S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND, Season One Omnibus

by Saul Tanpepper

“I don’t care about any of that! Besides, what good is the formula if what really matters is the anti-serum, right?”

  His eyes meet mine, narrowing. “One syringe for your boyfriend. One for the boy who was bitten.”

  “It’s Jake, damn it!” I shout at the back of his head. Shinji barks and Brother Malcolm jumps at the sudden noise. “His name is Jake, not that boy who was bitten! And we’ve already been through all this.”

  “The treatment won’t work if he dies first,” Matthew continues, unaffected by my outburst or Shinji’s bark. “That should already be obvious, since by then the damage will have become irreversible. There are a couple test kits for the other two; we’ll test them as soon as we arrive. It’s a simple assay; instructions are also inside. If they are infected, then we’ll administer the anti-serum on the spot.”

  “Why not just give it to them anyway?”

  “It won’t do any good. The active component rapidly degrades inside the bloodstream in the absence of its viral target. Seventeen hours. That gives you till early tomorrow morning to get them off the island. Otherwise, the treatment is worthless.”

  “You’re telling me I’ve got less than twenty hours to get Reggie and Ashley off the island? Are you crazy? How is that even possible?”

  “Father Heall will help.”

  “Father Heall isn’t here!”

  Brother Matthew doesn’t reply.

  I sigh in frustration. “Okay, fine. So, when do I get Micah back?”

  “Once your friends are safely out, you’ll bring the other two boys, Jake and…”

  “Kelly.”

  “Jake and Kelly. You’ll bring them back to Brookhaven.”

  “And what if I don’t come back?”

  His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t answer. It’s your choice, they seem to say. Except we both know there really isn’t one after all.

  “Tell me what’s in the treatment,” I demand. “What are we giving to them?”

  “The active component is a protein. To be precise, a mutated form of a very special kind of protein called a prion.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Prions are transmissible, non-heritable, catalytic—”

  “Wait, transmissible? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means they’re infectious. Think of mad cow disease. Or scrapie in sheep. Those are also prions. In this case, these are human proteins. What we’ve learned is that there are actually three forms of the same protein. First, there’s the one that’s already inside of us all. This is the normal form—wildtype, as we call it—and it’s usually harmless. But when it comes into contact with the viral form, which is the first prionic form, it refolds, and that’s what causes the disease. Now, the mutant protein that’s found in the treatment is also a prionic form, but it acts to block the viral form.”

  “I’m sorry I asked,” I grumble.

  Brother Malcolm nods sympathetically. “Me, too.”

  “In the case of Artie, the viral protein—”

  “Artie” The name sounds familiar. “Who’s Artie?”

  “The re-engineered dengue virus that causes reanimation. It was code-named r-d7.04. I’m sure you must have heard the term before…given your family history.”

  My face reddens.

  But now the name does begin to sound more than just familiar. From some dark, dusty corner of my memory, an image arises: the word printed on ancient papers in my grandfather’s office, papers marked INFECTED FILES that I’d learned sometime later were supposed to have been destroyed years earlier.

  “Artie was what they named the first zulu,” I say. “The first zombie.”

  Brother Matthew nods. “Q-Artie was the code name for the first infectious construct engineered in the laboratory, nearly eighteen years ago.”

  The year before I was born.

  “The viral prion form of Q-Artie is responsible for tissue plastination, which is essential for reanimation. By blocking that step with this mutant form, it can’t refold and disease progression is blocked. For a while, anyway.”

  “How long?”

  Brother Matthew shrugs. “A few months in most cases. Up to a year in others. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “We haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “And that’s why I have to bring Kelly and Jake back.”

  Brother Matthew nods. “Yes.”

  I remain silent for several minutes, mulling this over again. I can save Kelly and Jake, but only by making them prisoners here.

  “Father Heall isn’t his real name, is it?” I say. “Just like Brother Matthew isn’t yours. You used to be a scientist. What did Father Heall used to be?”

  “There are no more scientists, Jessica. They’ve all been outlawed, remember? There is only faith.”

  I chuff at the pretense. “You think I’m going to report you to the police?”

  He shakes his head, chuckling. “You remember what we were talking about on our way out here?” he asks. “We were talking about Prometheus.”

  “The guy who made man out of mud.”

  “It was clay.”

  “Fine, clay. He was punished by being tied to a mountain so his liver could be eaten out every day.”

  “Only to have it grow back again overnight. That’s right. Well, we all play at being God, Jessica. Every single one of us. It’s in our nature. But so few of us are ready to understand, much less accept the consequences of the things we create.”

  “Don’t bring me into this. I had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Not the Undead, no. But you are a part of it nonetheless.”

  He meets my gaze once more in the mirror. There’s just the tiniest bit of a crinkle in them, as if he’s trying not to smile. He holds it for a couple seconds. Then he says, “In the tale of Frankenstein—”

  “Oh!” Brother Malcolm exclaims. “I read that book. Scared the panties off me, it did.”

  I stifle a giggle as Brother Matthew frowns at him. “The tragedy,” he continues, “wasn’t that the monster was misunderstood by the world, but that it was rejected by its creator. It was this singular act of rejection which drove the monster to lash out at the world.”

  In the film version I remember the monster being chased into a swamp by pitchfork-wielding townspeople. I vaguely remember something about it killing someone—maybe even Doctor Frankenstein himself—but for the life of me all I can picture is Reggie’s bad acting as he swept Ashley up in his arms and carried her off to one of the unused bedrooms upstairs, mewling as she shrieked in mock fright. I still can’t see what it has to do with me.

  “So,” I say, “are you saying that Father Heall sees himself as sort of like Doctor Frankenstein?”

  He gives me a slight shake of the head. “No, Jessica, I think you know that’s not what I mean. He thinks of himself as the monster.”

  Chapter 24

  “Look out!” Brother Malcolm cries out.

  Brother Matthew’s eyes swivel from the mirror to the road ahead—or rather, to where the road used to be. Now it’s a gaping hole with crumbling sides opening up a hundred feet in front of us. He stomps on the brakes and I go crashing into the footwell, wrenching my neck as my chin connects with the back of his seat. Shinji tumbles forward and lets out a surprised yelp.

  I manage to push myself back up and scream, “We’re not slowing!”

  The engine revs. Matthew spins the steering wheel to the right.

  The car begins to fishtail out of control, sliding sideways, jerking me around and slamming me into my door. Out my window, the canyon yawns ever wider and deeper, the edge rushing ever closer. I brace myself, but he turns the wheel in the other direction, throwing me across the back seat.

  “Wrong way!” Brother Malcolm shouts. He grabs for the wheel. The two men wrestle for control.

  The car jerks around, then rockets toward the middle of the road, toward the center divider. Somewhere nearby, someone is screaming. I’m not sure if it’s me or not
.

  Now we’re going backwards. Now sideways again. The world zips past us, spinning faster and faster.

  “Hold on!”

  No shit! My mind screams, but coherent speech is entirely out of the question. My jaw feels like it’s been wired shut and my heart is stuck in my throat.

  The concrete divider looms in Shinji’s window. And then the lock on my throat snaps and I scream. We hit the barrier and the noise of metal grinding and twisting and splitting is so terrible in my ears that it sounds as if the world itself is coming apart. I’m flung across the seat and back into my footwell, where I land on top of Shinji. He lets out another yelp, snapping his teeth near my nose. Together we slam into the passenger side door.

  With a screech, the car rocks up onto its side, lifting up and onto the divider. Then—slowly at first—then all at once, it slams down onto its roof. There’s an explosion of cool, wet air and pain as the windows implode, showering us with diamonds. I hear something splash, see water dripping. I hear barking and feel Shinji push his way past me and out of the car. At least I know he’s not hurt too bad. I hear the crunch of glass beneath the roof as we spin to a stop, rocking and juddering, the wheels above us squeaking and squealing—

  And the smell of gasoline burning in my nose—

  Fire!

  The sound of the horn blaring—

  And thunder—

  The redness of blood dripping from someplace above me, though I can’t turn my head enough to see where it’s coming from, only that it’s falling onto my arm and spilling down my fingertips like red paint, and I watch it, fascinated, as the blood pools onto the worn fabric of the car’s ceiling, bleeding into it. A lot of blood. I don’t really feel enough pain to warrant so much blood.

  The syringes! my mind screams.

  I can’t move. My legs are stuck, squeezed into the footwell. And I’m in too much shock to try and free myself.

  First, figure out where you are, my mind reasons. Take your time. You’re not hurt badly.

  At least I don’t think I am.

  Except for the blood. Jesus! I wipe it from my eyes, almost hoping it is coming from me, because I feel okay, and if I feel okay, then I can’t really be hurt that badly.

  Breathe.

  Watching and hearing and smelling, but not really seeing and listening and knowing.

  Barking.

  Shinji.

  The horn blaring.

  Matthew?

  Why doesn’t he stop it?

  The blood dripping— No, gushing!

  Where the hell is it coming from?

  And the wind and rain and the roar of rushing water. Somewhere. Below ground. The sound of rocks falling.

  The road crumbling!

  A pair of feet appears at my window.

  Good.

  Brother Matthew! I try to yell, but my throat won’t work. I’m here. Brother Malcolm! Help me!

  Eight hours of daylight left to get back to Jayne’s Hill and here I am, stuck inside a trashed car. And we’re still miles from Gameland.

  Below me—no, above me, on the ceiling of the car—I see the satchel. Then, yes! Strewn about are the syringes. They’re okay. The bag lies on its side, the muzzle of my pistol sticking out. I stretch my hand out to grab it, but it’s just out of my reach.

  “Brother…Matthew,” I gasp, my lungs unable to fill.

  The feet have come over to the other side. They’re joined by a second set. But these are naked and all the toenails have been torn away, all except for one. It dangles like a fish scale, attached by a thin thread of dried flesh. Then more feet: one clad in an old sneaker, another bare, a third caked in mud. This last one tilts toward me and the rain washes it off, exposing a ragged hole right through the top. I can see the tendons working and—oh, god how they glisten, greasy and pale gray, in the spattering of the rain!

  Finally the horn starts to die, coughing weakly, as if it’s starting to run out of breath.

  And the moaning begins.

  ‡ ‡

  [END OF EPISODE FIVE]

  Episode 6

  Kingdom of Players

  PART ONE

  In the Kingdom of Players

  Chapter 1

  It’s not my blood.

  This I know as I watch it drip off of my arm and puddle on the ceiling of the car. I don’t know how I know this, but I just do. It doesn’t smell right or look right. It doesn’t feel like my blood. It doesn’t feel like it’s coming out of me. I think I’d feel something. There’s just too much of it not to.

  So where is it coming from? Brother Matthew? Brother Malcolm? I hope it’s not Brother Malcolm. I was beginning to like him.

  Vision is limited. My legs are stuck in the footwell and the back of the seat is blocking my view of the front of the car. I’m getting a cramp in my side from hanging upside down, another in my arm from holding myself up. I can only look above me at the blood. I can only see to the side where the Undead are standing just a couple feet away, drawn by the grating sound of the dying horn.

  It must be Brother Matthew’s blood.

  God, I don’t want to see them, the Undead. But I don’t want to look at the blood either.

  And closing my eyes would be even more terrifying.

  I try not to look at it as it spreads its sanguine fingers over the ceiling, seeping into the faded fabric, funneling toward the front of the car. I try not to see it, but it’s there, in the corner of my eye, creeping along. I’m not looking, but I can still see it.

  There’s a thud and the car rocks. Broken glass crunches underneath us.

  The syringes have tumbled out of Brother Matthew’s satchel. I see two. Father Heall’s blood inside them, someone else’s blood smeared on the outside. Not my blood.

  It’s not my blood.

  Please, God, don’t let it be mine.

  If only you knew how precious—

  A groan comes from the front, low against the rain and the sloppy wet flipper sounds of the naked feet on the road outside. At least the Undead haven’t figured out we’re inside. Yet. They will, soon enough. They’ll smell the blood. They’ll taste it in the air. They’ll come looking for us because that’s what they do. They’re hungry. Some of them probably haven’t eaten in years.

  I need those syringes. I need them, because when the Undead do come that blood inside of them will be the only thing that saves us. I stretch my arm to reach one but the angle’s all wrong. I strain and my fingertips brush it, but slip off, knocking it further away.

  The treatment won’t work for you.

  I don’t believe him. How can Brother Matthew possibly know this? And why would he say something like that? I’d just figured he was lying to me back there, testing me, testing my will to go forward with the choice I’d made. But I know I made the right choice. I had to leave Micah behind. He’s a traitor. He betrayed us.

  Are you sure?

  I push the doubt away and focus instead on those syringes. How could Heall’s blood possibly be so damn precious to everyone? Everyone except me?

  It can’t.

  I need those syringes.

  I stretch, but I can’t get them. Something pokes into my thigh, hurting. It’s my inhaler in my pocket. It hides in there like an evil amulet, a piece of Micah and my Grandfather and Arc and… Betraying me. And Matthew’s voice: The deprolidone might have masked the results.

  What results? What mask? Why would Grandpa give me something like that?

  I should’ve asked Brother Matthew to explain when I had the chance. I thought I’d have more time.

  Now I just want to rip it out of my pocket and hurl it away from me. I can’t even do that. I doubt if I could even get a finger into my pocket right now.

  What did Grandpa know?

  Did he believe the medicine was supposed to block the virus? Is that why he gave it to me? Is that what Brother Matthew meant when he said the treatment won’t work, because my inhaler already does the job? But if that’s true, why not share it with the rest of the
world?

  The question seems ludicrous, not because it doesn’t make sense for the world to have such a thing, but because I know my grandfather. Grandpa would never share a cure for the monsters he created.

  “Brother Matthew?” I whisper. I need to ask him. “Pssst.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Okay. I’ll figure it out later. Right now, I need those syringes. For Kelly. For Jake. I need to get them and get back to the hill.

  How?

  I don’t know. Nightfall—that’s all the time I’ve got. Jake’s probably got less.

  And here I am trapped. And the Undead aren’t leaving us alone. If anything, there are more of them. That damn horn! And their moaning is growing louder. They can smell the blood now. It’s making them crazy.

  I push against the seat to try and free myself, but the damn thing is shoved all the way back and it’s squeezing me against the seat cushion in the back. I twist, but there’s not enough wiggle room. Damn hips. My foot slips a little and catches on something sharp underneath the seat. Pain streaks up my leg. Warmth trickles up my calf.

  There’s another noise from the front—one of the brothers moving! The car jiggles, followed by the sound of a body slumping. The front seat actually gives a little and my hip slips out and my head drops, banging onto the ground.

  Ceiling. The bloody ceiling, not ground! Get out of the blood!

  The car shudders, rocks. I’m still stuck, but a few more twists and I should be able to wriggle out.

  Another thump from the front. Brother Malcolm’s feet tumble down in front of my nose, startling me. There’s a low moan. I can’t tell if it’s him or Brother Matthew or…

  It’s got to be one of them.

  “Malcolm?” I whisper. “Hey!”

  Another groan, louder this time but still unidentifiable. My heart pushes its way into my throat. I need them to be quiet. I need them to lie still or else those things outside are going to figure out that they just need to bend down. Once they do that—

  “Psst.”

  Nothing.

  “Malcolm? Are you hurt?”