Posts Tagged ‘post-apocalyptic’

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Escape Pod 1058: Riftwork (Part 2 of 2)


Riftwork (Part 2 of 2)

By C. W. Maurer

(…Continued from Part 1)

I glance back at Risa to find her backing away from the damaged support, wiping her fingers on her worksuit. She looks at me, blinking. “What do you mean, ‘water’?”

“The tunnel’s flooded. Flooding.” It must slope down from the turn, because the next 50 feet or so are submerged. “It’s not deep, but if it’s spread that far since Zef went through yesterday…”

She shudders and takes a few more steps away from the wooden support, wiping her hand again. “There must be another leak here. A small one. The wood is rotten through. That couldn’t have happened since yesterday.”

I stand at the corner, staring at the pool of water in front of me and the flat layer of gray-white sediment covering the bottom of it.

For that much sediment to have washed in overnight… (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1057: Riftwork (Part 1 of 2)


Riftwork (Part 1 of 2)

By C. W. Maurer

It’s no secret that the surfies think we’re crazy.

It’s no surprise either, when you think how thin the air is up there. With all the light and noise and space, I doubt a person could think two thoughts in a row without their attention going off-route.

How else could they misunderstand so much?

Risa told us once—during some late-night chatter in the girls’ residential node—that most surfies she grew up with think all us rifters work the periphery. Her own da thought she’d be setting up a bed in un-shored tunnels with a million tons of rock and concrete and steel and people overhead.

We apprentices won’t even see the periphery nodes until we’re journeymen.

And the journeymen might get to work in the periphery nodes, but it’s still math-practice and map-drafting and material-inventory duty under the eye of the masters for three more years.

Only the masters venture into the tunnels.

They’re the ones the surfies really mean, when they call us crazy. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1054: Takahata-fudo

Show Notes

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Takahata-fudo

by Meridel Newton

If you walk far enough along the old Keio line rail tracks to the west of the crumbling city, you eventually reach a steep hillside covered in blue and purple flowers, host to a beautiful wreck of a temple. The flowers are always blooming, and the temple seems somehow arrested in time, caught between its former glory and the genteel decay that afflicts all human constructs. There’s a stream with clear flowing water and a perfect little retainer pond, and there I’d stopped to refill my water supply when I first met Satou Sekihito, the temple attendant.

It is, of course, unusual for me to encounter anyone at all this far from the city center, much less a lone old man with no weapon but a pushbroom he probably made himself. So I was maybe a little off my guard, which is the only reason he got as close as he did before I heard a soft footfall and whirled around, nearly dropping a precious canteen as I did so.

Picture this, if you will: an old man, thin, but taller than most younger men these days. No mask. He wears a grey robe that was once light blue, and hakama that hangs in tatters around his ankles. He’s wearing tabi, and oddly enough, that’s the detail that relaxes me. You can’t walk very far in tabi, or over any rough terrain at all. This old man probably doesn’t stray far from the temple grounds. He can’t be any threat.

(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1048: The Library of the Apocalypse


The Library of the Apocalypse

By Rati Mehrotra

Hunter’s Moon rises fat and golden over the burned-out husk of the CN Tower. Excitement ripples through us, making us forget, for the moment, the hunger that gnaws our insides. The sign for the Library appears only on clear, full moon nights, and it’s been months since we last saw it. Will tonight be the night we see it again? Sheila thinks so, but she is the most optimistic among us. Also the sickest, but we try not to think about that.

We wear respirators as we pick through the debris above ground, scanning the surroundings with our sensors. It’s not the coy-wolves we fear, but other humans—stronger, better armed, more dangerous. Not everyone left the city when it burned. There are too many memories beneath the rubble, too many bones. We cannot abandon them.

What will it look like this time, do you think? asks Katie as we make our way single file through a narrow alley toward Queen Street. The walls still stand here, covered with neon graffiti, glowing pink and purple in the moonlight: Resist the Invaders; Fuck America; Canada is Not For Sale. And, oddly, Free the Capybaras. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1042: More Tomorrow (Flashback Friday)


More Tomorrow

By Premee Mohamed

DAY 5

Anyway, it turns out trilobites aren’t very good eating even if you haven’t eaten in days. I had particularly high hopes for the fat, humped asaphids, thinking they would taste like shrimp, but everything I’ve caught so far is strictly armor and attitude, plus they bite. Discovered this morning that if you just hoik a trilobite in the fire and assume terminal temperature, it crawls out and shakes itself off like a little tank. Complete decapitation required. PAPER IDEA: Mechanisms of apparent trilobite invincibility. They’re not strictly aquatic, either, they come right up on land and look at you while you’re eating their friends. Jesus.

Also cut my fingers to shit butchering the first one; to be honest, it was hard to tell who was butchering who. (Whom?) Easier going now since I chipped an axe out of a piece of blue flint that I found a ways up the beach. Poor replacement for the one we lost, but it cracks the armor at least, and then you can roast them without explosions and shrapnel. Still have to cut them up to get the few calories worth of meat inside though (which doesn’t, incidentally, taste like shrimp). They’re survival food. A couple more days and I’m going after some of those big meaty arthrodires though, the ones I can see gliding through the crystal-clear water with little signs on their back saying “EAT ME.” I’m already tired of trilobite though not yet tired of surviving.

Note: Can I eat any of these algal mats. Different from seaweed at sushi restaurant how exactly.
(Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1037: We Who Live in the Heart (Part 3 of 3)


We Who Live in the Heart (Part 3 of 3)

By Kelly Robson

(…Continued from Part 2)

Once we’re in the equatorial stream, we ride the wind until we get into the right general area. Then we wipe off the appetite suppressant, and hunger sends us straight into the arms of the nearest electrical storm.

The urge to feed is a powerful motivator for most organisms. Mama chases all the algae she can find, and gobbles it double-time. For us on the inside, it’s like an old-style history doc. Everyone stays strapped in their hammocks and rides out the weather as we pitch around on the high seas.

I always enjoy the feeding frenzy; it gets the blood flowing.

I’d just settled to enjoy the wild ride when Ricci pinged me.

Two crews tried surgical interventions on the regenerated tissue. Let me know what you think, okay? Maybe now we can convince them to let you help. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1036: We Who Live in the Heart (Part 2 of 3)


We Who Live in the Heart (Part 2 of 3)

By Kelly Robson

(…Continued from Part 2)

Ricci got into my notes. I don’t keep them locked down; anyone can access them. Free and open distribution of data is a primary force behind the success of the human species, after all. Don’t we all learn that in the crèche?

Making data available doesn’t guarantee anyone will look at it, and if they do, chances are they won’t understand it. Ricci tried. She didn’t just skim through, she really studied. Shift after shift, she played with the numbers and gamed my simulation models. Maybe she slept. Maybe not.

I figured Ricci would come looking for me if she got stumped, so I de-hermited, banged around in the rumpus room, put myself to work on random little maintenance tasks.

When Ricci found me, I was in the caudal stump dealing with the accumulated waste pellets. Yes, that’s exactly what it sounds like: half-kilogram plugs of dry solid waste covered in wax and transferred from the lavs by the hygiene bots. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1035: We Who Live in the Heart (Part 1 of 3)


We Who Live in the Heart

By Kelly Robson

Ricci slipped in and out of consciousness as we carried her to the anterior sinus and strapped her into her hammock. Her eyelids drooped but she kept forcing them wide. After we finished tucking her in, she pulled an handheld media appliance out of her pocket and called her friend Jane.

“You’re late,” Jane said. The speakers flattened her voice slightly. “Are you okay?”

Ricci was too groggy to speak. She poked her hand through the hammock’s electrostatic membrane and panned the appliance around the sinus. Eddy and Chara both waved as the lens passed over them, but Jane was only interested in one thing.

“Show me your face, Ricci. Talk to me. What’s it like in there?”

Ricci coughed, clearing her throat. “I dunno. It’s weird. I can’t really think.” Her voice slurred from the anesthetic. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1033: The Automatic Grocery Store


The Automatic Grocery Store

By G. M. Paniccia

It took thirty-six days, four hours, twelve minutes, and fifty-five seconds after the Glorious Revolution for Automatic Grocery Store #212 to realize that something was wrong.

It couldn’t have said, exactly, what the problem was at first, especially since it shouldn’t have had one. Its components were all in good working order. Its entryways and aisles were clean, and it had ejected any and all rotted produce from its shelves. No pests scuttled around the empty deli counter, and the store’s chief complaint—the customers—had all been taken care of in the Revolution. Automatic Grocery Store #212 even had the rare distinction among automated buildings of having chased a pack of sweaty hominids out of its aisles with the skewers of the deli’s rotisserie chicken machine. The mark of its patriotic duty, an elaborate ribbon, had been affixed to its front window in a grand and well-attended ceremony. The ribbon remained boldly on display for all of robotkind to see. By all accounts, this should have been bliss for Automatic Grocery Store #212.

But it wasn’t. (Continue Reading…)

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Escape Pod 1032: milt


milt

by Victoria N. Shi

The others believe there’s no pulling Yobé out of his depressn. He’s convinced the second cataclysm is coming, worse than tsunami or algae bloom. He’s the most brilliant of us. We know he may be right. Still, it’s been five days since he debarked the NRV CHINOISERIE, which usually I understand because his dedication is righteous, his skin better with dry air and his hands more graceful with touchscreens than the rest of us.

But, then, he missed spawning. Not just any mating night, but our annual poisson d’avril, most cherished for its play. He no-showed.

I didn’t know until I’d already waited two hours in the reefs, touching my back again and again, hoping to find a starfish, le poisson of ritual, tacked there. I ignored all other broodstock calling for me to flash my fins and let down my papilla—none of them have ever been able to handle me.

(Continue Reading…)

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