The Apex Book of World SF

by Mahvesh Murad

He then went out to the barns and stood, gawking, as the sleek, well-fed cows mooed in their stalls and clacking chickens scrabbled in the yard. The animals were clearly being taken care of, so the farm could not be abandoned. But perhaps the creature he had killed had in fact been its only inhabitant. This seemed impossible, considering the giant swarms that had attacked them in previous battles. But the more he thought about it, the more the idea appeared plausible.

  The Eaters were natural entities. He had ruthlessly squashed the superstitious talk among his soldiers, some of whom, still infected with the religious bacillus, whispered tall tales of demons and fiends. In fact, he had to execute one particularly devout muzhik who was a corrupting influence both on his comrades and on the commune members. Yakov, immune to the peasants’ religion and oblivious of his own, had no doubt that the Eaters had come from another planet rather than from hell. He had read Alexander Bogdanov’s magnificent Red Star, in which the Revolution reached Mars, and was moved to tears; so much so that he procured a novel by a progressive Englishman in which Martians came to Earth. He had been disappointed by the Englishman’s war-mongering but in retrospect he had to concede that the writer had a point. The aliens came and they were neither socialist nor peaceful.

  Inspired by the novels, he had started a surreptitious study of the Enemy. That was not encouraged by headquarters, who tended to remain silent about the exact nature of the Enemy or resort to recycled propaganda clichés. But the food situation being what it was, anything that could conceivably increase procurements had to be attempted. Ultimately, his supreme task was to keep the requisitions going and—of secondary importance—keep his commune alive. And knowing the true nature of the Eaters was instrumental to both ends.

  He had come to the conclusion that their many different forms were not independent creatures but something like the parts of a single body capable of acting at a distance from the central core.

  But perhaps not all Eaters were parts of a single organism. Perhaps separate swarms of them constituted individual entities, much like his unit sometimes felt like an extension of his own body. If that was true, such entities had to reproduce, to bear young, as was in the nature of life everywhere. The pseudo-girl he had killed was a colony of parts. He shuddered remembering her tentacle braids, her skittering hands, and her rolling head. But she was much more closely integrated than any Eater he had seen. Didn’t it follow that she was an immature version of a swarm, growing in the seclusion and plenty of the farm until she was big enough to disassemble into her component monsters and send them off to pillage and devastate the neighbouring communes? If so, the sleek appearance of the farm animals and the cared-for condition of the farm were no mystery.

  He went back to the main house and sat at the table. His injuries were beginning to smart. He felt tired and strangely disappointed that his sacrifice was not needed. He had steeled himself for the mission for over a month, seeing that the commune was about to fail, telling himself that he could not allow his life’s work to have been in vain. He would have much preferred to stay in the city rather than mingle again with the peasants…

  …who had killed his family?

  He had no family any more and needed none. His cadres were his children. If he had to die for them, for the Revolution, so be it.

  But now, it seemed, he did not need to die at all. He could walk back to the commune—a longish walk since his horse was gone—convene the committee, order them to organise a search party that would take over this farm and move the animals into the communal barns

  …hope they won’t slaughter them to fill their bellies…

  Collect whatever grain was there to fill the procurement quota for the city and hope that something was left over for the winter.

  It reminded him how hungry he was. Surely there was no harm in eating a little now. He lifted the loaf from the table and twisted it to break off a chunk.

  “Don’t,” said the loaf.

  He dropped it, jumping to his feet. The loaf ended on the floor with the round side up. The crack he had made in the crust formed a long misshapen mouth that lengthened as it spoke.

  “You…” he whispered stupidly.

  He looked around. In the deepening dusk the room was filled with shadows that moved and whispered to each other. He wondered how blind he had been to think that the farm was empty.

  The haloed saints on the icons leaned forward, staring at him intently. The pots on the shelves smacked their glazed lips. The white curtain flowed down to the floor in a waterfall of putrefying flesh. The ceiling joists blinked with a multitude of rivet eyes. A post rippled as it adjusted its stance.

  The Eaters looked at him and he looked back.

  “Go ahead!” he cried, his voice shriller than he intended. “Eat me! Bloodsuckers! Parasites! I am not afraid of you!”

  And indeed he was not.

  It had been a gradual realisation: from the paralysing fear that gripped even the most seasoned fighters as they confronted the alien menace; to the survivor’s guilt that his soldiers died all around him and he remained unscathed; to the growing conviction.

  Eaters would not touch him. He was immune.

  He did not know whether there were others like him and he did not care. He was only a spark in the cleansing flame of the Revolution and it was his duty to burn whatever thorns came his way. He had been sent to this starving, dim-witted countryside, to make the best of the coarse muzhiks who were under his command, and he would do so. When he had realised that the commune was failing, that the procurement quotas were not going to be filled, he knew he had to do something drastic. If the requisitions were not met, he was a dead man walking in any case.

  If, for whatever reason, the Eaters were afraid of him, he would turn it to his advantage. He remembered that in the progressive Englishman’s novel, the aliens succumbed to earthly microbes. Perhaps he was a carrier of some hitherto unknown disease that would infect and destroy the invaders. And if they refused the bait, if they ran away from him, well, then he would requisition the farm and carry on his Revolution-given task.

  But this was not as he expected it to happen.

  The entire farm was swarming with Eaters, perhaps the entire farm was Eaters, and they did not run away from him. The pseudo-girl had attacked him: the first time he was the target of alien aggression. He was not untouchable, after all.

  But they were not attacking now. He felt himself to be in the crossfire of innumerable eyes but nothing moved.

  “Why me?” he asked finally.

  It was the post that answered, sprouting a notched mouth.

  “You were the first. You gave us form.”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “We are the enemies you wanted.”

  He remembered the night of their coming.

  A fire blazing in the night, a smell of blood and unwashed feet. His own voice, hoarse but full of conviction:

  “Kulaks, rich peasants are your enemies, enemies of the people… Bloodsuckers, shape-shifters, cannibals. They devour your land, your crops, your family…”

  The fire in the dark, the fire of belief in his rag-tag soldiers’ eyes. And then a mocking peasant voice:

  “Dirty Yid!”

  His hand on the Mauser. Refusing to draw, forcing himself to remember that it is not their fault: they are just ignorant, backward muzhiks. They are not the enemy.

  A cry in the night. Heads turning, hands grasping their worn rifles.

  A line of otherworldly shapes shambling toward the encampment, their distortions not the fault of the dancing shadows.

  A creature whose head is a giant clenched fist, the fingers parting to reveal a fang-studded maw.

  An impossibly obese waddling sack of flesh, two slobbering nostrils gaping at the centre of his belly, his arms wickedly sharp sickles.

  A crafty insect-like monster, half haughty man, half praying mantis, clicking the serrated blades of his upper limbs.

  The Eaters.<
br />
  “Me?” he whispered incredulously.

  “Your hatred. We needed a shape to feed. You gave us one.”

  “Why me?”

  “You were the first.”

  Did they come in an artillery shell fired from a distant planet as in the Englishman’s novel? Did they stumble upon his encampment as he was giving his nightly political talk to his dispirited troops? Did they zoom in on the bright beacon of his pure hatred, his uncompromising devotion?

  And had they been leaving him alone out of some alien gratitude? Or was it because they still needed the energy of his belief?

  But now they were turning against him, beginning to attack… Was his faith in the Revolution waning? No, it couldn’t be!

  “There are others,” said an icon. “Haters like you, believers like you.”

  “You don’t need me anymore.”

  “There are others,” said the loaf of bread. “We will feed.”

  And as they advanced toward him, he saw, beyond the ranks of household objects, a human-shaped Eater enter the room and stand on the threshold. The new enemy, the new monster.

  He gazed on his own face as long as he had eyes, which was not very long.

  The Last Hours of the Final Days

  Bernardo Fernández (Bef)

  Translated by the author

  Mexican author Bef has published three science fiction novels, as well as a series of crime novels. He has also published graphic novels. His short fiction has been published in Mexico City Noir, Three Messages, and Warning: Contemporary Mexican Short Stories, and he is a winner of Spain’s Ingnotus Prize.

  OUR BIKE RAN out of gasoline as soon as we crossed the intersection of Reforma and Bucareli. The bike coughed to death. Just like that. Cursing, Wok tried to start it again; he kicked it furiously, refusing to accept that the ride was over.

  “What’s so funny, bitch?” he asked, half angry, half amused. “Stupid Aída!” I’m always laughing.

  We left the bike beside Sebastián’s Caballito. The huge sculpture used to be a brilliant yellow monument; now it’s a rusty wreck blocking Reforma, as are most of the other statues that we’ve been playing dodge’em with since we found the bike.

  Silently, Wok climbed the sculpture’s carcass. From the top, he scanned the horizon in search of a vehicle we could steal. Or at least milk some gasoline from.

  “Nada,” he mumbled from his watchtower.

  We could hear a few distant explosions.

  “Let’s walk, baby,” he said, as soon as he got down.

  Our skateboards hung from straps on our backpacks. Inside the packs we had everything we had left from before the collapse. It was not much, and it wasn’t heavy, but we were going to miss that bike.

  We still had a couple hours of light left, and we looked for a building that wasn’t too badly damaged. The best ones were already occupied, but finally we found a hotel that seemed safe.

  Inside, it was a disaster. The rugs and wallpaper were ripped up, but I couldn’t tell if it was from looters or just aimless vandals. As usual, none of the intruders had even bothered to go up to the second floor. Lazy bums. Wok and I kept quiet, in case there was someone else inside, but as it turned out, the building was empty.

  On the upper floors, the guest rooms were untouched.

  “Weird,” said Wok.

  We chose a room that overlooked Reforma Avenue. It was already night. Everything was dark: you couldn’t even see the bonfires that sometimes flickered in the buildings.

  We felt very lonely.

  I discovered that the shower had hot running water. Without hesitating, I undressed and took a shower. It had been a long time since I had had such a luxury. Wok joined me shortly after, but not before blocking the door. I was rubbing his tattooed back while he played with my nipple piercings. We thought we might run out of water, but didn’t. It was still flowing when he ejaculated between my soapy hands.

  “I don’t get it,” he said, while we were using the towels we found. “Everything here is so…fine.”

  I laughed. “You’re being paranoid, you silly boy. Just enjoy it.”

  “It’s just not normal. If I had been here from the beginning, I would never leave. I’d defend it.”

  “Maybe they got tired of waiting for the big one.”

  Wok didn’t reply. We stared into the darkness beyond our window, looking out over Reforma Avenue. We fell asleep shortly after.

  I was woken by Wok’s weeping. He twisted among the sheets, the first clean ones we’ve slept on in weeks. His dreams were unpleasant, as usual. Finally he rose screaming. He was soaked in his sweat.

  “Easy. Everything’s okay,” I said.

  “It’s…the nightmare. The fucking nightmare.”

  “Thought so.”

  He hugged me tightly, mumbling something I couldn’t understand.

  “What?”

  “The big one. It’s coming. I can feel it.”

  I laughed.

  “Not funny, Aída. It’s the fucking end. The world is over.”

  I laughed again. I said, “It’s been over for months now. And nothing happens. There’s no reason for anything to happen right now.”

  The Nightmare was a collective dream that haunted little children when it all began. They said they could feel the pain of millions dying. Later it was dreamed by more people: teenagers, elders. Soon it became one more of the signals of doom. I never dreamt it. I don’t remember my dreams.

  I hugged Wok, and held him in my arms. Soon, he fell back to sleep.

  We were woken by the thundering march of a procession northbound on Reforma. I guessed they were headed for the hill of Tepeyac: after the news broke about the meteorite, the Basilica of the Virgin of Guadalupe became the obligatory destination for the thousands of desperate religious sects that had emerged.

  Careful not to be seen, we watched them through the window as they marched by. There were thousands, all of them suffering from the long journey on foot. I felt sorry for them. Wok stared at them in silence.

  At the front of the procession, their prophet was sitting on a throne that was carried by four men, addressing the people through a loudspeaker he had salvaged from the trash. I recognized him at once: he was Rodrigo D’Alba, a former TV host. He now wore a tunic and had grown out his hair and beard, but there was no doubt it was him.

  “Another one who has resolved his life,” said Wok, softly. Many celebrities, actors, and singers had created sects like this.

  When the last of the caravan had disappeared, Wok rose to say:

  “Well, let’s go find something to eat.”

  We discovered that the hotel had a very well-stocked kitchen, which just made Wok more paranoid (“Everything here is too good, too damn good, fuck it,” he repeated like a mantra). Me, I just got hungry. In the end, he cooked some shrimp egg foo-yung. Wok’s half-Chinese, and he’s a fine cook if he has the right ingredients.

  We ate in silence; he was afraid that the smell of food would attract some punk. We were starving. When we were done, we left the place to retrieve the bike. Whatever was left of it.

  It was really quiet outside; you couldn’t hear any more explosions. Everyone thought that the abandoned city would become a bloody battlefield. But the reality was worse. Nowadays, it seemed that everybody was successfully avoiding everyone else.

  The bike was gone. Some scavengers must have picked it up during the night. It was nice while it lasted.

  Wok raised his eyes to the sky. High above, the meteorite looked like a brilliant dot, just the size of a pixel. Nobody would ever imagine that it was going to destroy our planet.

  “Do you think that the big one is going to be a lot longer?”

  “Don’t know. We should be dead by now.”

  “How can you tell?”

  I unzipped my backpack to show him my quartz clock. I had it from before the world collapsed. Thanks to it, I hadn’t lost the notion of time, as almost everyone else had. With a little luck, the batteries woul
d last till the impact. Maybe a little longer.

  “It should have happened already,” I told him. “Something went wrong. We’ve been living on borrowed time for two weeks now.”

  Wok didn’t reply. We left the spot.

  We came upon a man at the bus stop on Reforma Avenue. He wore a suit and seemed to be unarmed, but you never know. Wok palmed his switchblade, and I took out my nunchucks. We got closer.

  “Hi, there,” greeted Wok.

  “Good afternoon,” replied the guy. He was an old man.

  His clothes were worn but clean. His shirt was perfectly ironed and his tie neatly knotted.

  “Waiting for someone?” I asked, just to break the silence.

  “No, miss. It seems that my bus has been delayed.”

  Wok laughed. For the very first time in a long time, the situation didn’t strike me as funny.

  “Are you nuts? There hasn’t been a bus by here in months. It’s not going to happen.”

  The man looked at my boyfriend with total seriousness.

  “Young man, that’s no excuse.”

  “No excuse?…For what?” I asked.

  “Not to go to work, of course.”

  We were silent. The man looked at us as if we were the loonies.

  “Sir, the world is coming to an end…”

  “Look, young man, this is a country of institutions. If my bus doesn’t come along in five minutes, I’m walking to my office, as usual. Period. We are not going to let things like this defeat us. We, the Mexican people, are bigger than any misfortune. We survived the earthquake in 1985.

  I didn’t know what to say. The smile had faded from Wok’s face.

  All we could do was to wait there with the man.

  Five minutes, waiting for a bus that would never come.

  “Well, I can’t wait any longer. I’ll walk. Pleased to meet you.”

  Puzzled, we watched him walk away, until he almost disappeared among the rubble on his way to the Centro. For a second it seemed to us that he disappeared into thin air, just like a ghost. Anyway, we’ve seen weirder things all these months.