The Complete Four-Book Box Set

by Brian Spangler

  Her suspicions blazed. The letters were staggered to keep the obvious from being seen. She’d cautiously sent herself a message from a hundred years ago.

  “R-E-A-N-I-M-A-T-E,” she spelled aloud. Her focus turned to the large steel door, standing alone at the back of the lab. She looked at the portal window—a lonely eye, blinking at her as one of the mechanical arms swung by.

  “I have to go in there,” she said, her tone flat and exacting. “I have to go in there, and look at the blood vials.” Then her heart fell to the deepest pit in her stomach, as she wondered if she’d had these same revelations before. Maybe a hundred times she’d asked the same questions. And then she wondered whether she’d already been inside the blood vault. Had she already found the answers?

  9

  “How can this be?” Declan asked, and then immediately clanked his spoon against the bowl, digging for another mouthful. “And what is this?” He lifted his head, grinning, eager to hear the name. Sammi’s heart warmed as she watched Declan devour what she’d given him. She wanted to please him, to give him everything she could. This was their home, and this last month had been like a dream: making love, playing games, and eating all the deliciousness the food dispenser could conjure up for them.

  But she could sense that Declan was growing anxious, becoming more curious every day. He wanted to know more about this magical place. He had questions she couldn’t answer. A sour feeling came to her then, and it wasn’t something that she could easily fix. She liked where they were, and didn’t want to change what they had.

  Why does he want to know? she wondered, and then pushed the question out of her head, returning her attention to the far more important task at hand: eating dessert.

  “It’s called ice cream, and it’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  Declan kept his eyes on hers, and nodded, agreeing. She loved his eyes. But it was different now, wasn’t it?

  We’re bonded. Things are supposed to be different. While Declan had questions, Sammi was content. And this place isn’t so different from the dwelling we would have had at the Commune, is it? She shrugged, and thought of the rule that had been lifted. In fact, to the best of her knowledge, it never existed here at all. Unlike in their Commune, here there was no limit to how long they could try to have a family. And then she wondered when she’d last seen a baby, or even a toddler or a child? Sammi stole a quick glimpse at the lights above the door, but there were no answers waiting for her. The only thing she saw was that it’d be time to go soon; she could feel it.

  “What’s this one called?” Declan asked. His words sounded garbled as he swished the ice cream in his mouth. When a chunk of the sweetness fell to his chin, he began to laugh, his expression turning playful.

  “What you have is called Rocky Road, and what I have is called Mint Chocolate Chip,” she answered, and then kissed his chin, tasting the chocolaty remains.

  She leaned up to his ear, and whispered to him. “Maybe later we can share more than the ice cream?”

  Declan slumped back, his lips thinned, replacing his smile. “Are you going to work again?” he asked, but then continued, “When can I leave? And when can I see my family again?” Sammi could feel the edginess, impatience coming off of him like the cold of the ice cream. She set their bowls down and took his face between her hands, shaking her head.

  “I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.” She cautiously looked to the lights, but they had nothing to say.

  Why can’t he hear them like I do? Why doesn’t he know what to do? She stared, looking for an answer. How many times had he looked? Dozens, and still nothing. She snapped her head back, frustrated by the silence. She glared into his eyes, and saw him retreat. Dropping her hands, she fidgeted with her fingers. Embarrassment rose; she could feel the heat creep up inside her coveralls.

  “Declan, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be frustrated,” she said. He nodded. She glimpsed the lights, which flickered in a sequence that she already knew: it was time to work. “I don’t know why you’re not being told what to do, like I am. It’s simple, and the work is simple, and…”

  She stopped when he raised his hand. He watched the sequence of lights, and turned back to her.

  “I know, Sammi. I just need to know more, and I need to see my family,” he said, and then motioned to the lights, adding, “You better get going… I know you can’t be late.”

  Sammi’s heart leaped into her throat. He’d read the lights; he’d heard them like she had. Eyes wide, she turned with a smile toward him. But as quick as the elation came, it was gone. Declan shook his head.

  “I still can’t hear them, Sammi. Sorry. But I can recognize some of the sequences. Time for you to go, right?” he asked. She collapsed into his arms, offering no warning, and kissed him hard.

  “I can only guess how tired you must be of this room. I just know it will work out. I don’t know how, but it will. Okay?” Declan pulled his head back until their eyes settled on one another.

  “Sammi, all I want is you. I’m sorry if I’ve become impatient.”

  “But waiting has been fun, right?” she asked, and then brushed her tongue against his in a quick, but gentle kiss. He nodded, laughing.

  As she approached the door, Sammi remembered that she had gotten him a gift. It was perfect for their one-month anniversary, celebrating their bond. She ran to the empty wall and pressed her palm firmly until it clicked. From the center emerged a table and chair, not so unlike their desks from their classroom. Declan’s expression told her that he was intrigued.

  “You mean we’ve had that in the wall the whole time?” he asked, and then raised his brow as she hurriedly nodded.

  “But wait, there’s more. What good is a desk and chair without something to do?” she asked him. Racing to the end of the bed, she reached underneath and pulled out a bag. Sammi pulled out a stack of parchment. The corners were precise and the edges were clean. She watched Declan’s smile draw downward, and for a moment she hesitated. But what she saw wasn’t sadness or anger: it was wonderment. She realized that he’d never seen the likes of this parchment.

  “It’s called paper,” she blurted. “It’s the same as our parchment from the Commune, but better. It isn’t soft or gray. And best of all, there’s more of it than you’ll ever be able to use.”

  By the time she’d finished, he was already at the desk, running his fingers along the edge. He picked up a single sheet, bringing it to his nose, inhaling the scent with a smile.

  “Sammi,” he began, but his words were choked. He cleared his throat, and then placed his hand on hers. “When you died, I participated in your cleaning and passing. In my pocket, I had the piece of writing stone you’d given me. Do you remember that?”

  Nodding her head, she pulled his hands together and pressed them to her heart. “I remember that.”

  “When you were cleaned and ready for passing, I made a promise that I’d never write again.”

  Sammi flinched. Anger came to her, and she squeezed his hands together, shaking her head. “Declan, you don’t get to keep that promise. I’m here, and I’m alive, and…” she started, but then lost her words in the guilt of his decision. “You don’t get to keep that promise! Okay?”

  “I know,” he answered with understanding in his eyes and confirmation in his smile. “I’m trying to tell you that I’m going to write. I’m trying to tell you… thank you.”

  Sammi slapped his chest, and then moved back to the bag to give him more gifts. “No more writing stones. These are called pens and pencils. No more writing stones. The pencils are the ones that look like wood, and have a kind of writing stone inside them. And these are called index cards. You can write notes on them, instead of using the paper… to help you organize things.”

  Sammi felt the snap of Declan’s hand closing on the index cards, pulling them from her grip. Shocked, she looked at him as he turned the cards over in his hands.

  “Well, you’re welcome,” she said timidly. “I hope you get some writing don
e today.”

  As she prepared to leave, she felt his touch on her arm. He’d placed the index cards on the desk, and pulled her closer to him.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just… I’m excited. Thank you again, for thinking of me, and for getting these for me.”

  “I love you, Declan,” she answered, kissing him before turning to leave.

  “Sammi?”

  He was back at the desk, looking down at what she’d brought. When he turned to her, he asked, “Where are my coveralls? The ones from home?” His question stung her. But it wasn’t the question that stung—it was that he still considered their Commune as home. She wanted to correct him. To tell him that this was their home now.

  “Why would you want them?” she mocked, and spun around to show off her clean, white coveralls. “Why would you ever want those, instead of these?”

  “It’s the writing stone,” he answered, his words were hurried and direct. “The one you gave me that morning, on the day… well, you know. I’d like to write with it a little, before I try to use one of the things you got for me.”

  Above her, the lights on the wall played out the sequence from earlier, repeating the instructions for her to go. Sammi’s breath became short; the urge to listen and to leave became stronger.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go to work,” she said, hearing the shakiness in her voice. “I know this must seem silly, but we’re never late.” Pointing to the bed, she motioned to the drawers where their coveralls were stored. “Check in there, okay?” The lights played back faster. Sammi’s heart raced, as though trying to match the sequence. Her reaction felt forced, artificial, and a strange sense came over her: fear.

  ******

  Declan said nothing as he watched Sammi stammer in front of the door, pointing to the drawers under their bed. She spun around once, nodded to the lights, and then did a quick spin back and waved her hand. When she was ready, she paused once more in front of the door where bands of lights grew from gray to white, rapidly flashing twice before the door opened. A rush of air flowed in as Sammi left, washing over his face just as the sounds of activity gripped his ears. Footsteps were the first thing he thought of. Not laughing, or talking—just footsteps.

  Declan stretched his neck as far as he could, trying to see down the corridor while the door remained open. The steady sound of marching feet came from the rows of people walking past. None seemed interested in looking at him; instead, they kept their heads straight, firm, and their eyes glued to the lights on the walls. And like so many times before, what he saw left him feeling unsettled and wary.

  When the door closed, so too did his concern. Maybe it was just paranoia—that is what he wanted to think, anyway.

  Well, that’s going to change, he decided while searching the drawers for his coveralls. Near the bottom, beneath the iridescent whites, he found his old clothes. They stood out against the others; a blemish next to clothes so clean. Was that all he was? Was that all that their Commune was: a blemish? He couldn’t help but compare this place—this seemingly perfect society—to his home.

  Searching through his coveralls, he found Sammi’s writing stone. With it he found her lock of hair. A twinge of guilt pressed him for having left it packed away in a drawer. On the day of her cleaning and passing, he’d promised to forever hold onto Sammi’s lock of hair. Without thinking, he now kissed it, held it tightly in his hand. It was only sentimental, but he somehow felt a little more whole.

  When he reached the last pocket of his old coveralls, he could see the square outline of what he’d really been looking for. Carefully, he pulled from the pocket the odd parchment his mother had brought from the executive floor. Laying it aside, he tidied the drawer, and then went to compare his mother’s card to the index cards from Sammi.

  They were flat and smooth, with blue lines crested by a red one, with sharp corners and crisp edges. Declan inspected everything he could think of. His mother’s strange parchment was, as Sammi had called it, an “index card.” But his mother’s had numbers, and he was certain that they were meant for the VAC Machine. Images of the executive floor came into his mind, and he saw the burly executive guards pushing around his father as they looked for his mother’s satchel. They had wanted the index card, the numbers. But how had it gotten there?

  This last question slowed Declan. There was more to it; the story was bigger. He clenched his jaw, anxious about the path his mind was taking. How could the executive floor have index cards? But he already knew the answer. The executives must have been working with the VAC Machines. His mother’s face came to him, and he closed his eyes, trying to justify the betrayal that had begun to seed in his young mind. He shook his head; soon the seed would grow, branching to other floors in the Commune. How many knew of this place? He told himself that his mother must’ve had her reasons to keep the information hidden; he was sure of it.

  His mother’s index card had five rows numbers; there were five VAC Machines. Frustration led to even more question. What were these clues in front of him, and all around him?

  Turning to the door and the lights, he waited for what seemed an eternity, staring at them, letting them see him.

  “Tell me something,” he demanded, but they remained dark, reflecting his image as a collection of small, warped figurines. He waved his hands at the glassy orbs, expecting to see a shimmer of light, anything, but they remained dark. Uninterested.

  Those lights are eyes… and ears, he thought. Pulling his arms around his middle, he glanced to the bed and then back. This place knew everything; it saw everything.

  “Well, you’re not in my head,” he yelled, stabbing a finger toward the dark orbs. But what of Sammi, and his mother and sister? What hold did this place have on them?

  Declan pulled the index card up from the desk, slapping it across his hand. He decided that he would take it to his mother. After all, she would know what the numbers meant.

  They’d all know about the city underneath the VAC Machine, wouldn’t they?

  Pushing the stack of unused index cards away, Declan looked over the collection of pens and pencils and the tall stack of parchment. He picked up the writing stone that Sammi had given him, and touched her lock of hair.

  Who was he to challenge what they had now? His thoughts heavy, he lowered his head and considered what he was about to do. On the desk was everything he’d ever need and want as a writer. He could write all day, every day. He could write the way he wanted to write. He felt a small pang of remorse in his gut when considering the thousands of words lost to the Commune’s waste recycler. In this place, though, he didn’t have to clean his parchment at the end of the day and wash away his words. He could write the way he wanted, leaving the pages as they were meant to be.

  Declan pushed the air out of his chest, he could write, but he’d never be free of the questions that he’d come here with. The questions were his burden: shackling reminders of why he was here. He needed answers. Resigning, he buried his mother’s index card in his pocket and went to the door. He was going to find her, and with her help, they were going to find out the meaning of the numbers, and why the End of Gray Skies had failed.

  Standing at the room’s entrance, same as he’d done so many times already, Declan waited for the illuminations to grow white around the door. But the door stayed closed, with no lighting, no animation. Shifting his feet, he shuffled a few hands to the left, and then forward and back. The glassy orbs reflected his awkward dance steps. The door stayed closed. And like before, he tried to remember if Sammi had touched anything, waved her hand anywhere, anything that would activate the door. He pushed his hands flat against the seams around the door, feeling for an opening, or maybe some kind of handle, but there was nothing. The door was flush with the wall, and, if not for having seen Sammi come and go, he would never even have known that there was a door there at all.

  His patience was fading. Becoming upset, he poked his fingers at the lights, thinking that, if they were indeed watch
ing, he didn’t want them to find any amusement.

  “I’m locked in,” he exclaimed, and then quickly sensed a feeling of being trapped.

  Not yet, he thought.

  Declan searched the room, looking for anything that he could use. Had Sammi had anything? Questions and images bound together in his mind, confusing him. He stopped for a moment, and wondered if this was how the cats trapped by Harold and his gang must have felt.

  Moving back to his desk, he considered breaking one of the table legs and using it to pry the door open. When he saw Sammi’s lock of hair siting on the table, he stopped. Again he’d forgotten it. Shaking his head, he picked it up, squeezing it.

  Sammi, he thought.

  “It can’t be that, can it?” he asked, turning to peek at the lights like he’d been cheating. He waited to see if he’d been caught, and then laughed at his emerging phobia.

  “Maybe it is that simple,” he answered. Declan stepped to the door and waved his hand, gripping Sammi’s lock of hair. At once, the door’s edges glowed until the light became hot white, flashed twice; and then the door opened.

  Startled, Declan stepped back, and his eyes widened. He waited for a moment to see if anything would happen, but nothing came. There were no bells, no alarms; no executive guards came running toward him. From his hand, he revealed Sammi’s lock of hair, and then smiled and pushed it into his pocket.

  Should have been there all along, anyway.

  Leaning toward the opening, Declan drew in a deep breath from the corridor, smelling strange scents and hearing odd sounds. Men and women walked right by him, staring aimlessly, without so much as a glance in his direction. He expected a subtle wave from someone, or maybe a quick nod, but he was met with nothing at all. He’d nod back, if it would help him, but the need wasn’t there. After all, how far could Sammi’s lock of hair get him? Could it open all the doors? Making friends could be useful. But the people in the corridor simply looked past him as though he didn’t exist.