by Stephen King
Mary clicked on the TV. It was set to the Weather Channel, and she left it there. There was no judgement in the weather, nothing she could improve or control. She turned the volume up and the weatherman’s confident banter echoed loudly down the empty hallway to the laundry room where she went to wash the clothes. If she wasn’t going to eat or sleep, at least she could get some chores done.
If the baby needed something, the Gumi-Bear would come and tell her.
User Name: Mary Wheeler
Date: June 18th, 2019
Product name: Gumi-Bear
Consumer Feedback: The Gumi-Bear monitors the baby’s temperature, sleeping and eating habits and informs me when the diaper needs changing. The Gumi-Bear does not require any supervision or maintenance, so it doesn’t add to my workload. Makes it easier to complete chores as I don’t need to constantly check on the baby. I took a shower today without worrying about being unable to hear the baby crying.
Dan’s company wanted daily reports of her experiences with the Gumi-Bear. It seemed pointless to Mary. The bear’s behavior was consistent—she had chosen settings that suited her needs, and that’s pretty much what the bear did.
Should she have added to the report that while she stood, eyes closed, under the hot jets of the shower, water trickling into her ears with a tidal hiss, she had forgotten about the baby for just a moment, forgotten about Dan and his job and colic and fevers, SIDS and feeding schedules, her mind filling with nothing but the static of falling water. How when she’d opened her eyes and looked out through the steam-fogged glass, the Gumi-Bear had been standing in the bathroom doorway, glowing cozy-blanket pink, just standing there. Watching.
“Hey hun, how’re you holding up?” Dan’s voice came through the phone muffled and clipped. “Just running to another meeting. Looks like the fever’s going down?”
Both his and Mary’s phones received real-time data from the Gumi-Bear on the baby’s status, so Mary didn’t have to update her husband.
“I’m fine. Good. Got a lot done today.”
“You’re still sending out for groceries, though. Why don’t you get someone to stay with the little guy for a few hours and get out of the house?”
“Well, you know, Samantha doesn’t want the twins exposed to …”
“Not your sister. How about Bill’s wife? He told me she offered, but you said you had enough help. The bear doesn’t count, you know. It doesn’t allow you to get a proper break.” Dan dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “You sound so tired.”
“I’m fine. I’ll be better when you get home. When are you coming?”
“Shit. I’ve got to go. I’ll send you my updated calendar. Love you, hun.” The line disconnected before Mary could reply.
2:40 A.M. Mary sat in bed reading. The words kept slipping away, sucked back into the paper, sliding past comprehension. She turned the page. Blinked to focus her eyes against a gritty dryness, a dull ache that turned the lamp-light watery.
She looked up across the rumpled covers and saw the Gumi-Bear, standing in the doorway, its fiber-optic wiring bright as a lightning bolt in its clear-gel body.
Mary closed her book, the pages slid over one another with an insect-scraping. She crossed her arms over her chest, still the bear didn’t move. The monitor next to her bed flashed from the time to an update, the baby’s temperature was normal. When she looked back at the doorway, the bear was gone.
Then a movement at the foot of her bed. The covers gathered and stretched. First one transparent hand reached up onto the mattress, then the other. The Gumi-Bear’s head came into view as it climbed onto the bed, features flat, placid.
Mary’s heart thrummed, and she jerked reflexively when it placed a hand on her foot. She tensed, then relaxed as the bear slid its fingers over her toes and onto her ankle. Through the covers she could feel the strength of its grip.
Slowly the Gumi-Bear pulled the covers down, and the cool air stirred goose-bumps. Mary’s nipples tingled as they hardened. The bear’s face never turned from her gaze. Its hands resumed their firm grip on her legs as it slipped closer. Mary allowed her legs to separate, just enough for the bear to climb up between.
Smooth-as-glass fingers stroked and kneaded her thighs, slipped around to grip her hips, her buttocks, pulling at her flesh hard enough to spread her. She held her breath. The wet sound of her as she spread open the only sound in the room.
The bear lowered his face …
A warm pressure on her shoulder and Mary opened her eyes. The clock read 2:40 A.M.; the bear glowed pink in the dark near her bed. Mary rubbed her eyes.
“What is it?”
The bear signed ‘hungry’ and turned, his feet sponging softly across the floor.
Mary rolled over and sat up—cringed at the slippery-warmth between her legs. The Gumi-Bear stopped in the doorway to wait, glowing pink, pulsing for her.
The baby screamed from in the stroller. Its face siren-red, its fleece of hair pasted wet to its scalp. Lines of spittle barred its open mouth.
Mary put her hands over her ears, trying to mute the sound, trying to think. Her heart pounded, pounded, pounded under the press of her palms.
Hungry? Wet diaper? Another fever? The updates on her phone said no. She looked at the bear. He stood a few feet away, arms at his sides.
She imagined opening the front door and pushing the stroller out into the sunshine and birdsong with the baby bawling, fists in knots, eyes scrunched and leaking tears of rage. She couldn’t do it.
With a snap she unclipped the stroller’s seatbelt, lifted the rigid, sweat-slick body and carried it back to the nursery. A fog of milk-gone-sour smell emanated from the baby’s hot flesh. Gumi-Bear followed, climbed up into the crib, and she touched his smooth head before she left the room and closed them both in.
Numb, exhausted, Mary leaned on the door, the baby’s cries muffled now, grateful they’d moved to the suburbs where her neighbors wouldn’t be disturbed.
Finally the baby slept. Mary stood in the front yard, unable to remember why she’d gone out. The sky had clouded over a steely grey. A dog barked a few blocks away. Just one sharp bark, then silence. A delivery truck cruised slowly down the street, the driver, scanning the mailboxes, didn’t notice her.
She turned to look back at her house. The big bay window reflecting the darkened sky. Gumi-Bear stood, looking out at her, one hand flat against the glass. Mary smiled and went inside.
“Sorry I couldn’t call earlier.” Dan’s voice was low, a bit muffled. “We’re at a delicate stage with the buyers. Field-test data keeps coming in on the units, and they aren’t totally convinced by what they’re seeing. Trying to deal with their concerns.”
Mary pictured her husband sitting in the back of a conference room, hunched around his phone, hand cupped in front of his mouth so his voice could be heard only by her.
“It’s okay. Everything’s fine.”
“Are you going to go out? You should take him to the dog park, I miss little buddy’s silly grin when he spots a puppy. You’ve been getting plenty of sunshine out there for a nice walk.”
Mary wasn’t surprised the bear’s updates to Dan included the weather. He was a stickler for details.
“Yes. We went out a little while ago. But he stayed home.”
“You went out without the baby?”
“No, the bear. It stayed home.”
The ocean sound of Dan putting a palm over the phone, and muted voices spoke in a quick tempo.
The hand came away. “Hey, hun …”
“Oh, sorry, Dan. I hear the baby. I’d better go.”
Mary hung up.
On the floor in front of her, Gumi-Bear sat, looking up, his gaze neutral, unconcerned about her small deceptions, glowing a soft-pink that warmed her feet. She took a deep breath and settled back into the chair. Only the quiet. His eyes. The warm glow. The quiet.
The baby’s mouth opened as she offered the nipple of the bottle, jaw already chugging up and down as though dr
inking. She slipped the nipple in and looked up at the monitor. No sign of the fever. Gumi-Bear climbed into the crib next to the baby.
“You do it.” Mary took the bear’s hand and placed it on the bottle, his fingers tightened, holding her a moment, before she slipped her hand away. “I’m going to order some dinner.”
Mary left the door open, and went to the living room to turn off the weather report. She’d had it on with the volume muted, but the endlessly shifting picture created too much clutter. She sat in the dark and breathed slowly into the silence.
The bear’s schedule suggested a bath. Mary dismissed the prompt. When she changed the baby’s diapers she used wet-wipes. A good scrub with those would do for now. The baby squirmed at the cool cloth-on-flesh, but didn’t cry. All creamed and powdered, she set the baby back in the crib. The bear followed her into the kitchen.
Mary put some leftover Chinese in the microwave to heat. She pulled the plate of steaming chow mein out seconds before the timer ran down and the microwave beeped. Vinegar-sweetness curdled in her nostrils. At the table she sat and stared at the mass of glistening noodles, turned the fork prongs-up, prongs-down, then stared at her phone as it blinked with a message from Dan.
“Hope little buddy enjoys his bath. Give his chubby bottom a pinch for me.”
She’d turned off all the phone’s alert options. Every time the ringers and beeps pierced the quiet her heart raced. The bear would keep her posted on urgent matters. He waited beside her now, ready.
Mary stood, then looked at the bear.
“What was I going to do?” Her stomach churned, her skin flushed hot, as she searched her mind for the thing that had prompted her to stand.
The bear’s face remained calm.
“We’ll take a nap, too, I guess.”
The bear waited.
The baby was crying again. Mary lay in bed, in the dark, listening. The bear had been in her room. She should go to him.
Gumi-Bear sat in the crib, glowing white so she could see. He placed a hand on the baby’s head. The monitor updated: No fever. Dry diaper. No feeding.
The baby cried, fists waving, toes curling and spreading, head rocking side to side, filling the room, the house, with undulating wails.
Mary walked over to stand beside the crib. She looked down at the baby, then at the bear. His half-moulded features calmed her. Mary took a deep breath, the cool white of the bear’s filaments seemed to flicker with her exhale.
Still the baby cried.
She reached into the crib to arrange the blankets without taking her gaze from the bear. The crying continued. A hiccupping screech that made her skull ache, her skin stretched thin and vibrated with it.
She brought the nursing pillow over from the rocking chair and pushed it down. Held it down.
The crying stopped.
Silence.
The bear flickered white light. Then the light caught fire, turned swirling, pulsing red, washed the room in a crimson haze.
The bear stood in the corner of the nursery with its hands at its sides. Its body clear again, the wires inside extinguished.
Two paramedics strapped Mary to a stretcher with hard words and quick hands. They had already taken the baby away in a small bag.
“What do we do with that thing?” the one with the mustache nodded toward the Gumi-Bear.
“Back to the manufacturer, I’m guessing.” The one with the paper-white teeth kicked the brake on the stretcher and started pushing. “Husband works for the company. He’s on his way. That thing alerted him the moment it happened. Said to leave it here so he could see the full report.”
They rolled Mary from the room, and the Gumi-Bear disappeared from her sight. Her heart ached for it, despite the bitterness that soured her stomach. How long would he have to wait, alone? Outside the night air swept across her face, cooling her tear-stung cheeks.
THE FOURTH LAW
OR
THE CHILDREN’S
POUND
MARGE SIMON
Dear Mama,
I guess you know she left me. I haven’t felt up to writing about it. I hope you are feeling well and the allergies are under control.
Today I took the children to the pound. You know it was not an easy decision, but I am acting in their best interests in accord with the laws. I assure you it was necessary. I just don’t have time to raise them.
The pound provides comfortable cages for them and three meals a day. They will be given lots of chances for exercise. The domain behind the building is wide and there are trees and flowers to remind them of home.
Why isn’t there a Fourth Law, Mama? What about children? Shouldn’t it be against the Laws for a mother to leave her kids?
He crumpled the letter up and tossed it into the bin.
. . .
He had been sitting in the kitchen a long time. It should have been long enough. When the envelope from the Shelter came, he didn’t open it immediately, but sat watching two lines of sugar ants form a spiral around the teapot. A helix in flux.
And it all came back in a bright glare not of sunlight but of memory.
Her face behind a parted curtain. The smell of rose petals in a chipped bowl. Paella and fresh bread on the cedar table he’d made from scratch. The scent of their union.
And what came of it later. Her belly swollen and depleted twice. For each one, a decision too late now to regret.
The children were a novelty for her. She took full charge, enjoying the attention of her women friends. They came daily to fuss, bringing gifts and precious cocoa, even real teas from far away lands. He was left out of it. At first, he didn’t mind. His job took him away from home. Away from their bedroom. Weekends were spent there with her. He rarely had time alone with the children.
“I have to get out of here,” his wife said. You understand, don’t you? People I know, they want me back in the City Dominion. It was my life …” her voice trailed off. She fingered the button at the top of her blouse. “Will you keep the little ones?”
Seeing his face, she added, “There’s always the pound.”
He closed his eyes. “I’ll take care of it.” She smiled and lifted her hand to touch his face. He watched her leave and she was walking as if she were alone. So he’d done what a man is allowed to do when his mate leaves. It was not illegal, but certainly unusual to have offspring in these times, with the world population at total max and heavily rationed.
At the pound, he paid the processing fees and promised to return when times improved. But times would not improve. She was never coming back. That night, he got quietly and thoroughly drunk.
A middle aged couple strolled along the cages. The woman stopped, tapping the bars with her umbrella.
“These two are new. See there? One is looking our way. Smile at it. Toss it some of that candy you brought.”
The man whistled and clapped his hands. When the child didn’t respond, they moved to another cage.
A thin man seated himself at the desk. His body appeared youthful, but his face was pinched and lined with purple veins. He nodded while the clerk was speaking.
“They’ve all their shots. You’ll have to bring them back in five years for neutering. That’ll be an extra charge,” she licked her lips. “I presume you have read the terms of the contract? Yes? Then sign here.”
He took his time opening the post. It was a copy of the contract. Natural parents had no further claim. The children’s whereabouts and new identity would never be disclosed.
When she came back, it was an explosion. So much remorse for such a small woman. So many tears. Until finally, she stopped sobbing and asked where they were. He turned to the mirror in the hall, his fingertips on her reflection in the cold glass.
About The humans
Paul Michael Anderson (“The Universe is Dying”) is the author of the short-story collection Bones Are Made to Be Broken, out in the fall of 2016 by Written Backwards/Dark Regions Press. An editor, teacher, and sometime-journalist, he lives with
his wife and daughter in Northern Virginia, which is much quieter than he expected (or, sometimes, wanted). His most recent piece is “How I Became a Cryptid Straight Out of a 1980s Horror Movie” in Space & Time magazine.
Laura Lee Bahr (“The Cause”) is a multi-award winning writer, performer and director. She is the author of two novels, Haunt, and Long-form Religious Porn (Fungasm Press). Haunt is available on audiobook and recently was translated into Spanish under the title Fantasma by Orciny Press. Her debut feature as writer/ director, Boned, is distributed through Gravitas Ventures (available everywhere). A collection of her short stories, Angel Meat, will be published in 2017 by Fungasm Press.
Michael Bailey (Editor) is the multi-award-winning author of Palindrome Hannah, Phoenix Rose and Psychotropic Dragon (novels), Scales and Petals and Inkblots and Blood Spots (short story & poetry collections), and editor of Pellucid Lunacy, Qualia Nous (nominated for a Bram Stoker Award; winner of the Benjamin Franklin Award), The Library of the Dead (winner of the Bram Stoker Award), You Human, and the Chiral Mad anthologies. He is also the founder of Written Backwards.
Hal Bodner (“Keepsakes”) is a Bram Stoker Award nominated author whose freshman vampire novel, Bite Club, made him one of the top-selling GLBT authors in the country. The royalties continue to keep him in “cigarettes and nylons”―even though he quit smoking and never did drag. He also wrote several paranormal romances, most notably In Flesh and Stone. His upcoming thrillers paint classic “noir” with a lavender glaze. Hal is married to a wonderful man, half his age, who never knew that Liza Minnelli was Judy Garland’s daughter.