| By: Kevin Gordon |
| Not today . . . please, not today . . . “Wow, Sandy!” pronounced Scott, her manager at the ShoeSaver as he came into the back office, lugging his canvas bag of tricks. “You sure are startin’ to show! When're you due again?” She brightened her face, and put on a brave smile. “Six months.” “Wow, that's cool.” He sat down at the small computer terminal, and dug in his bag for a moment. Finally, he brought out two packs of Twinkies, their cellophane wrappers ripped off in an instant, followed by a liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. In one motion, he twisted off the cap and ingested a third of its contents, followed by one of the lard-filled golden cakes devoured in a single bite. Sandy watched him lean back, rolling over the carbonated cake on his tongue, savoring its texture and taste. He always smelled of sugar to her, something sweet yet rotten. “Well, guess I'd better get out there and see what the store looks like. Did you get those findings out?” “Yeah.” She flipped over the lids on the shoe boxes in front of her, then stacked them, and put them back on the processing cart. Then, another load came off, spread out in front of her, all neatly in a long row, one box next to another, their lids flipped over in back, revealing the shoes wrapped in plastic and paper. I always hated these. I've gotta take off the paper, then bother with each and every damned shoe, taking off the plastic, then the shitful of little pieces of paper around the golden -- “That's good. How 'bout the re-merch of the infant section? Did you get that done before you left?” Sandy held up a shoe in her hand, wishing she could shove it into Scott's fat head. “Yeah, its all done.” “I'll take a look -- we're supposed to have company over this afternoon. The Regional, as well as Dave.” Scott turned to look at the three carts filled with shoes behind him. “They all done?” “Two of them. I'm on the last.” “Well, see if you can get it all out by two. I know it's only two hours away, but it'll impress them all if they come back here.” He wolfed down another golden cake, chasing it with a long gulp of soda, followed by a low, rumbling burp. “Sorry 'bout that! Well, let me get out there and double check the displays.” She watched as he got out of his chair -- the same one he had been getting out for the past five years. Somehow, by some miracle, it never broke under his leviathan bulk, always straining and crying, but never breaking. Guess it's just like me. He knows how to push us all right to the edge, but not so far that we would quit. Sandy threw the shoe she was working on back in the box. Who am I kidding?! Where would I go? She ran her hand over her belly. If only this wasn't gonna come. If only I was free of this little shit. Damn! A wave of depression clenched her heart, twisting her soul, making her body tense and rigid. She bent over the processing shelf, rubbing her eyes with her hands. I can't -- not here! I can't let him see me like this. Damn! A few drops of fluid fell on the paper wrapping around the shoes. Her eyes looked back and forth along the processing line, a sight she had seen almost every day since she started work. She had grown sick of the little packs of silica gel she had to hunt for, sick of the velvet shoes that always reeked of mildew, sick of the tiny infant shoes with the scrunched-up wads of paper tucked tightly in the toes, with another wrap of paper around the little bow sitting on the clasp. God, I hate kids. Even now, a child cried in the store, wailing like a klaxon heralding an approaching army. Sandy could hear the mother try to calm the child, coo and shake her keys to silence the ever-present wail. Is that what I have to look forward to? How many years will it be like that? How long can I put up with it? The child screamed even louder, banging its little fists on the edge of the carriage. Why doesn't she hit it, or something? Why can't she DO SOMETHING?! Suddenly, she woke, and remembered where she really was. “You dozed off for a minute.” “Yeah, we humans are like that.” The thing in front of her, all green and bluish and wet and sticky-smelling, managed what she imagined would be a smile. “We know. Now, please, get back to work.” Sandy leaned forward, connecting again with the central server. Her mind connected with several dozen massive metal beasts, some with welding lances, some with giant arms capable of carrying immense loads, others with sophisticated tools for adhesion and securing metal to metal. Her mind brought them all to life, and in moments, they began their daily ballet, building the behemoths of war that would obliterate Earth. “You know, you seem to have adjusted . . . quite well to this . . . condition.” The alien always spoke haltingly, as if it was trying to think in English, instead of translating its language into hers. “Why is that?” “Why do you think?” She twisted in the leather harness her body was hung in, and focused more on the machines she controlled. She had already built ten ships for them, each one better than the last. “Was it . . . because of the small . . . the child we relieved you of?” She had one of the machines lift the housing of one of the main offensive batteries – an ovular construct bristling with dozens of particle emitters. She slammed it down into its housing, wishing the bluish, wet, sticky-smelling alien could be under it. “You haven't answered me.” “You're quite perceptive.” “What makes an individual . . . complicit . . . in the destruction of its . . . species?” “I'm not complicit.” She wasn't sure what the word meant, but she had an idea. “You brought me here, you stuck me in this damned basket, you're making me work!” “And yet, the others we brought, chose to . . . self-terminate, rather than . . . aid and abet our . . . desire to eradicate your species.” The street was slick and wet, as the ice refused to relinquish its grasp, even as the temperature climbed and a warm rain fell. Sandy almost fell three times on her way home, though in truth, she regretted catching herself every time. Maybe I could make it die. Maybe I could fall off something, get hit by a car . . . Her boots plodded through the slush, crunching up the last debris of a long winter that was as a stubborn house-guest that overstayed their welcome. She pulled her coat close, rushing on the yellow light across the street, coming to rest at the same bus stop she had used since she started work at the ShoeSaver. I won't look . . . I can't look. The night had settled, and the yellow and white lights of the cars thankfully blurred her vision. She could pretend, like every other night, that it was a different corner she waited on, near a different store, next to a different thin, dark alley that led back -- No! I won't – I can't . . . She trained her eyes to the top of the hill, waiting, hoping the brilliant halogens of her bus would herald rescue. The light at the top of the hill was red, and the silence of the street brought her eyes and mind back to that thin, dark alley. Why'd he hafta pick me? What did I do, to deserve it? The light near her corner turned green, and a tall, lanky man in a long raincoat rushed across. “Hey Sandy!” Sandy pulled up the collar of her coat, and turned away from the lanky man, her gaze fixed even harder on the red light at the top of the hill, willing it to change, willing her bus to come over. “San– deeey,” whined the lanky man, as he pulled at her coatsleeve. “Why don't you wanna answer me?” An alarm brought her out of her reverie. “Why don't you tell me?” asked the bluish, wet, sticky-smelling alien. One of the machines had dropped its load, and several of its maintenance oriented cousins scurried to clean the mess. “Why are you doing this?” Sandy's mind suddenly came up with another modification to the armament of the behemoth she was constructing. Instantly, hundreds of schematics flitted before her on the small viewscreen. Alterations mere made in a blur, from the width of corridors, to the shifting of conduit, finally to an enlargement of the Motive Power section, complete with a housing the bluish, wet, sticky-smelling alien had never seen before. The alien was understandably impressed, and said, “another advancement? You are nothing short of . . . spectacular, my young, female human.” It cued up her modifications on another, larger screen, calling in more of his kind to examine her work. “To think, on your world, nothing would have become of your talent. They don't even know how to . . use . . . your mind!” The alien paused for a moment, as a clarity came to his mind. “Is . . . is that why you stay?” He came back over to her, and pressed a control next to her harness, making her body slide away from the console, so he could come close to her face. “Is . . . it is called . . . pride? Is that . . . why you stay?” He turned to look on the fleet of behemoths her ingenuity, her creativity created. His race had always been one of war, always making bigger, faster, more powerful ships, but something about the human mind was condusive to ship design and construction, and those Sandy had created were beyond anything his entire species could ever have imagined. “You feel . . . pride.” Sandy spat on a purple patch on what she imagined to be the alien's face. “You think I would take pride in destroying my planet, my people?! You should study up on us a little more. Maybe you'll be able to speak better, and have a chance of understanding who we are.” He pulled out a small weapon, one that was black and yellow and that looked exceedingly angry. She defiantly laughed in his face, with venom in her eyes.“What? Kill me?” She motioned with her head at the ships in the viewscreen. “I may not be able to see your eyes, but I feel it in that noxious fog you call a voice. You need me. But worse than that, you're greedy. You come to me, every day, and hope I'll make something even bigger, even better! I've seen your fleet. You could obliterate my world now, if you wanted. But you know I would die, after that happened. You want me around, and you can't figure out how much longer for. 'Will it be today, that we destroy her planet?' you ask yourselves. 'No, maybe she'll build us an even better ship, that we can use to kill another even stronger world!'” She sighed, drooping in the leather harness that held her aloft. “The day I die, is the day Earth dies. The day I refuse to work, is the day Earth dies. You wonder why I keep on working? Because I know your greed has no limits, and despite all I've been through, my love for my people knows no bounds.” “You will die . . . someday.” “Perhaps. But not today. “ She finally sat on the bus – luckily an elderly couple had gotten up as it started to pull away. She slouched next to the window, her breath fogging the view, and the tall, lanky man sat down next to her. He sat close, like he always did, and she could smell the ginger on his clothing. He worked at a small Japanese bakery nearby, making the pastries, and always reeked of something sweet and spicy. She could remember, in the alley, pressed against the wall, smelling that ginger, so many months ago. “Why do you try to forget about us?” For all those long months since they first kissed, then broke up, she knew he had longed to ask that question. More than anything else, it hung in his kind, brown eyes, on his soft, thin lips. He didn't so much stand near her, as he bent like a blade of grass towards the sun, hoping to be warmed by her benevolent attention. But she never granted him his wish, obscuring her warmth with clouds of misery and despair. “You finally want to know? You really want to know?” He held her hand, just like the day after she discovered she was pregnant. His hands felt cold and slimy, clammy with cowardice and indecision. She tried to pull away, but she had forgotten that her leather harness allowed no movement, save what the bluish, wet, sticky-smelling alien dictated. “You want to know when we will destroy your world?” She scrutinized the alien's face, wishing she knew what its eyes were. “Yes!” she hissed. “Tell me when I can die!” “You're just trying to muster up the courage to kill our child. That's why you ignore me, why you won't talk to me.” The tall, lanky man began to cry. “Don't you even love . . . that little boy or girl in your belly?” “No. I hate it. I hate everything about it!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, regardless of who else on the bus would hear. Some turned and gawked, while most just ignored her hysterics. “The one time I let my guard down, the one time I wanted something that felt good, for myself, and this is what I get?!” Hot tears streamed down her face, as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. “You know me, Brian, I've never been with anyone before you. I never trusted anyone . . . before you. And look what's happened!” She gestured down to her growing belly as if she were pointing out a puddle of vomit. “What am I gonna do with this?!” Brian leaned back in his seat, resigned to a new truth. “Well, if you're gonna kill it, kill it. No use in drawing this out, giving it hope. It's alive in there, waiting to see what will happen. I'll even bet it knows what you're thinking. So, just do it, one way or another.” “Just do it!” she screamed, crying, for the first time in front of the bluish, wet, sticky-smelling alien. She promised herself she wouldn't show weakness, but it had been three years, and everyone else on the bus had died. Brian was one of the last, holding on a long as he could, so in some way he could protect her, keep her company. But now, she was the only one left, and for all she knew, Earth was already gone, and she was holding onto a string of hope that shouldn't even be. “Put me out of my misery . . .” And yet, in the back of her mind, the desire to live was all-encompassing, and couldn't be denied. Not today . . . please, not today . . . THE END |
| The Will To Live |
| August 2008 |
| Fiction |
| Copyright 2008 by Ty Schwamberger |
Editor's Note: There are a couple of instances of language in
this story that might not be suitable for younger readers.
this story that might not be suitable for younger readers.