End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity)

by David S. Wellhauser

  “What’s he look like?” Asher asked and Matt was surprised no one had thought to ask this question until now.

  “He’s two dimensional—and unique among our kind.”

  “Two dimensional?” Another asked from the back of the group.

  “They have breadth and width but no depth. If Thin Man turns sideways he disappears from our space—literally.” This silenced the room; there’d been nothing like this in anyone’s experience. Matt could see this was true just by looking at Salt’s face. He wondered if this would have been true of Neruda—it probably was. If that were the case was Thin Man the result of an experiment? Possibly.

  Other, more pertinent, questions followed—most notably, who was Thin Man. “I don’t know their Archaic name; no one seems to. But that’s true with most of us. Once we change we take new names; it is a function of the parabaptism.” This was not the first time Matt had heard the word and knew just where the thinking was coming from.

  “Where are they now, and how do you contact them?”

  “Don’t know—really. He just appears with no indication of transportation.” Again, not the first time they’d heard this, and it was beginning to trouble Matt.

  Jonah, having appeared satisfied with the answers—at least not believing more was possible—finished the mâché.

  Staring at the figure on the ground, still tied to the chair, blood leaking from the back of its head and inching toward the drain in the centre of the bay, Matt looked back to the panelled door pulled down and caked with dead, desiccated insects and cobwebs. “Why do that—the warehouse, I mean?” No one answered. Was there an answer? “What can Zakara be up to out there besides the Cinn?”

  “Not certain this is down to Botrous.” Salt answered. This had startled Feargal; he was so used to experiencing Zakara as the puppet master the idea of puppets without, or not needing, strings was disturbing.

  “What,” Asher asked uncomfortably, “do you mean?” Salt didn’t answer for a moment; looking from the corpse to Matt, and then back, he let out a sigh something close to a moan.

  “Botrous is a big picture guy.”

  “What’s that mean?” Another followed up.

  “It means,” Matt answered staring hard at the tiny fissures in the ageing concrete, “this wouldn’t have been sanctioned by my father.” They all knew of the relationship between the two men, but this was the first time Matt had openly acknowledged it, causing the room to glance awkwardly at him. “Whoever Thin Man is he is up to this on his own—or with, at best, tacit agreement from Botrous’ inner circle. This probably means Shea—others too, but who they will be I do not know.”

  “Still,” Asher prodded scratching a reddish brown beard with flecks of grey, “doesn’t tell us who it is.” Looking down with the same coloured eyes—the comment was offered flatly, but there was an anxiety in the observation. All, Matt thought, would be feeling it, but he’d no idea how he or Jonah were supposed answer this.

  “Well,” Matt drawled, “it would have to be someone close to the inner circle, since this would require resources, planning, a fair knowledge of how the two organisms function independently, and what type of genetic splicing would be possible.” Salt looked around.

  “That would narrow the field considerably, but we still don’t know who that would make the Thin Man.”

  “True, but it’s a place to begin.”

  Jonah nodded, looking pensively over the ruined body. “There have been some instances I’ve come across when I took some trips down south—then in Thailand and the Arab Peninsula. But that was before Iran and Iraq became untenable.” Matt, looking back at Salt, re-joined the group.

  “Such as?” Asher asked anxiously.

  “It was as though someone—or group—were working to see what the possibilities of combining the various sub-Cinn organisms with various organisms here were. Some were as they began—Terran/Cinn hybrids. Shortly after the Dilmun Incident” —this was the popular designation for the second opening of the spring and the shock waves which radiated around the world from this—“these hybrids became, appeared to become, directed and aesthetic in nature. Thin Man is a good example. Most popular were entities from myth, folklore, traditional legends, and, later, the entertainment industry. The Paperheads would be an example of someone getting creative.”

  In the observation Matt recognised the envy he felt for how far Salt had travelled, on his own, since his failure at Dilmun. Wherever Feargal travelled there seemed to be a minder not far behind. He supposed this was because he might still represent a significant danger or hope for the Archaic world; perhaps even a hope for the blending of the Archaic Homo sapiens and Metahuman worlds. Still, it was beginning to grate.

  There were other reasons for his focus—China Bob and Leonor. Without them nothing else made much sense.

  “Do you believe it possible,” apropos of nothing, “that they might have been moved abroad?” Jonah looked at him, uncomprehendingly for a moment; then he understood the reference.

  “Of course it is possible, but improbable.” The others seemed unclear what, precisely, the conversation was about but appeared to sense if was personal so they gathered up the ruins of the paper mâché and secreted them in the staff toilet. “A NAFTA State, probably the US, remains the best place to hide your family.” The funk which took the young man washed over his face and Jonah frowned. “There is no time for that; there hasn’t been these four years.”

  The psychic slap didn’t appear to have the desired effect, so Salt took another tack. “Let’s focus on how we can smoke Thin Man out. They seem important, if they are part of this eccentric realignment of the transformations.” With some effort Matt pushed the pain and fear back into place and turned to the new problem.

  “Maybe if we begin tracking anomalies which seem unnatural—more unnatural than general transformations.”

  “That we can do—between my people and the resources available through Neruda this should be doable.” Seeing the reaction to the shaman’s name he followed up quickly. “For all of your—our—disagreements with end goals he, and Halton, are useful and necessary resources.”

  Matt bit back the objection and nodded.

  “I can see there being a number of problems with what constitutes a transformational anomaly.” Feargal observed, attempting to move from the Neruda issue to something he could control.

  “For the moment,” Salt followed, “let’s keep it simple, and go with anything which goes beyond the new norm.”

  “Okay, but we’ll need to dig deeper if we are going to track down this will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “And we will. I’ve been developing more contacts among the unaffiliated Metas and many of these have reported on rumours and a few have seen others.” Matt was okay with looking into these—even if the hope of drawing Thin Man out was slight. Perhaps, though, they may learn where he is and that would be worth the effort.

  ***

  “Think we’re good.” Jonah said, staring out the panelled door of the service bay. Asher, slipping on his jacket against the cold of the evening, was staring at the coagulating blood of the paper mâché and yawning.

  “The cars are at the agreed locations and the keys are in the grills.” Turning to Matt, Jonah smiled.

  “I’ll see you in East Troy.” Feargal nodded, stifling a yawn. For a while after leaving Dilmun these outings, as Salt liked to call them, had bothered him to a degree that he had trouble sleeping for a few days—but this had rapidly ceased being a problem and he often found he needed to sleep afterwards. “Everyone ready?” The Meta asked. There was a mumble of assent from the others, still waking up.

  Outside, the group split up and headed in several different directions—leaving the abandoned van around back. Matt watched Jonah disappear down the street until not even the street lights could catch his salt & pepper hair; then his shoulders disappeared around a corner. Turning away he made for his car.

  The cold air was refreshing and in this his memories o
f Dilmun came rushing in—the good, bad, and diffident school mnemonics. Always when these returned Matt was confused and annoyed. There were, excepting China, no memories of his life with Shea which could be called good; still, he was missing the town this evening; the pain came as a dull ache in his heart. Stabbing his fists into the jacket Feargal pushed the nostalgia away.

  This would only last a block and then there would be a tickle of childhood—walking the railway ties with William; dodging Shea and her latest lover; having his first joint with Halton—that he pushed away quickly; cutting class with friends; lunch of toxic fries. Was this a feature of being an adult for everyone? Still new to the experience Feargal couldn’t quite put the impulse toward the past in context. Even when life was little more than misery people still hankered after this. He supposed the mind was drawn to the familiar—even when horrific.

  But a return to Dilmun was impossible. The West End was pretty much gone, if online accounts and photos could be believed. The Wood, itself, had been turned into a concrete bunker, against further H+ attempts to retake it; there were rumours the Speed Forest was gone, as well. Apparently the Metas, which had escape the onslaught in The Wood, had migrated their but had been quickly rooted out and destroyed. Dilmun itself was little more than an armed camp with elements of the Canadian Army, US forces, and UN Blues bivouacked in and around the city. Anyone supposedly who could be was gone, and the few which remained kept themselves whole by offering a variety of services to the military. Even Ol’ John Gall and his back room deals would not be able to save the city this time.

  What Matt was experiencing, and he was mostly aware of this, was a longing for the peace of a carefully constructed fantasy and not the city of his childhood. There were elements of the facts which leaked through the patina of fantasy—life with Shea most of all—but there remained the longing. Longing not for the childhood, but peace, cessation, and the still point of being where perfect happiness was to be located and sustained in the act of mukti. In the achievement of release the burden of continuity fades and one was, supposedly, left with a popperian historical nihilism. Insert popperian rants here. The non-predictive shutters, gambols, and lurches through the psychic entrails of being were taking their toll on the purpose and pattern haunted species. So, is there a nightmare to wake from? Sophistry.

  The car they’d planted the day before was still there, a scant 15 metres away. This was where Feargal’s guts seized—not in the act, not in the aftermath, but in the escape. Digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands he moved with purpose to the vehicle and there was a rustle in the bushes to his right. Expectation was inconstant on most occasions, but today she was random in her assent to forecast. A blush of shape bolted from the susurrate, running full into him. Matt was just turning at the impact and he was staggered back. The figure was bowled by the jolt and lay prone on their side and elbow. It was a girl, or little more, and a Meta—albino white and seamed, but beyond this he could not tell.

  Flipping over, the girl attempted to scramble away. Righting himself from the inadvertent attack Matt stepped forward and grabbed her ankle. “You shouldn’t be out tonight.”

  “Please, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry—please.” The last reaching up into a hard whine; attempting to tug her foot loose, but Feargal had the ankle locked in his grip.

  “I’m not going to harm you, kid.” Seeing the fear he’d inspired he let the foot go and she clambered up—stepping back three paces she eyed him suspiciously.

  “You’re not Meta.”

  “No, but you’d better get off the street—tonight mightn’t be a good one for you lot to be out.”

  “Help me.” Taking a step forward.

  “Don’t you have people?”

  “Family?” He nodded. “They kicked me out when this happened.” Pointing at her face. Now in the light of the street lamp he could see the primary colour eyes and the slight glow of a reddening seam. “That your car?” Another, cautious, nod. “Give me a ride, please—anywhere, even out of the neighbourhood.” He thought a moment, and though a bad idea he could not help himself.

  “I’m leaving—how about a lift to the next town?”

  “Great!” And she was hugging him; her breasts were small, firm, and aggressive. Trying not to think of them he pulled her away.

  “There I can get you to some people that will help.” Smiling, she hopped to the car.

  Only a short while later Feargal, with the girl sleeping beside him, had pulled off of 43 and onto North Street; then followed Main to the centre of town. Having been through East Troy once before with Salt he knew where he was going and when he had to be there, but with the kid in tow he was going to have to do some re-thinking.

  She was down in stage four, which surprised Matt because the fear she’d shown him should have left her body flooded with adrenalin, but there you were—one more thing he’d not quite get his mind around for the time being.

  Passing through the centre of town he followed Main out to Town Road Line and hung a right up this and then came to rest behind the Hardware and Rental. The girl, he’d not even had the chance to ask her name before the kid was asleep, was breathing heavily—almost snoring—as he watched her. She was young—didn’t seem much more than 15, if that. Although Matt was only 21, there seemed a lifetime of experience and blood separating the two and he suddenly felt old in ways he not experienced until this moment. Killing the engine he looked over the backlot of Martin’s, over the heavy equipment with their light smell of diesel and the heavy scent of work ethic, and he smiled.

  With the glow of the phone illuminating his features the girl woke to the silence and looked, blearily, at him—smiling. “Where are we?”

  “Far side of Troy.” Finishing the text; she looked around at the back of Martin’s, and then the long shed opposite her. “I’m just waiting here for an answer to the text.” Continuing to smile she pushed up in the seat and smoothed her henna purple hair back, which was down to her waist, and pushed this up with her elbows at right angles. The effect on her breasts and Feargal was predictable. As she licked her lips and coughed, Matt offered her a bottle of water.

  “Thanks.” As she drank Feargal continued to glance, sidelong, at her breasts. Reminding himself how young she was helped some—but not much.

  Finished with the water she passed it back to him. After he took a drink he tossed the water on the dash and turned back to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Candice Gattinari.” When she smiled this time, he noticed the teeth had delicate points to them and these disguised a flat, pink tongue not unlike China’s saurian. Candice, he could see, was aware that Feargal had noticed her teeth, and her smile broadened. With this her flat tongue slipped over these.

  “What were you doing running through the streets?”

  “I was sharing a squat with some Archaics,” this had become a standard term for humans in the years since Dilmun, “and something happened. I don’t know what,” she added hurriedly, “but they turned on me. So I ran—until you.” Then his phone vibrated with a message. Once he read this he turned back to Candice.

  “We’re going to a motel.”

  Candice and leaned over the seat close to Feargal. “I should know your name first.”

  “Matt—and it’s not like that kid. We’re meeting some people—they should be able to hook you up with others that will help you. With a hand brushing his upper bicep Candice continued to lean in.

  “But I could take care of you.” It was a clumsy gesture and Feargal thought she recognised this, but the kid pushed through and had her hand on the back of his neck. For the first time in years he’d thought of Hannah and how much like her Gattinari was. His crotch deflated with the connection.

  “We’re going there to get some sleep. You needn’t play me—I’m helping.” There was some confusion and anger in the eyes, but she let the rejection go a lot faster than Burda ever would have.

  “I needed outta Milwaukee for much the same reason you
did.”

  “But you’re not Meta.”

  “I took the cure.”

  “It really works?” The voice incredulous, but hopeful.

  “Only if you take it shortly after infection and before the change takes hold.” Her face fell.

  “But you’re still human, why would you need to run?”

  “Not exactly run, but once things like that begin to happen no one is really safe—especially strangers.” She nodded, appearing satisfied.

  “If you’d rather not sleep at my place I can drop you off wherever you like.”

  “It’s fine, really. Besides I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

  “I understand, but I believe I will be able to solve that problem for you.” A weak smile was returned, as if to say he didn’t know what was good for him. Letting it go he kicked the car back up and with a choke and sputter the exhaust barked behind them; after which they slid back on to Town Line Road and back across town heading in a generally southeast direction. With several more twists and turns down the narrow streets they found themselves on O’Leary Lane. He could almost sense the woman trying to keep track of turns, streets, and time—this wasn’t unreasonable, after all the girl had hopped into a car with a guy she’d no idea about.

  Matt edged down this until he saw the Inn. The sign had been posted out near the highway, so coming up behind was more like approaching an apartment building nestled behind a couple of youngish maples. Once he checked-in, Candice tried him on again but he wasn’t having any. Instead he suggested she grab a shower while he made a call. Defeated, but seemingly happy with a place to sleep, the girl hit the shower.

  ***

  Matt sat on the bed waiting for Candice to finish her shower. It was taking longer than it had the night before. The night, itself, had been restive with him having to push her off him a couple of times. The whole business, he knew, should have set off alarums, but it seemed just as plausible the kid was just looking for someone to take care of her—perhaps more so, since it had been a couple of years, or thereabouts, since one of the Transhumanists had taken a run at his genetic matter. The few times that he had gotten together with women since he’d used a rubber; safe sex meant so much more to him since Salt’s pool. Once Candice was out of the shower she dressed quickly and they were out the door in no time.