Author: Kaiden Larimer

     The family had been staying here for a few months now. They were in a small, dilapidated, and barren town which had been raided and nearly demolished by the Machines years before. It was in ruin, but some buildings still stood among the rubble. The family had done their best in this ghost town: the Mother maintained a garden behind the feeble house that they had learned to call home; the Father found ways to fend for his family; and the Girl spent her days playing in the worlds of her imagination, assisting her mother in the garden, or accompanying her father when he went to the nearby forest or stream to hunt or to gather.
     Earlier in the day, the Girl helped her mother pull the weeds from the garden. The Mother was inside preparing a stew for dinner, and the Girl was now sitting on the wooden swing her father had made for her, humming a quiet tune to herself as she watched the sun setting behind the mountains.
     The bushes and trees in the distance were rustling and she could hear the sound of coughing. The Girl’s humming trailed off and her swinging came to a halt. She heard a thud from behind the trees and jumped up.
     The Father came out from the treeline. “Go get your mother and stay inside!” he shouted.
     “What’s wrong?” the Girl asked.
     “Everything’s fine, hon,” he said in a tone that was not fine, but trying to adjust his voice for his young daughter. “Just go get your momma and stay put in there.”
     The Father rubbed the sweat from his brow and waited impatiently, pacing and murmuring to himself. He looked at the Boy that he had thrown down on the ground in the clearing behind the bushes. The Boy looked just like his son, his son whom he had not seen in years.
     After a moment, the Mother came out the backdoor with a look of concern on her face. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
     He rubbed his forehead. He had no idea how to explain this to his wife. He stuttered a few times, trying to start an explanation, but he kept coming up short. “Just look.”
     The Father held a parting in the brush for the Mother to walk through.
     The Father had not heard the sound of shock and horror that the Mother made since they had last seen their son. He held onto her tight as she sobbed and panted.
     Sprawled out, covered in dirt and in a daze, the Boy lay.
     “My boy,” the Mother cried, letting go of the Father and reaching towards the disheveled Boy.
     The Father grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “That is not our son!” he shouted.
     The Mother, with tears in her eyes, shook her head and ran her hands through her messy brown hair. “How can you be sure?”
The Father went to his wife and rubbed her arms firmly, but lovingly. “Our son is gone,” he said. “We watched them take him.”
     “B-but they could’ve-” she protested.
     “No!” he yelled, growing more frustrated. “They didn’t. They don’t. They never have before.”
     The tears that were in her eyes began to overflow and stream down her face. The Father hugged her tight and tried to soothe her as she cried. He tried to explain: “The Old Man told me that they were doing things, making things now that we couldn’t imagine. He told me they could look and feel and seem so real.”
And the Boy did look and feel and seem so real. Even if the Father did not believe that the Boy was his real son, the agony he felt looking at him lying there was real.
     The Mother continued to argue that they could not know for sure that the Boy was not their son, but the Father remained firm that they had watched the Machines take their son and that the heartless monsters - if you could call a creation of metal with a brain and a soul made of ones and zeroes a monster - never took prisoners. The two talked and cried until it was night. 
     “We should let her see him,” the Mother said, speaking of the Girl, having collected herself and holding back tears. “I know she wants to see her brother again.”
     “No. It’s not her brother. She can’t see him. Not like this. It’d ruin her.”
     “Look around you. She’s already ruined. Everything is.”
     The Father stroked his beard as he looked around at the moonlit landscape: a once beautiful town now a wasteland of crumbling brick and rotting wood and overgrown greenery. There were no lights in the distance, though there were still humans out there, they were not extinct. Not yet, at least.
     The Boy moaned, and the Father shook his head in distress.
     “We can’t leave him there,” the Mother said mournfully.
     “He’s not our boy.” He could tell that his response was not helpful. He paused and weighed his options. As sure as he was, he could tell that the Mother thought there was a chance.
     “He’ll have to stay out here for now,” he said, grabbing rope from his backpack. I’ll hike to the Old Man’s tomorrow. He might be able to help.”
     They went back inside to their daughter, whom they told nothing of what was sitting in their backyard, had dinner, and tucked the Girl into bed. They brought the Boy a small bowl of stew and some water, and attempted to tend to him on the chance that he was their son. The Boy ate and drank very little and could not speak; however, the Boy muttered and moaned, and the Father briefly thought he heard him say “Dad.”
The Mother sobbed through the night as the Father tried to sleep through the sounds of her and the thought of the Boy in the yard. He had rarely slept for some years now, but it was impossible under these circumstances.
     He arose at sunrise, packed a small bit of food and water - he had little to take - kissed his sleeping daughter on the forehead and his wife as he walked out the door.
     They knew little about the Old Man, not even his name. The Father could never get a straight answer about anything in his past, but he was knowledgeable about the Machines and how they worked, and that was good enough for him.
The hike to the Old Man’s was not long, not a far distance to the East, following the flow of the stream. As he neared his destination, the Father began to see flakes of ash falling around him and smelled smoke and fire somewhere near. He walked with a faster pace and a feeling of concern as he approached the Old Man’s.
     He heard the crackling of the flames and the sound of walls falling as they weakened in the fire. The Old Man’s home was engulfed and nearly burned to the ground when the Father arrived. He stood in shock, his heart-rate rising and his breathing growing heavier. A sense of panic overwhelmed him.
     The Father gasped and lept into a thicket beside him to hide when he saw it: in the fire stood a figure. It was broad and tall, nearing seven feet in height. It had no eyes, no mouth, nor clothes or hair. The Machine was sleek and silver, and the roaring hellish flames that surrounded it shone off of the Machine’s metallic skin.
     In shock and perhaps in some hysteria, the Father struggled with what to do. He wanted nothing more than to destroy one of those Machines with his bare hands; his hands quivered as he held himself back, for he knew he stood no chance. He had to go home. The one man who could help him was gone, and if they found the Old Man, it was only a matter of time before they
would find him and his family.
     The Father slowly and steadily retreated until out of possible view of the Machine and until he could no longer see the flames; then he broke into a sprint. He ran and ran, denying himself a break for water and denying his body any break from its tiredness or pain. His mind was focused and he would stop for nothing until he returned home.
     By the time he came near, it was night. The sky was clear and the final stretch of his path was guided by the moon. As he came closer, he could hear the Girl giggling, which brought him much needed comfort, though short lived.
     When he reached her, she was in the clearing where the Boy was tied. She was sitting on her knees playing with a little doll in front of him.
     The Father was too focused to be angry; they needed to go and they needed to go now.
     “Get up, go to your mother!” he yelled as he reached her.
     “But daddy, look who-!”
     “No! Now!”
     The yell was firm, and she listened to it. She got up and sprinted towards the house. The Father put his hands on his knees and panted, catching his breath as he stood beside the Boy - who was still unconscious. He staggered towards the house and the Mother met him.
     “What’s going on? Did you get help?”
     “He’s gone. They got him. We have to go.”
     The Mother began to respond, but he cut her off and courted her inside to pack her things.
     “But what about -” the Father cut her off again.
     “I’ll take care of him.”
     The Mother considered protesting, but she could see in his eyes that he was sure of what needed to be done. She went back into the house.
     The Father went back to the clearing and looked at the Boy and began to sob. He took his backpack off and unzipped the front pouch. “I’m so sorry,” he said to the Boy. He was sure that what he was doing needed to be done, but that did not make it easier. He put his hand inside and took out a revolver. The tears continued. His hand shook as he held up the pistol and aimed it at the Boy; the boy who looked and felt and seemed so real. He cocked the hammer back slowly, struggling to control his trembling body.
     When the hammer clicked, the Boy’s head jerked up and eyes widened. “Dad,” the Boy said in a low voice.
     The Father closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger.