Microstory 1876: Necessary Work

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Gross things don’t bother me, and they never did. I don’t remember how old I was, but there was one time when we walked in to find a dead rodent in our classroom. It was just a single room back in those days, if you can believe it. We all just learned together, I don’t know how we got anything done. Anyway, our teacher was afraid. He probably would have had us conduct our lessons outside that day if it wasn’t the middle of winter. That’s probably why the animal crawled its way in there in the first place. Though I suppose it didn’t do him much good. Something had to be done about it, and I was the only one willing. The other kids stayed away from me starting that day. You would think they would be grateful that I handled it like a champ, but I guess that level of graciousness is just not something you can expect from a child. It doesn’t matter, the ostracization didn’t bother me none. I made it out of my small town. I made a new life for myself in the city. I had a few jobs here and there; all of them fit for a lady, even though that’s not how I would ever characterize myself. One night, I was riding in the passenger seat with the boy who was courting me when a deer ran out into the road, and got herself hit. She was bleeding and convulsing, and like the rodent, something had to be done. Once again, I was the only one capable. I grabbed a tire tool from his truck, and bashed it over the deer’s head to put it out of its misery. And of course, just like before, the guy was more freaked out than appreciative. He drove me back into town, and never called me back. But I didn’t care, because this was how I found my calling.

We left the deer on the side of the road, but I didn’t want it to rot there permanently, so I walked myself to the animal control center. I told the guy what had happened, and he said he would take care of it. It’s not that I didn’t believe him, but I wasn’t sure I trusted him, so I demanded he take me back out there right this very minute. Well, he couldn’t leave the place unoccupied, so I agreed to wait until someone else returned. Then we did go out there. He lamented that I severely undersold how large the animal was, but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I could help him load up the carcass. He said that was against protocol, so I asked him if my being there at all was protocol, so he gave in, and let me help. To my surprise, we drove the thing out to a bird sanctuary, so the meat wouldn’t go to waste. I mean, it wouldn’t have gone to waste in the wild—something would have turned it into its meal—but I liked that they had a way of disposing roadkill responsibly, instead of just tossing it away like garbage. I was sick of being a secretary, so I asked for a job, and as hesitant as the bossman was, my new friend vouched for me, and I started a couple weeks later. I know that it’s not glamorous work, but someone has to do it, so it may as well be me, rather than some poor little thing who retches at the sight of blood and guts. Not everything about the job is like that, though. We would also get calls for animal abuse and neglect, and that was the part that I hated the most. Animals die, it happens, but there is no reason to take responsibility for a helpless creature if you’re not going to treat it right. So I wouldn’t say I loved every minute of my life, but I always felt useful, and I can die happy. I made pretty decent money, and retired with more than enough to support myself, and my family. Well, that’s about all I have to say for myself. I’m sure you were expecting something more interesting, but some of us just do what we can, and try not to make too many mistakes.

Microstory 1860: Beater

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I still remember the day my dads bought the truck of my older brother’s dreams. It was a surprise, but papa had to be out of town for the week, so father needed my help to pull it off. I was too young to drive on my own, but we did it anyway, because we lived in a rural area, and nobody cared. Obviously, I drove the old beater from the dealership, not the new one. He then had me hide it behind the barn. When I pointed out that he ought to hide the new one, he just laughed. Of course, my brother was getting the hand-me-down, and father just bought himself a brand new luxury vehicle. But man, my brother took care of that ol’ thing. He scavenged for replacement parts, and installed them himself. He spent every free moment fixing it up until it looked so good, our dads almost wished they could switch. It wasn’t originally designed for off-roading, but by the time he was finished repairing it, it was capable of handling some of the worst terrain. I always admired my brother’s patience and determination, and I loved that truck about as much as he did, though for me, I imagine it had more to do with how much I loved him. He could have used it to drive away from us, but he never didn’t come back. We stayed best friends throughout our whole lives, even after he went to college, even after we met our husbands. We both left the farm, but stayed in town, and ended up at the same retirement home, though I never made it to assisted living, which is where he died. His kids didn’t have any strong feelings about the truck, which was good, because he left it to me in his will. It was good timing too, because everyone figured I had a few months of driving in me before I would have to give it up. But like I said, it won’t come to that.

To honor his memory, I’ve driven up the side of a mountain that most cars can’t survive. They just don’t come with the features they need to hold onto the ground at such steep angles. I believed my brother’s truck—my truck—was well-equipped, and I began to drive up here with no fear. They let me take a small portion of his ashes to spread at my own discretion. This is the perfect place to let a part of him rest. He loved to watch the sun rise and set. From here, he would be able to see both. Unfortunately, I was really more thinking of how good the truck was after it was first restored. It was already old back then, and now, it’s very worn out. Yeah, he kept working on it, but then he got old too, and at some point, there is nothing you can do anymore. It has almost a million miles on it; my God, I really should not be up here. Admittedly, I didn’t think it all the way through—because I’ve also gotten old, and I was never exactly an action hero—it just seemed like a beautiful gesture. I don't scream as I feel the truck tip back past the point of no return. I suppose I’ve been doing this whole life thing for so long that I just generally don’t fear dangerous situations anymore. Still, I don’t have a death wish, so as I’m hanging here, I try to strategize a way out. The problem is, it’s not over. I’ve triggered some kind of landslide that sends me tumbling down, and down, and down. This is when the real beating happens. Rocks fly in through the open window, and attack my face. I’m too weak to keep my arms close against my chest, so they bounce around the steering wheel, stick, and rearview mirror. I can feel my bones cracking, and blood filling up my mouth. I tell you all this, not to gross you out, but to assure you that I don’t interpret any of this as pain. If I had to go out some way, this is at least a funny, tragic story, and I think my brother would have gotten a kick out of it.

Microstory 1838: Pics or it Didn’t Happen

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I’ve been a professional driver for the last fifty years. I built my career on a spotless record, but just because something isn’t on my record, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I don’t want to relive the worst night of my life, but it’s all I can think about right now as I’m riding in the back of this ambulance. Back in the day, driving was a bit of a man’s world. Women weren’t actively discouraged from such jobs, but they weren’t encouraged either. I didn’t have to fight my way into the industry, but I certainly found it rather difficult to relate to my contemporaries. I didn’t socialize very much with the other students while I was learning, and advancing. I focused on being the best driver I could be, and pretty soon, my hard work paid off. I don’t recall exactly how it happened—I think it was more of a gradual thing; a series of events—but I eventually became known as the professional truck driver with no accidents. I didn’t knock down one cone during my training, and I continued this winning streak over the years, which is when it really mattered, of course. I also didn’t make any such mistakes in my personal life. No speeding tickets, no parking tickets, not even a warning. I was a model citizen, and pretty soon, I was being paid to talk to other people about it. I didn’t think that going ten years without issue was that big of a deal, and I don’t think I was the only one. I wasn’t hired to speak at high schools because I was the only one, though, I guess, but because I lucked into it. In the 1980s, I started driving fewer hours so that driver’s ed teachers could book me to speak to their students. They wanted me to inspire them to become like me, and I knew the whole time that it was kind of a waste. Those kids weren’t planning to get in any accidents. It happens, and my talks weren’t going to stop it.

Still, I kept doing it, because it was decent money, and I was starting a family at the time, so staying in place was better for my schedule anyway. Then one night in 1999, it happened. And this is my confession. I was driving back from a night class. It was geared towards adults who had never learned to drive, nor graduated from high school in the first place. So they were all going for their degree and license at the same time. It was so dark outside, as you might imagine, because not only did the students have to work during the day, but many of them had to take public transportation, so such a class necessitated that it be scheduled fairly late. I was tired, I admit, and looking back, I probably should have called a cab. But I wasn’t intoxicated, so I thought I would be okay. It was snowing and sleeting, so visibility was incredibly low. The windshield wipers may as well have been off for as helpful as they were being that night. I was about to just pull over, and call my husband for help when I heard it. I’ll never forget how far my heart dropped down in my chest when that thump whumped against my bumper. I felt it too, and now, every time I hear a similar sound, I nearly jump out of my seat. I couldn’t believe I did it. I was so stupid. It was my job to teach others to not be reckless, and now I would forever be a hypocrite, and a fraud. I got out of the car and inspected the damage. The grill of my car was fine, so I panicked and rationalized not reporting it. I just got back in, and drove off. No one would have to know. It was one little accident, and it wasn’t worth ruining my career. Even after I retired, I kept my secret, because I didn’t want it to destroy my legacy either. My kids are all accident free, and I would be too if I hadn’t knocked into that damn trash can that one fateful night.

Microstory 1772: Archer

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I survived, against all odds. A group of men abducted me, and held me captive in a barn. Once they were ready, they released me into the woods, and told me that they would give me a five-minute head start. They expected me to run as far as I could, but I circled back, and stole one of their vehicles. When I look back on that moment, I’m filled with regret at how disappointing and anticlimactic that ordeal was. That was my chance; my chance to see what it feels like to take a life. I wouldn’t have gotten in any trouble for it, and any of them would have deserved it. I only ran, because some idiot left the key in the ignition, and didn’t give me a choice. Had I tried to fight back at that point, it would have looked suspicious. If I had just gone for it, and ended up not liking it, at least I would have known the truth. As it stands, I feel like I don’t know who I am. Am I a killer? Am I no better than those rich bastards who liked to hunt the most dangerous game? I try to move on with my life, but these questions nag at me, and refuse to relent. I wake up one day, and find myself on autopilot. No hope to stop myself, I drive to the prison to visit the ringleader. He acts like he saw this coming. Does he see something in me that no one else does? I ask him why he did it, and what turned him into the kind of person he is. Since I’m not a lawyer, this conversation isn’t privileged, so I have to worry about them listening in. I frame my interrogation like a victim who is trying to get some closure and move past it. I get the sense that he understands why I’m really here, and he frames his responses to help me work through my existential crisis. When the hunt began, someone flung an arrow at my feet, and nearly struck me. As it turns out, this is the guy who did that. He wanted me to know that he had my life in his hands. The arrow, according to him, is the purest weapon history ever came up with. I don’t know what that means, but my attention shifts to it, and I know that I have to find out.

I start learning archery on my own. I don’t want anyone to know what I’m into, so I build a range in my basement all by myself, and let internet videos teach me the basics. From there, it’s just a matter of practicing. I breathe archery, and dream about it. It consumes my whole being, and before I know it, I’m an expert marksman. I keep wondering if I’ll get tired of it, or if I’ll eventually stop feeling the need to continue, but that day never comes. I have to do more. I have to know how far that arrow flies. I feel like a junkie, chasing after something I’ll never get. The difference is that I think I can get it. I think all I need is some better targets. Out of the dozen people who tried to kill me two years ago, one of them got an easy sentence. He cooperated with law enforcement, and basically sealed all the others’ fates. He was apparently new to the crew, so he hadn’t killed anyone yet. He’s the only one not still in prison, so I decide he’ll be my first. I can’t tell you how good it feels when I watch that arrowhead sink into his kidney. It’s like witnessing a miracle; I’m euphoric. The high doesn’t last, and I must find another. Vigilante is not the word I can use for myself, though that would be a fantastic excuse. The truth is that my experience screwed me up more than I realized at first, and I have become obsessed with understanding why those people did what they did. After killing a few random criminals here and there, I determine that I’ve been sloppy and unorganized. If I want to hold onto this feeling, I have to become something new. I form my own crew, but we don’t go after normal people. We go after the rich.

Microstory 1771: Arrow

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I know what they want; what they’re expecting. They have obviously done this before, and they know how it goes, because all of their victims have been predictable. They want to get as deep in the woods as possible as fast as possible. But I don’t know where I am, or how far I am from civilization. I could wind up heading straight for some kind of secondary base camp, where an entire regiment is waiting to finish the job. Things used to be a lot easier for me. I had a pretty cushy life, and I didn’t worry myself with the state of the rest of the world. I’m sure that’s why they chose me, because they’re angry, and I’m an easy target. Well, I’m about to show them just how wrong they are. I am not going to make it easy on them. I’m not going to run as far as I can. I’m going to hide, and find an opportunity to hunt them right back. They’re counting on the fact that I’ve been so sheltered. They think it gives them some kind of advantage over me, like they’re the only ones who are all right with getting their hands dirty. I may have less experience than them, but there has been a darkness inside me since I was a boy, and they just gave me permission to let it out. If I manage to kill any of these people in my pursuit of freedom and safety, no one will blame me for it. It was self-defense. They may have all the weapons, and probably even the skill. But I have something they could never understand: the ability to shut out my feelings, and turn feral. I’m no straight arrow, but I don’t drink all that much, because if I want to lose my inhibitions, all I have to do is let go of my grasp on the moral code that I developed to avoid getting in trouble. That’s the only reason it’s there. I don’t really value human life, and I certainly don’t value these people’s lives. If they want violence tonight, they’ll get it, and they’ll be sorry they asked.

Just as I’m crossing the tree line, an arrow nearly catches me in the ankle. They promised they would wait five minutes before they began the hunt. I don’t think they have their eyes on breaking that promise. They’re clearly a cocky bunch who have no reason to suspect that I might actually survive this. I think that was just one of them showing off his bow and arrow skills. That’s good to know. When I think I’m out of eyesight, I speed up. I run as fast as I can, as far as I can, using up nearly all the energy I can muster at once. Once a minute has passed, I stop. I turn around, and head back towards the barn, but at an angle. I walk slowly and carefully, avoiding every fallen leaf on the ground. I spend the four minutes I have left getting right back to the starting point without alerting anyone to my presence. They’re going to walk straight into the woods, thinking that I’ll be a kilometer away before they catch up to me. I start to hear their voices as I get closer. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but their tone doesn’t sound like they know what’s up. My plan is working. What I’m gonna do is make it back up to the barn, kill whoever they left behind to guard it, steal their weapons, and then go after the rest, one by one. I stay low, and peek around a tree. Hm. I don’t see anyone there at all. Did they really all go off on the hunt? What a bunch of morons. I wait for a moment just in case before bolting towards the barn, getting myself drenched in the floodlights, but not staying visible too long. I find an old pickup truck inside. Perhaps there are some weapons stored in here. There aren’t, but the key is in the ignition. This forces me to admit to myself that they left me with no excuse to fight back and kill people. So I reluctantly get in the truck, and drive to the police station two counties over.

Microstory 1725: Bernice’s Coma

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Bernice Dossal is in a coma, or so her doctors believe. She’s showing all the signs of it, but they cannot seem to find a cause. She wasn’t in an accident, she doesn’t have an infection, she was never diagnosed with diabetes, and there are no unusual chemicals in her system. They also found no evidence that she had a stroke. Her eyes are closed, and she is unresponsive. Her body is presently in the long-term care unit of the hospital, hooked up to life-maintaining machines, her family by her side. They come in shifts, sitting with her, and talking to her, for hours. There is never not anyone in there, unless they’re taking a bathroom or coffee break. What they don’t know is that Bernice isn’t there anymore. She was whisked away to another world. It looks exactly like Earth, except that it’s been decimated by some kind of event. She doesn’t know what it was, but it was pretty bad. She realizes pretty quickly that she doesn’t need to breathe to survive, but she can breathe, and as soon as she tries, it starts to cause her problems. Her lungs tighten up, and she begins to cough. She tries to put a stop to it, but the damage has already been done. The toxins have entered her body, and they won’t go away, even when she seals her mouth shut. A small group of people in hazmat suits apparently hear the commotion, and come to her rescue. They usher her into a nearby truck, take her to a plane, fly her to a far off place, and escort her into what looks to be a bunker. They try to treat her medically, but nothing does her any good. She’s corporeal, yes, but the drugs have no effect on her system. She is not a ghost, but she’s not completely here either. Everyone is baffled, but she ends up recovering on her own. All she needed was time in a ventilated and clean environment. In a day, they’re able to debrief her.

They explain to Bernice that she’s been transported to a parallel reality. This world is much like her own, except that it exists about a year in the future. This is not their first encounter with other realities, and one thing they’ve learned is that, while global events play out differently across them, it all ends the same. A comet hits the planet, and destroys nearly all life, either by the impact itself, or the ensuing consequences, such as the now toxic atmosphere. According to their interactions with the previous reality, they’ve gathered that the oncoming event triggers some sort of breakdown in the dimensional barriers which normally maintain the multiversal structure. Some people are saved by jumping into the next reality, while others can only send and receive messages back and forth. They’ve yet to figure out how to stop it, but apparently Bernice has made contact earlier than anyone ever has before. Perhaps, if she can figure out how to get back to her real body, she can at least warn her world about it. They put their best scientists on it, even though they were originally tasked with coming up with long-term survival solutions. They decide they’ll be satisfied if they can prevent their counterparts from suffering the same fate, even if it means surrendering to their own. After weeks of study, they find the answer, and Bernice awakens, but they were evidently off with their calculations, because she soon realizes this can’t be her reality. She’s woken up about a year before she fell into the coma in the first place, which means she’s actually in the next reality over. That gives her two years to prepare for the comet, instead of one, and maybe if she can save the world from total destruction, it will alleviate a little bit of the pain she now feels from knowing she will never see her true family again.

Microstory 1535: Unpopular Favorite Foods

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Anyone who knows me well enough knows that my favorite food is ________. It’s a very unpopular favorite food to have, and everyone I’ve told this to has been very grossed out about it. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe my mother ate ________ a lot while I was in the womb, or gave it to me early on. Or maybe my subconsciousness is called back to a particularly happy time in my life when I just so happened to be eating ________. It’s not all that hard to find, but unlike really popular favorites, like ________, ________, or ________, they don’t make restaurants dedicated to  ________. Nor should they, it would be weird, and I would be the only customer, at least in the area. Some people might go there, just to give  ________ a try, but it would quickly go out of business. It did give me an idea, though, this weird love of mine. What if someone created a restaurant that was specifically designed to appeal to unusual tastes. I looked up online what foods people hate the most, thinking I had a pretty good idea what I would find there, like  ________,  ________, and  ________. I ended up being wrong about  ________, but not  ________ or  ________. There were a lot of things on there that I would never have thought. Apparently, people have extremely strong feelings about  ________ and  ________. They also dislike  ________ when mixed with  ________, though they seem to be okay with them as long as they’re kept separate. People even seem to really like ________ when it’s instead mixed with ________. I once watched a show where a character discovered he liked  ________ and ________, and the joke was that it was an odd pairing, but there have to be people out there who like it, just like him. There are, after all, seven and a half billion people, or so. So what if someone did that? Made a restaurant just for the weirdos like me? You wouldn’t have to eat anything you didn’t want, but you would be encouraged to try other people’s odd favorites. If you’re the one person who likes  ________, and you’re friend is the one who likes ________, you could switch, just for the meal. It might even make you more empathetic to that person, or in general, and that can’t be a bad thing. This is just an idea that’s rolling around in my brain. It might work better as a food truck, or a ghost kitchen, I don’t know. I know, as a loan officer, you’re expecting me to come in with a business plan, and a full list of terrible foods, like ________. I have some. You probably don’t even realize how many people dislike  ________, or how many people actually like  ________. But I already have a full time job, so I didn’t want to spend too much time on this if you think it’ll be a terrible idea. I just want you to tell me, in your professional opinion, if you think this is worth anyone’s trouble, including mine. Why don’t you start by telling me what your favorite food is, and what food you like that most people don’t?

Microstory 1387: The Medium Psych Zone

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Law Enforcement Officer: Hello, can I help you?

Supposed Psychic: Actually, it is I who can help you.

Law Enforcement Officer: Do you have a crime to report?

Supposed Psychic: Not exactly, but if you provide me with a little information, I’m sure I can come up with something.

Law Enforcement Officer: I’m sorry?

Supposed Psychic: Oh, forgive me. My name is Supposed Psychic, and I am a psychic.

Law Enforcement Officer: You’re a psychic?

Supposed Psychic: That’s right. Now, I’m sure you don’t believe in people like me—

Law Enforcement Officer: No, it’s not that. I believe there is more to this world than science can explain, but you’re going to have to prove to me that you’re someone who can tap into these truths. I can’t just take your word for it, and hand you off to the detectives. They would laugh me out of the station. So you’re going to have to prove it somehow.

Supposed Psychic: I can most certainly do that.

Law Enforcement Officer: Go ahead.

Supposed Psychic: I can’t just do it on command. I would need to shadow you for some time, and pick up on energies. Visions don’t come to me automagically. Something I see or hear has to trigger it.

Law Enforcement Officer: You want me to show you confidential police files?

Supposed Psychic: Only if you want to solve them.

Law Enforcement Officer: Okay. You can sit in here for a few minutes. I have to find the right file; one that can do no harm in your hands.

Supposed Psychic: Okay.

Law Enforcement Officer: [...] All right. Here we go. This should be fairly harmless. Here we have a picture of a tow truck driver who has been stealing cars all over the suburbs. His truck doesn’t have any markings, and this is the best photo of him, so we don’t know much. If you can tell us who he is and/or where to find him, I’ll consider telling my superiors about your abilities.

Supposed Psychic: Hmm.

Law Enforcement Officer: Do you need—

Supposed Psychic: Shh.

Law Enforcement Officer: Okay.

Supposed Psychic: [...] This is a fake. The man’s name is Tow Truck Driver Jr. Your car broke down four days ago, and he’s the guy who showed up when you called for help. You were charged seventeen dollars on a bill you believe the roadside assistance company you used should have covered in total. You were pleasantly surprised that your engine needed more work anyway, and it could have been much worse if you hadn’t needed service that day.

Law Enforcement Officer: Anything else?

Supposed Psychic: No, that’s about it. Do I have the job?

Law Enforcement Officer: You absolutely do not.

Supposed Psychic: What are you talking about? I gave you a good reading. Just because it wasn’t a case, doesn’t mean I didn’t prove myself.

Law Enforcement Officer: I posted all that information on social media. I don’t remember what the driver’s name was, so who knows where you’re getting that? I saw you standing in the lobby, pretending to be looking at the public bulletin board, but really you were just waiting for me to walk by, because I was your mark all along. I don’t know what you’re really after, but you’re not getting a look at our cases.

Microstory 1021: Florence

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When I was very young, I would watch my parents get drunk every week. And when they did that, they would always act stupid, and often break something. The next morning, they would promise themselves they would never do it again, but if it was Saturday, they would be right back at it the next night, and if it was Sunday, they would do it again on Friday. I don’t know what happened to them that made them stop, but one day, we packed up, and moved to Blast City. They have been the epitome of civil ever since, so much so that no one until today has ever known anything about our real past. Anyway, either because I saw how bad things can get when you drink, or I saw how much better my parents were when they got sober, I don’t do it myself. In fact, I’m infamous for being a designated driver. I tell everyone I know that, if they ever find themselves drunk away from home, they can always call me for a ride. No one ever takes me up on that, partially because the town itself is literally small, so it’s not that hard to walk from one end to the other, but also because no one really pays attention to me. We also have a couple drivers for one of those ride-sourcing companies, and they kinda need the money, so that’s fine. Well, I don’t know exactly what went down, but Viola took me up on my offer once. She called me from some bar in Coaltown, totally wasted. I could barely understand what she was saying, and when she tried to text me the address, it wasn’t even comprehensible. I had to ask a random guy walking down the street which bar she would be talking about. Well, this was the dead of winter; probably the coldest night of the year. Yeah, it was, we had that winter storm that took school off the table for, like, a week. You weren’t here yet, I guess, but it was real bad. So bad, that the ice ran us off the road, and into a tree. The force of the crash, plus the weight of the snow, knocked a branch right on top of my car. I couldn’t even start it again, so there we were, freezing our asses off, alone in the dark. I called a tow service, but since the conditions were no better throughout the county, it was a long time before anyone could show up. Fortunately, ever the girl scout, I was prepared with emergency water, a med kit, and blankets. We ended up crawling into the backseat, and cuddling together for body heat. Before you stick your head in the gutter, nothing happened. She passed out thirty minutes before the truck arrived, and hauled us out. She was so messed up that she didn’t even remember that any of it happened, but I didn’t have to prove it to her, because I took pictures for insurance purposes. I suppose I have the magic touch, because according to a lot of classmates, she didn’t have one more drop of alcohol the rest of her life. That’s what really gets me about this whole thing, because if they found drugs in her system, she was not the one who put them there. I don’t believe it. There’s something we don’t know about what happened by the river that fateful day, and I don’t understand why they seem to not be trying to figure it out.

Microstory 817: Fly in the Teeth Part II

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Most of us escaped and headed for the nearest airfield, and everything seemed okay. Another group of survivors was getting there just as we were, and we agreed to travel together. It was only while we were in the middle of taking off that we learned they were actually a zombie-worshipping cult, with plans to secure food for their gods. The fact that we were to be that food was not lost on us. We intended to parachute out of the plane, but found only wingsuits, which we weren’t all confident we knew how to use safely. Still, there was no other way, so we quickly put them on, and jumped out of the aircraft. The wingsuits turned out to be specially designed to operate near the plane. They could actually generate their own electromagnetic field, that allowed us to stay in the air indefinitely. The meant we could fly all the way to a safer environment, but stay away from the danger of the fuselage. While we were flying, I began to have this vision of someone trying to kill me with a rifle. I fought him off as best I could, but my only option was to turn the gun back on him, and make him shoot himself. This not only didn’t kill him, but seemed to give him incredible rage, and I suspected his bullets had been laced with some toxic poison. He was delirious, so I was able to trick him into stepping into traffic. I realized only then that this was a flashback of a real experience I had had, that led to the demonic kids who had been chasing me in my truck. I had suppressed the memory. I had done it. I was the one who started the zombie apocalypse.

Our shrinking group of survivors found refuge on a military base that we took over once the zombie cult who had taken up residence there got a fatal dose of their own medicine. As fate would have it, zombies don’t want to be worshipped by their own food. The base was heavily fortified, and well-stocked with provisions, and we were able to ride out the apocalypse there in near complete safety. My zombie pheromone powers increased and changed as time went on. I was never able to fly, but I could jump to incredible distances. And I seemed to be totally invincible. I used my new gifts to venture into the world, so I could report back to my people how things had changed. I found that the apocalypse had played itself out. Zombies needed flesh from the recently deceased. They couldn’t feed on each other, and since they were driven purely by desire, never regulated their hunting habits. In trying to destroy humanity, they had starved to death, and destroyed themselves instead. Still, they couldn’t be removed from the equation completely, apparently. I found another group of survivors, trapped in a former academy. It was surrounded, and ruled, by a horde of zombie-ghosts. They can smell fear, and can’t help but revert to their violent instincts when that fear was present. They can’t actually bite or eat people anymore, since they no longer possess corporeal teeth, but they are capable of affecting the real world in some ways. They can make your life hell if you don’t display an adequate level of confidence. As potentially immortal myself, I have no problem with this, but I feel obligated to help others overcome their insecurities. And so that’s what I do, and why I’m here right now. I can teach you to survive.

Microstory 816: Fly in the Teeth Part I

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Throughout my whole life, I was utterly convinced that the zombie apocalypse was coming. Whenever anyone would ask me about it, I would be able to explain exactly why I thought that. I cited diseases that could mutate to something resembling a zombie-like state, and had all these scientific explanations for why it was not only possible, but inevitable. Everyone thought I was crazy, as you can imagine, and as time went on, I started wondering whether they were right all along. But they weren’t, were they? My first true evidence that there was something wrong—that some kind of epidemic was starting to spread—was when I ran into a group of what I thought were just mischievous kids taunting me for my theories. They turned out to be incredibly fast and riotous, and I began to fear for my life. I had to knock them off of my truck as I was driving away. They could almost keep up with me, but I had to speed to make sure they didn’t. Somehow the story of my harrowing adventure landed in the ears of the White House, and I was secretly invited to speak with the President himself, as well as the First Lady. We discussed the problem, but still things didn’t seem too dire, because I can remember having a good laugh about his opponent’s running mate in the election that led to his first term.

As I predicted, though, the zombies did show up, and man did it spread quickly. Fortunately, the President and I had covertly coordinated the installation of special buttons on nearly every street corner in every major city in the country. One push could summon the aid of military force. I still believe this saved a lot of lives, even though the proverbial shit has since completely hit the fan by now. When it all happened, I was nowhere near Mount Weather, so even though the government had secured for me a place in their bunker, I was unable to make it in time. I instead had to care for a young boy whose mother had abandoned him to save herself. We struggled to run away from the zombie hordes, but some of them seemed to release a pheromone that slowed us down. We managed to push through just barely, and found ourselves with a band of survivors, who were on their way to a series of caves they claimed would easily rival that of Mount Weather’s. A lovely and unexpected side effect of the zombie pheromones was increased agility and strength, which allowed me to jump down a forty-foot cliff to make sure it was safe for the others. I discovered the caves to not be so safe, for other survivors had already made their way there, and had all been turned by the time we arrived. We needed to go somewhere else, and somebody suggested we try to find a plane. Zombies clearly hated the cold, because it slowed them down, so our best bet now was to head North.

The Mystery of Springfield, Kansas: Chapter Three

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I expect to find myself in the other dimension I’ve been to before, but it is nothing like that. It’s cold and frightening and filled with near-blinding light. I can see that there are objects around me, but everytime I try to focus on something, the intensity of the light increases, blocking it from full view. The only way I can keep from running into things is if I keep them in my peripheral vision, for anything else overwhelms my eyes. I call out to Hokusai for a little bit, but quickly grow tired of it, literally. I have no reason to believe she’s still anywhere near here. I keep walking, but very slowly, holding my hands out and pivoting so I don’t collide with anything. My God, who knows what dangers are around me? There could be an entire field of knives. Just, like, the ground is knives. I recognize it as a crazy idea, but as I’m trying to shake these fleeting thoughts from my mind, I encounter my fear. The ground is knives.

I don’t know how it’s possible, but the powerful light dims enough to show a few square feet before me. The business end of numerous knives are protruding from the ground, swaying in the wind as if mere wheat on the plains. No, this is nothing like the other dimension. This is Nightmare World. Every fear you have will be made manifest, just by you worrying it might. And there will be no escape from this, because even if you think of something you believe to be innocuous, the world will present it in the most horrible way possible. I will not be able to fight a giant marshmallow monster on my own, which is definitely on its way, because it’s all I can think about. The light recedes some more, and I see something in the distance. It’s a very large tree, on which someone has built a treehouse. I have no fear of treehouses, and I wasn’t thinking about them recently, so it must just be something that’s here on its own.

I reach down and tear one of the knives out of its place. It comes out like a tuft of grass; difficult and messy, but possible. I wait there, staring at the place where it used to be, assuming two more would grow back in its place, but they don’t. I keep doing this, building myself a path to the tree. Sure, I should probably just turn around and get the hell out of here, but I’m a detective. If nothing else, maybe Hokusai needs my help. If her experience here is half as bad as mine, she could sure use it. It takes a really long time, but I manage to get all the way through. When I reach the treehouse, I collect myself and examine my surroundings once more. It’s much easier to see than before, though there is still so much light around me that I can’t tell where it’s coming from. The rate the light was dimming would suggest that it is simply this world’s own perverted version of nightfall.

There’s evidence that the treehouse once had a rope ladder leading up to it, but it’s no longer there. I’m going to have to do this the hard way. I used to love climbing trees, but I haven’t done it since I was in single digits. I still remember how, though, and it’s not too difficult getting up there. The hardest part is figuring out how to get from under the floor, to the door, without falling on the death knives. I regret being so hasty with this. I should have taken some time to rest and warm up. Now I either take my chances and jump over to the edge of the house, or I climb back down and risk being far less lucky in my second attempt. I decide that I might as well not retrace my steps, and just go for it. I snag the edge and, while barely holding on, push the door open with my other hand, and lift myself in.

I half-expect to see Hokusai waiting for me with a smug look on her face, but it’s completely empty. The place is pretty sparse, but obviously someone was living here. There’s a decent low-to-the-floor twin-sized bed. Next to it is a desk with what looks like a lamp on it. The windows are covered in blackout curtains, but the lamp-like thing has been rigged to stream and control the natural light from the outside. Clever girl. There are stacks of papers next to the desk, and on top of a miniature refrigerator. It isn’t cold inside, but none of the unidentified meat in there has spoiled, so it was probably working at one point recently. Sitting neatly on the desk is a single sheet of paper. Well, it’s not so much a single sheet as it’s several sheets cut up and taped together, ultimately forming one sheet. Each section appears to have been written at different times, and only later put together.

Detective,

I hope this letter never finds you. After retrieving your flashlight, I hope you either decide to give up, or upon replacing the batteries, you discover that it no longer works. This is a terrible place, and it’s taken me months to learn its tricks. Everything here is dangerous, except for anything within the bounds of the treehouse. I have been living here alone for one three four seven months one two three years. Don’t worry, time won’t necessarily pass for you as fast as it does for me. As you might have noticed, the world recognizes your fears, and gives them to you as if you had asked for them. My worst fear is time, and losing too much of it before I find my daughter. If that’s never been a problem for you before, it shouldn’t be a problem now.

I’ve left for you a few things that might help. The goggles on the corner of my bed will protect you from the light, and allow you to navigate. The stack of papers under the bed should help you figure out what happened to Springfield. I believe those two boys you were searching for are still alive. The goggles, the knob, and the flashlight could help you find them, along with a few other objects that I’ve tracked, but never actually found.

Please ignore the hoarder stacks. As many things as I’ve been able to conjure here, I never could figure out how to summon a filing cabinet. They’re part of my own investigation, but they won’t do you any good. Half of them are in a shorthand of my own devising, so you wouldn’t be able to decipher them. The other half are just my diaries.

Feel free to anything in the fridge. No, it’s not cold, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s a timebox, which means it’s only been in there for a few seconds, no matter how much time has passed outside of it. The book we found has taught me to build a many wondrous things, including the fridge, and the quantum replicator, which I plan to take with me when I finally leave. The reason I’ve not left yet is because I returned to you the Rothko Torch, which is vital to reopening the portal. It has taken me this long to understand how to do without it. I do not blame you for this, it’s my own fault for not trusting you. This is all on me. I do know where my daughter is, however, and I will be using my newfound knowledge to get to her. Please, take what I have given you, and leave as well. No one should have to be here, even for just a few minutes. Don’t try to enter the Ruby Cave, don’t drink the sap of the blackthistle trees, and don’t—under any circumstances—close your eyes for an extended period of time outside the treehouse. I learned that the hard way. Just get out. Now.

With apologies,

Hokusai Gimura

I stuff the meat in my bag, along with the notes she told me to take. I put what I’m now calling the HG Goggles over my face, and make the climb back down. The goggles protect me from the light, leaving the environment looking like regular ol’ daytime. The knives are gone, so I run as fast as I can, just hoping that I’m going in the right direction. Before too long, I reach the wall. The house cannot be seen from this side, but the flashlight illuminates the wall just as well as before. After taking one last look at the new world, I step back through, and return to what was once Springfield.

Upon leaving the house, I discover that my car has disappeared, as has Hokusai’s. She perhaps would have taken hers, but not also mine. I get out my phone to hail a ridesourcing vehicle, but of course, the battery is dead, so I just start walking. After a while, a man in an old truck pulls up and offers me a ride. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Kallias,” I answer.

“That’s a great name. I’m Randall. Randall Gelen. What are you doing out in the middle of nowhere?” he asks.

“Car broke down. I was just passing through,” I lie.

“I’m on my way back to Topeka where I live, so I can drop you off anywhere between here and there.”

I take a deep breath and flip through the pages that Hokusai left me. “Topeka’s as good a place as any.”

“What about your car?”

“Let the birds have it.”

He just nods, completely without judgment.

“I appreciate this, by the way. Not many people would pick up a stranger in 2016.”

“2017,” he says simply.

“What?”

“It’s 2017.”

I say nothing at first, because a hitchhiker is dangerous enough. I don’t need him freaking out about me thinking I’m a time traveler. Obviously I spent more time in Nightmare World than I knew. Though I may not have the same issues with time as Hokusai does, it is still a concern for me, and that must have been enough for me to skip at least several months in only a few hours. It could be so much worse, though, so I’m just grateful it’s only been that long. “Of course, my mistake. Slip of the tongue.”

He nods again, still not worried I possibly brought with me one of the knife plants, and intend to use it against him. Just then, his car rings. “Hello?” he asks after pushing a button retrofitted on his steering wheel.

“Hey, dad,” the voice of a young girl says.

“Leona, shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I can make a call in between classes, I’m not hurting anyone.”

“Well, as long as you’re not hurting anyone...”

“When will you be home?”

“Early enough to catch you sneakin’ a beer with your friends.”

“All right, we’ll leave early then.”

He smiles. “I’m not too far away. I can pick you up this afternoon, if you need it.”

“Nah, I’m okay.” A schoolbell rings. “I better get goin’. Love you, dad.”

“Love you.”

“Just the one kid?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

“Yep. I know I’m pretty old for a teenage daughter. Carol and I adopted her after both her parents died. She’s a good kid, and she’s been through a lot.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Got kids of your own?”

“No. I was a detective. I spent a lot of time looking for other people’s children, and knew I never wanted to risk going through that myself.”

“You were a detective? What are you now?”

I look out the window at the trees racing in the opposite direction. “I don’t know.”

“Well, if you’re lookin’ for a new job, I recommend you not apply at Analion.”

“What?”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help but notice your papers. If that’s an application for that company, best let it go. That place is fallin’ apart.”

I look down at Hokusai’s papers to see what he’s talking about. She says something about an astrolabe. Apparently I might be able to find it at a place called Analion Tower. “Oh, these are just...they’re nothing.”

He nods once more.

We make it to Topeka where he drops me off at a gas station. I buy a charger for my phone and hunker down at a coffee shop that has wireless internet. I start reading through the papers, and doing research on my first target. Analion, which is based out of Kansas City, is going through some tough times as of late. Hopefully they’ll be too busy with their legal troubles to notice when I break in there and steal a mystical artifact from the president’s office.

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Frenzy: There is No Sanctuary (Part XI)

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I’m leading the small pack, but Ace is directing me where to go. He says that we need to get to the other side of the river, and at some point, find a vehicle. Our final destination is too far away to run. Rather, it’s too far away for him to run. I would be just fine, but I have to recognize other people’s limitations. And time is of the essence. We first head for the loopway and run alongside it for a while, letting it take us across the Missouri. Less than an hour in, we make a stop at the huge railroad junction. In this part of the metro, you can always find a classic car just waiting for be stolen. These things don’t have GPS, and they certainly don’t have driverless features. The obvious benefit to this is that they can’t as easily be traced. First off, it’ll be awhile before anyone reports it missing, but the police are also not going to be spending a ton of resources looking for something like that. It’s too much work, and ain’t nobody got time for that.

I spot a little red Japanese truck built all the way back in 2002. “It’s missing the passenger seat,” Ace says.

“That’s fine.”

“You’re not sitting there. Look at all that exposed metal and rust. No, we’re finding something else.”

“Who says you’ll be the one driving?”

“That creature is your responsibility. Besides, you’ve been out of the loop today. I know what’s going on, and how to get to the FBI building from here. And I have more experience as a driver.”

“Those are all good points. We’re still using the truck. I like it.” I take a peek at the bed. It doesn’t look too bad; a little dirty, maybe. “We can sit back here.”

He sighs. “I suppose it will have to do. I do already know how to hotwire it, and we better trust the devil we know.”

While he’s working his magic, I’m feeding Crispin some grass I picked from nearby. He’s eating it up, and man does he love it. I can literally feel energy surge through his fur as he begins to digest it. His body was somehow engineered to convert food energy to electricity. “What are you?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer.

We hear the engine rev and then Ace closes the door behind him before speeding off on the gravel. Twice in one day I’ve ridden in the open air in a vehicle piloted by a human. That’s got to be a record. That reminds me of Krakken. “We have to go find out if Krakken is okay!” I cut through the wind with my yell, into the little window in the back of the cab.

“We go to the FBI first!” he yells back.

“No, I brought him into this! He’s my responsibility!”

“And you are my responsibility!”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Then the truck starts to make that clinking sound and starts to slow down dramatically. Ace musters enough strength to pull over to the side of the highway. I can see him massaging his eyes. “I didn’t even look at the gas gauge,” he says. “Rookie mistake, Horace.”

I hop out the back. “It’s okay. We’ll find something else. There’s a junkyard within spitting distance of us.”

“You really do know this city, don’t you?” He asks rhetorically while stepping out.

“It’s my job.”

This time we just start walking, wanting to gather and conserve some energy. I’ve never been to the junkyard, but maybe someone will have a candy bar, or something, that we can pay them for. I know of no restaurants or stores in the area.

We walk the short distance to the junkyard, hoping to find something just this side of good enough to get us to where we’re going. It can crap out on us after that, but we do need to get to the FBI building. They’re the only ones who will know what to do with Crispin, and the people chasing us. As I’m wondering again who they are, as if I summoned them with my mind, they just appear again out of nowhere. I can’t tell whether they’re the same ones as before in the parking lot, but they’re still intent on retrieving their rabbit dog. How do they keep finding us? If he has some kind of tracking chip, or radiation signature, then they would have been able to find him long ago when he was with Krakken. Why now and how? I shake it off, realizing it doesn’t matter. We just have to run.

Our journey takes us into the maze of cars piled on each other. It seems to me like it would be better if you stripped the cars to their smallest components, cataloged them, and just sold them like that. Why take up all this room if most of these cars can’t run on their own? And how are they staying in business at all? No one needs this crap anyway. It’s 2026, get with the program. I shake that off too, because we’re in the middle of playing a deadly game of hide and seek. We’re not just trying to avoid capture, though. We’re methodically heading towards the outer edge of the premises. We don’t have time to find a car that works, so our only chance is to head in the general direction of the FBI building.

We finally manage to sneak past all the cars, but then we’re out in the open, so we have to keep moving. I’m not running as fast as I can, but I also don’t have to slow down too much. Ace can hold his own, and it makes me even more attracted to him. We run down into, and back out of, this part of the blue river that’s dried up. I’m not sure why they did that, but it does make it easier to cross. Not a mile later, we’re starting to head for a cemetery. I’ve seen a number of movies with standoffs in junkyards, and still more set in cemeteries. Have I fallen into an action film? Is this really happening? Is this real life? Yes, it is, and going through the cemetery is the best way to get where we’re going, as the crow flies. Until we break free from our pursuers, we don’t have time to find a more efficient means of travel. I mean, I love running, but this is ridiculous.

As I’m sprinting across the lawn, I look back to see how close they are. This was a bad idea. I don’t notice an open grave in front of me. Despite my prowess as a professional racer, I don’t have time make a course correction, or stop. Crispin flies out of my hands, and it appears that he’s going to land safely on the other side. I decidedly don’t, however. I crash face first into the grave, and for a few minutes, I can’t move. I try to convince my body that we’re in more danger if we stay put, but it doesn’t listen. “Move your big toe,” I say, invoking the spirit of Uma Thurman. I can’t see my toe through my shoe, but I do think it moves. The rest of my leg moves as well, because I’m not paralyzed, or anything. I regain the rest of my strength and crawl out of there, expecting to be surrounded by men in suits. There’s no one there, and I mean no one. Ace was a little behind me, so he should have stopped to help. Why didn’t he? Where did my rabbit dog go? Where did they all go? What the hell is going on?

I look up and around, first noticing that it’s much darker than it was when I first fell in. I lost consciousness? Oh, no. They took both Crispin, and Ace. Why did they leave me? That’s not cool. Sure, it sounds bad that would want to be captured, but at least we would all three be together. I still have no idea who these people are, so I have no chance of rescuing my friends. I’m completely lost, which is something I’ve never experienced before. “Hello?” I call out to the abyss.

“Hello?” A man slowly walks up to me holding a lantern, even though it’s not quite dark enough for that yet. “Good morning,” he says.

“It’s morning? What the hell time is it?”

The man looks at his watch. “Oh, pardon me, I get confused. It’s 7:13 at night. Sundown exactly.”

“I’ve been down for hours.”

He looks to the open grave. “Did you come from there?”

“Yeah, I fell in. Sorry if I messed up your work.”

“I’m sorry,” he almost laughs. “I have this weird brain thing. What’s the date?”

“It’s July 16, 2026.”

He looks back at his watch. “I’m afraid that’s wrong.”

“What? Is it already tomorrow? I could not have been there for more than a day. Someone would have found me.”

“Uh, no...it’s not the seventeenth either.”

“Something tells me that you’re not talking about two days.

“I’m sorry, Mister...”

“Demir. Serkan Demir.”

He doesn’t continue.

“Tell me the date. I can take it.”

“It’s September 24, 2022.”

I stop to think about it for a moment, but all that goes through my head are the words he just said. It reminds me of when I was a child. Analog clocks I could read just fine; it was digital clocks that gave me trouble. Something about going around in a circle made sense to me, but you give me numbers that are meant to represent a time of day, and its relation to surrounding events, and I have to concentrate on it. September 24, 2022 just runs through my head on repeat until I can fully recognize exactly what that means. “I went into the past.”

“Yes.”

“Is there any way back?”

He shakes his head in disappointment. “I can take salmon and choosers, but I can’t take humans. How you managed to slip through with the open grave is something for which I have no explanation.”

“A man named Lincoln Rutherford referred to me as a chosen one, or at least he thought that might be what I was.”

“I cannot speak to that,” he says. “I’m just The Gravedigger.”

“Could you direct me to someone who can help?”

“Well, I could try to—” He’s cut off by the simple fact that something causes him to  disappear before my eyes, but it doesn’t look like he did it on purpose. My only guess is that someone doesn’t want him to help me.

I get the feeling that I’m supposed to be here, but why? Is it to change my own past, to help Crispin escape the villain’s secret lair, to invent 3D printed human organs? I desperately want to go home, but I know that’s not possible. Right now, a 12-year-old version of me is running around the house, still learning about his own sexuality. No, I can’t interfere with myself. No one I know can help me, except for one person. He seemed to know more than he was letting on. I head for Ace’s apartment.

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