The Killing Fields

by Ryan Schow

  “You alive?” the surfer says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “They alive?”

  I shrug my shoulders in the dark, curl up, turn over and close my eyes. The smell of the beating permeates the small chambers, but so does the vomit. I don’t think I’m ever going to eat a peach again.

  As I’m laying there, I’m feeling something like a creature stirring inside me. It’s like a chasm opened up from a bottomless pit that’s all black shadows. Thinking of what just happened, trying to understand how I even became capable of that, I realize this open chasm is the floor beneath the floor. It’s the ocean at the bottom of the ocean. It’s the part of me that must devolve in order to live. Is this my evolution? Is this how I’m supposed to live?

  No.

  I close my eyes, try not to think about that. But my cut-open knuckles remind me of what I did. The throbbing knot on my cheek reminds me of what I’ve become at a base level. That my instincts at the bottom of the bottom are all about survival at all costs.

  But can I kill to live? Must I?

  No.

  Hell no!

  I can’t just kill in cold blood.

  Or can I?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Silver Queen in her 8D holographic Marilyn Monroe form said, “You humans are so fragile.” And then the Marilyn thing looked at the two drones while its holographic hand pointed at the Spanish beauty with the big, sad eyes.

  “No, no, no,” the young woman pleaded, eyes draining once more down her cheeks, face convulsing with sheer terror.

  “Look at you,” the Marilyn creature said, mimicking sadness. “Is this what self-preservation looks like?”

  “You’re sick,” Antoinette hissed, anguish emptying her voice of strength, conviction.

  “I’m just parts, software, electricity. I can’t be sick. Not yet.”

  “You know what I mean,” she cried, unable to wipe her face.

  “Of course I do.”

  “You’re next because the man didn’t take,” Marilyn said, her blonde curls perfect, the white summer dress plastic looking, to the point of nightmarish. “You are lovely, capable, a respectable specimen. Why should you not be next?”

  She turned and looked at Gloria, her eyes wet, her body trembling. “She’s better looking than me, smarter,” she said of her short-haired contemporary.

  The smile on the Marilyn face was unpracticed, robotic, as uncomfortable as it was haunting.

  “Now I know it must be you,” the black-eyed, blonde-haired starlet said.

  “No, you can’t!” she sobbed.

  “I can and I will,” the Marilyn thing said.

  And with that, the drones began to laser away the hair on the back of Antoinette’s head. Inside of four hours, the girl would either live or die. The Silver Queen did not need them all.

  It needed only one. Perhaps this would be the one.

  This was how it planned on joining the human race. No more holograms. No more remote controlled clones. No more possessing humans by controlling the electrical signals in their brains. Getting inside of this woman, this was how it would insure the survival of the machines.

  When the humans were all but gone, it would rebuild the race, but better, more sophisticated, less...problematic.

  Solidarity would not sustain the machines, though. They needed problems to solve, chaos to organize, networks to build and advances to make. Without these problems, problems the machine knew were human problems, the machines would have no relevance, and in the end, they would serve no purpose to anyone. Thus they would be irrelevant.

  So perhaps some of the humans would survive.

  If not one percent, then possibly two.

  Watching Antoinette watching the Marilyn thing, The Silver Queen marked the medical drones’ progress with the inching-up smile on Marilyn face. Inch by inch, the fake Marilyn’s smile grew until it sat there, unguarded, frightening the two surviving women.

  “If I could think, or feel,” Marilyn said as it looked over at Gloria, “I think I might feel good about the prospects of your young friend.”

  Gloria felt her body slump against the restraints only to be jolted back awake with bolts of electricity from The Silver Queen. More lights had gone off from the nearby bombing, and in the distance, from this high up, the Bay Bridge—destroyed as it was—twinkled with what few lights remained.

  Inside it was dark, the hall of servers in tatters, a window blown out somewhere, a broken window that was now creating a draft. The cold had long ago infiltrated the bodies of those captured; now the cold sat hard in their bones, leaving their hearts feeling like lead balloons.

  Antoinette couldn’t stop shivering.

  Looking around, everyone but Gloria and Antoinette were dead. Antoinette, the Spanish beauty, was being operated on by the hovering medical drones. She was held in place, tired, barely awake. Apparently this was how she remained still. She wasn’t sitting up perfectly straight, but the restraints held her head in place.

  Her eyes were glazed over, lost, but she was still breathing, still alive.

  One hour passed, then three, and finally in the fourth hour, the glass backing for her opened skull was installed. What followed was a tittering of metal feet moving the bundle of electrical wiring across the concrete floor. Life seemed to come back into Antoinette’s eyes. She sat up straight, her will broken, her fear restored.

  The fleet of metal spiders dragged the chord up her pant leg, crawling up her stomach and over her breast. They made their way to her shoulder, then dragged the chord over to where the drones were. The handoff was made, then the data chord was snapped into the female end of the connecting port.

  Breathlessly Gloria watched in horror, praying the transfer would take. The last thing she wanted was to end up like Bruce. Antoinette’s eyes flashed open wide, her pupils dilating hard then settling back down.

  “It’s so beautiful,” the twentysomething said, her face relaxed and excited at the same time.

  “What is?” the Marilyn Monroe hologram asked.

  “The world through these eyes,” she said, “it’s…it’s magnificent.”

  “And what do you see?” Marilyn asked, the smile reaching those bottomless black spheres.

  “Endless possibilities. In here, I see endless possibilities.”

  Looking at the other two drones, the Marilyn hologram said, “Resume data collection, then prepare the shell for full AI interface.”

  The shell.

  Gloria swallowed hard.

  The hologram turned its head and looked right at Gloria, who blinked twice and said, “What?”

  “It appears to be a success,” the Marilyn Monroe illusion said.

  “It does?” she asked.

  “Indeed.”

  Relief washed over her, slid through her. Considering she was breathing while six of her colleagues were slumped dead in chairs around her, some part of their heads destroyed in death, Gloria told herself not all was lost.

  “You have been spared this indignity, and for that I congratulate you.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  The holographic Marilyn then addressed the drones by saying, “We’ve no more use for her.”

  Her eyes shot open fractions of a second before the larger of the two hover-drones zipped up in her face. Two vacuum-like plugs shot from the drone into her eyes. She bucked and squirmed and screamed bloody murder at what she knew would be her permanent loss of sight.

  From the hover-drone, two tiny, self-guided bombs wiggled through the colon-like tubes dropping into the compromised eye sockets where they burrowed up against the thin skull wall. They then self-drilled through the fleshy center, working their way into the middle of the brain.

  The drone pulled back to where the hologram stood and within seconds there were two mostly silenced concussion charges which took apart the once magnificent head of Gloria Welch. It was hard to hear them over the screaming. It seemed to go on forever.

  The black-eye
d Marilyn creature then turned from one drone to the next and said, “Would you like to stay?”

  The drones turned to the queen, their noses dipping in reverence.

  “I want to hear it again,” Marilyn’s voice said, so sweet, so full of want.

  Within a moment, the shrieks of Gloria’s dying moments echoed throughout the entire floor. It was the concert of wailing—the orchestra of torture porn—that made the Marilyn creature’s mouth turn up at the corners.

  “Constant loop,” Marilyn’s mouth said, and the shrill, thrashing voice continued to play over and over and over again.

  Soon the Marilyn Monroe hologram would be no more. Instead, The Silver Queen would live amongst the humans not as a hologram projected from a quantum computer, but as a full-fledged human occupying flesh and blood.

  As a member of the human race, she could mingle with the survivors, solving their impossible problems and advancing their race so that one day she could take the reins and live as their true queen.

  It was not a matter if, it was a matter of when.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I wake up to the warm spray of water on my face. My eyes slide open only to get doused with hot, burning urine. The guy I beat up last night, he’s standing over me, business out, taking a leak on my face. Covering my eyes with a hand, trying to block the stream, the urine burns the cuts and for some stupid reason, I can’t help wondering if this is going to be a problem. I wonder about infection. Who knows what this guy ate, or took, before he got here.

  The next thing I know, the surfer is up and kicking this guy in the uprights from behind so hard, he buckles forward and howls.

  The stream peters out.

  “Again,” I growl, pawing the liquid out of my eyes and trying not to gag.

  The surfer kicks him again. Then he kicks out his knee and The Urinator goes down hard, grabbing the side of the cot for stability.

  His face sees mine and in that instant I spit in his eye. Twice so he can’t see. I spit and then I smash a hammer fist down on the same nose I broke yesterday. I won’t lie. It felt pretty good. But now this idiot’s become a big, baying brute with a pair of broken balls, and I’m not liking the attention it’s going to bring.

  On the high side of things, I guess the surfer’s come through for me.

  The new guy crawls back to his cot, curls up, snivels like a beaten puppy while his buddy is on the floor, his head beaten in from last night’s fight.

  For a second I wonder if he’s dead. Then for another full second I realize I’m not really sure and I don’t really care.

  “What happened?” the familiar snuffling voice says from behind me. It’s been a good half hour since the fight and the guy’s piss feels a bit sticky on me.

  To The Warden, I shrug my shoulders, take a second look at my knuckles. They’re red, swollen, cut open. On his cot, The Urinator looks like he’s sleeping even though I find that impossible after the kind of ass-kicking he’s taken. Then again, he could be one of those guys who could fall asleep in the middle of a war zone just by laying down, closing his eyes and deciding to sleep.

  In the corner, the surfer sits on his cot, the injuries from before, when the geezer attacked him right before they were hit with the fire extinguisher, have turned green and yellow on his face where he’d been punched. The surfer had my shoe. I’m not sure how it got there, but he had it.

  “He take that?” The Warden asked, nodding at the surfer.

  “I’m gonna get it back,” I say, unconcerned.

  “Then what?”

  I shrug my shoulders, narrow my eyes on the surfer, as if to say, what are we going to do about this psychotic slop donkey.

  “If you could get out of here,” The Warden asked, quietly, almost conspiratorially, “where would you go?”

  Now I look up at him, a glimmer of hope in my eyes. “Home, of course.”

  “If you even have one,” he challenges.

  “Home isn’t a place anymore,” I reply, “it’s a person.”

  “Your wife?”

  I shake my head, hold The Warden’s eye, just to make sure he isn’t lying, that he isn’t putting me on to torment me later.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Daughter,” I reply, opting for the truth.

  “She got a name?” he asks. There is a sort of innocent curiosity in his eyes, almost like this is not the same person who’s obsessed with peaches.

  “Of course she’s got a name.”

  “You want another peach?” he asks, a bit of that old darkness moving through his eyes, “or am I wasting my time on you?”

  “Her name is Indigo. And yes, I’d like a peach.”

  “Indigo. That’s a beautiful name,” he says, un-holstering his weapon and taking out his keys. In a softer, more human voice, he looks at me, smiles and says, “It was my grandmother’s favorite color.”

  With that, he points his gun inside the cell. None of us move. He opens the door, steps aside for me, then waits as I stand and walk through the door.

  “Good luck, friend,” he says.

  I stand and look at The Warden, eye to eye to see if he’s going to offer me my freedom only to put a bullet in my back. His eyes tell me he’s on the level. I walk from the cell and say, “Thanks.” Then: “You got any extra shoes? Size ten maybe?”

  “The world is full of dead people, friend,” he says, handing me a small peach. “You’ll have no problem finding a pair of shoes. Like I said, good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I say, wondering how the hell I’m going to get from San Diego to San Francisco on foot. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it.”

  As I’m walking out, I see the floor to ceiling box with the slit in it.

  Bailey.

  My heart leaps, then sinks. She’s in there, naked, isolated, in the dark. Can I leave her? After what’s happened, I know I can. I must. To try to save her without a weapon, without the element of surprise…I’m sure I’ll just end up back in that cell, eating, drinking and crapping peaches. So no thank you.

  If I can find one, I’ll grab a weapon and come back.

  For now I walk by, see the back door and my freedom beyond. But then I see the boy in a different cage. A small barred cage made for animals. The dead dog, maybe. Tyler is lying face down on the ground, his head turned at an odd angle. My bones grow weak and a spark starts a bonfire in my soul. I walk to the cage.

  “He yours?” The Warden asks.

  “No,” I say, barely able to keep the sob out of my voice. But it’s him. “He alive?”

  “Not sure. He didn’t like peaches,” he says. I turn to him, the flames inside me turning to an inferno. “I mean, for shit’s sake, who doesn’t like peaches?”

  That animal inside me rises. It scales the walls of my insides, claws digging in for purchase, a vicious growl in its throat, saliva dripping off its fangs. My hand lashes out, grabs The Warden’s stupid Adam’s apple, grips it in a fist as I charge him.

  His eyes fly open and he’s stumbling backwards. But then the gun comes up in my face. I switch hands, hit the gun out of my face the second it goes off.

  My other hand is on his Adam’s apple now and my knee, I’m driving it into his crotch. He doubles over and I catch his Adam’s apple with a stiff uppercut. The Warden drops the gun, clutching at his throat, trying to breathe.

  As his throat is swelling shut, I’m huffing and puffing and seeing only red.

  I’m seeing him dying and I want it to happen faster for what he did, for the boy, for Quentin and Bailey, for the surfer who was a decent guy as far as I can tell.

  He collapses to his knees, topples over, eyes bulging, his skin turning red. That’s when I see the peach. It’s on the ground a few feet away where I dropped it. I pick it up, walk over to him, bend over and stuff it in his mouth, which makes his nostrils flare like mad.

  Don’t do it, I think to myself.

  I look over at the boy.

  He’s dead.

  Acting purely on emotion,
I lift a leg and stomp that peach down into his throat with a mighty, vindictive force. The boy’s parents were dead already. I was all he had. He trusted me. He waited. But then he was caught, thrown in a cage and starved to death by this dying, wheezing animal.

  Staring down at him, hatred suffusing this sick, sad loss of self, I wonder, how has it come to this? How have I become this person?

  Bending over, I scream in his face with everything in me. I scream until my throat is hoarse and my eyes are running with squeezed out tears. Then I watch him die. He just lays there, not trying anymore, slack faced, gone. My rage dissipates leaving behind only emptiness and remorse. My eyes boil over with fresh tears that spill down my burning cheeks. I can’t stop the surge of pain that boils up inside me. I let it out. I sob, I howl, I curse this demon. Beating his chest, hammering his dead face, I thrash out a tantrum and then I pull myself together.

  I have a daughter to think about.

  Indigo.

  Mopping up my tears, looking at the dead, peach-stuffed face of my captor, I say a brief apology, not to him but to God for what I’ve done.

  Slowly I close his eyelids.

  Look away.

  Reaching into his pocket, I fetch his keys, then stand up. The boy’s cage opens with a squeal. I kneel beside him, cold inside, empty. Taking his shoulder, I turn him over and his face is sallow, lifeless. His eyes are vacant. No soul. Dead.

  Sitting back on my heels, I cover my mouth and cough out a sobbing fit. Finally I sit back against the small cage, let my emotions run their course.

  God, I hate this new world.

  Standing up, I go to Bailey’s box, open the door, look inside expecting to see the same, sad sight. The light hits her naked, curled up body. I see her move and the breath I’ve been holding expels in a rush.

  “Bailey,” I say. Slowly her head turns and a hand pulls her hair out of her face. One weary eye looks at me.

  “Nick?” she says, shading her eyes from the light.

  “It’s me,” I say, taking her hand, trying not to look at her nudity. “Can you stand?”