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

by David S. Wellhauser

  “I’ve read the reports—however, it is felt once order is restored and people stop shooting at each other than services will be a small matter as long as the infrastructure has not suffered severe damage.” This struck Feargal as unrealistic—even if the Transhumanists didn’t have the ability to launch another invasion on US territory. Matt was far from convinced of this, but there seemed no point in forcing the argument. Leaning back in the seat he resolved to wait for the Sansa.

  ***

  From the silence came the humming roar of expensive engines. Two blocks south they could see the headlights cutting in and out amongst the bungalows and split levels. As the driver touched the passenger’s forearm his cell chirruped with a text. “It’s them.” He answered, pointing to the oncoming lights. In another minute the short convoy, three more SUVs, pulled up on the other side of the street and debouched. There was a brief light from the interior light, but this snapped into darkness as the doors closed; with this there remained only the inconstant, frail light of the moon cut by strips of ragged clouds. Matt waited a moment, his window rolled down and then, as the wait became uncomfortable, he cracked the door and stepped in the cynthian street.

  What he took to be the team leader stepped forward. She had on jeans, a dark blue or black tee-shirt with indecipherable writing made of fractured, burnt-orange lettering. The woman’s close cropped hair was black, spiky and shot with streaks of henna along the sides, and just above small, almost cauliflower, ears bent inward. Her breasts were small, firm, and high, but these suggested a chastity of purpose. The woman’s hips matched her breasts. She was emaciated—not slender and toned, but ragged, hungry, and wasted. Even beneath her leather, waist length, jacket he could see her collar bone sticking out. The skin on her face was pulled unforgivably tight over high, sharp cheekbones, while the cheeks themselves were hollow and shadowed.

  “Matteo?” She asked in a reedy, quaver of a voice. He nodded. She held up her phone—snapping a picture.

  “For Jonah?” Nodding curtly, she turned away while the rest of the team watched him, hands in their unseasonable jackets. They tensed, visibly, as Cynthia climbed out behind Feargal. Placing a hand on his shoulder, Cynthia appeared to cringe behind him. There was a tremble in the woman’s hand, which he could feel through his jacket. Matt was about to speak when the team leader’s phone chirruped. Reading the text her tight, bloodless lips pulled back in what might have passed for a grin if there’d not been such antipathy in the black eyes.

  “It’s him.” The others relaxed their grip, and hands eased out of coats.

  “Okay, Matt, let’s get out of here.” The man, maybe in his mid-30s spoke. His hair was long and ragged; a beard, short and indifferently cut, covered most of his face, but there were bald patches the size of a nickel below is left ear and another just below the jawline. The eyes were an uncertain hazel and the nose pushed in; the nostrils were broad and flared as he breathed heavily. There was a heavy wheat belly below his broad chest which sagged over a straining belt.

  “Jonah will want to see the woman, too.” Matt added for the others were now looking uncomfortably at the cobalt Meta. The team leader nodded.

  “I’m Coral.” Matt was about to make a stripper gag, but taking in her condition this seemed unlikely.

  “Coral.” Voice flat, betraying no judgement or emotion.

  “He,” pointing to the belly, “is Barney. Over there is Daniel, Prester, Lincoln, Noir, Bell, Hemper, and Connelly.” Matt nodded to each in turn. All of this was a lot more serious than he remembered Jonah to be, and that was but a few scant weeks before. The fall of Cody must have changed the Meta in some fundamental way he’d not yet reckoned on. “Here,” stepping forward, “you’ll need this.” He took the card and looked, with difficulty, at the laminate in the moonlight. “It’s a health and ID card—certifies you are a pure Archaic with no infection.”

  “Health cards—had to happen I suppose.”

  “You’ll find a lot of things are happening. Sorry, but that won’t work with your friend.”

  “Cynthia.”

  “Cynthia, sorry.” She almost sounded it. “But we’ll rustle you up a Meta pass card in the next day or so.”

  “What’s all this about?” Feargal continued.

  “Federals are attempting to take control of the population. Ham-fisted I know, but that’s the way of it now. What happens when Washington takes an interest in the State of the Nation. Won’t last long, but as long as the Federals are sticking their noses in this sort of thing will continue.” Trousering the card, the first of his new possessions, he strode across the road to Coral’s vehicle—followed closely by Cynthia, who was unnerved by all the big men and the looks she was receiving.

  They drove south for about 10 minutes in silence; finally, Matt couldn’t contain himself any longer. “What happened in Cody?” Barney swivelled about from the passenger’s seat.

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “I’ve been out of contact since leaving Cody—excepting for what I’ve gleaned here and there, mostly rumour. But I do know it fell from a Transhumanist raid.”

  “More like a small army.” Coral answered.

  “What happened, though?”

  “We were infiltrated,” Barney glanced, warily, at Cynthia in the darkness, “and when they had all their people in place we were hit—hard.”

  “Did many die?”

  “A lot, but we have no numbers. Many were supposed to have been captured and taken south—the Metas for re-education and the humans for conversion.”

  “Mexico?”

  “Not certain, but I don’t believe so.” Coral answered again. “The border is difficult to cross now.”

  “Texas?”

  “That’s the general opinion.” Barney again.

  “Do you know who was involved in the raid?”

  “Thin Man and William Essio.” Matt’s face, even in the darkened interior, must have given away his shock.

  “You know Essio, right?”

  “I grew up with him. But Thin Man, I know them, too.”

  “Who,” Coral asked in a tight voice, “are they?”

  “He is Patrick Wilson, from Dilmun, as is Bill.”

  “Everything seems to lead back to that town.” Coral ground out from a clenched jaw. And me—Matt thought to himself.

  ***

  “Okay,” Coral spoke into the phone, “where?” Nodding a couple of more times with one hand on the wheel she seemed increasingly uncomfortable. “You sure about that? Oh, they’re both there. Fine, we’ll be over in a bit.” Ending the call Coral stuffed the phone back in her jacket in a jabbing, agitated manner. “Bit of a change, we’re heading to Bellwood Moreland.”

  “Trouble?” Feargal asked.

  “No, not as such, but there is a concern about what others might know of our plans and safe houses, so they’ve located a new place—not far from here.”

  “There remains a concern about Transhumanist agents?” There was a part of him, almost the larger, which wanted to snigger at this—but after Cody and Kathy it wasn’t as silly or improbable.

  “The threat of these is more of a concern than the fact—of that much I am certain. But people can’t seem to give up on their fear, or put it in perspective. So, here we are running from supposition and ghosts.” As the woman shook her head, Matt could see the whites on her knuckles. There was something of the kindred in Coral, and he hoped he would be able to spend time with her before whatever was next.

  “How frightened is Salt?” Barney looked back.

  “Don’t believe he is—or he isn’t showing it.” Matt nodded, but was unconvinced. Salt was excellent at stowing away whatever he didn’t want to deal with. In some cases this would be buried so deep he might almost forget it was there.

  This was how it had been with Halton. Edwards had buried his loneliness and bitterness so deep he had no idea he was experiencing either of these until he met Melissa. More importantly, no one else saw this—not even Neruda a
nd he’d know Matt’s Uncle since long before he was born. Now they had all been paying for that oversight. There was so much hangover from Dilmun Feargal had no idea of where to turn or what to do with any of the troubles his hometown had left in his life, and the lives of all whom crossed his path. There was, albeit, less a sense of guilt than a foreshadowing brood.

  “So, where are we heading?”

  “Place has two names. There’s an old sign hanging outside—Original Leipzig Tavern.”

  “I like it already.” Sounded like some working-class dive where you could get a decent beer, shoot some pool, and fuck some local slag.

  “But its proper name is Gino’s Bar & Grill.” There was a heavy silence from the backseat. “Something wrong?”

  “Yuppies.”

  “Hmm, don’t let it bother you—we’ve taken the bar over and it’s, as far as the neighbourhood knows, closed for renovations.” Matt supposed there was some consolation in this, but he wasn’t moved. At heart he was still the kid that hung out at Benny’s pool hall. To call it working-class would have been overly generous; still, for Matt this had been his favourite place in Dilmun. Not that he couldn’t and wouldn’t change up when needed—though he was bored with changing up.

  They drove another 15 minutes before they finally pulled up behind this. “Backdoor?” Matt asked. Coral nodded.

  “They’re supposed to be renovating.” As she spoke the door opened and out stepped two large men. Taking a breath, Matt stepped out—followed by Cynthia, who slipped across the seat and stood behind him, a hand on his bicep. The Meta was trembling. He couldn’t blame her—no one, since reaching Portland, had made her feel at home, or even welcome. There was more than a little sense that she was the enemy, until this was proven otherwise. This alone made Feargal breathe easier—at least Salt was taking security seriously.

  On seeing Matt’s face, as he stepped into the oblique light of the street lamp as this cut through a tree and over the parking lot. It was a small space, but there were no other cars or trucks in it, which left Matt wondering where these had been left. They’d have to be close, on the off chance they were found; this meant Salt had taken over houses or businesses close by.

  There was a small strip mall across the street and a couple of cars were in the lot, but they were small. In all likelihood they’d be parked behind this, with drivers waiting. The street itself was close with a combination of residences and small businesses—halfway down the street was a Baptist Church. He noticed this as they’d passed it. The years had taught him a lot, but the past weeks more than all those years together, about the virtues of paranoia and defining points of egress. There was little enough of those here, but diving between blocks of houses was a sport he’d perfected with Bill back in Dilmun.

  One of the guards, back of Leipzig, nodded toward the door—Salt stepped out. In the diffuse light there didn’t seem to be anything altered about his friend. The nose remained aquiline; the arms and legs were still only just improbable in length; the seam still pronounced; the eyes remained shifty and almond shaped. Smiling, Matt stepped forward—hand outstretched. Not having that, Jonah stepped past this and wrapped the younger in his arms.

  “You made it.” The Jungian’s voice hitched.

  “Always do.” Laughing, Salt let him go. Holding Feargal at arm’s length he looked over his shoulder to Cynthia.

  “Thank you, ...”

  “Cynthia.” Matt answered the lacuna. Nodding in acknowledgement he looked back at Matt.

  “Let’s get inside. I’ve got some more ID papers for you and a doctor to check out your injuries.”

  “I’m fine,” Matt laughed, happy to see his old friend, “just a few bumps and bruises.”

  “Probably, but I’m still having you checked over. Don’t need you falling down dead because you don’t like doctors.”

  “I don’t.” Matt laughed as they entered the restaurant. Cynthia, relieved at their reception, followed.

  ***

  “These are your new papers—passport, driver’s licence, and social security.”

  “They are all real?”

  “Any examination—any level.” Matt’s eyebrows rose.

  “You’ve made some new contacts—can’t see Neruda popping for this, or any of his people.”

  “Not now.”

  “Melissa.” Jonah nodded.

  “There was no choice—we both wanted China; the woman behaved foolishly. Besides, it was Bart.” Answering, Matt began to notice how tired his friend looked. Not physically, this was a deeper, drier, comprehensive enervation. “What is it Jonah?”

  “What do you mean?” Sitting down, heavily, in the wooden chair next to a small table with a heavy table cloth—with his left hand the Meta tapped this with an improbably long index finger.

  “You look burnt out.”

  “Been a rough time since Cody, but we’re getting ourselves up and running—I’m better now you’re here.” He smiled wearily pointing at the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  When Feargal sat a Meta showed up with a whiskey. Matt, with Salt’s help, had been learning his single malts, but he rarely had a chance to indulge since they had often found themselves living from hand to mouth. Taking a sip from the Islay he smiled over. “We’ll sort it out. Seems,” looking about, “you’ve already started.”

  “First I need you checked out.” Indicating behind Feargal. “This is Doctor Williams.”

  “No need—I’m fine.”

  “I’m sure you are, but we’re going to have you checked out nonetheless.” Feargal, reluctantly, rose and moved to a larger table. The doctor didn’t find anything until he examined Matt’s lower back—both sides of the spine were quite tender. He stared at this a moment; then placed a hand, gently, on either side of the backbone. Warmth spread out from his hands. As this occurred the Meta became very quiet, so that Matt could hear his breathing.

  After moment Williams removed his hands. Matt turned about. “What is it?” There was some anxiety in the voice.

  “You have slightly bruised kidneys. From the beating you took, I expect.”

  “Is that,” Jonah asked, anxiously, “serious?”

  “No,” shaking his head, “few days rest and a limited liquid intake should take care of that.” Smiling, Salt took Feargal’s whisky. Matt shrugged—he could have said as much.

  “Any other problems?” Matt asked, but didn’t really care.

  “Nothing beyond what should be expected from your road trip and the abuse.” Jonah nodded and thanked the doctor who was led out the way they’d all come. All the while, Cynthia had been sitting quietly in the back of the dining room waiting for someone to notice her.

  At this time Matt did. “What will you do with Cynthia—one of the reasons I got this far is her help.” Jonah looked over and smiled.

  “Once she’s been vetted we’ll find a place for her. You,” turning to the woman, “will not be harmed, but I’ll need you to join Barney. You’ll be interviewed and some of our best Metas will question you—rather deeply. But, remember, you will not be harmed.” The woman looked nervously at Matt, but when he nodded she smiled and was taken out the way they’d come. When Cynthia was gone, Matt turned back to Salt.

  “She will be safe?”

  “Unless she’s a Transhumanist. The process we’ve developed takes little more than three hours.” Relieved, Matt sat back down.

  “What’s next?” Salt slid a smartphone across the table in answer.

  “Doesn’t look it, but that’s your burner. Has all the proper contacts, Skype, Facebook, Twitter, KakaoTalk, and a few others.”

  “Wifi has become spotty out here.”

  “They’re going to repair that soon enough, and as long as the Transhumanists don’t hit the hubs things should be fine.”

  “And they won’t?” The sarcasm heavy.

  “They’re well protected, and the frontiers are in the Federals’ control.”

  “For the moment.”

 
“Yes, there is that—but it’s what we got for now.” Salt paused a moment before continuing. “Halton’s new number is in there as well.”

  Taking the phone, Matt tapped this on the table cloth a moment. “Now?”

  “May as well get it over with—he’s speed dial 9.” As the phone rang, Matt put it on speaker and sat this between the two of them. “No one else speak during the call—no sound. Got it?” Coral and her team nodded. The phone rang a couple of more times, and then connected.

  “Hello?” Halton’s voice, same as he remembered though he supposed it a little thicker, harder, and disguising antipathy. This, Matt attempted to convince himself was an empty bit of phantasy, but he couldn’t quite make that. After all, there had to have been blowback on the Melissa business. He was almost certain it would be aimed at him.

  “Hello, Uncle.” There followed a brief, but uncomfortable, pause.

  “I thought I’d be hearing from you before this?”

  “Ran in to some trouble up north—sorted now.”

  “I heard.”

  “From Patrick?”

  “Figured it out?”

  “Seems so. You working with Zakara now?”

  “No, Matt. I’m still with Roberto, but I’ve taken his point of view to heart.” Swallowing, Matt asked the follow-up.

  “Which is?”

  “You all need killing—just too dangerous.”

  “She gave Bart no choice, Halton.”

  “Even so, you are responsible, and, in the end, it only matters that Melissa is dead.”

  “This does not have to get any worse than it already is, Halton.” Jonah spoke.

  “I’ll be sorting you when the time comes, Salt.”

  “You are going to overreach.” Matt answered.

  “Seems that’s what this whole affair has been about—but we’re going to put things back to rights.”

  “Which,” Salt asked in a sick voice, “is?”

  “First, I’m going to find and kill Leonor; then China. With them done I’ll take you Salt—finally you, Matt.”

  “Kinda throwing away the last 22 years of your life.” Feargal spoke through a tight voice, attempting to swallow the rage.