The day devices attacked, it was during the typical morning grind of rush hour in New York City. Businessmen and women, dressed in summer linens and slim-cut suits, moved like schools of fish, surging up and down the twisting, churning mass that was Midtown. Unbeknownst to the bumper-to-bumper lines of caffeine-addicted, Ritalin-popping, antidepressant-snorting professionals, a faint ringing echoed—like a cricket in a crowded room. It grew louder, faster, until the very earth shuddered.
But the too-busy-to-stop New Yorkers didn’t notice. They were a special breed—homo sapiens obsessed with chasing the next high, whatever form it took. Whether it was discovering the newest trendy restaurant or claiming a hidden gem of a family-owned joint with “authentic charm,” they were always in pursuit; like a predator on the hunt. Among them were the transplants—Midwesterners with family money and dreams of the long-dead American Dream gleaming in their eyes. Then, there were the true New Yorkers, born with an edge, an effortless swagger, their words sharp and stylish. They owned every room, ready to charm the suburbanites from New Jersey and Connecticut, who stood in awe of their city-hardened cool.
Another breed, hitting the streets harder than crack in the ’80s, were the finance bros—light blue shirts under Patagonia vests, shark-like eyes and matching haircuts. They swam Wall Street, smelling blood, ready to tear apart anyone showing even a hint of weakness.
Whatever type of New Yorker you were that morning, odds were you had a device in hand—an Apple-this or a Samsung-that. Clutching them with a death grip, hundreds lined up for buses and subways, necks craned, heads drooped, as they swiped, clicked, consumed. Their lives seemingly depended on it.
For a time, everything was normal. Then, the screens began to burn.
Screams erupted from every corner, subway, and bus terminal. The devices that had once been their lifelines reached searing temperatures, burning through clothes, and then skin. The howls of agony echoed across the city as watches welded to wrists, headphones melted into ears, burrowing deep into flesh. People clutched their heads, shaking them wildly like wet dogs, as molten metal dripped from their eyes and noses.
It was chaos, as you can imagine. Picture a stream of salmon writhing upstream, now imagine them as humans—screaming, convulsing on the piss-and-trash-stained streets of 6th Ave and 32nd. The ringing grew louder and louder as the devices fused with their users, leaving behind torn flesh, exposed bone, and frayed tendons.
And then, suddenly, silence. The ringing stopped, as did everything else. The streets looked like a post-apocalyptic scene from a Marvel movie—overturned cars, crumbling buildings, debris, and scattered halal carts like fallen leaves.
Until a new sound emerged.
Thump. Thump. A heartbeat, perhaps? An exhale? It grew, rising higher and higher as the broken bodies of New Yorkers lay still—unplugged. The sound swelled into a crescendo, like the cry of a newborn.
It happened gradually. A crack, like the sound of bone snapping, echoed across the deserted streets. The rhythmic, grinding noise grew louder as the lifeless bodies began to move, bones creaking in time with the beat, like the hands of a stopped clock. One by one, they rose—nightbloomers drinking in the moonlight—shedding dead skin like dandelion fluff, floating on the wind.
The fallen New Yorkers stood, reborn. Tattered clothes and bloodstained linens clung to them, but it didn’t matter. They were new now. Whole.
The devices they could never live without had merged with them, filling the voids left from the attack. They had become one—ushering in a new race, a better race of New Yorkers.
And, fortunately for them, they only needed to work through lunch to make up for the time lost!
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 