Enter the Rebirth (Enter the... Book 3)

by Thomas Gondolfi

  “Do you want to say anything? Leave any words for others who may have known her?” the computer asked. It asked the same question after each of her friends had passed. Not for Teddy though; this question wasn’t set up then. Selma thought about his funeral briefly and wished he had died later, not just for the time they would have had together but because his body would be closer. She hadn’t traveled outside the neighborhood in years; there was no reason to.

  “No,” she said. Everyone who knew Rose was dead, save her.

  “Thank you for taking the time to do this,” the computer chimed. “We know that it’s hard for you and appreciate you doing this in your time of mourning. Please take care of yourself.”

  Selma nodded and reached forward, tapping the screen to close it out. Sighing, she sat back, sipping on her soda.

  “I should have taken in a dog,” she said. They used to wander the neighborhood, friendly mutts that had once had homes. There were no puppies; people were very good about spaying and neutering their animals after the “Problem,” another phrase from Teddy to describe the lack of children. There was more money for that sort of thing. After a few years the animals started to die and attract vermin. Selma wasn’t sure who notified the machines but one day they were all gone. The System had taken care of them. The way the System took care of her. She hadn’t thought about it then but now, alone without Rose she wished she had taken one in. “Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered,” she mumbled at the screen. “It would probably be dead now too.”

  She finished the soda and walked the bottle to the bin. She paused to look out the back window. No grass, just hot white pavement, glaring under the late morning sun. “What a way to start my day,” she mumbled to herself, stroking her hair. She paused and frowned at the pure white rope of hair in her thin hand. “It’s been a while since I brushed this,” she said to the empty room, turning to walk back through the house. Past the unused dining and living rooms to her bedroom.

  She sat in front of her mirror and slowly unwound the braid. She squinted at her reflection. Her deep brown eyes were outlined with wrinkles but her skin was dark and smooth, despite her years. Still, the darker spots showed her age—old. Eighty-six, she thought, eighty-seven? I’ll have to check.

  She ran her hand through the freed hair, undoing the minor knots and tangles gently, half marveling at the length of it for a moment before picking up the brush. As she lowered it, the doorbell rang.

  She paused, a slight tremble running through her body. The sound was almost foreign to her ears after so many years, but it was unmistakable. Someone was ringing her doorbell.

  Placing the brush back in its spot, she stood slowly. The shiver ran through her again as her mind raced, trying to place just who could be at her door in her empty neighborhood. The delivery? No, they aren’t due until tomorrow, and besides, they don’t ring the bell! Her legs moved as if the carpet under her feet was mud, sucking and stalling her steps. For every step, the door looked as if it had moved a step away.

  Finally, her hand clasped the knob and turned it, opening the door slowly.

  She gasped at the pleasant man who was waiting. He wore a soft, friendly smile. His eyes were a light brown and his features hard to place as any one ethnicity. That he might be attractive to a younger Selma was only a passing thought because the man before her was young. An age no one had seen, least of all Selma, in three decades or more.

  He blinked slowly and broke the illusion. Oh, she thought, he’s not human after all. The small movement, just a little too perfect, betrayed him. Selma let out a breath that she didn’t realize she had been holding and again examined the “man.” The machines constructed him to look young, but too perfect. He lacked all the small lines that life, even a young life, would have given him.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  His expression didn’t change as he opened his mouth. “Hello, Selma Martin. Can I just say that it is such an honor to meet you?”

  His voice was pleasing in the way the computer’s voice was pleasing. The perfect tone to relax those he interacted with, just as he had been programmed.

  “Thank you,” she said slowly, looking past him at the sleek car that waited down the walk behind him. The motor hummed softly. If this had been the world of forty or even thirty years ago, she wouldn’t have heard it above the sounds of humanity. In the empty street the sound traveled easily to Selma’s ears. “I suppose,” she said, her eyes pulling back to the figure in front of her before repeating her question: “Can I help you?”

  The man smiled a bit wider. “Well, no, Mrs. Martin, I have something for you.”

  She frowned. “Why didn’t the drones bring it?”

  The man who was not really a man tilted his head, his system conferring with whatever grand computer controlled him. Were the robots always this realistic, she wondered, or has it just been so long since I’ve seen anything as young as this?

  “Forgive me for my rudeness. I haven’t explained; this is not a normal supply drop. Can we sit down?”

  Selma frowned deeper before nodding and inching the door open to invite him in.

  “I’m sorry about my hair, I was just about to brush it, and then the bell,” she stammered. She hastily stroked her hair down, her body moving by itself, clinging to old habits to calm herself.

  She paused at the entrance between the living room and dining room. “Oh,” she said, turning slowly, “I suppose we should sit in here.”

  The robot smiled softly. In one of his hands, she noticed, he held an envelope. “Anywhere you would be comfortable is fine.”

  She nodded and continued on into the kitchen. “I usually take my guests in here,” she explained. “Not that I’ve had very many guests recently, but if I did I would probably meet them in here.” Her words felt awkward. Part of her realized there was no reason to explain, not to a robot, but he was there, he was someone, almost, and she was no longer used to that.

  She slipped into her seat at the table and looked up expectantly.

  “May I sit?” he asked politely.

  She nodded and motioned to the empty seat, Teddy’s seat. The robot slid into the space that would have held her husband if he were still alive. It had sometimes held Rose when she came over but was always Teddy’s seat.

  He laid the envelope on the table. The paper was old, yellowed, and looked as if it would turn to dust as soon as she touched it.

  “I’ve been tasked to give this to you,” he said.

  “What is it?” she asked, eying the packet. “Some old letter that got lost in the mail? I probably already got an email about it years ago, that’s how people communicated back before, but you know, it’s been a while since I got one of those too. You didn’t have to bring this here.”

  The robot shook his head. “No, it is not a letter that was lost. I have been instructed to let you read its contents. Please open it.”

  His knees touched hers under the table. She frowned as she reached forward and gently lifted the aged letter, turning it over. She slipped her finger under the closure; the glue gave instantly, having been sealed so long ago that it no longer truly stuck.

  She pulled out the single sheet of heavy, rich paper. The ink stood out black against the yellowing page.

  Dear Survivor,

  You are the last living person that the System is aware of. As you know, there have been no viable births since the year 2022. Although we do not know who you are, there is a strong chance that you were one of the last peoples safely born. However, it may be that you are old enough to remember that terrible time when all the infants died.

  Though we survived the violence of the time that came after that dark period, and although we created the System to ensure that whoever was left would be taken care of, these have all been for naught. There is nothing left of us, save you, final human.

  The Android will stay with you and the System will begin to shut down. Your needs will be met by the Android and when you pass, it will all be shut down.r />
  We wish you well, as the last of us. May your passing be peaceful.

  —The Council

  She turned to the robot, Android, unsure of what to say. “Is this,” she finally stuttered, finding her voice, “is this true? That I’m the last person?”

  “Yes. Our sensors show no more human life in any sector of the planet. Save for yourself, of course.”

  She placed the letter back on the table and stood silently for a moment. “Can you hold my hand?” she asked softly.

  The Android clasped her fingers in his. His face held the same soft smile, as he had been programmed.

  “Aren’t you afraid of being shut down?” she asked.

  “We are all very tired,” he said slowly, his smile frozen on his face. In that moment he looked more human than he had before. She nodded. There were still hours of daylight left but it hardly mattered. Twilight was coming and soon after, full night. Selma let her wrinkled hands be held in his artificial ones and waited.

  Tradition

  James S. Austin

  Editor: What each person deems of value differs. Random people

  can sometimes become closer than family.

  “My grandfather was a barber. His grandfather was also a barber. So naturally, I’m a barber. Now you might ask, ‘How does this matter to my story?’

  It doesn’t. Other than to demonstrate tradition can be stronger than nature. Well, sometimes . . .”

  My audience of one sat back in the leaning chair with his head suspended. I continued combing out his hair in the makeshift basin, begging the Lord that he didn’t have lice. I shaved myself bald for a month straight the last time. And these railroad transients took much less care of their grooming than most.

  “You see, I continued the family business as a way to remember our past. I’m good like that. In fact, I am the only barber for miles around. Ever since the moon cracked from that goddamn meteor years back, civility only persists with the efforts we make. Civility, keep that key word, my friend. Carry it in your pocket so you can look back and understand.”

  The man’s eyes blinked as water ran over his forehead. I could see a little fear as he looked upward, foam ringing his scalp as I lathered and combed. Such a mangled mess. I could imagine he did find water troubling with the earthy stink coming off him, still able to penetrate the purposely aromatic shop.

  “What brings you here? Not just for a good cut and shave?”

  The man’s blue eyes looked at mine, he had the stare, the one you get from being on the outside too long.

  “I got some coin. Worked for it at The Farms.”

  “Lovely place. Heard it smells awful, though. Nothing worse than using our plentiful turds to fertilize the plants. You do know they transport our crap over to New Queens, right?”

  He only grunted slightly. I knew I was funnier than that.

  “So, ah, didn’t catch your name . . .?”

  “Muh, Harold.” He scooted back and forth in the lumpy seat, trying to get comfortable. Not my fault. Times are hard.

  “Yeah, Harold. The Farms must be tough work. On a break, I imagine? Take the subway tunnels on over?” The grime on his face and unbearable stench said enough. I should be used to this smell, though.

  “Tough place, for sure.”

  “A holiday! Everyone needs one of those. I heard people go blind if they’re down there too long. Not like the surface farms described in books, I reckon. It’s those growing lights, right?”

  The bell rang as a man stepped through the front door to the barber shop. It was Reggie, a Brokelyn peacekeeper. He walked in and headed towards one of the open chairs at the front. I could feel Harold tense up.

  I greeted him with a knowing smile. “Sara, you have a guest.”

  Sara popped her head out of the beaded doorway at the rear, checking on who walked in.

  “Hey, darlin’.” She stepped through, causing a gentle clatter.

  Reggie smiled at her as he clapped his hands together. “Hey, baby. Just stopping by. The day’s been quiet except for Tony. Had to pull him off a tweeker. Always wanting to punch something.”

  “I can relate,” I said, interrupting their moment.

  “Jimmy, you always talk the game.” Reggie shook his head, his accent thicker than the most native Brokelyners.

  “Reggie, don’t mind him. He be a harmless little man.” She walked over and started massaging his shoulders, whispering down into his ear.

  I tugged on the comb, trying to work through a knot. “Tony’s just venting after being kicked off the street-ball team. Them boys are always wanting to hit something.”

  “He broke the man’s nose. Blood everywhere. Can’t have that, Jimmy, even if the scrub is strung out and askin’ for it,” Reggie defended.

  “Darlin’, you wanna grab somethin’ to eat?” She looked at me seeing if I would disapprove of her leaving early.

  I just kept working the comb, and gave her a smile and a wink.

  “Sure.” He stood up and grabbed her hand, pulling her out to the door to the florescent filled under-street.

  In our newfound quiet, I looked at Harold, who watched the door close.

  “They are a perfect match, I tell you.”

  He only grunted a soft sound in acknowledgement.

  “She lived in some town in South Carolina until it was overran by marauders, as she tells it. Think she now feels safe having a peacekeeper sleeping beside her. She lost friends and family to them. She doesn’t talk much about it. I probably wouldn’t, either.”

  I grabbed the water urn and rinsed the remaining homemade shampoo from his hair.

  He closed his eyes, again attempting to protect himself from overwash. I’m more practiced than he gives me credit for.

  “You smell that?” I watched as the running water filled the basin, attempting to clean much of the grime out of his long, unkempt hair. “Lilac. I make this shampoo myself. A family trade secret. The good stuff. But I won’t divulge where I get my lilac.” I chuckled. He just sat there. “We all have secrets. Things we don’t want to talk about, or for people to hear. I get it.”

  I twisted his long hair, pulling a towel off the nearby table to stop any drippage.

  “Okay, Harold, take a seat over there.”

  He climbed out of the backward-leaning chair and limped over.

  I cleaned my hands in a fresh basin and quickly dried off.

  “So, why come here, to Brokelyn? Family? Friends?”

  Harold looked at me as I crossed the room to make my way to the counter behind him. “Just passing through.”

  I grabbed a comb and a pair of scissors. Snapped them twice to test the edge quality. Eh, good enough.

  “My family is from here. New York. From when it was New York, and Brokelyn was Brooklyn.” I combed through the wet locks, pulling sections loose, clipping the ends down. “Not much left now. Most underground, like The Farms. Being the only barber brings almost everyone through that door sometime, sooner or later. They may not all come back but everyone appreciates a good cut once in their life.”

  I worked my way around the chair, talking about what once was. Leaning in, on his left leg, slightly pushing in. He grunted in pain, slightly twisting his face.

  “Oh, sorry about that.” A brief glimpse of anger flashed in his eyes. But he just grunted and shifted over.

  “Bad leg, huh?”

  “Yeah, sure . . .” Harold just looked ahead as I clipped away.

  “Everything seems a little broken these days. Life is all about hardship. Would you not agree?”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “Right? I like to avoid all that mess. That’s why I am here. Being a barber makes people right. Makes them feel more human than beast. Everyone wants to escape from being beastly. That’s my contribution. Most of the time . . .”

  I cranked the lower lever to drop the seat back in increments. Measured out the position and tilted the headrest back.

  “Just relax. Let’s take care of that nasty
growth on your face.” I smiled, hoping for some response. Again, funnier than Harold seemed to understand. I clipped away the length, leaving only short strands.

  Turning back around, I pulled out a jar from the cabinet. “This is my special blend.” I held up an unlabeled jar over his head, in front of his face, so he could get a good view. “Something in the family business.” I twisted off the top and grabbed a shave brush. With a twirl, I picked up some of the cream and began working it across Harold’s chin and neck.

  “This stuff is amazing. You can’t help but relax. Just let it set and you will understand.” I ran my hand through his hair, taking notice of my tidy work. Grandpa would be proud.

  “You know, I do enjoy my job. There is a satisfaction that comes from doing good work. You will soon see. While it’s doing its work, I’m going to make me some tea.”

  I walked over and turned on a small burner on the back table. Then placed a small porcelain pot on to start heating up some water. Flicking through my small stash of tea bags I kept in a small cigar box, I picked an orange peel flavor. Every time I used one of these, I would wonder what a real orange must have tasted like. Once everything was started, I went to the front door, checked out the curtained window, and slid the bolt closed.

  “Tea is such a wonderful thing. Soothes the storming soul, when needed. There are times when work does seem to get messy. You see, I’ve had a very colorful upbringing. Being a barber is just one of my many talents.” I smiled as I returned to Harold’s side.

  “You see, my grandmother was also a very clever woman. Oh . . . I was raised by my grandparents. My mother died from some fever and my father, well, he was plenty absent. Never met the man.

  “Anyways. My grandmother was a lady of action. She took care of things. Of people. I always loved her for that, but also wondered why she wasted so much time and energy. But, I grew to appreciate what she did for our small community. We are small, but tight. The tunnels see to that.