Liquid pooled on the floor, which sank to a low point around the base of the device. More liquid dripped slowly from pipes overhead. The glow that Tran so saw in the room appeared to be rising up from the puddles themselves —
“Is that thing the network?” he whispered. “Is that the network, in there?”
“The network? Of course not,” one of the boys answered curtly. “The network has been destroyed. In there is another disaster. A full meltdown.”
Tran so took a step closer. The glow made him feel hot. The hairs on his arms were standing up. He shielded his eyes and took another step toward the door.
“Breeder,” the sick boy hissed, opening his eyes and startling Tran so. “Are you a fucking idiot? Leave here! Get lost! You shouldn’t be here unless you’re made to die here. You think we were lied to? Oh, they fucking lied to us, all right.”
“Already,” one of the kneeling boys said, “you’ll need medical attention. Don’t even look in there.”
“Is your friend going to be all right?” Tran so asked. “Maybe I can help you.”
“Friend?” Under the membrane, there were tears on the smooth cheeks. “He’s not my friend, per se. Now go. Please.”
Tran so Phengh stood, useless, for a few seconds. A score of tiny flying animals, no bigger than the end joint of his thumb, came from nowhere to circle madly about his head, bumping into him gently before flying past, into the room, directly into the greenish light. As he watched, the animals fell, one by one, dead, to the wet floor.
He walked on.
Bodies, farther down the hall. Under the blisters and seeping buboes, the dead all had the identical features and stature of the boys he had deserted. One had apparently been tearing at his uniform and membranous cover, perhaps trying to breathe or otherwise reduce the pain he clearly must have felt as he died; the skin on the exposed chest was white and hairless. Like that of a child. Also exposed was an immature groin, the tiny testicles and penis of an infant. Of a newborn.
Tran so Phengh knelt, pulling the uniform back into place. He did not know what else to do. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry . . .”
Adjacent to the body, an abandoned device, a tiny box, similar in appearance to the one he had seen being used on the dying teen. Medicine.
Tran so picked up the artifact. He would bring the medicine to the Hoff, to Minnie Sue.
Several more corpses, steaming in the cool hallway.
The lights flickered.
Looking back, he saw the glow, bathing the hall, but could no longer see the youths.
Further on, a junction; he turned.
A tube entrance, an elevator waiting.
He stepped inside.
Clutching the device, he went up.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brent Hayward was born in London, England and raised in Montreal. His short fiction has appeared in several publications. Filaria is his first novel. Currently, he lives in Rzeszow, Poland, with his wife and two children.
Filaria Page 25