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

by David S. Wellhauser

  “Anomaly?”

  “It’s what they are referring to Leonor as.” There was caution in the Meta’s voice, but Matt let it pass.

  “Any news of China?”

  “None—and that does seem odd. Why haven’t they brought her into play—especially after your little encounter in Lawrence?”

  “They might be holding her back in case something goes wrong with the ceremony and Leonor’s transubstantiation. Her mother could be used to manipulate her or myself.”

  “You’re not worried that she may be...”

  “Dead? No, that I would have experienced—Leonor would have definitely. If that were to occur she would become unmanageable. There may be something else as well.” But he did not continue until prodded by Salt. “There are profound anxieties about her spontaneous transformation.”

  “They’re not alone. No one seems to understand this.”

  “Yes, the devout are suggesting a religious dimension; others are suggesting some connection with my own genetic material may be re-writing her DNA. Both amount to the same thing—not a clue.”

  In the end, though, Matt had to surrender. Truth was he was not yet ready for tearing it up, and there’d be a lot of that. A few—at least two—days rest would hopefully put him in a better position to deal with whatever Zakara could throw at him. But it wasn’t lost on Matt why China had sent him to the Houyhnhnms. This had positioned Feargal to be assigned to the Toronto investigation, which took them close on Lawrence and the construct. When put like this it seemed wildly improbable, unless she’d a presentiment of what was coming—or detailed knowledge of Zakara’s plan. But why hadn’t she contacted him during or since the construct. To others he was prepared to favour a plot by Botrous—privately he was less certain as to reasons.

  ***

  For the next several days, and it irked that it was taking so long, Feargal spent his time getting to know the refugees from the construct. Why it was taking Jonah so long he could not be certain of. He’d sent several texts each day and each text was answered quickly, but briefly. No news and no special activity which would suggest movement toward the denouement. Zakara was lounging in a villa with Shea, and where Hannah was rapidly recovering from her wound. A part of Feargal was not unhappy with the extra time, but the bigger part knew how dangerous waiting could and would be. Each day brought Leonor one step closer toward sacrifice and extinction.

  To keep himself from going mad and running off south, he took time to get to know Cynthia a little better. For a woman he’d not known for more than a few days he’d come to trust her more than he did most others. Matt understood the why of this—she’d blown the power station and offered him the chance to escape. What, by this act, she’d rescued him from wasn’t something he’d be sharing with anyone. Just how, nonetheless, he would keep it from China and Leonor he’d no idea. It didn’t matter that his daughter was emotionally far older than her years—she was still a child and if she relived what he had experienced it could scar her for life. That this was done to him by his mother would only deepen the trauma. For China it would simply be a matter of rage.

  If this had been done to her, the woman would have turned in against herself. However, it had been done to him, and that changed everything. That everything was important, and the kind of revenge she would seek would only manage to damage China more than she had already been. If there was one thing he wished to do, for both of the women, it was to save them from anymore suffering due to his family history. That, unfortunately, did not seem possible. Even as he laughed at another of Cynthia’s jokes about the terror of the guards back in town, Feargal was considering how he was destroying his family—each and every choice defined by his parents.

  Even though the Finnerin had adopted him—for freeing and then saving them from the Archaics who panicked outside of the barrier—he could not bring himself, inwardly, to be relieved by their japes and antics. Others had fallen in love with the Finnerin though, which meant his fears, in this at least, seemed unfounded.

  Still he waited—and waited.

  ***

  The days—when not spent with his favourite refugees—were occupied mostly by sleep. Because of this Matt wasn’t, exactly, certain how many days had passed. Though each time he woke up he was feeling more and more like his old self when he had managed to forget Shea and Hannah’s last visit. How he was supposed to think about this was beginning to cause him problems as he moved, in time, further from the event and came to dwell increasingly on the particulars. He recognised this for what it was—PTSD. If this were the case, then all the sleeping was a manifestation of depression. This was happening as he’d known it would the moment he stopped moving and withdrew from the stress of constant conflict. Feargal knew he needed to get down to Mexico.

  The war was the cure he needed—for the moment. When this was over he’d have more to deal with than seemed reasonable. When this was over, China and Leonor would have more to deal with than he’d any right to ask of them. But what of them? Wouldn’t they bring psyches easily as damaged as his? China had already been damaged by Seoul and now fretting over the sacrifice of their daughter and being unable to do anything to stop this. Finally, what of Leonor—she’d been born into the duplicity and murderous rage of Botrous which would leave her dead and a world on the verge of extinction. This wasn’t because of her, but Matt could see how the child might take it that way—no matter her emotional development.

  When the three of them found their way out of this nightmare it might only be the beginning of another which would take them the rest of their lives to put behind them. Their home could end up making his time back in Dilmun appear as the proverbial white picket. And then Salt called.

  ***

  “They’ve retaken Monterrey.” Salt was shouting over the sound of what Matt took to be a busy airport.

  “Americans?”

  “The UN is moving into the interior from Tampico—H+ and Transhumanists are falling back everywhere.”

  “Much damage?”

  “Some—they did use a few of the weapons you saw in the construct, but not as many as I feared.” Just one more thing Salt had not told him, but Feargal had suspected it.

  “What kind of damage to Monterrey are we talking about?”

  “Minor, which leads me to suspect...”

  “They’re there.”

  “Believe Leonor is—I cannot say about China.”

  “Unlikely, but I want this to be over.”

  “We all do.” Salt’s voice was meant to suggest support, but he sounded more worried about Feargal than anything else. Which was fair, Matt was worried about himself as well.

  “We’re bringing you down—up for it?”

  “Yes—you haven’t found Leonor...have you?”

  “No—and we’ve lost Zakara’s entourage in the fighting.” Matt’s hand tightened on the cell, but he didn’t let the fear out in his voice—he didn’t, couldn’t, say anything. “We need you down here to sniff them out—and wherever that ceremony is to be.”

  “If dad was in Monterrey she’d not be far and the ceremony would have to be some place close and out of the way and he’d need a weak spot—definitely a weak spot.”

  “There are plenty of those to choose from down here. Even over the past 24hrs they must have blown several up and sealed as many more.”

  Matt wanted to give him places to start looking. It wasn’t that he knew where Botrous was, but he knew—mostly—his old man’s mind. Still, give Salt, or anyone else, that information and he might find himself shunted to a later transport, or not at all. Feargal was certain the Americans and UN would prefer to keep him as far as possible from this. The silence, as Feargal thought, dragged itself out, until Jonah must have felt he needed to fill this up with something. “Still no contact with either of them?”

  “No.” Matt answered after a long moment in a voice which was barely a whisper.

  “And she’s...”

  “That I’d know.”

&nb
sp; “We could use her.”

  “Could, but that doesn’t seem likely for the moment.” How much longer that moment would be he’d no idea.

  “This is all beyond me.” This had been gone over before, but it was as if Matt were really hearing this for the first time.

  “Nothing in your past touches on anything like this?” The complaint in Feargal’s voice would have been difficult for a fool to miss.

  “Nothing when I was practicing and nothing I’ve come across with Zakara or since Dilmun—not a bloody thing. No reliable myth, either.” There’d have been a time when a statement such as that would have provoked derisive laughter—now it was uttered with a level of seriousness which Matt still found difficult to credit in the back of his mind. There’d come a time, he was certain, when this was over; when the new and old worlds had sorted themselves out that he would become comfortable with applying to reliable and unreliable myth. Not there yet.

  “So, let’s get me down there.”

  “There’ll be a transport by in a couple of hours. An hour after that you should be airborne and a little more than two more hours you’ll be here—that should put you here in time for dinner. So eat light during the flight.”

  “MREs—yummy. Are any restaurants still open down there?”

  “Matt, this is Mexico—they’ve kept themselves open through civil wars. If anyone is ready for the post-apocalypse economy it’s the Mexicans.”

  “You two wanna be alone.” Matt laughed.

  “I tell you, son, if Mexico were a woman she’d be pregnant. When this is over I’m settling here.” It was the first time he’d heard Salt make any kind of positive noise about what was coming next.

  The flight had not been smooth. Matt had been on several flights by now, but this one was by far the worst. However, he’d not flown a C-17 before. Not being alone may not have helped—the cavernous innards of the plane was filled with troops, vehicles, and munitions. Between the shouting and the roar of the engines it was impossible to get any sleep and he still wanted—or needed—more. Soon there’d be no opportunity for this. Eventually he’d given up and wondered up the long cargo bay, speaking with the US troops—all Archaics. The Americans had, mostly, integrated the Metas into all branches of the armed forces, but on a mission like this Matt supposed they were being cautious.

  Most only offered him one or two word answers; then turned away. Being rebuffed was not new to Feargal, but that was normally after they’d come to know him—there’d not been an opportunity for that here. Eventually he’d managed to draw a Major into conversation and it turned out they’d been ordered not to interfere with or engage him in conversation—nor were they to ask Feargal what his position or function on the mission was. There was an unspoken question in the Major’s observation and Matt was about to answer this when the plane shuddered and veered left, or what Matt took to be east. He preferred left because he’d no idea how they were coming into Monterrey.

  Both Feargal and Major Silton grabbed for loose straps hanging down from the aircraft’s fuselage. “What was that?” The Major shook his head. This time there was a blast and a shudder.

  “We’re under attack.”

  “But the Trans don’t have aircraft.”

  “Probably SAMs—they’ve those.” He was right—Matt ran into nothing so grand as a SAM, but he had encountered one of their RPGs. “Better strap in until we land.” The Major left him and turned to his Command and ordered them to strap in, but they were already doing this. Then the pilot came over the intercom and told them they were coming in for a landing and that the airport was under attack.

  Escobedo airport was just northeast of the city and surrounded by nothing but squat, flat-ish buildings and a funeral park. Out of habit Feargal looked up everyplace he was heading. If the Trans were attacking their losses would have to be heavy—especially considering they had just been driven out. He would find out in a moment, because the C-17 slammed into the runway with a force he’d not expected and braked heavily. Once down there were no more attacks on the plane, but as the rear opened Matt could see those low slung buildings burning and two transport vehicles were lying on their sides—smoking. Matt was one of the first out of this, and found Salt waiting for him.

  ***

  Without speaking, Jonah took his arm and led Feargal to a car waiting on the runway, and they slipped away as the Trans came to find the C-17 of interest again. By this time though there were egg shaped helicopters buzzing about the eastern end of the runway throwing missiles into the scrub and burning buildings—it looked like the cemetery as well. In the car Jonah had him do up the seat belt and they were tearing off toward the city. “There’s been a strong effort to retake the city.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Matt shouted over an RPG blast to their rear as he turned to look what was up, but Salt took his arm to redirect his attention.

  “What?” Leaning in.

  “I’m getting a strong feeling we’re looking for some place called Cañón de la Huasteca and it’s not far south.”

  “I know the place.” Turning from the front seat was a Mexican officer about early middle years, fit.

  “This is Colonel Ivan Garza, our liaison officer.” The pair shook hands.

  “You’re not thinking of western Monterrey?” Feargal should his head and repeated south. “If they’re down there it’ll be a good place to hide and a hard place to reach them.”

  “Which,” Salt observed, “would make all of this a diversion.” The Colonel nodded. “You certain, Matt?” Feargal nodded and that was enough to end the discussion.

  “That might make sense. The fighting is heaviest south of the city along highway 85.”

  “Where exactly is this?” Matt asked.

  “About 40 minutes south of Monterrey in the west-end of Santiago—beautiful, and a good place to dig in and hold.”

  “We should fly.” Salt said. Matt nodded, and Jonah was on his phone arranging an escort.

  “The roads will be impossible for a while.” Garza shared with Matt. “Helicopters are the fasted and most effective transportation for the moment and we can carry a nice size strike force.”

  After a few more moments the group was heading back to the airport—at twice the speed. “How much time do we have Matt?” It was a reasonable question, but it wasn’t that kind of connection.

  “I can only feel Leonor’s fear and it’s beginning to spike.” Nodding, Jonah continued.

  “We’re going to use Coral’s team and we’ve got an SAS troop here with their captain.”

  “How many all in?” Matt wondered. He didn’t want this out of control large—they needed to move fast.

  “25 or 30—not more.”

  “Good,” the Colonel observed, “small is better in the canyon and I better go.” When Matt looked puzzled he continued. “I grew up here and have been to the canyon many times.” A relieved smiled broke over Matt.

  “How’d you end up with the SAS?” Matt asked.

  “The UN was having a hard time to the South and the SAS were broken off from the main force just before the collapse of the push. They were picked up on the run—but we didn’t know about the canyon, now the heavy fighting makes more sense.” Salt answered.

  ***

  The reunion with Coral and the Portland team, as they still referred to themselves, had been brief and awkward. Since their parting and the adventure in Lawrence the myth surrounding him had been spinning out of control and the normally abrupt woman was shy and nervous around him. She didn’t, however, object when he suggested they all ride in the same Blackhawk. They managed to squeeze Matt, Portland, Colonel Garza, and Jonah in. During the short flight Matt spent most of his time, as did Coral, checking his weapon and kit. They were about 10 minutes into the flight when the sky around them was lit up with harsh streaks of bright light and vapour trails which disappeared into the night.

  With the light, for whatever reason, Matt remembered he’d not had his dinner and had eaten lightly on the C
-17 in expectation of this. Picadillo had been what Salt had been talking about on and off for several days now—during the texts—and Feargal was looking forward to the ground beef dish with olives, tomatoes, onions, garlic, jalapeños, raisins, and a few other odds and ends. The thought of this now made him hungrier than he could remember, and there were times since walking out of Dilmun when he’d not eaten for days on end. Here it was different—here the hunger was part spiritual and part fear. Then the Blackhawk was hit hard and at the same moment there was an explosion, but not on-board. The explosion occurred off to their left and several metres away. Didn’t seem to matter though—they were descending quickly.

  Salt, after listening on his headphones, turned to Matt. “We’re slightly damaged and so is one other Blackhawk. Don’t panic.” Responding to the fear in the young man’s face. “We will be able to make the canyon in one piece, but we’ll have to hike into the site of the ceremony.” Matt nodded. “Can you get us there?”

  “Yes, the closer we get the stronger the feeling is. Leonor is fine, but she is afraid and there’s something about Shea.” Feargal had not meant to let the last out, but there it was. However, no one knew what had happened between the two of them and as far as he could see there was no reason anyone should ever know. As they sputtered, shuddered, and wove unevenly to the ground everyone hung on to whatever they could and Matt could hear Colonel Garza praying loudly.

  The impact almost caused Feargal to empty his bladder, but they were down and flying out of the doors. In less than five minutes they were all out and quietly moving up towards the mountains in the distance. There’d been some chatter that what they were actually looking for had been in western Monterrey, but Matt had quieted that—this was the place, whether that was or wasn’t its proper name didn’t matter; this was the place. There wasn’t much to see in the dark—although it was a moonlit night and cloudless all they could see were the sharp spikes of the mountains set in relief against starlight and the creamy light of the full moon. Matt was returned to that night in Howitt Park when he’d first met Jonah; the evening he was reconsidering the gothic twists of The Haunting; when he’d the time or inclination to consider the fatuous as relevant.