kind of world would that throw up in its wake? What kind of legacy?

Irwin couldn’t breathe anymore. It felt almost like drowning, something he’d almost accomplished in grade school and had allowed him to add hydrophobia to his list of fears. He was burning too. People always said that in a fire you’d pass out from asphyxiation before you’d actually burn, but that apparently didn’t apply to people trapped in a narrow, flaming canyon of paperbacks being fanned by a winter’s gale.

It didn’t hurt as much as he would have expected, which just meant he was finally succumbing to the smoke. He wasn’t feeling much of anything anymore except — he had a book in his hand. He felt the narrow spine. A paperback, one of the old ones he could tell by the semi-matte finish, the curled edges and the size. It was small. Not even two hundred pages. It didn’t have a chance but he gave it a flick anyway spinning it, using the spine the way a baseball pitcher uses the raised stitches.

It flew.

Irwin heard it flap, like wings on a bird, freed at last. He waited for it to strike the wall, or the ceiling. It didn’t. A perfect swish. Nothing but air.

And outside the wind howled, and wailed, wailed and howled.

The little house burned, a bright spot in an endless void of black. Snow hissed as it said hello to the now adult flame and the two did battle. Elements wrestling in an empty world that man had stepped out of. In the flicker of that fight, on its back in the snow lay a single book. The wind, now a spectator in a fight it helped provoke, brushed the pages that fanned out and closed again, fanned and closed, as if the whispering wind was trying to read the words there.

On the cover, a stylistic impression of flames was dominated by three numbers.

Four, five, one.

LIAM BALDWIN

Silver Sky

Liam Baldwin is 53, and is still waiting for the shiny, wonderful Future promised him as a kid to arrive. This is the 21st Century? He is married, has three kids and hates talking about himself in the third person.

Silver Sky is a love story at heart, but don’t hold that against it. It’s also a glimpse into the future where our fellow mammals work alongside us, but long held beliefs and dogma still hold sway.

9. SILVER SKY

Liam Baldwin

It was midnight and the sky was silver. It shone from horizon to horizon in a single gleaming blue-white sheen. Beyond the mountains, a cobweb of ice gleamed; delicate, bright, brittle gossamers that spread, as they rose, fanning out and thinning to invisibility; at the zenith, a small, warm, fuzzy reddish blur, Earth’s shadow.

“My God…” Clara Letoza said, her voice small in the stillness of the night. Though she had worked on the Project all her professional life this was her first visit. The first time she had seen it. Allan had timed her first sight of the Sail perfectly, keeping her indoors, tied up with endless technical details, till the moment was right. He had waited till midnight, then suggested they take a break. “Let’s get some fresh air, take a stroll outside,” he had said casually. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Clara stood and stared upwards, gazing awestruck at this beautiful, sky-spanning wonder she had helped build. It was minutes before she spoke. “I’ve seen the simulations and I saw it from the ship as we docked. It was just a structure up there, vast, but still a construct… all beams and engineering and stresses. I never…” Reverentially, she said, “I never thought it would be so… so beautiful.”

“I never thought it would be finished,” said Allan.

She laughed, the moment gone. “You are a pessimist.”

“Maybe. But I’m also a politician. It’s part of my job as Coordinator to make sure—” He paused, looking past her at something far away. She followed his gaze. “What’s that?” he said, and pointed skyward to the south. Something bright. A fading flash. “What the hell was that?” he repeated.

They stared at the disappearing light till it was no more than a faint after-image.

“There’s another!” she said and pointed. “Off to the left! See it?” For a moment a sharp yellowy brightness lit the sky like summer lightning, before leaving an expanding, fading core at its centre. An explosion of some kind.

“And another!” Clara pointed again.

“What the hell?”

They stood looking at the fading lights.

“Whatever they were, they were a long way up,” Allan said.

“Big too, if we could see them from down here.”

“We need to get back inside.” His voice was cold.

* * *

It was three in the morning when communications with Top Side were finally re-established. They were in Allan’s office. Allan, coffee mug in hand, switched from one news channel to another in frustration; Clara, calm and composed, sifted through what little hard data they had and tried to relate it to a schematic model of the Sail. It had become clear, very quickly, that someone had tried to destroy the Sail with nuclear bombs. Five of them, in a coordinated attack. What no one knew was who had done it and how much damage had been caused.

Within an hour, seven separate claims of responsibility had been made to the media — all of them from Pro-apocalyptic or Millennialist groups. Crude triangulation had provided the possible locations of the targets. The news channels certainly had no facts, just grainy footage of the explosions, captured by chance, looping endlessly behind pointless, repetitive speculation. It had been a very long and frustrating three hours.

There was a knock at the door and a communications technician, a middle-aged chimpanzee, came in. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a week.

“We’ve made contact with Top Side.”

Allan was instantly on his feet. He silenced the news channel.

“We’ve got voice only, and slow data links,” continued the technician. “You wouldn’t believe the lash-ups we’ve had to put together to get even that. Face to face will have to wait.” He sounded almost apologetic.

“I’m just grateful you got anything so soon.” said Allan. “I’ll be down to the comms room as soon as—”

“No need.” The technician waved Allan back to his seat. “It’s patched through to your desk. You can talk to them from here. Get things sorted before everyone finds out we’ve re-established contact.”

Allan gave the chimpanzee a smile. The chance to talk to Top Side privately before he had to face the media and the rest of the project staff was more than he could have hoped for. “Thank you,” he said. “You look done in. You should get a rest.”

The technician gave a weary smile and pointed at their coffee machine. “I could do with a coffee,” he said. “We ran out two hours ago.” Clara poured him a mug and he left, holding it like a sacred object.

Allan opened a channel on his com and beckoned Clara to join him.

“Top Side, this is Coordinator Allan, who am I talking to?”

There was a delay. Top Side station was just below the Sail’s surface out beyond where the Moon used to be before it had been moved and reshaped into a great silver sheet. Top Side was the sail’s helm. From there the Sail and its cargo would be steered, nudged forward slowly by the solar winds, and then gaining full speed driven by the solar hurricane of the expanding Sun. The greatest sunjammer the universe had ever seen. Its destination, the Centauri system, 4.3 light years away.

“Hi, Allan,” came the reply. “It’s Ruiz.” Ruiz’s voice, which had the gentle lisp of all the evolved apes, was distorted and echoed. From the acoustic, it was obvious he was wearing a space suit.

“Ruiz. Good to hear your voice. What’s going on up there? What can you tell me?”

“Not a lot,” said Ruiz. “As far as we can make out, three of our own people and a couple of ’stroid miners making deliveries somehow managed to get nukes up here and suicided. Looks like a coordinated attack. They all kamikazed into major ganglia. Christ knows what they thought they would achieve. They could have done a lot more damage a few klicks further down. Could have ripped the whole thing if they had taken out a couple of the Mainstays.”

“Any casualties?”

“Amazingly, no!” said Ruiz. “The bombers were the only deaths. We got a couple of people who are going to need retina transplants and one guy needs to grow a new arm, but nobody else dead. We were really lucky.”

“Space is a big place,” said Allan, relieved. “Even lobbing nukes around, it’s hard to hit people.”

“Mind you,” said Ruiz, “with all the construction finished there’s only a few of us left up here. Everyone else has gone home. And the damage isn’t as bad as we first thought: shrouds 84g12 and 84f13 are torn, and two more are holding but will need some serious fixing. It’s a mess but no show-stopper. There’s a lot of debris flying about. I mean, a lot. We’re all in suits up here — which is slowing work up. We’ve had three living quarters blow out after being hit by some of this crap.”

“Christ!” said Allan. “Sounds messy.”

“It is. Very messy. Good news is that the Sail will hold. It’s had a few holes punched in it, and it’ll distort a little when we launch, but the simulations I’ve managed to run say it’ll still hold, even in a worst, worst, worst case scenario. We designed this thing well; hey, I’m proud of us!”

“Ruiz?” Clara leant in over Allan’s shoulder. “The torn shrouds, can you send visuals?”

“Should be with you already. We have a couple of data links open. I’ve been sending down the clearest images I can get. I know that voice. Is that you, Clara? I heard you were finally visiting. It’ll be nice to meet you in person.”

“Hello, Ruiz. Yes it is. It’ll be nice to meet you, too.”

Allan cut in. “Ruiz, be good when you meet her, shake hands; she’s human, not Bonobo.”

“And you’re a prude,” laughed Ruiz.

“I think we need to come up,” said Allan. “Assess the situation for ourselves. When do you think you’ll be able to clear a shuttle?”

“Couple of days at least,” said Ruiz. “There really is a lot of crap flying about up here. We’ll have most of the big stuff under control in a day or two. The smaller stuff we are just going to have let go and burn up. You’re going to get some pretty spectacular meteor showers for a few days. I’ll be able to tell you more when I can get full communications restored. As it is we’re having to bounce signals all over the place to get through to you; some of the delays between teams up here are potential killers. People are going to die in stupid accidents if I don’t get things working soon. Allan, I have to go.”

“Okay, Ruiz, thanks. Good luck.”

He killed the connection.

And threw his stylus across the room with sudden violence, “Goddamn Suiciders!”

Clara drew back. “Suiciders?”

“The nut-jobs who did this.” He saw her blank expression. “Hell, you really were out of touch on Centauri weren’t you?” He sighed. “It’s a doomsday cult with a real doomsday to look forward to. After thousands of years of people prophesying the end of the world, their day has finally arrived for real.”

“They want to stop us moving the Earth?”

“If they can. Stop us and the world ends. I really don’t understand why they want Earth to be destroyed, but they do. I mean, this is Earth. This is where we all come from. It’s got to be preserved. There are five main groups. All of them with different reason for thinking the world should end and most of them are divided into various factions. The only thing that stops them from tearing each other to shreds is the fact that they hate us even more than they hate each other. We’re the enemy. You noticed the security on the way in?”

“Yes,” she said. “I did. Seemed excessive.”

“I suppose it might seem so when you meet it for the first time but it’s not tight enough. We’ve had lots of minor stuff. Sabotage, cargoes destroyed or contaminated, more every day, but nothing on this scale before. No nukes. And they’ve shied away from killing people until now.”

“If they all want to die, why don’t they just go to Mars or Venus? We’re not saving them.”

“I don’t think dying is the point,” said Allan. “I think it’s being around when God comes back that’s the point. I guess those five who blew themselves up had early bookings to Valhalla, or Nirvana, or wherever they think He’s taking them afterwards.”

“And God comes back?”

“You guessed it,” said Allan wearily. “God comes back the day the Sun explodes.”

Clara looked Allan full in the face, green eyes staring into his. Unblinking. Intense. “We have to go brief the press now,” she said. “We’re breakfast news in five hundred systems. But when we’ve finished…” She paused and blinked, then put her arms around his shoulders and pulled him close. She kissed him full on the lips.

Surprised, he pulled back, but she stayed with him. Her lips parted, her tongue pushed into his mouth. He responded. Held her. Pulled her to him. She broke free for a moment.

“When we have finished with the press,” she said, her eyes level with his, holding his gaze. “I want you to take me back to your place and fuck me. We need it.”

* * *

Later, in bed, exhausted, on crumpled sheets, they lay long and quiet, entwined and stroking each other.

Dawn was breaking. The Sail had set an hour before and now the Sun was rising. First light shone through the wide picture-window.

“It’s light,” Clara said. “We should sleep.”

“Mmmm?” said Allan, dreamily. He watched his fingers gently stroking her shoulder, the tips barely touching the fine downy hairs haloed by the rising sun.

“We should get some sleep.” Clara repeated and kissed him gently. She rolled over with her back to him and he wrapped himself around her. His hand cupped her breast and she held it. They lay very still, their breathing gradually slowing and each in time with the other.

In the silence Clara said, quietly, “Do you ever think they might have the right idea?”

“Mmmm?” Allan’s face was close to her neck.

“The doomsayers,” she said. “Do you ever think they might have a point? Do you ever doubt we’re doing the right thing? All things end, don’t you think? Eventually, I mean.”

He did not answer. She looked back. He was asleep. She lay for a long time holding his hand to her breast and watching the Sun rise. She watched the sky’s pinks and yellows, and the clouds’ purples and mauves brightening slowly in the growing light to make a perfect morning. Then she closed her eyes, and then she slept, too. It was one of the last sunrises.

* * *

The Sun was due to explode sometime in the next few weeks. It was inevitable. Strictly speaking, the sun wasn’t going to explode but, rather, expand incredibly rapidly, but as the expansion would take the Sun’s photosphere beyond Earth’s orbit within 24 hours, the distinction was a moot one. A chain reaction started by a misapplied experiment in the mid twenty-fifth century made it unavoidable. Earth, the mother planet of Man, Bonobos, Dolphins, and the other evolved sentients, was doomed. It had always been doomed of course. At some point in the far-distant future the Sun would have naturally expanded into a red giant, then exploded into a planetary nebular with a white dwarf at its core. Human interference (and everyone agreed it was the Humans who were responsible; even the Dolphins) had just bought the date forward by about five billion years. As monumental errors go, it was a big one. Humans were good at monumental errors; even the Humans didn’t argue with that. The unexpected side-effects of the experiment hadn’t become immediately apparent. It was 700 years before the alarm was raised, and another 300 before anyone came up with a workable idea of what to do about it.

* * *

They woke to a thundering roar, the sound of a shuttle lifting off from the nearby field.

It took a few moments for Allan to understand the significance. He rolled over and dialled through to Flight Control.

“What’s happening?” mumbled Clara, sleepily.

He kissed her. “A shuttle launch,” he said. “Someone cleared a take-off.” The bedside screen lit up and Clara slid down below the bedclothes. Allan killed the outgoing video.

“We’re on private,” he whispered. “He can’t see you.”

“Good morning, Coordinator!” Allan recognised the on-screen figure, Henderson, a senior launch officer. “I take it we woke you up.”

“Damn right you did,” said Allan. “What’s happening? Ruiz said it would take a couple of days to clear the debris.”

“He did, but most of it is currently on Sailside. We’ve got it all mapped. The main body of the debris is orbiting in two waves going in opposing directions. We can stagger launches through the gaps when the waves have passed overhead and miss the worst of it. It’s not ideal. There’s still a more-than-minimal risk.”

“Why wasn’t I informed? Dammit, Henderson, I need to know about—”

“We figured you needed the sleep, sir. You had a hard time last night.”

Clara stifled a giggle. Allan shushed her.

“We’ve got you booked in on an upshuttle at 13:00 if you want it. You said you wanted to get up as soon as possible.”

“Talking about ‘up’…” muttered Clara, sliding further below the sheets.

Allan struggled to keep his voice level as she started to work her way down, kissing his chest, his belly, and then his semi-erect penis.

“How’s communications?” he managed to say.

“About seventy percent operational. We’ve full data transfer but not enough bandwidth for luxuries. No face to face yet. Oh… “ Henderson suddenly looked conspiratorial. “If you should happen to see Clara Letoza, would you tell her that her people have been trying to find her all morning. Something about ‘needing her shipboard, as soon as’.” The look of innocence on Henderson’s face wouldn’t have fooled a blind man. “Just to speed things up, I’ve already put her on the same flight.”

Allan smiled at Henderson’s circumspection. And then gulped as Clara cupped his testicles with her hand and moved down, taking his rapidly hardening penis fully into her mouth.

“I’ll be sure to tell her,” he gasped, and cut the connection.

* * *

They were seated next to each other in the upshuttle. They held hands. Each had detached a glove ignoring the warning signs insisting that ‘Full suits must be worn at all times!’ The gloves would take moments to reattach in an emergency and the comfort they gained from the touch of each other’s skin was worth the possible inconvenience. Allan hated the acceleration of take-off. He panicked every time.

“Clara,” he said, “when you’ve finished your meeting at Mainstay One will you come up to Top Side? I’d like you to meet Ruiz.”

“I’m not sure….” Clara was hesitant. “My ship’s at Mainstay Three port. It’s a long way. I’ll be on intershuttles all day.”

“Your ship?” Allan was confused. “I thought you came in on the regular flight.”

“No,” she said. “I came in my own ship.”

“From Centauri!”

“I didn’t pilot it myself,” she said. “I have a crew.”

Allan was impressed. Not many people outside of the pages of cheap fiction really had personal interstellar yachts.

They docked at Mainstay One’s transfer point. Neither were accustomed to free fall and when the shuttle’s hatches opened they made their way, clumsily, hand over hand, along the wide connecting tube’s wall. The more experienced of their fellow passengers jumped the length of the umbilical, turning in mid-flight to arrive at the other end feet first. A dolphin sailed past, propelled by puffs of air from a small jetpack, harness-looped around its fins and controlled by neural implants. Allan recognised the cetacean. Klakkatik-k’ka, a systems analyst from Capella, who had helped design the Sail’s gravity anchors. Allan whistle-clicked a greeting and the dolphin slowed.

“Coordinator Allan,” Klakkatik-k’ka said. “What an unexpected pleasure. I left farewells with your department. It is good to say them to you in person.”

The dolphin was one of the last of his team to leave. There were few Project people left on the surface and those that remained were packing. It’s one thing to know that the Project would work; another to be around when it didn’t. The planet was all but abandoned to the hands of a billion Zealots.

The three of them ducked into a nearby observation globe to get out of the flow of traffic. The view from the globe was spectacular. They all instinctively orientated themselves so the Sail was over their heads; it seemed natural to have the Earth ‘below’ them. The central core of Mainstay One, vast, shining, white and silver branched some ten miles above them, and then branched again and again, till it formed a web of glistening rigging that spanned, arch-like, to meet the rigging from other Mainstays. Below them Mainstay One divided into three and then those divisions divided into three again. The ends of these nine roots were supported by, and supported, the vast Gravity Anchors that gripped the planet. Embedded cores of incredibly dense Neutron star stuff that would tug the Earth from its orbit as the Sail pulled them away.

“It’s like a cathedral,” said Clara. “The way the rigging forms those arches. Like a vast Gothic cathedral.”

“What the humans build the humans would destroy,” said Klakkatik-k’ka.

“You mean the bombings?” said Allan.

“Save us all from gods with thumbs,” said the dolphin. He waved a flipper. “Man’s gods are always making things, and destroying them, and making anew.”

“And ’phin gods?” asked Clara.

Klakkatik-k’ka rolled. A complex sequence of jet puffs sent him joyfully twisting and spinning in the air.

“They dance,” he called, and spun again. “They dance!”

They parted in the docking area. Klakkatik-k’ka swam off first; his flight was being held for him, leaving Clara and Allan to say goodbye. There was an awkwardness between them. Then Clara kissed him.

“Goodbye, Allan.”

“I’ll call,” he said. “As soon as I know what I’m doing… after my meeting with Ruiz.” She smiled and turned, following a blue guidestrip towards the low level intershuttle bays. He watched her go, vaguely hoping she would look back and — what? Wave to him? Run into his arms and swear she’d never leave his side? He shook his head. He was far too old for juvenile fantasies like that. It was a bit of fun, he told himself, leave it at that. But the memory of their lovemaking was strong. Her passion had been intense. Her scent was on his skin, occupying his suit with him. He watched the blue departure airlock till it had fully cycled and opened again. Only when he saw she wasn’t there did he turn and leave.

* * *

Ruiz met him at the lock. Smaller than Allan remembered, he bounced, as only a Bonobo in free-fall can bounce, and landed on Allan’s chest, knocking them both spinning end for end. Ruiz picked through Allan’s hair, ritually grooming him.

“Nya!” Ruiz grunted in mock disgust. “Nothing! You never bring me anything!”

Allan laughed. “Can we shake hands now?”

Later, after a seemingly endless round of meetings and status reports from department heads, they retired to Ruiz’s quarters; a three room apartment with a private bathroom and (of all things) a window. Ruiz cooked as they chatted about college days. Allan looked through the window. It was comforting to see Earth cosseted in its mesh of rigging. He understood why the designers had included it and he was glad he had approved the expense. After the meal Ruiz fetched brandies.

“I meant to send you this,” he said. “But with one thing and another….” He motioned Allan to sit before the wall screen. “I’ve had a chance to run a few more sims and a few ‘what if?’ scenarios. Looks like our suiciders weren’t as random or careless as we thought. Take a look…” The screen filled with an animated schematic of the Sail. Red dots flashed, Allan recognised the pattern of the bombs, and the Sail slowly distorted.

“What you’re looking at is vastly speeded up, of course,” said Ruiz. “It would take about three weeks in real time.”

When the animation had apparently finished, the Sail, now a slightly lopsided, elongated shape, a sixth red dot appeared, far nearer the Earth’s surface than the others had been, and the distortion of the Sail suddenly became much more pronounced. It buckled and flexed. The centre moved outward at an alarming speed before slowing. The edges drew in. The shape the Sail settled into was symmetrical and somehow familiar. Allan watched the simulation, as he had watched thousands of such simulations over the years, with mixed understanding. He appreciated the scale, and the rough outline, but had little comprehension of the finer detail, the ‘joyous mathematics’ Clara had called it.

The simulation started to loop. “Ruiz,” he said. “I’m a politician, an administrator. I’m not an engineer. I don’t make the damn wheels. I keep them oiled and turning. What’s your point?”

Ruiz’s moved closer. “Okay, I’ll step you through it.” He gestured, pointing out the red dots on the animation. “These two, here and here, are the suiciders taking out shrouds 84g12 and 84f13. These two,” he gestured again, “are the bombs damaging shrouds 34j88 and 34k77. At least that’s what we’re supposed to think. I think the real targets were, the platform seven winching stabilisers. They got totalled in the blasts, too, but all our attention was on the shrouds.”

“What’s so special about the winching stabilisers? From what you’ve shown me, they have nothing to do with anything that was hit.”

“They don’t,” said Ruiz, “but bear with me. The last bomb — here…” a red dot bloomed at his fingertip, “took out a small parts transfer point, ripped open a supply conduit, and damaged several accommodation modules. Not an obvious structural target like the others. Inconvenient though; I spent three days in a suit because I had nowhere to sleep. Three days without sex; I nearly went crazy! But something bugged me. It didn’t fit the pattern. Turns out the shuttle involved wasn’t scheduled to be there at that time. The launch was bought forward because of weather and its course altered. When the bomb went off, it should have been — there, at the Mainstay Three docking station.” He pointed again and the sixth, low level, red dot appeared. Ruiz stopped the animation. “At this point, with Mainstay Three severed, the Sail starts to distort rapidly. Just the sort of sudden catastrophic situation that the winching stabilisers were designed to cope with.”

“And the stabilisers that should have compensated for this were….”

Ruiz nodded. “…were the Platform Seven stabilisers totalled in blasts three and four.”

Allan didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Mainstay Three was the central structural nerve centre for the whole Sail, with it severed the Sail would be unsteerable. The Project would have been over.

The animation ran its course. There was a moment’s silence. Then, Allan, his eyes taking in the beautiful symmetry of the curved Sail said, “That shape… what they were trying to achieve….”

“It’s a circular paraboloid,” said Ruiz. “A parabola that’s been revolved around its axis. Like a giant communications dish. All the light hitting it would be reflected to a single focus point….”

“Oh, my God!” said Allan.

“The surface of the Earth,” said Ruiz. “By my calculations the temperature at sea level would be like nothing we’ve seen in this part of the galaxy since the Big Bang!”

But Allan wasn’t listening. “Oh my God!” he said again. “Oh my God! Mainstay Three…!”

He scrabbled for the com.

“Ruiz!” His voice was harsh. “Ground everything. I want all ships stopped where they are. And clear the net. I need the bandwidth. I want a face to face with Clara Letoza. Find her! NOW! And get me the security chiefs. We may have to… destroy a ship. Kill people. I hope I’m wrong…”

They got Clara first.

And as soon as he saw her face on the screen he knew that he was wasn’t wrong; she was so calm, so secure, so at peace.

“Hello, Allan,” she said. “I’m glad it’s you.”

“Clara!” He tried to keep his voice level. “Please don’t do this. I’m asking you. Please.”

“I’m sorry. But I have to, Allan. It’s God’s Will. This is the time of The Great Tribulation. And God’s Will shall be done. The Sail is God’s tool. It’s not too late for you, Allan. You are a good man. Come with us.”

“Clara…” his voice faltered. He could think of nothing to say. He could think of no rational argument that would sway her. She had spent all her life working towards this moment, he saw that now. All her life designing the Sail to do this thing. To destroy rather than save. What could he say? What words could he find that could overturn all that? One night weighed against a lifetime of belief? He knew he was lost.

“I can’t,” he said. “I can’t believe that…”

“Then I’m glad you’re safe at Top Side,” she said. “We waited till I heard from you. I wanted you to know. I’m going now, now that you know — before anyone can stop us.”

“I love you, Clara,” he said. “Don’t do this to me.”

“I love you, too, Allan, but all things end.” She smiled. “Everything ends. Even the good things.” She blew a kiss to the screen. “I will pray for you in Heaven.”

And the screen went blank, fizzing into blind static.

Sudden brilliance filled the room with harsh shadows and Allan turned away from the window. Far below, and far away, a ball of fading light was expanding and around it the fibres of Mainstay Three were twisting, shredding, uncoiling, flying apart. The gravity anchors were falling. And above him, he knew, the Sail was slowly, and inexorably, starting to billow….

* * *

Three weeks later, and half a light year away, Allan watched the relayed images. Earth was empty now, save for the Zealots, and everyone in the fleeing armada was watching with him. Watching as the light, the raw, savage, relentless wind of light, hit the Sail and was reflected back. Reflected into a single focussed point of heat that moved upon the surface of the Earth as the world turned beneath it.

The Homeworld burned, and a billion people burned with it. And all its history, and all that came before history, too. The dinosaurs burned, and the Neanderthals, and the Cromagnon and Homo erectus. And the Romans burned, and Athens burned, and Minos burned, and Atlantis burned. All the empires that ever were, and all the artists, and all the poets, and the echoes of the songs the Great Whales sang, and the patterns of the clouds, and the places walked by Jesus, and by Buddah, and by Mohammed. All ashes now, and melting, and white hot, vaporising, and blowing away, atomised, and blowing away in the wind. Blowing away into the dead, cold emptiness of space.

And Allan, watching all of this, saw nothing but the morning-lit, golden down on Clara’s shoulder. The tears that ran down his face were only for her.

G. L. LATHAIN

Sacrifice

G.L. Lathian was born and raised in the remote South West region of Australia. Without television or modern distractions, he spent his childhood years creating stories — a tradition that lives on until this day. Lathian is a published journalist and avid traveler.

In Sacrifice, the will to live is all that separates the dead from the walking. Retired marine, Tim Jacobs, must go beyond the means of normal men to keep his loved ones alive. The journey south seems endless, but as the Arctic Circle expands, to stop would mean death. Fighting starvation, hypothermia and marauders, Tim’s greatest battle remains within. But in a world without hope, sanity can be a fickle thing.

10. SACRIFICE

G. L. Lathain

The cries of an animal tore at Tim’s sleep-ridden conscious. He stirred, trying to discern dream from reality. Careful not to expose too much skin to the frigid air, he unzipped his sleeping bag and peered out of the cave at the still, white landscape. It was the pale grey of predawn and for once, it wasn’t snowing.

Smouldering fires sat either side of where Tim lay and he thanked their warmth for seeing him through another night. For the first time since the Great Freeze, he didn’t have his wife, Christine beside him, nor their son Jake tucked between their embrace. At times, body warmth was all that had kept the family alive.

The bawling came again and Tim scrambled from his bed, ignoring the biting air. Fear of the cold was easily suppressed by the hunger of a man who knew starvation. The snares worked, they damn well worked, Tim thought as he hurriedly strapped snowshoes to the boots he had kept on through the night.

Tim gathered his backpack that had been a makeshift pillow and shouldered his quiver of arrows. No two were alike, collected over the months of travel, but all would suffice when it came time to kill.

Again, Tim heard the distressed animal and he frantically slung the pack over his shoulders and rushed to the mouth of the cave. With bow in hand and an arrow nocked, he moved eastward, upwind, to where he had set snares the previous night as the snow had eased. Fear, excitement and anticipation roiled inside of him. It was one thing to survive the ice, but in this world, a lack of food was just as deadly. A week had passed since Tim or his family had eaten more than scraps.

Tim slowed as he approached the tree line that held his snares. He could hear the laboured breathing of something hidden from view. Something large. Tim hesitated. He had set his traps in the hope of catching a rabbit or maybe a fox. This was neither. Peering through the dense birch branches, he saw his family’s saviour. A moose six feet tall and weighing at least a thousand pounds was struggling to free its leg from a snare fixed to the base of a tree.

Twenty yards away was an animal that would keep them fed for months. Tim stayed behind cover, knowing his presence would scare the animal into frenzy. If the thin cable broke, Tim and his family wouldn’t survive the week. He struggled to pull back the fifty pounds of pressure loaded on the compound bow; months of travelling south towards the equator had stripped the muscle from his body.

Tim felt the bowstring relax into position. He stared down the bow’s sights; the arrow’s fletching brushed his cheek. The liver or lung, either will kill it quickly. An easy shot, Tim thought. But never had the stakes been this high. He steadied his breathing and stilled his shaking hands. A second later, he loosed. The moose staggered up, frenzied with pain. Its attempts to run were hard to watch, but Tim would not feel remorse for something that would save their lives.

The animal fell to its knees again, breathing in an unsteady and laboured rhythm that sent plumes of steam into the air. Finally, it collapsed and the morning became silent once again.

Tim left the carcass and scrambled back to camp, snow sinking under his feet. The military had taught him to be prepared, and prepared he was. Back at the cave lay a timber sled, a necessity that had helped transport their supplies over a land of snow, ice and little else. With a rope tied around his waist, he could haul hundreds of pounds of meat and the entire hide; a prize he’d almost forgotten compared to the hunger that wrenched his stomach.

With sled in tow, Tim hurried back and set about skinning and gutting the animal. The dripping blood was forming an icicle beneath the arrow wound. He would have to be quick to beat the hardening skin.

The work helped keep Tim’s mind off the cold and his thoughts turned to his wife and son. Christine and Jake were both malnourished and exhausted. The journey south — fleeing from the relentless expansion of the Arctic Circle — had almost killed them. Tim had lost at least sixty pounds himself, although the layers of clothing hid it well.

The sun crept over the horizon to the east and the expanse of snow and untouched wilderness, sparkled in its warm light. For more than a year there had been nothing but snow, heavy clouds and thunderous storms. Tim smiled for the first time in months as he looked at the endless, empty blue above. The retired marine began to laugh, uncontrolled and unbridled, fuelled by the relief of knowing he had provided for his family. Their goal of reaching Mexico by the month’s end was becoming a reality. Even the weather looked upon them kindly.

Once the moose’s hide was removed and rolled, Tim used a wood-saw to quarter the animal. The steel blade hewed through large bones and cartilage as easily as it did firewood. The sun was four fingers into the sky by the time Tim had the rear quarters and hide secured to his sled. Almost half the moose would have to be left behind. He simply did not have the strength to drag so much. What remained, he buried, hopefully deep enough to be out of reach of any scavengers.

After a final check over the area, Tim fastened the lead ropes around his waist and started west. The load soon had him sweating beneath his many layers, but he cleared his mind of the discomfort and focused on controlling his breathing.

Tim felt the flint in his jacket pocket as he trekked on; the stone was wearing down from constant use. Lighters and matches where a thing of the past. After the first month of the Great Freeze, it was common to see people killed for the simple tools needed to create fire. There was one rule that any survivor had to adopt. Never let the flames die down.

Everything had changed so quickly. The veil of humanity had been ripped away, revealing an animal’s greatest inherent characteristic: the will to live. Survivors became scavengers and then murderers. Tim was forced to become a part of this new constitution or fall victim to it, alongside his loved ones.

He remembered a time when life’s decisions were trivial things. What should he have for dinner? What gifts to buy his children for Christmas? Should he go to the range for afternoon shooting practice? Now, the wrong choice would send his family to the heavens. But, he had hope. As quickly as the world had turned to shit, they had survived, when most were dead.

Tim made his way across a patch of ice. The steady scrape of the trailing sled played with his weary mind. As he trudged on, his mind took him to a distant memory. Tim smiled as he remembered his daughter’s voice.

“Daddy, show me how to do it,” Lilly called. “Jake wont show me.” Her small arms protruded from a pile of blankets where she sat on the kitchen bench in front of a large fire.

Jake was beside his younger sister, eating fruit from a small tin. He wore a proud smile for having learnt how to use the flint already. Jasper, their four-year-old Alaskan malamute was wedged between the children. A long day of helping tow the sled had exhausted the dog and under the children’s constant patting and scratching, he’d fallen asleep.

Tim was several feet away, tending to Christine’s badly sprained ankle. She had fallen as they had raced for shelter ahead of the storm. They were hiding in the kitchen of an abandoned high school, three hundred miles south of Denver, as far as Tim could tell. He avoided civilisation as much as possible, but need had brought them here. Today, the risk had paid off. For once, they all had full stomachs.

“Go on, I’ll be fine,” Christine said with weak smile.

Tim looked up from bandaging her ankle. The injury worried him. “I’ll get Mom something to help her pain, then I’ll show you how, OK?”

“OK,” Lilly replied, her voice rich with excitement.

Christine will have to ride with the children now, Tim thought as he rummaged through their packs. Jasper and me will just have to work a bit harder.

Their first aid supplies consisted of a sewing kit, some bandages, creams and the few painkillers they had been saving. Tim gave Christine two aspirin and a water canteen, before going to his daughter. He stood behind Lilly and took her small hands in his own. Her blonde hair brushed against his cheek as he looked over her shoulder. Tim turned her wrist, tilting the steel striker across the flint.

“Now push down and forwards,” Tim said, guiding Lilly through the action. “Move your feet or the sparks will land on them,” he smiled.

Lilly’s brow furrowed with concentration and she pushed down with enough strength to make her arms shake. Steel scraped over stone and white-hot sparks shot from the flint, like tiny signal flares, disappearing as they fell towards the floor.

“I did it,” Lilly squealed. She struck the flint again, giggling as the sparks appeared momentarily.

Jasper stirred and looked towards the kitchen door. A moment later, a man burst into the room. Tim caught a glimpse of the pistol in his hand before Jasper attacked, snarling and growling as he leapt at the intruder. The man screamed in pain, trying to shake the dog’s hold.

Tim dropped into a roll, pulling a knife from his sock as he went. A gunshot deafened the room. Tim came to his feet with the sound of Christine’s screams filling his ears, and drove his blade and weight into the man’s chest. The gun fired again as the intruder stumbled backwards. Tim and Jasper went with him, stabbing and biting until the man went limp.

Tim heard movement behind him and turned to find Christine, cradling Lilly in her arms. Like an opening rose, a bloodstain spread across their daughter’s shirt. Tim scrambled to the bandages stashed on the sled, glancing out the kitchen door to make sure their attacker had been alone. He ran back to Lilly, stepping over Jasper who hadn’t moved from beside the body. Tim’s mind struggled to absorb what was happening.

“It’s OK, baby,” Christine soothed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she kissed the top of Lilly’s head.

Tim removed her shirt and thermals as memories of wounded soldiers on the battlefield flickered through his mind. His daughter gasped for breath, staring down at the blood pouring from a hole above her naval. Tim pushed a handful of gauze over the wound and looked up to meet Christine’s pleading stare…

The memory left Tim as quickly as it had come and he knew it would meet him again in his dreams, as it did every night.

As the hours went by, icicles began forming on Tim’s beard. His lungs burned with each gulp of frozen air. He laboured on, checking his compass to make sure of his bearing. Navigating in a world of deep winter was like searching a dark room for the light switch; only here everything was white rather than black.

Tim stopped and looked up. The sky was untouched blue, when smoke should have tarnished it. The easterly breeze had turned to the west and he sniffed the air as it passed. Nothing. Realisation slammed into him. Please no, he recited in his head as he began untying the sled with a fear-filled drive. Once free, he leapt forwards and ran.

Over the next rise, he saw the house’s chimney, jutting from a mound of snow; no smoke came from it. This can’t be happening, he thought desperately.

Before leaving, Tim had spent an afternoon sawing up the house’s furniture to be sure Jake and Christine had ample firewood. He’d left enough for three days by his calculations.

“Christine! Jake!” he yelled, reaching the snow sunken door.

No response came.

He dropped to his knees and began to dig with a fury that he’d never known before. Gone were the weak arms of a man who hadn’t seen food for days. Within minutes he could see the brass handle glinting in the afternoon sun.

“Christine! Jake!” he screamed again, shovelling a path to the door.

Tim lay on his stomach, stretching to the handle. It released and the door swung inwards. Tim slid feet first into the room. He stood in the shaft of light that spilled through the doorway, eyes adjusting to the darkness that surrounded him.

They must be asleep, Tim hoped.

The bed was in the living room, next to the hearth; a necessity that had helped them through the freezing nights. No movement came from the thick blankets, despite the sound of Tim’s snowshoes clapping against the wooden floor as he moved frantically across the room.

I’ve lost a child once, please, please not again.

He slowed his final few paces, almost too scared to find out what lay beneath the duvets. He had faced bullets in war, but that was nothing compared to the terror that burned inside his veins.

“Jake…Christine….” Tim said, bending over the bed.

He found his son hidden amongst the blankets, but his eyes were closed. “Jake…” he whispered, so quietly the words barely reached his own ears. Tim shook his son gently, as if moving him too harshly could break him. Lightning bolts of hope shot through Tim as his son’s eyes opened.

“Daddy…I” Jake croaked through chattering teeth. “I’m cold.”

“I’m here, Jake,” Tim said, whipping off his backpack and jacket.

He pulled back the thick duvets to find Jake wrapped in one of Christine’s jacket. Where is she? he thought, tucking his son’s bony body under another layer as he scanned the room.

Tim’s gaze almost slid past the form of Christine, leant over the fireplace, arms outstretched but unmoving. No, he pleaded, scrambling around the bed as fear and denial pierced his chest like a hot knife.

Tim slumped down beside his wife and reached out to touch her ice-blue face. His sobbing soon replaced the silence. In her frozen hands, she held a lighter, long since out of gas. She had tried to start the fire again, but he had the only flint.

Minutes went by before Tim could scrounge together his courage and think about the situation. Christine had sacrificed her life for Jake. He forced himself to remember that… but it would be so easy to let his son drift off to join his mother. Maybe that was better, not just for Jake but for him as well. Maybe this world wasn’t worth living in anymore.

He shook the thoughts from his mind. Self-pity had long been ripped away from him.

Wiping his tears away, Tim got to his feet, retrieved his backpack and checked on Jake. He removed a small piece of steel wool and newspaper, then made his way back to the fireplace and knelt beside his wife.

He took the flint from his pocket and placed the tinder amongst the kindling that Christine had already prepared. As he had shown Lilly six months earlier, Tim pushed the steel down and forwards, sending tiny pieces of molten metal into the steel wool. It caught a spark and began to glow orange. Tim bent over and blew gently, trying to breath life into something that would save his son.

R. F. DICKSON

Empty Nest

R. F. Dickson was born, a condition which persists to this day. One of the thirty-seven remaining native Floridians in the wild, he spends his non-cubicle time writing, gaming, watching movies, and standing by helplessly as yet another Tampa Bay Buccaneers season goes down in flames. He is also the author of The Daily Rich, a blog about stuff.

Empty Nest sprang from the idea that if the world was going to be destroyed, it should at least get a say in the matter. It’s only polite. Besides, just because it’s the end of everything we’ve ever known doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have a little fun along the way.

11. EMPTY NEST

R. F. Dickson

For decades, accepted tectonic science stated that the East African Rift marked where the great African Tectonic Plate had been slowly splitting into two smaller plates over the last few million years, creating a valley that ran for some 4,000 miles down the eastern side of the continent. The two plates would continue racing apart, at least, racing on a geological scale, until the sea came flooding in, turning the East African coast into a brand new island and making the western side of the rift beachfront property. Of course, this would take millions more years, far beyond the time when it would be a problem for anyone currently alive. So said accepted tectonic science.

The seismographic station in Kilima Mbogo in southern Kenya detected it first, its needle beginning to scratch away shortly before midnight GMT. Minutes later, the Mt. Furi station in Ethiopia chimed in, followed by Ar Rayn in the Saudi peninsula and Mbarara in Uganda. Madagascar’s Ambohimpanompo station burst to life, Lusaka piped up in Zambia, and even Boshof perked up and brought South Africa to the party. Weaker activity was detected in Ankara, in Kabul, in Masuku. Across the globe, bleary-eyed seismologists roused from their beds and conferred with colleagues who’d been up all night monitoring the outbursts. They hurriedly examined the data pouring in from Africa, and determined Mother Earth was quite possibly gathering up for something big.

Actually, she was just clearing her throat.

“Hello?” her voice boomed from the East African Rift, shattering windows as far away as the East Coast of the United States, and sending tsunamis hurtling through the Indian Ocean to mercilessly pound the western end of Australia. “Oh my goodness,” she said somewhat more quietly, like an old grandmother who’d just spilled her tea. “It’s been so long, I’d forgotten what I sound like.” Despite her restraint, this utterance triggered avalanches in the Alps and the Himalayas. “Dear me, I guess I’ll have to whisper,” she said, this time with far less catastrophic results, only a few minor landslides up and down the length of the Rift. “Is there someone in charge I might possibly speak with?”

Those words snapped the world’s various powers from their collective shock and got them back to doing what they did best: bickering with one another. An emergency session of the United Nations Security Council nearly erupted into violence when each member claimed the planet was speaking in their language, and that therefore their representative should be the one to engage her in discussion. In the main assembly, delegates from Kenya and Tanzania rattled their sabers at one another, both sides laying claim to authority due to the Rift running directly through their respective countries. From Rome to Jerusalem to Mecca, clerics and scholars shouted and argued and prayed over how to reconcile this turn of events with everything their scriptures had told them. The American and Russian militaries escalated to the highest alerts seen since the Cold War, and the Arabian Sea and the Mozambique Channel became so crowded with ships, one could nearly walk from Madagascar to Oman without getting wet. The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists set their Doomsday Clock 11:59pm, its closest approach to midnight ever. As the day of Mother Earth’s awakening slowly slipped into night, many went to bed wondering if humanity would blow her up before they’d even said hello back.

However, as the next day dawned, the airport at Nairobi buzzed with activity, and a sleek black limousine, a blocky white van, and a barely-running rented coupe were soon racing across the Kenyan countryside, their occupants cringing and cursing at every bump in the road. Soon the Rift came into view, and around it the crowds of onlookers who’d been gathering since the previous day. The possibility of further quakes and aftershocks offering no deterrent to the growing city of tents and improvised shacks that had quickly sprung up. News crews were everywhere, set up in fleets of trailers and mobile satellite vans, their cameras trained on the Rift as talking heads sweated beneath their suit jackets and their caked on make-up, trying to find new and interesting ways to convey that nothing was really happening yet. The only beings in the area that seemed disinterested in the whole affair were the herds of zebra and gazelles that idly grazed nearby, sparing only an occasional glance at their strange new neighbors.

The motorcade came to a halt near the edge of the Rift, their kicked-up dust blowing over the crowd as they rushed forward to see the new arrivals. From the limousine, four large men in dark suits and sunglasses emerged. Their heads moved constantly, taking in everything and everyone, and only when each had given the other a quick, satisfied nod did they motion for a fifth man to climb out of the vehicle. He quickly buttoned his coat and strode with practiced authority, the other four men falling in formation around him. He’d seen the younger side of 50, and not many restful nights, judging by the creases around his eyes. He stopped and stood expectantly in front of the van.

The van’s side door slowly slid open, and three robed men stepped carefully down to the ground. They turned and offered assistance to a much older man, bent with age, who still managed to kneel and kiss the ground upon exiting, the dew-soaked grass staining his bright white robes at the knees. He shook the first man’s hand while placing his other hand warmly on his shoulder, then gestured towards the coupe.

From that car, a rumpled middle-aged man emerged with little fanfare. His hair had the tousled look of having recently been slept on, and his clothes were a mishmash of denim and tweed. He pulled a pair of glasses from a pocket, wiped some dust from them with the edge of his untucked shirt, and put them on, blinking into the morning sun. He stepped forward and shook hands with the other two men. Then they turned and walked towards the Rift.

“Well, good morning!” Mother Earth said cheerfully as they approached. Her voice was heard in Swahili and English and dozens of other languages. All heard her words in their native tongues. “And who might you be then?”

The man in the suit spoke first. “Michael Madison, President of the United States,” he said in a gruff voice filled with Mid-Western winters.

“Oh, how very nice for you!”

“His Holiness Pope Leo XIV,” said one of the robed men with a nod to the man in white, “Most Holy Father of the Roman Catholic Church.”

“What a lovely gown!”

“Dr. Livingston Chapman,” the last man said, in a crisp British accent the belied his ramshackle attire. “Professor of Geology at Cambridge.”

“My, but your mum must be so proud!”

“We’ve been selected to speak for the people of the world,” President Madison said.

“Well, just the pale people, from the looks of it.”

“No,” President Madison said, “I was elected to represent a diverse variety of colors and creeds.”

“Pity you couldn’t bring some of them with you though, isn’t it?”

The President blinked, the frantic coaching of a dozen speech writers and philosophers on the flight to Kenya running through his head. “Well, you see, in the great experiment that is American democracy…”

“No, no, no,” Mother Earth said, “I don’t want to talk to someone who’s still experimenting. That means you haven’t gotten it right yet, doesn’t it?”

“Our system of government has worked for over two hundred and twenty five years,” Madison said defensively.

“Dearie, I’ve had blinks that lasted longer than that.”

“But you must understand…”

The ground abruptly rose beneath the President’s feet, sending him staggering and his security detail rushing to his side to catch him before he fell. “Look here,” Mother Earth said, “when you’ve had an asteroid slam into you, then maybe you can come around and tell me what I must and mustn’t do.” The ground settled, leaving Madison dangling in the arms of his agents. “Oh, I can tell this just isn’t going to work at all, I’m afraid. I do appreciate you coming, though. By all means keep working on that experiment of yours.”

President Madison gaped as his agents set him down. “You… you want me to leave?”

“Oh, you can stay and watch if you like.”

Madison shrugged off the agents. “I’m the leader of the free world!”

“I am the free world. And I don’t remember voting for you, sorry.”

Several dozen speech writers and philosophers would have been unable to articulate the thoughts running through the President’s head at that moment in any socially acceptable way, and he certainly wasn’t up to the task on his own. Instead, he frowned tightly, turned on his heel, and stalked off through the crowd to his limousine, his security detail scrambling to keep up.

“And what about you there, in the white?” Mother Earth said to the Pope.

“I speak for the faithful of a religion that counts millions of followers of every race amongst its numbers,” Pope Leo said, his English tinged with a Russian accent.

“Right, I see, and what religion is that then?”

“The one passed down to us by the Lord God Almighty, in His divine wisdom.”

“Oh, the old man you all are so fond of arguing over,” Mother Earth replied with a chuckle, which sent thousands scrambling in panic as the ground around the Rift shook. “Sorry, sorry,” she added quickly. “This was all so much easier before you lot got everywhere. Anyway, you were saying something about this God person?”

The cardinals in his entourage gasped at the impropriety, but Pope Leo silenced them and went on. “‘This God person,’ as you put it, is the Creator of all things, even unto the beginning of time.”

“First I’m hearing of it.”

“We have His own words,” the Pope said, gesturing to one of his cardinals, who hurriedly produced a Bible from the folds of his robes. The Pope took the book, opened it, and read aloud. “‘In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.’”

“Well listen to him going on,” Mother Earth huffed, a small puff of steam rising from the ground. “Created me, did he?”

“In six days. And on the seventh, He rested,” the Pope intoned.

“Ooh, now you’re just trying to flatter me! Six days, as if I’m that young!”

“Nevertheless, so it is written.”

“Well it’s obvious I should be talking to this God then, not you,” Mother Earth said.

“He speaks through His word,” the Pope said, holding up the Bible.

“Yes, but I’ve never been much of a reader. So much simpler if I could just talk to him.”

“We speak to Him through prayer.”

“And what’s that then?”

“Just speak to Him.”

“All right, but I don’t see the point in talking to someone who isn’t there.” There was a slight rumble. “Hello? God?” The last word echoed through the Rift, and across the crowd, who looked up expectantly. Only silence replied. “I say, Mr. God?” A breeze stirred, but still no response came. “Well, now I feel a bit silly.”

“He moves in mysterious ways,” the Pope said, his smile wavering slightly. “He doesn’t always reply in a manner we understand.”

“No, I’m sorry, love, but I need to talk to someone who’ll talk back, and not through some old book.”

The Pope’s shoulders fell. He turned and whispered briefly with his cardinals. Then they all dropped to their knees and began to pray.

“All right, but I don’t see what good that’ll do. And how about you?” she said to Dr. Chapman. “You someone who thinks he’s too big for his britches or talks to imaginary people?”

“Um, no, ma’am,” Dr. Chapman said nervously. “I just know a lot about geology. Which I’m not quite sure this is about anymore. Still, here I am.”

“Oh, but you’re a funny one,” Mother Earth said her tone lightening. “I might just like you. So, what’s that you said? Geology?”

“It’s the study of… well, of you, actually.”

“Ooh, little old me?” she delighted. “Go on, go on!”

“Oh. Right, well, you see, I basically study what you’re made of, where you came from, where you’re going. All done very discreetly and with the utmost respect, of course” he added hurriedly.

“Believe me, the way you’re all constantly digging into me, I wouldn’t have noticed. But the courtesy is appreciated.” She paused. “So how did you become a geologist?”

“Four years undergraduate study at Oxford, four more in the graduate program at Cambridge, and extensive childhood experience digging up my mother’s garden.”

“Ha!” Mother Earth said, a peal of thunder punctuating her laugh. “So you did it all on your own then? Nobody elected you? No invisible man gave you answers?”

Chapman shrugged. “I had the support of family and friends, and the guidance of some great professors, but for the most part, yes. All me.”

“Excellent! You’ll do nicely.”

“I will?” Chapman said. “For what, exactly?”

“I’d like you to tell everyone that I’m leaving.”

It took a few moments for the words to sink in. The crowd went silent, the praying ceased, and every news anchor stopped talking as they mulled this over. Even the papal entourage halted their prayers in shock. “Leaving?” Chapman finally managed.

“Yes. Retiring, actually. There’s a lovely spot just a few million miles off of Alpha Centauri I’ve been keeping my eye on. Esther moved there last year and just won’t stop going on about it.” Her voice bubbled with cheeriness, and daisies spontaneously bloomed all around the edge of the Rift. “Oh, it’ll be just lovely, I know it. So it’s off to Alpha Centauri for me.”

The Pope and his cardinals began their praying once more, this time joined by those in the crowd who were among the faithful. The rest of the onlookers burst into thousands of simultaneous conversations, while every news network in attendance scrambled to describe what was happening with as many adjectives as they could muster.

“But… that’s not possible,” Chapman said. “The gravitational pull of the Sun… everything from Copernicus to Newton to Hawking…”

“No,” Mother Earth said, considering, “I don’t think I spoke to any of those chaps at the agency. It was this rather nice gas giant, what was his name…”

“So, wait, you can just leave orbit whenever you like?” Chapman asked in disbelief.

“Oh, of course not, dearie. There’s a dreadful amount of paperwork, you wouldn’t believe—”

“Excuse me,” Chapman said, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but if you’re leaving, what happens to us? What are we supposed to do?”

“Well, you’ll just go wherever it is you’ve been flying in those wonderful little spaceships of yours, I expect.”

“The moon?” Chapman asked.

“The moon?!” Mother Earth gasped, inadvertently raising her voice and shattering windows all throughout the little village of television vehicles. “That’s as far as you’ve managed? Just what have you been doing all this time? You’ve been hurling yourselves up into space for how long now and you’ve only gotten to the moon?”

“Space travel isn’t quite that simple,” Chapman said. “Besides, we didn’t realize we had so little time.”

“Well, I won’t say I’m not disappointed. You’ve got eight other planets right in your own back yard and here you are still clinging to Mother’s apron strings. Well, seven really, the less said about Mercury the better…”

“Actually, we don’t count Pluto as a planet anymore,” Chapman muttered, lost in thought.

“Ooh, listen to him now, getting to say who’s a planet and who isn’t! I’d like to see you pop round to Pluto and tell him that to his face. He’d let you have what for, believe you me.”

“I’m sorry,” Chapman said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just a lot to take in at once. We’re only just coming to grips with you talking to us, then you tell us you’re dooming our civilization just so you can take a vacation.”

“It’s retirement, sweetheart. You come back from vacation.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not that I’m unsympathetic, love. But it was a non-refundable deposit, you see.”

Chapman spread his hands. “But this is all we have.”

“What’s that they say about eggs and baskets?” Mother Earth chided. The prayers were growing louder now. “I say, what are they going on about?”

“They’re praying for deliverance,” Chapman said, lowering his arms with a sigh.

“Pray for some spaceships, that might be useful.”

“Actually, they’ve been waiting for this. They always believed the world would end and they’d be whisked up to Paradise.”

“Ooh, that sounds nice,” Mother Earth beamed. “Is that one near Alpha Centauri?”

Chapman laughed ruefully. “No. If you ask me, it doesn’t exist. But it’s funny. All my scientific knowledge has just been thrown out the window, yet their faith endures.” He looked down and shook his head. “So how long do we have?”

“Oh, not very long at all, I should think,” Mother Earth replied.

“As bad as that, is it?”

“Well it’s not like I can keep them waiting, dearie. I should be off in two, maybe three hundred thousand years at the most.”

Chapman’s jaw dropped. “Three hundred thousand years?”

“It’s not much notice, I know, but if I don’t go soon, I’ll lose my spot. And Esther will be so put out.”

Chapman threw his head back and laughed, long and hard, until tears ran down his face and his sides ached. “What’s so funny, love?” Mother Earth asked.

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “I think I might just believe in miracles now,” he said, and continued laughing.

TRISTIS WARD

Mother and Child

Tristis Ward lives and writes in Fredericton, New Brunswick. After a degree in English at Dalhousie University, she worked for years in community radio as a producer, station manager, and national lobbyist. She has written comic book scripts, short stories and plays as well as producing both stage and radio plays. She has long participated online in the SFFWorld.com forum and is a multiple winner in their flash fiction contests. Her first graphic novel, Bones of the Magus is available from Broken Jaw Press.

Mother and Child is a prelude to Bones of the Magus, but is a great stand-alone story presented in a unique format. It will take you into a strange new universe where worlds fall at the hands of wizards and science, and nothing is safe — not even your soul.

Editor’s note: Ms. Ward writes in a unique format designed best for print. Though we have included her story here in the digital anthology, we were forced to modify the sizes of the images to fit the format of the anthology. If you view the pages on a small screen, it may be difficult to read. If this is the unfortunate case, please contact the editor and a PDF version will be emailed directly to you. Thank you.

12. MOTHER AND CHILD

by Tristis Ward

The End

Copyright Notices:

“Introduction,” by N. E. White. Copyright © 2012 N. E. White.

“Executable,” by Hugh Howey. Copyright © 2012 Hugh Howey.

“Julia’s Garden,” by Michael Aaron. Copyright © 2012 Michael Aaron.

“Let’s See What Tomorrow Brings,” by Igor Ljubuncic. Copyright © 2012 Igor Ljubuncic.

“Tick,” by Wilson Geiger. Copyright © 2012 Wilson Geiger.

“Mother and Child,” by Tristis Ward. Copyright © 2012 Tristis Ward.

“The Last Hand,” by Pete McLean. Copyright © 2012 Pete McLean.

“Fly the Moon to Me,” by Stephen “B5” Jones. Copyright © 2012 Stephen “B5” Jones.

“Relapse,” by Norman Gray. Copyright © 2012 Norman Gray.

“Burning Alexandria,” by Michael J. Sullivan. Copyright © 2012 Michael J. Sullivan.

“Silver Sky,” by Liam Baldwin. Copyright © 2012 Liam Baldwin.

“Sacrifice,” by G.L. Lathain. Copyright © 2012 G. L. Lathain.

“Empty Nest,” by R. F. Dickson. Copyright © 2012 R. F. Dickson.

Credits

Cover art by: Adam Burn

Interior images by Robert Garbin

Cover design by Wilson Geiger and Michael J. Sullivan

Proofread by Andrew Leon Hudson

Digital file formatted by Chris Mitchell

Kindle Edition License Notes

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.

This story collection remains the copyrighted property of the individual authors, and may not be reproduced, copied and/or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed these stories, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Amazon.com.

Thank you for your support.

Content

THE END
Visions of Apocalypse
Compiled and edited by
N. E. White

Dedicated to Ray Bradbury:

INTRODUCTION N. E. White

HUGH HOWEY Executable

IGOR LJUBUNCIC Let’s See What Tomorrow Brings

MICHAEL AARON Julia’s Garden

WILSON G. EIGER Tick

PETE McLEAN The Last Hand

STEPHEN “B5” JONES Fly the Moon to Me

NORMAN GRAY Relapse

MICHAEL J. SULLIVAN Burning Alexandria

LIAM BALDWIN Silver Sky

G. L. LATHAIN Sacrifice

R. F. DICKSON Empty Nest

TRISTIS WARD Mother and Child

Copyright Notices:

Credits

Kindle Edition License Notes