Davies - VIRUS IN THE MACHINE: a love story

A
VIRUS
IN THE
MACHINE A Love Story ALEXANDRA DAVIES AuthorHouse UK 1663 Liberty Drive Bloomington, IN 47403 USA www.authorhouse.co.uk Phone: 0800.197.4150 2017 Alexandra Davies. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author. Published by AuthorHouse 05/19/2017 ISBN: 978-1-5246-8156-2 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-5246-8157-9 (e) Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,
and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery Thinkstock. Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them. Contents Breaking through the Disg uise The Government machines clicked in and out of operation. How grace had died in them, a snared animal forever captured, forever soulless. They breathed out fresh air that morning. The air outside so dead and thin, starved, a wretched corpse of a life short lived, no lover to visit her empty grave, it still belonged to the government, as did all death. She lay in waiting, singing with black flies.

Juliet had found herself there that morning, ticking away the minutes on the clock, ticking time into her dead life. The machines shifted and came into operation again, their cold buttons clicking on. She only noticed the noise when they switched off again. She stubbed out the end of a hardly noticed cigarette on the cold stone floor, so dry. She had committed the most illegal crime in the New World, she had attempted suicide. A deep black suicide, a scream to all the World.

She still bore the scars. Something that night, something had chilled her soul, unspeakable terror, gorging on the death of all reality, death had called to her, the Angels in Heaven had sang to her soul, the song of escape, the songs of freedom. She had cut deeper and deeper, then she had poisoned herself, the poison that had poisoned her favourite philosopher. I need to explain she had thought I need to tell the World who I really am I need to do this Oh how little she had to say. She had slid into a long coma. No one could switch off her life support machine as it was against the law, against all religion, against all reason.

Maybe modern medicine would save her one day, and after so long, by a beautiful miracle it had. She hadnt wanted to come back, she had only wanted to sleep for eternity. To wash away all the bad dreams, her blood running on tomorrows headlines. I awake to a pretty breeze in a neat fresh garden. My Husband walks out and hugs me. Hello darling how are you? I say.

Oh ok how are you Happy. I say. I never thought I would see you again. Oh I came back to you. The War is over and there is Peace on Earth. Dont worry the Government sorted it all out, I knew they would.

So did I! I hug him even tighter. I am sitting in a meadow, sunlight enrapture of the Gods. The Earth drinks from the sky charmed and the flowers spring forth enchanted. I am reading The Song of Solomon. I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.

As the apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among the sons. I sit down under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste. My Husband listens. I admire his beauty, his intuition. His big brown eyes peer at me as I read. They are but objects of the devil, so deep and serene.

They drink of my heart. I read on. He brought me to the banqueting house, and his banner over me was love. Stay with me flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick with love. His left hand hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me. I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that you stir not up, nor awake my love, till he please.

The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, skipping upon the hills. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold, he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice. My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the Earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land: The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely.

Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines: for our vines have tender grapes. My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away, turn, my beloved, and be thou like a roe or a young hart upon the mountains of Bether. Now it is his turn, his voice sweet as Angels as he reads to me. I love his drama, his literate beauty. I listen. I listen.

O Love, be fed with apples while you may, And feel the sun and go in royal array, A smiling innocent on the heavenly causeway, Though in what listening horror for the cry That soars in outer blackness dismally, The dumb blind beast, the paranoiac fury: Be warm, enjoy the season, lift your head, Exquisite in the pulse of tainted blood, That shivering glory not to be despised. Take your delight in momentariness, Walk between dark and dark- a shining space With the graves narrowness, though not its peace. The picture before me starts to flicker as an old film ruined by acid. How long have you been in the Machine? I hear a voice say. Then the picture flickers even more. What machine? she asked.

The lights flickered on and she stood only in a white room naked but for the stickers dotted around her body, holding down wires. The Machine, came a voice, The Dream weaver. Youve been in a coma for twenty years, weve plugged you up to the machine so it wasnt such a shock when you came round. You dont have to stay in the machine you can always leave, but the machine will help you live your deepest desires. It is our beautiful dream weaver, our latest human invention it is going to change mankind for the better, our beautiful virtual reality machine. You dont have to stay on the machine.

You can always leave, but the World is a lot different now than what your used to. In what way? came her trembling reply. Oh, youll get used to it. Theres a war on now, but the Government are going to sort it all out. Then as the cold steel air machines clicked back off she didnt want to remember more. She remembered the white room.

She must escape from this place, but to where. The whole Planet was at war. Had the whole world gone crazy, for if it had, she gone crazy with it, or was she the only person in her life who thought the whole world had gone crazy. She had thought long and hard about staying on the machine. Life on it was just perfect. What made it a lie? She became uncomfortable in the pronounced silence and left the building to join the throngs of people outside.

The streets were heaving with rat throngs of aimless souls. there eyes as empty as their souls. They knew not where they were going. They followed each other aimlessly as sheep. Oh what did God hold for them any more. Dead, died, broken.