The Complete Four-Book Box Set

by Brian Spangler

  Isla could see farther into the blood vault than she ever had through the small window—and now she could smell it, too. It was sterile: utterly absent of all traces of… anything. Her heart beat hard, and she rushed to remove the vent cover, only to find that it was stuck. She gave the cover a firm shove, pushing on the backside of the louvers. They bowed, groaning against her hand. An anxious feeling came to her and she began to wonder if her travels through the ventilation had been for naught. What if the vent cover doesn’t come loose?

  Isla balled her fist, frustrated. She punched at one of the corners. Nothing. She punched the cover again and heard a spring clip popping free. Relieved, a smile crept onto her cheeks. With one corner loose, she wedged her fingers in, and wriggled them along the edge. The cover jarred open, but its metal edge had a sharp lip which assaulted her for her impropriety. At once, she reeled back, staring at the cut on her hand. Had she grown so tolerant of sharp things that she hadn’t even noticed?

  “How careless.” She let out a laugh that sounded tinny in the ventilation shaft.

  She studied the wounds: four slits spread across the meaty part of her fingers. One of the cuts was a deep gash, and had begun to bleed over, spattering onto the vent, a dull tick echoing with each drop. A sudden wave of nausea caught her breath, and she had to turn away. She huffed out the air in her lungs and began looking around, finding nothing to wrap her hand with. Shaking her head, she tore a piece of her coveralls, quickly tying off a tattered knot around the cut. Isla was quiet then, breathing more steadily. A cool sweat beaded above her lip, and across the back of her neck.

  Turning her attention back to the blood vault, she freed the vent cover and worked to bring it into the airshaft. Her makeshift bandage had become sopping wet, causing the cover to slip from her hand. It tumbled onto its corner, then landed with a heavy metal-on-metal clang. She cringed as the sound reverberated in the airshaft for anyone to hear. Isla froze in place, gripping the cover, feeling the vibration ride up into her hands.

  She listened, waiting to hear the approach of footsteps. She waited for an alarm to scream out, or maybe the holler of voices. But there was only silence, and the subtle push of air coming through the vent. The gentle flow washed over her, cooling the nervous sweat. Closing her eyes, she listened to the hum and whir of motors driving the mechanical arms. When she was ready, Isla stretched her arms through the opening, and then carefully pulled her middle and legs through.

  Blood oozed around the makeshift bandage, and her thoughts went to the first-aid box hanging on the wall in her lab. She turned toward the blood vault door, seeing it for the first time from the inside. The bleeding continued, but had slowed some.

  The cut’s not going to stay closed, she conceded. She was disappointed. Her trip to the blood vault was going to have to be cut short.

  Another whoosh of air circled around her as a suspended mechanical arm rode by on a narrow track in the ceiling. The arm turned on its knobby elbows, picked up a vial and then placed it back down. Isla tilted her head, impressed. She turned again, growing curious, and approached the shelves that she’d been staring at for months.

  These are filled with blood, she told herself as she nudged one of the vials. The crimson liquid in the vial shimmered from her touch, and then settled.

  But there was more: each vial was marked. She thought of the green and black terminal next to her desk, and the phosphor glyphs displaying the lab’s inventory. Everything—every material she’d ever used in the lab—was listed. Could she use the terminal to decipher the numbers on the vial?

  Isla turned the vial and found a name. It was just the first initial, though, followed by a last name. But it was a clue. This vial belonged to M. Stephens. Below the name, she found a staggered set of lines, stretching across the label. She shook her head, unable to understand the bottom part of the label. Nothing in her lab resembled these symbols—she knew just numbers and names, like sodium and peroxide and sulfates.

  Isla picked up the vial, wanting to see more. She needed to study it—to learn. The glass was colder than she’d expected. The blood was dark and seemed less alive somehow, looking nothing like the fresh blood seeping through her bandage.

  “It’s the base,” she mumbled, and then looked to the vial’s rack. “The base of the rack keeps the blood cold, preserving it.” A rush of air lifted her hair, startling her, and, without even needing to turn, Isla knew that one of the mechanical arms had come to her side. Another rush of air came from behind her, along with a mechanical whistle of motors that grew loud, and then quieted to a purr, waiting.

  Isla didn’t know what to do. Her heart was racing again, and her skin grew clammy. The mechanical arms were waiting for her. But waiting for what? She turned towards the ventilation shaft, only to be blocked by one of the arms. If they wanted her to leave, then why wouldn’t they let her go? She let out a small gasp when seeing that the walls and ceiling were bare. No lights to watch her.

  A true silence, she thought and wondered if there were more rooms like this one.

  The mechanical arms continued to surround her, swinging from her side, to her front, and then back again. They moved close enough for her to smell their greasy lubricants and hear chunky metal gears spinning. Isla jumped again, letting out a shallow yelp, when one of the arms swung in front of her face. It extended its rubber tips, and then snapped its jaws closed. The jaw opened, and she could see a long syringe that was used to extract the blood from the vials.

  “Don’t you stab me with that!” she yelled. And as if it had heard her, the hand collapsed shut, slapping its rubber tips together—but then opened them again. Isla felt warm tears filling her eyes. She shook her head, trying to hold them back. A tear fell, dropping to her cheek, and she pleaded to be let go. The arms swung around her again, opening and snapping shut their rubber fingertips. She became certain that the last thing she’d see was the long needle piercing her eye.

  Then all at once, the mechanical hands began clapping, swaying up and down in a nightmarish dance. She shut her eyes, squeezing until her face hurt, afraid of what was coming.

  When something nudged her hand, she peered down. What she saw surprised her. The arm closest to her had moved to the vial that she was holding. When the fingers nudged her hand again, she understood. Images of the farming floor came to her mind then. Nolan loved eggs, and nothing was better than the freshest browns the farming floor had to offer. “Fresh from the hen’s bottom,” he’d say; but, on occasion, the hens didn’t agree. Reaching beneath their feathered hold, he’d pulled out one or two eggs, kissing them with a hungry smile. She’d always thought that kissing them was a bit gross. Most times, the hens didn’t care, but on occasion, there were the one or two that would fret and peck at Nolan’s hand, even jumping up to take chase.

  “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 he
ad 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.

  13

  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 of 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?<
br />
  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.