Machine Of Death (10 page)

Feb 3 – When a single machine is the cause of so much heartbreak and so much risk to human lives, what’s the logical next step? Order more machines, of course. I’m aghast. Apparently, I am no longer the sole operator of the Posthumous Predictor in Cleveland. Now, I’m just the senior operator. Meaning I’ve been taking calls from the Cuyahoga County hospital about installation all day, in addition to handing out
SUICIDE
and
DROWN
cards to my morose clients. Someone at Cuyahoga County wanted to know if people traded their actual deaths if they traded their cards. I rolled my eyes and was about to tell her that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard, but you know, I have no idea. I gave her Neil’s number. Let him roll his eyes awhile. The tension here has eased quite a bit. I think the politicians are still talking about the machine, some even talking about making testing mandatory, but the news media have lost interest. Some people apparently saw a nipple on TV over the weekend, so all of their attention has gone elsewhere.  

Feb 4 – They were clearing out the debris from the building next door today. It’s just a blank lot now, and yes, I can see the next brick building down, but I can also see the sky and the street below. All it took for this window to serve its function was the deaths of a bunch of kids. Over lunch, I grabbed one of the bricks before they cleared them all away, and now it’s here on my windowsill. I really don’t know why I kept it. 

Feb 10 – Guess what I found out today? Paul and Beth are dating. How did that happen? I saw her come in yesterday, thinking she wanted another go-through with the machine. But then she and Paul left holding hands. I’ve got to admit, I feel weird about that. She didn’t even stop in and say hello to me. They looked kind of sweet together, I guess, but I have to admit, when I saw them walking out to her car, I couldn’t help but think of two doomed prisoners on their way to the gallows. Or something. She with her cancer, he with his falling, it’s like they’re on borrowed time. Is Paul more willing to deal with suffering than I am? Or is he just more desperate for sex? Or does he not understand that one day, the cancer will overwhelm her, and he’ll be left to face his fall all alone? 

Feb 17 – I’ve seen a couple of those custom shirts in the last couple of weeks. One said
EXPLOSION
. One said
OLD
AGE
. The public has embraced wearing their death on their sleeve. What’s more disturbing, is there’s some role-playing game based on the death cards. Apparently a starter pack comes with 60 fake death cards, and you’re encouraged to shuffle your own into the deck. Then the characters in the game start dying left and right and the winner is the last person standing. Also, on my way to work, I always pass this building that says “Palm Readings” in the window. Well, they took down the sign a few weeks ago, and now they just put up a new sign that says “Death Cards Explained.” At least three private businesses in town have gotten their hands on their own machines. Apparently they’re a lot cheaper than they were last year. Now, with the added competition, demand at the lab has dropped considerably. I find that more often than staring out the window, I’m staring at the brick, waiting for someone else to come in. Everyone’s getting rich off of death but me. 

Feb 24 – Happy first birthday, you freaky pile of circuits and premonitions. I sincerely regret that you’re still around. 

Mar 3 – I’m in trouble. All of a sudden, Tammy has questions about the card I submitted for myself. Was she talking to Neil? What’s so implausible about ALMOND? I finally came to accept it. She wants to bring in the examiner from the hospital to administer the test on me “again.” Now what? Plus, Paul’s mad at me because I confided in him that I lied about my card. I think I could get into serious trouble here. I could lose my job for this. 

Mar 4 – I got no sleep last night worrying. Dr. Henry from Cuyahoga County is coming in this afternoon. I’ve been worked up about it all day. I think I’m just going to have to go through with it. I’ll tell Tammy I sent her the test card by mistake. Paul probably won’t tell her anything. I won’t lose my job. But I’m still stressed out because I don’t want to know. Let it be a mystery! No one needs to know! I don’t need to know. Whatever that card says will just consume me, and those feelings of doom I get when I see Paul or Beth will paralyze me every time I look in a mirror. I wish there was some way to avoid this. I shouldn’t have to know if I don’t want to!  

Mar 4 – Dr. Henry finally left. I took the test six times. I feel like a pincushion. I don’t know if there’s something wrong with the machine or what. I tried calling Neil, but he’s doing installations all over Ohio now. But clearly something is wrong, because every time I took the test, I got the same result: a blank card. 

Mar 5 – Didn’t sleep well last night either. Big surprise there. So did the machine read my mind? Did it know that I didn’t want to see the answer? It knows how people die, maybe it can read my mind. I think I read a study once where a polygraph machine reacted to a tree when someone talked about cutting it down. Maybe this machine knew I was panicked about reading the results and spared me. Or maybe it’s screwing with me.  

Mar 5 – If I don’t get a reading, does that mean I won’t die? How is that possible? I’ve sat next to this machine for a year, and watched it dispense little cards that made people depressed, or angry, or terrified. I’ve counseled people who didn’t like their cards, I humored people who wanted to be retested. I’ve been the machine’s caretaker, and little else. Is there something special about me? Why is it doing this to me? 

Mar 5 – No one has come in to use the machine today, so I’ve used it on myself. Over and over again. I’m covered in dried blood. The cards are all blank. 

Mar 6 – I am so tired. Can people die from lack of sleep? Can I die from lack of sleep? Can I die?
Can the machine?
 

Mar 6 –  

MAR
10 – ENDVISIONS’ NOTE:
found
maintenance
log,
missing
maintenance entries after april 29 of last year. previous user had been using log as a journal, with the last entry dated march 6. he was found march 7, apparently electrocuted while trying to damage machine with a heavy object, most likely a brick. machine no longer operational. i will be returning it to endvisions to try to salvage. journal entries indicate that user became enraged, possibly delusional when the machine stopped working. apparently, he was unfamiliar with the process of changing the ink cartridge.

a square of paper was removed from this log and placed on top of the remains of the machine. Written in handwriting that matches this journal was the single word, “me.”

Story by John Chernega

Illustration by Paul Horn

DALTON
WAS
LOOKING
DOWN
AT
HIS
HANDS
. They were dirty, and maybe a little bloody, too. One of his thumbnails was split wide open. “I guess I always just figured what the hell, you know?” They were in the jungle now and things were quiet, relatively speaking. They were just sitting there, like nothing happened. Just two guys sitting in the jungle, waiting for the shock to wear off. “I mean, it was gonna happen either way, right?” 

Johnny sat still, hugging his legs in his arms. He was younger and smaller than Dalton, just out of basic. The sunburnt skin was still peeling off his bare shoulders. In a few more weeks, he’d be tanned just as deep as everybody else. “Still, man,” he said. “The Army?” 

Dalton laughed, his lips curling up around his big teeth. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “Goddamned stupid kid, huh? Signed up the day after I found out. It’s like that where I come from, though. I figured it was there on the streets or here in the jungle. And I sure as hell didn’t want to catch it back there. Not without seeing something first, not without doing something.” His lips stopped smiling now. The smile had never reached his eyes anyway. “Never seemed fair.” 

Johnny rubbed his arms with his hands. There was no reason why he should have been cold, but suddenly he wanted his jacket. But it was back there, back with the others in the clearing. Johnny just hugged himself tighter and shook his head to clear some gnats out of his face. “You ever think anytime that—” 

“Only every day, kid.” Dalton stood up, stretching his arms over the assault rifle slung across his back. He’d held on to his jacket, his gun, his pack, his helmet. Johnny hadn’t thought to take anything with him. He’d just run. But Dalton had somehow managed to keep all his kit. “Every stinking day. Every time those guns started going off, I thought I was done for. But I never knew which way it would come from, so I just kept running. Just kept going the way they told me to.” 

Johnny watched Dalton pace under the trees. He was a big man, well muscled. Johnny felt like a little kid next to him. Even in fighting form, Johnny still looked scrawny. He had tried everything to bulk up, but he never could. 

“Even back there on the chopper,” said Dalton. “I thought that was it for sure.” He turned suddenly, looming over Johnny like a scarecrow. “Homicide don’t mean anything except you get killed by somebody else. It don’t have to be on purpose. It can be like that crash back there just as long as it’s the pilot’s fault.” 

“You didn’t die,” said Johnny. 

Dalton grinned. “I know it,” he said. He squinted down at Johnny a minute. “You ready now?” 

Johnny straggled behind Dalton as they came out of the jungle into the clearing. Streaks of fuel burned in the grass, the flames pale and languid in the bright midday sun. But they were still hot and smoky as hell. The smashed chopper was only about twenty yards away, a crumpled aluminum can surrounded by four smoldering lumps of black. The rest of the men. 

Dalton brought the nose of his rifle up and put his finger on the trigger. They hadn’t seen any enemy fire when they had gone down, but it was hard to be sure. And even if the bad guys hadn’t been around before, there was nothing like a crippled chopper to bring them out of cover. “Keep your eyes open,” said Dalton. Johnny just grunted, and drew his knife. It was the only weapon he had anymore. 

The two men picked their way carefully through the tall grass. A few yards away from the helicopter, an injured snake lay writhing in the grass. Dalton kicked it out of the way with his boot. Then he motioned up to the chopper. “Check if the radio’s still working,” he said. “I can cover you.” 

Johnny moved past Dalton, and pushed a clump of reeds out of the way. Suddenly, he drew back, his mouth working involuntarily open and shut. There, on the grass in front of him, lay a severed head still encased in its dented helmet. The eyes and mouth were open. It was Sanchez, or maybe Dallas. Johnny couldn’t tell for sure. He couldn’t look away either. He just felt terror welling up inside him, his lungs tight and his stomach balled up like somebody had sucker-punched him. He thought he heard somebody screaming and he didn’t know if it was coming out of his mouth or if it was just in his brain. 

Suddenly a strong hand gripped Johnny’s shoulder. He could hear Dalton’s voice in his ear. “Don’t look at it, kid,” said the voice. “Don’t look at it, don’t think about it. Just keep going. Just keep doing what you gotta do.” Somehow, Johnny felt his feet moving. He inched his way closer to the cockpit, but it was still on fire. It was too hot, he couldn’t get any closer. The radio was toast for sure. Dalton, standing a couple yards behind him, could see it too. “Forget it, kid,” he called. “Come on back. There’s nothing left here. It’s all gone.” 

That night, Dalton went back to the clearing to get some embers to build a fire. They only had reeds and rotting wood to burn, but they had plenty of time to try to get them burning. There wasn’t anything else to do anyway. Johnny watched Dalton blowing gently on the thin licks of flame. He tossed a handful of grass into it and the fire flared up, scattering ashy sparks into the air. Otherwise it wouldn’t do better than sputter. 

“That’ll have to do for now,” said Dalton. He leaned back on a big fallen log next to Johnny and clapped his knee with his big hand. “You’re one hell of a hiker for such a scrawny guy.” 

Johnny just nodded, staring at the fire. One of the logs was starting to smolder a little, the bark curling up as it glowed red. Dalton had forced a march after they’d discovered the radio and the rest of the supplies were gone. That’s how they found out that they’d crashed on an island. It had a little bit of jungle and the clearing where the helicopter had crashed, and a few miles of beach. On three sides they could see land close by, but as far as they knew they were just more islands. Even if one of those blue outlines were the mainland, they wouldn’t have known which one or where they were liable to come ashore. It could be right in the middle of an enemy camp. 

“Well,” said Dalton. “Here’s what we got.” He had emptied out his pack. There were rations enough to feed one of them six days, or both of them three days. It didn’t take a genius to do that math. Either way, it wasn’t long.