“Where are you from?” He asked a middle aged man in a torn, dirty pinstripe suit.
“Canada.” The voice as tired, hollow, and empty as the man looked. To describe him as gaunt would have been generous.
“You’re a little far south.”
“The West has fallen to the Transhumanists.” Looking down the column he noticed there were a lot of Metas too—Feargal supposed it a common story. Not everyone was wanted or wanted to join.
“Where are you headed?” The man shrugged and turned from Matt. In a listless, jerky motion the body followed along behind. Watching them go, for a moment, Feargal turned back to the SUV—followed by the others. Matt feared there’d been another Cardston, or one was just unfolding up north. Yet this time it would be played out on an international stage with the armed forces of two allies.
Turning from the DPs they continued north until the outskirts of The Dalles, east of Portland, on a bend in a Columbia. There they ran into a skirmish between a local militia and a large, probing Meta force. Here they had to fight their way through to the western outskirts of the town. Once on the western ambit of this they appeared to be through the worst of it and pulled over. The vehicles had both had their rear windows blown out and Stephen had taken a round in his vest. Lien was worried he may have broken, or bruised, a rib. With no choice, they cleaned out the glass and bound Stephen’s ribs. Portland, it was agreed, would be the best chance to pick up some medical care.
***
Portland was very nearly the expression of chaos the group had found in The Dalles without the Transhumanists. Though there was an expectation, to go by local radio stations, that the Washington/BC border was about to be breached and there’d be a flood of Transhumanists pouring over this—some were arguing they’d formed an army and the Canadians had lost control of BC and perhaps Alberta, which would put Montana at risk. Whatever the facts, the city was very nearly a ghost town. This only made their battered SUVs stand out more. It was only a matter of time before a patrol car would pull them over. Not only the fact that they looked like they’d been through a battle, which is what The Dalles had been, but they were a mixture of Archaics and Metas loaded down with weapons and ammunition. They had to get off the streets.
“We,” Lien said looking over at Stephen, “need to get him to a hospital.”
“You okay back there Stephen?” Matt asked. He threw him a thumbs up. The man probably was, but he needed rest and getting him checked out wouldn’t hurt. “We better get you two a car that won’t have the hospital calling the police.” Lien nodded, looking anxiously at Stephen. Was there something up there? Matt wasn’t certain, but it was worth noting. Romance could cause all manner of havoc given the right circumstances; he was a case in point.
“Up there.” Shasta pointed. There was a line of cars parked in the middle of the street. Actually, they’d been abandoned there. This didn’t look right, but Feargal supposed there’d been an incident. Luckily all of these had their keys in them. That was unusual, but what hadn’t been since Milwaukee?
“Okay, you two find a doctor and when you are done send a text and I’ll let you know where we are.” Matt said, helping Lien with Stephen. As he watched the concern on the woman’s face it became clear there was something going on.
Watching them leave, Shasta glanced over—uneasily. “They are together.” Her voice hesitant. Feargal’s distrust of couples was well known by anyone who followed the stories about him—and there were several blogs devoted to this. Matt himself, wrote a blog, irregularly, documenting his travels. At least, the parts that wouldn’t get him arrested; the rest he alluded to but never spoke directly of. No matter the case, his distrust of romance in general and his overt contempt for couples was well documented.
“As long as it doesn’t get in the way I’ll let it go—but if either of them are taken, I’ll put the survivor down. Just so we’re clear.” Shasta looked away.
“There’s an industrial zone on Northwest Front Avenue.” Bart said, looking up from his phone. “We may find some place there to lie low.”
“But factories mean people.” Niran replied.
“Where there are factories and warehouses,” Matt answered, “there will be abandoned buildings—almost always.” Bart nodded to the others. And they found a large, old factory that was still capable of shelter even though most of its windows had been blown out and the doors removed. Inside was decaying concrete sprouting weeds, the dank, lingering industrial smell—part lubricant and part metal mixed with chemicals. But it was dry against the Northwest rain which had again started up.
Matt sat on one of the rear loading docks and tossed stones at pigeons pecking at the rear parking lot. What they hoped to find there he’d not a clue, but they had been spending a lot of time going over this. Overhead was the annoying screech of seagulls. He’d always wanted to see the Pacific, but each time he’d gotten close—and he had several times—Feargal was side-tracked by whatever this thing with Botrous was. Now he tried not to think about the ocean—it would be just one more disappointment if he did.
As he contemplated the gulls circling overhead, he was reminded of Dilmun’s dragon. There’d been others of course, but most had been hunted down because they’d begun to play merry hell with commercial flights in the two years after Dilmun. Still, he was waiting for their resurgence. Most of the time, when he wasn’t off on a road trip like this, Matt spent his time waiting. Waiting for word; waiting for rumour; waiting for dreams; waiting for a blog; waiting for a glimmer. There had been moments when this came, but the flicker of light never did lead anywhere.
***
“You...” Feargal jumped at the voice. The AR-15 pushed forward and he crouched. “Come out.”
“Don’t shoot—we’re coming out.” Matt shouted for Shasta’s team. As he heard their boots, an old man edged out.
“And where are the others?”
“Waiting to see if you shoot me.”
“I haven’t, so bring them out.” Shasta came up behind Matt, as the old man urged the other members of his group out. A long line of Archaics and Metas, of all ages, emerged from around a corner to their far right. They did not look as rough as the last DPs they’d met but they were about as frightened and vacant.
“Where,” Shasta asked, stepping around Matt and hopping off the loading dock, “are you people from.”
“Bellingham—mostly.” A woman, in her 30s, answered. Her long brown hair was dirty, greasy, and caked with the muck of the road. “Some a little further north and a few further south.”
“Why,” Shasta continued, “are you down here?”
“Troops,” the old man in a tweed jacket and ratty denims answered, “are moving on the border—National Guard, as well. We were warned to evacuate as quickly as possible. Most of us grabbed what we could and headed south. But they wouldn’t have us in Seattle, so we kept moving.”
“Perhaps, heading north would be a good idea?” Shasta looked at him with a combination of awe and dread. She seemed to be hoping he was being sarcastic, but as she took in the look on his face that he was being serious appeared to dawn on her.
“Matt, if these people are correct this could turn out to be a major engagement—biggest since Brownsville and that was a year and a half ago.”
“If H+ is making a serious push east in Canada and south into the US they’d have to have some high ranking H+ with them.” Shasta thought about that a moment and appeared to surrender with a shrug.
“It’ll be dangerous.”
“But useful—if we can scare up a bit of luck.”
Feargal knew there’d have to be more than a little luck, but then this was the point of the trip—Intel. At the very least, the impulse to come to the North Cascades made sense now. Privately, he’d his doubts. “Do we have any to spare?” Shasta asked.
“Won’t know unless we take the bloody thing for a spin.” Shasta glowered at him, and he was reminded of China. He supposed women did this when they realised there wa
s no chance of getting their way.
“Let’s wait until Lien and Stephen are back before we make any final decision.” Matt nodded, but supposed she already knew the decision had been made and anything she did would not change this.
“Why,” Shasta turning back to the DPs and changing the subject, “are you here? I mean this factory—there seem to be plenty,” looking across the road to a row of abandoned buildings, “around here.” The old man, Emmett he said, looked back, anxiously at the row.
“There’s something over there—that’s not right.” A teenage boy said from the back of the group.
“Like what?” Matt asked, not expecting anything in particular. This kind of fear had become standard fare for the DPs. In a life where there was no certainty everything was a potential threat.
“The air, outside that warehouse, in the back,” he pointed to a large dilapidate in the centre of the row, “looks weird and when you get close it is like bugs on your skin.” Feargal tightened on the description—as did Shasta.
“Did anyone go near it?” The old man held up his hand. “Shit, I don’t have much left.”
“What?” Shasta asked.
“Halton’s Cure.” What Edwards’ herbal cure had come to be called.
“You know how to make it?” Shasta was surprised. He nodded. “But I’ve only got a couple doses left and that needs to be cooked. After that he’ll have to wear a plaster for the night.” Shasta nodded.
“Do you have anything for cooking?” She asked.
“First I need to see if he’s infected.”
“Infected?” The old man asked nervously.
“With the Change.” Shasta answered. He went white.
“Take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves.” The veins at and above his elbows were darkening and slightly distended. “Check the others, Shasta.” No one else was presenting.
The pair left Bart, Kathy, and Niran cooking up a batch of Halton’s and went across to check it out. They found this where the kid said it would be. “This is what they look like?” Shasta asked.
“Some of them do. Mine was a spring. It’s where Salt turned me.”
“He really did that to you?” Matt nodded, tired of the story and having to retell it.
“Changed his mind when he found out what Zakara had in mind for us; but, yes, he did change me. Set me up, at least.”
“Can you really close these things?” He’d not told her of this, so he supposed it was one of the many blogs on the subject that she’d read.
“Yes, but I’ll need some explosives—fairly powerful. The blast somehow disrupts the grip the Cinn have on this space. But we need something powerful.”
“Will plastic do?”
“You’ve got plastic?” He should have been, but wasn’t, surprised. She smiled.
“Director Salt thought it might be useful. Bart has four bricks.”
“Half of one with a detonator should do it.” She disappeared and was back with Bart and Niran. “Niran, you’ve not been exposed?” He nodded. “Best stay here, unless you want some of that.” The stink of the Cure had pushed all back from where Kathy stirred the pot with one of her four arms, while using another to cover her nose and mouth. “And it won’t take three of us. So, Shasta you come with me, and Bart, if anything goes wrong you can come and get us.” He nodded, but appeared disappointed.
As they approached the distortion, Matt could feel the subcutaneous hum he felt by the sealed pool and the sensation of insects beneath his skin returned. There was nothing visible in the fragmentation of light and air, but there would be micro-organisms in this waiting for a host. “Nasty, fucking, parasites.”
“What?” Shasta asked nervously from behind.
“What’s in the interface.” He could see she didn’t understand. “The distortion.” She nodded, but with little more understanding. Matt took the brick with the detonator and walked into the distortion field. Shasta gasped as he did so. He looked back and saw what she must have. Looking at her was like looking through a pair of compound eyes. The image was hardly recognisable.
He planted the brick on the ground in the centre mass of the distortion and returned. “Let’s step way back.” After about a couple hundred feet they stopped. “Here you go.” Passing the woman the trigger; smiling she armed the device and pressed the detonator. There was a loud explosion, but as this happened, at the same time, there was a nonlocal screech of something and a long tongue of flame shot out of the collapsing distortion; then quickly withdrew as the field collapsed into normal space. “We’re going to have to head to Seattle—I’m almost out of Halton’s Cure. And we really do need to see what the H+ is up to in Bellingham.”
“They’re back!” Bart called through the shattered doorway. The refugees, with Kathy, had been gathered around a makeshift stove in an oil barrel—cooking the ingredients. Turning from this Matt bolted up the crumbling stairs beside the dock, followed by Shasta. Since blowing the rift she’d been a little spooked and was given to glancing over her shoulder, when it appeared Feargal wasn’t looking. He realised what was happening to her, it had happened to him after Dilmun, but Matt didn’t have time to babysit. This shouldn’t be the case, if there was anyone capable of helping the woman over what she’d seen—rift or Cinn—it was he, but something was beginning to close down in him. Feargal supposed this would be called empathy, but there wasn’t time to worry about what was leaving him behind—or what he was leaving behind.
Bart, staring out front, waited in the doorway. “He look okay?” Feargal asked anxiously.
“Let’s have a look?” Shasta pressing against his back—there was something in this which bothered him; something which wasn’t just anxiety. Now, it wasn’t that he’d been utterly faithful to China since her abduction—and he’d have to pay a price for that—but after the girl in Milwaukee Feargal had embraced circumspection to the point of chastity. This new dedication was beginning to wear about the edges; still they were going to have to go on working together for some time. In light of this, he wasn’t prepared to layer on the complexities unless necessary.
Bart waited for Lien to pull up and then opened Stephen’s door. “How you doin’ there?” Taking the proffered hand, Stephen pulled himself out of the passenger’s seat.
“No problem. Some mild bruising, but nothing is broken. I should be tender for a while.”
“Good.” Shasta embraced him; then turned back to the others. “We’re going to have to get out of here. That explosion will, eventually, attract attention.”
“What happened?” Lien asked climbing out.
“You best park this around back.” Matt ordered. Oddly enough, the woman never questioned the command, but was back in and wheeling around the side of the building. This struck Feargal as odd, but then he’d been warned about how he was being viewed by many—and these ones had volunteered to leave their cozy digs in Cody to come out into this mess.
“So,” Stephen asked as they passed through the shattered doorway and back into the dock area, “what explosion?”
“Matt found a rift.” Shasta sounded uncomfortable speaking of it.
“Rift?”
“Soft spot—dimensional anomaly—gate.”
“Really, shit—what happened?”
“Shasta,” Matt smiled, “blew it to hell.”
“You can really close them? I’d heard but, damn—they can really be closed?” Matt looked at him oddly. It was the surprise that was the issue. He, Salt, Edwards, and Neruda had blown dozens of these. All he did was nod.
“But we do need to get going.” Shasta broke in, not bothering to disguise her anxiety.
“True enough, we should.” Matt looked down over the refugees. “How’s it going?”
“I,” the old man asked, “have to drink this?” Sniffing at the tin cup.
“Yes, then wear the rest as a chest plaster for the night.”
“And,” a young woman spoke from the group, “this will cure all those infected?”
“If you catch it early—there’s some debate about how early, but within 24 hrs is a good time frame.” She nodded, encouraging the elder to finish the cup. Turning back to Stephen. “You up to travelling?”
“Not much for driving, but I could travel.”
“Okay, then we’re outta here.” Lien was just rounding the corner on foot as the rest were following Matt passed the refugees.
“He should rest.” Lien looked anxiously at Stephen.
“We need to get out of here, so he’ll have to do it on the road.” Shasta answered.
“Wha...”
“Kathy will explain.” Matt began. “You, Stephen, and Kathy will go in the second truck; the rest are in mine.” There wasn’t even the pretence of a discussion this time. He was beginning to like this, but worried when the downside would kick in.
As Matt caught the clover onto I5 north, Bart leaned forward—face sticking out between the seats. “Are you really certain it is a cure?” Feargal had noticed that both he and Shasta had been very quiet since the factory. The silence was an awkward heavy thing, but he was prepared to let them come to whatever it was in their own time.
“What do you mean?” A hand resting lightly on the wheel and his other lying on the exterior of the door, Matt enjoyed drives in the country and if he squinted just right and let his mind wander this felt almost like that.
“Well, being a Meta isn’t a disease.” As Bart spoke, Feargal could feel Shasta looking at him from the corner of her eye.
“No, it isn’t. Didn’t mean to suggest that, but it’s always what they’ve called Halton’s concoction.” These appeared to placate both, but more, Feargal suspected, would be needed. “The problem is Zakara never asked anyone, to best of my knowledge, whether or not they wanted the change.” This brought a strong agreement from the two. “So, I’m not against the change—after all I’ve spent years trying to get China back. What I’m opposed to is the loss of choice and what the Cinn appear determined to do with the Metas and Archaics once they return.”
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 8