Archive for the ‘David Kopaska-Merkel’ Category
Bargain
Tuesday, February 19th, 2008
Billy settled into the lounger and opened another beer. Darlene was gone. “We used to have fun Fridays,” he muttered. “Where is that bitch anyway? No note, no nothin’…” He trailed off. He hadn’t hit her any harder than usual this morning. It wasn’t like she couldn’t remember how he liked his eggs. She just made them runny to spite him. She should’ve done the shopping today and there was no food. “I work all day, and she does nothin’.” She was definitely going to get it when she did come home.
Of course the TV was on the fritz too, and there wasn’t anything to do but drink. He took a swig and made a face. It sure wasn’t whiskey.
Behind him, beady eyes watched from the baseboard, where two adjacent pieces had not been properly nailed. Or perhaps the nails had worked loose as the house settled. No matter, little feet would put the small opening to good use. They’d accepted the saucer of milk and the bargain. Billy finished his beer and the observer froze while the man belched at great length, then reached down and drew another out of the bucket. He popped it open, and the sudden hiss coincided exactly with the fall of the net over his head.
“Gahhh!!” he screamed, and grabbed wildly at his face, for the net felt nasty, like coarse spider web. He reached for the arms of the recliner to lever himself to his feet and get away from the horrid stuff, but the arms weren’t there. In fact, the recliner wasn’t there either. He was sprawled on his back on the floor, foot resting on a huge, dewy metal cylinder, and the net covered his head and upper torso.
They jerked him to his feet and hustled him off to the baseboard. Belatedly, he recognized the giant cylinder. “My beer!” he wailed out of the darkness.
Inside the walls, Billy stumbled between his captors, who he somehow could not get a good look at, dodging real cobwebs and projecting nails. A giant cockroach regarded him silently, then scuttled off towards the now-deserted living room and the enticing scent of beer. They walked a long way, perhaps as far as the kitchen, and then Billy was shoved into an empty cat-food can. The lid was hammered down tightly. It was dark, but he heard movement, and smelled something musky.
“Darlene?” he quavered.
“No.”
The end
Connected
Monday, February 11th, 2008
A sticky note fluttered to the desk. A moment later they all let go. Jen got out a new pack, copied each note carefully (except last week’s pet-reconstruction appointment), and stuck them on the monitor. Just as she put the last one up, the first slipped off with an almost audible sigh.
“Argh!” She went into the kitchen to make some tea. She pulled a cookbook off the shelf to browse for supper. The pages scattered. The cover peeled apart.
That was it. She couldn’t take anymore. She flopped down in front of the trivision.
“… mutant strain attacks glues, including those commonly used in products for the home but there is no cause for…” she switched off. Another damn plague. Antibiotic resistant this, mutated nano that.
“Why couldn’t there be a GOOD plague,” she moaned.
The food-prep unit harrumphed. “There was the sentient appliance revolution…” The back panel fell off with a clatter, followed by silence.
The phone rang. It was her brother.
“Hello, Norman.”
“Are you okay? I saw a story about the plague on the newsfeed here at the spaceport.”
“Worry about yourself,” she said. “Isn’t there glue in the shuttle?” Outside, a vehicle rose from the spaceport.
Her brother’s voice was tinny in her ear. “Apparently not because they are not grounding our flight. Listen, I’ve got to go. They’re letting us launch early. I’ll cube when I get there.”
“Why are you taking off early?”
“Dunno, bye.”
The connection was gone, but she said goodbye anyway, watching two more departures clear the tops of the intervening buildings. It seemed like they were launching more flights today than usual. A lot more.
The framework of her chair chose that moment to return to its component materials. She was enveloped in a dense white cloud. When she stopped coughing, she was lying on a sack of upholstery fabric partly filled with sawdust. She staggered to her feet and dusted herself off.
There was more noise of things falling in the kitchen, then the overhead light went out with a small “pop.” She was feeling her way toward the door when the food-prep unit called.
“Jen? I’m cold.”
The end