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

by David S. Wellhauser

  When the Meta saw Matt their eyes bugged almost out of their head. This was more than simple fear about a new human—there was recognition in the face and their fear grew out of this. “You know me?” Matt asked, stepping up. The Meta turned their face away and got a prod from Niran. They turned back but did not answer. “Where did you find him, Lien?”

  “On Depot Road, in front of the Netherlands Reformed Church. Think he was heading for the airport.”

  “The airport?” The others nodded recognition.

  “Thought it best we wait for you.” Bart answered, still munching on the candied cereal. Stepping into the living room, Matt tore the gag off.

  “Is China at the airport?”

  “You cannot be allowed to...” Feargal struck him hard in the ear. It seemed this was a mantra the Transhumanists had been given or created.

  Handing the AR to Lien, Matt reached into his back pocket and pulled a knife—snapping this open in front of the Meta. He placed the blade in the hollow between their floppy lower lip and chin. With a gentle pressure he allowed the blade to sink into the tight, knotty flesh of the seam. Feargal had learned through trial and error in most Metas the seam housed a dense cluster of nerve fibres. The effect was instantaneous. The shriek was so sudden, high, and piercing Bart dropped his bowl as the Meta twisted away. But the knife was a Buck skinner; the blade so sharp that it not only severed the seam, but cut to the bone. The pain and fear sent the man into a rictus of panic so that he attempted to bolt from the chair he’d been duct taped to.

  All they managed to do was fall over. Kneeling down, Feargal flipped them onto their back, pinning them in place with a knee to the throat. Placing the Buck just below the hairline and on the seam, he slowly drew the blade down a centimetre. The screech erupted again and Matt stopped. “Where is China?”

  “The airport. There’s a security room in the main building; she was there last I saw her.”

  “Leonor?”

  “I didn’t see your daughter.” Matt made to continue the cutting. “No! The child is not here.” Feargal snapped the blade closed.

  “Let’s have a look.” Taking the AR-15 back from Lien he kacked two rounds into the Meta.

  ***

  “There are two buildings.” Lien said, looking at the satellite photo of the area.

  “That’s all there is online?” Matt asked from behind the tree peering over the empty space to the smaller of the two buildings.

  “All I can find.” Zooming in, she continued. “The larger appears to be the hanger and the smaller administration and whatever else they might use it for.”

  “They’ll probably be holding her in the smaller.” Bart said, pointing toward the side door. Two Metas were there; heavily armed. Matt nodded.

  “There is no way they are going to make this easy.”

  “What do you mean?” Stephen asked, looking over from the cars he was standing between, just behind Lien.

  “I’m not certain whether or not they will harm China.”

  “If,” Shasta encouraged, “they wanted her dead she would be. More than likely they’re holding her still to manage Leonor and you.”

  “Me?”

  “Leverage if you become too much trouble.” Bart answered. There was a fulsome hesitation at this point as Feargal considered the idea.

  “They would then be hesitant about killing her?”

  “It,” Bart answered, “would be unlikely they’d do that without direct authorisation from Botrous.”

  “Would he be here?” Niran asked. Matt shook his head.

  “Zakara is interested only in the Cinn. This is something else—Blaine is about an incursion into the US in an attempt to send you the way of the Continent.” There followed a silence as the group was considering whether or not Botrous’ followers were as fragmented as they—possibly more so.

  “So, the obvious question,” Bart entered the silence, “would be who is guarding the woman?”

  “Someone high up in the Transhumanist/H+ groups; they’d have to be trusted by Zakara, as well.” Matt answered. “But who that would be is unclear—most likely from the inner circle.”

  “There we have only rumours.” Shasta answered. Matt looked at her askance—how would she know the rumours. It was becoming clear the Meta was Sansa, which meant the others were probably as well. This, he worried, would have to include Kathy. If she were Sansa how deep had Zakara penetrated the group? Shaking off the aside, he turned back to the problem.

  “Should have asked more questions of him, but I didn’t.” Pursing his lips and looking down at his hands he privately rebuked himself; then looked up. “Let’s go.”

  “Go—that’s your plan?” Shasta squeaked.

  “We don’t know where she is held and we don’t know...” She never finished as the sound of jet engines started everyone.

  “Either,” Matt’s voice tight, “we go now or we lose our chance.” He turned back to the cars they’d picked up in the south end of town, they weren’t going to be much use, but he felt them better than charging across the parking lot. Bart followed then Niran, Shasta, and finally Lien and Stephen. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in the others, but Matt didn’t expect there to be.

  Matt, with Bart, swung into the airport—there was no gate—and headed straight for the low-slung, single storey administration building. Once they’d turned in the driveway the guards woke up and began firing. At this, Bart swung out the passenger’s window and let fly. Behind them by only a couple of metres were the others. The aim of the Transhumanists was poor; even though there were three guards firing they only caught the car a couple times and then not in the windshield. Matt, by this time, had turned right into them, as they blocked the front doors of the small building. The car took two of the guards with them into the reception area.

  Falling or rolling out the door Matt lay on the ground and fired into the office but there was no one else there. The guards had been killed by the impact. As he stood, Bart was clambering out of the vehicle and Feargal could hear the boots of the others arriving. Seeing the hall, through the debris, he moved cautiously towards this. Leaning a head around the corner there was a harsh thunk and Matt threw himself on the floor as a grenade exploded just outside the building. Following this near miss, Bart tossed one of his own down the hall. Harrying the lob were shouts and a scrabbling noise—then the explosion. With that Feargal charged, firing blindly. This wasn’t the way he should have done it, but the jet engines were revving up for taxiing.

  Bart was shouting at him, but Matt was out the back door and moving across the parking lot. Several figures were moving over this about 25 metres ahead of him. The guards he either killed or wounded right away, but the others he was uncertain of, and needed to identify China before he could act. Even as the thought occurred one of the runners turned and their hood fell back. The hard candy red was unmistakeable—with the eyes to match; as they reached for the hood he had the AR up and was taking aim. Still he hesitated. Where would this leave him with Halton? Then the Meta was struck in the chest. Turning, Bart was lowering his weapon, smiling. At least Feargal hadn’t shot her—not that Matt expected this to make much difference. Turning back, Matt saw China as a guttural scream escaped her—arms outstretched.

  There was a flicker, and then a figure appeared from nowhere. It was Thin Man, and in the face he recognised what had once been the man. Patrick Wilson. All those years ago in Dilmun he and William had taken his house with Katya’s help. It really was all on the wheel. Snapping the weapon up, he let fly two rounds. One of these caught him in the shoulder, but Wilson didn’t hesitate. Grabbing China he pulled her in front of him and backed away as two more guards stepped up—firing. Even as Bart tackled Feargal, to save him, he saw Bob being dragged into the Gulfstream jet. Feargal struggled as the door closed, but Bart was bigger and held him down as the others took the guards. By then it was too late, the jet had already taxied onto the long airstrip.

  ***

  As the jet reached
the end of the runway the final guards fell. Bart helped Matt up and danced back—seeing the murderous look. By now the others had joined them and his blood cooled, but the self-reproach was only beginning. Going on five years and this was as close as he’d come. Five, fucking, years! “Fuck!” He bellowed, sending several more rounds into the dying Metas lying about the parking lot. When this hadn’t massaged his rage, Feargal pummelled the head of one of these into jelly. The others backed away. None raised their weapons, but a rough disquiet bathed their faces.

  Finished, Feargal straightened up, breathing heavily—as though winded, and leaned on the weapon with its muzzle grinding into the tarmac. Slinging this he turned back to the team. “Where’s Melissa?” Bart pointed just beyond a car to the twitch of a combat boot. “Let’s see what she knows.” The woman had taken a round square in the chest, and for whatever reason had not been wearing body armour so this had torn through her and shattered her spine. Squatting down beside her, Matt eased the Meta over and examined the exit wound—part of the spinal column was protruding from this. The woman groaned—the pain restoring her consciousness.

  “Good, you’re awake.” With a flutter of eyelids she looked up and glared through the candied irises floating in a yellow-gold sea. “It needn’t have been this way—we’d been friends once; I even introduced you to Halton.”

  “For that much,” half groan, half hiss, “I thank you.”

  “I saved you from killing yourself, too.”

  “Bad choice on your part.” Laying her down, gently, he thought on that a moment; she was probably right.

  “Where’s Leonor?”

  “Not here—always with Master Botrous.” Feargal hadn’t expected her have been here, but thinking of the child so close to her grandfather was troubling. Not only for what Zakara intended to do to her, but also for what he’d done to China. For whatever reason he didn’t much care what had been done to him. Possibly this was because he deserved it—for having the misfortune of having been born to Shea.

  “I need to find her, please help me.” The last was choked out. “I won’t harm anyone—I just want my family.”

  “You’ll not want Leonor.” Leaning close to her as the woman’s voice faded. “The Master has raised her—the child’s never known her mother and has been told you killed China for nothing more than being Metahuman.” A chuckling smile, followed by a hacking, bloody cough, plaited the woman’s weakening voice. It had to have been something like that, but understanding didn’t ease the pain.

  Leaning back Matt wept bitterly, as the death rattle began. He’d every reason to hate the woman; to make her last moments bitter and painful—but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Taking her hand, choking down the tears, Matt held her with a gentle gaze until the convulsion passed and the face settled to a blank gape. All that remained of the passing was an occasional rictic spasm—even now easing into stillness. With the woman gone, Feargal pushed up and turned back to the cars.

  Passing Bart, he leaned in and croaked. “Portland.” Nodding, the Meta followed.

  “We’re for Portland.” Waving the others back to the cars. Shasta watched Feargal pass, but he looked straight through her as he made for the back of the admin building. Matt had just moved beyond Shasta when the woman grunted in pain. Turning to see what had happened he felt a piercing spasm in the back of his thigh; reaching down he pulled at the source of this but the object didn’t move, however a piercing pain shot up his leg; then down on what felt to be the sciatic nerve. Bracing himself, Matt yanked the object again, this time it popped out with only minimum resistance and pain. Looking more closely he saw that it was a syringe dart with a fluffy pink stabiliser. At the same moment he took another hit in the shoulder and calve. Falling to the ground, he yelled. “Down.” Turning to look for the team he saw everyone was already down. Tearing the new darts out, he crawled to Shasta.

  There was no pulse and her eyes were fixed and appeared dilated. Because of the unusual structure of these he wasn’t certain if this was what it was, but without a pulse he couldn’t see how it could be otherwise. With voices coming from admin he lay still—pulling his AR close. He whispered to the others, but there was no response. Meta-tech—had to be. For whatever reason he was immune to their weapons as Zak’s magic—perhaps a benefit of the cure, or was that because he was Botrous’ son. Didn’t matter; what did was crossing the lot. With the Transhumans within 10 metres, he bolted to a kneeling position and tore the team apart. It hadn’t been expected—their expressions showed this. With no time to waste he was through admin and out of the airport, before another Trans team showed up.

  Feargal thought he was clear until he reached Liberty Street, but here he picked up two Meta-patrols and there was a running battle east to Skateway—or as close to this as he could make out. At this point they’d blown a tire out which sent him through the window of the Front Street Spa. Unable to get out the back he’d little choice but to go out the way he came. Grabbing what grenades remained in the back seat, perhaps half a dozen, he slung the belt over his shoulder, snatched up a couple more clips for the AR-15 and stepped back out through the window.

  Several Metas were standing in front of their cars and arguing about which of them should check to see if he was dead, and what they were to do if he was. The latter appeared to be an issue of more concern. Matt supposed this was because there remained a standing order to keep his genetic matter intact. By the time they looked up at the sound of crunching glass he was lobbing his first grenade. This one was a flash bang, he wanted to keep the fragmentation grenades for if, or when they’d be necessary. It did the job. The group had been packed so tight that all were stunned. Before any were able to pull a weapon he was amongst them. Finished, he popped the clip and slipped another in.

  Taking the first SUV he came to, Matt was certain he’d need the weight and power of the truck before this was over. Yet, Feargal slipped back south toward Hannegan Road and the bridge over the Nooksack with no further incidence. About five miles south of the city he pulled over and looked back—nothing. Smiling, he now needed to find a place to sleep. His wounds, from the darts, hurt and he wasn’t certain about what injuries he sustained in the crash. Beyond this Matt needed to consider what his next move should be. Portland, yes, but what after that; Matt didn’t want to face Salt without a plan. Sans strategy he’d be forced to follow Jonah; this wasn’t something he felt easy with any longer—though he still trusted his old friend.

  Pulling out the phone, still working—at least the data connection—Feargal pulled up the map. Ferndale was only nine miles south and looked as good a place as any to put his faith. Then he was on the outskirts of this, by way of Hannegan Road and then Axton. Unsurprisingly, he came on a barricade manned by elements of town and State militias.

  Moving through the State for the next while would be a delicate and dangerous affair. Once, however, Ferndale was satisfied he wasn’t a Metahuman, or scout for these, they still refused him entry, but allowed him to leave. Around the bend, heading east on Axton, he found a light olive slab-sided split-level near on Judy Way. The front door swung loose, the family car was gone, and elements of clothing and bags scattered about the front lawn. They seemed to have over packed and had to leave a lot behind. The family may have gone into town, but given the chaos Feargal was more inclined to believe they’d DP-ed south.

  Luckily there was still food in the cupboards and beer in the fridge. After a light meal he locked the doors and stretched out on the sofa watching an old movie on DVD. With the voices grating on a 30s musical number he drifted into an uneasy but deep sleep.

  This deepened and broadened through a space he could not define, but then the focus came as he woke to his name. Coming to, Matt was staring up into two cobalt blue pupils in a golden sea. As the filaments of hair wound about his face and shoulders he knew whom he was looking at even if the seam was more pronounced. In her kiss was the memory of the saurian and he opened to the mnemonic. There was a slight, young, gasp fro
m behind and China leaned back, smiling down; then over her shoulder. “Leonor is here.”

  The girl was peeking out from the corner of the kitchen doorway—half curious and half afraid. “Matteo,” Feargal looked back at the woman, “they told her you killed me.”

  “Melissa told me before she died.” China smiled at the news.

  “I’ve told her the truth and she knows more than I’ve told her. She is a little telepathic, so when we connected in a dream like this she learned all from me. She needs to connect with you too.”

  “Maybe that’s not a good idea—there have been things...”

  “I know, but...”

  “What do you know?”

  “When I touched you I learned everything—some of it’s bad, but I understand, and so will she.”

  “But...”

  “There’s no time for finesse or diplomacy—Leonor needs to be certain you did not kill me. Now she knows, but she needs to feel it too; that will only be possible if she touches you.” Matt nodded and China called the girl over. The touch was electric, but without pain—their lives, experiences, thoughts, and feelings flowed from one to the other; then China touched both and they were all connected. Leonor’s narrow brown-black eyes widened and she wept as she kissed her father—the girl’s long brown hair falling over his face.

  ***

  Sitting up, still holding Leonor, Matt placed her on his lap and looked at his daughter. She had elements of her mother’s eyes before the transformation, but the girl had his nose and ears. Her body was lithe, but not gaunt or feeble; she was, Matt believed, tall for her age, but looking at her mother, now standing, he saw where she got it from. China was perhaps three centimetres taller than he and was toned but not overtly muscular. The hair on her forearms was as heavy as he remembered, but her neck was almost improbably long and it moved as though independent of head and shoulders. Sensing the glance, China blushed and attempted to cover her forearms. “It’s okay, Mommy.” Leonor giggled, looking up. “Papa likes it.” The shock of hearing Leonor call him papa for the first time brought the women’s conversation to a halt, and China sat beside the pair, hugging them as Matt’s tears ran down their daughter’s neck, while he kissed this. It was, for young Feargal, the best moment of his life.