AFTER [the light]
125Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPs4UCrc1WI
Bubbles. The gurgle of air moving up inside a water cooler. It echoes, as if I'm inside the five gallon drum of water.
I'm weightless. Floating.
I can't feel my surroundings. No breeze. No cold. No heat. It's an environment without an atmosphere. A planet without gravity.
It's also dark. Pitch dark. Which is pretty unsettling, on top of everything else.
Then, I see it. Not here, in the darkness, but in my mind. Windshield of my dad's car being shattered as it slammed into the asphalt.
My heart rate jumps, throbbing painfully in my ribcage, a muted tump, tump, tump joining that eerie bubbling sound.
I was thrust into a strange kind of terror, back there in the car. The terror of unknown things, things I hadn't understood. Things I still didn't. And on top of that, I now have to deal with the horror of this sensory void I find myself trapped in.
I open my mouth to call out. But instead of words, there's just gurgling sounds. I can feel the bubbles this time, brushing against my nose and forehead on the way up. There's more of them, because I'm actively using my lungs rather than absently breathing out through my nose.
Mystery solved, I guess. But only in a vague way that just introduces more mysteries.
I've been breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose this whole time, I realize. This makes me self-conscious of my breathing apparatus. I can feel it, now, in a way I couldn't before, because it was just there, and had been for some time, in the same way that you might use a word all the time without ever actually hearing it, until one day you are drawn to the strangeness of it, the way your lips have to move as it travels off the tongue.
There's a pipe. Inside my throat. I'm pretty sure it goes all the way down into my lungs, or something. It's slim as it enters my mouth, through a rubber mouth-guard thing, clenched between my teeth. But then it widens out into something like a vacuum tube, pressed hard against the walls of my throat.
An image pops up on the projector screen of my mind. That scene in The Matrix, when Neo wakes up in the vat.
I'd prefer a more lighthearted example, like Luke in the Bacta Tank, or the Saiyans in their healing pods in Dragonball Z, but my heart's not in it at the moment. Right now, I'm feeling 'Neo'.
The good news is that this is probably just a weird dream, or a bad trip brought on by hallucinogens, or something. I don't like the implication that my senses are disconnected from reality, and that I don't have any bearings or control, but the upside is, I can just ride it out, and eventually it will end, and things can go back to being normal.
Semi-normal.
The point is, reality will eventually re-assert itself. I have to believe that.
In the meantime, the pipe in my throat, now that I'm aware of it, is becoming markedly uncomfortable, and the complete darkness is starting to get to me.
I get the idea to swim around in this fluid I'm encased in, see if there's anything I can grab onto, interact with.
I tilt forward, stretching my legs behind me and reaching out with my arms.
Before I can get my body horizontal, both my feet and hands press against something. My feet are covered, maybe in some kind of shoe. But my bare hands are dealing with a smooth, hard, concave surface. The inside of a glass cylinder.
So it is more like a Bacta Tank than a Matrix submersion vat. Though, I'm having trouble finding much encouragement in the thought.
Braced against the glass, I maneuver in a circle, feeling for...something. A button? A handle or lever?
I take a breath, and bubbles escape from my nose, making the cylinder feel like the inside of a water cooler, again. But then, there's another sound too. It's muffled because it's coming from outside the tank. It's a whirring, blaring sound. Like an alarm.
Okay. Unnerving.
I continue to rotate, still unsure what I'm looking for. Whatever I'm doing, it seems better than just sitting and waiting for the unknown.
C'mon, c'mon-
Light. Sudden, blinding light. A small crack at first, right down the middle of the glass. Expanding. A barrier sliding open outside the tank. Revealing the world beyond. The next phase of this psychedelic episode I can't seem to escape.
It takes some time to adjust. I close my eyes, then open them just a crack. How long has it supposedly been since my eyes were exposed to anything outside this dark tube?
There's a grinding hum, making the fluid vibrate around me as the barrier continues to recede. As it pulls back, it also descends, leaving me completely exposed in...
Well, I have no idea where I am. But I'm not alone.
My tube is elevated on some kind of platform. And it's not the only one. At a glance, there are a good dozen other tubes, lined up in rows, each one with its own person floating in the fluid, like fetuses in the womb, with breathing tubes for umbilical cords. A dark, skin-tight material covers their bodies, stopping only at the wrists and from the neck up. There are a variety of different body shapes, skin tones, and hair colors. Each tubular resident appears calm, barely moving, hair floating about the head in a gaseous way, like a nebula. I get the impression they're all still asleep. All but myself.
Though my immediate impression was of bright, unbearable light, there are lots of shadowed corners and gaps in the space, despite the intermittent rows of square, palm-sized lights, sometimes shining up from the floor, other times beaming down from the low ceiling. There are no windows, and no doors—at least, from where I'm standing. Or floating. There's an industrial, utilitarian vibe to the room. It's not bright, or colorful, or pleasant to the eyes. It is only what it needs to be—whatever that is. Or needed, as I can't shake the feeling this place was abandoned at some point. I can see a waist-high console at one side of the room, with buttons and levers and dials, and a black, blank screen, but there are no chairs, and no coffee cups left about. Thick populations of dust hover about in the cones of light.
Wait. There's something else. Moving between the shadows. Slow. Steady. Meticulous. Low to the ground, with six thin, tensile legs that extend and retract in length like pistons.
My heart makes a flying leap up into my throat, like it's trying to clamber out through the breathing tube.
It's a robot, is all it is. But there's more to it than that. In some ways, it resembles the walking, self-balancing robots the military's been developing. The ones they show off in viral videos, where they try to trip them or knock them over to see how they'll adapt. Part of the charm of those videos, though, is the fact that the robots themselves look stupid, and frankly, pretty harmless. This one does not. It’s not a prototype, engineered with an attitude of wonder, exploration, and discovery of what’s possible. This is a tool, built with a specific function in mind. It moves with a purpose, using its skittish, spider-like appendages.
A camera rotates on top of its body, like a periscope, scanning its surroundings. Sitting next to the camera is some kind of attached cylinder, running horizontally atop the robotic creature.
There’s more of them. Three or four, weaving amid the tubes, scanning with their little cameras. Meanwhile, a warning siren continues its wail, emanating from somewhere in…well, whatever this is supposed to be. I don’t think it’s in this room. It’s coming from some other part of the complex.
One of the bots comes to a stop next to one of the tubes. It swivels, turning its body to face the glass. It arches its legs, which extend in length, bringing the robotic creation up tall. The cylinder on its head—or back? Whichever—moves forward into position, one end pressed against the glass, in front of the chest of the tube’s occupant.
A slim, grey metal rod shoots out—KA-CHUNK—of the cylinder, like an injection needle, piercing the glass—a massive web of cracks splintering outward from the point of impact—and piercing the person inside the tank.
Dark, crimson blood leaks out of the body, misting inside the tank, staining the fluid like food dye, painting the surface of the glass.
The rod retracts. A thin faucet-width of bloody water flows out through the hole, dripping down. The body inside the tank shrivels, curling in on itself. A dark, misshapen form, like a drowned mouse in a wineglass.
The robot turns, its legs tapping and clacking on the concrete floor as it moves to the next tube in its row.
The purpose of these tools is clear now. They're here to kill. To eliminate all these people, whoever they are.
It's disturbing. The automated utilitarianism of it. Lives taken with the press of a button, without the need to burden human hands with the deed.
I don't know what's supposed to be going on here. I see human beings in stasis, tucked away like canned fruit in Mason jars. And someone's in the cellar, breaking the shelves, letting the jars crash to the floor.
I'm about to be part of the massacre. I'm near the corner opposite from where the bots have begun their work, but they'll get to me soon enough. In the meantime, glass continues to crack, and hearts burst. Human lives tick away.
It's unthinkable, letting something like this happen right in front of me. To me.
I refuse to go out like this. Even in my dreams. Perhaps especially.
I brace my feet against the glass behind me, and one of my hands against the glass in front of me.
There's something weird about that hand. Both of them, really. But I shut that part of my brain up as soon as it starts to make a ruckus. I can't afford to fixate on it right now.
I punch the glass.
THUNK.
No cracks. Just smooth glass, and the muffled noise of the impact. I'd like to think there was another sound, a subtle creaking, something starting to give way, but it could just be wishful thinking.
I draw my fist back for another blow.
The bots are drawing close, making quick work, only spending one or two seconds on each injection before moving on to the next tank. Only seconds have passed, and their work is almost done.
I hit the glass with my fist.
THUNK.
This time, faint cracks spread out in a spiral pattern.
I wind up for another hit.
Beyond the cracks in the glass, I glimpse the back of the girl in the tank next to mine. She's moving, wriggling in the water, long black hair flailing. She's awake, like me. She can see what's happening. She's-
Gemma?
The thought settles in, and I can't shake free of it. She has the same build, the same hair. And as she struggles in the fluid of the tank, all I see is the churning water at Granite Falls.
Is this what it was like? And is this my punishment for it? To watch helplessly as the life is drained from her, all over again?
Or is this some kind of...second chance?
It's impossible, of course. But it's another idea that doesn't want to let go of me.
I beat repeatedly against the glass, alternating fists. The cracks splinter and grow, making long, spindly fingers.
The girl is kicking against the glass of her own tank. She screams, and a flurry of bubbles escapes from between her lips.
One of the bots performs an injection on the tank directly next to hers. Then it approaches her, wading through bloody, ankle-deep water. If there's a drainage system in the room, it must be closed up, or clogged, because it's not working properly. But what a thing to think about when I'm slamming my fists into a glass tube so I can stop the murder robots.
THUNK.
KRICK-ICK-ICK-ICK.
Thick, white etchings in the glass, extending all the way to the edges of my vision. It's almost there. Just about to shatter.
The bot places the end of its killing cylinder against the girl's tank.
Gemma—rationally I know it can't be her, but it's all I can think when I look at her—moves around, trying to avoid the metal rod that's about to puncture the glass. But of course she won't be able to. She can't move quickly enough, and she doesn't have the space to maneuver, anyway.
Both feet planted hard against the glass behind me, body arched, I slam both my fists into the glass.
The glass smashes apart, creating a portal through which the water flows, pulling me with it. The pressure release is like a dam bursting. I'm yanked through the opening, feet-first, the oxygen pipe keeping my face connected to the top of the tank. I dangle with my feet just barely touching the wet floor, a painful pulling sensation in my throat.
IDIOT!
I grab the breathing apparatus and yank, wrenching it up and out of my throat. As I let go of it, I nearly fall over, but manage to right myself, landing fully on my feet.
I'm too late. Red clouds of blood proliferate in the tank. Gemma's cringing in on herself. Her hands are pressed hard against her...side?
So the attack missed her heart. Perhaps it missed any of her vitals.
Hope swells in my chest, but is then overtaken by roiling currents of fury.
I can't lose her. Not again.
An insane thought. But it propels me all the same.
The killer robot lines up the cylinder for another injection, this time aiming for Gemma's face.
I leap toward the bot. I shove it, so it's knocked away from the glass, at an angle, trying to hold itself upright. For a second, it does almost look like the robots in the viral videos.
I grab the cylinder mounted on its back with both hands. I brace one foot against its hull, pushing. And then I pull with my arms.
Weirdly, I haven't stopped to consider whether this will actually work. There's a fire in me. Instinct, anger, and adrenaline are the fuel. I want to disable this thing. I want to destroy it.
As I pull, the cylinder breaks free from the frame with a series of snaps, until it's connected only by several colored, taut wires, a couple of which are sparking. Another quick yank, and the wires snap, and the force throws the robot off balance again. The camera on its body swivels toward me. I see the dark outline of my upper body in the lens. Grimacing, I slam the cylinder down like a club, crushing the camera, turning it into a mangled mess of electronics and metal pieces. The bot caves a little, uneasy on its feet. Then, it spreads out its legs. Six loud thumps as piston mechanisms on the outside of the legs ram downward in the floor, lodging the bot in place. It makes a sad chirping sound, and a red light starts flashing on its side.
Two thoughts.
The first: It's about to self-destruct. It's just waiting for the confirmation signal. But that will only take a couple of seconds. Three. Maybe five at most.
Then: How, and why, do I know that?
Time is short. The bots have been efficient with their work. I and this girl in the tank next to me are the only ones still alive. For now.
I wind up the cylindrical injection piece like a bat and swing it into the glass. The impact sends vibrations jittering up my fingers and palms.
Glass shatters. Clear fluid gushes through in some places, and squirts in others, misting my shoulders and face.
Another swing.
The smash is deafening in my left ear. A flood of liquid crashes into me. I keep my head above the flow, dropping the makeshift bat and holding out my arms to catch Gemma. Her feet come first. I wrap one arm around her thighs. Her long, wet hair is matted against her face. The breathing tube protrudes between her lips. I grab it and pull, extracting the pipe from her throat.
Her lips close as soon as the apparatus is out, but other than that, there's no movement, no reaction. Maybe she's slipped back into unconsciousness. If she's even still alive.
Little skeins of blood run down her legs, down my arms and chest. I catch her, looping an arm under her back and cradling her body against mine.
A loud bang. More glass, splintering and falling into the ankle-deep fluid with a series of splashes. There's the burnt tang of gunpowder in the air, taking me back to that time my dad took me target shooting with one of his work buddies.
The other two bots are on the move, ducking between the tanks, firing off semi-automatic shots.
Holding Gemma tight against me, I veer around her broken tank and run in the opposite direction the bots are moving, kicking up violent sprays of water, maneuvering parallel to their position, hoping it will make me harder to hit. Bullets cut past me, pinging and ricocheting. Water splashes. Sparks fly. Chunks of concrete are tossed up into the air.
I approach the console at one side of the room, with its buttons and blank screen. I get down into a commando slide, skidding through the water, using the console as cover. Bullets hit the electronics, making loud fizzes and more sparks. There's a sound like something powering down, and then a wide door slides open in the corner ahead of me. Some kind of safety measure?
I get up into a full run once I'm past cover. Somehow, amid all the chaos, I can make out the splishing sounds of robot legs stabbing and sluicing through the water, getting louder and closer. There's a current now, flowing through the new opening in the room, like the drain under a sidewalk on a rainy day.
Straining to stay ahead of my pursuers, I leap through the doorway and into a dank, poorly lit hallway, with running water babbling and echoing, and pool-like reflections glinting on the ceiling and walls.
Then the room behind me explodes.
It's a slap from the hand of God himself. I'm lifted off my feet, thrown.
Using reflexes I didn't know I had, I pivot, turning my back to the door. My shoulder slams into the far wall. Shards of glass hit my neck and the back of my head. The air is humid and hot as airborne water turns to steam. Then, it sears, as a wave of intense heat washes through the doorway. An arm of fire reaches through, flickering just next to my face for a second, before dropping away. A series of metallic crunches and crashes ring out in the confined space as pieces of the pursuing bots slam against the wall, mere feet behind me, before splashing into the shallow waves.
I brace, holding my body over Gemma's like a shield. Waiting. Waiting for...something. But nothing comes. The danger is seemingly over.
I slump to the ground, gasping for air in a room where the oxygen has been sucked away and displaced. Everything feels so quiet and still now, even though the blaring of the alarm continues, and a miniature river echoes loudly in the passage. The air smells of charred wiring, scorched metal, and some of my own burnt hair.
I still hold Gemma in my arms, keeping her face above the water. A face shrouded by the thick locks of wet hair stuck against her forehead and cheeks.
I brush the hair out of her face. I take in a sharp breath.
It’s not her.
She has the hair. The pale skin. The profile. But she doesn’t have Gemma’s face. She doesn’t have my mom’s grey-blue eyes, or Dr. Michael Wallace Turner’s nose, or that mole on the left side of her chin.
These are not things that made Gemma who she was. But they are what made her impossible to mistake.
This girl. She’s not Gemma.
But why should she be? What real reason did I have to believe it? Beyond mere wanting, and a misplaced sense of hope?
You can’t change the past. You can’t bring back the dead. Except in stories. And even then, there’s usually some severe caveat, because writers understand there’s an element of wrongness to it. The desire to thwart death goes against nature and the order of the world itself.
But that’s no consolation to me.
This girl’s eyes are closed. She is pale and still, like a porcelain doll.
She appears to be breathing. A slow rise and fall of the chest.
I brush aside some of her hair so I can feel her pulse at the side of her neck. I notice my hand again. Again, my brain acknowledges something is wrong. But I’m no longer in fight-or-flight mode—or at least, the same degree of it. I can’t ignore this anymore.
Now, suddenly, my circumstances have taken on a great deal of weight. Crashing down on me. Crushing me.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’ve awakened in some strange complex of unknown purpose or origin. There’s a girl here, in my arms, who is not Gemma, but there's a hole in her abdomen, leaking blood into the water, and if I don't do anything, she's probably going to die soon. And my hand...well. It's not my hand. It's...something else.
ns 15.158.61.42da2
