My job is to help people leave their old lives behind            The Royal British Legion Industries’ Vocational Assessment Centre was established in 1996 to help the transition of ex-servicemen and women, especially those with a disability, into suitable civilian employment. The facility is situated within the Royal British Legion Village in Kent where clients are provided with meals and single accommodation during the three-day assessment period of rehabilitation. I, as the occupational psychologist, decided to introduce a relaxed, story-telling and story listening mode of career counselling in addition to deploying psychometric tests. Testing is a secondary, tailored intervention agreed with the client and not imposed as a blanket measure.            By and large, service personnel, especially those below commissioned rank, are socialized from early youth into a way of life far more demanding in some ways, but cosseted and cocooned in others, than the rest of us. One has to listen and gain some understanding of the forces and circumstances that have shaped such individuals. Otherwise, a return to Civvy Street, often less ordered and hierarchical than what they are used to, becomes problematical. The counselling process helps them understand civilian work life demands are somewhat different to service life, especially in the new contract and portfolio work culture. Even a comprehensive battery of psychometric tests and work samples will not elicit a single usable fact unless the counsellor relates to the client as someone with no other agenda than to disinterestedly help them achieve their goals in a world of work that is changing fast.            My clients find the transition to civilian life more difficult due to a whole range of disadvantages that handicap them in the job market. However, almost without exception they display well above average levels of innate capabilities, or, ‘fluid’ intelligence, even when they have left school with hardly any formal qualifications. Some have gained trade qualifications which are often limited to service occupations which have no equivalents in the civilian workplace. Family and social background are powerful influences on their choice of a service career.            Tom, an Army Corporal aged 32, had passed his ‘eleven-plus’ as a schoolboy in the Midlands.  He had not taken up the offer to attend grammar school as he preferred to be with his ‘mates’ and social equals at the local comprehensive. He preferred not to be an object of derision of either the ‘snobs’ at grammar school or his ‘gang’ from primary school. His grandfather whom he admired had served in the Army during the Second World War. He left school without qualifications before he reached the compulsory school-leaving age and enrolled as an Army Cadet. At 17 he joined the regular Army in one of the Infantry Regiments. He had served on tours of duty in Germany, Northern Ireland and in the Gulf, and had been awarded the appropriate medals. Although he had intended to remain in the Army for the full length of 22 years before retirement, he was now being medically discharged following an accident in the sporting field. He had been a good regimental athlete, basketball player and swimmer, winning several trophies. The injury was to his back and had become degenerative. He walked with a slight limp and with the aid of a walking stick. He was married with one child. Although he was presently living in married quarters, he would need to decide where to live once discharged.            On an intelligence test Tom’s performance was at the top 2 percent compared with population norms. He also had high scores on all aptitude tests ranging from Language Usage to Mechanical Reasoning. He did not appear to be surprised by the test results. His sole concern was to find a job - any job that would enable him to obtain a mortgage to buy a house, or else, to rent. His wife might be able to work part time most likely in a supermarket in a role similar to the one she had engaged in before marriage. He had no idea what he could or even wanted to do in a job and reiterated that all he was trained to be was an infantry soldier.            An outgoing, relaxed person, socially at ease, further discussion revealed that during his period of army service, Tom had volunteered to help in the Junior NCOs’ mess. He had kept accounts and organized celebratory events and parties for service families. He did not think any of these as relevant, but was prepared to talk because it was in his nature to be sociable. Besides, nobody in the military hierarchy or medical practitioners and specialists had much time to engage him in conversation. They appeared to be interested only in presenting facts from their professional perspective and as quickly as possible. Tom was surprised that I was prepared to talk about my own background. I had been in a uniformed service, but later as an immigrant, held insecure, transient jobs in the UK, before late entry into higher education resulting in my being able to secure my current job as a psychologist.            Through this informal counselling approach, Tom was able to apprehend that he possessed skills other than soldiering but that he needed to acquire further job-specific skills if he was to make a satisfactory entry into the civilian job market.            On the second day of his assessment, Tom told me that he had thought a great deal about his situation, having glanced through published material available at the Centre. He had seen advertisements for vacancies in leisure management. He felt that he could combine his sporting interests and his supervisory experience in managing a sports centre, although he could no longer actively pursue sports or undertake physically demanding work. He accessed the Course Discover computerized information database and found an Open College training course in leisure management. He could do this in his own time studying from home. He also found that once he had decided where he was going to live, he could enrol at the local further education college and acquire National Vocational Qualifications (NVQs) at least up to Level 3 initially.            By the third day, Tom was confident that he was on the right track. He also decided to acquire competence in using a PC (personal computer). He could do this by following a five-day computer literacy and information technology (CLAIT) course at the Royal British Legion Training Company, Tidworth College. This is a residential course and would be funded by his regiment as part of his resettlement package. Tom was then provided with information on how to prepare a curriculum vitae. Drawing upon all that he had learned about himself over the last two days, and based on a specimen or template of a one-page c.v., Tom accomplished this with minimal help from me. He then admitted that he had paid someone to do a ‘professional’ c.v. for him which ran to three pages. He felt that it made general statements that he was unlikely to be able to defend at a job interview. Tom now had a feasible continuation to his narrative as a soldier in transition to a comfortable civilian work role. He also became aware that a job need not be for life and that he would need to continue to upgrade skills to remain employable.                                                                                (c.1200 words) ***


“You wanna do something fun?” she says and throws her hands up in a question. If absolutely anyone else was asking, I’d fire off an excuse to not have fun. Like, I need to study or I have to go home and organize my book shelves, or my hamster, Albert, is very lonely, he won’t know what to do if I’m not there. I start to offer one of the usual responses, the words pushing against my teeth, when she yanks me up by my wrists and starts dragging me toward her car, a beat-up old thing, faded yellow, cracking and in disrepair. Of course, she somehow makes driving it look cool. She throws her head back and cackles, turning her face up toward the sun and drinking in its rays. She is an actual ray of sunshine, but she scares the shit out of me. Looks like I have no choice in the matter, but today, it seems like a small part of me wants to go, to be wherever she is. I don’t even know if she knows yet where she wants to be, but she wants me with her and I’m really bad at saying no. As soon as I buckle my seatbelt, my hand goes straight to my mouth, front teeth chewing maniacally on the jagged cuticle of my thumb. She has already lit a cigarette, rolled down the window, cranked up the radio, and lurched out of the parking spot, not checking a single mirror in preparation for takeoff. I go straight for my inhaler and puff in until I can feel my lungs relax and my heartbeat taper off. I put it back into my battered old Jansport and try to act casual, if casual means gripping the bottom of my seat with one hand and pushing against the glovebox with the other. The wind is blowing her hair all around, whipping it into her eyes and dangerously close to the cherry of her cigarette. The persistent worry about something catching on fire makes my stomach seize up, but there seems to be nothing of the sort from her perspective. She flicks the ash, uses the other hand to clumsily shift gears, then uses that same hand to point at me and back at the road and then back at me while singing along word for word with some song blasting through the speakers. As she drives, she lets the feeling or the music or the pleasurable weather pull her along, undeterred, to our destination. Now it seems like she already knows where she’s going. I busy myself by looking out the window, pleadingly, studying the road signs and the mile markers, trying to memorize the landmarks. She reaches out and gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. It is the only gesture that connects us; the rest of the time, she’s lost in her own jubilation, completely free and unencumbered. It’s like I’m not even here. But I am here and my throat is dry and my hands are now a pasty white, the blood having leaked out of them while holding on for dear life. She smiles and turns her attention back to the road, downshifting, then punches the button to surf the stations. I’m trying desperately to regulate myself. I close my eyes, but immediately feel a jolt of carsickness. I rip them back open, take in some jagged breaths, and start to smooth my pant legs down in a slow, repetitive fashion. The self-soothing starts to work a little. I even half-heartedly try to sing along with her for a few bars. I am almost afraid to ask, but I do anyway. “So where are we going?” “Oh, you’ll see. You’ll love it, I swear! Ugh. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. It’s gonna be killer, Elliot!” I can’t focus anymore. She said kill out loud. We’re doomed. Doesn’t she know you can’t temp fate? I let out a concerned sigh, shoot my eyes upward in some sort of prayer, and then swallow hard. I look out the window again. The leaves are changing color as we drive, garnet, then rust, then mustard and back again. The trees bend into us, shaking off their vibrance, ushering in the new season. Fall is my favorite, not too hot, not too cold, just right. I can count on the weather to find a happy medium, while my own amped-up body struggles, swinging from one extreme to the other. The song ends and the DJ’s voice reaches out, weaving through a countdown of some sort. His voice is muffled to me now, as I sneak a glance over at her, lowering my eyes straight down to her waist, then clumsily landing on her upper thigh. Her plaid skirt is pinned together with what looks like an oversized gold safety pin, but a flap of it is being tossed around in the wind, revealing a half-hidden birthmark. I feel a shock and look away. She hasn’t noticed me looking, and I’m relieved. I see her every day in every class, in the hallways, in the lunch room, watch her walk to her car after school and what do I do? I pine. What a scared little boy, I am . But also, in my defense, she’s never given me any hint of acknowledgement, and there’s never been the right time to talk to her, to try to talk to her. And now I’m riding in her car, a car that I’m suddenly realizing smells of stale smoke swirled together in a sickly mixture with Victoria’s Secret pear body spray. It’s almost vomit inducing but still manages to get me a little excited. I’m disgusted with myself, but still don’t tell her to pull over. To please let me out. No, I’m just white knuckling it and hoping wherever she’s going is safe. Normally, I will make a U turn at the first sign of impending danger. But I’ve never had the opportunity to choose the unknown and really lean into it like I’m trying to right now. “Elliot? Elliot!!” she says. I look over at her and all the words catch in my throat. So I just continue to stare at her like an idiot. “Elliot, hello? Can you guess yet?” she says. “Can you guess the surprise? “Uh, well. Let me roll down my window and see if any smells can give me a clue,” I say. She gives me a little sympathetic laugh. I turn to the window and sniff upward like a dog. “Uh yeah. I got nothing, except maybe a hint of diesel fuel,” I say and then immediately regret any attempt at humor. She continues to drive carelessly, from my vantage point, almost recklessly, but I keep holding out hope that we’ll get there unscathed. And also, this place better be epic. Or maybe not epic, but good enough to inspire her to at least look at me. Maybe talk to me. There are so many things I want to ask her but I’m usually pretty terrible at small talk. There must be something we have in common. I sit on my hands in an effort to warm them up and also keep them out of my mouth. “So, um. Are you going to the football game tomorrow?” Where did that come from? I don’t even like football . “Oh God no! I hate sports,” she says. See, there’s one thing. We both hate sports. “Oh yeah, totally. Me too. I just ask because my neighbor, Darren, is on the team.” Elliot, seriously? Darren! Ugh, I’ve already tanked this conversation before it can get started. Just be quiet, Elliot. Just shut up. So I listen to myself for once and stare straight ahead. I can see now that we’re the only ones on this winding road flanked by mountains, a kaleidoscope of foliage. We are careening forward, but I’m still able to use a sliver of my brain to enjoy the scenery. It is breathtaking, but in the good, non-panic attack way. I feel the car slowing down as she abruptly pulls off onto the shoulder. I worry it’s not parked far enough away from the road, pictures flashing in my mind of this little yellow wagon getting sideswiped by an oncoming car, flinging us into the dirt, injuries unknown. Elliot, just breathe, man. Just breathe. I throw open my door and grab my backpack. I still have absolutely no idea where we are. It just looks like somewhere you’d pull over to change a tire. I can’t see anything beyond the rows and rows of trees, lined up like soldiers in perfect formation. I notice she has a canvas tote bag slung over one shoulder. She’s already walking ahead of me into the woods, not turning back once to see if I’m following. I’m certainly following though. The trail is virtually silent save for a few birds chirping and the crunching of leaves under our feet. She turns back and motions for me to hurry and catch up, so I attempt a brisk jog, tripping over a root in the process, but somehow stabilizing myself. I hear her faintly chuckle, but I don’t really mind. The pine needle smell and the gentle breeze has righted me, and I catch myself smiling. We continue on in what seems like one endless hike until the clumped trees suddenly part and the sun surprises us with heat. “Oh wow!” I say. “Right? It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says. “Yes, it’s like a little piece of heaven,” I say and stop a few feet from the edge. She moves closer, so close that I start to get nervous again. “Elliot, come over here. You’ve got to see this,” she says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a heavy pair of black binoculars. “Are you a bird watcher?” I ask. “Actually no, but that might be a cool hobby,” she says. She reaches out for my hand and places the binoculars inside. She points ahead, across the wide expanse. “Just look over there.” I peer through the lenses and a house, set precariously on a cliff like stilts, appears. It looks like it’s been dropped down from another planet. It’s also enormous. You could probably fit three of my townhouses inside of it. I’m trying to place its style, but it’s really like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Its roof branches off into three separate cones that look like they’re wrapped in copper. Purple iron fencing encloses wraparound patios on every level. It almost looks like a child’s crayon drawing come to life. I open my mouth and adjust the focus, zooming in a little more. “What?!?” I say, surprised, and hand the binoculars back to her. “A freaking pool, Elliot! Can you believe it? When’s the last time you saw an inground pool? In the middle of the woods!” she says, laughing at the idea. “How’d you even know that’s what I was looking at?” I ask her. “Just a hunch,” she says and suddenly gets timid, shifting her eyes away from me and back across to the cliff. The realization barrels over me, leaving me shaking my head. She wants to talk to me . She’s talking to me ! I clear my throat. “So how many times have you been here?” I ask. “Oh, a few,” she says. I get the feeling she wants to unload some factoids on me. “Continue,” I say, stroking my two or three chin hairs, pretending to be a wise old man. She laughs and lowers herself to the ground, folding her legs into a pretzel. She pats the dirt beside her and I sit down too. “Ok, so that monstrosity over there is the Sunny Gorge Home, built sometime around 1970. Very Brady Bunch on acid kind of vibes,” she says and I notice a shimmer in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. Maybe because I’d never actually been face to face with her. “Hey, take these again,” she says and untangles the binoculars from around her neck, passing them over to me. “If you look on the second level, you can really enjoy all of that shag carpeting. It’s red! Red shag carpet, are you kidding me? I can’t even imagine the parties they throw at that house. Guess nobody would know if you got wasted and spilled your wine all over it, right?” she says. I nod and smile, imagining myself at a party there, at a party anywhere. My stomach drops a little. I pan around the first floor and stop at the fireplace. Even with all that space, I can tell it’s the centerpiece, the focal point. Its exterior is covered in chunky squares of blond wood, a repeating basketweave pattern, all the way up to the ceiling. I stare at it like it’s hung in an art gallery, trying not to think of the possibility that an ember might land on the wood, a spark that could grow and destroy the whole building, pulling it down the side of the mountain in a fiery ball. Then I realize she’s still talking about the house. “Are you into architecture, Elliot?” she asks. “Because this house is inspired by the designs of Frank Lloyd Wright.” “That’s cool,” I say. Guess I’ll need to figure out who ole FLW is now. “So did you see how random those rooves are? Why so many and why cone-shaped?” she asks. “Yeah, I saw those…they remind me of those little paper party hats,” I say. She smirks and shakes her head in agreement. We sit in a comfortable silence and stare off across the canyon. She puts her hand on top of mine. “Thanks for coming with me, Elliot. It’s nice to have a friend to share it with,” she says. “Uh yeah, sure. It’s a really cool place, it calms me down actually, which is hard to do even though I am very medicated,” I say. “Yeah, it’s probably my favorite place right now. I keep coming here and finding more things I’ve missed…or appreciating the things I’ve seen before, like in a new light, you know?” she says. “Yep,” I say. I notice that the leaves are all facing upward now, forming themselves into little bowls. I get nervous it’s going to rain, and neither of us have umbrellas. “So, Mr. Hamilton told me everything I’ve told you. He’s ancient, as you know, and he’s lived here his whole life. I can’t find any listings for the house or any articles about it or anything though, which is weird,” she says. “I’ve literally only seen it from my binoculars. I just need to figure out how to access it from the other side and then we’ll be in! Oh also, I have to figure out when those people go on vacation. I have got to get inside and check it out up close. You down?” Shit .


I fear the hulking giant that waits just outside my home. I'm too afraid to even look up at him in his full size. He stands two, maybe three stories tall. Silently watching me, his silhouette a pitch-black void against the starry night sky. At any moment, he could rip through this flimsy shelter I call home like a dull knife through skin. Why doesn't he? Why doesn't he get it over with already, instead of staring me down? He’s waiting for me to go outside so he may crush me and put me out of my misery. Giving in to him seems more and more appealing as time goes by. Because as much as HE scares me, there are more of them out there. A lot more. Some smaller, some even bigger. They're all around you, too. And you know they are. I don't know how you can even ignore them: they're everywhere. If you look out your window right now, you can see one if you are lucky. Dozens of them if you are unlucky. You might even have a few lining your driveway. You might even have a tire swing hanging off one of their branches... My name is Dr. Adam Collier, and I am afraid of trees. You may think it's funny or unusual, but I promise you that by the time I am done telling you my story, you will fear them as much as I do. You'll have to forgive me for any pauses or slip-ups you may hear in this recording. I am trying as best as I can to recount everything in one take, with as much detail as possible. As I said, I am a doctor, specifically of Chemical Engineering. I am a Research and Development Technician for The DuPont Company in Wilmington, DE. My team and I are responsible for developing and testing prototypical chemicals for— all sorts of things, really. I suppose the NDA doesn’t matter anymore… I was working on synthesizing a form of carbonic anhydrase to offset carbon dioxide emissions in the atmosphere. But even the best test result out of all my trials required L-aspartate, fatty acids, uracil, L-argininine— Sorry, force of habit. I'll try to refrain from using too much technical jargon from here on out. What I meant to say is that, after a series of failures, the closest thing I could come up with still required too much to be feasible. I asked my new assistant, Dr. Anna Nemours, to contain and dispose of the chemical, as I had deemed it a failure. But, unknown to me at the time, she continued to perform tests with it. She theorized that the desired reaction could occur if the compound was introduced to isoenzymes of β-carbonic anhydrase—sorry, if she provided the compound with organic plant matter to consume. She took some of the byproducts of my tests and made them into a mixture of her own, and she put some of that mixture onto a fern she kept on her desk, completely against protocol and off the record. She told me all this later after her own tests had failed to produce anything— let's just say her tests had failed as well. Not only did she break a dozen rules, but she also failed to create anything that could even be considered close to a "success" for our purposes. Looking back now, I should have fired her. She also showed me something entirely unexpected and deeply interesting: the chemical had not eaten away at her fern, like she expected. In fact, the fern that she claimed was almost dead had sprouted new leaves. Quite a few, actually. At the risk of being penalized for my own assistant's actions, I hesitantly reported this to my superiors. Instead of punishing me, they encouraged me to perform more tests! They saw potential for this as a new fertilizer. From that point on, things moved quickly. Our entire team ran more tests on the original compound I had made. It turns out the chemical was more than just a decent fertilizer: we saw a 2% increase in the rate of construction of plant cells. Once my team published our findings, funding started flooding in from all over. Government agencies, farming corporations, and agrochemical powerhouses were all chomping at the bit. Our findings could impact food shortages or help places that couldn’t regularly grow crops. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to say that our research could have solved world hunger. With all the funding and more than enough manpower thrown at this, we pressed on to the prototype development phase. Everything seemed fine, no issues and no downsides. We further engineered the chemical to make the affected plants drought and frost resistant as well. We even devised a means of controlled distribution. Two dizzying months later, we conducted the first tests on outdoor crops. Tests proceeded admirably, but this latest batch grew a little too fast. And, more concerning, our control crops, which should have been untouched by the chemical, also showed accelerated growth. We determined the test plants themselves were producing their own version of the chemical, which must have spread to the control crops by being carried on the wind. Or perhaps it had penetrated deep into the soil, or maybe some bees had carried it across fields? We weren’t exactly sure. Regardless of how it reached them, leaves and stems on all plants in both testing plots were growing 5-10% faster at the cellular level. Unfortunately, it wasn't just the test and control crops that were affected. Two days later, we noticed that the forest surrounding the test fields had grown 50 yards closer. That’s when we knew we had a problem on our hands. Hazmat was called in to do cleanup. They burned down all plant life and salted the soil 200 yards into the surrounding forest. They also burned and salted the test and control crops as well. While it was an embarrassing mistake, we were relieved that it was successfully contained. Our relief only lasted a few days. The forest was back to where it was originally in just two days. This extreme rate of growth made no sense. And to make matters worse, it wasn't contained. There was evidence that it had spread even further than the woods. Faster growth meant more dispersal of plant matter, which potentially meant more plants were getting tainted with the chemical. Hazmat was called in again, but this time the damage was too widespread. Within days, plants all around New Castle County showed signs of hyperactive growth. On my morning drive to work, the same blind turn that I had taken dozens of times before was blocked by a giant branch that would have surely killed me if I had not stopped in time. The branch wasn’t there the day before, I’m sure of it. The next day, that road was closed. In just a few short days there were reports of major roads being swallowed up by greenery as far as 15 miles from our testing site. And it was still spreading. But we still didn’t know how. We think the wind must have picked up the pollen, or leaves, or seeds of the tainted plants and carried them all over the state, maybe even further. The DuPont Company called in an emergency response force the size of a small army. They burnt and salted as much greenery as they could, not leaving anything to chance. Hundreds of trained professionals managed a controlled fire. The company’s ties to the outbreak still hadn't reached the public. But when the massive cloud of smoke blocked out the sun, reporters came to the largest chemical company in the tri-state area for answers. And that was DuPont. Some news outlets claimed the extreme overgrowth was a result of a bioweapon test gone wrong or an intentional act of domestic terrorism. Some even reported that it was a sign of the end times. Panic spread across the nation. And so did the chemical. The first reports of accelerated growth in the Redwood Forest on the west coast came out in just two short weeks. We didn't know enough about it. Nobody did. Was it the wind that was spreading the chemical? Was it bees? Was it people? The government didn’t want to take any risks: all flights and boats out of the country were shut down. The United States tried to quarantine the overgrowth. Reports of property damage flooded in to news agencies. Top-heavy trees were toppling over and crushing people’s homes. Tree branches were breaking in through windows and piercing walls. Apartment buildings were being torn apart by roots plunging into their foundation. I remember the first story of a direct death caused by the plants. All too vividly… Brendan Waters was an elderly, bedridden man staying at the Forwood Manor Nursing Home. He woke up one day to find that his small room was being invaded by wiry vines. Those same vines were thickest around his bed, where they had coiled themselves around his legs. He tried to pull them off, but they were so thick and he was so weak that he couldn’t. He called for help, but the nurses were unable to get into his room: a patchwork of vines and roots had barricaded the metal door from the inside. Brendan could only weakly shout for help. Hours passed like this. We know every detail of the agony that Brendan went through, because nurses were right on the other side of his door as he screamed about the cause of his pain for 35 excruciating hours. The vines that tied him down sprouted sharp thorns that tore into his legs as they crawled further and further up his frail body. The Wilmington Fire Department was called in. Firefighters tried going in through the third floor window, but an immense tree completely blocked it. The same window that Brendan asked his nurse to keep open on beautiful days was how the overgrowth got into his room in the first place. Firefighters worked in shifts to chop through the thicket surrounding the window, but it was much too slow, and the branches got thicker the more they chopped. Roots squeezed Brendan’s chest. The firefighters cleared out the entire nursing home and went to work tearing down the wall nearest Brendan’s bed. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. When they eventually opened up a hole into his room, they still had to contend with a mesh of pale roots on the other side. Brendan cried out for his family. None of them were there. By the time the firefighters finally carved through the thicket, Brendan was no longer screaming. His body had been pierced by dozens of sharp, tiny branches. There was no blood on the scene. The news reported that his face had bright green leaves growing out of it by the time the coroner arrived. … That report came out a month ago. Many, many more have suffered the same fate since. The country fully succumbed to panic. Many attempted to burn the aggressive forests down themselves. Gasoline became more useful for starting fires than it was for cars. All major roads were blocked anyway. So many people died in these amateur controlled fires. And they died for nothing. The plants just grew back, even faster. And it wasn’t just people that were falling victim to the overgrowth. Greedy tree limbs grabbed power lines, causing power outages everywhere. Communications eventually went dark, too. Thirsty roots pierced the water pipes and they soon went dry. The overgrowth took so much. Too many people have listened to the screams of their loved ones slowly being strangled by bright green leaves. All they could do was abandon them— or join them. People tried to retreat to deserts. But even the deserts showed more and more signs of the overgrowth. We’d made sure that plants treated by our chemical could be used in places where it's hard to grow crops, after all. They were drought and frost resistant, too. Who knows what the death count is at now. I’m sure I don’t want to know. I was shipped off to the Amundsen–Scott South Pole Station in Antarctica by the US government a few days before the borders were closed. Some of the original research team were flown out here, too. We were working on modifying the original chemical, attempting to turn it into an herbicide. They even flew in Dr. Nemours, too. It was clear that she was in way over her head. I should have fired her. Our team wasn’t sure if the overgrowth had reached anywhere outside of North America by that point. We hoped it hadn't. But a French scientist that the United Nations flew in confirmed what we had all feared: The overgrowth had crossed the ocean. Her and her team traced the chemical to algae that had made its way to their shores via fish. Her wife was crushed to death by a falling tree. Her name was Giulia. Disturbing questions spread throughout our makeshift research team: if fish could carry the chemical all the way from North America to Europe, how long before it made its way to other continents? How long before it made its way here? These international scientists provided invaluable information for our research. We saw some debatably hopeful results, but they were coming much too slow. We were all desperately fighting the nagging fear that we were much too late. But as the foremost experts on the chemical, if we couldn’t figure out how to stop the overgrowth, who could? One day I overheard the guards talking about the Antarctic coast having a "green shore" that wasn't there before, climbing up the ice walls of the glaciers. The research team and I tried to ignore these reports, hoping they weren’t true. We had to ignore them and focus on getting the herbicide to work as fast as possible. But hastiness is what got us into this mess in the first place. So we ignored the guards. We ignored the fact that they started carrying flamethrowers. We ignored the way their numbers gradually decreased. We ignored the green fuzz cresting over the mountainside, and how it crept closer each day. We ignored the streaks of green in the snow that appeared in our footprints as we made our way from our quarters to the lab. Dr. Nemours didn't come into the lab one day, even though we couldn't afford days off. I had to ignore the thick, teal moss that covered her like a blanket when I went to check on her in her quarters. I should have fired her. Less of my team showed up to work as days went on. They might have felt this plan wasn’t going to work and decided to go out on their own terms. I had to ignore the splotchy moss that covered their quarters, and how it might have meant that they didn't go willingly at all. I have to ignore all of these things and focus on my work, because if I don't... There is one thing that I can't ignore, though. And it's standing about 60 feet away from me. Is it closer than it was yesterday? I first saw it as I was walking in the hall. I passed a window and saw a sharp green antenna poking out of the snow. I didn't think algae could form structures like that. A few hours later, I saw what I could only describe as “leaves” form on its ends like lopsided veins. This was surely a new kind of plant life that has never existed before. It would be considered beautiful if the circumstances were different. If there was anyone besides me around to see it. But it looms out there, silently watching me. Standing two, three stories tall, waiting for me to go outside so it can put me out of my misery. Silently watching me, its blue-green skin a vulgar wound against the pure white snow. It waits just outside these walls. And I think it's getting closer.


Going Native            Although it was the first week of September, the official college classes had not begun for the 38 study abroad students from the Buckeye State. Alcalá de Henares was but a train ride from the medieval city of Toledo, but 4,000 long, heartbreaking miles from its sister city in Ohio.            Although the experienced program director Jimena could attempt to cover her grays, her years of leading the program allowed her to detect the aroma of homesickness with the acuity of a truffle-searching Lagotto Romagnolo.            “Roberto,” Jimena called out to the familiar graduate student in her finely-tuned accented English, “I want you to take this girl under your wings.”            “What do you mean?”            “She’s homesick,” Jimena explained while adding an exaggerated guttural quality to the letter H. “She’s already talking about going back home. You’ve got to convince her to stay.”            Roberto had learned the ropes two years earlier as a green undergraduate student under the tutelage of this same wise program director. Of course, back in the States, his friends called him Robby, but in the Iberian Peninsula he had transformed into a sort of native alter ego—Roberto. Robby had been an insecure bumpkin in the fall of 1988, however, by the time he left Spain that following spring, he had soaked up the language, the culture, and the habits of any young Spaniard. His language became peppered with the best Spanish curse words and he could cluck his tongue to nonverbally reject another’s proposition as if he had been born in Madrid.            Brooke stood out as a foreigner from the instant she exited the TWA flight at Barajas Airport. Her pallid skin barely contrasted with the bright white t-shirt she sported that day. As she stood nervously in the Plaza de Cervantes, her beige shorts were hiked up high and her long, pinkish legs drew attention away from her round noggin. Anticipating her three months in a foreign land, she had her regular beautician trim her sandy locks short enough to require minimal maintenance until her scheduled return to The United States of America on December 21.            “Brooke,” Roberto voiced her name loudly to assure that he was targeting the correct student. Her blue eyes shot towards the slinger of names and she rushed to Roberto.            “ Sí ,” she eagerly answered in her nascent second tongue as she looked directly at Roberto.            “You and your roommate are coming with me,” Roberto laid out the details of the day trip to Madrid. As a seasoned veteran of the Madrid scene, Roberto would lead four girls through the streets, show them the sights, and acclimate them to the capital before meeting up with the larger group in the early evening.            Once they were in the city, the four ducklings followed their leader through La Puerta del Sol and Plaza Mayor. Roberto whipped out the nostalgia card and droned on about his days in those very sites. He noticed that Brooke tended to pull up the rear, avoided most communication with her classmates, and appeared to be mentally distant.            “What’s wrong with your roommate?” Roberto frankly asked Lizzy.            “She won’t give it a chance,” Lizzy replied instantly, “She wants to go home and I really wouldn’t mind if she did.”            “Not on my watch,” Roberto stated although Lizzy seemed unimpressed.            As they reached the northwest corner of Plaza Mayor, Roberto ushered the unsuspecting female students into Casa Rua, a traditional joint with fried squid rings in the window. Jimena had handed each graduate student 2,000 pesetas and Roberto decided that a round of draft beers and five squid sandwiches would come in well under that budget. The leader of the pack ordered without asking input from the others.            “I’m not eating that!” Brooke exclaimed preemptively as she watched the scowling barman shovel warm seafood rings into five hard buns.            “Just try it,” Roberto instructed her and the other skeptics, “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.”            Twenty minutes later, three half-eaten squid sandwiches remained perched sadly on the counter as Roberto paid the bill. He had been tempted to finish off the delicacy himself but decided against the gluttonous act.            The five students exited the establishment intending to head towards the Royal Palace where they would meet the rest of the group.            “ Vámonos, ” Roberto motioned to his understudies as the effect of one round of beer compelled them to want more.            “Roberto,” Lizzy forwardly asked, “can we get another beer?”            He stopped abruptly and would have looked at his wristwatch had he not fallen into the habit of not wearing it. Nobody was ever on time in Spain, so he had left his watch in a drawer in Ohio.            “Great idea.” They entered the closest pub and the party began to take off.            “I’m not old enough to drink legally in Ohio,” another disciple named Sandra mentioned. “This is great. No fake ID and everything’s so cheap.”            “I’m not much of a drinker,” Brooke commented while tepidly retrieving her first sip and subsequently removing the foam from her lip with a thin paper napkin.            “Just throw it on the floor,” Roberto instructed Brooke in proper Madrid bar etiquette. She refused, crumpled the used napkin, and placed it delicately on the table next to her tulip glass.            Although she disobeyed his directive, the mere fact that the first glass of draft beer had loosened her tongue warmed Roberto’s heart. He felt he was nearing a breakthrough. As the other four chatted in English around a high table, Roberto excused himself momentarily, plunked some coins in a machine, and retrieved a fresh pack of Fortuna cigarettes.            “Oh, you smoke,” Brooke looked at Roberto with disapproving eyes as he pulled out an orange lighter and lit up his first filtered stick. In polite Spanish fashion, he offered smokes to the rest but only Lizzy accepted the proposal.            “Brooke,” Lizzy exhaled a stream of smoke upwards, “maybe you haven’t noticed, but everybody smokes here.”            “Well I can’t stand it,” she replied, “and that’s another reason I hate this country.”            Roberto and Lizzy looked at each other and he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment that they would have to team up if they were going to convince the prudish American student that studying in Spain was going to be the time of her life.            With the beers, tapas had been placed in front of them.            “Free food,” Roberto haled, “You can’t beat that!”            “I don’t like olives.”            “They don’t always give you olives.”            “I don’t like any Spanish food,” Brooke countered, “I’m dying for a cheeseburger.”            The absence of a wristwatch did not mean that they could spend all afternoon drinking in the center of Madrid and Roberto quickly asked the barman for the time, paid the bill, and they exited back into the blinding early September sun. Roberto’s plan had not been fulfilled, but persistency had always been a hallmark of his personality. He enlisted Lizzy to continue to loosen up her roommate.            “Don’t leave her out. When you go out with your friends this weekend, make sure to take her with you.”            Lizzy failed to mount a protest but her facial features communicated her passive unwillingness to include her roommate in any of her plans. ***            April 28 th fell on a Sunday in 1991. Roberto and his roommate had spent their last weekend in Alcalá de Henares enjoying themselves as much as possible in the bars and discos in what had become their hometown. The academic year abroad had come complete with its ups and downs. The Gulf War broke out in January, the dollar tanked against the peseta, and an overall malaise hung in the air. Nonetheless, the three dozen study abroad participants and esteemed faculty and staff would gather on that Sunday night at a fancy restaurant to say their official goodbyes. A traditional musical group would play while everyone downed copious amounts of red wine from earthenware pitchers. The food was spectacular but an afterthought as the melancholy feelings of the end of the study abroad experience were upon them. Potentially, some of these undergrads would return for grad school, but for the great majority, this was their last hurrah in Spain.            In such a large group, there were cliques and a particular division between graduate and undergraduate students. After Roberto’s initial mission to relieve Brooke of her homesickness, he had not followed up on her progress. He had discovered that she did not return to Ohio in December, but rather, she did what most one-semester students wish to do—stay for the entire academic year. Deep inside, Roberto felt that he had accomplished something.            The tuna finished playing their traditional music and the group prepared themselves to continue the party in the streets of Alcalá. Brooke sought out her graduate student mentor, took him by the hand, and they entered into the adjacent patio area.            “Roberto,” she looked directly into his eyes as she finished her final glass of wine, “I wanted to thank you.”            “For what?” He feigned ignorance. He was keenly aware of the situation but he wanted to hear it in her words.            “For making me want to stay in Spain. I was this close to going home.” A smile beamed across her face as she measured the distance with her right hand. Although her American physical traits continued to make her stand out as a foreigner, she had changed. Her style was different. She had begun to dress with a European touch. It was difficult to pinpoint, but she had been transformed from that scared American that arrived in Spain eight months earlier.            Roberto experienced a slight melting of his heart as she confirmed his good deed. She initiated a hug and their eyes welled slightly with tears that would never breach their lids. The embrace lasted a mere fifteen seconds and they found themselves awkwardly alone on the patio.            “I’m glad you stayed,” Roberto eventually uttered. “I had a feeling you would.”            Brooke reached into her bag, pulled out a nearly empty pack of Fortuna, and silently offered him a cigarette. They chuckled as they exhaled. They had both gone native.


Dorothy Aubrey Murphy was 83 years old and frail. Everyone that knew her called her Dot and no one that knew her would have called her frail to her face. She could flash those blue eyes and melt a person. Once a man came in the salvage yard office with pistol and told her to hand over the money. She snapped those blue eyes and told him if he put the pistol in his pocket and got his ass off the property she wouldn't call the cops. He did and she didn't. George was so mad at her over that. Dot shifted in the uncomfortable chair, she and George were alone in the near dark room. George was motionless in the bed as the little lights blinked off and on. George was dying and it was Christmas Eve. First it had been the Alzheimer's that had robbed them of each other and George even of himself. Then three days ago came the stroke. They had told her there was nothing they could do. She cried for a bit and then said she wanted to stay with him on Christmas Eve. Dot took a large prescription pill bottle out of her purse and a small bottle of water, it was time for her medicine. They had spent a lot of Christmases together, her and George, they had been married 64 years. It was on Christmas Eve when George was 16 and she was 15 that he told her he had gotten a job at the salvage yard. He was so proud, and told her the world had turned. She began taking the pills. She had never heard that expression and asked him what it meant. It's what Grandma says he explained, when someone is born or dies, whenever something happens good or bad Grandma always says the world has turned. George lived with his Grandma. His father was a hopeless alcoholic, his mother had killed herself years ago. Only a few years later they were married. Thing weren't always easy though, it was tough when they bought the salvage yard. Money was so tight, stress and work took it's toll. George worked sixteen hour days most of the time. He was always so driven. The worst time though was after that, when they had money. Not long after they bought the third salvage yard. She took the last pill. More than twenty years ago she found that George was sending money to an address in town. She said nothing and waited. Then she saw again money sent to the same address on East Ninth Street. She confronted him and he denied knowing anything. She was infuriated and they had a huge fight. That was a Wednesday, they fought about it again on Thursday. Friday they were not speaking and she seriously considered leaving him. Christmas was on Sunday that year, on Saturday, Christmas Eve, George said let's go to the address on East Ninth I want you to see. She what she snapped your other woman? So on Christmas Eve she had gone with him to the squat brick building. It was five stories, old and run down with a single stairway. Dot banged on the door. A small Hispanic boy, maybe 8 or 9 opened it and gave them a big smile. There was no resemblance. A woman also Hispanic appeared at the door and a man. George stepped in front of her and said we are so sorry to bother you and introduced them both. Please he said I just want my wife to see where I lived as a boy. You lived here asked the man, looking at their good clothes. Yes, said George, in this apartment. When they were back in the car George said we lived here four years before I went to live with Grandma. His teeth were clenched tight. It was bad and there was no one to care, he said. I swore to myself if there was ever a time I could, then I would be the one that cared. No one would have to live there like I did. I don't know them, they don't know me, I send the money in cash. I don't even care what they do with it, I just know I did my part to make it better. Why didn't you tell me? she blurted. I didn't want anyone to know, I did it for me, for the little boy that used to be me. She was beginning to feel queasy. The darkness swirled a little and she straightened herself in the chair. That was both the worst and best Christmas they ever had. George continued to send money but in time the building was abandoned and eventually torn down. Later the city had bought the property and built a 32 unit low income housing facility. Her legs felt like they were going to sleep, this is an awful chair she thought. After George had been lost to Alzheimer's, Dot had driven by the low income housing a couple of times by pure chance. She made the arrangements soon after that. The attorney tried to talk her out of it, Dot snapped those blue eyes and told him it was her money. All the papers were drawn up and signed. George and Dot had sold the three salvage yards and they had a good bit of cash. Even after all George's medical bills the attorney said there was money for at least 25 years. Beginning this year on December 15th every tenant received 500 dollars, and each year on December 15th until the money ran out. In addition each tenant would receive every month 250 dollars until all the money was gone. Dot made sure the money was sent in cash and no one was to ever know where it came from. Over on East Ninth, Amanda turned down the heat and was ready for bed. She made sure Isabella was sleeping. Isabella was twelve and as sweet as any girl ever. Amanda crept to the broom closet and reaching above the furnace brought down a box wrapped in cheap Christmas paper. It was a laptop computer. When the money came Amanda hid it in her room and didn't tell a soul. Sometimes when you have been down so long, something good happens and it scares you that it could be taken away. She bought the computer the next day. Amanda knew with it Isabella's whole world would be opened. She would use it too, but Isabella she could escape Ninth Street. Amanda set the package beneath the small artificial tree. When the little lights on the machines quit blinking the staff scrambled down to George's room, even though there was a firm DNR order. They found George dead lying just as he had been the last three days. Dot was in the uncomfortable chair. The empty prescription pill bottle had clinked on the floor and rolled to the edge of the bed. Dot's blue eyes were open and blank, fixed on George. On her lap was a piece of wrapping paper, red with green candy canes. On the back of the paper she had written, The world has turned. Below that she wrote, It is up to us to turn it. None of them knew quite what to make of that.


My night shift in the Emergency Room began just like every other night shift. The waiting room was filled with the typical “emergent” runny noses and sore throats interlaced with the occasional true emergency of a chest pain, sports injuries or a patient potentially having a stroke. It always amuses me how the patients that truly are having an emergency are always so pleasant and thankful, while those that abuse the system regularly can be some of the meanest, nastiest and ungrateful people on the planet. As I was attending to a patient that came through the door clutching his chest, exhibiting all the classic symptoms of a heart attack, one of the obese frequent flyers grabbed my lab coat. Her filthy fat fingers tugged on my sleeve, almost spilling her 1 liter bottle of diet Coke as crumbs from her Popeye’s chicken fell from her disgusting mouth and down her purple sweatshirt. “Doctor, how much longer do I have to wait?” I replied impatiently, “Like I told you the last four times you were in here last week, I’m not a Doctor, I’m a Nurse, and if you have to ask how long you have to wait then you don’t need to be here. Now if you don’t mind, I am going to take care of this actual emergency.” I ushered the chest pain patient into the back, before the purple Tele-tubby drinking her diet Coke could respond. I got the gentleman settled into a gurney, got his shirt off and started working on an IV while the ER tech began placing the leads on his chest in order to obtain an EKG. Now you see, I work in a small rural ER. We have one doctor and one nurse per shift, about four ER technicians and two Emergency Medical Technicians. So you can probably imagine how quickly we can become busy and patients can get backed up. Especially when a true emergency comes through the door. As the doctor and I were attending to, and treating the gentleman with chest pain, we got a call from our regional call center to dispatch an ambulance for an attempted suicide. “Great! It’s going to be one of those nights” I thought to myself. As the EMTs where heading out the door and getting in the rig, the lead EMT called out to me. “Mike, I’ll call you on the radio as soon as we get on scene and let you know what we’ve got.” “Ok Tyler. Thanks.” I replied. We got “chest pain” dude stabilized and transferred over to the cardiac-cath lab. No sooner did we get that done when Tyler called in on the radio. “EMT-1 to ER, come in over.” “ER, send your traffic, over.” “Uh, ER…. we have a 23 year old male with a self inflicted gun shot wound to the head. No current signs of life, over.” “Roger that EMT-1. We’ll see you back in a few minutes then.” “Uh Mike,” Tyler said, “It ain’t that simple. “Whaddya mean?” I asked. “Well,” he began, “The Sheriff says that the ME is two counties to the north workin a case up there.” “Yeah, so what’s that have to do with us?” I asked. “Sheriff says that Doc J. has to pronounce the victim dead since the ME isn’t here.” “Well, I can’t let Doc leave.” I responded. “Yeah I know.” said Tyler, “That’s why we’re bringing the body back there.” “You’re What?” “Yep, we’re bringing him back.” Tyler stated, matter-of-factly. I paused for a few moments thinking about where we would put our new “Patient.” “Roger that. We’ll put him in the trauma bay.” and we ended the conversation. It was 10:30pm by the time Tyler and Scott got back with the body. Our trauma bay was only big enough for a single bed. We kept our adult and pediatric crash carts in there as well as our Pyxis medication station. I decided to close the bay doors to keep the looky-loos from getting too curious as Doc J. came into the room. “Put the five lead on him just so we can say for sure.” he said. I put the leads on the patient and turned the monitor on. The monitor showed no electrical activity, which was no surprise to anyone. “Okay,” Doc J. said, “let’s make time of death 2235.” “2235 it is.” I replied. “Okay Melissa, you can take the leads off now.” Melissa took the leads off and I pulled the sheet over the patient’s head. I then began the daunting task of getting a hold of the nursing supervisor so that she could call in the histology technician. Since our hospital was so small, our histo-tech also doubled as the morgue custodian. It took over an hour to get a hold of the tech, and she said that she was out of town, but could be there in an hour and a half. As the waiting room started to thin, I had to go into the trauma bay to pull meds from the Pyxis. In my line of work, I’ve been around many dead bodies but, the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. I tried to rationalize it as just being tired. I grabbed the meds, and left the room. About 15 minutes later, I had to get more medications. I was facing the Pyxis with my back towards the body. Again, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I could have sworn that I heard the sheet that covered the body rustle. I quickly turned around to look at the body. His right arm was hanging over the edge of the gurney. “Did we put both arms under the sheet or not?” I asked myself. I couldn’t remember. Either way, I was starting to get really creeped out. Every zombie movie that I had seen and every zombie book that I had ever read came flooding back into memory. I put his arm back on the gurney and under the sheet, and then I high-tailed it out of there. I was sitting at the nurses station about a half hour later when I realized that I forgot to do my pre-shift crash cart check-offs because of how busy we were. “Shit!” I mumbled under my breath. I really DID NOT want to go back in that room. I reluctantly got up, and headed in to do my checks. I was totally psyching myself out. As soon as I entered, I got that feeling again. The hair on my neck was standing straight up and so was the hair on my arms. “Knock it off” I told myself. I walked over to the crash cart and started performing my checks. I had my back to the body and I could have sworn that I heard that damn sheet rustle again. I quickly turned around, but everything was as I had previously left it. “See” I said out loud, “You’re just imagining things.” I turned back around to the crash cart and the door to the trauma bay flew open. I literally jumped and may or may not have let out a little squeal. Tyler walked in and said, “Hey boss, the histo-tech is almost here.” he said laughing. “Man, you should have seen your face. Quit being such a pussy.” “Fuck you!” I said to his back as he walked out laughing. I was almost done, and then I could get the hell out of this room. As I turned my attention back to the task at hand, I felt something brush against my butt and I jumped. I turned around thinking that I had probably just backed into the gurney. I felt all of the blood drain out of my face and was frozen with terror. I heard a low, almost inaudible moan coming from the body and the arm was out from under the sheet again. “Fuck this!” I said out loud as I bolted through the door. Tyler looked at me and started laughing again. “What’s the matter boss? You and the “patient” have a nice conversation?” “Something like that” I mumbled as I rapidly headed to the nurses station. “What?” Tyler asked chasing after me. “You’re freakin serious” he exclaimed. “It was nothing man” I replied, “Just my fucking imagination.” “Yo, you gotta tell me what happened man” Tyler said excitedly. “It was nothing” I shot back tersely. “Don’t you have vital signs to take?” I snapped at him. “What ever man. You’re losing it bro” he shot back as he turned to walk off. The histo-tech finally arrived around quarter after one in the morning. She walked into the trauma bay to survey the body. I purposefully stayed out. I didn’t want to go back in there if I didn’t have to. A couple of minutes later she came over to the nurses station and said, “I’m going to need help bringing him to the morgue. I can’t move him on the morgue gurney by myself. Also, can you come help me roll him? I have to get the body bag underneath him.” I sighed heavily and said “Sure. I’ll be right there.” I walked into the trauma bay and helped the tech put the body bag under the body. I stood on the side of the body and rolled the front side of it towards me. When I rolled him, blood oozed out from the exit wound on his head. “Take it easy pal.” It came from the body. I instinctively let go of the body and stepped back. The body rolled back towards the tech. “Hey, what the?” she exclaimed. “Did you hear that?” I asked incredulously. “Hear what?” she asked. “He told me to take it easy.” I explained. “Who” she asked. “Him” I pointed to the body. “Ha ha” she said, “Real funny.” “Jesus Christ. I must be losing my mind. Let’s just hurry this up and get it over with.” I said. We finished rolling the body and zipping up the body bag. As we were going out of the door heading towards the morgue, I grabbed a radio and shouted to the crew, “I’ll be right back. I’ve got the radio if you need me.” As we pushed the gurney down the hallway, I depressed the transmit button on the radio. “Radio Check.” nothing but static. “That’s unusual” I thought to myself. Our radios are digital so there’s never any static over the network. I shrugged it off, and kept going. As we got closer to the morgue, more and more static was emitting from the radio. I tried to call back to the ER, but there was no response. The tech unlocked and opened the door. “That’s weird” she said and stopped in her tracks. “What’s weird?” I asked. “Well, I purposefully left the lights on when I left because I knew that we were coming right back down. Now they’re off.” “Well,” I started, “They’re probably on motion sensor. If there’s no movement, they shut off to conserve energy like the rest of the hospital.” “No,” she replied, “We haven’t received those upgrades yet.” So, as much as I didn’t want to, I walked into the pitch black morgue, and turned the lights on. I walked into the other two rooms inside the morgue and turned those on too. “Nobody here.” I said. We wheeled the body in and the tech went over to the refrigeration unit and pulled out the morgue’s gurney. All of the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck were standing up again. I looked at the tech and said, “Ya know, I’ve been around a lot of death, being in Afghanistan and working in the ER, and it’s never truly bothered me. But…Something about tonight is really freaking me out.” “You’re probably just tired. You’ve been working a lot of nights lately.” “Yeah, maybe.” The radio squawked. I picked it up and pressed the transmit button. “ER, this is Mike, over.” No response other than static. Lots of static. In fact there was continuos static as if it were a “hot mic”. The tech and I looked at each other. I shrugged and said, “Let’s hurry this up.” We moved the body onto the morgue gurney and from the radio through the static I heard, “Not yet.” It came through as a whisper. “Did you hear that?” I almost screamed at the tech. All of the color draining out of her face and her shaking hands told me that she had. We both simultaneously went to the gurney, and hurriedly rolled it into the refer and slammed the door shut. We both just stared at each other breathing heavily for about thirty seconds. The whisper from the radio became louder and louder until it became a yell. “not yet.” “Not Yet.” “NOT YET!” and then the radio went silent. THUMP. We both jumped. The thump came from the refer. We were both paralyzed with fear. Then the unmistakeable sound of a zipper being zipped, or should I say unzipped came from the refer. Now I swear to you. I’ve been in several fire fights, and ambushes and I’ve NEVER been frozen in fear. But this, this was different. This was something I hadn’t been trained for or experienced before. BANG! The tech and I both jumped. The bang came from the INSIDE of the refer door. BANG! There it was again. It was strong this time. You could actually see the door move from the strike. The banging continued, rapidly, not stopping. The tech and I exchanged a quick glance and then we both hauled ass out of there. She went out first, and I followed, slamming the door shut. “Lock the fucking door” I shouted frantically. Her hands were shaking as she did. We both ran as fast as we could back to the ER. We went to the break room, both out breath. Tyler looked at us and chuckled. “Why you guys out of breath? Gettin freaky in the morgue?” He looked over at us trying to see if maybe he was right and we must have looked pretty bad because he got real serious, real fast. “Holy shit, are you guys ok?” he asked. “What happened?” The tech started to speak, but I cut her off. “Nothing” I said sternly. “We just kind of psyched each other out is all.” and I shot her a quick look as if to say, “Don’t say a fucking word.” She almost imperceptibly shook her head. I left the break room, went to the nurses station and called the nursing supervisor. When she answered, I said “Listen, I need you to get down here right away.” “What’s the matter?” she asked groggily, clearly annoyed. “Just get down here” I said, and hung up the phone. When she walked into the ER, she looked pissed. She came up to me and was about to read me the riot act and then stopped. She looked at me and said, “Are you ok? You look pale.” “No” I said, “That’s why I called you down here. I’m very sick and I have to leave.” “Well,” she began, “You can’t leave until I get someone in here to cover for you.” “Look,” I snapped at her, “I’m not asking for your fucking permission.” I grabbed my keys and headed for the parking lot. I must have been doing at least 80mph on the way home. I ran to my front door, put the key in the lock, opened and went through the door. I quickly slammed it shut and made sure that it was locked. I went upstairs, pulled out the 12 gauge and loaded it with slugs. I took it with me and went down into the kitchen, took out my bottle of Jack Daniels, and took a long pull from the bottle. It burned like hell, but soon after, my hands finally stopped shaking. I went back to the front door just to make sure that it was locked. I went back upstairs, and turned all of the lights and the TV on. I laid down on the bed with my shotgun across my chest, and then started laughing. Slowly at first, and then hysterically. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I said out loud. “You know you just imagined that shit.” I guess I dozed off because I woke up with my heart beating out of my chest. It was quiet. Almost too quiet. And then I heard it. BANG BANG BANG, coming from the front door. I’m scared shitless. I don’t know what to do. I’m too scared to move from my bed.


Dearest Stepdaughter, I have grown ill in the years since you left my care, though many would not call it that. Your father’s house has been taken from me and your stepsisters. Now, we live in a small cottage outside the city where we receive words of abuse from those who pass by or those we see in the market. I tell you this not for sympathy, but so that you might understand how far I have fallen. And in that understanding, you may believe the story I’m about to tell you. In the past few months of my illness, I have begun to reflect on my life as many who see death’s approach so commonly do. I thought of my childhood, of my first marriage, of my daughters, of you and your father, of your mother, and of mine. I see, now, just how cruel I was to you. In a way, I always knew but never accepted it. I was so bitter and so clouded, but I guess I should start at the beginning. As a young girl, I lived alone with my mother in a cottage much like the one I live in now. It was small and cramped, but it had everything we needed. Light would shine in when the sun came up. A rose garden sat next to the little stone building. It wasn’t much, but my mother and I loved it. She was a kind woman, always singing and filling the cottage with beauty. I would spend my days in the garden, tending to my flowers while my mother sang, cooking inside. We had little money. My father died in the war, and had left us a small sum. Though, she never showed it, I knew my mother feared we would run out quickly. There were days we couldn’t afford the extra materials to make me a new dress or even mend an old one, but we never went hungry. My mother would distract me from our misfortunes. She always had a smile on her face and a new game for us to play. I was so happy during that time, but it was short lived. My mother caught the sweating sickness when it swept through our village. One minute, she was laughing and singing. The next, she was laying in bed with sweat pouring down her brow. Within the night, she was gone. The villagers didn’t know what to do with me. I couldn’t stay in the cottage alone and the closest orphanage was a week’s ride away, but no one cared to send me there. I lived in the streets for a year before a lord came to town. He and his daughter were on a tour of his lands, greeting the people as he went. On his way through, he happened upon me. Seeing my torn clothes, he took pity on me. That was when I met your mother and grandfather. She was so beautiful. Her golden hair fell softly past her blue eyes. Her fairness only grew in the years that I knew her. Your grandfather welcomed me into his home. He gave me food and a warm bed. I was grateful, but your mother was not of the same inclination. In exchange for your grandfather’s good will, I was to become his daughter’s handmaiden. My duties were to prepare her food, scrub the floors, wash the windows, the tapestries and drapes, scrub the terrace, sweep the halls and stairs, clean the chimneys, do the mending and the sewing, the laundry, and to see that her pets had their baths. Your mother was known for her kindness, and to many, she was kind. But to me, she was cruel. She ordered me around like I was born to serve her. She would break a vase and blame it on my clumsiness. I would get lashes for things she did. I know it’s hard to hear of your mother in such a way, but that doesn’t make her distaste toward me any less true. To this day, I don’t know what I did to deserve such treatment. I suppose I was never meant to know. Nonetheless, I put up with her tricks and manipulation. I had no choice. I never wanted to return to the streets again. I did my chores with a smile on my face and a kind word at all times. I talked up to your grandfather, complimenting him and helping him when I could. After many years of service, he began to think of me as a second daughter which seemed to increase your mother’s resentment toward me. It seemed like all of my hard work was finally going to pay off, though. On my eighteenth birthday, your grandfather wished to give me a gift. He went to your mother to see what it might be. She suggested he arrange a marriage for me with a wealthy lord. What could be a greater honor than a lowly girl marrying a well to do man? I couldn’t believe it. Your mother, a girl that had been so cruel to me, arranged for me to have a prosperous future. I was to marry the neighboring lord, a widower who was much older than I. His advanced age frightened me, but I was sure my life would turn for the better. It wasn’t until after I moved in with my new husband, that I learned the truth. Your mother was originally betrothed to the widower, but she fell in love with another man, your father. I felt used and foolish. I should have seen that the manipulative girl, I grew up serving, would use me as she always did. She made it so that she could marry whoever she wished while still upholding the obligations her father set forth with the widower. My first husband was cruel, crueler than your mother. I was constantly compared to his late wife. I wasn’t as pretty as she, wasn’t as graceful, nor was I as talented. Nothing I did was good enough. He was demanding. I could not find comfort in my own house. When I spilt the tea or smudged the windows, his abuse turned physical. Despite my pain and torment, I was expected to keep an optimistic attitude especially when we entertained guests. Your mother and father were regulars at our parties and socials. The more I saw her, the cause of my pain, the more I grew to hate her. I know, now, that she had only sought to improve my standing while also helping her own interests. Your mother had not known the man she had set me up with. He had hidden his true side from the public very well. But still, I blamed her for my misery. I had learned to use my own means of manipulation, however. You see, when my daughters were born, I vowed I would protect them. They would not know the pain I’d been through. They would not know life on the streets. They would marry rich men and live happily ever after. They were the only light in my life. I learned to manipulate their father to keep him from ever treating them as he did me. For the most part, it worked. Then, the sweating sickness swept through the land once again. I needn’t tell you who it took from you, but for me, it took my tormenter. My husband died, but I was set free. He had died in his sleep. I knew that my daughters and I were then in danger of losing everything at any moment, but part of me couldn’t help but feel relieved. I grieved in public as I was supposed to, but I couldn’t help but smile that my tormenter was gone. After a month, your father came to see me. He was in deep grief over his wife, your mother. He hoped I would understand. We talked, sent letters to one another, and grew as friends. We bonded over our grief for our late spouses, but my grief wasn’t truly real. I’m afraid my manipulative side took over. I needed to protect my daughters from the poorhouse, and here came a man who needed a companion for himself, and a mother for his daughter. I had every intention of being a good mother to you. I knew what it was like to lose a mother. I thought I was an understanding woman, but the moment I saw you, I was brought back to my life as a handmaid. I was brought back to the day I was sent off to my new husband. You looked so much like your mother. You had her blonde hair and blue eyes. Your skin was fair, and your heart was big. Yet whenever you smiled, I saw your mother’s cruel grin like when she would break something and blame it on me. I had found an understanding person in your father. I had hoped for a better life my daughters and me, and at first, it was. Then, your father left on business. He was always gone, but you know that as much as I do. When he was home, he spent all his free time with you. I only saw him at meals, and he spent even less time with his stepdaughters. I was as alone as ever. I grew to resent you. I had no reason to blame a child, but I did. Like your mother, you caused me pain. My hatred for her transferred to you, and I am so sorry for that. I treated you as I wanted to treat her. I made you my servant. I told you to clean everything. I blamed you when things broke. I tormented you. I abused you. I made you miserable. I am so sorry, Cinderella. I don’t deserve your forgiveness and I am not asking for it, though your kind heart would probably give it. I only wish for you to be happy, now. I wanted to apologize and maybe receive some closure though I know I don’t deserve that either. The doctors tell me I’m not long for this world, and when I go, I fear that will be it for my daughters. I ask that you not take my treatment of you out on them, as I did your mother’s mistreatment unto you. The times, that they were cruel to you, were merely a mirror of me. They have grown since then. I’ve tried to correct the darkness I taught them. Help them when I am gone. At least, let them keep the small cottage we have now. Don’t let them fall as far as I have. Though you may not believe me, know that I am sorry.


The audience was silent. The lecture had completed over a minute prior, but no one made a sound. Scientist 8QZ5 expected a bad reaction. But this was somehow worse. Behind him, his embarrassment projected on a massive screen. “The possibility of an advanced heterogenous civilization,” a simple yet controversial topic, had frozen all the scientists in attendance. It was unthinkable and disrespectful to all the homogenous races represented in the room. 8QZ5 walked off the stage. Part of him knew he would fail, but part of him hoped that his data and evidence would have allowed at least a few scientists to open their minds. He could not have been more wrong. Back at his domicile, 8QZ5 stared at his life’s work, and wondered what he could have done differently. But the true answer was much simpler: His life’s work was a joke. And the greatest offense was that 8QZ5, a member of the progenitors, suggested it. The progenitors were the first race to develop interstellar space travel 243 kurlinqs ago, or approximately 100,000 years. As they explored nearby star systems, they began to find similar races to their own. And those races were given the gift of space travel. But they also found some planets with lifeforms that were…dissimilar. Very dissimilar. The xenobiologists quickly discovered two types of dominant lifeforms. One, like the progenitors, were races who worked in harmony with each other and their ecosystems. These were the homogenous races. The hallmark of these races were the abhorrent reaction that each homogenous lifeform had to the death of another sentient lifeform. The homogenous races developed technology slowly. So slow in fact that the progenitors measured a kurlinq as the time between their first written words and their first space flight. Like the other races, they only developed new technologies when resources were running low, and they needed new ways to acquire or process their resources. The progenitors systematically explored out from their home world. Most new star systems were devoid of any life. Few had life, and even fewer had lifeforms worth contacting. In over 240 kurlinqs, 984 homogenous races were discovered. The discovery of the first heterogenous lifeforms was not from first contact. The progenitors landed on Planet CD4589 as part of a resource survey. No life was detected from orbit. And no life was on the planet. But there were ruins. At first the xenobiologists looked for evidence of some natural cataclysm that could have wiped the lifeforms out. But no evidence could be found. Then they discovered a planet with a completely different kind of lifeforms. These lifeforms battled one another for resources. Even among their own species, even among their own families, these lifeforms were willing to destroy anyone, anything for more resources. It was a controversial suggestion that Planet CD4589 was barren because of the lifeforms. How could they kill themselves, their own species, and their entire planet? But the preponderance of evidence amassed over dozens of kurlinqs, from Planet CD4589 and other heterogenous races, proved the horrific point that the progenitors could barely understand: Some lifeforms were capable of total destruction. The absolute disgust that the progenitors had for the “heterogenous” races was only tempered by the fact that no heterogenous races had ever gotten close to space flight. Most would develop the ability to smelt metal, and very few had discovered some basic chemistry. It seemed that Planet CD4589 had progressed the furthest, with the most dire of consequences. Scientist 8QZ5 had hoped the community would be more open-minded. The first scientist to suggest that CD4589 was destroyed by its own lifeforms was ridiculed during her lifetime, and long after she was deceased. Even still, her name is synonymous with non-constructive thinking. The scientific community put little effort into studying the heterogenous races. Once a planet was identified as heterogenous, the solar system was entered into a “blacklist” of interstellar travel. Occasional follow-up surveys were performed, which almost always found the planets to be in worse shape than prior surveys. 8QZ5 lobbied for a more comprehensive study. There were hundreds of heterogenous worlds, and he wanted to understand how such horrific environments could be created. It was not easy for 8QZ5. The horror of lifeforms slaughtering other lifeforms never diminished for him. However, he was a scientist, and he felt he was doing everyone a favor. It was a filthy job, but 8QZ5 felt that knowledge could only be beneficial. At first glance, the only thing that heterogenous worlds had in common was a complete lack of commonality. Planet sizes, weather patterns, star classifications, atmospheric compositions…none seemed to be the key. Even factoring in all available data, 8QZ5’s AI computer systems could not find any pattern. Then 8QZ5 started examining similarities between the more “advanced” heterogenous races. There he started seeing a window where a hypothetical heterogenous race could advance and perhaps thrive under a very narrow band of factors. With a nominal amount of natural resources, a moderate climate, and a fast but controllable fertility rate, 8QZ5 could mathematically envision a race that could achieve space flight. No matter how pure his statistical models were, 8QZ5’s ideas amounted to heresy of the highest order. No race could imagine such barbarism leading to the technological apex of civilization: Space flight. The fall of 8QZ5 was as painful as it was quiet. He was quickly reassigned to a remote station that studied the properties of a variable pulsar. No thought was needed there. He would record data for the rest of his natural life, and if the establishment had its way, he would be forgotten before he died. For years, the plan was executed to perfection. 8QZ5 woefully but dutifully compiled data and packaged it back to the major research organizations. Even he tried to forget his terrible failure, his ridiculous dream of a thriving heterogenous race. He never spoke a word of his hypothesis again. Ten years later, interstellar expedition 99HBT was yet another survey of a solar system. Long term scans indicated that there was a 2.3% chance of hosting any type of life. As expedition 99HBT entered the solar system, they detected rudimentary communication signals being broadcast. Less than 1% of the lifeforms ever encountered had discovered radio communication. One planet, provisionally designated XW66S, was already more advanced than expected. 8QZ5 followed the systematic reports from each expedition. Part of him always hoped that one day during his lifetime he would be partially vindicated. At best he hoped for a planet as advanced the infamous CD4589, but prior to destruction. But it was a fool’s hope, just a small ember to keep him motivated while trudging through pulsar data. The second progress report from the expedition mentioned the detection of radio signals. This was only the second time in 8QZ5’s life that a new civilization had attained radio communication prior to contact. 8QZ5 was excited to hear about the new homogenous race that would be brought into their interstellar society. When expedition 99HBT’s third progress report did not show up at its proscribed time, 8QZ5 assumed that there was a disruption in the communication network. This was a rarity, and was always fixed in short order. But other data from the network was still being transmitted. No fourth progress report. No fifth. 8QZ5 became sickened to think that expedition 99HBT had been destroyed. This had occurred only four times in the past due to violent natural phenomena, but that had not occurred for dozens of kurlinqs. The next message that 8QZ5’s outpost received was short and cryptic. “Prepare for arrival of flagship.” When the flagship of the progenitor fleet showed up at 8QZ5’s remote outpost, he did not even have time to process the irregularity. He was transported to the flagship immediately. No one would tell 8QZ5 what was occurring. When he would ask, he would get the coldest reaction his race could muster. 8QZ5 was solely told that he was ordered to the captain’s quarters. Was 8QZ5 in trouble? Did the scientific community wait this long to enact their final punishment? He never spoke of his theories after his lecture. He didn’t even write anything down, nor even look at any of his former work. But he always feared this day would come. Now 8QZ5 was in the quarter of the fabled Captain NNG4. The legend. The only captain to navigate out of a singularity. Her nickname, which she hated, was, "The Master of Space." Her unflappable reputation even reached 8QZ5's exile. NNG4 did not look at 8QZ5, and said nothing. She could only look at her computer terminal. She seemed emotional, the opposite of what 8QZ5 expected. After what seemed like an eternity, she simply said, “You were right.” NNG4 activated her terminal to show 8QZ5 the planet, formerly designated XW66S, but now called by one of its local names: Earth. A heterogenous race dominated the planet. And they had achieved rudimentary space flight. 8QZ5 scanned the planetary data. The planet and its dominant race matched many of his mathematical models. The correct climate, the right fertility rates, everything his math suggested. But he was unable to imagine the other horrors. AS 8QZ5 examined further, he now saw what all his colleagues saw: The scariest thing imaginable. The Earthlings were more violent than 8QZ5 predicted. Examining Earth’s historical data, 8QZ5 found so many atrocities that he became physically ill. They actively destroyed their environment for progress. And they were acutely aware of the problem, and simply dubbed it pollution. War. There was no equivalent phrase in any known race for the scale of systematic destruction that Earth had inflicted upon itself. And Earth’s history had thousands of examples. They were even utilizing radioactive materials! For weapons, and energy! Every other race immediately saw the destructive potential of radioactive materials, and feared the outcomes. But Earth used them despite the catastrophic damage it did to its people and the environment, even though their star produced ample energy. 8QZ5 could not comprehend the complex monetary systems in place on Earth. The “economy” was another foreign concept. The homogenous races simply shared was needed. Earth created nonsensical values for various resources and activities. Barter systems had been observed in some heterogenous races, but no race had created “currencies” that had no intrinsic value. The subdivisions, called Nations, made no sense. They were all the same race, why were there hundreds of localized populations? Why did they wall themselves off from other populations based on incoherent borders? Yet they thrived. In spite of their constant warring and fighting, they thrived. It seemed that Earth progressed faster during conflict, which was counter to the history of every known homogenous race. Somehow the native selfishness of the Earth race intersected with progress to solve problems. 8QZ5 did not feel vindicated. He did not feel righteous pride after being ignored and shunned for so long. He actively wished that he was wrong, and that he could return to his simple life on the outpost. He was no longer naïve enough to think that his theories were harmless. When 8QZ5 stepped out onto his home world, the place he thought he would never return, he was no longer an outcast. He was their last hope, the only member of 984 races that could fathom the possibility of Earth. Perhaps he could explain how such an abomination could exist, and how they could be protected from Earth. As 8QZ5 entered the enormous lecture hall of the interstellar academy of science, he was struck by the same utter silence as when he left the tiny auditorium all those years ago. Every scientist looked to him for hope and understanding. 8QZ5 started his speech with his summary of everything he had learned about Earth. “The heterogenous planet known as Earth has a 56.2% chance of destroying itself before they can achieve interstellar space travel.” There was a long pause before 8QZ5 could muster his next observation. “If Earth achieves interstellar travel,” he said, while trying to keep his composure, “I do not see a long-term outcome where Earth can coexist with our races.” “If they leave their solar system, we are doomed.