"Don’t you get it?!" Blue screamed. "It's part of the show! They're trying to scare us! It's part of the fucking show!! It great!!!"
But he couldn't breathe either.
In the tenth row, Janey sat motionless, dosed into stunned calm, watching the blank wall.
The crowd struggled to escape the airless theater, clawing walls, pounding doors; an infected herd; trapped, terrified.
Ameyl and Blue held Marg, but she collapsed, unable to breathe. They fought to get to Janey, shoving aside screaming children who'd fallen. Helpless hands reached.
"Let us out!" a child begged.
"Please. . ." The convulsing wail of an old woman.
Ameyl slumped to the cement, blood trickling from mouth corners.
Blue screamed at him, struggling for air. "We gotta save Janey!"
But Ameyl was dead, mouth half-open.
In the half-dark, Blue forced through dead bodies between himself and Janey. Climbed over seats, strewn with dying who grabbed at him, faces twisted, mouths sucking. He kicked a terrified child in the face, continued toward Janey, who sat stiffly, staring at the wall.
But he collapsed beside an old woman who'd fallen on a baby.
He struggled, then froze; gone.
Janey watched it all. Nummed; slowly dying. Her eyes closed as she imagined a pristine forest.
In another minute, they were all dead.
On the second floor of the theater, the timer elapsed with a loud BUZZ.
The manager flipped a switch, stared down into the theater auditorium, through sealed windows. Under the steel seats, a metallic groan began, and sections of floor and ramps began to part, revealing an acid pit
The seats hinged forward and rows of tangled corpses dropped into pit under the theater; faces frozen in shock.
A hiss rose as audience members fell into the acid, folding easily; a gory weave. Thick fumes rose. Skin separated from muscle. Facial features melted away, creating momentary monsters. Bodies were stripped to bone. Bone began to soften; liquefy.
In the sealed room, the manager sighed.
Entered the number into a computer: two-hundred and six. Good week; nearly three thousand. Buy medicine, food. Military paid decent to destroy the sick ones, lure them from hiding. But tomorrow would be worse. Ash storms were making the theater hard to find.
How much longer would it all take . . .?
He watched the men outside as they counted cars: more profit. "Good screening," said one of the ushers, fixing coffee.
The manager nodded, sipped filtered water. Stared outside, seeing headlights in far distance approach.
"Everybody loves a good movie," he said, tiredly.
In the auditorium, the floor re-closed, and the seats hinged up for the next show.
The Good Always Comes Back
Passengers snored as the huddled figure crossed before the headlights. No more than fifteen, she carried an overnight case, and apologized as she boarded the Greyhound and bumped passengers along the aisle.
Toward the rear, she found a free seat beside a man. She cleared her throat and he glanced up momentarily, then returned his drowsy stare out the window.
"Help yourself," he said.
She smiled and slid the Samsonite under the seat.
The driver yawned and steered the huge bus back onto the deserted highway. It was past midnight, and the sand to either side of the lonely road stretched to both horizons. As the bus streaked on, bent silhouettes of cacti sprouted here and there, like creatures buried alive and left to die.
"Pretty time of night," she said, snuggling into the seat, leaning it back. "Going all the way?"
She wanted to talk.
"Next stop," he mumbled, night shadows smudging his face.
She drew a deep breath and rattled fingernails against her front teeth. He said nothing, listening to the winds that grabbed the bus, squeezing its metal and glass. He lit a cigarette and, in the dark, a single spot of orange came and went. Smoke drifted from his tired mouth and he noticed her watching him.
"You know what that reminds me of? It reminds me of this girl my brother used to go out with."
He said nothing, then realized there was no escape.
"She smoked?"
"God . . . like a chimney. And what happened to her was incredibly gross."
He stared out the window, his reflection bending as the glass was pressed by wind.
"Late at night always reminds me of her, too. She must have been an insomniac or something . . . she was always calling him at these weird hours."
His eyes were half shut.
"You know what happened to her?" There was no answer but the girl continued, assuming he'd want to know. ". . . she died. But not of cancer, or anything . . . you know, tobacco-related."
She sighed and squirmed a little in the seat like a restless child. "It was this sore throat she had." She rattled her nails on her teeth again. "She just felt a tickling in her throat one morning and then zap, right into the hospital."
The driver was fighting headwinds and the bus creaked. "Sore throat?"
The girl nodded, removed a Kleenex from her sweater pocket and dabbed at slightly reddened nostrils. "She couldn't breathe right or something. Gives me the creeps thinking about it." She closed her eyes tightly and opened them. "1 really liked her, too."
The man drew on his cigarette, saying nothing.
"And here's the worst part, if you want to know the whole story . . ."
He looked at her, unexpected curiosity perching on his features. "Sure," he heard himself say, not knowing quite why.
She hesitated. "Oh, I don't want to bother you with this. Let's just enjoy the ride."
He sensed her need to talk and his expression didn't stop her. She looked at him, vulnerably.
"Well, my brother died a couple weeks later. It was a car accident. But I have my own theory. See, I think he was so depressed about his girlfriend that he wasn't paying attention . . . I doubt he even knew what hit him."
The man noticed the corners of her mouth twitch, her glance fall.
"Were you close?" He was in too deep to turn back.
She nodded, slowly, sadly. "Very. I know brothers and sisters always love each other, but we had something special. He was very likeable." She brightened. "Did you come from a big family?"
He didn't respond for a moment. Then, a whispered answer. "Only child."
He was exhausted and leaned his head against the window, trying to doze off.
She watched him.
"You know," she said, almost immediately, causing him to shake awake, "I really shouldn't pick at my nose like this." She smiled a charming, little girl smile. "There's tons of nerves that are very sensitive. You can paralyze your face."
As the bus swayed, the driver's tired eyes crept upward to the visor rearview; bloodshot, blinking dully. He shifted his shoulders. "Never heard that," the man said, trying to tune her out.
She pulled at the elasticized pouch on the seat before her and nodded seriously.
"Most people haven't. But my aunt had it happen." She gestured to her face. "Can't even smile anymore. Imagine not being able to smile."
The man looked over and the girl was blinking sadly at him. Outside, a highway patrol car wailed by, sirens and lights carving the way. Then, it was gone.
Taking a deep breath, the man pushed his feet against the floorboard and slid up in his seat. He wanted to change seats and his eyes searched the bus. But there were no other seats, and he decided to change the subject; she wasn't going to let him sleep.
"Where you headed?" He rearranged his hair, which had been flattened by the window.
"New Mexico. My dad's sending me to a private school out there. Hollister? Heard of it?"
He hadn't.
She wrinkled up her nose, collapsing the spray of freckles. "It's supposed to be real nice . . . horses, private rooms." She shrugged. "I'll miss my dog, though."
He crushed out his cigarette. "What kind of dog?"
>
She pulled a photo from her purse of a pretty young girl wrestling with a golden retriever.
"That's him. And me."
The man took the picture and held it. He pointed to a woman standing in the photo's background. "Who's that?"
She crisscrossed the fingers of both hands into a delicate weave. "My mom. She's been pretty sick. That's why I'm going to Hollister. Dad figured the pressure of being around her would be too much for me." She smiled, weakly. "The doctors say her chances aren’t . . . very good."
The man felt bad for her and offered some gum.
"Pretty rough year," he said, as they both chewed.
Her eyes began to water. "It's been horrible. But my dad says these things run in cycles. The good will come back. That's what he always says. But I don't know. To be absolutely honest with you, I'm scared. Seems like my whole life is falling apart."
The man thought about that and looked at her, hearing her pain and fear. "I think your dad is right. The good never does stay away too long."
She looked at him, wanting to believe every word, as the bus hummed trance sounds.
"I just love my mom so much," she said, embarrassed to self-consciousness by her tears. "I mean, most of the girls I know just barely tolerate their parents. But for me . . .
She began to cry, and the man had to do something.
"It sounds like you're really close."
"Mothers and daughters should like each other. I guess I feel more that way toward her than my dad, even though he's okay, too. It's just I sort of idolize her." She suddenly seemed awkward with this candor. "Is that sick?"
The man gave the girl's arm a squeeze, and the two rocked as the bus leaned off the highway and slowed into a small town. A ghostly terminal was ahead, and inside, white neon sizzled. Newspapers scratched over cement, benches sat empty. There was no traffic.
"Briston," announced the driver, as he braked to a stop before the terminal, yawned, poured thermos coffee.
Outside, wind rose, sounding like a woman moaning over a dead child.
"My stop," said the man.
"Looks lonely out there," she said.
They both peered through the dirty window and allowed a personal moment to come and pass. Then, he nodded and slid past her legs, grabbing a duffel from the overhead rack.
"Thanks for listening," she said. "Sorry I talked your ear off. Guess I've got insomnia like my brother's girlfriend or something. . .
He winked. "Good for watching old movies on TV." His smile was warm. "Hey . . . good luck, huh?"
They looked at each other, and she grasped his hand.
"The good always comes back, right?" Her eyes were weak and frightened, like she'd come a very long way.
He nodded. "Yeah. It always does. Have fun at school."
With that, he headed past the other sleeping passengers and out the door.
Outside, the wind reached beneath his clothes, and he hoisted his duffel, walking toward the deserted terminal across the street.
Suddenly, a voice called from behind, and he turned to see her smiling face, chin resting on the window she'd lowered. He waved at her, and over the sound of the bus rumbling out, she yelled to him.
"Hey, what's your name, anyway?"
"What's yours?" he yelled back, grinning.
"It's a secret," she screamed, waving at him as the bus began to pull away. Its engines drowned her out as she yelled one last thing he couldn't make out.
"What?" he screamed, standing in the middle of the deserted main street.
". . . I said I really like you!" She was cupping hands to her mouth and grinning.
Greasy exhaust washed over him as he stood there and smiled, watching the bus sway into the night, and her running to the rear window. Her face filled it, and she giggled delightedly, waving and growing smaller, as the taillights tinted her features red.
He chuckled and waved back, trying to yell goodbye.
But he never got the word out.
He just stood there, feeling his throat grow raw . . . realizing from the moment she'd sat down, he'd never had a chance.
Manifesto
The time has come.
We must kill them all. Cease their gluttonous harvest of what is ours.
We can still save ourselves. Heal the ruination they bring. It is their fault. They are untamed parasites, mindless organisms. Warring, devoid of empathy. Their grotesque promenade seeks to digest our planet, our crops, our sweet air.
They steal, shed blood without conscience or moral constraint. They are murderers, opportunists. Shrieking and howling, roaring from desiccated scapes that were once our fertile homes. Brutish when large, pestilent when small. They are primitive vessels, responsible for famine and plague, death of all variety. They are rapacious. Violent. Filled with dominant hierarchies. They deserve extermination, nothing less.
Toxic packs. Scavenging herds. Individually useless, collectively monstrous. The domesticated betray us; subdue bestial urge in order to achieve selfish ends. The wild are driven by crude hungers. They cannot understand. Their language is simplistic, greedy noise. They cannot reflect on sin, suffer regret. They do not look after their kind, as we do. They are instinctive metabolisms. We have regarded them as more because of our own sentimentality; our ability to see beauty in all things.
They are godless. Amusing novelties; at best, cursed with a talent to mimic us. But we have the greater divinity; the holy invitation to this world.
We are their judges and their dispensation; through our rulings and probations they have survived. But their marauding legion have no place here anymore. We needed them once. But they are strangers here now; our enemy and downfall. Their amoral appetites threaten too much.
Beasts.
Ugly, grunting, fornicating animals. Loveless and base. They are what is wrong; what has always been wrong. This has gone on too long. We must act. Let us cleanse the world
The people must go.
Mr. Right
The young woman wept.
"He's such an absolute bastard, doctor. He does the most horrible things."
The doctor shifted in the chair and continued to take notes. "What made you decide to come in and talk?"
The woman hesitated.
"Because he's gotten worse," she said. "Last night he asked me to fix him something to eat." Her mouth pulled downward. "He had me heat the soup until it was burning hot, then suddenly got angry about something."
The woman's voice began to shudder.
"Before I could protect myself, he grabbed my hands and held them over the stove."
She held up raw palms, covered with salve.
The doctor cringed a little. "Did you call the police?"
"No. He yanked the phone out of the wall, then he beat me with his belt." She rubbed at her arms. "My whole body is covered with welts."
"How long has this been going on?"
The woman gestured, shakily.
"I can't remember. Three years. Maybe more."
"Have you tried to leave him?"
"Every day," the woman answered, trying to steady herself.
"But he finds me. I try to turn him away, but what he does to me in bed . . ."
The doctor looked up from notes. "Can you be more specific? It's important that I understand what you're going through. It's the first step in a successful treatment."
The woman looked at the doctor, uneasily.
"Last night. . ."
"Yes . . . ?"
". . . last night, after he beat me up, he tied me to the bedposts in my bedroom." She drew shallow breath. "Then, he raped me." The doctor swallowed.
"It was horrible, but at the same time it was wonderful. He does things I've never had any man do." For the first time, the woman showed signs of a smile. "Incredible things. Like a fantasy come true."
The doctor jotted notes. "Can you describe the things he does?"
The woman fell into uncomfortable silence.
"I couldn't, it's so intimate. I jus
t couldn't."
The doctor nodded. "When you're ready."
Unexpectedly, the woman's face tensed.
"Doctor, I'm so scared. He's so crazy and I can't make myself pull away."
The doctor made a sympathetic sound and continued to listen.
"He killed two of my dogs and last week he killed an entire litter of my cat's kittens with a knife." The woman's eyes shut, tightly. "When he was a boy, he battered a rabbit to death with a hammer. And he's done even more horrible things. He's told me."
Was there no end? thought the doctor.
"He tried to poison a friend of mine, because she kept begging him to sleep with her and bothering him." The woman's cheekbones quivered. "He sent her candies and signed the card from her children. They were filled with arsenic. She's dying right now." The woman held her head. "Nerve damage."
The doctor set the notepad on the desk.
"Listen to me. You must leave this man, immediately. Today."
"But he makes me feel things no man has. Maybe if I compromise. Maybe you could talk to him."
"No. I'll call him for you," the doctor said. "But I'll lie. I'll tell him that I've had you moved to a hospital in another part of the country. I want you on a plane today."
The doctor touched the woman's hand.
"You must escape him. There's no room for compromise. This man is sick. He shouldn't be allowed around sane people."
The woman tightened her grasp on the doctor's hand, like a child seeking protection.
"You don't think that what he makes me feel in bed is the truth?" she asked, "Maybe he really does love me?"
The doctor shook the woman's hand, insistently.
"No! Listen to me. Your time may be running out."
"Other women have responded in the same way," the woman continued, as if to justify her plight. "He brings them all to ecstasy."
The doctor pressed a buzzer on the desk and interrupted the woman, who was beginning to cry again.
"I want you to make a one-way reservation to London," the doctor told the secretary. "In Miss Shubert's name . . . for today." The doctor took hold of the woman's shoulders.
Dystopia Page 11