by Mark Tufo
‘Everything all right?’ his mate asked.
‘Perfect.’
Chapter 84
FALRIGG
‘Told you sumthin’ like this was gonna happen,’ Arthur had said to his wife before he’d set out this morning. They’d known something had been wrong in Thussock all day yesterday. Bloody army had stopped them getting anywhere near the place. He’d missed his doctor’s appointment because of the road blocks. Inconsiderate buggers.
When they heard the explosions last night, ten of them had set out from the village to try and see what had happened, to see if they could help. They’d made it as far as the first of the peaks before being turned back. They’d seen all they’d needed to see, mind. It had been the fracking site, all right. Arthur had been telling people from the start that place was an accident waiting to happen. It was some kind of chain reaction caused by gas deposits buried underground, Jock had said. It was all over the news now, of course, but Jock had heard first. His son was a teacher at a school in Glasgow. If anyone knew what had happened, it’d be him. Probably no bad thing that Thussock had been wiped off the map, though, after everything that had gone on there over the last couple of weeks.
Still, life goes on.
Arthur found her by the stream which ran along the bottom edge of his lowest paddock. Poor thing looked like she’d barely managed to get away in time before the town had gone to hell last evening. She’d been caught in a blast, that much was clear, and quite how she’d lasted this long, he didn’t know. He didn’t think she’d be alive much longer. Maybe the water had helped keep her alive, or the shock, perhaps.
Her legs and the right side of her face were badly burned. Some of her clothes were fused to her flesh. She’d no hair left on one half of her scalp. That was what upset him more than anything. She’d probably been a good looking woman before this, he’d thought. She’d groaned with pain when he’d lifted her up and laid her down in the back of the Land Rover. The dogs had gone crazy, but he’d just shooed them away. Bloody animals.
She watched him through her one good eye, the left eye blistered and burned, glued shut with discharge, and she reached out for him with the one hand that still worked. She pulled him closer until he could feel her breath on his face, then closer still until their lips met.
About the Author
David Moody grew up on a diet of trashy horror and pulp science fiction. He worked as a bank manager before giving up the day job to write about the end of the world for a living. He has written a number of horror novels, including AUTUMN, which has been downloaded more than half a million times since publication in 2001 and spawned a series of sequels and a movie starring Dexter Fletcher and David Carradine. Film rights to HATER were snapped up by Guillermo del Toro (Hellboy, Pan's Labyrinth, Pacific Rim) and Mark Johnson (Breaking Bad). Moody lives with his wife and a houseful of daughters and stepdaughters, which may explain his pre-occupation with Armageddon. Visit Moody at www.davidmoody.net.
World-Mart by Leigh M. Lane
Chapter 86
GEORGE IRWIN SAT at his desk, shuffling through pages of paperwork, cross-referencing the various pieces of information his research associates had previously uncovered and filed. His tiny cubicle was identical to the hundreds of other cubicles strategically placed throughout the large, cold room, but subtly personalized with a framed picture of his wife and two kids. He drank tepid water from a coffee cup that boasted "#1 Dad" along each side. Both were Corporate-issued, varying from those of George's neighbors only by the pictures they contained and the "#1" slogan listed on their cups.
The building had no windows, as Law-Corp's top managers had determined that windows only wasted resources and allowed for distraction. George was a research manager, which entailed collecting, checking, and re-filing all of the paperwork filed by his research associates. Despite being born to two Mart parents, and mainly due to his score of 550 on the Corporate Intelligence Quantifier Test, George had been fortunate enough to have been placed in the Corp Segregate. Although he could never aspire for anything higher than lower management, George had risen higher in status than most simple Mart employees could ever hope for. He was able to provide for his family in ways his parents never could have, and that alone was enough to keep him complacent despite the stress and monotony. George was proud to be a research manager for Law-Corp #01025, and he worked hard to ensure his job security at the firm.
Despite being in his early forties, George was in good shape and still held a youthful appearance. He and his wife, a smart and lovely woman who also worked in the Corp Segregate, had married young. A few years George's junior, Virginia worked as a call center associate for Communications-Corp #12668. They had two children: fifteen-year-old Shelley and seven-year-old Kurt, both of whom were enrolled in the Corp Education System. Much of George and Virginia's income went toward keeping their children in the system, but their superior education would ensure lower to middle management Corp jobs for both of them.
George glanced through the electronic file of a doctor charged with prescribing and selling antibiotics. The research associates who put the case together had been thorough. The evidence against the doctor was overwhelming, and one particular patient the doctor attempted to treat had been infected with strep throat. Of course, when top managers confirmed that the patient was indeed ill with strep, Police-Corp and Medical-Corp worked together to euthanize the man as quickly and humanely as possible.
Antibiotics had been outlawed nearly twenty years ago, after scientists had determined their use was no longer effective against most life-threatening disease-causing bacteria. Even worse, antibiotics affected certain bacteria's evolutionary development, causing even some of the most benign of infections eventually to become untreatable and deadly. Antibiotic-immune strep, staph, and tuberculosis had become epidemic before George was born, but he'd heard the stories about how quickly the three had threatened the entire human population and how Medical-Corp had finally intervened. Its top managers ordered the construction of quarantine camps, where hundreds of thousands of people eventually were corralled, killed, and cremated. All suspected cases of serious infectious diseases were now referred to a special committee within Medical-Corp. All whom they deemed infectious were removed for the greater good of society.
George looked through the different studies attached to the case. Everything looked straightforward, except for the defendant's personal notes. Page after page, almost all of the doctor's words were blacked out, all pertaining to an apparent case study he'd been conducting. The only reason the research associate had left in the scanned files was that every few pages had untouched text in which the doctor mentioned his prescribing illegal antibiotics. George agreed to keep the otherwise useless pages in the file, deciding that the prosecution managers would likely find some use for them.
He read the pages of receipts, recorded telephone conversations, and photocopies of the doctor's appointment logs. Everything appeared to be in order. Police-Corp already had a confession from the man, and therefore a guilty verdict from Law-Corp's high management was already imminent. Still, it was George's job to suggest formally that the doctor be charged and his file be sent to Sentencing. He entered the computer database in front of him, scanning the doctor's charge sheet and bringing it to the monitor.
Two virtual buttons bearing the words "Guilty" and "Not Guilty" appeared on the bottom right corner of the screen under the word "Recommendation." George tapped the "Guilty" button, prompting a new screen to appear with a series of questions for which George had the option to agree or disagree with his associates' previous responses:
* * *
Did the Defendant confess to his/her crime(s)?
(Research associate #00335-921 said "Yes.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Does the file work indicate that the Defendant showed remorse for said crime(s)?
(Research associate #01002-486 said "No.")
/> Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Does the file work indicate that the Defendant could have made a profit by committing said crime(s)?
(Research associate #00335-921 said "Yes.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Has the Defendant ever been convicted of any previous crimes?
(Research associate #00257-851 said "Yes.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
Does the Defendant have anything to say in his/her defense, for having committed said crime(s)?
(Research associate #01014-002 said "Yes.")
Click HERE to agree.
Click HERE to disagree.
* * *
George used another application to search for his answers. He went through each relevant section of file work, double-checking himself before punching in the same answers as given by the other research associates.
The computer then prompted, "State Defendant's argument (limit 140 characters)," and George navigated through the file. He found the transcripts from the doctor's police interview. He frowned as he found the lines in which the doctor said he could explain himself, but the explanation was blacked out. He studied the few words that remained between the thick swatches of black ink, trying to see if even a gist of the man's argument remained. Knowing that files were blacked out when a suspect's text referred to useless or misleading concepts, he knew nothing else could be done but type, "Defendant's argument invalid."
The computer asked him if he was sure, and George tapped a round button with a "Yes" stretched across it.
The printer spat out a few sheets of new paperwork. It was an old, loud, outdated machine, and the paper it used was thick and pulpy, like most paper these days, recycled countless times through hand-powered paper recycling machines, only to be recycled again once another case officially closed. It was an archaic practice, one that few agencies still employed, but George agreed that the pages gave their final review files a sense of credibility that only tradition could produce. George looked over the pages, then he stapled them together and stamped in red ink his personal seal in a box printed on the front page. He signed on a line within the seal, added it to the top of the file, and then slid the file into a narrow, locked bin at the side of his cubicle.
Bells chimed through a loud speaker.
"Your work day is now over," a cheerful yet soothing female voice announced. "Corporate appreciates your productivity. Thank you for working at Law-Corp."
George shut down his computer and locked his file cabinet. He would get a new stack of files in the morning, but those he had not finished today would be under lock and key until tomorrow, when they found their way to the top of his pile. George sat as the maze of thin hallways set by the cubicles became flooded with tired workers. Slowly, the people filed out.
George grabbed his lunch pail and found his way through the long room, to the stairwell that was still backed up with the flood of people filing down to the shuttle garage. George shuffled along the end of the line, moving down the stairs as a few other stragglers came in behind him. He moved in line down a staircase, until he made his way to an underground garage. He took a seat on a bench in front of the Line 150 shuttle track, wondering if it was going to be late again. The shuttles always seemed to break down when the weather was bad, and it had been raining especially heavy.
William, George's neighbor across the hall and a criminal defense manager for Law-Corp, found a seat at the end of George's bench. "Hey, George, how'd the day treat you?"
"Just fine. And you?"
"Can't complain. Just the same, I'm glad tomorrow's Friday."
George gave a knowing nod. He tolerated William well enough, although he found the man to be rather long-winded and dull. William came from money, as had his wife. Neither was exceptionally bright, and their family connections were likely all that kept either in the Corp Segregate. Still, they were the most tolerable people in the complex and it was never a bad thing to have friends who knew people in high Corporate places.
George sighed, looking down the tunnels for any sign that their shuttle was on its way. Other shuttles came and left, and still Line 150 was nowhere to be seen. "With what Trans-Corp charges, you'd think they would be on time every once in a while, eh?"
"You'd think."
The men took turns shaking their heads in disgust when the Line 150 shuttle came tearing into the garage. The sudden, heavy brakes sent it to a screeching halt, causing both men to jump to their feet. Neither took a step forward, knowing something was amiss.
The shuttle doors sprang open, and half a dozen gun-toting deviants fanned out. Everyone in the vicinity hit the ground as one of them shot into the ceiling, crying out: "Listen up, you Corporate sons of bitches!"
Most deviants could almost pass for normal humans, if it were not for their eyes. Not even contact lenses could dull the eerie, almost reflective, telltale crystalline blue sheen that easily gave their kind away. Gave George the creeps. Why scientists in the eighties had conducted the genetic experiments was beyond him, especially since they'd proven fruitless.
Deviants, descendants of those who had been the products of germ-line genetic manipulation, only had a slightly higher resistance to infections than most normal humans. Ultimately, because they'd failed to halt disease progression, and even worse, they tended to have relatively smaller brains than their unaltered counterparts, Corporate deemed their genetic makeup a failure. Because of their assumed inferior intelligence levels, deviants were allocated into the manual labor division of the Mart Segregate. They were seen rarely on this end of the district.
George and William huddled behind their bench, hoping they might go ignored.
"Everybody stay down and do what you're told, and nobody will get hurt!" the apparent leader of the deviant group screamed. "I want into Law-Corp! I need to see a file!"
No one responded.
The deviant pointed his gun at William's head. "You look like a manager! On your feet!"
William slowly got up, putting his arms in the air. "I work in Defense! I'm one of the good guys!" The color from his face went nearly sheet white as he stared at the gun's barrel. His entire body shook. "We can talk about this without a gun pointed at my head, eh?"
The deviant didn't move. He eyed William's keys. "You can get me into the file room!" His commanding voice, amplified by the gun in his hands, did nothing to change the fact that he obviously had no understanding of the inner workings of a Corp establishment.
William's face glistened as he broke into a sudden, heavy sweat. "It doesn't work that way. I don't have those keys!"
"Then tell me who does!" The deviant charged a few steps toward William, his gun still aimed to kill.
"I don't know!" William cried, his arms waving in front of him as if they might divert a potential bullet. "Please don't shoot me!"
Everyone turned as an armored Police-Corp shuttle shot into the garage, lights rolling, and gracefully slid to a halt behind the hijacked Line 150 shuttle. William fell to his knees and closed his eyes when an officer fearlessly exited the shuttle and shot the deviant in the head.
Another deviant turned to aim at the officer, only to be shot as well. The rest, watching the squad of officers filing out and taking aim, quickly dropped their weapons and surrendered themselves.
William lowered even further, placing his hands on the cold cement ground. He took deep breaths, working to compose himself.
George hurried to his side. "Are you okay?"
William nodded.
"It's always deviants, whenever you hear about a crime," George muttered, watching the police associates drag the two bodies into the shuttle. The other four deviants stood in a circle, handcuffed, cursing their misfortune. George helped William to his feet.
William gave him a grateful nod. "I wonder what that was about."
/>
"I don't think they need a reason," George said, perking up as a few of the officers began to clear the Line 150 shuttle.
There were bodies inside. The officers donned rubber gloves and paper booties then dragged out three bloodied security associates and a shuttle manager. Obviously, they had not let the deviants hijack the empty shuttle without a fight. It was no wonder the Police-Corp shuttle had arrived so quickly. Very likely, the altercation had begun at the shuttle's previous stop. Perhaps this had even been an organized effort, with more locations than just Law-Corp being targeted.
Both men watched in horror as a crew of sanitation associates came in to clean the shuttle. They took their time, and when they finally left, their mops and rags were stained a dark, muddy red. William became hysterical when it came time to board.
"You can't just stay here," George said.
"I just need a minute!"
"The shuttle will be gone in a minute." George grabbed William by the jacket and began to drag him in. William crumpled to a mass on the steel floor as George pulled him toward a row of empty seats.
William scrambled to a seat beside George, visibly shaking as the doors shut and the shuttle zipped out of the garage.
"You need to get a handle on yourself," George said with a concerned frown.
"I know . . . I don't know what's come over me!"
"The world didn't come to an end. A group of deviants happened to get their hands on a few firearms." George slapped William on the back, dismayed at the size of William's flinch. "A harrowing experience to impress your friends with, hey?"
William shrugged. He stared straight ahead, his lip quivering as he fell frozen in a moment of flashback. George turned to the window, pretending not to notice, watching instead the rain beating down against the shuttle windows. Visibility beyond the rain was close to zero.