There was no misunderstanding its significance. No one could live under the occupation of the Mi’go and not hear about the crimson letters and their contents. Even as he grasped it from the floor and began to tear it open, accompanied by the wracking sobs of his wife who still hadn’t moved from where she stood, the thought wandered through his head: blood red is an appropriate color for a death sentence.
“Dr. Benjamin Paxwell, you have been selected to receive the Mi’go granted gift of Immortality. Your recent work in the field of medicine, specifically the strides you have made in the prevention of degenerative brain diseases, has been judged to be of significant enough merit to warrant the preservation of your mind. It is with our greatest congratulations that we inform you of this honor. You officially have forty-eight hours from the date of posting to put any outstanding affairs in order that require a physical body, and thereafter report immediately to the nearest Immortalization Center with this letter to begin the harvesting process.” He continued to read woodenly, emotionlessly reciting the words on the page even as his heart screamed in passionate denial.
“As you are registered as married to one Catherine Paxwell, she shall receive your severance package along with her certificate to allow her to legally remarry if she so desires. This package includes the generally established scholarship of education to be redeemed by your dependent Alexandra Paxwell upon her successful completion of the basic education program mandated for all who fall within allowable IQ range. Failure to respond is grounds for warrants for treason against the Mi’go to be issued against you, your spouse, and your dependents. Agents assigned to the execution of these warrants will be informed that you are to be taken without damage to the brain, but such restrictions apply only to yourself as the one chosen for Immortality.”
Ben took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment against the pain. After that moment he reached his desk, grabbing a pad of paper and pen to write as he spoke. “Cat. Here are the passwords for the bank sites. The safety deposit box key is still taped behind that picture of you and Lexy. I’ll ask Jim from next door to come over and check in on you both often.” He continued frantically scribbling, his mouth moving but his eyes avoiding the growing horror in his wife’s eyes as the reality of what was actually happening began to sink in. “I think you should sell my car. My insurance should pay for the house of course, and you won’t need both cars. Should give you a little extra cash.” He trailed off, finally looking up to see his wife violently shaking her head and with her arms wrapped around her torso in denial. He dropped the pen, moving to take her in his arms as he whispered nonsense sounds to give her any small measure of reassurance.
“Cat. Catherine. Sweetheart, we don’t have any choice. Yes, this is terrible, but at least you and Lexy will be okay. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but maybe they’ll still give me communication rights. I’ll be able to call and check in on you both. That is if you want me to. A clean break might be better.” His own voice choked on the last words, the despair of never being able to see or hear from his wife or daughter again almost breaking his resolve right there.
“Ben! Ben stop, you don’t understand.” Catherine finally managed to break in on his monologue, the grief still very apparent in her voice. “I was going to tell you tonight, right before….” She stopped to sob again as Ben held her closer.
“What is it Cat?”
“Ben, I’m. I’m pregnant again. I’m… We’re going to have another baby.”
The shock was almost audible in the room. Ben’s arms reflexively clenched around his wife, his joy violently clashing with the horror of the moment. Another child. A son or daughter that he would never hold in his arms or kiss gently in love and benediction. Where moments before his only thoughts had been on the inevitable harvest, now fear caused rebellion to bloom. Thoughts spun madly in his mind, his own safety a distant thought when compared to ensuring the survival and well-being of his daughter and his wife who was carrying their unborn child.
“Listen to me, Cat.” He shook her gently, bringing her focus back to him, instead of on the fear she was feeling. “We have to run. That’s our only choice. The minute we try we are marked for death, so we can’t make any mistakes. We have to get to my sister Trina. She knows some people who have been living off the grid, and should be able to help us get to them. Pack small things, things we can’t do without. Tomorrow night, we’ll wake Alexandra and put her in the car. She doesn’t need to know why yet. We can tell her what’s happening when we get to safety. We’ll just tell her we’re going to visit Aunt Trina.” His mind spun with plans considered and rejected. His talented mind, previously put to research and science now raced along a rhythm of escape.
* * * *
“We’re going to have to stop soon, love. If we fill up, we should make it the rest of the way. Once we talk to Trina, we’ll know where we can go to hide. Start over, far from the Mi’go and their harvests.” Ben knew he was trying to convince himself but still he said the words. The worry and fear was almost tangible inside the cab of the truck. Blissfully ignorant of the danger, Alexandra lay sleeping in the back seat her using her arm for a pillow. His mind continued to whirl through possible plans, categorizing each scenario and trying to find solutions. Escape, medical attention, and long-term safety. Every moment, the seconds became more and more vital, but never as important as escaping those hunting them already.
The truck stop was all but deserted, which suited them. They’d finally had to stop to refuel, but this would be the last time before they reached Trina’s home. From there, they’d learn the route to take and flee deep into the wilder places, where people could hide from the insectoid aliens known as the Mi’go and their Harvest. Catherine had used the restroom while Lexy continued to doze in the car. The slamming of the truck door drowned out the sound of the shot, but it could not disguise the shattering window glass. They hadn’t shot to kill. The sadistic bastards hunting them counted on a husband’s desire to save his wife to make him stop and find medical attention for her. It would have worked, had Catherine not choked back the scream of pain to yell for her husband to go. While she clutched her bleeding shoulder and sobbed in agony, Ben violently pressed the pedal to the floor. The tires screeched against the asphalt to the accompaniment of more shots as the bounty hunter that had tracked them this far realized they had no intention of stopping.
“Lexy, it will be okay. I promise. Mommy got hurt, but we’ll fix it. Everything is going to be fine. Why don’t you get your tablet and watch some shows or play a game. We’ll be there soon.” Ben hoped she couldn’t hear the lies in his voice, but it was all he had to give her. Despair had overgrown hope and fear was not far behind.
“Cat, put pressure on it. Hold tight. I know it hurts love, but we can’t stop or he’ll catch us.”
“I know, just drive. I’ll hold on.” She tried to smile at her husband, but even she knew it was more a grimace than a comfort. She lied to him anyway, having spent enough time as the wife of a doctor to know that the bullet had passed through her shoulder, and the amount of blood leaking from it even still sentenced her to death, even if they headed straight to the nearest hospital.
Cat died less than ten minutes later. The blood loss eased her from consciousness into a sleep that turned final moments after. Ben had lied again, telling little Alexandra that Mommy was sleeping, while inside he could barely cope from mourning the loss of his wife and unborn child. Her death brought the reality home. There was no escape from the Mi’go and those who willing served their cause. It was up to him to protect his family, not place them in danger. If he continued on, it only ensured the death of his only remaining child and his sister. Reaching past the cooling corpse of his wife, he removed the gun he’d bought before the occupation for safety, and placed it on his lap as he pulled off to the side of the road.
The truck glided into the truck stop on fumes. Lexy had fallen into an exhausted sleep, which had given Ben enough time to get Cat out of the truc
k and wrapped into a blanket. He’d laid her in the bed of the pick-up and said his goodbye’s before he leaned against the door, waiting for their arrival. As the first SUV pulled to a stop, he raised the gun to his own head and presented them with the only threat he had left before making his demands.
“You’ll see my wife has a proper burial. I have a sister Katrina; she is spared. I want Alexandra to be with her family. She gets to talk to me whenever she asks. Do this, and I’ll come in peace. Otherwise I’ll blow my own brains out here and now.”
It didn’t take the bounty hunters long to make the decision. They knew the Mi’go would consider it a small price to pay. After agreeing on record, and after copies of the agreement were sent to his sister and a couple colleagues to ensure compliance, Ben gave himself up.
* * * *
With the sensors and communication devices connected, it was another form of torture. Endless time to think and realize the imprisonment that would last for eternity. You could still interact with what they gave you, but beyond that you could only think, which is what they wanted you to do. Always be thinking on what they gave you and give them the answers when they made their check-ups. To fulfill his wishes, they’d given him sight and sound. The only thing he could see were the charts and papers they laid before his sensors and the small pink tube. It’d been there for a few hours before they came and hooked the sensors. That’s when Ben learned true despair, as he realized his daughter too had been harvested, while the damned Mi’go had kept to the letter of his demands.
“Daddy? I can hear you, but why can’t I see you?” the voice was robbed of Alexandra’s lyrical tones by the mechanical speakers.
Even when you exist without a body, it’s possible to cry.
The Balm of Sperrgebiet is the Krokodil
by Steve Berman
“Some of the evil of my tale may have been inherent in our circumstances. For years we lived anyhow with one another in the naked desert, under the indifferent heaven.”
—T.E. Lawrence
We had survived so long in the abandoned buildings of Kolmanskop because this was a forlorn desert, made so with constant gales carrying fog and grit. A paradox of nature sheltered five of us while the world beyond the Namib went mad.
Sand covered all things. The sand of the Namib retained the bite of gravel while never abandoning its mercurial nature. It forced open every door – every structure in stately Kolmanskop welcomed the desert. This had once been a mining town of German settlers where the wind revealed and hid the shells of humanity. I have walked through a ballroom without chandeliers, a doomed ice factory, and the remains of a hospital. I discovered the tracks I made the prior day gone, erased by the wind, which scratched plaster and color from walls erected more than a hundred years ago when diamonds had been discovered.
I read once that nowhere else on this Earth is wind this constant. It stole words from mouths and ears. It threatened to blind. We had to cover any water, any meals, or else the sand covered them like an inedible spice. I always had the taste of the desert in my mouth, a sensation not so much unpleasant – one became inured to any flavor, however first repellant, after a thousand swallows – but the texture was an irritant; the grit wore down my teeth, my palate, so that anything I chewed became bland. The desert weathered my face, my hands, and any exposed skin. Wrists and necklines were chafed ‘til bloody, became scarred over, then debrided, in a perpetual cycle of scarring. We all stank, changed clothing only when needed, and became familiar with the odors of the others when downwind. I have not had a shower in nearly two years and my body’s topography is no longer the same. Hygiene mattered only if it jeopardized our meager food and drink stores.
When the Internet died – and I still cannot comprehend how anything so rampant, so rife, could die… any more than imagining every bird across the globe becoming mute forever – and smart phones became lobotomized paper weights that would no longer even indicate time or date, I had thought some terrible war had happened. Blinding and deafening Africa south of the Sahara had been collateral damage.
Torschlusspanik made me decide that my life as a logistics clerk for African Development Bank in Windhoek was over.
I looted books from the public library. I walked in and took what I wanted. No one stopped me. Soldiers watched me with disinterest from the nearby Alte Feste, a monument to the colonial era pressed into service as a shelter.
South I went on roads that would lead me home. As an Afrikaner, a prodigal son of Bloemfontein and a coward. But the car quickly ran out of gas and I had to set out on foot. Trudging along worn asphalt roads, I could not avoid the other refugees. Some travelled in the same direction, some left South Africa. I heard that the City of Roses had fallen to some biological weapon that left buildings full of gall rot and molds. My parents were Calvinists and sure in their predestination, so I didn’t mourn them. I turned back instead.
I entered the Namib Desert because of two German men and their dog. As a young man I read and reread Henno Martin’s Wenn es Krieg gibt, gehen wir in die Wüste. My male peers preferred football, the females an undistinguished plaasroman. I knew that one could survive the desert, what could be eaten, and how to find refuge. I began my journey through Sperrgebiet National Park, the Forbidden Territory, believing it would be uninhabited. My fears of contamination left me, taken by the strong winds.
Others, though, had similar ideas. We arrived from different directions and lives. We met at Kolmanskop and stood and stared. Impasse or concession? Cook is Ovambo, a lapsed Lutheran, and brought a goat-drawn kitchen of pots, utensils, even bags of millet. His younger brother, Toivo, wore a corporal’s uniform, shouldered a rifle, and squinted often. A White Namibian, Ludwigsone, claimed to be a journalist of late who had been covering prejudice at local hospitals. He had stolen first aid supplies, including a great deal of codeine.
We made a pact. We suspected others would come: tribesmen, urban refugees. We admitted that any of us may not last long, that isolation might become an unmanageable burden. We looked long at the cleaver, the rifle, and the needles in Ludwigsone’s bag. I shared the story of an older brother who had been an addict. I saw no need to tell them the truth. Enough years had passed that my perception of brother and lover had no depth.
And so Cook brewed krokodil. We stored it under the sand, above the floorboards of several buildings.
That was, by my estimate, fifteen months ago. I found purpose through everyday chores. With purpose came contentment. At night, I read. I hoped to memorize all of Seven Pillars of Wisdom and Selbstbehauptung des Rechtsstaates before I died. Both books were dear to me as apologetics for the role of strife in the world.
The fog flowed inland from the coast and brought us water, condensed on plastic tarps stretched taught like sails. Our diet, the occasional lizard, but mostly insects, beetles, and the termites that we found beneath the beautiful and short-lived fairy rings made in the coarse sand, left us with loose teeth and clothes. A treat was goat milk and porridge. We did not hunt game for fear of wasting bullets or wandering too far from Kolmanskop.
At dawn, Ludwigsone spotted four figures stumbling through the fog. The wind on occasion revealed the old rail line that led to Kolmanskop; they must have followed the cracked ties and burnished steel.
As we readied ourselves, I watched Cook use a handkerchief to cover fresh abscesses on his little brother’s upper arm. Toivo would be abandoning us soon, though we may need to amputatee first.
We called out to the trespassers – that was what we named any who came upon us – in Oshiwambo, in Afrikaans, in good German, and in poor English. I waved to bring them closer. They carried nothing. I guessed them Bantu or the like. Their clothes were ragged; they had traveled farther than any of us. Two swayed from hefty stomachs – one man fat, one woman clearly pregnant – and were lead, hand-in-hand, by a pair so lean that the foursome’s stagger up and down the dunes bordered on the comical.
The wind brought back their cries. A scattering of Englis
h amid other words that none of us understood.
Salt covered their lips. Why they had not licked the crystals loose I could not guess. Perhaps that would draw fresh blood.
Experience had taught us to keep our gestures and words welcoming. We guided them towards two particular buildings: I lightly pressed a hand on the woman’s back and motioned to the left, while the others suggested that the men stay to the right. The gaunt man leading the woman did not want her to part ways. Cook and Toivo smiled and broke the man’s grip on her hand and gestured again for the trespassers to separate. We offered them water. They saw Cook’s cleave and Toivo’s rifle. They had no choice.
I swept grit off the building’s only furnishings, a single chair and table. I told her to rest and I would bring water.
I took a moment to look in at the others, to make sure that nothing amiss had happened. I had worried that the heavy set trespasser might be difficult to handle, but now I saw how ill he was, bloated and hampered by his round stomach rather than possessing a bullish girth. The makeshift tray I brought had a jug of water, a chipped mug, and a capped syringe. The last I moved to my back pocket. We had seven thin syringes but lacked the bleach to clean them. None of us were really clean, inside or out.
“You traveled far,” I said to her as I set the tray down.
She nodded. Her eyes watched me pour. Once you have been in the desert, you can never look away from running water. It became a living thing that seduced your every sense. The sight of it, the sound, you would hallucinate the taste, the smell, the sensation of it flowing down your throat.
Apotheosis: Stories of Human Survival After the Rise of the Elder Gods Page 12
