Fiction

This is the story of me, Veronica, the popular for being weird, high self esteem, hair dyed ponytail kind of person. This is the story of how I tried to escape my problems by going to Mars. Emphasis on the word tried. It was the year 2037. I was hanging out at my house playing some dumb game, then all the sudden alarms just started going off everywhere. That blaring, annoying, worrying sound I will never forget to this day. I checked my phone, as I was worried and wanted to know what the heck was going on. First thing I saw?

“A “zombie” outbreak, as scientists are calling it.”

I stared in disbelief at the screen when, a new message popped up.

“New text message from ‘Little Bro’.”

I opened it, of course, and saw the conversation we had been having

“Heard about the new zombie game coming out?”

“Yeah, I heard it’s pretty dumb

“Say what you will, I’m getting it”

“Whatever little bro”

I then looked at the one he had just sent.

“Coming to get you, we need to get on the spaceship.” Spaceship!? What the heck is he talking about?

“This isn’t a game, Travis, this is real life.”

“I am aware, I replied. They’re sending people to Mars as a last ditch effort, I grabbed Dad’s ‘In case of emergencies’ bag.”

At this point I knew we had an actual, serious emergency on our hands, and I was indescribably terrified. In my breakdown I realized something, I hadn’t paid any attention to the banging on my door. This banging made me even more terrified so, yay? Luckily for me Dad had also left me an emergency bag, but there was a problem… I forgot where it was located. A searched the house as the banging got louder, and louder, and louder still. In the end, nothing insanely intense happened. I found the bag in my desk, grabbed it, and waited for my brother to get here.

“Now Veronica.” you may ask “Why didn’t you just simply get in your own car and drive to the spaceship yourself?” Well, two reasons. First of all, I had no clue where this spaceship was. Secondly, you think I can drive a 2029 Subaru through a horde of zombies? Well the answer is no, I can’t. So I waited, and soon I heard a “beep beep” outside my room. “He’s here” I silently said to myself, and then I realized ANOTHER something. How the sham am I going to get to the car? And then I remembered that I have roof access… I’m “smart.” I climbed to the roof, about ten feet off the ground, and then thought to myself— “This is kinda high in the air and if I miss I’m probably dead…” Then I came to the revelation that this is life or death. “AND I CHOOSE LIFE!” I yelled, jumping from the roof towards the car, afterwards realizing that I could’ve just dropped down and landed on the car just fine. I landed on my brother’s truck and then transferred myself to the back of it as my bro started to drive.

I’ll skip the boring part and just go straight to the spacecraft. The words “S.S Impenetrable” were written on the side in black. We got there in the nick of time because the zombies were thickening and they were about to leave. Military were all around, taking pot shots at the zombies. Now, these were not those running zombies that would kill you in two seconds, no. These were the type of zombies that you would get too cocky or stupid and that’s how you’d die. Me and my brother hopped on the space shuttle and got ready. The sleek white design was kind of off-putting for a rescue vessel. A man by the name of Todd (I read off his tag) was standing at the door, helping people in. Me and my brother were the last ones on, but just then another family of three, a mom and her two children, drove up to the shuttle. “Please, just let me and my children on, there has to be room right?” the woman said, desperate sounding
“Sorry ma’am, we only have two spots left.” said the person who I assumed to be the corporal or whatever the top rank in the military was.

“Please, I beg of you.”

Now my brother was a little bit, how do I say, too friendly.

“Here ma’am, take my seat”

“NO!” I yelled, “somebody else can do it!”

It was too late by that point though, he was already off the ship.

“I’ll see you when you get back Ver!” he said as he threw me his I.C.O.E. bag.

“NO, DON’T YOU DA…” But it was too late, the doors were shut. I saw the military hand him some type of gun or something, but he gave it back.

The reason I didn’t tell you about the ride to the shuttle is because he’s the person in the apocalypse who is convinced there’s a cure and doesn’t kill anything. I saw him drive off and started to fear the worst for him and, before I knew it, I was on the floor, weeping. That guy, Todd, came over and started to attempt to comfort me. “Hey” he said, in a calm, soft tone. “It’ll be okay, I’m sure he’ll be fine, he wouldn’t leave if he didn’t know what he was doing.” Except, that’s exactly what he would do. The ship started to take off and within the blink of an eye, it felt, we were in space. Now, you might be thinking “How the smudge could things get worse from here?” Well, have you ever heard of something called “Snakes on a Plane?” Imagine that except zombies, on a spaceship. Remember that family that was let on last second. Well I forgot to include this detail, but the military was checking people for bites, and they didn’t check that family. The mom had gotten bit and so had the kids. They were easy to deal with, but not quickly dealt with. They bit a few people… Including me.

“So much for the ‘S.S Impenetrable’ huh?” I said, laughing nervously. I didn’t tell anyone I’d gotten bit in the fight for fear of being quarantined. “We still weren’t technically penetrated.” Todd said. Todd gave me the vibe of being a pretty serious, experienced, sarcastic kinda person, the exact kinda person my brother was. Made me miss ‘im even more.

Felt like it took years to get to our destination. That was probably just me being worried about my bite though. When we got there, of course, I slipped like the clumsy dork I was, revealing my bite to all. Luckily it was only revealed for a second and only Todd saw it. I looked over at him and he was looking at me with a terrified expression. He hopped down from the stairs and came over to me. “You hid this from me?” He said in an exasperated whisper.

“Maybe” I replied

“For… we need to get that amputated.”

“What my leg?!”

“No, your arm… WHAT DO YOU THINK?” He said a little louder than he should’ve.

“Fine, but only if I get a cool new leg.”

“This is 2037, what, you think you’re going to get a peg leg?”

“‘Ya never know Todd. (I read his name tag)”

“Did you just say ‘I read his name tag’?”

“Shut up, let’s go.” I said as I stood up and starting walking to the nearest infirmary.

By the time we got to the infirmary my leg was starting to hurt. We walked in the front door and rang the desk bell. Soon a nurse came to the front. “What are y’all doin’ here? You hear about the zombies outside?” His Southern accent was heavy.

“We need an amputation,” Todd blurted out.

“Wha… I…” the nurse sputtered out.

“A.S.A.P”

“Fine fine, ‘urry to this back room.”

“Eh… I trust him” Todd exclaimed, confidently.

I’ll spare you the details of what happened in that back room… Since the doctor had already fled, it was messy. Somehow, I didn’t die AND I got a sick new robo-leg, I mean, what’d you expect, it’s 2037, not some dumb year like 2017. The nurse gave us a pretty cool package deal, the leg and a set of knockout dart assault rifles also known as K.D.A.Rs. “Now go help yourself, don’t get hurt or anything, please.”

“We won’t, hopefully” I said.

I think of myself as a realist. When presented with a situation I look at the situation as it is, not how it could be. So when we reached “Forttude Hill”, as the sign read, I thought to myself “This place is great to set up some kind of like survivor safe haven or something.” Because believe me, this virus spread quicker than a rumor in middle school. “Okay, a few things could happen when we enter this gated community here.” I said aloud. “We either get jumped by apocalypse scavvers, it’s infested with zombies, it’s populated with survivors, or nobody is here and we get the place to ourselves.” Now, the reason I called them scavvers is because it’s short for scavengers. Even on earth in the first hour or two people were raiding buildings and… killing each other to survive.

“I pick option D”

“This isn’t a choice, it’s a list.”

“Oh, okay… I still choose option D”

“But I just… you know what let’s talk about something more important here. Why haven’t we been attacked by zombies at, like, all?”

“But the spaces…”

“Apart from that Todd”

“Huh, I don’t kno…”

As expected at that very moment a horde of zombies started shambling up the road to us

“You just had to speak Veronica, didn’t you?” I said, angrily. Todd had the brilliant idea to roll and explosive barrel, conveniently placed next to the gate, down the hill and have knockout darts attached to it, thus knocking out all the zombies! “Okay… let’s do it I guess.” The barrel was rolled, the plan worked, surprisingly, and we entered the gated community with a card we found off one of the dea… knocked out zombies. And bombo, the gated community was empty and ours for the taking, or community starting in this case.

It was not an easy process to set up that safe haven. It seemed that new zombies just kept on coming. Scavvers wanted our supplies and stuff. And the walls were unusually low to the ground, making them easy to breach or climb over. We named our little community after what was left on the signs, and it eventually became a fully fledged small village. “Forttude Hill, where all the cool things are.” As it came to be known in the years following. Their leader only known as “Lost Leg” and her trusty assistant “Strong Arm.” My main mission from then on was repairing and refueling that spaceship so I could go save my brother, that’s how confident I was that he was alive. I had a picture of him by my bedside and the people in my village had come to know him as “The Returning Savior” that would come back one day to save us all. Hopefully he does come back, but I might have to go get him. If I know my brother he’s probably already done the same thing 241 million miles away on earth. Probably has it where he’s destined to be lifted away to help more people if I know anything about him, and great googly moogly do I know things about my brother. He’s probably started some cult about video games or something, I didn’t know, I was on Mars! That is a story for another day though. Until then, keep surviving the apocalypse, or something.

 

Maverick Gillette has always wanted to write a story and get it published, so he decided to write this. He is thirteen and in eighth grade, and writing is his favorite thing to do. He usually doesn’t write seriously or professionally, so this is his first time.

Jonathan B. Fitzgerald was a practical man with polished black shoes. To truly describe him one would have to have known him, and few did, for he was reluctant to let anyone beyond his tightly buttoned suit jacket. With the imperial stature of French nobility, the cold eyes of a Norse god, and the cultivated temperament that is usually found only along the Eastern seaboard, his small-town Illinois origins were all but brushed away with a brisk sweep of his well-trimmed hand. Wire spectacles rested lightly on the crest of his pointed nose, and he analyzed the world through their thin lenses (although one may have asked if he really needed them, for he saw what needed to be seen regardless of whether or not it was visible). He would never leave home without his monogrammed briefcase, a linen square in his pocket, and a measured stride. He seemed a decent man in all respects but, as Frank once put it, he was “the kind of fella to know your name and not much more.”

He took up residence in a tidy room at the Elite Hotel, across from Ward’s Dress and Notions, in late May, although perhaps residence is not quite the right word. For although he resided in Clark City, Montana, Jonathan B. Fitzgerald hovered above it, like a placid mist rising over a choppy river. He did not sink into the daily life that existed in the noisy chatter of the Elks Club and the Starlight Five and Dime. As the gears and cogs of the world clicked and turned, he sat in his office and observed the motion around him. The ‘office’ was simply an empty storeroom at the back of the barbershop, but Jonathan B. Fitzgerald saw it as an office, so that is what it was.

Hanging from a rusty nail on one dead-white wall of this office was possibly Mr. Fitzgerald’s most interesting possession. He called it “The Catalogue,” but to the uneducated eye, it seemed to be a large chalkboard, covered with white lines and names and numbers. Mr. Fitzgerald’s boss at Regal Real Estate Company (based in Butte, one hundred and ten miles to the west) would have called it a job well done, almost worthy of a raise. This board contained Mr. Fitzgerald’s carefully compiled list of all the properties in Clark City, each boiled down to a precise set of specifications, including probable value, tax assessment, and number of residents per lot. Mr. Fitzgerald’s job was to create this list and bring it back to his superiors, who were considering diversifying into the automobile sales business and had provisional franchise deals with both Ford and Texaco. Two lots on the east end of town owned by Walter Guthrie, proprietor of Guthrie’s General Store and the ramshackle bungalow next to it, had caught Mr. Fitzgerald’s eye.

Walter liked to say that he would make a fortune on the General Store if only more people would buy the items he stocked. Someone needed flour and eggs? He had flour and eggs. The bolts of cloth might be a little dusty, but they weren’t too faded. For a fresh cut of beef or sound words of advice, people shopped elsewhere. Still, money can’t always buy the pride a man feels in keeping his own shop, and everyone knew Walter wouldn’t sell cheap. For a few weeks, the gravel crunched loudly under Fitzgerald’s black shoes as he walked along the street, and people remarked on the vigor with which Walter now cleaned the store windows on a daily basis.

The third day of September dropped a bright blue curtain behind Clark City’s Labor Day festivities. Trumpets shone in the sun, banners waved, and a general feeling of unity filled the air. The Chamber of Commerce and the Lions Club had each built a float for the parade, and Martin was selling wrapped chicken sandwiches out of his train car diner. Townsfolk lined the leafy parade route, which wound along the west side’s broader streets. It was a good parade, but the thing people remembered about it was that no one had noticed Jonathan B. Fitzgerald among the viewers.

By the end of the day, word had spread like prairie fire that Guthrie’s General Store and the land on which it sat had been soaked with gasoline, and Jonathan B. Fitzgerald had disappeared. The store was beyond repair, and most guessed that since Walter was likely not insured for gasoline flood insurance, he would have to sell for a song. Everyone knew who had done it, although no one could prove it, and the act spoke more to people’s philosophical than their forensic natures. Doc impressively called it Fitzgerald’s apotheosis, while Reverend Phillips quietly wondered if the realtor had baptized the land for its future life. Mrs. Jenkins, who was polishing the samovar in the church basement, simply clicked her tongue and said, “Who knows what rattles around in a body when there isn’t a soul to take up space?”

If Mr. Fitzgerald had been there to answer, he might have said he was simply filtering the important from the insignificant. He might have said it was simply business. But he was on a train, traveling one hundred and ten miles to the west. He looked out the window, where the early morning sun had begun to melt the mist over the Yellowstone River and heat the sky to a rosy pink. He observed the scene for one minute then turned his head to face the seat in front of him.

“You can say what you will about Jonathan B. Fitzgerald,” Abby summed it up several weeks later, while combing her magnificent red hair. “That he’s cold, that he’s conceited, that he’s criminal. But I guarantee that no one this side of the Rocky Mountains could ever say that he is not a practical man.”

 

Landon Smith is a student from Hanover, New Hampshire. He enjoys writing, composing music, and rowing on various rivers.

 

Sci-Co

                        New Jobs for ANYONE

                        We supply housing and food

                        All you need to do is work!

                        Call 1-800-78-SCICO

 

            Gerald was looking in a newspaper. For the first time in his life, he felt like going there. Most of the time he would grab the newspaper and look at the advertisements for amusement. But now, he felt that this was different. He needed money and a place to live.

“This is perfect!” he thought, “I can have a place to stay and I don’t have to pay for food.”

Sci-Co was a very famous company. They claim to make advancements in technology everyday. They’ve even invented The Helper. The Helper was a gargantuan machine on top of Sci-Co tower. It Stood on the 213th floor, the very top. Sci-Co claims it is sending messages that improve learning in school. It seems to be working too. The government has shown the test averages have risen by 5%. It is their best invention.

“I need to get that job! I could do something different.” he thought. Gerald lived an ordinary life. He had to do the same job, write the same papers, and even eat at the exact minute of every day. It was getting to him. Nothing was different. Nothing at all.

And so, he ran to the phone just like anyone desperate for a job would do. He leaped from the chair, stumbled into his kitchen, and punched in the number so hard, that he knocked the phone to the floor.

“Hello, this is Jessica from Sci-Co tower. How can I help you?” said the woman on the phone. This woman sounded very dull. It’s as if she had a life similar to Gerald’s. Dull, boring, and uneventful.

“My name is Gerald. Could you tell me about-”

“Are you calling to complain about The Helper? We’ve fixed the mind bug. No more children can get brain damage.”

“No. I’m calling about the job offer?”

“Oh, that thing. Well it’s your lucky day!” she seemed to have a forced happiness in her voice. It’s as if she doesn’t care, but she has to, “You are the first caller!”

“I guess it is.”

“I think the only reason you are the first caller is because no one reads the newspaper,” she whispered to herself. Then her voice became louder, “Come to Sci-Co tower on April 17, 2032 for your meeting with the one and only Jeremiah Richardson. Make sure you-”

“That’s tomorrow!” he thought.

He was so excited that he drove straight to where he worked, ran to his boss’s office, and yelled, “I Quit!”

His boss was so stunned that he laughed and ran to his car. He didn’t remember ever being this happy. And so he went home and slept.

The next morning he threw all his clothes into his Clothing Compactor Suitcase and hopped to his car so fast that he almost forgot to grab his notebook. He used his notebook for everything he saw. If he saw an interesting car, then he would note it. If he saw his bossed stunned, he would note it.

He took it and ran to his car.

After an hour of driving, he made it to Sci-Co Tower, Thomasville. The tower was an intimidating 213 stories high. It was completely black, no windows, nothing. Gerald gulped and wrote in his notebook:

Don’t look up at Sci-Co Tower.

            As he drove around he realized there was no parking lot, just a sign that said “Parking” next to a small room a size so small that his car would fit perfectly in it. He decided to drive into it. He managed to fit even though he thought he saw his side mirrors fade through an edge protruding out. When his car made it all the way in, the way out disappeared. He heard a voice that said, “Hello Gerald Neily.”

He was surprised. He’s never heard of a talking room before. He noted:

Parking room talks.

             “Don’t worry,” it said, “This room doesn’t talk, it is an A.I. talking right now.”

He stopped worrying and started thinking. “This room must know what I’m thinking, so that means-”

“Yes, it does. Now get out of your car and go to the door. Don’t forget to bring your things, you won’t come back for a long time.”

A door appeared next to him and he was confused.

“Why?” he thought just to check one last time to see if it could read his mind.

“Because you live here now.”

“But what about the interview?”

“A brain scan says you are compatible for your job. Now get out and go to the door!”

He was surprised by its sudden change in personality. “I should leave now,” he thought.

He hustled to the door and left the odd room.

“Hello Mr. Neily,” said a familiar voice. Then Gerald realized it was familiar because it was Jeremiah Richardson, “Welcome to Sci-Co Tower!”

Gerald was in awe so much that he could barely muster the words, “Um… Hi Mr… Mr.”

“Jeremiah, just call me Jeremiah. I’m here to show you around Sci-Co Tower”

“The whole thing?”

“No, that’d be stupid. Half of the floors are for living and half are for working. Except for The Helper room of course.”

“What floor are we on now?” asked Gerald.

“The 127th floor Mr. Neily. This is the parking room.”

The walls disappeared and once again, Gerald was amazed. He was in a huge room that went the length of three football fields in each direction. Gerald was astounded.

“Let’s go to your room.”

“I wonder how many people work here if this is the size of the parking room,” Gerald thought.

“Approximately 117,647 people work here including you.”

“You can read my mind too?” Gerald said.

“Anyone within 10 feet of me.”

“That seems a bit invasive.”

“It’s necessary. We use it to check for spies in our company. Just in case anyone sabotages us.”

“That’s odd,” thought Gerald forgetting that his thoughts could be heard.

Gerald went into the elevator and went to his room. Then he slept.

The next morning Jeremiah brought him to the working area. They were in the top ten stories.

“This is where you work.”

“Wow, ok who are they?”

“Those are your co-workers.”

“What do we do?”

“You code The Helper. Now start working.”

Gerald went to his seat and sat down.

“What do I do?”

“You will know.”

Gerald looked at his computer and saw commands popping up. The commands were weird. It asked him unusual questions but he answered them truthfully.

“See not so bad” said Jeremiah. Then he walked away.

He answered more questions for the rest of the day. Then he went to bed.

The next day he got up and went to work again. He noted the really unusual questions like:

 

Would you rather crabs be blue or green?

            Gerald thought of these questions as free money. He got paid to answer questions. He never answered untruthfully because he feared someone would read his mind. It certainly wasn’t boring because he had new questions everyday.

One day he noticed Jeremiah walked into the broom closet.

Gerald noted it and decided to take a look. He went to the door and peeked in. It looked like a normal broom closet, but there was one small detail that stood out. There was no doorknob. So when he walked in, he didn’t close the door. For he feared he would be locked in. When he stepped into the room, the door closed behind him. He was shocked. It didn’t just close the door. It slammed so hard that he would feel the hinges could break off. Then the door disappeared. He was locked in.

“You shouldn’t be here.” said a deep voice.

“Who are you?” said Gerald.

“You’ve met me before.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve met me before.” it repeated.

“Where am I?”

Gerald was trembling. Then it hit him. This was the thing that talked to him in the “parking room”. Before he could do anything else, the floor opened like a trap door and he fell. But he wasn’t falling down, he was falling up. Falling and falling until he could see a huge white platform above him. He was getting closer and closer until he started to slow down. Just before he got close enough to touch the ceiling, he stopped and the whole world seemed to flip upside down until he realized it was him.

He spun around to see a man dressed in all black. The room was so dark that he could barely see himself let alone the man.

“Welcome to The Helping Room” said a weird voice, until Gerald realized it was Jeremiah.

“What is this?” asked Gerald.

“This is The Helping Room.”

“What… Why…”

“It’s ok Gerald, this won’t last long.”

“What is the-”

“The point of this is for me and only me. And soon, everything will be for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is The Helper.”

“That thing?”

A huge bulbous machine sat where he pointed. Oil and ges were oozing out of a cube-like blocks that was black leather. Prongs would stick out randomly as if they were getting rid of something. And he could see what it was. He saw them quickly throw blocks of information into a black moat around it. A pipe stuck out and looked as if it was pushed through the roof and not built into it. In front of it sat a chair with nothing but a wire sticking out.

“What does that hideous thing do?” thought Gerald.

“Sci-Co claims it helps kids and people with intelligence. And it does. But what really happens is that it takes out the stupid part of the mind and collects it from all the people in the world.”

“What are the-”

“Those blocks? Those are blocks of information, information of human stupidity. You see Gerald, this machine studies stupidity and collects the worse of it. It throws the rest out to the middle of the earth where we get rid of it.”

“What does that do for you?”

“It helps me Gerald it helps me. It tells me how to disperse it, how to make it… spread.

Stupidity is a disease and I can use it for good… my good. If I know where to start the disease, then I know where it ends. And the best part is, I read minds. I know what you will do; every step you take is thought out.”

“I need to stop it.” thought Gerald.

“You can’t!” yelled Jeremiah. “I’ve thought of every outcome and this is what it came to. You helped me the most Gerald. You are the testee. You are the one I need to make it learn. Your mind is smart, but not smart enough. Now go to that chair, I need to see it soon.”

Gerald’s head started to hurt. And then he heard a voice… the machine.

“Come to the chair Gerald.”

“I… must… resist…” thought Gerald. But then he thought he couldn’t. He seemed to walk without control. His limbs were moving themselves.

“See Gerald? It is good. It is for the better. You’ll teach me.”

The machine grew louder as he neared it.

There was a bridge that went over the dark abyss where the stupidity goes, and he was about to cross it. With all his might he tried to think of everything he loved everything that was real to him, until he realized he had nothing. This world had nothing for him at all. He had no parents, his house was terrible, he would surely lose his job if he defied it.

“It can’t be too bad if everyone is stupid.” he thought as he took a step.

“Yes… yes… yes…” said the machine.

“If everyone is stupid, then no one will want to fight because they won’t know how.” he thought as he took another step.

“Keep coming.” said the machine.

Soon he was in the chair. Everything went white. He saw nothing. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t move. Nothing.

“That wasn’t so bad was it?” said the machine just as everything seemed to disappear into nothing. Nothing could help the world.

 

Trenton Gray lives in Texas. He made this short story because he likes science fiction stories, and thought it would be cool if he made his own. As it turns out, it was good enough to be published. It took him a long time to write it.

Looking back, I remember a bizarre incident that had happened on the eighth of September, the year 1909. We were sitting in the warm, stuffy Baker Street flat on a rainy day. Holmes had gone to the kettle, and across the room he yelled, ‘Watson, black or green?’

‘Black tea for me, thank you,’ I replied. In a few short minutes, Holmes returned with two steaming mugs as we both sank into the recliners. He handed me the tea and it tasted off.

‘Sherlock…this is green tea?’

‘Yes. I’m glad you noticed. Green tea’s better at night.’

‘But I wanted black-‘

‘You were mistaken, Watson.’

We sat staring out the rain pattered window and out on the dark street, where not a soul stood. Holmes had gone for more tea, but something strange had happened. A man, half dressed, his shoes untied and dangling, holding a soaking newspaper above his head, ran through the street. He had left his yellow taxi in the road unparked. His eyes were wide and worried, and his mouth open, like he was ready to scream. He ran along Baker Street, until he came so close to 221B that he had disappeared for a moment.

Downstairs was a hurried exchange between the man and Mrs. Hudson, who, as usual, let out her disagreeing moan. The man opened our door and ran in. His hair was stringy and shiny from the rain, and he bowed down from tiredness. Holmes came out; his face turned tighter and perked down to face the kneeling man. ‘Goldberg’, he said. The man looked straight at Holmes, clutching his heart and breathing heavily. ‘Holmes,’ he let out, ‘the curtains…have closed.’

‘No! The villa? Watson, take my jacket. We must go right away!’ He ran out the door, and I followed. Goldberg started the car.

We rode in the cab. ‘Holmes?’ I said, ‘What’s happening?’

‘Didn’t you hear? The curtains have closed.’

‘Yes, but what does that mean?’

‘Oh, right, listen Watson; you must hear the whole story. I had been taking a walk in Harrow, on the East side. It had been a long walk; after a while, there started to be less and less homes. At midnight I came to a secluded villa, one surrounded by a large, empty lawn. The curtains had been closed. In the very back I saw a shadow of a man carrying a bag. A large bag, the size of a corpse, and throwing it into a hole. Five minutes passed, and the curtains had opened. The man stared at me, so I quickly turned and carried on like a passerby. I thought about the incident, and again returned a fortnight later. I kept watch by the gate. I saw the killer look out the window, surveying the landscape. He closed the curtains, but I heard the scream. Thirty minutes later, he carried a bag to the backyard.

‘Once again, the curtains then opened. This enticed me – I didn’t know the case, but I knew the connection between curtain and corpse. The midnight hour had come, and I had signaled a cab. And that was Goldberg; my driver and a Harrow native. I told him to come to me if he ever did see the curtain closed. Do you understand it all now?’ I nodded, but couldn’t think of the investigation that was to come.

The taxi had stopped in front of a black cast iron gate, through which I saw the daunting size of a two-story villa laced with a brown frame and marble steps. The lawn around it stretched as far as a football pitch. Holmes, who had very happily said his goodbye to Goldberg, climbed out of the car. The curtains were closed and the lawn bare of people, so Holmes and I stepped on the gate latch and climbed over. We came to the wall on the right side, as Sherlock stared closely at the marble. He looked through a small square window, the curtains of which he pulled aside.

‘John’ he looked at me, his voice quiet and rasp, ‘Climb in.’

Soon we found ourselves in the room, with the shut door in front and the window behind. The room had been covered in drawers, big and small, each wall shining from the glow of hundreds of handles. A reek of gone-off eggs hit my nose.

‘Ehh…W-what is this? A cupboard room? It smells of rotten eggs.’ Holmes had not answered my question. Instead he paced around the room, flicking the wood, muttering ‘maple’ under his breath, and scratching the locks, muttering ‘steel’. Finally, he crouched down on the floor, and like a snake, made his way below a small, rectangular drawer. His pointed nose leaned into the ground, and after a few seconds he turned to look at me.

‘Rotten eggs! Rotten eggs! Are you a fool?’ He pointed his index finger to the sky, smeared in something yellow, and pointed below the drawer, a whole pile of the yellow powder.

‘Sulfur mustard’, he paused, ‘or mustard gas.’

Just then the window had clicked and shut, two hands locking it. There were heavy steps behind the door, which also clicked shut. Holmes continued, ‘Sulfur mustard…under this door…’ He took out his paperclip, peering inside the lock.

‘A jimmy proof deadbolt lock’ He hurried to bend the paperclip in two, and started to unscrew its bolts. I stood silently, not knowing any way I could help him. He now tinkered with the springs, pulling some, jabbing at others with the paperclip. ‘We’ve loosened the lock, now it can be opened.’

The drawer pulled out and he looked at me with a grin.

‘I knew it’, he said, and handed me a gas mask. He pointed to the small gap under the door, to a yellow gas that started to float into our room.

‘Put it on. Quick’, he said.

By the time we had both put on the gas masks, the room had filled with the haze of deadly mustard gas, and I could barely see Sherlock through it, who sat right next to me.

Sherlock pointed at the armchair behind which we sat crouched, and we both leaned in to push it by the door. We sat behind it, motionless and soundless, for about ten minutes, when we started to hear noises behind the door.

‘Eyy. Dead already?’ The muffled voice laughed and yelled a bit louder, ‘Edgar, get the bags!’ The door creaked open, and although nothing was visible through the mist, a dark figure with a gas mask came in the room.

‘Finally got that detective. Knew he was up to no good those two times by the road.’

By the time Edgar had come back with two body bags, the dark man had started to walk through the room, looking side to side through the mist. His temper started to rise, and I heard the coarse whisper of ‘Where are they?’ come out under his breath. Sherlock nudged my shoulder, showing the door, and bending his fingers to show three, and two, and one, until we silently started to crawl out.

Holmes had made his way out first, and I followed around the corner of the step.

‘WHERE ARE THEY? WHERE’D THEY GO?’ the man yelled, and his foot flew at the armchair we had just been crouching behind.

Behind the stairwell, we spied on him as he crashed open the door, pacing through the hall. The sound of a cocked rifle flew through the cold air as he walked out with a Remington rifle and a lighted cigar dangling from his mouth.

‘Sir,’ Edgar had started, ‘I thought I told you where to smoke.’

‘Look up at the ceiling of the second floor. Notice the yellow-brain stains.’ Holmes whispered in my ear.

‘I’ll stop once we’ve gotten our detective’, the man said. The mustard gas still floated through the air, and had spread through the whole house, where very little was visible. Edgar sighed.

‘You look inside all the rooms, I’ll check the perimeter.’ Edgar paced through, checking the rooms one by one, when suddenly his gaze fixated on the stairwell.

Once again, we crouched down low, and crawled around the stairwell, the butler slowly looking around. I had rounded the corner, and even turned back to look at Holmes, who had been following me. But he wasn’t.

He had paused, scratching his finger, the one that was in sulfur mustard.

‘Holmes’, I let out through gritted teeth, but he couldn’t hear me. Edgar’s tall silhouette continued to grow bigger as he came nearer, and when he had just stood in front of Holmes, I couldn’t watch. My eyes had shut.

I had heard a piercing shriek, followed by short, heavy breaths. Edgar’s foot had stumbled over Sherlock’s bent pose, and now Holmes had bent over the fallen butler, whose arms flailed mercilessly. Holmes covered his hand over Edgar’s mouth, as he slipped of Edgar’s mask.

‘Not a peep out of you’, he said, and threw the gas mask far into the drawer room. Edgar had run off to the room as we quickly made our way up the stairs. We walked through the hall to the first door, at which Holmes took a right through a small corridor, and we had come to a stone door.

‘Watson…limited time, limited time…’ he showed me the hall, and I leaned out to keep watch. Once again he closely examined the insides of the padlock, bending the paperclip into a cross shape and slowly sliding it into the lock.

A shot rang through the house, and had hit the ceiling of the second floor. The sounds of four feet hitting the stairwell and the ravenous cries of the two men had completely worn me down.

‘Hold your breath’, he told me, as he took both of our gas masks and threw them down the hall, ‘that will stop them for the extra moment we need.’

Holmes opened the stone door, slipping the paperclip back into his pocket, and climbing out onto the balcony. We sat crouched for a moment.

‘Look! The gas masks!’ one of the voices said. ‘Another wild card…check the room at the end of the hall.’

But none of that had mattered, for Sherlock Holmes and I had already finished climbing down the ladder, and we ran through the rain and to the gate.

‘Excellent, Holmes, excellent’, I couldn’t help but let out as he signaled Goldberg’s cab. The dazing bright headlights rounded the corner from the street, and Goldberg’s wary face pulled up to the street.

We rode in the cab.

‘Holmes?’

‘Yep?’ he replied.

‘Great work, but how did you know about the balcony? How did you know we could go through it?’

‘Aha, yes, you see…’ and he had started. ‘I had first noticed the smoke stains on the ceiling, those that I had shown you. They were yellow-brown. Do you remember the man when he had stepped into our room? Before all else he had turned angry. He had not seen us yet, but the yellow smoke reminded him of his smoking addiction. So he kicked the chair. We had snuck out, and then he came out with a cigar. Much to Edgar’s discontent of course, but his adrenaline had been at a high. You see, Edgar had noticed those cigar stains long ago, and so our man was forced to smoke outside. But he was too careless to go outside through the front door, since the stains came from the second floor. Hence the balcony.’

‘You saw all of that from just a few minutes? Holmes, how do you do it…’ I shook my head. There was just one last question.

‘Of course, today those curtains had closed for us. He wanted to get rid of you, Holmes. But what do we have to prove all of that. To prove this attempted homicide?’

‘Watson, Watson, think!’ out from his pocket he took out the paperclip. ‘The clip that is bent to the exact second floor entrance. There’s not a better piece of evidence than that.’

Soon after Goldberg had drove us up to 221B Baker Street, and he looked at us from the front seat with a grin.

‘If the curtains ever do close, I’ll let ya know.’

‘If they ever do…once again, thank you, Goldberg.’ Holmes said, and I shook his hand. He had been of great aid this midnight.

The door behind the house had closed, and at the sound of it Mrs. Hudson came out.

‘Oh heavens! Where have you been? Who was that? You need some tea! All wet and cold…’ she stumbled off into the kitchen, and soon Holmes and I sat in our armchairs once again, staring out the rain pattered window and onto the dark street.

 

Ivan Budanov lives in Atlanta, Georgia. He enjoys writing and programming, as well as playing ping pong. He has traveled all over the world, and loves exploring different cultures.

I breathe slowly; I don’t want the bad lady to catch me. I am frightened of her. She yelled at me this morning, and I didn’t like it. This time, I have hidden under the bed, hoping they won’t see me, that they will just go and leave me here. Alone.

My name is Edmund. I woke up this morning to be told that I had just been in a terrible car crash in which both of my parents had died. I didn’t cry, I couldn’t cry for someone I couldn’t remember. Even now, I try really hard to feel something for them, but I can’t.

The nice lady had said that I had amnesia, which she explained to me patiently. It is a medical condition in which due to an accident, traumatic experience or something like that, you forget everything.

I know she must have said the truth because I don’t remember anything. I only know that my name is Edmund Osbourne William, and that I am ten years old, and come from Manchester, England. Or that’s what the good nurse told me.

I like the good nurse. She came back again, just a while ago, to give me clean clothes and some cleansing supplies. I understood when I saw myself in the mirror, with my scruffy hair, dirty cheeks, and wrinkled clothes. When I came out, the good nurse said I looked very dashing, but the bad nurse cut her off before she could say anything else. Her withering glare before leaving sent me straight where I am now, under the bed…

Even now, as I hear their footsteps fading away, I can’t relax. The bad nurse might come back, so I’d rather not move.

It’s really dark under the bed. The slimy floor is full of dust and there is eerie writing on the bedspring escape, break free. It gives me goose bumps. Idiot the person who did that, I hate him, I don’t want to be where he was.

I scurry out and hide under the warm duvet. I can see the daylight from here. Clutching the covers is like touching mummy’s hair. Did I like touching my mum’s hair? I don’t know, but it feels good now… I am never coming out!

The door opens, and I first peek and then rush out. It’s the good nurse. I hug her. She smells good, familiar.

“Where were you?” I notice my accusatory tone as I mumble.

“I am sorry I took so long. I just couldn’t find the things we needed.”

“I was worried.” I look downwards as I speak.

“Ohhh, puppet, don’t worry. If something happened to me, I would immediately call you for help. You would get someone to help us for sure. Let’s see, who could that be? Maybe the National Emergency Number. I always have their number in the office by the phone, just in case.”

“Yes, that makes sense.” My hair gets out of place as I nod strongly. We have a plan just in case. I like that.

“Anyway, why were you hiding sweetheart?” She asks with a warm and contagious smile.

“I was scared,” I say pretending to look out the window.

“Why where you scared?” She surrounds me with her protecting arm. Maybe a bit too tight, but I don’t mind. She is on my side.

“I was scared of under the bed.”

“Oh! Don’t be scared. There is nothing down there.” She doesn’t look, so I don’t believe her. “I know what we can do, why don’t I bring some paper and colours so you can draw?” I clap my hands in joy. Anything the good nurse suggests must be fun!

She laughs, and gets up.

“I’ll be back in a second.” I know somehow she means it. She really won’t take long.

Alone, I get bored. It is the typical hospital room, dull and solitary, with nothing to do. An old TV set hangs from the ceiling, but the remote is nowhere in eyesight. There is a window to my left, with a view to the world below. Unfortunately, I can’t wave hi to the good nurse sprinting through the garden because it is sealed shut. I lie back on the stiff bed and stare dejectedly at the ceiling, not even the sound of a passing car to distract myself.

The creak of the door announces her. She has brought colours, glue, scissors, paper… Even glitter! But I don’t see a blue felt tip. How disappointing, I was expecting it. Blue is my favourite colour.

“Told you I wouldn’t take long.”

She sits next to me, and together we start drawing pictures, and cutting out shapes. The good nurse even teaches me how to do a snowflake! She says, at Christmas, this room is going to look so good Santa will never want to leave!

I’m having such a good time, that I almost forget where I am till the door slams open making us jump.

“Janice, I need your help with a patient” the bad nurse barks.

“Okay I’ll… I’ll be there in a second” the good nurse stammers while thrusting everything into a folder she has brought.

“Do you really have to go?” I whine grabbing her wrist.

“Why don’t you sign this so I know it’s yours?” I nod eagerly, and use her felt tip to write my name on the folder.

“I remember how to write my name!” I gasp, and drop her felt tip under the bed.

“I’ll be back soon.” She does not notice what just happened. She is already rushing out, without looking.

“You! Be a good boy!” The bad nurse says it staring at me closely, and I notice my eyes getting wet. Her garlic breath is unbearable. As soon as she leaves, I go to my safe place.

This time, the memory of the darkness and weird writing returns with a vengeance and without thinking, I run out of the room to get the good nurse. But she is nowhere to be seen.

I am alone in a long corridor. Its worn out magnolia walls are scraped in too many places probably from the trolleys that bump into them. Poor maintenance or lazy staff I guess, because no one is around to help me. The pictures on the walls are faded infantile prints like the ones in the old black and white movies mummy liked … mummy liked movies?

I get distracted. At the end of the corridor the bright colour of the exit doors catches my attention. She is likely behind them, but before I can cross them footsteps stop me. If they find me out of my room, they will punish me for sure.

Fortune is on my side as the nearest room is empty.

“When will we give James’ son the next dose?” The bad nurse’s voice makes me shiver.

“This evening, with dinner.” She is talking to the good nurse. “We don’t want to take any more risks, leaving the window open almost meant his escape. Thankfully, we stopped him before he could jeopardize everything.”

“Definitely. The rage in his eyes when he looked at you … It was surreal. It was a miracle he didn’t hurt you.” The bad nurse sounds baffled.

“I know.”

The double doors banged shut, their voices fade away. I wait. And I wait for a few more instants. Finally, I hold my breath, and without looking I run back to my room.

The good nurse is at risk. I have to protect her. The good nurse said so. It seems there is only one thing to do, and she did not dare to ask me to call the Emergency Number. Probably she was concerned about me. She mustn’t know of my mission, for she doesn’t like me doing risky things.

I slowly drag myself off the bed again, and cautiously walk out of the room toward the red doors. I hold my breath, and dash through them with my eyes closed. What I find doesn’t surprise me.

Warn out walls, faded pictures, and this time, a bright red sign hanging on the navy-blue door: personnel only sign. I don’t care about limits when it comes to the good nurse.

I swing the door open. Old black and white photographs of hospital staff on the dirty magnolia walls. Most likely they are now deceased or rocking their nineties in some retirement home, but one knocks me off my socks. In the middle, in between a man and his wife, and with two small girls to his right, there is a boy like me. I mean, almost exactly the same as me when I saw myself in the mirror. Only that the boy looks older than me with curlier hair. Not to mention he is more in shape.

I start looking in the cabinets’ drawers. Nothing. I look around and notice a round table. There are only a few papers in here. But they are all about me.

I pick up one of the papers and I read every word twice, before skimming through the rest of the papers and simply run out with them. The Emergency Number doesn’t matter any more.

The corridor is cold, and threatening, and the need to hide too strong. I find myself getting into one of the patient rooms, rushing under the bed. I’m not worried that its patient might rat me out, because now I know there are no other patients in this hospital. Only me.

Suddenly, this darkness is welcome, it’s safe. So they’re alive… They’re alive! They were looking for me. After three years, my parents were still looking for me! I try remembering them, but there is only blackness. Why would anyone do this to me?

And the good nurse not being good after all… My cheeks burning. At least the bad nurse was bad.

I toss and turn, cramped under the old bed. A sudden but useless realization stops me frozen. So I am James’ son and the “dose” is for forgetting!

Unfortunately, darkness is not blinding down here. My eyes stubborn, can’t avoid reading some of the news I took. It says I had disappeared after wondering off on a family trip, never to be seen again. The article was written a year after my disappearance, but I saw more in that drawer, the most recent being a couple of months ago. The article also included a contact telephone number.

I hear someone running in the corridor. They must have already realised I am not in my room. My fists close, my heart is bumping in my head. I sniffle, and stop crying before deciding what to do. I inhale and exhale slowly, accepting what’s to come.

When I am sure they aren’t near, I step out, and start walking. I don’t run as it could give me away. I walk as slowly as possible, and it hurts.

I basically stroll in pain to the fire exit. I don’t know how far they are from where I am. If they entered the staircase I’d be trapped.

I peek at the bottom of the stairs, no one. I step down nearly tiptoeing. At the bottom of the stairs, trembling, I push open the steel doors that reveal the lobby.

The door to the outside is closer than I’d have dared to dream. As I approach it, my heart thumps so loud I almost need to cover my ears. The sweat drops stubbornly down my forehead as I continue to stop myself from running.

I want my mummy and daddy. They are a blur, but that’s more than what I had before.. The sweat gets in my eye. It is itchy, and it bothers me. This all bothers me. And I run. The last thing I should have done, but I remember my mother’s laugh.

I am touching the handle, when I hear their footsteps. It is too late to hide, the only way out, is out.

“There he is!” The bad nurse shouts.

I turn the handle and run into the garden. They’re already catching up, though I still try. I try running faster, my legs aching, my voice screaming at my fate.

“Let me go!” I try to break free even though it is of no use.

“Sorry kid, no can do” answers the bad nurse. “The longer you’re here the better.”
“Why?!”

“Because if you never appear then, she— ” the ugly nurse points at the false good nurse with a bitter smile— “will inherit the whole fortune.”

We start our walk back to the hospital, and she does not stop talking. She enjoys it.

“When your grandfather died, he left some money and a couple of properties to your aunt and me, including this hospital. But of course, your father was his favourite, so he left most of his fortune to him. Once your father dies, all the money goes to you. But if you disappear, your mother can’t get the money since she didn’t want to carry the family name. The money will go to my sister here. But of course, you have to have disappeared for a number of years before your daddy declares you dead. So, here we are.” The bad nurse is having the time of her life.

“You aren’t dead yet, because your other aunt here, prefers to do it slowly, for your daddy to pay. So when he is at his lowest… He will have his last breath. You will follow soon afterwards; the sedative slowly accumulating should eventually kill you.”

I can’t even wail as the good nurse pushes me into the room, and forces me to sit on the chair. I try to escape, but the bad nurse holds me. I can see my aunt with a syringe.

“No!” I sink my nails so deep into the bad nurse’s skin that she screams and lets me go. I go straight under the bed, where I will be safe.

Only I am not.

The good nurse’s arm stretches under the bed, and I start wailing.

“Shut up! You, idiotic child!” she snaps, but I keep wailing at the top of my lungs, dodging her arm every time it gets too near, until I corner myself. The bad nurse kneels to help her. Then, I smile.

I finally remember mum and dad. I promise myself that maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but that someday, I will meet them again.

And as I see the good nurse’s hand with the syringe, the last piece of the puzzle fits. The eerie writing was mine, and the blue felt pen is where I left it with the good nurse’s by its side, in the corner. As I feel her arm clutching my leg, I write “603-586-0932.” Mum and dad’s phone number from the paper. My body failing; my mind getting blurrier by the second, I scribble, “She is not good!

 

Malena Bertrand was born in Cincinnati, but soon moved to Spain. As a toddler, she loved memorizing her favorite stories. Soon she started devouring books, and eventually writing her own stories. At ten, she was runner up in the COBIS Student poetry competition; at eleven, she was part of an e-book anthology of short stories curated by Dee White. Her most recent achievement is her first paper publication in Stinkwaves. When Malena is not writing, she loves practicing piano, reading and singing in the shower!

A thousand eyes shine in the light of the lantern, held high above your head. The swirling mists eagerly devour the light, and the path at your feet is lit only dimly, as though by the last fading rays of dusk. There is darkness to either side of the path, impenetrable blackness. Rustles and scratching sounds come from the darkness, and shapes shift in the shadows. Branches snag at your clothes, twisted and gnarled, and you stumble on unseen roots in the gloom.

Lights flash amongst the dark trunks, silhouetting shapes lurking in the trees. Long, branch-like arms hang from bodies perched in long, arm-like branches. Heads turn towards you, baring razor fangs in hungry, mirthless grins. Pointed ears flick back and forth as pointed tongues run along pointed teeth. Long fingers twitch and flex, like nooses come alive. Wings flutter and then are still. The lights in the trees disappear, just as a gust of stray wind blows out your lantern.

You stand, pulse racing, in the darkness, listening to the sounds of claws scraping against bark and feet hitting the ground as bodies leap from the trees with apelike grace. The dry leaves whisper and rustle, the sounds growing nearer and nearer. You can hear them breathing, and every hair on your arms and neck stands up as the creatures approach. You know that you never should have come into the forest.

A bright light illuminates the woods, and you see for the first time that you’re in a clearing. Dark shapes scamper into the trees, fleeing the light, and disappear once more. You turn towards the source of the light. A majestic beast stands amongst the trees, light shining from the twisted horn that grows from its brow. Its cloven hooves paw at the shining white stones beneath.

You approach the creature, one hand raised. It’s looking away, staring into the darkness. You place your hand onto its flank and begin to stroke its soft fur. The beast lets loose a low rumble of pleasure, and you feel yourself relax. Your heart slows to a more normal pace, and your ears stop straining to hear every noise amongst the trees. As your fear diminishes, you realize just how late it is. Your limbs grow leaden as the lateness of the hour mingles with the terror you’ve just been through. You feel lethargic and indolent, content to remain in the grove and pet the beautiful creature that saved you.

The beast’s head swings to face you. Three rows of teeth are bared in a predator’s grin, and its eyes are utterly black. Red blood drips from its matted, tangled beard as its forked tongue darts out to lick its lips.

You recoil and step back, stumbling as your foot slips on the bleached skulls which carpet the ground. You fall, and the beast advances. Its hooves are on your chest, and its face is mere inches from your own. You look into its cold, black eyes a second time.

It doesn’t snarl or growl; it feels no need for such posturing. You and the beast both know who’s in control. You clench your jaw tightly shut, promising to yourself that you’ll face death with courage. You will not scream as it devours you, you say to yourself.

You lie to yourself, and your cries echo against an uncaring sky as the creatures come out of the trees to scrounge for scraps of the beast’s feast.

 

If you’re Sam-not-Samuel Millson, you have been writing since you could hold a crayon. You enjoy reading, writing, acting, second-person narration, and making clever comments at every opportunity. You grew up with The Spiderwick Chronicles and The Belgariad, among many other books, and live in your house’s library. Your name is not Samuel, Samantha, or Samson. Samwise is also not your name, but is acceptable. You currently live in Martinez, California.