American Nocturne

by Hank Schwaeble

  “What does that mean? What the hell is going to happen to her?”

  “I… I cannot answer your questions. I am to be the Interpreter.”

  “Then tell that fucking thing I want to know what is going to happen to her!”

  “I cannot do that. I am to be—” A series of hisses and gurgles interrupted him. “It is time!”

  The man rose abruptly and stepped backward toward the creature, still bowed, arms spread. After closing the distance by several meters, he stood upright and dropped his hands to his sides. Adam watched as the tentacled appendage that had taken Cassie moved toward the man from behind. One of its long tubes draped itself over the man’s shoulder and wrapped itself around his chest. Then another shot forward and slammed into the back of his skull, snapping the man’s head forward. One of the man’s eyes popped out of its socket, the other bulged like a bubble in tar, the iris barely visible where it had rolled back over the top. The man’s jaw hung slack. The shape of his head had been warped by the impact, distorted with protrusions of displaced bone and stretched skin.

  The man’s mouth moved with great difficulty as it spoke. The voice it produced was a raspy whisper, wheezing out from the expansion and contraction of the tentacle coiled around the man’s chest.

  “This brain… will continue to function… only briefly. You must choose.”

  Adam tried to pry to the claw apart again, straining with all his might, to no avail. “Choose what? I don’t understand! What have you done with Cassie!”

  “Your kind has unlocked the Gate of Yog-Sothoth. You are ready for your fate. You are ready to choose.”

  “Choose what?”

  “You were placed here to serve. You have traveled here to choose. You bear witness to the fate of your species.”

  “Where is here? Where am I?”

  “You have grasped the Key. The Key has unlocked the Gate. You have arrived at the future that awaits you.”

  The muscles in Adam’s arms involuntarily relaxed, spent of all energy. “I don’t understand. What does that mean?”

  “The purpose of what you call mankind is complete.”

  “What purpose? Why are you doing this?”

  “You seek answers that you could not possibly comprehend. You ask questions as if you are worthy of explanation. The purpose of your race is being realized. The unlocking of the Gate was the event signaling your readiness. It is time to undertake your destiny. One hundred of your solar years ago, on this day, your species reached the intended stage of its evolution. You bore witness then, you bear witness now. You must choose.”

  The creature withdrew its tentacle from the back of the man’s skull. The rush of air into the void made a slushing pop. The man’s body collapsed as the thing unwrapped the other tentacle from around his chest. Adam heard another series of gurgling hisses, and two more of the silvery human things emerged from the darkness. One of them carried a box engraved with symbols Adam thought resembled those on the object at the lab. He could not tell if the two creatures were the same ones that had whisked Cassie away.

  The thing with the box opened it and removed a metallic vial. It twisted the end, then lowered the vial toward the body. A single drop of black liquid stretched off the edge and landed on the man’s robed chest. The body shuddered and shook, and Adam considered the possibility the man may not have been completely dead.

  Within seconds, all traces of the man had vanished, save a dark amorphous outline from which wisps of vapor rose like a festival of dancing phantoms.

  The thing holding the vial placed it back into the box and set the box on the floor.

  Adam felt the vise-like grip of the claws release him, and his hands shot to his throat as he dropped to one knee.

  Thick pairs of hands grabbed him, clamping down on the backs of his arms from behind. The two silver things dragged him as he stumbled to catch his footing. The space around them was a shade of black that seemed impervious to light. Despite this, his captors were plainly visible, as was the smooth-hewn stone of the floor beneath him. His mind wrapped itself around a thought. Light. They have mastered light in some unimaginable way. Then he remembered the platform that carried them. Not just light, he thought. Gravity, too.

  The two human-like things deposited him onto the floor with a shove. The blackness in front of him receded like a fog and he saw a pyramid-shaped object like the one the man had produced at the lab, only much larger. Adam sensed an ancient quality to it, something that defied articulation, something beyond any aspect of its appearance. Before he could contemplate it further, a dark beam – not of light, but more like its very absence, stretched out from its apex. It cut a swath in the air before him, rending a crude tear, like a jagged edge through fabric. The tear expanded in its wake as the beam circled around him. Once the beam had completed its circuit, his surroundings were ripped away, and a sensation of erasure washed over him, the pull of a receding tide flowing into the distance.

  At some point, Adam realized his eyes were shut and he opened them. The air was thick and pungent, scalding hot, burning his throat. His lungs revolted against the noxious atmosphere, and part of his brain instinctively calculated that there were not many breaths to be had in this place.

  His chest heaving in convulsive gasps, Adam took in the open expanse of land surrounding him, blinking stinging tears down his cheeks in the searing heat. It was a harsh landscape of rock, dotted with mesas and volcanoes and canyons and extreme natural formations that scraped the purplish sky, mute testament to the extreme conditions that formed them.

  Directly before him was a small body of liquid, hardly the size of a pond, viscous and frothing. Occasional swirling patterns broke the surface, gently churned by the force of some unseen motion.

  To one side of him was the box containing the vial. To the other side, farther off, placed on a slab of rock that seemed formed for that very purpose, was the pyramid-shaped object, the one the man had brought to the lab. It stood inverted, balanced unshakably on its tip, looking, for reasons Adam could not reconcile, not the least bit out of place.

  Adam gagged and coughed with each breath. He could feel his mind begin to float, and he knew he did not have long. He willed himself to think. The light-headedness brought with it an unexpected clarity of thought, focusing his mind like a laser. He stared at the pool of ooze and suddenly had little trouble seeing it for what it was: the primordial soup. He was kneeling at the threshold. The beginning of life on Earth.

  He also knew he was alone in the world, completely, utterly alone. Marooned.

  Marooned. The chemical volley going off in his brain brought the memory into sudden, sharp relief, as if the frantic firing of dying synapses knocked down a wall in his head. He could now see and hear and even smell the conversation, the one he had been unable to recall about goats. It was the same day Andrews had forced Adam to take a vacation. For no apparent reason the uncharacteristically talkative professor had begun discussing Robinson Crusoe. He asked if Adam knew how individuals occasionally were able to survive ordeals like that, being stranded for years on remote islands. He said it was because of goats. Ships sailing the empty expanses of ocean in the 18th and 19th centuries would routinely investigate islands they happened upon during journeys through uncharted waters. It was common practice to leave a pair of goats on the deserted ones. If the ship were to return years later, the goats would number in the hundreds, providing the crew with a perfect supply of food, milk, skins, even sex objects, for those so inclined. Seeding, they called it.

  Adam’s eyes settled on the box. I wish the choice was between men and goats, but I’m afraid it’s goats or nothing at all.

  He opened the box, pulled out the vial. One drop had removed all traces of the man in the robe. The pool in front of him was hardly more than a large puddle. The entire vial would certainly be enough.

  His mind skipped about, muddling through questions he knew he did not have time to consider. The professor had obviously known what was at stake, knew
Adam well enough to arrange for Cassie to show at his apartment, ensuring he would arrive at the lab. He thought about the professor killing himself, and wondered how he made his decision, why he settled on Adam. Mostly he thought of Cassie, how he had coveted her body while rejecting her soul, of the unimaginable fate that awaited her, and about whether dying and being forgotten were horribly the same or vastly different.

  The vial was heavy. He twisted the end and the top few inches slid to the side with the hiss of a vacuum seal being broken. The black liquid seemed infinite in its lightlessness as he gazed into it, like the shadow of an abyss.

  Adam closed his eyes and bowed his head. He was almost out of time. Knowing there was no Heaven to hear him, he uttered a short prayer, quietly mouthing words he had never before considered speaking. His only hope was that it was not too late to be forgiven.

  AB-IV

  Preface

  THE FOLLOWING STORY, AB-IV, first appeared in the anthology ZVR: No Man’s Land (IDW Publishing, 2014). It is set in the world of Zombies vs Robots, a retro-futuristic comic book universe created by Chris Ryall and Ashley Wood where the human population is facing extinction and pre-programmed robots are waging a post-apocalyptic war against a zombie plague that has blanketed the Earth. The ZVR concept has been optioned by Michael Bay for a major motion picture.

  Special thanks goes out to Ted Adams, CEO and Publisher of IDW Publishing, for graciously allowing me to include this story as part of my collection. Interested readers are encouraged to seek out both the several ZVR anthologies IDW Publishing has put out, as well as the numerous Zombies vs Robots comic books they have published over the years. When you have zombies, and throw in robots, the only other thing you could possibly ask for is some popcorn. And maybe a beverage. Okay, a comfy chair and some light to read by, also, but that’s it.

  AB-IV

  MITCHELL COULD SEE the scores of eyes as they stared down at him, the arms stretched to the sides in mock crucifixion, the halo-bursts of worming hair – a flotilla of the undead. A hundred and twenty-five feet, give or take. The curve of the synthetic glass overhead had a magnifying effect, especially at this particular spot, near the westernmost edge. An optical illusion, making them appear much closer than the ten stories of separation. It was a reminder of how minimal the distance actually was. How nearby they always were.

  But even magnified, they were still too far away for him to really see their gazes, to really make out their features. He understood it was just his mind being creative, filling in the gaps.

  He wondered, as he often did, lying there in the makeshift bunk, what they were thinking, whether they were aware they were watching him, watching them. It was an act of denial, asking that question, as he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. But he did it anyway, let his imagination drift with it like he was one of them, trying to understand the workings of a semi-functional dead brain. He’d finished counting them earlier, but only out of habit. The number was always between eight-six and ninety-eight. Always. Something about the morphic field, Riley had tried to explain.

  One started to sink.

  It happened every few hours, three or four times a day. The bodies would gradually become so waterlogged they would lose their buoyancy and descend, slow-motion dive bombers leaving their formation. No, he thought; not bombers – sky-divers, feathering through the alien atmosphere of a low-gravity planet. They never hit the dome, something Mitchell couldn’t understand, no matter what Riley said about current and the hydro-dynamics created by the geodesic slopes. It always felt more like they were trying to avoid it, wanting to draw as little attention as possible – paratroopers avoiding the objective, gliding to a rally point to prep for the raid. Or maybe it was just like Riley said, their only motivation was food. That they sensed the energy waves or whatever of humans close by, and that information travelled from one to others. Living brains, ready to eat.

  Only one thing was certain. The lower they went, the faster they sank.

  He watched the sinker veer farther away as its descent quickened. It was silly, he knew. They always reached the ocean floor, then flopped there, barely able to move, the salty water having pressured its way into their lungs, saturating their rotting flesh. And then the crabs would start to move in. They’d all seen it happen more than once, back when everyone would scramble to watch what was happening, climbing to vantage points. Now, everyone ignored them.

  Except Mitchell.

  He wasn’t worried about sinkers. It was the drifters that bothered him. Because, at a level where he couldn’t pretend otherwise, he was certain they knew. They knew, and they combined that knowledge with the patience of souls waiting to pass through the gates of Hell. Riley and the others could speculate all they wanted about predatory instinct and flock behavior (although it was really only Riley who did that, with the others usually talking in terms of animal traits they’d witnessed as kids or superstitions and legends they’d been told about around campfires).

  Mitchell wasn’t buying any of it. He was convinced the truth was much more troubling, if for no other reason than it always turned out that way. They knew. They knew the supports were becoming unstable. It was doubtful they had the capacity to understand any of the technical aspects, the details of what parts were failing, but he was sure they knew time was running out. The dome was not going to last, and AquaBase IV would collapse, just like I, II, and III had. They knew, and it was like each of them was hoping to be there to witness it.

  Disturbing as the thought was, it wasn’t the worst part. It was the way they

  watched, the way they slyly tried to make eye contact with him – and only him – as they sank. It smacked of a message, the kind of thing one force communicates across a battlefield to make a point. They wanted him to know they knew.

  Either that, or he was losing his mind.

  He didn’t want to think about either of those things, but the truth was he found it hard to think of anything else.

  Footfalls clattered from the hallway, crisp and mechanical, clearly audible through the doorway that lacked a door. A slightly hurried gait, growing louder. Mitchell didn’t bother to look. It would be Cypher. Everything with that sci-bot was always sky-is-falling urgent. Cypher just couldn’t grasp that few things ever really were, ever really had been. The living corpses swaying in the ocean’s pulse above were proof of that. The sky was going to fall whether you ran around warning people about it or not.

  “Lieutenant!” Cypher stopped in the doorway, pausing as if to catch its breath. It was an affectation, one Riley said was the result of a mimicry imprint, intended to make interactions with humans more comfortable at the subconscious level. Mitchell always thought it was just plain stupid, if not creepy.

  “Lieutenant, I’m so glad I found you! You must come at once, sir! At once! It is most urgent!”

  Mitchell placed a hand beneath the back of his head, still peering toward the Heavens, watching the mockery of angels play among the clouds. “What is it, Cypher? Another stress-fault?”

  “Botkins, no! I would be quite upset if that were the case! Quite upset indeed!”

  “You? Upset? Imagine that.”

  “Sir! The R-Bot is back! He’s in the chamber! Sergeant Younger is working the stages as fast as he can so that he and Mr Riley can get in there to administer any necessary medical attention! This is most urgent, sir! Most urgent!”

  That was enough to get Mitchell’s attention, even from Cypher. There were only four of them left, four men plus five bots. And bots didn’t need medical attention. He popped up, tossing his legs off the mattress and sitting along the edge.

  “Tyler?”

  “He is prepping the infirmary, per Mr Riley’s instructions! It has not been used since prior to—”

  “Cypher, just tell me what the Hell is going on.”

  “Yes, sir! My apologies, sir!” Another brief pause to catch a non-existent breath. “Sir! The R-Bot did not return alone! There is a human female with him! A live human f
emale! Mr Riley says you must come at once!”

  Mitchell made his way down the corridor connecting the western quadrant to the base hub, the sci-bot noisily trying to keep up. The hub and the southern quadrant were the only sectors of the base that were in use. The western quad hadn’t even been finished, all rough construction and half-completed structures. AB-IV was designed to house around one hundred efficiently if not comfortably, over five times that in a pinch.

  He wanted to ask the bot how it knew where to find him, but decided he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Besides, there were more important questions on his mind, like why in God’s name the R-Bot would pick up a survivor, and where the Hell it had been all this time. Mitchell had forced Riley to disconnect the bot’s ability to transmit via radio link out of paranoia it might allow them to be tracked, and now the big hunk of tin had been gone for weeks, presumed disabled. Riley had already been working up plans to modify one of the drones to assume recon and asset retrieval functions. Asset retrieval was crucial. They were running out of food.

  The corridor ended at a large hatch. Mitchell entered a numerical sequence into a mechanical set of keys that clicked into place, then spun the wheel and pulled. The hatch opened with a vacuum breath and he stepped through, leaving the bot to shut and seal it.

  He heard the rattle and knocking of activity as he drew closer to the entry bay, saw Younger put his weight into one of the levers just as he reached it. Three drone bots stood off to the side, not quite still, waiting for an instruction. Riley was at the primary hatch, staring through the porthole, pressing his face to it as much as his glasses would allow, his hands flat against the surface.