by David Nell
When the ringing faded and his eyes adjusted he could see the tip of dusty combat boots just inches from his eyes. He tried to stand up but the heel of the right boot came down on his neck. The room had become a nightmare of chaos. The marine guard that had escorted his mother lay dead on the floor, their bodies riddled with bullets, gunned down by an invading unit of marines who stared down the barrels of their rifles at the Commander in Chief, his Vice President and their families.
"Get down on the ground!"
"Stay on the fuckin' floor!"
They shouted again and again.
"What the hell is going on here?" Matthew demanded.
The boot eased up off his neck and allowed him to turn over to look up at the man leading the raid on his compound. He was tall and dressed in the same combat and hazmat gear as his soldiers. The large ebony kaleidoscopic eyes of his mask were hollow and insectlike. A desert eagle in a holster was slung around his waist, cowboy style.
"Who the fuck are you?" Matthew screamed.
The man dug his boot into Matthew's chest.
"Colonel Perry, 5th battalion, 3rd marines. Martial law has been declared and it has been deemed there is no role for either you or your administration in the plan for continuity of government."
Perry declared, "Also, we don't take orders from faggots."
Matthew was silent. Not long ago he was once the most powerful man in the world. He couldn't believe how quickly that changed. His office was now little more than a word, the powers vested in it little more than a memory, and none of it was going to save him. "What about my son?" he finally whimpered. Without answering, Perry drew his pistol and fired a round through Mathew's forehead, instantly sending him into the infinite and dark abyss of death. Matthew never even saw his shooter's face.
Matthew had been America's first gay president. His name and memory had been meant to be a symbol of the slow but steady progress the country had made towards freeing itself from the grip of hate. As long as society cultivated the power of the nuclear sword, a power to awash the world in flames, there could never have been any other outcome. Matthew's ascent to the presidency came during a time when conditions allowed for acts of compassion, but in only minutes the age of the homo sapien had ushered in twilight, and the sun set on the history of the species. They would not fade peacefully or gracefully, but rather in a maelstrom of chaos and cruelty. Matthew's bunkers, unlike the tomb of the pharaohs, would never be found by future generations. Instead, it would be forever buried under the dust of civilization in a vast wasteland of human remains.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Nick's work has appeared in a number of publications including; Skive magazine, Sleepy Town Press, Third Flatiron Publishing, and the award winning Crooked Cat Publishing in the United Kingdom. His stories are his attempt to address the sickness called the human condition. Nick can be contacted at [email protected].
I WILL WATCH
FOR YOU BY
STARLIGHT
Trak E. Sumisu
The prognosis was not good; I could tell before she told me the results of the analysis, just from her expression, that my time on what remained of the planet would be shorter than I'd hoped. However, I was unprepared for what little time I actually had left.
For years, after the ill-fated three-day conflagrative confrontation between China and New Unified Korea, we believed (or at least everyone was told) that it would be the radiation – that pervasive fall-out, settling like a silent, invisible dust, coating everything and everybody, penetrating all living organisms, contaminating every grass blade, plant, tree and man-made structure, leaching into the water table, poisoning us slowly from the inside out – that would ultimately destroy us. We were told to expect sickness, a dramatically decreased life expectancy; that we should contemplate coming to terms with the concept of loss: of friends, family, children, loved ones. The best-case scenario, the one we should hope for, was that our bodies would become hosts for rapidly multiplying, fast-growing tumours that could not be contained or controlled. Only the pain would be controlled, we were informed, until such time as our bodies ceased functioning. But they were wrong.
Man, it transpires, is much more resilient than we ever thought possible, certainly more adaptable than that antiquated fraudster Darwin ever gave our species credit for. After thousands and thousands of years of natural selection and neo-evolution* it seemed we were better suited to dealing with rapid cataclysmic ecological readjustment than almost any other Gaian organism, except perhaps for the blatta, more specifically Periplaneta americanus, the ubiquitous cockroach. It was the other life forms that suffered most.
"What is your domestic arrangement?" Her voice was cold, like her eyes. Its timbre added an unnecessary gravitas to the already overwhelmingly bleak situation.
"Solitary domicile," I replied. "No spousal obligations. No children."
"Any dependants at all?"
I shook my head slowly. There was once, but that was a long time ago.
She turned her head slightly to read off some of the data from the wall. The illuminated section flickered and I felt suddenly nauseous. In my head I was outraged. They should have outlawed it as soon as they knew, as soon as they made a positive link.
"I see you have requisite provision for your immediate care. According to this, your funding should last until IS3I." She paused, aware that I was unfamiliar with the medical terminology, and apologised. "Sorry, irreversible stage 3 illumoblastoma; the deficit will more than adequately cover the cost of transportation."
How long did I have? The words formed in my head, as thought, but I was uncertain if I actually spoke them.
"Six weeks. Maybe seven. Naturally, you will be quarantined within the next twelve hours. Are you intending to go straight to your address?" She scanned the wall again. "That would be 2274 Detling Plaza, right?"
––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––* Mutable Evolution and Selective Eugenics: Neo-Evolution & Darwinism Re-evaluated: Dr Jan Eriksson (Temerity Transglobal Publication 2070)
I nodded, numb.
"Very well, Mr Artellus. I suggest you put all your immediate domestic matters in order and await the shuttle. We can arrange transportation to your residency if you require it but, obviously that will be deducted from your total provision funding."
I got up to leave. I had no intention of thanking her for her time or medical evaluation. My condition was apparent, even to me.
"You will be taken care of, Mr Artellus. The RCF provides superb facilities and the expertise is incredible; superlative. Your well-being is obviously of paramount importance to the staff and they are all fully-trained and sympathetic to your condition in all its stages."
The doors of the consultation suite opened and my world finally began to fall in on me, and the enormity of my situation becoming suddenly, starkly apparent.
My transit to the RCF was fairly uneventful. There were two other passengers on the shuttle, both like myself, in the early onset stages of the disease. The first, Jared, was a heavy, thickset man, an African I think, who had spent the first two years after the conflict in central Asia, 'mopping up' as he referred to it. He resented the fact that the disease had chosen now to invade his system, just as he was making 'something of his life'. He was bitter, angry and tearful.
Looking at the second IQC – or Immediate Quarantine Candidate as we were referred to by everyone (except ourselves) – I was thankful I could still cover up the telltale blemishes that had started to migrate from the fingertips of my right hand. Helena was not so fortunate; the whole of the left side of her face was a mass of discolouration, her bottom lip almost completely transparent. She didn't speak throughout the entire journey and spent the whole time staring out of the window, focusing on some imperceptible reality or other.
Jared was inconsolable.
"It's not fair! I was there, in the thick of
it, pumping slurry into the back of tankers! Human slurry! I should have caught something there surely, amongst all the filth and the decay and the debris. Not now! Not now that I have a family. Why? Why me? Why now?"
I chose not to answer him (because, to be honest, I really did not know how best to respond in order to help salve his self-piteous demeanour) and Helena ignored him. She ignored everything, including me. Eventually I realised her strategy was the logical response and followed suit. Jared's annoying whining became a distant sound, an irritant still but one that was certainly easier to block out.
As we neared the RCF, the dominant impression I had was of the fencing, over twelve metres high and constructed of dull, grey metal strands pulled taut between illuminated Plexiglas columns that stretched out as far as the eye could see on either side of the forbidding, gated entrance. It was apparent they had no intention of allowing anyone who passed through those gates to ever set foot outside again.
"We're fucked! We're fucked! We're fucked! We're fucked!" That was Jared, howling out his mantra of the obvious to anyone who was listening. I tried not to. I sincerely hoped that once inside I would never see him again. Helena's face flickered and emitted a small electronic popping noise; she continued staring out of the window.
The sign beside the gates bore the legend:
Goldacre 14 – Residual Confinement Facility
A Subsidiary of the Denton State Medical Corporation
It was one of thirty or so that were dotted around the country, mainly in the less densely populated areas that had not been so badly contaminated by the radiation. There were rumours that new RCFs were being erected, perhaps ten or more, to keep up with demand as the disease became ever more widespread.
The gates opened and, without any deviation in direction or speed, our transporter entered the heavily fortified confinement camp. I looked back and watched them close again. I knew at that precise moment I had been effectively exiled from the world and everybody and everything in it, forever.
Consultation #1: Acclimatisation Session – Dr William Zanegretti
I was not looking forward to my initial consultation. It marked the inevitability of my position within the facility. I needn't have worried as much as I did. Dr Zanegretti was eloquent and incredibly well informed. He was, by his own admission, the foremost authority on type II illumoblastoma. He was also adamant.
"I will not allow any emulsion-dependant apparatus or devices within the confines of the RCF. I have implemented strict procedures to ensure that such 'gadgets' – even those so-called harmless E-CommLinks – are not allowed beyond the gates. All my staff here are aware of the rules and that I will not tolerate the flouting of them under any circumstances. The penalty for such a breach, for such a contemptible disregard of facility policy, is immediate contractual termination with full suspension of all benefits."
His words were reassuring, intentionally so. I studied him carefully for a moment, gauging whether he was a strict man generally or only in respect to matters that might directly affect his position at the facility or his professional integrity. I decided in the end he was genuine in his condemnation of emulsion technology.
"Everyone blames Woodford."
It was true. They did. I did.
"Initially he was considered to be a genius! His invention revolutionary! It cannot be denied; he has changed the world forever. Every aspect of our life on the planet is now, in one respect or another, for better or for worse, dependant upon Woodford's emulsion technology. He was a true visionary, although the only thing he could not have foreseen, or created a contingency for, was the response of his organic technology in the aftermath of the war: the reaction to intense bombardment by high levels of cobalt radiation. If we should blame anyone, it should really be the Chinese."
I nodded meekly, attempting to disguise the fact I disagreed with his viewpoint.
"How is the hand?" he asked disarmingly.
I removed my glove for him to examine it, surprised by the intensity of the ambient illumination that was growing steadily stronger.
"Anything auditory?"
I shook my head. "No. Nothing. Not yet."
"I can't lie. It will come. We can give you sedatives at that point, although whether you take them or not is your choice. It will make the self-management of your illness easier, however."
I asked the impossible. I knew how futile the question was before it even passed my lips. "What about a cure?"
He pursed his lips, an audible sigh escaping from them. "Realistically?" He shook his head slowly. "Not in your lifetime. In order to cure the disease we have to be able to identify the assimilating factor, the mechanism of transference. As it is a mutagen, with the ability to alter its genetic code dependant upon whatever the host happens to be, there are now so many combinations that it is virtually impossible to isolate it with any degree of accuracy.
Some of the research conducted so far has been promising. It indicates that we should be studying invertebrates and trying to discover why, so far, they appear to have been immune from the contagion, but it's still early days. I don't foresee a breakthrough for a very long time."
He leant forward and patted my hand softly in what I took to be an act of sympathy or pity. The light blemishes fizzed and flickered in response.
"As a human being you are more fortunate than most of the species this disease attacks. At the very least we have the innate ability to comprehend, to understand the effects as they become more established. The majority of other animals expire before the symptoms are full blown, submitting to complete mental or physical exhaustion in their attempt to escape something that, it must be emphasised, is completely alien to them. Animals have the ability to interpret their surroundings and act accordingly but once the disease takes hold it overrides all their instincts. Have you ever seen an infected animal?"
I nodded. I had once, only once. It was the single most terrifying thing I had ever encountered. I heard it long before I actually saw it, a feral cat screaming in absolute terror as it attempted to escape from itself. Then it appeared, running panic stricken, almost a blur of pulsating light and noise; no longer a cat but a new creature that illuminated its surroundings as it went, throwing strange shadows in its path, accompanied by the sound of disembodied voices and strange disjointed music.
Unlike us, any animal that showed signs of the illness now was captured wherever possible and mercifully exterminated. It was considered a more humane alternative to allowing them to go full term and die in agony, insane, bewildered and alone. I wondered why they didn't do the same for us. Surely, under the circumstances, it would have been kinder?
"OK." The doctor's voice snapped me out of my reverie. "I'll see you at the same time next week. If you have any problems sleeping or have any other discomfort or concerns, the pharmacist will be able to recommend something. Alright, Mr Artellus? Any questions?"
I had only one, just one niggling question that had been prompted by examining my fellow sufferers as I waited to go in to the consultation suite. There was not a single woman among us. "Are the men and women here being segregated?"
Despite the answer I was given by the smiling, perfunctory Dr Zanegretti, I discovered over the next few weeks that, although it was not referred to as 'segregation', male and female confinees were deliberately kept separate in order to minimise 'the formation of emotional attachment' and to avoid 'any inherent problems that might ensue from such attachments'.
Contact was kept to a minimum. The only time I really got to see any member of the opposite sex was either at the pharmacy or when we were allowed outside for 'a breath of fresh air'. It was a joke; everyone knew that the air would not be fresh again for at least another ninety years but we went along with it. It was a way of keeping in touch with reality. Being inside the facility for a protracted length of time was unsettling, despite all the amenities. At least outside there was some sense that the world did still exist – that we all still existed – even though we were separat
ed from it and the rest of humanity.
I saw Helena again. She was standing by the fence, looking out at something, something in the distance that I was unable to make out. I wondered if there was actually anything there, but her eyes did not possess that lost quality that so many of the others in the facility had. I think she was content.
When I spoke to her she turned to face me through the fence. Her condition was advancing rapidly. It had spread to her limbs. They glowed in the late afternoon sunlight. The almost constant hiss of static was occasionally replaced by the incomprehensible sound of someone speaking in Spanish or some other South American language. She managed a smile, although it was hard to discern at first through the glare.
"We were on the same shuttle here," I said by way of conversation. "My name's Stephen."
I felt she might have taken the hand I raised and offered in greeting had we not been separated by the fence. I lowered it again, impotently.
"My name..." a column of figures flashed across her face. "My name is...was Helena."
I started to protest. "That's..." but I paused, struggling to find the right word. What was it? Stupid? Ridiculous? True? In the end I revised what I was about to say. "Your name is still Helena."
Her eyes widened. "Is it?" There was no anger in her voice, no trace of bitterness, just weary resolution. "Sometimes I'm not so sure. Any traces of me, of my life, are being eaten away. Soon there will be nothing left, just noise and images."
She was, of course, correct. It was what we all had to come to terms with, some sooner than others.