Machine Of Death (3 page)

Busy schedules had left them with no choice but to be here at the mall so close to Christmas. Over the next hour he managed to find a few things for under their tree: a bottle of her favorite perfume, the scent of which stirred him in all the right regions; an earring set with sapphires that would match her eyes; fuzzy green footie pajamas, which on her would be sexier than the flimsiest of négligées; an outstanding chef’s knife, razor sharp, which was a bit of a boomerang gift—he loved to cook too. A quick glance at his watch informed him that their time apart was due to end soon, and he began heading toward the fountain where they’d agreed to meet.

A sign in the window of a bulk candy store caught his eye. In bold white letters against a black background, it proclaimed ‘WE
HAVE
THE
MACHINE
HERE!’

Rick stopped in his tracks, then edged up to the glass and peered in. They had a Machine? A Death Machine?

He was fuzzy on the details—he’d skimmed an article on it in the Sunday
Times
Magazine
on his way to losing another bout with the crossword puzzle—but the nuts and bolts of it, he remembered, were that you stuck your finger in a hole in the Machine where it took a blood sample. Imagine the first guy who volunteered for that! Then it would spit out a piece of paper marked with a couple of words, or maybe only one. If the stories were true, that little slip would tell you how you’d die. Not when, not where, but the manner in which you’d meet your demise, although the writer of the article had cryptically added that there always seemed to be a bit of a gray area. 

There were also websites devoted to following predictions with a level of obsession that bordered on the ghoulish, and Rick wasn’t so proud that he could claim he hadn’t visited a few from time to time. If one were willing to accept that an inanimate object could be capable of such a thing, it seemed undeniable that the Death Machines had a healthy sense of irony. One girl drew ‘
BOAT
,’ so she immediately gave up sea travel—which did her no good two years later when a truck towing a cabin cruiser jackknifed in front of her on the freeway. Some dude got ‘BAT’ and started avoiding baseball and caves, but he found out what it meant when the husband of the woman he was having an affair with used one—of the wooden variety, not the kind with wings and sonar—against the side of his head. Of course the story that came up most often was the junkie who got ‘
CRACK
.’ The guy managed to break his addiction, clean himself up, find a job, and start a new life. One day on his way to work, he tripped over a break in the sidewalk—a crack, if you will—and dashed his head out against the concrete. Or so the story went.

They made for good lunchtime reading, but Rick wasn’t quite sure how much faith he put into tales told on the Internet. Still, he’d always been intrigued by the whole concept of the Death Machine, but too lazy and embarrassed to make an appointment at his doctor’s office. Moving over to the store’s entrance, Rick spotted a short queue in the far corner. A sign proclaimed: ’
THE
MACHINE! $20′

As he watched, two girls in their early teens wheeled away from the front of the line. The shorter of the two was consumed by high-pitched giggles, but her wispy friend was ghost-white. As they moved past, the giggler took a deep breath and said, “Oh, Robin! Don’t take it so seriously! It’s probably not true!”

Rick watched and saw the other knuckle at her eyes. “But what if it is?” she said. ”I can’t believe he’d…” Then they drifted out of his earshot.

When he looked back at the corner, someone else was walking his way, a tall guy about his age. When he saw Rick staring he broke into a sheepish grin and shrugged, waving a slip of paper in a matter-of-fact way. “Fifth time I’ve taken the test, fifth time I’ve gotten this answer.” His smile vanished, and his face clouded over. “Still not quite sure what it means, you know?” 

Before Rick could say anything—or get a look at the prediction, which, to be honest, was what he wanted to do—Mr. Five-Times had moved past and was swallowed by the mall traffic. Now the store was empty but for two kids filling a bag with jelly beans, and two figures under the Machine sign. One, presumably an employee, had a handful of bills in his hand; the other was a middle-aged woman with her index finger in her mouth. A few moments later her head jerked down, and she stepped a little to her right—giving Rick his first live look at a Death Machine.

It was…
cute
, that was the only word for it. Squat and stout, with stubby little legs. The hole for your finger was larger than he’d expected, and its location made the unit look like a little gunmetal-gray piggy.

He couldn’t help looking back up at the woman’s face as she read her slip, her eyes widening for a second before she stuck the paper in her pocket and wandered off toward the chocolate section. Rick surmised that the slip hadn’t said “
FUDGE
.” As he watched, she paused to draw her prediction out again, staring as if it might have changed in the last few seconds. Her brow furrowed, one finger idly tapping her chin, eyes a million miles away.

“Twenty bucks.”

The employee’s voice, bored and impatient, snapped Rick from his observation. “Huh?”

An exasperated sigh. “Twenty bucks, for the Machine. Or are you just going to stand there and block the line?”

Embarrassed, Rick set his bag down and reached for his wallet, turning to apologize to the people behind him. Nobody there. He was the line in its entirety.

Pulling out a trio of fives and a bunch of singles—he had a twenty, but the kid had annoyed him—he thrust them out, saying, “Pretty funny. What comedy clubs are you working at?”

Snatching the money away, the guy scowled as a flush spread under his bad skin. ”Whatever, dude. I get tired of people standing in front of the Machine all day while they decide whether or not to go through with it.”

“Yeah, must be really draining. I bet you didn’t hesitate at all, right?”

“Me? I’m not doing that thing, not ever.” He shook his head and gave the Machine a look of complete and utter disdain. “I mean, it’s cool if people pay me to get themselves all freaked out, but that’s not something I wanna know, ’kay?” After a pause he added, “No refunds.”

“None wanted,” Rick replied with a snarl, thoroughly nettled by the attitude. “I’m not afraid.”

“Go right ahead, then,” was the answer as his bills were added to a sizable wad. No credit cards for the Death Machine, it appeared. After the money was tucked away the guy looked at him with a questioning glance. “You going to go today, or maybe you want a rain check?”

That was it. “Okay, I want to talk to to your manager.”

“Ha! Don’t have one.”

Rick looked over at the girl behind the counter, ringing up candy purchases. “What about her? She your boss?”

This prompted another laugh, along with a sneer. “I’m the boss. This is my Machine, I just rent a spot from the store. So, did you want to register a complaint? Because I promise I’ll get my best people on it right away.”

“You own this? And it’s real?”

“Yeah, it’s real, and yeah, it’s mine. I bought it from the company that makes them, you know? Anyone can. I was tired of cutting lawns and flipping burgers.” He leaned back against the wall and smiled. “Smartest thing I ever did.” After a few seconds his haughty expression eased a bit. “Listen, you gotta do it or move on. There really are people behind you now.”

From the murmuring behind him Rick knew it was true, so without another word he shoved his finger into the piggy’s mouth, down into the bowels of the Machine.

At once it began to hum. It wasn’t as cold as he’d expected, but rather disturbingly warm and soft, almost as if his digit was being suckled. That sensation was interrupted by a sharp prick, to draw blood. The vibrations began to increase, and Rick realized with no small measure of alarm that he couldn’t pull free. But before he quite panicked, the Machine stopped dead and ejected his finger.

A piece of paper spat out of a slot on the side, and without any real conscious thought Rick grabbed it and stepped aside, shoving his bag over with his leg. He could sense the Machine owner’s glare at his sudden clumsiness, but Rick wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact. He gathered up his previous purchases and walked out, slip still clutched, unread, in his other hand. 

Outside the shop he fought his way through a suddenly heavy current of shoppers, making his way to a group of tables in the middle of the corridor. One table was occupied by a young woman trying to get a squalling infant to take a bottle. Rick moved to the other table furthest away, dropping into a chair that gave him a view of where he’d just come from, as if he had to keep watch for a sneak attack by the Death Machine, clomping after him on those ridiculous little stems, those leg-ettes, coming to take another blood sample, a much larger one.

A piercing wail from the nearby child snapped Rick from his fugue, and with a start he realized he’d crushed the piece of paper in a fist. Putting down his bag, he stared at his closed hand. It would be easy—simple, even—to walk away from it right now. Just toss the crumpled paper into the nearest garbage can. Hell, even dropping it on the floor would do just as well. He’d wasted twenty bucks on much sillier things before, so what would this matter?

He tapped his knuckles together, kneaded the empty hand over the other. If the stories were true, even if he threw this one away, he’d still get the same answer some other time. So there was no reason to obsess about it now. He should go find Shannon, kiss those full, inviting lips, make a lewd suggestion as to what they could do when they got home and instead of being offended she’d top his offer with something even better. Rick felt himself smile. With her in his life, why would he even
want
to know how he was going to die? A real no-brainer. Easy decision.

But instead, he opened his fist, then the paper.

There was no special font, no borders, no color. In simple black lettering was written a single word: ‘
LOVE
.’ 

Rick turned the paper over to see if he’d missed something. Nothing but
LOVE
. His brow furrowed and he shook his head, confused. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He looked around but saw no answers, only the mother cooing to her now-pacified child. How could he die from love? Too much love? Too little? Someone else’s, like that psycho ex-boyfriend of Shannon’s? He’d threatened to kick Rick’s ass the one time they’d met—how much, or how little, would it take for that nut to go for a knife? Or what about that loony chick Shannon had been living with when she and Rick first started dating—what was her name? Kerry? Kara? She’d bawled her eyes out when Shannon handed her back her keys; what was that all about? Stared absolute daggers at Rick the whole time. He’d made a point to politely refuse her offer of coffee. Was
she
still lurking around somewhere?

Or maybe it had nothing to do with anyone else. Did the Machine mean love in an emotional sense, or was something going to happen during sex? Were he and Shannon going to have a break-up so crushing that he’d only find solace at the end of a knotted rope? Or would the jilted one seek a sense of closure with some dramatic, foolhardy, violent act?

LOVE
. Rick looked at his future, his demise, one more time before crumpling the paper in his hand and dropping it. He was a man, not a child, and his life wasn’t going to be ruled by some ludicrous prediction from a machine he knew nothing about, owned by a smart-ass punk who probably got his rocks off screwing with people’s heads. What Rick had with Shannon was a good thing, a powerful thing, the best thing ever. No would-be oracle was going to change that. She didn’t need to know about it, and he’d never tell her—so the matter was settled as far as he was concerned. Their life together could go on like before, a slice of heaven on earth, two people made for one another.

As if on cue, a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, enveloping him in a familiar scent as her hair spilled over his shoulder. “Hey handsome,” Shannon purred in his ear, “you want some company?” She punctuated her question with a kiss on the side of his neck.

Rick shuddered.

Story by Kit Yona

Illustration by Vera Brosgol

“
MISSUS
MURPHY
, I
WILL
HAVE
YOU
KNOW
THAT
I AM TO BE
TORN
APART
AND
DEVOURED
BY
LIONS
.”

Simon Pfennig was fully aware of how strange he must sound.

He had no choice. It was too exciting not to share.

There came a startled pause on the other end of the line. As might well be expected, thought Simon. He imagined her there, sitting in her parlor (did people even have “parlors” anymore?) listening to the salesman on the other end of the line droning on and on about Company X’s jolly new life insurance policy for citizens over 50, about the security it would bring to your family were you to suddenly keel over stone dead and how content you’d be, as the final darkness was falling, that you’d at least managed to avoid becoming a big fat financial burden and suddenly,
bam
, out of the blue, he drops a line like that. Damn straight she should be startled.