“Oh, and as for killing Schneer, he wanted to fuckin eat me. So blow it out your ass.”
“We could learn more if you hadn’t killed the councilman.”
“Bite me.”
Sean pushes his face into mine. “You killed whatever chance we had at understanding how this amazing symbiotic relationship works. How it was triggered. Maybe it did come from the underground monster. But that doesn’t matter. In killing Schneer, you killed everything.” He jabs a finger into my chest. “You ruined our chances of understanding it. Perhaps even of stopping it. You. You even started it for fuck’s sake. You let the bastard bite your photographer. For what? A sleazy tabloid story?”
The weird half-head dances around on the examination table. Eyes lolling. Goo splattering.
Plissken tries to interject: “Analysis suggests that this parasite is actually quite old, which means it’s doubtful that—”
I glare at Sean. “You touch me again, I’ll break your fuckin head in half.”
Bad vibes. The ampakine’s still kicking around.
Sean jabs me again.
I jab him back. “I warned you. Fuck off.”
He yells. “This is all your fault!”
I shove him hard. Almost knock him down.
He swings at me. Connects.
I see stars. Shake em off. I grab Sean’s hand and twist. He yowls. Bends over. I bring my knee up. Slam it into his face. Push him backward against a stainless steel table. The young scientist thuds against it. He sinks to the floor then starts to rise.
Helene shouts. “Stop it, you assholes!”
Ben puts himself between Sean and me. “You two need to fuckin relax. Now. We’re all on the same damn side, you stupid shits.”
Sean reaches for me over Ben.
I punch his hand away.
Plissken doesn’t seem amused. He says, “I have all the data I need to form a reliable hypothesis given some time. I suggest that you kill that specimen—with fire and pointy things. Like...pointy bullets.”
The building trembles. A series of booms thump in the distance. A giant’s footsteps striding ever closer.
The street explodes outside.
I duck. Cover Helene with my body.
Ben drops. Hands over his head.
A shard of glass the size of my forearm bursts from the lab’s window. It sails through the room. Implants itself in Sean’s neck. He grabs at his throat, brain already somewhat stunned. He paws at the glistening solid sand.
For the record, I didn’t want it to happen.
I didn’t want Declan to die.
I didn’t want Fred to die.
I don’t want Sean to die.
He gasps. Clutches his throat. Flips his mouth from open to closed over and over like a trout drowning on land. Red flows around Sean’s fingers.
I crawl to Sean’s side. More glass tinkles through the air. It chimes against the floor. Shards plink against Plissken, but he doesn’t so much as shudder.
I say, “It’s the damn drones that Fred and Sean and me heard before.” I move my hands beneath Sean’s head to try and hold it still while Ben and Helene fight to stem the blood flow. I say, “USC government still exists and it’s sending what’s left of the Air Force to bomb the problem.”
Helene and Ben wrap their hands around Sean’s heaving neck.
Ben tries to remove the lance of glass. Soon as he budges it, more blood erupts from the young scientist.
I cough. Stare at Sean’s increasingly still form.
I don’t notice that I’m crying.
Plissken moves over Helene and Ben. “The scientist is quite dead. I am sorry.” His engines pulse.
Sean’s hands are still clutched around his throat when he stops moving.
He dies with tears in his eyes.
Ben slides em shut.
My heart aches. And I don’t think it’ll pass.
This is all my fault.
A sound slices through the air. A sound that’s horrified me since I was a child. The long, windy whine of an air raid siren. That alarm became common for a time after the United States of Christ annexed Canada and retribution bombings were expected.
It shakes me for a different reason.
I’d heard it in the suburbs as I tried to drift off to a baby’s sleep. Then later as I readied myself for the big boy step of first grade.
Usually, it was for general emergencies or tests. But the very last time I heard it was before the move into a new house. A move into a new school district, and second grade. It was also when my father hit my mother hard enough to cause a miscarriage.
Do I remember that? Is it real?
Images in a fog.
After the screaming and the yelling and the thud, I remember trying to cheer my mom up by reading a toddler’s counting book to her as she sobbed on the master bed. I had no idea why I was doing it. My tiny heart needed her to stop crying. One, two, three, four... I was proud enough of myself then to think that feeling would float over to my mother. She kept her face buried in the blankets.
I felt like a failure then and I feel like a failure now.
Air raid siren. People out there are alive...
There’s a chance of...
What about the baby?
That precious shot at a future.
Chapter 18:
Joke’s Over
Sean’s blood coats Helene’s hands. She holds em up for me to see. Corners of her mouth pulled down in despair. Her eyes threaten to let loose a torrent of tears.
I pull her into my chest. Rub her back and whisper in her ear. “We need to go, Momma Bear.”
Do I tell her about the baby now? Will it make things better or worse?
Plissken floats near the door. He zips down the hall and then back, circling the area the way an anxious dog does when it simply must shit right this very second.
Ben sits on his ass. Exasperated. He lets the flood of blood seep into his clothing. Puts a gory hand under his chin. Stares at Sean’s still body.
The undead half-head gurgles on the examination table.
Ben reaches into his bag. Stands. He’s got a flare in one slippery red hand. He ignites it. Walks to Sean’s specimen. Droplets of burning chemicals flutter down and hiss when they make contact with the wet blood on the floor.
Helene breathes into my chest. “We’re all gonna die.”
I help her to her feet.
I wanna disagree, but I can’t find the words.
Ben pushes the cranium of the parasite head around in its own juices with the tip of the flare. He leers over it. Pokes. The thing’s eyes whirl around and try to focus.
Plissken says, “The creature’s brain is still intact. And as such, its vision senses are quite fine and will continue to glower at you like a sex-starved priest.”
Ben lets the sputtering red flame of the flare lick the head’s right eye. The necrotic skin of the mini-monster burns and peels back the way a budding flower curls open to the world. The eye bubbles briefly before exploding.
He sets the flame against its left eye till it too turns to goo and spills down.
I say, “Ben, we gotta start thinking about where to go.” I uncouple my hand from Helene’s.
She walks to Sean’s bag. Searches for usable items and stuffs what she finds into her own pack.
Ben keeps on burning bits of the parasite head.
Somehow, the room smells worse.
Ben says, “Too bad this fucksuck doesn’t have a lower jaw, right? I bet it’d love some dinner.” He teases the Keef’s tongue with his forearm.
I let my head and shoulders sink. “First, that doesn’t make any sense—they don’t need to eat. They bite to spread the infection. Sean... Sean said so. The eating’s just a byproduct. Dude, Ben, we need to think of a place to go. We
need a plan.”
Ben rams the flare into the left eye socket of the parasite. “I’m tired, man. I’m sick of all this runnin around. It’s useless. If the fuckin zombies don’t get us, the stilt-walker fucks will. If the fuckin stilt-walker fucks don’t get us, the fanatics will. If the fuckin fanatics don’t get us, the bombs will. You see what I’m gettin at?” Ben locks eyes with me. “I just wanna smoke a joint and relax and fuckin... Fuckin say goodnight.”
“You heard the air raid siren. People are still alive out there. Or they might be. There’s a chance—”
“Fuck your chances, man. You had your shot. Those things are everywhere. And all that shit’s automated nowadays anyway. I followed you long enough. I’m out.”
The thing on the table stops moving. Finally cooked.
Ben says, “We know they got outta the city. We know they got out. We know they change. Fix themselves up to be better. Nah, man. It’s done. I fold.” Ben pulls his pistol from his waistband. “I’m just gonna wait. I don’t know... I don’t know what to do. But I ain’t going back outside.”
Plissken bobs over to us. “I hate to interrupt, but the door downstairs has been wrecked—blown open by the bombing.”
I bite my lip. Say to Ben, “At least help me here. One more time.”
“I said I ain’t going back outside. I didn’t say I’d let em tear me up.”
We get our weapons ready. I grab Sean’s shotgun. Say to Plissken, “How bad is it outside?”
“Bad, bad. All of the bads. Not good. Primary ordinance used was napalm. Secondary was low-yield explosives. My guess is sterilization. The intent is to scorch the city, but not destroy the infrastructure.”
Helene says, “Any way to contact the pilots? Tell them to stop?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll just ask very nicely.” Plissken’s engines whine. “Sorry. There are no pilots. Just drones.”
I rub my temples. I want another pill. “Is some butterdick in Washington just taking potshots?”
“Unlikely. The last state—or federal-level—communication I could access was three hours ago. They’re on lockdown. And the drones are military AI—they have no sense of humor whatsoever. Bad conversationalists. I will attempt communication, but bear this in mind:
“Evacuations in nearby cities began five hours ago. The parasite moved much faster than even I could have anticipated. Which suggests Schneer was not the only ‘patient zero.’ And as far as the drones care, the ratio of humans to infected in NYCZ is too small to warrant caution with the bombs. The government will likely be too busy with the parasites to listen to me. Or you.
“Speaking of parasites, there is movement near the door.”
I motion for Helene to stay put.
You really want a baby brought into this awful world?
Me and Ben need to create a barricade—anything that’ll hold off unwelcome undead tourists. We only need some time to think. Piling lab tables and shelves onto the stairs between the first and second floor seems like the best bet. And it’s worked in the past.
We reach the ground floor at the same time. Skid to a halt as the first four charred parasites start squirming through the damaged doors. I level my shotgun and fire. Blow two heads into pulpy dark chunks. Ben executes the others.
Beyond the small group we put down, I can see a significantly larger murder machine army.
Ben runs into a side room. Searches for something, anything, to block the doorway with.
The smoking leg of a stilt-walker slams into the slush outside. It’s taller than the others I’ve seen. It brings its head down to my level. Peers in through the open slit between the doors I’m frantically trying to put back in place. Soon as it sees me, it barks and shoves a lanky appendage through the crack.
I duck. Scrunch myself against a far wall. The thing swings its leg again and curls it in a sweeping motion. A scythe. I yank my crowbar from my belt. Hammer the steel against its skull. Crack the blackened bone.
The walker outside shrieks. Probably more in annoyance than pain. I pump the shotgun. Send a stream of buckshot into its face. The stilt-walker drops.
Another gets in line farther down the block to take its place.
A parade of peoplesites still burning from the bombs files toward us.
The edge of a heavy receptionist desk pokes my thigh. Ben pushes it into the tiny lobby. “Pull, honky,” he says from the far side.
I grab my end. We heft it against the doors. I sling the shotgun over my shoulder and pull the long-barreled .45 free. “Find more,” I say. Brace myself against the oak underside of the desk.
Ben nods.
A second later, undead hands pound our makeshift barricade. I can feel the force of their punches and the vibrations of their violence. I plant my feet and push back. Try to create enough resistance to hold em until we fill the hall with enough shit to keep em from following us upstairs.
I turn the Colt around and blindfire behind me. Fuck knows if I hit anything. A dead, diseased hand curls around the desk. Another claws at my jacket. I press my pistol into the rank flesh of the pervasive parasite and pull the trigger. No blood flies up, but the hand falls down.
A bookshelf crashes out of the receptionist office. Ben grunts. We shove it against the desk. Buttress it against the bottom-most stair to pin the desk against the door frame. The end result is a kind of T-bar holding the flat face of the desk in place. We hope it’ll last long enough for us to hurl every goddamn thing on the second floor down and turn the staircase into one impassable road block.
After thirty minutes of screaming and shouting and panic and cursing and gunfire and blood, anything that isn’t bolted down gets rammed into what used to be a series of convenient steps.
Which presents a whole new problem.
How are we gonna get out?
Ben says, “I don’t wanna be cooped up without a fuckin exit.” He leans on one of the tables in the lab. “I wanna be sure there’s some way out.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch. There has to be a fire exit.” I wanna ignore Ben. “Plissken, gimme your best guess on the number of infected versus the number of clean people in New York City.”
“At the time of the outbreak, five-borough NYCZ population was thirteen million. NYCZ-sat thermal scans put current uninfected population at approximately one million and falling.”
Helene sighs. She drapes dark plastic sheet over Sean’s body.
Only twenty-four hours have passed.
“Current NYCZ infected population stands at nine million.”
I say, “But it’s not rising?”
“No.” Plissken pauses. I hear his circuitry whir. “Excluding the Bronx, the New York City Zone was effectively sealed off after the bridges and tunnels to the mainland were destroyed. What is on these islands will stay on these islands. Nothing will be coming in or out.
“Well. Perhaps. At least until the parasite adapts to other organisms.”
Helene says, “How many people are still...people on the mainland?”
“Continental parasite population is seven million and rising. Living population is at four hundred million and rapidly falling.”
Schneer wasn’t the only carrier.
It’s like getting the weather. Bad, bad weather. The worst fuckin forecast ever.
Ben says, “We can’t fight that. Nine million in the city? Fuck this.”
I can hear Helene’s hair lift and fall as she silently nods her head in agreement with the young radio engineer.
I say, “I’m not resigning us to that fate, so eat shit. The parasite population ain’t rising. You heard Plissken. We’re sealed off—which is good and bad. Winning now just means surviving. We can do that. These things must have a lifespan.”
I’m bullshitting. I have no idea.
I finger my crowbar.
Definitely shouldn’t tell her now.
I want to be a father.
“Fuck this,” Ben says again.
Helene’s hand finds its way to the back of my neck. Her thin fingers glide along the short hairs at the base of my skull, tickling my nerves just enough. Just enough.
Her voice floats over my shoulder. “Poppa Bear. There is no winning.”
I face her. Wispy strips of daylight stream through the shattered glass of the lab window. They caress the side of Helene’s face. Bathe it deathly grey. Strands of her blonde hair tumble from behind her ear and shudder with sweat. Smoke curls around her lips and blooms blue. She finishes the American Spirit down to the filter.
She never does that.
I rub my temples. Fish in my jacket pocket for cigarettes. I clutch a pack that’s too light for my liking and stare at its emptiness. “I’m out of cigarettes. Holy shit. These are the end times.”
Ben groans.
I sit near Sean’s corpse. Helene kneels beside me. Strokes my hair. I pull my phone from my pocket and snap Sean. Then I take a portrait of Helene. Then of Ben.
More explosions rumble in the distance.
Plissken says, “If this depressing bunch doesn’t need me, I’d like to shut down and run some dedicated diagnostic programs on the parasite. I just wrote a few for myself.”
I snap a shot of him too. “Have at it, bub.” Helene hands me one of her cigarettes. I light it. Say, “We ain’t going anywhere for a while.”
Plissken silences himself. Parks on the floor near me.
My hand goes to pet him.
Good dog.
I inhale and exhale. Every puff hurts. In these brief moments of solemnity, I sense my own body shutting down for repairs. If I let my eyes close, I’ll pass out.
Good old coma will fix you right up.
The anxious, exhausted, but over-drugged and over-stimulated part of my brain squeals.
Imagine the headlines! Imagine the stories!
LIVE, FROM THE END OF THE WORLD!
Make it an exclusive, who gives a shit if it’s true or not?
What’s the difference between an “exclusive” and a regular story?
Live, From the End of the World Page 19