by Watts, Peter
Now. He needed her resurrection to work. Without her, the whole thing would be useless. Mankind would stop with him. That would be it. He needed her to come back from sleep while he was still alive. He wasn't sure if his reproductive functioning worked, but he hoped they'd have children. Who would make love to an old man? Moniga remained beautiful. She'd been preserved. Forever. Or until someone figured out a way to safely wake her. The way had to be out there. He wasn't sure where, and he needed to find a cure. She'd be dead within days or weeks after being brought out of her sleep. Without a care, she'd be lost.
He lifted the black cloth from her chamber.
Even though her face and image were burned inside his memory, he was still taken back by her beauty. His hands went to the ultra glass, to where her face lay. If he could just touch her once more, kiss her softly, hear her voice.
The Feeders were inside. He saw them on her, some on her skin, others moving under her thin white coverings. They were keeping her. Monica's auto-sleep had kept on, miraculously, shortly after his had failed. The others he'd brought also remained asleep.
When he'd woke, he found the world as they knew it had gone. There was nothing to return to. No civilization. Waves of energy swamped their home planet. Life as they'd known was eradicated. Galaday searched the computers for some record, some communication, something on the net history to explain, but it appeared life had been going on just fine one second, and then, lost the next.
War.
Asteroid.
Maybe just Mother Nature shaking off some pests.
The Rapture.
Whatever it'd been, they'd been forgotten. Lost adrift in orbit just far enough away to escape certain death, and far enough to get stranded. Why wake them? There's nothing. Galaday soon found a better use for them.
He watched the Feeders work on her body. They transfused the blood they took from the others and infused it inside her. Their blood was safe. The others. The ones he’d kept for mining. He peered down the hall at the rows of incubation tanks, all covered with dark tarps. Galaday thought one day he would eventually be able to free them, resuscitate, and give them new lives. As the years went on, he became skeptical of any such thing being possible. How long would they last? How long would their bodies…their hosts…hang on? So far none had expired, and they continued to live, although in deep hibernation.
The last time he dared look over them…had it been years?...they’d grown so different. One’s eyes had bulged nearly to the breaking point. Their nails had continued to grow, making long, semi-translucent root-like trails by their sides and from their feet. The fluid in the tanks had clouded, slightly obscuring them.
Irene had suffered the most. Even in hibernation, none of them were immune. The right side of her head had swelled and deformed. Growths formed all over her body, which reminded him of cauliflower or ears on old potatoes. Despite the fluid being infused inside her body in order to keep her in hibernation, she moved. Galaday first saw her twitch before she jerked and twisted. She felt pain, he knew. There was only one option. He'd have to turn her sleep permanent. To do so entailed entering a series of commands on the terminal. The longer he waited, the greater risk of the infection spreading to the others.
Didn't the Feeders clean the blood? Weren't they the cure? Was it Jet Cassidy's work? He who'd weaponized Galaday's cure?
He'd panicked. He didn't want to risk the only things he had left. There was no next experiment. He couldn't control the situation from afar. There wouldn't be another group once they were gone. As far as he knew, they were the last.
After the commands were typed, he stood and watched her. He thought of meeting her at Shoreline University. She'd been a bundle of happiness, bringing with her a permanent smile and never ending positivity. He smelled her rich perfume again, the type she always wore. He heard her voice as he looked at her still, distorted face. He pictured her prettiness and the feeling of lightness he always had around her. How sad she should end up like this, thousands of miles from the Earth, floating inside a chamber inside another floating craft. Her body ruined and desecrated from disease, Galaday turned away. He'd just started using a cane, and nearly toppled.
With all he had, Galaday straightened himself out and peered up to Irene.
May God Bless You for all you have given us, for all you have sacrificed, and I am so sorry you did not see the end of your life, or have a chance to say goodbye to your loved ones. You are giving life a possibility. You are giving it to us who remain.
Irene opened her eyes.
Galaday jerked back. How could this happen? Had she heard his prayer? That had to be impossible.
His throat tightened and he needed to go to the bathroom worse than he ever remembered.
Her mouth opened then, and her eyes opened wide and then blinked several times. She saw him—looked right at him.
She thrashed behind the glass.
The Feeders scurried toward the chamber, drawn by her movement.
If they got inside, and carried her sickened blood out...
Galaday panicked and triggered the fail safe command.
Irene knew what he was doing. Her face grew angry and scared all at once. She flailed, but it was too late. The bottom of her chamber opened. The fluid rushed out into space. Irene threw out her arms and held on for a moment.
Her cry. Sad. Tragic. Etched forever inside Galaday's memory.
The vacuum was greater than her will, and Irene disappeared. The floor closed. Her chamber was empty.
Galaday wouldn't weep for several days.
Once he did, prioritizing the monitoring of the remaining hosts consumed him. Each twenty-four-hour period, he checked their levels, searching for signs of infection. Symptoms could hibernate indefinitely, he was sure. After all, the bodies were from Earth, where they'd all been exposed at one time or another. The fact that they were in an extended sleep only made him believe the virus could be dormant, just as their aging systems.
He'd not been so blessed. Instead, he aged well past maturation. At a hundred and thirty years, Galaday thought he'd expire at any moment. He didn't. Something strange happened. A second wind. Where once his muscles and bones ached to move, they turned pliant and strong. The cloudiness killing his mind cleared. His ideas multiplied. Understanding destroyed confusion. A plot to return the craft to Earth hatched. First, he'd have to ensure the planet habitable. They'd need a plan to repopulate. Shelter. Food. Civilization.
How could he peer into a world lost to them? The devices on the ship didn't talk to anyone on the ground. The last communications detailed the great fall. People died out. Infrastructure unraveled. Galaday's cure worked, but came too late. The means to replicate it and distribute it were still. Maybe there were pockets left. Somehow. Packs of feral survivors. He imagined them rummaging through the ruined world. Life always found a way, no matter the odds.
If they could just get to the ground. If only to see and feel and breathe again, just for a little while. That would be enough. I don't want to die in this floating coffin. I don't want to live for eternity in this. I've read every book. Heard every song. Seen every holofilm I've ever wanted. My love is frozen. We cannot live again like this. She may be able to walk among the living again. Not here, though. I don't want to have her last moments aboard this ship. Cold. Desolate. Lonesome. This is not the life we were meant to live. The plague is probably gone, and we have survived. We will have our coffins in the ground.
He'd grown tired, and so he shuffled with his cane toward his reclining chair. "Twenty decades is long enough," he said. He'd ran simulations and speculated where they'd best land the craft. The deserts, he presumed, would be ideal. Most germs would have been sparse, and would likely not survive without hosts. They'd also be remote enough to avoid immediate detection. He hoped. The plan was sound. How to get down. Safely. How to walk again on solid ground and be whole again.
Galaday remembered.
The world had gotten sick.
Stopped.
“That ship is my safety net. If you don't come back, I can likely get the vehicle back. But why me? Why not just ask? I'm an easy guy to get along with." That's what Mr. Kaufman, Galaday’s manager, said.
"Grace," Moniga said. "Where is she?"
"Somewhere," Galaday said. He didn't know. They had to leave without her best friend. Time ran out. It was everyone go or everyone remain. Staying meant probable death. In the stars they'd have a chance.
Something horrible happened on the ground once they'd lifted off. Galaday could not find out, despite his days trying.
His memories broke, interrupted from a sting as the Feeders burrowed inside. Their teeth took his blood, the wounds they created like small hungry mouths, opened, accepting their little payloads of pure sanguinity.
When the little creatures finished with him, Galaday slept the sleep of the dead.
~
She woke.
He'd been dreaming of setting the Draconia down in the Mojave. She sat next to him wearing a soft white outfit. Galaday was young again. There were people everywhere. Their technology had grown so advanced the devices on the Draconia weren't able to detect them. That's what had happened, come to find. None of it was proven. Just his sleeping imagination manifesting his most desirable scenario. In his dream, Moniga turned to him. She'd been smiling at first, but her face froze. Her eye sockets drooped; her mouth opened. Skin looked like hot wax as it, at first, bulged, and then oozed downward off her face. Underneath, a dark green shell and criss-crossing blood vessels. A noise came from Moniga, part cry, part scream. That's how he knew. Something inside him clicked and he needed to check on her, and Galaday knew he'd find her aware and awake.
Galaday's hunch was correct.
There was Moniga suspended in fluid, waiting.
When their eyes met he could hardly believe himself.
She lived.
She saw.
She reached her arm forward.
Does she recognize me? I must look alien. Nothing like how she last saw me. Maybe she has been able to sense me...see me...all this time. She is staring at me. His heart raced. He felt as though his head might explode. Fear. Why was he afraid?
Moniga looked at Galaday, but he didn't recognize her.
Angry eyes.
Where was her fondness for him? The comfortable familiarity he'd expected? Love?
Missing.
Galaday felt something very wrong about her. His pores felt like they'd tightened. He shut his eyes.
Can't be real. Not like this.
She's turned.
Bad.
Like a dog bit by a snake.
Never the same again.
Agitated. Violated. Desecrated.
Let her out. It'll be all right. Better.
His instinct led his hand.
Commands entered.
He gasped for breath. The room heated. How? Impossible. The Frewer vents were constant. Thousand-year-old technology. Rock solid. Hotter. Air seemed to waver. Galaday felt hot and cold flashes throughout his body.
Can she love me? Again, like she used to? Did so much for one another over the decades. Especially before the trip and the deep sleep. Memories like holofilms. Rye, Playland. New York. Ocean Isle beach. Catching feral cats and bringing them to the no-kill shelter. Swimming with dolphins in Puerto Vallarta. Laughter. Fighting. Laughter again. Her father walking down the aisle, his arm outstretched for hers, his first time on his feet since the accident. In front of everyone. Not a dry eye.
The chamber fell. Impossible. Moniga walked through, her steps grace. The Feeders swarmed around her feet. Her skin paler than he remembered. Nearly clear. Her eyes void. Her soul missing. Had she died and came back? Who was this creature. Galaday searched her face hoping for some recognition of the person he loved. There was none.
Unbearable loud sounds came from what he thought was just outside the Draconia.
Metal bending.
Crushing.
Squeezing.
Under Moniga's feet, the floor caved as though she weighed several thousand kilos.
Galaday tried keeping his balance with his cane, but the harsh movements of the Draconia were too much. He slipped.
Before his head could touch the ground, without a sound, he felt a strong arm catch him.
Moniga.
She swooped him up. His frail body ached. Their eyes met and she smiled. Her mouth opened and he saw several rows of triangular teeth. She clamped down on his throat. He felt pressure, but little pain. As his essence flowed from his neck to her mouth, Galaday became dizzy and everything seemed light. He shut his eyes.
Sound echoed. The Draconia ripped and fell to pieces.
When he opened his eyes, they were outside.
Moniga held him.
The sun crested the moon and lit her from behind. For a brief moment she appeared as he remembered her. Kind. Warm. Beautiful.
Her eyes faded into nothingness.
Three things, moon-sized, hovered near. Their bodies, intricate biologies. Arms stretched out, impossibly curved. In one of their hands, they held the Draconia. The being closed its fingers around the craft.
How could such things exist?
A stream of small things fled from the craft, their dark bodies reflecting red. A river of blood, carried into the abyss. The Feeders.
How are we out here with no breathing apparatuses?
The beings watched them with world-sized eyes.
They fell toward their blue and white home below.
As the friction began, Galaday once again shut his eyes. Burning heat encompassed them, but he still felt her hold.
Let us make it. Let us go through. May we see the surface again, brand new.
Moniga laughed as yellow fire enclosed them, and soon, he heard only the flames, and felt nothing but them, until he felt nothing at all.
Bram Stoker-nominated author John Palisano is the author of the acclaimed novel NERVES, as well as over a dozen short stories appearing in markets like the Lovecraft Ezine, Horror Library, Terror Tales, and many more. Check him out at:
www.johnpalisano.wordpress.com
BETTER FOR BURNING
H.E. Roulo
“If I were younger I’d join up myself and make a real difference in this world. This is how a man becomes a man.” Dad tapped a thick finger against the newspaper in front of him. Crispin’s father bragged that he had been the first subscriber, once the colony produced enough fiber to spread information via paper. He used to read sections to them, back when their fledgling planet was still advancing, but these days he just thudded his finger into the rustling gray newsprint. His face grew red as he glared away from his oldest son. “There wouldn’t be anything to stop me from doing what it took.”
Crispin shook soft brown hair out of his eyes. The two-room cabin echoed, as if the wooden walls and the floor Crispin lay on were a box designed to trap them inside with his father’s words. The boy’s hand slid protectively across the page he’d been working on.
His father wasn’t looking directly at him—nothing as obvious as that. He pointed to Crispin’s brother Reese, three years younger and just reaching his full height. “Look at you, Reese, you’re going to really fill out. You’re practically as big as a man.”
Crispin dropped his head again and saw that he’d smeared the charcoal drawing. He pulled his sleeve back, shaking off bits of bla
ck dust and carefully re-drew the soft curve of his mother’s weathered cheek where it touched the cherubic face of his youngest sister.
Clutching the page, he clambered to his feet and held the drawing out to his mother. When she didn’t take it, he held it in front of her so she could look without disturbing the baby. He bit his lip and waited. She pulled a smile from somewhere and nodded. Her eyes told him that she liked the picture. Behind him, his father’s chair skidded back and footsteps thudded as he rounded the table.
His father snatched the page and barely glanced at it. “You should wash your hands, son. All you boys!”
Crispin nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He joined Reese and Sammy at the sink, letting the water run for a moment to clear itself. The pipes chugged softly and water finally fell in a thin clear stream. Reese shoved, pressing his belly to the sink to reach water and soap first, smirking at the advantage his bulk gave him over his older brother. Crispin pretended not to notice.
When it was his turn he rubbed the soap carefully along the side of his hand where the dark charcoal had left powdery smudges, then along his palm and knuckles. The hard soap bar scraped dully without producing lather, but got his hands clean. He then used his soapy hands to rub Sammy’s and put them under the bite of the cold-water stream.
At the table his father had picked up the paper again. Crispin took his sister from Mother so she could serve the food. They said a silent prayer and waited. Father frowned as he divided the bread and potatoes into portions. Hot yeast and cool butter scented the air.
Crispin’s portion wasn’t the largest, wasn’t even as large as Reese’s. Hunger tightened his belly with a sharp pang, as if something bit him. He hunched over his aching stomach and couldn’t hide a resentful glance. His father caught it, sensitive to this sudden rebellion. His large hands smacked the table, making everyone jump. The baby awoke in her highchair and began to cry. Crispin bowed his head over his plate, letting soft hair slide over his face.
Looking down at all of them, and at the small piles of food, his father’s rage poured out. “You can’t say I don’t feed you. You want to do something about it? Get out there and break the blockades. Bring back the economy, why don’t you? Get some fresh seed in here for the fields. There’s only so much a man can do.”