"Air Conditioning" by Joseph Stephen Bonnett

Air Conditioning

by Joseph Stephen Bonnett

Ike shoved the duvet down and huffed.

“What’s your problem?” Dana said.

“It’s so god damn hot.”

“Just go to sleep.” 

“I can’t, this heat is ridiculous.”

The Hawkes Bay summer had come early and hard. Water restrictions were already in place as temperatures soared, and gardens dried out. It was miserable. The whir of a fan rang out, but brought no comfort, just another noise like the drone of flies or mosquitos, summers duo of insufferable bastards.

Ike huffed again. “This fan is rubbish; it’s just pushing hot air around.”

“Get the new one!” Dana said.

“New one?”

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“The one Jim gave us, the prototype, or demo model—whatever he called it. It’s amazing, apparently. And…I asked you three times this afternoon to get it.”

“Bullshit!”

“Three times.”

“Where is it?”

“Basement…big white box. Three times Ike!”

“Yea yea,” he muttered as he got out of bed. He shuffled down the hallway past Jim’s old room, their son, now in his twenties and working in product development for some sustainable appliance manufacturer. Ike remembered now, Jim had brought a box over a couple of weeks back, in fact, Ike had helped Jim carry it. Woops.

Ike descended the stairs into the dark basement. He hadn’t replaced the long-broken lightbulb. How many times had Dana asked him to change it? The box was easy enough to find though, the bright white, unbranded cardboard almost glowing in the dark.

He placed a hand either side of the large box and went to lift it but could barely get it off the ground. He squatted, slipped his fingers underneath, and grunted as he stood with a hunched frame.

He struggled his way up the stairs with his back against the balustrade and then felt himself sagging as he navigated back to the bedroom.

“What the hell is this thing made off?” He asked Dana, who didn’t reply.

He placed the box down and got back into bed. “There,” he said, “I got it, you set it up.”

“Fine,” Dana said.

Dana tinkered away, and soon the sounds of ripping carboard and rustling plastic gave way to the drone of some seriously high-powered air conditioning. Ike felt the temperature drop instantly and soon fell back asleep.

Ike woke to someone coughing. The room had gone quiet. What happened to the fan? But then Dana cleared her throat, a wet, and nauseating sound, and the breeze kicked back in.

“You alright?” Ike asked, “You sound terrible.”

“What?” Dana replied.

“You sound terrible, your cough?”

“I didn’t cough.”

“Huh, I—” 

“It’s still hot,” Dana interrupted. “Fan, activate mist mode.”

“Wait…its voice activated? And has a mist mode?” Ike asked.

The fan sound changed to something like the wet sputtering of a garden sprinkler. Ike felt spray rain down on his face. It was wonderfully cooling, but there was a faint unpleasant smell, a bit like rotting meat.

“This is some fan,” Ike said, “but the beds getting wet. Sprinkler mode? it’s too much.”

“Sprinkler off,” Dana said, and the mist stopped.

Dana stood and left, presumably to use the bathroom. Ike felt the air-stream resume, but it was too gentle. He hadn’t heard Dana plug anything in, and he wondered if it could operate on batteries; maybe they were running out, they always put shitty ones in the box, right? He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. 

“More power,” he yelled, but nothing happened.

“Fan…I said more power.”

The fan stuttered with a breathy grunt-like sound, and the breeze amplified.

“Maximum power,” Ike yelled. 

The fan obliged. Sheets flapped, and the framed picture above the bed banged against the wall.

“Damn…that’s powerful,” he said aloud, “my boy is some engineer.”

Someone coughed, the same wet gurgling splutter as the one he had heard earlier, but longer; it made Ike want to puke. He bolted up to a sitting position. Through the door, and just down the hall, the bathroom door was closed, light beaming out underneath. Not Dana coughing. He turned to the right and saw where it had come from. The thing in the corner was choking, it had pushed its limits beyond max power and was struggling to settle itself. Typical prototype stuff, still working out the kinks. Ike’s heart contemplated exploding as he observed the form. Four feet tall, stubby, grey, and mottled legs, but sturdy—holding up a blobby amorphous torso with no arms, just little stubs that weakly wiggled as its chest heaved and wheezed. The face—the output source of that magnificently cool air—was reminiscent of a monstrous puppet, rubbery, layered, folding around an unnaturally wide mouth (now with 35% more output later models would claim), and a protruding slab of a tongue that could lick the paint of a wall. Its sunken red eyes wept as it kept choking. Ike noticed its head was stuck in oscillation mode, folds of grey neck skin bunched up as it swivelled. A huge globule of spit ran down its chin and Ike thought of mist mode; enough to shake Ike into a disgust induced rage. 

He jumped off the bed and charged, taking it down easily with his bigger frame. He reigned fists down on its ugly fucking face, just pounding and pounding. His knuckles dented the mushy grey flesh and easily busted fragile bones. They don’t make things like they used to, he thought as mucous coloured fluid spurted everywhere.

The thing went limp. Ike stood and looked down at his mess. Not the first appliance he had busted up for not working properly, but this one…was alive. Was.

Dana walked in. “What the hell is wrong with you?” 

Ike stood, mute—breathing heavily.

“That was state of the art technology, entirely biodegradable, low energy consumption, you barely even have to feed them. Jim said it takes an age to grow them.”

“What the…” is all Jim managed.

“Oh well,” Dana said. “Better get the new steam mop Jim gave us, it’s in the basement.”