Machina Obscurum

by J. Edward Neill

  The last Valentine’s Day was the afternoon John proposed. Elyse clung to the memory, her eyes misting over.

  “I’m a traditionalist,” John said, bending down on one knee with a rose in his hand, making her giggle. “Will you marry me?”

  He slipped the ring on her finger the moment she said yes and stood to give her a resounding kiss. The sheer bliss cracked two weeks later. After two months, Elyse nursed him through his death throes, desperately trying to catch the virus herself so she could join him.

  By that time, terrorists had claimed responsibility for the engineered virus, calling for Mother Earth to be renewed. Without the parasites sucking her dry, they said, she could cover the artificial structures with fields of flowers, patching her wounds with trees and streams. Elyse didn’t know if a cure had been found, but with no communication feeds going to any of the satellites she rather doubted it.

  The lights in the big cities had darkened in sporadic patches over those next few months; now, hardly any light shone at all on the blue globe that Elyse used to call home. Towards the end, bright flashes would punctuate the major cities, bringing a swifter death to the populations that remained. Blame and anger seemed to be the last to die, she thought and ran a hand over the rough bark of the tree beside her. This small area was all that was left to represent the Earth, it seemed.

  The lights flickered, making Elyse flinch. Every so often Nick would do that—whether to scare her or for his own amusement she wasn’t sure. The station could sustain itself and the two of them for as long as they lived… unless one of them sabotaged the workings.

  Elyse headed back to the quarters she and John had shared, flipping on the recorder to listen to the messages he had left for her. All of them were just casual calls but she was glad she’d never erased them. They were now all she had left of him.

  “Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Will you be mine?” The voice floated out from the speaker, so full of warmth it made her shiver. Elyse hit the digital spot for another message, the numbers memorized long ago.

  “Wear that red dress for me” and John laughed, the rich roll of his mirth a comfort to her. It was odd that Nick had a similar laugh and yet sounded sinister, although his mental instability probably shaded the tone.

  Elyse checked the time. 9:59. In one minute Nick would be chiming in. She gritted her teeth and waited, anxious to get it over with.

  “Goodnight, sweetheart. Dream of me.”

  Nick’s words over the intercom sent a chill through her heart, but at least now she could go to bed without hearing from him again until morning. He was nothing if not punctual, always saying the same things at the same time, as if programmed. Elyse wished she could shut the intercom down but someone had jury-rigged it to remain open at all times.

  She closed her eyes and let the oblivion of sleep overtake her, dreams of a sparkling Earth shining through the dome overhead while John bent on one knee in the arboretum to ask for her hand. Life the way it should have been, if not for the insanity of a few.

  “Keep the communications line open at all costs,” the station director instructed Elyse in his last lucid moments. “I have faith that Earth will find an answer.”

  He patted her hand, his touch weak and hot with fever. “Don’t you worry, I’m sure they’ll send help soon.”

  Only they didn’t, Elyse thought as she tossed in bed. The bodies kept coming in until she was assigned to the burial detail, which consisted of nothing more than shoving them out the airlock.

  “I think it’s just you and me now.” Nick smiled during dinner in a poor attempt at humor the night of the last burial. “We’re the new Adam and Eve.”

  Elyse picked up the butcher’s knife in the kitchen and considered ending her life then and there but couldn’t bring herself to suicide. After that, Nick kept to himself, only plaguing her by intercom. Still, she preferred his demented company to being completely alone. Utter silence would have driven her mad.

  She awoke the next morning to the eight a.m. broadcast of “Good morning, sweetheart” over the intercom. Always the same damn thing. On her better days, she could close her eyes and pretend it was John saying it, instead of Nick.

  At eleven, when the intercom crackled with “I can’t meet you for lunch today, love,” Elyse decided she’d had enough. How did Nick know what messages John had left her? She headed towards Engineering to fix the situation for the last time. No more waiting.

  The ghosts of former friends spoke to Elyse as she passed through hallways long unused, sometimes kindly but often berating her in sharp tones. Their anger puzzled her; the reasons came out garbled and nonsensical. It didn’t matter. They were all dead anyway.

  Elyse went back to her quarters and changed into her red dress. She crossed through the galley on her way to the arboretum, stepping over the desiccated body of Nick Phearson, the butcher’s knife still wedged between his ribs. Three o’clock would be the magic hour. She didn’t want to be late.

  “Wear that red dress for me.” A rich laugh burst through the station over the intercom, filling her heart with gladness as Elyse leaned against the oak tree, waiting.

  Why had she ever thought that voice belonged to Nick? It was John. He’d come back for her. As the environmental system shut down and the cold began to seep through her bones, Elyse saw John’s smiling face, his hand placing the ring on her finger once again.

  She laughed and fell into his arms, embracing him forever.

  Dakota Skye: By the Time I get to Arizona

  Part One: The Only Living Boy

  Chad J. Shonk

  EAST SEVENTH STREET

  ALPHABET CITY

  NEW YORK, NY 10009

  T HERE ARE ONLY SO MANY TIMES YOU CAN JERK OFF in a twenty-four hour period before the ratio of pain to pleasure tips against you. There is only so much weed you can smoke before you get more tired than high, more sick than well. There is only so much television you can watch, Facebooking you can do, music you can blare, Station you can play, before it all evolves into a dulling din of white noise.

  At this moment I am hurting, exhausted, ill, and numbed.

  I think I'll order a pizza.

  Do I have money for a pizza? Hold on. Shit. Where's my wallet? Where did I put my— Back pocket. Okay. Hold on. Do I have money for a— Hold on. One, two, twelve, thirteen, eighteen. Change on the coffee table. Eighteen twenty-five, eighteen fifty, eighteen fifty-five.

  Yeah. I have money for a pizza.

  My phone's in the kitchen. So far away from the couch. But I need to eat. When's the last time I ate? I had a barbecue sauce sandwich this morning. When was that? What time is it now? I don't know.

  My phone's in the kitchen. It's dark outside. I think. I should get a watch. Are watches cool again? I don't know anybody who wears a watch.

  I need to eat.

  I light up the last little bit in my bowl and hold it in and wonder why I did that because I'm already over-baked; I'm burnt cookies.

  I rock one, two, three times and manage to get myself out of the cushions and upright. My phone is on the counter. No messages. I didn't think there would be. Kumail and Aaron are in Atlantic City this weekend, completely unsympathetic to how broke I am. Not that I’m old enough to get into a casino anyway. And Kyle has a new girlfriend which makes him harder to see than Claude Rains. But I'm kind of hoping to hear from that girl Cora I hooked up with a few weeks ago. Although I think I've self-abused myself to the point where I'd be useless even if she did call.

  God, I feel gross.

  I keep the take-out menus on top the fridge. The fridge. Maybe I have something in the fridge. Save the eighteen and the fifty-five. There's a jar of pasta sauce. I open the lid and there's nothing growing inside. First time that's ever—pasta it is.

  This weed has a little more sativa in it than I want but I don't think the guy I buy from does a whole lot of comprehensive work in the lab to calculate the ratios. I'm a little jitter— a little jittery. More indica would be nice. A little m
ore mellow. Settle my brain down a bit.

  A bit.

  I fill a pot with water and wait for it to boil. I need to get out of here. Out of the apartment, sure, but out of town.

  I love it here; anyone who doesn't love New York is an I-don't-know-what but something not worth trusting. But sometimes you have just to go someplace else. Everyone has to go someplace else sometimes.

  I could go home to Jersey to see my parents but then I'd have to see my parents. I don't think I'm up for that.

  I can't go home, but I could go home-home.

  Wait. Shit. I should probably turn on the burner if I want the water to boil.

  Okay. Now we're cooking.

  My phone buzzes and Kumail's sent me a photo of him and Aaron and two painfully hot chicks at the craps table at the Tropicana. That's fine but if they send me pictures of them getting blown later I'll never talk to them again.

  The water's taking forever. I should just order a pizza.

  I text them and tell them to put five bucks on the hard six for me. If I'm going to get drunken pictures tonight, why can't they be from that girl Cora?

  Wait. Shit. I open the cupboard and affirm my suspicion. I don't have any pasta. Should have checked that. I switch off the burner. Fuck it. Sometimes you just have to go with your instincts. Your gut. Your heart. I'll just order a pizza.

  I reach up and slide the stack of menus off the top of the fridge and when they tip over the ledge they scatter and rain down on me and when the chaos settles I'm left with one in my hand and eight of them on the floor.

  I look at the survivor: Gnocco. A pizza place. Must be fate.

  It takes me three tries to dial the number. I've had this fucking phone for a year and a half. How is it I'm worse at typing with the touchscreen than I was when I got it? I blame Steve Jobs.

  And maybe the sativa.

  A woman answers and asks me how I am. I tell her I'm fine. Asks me what she can do for me.

  "What's your cheapest pizza?... Marinara?... How much?... That's not bad. What's the catch?... No cheese?... What kind of pizza doesn't have cheese?... That can't-- that can't be right. I've never heard of that... No, I've never been to Italy."

  Just hang up and call Dominoes or something.

  "How about this? I've got eighteen dollars and fifty five cents. I need a pizza I can afford but I don't want to stiff the driver....Oh. Take-out? Like, walk up there?"

  I could use the air. The exercise. Maybe that's what I need. Some fucking exercise. Get the blood flowing. Release some endorphins. That's what I need. Blood and endorphins.

  "And my pizza would be a real pizza? Because real pizza has cheese... Let's do that. That leave me enough for bread sticks?... Okay, fine. How about a Coke? Can I get a Coke... Huh?... Regular."

  I'm stoned out of my mind and ordering a whole pizza to eat by myself and the lady on the phone is asking me if I want Coke or Diet Coke.

  "Alright. Twenty minutes. Alright. I'll get walking."

  The lady asks my name.

  Jonah. My name is Jonah.

  It's a few beats before I realize I didn't say it out loud.

  "Jonah. My name is Jonah," I say and hang up.

  Fuck. I don't want to walk. It almost killed me getting to the kitchen. I don't need exercise.

  I've got plenty of blood and endorphins. Look at me. I'm, what do the British girls say... fit.

  Not girls, birds. British girls are birds. The birds would say I'm fit. I am fucking fit.

  But this way I get cheese.

  I should probably put on jeans.

  I'm already wearing jeans.

  Wait. Hold on. Where is Gnocco?

  I punch it into my phone to get directions. At first Google takes me way out of the way to get there, but then I notice those are driving directions and one-way streets are dicks. I tap the little button on the top of the screen that looks like a pedestrian.

  Eight minute walk. I can do eight minutes. Awesome. Just eight minutes. Eight minutes there and eight minutes—shit. Back. That's not eight minutes. That's...sixteen. Sixteen minutes round trip. Can I do sixteen?

  Eight, no pizza. Then another eight with. Extra weight from the pie.

  Where's my hoodie?

  On my way to my sweatshirt I stop for two minutes and pack another bowl and take one, okay two, hits then step outside.

  I forget my jacket. I duck back in and grab it and I'm off.

  I cross to the other side of Seventh at the church and towards the park. It's quiet and cool but not cold. The stores are shuttered for the night. I pass a tall and bald body-builder walking a brown bijon frise. I want to laugh at him but realize I'm the asshole that knows what a bijon frise is. Last girlfriend was a dog girl and I admit those Kennel Club shows can be kind of addicting. I hate that no big dogs ever win Best in Show. The only real dog is a big dog. A bijon frise is to a dog like a tabby is to a Bengal tiger.

  When passing the funeral home I allow myself my thirty seconds of morbid thoughts. About death, annihilation, trying to conceive of what it will be like to not exist. And then I push them aside. Thirty seconds is about my limit before thoughts like that take hold and it can take me weeks to shake them when they do.

  I turn left at the Asian-Mexican fusion place at the corner and onto Avenue A. I really don't know what Asian-Mexican fusion is, but it smells great. Maybe I should have gotten Asian-Mexican fusion instead.

  Stop living in the world of what-if, Moreno. Embrace the decision you have made. This is New York City. You are going to pass a dozen or two great places to eat on your eight minute walk but you have a date with a pizza with cheese and it's only a few blocks away.

  What does any of this matter if it's all going to vanish the moment I die? All I am is my memories, my experiences, the organic ones and zeroes etched in my brain. When that dies, when it goes away, all of this, this night, this city, my whole life, it goes away too.

  Shit. It stuck. God damn it. There goes my week.

  My sense of mortality is like the flu. Once I catch it, I'm down for a week and there's a lot of sweating.

  Did that girl Cora call? I check my phone. If I’m going to be oppressed by thoughts of my own death I may as well do it while having sex with a goth girl with a nose ring and a tattoo of a skull on her inner thigh. But she hasn't called.

  I text her:

  "Would you rather die in your sleep or do you want to see it coming?"

  It sounds creepy but that's the type of stuff that gets to a girl like that.

  Which would I rather do?

  I think I'd want to see it coming.

  Easy to be brave when you're twenty. I remind me to ask me again when I'm eighty.

  I go a block and she hasn't responded so I decide to text her again but I’m not sure what to say.

  Anything cool going on tonight?

  Just want to say what's up.

  I really want to see you tonight.

  Come on. Just be honest:

  "I really want to see you naked tonight."

  I hit send and put the phone back in my pocket. I won't message her again until she writes back. Two texts is a poke; three is a shove. Four pretty much assures you'll never sleep with her again.

  I hope she writes me back.

  I hope she doesn't.

  Wait. Did I space and miss Tenth? Shit. Hold on.

  No there it is.

  I wait for a car to pass, jog across the street to the corner of the park, and turn the corner. My mouth is starting to water, which is an impressive feat considering how dry it has been since I bought that eighth three days ago.

  I am coming for you, pizza with cheese.

  The block is quiet and empty. If I was prone to cannabis-induced paranoia, which I am not, I would say too quiet. It's only eleven-something at night and this city never sleeps. It's on the T-shirts and everything. But tonight, nothing. Has something happened? Are the Yanks in extras and everyone's glued to the TV? Is there some sort of emergency?

  Has Alphabe
t City been evacuated? What for? Hurricane? Chemical attack? Dirty bomb?

  Maybe I'm a little prone.

  Gnocco is an unassuming green restaurant on East Tenth. I hit the door and take three long steps to the counter. The cute girl with subtle acne scars behind the counter smiles at me. I think she's in love. I'll try not to break her heart.

  My eyes hurt. My mouth tastes like ash.

  “Take out?”

  "My name is Jonah and I ordered a pizza. With cheese."

  She turns to the takeout orders and grabs a box that can't possibly be for me. It's like a foot square. So very, very small. She sets it on the counter in front of me next to a two-liter bottle of Coke like I'm supposed to bow down this bountiful spread.

  Maybe the box is bigger on the inside. I open it. It's not. I wanted a pie the size of a hubcap; I got one a little bigger than a CD. Remember CDs? I liked CDs. I had the most well-stocked Case Logic in my whole fourth grade class.

  "I wanted a whole pizza," I say, more sad and hurt than angry.

  “This is a whole pizza. A good pizza.”

  “It's a tiny pizza.”

  “It’s a personal pizza.”

  “For a tiny person. How much for the large?”

  She says they don't have sizes. This is a pizza.

  "This is $18.55 worth?"

  “Actually we're covering you a little because you sounded like you might be retarded. It's really $19.29."

  "Good year," I crack.

  Bad joke. Way bad joke. Lame joke. Hack joke.

  Jesus, Moreno.

  Wrong joke. 1929? Not a good year. Bad year. Market crash and country thrown into horrible depression year. Terrible year.

  This is why I didn't get that call back on that cereal commercial. I'm not funny. Well, I can be funny, but I'm not joke funny. Definitely not cereal funny. Not talking toucan funny. I need to take some improv classes. Some Second City. I.O. U.C.B.—

  Wait. She's staring at me. Have I been lamenting my mediocre comedy skills out loud?

  No. I just haven't said anything in forty seconds, which is probably worse.