The Feed

by Nick Clark Windo

“Clothes!” Tom interjects desperately, and the Pharmacist falls silent, his smile tightening. “Beans?” Tom suggests, and the Pharmacist laughs: a sound like paper rubbing itself.

  “Us,” she says, staggering forward. “Ourselves! Me! What do you want from us?”

  The Pharmacist’s laugh dies out but his eyes do not change. The recording of the music continues, the band playing on from centuries before. Time rides the heartbeat of a rhythm that died long ago as the Pharmacist unfolds from the sofa until he is standing tall. He examines Tom without touching him: his eyes, his face, his ears. He gasps a laugh and shakes his head and then, a glint in his eye, a lilting walk, sashays to her side. He stares woozily into her eyes as though they share some joke before sidling in closer than he should. His hands brush her arms. He draws her hat off and drops it aside to finger her hair. He kneels, hovering his splayed fingers over her torso, her thighs. His face is waist-height and she can hear him sniffing. Then he prizes the hem of her trouser leg and pulls it up. She does not look at his balding head with its combed-over hair. She does not look to Tom. She feels the Pharmacist’s touch on her, his fingernails on the painful dampness of her wound, and she feels her heart thump out of every inch of her skin.

  The Pharmacist stretches upward until he looks directly, impassively, into her eyes. “This wound will kill you.” And then, to Tom, but not removing his gaze from hers, “It will kill her.”

  The music plays, the saxophone hushed, the bass improvising, the brushes on drums.

  “Can you cure it?” Her voice falters. Huge things well up inside her: the unfairness of it, of everything that has happened. She wants to scream at him.

  “Yes, of course I can.” He blinks smartly and his expression flattens. “But why should I?”

  So many reasons cascade through her head, but: “Is it true what they say about you?” Tom asks before she can speak, and there’s something odd about his voice.

  A smile slits the Pharmacist’s face. “That depends entirely on what they say . . .”

  “That you’re one of them. One of the taken.”

  The Pharmacist winks at her as he mimes weighing something. “People talk, people talk,” he says, nearly sings. His movements carry him around the sofa to a sideboard, where he picks up a heavy glass tumbler, drops in some ice, and pours whisky on top of some leaves.

  “Then that’s why you have to help us,” Tom implores. “Because we are taken too!”

  The Pharmacist stoppers the decanter and turns back around. He lifts a finger to his lips; then he lifts the glass and sips. Smiles. Satisfied. “Is that so? How long for?”

  “At our camp, no one knew. We’ve been hiding. Secret. For years.”

  “Wonderful. How wonderful,” the Pharmacist says breathily. “Then what is your name?”

  “Tom Brown.”

  “Your real name.”

  “We’ve not stayed undiscovered by being indiscreet.”

  “But still, Tom Brown, given the circumstances . . .”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Oh. No, I don’t think so. You?” The Pharmacist raises his eyebrows at her.

  “Her name is Kate.”

  “Her—real—name.”

  Tom shuts his mouth steadfastly.

  “And what,” the Pharmacist asks, “is your mission?” What little laughter there was in his voice is gone. “Can you tell me why we are here, then, if you’re one of us?”

  “We’ve told you our mission!” Tom cries. “To save our family!”

  The Pharmacist laughs again, clapping.

  “Is that really so funny?” she demands, unable to dam her words anymore, her hands shaking. Heat courses through her veins, flushing her skin. The heat of worlds burning. “That if we were one of them we’d want to save our family? Is that funny?”

  “It’s risible! Tom and Kate, you have to do better than this! You’re so unprepared! How long did it take you to come here? Weeks? Months? So much time to think. And you know, you know that I’m, what did you say, ‘one of them.’ Yet this is the best you can do? Pathetic! Beans!” he cackles. “Clothes! What do I owe you? Nothing. Your world? Absolutely nothing! Your family?” He clenches his fist, blows onto it, into it, opens it out and throws it away. “I hate it and everything you stand for. So get out,” he snaps. He leans heavily on the back of the sofa and rolls his shoulders. “Our mission is to kill you,” he murmurs, circling his head around on his neck. “To kill you all. Tit—is that what you say?—for tat. We eat your flesh and harvest your bones.”

  He pushes himself from the sofa and approaches Tom, springing on his feet, his voice rising to a shout. “Now you are lucky. Because I’m not like the others. I don’t love violence. But why should I waste my time?” He goes nose-close and they stand like that, the music still playing, until a tear leaves Tom’s eyes. Another wells, swells, and rolls down his cheek.

  “For kindness?” Tom whispers. “For good?”

  The Pharmacist holds his breath before breaking away. “No.” He sighs and collapses back on the sofa. “There are more important people than you.” He picks up papers and slides some reading glasses on as the door opens and the guard trudges in. He pulls Tom by the arm and she follows them out into the hall, where the door, sharply shut behind them, cuts the still-playing music short.

  Under the guard’s stultified gaze they pull their boots back on and heft up their bags without speaking. They step from the veranda onto the gravel drive, and in the silence of the starry night the world feels vast and isolated as they make their way toward the gate. What else is there to do?

  “Tom,” she says, pausing by the hushing shadow of a bush and waiting for him to stop. “My hat.”

  When he looks blankly back at her, tears collecting in his stunned eyes, she takes his hand, squeezes it, and heads back up to the house. Pushes open the door. Back in the room, the Pharmacist raises an eyebrow. “You look familiar.”

  “I left my hat.”

  His gaze skitters around the shadows. It is on the floor by the sofa, where he dropped it, and he nods for her to go. But she doesn’t go; instead she opens her hands. “Why did you lie?”

  “Which one?”

  “‘We eat your flesh and harvest your bones,’” she says. “Why did you say that?” She holds his gaze until it flickers. The Pharmacist removes his glasses and stands.

  “Poetic license?” he replies.

  She nods tightly. “Which Area were you from?”

  A very slight smile curls the edges of his lips. “Well, hello, you. My name is Ethan Shore.”

  “Good,” she replies. “I’m Sylene Charles.”

  Water gushes as steam heaves up in rolls from the porcelain tub. A muffled noise comes through the doorway as Sylene tests the water flowing from the tap and cups some carefully in her hands. She stares into it before letting it fall between her fingers and away. She wipes the steam back on the mirror and looks at herself, at this new face. Days now and, a rippled reflection in water aside, she hasn’t known what she looks like. She examines the lines around the eyes, the shape of the lips, and the dips of the cheeks, every angle and curve. She probes the skin with her fingers, draws her blond hair through them, and then, sighing, places them to their reflection in the glass.

  When she leaves the bathroom, smile in place, Tom is lying on the bed wearing just a towel, holding a book open above his face. He has shaved and his hair is still damp.

  “What did you say, Tom?”

  “I said, how do you think we can make him tell us about Bea?”

  She stops smiling and drops her eyes. Clasps her hands and deflates. The effect is near instant.

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” Tom apologizes. “You just concentrate on getting better. I’ll worry about the rest. Hey, this book,” he says, flashing her the cover and lightening his tone, burying everything else under a veneer of ease, keep hoping, keep hoping, you’ve got to keep up the hope. “There’s lots of words I don’t get, but it’s really good. I’m going to take
this for Graham. Have you read it?”

  She makes a face and shrugs.

  “What did you say to him, though, Kate?” Tom whispers, glancing at the door and waving her to him. Sylene sits as directed. She feels his breath on her face and can see the candlelight reflecting in the orbs of his eyes as he reaches behind her and his fingers search her back.

  “I said I’d sleep with him.” She feels his grip tighten. Sees his throat constrict. She puts a hand to his cheek, thumbs his chin, lowers her face toward his. “Don’t be silly,” she soothes. “I don’t know what changed his mind. Maybe what you said? Maybe he’s kind,” she prompts.

  “I don’t trust him.”

  She pats his chest, above his heart. “Then let’s be on our guard.”

  As they go downstairs, music still sneaks out from the front room. Sylene leads the way, descending past paintings on the walls, limping as carefully as possible over the clumps of cats. She nearly knocks on the door but decides to simply push it open instead.

  “Ah! Kate—and Tom Brown! Come in, come in, just a minute . . .”

  The Pharmacist beckons them in before leaning back over the counter. With a magnifying lens scrunched over an eye, he eases something off a Petri dish with tweezers, lays it carefully down and then beams at them, rubbing his hands together. “Officially: Welcome! Are you rested and washed? Are you comfortable in your room? Tell me, would you like a drink?”

  “Sure,” says Tom, glancing at Sylene like he’s humoring the man.

  The Pharmacist strolls to the sideboard and pours the drinks high. His movements are now like a child’s and less controlled. He is, Sylene guesses, excited. She is too. There is so much to ask, but for now all they have is fleeting glances when Tom looks elsewhere. As he wonders at the ice in his glass, the Pharmacist winks at her before heading back to the sideboard. He purses his mouth serenely as he passes under the gold-framed portraits on the wall. “My ancestors,” he announces grandly, gesturing at the paintings and smiling indulgently at Sylene as he returns with her drink and a plate. Two colorful capsules roll on the china, knocking each other around the rim. “Shouldn’t really have these with alcohol,” the Pharmacist whispers, a hand up to his mouth, “but I think we’re past that now—”

  “Just a moment.” Tom advances on the Pharmacist. “What are they?”

  “Well, Tom, I’m glad you asked: it’s an anti-infective, antiparasitic 23-dihydro-1-H-indolizinium chloride structure, and, I might ask you, what else would it be to treat such a chronic infection? I’m a very clever man; I made it myself. Crafted with my own loving hands for your wife. This will take a long time unless you trust me, but please, Tom, feel free, my equipment is at your disposal, so check it all you like. We have probably whole days until she dies.” The Pharmacist invites Tom toward his shadowy worktop and the homemade scientific accoutrements with a slow sweep of his arm, but before Tom can move, Sylene knocks the pills back with a slug of her drink.

  “Good girl,” the Pharmacist says quietly, smiling at Tom all the while.

  She watches Tom sleep like he asked her to. She still doesn’t understand why. Candlelight dances on his face. The flickering glow of fire pricks tiny balls of sweat from his pores. She watches him until his hands relax their grip on the sheets and his breath catches in his throat. For a while he sleeps motionless, dead looking, and she thinks of her son before she buried him. She had gone to one of the deepest vaults that still had access to the earth, and she had dug it out with her hands. Her first son was buried there too, and her husband. She blinks the memories away and stands over Tom, her expression hardened. She pins points on his skull with her fingertips. He is now so deeply asleep he doesn’t feel a thing.

  “You took your time.”

  “I didn’t know you were waiting.”

  “So why did you come downstairs?” The Pharmacist smiles at her and makes his spread-out fingers dance gleefully, like he’s found her out.

  Sylene points to the decanter on the sideboard. “For a drink.”

  The Pharmacist, sitting on the sofa, raises a tumbler where amber liquid already pools as she passes him. Lifting the lid of the ice bucket, Sylene thrills at the feeling as the stuff melts on her skin. Licking the water from her fingertips, she takes her time to carry her drink to a chair. The floorboards creak under her bare feet. She is wearing a gray tracksuit and white T-shirt she found in a wardrobe. Once sitting away from the Pharmacist, she sips her drink before raising her glass. They observe each other across the space. She won’t speak first. He may be “one of them” too, but she doesn’t know who he is.

  “So.” The Pharmacist sighs and dances his foot in the air.

  “So,” she agrees, and drinks again.

  “To friends. Past, present, and future.” The Pharmacist raises his tumbler at her grandly. “The continued good health of you, and yours, and the world. Which wave were you, Sylene?”

  “Ninth. There was no one else left.”

  “I was the fourth. I’ve been here for years. Four. Five. It’s difficult to tell. You?”

  Fixing the smile on her face, Sylene observes the darkness through the windows. Then she examines the leather-clad books on the shelves, the ancestral portraiture on the walls. She looks anywhere so he won’t see the tears threatening her eyes: Kate’s eyes but Sylene’s tears.

  “It gets easier with time,” the Pharmacist calls softly. “What do you want to know?”

  Sylene crosses to the bookshelves, her heart racing so her blood swells her cheeks. “I haven’t found any targets yet,” she says at last, and when her voice quivers uncontrollably, she flashes him a quick smile.

  He assesses her and chuckles. “I think we’re past that now, Sylene. Haven’t you seen what’s happened to the world?”

  “But you do know who he is?”

  The Pharmacist tilts his head, smirks, and gives it a slow shake.

  “You don’t recognize him?” she asks condescendingly. “Well, his name’s not really Tom Brown.” She turns to hover her fingers over the book spines and her tone changes abruptly. “The air is so different. Cooler, of course, but it feels thicker too, don’t you think?”

  The Pharmacist unfurls from the sofa. “You can touch them if you like.”

  The skin on Sylene’s arms puckers as she takes the book he offers her. She opens it with trembling fingers, and as she does, the spine breaks and a page slides out under her thumb.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasps.

  “They’re old. And I can’t read them anyway; they’re not phonetic. Smell it.”

  “It’s amazing. It’s . . .”

  “. . . like history had a scent,” he concludes. As he slides the book back smartly on the shelf, his arm brushes hers. She doesn’t pull away even as, still close, he turns to her again. “Do we know each other, Sylene? I was from Area Nineteen. Scraper Forty-Two.” This close together, his breath strokes her face, his teeth sneaking out from under his upper lip as he smiles hesitantly.

  “No, I don’t think so, Ethan.”

  “I do look different these days.” The Pharmacist opens out his skinny arms as if revealing himself, and Sylene laughs. She lays a hand briefly on his chest before walking away.

  “How’s your leg feeling, Sylene?”

  “Worse,” she says over her shoulder. “What kind of a medic are you?”

  The Pharmacist jogs to his counter, lifts a hinged section, and disappears behind the shelves. Soon there is a clinking and a rattle of pills. “A fake one,” he calls cheerily, emerging smiling with his palm outstretched. “But still better than anyone else on the planet. And me just a humble programmer, trying to learn new skills. We are resilient, you and I. Look at us. Surviving. Without friends, without family. So very nearly alone and yet so very strong in ourselves. Or, to be more precise”—he laughs, slapping his body and arms—“so very strong in others! It’s pointless, by the way, to try to find people, Sylene. Are you searching for someone? Tell me, have you come here with high hopes to ask me t
o help you find your special person?”

  Sylene regards him coolly before offering the slightest of shrugs. “His daughter. You heard him. Bea. We’re looking for his daughter.”

  “No, no, no, no, no, Sylene.” The Pharmacist shakes his head and edges closer. “Are you looking for anyone? Family, Sylene? Do you have any? It will hurt,” he continues breathily, “until you realize you can simply stop the pain by not looking for them anymore. And I recommend you do. If your hand is burning, take it out of the fire.” His voice has lowered. It carries too much weight for his whisper, cracking at the seams as a flickering darkness twitches deep in his eyes. “Trust me, Sylene, I’ve tried to find my family. But that way madness lies. The world is too large. Not enough of us made it. So many people died en route. You’ll learn that you can simply choose to stop the pain. I’m telling you this as a friend to give you a little head start here, as I wish someone had helped me . . .”

  Sylene knows the pain of loss, of course she does. She has seen her world collapse and her family burn. She has seen life sucked dry and everything consumed. She has been trapped and has risked all to escape. She has killed. No other choice. But while she has fought to keep her emotions hidden from Tom for days now, they have been burning her insides like the heat of a supernova all that time. The acidic despair of isolation. And the pain scalds her now with searing recentness even though it feels so far away, like it happened eons ago. Emotions break her from within. She’s back there in her memory. The hiss and crackle of machines. The thrum of power; she’d felt it vibrate her feet through the tightly meshed grilles. The dried-out air in that stoppered-up room had been absolutely static. Sterile. A soundless density that came from being so far underground, contained in boxes. How much longer could they go on? The beeping of his life stats. She had been crying so much that the salt in her tears had scorched the skin of her face. But her son was so calm. Lying on the gurney, strapped up, plugged in, looking dead already, he had been so chillingly quiet.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. His dark eyes had held her like gravity. “You know this is for the best. And you must do this too. We all must, until we’ve won.” He slipped his dry hand into hers and his gaze continued to hold her frozen until her sobs melted and heaved again, from as deep within her as they were themselves sealed up underground, miles beneath the surface of the earth. He strained to nod at the men, who pressed a series of buttons. Pulled levers. Lights illuminated and a subtle alarm sounded as columns of colored light scaled up on a display. The metal room thrummed with power. As an alert chimed to indicate that something had hit an optimal level and as yet another alarm began to ring, the men depressed levers and, without any ceremony, the chemicals flowed through tubes into his arm.