Dr. Herbert Goode, His Mechanical Girl and the End of the World
Page 2
hoarse screech that momentarily stopped him from taking action. After it ceased, he kicked off his bed covers and slipped on his slippers before running to his laboratory.
As he surveyed the damage of Cecily's destruction still in progress, he wasn't sure if there was anything left to salvage. He watched, almost too far removed, as she wrenched a hammer onto one of his machines in the corner. Once the instrument struck the steamed pipe, it hissed and began leaking vapor through the wound.
Herbert walked across the glass and coil littered floor to grab her arm. He gripped the unprotected wires, squeezing them together to stop her from pulling away. The heat radiated onto his skin and was beginning to scorch his flesh, but he fought through the pain and held onto her.
Cecily turned her head and screeched the same hoarse sound that had awoken him. It disarmed him for a few moments, leaving chills along his spine.
"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" She screamed, and was about to whirl away from his other arm, when he reached into the back of her spine and wrenched it out of its place.
She fell, limp, into Herbert's arms. As he gazed upon her face, he thought, I can fix her. He was desperate to fix her. He didn't know how, but he had to. She is all I have.
He knew well that this was not a mechanical problem. It may as well have been something he couldn't fix at all. He turned over one of the chairs that she had tossed to the side in her tantrum, and placed her carefully on the seat. He leaned over her to look deep into her green eyes, and he knew he had to give her life again. There was no choice; he wasn't going to live out his last days alone. Sighing, he situated her spinal cord back into place, and immediately she sat up, her head moving, but Cecily did not speak. Neither did not say anything. He just left the room and went to his study to read.
A while later, he heard footsteps and glanced up from the his book. He observed her shadow walking down the hallway and waited until she appeared in the doorway.
"Why can I not go outside?" She pressed. He was silent and flipped to the next page.
"I am going outside. And you cannot stop me!" She screamed as she left the room.
For whatever reason, Herbert's mind neglected to register the threat of her words, and so his actions to stop her were delayed. As a whisper of wind curled through the room, he felt the cold chill touch his cheek with a deadly shade of pink, startling him into action as he ran from the room.
He descended the staircase, grasping a handkerchief from his vest pocket to cover his mouth and nose. It was all he knew may possibly save him from the deadly mixture in the air. He knew it was not enough.
He stopped at the bottom of the staircase as he stared at the double doors to the manor, which were open wide, creaking and swinging in the breeze. Lowering the handkerchief from his mouth, he shoved it back into his pocket, and breathed in. He coughed. It was only a matter of minutes, or maybe hours, now. Based on his research, every person's reaction would be different, according to their genetic make-up. Regardless, he knew the path to death would be agonizing, crippling pain. But he could not have known the gruesome effect it had on Cecily.
She was frozen in place a few feet from the front steps of the manor. Her stance was in a running motion and her arms were held out wide and open to the empty world before her. With a few steps toward the door, Herbert was determined to battle the elements and bring her back inside.
I could save her, He thought. A strong gust of wind swept Cecily off her feet and into the air.
"No!" He screamed, his heart clenching, but it was too late.
Her body plummeted to the ground and broke into pieces. Springs and coils flew and scattered all over the white-covered ground. It would be impossible to find every single piece in order to repair her. A part of him still wanted to venture outside, to take what little he could find, but he coughed again. His breath wheezed out of his lungs as he tried to exhale. The energy in his limbs disappeared and his legs buckled from beneath him. As he fell, Herbert already knew it would be impossible stand up again.
Instead, he gathered his strength and crawled over to the parlor room, across the wooden floor, to the small bureau in the corner.
"Herbert?" He heard someone call his name. It was a woman's voice, soft and lilting. He remembered that voice from somewhere, but couldn't place it.
Memory loss. Delusions. He noted. Two of the more advanced symptoms.
He rested, wrestling with his thoughts for a few moments. Fetching the key from his breast pocket, Herbert opened the top left drawer. He hadn't looked inside it since the explosion, and that was only to shut it on the contents inside. But with trembling hands, Herbert reached in and pulled out what he was looking for. Falling to his back, he laid his head down on the floor. Trembling fingers traced the engraved family crest on the cover, and he fought with himself over whether or not to peer into it.
No one. He thought. No one but me.
And he opened the picture holder. Inside, it was a black and white photograph of a woman's portrait. She was seated on a chaise with her hands delicately folded in the lap of her dress. Her hair done in a smooth bun. Herbert ran his thumb over the engraving of her name beneath the photograph - Cecily.
Herbert glanced at the chaise in the corner of the room. He remembered the day the picture was taken, and how the image was nothing like the woman he knew in real life. He loved it when her red hair was wild and hung untamed about her shoulders. And her fiery personality, always stubborn, always persistent in winning every argument. Their last argument, her final victory, had cost Cecily her life.
"Herbert dear, the world is not going to end." Those were the last words she had ever said to him.
As he gazed at the photograph, he reached back into the drawer again and gripped the second object he was looking for. Breathing deeply, he withdrew a pistol.
No one but me, was his next thought.
"Herbert?" He heard the woman's voice again.
Cecily. That was his final thought.
The End
About The Author:
Amber Grey was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania but currently resides in Kissimmee, Florida. She is currently working towards her AS Degree in Film Production Technology. She has dreams of seeing her name in lights as a director/writer but also has a passion for scenic painting.
She is a freelance entertainment writer and is currently independently publishing her fiction. She loves historical, steampunk, fantasy and pulp fiction; genres in which she hopes to spin into fantastic works of her own.
She devotes her spare time to painting, leather work and pyrography.
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