The Book of Apex: Volume 1 of Apex Magazine by Jason Sizemore Page B

to Thalia and plopped himself down on a pinewood ammo box. Her peers
avoided her and others with the same albino patches as if they might catch
something. It was just a lack of melanin that caused the discoloration. The
Master Knitter still hadn’t solved that problem. But it didn’t matter if they
stayed away from the likes of her.
    Thing is, Knitter’s Mark or
not, Delauchen didn’t let anyone get too close to him either.
    When he was sure she was out of
sight, Delauchen reached for a tar canvas satchel and pulled out a worn spiral
pad of rice paper. He settled into his spot, kicking loose a few rocks, which
rolled down into a brackish shell hole.
    Draw something
beautiful ,
the Knitter thought, sliding forward a bit closer.
    Here is why the Knitter waited
all night: she enjoyed this part the most, the mornings when Delauchen would
draw something. Maybe he would sketch a collection of empty ration canisters or
barring that, he might do his dirty left hand again. Sometimes, as a joke, he
liked to hold his thumb out and sketch that. And every so often, on good
mornings when both were in high spirits, Thalia would let Delauchen sketch her
face in the hopes that perhaps she could finally catch those evasive brown eyes
of his.
    The Limb Knitter eased up
closer still, almost to the point where the top of her slouch hat was visible.
But Delauchen didn’t pick up a charcoal stick or turn to a smooth, crème sheet
of nude paper. Instead, he turned to an old sketch and stared at it.
    No, she thought. Draw
something. You don’t have much time. The rank, randy scent of the Invaders
grew in the hours before an attack. It was enough to make the Knitter gag.
Humans were spared due to their own limited senses, perhaps for the better, or
maybe for the worse.
    The Knitter moved closer,
shifting loose a few bits of dirt and rock.
    Charcoal rubbings and lines
gave the woman in the sketch a pudgy nose. Dark curls brushed against her bare
shoulders, pulled back to show off her ears. Sharp dimples flanked her
close-lipped smile. Her eyebrows were feather-fine yet overemphasized above a
pair of flat, almond-shaped eyes.
    One look at those imperfect
eyes was all it took for the sobs to come in shoulder racking bursts. If the
other Frontists noticed his pain, they left him be, busied with the tasks of
getting on in the trenches for another day.
    The Knitter brought out a gold
plated oval locket and opened it. Inside, Delauchen looked back at her from the
small heliotype image. He appeared startled, frightened, but it was the only
time he had ever made eye contact with her, through the heliotype maker.
    The Knitter sighed. You
never change, Delauchen.
    The soil beneath her heavy
frame shifted and dumped the Limb Knitter down into the puddle next to
Delauchen’s boot.
     
    Whoever threw something into
the shell hole managed to do so in such a way that it splattered urine-fouled water
all over Delauchen. A white haze fell over him when he saw his sketch of Yvette
Mobori, preserved for two years since her death, was soaked with mud and feces.
He threw the pad down and stood up, looking for the jackass that had thrown the
rock into the puddle.
    “Who did it this time?” The
telltale smirk always gave someone away, or at least a cluster of Frontists,
but there were only pale, fearful faces instead. Delauchen’s peers skittered,
cowered and backed away, staring at something behind him.
    Maybe I’ve finally
beaten enough sense into them ,
he thought.
    Water sloshed around in the
shell hole behind Delauchen. He turned to see.
    An overcoat patched in places
with tar canvas and burlap rose from the muck, first to its knees, then one leg
at a time, until it stood at a full two meters. It bent over to retrieve its
slouch hat, floating on the surface, and replaced it upon its
burlap-bag-covered head. Through two ragged holes, its yellow eyes watched
Delauchen Severis with great care.
    “Look at this!” Delauchen
pointed at his ruined pad and forgot