by Watts, Peter
Terri—tanned like her husband and daughter, her blond hair so sun-bleached it almost glows white—hands you a glass filled with tap water. You dislike the taste—who doesn’t?—but at least it’s moisture.
You take a drink, tell Terri thanks.
She smiles, her skin so sun-tight you’re surprised her lips don’t fissure.
Even though you’re inside with the air conditioning running you still wear your sunglasses, ball cap, hoodie, and gloves. You’ve taken your face mask off, though. You don’t want to look too creepy to Hanna, and you don’t want to embarrass her in front of her friends. It’s a risk, leaving the lower half of your face unprotected, but Hannah’s worth it.
“I’m going to head back outside,” Terri says. She’s wearing a white-and-yellow sundress, her feet bare. “You okay?”
Her tone is casual, but you know she’s asking more with that question than it seems.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Want me to bring you some cake?”
You glance outside at the table, see the cake sitting in the sun.
“No, thanks.”
She smiles again, and this time a small patch of dead skin peels away from her lower lip as it stretches. Then she opens the patio door, steps outside, and slides it shut.
You can’t get over how happy everyone out there looks. The kids are red faced and sweaty haired from playing birthday games in the yard, but they grin and laugh as they shovel cake and ice cream into their mouths. But no one looks happier than Hannah. And why not? There’s a pile of presents on the table—the sad little envelope containing your gift card among them—all for her. Rick and Terri gaze upon their child with adoration—she’s growing up so fast!—and you feel an almost physical pang as you wonder what your children might’ve looked like, if only Kate hadn’t, hadn’t. . .
You shouldn’t just stand here, watching as your niece’s life is pulled out of her one drop of sweat at a time. You should throw open the door, dash outside, snatch her up, and start running. You’ll keep running until you find someplace safe, someplace dark, and you’ll keep her there, hidden from the face of the gluttonous obscenity in the sky. You’ll teach her what the sun really is, and you’ll show her how to protect herself, to keep her life from being stolen, and then, when she’s older, she’ll teach others. Most won’t listen to her, will see her as crazy, just as they see him. But some will listen, and more importantly, believe. And they’ll go on to teach others, who’ll then go on to do the same. And then, after who knows how many years, perhaps even centuries, humanity will at last be free. And it all begins with Hannah.
You reach into the pocket of your hoodie, pull out you face mask, and start to put it on.
There’s a tap-tap-tap at the patio door. Startled, you look down and see Hannah standing on the other side.
“Come out, Uncle Jake!” she says, voice raised so she can be heard through the glass. “I want you to eat cake and help me open presents!”
There’s something different about her voice. A lilting, almost hypnotic quality that you’ve never noticed before. You think you spot a glint of light in her eyes as she smiles up at you, but then it’s gone, so swiftly that you’re not sure it was ever really there.
You look at her, this sweet little girl who is the closest thing you’ll ever have to a child of your own. You watch a bead of sweat trail down the side of her face, and you don’t know what to say to her. You look past her and see that everyone else—the kids, Rick, Terri—are watching to see what you’ll do. The hope in your brother’s eyes is almost too much for you to bear.
Before you can react, the patio door slides open. Hannah steps inside, smiles, takes your gloved hand with her pink, heat-swollen fingers, and pulls you forward. You want to tell her no, want to yank your hand away, but you don’t. You’re still holding the face mask in your other hand, and now it slips from your fingers and falls to the floor. You let her lead you out onto the deck, and although the humid August air slaps you in the face like a hot wet towel, you don’t hesitate. You’re not afraid. All you feel is a distant, almost pleasant numbness, as if you’ve been anesthetized.
She escorts you to the table and has you take her place. You look down and see a cardboard plate emblazoned with the image of a cartoon princess, chocolate cake crumbs on her dress, looking like scorch marks on the fabric. There’s a dollop of liquefying vanilla ice cream covering half of her head, as if her face is melting.
Everyone’s looking at you. Hannah, her guests, Rick and Terri. . . They’re smiling, teeth gleaming with reflected sunlight.
You think of the earlier conversation with your brother, about how some people know the truth about the sun, and work to conceal that knowledge from their fellow cattle. What do they get in return for their service? A slower death? A chance to feel superior to the rest of the cattle? The delusion that they’re more than mere food, even though in the end they’re not?
And who’s part of this vast conspiracy? Scientists? World leaders? Teachers? I’m a teacher. Do you think I’m one of them? Do you think Terri is?
Questions. Not denials.
You look at your brother and his wife. They continue to smile, and their eyes glimmer with light.
“You must be tired of fighting,” Rick says.
“Especially after losing Kate,” Terri adds.
You feel tears threaten, but you fight to hold them back, reluctant to lose the moisture.
Despite yourself, you whisper, “Yes.”
In your mind you see Earth, hanging in a star-scattered void. As you watch you see—faint at first, but rapidly becoming clearer—streaks of light shooting upward from the planet. Hundreds, thousands, millions, some larger, some smaller, all being pulled toward the ravenous blazing sphere some eighty-three million miles distant. Life energy—human, animal, insect, plant—being harvested by the hungry god Helios. Which is how it’s always been, how it always will be.
“You have to be burning up in all those clothes,” Terri says.
Rick looks at Hannah. “Shall we unwrap your present for you, sweetie?”
“Yes!” Hannah says.
Terri and Rick move toward you, and Hannah claps her hands in delight, as her parents begin removing your clothes. The rest of the children clap and cheer as your brother and sister-in-law go about their work. You don’t fight them, and when they need you to raise an arm or stand up to facilitate your disrobing, you cooperate without hesitation or complaint.
They toss each article of clothing to the deck as they remove it, and soon you’re sitting naked at the head of the table, your flesh—all of it—fully exposed to the sun for the first time in your life. You feel a single bead of sweat roll down the side of your face. It starts slowly, then picks up speed. It’s soon followed by more. Many more.
You look at your niece. Hannah’s face is shining so brightly now that you can’t make out her features, not even when you squint.
“Thank you, Uncle Jake! It’s the best present ever!”
Rivers of sweat run from your pores, and you can feel your life draining way with the theft of each salt-tinged drop. You try to say Hoppy Birthday to Hannah, but your throat feels clogged with sand and nothing comes out.
You’re exhausted to the core of your being, so you decide to just sit and rest awhile.
In the sun.
Shirley Jackson Award-nominated author Tim Waggoner’s novels include Like Death and The Harmony Society, and his latest short story collection is Bone Whispers. In total, he’s published over thirty novels and one hundred stories, and his articles on writing have appeared in Writer’s Digest and Writers’ Journal, among other publications. He teaches creative writing at Sinclair Community College and in Seton Hill University’s Master of Fine Arts in Writing Popular Fiction program. Visit him on the web at www.timwaggoner.com.
WET HEAVENS
Brian Fatah Steele
A red landscape of meat stretched out before me, thousands of bodies that would never rot. No longer fl
esh in the traditional sense, this new organic matter continued to glisten with a slick sheen in the morning light. If you squinted your eyes and forgot what you were staring at, it was actually quite beautiful.
“Mr. Clavell, we’ll be ready to embark soon.”
I nodded, still staring out from the gun turret. It was my own fault for wanting a better view, but I couldn’t help the masochism of my psyche. I needed to grasp what I was walking into. The quarantine zone was vaguely crescent shaped, fifty miles wide and stretching over eighty miles in length. Youngstown no longer existed, and both Cleveland and Pittsburgh had come close. There was essentially a dead zone where the Northeast Ohio-Western Pennsylvania border had once been.
“Mr. Clavell, sir,” came the voice again.
I glanced over at the young solider. “What have you seen out there?”
“Eh, I’m afraid that’s classified, sir.”
I snorted. “Son, in less than thirty minutes I’ll be strolling into that. I’d like to have some idea what to expect.”
His eyes darted out to the scene before us. You could see the struggle on his face. I idly wondered if it was his due to the duty he was breaking, or the memories he had conjured up.
“There’s a lot of movement,” he said in clipped tones. “Things scurry, but the ground… it moves in waves sometimes. And it’s not always on the ground. In the sky, too.”
“Thank you, that’s enough.”
The trauma was apparent in the white knuckles and the bulging eyes. He, like a majority of the military personnel along the quarantine line, would need to be switched out soon. And, just like so many others who had already been here, he would face a quiet honorable discharge for medical reasons, along with a lifetime of pills, therapy, and nightmares.
The rest of my envoy was found doing final checks on their gear near the gate. Yuker was barking out orders as he glared at the SUV. He still wasn’t happy about the lack of heavy weaponry. The idea was laughable, but I couldn’t help noticing Lt. Dunning strapping an extra set of clips to his thigh. Dr. Nguyen was still arguing with Dr. Cornell, and my “assistant,” Christine Hughes, stood off to the side observing it all and hugging herself in the morning chill. I smiled at her when she looked over. She didn’t smile back.
“Seriously, I can easily show one of these grunts how to work the equipment,” said Cornell for the umpteenth time. “Let me go with you guys.”
“You’re the only one I trust, Landon,” replied Nguyen with an affectionate pat on the shoulder.
“I should be going,” grumbled the young doctor.
“If you could, you would,” said Nguyen.
I tried not to roll my eyes. Nguyen wanted this glory all to himself. Glory. Was that how Yuker saw it, too? I was probably the only one who wasn’t pleased about being asked to enter the quarantine zone.
Except I wasn’t asked. I had been summoned. After seventeen months, after so many deaths, failures, and questions, the things inside had sent an emissary. It had come tottering to the gate on three humanoid legs, trailing white scarves in its wake and gleaming red. Frankenstein’s left over parts, standing strong and dripping blood, flags of truce billowing in the wind. The video stream from that day is terrifying, but the audio is worse. Syllables that sound as if they were produced from the gas of putrefying organs, words asking for parlay and the request of three individuals – General Jeffery Yuker, Dr. Adam P. Nguyen, and myself. Each of us was allowed to bring a single attendant, our safety promised, and any acts of violence prohibited. We didn’t need to ask about the consequences after what had happened to Akron when the Pentagon had tried firing Patriot missiles.
I had not been pleased with this particular honor. I still wasn’t.
Yuker fired off a few last-second orders before climbing into the passenger side of the SUV. His man Dunning got in behind the wheel, while I sat in the back with Ms. Hughes. Nguyen was positioned in the middle with a pile of hi-tec devices he lovingly fiddled with. I jumped when Hughes grabbed my hand. They were unlocking the gates.
“How’s the sound, Landon?”
“Perfect, Doc. Am I coming through clearly?”
“Yes, but we don’t know how long the comms will last. The quarantine zone continues to emit interference on various wavelengths that make intelligence gathering difficult. I’ll keep recording, regardless.”
Up front, the guards were having their own difficulties getting the gates open. I suppose no one ever thought we’d actually be entering. Containment was the priority when things had been constructed.
Nguyen sighed. “Landon, for the sake of posterity, could you read out the brief rundown of what we know concerning the Newbond-Utica Event?”
My jaw clenched as Landon Cornell read out a history too well known.
“In 2012, Newbond Industries purchased forty acres of undeveloped land on the western border of Pennsylvania for the purpose of hydraulic fracturing. Otherwise known as “fracking,” this is a process of obtaining natural gas, natural gas liquids, and crude oil that involves myriad drilling processes, including horizontal drilling and intense water pressure.
“The area obtained is only a fraction of a fracking-quality space that reaches from northern New York and Maryland to western Ohio, approximately 95,000 square miles. It is the second largest find in the world, second only to a region in Russia, and until the Newbond-Utica Event, some 35,000 fracking wells were drilled annually. Billions were spent in 2012 in Ohio alone on these endeavors.
“Since 2004, fracking largely consisted of work within a layer of earth referred to as the Marsellis-Shale Shelf. It was believed that over five billion barrels of crude oil, and possibly over fifteen trillion cubic feet of natural gas was present in the Marsellis-Shale Shelf and beneath, in the Utica-Shale. The Utica-Shale, while rich in minerals and organics, is usually found some seven thousand feet beneath ground level. In the area purchased by Newbond Industries, this depth was only a little more than one thousand feet.
“The Utica-Shale level is approximately 4.5 million years old, and…”
“Get on with it!” growled Yuker.
“But, I still haven’t talked about the fracking water, contamination and its disposal.”
“Landon, if you’d please,” said Nguyen with a sigh.
The gates clanked open as Cornell continued.
“On August 14th, 2014, Newbond Industries cracked through the Utica-Shale with their latest drilling, intent on what they presumed was a massive pocket of crude oil. It wasn’t. Initial reports are unconfirmed, but eyewitness accounts claim the ground “bled,” and this liquid was somehow able to enact motion as an independent organism.”
The envoy rolled across a surface that had been a road only two years ago. Every tree, every bird, every human being in the quarantine zone had become infected by the substance that had spurted out from the Utica-Shale. Every piece of organic matter had been consumed in some fashion and transformed. All of it had a crimson hue and a glossy sheen.” Cornell’s words drifted back to me, the static in his voice growing.
“… a mutagenic property. This has been observed down to a microbial level, although some theorize that certain amino acids would not…”
As we traveled deeper, the devastation became more apparent. Buildings, cars, any inert matter or mineral material, had been spared. Instead, it was being systematically tore down and… consumed? Used as a fuel source? I could only speculate. However, the organized method in which I saw a small town being dismantled worried me.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Nguyen.
“What?” I asked, my head snapping to the doctor.
“We lost Landon,” he replied, holding up the transmitter.
I turned from Nguyen’s quizzical look. He thought this was an adventure, another book waiting to be written. A pop physicist, he fancied himself the next Stephen Hawking or Carl Sagan. I think he was more focused on how this might raise his celebrity status than on any scientific revelation. Of course, being name-dropped by mons
ters only boosted his ego.
We were all celebrities in our own circles. Yuker had grown to fame in the Afghani War due to his unnecessarily aggressive tactics, ones he kept in the Department Of Defense when he suggested a nuclear strike on the quarantine zone. Fortunately, saner heads had won that day. I hosted a bi-partisan political show on PBS, Our Day Today. I wasn’t anywhere as popular as McLear, but I felt I was just as respected on Capitol Hill.
The road took a bend and I nearly pressed my face against the window, gawking. A series of larger buildings had been utterly desiccated, only the steel girders and a few support beams left. They were covered in a thicker substance, the metal warped and twisted. It looked like molten fat dripping off the broken bones of a giant.
“What could do that?” whispered Hughes.
Most of the cars along the road had been shoved or pulled off to the sides, lumps of machine gristle discarded. All the windows appeared blown out, the tires gone, and the remaining pieces wrapped up in soaking spider webs. Webs, or strings of drool.
“Two o’clock,” came Dunning’s sharp, staccato voice.
We all turned to the right to see motion in the distance. Soft undulations repositioned a parking lot into something that too closely resembled a pyramid. The size of a baseball stadium, it sat on a bloated mound of flesh with a single, wide appendage. Like a pod of peas, it was opened to reveal half a dozen gelatinous orbs. From the space around them, thousands of long cilia strands gently went about their job on the cars. Speeding past, we managed to catch a last glimpse of the thing leaning over, one of the orbs opening, and a viscous clear liquid spewing over the vehicles.
