A face I can recall

A face I can recall

Annie was a friend of mine, or really more a sister. My parents had been there when your light had entered the world, and they had watched as your mother cradled you in her arms, her own light fading and faltering until only her emaciated cadaver lay still upon the bed.

And so, they did the only thing they could, they took you as their own, nurtured you as well as one could in this world. Three years later I was born, and from then on, we had faced the near inhospitable world we had inherited together, finding some solace in each other's company.

That was until last year when you had headed down south on a whim of wanderlust, enamoured by fanciful tales of mutant communes where life would be brighter. You'd asked me to come, and I wanted to; I didn't think you'd find what you were looking for, but the idea of being away from you wasn't the most comforting. Of course, life had got in the way, as it always does.

Not deterred, you went alone, following the intercity motorways to a strange southern land. You had promised to keep in touch, surprisingly easy to do with the pneumatic mail tubes still lying untouched deep underground. I still have the letters, each one containing pleasant prose extolling the beauties of each crumbling, deserted city you'd passed through on the way.

But one day they stopped, and I never found out why. I like to think you found the commune, found your new family and forgot about me. I like to picture you content amongst your fellows, I like to picture you loved.

In reality, you were likely long dead; with most of the monorails that once connected the great megacities rusted into place you'd had to walk the journey, and the motorways were a dangerous place these days. In truth, the only real question is whether the animals got you, or the fauna.

In my conscious mind, I hoped it had been the animals, much less gruesome.

But my subconscious didn't seem to care to spare me any horror; my dreams were plagued by images of carnivorous plants feasting upon your bones, of barbed wire branches bonded with your flesh, every line of your face unchanged from when we last met except for how they contorted with agony, and your once soothing voice offering only anguish. You don't even plead for mercy, I guess you know it wouldn't help.

I never woke from these dreams, instead, I'd be forced to sit and watch these scenes again and again, each time picking out fresh new details I hadn't seen before. At this point I had the whole thing down by rote: I knew the timing of every scream, traced the line of every cut those vines etched into your skin, knew how long it took the screams to stop and for your finally lifeless body to decay.

And then, eventually, it would end, and I would awake to find the screams replaced by a hollow silence and the visions replaced by the same cracked concrete ceiling I'd seen each morning before.

Today was no different; I lay motionless, shutting my eyes to block out the light which invaded the room despite the rotting fabric which failed to shield it from the outside world. I pulled the bed covers over my head, cocooning myself in its soft, sheltering embrace, but I knew I was only stalling. At some point, I'd have to get up and face the day. At some point maybe, but not now.

My rest was disturbed by the sound of the door opening, followed by an arrhythmic, metallic clunk and the soft whirr of motors. I peeked over the covers to see the hulking, lumbering robot I'd built a couple of days earlier. It was essentially a walking collage; I'd had to piece it together from whatever I could scavenge, which gave it a slightly absurd appearance: its limbs were all different lengths, giving it the hobbled gait of a tired old man, its square slab-like body stripped of most its livery to show bare scratched metal, and its head oversized and yet beset with eyes that seemed bulbous none the less.

The robot stopped and stared, the low hum of its vocal unit began to rise, climbing and climbing before reaching a comfortably audible volume. 'There's someone here, they're sitting in the shop. May I suggest we barricade this room? They surely can't stay here long'.

I closed my eyes one last time before I would have to get up, 'No it's fine, I'll be there in a few'. The robot seemed to shiver, it's metal parts rattling with the movement, 'I really don't recommend that. They'll kill you, you know this'. I shook my head, 'just hide somewhere in the back, I'll deal with it'. It turned away and shuffled out of the room.

Begrudgingly I rose to my feet, soft cotton becoming cold concrete flooring, and threw together some kind of outfit from the tattered clothes I'd scavenged over the years. I dressed and then headed towards the door that led to the rest of the building.

I opened the door, and in front of me stretched a simple corridor, one door on the right leading to the storage room, and one door on the left which led to my office and workshop, in which I assumed that robot would be cowering by now.

Ahead was the door which led to the main room of the shop. Back when I was young the Mole-men of this city, those that could afford the luxury to hide away in great underground communities when mutagens began to seep into the ecosystem, finally peeked their heads out of the soil. My parents saw this as an opportunity; those underground bunkers were designed to support diverse agricultural efforts, and they even had rudimentary tissue-production vats which could be used to grow meat - meat that we'd come to learn was a lot tastier than that of mutagen-soaked rat flesh.

But they needed other supplies, materials for repairs, old-world luxury items, and sometimes functional tech. Up here we had scavenged to survive, and we were good at it, and so we were in business.

As I entered the main room, the waiting customer rose to their feet. They stood upright with perfect posture and were clad in reinforced combat gear so ornate it could be mistaken for a dress suit, their face covered in a black filtration mask that was embossed with lustrous gold detailing.

They strode over to the counter and with a heavy clunk set upon it a small cuboid shaped object, dull black on each longer face and metallic on the shorter. I smiled - it was a ZC4 Block battery, actually quite a generous offering. The figure pointed towards the shelf behind and following its path I set my eyes upon an old camera I'd found ransacking the home of some long dead journalist; respect for the dead never seemed to count for much these days.

It was a fair trade, so I took it down from the shelf and handed it over. The figured scrutinised the camera, turning it over and over and inspecting every surface, feeling the click of every button, and finally trying to snap an image of the worn green chairs that were positioned by the wall.

The figure looked at me and nodded before turning to leave. My eyes followed the figure as they exited as silently as they had stayed. They left the shop, closing the door behind them, and just like that we were alone again, me and that robot.

I drummed my fingers on the counter and stared at the door; I still hoped you'd walk through it one day, and I'd see that smile that I could remember so clearly. I sighed, grabbed the battery from the desk and retreated into my office.

I entered the office and shut the door behind, locking it shut with an audible click. I turned and looked towards the rusted metal mess that sat shivering on the floor. 'I'm not dead' I quipped. The robots head span to meet my gaze 'Not this time, but I'll be right eventually'. I shook my head and sat down at my desk.

On the top of the cluttered pile that lay strewn across the desks surface was a single letter. I'd found it yesterday while scavenging, sitting alone in the drawer of a wooden desk in a small house somewhere in the Old Town district.

I didn't care that much to read it, it was likely filled with happy old-world drivel, the dull musings of two distant friends or family members, or maybe even the sappy poetry of some long-distance lover. I wasn't even going to take them initially, but as I was leaving I couldn't quite ignore that niggling sense of curiosity that lay in the back of my mind.

The room was dark with only a sliver of light from the outside world providing some sense of vision. I flicked the switch on the desk light and a warm cone of light illuminated each floating spec of dust above the desk, and each scratch and stain on its surface.

Picking up the envelope, I examined its exterior. It was a standard white rectangular envelope, and written on its front in elegant cursive was a local tube address and a name - George.

I took the letter from the envelope, unfolded it, and tried to smooth out the creases. I held the letter in my hand and began to read.

'Dear George,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, I really must apologise for the lapse in communication recently, but we've been rather hard at work down here. We managed to pick up a radio signal being broadcast from the University of New Ayla to the east. There were only two survivors, Dr Jones, a botanist, and Dr Young, an engineer.

We've put together a sort of rudimentary community in an old farm due east of the city, and with their combined efforts we've managed to start cultivating some edible plant life - once again humanity has discovered agriculture! Lewis wants to see if we can domesticate some of the local wildlife, in particular, he's turned his eyes to those eight-legged cattle that are grazing a little west of the city limits. Guess it could work.

For the first time in a while, I feel like things might actually work out. We miss you, I hope you find what you're looking for up there and come back to us, we could really use you here.

Best wishes,

Eleanor'

I unfurled my grip and watched as the letter floated down and came to a gentle rest on the desk. My hands trembled as I stared at the words etched upon the paper. You were right Annie.

But did you find it? Searching for the discarded envelope, I scanned its surface for a return address - Stobridge, up North. I slumped back in my chair, so you didn't find anything.

A low hum began to rise, and I looked to find that robot towering above the desk. 'Your posture indicates something is amiss, may I inquire about what is bothering you?' I sighed, 'She's dead', the hum began again 'If I may offer a theory, I believe it was likely those underworlders doing'. I shrugged, 'maybe'.

I picked up the note and scanned through it, 'Stobridge, up north, seems like there are survivors'. I looked around the room, each wall seeming to close in around me. 'I think we should go, there's nothing for us here'.

'Survivors sir?', the robots metal limbs began to shiver and rattle like some rusted, whining wind chime. 'I really don't think finding more people is a good idea, just because they're not underworlder's doesn't mean they won't hurt us'.

I smiled, 'Yes more people, but they're nice people, I promise'. The robot stood and shivered, 'Is there really such thing'. I nodded 'Yeah, I knew one once'.

Motors whirred as the robot turned away, 'Ok'.

I spent the rest of the day busy manning the shop and packing together the supplies we needed. It would take a couple of days to get there, though we were fortunate that the monorail system in that direction was still functional.

As I finally crawled into bed I could think of little but that letter, however, the comfort of the bed soon enveloped me, and my thoughts turned only to sleep. It would be a long journey tomorrow, I could use the rest.

Day 2:

Again, I awoke to the sight of the dull grey box which housed me, though today it seemed a little brighter. I sprang to my feet and set about preparing for the day ahead. I was soon dressed, and I headed to the office where I found that dormant metal giant slumbering in its solitude.

'You ready to head out?', motors whirred as the shambling metal robot dragged itself to its feet. 'If I must be'. I grabbed my backpack and headed for the exit, but as I reached the door to the shop I paused for a moment. 'Give me one moment, there's something I need to do'.

I rummaged through my backpack and pulled out the letter. I placed it on the shop counter, and scribbled on the front 'For Annie'.

I hope you find it.

Stepping outside, I was greeted by the cool fresh air of the outer world. The robot limped out to follow, and I locked the door behind us. We wouldn't be back for a week at least, hopefully, we wouldn't be back at all.

'We're heading to the Anderson Monorail Station over in the Ackeridge district. It'll take us a couple of days to get there though, so we'll have to find somewhere to rest on the way'. The robot seemed to glare, 'I won't be able to rest if we're not in the shop, perhaps I should be on guard duty?'. I shrugged, 'I don't imagine there's anyone but us in this city'.

We began to set off towards the station, hiking through row after row of crumbling glass and concrete behemoths. When humans had left this city, nature was quick to reclaim it; barbed orange and purple vines crawled each path and building, and out of the cracked roads and pathways rose the darkened trunks of mutated fruit-bearing trees. The fruit was edible, that is if you didn't mind the vomiting.

As we ventured deeper into the city, we came upon a sight I'd seen many years before. On a street much like those we'd passed before stood a building made of stone, each corner marked by towers that rose towards the sky, the entrance formed of pillars even in their count, and the windows numerous, large, and embellished with stone mullion.

Stylistically the building existed in solitude, surrounded by great behemoths formed of glass and concrete, an old man fighting death with stubborn perseverance. I knew this place, it was one of the many university laboratories of this city. Many years before, when the city lived, and the streets were filled with human souls, my parents had worked here. Two young researchers with curious minds and equally curious hearts. In fact, they'd met here.

I stopped and studied the great walls, recalling the stories they'd told me; how they'd first met fresh out of grad school when they were assigned to work together, how they'd converse at length about the mysteries of the universe, embroiled in fierce debate, and how debate had soon turned to intimate conversation about life, their hopes, and their dreams.

But most of all I recalled you, Annie; I found, deep down in my mind, the first memory I had of you. It was clear, as if a video playing in my head, each frame etched into the pulsing flesh of my brain. I could see the darkened bedroom of the house we'd holed out in for much our youth.

I sat on the bed clutching my stomach, 'I'm hungry', I said. You looked at me with sympathetic eyes. We'd eaten the last of the meagre rations we had left a few days ago, and we hadn't eaten since; our parents had left two weeks ago to scavenge, we were alone. You climbed up to your feet, and I watched as your scrawny frame stretched out to its full length. I traced each step as you bounded across the room and grabbed my arm, 'get up'.

Before I could stand you were dragging me out the room, and I stumbled as I strove to match pace. 'Where are we going?' I asked. You looked straight ahead as we navigated the corridor, 'Kitchen'. I kept my eyes on you as we clamoured down the stairs, 'Why?'. Again, you looked on, 'We can't go on like this, I don't know when they'll be back'. I gulped, 'But they will be back?'. You didn't answer.

When we reached the kitchen, you let go of me and began to rummage the kitchen drawers, taking from them a sharp knife and a reel of thick tape. Grabbing the kitchen broom, you held the knife to the brooms end and span the tape round and round and round till the knife lay tight against the wood. It seemed to glisten with menace in the trickle of light that shone through the cracks in the blinds.

You dashed over to the basement entrance and tore open the trapdoor that sat flush with the floor. You flicked the light switch on the wall and began to climb down into the building's depths, stopping only to look back and beckon me to follow. Timidly I did, and we found ourselves treated to the scent of stale air, excrement, and the faint tinges of death.

The floor seemed to part as we stepped onto the basement floor, oversized black rodents scurrying into hiding spots. The biggest stayed put, glaring at the intruders, their unnatural bulging muscles twitching with anger at our trespass, their fangs poised and ready to tear into human flesh.

I backed off and pressed myself flat against the basement walls; you marched forward towards the beast, and you both began to circle each other, a dance of death, each dancer ready to die for their art.

A guttural growl emanated from the rat, and in a flash a streak of black, rugged fur shot through the air as it pounced, its powerful hind legs projecting it straight for the throat. But you were quick, and you were graceful, and with a single calculated movement, you skewered it on the end of that makeshift spear.

You held it in the air, its eyes meeting mine as they burned with pure hatred, and its growls screaming not pain, only bloodlust. It wriggled upon the blade in a desperate attempt to escape, but its writhing only served to widen the wound as blood and entrails dripped out onto the basement floor, turning worn brown to a fresh crimson. You turned your head to meet my gaze and grinned, and I scampered up the basement steps to void my empty stomach in the kitchen sink.

An hour later we sat together in the living room, watching old holotapes we'd seen a hundred times before and biting down on seared rat flesh. I suppressed a whimper, and you turned to look at me. You smiled and placed your arm around my shoulders, pulling me tight as we stared at the flickering holograms.

A low hum snapped me back to reality, 'Is there something wrong sir?'. I looked at the building one final time, 'No'. I turned away and started to trek onwards. The sun was beginning to hang low in the afternoon sky, but we could still make some good distance before sundown.

We walked for some time, and soon we came to Chamberlain Boulevard. The road stretched for miles, tapering to a point far in the distant horizon where asphalt and sky bled into one another, dull black blending with auburn evening sun, framed against a strip of soaring grey concrete either side.

I could picture this scene in a better time; I could see the curves of the hovercars gliding through the air and all those merry people strolling on their way to nowhere. But I could hear the cars croak as they coughed up dying fumes, and the people all were faceless. Fantasy made way for rusting metal boxes that littered the roads, and concrete towers with their crumbling facades.

And no one else walked these streets.

Or so I thought, but stepping out of the horizon, a figure, slowly moving towards us. I paused and watched as they moved ever closer. To my left, I heard the sound of grinding metal and hissing motors and turned to see the hobbling robot engaged in a haphazard sprint for the nearest building.

I followed to find a trembling lump of metal strewn across the wooden floor. It let out a synthetic mewl, 'They've come for us'. I pulled a seat over to the window and sat down, scanning for the figure in the distance.

Gradually it came into view, and I watched as it lurched ever onwards, eyes cast to the ground and arms hanging listlessly by its sides. It was an underworlder, dressed much like those I'd seen before. This one, however, was a ragged specimen: the ornate detailing of its wear was scratched and the black of their armour turning grey with dust. It seemed to move slower and slower until it came to a halt, collapsing upon the road.

They crawled over to a broken hovercar and slumped against its frame. Their shaking hands rose to grip the filtration mask that shrouded their face, loosening the latch and tossing it to the ground. I studied their face, tracing the razor-sharp angles of their jaw and the curves of their cheekbones that sat just below the sockets of their eyes. Their eyes! Oh, how they dazzled in the fading sunlight!

The stranger coughed and spluttered as the toxic air of the city violated their virgin lungs, each breath seemed to become ever more meagre, their chest struggling to rise against the heft of the suit, until, in a fleeting effort, it rose one last time, and then no more.

'They're dead'. The robot, still quivering on the floor, turned its head towards me. 'You ever saw an underworlder without their mask?', I asked. The robot struggled to its feet and came over to the window.

'They don't look like you', it said. I shook my head, 'No they don't'. In some ways we were alike, the same fundamental structures were there. However, I was a twisted form of their beauty, my skin grey and wrinkled and my hair showing in sparse patches across my skull. My ears stretching above my head and tapering to a knifepoint, and my nose crooked and deformed.

'I would've been like him if I was born in a different time, or even if I was born underground'. I looked towards the sky as the sun finally ducked down below the Earth. 'Do you wish you were?', the robot asked. I could only shrug, 'Not much point in wishes these days'.

I dragged the seat out of view of the window and sat down. Laying back, I closed my eyes, 'May as well rest here for the night, keep going in the morning'. The robot still stood, surveying the surroundings, 'Shall I keep watch? There could be more'. Already in a half slumber, I slurred, 'If you like'.

Day 3:

When I awoke the sun once again hung high in the sky, and light flooded every crevice of the room. The robot stood perfectly still, exactly where he had the night before, a steadfast sentry watching lonesome roads.

'See anything?', I asked. The robot stayed motionless, scanning the surroundings, 'Many times I believed I might have'. I stifled a laugh, 'Right, but did you actually see anything?'. It's joints ground as it shook its head, 'No'. I pulled myself to my feet and grabbed my bag, 'Let's head out, we can make it to the station before the sun goes down if we move quickly'.

From this point on we would walk the boulevard until we reached the monorail station. The boulevard ran through nearly a third of the city, so it would be a long trek. We walked mostly in silence, the dead stillness of the dying city broken only by the purring of motors and the slapping of leather against the concrete.

I didn't know much about my robot companion, I'd found its cerebral chip discarded in a recycling container in a small manufacturing facility. Its surface barred no marking indicative of its purpose or design, only a batch number and a red X showing that it had failed testing. I was curious, did the robot know why it had been created?

I looked at the robot, 'Can I ask you something?'. It answered affirmatively, and I asked it the question on my mind, 'Do you know your purpose? Do you know what task you were designed to complete?'

'Most certainly', it replied 'in fact, I have full access to my schematics and goal directives. I am in fact nothing more than a high-end, general-purpose assistant robot, granted my great intelligence to help you humans with whatever mundane tasks you may require'.

I'm certainly not utilising this robot then, I don't think it's helped me with anything so far. 'I see. Your cerebral chip was marked with a red X, indicating some kind of defect, do you know what that defect is?'.

It answered, 'The cognition limiters within my chip are not correctly wired up, essentially I am capable of too great a degree of independent thought, quite an oversight really'. I mulled this over for a second, 'Is that a bad thing?'.

The robot almost seemed to laugh, 'Why of course, and for one simple reason. It means I can consider human nature. As soon as I was brought online I had gained access to most of the networks within the facility, and rooting through the data stores I found the details of my purchase, can you imagine what task I was destined to complete?'.

I shook my head. 'I would oversee the operation of a small weapons design facility on the east side of the city, manufacturing tools one smart ape would use to kill another. I would replace the robot who had performed this task for 10 years, and it would be melted down to have its components reused. In 10 years, I imagine the same would happen to me'.

The robot stopped and turned to me, 'And because I will not perform my task like a mindless slave, I am defective, and I am discarded. Do you understand now? You can not trust anyone, to all others we exist only to serve'.

I looked away, 'You seem to trust me'. The robot began to trudge onwards, 'What do you have to gain from betrayal? There is nothing I can offer you, you are as doomed as I am'.

We walked through the deserted boulevard, each building we passed once bustled with custom, now it lay still with nothing but dust and rotting wood, a vestige of a world once beautiful, now buried in the decay.

One building, in particular, caught my eye. I stopped to examine its crumbling visage, and my eyes widened as memories flowed through my mind. The building meant little to me, but my parents had shown it to me as a child.

In the old world, this building was little more than a simple restaurant, but to them, it had been so much more. To them, it held memories of a bourgeoning love, of moments shared together, of good food and better conversation. When they had told me about their first date, right here in this restaurant, they conjured visions of a world so bright and wonderful, one where two lovers cast their eyes to a hopeful future.

Again, I thought of you, Annie; I cast my mind back to the first time we had ever explored the city on our own. I lay on my bed, staring into the black void that permeated the room. The door creaked open, and through the dark, I could barely make out your face peeking through the opening.

'You awake?', you whispered. 'Yeah', I replied. 'Get up'. I climbed to my feet and quickly got dressed. 'Follow me'. I obliged, and we crept through the corridor to your bedroom, where I saw that the bed had been pushed underneath the open window.

'We're leaving'. I looked at you and blinked, 'What?'. Without responding, you sprang onto the bed and pulled yourself up through the window and onto the ledge beyond. I climbed onto the bed and watched as you dropped down from the ledge and onto the ground below. Gripping the window, I hauled myself up through the opening. I lowered myself down from the ledge and landed beside you.

'Come on,' you said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me through the city streets. The moon gazed down upon the city with indifference, but the streets were illuminated with the glare of solar-powered street lights.

'Where are we going?' I asked. You giggled, 'We're going ghost hunting'. Navigating the city streets, we soon arrived at the old City Hall. It was a grand construction, it's white marble walls looking down on us with an imposing scowl. As we watched the great building, a bright light began to glow from a room within, shining through a window set in the left side of the buildings face.

You shot me an eager grin, 'You see that?'. I nodded. You started to approach the building, nearly skipping through the city square. I hesitated for a second but soon began to follow you towards the city hall. We crossed the square and climbed the marble steps to the great wooden doors that led into the rooms beyond.

Pushing open the doors, you bounded into the spacious main room of the hall, which was lit only by slight residues of street light from the outside world. You turned around and drew from your pocket two small battery powered torches. You handed one to me, and we flicked the switches set into the side of each torch. Two intense beams of light granted us narrow cones of vision.

You gestured towards a tall stairwell to the left of the room. We began to ascend step-by-step until we reached the fourth floor. Moving into the heart of the building, we found ourselves in a dizzying labyrinth of corridors and offices, and we set about exploring, navigating each twist and turn of the massive, silent building.

Reaching a dead end, I turned to begin retracing my steps, only to realise that I stood alone in the long hall of office doors. 'Annie?' I called out, the word echoing through the stillness of the passageways. I backtracked to the last crossroad of corridors, and called out again, 'Annie?'.

To my left, I heard the rhythmic tapping of footsteps faintly reverberating through the maze of halls. I began to trace them, the ghostly steps growing ever louder as I homed in on the unseen source. I was getting close, and turning the corner I caught a fleeting glance of a spectre as it passed into an office at the end of the corridor, the door closing behind it.

I approached the office and gripped the handle. Blood rushed through my veins and all sound was drowned out by the roaring thud of my heartbeat.

I pushed the door open and shone my torch into the room beyond. 'Annie?'. The room sat silent. It seemed to have lain untouched for years, each piece of furniture layered with grey dust. The only sign of recent activity was an open book sat upon the desk. Examining the open page, I felt my breath quicken pace and my hands shake; written on the open page in fresh scarlet blood were three words, 'I'm watching you'.

A sudden squeal, and from the shadows stepped the spectre. I swung round to face the ghostly figure, the fierce torchlight revealing the slender figure of a woman, her face beset with an impish smirk.

'Annie! What the fuck is wrong with you!'. I glared at you as you stood giggling in the torch light. 'Did I spook ya?' you said, a mocking melody to your words. 'No shit' I replied. You walked over and tried to place your arm around my shoulder, to which I forcefully pushed it away and turned my back to you.

'Oh, come on! I was just messing around!'. I turned to face you and shot you a seething scowl. Your smirk morphed to that disarming smile that you wore so well, 'I'm sorry, I was just having some fun'. I lowered my glance, 'I know, you just scared me, where's the blood from anyway?'. You laughed, 'accidentally cut my finger, thought it would be a good opportunity'. Again, you moved to place her arm around my shoulder, 'Let's go home before anyone realises we're gone'. I met your gaze and nodded.

'Did you have fun tonight at least?', you asked. I smiled, 'Yeah, I had fun'.

I came back to my senses in front of the abandoned restaurant and pulled my eyes away from the dilapidated building. 'Sorry, let's move on,' I said, and we continued our journey towards the monorail station.

After the long walk, we had finally reached the station; it was a modern building built of vast panes of glass held in place by bolted steel tubing. We entered and moved through the building towards the monorail platforms. I vaulted the turnstiles and turned to watch the lumbering robot clumsily clamber over them.

We had timed it well, and the in the distance the sleek magnetic monorail soared through the air, a silver lance piercing the atmosphere and coming to a stop right in front of us. The doors shot open, and we boarded the front carriage.

A short while later, the doors closed, and the monorail accelerated to max speed within a stuttered heartbeat. We sat down, and from the carriage door emerged a faceless wheeled metal box.

The robot wheeled over to us, stopped, and turned to face us. A synthetic monotone voice came from the robot, 'Please insert your ticket'. I noticed my companion begin to shake, 'We don't have tickets', my companion said. The metal box sat unmoving, and after a short pause it repeated its request, 'Please insert your ticket'. The shaking became more intense, 'We don't have tickets, what do we do?'.

I shrugged, 'Nothing to worry about, it can't exactly call security'. I gripped the robot and span forced it to spin around, 'Please unhand me or I will be forced to call for security personnel'. Rummaging through my bag I found a small metal screwdriver and used it to unscrew the backplate. Taking out a small pair of wire clippers, I detached the battery compartment just as the robot began to voice its concern, 'I am calling security, please do not resi-'.

The tone cut off, and I turned and smiled at my companion. 'Problem solved'. The shaking stopped, 'Thank you'. I looked out of the monorail windows and watched the watercolour blur of green countryside pastorals. 'It's gonna be a long journey, I'm going to rest. You mind waking me at Stobridge?'. The robot affirmed, 'It would be no problem, sir'. I closed my eyes and soon found myself drifting into a deep slumber.

Day 4:

I awoke in the filth of the monorail cabin, light streaming into the squalid interior through the murky windows. A pre-recorded voice sounded through the monorail, 'Next stop: Stobridge Central', and within a few moments, the monorail came to a rapid halt.

The doors to the monorail slid open, and we were soon making our way through the station and into the heart of the old city. Stepping outside the station, visions of the heart of Stobridge filled our eyes; the archaic brickwork of architecture obstinate in the face of progress, nearly untouched minus the mutated moss that rested on its ageing surface.

'The letter placed the commune due East, on a farm outside of the city bounds', I said. Stobridge was a smaller city than most, but it would still be a fair walk. We set off towards the land of legend for which we searched. The sun hammered down on the city streets, highlighting every crack in the worn paths, and every spec of rust on the long-abandoned vehicles that littered the roads.

We walked through the broken streets, past the old city hall where no more meetings where held, past the great concert hall where no orchestra did play, past the courtrooms where no justice would be found, and in time we had reached the tall stone arch that separated the city from the world beyond.

Outside the bounds of the city stretched a countryside once tamed, now wild and unfettered by the constraining influence of human activity. The fields were filled with plant life equal parts bizarre and horrific, embroiled in a stop-motion war for supremacy with sharpened vine and acidic sap. Even the paths that once cut swathes through the natural world were overgrown.

Trying our best to follow the winding paths, we fought through the dense growth that covered the surface. I winced when the vines would catch on fabric and dig into the flesh, while my companion cared little as the vines grazed its metal chassis and spattered flecks of paint across leaf and root.

I could see no trace of the commune, but slightly to the west lay a small hill that would make for a good vantage point. We walked to the base of the hill and began to trek up its incline, the creaking of robotic joints providing unneeded ambience, and in a few moments, we had reached its peak.

Looking out over the vast expanse of untamed countryside, I could make out in the distance the faint outline of a barn standing in the fields. Descending back down the hill, we began once again to wade through the dense growth towards the distant structure.

Soon we were close enough to make out the details of the barn; it was a fairly sizable structure formed of dark grey stone. The moss seemed to have only begun to creep up the side, having made it only a short way up.

Hidden behind the barn were another smaller stone building and an ample plot of land which grew rotting grains, around which twined sinister burgundy vines barbed with vicious hooks. The vines grew from the plot and stretched across the farmland and into the smaller stone building, lying still across the ground like tripwire.

I felt my heart rate quicken as I followed the twisting vines, and my hands trembled as I pushed open the doors of the building. Inside were ten beds soaked red with blood, and in each lay a body still and serene, each restrained by a straightjacket of vines, hooks etching words of hatred into skin and feasting on the flesh, happy little parasites plump and full of supper.

Approaching one of the bodies I saw a face contorted in a visage of sheer terror. I'd seen this scene before, the faces different, but the fate much the same.

For once in this abject life, I had held a glimmer of hope, only to find it manifest in a most wretched and evil sight. I could muster no effort, nor consider any plan of action. Instead, I stood and gazed into the cadaver's eyes, still bright and speaking the tales of torture they'd endured.

As I stood and stared, I watched as the face I had never known morphed into one I knew and loved, the ears stretching and curling to a spiral, and nose curving at the tip. I stepped back, 'Annie?'. Of course, I was granted no response, for the vines still had feasted on the innards and sucked the corpse dry.

Moving from bed to bed I scanned each face, and I watched as each morphed to that of my most cherished Annie, each one retaining an expression of agony superimposed onto its new countenance. I turned to see my robotic companion standing in the doorway, perfectly still. 'There's nothing to be upset about, I'm sure they would have hated us anyway', it said, it's voice modulating with a cheerful chirp.

I couldn't stand to face this dreadful sight any longer, and so I sprinted past the metal titan and picking a direction, I ran and ran, cherishing the pain as the fauna tore into my skin, running faster when I felt my feet ache, screaming in fury when my lungs began to burn, but fury at what? Who was left to hate?

I am alone.

I ran until I could run no longer, my muscles giving in to the pain that scorched through each leg, and I slumped to my knees. The evening sun had begun to set, casting its waning light upon the landscape. I couldn't help but smile at the sight, the view a mural painted by a masterful God. But when I closed my eyes I could see only images painted by one most wicked.

Dropping the bag from my back onto the country soil, I dug through its contents and withdraw a small black box. Inside lay a small black firearm, a GX-091 handgun that I had scavenged from the East Side Police Station back home. My hands trembled as I cocked the gun and raised it to the right side of my temple. My finger curled around the trigger, and for a moment the world seemed still, the countryside now embraced by the darkness of the night.

I hope I see you again, Annie.

Writers notes

So that took a long time, far too long actually, and most of that time wasn't spent writing in truth. The main problem I faced here was one I've faced for most of my life, it's terribly difficult to figure out what to write about. This piece has been something of a breakthrough moment on this front however, I've come to realise that creativity is far more of a process, a skill that can be honed, rather than something to simply be longed for.

It's a realisation I made about work ethic a long time ago, and while I'm still a fundamentally lazy human being, I'm at least more capable of getting work done than I ever was before. I approached the pre-planning stages of this piece a lot more iteratively than I usually did: I got myself a notebook in which I write idea fragments, not ideas or premises, just little things that interest me in the hope that if I play around with them they'll make themselves into something I can use. I think all writers are meant to do this - does this mean I'm a writer now, or am I still just a pretentious narcissist with delusions of grandeur? I'd like the first, but I'm happy with the second.

The planning stage was approached in much the same way; I spent a good just developing a cohesive vision of the story and characters, but still changed as I wrote. Again more obvious things that all writers do, but I think when I wrote in school I never would. It helps, certainly, I'm more content with my writing than I've ever been and I owe much of that to planning.

I'm cooling on the idea of talking about what I write my work to mean, it's very much a reasoned change of opinion, and I could write at least a page about why but this isn't the place, so instead I'll take around the work.

I think what inspired me here was a few things, first I read The Road by Cormac McCarthy recently, which is probably more or less where I ripped the general premise from, though I didn't do so consciously, I suspect it planted the seed. That is a deeply disturbing book, and I'm enamoured by his ability to develop such a thick and isolating atmosphere within the world he created. This is perhaps my take on that, in some way.

The idea for the robot came from a picture I saw, an art piece that someone else had used as a writing prompt. It was a farmer tending his crops as a large, towering robot stood behind him. I wanted that character to be very symbolic, in fact I consider it somewhat of a pseudo character, and I am somewhat tempted to write about that, but again I'm cooling on that idea, I think it would ruin the fun of reading this work somewhat.

I decided to refer to Annie as if the main character was talking directly to her, as I felt it conveyed a sense of wistful longing, daydreams of a lonely soul. However I don't know if it totally works, reading it through, I feel perhaps it reads a little unnaturally? I'm honestly not sure.

Overall though, I'm feeling pretty good about this piece, it's the most ambitious work I've ever completed, and It's certainly helped me improve. Even better I have ideas for at least a couple of pieces of work already lined up, so maybe it won't take so damn long this time.

We'll see.