Union

by Brian Spangler

H—E—L—L—O.

  And again, they waited. But this time, someone typed a response.

  Y—E—S?

  “It worked,” Isla chirped, jumping up in her seat. A notion of relief came to Phil as he embraced her, but kept the congratulatory hug brief.

  “Ask them their name,” he said. “Go ahead.”

  Isla happily typed in the question, the glow from the terminal looking just a little brighter on her skin as she inched closer in fascination.

  W—H—A—T I—S Y—O—U—R N—A—M—E?

  The cursor blinked on and off as if taking a long breath. But then the first letter of the reply flashed, filling him with immediate dread. The response made perfect sense. She said that she was the best at what she does. Why wouldn’t the machine take advantage of that.

  Phil put his hands on her shoulder, waiting as each letter of the response appeared. Slowly, the fascination on her face disappeared—replaced by eyes that became grave and lips that trembled. He braced her, knowing that the machine was all about efficiency and that having one of her for each machine was the most efficient thing to do.

  I—S—L—A.

  16

  “Keep up,” Declan yelled. Harold threw his hand in the air and gestured at him to shut up. And while he saw the stubbornness Harold fronted, it was also easy for Declan to see how overwhelmed he was by the alien world inside the machine. “Through that door. Just keep up and follow me, don’t bother looking around.”

  “Who are all these people,” Harold asked, nearly breathless as he ran to catch up. “And isn’t that—”

  “Like I said, don’t bother to look,” Declan interrupted. “You’re going to see plenty that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Where are we going, anyway?” Harold asked.

  “Get in front of me,” Declan instructed, trying to swallow the dryness that filled his mouth. They stopped before reaching a set of closed doors. Declan stepped back, nudging Harold forward. “The pouch from Ms. Gilly—I want to see if it’ll work.”

  Harold stared at him, perplexed by his instructions. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as he approached the closed doors. The doors disappeared into the walls, retreating with a whooshing sound. Harold jumped, startled but then inched forward. He belted a laugh, surprised by the sight and then jumped backward and forward, forcing the doors to open and close.

  “I guess it still works,” Declan exclaimed, clutching Sammi’s locket of hair. From the corner of his eye, the lights caught his attention, flickering a message to the dozen zombies approaching them. “Let’s keep moving. For now, we’re invisible.”

  “This makes me invisible?” Harold asked, holding up the pouch and looking inside. “The blood?”

  “Yeah,” Declan answered, placing his hand over the pouch to cover it. “Something like that. Put it away and don’t lose it.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or you’ll get lost in here, and there’ll be no way to get out.”

  “Good to know,” Harold told him, and put on a smile that was almost as alien as the machine they were inside. A flicker of rage came to life, but just for a moment as Declan bit down on his lip. He tasted blood on his tongue and relaxed, knowing that a time would come to set things right. Patience.

  “Stay close, the other side of this door is a little crazy,” he warned, peering through the opening to the machine’s hub of activity. “And remember, they’ll leave you alone. We’re invisible.”

  Harold stopped dead after he stepped through the doors. His mouth slack-jawed, staring upward at the enormity of the room. At once, Harold is bumped and then pushed, causing him to tumble off balance with the Andie-bomb. Declan grabbed hold of his shoulders and held him. But touching Sammi’s murderer made his skin crawl, and he let him go once he was certain that Harold had regained his footing. Declan wiped his hands and shuddered.

  “Forgot to tell you, you have to stay out of their way,” he instructed. “As long as you’re not in their path, they won’t run into you.”

  “Great!” Harold answered, sounding annoyed. “Could have told me that back there.”

  “Well, now you know,” Declan shrugged.

  “Are they awake?” Harold asked. “Wait… wait, I know him.” Harold reached out, taking hold of a young man’s arm. The man spun around, dismissing the attention and looked past them before moving on.

  “Forget what you’re seeing,” Declan reminded him. “There isn’t time to explain what is going on. None of it matters anyway. Just follow me.”

  “But, this can’t be,” Harold continued. “Is it like Sammi? It doesn’t make sense… so many people… all this time?”

  Harold went on talking, but Declan ignored him, choosing to search for the corridor where he had seen his mother and sister enter. Seven, he counted. Seven larger corridors circled the machine’s hub like spokes on a wheel, but they were all familiar—identical.

  “Old…” he mumbled, remembering what he had seen and cringing as the images spilled into his mind. The memory of the machine eating came next, stopping him where they stood.

  “What is it,” Harold asked. But his voice lacked concern. Instead, Declan heard the familiar tone of adolescent annoyance he had grown to loathe.

  “Give me a second,” he answered sharply and tried to focus. To the left, just behind them, he saw a corridor where only the old and dying entered.

  “There!” Declan announced, jumping in the direction of the corridor and pulling on Harold’s arm. “It’s that one.”

  “What do you mean, that one?” Harold asked impatiently. “Where does it go?”

  Declan ignored Harold’s questions as he waded through the flood of zombie activities. Harold’s clopping steps followed him, turning and skidding, but became distant and lost. Declan slowed, wishing that he had tied off a tether strap between them. He turned to find Harold walking aimlessly, mesmerized by the sea of white iridescent coveralls around them. And if not for carrying the Andie-bomb, Declan thought that he would have surely let the zombies take Harold, letting the machine see him as an intruder.

  “That corridor! That is where we’ll end this,” he told him, grabbing his arm to lead him away from the hub. Iridescent coveralls filled the corridor. Clouded eyes stared absently—empty and unemotional—waiting to take their turn to die.

  Look straight and concentrate, he demanded of himself, passing the bodies. It’s a death march.

  When Declan and Harold reached the end of the corridor, the faint murmur of mechanical chewing rode up the cavern walls. Harold’s expression grew with more amazement by the enormity of the machine’s soul. Below them, the truth of what was going on chewed and swallowed—over and over. The drop off was immensely deep, causing Declan’s stomach to lurch into his throat. He cringed and at once felt squeamish and sad, remembering his attempts to scale the cavern walls and save his mother and sister. The pain from that attempt woke up, causing his hands to spasm. Light glinted from the moist walls, leaving him to wonder how he would ever be able to hold himself if he tried to climb down.

  There were countless others flowing into the cavern from different corridors. Just how big is the machine? Zombie bodies lined the cavern walls, moving endlessly downward on a spiraled maze of conveyor belts. And there were the death machines and their deadly fingertip stings.

  “Whoa,” Harold yelled, and instinctively stepped back from the edge. “Look at that. Where are they all going? Where do we go?”

  “Down there,” Declan answered. His voice sounded grave. “All the way to the bottom is where we have to take Andie.”

  17

  Isla’s screams and cries were the first that Phil had heard since the day of the Gray Rainbows. Over the centuries, the machine could be impossibly quiet. There were times when he stood at the center of the great hall, screaming his loudest, hoping that one of the zombies were aware enough to ask him what was wrong. But none ever asked.

  Before he could say anything, Isla launched herself out of her chair,
spinning it backward until it clopped over in a roll. She slapped her hand against the terminal’s screen, leaving behind a handprint of glowing phosphors. But before she could run away, Phil took her in his arms and embraced her. She turned weak from the sobs that erupted. Her heart fell against his, and it was real. He felt the rapid thumping and pulled her closer. He closed his eyes, stealing some of the moment for himself, selfishly enjoying the embrace of life in his arms. When he opened his eyes, Phil saw that the glow of her handprint had faded and that the other Isla had begun typing.

  “What is this?” Isla pleaded between sobs. “Why is this? Am I losing my mind?”

  “You said you were the best,” he answered her. “That blood vault probably does more with our DNA than we’ll ever know. If they can clone us, they can clone us anywhere.”

  “So now what?” she asked, her words sticking in her throat.

  “Let’s finish it,” he told her and motioned to the monitor. “Declan came back with help. They’re disabling the soul of the machine.”

  “But what will that do?” she asked, taking a step back. And at that moment, Phil realized Isla was the first person that he held since hugging his children goodbye. When he looked at her upturned face, his heart filled, and he gently dried the dampness beneath her eyes. Isla said nothing and then pressed her face into his hand. And that is when it occurred to him. Isla had been alone too. “Tell me what to do next.”

  “I’m not sure,” he confessed, clearing his throat and hoping that maybe she had some of the answers. “But if Declan follows through, it could be just the distraction we need to work with the others… to work with you at all the machines…”

  “As we shut them all down,” she finished for him.

  Phil picked up her chair and placed it in front of the terminal, encouraging her to take a seat. Isla took his hand as he lead her to the terminal. She let out a shaky breath, holding his hand a moment longer before letting go. From her desk drawer, she pulled a cloth and began to clean the screen, removing the smudge from her handprint.

  “I know, weird right,” she said, “But I like a clean screen—can’t work on it otherwise.”

  “I understand,” he told her, feeling a little vindicated for some of his own idiosyncrasies. “Get comfortable, we’ve got some work to do.”

  The chat-box cursor continued to blink, waiting for a reply to the latest message.

  H—E—L—L—O A—R—E Y—O—U S—T—I—L—L T—H—E—R—E?

  “What do I tell her… me… the other Isla?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answered, uncertain of how the other Isla would react once learning the truth of who she was talking to. “Maybe it is best if we say nothing? That, instead, we just tell them my name… any name?”

  “No,” Isla answered, surprising him. “No. I don’t think that will do. I want them all to know. It’s the best way to get them to go along with what we’re doing. If they are me… I mean, if they are the same as me, then they’ll want to end this too.”

  Isla leaned in, nearly touching the terminal’s screen with her nose. She glanced at him through the reflective glare, waiting for him to share any objections. He said nothing but shrugged, and hoped that she was right about how they would react. He took to his seat to help. Isla tapped furiously on the screen, reaching out to Isla from each and telling them everything. Phil watched her work, mesmerized by the efficiency in which she was able to correlate the stories and gather momentum. Soon, two of the others were working with each other, and then soon after that, there were three and then four, all working with one another to coordinate the system attack.

  She’s right, Phil thought. They’re going to follow what she tells them and we’re going to shut this down.

  18

  Harold peered over the edge—his lower lip twitched, and his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  “We have to climb down there,” Declan instructed. “It’s the only way to make sure that Andie does the job.” But Declan can see that Harold is lost by the cavern’s depth and the maze of conveyors and dying bodies.

  “What is this place,” he finally said. The color in his face disappeared and for a moment Declan was certain Harold would pass out. “We… Uh, we can’t go down there.”

  Declan took a step but saw that Harold’s legs were fixed to the floor, motionless. He punched Harold in the chest, pushing him back a step. Harold shook awake from his trance and at once his eyes were on fire with a bullying anger that Declan knew.

  “There you are,” Declan said. “Need you for this, so don’t get hung up on what’s down there.”

  Harold lurched forward, his fist high up in the air and ready to swing. Declan held his place, expecting the punch, but refusing to flinch.

  “You’re pushing it, you know that,” Harold said, his sneer more sinister than ever. He motioned a mock punch, tapping Declan’s jaw. “Fucking push me and see what happens.”

  Before Declan could stop him, Harold jumped from the corridor and crashed onto the metal landing—the sound of his feet sent a metallic chime into air. Declan quickly followed, and they both walked across the grated floor to the furthest edge. The sound of chewing was a constant, like a ringing in his ears.

  “The last time I was here, I only found one way down—climbing,” Declan said, pointing at the cavern’s wall. The rock face jutted moist stoney lips, glistening like teeth.

  Had it been this humid before? Declan realized that the tempo of chewing was faster. He faced the corridors and then the conveyors and noticed they were moving faster too. The machine is eating more.

  When he turned back, Harold had already lost attention. Leaning over the railing, Harold launched one of the largest wads of spit Declan had ever seen. He followed the globby mass fifty hands or more where it splattered onto a woman’s face.

  “Splash!” Harold roared. “First shot too.”

  Without warning, Declan slapped Harold, immediately stifling his laughter. “Are you through?” he asked. Blood trickled from Harold’s nose, bringing a subtle sense of reward. But at the same time, the memory of childhood terrors came to him as Harold reared up and towered over him. Declan cleared his throat. “We’ve only got one shot at this. Understand!”

  “Warned you already, but I’ll give you that one for free,” Harold spat. “Next time, expect something in return.”

  “I hear you,” Declan answered impatiently. His voice shook as he spoke. “I need you. We’re out of time.”

  As if to answer him, Harold worked another throaty rumble from deep in his chest and hocked up another wad, launching it over the rail. The second one followed the same path as the first, hitting the genitals of an old man. And like the woman before, the zombie remained still, never moving.

  “Bingo!” Harold roared. “Limp and sappy!”

  “Down there,” Declan said, ignoring Harold’s antics as he pointed to the next landing.

  “That’s right… I hit limp ‘n sappy down there!” Harold continued to roar.

  “Enough!” Declan yelled, and then tried to compose himself. “We’ll move from landing to landing so that we can get to the bottom. That is when—”

  “Kablaam!” Harold screamed, startling him.

  “Yeah… that’s right… Kablaam!”

  “You first,” he told Harold, encouraging him with the wave of his hand.

  But when Harold took to the edge of the rail, wrapping his fingers around the round metal, he stopped. “That’s too far of a jump,” Harold confessed.

  “The wall!” Declan said, raising his voice. “The only way is to climb.”

  “Climb?”

  “I did it before,” he half lied. “Use the wall. Climb across, above the other landing, and then drop down.” Declan squeezed his fist, feeling the painful aches from his last attempt.

  “But—”

  “What! Don’t tell me that you’re scared.”

  “The fuck I am!” Harold spat, but his words trailed as he leaned over and searched for
the bottom of the cavern. “Already gave you a free pass earlier. Better stop pushing me.”

  And with that, Declan watched Sammi’s murderer climb atop the rail and stretch his leg until it cradled a lip of wet stone jutting out from the cavern wall like an inviting step. The sudden sight of seeing Harold so vulnerable made Declan’s heart race. He felt the beating thrum inside his skull. His hands twitched with the flood of excitement.

  “That’s it,” Declan mumbled like a parent encouraging their child to take their first steps. Harold moved, and the detonator appeared from Harold’s front pocket. Declan gasped. “Wait! The Detonator?”

  Harold backed away from the wall just enough to search the large pockets in front of his coveralls. When he touched the short black box, Declan’s eyes narrowed and focused on the familiar green button. A pang of sadness dropped in the deep pool of excitement, sending a ripple through him as he instantly recalled the years with Andie in their classroom. Declan shook it off and reached over the edge of the balcony, stretching to take the Detonator.

  “No way,” Harold said, throwing his free hand high up into the air, waving the Detonator back and forth. “My find, my build, and my pleasure.”

  “Fine,” Declan said, but he already knew that Harold would never give up on pressing the button. “Put it back in your front pocket. Tucked in so that there is no way it will fall out while we’re climbing down.”

  Harold considered what Declan suggested and then nestled the detonator in the short front pocket. Declan motioned to the wall and made his way up the side of the metal landing. He glanced down once. The grave distance took his breath and knocked his knees.

  Damp and wet, the chasm’s hot breath left water droplets forming on the surface of everything. There was something different, confirming his earlier thoughts that the machine was eating a lot faster.

  The conveyors? He searched them out, following their paths over and under one another, leading to the death machines. And they weren’t just moving faster, but there were more bodies packed on them. He had missed seeing that earlier. The whirring sound of the death arms sang in unison, delivering death with single taps. Like the chewing, the sound had become rapid like someone panting: faster, one body after another.