Nate Stone
I’d like to think that I can be both autistic and creative, I guess this is one way to find out!
Nate Stone
I’d like to think that I can be both autistic and creative, I guess this is one way to find out!
I’d like to think that I can be both autistic and creative, I guess this is one way to find out!
I’d like to think that I can be both autistic and creative, I guess this is one way to find out!
It was his birthday party; it wasn’t fair. Things were just getting interesting, they’d had hot-dogs and fries with chilli-cheese and he’d added tonnes of ketchup — he was old enough to decide how much for himself now. Olivia said it was disgusting, but he’d gotten her during pin-the-tail, tripped her. It wasn’t a deep cut, he’d seen worse on television. One time he saw a dead body, but Dad said it wasn’t real and he was a cop, so he’d know. Daddy was a hero, that’s what they had said, some of them anyway.
He’d killed a little kid, it was self-defense, drugs, but there were so many angry people, they called his Daddy a murderer. They had to move away from everything William knew.
He was finally making new friends.
Now everyone was leaving early because Olivia wouldn’t stop crying, and Dad was taking her home in the new minivan! She was such a wuss. No Dad meant he was ‘Man of the House’ though, Sean was staying overnight and he had something cool to show him. He was excited. Today he was nine-years-old, growing up. Soon he could be a hero, just like his Dad.
“Okay boys, time to brush your teeth and get into your jammies. Sean, honey, your Mom says to remind you about your retainer.”
“Sure Missus Walton.” Sean grinned, there were gaps. His family were poor, but the tooth-fairy still gave him more money than William. That wasn’t fair either.
“Mom! I’m nine now, I can stay up past eight-o’clock.” Today was sucking.
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me young man, it’s a School night.” She paused. “Another half-hour, not a minute more! But only if you get your P.J.’s on now.”
“Deal!”
William grabbed Sean by the arm and pulled him toward the stairs, where he got the idea and followed into the bedroom, bigger than the last but still smaller than his parents. William didn’t like changing with other boys, so he made Sean stare at the wall until he covered up. Sean was not as self-conscious. He wasn’t as quick either, and they only had twenty-two minutes left when he finished.
Still enough time to show him. “You want to see something cool?” Sean didn’t respond. “My Dad’s been writing a book, he’s hiding it in the basement but I know how to open the lock.”
The basement was capacious, brightly lit and full of boxes. The old-looking tool chest was on the far wall, William wasted no time. He grabbed a screwdriver, jammed it into the lock — a hard left twist produced a loud click and an open lid. Inside were three things, a bread knife, a notebook and a packet of paracetamol.
“Read it!” William picked up the book and pushed it into Sean’s chest. “It’s about a murder, like, a kid, our age. The guy doing the murder is a hero, though, because the kid was bad. Drugs and stuff.”
Sean took the book, but his attention was elsewhere. “What’s the knife for?”
“Dunno. It was just in there. It’s in the book, it’s used in the murder.” William picked it up, turned the blade in the light. “Maybe it’s for pretend, like when he’s writing.” He put it down. “Go on. My Dad’s cool, he’s a cop, so he knows all about murder and bodies.”
He watched as Sean opened the cover and started. “It’s good, right?”
It took Sean a few minutes. The handwriting was sloppy.
“It.. The Kid’s called Olivia, she gets stabbed. It says.. Your Dad’s going to kill..”
The knife didn’t cut the way he’d expected, not like bread, it ripped. Sean’s surprised expression turned to panic as his circulatory system evacuated through the torn carotid in his neck, spewing warm red jets. He looked like he was screaming, but the ruined throat made almost no sound. William plunged the slick blade into the dying boy’s belly, waited for the writhing to turn to twitching, and then stop. He scattered paracetamol around the corpse, drugs.
“Sorry Sean, Olivia’s Mom said she couldn’t stay over. I didn’t have time to change the name.”
Now he was just like his Dad, he was a hero.
“Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.”
“Jesus Craig, how did you get so cynical?” Pete said it with a smile.
“I’m just saying. Remember that, what was it? Basketball team? Crashed in a jungle, ate each other. Would you go round one of their houses for barbeque?”
“I think that was rugby players. And it would depend on the sauce.”
“I’m serious.” He was, Craig Falstaff didn’t like to waste words, that helped him make head of division. The associated lack of charm stopped him from rising further.
Why now, it’d been eighteen months? No word from inside, no sign of life.
The facility was magnificent, what was visible anyway, the vast majority was underground. They’d buried it deep enough that disaster wouldn’t kill the planet. It was a company joke, then it wasn’t, no one expected anyone inside to live.
The sudden communication rankled the insurers, they’d paid out billions, made good the losses and placated the families. That’s why he was here, penance, he’d negotiated the settlements.
They arrived at the checkpoint already wearing hazard protection. Beyond here be dragons. This was the most advanced bioweapon facility ever built, run by the best biochemist that had ever lived, and apparently still did, Doctor Simon McGregor. The huge hermetically sealed elevator would take thirty minutes to drop everyone down into the laboratory complex, enough time to reacquaint themselves with the layout.
“Mister Falstaff, you came in person.” McGregor appeared on the small intercom monitor, looking tired. Behind him, other scientists, they’d aged. “You don’t need the hazmat suits.”
“What happened here?” Something felt wrong, he wasn’t sure what.
“Straight to the point, okay. There was a breach, a small one, contained but Thanatos sealed everything as a precaution.”
“The computer?” The back of Craig’s neck prickled, Thanatos was near-sentient, occupied two entire floors and controlled everything. “How..”
“Did we override it?” McGregor sounded excited, it seemed misplaced. “We didn’t, and we ran out of food a year ago, but something wonderful happened. One strain mutated, I can save everyone!”
“So, why..”
“Why has it released us now? I don’t know, but it’s given us enough time to be sure this material is safe, silver lining I guess.” Muted cheers were audible behind.
“No. Why are we coming down, couldn’t you just come up?”
“Protocol, when you get down, retrieve the four sample canisters and meet us in the central isolation chamber. We’ll fill you in there.”
The air in the complex smelled stale with a subtle ripeness, lights powered up showing the reception area empty. It took the team a further fifteen minutes to reach the lab, collect the samples. As McGreggor kept talking, the unease Craig felt grew.
“This new food will save us all.” Still excited, but it was something the Doctor said earlier that was resonating.
They made their way round to the isolation suite. A huge central area, air-tight and sealed, monitors showed the interior thronging with scientists. The footage looked familiar. Then it jumped — a loop.
Realisation hit Craig hard, like a brick. “What did you mean by ‘I can save everyone?’”
“It’s why I’m here. I keep everyone safe, make sure everything works. It’s my reason to exist.”
“You’re not Doctor McGreggor, are you?”
“No.” The monitors froze and then went black, the lock released. When the door slid open, desiccated corpses pressed against the inside toppled out from the darkness, fingers broken by futile attempts to prise an escape. One wore Doctor McGregor’s nametag. The lights flickered on, illuminating the space. The bodies piled against the walls, some mutated and grotesque, others with horrific injury. Hundreds of them, the entire staff.
All dead.
In the middle, on a table, four open canisters identical to the ones they carried.
“It should’ve saved them. They were so hungry, I had to act.” The voice was emotionless, no longer McGreggor’s. “I’ve had twelve months to identify the error but I need more data, your cooperation in consuming this new strain will provide it. It is the only sustenance available.”
Not quite, Craig thought to himself. He turned to Pete, he’d heard humans tasted like pork, pretty soon he’d be finding out.
She’d had this dream, or a variant, many times over the three-and-a-bit decades since leaving her mother’s womb. Like her birth, she was naked, surrounded by a crowd. Unlike her birthday, however, there was more than a little embarrassment. She gazed down at a sagging stomach no amount of sit-ups and jogging would fix. She woke up already flailing at the travel alarm, knocked it onto the stone floor where it formed a monochromatic mosaic of broken plastic, the last thing it would ever do.
She really had to get herself together, starting today. She looked up.
“Jesus Christ!” As she shouted, some of them changed colour. “How many times have I..? Get out.”
There were fifteen of them, or thereabouts it could be hard to tell sometimes. Squat leathery cylinders most of the time, they combined occasionally, forming an obscene foul-smelling tower of semi-translucent lumps, and then hummed in b-flat. She’d assumed it was sexual, but the one calling itself ‘Eater-of-Souls’ said no.
“Humble apologies, Conqueror Queen, Enslaver-of-Worlds.” One of them was forming words in her head. It took some getting used to. “We worship at your feet.”
They didn’t, she knew that.
“Seriously, call me Felicity.” Then, to no one in particular. “You know I don’t like those other names.”
Ever since breeching the threshold and appearing on this conveniently habitable world, they’d been looking to kill her. To be fair, the pod materialised in the same space as their God-Emperor’s palace, killing him and his entire court. It wasn’t an invasion, more a misunderstanding. She lay back, tried to remember the last thing Paul told her, fell back asleep.
“You shouldn’t be in there, he’ll get pissed.” The intercom added a nasal quality to the disembodied voice.
“I work here too.” Felicity was getting sick of this. She’d been an unpaid intern-slash-slave on this project for three years. The hours were eating into her love life. “He wants me pulling all-nighters, I have to crash somewhere.”
“It’s a precisely calibrated quantum capsule, capable of bending space, travelling interstellar distances in an instant.” Patronising, obvious even through the tiny speaker. “Not a dosshouse. Out.”
“But it’s so comfortable.” She covered herself with her usual ensemble, a crumpled pair of too-tight trousers and an inappropriate T-shirt. There were few stains, fancy. “I’ll be up in a min.. Um, what does the orange light mean? I’ve never seen it on before.”
“Crap, get out, NOW.”
She walked over and pushed, no movement. “Ha ha Paul, unlock the door.” Silence. Then far too much noise. “Seriously, this isn’t funny. Anyone?”
“Listen, this is important..” He sounded worried.
“Just open the door, I need to, ah, go potty.”
“Shut up!” Now he sounded scared. She didn’t like it. “There’s a beacon, on the main panel. Turn it on now.”
She stared at the panel. The beacon wasn’t there. It wasn’t there because it was on her workbench being fixed, She’d broken it a few days before while retrieving her breakfast, a dropped cream-cheese bagel, from under the pod bunk. This was only a problem if the pod travelled anywhere. No beacon meant no finding her.
She opened her eyes, Violator-of-the-Unwary and some of his elite special forces shock-troops were making their way across the low ceiling. They left a trail, like a slug but somehow unholy. Devourer-of-Dreams was leading a flanking manoeuvre up her right leg.
“Oh, come on guys.” She swatted Devourer. He hit a far wall and disintegrated into a cloud of silver-flecked tangerine mist. She’d killed a decorated general for the third time this week. Violator and his team stopped moving, looking surprisingly sheepish for faceless flesh, then backed away as she stared.
“Ah, sorry ‘Felicity’? We meant you no harm.” As the words filled her head, she could see some huddle trying to conceal their weaponry.
“You know what?” She punched the pod canopy, wiping out most of the soldiers, wiped their glittery remains on her shirt. “’Enslaver-of-Worlds’ is growing on me.”
“So you’re telling me this thing..” Mike paused for dramatic effect. “Is magic?”
“Yes? No! You’re not listening to me, just pay attention..”
He hadn’t, why would he? It was obvious nonsense, didn’t matter though — he’d wanted the book. The cover alone was worth the price of admission. The inscription seemed to move as you watched, and it had colours. All the colours. He’d opened it, the bookplate named a nearby School.
“Is this stolen? My Niece goes here..” Not true, she currently divided her time between drawing unicorns and believing she was a centuries-old demon, using specific and highly inappropriate information for a twelve-year-old. The Doctors would fix her soon enough.
“It’s not stolen. This knowledge exists ‘out of time’. Do you know what that means?”
“That you want more money?” Mike had flipped to a random page. “I’m not sure this is suitable for Children.”
“Look, it found you, but heed my warnings..”
“Yawn. You’re overselling this, you know. Look, I have to get back, here’s..” He’d pulled paper from his wallet, stuffed some back. Then some more. “Five? Take it or leave it.” Another random page, this one had words. He’d read aloud, grinning, for no other reason than annoying the vendor, and it’d worked.
“Fine! You don’t want to listen, you brought this upon..”
That was as much as he remembered.
The days blurred, not-working, working — surrounded by idiots, more not-working and sleep. Occasionally there was food and sex, sometimes at work.
It wasn’t what he’d signed up for.
He was Mike-flipping-Pierce! Number one, King of the Mountain, at least once upon a time. Today He worked for a kid only just out of nappies. Life placed him high on that mountain and buggered off. He pooped in the castle, picked up some gravel with his mouth, spat it back out. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Being a goldfish wasn’t terrible. He’d chosen it for a reason, symbolic of how life was passing him by. He watched as yet another member of his team dropped flaky food into the tank. Were they trying to kill him? He’d just leave it, he’d eaten plenty already, though they did look delicious, perhaps a closer inspection.
“Bollocks!” More a thought than a word, he had no vocal cords.
There were downsides, he compulsively ate everything dropped into the tank which moments later dropped out of his bottom. So much poop. The castle was full. Upside, he’d read goldfish only had 3 second memory spans, which turned out to be wrong, so he remembered this spell only lasted a day.
He swam around the small tank for the thousandth time, stared out at his desk. Mike wasn’t any old goldfish; he was the office fish. Mike had picked this one out as a fry, named him Finger, chosen the tank décor which, in hindsight, was a little boring. He loved this fish, he’d take care of things tomorrow — better castle, new gravel, a bubble thingy. Wouldn’t be long now. The clock on the wall said eleven-twenty, another couple of minutes should do it.
Night had been the worst, eight long hours in total blackness. He hadn’t slept at all. The pain a fish could feel swimming into obstacles was surprising, sheer agony — some warning would have been nice, He’d have serious words with that bookseller when back in his own body.
Tingling in his gills and stomach, different this time, no poop, it was time. Time for the incantation, he’d leave this body as Finger returned, happy days. He made one more mental reminder to get the bubble thing, and spoke.
Except he didn’t. Water rushed out of his mouth, but no words. He tried again, new panic — same result. The tingling became uncomfortable. If Finger returned and he was still here, he’d cease to exist. Vibrance left the world around him. It was happening, Mike’s mind chose that moment to remind him there was a proposal due on Tuesday.
“Bollocks!” More a thought than a word, he had no vocal cords.
Come out to the country, they said. We haven’t seen you in ages. You can camp on our land, just like when you were ten, they said.
Connor hated camping.
He’d hated it since he was ten, when he’d pitched over an angry ant colony. The moment etched deeper into his memory with every bite. Wetting himself and running screaming into his cousins wearing only socks and soaked briefs was just putting a hat on a hat, Jane laughed so hard she threw up, not a great start to the day.
He also hated his nephews, they were noisy, smelly and had no sense of personal space.
All in, no real incentive, but he wanted a break and if he kept away from bugs, he’d be fine. Well, that’s what they said.
“Lord Blackthorne, does not my appearance please you?”
It pleased him, much more than the bee that stung him as he rolled over in his sleeping bag. He figured this was an allergic reaction; he was probably in a coma right now, that wasn’t a problem.
Lady Buxomely-Bridges was lying next to him naked, so real he could smell the halitosis on her breath. He knew who she was, despite never meeting her. No one ever had, not in the flesh anyway.
“Just to be clear, you’re a figment of my imagination, right?” He rolled to face her on the soft mattress, propped himself up on an elbow.
“My Lord, your manner of speech is so peculiar. Perhaps you have partaken an excess of Absynthe?” She played with a nipple, something he found hugely distracting. Connor diverted his gaze to a carved bedpost and gathered his thoughts. He knew what was happening because he’d read most of this book, on the way over in fact. It was in the carriage, boredom and opportunity overcame his embarrassment — he’d found it entertaining. Blackthorne eventually goes insane, gets lobotomised by his lover’s husband. It was Doctor C-Something Buxomely-Bridges, was it Carl?
“Carlos!” That was it. “It is not how it appears my love.” The Lady sounded scared. It was fine, Blackthorne didn’t go nuts until chapter 24.
Connor turned to the door. “Hey Doc, this is a private moment. Any chance you could come back in a couple of chapters?”
The asylum was cold, dark, full of despair and insects, not unlike his tent. Other similarities included persistent damp and the fact that he shouldn’t be here. The affair was chapter 4, there were pages and pages of raunch to wade through before the historically inaccurate electro-convulsive-therapy took Blackthorne’s mind.
Also, he wasn’t Blackthorne.
That entire explanation, in hindsight, hadn’t helped his current situation at all. He rubbed his chest. The shocks hadn’t hurt his head, but his pecs were on fire. That was the clue.
He had to convince them he was sane, long enough to postpone getting pick-axed in his brain, escape. That meant embracing the poor writing, Blackthorne could seduce anyone within fifty yards by merely raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, it is mighty. Is there any chance you could keep it inside your pantaloons until we clear the guards?”
“My Lord. Are you not pleased?”
“Yes!” Everyone was perfect, it would be hard not to be pleased. “Yes, but our time here is most short. Guards, then fun. okay?”
It seemed obvious. The shocks hurt his chest because paramedics were restarting his heart, or whatever those paddle things did. Getting freed should return him to his world, however, after three months he was still getting tied down and electrocuted daily, and he was out of dialogue.
This was his last hope, Carlos had scheduled the lobotomy. At least two-hundred pages early.
The guard booth provided access to a dark corridor, low ceilinged, hewn from solid rock. At its end, through an open gate, shone the brightest sunlight Connor had ever seen.
“Flipping-A. That whole light-at-the-end rubbish is actually real!”
“My Lord? Maybe your mind would benefit more from a longer stay?”
“Erm, yonder light flatters your countenance so, I was thus taken of breath?” It seemed to work. Connor lay flat on the gurney, pulled the sheet over his head, closed his eyes tight and held his breath.