Transformation, Aborted

Like a mini mutant butterfly she would light softly, lift one wing, and skip-flit from the sofa to the chair to the wall. Her wings weren’t fully formed. She was young. She spoke to me quietly, always, with unqualified respect, unlike my own daughter. The sparkle in her eyes never betrayed insolence. Only once did I see her try to fly, and she soared.

Her parents kept her on a short leash, and sleep-overs were verboten. I understood parental fear, the need to watch closely. It happens. But the girls weren’t having it. So they planned the perfect science project: a sleep study. The experiment called for “ability” tests at 12:00 am, 3:00 am and 6:00 am – and a sleep-over. Clever girls.

Yang Yang’s gone now. She was beautiful and smart, creative, but she was the wrong color. The wrong race. The wrong nationality. Whatever. They say it was the camps. But I saw the blood on the snow this morning, in pools outside their back door.

Enemies of the state, executed. Transformation, aborted. And what do I tell my child, her friend, who knew the sweet gentleness of Yang Yang and won’t be tricked by manufactured tales of sedition? Do I support rebellion? Or advise obedience? How do I shield the chrysalis of her being, in this world?

.

“Just SHOOT me!” screams the girl, blood dripping from her eyes down her face to her throat, disappearing into her T-shirt, black on black. She writhes in agony, clutching her belly, kneading the flesh, deep. She stops, gasping. Sits up. Then suddenly reaches up, rips her hair, and collapses again, sobbing, gripping her head in both hands.

“SHOOT me!” she screams.

The blond-haired youth crouches stunned in the street, tears streaming tracks through the dust on his cheeks. He looks about eighteen. His neo-Nazi metal glistens in the moonlight. Slowly, he reaches for the rifle in the scabbard on his back. He stops. Digs into the case on the ground at his side, pulls out a Magnum. Drops it. Reaches behind his back, into his wasteband, retrieves a pistol, puts it to her head, straightens his shoulders, pulls the trigger.

We watch from the basement window. Careful not to breathe too deeply.

“Britanny,” he moans, “I’m sorry. I thought we were chosen. I really did. Oh God. I am so sorry.”

Gently, he places the pistol on the open case of Live Right sitting beside him. The government gave us Live Right after the camps and disappearances, when the famines came. Told us it was a complete nutritional supplement. I took the deliveries, but I wouldn’t touch it, or let Zoe eat it either. Then people started dying.

The neo-Nazi blond boy moans. He’s in pain too. He starts rubbing his stomache, looks around helplessly, hopelessly. And the humming starts.

He jumps, alert, watching Britanny. Wary, he moves away from her. A shadow comes out of her mouth, her nose, eyes, then melds together, grows and flows towards him. He groans. His eyes dart right, left, to our basement hideout, looking for a way out.

We’ve seen these shadows before. They come out of dead people, fresh dead. I don’t know their range, or how long they live, but it’s the only the time they’re visible. Billions of cyber-nanobots, flocking or maybe, migrating. They came in the Live Right. Thing is, I don’t think the fools even have a de-contamination plan. They’re just winging it.

Neo-boy’s frozen, but he might still bolt. If he tries to make the basement, we’re ready. We have an escape route. But I don’t want those bots on our trail. I’d help him if there was any point. But there isn’t. He’s dead anyway.

“Let’s go, Mom,” whispers Zoe, taking my hand, and I remember it’s her birthday. She’s fifteen today. A grown woman.


.

Wasn't there a man once, who never slept? He would make these great works of art with match sticks or something..??

You do paint a black picture!

Originally posted by fourth horseman
Wasn't there a man once, who never slept? He would make these great works of art with match sticks or something..??

You do paint a black picture!

...It's always dark before the dawn, and I watch too many sci-fi movies with my daughter... Aliens is a fave.

FYI - there will be a happy ending, after all the action and drama.


.

"It's always dark before the dawn,.."

Man you have to listen to U2's new album "How to Dismantle An Atomic Bomb" and the song "YAHWEH"!!!

"all this pain before a child is born"
"still waiting for the dawn"
"Sun is coming up"
"The sun is coming up on the ocean"
"His love is like a drop in the ocean"

"Tell me now, why the dark before the DAWN?"
You would love it! How much air play will a song like that get?
How much air play will an album called that get??

Only dreaming!!

Very dark, soficrow. But its the kind of story that makes me want to carry on to the end. Very well written too, if I may say so.

Very well written, very dark.

Very good

Are you the "Big Mac" or the "LE BIG MAC"??

Thanks guys.

Here's more...

Written very well 2 thumbs up

The gate is camouflaged behind a dumpster, the path littered with trash and foul smelling garbage. The sentry is in the shadows, invisible, hiding behind a broken door swinging on battered hinges.

In the lead, Zoe checks the street, right, left, then skips quickly over the refuse, and runs her fingers across the chain-link three times, lightly. Ba ba strummmm. I’m watching her back.

“Patrol 17 reporting in,” she says softly.

The sentry slips from the shadows to the gate, checks the street again, and swiftly lifts the rusted bar. He grabs Zoe, pulls her through.

“Hurry! A robot patrol’s been by three times in the last hour,” he whispers urgently. Then, "You guys have chips?”

“Yes,” I murmur as he replaces the bar. The robots find us with infra-red and who knows what else. Special micro-chips block the kill function and usually, deflect their attention. The new rulers get them implanted; we have to cut them out. We’re still short. Rulers normally travel in groups. Prime 8 Patrol is looking for the supplier.

“Be safe,” I whisper to the guard as Zoe and I dart down the steps behind the broken door and into the maze. We still have a mile of booby traps to negotiate before we reach headquarters.

“Can I stay in the lead, Mom?” Zoe asks. “I know where the traps are. I can do it,” she assures me confidently. I nod. There’s a first time for everything.

Down stairs over trip wires, up stairs past poison gas, through tunnels with laser triggers, it’s a test every time. Zoe’s cool. I’m tense. Vigilant, adrenalin pumping, I’m ready to save my daughter if she mis-steps or mis-calculates, and wired-exhausted when we finally get to the guard post.

The sentry studies us attentively as we approach, not wary, just interested. Flushed and slightly breathless, Zoe steps up, looks him straight in the eye and states calmly, “Patrol 17, reporting in.”

All adult and competent. I’m thinking she’s too full of herself and ready to run the world, or else she has the hots for this guy. I’m not prepared for it, whichever it is.

“Prime 6 Patrol?” he asks, differently alert, suddenly professional, aloof.

“Yes,” Zoe responds, matching his tone, maybe miffed.

“You’re Prime 6 leader?” he questions, cautiously.

“No, that’s my Mom,” she answers, tipping her head in my direction, holding his gaze and smiling. His reticence was just discretion, a matter of mistaken identity. He grins back at her.

“Uh, Prime 6 leader…,” he says, pausing, immobilized in the light of Zoe's brilliant smile.

“Sentry?” I snap impatiently, after a moment. Prime Patrols are not identified without good reason, usually an emergency.

“You can call me Martin,” he sighs, still grinning at Zoe. She glances at me, back to him, grimacing and twisting her mouth to point to me. Instantly conscious, he whip-turns toward me, blushing.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he stammers. “There’s a Prime Patrol meeting. It started about five minutes ago.”

I raise my eyebrows, flash him a look.

“I think there’s a tower down,” he explains, without meeting my eyes.

Public access to the InterNet was shut down before the famines hit. We hack into it, but our high security net uses towers for ham radio transmissions, linked to computers. We tap into old towers or jury-build new ones with cables and strips of metal, hanging them off empty skyscrapers or sometimes, using box kites to get them in the air. A down tower could be normal, or it could be a major security disaster.

“You’ll have to make the preliminary report,” I tell Zoe, “If you’re not too busy?” It’s a bit bitchy, but we have work to do and our lives are on the line. I don’t have to say it. They both know.

“Right,” she confirms matter-of-factly, back in professional gear. “Grid 38. There’s a new surveillance camera in the old Citibank at Fifth and Columbia. Seven groups of contaminated, twenty-three individuals total. Eighteen deaths observed; five still alive, wandering. Four robot patrols; we kept a good distance, our shields held and we weren’t detected at all, our chips aren’t compromised. One food stash looks good, approximately 150 cases assorted, labels say it pre-dates first known nano-bot contamination by about a year, location Fifth and Euclid, no evidence it’s being watched but we had to leave the door open because we broke the lock. Two suspect food stores, probably contaminated. Ten new drops of Live Right, left in the open. No new uncontaminated people found.”

“Good,” I say, impressed. “You’ve got it covered.” We head in together, each on our own mission.

“Wait!” calls Martin, anxiously. “What’s your name?”

“Zoe,” she yells, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later!” he shouts back, the single word punctuated like a promise.



[edit on 28-1-2005 by soficrow]

Cool, very good chapter soficrow!

Originally posted by MacKiller
Cool, very good chapter soficrow!

Thanks - needed that. Feels choppy and like it doesn't flow right. ...wish I could go back, tinker and edit.

Do you block the edit function on purpose? To force people to move forward?

Nope.

After two hours of the original post, the edit button is removed.

that is a great story you get