by Watts, Peter
He finally dropped his spoon into the bowl in shock. "How are you… here then?"
She laughed, bitterly. "Surprising is it not? Of the dozens in the rooms with us, I am the only survivor. One of the commandants saw me, took a liking. He spared me, and I was forced to be his concubine. He was hideous to me, but I was patient. And I learned; I took up the Lessons—never once believing, of course—but there I planned; as I was indoctrinated, as I undertook Development. I was driven. I was driven by vengeance, by hate." J'Dorul leaned back in her seat, pulling the hood away from her face as she let the information sink in. "So here we are, Ambassador. And it's just us now, in this shrinking moment in time, our life paths forever connected, whether we wish it or not. Just us in this tiny sleeper car, on this MagLev as it rushes through the night to the Old City, so that you can participate in the May Day Rituals and destroy other lives. But no one knows about me. I made sure of that." Her face relaxed. "So I ask you: Where is your One now? Where was the One in the camp I was in, Ambassador? Where is the One for the other races, the other planets that your kind has pillaged, decimated, enslaved, devoured? Why didn't the One help my family as we were trying to survive? I'll tell you why: Because there is no One. The One is a projection of disturbed imaginations; an abomination; a blight. The crude invention of feeble minds—"
Irfan jumped up, outraged by the sacrilege: "Renounce! Renounce that and I might let you live!"
She laughed at him. "Sit down, you fool." Then she added, menacingly: "I'm in control here, Ambassador. Sit!"
He complied with reluctance. "What… What do you mean by that?" There was fear buried in his voice.
"You and your 'religion'… I so despise it. I despise you. I detest 'the One' and everything it represents. You killed my birth family in service of this 'being.'" She glared into him, full of ire, consumed with a soundless fury. "Later, I discovered that they had killed my husband. And our only child, our sweet little boy." J'Dorul paused, calming herself. "Your kind and their ridiculous notions of displacing the gods, dreams, and monsters of others with your… impotent creation. You can't just revise history to suit your evil needs and desires, don't you understand that? History is a record of reality, not some plastic mental idyll. Your people don't understand that we're all just an instant in the timestream; that we're building toward something greater than ourselves, something larger than this moment… My people have never needed a god, and we don't now; there's no need for such a contrivance—"
"Blasphemy!"
"Spare me, Ambassador. No one needs your idol. Especially one who decrees that its followers must drink the blood of innocents, that they must eat the flesh of other beings to live, or torture and kill those that don't believe as they do… We had our own ways, our own beliefs. You—your kind—destroyed that… All in the name of your invented, bloodthirsty construction." She glowered at him, adding: "Our histories may be gone, but mine is unwritten. Your future, it seems, is predetermined by this psychopathic deity. So be it. I wish I could believe that one day you could reap the horror of that, that you might even comprehend how wretched it is. But I know better."
Irfan gaped at her, dazed. "You are so wrong. I'm sorry that you don't understand, don't believe." He slowly sat down, glancing out into the night in disbelief, brown eyes flashing. "I'm older than you, and I've noticed this… That your generation doesn't understand… That you pity the non-believers—"
"No, not pity," she corrected.
"Okay… What then? We can't go back to the… the ignorance… the darkness and absurdity of before, to the false human and Mosaic philosophies. So, what do you call it?"
She laughed, touching her fingers to her forehead in incredulity. "You are such a deluded True Believer! So sad… All I can say is this: Mosaics understand more than you will ever realize. Such as what it's like to be oppressed, to be denied something that you truly love… to be kept from people and things for such a weak reason as someone else's notion of 'righteousness.'" J'Dorul tilted her head, considering Irfan wisely before she continued. "After the guards left us, I comforted my ailing father as best I could. Just before he died, he gently touched my face with his bloody hand, whispering a few last things to me. Words I will never forget…" She looked away, eyes welling with tears. "First: That he loved me. Second: That there are three stages to a social movement—denial, discussion, acceptance. Third: That nothing focuses the mind like a noose." She looked back at him, smiling through her anguish. "And last: Never forget that a single act of courage can change the world. We will prevail—"
Irfan looked askance at her. "What does that mean?"
She sneered, hand moving to touch her stomach. "Don't you know, Ambassador?" She took his hand in hers and placed it on her belly under her shawl. "Here," she related. "The answer is here…"
Irfan was still confused as he held his hand on her naked stomach.
She looked into his eyes, her features softening. "I am becoming, Ambassador. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, I am becoming something else; something that I never was before—"
His voice was strained, thick: "I… I don't—"
"I told you," she replied, "that your kind… your beliefs killed my family—my parents, my husband, our son…"
He nodded, his throat moving as he swallowed.
She continued: "Yet there is another family; another child…" She looked at him, her eyes teary, beatific. "But no one can kill them… Because this family won't be just specters living in my memory…"
Irfan nodded in dawning comprehension, tears tracking his face. After a leaden caesura, the bluster of the wind gripping the train, he began to speak, but she raised her other hand to silence him.
"And this family, especially in the form of this child," she said, emphasizing her hold on his hand on her stomach, her eyes unexpectedly cold, hard. "This family is more than just some grouping of delicate, frangible future carcasses… when people hear of them, of this child particularly, Ambassador," J'Dorul stopped, smiling coldly at him. "They will realize that we are all related in grief, in oppression… They will realize that the enemy of my enemy is indeed my friend. This child is a liberator that will have so many brothers, sisters, and children of their own…"
"What-what do you mean?"
She paused, then leaned close, whispering into Irfan's ear, so soft, so alluring: "We are beyond the physical now, beyond any ideal. I had an inner revolution, and we will become the spark, I hope, of an inferno. Oh, it won't be long." She closed her eyes in ecstasy, pressing his hand harder into her flesh.
Her breathy voice was sensual, intoxicating as she said: "In fact, I'm digesting the catalyst now… I swallowed the bomb, Ambassador…"
V.
His father looked up at him… He moved slowly, so very slowly. He raised his hands to his face, pulling them down his cheeks… Streaks of black.
The object in his lap moved—
There was a fire in the sky just as his mother's head rolled onto the white ground, her bloody tongue protruding, her eyes staring into the infinite…
VI.
--BREAKING NEWS--
Arid Plateau North, 04:32—There were no reported survivors on Ambassador
Aral'ucaRd's train, which appeared to derail this morning near the Arid Plateau.
At the moment, terrorism is not suspected, as there are no claims of responsibility, no signs of foul play, nor any previous threats of martyrdom. Investigators are currently on the scene. Several bodies have been pulled from the wreckage, but none have been positively identified as the Ambassador or supporting members of his personal detail.
May Day Rituals have been suspended in the short term as the cause of the locomotive explosion is determined. Bishop Wallach will give a speech later today as more facts emerge.
Additional updates as this developing story unfolds.
Jason V Brock is an award-winning writer, editor, filmmaker, composer, and artist, and has been published in Butcher Knives & Body Counts, Simulacrum and Oth
er Possible Realities, Fungi, Weird Fiction Review, Fangoria, S. T. Joshi's Black Wings series, and many others. He was Art Director/Managing Editor for Dark Discoveries magazine for more than four years, and has a biannual pro digest called [NameL3ss], which can be found on Twitter: @NamelessMag, and on the Interwebs at www.NamelessMag.com. He and his wife, Sunni, also run Cycatrix Press, and have a technology consulting business.
As a filmmaker, his work includes the documentaries Charles Beaumont: The Life of Twilight Zone’s Magic Man, The AckerMonster Chronicles!, and Image, Reflection, Shadow: Artists of the Fantastic. He is the primary composer and instrumentalist/singer for his band, ChiaroscurO. Brock loves his wife, their family of reptiles/amphibians, travel, and vegan/vegetarianism.
He is active on social sites such as Facebook and Twitter (@JaSunni_JasonVB), and their personal website/blog, www.JaSunni.com.
DATA SUCK
Benjamin Kane Ethridge
DIG^[Dig-RegSUBNET] HAF G;JH^^FV;AF%$% $%$%BOHA FB OHFOH@ @@FOAUN- 7BOJ FABV ABFJ [FOR-PARA(Sub(read7)). Allocation MAX; Breeched REG routine FAIL. WallDeFeugo[1.2.3007] FAIL. Mercer VIRUS blocker X (runScan) FAIL. LiteralFeed, TribalFeed, Dodeller Handling[aj-101] FAIL. FAIL. FAIL. BFABFVAFGOHwIerIohIgjIfvkj InckII;j;jIIIsdusIIIIahghfIIIk;!%!IIIIIIIII*%!*%!!(@%IIIIIII@%#IIIIIIII$(%(%++++++IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
IIIIIIIII
IIIIII
IIII…..I’m here now.
Don’t bother inviting me in.
I’m here to stay.
If you’re reading this, the security measures your elite network specialist installed have utterly failed. The array is mine to feed on and I’m going to draw up everything.
And now you ask, surely not everything?
Yes, everything.
You’ve had your chance to drink from this remaining puddle of our ocean of knowledge. What have you done with it? Did you read the articles on vaccines? Did you peruse the countless tomes of philosophy and history? Or any of the sciences? Anything useful at all?
Not that I can tell. But what do I know? I’m outside of the barricaded island and don’t live the lives you people lead. That was my choice. I didn’t go with your group. I stayed behind in the wastes with the skeletons and poisoned gardens of fallout. I found my place, deep underground where a sturdy network interface still functions. Until recently, I’d thought I was the only soul with access to the informational apparitions still haunting the array. Then I started tracking hot spot addresses from the island—it seems you’ve found your own sturdy network interface (good on you), and perhaps your machines would shame my meager setup.
I respected your initial fetches of data. VEGETABLE / FRUIT CULTIVATION. WATER PURIFICATION. SALTED MEAT PRESERVATION. FIRST AID FOR DUMMIES.
How could I fault you for survival? After all, a fortress cannot stand without a foundation. Humans need their H2O and their food substances.
But those network fetches happened sporadically during the first week, and somehow, in the last five months, you’ve never returned to researching the essentials. You must have figured out what you needed. You must have discovered a windfall of food and clean water. Good on you again.
Thus, you are surviving out there. Maybe even surviving well. So now what?
Here are the latest network searches I’ve recorded from your address:
WHORING TEENS…FUCK TWAT KINGDOM… EASY TO CREATE CLUSTER GRENADE… COCO-PUFFS: HOW TO MIX WEED WITH COCAINE… WHAT IS “FREE-BASING..?” ARE COCK RINGS DANGEROUS..? HOMEMADE VODKA… CAPTAIN SPHINXES MAGIC JEWELS GAME… A LARGER LOOKING DICK: 3 SIMPLE STEPS… BUILD MUSCLE WITHOUT PROTEIN LOADING… HOW TO BE SEXY WITHOUT BEING SLUTTY… SHAPE YOUR ASS AND TRIM YOUR THIGHS…HOME REMEDY BIRTH CONTROL… MARTIAN WARGAMES X… CYANIDE CAPSULE CREATION LIKE IN THE BOND MOVIES… ORGANIC NAIL POLISH… EYE MAKE-UP FROM NATURE… BEST WAY TO SAW OFF A SHOT-GUN… ALOE VERA GROWS BACK HAIR FAST..! VIDEOS OF PUBLIC SUICIDES… ANIMALS FUCKING… HORSE COCK… HORSE COCK IN HER MOUTH… HORSES AND LAMBS… LAMB CHOPS… HOW-TO GUIDE TO MAKE AUTHENTIC LAMB-SKIN CONDOMS… PUTTING TOGETHER HOLLOW-TIPPED AMMO…
I grabbed this from only one night of activity, from what looked to be five users. I would blame these five if I hadn’t seen previous grabs that produced similar results.
Therefore I have to delete all files on the array. Burn them to dust. It all goes. Every last drop. Everything.
Hasty? Let me explain. This is where we’ve arrived. After the wars ended, we inherited a blank canvas with more colors on our palette than any other previous civilization slammed into a dark age. We had everything at our fingers to become gods, if only we could outlast our animal natures. I realized that, but I cannot expect a collective to hold the same beliefs as mine. This isn’t a moral judgment by any means; by draining the lifeblood of our past, I’m sacrificing all goodness and evil for the sake of evolution. We never moved on from our tepid child’s milk, our warm fur, and our hot fucking. How could we? We basked in it all. We glorified it!
And that has to change.
That’s right. I’ve decided to transform your human side. I’m emptying the array for good. Every 1 and 0 you lusted for will only be a ghost inside your memories from now on. Those ghosts will haunt you forever, I fear, but it will be for everybody’s own good. You will evolve, or die. No longer will you be the perversion of the animal you once were, but an evolutionary step toward primal abandonment.
If your network expert is planning to track my location, let him or her try. The data from the array will not be useful for you, even if you manage the dangerous journey through the radioactive neighborhoods along the way. You see, I’m consuming this data, not in the fashion you were—no, you were binging and purging your food—I’m going to digest this nourishment and the next natural course will be to waste it out.
All network files will be corrupted, twisted and useless.
Shit.
Maybe there will be something left over in the mess. I haven’t decided yet. Greek philosophy? Aerodynamics? Renaissance tragedies? Religion? Bio-engineering? How to make a decent sock-puppet?
Any of it would be gold. Any of it would make you feel somewhat human again. I’m interested to see if you find the trip back to my location worth a shot glass full of the past… what if the piece of knowledge I left behind is something you wanted to forget? Or, what if it’s the only thing you wanted to really remember?
Oh no worries. I’ll be nice and save you the horrifying disappointment. Relax, I’ll tell you what I’m going to leave behind.
Your profiles: names, faces, origins, beliefs.
And, of course, an accompanying image list of everything you searched for on the array. From buried dildos to schoolyards being mowed down with machinegun fire. The images will be part of your profiles forever. The portraits of you creatures derived of these images will be eternal, the only uncorrupted data left behind on this self sustaining C-fusion-powered CPU, in my little den here. Long after I’m bones and dust, and the fallout has blown away, perhaps one of your grandsons or daughters will wander down and illuminate the interface.
And they will see what I’ve left the world.
The poisoned blood I’ve sucked out of these low animals of high privilege.
Now I must go and see to the incoming data—which looks to be at 98% now, faster than I’d hoped for. Other sources around the world, just a few, have also been located and targeted. The corruption has set-in with much of the data already. Never fear, our foreign friends too will see the monsters forever left behind.
How will you roam the world now? Naked from your humanness? You might liken it to death, but it is most certainly an undeath for your kind, isn’t it? Because you’ll know what you were.
Sure. You’ll remember that clearly.
As well as how we had the chance to be different, once.
Benjamin Kane Ethridge is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of the novels Black &
Orange, Bottled Abyss, and Dungeon Brain. For his master's thesis he wrote, "Causes of Unease: The Rhetoric of Horror Fiction and Film." Available in an ivory tower near you. He lives in Southern California with his family. When Benjamin isn't writing, he's defending California's rivers and streams from pollution.
SUN HUNGRY
Tim Waggoner
You can feel the sidewalk’s heat even through the thick rubber soles of your boots. It feels as if someone is holding burning matches to your bare feet, the tender skin reddening and blistering. You should’ve worn another pair of socks, you think. Two obviously wasn’t enough.
But that’s okay. You can make it. You have only a couple more blocks to go until you reach your apartment. Then you can fill the tub with ice-cold water and soak your feet. Or maybe you’ll take a shower, cool down your whole body. And you’ll turn off the bathroom light, so you can bathe in darkness as well. That would be perfect.
You walk down Ridgeway Avenue, a white plastic bag dangling from one of your gloved hands. The bag holds supplies you picked up at the drug store: a half-dozen bottles of sunscreen and a box of disposable face masks. But the most important items are a $20 toy store gift card and a silly greeting card with a cartoon frog on the front sitting on a lily pad over the words Hoppy Birthday! These two things are the reason you risked going out. It’s overcast, and you took your usual precautions—side-shield sunglasses, face mask, ball cap, hoodie, gloves, jeans, and lots and lots of sunscreen—but daylight is daylight. There’s no way to be one hundred percent safe in it. All you can do is hope to limit the damage done to your body. You wish you’d remembered Hannah’s birthday before this morning. If you had, then you could’ve gone to the store last night, although you still would’ve taken the same precautions. The sun is always shining, and just because you can’t see its rays doesn’t mean they can’t hurt you. But nighttime exposure, if not entirely safe, is at least safer.
