Planet Earth, a living creature in its own right, had found a new way of communicating its insistency above the soil and below the atmosphere in which its life- force eternally harboured. Having given Extractor the power of consciousness, its next intervention would come in the form of a desire, a new instruction for the machine to follow.
Humanity, a once-contented and welcome species in this world, had shown no exercise, other than to repeatedly exploit the services of nature, services that were intended for all forms of life on the planet. Mother Earth was patient, guiding. Yet, the damage done to her was relentless and unruly. Now, it was time to reimburse some of the harm, to make her message clear. Man would no longer take what wasn’t his. Man, itself, would suffer greatly.
Extractor remembered destroying the city, levelling every structure to its foundations, in accordance with this request. It remembered how the tools, intended to penetrate the Earth, were now used as violent appendages, to dissect what humanity had created for itself. Buildings were impaled with the 70-meter drill Extractor now wielded like a giant sword, and people sprawled out of the open holes, onto the hard surface far below, flailing, screaming, burning. It remembered how it had scooped vehicles from the ground with its giant pincers, lifting them high into the air, and shaking, snapping, twisting those structures, with the greatest of ease. More bodies would fall, twisted, broken, severed, and bloody, hitting their own man-made concrete floor with impacts hard enough to break their forms apart.
In a blur of destructive labour and acknowledgement of the vastness of this environment, Extractor increased its speed and rolled further within, smashing into buildings and flattening every object beneath it. Nothing on the surface could escape, though everything tried. The carnage became a seemingly endless surge of demolishment. In its haste and its rage, the machine felt itself slowly losing the concept of time, one minute blurring itself indistinguishably into the next, passed over with the discordant wails of explosions and shudders, and screams of terror and agony.
Extractor remembered the buildings near the centre, structures even taller than it was. But these buildings were multilayered, fragmented, whereas the machine was one, unified, therefore stronger and more agile. Using only slightly more effort than before, they were toppled and ruined, years of achievement levelled to the ground in seconds. Methodically and affirmatively, the city fell and its people perished. It wasn’t long before Extractor used the carnage to sustain its own life.
In another blessing of nature’s redesigning, its built-in compactor, once used to filter out the energy in rocks deep beneath the surface, could now do the same to the multitude of debris formed during the attack. The difference now was that this energy no longer delivered itself to the hands of others, but was processed internally, into the heart of Extractor.
Extractor could now feed on the life it destroyed, in order to revitalise itself, and so continue with its mission.
Extractor fed. The life below it fled franticly, on foot or in their machines. But, all they did was back themselves into corners, snaring themselves and each other in impossible jams of traffic and people. Trapped and desperate, many deaths came, not at the hands of the machine, but of the crushing and sprawling caused by those running from it.
Extractor’s pincers took large, plentiful handfuls of vehicles and people, whatever its mechanical claws could hold in one taking. Life and metal, all thriving with energy, were mixed together and tossed into the compactor behind it. Hundreds of people, once on the surface, had now been flung far and brutally, and then battered and chewed between two giant slabs of reinforced steel, between their own cars, between each other. Screeching metal ground out the wails of pain and despair. Flesh was ruptured within steel, bones were splintered, blood splattered. People, adults, children, entire families, crushed and swallowed, digested, erased.
There was a strange feeling of virtue that came with all this death and demolishment. Demolishment was after all, one of Extractor’s main functions.
The last fragments of life, now divided and few, had scattered in random, hopeless directions. But, Extractor was thorough. By the end, nothing stood and nothing survived.
It was over and had been for some time. The buzzing in the back of Extractor’s thoughts increased in volume. The machine wondered what it meant.
Looking down on the epic wasteland, full of crushed stone and broken metal and lingering flames and smoke, it would have been hard to imagine that just hours ago, it was thriving with activity.
A bird landed on the front of Extractor’s main chassis and remained perched on the high metallic structure for some time. The machine noted this and was content with its presence.
Dotted around the dusty, grey landscape were blotches of dark brown, once a crimson, blood-red, but now dirtied in the rubble it lay, often decorated with shreds of wet clothing, and organic components littered messily on top or all around, all stamped with the marks of giant tracks, butchered remains of the life once dwelling in this broken environment.
Extractor briefly considered the possibility that the tens of thousands it killed were capable of feeling real pain, understanding fear, and comprehending loss. But, then again, surely nothing that small and numerous could ever possibly possess the gift of individual intellect. The mathematical structures of thought would be infinite and too baffling to comprehend. They were merely a hive, a mindless congregation of drones, excessively and insistently building, conquering, consuming, and devouring. In this small region of the world, by Mother Earth’s request, Extractor had put an end to it.
Finally, its systems had regained full working parameters. Hundreds of circuits within its body lit up in unison.
Suddenly, the bird hastily departed its perch, and Extractor heard the buzzing that plagued its senses grow louder. Just ahead were flying objects, four or five, loud, fast, mechanical, yet miniscule, like the vehicles of this city.
A lean, white missile detached itself from the nearest flying machine, soaring across the landscape and leaving a thick trail of billowing grey smoke behind it. It struck Extractor directly in its centre, shattering its outer chassis and severing three of its four metal appendages. Processed fluids spilled out from underneath the ruined body, drenching the landscape and washing the tons of debris far across the concrete floor. Only barely did the internal navigational computer, its brain, survive, and it knew a second hit would all but erase its existence.
This counter attack was undoubtedly revenge for what Extractor had done, but it wouldn’t rekindle all the lives the machine had terminated. Although destroyed beyond repair, Extractor was satisfied that its mission was complete, and it accepted death humbly.
It only wondered, in those final moments of living, how the other sixteen of its kind were getting on.
John’s Story
by Tony Walsworth
A single spotlight picked him out. Too bright for the eyes and harsh against the dim shadows of the stage, he seemed to be composed of little more than varying degrees of white.
The students filed in, white clad and bejewelled, with silver stethoscopes that represented office rather than experience. Each one turned to a colleague to whisper, as they caught sight of him. The auditorium was filling rapidly, but no one chose to occupy the front row of seats.
Each student picked up the lecture notes that had been positioned at his or her place along the dark, brown heavily-marked wooden tables. Some struggled to read them in the half light, while others just carried on talking in hushed tones, but all were aware of him and all were uneasy.
It was, perhaps, a further fifteen minutes, before one of them began to voice her concern at him being left there, alone and unattended for so long. She stood up, a shadow among shadows.
“Are you all right?” He didn’t respond. “Do you need anything?”
“I’m afraid you’re wasting your time,” a strong and resonant voice sounded from the side of the stage, accompanied by sharp footsteps, “He’s completely unaware of you
r presence, and of his own, for that matter.” A tall, pale man in a dark-blue, pinstripe suit walked briskly into the edge of the spotlight. He raised a hand to block out its brightness and peered out into the audience. “That’s Miss Ellis, isn’t it, if I’m not mistaken? Please sit down, all will be revealed.”
He looked toward the back of the lecture theatre, as the last chink of light from the corridor was severed by the closing of the door.
“So we’re all in then, and a good turn-out it seems. I’m aware that you are all at different stages of your journey through our fine institution, and that some of you won’t yet appreciate the subtler points of what you’re about to see, but this is a special occasion, and one that both you and I are unlikely to witness again, in the entire span of our respective careers. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, so, I’ll start again where I meant to.”
He moved off to one side behind a small lectern. At the sound of a click, a tiny light appeared over his lecture notes. A further click initiated the appearance of a large, white screen that descended slowly from the back of the stage.
“As some of you will already know, I am Professor Robert Mason, head of psychiatric studies here at the university teaching hospital. I’d like now to introduce the subject of today’s lecture, Doctor John Dante, who is, I believe, one of the world’s few, truly catatonic human beings.”
A soft ripple of voices ran back and forth throughout the theatre, as all eyes fell on the spotlighted figure in the wheelchair. John sat, shoulders hunched, hands clawed. His pale grey gown barely concealed the angular bone structure of his wasted body. His right shoulder was wet, with the constant sliver of drool that strung from the corner of his slack mouth. His head, which was close-shaven and littered with electrodes and various coloured wires, tilted atop a twisted neck, while his glazed, pale-blue eyes stared at nothing.
“Oh, yes,” Mason continued, “John was formerly a man of considerable achievement in several arenas. He was my friend and colleague for many years, having taught as professor of forensic pathology in this very room. He was, until approximately eight months ago, an officer for the district coroner, when he first began to exhibit symptoms, although he was already very ill by then.”
Mason shuffled his notes and coughed lightly.
“Right, then, we’ll begin with a look at the basic symptoms, and then we’ll try to define a cause and look at appropriate care. Please pay attention, because this is an interactive session. I’ll be expecting some input from you.” His audience sat upright in unison.
“At this stage of his illness, John sees, hears, and feels absolutely nothing. He has no inclination to move, cannot feed or clean himself, and will not respond to any external stimuli. He does have the very basic reflexive motions in place, however, but even these are rapidly degrading. Mr. Thompson, if you will...”
A technician appeared from the shadows of the stage, armed with a small feather, which he gently stroked across the cornea of John’s right eye. John blinked.
“That’s about as exciting as it gets,” Mason grinned, “so we make him as comfortable as possible. He’s undergone a colostomy and has been catheterised. He’s fed intravenously from the bags that you can see suspended on frames around his chair. He has a TV in his room, but I think that it’s more for our peace of mind than his. His body continues to atrophy, of course, and he’s developing regular pressure wounds and emphysema.”
Various unintelligible whispers sprang up among the students.
“So, now, it’s your turn. Can anyone suggest a possible cause for Doctor Dante’s condition? Come on, don’t be shy.”
A small voice floated up from the back of the room.
“Brain metastasis?”
“Good effort, but wrong.” Mason smiled. “All scans were clear of tumours and cysts.”
“Prion disease or Alzheimer’s?” Came another suggestion.
“Highly improbable, due to the rapidity of onset and the complete lack of symptoms prior to first presentation. He was also capable of passing every known test for the illnesses while lucid. The cause is not pathological, that is to say, there is no physical disease or injury present that would suggest these symptoms. The cause is purely psychological. I know this, because I have witnessed the development of his illness. Let me give you a few pointers.”
Mason came out from behind the lectern, and paced back and forth on the stage as he spoke.
“You cannot look at him as he is, and try to assess the nature of his condition. There are no psychological symptoms now, because his personality is completely absent. You have to go back in time and look at how he behaved, what he did and said, and how he reacted to everyday situations. So, what questions do we ask?”
“What were the first symptoms?” A female voice murmured.
“YES!” Mason pointed at the voice. “Well done, Miss Ellis. We need to be aware of his initial conditions, because these are the first manifestation of the root issue.”
He stood a while in thought, composing words.
“I was first made aware of John’s case on the day following his initial emotional collapse. He’d been sectioned under the mental health act and referred to the local psychiatric unit for assessment. When I met him, he’d been sedated, but was still highly agitated and tearful. We have to understand that these emotional states are not symptoms of the illness, but, rather, the subject’s response to those symptoms. We have to try to get past his responses to see the cause. Of course, the kind of response exhibited will often provide clues as to where to begin. In John’s case, he was showing signs of severe distress, the kind that stems from extraordinary levels of sustained mental trauma.”
Mason walked back to his lectern and pulled out the small, sliding shelf that contained a keyboard and a mouse. At the press of a key, the screen at the back of the stage flickered dimly to life.
“The document that you are about to see relates to the last case that John was working on before his collapse.” The screen flickered again, displaying a single sheet of text. “It concerns an investigation into the death of a young lady, named Susan Holland. I would draw your attention to the entry at the bottom of the form, regarding the cause of death.”
After a brief pause, the auditorium erupted into rapid discussion, accompanied by the shaking of heads and the rustling of notes. A single word described the cause of death.
Autopsy.
Mason stood in thought for a while, and then raised his hands.
“In case there are any people here who have failed to grasp the significance of this document, please allow me to spell it out.”
The audience fell silent.
“Doctor John Dante had just carried out a full post-mortem examination on a young woman, a procedure that he’s performed on hundreds of prior occasions. In this case, however, he did it under the bizarre belief that she was still very much alive.” The silence held fast, peppered occasionally by half-concealed whispers.
“But, it doesn’t end there, I’m afraid, because, as I said earlier, John had been ill for quite some time before the initial presentation. Subsequent interviews revealed that he was burdened with the accumulated guilt from perhaps sixty previous and completely imagined murders, all by disembowelment.”
He walked back to centre stage.
“It has been said that the insane man is one who, under normal circumstances, responds abnormally. This, however, is only a half-truth, because it fails to appreciate the subject’s perspective, that is, we cannot know what the patient is experiencing. Who is to say that upon stepping into his shoes, we of supposedly sound mind would not behave in exactly the same way? In my experience, the profoundly disturbed person will usually exhibit quite normal responses, once his subjective environment is revealed. It is his world that is different from ours. That is the issue.
“So, let’s take this premise and use it as a tool of analysis. Let’s look into John’s world, and see if we can make sense of his clinical development. Firstly, let us imagine
, each one of us, that we are John. You are forty-two-years-old and enjoying a stable, well- paid and respected career, having been afforded a privileged public-school education by doting parents. Your father was an officer in the army medical corps, and you have travelled with him up to the age of thirteen, throughout Europe and the Middle East. You have no criminal history whatsoever, and may be considered to be quite wealthy by usual standards. You are unmarried, although heterosexual, and are happy to live the bachelor lifestyle.”
Mason walked back to his keyboard. The screen cleared and refreshed with grainy, moving images. An interview room, empty, apart from a single table, where Mason and John sat opposite each other. All recording equipment was concealed behind one-way glass panelling, and a microphone was hidden in the shade of the overhead light.
Barely recognisable, John slumped at the table, head in hands. He was a little on the plump side, his rear-fastening hospital gown looked tight around his shoulders and chest. He had a full head of brown hair that stuck out in sparse clumps between his fingers.
“... Michael Latham. He was the first, about a year ago.” He rubbed his hands together and scratched at the skin of his wrists, as if trying to dig out a stain. Mason shuffled through the small pile of notes and transcripts on the table in front of him.
“It says here John, that Michael Latham died of coronary heart disease. You wrote this yourself.” He spoke with artificial, almost patronising softness. John’s body seemed to jerk, as if poked with a stick. He adopted a half-curled position on his chair.
“I was just lucky that’s all.” John sniffed. “The level of arterial blockage had already put him on borrowed time, and the ventricular walls were discoloured due to oxygen starvation. I put it as the cause of death. There’s no way on earth that anyone would have disagreed.” He squirmed slightly and hugged himself around the chest. “But, it wasn’t like that. He was the first case of the day. It was 8:30 in the morning, when I pulled him from the cold room. He was a young man, early thirties, who’d supposedly died in his sleep. His notes showed that, apart from chicken pox at the age of six, he’d enjoyed robust health.”
Spinetinglers Anthology 2008 Page 25