Amok: An Anthology of Asia-Pacific Speculative Fiction

by Dominica Malcolm

  January, 2037

  February, 2037

  Alia spoke for the first time in months, but her words made her husband cry.

  “Tariq’s fifteen,” she said. “My son’s growing up so fast.”

  May, 2037

  “What are you suggesting?” Alia asked Doctor Cynthia Khoo. “Do you really think I’ll be better then?”

  Her psychiatrist walked across the room, her steps heavy. She stopped in front of Alia and sat opposite her. “Nothing else is working. I think this is your best hope.”

  Wednesday

  July 15, 2037

  10:45 hours

  “I need you to do one last thing for me, Puan Alia.”

  Images and videos of Tariq started playing in rapid succession. Everything she had recorded of him, she had given to Doctor Bashkar before she deleted the files from her cranial implant, as required as part of the treatment. Alia felt her breath catch.

  “We will subtract the previous imaging, including our preliminary scans last week, and localise memories of Tariq. I need you to concentrate on these images and videos, and don’t hold back on experiencing the emotions they bring. The fMRI will be active while the robotic arm ablates the targeted areas.”

  Alia did as she was told.

  She had never done anything more difficult in her life. Giving birth to Tariq was nowhere near this painful. She had no choice. She had to erase all memories of Tariq if she were to live again.

  Again, she concentrated on the images, and thought about the moments they captured. Tariq had patted his birthday cake right after she shot him blowing the candles. Tariq had fallen down the first time he rode an electrobike. She had shot the video, but in the chaos, she dropped the camera. Tariq argued with his father right after a Raya picture with Alia’s side of the family. Tariq hugged her and told her he loved her. He was twelve. He hadn’t told her that he loved her after that. He said he was too big for that, and it was bothersome.

  Bit by bit, the coloured areas dissipated as the robotic arm did its job.

  Tariq avoided family pictures. They were bothersome.

  Where half her brain was filled with Tariq’s memories, only half of that remained lit.

  Tariq called her a freakasaur, but he was grinning ear to ear when he said that.

  The lit portions became smaller and smaller.

  Tariq screamed her name for the last time. His face was a blur.

  “Stop! Stop!” Alia was crying in earnest, and she spluttered the word over and over again. “Stop!”

  The recording stopped, and an image of her cradling baby Tariq in her arms dominated the main screen. The hum of the MRI subsided to a background noise. The operating theatre came alive with confused murmurs.

  “Puan Alia,” Doctor Bashkar said, his voice tentative. “Are you all right?”

  “I can’t lose him. I can’t. Please, stop.”

  Thursday

  July 18, 2037

  00:28 hours

  For two days after the surgery, the doctors kept Alia sedated. Whenever she was awake, she was inconsolable, and alternated between sobs and coos as she caressed the picture album she had brought along to the hospital. The album was a breach of protocol; she was not supposed to print out pictures of her son. She was supposed to delete all evidence of his existence.

  Alia kept repeating Tariq’s name, and kept asking for forgiveness. She refused to let go of the album, even when she was asleep. She clutched the only thing she had left of her son close to her heart.

  That night, in her drugged sleep, Alia dreamt of Tariq.

  He was fourteen, and he wore the same clothes he did the day he passed away. He was grinning. He hadn’t smiled that bright in over a year. His teeth looked perfect the way they were, jutting canines and all.

  “Kiddo?” Alia asked.

  A blanket of mist covered everything. Darkness surrounded them, but somehow Tariq was aglow, illuminated by an invisible light source. He held his hands toward her, palms up. Alia reached for him. His hands were still small, and warm. So very warm.

  “Where are you taking me, sayang?”

  Tariq shook his head. Instead, he enveloped her in a tight hug. She did not remember him being this strong. Alia hugged him back and inhaled the scent of kiwifruit from his hair. He had refused to try other shampoos.

  “I love you, Ma,” Tariq whispered against her chest.

  Friday

  July 19, 2037

  14:45 hours

  Alia adjusted her hijab in front of the bathroom mirror as Basri packed her bag. Her surgical wounds were healing well, and Doctor Bashkar had promised almost non-visible scarring. She liked him. He was honest enough to not promise a scar-free healing.

  “Ready?” Basri asked.

  “Let’s go home, sayang,” Alia said.

  He kissed her forehead, then squeezed her hand and led her out of the room. Doctor Bashkar met them near the nurses’ counter; he was just completing his afternoon rounds. His smile was warm when he greeted them.

  “Well, Puan Alia,” he said. “I don’t know if stopping the procedure was good for you or not, but I’m glad there is no permanent loss.”

  “Me too,” said Alia. “Thank you so much, doc.”

  Basri shook hands with Doctor Bashkar and mumbled his gratitude. The doctor excused himself to continue with his rounds. Basri slung his arm across Alia’s shoulder and guided her toward the lift. The lift was about to close when a young nurse came running toward them.

  “Puan,” she said, panting. “You forgot this.”

  The photo album. Alia took it, gently, and caressed the plain peach cover. “Thank you, dear.”

  Then she returned the album to the nurse.

  Both Basri and the nurse stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “He’s a beautiful boy,” Alia said, smiling. “His mother must love him so much, the way the pictures were taken. It’s a good idea, putting such albums in patients’ rooms. A good way to calm the nerves.”

  As the doors of the lift slid closed, Alia was still smiling at the gaping nurse. She did not give the album a second glance.

  * * *

  About Fadzlishah Johanabas

  Hailing from Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, Neurosurgery Resident Fadzlishah Johanabas has published short stories, both speculative and contemporary fictions, in over 25 venues, both locally and internationally. In Memoriam was the first story he wrote after a major road-traffic accident that he still wishes never happened, that he still wishes he can forget. You can find him at http://www.fadzjohanabas.com, and he tweets as @Fadz_Johanabas.

  Lola’s Lessons

  Shenoa Carroll-Bradd

  ~ Philippines ~

  I grew up in a small village in the Philippines, at a time when the world was at war with itself. I don’t remember the war, but I do remember the soldiers, and the day that my grandmother, my Lola, was taken.

  We had gone out early in the morning with baskets slung on our backs to see if the mango trees along the river were ready to be plucked. I used to go by myself, scrambling up the trees, nimble as a monkey, but ever since the Japanese soldiers started haunting our streets and jungle, my Lola insisted on accompanying me.

  We made it out of the village without being disturbed, and Lola told me stories of the many beasts who inhabited the jungle beyond. She told me of the aswang, and quizzed me on how to spot a manananggal, to see how well I’d listened to her tale the day before. We walked nearly all the way to the mango grove before three soldiers emerged from a nearby thicket and motioned us over. They wore huge guns at their sides, and belts of shiny brass bullets.

  My Lola leaned down and whispered in my ear that I should be like a little mouse, and say nothing to attract the attention of such cats.

  They surrounded us, prodding at our baskets, asking where we were headed so early in the day.

  My Lola told them, and they scoffed.

  “There aren’t enough mangoes in that grove to fill a single basket,” one growled.

&nb
sp; “Maybe they’re spies,” another said. “Running off to sell their secrets.”

  The third pushed my Lola with his gun. “Do you even have any secrets left, old woman?”

  Lola kept her nearly-toothless mouth shut, and her eyes down.

  I couldn’t understand why she let them speak to her that way. Around our house and throughout the village, lolas were always treated with respect. I glared up at the soldiers with their guns. These strangers had no manners.

  The third man, the one who’d spoken last, caught my gaze, and frowned. “What are you looking at, little rat?” He spat between my bare feet.

  I didn’t answer him, but it didn’t matter.

  The soldier raised the butt of his gun above my head, ready to bring it crashing down.

  Lola stepped in front of me and raised her arm, catching the full weight of the rifle between her wrist and elbow. Her arm cracked like a fresh bough, and dropped limp at her side. She staggered back a step, reaching around to push me behind her, so that all I could see was the mango basket slung across her back like a tortoise shell.

  I ducked my head when I heard the soldier swing again, and Lola fell back against me. I held my hands up as far as I could, trying to brace her, trying to hold up my world. The day was warming already, but I remember that the sweat pouring off me felt cold and slick, like tree frog slime.

  After that last blow, the soldiers let us pass, laughing and mocking as they went. Lola and I resumed our walk. Her left eye swelled and darkened like a passionfruit.

  My stomach hurt worse than any hunger pains whenever I looked at her eye, or her dangling arm.

  My Lola said nothing. She didn’t even whimper.

  “Maybe they were aswangs in human form,” I said, hoping to distract her.

  She shook her head slowly. “No, my little love. They were just men. Though sometimes, that can be just as bad.”

  We lapsed into silence. I wanted to say I didn’t feel well, and suggest that we go back home, but how could I, after that? Hot tears tracked down my cheeks.

  When Lola heard me sniffling, she stopped, and bent to face me at my level. Up close, her eye looked even worse, like purple liver under raw chicken skin. “Stop crying,” she told me, though her speech seemed a little slurred, and one corner of her mouth didn’t match the other. “If you don’t stop crying, the aswang will come to take you away, and leave behind only a pile of sticks.”

  I wiped at my face with both hands, but the tears kept coming.

  “Hush, my baby.” She reached out with her good arm and stroked my hair. “Nothing calls monsters faster than tears, whether it’s the monsters with guns, or the ones without.”

  I sniffed hard and nodded, fighting to banish the tears and snot.

  Lola stood again, slowly, and we continued along.

  When we reached the grove, I was disappointed to see that not many of the mangoes were ripe yet.

  On better days, Lola had teased that she could sniff the mangoes out, like a little fruit bat in a dress, and would direct me from beneath the tree. We used to joke and play as we worked, but that day, she stared up between the branches and said nothing.

  I set my basket by her feet and shimmied up the trunk, keeping an eye out for tree snakes and tarantulas. I did my best to show her what I’d learned, picking the ripest of the meagre harvest and dropping them into the basket below.

  Lola settled onto the gnarled roots beneath my tree, and she stayed there even after I moved on to the next.

  I said nothing, wanting to impress her with my skill and speed, to show her the extent of my independence. The mangoes kept me distracted, and didn’t let me dwell on the soldiers or their cruelty, but the same was not true for Lola. Through the rustling leaves, I heard the soft sound of her weeping. She clearly didn’t want me to know, so I pretended I didn’t hear. I focused on the smooth mangoes, and tried to pretend that there was nothing else in the world but reaching out and plucking them down.

  After a few minutes, I got the feeling of being watched. I assumed Lola had moved over to the base of my tree, and would soon start calling out directions, guiding me to the sweeter fruits, as it should be. But when I looked around, she had not moved, and I saw no one else in the grove. From my perch, I would have been able to spot anyone approaching, so I felt safe. I could watch over Lola, and let her have a little rest.

  When I gathered all I could from my tree/lookout post, I slid down the trunk, skinning my brown knees against the bark as I descended. I dropped to the ground and grabbed my basket, then turned to check on Lola.

  A man stood over her. A stranger.

  My heart leapt, and I squeezed the basket tight.

  He didn’t look like a soldier. He wore no uniform, no gun, but I just couldn’t understand how he’d gotten there without being spotted. He bent over her while she leaned against the tree trunk, eyes closed, just as she had been when I left her. His lips were moving, and as I drew closer, I saw that one long hand rested on her slumped shoulder.

  I saw that her chest still rose and fell, easing some of my fright.

  The stranger looked up at my approach, and took his hand away.

  I hurried to my Lola’s side, not making eye contact with the stranger, too afraid after all the trouble I’d caused with the soldiers. “Lola?” I gently took her good arm and shook it. “Lola, wake up.”

  She murmured something and began to stir.

  I felt the stranger’s gaze on me, and recognised it as the same weight of eyes from earlier. I steeled myself before glancing up at the stranger.

  His dark, bloodshot eyes bored into mine, and I saw something there that made me feel like I was dreaming. My reflection was upside down in his eyes, as if I stood on my head.

  Lola sat up, blinking and looking around.

  “Good,” the stranger said, bending to lift a long bundle of sticks all wrapped up in a brightly patterned blanket and tied with vines. “I only stopped to offer this lovely lady my assistance.”

  The timbre of his voice made my skin prickle. It was like wind and stone, and the creak of trees scraping against each other.

  “We’re fine, thank you.” I stepped closer to Lola. “She’s just fine, and we’re heading back home now, so she can rest properly.” I grabbed her hand, just to make sure. The stranger hoisted his parcel onto his shoulder and looked me up and down for a moment, as if trying to guess my weight. At last, he inclined his head. “Very well. I won’t keep you.” He turned and walked past us, through the grove and into the deeper jungle, vanishing into the sea of green.

  Even after he disappeared, my skin stayed rife with goose bumps, despite the heat.

  I turned my attention back to Lola, watching her carefully. “Did he hurt you? What did he say?”

  She shook her head slowly and said nothing.

  I glanced again in the direction the stranger had disappeared, but I saw no one and no longer felt the press of eyes. We were alone. “Why don’t we go home early?” I suggested. “We have enough mangoes for today.”

  Lola nodded. Her eyes seemed flat and far away, but at least my reflection stood right-side up between her lashes.

  I took the heavier basket and helped get hers settled across her back, careful not to brush or bump her arm. It had turned a terrible colour, like her eye. I took her good hand in mine, and we returned to our village. She walked slower than usual, lethargic and quiet, and her eye finally swelled shut. She seemed crushed beneath the weight of her years, and her wrinkled brown skin felt as rough and dry as papery bark.

  §

  My mother, my Nanay, did not cry when she saw the extent of Lola’s injuries, though her eyes filled with sparkling tears that she refused to let fall. She washed Lola’s face, and did her best to set the arm with her limited knowledge of local herbs.

  Lola did not say a word to any of us, and when the midday meal came, she refused to even stir the contents of her bowl.

  We all ate quietly, trying not to dwell on the day’s darkness. After a
while, my Nanay laid a hand on Lola’s good arm. “Please,” she said, “You need to eat. It will help you heal faster.”

  Lola did not respond. She stared into her bowl, head down, and would have seemed asleep, had her eyes not been open.

  My Nanay shook her shoulder gently. “Please? Just a few bites, and then you can rest.”

  Lola did not respond, and when my Nanay shook her harder, she went completely limp and slumped sideways out of her chair, toppling to the floor. When she struck the ground, my Lola didn’t sound like a woman any more. She rattled like the stranger’s parcel.