Heroes of Phenomena

by Samantha Redstreake Geary

  ~~~

  THE NEXT few days pass in a blur, but I savor every moment. With Penelope by my side, the whole world becomes brighter, even beautiful. She tells me stories I've heard hundreds of times, but never tire of, as I lead her on long walks through the fields. With each passing hour, she opens herself up to me more, and I fall in love all over again.

  "Adam," she says near the end of her last day. "I feel like I've known you forever." She reaches for my hand, but I pull away gently. If I let down my guard, my heart will only break more.

  "I do too," I reply. We sit down in the grass under the fading sunlight.

  "You have the saddest eyes. Why?"

  Because of you, I want to tell her. Instead, I say, "It gets lonely out here."

  "Has anyone else ever visited you?" She asks.

  I shake my head. "Just you." This time I can't stop her from taking my hand.

  "I've been here before, haven't I?" She inquires, her voice delicate. "You've been hurt, and I think I've done it to you. It makes sense. You seem so familiar, and...I wouldn't—I couldn't—fall in love with a stranger so quickly."

  "Yes," I whisper. "You come here every year, but you never know who I am."

  She isn't surprised. "While I've been here," she begins, “it's been as though you and I were the only two people alive. But now...memories of my friends and family are coming back. There are others that need me."

  My stomach drops. "It's okay," I say. "You can leave tonight. Before midnight, you just say the words and everything will go back to normal."

  She pulls a hand through her dark hair. "That's the problem. I don't know if I want to go back."

  Again, I force soaring hopes back into my chest, keeping them out of the way. She can't stay. She won't stay. Her voice fills the night air again. "The slightest memories of times we've had together are returning, and I'm sure that...I love you."

  I swallow the lump forming in my throat. "You know you can't live here with me. You have loved ones who need you."

  She touches my cheek. "But you need me," she says. "You don't have any loved ones. Except, maybe me. We could raise a family here. It's not so bad."

  This is everything I wanted, but for some reason it feels wrong. I can't just take Penelope away from her family. It seems almost cruel. "No," I protest. "It wouldn't work. You think you'd be happy, but you'll miss your parents and sister. Once you stay, you can't ever go back. I can't do that to you."

  A stray tear falls down her face, and I brush it away gently. "You're right," she says. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

  "It's okay," I say again. "I'll see you again someday."

  She leans in and brushes her lips against mine, and it feels right—like a goodbye for now, but not forever.

  "I want to go home," she calls out into the darkness.

  At the sound of her voice, the ground begins to rumble, and she is gone. But this time I am not so sad. I will see her again.

  One day, she will come back.

  WELL COME

  By Caleb Lotz

  8th Grade

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Epiphany

  HE AWOKE fast, breathing heavily, and in a daze. This was a man who had no name and had no right to one anymore, although you could still see his physical attributes if you had been there.

  He was filthy with sweat and dirt. He was hairy, decent in shape, but his hair was revolting. He had received fresh scars somehow—slashes across his sides and chest, with bruises and other marks. His clothes were disgusting as well and smelled of body odor and manure. Much had happened to this man, and one thing that stood out was his eyes, they looked strong and seemed to possess soft shades of...no, solid shades of black.

  The man, by now, may have come to his senses, but he was still unsure of where he was. The walls that surrounded him were like those of a tower or a well. It was solid earth where he sat, with dead grass at the bottom. The walls were covered by moss which was eerily as dark as the stone. At the top…was light. It had to be the sky, but it was too far up. There was no way to scale the wall, nor was there an exit...anywhere.

  “You lost mate?” came a rough, painful voice from the unnaturally darker side of the well.

  “I...uh,” was all the man who just woke could manage to form with his lips.

  “Of course you are. Take your time easing yourself,” said the man on the darker side. “In fact, we’ll play a little game. Now, I understand you don’t know me and well...I actually know you, but that’s beside the point, right? Right! Anyway, I bet you can’t guess where we are. I’ll give you three, no, four chances to wager a guess.”

      The man who woke was suffering from shock, but did his best to recover and cooperate. “Well I would love to..uh...believe it or not, but who did you say you were, again?”

  “I didn’t,” said the man on the darker side. “In fact, I can’t exactly tell you or you would likely figure out where we are, but if it’s any difference to you, you’re James, correct?”

  “Oh…..yes...that is my name,” said the man who woke.

  “Right then! So, James...where exactly are we?”

  “Um,” muttered James as he rubbed a bruised hand across his ashen face.

  “Um isn’t a place, James, but if you would care to think quietly to yourself, that would be fine by me,” said the man on the other side.

  “Right,” said James.

  James was contemplating his surroundings, but of course, as we humans only think of the obvious solutions or tend to analyze them, we provide answers like James. “A well?” James asked, his face colored with sluggishness.

  “If it were as obvious as that, James, we wouldn’t be playing. Time is of the essence, so think smart and fast. The well is a good metaphor, however, think deeper. You’re stuck and nearly alone...you have 3 guesses left,” said the man on the darker side.

  “What are you trying to pull?” shouted James. “A cave? A damn shelter? Where the hell are we?” James screamed while trying to stand, except...James couldn’t stand, for when he looked down...there were no legs.

  James looked up, and for the first time, saw the man who spoke. Only his face showed. Though it was dark, James saw piercing dark eyes staring from a perfect male face covered with the rough stubble of his 5 o’clock shadow. He looks like an angel, James pondered in his mind with awe.

  “Flattered,” said the man. “But, James, during your little pow-wow, you seemed to have been in the moment, I guess you could say, and guessed twice. You have one last chance.”

  “I know where we are now,” said James, his voice hushed and calm.

  “Where, then?” asked the man whose face was hidden once again.

  “Heaven,” James answered blankly.

  The man did not answer.

  Suddenly there was a grunt, then a small chuckle, followed by a giggle and another. A burst of “Bwahahahahahahaha!” erupted from the side where the man was.

  A look of confusion fell over James. Abruptly, he was confronted by the man he was speaking to.

  He saw—all of him.

  “No, James. Not at all,” said the man to his face. “In fact, we’re in Hell,” The man said, roaring with laughter. He barely managed to release his final words. “And I am the very Satan himself!”

  DOVE

  By Sarah Aisling

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude

  THE CHERRY red ultralight clears the tops of the trees, heading straight for the craggy, boulder-strewn side of Mount Hope.

  The walkie-talkie strapped to my wrist crackles, and Dad's frantic voice squawks, “Dove, bank left!”

  I maintain speed, breathing deeply as cool air rushes past my face, sending ribbons of hair trailing out behind me. The deadly rocks loom closer, and a mix of exhilaration and fear rush through my bloodstream.

  Close.

  “Remember your emergency protocols!”

  My fingers encase the throttle so tightly, it might have to be pried from my hand.
/>   Almost there.

  “What's happening? Jesus—”

  I regret how helpless my father must feel, believing his only child is about to slam into the side of a mountain. Is he thinking of her, my mother, how he'll be truly alone in the world if the ultralight ends up crumpled like a discarded ball of paper?

  My veins burn. My chest expands and contracts at the same time.

  There it is.

  At the edge of certain death, I wrench the controls—working hands and feet feverishly—and the ultralight veers up and to the left, slipping past an outcropping. It's almost as if the space was carved out in anticipation of a reckless, sixteen-year-old girl searching for the ultimate rush.

  When the wheels finally touch down, I'm already unstrapped. My father is huffing hard from running, but he's there, throwing himself at me, lifting and cradling me to his chest like a toddler. He turns around and around, the hazy orb of the sun playing peek-a-boo with me.

  His eyes are shut tight, lips mumbling as if in prayer. Then the tears come, and he sits down in the tall grass and holds me close. The bright green blades tickling my cheeks wave proudly around us.

  On the way home, the “What the hell were you thinking, young lady?” never comes. It never does. Over and over I stretch the limits of what's possible, watching my father age before me.

  Dad turns on the radio, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. “Do you want to stop for ice cream?”

  “No, thanks.” I don't deserve it.

  Guilt is an ugly troll under the bridge of life.

  I rest my cheek against the cool glass of the passenger window, wondering why he didn't mention the impression of my sneaker molded into the floor of the ultralight or the misshapen throttle.

  When we arrive home, I pull out my Lofstrand crutches—the annoying walking sticks I use to get around. Right now, I could run or jump or break concrete blocks with my legs and bend steel with my bare hands. For Dad's benefit, I pretend to struggle out of the car.

  A few hours from now, the struggle will be real.

  I have a rare disease. It's so unique, my deceased mother and I are the only documented cases in the world.

  Mom died when I was six. My memories of her are mere impressions: warm hugs, soft lips against my ear at night to banish monsters, a cascade of dark curls tickling my skin, striking blue eyes, the voice of an angel singing to me . . . all mashed up with the pain of losing her and memories of Dad walking around like a shell of himself, trying to stuff his feelings inside. I kept watching, waiting for him to explode like a canister snake. I can't say he's healed over the past decade, but he copes.

  Mom died of “complications” from our mysterious illness. Sometimes Dad looks at me with dread in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking. I guess I can't blame him.

  After we go inside, Dad disappears into his office, and I disappear into my room. I sit by the window overlooking the backyard and rest my chin on my hands, allowing the gravity of my burden to settle inside my gut and swell—a thirsty sponge sopping up my fear, loneliness, and desire for someone to share this with.

  The first surge happened on a roller coaster. As the centipede of cars tipped over the top of the highest summit, adrenaline shot through my veins. I screamed and whooped, but not with fear—with pure joy. And my foot punched a hole in the bottom of the car. For the first time in my life, I didn't need to lean on anything or anyone in order to walk. The burst of strength lasted six hours. Since then I've had to do progressively wilder things to recreate the phenomenon, and each burst seems to be shorter than the last.

  An effusion of restlessness invades every muscle and tendon inside me until they're singing with desire. I need to move or suffer the inevitable pain that comes when I don't.

  I pull a sweatshirt over my head as I pause by the door to my father's office and knock lightly. “I'm going for a walk.”

  “Careful, Dove.”

  I press my cheek to the door. “Love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  For show, I use my walking sticks to make my way into the woods behind our house, but once away from prying eyes, I collapse them and use the homemade straps I designed to sling them across my back.

  Beneath the thick canopy of trees exists a different world, where the sounds of human life melt away. The pungent perfume of damp earth and decaying leaves envelops me. I find a familiar path leading into the valley and start to run, each shockwave reverberating pleasantly up my legs.

  I end up at the same place as always, an old train trestle deep in the woods. I love to sit underneath it and scream as loud as possible when the train goes by. The screech and roar of the cars overhead swallow secrets. No words are taboo here; the silence that follows cleanses it all away.

  I pick my way through the metal and wood supports until I reach my favorite perch. Anticipation builds inside as the blare of the whistle sounds, the rumble of the arriving train growing louder.

  A sudden rending crack splits the air, and the entire trestle shudders. A section of the bridge buckles, sending chunks of debris plunging into the creek. The train will derail!

  I scale the metal support closest to the sagging track and crawl onto the crossbeam that runs just below it. Shrieking a war cry, I raise both arms above my head and straighten to full height, becoming a buttress.

  As the train barrels over the trestle, I clamp my eyes shut and pray, certain the quaking reverberations will shake me apart. The thundering bullet doesn't go over me—it surges through me, making me part of its glorious power and creating a rush of adrenaline like no other that explodes through my veins.

  After the train is gone, silence returns, carrying forgotten words my mother whispered to me before she died, words that permeate my soul.

  “The genetic mix is perfect this time. You will do what I couldn't, Dove. Be strong. Be brave. Be amazing, sweet girl. I love you.”

  My mom knew. I will honor her memory by discovering my true purpose.

  ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

  Sarah Aisling hails from the East Coast of the US and loves living by the ocean with her indulgent husband and precocious daughter.  She’s working on the full-length version of her short story, Dove, and is editing another novel entitled The Weight of Roses.  When Sarah isn’t being enslaved by her characters, she can usually be found with her nose in a book, obsessing over nail polish or anything leopard, biking, hiking, camping, and spending time with friends and family. Website, Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads

  HERO

  Artwork by Ryo Ishido

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude

  Ryo Ishido: Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud, YouTube

  TIMEKEEPER

  By Alayna Fairman

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude

  “YOU’RE COMING, right?” His daughter’s voice, broken with emotion, came pitifully through the receiver. “…Dad?”

  The connection crackled, but Lucas barely noticed above the slow ticking of the elegant watch secured around his wrist. “I can’t.”

  “Grandma-ma is dying!” A gasping sob escaped her. “Grandpa-pa is sick with worry!”

  “Sweetie…”

  “Why can’t you come?” Her voice was as mournful as the clouds overhead.

  Tucking a hand into his pocket, he fingered the delicate metal gears and springs he had purchased minutes ago. His lips pressed into a thin line. “I have a commitment.”

  Silence rung in his ears.

  “Sweetie…I’m sorry.”

  Shame gripped him as soft sobs penetrated through the static. As much as he wanted to be at the hospital with her, he could do no good there.

  His gut twisted as he disconnected the call.

  For his own lack of courage, he could not explain his absence. He had never been able to. Even if he could summon the words, she wouldn’t believe him. No one would. Some days, he barely believed it himself. Each day he woke hoping it was a viv
id, lingering dream and yet every morning the weight of the singular responsibility greeted him. He saw it first in his daughter’s watch and then in the faces he passed on the street. He could never ignore them, could never tune out the Rhythm. He answered its call first, above any other.

  Turning up his coat collar, Lucas ducked out from the shelter of the antique shop and into the rain. It was only a brief walk but by the time he reached his apartment he was drenched. Heedlessly, he tracked rain into the narrow entry hall and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the landing, he grabbed the handle of the banister and vaulted himself up the second flight. The ascent concluded abruptly in a solitary, wooden door. Without pause, he turned the lock and stepped over the threshold.

  The Rhythm enfolded him instantly, a living wall of energy that took the air from his lungs. No matter how often he exposed himself, it never diminished in its potency. When he had first begun to sense the Rhythm, to feel the vibrations of energy that sustained life, any contact with another human inflicted the same breathtaking effect. Some years ago he had finally found a way to channel and contain the Rhythm of each individual. In doing so he had also discovered how to help them.

  Pale, fluorescent light flooded the expansive room as he flicked on the light switch. Clocks occupied every corner and crevice, crawling up walls and crowding together on the cluttered floor. Majestic and unremarkable, expansive and reserved, elegant and simple; from grandfather clocks to pocket watches their combined hum filled the room. The air vibrated with the authority of their power. He could feel each and every one, sense every tick and detect every faltering reprise.

  Lucas had built them, weaving the unique life energy of each individual into the woodwork, the balances and the mechanics. It had been impossible to create a single, simple clock that existed solely to contain the Rhythm, and each had taken a distinctive appearance to parallel their human counterpart. No two beat at the same pace, with the same urgency, of equal strength or comparable passion. Some were soft and weak, some powerful and grand, and others just existed. Each was perfect in all of their flaws and oversights. Each was invaluably precious to him.

  At that moment however, there were only two that called to him. Adjacent to a tall window at the back of the room, the clocks of his grandparents leaned against one another for stability. On the left, his grandmother’s was a beautiful tapestry of flowers and birds weaved into mahogany wood, and beside it his grandfather’s was a gnarled oak structure inset with fish and bears, deer and wolves. The pair had been among the first Lucas had constructed, and from the beginning they had kept a synchronized rhythm.

  Now, they seemed lost and disconnected. The pendulum of his grandmother’s clock ground as it swung laboriously to and fro, the second hand beating with each painful click. The grandfather was faltering too, the pendulum rocking in a violent motion as if trying to slow itself by sheer force of will, setting the weights off balance and the hour hand to surpass the second. It was just like his grandfather: always racing to catch up, never content to follow behind.

  Lucas’s stomach twisted. He had woven their Rhythms into the clocks and in doing so he had uncovered how to alter the Rhythm, to change time and save life. Without the clocks, he could only sense the flow of energy. Now, he had a responsibility to sustain it.

  Skirting around a stack of broken moulding and past his workbench where dials and clock hands were scattered among tools and shavings of gold, Lucas made his way swiftly across the room. Sinking to his knees at base of the clocks, he drew open the crystal-cut glass door of the grandmother clock. With trembling hands, he retrieved the parts from his pocket. He had tried everything else.

  Time lost meaning and gathered consequence: hours laboured past while seconds mocked his desperate efforts. Metal shavings coated his hands and oil trickled down his wrists as he tried to restore the vitality of the mahogany grandmother. The pendulum rocked ever slower, whispering of existence ending as the weights shifted into their last stance of balance. Beside her, the gears of the grandfather ground as the hour hand spun, trying to catch up to the dying pace of its partner.

  Lucas dropped back, clutching the tools with which he had granted countless others a second chance.

  Understanding crept over him, bringing tears to prick at his vision as he listened to their countering Rhythms. They had done everything together, lived in synchronized Rhythm from the start. Both had confided in him that they did not wish to be left behind, in life or in death. Now, the clocks spoke of that truth.

  Lucas’s eyes drifted to the tools in his hands with remorse. He was the only one who could fulfill that wish, the only one who could keep them together.

  Reluctantly, he opened the glass door of the grandfather clock.

  Connecting the heartbeats of the clocks proved effortless and minutes later, Lucas sat before them, distantly watching the twin pendulums drift back and forth in a calm, synchronized rhythm. A lover’s dance ending, they slowed with each pass until the last gear turned and momentum died out, settling them to rest. Despite the other lives that continued to beat around him, the room seemed suddenly silent and still. Only the Rhythm of his daughter’s watch persisted into his consciousness, its pace erratic with fear and grief.

  His phone suddenly blared to life and the hum of the clocks returned in intense opposition, reminding him that there were others who needed more time.

  His answer would be the same.

  Cradling the watch against his chest, Lucas closed his eyes and picked up the call.

  He couldn’t come.

  He had commitments.

  PHENOMENA

  Artwork by Lukas Jurco

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude

  OBLIVION

  By Nitish Raina

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude

  THE ONE-HANDED boy limped toward the Asylum.

  The Imperators had come up with many names for the gigantic structure over the decades. The Safekeep, the Hightower, the Purgatory. Fortress of Solitude, they called it now. But the common masses had never really cared. To them it’d always been the Asylum. Its occupants were, after all, said to be locked away to protect others from them. People infected with the virus that’d wiped out half the world. Monsters—who, if not contained—would wipe out the other half as well.

  But unlike the masses, the boy knew the truth. Monsters weren’t contained in the Asylum. They were created there.

  “Halt!” a voice called. A thick, gruff voice. His father’s voice had been thick. That hadn’t saved him from being dragged to the Asylum.

  The boy turned. Nine guards were making their way toward him.

  Nine.

  Nine was how old he’d been when they’d taken him from his mother. The poor lady had barely put up any resistance. What was the point? The Sentinels would’ve taken him either way, just like they’d taken his father. But that was all in the past; a life behind him. He was fifteen now, and a different person.

  “What are you doing out here?” asked another guard in a high-pitched voice. “Curfew has been imposed!”

  With his lone hand, the boy pulled his cloak round himself tighter.

  “You mute, boy?” Gruff-voice had spoken this time. “What’s your name?”

  Name. They could have his name. “Oblivion,” he said, wincing as the muscles in his neck spasmed. “Oblivion, Oblivion,” he repeated, jerking his head both times as his neck convulsed painfully.

  The guards drew back, horrified. “H-He’s been to the Netherside.”

  Everything that was outside the city was the Netherside to them. Funny, they thought there was a place lower than this crumbling mass of decadence.

  “Call the Sentinels!”

  “Don’t bother, he’ll die on his own—”

  That was true enough. Anyone who ventured outside was dead in a day.

  “Summon them!”

  The boy didn’t move as four humanoid guards—their bodies ostensibly made of metal—eme
rged from one of the many alleys intertwining through the city. Four Sentinels.

  Four.

  Four months was how long they’d operated on him in the Asylum. Four months of insufferable agony as his right arm had been “rebuilt.” They said he would feel no pain once they’d worked on his head.

  They never got that far, though.

  When they moved to his left arm, his organs began failing. Just like the other rejects, they’d thrown him into the Netherside. Lacking a hand, lacking his sanity.

  The Sentinels were solely responsible for the Imperators’ power over the city. Everyone knew that the Sentinels were invincible, yet no one knew how the Imperators built them, or the reason behind their infallible loyalty.

  The boy did.

  He let his cloak drop, drawing startled gasps from the guards. Perhaps they were surprised at his missing left hand. Or the metallic right one. Some of them were probably comparing his right arm to that of the Sentinels—eyes widening with shock even as their minds struggled to draw conclusions.

  Yes, they were right in drawing a link between him and the Sentinels. Like them, he’d almost become a killing machine. Almost turned into a monster to rob the citizens of their free will. Almost, but for his body failing at the last moment.

  The Sentinels, who were now training their arm-cannons at him, were mindless machines of destruction, yes.

  But the boy . . . The boy was something more.

  More startled gasps emerged as the boy’s left arm suddenly appeared. It wasn’t his real arm—he’d lost that, with everything that’d held his mind together. It was green, ethereal, and—judging from the guards’ reactions—ghastly.

  The arm turned into a whip and lashed out, sweeping across the narrow alley and grabbing all four hapless Sentinels. A moment ago, their arm-cannons had been ready to unleash raging destruction upon him.

  And now, they were little more than heaps of junk.

  “W-What are you?!” said one of the guards, frozen in place. The others had already turned back and were running down the alley.

  “Oblivion,” he said, his head convulsing as pain shot through his neck. “Oblivion, Oblivion,” came the two involuntary reiterations with an equal number of head-jerks.

  His ethereal hand shot out again, grabbing all eight of the fleeing guards in a single swipe. They didn’t turn into a heap of junk, like the Sentinels had.

  They turned to ash, as all things eventually do.

  “The Netherside,” croaked the guard, his eyes now devoid of life. “What did you find there?”

  When they’d taken his hand, they told him they’d take away his will. Force him into submission. Break his resolve.

  “Resolve,” he said. “Resolve, resolve.”

  The guard struggled to speak. He didn’t need to. The boy embraced him with his green, spectral arm, his expression unchanging as the man’s body began crumbling to a mound of black ash.

  He turned back toward the Asylum. The Fortress of Solitude. The symbol of everything that was wrong with this city.

  He would burn the place to the ground today, and the people would call him a hero for it. They’d tell stories of him for years to come. About the hero who’d saved the city.

  Did he think himself to be a hero? Not really.

  Would he save them? Yes.

  Everyone had a right to hope. Everyone had a right to be free. Everyone had a right to have what had been stolen from him.

  Everyone had a right to be . . . normal.

  And anyone who tried to take that away . . . For them, he’d be the end of the road.

  For them, he would be Oblivion.

  FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE

  Artwork by Camille Cabezas

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude

  THE CALLING OF A HERO

  By Melissa Muhlenkamp

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude

  THE BREEZE picks up, blowing my hair into the air like strokes of black ink against the gray sky. I lift my eyes toward the approaching storm. The rising clouds embrace the ruined city in a violent expansion of gray smoke and sand, covering the metropolis as it has every night since it all began.

  My earpiece buzzes to life. “5-0-L-1-T-U-6-3, we have a breach.” I press the button under the skin behind my ear to silence the voice and rub the back of my neck. The tension in my muscles isn’t real, I know. I have no muscles anymore, but the gesture still feels natural. My eyes drop to the exposed skeleton revealed under the eroded skin around my fingers. No muscle tissue, no tendons, no veins, just a conglomeration of wires and polished metal that used to be wrapped by a synthetic membrane. “Solitude, do you copy? We have a breach.”

  A sigh escapes my lips, followed by the faintest of groans, and my attention drops to the identification code etched on my wrist. I know the combination of numbers and letters can be read as “Solitude,” but I can’t help disliking the nickname.

  “This is 5-0-L-1-T-U-6-3,” I say. “I am on my way.”

  I return my attention to the swelling storm. A frown creases my forehead as I acknowledge once more the reason behind my calling. My body, unlike any other, blends with the broken surroundings perfectly. I am just another mass of rusted metal, lost in a jungle of forgotten dreams. I walk toward the edge of the guard tower as the orange moon vanishes from view. Fort TR35 stands behind me, a stronghold of isolation that protects its inhabitants from the harsh environment of the outside world.

  I bend my knees, lean forward, and jump. My feet hit the ground just as the sandy winds envelop me, wearing away a little more of the synthetic skin that remains around my face. I pull the black scarf over my nose and cheeks in an attempt to protect them. The sand scrapes against the soft tissue, but at least I don’t bleed. A human wouldn’t stand a chance against the abrasive power of the nightly storms.

  My heat sensors activate, expanding my awareness of the surroundings. I look up, focusing my attention on the swirls above me. I wasn’t created to protect. The military cyborg program that conscripted me at the age of eighteen had only intended to use my brain as the nervous system of a metal carcass that could endure countless wars without harm. But fifteen years later here I am, the sole survivor of a ghost project, living to protect the remnants of human civilization.

  My peripheral view detects red bodies moving in my direction. I turn to face the three approaching monsters. Their yellow eyes glow like gold coins, revealing the high levels of radiation coursing through them. They, too, survived the nuclear holocaust, but their survival turned them into something else, something ghastly, something not human. They are called The Others. I square my shoulders, ready to confront them.

  Two of them jump first, aiming their gaping jaws toward my neck. Their rotting teeth open wide, craving the taste of real flesh. I can’t help laughing as I reach for their slimy throats and pivot in place before slamming their hairless bodies to the ground. They would be disappointed to discover sheets of corroded metal under my dark suit rather than the blood they hunger for. The third monster lunges against my back, digging his broken nails into the sides of my arms. I yank him off and smash him against the other two just as I pull the knife from my belt. He whimpers in pain, but the cry barely leaves his lips before I slide the dagger under his chin.

  The other two stand, struggling for balance. I tug one of them by the leg and pull him into the pointed edge of my knife while the other one runs away. I lift my blade, intending to throw it in his direction. But I don’t, knowing the swirling storm will hinder its trajectory. A frustrated growl leaves my lips. My only choice is to follow him.

  My legs pump against the ground, chasing his trail. My heat sensors don’t pick him up, so finding him amid the billowing storm could take all night. I maneuver around piles of broken cement and decayed metal, not quite certain of my location. Hours pass without signs of him. I finally turn around and begin to retrace my steps when a giant, red mass of moving bodies comes into view. My limbs stop in their tracks; I am
surrounded.

  “Solitude, do you copy? The Others are here. They are attacking the fortress,” says the voice inside my ear. I blink several times, analyzing the information. Fort TR35, or the Fortress, as humans call it, is under direct attack. It takes me a second to connect the ambush before my eyes and the assault against the fort, both perfectly synchronized. “Solitude, we need you!” the voice yells.

  I press the button behind my ear. “Are the gates sealed?”

  “They won’t be much longer. We can’t keep them out,” says the voice.

  I cast a glance toward the approaching mass of mutated creatures closing in around me, and begin to run in the direction of the fort. My legs propel my body upward just as the mutants reach me, raising me off the ground and over them. I don’t turn around, knowing they will follow me, but this doesn’t matter. I will outrun them before reaching the fort.

  “The fortress must hold,” I say through clenched teeth. “Seal the outer compartments if you have to.”

  The voice pauses for a moment, as if unsure of something. “If we seal the outer compartments you won’t be able to get in, and we won’t have connectivity anymore.”

  I clench my fists as my legs pick up speed. The mutants knew this would happen. This was their plan all along, to lead me from the fortress and eradicate its only defense. But I see no other way out. I can wait out the storm until the receding clouds return the atmosphere to the calm but scorching temperatures of daytime, even if it means further harm to my metal skeleton. The mutants will retreat, too. The extreme heat affects them just as much as humans, if not more.

  Some of the young survivors in the fort call me a superhero for risking my life to defend them against The Others. I don’t think I agree. My memories of superheroes from the magazines I used to read as a child portray brightly dressed people that can fly and break walls. I can’t do that, but if my actions bring hope into the hearts of the survivors, then the concept isn’t so difficult to accept.

  “Seal all outer compartments,” I repeat. “Let no one in.”

  The voice doesn’t respond. There is no need to. My earpiece buzzes, then stops.

  The fortress is secure.

  PHENOMENA

  Artwork by Elizabeth Ann Watts

  Inspired by PHENOMENA’s Fortress of Solitude