Fiction Vortex - August 2014 Page 3
Me. Docile, clumsy, dreamy old me. I held my hands up and tried to smile.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I said. “You’re all right, I didn’t mean to shove you.”
But all she could do was look at me in fear, even as she paced away she kept her eyes locked on mine just in case I might follow her. All I did was accidentally bump into her. She must have looked at me and seen a guy in a cheap suit with long hair and a scruffy beard, and thought I was everything her parents warned her about.
We are all so scared of each other babe. We’re always made to feel like we’re safe, like there’s someone out there looking after us, a god or politician or rockstar who will tell us what to do and look out for us when things go wrong. Then the Monuments show up, and there’s no one. We’re just left to scrap on the streets like dogs and wait for the end to come.
~~~~~
I’m on my ninth cigarette now. I’ve turned up the sound on the TV set, just for the company of another human being’s voice. Monuments over Yemen, Canada, Scotland, Czechoslovakia.
There is footage coming in from Boston showing helicopters going up to get a better look at the Monument. These things are huge. Are you seeing this, babe? It’s like a giant cigar hovering in the skies, a bloody great grey metal cylinder floating vertically over the ground. There’s no insignia or markings on them, just long lined indentations running down their surface. No engines or power source that I can see. No one seems to know what’s keeping them airborne.
More and more are arriving, entering the atmosphere and lining themselves up with incredible precision. It’s like a perfect array of needles, about to drop into the planet and burst it like a balloon. I keep looking outside and wondering when ours will show up.
You cannot imagine what it felt like to find you weren’t here in my apartment, sweetheart. By the time I made it across town the sun was already close to setting. The neighbourhood was all but abandoned, cars left in the middle of the road, houses with doors left wide open. Everyone tried to get out the city. I’m still wondering when the zombies are going to show up.
I was so sure you would be here. When I pushed the door open and found my apartment empty, I crumpled to the floor in a ball and wept. I wept and I wept because I knew that was it, no options left, the end of the road.
Game over.
You ridiculous woman, why couldn’t you just stay put? Are you out there now, looking for me? Maybe you were smart; maybe you left the city and went for the countryside. Maybe you are safe. Maybe you’re already gone, perhaps you’re with Maria now. Maybe the two of you are reading this pathetic letter over my shoulders and giggling at each other.
Maybe.
~~~~~
It’s arrived.
Oh my God, baby, it’s here.
It is huge.
You should see this thing. I can’t even process what it is. The base of the cylinder is wider than the entire city; I have never seen a single object take up so much mass. I am trying to write what I’m seeing, but my hand is shaking so much I’m not sure how much of this is going to be legible. The whole world has gone awfully silent outside. Either the city is empty or everyone is huddled up inside too afraid to look up at the Monument.
I’ve moved outside and I’m sitting on the balcony, my notepad perched on my knee. I am barely even looking at what I’m writing; I can’t take my eyes off this thing.
It is an oppressive matte grey. At first I though they were made out of metal, but these things look more like stone up close. It looks so near I could touch it, but the perspective is all out of focus. When I look out at the panorama of the city even the tallest skyscrapers are miles out of reach of the Monument.
The base of the cylinder is ringed with indentations. It looks like an old gas stove or the top of a tin of beans.
You should have seen this thing when it arrived. Right before the TV cut out there was footage coming in from Washington as the Monument there took its place above the capital. New York, Tokyo, Moscow. I would not be surprised if Easter Island had its own Monument by now. I thought we were going to get off lucky, slip under the radar, and then the signal went dead and the bastard arrived.
Have you seen what I’ve seen, sweetie? Did you see one of those things push the clouds apart and penetrate the sky? Did you feel the pressure in your head as the space above was taken by one of those monstrosities? Did you feel the titanic earthquake as it descended through the heavens and took place above the city? My flat was shaking so damn hard I thought the whole building was going to come down. I’ve never experienced anything so ... violent.
And now it's doing nothing. It’s just sitting there. I don’t know how long we have left, baby. The phones are down, the TV, the Web. There’s only me now. The streets are empty, barely visible from here; the whole city is under the shadow of the Monument.
Whoever decided to call them that? What are they monuments to? Us? Planet Earth, humankind? A race of ape mutants, oblivious and underdeveloped, fragile and useless, creative and beautiful, and hopelessly optimistic?
Do they even know we’re here?
Is this what it was all for, millions of years of evolution, just to be stamped out of existence by a faceless, mindless object?
I’m trying to be calm here, babe, but it’s not working. I’m on the verge of freaking out. There is still electricity here, so I've done the one thing any self-respecting Brit would do: I’ve put the kettle on.
There’s something so wonderfully companionable about drinking tea. It’s so gentle and relaxed, compared to your aggressive, overcompensating, loudmouthed coffee. If anything draws the line between you and me darling, it’s our taste in hot drinks.
~~~~~
It’s so dark out I can’t even see the Monument now. The sun must have set, perhaps for the last time. At least for the last time you or I will see.
What were we thinking, you and me? Honestly, what was going through our minds when we first touched lips and allowed our hearts to talk alone? Do you know, I still remember the first time I saw you; you in your floral dress and vintage brogues, dancing under a willow tree in Hyde Park in the midst of spring. You were just lost to the world, shut off from everything and everyone, bouncing around on your feet like you were possessed by everything good in the world.
I knew I was in love with you before I even made it across to where you were dancing. Your chestnut hair. Your soft white skin. Your oceanic blue eyes.
I don’t know how you talked me into crossing the Atlantic Ocean for you, nor will I ever believe that you talked me into having a child. Stoic old me without a shred of maternal instinct in his genes, suddenly a daddy. It’s such a shame we never got to hold her, such an awful shame. I know we agreed that neither of us was ready to talk about her, but if I don’t then I will never have the chance to again.
I am sorry about Maria. It was no one’s fault, least of all yours. I guess it was just one of those odd spectres of fate that take children away from their parents.
I’m sorry we never got to see her, hold her, watch her grow.
I wish I knew where you where, babe. I tried to find you; I really tried. I know you’re never going to read this stupid letter. I doubt that anyone ever will, but if anyone should survive this horrible thing and stumble upon this worthless excuse for a goodbye, I hope they realise just how much you mean to me.
You can’t imagine what it was like when you took me back. I understand why you took the miscarriage so hard. I should have been there afterwards. I just, I just couldn’t. I don’t know. I’m weak. You needed me, and I ran away. It’s what I do. I’m amazed I’m not running now.
Hell, perhaps I’m evolving, right at the bitter end.
You were right to kick me out. The last thing you needed was a drunk stuck in the apartment, sucking what was left of you — of us — like a vampire. I never thought you would give me a second chance. I know it was just a few nights, and we weren’t really sure if you were going to let me move back in. I know we weren’t sur
e if we were ready, but it felt magical to wake up beside you again.
I know we never got to work it all out, and now we’ll never have a second chance. I know you still can’t bring yourself to hear her name, but I want you to know that little Maria would have been loved. Loved by her silly old dad and her beautiful mother. Who knows, wherever she is now she might be laughing about us, out there beyond the stars where there’s a place without Monuments and endings. A place where little Maria can be our little girl.
~~~~~
Something’s happening.
There are lights in the sky. They just flicked on like a streetlamp. The rings in the Monument’s base have lit up like a spotlight, bright white light. Everything’s shaking, my flat, the chair, the ground.
It’s happening.
The lights are getting brighter. I can’t even look at them. All the streets are lit up like a New Year’s Eve block party. There are people on the streets looking up at the end. I can see a couple holding hands. Everything is shaking so hard I can’t believe they can still stand up.
This is it. I’m going to take my tea and stand at the balcony and watch what comes. I’m so scared I can barely hold my pen. The lights are so bright I can feel heat coming off them. It’s like a summer night out here. For all I know this is happening all over the world. Right now.
I’m sorry you never got to read this letter. I tried. I’m sorry for Maria. I’m sorry I’m going to die alone. I’m sorry I moaned about your boss and your job. I’m sorry I didn’t feed the cats. I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I couldn’t find you.
I’m sorry we grew up and forgot things. We forgot each other. We let our hearts stop talking, and we lost our way, but I will find you again, on the other side of the end.
Everything is white. I can barely see. I’m going to stop writing and stand at the edge.
Close your eyes, baby.
Close your eyes and take my hand.
~~~~~
~~~~~
Elliott Langley is an SF and fantasy writer living in Suffolk, England. He spends his time dreaming, thinking, walking, reading and drinking an inordinate amount of tea. By day he cares for vulnerable adults, by night he has dreams that are more vivid than they have any right to be. His is working on various short stories and a SF novel, which will be the first in a series. His work has been shortlisted for the Aeon Award and his debut novel Room 403 is available to buy from the Amazon Kindle store. Find him online at @Elliott_Langley.
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Black Road
by L. Nicol Cabe; published August 19, 2014
Dust obscured the sun, the thick yellow haze hung low in the sky. The townspeople lazed under porches, choking for water and fanning themselves. The adults kept saying that it was hot, so hot, hotter than usual this year. Many looked at each other with worried glances, the yellow dust clinging to their sweat and wrinkles, making masks of their fear.
Dylan felt itchy and hot. Inside the cover was cooler, but not enough to endure the dust-roughened whispers around him. He grabbed a cracked, hard-plastic bottle, filled it with cloudy water on the sly, and took off into the waist-high scrub behind his house.
Just three kilometers past the rear screen door, an old black road, pitted with cracks and dotted with sparkling pebbles, cut through the pale scrub and tipped over both the east and west horizons. Many Saturdays had left Dylan alone and bored, no water to fetch, no chores, no animals to tend, not even any homework. Lately, on Saturdays, the adults had clustered and croaked worried whispers, their children naturally shying away from their parents’ ankles.
When he first found the road, he tried walking directly on top of it, but after less than a kilometer realized his near fatal mistake — the sun's angry rays deflected into his eyes, burning his face and hands to bubbling. He stumbled home in a haze of sweat and after-images, and slept for days. His father came in and stayed by his side each night, checking Dylan's forehead, scratching a clear spot in his bearded cheek from worry. Dylan's mother only made sure her third child had water on hand at all times, and as soon as he returned to little boy consciousness with an itch to go back out, she scolded him at length and forced him to do indoor chores for weeks.
Eventually, both his parents forgot about the incident, and Dylan returned to the road. Now, on hot and worried Saturdays, he trekked out to the road and followed beside it in a direction of his choice — but never on it.
Halfway to the road, the beating sun started to hurt his scalp and shoulders, so he sacrificed some water and wrapped his head in his wet t-shirt. The sun was hard to follow with the air full of burnt yellow dust, so Dylan headed west, hoping for a nice sunset. The bulk of his latest sunburn would be on the front of his body, and therefore more obvious, but he promised himself to only stay out for a few hours before turning around.
The western part of the road was rockier than the eastern rivulet, chunks of sparkling black gravel spilling into the scrub. Dylan had formed pyramids of stones at near each kilometer so that he would know when to stop and drink. He had not passed three kilometers down the western portion yet, and doubted he would today.
Burnt husks of trees, warped by wind then torn down, twisted flowing patterns in his peripheral vision. The air just over the black road shimmered in the sun. One kilometer — Dylan stopped and slugged from his bottle. His headdress had dried out, so he wetted just the back, which felt cool against the dry air.
Mirages fascinated Dylan. Penelope, one of the few adults who did not talk down to him, knew everything about mirages. Hints of silvery-cool water, forever in the distance, were really beams from the angry sun bouncing at odd angles off the earth and into the viewer's eye. The black road was especially good at refracting the sunlight. A large pond of shimmering liquid was forever on the horizon. Dylan walked toward it, tilting his head one way, then another, watching the pond grow and shrink. He barely noticed the two-kilometer mark. He spat into the dirt, then swilled water around his mouth.
Pieces of grit dripped into his eyes as he forcibly blinked to make them water. Resisting every urge to itch, Dylan bent over and blinked harder, hoping his tears were stronger than the sand. When he looked up, a black spec appeared on the road's horizon, wobbling against a background of silver mirage-pond.
Dylan leaned over again and blinked into the ground. He swilled more water, and looked up again. The dot was still against the horizon, and it seemed a little closer.
It appeared to move rapidly and with intention, like the dogs rounding up the antelope, but moving constantly toward him. He stood still for several minutes and watched the spot approach. It moved out of the mirage lake and almost merged with the road, dancing in the heat waves.
His pace could not match the speed of the dot, which began to form a human shape. It had arms, he thought, elbows angled out to the sides. It also might have legs, but it was on top of something that might also have been a pair of legs. Dylan thought he should have been afraid of it, so far away from the town's armory and other people.
Sounds began to follow the dot, creaking and groaning like metal against metal. The dot resolved itself into more colors — white, tan, brown, blue. It was a person, on top of a device that Dylan couldn't place. He did recognize that it had wheels.
The person looked up at one point and saw Dylan, raised a hand and waved. Dylan waved back. The device began to slow down, and the person got off it and walked — hobbled, really — toward the boy, head down and shoulders shaking for breath. Squeaking and creaking grew louder as the device and rider approached.
"Who are you?" Dylan said, imitating the barking orders the mayor sometimes gave on work days, when cheery motivation failed.
The person stopped just a handful of meters in front of Dylan, white shirt and tan pants sticking to each limb. A straw hat covered the person's face, but hair fell out of it, twisted into a braid full of fly-aways. Dylan assumed it was a woman.
"I'm Judith," the voice croaked. A sun-redden, leathery han
d wiped sweat from her chin and onto her pants. "Are you from the nearest town?"
"I think so," Dylan replied.
"Take me there," Judith said.
~~~~~
The setting sun burned the sky red through the dust haze. The townspeople had cleared off their porches and gone inside, away from the bloody firmament. Dylan spotted occasional small faces peeking through curtained windows as he, Judith, and the creaking metal device made their way through the center of town.
He purposefully took Judith down the main road, so that the entire population could see her coming. She seemed to understand his purpose, and tilted her hat back as they approached the first buildings. Dylan assumed the woman wanted to find the most authoritative figure in town, so he led to her to the mayor’s office. Mayor Sandoz swung the door open. He barely stood half the height of his office doors, but his deep, booming voice lent all the authority he needed.
"Dylan, what's going on?"
Before Dylan could speak, the woman stepped forward. "You are the mayor, I presume?"
"Yes, who are you?"
"My name is Dr. Judith Wright. I'm working with the National Meteorological Survey. You should have received a letter about my arrival a few weeks ago. It is urgent that I speak to you, immediately."
Mayor Sandoz squinted further. "I did not receive a letter. We don't recognize ... that nation. Sorry for your trip, please leave—"
“Please,” Judith interrupted the mayor — a move that made Dylan and Crystal, the mayor’s assistant who peeked over his shoulder, gasp. "Take a look at these papers,” she rustled through her saddlebags and produced a sheaf of tattered pages. “Regardless of what you think about the national turmoil, sir, it is important for me to speak with you."