Dawn of the Brachycephalic Cyborg Zombie Baby’s Army Controlled by a Coffee Machine

 

"I’m gonna recommend the helmet," I announce to Susan. "Gonna get the report, I'll leave you watching the video.”

I hold back my urge to inform her that I feel the same way as that last night of university when she decided to continue as an accountant for an appliance company, and I ended up in this clinic specialized in making helmets to correct the deformed heads of babies like hers. It breaks my heart that he is not mine.

I run out of the room. Ignore the memorized multimedia. “Bands for 23 hours a day,” “growth-based,” “correct brachycephaly." They request a medical PhD for this business; fixing babies' heads is significant, but fitting and trimming helmets is executable after just a week of training.

I abandon the toys and colorful walls area, which disguises our work as not a quasi-medieval way of torture. I am swallowed up by the gray and homogeneous office area behind the scenes. Head to the break room, coffee is urgent.

The mission fails due to the "brand new smart coffee machine." Its predecessor with a button brewed coffee of random quality and temperature. This, supposedly, gives birth to novel preparations out of the rancid grains.

"Hey," Karen chatters as she approaches.

"Before," I interrupt her, "my coffee."

An affectionate knock, and the machine spits out a pasty liquid.

"Did you think I wasn't going to recognize your new patient?"

"Shouldn't have underestimated you as a gossip girl," I defend myself.

I taste the coffee. Suppress the vomiting.

“Fuck. That shit has facial recognition but its coffee tastes like soil.”

"It's a conflict-of-interest situation," my friend reprimand me.

I nod.

"Need to go get her report."

I escape to my monochromatic and depressing cubicle. Karen escorts me.

"Natalia, I'm worried," she says.

The cheap screen fries my eyes. I open the brachycephaly report. Copy a diagnosis and a treatment from the word processor. Press print, didn’t even corroborate that it makes sense. The child can keep his alien head.

"We’re only allow one photo in the cubicle, in black and white, and yours is of her," Karen protests, pointing at my university memory.

Attached to the photograph of Susan and me smiling, a forgotten practice since she appeared in the clinic, I have a romantic message that she dedicated to me.

“There is nothing between us. She wanted a child, I couldn't give it to her," I argue.

I strive to the printer. Karen stalks me to the darkest, moistest, and most healthily threating corner of the office.

"Just, don't blame the baby," she advises.

I smile at her. Nod.

"Besides, I'll be on vacations and I won't be able to take care of you," my friend brags.

"I doubt Luis will allow it."

"Have a plan," winks at me as she walks away.

I hand over the report to Susan and her husband. They offer a cordial farewell and guarantee to return in a week for the helmet of their E.T.

I get rid of the coffee. The day continues pleasantly. But, at the end of my shift, the printer waits for me with a warning in running ink: "Don't mess with your patients."

Violently yield the sheet on Karen’s desk.

"Got the point!"

Karen looks at the paper, then at me.

"Wasn't me," she protests.

"Just, leave me alone," turning down the volume.

The office notices. I retreat blushed to the paper shredder. Its screeching reassures me momentarily.

***

Tomorrow I will meet with Susan again. I had determined that I need to talk to the manager.

Unusual incidents plagued my week. I received a cryptic email from an anonymous recipient: "Second try. Who am I?" Some joker in the clinic capable of extorting me. Paranoid, I eluded my coworkers.

This week they deposited our paycheck. The coffee tasted delicious that day, despite being equivalent to sipping oil. My salary was wrong. I received a 32.7% of my salary. The viability of avoiding my teammates crumbled. God Dollar defeats shame. My surprised colleagues corroborated that they had been paid in full. If anyone was suspicious, she/he convincingly camouflaged it.

I never interacted with them enough to have grasped subtleties. My only ally is Karen, whose computer crashed. The screen hijacked by static, and sliding the mouse emits a rodent cry. Have encountered this before. I kneel on the dusty carpet, under the table I find the processors. Reach out to feel the backside. Unusual. My fingertips notice something frigid, heavy and fused to the equipment. I apply more force and yank it. Computer returns to normal.

A magnet with the dimensions of my fist and formidable power. God works in mysterious ways, the computer breaks down on Karen vacations, preventing her from working. I store the magnet, which sticks to the metal walls of my drawer.

I resume my chores. The projector occasionally does not start, the videos I present to patients sporadically turn out to be erotic caressing the pornographic multimedia, my computer restarts every ten minutes, several emails are never sent. The coffee maker doesn't work, even after two punches. My limit.

“Don't know what's going on. For everything I’d endured, I deserve my full salary," I intimidate Luis.

"You were paid the corresponding amount," Luis kindly replies. “The problem must be with your bank.”

Greedy corporations and bankers, dispossessing those who have scarce.

“Besides, right now you should worry about your patient's mother: Susan.”

My blood freezes. He knows? The light bulb that shines on him from above and the protection of its monumental desk make it difficult to determine it.

"I know.”

Fuck.

I evaluate my alternatives. None is favorable.

“Don't want to make this a bigger problem. You are going to reflect on your Hippocratic Oath. And make sure that the child receives impeccable treatment. You must turn that head into the new reference photo of what a baby should look like after treatment.”

Translating the message: don't screw up.

***

Delivery day. Uneasy, I pray to a deity that I frequently deny. I receive the package... packages? Why did they issue two helmets? I review my orders. Just requested one. Both equal helmets correspond to the same child. I stash one in my drawer. Choose to disregard it.

5:25 p.m. The appointment was 4:45, the last of the day. Susan, husband and little monster have not appeared. My colleagues are leaving. I do not enjoy that luxury. Contact Susan, voicemail. Take this opportunity to request my account statement from the bank. I navigate multiple automatic menus to get notified that it will take an hour. Today I cultivate my patience.

Susan and companion arrive. Hyperventilating and her makeup boycotted by the rain, she is still radiant. Fucking motherfucker doesn't deserve her. He also supplies deformed babies. Is that what she longed for?

"Sorry, all traffic lights were red," she explains.

I am not exasperated. Her smile makes it impossible for me. Still, I'm proud.

"You could have called me to let me know," check.

"I did. was sent directly to mailbox,” mate.

I corroborate her statement.

“Sorry.”

So embarrassing.

"Let’s go to the room," I suggest.

I follow the procedure. Install the baby's helmet, mark where it should be trimmed, show them the video again (thank God the appropriate one plays), explain the skin checks and guarantee that the helmet will fix that head. The tenderness of the bastard breaks me, I use little voices and play with him. I understand the magic, but with this guy with no personality?

The father secures the child to the stroller. Susan, on this occasion, hugs me as a farewell. Her floral-scented hair and silky skin end my ventures positively.

I remain alone in the clinic. A notification on my phone (now it works). My statement. Mortgage, services, going out to a restaurant... Aha! A purchase of almost all my pay at Elite-Tech. What is that?

I search on the internet. An on-demand robotics company. Didn't ask for anything.

I receive an email from the quality department. "Seize all helmets..." “Irregularities during the printing process..." "Investigating the case..." Are you kidding me?

Look for the extra helmet, can't get it out of the drawer. Something holds it there. Pull hard. It yields. The magnet... attracts it? But, it's just foam. I distinguish it abnormally heavy. Scratch it with my fingernails, break large portions. I reach metal.

Mechanic. Gears, cables, motor and more. I look at it without understanding. What purpose does it serve at the height of a baby's temple?

Another email. Anonymous. "Who tastes like soil now?"

The device shakes, snaps and colored lights. My curiosity prevents me from releasing it. A miniature drill emerges and pierces my index fingertip. Shrill pain bombards my nerves. I throw it. The impact does not affect it, continues working.

I suck my finger, controlling the bleeding.

I realize it. Run to my vehicle.

Look for the most effective way to Susan's house, my phone doesn't work. I shout and slam it against the faux-leather seat. I surrender to my instinct. Mistake. Traffic lights are permanently red. I'll pass a few. Other cars scrape me on a couple of occasions. Now I am the one who shows up late.

The comfortable and spacious house stands under the storm with the front destroyed by the family van stuck in the main door. I get out of my vehicle. Slip with the oil dripped from the crash and poorly diluted by the rain. A lightning uncovers two silhouettes in the vehicle that I can barely identify with my eyes bathed in grease. The horn of the car kidnaps my ears, it does not stop.

Break a house window. Cut my left calf as I entered. Inside the house I can access the front of the car. The headlights blind me and help the oil burn my corneas. Susan and her husband wait lifeless; glass embedded in their skin, blood running and showered by the storm. I pull Susan away from the steering wheel, leaning his body on the backrest. The beep goes silent.

The GPS is pleased to announce: "You have reached your destination." Repeat it three times. "They tasted soil."

The smart car turns off, leaving the residence in darkness. The steam from the engine makes me sweat. The soothing splashing of drops on aluminum is obfuscated by a baby's tantrum.

The infant seat at the back is empty. The whining comes from the second floor.

Guilt torments me. My heart compels me to run up and welcome the orphaned creature that mysteriously managed to get up. However, my agitated body is cautious. The crying intensifies. My agility deteriorates. The ebony handrail creaks under my grip. There are multiple squeals. Clothes soak in sweat, oil and other people's blood become heavier and heavier. Several babies? I arrive at a long corridor, the lightning from outside momentarily makes various paths of blood visible, all pointing to the bedroom at the end of the corridor. The report said "only child." The icy doorknob petrifies and smooths my fingerprints. I turn it.

The baby rests alone on his crib. Cries. I approach cautiously. Sobs attack my eardrums from all directions. Plastic toys, a walker and a closet, but no other children. The blue walls under the storm look like the inside of a gloomy cave. Susan's baby wears his helmet, blood drips from his temple. He looks pale as an Aryan supremacist ideal, his blue lips look like those of a Smurf. He shouldn't be alive. He can't be. Still, he kicks, moans, and stops.

Sepulchral silence. A blizzard affects all my nerve endings. The stench of putrefaction violently violates my nostrils.

Lift the creature motionless. Bring it to my face to sniff it. I examine for some indication of survival.

His three teeth pierce my nose. I throw the brat away. His head smashes against the cradle. I howl, causing blood to gush from my face.

The closet breaks. A horde of babies, all equipped with our helmets and the appearance of premature ghosts, rushes towards me.

They are not alive. Not anymore. They are vile puppets of the helmets. I convince myself to justify kicking them. One had his only tooth knocked out. Other ends with a splinter piercing his eye. I feel one's femur break under the force of my elbow. Susan's lineage, with her skull divided like the Grand Canyon dripping gray matter just kept in place by the extraordinary quality of our product, haunts me. The rest of the children support him.

I fled. Their little feet are fast. They pile on top of each other and are propelled by the force of gravity. They act as a homogeneous, irrational being exclusively dedicated to their prey.

The blood on the steps catches me off guard. Stumble. Fall to the first floor. Brutally hit my back.

My cracked head irrigates the hall, forming a scarlet puddle around me to which a herd of thirty newborns (what a spacious wardrobe) come close to drink like bison in drought. I get up, I fail. The ground spins. I lose contact with my body, only receive transmissions of acute pain. Beg for help, but my lungs don't expel enough air.

The amorphous mass of transhumanistic babies from beyond this life engulfs me. Their new molars attack my skin. Stubby fingers poke my eyes and dig between my ribs. The smell of decomposed breast milk and their sinister babbling isolate me from reality. There are only suffering, despair and resignation left at the hands of these creatures who once promised to be the next generation of humanity, and now they are its doom.