Extreme Makeover

by Dan Wells

  “How can you even think about doing this?” asked the man. “ReBirth may have some bad uses, but it is still the greatest medical breakthrough in the history of our species. We can cure cancer with this—we can live forever. You are shutting the door on our very future.”

  Moore eyed the man carefully. There’s something wrong with him, he thought. That’s not a journalist’s question. He wore a brown hat and had long hair that obscured his face. Moore glanced to the side of the stage, locked eyes with one of the security team, and nodded almost imperceptibly toward the suspicious man. The guard faded back into the rear halls immediately, speaking into his wrist. Moore looked back at the man in the audience.

  “We are restricting ReBirth the same way we would choose to restrict any technology of similar power,” said Moore. “X-rays are an invaluable tool for doctors and dentists, but that doesn’t mean we let just anyone play around with them. We have to have rules, or the world falls into chaos.”

  “And is it not chaos that you threaten with this announcement?” asked the man. He stepped forward, walking slowly toward the stage. Moore’s mental alarms clanged wildly, and out of nowhere a swarm of black-suited security guards surrounded the man on all sides. Their weapons weren’t drawn; they were waiting for the man to make a move. He stopped and smiled benignly.

  “You think I’m here to harm you,” he said, and shook his head. He pulled off his hat, and with it a wig, exposing softer, browner hair underneath.

  I know him, thought Moore, I just can’t put a name to it …

  “I am not here to bring death,” said the man, “but life, for I am life—the energy of the universe made form and flesh.” He took off his glasses; his name was on the tip of Moore’s tongue. “It is ReBirth that has saved me,” said the man, “and so it will save us all.” The shock of recognition hit Moore like a speeding truck.

  “Kuvam,” he whispered.

  The guru dropped his costume and raised his arms, turning slowly so the full crowd—and every camera—could see him plainly.

  “Behold!” he shouted. “I am Lazarus, risen from the dead. I am Siddhartha, Elijah, and the phoenix in his ashes. I am the sun that sets and the sun that rises again.

  “I am the new day.”

  35

  Thursday, July 12

  9:51 A.M.

  An unknown safe house, Brooklyn

  155 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

  “They’re taking it all for themselves,” said Susan, seething with rage. “Did you hear what he said on TV? Not ‘destroy your lotion’ but ‘give your lotion to us.’ They’re stockpiling it!”

  “At least they’re getting it off the streets,” said Larry. “That’s good, right?”

  “That’s terrible,” said Tony/Cynthia. “I still need to get out of this body.”

  “Getting it off the streets doesn’t count if all they do is put it somewhere else,” said Susan. “It needs to be destroyed, and that’s never going to happen if the most powerful government in the world holds a massive depot of it! Can you even imagine what the CIA could do with that stuff? The NSA? It’s not a beauty product or a biological weapon, it’s the greatest tool of espionage the world has ever seen. They could replace anyone who speaks out against them—they could replace foreign leaders.” She kicked the tray table her breakfast was sitting on, scattering it across the room. “What’s going on? This makes me so angry!”

  “Getting angry doesn’t solve problems,” said Larry. “Acting on anger solves problems.”

  “You’re right,” said Susan. “We need to act. We need to protest. NewYew has bigger problems now than trying to kill us, so let’s go public—let’s picket the steps of City Hall—”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Larry. “There are activists all over the place already, and nobody is listening, and three more voices isn’t going to make any difference. It’s time we stop shouting and really get their attention.”

  “Okay,” said Susan. “I’m listening. What do you have in mind?”

  “They’re dismantling the bottling plants tomorrow,” said Larry, “but you know where those plants are. Is there one we can hit?”

  “Hit?” asked Susan.

  “Hit,” said Larry. “Shoot at. Blow up. Is there a ReBirth plant we can get to before the government does, and destroy all the lotion before they take it?”

  “Whoa,” said Tony/Cynthia. “That’s a big step up from a picket line.”

  “Yep.” Susan nodded, trying to convince herself that this was a good idea. She knew something needed to be done, but to actually blow something up? “It’s just like … spiking a tree,” she said.

  “Exactly,” said Larry.

  “We’re not actually hurting anyone,” she said. “We’re just … creating a situation in which, if they do something wrong—like try to take a bunch of lotion—they’ll hurt themselves.”

  “Exactly,” said Larry. “I know some guys who work with explosives—”

  “What guys?” asked Susan. “Like, terrorists or something? I don’t want to work with terrorists.”

  “Susan,” said Larry, “we’re going to blow up a building.”

  Susan nodded again, then looked at Tony/Cynthia.

  “Well,” said Tony/Cynthia. “Are we serious, or are we serious?”

  “Okay,” said Susan. “Call your guys. Let’s do this.”

  36

  Friday, July 13

  11:02 A.M.

  NewYew manufacturing facility, Upstate New York

  154 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

  The NewYew manufacturing plant was in a low valley in Upstate New York, surrounded by trees and little else. Susan adjusted her grip on the binoculars, watching the men in the factory yard as they loaded barrel after barrel of ReBirth onto a fleet of trucks. American soldiers, armed and alert. She thumbed the button on her walkie-talkie. “I don’t feel good about this.”

  Larry’s voice came back, tinny and faint through the scrambled signal. “What do you feel worse about: attacking soldiers, or giving the government several thousand gallons of blank ReBirth?”

  Susan grimaced, and thumbed the radio again. “This is treason.”

  “What do you feel worse about?” Larry repeated. “Treason, or giving the government several thousand gallons of blank ReBirth?”

  “Fine,” said Susan. “But we can do this without hurting anyone, right?”

  “Not hurting anyone would have been a lot easier if we’d gotten here last night,” said Tony/Cynthia, speaking through a third radio. He and Larry were on the far side of the factory complex, hidden behind a low rise with five of Larry’s “contacts.” “We could have blown the whole factory before the soldiers even showed up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Larry, “maybe we should have let you mobilize and arm a makeshift terrorist cell in eight hours.”

  “It’s been twenty-four hours,” said Tony/Cynthia.

  “Yeah, I needed some extra time to find, purchase, and assemble two exceptionally illegal explosive devices,” said Larry. “I apologize that ‘accomplishing important objectives’ is a real-world activity that takes actual time to perform.”

  “Stop arguing,” said Susan. “How soon are we ready?”

  “Three minutes,” said Larry. “You’ve got the phone to trigger bomb one?”

  “Right here.” Susan held it up with her free hand: a little prepaid flip phone that couldn’t be traced to any of their names. “What’s this one going to blow up?”

  “The generator by the back fence,” said Larry. “One of my guys just placed it.”

  Susan picked up her binoculars again and looked for the generator—it was a hundred yards away from the trucks. She thumbed the walkie-talkie again. “How big is this explosion going to be? That won’t hit any of the lotion from there.”

  “That one’s not supposed to hit the lotion,” said Larry, “that’s our distraction: you blow the generator, the soldiers all look at it, and we pop up behind them. Then we lovin
gly yet firmly convince them to lay down their weapons, and we blow up the trucks with bomb two.”

  “Does ‘lovingly yet firmly’ involve shooting them?” asked Susan. “I really don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “That’s why you’re blowing up the generator,” said Tony/Cynthia. “There’s nobody anywhere near it.”

  “But what about you guys?” asked Susan. “And that America’s Most Wanted greatest hits compilation you’ve got with you?”

  “If you’re not ready for this, tell us now,” said Larry. “We’re about to do something that we can’t do halfway: either this is important enough to warrant attacking our own government, in which case some soldiers are bound to get in the way sooner or later, or else this isn’t important enough and we walk away now. There’s no middle ground.”

  Susan shook her head, watching the soldiers through her binoculars. Was she ready for this? Those men had families. They had names.

  And if they took this ReBirth, innocent people might lose their names and their faces and everything else.

  Susan opened the flip phone, and held her finger over the button. “I’m in. Just … don’t hurt anyone unless you have to.”

  “Bomb two is ready,” said Larry. “Everyone check in.”

  “Ready,” said Tony/Cynthia.

  “Ready,” said Susan.

  “My men are ready, too,” said Larry. “Give us a countdown and blow the generators.”

  “All right, then,” said Susan. “Let’s betray our country. Three, two, one.” She pressed the button, and listened as the phone beeped softly.

  Nothing exploded.

  “You’re supposed to push the button at the end of the countdown,” said Larry.

  “I did!”

  “They’re closing the trucks,” said Tony/Cynthia. “We’ve got to do something.”

  “Call the bomb again,” said Larry. “Maybe it just hasn’t gone through yet.”

  “I’ve called it twice,” said Susan, her fingers stabbing madly at the flip phone’s keypad. “It won’t connect—what kind of useless cell plan did you buy that doesn’t have service in the only place we actually need the phone to work!”

  “Stop shouting!” said Larry. “They’re going to hear us!”

  “They started one of the trucks,” said Tony/Cynthia. “They’re getting away!”

  “Do something,” said Susan.

  “Do what?” demanded Larry.

  “I don’t know!” said Susan. “Just … something!”

  She heard a shot, and looked up in shock.

  Seconds later it seemed like the entire factory yard was filled with gunfire. Susan dropped her radio and flip phone and grabbed her binoculars. Her heart was beating so fast her hands felt numb. She scanned the yard from her position in the trees, seeing Larry and his men locked in a firefight with the soldiers. Some of the soldiers were already lifeless on the ground, their friends dragging them to cover.

  One of the trucks started moving, and then another. They’re getting away, thought Susan. Larry’s team was pinned down by the soldiers, and the army was sure to get at least three trucks onto the road, if not all four. I have to do something. Susan grimaced, screaming silently in her head, and then got up and ran.

  The factory yard was a mess of cars and bodies and rubble. Susan hadn’t been counting how many soldiers were dead, but she knew it couldn’t be many—most of them would still be up and shooting. Someone fired a burst into the windshield of one of the trucks, and it swerved wildly; the attack was slowing them down, certainly, but it wasn’t going to stop them. Susan patted the cell phone in her pocket and ran the other way, toward the generator and the useless bomb. It wasn’t big, but it was the only weapon she had.

  She found the brick of C-4 tucked into the space between two fuel tanks for the big gas generator. She didn’t know much about bombs, but she probed the connections with her finger, and everything seemed secure. The pins were pressed snugly into the C-4, the detonator was plugged in, the cell phone was attached to the detonator … and turned off. She snarled a curse at whatever idiot had placed the bomb, and reached for the button to turn it on—and stopped. The call hadn’t gone through, but the phone would register a missed call as soon as it powered up, and even that small signal would trigger the explosion. She stared at the phone, her finger hovering over the power button. There was no way to trigger it remotely anymore.

  We’ve already started this, she thought. We can’t stop now. She stood up, gripped the bomb in one hand, and ran.

  The firefight was forty yards away, the soldiers surrounded by a ring of black SUVs. Some of the trucks were still working their way toward the main road, but the main group of soldiers was crouched in the middle of the ring, covering the trucks as they made their escape. As long as they don’t turn around and see me—

  —a shot went past Susan’s ear, and she lowered her head and kept running. They saw me. Thirty yards. Another shot, and then another. She took a risk and pressed the power button on the phone, holding it tightly while the phone came slowly to life. Two more shots. Twenty yards. Another shot. The phone lit up, power coursing through its circuits, and Susan clenched her teeth, praying that she had just a few more seconds before it booted up enough to received any kind of a signal. Two more shots, and a sharp sting in her leg. She staggered, lost her footing, and as she fell she hurled the bomb forward over the top of a black SUV. Halfway through its flight the phone chirped loudly, singing a jaunty marimba as it arced down into the center of the enemy, and exploded.

  Susan hit the ground hard and covered her head, deafened by the roar of the fireball and seared by the sudden heat. The SUV took most of the force of the blast and she gasped for air, reeling even from the cushioned shock. Her ears rang, the world eerily silent, and her eyes were too blurry to see. She forced herself to stand up, to keep going; the enemy would be shocked, like she was, but they might not be dead yet. She stumbled over a fallen soldier and picked up his weapon, limping around the shattered SUV, seeing a soldier reach out toward his rifle. She fired as she walked, blasting anything that moved and pumping to reload—boom, ke-chak, boom, ke-chak, boom. Three trucks pulled toward the gate, slowly gaining speed, but thanks to her bomb the tattered remains of Larry’s team were now free to move, and they charged out from their gully, pelting the trucks with bullets. The first truck veered sharply to the right, nearly colliding with the other, but the second truck sped up and pulled ahead just in time. Larry jumped in front of the third truck, killing the engine block with a burst from his rifle, and the fourth truck slammed into it, jackknifing itself and slowly tipping as its own momentum pulled it in the wrong direction. The second truck roared through the hail of gunfire and burst through the gate, escaping onto the main road just as the fourth truck finally passed its balance point and tipped over. The barrels crashed down, a tidal wave of ReBirth exploding out as they hit the ground and burst open. Susan fired at the escaping truck, but it was too far away; it turned a corner and disappeared.

  Susan blew out a slow breath and walked toward the final upright truck, skirting the pool of lotion on the ground. Larry and his men were rounding up the survivors, and she approached one who seemed to be the leader, kneeling on the ground with his thumbs zip-tied behind his head. He looked at her venomously.

  “You’ll never be able to sell this stuff,” he said, “it’s garbage. All the good stuff was already gone.”

  “We’ve got two trucks of ReBirth here,” said Susan. “Three if the stuff on the ground is salvageable. Is any of it blank?”

  The man laughed, shaking his head. “You don’t even know what batch this is? It’s not blank, it’s not a supermodel, it’s not an athlete, it’s not even a celebrity.” He laughed again, wild and desperate. “It’s the first batch—the accident.”

  “He’s lying,” said Larry.

  “Of course he is!” Susan shouted. She took another step toward him. “You wouldn’t have fought so hard to keep it if it was useless.”


  “We were trying to destroy it,” said the agent. “Do you know what will…?” He went quiet. Closing his mouth tightly.

  “What will what?” asked Susan. “Do I know what will what?”

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  Ke-chak. Susan held the shotgun just a few feet from his face.

  “You’re a lot more hardcore than I realized,” said Tony/Cynthia.

  “Listen,” said Susan, stepping closer to the agent. “I’m in this all the way now. I’ve killed so many American soldiers today I’ve lost track—one more or less isn’t going to change anything if they catch me. So you tell me why you risked your lives to destroy four truckloads of useless lotion, or I’ll move my magic finger and make your head disappear.”

  The agent stared back, eyes cold as iron. “You just fought and died and murdered for four truckloads of Lyle Fontanelle.”

  Susan frowned. “It’s all Lyle?”

  “This is the accident batch. He imprinted it before they knew how it worked.”

  “Hooray!” said Tony, running to the pool and thrusting in his hand. “I’m a llama again!”

  “You want to be Lyle?” asked Larry. “He’s a wanted criminal.”

  “I don’t care who I am,” said Tony, grabbing his crotch, “as long I get little Tony back.”

  “If that lotion gets out…,” said Susan. He paused. “Tony might be the only person in the world who’s happy to be Lyle.” She paused, her mind racing. “The black market for ReBirth is already growing, government crackdown or not. But if that market were suddenly flooded with lotion that nobody wanted, and no one could tell the difference—”

  “Then no one would trust the lotion anymore,” said Larry. “They’d stop using it completely, because the only alternative is to turn into Lyle.”

  “Lesson learned,” said Susan. “Problem solved. We’ll have a few extra Lyles running around, but no one will ever use ReBirth again. People will destroy every bottle of it they can find.”

  “You’re insane,” said the agent, “you can’t do—”