Machine Of Death (42 page)

After a while, Cotton pulled over and sat on the hood of his car. It was as good a place to stop as any. A dozen yards away, a guard leaned out of a gatehouse window to look him up and down. Cotton felt like a criminal. It wasn’t so bad. 

He leaned back and looked up at the stars. He really hoped Yale was going to say no. Some of those little schools looked really good, and if he didn’t go there, he’d do something else. Something better, maybe. Poor Akiva was going to Harvard like his brother, and Resolved…well, to be fair, Resolved probably would’ve been screwed anywhere. But Cotton was going to go where he wanted and do what he liked. That was the funny thing about the death machine. When it cut your future down to that one steel inevitability, it seemed to open up more possibilities than you ever could have imagined. 

Cotton smiled shyly at the stars. He was looking forward to prison. 

It was going to be fun to be free.

Story by Shaenon K. Garrity

Illustration by Roger Langridge

101

IT
WAS
ONE
OF
THOSE
DAYS
AGAIN
. The eight of them travelled by bus, car, or walked to the church. They left coats on hooks and made their way to the basement where coffee, tea, cookies, and Reverend Shamus Brooker waited for them. The underweight clergyman shook Raymond and Krishna’s hands. He hugged Julie. Annabel got a kiss on both cheeks, Hanna a kiss on one cheek. Timothy, Nqobile and Benito were late so they got a nod. The Reverend frowned upon lateness. 

“There’ll be one more today,” he warned them. “I told her to come at half past so we’d be able to talk.”

“Couldn’t she join another group?” Timothy objected. It had taken him over a year to get comfortable with the people in the room.

“She’s Iranian.”

“She’ll be more than welcome,” Krishna said firmly. Of course he did. In a few years he’d be killed by a group of skinheads with knives and baseball bats. Racism was a soft spot to say the least. He gave Timothy a challenging glare.

“I was just asking.” Timothy gulped down his coffee and poured a refill.

“Don’t be confrontational,” the Reverend interrupted. “Discomfort any of us feel with the introduction of a new member should be discussed.”

“I don’t have a problem,” Timothy replied.

“I do,” said Julie. 

Krishna lashed out at her, assuming her reason was race. She shouted back. Raymond, who had a crush on Julie, joined in. Soon there was lots of yelling and Timothy’s mind wandered. He couldn’t be arsed to join in. He was staring at the doorway thinking about what movie he’d see on the weekend when she arrived. She was head to toe in Goth getup: leather boots with thick soles, a black velvet corset, silver chains, and bracelets dripping off her.

Timothy smiled. “Here comes an awkward silence.”

His prediction turned out to be as accurate as any of the Death Machine’s. Ten seconds later the others realized they were being watched.

“Isma…” Reverend Shamus Brooker’s lips kept moving but no more words came out.

Benito, class clown, came to the rescue. “Whatever your old ED group used to do, forget it. We communicate here by insulting each other.”

“OK. You’re ugly and you smell bad.”

Everyone laughed. Some of them were faking. Timothy wasn’t.

Isma took some tea and cookies and then the real session began.

“My name is Reverend Shamus Brooker and I have two hundred and seventy days left. I’m going to be hit by a car.”

“I am Annabel, cancer, four hundred and ten days.”

“Nqobile. I’m the record holder. Some cunt’s going to shoot me in the head in forty nine days.”

Timothy got up. “One hundred and one here; just like the Dalmatians. I’m going to die in a fire while trying to save another.”

“What?” Isma exclaimed.  

“What’s wrong?” asked the Reverend.

She spoke slowly; she was visibly trembling. “I’m going to die in one hundred and one days as well. In a fire.”

100

Later Timothy and Isma sat outside on a bench. Isma’s hands clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched.

“Meeting you, it makes me feel like a puppet on strings.”

“It suddenly feels more real, doesn’t it?”

She looked up at the crucifix above the doorway. “He has a sense of humor doesn’t he?”

“When did you find out you were an ED?” Timothy popped a cookie (stolen booty) into his mouth.

“Six years ago after hearing a war hero talk on television. He said to the press that he wasn’t courageous; he admitted he had used a Death Machine and he knew he was going to freeze to death on a mountain. As long as he was posted in a desert, jungle, or urban warzone he felt no fear. When watching that broadcast, I realized for the first time that a forecast could be a gift. I arranged a session. I thought that if I knew how I was going to die I could stop being afraid of everything. I didn’t expect to find out
when
.”

“ED’s a bitch isn’t it?”

For years many had been sure the only reason no one had changed their fate was Death Machine forecasts were too vague. They were proved wrong when the first Exact Date spat out. For the first time, a man knew not only how he would die, but knew when it would happen. The first ED knew he would die in a bus crash on the 6th of March 2032. He prepared for that day. No matter what happened he would go nowhere near a bus on the 6th. He booked himself on a yacht cruise; no way could a bus crash happen while at sea. A week before his predicted death he was hit by a car and put into a coma. On the 6th the hospital was forced to transfer him to a private clinic. En route, a bus slammed into the side of the ambulance.

“How about you, how did you find out?”

“British Airways has all prospective pilots do a compulsory forecast just in case the Death Machine spits out ‘plane crash.’ They told me I couldn’t get the job because I was an ED and I had seven hundred and eight days left. I wish they hadn’t told me. Ignorance was bliss.” Timothy reached into his pocket and retrieved another cookie. “You want one?”

“No thanks. I’m on a diet.”

Timothy’s right eyebrow rose.

“I know. I’ll be dead in a hundred and one days. Why the fuck am I dieting?”

Timothy glanced at his watch. “A hundred days now.”

“I just thought of something. You’re not going to die in a plane crash. Why didn’t you get the British Airways job?”

“No one would insure me because I only had two years of life left.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Of course it is; prejudice is just a reality.”

Isma stuck her hand into Timothy’s jacket pocket, an action that struck him as surprisingly intimate. She fished out a cookie and took a tiny nibble, a bird bite. “I was part of an Arab student association in Uni,” she said. “Every week we met and complained about the way we were discriminated against and treated like we weren’t real British citizens. That made it hurt all the more when they found out I was an ED and started treating me differently. Not that they called me names or anything like that. They just started tip-toeing around me.”

No one knew why exactly, but for every thousand people who used a Death Machine, it only spat out an Exact Date for two or three.

“I hate the bloody pity,” Timothy said.

“I had an abortion last year,” Isma said suddenly. “I wouldn’t have lived to see my child’s first birthday.” 

“I…I don’t know what to say.”

“I wanted to mention it in there but the reverend…I wanted him to like me.”

“Shamus isn’t a cliché. He doesn’t judge.”

“I’m glad I didn’t. It feels easier to just tell you. It’s weird, but I feel connected to you.”

Timothy smiled humorlessly, “Linked by fate and all that.”

“How can you be cynical about fate, knowing what you do? Isn’t that proof enough?”

“I don’t believe in fate, God or anything. It’s all random. Sure, the Death Machine can punch a hole through time and can predict the result of the randomness. That doesn’t make it any less random.”

“So there’s no God, no life after death?”

“Zip.”

“How can you stand living like that?”

“Same as you, one day at a time. One hundred now, ninety-nine tomorrow.”

“Look at me,” Isma said.

He turned and their faces were only a few inches apart. “Do you think we’ll be together?”

He shrugged.

“Don’t do that.” She sounded angry. “I can tell your ‘I don’t care’ stuff is an act.”

He almost lashed out with a “fuck you” but it was harder to do so while staring into her eyes. It was too dark to see their colour. “I don’t want to die alone.”

“Me neither.”

97

“Do you ever think we’re trying to force something into existence,” Timothy said to her three days later. They were on the grass at Piccadilly Gardens. It was loud so they were speaking with raised voices.  

“What do you mean?”

“The only reason we’ve seen each other the last two days is because there’s a chance we could die together. I kind of feel like we’re trying to create a meaningful relationship because…well, the alternative is dying alone. I look back at my life and it’s been forgettable. Instead of a pilot, I’m someone who does data entry. I go to work at a place where my contribution makes no difference. I’ve left no legacy or accomplishments. I doubt anyone will miss me. Meeting you…there’s so much pressure to make this work. It’s like a last chance to have some semblance of—it’s ridiculous and cheesy to say it—true love. If fate had somehow guided us to that, it would somehow validate everything else.”

Isma was quiet at first. “You’re looking for true love? I just thought we were going to be really good friends?”

“Oh.” Timothy’s cheeks burnt. He wanted to crawl into a hole.

Isma leant forward and captured his lips with hers.

90

Isma hated her body. She thought her bones were big and awkward and her face was boring. Timothy told her she was beautiful over and over again. Eventually he stopped trying. She insisted they make love in the dark. His fingers traced her figure, reading her contours like Braille. On the inside of wrists that were usually concealed beneath bracelets, he felt the raised ridges of twin scars.

“Yeah,” she said, offhandedly. “I tried to kill myself.”

“When?”

“Four months ago. Paul had just left me. Nothing was the same between us after my abortion. The situation was so fucked up. I wanted to keep the baby but I’d die right after she was born so what did my opinion matter. Even so, I still could never forgive him for making me…” 

Timothy kissed Isma gently and she recoiled. “Not right now.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Isma rose and went to the bathroom.

Waiting for her to come out was torture. He was reminded that he knew nothing about her. She might step out of the bathroom and tell him to leave, or she might come out bawling and throw herself in his arms. 

When she did come out she apologized. “Sorry. This is the first time I’ve talked about Paul leaving. We were together for three years. We were so happy. He never knew I was an ED until near the end.”

Three years. Timothy felt suddenly inadequate.

“My father found me before it was too late…” Isma was saying. She was looking down at the scars on her wrists. “I had passed out.” 

“Do you wish you were still with Paul?” Timothy asked. He wished he could take back the words immediately. How selfish of him to say that when she was telling him something so personal.

“I don’t.”

“We only have ninety days, no time to lie to each other.”

“All right then, I wish I were still with Paul.” Isma came back to the bed. The springs creaked as she sat. “Don’t you wish I were someone else?” 

“No. There is no one else. There never has been.” In a Harlequin bodice-ripper, that line might have been romantic, but in this room, in this place, it was an admission of how pathetic a person he was.

She began to speak but Timothy interrupted. “No lies, no matter how much you think it might be what I want to hear.”

“OK.” She took hold of his hand and pressed it against her cheek, right where he had kissed, when she flinched. “I remember when I had the shaving razor against my wrist, I thought I was cheating the Death Machine by choosing what day I would die—but I didn’t really have a choice. Right now though, this, between you and me, it is my choice. I know we’re both going to die on the same day, but it could be in different fires on different sides of town. I am choosing you to be by my side at the end. I choose you. Being able to have some control, however small, is precious to me. Maybe I can’t be that ‘true love’ that would make it all worth it, but…”

“Isma,” Timothy said. His palm had descended from her cheek, down the curve of her neck and to her right shoulder. “It’s enough.”

53

Nqobile spent her last night in the house she grew up in. It was a large three-bedroom in Didsbury. The carpets, chandeliers, paintings, and curios were all African. Her parents were immigrants who had fled South Africa and always dreamt of going back. Every object was an altar to their longing.