Every year, around Christmas time, my family would all get together at my grandparents house. All the kids would be crammed into the basement, the older kids getting first pick on the rooms, and subsequently, who got the beds, and who slept on the floor. Being the baby of the family, both close and extended, I always got stuck sleeping with the other little kids in the dark, cold room that creaked in the night. I could've sworn, back then, that that room was haunted by some sort of metallic nightmare, with it's inhuman shuttering and deep, humming breaths. Now, being what this young me might have called a metallic nightmare myself, the thought of that room doesn't bother me anymore.

We were supposed to be driving up to my grandparents place again this year, just like we always do, even after all this time has passed. Even with the war going on. It's not Christmas without the entire Wilde family holiday get together, after all. The very thought of my grandad's famous turkey dinner was enough to convince even the furthest relatives to make the drive out. With the day of our annual road trip just a few sleeps away, I was unable to keep still for long. For once, everything was going smoothly: the car was out of the shop this year, mum was able to take time off work for the whole trip, nobody was sick, even my little baby brother seemed to sense the excitement in the house and seemed simply joyful at all times of the day. Everything was going smoothly.
I just wanted to see my family again, was that too much to ask?

You'd think that the governments could agree to put the war aside for the Christmas season. The Europeans and the Americans had been butting heads since June, bringing nothing but the pain and anxiety of their own countries upon themselves for months. Neither side had the upper hand, we were all suffering equally as much. You'd think that they could just agree to spend Christmas at home.

Instead, America sent them a little gift.

It was dark outside, cold, when the bomb sirens went off. My dad, bring one of the trained runners, immediately tore through the streets, grabbing the children and women and guiding them to the bunkers. The sound was chaotic, in the way that human and machine wailings wove together into an eerie song of despair. My brother was crying the whole time.

My mum was carrying him down the stairs, with me right on her heels, when the first bomb hit. The force of the explosion shook the house. It must have been close, the ringing in my ears was deafening. We barely had time to recover when the next one hit us, right overhead.

It must have fallen in the garden, the whole front of the house was torn to shreds, ripped away from its foundation in a flurry of sheer force and destruction. The ceiling fell right in front of me, where my mum and brother had been. 

I kept going.

The attack continued.



I was the only one who made it to our designate family bunker. It was cold, it creaked and groaned every time another explosion shook the earth. The plaster on the ceiling rained down from above, filling the dimly lit room with a haunting, snowy filter. 

I missed the haunted room at my grandparents home. 



The explosions stopped an eternity later, as did the noise. I hadn't slept a wink the whole time. The silence was deafening, or perhaps I really had gone deaf. To this day I don't know, it doesn't make a difference now. I'm not that me anymore, they made sure of it.

I don't know who they were, I still don't know now, but the knew how to get into the bunkers. They swooped in, draped in robes of black that were held together by a shell of armour and radiation suits. I daren't move, I barely drew breath as I was scooped up and spirited away. They came for all of the children, they left the adults behind. The cries of all the anguished parents, left there to rot in the wastes of our suburban dream were enough to get us kids crying out for help, to go home. The ones carrying us, they didn't speak once.

We were trained, day and night, for days and weeks and months and years. They took us apart, they built us up again. They swapped parts, they removed parts, they added parts. I began to wonder at what point you stop being considered human and start being considered a machine, we all did. Some of us didn't make it, sometimes they brought new ones in and swapped them with the others. Eventually we began to realize that we were truly a force to be reckoned with.

One day I worked up the courage to ask if we were human anymore. The watcher, as we had all come to call them, looked in my direction, and seemed to smile at me.

"You're not human son, you're better."

That was the first time they'd ever spoken to any of us.

Over the years, we grew ever stronger. The radiation outside no longer affected us. We didn't need to sleep, we didn't need any form of sustenance, we never tired, we were truly self-sustaining machines at that point. Life almost seemed good again, as good as it can be. We'd even begun celebrating the holidays again, decorating our little rooms for Halloween, Easter, valentine's day. I couldn't bring myself to decorate for Christmas though, our tree hadn't been taken down from my last family Christmas yet.

Life was pretty good.

The they sent us out.

For a while, we stuck together, not knowing what they wanted us to do. Was this another test, some of them asked. Nobody knew. Eventually, some of us began to go out to explore. Our numbers dwindled as more and more didn't come back. After a few months, I was alone. So I left too.

It's Christmas again. The cold would be unbearable to younger me, to weak me. I'm not so sensitive anymore, however, and have snore pressing matter to focus on anyhow.

It took me awhile, being alone, to realize why we'd been sent out from our "home", why the others stopped coming back. We had a mission now, that we had to play out. 

They built us to help.

We were built like soldiers, like lethal weapons of war, but we were still human, as we're there still humans out there. They built us to save the survivors.

It's been seven years since the bombs dropped, yet human life prevails, I've discovered this for myself. If you know what to look for, you can find still-occupied bunkers, with their self-sustaining farms and facilities, however meagre they may seem. It's enough for the survivors to last a decade at least, but all things come to an end with time.

I wandered the wastelands, prying open bunkers and telling the survivors of the facility from whence I came. Some chose to stay, others thanked me and began to make the trek east. A few shot at me and chased me away, but I didn't mind. I continued to trudge onwards. I had to keep going, there was something I had to do.

Every year, around Christmas time, my family would all get together at my grandparents house. The older kids got the beds, the younger kids slept on the floor, and we all ate my grandad's famous turkey dinner. We were all warm, and happy, and safe. 

This year, as I walk up the front steps of where my grandparents house used to be, my newfound group of survivors, my family, right behind me, I smile.

"Merry Christmas."