“Listen.”
I gripped his shoulder as he shook his head.
He reached up and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t get it. Is there—”
“Roger, shut up and listen!”
He froze, eyes ticking to one side and the other. When I saw fear blossom in his expression, I knew he’d heard it.
“What is that?” he asked. “What are they saying?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think it means something?”
I started to speak and caught myself. Maybe, it did mean something but what? “Maybe, they’re on a program, something timed.” I said. “They didn’t start that ‘ia, ia’ stuff until a month or two ago. Could be their programming is running down.”
“Or winding up.”
“Jesus, Roger. Let’s hope not.” Lifting my eyes to the trees overhead, I wondered what would happen if they started using things other than metal and plastic. I stopped wondering just as fast because I already knew the answer. I didn’t want to think about it.
Roger stared at the ground and then away. Anywhere but my eyes. “Look, um … I just … can we please share a sleeping bag tonight?”
“Jesus, Roger! Fucking stop, okay? I don’t care how horny you—”
“I’m scared, all right? Shit!” He rubbed at his eyes, and I realized he was wiping away tears. “I’m not trying to sleep with you, okay? Jesus, I’m just scared out of my goddamn skin.”
It was like a slap to the face. A quick, hot flush, and I felt like the world’s biggest asshole. “Oh,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry. I just … sorry.”
He shook his head. “Whatever.”
“Roger …”
“I’m going to bed. See you in the morning.” He rolled away from me, shrugging the bag over his shoulder. That was it.
I spent too long staring at his back, trying to think of something to say. When I finally realized there was nothing, I returned to my bag and tried to get some sleep.
Ooboshu! Li’hee! Ooboshu! Li’hee!
April, Day 1
Breaking News—WXIN, Indianapolis
“Emergency crews are responding to the Indianapolis Convention Center, site of the State Science Fair, where witnesses describe chaos breaking out following an experiment of some sort going awry. Police say the problem is not of a chemical nature, but they are advising citizens to stay clear of the convention center at this time …”
October, Day 189
The sound that woke me—the sound crawling from Roger’s throat—was something between a scream and a wheeze. I don’t know how long he’d been making the noise before I jolted from sleep, bolting upright only to freeze in place. Everything went cold. My breath caught in my throat, blocking my scream.
Four of the machines stalked through the clearing. Their hinged legs skittered; wings of metal and plastic fluttered. The whisper-sound of clicking and hydraulics was almost deafening.
I’d never seen one up close before, just seen them on the last news reports, before the machines spread from Indianapolis to devastate other cities. The size of a shoe box, they each looked like bastardized versions of each other, replicas made from whatever could be found. Self-replicating, the news had said.
Two feet to my left, the insect-like machine fluttered wings made from fused Coke and Sprite cans. It swept the ground with a light that had maybe been scavenged from a smart phone. Beyond it, another took off on wings from an old gutter.
Again, that wheezing scream poured out of Roger. I looked and saw him flat on his back. One of the machines perched on his chest, wings testing the air, legs scuffling. Roger watched it with terrified eyes, his mouth wide and growing wider.
“Quiet,” I said. “It won’t hurt you.”
But he didn’t stop. I didn’t know if he’d even heard me. I wondered if the machines might kill him just to silence the racket. When the tiny robot lifted onto its hind legs and fluttered its metal wings, I thought I had my answer and shouted for Roger to escape.
The rifle crack deafened me. I screamed, covering my head with both arms, and I didn’t look up again until my ears started ringing.
Roger remained flat on his back, hands over his face. The machine on his chest was gone, replaced by scrap. One wing still flapped from a metal housing as though trying to flee, but it fell still almost immediately. The other machines were gone, and I wondered if they could feel fear. My thoughts died as the man with the rifle stepped into view.
I think he said something, but I couldn’t hear him over the whine in my ears. In the darkness, I couldn’t make out his face, just his general shape. Maybe he was smiling. I couldn’t tell. When his shoulders moved, head tilting back a little, it looked like laughter.
Roger scurried out of his sleeping bag. I followed his lead. So what if this new guy had chased off the machines? Didn’t change the fact he had a gun. I eyed my duffel, where the .22 now rested. Why hadn’t I started taking it out at night? Stupid.
For too long, the three of us watched each other. Roger ground the heel of his hand against his ear, and I could tell he wanted his hearing back, too.
As he dug a set of plugs from his ears, the stranger kept his rifle pointed at the forest floor. At least, there was that.
“Thanks,” I said when enough of my hearing returned. My voice buzzed, but I could both hear it and understand it.
“Those little fuckers,” the man said. His voice was a static drone. “Lucky I was moving through. I’m Clyde.”
“Hey,” Roger said. “Roger. This is Mina.”
“Nice name. Mina, that is. Not Roger. I’ve met a few of those. Sorry.”
Roger looked at the forest floor, his face confused. “Yeah, sure.”
“Seriously, thanks for the help,” I said. “They don’t attack people, though.”
He looked at me like I was an idiot. “They caused a lot of deaths.”
“I never said they didn’t, just …” I let it hang. No point in fighting a losing battle. Besides, the guy thought he was helping. Might as well let him have it.
“Whatever. What food you got?”
Something cold touched my neck. “I’m sorry?”
“I think you heard me.” Even if I hadn’t, the chill of his rifle filled me in. Oh, Christ. This couldn’t be happening. “Hard out there these days. Had a lot of canned food stashed, but those fuckers tore it apart, used the cans to make more of them. Now, I just saved your damn lives whether you want to admit it or not, so you better be handing over your food so I can see you have some goddamned appreciation.”
Roger took a step forward. “You can’t—”
The rifle barked, and Roger folded in half. Again, I couldn’t hear my scream. That piercing whine replaced everything, a dagger of noise right through my skull. Roger fell back, arms splayed, and I began to turn, desperate to escape, when the rifle’s barrel swung toward my face.
I froze. Staring into the weapon’s black muzzle, panic and confusion and terror paralyzed me. If I did what he said, would he let me go or kill me? What if he did something worse?
His mouth moved, making some demand I couldn’t hear. I placed my hands over my ears, trying to clue him in. He responded by lowering the rifle long enough to slap me. The blow stunned me. I staggered and watched stars blossom in my vision. When I shook my head, it throbbed with pain, and I sank to my knees. A strong hand clamped on the back of my neck, and I thought he’d had enough and decided to end me.
Instead, he turned me to face him. Angrily, he pointed at my backpack and mimed eating.
Right, the food. In all the terror, I’d forgotten what he wanted.
I crawled to my pack. With my back turned, I wondered if I’d even hear the next shot. Maybe, everything would just disappear. Black. Nothing. As I pulled open the pack and started rummaging, however, the world remained. My hand brushed the .22, and I tried to remember if it was loaded or not, tried to calculate if I could spin around, aim, and fire before he killed me. Too risky. I moved on, finding the rema
ining granola bars, making a good show of tossing the other supplies aside so he wouldn’t think I was hiding something. My fingers fell numb, fear swallowing my senses.
Turning, I held out the bars. The whine had died down, but his, “That’s all?” sounded far away. A whisper.
I nodded. “I’m sorry. We’ve … been foraging.” I glanced to Roger, hoping to see him stir, but he remained still. He was gone.
Shaking his head, he snatched the bars and stuffed them into a pocket. I waited, watching him. Everything felt stuck. Staring into his eyes, I wondered if the rifle would swing my way again, if it was the last thing I’d see. When he sighed and turned away, I finally breathed.
As he walked away, I stared at the forest floor and thought about how terrible everything had become. People scurrying through the woods because the cities were gone, killing other people over things we used to buy in corner stores. Another thought stuck in my brain like a headless nail: what if he comes back? The idea stuck deeper and deeper, and another look at Roger’s body cemented it in place. I couldn’t risk it. I refused. Deeper in my thoughts, I decided this man needed to pay. He needed it because he’d abandoned his role in the human race.
My hand found the pistol easily. As I jerked it from my pack and made sure it was loaded, I tamped down my thoughts. Doubts wouldn’t help. When I turned, the man who’d said his name was Clyde—the man who’d killed Roger over three goddamn granola bars—was barely ten yards away. His last shot must have damaged his hearing, too, because he didn’t hear me follow, didn’t notice anything until I pressed the pistol’s muzzle to the base of his skull.
I didn’t give him time to react. One pull, and he dropped.
April, Day 2
Evacuation Ordered, Governor Declares Disaster Area
“With a large section of downtown overrun by a strange technological event, Mayor Tillotson, working with Governor Evans, has ordered the evacuation of Indianapolis and the surrounding areas.
“Scientists and authorities are still trying to understand how the events that began at yesterday’s state science fair have descended into chaos. The leading theory is that a self-replicating machine, the project of a local teen, malfunctioned. As it made more and more copies of itself, the convention center was overrun. The machines may have attempted to use the building’s materials to continue creating copies, leading to the structure’s collapse and yesterday’s deaths …”
October, Day 193
Ooboshu! Li’hee! Ooboshu! Li’hee!
Whatever the machines were chanting, they’d started doing it during the day, too. I didn’t like it. No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t find a positive spin, not that anything positive remained.
I didn’t know what to do, didn’t know if anything was worth doing. I’d killed a man, and my sole companion, as annoying as he could sometimes be, was gone. Before Clyde had stumbled across (and fucking seriously … Clyde?), we hadn’t seen another soul in more than a week.
I spent most of my waking hours crying. I felt stupid and terrible and weak, but the guilt that sat in my chest like rotting meat was too heavy. Tears in my eyes, I walked, grubbing through the ruins of gas stations when my hunger grew too strong to ignore. The sound of distant machines helped my feet keep time. Only after days of walking did I realize I was heading for the city. By then, I didn’t see a point in turning away. I wanted to see what they’d done, and I figured there wasn’t much time left. Maybe they’d kill me for entering the city, but I didn’t care. Maybe that was what I deserved.
Ooboshu! Li’hee! Ooboshu! Li’hee!
The closer I came to Indianapolis, the louder the machines grew. Their strange signal or chanting or whatever it was reached a near-deafening level. Clicking and grinding noises joined the chorus. Even before I could make out the machines in any detail, when they were just a black, swirling cloud tumbling in the distance, I could hear the sound of gears and clacking metal.
Maybe fifteen miles out from the edge of Indianapolis, I started encountering them. They’d eradicated the suburbs, stripped houses and vehicles alike, leaving behind only wood and glass. Walking past a subdivision of timber skeletons, I saw dozens of the lunchbox-sized robots buzz through the air or skitter across the ground, looking for more material. I shivered, not the first time and certainly not the last. How long until the entire world looked like that? What if it already did? A robotic cancer that decimated the globe …
I laid out my sleeping bag and climbed inside. The sun would set soon, and I was exhausted, my belly clenching from hunger. Surrounded by clacking and electronic chanting, I thought about Roger. I should have buried him. I wished he was with me.
May, Day 15
…
October, Day 195
Ooboshu! Li’hee! Ooboshu! Li’hee!
Indianapolis was gone. In its place stood something new and awful. In their quest to build more of themselves—a quest that had killed so many—the machines had leveled the city. Paved streets and concrete rubble probably remained under it all. The bodies had been buried as everything collapsed never to be reclaimed. I couldn’t see anything beneath the millions of chattering machines that crawled over each other and buzzed through the sky. Though sharing the same design, each was a bastardized version of the others, the same collections of scrap that had visited Roger and me a week before.
They let me walk right up to the edge. I didn’t have anything they could use. Not so much as a filling in my mouth or a button on my shirt. The way they ignored me really brought everything home. I no longer mattered.
Before me, they shifted. Their metal and plastic shells caught the sunlight and sent it tumbling in a hundred different directions. Clacking bodies created skyscrapers so tall I couldn’t see their tops. They collapsed moments later with a sound like thunder, spreading out and becoming other structures. A writhing, living city.
Ooboshu! Li’hee! Ooboshu! Li’hee!
Their chant came from every direction, as piercing as a tornado siren. I felt it in my chest, in my spine. Standing proved an almost impossible task. I wanted to fall to my knees and weep. This was the world now. Their world. Coming back from this, reclaiming Earth, was impossible. Nothing humanity could do would eclipse the amazing and terrible sight spread out in front of me.
I wondered if the government had tried anything drastic in those last days when things had started to look hopeless. Had they fired nukes at Indianapolis and other cities? Maybe, maybe not. If they had, the machines probably dismantled them before they could strike. In the minutes that followed, how many generals had killed themselves? How many politicians?
Static crackled, a sound I could barely hear as a spire twisted toward the sky, sprouting steel tendrils in a dozen different directions. The shapes didn’t make sense, and I was so enthralled with them that at first I didn’t realize the chant had changed yet again.
R’lyeh! Ia! R’lyeh! Ia!
“What does it mean?” I asked, but the machines didn’t answer. Why would they? A man doesn’t answer a gnat’s questions. I ground my teeth, biting back a screech that wanted to tear free of my throat. Or maybe it was laughter. I couldn’t tell. Terrifying? Hilarious? What was the difference? A goddamn high school science project had taken over the entire world.
When the ground first shook, I thought it might be the machines, but the rumble that accompanied it was an entirely new sound. It was deeper, stronger. By the time I looked up, the ground was quaking. I watched with watery eyes as the metallic spires stretched higher, testing the air. Reaching.
R’lyeh! Ia! R’lyeh! Ia!
And then, they took flight. All of them. A hot wind pressed my face as the swarm blocked out the sun and turned day into night. The buzzing roar of mechanical wings was deafening. I covered my head and prayed they wouldn’t land on me. When I wasn’t crushed, when the sound of their wings began to recede, swallowed by the growl of the quaking ground, I looked up.
Indianapolis was still gone, just rubble. But the ground was splitt
ing, widening like a mouth of rock and soil. And something climbed out, something gigantic and horrible. Something that almost made sense but couldn’t. I looked at it, and my screech became a moan. I bowed my head, closed my eyes, but I decided praying wasn’t worth it.
Nate Southard is the author of Down, Pale Horses, Just Like Hell, and several others. His latest collection, Will the Sun Ever Come Out Again?, is available now from Broken River Books. His work has appeared in such venues as Cemetery Dance, Black Static, and Thuglit. A finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in Short Fiction, Nate lives in Austin, Texas with his best friend and two cats. He cooks a lot. Learn more at natesouthard.com.
Between Angels and Insects
Simon Bestwick
It was as fine a day as you can have in Blackpool: clear blue sky, bright shining sun, seagulls squawking, the sea breaking on the shore. The strains of an old George Formby song drifted over from the North Pier where withered pensioners baked in the sun and waited for death. It was a weekend, so the usual crowds were out in force, but there were still a few hours to spare before the streets would be thronged with rowdy belligerent drunks vomiting on the pavement, punching one another and copulating in alleyways.
I scooted down the pavement with a carrier bag of chips in one hand, skirting dog shit, vomit, and discarded meals from the night before. I stole a quick glance at the rusted spike of the tower and ducked gratefully down the side-street and the basement steps into the welcome sanctuary of the museum.
“I’m ba-ack!” I trilled in both descent and descant. “And I bear chips!”
“Not hungry,” Stephen called from among the waxworks.
I sighed. Stephen was extraordinarily pretty but, even for a youth his age, ridiculously temperamental.
At the bottom of the steps where the path through the waxworks branched left and right, I hesitated. Having a sense of humour, I chose the left-hand path.
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