Condemnation

by Kell Inkston

  With a few indignant nods, Clare begins taking steps through the home again, at least for the sake of retrieving her bag and getting out of the water. She winces with the first movement, listening out for anything that might catch onto her noise— but she doesn't hear anything, so she heads on. She rounds back to the entry room and starts up the stairs, the weight of the water dripping from her boots as she struggles to ascend.

  With muffled, wet steps, Clare reaches the second floor of the forlorn home— its walls covered with pictures and mementos of the family that once lived here, all drained out with age. By the looks of them now, she'd say they look more like a family of ghosts than people— only the fainted silhouettes of their faces visible after all these years.

  She creeps through the upstairs, looking for clues that could help her piece together this mystery she's been dropped head-first into— and eventually finds her way into the study, noted by the comfortable reading chair, desk, and short cases of volumes. A far cry from the old books of the library she loves so much, with their aged vanilla scent, these books are all mildewed into barely-legible heaps of sealed knowledge— the delicate pages joining together like grayish bricks of paper and ink. Clare makes a quick attempt to open one and ends up tearing the book's binding in half. She makes the most of it, however, and flips the two sides to look over the revealed pages.

  It's all unreadable. The ink and paper have fully merged into one another, and it’s just smudges and grainy paper shavings remaining. With a sigh, she sets the book atop the rest and turns for the desk. Her brow raises upon seeing its sliding front closed and locked. She glances about for a key but forgets herself and her situation quickly. Her curiosity is strong, after all. She reaches into her rucksack and draws up her knife. Thankfully, it’s of a full-tang— all-metal, very dense construction— so it doesn’t break when she haphazardly jabs it into the lock right before smashing her boot into its grip. There's a loud crack from the impact, and the knife impales cleanly into the rusty lock. She has to wriggle it about after that— but she has it open in under a minute.

  Pulling up the front compartment, she finds a journal, in far better shape than the books on the shelves. With a winsome, almost smug smile, she gently flips it open to the start. The journal belongs to one Marnoff Laneson, and the first pages identify him as someone who "works on the automatons”. At the top left of each entry is the date it was made, starting with a “316-04-12". Clare raises a brow at the proposed date. However they recorded time back then is fairly close in date to now— currently being the three hundred and nineteenth year since Everhold's foundation. She spends a moment musing over what they could have been counting back from... that is, unless someone was actually here with this journal only three years prior.

  She retrieves her knife, leaning back into the desk's chair and looking over the journal. She reads over the long, slanted handwriting of the man who wrote the entry. After the first entry however, she decides to skip to the end— because anyone would in this situation— and turns to the very last written page. Eerily enough, the date, "319-7-15" is only a few months off of the Everhold calendar. Today's 319-08-22, after all— so it’s a little strange that they're so close. She winces at the thought, but supposes it could be possible that her mother wasn't the very first to cross over. She thinks back to her brief history class, during the nationally-required youth education before her chosen subjects: about the evil, sexist, deadly Separationists, clawing to find any way out of Everhold.

  She shakes her head. What stupid people they must have all been. If Everhold is a prison, it’s a wonderful one. Either way, perhaps this is what the Separationists were looking for. With anticipating breaths and a hope against hope that there's someone else down here with her, she turns her attention back to the entry.

  This is what she reads:

  "319-7-15

  Entry 491:

  This is it, I suppose. Humanity is doomed. No posterity awaits this journal— only a slow eternity out in the nothing of time. No one will ever read this.

  - FUCK.

  I don't even know why I'm writing... but, of course, I do know that it’s always calmed me down. ( Thanks, Teach.)

  I can't believe we fucked up this bad. No— it’s not even us though, is it? Those fucking machines, so fucking stupid— I wish I knew sooner so that I could have stocked up. I feel like an idiot now. I knew we were running low— but the academy was about to open up the royal reserve, just before the breakdown. Why did it have to go like this instead?! All I wanted to do was build goddamn autos in peace. I loved my job— and now the very same shit I created is going to be the end of me; stupid fuckers. If I can't figure out how to get to some damn food, soon– But then, what am I waiting for anyway? You know what? I’ve settled it— yeah! I'm going to fucking do it. I'm a goddamn engineer, after all! I solve problems every day. I'm not going to sit here anymore and die just waiting. Goodbye, journal. I'll write the fuck out of you once I'm back. No shitty robots are gonna stop me from getting my goddamned food!

  Marnoff OUT.

  (P.S. A lot of folks have started seeking shelter and resources in vacant homes. In case someone is unlucky enough to be reading this now and hasn't heard, let me leave you with a piece of advice: take Agriculture Street and then a left down Granary in order to hit the reserve. That's where everyone with the balls to do so is going. Take control of the life you have left. Good luck, whoever you a-

  "

  Clare draws back at a sloshing noise resounding throughout the proximity. From the distance and the nether, she is able to detect something running. Reflexively, she takes to her feet. This immediately causes a loud, grinding screech as her chairs' legs slide across the floor. Clare has made a mistake.

  - Chapter 14 -

  The rushing noise halts briefly, then promptly draws near to the property. Clare holds her breath, in the hopes that perhaps whatever it is won't come inside. After all, she reasons, Mister Marnoff's journal entry didn't make it sound so bad within the buildings. No sooner does the hope cross her mind however, than an unceremonious crashing sounds off downstairs. Clare immediately realizes that she can't expect them to play by the rules.

  She dashes out from the office and makes her way into the furthest room from the noise’s source, looking to be a bedroom of sorts. With the din of the unknown pursuer climbing the stairs clear on the air, she shuts the door behind her and pushes a nearby chair under the knob. It should buy her just long enough to figure out what to do.

  "Do not worry, human," a droning, slurring, ancient voice enters from the stairwell at the other side of the door, "I will escort you to the granary," it insists, the emphasis on certain words clarifying it’s status to Clare as another automaton. It must be incredibly advanced, Clare thinks— that it can not only track her from so far away, but also speak coherent sentences. This one’s quality of speech is beyond any she’s heard; this one's voice is far louder, far clearer, and way more unnerving than Carrie’s.

  "St-state directive!" Clare yells out from the bedroom, eyeing around for something to deliver her from this situation.

  There's a brief clicking noise from the other side, also far louder than Carrie's. "To escort humans to the granary. There is a starvation curfew in effect. All humans must gather at The Reserve to receive rations. Please surrender any additional food you have and come with me."

  Clare doesn't waste any more time mulling it over in her head; her gaze is locked onto the window. That's her way out.

  She rushes to the sill and pushes her gloved hands into the shutters, easily releasing the lock and swinging them open the same moment that the automaton smashes through her makeshift barricade. Looking down, she sees the dark, flooded streets of the unknown city— but behind her is far worse. She doesn't even spare a glance over her shoulder, but pushes her right boot into the windowsill to launch off. She leaps with all she has for the roof of the next house, and latches onto the siding with a slap. She scrambles up the roof, regaining her foot
ing on the slime-slick shingles and simultaneously turning to her six to look upon the automaton.

  The machine is half-destroyed, its chassis skull torn askew, with its managraph symbol glowing in a horrifying, saturated green— though under her blue-tinted light, it becomes a powerful, delirious cyan. The auto stands where she was just seconds prior— unmoving, watching her with its single, arcane “I’m on” symbol: its frontal managraph projection. This projection functions both as a way for automatons to perceive their world, and as an indicator that it’s active. She knows it can't actually see her with it in the classic sense— but the way it turns its head towards her, it certainly seems as if it can.

  "Do not worry, miss— you are in a state of distress," it explains to a trembling, though very relieved Clare, "I will provide assistance." It starts back to the stairs with a slow, measured trot.

  Clare scoffs through her mask, sounding more like a muffled bark than anything. "Assist yourself in getting the hell away from me, jerk," she retorts with a smug tone.

  Her victory is short lived, however— for just as she throws an overconfident, rather rude gesture the machine's way, it reaches the end of the second floor hallway and turns around. It’s getting a running start. She knows that it is impossible, that an automaton couldn't possibly lift itself off the ground in the form of a jump— but as the derelict auto rushes down the corridor into the bedroom, there's something about its sheer confidence that tells Clare otherwise.

  She starts back, sliding across the incredibly slick rooftop— watching, in sheer disbelief and contrary to her education, as the auto smashes its right foot into the sill. Completely destroying the aged ledge in the process, the auto is propelled out the window and sent slamming into the next roof over. Its hands do not slip, but simply push so hard into the shingles that they crumple under the impact and form handholds.

  Clare's been inching back this entire time already, but now does it with even more fervor. She'd sooner jump off than let that thing grab her— but she's so high up now, and she can't even comprehend what could be lurking below. With a horrified expression, she peers on from under her mask as the automaton struggles to pull itself up and regain its footing.

  "Do not worry, miss. You are in a state of distress," it repeats, like the crackling of a burning coal. "I will provide assistance." It gets up and starts for her once more. It’s the very first time she can feel a clear, murderous intent coming from someone— even if that someone just so happens to be a thing.

  "I don't want your assistance!" Clare shouts. "Stop!"

  The automaton continues forward, each step smashing its feet into the roof with certainty.

  Clare's hit by some of the slimy debris as she inches to the very, very tip of the same roof.

  "Stop!” she repeats again, “I don't need assistance!" She cries out with her knife raised, hoping there's something inside the auto's programming that will pull itself away at those words.

  Nothing slows it down, unfortunately, and it carries onwards in a slow, impacting tread— now passing the halfway point of the roof.

  She knows she has to make a move while she still can. Lifting herself up with a shaking, wavering balance, Clare turns to look over to the ledge of the of the next home over. She takes a deep, fleeting breath, and jumps. The girl angles her boot just right into the corner of its frame, throwing her just far enough to land gracelessly on her stomach— hanging on for dear life. Scrambling for a hand-hold, her knife comes in use at a surprising time. Gripped firmly in her right hand, the blade clicks between two of the shingles and provides her with the slight amount of leverage needed to get herself up the roof. Wheezing through her mask, considering the mere fact that she's still breathing a triumph, Clare looks back with a readied, alert gaze.

  The automaton is walking back slowly to the edge of the other roof now. She's seen this trick before.

  With a sharp turn and a blink from its managraph, the auto rushes forward once again with a confidence she's never seen in any man— let alone an auto. The smashing steps impact the roof even deeper, sending splinters and ceramic flying with every new foot strike. Like a locomotive from hell, the automaton runs forward with furious, paramountly-focused movements— right to the tip of the roof, where it adamantly pushes down all of its weight. This time, however, it’s not so lucky.

  In a turn of fortune that seems to be becoming less and less frequent for poor Clare, the auto's weight pushes past the boundary of the rafter's allowance; in an instant, the auto is plunged downwards through the core of the structure, buried beneath a wave of old wood and mildew.

  Clare collapses onto her lower back in sheer, overwhelmed relief. She turns off the light and lies still along the roof, her muffled breathing steadily slowing as the excitement eases off. She's already so tired; she can hardly believe that her stamina is so pathetic. Of course, she realizes, a whole youth of said stamina not being tested is probably what gave her such a skewed view in the first place. She shakes her head and cuts a mild, satisfied smile.

  Then she hears shuffling from below. She doesn't even need to check to know that it’s the automaton— nor does she have the will-power left to do so. Maybe, if she is very still, it will lose her trail and forget about her, she pleads. Sure enough, the automaton soon pulls itself out from the wreckage of the now-half home— and begins lumbering directly back toward her present location.

  Her heart again takes up its mad cadence as she hears a few choice steps back and forth, as if it’s pacing, thinking. She holds her breath as best she can.

  There's a long pause— and then the next round begins.

  Clare feels a jolt as the sound of industrial composite meets the pathetic rot of her home's outer foundation. With a gasp, she immediately squirms into action, making her way up further along the roof— the same exact moment that said roof begins tilting downwards. She glances below and beholds the automaton— drawing its fist out of the completely destroyed corner beam of her dilapidated perch. She knows what's going on the moment it starts over to the next corner and prepares to repeat the action.

  This is it. She's got to get off. The girl scoots up to the side across from the automaton's third beam— right as the blast of splinters arcs up into sight. She spots her next house just in time— a full two-meter jump. The home tilts fully toward the auto, and the rest of the roof comes with it. In that moment, Clare uses all she has in order to right herself over the edge of the roof— locking her boot's heel gap and thrusting forward in a single fantastic leap of faith.

  Then she slips.

  Perhaps the saturation of wet mold prevented proper traction of her boots, or perhaps she was simply too tired to keep it together; regardless, she's met with the same fate. She misses the edge of the roof. However, her face does at least catch the opposite windowsill. Her mask takes most of the impact— but when the rich, coppery taste of blood hits her tongue, she knows that's not the only thing that took a hit.

  She plummets into the water— its already familiar chill providing an agonizing shock anew— and pushes herself up once more. With a muffled, wheezing cry, she stumbles into a wall while attempting to regain her bearings. It’s hard to run, she suddenly notices— maybe a little too hard. There's a sharp pain in her left ankle— and her vision, fogged with an eldritch concoction of vomit, sweat, blood, and live water— forms over her mask's lenses like a sort of infernal filter of confused muck.

  Far more like a child than an adult, she trips along the side of the wall— trusting her senses of touch and hearing to guide her away from the automaton. In a twist of fate, however, the machine’s characteristic clumsy gait is now notably faster it was before. Its almost as though it were acting previously and has just now decided to show her just how hopeless she is. Perhaps it’ll break into a sprint.

  The steady, trudging steps of the auto glide it through the water at a slow, but certain pace— forcing forward through any impediment toward its current goal.

  "Do not worry, human, you are
in a state of distress," it says a third time, its tone decisively lower this time as it rears up on the impeded, bloodied, tired, cold young lady. "I will provide assistance," it adds firmly, reaching forward.

  It hurts so much to move— but Clare knows she has to. Calling on her first reserve of energy, the girl does her best to ignore the shattering pain that's now shooting up her leg. With a tilted, crazed stride, Clare rushes past homes and storefronts; soon, the automaton's footsteps steadily fade out into the distance. She doesn't ask herself why it isn't running after her, and she doesn't care to know right now. All she wants is to get away.

  She runs, and runs, and runs in the darkness. The automaton's sloshing continues to grow quieter and more distant with every ticking moment. She passes street signs and auto dock stations. She runs on in a crazed, clueless evasion— as if she is a mouse fleeing from a cat that has its scent. She has to go on until she is absolutely certain that it couldn't possibly pick up her sound input again. Finally, she can only hear her own body pushing on through the mess. She wants to keep running— she knows it’s the right thing to do— but it hurts beyond any words she's ever learned during her lifetime. That special human something keeps her going— but even that must surely have its limits.

  The safer she feels now, the more her mind turns to how much it hurts to run. In the end, she could have ran hours more— but the power of the mind supersedes anything the body is capable of. Clare slows down to a relieving trot, the feeling almost curative in its relief— and then she spots, from within the bare, creepy silhouettes, an alley. If she feels around enough, she can find her way. It’s worth not having the light on, if it means she can avoid being found again, after all.