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

by David S. Wellhauser

  “It cannot,” Zhang Hu asked, “be all that bad?”

  “The story I have to share with you is worse than bad—it is not credible.”

  “The world has changed in the last five years, Mr. Feargal.” Ambassador Skiff offered, but to Matt’s ears there was little confidence in the bravado.

  “Not as much as I’m about to change yours. Even after all we’ve been through you will need corroboration and that, simply, won’t be possible.”

  “Perhaps,” Hu again, “you should allow us to be the judge of that.” Matt sighed; placing a hand on either side of the pitcher of water and glass Ms. Benton had sat before him. Staring down at the water, he began.

  Though aware these were trained, seasoned, and canny grifters Matt saw no option but to gloss over elements of the Dilmun narrative. There was no mention of why he was in the woods in Howitt Park; no mention of what Salt did that evening. He failed to mention the grow in The Wood—though mention of The Wood ran visibly through the collective. What remained of Gall’s Wood had become famous after their departure. Word had it that the West End of Dilmun, at least west of the Expressway, had been evacuated and the spring turned into a research centre. What the truth was he never did find out.

  Matt had not been in contact with anyone from back home since he left. He was occasionally uncertain as to why. His general, and most satisfactory, answer was that this would just put them in jeopardy. If Zakara or the Transhumanists believed they could have used any of his few friends against him they most certainly would have done this. That was the rationale. But was this an accurate representation of the facts. He supposed this so—in part; in greater part he was ashamed of the mess and suffering he’d left behind. To be sure, this was done inadvertently, but he was still responsible for it. The town, it had been mentioned often on the blogs, would never fully recover from the descent of the global health organisations upon them. Not mentioned was the global intelligence agencies that invaded the town shortly thereafter.

  Rumours had emerged, through Salt, of what had happened—mass arrests, interrogations, medical examinations, and quarantine. When had walls, quarantines, and firepower worked in the past? Disease always found a way out and this was no less the case. To be fair, though, the disease vector had multiple origins. These were what had stymied governments and health organisations—even now, as he continued with his narrative to the point of the Cinn, there was disbelief but only just. “Warned you.” Pouring himself a glass of water.

  “So,” Pinel wondered, “the disease vector is the Cinn?”

  “They are not a disease, but a species. As I said, they once lived here but were forced out—there are a variety of theories as to why—and now are attempting to push back in. The transformations are being effected by them through the manipulation of uncoded genetic matter in each of us—once exposed to the micro-organisms in the rifts, or soft spots.”

  Feargal wasn’t prepared to call what followed a collective harrumph, but there was a level of disquieting agitation which washed, tidal, through the room. Leaning back he waited. “That,” Razin didn’t require the man to long wait, “explains a lot—but it is difficult to...”

  “Believe.” Hu finished, and the Russian Ambassador nodded.

  “Not the only thing you are going to have to deal with.” From the Cinn he speculated about the origin of his father; the necessary sacrifice of Leonor, and the schedule this appeared to be on. This fractured the calm of the room. Pushing through this, he outed Roberto Neruda and Halton Edwards. Feargal finished with the death of Melissa and Halton’s promise to kill Matt’s family.

  The silence was comprehensive. “What are you proposing?” Hu asked. Matt was genuinely surprised by the question.

  “I was under the impression that Jonah and elements of the US and UN were suggesting an alliance with Salt, Sansa, Neruda, Dragoste, and Ajutor.”

  “And yourself.” Ambassador Lloyd finished. “You, after all, seem to be the eye of the storm and the only one immune to your father’s...” and he stuttered here, “I don’t know what to call it?”

  “You may as well say what you are all thinking,” Matt answered, “magic.” Lloyd nodded and continued.

  “Matt, you are the only one, at the moment, that has a chance against him.”

  “Yes, but as long as Halton is hunting down my family I’m not interested in anything but stopping him and the ritual Zakara has planned for my family.”

  “What,” Pinel asked, “are you saying?”

  “I’m not joining anyone until I get help with Halton and a promise to help Leonor.”

  “We cannot,” Skiff answered, “promise to save Leonor. If that is possible of course we would wish to, but if it comes to a choice between saving your daughter and preventing the ritual,” he did not seem able to bring himself to suggest the release of the Cinn, “we will have to prevent the ritual.” Difficult, Matt supposed, to say you are prepared to kill a five year old girl.

  “At the very least, I’m going to need Halton reigned in.” There was a point past which he could not go.

  “Perhaps, then,” Hu proposed, “we should speak with Mr. Neruda. After all, your uncle appears to work for him.” Pulling out his phone, Matt made the call. With the phone on speaker, the room waited.

  “Hello.” It was Neruda. Matt was amused that Salt needed a PA whereas Neruda, with what had to have been a greater organisation, was taking his own calls.

  “It’s Matt.”

  “Ah, Matteo. You are well?”

  “I’m with the UN Security Council.” He’d not ever have expected to use that sentence, but that was the least of his concerns. “We are on speaker.”

  “Hello, Mr. Neruda. This is US Ambassador Skiff.”

  “Ambassador, how may I help you?”

  “We are finalising an alliance between Director Salt’s organisation and the UN, and we hope you might wish to join us.”

  “Perhaps.” Voice cagey. “We’ll need to negotiate terms, but that may be doable.”

  “Good,” the Ambassador continued, “but we need a little help with Mr. Edwards—he seems to want to kill Mr. Feargal’s family.”

  “I wish I could help you, but Halton has only the loosest connection with us any longer, but I will try as best I may.” The call continued in this way for several more minutes, but movement seemed impossible. It wasn’t what Matt had hoped for, but what he’d expected. In the end all that could be agreed upon, for the moment, was to return Matt to Nashville with UN protection and to agree to further negotiations with Neruda. Feargal hadn’t much hope for this, but kept good thoughts.

  Matt sat in another coffee shop, waiting. No matter how bad the economy got; no matter how iffy transportation; no matter what freaks were waiting on the road, coffee appeared to be ubiquitous—even with the appearance of food shortages. Sipping another café au lait, his third since sitting down three hours ago, he turned back to his table and the latest history of the fall of Rome—not that there was any presentiment on Feargal’s part, he just favoured catastrophes, and there was none bigger for what was to become Europe. Flipping another page, he’d the device tethered to a socket to maintain the charge. They still had power in Nashville thanks to the emerging alliance.

  The US government had decided, for whatever reason, Salt and he were their best short-term chance. What their long-term thinking was remained opaque and he didn’t really care. The short-term was all that mattered—what with Leonor’s fifth fast approaching. What would happen then was uncertain. Definitely Zakara could decide that it was time for the transfiguration of the child. There wasn’t any precise language to describe what was to happen, so Matt was left scrambling after functional Metaphors. None seemed quite adequate. For the moment though he was content, with no hint of where to concentrate his search, to read his book and tried not to think about what was coming next.

  Propped against the back door of the shop, with the backdoor flush against the far wall, Matt burrowed down into Alaric’s sack
of Rome. There was rather more detail than he thought possible for a historian working from spotty sources, but it was a good fiction—if not more. As steam from the coffee curled up beside him the front door opened and the brass bell, on its wrought iron fixture, rippled over the room. Looking up it was Jonah closing an umbrella. It had been raining off and on since he got back into town with the UN two days before.

  The escort didn’t stay longer than to gas up and grab a meal. They may have remained if Jonah had been in town, but he’d only got back that morning—with his own escort, but this one supplied by the US Army. There was a lot about this that was not setting well with Feargal. For the moment they needed each other, but what happened when that was no longer the case—especially since he carried the genetic code to unlock a Cinn gate. For the time being he was reasonably certain they weren’t certain about him, as they were of Leonor, but what happened when suspicion dawned. Still, it had been necessary.

  As Jonah dropped the umbrella into the receptacle he waved and headed to the counter to order. Putting the tablet on standby, Matt unplugged it from the wall and put the charging cable in his book bag with the reader. Approaching, Salt shook out his trench and sat down next to him. “I hate winter rain.”

  “Not quite there.” Looking out to the rain, this was now beating down. “Another month, maybe.”

  “Calendars. This feels like winter rain, so it’s winter rain.” Matt shrugged and smiled. On the one hand he should be angry with Salt for what he’d done to him and his family, but on the other he had no choice. And beyond that he liked him—always had, probably always would.

  “Any news on Halton?” Matt asked. Drumming his fingers on the table Jonah looked at the floor and shook his head.

  “They’re looking, but that call to Neruda shouldn’t have been made. I’m certain Roberto warned him; so he’ll be difficult to find.”

  “May make it difficult for him to find the women.”

  “Hope so.” There was little comfort being offered by the Meta of late. The desperation Matt could see on his face. Each day that passed with no word from his scouts or contact from the women through Matt’s dreams was deepening the haggard lines radiating out from his leonine nose and seam.

  “What do you think the UN and US will do about him?”

  “Not much—their concern is finding and stopping Zakara.”

  Matt knew this much to be the case, so pushed the issue no further. Instead he changed direction. “What have I been hearing about border attacks?” At this the Meta brightened considerably, which meant he’d something to share that they could deal with.

  “We thought, this morning, that they were terrorist attacks, but there have been movements on the Mexican border—troops are massing in places and surging across the border again, from Tijuana.”

  “I see.” Perhaps it would have been better if he’d been surprised but he wasn’t. “What about the devices they exploded?”

  “Meta-devices—part Archaic and part Meta in nature.”

  “Suppose that would explain the movement I’ve been seeing on the street.”

  “How long have you been in here?”

  “Three hours or more, why?”

  “The militia is having to put down a riot in the northeast of the city and US troops are on the way—believe they wish to keep us safe.” Taking another sip of his coffee, Matt nodded.

  “It doesn’t stop there.” The Meta stood to collect their coffee. “US and UN representatives have arrived to firm up the details about the alliance.”

  “Just diplomats?”

  “There’ll be spies amongst them; maybe the diplomats are spies. I’m no longer certain who’s who any longer.”

  “Welcome to my world.” Sipping his hot Americano, Jonah smiled.

  “Well, too much certainty is never useful.”

  “Yet, some allows us to move upon a decision. Right now, and for some time, our guesswork has been leading the pair of us from bad to worse.”

  ***

  “Will there be anything else, sir.” Matt had been enjoying The Holland Bar & Refuge that was until the waiter had started harassing him about 45 minutes before. Although it wasn’t busy there seemed to be a problem with him taking up a patio table for the last hour and a half. The woman’s face was tight and her lips, now, little more than a gash of frustration.

  “Not,” looking up placidly from his tablet, “at this time.”

  “Yes, sir.” The annoyance growing though the voice remained modulated. Matt watched her stomp off into the bar—and he swore it was a stomp you’d see from a pouting child. The woman stopped beside two other waiters, to adjust her bun, and as the three spoke the two others looked out toward Feargal; then spoke to the woman again. She shook her head and glared back. Matt smiled and raised his stout, blowing a kiss. The kiss might have been over the top, but he was no longer certain what was okay.

  The woman’s scowl deepened and she disappeared into the back of the bar. Matt turned back to his tablet. After about twenty minutes he finished his stout and waved another waiter over. “I’ll have another.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young man said, “but you’ve been cut off.”

  “By whom?”

  “Your first waiter feels you have behaved inappropriately.” At this moment Coral came sailing up the walk.

  “Hey, Coral.” Matt smiled. The woman’s spiky hair had grown out some but the henna remained on the sides above her ears. She smiled widely and sat down.

  “I’ll have what he’s having.” The waiter didn’t know what to do at this point and the indecision appeared on his face.

  “Is there a problem?” Coral asked.

  “I’ve been cut off.”

  “How many have...”

  “This is my second.” Holding up the pint. Pulling her coat tight against the wind, Coral repeated the order.

  “I...”

  “Just get the stout, or you’ll be having twice the trouble.” The waiter looked down at the woman, and must have noticed the outline of a weapon as she hugged herself, because he disappeared toward the bar a moment later.

  “What did you do this time?”

  “Think I’ve stayed too long and they want the table.” Coral looked about and then back at Feargal.

  “Really? Has it been this slow since you got here?” He nodded. “Fucking cow.”

  “What’s up?” Feargal knew something had to be, because he never saw Coral unless there was an Op. It wasn’t that they disliked each other; rather Matt suspected she was unnerved by him—and the myth surrounding him, as well as Salt, had only grown since returning from a meeting with the Security Council. That was beyond the ken of all he worked with.

  The woman didn’t answer right away so he repeated the question. At this moment the waiter returned and set two more pints on the table, but didn’t leave. As Matt looked up, he spoke. “After this I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Coral smiled.

  “We’ll leave when we’re finished. I may wish to stay for dinner and invite some of my friends—you’ll just love them.” The man was about to say something, but thought better of it and left.

  “Didn’t know blowing a kiss at a bitchy waitress would be such a big deal—people need a little perspective.”

  “Some,” still staring after the waiter, “haven’t yet figured out how serious this is.” Matt wasn’t certain of that—half the items on the menu had been marked unavailable. Not wanting to be side-tracked Matt returned to his question. Coral cleared her throat before answering.

  “William has escaped his detention facility.”

  “How did that happen?” Though uncertain she’d have any real clue. There was a suspicion in Feargal about how deep this supposed alliance was really to go.

  “Apparently a Meta-device was used and the outcome was that all human guards were driven into a killing frenzy.”

  “Did any of the guards survive?” Coral shook her head. “So, no corroborative evidence.” The woman shrugged an
d took a sip from her drink. “They must be developing quite the arsenal—how long can it be before they’re ready for an invasion.”

  “Probably not until the Cinn are here—with their help there’re be no stopping them.”

  “You or Salt any further along on that front?”

  “No.” This from the walk; the pair looked up and Salt was stepping up on the loose planking of the bar. The wood creaked beneath the imposition. “How about you?” Calling for the waiter; the staff inside were disheartened by the collective that was threatening their understanding of how the world should work.

  “Little trouble on that front.”

  “More than a little from the way you look.” Jonah answered, pulling up a chair from another table. There were nine tables out front of the bar and none of these were occupied—it was, after all, nearly winter. As far as those south of the Mason-Dixon would have it. For Matt it was a pleasant fall day.

  “Yes...” Matt’s original waitress came out.

  “I’m sorry, but we are not serving...” Matt took the woman’s wrist and pulled her down so the woman dropped to a knee. “Let me go.” Voice small and frightened.

  “That is Jonah Salt.” The woman’s eyes widened in recognition. “And I am Matt Feargal.” If the woman was awed by Salt, she went ashen on the mention of Feargal’s name.

  “Yes sir.” The woman scurried away—terrified. There followed some commotion inside, but no one else came out to move them along. Turning back to Jonah, Matt continued.

  “I’m having dreams. China is being tortured—I don’t know how or with what but she is in a lot of pain. Besides this, I cannot contact Leonor on any level—can’t even sense her presence.”

  “Are you certain of this?” Salt asked. Matt nodded. “They’re trying to keep you off balance—things may be reaching a critical point.”

  “Then again, maybe not.” Coral added.

  ***

  “This is getting out of hand.” Coral grumbled as she finished reading the report. Jonah was leaning back against his desk—a giant, carved oak affair that had been stained dark. The library lining the walls was well maintained and made up of mostly leather-bound editions with Latin and Greek titles. Whoever had put this together had been either a classicist or had pretensions in that direction. Jonah, however, didn’t answer. Instead he turned to Matt who was examining the far wall of books.