by Неизвестный
Izzy opened the laptop.
“What’s the point of having a log-in and password if you just tape it to your computer?” she said.
“Huh?”
She tapped the Post-it stuck beside the laptop’s touch pad: etlittle, password1234.
“Thank God cops are the way they are,” Izzy said, logging in.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bradley said.
Izzy didn’t answer. All through their time at Mr. Al-Zahrani’s, she’d been unflappable. Now Bradley could tell that she was starting to feel the time crunch.
He chanced another peek at his mother’s alarm clock, though he was careful not to move his head so Izzy wouldn’t notice.
Mom would be home in less than fifteen minutes.
Come on, come on.
Standing behind Izzy, peering over her shoulder, he drummed his fingers on the back of her chair.
“If you don’t stop that,” she said without looking back, “I will chop off your fingers one by one with a pipe cutter.”
Bradley stuck his hand in his pocket.
Izzy found the machine’s program in the computer and double-clicked.
“Let’s just hope he doesn’t need a password to use the software,” Bradley said.
The program opened. Bradley squinted at the screen.
“It looks pretty easy,” he said.
“Well, just look who it was made for,” Izzy said.
Another dig at cops, but Bradley let it slide. They didn’t have time to fight.
“There’s a round slot on the left side of the machine,” Izzy said. “When the orange light flashes, the cover will slide up, and I want you to stick one of the blood tubes into the chamber.”
Izzy continued clicking away at the computer. Bradley looked at the vials of blood on the card table, neatly lined up like shotgun shells.
An orange light on the machine started blinking, and the cover over a small round chamber slid open.
Bradley’s stomach flip-flopped as he reached for the first vial. He didn’t know what he was afraid of—maybe that the vial would be warm.
He quickly inserted it into the machine and pushed it in until he felt the machine take hold of it. The orange light stopped blinking. The chamber cover slid shut. A red light came on above it.
“Is the red light on?” Izzy asked.
“Yeah.”
Izzy was anxiously tapping her foot, and Bradley considered threatening to chop it off with a pair of garden shears if she didn’t stop. But before he could open his mouth, the red light over the chamber went out, a green one blinked on, and the machine ejected the vial. The blood inside was now blackened ash; the top of the vial had been sealed by the machine. An acrid smell tinged the air.
Izzy shot out of her seat and shoved Bradley aside. The machine chattered and warbled. A thick plastic card—a genuine cod card, shiny and new, complete with a red holographic seal of authenticity—rose slowly from a slot in the top of the machine.
Izzy snatched it up.
“I don’t believe it,” she breathed, eyes gleaming. “I don’t—”
She stopped speaking and frowned at the card.
“What’s the matter?” Bradley asked.
“I don’t… I don’t get it.”
“Let me see.”
Bradley took the card from her.
The name on the card was Shahid Al-Zahrani. It listed Mr. Al-Zahrani’s address, his Social Security number, the abbreviations for several health restrictions, and—where it should have said Execution by Beheading—it read Severe Hemophilia Complicated by Intracranial Hemorrhage.
“What does that mean?” Bradley asked.
“I don’t know,” Izzy said.
“Could it be, like, the medical way of saying you got your head cut off? Cranial means head, I think.”
“We don’t have time to mess with it right now,” Izzy said. “Your mom will be home any second.”
She had already unplugged the machine from the laptop and was rolling up its cords.
A minute later, she hurried out, taking the used vial, the two remaining tubes of blood, and the bewildering cod card. But not before Bradley had committed the words to memory:
Severe Hemophilia Complicated by Intracranial Hemorrhage.
By the time Mom got home, less than five minutes later, Bradley had started up the family computer in the living room to figure out exactly what kind of card they had.
Bradley stared at the computer screen, face cold, hands sweating.
He’s going to die from this.
We killed him.
The words he was reading seemed to shimmer: Medical professionals are often required to make house calls to people who suffer from severe hemophilia, to help patients avoid unnecessary risks in the outside world. Even a minor head injury can be fatal, as unabated bleeding within the skull can rapidly lead to brain herniation—
“Bradley.”
Mom stuck her head around the kitchen doorway.
“Huh?” He felt like he’d been slapped awake.
“I said, why didn’t you do the dishes in the sink yet?” Mom said. “It’s your week, remember? Come on, get moving. I’ve got to start dinner soon.”
Bradley obeyed like he was in a trance, hardly aware of what he was doing. Mom flitted around the kitchen, getting things ready to cook, chattering about her day at work. Bradley didn’t hear a word.
That’s why Mr. Al-Zahrani’s skin always looks so blotchy and weird, Bradley thought. It wasn’t makeup; it was probably related to his condition.
And he didn’t hide in his apartment because he was a terrorist, afraid of going to jail. His health was so poor, he couldn’t do normal things. Whoever brought him groceries, Bradley realized, was probably his doctor or a nurse.
Sadness and fear and regret stewed inside Bradley like a poison.
We killed him.
But then another thought occurred to him.
Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe if I call 911 right now—
“… hope it’s nothing serious,” Mom said, leaning over Bradley’s shoulder and peering out the window over the kitchen sink. The window overlooked the parking lot.
“What?” Bradley said.
“The ambulance,” Mom said, nodding.
Below, an ambulance was parked at the end of the building’s front sidewalk.
Bradley felt like he’d been punched in the gut. The dishes weren’t finished but he turned off the faucet and leaned on the counter, supporting himself solely by the strength of his arms.
Mom was too intent on the ambulance to notice.
“Maybe it’s Mrs. Francis on the first floor,” she said. “God, I hope it’s not Mrs. Francis. She’s so sweet. I hope everything’s all right.”
It took Bradley a while to realize that he wasn’t dreaming the sharp pelting sound against his bedroom window.
Somebody’s throwing gravel.
In the twin bed across the room, Matthew’s breathing was heavy and regular.
Before the gravel had time to turn to stones, Bradley slid out of bed and crept to the window. He slid it open and got a face full of pebbles.
He sputtered, slapping them away, and leaned out.
“I’m here!” he whispered.
He glared at the silhouette below, which backed away from the side of the building and came close enough to a globe lamp that he could see its features.
Izzy.
“I’m coming down,” he whispered.
He slid the window shut, found his slippers, and crept out of the room.
The apartment was dark and silent. The smell of the pot roast they’d had for dinner lingered in the air.
He carefully unlocked the deadbolt on the front door and crept into the hallway.
It was strange to see the building at this hour—it looked the same as it did in the middle of the afternoon, only it felt different. It was so lonely—like someplace nobody you loved could ever find you.
Bradley took the stairs d
own. He’d forgotten his keys. He stuck a twig in the door so he wouldn’t get locked out.
Izzy met him on the sidewalk that ran through the courtyard. For a moment, they just stared at each other, their faces dimly lit by lamplight, by starlight.
“You figure out what the card meant?” she asked finally.
He nodded.
“You see the ambulance?” she asked.
Bradley nodded again. “He must be dead by now.”
“Probably.”
“Because of us.”
She tilted her head, studying his face.
“You didn’t say anything to anybody, did you?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, I’m sure you didn’t, I just—”
“I didn’t say anything.”
She seemed to relax.
“Good,” she said. She studied her shoes. “I cut the card into little pieces and dropped it down the sewer. I took the syringes out to the pond and threw them in. Even if people find them, they won’t touch them.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So do you think we’re safe?” she asked. “Is there, like, any way they can tell we ran his blood on your dad’s machine? Do they check records like that? Or do they—”
“Is that all you can think about?”
She flinched.
“Is what all I can think about?” she asked.
“If we’re gonna get caught.”
“Um,” she said, “I think that is a very real worry right now, don’t you?”
“Mr. Al-Zahrani is dead because of us.”
“He was going to die like that one way or the other,” she said. “You saw his card.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but we’re the ones who caused it. Doesn’t that just… isn’t that bothering you?”
She shrugged. “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“Well, like I said, he was gonna die that way anyhow.”
“I just feel sick,” Bradley said. His voice cracked. “I just feel so sick and I feel like nothing’s ever going to be okay again. Like for the rest of my life, all I’ll be able to think of is—”
“Shhh.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Forget it.”
“How can you—”
“Just forget it,” she said. “What we have to worry about now is keeping it secret. Mr. Al-Zahrani’s dead. So what if we’re the ones who put things in motion?” She took her hand back, scuffed the sidewalk with the toe of her sneaker. “This could really screw up our lives, Bradley. Like, if anybody ever found out, who knows what could happen.”
“If we just explained,” he said. “Maybe they’d—”
“Are you crazy?” Her expression was suddenly wild. “Are you out of your fucking—”
He took a step back, holding his hands up.
“I’m not going to tell,” he said quickly.
She looked him up and down.
“Well, I know I’m not going to tell,” she said.
“I said I wouldn’t.”
She nodded.
They held each other’s eyes. Then she looked away.
“Well,” she said, “I better get back upstairs. My dad’s not home yet, and if he gets in and I’m not there…”
He probably wouldn’t notice, Bradley thought. He suddenly felt sorry for her.
“I might hang out here for a minute,” he said, wanting to be rid of her as quickly as possible. “I don’t have my keys, though. Leave that stick in the door.”
“Okay,” she said. “Good night, Bradley.”
“Night.”
He gave her just enough time to get to her apartment. Then he went inside.
Back in his room, he took his album of cod cards out of his backpack. He went to the closet and quietly opened the door. Standing on his toes, he slid the album onto the top shelf. Then he closed the closet door and returned to his bed.
He planned to throw the album away at the first opportunity. He just couldn’t risk putting it in the trash at home. His parents might find it and start asking questions.
Maybe, he thought, I’ll keep the Homicide by Strangulation card. He could give it to Izzy. He thought she’d still want it. Sure, she was paranoid about getting caught—but otherwise, things hadn’t really changed for her.
Not so for Bradley.
Most people knew how they were going to die. American babies received cod cards with their birth certificates and Social Security IDs. Cause of death was a part of life—just a part of who you were.
Some people let it bother them. Most didn’t.
Bradley couldn’t remember when his parents had told him how he was going to die—it seemed like he had always known. It had never scared him and probably never would.
For Bradley, it wasn’t ever going to be his own death that haunted him.
* * *
Story by Chandler Kaiden
Illustration by Mike Dawson
LAZARUS REACTOR FISSION SEQUENCE
I STOOD BAREFOOT ON THE BEACH, about to give a keynote speech on something I knew nothing about, and looked at my audience. It consisted of my colleague Ex, the enemy agent he was holding captive, and a small crab. I started anyway.
“I’d like to welcome you all to the—” I realized I’d forgotten the name of the conference. I squinted against the sun to read the handwritten text on the large wooden sign Ex was gripping in both hands. “The 2086 Special Weapons and Tactics convention?”
“His slip says it happens at SWATCON 2086.” Ex shrugged as best he could while holding something that heavy. “Can I just hit him with this?”
I sighed. “Well, I usually prefer not to explain the plan in front of captured heroes, but yeah, you can just belt him. We can’t wait that long, and the plank is cheaper.”
The agent struggled with his cuffs. I cleared my throat.
“To the 2086 Special Weapons and Tactics conference here in, like, Bloomington, Indiana, I think it’s meant to be. This year I’m pleased to welcome as our guest speakers: a palm tree, and… this crab.” The crab looked at me.
I sensed I should wrap this up. “I hereby declare this conference official enough to count in death predictions, so I’ll bow pointlessly and try not to think about what happens next.”
I bowed pointlessly and turned away. I wiggled my toes in the sand a bit, then stared out at the sparkling sea until I heard the crack. My toes clenched. The crab scuttled by. The sun baked my hair.
That was when I started to wonder if my heart was still in the henchman business, or if I was just going through the evil motions. I tried not to look at the body as I walked back to the facility, and Ex hauled him to the furnace.
The Island of Dr. Jethmalani was my first henching job. We called him Dr. Jeth, just because it sounded like Dr. Death, but he wasn’t really a supervillain. Well, he wasn’t a supervillain until they started sending armed superheroes to kill him, and then suddenly he was the bad guy.
He bought the island to build the Lazarus Reactor, his brainchild and obsession. He was already planning it before he got tested: it’s a type of nuclear reactor where the fission process moves through the core. That’s what generates the power, but what makes it efficient is that each depleted part of the core is replenished by nuclear transmutation before it’s needed again. He called it Lazarus because the zones spend four stages of the sequence dead before coming back to life. And because it has a z in it, which sounds cool.
If it worked, you’d need only a small amount of uranium 235 to kick-start the thing, and it could churn out ferocious amounts of power for hundreds of years—without ever requiring fuel or expending waste.
But if you’re a governmental skeptic—and that would be putting it mildly for Dr. Jeth—you’re not going to trust any one country with that kind of technology. Certainly not India—or the U.S.
When he got his test results back, that clinched it. He was going to die of LAZARUS REACTOR FISSION SEQUENCE, the process that kicks the completed device into full operation
. He’d been given a piece of paper that told him he was absolutely certain to complete his life’s work successfully. So he started to get ambitious.
I typed in my password and headed down into the lab, turning to check that the steel door sealed properly behind me. When I turned back, I ran into Di and internally panicked. What am I wearing? Why don’t I know that? Do I have secret agent blood on me? Why don’t I just make it a rule to look good at all times?
“Hey!” Too upbeat, idiot.
“Hey, Mort.” She smiled, but you couldn’t read much into that. What the hell was I about to say?
“Don’t suppose anyone in the next batch dies PAINLESSLY DURING SLEEP, SAVING EVERYONE A LOT OF HASSLE?” I asked, regretting the joke immediately.
“Who? Oh, deaths! Sorry, I’m miles away. No, they’re all like AWKWARDLY SPECIFIC, ANNOYING MORT A BUNCH.” For some reason she did little robot-arm motions during her Machine of Death voice, making several of my organs melt. “Take a look.”
She handed me her phone, which I tried to take with an impossible mix of firm manliness and sensitive grace and ended up almost dropping. I read the list six times in three seconds, absorbed nothing, and handed it back to her.
“Cool.” Get out. Get out now. Deaths are not cool. You like this person and enjoy talking to her, so you must end this conversation as quickly as possible to prevent further fuckups.
“Could you mail those to me?” Because I can’t absorb information in your presence.
“Just have, actually!” Phew.
We said awkward good-byes and I headed off to reread the results at a time when my brain was not full of other things.
Mort isn’t my name, of course—I was creative director of mortality, and Dr. Jeth had us all go by titles.
Anyone else would have held off building the thing that would kill them, but I don’t think that even occurred to Jeth. Once the Lazarus Reactor was done, why would he need to be alive? That was all he was here to do.
So he bought an island. I can’t tell you which, but I can say money wasn’t an issue. That’s the main reason I was there—I knew a lot about death, and Jeth knew a lot about making people financially unrefusable offers.