Live, From the End of the World

by William Vitka

  I fiddle with the camera controls.

  Sean pokes me in the side.

  I’m still sore from the cop’s baton. “Ow. Yeah. This guy attacked us and bit him.” I zoomed in on a half-aware Declan. “Docs thought the bastard might have some form of neurosyphilis.”

  Beth smacks the camera. “Hey! Wake up! Pay attention! Whatever this thing is, it’s fast. Syphilis is easy to treat, if that’s what it is. But if that guy is carrying some mutated form of it, this is a big deal and you need to shut this place down. Now. Especially if it has new modes of infection. We can stop it here if we get moving.”

  I glare at her. “You think that’s up to me? The best course of action is for you to get on the horn and shut the building down. You’ve got government cards. No one is gonna listen to this journalist.”

  That, in fact, is quite true.

  Beth snorts. She turns to Sean. “You’re at least partly right. It does sort of look like a syphilitic lesion. Neurosyphilitic symptoms are present as well as some other parasitic—”

  I plant my face in the viewfinder.

  Declan isn’t there anymore.

  I say, “Hey, guys?”

  Beth shushes me. Then says to her protégé, “Sean, look at me, you never checked, he doesn’t have a—”

  Her sentence is cut off by Declan’s fingers. They find their way into her eyes. The former photographer, jeans crotch wet, smelling of released shit, snaps his wrists back and claws away.

  In a spectacular bloom of gore, both Declan and Beth tumble back onto the set and into the scene.

  The older scientist slaps at Declan. He drills his nails deeper into her eyes. Twists. Red gushes up in the frame. Beth screams and kicks as Declan tears at her face. He crams the pulpy red flesh into his mouth.

  I look for a weapon and find nothing.

  Declan sinks his teeth into Beth’s cheek. He yanks free ragged flesh. He chews.

  Sean kicks the photographer off Beth. Declan’s jaw keeps working away as he falls to his side. I race over. Pull Declan away by the collar. The studio isn’t very big, but heading in the general direction of the door seems to be a good idea.

  I wobble backward. Declan squirms in my grasp.

  Declan finally swallows Beth’s cheek meat when we get near the studio entrance. I only know this cuz of the wet gulping noises his throat makes.

  He whips around and tries to grab for me. I kick him. Back away. He face-plants. But his mouth grinds on as he wobbles to his feet. A moan escapes his lips.

  Sean sobs over his fallen mentor. “Beth.”

  I snatch up a microphone stand. Ready it like a baseball bat. Heavy base at the top.

  Declan stretches his arms out and chews on air.

  I’m definitely going back to jail.

  I swing from the side. Connect with Declan’s jaw. It cracks. Gets knocked loose. His mandible hangs crooked. His muscles drive it up to bite anyway with a disturbing snap.

  I swing at his neck. No reaction.

  I swing at one of his outstretched arms. No reaction.

  I swing at his legs. No reaction.

  I swing again at his head. He’s knocked off balance but doesn’t stop marching.

  Sean stands behind Declan. He pantomimes a jabbing motion.

  Yeah, I get it.

  We can pin Declan to one of the foam walls in the hallway.

  I unscrew the base of the microphone stand quick as I can. Ready my spear while Sean opens the door. I scream. Ram forward. Punch the metal into Declan’s stomach. The stand penetrates. I push my former coworker out like some kind of freakish human shish kabob. I impale Declan on the soundproofing in the hall. The makeshift spear plants itself in the wall.

  When I let go, it stays. Fluid falls from Declan’s insides as he works his torso against the stand. He tries to pull free, but he’s pinned. A horrible butterfly in a bug collection.

  I punch Sean’s shoulder. Grin. “Nice,” I pant. Then pull an American Spirit from my jacket. Declan reaches out for me. I slap his hand away. “I don’t think so, dicktits!”

  I laugh and light a cigarette of victory.

  Sean slumps back against the hall wall. “Pulse. That’s what Beth was getting at. I never checked Declan’s pulse.”

  He points to the diseased Declan. Sweat trembles on the young scientist’s brow and crashes against his glasses with a splash.

  I drop my cigarette. Watch Beth wobble to her feet.

  Eyeless, she stumbles. Trips. Falls over equipment. She grunts and barks. Starts poking fingers into her empty eye holes. She sways. Steadies. Makes her way to one of the interior doors.

  One of the doors that led to other studios.

  Sean puts his head in his hands. “Declan didn’t have a pulse.”

  Chapter 9:

  Five Nails Through the Neck

  Beth throws herself against the door that leads to the adjacent studio—eighteen, if you’re keeping track—and screams.

  Declan screams back. He gyrates against the wall. Fights to free himself.

  They both sound pissed off. I wonder if anyone can hear em. Then I remember that A) This is NYC, so nobody’s gonna give a shit, and B) This is a floor filled with television people, so they’re even worse.

  Sean cries. Wipes his eyes. “Shut up.” He moves to punch Declan.

  I push Sean against the far wall. “Probably not the greatest idea in the world.” I put a finger in my mouth and feign biting it.

  Sean frowns. “Yeah...”

  I take a step. Slip in the gallons of goo that’ve been steadily streaming from Declan’s innards. My feet fly out from under me. I avoid landing in the infectious fluid by an inch and the grace of physical momentum. Sean helps me up.

  We hustle back onto the set just in time to see Beth hit the door again and tumble into studio eighteen.

  I say, “We need weapons.” I hurry around the cameras. Underneath one of the consoles in the control booth is a red crowbar. I twirl it in my hands.

  Sean bolts into studio eighteen with a length of pipe.

  According to the monitors, there were three people in eighteen when Beth first charged the room. Now there are two people and a hemorrhaging, blonde mass that used to be a woman in her late thirties.

  “Coffee Talk with Sylvia,” reads the banner behind the host desk.

  I look at the age-ravaged face of the show’s producer in the control room. I look at the youthful face of the cameraman. He has his machine trained on the candid carnage. Both producer and cameraman are wide-eyed. Immobile.

  The Beth-monster literally has her hands in Sylvia. They’re on top of a beige guest couch. Beth punctures the woman’s neck with her nails. Pulls at sinew and tendons. The eyes of the woman she’s straddling are long gone. Nothing but leaky cavernous holes. This Sylvia chick’s cheeks are missing, too. Chewed out in ragged chunks. The woman’s face is almost skeletal. Soft tissue a memory.

  Beth yanks out clumps of hair by the handful. Dangles patches of pink flesh with hair still attached at random. Beth tries to suck the skin from the strands of blonde as if it’s butter on pasta.

  Sean says, “Beth... Whatever she is. She went for the soft tissue first. Some horrible hungry animal.” He grips the pipe.

  I shake my head. “Don’t panic. You’re giving her too much credit. She’s blind. No eyes.” I point to my own.

  “Maybe she felt her way. Or smelled her way. She didn’t need her eyes.” He looks like a scared little boy.

  The producer shouts in the control room. “Keep rolling!”

  The cameraman pukes on his shoes, but he keeps the shot steady.

  That’s dedication.

  Sean calls to his mentor. “Beth!” He starts walking toward her and winds up for a swing like a Bomber at home in Yankee Stadium.

  Well, maybe little leag
ue is more apt.

  The old, craggy producer shouts again: “Just make sure we get it on tape!”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I scream back. I grab a complimentary bottle of water that’s sitting near the set and hurl it at the cameraman. It hits him in the stomach. He doubles over and pukes again. I growl. “Go get help, you doofy asshole.”

  The cameraman nods. He stumbles to the door.

  Sean’s just steps from Beth now. He pleads. “Beth?”

  She keeps chewing.

  The producer storms out of his little control cocoon. He shakes a fist at me. “We are going out live, you can’t do that. We have to keep shooting.” He points at the fleeing cameraman. “Get back on your station or you’re fired. Keep shooting!”

  The cameraman flips him off and opens the door. “I’ll get help.” The door slowly slides shut behind him.

  I heft my crowbar. Turn away from the producer and spin the camera so that it’s pointed at him. His face grows red and enormous as I zoom in.

  He sneers. “You are so fuckin fired.”

  I smirk. “Been there.”

  Sean mutters an apology to himself and whoever’s listening. He shoulders the pipe. Swings. Cracks Beth across the back of the head. She falls forward into the mass of gore, but keeps moving. She howls through torn flesh and fluid. Sean brings the pipe down again. Beth’s skull splits like an overripe watermelon.

  The junior scientist aims the pipe like a spear and drives it into the skin at the nape of Beth’s neck. She twitches. Howls louder. Harder. He forces the metal down. Beth expels the last shriek from her lungs. Sean punches through her brain. The pipe bursts out of Beth’s mouth. She stays still.

  Sean drops to his knees. He pants. Wipes the sweat from his brow. He takes his glasses off and rubs them with his tie.

  The jackass producer hurries toward the set. He kicks Sean. He points at both of us as I walk forward and help Sean to his feet.

  “That was good TV!” the producer shouts. “It could have been great TV, but you, fucker.” He singles me out. “You ruined the shot!”

  Sean chuckles. A little hysterical.

  Sylvia thrashes under the body of Beth.

  The producer squeals like a schoolboy. He races back to the camera and sets up a new shot. He focuses on the mad, pinned, squirming thing that used to be a talk show host. Locks the camera stand so it won’t wobble. Runs back to the set with a microphone.

  He clears his throat and steps into the frame. “I’m coming to you live from studio eighteen, where an incredible series of events has just unfolded.” He gestures toward the couch and its manic occupant.

  “Motherfucker.” I turn to Sean. “We need to get upstairs to my floor and talk to my boss. I’m all for a balls-out story, but I don’t feel like being eaten. Or dealing with this guy.”

  “Gotta get them in the head,” Sean says. He taps his noggin. “Destroy the brain.” He squints at me. Sorta crazy-eyed.

  “Yeah, yeah. I saw that movie too, dude. Be cool. Get your bag from studio nineteen, and the samples, and we’ll get our asses in gear.”

  Sean jogs off.

  The door to eighteen bangs. That should be the help I ordered.

  I decide I’ll love the cameraman forever if he’s got security over here. Or even NYPD soldiers. Either’s fine. I just wanna see someone put bullets in the heads of these bastards.

  I reach for the handle. Turn it.

  The door slams into me. Knocks me back.

  A blurry shape streaks across my field of vision.

  I slump forward. Inadvertently close the door with my weight. I hear the producer shriek. Look to the set.

  The good news is: The cameraman’s back.

  The bad news is: He’s dead.

  The producer caterwauls toward the couch—and into the flailing arms of Sylvia. The young cameraman plows into him after he falls. He claws at the producer’s eyes and face. Snaps his fingers forward. Plucked out soft ocular tissue. The producer screams like a pig at slaughter and cries out for whatever dipshit god he believes in to save him.

  Sylvia cuts the producer’s prayer off by slowly and painfully tearing out his tongue. She moves the muscle to her mouth. Chews. The cameraman digs into the producer’s throat. Shreds it. Tries to catch the old man’s blood.

  Two? Can we take two? Yeah, sure, one’s trapped on the couch under a body, but there’s still one free. And one’s hard enough.

  I turn to the door. Peer out the little wire-mesh window. Look for a way out.

  Declan’s outside. Peering in at me.

  My heart sinks. “I fuckin hate you so hard, Declan. You’re goddamn dead, but I want to kill you a thousand times and shit in your mother’s uterus just to prevent any more sperm from possibly producing you again.”

  So, Declan’s fuckin loose, as you can see.

  And he’s brought doom with him.

  There are more flesh-hungry freaks prowling the halls outside.

  A dozen. Two.

  They hobble and scream and tear into unsuspecting schmucks like wolverines.

  There’s an intern being mauled by her boss. The pretty brunette’s head lolls from side to side. He scratches open her shirt. Tears a chunk of bloody fat from her breast. She howls in agony. Another one of the psychos hears her call. It buries itself in her face and neck.

  Dumb fuckin luck. Each studio’s soundproofing is keeping the occupants deaf to the chaos outside. Just as I’d been deaf to it.

  Oh, ho! Irony!

  My brain titters. I tap the glass with my crowbar and tuck a chair underneath the door handle to create a sturdier barrier.

  Declan pounds on the door.

  I shout. “Fuuuuuuuck you!”

  He’s joined by two and then three more lunatics. Their fists hammer down with heavy thuds.

  I scramble toward the set. Toward Sean.

  He says. “Things got bad. Real bad, real fast.”

  “I’m aware.” I get within range of the carnage on the couch. They don’t bother looking at me. I’m ignored.

  The freaks are still feeding. Or infecting.

  Whatever the hell this all is.

  I look at the camera.

  It’s still broadcasting.

  I step into the frame. Point at the lens with my crowbar. “This is how you get the job done. You might have to deal with it soon enough.” I bring my steel up and plunge the wedge point down through the cameraman’s skull. It pops. Red gushes up. He drops. I kick his corpse over.

  I laugh to myself. “Keep watching. This is great TV!” I move on to Sylvia. She’s busy munching on whatever bits of the producer she can get. I swing the hook into her face. It catches just inside the rugged cartilage of her nose. I drive the hook end farther in. Push in the opposite direction. Work the lever to increase force. Cracked her head open like a crate.

  Pressurized gore gushes out.

  Sean shrinks back.

  The old producer bastard palsies in the throes of infection.

  My crowbar enters his brain.

  He stops moving.

  A voice in my head chirps: Keith Richards. These things are like evil Keith Richardses—the bastard would never die unless you actually caved his goddamn head in.

  I chuckle to myself. “Keefs. We’re surrounded by evil Keefs.”

  Sean cocks an eye at me. “What?”

  “Keith Richards. The guitarist from The Rolling Stones. Guy couldn’t be killed. Never died. Defied biology and human decency until some terrorist asshole literally put a grenade in his mouth.” I keep chuckling.

  Keefs.

  Sean shifts his weight from leg to leg. “What are we going to do?”

  I motion toward studio nineteen. We close the door between the two sets. I need a minute or five to think. I’m too tired. Too strung out on adrenaline.
And, even though the closed set offers only a laughable amount of security, it’s something.

  Those cannibal corpses don’t seem like geniuses or anything, anyway.

  Sean walks around the splatters of blood left by Beth, Sylvia, the old producer and the cameraman. He scratches his head. Starts rubbing his glasses again.

  He whispers. “What are we going to do?”

  I sit on the host desk. “I’m thinking.” I’m so fuckin tired. I just want to get to Helene and Fred. My apartment. Some booze...

  I’m both getting ahead of myself and being self-pitying. I need to get out of this room before anything else.

  The hallways are fucked. We ain’t gonna be riding the elevator up, that’s for sure. Too far to the banks and who knows what’s riding em. Where’s the fire escape? The stairs?

  Sean stares out eighteen’s little wired window. “Ah, piss.”

  I cock an eye at him. “How does it look outside?”

  “Like ‘awful’ cubed.”

  There are heavy grey industrial ducts in the ceiling. I wonder if the ventilation system runs over each studio. I say to Sean. “Talk. Analyze it, Mr. Scientist. Tell me what you’re seeing.” I want to keep Sean thinking.

  He sighs. “Well, most of them are, uh, feeding. Or that’s what it looks like. I suppose I can’t assume that there’s actual feeding going on. And there’s... There is a lot of blood. The things are just. I don’t know. They aren’t attacking each other. Some of them are poking around. Sniffing. Feeling for more people. Lots of them out there now.”

  I stack crates of television equipment. I wanna get inside the air vents. I figure it’s our best shot at getting out—to crawl above the chaos. “How many Keefs do you think are out there?”

  “Oh...ah, I get it now. Cute. You’re keeping me, uh—” He does a little praying motion with his hands to show he appreciates being redirected. “Well, I can’t really see too much. I can see into a few studios, the ones that have their doors open, and most of the way down the hall. Maybe thirty of them.”

  This is fucked.

  I say, “What’re they doing?” I’ve stacked enough equipment crates to reach the vent cover. I tuck my crowbar’s wedge into a screw top and start spinning it.