“You did that in Lynden.”
“I’m no more to blame than is my family. All I want back was what belongs to me.”
“It’s a good answer—and an honest one. But it’s not going to do you any good—we’re now beyond reason.” Edwards ended the call.
Matt stared at the phone a moment longer, a sick feeling rushing up his spine and fountaining out into his brainstem. When Halton had first told him who he was and what he was attempting to do all those years ago in Dilmun, he’d not expected this. That either of them would make it through, even at 16, didn’t seem likely. But this turn had not occurred to Matt at all. Now here, Matt couldn’t quite credit how it had happened. Of course, he knew the decisions, actions, and reactions which had brought them all here, but he couldn’t quite believe it all.
There was a certain inevitability since the day he watched the blue-hair kill the errant ham in front of Melissa’s. All this because of a woman he was far from certain had ever loved Halton—at least, since she’d discovered the Transhumanists. All his doing, that was. Perhaps it would have happened anyway, but Matt suggested she look for others such as herself—and the woman did. Would it have been different if he’d given himself to her? That was a question which had returned over the years since he’d met her. Since he’d refused her because of what this would have done to China—more precisely, what China would have done to him. Almost certainly she’d have left him; may have even returned to Korea. If he had a chance to do it over would he? He liked to think he would, but doubted if that were the case.
Life without China wasn’t possible for him. But now he may have accomplished that. For the first time he was replaying what had happened at the airport. Could he have stopped Bart from killing the woman? Maybe, but all he wanted was China. Would that have been such a hard trade? Not if all she wanted was Halton, but she didn’t. She wanted the Cinn—or what she believed they represented. Matt might have said the rest of the Metahumans, but that wasn’t the case. Melissa’s journey was one of narcissistic revenge—she didn’t care what chaos was left behind as long as the pain and humiliation matched her own. Was it possible to slake that kind of rage? He thought not.
Yet, thinking about any of this wasn’t going to change a thing at this point. Putting the phone in the pocket of his jacket, hanging on the back of the chair, Matt looked up at Jonah—who was looking at him sidelong. “Whose side are you on?” Matt asked. There was a challenge in this. The Meta didn’t answer right away, and this left Matt calculating the odds of killing him before the others could intervene. From Salt there seemed an awareness of this; so when he answered he leaned back in his chair—while Coral’s team moved, uneasily, into place.
“I’m for stopping the Cinn coming through, but I’ll not sacrifice Leonor for that.”
“You entirely certain of that?”
“If there is no choice I will kill her, but I don’t see it coming to that.” Matt smiled, sadly. Staring at the tablecloth, he answered.
“If you had answered in any other way I’d have known you were lying.” Feargal didn’t follow this up with a threat, but it was there nonetheless.
“There’s more,” Matt continued, “we need to talk about.”
“A lot more I suspect.”
“Botrous may be Shaitan.” Jonah did not appear surprised.
“Wondered about that for some years, now. At least, I wondered if Zakara weren’t a Cinn. Shaitan makes the most sense.”
“Why the most sense?”
“Shaitan is the traditional leader of the Red Cinn—they are the ones, if you believe the myth, which hate humanity and the fact that they can’t get back here.” Matt wanted a drink, but knew that wasn’t something he’d get after the doctor’s recommendation. Instead, he pulled out a joint he made up north but had never gotten around to.
After taking a hit on the spliff Matt held this for a moment, then let the smoke sail out across the room toward Coral standing against the far wall. “So,” he asked taking bit of weed from his tongue, “what does it mean if Zakara is Shaitan?”
“Firstly, it would mean this isn’t your father.”
“Possession?”
“More likely that Zakara has been destroyed.” Matt nodded, not really caring any longer. “This may also be the reason he needs you still—perhaps.” This didn’t make sense to Feargal and he looked questioningly at Jonah. “I mean, Zakara has probably been possessed by Shaitan for longer than you’ve been alive. His DNA has to have been corrupted. You see, although a Cinn can possess us, to do so too long is destructive to our bodies. This one has held onto your father for a generation—that has never been known to happen before; which is why some, especially Roberto, are having trouble believing this.”
“Why trouble?”
“Falls outside of the parameters of their mythos.”
“Just because it doesn’t behave as their books tell them it’s to, they don’t believe it?”
“Humans and Meta have a particular faculty for delusion when the facts are too disturbing or our constructed reality tells us this is not possible.” Matt didn’t have an answer for that. For the most part, however, he agreed with Salt. After that year in Dilmun this was how he lived his life. The one thing that wasn’t covered by Jonah was how quickly, when necessary, people can adapt to the aberrant; how quickly this becomes not simply the new reality, but the new banality.
“So, what do we do if Zakara is Shaitan?” There was the question. Salt shrugged.
Maybe I’m crazy. The hook had been tickling him all morning. It was now sometime after noon, but Matt hadn’t been looking at his phone much anymore—it was now packed away in his kit, but not turned off. He’d a watch, but had tossed this in a creek a hundred kilometres behind them. Time, an existential elemental, had lost its hold. In circumspection Feargal might have preferred seemed, but there was no longer any seemed. As the year deepened, time hung albatross about his neck, and ignoring the weight was the only way forward. How long since the last dream of Leonor and China? Two weeks at least—even when not out on another search the particulars of time were losing their hold on the man.
Time as what?
Competitor?
Nemesis?
Adversary?
There wasn’t the clarity of these complacencies; a haunted, trembling quivery of anxiety chittered in the back of his thoughts—always just refusing to surface. Time was hurtling toward the child’s birthday. Matt continued to think of her as this, but it was no longer the case. No longer? From what dreams he’d had of Leonor she’d never been this. The birth and China’s transfiguration had thrown the infant into full awareness. The girl’s articulation and subtlety of thought remained disturbing, but he loved her all the more for the deeper the rift she opened in his heart—for all that had been dropped upon her; for all she understood, now, of her rôle in the Tournament; for all she’d not live to discover herself. That grated most of all. Life would not be a voyage of discovery, but a Mummers Play.
Still no closer. Leonor hadn’t been on the coast, that he could find—and he’d chased the dreams of the girl all over the Southwest. This had not been a simple matter with the Transhumanists still attempting to break out of Tijuana. Still, Matt had gotten as close to the border as Imperial Beach—Leonor had been certain about that one. There’d not been much since then—she and China were still there, he could feel them, but they weren’t breaking through in to the same lucid dreams he’d had of them earlier. Things, after Imperial, had gotten dialled back when Jonah had learnt how close he got to a Transhumanist stronghold—though all Matt had wanted was a glimpse of the Pacific; he almost got it too. After that, he had been shackled to Coral’s Portland team. Occasionally they travelled with a Meta or two, but the open roads in Archaic territory weren’t particularly safe. After the lynching of the last one, Matt wasn’t going to be carrying this on his conscience. Since then they’d all been Archaic.
Now it was late fall and they were just south of Wichita. Barney
was certain it was cold, but Matt didn’t agree, yet Barney was from California. Where Barn was wearing a light winter jacket, straining over the wheat, he was wearing a light spring canvas affair with multiple pockets. There were on 55 somewhere near the Kansas Turnpike. The flatness of the place, and the constant wind, reminded Feargal of the prairies—didn’t like them either. Still, it was a lot warmer—no matter how much Barn was whining. For a big man he did have a tendency to complain a lot—mostly Matt let it pass because there was no real way to shut him up. Just how some were made.
Stepping out of the car, they’d three cars in their team—comprising Barney, Coral, Daniel, Prester, Lincoln, Hemper, Noir, Bell, and Connelly—Matt stretched. His ass hurt from riding on blown springs so long—wanting to blend they were driving a variety vehicles which were hardly road worthy. “How much longer to Wichita?” Matt asked Barney.
“Another 10 miles.”
“You sure ‘bout this?” Noir asked—her piercing blue eyes in all that black hair were something Feargal tried not to think about.
“Not sure, but this is where I feel I need to be—sorry, about dragging you all in on this.”
“If,” Bell, all gangly mid-western arms and legs, “you’d not been so stupid at Imperial we might be enjoying our beds about now.” He and Bell never did get on. And if Barn complained, Bell blamed him for most of what was happening. Hard not to agree.
After another 10 minutes of rest and a pit stop, they were back on the road on their last run up the Turnpike. The late afternoon light was clear in the way that late fall days could be, and the wind broke against the sides of the car with a low moan. They were coming up on the East 55th Street overpass when the light no longer held his attention. Somewhere in the back of his mind a niggle rose from an itch. They were just coming up to the Lodging Next Exit when he saw it. The vapour trail was coming for them. Pulling the steering wheel hard right they flew from the road just before the guard rail and glanced off a tree as the vehicle bucked down the embankment. There was an explosion from behind. Barney looked back as he clung to the dashboard. “Semi.” The word rattled out of his throat.
Then there was small weapons fire coming from what looked like a bungalow on East 55th. Fishtailing Matt headed back into the orchard, now without fruit or leaves. In less time than it took to roll out of the car they were into the trunk and returning fire. As the dust settled there they were—William Essio and Carla Faveretto. Carla’s scar had healed but it had left a ragged cicatrix running down the side of her face. Then there was an explosion in front of them and they were retreating. Looking up, there was Coral with a grenade launcher—he didn’t even know she had one. “I believe,” Barney laughed, “your pop’s set you up.”
“Yes, gloves appear to be off.”
“But how did he find us?” That was a good question; thought he’d an idea but he wasn’t ready to share this.
***
Wichita took more forgetting than Matt anticipated.
First there was collecting the group, remarkably unharmed, together, and skittering through the city before the first responders could stop them. What remained of social media, nonetheless, had managed to post a video of a large part of the incident. There were no clear shots of anyone’s face—there was that at least. But the vapour trail and the explosion of the semi, killing the driver of the truck and the car behind, was passed off for what it was—Transhumanist terrorism. Though not strictly correct, Feargal was prepared to let it go—better than having to deal with the issue of an assassination plot. Though getting back to Salt, who’d relocated to Nashville, there would have to be an in-depth debriefing.
Once through Wichita he’d sent the text and got back Jonah’s reply in less than a minute—in Nashville...check my gps...hurry. There were going to be a lot of questions. Some of these he would have answers to—though most he wasn’t certain of. There’d been a lot of time to think. Normally, he’d have expected the ride to take 11 hrs, but given the chaos on the roads, and the smaller towns, Matt calculated 16 hrs and that seemed on the generous side. He’d been right—all in, the trip took over 18 hrs.
Upon arrival they noticed there were no barricades outside the city nor on any of the off-ramps. There were signs of rioting, but repairs were well underway and businesses were again open. People were going about their lives and there were no signs of Guard or Troops anywhere. Seemed Salt and his people were right about that much. But this was east of the Mississippi. What the Northwest was looking like no longer concerned him. Passing the phone to Barney as they wound down 65 there seemed little sign of damage—not even any abandoned vehicles. “See his GPS?” Barney nodded.
“Looks like east-central. You’re going to need to catch 40 up here.” Still no sign of more than minor civil unrest—then there was Hermitage, Stanley, Visco, and Pumping Station. “This,” placing a hand on Matt’s shoulder, “seems to be it.”
“Another warehouse.” Shaking his head. The front gate of M&W Logistics was open so Matt turned in; then pulled around back—given the parking lot was empty. The SUVs were new, but the same type Salt had favoured since leaving Dilmun—perhaps before, for all Feargal knew. As he pulled up next to these a loading dock door rattled to life. Inside this were dozens of armed Sansa—what Matt took for these. Once they were out of the cars the Sansa lowered their weapons. Though Feargal knew none of these, they, apparently, were familiar with him. His status as mythogene was taking time to adjust to, and even when he accepted this being identified by strangers was disconcerting. More than this was the concern of what happened when the Archaic governments began to take notice of his status. What would they do to him? Pretty much what Neruda wanted to do—the logic of which was not lost on Matt.
From behind these people, Archaics and Metas, Salt appeared. “Hey, you made it.” Putting out a hand—playing to the crowd, Matt supposed. “Nasty business in Wichita.” Matt took his hand and leaned in.
“What the fuck?”
“Smile and we can get through them quickly.”
“How many?”
“Few hundred here—more around town and in the satellites.” Matt’s eyes bugged at the thought.
“How many in total?”
“Enough so we’re thinking of breaking them into smaller groups—maybe cells.” They passed through the throng of smiles and hands shakes—leaving Coral and her team with them—on their way up to the second floor office.
In the office, Matt got a bottle of water from the fridge and joined Jonah on the couch. He looked odd on the thing. The overly long arms and legs appeared at odds with the furniture—especially the legs which were angled, sharply, upwards because of overly long shins. The long, white face with its ochre seam was animate and the eyes filled with questions, and seeming ready to share what answers they’d come across since the pair were last together. Still, Feargal had never been good at reading the Meta. Always he returned to the Dilmun meeting and the younger was left with a partial sense of dread, anger, and caution. Salt was on his side—for the moment—of that much he was reasonably certain, but if he switched sides once why not again? But that was true of Halton as well. Since that betrayal he’d become cautious about surrendering trust to others.
“Matt,” still smiling, “how’d they find you?” No dodging that question. William and Carla knew right where to be waiting for him.
“I’ve been having dreams or visions of China and Leonor since Washington.” Salt nodded his head, not seeming to be surprised—but then he’d been a psychologist, of sorts.
“You believe those dreams are being tapped, now?”
“Or they’ve figured out what Leonor and China are doing and have taken control of them.”
“I see—do you suppose it is useful to continue these?”
“I’m not in control of them—not really. They’re, however, the only contact with my family I have. Lately, though, they’ve not been what they were. I’m getting more of a sense of location, rather than experiencing a presence from th
e women.” Salt nodded and appeared to be thinking what Matt was—the dreams were being coerced from the women and used to trap him, but he didn’t say this. Instead he followed with what Feargal had worried of.
“We’re sharing Intel with Neruda, Dragoste, and Ajutor. The whole Archaic/H+ conflict is not going well—and we need each other’s help.”
“Are you certain of this?” Feargal was attempting to withhold judgement on this because he and Roberto had never seen eye to eye on the latter’s desire to kill not only Leonor, but Matt as well. That this would have been the best, most effective strategy had not been lost on Feargal; now Halton’s determination to kill his family, because of Melissa—that was a failure Matt would not forget anytime soon. Neruda seemed to have an edge that was tilting well away from what it had been even in the spring. For the moment nothing was going his way—that moment, however, had lasted some five years.
“There’s no way around the consolidation of Intel and resources.”
“Roberto wants my family...”
“Yes, but even though the Americans and Canadians have retaken the Northwest and western provinces their hold may be tenuous. The hold on the Mexican border is even worse. With the better part of Latin America in ruins, the transformations there are proceeding quickly and pretty soon the only thing which will hold the borders are chemical, biological, or Meta-weapons.”
“They wouldn’t?”
“The Americans may not have much choice—not any longer.”
“But do they have the Meta-weapons?”
“Yes, they’ve, I’m told, have been working on them for at least five years.”
“So they’d known...”
“Certain agencies have known, but there was no way they could go public until there was no choice.”
“We’re there?”
“Would appear so.”
Matt leaned back, taking a long drink of water. Doing so, the next step occurred. “There’s more?” Salt appeared uncomfortable at the question. Whatever it was, it had to be bad.
End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity) Page 19