 
# Fiction Vortex

A Speculative Fiction Typhoon

August 2014

Volume 2, Issue 7

Edited by Dan Hope & Mike Cluff

Copyright 2014 Fiction Vortex

Cover Image by David Revoy

Cover design by Dan Hope

Website: FictionVortex.com

Twitter: @FictionVortex

Facebook: FictionVortex

#  Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

Short Stories

The Death-Wish — by Max Kalender

A Place Without Monuments or Endings — by Elliott Langley (Editor's Choice Award)

Black Road — by L. Nicol Cabe

I'll Go With Her, but Not Yet — by Sean Ealy

Book Review

Talus and the Frozen King, by Graham Edwards — review by Jon Clapier

About Fiction Vortex

#  Letter from the Editor

We like to think of ourselves as emergency preparedness instructors. Specialized ones. You see, we don't worry about the stuff that other doomsday prognosticators talk about, (government overthrow, rising sea levels, oil shortages, zombie plague, etc.). Instead, we're trying to give examples of what to do and not do in specific scenarios.

Very specific.

For instance, in this issue, we cover things like coping with a pending alien invasion when you've forgotten to feed your cats, or how to deal with loved ones after a ghostly apparition has implied that you will outlive them all, or even how to deal with the ruthless boss of a child mafia ring in a city of magic users.

Don't you feel more prepared already?

As an added bonus all these instructional scenarios have been written as compelling and fascinating narratives. Because why should the painful and horrific end of all we hold dear be a drudgery to read about?

So lift up your chin, dear reader, and enjoy these stories with the full knowledge that while your neighbor might outrun you in the zombie apocalypse, you'll know how to create adequate defense perimeters during an attack from unidentified flying objects.

Whirling Wishes,

Dan

Managing Editor, Voice of Reason

Fiction Vortex

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  The Death-Wish

by Max Kalender; published August 5, 2014

Danny tripped on a broken cobblestone and almost crashed right into a businessman sipping coffee. She barely recovered, using her forward momentum and one well-placed foot to hurl herself over and upwards, crashing through the air like a violent bird. She hit the ground again and kept running, pounding down the street as fast as she could. She could hear the caster boy shouting behind her, telling her to stop, to come back, to hand over what she'd stolen. If she hadn't been so out of breath, she would have laughed.

 The faded half-mask had twisted slightly askew over her eyes, blocking her peripheral vision; she snatched at it with one hand as she careened across an intersection and almost ran into a street sign. She clutched the parcel with numb fingers as she lost herself in the maze of alleys just off Sarsein Street, taking random turns and doubling back repeatedly, desperate to lose her pursuer. Left, left, through a courtyard, right, back door, left. She couldn't remember his name, but she'd seen his face on the local duty roster. Not a specialized thief-taker, thank all the gods, but that nasty, hissing search-spell he had was almost as bad.

He was only fourteen, just a few years older than she. Better fed, too, since he'd kept up with her this far. Danny tucked the stolen spell firmly under one arm and slid through a grating, scrambled over a low fence, and found herself staring at a dead-end alley. "Oh, perfect," she muttered, spinning to see how long she had to escape. If she got caught, she was dead.

The sun simmered through the smog overhead, coaxing drops of sweat from her back and forehead. The mask was stifling as she tried to catch her breath. Just when Danny was starting to panic, she stopped and cocked her head, quizzically glancing back at the dumpster. This alley was so cut off from the main roads, the dumpster hadn't been emptied in at least two weeks, judging from the drifts of garbage piled around it. And the smell. Especially the smell.

Danny dove into the heap of refuse, burrowing into a noxious pile of fetid leftovers. She'd stuffed the parcel under her shirt, using two hands to claw her way deeper and deeper into the garbage until she was entirely submerged. Even if the caster had gotten a good sniff of her when he'd surprised her behind the spellbrary, her odor was masked so completely he'd never be able to find her now.

She waited under the filth for at least three hours, determined to lose him for good. It was agony, stewing in the slippery, decaying dumpster, enduring the wet burps and slithers of the settling refuse and the warm liquid that slowly filtered through the debris. The mask filtered none of it out, even after she stretched it down to cover her mouth and nose. It felt like years, or longer, but every time her throat closed with the stench and she felt she had to breathe clean air or explode, she reminded herself that she was out of options.

Her head spun from bouts of holding her breath. Almost done. The next time the city clock chimed the hour, she'd allow herself to move on to the next phase of her plan. She still had plenty of time to get across the river to Tower House. After she bleached her hair and burned her clothes, she thought grimly. There was no way she'd ever dumpster-dive again. At least, not this week.

Hisssssss. Tap-tap-tap.

Danny froze. Tap-tap. Tap. She'd concentrated so hard on the thought of escaping the dumpster that she hadn't noticed the sound at first, but there it was again. Someone else was in the alleyway.

She heard the scrape of leather on stone, precise and deliberate. The footsteps traveled past the dumpster and to the dead end, then stopped. A searing, acrid smell cut briefly through the reek of the garbage smothering her — a sharp, angry, chemical sort of smell that made her blood run cold. The smell came in waves, growing stronger as the distinct footfalls drew closer. A harsh whisper sounded in a language she had never heard, grating sharply in her ears even through the metal sides of the trash bin. The final syllable was almost a shout, matching the last, burning spike of the smoky scent, and Danny's eyes widened. Someone was using magic right next to her, and it did not sound friendly.

If she moved, whoever it was would surely hear her. Was it the same caster from before? The voice sounded different, but she wasn't sure. She slowed her breathing and tried not to move at all, eyes closed so the blackness surrounding her was complete and she wouldn't need to blink. Angry, strong-sounding magic in the random alley where she was hiding with a stolen spell? Not a coincidence. She wondered who else was after the parcel she held and gripped it even tighter as she willed her stalker to disappear.

A small, tattered wisp of spell came off in her hand as she hugged it to her chest, so light that at first she ignored it. But then another came loose, and another, coating the palm of her hand with feathery vellum scales. Was it ... shedding? Danny wondered how long it had been doing that, and if it was hurt at all. It was such an old spell, and she had been a little rough with it this morning.

Her throat closed suddenly. Lancin would surely notice if there was something visibly wrong with the spell; he always knew. She swallowed hard at the thought of his reaction, screwing her eyes shut.

She couldn't afford to worry about it now, not when she was hiding. The other magic-user was only steps away from the dumpster. Besides, Danny thought, if it really was damaged, visibly or not, very shortly she wouldn't need to worry ever again. About anything.

She blocked the thought before it could get any further, and quietly took a breath. Probably nothing was wrong. Probably. She relaxed her grip fractionally, still tense as a wire, and started counting silently. Tap-tap-tap.

The man in the alley was still there, pacing restlessly back and forth, as if he were lost. Danny prayed that whatever magic he was using was broken. Or needed to be updated. Anything that would make him leave so that she could hurry and get out of there.

A dribble of something cold and fizzy slid underneath her mask and down her forehead, dripping from an abandoned can above her head. It inched at a snail's pace, stinging her skin like a scraping fingernail, reaching closer and closer to her eyes. She willed herself not to move, desperately ignoring the instinct to wipe the caustic substance away before it got in her eyes and did permanent damage, but the magic-worker was still too close. He might hear. There was nothing she could do but keep still.

The thin line had just reached her eyelid when Danny heard a quiet, terse mutter. The smell of the other spell winked out instantly. The footsteps, now much louder and less cautious, strode briskly away and turned a corner. Without a wasted movement, Danny swiped the mask and the vicious trickle from her face and subsided, listening, until the footsteps were well and truly away. She waited a bit more. He really was gone.

She surfaced like a breaching whale, sucking in huge gulps of clear air, almost sobbing as her lungs cleared. Her breathing slowed as she glanced around the alley, making sure she was alone, safe for now. The walls of the buildings were windowless and stretched far overhead, shrouding the alleyway in relative darkness. She sniffed warily, eyes darting. The scent was fading, but the person who had cast the spell might not be far away.

As she ran, she cradled the spell in her hands, wrapping it in her grimy mask so that it wouldn't shed any more flimsy bits. She didn't know if it was falling apart or what, but whatever the case, she was running out of time.

~~~~~

Twelve streets, half an hour, and three emptied rain barrels later, Danny snuck quietly past a clothesline and pilfered a sunny cloud-print dress, wadding it under her free arm and sauntering away without looking back, changing in an alley a few blocks down. Her old clothes she stuffed into the nearest oil-drum fire, not even fit to offer in trade, they were so gross. Her mask she regretfully tossed as well, even though it meant she'd need a new one before her next job. It had been completely eaten away where the garbage-juice had soaked through, and she shuddered to think what it would have done to her skin if it had stayed longer.

She looked critically at her feet, sluiced clean for the first time in a while. Luckily it was summer; she wouldn't stand out all that much. She twirled once, watching the soft fabric of the dress bell outwards, and started to skip along the narrow alley to the main roads. Washing off the grime made her feel light as a breath. It was wonderful to be clean.

A weathered statue guarded the exit to the alley, some old city official hunched sinisterly forward over a staff or sword. The details of his expression were long worn away, but the stark silhouette was still disturbing. The gnarled shadows of one stone hand chilled Danny's skin, though the sun was now high above her head. She frowned. Moment over.

She pasted a carefree expression on her face and headed for the Tower House, now dressed like any other kid her age. If she swung through the market on her way to the meeting, she could even snatch a napkin to wrap the spell in before it lost any more of the leafy fragments. For the first time, Danny really thought she might make it.

She had just pocketed the napkin, after inhaling the warm roll it was wrapped around, when she heard it again. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. She looked up, unthinking, right into the bright eyes of a sharply-dressed young man in the red uniform of the city Caster Patrol. She froze for half a second before calling and waving at a point beyond his shoulder, though she felt as if she might fall over. He looked unfortunately familiar.

He didn't know what she looked like, though, she thought, breathing a little too fast. There was no way; she'd been wearing a mask and about half a pound more of street dust. Danny forced her face to remain blank, and wandered slowly until she was out of his direct line of sight. A cracked marble fountain provided decent cover, the taps long dead and festooned with sun-faded signs. She peered nonchalantly back, watching carefully as the caster patrolled the crowed square.

Danny slowed her breathing, wiping sweaty palms on the thin skirt of her dress. She was clear. With the baths, she'd changed scent completely after the garbage, so there was no way he could have known she was the same girl he had chased just a few hours ago.

But still. The spell weighed heavy in her pocket, and she stroked it carefully, wincing as another shard flaked away, caught inside the wrappings. That must be why, and how, he had followed her. She wondered if he even knew what it was, or just that it was stolen.

Danny glanced at a passing wristwatch and walked casually away, quickening into a run after she turned the corner. If her spell wasn't leaving a trail of breadcrumbs anymore, and his own magic had clearly failed, he wouldn't be able to follow her this time. Danny ran faster, just in case. One way or another, it was almost done.

She wound her way deeper into the shady side of the city, departing sunlit cobblestoned streets for broken brick alleyways and forgotten dirt roads. Tower House was an ancient property in the oldest part of the city, and all the ways that led there were crooked.

The crumbling stacks and turrets loomed overhead, clawing with flanged fingers at the now cloudy sky. Danny slipped through the long-rusted front doors and crept back into the dim interior, wishing the whole day were already over. She hated the meetings normally, but this one would be even worse.

The veiling spiderwebs in front of the dilapidated staircase were newly brushed aside; clearly Lancin had arrived before her, as usual. Her small mouth tightened as she began the long, creaky climb to the top floor. Almost there.

The top floor of Tower House had once been a library, decades ago when people had lived here legally. Now the dark-wood shelves were empty and rotted to pieces, and the dust on the walls was so thick only the outlines of the frames delineated between painting and wall. A fireplace at the end of the long, high room suddenly flickered to life, and Danny flinched minutely, eyes darting around. She still couldn't see Lancin at all. Her hands knotted and unknotted in her stolen dress as she walked slowly to the other side.

"Danny, my dear," said a low, velvety voice. "Has it been a whole week already?" Danny only remained still through sheer force of will, hands clenched into fists in the folds of her skirt. "Yes, Lancin," she replied woodenly. "I'm here." A single drop of sweat rolled down the back of her neck.

"Excellent," the voice continued, and was this time accompanied by the speaker: Lancin faded up out of the shadows by the fireplace like a ghost, pale skin briefly made translucent by the flames. "I'm so glad you've come punctually, this time," he said. He smiled down at her. Her lips trembled only slightly, but she did not smile back.

"May I have your report?" He sank slowly into an ancient armchair, folding his hands in his lap to hear her week's work. Danny stood up a little straighter, feeling like she was about to recite for a test she had not studied for, and opened her mouth. At first, nothing came out but a squeak, but she squared her shoulders, remembering the spell in her pocket, and spoke.

"This week, I nicked seven watches and thirteen wallets, two pairs of earrings, and one ring on a chain only yesterday," she said, recounting the details of the pieces as Lancin's watery eyes fairly glowed with greed. "Like you said last month, sir, the cash and the smaller pieces are hidden in the new gargoyle spy hole, to be delivered in three days."

He nodded once, spindly fingers scribbling the details down for his records. The delayed delivery system took more time, but was harder for the authorities to trace, if any of his players got picked up. If they were stupid enough to talk.

He glanced curiously up when she finished reporting. "And that, ah, _special item_ I asked you to acquire for me?" he inquired, voice deceptively mild. "Do tell me you didn't forget, dear child," he said, as he tucked the notebook away and stood up, once again silhouetted in front of the eerie fire.

Danny gasped despite herself and shook her head frantically, fingers fishing in her pocket. "No, no, sir, I didn't forget," she said, stumbling over her words in her haste. She grasped the spell and pulled it out slowly, still wrapped in its yellow linen napkin. "Here," she whispered. "Just like you said."

Lancin eyed it appreciatively for a moment, before extending one impossibly long arm to take it from her. Her skin crawled where his fingers brushed hers, but only for a second. As he withdrew, the spell began to glow softly blue where he held it, filtering coolly outwards through the pale fabric. "Yes," he said, the fingers of his other hand fluttering around the wrapping. "This is it, the real thing."

Danny held her breath as he began to unwrap it, peeling the thin layers aside delicately like the petals of a flower. The napkin had been bigger than she thought, so it took Lancin a few moments more until it gleamed unhindered in his white hand.

The spell had been larger when she snatched it from its niche in the wall of the archives this morning, but it looked fresher now, somehow, not degraded. Like the bits that had flaked away were just the wrappings on a present, and this was the real magic inside. She held her breath, eyes glued to her master's face. He didn't look suspicious at all.

The spell, miraculously renewed, was beautiful in the firelight. The magic's blue light lit Lancin's delighted face as he leaned in to look at it, shining so bright she could see the exact moment his expression began to change.

"No," he said. "What is this?" He looked sharply up to glare at Danny, eyes suddenly and violently dark with anger. "What did you steal?" he cried, reaching out to grab Danny. But he missed her neck as she spun away, only catching the collar of her dress. Danny saw the light grow a little stronger, and she craned her head up to look him in the eye. For the first time all day, she smiled, shaking.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Is that not the spell you wanted, sir?" Knuckles white at the expression on his face, she watched as the light grew and engulfed his hand, trapping it firmly inside the expanding reach of the spell. The blue glow oozed under the skin, tracing its way upwards through his veins like dyed cloth. Lancin swore and tried to move, but for all his struggles was frozen in the stance. His skin began to grey at the edges, stiffening and gleaming like marble. He screamed, voice raw with anger and fear. "What have you done to me?"

Danny wrenched herself out of his grasp, tearing the collar a little. She backed away, almost breaking and running, but stopped. Turned back. Met his eyes. She crossed her arms and planted her feet, though her lips still trembled slightly.

"Something permanent," she said, and watched his eyes widen. She took a deep breath, let it out again, slowly. The glowing blue tracery had moved under his dusty suit sleeves, still working its way inward. Soon it would reach his heart.

~~~~~

Long after Lancin had ceased to scream and struggle against the magic's grip, Danny stood and watched him. Her green eyes drilled into lifeless grey ones, searching for any hint of movement. The spell had winked out with the last of the deadly light, but its cheery yellow napkin was still clutched, permanently, in the smooth gray stone of Lancin's left hand.

The sun dripped slowly down the sky, warming the shadows of Tower House as the city clock tolled the evening meal. She started at the sudden sound, blinking and then stretching out the kinks in her neck. The fire had died.

She turned to go, the feathery feeling of earlier in the afternoon suddenly sweeping over her again. Danny smiled, ignoring the creaks and groans of the ancient staircase as she scrambled recklessly down and out into the light.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Max Kalender is a freelance fiction writer and artist, straight from the wilds of urban Texas. She grew up with three younger brothers, and as such was steeped in sword-fights and action sequences from a young age. Years of absorbing stories in every form, from Pixar movies to picture books to classic lit and everything in between, further inspired her to create her own multidimensional story-worlds. In high school, she attended the Pixar/VanArts Story/Animation Masterclass, which only stoked her imaginative flames. Currently, she is pursuing a double Painting and Creative Writing Bachelor of Arts at Union University.

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  A Place Without Monuments and Endings

by Elliott Langley; published August 12, 2014

Winner of the Editor's Choice Award, August 2014

I didn't feed the cats.

Out of all the horrible things I have experienced today, that is what I want to tell you the most. I guess it's almost funny when you look at it: The world is going to hell, and I'm sorry for leaving your cats hungry. I swear there should be a law against a stomach left rumbling on Judgement Day.

And the funniest part is that I am so damned sorry for not giving them food before I left your place this morning. I don't know, I guess I was just in a rush to make the train or something, maybe thinking about picking up a sandwich on the way, where I was going to get my cup of tea before work. You know, the usual inane crap that goes around in my head. But babe, I'm British; you can forgive the necessity of tea in my morning ritual, right?

 That was only this morning, you know. It feels like months have come and gone since then. Everything felt as normal as anybody expected it to; the sun rose, the night ended, and nobody had any inkling as to what the day would bring.

You were already long gone by the time I woke up, that horrible boss of yours dragging you in to work when there was no reason why you couldn't spend another thirty minutes in bed with me. I can't even remember leaving the flat. The bed is probably still unmade; the dishes are still in the sink caked in last night's ravioli. I didn't do any of the things you asked me to before you left. That note you left on the fridge, one of those little checklists of duties you leave me? Yeah, I didn't do a single one.

And now I'm telling you that I am sorry. I am sorry I didn't clean your apartment before I left, I am sorry I didn't say goodbye properly, and I am sorry I didn't feed your bloody cats.

There's noise coming from outside, even over the music I've got playing. Revving engines, screaming, crashing sounds, the occasional wince of shattering glass. Every now and then I swear I can hear laughing in amongst it all, and for some reason that sends more fear through me than anything else has so far. The first time I heard it I looked out the window. I still wish I hadn't.

The TV is on, but I've turned the sound down. Every now and then I put the pen down and look over at the news coming in, letting my eyes drift over the headlines and feeling the knife in my gut sink a little further. "Panic rises as the UN remains silent,"was the last one I remember seeing.

I'm at a loss for what to say about all this. In the movies they always have the lead actors spinning off deft descriptions of the apocalypse, as if they have a gland buried away under their skin that produces perfect little limericks. But to be honest, babe, I'm coming up short.

I've been sitting at my desk in my little studio attic, my _closet_ as you call it, for at least an hour now. It's taken me this long just to start writing. I wanted to come up with some fantastic piece to tell you exactly what it feels like to be at the edge of the world and to stare down into the abyss; but to be honest, I would be lying if I said it felt like anything at all. Every now and then I feel a passing wave of hysteria lurking behind my eyes, threatening to spill out like an overturned milk bottle.

You always were so clumsy. The amount of times you've spilled drinks in the apartment, it's no wonder you keep asking me to clean up after you. If things were different I could find it in myself to feel annoyed at you for it, but right now all I can do is laugh.

~~~~~

It's almost dusk outside, a deep brooding orange. It makes me want to crack open a beer and take it to the balcony, to watch as the world falls apart. I wish you were with me.

The newsreaders are mouthing at me that there have been Monument sightings over San Francisco and Boston. There's a fuzzy, low-definition photo they keep showing us, a grey pixelated shape poking through the clouds. It could be anything, a still from some low-budget film, and yet it's sticking acupuncture pins in my nervous system. I wonder if you are seeing the same thing as I am, wherever you are. Maybe you are staring at a screen somewhere, seeing the same hazy shot being broadcast throughout the States.

I don't know.

I don't want to watch the news, but I know in some way I am obliged to. Really, I have to, it would be nothing short of irresponsible to ignore what is going on. It would be like turning your back when God showed up on the day of the Second Coming and saying, "Nah, I'm busy pal. Can you come back later?"

Part of me is wondering why I am not out there looking for you, joining the crowds tearing through the streets of America, of the world, looking for whatever or whoever it is they have lost. I always found it funny when you would say "America and the rest of the world," as if there was a divide between the two. And I suppose there is, continentally speaking. Doesn't mean a thing now though; we're all going down.

~~~~~

I don't know when we started calling them Monuments. The phrase just got bandied about somewhere in the madness of today. I reckon it would be a trending topic on Twitter by now — hashtag-we-are-all-screwed-big-time — if the Internet hadn't gone down an hour or so ago. It's funny, life without the Internet again; it's like we've regressed back into how life was in nineteen-ninety-eight. No MP3s, no downloads, no social media. I keep going to turn on my laptop like it's a compulsive tick. We're completely reliant on television again, and I bet even that won't last much longer.

There are a couple new photos coming up, a little clearer than the first. They all show the same thing, shots of ridiculous great monstrosities hanging above the photographer like the underside of a great boot about to stamp down on us. The Monuments are so damn big I can't even really grasp what I'm seeing. The clearest image is from quite a distance away; the perspective gives a decent view of the thing. It's like an enormous hammer held above the city, hovering in the clouds, about to fall and smash it to pieces.

Are you seeing this, honey? Of course you are, they're everywhere. This is how it ends. I don't know where you are, but I know you're seeing the same thing. If you're seeing anything at all.

The point is, I didn't feed your cats like you asked me to, and now there will never be a time when they aren't hungry. They will die without food in their bellies when the end comes, and that is my fault. I suppose I could run out the door and across town back to your place and give them a pouch or two, though why stop there? Why not give them five? Give them a gourmet blowout on the end of days.

I keep thinking about the bottle of Jack Daniels I have under the sink, the one I slid behind the pipes and never told you about. I could just drink myself stupid like I used to in the old days and sleep through the whole bloody affair. Yeah, that's what I do. I run away when things go wrong, just like I ran from you when everything fell apart between us. I know you still blame me. I know I sure as hell do. You know, babe, the world may be ending around us, but that doesn't even come close to what it was like losing you.

~~~~~

Monuments sighted over Dubai, London, Berlin, Honk Kong, Quebec, the Sahara Desert. This stuff is getting real now. They're showing us actual footage, handheld shots filmed on camera phones and tablets. Awful, impossible grey things poking their heads out through the clouds like curious animals roused from sleep. I wonder if anyone's figured out why it's overcast in so many of these cities today. Maybe it was written in the Bible somewhere that Judgement Day had to be as thoroughly depressing as possible.

Well, you succeeded in one thing, God; you've got me smoking again. There goes thirteen years of recovered lungs and lowered blood pressure, improved fertility and fresh breath. You know, babe, cigarettes may be one of the largest causes of death in the world, but damn they feel good.

I'm rambling, aren't I? You always said I liked the sound of my own voice. Truth is, I like words. I like the way they roll off the tongue and the way the muscles in my face feel as they curve around different phrases. I know you could never understand why I kept writing even after I landed the job at the publishing house, why I didn't just give up and focus on the dream job now that I finally had it, but — I know I'm a failed novelist, but that still makes me a wordslinger and I fully intend to draw my shooter one last time.

In my mind you're cringing at that last sentence.

I just took a look outside, a breath of fresh air. The sunset's gone now, and the clouds are rolling in. The sun might have disappeared, leaving us all to our ultimate fate, whatever that might entail. Nothing pleasant, I imagine.

~~~~~

Images of Monuments are flashing over the TV screen. I wonder how long it will be until one pops through the clouds here and looks down at us with ambivalence. I never imagined an alien invasion would be so bloody formal. There hasn't been a single death threat, an issue of domination, a message of occupation, nothing. There's no real indication anyone is even piloting the things. What I wouldn't do for a giant squid to flash up on the screen and tell me it wants my property.

If that happened I'd probably just offer it a cigarette and maybe a Jack before it tears through my apartment or reduces me to cinders. Assuming that is what's going to happen. That way, at least whatever or whoever comes after us can't accuse me of inhospitality.

~~~~~

Hard to believe life seemed normal twelve hours ago. The first broadcast came just after one o'clock, just as I was finishing my lunch in the office. They tried to brush it off as weather anomalies and strange meteorological activity. Then mysterious objects entered the atmosphere, UFOs in the sky, panic erupting. You know all this, babe; you've seen it, wherever you are. Hell, maybe you're even writing a letter like this one as I speak. Maybe you're telling me about the horrible things you've seen.

Who am I kidding? You never wrote a single word for pleasure in your whole adult life. About the closest you came was on our first anniversary, when you wrote that little lick of love in my card, rhyming couplets and all. I never told you then just how much that meant to me, to see something come from your heart and soul and not processed from your cerebral interstices. That you had tapped into something pure and untouched and given a piece of it to me in the form of the most, frankly, terrible and derivative prose ever committed to paper.

You won't believe me, but that was the single most beautiful piece of writing I ever read. Because it was probably the most honest thing I have ever heard come from you.

~~~~~

Monuments sighted off the coast of Greece. They're taking place over the Arctic too. It's not just populated areas, they're saying. The Atlantic Ocean, even the Australian Outback is getting the Monument treatment. Whatever they are doing, you can't say they aren't being thorough about it. You and your analysts would probably applaud them for their strategic implementation.

The point of the writer is to make people believe in lies. Every line of fiction, no matter how autobiographical, is a lie. None of it has ever happened. I'm not writing this down to make anyone believe this ever happened. And no, I don't possess the hubris to think that I can take the role of some poet laureate for the End of Days. But if something survives this, and I hope to God it does, then at least there will be the single account of one particularly neurotic, defensive, romantic individual to refer to.

I keep looking out the window and wondering when I'm going to see it coming through the clouds. A little while back I walked onto the balcony with a peppermint tea and watched the crowds below as they rushed to flee the city, cars jammed together, flocks of people sprinting around aimlessly, sheer and utter panic. At one point I saw another man from the apartment building across the road doing the same thing as me. He was an old boy smoking on a joint and laughing as the world went mad, and then he noticed me and gave me a tip of the hat. For a minute I thought the hitching feeling in my chest was me catching a dose of his giggles, until I realised it was the sound of my own silent sobbing.

~~~~~

April is the month where everything gets better. The long-forgotten memory of the sun becomes something less imagined. There is the hint of warmth in the air, buds on the trees, squirrels in the park. Things seem better.

It's an injustice that the world had to end on such a fine day. We barely said goodbye this morning. I don't think I even kissed you. I was too conscious of my atrocious breath to even give you a quick peck on the lips. Now I will never be able to do that again.

I wish I knew where you were, babe. I wish I could find you. I keep ringing your phone and getting the no-dial signal. I guess the network's down, just like the Web. Or maybe you're ignoring me. You were always so good at doing that, all those weeks after Maria when you wouldn't return my calls...

Sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned her. I have a good mind to cross that last sentence out, but I just can't.

I did come looking for you, you know, after the first broadcast. Took me half the afternoon to get across town, what with everyone going crazy. I tried calling your work; hell, I even tried to get through to your moron of a boss. I will never, ever understand what possessed you take a job with that firm. That was the day you stopped being my girl. You transformed into some kind of financial advisor android. Who knows, perhaps the aliens kidnapped and cloned you. Maybe you're even up there now, leading the fleets like some kind of mad banshee queen.

Yeah, I'd like to see that.

You weren't at your apartment. I knocked and knocked and you didn't answer. The worst thing was that I could hear Klaus and Emma raking their nails against the door, trying to get through. If you had left me a damn key like you said you were going to I could have gone in and fed them. How's that for irony? The one thing you ask me to do and I can't do it because you don't trust me enough.

I waited for over an hour, sat crumpled against the door with the sound of your cats howling on the other side of the wood, hoping I'd look up and you would be there. A couple of people passed me by, asked me what the hell I was doing and I just looked up at them and asked if they had anything better to do.

I should have just kicked the door down. For all I know, you could be in there now, holed up and waiting for the storm to pass. You could have been in there while I was knocking, sitting against the other side of the door with only the wood between us. Keeping quiet, afraid of who or what was out there.

Yeah, like the aliens would knock. They didn't knock when they opened up the sky and barged through.

~~~~~

I don't know when I decided to go home to my flat. I don't know why I thought you would be here, why I thought you'd come to my little _closet_ and wait for me to show up. It took a monumental effort — note the pun, darling — to lift myself up from that carpet and come back here. It was all I had, all I had to cling on to, that you might be at my place instead of yours. By then the subways were out of action. I had to walk the whole way across town to my squalid little neighbourhood.

You should have seen it, babe. You don't realise how fragile our little world is, how thin the threads are that hold up our capitalist nation. You show people a few pixelated images of fuzzy shapes hovering above the world and they see it as an excuse to revert into cavemen. There were people fighting in the street for no reason that I could see, and it wasn't a Hollywood brawl with clean punches and smacking sound effects. No, this was bloody, brutal animal savagery, men and women snorting and grunting like pigs as they lay into each other. Men who were still in their suits and ties from work looting from stores, flatscreen TVs tucked under an arm like an art portfolio. I had to stop myself from shouting "What the hell do you need that for?"

It's amazing how quickly the world can deteriorate. I had to keep my eyes down as I pushed through the streets, afraid to make eye contact with anyone. All of a sudden it was like being back in England; it was not that different from being in a nightclub at two in the morning.

At one point I made eye contact with a girl, maybe seventeen years old, looked like a college student. She wore big oval glasses and a straw hat with a daisy tucked into the side. She was walking in the other direction, her eyes red with tears and wide with fear and exhaustion, worming through the crowds to get to wherever she was going. And _bang_ , all of a sudden I've been pushed into her and I've nearly knocked her over. And do you know what, she looked up at me like I was about to rape her, her skin white and eyes frozen in terror.

Me. Docile, clumsy, dreamy old me. I held my hands up and tried to smile.

"Hey, it's okay," I said. "You're all right, I didn't mean to shove you."

But all she could do was look at me in fear, even as she paced away she kept her eyes locked on mine just in case I might follow her. All I did was accidentally bump into her. She must have looked at me and seen a guy in a cheap suit with long hair and a scruffy beard, and thought I was everything her parents warned her about.

We are all so scared of each other babe. We're always made to feel like we're safe, like there's someone out there looking after us, a god or politician or rockstar who will tell us what to do and look out for us when things go wrong. Then the Monuments show up, and there's no one. We're just left to scrap on the streets like dogs and wait for the end to come.

~~~~~

I'm on my ninth cigarette now. I've turned up the sound on the TV set, just for the company of another human being's voice. Monuments over Yemen, Canada, Scotland, Czechoslovakia.

There is footage coming in from Boston showing helicopters going up to get a better look at the Monument. These things are huge. Are you seeing this, babe? It's like a giant cigar hovering in the skies, a bloody great grey metal cylinder floating vertically over the ground. There's no insignia or markings on them, just long lined indentations running down their surface. No engines or power source that I can see. No one seems to know what's keeping them airborne.

More and more are arriving, entering the atmosphere and lining themselves up with incredible precision. It's like a perfect array of needles, about to drop into the planet and burst it like a balloon. I keep looking outside and wondering when ours will show up.

You cannot imagine what it felt like to find you weren't here in my apartment, sweetheart. By the time I made it across town the sun was already close to setting. The neighbourhood was all but abandoned, cars left in the middle of the road, houses with doors left wide open. Everyone tried to get out the city. I'm still wondering when the zombies are going to show up.

I was so sure you would be here. When I pushed the door open and found my apartment empty, I crumpled to the floor in a ball and wept. I wept and I wept because I knew that was it, no options left, the end of the road.

Game over.

You ridiculous woman, why couldn't you just stay put? Are you out there now, looking for me? Maybe you were smart; maybe you left the city and went for the countryside. Maybe you are safe. Maybe you're already gone, perhaps you're with Maria now. Maybe the two of you are reading this pathetic letter over my shoulders and giggling at each other.

Maybe.

~~~~~

It's arrived.

Oh my God, baby, it's here.

It is _huge_.

You should see this thing. I can't even process what it is. The base of the cylinder is wider than the entire city; I have never seen a single object take up so much mass. I am trying to write what I'm seeing, but my hand is shaking so much I'm not sure how much of this is going to be legible. The whole world has gone awfully silent outside. Either the city is empty or everyone is huddled up inside too afraid to look up at the Monument.

I've moved outside and I'm sitting on the balcony, my notepad perched on my knee. I am barely even looking at what I'm writing; I can't take my eyes off this thing.

It is an oppressive matte grey. At first I though they were made out of metal, but these things look more like stone up close. It looks so near I could touch it, but the perspective is all out of focus. When I look out at the panorama of the city even the tallest skyscrapers are miles out of reach of the Monument.

The base of the cylinder is ringed with indentations. It looks like an old gas stove or the top of a tin of beans.

You should have seen this thing when it arrived. Right before the TV cut out there was footage coming in from Washington as the Monument there took its place above the capital. New York, Tokyo, Moscow. I would not be surprised if Easter Island had its own Monument by now. I thought we were going to get off lucky, slip under the radar, and then the signal went dead and the bastard arrived.

Have you seen what I've seen, sweetie? Did you see one of those things push the clouds apart and penetrate the sky? Did you feel the pressure in your head as the space above was taken by one of those monstrosities? Did you feel the titanic earthquake as it descended through the heavens and took place above the city? My flat was shaking so damn hard I thought the whole building was going to come down. I've never experienced anything so ... violent.

And now it's doing nothing. It's just sitting there. I don't know how long we have left, baby. The phones are down, the TV, the Web. There's only me now. The streets are empty, barely visible from here; the whole city is under the shadow of the Monument.

Whoever decided to call them that? What are they monuments to? Us? Planet Earth, humankind? A race of ape mutants, oblivious and underdeveloped, fragile and useless, creative and beautiful, and hopelessly optimistic?

Do they even know we're here?

Is this what it was all for, millions of years of evolution, just to be stamped out of existence by a faceless, mindless object?

I'm trying to be calm here, babe, but it's not working. I'm on the verge of freaking out. There is still electricity here, so I've done the one thing any self-respecting Brit would do: I've put the kettle on.

There's something so wonderfully companionable about drinking tea. It's so gentle and relaxed, compared to your aggressive, overcompensating, loudmouthed coffee. If anything draws the line between you and me darling, it's our taste in hot drinks.

~~~~~

It's so dark out I can't even see the Monument now. The sun must have set, perhaps for the last time. At least for the last time you or I will see.

What were we thinking, you and me? Honestly, what was going through our minds when we first touched lips and allowed our hearts to talk alone? Do you know, I still remember the first time I saw you; you in your floral dress and vintage brogues, dancing under a willow tree in Hyde Park in the midst of spring. You were just lost to the world, shut off from everything and everyone, bouncing around on your feet like you were possessed by everything good in the world.

I knew I was in love with you before I even made it across to where you were dancing. Your chestnut hair. Your soft white skin. Your oceanic blue eyes.

I don't know how you talked me into crossing the Atlantic Ocean for you, nor will I ever believe that you talked me into having a child. Stoic old me without a shred of maternal instinct in his genes, suddenly a daddy. It's such a shame we never got to hold her, such an awful shame. I know we agreed that neither of us was ready to talk about her, but if I don't then I will never have the chance to again.

I am sorry about Maria. It was no one's fault, least of all yours. I guess it was just one of those odd spectres of fate that take children away from their parents.

I'm sorry we never got to see her, hold her, watch her grow.

I wish I knew where you where, babe. I tried to find you; I really tried. I know you're never going to read this stupid letter. I doubt that anyone ever will, but if anyone should survive this horrible thing and stumble upon this worthless excuse for a goodbye, I hope they realise just how much you mean to me.

You can't imagine what it was like when you took me back. I understand why you took the miscarriage so hard. I should have been there afterwards. I just, I just couldn't. I don't know. I'm weak. You needed me, and I ran away. It's what I do. I'm amazed I'm not running now.

Hell, perhaps I'm evolving, right at the bitter end.

You were right to kick me out. The last thing you needed was a drunk stuck in the apartment, sucking what was left of you — of us — like a vampire. I never thought you would give me a second chance. I know it was just a few nights, and we weren't really sure if you were going to let me move back in. I know we weren't sure if we were ready, but it felt magical to wake up beside you again.

I know we never got to work it all out, and now we'll never have a second chance. I know you still can't bring yourself to hear her name, but I want you to know that little Maria would have been loved. Loved by her silly old dad and her beautiful mother. Who knows, wherever she is now she might be laughing about us, out there beyond the stars where there's a place without Monuments and endings. A place where little Maria can be our little girl.

~~~~~

Something's happening.

There are lights in the sky. They just flicked on like a streetlamp. The rings in the Monument's base have lit up like a spotlight, bright white light. Everything's shaking, my flat, the chair, the ground.

It's happening.

The lights are getting brighter. I can't even look at them. All the streets are lit up like a New Year's Eve block party. There are people on the streets looking up at the end. I can see a couple holding hands. Everything is shaking so hard I can't believe they can still stand up.

This is it. I'm going to take my tea and stand at the balcony and watch what comes. I'm so scared I can barely hold my pen. The lights are so bright I can feel heat coming off them. It's like a summer night out here. For all I know this is happening all over the world. Right now.

I'm sorry you never got to read this letter. I tried. I'm sorry for Maria. I'm sorry I'm going to die alone. I'm sorry I moaned about your boss and your job. I'm sorry I didn't feed the cats. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I couldn't find you.

I'm sorry we grew up and forgot things. We forgot each other. We let our hearts stop talking, and we lost our way, but I will find you again, on the other side of the end.

Everything is white. I can barely see. I'm going to stop writing and stand at the edge.

Close your eyes, baby.

Close your eyes and take my hand.

~~~~~

~~~~~

_Elliott Langley is an SF and fantasy writer living in Suffolk, England. He spends his time dreaming, thinking, walking, reading and drinking an inordinate amount of tea. By day he cares for vulnerable adults, by night he has dreams that are more vivid than they have any right to be. His is working on various short stories and a SF novel, which will be the first in a series. His work has been shortlisted for the Aeon Award and his debut novel_ Room 403 _is available to buy from the Amazon Kindle store. Find him online at @Elliott_Langley._

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  Black Road

by L. Nicol Cabe; published August 19, 2014

Dust obscured the sun, the thick yellow haze hung low in the sky. The townspeople lazed under porches, choking for water and fanning themselves. The adults kept saying that it was hot, so hot, hotter than usual this year. Many looked at each other with worried glances, the yellow dust clinging to their sweat and wrinkles, making masks of their fear.

Dylan felt itchy and hot. Inside the cover was cooler, but not enough to endure the dust-roughened whispers around him. He grabbed a cracked, hard-plastic bottle, filled it with cloudy water on the sly, and took off into the waist-high scrub behind his house.

 Just three kilometers past the rear screen door, an old black road, pitted with cracks and dotted with sparkling pebbles, cut through the pale scrub and tipped over both the east and west horizons. Many Saturdays had left Dylan alone and bored, no water to fetch, no chores, no animals to tend, not even any homework. Lately, on Saturdays, the adults had clustered and croaked worried whispers, their children naturally shying away from their parents' ankles.

When he first found the road, he tried walking directly on top of it, but after less than a kilometer realized his near fatal mistake — the sun's angry rays deflected into his eyes, burning his face and hands to bubbling. He stumbled home in a haze of sweat and after-images, and slept for days. His father came in and stayed by his side each night, checking Dylan's forehead, scratching a clear spot in his bearded cheek from worry. Dylan's mother only made sure her third child had water on hand at all times, and as soon as he returned to little boy consciousness with an itch to go back out, she scolded him at length and forced him to do indoor chores for weeks.

Eventually, both his parents forgot about the incident, and Dylan returned to the road. Now, on hot and worried Saturdays, he trekked out to the road and followed beside it in a direction of his choice — but never on it.

Halfway to the road, the beating sun started to hurt his scalp and shoulders, so he sacrificed some water and wrapped his head in his wet t-shirt. The sun was hard to follow with the air full of burnt yellow dust, so Dylan headed west, hoping for a nice sunset. The bulk of his latest sunburn would be on the front of his body, and therefore more obvious, but he promised himself to only stay out for a few hours before turning around.

The western part of the road was rockier than the eastern rivulet, chunks of sparkling black gravel spilling into the scrub. Dylan had formed pyramids of stones at near each kilometer so that he would know when to stop and drink. He had not passed three kilometers down the western portion yet, and doubted he would today.

Burnt husks of trees, warped by wind then torn down, twisted flowing patterns in his peripheral vision. The air just over the black road shimmered in the sun. One kilometer — Dylan stopped and slugged from his bottle. His headdress had dried out, so he wetted just the back, which felt cool against the dry air.

Mirages fascinated Dylan. Penelope, one of the few adults who did not talk down to him, knew everything about mirages. Hints of silvery-cool water, forever in the distance, were really beams from the angry sun bouncing at odd angles off the earth and into the viewer's eye. The black road was especially good at refracting the sunlight. A large pond of shimmering liquid was forever on the horizon. Dylan walked toward it, tilting his head one way, then another, watching the pond grow and shrink. He barely noticed the two-kilometer mark. He spat into the dirt, then swilled water around his mouth.

Pieces of grit dripped into his eyes as he forcibly blinked to make them water. Resisting every urge to itch, Dylan bent over and blinked harder, hoping his tears were stronger than the sand. When he looked up, a black spec appeared on the road's horizon, wobbling against a background of silver mirage-pond.

Dylan leaned over again and blinked into the ground. He swilled more water, and looked up again. The dot was still against the horizon, and it seemed a little closer.

It appeared to move rapidly and with intention, like the dogs rounding up the antelope, but moving constantly toward him. He stood still for several minutes and watched the spot approach. It moved out of the mirage lake and almost merged with the road, dancing in the heat waves.

His pace could not match the speed of the dot, which began to form a human shape. It had arms, he thought, elbows angled out to the sides. It also might have legs, but it was on top of something that might also have been a pair of legs. Dylan thought he should have been afraid of it, so far away from the town's armory and other people.

Sounds began to follow the dot, creaking and groaning like metal against metal. The dot resolved itself into more colors — white, tan, brown, blue. It was a person, on top of a device that Dylan couldn't place. He did recognize that it had wheels.

The person looked up at one point and saw Dylan, raised a hand and waved. Dylan waved back. The device began to slow down, and the person got off it and walked — hobbled, really — toward the boy, head down and shoulders shaking for breath. Squeaking and creaking grew louder as the device and rider approached.

"Who are you?" Dylan said, imitating the barking orders the mayor sometimes gave on work days, when cheery motivation failed.

The person stopped just a handful of meters in front of Dylan, white shirt and tan pants sticking to each limb. A straw hat covered the person's face, but hair fell out of it, twisted into a braid full of fly-aways. Dylan assumed it was a woman.

"I'm Judith," the voice croaked. A sun-redden, leathery hand wiped sweat from her chin and onto her pants. "Are you from the nearest town?"

"I think so," Dylan replied.

"Take me there," Judith said.

~~~~~

The setting sun burned the sky red through the dust haze. The townspeople had cleared off their porches and gone inside, away from the bloody firmament. Dylan spotted occasional small faces peeking through curtained windows as he, Judith, and the creaking metal device made their way through the center of town.

He purposefully took Judith down the main road, so that the entire population could see her coming. She seemed to understand his purpose, and tilted her hat back as they approached the first buildings. Dylan assumed the woman wanted to find the most authoritative figure in town, so he led to her to the mayor's office. Mayor Sandoz swung the door open. He barely stood half the height of his office doors, but his deep, booming voice lent all the authority he needed.

"Dylan, what's going on?"

Before Dylan could speak, the woman stepped forward. "You are the mayor, I presume?"

"Yes, who are you?"

"My name is Dr. Judith Wright. I'm working with the National Meteorological Survey. You should have received a letter about my arrival a few weeks ago. It is urgent that I speak to you, immediately."

Mayor Sandoz squinted further. "I did not receive a letter. We don't recognize ... that nation. Sorry for your trip, please leave—"

"Please," Judith interrupted the mayor — a move that made Dylan and Crystal, the mayor's assistant who peeked over his shoulder, gasp. "Take a look at these papers," she rustled through her saddlebags and produced a sheaf of tattered pages. "Regardless of what you think about the national turmoil, sir, it is important for me to speak with you."

She approached the mayor's front porch, but he barked at her to stop in her tracks. "Dylan," he finally said. "Grab those papers and bring them to me."

Dylan looked up at Judith's worn features. Without taking her eyes off the mayor, Judith gave Dylan her handful of papers. Mayor Sandoz gestured fitfully for Dylan to come up the stairs, grabbed the papers from him, and tossed them in Crystal's direction like he had picked up a rattlesnake. With a disgusted look on her face, fingertips barely touching the edges, Crystal began to skim them. The stress lines around her mouth loosened as her lips parted and eyes widened, then she whispered a few words, quick and clipped, in Mayor Sandoz's ear. The mayor gestured Judith inside. She hobbled up to the nearest railing and leaned her metal device against it, untangling the saddlebag from the back.

Mayor Sandoz looked down at Dylan. "Thanks, son," he said, voice assuming a false warmth that only adults believed. "You can head home now, I bet your parents are worrying about you."

Dylan thought for a moment. "Where is Judith going to stay?" he asked. It didn't seem right to send her right back out of town in the middle of the night.

"Don't you worry about that, Dylan. We'll find somewhere for her to sleep. If these papers are right, she'll need to be here for a while. Now head on home."

Dylan stood his ground. "Penelope could take her in. She could help Judith find her way around tomorrow."

Mayor Sandoz halted mid-condescension. He nodded. "You make a good point, Dylan. I'll have Crystal talk to Penelope. Now, get outta here before I tan you!"

~~~~~

Dylan's mother did not take kindly to the news of the new woman, and how she found the town. Violet and Henry, Dylan's older siblings, smirked at him over the dinner table as his mother lit into him about the dangers of leaving the town. His father looked worried, but said little, and focused on chewing his potatoes. Dylan was dismissed from the dinner table early.

A few hours later, after his mother had time to calm down, his father brought Dylan an antelope jerky sandwich, on the stale crust of the last loaf of bread, with some pickled carrots and string beans. This time last year, they had fresh tomatoes and spinach, but the garden had all withered after the mayor rationed water.

His father placed the plate carefully on the edge of Dylan's bed and sat next to it. He studied his son's face for a minute after Dylan told him thank you and pretended to read his tablet.

"You walked into town with a stranger, Dylan. Where did you run into her?" his father asked, voice low and soft with deliberation.

Dylan stalled by chewing an chunk of jerky. "Just outside of town," he finally replied, but knew after he said it that it wouldn't be vague enough for his father.

"How far outside of town?"

"I dunno. A couple of kilometers, I guess."

"How did you get a couple of kilometers outside of town without getting lost?"

Dylan couldn't think of a good excuse, so he didn't say anything.

"Did you follow the highway?"

Dylan shrugged and asked, "What's the High Way?"

His father looked at him. "It's a long stretch of road. Used to run through this town. It's probably all broken down now. It's made from tarmac and concrete, jet black."

Dylan took another bite of his sandwich. His father sighed again, and pushed the power button on his son's tablet.

"You did, didn't you? You found the highway and you walked along it."

Dylan nodded as he chewed.

"Alright. I won't tell your mother about this, okay? But you can't go there again. It's ... far too dangerous. There's a reason no one uses it. Nothing good ever came down that highway."

"Judith isn't bad," Dylan said. He tried to keep his voice quiet, but his hackles were raised in her defense.

"We'll see about that," his father said, and got up.

~~~~~

Dylan woke up before the rest of his family, slugged a huge glass of dusty water, and grabbed a can of peaches from the pantry on his way out. The sun had barely been up an hour, and already the day was sweltering. Normally, he would have stayed inside as long as he could tolerate, or picked a direction along the black road to explore some more, but today, he wanted to go to Penelope's house before the inevitable crowd began to gather to stare at the newcomer.

He spotted two shadows just behind Penelope's kitchen curtains as he ran up to the porch and knocked on the door. Judith's contraption leaned against the porch railing. The tires were black, like the road she'd come in on, and the framework was an ancient rusted metal, which Dylan could see, through the browned layers, had once been painted blue.

Penelope's freckled, perpetually-sun-reddened face peeked through the door at him.

"Hi Dylan, what are you doing here?" she asked, pushing the door open a little further. Strands of wispy red hair were already clinging to her neck.

"I'm here to see how Judith is doing," he replied, and handed her the can of peaches as a peace offering. She took them and let him scoot past her into her dining area.

Penelope's kitchen table was covered in papers, schematics, wires, and several tablets, which were plugged into a generator that hummed away underneath the table. Judith eyed him over the rim of her glass of water.

"Hi Judith," he said as he sat down. Penelope returned with the peaches in a bowl, sprinkled with sugar and cheese curds, and a few slices of bread.

Judith finished her sip of water, took a slice of bread, and dipped it into the peach juice. "Hi Dylan," she finally said, a note of caution edging her voice.

Dylan decided to mirror Judith's breakfast choices, hoping to show her that he was alright, he didn't want to gawk at her like everyone else had yesterday. He dipped a crust of bread into the peach juice and sucked the soft, sweet remains away. After an adult-length pause, he asked, "That device you came in on yesterday? What is it?"

Judith scooped up a peach slice with a piece of bread and shoved it into her mouth; Dylan mirrored the action, but his slice was bigger than hers and he had to chew furiously to keep it from falling out of his mouth.

"You don't have those here?" she asked, licking sugar off her fingers. Dylan shook his head.

"It's called a bicycle," Judith answered. "There's a series of gears on the back and front with a chain running along them that, when you pedal, move the wheels. It's much faster than walking."

"Can I try it?" Dylan asked. Penelope coughed and caught Dylan's eye. Her pointed stare told him he might have crossed a line of politeness. Dylan stifled more questions with a large peach slice, which did not quite fit in his mouth. The left corner of Judith's mouth twitched up in a smile.

Penelope took a large cheese curd and chewed it thoughtfully, watching Dylan's panicked chewing more closely than he liked. When he was close to done, she said, "Did Judith tell you anything about why she's here?"

Dylan shook his head, but added, to show he knew something about current events, "I would guess it's pretty important if you got a generator from the mayor."

Penelope nodded. "There's going to be a big meeting about it later today at the Mayor's Office. There won't be many friendly faces in the crowd, so we might need you to help us convince everyone that she's here to for a good reason."

Judith took a long sip of water and watched Dylan. He shrugged and nodded.

A pocket-sized tablet on the table gently buzzed against a pile of papers. Judith snatched it from its nesting spot and flicked it on, hand shaking. After some moments of Penelope and Dylan staring at her in silence, she put the device down and pushed her chair back.

"Penelope, let the mayor know I'm ready to meet everyone. I'll gather some things and meet you at his office."

~~~~~

The townsfolk turned out in force, mainly to gawk at the sunburnt newcomer and her creaking metal. The kids murmured their disappointment that Judith was not astride the machine today, and Dylan corrected them by explaining the bicycle and how it worked. It was much faster than walking after all, and maybe Penelope, or Josh the blacksmith, could build a few of the machines for everyone to ride around town. Dylan's mother shushed the idea and shrugged apologetically at their neighbors.

Penelope, Judith, and Crystal leaned against the outside wall of the mayor's office. Mayor Sandoz shuffled some papers in his hands and cleared his throat. He raised a hand and the murmuring buzz from the townsfolk immediately stopped.

"My friends," he said, syrupy kindness entering his voice, his lips spread wide to display his huge white teeth. "As you know, Dr. Judith Wright came into town yesterday on a mission from the National Meteorological Survey. I have spoken with her at length, and she is not here to force our allegiance. Rather, she is here to warn us of a potential tragedy, and to help us."

The murmuring resumed, louder, and shuffling feet kicked up dust. Mayor Sandoz raised his hand again.

"Dr. Wright has been sent to visit towns like ours, to help us avoid the Onslaught. She's going to tell us now what we need to do. I plan to help her, and I expect you all to do the same."

Judith stepped to the edge of the stairs and thanked Mayor Sandoz. She lifted a hand to cover her eyes and examine the sea of faces before her.

"About two years ago, the National Meteorological Survey noticed something on long-range radars," she said, making eye contact with each person in the crowd. "After some analysis, we realized it was relic technology from Pre-War times." She paused for a moment as the frightened murmuring turned into outright argument, borderline panic. When it died down, she began again. "This is a frightening situation, but there are things we can do. Unfortunately, this town isn't very big, so everyone is going to have to work hard for the next few days."

Dylan's mother, who had been muttering to herself behind her hand, shouted, "I remember Pre-War times, doctor. I moved out here to escape that Smart Tech, so my children wouldn't have to know that fear. How do we know your plan will keep us safe? And for how long?"

Other members of the crowd nodded, took defensive stances, and glared at Judith for a satisfying answer.

"Because I've dealt with this before," she replied.

~~~~~

For three days, in the hot sun, every member of the town followed Judith's and Penelope's directions. Young children mixed precious water with dirt, older children hauled reed mats out of houses and handed them to lithe adults, who dashed up ladders and passed them off to other adults, who spread the reeds on roofs and smeared the mud on top. Mothers and daughters swept white sand onto their porches, and yelled at anyone who left footprints in their work.

Dylan was one of the water-bearers, running up and down the main street with a yoke and two buckets slung across his shoulders. When the town ran out of reed mats, he and some of the other boys collected dead long grass under the curious gaze of antelope herds that flicked their soft ears to brush the humans and the flies alike away.

Judith and Penelope spent their time analyzing information on tablets and writing equations on giant pieces of butcher paper. They bickered and bartered with each other in the hot sun on the mayor's porch, with Crystal running back and forth to bring them more chalk or a new generator.

Eventually, their supplies ran out. They had just enough water for the whole town to survive a week, according to Penelope, so the kids stopped making mud. Judith peeled a piece of sunburnt skin off her forearm, but nodded as Penelope explained the situation with supplies. They had not covered all the houses in town, but it would have to suffice. Judith took the three remaining portable generators, and set one of her tablets up under a reed mat in the center of town. It would run constantly for the next week, she hoped, scanning the skies and hopefully deflecting some of the smarter pieces of Smart Tech.

Those who had not managed to cover their houses were instructed to pile their belongings into storage wherever they could, bring any extra food they'd been saving, and bunk with neighbors. Dylan's family took in two neighbor families, the Saro-Wiwas and the Evrards. Both families had two children, none of whom were in Dylan's age range, so he accepted that he would be bored for a week inside. At least his most recent sunburn would have time to heal.

The first wave came late, just after a late dinner of the last of the pickled carrots and some rabbit that Henry caught and smoked. Dylan leaned against the kitchen window, naming constellations to himself, when he caught sight of the approaching pack in a beam of moonlight — bobbing silver spheres with black boxes dangling from them. They moved slowly but steadily toward the town.

"Mom..." Dylan said. She gazed out in the direction he pointed, then turned on her heel and frantically began blowing out candles. Mrs. Saro-Wiwa ripped a tablet from her teenage son's hands and turned it off. Dylan's father threw blankets against the larger windows, and the Evrards closed bedroom doors.

The group huddled in the living room and watched the silent silver parade waft over the town through the tiniest crack in the curtains.

"Are those the balloons?" Violet asked. "They're so much closer than Penelope said they'd get."

"Be quiet, Vi," Dylan's mother snapped, voice gritty with tension. They remained silent as the last of the spherical apparitions disappeared into the distance.

~~~~~

The next wave came just after sun-up. No one in the house had slept well, and everyone crawled out of bed as soon as they heard Dylan pour his first cup of water. As the group quietly began searching the kitchen for breakfast, Chidi, the Saro-Wiwas' barely-six-year-old son, rushed to the window and stared with his face pressed up against the glass. His mother grabbed him as soon as she noticed, but stopped just after she pulled his face away from the pane.

Dylan stopped crunching a string bean long enough to listen — a modulated hum, like a beehive, was getting louder, closer.

"Look at the size of that dust cloud," Dylan's father said, as pale yellow dust rolled through the street outside, obscuring the view.

Dylan approached the kitchen window quickly, while the adults began to close the curtains in each room. A rounded object, four insect-like wings aflurry on each corner of its body, landed on the Evrards' house next door. Another landed beside it, then another, until a swarm sat perched on the roof of the house.

A dull rumbling shook the floor and rattled Dylan's teeth. He ran away from the window and hid under the table. The two younger children in the house wailed, then stifled their cries as the families threw blankets over themselves and hid under furniture.

Yellow dust seeped up through cracks in the floor. A long beam of sunlight peaked through the kitchen window's curtain, and Dylan watched it move across his vision as the humming and rumbling drowned out the uncomfortable coughing and terrified sniffing of the people trapped together inside the small, humid house. When the beam of sunlight began warming the back of his hand, Dylan finally noticed that the buzzing was gone, and the rumbling died down.

Anise, the Evrards' nearly-adult daughter, sprang to her feet first and ran to the kitchen window. Dylan and the Evrard parents were close behind. Their neighbors' house was gone, reduced to a tiny pile of brown brick pieces and white plaster flecks. Anise allowed herself a sob before turning away to clean up the pile of blankets.

~~~~~

A massive wave of silver balloons came the next day, through the afternoon and into the evening. The house was hot and sweaty, as the blankets had gone up against the windows early in the day. No one was willing to take them down, even for a breath of fresh air.

Just as an improvised supper — sauerkraut, antelope jerky, and ancient cans of spongy ham — hit the table, a knock at the door froze the group in fear. Dylan's mother cautiously stood from the table, crept as quietly as she could toward the door, and peeked through a crack. A whispered exchange, and the visitor came in.

It was Judith. She was covered in yellow dust from the street, and wheeled her creaking bicycle in behind her.

"Good, I'm glad to see you're all alright," she said as she pulled her pocket tablet out of a saddle bag and fingered some figures into it.

"Hi, Judith," Dylan said. She looked up at him and a corner of her mouth twitched up.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Wright," Dylan's mother said, after giving her son a squinting look of disapproval.

"We should have about 10 hours before the next wave," Judith said, "I'm making sure the modifications are holding, and everyone is doing alright on food and water."

Mr. Saro-Wiwa shrugged. "We're doing as well as anyone else, I expect. The water's a little dirty and we're living on canned goods." His wife play-slapped his wrist.

Judith nodded. "I can't be sure yet, but I think we only have one more wave after this. The quadcopters destroyed..." She looked around at the stoic faces. Anise bit her lip and gripped her younger sister's hand. "They destroyed a lot of the town, unfortunately, but in another day or two the Smart Tech should have passed over. Keep all your activities at a minimum until then — the Clean-Up Crew is always the smartest."

Everyone nodded. Judith put her mini-tablet away and wheeled her bicycle to the door. As the door opened, a distant rumble — like a cat's purr and a failing generator's growl — echoed off the walls of buildings throughout the town and into Dylan's home.

Judith ducked back inside and slammed the door shut. "Damn," she muttered.

Dylan snuck a peek outside through the hanging blankets. The sun had sunk well below the horizon, spreading a blanket of stars across the sky, and he couldn't see anything other than their twinkling, and the dark outlines of houses across the town, blue in the moonlight.

The rumbling grew louder, with an underlying pulse that shook settled dust off the rims of picture frames. Judith helped the family arrange sturdy furniture into the middle of the room, hiding the youngest children in the center.

Cracking. Explosions. Screaming. Glass breaking and tinkling down the street. Something heavy thudding into the main road. Pebbles bouncing off the house's windows, like drops of rain. A heavy boom more felt than heard.

Even Chidi sat in solid silence as the blasts rolled through the town.

Some time, after the blasts began to fade, or he began to go deaf from the noise, Dylan nodded off in his father's arms.

~~~~~

He awoke in his bed with sunlight burning past his eyelids. His drapes were open to the outside world, for anyone or anything to look into. Before the panic registered in his mind, Dylan had already jumped out of bed and slammed the curtains shut, almost ripping them off the rods with the force of his fear.

Nothing hummed outside. He could hear a few muffled voices outside his window, possibly in the street. Some murmuring as Violet said something to their mother in the main living area. But there were no crashes, no explosions, no rumbling or growling or grinding of engine parts against building material.

Dylan opened one side of his curtain. He gripped the rough fabric as his hand began to shake.

A layer of yellow dust had settled over what remained of the town — a few buildings, crumbled stone, plaster chips, and wood beams, several of which lay across the road, giving the destruction a sense of direction and order. Crystal and Judith stood next to one of the beams, murmuring to each other and taking notes into tablets. Dylan's father and brother, Henry, stood in a circle with some other men, conferring with the mayor, faces pulled tight and rimmed with sweat.

Both the Evrards' and the Saro-Wiwas' homes had been completely destroyed, Dylan saw on either side. Any building that had no cover was gone in a pile of rubble too small to salvage. None of the town's children were out, picking through the debris. Normally, after larger windstorms, the children were the first to pick up scattered trash and belongings, reclaim debris from fallen antelope enclosures or garden fences.

Despite his mother's objections from the kitchen, Dylan slugged a glass of water and ran outside. Several buildings that had been covered were also demolished, but in much larger hunks of twisted metal and brick and splinters. The mayor's office still had one wall standing, but any sign of the roof was gone, glass from the windows sparkled up and down the road, the door torn in half and laying across the pile of the other three walls, as if placed there with care.

The hot breeze blew a hint of dust into Dylan's eyes, which he scraped away with his fingers. His tears made the destruction clearer in his sight, the blue of the mid-morning sky a surreal punch of color against what was left of the drab, off-white town.

Dylan's father placed a hand on his arm, bent over to look into the child's eyes. "You should go back inside for awhile," he said.

Dylan blinked up at him. His father's beard was matted with sweat and dirt, and a tiny cut formed a scab just under the man's left eye. "What happened?" he asked.

His father's classic, care-worn sigh escaped, and he sat on the porch step with some effort. "Dr. Wright thinks the last wave of balloons were smarter than she anticipated. She thinks they picked up her phone's signal as the first wave left, they maybe recognized her phone from previous towns, and followed her as she went from house to house."

"How could she know that?" Dylan asked.

"Well," his father's voice wavered and he coughed. "She says the buildings that were destroyed in the second wave ... were all houses she had visited before coming to see us."

Dylan looked out over the destruction. Debris was strewn everywhere, but the larger pieces of debris were collected at the northern end of town, while the southern end seemed to have escaped with only unoccupied buildings razed.

Unoccupied buildings.

"The people inside..." Dylan started, when his father gripped his arm harder.

"We're doing the best we can," he said, cutting Dylan off. "I need you to go back inside now."

~~~~~

Over days, remains were found and identified. Blankets were donated and a mass grave was dug outside of town. Each name was lovingly inscribed into a tombstone, made from the beams and brick of fallen houses, which was rooted deep into the ground so that no windstorm or Smart Tech event could take it away.

Penelope had died in the final attack. Because Judith had been staying with her, it was the first house the balloons traced her signal back to, and the first to be leveled by drones. Something stirred behind Dylan's rib cage when he saw her name in the tombstone, but he pushed it away. Nothing since the Smart Tech event felt like anything anymore. A dividing line, wider and darker than the black river-road behind his house, marked the boundary between the Dylan before, and the Dylan now.

The townspeople tolerated Judith's help with cleanup with tight lips and shifty eyes. No one felt remorse or loss when Mayor Sandoz announced she was leaving, nearly a month after the tech rolled through town.

The morning was quiet and cool, purple sky fading into pale pink as the sun rose. Dylan woke from fitful but indistinct dreams, events felt in his bones but hidden from his mind's eye. The rubble outside his window had been mostly cleared, but vacant lots stretched into the distance on all sides. He avoided the windows in his house, now.

Violet was still asleep, Henry was helping gather food for the cleanup crews, and his parents were on rubble duty and out the door before the sunrise. Dylan poured a glass of water and nibbled a dried apricot left out from the previous night's desert.

A knock on the door caused Dylan to jump, spilling water from his glass across the floor. When the sound finished echoing through his imagination, he set his glass down and crossed to the front door, opening it enough to see with one eye who stood on the doorstep.

"Hi, Judith," Dylan said as he surveyed the bicycle and the figure attached to it.

"Hi, Dylan," she replied.

"You're leaving town today, right?"

"Yeah, I'm all packed." She lovingly patted the rusty metal beast. "I came to say goodbye, and thank you for helping me ... when all this started."

Dylan nodded but said nothing.

"I've left a monitoring program with Crystal," she said when she realized the depth of his silence. "I hope it will help you see if the Smart Tech comes back."

Dylan nodded again.

Judith coughed. "I bet you could train in it. You could be the official monitor for the town's safety. You're one of the few in this town who even knew about Highway 15, let alone traveled it. You're smart and you'll pick up what to look for in no time."

Judith's eyes pleaded with Dylan for a word. He knew he should have said thank you, or nice to meet you, or some other pleasantry his mother had unpleasantly drilled into him a hundred thousand times before. But none of those words came to his lips. The only thing that came to his lips had been circling his mind for days, picking up speed and echoing now like thunder.

"Nothing good ever came down the highway," he said, and shut the door.

~~~~~

~~~~~

_L. Nicol Cabe is a science fiction nerd of many stripes - writer, playwright, performer. This is her first officially published short story, but she has a novel published in blog form called "Europa Dreams" at_europadreams.blogspot.com _, and will also perform a dystopian sci-fi one-woman show at the Seattle Fringe Festival in September 2014._

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  I'll Go With Her, but Not Yet

by Sean Ealy; published August 26, 2014

The first time I saw the little girl was in the field.

Appearing out of the wheat, she came to me like an apparition, and I almost hit her with the combine.

"What's the matter with you?" I said, wiping sweat out of my eyes. "What are you doing out here?"

Her eyes were as black and as indifferent as the dress she wore, her blonde hair pulled back from her scalp in tight braids. Her skin was the color of winter moonlight. She might have been ten or maybe eleven, but something about the way she inspected me seemed mature beyond her years. Almost ancient.

 She opened her mouth to speak and I felt something cold slide into my mind. That coldness slithered through me like a snake until it reached my heart and coiled there.

"Not yet, Joseph," the little girl said. "You will come to me, but not yet."

The corners of her pale lips slowly rose. Not quite a smile. Her arms hung lifeless, her shoulders stiff. The breeze caught the wheat behind her and tossed it about, shaking those million tiny heads and making them whisper.

"What does that mean?" I asked, but she turned away, back into the wheat, a small black dress against a backdrop of honey. Eventually she disappeared. Two crows burst from the last place I saw her, rising high, ink-stained wings beating at the relentless sky, and then they too disappeared.

I climbed back into the cab and I didn't think about the little girl again until Danny died a couple days later.

~~~~~

My brother Danny was a true farmer's son. Dad made him go to college, but he was back every summer, baling hay. As soon as he graduated, he terminated his affair with the world and was employed on the farm for good.

We weren't the best of friends, but it wasn't always friction between us either. I remember fishing for steelhead down the Deschutes and catching snakes in the alfalfa fields, or twisting off at the quarry underneath an endless summer sky. We worked hard and we played hard and we fought hard in between. That was the glue that made us stick.

Did I love him? I wouldn't have said so until he died.

One thing about my brother, though. He could make Dad's old equipment sing. He was far better with it than I was. Farming wasn't a second language to Danny; it was the only way he knew how to communicate.

It was that reason alone I wouldn't believe what happened to him until I saw with my own eyes.

Around eleven in the morning Dad's old Ford came burning up the dirt road, dust trailing from the rear tires in a cloud. There were only a few things that would take Dad out of the field during harvest. I started across the field, and as I drew closer to the road I saw it wasn't Dad behind the wheel, but Edgar Jenkins, a field hand Dad hired sometimes to help out with harvest.

"Edgar," I said.

"Get in the truck, Joseph," he said. "There's been an accident."

He took his hat off and swiped his dark brow with it.

"It's Danny," he said.

I slid into the passenger seat with my heart in my throat, and Edgar turned the Ford around.

Danny had been in the west field that morning. Nobody could figure what had caused him to get out of the combine and stick his arm in the header while it was still turning, but that's what he did. The thing sucked him in all the way to his waist before it stopped moving.

"They'll be picking pieces of him out of that field for days," Edgar said.

I wanted to vomit, but I stood there like a straw man listening to Mom howl instead. The engine on the combine was still clicking and making noise.

"Somebody turn that damn thing off," my dad shouted. His eyes met mine and I saw the old man was crying too. Danny had been his favorite son, I suppose, and now there was only me.

Later that night, Edgar found me out in the barn, watching a fly circle around the dim light hanging from the ceiling. I couldn't stomach sitting in the house with my parent's grief hanging in the air like some kind of chemical stink. It sounds plain childish, but I felt guilty. Like Danny's blood was on my hands.

"Catch ya dreamin'?" Edgar asked.

He almost startled me right off the stool I had parked myself on.

"What?" I said.

Edgar put a shaky hand to his neck. He licked his lips and swallowed hard, as if he were choking on something he wanted to say.

"You remember how we found Danny," he said.

"Yeah," I said, standing up. How could I forget?

"There's something else, Joe."

"What is it, Edgar?"

"I don't think Danny was alone out there."

My pulse began to throb in my temple. Bang bang, like a steel drum. "What are you saying?"

"I was the first to come upon him," Edgar said. "You know that. The one who found him all cut up like that."

"Yeah." I closed my eyes but the image of Danny's mangled body was tattooed on my mind.

"I saw someone out there, Joe. A little girl. Walking through the field. I think she was singing."

I shook my head.

"I called out to her," Edgar said, "but she disappeared. I thought maybe I was seeing things, you know? But now, well I don't know."

"My brother's dead, Edgar," I said.

"I know."

I wiped my eyes and made for the door. Edgar caught my shoulder.

"I'm sorry for what happened to your brother," Edgar said.

"Me too," I said, and slipped away into the night.

~~~~~

There was a memorial service for my brother at the Lutheran church, an hour of tears and reflection before everyone went back to work. That's life in a small farming town. Danny was liked well enough, and most of the town turned out to hear the preacher speak, but there was still wheat in the fields.

Mom and Dad tried their best to put on a good face, but I couldn't hide the train wreck taking place inside my head. Ever since seeing Danny's body in the field, I was a complete and profound mess. There's a whole lot of time between waking and sleeping, and there ain't no relief when even your dreams are plagued with images. All I could do was think about all that blood.

_They'll be picking pieces of him out of that field for days_.

I told Dad I'd stay on until harvest was over, but after that I was done. He nodded, as if that was the very thing he expected me to say.

"Where will you go, Joseph?" Mom asked me.

"I don't know," I said.

"Will you be coming back?" There were tears in her eyes again, and it made me feel dirty to look at them.

"I don't know," I said, but that one was a lie.

~~~~~

I left my family's farm in the middle of September. I told myself and some of my buddies that I was moving on to the next chapter of my life, but I was running away, fair and square. Running from something I didn't understand, something that haunted me every remaining hour I spent in those fields. An idea had sunk its teeth into me, you see. That little girl was still out there somewhere in those fields, waiting for me. She had taken my brother and if I didn't move on she would take me, too.

I wanted to go someplace that was outside the limits of the small town life I had always known. So I went to Portland and rented a studio apartment with the money I had been saving. I got a job at a downtown bookstore. I filled my little kitchen with groceries, filled my shelf with books, and went to work on erasing every memory about farming and my brother and the little girl in the wheat field. I busied myself with strange faces and exotic foods, letting the chaos of sound and the moving patterns of a combustive city envelope me until eventually I forgot everything. It was all so good.

And then I fell in love.

~~~~~

Sarah Gray came into the bookstore with a stack of books in her arms, piled to her chin. Her expression was so painfully serious I couldn't help but lose myself in it.

"What?" she asked, setting the books down on my counter.

I realized I was grinning like an idiot and put a hand over my mouth. "I'm sorry," I said. "You just look—"

"Like I'm the biggest nerd in the city?" She pushed brown hair out of her eyes with a finger and shifted her weight to one foot. "You think that just because I'm pretty I can't read all of these books? Too many big words, right?"

"No," I said, my grin fading with all the color in my face.

But then she smiled, and I felt my heart take a nosedive. That sounds like a freshman thing to say, but it's the closest thing to the truth.

"I am too pretty, you know." She stuck out her tongue.

I got her number that day. Best thing I ever did.

After a month of seeing each other, she took me home to meet her parents. That was the test, you see. The imaginary line in the sand. If we were to go any further in our relationship, I had to gain the approval of her family. It was the unspoken condition, and I accepted it eagerly.

Sarah's father was in real estate, had done well enough with it to retire early, before the floor fell out of the market. He was a casual guy with a face that didn't betray his age and an open disposition that I immediately felt comfortable with. Her mother was short and warm and had an affection for hugging. They could have been characters out of an all-American novel, and they would have fit in well back home.

Sarah's brother, however, was a page ripped out of a completely different style of book. He was the smudge on an otherwise spotless piece of glass, the watermark on a newly stained piece of furniture. He watched Sarah make her introductions from a distance, clung to the wall like he was a piece of it, and didn't say a word when I offered my hand. His handshake was limp and his palm was sweaty and his eyes hardly left the floor. Whatever was on his mind, I wasn't part of it.

We were swept to the dining room by Sarah's mom where the aroma of potatoes and roast beef had my mouth watering like a dog's. You'd think I hadn't eaten in a century, but the truth was I hadn't even been in the same zip code of a home cooked meal since coming to Portland, and I didn't realize how much I missed it until I sat down at the Gray's table.

"Do you get home often to see your folks, Joseph?" Mrs. Gray asked.

"Not often enough," I said. I was staring at the slab of meat on my plate and something in my expression must have changed.

"Joseph, are you okay?"

Everyone was looking at me, and I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Something unspoken exchanged between Sarah and her father, and I gripped my knee with a shaky hand, suddenly sure that I had blown it.

"Joseph's brother died in an accident," Sarah said.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Gray said. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I said, forcing a smile. "It was a long time ago."

"Not that long," Sarah said. "Not even a year."

Sarah's honesty was raw and sometimes brutal but I loved her for it.

"You don't have to talk about it, Joseph," Mr. Gray told me.

But for the first time I found myself wanting to talk about it. Something about Sarah's parents made me feel safe. So I told them about Danny, and halfway through my story, Sarah took my hand under the dinner table.

After dinner, Sarah and I snuck out to the back porch to watch the sun go down. Her parents had built their house on a beautiful piece of property overlooking the city, and they had an incredible view of the river snaking through the valley below. The sun had broken over the Willamette like an egg yolk, and the horizon was the color of fall leaves.

"You don't mind that I told them?" Sarah asked me. She took my hand and led me to a bench along the wall.

"Hmm?" I asked, and she hit me on the arm. "You mean about Danny? No, I don't mind."

"Good." She turned into the sunset, her face now washed by its daffodil glow. "It's important, that's all."

"What's important?"

"That they know everything about you."

I let that stand a little.

"Don't you want to know why it's important?" she finally asked.

"Yes," I said.

She put her hand over my heart and put her head on my shoulder, still looking out over the valley. Her touch made my skin dance.

"Because I think I love you," she said. "Is that okay?"

"I'm not sure," I said, grinning. She lifted her face to mine and it was as open and vulnerable as the sky in spring.

"I love you, too," I said.

The moment disintegrated when the back door opened. Sarah's brother, Reynald Gray, sauntered out to the balcony without even acknowledging us. He pulled something from his shirt pocket, sniffed it, and cursed. When he finally turned toward us, it was as if he had seen us for the first time.

"You got a light, Joe?" he asked me.

"I don't smoke," I said, looking at what he held between his fingers.

"Figures," he said. He put the joint back in his shirt pocket.

"Rey," Sarah said.

"Ah, don't give me a lecture," Reynald said. He plopped down into the chair next to me and began to drum his hands on his knees.

"Rey," Sarah said again.

Her brother ignored her and looked at me instead. "What's the matter with you?" he said.

"With me?"

"You don't smoke?"

"I don't smoke," I said.

"Cigarettes?"

"No."

"Anything?" His legs moved back and forth anxiously. His pupils, I saw, were bullets. "You a tool?"

"What does that mean?"

"Rey." Sarah said, annoyed.

Reynald laughed. "You probably haven't even screwed my sister yet."

"Rey!"

I didn't like the way this was going, and I didn't like Sarah's brother.

"Don't talk like that," I said.

"Cause it's not nice?" he said, dragging out the last word, mocking me. He sighed, leaning back in the chair. "Sorry, man. I just need to get lit. You know how it is, right?"

"Don't suppose I do," I said.

"Tool," Reynald said. "My sister's dating a soft-headed farm boy."

"Reynald!" Sarah snapped.

"Nah, it's okay," Reynald said, flipping a hand in the air. He sniffed and then laughed. "She doesn't usually go for the country hick type, is all."

Sarah shifted next to me, but I put my hand on her arm.

"I'm just poking fun." Reynald stood up and stretched. "You really don't smoke?"

"I don't smoke," I said.

"You guys are lame."

"Go away," Sarah said.

"Great story about your brother, by the way. He was all mangled up, right?"

"Reynald, that's enough!" Sarah jutted a finger at him. "So help me..."

"Whatever." He went to the back door and then paused with his hand on the knob. "She's spoiled, you know. My precious sister, I mean. She's been in the back seat with her legs in the air more than a few times."

"Good night, Reynald," I said.

~~~~~

"I'm sorry about my brother," Sarah said once we were in the car. "He has some problems."

"With drugs?" I asked.

"Yes, and other things. He's been through counseling but it doesn't seem to work. I don't think he wants to get help."

"What do your parents think?"

"About Rey? I think he hurts them mostly. You know, with the way he acts. But they pretend it doesn't."

I nodded. I knew all about putting on a good face.

"They seemed to like you, though," she said, slipping her hand just inside my knee.

"Good," I said. "I liked them."

"It's not true," she said. "What my brother said about me."

"I don't care."

"I just wanted you to know." She sighed, and I felt her start to pull away. "He likes to hurt me, too. Maybe because I'm older, maybe because he's jealous."

"Hurt you?" I asked. The thought made me sick.

"Oh, not physically. He wouldn't do that. He just likes to play games. With his words."

"Oh."

"I used to be different."

"You don't have to tell me anything," I said.

"I just want you to know that I'm not a bad person."

"I know that," I said.

"And neither is Rey. He's just ... lost."

I thought he was a dick but I wasn't going to say that.

She smiled, and her hand moved further along the inside seam of my jeans. My foot hammered down on the accelerator.

"You're a good guy, Joseph Cook. A real swell peach of a man."

"I've always wanted to be compared to fruit," I said, smiling.

She leaned in and kissed me.

"Let's hurry back to my apartment," she said, and in her eyes the half-lights of the night danced and everything in the world ceased to exist for a little while. There was nothing but her breath on my neck and the faint hum of her last word, vibrating in my ears.

~~~~~

It was my turn to invite her home. It was part of the evolution of our relationship, but I didn't like it.

"Okay," I told Sarah. "We'll meet my parents, and then we'll run away. Those are my terms."

"Those are the terms, huh?" She stuck out her bottom lip. "And what if we get lost?"

"Oh, that's the point," I said. "Getting lost is exactly the point."

~~~~~

_You will come to me, but not yet_.

They haunted me, those words. I had done my best to forget, but they came back to me on the two-hour drive to my parent's farm, a whisper now rising to a scream inside of my head. It was all I could do to focus on the road ahead of me.

Mom met us at the door. Her smile was genuine and her arms immediately went around Sarah's slender frame. It was good to hear her laugh. The year had been hard on her though. Her shoulders sagged and the lines around her eyes were deeper. There was gray in her hair and in her eyes, and I noticed the slightest tremble in her hands when she reached for me.

She called for my dad and when he came in from the back room all I noticed was how thin he was. I sensed in his gaze a distance that would never cease to be long between us.

"Son," my dad said, taking my hand. He turned to Sarah. "And who have you brought home to meet us?"

"Dad, this is Sarah Gray. My girlfriend."

He nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Busy season, son." His eyes flicked back toward me, and then to the floor.

It's always busy season when you live on a farm, but that wasn't what my dad was saying.

"I figured you might be in the field," I said. I felt Sarah slip her hand into mine, and I had never been more grateful.

"Oh," my dad said. His jaw clenched. "I'm around the house more since..."

He paused and his mouth snapped shut as if the taste of those unfinished words was bitter. His eyes bounced around the room and then finally settled on mine. In that instant I knew my dad was sick.

"Why don't we all go inside," my mom said. She put her hand on my dad's arm and led him to the kitchen, leaving me and Sarah alone in the doorway.

~~~~~

That evening I took Sarah out to the barn to show her the horses, but they were both gone, their stalls swept out and empty.

"Died. Both of them."

I turned around and saw that my dad had followed us out.

"Around the same time as each other," Dad said. "Without a symptom."

"That's a shame," I said.

"A shame," Dad said. He nodded, chewing on that word. "You could say that."

"I'll leave you two alone," Sarah said. She kissed me and then left us. Not many times in my life had I felt as lonely as I did watching her go.

I hadn't stood alone in a room with my dad in a long time. Even before Danny's death, we were never close. I could never be who he wanted me to be, although he'd never say that. Not with words anyhow. Silence could be just as cruel as a fist.

"How long?" I asked him.

"Since the horses died?"

"How long have you been sick?"

"Since you left," he said. My fault, his tone said.

"What is it?"

"Cancer. It's in my liver."

I cursed the space between us. If a son can't reach for his dad in a time like that then what good is he? What kind of world is that to live in?

"You tell Mom?" I asked.

"Yeah, she knows." He pulled a piece of straw from a nearby bale and started twisting it in his hands.

"How long do you have?" I asked.

He laughed. "They told me six months, but I already beat that. I reckon they don't even know, them doctors."

"I'm sorry," I told him. I wiped a hand over my face. I wanted to look at anything but my broken father, so I looked at the floor, the bales of straw, the tack hanging from the wall.

When I looked at the window, I saw a face there, staring back at me, just a shadow in the dim light. But I knew who it was. The little girl had found us again.

When I turned to my dad, he was crying.

"You shouldn't have left us, son," he said. He didn't wipe his eyes, just let them drip like he was wringing out his soul, and somehow that was a terrible thing. "You just shouldn't have done it. Not after Danny left us the way he did. Wasn't right."

"He died, Dad. Danny died."

"You shouldn't have left us, is all." He looked at me for the longest time. Then he turned and went away.

When I turned back toward the window, the little girl was gone. Maybe I was seeing things, but I didn't think so.

~~~~~

We had planned to stay the night, but after the conversation with my dad it just didn't feel right. That kind of tension gets under your skin, makes everything inside feel hollow.

"Your family is nice," Sarah said.

I pulled onto the interstate, grimacing at darkness beyond the headlights.

"Nice," I said. "That's not the word I would have used."

"They seemed nice."

"My dad has cancer," I said.

"Your mom told me," Sarah said. "I'm sorry, Joseph."

There was a detachment in her voice that unsettled me.

"Who else lives with your mom and dad?" Sarah asked.

"Just them," I said.

"What about the people working for them? Do they have children?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

Her hands were in her lap, and I could see them working against each other. She shook her head.

"No reason," she said, and turned toward her window.

I did the worst thing then. I let it go. I knew something was on Sarah's mind, but I didn't have the energy to pursue it. Maybe if I had she would still be alive.

~~~~~

Reynald was arrested the next day with an ounce of meth in his bag. Turns out that brother Reynald was into more than anybody in the Gray house had known about.

Sarah called me in tears. Her family was devastated. I don't know how they missed the signs that their son was royally screwed in the head, but what do I know? She asked if she could come over, and of course I said yes.

Two hours later she called again. Reynald was out on bail and they were going to hold a family meeting. A kind of intervention.

"I'll be a few more hours," she said.

"No problem."

"I love you so much, Joseph," and then she was gone.

Darkness fell over the busy streets below my apartment, and with it came the rain. I watched in silence, waiting for a phone call, or a knock at the door, wondering about Reynald and his stupid punk ass decisions and how they would affect Sarah. I reached for my cell twice before actually calling her, but I only got her voice mail. Finally I fell asleep on the couch with the cell phone in my hand.

My ring tone yanked me out of a thin sleep early the next morning. My cell had fallen on the floor and I almost didn't find it in time.

"Sarah," I said. But it wasn't Sarah. It was her friend Erica, and she was sobbing so hard I could barely understand her.

"I wanted you to know," she told me. "I thought you should know first."

"What is it?" I asked. "What happened?"

"It's Sarah. Something happened. Something horrible."

Sarah and her family staged an intervention for baby brother Reynald. They sat him down and he listened to them talk, dealt with their tears and their pleas for him to get help, to be better. He listened to it all silently, and then after they were done he stood up, went to his room, loaded a gun, and then shot each member of his family in the head. Sarah had been the last to die. He tortured her with a knife, and then he put the gun to his own head and spent the last bullet in the magazine.

I terminated the phone call and sat at the edge of my couch, staring at my hands. The silence in my apartment had teeth.

_You will come to me, but not yet_.

I jammed my fist into my mouth and screamed around it. I screamed until sound no longer came out of me, until I was as dry as old bones and my soul was utterly spent.

~~~~~

I had two months left on my apartment lease, but there was no way I could stay there, so I accepted the penalty and took what I could carry in both arms, and I got the hell out of the city. It occurred to me I was running away again, and that no matter where I went heartache followed. That was a kind of death, I think. Like slowly being eaten alive.

I had nowhere left to go but home. Within a couple days I was on a swather again, cutting alfalfa. Dad told me that he had hired enough help for the summer and fall, but I needed something familiar in my hands. When a man's hands are empty and his mind is in a bad place, there's no telling what he's capable of doing. Reynald Gray taught me that.

The fields welcomed me. It was like returning to an old lover. There were hard words and bitter tears and even blood sown into that ground, but there was also a little magic there, and that's what I needed to find.

I made an unspoken promise that I wouldn't leave the farm again, and that was all right. Maybe that's the way it was supposed to be.

~~~~~

Dad died within the month.

I was moving irrigation lines when he went, but I was told that he went peacefully.

Mom cried, and so did I. A man should cry for his father. After the medical examiner took away my dad's body, Mom asked me if I had seen that little girl running through the field. She had a black dress and hair the color of dandelions.

"No," I said. "I didn't see her."

The seasons bled into each other after that. Time is a wheel and we're all just monkeys hanging from it. I kept myself busy, but there were times when the wind would blow at night and I would lay there listening to it, and I would think about the people I loved and the people I missed the most. Little things, you know, details that shouldn't be forgotten. The way Sarah used to bite her bottom lip when we made love. The way Danny used to dance sometimes in the rain. The way Dad used to sing sometimes while washing dishes with Mom.

It's the little details of the people you care about most that remain. These are their ghosts. And they haunt me.

When Mom died, she was eighty-eight years old. She held my hand as she slipped away, and she never said a word about a little girl in a black dress. For that I was relieved.

~~~~~

I'm alone now. Just me and these fields and the voices that come and go with the wind. I've got guys who stay on at the farm now to help, and I would call some of them my friends. But none of them fill the empty places.

I'm fifty-one years old. An old fart. I've never married and I've never fallen in love again either. That part of me I gave to Sarah long ago, and she took it with her to the grave.

I look for the little girl sometimes when I'm out in those fields. She's out there somewhere. Waiting for me.

_You'll come to me, but not yet_.

I'm almost ready, I think.

No one knows how many days a man is given after he enters this world. Maybe somewhere those things are written down, but it's better not to know. There will come a day when I see that little girl, when I hear her call my name, and I'll take her hand willingly enough. Where she goes there are people that I love, and they are waiting for me. I'm not afraid anymore. So I'll go with her, and I won't complain.

But not yet. There's still hay to rake, and the wheat is coming on. And it looks like rain.

~~~~~

~~~~~

_Sean Ealy has been writing since he was ten — when he first discovered an ancient Hermes typewriter in the garage — and he's been lost in the words every since. His fiction has appeared in_ Under the Bed _,_ Jersey Devil Press _, and_ Menda City Review _. Native Oregonian and avid Red Sox fan, he sometimes blogs at_seanealyfiction.com _or you can find him on Twitter @SeanEaly._

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  Book Review: Talus and the Frozen King, by Graham Edwards

Review by Jon Clapier; published August 21, 2014

_Talus and the Frozen King_ by Graham Edwards is a novel set somewhere in the Stone Age with a strong primitive spiritual and magical influence. The main character, Talus, is a wandering bard cursed with intelligence and curiosity. His companion, Bran, is an ex-fisherman/bodyguard who accompanies Talus in the hopes that they can reach the place where the northern lights touch the earth, which they believe may be a gateway to the land of the dead. Talus seeks to find truth; Bran seeks his lost love.

 On their journey to the north they reach a village where the king has been murdered, and Talus uses his skills of observation and deduction to try and reveal the killer. The king left six sons, and they all seem to have reasons to be glad that the king is gone, as well as the shaman of their village and people from other villages.

Suspicion moves from one to the other, and Mr. Edwards does a fair job of integrating a who-done-it mystery into a Stone Age/fantasy scenario. The reasoning is logical, there is an air of suspense, and he writes the story well enough to be a pleasure to read.

Those who like mystery or fantasy or even historical novels of the age should enjoy _Talus and the Frozen King_. There are many details of life in a pre-historic culture that are skillfully woven into the story to give a nice feel of authenticity. The main characters are likeable and unique.

I have only one complaint about the book, and that is Mr. Edwards has a tendency to shift the point of view of the characters constantly. There were times I wasn't sure who was thinking what about whom. Some parts I had to re-read to be sure. But other than that, I enjoyed it.

While this novel would never be a replacement for Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes or Conan by Robert E. Howard, if you are looking for an entertaining read that contains elements of both those ends of the spectrum, you may enjoy Mr. Edwards Talus and the Frozen King.

(Back to Table of Contents)

#  About Fiction Vortex

Fiction Vortex, let's see ...

A fiction vortex is a tornado of stories that pick you up and hurl you through a barn to find enlightenment on the other side. It's a whirlpool of fascinating tales so compelling that they suck you in, drag you down to the bottom of your mind, and drown you with incessant waves of glorious imagery and believable characters.

Nope.

A fiction vortex is an online speculative fiction magazine focused on publishing great science fiction and fantasy, and is run by incredibly attractive and intelligent people with great taste in literature and formidable writing prowess.

Not that either. But we're getting closer.

Founded in the 277th year of the Takolatchni Dynasty, Fiction Vortex set out to encourage people to write and publish great speculative fiction. It sprang fully formed from the elbow of TWOS, retaining none of TWOS's form but most of its spirit. And the patron god of writers, the insecure, the depressed, and the mentally ill regarded Fiction Vortex in his magic mirror of self-loathing and declared it good, insofar as something that gives writer's undue hope can be declared good. Thereafter, he charged the Rear Admiral of the Galactic 5th Fleet to defend Fiction Vortex down to the last robot warrior.

Now we're talking.

Take your pick. We don't care how you characterize us or the site.

Fiction Vortex focuses on publishing speculative fiction. That means science fiction and fantasy (with a light smattering of horror and a few other subgenres), be it light, heavy, deep, flighty, spaceflighty, cerebral, visceral, epic, or mundane. But mundane in a my-local-gas-station-has-elf-mechanics-but-it's-not-really-a-big-deal-around-here kind of way. Got it?

Basically, we want imaginative stories that are well written, but not full of supercilious floridity.

There's a long-standing belief that science fiction and fantasy stories aren't as good as purely literary fare. We want you to prove that mindset wrong (not just wrong, but a steaming pile of griffin dung wrong) with every story we publish. It's almost like we're saying, "I do not bite my thumb at you, literary snobs, but I do bite my thumb," but in a completely polite and non-confrontational way.

We've got more great stories online, with a new story twice a week. Visit our website FictionVortex.com, follow us on Twitter: @FictionVortex, and like us on Facebook: FictionVortex.

(Back to Table of Contents)

