Extreme Makeover

by Dan Wells

  “Keep a low profile,” said the general. “We don’t want to attract any attention.”

  “Then we should drop the half-dead body,” said Cynthia.

  “Maybe people will think it’s an all-dead body and get scared away,” said Lilly. Her voice was shaky, Lyle noticed, but her eyes were grim and determined.

  They walked quickly, trying to look purposeful rather than scared. It was nearly seven now—not late, but it was December and the sky was already pitch black. With power out in so much of the city the buildings had become tall, dark monoliths that blocked out the stars. Lyle felt like a rat in the bottom of a deep black maze, scurrying through the narrow tunnels and hoping none of the bigger rats tried to eat him.

  Blauwitz led them over a block to Third, to put some distance between them and the mob, and then cut south down the long avenue. A hospital on Thirty-Second was still running on on-site power, and looked to have crowd outside, so they turned on Thirty-Third to avoid it. Here and there they passed other shapes in the darkness, running and hiding as furtively as they were. They traveled south again on Fourth, and the general quickened their pace.

  “The Armory’s just down here,” he said, peering ahead. “We might be able to get some help there; a vehicle if we’re lucky, reinforcements at the very least.”

  “There’s not enough room on the yacht for that many,” said Cynthia. “We have to get the delegates off, and we can’t risk a mutiny of desperate soldiers.”

  “American soldiers don’t mutiny,” said the general, but as they neared the Armory they found it dark and abandoned, the doors chained and the windows barred. “I don’t understand,” he said, rattling the front door. “They should be here.”

  “Let’s at least rest,” said Lilly. “We’ve come almost twenty blocks, and some of us don’t have shoes.”

  “Then loot something,” said Cynthia. “I’m not dying for your feet.”

  “Listen,” said Mexico, holding a finger in the air. They paused, holding their breath, and Lyle could hear it, too—another giant crowd, somewhere nearby, chanting something.

  “Just a couple of blocks away,” said the general.

  “Madison Square Park,” said China. He shrugged. “Maybe they’re in line at the Shake Shack.”

  “Or murdering the Sixty-Ninth Regiment,” said the general. He started jogging west. “Let’s go.”

  “Are you crazy?” asked Cynthia. “We’re not going toward it.”

  “There might be someone in danger,” said the general.

  “That’s exactly my point.”

  “This mob’s not looking for us, so we can at least take a peek,” Blauwitz called back over his shoulder. “I’m not letting them hurt any more soldiers.”

  They hurried to catch up, Lilly hanging back farther and farther as her bare feet grew more sore. They could see the lights now, giant bonfires in the park that cast massive, dancing shadows on the buildings around them. The chanting grew louder, though they couldn’t tell what the crowd was saying. A single voice with a megaphone was shouting something wild and incendiary in the middle of it all, but Lyle couldn’t understand him, either. “Can anyone hear what they’re saying?”

  “It sounds like ‘the bomb,’” said Samoa.

  “They’re saying ‘Kuvam,’” said Lilly. “It’s a cult meeting.”

  The general paused, halfway to Madison Avenue, listening carefully. After a moment he turned and led them back to Fifth. “We’ll skirt the edges,” he said. “If it’s Kuvam’s people they’re probably not violent, but we don’t want to push it.” They went south again, two more streets to Twenty-Fifth, and saw for the first time the sheer size of the crowd. Lyle gasped. Ahead of them was Madison Square, at one of those massive New York intersections between two normal streets and the sharp diagonal of Broadway, and the cultists had converted the entire thing to an open-air temple. Bonfires covered the ground, lanterns and banners waved from the nearby buildings, and in the midst of it all were Lyles—hundreds of Lyles, thousands of Lyles, standing and bowing and perching on fences and clinging to windowsills and chanting, all of them chanting, the same words over and over: “Kuvam,” and “ReBirth,” and “All is light.” The buildings glowed orange in the flames, and Kuvam himself—reborn like the Phoenix—stood on a bus and preached the gospel of eternal life.

  “We’re going around,” said Cynthia stiffly.

  “There’s no soldiers in there,” said Blauwitz. “Not in the center or on the perimeter or anywhere. Not in uniform, anyway.”

  “I never knew there were so many,” said Samoa. “I mean, I knew, but I … I had no idea.”

  “We go around,” said Cynthia again. Her voice was equal parts steel and terror. “Four more streets, eight more streets, however many it takes to never see them again. Down and around and across to the river.” She moved away, and the others followed, but Lyle stayed rooted in place, staring at the chanting Lyles. It was … he didn’t know. He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see Lilly’s wide eyes staring into his.

  Her voice was soft. “What is it?”

  “I’m thinking about…” He trailed off, and turned back to face them. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands, moving and chanting in unison. “They’re happy. They love what they’re doing. They’ve found something they love, and they’re ready to give their lives for it.”

  “Do you want to join them?”

  He turned again to look at her, shaking his head. “No, I don’t. That’s the weird thing. They’re all me, and they’re all happy, but I … I don’t want to be a part of it. I wish I did—I wish I had anything in my life that I loved that much. But I don’t. And if they’re me, then…” He gave up talking, and simply watched them.

  “Come on.” She turned and walked away, pulling him gently with her hand, and he followed her into the darkness.

  59

  Tuesday, December 11

  12:21 A.M.

  The Hudson River

  3 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

  The Mummer’s Hoard bobbed gently in the water, far from either shore, while the refugees wrapped themselves in blankets and stared at the fallen city, trying to decide where to go next. Pitch-black buildings surrounded them, illuminated here and there by headlights and private generators and dull orange fires. The sky was gray with stars.

  “We can’t go to Virginia,” said Mexico. “Or I suppose we could, but we’re not going to find anything there.”

  “Just because they didn’t come for us doesn’t mean they’re gone,” said Russia. “Maybe they couldn’t send the helicopters—or maybe they sent them, but they arrived too late. We don’t know.”

  “We should go to Washington,” said Lilly. “We can get there by boat, right? The big … Potomac River and everything.”

  “It’s too long and too dangerous,” said Blauwitz. “There’s a thousand wrong turns once we start up the Chesapeake Bay, and if they’re as dark as this we’d never find the right one—and the wrong one could just take us to another mob. Better to try for Norfolk: it’s a straight shot down the coast, and if there’s any significant base of military power it will be there.”

  “Then why didn’t they come for us?” demanded China. “Military power that abandons its politicians is not the kind of power we want to run to.”

  “If it’s a choice between military and mob I choose the military,” said Samoa.

  “And if you had a third choice?” asked Lilly.

  “I’d leave everything,” said Samoa. “Down the coast to Florida, and then out to the Bahamas, the Caicos, the West Indies. Find a place untouched by the troubles and wait there for as long as it takes.”

  “Those islands will have their own mobs,” said China, “just like everywhere else.”

  Mexico looked at China sternly. “If you don’t like the islands and you don’t like Virginia, where do you want to go?”

  China shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. Home. It won’t be any better there, I know, but … it’s home.”


  “The power we need to be running to isn’t military or political,” said Lyle, “it’s scientific. What we need right now is clean water and uncontaminated food, and ideally an ongoing source of both.” He shivered in the night air. “And shelter.”

  “That’s easy enough to say,” said Blauwitz, “but where are we going to find it? The best place to be right now is some wing nut survivalist’s bomb shelter in the Arizona desert, but we can’t exactly get there in a yacht.”

  Lyle smiled, suddenly and eagerly, and pointed an excited finger at Blauwitz. “A bomb shelter! That’s exactly where we need to go, and I know just the one.”

  “You have a lot of wing nut survivalist friends on the Jersey Shore?” asked Cynthia.

  “The Plum Island Animal Disease Center,” said Lyle. “It’s like a mini-CDC off the eastern tip of Long Island. Government run, fiercely paranoid, and completely sealed and self-sustaining. They even have a recirculated water system.”

  Mexico shook his head. “You told us the retrovirus couldn’t be filtered out by purifiers.”

  “It can’t,” said Lyle, “but this is better than a purifier—it’s a closed system. Water on the island gets used, cleaned, and used again. Outside water never even enters the cycle, so unless we do something stupid to contaminate it, it will never be touched.”

  “That’s ideal,” said Samoa.

  “It’s closed to outsiders, obviously,” said Lyle, “but I’m sure the general could get us in.”

  “That takes us farther from Virginia,” said Cynthia.

  “Not by much, though,” said Mexico, “relatively speaking.”

  “They’ll have gas so we can refuel,” said Lyle, “and if there’s any way of getting a message to whatever world leaders are left, they’ll have the facilities to do it.”

  “I like it,” said Samoa, and smiled slyly. “Not a tropical island, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  “I suppose it’s as good as anywhere else,” said China.

  “Our best bet is to go south around Manhattan and then up the East River to Long Island Sound,” said Blauwitz. “That’s close, but still a few hours, and it’s already after midnight. I can steer us well enough through the little channels while the rest of you sleep, but when we hit open water we’ll need Cynthia to take over.”

  Cynthia smirked. “People who own yachts own people to sail them. I don’t know how to do it.”

  “I don’t think ‘own’ is the word you were looking for,” said Lyle.

  “I can sail,” said Lilly. The others looked at her in surprise, and she shrugged. “I did a Henri Lloyd shoot, and the guy who owned the boat wanted to show off.”

  Cynthia stood up and turned to the cabin stairs. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me when we get there, or when we’re boarded by mutant pirates. Whichever comes first.” She disappeared belowdecks, and the others looked at each other.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said Mexico, nodding toward his rifle. “If we get boarded by mutants I want to see them coming.”

  “We’ll be fine,” said Blauwitz. “Everyone else in a boat is doing the same thing we are: running as far as they can. Let’s just hope we’re all running in different directions.”

  Lyle followed Lilly to the helm, where she poked around the controls a bit to familiarize herself. The yacht had a sail, currently stowed, plus an onboard prop and a GPS. She fired up the motor and Lyle looked outside nervously, scanning the darkness for any trouble the sudden noise might have attracted, but there was nobody around them in any direction.

  “We won’t need the sails,” said Lilly. “It’s easier this way.” Outside, the delegates huddled together for warmth, watching for trouble, and when the general came in to take the first turn at the helm Lyle and Lilly did the same, wrapping their blanket around both their shoulders to maximize their body heat. Lyle smiled apologetically.

  “This isn’t normally how I treat the company secretaries.”

  “Shut up and put your arm around me,” said Lilly, pressing closer. “I’d rather be warm than politically correct.”

  Lyle pulled her tightly against his side, and they watched the dying city slide by through the windows. “This isn’t how I thought it would end.”

  “Who said it’s over?”

  “Observational evidence,” said Lyle, but paused and shook his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be such a pessimist. The world isn’t over ’til we give up on it.”

  “Just so you know,” said Lilly, “you’re not the kind of world-destroying mad scientist I was expecting when they told me you were coming to the UN.”

  “It’s never the ones you expect,” said Lyle. “Scientists are like serial killers that way.” He pursed his lips. “Sorry, that was a really bad joke.”

  Lilly watched the city quietly for a moment, then spoke again. “Do you feel responsible?”

  Lyle frowned. “Of course I feel bad—”

  “I didn’t ask if you felt bad, I asked if you felt responsible.”

  “That’s a very tricky question.”

  “That’s the best kind.”

  Lyle tried to answer, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  The boat moved south past Jersey City, curved around the Battery, then trekked up past Brooklyn, past the bridges, past the burning remains of the United Nations. Lilly fell asleep on his shoulder, and Lyle watched quietly as his life slid away in the darkness: Roosevelt Island, Rikers Island, his home in Flushing, all the landmarks of who he was and where he came from and what he thought he meant. All the things that had stood in place of meaning. The boat left the river and turned north into the wider bays, passed the parks and promontories that loomed up on either side before fading away into nothing. The next time he looked up he found the general under his arm and Lilly steering the ship. It took him a few minutes to shake off the impression that each one had transformed into the other.

  The boat was slowing, bobbing more noticeably in the water, which is probably what woke him up. “How long was I asleep?”

  “Just a few hours,” said Lilly, and pointed ahead. “I think this is it.”

  “Is this where the GPS said to go?”

  “Yes,” said Lilly, “but it just went crazy.”

  “Then this is it,” said Lyle. “The government doesn’t like satellites looking at its secret labs.” He shook the general awake, and together they walked to the window to look out at the complex before them. Plum Island had a small dock, with prominent signs and buoys restricting public access. As they drew closer a voice on a megaphone told them sternly to clear the area, and General Blauwitz argued for nearly ten minutes in his attempt to pull rank. Even then, the argument only ended with Blauwitz calling their bluff and steering the boat toward the dock. The guard didn’t shoot, but he greeted them with a loaded rifle.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “There’s a lot of things that shouldn’t be,” said Blauwitz. “We have a wounded man and three UN delegates; I outrank everybody on this island and I’m commandeering it as a safe haven.”

  “This is a research lab specializing in contagious plagues,” the soldier insisted. “You are bringing contaminants into a clean facility, and you risk taking even worse ones with you.”

  “Then tell us what we can’t touch,” said the general, “and we won’t.”

  “The entire island.”

  “Redefine your bubble of personal space,” said Blauwitz, stepping out onto the dock. “We’re staying, and you’re under my command now. Dr. Fontanelle, tie up the boat while the sergeant here shows us to our rooms.”

  The soldier continued to protest, but Blauwitz could not be swayed, and Cynthia, once she entered the argument, was a force of terrifying will the guard was completely unprepared to deal with. The group of refugees followed him into one of the buildings, Samoa carrying the assistant with the broken ankle, and they huddled around the space heater while the soldier called his superiors.

  “You have a working phone line?” a
sked Cynthia. “Call Washington immediately.”

  “I’m calling the other side of the island,” said the soldier. “We haven’t been able to reach anybody outside in hours.” Whomever he was calling must have picked up, for he turned his attention abruptly back to the phone and spent the next several minutes nodding and saying “I told them that” over and over. Finally Blauwitz wrenched the phone from his hand, yelled into it for a minute, and hung up.

  “They’re coming to pick us up. This is just the dock; the main facility’s a few minutes away. You’re going to get in trouble,” said the guard. “I’m going to get in trouble.”

  “If there’s anyone left to get us in trouble it will be the best news we’ve had in days,” said Lyle.

  A pair of headlights flashed in the window, followed almost immediately by a second pair. The first driver stayed in his truck, the motor running to keep warm, but the second, a woman with a heavy parka and a thick wool hat, ran through the cold to the guardhouse.

  “You’re the ones, huh?” She looked at the sick assistant, wrapped in a blanket but obviously suffering. “He needs a doctor.”

  General Blauwitz stood and shook her hand. “I assume you have doctors?”

  “Plenty,” she said, “but no physicians, and no real medical treatment facilities.”

  “I’m afraid you’re still our best option,” said Blauwitz.

  “That’s the impression I’m getting,” said the woman. Her voice lowered, and she looked at the haggard group with obvious worry. “Is it really as bad as we think it is?”

  “It’s worse,” said Cynthia. “New York City is gone, we can’t contact anyone else, and whatever government is left is either unwilling or unable to do anything about it. We’re here because your lab might be the only local source of uncontaminated water.”