Human for a Day (9781101552391) (32 page)

She clung to those sounds, listening with every cell of her body, until they were more real than the rock and the dust and the despair; until she recaptured, just for a moment, that feeling of security, of being a child and listening to her father's voice as he pushed the nightmares away.

“Dad?”

The rocks digging into her body reminded her where she was, and what had happened. She flipped on her phone. 5:49 p.m. The battery had run down to 30 percent. She closed her eyes, trying to recall that feeling of peace and safety that had lulled her to sleep, but the typing had stopped, and she was alone.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision. Did she have time to read the entire collection? She scrolled to the last story, a sword and sorcery tale called “Spellbound.”

Jokra the orc hurried through the tunnels, clutching her father's stolen spellbook to her chest. The only light came from the book itself, a faint glow to illuminate the obsidian walls around her. The shouts and screams of combat faded behind her.

The attack had come without warning. Dwarves poured into the orc lair, pushing their oversized, wheel-mounted crossbows. One dwarf would steer and aim while another turned the crank, automatically reloading and firing faster than the orcs could respond. Jokra could still hear the clank of the chains as they spat steel-tipped death at her friends and family.

She passed the garbage pits, barely noticing the stench of mold and rotting meat. She veered left, toward the underground lake. Only when she reached the edge of the lake did she stop.

She mopped her face with her sleeve and fought for breath. The cavern was quiet, save for the rhythmic dripping from the stalactites far overhead. [tk: check w/Andy re: cave formations; would an obsidian cave have stalactites?]

 

Claire tapped back to the copyright page, searching for the date of this story, but “Spellbound” wasn't listed. How had one of Dad's drafts made it into this book? He had started using those “tk” notes after switching to a computer. He could search for those two letters to find places where he needed to come back and fix something. The editor deserved to be shot for leaving his edits and notes in the published copy.

Jokra sat, folding her legs and opening the spellbook in her lap. There was power here, magic enough to save her, if she could only find it. Her father had fallen before he could protect her, but if Jokra could decipher his secrets, she might yet save some of her friends. Or at least herself.

A distant splash made her ears shoot up. She held her breath and searched for the source of the sound. There it was again, a quiet paddling, as if someone was swimming toward her. [tk: Sounds like a ripoff of Gol-lum and Bilbo from
The Hobbit
.]

There it was again, a quiet, padding footstep at the edge of the lake, as if someone was circling toward her. The spellbook was a beacon to anyone in the cavern. It was too late to hide, so she tried to pretend she hadn't heard anything. One hand crept slowly toward the knife tucked through her belt.

Whoever it was, it was no orc. The movements were too tentative, almost frightened.

She jumped to her feet, yanking the knife free.

A goblin stood before her, a crude spear ready to throw. The tip was sharpened bone, lashed in place by some sort of seaweed fibers. His blue skin was pale, wrapped tight around his bony limbs.

“I thought there were no goblins left in this mountain,” Jokra said, stepping sideways. That spear might not even penetrate her clothes, but a lucky shot could still kill her.

“You mean you thought you'd killed us all?” The goblin's voice was rusty, but firm.

Jokra grimaced. “The dwarves drove us underground. We had to—”

“No, you didn't.” He stepped closer, shifting his grip on the spear so he could keep the point aimed at her neck. “They attacked you again, didn't they? I can hear the screams.”

Jokra tilted her head. She couldn't hear the battle, but goblin ears were larger, their senses sharper. “They'll kill you too,” she said. “Unless there are others ?” If so, maybe they could rally and catch the dwarves by surprise.

“I'm alone.” His words were flat. Empty. Hopeless.

 

“And the orc and the goblin learn to work together and defeat the dwarves, right? Jesus, Dad. It's no wonder you could never quit your day job.” Talking cars, ninjas and zombies, orcs and goblins . . . this was her father's legacy, the product of endless nights locked in his office, away from his family.

A bemused chuckle from the darkness. Or maybe that was her mind continuing to torment her. She couldn't tell anymore. Her hands and feet tingled, and she felt nauseous. Her heart was beating too fast, and she was breathing like she had just done twenty minutes on the exercise bike, despite the lack of any real exertion.

“The least you could have done was write a story telling me how to escape from a mine cave-in,” she said.

Another chuckle, this one tinged with sadness. Someone else
was
here, sitting across the tunnel, almost close enough to touch. She could make out his shape from the light of the phone. She reached for her helmet lamp.

“Don't.”

The familiar voice made her throat knot. She clasped her hands in her lap, afraid to do anything that might shatter the moment.

“Jokra doesn't defeat the dwarves.”

“She—what?”

“She's outnumbered a thousand to one. The story isn't about some
deus ex machina
that lets her live happily ever after. Magic doesn't work that way.”

“Sounds like a fucking depressing story.”

“Watch your language.” A snort. “But yes. I can't imagine most editors taking this one.”

“Are you . . . is this another hallucination?”

He sighed. “The ‘Was it real or all a dream?' conundrum is almost as clichéd as ‘But that's impossible!' Does it really matter, kiddo?”

“So how
does
it work?” The word “Dad” stuck in her throat. “Magic, I mean.”

“You used to know. When you were younger. You'd climb out of bed and run around like a little tornado of destruction, bringing those stories to life. That's why the bedtime stories had to stop, because you'd never settle back down and go to sleep.”

“I brought you back?” In her thirst-induced fog, it almost made sense. She could smell him now. The faint scent of Old Spice, the spearmint gum he chewed to try to hide the cigarettes on his breath. “The ninja would have been more helpful.”

Another sad chuckle. “I'm sorry, Claire. It doesn't work that way.”

“That story, ‘Spellbound.' Mom and I went through your work after you . . . that's not one of your stories.”

“It is now.” He continued before she could ask him to explain further. “He knew he wasn't writing great literature. Nobody's going to be writing papers about his work a hundred years from now. But he loved that ninja zombie-slayer, the homesick car, even Jokra the orc.”

“He?” She squeezed her head in her hands, trying to ease the pounding. “You're not him?”

“No writer is that good.” Another laugh. “But your father poured himself into those stories. That's what you brought to life. Not the surface elements, but the heart of his writing. The core of his stories. Even the ridiculous ones.”

She started to shake. “It's been three and a half days. They think I'm dead.” She would be dead, soon enough. She doubted she could survive another day without food or water. “How does this end? Do I die alone in the darkness? Do they ever learn
why
, or is it just a stupid, senseless accident?”

“I don't know.” A strong hand took hers, and she felt him scooting over to sit beside her. “But whatever happens, you won't be alone.”

She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the soft warmth of his favorite flannel shirt. He was right; he wasn't her father. He was more like a blend of all of her best memories of her father. “What about you? I've got one more day at most, and you'll be trapped—”

“Don't worry about that. You brought me here, kiddo. Once you're gone, so am I.”

“I'm sorry.” She shuddered with unshed tears. “I didn't know.”

“Hush.” There was no fear in his voice as he wrapped his arms around her. “This is what he wanted. What I want. Why do you think he wrote all of those stories?”

The phone in her lap gave a warning buzz. The battery would die soon.

“I should write my good-byes, but I don't know what to say.”

“Write the truth. Share yourself with whoever gets that letter.” He squeezed her hand. “I'll even promise not to criticize your spelling.”

“That'll be a first.” Her cracked lips tugged into a brief, faint smile. “Thank you.”

She tapped open a new e-mail message and began to write.

Dylan Birtolo
is a writer, a gamer, and a professional sword-swinger. He currently resides in the great Pacific Northwest where his evenings are filled with shape shifters, mythological demons, and epic battles. He has published a couple of fantasy novels and several short stories in multiple anthologies. He has also written pieces for game companies set in their worlds and co-authored a game manual.

He trains with the Seattle Knights, an acting troupe that focuses on stage combat, and has performed in live shows and for video shoots. In addition, he teaches at the academy for upcoming acting combatants. Endeavoring to be a true jack of all trades, he has worked as a software engineer, a veterinary technician in an emergency hospital, a martial arts instructor, a rock climbing guide, and a lab tech. He has had the honor of jousting, and yes, the armor is real—it weighs over 120 pounds.

 

Erik Scott de Bie
is the author of numerous tales of speculative fiction, including the Forgotten Realms novels
Ghostwalker
,
Depths of Madness
,
Downshadow
, and
Shadowbane
. His short works have featured in anthologies such as
Close Encounters of the Urban Kind
,
Beauty Has Her Way
,
Cobalt City Timeslip
, and
When the Hero Comes Home
. A fencing enthusiast, he can never pass up a good fight scene accompanied by the sound of ringing steel.

His piece “Ten Thousand Cold Nights” draws upon the Japanese myth of the competition between the legendary masters Muramasa and Masamune. Each challenged to make a better blade, the two smiths tested their respective masterworks in a stream. Mercilessly, Muramasa's bloodthirsty sword cut the leaves, fish, water, and the very air that struck its blade: it destroyed anything that came into its path. By contrast, Masamune's sword did not cut a single leaf or a single fish, and neither the water nor air was harmed by its edge. Muramasa boasted of his sword's deadly efficacy, all the while mocking Masamune for crafting a blade that could not cut anything. In the end, Masamune was declared the victor, as his discerning blade did not needlessly cut that which was innocent and worthy of preservation.

Married with cats, de Bie lives in Seattle. Catch up with him on
erikscottdebie.com
.

 

Eugie Foster
calls home a mildly haunted, fey-infested house in metro Atlanta that she shares with her husband Matthew. After receiving her master's degree in psychology, she retired from academia to pen flights of fancy. She also edits legislation for the Georgia General Assembly, which from time to time she suspects is another venture into flights of fancy. Eugie received the 2009 Nebula Award for Best Novelette and was named the Author of the Year by Bards and Sages. Her fiction has also received the 2002 Phobos Award, been translated into seven languages, and been a finalist for the Hugo, Black Quill, Bram Stoker, and BSFA awards. Her publication credits number over one hundred and include stories in
Realms of Fantasy, Interzone, Cricket
,
Orson Scott Card
'
s InterGalactic Medicine Show
, and
Fantasy Magazine
; podcasts
Escape Pod
,
Pseudopod
, and
Pod-castle
; and anthologies
Best New Fantasy
and
Best New Romantic Fantasy 2.
Her short story collection
Returning My Sister
'
s Face and Other Far Eastern Tales of Whimsy and Malice
is available from Norilana Books. Visit her online at
www.eugiefoster.com
.