by Z. M. Wilmot
***
Despite his best efforts to concentrate and think, several days later Emilio had still not decided on an ending to his story. Who would die: the author or the beast? If the author died, then the beast would triumph and devour the city, with the threat of the rest of the world being next. Emilio wasn’t sure if that was the ending he wanted. If the beast died, however, then Emilio was sure that some part of it would live on. The continued threat of its existence could be far more terrifying than the beast devouring an entire city. But it was also less grand…
He was still agonizing over the decision, becoming increasingly annoyed by Greta’s clinginess and frequent visits and becoming more and more detached from the world, when Daniel’s funeral rolled around. He was laid to rest in a long ceremony, at which Emilio declined to speak. He was forgiven quickly, as clearly his grief was preventing him from saying what was on his mind.
Even after Daniel was laid to rest, Greta visited him every day, desiring more comfort than the cold man was now capable of giving. A full week after the printshop-owner’s funeral, he promised Greta that he would go with her to Daniel’s grave on the night that the moon was dark. Greta missed her friend terribly, and hoped that what was said about the new moon was true, and that spirits sometimes return to earth on those occasions.
And so on the night of the new moon, he made his way to the graveyard, Greta having said she would arrive on her own. As Emilio walked among the gravestones in the dark night, he heard a sound, and froze in sudden fear. Had that been a hiss? Wait… what was that? What’s making that noise… a growl? He decided to ignore the strange noises at the edge of his hearing, and instead hurriedly walked over to Daniel’s grave.
Greta was not there when he arrived, but a bouquet of flowers was. Emilio recognized Greta’s handiwork and laid the flower he had brought himself down upon the bouquet.
Then he heard a noise. Not the disturbing noises of before, but a sob and a shuffling of feet. Emilio’s ears twitched at the sound, and a strange gleam entered his eyes. He knew who lurked in the graveyard.
Remove her, the voice urged gently in his mind.
Emilio was suddenly compelled by a force far greater than his own will, and he hunched himself over and loped amongst the graves, his nose practically able to see her perfume. Her footsteps ran behind an old mausoleum and stopped. Emilio stopped as well, listening on the opposite side of the building for a few moments.
Yes, she’s there.
He padded silently around the edge of the mausoleum, and then leapt out around the corner, his long-nailed hand lashing out before him. There was a gurgle and a thump as Greta, eyes wide with terror, collapsed to the ground. Emilio grinned in feral triumph and knelt down by her corpse, tearing out what remained of her throat, his hands groping her body.
No… wait. What have I done?! The author leapt to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth, as he stared in horror down at the body of his lover. No… this can’t be happening! I am Emilio, not Emile! That was just a story! They were just words…
That’s right. Just Words. The voice in his head was practically cackling.
Emilio regained some measure of control over himself, bent down, and lifted Greta’s body off the ground. Tears flowing down his face, he hurried home, careful to keep to the dark alleys that none dared traverse.
His flat was fortunately only on the second floor, and he made his way through the building without incident. He had unlocked his door, closed it behind him, and dropped Greta into his bed before he was able to completely control himself.
“What’s happening?” he said, voice trembling. “I… I can’t be doing this. I can’t think straight…”
It’s called madness. All writers suffer from it eventually.
“No… I’m too young! What would cause me to go mad?!” He looked down at Greta’s corpse and began sobbing. “This can’t be happening…”
But it is happening, Emilio, just like you imagined it, in exquisite detail. You wanted to write your own story – and now you’re in it. And what a beautiful tale it is.
“My own… story…” Emilio said, slowly standing. “My own story. Hah! My story isn’t worth writing, let alone living, anymore.” He strode purposefully over to his writing desk and sat in front of his keyboard. His fingers flew across the keys before anything could stop him.
And the next time that Emile Darie sat before his typewriter, the ceiling above him caved in, and he was killed instantly and painlessly as the beam above him cracked open his skull.
Emilio smiled and closed his eyes as the ceiling creaked ominously and then collapsed, the beam over his head killing the author instantly. Fortunately, the flat above his had not been rented for many years.
In the rubble and wreckage of Emilio’s flat, the typewriter spat out the last piece of paper it had been typing on. The paper floated down to the floor through the dusty air as the typewriter shook itself off. It stretched its legs and scurried along the fallen beam, then out the cracked window. A man passing by the street, who witnessed the collapse of the flat above Emilio’s, would later tell the constables that he had seen what looked to be a large black cat leap out of Emilio’s window and stride regally off into the shadows.
The constables would shake their heads, thank him, and send him off. It was well-known that Emilio D’arcy could never abide cats.
III
“Nothing ever happens around here! Reality is supposed to be so much more interesting than the storybooks! Who said that? I’m pretty whoever it was never paid any attention to reality at all! What’s the point of a news show when there’s no bloody news to report?” Katherine Bendecker clenched her fists and took several deep breaths to calm herself. Just two more months.
“Relax, honey,” said her co-anchor sweetly. “Besides, when interesting stuff happens, people tend to get hurt.” Bendecker’s hand moved like lightning, and Max Sweeney was soon rubbing his reddening face. “What was that for?”
“As much as you wish it, I am not your ‘honey.’ Got it?” Katherine didn’t even look at Max.
“Alright, alright, fine.” Her coworker leaned back, suitably subdued. A hint of a smile graced Katherine’s lips. Much better.
“Kat, did you hit Max again?” called the cameraman from across the room.
“He had it coming,” she replied, checking to make sure she was presentable.
The cameraman sighed. “Kat, at least wait until after the show next time? He already had his makeup on and everything.”
She shrugged as the makeup artist retouched Max’s face. “Can’t you just digitally alter it?”
“Not without the tech-savvy viewers noticing,” he muttered. “And we can’t do it live, either.”
A sound-tech approached Katherine and disconnected her microphone, removing it from the gleaming table in front of her.
“Hey, what are-”
“It’s dead,” the tech said nervously. “I’m replacing it with this one.”
Katherine nodded shortly and leaned back as the tech hurriedly connected the new one.
“We go live in five, four, three…”
“Hurry up and get out!” Katherine hissed at the tech, sitting up straight, clasping her hands in front of her. Max did the same beside her.
“Two…”
The tech finished his job and scurried out of the way. Behind the two anchors, the blank wall came to life, suddenly showing a tranquil city skyline towering above a shorter treeline.
“You’re on!”
A second later, Max spoke. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” The trumpet fanfare that served as the show’s theme began to play. “Welcome to the Midnight Hour with Max Sweeney!”
“And Katherine Bendecker,” Katherine said, smiling. “Bringing you all the news fit to report for the midnight crowd!”
The fanfare ended dramatically, and the digital contact lenses that each anchor wore began to display the text for that night’s show.
Katherine and Max did
their best to make the news sound interesting, and did a satisfactory job for most viewers. The pair of them were very talented speakers, able to spin a tale any way they liked, and both were fond of diving off the prompts in their lenses. Had the pair been any other two people, management would have come crashing down on them, but as it was, Sweeney and Bendecker brought the station the highest viewings and ratings. It was best to let artists do their work.
“And in New Baghdad today, the World Peace Summit concluded its final meeting of the season. The event consisted primarily of farewell formalities, but with them they bring a promise to extend the peace over the next year.” Katherine smiled brilliantly.
“That’s all we’ve got for you tonight, folks,” Sweeney said, grinning. “We’ll see you again tomorrow at midnight, with another fascinating day of news for you! This is Max Sweeney…”
“…and Katherine Bendecker…”
“…signing off!” the pair finished in unison.
The ending fanfare played as the pair dramatically stood from their seats and departed the camera’s line of sight, pretending to be in deep conversation about something or other.
“That’s a wrap! Nice work, folks!”
The show’s producer, Randy Morgan, walked up to the pair of them, beaming. “Well done as always, you two – made the whole day sound absolutely fascinating! If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought we lived in interesting times! See you both tomorrow – get a good’s night sleep!” Morgan tipped his hat and walked out of the studio as the techs began to put things away, preparing the room for the next show. The microphones were both removed from the table and put away, and as Bendecker watched them be reshelved, she felt a twinge of sorrow. She didn’t know why.
“Let’s blow this joint,” Sweeney sad, donning sunglasses. “Care for a drink, my… Kat?”
Katherine ignored the near-slip. “Take off those glasses. It’s midnight. You’ll be blind out there. And no.”
Max shrugged. “Suit yourself, sweets.” Katherine whirled to face him, but he had scooted out the door and was gone by the time she had turned around. She cursed under her breath and followed him at a more sedate pace, grumbling the whole way. She got into her hovercar and drove back to her house in silence.
Once home, she took a long shower, attempting to calm herself down. Her job had been fine up until a few months ago, when management had changed high up in the company. Pay rates went down and benefits dropped, most of the difference going to the new management themselves. The company, she knew, was in the midst of a hostile takeover, and whenever that happened, only one group of people lost – the employees. Fortunately for her, her contract ended in two months. After that, she would be free. She didn’t know what she would do then, but she would no longer be under the annoying scrutiny of the new management executives, looking for some excuse to dock her pay. She and Sweeney remained the only two who had managed to keep the same salaries and bonuses that they had had before the takeover.
I wonder how much longer that will last.
She finished her shower, brushed her teeth, dried her hair, and flopped down onto her bed, grabbing her eReader and opening up a collection of old news journals. She began to read. The grisly stories of the good old days never failed to cheer her up.
Katherine Bendecker wasn’t a sadist, per se, but she was easily bored, and the easiest way to hold her interest was to have something get hurt in some way. It didn’t have to be a physical hurt, even if that was the most fascinating kind. The most interesting news stories that she got to report on anymore were the deaths of prominent political figures, and even those were few and far between. Ever since the Peace Accords of 2080 had been signed, there had only been one assassination, twelve murders, and one suspicious death. In the entire world. It was 2112 now, and deaths (and births) were both at an all-time low as education around the world soared and medical practice became almost miraculous. “Natural causes” was almost the only known cause of death in this day and age.
It was wonderful for most people. Everyone had access to good healthcare, relatively fair representation, and a decent minimum standard of living. It was the golden age of the world.
If you were into that sort of thing. Katherine Bendecker was not.
She longed for a time when there were evil men and women about, stirring things up and causing heroes to arise. The past thirty-one years of existence had been stagnant. Nothing had happened. It seemed as if history had ended.
It doesn’t need to be this way, a voice in the back of Katherine’s head softly said. You could make things so much more interesting. Or at least make it seem like they’re more interesting. Maybe start writing fiction?
Katherine smiled and sighed. If only she could. She had wanted to be a writer when she was small – it seemed to be the only outlet for people to see interesting things anymore, books and holovision shows – but that dream had been quashed by her father one fateful night after she showed him one of her manuscripts. She had never touched a DigiPad again.
She had little talent with the written word, she knew. When she had to chain the words down on a page before her, they didn’t come. It was only when she was talking that they flowed. The words had to be free for her to work her magic.
She turned the page in her eReader. 1934 – The Strange Incident of Emilio D’arcy. Synopsis: Horror author’s flat collapses. Girlfriend found inside, her throat torn out, a few weeks after her cousin, a printshop-keeper, and two of his customers died under most mysterious circumstances. Read more?
Katherine shook her head. “If only things like this happened now.” She sighed and pressed the Read more? button.