The Terminals

by Michael F Stewart

  The light flared and was gone, the glow of it lingering green in Ming’s vision.

  The flashlight overwhelmed the darkness.

  “But what does it mean?” The woman turned to Ming, her crimson-stained teeth barred. “What does it mean?”

  The knife was out and menacing Ming’s face. The woman swung it broadly and suddenly, with a frustrated cry. It caught Cordell in the throat.

  Ming knew what the light meant, but said nothing. There was no escape for the killer or for Ming. It had been too long. The light meant they were all going to die.

  Chapter 31

  Charlie panted, eyeing Hillar with grudging respect and a modicum of fear. Clad in muscles and bony spikes at his shoulders, elbows, and knees, Hillar had swelled through the deeps while Charlie had wasted. As they fought, Hillar tested the circular walls of their cell with Charlie’s skull. They’d fought for what seemed hours in this cage, a column of indeterminate height and some eight feet across, and no matter what injury Charlie sustained, it was transient. Within a moment, the wound closed, the bone mended, and the battle restarted. The only thing that changed was the sweet stench and the growing number of bone-bats.

  One hung from Charlie’s triceps. It swung at its perch as he throttled Hillar. Its wings weren’t black, but translucent and flimsy; it was a baby.

  Hillar mashed Charlie against the wall. He fell forward into the larvae. Several mature bats plunged their beaks into his spine and skull to sap him of strength and will. Even Hillar struggled to swat at them, his tattoo hangers-on unable to keep the dozens of tiny youths away in the confines of their cylindrical prison. Charlie felt his ribs pop back into position.

  “We have to work together,” Hillar said, drawing deep breaths.

  “My mother taught me never to trust a psychopath.”

  “Met your mama earlier,” Hillar laughed, “and I’m not sure you wanna take her advice. Besides, we really all that different?”

  Charlie roared and tackled Hillar, only to be pile-driven head first into the maggots.

  Hillar pointed at the larvae. “It’s a trick.”

  As Charlie watched, one of the larva’s exoskeletons split and a tiny bone-bat emerged. He lunged for it and clapped it between his palms, letting the carcass fall back into the mass.

  “The demon is under this all,” Hillar explained. “Can’t hear us, so it don’t have to let us go.”

  “And the bone-bats will sap us dry if we let them hatch.” Charlie finished with a sigh.

  “Need to work together.” Hillar took a larva between his fingertips, grimaced, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed and this time kept it down. “You can be my Theudas, like old times. He sure liked to watch. Just like you, heh?”

  Charlie was shaking his head, resisting Hillar’s baiting. But Hillar’s words rang with possibility. Had Charlie merely watched that night so long ago, a night blurred by the mists of alcohol and rage? Or had he joined his true partner?

  “Only way to clear this down to the bottom,” Hillar said. “Chow down. How else are we going to unbury the demon?”

  Even as he shook his head, Charlie knew Hillar was right about their current predicament. A bone-bat drilled into his side and he gasped with pain.

  “But I’m not going to eat another slug until you do,” Hillar added while the lion tattoo pounced on a hatchling.

  Charlie plucked a small maggot from the roiling mess of them and held it to his face. Spiny hairs sprouted from its gray flesh. A needlelike beak hooked from one end.

  “Fat ones taste better,” Hillar said and laughed. Shutting his eyes, Charlie placed the larva in his mouth, bit down on it to kill it and then swallowed. The taste that oozed over his tongue was like nothing he could identify, except that it combined all his worst imaginings. Oil. Excrement. Pus. Vomit. Nothing that could be swallowed without triggering regurgitation. And he threw it up.

  “You need to do better than that.”

  Two more larvae broke from their shells. Charlie reached down and brought a handful to his face.

  “Now we’re talking.” Hillar did the same.

  Charlie tried not to think about it and stuffed them into his mouth, crunching once and then swallowing. The maggots surged around them, as if sensing they were about to be eaten, every single one of them. It wasn’t until Charlie’s third mouthful that he kept the bulk of it in his stomach. He knelt into the mass so that they squirmed about his chin, and drawing a deep breath, he plunged his face into them and chewed. Concerned that a psychopath wouldn’t hold up his end of the bargain, he glanced toward Hillar and found him watching him, mouth bulging, blood and yellow goo smeared across his cheeks.

  Charlie barked a laugh, spat out a crusty beak, and brought hands full of cupped maggots to his lips. Hillar accepted the challenge, sweeping his forearms together and letting their writhing contents slide into him as he chomped. They grinned at each other in a weird camaraderie.

  Their stomachs swelled, and still they ate. The mature bone-bats lay eggs, and Charlie and Hillar fought to keep the pile slowly lowering, first to their waists, then thighs and now to their knees. His gun was free, but Charlie didn’t bother with it, only ever watchful for the crystal. But it remained hidden. Finally, they swept the last of the maggots into their hands, keeping to the rhythm lest they stop.

  Finally their hands were empty.

  Hillar’s body seemed to squirm as if filled with still writhing slugs.

  A single larva remained.

  “All yours,” Hillar said.

  “Feels like a Monty Python sketch,” Charlie replied. “Just one more larva, sir.”

  Except this larva had hardened and begun to hatch.

  What emerged from the shell wasn’t a tiny bone-bat, but the talons of a monstrous Archon. When Hillar first saw the blood red hook of its claw, he screamed with glee: “Horaios!”

  And the mouth of the Daemon hatched from its shell, teeth gnashing, growing impossibly large as the thorax followed and then a wing. Hillar called its name again, and the mouth gaped further.

  But Charlie remained silent, for about the neck of the thorax hung the crystal.

  “Be damned,” Charlie said.

  Hillar shot between the great mandibles of the creature and plunged into its stomach. A clawed leg hooked into Charlie’s guts and tore a wedge, pulling maggots from his entrails. After the fire, the hooks, the wolves, Charlie was able to master the crippling pain, and he reached for the crystal. The larvae spilling from him immediately began to hatch. He dove beneath the arc of another claw, slamming into the cell’s wall. The leg tore another gash in his stomach and more larvae spurted out.

  The pain bent him forward. Bone-bats flapped free. Small piles of black eggs, like buckshot, hatched into larvae and the room began to fill. Already Charlie’s ankles were hidden, and the thought of having to eat another maggot drained the last of his energy. As another talon impaled him, he reached to the dangling crystal, but it was too far, swinging several feet from his outstretched fingers. The larvae swirled at his knees. He had one last desperate chance.

  “Horaios,” Charlie called.

  It fell upon him, and he lunged for the crystal, caught the cool glass, and was swallowed whole into utter darkness.

  Chapter 32

  After another twenty minutes on the Internet with my nostrils plugged with tissue, the nosebleed finally slowed and stopped altogether. A sopping pyramid of bright-red Kleenex mounded on the bed, and red fingerprints marred the keys and screen of my laptop. The disarray of my bed and room reminded me of the general’s office, and the parallel bothered me. Unlike Morph, I was taking the I’m-leaving-so-I-don’t-care philosophy, rather than I’m-leaving-so-want-to-leave-the-place-better-than-I-found-it-for-the-next-people route.

  I felt badly for the poor cleaner who would have to take care of the mess and so gathered the bloody tissues
into a clump and threw them in the toilet. The clean-up took a few minutes, and once I collected the last tissue, I flushed the toilet and began to wash my hands. Pink water from the clogged toilet began to overflow onto the tile. Who was the filthy one now?

  On the tray table, the iPhone rattled as it vibrated. I abandoned the stopped toilet and looked at the screen. Leica again. With an attachment. After slipping on a new shirt, I read the message. The subject: I hate nepotism.

  I pulled up the file. It was a scan of something in pdf format. A baptismal certificate from St. Paul’s Church, Plymouth, Indiana, for Christine Astrid Kurzow. A big yellow highlighter had circled the bottom, where it read: As sponsored by: Frank Robert Aaron. I gaped.

  The general was my godfather. I read it again. This horrid creature at whom I recoiled from having to face was the same man who had been my anchoring force for half my life.

  As someone who believed that they at least could rely on having achieved what they’d achieved on their own, this was a blow and raised many questions. Had I made colonel under my own steam? The promotion came two years ago. A decade after he’d taken command of the Terminals. Was this why the general had saved me from my suicide? What had his relationship been to my father?

  I left my computer and the bloody sheets and drew back my door. I nearly stepped on a Styrofoam container. The aroma of seasoned beef, fried onions, and mushrooms escaped from the box, making it past even my blood-plugged nostrils. Attila had left me my last meal. I popped back the lid and smiled at the oversized hamburger, its garnishes forming a colorful jumble about a Kaiser bun. With two hands I took a hefty bite, the aroma having made me unexpectedly hungry. But I was disappointed. All I could taste was blood. I dropped the remainder inside. Wiping the grease from my chin, I strode into Purgatory.

  Dr. Deeth was fiddling with his equipment and looked at me somberly before returning to his work. I found the general in his office.

  “You’re my godfather,” I said.

  His hands were folded at the desk. “I was,” he said.

  “Was?”

  “Before your father died, I promised him that I’d watch over you.” He nodded at my scarred wrists. “When I stopped you from swallowing that gun muzzle, I fulfilled my debt.”

  “Only to bring me to the Terminals,” I retorted.

  “We do important work,” the general said. “You’re dying for a reason, remember? Life sucks—”

  “Why were you indebted to my dad?” I cut him off, not liking that I owed this man my life, and I’d be damned if I was going to owe him my death, too.

  The general flushed red, and I saw that the cap was off the Jack Daniels and the oxygen was on, its mask in his hand. “It was a long time ago.”

  “You were his commanding officer,” I said.

  He looked down at his hands.

  “I know what it’s like to lose men under me.” It was a guess but by the crumbling of his stony expression, I knew I had brought the sledge home.

  His lip curled. “Yes, I lost your father.”

  “How did my father die, General?” My hands rested on my hips. “In about ten minutes I’ll be dead, I would like to know.”

  I’d seen enough people die to understand that most people have some regret they want off their chest before departing. It turned out that at least one of the general’s secrets was my father.

  “I was cleaning my weapon,” the general whispered, slurring a little. “I didn’t know it was still loaded. Your father was playing his guitar. He loved to play it. As my 2IC, we shared quarters. We were friends.” The general’s liquid, bloodshot eyes regarded mine and real sorrow resided in them. “There was a clap of thunder, you know, when a shell explodes so close that the world feels like it’s been rung like a bell?”

  I nodded and released a shuddering breath.

  “The gun went off. An accident.”

  “You? Not the enemy shell? You killed my father?”

  “If the shell hadn’t exploded then—”

  “No court martial?” I spluttered. “You made flag rank, for Chrissake!”

  “I made general because no one ever found out. The bomb had dropped nearby. I wasn’t anywhere near when …” He shook his head. “I ran for help. It was lucky for me. The accident saved my life. Another mortar fell on our tent and erased all evidence. But before your father died, he had time to make me promise to watch over you. So I did.”

  “But you’re prepared to let me die now,” I challenged.

  “Bullshit, you’re killing yourself,” he barked. “You have a stand-in.” His lips twitched. “Besides, I believe in what we do.” He unfolded his hands, regaining his composure. “I also didn’t say I liked you.”

  “I just remind you of your failure,” I replied. “At least I can take my guilt out on myself and not others.”

  “Doctor Deeth is waiting for you,” the general said, face purpling.

  “This is on your hands.”

  “No!” I blinked at his scream. “I tried to save you. I tried … to save you.” He drew on his mask.

  I flipped him off and turned, but before I left the office I had another question and I actually thought I had caught the sheen of tears in his eyes. “Ten years ago,” I swallowed. It pained me that this bothered me so much. “You stopped sending the letters. Why?”

  He grunted first, but after a moment he answered. “Years ago, I was diagnosed with heart disease; overworked they said; I was given a few years to live and offered retirement.” He cleared his throat again and I think if I turned then, he would have stopped, so I didn’t. “I didn’t take the package, but I started drinking. Hard. I was a failure and an embarrassment, and they put me somewhere no one would care. The archives. I became obsessed with war-time security leaks.”

  “You found Attila.”

  “Yeah, and this bizarre secret role that allowed the Army to offer me some dignity without troubling them further. They even promoted me.” He sighed. “I didn’t forget about the letters. I just stopped believing I could be of any help to you, until I heard of your suicide attempt.”

  So the general’s interest in me never stopped. He had tracked my progress and I suspected he struggled with my rise in power overlapping with his decline. But why let me end my life here rather than the field? Unless that hadn’t been his plan at all—I tried to save you …

  The cap of a fresh bottle spun off and hit the desk.

  Deeth offered a disapproving glower as I stepped into Purgatory. I climbed into the cot no longer occupied by Charlie. Morph was gone as well, incinerated in the morgue. The cot’s sheets were clean and fresh, but I could feel the rubber one beneath, laid there in anticipation of what was to follow. Sometimes Deeth could convince the terminal to accept a catheter but it was by option to consent, and I had opted out.

  My phone buzzed again and I checked it. Morph: There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide, Camus. I’d bet Camus would change his mind in my situation.

  I leaned forward so that Deeth could wrap a tube around my chest, and then he snapped sensors on my fingertips. He chewed gum and smelled of spearmint, which struck me as cruel but he couldn’t know why. I felt the general’s eyes on me from the window.

  When Deeth was settled with his laptop in his lap, he began.

  “Is your name Christine Kurzow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you a colonel in the United States Army?”

  “Lieutenant colonel, yes.” This was debatable. Was I? Was this the U.S. Army?

  Attila walked in, didn’t look at me and hit the button on the espresso maker—business as usual.

  “Are we sitting in a room of the New York City Veteran’s Hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  He droned on with a variety of control questions until finally we got to the important stuff.

 
“And do you understand the tenets of Gnosticism?”

  I hesitated. “Yes.”

  Deeth glanced up from his screen and continued. “Can you visualize the afterlife that you will enter upon death?”

  “Yes.”

  Deeth watched the screen. He abruptly shook his head. “I’m sorry, Christine, this isn’t even close.”

  Attila clapped his hands and laughed. “I knew you wouldn’t pass!”

  “What do you mean?” the general asked, now in the room and glaring at Deeth.

  “I don’t care,” I replied.

  Deeth was already packing up the gear. He pulled the sensors from my fingers and they snapped closed.

  “I care,” Deeth said. “There are two rules that I never break. I won’t administer the injection to someone who is not terminal or to anyone who doesn’t know where they’re going. You’re wasting my time and the time of the kids.”

  I was about to explain the Coumadin but thought better of it. Deeth’s words about wasting time hit home.

  “General,” I said, showing him my forearm. “Here’s your chance to finish our little family history.”

  The general looked caught, both loathing and grateful.

  “It’s no problem, Doctor,” the general stepped out of the doorframe. “You’re dismissed, but leave your tools.” The espresso machine hissed steam.

  Deeth didn’t move. “General,” he rumbled. “I can’t stop the colonel from leaping off of a bridge. I can’t even stop her from letting you stick a needle in her. But I can place a call to the president.”

  “Dismissed,” the general repeated.

  “This isn’t over,” Deeth replied and stormed out.

  Chapter 33

  The chamber slowly lit.

  As the children slipped away, deeper quiet crept into the room. As their will to breathe diminished. As their strength to moan and to cry out crumbled. As their blood drained. So, too, had the sounds eased. Ming had long ago grown accustomed to the overwhelming stench. The sensation of her limbs was gone.