It had been more than twenty-five years since Watley had lost a tooth and yet he’d done just that only a moment ago. He stared at the white enamel in his palm and with his tongue, investigated the void its departure had left in the bottom set of molars. He tasted very little blood but noted that the rest of his gums seemed too soft. Raising a finger, he pressed it into his cheek next to where the tooth had fallen out and felt it give way. He again examined with his tongue and found that the dent remained. He’d expected it to rebound once he removed the finger and thus, the pressure. But no.

“Son of a bitch,” he groaned.

Watley tossed the tooth into the woods beside the road and continued following the Machine. He stared at the hulking black metal figure and wondered how heavy it was. Seven, eight hundred pounds? More? Its bulky appearance suggested that it was equipped with more armor than its predecessor. He remembered them being large and powerful, but this one was unlike any he’d seen before. A prototype, maybe?

Thinking of before they’d been sent here, Watley tried to remember his apprehension. Not this recent capture, but long before they arrived here. His memories were fuzzy though. Trying to recall memories had become like peering into still water, then having a cloud of dirt stirred up at the bottom. Everything was murky.

They…he’d just thought of before they had been sent here. Scratching his head, Watley suddenly had something pop up out of the mud cloud and float to the surface. They. Him and…Mo.

“Oh yeah,” he mumbled to himself. “I remember him…a little.”

His foot caught on a series of roots running across the road and he nearly toppled over. He stumbled but regained his footing. Glancing down at his dark leg, Watley saw the fabric of his under garments fall from his limb and descend to the ground in specks of dust. Disintegrated. He smiled, amazed at how the clothing and his skin had become one and then now, having fallen loose like that. Just like his tooth, he supposed.

“Like ash.” He grinned, then chuckled. “I’m falling apart…literally.”

His fit of laughter drew the Machine’s attention and it halted and turned toward him. “Not much farther,” it said in its dark, electronic voice. It reminded Watley of the speaking alphabet toy from long ago…what the hell was it called? No use, the memories beneath the water had been clouded over again.

“I’m tired,” he murmured. “My legs are fucking heavy as shit.” It came out more like, “My legs are fkingheavyasshhht.” He understood that he was so bad off that he sounded as if he had been drinking all day and his speech was slurred. “Aw man, I wish. I wish…I wish I could have a drink right now. Just tie one on, ya know?”

The Machine just stared at him with that eyeless globe-head, hovering inches from the main chassis. Watley thought that maybe some electro-magnetic force held it in place. “There may indeed be alcohol where we’re headed,” said the Machine.

Watley stopped. “Nooo…” He raised his arm, which felt like a twenty-pound weight and extended his index finger. “I hope you’re not lying to me, man. That would be some cruel shit.” Watley’s focus shifted from the Machine – fifteen yards ahead – to his index finger, right in front him. He frowned. “Holy crap…I lost my fingernail.” He brought the digit closer, then turned in a circle, searching the ground. “When the hell did that happen?”

“All part of the process,” informed the Machine. “You’ll be made comfortable when we arrive. Keep moving.”

Nodding in agreement, Watley repeated, “All part of the process.” He pressed forward, scrutinizing the Machine’s words: You’ll be made comfortable.

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Am I fucking dying?

“Boy, I hope so!” Realizing he had shouted, Watley pressed his finger to his lips and shushed himself. Dying would probably be better than this, though. It had to be. He patted his leg, feeling for his weapon and remembered he no longer had it. More black dust drifted from the limb and this time, it appeared that not the fabric, but his flesh was the material falling away.

He looked away and kept walking. Wish I had that gun. Could end it right now.

Watley knew that wasn’t true. The plant had seen to that. It had prohibited him from self-harm. It had instructed him last night in the barn when it wouldn’t stop speaking to him; not verbally, but inside of his head. Like telepathy or something. Given the opportunity to kill himself, he knew he would succumb. No matter how much he wanted to end it, he would obey that instruction.

Without warning, Watley began coughing. He gagged and doubled over. Coughing harder, he expelled another tooth. It bounced along the pavement and came to rest in the grass along the shoulder. He reached into his mouth and with little effort, pulled free another molar from his gums.

*********

At the western most portion of his plot, Alex brought the pickup to a stop. He’d never been this far out. Yesterday he’d taken the truck as far north as the road, where he’d found the tractor and seen that weird flash of light in the field, but never this far west. It was unfamiliar territory. Only the tractors were permitted out here, except in rare circumstances, like a broken-down piece of machinery.

Exiting the cab, he eased around to the bed and lowered the tailgate. He was trying to do this as quickly as possible, but he needed to give the impression that his movements were casual, should someone spot him. although his heart was thundering, and his thoughts were frantic, frantic movements might seem suspicious to anyone watching. They might inspire notions of dubious acts. These notions would then lead to Isaac being summoned and then Alex suspected he’d be in a heap of shit.

One quick glance around to be sure he was alone, and he grabbed the ankles of a pair of boots and pulled the body toward him. The man wasn’t all that heavy. It seemed he’d wasted away, and Alex figured he weighed no more than one hundred and forty pounds or so. Once lowered to the ground atop a tarp, Alex grabbed the shovel he’d brought and dragged the man into the underbrush and away from plain sight.

When he had gone maybe sixty feet, Alex stopped and began digging. He continued, stopping occasionally to survey his surroundings.

Always be aware of your surroundings, Alex.

He paused, recalling who had taught him that. His father, of course. He thought of his family, of Henry and Annabelle and resumed shoveling at a rapid pace until he achieved a hole large enough to accommodate the man. Dripping with sweat, Alex slide the body to the edge of the pit. He stared down at the metal mask. He reached for it, resting his gloved hand on its surface. He lifted.

It had been wise of Alex to wear his bio suit, as the man’s face was marred by signs of some disease. Black, crusty splotches stretched from the left ear to the bridge of the man’s nose, with a few thin threads traversing into the tissue of the right cheek, just under the eye. The man was middle-aged and emaciated; the cheeks sunken, the chin and jawline sharp and chiseled by malnourishment. His identity, however, remained clear. Alex stared down at himself.