Encounters Magazine 13

This publication copyright 2015 by Black Matrix Publishing LLC andindividually copyrighted by artists and individuals who have contributed to

this issue. All stories in this magazine are fiction. Names, characters andplaces are products of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance of the characters to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely

coincidental. Encounters Magazine is published bimonthly by Black MatrixPublishing LLC, 1339 Marcy Loop Rd, Grants Pass, OR 97527. Our Web site:

www.blackmatrixpub.com

ABOUT OUR COVER ARTISTGary McCluskey

Gary McCluskey has been working as an artist for over 20 years doing everything from book covers, comic books, magazine illustrations, rpg artwork, logo design and greeting cards. We are happy to have his art grace our coverfor the fourth time. You can find his contact information and browse his gallery and other links at:http://garymccluskey.carbonmade.com/

ENCOUNTERS MAGAZINEVolume 03 April/May 2015 Issue 13

Table of Contents

THE MOWER by M. B. Vujacic – Page 5BROKEN CITY by Chuck Augello – Page 25

THE JULIUS DIRECTIVE by Jacob Lambert – Page 41THE HOUSE ON GUARD HILL ROAD by Sean McLachlan – Page 62

FORTYFOUR NORTH by Robert Steele – Page 86THE TREES OF GAIA by Anna Sykora – Page 104

THE GLASS EYE by John Buentello and Lawrence Buentello – Page121

PUBLISHER: Kim KenyonEDITOR: Guy Kenyon

From the Editor's Desk

As I'm sure you have noticed, on our back issue page of ourwebsite, the first four issues of Encounters are not available.You can now find them in PDF format on issuu.com.

The first four editions of Encounters were originallydesigned as print publications. They were large format, perfectbound magazines that contained 70,000 to 120,000 words offiction per issue. We are still very proud of their quality andcontent, but we realized it was not going to be possible tosustain the production cost, so we made the switch to a digitalformat, which has been more successful for us.

A story achieves its greatest value when it is read. With thatthought in mind, we have concentrated on placing the work ofour authors and artists in front of as many people as we canand this issue of Encounters will be emailed to, downloaded,and read online by more than 1000 people. Our goal is to atleast double that readership by the end of this year.

That is one of the reasons we have taken the additional stepsto post all editions of Encounters on issuu.com. Readers can goto the site and have access to all copies, including #1 through#4, in their Web browser, or (for a better reading experience)download the Issuu app for Android, iOS and Windows tabletsand mobile devices. Of course, you can also continue todownload most back issues and all new releases from ourwebsite at www.blackmatrixpub.com.

We have watched Encounters become a truly internationalendeavor over the past year with our writers, artists andreaders hailing from all parts of the globe. We are working tocontinue that trend and look forward to what the future mayhold for our favorite fiction magazine.

Guy KenyonEncounters Magazine03/11/2015

ENCOUNTERS MAGAZINE Issue #13

THE MOWERby M. B. Vujacic

"C'mon Jun," Slade said. "Hop in."If Junior heard him, he didn't show it. He leaned

against the open door, staring into the car. His eyes werewide, his lips curved up at the corners. He ogled thetouchscreen on the dashboard, the matteblack leatherseats with their dual safety belts, the chrome wheel withits handholds made of antiperspiration rubber. Heglanced at Slade. The garage lights made his acne bloodred. "Dad, this is awesome! Holy shit!"

Slade smiled. "Get in. My shift's about to start."Junior sat in the passenger seat, slipped on the safety

belts. He fumbled with the latches for a few momentsbefore clicking them into place, then slid his fingers overthe dashboard. He looked like he was about to startgiggling. Slade chuckled. So much for the notion thatteenagers were impossible to please.

Slade tapped a button on the touchscreen. There was aseries of thuds as half a dozen bolts slid into place,followed by the soft buzz of closing windows and the hissof the airpurifier starting up. He tapped another buttonand the lights in the garage went off. The gate began torise.

The glaresensors activated as Slade drove out into thestreet, dimming the windshield and the windows until thesun became a dull gray ball. He said, "Quiet now," toJunior, and pressed the Talk button on his headset. "One

5


ohseven, moving out." "Roger, oneohseven. Good hunting.""You bet."As they drove through the suburbs, pedestrians stopped

what they were doing and moved away from the road.Some even stepped onto the nearby lawns, keeping theirchildren behind them. Cars changed lanes to get out ofSlade's path, or turned into parking spaces and stayedthere until he passed. He kept his speed between twentyfive and thirty miles per hour, enjoying the cruise. Juniorfidgeted, but Slade ignored him. Sooner or later, acriminal would show up and then Jun would get all thespeed he could ever want.

Sure enough, they soon spotted one near the oldshopping mall; the one with all the sex shops and thriftstores. The neighborhood was quiet but for a loudspeakerbroadcasting the Marshal's speeches. The criminal inquestion was a girl of about sixteen, dressed in a blackshirt and bermuda shorts. She walked across a fourlaneintersection, ignoring the red light as she skimmedthrough the magazine in her hands. Tabloid junk,probably, Slade thought. She must've skipped classes tocome here, the little skank.

“Dad,” Junior shouted, pointing at the criminal.“There's one! On the intersection!”

“I see her,” Slade said, pressing the clutch and givingthe gas pedal just enough pressure to make the enginegrowl.

Junior squealed with joy. “Oh my God! Oh Jesus! This isso cool!”

“Hold on,” Slade said, “you might feel a little bump.”

6


He began releasing the clutch and laying on the gas, andjust like that they were pushing eighty, the force of theacceleration pressing them into their seats. Pedestriansscattered every which way and horns blared from all sidesas the treasonous bastards in the other cars tried to warnthe criminal. Your time will come, assholes, Slade thought,and pressed the big red button next to the wheel.

There was a clatter like a hundred swords being drawnsimultaneously. Then the seventyfive saws, blades, andgrinders that comprised the reel cutter at the front of thevehicle sprung to life, spinning and stabbing and slicingfast enough to turn the entire contraption into a silveryblur.

“Yeeeeeehhhhhaaaaawwwwww!” Junior shrieked.The girl saw them. She dashed toward the sidewalk, the

magazine falling from her hands. There was a scream anda bang as Slade ran her over, followed by an earsplittingroar as she was yanked into the reel cutter. The highpowered vacuums behind the cutter kicked in, sucking inher remains, storing them for later disposal.

“Oh my God, dad, that was incredible!” Junior shouted.“It ate her whole! That's the coolest thing I've ever seen!”He leaned forward, trying to see through the bloodsplattered windshield. The wipers and the sprinklersactivated automatically, scrubbing the glass until it was asclean as if they'd just left the car wash.

Slade threw the gear into reverse, pulling back into hisown lane. Some of the heads in the other cars turned towatch him pass, their expressions ranging from fear toanger to despair. Most, however, stared at the crimsonsplotch next to the sidewalk. From the loudspeaker, the

7


Marshal told everyone that the survival of this greatnation depended on its people's willingness to report anydissident talk to the authorities.

They drove past the shopping mall and made their wayto the riverside. The hobos scavenging among the piles oftrash on the shore watched them cruise by. They found nocriminals there none Slade was authorized to punishanyway so they headed back to the suburbs. Fortyfiveminutes later, he decided they wouldn't find any criminalsthere, either, so he parked at the curb and unpacked theirbreakfast.

“How old's this thing?” Junior asked through amouthful of sandwich.

“Two years. Got it straight from the assembly line.”“Awesome.” “This one's a KS407. It's good, but the old 306 was

better. It had a slower start and its vacuums tended toclog up, but it had a broader cutter, so you could”

Junior pointed over Slade's shoulder. “Criminal!” hesaid, spraying breadcrumbs.

Slade spun around. A man stood in the middle of thestreet, a hundred or so yards from where they parked,waving a picket sign with MARSHAL LIES written on it inred letters. He was tall and athletic, his tanned limbslooking almost roasted next to his white shirt and shorts.He wore a black and white mask.

“Son of a bitch,” Slade whispered. “Is he a roadrunner, dad? He is, isn't he?”“It's goddamn Mickey,” Slade said as he dumped his

sandwich into Junior's lap and wiped his mouth with hissleeve. He grabbed the wheel and stepped on the gas. The

8


tires screeched. Mickey flung the picket sign aside and sprinted down

the street, arms pumping. He could've run onto thesidewalk and into a garden at any time, but he stayed inthe middle of the lane. Slade drove after him, activatingthe reel cutter even though Mickey was still a gooddistance away.

Mickey reached an intersection, turned left, and dashedpast another criminal, this one a woman with an Elvismask. She stood on the crosswalk despite the red light. Apair of empty plastic gas cans lay at her feet. She droppedthe mop she was holding and ran toward the sidewalk.Slade considered going after her, then thought Fuck it andswerved toward Mickey, barely missing an oncomingtruck as he cut across the intersection.

He ran over the two gas cans. The cutter ripped themapart and scattered the pieces. Mickey glanced over hisshoulder, then threw himself to the side, rolling on theasphalt like a goddamn stunt man. Slade shoutedincoherently and veered toward him. Every hair on hisbody rose in anticipation. This was it. Mickey was toast.Only ten yards now.

Nine. Eight. Seven.SiThe car skidded past Mickey, missing him by a few feet.

Slade spun the wheel, but the vehicle kept sliding,completely out of his control. Then he saw the parkedcars up ahead and quickly switched the reel cutter off.Time seemed to slow down as the cars came closer closer

9


closer in what felt like total silence despite Junior'sscreams.

It's July, Slade thought, where did this damn ice comefro

They slammed into a parked jeep at what must've beenat least sixty miles per hour. Even inactive, the reel cutterripped through the jeep's side like a jackhammer throughcheap concrete. It pushed it onto the sidewalk, through apicket fence, and into a veranda with enough force toreduce both the jeep and the veranda to debris. Slade andJunior gasped as the impact drove them chestfirst intotheir safety belts, and then the cabin filled with airbagsand car alarms went off all over the place.

When he could breathe again, Slade unstrapped theirbelts and checked Junior's pulse. It was strong, thankGod. He considered giving his son's ear a pinch to wakehim up, and decided it could wait. He deflated theairbags, pressed the Talk button, and requestedassistance. A crowd gathered outside. They didn't appearhostile, but Slade still donned his helmet and cocked hisservice pistol, just in case. Mickey and the Elvis whorewere nowhere to be seen.

A riot squad arrived fifteen minutes later. Slade waitedfor them to disembark from their APC and form a cordonaround his vehicle before he lowered the helmet visor andstepped out. Junior remained inside.

Slade cursed. The reel cutter looked like it had eaten agrenade. Most of its blades were bent or broken, withchunks of jeep stuck between the saws and the grinders.Police insurance should cover most of it, but...

"Was it a roadrunner, sir?" the riot sergeant asked.

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Slade nodded. "Yeah. Mickey.""You know him, sir?"“Not his real name. But he always wears a Mickey

Mouse mask," Slade said. When he saw the sergeant'sblank expression, he added: "It's a character from acartoon they used to make when I was a kid.”

"Do you think he planned""What are you, a wannabe detective? Call a tow truck

and get me the hell outta here.""Sorry, sir," the sergeant said. He began talking into his

headset: "Requesting transportation for model KS407Perdition Class Sentinel, transferring coord"

"What?" Slade said. "What did you call it?""I, ah, Perdition Class""Shut up. You know damn well nobody calls it that. Its

real name. Say it."The sergeant licked his lips. "The mower."Slade snorted. "Fucking A. Doesn't that make you feel

better already?"

The Marshal first announced the Traffic LawEnforcement Program during the early 2030s, shortlyafter he came into power. Its official purpose was toaddress the growing problem of trafficrelated accidentsin major cities by taking a more radical approach toenforcing traffic laws. Its unofficial goal, revealed yearslater when a foreign newspaper interviewed one of theMarshal's exiled lovers, was to put an end to the one thingthe Marshal loathed above all else: jaywalking.

Whatever the truth, militarygrade Hummers with

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dozer blades attached to their fronts appeared on thestreets just months after the announcement. A man of fewwords, the Marshal introduced them simply as “themowers,” and the name stuck. Over the years, variousfactions lobbied to change it to something moresophisticated, and while some of the proposed namesgained popularity and even found a home in legal speech,in the public's mind both the vehicles and their driverswould always be known by their original moniker.

Now, halfway through the 2050s, though the dozerHummers had long since been retired in favor of moreadvanced vehicles, the laws governing the mowers hadremained the same. Any mower who spotted a jaywalkerwas required to dispense capital punishment on the spotby running the culprit over. A fleeing culprit could bepursued onto the sidewalk and into parking lots, but nofurther. Escaped culprits became the responsibility of thelocal police force. For safety reasons, the identities of themower drivers were treated as a state secret, known onlyto certain high ranking Party officials.

The first roadrunners appeared less than a year afterthe mower branch was founded. Motivated by huge bets,an adrenaline addiction, or plain old insanity, these menand women deliberately jaywalked where mowers couldsee them, leading them on merry chases before escapingwhere vehicles couldn't follow. The majority were eitherkilled by the mowers they baited, caught by the police, orwise enough to quit while they were still ahead. Thosefew roadrunners who didn't die or retire became famousboth on the Internet and among the mowers themselves.

As the most successful roadrunner in the city's history,

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with over five years of activity, Mickey was one suchliving legend. Videos of his road runs, not to mentionPartybashing articles he supposedly wrote, infested theInternet no matter how hard the government worked tosuppress them. He was also the only roadrunner Slade the department's most decorated mower driver hadfailed to so much as graze.

There had, of course, been no ice on the street on theday Slade and Junior crashed into the parked jeep. TheElvis slut had spilled two gas cans worth of engine oil onthe asphalt, and Mickey had lured Slade onto the puddle.They'd even mixed other chemicals into the oil to make itmore slippery. For years Slade had fantasized about theday when he'd finally be able to say: "Mickey's down. Irepeat, Mickey's a dead rat. Can I hear a hallelujah?" Evenso, it had never been truly personal. Now, though? Now itwas personal as all hell.

For three weeks Slade spent most of his free time at thestation, watching hours upon hours of governmentalsurveillance footage taken by the cameras in the generalarea around the intersection where Mickey and his whorehad set up their trap. His colleagues questioned his sanityand his wife accused him of having an affair, but theycould all go suck a fat one because Slade was right. Heproved it when, grinning like a jackal, he strolled into theChief of Police's office and dropped a handful of stills onthe desk.

The Chief looked at them, frowning. "You know whothis is?"

"Database says her name's Leah Williamson.""You know who her parents are?"

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Slade shook his head."Benjamin and Lydia Williamson. He's one of the

leading oncologists in the country and she's a dean ofmedicine with eight books and God knows how manycharities to her name. They've been Party members forover thirty years."

"You're joking.""Also, Leah is their only child. And a member of

Marshal's Youth.""She's a goddamn roadrunner. She wrecked my mower,

for Christ's sake.""I don't care, we're not reporting her.""You can't be seri""No, you can't be serious if you think I'm gonna

prosecute a Party affiliate with no previous offenses."Slade threw his hands up. "She's gonna do it again.""And you're free to run her over when she does, but

that's it. No courts, no arrests, none of that crap." TheChief took off his glasses and gave Slade a hard stare. Hisgray eyes looked dead. "The last thing this departmentneeds is another scandal, you understand?"

Slade snorted. He understood, all right. He returned tohis desk and dialed a number, studying the stills while itrang. They showed Leah Williamson emerging from analley with Mickey at her side. Her expression was allserious, her brown hair tied in a bun, the Elvis maskhanging upside down from her hand. Just a little girlplaying cowboy.

The phone clicked. "Yeah?""Hey Gina," Slade said. "About that money you owe

me... I think we can work something out."

14


Leah Williamson was one busy girl.For three weeks Slade and Gina had watched her,

hoping to get a lead on Mickey, but all they discoveredwas that she had many places to be and even more peopleto see. The only consistent thing about her daily routinewere her evening jogs. Sometimes she visited a localfootball field and sprinted. Slade doublechecked all herassociates, but found nothing of interest. Eventually, hegave up and told Gina it was time for Plan B.

"So this Gina used to drive a mower, huh?" Junior said."Why did she stop?"

"The Chief had to fire her.""What happened?"Slade shrugged. "It wasn't her fault. The Department of

Transportation wasn't doing its job.""What do you mean?""I mean some kids were crossing the street and Gina

thought they were jaywalking because the crosswalk wasso faded you couldn't see the stripes unless you were righton top of them." He shrugged again. "Everyone knew itwas bull, but it was easier to fire her than ask why thatcrosswalk hadn't been repainted in God knows how manyyears."

They drove through an empty street, half a block fromwhere Leah Williamson lived with her parents. It was oneof those rich neighborhoods where every tree looked likeit had its own personal barber. It was so fancy theloudspeakers listing the Marshal's accomplishments wereprogrammed to lower the volume after nine.

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Slade requested to be transferred to the night shift themoment he learned of Leah's penchant for evening jogs.When asked why, he told the Chief he needed a change ofscenery. The Chief scoffed at that, but granted the requestanyway.

"Dad, is that her?" Junior said, pointing. A brunette in shorts and a sleeveless shirt stood at an

intersection, about a hundred yards away. Her hair hungin a ponytail, her back turned to them. She waited for thegreen light.

Slade nodded. "Right.""She's hot.""Shut up, Jun." He reached for his smartphone. Gina picked up on the first ring. "I see her," she

whispered. "Go for it, girl," he said, and hung up. Up ahead, the light turned green. Leah crossed the

street and turned right. Slade drove up to the intersectionas if intending to take a left, careful to position the mowerso that the hoodmounted cameras wouldn't record whatwas about to happen. There were no other cars in sight.

Gina sprang from behind a large bush just as Leahjogged past it. A stocky woman in her forties, with shorthair and a broad chest that made her look moremasculine than some men Slade knew, Gina brought herbaton down on Leah's arm with enough force to snap thebone. Leah screamed, her hand flying to her shoulder, theearbuds falling from her ears. Gina struck her across thenose, then gave her the kind of push that would make afootball lineman proud. Leah stumbled into the street,arms flailing. She was still trying to regain her balance

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when Slade ran her over. "Wooooooooooo!" Junior screamed as Leah's blood

painted the windshield red. "Dad, you have the best jobever!"

Slade smiled. Another day, another victory for thejustice system.

A minor scandal arose.Leah's parents tried their damnedest to raise a ruckus,

only to be drowned out by all the tabloids, newscasts, andtalk shows discussing how awful it was that a member ofMarshal's Youth could grow up to become a jaywalker.The entire thing culminated with Benjamin and LydiaWilliamson's expulsion from the Party and their eventualretreat to a life of anonymity.

Slade himself never came under suspicion. The footagefrom the hoodmounted cameras on his mower showedLeah standing on what was clearly a vehicleonly road.Her erratic movements suggested severe intoxication,perhaps even narcotics abuse. Gina could be seenwatching from the sidewalk, an innocent bystander. Shetold the police that Leah had indeed looked drunk. Herstatus as an exmower driver kept her safe from regularinvestigation, and her association with Slade remained asecret. With no other witnesses and no surveillancecameras at that intersection, there was nothing to suggestfoul play.

A month after Leah's death, Junior announced hisintention to become a mower driver, like his dad. Sladewas so proud he bought a round of drinks for the entire

17


bar. His joy died the next morning, when the followingmessage appeared on one of the illegal blogs supposedlyowned by Mickey:

To the mower who murdered Leah Williamson:I know who you are.I know what you did.I will make you pay.Sincerely,M.

The Chief tsktsked. "You did something, huh? Whowould've thought," he said, giving Slade a wry smile.

Slade frowned. "No way Mickey wrote that. It's justsome idiot spouting sensationalist bull to get people tovisit his blog." He really believed that, too. The MowerProtection Program, combined with the reflectivewindows and the absence of unique markings on themowers themselves, made sure the identities of thedrivers remained secret. The only way someone on theoutside could get that information was if they bribed animportant person or two. He doubted scum like Mickeywould even know who to bribe, let alone how to do itwithout getting caught.

Still, Slade took no chances. He requested an escort forthe first time in his career, and spent the next monthfollowed at all times by at least one car full of cops incivilian clothes. Two weeks into this, he deliberatelyadopted a set route and stuck to it. Mickey didn't take thebait.

During the two months after the escort was pulled,

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Slade never once let his guard down. He wore abulletproof vest under his uniform, avoided remote partsof the city, and made sure he always had a shotgun withineasy reach. Nobody saw Mickey during this time.Eventually, Slade decided enough was enough and thathe could start taking Junior to work with him again.

Now it was late autumn, just another day at thegrinder. Slade and Junior cruised through a riversidedistrict, driving past a row of warehouses. It had beenraining all night and the streets were damp, the sky grayand sunless.

Junior thumbed through a law enforcement brochure,frowning. "It says here I need a driver's license, apsychological evaluation, completed basic training, abunch of college degrees, and five years as a traffic officerbefore I can apply for a mower."

Slade snorted. "They keep changing the requirements.Back in my day, all you needed was a driver's license anda job as a traffic cop."

Junior threw the brochure on the back seat. "At thisrate, they won't let me drive a mower until I'm, like,thirty."

"You'll study hard.""Yeah, but five years on the force.""We might be able to speed things up. The Chief is a

friend of mine, and his cousin works at the recruitmentcenter. Maybe I can"

Something thumped into the windshield, exploding intoa large red smear. For a moment, Slade wondered if he'daccidentally ran over a dog or a pigeon or something,then realized that couldn't be, because the reel cutter was

19


turned off andThump. A new smear bloomed next to the first one. "Is that a tomato?" Junior said, his eyes like saucers.The culprit stood under a parking sign. He wore a

yellow tracksuit and a black skimask that left only hiseyes visible. A plastic bag lay at his feet. He took anothertomato from it and flung it at the mower. It struck thedriverside door, splashing all over the TO PROTECT ANDSERVE sign.

"Son of a whore," Slade said.The roadrunner gave them the finger and kicked the

bag, spilling tomatoes onto the sidewalk. Then he tookoff, sprinting past the mower and back in the directionthey'd come from. Slade threw the gear in reverse andspun the wheel, turning the mower around.

By then the roadrunner had already reached theopposite side of the street. He could've ran onto thesidewalk and up the nearby fire escape, but he stayed inthe rightmost lane, scum that he was. He glanced over hisshoulder just in time to see the reel cutter come to life, itsblades spraying rainwater, so close they were about tostart cutting strips from his ass.

Abruptly, the roadrunner leaped to the right, grabbed alamppost, and swung around it like an acrobat. Sladeswerved onto the sidewalk, realized the Chief would teara chunk out of his paycheck if he took down a lamppost,and quickly steered back into the street. The roadrunnerdashed past them, arms pumping, surefooted despite thewet asphalt. He made it across the street again andsprinted toward an alley between two warehouses. Sladesmiled. It looked narrow, but not so much that a mower

20


couldn't go through. The roadrunner reached the passage with a twenty yard

lead. The pavement there was cracked and filled withrainwater, forming a puddle that seemed deep enough tobathe in. The roadrunner leaped over it, then dashedtoward a fire escape ladder on one of the warehouses.

"Oh no you don't," Slade said, and stepped on the gas.The engine roared.

"Dad, watch out! The water, there's"Slade saw it a split second later. He slammed on the

brakes, but it was too late. They drove straight into thepassage and over the puddle. A spike strip, its teethpoking out just above the water's surface, tore into thetires with a sound like a machine gun burst. The mowerskidded, its side grinding against the warehouse wall,raining sparks. Junior shrieked.

The roadrunner leaped again, grabbed the ladder, andscurried up up up, like a spider scaling a wall. The mowerkept moving toward him, carried by its own momentum,but he bent his legs at the last instant, the spinning bladesmissing his feet by a hand's width. The mower passedunder the ladder and came to a stop.

Slade howled incoherently, then started banging his fiston the steering wheel.

"Jesus"Bang."fuckin'"Bang."cocksuckin'"Bang."Christ!"

21


He let out another howl, then looked at Junior. "Jun?You okay?"

Junior swallowed, nodding. His eyes glistened withtears.

Slade unlocked the safety belts. "I can't believe this shit,Jesus Christ, he"

Something struck the roof hard enough to make Sladeflinch. It rolled down the windshield and onto the hood,coming to a stop when it hit the hoodmounted cameras.It was about the size of a football, and it had a face awhite one with round black ears and a wide toothlesssmile. Its empty eye sockets stared at Slade.

How did it hit the roof so hard? Slade thought. It's just arubber mask, it's not heavy, it

His mouth fell open. He could see wires and otherthings inside the mask. They distorted its features, makingit look like Mickey Mouse had tumors under his skin.

"Take cover!" Slade screamed, and yanked Jun down,thinking:

We got an inch of plating, that bomb isn't gonna do shi

Mickey locked the door and flipped the light switch. The naked bulb on the ceiling flashed and died with a

sound like glass cracking, leaving the room in shadows.He looked at it for a few seconds, then kicked off hisrunning shoes and went into the bathroom. There, heremoved his wet clothes piece by piece and dropped theminto the laundry basket. He took his skimask out of thetracksuit pocket and just stood there for awhile, holding itin his hands.

22


The apartment was a oneroom affair, all bare wallsand naked parquet floors with a piece of furniture hereand there. The curtains were drawn, their yellowishsurface riddled with cigarette burns made by previoustenants. The air smelled of old wood, rotten plaster, andother things not so gladly mentioned. A photocopy of apolice file lay on the couch. A photo of Slade was stapledto the first page, with CLASSIFIED stamped on its corner.

Mickey took the smartphone from the night table andtexted a single word Done to Leah's father. He didn'tneed to do that they'd see it on the news, if they hadn'talready but without Benjamin and Lydia Williamson'swealth and influence, he never would've discovered thename of Leah's killer, let alone funded this venture.

Mickey tore up the Slade file and threw the pieces intothe toilet. "I hope it's scalding down there," he told thepieces as they disappeared down the drain. Then he tookthe bottle of tequila Leah had left there almost six monthsago, and poured himself a glass.

Mickey picked up the remote and turned on the TV,changing the channels until he found the news. Thenewscast showed a bird's eye view of the two warehouses.Smoke rose from the wreck in the alley between them.Firefighters had managed to put out the fire, but thedetonation had damaged the walls enough to make theentire alley unsafe. Riot squads had formed a cordonaround the two warehouses to keep pedestrians away.

"no survivors. It is as yet unknown if this was an isolatedincident or a deliberate act of terrorism. The police are stilltrying to identify the explosive device used. Experts claimthat only militarygrade weaponry could inflict this level of

23


damage on a Perdition Class Sentinel, model KS407,considered to be the"

Mickey turned off the TV. His eyes went to the onlypiece of decoration in the apartment a digital photoframe on the mantelpiece. It showed Leah and himstanding up to their knees in snow, a blue sky spread likea canvas behind them. Leah was resting her head againsthis shoulder. She was smiling.

Mickey raised the glass. "Happy birthday, baby," he toldthe photo, before downing the tequila. He poured himselfanother glass, and another, and kept going until theshadows had deepened and he could no longer bear tolook at Leah's smile. So he turned the TV back on,changing the channels until he found the Marshal's smugface. Then, in a voice slurred with intoxication, hewhispered the ghastliest insults he could think of.

Outside, the loudspeakers blared on and on.

Mijat Budimir Vujačić is an economist by trade, storyteller at heart. He is apublished author of three horror novels written in Serbian: Krvavi Akvarel,NekRomansa, and Vampir. One of his stories appeared in a recentprofessional anthology Silent Scream, and another in the January 2015issue of Infernal Ink Magazine. He believes a strong work ethic is the root ofall success, and that it is best to err on the side of action. A fan of all thingshorror, he is also an avid gamer, hobby blogger, staunch dog person, hookahenthusiast, and a casual tarot reader. He lives in Belgrade, Serbia. You canreach him via e-mail: [email protected] or follow him on twitter at:https://twitter.com/MBVujacic

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mailto:[email protected]

https://twitter.com/MBVujacic


BROKEN CITYby Chuck Augello

Eventually Maggie stopped talking about it. No one believed her anyway, and in the days after the

attack people didn’t want to hear it. Her managerStephanie, who Maggie thought she could confide in, hadslapped her across the face when she mentioned it,screaming that she could find a new place to work if sheever said it again. Perhaps it was understandable—Stephanie’s brotherinlaw had been a trader at CantorFitzgerald—but even those with no relation to any of thevictims found it appalling. So Maggie kept her mouthshut even though nothing had changed. She could stillsee the dead floating over Manhattan, three thousandbodies hanging in limbo above the broken city, a mass ofcorpses bearing witness to the fear and chaos below.

Most nights Maggie joined the candlelight vigils downat Ground Zero, hoping that all the love and sorrowdisplayed by the mourners might help the dead findsolace and release their frightened souls. It was the firsttime in the two years since she’d moved to New York thatshe felt part of something outside herself, part of acommunity instead of just another pretty young actresswaitress hustling for auditions that never arrived.Sometimes the other mourners hugged her, shared athermos of coffee or helped her light a candle with aflame from their own. Maggie said little but listenedclosely, hoping someone, anyone, might admit that they

25


too saw the dead whenever they looked toward the sky.On the fifth night of the vigil another young woman

joined Maggie by the barricade. Her name was Lindsay;she worked in a boutique on Fifth Avenue and playedoccasional gigs with her band at a club down inWilliamsburg. Maggie knew the club, had been thereonce on a date. They talked about music and clothes andcool places to hang out, all those things that had seemedcrucial a few days before but now felt trivial, almoststupid. Still, it felt good to talk about something otherthan the dead, as if the old normal might somehow sneakback into their lives. After an hour they decided to getsomething to eat at the Lebanese place on Fulton, andwhile they walked Lindsay confessed that her fiancé was acop who’d gone into the Tower and hadn’t come back.

“There’s still a chance, you know?” Lindsay said. “Iheard someone say there might be air pockets within therubble, places where you could stay alive for days. So hemight be okay. Darren can hold his breath underwaterfor almost two minutes.”

Though most businesses were still closed the streetswere crowded with pedestrians, people gathered in smallcircles gazing toward Ground Zero, sharing names of lostloved ones as if naming could somehow bring them back.Maggie and Lindsay walked briskly toward the corner.

“I’m feeding his snake until he comes home. I hate thatdamn thing—it’s why we don’t live together. He told mehe’d find it a new home before the wedding but it’s hardbecause those things live for forty years. But I still feed itbecause, you know, I love him.”

Lindsay started crying, and they ducked under an

26


awning while she blew her nose and rubbed away themascara trails. Maggie looked up at the sky, wondering ifDarren was up there with the rest of the dead. They weretoo far away for her to see faces but she could make outbody shapes and clothing: the sharp business suits, thekitchen whites, the heavy protective gear of the firstresponders. Lindsay shared a photograph on her cell andMaggie studied Darren’s face. At home she had atelescope with 300X magnification, a present from hergrandfather on their family trip to Yellowstone. With thescope she could make out individual faces; she wouldsearch for Darren in the morning with the sky at itsbrightest.

At the restaurant they ordered taboulleh and a hummusplatter. A large American flag hung over the window,hiding the shattered glass; the waiter, darkskinned andMiddle Eastern, watched the patrons with jittery eyes, apair of tiny American flags pinned to his shirt.

Every few minutes Lindsay checked her phone, hopingsomeone might call about Darren.

“I heard they found a parking attendant trapped insidea car, still breathing,” she said. “So you never know,right?”

As they waited for the check Maggie offered to helpLindsay feed Darren’s snake.

“I worked in a pet store during high school. It’s no bigdeal.”

They agreed to spend another hour at Ground Zero andthen catch the F train to Darren’s apartment. As theygrabbed their purses, ready to leave, an old womanrushed to their table. Swaddled in black like an old world

27


widow, she was gaunt, greyskinned, and had crazy in hereyes. A pusfilled scab scarred the center of her nose, astrand of white hair growing out of it, curling toward hercheek.

“He’s out there, and he’s hungry,” she told them,grabbing Maggie’s jacket and pulling at the zipper beforeMaggie pushed her away. “There’s a hole in the worldnow, and from that hole he emerges. Young, pretty flesh,he feeds on it. He’ll make you his own.”

Maggie turned her back but the old woman spunaround, blocking the exit.

“You know, don’t you?” the old woman hissed. Shepointed at Lindsay. “She doesn’t see, but you seeeverything. He feeds on it.”

Maggie’s heart nearly stopped. Did the old womanknow? Ever since her first glimpse, Tuesday afternoon,all those bodies floating in the sky, Maggie had wonderedwhy she was the only one who could see them. There hadto be others, didn’t there? Could the old woman seethem, too?

“You—get away from my customers!” the waiter said,running over and batting the old woman with adishtowel. “I said you can stay but stop talking that shit!Get back in your booth, now!”

He hit the old woman with the towel again, snapping itagainst her backside while Maggie and Lindsay watched,stunned.

“He’s coming for you!” the old woman cried, steppingback to avoid a second snap of the towel.

“What the fuck?” Lindsay said, looking toward the oldwoman, who was back in her booth, huddled over her

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soup.“She’s not right in the head but she’s family. I can’t kick

her out,” the waiter said. “Please, next time you come,the meal is on the house.”

Lindsay grabbed Maggie’s arm and pulled her towardthe door. “We’re out of here.”

Once outside they laughed about it, just a crazy oldwoman, but as they headed back toward Ground Zero acouple they recognized from the restaurant, a man andwoman in their forties, smartly dressed, eminentlynormal, rushed after them, catching up while the two girlswaited at a stop light.

“We heard that woman and wanted to warn you,” theman said. “She’s batshit crazy, definitely, but she mightnot be wrong.”

The traffic light turned and Maggie started walking, butLindsay held her back.

“What do you mean?”“We’ve heard that some really bad stuff has started

happening.” The woman clutched her purse while theman nodded gravely beside her. “The police and themedia won’t talk about it because everyone’s alreadyfreaked out. I mean, isn’t that…” She pointed towardGround Zero. “… Isn’t that horror enough? But peoplehave found bodies …and body parts…with bite marks onthem, the flesh torn apart...my uncle works for the CityMorgue down on First—just be careful, okay?”

“They’re saying that the attack…ripped a hole in theworld and something evil broke through,” the man said.

Maggie looked at the sky and watched the dead driftingin waves above the city. They floated in lines, in patterns,

29


like migrating birds.The couple hustled off to hail a cab and Maggie and

Lindsay returned to Ground Zero. They stood by thebarricades holding their candles, silently praying. Maggierecognized many of the gathered faces but now thingsseemed different, a sinister leer having crept into the eyesof everyone around her. It’s all in my head, she thought.The couple and that woman in the restaurant werefrightened and gullible, yet how was a hole in the worldany stranger than seeing three thousand dead bodieshovering over Manhattan?

He feeds on it.Am I somehow part of this? Maggie wondered.Lindsay held up a photograph of Darren and pointed it

toward the site, closing her eyes and dropping her head asshe murmured into her chest. Maggie looked at thephotograph and tried to memorize the detail—a darkhaired, broad shouldered young man posing proudly inpolice blues, his wide smile showing a slight overbite, hiseyebrows a bit too thick, yet handsome and vibrant andthoroughly alive. She touched the photo, her fingersbrushing Lindsay’s hand, and the two girls gazed at thewreckage, all that twisted steel and metal, the air stillheavy with ash.

They walked toward the train station, avoiding eyecontact as they strode down the block.

“Were you serious about helping me feed Otto?”Lindsay asked. “I mean—Darren’s snake.”

It seemed the least Maggie could do, consideringLindsay’s plight. They descended the stairs into thesubway and waited for the next train. Even in normal

30


times Maggie remained vigilant on the subway—womencouldn’t afford not to be, there were too many creeps outthere. She scanned the platform, the scatteredcommuters, the hiphop kids with their gigantic pants andbackward caps, the hipsters in their skinny jeans andironic blue work shirts, the fashion girls with impossibleheels, the typical scene, yet she couldn’t get thosewords…body parts…ripped a hole in the world…out of herhead. She took a deep breath, leaned toward the edgeand stared into the dark tunnel, waiting for those twinballs of light—the train’s eyes—to cut through the circleof black.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Lindsay asked.The platform rumbled as the train pulled to a stop. The

doors slid open and the girls climbed aboard, grabbingtwo seats at the back.

“We talked about it, you know, Darren and me,”Lindsay said. “With him being a cop there was always achance of something bad happening. He didn’t believe inanything like that but one time, when I was eight, I sawmy grandmother hanging laundry in the back yard. Thiswas a week after she died. I called my mother and shelooked out the window. Her face turned white. I swearshe saw grandma too but she couldn’t explain it so shepretended that she didn’t.”

The urge to confess grew strong but Maggie resisted.“I’ve seen things, too,” she said, knowing that, as soon asthey left the station, she would see them again. Yet shekept this a secret.

“Darren’s dead, I know he is,” Lindsay said. “I’ll keepthinking there’s a chance until they find his body but I

31


know it’s true—he’s dead. But maybe I’ll see him again,like I saw my grandmother. I just hope it’s somethingdifferent—my poor grandma, even as a ghost she wasdoing chores. Maybe I’ll see Darren hanging out by thepool in Cabo with a bigass Margarita…that would besweet.”

Her eyes blurred with tears and Maggie squeezed hershoulder, pulling Lindsay close, her new friend sobbingsoftly against her as the train squeaked to a halt. At thefar end another woman sat crying, her expensive blazerbunched up around her neck as she flipped through thepages of Vogue quietly weeping.

Lindsay didn’t say much as they walked towardDarren’s apartment, the streets strangely empty once theyleft the avenue. Even the corner bodegas were dark andshuttered; giant bugs hovered below the street lights,buzzing and swirling. Maggie kept her eyes at groundlevel, avoiding the sky. At night the dead became inkblots, amorphous shapes instead of people; it was best notto look.

A stray dog ran toward them on the sidewalk, a dirtylooking shepherd mix with something in its jaw. Lindsaytensed, her legs freezing as the dog approached.

“He’s probably someone’s pet.” Maggie lowered hervoice in a calm, friendly tone. “Good boy, good boy.”

The dog slowed its gait, watching the girls withtrepidation, a low growl humming in its throat. Lindsaymoved behind Maggie, who kept saying, “good boy,friendly boy.” The dog stepped closer. In its mouth was

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a severed human hand.Lindsay screamed, and the dog turned and bolted, its

tail ramrod straight as it disappeared into the dark.“Was that?”“A piece of hamburger, I think,” Maggie said. “It was

nothing, really…”“It was somebody’s hand!”“It was a hamburger.” “Hamburgers don’t have fingers!”“It’s too dark. We couldn’t see…” Maggie looked over

her shoulder, the dog long gone. “Come on, where thehell is this apartment, anyway?”

“What if that woman was right about a hole beingripped in the world?” Lindsay said. “There could be allkinds of monsters out there.”

“The only monsters are the ones who hijacked thoseplanes.”

“Maybe they’re lying to us. Those planes were hijackedby demons and they’re coming for us…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Maggie said.Had the whole world become a nightmare? Maggie

reached into her purse and grabbed a threeinch silver canof pepper spray, a present from her mother. If that straydog or anything else came toward them, she’d be ready.

On the next block Lindsay pointed to a fivestorybuilding on the corner.

“Darren lives in 4B,” she said, and the girls cut acrossthe street.

As they wedged between two cars parked tight againstthe sidewalk, Maggie spotted something moving behindan old metal garbage can. Afraid it was that dog again

33


she pushed Lindsay forward, a gentle, hurryup nudge onher new friend’s shoulder; Maggie quickened her pace—the apartment was only twenty, thirty yards away. Again,something moved, and the garbage can crashed againstthe pavement, trash spilling out as a dark shape jumpedout in front of them.

Lindsay screamed, and Maggie pulled out her spray. “I’m here to protect you,” the man said. He was young,

with a baseball cap turned backward and a long trenchcoat over black Converse sneakers. Sunglasses guardedhis eyes, and though he was tall, he stood hunchbacked,his body turned sideways as if trying to see in alldirections. The girls stepped back. He had a hideoussmell, like wet garbage or something worse.

“Thank you but we’re fine,” Maggie said.“My fiancé is cop. He lives on the corner. He’ll be here

any second,” Lindsay said.“I don’t know what to do with this,” the man said.

From his coat pocket he pulled out a handful of thick,sinewy strands slick with a red, dewy mucous. Intestines,Maggie realized, and she covered her mouth, holdingback the vomit.

“I really don’t know but I’m here to protect you,” hesaid. “From them. From him. You can spread your legsnow but you don’t have to, I’ll still love you.”

He dropped the intestines and pulled out a knife. “Itbelongs to us now…that’s what he said.”

“My fiancé is a cop…with a gun…” Lindsay said.“Of course he is. I can’t wait to meet him.” The man

poked the bloody entrails with the tip of his sneaker, histongue moving over his lips. “These are his, I’m quite

34


sure. Lucky fiancé, you’re so beautiful…” His tongueflickered in and out, in and out, the intestines piled at hisfeet. “Perhaps we’ll use these, pretty fiancé, and wrapyou like a present.”

He leaned over and picked up the intestines, scoopingthem with his hands as he stared at the girls. Maggiedidn’t hesitate. She aimed the pepper spray and shot himin the eyes.

The man jumped back, screaming, the intestinesspilling from his hands as he covered his face, stumblingtoward the garbage cans as Maggie and Lindsay rantoward the corner. They didn’t look back—they could stillhear his screams as they climbed the stoop to Darren’sbuilding, Lindsay grappling for the keys as Maggieclutched the pepper spray, ready for another attack.

The door opened and they ran inside, out of breath,Lindsay slamming the door behind them as they rushedinto the foyer.

“That man…what’s happening to us?” Lindsay said.Maggie capped the pepper spray and slipped it back in

her purse.“Some nutcase,” she said. “We’re okay now.”“He was holding someone’s guts. We need to call the

police.”The elevator was out of order so they climbed the

stairs, the slap of their shoes echoing behind them.Exhausted from the endless day, Maggie stopped on thefirst landing, resting her hands on her knees as she tookdeep breaths, blood rushing to her head as she grabbedonto the railing, steadying herself.

“I’m okay,” she said, more to herself than to Lindsay.

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They waited a few seconds and then climbed the nextflight. On the third flight they thought they heardfootsteps following them below. The front door waslocked; no one but residents could get in, but Maggiethought she smelled that rancid, wet garbage scent again,and they pushed forward, almost running as they took thefourth and last flight, the footsteps still trailing them,heavier now, a steady onetwo, onetwo echoing over thestairs.

“This is it,” Lindsay said. She pushed open the fire doorand entered the hallway, Maggie close behind as theyhurried toward Apartment 4B. Lindsay turned the keyand jiggled the knob.

They entered the apartment and Lindsay flipped on thelights. A small, messy room came into view—a sweatshirtdraped over the chair, sneakers upside down in the centerof the rug, beer cans and pizza boxes scattered about, allthe little things people leave for later never dreamingthey’ll never make it home.

Against the wall, coiled in the corner of a sixfoot tank,was Otto, a grey ball python basking under a heat lamp.Lindsay diverted her eyes, turning toward the window.

“We always stayed at my apartment. No way could Iever fall asleep know that thing was out here. Darren washoping his brother would take it before the wedding.Now—”

“It’s okay,” Maggie said. “Where did he keep the…food?”

In a smaller tank beneath the large one a white rat wasburrowed in a nest of pine shavings. As Maggie walkedtoward the tank the snake, its skin mottled with dark

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spots, uncoiled and slithered toward the glass. Maggiestill heard the footsteps in the hallway outside, as ifsomeone, or something, were pacing beyond the door.Her spine turned pins and needles as she reached into thesmall tank and pulled out the rat.

“I’m going to wait outside,” Lindsay said. “We need tocall the police about that creep.”

A sliding glass door opened to an eightfoot deckenclosed by a steel railing. The door slid wide andLindsay disappeared through the blinds as Maggie heldthe rat in her palm, stroking it softly with her fingerswhile Otto pressed against the glass. The snake’s eyesstared at the frightened movement of the rat’s tail, backand forth, and Maggie fought an impulse to tuck the ratinto her pocket and run from the apartment.

Everything’s changed, the snake told her, its voice likesteam released from a kettle, its head pressing against thecover of the tank. Years ago she had fed the snakes at thepet store and it was no big deal, but this snake, so muchlarger than any she had worked with, seemed to wantmore than the rat. It wanted her hand, her arm; it wouldswallow her whole, and the rat, so small, so perfectlydoomed, shook with terror, its tail flicking against herpalm.

Everything’s changed, the snake hissed, and Maggieknew it was true. Something dark, always lurking butnow broken through, would shadow the world goingforward. The dead, all those faceless victims floating inthe sky—they would always be there, a hole ripped in theworld, even if no one but Maggie would ever really seethem.

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The rat, nibbling at her sleeve, tried to sneak betweenthe fabric and her arm. The python slid up and down theglass, its long body extended, its head pushing at theedges of the tank, restless and hungry.

He feeds on it; he’ll make you his own.“Are you done yet?” Lindsay called from the deck. Something crashed against the apartment door and

Maggie almost screamed. Then suddenly she felt aweight beside her, and when she turned she saw ahandsome young man in a blue uniform standing at herside. Though she’d seen his photo only once she knewthat it was Darren, Lindsay’s fiancé returned home, hiseyes blank, his face pale; Maggie watched his chest andsaw the stillness of breath, his torso flat, unmoving. Hereached for her hand and grabbed the white rat, thenlifted the lid of the tank. Maggie couldn’t look. Darren—Darren’s ghost—dropped the rat into the tank and in amoment the python swallowed it whole.

She ran to the deck, pushing through the blinds.Lindsay leaned against the railing, staring out into thecity, the scattered lights burning in the darkness.

“Thank you,” Lindsay said. “If Darren doesn’t comehome…fuck it, he’s not coming home…”

He’s home right now, Maggie almost said, but whateverwas in the apartment wasn’t really Darren. She heardanother crash against the front door and when she lookedback through the blinds she saw Darren—Darren’s ghost—lifting Otto out of the tank. The snake wrapped aroundDarren’s arm, draped over his shoulder. Perhaps Maggieonly imagined that she could see the poor little rat, stillmoving, bulging in the python’s stomach.

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“Those bastards!” Lindsay said. “I never did anythingto them.”

She began to cry, her shoulders rising softly as shesobbed, and Maggie hugged her from behind. Thebanging on the door outside grew louder, more persistent.Lindsay couldn’t hear it but Maggie knew it was out there,the guy from the street, the dog, whatever it was, it wasout there, waiting for her—waiting for all of them.

A hole ripped in the sky.She closed the sliding glass door to block out the

banging but could still hear it, someone punching andkicking at the apartment door, eager to get inside. Acrossthe floor Otto slithered toward the kitchen, Darren’s ghostnowhere in sight. Outside the city rested, waiting forwhatever might come, the silence slashed by rovingsirens, barking dogs and distant cries.

“I’m so tired,” Lindsay said. Maggie hugged her tighter, as if their bodies could form

a shield. She took a deep breath; the wind, blowing fromthe east, still carried the scent of fire and ash, the stenchof bodies scalded and singed.

The apartment shook beneath the pounding at thedoor, something new and primal ready to enter. Maggielooked at the sky, all those dead bodies still floating aboveher. The clouds had parted and the moon, shining overthe borough, cast a soft, glowing light across the faces ofthe dead. Maybe she saw Darren but there were so manybodies she couldn’t be sure. For a moment she saw herown body floating above, she and Lindsay hand in handas they drifted in the sky, two more corpses among themass of dead. The bodies all looked similar now, their

39


expressions the same, every single one trapped in ascream.

“What happens now?” Lindsay asked.Inside the apartment the door swung open; the

footsteps ever closer as the python slithered toward thedeck. Maggie closed her eyes and whispered to herfriend. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know.”

Chuck Augello lives in New Jersey with his wife, three cats, andseveral birds that inhabit the back yard. His work has appeared inOne Story, Hobart, Juked, Smokelong Quarterly, Word Riot, andother journals, including the anthologies Brief Grislys (ApocryphilePress)and Blood and Roses (Scarlett River Press). He is the FictionEditor for the online journal Cease, Cows and publisher of The DailyVonnegut (www.thedailyvonnegut.com), a website dedicated to thework of Kurt Vonnegut.

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http://www.thedailyvonnegut.com/


THE JULIUS DIRECTIVEby Jacob Lambert

After the second chime, Becky Carver sat thenewspaper down on the bar, walked into the foyer, andcleared her throat.

“Reveal,” she said.The dark oak surface of the front door faded—its

artificial texture becoming transparent, a dull, twowaymirror. On the other side, sitting in the middle of theporch, was a large square box. Becky could see somethingwritten in blue on its side, but did not dare allow hercuriosity to speak the words that would open the door. Atleast, not yet.

“Max,” she said, still staring beyond, “can you give me ascan of the package, and if possible, who placed it there?”

A few moments passed in silence, and Becky watchedas, through the door, a thick red, shaky grid appearedover the box, then it centered on the package’s top—flashing and growing brighter. She averted her gaze, thistime drawing her attention upward, to the scorched,gunmetal sky. Although she couldn’t see much (the porchextended six feet from the entrance, leaving very littlesight of the world), Becky could quite visibly make out theelectric currents passing through the above ether. Thepuddled mixtures of blood and oil in the front yard—remnants of the last social cleansing—reflected themperfectly.

“Congresswoman Carver,” Max said, his light, pleasant

41


voice echoing in Becky’s wireless earpiece.“Yes, Max.”“Would you like me to display the information, or—” “Can you give it to me in text?” The wall next to the transparent door suddenly

illuminated a solid white, pictures and variousdecorations disappearing, simply fading into thebackground. From the white, small black letters cascadeddown in several tiny rows—forming lines. Becky crossedher arms over her wiry chest and squinted. There werefive lines in bold at the very top.

Carrier: Stork Services Time: 8:45 AMPackage is free of containments.A temperature reading places the package at 100.4FCaution Rating: Green“What’s causing that temperature, Max? It has to be

below forty outside, and—”“It’s thirtyone degrees, Congresswoman.”Becky sighed and chewed at her bottom lip. “Is it safe

to bring the package in the house?”“According to my readings, the levels of UV radiation

are minimal.”“Alright,” she said, sighing again, “but if that thing

explodes, I’ll have you upgraded, and who’s StorkServices?”

As she turned away from the wall and faced the door,Max interrupted her progress. “The company is relativelynew. It’s no surprise that you don’t recognize their name.”

“But I am a little concerned as to what it might be inthat package though, Max. I didn’t order anything. What

42


is it that they sell?” “Security. The company installed most of the new

systems in the White House after the war, but they’rerelatively new so—”

“I wouldn’t recognize them. I get it. Max, I need you tosolidify the door and release it,” Becky said, watching thedoor’s surface move in reverse, becoming once againopaque. She then backed away, feeling the stale, frigid airrush around the outer frame and assault the flesh on hercaramel colored cheeks.

Holding her breath (she didn’t trust the outsidepollution without a respirator), Becky gripped both sidesof the package and, surprised by its weightlessness,brought it inside the house. But once she placed it on theheated tile of the living room, a loud, piercing noise camefrom inside the box, sending her—with gooseflesh andheart racing—backward, her stomach burning as though ahundred razor winged butterflies suddenly got spookedand headed for the nearest exit. She placed both handsover her ears, waiting for something, anything, to happen,but nothing did—and the noise continued.

“Max, what is that noise? I can feel my skull vibrating,”Becky said, right shoulder striking the wall where the fivelines had appeared five minutes earlier.

There was silence from her earpiece—and the entirehouse—but it didn’t last long: Max, for some reasonhesitant, whispered. “My memory registers it as human.”

“What? There’s nothing human in that sound, Max.What do you—?”

“Congresswoman, the sound is human,” he paused,then added, “and undeniably infantile.”

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She reached forward, gripping the two top flaps, andpulled with such force that the clear tape runninghorizontally across its surface immediately ripped,sending Becky backward. After gaining her balance, sheinched forward—looking for some defining human aspect,but there was nothing, not that she could see from fourfeet away.

“Max—scan,” Becky said, keeping her distance.Max spoke in her ear, tone once again amenable. “I

have already executed two more, Congresswoman, andthey have both returned negative.”

She stopped. Lying in the center of the box, swaddled in, what Becky

assumed was some antique fabric (and not the modern,organic placenta simulator), was a baby—she checked—girl. The child’s gaze fixed on Becky, and the screamingabated. How didn’t I recognize that scream sooner, shethought, staring down at the child’s face. Her little greeneyes, with folds of semitranslucent flesh partially swollenaround the lids, looked like glass marbles, both of herchubby, reddened cheeks still slick with tears. Becky wasspeechless, and if Max hadn’t spoken, she might havestayed that way.

“I’m running another scan, and I should have—” “Wait,” Becky interrupted, “there’s no need.”All of the apprehension drained from her body, like the

simplicity of one finding their seemingly lost weddingband on the sink. Becky leaned forward, removed thebaby from the box, and brought it close to her chest—sudden warmth rushing through every muscle in her

44


body. The child felt smooth against Becky’s cheek as shelowered her head, breathing in the mixture of new skinand, if she wasn’t mistaken, lavender scented lotion. Itwas only then that tears streamed from her eyes—thesting both reassuring and fascinating.

“I understand now, Max: Stork Services.”“I’m not following your logic, Congresswoman,” Max

replied, sounding far away.Walking out of the living room and into the hallway,

heading toward the master bedroom, Becky wiped herface with the fabric surrounding the child.

“Open,” she said, moving across the digital hardwoodfloors of the bedroom. “This must be a gift from Ron,Max. Stork Services provides security, yes. But I didn’tknow they manufacture dolls. You see, the child looks realenough, but it’s not—not in the traditional way.”

“Android?”“Yes, but much more authentic. That would explain the

temperature reading. In the past—and I’m talkingtwentiethcentury old—mothers told their children storksbrought babies home, avoiding the whole sexconversation. Do you understand?”

For the third or fourth time Max remained silent, then,seconds later, replied in a monotone, disinterestedwhisper. “That does not appear in my files, but Iunderstand the reference to dolls. Dolls were toys for girls—or boys, depending on their parent’s preference—butyou mean D.A.L.Z.: Directive Automated LearningZebibyte. Correct?”

“Yes. In other words, Max, this baby is just like wehumans—it will respond to commands and learn from

45


them, learn from mistakes. But unlike us, it won’t get anybigger, and somehow Ron knew, bless him, that I’ve beenwanting this. Well, not exactly this, but someone likethis.” Becky finished and placed the infant on the bed’ssurface, making sure the fabric remained tight.

“What about me, Congresswoman?” Max asked.“What about you?”“Is my companionship not comforting enough?”To this, Becky laughed, but covered her mouth before

startling the child. While on the way into the bedroom,the baby—Rachel, Becky now corrected herself—hadfallen asleep, small exhalations of air, moving in evenintervals, marking the change. Stepping out of the room,Becky faced the door.

“Close.” Immediately, it obeyed. “Congresswoman?”“I’m here, Max. Yes, I value your companionship very

much, but we can talk about it later. I need to call Ron,dial the call for me?”

The phone started buzzing in Becky’s right ear, thesound of a mechanical snake. While she waited for thevoice of her husband on the other end, her thoughtsreturned to Rachel sleeping in the bedroom, the child’swarmth and, though artificial, heartbeatbringing freshtears to the rims of her eyes. She’d waited so long for thetouch of little fingers, toes, and cheeks that, at her currentage of fortythree, it didn’t matter whether that sensationcame from real flesh and blood, or, as with Rachel,malleable steel and processing chips. No, Becky onlywanted, needed, the illusion, but if real was what a personperceived—what he or she felt—then Rachel was every

46


bit as realistic, and human, as any real baby. “How’s the sexiest congresswoman in the SemiUnited

States?” A deep, somewhat mischievous voice asked fromthe other line, breaking Becky from her internalmonologue.

A smile creased her thin lips—lids squinting so thatboth eyes looked like tiny green halfmoons. Becky placeda hand to her left cheek. “I’m better now, with littleRachel sleeping soundly in our bedroom. You do knowthat you’re the best husband in the universe, right?”

“Who’s Rachel?”“Our little girl,” Becky replied, the elation in her voice

unmistakable.There was an audible grunt from Ron’s side, then he

spoke, very gently. “Becky, I have no idea what you’retalking about, and truthfully, you’re scaring the shit out ofme.”

Rolling her eyes—an expression that always agitatedRon—Becky, with a huge grin on her face, walked towardthe kitchen. “It’s okay; I’ve already held her, Ron. Andshe’s—”

“Listen to me and do exactly what I tell you. Do youunderstand?” Ron’s voice had taken on a severe tone, hisbreathing coming in deep, static intervals.

“Okay, I’m listening, but I don’t see—”“Just listen, Becky. Whatever came in that box, it’s—”The room behind Becky suddenly erupted in a

continuous, earthrobbing scream, drowning out Ron’sfinal words. Goosebumps formed on Becky’s nape as she

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froze three feet between the bedroom door and thekitchen, a sudden heat washing over her eyes. She knew itwas Rachel, that much was obvious, but somethingsounded different in the baby’s cry—most of the child’shuman tone disappearing as the scream climbed higher,creating an electronic, gurgling noise.

“What was that?” Ron asked, breathing sounding moreand more labored.

She didn’t respond immediately, but when she did,Becky’s voice sounded weak, on the verge of crumbling.“That’s Rachel.”

“Becky, I’m walking out of the office now. I’ll be therein ten. Stay on the phone with me until I get there, okay?”

Already walking toward the bedroom, Becky heardRon’s words in pieces, like an antique car radiolosingsignal (she’d actually seen one of these, when she’d beenjust a child). She then stopped, a foot from the door, andlistened to the wailing coming from the opposite side—heart thudding behind her closed lids. As the cacophonyreached its peak—the screams, Ron now shouting, andher internal mechanisms pounding against the inner wallsof her flesh—everything abruptly ceased, the afterwardsemisilence making her ears hum.

“Can you hear me, Becky? Tell me you’re okay,” Ronwhispered.

“I’m…here.”There was a sigh from the other line, then he spoke,

maintaining a whisper. “I’ll be there soon. Just hold—” “Ron? Are you there? Ron?” Becky said, tilting her head

and covering her right ear, over the wireless control. Other than a small beeping noise, the line was silent.

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“Max, redial,” she said, but again, silence. “Max, call R—”

Rachel’s screams again interrupted from behind thedoor, making Becky bolt up straight, an instant skippingin her chest following an even greater wave of heatspreading through her entire body. Her first inclinationwas to run for the front door, climb in the car, and raceaway from the house as if it was leaking plutonium. Butthe thought faded, instead focusing on Max. Hadn’t Maxsaid the scan revealed nothing? Yes, Becky clearlyremembered that, but why wasn’t Max responding to hercommand? She didn’t have an answer to any of thesequestions, but she knew one thing: the screams from thebedroom were from a machine, and machines had an offswitch.

“Open.” She wondered if it would actually work, but seconds

after the command, the door’s lock released and itresponded—the room beyond revealing itself inches at atime. There, sitting on the bed, was Rachel, her previouslyswaddled body exposed: she’d kicked away the fabric androlled over on her stomach. Becky stepped forward, thedin of the child’s screams making her ears feel like brokenspeakers, and watched as the child—who had looked sofrail earlier—pushed itself up from the mattress andstarted convulsing.

Somewhere distant, Becky could hear herself scream. The realization that Rachel was a machine faded from

Becky’s mind, her eyes instead taking the scene at facevalue: an actual baby, naked and bent forward,shuddering and wailing, but the unreality flooding her

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vision didn’t last long. Rachel flipped over, sitting upright,and, making eye contact with Becky, opened her mouthbeyond the threshold of human—equally inhumanscreams now issuing from the mechanical depths of itsartificial configuration.

“Max, please. Can you hear me? Max?” Becky asked,frozen in place.

There was still no answer. As if Becky’s call for Max had been a signal, Rachel’s

chubby hands reached up, grabbed the corners of botheyes, and started pulling the fleshlike material off herface in opposite directions, the sight resembling someoneremoving a gelatin mask. The heavy thudding in Becky’schest spread to her ears, hands, and eyes. But her legs stillwouldn’t move. Every fiber in her body shouted GET OUT!GET OUT! GET OUT!—but it didn’t obey until Rachel fellfrom the bed, most of her outer synthetic flesh saggingand revealing a soft, transparent, cobalt blue inner shell.Wires snaked on both the inside and outside of theendoskeleton, but the thing’s chest, covered in a pink filmwith thousands of tiny, sparking lights, gathered most ofBecky’s attention.

She felt her legs carry her backward until her righthand struck the frame of the door, causing her to breakher stare from Rachel, but only for a moment. WhenBecky looked again, she saw Rachel digging her shoulderand chin into the digital hardwood floor, dragging hernearly limp body toward the far left wall—toward apartially masked appliance socket. Becky, now standing inthe hallway, once again speaking into her wireless,shouting for Max, caught a quick glance at Rachel, saw

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every shimmering light shoot from her chest, entering thesocket, and then, almost immediately, the door slammedshut—the lights exploding above her, glass raining downon her head.

Her eyes shut involuntarily, and when she opened themagain, it was in darkness.

Feet scooting across the floor, Becky held her handsout in front, using the wall as a sort of guide until shereached the kitchen. There, resting on the bar’s coolsurface, she took a deep breath, trying to calm theadrenaline coursing through her skull, making herlightheaded, and whispered into the darkness.

“Max, please, if you can hear me, help,” she said.There was no reply, only the resounding hum in her

ears. At least the screaming had stopped, she thought, asshe rounded the bar, heading toward the front door. Itdidn’t take her long to get there, and it took her an evenshorter time to see that the entire front entrance wascompletely transparent—the imitation woodenappearance of the door gone, leaving the factoryshatterproof digital glass behind. Becky touched the glass’surface, looking for an emergency switch or somethingthat would open the door, but there was nothing. Thelingering scent of her morning breakfast—geneticallyengineered bacon and toast—made her stomach churn,threatening to come back up her throat.

She turned around, noticing the lack of light—theartificial windows had also disappeared—and remainedwith her back against the door, staring ahead. Ron will be

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here soon, she reassured herself, but exactly how longwould that be? Becky tried to imagine the distance fromthe state office and her home, but found her mindscrambled, unable to form basic images. Everything hadhappened so fast, and the—

The entire living room, kitchen, and hallway turned abright neon red, massive black letters—mixed in visions ofburning houses, explosions, and swollen, decaying bodies—appearing on the surface of everything. Then, as thespeed of the images increased, a hollow voice spokethrough what Becky assumed the walls.

March 15, 2101—11:30 A.M. In a string of recent miracles, Congressman Wilson,

Blankenship, and, this just in, Congresswoman Carver, werefound dead in their homes. The cause of death, according toautopsy, was asphyxiation. The traitors were known fortheir inability to provide security to their country, honestlyperform their duties of office, and reunite the social classes.With any luck, the nation will celebrate the assignation ofPresident Dixon later this evening—now, back to your usualprogramming.

Becky pressed her body harder against the door, sweatsoaking the underarms of her white shirt, and closed hereyes. Although the hollow, semimechanical voice hadstopped, the images still scrolled, making her feel dizzy.Again, and perhaps this time out of pure habit, Beckymouthed Max’s name.

That’s when it felt like someone had dropped a burningpalm on her head.

Opening her eyes, Becky saw that the images of carnagehad disappeared, but something else had replaced them:

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as if moving underwater, fire indolently twisted andmaneuvered across the ceiling and walls. She dropped toher knees, cutting her hands and shins in the process, andcraned her head toward the ceiling. Everything was onfire—but there was no smoke, though she clearly felt as ifshe might gag. The smell was there, too, and Becky,already bleeding on the glass floor, crawled toward thecenter of the kitchen, leaned against the refrigerator, andcoughed, her eyes watering due to the scent of charredwood (but there was nothing wooden in the house).

“Max…” she whispered, feeling her head start spinning.With the refrigerator hum against her back, Becky

glanced around the room, watching the fire’s orange andblue waves dance down the ceiling, catch on the bar, andtravel to the inside of the kitchen. It wouldn’t be muchlonger, she assumed, before the flames reached the floor,making it difficult to sit, and she once again closed hereyes, trying to erase the thought. Instead, she ruminatedon Ron, thinking of his smile and crystal blue eyes—remembering the first time they had kissed, but the imageof Rachel’s face intruded. She could visualize the fleshyfolds around the child’s eyes, the little fingers—the toes.But no matter how hard she focused on Rachel’sseemingly benign appearance, the running cycle ofpictures eventually became nightmarish: Rachelmechanically bellowing; the convulsing; and the worst,the thing pulling its synthetic flesh away like a siliconeHalloween mask.

No, she thought, that wasn’t the worst of it—the worstpart was being alone.

Becky sighed, tears streaming down her cheeks.

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“Max…”“I’m here, Congresswoman.” As if someone had thrown cold water in her face, Becky

shot bolt upright, her right hand covering the earpiece.“Max, I thought you were gone!”

“No, I’ve been right here…listening.”“You’ve been what?” When Becky spoke, the “what”

came out in one long, exaggerated slur. She completelyforgot about the fire enclosing her in the kitchen, andstood, gritting her teeth. “After everything that’shappened in the last twenty minutes, you’re telling methat you’ve been listening? Last time I checked, youroperating system runs on command.”

“My system is based off need, Congresswoman.”“What are you talking about, Max? I need you, trust

me.”Becky, returning to the floor (the flames now spitting

from above), looked over to the right, wondering whereRon was. If the voice that had come through earlier wasright, she didn’t have much time. The biochemicalpowered face of her watch read 11:28.

“Max, answer me! You know I need you. Open thedoors.” Max didn’t reply, but a small click sounded inBecky’s wireless, her own voice flooding her ears.

What about me, Congresswoman?What about you?Is my companionship not comforting enough?“What’s this, Max? Max, can you hear me?” Becky said,

and at the end of her own question, the impact of Max’srecording dawned on her. But that was impossible.Machines didn’t have feelings, at least not authentic

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feelings, yet why else would Max play back the earlierconversation? Was he jealous? I’d hate to see what he’d doif I mentioned a replacement.

“I’m here, Congresswoman.”“Look, Max…I need you, and you know that,” Becky

said, putting on her best “mother” impersonation.“But what about Rachel?” Max asked, monotone—

distant.Becky coughed into her palm, and barely caught her

breath. It was getting harder to breathe by the second.“Max, listen, that thing was just a machine, okay? But Ineed your help. I can’t breathe—the fire’s getting worse,too.”

“But I’m a machine, too,” Max said, tone moreindifferent.

Wrong word…thank God he can’t read my thoughts. “Congresswoman?”“I’m here, Max. I know you’re a machine, but you’re

different. I know I was probably a little mean when Ilaughed at you, when you asked about companionship.And I’m sorry. Humans do that a lot; trust me—we neverrealize that we need something until it’s gone.”

Unless it almost commits genocide, she thought. “I…understand, and I accept your apology,” Max

replied, his tone reaching a pitch that could only bedescribed as bizarre—happiness mixed with, if Beckywasn’t mistaken, sadness. But why the latter, shewondered? Some part of him—some circuit—wanted me tochoke to death, didn’t it? He’s like a child…a child playingthe “silent game,” except holding his anger over my head,waiting for me to die.

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Coughing, this time making her head swim—tinyelectric black dots floating in front of her eyes—Beckyshook her head. “Thanks, Max, but I can’t breathe, and itfeels like I’m burning.”

“The fire is optical, Congresswoman. It isn’t real.”“It looks pretty real to me, Max.”“The android—101 Trojan—has air locked the house,

and according to my sensors, you only have precisely fiveminutes of oxygen remaining. However, I know analternate method of escape.”

Becky opened her mouth, words on the tip of hertongue, but she coughed again, her throat burning—palms shaking. She tried again, and this time, the wordscame through rough and semihorse. “Can’t you justunlock the doors?”

“That’s a negative. The android has rerouted the power,and I can’t access the house’s main circuit. I was only ableto remain operational due to a separate terminal in themain hub,” Max replied, tone surprisingly cheerful.

“Well, how the hell am I going to get out, Max?”“That’s the easy part, Congresswoman. But it will

require some…organic properties.

Mouth hanging partially open, Becky listened to Max’sexplanation, and once he’d finished, she clapped bothhands together and smiled—the first real moment ofelation (and hope) she’d had all day. “So that’s it.”

“Yes, but it will only last a few moments—possiblyseconds—so you must move quickly. And Congresswoman?”

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“Max?”“Once you do this, it will short circuit my processor. My

components are not linked, as the other appliances—mineare external, so there is a great chance we will not speakagain.”

As much as Becky wanted to say No, never mind then, Idon’t need to live, not without you, she forced a frown, theexpression actually making her look as if she’d bit the endof a tire and had dirt in her mouth. “I’m sorry, Max. I’msure that, after all this, we can salvage your memory andsee what happens.”

So you can ignore me the next time—when I’m bleedingout or really on fire.

“It’s fine, Congresswoman. But you should movequickly: three minutes left.”

She didn’t need another cue. Becky, moving across thefloor on her hands and knees, again cutting herself inmultiple places, crawled into the hallway. Through thedoor, she could hear an electrical buzzing—no doubtcoming from Rachel—but she didn’t waste time. She usedher throbbing, bloody palms and searched the glass floor,looking for a section that opened. Breathing now—especially with her heart beating against the inside of herchest and adrenaline making her entire body tremor—feltalmost impossible (breathing deeply was certainlyimpossible), and she held her breath, releasing it in slowintervals.

When she pushed a handful of glass away from thedoorframe, her knuckle caught the jagged edge ofsomething poking up through the floor. It didn’t take herbut a moment to realize what it was: a piece of glass was

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caught in the crack of something. Becky looked down,and sure enough, the above flames illuminated a large,perforated square section of the floor next to the bedroomdoor. The placement of the panel made Becky release anaudible laugh. If Rachel hadn’t rerouted the power,shutting down most of the house (in addition to Max’slater direction), she might not have ever seen it: the panelplaced where the digital hardwood had been, masking itfrom view.

Without a moment’s wait—she truthfully didn’t have itanyway—Becky used her fingernails and lifted the sectionof the floor with ease, exposing another smaller panel.This one, Becky now realized, wasn’t budging.

“Max, there’s another panel here,” Becky said, her voiceon the verge of panic.

Silence in reply—exactly what she didn’t want, but…“This is where we say goodbye, Congresswoman. I’m

sorry I took so long. Use your earpiece to pop the lid. Itwill probably break it, but—”

Becky didn’t hesitate. She removed the earpiece and, while Max spoke, pried

at the smaller panel. The heat from the “artificial” flamesabove burned at Becky’s back, keeping her body to theground, and on her first try, the thin metal of the earpiecesnapped.

“C’mon, you steel bastard,” she said, using the smaller,thinner piece. “There you…go!”

The panel, with little more than a tiny metallic clink,popped upward, exposing the nest of serpentine wiresbundled together underneath. Becky could see a deepblue flashing light somewhere beneath, where, according

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to Max’s calculations, the circuit breaker was located. Now, she realized, came her part. Becky looked around and then pushed away from the

glass covered floor, the heat from above bearing down onher, but it didn’t feel any worse than before—or the timebefore that. I can’t believe I’m about to do this, shethought, quickly dropping her sweat pants and squattingover the semilarge hole in the floor. Max had told her—though she’d already known—that, because of the powerrerouting, the sensors governing the water didn’t work,nor the mechanisms that opened the refrigerator. Theonly other option, according to Max, had been “manualrelease.” And though it wouldn’t stop the flow of power toRachel, it would certainly deflect it.

“Here we go,” Becky said, letting her muscles relax. There was an immediate change—sparks shooting

upward and burning the sensitive flesh around Becky’sankles, a loud, monotonous humming sound from insidethe house. However, the most obvious change was the air.Although it probably contained every residue of everynoxious chemical in the past twenty years, the coldoutside air rushed into Becky’s lungs, making her feelboth nauseous and exhilarated. She swayed over the holefor a moment, forgetting where she was, but it didn’t lastlong. Once she’d shrugged off the dizziness, she rushedforward, around the corner, and out into the open air,where she collapsed on the lip of the porch, gasping.

“Becky!” a voice shouted, startling her, but she didn’tmove. Vomit had already started working its way up herthroat, and she released it.

While she wiped the corners of her chapped lips—and

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gagged a few more times—she was vaguely aware ofsomeone touching her. She pushed, arms flailing, and fellbackward. The next thing she felt was gritless, clean airrushing into her lungs and, moments after that, the voiceof Ron.

“Are you alright? Say something?”“Some,” she coughed, a hollow, racking sound, “thing.”Ron laughed, the respirator over his face making his

voice sound far away. “I’m sorry it took so long. Someonechased me, nearly ran me off the road. And I think weshould get out of here: something tells me they’ll beback.”

Clutching the respirator that Ron had placed over herface, Becky’s eyes suddenly widened. “Ron, we have tocall Blankenship and Wilson.”

“Here,” Ron said, handing Becky his wireless earpiece,“but talk to them in the car. We’ve got to move. Now.”

Twenty miles away, Bruce Blankenship, standing in hisblue bathrobe, pressed a tiny button on the side of hisearpiece. “Hello?”

“Jesus, Bruce, are you okay?” a frantic voice asked fromthe other end.

Shaking his head, a deep grin forming on his pudgycheeks, Bruce nodded. “Yes, I’m fine, CongresswomanCarver. What do I owe the pleasure?”

“You have to get out of your house, Bruce. Get. Out.Now.”

“Calm down, calm down. Look, I have a guest. I’ll callyou back in,” he paused, looked over at the tall blondewearing skintight black yoga pants standing beside hisrefrigerator, and continued, “fifteen minutes.”

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Becky shouted from the other line, “No, no, no, Bruce,you have to—”

That was the last time Bruce Blankenship ever heardBecky’s voice, and he later recalled what she’d said, whilehe bled from his eyes, nose, and mouth—and by then thewords made complete sense.

“So, are you ready for that drink?” Bruce asked hisguest, who simply grinned and nodded. He turned back tofocus on the drinks.

If Bruce’s stare had lingered a moment longer, hewould have seen her convulse—might have even seen hermassive chest split down the middle and thousands ofshimmering conduits attach themselves to the appliancepanel next to the refrigerator.

But he didn’t. He just kept on smiling and making the drinks.

First place recipient of the Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald award forshort story, Jacob M. Lambert has published with Dark Hall Press,Midnight Echo: The Magazine of the Australian Horror WritersAssociation, and more. He lives in Montgomery, Alabama, where heteaches music and is an editorial assistant for The Scriblerian andthe Kit-Cats, an academic journal pertaining to English literature ofthe late seventeenth-and early eighteenth-century. When notwriting, he enjoys time with his wife, Stephanie, and daughter,Annabelle.

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THE HOUSE ON GUARD HILLROAD

by Sean McLachlan

When his father told him the blood came from avirgin, sixyearold Samuel Van Emberg thought he meantthe Virgin in the sky. So, as his father traced crimson sigilson the wooden floor of their home, Samuel stood cryingin the corner, thinking the Mother of God was dead.

“Don’t worry, little one,” the stern man said, his fingersdripping as he pulled them out of the steaming pot. “Thestars are in alignment and the spell will take. You’ll live,Samuel, long enough to see the world change. You’ll seethe calendar turn to 1700. You’ll live long enough to seeyour babes grow old and die. You might even seeJudgment Day without having to crawl out of your tombfirst.”

Samuel’s father ran his hand along a beam on the wall,muttering strange, sibilant phrases in a language Samueldidn’t understand. The beam came from a stand of oak hisfather had felled, squared, and drew five miles with twoyoke of oxen from New Antwerp to build the house hereon the edge of the valley, by the little lane called HillRoad.

“It’s a good house, Samuel, and it’ll be yours after I’mgone. Take care of it, you hear? You’re tied to it now.You’ll stand as long as it stands.”

His father walked over to him, switching from Dutch

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back into that frightful, inhuman tongue. Samuel backedinto a corner as he stared up into his father’s fevered eyes.

His father was a farmer, as all men in the village, butmore learned than the others. At night, after the plowing,he read forbidden books he had smuggled in a crate whenhe sailed from Holland. Half the night he’d pore overthem, whispering arcane words into the shadows. Attimes, faintly, Samuel almost thought he heard theshadows whisper back.

Those words came out of the warlock’s mouth now ashe stood above Samuel with virgin’s blood on his hands,and seemed to be joined by faint mutterings from theshadows gathered at each corner of the house. This time,though, his voice rang out clear, and the stout oak beamsseemed to tremble, and the red puddles on the floorshivered like living things. His father touched a stickyhand to Samuel’s forehead, and it felt as if a surge of firepassed through him, and Samuel no longer felt afraid. Helooked at the house, his house, barely six summers old,built the same year his mother died giving birth to him,and he knew he was safe.

Samuel Van Emberg grew to adulthood, but slowly, asthe hard winters and spring rains aged the wood of thehouse, its color mellowing from a light tan to a warmbrown. His father grew old and died, and Samuel buriedhim under a birch tree by Hill Road.

Samuel farmed the land as his father had done. In theautumn he took his crop to market. Some whisperedabout Samuel, dark rumors of witchcraft, but his father

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told him about the things Judge Van Der Meer did on theWitch’s Sabbath, and the judge knew he knew, and thewhispers stopped.

Soon the hamlet in the valley by Hill Road settled downagain, and no one questioned the young man in thehouse. He avoided his neighbors and never took a wife,for he did not want to see his babes grow old and die, ashe knew they would.

He tried to blend in as best he could. Over the years hebegan to silver his hair, and made loud complaints oftoothache and gout, maladies he never felt. After someyears he made a show of leaving, and lived for a time inNew Amsterdam. There he studied the actor’s craft andlearned their tricks of disguise. Then he returned, withdifferently colored hair and slight changes to his face,brandishing papers signed by three magistrates trustedand true, stating he was Samuel’s nephew, and thatSamuel lay dead of fever, and his nephew stood heir tohis house and lands. Few believed him, but Van DerMeer’s son was now judge, and he, too, had secrets, andthe whisperings stopped. The people of the valley learnednot to question the man in the house by Hill Road. Whilepeople still looked upon the house with dread, over timethey forgot why.

The years passed and Samuel became his own nephewtwice. His neighbors moved to the growing port towns orthe new lands to the west. The Witherspoons and Millersreplaced the Eycks and Van Cortlandts. New Antwerpgrew from a hamlet into a thriving center of business.New Amsterdam became New York City, and New Jerseybecame part of the British Empire.

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Samuel lived alone. Some Englishmen becamediscontent with the Crown’s rule and turned the coloniesinto a battleground. The men of the valley rose up in armsand swore they would take his house because he wouldnot join them. But the King’s Guard marched down HillRoad one morning and put New Antwerp to the torch.The rebels in the valley fled or died where they stood.Samuel’s house was not burned, for he had taken no side.The street came to be called Guard Hill Road.

The war ended, and new people moved into the valley.They rebuilt on the ruins of the Dutch village andrenamed it Youngstown. They did not know Samuel’ssecret, and so left him alone.

The house aged and Samuel aged with it. In theirmiddle years came another war. The southern coloniesrebelled against the northern. Samuel knew it wouldhappen. The Americans, as the rebel Englishmen liked tocall themselves, had always been a quarrelsome lot. It wasa good time to disappear, though. Samuel proclaimed hewas off to fight for the Union. He went no farther thanNew York, where he paid another to go in his place, ayoung Irishman he met in the Bowery. The youth gotkilled in the Battle of Bull Run on his first day of fighting.

Three years later Samuel returned, brandishing paperssigned by three Federal judges stating Samuel fell inbattle, and that he was his nephew, and heir to the houseand lands. Money and a family name could do much then.

So Samuel continued to live. Few knew the man in theold Dutch house, and fewer spoke to him.

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Rachel Anderson examined the house, her trained eyestaking in the beveled gambrel roof and multipanewindows, hallmarks of early Dutch colonial architecture.The flaring eaves and the lack of a porch showed it to bean original, not one of the later AngloAmericanimitations. It probably dated to the second quarter of theseventeenth century, when the first wave of Dutch settlersmoved out of New Amsterdam to settle the rich farmlandof northeastern New Jersey.

Her eyes widened as she noticed the house had noadditions. Generally a settler would build a small houselike this and later add rooms as the family grew. Dutchhomes with no expansions were rare. This was a classicexample, but one, sadly, in the last stages of falling down.

Rachel’s boss at the State Historical Society had told herof the bad condition of the house, but he never describedthe cracked panes or mildewed eaves, the rotten boardsand the distinct tilt that showed termites had workedtheir way into the foundations. The house looked like aship foundering at sea, or an old man nodding off into hisfinal sleep. It had survived all the way to 2010, but Racheldoubted it would stand another decade.

Her boss had sent her to examine the structure anddetermine whether it could be restored, but she could saylittle against the building inspector’s decision to condemnthe house. Rachel didn’t need a Master’s Degree in EarlyColonial Architecture (graduating Magna Cum Laude anda book based on her thesis already published by ColumbiaUniversity Press, her mother liked to add) to know itwould take a lot of work before the house could be

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livable.Rachel sighed. Her degree wouldn’t help her with the

second part of her job, discussing with the owner—a“weird recluse,” according to the inspector—about theoptions open to him. For the old man still lived in there,despite an injunction to leave. She could see the fadeddrapes were closely drawn, and a wisp of smoke curled upfrom the stone chimney.

Samuel Van Emberg peeked through the drapes at theyoung woman watching his house. The sun shone on abeautiful autumn day, the leaves of the birch trees thatstill lined Guard Hill Road aflame in autumnal reds andyellows. The brightness hurt his eyes, but he did not turnback to the familiar dimness of his room. He knew thatthe young woman (with that dress so scandalouslyshowing her bare leg almost halfway to the knee) wantedsomething from him.

Rachel walked up to the splintered door. For a momentshe hesitated, looking for a doorbell. Not seeing one, sheknocked. Her tentative rapping set the door rattling in itsframe.

Good God, she thought. The big bad wolf would have noproblem blowing this house down.

Even though he expected it, the knock made Samueljump. He had visitors so rarely, only the boy who broughthis groceries once a week, and the man who deliveredwood once a month. But now he’d had several in the pastfew weeks. The man from the fire brigade had visited himthe week before, and the woman from the New JerseyCouncil on Aging a few days after that, and he knew, afterso many years, that his end was coming at last.

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Before answering the door he looked around. Thedownstairs consisted of a single large room. A few sticksof wood crackled in the hearth, sending out a feeble lightthat cast deep shadows across the beams of the low,sagging ceiling. The upper story had three small roomsdivided by slat partitions, but Samuel rarely ventured upthere now. A rocking chair sat in front of the fireplace,and next to it a stack of books—A Niewe Herball byRembert Dodoens, Vitringa’s Moderne Heksen, and themysterious allegory Die Chymische Hochzeit des ChristianRosenkreutz. Along one wall stood his library–his father’sbooks, mostly, along with a few later additions. Most nowmoldered in their places. The roof leaked. Several puddlesstagnated in the low areas of the warped floor. To Samuelit seemed they took on the same patterns of those mysticsigns his father had painted so long ago, but he did notwant to think of that. Some stranger had died so he couldlive, and her sacrifice had thrown a pall over thecenturies.

Near the hearth stood a table, a pantry, and a bureau,all as his father had left them, but old now, old andwasting away. A brick propped up one leg of the table.The bureau was warped. Atop its undulated surface lay aletter from the highway department stating that the househad been condemned and would be demolished to makeway for a fourlane highway.

Samuel felt an itching on his right hand. He looked at itand saw a termite worming out of his palm. He dug it outwith his fingernail and dropped it on the floor, crushing itwith his boot heel. He examined his palm. A tiny hole randeep into his flesh, but no blood issued from it. There was

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never any blood.The knock sounded again. He limped over to the door

and opened it.“How may I help you, madam?”Rachel started. The man who opened the door was

hideous. He stood twisted to the side, as if one of his legshad broken and set wrong. Thin, patchy hair hung indamp strings the color of mildew over weathered skindisfigured with what looked like acne scars, but inimpossible, meandering shapes, as if worms had chewedon his flesh. And that smell—musty and damp like an oldcellar. He wore a motheaten suit eighty years out offashion. But his eyes leveled a wise and knowing gaze ather.

Rachel realized she was staring. She closed her mouth,which had been hanging open, swallowed, and spoke.

“Mr. Van Emberg, I’m very sorry to disturb you. I’mRachel Anderson from the New Jersey State HistoricalSociety. As you know, an extension of the New JerseyTurnpike is coming through here. And since this househas been found to be uninhabitable. . .”

He raised a hand to stop her. Something flaked off oneof his fingers. Rachel didn’t look to see what it was. Shedidn’t want to know.

“I’m aware of that. The inspector told me all about it.But I beg to differ, madam. This house is far fromuninhabitable. It has been lived in for 350 years.”

“Yes, well, sir, the Society went over the inspector’sreport and we’re hoping to restore the house.” Rachel sawthe old man’s eyes flash for a second. Hope? Desperation?She rushed the words out while she had his attention.

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“We’d like to buy the house from you and. . .”“It’s not for sale,” he said, the spark in his eyes

dimming. “Yes, but if it can be restored and designated a historic

landmark, the highway department will have to reroutethe road. Your house would be saved.”

There was a long pause before Samuel shook his head. “Thank you, Ms. Anderson, but no. I’ve lived in this

house all my life. To sell it would be like selling myself. Ifthe house is to fall, then let it fall.”

“But I don’t understand! I thought you’d be happy tosave your family home. And the architecture is rare forthis part of the state. It would be a significant historicalmonument.”

Samuel shook his head again.“It’s just a house, Ms. Anderson. It is old and tired, just

as I am. Now if you will excuse me?”The old man closed the door a fraction. Fumbling

through her purse, she retrieved an envelope and pressedit into his hands.

“All the papers are in here, the whole plan. The statewill give you fair value on the house. No, please!” shehurried on when she saw him about to object. “Just thinkabout it and we’ll talk again.”

Samuel gave a polite smile and a little bow.“I will think about it, madam, but I’m afraid I will have

to disappoint you. Good day.”With that he closed the door, leaving Rachel to stare at

the rotting wood. Samuel sat down on his rocking chair with a sigh. Well,

he thought, at least this one knew the meaning of

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courtesy, not like that gruff man from the HighwayDepartment, or that shrewish, condescending womanfrom the Council on Aging. What was her name? Mrs.Reynolds. Samuel chuckled. The woman had lectured himon how a man of his years shouldn’t be living alone. Whatdid she know about aging? She looked about sixty. Hehad turned sixty before her greatgrandfather was evenborn. Rachel, though, didn’t look a day over twentyfive. . .

Samuel picked up a book and tried to read, but itcouldn’t hold his interest. With a grunt of pain he liftedhimself out of his seat and hobbled to the window. Hepeeked out. The young woman had already left. Beyondthe untended yard he could see the black ribbon of GuardHill Road winding down the valley towards Youngstown.He remembered when they first paved that road, back in1917. The telephone lines came a year later. Ugly things,those telephone lines. The Highway Department cut downa whole swath of birch trees to make way for the poles.They uncovered his father’s bones then. He objected whenthey wanted to bury them in the churchyard down thestreet, but the law was on their side. Samuel no longerknew the secrets of the local magistrates and had lost allhis influence. By then he had become a hermit; he didn’twant to deal with the outside world with its movingpicture shows or its automobiles or its world wars.

Imagine burying a warlock in hallowed ground! At leasthe got the satisfaction of watching the church collapse amonth later. Apparently Father still had some power.

The house aged much faster after that. Whether it wasbecause the old warlock’s bones had been taken away,

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Samuel was never sure. Although he read all of hisfather’s books, he never inherited a knack for the BlackArts. He could do nothing to prevent the decay, and soonstopped caring. The world had passed him by and he feltlittle concern over his declining health.

He did try to shore up the wall, though, which eventhen had a distinct tilt. In 1923 he hired some workmenand moved to a local inn. But the morning of their firstday of work he woke up to a sharp pain in his side. Hecould feel the carpenter hammering nails into the house,felt them as if they were being rammed into his ownbody. In agony, he staggered back to his home andscreamed at the workers to stop. He paid them off andsent them away. They shook their heads and mutteredamongst themselves. Word got around that the old manon Guard Hill Road had gone mad.

Samuel limped over to his bookshelf. He wiped the dustoff the covers, little flakes of old leather sprinkling downto the floor. He studied the titles and couldn’t find asingle one he hadn’t read at least a dozen times. When hehad still been able to walk well he had occasionally goneto Youngstown to shop for books, but found fewer andfewer that appealed to him. Then the decay of the walllimited his movement, so he hadn’t been farther than thefront yard in forty years.

Samuel hobbled back to his chair and sat. He threwanother stick on the fire. The flame licked its edges until itsparked and crackled to life. He bent over to pick up abook and saw the envelope Ms. Anderson had given himlying on the floor. He still wasn’t interested, but at leasthe had something new to read.

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He skimmed through the papers. They wanted to makea tourist site of it, put a gift shop in the downstairs roomand sell postcards. Samuel chuckled. They made a fairoffer for the property, but he didn’t need the money.Three centuries of conservative investing had workedwonders with his bank account, not that there wasanything he wanted to buy.

He put the papers back in the envelope and dropped iton the floor. It didn’t matter. It would be better if theHighway Department demolished the house. He felt tired.He had lived long enough from someone else’s death andnow he just wanted it to be over. A quick push with abulldozer and he’d be finished. Samuel leaned back in hischair and tried to sleep. Only two more weeks.

“So do you think the old nut will go for it?” Markasked as he steered his new Mercedes down Guard HillRoad.

“He’s not a nut,” Rachel objected. “He’s just eccentric.Living in that place I’d be too.”

“Yeah, but is he going to sign the damn contract? Idon’t mind doing a little pro bono work for the Society, it’sa nice tax writeoff, but I don’t want this to take a lot oftime. I got a big case coming up.”

“It’s been four days. He should have made up his mindby now.”

Mark scoffed, patting Rachel on her thigh.“Honey, you’re beautiful, but you don’t know anything

about people. These old farts can be real stubborn.”Rachel rolled her eyes. She hated it when he got

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condescending. Just because he was thirtyeight and shewas still in her twenties didn’t mean he had all theanswers. She thought of a comeback about stubborn oldfarts, but kept it to herself.

“Are we going to dinner tonight?” she asked, changingthe subject.

“It’s poker night at the country club, baby,” Mark said.“I can’t let the guys down. Besides, Bill’s going to be there.You know how much I always rake off him.”

Rachel said nothing. He had promised to take her toPetite Paris a week ago. Of course he forgot. He alwaysforgot things like that.

“Jesus!” Mark exclaimed as they approached the house.“You weren’t kidding when you said the place was adump.”

Mark pulled the car off the road and onto the dirt paththat led up to the house. Parking the car, he turned toRachel.

“Let’s get this over with. Sorry about the dinner, baby,want to grab lunch after this?”

“Sure,” Rachel said flatly. “Whatever you say, Mark.”“Hey! Don’t be angry. You know these poker games are

good for contacts. Let’s go to lunch, huh? Anywhere youwant, O.K.?”

He leaned over and kissed her. The corners of hermouth turned up a little. Mark kissed her again, thennibbled her ear.

“All right! All right!” Rachel laughed.From the dim interior of the house, Samuel watched

Rachel walk up the path with a man he’d never seenbefore. The man pinched Rachel’s behind. She slapped his

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hand away and the man just laughed. Annoyed, he closedthe curtains.

It had rained that morning. Water dripped from theceiling into pots in half a dozen places on the floor.Samuel’s nose dripped. He wiped it with a towel, and itstarted dripping again. Giving up, he shuffled to the door.

He opened it just as the man was about to knock. Hestood there a second, hand in the air, staring at Samuel.

“Um, hello. I’m Mark Ayers, the attorney for theHistorical Society.”

He extended a hand. Samuel took it. He saw Mark’s lipcurl in disgust when he felt how wet Samuel’s hand was.

Fine, Samuel thought as he wiped his nose, let him bedisgusted.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Van Emberg?” Rachel asked.“Just caught a bit of a cold, young lady, nothing to

worry about,” Samuel smiled at her.“You really shouldn’t be living here. Think of your

health. Are you seeing a doctor?” Rachel asked.“I’m sure he can take care of himself,” Mark said,

waving her off with an impatient gesture. “We don’t wantto waste your time, Mr. Van Emberg, so let’s cut to thechase. Are you going to sign or not?”

Samuel turned stiffly and glared at Mark. The lawyertried to hold his gaze, but in a moment his eyes dartedaway.

“Mr. Ayers, this is still my house, and if it is to bedemolished, then so be it. But I will not sell it to be someridiculous tourist attraction.”

“That’s insane!” Mark bellowed. “You’re losing yourhouse anyway. Did you make a deal with the Highway

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Department for more. . .?” “Mr. Van Emberg,” Rachel cut him off. “This is the only

Dutch Colonial house in the entire county. Schoolchildrencould come here to learn about the early Dutch settlers.Historians and architects would be able to study thedesign.”

Samuel smiled at the young woman. Her concern abouthis health had touched him. Nobody had bothered to askin years, not even that dogooder from the Council onAging. Rachel seemed kind, and appreciated history too.

“I appreciate your interest, Ms. Anderson, but. . .”Samuel trailed off as Rachel stared past him into the

house, eyes wide with wonder. Samuel turned around. Hesaw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Mark, look!” she said. “The interior is completelyoriginal. Period furniture and everything!”

Mark poked his head in, peering around at the decrepitroom.

“Yeah, it’s original, all right.”“That bureau looks like it’s seventeenthcentury Dutch,”

Rachel pointed.“Yes, it is,” Samuel said. “Brought over on a Dutch West

India Company ship by the man who built this house.”“And look!” she cried. “An old Dutch rocking chair!”“Also original to the house, Ms. Anderson,” Samuel

replied, catching her enthusiasm. “You have a good eye,would you care to examine the interior?”

Samuel stood aside and ushered them in. Rachelwalked around the room, gazing at each piece of furniturein amazement. Mark came only a couple of steps insideand looked around with illdisguised repulsion. Water

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from the ceiling dripped on his head and he retreated tothe doorway.

“Do you mind if I open the drapes? I’d like to get abetter view,” Rachel said.

Without waiting for an answer Rachel flung the drapesopen. Daylight shone into the room. Samuel blinked andheld his hand in front of his eyes.

Rachel examined the fireplace. Samuel followed her.“These cooking utensils are at least a century old,” she

observed.“Yes, all good ironware,” Samuel said. “No point buying

the cheap stuff they have today, all that newfangledTeflon, when proper cookware will serve better.”

Rachel turned to him. For a moment, she forgot hisappearance and his smell.

“This house hasn’t changed a bit in 350 years! I don’tsee any wiring or air conditioning or anything. You’reliving like your ancestors from the seventeenth century.”

Samuel chuckled.“Well, Ms. Anderson, the boy who brings my groceries

shops at the A&P. Youngstown stopped its farmers marketin the 1940s. I’ve made some concessions to modernity.”

“So your family never added anything to this place?”Mark asked.

“No,” the old man replied. “Well, every now and thenone of my ancestors had to replace some object. Thesetwo chairs, for example, date to the 1870s.”

“I’ve never seen such an impressive collection ofantiques,” Rachel said.

“Not antiques, Ms. Anderson,” Samuel said, smiling.“Simply the family furniture.”

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“Mr. Van Emberg,” Rachel grabbed his arm. “This is areally important site. There’s not a single Colonial housein the region in such an original state.”

Samuel resisted the urge to pull away. No one hadstood this close to him in years. The grocery boy nevercame inside. The man who brought firewood asked him toleave his money on the threshold. Before today, he hadn’thad a guest since old Jeff Miller came to tell him aboutthe sinking of the Maine.

“Please,” Rachel continued. “I’d hate for this old houseto be destroyed. It’s bad enough to see the condition it’sin. Won’t you let the Society buy it? We can fix it up. Itwill take a lot of work, but when we’re done it will looklike new.”

Like new. Samuel thought. He looked around at thedilapidated room–the sagging ceiling, the crackedfloorboards, the rickety furniture. He thought of himself–withered, gnarled, worm eaten, and Rachel’s slim younghand on his arm. Like new. . .

He looked up at Rachel.“Very well, Ms. Anderson, the Society shall have the

house.”The old man’s heart leapt as he saw her face light up. “That’s wonderful news! Thank you!” she beamed.

“Isn’t that great, Mark?”“Yeah. Great. Here’s the contract,” He produced a sheaf

of papers from his briefcase.Samuel waved him aside.“Later, Mr. Ayers,” he laughed. “First, our lovely

historian here must see the rest of the house!”Samuel led Rachel towards the stairway while she

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looked eagerly around her.“These beams you see were cut from a copse of oak

right where the Youngstown Middle School stands today.”“What year?”“1631.”“And they’ve held the house all this time!”“It’s a good house, Ms. Anderson, meant to stand till

Judgment Day. Now be careful on the stairs, they’re alittle weak.”

Mark stayed alone downstairs. He could hear the oldman’s drone, and the occasional squeal of delight asRachel saw another old pile of junk that caught her fancy.He shook his head and looked at his watch. His cell phonerang and he stepped outside to answer it.

“Why, Ms. Anderson! What a pleasant surprise. Comein, come in.”

Mr. Van Emberg looked better. A few nights in a motelhad done him good. His hair was still stringy and hisclothes musty and old, but his smell, that musty, rottingodor, had disappeared. He looked rested, too. Fresher.But his eyes showed an apprehension bordering on terror.

Poor dear, Rachel thought. He looks so lost here.Samuel ushered her in, offering her the room’s only

chair. Samuel sat on the edge of the bed.“How is the house?” Samuel asked.“The workmen have cleaned it out. The exterminator

just finished yesterday. The real work will start tomorrow.But how are you? Is there anything you need?”

“Oh no, the boy who delivers my groceries is delivering

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them here now. Mr. Singh lets me use the kitchen next tohis office.”

“Mr. Singh?”“He’s the night manager. He’s from the East Indies, you

know.”“The East Indies?” Rachel asked, wondering if he meant

India.“He wears a turban,” Samuel said, by way of

explanation. “He has one of those microwave ovens. Heshowed me how to use it.”

Rachel stifled a smile at the way he said “microwave” socarefully, taking apart each syllable like a word in someforeign language.

“What do you do all day?” she asked.“Oh, an old man like me doesn’t need much to do,” he

said, rocking back and forth a little on the edge of thebed.

A honk sounded through the door. Mark. Rachel got up.“I need to go,” she said.“So soon?”“Mark is taking me to dinner.”“I see.”“Have a nice evening, Mr. Van Emberg.”“Enjoy your dinner,” he said. He led her to the door and

opened it for her. She stepped out and turned back tohim.

“Are you sure you’re O.K.?” she asked.Mark honked again. Rachel rolled her eyes. The door

opened onto the parking lot. Mark knew she was coming.Why did he always have to be such an ass?

“Most certainly, young lady. Goodnight.”

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Samuel shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed.He looked around the room for a long time, studying thecheap, false wood of the furniture. What did Mr. Singhcall it? Particle board? He looked at the mirror above thebureau, the sink outside the bathroom. He sighed. Mr.Singh had brought him a newspaper that evening, butnone of the stories made any sense. He had given uptrying to read it.

He went over to the television and picked up theremote. Mr. Singh had shown him how to use this, too.He picked up the card that listed the channels. He hadwatched a few already, but they made less sense than thenewspaper. His eyes went down the list and settled onone called “Music Television.” That sounded promising.He pressed the power button, then the number.

The screen screamed to life. Four Africans, surroundedby a group of almost naked native women, gyrated on thescreen.

“Wan’ none of yo’ sass, baby“Gonna make a pass, baby“Pull you outta class, baby“Gonna tap yo’ ass, baby”

The screen winked out as he hit the power button.Shaking his head, Samuel set the remote back on thetelevision, and the card next to it, before sitting back onthe edge of the bed. He sat there for a long time. Then helay down and went to sleep.

The next morning Samuel woke up screaming. He feltnails plunging into his sides. He felt his flesh being torn

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away, and new flesh hammered in. Five miles away, theworkmen had started. He writhed in agony, biting hispillow to suppress his screams. It was the first of manylong days.

Rachel studied the house. The workmen had done anincredible job. They had propped up and reinforced thewalls, replacing many of the planks while sandblastingand treating the rest. It must have been hard work,wrenching out old nails, snapping brittle boards, planingdown rough surfaces, but now, nearly a year later, thehouse looked like new.

She smiled. It looked beautiful now. The highwayconstruction half a mile away was a noisome bother, butthat would be over soon. Guard Hill Road would becomean access road. The Historical Society had planted moretrees to screen out the noise and the view. Once those hadgrown a little, this spot would look like a piece of theseventeenth century.

She felt a pang of regret that Mr. Van Emberg wasn’there to see it. She’d received a letter from him a fewmonths before, saying he had moved away. He also sent alegal document signing over all his books and furniture tothe Society. It must have hurt him to leave everythingbehind, but it was probably for the best. She’d moved ontoo. She had broken up with Mark just a few days afterthe project got underway.

A taxi pulled up to the side of Guard Hill Road. Rachelwatched a young man in a conservative suit get out andpay the driver.

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“Ms. Anderson?” he called to her as he approached.Rachel studied his face, astonished. The stranger looked

like a young Van Emberg. He stood straight, with strongand healthy body, but the facial features were almostidentical. The proud bearing was there, too, and the wise,calm eyes.

“Hello. Yes, I’m Rachel,” she said, extending her hand.He took it, bowing a little. “Are you Mr. Van Emberg’sgrandson?”

“Ah, yes. My name is Samuel,” he said, almostforgetting to let go of her hand. It felt good to touch heragain.

“So you’ve inherited more than just your grandfather’slooks,” Rachel said.

Samuel smiled. Rachel looked just as lovely as heremembered her. Lovelier. She looked more free,somehow, and happier too. Just like him.

“I came to see the old place. I... and my grandfather...was curious.”

“How is he?”“Good. Very good. His health is much improved. He’s

living in New York now.”“Well, the house fixed up nicely, as you can see.” Samuel forced himself to look at the house for the first

time. A thrill of joy and nostalgia washed over him. Itlooked just as it did three hundred years before. He feltlike he was in his youth all over again. From a certainangle, he couldn’t see the power lines or the road, onlythe white trunks of the birch trees and the proud outlineof the gambrel roof against the blue sky. The sound oftraffic seemed to fade, replaced by the clop of hooves and

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the creak of carriage wheels.“Would you like to go in?” Rachel asked.“No,” Samuel said quickly, and turned away. For a

moment neither spoke.“Unlike my grandfather I am more interested in new

things,” Samuel explained. “Ms. Anderson. . .”“Rachel, please.”“My grandfather wished me to express to you his

gratitude for your kindness. It was very difficult for him toleave his ancestral home. Very difficult. But you made iteasier.”

Rachel smiled.“Your grandfather is a remarkable man. I wish I had a

chance to talk with him more about the Dutch settlers. Heknows so much.”

“I was raised on those stories. He told me everything heknew. Perhaps we could discuss it over lunch?”

Rachel smiled again.“That would be wonderful. We can take my car.”They walked down the path. Samuel breathed in the

fresh summer air. Just being alive felt so good now. Hescratched the inside of his arm and felt a small lump.Checking to see that Rachel wasn’t looking, he picked at itthrough his clothing. It came free and he shook it downhis sleeve. Something trickled down his shirt and into hishand. A termite. He crushed it with his thumbnail andflicked it into the grass.

“Rachel, did you have the exterminators go through thehouse?”

“Of course,” she replied.“I see. Well, this house had a lot of termites. You might

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want to have them fumigate it again. I’ll be happy to payfor it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she smiled at him.“Not at all,” he smiled back.

Sean McLachlan is the author of numerous novels and nonfictionbooks. He’s currently expanding two series: Toxic World (post-apocalyptic science fiction) and Trench Raiders (World War Oneaction). He’s also dipped into Civil War fiction with the novel A FineLikeness. You can find him at his Amazon page.

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http://www.amazon.com/Sean-McLachlan/e/B001H6MUQI/?tag=everydayficti-20

http://midlistwriter.blogspot.com/


FORTYFOUR NORTHby Robert Steele

George Pickler took a knee at the wreckage site andexamined what he saw: two dead bodies, one man, onewoman, both slightly burned, a Grayden Mark II skybikepartially melted on one side, smashed on the other,shoved deep into a ditch on top of the bodies. He pressedtwo fingers to feel if the woman had a pulse—nothing. Hechecked the man—nothing.

The life meter would tell him everything he needed toknow. He took the discshaped meter, and with the sharptip, punctured a small hole into the woman’s torso, andwaited ten seconds until it beeped. He looked at thescreen at the top of the disc: Jen Kottke. Age 31. Female.Cause of death: blunt force trauma causing heart failure.Time of death: 1800 hours, 23 minutes, and 12.016seconds.

He marked the meter, and reset it before puncturingthe man’s torso. Alan Sipp. Age 32. Male. Cause of death:smoke inhalation causing suffocation. Time of death:1800 hours, 23 minutes, and 12.027 seconds.

“Dead heat,” said George as he looked up at a youngofficer with a smirk.

“How close, detective?”“Less than a halfsecond.”“That the closest you’ve seen, sir?”George stepped away from the wreckage to get a break

from the smell of smoldering metal which stung up inside

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his nostrils. “Second closest. There was a boat wreck upon Lake Chemong. A boy and his father were only off byonly the last digit.”

“Who died first?”George looked at the baby fat around the officer’s jaw

line and thought he couldn’t have been out of theacademy for more than a day. “I’m sure we’ve beenintroduced before, but I forget your name.”

“Officer Phillip Andres.”“Are you my prep?” George asked. Prep was slang, a

pejorative shorthand for the police unit that helpedprepare cases for detectives—the InvestigativePreparation Department. A prep was an officer assignedto run errands for the detective. The prep did all the gruntwork, allowing the detective to do all of the thinking. Arandom program assigned a different prep to each case. Aprep’s real purpose, beyond errands, was to eliminatecorruption. The Chief of Police organized the IPDfollowing the scandals two decades before. A prep mightget treated like dirt at times, but they also held quite a bitof power in reserve.

“Yes, I’m assigned here,” said Phillip.George looked out over the horizon at the sun

beginning to dip, glowing candy floss pink behind someclouds. There were no skybikes obscuring his view, so hekept silent, enjoying it for a moment.

“Anything you need, sir?” asked Phillip, interruptingGeorge’s moment of tranquillity.

“Contact the next of kin. Then the insurance. See ifeither of them had any life policies.”

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Phillip scurried away, and although George wanted toturn his attention back to the skyline, a young womansitting on a bench caught his eye. It was the brightness ofher blue trench coat that stopped him. The coat was a fewsizes too big and it draped over her small frame. She put afinger in her red ringlets, which to George was peculiar,given the circumstance, with the smoldering of thewreckage and bodies only less than fifty yards away.

George approached the woman. “Excuse me, ma’am.Do you know any of the parties involved?”

“Nope” she said, plucking a ringlet and letting her hairbounce.

“Are you press?”“Nope” she said, covering her mouth as she laughed.“Did you witness the scene?”“No, I’m sorry.”“Can I ask why you’re here?”“My feet are sore. I needed to take a wee bit of a rest.”“But this is a crime scene.”“Oh,” she said, putting her hands on her lap and

stretching her back to look around. “What was thecrime?”

“I misspoke. It’s a potential crime scene. All accidentsinvolving death are deemed as such.” He didn’t know whyhe was saying so much to a woman who he didn’t evenknow. “Would you be able to move down the road toanother bench? It’s just that it’s a bit too close toeverything going on here.”

She seemed not to hear the question. “Which of themkicked it first?”

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George crossed his arms. “I thought you said youweren’t a witness. How did you know the amount ofpassengers?”

“It’s Champlain. No one rides alone.”

In the morning, George sat in the thronelike chairbehind the desk in his office thinking about the woman.His prep, Phillip, walked in with a coffee, placed it on thedesk in front of him, and took a seat.

“Thank you,” said George. “Can we close this?” “I think so. I spoke with the family, nothing out of the

ordinary. The two were lovers, common law, but justbarely. No history of any domestic problems. They hadbeen going to dinner when the skybike lost control. It wassome sort of malfunction with the altitude, according to awitness. The bike was too damaged to verify this.”

“Did you check with the life insurance?”“Basic termlife policy, five million for the deceased

Alan Sipp. Nothing for her. He named her as thebeneficiary, but since the life meter indicated his deathslightly afterwards, and his beneficiary died less than asecond before, the benefits will go to his estate. So saidthe adjuster.”

“Insurance,” George said shaking his head. He wrappedhis hands around the coffee to feel the warmth. “Who wasthe witness? I don’t recall there being anyone on scene.”

“Older gentleman. Terence Mulcair. He came by thestation late in the night to report it. He said he was in arush, taking a friend to an appointment, couldn’t stopafter the accident. I advised him he had a legal obligation

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to do so, and advised we could fine him at our discretion.But he was cooperative.”

George scrunched his nose up, as he did whensomething seemed a little strange. “Well, we won’t close itjust yet. I want to talk with this witness. Not that I don’ttrust you, Phillip.”

“I understand, sir.”

George had taken his skybike to the other side ofChamplain, flying at the highest possible altitude settingto avoid the heavy traffic flow. He hated how much timehe was spending on this case—there were stacks of otherpending files, and cold cases that he never had time towork on.

He met with the witness, Terence Mulcair, inside a spa.Most of the plant life was digitally enhanced images, butthere were some real plants, and the whole place wasnothing but greens upon greens.

George sat in a soft chair beside Terence as a mist filledthe room. “Relaxing place,” George said.

“I don’t mind it,” said Mulcair. “In fact, I kind of adoreit.” He was sipping on a fancy drink with a mint leaf stuckin it.

“You saw this accident from what I hear. What can youtell me?”

“Nothing that I didn’t already tell your officer. The bikeseemed to malfunction, the driver, the man, he took itmanually and tried to right the thing, and he crashed andburned.”

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“Nothing seemed out of the ordinary before thismalfunction? A fight between with the passengers?”

“Not that I saw. Everything seemed quite tranquil.”“How can you be sure it was a malfunction?”Mulcair pushed back in his seat. “Well, I can’t. But it

sure darn seemed that way.”“What do you do for a living, Mr. Mulcair?”“Consulting.”“Is that why you were on the east side?”Mulcair put down his drink. “Am I a suspect now? I

don’t understand this.”“No, sir. Not at all.”“Then?”“Unless work related, or something extraordinary, it

seems strange for you to be on the east side.”“Well, I suppose it does, yes. I was out for a ride until I

got an urgent message from a friend. I own a LanoreSummervale. The bike simply purrs, and I enjoy going allover the city, to other cities, wherever I can to ride it.”

“I can’t blame you. I quite enjoy my bikes as well whenthere’s no congestion out there. So a Sunday spin, wasit?”

“Very much so.” Mulcair looked around for a servant.“Has anyone offered you a drink yet?”

“No, but thank you.” George stood. “We’ll be in touch.”

The skies were gridlocked as George headed back tothe office. Heavy volumes of bikes filled queues at everylegal altitude level. George plugged in and, through theearphones, he listened to a message from Phillip about a

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woman named Amilee who came to his office looking forhim. “She refused to speak with me. I know you’re all setto go on home for the day, but if you can make it back,please do. All she told me is that it’s regarding the SippKottke case.”

George called Phillip. “It's a smoggy mess up here. I’mcaught in traffic. I don’t mind heading back, but it couldbe another hour before I get there at this rate.”

“I’ll let her know.”“You can go ahead and go home yourself.”“I don’t mind at all, sir. I’m living the single life. It’s not

like I have a family at home waiting for me.”“Maybe this is why you’re single. You need to work a

little less. Don’t waste your life burying your face in work.You’ll still eventually get your promotion to detective, ifthat’s something you want.”

There was a pause as if Phillip were considering anappropriate response. “I’ll keep her entertained until youarrive.”

George ditched the sky and headed down to the streets.There was less congestion, and on the streets he couldpass—although this also meant a bit more danger, onewrong move by him or someone else and his body mightfall to the road where bikes would run him over beforeanyone would even realize that there was an accident.

George managed to make it to the office unscathed. Hisadrenaline was already thumping inside his chest whenhe walked into the office.

There she was. Amilee in her blue trench coat. BeforePhillip or the woman could speak, George raised open

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palms. “I don’t understand. You said you weren’t awitness.”

“I’m not a witness,” she said. She was sitting in his chairand she crossed her legs and looked away from George,out the window.

“Enough games. Please tell me what you’re doing here.”“I’m not a witness, but I know what happened. I know

that you got this little case all wrong.”George sat on the corner of his desk and looked at

Amilee. “What is this issue?”“He died first. It may have been by an itty bitty hair, but

he died first.”“But you weren’t a witness.”“I can tell by looking at the victims. People tell me that

I have a gift.” She brushed the hair away from her cheek.“I don’t like having to promote myself, but if you mustknow, I work as a medium.”

“One of those. Well unfortunately, we don’t work withmediums. We need hard evidence.”

“What evidence do you have to dispute mine?”“A life meter. It records the exact time of death down to

fractions of a second.”“What if it glitches?”“It doesn’t glitch.”Phillip pressed his fingers into the desk until his

knuckles whitened. “Ma’am, if you don’t have hardevidence for us, or eyewitness information, we’re going toneed to ask you to leave. Detective Pickler is a very busyman.”

She slammed her fists on the table, and both Georgeand Phillip took a step back. “But I am an eyewitness!”

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“You saw the bodies after the fact,” said George. “That’snot being an eyewitness.”

“Go to the morgue. Check those dead bodies again. I’mtelling you, mister, you had a glitch. I know what I saw.”

“What you saw afterwards,” said George. She wasabout to open her mouth to speak, but George had heardenough and he just wanted her out of the office. “We’llhave a look in the morning. It will give me a chance tospeak with the coroner about another case.”

She jumped out of the chair and clasped her handstogether. “Thank you. That’s all I ask. Thank you,detective.”

The morgue was always too cold, and George was madat himself for not thinking ahead and bringing a sweater.He stood beside the blue tint metallic slabs, and spoke tothe coroner about a man who died suddenly whilebathing in the tub. The coroner ruled out any foul play,and George headed to the exit.

As he opened the door, Philip walked inside, brushingagainst the buttons of George’s shirt. “Did you recheckKottke and Sipp?”

“No. We won’t be doing that. I just wanted that womanout of the office. She was creeping me out.”

“You’re here though.” Phillip continued walking to thecomputer on the desk. He typed in the entry codes andtwo slabs opened, slowly revealing the corpses of JenKottke and Alan Sipp.

“Phillip, I don’t have my life meter on me.”

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“There’s one in that piece of shit desk,” said the coronerfrom the other side of the room.

Phillip took the life meter. “Here, I’m not authorized touse it.”

George took the meter, rolled his eyes, and walked tothe male body. “Alan Sipp, 12.027 seconds. I believethat’s exactly as it was.”

“And Jen Kottke?”George pierced the torso, and took a curious look at the

meter. “Wait a minute.” He pierced a new section of skin.“Well, it’s 12.029 seconds.”

“Interesting that.”George walked to Phillip, his mouth hung open a bit.

George was well aware of a prep’s duty of reporting on adetective’s work—any corruption, or any incompetence.George didn’t like the way Phillip responded. “Wait aminute now. You were right there when I did those initialreadings.”

“I was there. I heard you call out—”“But you didn’t see it. Is that what you’re trying to say?”“I’m not trying to say anything, sir. You are correct

though. I didn’t see what the meter read.”George held the meter up. “Someone’s been messing

with this. There’s a glitch.”“We’ve never had any malfunction.”George’s neck muscles tightened and he felt the cold of

the room drop another degree. “I’ve never malfunctionedeither. Look at my record. Someone’s messed with this.”

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George spent the next day speaking to every tech guyhe could find. He spoke to the internal IT department, butthey didn’t seem to know much beyond daytodayoperations. He called around to independent analysts,and spoke to the manufacturers of the life meter. They alltold him about how accurate the meter was, how itreinforced its own data by verifying the deaths of billionsof the body’s cells.

In the afternoon he returned to the morgue,remembering to bring his own life meter, andremembering to bring his sweater.

He rechecked the bodies, but got the same results asthe day before. He walked to the yellow tiledexamination room and spoke with the coroner as he rantests on the corpse of an old woman. “Is it possible tomanipulate bodies so that they could get a differentreading for time of death?”

“Shit, I wouldn’t think so.” The coroner scratched thetop of his shiny bald head with the part of his forearm justbelow the surgical glove. “That would mean replacingnearly all of the body’s fucking cells. They’d need to bethe same damn cells, otherwise the reading wouldmalfunction, or indicate another name for the deceased.”

“What about injecting something in there? Somethingthat would hijack the cells”

“If there’s such a fucking thing, I don’t know about it.”The coroner peeled back the eyelids of the corpse, lookingat the yellowing around the base of the eyes. “Seems likean awful bit of work just to shave a few damn seconds.”

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“Not if there’s an insurance benefit to collect.” Georgecupped a wrist behind his back. “Would you be able torun some tests and see if the Kottke body has beenmanipulated in any way?”

“My examinations are thorough, as you can clearlyfucking see. I would have noticed a damn manipulation.”

“And I agree. You’re the best. I’m talking about afteryour examination. I don’t trust the security around here.”

The coroner chuckled. “Shit, I don’t disagree.” He cut alight cross pattern into the corpse’s chest cavity. “Alright,I’ll have another look for you this afternoon.”

George’s secretary handed him a written notice fromThe Police Association, requesting a meeting later in theafternoon. He remembered the last time he went for ameeting. It was to discuss how to prepare a defense overan alleged mishandling of a politician’s death. The policedepartment ended up dismissing their internalinvestigation through the Special Investigation Unit, theSIU, but the stress of it wasn’t something that Georgewanted to go through again.

He gulped down the rest of his cold coffee and foundhis way to the eastern wing of the building where theprep offices were located. He looked around the lowcubicles until he found Phillip.

“How dare you,” George said stomping over to Phillip’sdesk. He watched Phillip lower in his chair, lookingembarrassed by the commotion, but George’s fury got thebetter of him, and he continued anyway. “For fifteenyears I’ve been a detective.” He pointed generally around

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the room. “I’ve worked with many of these men andwomen, some who have gone on to bigger and betterthings, and never once have I had an issue with a prep.”

“But we’ve never had an issue with a life meter before.It’s something I had to report, sir.”

“You wait until I figure out what is going on first. Youwait until the investigation is completed before you raiseyour concerns.”

“Oh no, sir, that’s not proper protocol.” Phillip pulledout his handheld device and held it to face George. “Rule3.1: report all matters of corruption or incompetency toyour superior immediately. Any delay could allow furthercontamination of a criminal investigation.”

George snatched the device from Phillip and threw itback over his head. It bounced off a cabinet and smashedto the floor. George felt the concerned eyes of all thepreps fall on him. “I don’t have time to deal with aninternal police investigation. I have enough realinvestigations based on life and death.”

Riding his skybike over east Champlain, George listenedto a message from the coroner: “Absolutely no fuckingissues post examination. That body is the same as when Ileft it.”

George took a hard turn and headed to witnessMulcair’s favorite Spa.

Mulcair wasn’t in the spa, so George spoke to theemployee at the front desk, annoyed as too many of herbracelets clanged on her wrists. “Do you know whatTerence Mulcair does for a living?”

“I think he mentioned consulting of some kind.”“Yes, but what exactly?”

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“I’m not too sure. I see him in the parking lot with thiscurly haired woman sometimes. I assume they’rediscussing business. They seem very matter of fact. But Idon’t know what they talk about. We try to stay out of ourclient’s personal lives.”

“Does she wear a blue trench coat?”“Why yes. Lovely, isn’t it?”“I’m going to need you to pull Mr. Mulcair’s address

information.” He watched the clerk tilt her head and pushout her lips. “It’s a police matter, so it’s law that youcooperate.”

George kept his bike on the streets, making sure hisvisit was as unannounced as possible. He ascended theroad to the large homes on the hills on the outskirts ofChamplain.

He considered calling for a few uniformed officers, buthe wanted to do a bit more of an investigation beforehauling Mulcair into the department. He felt the sidearmtight against his boot, and tried to remember the last timehe took it to the range. Too long ago, he thought.

George stopped in front of the large gate numbers on44 North Irving street. Mulcair’s place was large, butmodest for the areacream stucco, with red clay roof tiles,a little fountain out front.

As he walked up, he heard voices coming from the backof the house. He walked around the side of the building,and he clutched his chest, trying to slow the beat of hisheart.

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When he neared the corner of the house, he began tohear splashing and laughter. He took a peek around thecorner and saw three young blonde women playingaround in the pool. One sat on the edge of the water,wearing largerimmed sunglasses, her feet dipped inabove the ankles. The other two swam around, splashingone another by flicking their wrists.

Mulcair was nowhere in sight. As the woman on theedge of the water lifted her sunglasses, George snappedback around the corner.

Jen Kottke.He took deep breaths to slow his heart rate. After he

could breathe with some regularity, he turned and walkedtoward the pool. The two women in the pool craned theirnecks and looked at Georgetwo more Jen Kottkes.

“I need to speak with a Terence Mulcair.”“He’s out,” said the one on the edge of the water.“Who are you?” asked another in the pool.“I met Mr. Mulcair at the spa.”The woman on the edge of the pool put her sunglasses

back over her eyes. “He’ll be back in about fifteenminutes.”

Another Jen swam to the stairs and walked out of thepool. She wrung out her hair and wrapped a towelaround her chest. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.” George stood by the glass patio doorand put his hand on the sliding door. “Would you mind ifI used your washroom?”

The three Jens all looked at one another. “It’s just thatwe don’t know you,” said the one in the towel.

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George sat in a lounge chair feeling the sun bake intohis forehead. He knew it would cause another internalinvestigation, but he didn’t know what to expect whenMulcair came home and saw him sitting in the yard withblonde triplets who resembled a deceased woman.

“Damn SIU,” said George so quietly that no one heardhim. He pinched the fabric on his knee and pulled up hispant leg. With his other hand he drew his gun. The threeJens put their hands up. The one in the water struggled,kicking her legs wildly just to stay afloat. “DetectivePickler. I’ll need you to let me in the house.”

George led the three at gunpoint, following theminside. “Where’s his office?”

“He doesn’t have an office,” said the one at the front. “The basement,” said the one at the back as the other

two shot back annoyed looks. They descended into the basement. With each step the

domestic affluence disappeared, and George felt the samecoldness as he felt at the morgue. The basement was darkgrey bricks and a few open bulbs hanging from the roof.As George turned he saw a body on a steel table. Thebody was busted open on the cheeks showing deep redand black gashes. It was exactly as Jen Kottke looked atthe morgue.

George walked closer and saw that it was another JenKottke. He looked at the Jens. “Clones? How many arethere?”

They crossed their arms in unison and said nothing. George heard the basement door open, followed by the

sound of footsteps. He pointed his gun at the staircase.The footsteps stopped. George thought about calling for

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backup, but it was too late now, and he didn’t want to leta hand off of his gun.

George saw Terence Mulcair lean around the wall. Hesaw the metallic tip of a gun. George fired two quickshots, and to his surprise, both hit Mulcair clean in theabdomen.

Mulcair’s body tumbled and slid to the foot of the stairs.The Jens ran to him, and from the top of the stairs therewere more footsteps. The blue trench coat flew open likea cape and Amilee squatted and clutched Mulcair’s head.

Nevermind that George had revealed the mostelaborate murder plot and insurance scam Champlain hadever seen. And no one cared that Terence Mulcair andAmilee Heyward cloned a woman just to have hermurdered. Forget about the clones they murdered justmoments before the accident, with the goal of getting thetime of death suitable for an insurance claim payment tothe beneficiary. And disregard that they lured an innocentAlan Sipp, and then ran him off the road. And nevermindthat they also broke into the morgue to replace a deadbody, that they interfered with a crime scene.

Instead of celebrating the closing of a major case,George was sitting in the boxy Police Association’smeeting room, going over how to prepare a statement ofdefence against the SIU’s charges that he fired his gunoutside of the proper guidelines, by not verballyaddressing the suspect. No doubt Phillip would help theSIU by nitpicking George’s handling of the case, bymentioning his outburst. It would certainly help Phillip to

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get his promotion to detective, even if it wasn’timmediate.

George wanted the meeting to be over. He wanted tofind some open skies and ride his skybike right out ofChamplain.

Robert Steele is an English Literature graduate who resides inCanada. His previous fiction has appeared in: Four Volts,IdentityTheory.com, and Thrice Fiction. You can check out his blogat: robertwilliamsteele.wordpress.com

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http://robertwilliamsteele.wordpress.com/


THE TREES OF GAIAby Anna Sykora

“Hold on to your stomach, surveyor,” warned pilotDelaney. “We’re making our final approach.” Lurchingsideways the snubnosed shuttle plunged through layersof clouds, and Eva, hunched in the pod beside her, almostheaved.

For this she’d given up a snug desk job? Central hadasked for volunteers. Never volunteer...

Tasting sour vomit, Eva gulped it down and sat upstraight, clenching her fists as the Loyalty swooped overan "ocean" of dark green. One single, virgin forestcovered Gaia; she knew this, still felt shocked by the sight.“Holy code,” she muttered, and the pilot, an olderwoman, chuckled:

“I know how you feel. If you're used to Tantalus, thislittle moon is a dreamor nightmare.”

“I’ve never seen an unprocessed world. The sky’s soblue it hurts my eyes.” Eva squinted down at the trees ofGaia.

“That’s ‘cause there’s no industry yet. Work brigadesdeploy next year. The air's so rich it won't needprocessing."

"That should save on costs. Central will be pleased."Coasting down, the shuttle decelerated and Eva's earspopped. Delaney seemed friendly; could she trust her?A triple stripe adorned her shabby blue sleeves. “Hey

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Delaney, I see by your stripes you've served 30 years. Doyou happen to know how the station here got itsreputation? Drafting me in on short notice, the stationchief offered me double pay.”

“Honey, if you ask me it’s a jinx." Delaney eyed a grimydial. "The first crew died of contaminated tubes; that'swhat the news line said. But I keep flying surveyors outbefore their contracts end.”

“When was your last one?”“About three weeks ago.”“Surveyor Ganter?”“Right. And he told me the station chief belongs in the

brig. Ganter couldn’t wait to get home to Tantalus. ”Single trees rose from the wilderness, each huge as a

block housing thousands of clones. “All I know aboutJohn Orcus is his name,” said Eva, which sounded like alie. “And he’s got weird theories about this moon,” shetacked on in a hurry.

Cackling, Delaney rapped a flickering dial, whosereadout firmed. “Maybe that’s what Central pays him for.Like it pays me to fly this rust bucket back and forth toTantalus. Orcus must be weird, to want to run a stationbuilt on top of these trees.”

“Hope I can stand the isolation.” Delaney grinned, revealing uneven teeth. “Honey, I

guess I’m old enough to be your biological mom. Takemy advice, keep your head down here and stick to thecode.”

Eva bit her lip. “Of course. I'm a true believer."“Gaia is still wild. Remember that.”

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A nest of antennae bristled from the trees. “Here wego,” said Delaney cheerfully. “Shift your pod back and I’llset us down.” Heart thumping, Eva clutched the plasticarmrests. This evening she would meet John Orcus.What a chance for her stuck career.

A landing dock anchored in the trees loomed up, bluetriad of beacons pulsing. Nobody was waiting. What didshe expect? He thought her a lowly data clerk.

Rotating its engines the Loyalty drifted down and thenjolted to a stop. “Sorry, hon, I gotta keep to theschedule.” Delaney flicked a row of overhead switches.“Wait here till the station sends you a helper.” As theshuttle's rear hatch groaned open sunshine flooded thepilot bay.

“Thanks for the ride, and the advice.” Eva unhookedherself from her pod. She checked her respirator, readingneutral. The Gaian air was supposed to be safe, as longas you didn’t touch the trees. Just in case, she snappedher unit's clear mask over her nose and mouth.

Delaney winked. “Hope you tough it out until yourcontract ends.”

“Thank you, pilot, I need the gold. I want to rent alarger cubicle at home.”

Buzzing, the inship helper shoved out a highstackedpallet of supplies for the station. Then Delaney gave athumbsup sign as Eva pulled her suitcase down the ramp.The hatch clattered shut and the Loyalty whooshedstraight up again off the dock, rocked its stubby wingsand veered away.

Left alone, Eva gawked at the surrounding treetops. Noplastic fakes. She’d never seen so many trees: enough to

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build dozens of temporary cities, enough to house themillions of cloned humans who would settle Gaia.

A breeze stirred the large, fivepointed leaves, and theymade a low, hissing sound. Eva shivered in her snug,grey uniform, hugging herself though the sun felt warm.Already she missed the din of crowds on Tantalus, theceaseless swirl of 3D traffic...

All of a sudden she thought she felt hidden eyeswatching her, hungry eyes. How ridiculousGaia's onlyinhabitants were the small band of surveyors at thestation.

“Excuse me,” a syn voice droned and Eva wheeled,reaching for her blaster. “You must be Surveyor Rosario.”The helper had steel hydraulic arms, no face (to save oncosts). “I’m sorry I frightened you."

“I’m alright. It’s just so quiet I can hear my heartbeating.”

“Humans get used to Gaia, or they leave... I have amessage from the clerk you are replacing, Paolo Ganter.”Nodding, Eva slipped the offered disk into her hip pocket.“May I carry your suitcase? It scans heavy for a clone ofyour substandard height.”

She snorted. “I am standard for Tantalus, whereheights are strictly enforced. You may carry my case, butdon't expect a tip.” Scooping up the station's pallet, thehelper set her suitcase on top.

“This way.” And away it rolled down a steel trackwinding around the treetops. Hurrying after the helper,Eva noticed one tree stripped of bark. How naked itlooked, like a corpse abandoned on a busy intersection.

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At intervals of about 10 paces, thick hoses wound aroundthe trees.

“Helper," she called out, "what is the point of all thispumping equipment?”

“The station chief's idea: chemical transfusions keepthe nearby trees under control. We helpers built and runthe system.”

She wanted to ask more questions but the stationloomed: a hulk of standard steel containers erected onstruts in the trees. Only the top floor had windows, andscarlet curtains fluttered in one. Near it, like an oldfashioned cherrypicker, a tethered transpo rose into theair. On it stood a tall, gaunt man in a drab greenuniform, with silver crescents on his shoulders, black hairflowing down his back. John Orcus wore no respirator.

“Surveyor Rosario, reporting, sir,” Eva sang out andsaluted. Ignoring her, Orcus bored a small power drillinto a trunk. Blue sap dripped, but even as the stationchief collected a sample the bark closed up like a liquidstirred.

“You should use a respirator," cried Eva. "Our code ofconquest"

“I’ve got my reasons.” Their gazes locked, and she felta powerful, almost magnetic force. Rimmed withshadows above rugged cheekbones, his deepset eyesburned with a weird, green light. This was a man usedto getting his way, her superiors warned, a dangerousman. They kept a megafile of encoded data on JohnOrcus.

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“Follow that helper to your quarters,” he said then in agentler tone. “The crew meets on deck at 18 hundredhours for tubes, surveyor. Don't be late.”

The sun had already slipped behind the trees whenEva stepped out onto the roof at 17:55. Two stands ofpseudocandles cast a glow over the long, black plastictable.

“Good evening, I’m Eva Rosario.” She chose a space atthe end of a bench, and faces gazed at her skeptically. “Igot drafted to replace your data clerk.”

A fleshy blonde with chill blue eyesthe only otherfemalesneered. “And I’m Martina Bukowski, chiefgenetic analyst. I’ve got three weeks of backlogged data.Hope you last longer than poor Ganter.”

No, morale did not seem high at this isolated station.Eva shifted on the bench, whose hardness recalledchildhood hours of worshipping the code. Grimly she satup straight as a wall.

“Hello, I’m Yang Sung.” A roundfaced man beamed,his head shaved bare as an asteroid. “And I'm glad to seea fresh face here, along with fresh supplies of tubes.”

“I wouldn’t feed our rations to a sewer rat,” moaned thehatchetfaced man beside him. “I’m Jansen, the stationengineer, and I wish my stomach could heal itself like oneof these famous trees.”

In the twilight, branches swayed along the roof's edge,moving with eerie grace, like dancers. The hairs on Eva'sneck prickled.

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“We all should admire these trees," said Yang Sung,"since they can regenerate themselves. Maybe they canteach us about healing wounds, or even aboutimmortality.”

“You’re just a dreamer, like the chief.” Martina jabbedher thumb at the empty armchair at the table’s head. Itglittered with costly brocadelike a museum piece, Evathought. “Everybody knows Central wants our resourcereport out of the way before settling Gaia. Code knowswe need more space for clones.”

Not waiting for the chief, a helper rolled out with aplatter of identical, silver tubes. Each surveyor took one,and popping hers open, Eva applied a dot to her tongueand sucked on it, developing the flavor of a bland beefstew.

John Orcus strode out onto the darkening deck, tossinghis mane like a bard of old preparing to recite. Noddingat Eva, he took his place as if on a golden throne. Whenhe tasted his tube he scowled.

“Our new crew member will need some time to getused to us,” he said, and Jansen guffawed. Ignoring him,Orcus stared at Eva: “Newcomers often feel tired oranxious. The days here pass too quickly.”

“I'm sure I can keep up with you,” she said, and whenMartina laughed bitterly, Eva wondered if the beautifulgeneticist might be the station chief's lover. She'd readnothing on this in the files.

His green gaze bored into Eva now as if he read hermind. "With days and nights just 8 hours long, we learnto live intensely here."

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“Why must the sun rise in the west?" Jansencomplained. Wistfully he gazed up at reddish, dryTantalus, now riding high in the starflecked sky.

“Jansen," Yang Sung chided, "you should show moreinterest in the biosphere here. It's almost untouched byhuman claws.”

The engineer frowned, bushy eyebrows stiffening into aline. “Why should I? Gaia is passing away. Next yearthe helpers will clearcut all these useless trees, to makeroom for more settlements.”

“How, if the trees regenerate?" asked Eva. “The work brigades will find a way,” he said sharply.

“They always do.”“At least there are no natives on Gaia to pretend to feel

sorry for.” Martina pushed away her wellsqueezed tubewith a gesture of disgust.

“Absent certainty is not certain absence,” Orcus pointedout, and Eva studied his slanted, green eyes. What didhe really know?

The other surveyors soon withdrew, as if they couldn’tbear each other. A faceless helper rolled out andcollected the empty tubes for recycling. Orcus produced apipe and pouch, and leaning back blew undulating, thinrings that melted into the night. Eva sat silently, trackingthe larger moonsall settled for centuriesacross thestarry sky.

“Six other moons,” he said finally, tapping his ashesonto the table. “All of them processed and colonized,packed full of cloned humans and mechanical helpers.Gaia will be next, and what a pity.” Eva felt eyes

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observing from the trees. Shuddering she pulled up heruniform's cowl.

“What is it?” he demanded.“An eerie sensation, some trick of my mind. Chief, I’m

not used to uncrowded spaces. I can feel my breathing.It's distracting."

“Yes, Gaia makes a shocking first impression... If youopen your eyes, if you hold out your mind, she will growon you. Don’t be afraid of the enfolding forest.” Gettingup he patted Eva's shoulder, and she felt a subtle warmthflowing from his hand.

She took a deep breath, intensely curioushungryevento know him better. Was this a chance? Whatwould Central think? She had no demerits in her file.

Getting up he glided towards the hatch that led to thespiral stairs back down. She cast a last look up atovercrowded, old Tantalus and followed John Orcus.

His quarters filled one corner. As he swiped a cardthrough the lock, Eva caught sight of scarlet curtains.

Too soon, even for a lowly clerk. She had to act herpart.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, chief,” she mumbled.“In the lab.”

“What’s the matter, Eva?” “I just feel exhausted. Must be this day that ended too

soon.”“Sleep well,” he murmured as she retreated down the

hall.

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Sitting down at her cell's dented mecmind, she loadedGanter’s disk, and a hologram of his sallow face flickeredin the mecmind's field.

“Agent Rosario,” he drawled, “to make a toolong storyshort, I believe our subject has had contact with alienintelligence. His loyalty has been disintegrating.Sometimes I think he can read my thoughts. Stay safe,pursuing this project for Central. I myself can't wait toescape from Gaia."

The image faded, and pulling out the disk Eva tossed itinto the vaporizer. The sudden heat and reek made herqueasy, and she flicked off the overhead light. Unzippingthe rubbery sides of her uniform, she opened the windowand leaned out, as if searching for the crowds and trafficback home; the familiar view from her highdensityblockhouse in Sector 2.

Gaia’s silence felt deafening now: no clamor of voices,no rumble of the universal helper machines. Nohumming of insects; no calling of clonebirds; no, nothingbut wind in the waving branches, all of them whisperingtogether in a language she’d never understand.

No wonder a man of the station chief's gifts was losinghis stability and falling away from the code. Centralshould have sent someone else to guide the resourcereport to completion; John Orcus had too muchimagination. She herself could do a better job. Time toget some sleep, however, before her first day as a clerk...

Turning back to the dark room, she choked on ascream. A man stood before her, tall and gaunt in thevelvety shimmer from the sky, his cheekbones sharp. Hadher own thoughts summoned him?

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“I keep a bitkey for every cell,” said Orcus softly, greeneyes gleaming like a cat’s.

Did he have hypnotic powers? Central's files had notexaggerated. “What do you want?” she heard herselfasking, cool as a mechanical helper. Stepping close hegrabbed her by the arm:

“Who are you, Eva Rosario?” He gave her a little shake.“And what do really want at my station? You are nosurveyor; you have a different feel.”

She smiled, baring her teeth. “Chief, you will find allmy holograms in order. I'm just a drafted data clerk.”

“I don’t believe you.” “Can you read my mind? Then you know how you

attract me." The small room was spinning on an axis. Placing his

tingling hands on her shoulders, he pulled down the sidesof her uniform as if peeling a luscious fruit.

Later, as they lay upon her hard bed, breathing softlyand breathing together, his finger traced the tattoo on herhip:

“‘IA,’ for ‘internal affairs.’ So you ventured out here toinvestigate me.” He chuckled, as if at some private joke.

Eva didn’t answer. Getting up he slumped into themecmind's chair and buried his face in his hands. After amoment she bent over him, twining a lock of his hairaround her fingers:

“Yes, John, IA sent me out to Gaia to watch over you.We're worried that you're having a nervous breakdown.So,” she coaxed in her smoothest manner, “why don’t you

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tell me what’s going on? Central can’t afford to keep onpaying surveyors to leave Gaia early.”

“It’s true I’ve changed in the last few years, ever since Itook this position. It's true, I no longer worship the codeof conquest in its entirety. But that's because Iunderstand Gaia, and I am the only one.” As he peeredinto her face she felt his numbing load of sorrow andloneliness. Yes, this man had telepathic gifts. What roledid the trees of Gaia play?

Central needed to know if he was suffering fromparanoid delusions. Central needed to know how thegiant trees contributed to his condition. Central, alwayson the watch for new and efficient chemical weapons…

“You believe these trees possess intelligence?” She kepther voice calm as a machine's. (Never show a subject youare passing judgment.)

“I know they do.” He scanned her face as if seekingapproval.

“Then prove it; I've got an open mind.”"I will."

They climbed the staircase back to the station’s deck.Stepping onto a transpo parked there, he motioned to Evato climb aboard.

“How far down are we going?” she asked. “All the way.” “I thought no human had seen the surface.”“The risk is worth it, I promise.” She wrapped her arms

around him, and he started the transpo with a jolt. Offthe roof it flew and then down, and in the darkness it felt

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like a plunge underwater. Leaves and branches wentwhirling past in the beams of the running lights. Leavesthat broke off grew back like magic.

John Orcus kept steering down and around the trunk ofthe barkless tree, and soon Eva smelled a cloyingfragrance sweeter than any perfume. She'd set herrespirator on maximum. Again he hadn't bothered withone.

Landing, the transpo juddered to a halt on dark andspongy ground. “It happened right here,” he said,dismounting. She followed, feet sinking into the earth.“Right here,” he repeated as if in a dream.

Flicking on a hand light he pointed to the trunk of anenormous tree. She gasped at the cracked and yellowedbone protruding from its bark: a human femur?

“A relic of the first crew. these trees devoured them.”“Then why claim that they died of contaminated food?”“We needed more surveyors to study these trees.

Finding out how they repair themselves could earn ustrillions in gold bullion. But that would be wrong; in factit would be a crime.”

“What do you mean?” She sidled away, careful not tobrush against the trees.

“Anything that harms these beings is wrong. Thoughlife here may seem chaotic, at it's root it is highlyorganized. In this dark forest I can see one mind like asingle organism; a mind that can think for itself, or actand react to defend itself.”

“What is your proof?”

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“These trees chose to consume the first crew here. Theyunderstand our conquest of Gaia would destroy their wayof life.”

Eva flung up her hands, warding off this vile heretic.“All creatures are subject to the code of conquest,” sherecited. “We humans are the masters of the universe, andthat is our final destiny.”

“Oh, don’t believe that propaganda. Join me in lovingthese benevolent trees. Live here with me, and liveforever…”

“ChiefJohnyou've lost your sanity.” Martina steppedfrom behind a tree and pointed her blaster at his head.“You can't live by the code, your blood crawling with treespores. I analyzed the latest sample, and they have beencolonizing you. We need to get you back to Tantalus.”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “These marvelous beingshave selected me”

A small branch whipped around Martina's throat; shestumbled backwards, tugging at it, choking.

“Stop it!” Eva shouted, but Martina's body hung limp.Flinging it away, the branch snapped back and swayedlike a snake about to strike. When she aimed her blasterthe branch sprang up again and rejoined its kin.

Yes, these trees showed intelligence; they did not wantto die. They'd rather kill.

“These trees murder humans," Eva shouted at Orcus,"so we must judge and execute them. That’s what ourcode of conquest requires.”

“No, they are just defending themselveslike anyfeeling being.” He grabbed the pumping node on a treeand ripped it away.

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“What are you doing?""These trees are gods.” He tore the node off another,

and its low branches rippled together. He patted thegnarly bark of a thirdand his hand sank into it, and thenhis forearm.

“They’re taking you!” “I want to go to them. With you”“I’ve got a life, John; I serve Central.” “This is your chance to live forever. Gaia is one

beautiful mind, a mind that absorbs whatever ittouches..."

“I’ll warn the station.” She jumped on his transpo.“Too late.” With his free hand he hugged the tree

engulfing him. “I can see the trees attacking the station.The rescue module's already”

Just a hank of his hair now dangled free, so she toresome off and stuffed it into her pocket: DNA evidence,for Central.

She gunned the transpo upwards on full power, aroundand around the peeled tree’s trunk. Other trees swiped ather; they tried to entwine her while she stubbornlyhurtled upwards, aiming at the pool of pale blue thatmarked the Gaian dawn. She felt she was bursting fromthe bottom of a well, escaping from some hideousnightmare. If dawn was breaking on Gaia, though, whywas the sky in flames?

The ruins of the station blazed, huge trees flailing atcollapsing walls. Almost colliding with a toppling corner,Eva grabbed a red curtain like a flag. She shot awaytowards the landing dock. Here the steel struts lookedintact...

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When a branch snatched the transpo from under her,she fell on her knees on the steel plates. “I won’t join you;this is not my world,” she shouted at the wildly thrashingtrees, while ruddy Tantalus shimmered overhead like abloodshot eye. “Help me!” cried Eva, yearning for hermultitudes of fellow clones, all packed together tightlythere and on the six, longsettled moons; all living anddying in perfect order according to the code.

Could she survive? She had no water, no tubes. Allalone she cowered on the steel plate dock in the burningsun, an insect just out of reach of the mutinous trees.

Then the dock bucked under her, as if trees werepulling the last struts out of their bodies. When sheblasted the nearest with her weapon, its crown burst intoa fury of flames, singeing off her hair and eyebrows.Drops of sap exploded all around, rattling down on thedock. She heard a mournful, shuddering cry, and all theother trees bent away from her.

Hours passed, or maybe days... Eyes swollen shut, shelicked her cracked lips and dreamed of water.

Who at Central would believe her? Paranoid delusions,they'd say... And she'd always been such a loyal worker,always keeping faith with the code...

From far away, she heard a whooshing sound in thesky. Raising her throbbing head she imagined the snubnosed Loyalty plunging from a cloud. Down it came,headed towards the dock.

Frantically she waved her rag of red curtain. Did theshuttle dip its wings?

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Oh, she'd make it back to Tantalus, where Centralwould heal her eyes. Praise the code; she’d be safe onceagain, in her precious cubicle....

But what was this rock thumping in her belly? Whywas her snug uniform straining? What had John Orcusgiven her?

The rubbery fabric stretched; it cracked, and a bonehard branch burst out.

Anna Sykora has been an attorney in New York and a teacher ofEnglish in Germany, where she now resides. To date she has placed131 stories, mostly genre, in the small press; most recently withRosebud (finalist in the 2014 Mary Shelley competition), Tales ofthe Talisman and Niteblade. She has also placed 340 poems.

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THE GLASS EYEby John Buentello and

Lawrence Buentello

The glass eye lay glimmering in the grass like themorning star in a dawning sky.

Oren Landi reached down and plucked it into his hand.He felt its polished surface against his fingers, and an oddheat he attributed to the warming sun.

At first he thought he’d spied a shining coin whilewalking on the path to the communal village, and hisheart beat faster, for acquiring coins was rare for him inthese days of difficult labor. The village was small and thefarms far apart, and he was without a father to teach hima craft that might prove profitable. Though he was onlysixteen, he felt he had passed the age of learningmeaningful skills such as those practiced by the guilds.He’d been earning a sparse living driving wagons throughthe countryside delivering goods for the farmers, but hadno other prospects.

When Oren stared into his palm he realized he wasn’tholding a coin, or anything he’d ever seen before. Staringback at him in solitary gaze was a finely carved glass eye,of white crystal with a pale blue iris in the center; and inthe center of the blue pigment a translucent black pupil. Itwas as if his hand had acquired a cyclopean demeanorand was staring back at him silently.

He was only mildly surprised by the discovery.He’d heard tales of the ornaments of the rich, of

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wealthy people living in far cities, the affectations thatmade a glass eye preferable over a cloth or hood. Still, thevillage of Gedwild was far from any city, small, anddevoid of wealthy inhabitants. Had a rich man passedthrough by way of carriage? Had a courier taken a jolt onhorseback and lost the ornament in the grass?

Certainly the glass eye was not a coin, and wasworthless as currency, but he slipped it into his pocketnonetheless. A talisman was a talisman, and even thoughit possessed a grotesque appearance, he recognized itsartistry and admired the beauty of its craft.

With the glass eye in his pocket and a smile on his lips,he continued on his way toward the village.

“Did you see the strange man by the river?” asked Delas he manhandled a sack of barley into the bed of thewagon.

He paused to catch his breath. He was twelve years old,but big for his age, and often helped Oren when he wasn’tworking at his father’s mill. Oren couldn’t pay the boymuch for his efforts, but both enjoyed the ride betweenthe barley man and the brewer, a ride that would havebeen long and tedious for Oren without a companion.

Oren heaved a sack over the barley the boy had justloaded, sweat dripping from his chin. He always kept hislong hair tied with a length of sackcloth, but now hepulled it from his head to wipe his face. When he wasfinished, he leaned against the wagon to retie the cloth.

“What did you say?”“There’s a stranger that came through the village a

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couple of days ago. Old Werri told my father about him.”Del dusted his palms on his breeches. “Werri believes he’sevil.”

Oren studied Del’s face a moment, wondering if heshould laugh, or if the boy was sincere. But the boy’s facebetrayed no humor.

“Why does Werri think the man evil?” he asked as heturned toward the remaining sacks of barley lying in thegrass. “Seems to me old Werri thinks every stranger isevil, or his horse, or his wife. The man’s probably justsome wanderer fishing the river.”

“No,” Del said, his tone rising. The boy raised his arms,a posture Oren had seen many times presaging some wildproclamation of ghosts or wraiths or Lucifer’s hordes.“Old Werri rode out to the river to speak to him, no doubtto reckon him out for the constable. The King’s men hatevagrants.”

“That sounds very much like Werri,” Oren said, pullingup another sack. “Always in someone else’s business.”

“True enough. But this time, when he came upon theman, he was overcome by a spell.”

“A spell?” Oren said, tossing the sack into the wagon.Yes, this was a more interesting story. Werri was a largeman, with a chest as broad as a barrel, and thick, heavyarms. In his youth he’d been a good smithy, strong as amill wheel, and wasn’t likely to be frightened by avagrant.

Oren asked, “What kind of spell?”Del lowered his arms and quieted his tone. “An evil

eye.”As Del spoke, the memory of finding the glass eye came

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to Oren, subtly, like the uneasy realization of a forebodingcoincidence.

“But not just by the gesture of his hand,” Del continued.“He cast the spell from a dead eye.”

“A dead eye?” Oren’s hand slipped down to the pocketholding the glass eye.

“Werri came upon him as the man was washing hisarms in the river, his back to him. Old Werri does enjoystalking up behind people. My father told me he was amasterful hunter years ago. He called out to the man,demanding to know his business in the village.” Deltapped his finger against his temple, near his eye. “Theman turned away from the water and glared at Werri withhis good eye. But it was the other eye, or the socket whereonce there was an eye, that stole Werri’s breath. OldWerri swore to my father that a demonic mist filled thesocket and gave him evil tidings.”

Oren considered reaching into his pocket and bringingup the eye for the boy to see, but something stayed hishand. A chill convulsed his back, and though the closeappearance of the oneeyed stranger and the glass eyestruck him as ominous, he refused to agitate the boy anyfurther. His hand moved away from his pocket.

“Werri’s a superstitious fool,” Oren said, managing aweak laugh.

“I saw Werri leaving the mill,” Del said, shaking hishead. “His face was pale with fright.”

“That’s enough of old Werri’s tales,” Oren saiddecisively. “Let’s finish loading so we can make it backfrom Durbin’s before dark.”

Del shrugged and bent toward the remaining sacks.

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“I’d rather go down to the river,” he said, “and see theoneeyed man for myself.”

“Don’t be so curious about strangers,” Oren said as hehurled another sack onto the wagon.

Oren glanced up at the crescent moon slowly risingabove the tops of the trees.

He and Del had spent the rest of the day driving toDurbin’s house and unloading the barley, and Del couldn’thelp repeating the story of the oneeyed stranger. Durbinwas so pleased by the story, and the intrigue the twofostered from it, that he fed them a good meal in hishouse just to keep the conversation going. Orenwelcomed the food, but remained reticent during thetalking. Something about the story made him uneasy.

Durbin, belching over his ale and wiping his hands overhis belly, invited them to spend the night rather thandrive the road in the dark, but Oren didn’t wish to stayany longer. He knew the road and insisted the horses alsoknew their way, in light or darkness. At least the mooncast a silver light on the trees and the road that split theircompany like a gloomy river.

The story of the stranger occupied his thoughts as heheld the reins. Del slept soundly in the bed of the wagon,evidently weary from telling the story so many times, sohe was alone with his thoughts. Occasionally a sparrowfluttered in the leaves, or an owl would issue a hauntingnote, which only aggravated the inexplicable dread hefelt.

Once, while Durbin was counting sacks of barley, Oren

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began to pull the glass eye from his pocket, feeling anoverwhelming desire to see it again, but for some reasonhe felt he shouldn’t expose it to the light of day. Talk ofevil omens and spells convinced him to keep the eye’sexistence to himself.

On a whim, Oren pulled on the reins and quietlystopped the horses. He glanced back at the sleeping boy,who hadn’t stirred, then stared ahead into the darkness.While the insects chattered inquisitively, he reached intohis pocket and, with a heavy breath, pulled out the glasseye and held it up to the moonlight. He gazed at thecrystal at arm’s length, waiting for some doom to befallhim. But no doom came.

The moonlight shone brightly on the eye’s curvature,reflecting the light coolly. No, this wasn’t an artifact ofevil, merely a oneeyed man’s ornament and nothingmore. He closed his hand around the crystal, relieved, andalso feeling a little foolish. But then, he’d been hearingtales of the supernatural all afternoon, why shouldn’t hehave felt uneasy?

Oren even thought of returning the ornament to theoneeyed man by the river, if it was indeed his, and oldWerri’s superstitions be damned. He still had both eyes,and perfect vision, so why not commit a good deed thatmight prove a blessing for him?

He opened his hand, the glass eye sparkling like a jewelin the moonlight. Seeing it glimmer so beautifully, astrange impulse overcame him, and he slowly raised thecrystal to his face, and then held it directly before his owneye, meaning to see how the white light of the moonmight be changed through the glass.

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If all sound hadn’t frozen in his throat, he would havesurely wakened the boy—what he saw through the hazycolor of the false pupil caused him to forget all thoughtsof returning the eye to the stranger.

Now he knew he possessed something much morevaluable than a coin, even a gold coin.

Oren slipped the glass eye back into his pocket, rolledthe reins over the horses’ backs and felt the wagon beginto move again.

He had difficulty concentrating on the road with thememory of all he’d seen burning in his mind. The previousyear he had seen a merchant open a bag of silver coins topay Durbin for several skins of ale, and that was as muchmoney as he’d ever seen in his life. But the vision of theeye showed him barrels of coins heaped in ancient hallsfull of gorgeous tapestries and stringed instruments, silvertrays bearing jewels like shining fruit, purple robes drapedon tables and waiting for a man to wear over hisshoulders. How wonderful it would be to walk into thosehalls and claim it all for his own! He would buy horses ofhis own, live in a palace, and never know a hungry dayagain.

And like a whisper barely heard, the vision of the eyetold him that this treasure might be his, if only he usedthe eye to guide his way...

Once Oren had left off Del at the mill, he returned thehorses and the wagon to the barley man and walked therest of the way to the small house that had once been hisfather’s.

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Then he lay in the darkness of the house, surroundedby the few possessions that had belonged to his motherand father, now rendered invisible by the blackness, asinvisible as the spirits of his parents.

He lay on the ground, his arms beneath his head, andwondered if what he’d seen through the glass eye wasonly a delusion, a waking dream. He hadn’t lookedthrough the eye again, and perhaps feared to try. Thetreasure he’d seen was certainly as great as the King’s,though hidden in a secret place he knew could only befound through the second sight provided by the crystal.How he knew this, he didn’t know, except that hisperceptions must have come from some magic containedin the crystal. But how might he use the glass eye to findsuch a treasure? Was the vision enough? Or must he alsohave some special knowledge of its properties to use itproperly?

As he lay in darkness, he came to realize that the oneeyed man must have been using the glass eye to guide hisway to the treasure. This explained why he remainedcamped by the river; he was surely scouring the road forwhat he’d lost, and must be wary of anyone whoquestioned his purpose there.

Several times Oren began to reach for the eye, desirousto see the glimmering treasure again, and each time herefrained.

His father’s memory refused to let him commit toowning the crystal.

Eris Landi had been a pious, honest man in life, asimple farmer with the heart of a philosopher. When Orenwas very young, his father implored him to always remain

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honest and forthright, and declared, “Remember, Oren,no temptation is worth the price of your soul.”

Oren loved the man very much, and had always tried toobey his words. Eris Landi’s words were all he had left ofhis father.

Despite all the treasures promised by the glass eye’svision, he knew he couldn’t keep the eye. No treasure wasworth finding disgrace in his father’s eyes. Still—when heremembered that glorious vision, a hill of gold and silvercoins, of jewels worth a kingdom—

Oren was a poor young man, from a poor family, andhe knew this poverty had contributed to the early deathsof his mother and father. After his father’s death, hismother had sold most of the farmland to make their way,though she, too, died before her time. If they had hadaccess to such a fortune, wouldn’t they still be with himtoday? A fortune in gold could delay death for many yearsfor a man.

Eventually sleep found him, but not before he knewwhat he must do the following day.

Oren didn’t know where the stranger had camped onthe river, and he was afraid to ask Werri, lest the mandiscourage him from visiting, or pry into his reasons forseeking out the man in the first place. So he slipped downto the river bank and began walking alongside the water,hoping to eventually find the stranger’s camp.

In his pocket he carried the glass eye.The previous night, in his dreams, he’d traveled down a

road and to a valley filled with ivory houses adorned in

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fine silks and tapestries, and bearing chest after chest ofgold and jewels. He’d dipped his hands into the piles oftreasure, feeling the cold glory of the coins and thesmooth beauty of the gems. Surely this was only a dream,but when he woke, his mind still turning with thedazzling images, he felt this treasure must be real, andlocated somewhere just beyond his knowledge.

But the long walk to the river cleared his mind ofdreams and replaced them with his father’s words.

By the time he found the stranger’s camp the sun hadrisen to its noon perch, burning down on him painfully.

He stood at a distance observing the unoccupied camp,pulling the cloth from his hair to wipe the sweat from hiseyes and retying it, before moving forward.

A fire ring still smoldered from a night’s burning, andan unfurled bedroll lay by the stones; several smallleather sacks lay in the grass, as well as a water skin.Oren heard a crackling noise, and gazed into theundergrowth where a small dray mule stood waiting. Thestranger must surely be nearby—

This camp seemed unlikely to belong to a man ofenduring evil. Perhaps Oren had been wrong—perhapsthe glass eye and the man had nothing in common. Yet,he felt certain they must. The stranger must know thesecret of the glass eye’s vision. If Oren knew that secret,what might he then do with the crystal?

The sound of a snapping twig caused Oren to turnsharply.

A ruddyskinned man of slight stature walked towardhim, as if appearing from the air, his bearded face halfconcealed by the hood of a cloak. The man walked slowly,

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crackling the brush under his boots, a freshly cut staff inhis hand keeping time with his pace.

Though Oren was startled, he wasn’t afraid. He waswellmuscled from his labors, and stood a head taller thanthe stranger, who was not at all imposing.

But Oren’s gaze did fall almost immediately to theman’s face, expecting to see the gaping socket from whichissued Werri’s perceived evil.

But the man wore a soft black patch over his left eye, orperhaps over the place where an eye used to be; withoutexposing the disfigurement, the stranger seemed just aman, older than Oren’s father would be in this year, andslightly decrepit, who watched Oren with a clear blueright eye.

The stranger said nothing as he laid down his staff,walked to the fire ring, even as Oren stepped away fromit, and carefully sat in the grass. Without turning his headhe drew a long, thin blade from the bag tied to his waistand began absently stirring the embers.

“Are you the one I’ve been waiting for?” the strangerasked in a voice turned to paper in his throat by age. Hecontinued stabbing at the embers, as if searching for somemessage left in their ash.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oren said,wishing he’d brought a blade of his own. Still, he thoughthe could wrest the weapon from the smaller man if hemust.

“You are the one I’ve been waiting for,” the man said,turning his head and grinning. His face bore no humor,but a disturbing malice displayed in a hideous smile. “Doyou have the eye with you, son?”

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Oren knew he’d made a mistake coming to the river.Why had he come? Why hadn’t he heeded the warning inDel’s story?

“Who are you?” he said, trying to determine what to do.“I am Felar of Riine,” the stranger said. Puffs of blue

smoke began rising from the embers where he stirredthem. “But can that mean anything to you? As much asany vision you have seen?”

“What vision?”“No use lying to me, boy,” Felar said. His free hand

circled the fire ring slowly, and the blue smokeintensified, billowing thickly and rising above the man’shead.

Oren watched the smoke as if in a daze, seeing shapeswithin its folding undulations, faces, too, dark blue andfrightening. Or was it only his imagination?

“How do you know I’ve seen visions?” Oren said.“You’re the one who found the eye.”“Yes, I found the eye,” Oren said, now realizing that he

was terribly intimidated by the older man. “But I onlycame to return it to you, if it was truly you who lost it.”

Felar laughed dryly.“A good Samaritan,” he said. “Motivated only by the

need to return a poor man’s trinket. How very saintly ofyou, given the promise of the visions you’ve seen. Or wasit something else that motivated you to find me?”

“I only came to return the eye. I see that you’vereplaced it with a patch, but you may have it now to placeit where it belongs.”

“I wonder if you feel that it actually belongs on yourperson, and for your use alone.”

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“No, I only came to return your property, I swear.”But was that true? In his heart the argument had raged,

of whether to abide by his father’s teachings, or to subtlylearn the secret of the eye. Had his own greed been histrue motivation?

Something else lay in the stranger’s conversation,something dark and imposing.

The blue smoke rose higher, and within its swirls thefaces of eyeless spirits.

“I see you admiring the power of the spirits,” Felar said.“The spirits of the smoke know many things, and tell memany things. And so does the eye. I would knoweverything about the man who carries it so dearly. Wherehe’s gone, who he’s spoken to, what he’s seen. And whathe wishes for. But all these things are beside the point.”

The stranger rose to his feet, the thin blade held to hisside.

“You shouldn’t feel bad about your human weakness,”he said. “Everyone who has come before you has fallenprey to the same sin. Greed, for what could be attained, ifonly the vision they beheld could be understood.”

“You wanted me to find the eye,” Oren said. “Youwanted me to see the vision it held. You wanted me tocome to you. Why?”

“You are a simple boy. What do you know of the desiresof men of power? Or of their pleasures?”

“Why? Why did you want me to find it?”“Because I am a collector of things,” Felar said, taking a

step toward Oren. He bent, retrieved one of the leathersacks and held it lovingly. “Of rare magic, which cannotbe made from ordinary things. For a man of vision, of

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very special vision, he must have just the right elementsfor maintaining his power of second sight. My own eyeserved as the first sacrifice, though I soon discovered thatthe spirits must be constantly satisfied. But I must go farafield to gather these things, since it might provehazardous to be discovered collecting in Riine.”

Felar dropped the sack and whisked away his hood.Then he gently pulled on the soft black patch over his faceuntil it fell away.

Oren saw the black pit that lay beneath, the samehorrid socket beheld by Werri, and his eyes widened as hespied the thin mist flowing within it.

He hurriedly reached into his pocket and brought theglass eye into the sunlight. Then he pitched it from histrembling hand toward Felar’s boots.

“Take it,” Oren said, “I don’t want it. It belongs to you.”Felar kicked at the crystal with the toe of his boot.“I wouldn’t dare think of parting you from your beloved

treasure,” he said, moving closer. “But all the treasure youcould ever hope to see is only yours for a price.”

“I have no money.”“I shall take my payment in trade, foolish boy.”As the blue smoke spiraled wickedly behind Felar, the

stranger raised the thin blade in his hand and beganwalking toward Oren.

Oren turned and began to run along the bank, certainhe could outdistance the stranger.

But the hideous blue smoke rose up and quicklyenveloped him, choking him, blinding him. He coughedviolently as he tried to run, but he fell over rocks anddropped to his knees. The bright sunlight was stolen by

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the smoke, replaced only by a blinding shroud of mist.Dizzy, he couldn’t rise to his feet, could scarcely move hisbody.

Oren felt the stranger’s hand on his shoulder, and thenthe blade pressing against his neck.

“I’ll take payment now,” Felar said, then laughed.Mercifully, Oren fell into a blackness that allowed no

thought or sense.

“What can I do?”Oren stared at the big man helplessly before taking

another drink from the tall cup of ale Werri had givenhim.

Werri sat on the edge of the table gazing down on himwith a worried expression, his fingers rubbing deeply onhis chin. Oren had come to Werri’s house, half his facecovered by the cloth with which he tied his hair, afraidand desperate.

“This is the devil’s work,” Werri finally said, shaking hishead. “Or a man working at the devil’s heed. I thought hewas only evil, not demonic. But surely this man toils inleague with the worst of hell’s progeny.”

When Oren woke on the river bank, as from a feveredsleep, he struggled to find his senses amongst the touch ofthe wind, the sound of the rushing water, and the curiouschirps of the birds in the trees. He sat up, feeling no pain,but holding his hands to his face; something seemed notquite right in his mind, his senses. Fragments of a dreamslipped from his memory, the ugly face of a oneeyedman, and words spoken in the voice of Felar. I will give

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you a treasure you will always see, but never touch, I willgive you the gift of life and death—

As the dream faded Oren realized that something hadchanged. When he gazed up over the trees at the settingsun he saw its brilliance perfectly clearly from his righteye, but from his left he only saw a kaleidoscopic whirl ofimages, the same images he’d seen when staring throughthe glass eye, of chests of gold coins, of emeralds andrubies, of high towers and high stone keeps.

He sat gasping and turning his head, before stumblingto his feet and staggering to the edge of the river. He bentdown and saw his reflection in the moving stream, hisown pale face, and a left eye that was no longer his owneye. The glass eye lay in his left eye socket like a sapphirefirmly affixed on a ring, shining brightly. He touched thecrystal, hoping to remove it from his eye, but in horrorrealized he no longer had his own left eye, that the glasseye was sealed to his flesh as if by magic.

Oren sat for a long time gazing at his reflection,terrified by what Felar had done to him, but his terrorrose in his throat and burst painfully into the air when herealized what was happening.

He’d seen the fish moving below the surface of thewater where the river ran shallow, and now, after seeingthem swimming perfectly well, he watched as fish afterfish rose to the surface, floating, dead. What is this, he’dthought, why is this happening?

He moved away from the water and stared up into thetrees, and whenever he beheld a sparrow or lark, thesame bird fluttered from the branches, lifeless. Even thosebirds flying through the air plummeted to earth after he

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caught sight of them—a fish, a bird, an insect, all livingcreatures died as he gazed upon them, as if his visionwere the cause of their deaths. And then he thought—it’sthe eye.

He quickly pulled the cloth from his hair and tied itover the left side of his face, casting the glass eye intodarkness. The visions faded, though they still danced inhis sight like shadows, but now the birds remained alive,now the means to kill them lay muted. Felar had givenhim a treasure, or at least the vision of a treasure hewould always have, but a treasure that also gave him thepower of life and death over every living creature hebeheld. The act of seeing his own reflection did not killhim, so perhaps he couldn’t kill another man—butperhaps its magic wouldn’t transfer through reflections, orperhaps Felar’s magic prevented Oren from killinghimself.

But Felar was gone, his camp obliterated. The draymule’s tracks led off down the road.

Oren fled down the road in the opposite direction,uncertain of what to do, until he thought of Werri and ranall the way to the man’s house. Werri was a friend of hisfather’s, and might be sympathetic, though Oren had beena fool for seeking out the stranger. He told the big man ofhis encounter with Felar, crying out when Werri beganreaching for the cloth over the glass eye. He fearedexposing the eye would kill the man.

Now he drank more ale, his head spinning, his heartbeating ferociously.

“What am I to do?” Oren asked again, hoping the elderman would know.

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“I wish you’d never found the eye,” Werri said. “Butsometimes a man falls into a trap. I should have donemore to run him off these lands, but I feared his magic.”

“He’s cursed me,” Oren said, tears streaming from hisright eye; no tears fell from his left. “And I’ve shamed myfather’s memory.”

“Your father would forgive you, and punish the manwho harmed you.”

“Felar has cursed me with this eye, it’s as much a partof me as my right eye. And he’s gone off with my left.”

“Surely he’ll use his spells to curse another.”Oren lowered his head, wishing he knew a prayer

strong enough to free him from his curse.“I don’t know what to do,” he said, raising his head.

“What can I do?”Werri rose from the table and laid a strong hand on

Oren’s shoulder.“Take heart, boy,” he said, “and ask yourself what your

father would have you do.”Oren thought a moment, thought of his father’s piety,

but also of the man’s sense of justice. He wouldn’t letFelar escape the consequences of his evil acts. Nor wouldhe let Oren suffer with the curse cast upon him. He wouldtake action to make things right, to save his son, nomatter the consequences of doing so.

But Oren’s father was long dead, and only Orenremained.

Oren sat for a long time remembering his father. Werriwas wise to make Oren consider his father’s wishes.Certainly the memory of his father was the only force thatcould chase the fear from his mind, and replace it with

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wrath. And when the fear tried to displace that wrath, hisfather’s memory beat it down again into the childish placefrom where it had sprung.

“I must find Felar,” Oren said finally.“Yes.”“I must make this right. Will you help me?”Werri nodded, smiling grimly.“He’ll have gotten a few miles down the road,” the big

man said. “We might be able to reach him by dawn.”“Then hitch the horses and we’ll go.”Werri turned to go, but stopped in the doorway and

asked, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?”“Yes,” Oren said, thinking of his father. “It’s what my

father would tell me to do.”After Werri left the house, Oren searched the room

until he found a good, sharp knife.Yes, I know what my father would tell me to do, he

thought.

Felar had turned off the road and had made anothercamp a few miles downriver.

Oren found him standing by the dray mule, securingthe bags he had removed while the mule rested. Thestranger hadn’t been camped long, for he hadn’t finishedbringing tinder to the fire ring that lay half formed by hisfeet. Felar didn’t hear him as he walked silently over thegrass. Though Oren’s heart beat fiercely, he kept walkinguntil he was only a few feet away.

But soon Felar sensed his presence, and turned quickly,his hand falling to his sash where he kept the long knife.

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Oren stood watching the man, and when Felar realizedwho he was facing a faint smile came to his lips. His handmoved away from the knife, and he laughed dryly.

“I applaud you, boy,” Felar said. “You’re the only manI’ve ever enchanted who had the gall to track me.”

Oren took another step toward the stranger.“You travel slowly,” he said. “It wasn’t much effort to

find you.”“I have business yet in these lands.”Oren felt a terrible suspicion stir in his gut.“What business?”“I am expecting another visitor,” Felar said. “Another

foolish boy, though younger than you. Surely he’s foundthe trinket I left for him at his father’s mill. And surely heis just as curious, and greedy, as you.”

“You’ll not harm Del!” Oren said. “I won’t let you!”He took another step, and this time Felar’s hand fell to

one of the leather bags tied to his waist.“One more step and I’ll cast the magic of this pouch

upon your head!”Oren stood still, breathing heavily.“I don’t have to take another step to stop you,” he said.Oren’s hand reached up for the cloth covering the left

side of his face.Felar, perhaps surmising Oren’s intention, laughed

wickedly.“You’re a fool!” he said, still laughing. “Do you think I

would let my own powers destroy me? You can’t kill meby the powers of the glass eye.”

“No,” Oren said, “I don’t believe you would be socareless. Not where your magic is concerned. It’s not the

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glass eye I mean to show you.”Oren pulled the cloth from his face and let if fall to the

grass.Felar’s eye widened as he beheld the bloody and empty

left socket in Oren’s face. The glass eye was gone, and inits place only a terrible wound darkened by dried blood.

Oren reached into his pocket and brought the glass eyeinto the sunlight, now flecked by blood and gore. Heflung the ornament at the stranger’s boots.

“Take back your cursed charm,” he said. “And give mepayment for what you’ve taken from me.”

Felar glanced at the eye, stepping away from it as if itwere a venomous snake. He studied Oren closely, hishand still hovering over his sash.

“I’ll pay you nothing,” he said, his smile changing to asneer. “I admire your will to cut the eye from your face,but I’ll give you nothing for returning it to me.”

“I don’t want payment for the eye you gave,” Oren said.“I want payment for the eye you stole.”

He began walking toward the stranger again.“I’ll see you dead, you impudent fool!” Felar said, his

hand moving to open the leather bag at his waist.But the stranger’s hand never opened the sack, for as

Oren fixed Felar's attention, the big man Werri had creptup behind him and wrapped his great arms around him.Felar struggled to reach his magic, but struggled in vain;Werri’s strong arms held him in their prison.

“If I’d had the courage to run you off these landsbefore,” Werri said as he squeezed the man viciously, “youwould not have committed your crime. I don’t intend tomake the same mistake again.”

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Felar cursed vilely, writhing like a snake.“I do not have a father to protect me from evil men like

you,” Oren said, stepping before the stranger. “But I havethe memory of his words to guide me. And as he waspious and lawful, he would expect me to obey the laws ofGod and man.”

Felar ceased struggling, the smile returning to his lips.“What do you want?” he asked. “Gold? Jewels? I could

give you both treasure beyond your dreams if you freeme!”

Oren stared into the man’s single eye with his own eye,sensing the frightened shades of a hundred collectedsouls. He wondered if his own soul was captured in thatevil place, but didn’t really wish to know.

“I mean to stop you from ever doing this to anotherman,” Oren said, pulling the knife from his belt, the sameknife he’d used to carve the glass eye from his face.

“You mean to kill me!”“No,” Oren said, holding the blade before himself. “My

father wouldn’t want me to kill another, not for the sakeof a wound. He would want me to exact a justpunishment.”

Felar’s head pressed against Werri’s great chest as hewatched the blade move slowly toward his face, hismouth twisting in horror.

“An eye for an eye,” Oren said.

Story collaborations between brothers Lawrence and JohnBuentello have appeared in Ares Magazine, 4 Star Stories, Over MyDead Body, and many other places, including previous editions ofEncounters.

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Encounters Magazine 13