The Book of Apex: Volume 1 of Apex Magazine

by Jason Sizemore

  I passed the time by counting the thumps of Corvidae against the door, the rattle-rattle-buzz of claws against the window bars, the electrified charge sending bodies reeling back with scorched hands and strangled cries. They paced themselves, syncopated the assaults, used the silence as a weapon to keep us on edge. I counted the thumps, one after the other; one bird, two birds, three birds burned. Four birds, five birds, six birds harmed. Occasionally I stood by the doorway, listening to the quiet scuffle of clawed boots against the concrete. Sometimes they were swift and raucous, using the echoes of the alley to their advantage. They filled the air with birdcalls, making it impossible to be sure of their numbers. Other times they were silent, murmurs in the darkness. I figured there were twenty three of them out there, including those who’d been shocked by the taser bank on the door, birds shocked by enough voltage to leave them twitching and stunned until morning. Sometimes I pressed my weight against the door, keeping it steady against the assault.

  Around 2 a.m. it all went quiet. I listened to the steps of someone loping up to the doorway, leaning in without touching it. “We know you’re in there, Tick-Tock,” Rook3 whispered. “Me-and-I hear your heart; tick-tick-tick.”

  “No-one here but us chickens,” I told him, voice cracking. I picked a spot by the door, raising the poker high, just in case. “Bars on the windows and steel plates on the doors. Go bother someone else, little bird.”

  Rook3 knocked, three sharp raps that echoed on the steel. The air filled with a whiff of ozone and Rook3 screamed, then cawed and cackled as his screams turned to laughter. “Nothing save you from me-and-I, Tick-Tock,” he said. “You come out, sun or no-sun, and Rook3 be waiting.”

  There was no more knocking after that, no more electrical discharge or rattled windows to break the silence. Later, as the sun rose, I peeked through a crack on a second-floor window and watched the Corvidae perched on the fire-escape next door, waiting and watching like an army of twisted shadows. I woke Jackson and pointed. “We’re locked in,” I said. “It appears they’re laying siege.”

  Cops are an expensive proposition in Downside, but Jackson tried calling them anyway. His first attempt got him a busy signal, the second just the hazy buzz of a scrambler attached to the line. The third call was answered by Rook3’s croaking laughter. “Nobody going to help you, Patch. You goin’ to die if you don’t give me-and-I back da girl.” Jackson hung up. His knuckles were pale and his hands trembled, but he drew himself straight as he glared at the door. Defiant, angry, but that wouldn’t last. I could see the fear there, lurking behind his eyes.

  “We should go,” I told him. “Use the tunnel, get out while we can.” Jackson didn’t answer. He went back to his chair and rocked, his face pinched so tight I could barely see his eyes beneath the press of wrinkles. Small, gentle Jackson, determined to do what was right. “So many of them,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting there to be so many.”

  I left him there, huddled against the darkness, and checked on Rose myself.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” Rose told me, fighting against the painkillers. “All the noise, it was like being back there. Like living with them.” She was still weak, barely able to lift her head off the pillow, but there was life in her cheeks. She winced with every s she used, a sting of pain from the sutures as the tongue touched her teeth. It gave her voice an old lilt, at odds with the face full of bruises and patchwork stitches. So many grafts, so many repairs.

  “No one slept,” I said. “Don’t worry, they can’t hurt you here. We’ve locked the place up tight, and we’ve held off worse than this.”

  Rose pursed her lips and frowned at me, the patchwork tongue bulging against her cheeks. It was a little too large for her mouth, the mechanism heavy against her jaw. She would never look right with her mouth closed, but at least she could speak.

  “How...” She shook her head, trying to dislodge the question, but her hand reached out anyway. The dark nails and fingers withered into claws, hovering over the steel, preparing to stroke it. I pulled away, the cogs grinding.

  “Jackson found me when I was a kid,” I said. “Beaten, cut up, almost dead. He put me back together, the same as you. Replaced the parts as I grew older so I didn’t get lopsided.” I raised the arm and looked at it, flexed my fingers and took her withered claw in mine. “He’s a good man. Foolish, really, and stubborn, but a good man nonetheless.”

  Outside there was a loud caw, the fizzing snap of a rock thrown against the windows. Rose flinched. “You never...there are other options,” she said. “You could get it replaced.”

  I shook my head. “Jackson calls it his finest work,” I told her. “The arm, the heart, the knee. Replacing them would break his heart.”

  I stood there until Rose gave in to the painkillers, drifting off into sleep with a frown across her face. I held her hand, studied her scars, wondered how far she could make it. Jackson was wrong; we could move her if we had too. Slowly, using a gurney, with enough drugs to keep her sedated and free of pain. We could run if we had to, but we might not get away. The tunnel could get us out, but they would have someone watching. Just in case we had allies, on the off chance someone heard the noise and could be bothered to investigate. If we were spotted as we left, if they saw us sneaking out...

  I went downstairs. Jackson was huddled in his chair, shaking. “They won’t stop,” Jackson said. “They’ll never leave us alone, Randal. They just won’t stop.”

  “Then we run,” I told him, and I laid out the plan. Jackson listened, eyes flat, and nodded when I reached the end. I sent him upstairs to get things ready. When I was alone in the workshop I let myself shake, skin crawling against the prosthetics. I tightened my grip on the poker, steel grinding against steel. My heart tick-tocked, slow and steady, heedless of my fear.

  The Corvidae left us alone during the day, disappearing into the shadows or lingering in knots of two or three, hanging on the fire escapes like birds on a wire. I spent the afternoon taking practice swings with the poker, trying to get comfortable with its leverage and its weight. Violence is easy to practice: swing, parry, thrust; make use of my longer reach. Don’t let them get close enough to use speed against me, try to take them down before they rip me apart with their claws. Jackson watched me, lips drawn, trying not to state the obvious.

  “You’ll need food,” he said. “Sooner or later, you’ll run out of food.”

  “I won’t run out of food,” I said. “And you’ll need it more than I do.” I smiled at him, awkward and lopsided. Jackson hugged me and patted my arm.

  “It’ll be dark soon,” I said. “You should get ready.”

  “Sit,” Jackson said, and he waited until I did. He told me a story. “It’s easier,” he said, in the silence at the end. The shadows inside the workshop were growing longer and darker. “In the stories, it’s always easier.”

  “We should get her ready to move,” I said. “You’ll need help with the gurney, for the first part at least.

  This time the bird calls started right on sunset, a whole murder of Corvidae starting their mockery at once. I sent Jackson upstairs with two bowls of soup and a pair of spoons, keeping up appearances in case their spies had an angle to see into the house. He pretended he was weary, stomping as he climbed the stairs. He snuck back down quietly, taking each stair with a graceful limp. The wood didn’t squeak beneath him, and perhaps the ruse was pointless at this late hour; the plan would work or it wouldn’t, whether we maintained the ruse or not. He nodded at me, eyes shining. We turned out the lights.

  “Tick-Tock,” Rook3 said, calling through the door. “Hey, Tick-Tock? We-and-I getting bored. We be cracking your cage tonight.” I heard the regular chk-chk-chk of the taser discharge, the sharp squeal of nails against the metal bars over the window. “Insulated, Tick-Tock,” Rook3 taunted. “Me-and-I saw your little friend, saw the fat little Pelican. Got me what I need to break down your little toys.” He knocked on the door again; rap-rap-rap. This time it wasn’t followed by a scream.

/>   I heard the door to the tunnel slide shut, the quiet click of a lock settling in place. “Me-and-I eat your eyes tonight, Tick-Tock. Eat your eyes and taste the sweet-meat upstairs, after we gut da patch. He shouldn’a saved her, Tick-Tock.” Chk-chk-chk as the taser spluttered, useless, against the claws sliding over the door. Nails on the metal, sharp squeal like a knife to the gut. The sound drew goosebumps from what flesh I still possessed.

  I readied the poker and stood next to the door; if I was lucky I could brain one as he came through, crack his head open like a stale egg and be done with it before the others swarmed. Maybe I could frighten the rest of the pack off, make them think we were dangerous, better equipped than they’d suspected. They struggled with the windows and kicked at the doors, insulated against the taser discharge but still struggling to break down the barricade. It would take time, but not a lot. I waited. I waited, and the minutes ticked by. I thought about Jackson and his stories, about Rose and her mangled tongue, the patchwork scars that will cover her body when the stitches are pulled out and she’s finally healed for good. Jackson was right, she wouldn’t be beautiful, but I was right too. I knew it.

  Jackson is in the tunnel now, waiting for his chance to run. I wish that I were with him. I wish that I had kissed Rose, just one more time. I wish so many things.

  I can hear the Corvidae outside now, a murder of thugs and runaways, hungry for a fight. They’re almost in. It’s time. I think about Jackson, about his stories. Outside the Corvidae gather, jangling the windows and kicking the door. Four-and-twenty skinny boys, their flesh twisted by drugs and designer mutagens, black claws ready to rend and tear until I’m nothing but blood and parts. I can hear something hissing, see sparks underneath the doorjamb. I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable. My heart tick-tocks, measuring out the silence. I repeat the same phrase like a mantra, reminding myself why I’m staying: Downside isn’t a place where fairytales happen. I hope I’m wrong. I know I’m right.

  The front door slides sideways, hinges and locks worn down by the careful application of a blow torch. The first of the Corvidae comes in, a smaller bird with a nervous tick, his caw humming in the back of his throat. “Tick-Tock,” Rook3 croons, calling through the open doorway. “We coming to get you Tick-Tock.” The smaller bird hasn’t noticed me lurking in the darkness; the clockwork arm steady, the poker raised and ready to strike.

  I can buy some time. They’re going to need it. Jackson isn’t fast, and he certainly can’t fight, and the gurney will slow him down even if they don’t spot him the moment he breaks cover. Downside is not a place where fairytales happen, but maybe just this once we can sneak one by.

  The Corvidae scout takes a few steps into the room, hunched over and eager. He sniffs the air, cocks his head to one side. He can hear my heart ticking, low and ominous in the darkness.

  “Go,” I whisper, “Please Jackson, get away,” and I swing the poker down. It bites into the feathered scalp of Rook3’s scout, sends him sprawling to the floor in a pile of blood and skewed limbs. My heart beats steadily, no adrenaline can speed it up. Steadily like a clock, dependable and slow. Jackson isn’t fast, but he’s always been faster than me. I can hear Rook3’s keening, the murder of black figures joining his angry scream. They surge, a dark cloud of anger. I think I can hear my pulse, roaring in my ears. I raise the poker. I wait for them. This is not a place for chivalry, but I can pretend I’m a champion. I can stand against the tide, for a few moments at least. I can buy time for Jackson and Rose. I can. She is not a princess, but she deserves this chance. My kiss did not wake her, but she can still be saved. She deserves this. She does. I hope I’m right.

  My pulse rattles in my ears as they swarm in, swarm over me, clawing, slashing; Tick-tock.Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-

  Hideki and the Gnomes

  Mark Lee Pearson

  There were twelve moons in the night sky: one from this dimension, the others reflections of the eleven dimensions. One switched off like a computer monitor. On the blank screen, Hideki watched the Space Shuttle, Confronter, hurtling to Earth, out of control.

  There were eleven moons in the night sky: one from this universe, the others from ten parallel universes. One turned off like a television, digital blocks deconstructing a digital world. There was a high pitched screeching. Hideki ran into the garden to witness a Boeing 747 crash into the garden next door. According to the Ten O’clock News, planes were falling out of the sky worldwide, for no apparent reason.

  There were ten moons in the night sky: one orbiting this world, the others orbiting nine parallel worlds. One faded slowly into the black analog tube. Hideki stood by the fishpond and called up to his mother’s bedroom window. She was in bed watching the Ten O’clock News. The screen showed a picture of a man in a shopping center, reeling on the ground, holding his throat in pain as if he’d swallowed his entire set of false teeth.

  There were nine moons in the night sky: one from this time, the others from other times. One cut the radio signals, killing the static and the background radiation. Hideki ran into the house and up the stairs to his mother’s room. He yelled at her, “We have to go, now! There are only eight moons left.” She didn’t see the significance, so he dragged her out of bed.

  There were eight moons in the night sky: one made of rock, the seven others made from each of the sins. One expired like a lighthouse in a blackout. Magnetic fields moved, and migrating birds lost their way. Hideki dragged his mother, kicking and screaming, down the stairs. He bound her from head to toe with a twenty meter LAN wire.

  There were seven moons in the night sky: one made of rock, and six made of cheese. One was swallowed up by the dark night sky. Birds hit the windows. Hideki pulled down the shutters and then went through his father’s desk, looking for the gun.

  There were six moons in the sky: one for each of the bullets Hideki loaded into the gun chambers.

  There were five moons in the sky: four signifying death, and one signifying nothing. Hideki’s mother lay sprawled on the tatami with a hole in her head.

  There were four moons in the sky: one real, and the others symbolizing the Holy Trinity. Hideki stuffed his mother’s body into the refrigerator, nailed the door closed and then cleaned the tatami mat.

  There were three moons in the sky: one true, one false, one neither true nor false. Hideki pulled the plug, sending asteroids hurtling toward Earth. He led the gnomes at the garden pond to a revolution.

  There were two moons in the sky: one for reason, one for folly. Hideki had the switch now. He had to make a choice for his people. Men and women ran for cover as mushrooms pushed their way up through the lawns, signaling dawn.

  There was one moon in the sky; Hideki and the gnomes worshipped it, but they were unsure whether it was the right one.

  Don't miss the other volumes in The Book of Apex series!

  The Book of Apex: Volume 2 of Apex Magazine edited by Jason Sizemore

  The Book of Apex: Volume 3 of Apex Magazine edited by Catherynne M. Valente

  Biographies

  James Walton Langolfis a full time mother and part time college student from Mesa, Arizona. She believes that crazy from the heat is a valid defense for just about anything.

  Previously published in Surreal Magazine and the erotic anthology Love at First Sting, her literary influences include Tom Piccirilli, Joe Lansdale, Ken Bruen and many, many more.

  Katherine Sparrow is a social worker and social science fiction writer who lives in Santa Cruz. She’s been published in Apex Digest, Escape Pod, Nightshade Press, and a few others. She attended the Clarion West Workshop in 2005, and is currently working on a young adult novel about mental illness and superpowers. When not writing she can be found taking urban hikes and dreaming about apocalyptic punk rock bands.

  Andrew C. Porter was born in Kentucky but now calls Nashville home. He has written one novel which is currently unpublished. His work often explores the emergent forms of awareness brought about by new technologies, although he has an ab
iding love of H.P. Lovecraft. “In the Seams” is a story borne of the latter’s influence. You can contact Andrew at silverstairs@gmail.com.

  George Mann is the author of The Affinity Bridge, The Osiris Ritual and Ghosts of Manhattan, as well as numerous short stories, novellas and an original Doctor Who audiobook. He has edited a number of anthologies including The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction, The Solaris Book of New Fantasy and a retrospective collection of Sexton Blake stories, Sexton Blake, Detective. He lives near Grantham, UK, with his wife, son and daughter.

  Mary Robinette Kowal is the 2008 recipient of the Campbell Award for Best New Writer. Her short fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Cosmos and Asimov’s. Mary, a professional puppeteer and voice actor, lives in NYC with her husband Rob and eight manual typewriters.

  She has performed for LazyTown (CBS), the Center for Puppetry Arts, Jim Henson Pictures and founded Other Hand Productions. Her design work has garnered two UNIMA-USA Citations of Excellence, the highest award an American puppeteer can achieve.

  Steven Francis Murphy is a reluctant resident of Kansas City, Missouri. A veteran of Operation Desert Storm, he took advantage of his Army College Fund to pay most of his way through a Bachelor of Arts in History. He topped that endeavor by going into debt for his Master of Arts in European History with a specialization in Gender Studies at the University of Missouri-Kansas City. These days he is freed from his cage in an undisclosed location for the purpose of teaching history; and ever so often, he gets to write science fiction. The nominal compensation is fifty-five gallon drums of black tea.