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

by David S. Wellhauser

  ***

  “Where,” Ambassador Hu asked, “is Clinton State Park?”

  “About an hour west of Kansas City.” Captain Koolup answered. The call was going slower than Matt would have liked. After supplying the information about what was being reported by the Metas and their appearance, he’d assumed he would’ve been cleared to look into it right away. Yet there was something niggling at the Council which was being kept from him. If he could lie to them, why not they to he? Still, this was wasting time none of them had.

  “It is,” Ambassador Skiff answered, “about the centre of the country.”

  “How dangerous do you feel this could be?” Ambassador Lloyd followed up.

  “If,” Skiff continued, “the Midwest falls that would make holding the borders much more difficult.”

  “Probably impossible.” Matt returned.

  “Probably.” Skiff admitted.

  “Then what we have on the go down in Mexico would not come through.” With Koolup sitting beside him, Matt needed to be as oblique as possible.

  The Council, knowing the line might not be secure and aware the Captain would not have been cleared for this level of security, became agitated. “And,” Ambassador Antonina Razin asked anxiously, “you are certain this is Thin Man tech?”

  “Certain, no.” Matt didn’t want to offer them certainty—they were diplomats and never seemed comfortable with that. “However, all of the indications are there—the eccentric mutations, the havoc being played with physics, the huge displacement of populations, and the destabilisation of the western end of the state.”

  “So,” Ambassador Pinel, “all you want to do is investigate?”

  “No. If what is going on is what is feared this will have to be stopped.”

  “You are,” Lloyd again, “the only one whom can do this?”

  “The only one that knows what is to be expected and how to deal with Thin Man—yes.” There was no immediate answer so he continued. “There is only one other suited to deal with him and Salt is now, I hope, heading south from Laredo—if that’s where he crossed.”

  “Well, you can’t go alone.” Razin was emphatic about that point. It had long since been acknowledged that Feargal and Salt were valuable assets, and the idea of losing one on a flyer that did not yet appear substantial was difficult for the Council to take. Yet, he was almost certain they would be planning a bit of unpleasantness for him and his family if this business with Botrous were ever sorted out. For the moment, nonetheless, they existed in the credit column, and the Council was unwilling to risk him.

  “We’ll send the Guard and his team with him.” Skiff answered. “Captain, you understand, Mr. Feargal is essential to the war effort?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nothing may be allowed to happen to him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make certain your command is completely aware of this fact. Everyone is expendable—but Mr. Feargal.”

  Matt didn’t much care for the hyperbole—if that’s what it was. The rhetorical flourish worked, however, that much he could see on the Captain’s face. “Yes, sir.” Lower and serious, the voice matched the face. After this it was only a matter of giving details to the Council so the Americans could send Federals in to clean up whatever mess Feargal left behind. It seemed they expected the mess to be of equal danger as they did the remnants of Wilson’s program and whatever Metahumans were completing this. Unfortunately, they’d no direct experience of the Meta or his work and this was the problem.

  ***

  Having to avoid the impediments of the Kansas City blockades—the Guard preferred not to call them barricades, as though some of them still had memories of 1848—they had to take a slightly longer route around, but this also avoided remnant DPs and abandoned vehicles as traffic jams or gas shortages took their toll. So they stepped west and north repeatedly. The drive should have taken two and a half hours, but flinching at every unknown sound and the appearance of small groups of DPs they were not close until about noon; then they were still some distance south of Clinton Lake. The flatness of the land kept Feargal on edge, but there was more excitement than anxiety as they were now barrelling up US59.

  Still one turn away from skirting Lawrence the country had developed light, rolling hills with low slung trees and large scrub on either side of the road. There were some ploughed fields on either side of the road, but mostly they were covered in wild, brown grass with light streaks of green. The trees, bushes, and scrub were denuded, excepting for the odd cluster of stubborn leaves which clung brown and shrivelled to twigs and branches. As he was staring east, the driver, same kid as stumbled over the Metas before dawn, cursed and the transport swerved across the road, where it shimmied to a halt; the trucks behind them screeched to a loud and violent stop, but there were no sounds of impact. As he was still harnessed to the seat Matt wasn’t thrown face first into the window, but he’d reached out his hand and this had slammed down hard on the dashboard.

  “What the...” Feargal strangled off a cry as he saw several Archaics darting off to his right and disappearing into the scrub chased by several more Houyhnhnms. They were all Appaloosas but their eyes were odd—too far back on their heads and the pupils were a sharp cobalt. From the shoulder of the lead it appeared they had vestigial hands protruding from the bone and muscle. Even as he was seeing this the Guards were jumping from the trucks. For a heartbeat there was the wonder, horror, sublime awe that Thin Man’s Metas generally inspired and then they opened fired. By the time they’d done this the Houyhnhnms were disappearing over a small rise.

  “What the fuck was that?” Koolup yelled, running up.

  “Houyhnhnms.”

  “What?”

  “Humans, I suppose, that have been transformed into sentient horses which believe Archaics, which they call Yahoos, are a lower form of life. If they capture them they will enslave them.” Koolup stared at Feargal a moment, as though attempting to decide if he was lying or mad. As he waited, Matt turned to look back up the rise and a party of Houyhnhnms broke over this at a gallop. These were a mixture of Arabians, Mustangs, and Appaloosas with some of the same oddities as the first group but also, as best he could tell from a distance, one of the Arabians had his eyes square on his forehead and the ears were long and floppy—almost reminding him of a Bassett Hound, but they were without hair and ragged about the edges. One of the Mustangs had almost no neck and what appeared to be a reptilian tail. Pointing up the rise, Matt spoke before Koolup could make up his mind. “Prototypes, I suppose.”

  As the Captain came around front of the vehicle the equines halted and the first Arabian, with the eyes mounted on their forehead whinnied and wheeled. Koolup yelled for someone to shoot them and several Guard opened on the party just before they passed beyond the rise. Some of these were hit but only one fell—the Mustang with the reptilian tail. Running up the hill, the Guard ignored the fallen Houyhnhnm and fired after the others which were already disappearing into the low trees and scrub. Matt and Koolup ran up behind them and stopped at the screaming horse. The Meta had been struck in the flank; the wound did not appear to be fatal, but there was a lot of blood. Leaning over the Meta’s head, Matt was about to speak when the equine attempted to stand, but fell down again with another inchoate screech and shudder.

  “Stay down, you’re hurt.” Matt spoke quietly.

  “It’s a horse,” one of the Guard spoke contemptuously as he approached from behind the speaker, “it cannot understand you.”

  “Fuck you, human.” There was the Ferengi twist, but there was no Quebecois accent this time. On hearing this, the Guard jumped back and raised their weapon. Matt knocked their weapon up and a tight grouping punched, harmlessly, into the blue sky.

  “It’s a Meta.” Still speaking calmly.

  “Metas don’t look like that.” Koolup said in a shaken voice.

  “This is what we were speaking of with the Council—and why we’re here. We need to put an end to this kind of transfo
rmation.”

  “But you said Thin Man was dead.” Koolup, still shaken, continued. The others, at the mention of the name, pulled back. The legend was enough to frighten the group.

  “He is, but the program may be continuing.” This was possible, or they could be just early prototypes. Feargal was of the opinion this was a prototype, as the others were fully formed equines with only trace Meta elements in the form of the eyes and speech. These had speech but there were elements of physiological confusion in them, as well. “We also need information.”

  “You won’t get it.” The equine bit out through their pain.

  “I’m not asking you to betray anyone. Tell me though; are you one of Thin Man’s children?” There was a pause and the terrified eye seemed to calm.

  “Yes, and we are many.”

  “I believe you—and you are close?” Nothing. “Yes, I think you are close.” Stepping back, Matt dropped two rounds in the Meta’s head.

  “You shouldn’t have shot it.” The driver said as they stared at the tablet map.

  “Spilt milk.” Matt answered, twisting the map around to face him.

  “The park is split into two parts—they may’ve known which we should be looking at.” Matt sighed at the annoying kid.

  “If Thin Man set this up on the quiet, then they’d want to be as far from town as possible. So, let’s try south of the lake—we can swing around here to Clinton. Here, 950, then Diagonal Road—afterwards up the peninsula lane.” The Captain did not appear convinced.

  “How will you know what you’re looking for is there—whatever it is you are looking for?”

  “What we’re looking for is something which could lose you the Midwest—we should know that when we see it. Almost certainly you’ll know it.”

  “And how will we know this is the right place?” The driver, again.

  “Kid, if you don’t know it, you don’t deserve to survive this.”

  “Not much of an answer.” Koolup snickered.

  “Captain, your people need to start listening to those who have seen what the Transhumanists have been kicking up. But that won’t happen—I can see it. For the moment, then, just follow your orders.” The Captain wasn’t liking that but they came straight from the DoD when they’d finished the Security Council conference—that he did understand.

  “Okay, back in the trucks.” Was all Matt got by way of answer. Climbing in next to the driver he turned to the kid.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bob Kilpatrick.”

  “Bob, sorry about all the shit—I’ll try to keep you more clued in.” The kid nodded, marginally placated. “From now on keep a look out for anything that does not fit, or looks off.” Bob wanted, he could see, another question answered—probably many others—but he stopped with the nod and turned toward 950.

  ***

  “This,” Bob wondered, “is what we’re looking for?” The two men stood on the decadent tarmac with long, spidery strips of black sealant running over the small road. On either side there was a narrow, gravel shoulder, and beyond this gentle, rolling hills. Cast about the hills were scrub and low, denuded trees. None of this is what Bob had been talking about. Straight ahead of the pair on either side of the road the woods gave way to a dense, fully leafed out deciduous forest. But what took the kid’s attention wasn’t the oddness of this, given the time of year, but the odd nature of the leaves. There was, again much like The Wood back in Dilmun, something artificial about these. Looking closer they could both see and hear the same ceramic glaze and tinkle in the wind. The noise, in the high prairie wind, is what first alerted Kirkpatrick. Matt had not heard it because he was sunk in a funk about what he was going to find here.

  “Pretty much what I expected.”

  “You’ve seen this before?”

  “Back home.”

  “What now?”

  “Let’s get in there.” Though Bob had appeared to expect that he did not look happy. They drove for another few minutes as the forest folded around them. Eventually Koolup called a halt and everyone was out, gathered around the second truck going over the map of the area on the tablet.

  “This isn’t supposed to be here.” The Captain said, pointing at the satellite image.

  “But it is.” Matt answered, not quiet understanding what the Captain was getting at. Hadn’t he been listing to him; hadn’t he seen the Houyhnhnms; hadn’t he heard the Council; hadn’t he been in Kansas City when the DPs broke against the barricades, no matter what they wish to call them?

  “We need to scout these to see how deep they are and what’s in them.”

  “Not a good idea. Believe me, I’ve done that in the past, and it doesn’t work out well.”

  ***

  Koolup wasn’t buying it—or was too frightened and arrogant to listen. So Kirkpatrick and a couple of fire-teams were sent out to the West and two more to the east of the road. Then it was just a matter of waiting. About 20 minutes later there was weapons fire and shouting—deep in the West. Another team asked permission to investigate, but the Captain refused to send any more. Instead he had a perimeter set up on the western shoulder of the road and trained the 50 calibre on the eaves of the forest—then waited. In little more than 10 minutes the teams spilt out of these. Behind them there was something hopping—what appeared to be hopping—and then it appeared not to be running so much as scurrying. Whatever it was appeared to be about the size of a man in some cases and half the size in others.

  Koolup wasn’t waiting to find out, when he heard the first indecipherable shouting and pointing from the teams, the commander ordered the 50 cal to open fire. At first it only caught scrub and bits of earth near the creatures, but then it adjusted for their speed and agility. First it took one, cheers from the Guard; then another, and then another. The skittering creatures exploded sending bits of themselves in every direction. Finally, the Guard were within the perimeter and Koolup had the whole command open on what now appeared to be insects.

  With all of the creatures dead, it was seen they were not wholly insects. This was when they examined the body the Guard had returned with. This was Kirkpatrick’s. Apparently he had been fucking an insectoid woman, from best the others could tell—his pants were down when they found him and his shirt open—during coitus it had bitten off his head. Why, Matt wasn’t prepared to speculate about. Not that it bit off his head—there was precedence for that—but why he would want to fuck an Insectoid, as one of the Guard had dubbed them.

  ***

  Having put Kirkpatrick in the last truck, Koolup wasn’t about to send anyone back for the head, the column continued north up the peninsula road. What had been, until then, a vague fired ceramic, became, increasingly, a forest wholly given over to the porcelain conversion. Not only the trees and scrub, but the plants, grass, and even some small animals that had been caught by the transformative energy—foxes, raccoons, rabbits, and a few Matt did not recognise. Whatever had happened here, had done so almost at once. “Is this...,” Matt jumped at the woman’s voice, “Sorry. Is this what happened in Dilmun?” It was Coral. After the last incident she had insisted on driving Feargal.

  “Not this fast.” She did not seem to understand. “We’ve past small animals that have been turned to ceramic—or whatever this,” waving toward the side of the road, “is.”

  “Not back home?”

  “The process was slower, so that most of the animals got out and the ones that remained had already been converted to Metas—the foxes were the strangest.” He followed with a description, but given what he’d seen in the past five years they no longer appeared strange enough to warrant mention—though that dragon did. Even now he’d seen very few—so few that mention of them could still silence a room.

  Coral had been half watching him, so when she turned her attention back to the road what she saw forced the transport to swerve onto the shoulder. The remainder of the column, as before, halted almost as quickly. Koolup was going to be pissed—but then Matt looked out
the windscreen. The road had turned to gravel, which in itself wasn’t odd—this often happened in older roads where they were not maintained by the State—but what was sprouting from the roads was. Shards of obsidian littered the gravelled road. But they’d not littered this—it appeared they’d bloomed or burst forth from the ground. “What are they?” Coral asked. “Volcanic glass—I believe.” In truth he was uncertain what they were. So, as Feargal spoke he was opening the truck door and pulling his P250—not that he’d much faith in the weapon against any more of those Insectoids, even if they were hollow points.

  As he climbed out he could hear Coral doing the same—other doors were opening and the sound of boots striking the tarmac followed this. There was the call of a bird he’d not heard since Dilmun, and Matt looked up. It was low, sharp edged, and angular. As it swept low on a current of air, Matt steadied the Sig Sauer and squeezed off a round. The creature exploded in shards of glass—not ceramic, as he would have expected, but glass. Covering his head, parts of the bird rained down on him. Fragments of the Meta penetrated the canvas and his flesh, but he kept himself covered. When the shower ended he gently removed his arms. Setting the P250 on the cab’s step, he gingerly began removing the obsidian needles.

  “You okay?” Coral asked.

  “You may want to get the medic; I will require help removing all this glass.” As the medic picked these out Coral, her team, and the Guard watched. The Conway Metas had remained at the rear of the column. It was, Feargal suspected, only a matter of time—and that not much—before they faded into the forest or took their cars and vanished. If that was even possible now.

  “This ever happen to you before?” Koolup asked; then there was a screeching bellow and they looked up. Not more than a couple of kilometres to the East there was a small dragon squirting, unsteadily, through the sky, belching short bursts of flame. The Guard became very quiet, hugging their weapons.