The Sky was Full of Fish

When I woke up, the sky was full of fish.

I spent some minutes at the bedroom window, just staring up at the sky. I was amazed, of course, but far from pleased. I had an unsettling feeling that something was deeply wrong, that the fish were merely a symptom of a much graver concern.

Finally, seeing that there was nothing else for it, I got dressed and went downstairs. Matilda had breakfast on the table, and I thanked her for it as I sat down. I picked up a piece of toast, found a knife, and stabbed it into the quivering pile of jelly on the dish. I smeared the red sugary paste onto my heated, dried bread. The faint scrape of the metal blade over the rough surface was pleasing to my ears.

After I had taken a few bites of toast and some sips of coffee, Heather spoke. "Some sunrise this morning," she said. Heather always made it a point to catch the sunrise at least a couple times a week.

"They've been there since dawn, then?" I asked.

Heather nodded. "Since before dawn, actually."

"What do you think it means?" asked Sara quietly.

"It means trouble," said Gertrude darkly before I could answer.

"I don't know what it means exactly," I said after a moment, "but I fear that Gertrude is right."

"Perhaps you'd better get to work, then," said Matilda.

"I'll head out soon," I said, "but not before I have another slice of toast."

The second slice of toast did not take long, and soon I was on the sidewalk heading downtown. The canopy of fish overhead was a constant reminder that all was not as it should have been.

I had only been walking for a few minutes when I heard a clicking sound behind me. I glanced back, and saw that a small dog of indeterminate breed was following me. Its fur was brown, and it was roughly ankle height. The clicking sound was made by its toenails on the sidewalk.

Shrugging, I faced forward again and continued walking. The clicking sound increased as I went along, and when I glanced behind me a second time, there were three disturbingly similar small dogs of indeterminate breed following me. I turned back around and saw another dog ahead of me, sitting and watching as I approached. It fell in step with its associates as I passed.

Soon there were small dogs of indeterminate breed emerging from behind every utility pole, mailbox, and hydrant that I passed. They soon surrounded me, carpeting the sidewalk, and still their numbers continued to increase. They were all oddly silent. Not a bark, not a whimper.

I was getting worried.

As I approached an intersection, I saw that everything ahead of me was covered in dogs. They were piled ten feet deep, and a squirming wall of them was moving down the street towards me like a slow-moving storm surge or a really fast glacier.

I had no desire to experience being crushed to death by small dogs of indeterminate breed. I cast about for an escape route. I was walking next to a one-story brick building, and as luck would have it, there was a door. The sign on the door said, "Stairs." I tried the door and found it unlocked. I pulled it open, displacing a knee-deep pile of dogs, jumped inside, and frantically shoved more dogs out of the way until I could get the door closed again.

I looked about. I was in a dimly lit small room, but I couldn't tell where the light was coming from. The only exits were the one I'd just walked through, and a wooden staircase opposite the door. Seeing no other choice, I began climbing.

It didn't take long before I was sick of stairs.

I must have been climbing for a few minutes when the staircase began to widen until the walls on either side became obscured from view in the dim lighting. There was still no discernible light source, and indeed, the ceiling was no longer visible when I looked up. I couldn't see the top of the stairs, and a glance over my shoulder told me that I couldn't see the bottom, either. The stairs simply went on in every direction until they faded into darkness.

My legs hurt, and I was out of breath, so I stopped for a rest. I sat down on the stairs and contemplated my predicament. I was now certain that regardless of what direction I went, I would never find an end to the stairs.

I would have to find another way.

I stood up, removed my right pinky finger, and retrieved my fire axe. It took a little while, but I managed to chop a man-sized hole in the wooden stairs. Inside the hole, it was unnaturally dark, and I was seized with a sudden apprehension.

Stowing my fire axe back in my right pinky finger, I got out the mysterious glowing orb that had been a gift from my great uncle. As its soft glow warmed my hands and face, I felt my fears subsiding. I let go of the orb and it floated slowly into the hole. In its light, I could make out what appeared to be a meadow.

The ground was not at an angle I would have expected, but it looked manageable. I crawled into the hole.

At once, I knew something was wrong. I felt an inexorable force seizing my upper body, and then I was being pulled at terrifying speed into endless darkness. I lost consciousness.

* * *

When I came to, I was in a toaster factory. I found myself on holy ground. Here was where the countertop altars had their source.

The bread is an offering, placed lovingly in the sconces that hold it. The toaster gleams in the morning sunlight. What is the pushing down of the lever if not a genuflection? The waiting teaches us the transience of time's passage. The miracle is heralded by a creaky springing noise as there emerges not the offering placed there, but an entirely new substance of such divine structure and texture as to support all manner of toppings. The potency of its holy energy will burn your fingers if you hold onto it for too long, so you must be quick as you transfer it from the altar to your plate. And then the toast is yours to do with as you will.

And now I stood in the place where all that wonder began.

The toaster factory, as I soon discovered, was completely deserted. I spent many days there, primarily because even after much searching I failed to find an exit. I wandered aimlessly down the production lines, praying for guidance from whatever higher beings would listen. I would have settled for even a suggestion. I did find one suggestion scrawled on the wall of one of the stalls in the men's bathroom. "Fuck you," it suggested. I didn't find it terribly helpful.

As there were no windows, I soon lost track of the passage of time. I simply slept where I collapsed. Always, when I awoke, there was a half-loaf of toast on a plate with a selection of toppings arrayed alongside. The toppings included butter, various jellies, marmalade, lemon curd, kippers, cream cheese, peanut butter, and other substances, some of which I did not recognize. The toast was of such quality, however, that as often as not I would eat it plain; it was sufficient unto itself. It was noteworthy toast. Always I would thank the available higher beings, eat my fill, and then resume my wandering. It became a routine. I count this as one of the happiest times of my life.

The seventy-fifth time I woke up in the toaster factory, there was someone with me. Without understanding how, I knew that I found myself in the presence of the God of Toast. I spent some time, perhaps days, with the God of Toast, but I can't remember any of the details. The only thing I remember for certain is hearing the words, "You will remember nothing," spoken from somewhere behind me. An instant later, everything went black.

I awoke in a meadow. I had no way of knowing whether it was the same meadow I had seen through the hole in the stairs, but I had no reason to believe otherwise.

As I sat up and began to get my bearings, the possibility occurred to me that the toaster factory and the God of Toast had all been a dream. But no, the soles of my shoes were inordinately more worn than they had been when I put them on in the morning. It had all been real.

I began to realize that I had not visited a mere toaster factory. No, I had wandered the aisles of the One True Toaster Factory. To this day I am awed and humbled by this honor.

I still wondered who wrote, "Fuck you" in the bathroom, though.

I collected myself and rose to my feet in the meadow. When I did so, I noticed my mysterious glowing orb lying on the ground nearby. I was quite pleased; the orb means a great deal to me. I popped my right pinky finger loose and called the orb to me. It floated up and slid into my digital cavity, and I replaced my finger.

I looked around. I was surrounded by springy turf, relatively flat, with ankle-high, pale green grass. The area was completely featureless, save for a one-story brick building perhaps a half-mile away from me. The sky was completely overcast, but notably fish-free. So either the fish were gone, or I was in an area not affected by whatever was causing them.

I began walking to the building. As I drew nearer, I saw it to be identical to the one I had ducked into to avoid the small dogs back when I was on my way to work. I started circling the building as I approached it, looking for the door that I knew would be there. I found it on the opposite side.

The sign on the door said, "Restricted! Authorized personnel only." I took the knob and tried it. It was unlocked, and I pulled the door open.

I was rather startled to see a solid wall of small dogs of indeterminate breed, oddly silent. The doorway was completely filled with them. There was a groaning sound as the wall of dogs accustomed itself to this new opening. The door frame began to shudder ever so slightly, and I got the hell out of the way.

Mere instants after I had stepped aside, a voluminous cascade of small dogs erupted from the doorway. This went on for several minutes, as thousands upon thousands of dogs came pouring out onto the meadow. Such was the strength of the flow that I was caught up in a ten-foot high wave of dogs and carried a hundred yards away from the building before they started to spread out. Eventually, the flow stopped, the density decreased to about one animal per square foot, and the meadow was carpeted to the horizon with small, quiet dogs.

Shrugging, I stood up and picked my way back to the building. Peering through the door, I was unsurprised to see the street on my way to work where the dogs had first appeared. Instinctively, I knew that it was the same morning, and I still had to go to work. "Typical," I muttered.

I stepped through the door and closed it behind me. Glancing back, I was not surprised to see that it was the same door I had used to escape the dogs in the first place. I was tempted to open the door again and see where it led, but I decided not to.

I was about to continue on my way to work when I noticed one of the small dogs sitting nearby. Immediately, I began looking for others, but there was only the one. On an impulse, I knelt down and held out my hand. Without hesitation, the dog got up and trotted over. We began to make friends, but she (for it was indeed a female) was preoccupied with my right pinky finger. Shrugging, I popped it open. After a sniff or two at the opening, the dog crawled inside. I could feel her pawing around for a bit, and then she lay down and was still.

Figuring she would let me know when she wanted out, I replaced my right pinky finger, stood up, and went on my way.

The sky was still full of fish.

Two other strange things happened to me on my way to work that morning.

The first strange thing was when my shoes vanished. There was no warning; no flash of light or shimmery sound effects. They just stopped being around my feet, and I was left standing on the sidewalk in socks. In a bind, I had to replace my missing footwear with the first shoes I could find. Fortunately, there was a small shop nearby that sold shoes. Unfortunately, it was a costume shop, and the only shoes they had in stock were large novelty duck feet. Still, they were comfortable, and soon I was back on my flappy, web-toed way.

The second strange thing was when I saw a gruff-looking man in a wimple come out of an alley across the street. He was holding a black ball, slightly larger than a softball. It gleamed as though it were made of enameled metal, and there was a green beam of light emanating from it. In far less time that it takes to tell, the man in the wimple trained the green beam on me, which caused a small green circle of light to appear on my chest. Then the man let go of the sphere, which began flying towards me very quickly.

Too late, I realized what was happening: I had been tagged with a dismantler drone. I didn't even have a chance to react. In less than a second, I was going to be separated into my component parts. Which, as you might imagine, is quite fatal.

The drone was within six feet of me when suddenly, a beam of purple light came from somewhere to my left and hit the drone square. There was a sizzling crunch, and an instant later the drone slammed into my chest. Fortunately, the purple beam had reduced it to a handful of black grit. I was knocked back into the gravel lot behind me. The wind was knocked out of me, but I was alive.

As I crouched on hands and knees waiting for my diaphragm to start working again, a man with a head like a guinea pig's stepped up to me. He was carrying a gun of some sort, and regarded me with an expression of concern on his rodent face.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I couldn't talk yet, so I nodded.

"I saw the whole thing. Boy, you're lucky I happened along."

"Who are you?" I croaked.

The man produced a badge. "Name's Porkinson," he said. "I'm with the DDA."

DDA stood for Dismantler Drone Authority. It was a government-funded organization that enforced the dismantler drone laws, of which there are many.

Porkinson helped me to my feet. "I didn't get a good look at the guy who tagged you," he said. "Did you?"

"No," I said. "Which way did he go?"

"He dematerialized," said Porkinson. There would be no point in looking for clues.

The next twenty or so minutes were spent filling out DDA paperwork about the incident. Porkinson, to his credit, didn't make any comments about my duck shoes, so I didn't ask him about his guinea pig head. I was ensured a phone call if there were any developments in the case. I wasn't holding my breath.

Finally, I got back on my way to work, which was now only a few blocks away. Those last few blocks were deliciously uneventful. And then I arrived. My journey to work was at an end. With no small relief, I lowered myself into the entrance hole and made my way into the bowels of the complex.

On the way to my cubicle, I passed Harold, a coworker with whom I was on friendly terms. He seemed a little surprised to see me.

"Hey there, Andrew," he called cheerily when he spotted me. He quickly fell into step beside me. About to issue some benign pleasantry, he glanced downward and stopped short. After a moment, he said, "Uh, what's with the duck shoes?"

"Don't ask," I replied.

Shrugging, Harold moved on to the next item on his conversational itinerary. "So, how about the sky today? Really something, huh?"

"Yes, it is. I suspect Carver is going to have something for us on that front."

Harold rolled his eyes. "Yeah, doesn't he always?" At that point, we reached Harold's cubicle. "Well, listen," he said, pausing in the doorway. "Maybe we could get together for lunch today."

"Sounds good," I said, and continued on, shivers running down my spine.

Soon, I reached my own cubicle and plopped into my chair. The day had hardly started and I was already near worn out. What I needed was coffee. I went to acquire some.

As I was walking back from the break room, I was momentarily puzzled by the stirring I felt in my right pinky finger. Then I remembered the dog. Sitting down in my chair, I popped my finger open. The dog walked out onto the desk, stretched, and yawned. She made a quick survey of the items cluttering the desktop, sniffing here and there, and then sat down unobtrusively next to the phone.

I began to pluck at the contents of my inbox, getting to work at last. Before too long, however, there was a knock at my cubicle entrance. I turned to see Carver standing there.

"Hi there," I said, preparing for the worst.

Carver didn't acknowledge my greeting, but got straight to the point. That was Carver. He wasn't a jerk, exactly. Carver was a queer duck. "I assume you noticed the sky this morning," he said.

"What about it?"

"The fish."

"Oh. That." This was a sort of game that Carver and I played. He would come to me with some urgent problem or project that I already knew about, and I would play dumb. It was our little ritual.

"Yes, that," said Carver, his mouth tightening in irritation. "I'm putting you on the assignment."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Fix it. I don't care how, but I want those fish eradicated. I'm de-prioritizing your current assignments. Management wants this to have your full-time attention."

I sighed. Never mind that my current assignments weren't particularly important or engaging; the point was, they were my assignments, and I'd become attached to them and invested in their eventual completion. "Why me?" I asked. "Isn't it Harold's turn? Or what about Jensen or Wilkins?"

Carver shook his head. "This is too big for Wilkins or Jensen or even Harold. Management instructed me to put my top consultant on the project, and that's you. I'm led to understand that we need to take as few risks as possible on this one."

Nice though such praise might be, I was still far from pleased. I was, however, resigned. "When am I supposed to start?" I asked, again playing dumb. I knew what the answer was already.

"Today," answered Carver. "You'll have an unlimited expense budget. I know I can trust you not to abuse that."

"And what about the time frame?"

"Management's not certain on that, so they simply issued the standard ASAP designation." Carver rolled his eyes at about the same time I rolled mine. "Why they can't conduct a little research of their own on these things is beyond me," he said. "Anyway, you know the drill by now. If you can come up with a time frame and inform me of it, fine. Don't spend too much time on assessment at the expense of the objective, though."

"Spectacular," I drawled.

Carver sighed. "I know I can count on you. Keep in touch." He turned to leave.

"I'll be sure to do that," I said. Carver turned back to me, eyes narrowed. I stared back blandly. After a moment, Carver shook his head and strode briskly off.

"I don't see why you need to go antagonizing him like that," said the dog.

I looked at the dog. The dog looked at me. A moment passed. Then I said, "What?"

The dog stood up and advanced across the desk towards me, sitting at the edge with her front toes overhanging. "I was talking about your coworker Carver," she said. "You needlessly antagonize him. If you don't stop doing so, you may regret it."

I snorted. "No offense, but I don't usually put much stock in talking dogs," I said.

"Scorn my advice at your peril," said the dog sternly.

There isn't much you can say to a remark like that, so I remained silent. After a few moments, the dog spoke again.

"My name is Barbara," she said. "You may address me as 'Barbara.' Under no circumstances will I permit my name to be shortened to 'Barb.' If you do this, I will bite you."

I nodded. "Fair enough."

"I will be accompanying you for the time being. You need not concern yourself with my transportation, however. So it will not be necessary for me to ride in your finger again."

I was about to apologize for that when she interrupted. "There is no need for apologies," she said simply. "I chose to ride in your finger; had I not so chosen, you would not have placed me there."

"Okay," I said.

"Now then," continued Barbara, "I will be assisting you as I see fit from time to time in the task that lies before you. But before that begins, do you have any questions for me?"