by Tim Marquitz
They were spiderlike, but the camera was positioned so far away it was impossible to tell what they were. All of that was still going on when the camera died. The TV screen was once again filled with the terrified face of the female anchor. She must have seen what happened up on the roof, for she was up out of her seat, tearing the earpiece out, and within a second, the screen was empty apart from a spinning chair and a rolling banner, which hadn’t updated for quite some time.
Amanda ran into the kitchen. She didn’t know what else to do, but getting away from the television screen was important. She rushed to the sink, drew herself a glass of water and swallowed it down in three hungry gulps. She hadn’t realized, but tears were streaming down her face, confused and panicked sobs racked her entire body. She slammed the empty glass down on the counter and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, a few seconds later, she screamed.
A face at the kitchen window, pressed so close that steamed breath concealed the bottom half, almost sent her flying back into the table and chairs.
It was Douglas West; the idiot from next door. His eyes were rolled up into his face so that only the whites were visible. Amanda could see through the glass that they were unnaturally bloodshot, as if every blood vessel in his face had exploded. His neck cords were unnaturally taut, and his hands scraped incessantly up and down the window, squeaking and scratching until Amanda thought it might drive her insane.
“What do you want?” she screamed, hoping he would hear her. “Mister West, go back inside! It’s not safe out there.”
Amanda noticed that Douglas’s hands were covered in blood, and that was when she realized it was too late for him. Had he slaughtered his own wife? Why? She thought about the reporter, the poor bastard up on that roof at the BBC center who had savaged his cameraman. Did Douglas West have those things inside of him? Those ... whatever-the-fuck they were?
Douglas scratched and clawed at the glass a few more times and then, as if resigned to the fact that he couldn’t get in, slid off the window and disappeared into the darkness.
Amanda couldn’t breathe. Something horrible was happening, and the cloud had something to do with it. She pushed herself forward, ignoring her instincts—which were telling her to run upstairs and hide—and glanced out of the window just in time to witness Douglas West’s demise.
He was doubled over in the middle of the garden—her garden—and was violently trembling, the way a dog might just before a particularly nasty shit. Amanda stifled her screams as she watched. Douglas’s mouth opened wide; wider than was physically possible. His jaw must have dislocated, and it hung down a few inches below the rest of his face, swinging from side-to-side as the pain racked him. Then, a torrent of those things spewed from his mouth. In that moment, his eyes rolled back into place, and he seemed to realize something was not right. Hundreds–perhaps thousands—of the things hit the grass and scampered away in every direction. Amanda was paralyzed. Her legs gave out, and she hit the kitchen floor with a meaty thump.
She cried. The water that she greedily finished a moment before threatened to reappear. Where had this nightmare come from? How could this ...
She had to call her mother. She clambered to her feet, angry with herself for being so weak. Although it was almost impossible to get her legs to work in tandem, she staggered to the telephone and snatched up the handset. For a moment, the number evaded her. It was ridiculous for she had called that same fucking number every day for the last three years. She took a deep breath, allowed the temporary amnesia to pass, and sighed as she keyed in the number. Pushing the handset to her ear, she prayed for the voice of her mother to appear.
Two rings ...
Three ...
“Hello?”
Amanda could have burst into another bout of hysterics, but it was not the time. “Mom, thank God. Are you okay? Is the door locked?”
The silence that followed was enough to send Amanda over the edge, and she leaned forward as her stomach, full of water, gushed into her mouth, which she opened to let the clear vomit hit the tiles. In her ear, her mother said something about the garage; something about being stuck in the garage with another man.
Amanda wiped the spittle from her lips and chin before attempting to speak. “Mom, who is that? Where did he come from?”
“He was stuck, out on the road,” her mother replied. “He looked like he needed help. He doesn’t look well, Amanda. Not well, at all.”
Amanda screamed down the phone. “Mom, you have to get away from him. Get into the house and lock the fucking door!”
A muted voice said something, and then she heard the sound of her mother responding. It sounded, to Amanda, like “Stay back,” or, “Get back,” though it was muffled and incoherent.
“Mom, get to the house. Leave the sick man where he is and get—”
The phone went dead, leaving Amanda screaming to herself. Her head pounded with the beginnings of a violent migraine. She dropped the phone and watched as it swung left and right, clattering against the wall. In the background, the television reiterated the importance of remaining indoors, and that the cloud had something to do with everything that was happening.
No shit! Amanda thought.
She stumbled into the living room and fell to her knees in front of the TV. The empty studio had been replaced with a darkened room. It looked like the entire production team had gathered, though obviously it was too much of a good story to stop filming. The camera was capturing everything, and although it was gloomy in the room, several figures could be seen moving around, hastily blockading doors. At the far end of the room, the female anchor was being soothed by an elderly man. A face suddenly filled the screen. It was so close to the camera that Amanda could make out a thick arrangement of nasal-hairs, despite the darkness. The face started to whisper.
“We have confirmation that the cloud is carrying something ... some sort of ... of microparasite. I don’t even know what the fuck that is, but ... but that’s what appears to be happening.” The face glanced across his shoulder at the shuffling figures before continuing. “In truth, I have no idea what’s happening, but we’re going off air for a while. Just please, everybody, stay the fuck away from the cloud. Stay inside ... and stay safe.”
The camera switched off, leaving a test-screen of parallel colored bars.
Microparasite? That was what the man said. The word made Amanda want to scream. Those things breaking out of people were somehow coming from the cloud, using their hosts for a few minutes before emerging. Even Amanda knew that was pretty rapid evolution, even for a fucking parasite.
She stood, her legs still bandy and unreliable. A terrible thought danced into her mind. She had smelt the sulphur, had been exposed to the cloud, or at least its pungent virulence.
Was she infected? Were those fucking parasites growing inside of her? The mere thought brought bile up into her throat. She coughed and spluttered, trying to push the ghastly inference out of her mind. She tried to reassure herself that, from what she had seen, it didn’t take long for the parasite to evolve, and she was not feeling any signs of affliction, so she must—
A knock sounded at the door. Amanda almost fell back into the television. Bang, bang, bang. Violent, somebody was trying desperately to get in. Her heart was in her mouth. She bit her tongue in an attempt not to scream, and tasted iron as her mouth filled with blood.
“Amanda!” a voice bellowed. She knew straight away who it was, though that failed to alleviate her concerns. “Amanda, please! I know you’re in there. I need some help!” He finished the sentence with three more bashes on the door.
She wanted to speak, to tell Paul to leave her alone, but she couldn’t. Instead, her mouth opened and closed like a goldfish; silent gasps only she could hear.
“Amanda! Please!” Now he was sobbing, slamming the door with open hands. “It’s crazy out here. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but I—”
Amanda listened, but no further words came. Everything was deathly si
lent. Maybe her prayers had been answered and Paul had simply given up.
She tiptoed around the sofa, not taking her eyes off the front door. Her heart pounded so fast that her arms and legs trembled with each beat. The threatening migraine was no longer there. It had been replaced with something much worse, a pain that no amount of aspirin could ease. Again she panicked, putting two and two together to get five. Was the agony inside her head caused by the fact that she had come into contact with the cloud? Was she now a host to thousands of insectile creatures?
She reached the stairs and put a foot on the bottom step. Her sudden fatigue might not allow her to climb to the top, though she would fucking try.
She managed to get to the third step when the door crashed in behind her. She turned just in time to see Paul rushing towards her, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his mouth contorted into a pained grimace. She tried to scream, but it was too late. Paul thumped into her, crushing her back against the stairs. Her head smashed against a baluster, splitting her temple. As white stars danced between her eyes and eyelids, she could feel Paul grabbing at her, trying to tear her apart.
“I said let me fucking in!” he screamed, though not in any voice she recognized. His hands slipped around her throat. She opened her eyes to find his face only an inch away from hers.
Then his mouth opened.
She could see legs, hundreds of tiny, spindly legs, creeping their way out of his throat, maneuvering their way around his teeth, and then they were spilling out of his mouth and into hers.
She closed her eyes, gasping and choking as the things slipped down her throat. Paul was too strong for her; preternaturally strong. She couldn’t push him off, couldn’t even move his hand away from her neck.
All she could do was accept.
Paul kissed her once on the lips and rolled off so they lay side by side on the stairs.
That is where they remained as the ash cloud danced in whorls through the shattered door, the smell of sulphur more discernible than ever. Amanda reached down and held Paul’s hand.
Then they waited.
The Equivalence Principle
Nick Cato
I am above you. I am below you. I surround you. I keep you safe. I’m your cover. I answer to no one, and I do as I see fit. I show mercy to those who believe, and grow tired of those who take me for granted.
I am above you.
~
It took most of his life for twenty-six year old Steve Burke to come to terms with his unwanted hereditarian enigma; at least it wasn’t cancer. At least, he was discovering he could deal with his fear of open spaces on his own thanks to his customized concoction of natural herbs and over-the-counter muscle relaxers. What idiots these physicians were! Xanax? Prozac? The stuff was evil as far as he was concerned.
The excitement of the coming weekend caused joy to erupt in his mind, temporarily killing the thoughts of his mental disability. At 6:00 p.m., he clocked out with the rest of the dogs at Johanssen’s Imports, then prepared himself for the torturous walk to his car.
In the darkening night.
In the center of the parking lot.
Steve quickly ducked into the men’s room, popped two large valerian-root pills and two Motrin’s into his dry mouth, then stuck his head under the faucet. The daily dose washed down uncomfortably but quickly. He stepped up to the rear exit of the former shipping warehouse and mentally prepared himself for the dash to his 2005 Taurus.
OK, dude. The rope is attached to your waist and is tied tightly to a metal pole that’s cemented forty-five feet below the ground.
Steve walked across the main driveway, darting to the first set of freshly planted trees. Thank God for trees and poles ... his gravitational aids. His car was twenty-two spaces away from them. No trees or poles anywhere near it. He tugged on the rope to make sure it was tight and eventually let go of the nearest tree.
All right, he thought while fishing the keys from his jacket’s inside pocket. The gravity seems strong. It doesn’t look like anyone’s going to fall off the planet today.
Steve Burke dashed to the black vehicle, his head tilted low and spazzing from side to side. He knew a few of his co-workers watched from their parked cars and probably wondered what he was on, but this was necessary. This was the knowledge everyone else lacked.
“Steve? You okay?” asked Wilma Betson, the company’s secretary for the past fifteen years.
Without looking at her, he yelled “Yes. Enjoy your weekend, Wilm.” Go ahead. Look at me. Laugh at me. Mock me. I’ll be the one laughing when the celestial attraction gives out. You’ll see. If you only had an idea of what you’ve misplaced your faith in.
He made it to the car. Within four seconds he was seated behind the wheel and slamming the key into the ignition. He had to make it back to the trees before the vehicle became weightless. Before it hurled him into the abyss. His heart rate elevated.
Ahhhhh, yes. Thank you, dear God. He made it. Stopping alongside the island of a dozen or so trees, he threw the gear into park and regained his composure. His back was now a river of perspiration. After a minute of breathing deeply and exhaling slowly, he was ready to follow his usual route home. It had taken Steve a ridiculous amount of time to chart out a path that kept him next to telephone poles, trees, and signs. There were a few seconds where he’d be in one totally open space, but he was growing used to it; the gravitational force at the intersection of Mulby and Dexter Avenues always seemed friendly.
~
It is my nature to consume. It is my nature to conquer. I am responsible for most of the nine hundred thousand who go missing each year. My hunger requires twenty-five hundred per day, but I’m usually a couple hundred short—intentionally —as to not cause too much notice until my pit demands the final feeding; until my guide has opened the door to the next world.
~
Home at last. Steve was surprised at the small amount of traffic for a Friday evening. He pulled between two large trees, which guarded his driveway, and untied the rope that was created in his brain when he left work thirty minutes earlier. He could taste the large pie with mushrooms and onions he was about to order. Now completely drained, he needed some quick refueling.
After ordering his pizza, Steve clicked the answering machine.
“Hate to ruin your Saturday, but the boss needs everyone in for four hours tomorrow. Thursday’s load is finally coming in around seven, or so, and it has to get stocked. Any problems leave a message on the machine. Take care.”
Crap. His Friday night plans were over. He knew he had to go in, being the lowest man on the totem pole. I can’t get a break, he thought, realizing he’d have to go through another day of stressful, panic-easing rituals just to get to and from work. Thoughts of starting an Internet business from home made their way into Steve’s mind. He had to do something. Soon.
By the end of Letterman’s monologue, Steve Burke was out cold, still dressed except for his black work boots. A small hole in the left one allowed water and other storeroom liquids to creep in and stain his thick sock. Two slices of pizza remained on the kitchen table, creating a feast for the flies that weaseled in the back door with him five hours earlier.
~
The time is at hand. I wonder if the inhabitants of the next world will be as suspicious of each other as these are. They blame my feeding on kidnappers. On running away. On stress. Even on abductions by beings from other planets.
Only a few see that I’m above them, that I keep them safe.
And they fear me.
~
The black Taurus sped down the congestion free street in all its pride. It wasn’t much but was what Steve could afford, and he was proud of it.
I wish it was like this every day. His anxiety of falling off the planet was greatly eased when he worked the weekends, having the whole road to himself, with the exception of a few annoying delivery trucks. In less than half the time as a routine workday, Steve pulled into Johannsen’s Imports parking lot, lucky enough to get
a spot next to the tree-island.
Inside, the place was as busy as any other day. Mr. Johanssen must have been extremely pleased that most of his crew showed up without complaint. He looked over the vast work area with his feet up on the large bay window, probably surprised to see no one fooling around.
“Steve. Give us a hand over here.”
“No problem, John.”
Although only employed at Johannsen’s for under a year, Steve rapidly learned the ropes of Brooklyn’s largest sea-front warehouse. Men forklifted the new merchandise onto ten-level racks, Steve one of the few who stood by to guide them in on the more difficult angles.
Before anyone became too tired, the latest shipment was put away, and it wasn’t even noon. Close to thirty employees went to grab a cup of coffee from the small break room before heading over to the punch clock.
Steve was already preparing himself for the trip to his car. Sure, the walk in was great, but now he’d be leaving with everyone, and the pressure was on. The pressure to carry himself like a normal, gravity trusting human being was no easy task when surrounded by them; and for what reason he (and his countless physicians) had no clue.
Bathroom. Pills. Vitamins. Head under faucet. Dash-to-the-rear-exit. He stood by the door, the sound of the early 70’s punch clock hammering away. The warehouse exodus had begun. He attached the rope to his waist, tugging it to make sure it was secured.
Perfect.
~
I settled here before man was formed. They have sustained me well. But the time has come. My guide has spoken.
I answer to no one, and I do as I see fit. I show mercy to those who believe and grow tired of those who take me for granted.
I am above you.
~
