End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  “Where did you get this?” Declan demanded.

  “Harold told us of the android and the energy cells,” the leader answered.

  “We scrounged for the other parts and then wired them up to as many energy cells as we could steal,” Harold added. “Once we reverse the polarity on the energy cells—BOOM—they’ll detonate!”

  “It’s Andie,” Sammi yelled, and placed her hand on the large button.

  The little android sputtered to life, shaking, sending everyone backward in a quick step. The rounded end of Andie’s head turned as he voiced his familiar greeting, “Hi-Everybody!”

  “Oh, my!” Ms. Gilly yelled in astonishment. “You… you stole my android!”

  “We took what was needed,” the leader countered. His tone was flat and unemotional.

  “You stole from my school?” Janice yelled out. “Who does that?”

  “Re-calculating.” Andie’s voice warbled in a myriad of static hisses and pops.

  “Shut up,” Harold yelled, thumping the android on the head.

  Rage fired inside Declan again, but he knew it wasn’t just for the lovable android he had grown up with.

  Not now, he told himself. In time.

  “Do you think it’s wise to hit him like that?” Declan’s father asked.

  “Stupid thing can’t hurt us,” Harold answered. His voice shrilled with annoyance. “Can’t do anything until we detonate.” Harold lifted a small box that had been fashioned from some of Andie’s other parts. At the center, Declan saw a single green button, a simple switch that had at one time been used to adjust Andie’s projector.

  They’ve tied it into Andie’s projector, he thought. Direct to the energy cells.

  “Hi, Ms. Gilly, is it time for our lesson, today?” Andie’s voice chimed with all the robotic inflection that had been programmed to entertain children.

  “Turn him off!” Ms. Gilly screamed. Emotion rose in her voice and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh, please! Turn him off!” Declan reached forward, pressing the graying button on the android’s front panel.

  “Uh ohhhhh.” Andie’s voice faded, ending in a rapid rush of draining static pops.

  “We packed all the power cells we could fit,” Harold said excitedly. “This is going to blow the machine into a million pieces.”

  “I don’t think so,” Declan answered, shaking his head, his voice sullen, his gaze fixed on Andie.

  “You don't know what you’re talking about,” Harold said, snorting. His voice cracked as he chided and guffawed.

  “Yeah, yeah I do.” Declan answered. “Anything you do will have to be done from inside the machine—deep inside the machine. If you set Andie out here, you’ll only blow a huge hole in the sand.”

  “Declan is right. Put Andie… I mean, placing the bomb on the outside isn’t going to do anything,” Sammi added. Declan saw that she had gone to Ms. Gilly to try and console their teacher.

  “Like I said, I know exactly where to put the bomb,” Declan repeated. And though he hated seeing Andie in this state, he knew that what the Outsiders had planned was brilliant. “Just show me how to detonate it.”

  33

  “MS. SAMMI,” THE LEADER addressed her. “Can you tell us what happened to you?”

  Sammi shrugged shyly, feeling as if she were twelve again and standing in front of Ms. Gilly’s classroom. From somewhere deep inside her, she heard and felt the stinging taunts: Sammi Sunshine Sammi Sunshine Sammi Sunshine.

  “It’s okay,” Declan said, running his hand up and down the length of her back. “We’re safe.”

  “Are we?” she asked and flicked a look in Harold’s direction.

  “He won’t be a bother,” the leader added. “Never again.”

  Sammi went on to tell them what they already knew. She told them about her death and that her last memory was the warm light on her skin and that in her final moments just before her death, she really did feel like Sammi Sunshine.

  She told them of her next memory, of being inside the machine and thinking that she had gone to a better place.

  “A better place?” someone asked.

  She explained the technology and the rooms and the clothes and the food and how everything just worked. But then she explained how she had to follow the lights.

  “It was like breathing,” she told them. “There was never anything to question, because nobody knew what to question.”

  She talked about Declan’s mother and sister and how they helped bring Declan inside when he almost died.

  “The machine told us to bring him in so that this could happen,” she said holding her middle. She felt a small thump, and then smiled. “It’s a part of their plan for when the machines are done.”

  She went on to tell them what happened to Declan’s mother and sister, and Declan briefly spoke of what he had found deep in the center of the machine.

  And then she told them what had happened after she conceived their baby, when she lost the lights, rejected and disconnected by the machine like a painful amputation.

  “But a small miracle happened. I became aware,” she said. “And once I was aware, I saw the machine for what it was.”

  “There are others too,” Declan added. “That’s why I’m going back inside. I gave them the index card from the executive floor.”

  “Why did you do that,” Declan’s father asked. “Will they know what to do with it?”

  “They can use the numbers,” Declan assured them. “And I’m going to cripple the machine so it stops running.”

  “Can you use this?” Ms. Gilly asked, handing her a small pouch. Sammi turned the pouch over in her hand, looking at the fragments of coveralls sewn together. She handed it to Declan. He loosened the cinch and peered inside and picked up the fragments of an index card. She saw what might have been dried blood covering some of the numbers. “It’s from my chosen. He was an executive too.”

  “I think I can use this,” he answered, closing the pouch and tucking it away.

  He is going to go back in, she thought, and a terrible notion leapt up, telling her that she would never see him again. He’s going to go back in to stop this.

  As Declan and the others talked about their plans, Sammi spied Harold’s sneer. He licked his lips as he watched her. She shivered in disgust and covered her middle—a motherly protection. Sammi stepped aside, just enough so that she stood behind Declan, trying to block her view of him. But she could feel his stare continue, even in the absence of seeing him. She shivered again, but this time it was with fear.

  “The Commune’s mortician?” she heard Declan ask. “He was involved?”

  “The mortician or morticians—we don’t know how long—brought the blood to the machine,” Ms. Gilly answered.

  “That explains the reanimation,” Sammi acknowledged.

  “The what?” someone asked.

  “The machine uses the blood… brings those from the Commune back so they can work,” Declan went on to explain, but Sammi had become distracted. She watched as Harold moved from side to side, catching glimpses of her each time. He was teasing—teasing like he’d always done. “But what comes back is only a glimpse of who they were. That is until they become aware, waking up.”

  The voices of the conversation went on and on, drowning in a sea of dead hymns and rhymes as the memories of that day come back to life. She could smell the salt and the damp must hanging in the theater’s air. She could hear the feral cat’s crying mewl and the sudden sting from a cat scratch when she tried to free it from Harold’s snare.

  But she was the one who had become trapped. She’d walked into his snare; she just didn’t know it. She could hear the memory of the balcony’s wood splintering and feel the weightlessness of falling, and the impossible rise in her gut as the air passed through her hair. When she hit the floor of the theater, and the metal post drove into her body, Sammi jolted herself from the memory, bringing everyone around her back into focus.

  “You okay, dear?” Ms. Gilly whis
pered. Sammi glared at Harold, seeing that he had moved again. Ms. Gilly followed her stare and waved at the air as if a couple of salt gnat had swarmed them. But Harold was more than a salt gnats. He was and always would be, evil.

  “This one,” the leader said in a booming voice that pulled both Ms. Gilly’s and Sammi’s attention. “This one will go with you.” The leader pointed to Harold, whose mouth dropped open with surprise.

  “Go inside?” Harold argued. “I’m not going in there!”

  “With all due respect, I think I can handle this,” Declan countered. “He’s just going to slow me down.”

  “Take him,” Sammi heard herself say. She could not explain it, but in her gut she felt that it was right. Declan whipped his head in her direction, his brow furrowed in disagreement. “He can help. He can carry Andie so that you can lead him to where you’re going.” Declan must have heard something in her voice, and he slowly began to nod, conceding.

  “Then it is settled,” the leader forcefully exclaimed. “And this is as far as we go. As far as we need to go.”

  Before Declan could say another word, Sammi wrapped her arms around him.

  “You promise to come back to me,” she pleaded, placing his hand on her belly. “You promise to come back to the both of us.” Declan hesitated, saying nothing and leaving her pleas hanging, vulnerable. He shook his head, and she could see in his eyes that he could not promise her anything. She swung her hand, thumping it against his chest, but the fear took her strength. She collapsed into him, pleading that he stay.

  “I’m going to do what I can to make things safe for you,” he told her. “To make things safe for the both of you.” And as he spoke, he wiped a tear from her face, kissing her long and hard.

  34

  “TRY TO KEEP UP,” Declan shouted, listening to Harold scurry like a rat across the sand.

  “This thing is heavy, you know,” he stammered. “And talk to me again like that and I’ll give you a fucking thump!”

  Without thought or any consideration for what it was that Harold carried, Declan turned around, and pushed him with all of his strength. Harold belted a piggy snort, but shock came into his face as he fell backward. To Declan’s delight, he heard the air shoot out of him in a single gust. Harold wheezed and gasped and tried to roll onto his side.

  Declan jumped up, straddling Harold and holding him down. When Harold squirmed and swung at his arms, Declan pulled back and threw his fist, connecting with Harold’s jaw. Fire and lightning flew into his arm, causing him to shout out and pull his hand back. But what furthered his earlier delight was seeing that the punch had sent blood and a yellowing rotten tooth onto the black sands. Harold spat and cried out a mess of garbled threats, but then quieted when the taste of blood registered. Harold looked up at Declan, his jaw slacked and his eyes wide.

  “Listen, I’m going to say this once,” Declan began. “The only reason you’re not dead right now is because of that bomb you are carrying.”

  “You don’t have the balls!” Harold shouted, spitting a wad of blood into his face. Declan flinched and then wiped the spittle from his face. He swung his fist again. At the last second, he pulled up just before landing his fist. He had hoped to have seen Harold flinch. He had hoped to send fear into Harold with the threat of more punishment. But Harold never moved—not even a blink; he was willing to take the punch.

  Declan did something then that surprised even himself. He stood back and reached down to help Harold get back up to his feet. “I need you,” he told him, feeling humbled by the sentiment. “I need your help.” But he couldn’t be certain how much he truly needed Harold. The sad truth was that Harold knew how to use the Andie-bomb, and he was not about to share that with anyone.

  “I know you do,” Harold said, sneering as he pushed past him with a hard and purposeful nudge. “You need me, the bomb and of course, you’ll need this.” Harold held up the detonator, and then tucked it away in a pocket that he had fashioned to the front of his coveralls.

  “Machine is straight ahead,” Declan said, wishing he had landed that second punch. “Let’s get moving.”

  The VAC-Machine suddenly swelled, heaving as though taking a deep breath. And to Declan, that is exactly what he thought the machine was doing. Breathing. A groan followed, sending Harold backward in a fast stutter of cautious steps. Declan kept his footing, having seen the same before and knew what to expect. And as before, the sound was deafening, shaking the sands beneath their feet.

  When the silence followed, a perfectly square door appeared in the machine’s belly—the sight of it encouraging them to step closer. The door quietly rode on a sliver of black and revealed the inside. Declan stretched his neck looking for Phil and Isla. The faint image of a man appeared at the entrance, peering around and waving them inside.

  “He’s here to help,” Declan said, assuring Harold and waving back to the shadowy figure. They approached the opening.

  Harold reached out, extending his hand. Phil looked unprepared, shrinking back, unaccustomed to the interaction of others. After a second, the two shook hands briefly.

  “Did the index card help?” But Phil seemed distracted, searching past the two of them as if looking for someone in the fog. “The index card!”

  “Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently. “I’m sure they are a set of numbers for each machine. We have to go in now.”

  “I have a bomb,” Declan exclaimed. “I’m going to take it to the soul and detonate it.”

  “Emily… I mean Sammi. Is Sammi safe?” Phil asked, nodding but with uncertainty. “I would have liked to have seen her again. But it’s best that she is as far from here as possible.”

  “She’s safe,” Declan confirmed.

  “A bomb, you say?” Phil asked enthusiastically and looked over the package in Harold’s hands. “The soul? Yes, yes! That will certainly prevent the machine from kicking over again. And if we connect with the other machines, we’ll bring this whole thing to an end. Now, we have to hurry!”

  “Andie,” Declan said, raising his hands to take the Andie-bomb from Harold.

  “No way,” Harold declared, a look of disapproval in his face. He stepped back, shielding Andie as if protecting a treasured find. “I’m doing it!”

  “Hurry, you must hurry,” Phil repeated, louder. “Bring him in if you need to!”

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?” Declan asked, disgusted. Harold shook his head and then sneered, knowing he was going to get his way.

  Before they entered into the machine, Declan touched the outline of Sammi’s lock of hair. With it, the zombies would leave them alone—after all, Sammi and the baby were far from the machine, safe.

  Harold won’t be recognized, though, he thought and remembered their dwelling door. It never opened for me, not without a part of her.

  Declan pulled out the pouch given to him by Ms. Gilly. He gave the torn index card and the dried blood a quick glance, wondering if it would work the same. Someone had mentioned Ms. Gilly’s chosen, an executive who traveled to the machine. It’s his blood on the index card. Hurrying through the machine’s opening, Declan stuffed the pouch into the front pocket of Harold’s coveralls, his hand brushing against the bomb’s detonator. “Carry this and don’t you lose it. Keep it safe in your pocket. You’ll need it so that they let you pass.”

  “Uh… who?” Harold asked, hesitating at the entrance. Phil rolled his eyes, slowly swinging an arm behind Harold and motioning for him to come inside. “Who will let me pass?”

  “The zombies,” Phil sang in a lively warbled voice. A laugh slipped from his lips as he bounced his brows up and down. “Welcome to the fun, fun, funniest funhouse in town!”

  35

  “WHAT ARE THESE?” Isla asked, tracing the numbers on the index card. “I recognize the printing.”

  Phil glanced around Isla’s lab, taking in the mess. The zombies had left nothing untouched: broken glass, flipped tables and chairs turned over. He sighed at the sight of her lab journals—t
ossed wildly and splayed open—looking like a parade of dead butterflies thrown across the floor.

  “I’m sorry about your lab,” he told her and pulled a chair up, fixing the backrest before sitting next to her. “I’m sure we can salvage most of it. After all, we’ll need the lab when this is over. There’s so much work to do.”

  “Need the lab?” she asked and rolled her chair closer to him. He could feel Isla’s presence—her smell and warmth. Her lips parted, and her face shined with hope. “Need my lab for what?”

  Phil was suddenly caught off guard and felt a flutter inside him that he hadn’t considered in centuries. A faint notion awakened and at once he became strongly aware of his own heartbeat. It was then that he realized he was attracted to her.

  “Well for starters,” he began and nervously reached down to pick up some of her journals, “a lot of those zombies are going to be waking up.”

  “I don’t follow,” she said with an intriguing tone.

  “Aware. Like us.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” A slow frown stole her smile. “But that is a lot to work to do. Especially if it is just the two of us.”

  “We’ll figure it out, but first things first. The index card?” Phil asked. “I think they are the numbers to the other machines, the access codes.”

  “Could be,” she acknowledged. “But what makes you think they are to the other machines? Could be to other blood samples.”

  “We built seven machines and there are seven sets of numbers,” he told her.

  “You have the first part right,” Isla interrupted, as she tapped away at the screen. Her small fingers were perfect for working the terminal’s touch interface. Within moments, she had navigated to parts of the machine’s internal systems that he had only seen the software engineers working. She threw screens filled with source code upward, scrolling through pages and pages until finding what she wanted. With a flick of her wrist, Isla highlighted a few of the passages, copying and pasting them into the empty fields on another screen. He sat, mesmerized by the swiftness of her work. Isla pointed at the screen, reading the code aloud. She scrolled further and then grunted, unsatisfied by what she had found.