Next to Alec stood Joshua, the towering dog boy, the first of the Manticore experiments and now every bit a man, at least physically. His cruelly sheltered upbringing—literally in the basement of Manticore—had crippled his development, and on first meeting, you could take him for mentally challenged. Truth was, he was keenly intelligent, and had the best heart of them all. His long mane of brown hair thrashed furiously in the wind, but he seemed not to notice, his leonine face wearing a beatific smile that beamed like a lighthouse as he saw Max.
Beyond Joshua was Sketchy, the surfer bum/messenger turned tabloid journalist, another of Max's “ordinary” friends from Jam Pony. Of course, Sketchy wasn't ordinary in any sense other than that he wasn't a transgenic—tall and lanky, with stringy brown hair highlighted blond, Sketch seemed to be all knees, elbows, and bobbing head, a marionette operated by a clumsy puppeteer. The guy could be a beat behind, and often seemed to just be getting the joke the rest of the group had already finished laughing at.
To Original Cindy's left stood the two bald, albino engineers turned welding sculptors—Dix and Luke—and beyond them, the lizard man inexplicably dubbed Mole. Even in the heavy wind, Mole still chomped on an ever-present cigar.
“What's the dealio?” Max asked, practically yelling to be heard over the near gale.
The semicircle parted to reveal a large Christmas tree lashed to the corner of the roof with steel cables; the spruce—both tall and full—was strung with unlit lights and tinsel roping. Even with its heavy-duty moorings, it seemed the tree might fly off the building at any moment.
Max looked from the tree to Original Cindy, who still had her hands behind her back.
Eyes wide, Max shouted, “This had to be today?”
Original Cindy's grin faded and the rest of the group all developed a quick interest in studying their shoes.
Immediately realizing her insensitivity, Max plastered on a grin and said, “Don't get me wrong, guys—the tree rocks!”
Eyes rose to her, bright; smiles blossomed, glowing.
“It's just . . . it's so windy! It looks like any second it'll give Santa's sleigh a run for the money . . .”
Shrugging, Original Cindy said, “Weather report called for conditions to get better, later tonight, so we took a chance. Tree was gonna die if I let Normal take care of it one more day.”
Reagan Ronald, aka Normal, was the manager of the Jam Pony messenger service where Max and Original Cindy had both gotten jobs when they first hit Seattle. O.C. still worked there, as did Sketchy—his journalist gig wasn't yet full-time—though Max herself hadn't been back since the hostage crisis that led to the siege at Terminal City.
During Max's tenure at Jam Pony, Normal had been a pain in the ass, with a stick up his own. The biggest thrill of his life had been receiving a signed picture of President Bush (one of 'em—Max didn't know which, not that it mattered) back in his community college days when he'd been president of the campus Young Republican club.
Max gestured to the struggling pine. “You let Normal take care of this tree?”
Original Cindy's smile returned. “Thas a fact.”
“Our Normal? Straight-arrow, top-buttoned, stone-cold Normal?”
“I'm tellin' you, Boo, ever since he midwifed little Eve, he's one soulful white boy. Hell, he even watered the tree.”
“Please tell me that didn't involve a zipper.” Shaking her head, Max looked back at the tall plump tree, which still appeared to be struggling against the cables. “That must have taken up damn near alla Jam Pony!”
“Purt near . . . hey, but we roll with it, right?”
“I can't believe Normal went along with this.”
“You wanna really lose your mind?” O.C. looked around conspiratorially. “It was Normal's brainstorm.”
“Normal's idea.”
“Gettin' you guys this tree, swear on my mama, Boo.”
“Well, where is he, then?”
“Hey! Cut the man some slack, my sistah—gotta at least let 'im pretend he's still an asshole.”
Max was gazing at the tree; feelings of warmth were stirring in her, out on this frigid rooftop. “Well, God bless Normal . . . 'cause this is beautiful.”
Taking a hand out from behind her back, Original Cindy offered Max a black metal cube with a silver toggle switch. “Dix and Luke—their latest black box . . . Honor's yours, Boo.”
Lump in her throat, Max took the box, and glanced at her two egghead, eggheaded friends, who both nodded vigorously; then she flipped the switch. Colored lights came on all over the tree, red and white and green and blue, twinkling, sparkling, shimmering, the star at the top shining bright white, colored balls bobbling, a glowing vision in the twilight.
“It's beautiful,” Max said again, her voice hushed.
She turned to the man at her side; Logan smiled at her. The rest of the group gathered round, each taking a turn hugging Max. Even Alec—who rarely touched anyone, other than the occasional one-night-stand female he deigned with his passing presence—gave in.
All but Logan.
He stayed a step or two back—as usual, she and he were aware of the required distance between them.
“This is gonna be a dope spot for watchin' the comet, Christmas Eve,” Original Cindy pointed out.
The whole country was awaiting the arrival of the so-called Christmas star, the once-every-two-thousand-years passing of a comet that some astronomers thought might also have been the fabled star of Bethlehem.
Max smirked. “According to Sketchy's rag, the comet signals the end of the world.”
“According to Sketchy's rag,” Original Cindy said, “Elvis is coming back New Year's, on a flyin' saucer.”
The group gathered closer to the edge of the rooftop, getting a good look at the glowing, colorful tree. Max studied every light, every colored ball. The tree was magnificent. She had always considered Christmas a corny relic of pre-Pulse decadence. But now she understood what the fuss was about . . . family, friends . . . and she could think of no better present than this. The tree would be visible for miles around, and people far away from Terminal City would still be able to see the Freaks' Christmas tree on top of their new mall.
They had indeed come a long way in a short time.
She was still contemplating this when, moments later, the wind expressed its own, less sentimental opinion, grabbing the tree and shaking it even more violently than it had up till now, like an abusive parent manhandling a naughty child.
Logan reflexively reached for the tree, to haul it back, but the wind shifted again, this time coming across and sweeping the tree back upright and to the left, the branches slapping Logan, sweeping him off balance. His eyes went wide, white all around, as he teetered for a moment—his balance good in the exoskeleton, but not perfect, he wasn't as nimble as he'd been—and, in proof of that reality, he pitched back over the edge without a sound.
Max had seen it coming but had no time to warn him, much less reach him in time. All she could do was throw herself toward the roof's edge, her hand extending out in front of her and over the side. At the last possible instant, she caught Logan's gloved hand in hers, and then he dangled seven stories over the city, a human Christmas ornament.
Max's arm threatened to tear itself from its socket, in this effort to defeat gravity and keep Logan from falling. Alec and Joshua, moving quickly, each grabbed one of her legs and started pulling her away from the edge and thus raising Logan. Original Cindy and Mole had hopped to either side of Max, their hands extended down over the side, too, waiting for the first chance to get their hands on Logan and wrestle him back onto the roof.
Max concentrated on holding onto the man she loved, just keeping him alive and letting the others do the work. As long as it was only their gloves touching, everything would be all right. Logan swung closer now, and Mole and O.C. each grabbed a shoulder and started tugging. Mole got a good hold and jerked, and suddenly Max saw Logan coming back up over the edge . . . his head flying right toward
the flesh of her uncovered face!
Lurching backward, Max jerked her head out of the way as Logan crashed down on top of her.
They were touching everywhere, but Max wasn't terribly concerned about that—they were bundled up, and other than their faces, their skin was not exposed. They both moved carefully as they untangled.
Max could see Original Cindy and the others shouting, but she was concentrating so hard on not touching Logan that she didn't hear a word anyone was saying now. Just as they slid apart, a gust of wind came up from behind her. She braced her body, but there was nothing to be done as the gale swept her hair up and into Logan's face, her stocking hat flying off and over the side.
She could feel the electrical charge exchanged between her hair and his face, as her corrupted DNA met his vulnerable DNA. He gasped, and in that second of contact, Max died inside, knowing that those wisps of her hair had just sentenced the man she loved to death.
Everybody froze.
Her eyes locked with Logan's, and his look said that he knew the truth as well as she did.
In less than twenty-four hours, he would be dead. They both knew the drill by now: they had been through it before. On two previous occasions, the symptoms had erupted and nearly done him in. Both times a miracle had saved him, but this time they knew no miracle would be in the offing. No one had discovered the cure, and the only vial of antigen that existed had long since been used up.
Logan found his voice first. “I'm . . . I'm sorry.”
That almost made her break down.
She'd just killed him, and he was apologizing?
Max knew, hearing those two pitiful words, that she couldn't get through this. There was no way she could watch Logan go down this horrible road again. First there would be the fever, then the chills, the sweats, the seizures, and from there on a rapid downhill slide to the bottom of the abyss . . .
But after only a moment's consideration, she also knew there was nowhere else for her to go. If Logan was going to die, she would be at his side until the end . . .
. . . even if it killed her, too.
Chapter Three
* * *
DEATH WATCH
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
DECEMBER 20, 2021
That Logan's apartment seemed warm and cozy, made a bitter parody of the evening Max had envisioned for them earlier.
After making their way through the underground passageway leading from Terminal City to the clandestine apartment, Logan—surprisingly, not showing any signs of the virus kicking in, as yet—had called his old friend Dr. Sam Carr, neurosurgeon at Metro Medical Hospital and Logan's personal physician. Carr was part of that small handful of confidants who knew that Logan and Eyes Only were one and the same.
Then the couple had settled in to wait. They were together atop Logan's bed, lying there in each other's arms. At first she kept the usual respectful distance, on the longshot chance that by some fluke the brushing of her hair against his flesh had not been enough to jumpstart the virus. . . .
But Logan said, “No point in us not touching anymore, is there?”
And he enfolded her in an embrace, so that now she lay in his arms, in their warmth, a warmth matching the apartment, the bedroom itself. She was reminded, strangely, of the night she and the others, her siblings, had escaped from Manticore.
How odd—that icy night in Gillette, Wyoming, seemed so far from this time, this place. Only the kindness of a stranger—the Manticore nurse Hannah, who'd taken the frightened X5 into the inviting hospitality of her heated cabin—had prevented the young girl from freezing to death before she'd got a taste of real freedom. That tiny one-room cabin in the middle of nowhere had provided the nine-year-old with her first glimpse of a life, a home, that could be more than just an antiseptic dormitory.
In many ways, Max had been on a search to recapture that feeling of warmth every day since—she'd experienced that warmth in Logan's presence, periodically. Now, with him really next to her, holding her, she finally had that feeling again, in so complete—and yet terrible—a way. A tear trickled down her cheek, and he wiped it away, almost absently.
By comparison to that cabin, this apartment—contrived out of a vacant, Cale-family-owned building just outside the borders of Terminal City—was a palace. The bed alone seemed nearly as big as the one-room cabin back in Wyoming. The rest of the room's furnishings reflected a spare masculinity typical of Logan—dresser, armoire, and two nightstands. There was a four-door closet that took up much of the far wall. Logan's laptop atop the dresser was turned on, its screensaver of Earth, as seen from the surface of the moon, providing the only major light source.
Next to the dresser, a small stereo unit quietly played classical music. Max didn't know the piece and wasn't consciously listening, really; but the strings seemed to soothe something within her. If she could just get that feeling to last for more than thirty seconds at a time . . .
She drew away slightly, leaned on an elbow and studied him—he looked fine. Normal, even. She hated to ask, but she had to: “How do you feel?”
He shrugged. “I have to say . . . okay, really. Shaken, but mostly by the . . . thought of what's coming.”
“But it came on faster than this before,” she said.
They had only been in the bedroom a few minutes, but it had taken at least five to reach the apartment and a minute or two on the phone, reaching Carr; the couple was alone in the apartment, the rest of the group allowing them their privacy as the death watch got under way. Maybe as much as ten minutes had passed since her DNA and his had commingled . . .
The other times the designer virus had reared its ugly head, the onset of symptoms had been almost instantaneous. This lull before the shit storm confused them both.
Logan was propped on an elbow, too, looking right at her. “Maybe . . . I've worked up some immunity? From having it before. Might take longer to present.”
She shook her head. “I don't think so. Didn't happen that way the last time.”
Logan's eyes widened and he shrugged again. “It's weird as hell, Max . . . but I feel all right. I feel good.”
“How long has it been?”
“Since we first touched?”
She nodded.
He checked his wristwatch. “Almost fifteen minutes.”
A tempest roiled in Max's belly, and not even the strings in the classical music could soothe her now. The fear and despair were mixing it up with hope—who was it that said, “It's not the despair, I can handle the despair . . . it's the hope!”
Nonetheless, something was different this time. Logan should have been sweating profusely by now, in the merciless grip of chills, with seizures not far 'round the corner. Yet he felt warm against her—not feverish. He smelled good, that fresh cocktail of aftershave and powder she knew so well—as if he'd spruced up for her, anticipating that this evening might be the night of love they'd both longed for, a honeymoon about to happen, not a damn death watch. She loved the aroma and took it deep into her lungs, feeling greedy for it, knowing this sensation was one that would likely have to last her the rest of her life.
She heard a faint knock. Logan didn't react, but she sat up, just as the knock repeated, this time more forcefully, and Logan jumped a little next to her.
“Gotta love a doctor who makes house calls,” he said as he started to sit up.
Max pushed him back down into the pillow and climbed off the bed herself. “You stay right here, mister—you're the patient, I'm the nurse, and I'll fetch the doctor. Chain of command, clear?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
But she was already out of the bedroom and into the large room with its dividers that cordoned-off sections. The kitchen, with all its postmodern stainless steel appliances, and the dining area, with an oak table large enough for six, were off to her right. The apartment was similar to the one Ames White and his NSA minions had trashed last year, with a comforting familiarity about it—like the living room with its monstrous leather sofa, three ch
airs, coffee table, and lawn-sized area rug, directly in front of her, and Logan's office space to her left in the rear of the spacious quarters. A door at the far end of the room led to the tunnel that connected them to Terminal City, and the door to the right, the one that Dr. Sam Carr was presumably pounding on now, opened to the street.
After a quick check of the small monitor to one side of the entry—a video peephole of sorts—Max flung the door open to reveal Dr. Carr in a heavy blue parka, the hood pulled up to protect the man's balding head from the wind. A gust whipped into the apartment, helping Carr inside. He and Max didn't even bother to speak until the door was firmly bolted against the nasty weather.
“Where is he?” Carr asked, handing Max his Gladstone bag, then slipping off his coat and hanging it over the back of a dinner-table chair.
Perhaps five-ten, with a forehead that stopped at the apex of his skull, Carr had short dark hair that covered the back and sides of his oval-shaped head like a yarmulke with flaps. His dark eyes had the resigned sadness tinged with kindness of a man who'd spent a career listening to people's problems; his nose was long and straight, his mouth sensitive, his chin cleft.
“Bedroom,” Max said.
“How'd it happen? You've been careful.”
She told him.
“Be surprised how many people die stupidly around Christmas.” Shaking his head, Carr took the Gladstone bag from her. “Frankly, I don't know what I can do for him. We can try a transfusion from another transgenic, but—”
“Don't you usually examine a patient first, then make your diagnosis and treatment?”
Carr's eyes tensed. “What's going on here, Max?”
“That's what I'd like to know—go look him over.”
She was trying to keep the hope out of her voice, and Carr seemed to be reading that as despair, keeping his eyes on her even as he crossed to the bedroom, where he slipped inside.
Max flopped onto the couch, trying to force all feeling and emotion from herself. Let the doctor do his work—let him examine his patient, and science would determine whether Logan Cale had a future . . .
After the Dark Page 4