by Platt, Sean
“One at a time,” said a young man with a buzz cut, pale skin, and a face marred by severe acne. “Step toward us and remove your shirts.”
The Prophet looked at Ed nervously, as if asking, is this customary?
No, Ed would have said, usually you get naked. Ed nodded as he peeled off his shirt. Brent followed immediately. The Prophet took seven days to remove his button down white shirt.
They were instructed, one at a time, to step forward to a second Guardsman, a thin Hispanic kid with a light wand, who couldn’t have been more than 16. The test, as Ed understood it, picked up on a specific light frequency emitted only by aliens and the infected.
Ed was tested first. He passed and was then ordered to wait beside a door at the end of the room. Brent followed, breathing a bottomless sounding sigh of relief when he was told to join Ed. The Prophet went next, sweating profusely as he approached the kid.
The light immediately glowed bright blue and started to beep. The kid was so startled he nearly fell on his ass. The two other Guardsmen raised their rifles at The Prophet, who shook his head and started to stutter, “There’s g . . . got to be a m . . . m . . . mistake.”
The kid ran the light over the Prophet a second time, the light shaking in his hand. The light beeped again. “He’s infected!”
“Infected?” The Prophet said. “No, I’m not. I swear!”
“Come with us,” the Guardsmen said, approaching the Prophet with their guns aimed at him.
His eyes widened and for a moment, Ed thought the old man was going to try and run. But a second later his shoulders slumped in resignation.
“Please,” he said, turning to Ed and Brent. “Tell them I’m with you. I’m not infected.”
“I’m sorry,” Ed said. “Just go with them. They’ll take care of you.”
“What are you going to do?” the old man asked.
“We’re just going to quarantine you, sir. It’s a precautionary thing while we do some secondary tests. You may be just fine, at which time we’ll release you to be with your friends.” The Guardsmen were far more polite than Ed had seen at Black Island, especially with how they treated their infected.
Ed knew it was a lie. The light test was never wrong. They were just placating him to get him to quietly follow — a necessary lie, and a kind one they didn’t need to offer. They could’ve just shot him right there on the spot.
The Guardsmen led The Prophet through the closer set of doors, leaving Ed and Brent alone with the kid, who was staring at his boots.
“So, what now?” Ed said.
“We’ll wait for them to come back, then you’ll be brought into Black Mountain for a full medical. And then someone will likely want to talk to you.”
The far door opened and Lisa appeared with a tall blond haired man who reminded Ed of an’80s-era Dolph Lundgren, and looked about as pleasant as when he played Ivan Drago in Rocky IV. Judging from the way she followed behind like an eager to please puppy, and the Master Sergeant’s stripes on the side of his uniform, Dolph was clearly her superior. Ed wondered if those stripes were earned before or after October 15. Was he a real soldier or no different than the kid with the blue light?
Ed thought it funny how quickly people fell into line and deferred to someone with higher rank, even after the world vanished.
The world’s gone, but someone will always salute.
Ed used to find comfort in that brand of order. Hell, it helped him lead a group of Guardsmen on Black Island — soldiers who he saw earn their stripes on some harrowing missions into the center of the city’s slippery black heart. But now that Ed was away from a leadership role, he found himself thinking back on the past few years, and how power created two things above all else: corruption and sheep.
Dolph stopped in front of Ed and Brent. He looked them up and down with cold blue eyes. His badge read, ‘Jung.’
“Is this them?” he turned to Lisa, his voice edged with Swiss.
“Yes, sir.”
He turned his back and said, “Come with me.”
Ed and Brent followed with Lisa behind.
They were led through a set of double doors, down a long rock-walled hall, then into a large cargo elevator.
The doors closed and the elevator began its descent.
Jung stared at the elevator doors, confident enough to keep his back to the pair of variables, Ed and Brent. Ed wondered if he was really that confident, or if it was Lisa beside him that set the strength in his shoulders?
The elevator felt like it descended forever, the temperature growing noticeably cooler as they dipped deeper into the mountain.
The elevator finally came to a stop, then opened to a wide white — and brightly lit — sterile looking hallway that looked like a cross between Black Island’s underground facility and a hospital.
Several gray doors lined either side of the hallway, though none had windows. Each had a single blue square with a number written in the middle.
Ed and Brent were led to a room halfway down the hall. As Jung stepped in front of the door it automatically slid open, revealing a large office with an impressive mahogany desk and a bookcase loaded with several volumes. Despite its fineries, the walls were an ignored shade of white.
A tall red leather chair was behind the desk, facing the back of the room. Two smaller brown leather chairs sat in front of the desk. As Ed entered, the chair spun around and a bald man in black greeted them, smiling. Other than his lack of hair, long scar, and the black patch covering his left eye, he was a spitting image of the man Ed had been sent south to find — Boricio.
Boricio’s eye widened, as if he recognized one of the two, if not the both of them. But the moment passed almost immediately and he instructed everyone to leave his office except for Ed and Brent, who he invited to take the seats in front of him.
“So, I hear that you’re looking for me?” Boricio said, presenting the photo Ed was surprised to see Lisa still had.
“Well,” Ed said, “that depends. Are you from here or there?”
“There?” Boricio asked, though Ed saw in his eyes that he understood the reference.
“I’m looking for the Boricio from my Earth,” Ed said.
“Ah, so you’re not from here?” Boricio asked.
“No,” Ed said.
“That would explain why you don’t remember me.”
“Remember you?”
“Well, if you’re here from Black Island, I’m guessing you’ve met your twin, right?”
“Yes,” Ed said.
“And he sent you to find the Boricio from your world?”
“Yes,” Ed nodded.
“Interesting. Did he tell you why?”
“No, sir,” Ed shook his head. “But I got the feeling that they said he had something to do with October 15.”
Boricio smiled weirdly, then swallowed, “You sure they didn’t mean me?”
“They said he was from my world,” Ed said. “Why? Were you responsible for this?”
“Not directly, no,” Boricio said, answering the question as though the taste was new to his tongue.
Ed wondered why Boricio was telling them the truth, assuming he was.
Ed asked, “What does that mean, not directly?”
“It means I don’t feel like talking about it,” Boricio said with a sudden glare. “Common denominators are that all of us looking to find this other Boricio, but I’m curious, Mr. Keenan, did your Wonder Twin tell you anything about me? About October 15? Anything at all”
“Like I said, I didn’t even know about you. I was told to find the Boricio from my world. I was, and am, on a need-to-know basis, and either they didn’t know what happened, or didn’t feel I needed to know. All they told me was that we, most of the people at Black Island, were from my world. We all got sucked over. And most of the people on this world either vanished or were killed. That’s the sum of what I know.”
“What about you?” Boricio turned to Brent.
“I only know what Ed told
me,” Brent said.
“Tell me, how many others are on the island?” Boricio asked.
“A few hundred,” Ed answered, being purposefully vague. “Led by a civilian President, Andre Pembrook, a figurehead put in place to help keep the people in line. I’m not sure who’s really pulling the strings, if it’s my double, or someone above him I’ve not yet met.”
“And how many of those are native to this world?”
“Six that I know of,” Ed said.
“Do you know their names?”
“Well, there’s Keenan, and a man named Sullivan was one of them. Not sure if that’s his first or last name.”
“It’s both, actually,” Boricio asked. “His parents had an odd sense of humor. A sense of humor which skipped at least one goddamn generation,” he looked at Ed, “in case he was putting on a nice show for you while you were there.”
“No,” Ed shook his head. “He didn’t strike me as a good-time Charlie.”
“Anyone else?” Boricio asked.
“Introductions were sparse,” Ed said. “Anyone in particular you’re wondering about?”
“Do you know if a man named Will survived?”
“Will Bishop?” Ed said.
Boricio’s face lit up. “Yes. He’s there?”
“He’s one of the scientists, or a consultant to the scientists, whatever, but I’ve not met him.”
Boricio whispered to himself, “Oh God, he’s alive,” but Ed wasn’t sure if he was relieved or saddened by the news.
“What about a boy? Luca?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Ed said. “I think the others were all scientists. They were in a room or something which somehow spared them.”
Boricio’s eye grazed the top of his desk.
Ed wondered what in the hell had happened, how Boricio knew these people — he must’ve been from there — and most of all, why in the hell Black Island was looking for Boricio’s twin rather than the man from their own world.
Ed asked, “Why are you looking for the other Boricio?”
“To try and right some wrongs,” he said. “You two interested in helping?”
“That depends,” Ed held Boricio’s gaze. “Can you help me get my daughter from Black Island? They’re holding her, kind of forcing me to find Boricio in exchange for her return.”
“Wow, they’re taking this shit seriously,” Boricio said. “Guess I can’t blame them. Though I’m curious how they know he’s here, and why they think he can help them.”
Ed asked, “So, can you help me get my daughter, her friend, and possibly her friend’s baby to safety?”
“Well, if you can help get me on Black Island, I can help you once we’re there.”
“Sounds like a deal,” Ed said.
“Yes, but first we have to get the other Boricio.”
“You know where he is?” Ed asked.
“No, but I have two people here that do.”
“Why do you think they sent me to look for him rather than you?” Ed asked.
“I’m not sure,” Boricio shook his head. “But I think it has something to do with Luca.”
Ed wanted to ask Boricio more, but knew he wouldn’t answer. Ed had known too many men who lived with an army of skeletons hiding miles of secrets. The man on the other side of the desk looked like he could’ve been their General.
* * * *
CHAPTER 3 — Luca Harding
Dunn, Georgia
Boricio’s Compound
March 2012
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT…
In his dream, Luca was a child again.
He was back home, it was the middle of the night, and he was pushing the door to his parent’s bedroom open, peeking into the darkness. They were still sleeping. He crept into the room, then stumbled on something in the middle of the floor.
He expected to hear his mom or dad yell, “Luca!” since that’s what always happened when he woke them up by being loud. Nothing but silence greeted him, however.
Just as Luca regained his balance, he tripped on something else, sending his body into an awkward ballet. He twisted toward the foot of the bed, and smashed his side hard against the wood frame.
Luca heard the loud thrump-bdddd-rumps as whatever he kicked — his dad was always leaving his shoes in the middle of the room — rolled across the floor before coming to a stop.
Luca cried out, holding his side from the bed’s assault, but fortunately, they had slept through his whine.
Luca climbed onto the bed, then crept up toward the front, squeezing his body in between his mother and father.
As he nudged his way toward the top, he noticed that he was lying in something cold and sticky.
“Mom . . . Dad . . .?” Luca swallowed.
“Mom . . . Dad . . .?” His right hand found his mom’s stomach, then inched up and along her side, over her shoulders and up to her neck, until Luca was screaming at the jagged meat zigzagging across the sawed off flesh.
Luca leapt from the bed, landed hard onto the floor, then rose from the wood and raced toward the wall. He flipped on the light then turned back toward the bed, screaming louder as he saw the part of his dad he’d kicked into the corner, and the part of his mom whose face was frozen, staring at him from the floor between the wall and the bed.
The lights flickered, then went daylight bright.
He was in the middle of a big city. Not Las Orillas. It had to be New York since Luca was looking at the same buildings from his vacation two summers before. Except now he was alone, in the middle of a city, surrounded by towering mountains of bent yellow steel, all of them flowing from the top with fountains of blood.
**
Luca’s throat was too old and caked with age for him to scream, so he woke with the terrible howl caught inside his cracking gullet.
Luca blinked his eyes and trembled beneath the sheets.
Despite the horror of his dream, a part of Luca enjoyed its reality. Even if it was a nightmare, it wasn’t real. So the bad stuff couldn’t really happen, but he still got to feel like he was eight, instead of the old man he’d become. It was a miracle his grandpa had been able to laugh as much as he had before he died, since he had to feel about as old as Luca’s body felt now. Even when Luca wanted to laugh, just thinking about it was almost more pain than Luca could stand.
He took a full minute to climb from bed, then another getting to the bathroom. Luca constantly had to pee, even though it seemed like he never ever had to poop. And even when he could poop, it took forever and sometimes hurt.
Luca leapt from the toilet seat, startled, as a crack of thunder roared from a pistol outside, followed almost instantly by another. Then silence.
Luca was already dressed from the day before, since he hated changing into pajamas and Mary said he didn’t have to. He slipped on his shoes, then went outside, pushed open the fence to the backyard, and then joined to watch the target practice.
Though you couldn’t tell who pulled the trigger from the sound of the bullet, Luca felt positive Paola’s shot was what he’d heard from the bathroom, so he wasn’t the least bit surprised to see her holding the gun and taking fresh aim at a row of bottles on the fence.
Paola pulled the trigger. The bullet blasted from her gun, and whistled into the forest.
Boricio said, “Try again, and stop thinking.”
Paola took a few seconds, steadied her arm and closed her eye, then squeezed the trigger and missed again.
Boricio walked up to Paola, held out his palm, curled his fingers around the butt the second it was set inside it, then raised the pistol and blasted two shots from its barrel like he was finishing a sentence.
Twin bottles exploded in unison; glass shattered like the roar of applause.
Boricio handed the gun back to Paola.
“Look Hannah Montana,” he said. “Thinking is A+ when you’re sucking face for a grade, but it’ll get you a big fat F in Staying Alive. If a thought takes you longer than two seconds when you’re slipp
ing around the sweaty insides of a what in the hell am I gonna do sorta moment, then you’ve gotta know good judgment at the speed of a blink. Now, ol’ Boricio may say a lot of things that make you wonder whether he’s the messiah of mathematical truth, since it’s such a high percentage of what I say, but there ain’t nothing I’ve said to you yet, and nothing I’m ever gonna say that’s truer than that. You’ve gotta trust your gut — everything else is just a lie you’ve learned to believe.”
Paola nodded.
Boricio nodded back. “Look where you’re shooting, then pull the trigger. If you have to aim, then learn to do it faster.”
He took a step back behind Paola, then turned and winked at Luca. Luca smiled back, though he wasn’t really feeling it.
Paola drew a deep breath, aimed the gun — but only for a second — then squeezed the trigger twice, missing both times.
She lowered her arm, yelled at the top of her lungs for what felt like maybe a full minute, though that might’ve only been because Luca had to pee, then raised it and pulled the trigger twice more.
Both bullets found their mark and the bottles shattered.
Paola’s eyes widened and she jumped up and down, squealing. Boricio was whooping and hollering and congratulating Paola, while still managing to keep the morning PG-rated, which was probably why Mary, standing behind them both, was smiling at Boricio, for maybe the first time ever.
Boricio finished reloading the gun — Luca always forgot what their different numbers were called, though he thought it might have been a .45 — when he handed it back to Paola then spun to find the source of the sudden growl he heard behind him.
Before Luca managed to turn his head, Boricio said, “Who left the gate open?”
But Boricio didn’t ask like he was mad. It was a soft question, said in a soft voice. Mary and Paola said, “Not me” together.
“I did,” Luca said, turning to see what the other three already had — the biggest dog Luca, or maybe anyone in the whole world, had ever seen. It was larger than Paola and almost bigger than Boricio.
It looked like a wolf, but larger than any wolf Luca had ever seen on TV or in a movie. It was dark gray — having a coat so filthy it was almost black — with teeth that looked like knives. The dogs lips were curled high enough to see the black skin meeting between them.