Selected Stories

by Nate Southard

  So I went up and down the hall, and then I went up one floor and down one floor to do the same thing. Before I left the apartment, I grabbed a butcher knife. Not a bad little weapon if it comes down to it. I didn’t see anybody, though. At least not anybody who was still alive. The stairway between four and five looked like a slaughter house and smelled about the same. The bottom of my shoes are still tacky with drying blood. I think I counted five bodies scattered around the stairs. It was hard to tell, because not all of them were in one piece. One of them—a woman with hair that I think used to be blonde—was strung out from one landing to the next, bits and pieces ripped and stretched and held together by the tiniest morsels of tendon or intestine or skin. There was a smile on her face, so I know she was infected. I still don’t know who designed The Complex, but I read the info on it, and it’s dangerous stuff. Feelings of euphoria mixed with intense rage and paranoia. Who would have come up with something like that. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our government had done it. Sounds like the kind of sick weapon those bastards would love.

  Would have loved? I don’t even know. No word on the box about what the federal government might be up to. That’s weird, isn’t it? Maybe they’re all dead. Or hiding.

  So I searched, and I was quiet about it. Maybe the sound’s a little muffled in my apartment, but once I got out in the hallway I could tell there were infected alive in my building. I could hear them laughing and growling and at least one of them slamming their body against a wall or a door over and over again. Sounded like it was maybe on the seventh floor. Should leave me safe.

  Long and short. I didn’t see anybody who could have been the culprit. Maybe I could knock on some doors, but I’m nowhere near that stupid.

  Doubtful I’ll pull it off, but I should try to get more sleep.

  JANUARY 2ND, 8:42 AM

  Somebody’s been in my apartment. I can tell.

  It sounds paranoid, and I’m aware of that, but I know what I know. Somebody moved my furniture around when I was asleep. There’s not a lot of it, so I can tell when it’s been moved. My notebooks were by my bed last night, but they were in the middle of the living room floor this morning, opened and looked through. The one recliner I left facing the window was pushed up against the door. That means whoever did it found some other way out of here. I need to find out how. Where.

  Scratches on my arm, too. Big, red, and savage. Maybe they did something to me while I slept. I’ve been spending so much time awake and documenting that I could have slept through anything.

  I need to see how they got out. So I can keep them from getting back in.

  JANUARY 2ND, 10:03 AM

  Medicine cabinet. It took me forever, but I remembered reading in some book or other that these places just jam the medicine cabinet of two adjacent units into a hole in the wall. Sure enough, once I got my cabinet out of the wall, I found myself looking at the back of another cabinet. I shoved that one out and listened to the mirror shatter against the sink.

  Then, I waited. Whoever had been in my apartment might still be next door, and that meant they’d heard the mirror breaking. I stood there, my knife in my hand, trying to ignore the way those scratches on my arm were itching like mad. When I finally got tired of waiting, I crawled through. I won’t lie, either. When I was squirming through that hole, I felt sure somebody would come running into the bathroom to kill me. Maybe an infected with open sores all over their body and foam pouring out of their mouth, red eyes full of blood. Even with my knife hand free, I doubted I could keep one of them from stretching me out like that woman on the stairs. I wanted to try, though. Wanted to stab and stab until whoever it was became one giant, bleeding wound.

  No one appeared, though. Even when I sprawled on the bathroom floor and wrapped a towel around my hand (like an idiot, I cut my palm on the broken mirror), I didn’t hear so much as a whisper or a squeaking floorboard. That scared me even more, because maybe it meant somebody was hiding. There was no way they couldn’t have heard me coming.

  I checked the entire apartment though, and I didn’t find anything. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I did find a man crumpled on the floor. His face was a wet ruin, a bloody splatter decorating the wall with a smear beneath it. I figure he’d bashed his face in until he collapsed, but I don’t know where he got the energy. He’d already torn open his own belly. When I found him, he still had both hands in his guts. It amazes me what The Complex can do once it gets in your system.

  Okay, so I don’t know who was in here. They’re not getting back in, though. I put my medicine cabinet back in place and then covered it with duct tape, securing it to the wall. No way is it budging now.

  Back to work, I guess.

  JANUARY 3RD, 12:11 PM

  The networks are gone. Fox News went out last. They probably had the most guns. The last person they had on camera was obviously infected with The Complex. She was crying blood, red tears following the scratches on her cheeks, and she had one hand beneath the desk, working like crazy on something. When she lifted her hand to run it over her face, it was slick with red. She sucked some off her fingers after smearing the rest across her face. Then she (I’m really not sure how this is possible) broke her own neck. All at once, she started shouting, “I’m in charge, here! You don’t exist!” Then, she grabbed the back of her head with one hand and her chin with the other and gave everything a hard jerk. I heard something pop, and she just slumped behind the desk.

  So I guess Fox is still on, but it’s just a camera pointing at an empty desk. Not exactly thrilling news. Fair and balanced, though.

  The roof cameras tell me about half the city is on fire now. I couldn’t see too many people still up and moving, but that might just be the way the cameras are positioned. Can’t see anybody out the ports either, though. Kind of shocking that it’s happening so fast. Yeah, I knew it would be fast, but this is almost superhuman in its speed.

  Hand itches almost as bad as my arm. Trying not to scratch. Want to hit something.

  JANUARY 3RD, 4:52 PM

  My arm is bleeding, I’ve scratched it so much, and there are black trails running up to my shoulder. Not good. I know what these signs mean. They mean that, even with the mask and all the other precautions, I have it. I’m infected with The Complex. No, I never really believed I’d be immune, despite the things we did to build our immune systems. I thought it would take longer than this, though. Three days? What a waste. Document the end of the world, The Last Year…and only get three days of it.

  It’s not right, and it’s not fair (or balanced!), and I hate it.

  The Complex is taking longer than usual, but I don’t know how long I’ll really have. Usually, it’s a matter of minutes, maybe thirty or forty-five to take you from first exposure to homicidal maniac. I woke up with this thing on my arm, though. Can’t even convince myself it took cutting my hand to get it. So how long is this going to take? How much will it hurt?

  I’m scared. So scared I want to scream.

  Happy New Year.

  JANUARY 3rd, 6:22 PM

  Head hurts. No, it’s splitting. Feels like there are bees in there. Or razors slashing, slashing, slashing. My mouth is dry, and my guts are in knots. This is how it feels. It makes me wonder what the rest felt like. Maybe they went through all of this in those first thirty minutes after exposure. Or maybe it only took five. Maybe there’s so much more coming after this, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take or what’s going to happen.

  The walls are cracking. It’s so slow, so tiny, that I can barely tell it’s happening, but that is what’s occurring. These tiny spider-web cracks are working their way from floor to ceiling, and…

  Okay, this is weird. I know how it will sound. It’s true, though. I swear, I’m not making this up.

  There are shadows in the cracks, and they want to get out. If I stare at the cracks long enough, I can see the shadows reaching out like tendrils. They’re still small, but they’re getting bigger, reaching farther, trying to
open the cracks wider and get through. Because they want me, I think. I’ve thought about it as I watch them, and it’s the only explanation that makes sense. The shadows want me.

  Jesus, what did we do?

  JANUARY 3RD, 6:41 PM

  Voices now. They fill my head. I can’t make out the words. They’re garbled and guttural, but I think they’re angry. There’s no shot at seduction, no attempt to put me at ease. Just syllables like crags. Every moment, they grow louder, angrier, and I’m beginning to wonder if they’re not in my head but maybe in the room with me. Maybe they’re coming from the shadows, which have now punched holes in the wall and whip through the air like they’re trying to snatch anything unlucky enough to get too close. At least now I know what the banging was. It was those things trying to punch through from somewhere else. They were knocking down my illusions, knocking them down so hard they’ll never rise again.

  And there’s water on the floor. I don’t know when it showed up. I think maybe it’s been there for a while, and it just took me forever to notice it. There’s a few inches on the floor, brackish and brown and thick with terrible things that move. I can feel them squiggling their way past my feet, can hear them splashing as they cross my floor.

  I tried to tell myself none of it’s there. Over and over again, I wanted to think it was my imagination, that The Complex had driven me mad, was driving me faster and faster. I can feel them, though. And I can hear them. And no matter how much I might wish I was just crazy, I think I know the truth. I don’t think The Complex is a drug or a virus anymore. I think it’s a doorway. I think it opens you up and lets you see things the way they really are.

  Blood’s running down my face, welling up in my eyes and then spilling. I can taste raw meat in my mouth, and I want to taste more. My veins have turned black, and there are more shadows now. They’re reaching out from the scratches in my arm and the cut in my hand. A thick one like a jungle snake is in my throat, choking me as it fights to wrestle free of my belly.

  JANUARY 3RD, 7:01 PM

  They were right. They were always right. The world is a horrible place. It’s just that no one can see it. But now The Complex has opened their eyes. It’s opened mine.

  This is The Last Year. God help us all.

  IN THE CLEARING, BENEATH THE FIRS

  Sid eased the rusty Buick past the fir trees and into the clearing. The car climbed and dropped over the frozen ground, jostling him behind the steering wheel. He wanted to ease off the gas, but was afraid he might wind up stuck, unable to free the vehicle again. Stranding himself like that could prove deadly.

  The clearing wasn’t very large, maybe thirty yards across, lined with ice-crusted firs. The sun glinted through the trees, sparkling in the February sky. The ground was a snow-spotted patch of frozen dirt. Digging would be difficult, but not impossible. Sid was a patient man. He would break through.

  He piloted the Buick to the center of the clearing and killed the engine. It rattled to a stop, and he listened as the engine’s dying ticks echoed into the forest. When silence came, heavy and warm, Sid closed his eyes and smiled. He was alone with Carla now.

  He shouldered the door open and climbed into the clearing, jingling the Buick’s keys in one hand. His breath plumed in front of his face, and he wished he had remembered to bring his hunting cap. Sighing, he opened the Buick’s trunk.

  Carla lay wrapped in a green blanket, her skin pale and cold. Ice frosted the ragged wound that had once been her throat. Her face appeared calm, peaceful, her eyes closed. Her honey-colored hair cascaded over her neck and shoulder. He’d always loved her hair, loved the way it smelled when he held her close, loved the soft feel of it against his face.

  Sid’s lip quivered. He sniffled once and forced his lip to still.

  He reached into the trunk and cradled Carla in his arms. It was amazing, how cold her body felt even through the soft down of the blanket. He lifted and carried her to the center of the clearing before setting her down and returning to the Buick for the pickaxe and shovel. He listened to his feet crunch over the frosted remains of the dead grass that grew in clusters along the ground.

  He used to bring Carla here back when they were happy, before she had grown distant and bitter. They would spread out a blanket—the same blanket that cocooned her now—and lie on their backs to look up at the stars. They used to spend all night in the clearing, laughing and making love. Sid closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him. He felt the cool April breeze and smelled the awakening firs. He saw the stars.

  And then he heard Carla’s voice.

  “Are you okay, Sid? You look sad.”

  Sid jumped, his eyes snapping open. Carla’s voice hadn’t been a memory; it had been real. That wasn’t possible, though. That was ridiculous, madness. Sid turned to look at Carla and found her exactly as he had left her.

  He could have sworn, though.

  Sid scooped the tools out of the car and slammed the trunk shut. He carried the tools over his shoulder, tossing the shovel to the ground next to Carla. He squared his feet, gripping the pickaxe with both hands and raising it over his head.

  “Sid, are you sure you’re okay?”

  He gasped this time, positive that he had heard his dead girlfriend’s voice. There was no mistaking it. It wasn’t his imagination. He could still hear its echo among the firs. Sid looked over his shoulder to where Carla lay.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She smiled.

  “Hi, Sid.”

  He dropped the pickaxe and staggered back a few steps, his breath hitching in his throat. Something close to a scream bubbled up from his belly, but he clamped his mouth shut, refusing to let it escape.

  His mind raced, a billion thoughts ramming into each other and spinning away. He stared into Carla’s eyes—her open eyes—and his brain seemed to short circuit. This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening. No way. He had lost it. That was the only explanation that made any sense. He had already killed Carla, the woman he loved. It wasn’t hard to believe he had continued over the cliff, leaping into the darkness.

  “You’re not crazy, Sid.” Carla’s voice was calm, soothing. Even now, she sounded as sweet as ever.

  “I have to be,” he said.

  “Nobody who goes insane realizes it. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

  He thought about it and realized Carla was right. His head was still all right. So how was she talking to him?

  Maybe she wasn’t dead?

  “Carla? Are you still—”

  “No. I just wanted to talk to you. How have you been?”

  “I…”

  He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. Why would she want to talk to him after what he’d done? What could he possibly say to her? His mind felt blank and empty. He no longer felt the cold on his ears and fingers and toes. It was as if he had gone somewhere else and was only watching himself stammer in the face of the woman he loved. He wanted to say something, anything! Carla deserved that. He swallowed hard and forced himself to speak between quivering lips.

  “I…I miss you.”

  Carla’s smile widened a little. It was a kind and patient smile, the smile Sid had fallen in love with. “Thanks. That’s good to hear.”

  “I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

  “Why not? Remember when we were first dating and I went out to see my family in Seattle? You called me every night, right after you thought I’d be done with dinner.”

  “Yeah. Called you once or twice during the day, too.”

  “You did.”

  Sid turned away. “I just meant I didn’t think you’d believe me…after what I…”

  Carla’s eyes saddened for a moment. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Good.”

  He sat down next to her, curled his knees up under his chin. The frozen ground pressed against him. He shivered.

  “Is it cold?” Carla asked.

  “Yeah. You can’t tell?”

 
“No. I can’t do much of anything.”

  He nodded his head. “I know how that feels.”

  “Jesus,” she muttered.

  “What?”

  “Can you skip the self-pity? It’s nauseating.”

  “It’s not self-pity.”

  “It is, Sid. You know it is, okay? You denied it for three years; can you at least admit it to me now?”

  Sid stared into the forest. Maybe it was self-pity. Maybe that had been his problem all along. Maybe that was what had driven Carla away.

  “Is that why you—”

  “It wasn’t any one thing,” she answered. Could she read his thoughts?

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Kind of, but I can’t pick up anything specific. It’s more like I can read your emotions, get an overall vibe.”

  “What am I feeling right now?”

  “I don’t want to touch that one, Sid. Please don’t ask me to.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. That’s another thing; you worry too much.”

  “I know. You’ve told me.”

  “Was I wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “So?”

  “It’s just something I do. I can’t help it, okay? It’s like it’s the way I’m fucking wired. You have any idea how frustrating it was to hear you tell me to chill out all the time?”

  There was a short click of Carla’s tongue against her teeth, the sound she always made when she was thinking. “I just wanted—”

  “I know,” he cut her off. “I know, okay? It’s just after so long I thought you’d understand me a little.”