A science fiction short story about genetic manipulation by David Tombale: Unnatural selection

Unnatural Selection

Victor could see the streetlights from his window, their yellow glow picking out a white cat that ran out between two houses and quickly out of sight. He rolled over until his feet hit his carpeted floor and he could pull out the back pack he’d hidden under his bed. Grabbing his favorite blue sneakers from the wardrobe he put them on as silently as he could.

With bag in tow, he snuck out of his room into the hallway outside, listening carefully for any sounds. The house was quiet. Charles’ door was the second on the right and as he passed it Victor paused. Some nameless urge forced his hand to turn the knob. He opened the door as quietly as he could and looked in on his younger brother. He could hear him breathing softly in his sleep with a blanket laid over his head. Charles was his younger brother and had been perfect since the day he was born, as perfect as modern genetics could make a child. He stood at six foot two with a chiseled jaw and a three digit IQ. All of which explained why he’d become the star of the track team and student body president while his older brother’s successes on the chess team had barely drawn their parents’ attention.

Victor couldn’t even blame them for calling the Proctors to take away a failure like him. After all he could only manage to get in the way of their perfect son. Victor closed his brother’s door as quietly as he could and turned around. When he was in the living room, he grabbed a framed picture off the mantel and put it in his bag. It was the only thing he was taking with him aside from a change of clothes and some money he’d saved up from working a job at the mall. Grinding his teeth together, he slowly punched in the alarm code, each beep shaving off a year off his life and when it finally flashed from red to green Victor opened the front door and walked out. He picked Charles’ red mountain bike off the lawn. Standing by the house’s chain link fence he paused and took one last look at the house he’d grown up in. He turned his back on it and opened the gate wheeling the bike out into the street.

The roads were usually deserted around midnight so there was no one around to see the sixteen year old ride his bike all the way to Mountain View High School where the others were waiting. Victor saw Laurie’s eyes nearly bulge with terror behind the silver frames of her glasses when he rode up. She visibly relaxed when she recognized him and standing next to her was Chase, his freckles invisible in the darkness but Victor knew they were there. The last one was Roger who shared the same red hair as Laurie, which made sense since they were brother and sister and who probably had an inhaler somewhere in his clothes and that was the entire crew. Each one of them had a reason to be despised by their families and each one of them was in danger of being erased from existence by the all powerful Black Proctors.

The others had brought their own bikes and carried a bag with them.

“Is it time to go?” Victor asked.

“Yeah. The people from the shelter said they’d pick us up in the next town,” Chase said.

“Laurie, you okay?” Victor asked noting the way she was hugging herself.

“Are we really going to do this?” she asked.

“Well me and Victor are but if you two want to wait for the Proctors to come get you that’s fine by me,” Chase said.

“No way, we’re going,” Roger said looking at Laurie.

Laurie wouldn’t meet his eyes letting her hair fall in front of her face. Laurie had never been able to say no to her brother so Victor wasn’t surprised when she eventually nodded her head and got on her bike. Chase took off first and one by one they joined him. They had no idea where they’d end up but Victor knew, they all knew that they could never go home again.

A short story about grief and revenge: Ghosts

Ghosts

The house hadn’t been maintained in a long time, its floors were covered with dust and the wood beneath had warped with time. Lyle had been happy in this house for three long years and had raised two little boys with his wife Lynda; even now looking at a framed picture of them he could still remember what that felt like. He’d made space by the house’s fireplace and left his gun right by his feet while he gazed around at the torn curtains and the couch hanging open like an empty mouth, its cushions missing and rusty springs poking through.

It had been so beautiful once. There’d been a table right by the entrance where they’d placed a bowl that was always filled with little mints for their guests and there’d been so many guests. Not for Lyle, no he was the more introverted of the two, no they always came for his fair haired Lynda who could put together a three course meal in seconds. Lyle had always been a terrible cook and his dear wife had often shoved him out of the kitchen because he was always getting underfoot.

It was here that he could still remember her like that, not in the hospital with those jagged scars on her wrists. She’d fallen apart so quickly after the boys…his beautiful wife had morphed into a shadow that floated about in a permanent daze that no therapy had ever managed to penetrate.

Lyle put their picture down and picked up the gun. Getting to his feet and ignoring the dust that clung to his khaki pants he approached the man he’d tied to a chair. Sweat had plastered the man’s greasy black hair to his head and his eyes had dark circles under them. He weakly raised his head and gave Lyle a look that promised retribution for the state he was in.

“Here we both are where it all started. I wonder when you broke into our house that night if you ever considered that things might turn out this way?” Lyle said.

He reached out and removed the strip of clothing he’d gagged the man with.

“You should have known I’d never let a punk like you put me in jail,” the man spat out.

“You’re a scumbag. Sooner or later someone was going to prosecute you for your crimes but you broke into my house and killed my..” Lyle choked on the words.

“I wasn’t going to let you put me in jail,” the man repeated.

“Well congratulations, you’re not in jail,” Lyle said raising the gun.

There was a loud bang that woke the neighbors on either side of that tragic house. The first to reach for their phone was Mrs. Carla Mitchell who’d had a lot of trouble sleeping lately ever since her husband passed away. Her white cat meowed in protest as she shifted it reaching for the phone she kept by the bedside before dialing 911.

Lyle hobbled back to the fireplace picking up the gold framed picture of his family. They’d taken it on their last vacation down to Florida to visit Lyle’s folks. They’d been on the beach and James had worn the green trunks he’d loved while Sean had been hugging his parents’ little terrier. There standing in the back in a green shirt with blue trunks was Lynda laughing and sticking her tongue out at the camera.

How quickly things had changed and now there was nothing left for Lyle. No wife or kids, just a house full of objects and ghosts that would forever weigh him down. Another loud bang startled Mrs. Mitchell causing her to draw the covers over her head as she pleaded with the 911 operator to send help quickly.