Stupefying Stories: August 2016

by Sarah Read

  The bunker was silent. No one moved. No one breathed.

  “It worked.” Oppenheimer felt vindication, but also fear. What had he unleashed?

  “I have done as you wished.” The ifrit whispered. “By your command the world trembles and falls silent.”

  The terrified calm dissolved as scientists, officers, and politicians filled the air with shouted questions. Groves was already on the phone, yelling to be heard over the riot of voices. Oppenheimer couldn’t make out Groves’ words, but the General’s wide eyes showed terror and awe in equal measure.

  Oppenheimer sank into one of the leather chairs, letting the noise wash over him. Individual questions and comments blended into incoherent babble. Only one voice remained clear, a low hiss that cut through the din like a whip crack.

  “You have become death, destroyer of worlds.”

  August 6th, 1945

  “I can bring them back, you know. Your mother, your father, Jean.” The ifrit spoke with the voice of Oppenheimer’s son, Peter’s four-year-old’s lisp belying the dark nature of the creature’s words.

  “You lie.” Oppenheimer hissed, thankful that the rumble of the B-29’s engines hid his whisper from the rest of the airmen. The crew of the recently renamed Enola Gay already regarded him with distrust. He couldn’t blame them—the demonstration at Los Alamos had only provoked more questions and accusations, this time tinged with fear rather than skepticism. They had kept him in detention, kept him from his family and friends. Although he told them everything, they wanted more. The last months had reduced Oppenheimer, always thin, to skeletal proportions. It hurt to move, and the fits of coughing came more frequently.

  “We’re coming up on the drop zone.” Colonel Paul Tibbets’ voice echoed through the crackling speaker. Oppenheimer shifted his gaze to the bomber’s instruments. The lights of the doomed city glimmered like fireflies in the early dawn. He had helped pick the target. Hiroshima, one of the larger cities on the southern end of the Japanese archipelago. Hiroshima, spared the worst of the American firebombing. Hiroshima, home to thousands of people, until today. He had hoped to direct the jinn from America, until it informed him that he needed to be there to give the command and witness the results.

  Oppenheimer didn’t regret what he had to do. He was saving American and Japanese lives, saving them. The casualty reports from the battle for Okinawa were still coming in, tens of thousands of soldiers dead on both sides, and almost a hundred thousand civilian victims estimated. Oppenheimer shuddered to think of the cost America would pay for the larger islands. If only the Japanese had listened to Truman’s Potsdam ultimatum. If only their leaders weren’t so proud, so stubborn.

  “I have stood by many who made the same arguments. In the end it is all the same.”

  “Shut up!”

  The outburst startled the bombardier, who met Oppenheimer’s eyes for a moment before recoiling from the scientist’s fever bright gaze. The light on the board went from red to green. Oppenheimer shambled past the other consoles, manned by observers waiting to measure the power of the blast. The bombardier shifted from his seat. There was nothing for him to do. The bomber had no payload but Oppenheimer.

  They were over the city, a vast web of streets and homes stretching out around the quiet bay. Oppenheimer frowned. It was easy to accept responsibility when you were one of many, but this slaughter came by his hand alone. He exhaled, breath rasping from congested lungs. “Jinn, I set to you your second task. Destroy this city.”

  “It shall be done.”

  Hiroshima was gone, reduced to cinders in a rolling conflagration of white hot flame. People and buildings were scrubbed from the earth in the span of a few heartbeats, a whole city full of lives ended in a roiling cloud of black destruction.

  Oppenheimer turned away from the view, but couldn’t escape the sound. The rumble rose above the buffeting of air on the bomber’s hull, rattling instruments and jerking men against their harnesses. Again, Oppenheimer heard another noise, carried along with the shockwave like chaff on the wind. It was clearer this time, but still just beyond understanding. He leaned forward, trying to differentiate the sound from the thrum of the distant explosion.

  “Unbelievable.” The bombardier spoke in Oppenheimer’s ear, shattering his concentration.

  “No one man should have this much power.” The scientist lifted his gaze from the floor.

  “But you do, Daddy. You do.” Peter’s reedy singsong echoed in Oppenheimer’s mind. Tears came unbidden to his eyes.

  August 9th, 1945

  Nothing had gone as planned. Oppenheimer awoke in such pain that he couldn’t stand, wracked with coughs that left his sheets and pillows stained with blood. The crew of the Bockscar had to carry him to the bomber on a stretcher as he thrashed and cried out in strange tongues. The physicist’s ravings conjured bizarre images in the thoughts of those who heard them, driving even nurses away.

  Oppenheimer heard the worried exchanges as if through a heavy blanket. The day came dark and overcast, a dense cover of clouds obscuring the Japanese coast, growing even heavier over Kokura—their primary target. One of their spotter planes had missed the rendezvous, and they were forced to fly partially blind. The Bockscar would have turned back, but concern over Oppenheimer’s failing health forced them on to their secondary target.

  The jinn spoke without cease, describing Nagasaki in such intricate detail that Oppenheimer felt like he was there.

  “Although it is a Thursday, Urakami Cathedral is full of people. They pray for the return of their sons, husbands, fathers. They pray for deliverance from evil. Elsewhere, the markets have opened for the day, porters and carts cross Megane Bridge. But for the occasional fearful glance at the sky, it could be any other day.”

  Oppenheimer gritted his teeth. It would all be over soon.

  “The view from Mount Inasa is breathtaking. Save for the sloped roofs of Buddhist temples and the ageless Torii gates, in the morning mist one could mistake Nagasaki for any coastal city. New York, Boston, San Francisco...”

  They were over the target. It was as the jinn described.

  “The people are relieved. They expected more bombers, but there are so few of you that they think you are only reconnaissance planes. Mothers sing their children back to sleep.”

  Oppenheimer turned his head away, moaning a wordless entreaty for the jinn to stop. He was tired, so tired, but he drew strength from the fact that this was his last wish. They were mere miles from the center, in a few moments it would all be over. The jinn would depart from this world, and from Oppenheimer. It was the last of its kind, a relic from an age of terror and ignorance. Humanity would be better off without the temptation it represented.

  The words came as a sigh of relief. “Ifrit, hear my final command. Destroy this city.”

  “Man, before we part ways, there is something I would have you know.” The jinn used its own voice, the same with which it had first spoken to him in the Vault of Suleiman.

  Mathematical calculations and theoretical variables resounded in the darkness of Oppenheimer’s mind. The jinn wove a tapestry of proofs that started with what was known and expanded to push the barriers of science.

  “My god, we’re so close.” Oppenheimer’s mouth was dry. He had been wrong about the atom. All that was needed was for someone to show them what was possible. Someone like him.

  “This has only just begun.” And the jinn was gone.

  Oppenheimer squeezed his eyes shut against the light, but couldn’t close his ears to the thunderous boom that shook the plane. Scattered cheers echoed around the fuselage as tired soldiers witnessed what they believed to be an end to the war. The air crackled with sound, the concussive force of the explosion reverberating through the atmosphere.

  Only Oppenheimer recognized the voice within the cacophony, the same one he had heard at Los Alamos, at Hiroshima, the same one that had tortured his thoughts these last three years. Echoing through the storm of destruction, like a leitmotif of annihi
lation, was a single, crystal clear refrain.

  Laughter.

  By day, Evan Dicken studies old Japanese maps and crunches data for all manner of fascinating medical experiments at Ohio State University. By night, he does neither of these things. His fiction most recently appeared in publications such as: Analog, Shock Totem, and Escape Pod and he has stories forthcoming from publishers such as: Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Daily Science Fiction, and Chaosium. Feel free to visit him at: www.evandicken.com.

  THE SEVENTEENTH MEETING CONCERNING THE POSSESSION OF PATRICIA COTTON

  By L Chan

  It was the kind of perfect balmy weather you only get in memories because the real world always gets it wrong. There was a house, by the lake. The front door was open, just enough for the muffled screams to scare away the inquisitive pigeons on the front lawn.

  They were all gathered in the dining room. If one were observant, one might have pointed out that the dining room seemed huge, far bigger than the four walls of the lake house would have suggested. The windows looked out onto the placid waters. A closer inspection would have revealed that no two windows offered the same view. One looked out onto a glorious russet sunset, another the starlit sky, and yet another the glare of the noonday sun.

  The funk of mothballs fought a desperate rearguard action against the richer smell of spilt blood. The dining room was already fully occupied and the meal had been served. The body of a naked man was tied down on the table, with his face mercifully covered with a white cloth from which muffled screams emerged.

  A seemingly distinguished gentleman set at the head of the table. He wore a faint smile and an expensive-looking designer suit. Fake, of course, both the smile and the suit. He did have several real suits though, procured at no small expense and hanging up in his quarters over in an exclusive corner of Hell. But, he sighed, he was out in the field, and field work was liable to get messy. In any case, they were holding this meeting in a place where he couldn’t wear one of his expensive suits, so he had to be content with the idea of a suit.

  It was a tough job, hardly any time to rest, supervising one unsuccessful possession after another. It galled him to see every single management trick from his extensive library wasted by team after incompetent team. Patricia Cotton sat at the other end of the table, sporting an expression of equal parts terror and disgust. This was her first meeting with the menagerie of denizens haunting her.

  “Ah, Miss Cotton,” said the thing in the shape of a man at the head of the table. “Since this is your first time joining us, I’ve found that introducing our... uh... clients to the entire process is integral to an effective possession outcome. And transparency is all the rage now. You won’t be able to speak, of course, that’s all part of the fun.”

  His voice was smooth as rancid butter, the oily obsequiousness of a secondhand car salesman. “We run a professional operation here. None of that old-school, inefficient possession of the Dark Ages. We are a high-functioning team. One day we’ll top the league for productivity...”

  “That would be the league of how many exactly?” The second voice sounded dry, the rustle of something crawling under a pile of dried leaves. The owner was a giant spider perched on one of the dining chairs, its carapace the size of a basketball. Its back swarmed with hatchlings. They shifted and swarmed, forming a pair of eyes and a mouth. “Pleased to meet you, my name is Chitterling. I’m in charge of taking minutes for this meeting. And general organization of this motley crew. Under the learned guidance of Redd here, of course.” Somehow, the face made out of swarming spiderlings managed to smirk at Patricia Cotton.

  Redd cleared his throat loudly. “I think we should proceed with the meeting,” he said, visibly annoyed. He set a thick notebook on the table and drew a fancy-looking pen from his pocket. He set the cap on the table and licked the nib. It sizzled and hissed on his tongue. He coughed out a small smoke ring.

  “All right. Are there any proposed changes to the records of our last meeting?”

  Another of the demons harumphed. Patricia Cotton leaned forward in her chair. A tiny creature jumped onto the table, a complicated tangle of forearms, elbows, and fingers. It raised a hand with a mouth embedded in the palm. “You missed out the part where I said that these meetings were a waste of everybody’s time. And that I would rather swim naked in a pool of holy water while listening to a homily than attend another one.”

  “I only record constructive and relevant statements in the minutes. And your poor attitude will be registered in your work review, Tumbleweed.”

  “Nobody reads those anyway,” said Tumbleweed petulantly.

  “I read them. It’s an established Human Resource practice for performance management and promotes transparency for career progression. Anyway, we’re wasting time. Imagio, please present the report on the tormenting of the client’s family.”

  Patricia Cotton had thought the mirror at the table was part of the furniture. There was a screech of metal against wood as it turned to face her. The silvered glass in the mirror showed the dining room, and Patricia Cotton, her knuckles white on the table, but her mouth bleeding and toothless, her eye-sockets empty. The terrible visage spoke. “Sure thing, boss. Uh... so we’re at week seventeen of the possession, which according to schedule means we’re on to mild movement of small items at night. Oh. And speaking in tongues. My favourite.”

  Redd scribbled away in the ledger approvingly. “Very good, what did you say to the family? One of the classics about speaking to their relatives in Hell, I suppose.”

  “Well, it went a little like this,” Imagio cleared her throat. “Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.”

  “Well that sounds suitably dark and eldritch. The language isn’t familiar though. Something from Central Asia? What does it say? “

  The floor-length mirror managed to convey sheepishness. One of her iron clawed feet scratched absentmindedly at the floor.

  “Ummm... I think it’s something about a ring. “

  Tumbleweed bounced up and down on the table, clapping pairs of his multitudinous hands. “Ooh, I loved that movie. I always cry when the Balrog dies.” There was a chorus of agreement from the other two demons. Their chatter faded away at the scratchy sound of one singularly expensive pen nib digging into the wood of the table. A large vein pulsed at Redd’s temple.

  “You used... a quote. From a movie. In an official demonic possession. Not even from the list of approved languages. A made-up language!” The room fell silent.

  “Name me a language that isn’t made up,” Imagio said, sullenly.

  Redd opened his mouth. The rest of the group could see the supervisor trying to phrase an appropriate riposte. The corner of Redd’s eye started to twitch.

  “Why don’t we move on?” said Chitterling, recognizing the telltale signs of danger. Redd seemed to deflate slightly. He continued scribbling away at the ledger for a few additional seconds before realising that the nib was now a splayed banana peel of ruined metal. He grunted and put the ruined pen away. Tumbleweed produced a battered plastic ballpoint pen from somewhere unmentionable and extended it to Redd. Redd sighed and took it.

  “The next order of business is the progress of the harrowing of the body. Will Tumbleweed present his report, please?”

  Tumbleweed had been busy cracking his knuckles after handing the writing implement over and had gotten up to the thirty-seventh consecutive crack when Redd called out his name. “It wasn’t my turn to do the body stuff. I took a day off last week. Compassionate leave. Grandmother’s funeral.”

  “You don’t have a grandmother, Tumbleweed.” The corner of Redd’s eye had started twitching again.

  “That’s an awful thing to say. Anyway, that bit of paper you made us sign when we joined the team said that every team member is entitled to two days of compassionate leave a year, on the passing of a family member or grandparent. It’d go to waste if I didn’t take it. I’m entitled,” stressed Tumbleweed. “A
nyway, Chitterling covered for me.”

  “We’re already three weeks behind on the twisting of the client’s body. We should be up to...” Redd consulted the ledger. “Consumption of various substances, poisonous or otherwise disgusting to behold. So on the list this week would be spiders.”

  Chitterling cringed a little. “Well, I wasn’t getting her to eat any spiders.”

  The mirror swivelled to face him. “Spiders are well known for exhibiting cannibalistic behaviour,” she said with a voice like the tinkle of glass on the floor. The swarm of spiderlings scowled at her.

  “Anyway, the guidelines say that I am allowed to vary the objects consumed, as long as they are considered inedible and dangerous by the general population. You won’t believe how hard it is to find one of those things in her house.”

  Redd was having difficulty writing with the cheap pen. The intermittent flow of ink converted his neat script into Morse code.

  “So what did you eat?” Redd asked.

  “Well the instructions said that I couldn’t leave the house, so I had to make do with whatever they had lying around. So I refused dinner, climbed up on the table, and ate an entire bottle of that orange cheese that comes out of a tube.” Tumbleweed retched at the far end of the table.

  “You can’t eat food as part of the process of torturing her body,” said Redd, despairing. “Spiders are food in some parts of the world. And they have more nutritional value than cheese in a tube. Even Tumbleweed hates it, and he doesn’t even have a stomach.” The room was silent, save for the slow rasp of Redd grinding his teeth. The cheap plastic pen shattered between his thumb and fingers. Tumbleweed gave a small squeak of dismay. That had been his last pen.

  “Can anyone do a single thing right around here?!” Redd roared.

  “There’s still the breaking of her mind,” said Imagio.