Automata

Epilogue

Sam opened the door to the automaton shop. The sun had barely risen. As he entered, the shop was eerily quiet. The automatons lining the walls seemed to be watching him, condemning him, though he did not know for what. He cautiously walked through the shop, and the silence was deafening. It was almost as if all the automatons were crying out in unison; a choir of anguished voices, but for what?

Sam got to the door to the workshop and knocked lightly. "Oliver?"

There was no response, except a feeling of the silent screaming of the machines growing in volume. Sam knocked louder. "Oliver? Are you okay?"

He was only answered by suffocating silence.

"Oliver!" Sam shouted through the door and tried the handle to open it. The door would not open, and even as he threw his weight against it, it would not budge.

After a few dozen minutes of trying, Sam walked quickly out of the shop, a panicked look on his face.

Sam returned about a half an hour later with a policeman and a couple other men that he had been able to convince to help him.

They all glanced around, unnerved, as they walked into the shop. The choir of wailing seemed to start up again. The group approached the door and clustered together to push on the door. On successive counts of three, they threw their collective weight against the door. With each successive crash of them against the door, the screaming chorus of automatons grew louder and louder, making their muscles grow tense and causing them to clench their eyes shut from the unbearable silent cacophony.

"Three!"

On their final shove, the door suddenly burst open and the men stumbled into the workshop. Righting themselves, they looked with horror into the dimly lit room. A few men cried out in revulsion, and some covered their eyes.

Sam stared straight ahead into the center of the room, his face frozen in a static look of despair.

Oliver lay dead on the table, his chest open and dark red with blood. His face was ghost white, seemingly drained of blood. But the truly terrifying addition to his appearance was the serene smile plastered on his face.

Sam couldn't seem to pull his vision from the table, but then an eerie ticking from the corner of the room pulled his gaze over.

Camille was in the corner, alive and dancing. Her chest was open, and in the center of her chest cavity was a human heart, pumping in and out and pushing her machinery. All the men's voice seemed to disappear as they looked on in utter horror.

Camille danced, her movements perfectly graceful, and her eyes shined in the morning light. She spun and elegantly moved her arms in sublime grace.

She was alive.

And she was beautiful.