Artificial

by Jadah McCoy

  There’s a loud thud in the next room.

  My hand freezes in the air, my grip tightening on the knife in my other hand. I step out of the kitchen and farther down the hall. The room across from the kitchen is dark and quiet, partially lit by a stray beam of evening sunlight.

  “Hello?” My voice sounds too loud in the silence.

  There’s no answer.

  I return to the cabinet, shoving the cans of food into my bag. It was probably nothing, just some animal seeking shelter or being nosy. That doesn’t stop me from cleaning the place out and getting the hell out of there as fast as possible.

  Sprinting wouldn’t get me out of the kitchen fast enough. Maybe I inhaled some of those damn creep moss spores on accident.

  When I leave the house, I glance back one last time. For a moment I think I see a face in the dirty window, white and smiling, and then it’s gone. A shiver trails down my spine.

  Definitely the creep moss.

  Syl

  ucca’s father was the best storyteller. I still remember the sound of his voice in the darkness, like smoke within shadows. It echoed through the Sanctuary late into the night, long after us children should have been in bed.

  I fell asleep to that voice outside my room in our little hut, and it made me feel as though nothing could ever touch me. Not as long as Sanders was there with his booming laughter like the shot of a gun. His eyes were always shimmering, crinkling, and so full of joy—even in a world such as this, even sleeping as we do each night in a dirty, stinking sewer.

  He used to tell us this story as the lantern light faded away to nothingness:

  Years ago, planet Earth began to die, so humanity created ships to sail across the dark ocean of space. In those spaceships, they fell into a great sleep. But who would watch over them and their ships and their terrestrial animals?

  We would stop him there to remind us what terrestrial meant.

  So man created beings in our likeness, but they were not truly human, not truly people like our ancestors were. They were made of metal, plastic, and wires, and able to live much longer than us. When the ships landed and everyone awoke, life continued as normal. Our ancestors didn’t believe their creations—their androids—to be capable of emotion, thought, ideas. But they were wrong. Something had changed while they slept.

  Those androids created in the likeness of a child began to feel hatred when a flesh and blood child replaced them. Those created in the likeness of a lover felt jealousy when replaced by a living companion. Those created in the image of a worker felt the true weight of the yoke around their necks.

  For nearly one hundred years, we lived in peace on this planet until an idea grew and spread like a disease through the metal and plastic community, an idea whispered in the shadows so mankind wouldn’t hear it.

  They began the war by taking the very fabric of our bodies and bonding it with that of spiders, roaches, and flies to remind us of what we truly are: bugs easily squashed. Our ancestors grew wings, sprouted pincers, and developed a taste for human flesh. They were called Cull, for that is what they did: culled the human population on this planet into near nonexistence. The androids rose against us, burned our cities, and killed the poor souls with nowhere to hide. Humanity—whatever remained—was left in ruins.

  And then the androids disappeared, just like that. He would snap his fingers in our faces. Were they killed off, so ironically, by the monsters they created? Or are they simply waiting, silent, buried beneath the rubble, for their chance to destroy us once and for all?

  Sanders hated those robots he told stories about. When I was a child, they all seemed like fairy tales to me. Who’s to say we didn’t destroy ourselves? If I’ve learned anything from the few yellowed and fragile history books that remain, it’s that mankind loves nothing more than a scapegoat.

  But the saddest story Sanders ever told was the one in which he became my father:

  You, little Syl, were a tiny, wriggling bundle when I found you. That mouth of yours was hard to miss, as it is now. Your parents left you to wail until your small lungs gave in or the Cull found you, whichever came first. I still remember the smell of your hair, the way your little head fit right into the crook of my arm. You stopped your crying and looked up at me with those big, blue eyes.

  He would stop here to knock the underside of my chin and smile.

  When you smiled at me, I knew I couldn’t leave you there to die.

  I was fifteen years old when I abandoned Sanders. It was my third scouting mission. I wasn’t paying attention—I didn’t see them until it was too late. I walked straight into a nest, the writhing beasts’ inky carapaces shimmering in the darkness as they scuttled about. He took the acid spray for me, blasted those fuckers into dust and bug guts even as his legs melted like candle wax beneath him.

  I held him there in the darkness as he vomited, as shock took him. I felt him struggle for breath as he strung together enough words to give me a message for Lucca—enough words to let me know it wasn’t my fault.

  Lies.

  I remember the way his eyes, the same eyes that used to gleam as he told us stories, grew dim with death and decay and rot. This terrible thing that I couldn’t fend off with any earthly weapon. I tried to drag him back to the Sanctuary, but he was too heavy for a one-hundred-pound girl such as myself. I left him there in the ass end of that godforsaken building—left him to rot and be eaten by whatever else lived down there.

  I don’t think Lucca will ever forgive me for that.

  I’ll never forgive myself, either.

  My breath comes out in an agitated huff. I stare at the ceiling; the cracks between the wooden planks let in small slices of ochre light. There are twenty-three of them. I know well each divot and splinter etched into the wood above me.

  I sigh again and turn over on my stiff cot. No one else in the women’s hut stirs. I should be fast asleep, too, but sleep often eludes me now. If sleep were an ablak, I would be Lucca aiming a gun at it. Which is to say that it’s basically useless to try.

  I hate when he brings up his father. It leaves me with nightmares for days after. Sleep is not a sure thing, but nightmares are.

  Throwing the blanket back, I push myself off the bed as quietly as possible, but it creaks anyway. Fatigue gnaws at me—in the heaviness of my eyelids and the ache behind my eyes—but I ignore it. If I stay here, I won’t sleep. My time is better spent doing something besides replaying memories all night.

  No one wakes as I sneak out of the little shack. The dim light of lanterns hung on the stone walls envelopes me. All is silent in this part of the sewers except for the gentle rustling and scritch-scratching of a few chickens walking about; it’s too early for anyone to be awake yet. Might as well make myself useful and search the tunnels for any hens that might be laying.

  Flashlight and pack strapped to my belt, I slip through the iron bars that separate our living area from the sewers. I click on the flashlight. Though I’ve run these tunnels since I was a child and have no need of it, the light makes it easier to see nests without stepping on them first. A crushed egg is of no use to anybody.

  Some of the others are scared to come into these tunnels—frightened of overgrown rats or getting lost or stray Cull. After a while, it becomes habit to avoid the darkness, to fear it. Strangely enough, this is one of my few sources of comfort. It reminds me of a simpler time, when Serge and I would sneak away to places we shouldn’t—when we would bet each other who could stay above the Sanctuary for the longest. Back when he was a boy who didn’t have all those lines on his face from leading scout missions and watching people die.

  I’ve collected two eggs, tucked them away in a bed of feathers in my pack, when my flashlight falls on a streak of red staining the gray concrete beneath my feet.

  I pause, my legs freezing in place. My heart pounds out a steady rhythm, faster and faster. Suddenly I’m hyperaware of my surroundings. I listen for the telltale sounds of someone, something’s approach, but there are none.
There’s only the drip of water falling somewhere and the sound of my breath.

  My light follows the burgundy smears to where they end. Tucked in the corner of a wall is a rat, maybe the length of my palm. It lies in a puddle of congealed fluid, its dark fur matted and stained. I take a step closer to it. The animal’s insides are pinned apart in an almost surgical manner. No hungry predator did this.

  Something sharp presses to my throat, and I gulp. Fingers grasp my neck. The flashlight in my hand points toward the ceiling, swallowing me in darkness. I can smash my attacker over the head with it and flee; I know my way back without the aid of light.

  And then, as quickly as the blade was pressed to my throat, it disappears. There’s a shuffle of footsteps behind me, and I spin around and fix the light on the other person.

  Lucca’s dark complexion greets me. Shadows fall over his face, and for a moment he looks like the thing of my nightmares, the face that haunts my sleep.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

  He doesn’t move in front of me, continuing to stare with those dark eyes. “I could ask the same of you.”

  “I’m collecting eggs like a good little worker woman, not creeping around as if I were a ghost, like you.” I cross my arms. Maybe to him it looks defiant, but it’s really to cover myself from the chill of his gaze.

  There’s a small smile on his face as if he can see right through me. “A ghost. That’s ironic.”

  He brushes past me. I turn in the direction he went, my flashlight falling on him just as he disappears around the corner. The hairs on my arms rise with a prickle.

  The entire walk back I fight the sensation of eyes on me and refuse to run. I touch the place where he held me on my neck, and my finger comes back dark and wet.

  I push this moment to the back of my mind, hide it beneath the weight of other things I don’t want to think of. There are some answers I don’t want to know.

  Dinnertime.

  Lanterns strung along the stone walls of the Sanctuary brighten the dank sewer. Worn metal of a raised platform gleams in the firelight, imitating the sun’s shine. We gather there—all two dozen of us—between the makeshift buildings and businesses, and we all eat together like one big family. Even though food is scarce, conversation is not. It’s easier than you would think to forget we’re living in the rot and waste of people long since dead.

  Our home is quiet and lonely. Metal bars fortify the sewage drains. People were not meant to live in a place so deep, so dark, but it’s the only place we have.

  At night, the Cull come out, and I can hear their screams sometimes. Most days I can’t decide whether the darkness inside or outside the Sanctuary is worse.

  Tonight’s dinner is different. There’s hardly any conversation, and people pick at their food—cans of peaches, some tuna, eggs from the chickens we raise, and other things Serge and Lucca brought back from their mission yesterday.

  Everyone huddles around the stone slab that is our dinner table. We’re a motley bunch brought together by fate and good timing. For some Sanctuarians, an extra second before the phaser shot would’ve meant a face cleaved open by bug pincers. Others simply wandered into the embrace of the Sanctuary, for she takes all into her dark bosom.

  Their constant glances annoy me tonight, like firewasps landing again and again on my face.

  Jessica, a girl my age, doesn’t hide her stare.

  “What?” I snap.

  Everyone looks up from their plates. I’ve spoken louder than I meant to.

  “Sylvia,” Lucca calls from the other side of the table. His voice rings with authority.

  I hate when he takes that tone as if he’s some damn king or something. King of what? Shacks and shit and barely scraping by?

  “Yes?” I don’t look at him. I don’t want to remember the way he looked in the tunnels last night, or the blood on his knife.

  “How’s your arm?”

  Everyone stays quiet, listening.

  My arm is sore, in truth, but the pain doesn’t really bother me. Underneath the dressing, a gash that has already begun to turn brown with clotted blood mars my skin. I’m excited for the scar it will leave behind—another battle wound for my collection.

  “My arm’s fine. How’s your ego?”

  I can hear snorts and soft gasps from around the table.

  “My ego is fine, as well. Thank you for asking.”

  “You’re welcome.” I face my food and begin eating again, signaling the end of our exchange.

  “I think Serge has something he’d like to ask.” Apparently Lucca doesn’t know how to tell when a conversation is over.

  Serge stands, and his fork drops to the floor with a clang that gets everyone’s attention. “Syl, I want you to marry me,” he blurts out, his voice cracking.

  The world stops, or maybe it has ended altogether. Either would be more desirable than this moment. Time freezes, peaches drooping from the fork stuck in my hand.

  I look at him, his blue eyes meeting mine, then at Lucca and back to Serge.

  “What?” I choke. My cheeks have been set ablaze.

  “I want you to be my wife. I want you to have my children,” he says.

  Jessica gasps beside me. I glance at her, and the hatred and jealousy shining in her dark brown eyes cuts me.

  A smug smile resides on Lucca’s face. He knows I hate this, and I’ll bet anything he put Serge up to it to watch me squirm.

  Serge rises from his seat and steps toward me. The dull roar of applause echoes off the stone walls. I haven’t said yes yet, idiots. My head is swimming, the rush of blood buzzing in my ears. Black creeps into my vision, and I blink a few times to clear my sight.

  I don’t want to be with him. This is not the future I saw for myself: to be bred like an animal, for children who don’t yet exist to trap me in this dark place forever. To bring life into a world that is so full of death.

  Panic sears my chest like the slice of a blade as he comes closer. I leap up, my seat flying backward. It crashes off the edge of the dinner platform, the clatter echoing in the cavernous Sanctuary and scaring away a few chickens. Everyone watches me. Their mouths are moving, but I can’t hear anything past the cotton that fills my head.

  I move to escape when a cold, sweaty hand grasps my wrist. I twist my arm, but the grip holds, and I turn to see my captor. It’s Jessica, her brown eyes lit with an accusatory fire.

  “Sylvia, you must go with Serge. It’s your duty as a woman. This is a happy day. The state of the world—”

  I yank my arm so hard that Jessica’s hand slips away and she tumbles into the man sitting beside her. Her wide eyes gape at me, and her mouth morphs into an angry frown.

  “Do not speak to me of duty.” My voice is ice. I meet Serge’s guarded stare, picking my next words so that they are appropriately hurtful—so that he’ll abandon whatever he feels for me. “I will never be with you.”

  I see the moment the poisonous barb lodges in his brain. There is defeat in his gaze, in the slump of his shoulders, and the slack of his chiseled jaw. Things will never be the same between us.

  I cannot stand to be here one more second. The blackness of the Sanctuary presses down on me, the thickness of it clogging my lungs. I need air, air that doesn’t stink of waste and mildew.

  I leap from the tall platform and land in the stagnant puddle below, splashing muck on my clothes and face.

  To my left is the sewage duct through which we leave on scouting missions. The iron gate is locked, and Lucca keeps the key. I slip between two of the bars, thankful for the meager meals that caused my thinness, and hoist myself onto the ledge that follows the length of the sewer. I’ve run this route hundreds of times. I don’t need light to find my way to the surface.

  Thirty paces down and to the right is the ladder that leads to freedom. I force my body up the rungs as though there are Cull seething at my feet instead of hiding in the shadows above. The manhole cover is hefty but slips away with ease.

  Am
ber sunlight washes over me, warming me as I pull my body free. I gulp the air, reveling in the purity and lightness of it. Above me, the three planets fill the sky.

  Afraid that someone might have followed, I step out of the manhole.

  I don’t know where my legs are taking me, but I let them lead the way.

  Syl

  should not be here. The sun wanes behind the buildings, and soon night will come, and with it, the bugs.

  On scouting missions, we check the sun’s position religiously. During the day, it’s easy to spot a stray Cull sneaking up on you. At night, though, they lay in wait in the dark recesses of the city. They set their traps in lightless corners and small spaces, the tiny hairs that cover their bodies sensitive to the footsteps of any unfortunate soul passing by. They blend in with the darkness and come out in droves.

  And at night, they can see everything. The sun blinds them, but in the darkness they thrive.

  My feet lead me deeper into the maze of streets and jungle. Self-discipline is the only thing that keeps me from leaping at every creak and pop, every ablak’s bleat and kryak’s growl. I keep my hand close to the blade at my thigh, just in case. Kryaks keep to themselves, but their sharp claws and mercurial, feline bodies are nothing to take lightly.

  If I look past the threat of death waiting in every shadow, I can see how beautiful the city is. I would give anything to see it shining in the night like a star again.

  I’ve heard my share of war stories from Sanders, stories his father told him. Elite City was once a fearsome thing to behold, its expanse stretching farther than the eye could see. It glimmered in the darkness like a jewel, reflecting every color imaginable. People walked the streets without fear. They inhabited these buildings before the windows shattered, before Kepler’s plant life took over again, before everything became a rusted skeleton of what it once was.

  Only ghosts remain. Their beds are where they were before the End came. I have seen them, unmade and stained with old blood, just like that sign sunken in the marsh. Papers still scatter their desks, yellowed from the passage of time. This city will never light up again. It, too, is a ghost, kept alive by stupid, hopeful children’s stories.