The War Within #1: Victims

by Rodham Perry, Marcus

  The woman called him and pointed to one of the passenger windows. The dark glass was cracked here and there, but his features were undeniable in the reflection.

  He saw a tall man with broad shoulders and sun-skinned — a man in his fifties, with gray hair and beard. His face was thin and gleamed suffering from a refinement of insanity. There were lacerations and small cuts and a bloodstain on the side of his head.

  Where he had been shot — but by who? Questions, more questions...

  He stared at his reflection, moving his head from side to side, touching his face with his fingers as if only the physical contact could materialize what he was seeing. He ran his hands through his nose and hair, opened his mouth and counted his teeth. He noticed the dark circles of exhaustion and his eyes... There was blood on them, not much, but enough to make him be concerned.

  As if I didn’t have enough to worry about...

  He kept looking at his reflection.

  That’s me...? He asked himself, and then he said loudly, “That’s me...”

  “This is you,” said the woman, catching his attention. For a moment he had forgotten that she was there. The woman slowly approached him and put her hand on his belly. Her touch sent an electric current through his body. It was immobilizer, and he stood still as her fingers rose to his chest, her white skin contrasting against his dirty and dark uniform.

  Her hands came up to his face, his heart pounding a little faster when he felt how warm her skin was. Their faces almost touched, her tongue coming out and wetting her lips. She smiled, put a finger to her lips and then pressed them against his forehead.

  When she talked, it was almost a whisper, “You’re Asimov Magnus.”

  “I’m Asimov Magnus,” he found himself repeating the words.

  “You’re Asimov Magnus.”

  “I’m Asimov Magnus.”

  “You’re Asimov Magnus…”

  They kept repeating this a dozen times. And as they repeated the words, the name seemed to gain breath and life. He couldn’t say why, but the combination of those two names in one was like dark gears setting into a perfect hitch, a song whose tenuous and pitiful melody he could accept and take possession.

  He accepted it.

  The woman pulled away from him, her face closing in a grimace, “Did you hear that?”

  Before he could ask what it was, from somewhere far away came a feverish, barbaric noise, an animal choir that seemed to carry all the hatred and venom of a thousand demons. The echo of growls made his skin tingle.

  “What was this?” he asked, turning his head and looking for the source of the screams.

  “I don’t know,” said the woman, “but I don’t want to find out. You’d better get out of here. The car is out of gas, but there’s a rifle in the back seat.”

  “How did you—” He turned to the woman but was speechless.

  She was gone.

  DEMONIC CRY

  The town was dead.

  It was the first thing he understood. He didn’t know why or how, but it was clear that the town had been reduced in a large cemetery. The streets were clogged with dozens of abandoned vehicles, in every possible direction. More than a few were crashed against poles, walls and others vehicles, while much more rested with their doors open, abandoned by the drivers. There were piles of luggage, clothing, trash, and, worse of all, rotting bodies all around the streets.

  They were dropped — if it was possible to use that word when dealing with human beings — everywhere, shrunken against vehicles or on the sidewalks, in various stages of decomposition. It was as if death itself surrounded him, everywhere. The houses and buildings seemed abandoned and empty as well. Besides the dead, he found no one anywhere. Also, other than the noises he made, there was no sound at all. It was as if humanity had been suddenly plucked from the planet.

  Is this hell?

  It was an impossible vision, one that no conscious person would find easy to accept. He couldn’t say whether he was a religious man or not, but at that moment “Armageddon” was the only word he could think to illustrate the pandemonium he was seeing.

  Asimov walked slowly through the ruins, rifle ready, fighting the urge to vomit as he passed the corpse of a little girl. The stress made a terrible headache come up inside his skull. He tried to breathe more slowly and calm down a little — it wasn’t working.

  He stopped when he saw the police car.

  It was “parked” inside a restaurant, more than half of the cruiser having passed through the shop window of the establishment. He decided to inspect it. The windshield was broken, and there was blood in the back seat. The driver’s door was unlocked. He searched the cabin. What was he looking for, anyway? The keys weren’t in the ignition, and even if it was there, he couldn’t just get out driving. The car radio was dead, too, and given what he had seen in the streets, he didn’t think anyone would answer his calls.

  The glove compartment, then?

  He took a look. Bingo — there were two magazines for his .45 pistol. He put the mags in his pockets and then thought for a moment. How did he know there would be ammunition there? Nah; that was a ridiculous question — the most important question was what was he going to do now, and where was he going.

  God help me...

  He left the car and put the rifle on his back, the sling of the gun resting on his right shoulder. The weapon was inside the silver sedan like the woman had spoken. Just by looking, he knew it was an IA3 rifle, and that there were only seventeen rounds in the magazine.

  Given the scenario in which he was, it was comforting to have the gun around, but it would be better if the woman was still around. He had searched for her, but there was no sign of her whereabouts; it was as if she had simply evaporated.

  Who was she? Where was she? More goddamn questions…

  Asimov walked a few steps and stopped suddenly, turning to the car. There was something wrong, something detail he was letting escape. He stared at the vehicle for a couple of minutes before realizing it: the car’s police painting — more specifically, the name of the state that was written on the car’s sides and on the license plate.

  São Paulo?

  He got back to the streets and turned his eyes to another car, reading the vehicle’s plate, then the next, and the next, and the next.

  São José dos Campos, São Paulo... Caraguatatuba.... Caraguatatuba... Jacareí... Caraguatatuba... Only the cities of São Paulo!!!

  It was undeniable: most of the cars were from the city of Caraguatatuba, in the state of São Paulo. And the only logical answer to that would be that he was in Caraguatatuba, in the state of São Paulo — but why? If he was a BOPE police officer, he should be in Rio de Janeiro, not in São Paulo!!!

  This made no sense, but since nothing else seemed to make, Asimov saw no reason to stay questioning this. It was the logic of incoherence — he had awakened in a bewildering world where anything could be the plain truth. To complete the puzzle that was his memory, he’d have to put the pieces together according as they were given to him — the things he could see and touch, trying to find logic and bring reason to that world.

  As his father used to say, “To build a house, you have to use the bricks you own.”

  My father…?

  His thoughts were interrupted by something moving ahead, in the distance — a walking shadow. Asimov stopped and looked at the thing, taking his time to believe. Would it be a mirage? In desperation, he could be imagining things. But it was still there, moving. It was real — it had to be. There was no mistaking — it was the drawing of a solitary figure, a person.

  Unbelief gave way to a ray of hope. In his desperation for a company, he didn’t think twice — Asimov climbed into the hood of a car and shouted, “HEY!”

  That was a mistake. He didn’t know why, but as soon as the words came out of his mouth, Asimov was sure he had made a terrible error. At the sound of his voice, the figure turned to him, and Asimov struggled for breath at the sight of such thing, complet
ely shocked.

  Because the man was no man.

  The outline was no different from that of a tall human corpse, like a cadaverous giant, but it was monstrous. The only garment it wore was dark trousers, so torn and ragged that it had been reduced to a thong. The pale, muscular body seemed to glow with moisture, spattered with blood.

  But the worst of it was the thing’s face. The eyes were two golden crevices, gleaming like ferocious spots above the open mouth, full of big fangs. The creature — because it was this, a creature, a thing, a monster — was more than two blocks away, but he could see all those details as if it were right in front of him.

  Likewise, those gleaming, inhuman eyes stared at him with hunger and anger, arousing a primal and petrifying fear in his soul. Somewhere, he heard the woman’s yelling, “RUN!”

  Everything that had happened — hell, everything that was happening — well, it was happening too fast for a man without memories to swallow and process the data. There was no time to analyze the facts and digest them — just to react. Because of that, Asimov didn’t wait any longer, just to jump off the car and ran like the devil was on his tail.

  And he didn’t have to look back to know that he was being chased. He just ran down the street, the adrenaline making his heart work at its full capacity. The monster was fast, its barks and screams echoing inside his ears.

  And soon it wasn’t only one demonic cry behind him, but a choir.

  When he came to an intersection, he looked back and saw two — no, three, no, five! — of the things. His first thought was to shoot them with his rifle, but he didn’t do it. There was something inside him saying that there was no way he could win this fight. Instead of open fire, he turned left at the intersection.

  And he kept running.

  And then he stopped abruptly.

  Ahead of him, among the sea of broken cars, there were shadows lurking — lots of shadows. He was surrounded. Asimov couldn’t go on and couldn’t go back. Cornered, he looked around, knowing that the only option was to hide, but where?

  Think, man, think! He could hear the noise of the monsters rising — they were getting closer, their claws clattering against the pavement.

  Where, where, where?!

  There.

  His eyes locked on an old truck, half hidden between a rolled up ambulance and a cab totally destroyed. Asimov dived beneath the vehicle, thinking that such idea would never truly work. The good truth, he didn’t even know what he was doing until he did, if such a contradiction was possible.

  Once under the pickup truck, he took the knife and cut off the fuel pipe that ran under the vehicle, covering himself with gasoline and holding his breath. That way, those things wouldn’t catch his scent. Asimov didn’t waste time asking how he knew these things, he simply did — and just a moment later, the creatures were there. Though he couldn’t see them, he could hear them very well, sniffing, trying indeed to catch his scent, the sick sound of their knuckles snapping as they moved.

  He froze, holding the rifle against his chest with iron hands. What if they had seen him hiding under the truck? No, if that was the case, they would have attacked him already. Really? What if they’re just playing with him?

  Focus, focus!

  A second scream rang across the street. The second group was approaching, their arrival marked by a series of snarls and sharp grunts.

  They were communicating.

  Asimov kept his eyes open, praying silently, all the while thinking of the hands of the beasts dragging him out and tearing him to pieces, the creatures feeding on his flesh while he was still alive…

  Stop this! Just stop it!

  Asimov saw bare feet moving past the truck, and the simple notion of the owner of those feet ducking and discovering him down there froze the blood in his veins. His eyes didn’t move away from the monster’s feet as the creature paced, sniffing, trying to find him.

  He noticed the whiteness of the monster’s skin. In the sunlight, the flesh was almost translucent, marked by a network of blue veins and purple arteries. However, the skin was also sprayed with blood, which ran down to the ground and left a red trail on the asphalt.

  Other feet passed by the truck. Suddenly, he felt like an idiot. What the hell had crossed his mind, anyway? To hide under a car? Did he really think it would work? That he could hide from those things like a little boy under the bed, praying for the monsters to go away?

  Dumb, dumb, dumb!

  But then, as the creatures growled at each other where the man had gone, there was a loud, grave sound, a surreal, trumpet-like cry, so loud it seemed to want to tear the nerves and put down the foundations of the world. Asimov dropped the rifle and covered his ears, while the scream seemed to extend for a good ten minutes.

  When it was over, there was a strange absence as the echoes reverberated through the town. He looked around and realized that the monsters that had seemed to be on the verge of discovering him had disappeared. Cautiously, he left his hiding place.

  Yeah, he was all alone. But that scream... what in God’s name was that? Would it be some kind of a call to the monsters?

  Monsters, he thought. Asimov grabbed his hair and almost screamed, confusion and stress reaching its apex. But what were those things? How could such aberrations exist? God, what had happened to the world? He looked up at the sky, casting his questions, and then noticed the dark clouds coming from the east.

  An ugly storm was approaching.

  He realized he was thirsty.

  ♦♦♦

  Five minutes later he thought he had heard the noise of the monster coming back and almost jumped. He couldn’t stay on the street — he had lucky so far, but that didn’t mean he’d be lucky next time.

  He needed to get shelter, rest, and plan his next actions. Asimov kept walking in the opposite direction from where he thought he had heard that terrifying cry. He kept walking until his eyes rested on a house that seemed as fit as any.

  The door was open, and inside he found only dust and disregard. The dwelling was deserted, and the traces of a desperate escape from the original residents were everywhere — messy furniture, clothing, and valuables scattered on the floor. Asimov ignored it all, heading straight for the kitchen and looking for water and food. He made the foolish mistake of opening the refrigerator and the smell of rotten food almost knocked him over. He scoured the shelves, then, looking for canned goods, but didn’t find anything.

  Frustrated, he looked at himself, all dirty and smelling of gas. He tested the kitchen sink tap. Water! The pressure was weak, but indeed there was water, and the first thing he did was to drink as much as he could.

  Slowly, he told himself, knowing that if he drinks too fast he’d eventually throw up. After quenching his thirst he splashed water on his face and arms, and then inspected the wound on his head. It was hot to the touch and very, very sore.

  Shit, it’s getting infected…

  He went to one of the bathrooms. Asimov already knew what putrid horrors he could find there and held his breath before opening the door. Above the sink was a cabinet with a mirror and he stared at his reflection, feeling uncomfortable with what he saw. He opened the medicine cabinet and found a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and rolls of gauze.

  Well, it’s a start...

  He picked up the hydrogen peroxide and the gauze, starting the slow and painful task of cleaning his wound. When the torture finally came to an end, he searched the closet for more drugs. Asimov didn’t know how he had been shot in the head, but the wound was there and had to be treated. Although seeking a doctor seemed out of the question, he still needed antibiotics, otherwise, the infection would be systemic and he could very well die.

  There was almost nothing useful in the closet, though. A few prenatal vitamins, flu remedies... He took it all and stuffed it in his pockets, anyway, and that’s when he saw a white bottle behind all the others.

  Bingo.

  Asimov picked up the bottle and shook it, listening to half a d
ozen clinking piles inside. After that, he headed for one of the bedrooms in the back of the house. He glanced at the deplorable state of his black shirt, torn and filthy with blood, sweat, gasoline, and God only knew what else — he wisely decided to look for new clothes.

  He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a brown jacket, along with a gray social shirt, both almost of his size. He changed his clothes but kept the same combat pants.

  A sudden wave of fatigue lifted his whole heart — he needed to rest, right now, and he’d certainly work better after a nap. Who knows, perhaps his memory even worked better this way. Asimov closed the bedroom door, went back to the bed and lay down on the soft and moldy mattress, staring at the ceiling with the rifle at his side.

  His mind whirled in surreal, light bursts, where question after question flickered in his head, the answers being well thought-out and rejected. Above all, he felt that he couldn’t stay still. His body wants to rest, but not his mind. No, the mind keeps saying he had to keep moving, that he had to get up and take action…

  But keep moving to where? Asimov brought his left hand to his face — and it was then that he noticed the ring on his finger.

  A wedding ring.

  At that very moment, words came out of the dark, sprouting in his mind and filling his ears in a gigantic torrent.

  “What do you think of this house?”

  “I love it, but isn’t going to it cost a lot?”

  “Of course it will, silly. It’s Leblon, but it’s worth it....”

  Memoirs, fragments of images and sounds — none of them made sense, and his head was boiling. Was he married? Yes…? Yes! Yes, he was! Somewhere, he had a wife. But what was her name? What did she look like? Where was she? Did they happen to have children? He closed his eyes, clenching his teeth. Why it had to be so hard? Why couldn’t someone just come over and say everything he needed to know?