The End is Nigh (The Apocalypse Triptych)

by Adams, John Joseph

  Behind him the subject pulled himself back onto his feet, using the side of a pew for leverage. He didn’t make a sound.

  Whitman grabbed for his Taser again, but that was useless—it was a one-shot weapon. He’d never needed more than one shot before.

  The subject took a halting step toward him. It was still shrugging off the effects of the Taser.

  Another step.

  Behind Whitman, more subjects were coming up the stairs.

  • • • •

  Washington, DC

  There were other people in the room, but Philips barely noticed them. He forced himself to make eye contact with the President. He forced himself to speak.

  “Our finding is that this is a prion disease,” he said.

  The President must have been given a pre-briefing, because he said, “Like Creutzfeldt-Jakob, or Kuru? I’m not entirely sure what a prion is.”

  Philips nodded. “Those two diseases are prion diseases, yes. A prion is a kind of pathogen that is not technically alive. A protein that has gotten folded the wrong way. Prions are normally only spread by exposure to brain tissue from an infected individual. But this one is different. It has . . . well, mutated is the wrong word. But it has changed. This one is spread by fluid contact.”

  “Like a virus.”

  “Yes. But unlike viruses even the slightest exposure is enough to infect someone. The prion enters the brain and once there it cannot be ejected. Our bodies’ immune systems do not react to its presence at all. Safe inside its host, it begins to replicate. It makes more copies of itself. Over time these copies have a destructive effect on the brain tissue.”

  “How destructive?”

  Philips cleared his throat. “Over time they lead to complete failure of the cerebrum. This particular prion leaves a victim essentially brain dead. The subjects we observed have no higher brain function at all—no thoughts. Their inner lives are replaced completely with animal drives. Hunger. The need for sleep. Fight or flight reflexes.”

  “That’s why they attack anyone they see?”

  “Yes,” Philips answered. “Yes, that’s . . . that’s why.”

  “How do we cure this? Or even treat it?”

  “We can’t,” Philips said. “There’s nothing we can do for them. Once the prion has replicated enough, the brain shuts down and we can’t stop it.”

  The president shook his head. “What about detection? If we catch it early enough, can we help these poor people?”

  “There’s no way to detect it.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “There’s no test for prion infection. Nor are there any symptoms, until it’s far too late. The only way to tell if someone has this disease is to dissect their brain.” Philips tried a weak smile. “Post-mortem, of course.”

  The President whispered something to one of his advisers. Then he turned to face Philips again. “How long does it take, from exposure to mental breakdown?”

  “That . . . may be the worst part. Assuming this pathogen is similar to known prions, it could have an incubation phase of as long as twenty years.”

  The President leaned forward. “You’re saying these . . . these subjects of yours might have gotten infected twenty years ago? That they could have been infecting other people the whole time? And we didn’t know about it until now?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  • • • •

  Chicago, IL

  Whitman fumbled with the leather strap on the cop’s belt. He was so scared his fingers barely worked.

  The subject took another step closer. Its eyes glowed like red lamps.

  It bent over, its jaws snapping at Whitman’s face. Fell to its knees and crawled toward him.

  The catch came loose. Whitman pulled the cop’s gun free and lifted it, surprised at how heavy it was. He’d never fired a gun before. He pointed it at the subject’s face and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened. The subject crawled closer. In another second it was going to bite him. Whitman kicked at it but the subject just grabbed his ankle and leaned in to bite his leg.

  Safety. The safety must be on. Whitman found a little lever on the side of the gun. Flipped it down.

  The subject’s teeth were inches from Whitman’s flesh.

  He blew its head off. Blood and brain tissue went everywhere, some of it flecking Whitman’s face. He clamped his mouth shut to keep any of it from getting inside.

  Then he turned and faced the entrance to the stairway. More subjects were coming up.

  He hoped he had enough bullets.

  • • • •

  Washington, DC

  “Let’s, uh, let’s move on to recommendations,” the President said, flipping through the thin dossier Philips had brought. “You say we can’t treat these infected people. We can’t even make them comfortable.”

  Philips inhaled sharply. “No. The best course there is . . . euthanasia. I don’t say this lightly.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. But what about the healthy population? How do we keep them safe?”

  “The only measure available to us is quarantine. We need to look at everyone who has reached the brain death phase very carefully. We need to look into their lives and find everyone they’ve had contact with, everyone they’ve exchanged fluids with, over the last two decades. And we need to separate those people from the healthy population. This needs to be done immediately. We won’t be able to stop the prion from spreading, not altogether. But we need to minimize that spread.”

  The President studied the documents in front of him for a long while without speaking. Finally he looked up. “Anybody they’ve exchanged fluids with. You’re talking about blood transfusions, shared needles, sexual contact—”

  “Sir,” Philips interrupted, “This isn’t an STD. Even the slightest contact can lead to exposure. Even so little as an open mouth kiss.”

  “Every single person these infected subjects have kissed.”

  “And everyone who has kissed someone they have kissed.”

  “Rounded up and put in quarantine. That’s got to be a lot people.”

  Philips lowered his gaze. “We’ve done the math. The spread is exponential—if one person infects ten in those twenty years, and those ten go on to infect ten others, and so on—”

  “Give me a number,” the President demanded.

  “Perhaps twenty percent of the entire population of the country is at risk for testing positive for the prion disease,” Philips replied.

  The president’s hands trembled as he set the dossier down on the table. “One in five people, rounded up and put in camps for… for what, for twenty years until we’re sure they’re safe? That’s logistically impossible. Not to mention unconscionable.”

  “It’s necessary,” Philips told him. “If we don’t do it, this will be the end of the human race.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  David Wellington is the author of the Monster Island trilogy of zombie novels, the 13 Bullets series of vampire books, and most recently the Jim Chapel thrillers Chimera and The Hydra Protocol. “Agent Unknown” is a prequel to Positive, his forthcoming zombie epic. He lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.

  ENLIGHTENMENT

  Matthew Mather

  The ancient subway car rattled toward me, its wheels squealing. An encircled “Q” glowed on the front of the driverless lead car. It was the express train, rolling without stopping on its way past the 29th Street station. I was standing near the end of the platform, next to the far wall. The squealing stopped as the train began to clear the station and accelerate back up to speed.

  The lead car was almost at me, and I stepped onto the edge of the platform, staring at the empty driver’s seat of the subway car as it rushed closer.

  “Hey, lady!” someone called out.

  The train was now just feet away from me. I stepped toward the ledge and the empty space beyond.

  “Lady, watch—”

  The squealing began again, this time ear-shattering, but
it was too late. I leaned in, feeling the train crash into me. There was no pain, just a flash of white before blackness descended.

  • • • •

  One Year Earlier

  I first met Michael at a “How Can I Believe?” church meeting on the Upper East Side, at the third in a series of presentations about coming to intellectual grips with the divine, of how to believe in miracles. The real miracle was that I managed to get out of the house. A gaping hole had opened in the fabric of my life, so there I was, hoping to find . . .

  Something.

  The scene that evening wasn’t inspiring, however: a collection of ill-fitting people clinging to jackets and mittens, asking if this seat or that was taken and sharing blank smiles. The woman beside me glanced my way, as if to start small talk, but I looked away. This was a mistake. Checking my phone, it was two minutes past eight. Yawning, I reminded myself that even Einstein believed in God.

  It was hot in the church basement, and coming in from the cold outside I squirmed. Sweat pooled in the small of my back. Should I remove a layer? I’d taken off my winter coat, but still had on a shirt and sweater with a scarf wrapped around my neck. Watching bulges of fat spring free as the people around me stripped down, I decided against it.

  A cup of translucent coffee hung between my hands—I’d brought my own calorie-free sweetener—and despite the heat I took tasteless sips that burnt my tongue. Did I lock the door when I left home? I resisted the urge to leave, to go home and check. I’d already checked twice. Looking at my phone again, they were already five minutes late in starting. I was about to leave when a voice behind me said: “So, what do you think of these meetings so far?”

  I strained to look around and found a man smiling at me.

  A very attractive man.

  I smiled back. “Um, well, I’m getting something out of it.” Swivelling sideways on my chair to face him, I noticed his hair was graying at the temples, just like my dad’s had. I hadn’t noticed this man at any of the other meetings, but then I usually had my social blinders on.

  The man’s smile curled up at its edges. “Is that what you came for, to get something?”

  Why else would I be here? But he was right. I shouldn’t just be here just to get something. “I mean, I’m here to try to make myself a more whole person.”

  He nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.” Shifting in his chair, his coat fell to one side to reveal his right arm below a short sleeve shirt. The arm shone dully in the fluorescent light: smooth metal and wires. He saw me staring and pulled his coat back up.

  My cheeks burned. Why did I have to say ‘whole person’?

  His smile wavered, but only for a moment. “I was in the wars.”

  I forced a grin. “Of course.” I’d heard the stories of veterans returning with mangled bodies mechanically reconstructed. If only my brother had been so lucky. I shook off the thought.

  He extended his robotic arm. “Don’t be embarrassed. My name is Michael.”

  I took his hand. It was cool and hard. “Effie,” I mumbled, wondering what his eyes saw when they looked at me. Fat and frump, answered a voice in my head. My body tingled as I touched his prosthetic.

  “Very nice to meet you, Effie,” Michael whispered, still holding my hand.

  The speaker at the head of the room announced the start to the session. “Today we will be discussing the role of original sin,” he said, and the murmur of conversation stopped.

  I let go of Michael’s mechanical hand and turned to listen.

  • • • •

  After what seemed an eternity, the meeting came to an end. People were standing and gathering their belongings, checking that they hadn’t left anything behind.

  Even struggling to keep my eyes open, I’d been thinking about Michael the whole time.

  Was I rude? I knew I should’ve worn something more flattering. I frowned. Did I lock the door? Resisting the urge to bolt, I pretended to check my pockets for something while I listened to Michael chatting behind me. I waited until he fell silent, and then turned as casually as possible.

  “So what did you think?” I asked. I winced. I should’ve come up with something more intelligent. It never ceased to frustrate me how I could be so brilliant in the lab, yet so useless in a room of people I didn’t know.

  Michael flashed his warm smile again. “It was” —he shrugged— “interesting.” In a hushed voice he added, “But I do have a hard time with the way evangelicals make such literal interpretations.”

  “I know what you mean.” If he’d noticed me nodding off he didn’t say anything. I glanced around. “I mean, do they think Moses literally split the seas and walked along the seabed to freedom?” I felt guilty as the words came out, wondering if anyone else heard me. But then I realized this was why I’d come here, to find ways to talk about my over-intellectualized feelings about the Bible.

  We began to walk toward the door of the now empty room.

  “I love the Church,” Michael said, “but I have a bit of a problem with the way they’re selectively metaphoric.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Michael opened the door for me. “Like insisting on a literal interpretation of Moses splitting the seas, yet on Sunday mornings drinking wine and claiming it’s the blood of Christ.”

  I hadn’t thought of it like that. I took another look at him as he held the door open. Good-looking and smart. There’s no way he would be interested in me, the voice in my head told me, but we continued chatting as we wound our way out of the building, my rubber boots squeaking across the linoleum floors while our voices echoed through the empty hallways.

  It was dark outside. Snowflakes appeared in the conical pools of bioluminescent street lighting that glowed bright as we approached. I looked down at my footprints in the newly fallen snow. I used to love snow as a child, but now winter was just cold. I shivered. We stood and faced each other.

  “Goodnight, Effie.”

  A moment of silence was filled with the hum of automated car-pods sweeping down Second Avenue.

  “Goodnight.”

  Michael glanced away and then back at me. “See you next time?”

  Warmth blossomed in the pit of my stomach. “Yes, next time.”

  With a nod, Michael walked off into the thickening snowfall. I walked the opposite way to make for the subway home, and for the first time in a long time I watched the falling snowflakes and marvelled at their quiet beauty.

  Then I did something I never did. Turning, I called out, “Michael, do you want to get a coffee or something?” Even in the cold my face flushed hot.

  In the distance, Michael turned around. He didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

  We found a coffee shop on Second. There was a line at the counter.

  “Even a slime mold,” Michael said as I stomped the cold and nerves out of my feet, “even a single-celled organism can solve a maze to find food.” He pointed at some icing-laden muffins. “Speaking of rewards, want one?”

  I shook my head. “I’m—”

  “Vegan?” Michael finished my sentence for me.

  I nodded. How did he guess? But more than that, the label under the muffins said four hundred calories. Four hundred.

  “Don’t worry, they’re vegan muffins.” Michael was already holding up two fingers.

  I hadn’t noticed the small print under the caloric label.

  “Come on, it’s the holidays,” he added cheerfully.

  The server had already pulled the muffins onto a plate. I shrugged okay, then peered through the window of the café as a heavy transport roared down Second Avenue. Not for the first time, I imagined how easy it would be to trip in front of one.

  “You okay?”

  On a video panel above and behind the counter, a news anchor was in the middle of a story, “. . . unexplained disappearances continue throughout the five boroughs, police are now investigating what they describe as a cult . . .”

  I blinked, pulling my attention away from the video to
look into Michael’s eyes. He glanced at the news report as well. “Yes, I’m fine,” I replied.

  “You sure?”

  Nodding yes, I smiled and took the coffees while Michael took the plate of muffins. We wound our way to a quiet spot in the corner, away from the noise and the holographic Santa sleigh weaving its way through the bustling crowd of shoppers. I disliked crowds of people, but then I also hated being alone—my life was a slow bleed on the knife edge between the two.

  A simulated fire crackled in our corner, and we sank into armchairs. Pushing the plate toward me, he picked up his muffin. I leaned forward and began crumbling mine into pieces, taking a morsel to eat while grabbing my coffee for a sip.

  My chest tightened. What should I say?

  “So what do you do for work?” Michael asked.

  I smiled with relief. Something I knew. “I’m a lab monkey. I work in research.”

  “Oh? What kind?”

  “I’m sure you’d find it boring.”

  Michael smiled and waved me on, his mouth full of muffin.

  “Right now, I’m researching airborne transmission methods of viral gene therapy in conspecific populations, it’s a way . . .” Wait, what am I doing? There’s no way he could—

  “To introduce gametes that take precedence over heterospecific ones?” Michael said around his muffin. He swallowed and sipped his coffee. “Targeted auto-distribution of vaccines, huh? Very interesting, would save billions of dollars.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. “How do you . . . I mean . . . ?” My voice trailed off.

  “I apologize, I’m just excited to meet a woman of your intelligence. I have many interests, but I am merely an amateur.” Michael smiled and took another bite of his muffin. “Please, continue.”

  Taking a deep breath, I sat upright, parting my legs to slide closer toward him. “You’re right, but it’s not about the money.”

  “Saving millions of lives, then?”

  I crumbled more of my muffin. “I’m more interested in animal life. What’s happening to frogs, to thousands of other species, whether there might be a way to save them.”

  Michael moved closer to me. “Amazing. And you have funding?”