Sunset on Mars and Other Stories by Laura E. Bradford Smashwords Edition Copyright 2011 Laura E. Bradford Cover by K. B. Wittke License Notes This ebook is a free download and can be shared or given away to other people with attribution. Contents Sunset on Mars …And Let the Apocalypse Happen How to Catch a Zombie I Don’t Dream Like That Anymore Sunset on Mars He chased her even as her ship touched the stars. At night he gazed through the glass of his telescope, feeling tiny compared to the evening sky, but his days were all routine: get up, go to work, watch the flying cars crisscross and block his chance to catch the faintest patch of gold in the sky. The streets of the city felt empty, even if a thousand people passed by him every day. He waited in her favorite café, ignoring the news reports flashing on the screen behind the counter. The world continued on without her--how could it, and how could it not? Now he could only count the remaining days until she returned. She had blasted away in her golden ship during the first snow of October, as he stood in a sea of snowflakes for one last goodbye. How she loved the winter, always dressing in a hat and scarf to laugh at the face of frost and chill. What was happening now to amuse her in the dark and swirling expanse of space? To distract himself he kept busy, tinkering on gadgets or mapping the stars. She would have taken him if she could, he knew that, but his land-locked heart couldn’t survive the journey. Besides, he had a job, clients, commitments. The world had roped him in while she sprang free, not even halted by gravity. So he waited, one fixed point in a shuffling world. One day nearing spring, a crackly message sounded on his inter-stellar radio, bringing a sentence that gave him an unsafe amount of hope and longing: “I wish you could see the sunset on Mars.” So she’d be home soon. He collected every scrap of paper he could find and added detail to his navigational charts: color, texture, a red planet, a path with a yellow dot reaching home. A tiny hologram of the ship spun over his desk, and he sighed and slipped a sky-blue map beneath it, the ship’s shadow quivering over the surface of the world. Her ship touched down as the last of the snow melted, and the first buds twinkled under half-frozen dew. The hatch opened and there stood his pilot, all honey-colored hair and blue eyes. “You won’t believe what I’ve found,” she said. “The contributions this mission made to science—” He swept her in his arms and kissed her. “I’ve missed you.” She smiled. “I brought a photo. Now you can see it.” It showed a dusty red sky with light filtering through, the sunset on Mars: an image he had guessed at in his dreams, a souvenir from space. He hugged her and said, “It’s lovely, Zoe, but how long are you staying?” “Forever.” But even as she said it, she raised her eyes to the sky. ...And Let the Apocalypse Happen The door to the office burst open, revealing a young man drenched in rain and wearing tattered clothing. He put his whole weight into the door to ram it shut, and once it was closed, he paused, gasping for breath. “Braiiiiins,” came a low moan, from behind the door. “Braiiiins.” “Can you believe it?” said Billy, wide-eyed. “I was just riding my bike and suddenly I was attacked by a horde of zombies! They followed me all the way here.” “Name?” said the receptionist. “Billy Winters. And I mean, it’s unbelievable. Luckily I wasn’t bit, but, my God. A zombie attack, and on a Tuesday afternoon?” “You’re five minutes late for your appointment,” the receptionist chided, pointedly moving her eyes up to the wall clock. “Any later and I’d have to cancel and charge you the $50 fee.” “Yes, but zombies—” “Have a seat,” she said, as she resumed typing. “A zombie attack isn’t a sufficient excuse. You know you’re supposed to allow an extra fifteen minutes’ travel time for that.” Billy sighed and found a seat. No one else was in the waiting room, so he grabbed a recent Newsweek and started flipping through it. Most of the articles were about world leaders dismissing their citizens’ concerns of a zombie epidemic. Billy looked out the window. The zombies were still out there, tapping on the window, moaning and pointing to their heads, then to him, then their mouths. He turned away. This morning he had begged his mother not to make him go to this appointment. Why, just last night on the evening news, the President had declared a state of emergency, even pulling out a shotgun to blast away the zombies that were trying to munch on the Secret Service. The National Guard was already arriving in metro areas that were under siege. School was cancelled indefinitely. But a six-month cleaning appointment was unbreakable. “Billy? Your dentist is ready.” Billy looked up, put down the magazine, and trudged into the appointment room. The dental hygienist got him set up; soon he was leaning back in the chair, plastic bib on, bright lights shining on him. His dentist came in, put on a mask, and had Billy open his mouth to start examining his teeth. “Oh, dear. Billy, your teeth look awful. Have you brushed today?” “No buh thu apocalis is ha’en’in.” “What?” The dentist pulled his tools back. Billy’s jaw ached. “No, but the apocalypse is happening.” The dentist’s eyes narrowed. “Billy, are you telling me you didn’t brush your teeth because of a zombie epidemic?” “Well—” “Billy, if you get eaten by a zombie tomorrow, I want you to die with a sparkling mouth. And if you live on to become a revolutionary leader and eventually rebuild America, I want you to also have a clean mouth.” Billy looked down. “I know, sir.” “I will do the best I can with this cleaning, but the rest is up to you.” He blinked, unsure. “So you ... you want me to just brush my teeth and let the apocalypse happen?” “Billy,” he said, lowering his sharp, silvery tools, “there are some priorities in life we can’t ignore. And dental hygiene is one of them.” How to Catch a Zombie To start with, you had to consider the brains. Kate stared at the chalkboard, thinking. After three days of trying to examine the molecular biology involved in zombie metabolism, she had gotten nowhere. “Braaaaaaaaains,” came a low moan. Kate let out a low shriek, and dropped her chalk. It smashed into three pieces on the floor. She whirled around, looking for any sort of weapon she could use to fell her attacker, and grabbed a stapler off the teacher’s desk. “Whoa, relax.” It was Mr. Cooper, her biology teacher, wearing a tattered lab coat that had been splashed with red paint. “I was just poking fun. It’s Halloween, I mean.” “Mr. Cooper, we’re on week four of a global zombie invasion. If we can’t come up with a method to catch and study them, they’ll overrun us.” “Kate, when I was your age, the most pressing global concerns for an eleventh-grader were Vietnam and hippies.” He sighed. “The good old days.” She sighed, pulling out her cell phone, and dialed. “Billy, have you made any progress on the ‘Zombie in the Basement’ front?” “Not yet,” came his voice. In the background, Kate heard shuffling and moaning. And barking. “Wait there. I’m on my way.” Kate shut off her phone. “Mr. Cooper, if you were a mindless killing machine, what would you want to consume for fuel?” “If I were?” He considered. “Probably energy drinks and steak.” “But I don’t want to give them too much energy. I want them to think they’re consuming fuel, but burn it off quickly.” “I don’t know.” He unscrewed the cap of his Meadow Surge—a bottled soft drink, dyed lime green—but it fizzed, going everywhere. “Oh, man. Great. Just great.” At the sound of glass breaking, both of them whirled around: a man dressed in tattered clothing, and foaming at the mouth, had broken the window with an axe and was slipping inside. “Tell me that’s not a freshman pulling a prank!” Kate shrieked. “No, it’s a real zombie! Get back!” The biology teacher reached into his desk, pulling out a can of pepper spray, spraying it at the zombie’s eyes. “Stay away! This is my classroom! No brains for you today!” The zombie clutched at its eyes and fled back out the window, cutting itself on the glass. “Yeah, just like a protestor. Can’t handle the heat,” said Mr. Cooper, coughing. “I knew going to the police academy was worth it.” Kate’s eyes stung, and she coughed. “They let you keep that stuff on a school campus?” “Are you kidding? I saved both our lives.” Kate looked between his lab coat dripping with green soda pop and the window. “I think he was after your drink.” She took a q-tip, swabbed the zombie’s blood off the window, and slipped it into a clear plastic canister. “I’ll run a DNA test and see what I can find. In the meantime, maybe we can use less violent means to keep zombies away.” She grabbed her backpack. “Thanks for the help,” she said, and dashed off. “Yeah … sure.” He looked at the broken glass, sighing. “Damn hippies.” Back in the basement of the church rectory, sixteen-year-old Billy Winters was trying to subdue a zombie that was tearing apart old books and furniture. Billy could easily net the zombie and drag it away, but he couldn’t lug a snarling, contagious zombie up a full flight of stairs. His miniature schnauzer, Killdozer, was furiously barking at it, but Billy held his leash tight. “Back, boy. I don’t know if that zombie virus can hurt dogs.” Killdozer whimpered, then sat down. “Cast the demon into hell!” yelled the elderly pastor, who was flicking it with holy water. The zombie hissed, perhaps knowing it was being insulted, or perhaps disliking a flick of cold water, as anyone would. Kate burst in, holding a bottle of Meadow Surge. “Billy, I’ve got an idea. You got that net?” “As usual.” “Get Dozer the top of the stairs. You stay there too, Father.” “To hell!” he said, giving one last flick to the cornered zombie. Once those two were upstairs, Kate opened the bottle. “See that fizz? You were human once. You want the sugar and those cancer-causing chemicals, now don’t you?” The zombie moved further, its hands outstretched. Kate moved back. “Uh, Billy. You do have that net handy, right?” Billy rushed down the stairs beside her, net and pole in hand. “Got it.” The zombie lunged for the drink, but Kate was faster, rushing up the steps. The zombie, already tottering on solid cement, looked perplexed by them. It had probably not climbed steps since its transition—it had fallen through an old chimney to the rectory. “You can do it. One leg up,” she said encouragingly. It tried one step, grabbed the rail, and then another. When it reached the top step, Kate threw the drink on the floor. The zombie clambered toward the bottle, and Billy tossed his net, trapping it. He pulled the zombie to the door outside, where his truck was waiting, and tossed it in the bed. “All clear, Father. I’ll take him to the government dropoff point.” “To hell!” The pastor said again, now with a spray bottle of holy water. It just misted the air a little bit. “Kate, that was brilliant,” said Billy. “There must be some chemical in the drink that drives zombies crazy.” She nodded. “Hey … where did Killdozer go?” They turned. Killdozer was behind them, lapping up the Meadow Surge that had spilled on the ground. He was foaming at the mouth, his hair standing on end. “Uh, Kate, Father … what do you do if your dog turns into a zombie?” “Yeah, Father,” said Kate, backing away. “You know the Good Book. Any tips?” The pastor grabbed a piece of hamburger from the refrigerator, tossing it at the gray dog. Killdozer gobbled it up, then sat down, calm. “Thank the Lord,” said the pastor. “He’s fine.” Billy walked up to his dog, rubbing him behind the ears. “Good boy. Who’s not a zombie? You are!” Kate looked down at the puddle of green liquid. “Billy, what if a virus isn’t making the zombies confused, disheveled, and incoherent? What if it’s a chemical in the drink?” “Can’t be. My mom’s boyfriend has been drinking it since it came—” Billy clapped a hand over his mouth. “Dear God. We're all going to die.” I Don’t Dream Like That Anymore Captain Dekker looked out at the stars. They were lost in space. Stranded, really. The ship’s lights were dim. Before long, the starship would run out of fuel, and the internal heating system and artificial gravity controls would shut off. There had been some sort of quarantine. That was the polite word for it. Some sort of attack—microbial, bacterial, or perhaps otherworldly—that left the colony on Titan completely silent, their dome impenetrable. The spaceports, too, were similarly unmanned. The captain didn’t know why, exactly. But hurried messages from Earth claimed they could send a ship to help them. It would arrive in seven years. His crew, in between rationing food over the last few months, had figured out that if one crosses the wires of a blaster the certain way, it will deliver all of its energy in one deadly pulse. His crew mates were quiet now. Still. But he was the captain. The captain goes down with his ship. His ship’s robot was still fluttering about, cleaning and trying to make repairs, as it had done in the many years during the mission. “Do you ever dream, Jack?” the captain asked, wearily. The robot was tiny, with wiry arms made for repairing starships. “Hm,” said the robot. “I have two definitions for dream. Can you clarify?” “Well, when you sleep—I mean, power down—sometimes you have extra feelings and images that come at you. That’s a dream.” A click. “Understood. No, I don’t dream. Well, I really can’t say I don’t. I assume I must not.” “I see.” The robot buzzed around, trying to wipe off the ice appearing on cabin windows. “A dream can also mean a goal, a wish. Something a person desires.” The captain looked down at his blaster, still in his lap. He was a kid once, a kid who chased stars, but now the stars had pushed him away. “I don’t dream like that anymore.” “My power circuits can provide a small amount of heat for you,” suggested the robot, plugging an arm into one of the ship’s ports. “There is still sixty days’ supply of oxygen. Rescue messages are beaming out every two minutes.” The captain nodded. Every two minutes. Every two minutes for how many days? He’d run out of food and couldn’t last much longer. He picked up the blaster, then put it down again. He looked out into the dull nothingness of space, and put on a headphone to listen to the looping message. His voice, at least, was going to live on forever. “My ship is lost in space, please send help. My ship is lost in space, please send help. My ship is lost in space, please send help…” About the Author Laura E. Bradford’s first novel is Flyday, and she is currently working on a futuristic thriller, a paranormal YA series, and a zombie novel. She blogs at http://lauraebradford.blogspot.com, and her Twitter account is @lauraebradford. Bonus: Excerpt from Flyday June 15, 2507 A missile exploded into the Halcyon, sending it into a dive. “No, no, no!” Zoë yelled, righting the ship. “No, you are not doing this to me.” One of the control panels blinked, and a voice crackled: “Pilot, explain your actions immediately. You are in violation of international law—” Zoë shut off the radio com. “Jack, why is the communication system working on their end, but not mine?” “I don’t know, Miss Martínez.” The robot plugged one of its arms into a port in the cockpit. “It was functional when we left.” Another blast sounded, knocking the ship off course again. “Perhaps you should let them board,” the robot suggested. “We can explain the discrepancy in person.” “Sure. If they don’t decide to shoot me down completely.” Her ship blasted forward, skirting past the fighters. Okay, she’d been selected for a random search; quite reasonable, as she was flying from Paris with no passengers. And with no way to contact the ship that was tagging her, she’d been labeled a threat. Also a natural progression of logic. On the controls, she saw a wide Celestial ship attach itself to the Halcyon. “Celestials boarding,” came the pleasant voice of the ship’s computer. “Manual piloting locked.” Zoë sat back, defeated. “That’s it.” She heard loud knocks on the hatch door, then swung toward her co-pilot. “Jack,” she said, “let me handle this one, okay?” The hatch’s lock twisted with several clicks, and the hatch burst open. Five soldiers, all carrying weapons, marched toward the pilot’s cabin. “Hi,” said Zoë, putting up her hands. (Her robot, too, raised its wiry arms.) “I can explain everything—” A Celestial officer, sharply dressed from his white beret to his black combat boots, pointed a blaster at her. “Pilot, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t detain you immediately and take a blaster to your ’bot’s processors.” Zoë looked down at the robot. “Maybe you should take this one.” 2. Thomas Huxley tapped his fingers on the desk, watching the seconds tick by on a wall clock. “And what is your relation to Miss Martínez?” a stern clerk asked. “I’m her fiancé,” said Thomas. He glanced over at Zoë, who was sitting with her hands in her lap, dejected. They were in the security office of the Tenokte airport, and a police officer and a clerk were looking over Zoë’s identification and running down a list of questions. “Tsk, tsk,” said the police officer, glancing over a written report. “Failing to obey a captain’s orders, resisting a search, fleeing from a Celestial ship … we’ve looked over your ship’s systems, Miss Martínez, and while the communication system was indeed malfunctioning, that doesn’t excuse your behavior.” “My behavior?” said Zoë, lifting her head. “You guys were shooting missiles at me. What was I supposed to think?” “But the laws are quite clear on the matter. You were chosen at random for an inspection; there’s a one in ten chance of that happening. You were supposed to slow down and allow the Celestial patrols to board. You did not.” “They didn’t give me enough time. By the time I got their messages, they were right on my tail. I sped up because I thought they were going to crash into me.” The police officer ignored her, pretending to be immersed in his paperwork. Thomas leaned over the counter. “Is she being charged with anything?” “No. But her pilot’s license will be suspended.” Zoë stood up. “My license? But I’ve never been in trouble before. There’s usually just a fine—” “I could pay it right now,” Thomas offered. “What’s the fine?” “Five hundred credits,” said the clerk. “Uh … well, I could pay it in a month or two…” “I’ll pay it now,” Zoë said. “Just run it through, and I’ll authorize it.” But the police officer held up his hand. “It’s not so simple. Reports have to be filed. You understand.” “I have a lot to do today,” said Thomas; but he instantly realized it was the wrong thing to say. The police officer looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really? Where are you from?” “Tenokte.” “Hah, not likely. What’s your accent, British?” “He lives in London,” Zoë supplied, weary. “But he grew up here.” “Ah. So you’ve just come back home to visit family, I see.” The police officer’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, I came for work.” “Really.” He tried to explain: his editor had sent him here to cover the king’s speech and the annual summer celebrations, and his fiancée, a pilot, wanted to rediscover in a vacation the city she had known briefly as a teenager. “But I’m usually a music journalist,” he finished. “I interview bands, talk about new releases.” “Hm,” said the police officer, looking at Zoë. “That’s right. Didn’t you run around with that band? What was it called … no, now don’t tell me; Bio—” “Biological—” “Bio … bio something…” “Biochemical Pathways,” said Thomas, finally. “Yes!” said the clerk. “That’s it.” “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound right at all.” “Oh, you know, Biochemical Pathways! With that crazy singer, Jamie Parsons.” “He’s not crazy,” Zoë replied, defensive. “He’s just … sensitive.” The police officer and the clerk looked at each other, not convinced, but they dropped the matter. “What did you say your name was?” the police officer asked Thomas. “Thomas Huxley.” They exchanged a glance, then the police officer coughed and quickly started shuffling through their paperwork. “Uh, I’m sorry,” said the clerk, “but what was that name again?” “Huxley.” Thomas pulled out his ID card and handed it over. The clerk picked it up and studied it. Thomas Huxley was indeed born in Tenokte, MA; his last place of residence was London, England. The clerk handed the card back, and the police officer nervously flipped through the report. “So what was that, a misdemeanor? Not responding to a Celestial cruiser?” “Easy mistake,” said the clerk. “Exactly,” said the police officer. “I’ll let you off with a warning. Miss Martínez, you’re free to go.” “Are you sure? What about the fine?” “That won’t be necessary.” He pushed the perplexed couple toward the door. “Your ship’s communications system malfunctioned, happens to everyone. Just make sure you get that fixed before you take off again, hm? Have a good day now.” And then they were back in the middle of the airport, with the door to the main security office slammed shut behind them. Available for purchase here.