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

by David S. Wellhauser

  “This no,” Matt spoke into the silence, “but that,” pointing with an arm freed of glass and lightly bandaged, “a couple of times.”

  “Well,” Prester laughed, “I believe we’ve found what we’re looking for.” Matt and Coral’s team joined him, but the Guard were silent.

  ***

  The Captain wasn’t happy about giving up the transports and the 50 Cal, but there was no way any of the trucks were getting over the volcanic glass sprouting from the gravel road. Matt had been curious about how deeply they were rooted and how strong the obsidian was, so he walked over to a thin one and kicked it. The spiked flower didn’t even quiver. Whatever they were it wasn’t glass—far too dense for that—and the shafts had to have been deeply rooted because his toe hurt from the effort. The obsidian garden was too deep to walk between so the Guard, Sansa, and Conway Metas—now baulking loudly—divided their collective force along either shoulder of the road. After about a quarter of a kilometre the road became a path and this was obsidian free.

  Yet, on the trail, many were beginning to experience a psycho-physical resistance. When they’d taken a break to discuss this there was a whooping call from the trees and they were set upon. What fell from the foliage was a combination of Insectoid, simian, and human. This mismatched species were not suited to the encounter and their lumbering, hiccupping gait made them easy targets. Once finished with them, Koolup call in for reinforcements from Kansas City. Nothing could get to them until the morning so they had to hold against subsequent attacks until just after dawn. Matt had wanted to continue but the resistance made this impossible for many—including Coral’s team. As a result all spent an uncomfortable night fighting and listening to the ululations of the injured and dying.

  ***

  “This rise will not be tenable much longer.” Matt was probably correct, but there was nowhere for most to go, but back the way they’d come. A few weren’t feeling the resistance—Matt and a few of the Guard—but the Sansa and Conway Metas were all unable to push forward. A few had tried and the counter-force had nearly broken the bones of two. Still, Matt was for going on alone with those that could push forward. However, no one but Feargal was keen on the effort. More to the point, he suspected, none were prepared to move—not without significant reinforcements. Even then he was not certain of their interest. So they spent the night on a rise in the path as the demented concatenations of proto-Metas broke against them again and again. Over the course of the next several hours they’d lost half a dozen of the Guard and one of the Conway pickups. Then, just after dawn, the reinforcements arrived and whatever remained of the forest’s will evaporated.

  Much of this loss of will had something to do with the Salt-inspired flamethrowers the reinforcements were carrying. For a while Matt was worried about being caught in the middle of an inferno, but someone had been thinking ahead and had come equipped with extinguishers. Still, because of the ceramic forest—which they’d not expected—there was little enough to extinguish excepting the Metas. What remained of these gave everyone pause. It wasn’t that they were strange which bothered all, though this certainly was the case, but, rather, the physiology made no sense. That Thin Man, or some programme run by Transhumanists or H+, had been involved in the genetic manipulation of a certain class of transformations was well known. These transformations, however, generally had a function in mind—if only terror in a few cases.

  These conversions were without sense, in that function appeared absent. They were Insectoid, to a large extent—segmented bodies and legs, for strength Matt supposed—but there were elements of simian and human worked into the whole, as well. That didn’t make any sense, unless these were attempts to improve their higher brain functions. As he examined one with a human face—excepting the jaw which had a pair of mandibles—the cranium appeared to be human. Rolling this over, it became apparent the creature was in oestrous—with the enflamed backend of a baboon.

  It was at this point that one of the teams sent east and west to scout the forest came back. Many of the reinforcements had been having the same trouble heading north as most of the others were. Yet, the other cardinal points were presenting no problems—hence the scouting parties. One lucky team had returned with something which was not Insectoid—this was good news since communicating with mandibles did not seem practicable. They appeared male and mostly human. There were odd whorls on the skin and this was a milk coffee colour with a dappling of ridges over the cranium, which was hairless, that ran all the way back to the neck. They had no eyebrows either, but the bone beneath this had thickened and over the stretched skin were vague incisions that had healed and been re-cut several times and the appeared floral in design, but followed no pattern Feargal was aware of.

  The patrol dumped them in front of the Captain, the Meta crumpled to the ground— it had been shot in the kneecap, and most of this was gone. It was unlikely, if the construction lived, they would ever walk again—or correctly. The smell of the thing was familiar; then it occurred the creature had lost its bowels, and probably its bladder as well. “Can you speak?” Koolup asked. It stared, silently, at the Guard. As Matt approached they turned to him, appearing to sense his presence. Then, looking Feargal up and down, it hissed. A greenish phlegm flew in thin strings from its toothless gape and Feargal stepped back at the rotten-egg stench. The Meta attempted to rise, in his direction, but was kicked back down by a Guard. Surprisingly a whimper escaped and it clutched the shattered knee.

  Feargal squatted down next to it and smiled, placing a hand, gently, on a shoulder. Though flinching, the Meta did not attempt to attack. “Can you speak?”

  “Yes.” A sibilant hiss, but not looking at him. “You are the abomination?” Matt had not expected that.

  “I am Matteo Feargal.” The Meta turned to look at him, loathing and fear on the face.

  “You will die.” There was less threat than statement here.

  “I’ve been hearing that sentiment for years now—but may we speak first?” The Meta nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Prester John.”

  “Prester, what’s in there?” Pointing to the forest ahead of them, leading north up what was supposed to be a peninsula.

  “Eden.” That stuttered the group. America, still a wildly Christian country—what remained of it, didn’t take this kind of blasphemy lightly and an angry mutter followed. Prester seemed to understand what it had done, and cowered against the ground—a pool of liquid leaking from him.

  “Not to worry, Prester, we have no intention of hurting you.” Matt soothed.

  “You shot me!”

  “To be fair, Prester, your people have spent the whole night attempting to kill us.”

  “If you come any further we will.”

  “About that,” Matt continued, “why are some of us having trouble moving north.” A sly smile, but no answer. “Okay, let’s try another. What was Thin Man up to here?” Prester seemed not to understand of whom Feargal was speaking. He tried to describe what Wilson had become and where he’d died—still nothing. Matt was convinced he and the others had no idea who Thin Man was—this raised a great many more questions than it answered. That was a whole new level of trouble for the group. Releasing Prester John they sent him back to Kansas City with some of the injured.

  ***

  The new teams informed them that they’d attempted to swing north every few hundred metres while they were clearing the forest but never managed to do so as a group. Each of the teams had a couple of members that could, with a little effort, push forward, but the majority could not. There was some debate about whether or not it would be useful to collect the few that could push north together and send them forward to scout the territory, but Koolup was satisfied the main force wouldn’t be able to protect them. Matt had wanted to draw on the support of the Security Council at this, but there was no reception on the peninsula. Whatever he did, he would have to do with no more than his own authority. Which meant pushing back on
Koolup, who had been tasked with bringing him into Kansas City, even if the Council had okayed this side trip.

  “We need to see what is up there.” Matt argued quietly with the Captain. Coral was there, but since she was unable to proceed had been quiet. Feargal wasn’t certain of this but it could be the only explanation as to why she was not supporting his argument.

  “There are very few Guards I can send with you. Coral, how about your people?”

  “None.” Shaking her head.

  “What of those from Conway?” Matt looked over at them.

  “They won’t stick once we’re out there; I’m surprised they’ve made it this far.”

  “Then how do you propose to make it?” The Captain asked, his voice genuinely perplexed.

  “I’m not proposing anything. The Council has authorised my investigation of this, and I’m following up on that here. For the moment I am not feeling any repulsion, which says to me this is Zakara’s magic—if, then, this is Zakara it has to be investigated no matter the cost.” This hadn’t gone down well, but what could Koolup do—the Council and the DoD had authorised the mission.

  The Captain had managed to pull together a baker’s dozen that could and would follow Feargal up the path. None were now convinced they were any longer on the road up the peninsula, but wherever it was they were prepared to go. Though they were not going empty handed, the teams took only what they could carry on their backs—RPGs, portable SAMs, grenades, assault rifles, and side arms. Matt was uncertain how many of these would find their way north with him. True enough all of them could still move forward, but they were all experiencing resistance from the forest which had nothing to do with its physicality. The Guard, however, could prove useful before they could go no further. Truth was, Feargal had no idea what to expect in the forest, or what Botrous had hidden at its centre.

  Checking his vest and weapons one last time, Coral patted his chest with her open palm gently; then hugged him. There was nothing in this which could be read as more than a friendly concern—he hardened nonetheless. If she sensed his reaction the woman didn’t let on. Pushing away from his chest, she smiled. “Don’t get dead—I’d have to explain that to Director Salt.”

  “Wouldn’t want to cause you any professional embarrassment.” Feargal chuckled.

  “Good—now get out of here.” Coral seemed to be just holding back tears. He wondered if he really did know her at all, or whether something else was going on that he’d no idea of. There was, now, so many narrative crosscurrents surrounding his life the man was no longer clear on what to believe or think. In response to the confusion he gave up, mostly, thinking about anything. Instead, Matt ducked his head down and ploughed forward.

  For the first several hundred metres the path remained clear—once they passed out of sight of the column the obsidian flowers disappeared from the path and they could leave the shoulders for the path proper. Afterwards the boughs of the fired ceramic trees began to lour over them; at first leaving only a bitter reproachful presence, but this soon gave way to the physical blocking of the path. Matt and all team members had brought goggles and machetes, so these were deployed. The goggles had been a good idea, but the machetes weren’t working well against the trees—until one of the Guards tried his heavy tactical baton. The sound of breaking crockery echoed through the woods. Soon, though, the path was clear again—as though the forest, for all its brittle flora and fauna, had accepted discretion as the better part of valour.

  Then the first of the Guard could no longer proceed. It wasn’t cowardice, but a physical inability to push forward against the forest’s resistance. Matt sent them back. He was inclined to leave them in place to hold the path but two Guard against another attack of those Insectoids or any fired Metas running about just beyond the eaves would not be fair. Not long after the first pair had to give up there was another one, and shortly after this, another. All the while the path narrowed and the forest grew denser, but still was not blocking the path.

  Eventually, the path came to an end and their way was blocked by a large hedge, cousin to cedar, but this wasn’t fired ceramic, rather it was soft, pliant foliage. Matt touched this and his arm went through and he could feel warm air on the other side, while the forest air was cold with early winter and a heavy odour of compost. When Matt withdrew his arm a Guard attempted the same, but though the cedar was soft to the touch they could not push through. Feargal had half expected as much. With four Guard left he decided to try his luck.

  ***

  Hooking the Bullpup, he’d been given by Kirkpatrick, to his vest, Matt checked his ammunition, P250, grenades; then slung an RPG with a few extra grenades on his back. By the time he was finished he could barely stagger beneath the load. If anything came up on him quickly on the other side he was totally fucked—but he wasn’t crossing over with his ass hanging out. If this had been where China had wanted him to come then it had to be heavily defended. He probably would need a lot more than he could carry, but until he brought down the barrier—whatever it was—he’d be on his own. As a last thought he took an extra satellite phone cum field radio. There was no signal for the moment, but if he got in who knows?

  “Okay, people,” Feargal smiled, “you hold this gate, and I’ll be back as quickly as possible.” There were a few abrupt and jerky nods but no one believed they’d be seeing him again—Matt could see that much in their faces. Trying to buck them up was beyond his remit, more to the point it was beyond what he was capable of. For whatever reason, standing before the hedge he was experiencing a mind numbing terror, which he was just capable of masking with a smile and a wink. On the other side of the wink he turned, took a last breath, and stepped into the hedge.

  The cedar gave about him, only grabbing at the RPGs so that he was knocked off kilter once or twice. When this happened he had to reach out and grab for a clump of tree to stop himself from falling. Once a clump tore free and a piercing howl filled the passageway. It were as nails on a chalkboard. However, Matt did not fall, but was caught in the embrace of more trees on the other side of this—resting at about a 15 or 20 degree angle. For a moment he was not simply resting there, it was as though the passageway were holding him in place. The grip, however, was less force, than sticky restriction—still, when Matt detached himself there was no residue.

  Besides his active engagement with the grasping hedgerow passageway—whatever the fuck that was—the temperature had been rising for some time. Matt was now sweating, heavily—partly from the burden he was carrying but also because the air was warming at a surprising speed. When he entered the hedge, he supposed the temperature near to 0 C, but now it had to be the high teens. There was some kind of Meta power source beyond this; something that just screamed Cinn and Zakara. Wiping his face off with a handkerchief he tucked this back in his pocket and turned back to the path.

  The grip of the hedge, which had been tightening noticeably, began to ease and though the heat was still rising the air was fresher—enriched not just by the cedars, but an unmistakable floral bouquet. With this his step quickened and his breathing became deeper and more regular. Before the pack had been bearing him down and a low wheeze was beginning—Matt knew he’d been taking it too easy in Nashville and was paying for it now. However, with the late spring air he had rediscovered his energy.

  Feargal, stepping from the wood, half expected to be walking into a garden, but it wasn’t that at all. What he did step into was another passage, but wider and the cedar hedges were very tall—perhaps 10 metres—and extended to both his left and right, but not forever. To his right the passage ended but to his left it appeared there was an open spot. For a moment longer he paused, considering whether or not he should return to tell the Guard what he found, but didn’t want to chance getting caught again. There was something very wrong about all of this, and that went beyond the weird transition from early winter to late spring. He was now certain the temperature had to be in the high 20s and the humidity was cloying. Dropping his RPGs, pack, and
Bullpup, Matt took off the jacket and unfastened his vest. Beneath he was dripping wet. For the moment the man was regretting his long underwear—but he wasn’t about to strip down given where he was. Instead he trotted down to the opening in the hedge.

  This led to another passage which appeared to have both another open and another blocked end. He was in a labyrinth. This was Zakara; just what his fucked up mind would come up with. Returning to his pack he stuffed his jacket into this and tied the vest onto the top—if he got into a firefight he was going to regret that, but, for the moment, was prepared to take his chances. Heaving the pack back on, he picked up the pup and carried on.

  There were several dead ends that took him over and again. The frustration was beginning to rise until there was a quick niggle at the back of his mind—scratching at his medulla it seemed—and he stopped and simply breathed with his eyes closed. Then without opening them he proceeded forward; then left; right; straight; straight some more; another left. On he went without thinking; without intention; without purpose, excepting to take whatever impulse came to him. This was how bad decisions got made; how one learned to shout plot twist and carry on being the asshole that had sidestepped reality in favour of that world trip that left you stranded in Bangkok. But not this time.

  Eyes still closed, Matt took another deep breath. The admixture of the familiar and the provocatively alien filled him. There was still the quasi-cedar smell, but on top of this there were other scents he could almost place, as though from other coniferous trees, but not quite as his nose expected them to be. Riding along with this scent there was the overpowering bouquet of flowers which did not remind him of any garden he’d been through—even the botanical garden at the University of Dilmun. Since then, he’d not had time to visit any of the many in the US, though still hoped that one day it would be possible. But he could hardly believe what he was now smelling would be found at any of these.