Yeah, sure. No problem.
The thing in the train screams and tries to stand. It fails again.
I push the pointed edge of my crowbar through the black rubber that seals the subway car’s backmost door and pull. I need to exert enough force on the sliding mechanism to throw the door open. Pull, heave, inhale, drop cigarette, pull, heave, exhale.
Helene fires into the darkness at shambling shapes. “Hurry the fuck up.”
With a grunt and a clang, the door gives.
A thick load of blood and fluid splorshes out against the tracks below.
The crippled Keef yips at me. It comes spinning. Eyes insane with hunger. One of its busted arms whips out. I raise my crowbar like a spear and skewer it through the mouth.
It coughs. Chokes.
I twirl the failed stilt-walker around. Kick it to the ground. It writhes and curls on the cement. Pukes fountains of gelatinous matter.
Sean brings his makeshift machete down between the thing’s teeth.
It bites. Chips out teeth and bits of gum.
Helene steps backward and pounds the heel of her boot down on the top of the tip of the blade. The steel tool’s sharp edge chops through the Keef’s jaw. It severs the head between the upper and lower sets of teeth.
Helene kicks the top half of the head away.
The failed stilt-walker’s tongue licks up without a mouth roof to restrain it.
Sean stoops to scoop the half-head into his Tupperware.
The thing’s eyes dance in their sockets.
Sean nods to me. Chucks his gurgling specimen into his bag.
We run for the exit.
The walking dead march with stuttering feet.
Their outlines bob. Trip. Fall.
A mass of bugs boil around em.
The carrion feast is endless.
Chapter 17:
Sterilization
I cough a chunk of something up as we crawl outta the Herald Square station.
Might be lung, but I assume it’s bloody phlegm with a thick center. I also decide that the matter which now sits gooey in my hand shouldn’t be identified, lest a name give it some weird strength.
Does that make sense? No, of course not. Not to a scientific or thinking mind. I’m loaded with drugs and without much rational faculty at present. On the other hand, I’m not so far gone that I can’t recognize this in myself.
Sean, Ben and Helene secure their gear. They keep lookout on the corner. Everyone’s exhausted from the subway run. They allow themselves a moment’s rest.
Sunlight edges over the horizon.
The sky’s cleared up and the rain’s stopped.
That doesn’t mean shit, of course. New York City’s weather patterns are as manic as its populace. And none of us know the forecast.
A light grey mist oozes down the street.
I haven’t seen the city during daylight hours since the outbreak started. It’s stunning. Eerie and overwhelming. Every building is a silent, stalwart sentinel—much in contrast to the panicky cries that float with the fog.
Sean says, “Not too many infected down here. This mist isn’t helping our eyes, though. Or theirs.” He checks the undead half-head in its Tupperware enclosure. “The lab is really close. I think we can make it.”
My nose throbs. My head pounds.
I stare at my palm and the drying red plasma with the hard center.
I imagine a little voice piping up from the expelled tissue of my body. It talks with a little dark mouth amid the red: “Ay mang, choo gotta slow daown. Too many peels.”
Then I’m talking back to it. “Pills? You slow down, bub. You aren’t the one on a deadline.” I wait a beat. “Get it? Dead-line? And why are you speaking like a poorly-realized Mexican stereotype?”
It says, “Your brain ees a weird place, mang. Aynd ees not my problem dat choo tasty do de teengs runneen round naow.”
“True. I am undeniably delicious.”
Ben turns to me. “Wait, what?”
I wipe my hand on my jeans. Feel the hard whateveritis roll off. I rejoin the group. “Nothing.” My heart isn’t beating so much as it’s vibrating.
Helene cocks an eye at me and repositions her pack.
Dawn creeps across the sky. Rosy tendrils arch up over the Earth’s curve and chase away the nightmare black of yesterday.
Something else crawls across the sky. A drone with NYPL stenciled on its side swoops over our heads. It scans us as we plod along Thirty-Fourth Street.
Helene and I light American Spirits.
The little New York Public Library bot squawks: “Oh, you’re actually alive. That’s a change.”
Helene growls. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want it.” She thinks it’s another ad drone.
I say, “I’ll murder you if you choose to babble.”
The bookbot lets loose a burst from its small impulse thrusters and hovers.
It isn’t a big tire-shaped sales machine like the pharmaceutical companies have. Nor is it the gaudy multi-tiered ovoid of Duane Reade bots. It’s a simple three-foot-wide pudgy flying saucer with stationary jets, mismatched panels and steel casing instead of the more expensive platinum. It looks like something that’s kept functional only cuz someone’s taken the time and heart to do so. A home-brew job.
The drone says, “Then I suppose there’s no chance you’d want to come to the library and learn a little, I take it.”
Helene says, “Ooh, an attitude.”
The bot puffs its engines just enough to convey annoyance.
“Well,” I say. “You ain’t pretty. Got a good AI, drone?”
The bot puffs its engines again. Floats toward me. I have no reflection in its tarnished housing.
The bookbot scans me. “You aren’t pretty, either. You’re in shitty shape and I would say you’re one masturbation session away from a heart attack. Too much juice. But your insurance chip says you’re a journalist. As such, the stims are to be expected.”
Helene says, “Who programmed you?”
The library drone jets over to her. “My technician was called Stabby McFaceWounder.”
“Stabby McFaceWounder.” Helene coughs. “Right.” She looks to me.
I shrug. “Probably his handle. Avatar. That was his identity online—on forums and shit. Not his real name. Just a moniker for whatever stupid personality he wanted to be on the web. Fuck, I’ve probably run into him somewhere.”
The bot says, “You knew my technician, fleshtube?”
“‘Knew’ is a bit of a stretch. I just mean that we probably crossed paths at some point online. And you sound like a nerd. The bitchy snarky Internet forum knowitall thing.” I look to Helene, then Ben and Sean. “If the kid was a nerd, he would’ve spent a lotta time working on this tin can. Optimizing it. Modifying it. Its AI is obviously a lot better than the advertising drones. Got himself an actual personality.”
The library bot lets out a noise like a grunt. “I have a name. Call me Plissken.”
I nod. “Yep. Escape From New York reference. Massive nerd. Let’s get to the lab. Move your metal ass, Plissken. We need the help.”
Plissken zips around us. An excited puppy. “Indeed you do. Besides, the zombies don’t want to learn anything. Though they do take something of an odd liking to the adbots.”
Sean winces. Groans. “They aren’t ‘zombies,’ you goofy machine. ‘Mobile autonomous undead’ is more apt.”
Helene says, “Parasite people.”
Ben chuckles. “Peopasites.”
“Stabby would have referred to them as ‘zombies.’ The creatures fit his definition. I should know. I have watched many horrible movies with him on the matter.”
Sean says, “What else do you have in there? Besides the ramblings of a movie geek.”
“My primar
y hard drive is capable of containing five hundred and twelve zettabytes of data. I hold all encyclopedias in the world, as well as most of the more useful information on the Internet.”
Damn.
Fred and I always made jokes about downloading the Internet.
Stop it. Stop it.
“I also hold nine petabytes of high definition pornography and seventy terabytes of rather alarming memes.”
That ain’t entirely unexpected.
We plod toward the Cornell Labs. Plissken scans for unwelcome Keef tourists. There aren’t many, and it’s a short trip. Better, having the bot’s radar kicks ass. Especially now that we have not a single datapad between us.
The doors to the school are unlocked.
Sean swings em open.
Ben says, “Plissken, why don’t you buzz around inside. Make sure it’s clear.”
The little sphere of intelligence swivels to me. Waits for me, like it needs permission.
Odd.
I nod.
It scoots inside.
I light a cigarette. Lean against the wall. Yeah, I’ve got too much juice in me, but I still wanna sleep. Just lie down. Not even dream.
No more dreams. Thanks.
Not after that thing under the bridge.
Plissken bursts back out two minutes later. “No threats inside.”
I inhale and wave to Sean. “Lead the way, Doc.”
The young scientist shoulders his bag and lets his shotgun slide to his side. Ben and Helene follow. She gives me a smile before heading in.
I smile back. Walk behind her.
Plissken bolts in front of me.
I flap my hand at him. “Move, would you? I don’t wanna be out here. It’s weird and damp. Like Jersey.”
The bot clears its nonexistent throat. Tilts down. “The woman is pregnant.”
I almost choke on my tongue.
“I wasn’t going to say anything. I was going to quietly laugh at you. However, my empathy circuits kicked in shortly after I scanned her. You are, after all, just squishy mammals filled with emotion.”
I rub my forehead. “How far along is she?”
“Several weeks.”
My shoulders feel heavy.
Helene and I never talked about a Baby Bear. Well, that’s not true. We had both sorta brought it up a couple times. Brought it up enough to make sure the other understood we want a Baby Bear.
Someday.
Just not now. Not right now.
Shit.
I pass through the doors. Pull em closed after Plissken joins me.
Say to the bookbot, “Can you weld those shut?”
Plissken rotates his frame. Set his thrusters against the steel doors. His little engines pump out a stream of heat that melts and seals the front entrance.
There aren’t many choices of direction. One can either turn into the reception office, or up to the second floor, or hit the elevator bank. Not much of a lobby. The staircase starts almost where the sidewalk ends. I ignore the elevators. Safe to assume they’re inoperative—power doesn’t seem to be on here.
I hop up the shadowy stairs. Wonder how Sean expects to perform his analytic tasks without the benefit of an electron microscope or at least a fuckin desk lamp.
Ben meets me on the third floor landing. “Helene sent me down to make sure you found your way.”
That’s kinda insulting. How the hell was I gonna get lost? Unless Helene’s noticed that I’m getting weird. Which she likely has. Which is not good news.
We head to the fourth floor. Amble into a room that contains little except dark corners. The shades are drawn across the windows. Pitiful beams of light steam around the frames.
I watch Helene pop a flare and walk it over to an examination table. She rests it on the shiny metal surface.
Red blankets Sean’s face.
The young scientist smirks just a little. He hefts the parasitic half-head in its Tupperware container. Lifts the lid.
A wretched stink wafts through the room. I can smell it even with a busted nose. It’s a queer, mingled stench that I imagine only veteran sanitation workers can function in.
Helene and I light fresh cigarettes to cleanse our nostrils.
Ben seems thankful, even though he doesn’t smoke.
Sean sets the container down. Dons a pair of latex gloves. He snaps em dramatically. Reaches into the container. Withdraws the still wild-eyed cannibal head.
He plops the gooey skull chunk down. It uses what’s left of its brain stem to jump around the table.
Helene goes for her pistol.
Sean jumps in front of her. “Wait, wait. It’s harmless.”
The teeth of the half-head clack against the polished steel of the examination table. Its eyes swirl. Switch between my form, Helene’s, Sean and Ben’s. Gelatinous black discharge pools underneath it.
Helene starts: “Seems—”
Ben finishes: “Pissed off.”
Plissken joins us. He nudges the door closed with his fore-curve. “The entrance is sealed and I have completed another scan of the area. The threat is currently minimal.” He turns. Hovers over the half-head on the table. Then flips on several lights within his frame. He showers the room with a clear white light.
Sean taps Plissken on his side. “Can you be my microscope?”
“And more!” Plissken sounds pretty happy now. “I have a full biology suite and analytical instruments designed by the Darwin institute.”
Sean smiles. “Ignore non-organic tissue. I want—”
Plissken chirps. “Done.”
I say, “Hardly needed you, Sean.”
Helene punches me in the arm.
Sean grimaces at me. He says to Plissken: “Name all organisms foreign to a healthy human body, excepting those typically found in our environment, currently residing in the specimen.”
The saucer-shaped bot whirs. “Spirochaete bacteria treponema pallidum in advanced syphilitic form embedded. Parasitic protozoa toxoplasma—unclassified strain—most prevalent.”
Sean laughs. “I was right. Back in the studios, I was right! Er, well...mostly.”
Plissken rotates. A small hatch slides open on his frame. A projector. A rectangle of light appears on the wall with a magnified view of the itty-bitty murder machines.
We gawk at the display.
Sean scratches his chin. Rubs his glasses on his tie. “It’s a parasite piggybacking on a strain of neurosyphilis. Neurosyphilis is a bacterial infection that, untreated, eats away at the brain. It changes people, their thoughts and actions, by chewing on what makes us us.”
Plissken’s projection shows a hundred T-shaped corkscrews spiral. They implant themselves in brain tissue. Wine-openers twirling and dive-bombing mind meat.
Live, from inside your head...
Sean says, “And then toxoplasma has been known to do similar things—causing paranoia and schizophrenia. They’re working together. Symbiosis. You can see that they’ve even melded together. The long bit, the handle looking thing, that’s the toxoplasma. Some unknown form of it. The twisted screw is the syphilis. This is amazing.”
Helene says, “What should we name it?”
I say, “Might as well call it ‘God.’”
The ultimate mind parasite.
Your glib atheism shines through even now. Thank you ladies and germs. We’ll be here all week. Tip the veal, enjoy your waitress—she’s delicious!
Sean doesn’t move. He stares at his find. “Sub specie deus. Our friends outside. Latin. ‘Under the influence of God’—more or less.”
Helene and Ben shift their weight from one foot to another. They look to me with confused eyes, then to Sean.
Ben says, “Whatever. Why do they eat people?”
Sean says, “They don’t, actually. They bite
to spread the infection. That’s what the parasite ‘wants.’ It does this without a consciousness we would recognize, without thoughtfully ‘desiring’ it as we understand those emotions.
“It wants to spread. Humans are just a means to an end. Gene machines, with the infection driving. The chewing, or any eating, is just an accidental byproduct of human beings being used to devouring what’s put in their mouths. Even babies try it—with blocks and whatever. When there’s something in the mouth, the body assumes it should go into the stomach. That’s it.”
Helene crosses her arms. “How is this even possible?” He flicks ash from the end of her cigarette.
Sean studies the half-head. “I’m reaching here, but as for the mutating—the combination of these two separate bugs and the progressive mutations of human forms—it looks like a bad copy of a bad copy. A bad copy getting worse and crazier.” He squints. “A shitty dub of a great movie being transferred to analog tape a hundred times. Continuous copying and mutation.
“Every mutation is a new variation of the parasite, which is causing it to become more aggressive. Which in turn is why it’s spreading so much faster than even a day ago. A small organism like this can replicate faster than we realize. A new generation is created in a matter of minutes, so it mutates at the speed of lightning. Every time it’s passed on to a new host, it’s already mutated again and becomes even more aggressive.”
“Yeah,” Helene says. “Except when I get a bad copy of a movie from my friend it doesn’t try to kill the people pirating it.”
Sean ignores her. “To answer your question of ‘how’ more succinctly: I don’t know. Hell, this could have been triggered by the bots Schneer was screwing. We’ll never know. Your axe-happy boyfriend killed the originator of this thing. Patient zero. I’ll never be able to tell you for sure without examining him.”
I roll my eyes. “All I know about Schneer, Mr. Skullfuckin Politician, is that the doctors at Bellevue were convinced he had some strain of neurosyphilis—which he probably got from the whore he killed. And how do you even know he was patient zero? Maybe that goddamn giant creature that came out of the ground on Emergence Day let the parasite loose and it’s just rearing its ugly head now.
Live, From the End of the World Page 18