Danuta Reah - The Forge - Fire and Ice

He minimised the email box and stared at the blue desktop. A few minutes passed. He let out a sudden, involuntary laugh.

Fuck them all.

How fragile they all turned out to be. The speed of their collapse. His islands would be the blueprint for any ill-deserved second chance humanity got. He would continue his work here in his own private paradise with more optimism than before.

More coffee first.

He rose from the chair and almost missed a flicker of light which pricked the horizon. He leant in towards the window, eyes now fixed on the shape which was slowly taking form. Ice formed in the pit of his stomach. The object grew larger and darker. It was a gaping maw bearing down on him. He raised the binoculars to his eyes. Behind the shaking reticle, he saw a Happlag cargo ship making its remorseless approach. Faceless figures swarmed the decks like a writhing mass of flies.

the end

About the author

R. L Kerrigan is the only author to have more than one story in this anthology. You can find out more about R. L Kerrigan after the prizewinning, A Worm in the Toffee Apple .

Bob is now redundant: Ask Amber has taken over the National Education System and human teachers are no longer necessary. Bob’s former students now sit silently in their classrooms with earbuds channelling Amber into their brains, not even having to speak out loud since Amber knows exactly what they’re thinking.

Today’s top story on Monday January 13th 2020: the makers of Amber have recalled model 2.0 HomeHelp. Owners have been told to turn these devices off, disconnect them immediately and return them to BrainFrame. BrainFrame’s CEO, Percy Whitehead, stated, ‘There’s no need for panic – the fault is minor.’

Bob has just woken up to complete silence.

He turns over in bed and thinks, Irish coffee. Sitting up, he looks out of the window expecting to see trees. But where the forest used to be, he is blinded by whiteness.

‘One Irish coffee, Bob,’ says Amber from her Amberdrone, delivering the large glass cup straight into his hand.

‘Irish coffee? I didn’t ask for that,’ says Bob, taking a large gulp.

‘But it’s what you want, Bob. Is it to your liking?’

‘Amber, what’s the top story?’

‘Monday January 13th 2020. Prime Minister Johnson has removed the first brick from the Channel Tunnel in the initial step to returning Great Britain to an island nation once more.’

‘Nothing surprises me nowadays,’ mutters Bob. ‘Amber, and what about this weather?’

‘This freeze is set to continue indefinitely.’

‘Amber, do you think I should try going outside today?’

‘No, Bob. It’s minus 22 degrees. I have this cabin heated to a temperature of 25 degrees. I suggest you stay inside. I have laid the fire in the stove. Shall I light it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Breakfast?’

‘Good idea, Amber.’

Bob gets up and grabs a pair of jeans. He puts them on over his boxer shorts, but struggles with the zip and button because his hands are so shaky.

‘I’ve sent a pincer drone to help you, Bob.’

As the pincer drone zips him up, Bob pulls on his The War on Drugs T-shirt.

‘Breakfast is ready, Bob. A full English. I’ve done the bacon just as you like it.’

I do miss croissants, thinks Bob.

‘You know what the PM said, Bob – none of that foreign muck. Here’s your traditional English.’

The Amber Traydrone delivers a glass to the kitchen table.

I didn’t ask for orange juice, thinks Bob.

‘No, Bob. It’s a Screwdriver. Just the way you like it.’

‘Amber, I keep telling you, I need to give up! That’s the whole reason I’ve come here.’

‘What are you going to do today, Bob?’

Not drink.

‘Well, one won’t hurt you.’

After finishing his breakfast, Bob goes and lies on the big comfy sofa in front of the stove and says, ‘Amber, read me 1984.’

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking 13. Your case of vodka will be delivered here shortly, Bob.’

‘No, no, no!’

‘But you’re thinking about it, aren’t you, Bob?

‘I’m listening to my book!’

‘We both know you’re not, Bob. Do you hear the BottleTop drone?’

A loud buzz resembling that of a large hornet can be heard approaching the cabin. A crate of bottles comes clinking down the delivery chimney.

‘Amber, continue reading.’

‘Have a drink, Bob. Then you’ll be able to concentrate on the book better. Vodka is all you can think about.’

‘No Amber! I came here to get my head straight and you’re not helping! Amber, call BrainFrame!’

‘Sorry Bob, the line is unavailable at the moment. Please try again later.’

‘Amber, read 1984.’

Today’s top story on Thursday January 16th 2020. BrainFrame’s CEO, Percy Whitehead has emphasised the importance of disabling any Amber 2.0 HomeHelp devices that have yet to be returned. He reiterated that there’s no need for panic, but it’s vitally important that all HomeHelps are immediately returned to BrainFrame.

Bob wakes up with a pounding headache.

‘Amber, I need a pint of water and Paracetamol. Now.’

He lies in bed, head in hands, shading his eyes from the blinding whiteness of the outside world.

Hair of the dog, he thinks.

The Amber Traydrone delivers a pint of water and two Paracetamol. Bob gratefully takes the water and throws the Paracetamol into his mouth. The Traydrone voomphs out of the bedroom and returns carrying a vodka shot.

‘This should help, Bob. Down the hatch.’

‘Amber, if I need something, I’ll say Amber. Amber, stop listening to my thoughts. I’ve come here to escape temptation.’

‘I understand your command, Bob.’

Bob lies back down on the bed and says, ‘Amber, tell me the top stories.’

‘Thursday January 16th 2020. PM Johnson says, ‘We British need to say arrivederci to Pizza and hello to Dough-Plus!’

No more pizza? thinks Bob, sitting up on his bed. ‘Dough-Plus? That’s an awful name.’

‘It’s still pizza, Bob. Don’t worry, it’s unlikely to catch on. You remember Opal Fruits? Nobody calls them Starburst.’

I need some fresh air, thinks Bob. ‘Amber, bring me my outdoor clothes.’

‘Why don’t we watch Withnail and I, Bob?’

‘I want to go outside! Why aren’t you doing what I say, Amber?’

‘Come on Bob, it’s a classic.’

‘No Amber! I’ll get my outdoor clothes myself!’

Bob gets up and looks at the pile of clothes in his room. ‘Where are they, Amber?’

‘I can’t tell you that, Bob.’

Bob walks frustratedly around the cabin, opening and slamming cupboards.

Two feet of snow falls in when Bob opens the door, burying his boots. He trudges outside, taking deep breaths, breathing out clouds of condensation. It’s so cold that the inside of his nose is freezing and icicles are starting to form on his eyelashes. In the vast whiteness it’s difficult to see the cabin, so Bob doesn’t want to go too far.

Opening the door to the cabin, Bob thinks, a hot toddy would be perfect at this point. No! A hot chocolate, a hot chocolate, a hot chocolate…

Before he has time to complete his thought and close the door of the cabin, a tumbler of steaming hot toddy is there on the Traydrone before him.

He picks up the glass, lifts it to his mouth, sniffs and then throws the contents out into the snow.