Edgar and Annabel are answering the call of duty to humanity by undergoing a biological transformation.
Image generated with OpenAIDr. Johnson removes the stethoscope from his ears, which are more pointed than the last time we saw him. “Everything seems fine,” Ms. Henderson. “The changes in your skull structure are causing your headaches. They’ll subside as your body adjusts to the transformation. Which wave are you in?”
My wife, fingers trembling, buttons the top of her blouse. “Edgar and I are in the 7th wave, Doctor.”
“I’ll be in the 20th. Medicine is an essential -“
“Yes, yes. Do you know what my wife’s becoming?”
Dr. Johnson arcs his eyebrows at me. I shouldn’t have interrupted, but find myself agitated toward the end of the month. “Likely something aquatic,” Dr. Johnson says. “We’ll know for sure after a couple more doses.” He turns back toward Annabel. “You’re transforming faster than many, but there’s no cause for alarm. It’s how the injections are interacting with your particular genome.”
Billy transformed after only three doses. The doctor told us that mainly was because he was so small. I hope our son is okay.
As Annabel and I are walking to the car, my wife begins sobbing. Someone who seems to be transforming into a coyote approaches, yipping and yodeling. Despite their animalistic behavior, a hint of humanity remains in the gentle way they put their paws on my wife’s chest, lick the tears from her cheek, then lope away. “Thank you,” Annabel says. Her voice is becoming shrill.
Driving home, I squeeze Annabel’s hand and notice how the flesh between her fingers is continuing to thicken. She strokes the down on my neck. “If I become a sea creature, I’ll never see Billy nor you, Edgar. Even if we wouldn’t remember each other for long, I’d hoped…” Her voice trails off as as we pass a Greater Good billboard then a series of harmony billboards – images of a 12-point buck in the woods, a breeching whale, an owl silhouetted by a full moon…We make decent time going home. There’s less traffic these days.
Annabel goes straight from the garage to the patio to watch for our son. Initially, Billy seemed to recognize us after his transformation, sitting on our shoulders and taking nuts from our hands. But after a couple oh-too-short days, he began keeping his distance, twitching his bushy red tail. It could’ve been worse. Apparently human thoughts and consciousness linger only a few hours for some.
There’s been no sign of our son recently. Last week we saw a hawk swoop down and snatch a squirrel. We think it was a gray, but didn’t get a good look.
I call my wife inside after I finish heating up leftovers. Setting the table, I glance at my arms. Am I becoming a bird of prey? Will my talons squeeze the life from a creature once someone’s child? I shake off the thought and tell myself transformation is for the greater good.
Neither Annabel nor I are hungry – at least not for spaghetti. We twirl it on our forks, push it around our plates. I look out the window at the Japanese maple. The red berries make my mouth water. Annabel craves fish. We force down enough pasta to keep up our strength then go into the TV room to watch the evening news as we’re required to do. We used to skip it, but somehow they knew.
The news reader’s nose is looking more like a beak, and her skin resembles a rainbow. She squawks, clears her throat and updates the shrinking essential services list. Annabel and I used to be teachers. Now we both work at a food processing plant that’s scheduled to be mothballed in a a few years. That won’t matter to us by then.
Announcing that this is her last broadcast, the news reader says her final treatment is next week; the Relocation Division of the Global Transformation Authority will be shipping her to a rainforest. “Like many of you, I’ll miss my family, but we all must accept that transformation is for the greater good.” The screen flashes images of a polluted river, a smog-choked city and raging fires. “Our planet was at a tipping point,” she says. “We must remember that without transformation our world will become a lifeless rock.” She looks to her left. “Would you like say a few words, sir?”
A high-ranking official from the Global Transformation Authority comes on camera. He sports the Authority’s signature sky blue jumpsuit, the color both a distant memory and an aspiration. As with the other higher-ups in the GTA, he won’t begin transforming until the final wave in several years.
As usual, the official salutes those who volunteered for the first wave out of a sense of duty. He expresses sympathy for the second wave, which commenced nine months later and comprised the elderly and infirm, including my grandparents. They were healthy, but there was no stopping them after a dust storm took everything they had. Annabel and I succumbed to peer pressure. That and the armed technician who came to our home for our first monthly injection.
I turn up the volume as the GTA official promises joy and wonder from living as a creature at one with nature. It’s a familiar message, but I still want… need… to hear it. You’ll love being able to fly, I tell myself.
“Have no doubt,” the GTA guy says, “once purged of human activity, the planet will heal. A hundred years from now, our furry, feathered and finned descendants will flourish in a renaissance Garden of Eden.” He smiles, turns his palms upwards and says “Harmony.”
Annabel and I mimic the gesture and say “Harmony” in unison. We’re afraid not to. We go to bed soon after. Transforming wears a person out.
The next morning, as we drink our coffee, the doorbell rings. Time for our next shot. Annabel rolls up her sleeve as I let in the technician, who now comes without a guard now. A low-level employee of the Authority, he’s begun transforming – into what I can’t tell. I wonder if he injects himself. He plunges the hypo into my wife’s vein, then mine. A calmness smiles over me, and I close my eyes. When I open them, the tech’s gone.
I kiss my wife’s elongating snout to awaken her. I think she’s becoming a dolphin. I tell myself she’ll like that. They’re strong and intelligent like her. And, I swallow hard, they mate for life.
The GTA Relocation Division took my wife last week. Fear thrashed in her eyes. The blankets the agents wrapped her in dripped a wet trail on the floor as they rolled her out of our home on a gurney. The squeaky wheels sounded like her new voice. They put her in a tank in the back of a van. I’ll never forget the thunk of the closing doors.
The coast is only a few miles away so I followed in our car. I’ve installed levers on the foot pedals to accommodate my claw-like feet.
Annabel clung to her human mind longer than most. Not sure if that was a blessing or a curse. I was with her daily for almost a week. I’d sit in shallow water, and Annabel would swim to me and lay her head on my shoulder. It was a pale imitation of our former life, but all we had. I spoke of our years together, hoping it would prolong her human mind. When I mentioned Billy, she slid off me and dunked her head. That broke my heart even more, but at least I knew she was still Annabel. I reminded her of the things we’d learned from the hours of videos we’d streamed from the GTA website. Most were propaganda exalting oceanic life. But there also were practical tips such as avoiding fishing nets, which thankfully were becoming fewer.
Annabel started spending less time with me and more with another dolphin. They’d frolic and leap, their wet skin glistening in what sunlight could penetrate the haze.
Yesterday my wife swam toward me. When I raised my arms…or wings …whatever they are… Annabel dove, slapped the water with her tail and headed out to sea with her new mate.
As heartbreaking as that was, I at least saw a fox squirrel when I got home. It wouldn’t approach me, but I’m pretty sure it was Billy.
The next morning I see Dr. Johnson. Based on my thickening blue-black plumage and emerging wedge-shaped tail, he thinks I’m becoming a raven, It’s not the worst possible news… all things considered. One day, in better times, Billy and I watched two ravens toss a nut back and forth, play tug-of-war with a stick, and cackle as if laughing at their own antics. I read up on ravens and learned they’re comics of the bird kingdom. I’ve been too dour as a human so a lighter outlook will be welcome. At least that’s what I tell myself.
The week after my final injection is agony. The severe contraction of my skeletal structure has me screaming and writhing all day and most of the night. The GTA orientation videos leave that part out. I fall asleep in the wee hours and wake up fully transformed.
Though my body is that of a raven, my mind clings to human thoughts. For how long? Hours? Days? Streaking out the bedroom window I left open, I fly to the beach where I last saw Annabel. I soar past the reef and beyond. Finding my wife is a long shot but I can’t help myself. After a couple hours, I give up, but am too exhausted to make it back to shore. Luckily I see an island.
I glide down and perch on a rock. After regaining my strength, I ride an updraft and bank toward the mainland. But something on the island catches my eye – a building mostly hidden by a grove of palm trees. I go back and circle above the place. It’s huge. Chain link fencing with razor wire encircles it. There are security guards with guns and wearing sky blue jump suits. As far as I can tell, they haven’t started transforming. I notice an open skylight and glide down for a peek inside. What I see astonishes me – row after row of what appear to be coffins, lids open. Is this a depository for failed transformations? Doesn’t make a lot of sense, but humans often don’t. Wait… I’m human. At least in my mind. Need to hold on to that.
I fly inside for a closer look. Gliding over the coffins, I see they’re empty, and each has a wiring harness and two hoses connected to it. One hose leads to what appears to be an oxygen tank and the other to a duct that vents through the ceiling. Each casket, if that’s what they are, has a monitor similar to those in a hospital room. These aren’t coffins. They’re – I flutter out of sight when a man and woman in GTA garb approach. I overhear them say something about “Project Noah.”
Noah… these… chambers. It’s all starting to make sense when I feel as if the walls are closing in in me. Got to get out of here. I rise up through the open skylight. Project Noah. Remember Project Noah. Need to eat. I circle the grounds, see an open dumpster, fly to it and strike gold – a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I peck it apart and gobble it down.
Hearing voices, I fly up to the edge of the dumpster and see two guards approaching. “I told you I saw a dirty old bird,” one says.
Excuse me?
“It might be a turner. I’ll get it.” The woman reaches for her gun.
Streaking skyward, I hear a bang. A bullet whizzes past me. I bank left, right, dip and climb. Another shot misses me. I climb higher until I’m sure I’m out of range. Phew, that was close. I – drone! I dive toward the water, the drone at my heels … claws. I pull up at the last second. The drone crashes into a wave. Take that, sucker! And my mother used to tell me I spent to much time playing Dogfight!
Now, where was I? It was important… Project something… Project… Noah. That’s it. Focus. Get back to the mainland and tell someone. Ravens can mimic human speech. Got to spread the word. I rise and catch a tail wind. I’m going to need a nest. And a mate. Got to have a mate. What about…Annabel? Did I know an Annabel? Concentrate. Project Noah. I’m Edgar. Hold on to being Edgar. Edgar? Project Edgar? No, Project Noah. Must find a mate. I’ll offer her… something. Worms? Beetles? Stop! Project Noah. I repeat the words like a mantra until I’m over land.
After a couple minutes, I see a guy in a red shirt. I’ll tell him what I know. I’m pretty sure I can get out Project Noah and island, but suspended animation chambers will be a beakful… mouthful. I’ll do my best and leave it to him to blow the whistle. The GTA will deny everything, but doubt will be planted. More people will resist, refuse to transform. The world will go back to… go back to… what? The tipping point? Becoming a lifeless rock? I glide to the top of an oak.
Am I doing the right thing? Is transformation clouding my judgment? From up here, I can see the sun setting into my wife’s new home. The sky isn’t quite as hazy as it used to be; the riverbank has patches of green, but many areas remain barren and brown. They say the water’s a little cleaner, but we’ve a long way to go. Although the leaders of the Authority are conniving, selfish bastards, they have a solution.
The guy in the red shirt goes inside. A breeze rocks the treetop like a lullaby. I close my eyes and picture my wife and son. After a few moments, their images blur. I try to call out their names but can’t remember them. Or my own. It’s a peaceful feeling. Like falling asleep.
