Apex Magazine Issue 133 by Apex Magazine

Author:Apex Magazine [Magazine, Apex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: apex magazine, Magazine
Publisher: Apex Publications
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

MASTERSERGEANT TACTICAL MILITARY GAS MASK RESPIRATOR

* * *

Hitomi A.

Creepy Mask, Smells Like Garlic Farts, Works Great

Rating: 4 Stars

Reviewed on November 11—Verified Purchase

This mask is OVER THE TOP. Guaranteed to turn you into a Tom Clancy villain. It smells rancid, but that must mean it’s working! Also, I have a small head and it was the only one I could find in my size.

I bought it for my sinuses. My headaches are way worse outside, which is where I had to go. It took me thirty seconds to put the mask together and strap it on, two hours to work up the nerve to step outside. When I finally did, what I found was ... nothing.

No children playing. No old guy griping about the brats stealing his newspaper. No deliveries, no gardeners, no glimpse of movement from any window in any house on the entire block.

But there was more. Or rather, less. No cars parked on the street. The Reddi family’s mailbox was gone, along with the stop sign on the corner. The Chen house—

Okay you already think I’m crazy, so I’ll just say it.

The Chen house was gone. But, like, not exactly gone. The house wasn’t there, but when I tried to focus on what WAS there, I couldn’t. It was too ... foggy? That doesn’t make any sense, it was sunny out. The feeling it gave me, looking in that direction, I came a little unhinged. I had to look away.

Everything else, all the stuff that wasn’t missing, it didn’t look right either. Everything had a plasticky sheen to it. After a few minutes (hours?) I worked up the courage to approach the nearest thing, which happened to be the telephone pole outside my house. The one that might’ve had a missing cat poster stapled to it a while back.

It took me a while to get there, with how slow my body was moving, but eventually I stood within arm’s reach. It was smooth, but not wet-smooth. More like low-res. Like a progressive image on a shoddy website that never fully loaded. Which is dumb, I know, so I stopped thinking about that RIGHT AWAY.

I reached out.

Touched it.

Then I ran home and locked myself inside. But by the time I was sitting on my couch, panting, this creepy gas mask watching me from the coffee table like some post-apocalyptic housefly, I couldn’t remember what the pole felt like, nor why it had scared me inside. It was like my mind had gone plastic, too. Glazed over the whole experience. Whitewashed it, just like—

I grabbed a few neurology texts from Gerardo’s old med school bookshelf. Laid them out on the coffee table, started scouring. My little field trip must’ve worn me out, because I couldn’t have been an hour deep before I passed out. I woke up face down, drool congealed to my cheek. Don’t judge, we’ve all been there. Except, when I looked down, well.

All the books were blank.

I flipped through them in a panic. Not a single word of print.

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