by Sean Platt
And still, people sold crap like HEPA filters.
There were face masks. Bite shirts for use in the open — even inside cities. All sorts of barricading products, including how-to videos and books. Head-hunting scatter guns that were highly illegal but ubiquitous anyway. Not to mention the rip-off info products on how to fight your way out of an undead horde.
Fear. Fear moved product, no question about it.
Alice made her coffee, turned on lights to shake away the dream’s last tendrils, and sat on her couch with the unhelpful stack of publicly available Hemisphere information her anonymous tipster had left on her porch.
There were pamphlets on Hemisphere’s life-extension products. Some, among the first in the lines, were questionable — little more than high-priced vitamins. They seemed to substantially improve right around the time Sherman Pope claimed the nation. Even outside of the disease market, Hemisphere still offered lines for the uninfected. There was something called telomere lengthening treatments that came with all sorts of testimonials from government doctors. Hemisphere had started its lines involving stem cells rather dubiously in Alice’s opinion — one of the reasons she didn’t entirely trust the company, even today, to steer clear of bent rules.
What had started as borderline illegal with operations based in Singapore had become suddenly legit when Panacea’s predecessors began their work in the wake of the first Rip Daddy outbreaks. Once people were scared enough, passing a few special circumstances, but only for us laws permitting stem cell research became easy, so long as it meant giving Hemisphere the tools required to find a cure. They never had cured Rip Daddy; it had morphed into Sherman Pope, which quickly bloomed into a much bigger problem. As far as Alice understood, stem cells didn’t have anything to do with Necrophage or its development, but the die had been cast. And the world’s richest company had kept rolling on.
There were several sheets in the packet about Ian Keys, including pre-Hemisphere bio and contact info. Alice had read them already, but even though someone seemed to be elbowing her about Keys as if to say hint-hint, he’d thus far been uninterested in talking. She set them aside and found a printout on August Maughan below them. One she hadn’t noticed before because it had been sticking to the underside of one of Ian’s sheets. But even after reading it, Alice felt no further along. August Maughan, genius protégé to Archibald Burgess — some even said “private partner” — had been the media darling Burgess never was, doing much to humanize Hemisphere when the company needed PR most. But some time after the outbreak, Maughan had left in a falling-out of unknown origin.
There was some hint-hint in the paperwork about Maughan, too. Between the pages of dense scientific jargon (cell and nucleus receptor structure, lists of formulary active and inactive ingredients, virology texts, something called competitive inhibition), there was a story that Alice had yet to put her finger on. Maughan was central to that story, just like Keys. Except that Maughan had pulled off the country’s most public vanishing act, becoming less scientist and more high-ticket voodoo-doctor/guru. Everyone knew he was still out there, and knew his face with its odd mix of quiet intellect and savvy. But as far as Alice had found, nobody had any idea of where to find him or how to get in touch. Not even her deepest sources had been able to turn up anything.
But something was stirring. An untold secret in this pile of public data was trying to tell Alice the truth. She just had to figure out what it was. Her mind was already working. She’d been scouring her Yosemite footage, not sure at all what she might be looking for. She’d left a message for Bobby Baltimore, but Cindy told Alice he was “on safari” and would be a few days. Alice had tried Keys innumerable times because the packet’s creator seemed to be telling her that he, out of all possible sources inside Hemisphere, was the man to contact. She’d even worked up a profile of Keys. He was smart, handsome, highly ambitious, apparently honest and loyal to a fault. Well connected for sure, and just a few rungs from the top on Hemisphere’s ladder. The kind of guy who’d never, ever talk to the press out of turn because he was so loyal. Or maybe the kind of guy who’d be most likely to talk if he found reason to doubt those he’d been loyal to, because he was so honest.
There were too many loose ends. Too many things she’d learned at Yosemite that might mean something. Same for her research online; same for her trial-balloon phone calls that had yielded nothing; same for personal ruminating like her discussion with Nicole. When she’d been younger, Alice might have leaped at any one of a thousand red herrings, but there wasn’t substantive reason to truly believe any of them.
Something in Hemisphere’s corporate story had bothered Alice from the start. Yet no one but her seemed alarmed. The nation treated Hemisphere like saviors, and Archibald Burgess like grandfather to all those still living, and the tens of millions who were, thanks to his drug, still productive members of society despite being mostly dead.
Necrophage was free. So how could Hemisphere have any ulterior motives? the world seemed to think. Sure, the designer versions cost out the ass. Sure, everyone wanted them. Sure, there were rumors like the one that had so lit Nicole up, about the benefits of the higher-up-the-chain drugs. But the company’s biggest product cost users nothing and saved their lives. Hard to hate a company like that, no matter the size of its coffers.
Alice jumped when her phone rang. She looked down and saw an Aberdeen extension that looked familiar, though the caller wasn’t in her contacts.
“Hello,” said a voice.
“Who is this?”
“Who is this?” The caller sounded annoyed. “You called me.”
Had she? The number seemed so familiar.
“Refresh my memory,” Alice said.
“About what? Who the hell are you?”
“The message. What did my message say?” Alice asked, getting annoyed herself. The caller had decided to call her back, so why was he being such an asshole? If he didn’t want to talk to her, whoever he was, he shouldn’t have …
“Is this Ian Keys?”
“You don’t even know who you called?” Pause. “Is this Alice Frank again? I told you — ”
“Of course it’s Alice Frank. You’re the one who made the call.”
“I didn’t call you. You called me.”
Alice felt her brows furrow. It sounded like something that might have happened in the days of phone operators and landlines: a crossed connection somehow calling two people as if they’d called each other. But that couldn’t happen today, right? She was misunderstanding.
“I’m not sure what you—” Alice stopped when the phone vibrated in her hand, then she pulled the screen away in time to see a new text message roll across the top — from a private number.
Ask him about BioFuse.
BioFuse? It sounded like an adhesive. She was pawing across the couch for her laptop, hoping to quickly look it up before embarrassing herself by asking out of the blue, when she heard Ian’s end of the line marred with noise. Not static or interference but the rustle of something against the mic, as if the man was in motion, shuffling while talking.
“I’m going to hang up now. I’ve received all of your calls, texts, and emails. I don’t know how you’re finding all these numbers and addresses, but my answer hasn’t changed. You want to talk to someone at Hemisphere, you go through the main number. If you do that and are cleared by PR, I’ll happily talk to you. I’d love to talk to you if you go through proper channels. But if you keep harassing me, I’ll … oh, hey.”
“Hey what?”
“Now? No, I’ve got a client meeting.”
“Okay. Go to your meeting,” Alice said, puzzled by the odd change in the call.
“Archibald? Sure, of course.”
“What are you talking about?”
“No, I’ve never talked to anyone. But what about—”
Alice pressed the phone tighter to her ear. He wasn’t talking to her. Ian was speaking to someone else. Someone who’d interrupted him, but that Alice, de
spite straining, couldn’t hear.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ian asked his other party. Then, sounding annoyed: “Just let me check in. I’ll call up after I’ve had a cup of coffee if it’s so damn important.”
“What’s going on over there?” Alice asked.
A rustle of fabric. Then Ian’s voice: “Hey. Let go of me.”
There was a crack as someone dropped Ian’s phone.
She heard shuffling then breathing.
Then the call was disconnected, and Alice heard nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHECK-IN
THERE WAS A KNOCK ON the trailer door, waking Jordache from her sound sleep with a loud groan. When she rolled upright, Jordache saw that the sun was already up and streaming around her thin but pretty curtains. But screw the sun. The sun didn’t work late, like she did.
Jordache hoped for a moment that she’d imagined the knock, or that some kid had rapped the wall with a book bag on his way to the park’s main bus stop just up the internal road. But no, there was a silhouette clearly visible on her stoop, patiently waiting.
The knock came again, light like a reminder.
So annoying.
Jordache looked in the living room mirror, fluffed her hair (kind of oily from the diner’s atmosphere last night but still cute), and blinked. She wanted to wipe the shit from the corners of her eyes, but her eyeliner and shadow were still in place (though her pillow had probably taken the mascara). If she wiped now, she’d look like a horror show. Mostly, Jordache was presentable despite her sleep shirt and missing bra. Her lips had even retained their brick-red color and dark liner.
She opened the door to find a man in a suit. He flashed a badge.
“Good morning, ma’am. I’m Agent Joseph Trent, Panacea. Are you Margaret Kyle?”
“No,” Jordache answered, rubbing her face and yawning.
The man craned back, looking at the front wall of her trailer. Probably searching for the house number, but it was on the other side, on the mailbox.
“I’m sorry. Is this 516?”
“This is 512.”
“Do you know Ms. Kyle?”
Jordache laughed. She didn’t know any Margarets, but the agent’s saying “Ms. Kyle” made it all make sense.
“She goes by Peggy.”
“My appointment says Margaret.”
Jordache nodded. “Peggy is short for Margaret.”
The man’s brow stitched.
“I know. It doesn’t make sense to me, either, but it’s true.”
Jordache looked to the left, toward Peggy’s trailer. Poor girl. She’d been bitten by a rat. It was hideous because that rat had been carrying Sherman Pope, but it was even more hideous because it was just making trailer park clichés that much worse. Peggy had been smart enough to get tested (she couldn’t catch the rat, of course, and now it might get someone else) and was dosed within a few hours of infection, so she’d be fine, but the white trash stereotypes would linger. It was so unfair. Rats didn’t get all undead like people did, but they did get more aggressive. Before the outbreak, the rats had always been cool. Now, trailer park tornados? Those things were still assholes.
The agent was already stepping off her small porch.
“You a clarifier?” Jordache asked.
He turned and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“She only got bit half a day before they took her to the clinic.”
“Ma’am?”
“She ain’t even a little dangerous.”
“I’m sure, ma’am,” said the clarifier. “But it’s a federal regulation. All new cases must be clarified.” He tapped his head as if he were wearing a hat, which he wasn’t. “Thanks for your help.” He stopped. Something seemed to occur to him, and he pulled a small tablet, just larger than a phone, from his pocket.
“Since I have you … ”
Jordache sighed. “You can’t even tell. I’m not slobbering all over myself without seein’ it again, am I?” She tried to laugh, but this wasn’t funny. Oh, to be a Jew, gay, or a black person these days. Necrotics were the new persecuted class, with everyone else on discrimination holiday.
“I’m sorry. Federal regulations, like I said.”
Jordache’s tongue went into the corner of her mouth. She cocked her slim hip and put one hand on it. With all her makeup still in place, she might be coming off like a hooker. But whatever; if the clarifier found her hot, maybe he wouldn’t annoy her too much. Check-ins could be quick, or they could take forever. There was one poor kid, Rory, who lived with his mamma out by the main road. When that bastard had to submit on these sweeps, it came closer to a full-blown reclarification. Every time, Jordache half expected to hear that Rory had been shipped off after all, that the first clarifier who’d given him a pass had screwed up and let one through that was about to go feral.
“Your name?”
“Jordache Dale.”
“Is that your real name?”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did he think it was her stripper name? That was ridiculous. Jordache had never stripped, and if she had, Jordache was plenty sexy enough.
“Course it is.”
The agent tapped on his tablet.
“How long have you been infected?”
“Since the first big wave.”
“But after Necrophage.”
“Of course. Think I’d be here without it?” Her pride wanted to add that she wasn’t even on plain old Phage, but was on the fancy stuff rich people used. But that might raise questions, seeing as Jordache didn’t exactly appear to be rolling in dough.
“And what was your incubation period?”
“Twenty-six hours.”
The man looked up. “Really?”
“It’s there on your pad, ain’t it?”
He looked down then looked back up. “It’s just that I don’t see many first-wave patients with such short incubation periods. Nowadays, with clinics and public awareness of the disease, sure. But back then, it was kind of chaotic.”
“I got bit near a clinic. The doc stayed the whole time, even when it got bad.”
The clarifier nodded, apparently satisfied. It wasn’t the whole truth. In reality, she’d been with Weasel at the time, and they’d both been very, very drunk. She’d been drunk and high a lot back then, and Weasel’s thinking was that if the world seemed to be ending, they might as well get as shitfaced as possible and fuck until the hordes ate them alive. On pharmaceutical-grade shit (the kind that became available when there was a goddamned apocalypse and the pharmacy was left unguarded), even being ripped apart might be a gas. But then she’d got her bite, and Weasel had beaten the thing’s head in, and that had been it. No horde. As soon as they’d sobered up, they’d gone inside the pharmacy and taken vast quantities of everything anyway, even injecting most things that weren’t insulin and seemed likely to boost some altered states. One of the vials had contained Necrophage. She’d lucked into a short incubation because she was an addict, but ironically getting treated had helped her get clean. The idea of taking all those drugs today — when she had to be beholden to one specific drug — made Jordache shiver.
“Mmm hmm. And how are things for you today?”
“Fine. I’m tired as shit, but fine.”
“Your mental state, I mean.”
“Fine. But don’t ask me to do the multiplication tables. I was bad at those before I got infected.”
“It’s not an intelligence test, Ms. Dale.” He tapped his tablet. “How would you rate your thought quality relative to last month or last year? About the same or getting worse?”
It was time for another half truth. Honestly, since she’d been taking what Danny brought her instead of Walmart Phage, something was decidedly better. Not only did she feel more energetic and focused; she’d also been a lot more interested in stuff that hadn’t appealed at all in the past: reading, the way space seemed so deep and endless at night, movies without explosions. But as with bragging on Dann
y’s supply, saying too much felt like a bad idea.
“Fine. Same.” She looked back into her living room as if she had something pressing. She did, she suddenly remembered. Danny was coming over at nine. He had the morning off and was planning on taking her to breakfast. It was cute how Danny was. She wanted to fuck him. Problem was, guys left after you gave it up. Or they became bastards once they saw you as a toy. Danny was so nice now, and Jordache liked him plenty. It hurt to hold back and keep turning him down, but she had to try a bit longer. This honeymoon before he became a real guy was too nice to ruin.
“Not to be rude, but … ” Jordache trailed off.
“Almost done. Just one thing left.” He pulled a device about the size of a triple-thick box of matches from his pocket. There was an accordion of disposable pop-up lancets on top where you were supposed to put your finger, and the clarifier pulled the top one off to expose the sterile one below. He touched a button on the thing’s side to pair it to his tablet and held it out.
“Just go ahead and — ”
“I done this before, thanks.” Jordache extended a finger and placed it on the device’s top. There was a tiny jolt of pain. Almost instantly, the thing’s light flickered, and the agent’s tablet flashed green.
“Looks good,” he said, pocketing both devices. “Sorry to bother you. Do you need a tissue for that?”
He nodded at Jordache’s lightly bleeding finger, but she slipped it between her lips instead.
She shook her head. “So it’s all blood tests now?”