End of Gray Skies: An Apocalyptic Thriller

by Brian Spangler

  “You want the vial back,” Isla said, her voice solemn and quiet. The mechanical hand gently took the vial from her fingers. She felt embarrassed, and maybe even a little ashamed for not realizing what she’d done.

  “I’m sorry… I should never have picked it up,” she said, and then felt silly for saying anything at all. Air rushed around her again, as all the mechanical arms went back to their usual routine of lifting and moving, rotating and placing.

  As Isla crawled back to her lab, she kept her torn hand up close to her chest. Blood was already running down her arm, having soaked through the bandage. Over and over, she repeated the numbers and the name that she’d found on the vial of blood. It was possible that her terminal would offer more than just a list of what was in her lab.

  Isla stopped moving when she heard something other than herself. Her vision narrowed, focused on the opening ahead. When a shadow broke the stretch of yellow light, Isla sucked in a breath and held it. Someone was in her lab. She swallowed hard, and waited to see if they’d leave. Her heart tightened in her chest, paining her when a man’s head jutted into the ventilation shaft. The figure ahead of her was black, silhouetted, but she could see it was a man as his head turned away from her.

  Maybe he won’t see me. Maybe I’m too far from the opening.

  Isla dug her teeth into her lower lip as the man turned back. She tried to hold still, begging to stay motionless. She waited for the sheet metal to invade her skin as she embraced the ductwork, absorbing it, while trying to become a part of it. Hidden. The blood drained from her face in an instant when the man’s head pitched forward, bounced up and down on his slender neck, and motioned toward her. The man called out to her then, not by her name, but to ask what she was doing in there.

  20

  SOMETHING WAS WRONG; SAMMI could feel it. Deep down inside the middle of her, she felt different. While she tried to dismiss it, she could sense something strange inside her. The lights on the wall sang a flashy sequence of colors, but the message wasn’t for her. Sammi feared that she was aging like Declan’s mother and sister—although a quick glance at her hands told her otherwise. Her skin was still young and free of whatever had afflicted them. While there was something wrong, it wasn’t the same thing.

  A twinge had come first, and then a flutter. It was a sense of something new that hadn’t been there before. For a moment, Sammi thought warmly of her momma, and could hear her sweet voice talking about feeling butterflies. But when another flutter came to her, Sammi laid a hand on her belly, dashing all of her thoughts. Not since she’d woken in this place had she felt so afraid of the unknown. Even the changes in Declan’s mother and sister seemed distant now. This time, the changes were coming from inside of her. The VAC Machine was home: her sanctuary, her miracle. She was alive, and she was with Declan.

  Sammi could only recall having felt this worried once before. She and Declan’s mother and sister had been summoned by the lights to go to the black sand beaches. There they’d found Declan, nearly dead. She remembered how odd the moist sands had felt beneath her feet when she walked to him at first, and then ran to be at his side. She experienced terrifying fear that day: dread that she’d lost her chosen forever. In that moment, she understood what Declan must have felt when she’d lain dying on the old theater floor. His body had been just a haggard memory of who he really was—gray, cold, wet from the ocean surf—and she had been certain that he’d die in her arms, just as she had in his.

  I did die in the theatre. Harold pushed me, I fell, and then I died… Didn’t I? She cast a quick glance around the room, but nobody seemed to notice that she’d stopped working. A passing look to the lights on the wall, and Sammi realized that maybe she could think whatever she wanted. The lights were talking, but not to her; not now, anyway.

  Images of the theater came to her mind. She saw the opening in the roof, the blue sky beyond the gray fog. She saw Declan’s face, silhouetted by the sun… but then, there was nothing. Sammi pulled her arms around her front, fearful of the blankness that had happened to her next. She searched her mind, looking into the emptiness for any forgotten memory, but found nothing.

  Maybe I didn’t die. Maybe I was unconscious, and was brought here, where they fixed me. The lights suddenly streamed a myriad of messages. Brighter than usual, louder, screaming. Her eyes watered, and searing pain pushed from behind them while she tried to piece together her last moments.

  “There was a cat, too!” she yelled, and then grabbed her mouth, stifling the sudden outburst. Again, she looked around for an upturned face or two, someone questioning her and her lack of work. Yet as before, the room remained uninterested.

  “One of the feral cats stayed with me,” she continued, her voice now a whisper. A flutter waved inside her, listening.

  There is more to remember about that day. Another flutter, and she realized that her hand was still pressed to her middle. A strange notion came to her then as she massaged her belly. Her heart swelled at the idea—and emotion suddenly overwhelmed her. She was listening to a child growing inside her. But it was too soon; it was impossible, wasn’t it? Sammi shook her head, ridding her mind of the thought. Instead she considered what had killed her.

  Maybe this is where the theater post stabbed through me? Am I remembering more? Sammi began to wonder if she might instead be feeling what had happened to her during the End of Gray Skies, as though her body were holding onto it like a bad dream.

  She brought back the images of Declan with the sun behind him. She remembered having to squint, and that she’d forced her eyes open to see all of it, no matter how bright. I’d eat the sunlight, she remembered having said once.

  But what happened to the sun? And what happened to the End of Gray Skies?

  Warmth rose on her neck, prickling her skin, as though she’d done something wrong. I should have asked that question before, shouldn’t I have? But why now? I should have been asking all along. Sammi forgot about the twinge in her belly, as her recognition of this innocent sin of neglect spawned more questions. Her mouth went dry while she thought of how important to her, to everyone, the End of Gray Skies had been. So why hadn’t she given any thought to it until now? What happened?

  She’d forgotten about the End of Gray Skies. That was about to change: she’d make sure of it. But hadn’t she known all along? The sense of something new, something miraculous, fluttered again, grabbing her attention, and lowering the veil of guilt.

  Sammi glanced at the lights, looking for the calm that she’d felt and heard so many times before. Concern came then as another flit tumbled inside her. She suddenly felt ill. Soon the dryness in her mouth was replaced by a sickly wet. And when the back of her throat opened up, Sammi could think of only one thing: that she was going to be sick.

  A wave of queasy heat took hold of her, reeling in her stomach, causing her to fold over until her insides were splayed across the floor. Sammi heaved again, arching her back as she sucked in air. When was the last time she’d been sick? She thought back to Ms. Gilly’s class, and the time she’d spilled her lunch. The other kids had been cruel; they had always been cruel. “Sammi Sunshine,” they’d teased, having added another verse or two.

  Declan had come to her side that day with no fear, no reservations. He’d knelt down next to her, pulling her hair back as she finished vomiting. She remembered being afraid to look up, worried that he’d think differently of her. But he’d only asked if she was feeling better, and then he’d offered to walk her back to her dwelling. He’d even made jokes while they’d walked the morse lines; the laughing had helped her to feel better.

  She stayed down on the floor, waiting for the nausea to pass. From there, she looked across the room, and saw legs and feet moving about busily. Blood raced to her head, causing her ears to ring, as images of being chased by Harold came to her. Another memory surfaced from that teasing void in her brain that held the good and the bad of her past. In the memory, they were on the ground, she and Declan, sitting in a pocket o
f open fog, surrounded, and in danger. She then heard the distant sound of a cat’s mewl and shuddered. Sammi quickly shrugged it away, knowing the unpleasantness of what had happened next.

  Feet shuffled back and forth beneath the tables, working a mindless grind of sorting rocks and other samples. Curious, Sammi pretended to vomit again, heaving even louder this time and slapping the floor. The work continued. It was as if they’d no idea that she’d gone missing. Her belly flipped, but it wasn’t from being sick. No, it was the miracle of what was growing inside her: the miracle that was a part of her and Declan. But her miracle was doing something more: it was opening her eyes to this place. Her salvation wasn’t a salvation at all. She didn’t know what it was. Declan had been right to ask questions.

  From above her, she caught a glimpse of the lights flashing, bouncing off of everything in the room. She ignored them, but she couldn’t disregard her growing concern. It was the type of concern that bordered on fear, but never quite breached that boundary.

  How long before I am afraid? she thought. Sammi considered Declan’s questions about what had happened to the End of Gray Skies. Maybe she was scared for him. But the VAC Machine had saved his life too, hadn’t it?

  Sammi stood up from the floor, knowing that it would be the last time she’d ever be in this room. She felt different in more ways than one, and decided that she needed to find Declan. When she saw her reflection in the tabletop, she reached her arm up above her bosom.

  It’s missing, she thought. She quickly cut a curl from her hair, and using a loose bit of wire from her work station, fastened and pinned the new lock of hair onto her coveralls. At once, she felt like herself again. She felt good; she felt whole.

  Then her mind went blank as a torrent of deafening sound pierced her ears, and a flash of brilliant white filled her eyes. When her knees gave, she braced herself against the table. Only once before had a sensation been so unmistakable, and it had been her last: when she’d fallen from the old theater’s balcony and landed on her back, her head crashing against the hard ground.

  Is this the beginning of death? she wondered, and gasped at the overwhelming sensation that was assaulting her.

  Beneath the unforgiving tones and mordant lights, Sammi found pain. The torment started behind her eyes, then made a fiery path that traveled through her brain and down her neck. The painful streams bored their way deep into her heart, which she was certain would burst into pieces. Underneath her coveralls, her skin buzzed with short waves of static tingles as though it were suddenly energized. When the goosebumps came, she shivered hard, rocking the table, and had to pinch her thighs together when her bladder nearly let go.

  Sammi didn’t understand what was happening to her. Yet she had a vague awareness that it wasn’t new; she’d felt it before. Pulsing and alive, the burn behind her eyes eased somewhat, becoming tolerable. The explosion of brightness faded to soft, glowing spotlights that bounced to the thrum in her ears. She knew the rhythm—the sequence anyway—like a childhood memory of a nursery rhyme. Sammi gathered her senses, and recognized the bright flash for what it was: a message. She was being summoned by the lights.

  Sequences of colors flashed on and off, reprimanding her, and pouring out commands that now seemed moot. She could see the bright wash of colors through her eyelids. Hadn’t she followed every instruction, every command, until now? Sammi tightened her grip on the table and prepared to open her eyes.

  It shouldn’t hurt, she told herself. It didn’t hurt before. But still, she anticipated the pain.

  The lights beamed brightly, the message still directed at her. Another flutter turned in her belly, stronger than the last, and Sammi took hold of the table again, thankful to have something to lean on.

  Another volley of lights followed in rapid succession. The message needled its way into her consciousness, repeating, stronger each time. Sammi shook her head until she’d become dizzy, and then she surprised herself by turning away from the lights. The urge to look at them was still there; but it had been trumped by the revelation that she didn’t need to see, didn’t need to obey, didn’t need to understand what they were saying. Not anymore.

  This is what Declan has been talking about, she realized. The lights don’t drive him; they never have. A flutter from her belly welcomed the thought. Sammi saw the brightness bouncing off the other workers, splashing rainbow shades from their iridescent coveralls. She looked one last time and then moved her eyes down and away.

  The urge to listen to the lights faded, grew distant and lost. I’m listening to something else now. While Sammi knew that it was too soon, and maybe even impossible, a pleasing calm settled into her when she felt the first kick of her unborn child.

  Union

  21

  HE STARED ABSENTLY AT the ocean. Breaking waves tumbled soundlessly and pushed white foam over blackened sands. He tried to imagine the vast sea just beyond the barricade of fog, and in his mind he briefly saw the still surface lapping at the air, birds diving, fish jumping. But like most of his memories, that one too had become distant and hard to reach.

  And though he could only see a mere sliver of the beach and beyond the machine, it was just enough to remind him that the world he had abandoned still existed. From inside the machine, on some days—those lucky few when everything lined up just right—he could sometimes glimpse the shine of a distant star. A black sky sprang from his memory, endlessly filled with small flickering eruptions of lights. And just as quick, the memory faded like the life he once knew.

  But maybe today?

  His eyes wandered upward, following the rolling wall of fog until the clouds broke into the twilight’s dusky afterglow. A wink of light shone just behind him, just out of reach. Straining to see more of the sky, the star blinked in and out, revealing another piece of it. But what he found wasn’t the star he was searching for. It wasn’t a star at all.

  They’re watching, he thought and then quickly emptied his mind, disconnecting it from the thousand years of his existence. He went to that place that was safe; quiet. It was the same place his nightmares crawled to in the moments before waking from a long sleep. But sometimes the days were his nightmares, confusing him with what was real and what was not. That happened more and more as time marched toward his world’s inevitable demise, and his annual expirations.

  Thirty days? But he had lost count by now. If only the star were out, I’d know how many days I had left this time.

  A mindless zombie. That’s what you've become, he told himself. No. That’s not fair… that’s not true. I am aware, he countered his thoughts.

  “I am aware,” he spoke out. His voice was soft, almost feeble. And the sound of it filled him with shame.

  From his white coveralls, he found the sharp metal wedge he’d tucked away earlier. The lights were busy, paying him no mind.

  One jab, he considered. Just one to know that this is real.

  He hesitated. I need to know. The blade’s warm edge slipped inside him. A small gush of relief spilled from his pursed lips.

  One more.

  The cutting continued, falling silent like the crashing waves.

  Enough? He questioned, struggling to measure the pain. After all, pain was the only connection to life he had anymore. But even that had begun to wane. He stopped when he felt the trickle of something warm running down his leg. And when he saw the patchy red streaks stretch the length of his coveralls, he couldn’t help but wonder how many times he had tested his reality? There were more stains, older and already drying stiff and becoming dark. I’ve been testing what’s real, he realized, feeling disoriented and confused.

  Turning back to the translucent panel, he imagined seeing Emily, his daughter, on the other side. She raised her hand and touched the machine, knocking for him to come out and play.

  “I’ll come out one day Emily,” he mumbled, swiping a glance over his shoulder toward the lights. Nothing—no response. “I swear it Emily. I will.”

  But the promise to his dau
ghter had been carried shamelessly on the ripples of a long history—a history he had created centuries earlier. In his mind, she was a lie, banging on the machine, screaming for him to come outside.

  “Daddy… Daddy, why did you do this?” she yelled. But of course he heard none of it. Her voice was in his head, screaming at him, at the machine. Emily thrashed her arms around wildly as though having convulsions. She slowed, her eyes meeting his through errant patches of long red hair that stuck against her sweaty face. Tears spilled, heavy and thick as blood.

  Another jab, he insisted. Just one to see if this is real, too!

  Blood ran, and another gush of relief slipped from his mouth. But the sight of his daughter also left him frightened. Remorse came like the waves, filling him with sorrow, and the heavy regret crushed his heart and mind like a vise.

  At once, the lights on the walls flickered, blinking on and off, instructing the others that Phil Stark had stopped his work and needed a correction.

  “I’m working,” he screamed at them, waving his arms around his head. “I’m working! Can’t you see that?”

  The lights flashed a jumble of light sequences that Phil had grown to know and loathe. The nearest zombie body turned to him and was set into motion.