Going Gray

by Brian Spangler

  The fog rolled around the silvery giant, never touching it. And the waves seemed to avoid the machine too, the white surf breaking around it. It was a phenomenon that she never could understand. The void showed all of the machine to anyone that dared a visit. And like the waves, an old tickle of anxiety swelled up from deep in her gut.

  When she looked toward the top of the machine, the sky cleared just enough for her to see a hint of blue. But the large vents that puffed white smoke, breathing like a dragon, kept the world’s old sky hidden from her.

  The machine was taller than she remembered it being, but then again, everything was. Emily was certain that she’d become shorter over the last year. Age has a funny way of doing that to you. Her mind wandered to the farming floor, and her wanting to pick some apples—just like she’d done a thousand times before. An apple dangled just out of reach, touching the tips of her fingers, tempting her with its ripe shine and smooth skin.

  “Maybe you should pick the strawberries,” her granddaughter had said. “That way you don’t have to stretch and reach up.”

  She’d never had to reach before, and insisted that the fruit trees had grown taller. But she knew that what she’d said wasn’t so. She just didn’t want to admit that she’d needed a stepping stool.

  Emily!

  Emily startled when she heard her name called out, and immediately lost her thoughts about the farming floor. But the old woman staring back at her from the belly of the machine said nothing. Silly girl. She was hearing things and hadn’t recognized her own reflection. Emily pulled at her skin, finding more wrinkles around her eyes and mouth this year. She groaned with disappointment, seeing that her hair had lost nearly all of its color. What little color she held onto had gone pale white like a seabird’s wing. The image of herself made her want to cry.

  “You are sentimental today, aren’t you,” she said aloud and choked back the emotion.

  A gentle wind made a tear on her cheek turn cold. Emily turned into the breeze, welcoming the rush of air on her face. Wind of any kind had been scarce for as long as the sun stayed tucked away behind the clouds. But the unexpected breeze only lasted a moment, and Emily turned back to face the shadow of her past, hoping that this year she’d see her father.

  She eased a hand forward and touched the metal beast. And like before, the touch was surreal and felt unfamiliar. The skin rippled outward from her finger, growing wide, rippling over the surface like a stone breaking the stillness of a pond.

  Emily waited.

  Silence.

  She pushed a clump of black sand with her toe, giving the knock on the door a moment. That is what she called it: a knock on the door.

  She knocked again.

  Silence.

  The only hope she’d ever had that her father might still be alive, still be inside the machine, was that the machine looked the same. Not just the same, but identical. The world had changed. The beaches changed. The people changed. But the machine never changed, and after so many decades, she’d begun to wonder if the same were true on the inside. Another tear ran long, staying warm until she plucked it from her chin.

  Standing in the half-light of the gray machine, Emily saw her father standing behind her.

  “Dad?” she whispered, and grabbed her chest, clutching her heart. She fixed her eyes on the reflection in the machine, watching his tall frame approach. He was as handsome as he had ever been and as young as he was the day he’d disappeared. “It’s you!”

  She felt the touch of his hand on her shoulder, but then saw their reflection. She was young again. Slender, and beautiful with hair spilling a sheen of red over her shoulders. Her mind was lying to her again and this time the lie hurt too much. She squeezed her eyes shut, letting the tears wash away the painful stain.

  “Grandma?” she heard, and felt someone squeeze her shoulder, nudging her. “Gran, you okay?”

  When she opened her eyes, the machine was still there. Her reflection was still there, but it wasn’t her father.

  “I’m okay, David,” she answered, turning enough to pat her grandson’s cheek. “David, I thought I told you that I’d be okay by myself.” While she spoke with a stern voice, her heart swelled, loving that her grandson followed her out to the machine.

  “I know you did,” he said. “I knew that you’d be fine by yourself, but… well, maybe I wasn’t.”

  “That’s sweet,” she told him. “Have I ever told you how much you look like your Grandfather?”

  “You’ve mentioned it on occasion,” her grandson answered, rolling his eyes. “Anything this year?”

  Emily shook her head, biting back the emotion. She let out a sigh, giving the machine one more look and turned around to face her grandson.

  “You know what?”

  “What’s that, Grandma?”

  “I have some work on the farming floor. Maybe you wouldn’t mind helping an old lady? Maybe help me pick an apple or two or three?”

  Emily closed her arm around her grandson, leading them away from the machine. She took with her the memories of her years, the good and the bad. But there was still, and always would be, the mystery of the machine. She’d leave the mystery behind her, knowing that she was finally ready to let it go.

  Phil Stark watched his daughter. He watched her from inside the machine, surrounded by a thousand mindless others. The lights on a nearby wall flickered a quick message, telling him that there was work to do. But Phil shrugged away the request, choosing to see his daughter again. A sadness wrestled with the choices he’d made. And he told himself that he’d made the right decisions, that the machine would save the world. But just who did it save? The lights flickered again, more demanding this time. Phil shook his head, defiant, intent on watching his daughter.

  I don’t even recognize her anymore, he thought sadly, and glanced at himself in the shiny metal. But I look the same. He hadn’t aged a day in the decades since the clouds fell. It’s a punishment for what I’d done.

  Phil pressed his hand against the skin of the machine and shuddered. He had traded the warmth of his family for the cold love of an idea. It’s a lie. Isn’t it? He heard the question in his mind, and a feeling of betrayal squeezed his insides.

  “Just once,” he mumbled, wishing that he could step outside of the machine and tell Emily everything. He had wished the same every year, every visit. And as if she had heard his wish, his daughter raised her hand, placing it on the machine with his. Phil’s heart leapt. “She can see me!”

  But the moment was brief, and his heart quickly sank. Emily backed away, taking the arm of a young man, and then turned to leave the machine. He looks like me. Grandson? Great grandson?

  Fire coursed behind Phil’s eyes, and he reeled around, shielding his face from the light. The sudden burn was a warning for having touched the machine. Another flicker of light stabbed in his direction, and a vile taste of regret filled his mouth. He swallowed hard and choked it back, knowing that his penance was forever.

  “Goodbye, my baby girl,” he said, wondering if he’d see her again next year. He stayed a moment longer than he should have, watching, until the very last glimpse of Emily had disappeared into the world he’d helped create.

  THANK YOU

  Thank you for reading Going Gray. I do hope you enjoyed my book. Want to know what happens next? Pick up Gray Skies where the story continues. Will the human race survive? Who is behind the machine? At the end of this eBook, I’ve bundled the first chapter for free. Give it a read.

  Something that you may not know about Going Gray is that it is an indie novel, meaning it is an independently published work. Something else that you might not know is that you can help be a part of its success. When it comes to indie novels, nothing helps more than telling your friends and family about the great book you just read. Reviews help too, and it would be greatly appreciated if you would please leave an honest review on Amazon.

  And don’t forget about the FREE stuff that I mentioned. Click the newsletter link, or n
avigate to http://writtenbybrian.com/sign-up to subscribe to my newsletter and get some freebies.

  Look for some of my other novels and upcoming novels:

  From the Indie Side

  Silo Saga: Lottery

  An Order of Coffee and Tears

  Superman’s Cape

  Going Gray

  Gray Skies — Gray Skies Book 1

  Blinded by Sight — Gray Skies Book 2

  Union — Gray Skies Book 3

  Glass Horses

  Fallen Pages

  Cradles In Prison

  The Sound

  Even Monsters Need Love

  The Devil Orders Takeout

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?

  I'M A WALRUS!

  Brian Johnson - The Breakfast Club

  Who am I?

  I'm a resident of Virginia, living with my wife and children, along with three cats (sometimes more), a mouse, parrot, lizard and the funniest chinchilla on the east coast.

  Although I live in Virginia, my heart is still in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where I grew up. And I hope that one day, I'll be able to call Philadelphia home again.

  Growing up, I liked to read short stories, but struggled with the words. You see, I had a secret: a sad little secret. Ashamed and embarrassed, I was the little kid in the back row of the schoolroom, quietly moving my lips along with the class while everyone read aloud. I couldn't read. I couldn't write. I hoped nobody would notice, but they did. They always did.

  By the time I'd reached the fourth grade, my secret wasn't a secret anymore. The teachers knew something was wrong. Dyslexia. Maybe that is why I liked science fiction so much? All those crazy looking glyphs on the screen, glowing, flashing.

  The fix? Back to the third grade for me, and then special classes three days a week. It worked. Once I started reading, I never stopped. Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Dean Koontz, and even the Judy Blume books my sisters discarded.

  I'm still one of the slowest readers I know, but school was never a problem again. I finally graduated the third grade, and then kept on going until I finished my Masters.

  These days, I work as an engineer and spend my nights writing, editing and thinking up the next great story.

  Happy Reading,

  Brian

  EXCERPT FROM GRAY SKIES

  Chapter 1 from the Gray Skies novel.

  Centuries after the clouds fell…

  James Sundref peered up at the executive guards and nodded. Their faces remained unchanged, void of expression. How many times since his promotion to four bands had he offered this simple gesture? How many times had he been ignored? After all, he was an executive, and that should command a certain level of respect, shouldn’t it? James shrugged his meaty shoulders and supposed the guards just didn’t care who he was.

  He gave a glum look to the balcony’s ledge and a feeling of calm washed over him. In a moment, his final career advancement would take him to the top of the ledge—where he’d leap to his death. He imagined himself perched atop it, his round frame trying to balance itself in the moment before jumping. Just how far down is it to the courtyard? He quickly dismissed the question, knowing that it didn’t matter, that he had to go through with it. There were no more options.

  James paused, thinking of all the lives he’d affected in the Commune, the largest community in the region. How many? he wondered. All of them? The number he saw in his head was daunting, and the guilt pressed down on him. Before he could take another step, he heard the curious turn of the guard’s head. James immediately realized what he’d done. Standing in front of the executive entrances was not permitted. Well aware of the rule he’d just broken, he pulled in a resigned breath and moved on. James knew all the rules. He knew them because he’d written most of them, just as he had written his final Commune rule earlier that morning.

  “What does it matter now, anyway?” he mumbled. “I’m a dead man.” He tugged at the collar of his coveralls, trying to make room for the fatty folds around his neck. Choking back his breath, he shivered against the coolness of a light sweat on his skin. He shook again, knowing death was waiting for him.

  When he reached the ledge, he realized for the first time just how high the executive floors were. His stomach immediately went to his throat, and he heaved in a breath that shuddered with fear. For a moment, his insides flipped, and he tried to commit his mind to the jump that would end his life.

  Yet, maybe there were options. Maybe he could exile himself? But the idea of fending for himself outside the safety of the Commune made him laugh. He chuckled as he imagined a fat man running in the fog while Outsiders chased him down. Leaping from the executive floor was an easier death. It was quick and painless… he hoped.

  Janice Gilly’s face came into his mind, and his laugh abruptly ended. His smile turned down into a frown as he considered how he’d broken their bond. Choosing was forever, and while she’d chosen him, James had decided to become an executive instead. Even after their time to have a child had expired, she’d wanted to continue their lives together. He could have stayed with her. He should have stayed with her. But his work—his mistress—had called to him, lied to him, told him half-truths about the good he would do in the name of the Commune. Without a child to raise, leaving Janice was just the easier thing to do. But easier for whom?

  Regret followed and he shut his eyes, welcoming the darkness. He considered how there was more to blindness than just the absence of sight. He’d been blind to what he’d had with Janice, blind to the outcome of his ill-fated decision. It was just a promotion. He could see that now, but it was too late. It had been too late for a very long time. James wondered if maybe she’d forgotten about him? He hoped that she had, and that the pain he’d caused was just a mere thought, a fleeting memory.

  He could see the faces of those who had died as a result of his actions. But, of course, someone in his position knew they weren’t just dead. It wasn’t that simple. He’d come to learn that small fact, and had wished he’d known less. There were secrets behind the doors of the executive offices, and he’d had his fill of them for one lifetime.

  James gripped the ledge, his soft pudgy fingers scraping against the coarse resin that was meant to protect. He looked briefly at the dimpling in his palms before taking hold again. It never had to be like this. He winced, and then tried to lift himself up onto the small divide that separated life from death. At once he felt himself begin to struggle. Blood rushed into his face, and sharp lights streaked across his eyes. He coughed a flood of air from his lungs, gasping, and finally dropped back to his feet. Turning away from the ledge, he began to cry. How pathetic had he become? He couldn’t even lift himself.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw that he’d roused the attention of one of the executive guards. Lifting his hand, he swiped at the sweat rolling from atop his head, and waved.

  “Indigestion, is all,” he explained. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  The guard stared a moment, motionless, before turning back to stand at attention. James forced himself up and around and leaned over the ledge. The courtyard far below him was nearly empty. A few children ran around, playing chase with one another, their parents gathered into small circles, trading stories or gossiping. He enjoyed watching the children run freely in the courtyard. The child-tethering rule he’d authored that morning wouldn’t have been enforced yet. The children were free today, but in a week that would change.

  A lot of things were going to change. More than one new rule was being passed, and his hands were on all of them.

  A quick death would anger the upper executive levels once they’d found out what he’d done. James let out a deep, gratifying sigh and smiled. They would have wanted him exiled from the Commune. The weaponized flu they’d given him to use would be too merciful, too quick. They would want him to suffer at the hands of the Outsiders, or starve on the black sands of the beaches, eating salt-gnats and drinking seawater until his insides burst.


  An earthy scent came to him in a pleasurable whiff. He’d always loved the smell of plant life rising from the farming floor. Yet today, the farms struck a grim note. With the redolence came images of his being alone during his cleaning and passing. An unsettling notion came next: that nobody would be with him as he was passed to the farming floor. He thought of Sandra Chambers and her daughter Hadley, and the executives that had attended their cleaning and passing. He was supposed to have gone, too. He’d tried to go. Biting his lower lip, he thought of how he’d stood just out of view, just far enough to still hear the boy, Declan, grieving for his mother and sister. He’d stayed and listened until the completion of the rite and then the passing of their bodies. He’d stayed, but was never seen.

  Sandra Chambers knew, too. She’d known what the upper-level executives were doing. Now it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew. She wasn’t supposed to know, James reminded himself. She was just a junior executive. Innocent. She would have never known what was really going on if it weren’t for his carelessness. Her finding out was his fault. A rush of guilt hit him, knotting his gut as he leaned into the balcony ledge, overwhelmed.

  It was just supposed to make her sick. I used the exact amount. Shaking his head, he regretted his naivety and the storm of lies he’d been so willing to trust. Why did I listen to them? He leaned harder against the ledge, feeling it pressing into his middle, threatening to take his breath. She was only supposed to get sick: sick enough to miss the meeting and the vote. The damn vote. And why was her daughter with her? James felt a cramp in his heart, and for a moment he was certain he was going to keel over before he got the chance to jump. He imagined dying on the balcony, his heart exploded in his chest. His thoughts returned to Sandra’s daughter, Hadley: another innocent victim in the mess he’d created, a bystander who drank from the same cup as her mother. Sandra’s death and the death of her daughter were both his to bear, and the guilt was his to die with. And maybe that’s what fueled the guilt faster, hotter. Death would douse those flames.