This Is How You Die: Stories of the Inscrutable, Infallible, Inescapable Machine of Death

by Неизвестный

  At first Mrs. Dratmoor didn’t seem to take any notice of Alfred and his friends, but then she suddenly looked surprised. “Hey, what are you kids doing out of school!” she shouted. “It’s not summer yet!”

  Alfred and his friends ran as fast as they could, their tennis shoes slapping against the burning concrete of the sidewalks. Mrs. Dratmoor was always short of breath, and they knew she wouldn’t run after them. But they also ran just to feel the breeze against their skin as they raced to the arcade at the other end of town.

  The arcade was owned by a white-haired, potbellied man named Mr. Szyzylly. He had red blotches on his face and he spoke with a thick accent. The other half of the building was a Laundromat, which was also owned by Mr. Szyzylly.

  Alfred and his friends had spent plenty of rainy afternoons in the arcade, playing the old games while the warm linen-and-soap smell of the Laundromat tickled their noses. On hot days like this, they usually stayed away, as there was nothing to keep the building cool except a line of old rattling box fans that Mr. Szyzylly had taped to the floor.

  So it was no surprise that nobody was doing their laundry either on this particular Friday afternoon. In fact, the only person in the whole place was Mr. Szyzylly himself, and even he looked like he was asleep. Alfred had never seen the place so empty before.

  Mr. Szyzylly’s arcade was not very large or up-to-date. Mostly, it consisted of strange carnival attractions that he had picked up here and there very inexpensively. There was a mechanical fortune-telling madam, a love test, and a miniature bowling lane with pins attached to springs. But Alfred and his friends usually spent most of their quarters on the few old video games that Mr. Szyzylly had rescued when the pizzeria went out of business. Today, however, they were after something different. For the first time, they had come to use the Machine of Death that sat in the very far back, behind a black curtain.

  Alfred and his friends had often sneaked glances at the machine when they thought nobody was watching, but they had never dared to touch it. The truth is that they had always been too afraid, but of course they never admitted to this. They always found some excuse for not using the machine before. But now they had sworn, so they were finally going to do it—or at least that’s what they told each other.

  The three boys went over to the change machine in the corner of the arcade. Since the place was so quiet and since Mr. Szyzylly looked like he was asleep, they tried to be quiet themselves. But there was still a lot of whispering and giggling and poking and pinching and squeaking sneakers—and that was before the rattling coins fell out of the change machine. With all that noise, it shouldn’t have been any surprise that Mr. Szyzylly was wide-awake by the time they had gotten their four quarters.

  “What are you boys doing, sneaking around here?” asked Mr. Szyzylly in a voice that made all three boys jump. He didn’t sound angry, but he always spoke in a loud voice.

  Alfred and his friends looked at one another and whispered some more. Alfred was very aware that they were playing hooky on the last day of fifth grade. He just hoped that Mr. Szyzylly wouldn’t realize that as he answered. “We came to use the machine.”

  “Aha,” said Mr. Szyzylly. A smile spread across his face and his eyes twinkled strangely. “I have seen you boys looking at that machine many times. You finally have the courage?”

  Alfred and his friends looked at each other again. It was true that they had sworn to use the machine, but had any of them really thought they would? Alfred at least had been hoping that Mr. Szyzylly would chase them away so they could have an adventure without having to actually go through with it. But now it seemed like there was no backing out. With Mr. Szyzylly watching them like that, they would have to do it.

  “I don’t usually let children use it,” said Mr. Szyzylly thoughtfully. “But you think you are grown-up enough, yes? It’s a very weighty thing, this machine—not a thing to be approached lightly. After you use it, your lives will be changed forever.”

  Mr. Szyzylly seemed to be waiting for some kind of an answer, but Alfred didn’t know what to say. He just looked dumbly at his two friends, and they both looked dumbly back.

  After a minute, Mr. Szyzylly said, “Well, do you still want to use it? I’ve seen it ruin lives, destroy friendships, and frighten grown men worse than any ghost story. I’ll let you go through with it if you want—but you must tell me that you still want to.”

  None of the boys said anything for a moment, and then Alfred spoke up. His voice was really nothing more than a squeak. “Yes, Mr. Szyzylly,” he said. “We swore on it!”

  “Well, come on,” said Mr. Szyzylly. He walked over to the curtains and opened them up wide. The machine sat there, big and hulking. It wasn’t sleek like the one in Dr. Tanner’s office, but rather a very old version with red paint flaking off its aluminum casing. Mr. Szyzylly turned around and looked at the boys carefully. “Are you very sure about this? This is your last chance to change your mind.”

  And again Alfred heard himself saying, “Yes. I’m not scared.” His friends both looked at him with shock in their eyes. Alfred was just as shocked himself. Why had he said that? He was terrified.

  “Good,” said Mr. Szyzylly. “Get your quarters ready, all of you. Let me fetch you something to stand on.” Mr. Szyzylly went back to his desk at the far end of the room, and the three boys stared up at the machine.

  Now Alfred felt sick. He wanted to run away, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t afraid the other boys would laugh at him, since he was sure they would run too. In fact, he didn’t even know why he couldn’t run. His heart was pounding and he felt like crying, but still he couldn’t run.

  Mr. Szyzylly was back now. He put a wooden box on the ground next to the machine. Then he bent over the machine and fiddled with it for a minute. “Just let me make sure there’s enough paper, and some new needles,” he said. “There we go! All right, then, who’s first?”

  Since nobody else took the first step, Alfred did. He felt as though he had missed his chance to run away, and now he only wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. He climbed up on top of the box and looked down at the machine. It looked like the hood of an old pickup truck—a curved, blank surface with no dials and no buttons. There was only a single round hole and two slots—one for quarters to go in, and one for paper to come out.

  “You are the bravest boys I have ever met,” Mr. Szyzylly was saying. “I want to shake your hand before you commence this great moment.” There was a big lump in Alfred’s throat, and he couldn’t even close his fingers as Mr. Szyzylly clasped his hand. Alfred’s hand just lay limp while his arm rippled like jelly under Mr. Szyzylly’s vigorous pumping. “Now, put your thumb here, in the circle. It will prick a little, like a needle. Don’t forget your quarter!”

  The coin dropped down into the machine with a dull plunk. After that, Alfred almost couldn’t stand it, waiting for the pinprick. But then it came, and he pulled his thumb away quickly. “Ow!” he said. From somewhere inside the machine, there came mechanical sounds—whirring and clunking and other strange noises. It sounded almost like a refrigerator turning on. Alfred looked at his thumb, hoping that maybe he had pulled it away too soon. Maybe it hadn’t really pricked him. But no—there it was. A little drop of blood welling up! And then suddenly a piece of paper came out of the slot in the machine.

  “Well, pick it up,” said Mr. Szyzylly. Alfred picked it up. He looked at it. His head was spinning, and the words didn’t seem to make any sense to him. They were written in heavy black pencil on the paper.

  “What does it say?” asked one of Alfred’s friends.

  Mr. Szyzylly took the paper and read it out loud in his big booming voice. “LAKE TITICACA!”

  “Lake what?” asked one of Alfred’s friends.

  “LAKE TITICACA!”

  The two other boys were giggling now. “Lake Titicaca?” asked Alfred. “What does that mean?”

  But Mr. Szyzylly was already herding the next boy up to the machine and giving him the same
solemn handshake before inserting his thumb into the hole. Alfred could only watch in confusion. He still had no idea what his own prediction meant. It was all happening too fast. He needed time to think! But suddenly the machine spat out another slip of paper and the boy read it out loud in a squeal of laughter. “BOOGERS AND BEANS!” he shouted.

  “BOOGERS AND BEANS,” Mr. Szyzylly confirmed in his ceremonious baritone.

  Even Alfred couldn’t help laughing at that one. It felt good to laugh after feeling so tense and frightened, but he was still confused. A minute later, the third boy got his slip and started laughing almost before he had looked at it. He was laughing so hard that he couldn’t even talk, so Mr. Szyzylly had to take it from him and read it aloud again. “MRS. DRATMOOR’S FARTS!” he shouted in his thick accent. All three boys dissolved in giggles and gagging noises, and even Mr. Szyzylly seemed to be trembling in laughter.

  “All right, boys,” said Mr. Szyzylly, wiping tears from his eyes. “Get back to school now, and don’t let me catch you playing hooky again!”

  Alfred and his friends ran out the door, each clutching his slip of paper. They were very late coming back from recess, of course, and they each got detention. But even teachers don’t want to stay long after school on the last day of fifth grade, so after only ten minutes they were running home again. Alfred spent the whole ten minutes (which, under the circumstances, still seemed like a very long time) looking at the slip of paper he had gotten from the machine and trying to understand it.

  It was only later that night, as Alfred was sitting in the bathtub, that he stopped to wonder how the machine in the arcade happened to have the exact same handwriting as Mr. Szyzylly…

  * * *

  Story by M. Bennardo

  Illustration by Dustin Harbin

  IN SLEEP

  THE HOLLOW CLICK OF MACHINE echoes out over the subdued murmur of the party. Sounds like a noise in the undergrounds at midnight. The kind that sends your feet to flutter across the ground, as fast as your heartbeat, no matter if you’re feeling brave or not. Pome’s hand hesitates before the black mouth of the sample indent.

  She’s had a reading before. Sang at a formal wedding. Part of her fee a turn on Machine, hired to entertain the wedding party with foretellings of their certain ends. Not Pome’s idea of entertainment. But the guests hadn’t taken it seriously. All those predictions of cancer, heart disease, even the bride’s sudden death by aneurysm, five years to live. All a huge joke. Then Pome’s reading, and suddenly they wanted her gone.

  She doesn’t want to repeat that. It’s not her party to spoil. All the deaths they’ve heard so far, some distant, some not terrible at all, hers is different. Special. She knows it makes others feel cheated.

  “I’m not sure,” she murmurs.

  Scope, to her left, sniffs ridicule. Grabs her wrist, looks up at her resistance. “Pome, it’s just routine, chickah. You know your death. In sleep, baby. In sleep, just like a baby. This is just for fun, because you can. No one will care.”

  Pome bites her lip, seeks his eyes. Examines them for doubt. There is none. Just her own stupid mind, playing tricks again. Been doing that a lot lately. Takes her without warning. When it does, everything skews, flips out of focus. Becomes dreamlike, but more night terror than pleasant.

  Her feet feel a million miles away when it comes. Her mind floats out beyond her skull, as high as a cloud and twice as wispy. Keeps fading in the wind. Comes back with blank patches like corrupted data files. Bits of Pome missing for good.

  She wonders for a moment where they’ve drifted. Imagines scraps playing with the birds at high altitude, swooping and sporting through billows of gray and white. Loses herself in the fear that she’s losing herself in bytes, snatches. Like piranha bites. Opportunistic mouthfuls.

  Pressure on her wrist brings her back. Scope stares at her hard. Like he wants to nail her into her skull with his eyes. Tugs her a little. Leans to whisper.

  “Come on. It’s only here a couple of hours. You’re taking ages. People are staring.”

  Guilt washes over in acid waves, corrosive and bitter. Machine hire is not cheap. This is Lisle’s day, her birthday. Pome is spoiling it. Pome smiles around; embarrassment creates a web of static over her skin. She feels her cheeks prickle, blaze. Allows Scope to thrust her hand into the hungry hole of Machine’s sample unit.

  Prick on her finger, like last time, comes as a shock. Makes her hiss. She removes her hand, sucks the finger hard. Warmth of her mouth turns pain to pleasant heat. There’s a sigh of air, then Machine’s melodic voice begins to sing as it makes its analysis. Pome’s eyes drift shut.

  The world shrinks till it contains only the voice of Machine. This is what Pome does, what she is, a singer. That Machine is a singer too creates a strange sort of kinship. Pome thinks of all the places she travels when she sings and wonders if Machine does the same. What it might see. The beauty of it swells her rib cage to break point. If she could listen forever, she’d allow that cage of bone to burst, shatter. Loose her innards upon the floor.

  Another sigh and the music stops. It’s melancholy silence. Like whale song ending. It brings a type of grief. Because this is not a sound that can be explained, only experienced. Among all the AI machines running the world, Machine alone has learned to sing, and only ever in analysis mode. The phenomenon’s never been explained. Machine’s creator, Priest, is never seen and never speaks, and Machine itself won’t allow scientists ingress for examination.

  Lights shine within Machine’s oddly organic mass. Pome’s aware it’s composed of biotech, circuitry, soft drives, crouched within them the quiescent AI, filled with beauty it expresses only in song. But the milky, featureless sphere looks alien. Alive. As smooth as glass and shimmering with that luminescence. She imagines it would feel like liquid light. Silken. Electric. She wants to stroke it, but the AI doesn’t like to be touched.

  The black analysis portal is as iridescent as a shell now that lights are at full blaze. From deep within it floats a bubble. Thin, swirling with delicate patterns of data. Mesmerizing. Cryptic. So much contained in such a tiny, ephemeral sphere. Pome smiles. Leans down. She recalls the flavor. Sweet. A little tangy. A faint hint of violets. The feel of her analysis as it swept through her. She opens her mouth. Pops the bubble on her tongue.

  “Eugh.”

  Bitterness. Such bitterness. She coughs. Sputters. Rubs her hand over her tongue. Grabs Scope’s half-finished cocktail. Necks it as the new info surfs though her system. Too cold. Too hard. Like freezing knives along her nerve endings. The taste, the gelid remains of the infobubble, won’t dissipate.

  It sticks to the inside of her mouth. Makes her shiver. Feels dank, dark, slimy. Revolting. She grimaces. Shudders. Then it unfolds its razor-sharp origami of information, a deadly flower, into her frontal lobe. Her death, her years, both gone. In their place a death so terrible her mind flees from it, from the horrifying impression that it comes to her soon, so soon. And she’s screaming. Mindless. Clutching at her skull. It’s heavy, weighed down with knowledge. Hurts. Hurts so bad.

  Pome drops to the floor. Head hung between knees. Screams and screams. Unable to quit. Hands move to shutter her face. Cover her eyes, as if they can block the knowledge in her brain from her awareness, and she’s moaning through the screams, can’t stop. Hears the words as they tumble from her mouth.

  “Not possible. Not possible… not defrag…”

  Like stones, denials drop about her feet. Anchor her. Crush her. She can’t understand this information, assimilate it. It makes no sense. The only response she can find is this continued raw shout, these repeated words. They pile up around her, invisible yet as heavy as water. She feels them pressing on her skin.

  Dim, distant hands touch her shoulders. Unsure. Tentative. No one speaks. Elastic silence stretches on and on, then snaps without warning. Everyone speaks at once, crowds close. Too much to hear, too much to bear. So many people, so many words. But she feels Scope’s presence above her in the
throng, hears his words clear above the babble.

  “What’s wrong, Pome? Speak it. Please. Speak. What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, chickah.”

  Pome rises, pulls herself by handfuls of clothing up his body till they’re face-to-face. Her eyes feel wild with panic. Like they bug out. Scope must see it; his deep gray eyes reflect it. Mirror panic. Make it an infinity stretching on and on between them. She’s gasping. Tries to find a way to say it. But there’s no way. So she just screams in his face. Screams so hard her throat is raw with it.

  “Changed. It changed.”

  Scope’s head whips back and forth before his mouth says, “No. Pome, it can’t have. It’s not possible.”

  No way to tell him he’ll believe, so Pome grabs his face between her palms. Grinds her mouth onto his. Sweeps her tongue over his buds. Lets him feel it. Taste it. It’s been laid on her tongue like a slug trail, the last dregs. Fuck the taboo. Got to share this before it fades. Prove she’s not crazy.

  Scope rears back, hand clamped to mouth. Everyone stares at him. Horror builds in the room, as thick as FlyStream vapor. Then his eyes go huge. As wide as screaming mouths. Turn to her. Catch her like searchlights. His mouth flaps. Shapes without words. Then words fall. All denials, much the same as hers. A dark dreadfulness in them, furious anger. And he grabs her. He’s pulling her back to Machine.

  “You have to try again. You have to. Please, Pome.”

  Pome digs in her heels. “No.” It comes out on a sob, anger, fear, frustration. Everyone is staring. Just like before. But this is worse, so much worse.

  Scope comes close. Frames her face just as she did his. His eyes brim with pain and she can barely look at them. “But defrag, chickah? For you? Who would use such a weapon on you, Pome? No one. Not one soul. You’re a singer. No one hurts singers. No one would think to do that to a singer.”

  Pome shakes her head, tears burning hot paths down her cheeks. Scope is wrong because Machine is never wrong. It never changes predictions. So something’s changed for her; it has to have. Panic gnaws away her insides, fights for expression. This death is soon. Her mind tries again to show her how soon, but she shoves it away, does not want to know. Her legs, lips, hands, are numb. Her blood seethes cold, bitter cold, from head to feet and back again, too fast with the aching pump of a heart driven by terror. She pulls away from the grip of his palms.