by Ts Alan
* * *
We didn’t know what to do with Joe. There was no place to bury him, so we had to cremate him. This was not out of disrespect, but out of necessity. We held the service in the basement, each of us taking turns, saying a few words. Even though he was an ass, we had a few positive things to say. At the very end, as difficult as he had been to deal with, he had accepted what he had done and tried to be a part of the team. In time perhaps we could have grown to like him, but we could only imagine.
That same day, the doctor completed his autopsy of the half-mute, taken blood and tissue samples, and run tests. His answers were frightening. The virus that had been released had mutated into a strain nearly identical to the one he had been trying to engineer. Nature had done what he couldn’t: produce a strain that would cause violent, uncontrollable rage, one that would manifest the urge to kill your fellow man. The mutation showed no sign of killing the host, and the doctor could not project what the long-term effects of their eradiated bodies would be.
The doctor had created an intelligent but psychotic new human. As for the eyes, I had been correct. The doctor, as always, protested in having to conjecture on something he had not thoroughly studied, but he knew that I had little patience when it came to his deliberate stubbornness. He surmised that the miosis was most likely caused by a disruption of the nerve fibers that connect the eye and the brain, which was brought upon by lesions on the brain stem. Whether his assumption was correct or not, the fact remained that the eyes had constricted, which meant that their visual acuity in the dark was drastically diminished, a hopeful indicator that the creatures would not be roaming around at night. If I wanted to know for sure, he suggested I bring back a live subject. That wasn’t going to happen.
* * *
It came at me like a linebacker after a quarterback. I could feel the adrenaline rush, which had started to give me a headache. He lunged, trying to tackle me, but I was quick to sidestep, and as he passed I sliced his shoulder with the blade. He was undeterred; cutting him had only enraged him more. He turned and came back at me, this time straight on, not low to the ground. He did not charge blindly. He tested me by charging forward a few feet, then retreating. He repeated the process two more times, but before he could make a decision to commit to a full-on attack, I ran out of patience.
“Ah, fuck it,” I said aloud, knowing I needed to attend to my patient rather than play games with the freak. I pulled out my pistol and put a round into his chest. End of the problem.
Marisol shouted over the radio, “Incoming, incoming. From behind me!”
The creature lunged up at Sam, but the slat armor made it difficult for it to get to him, so it turned its attention to those it could see in front of the vehicle: Kermit and the prisoners. I raised my pistol and moved quickly toward them, but before I could get a shot off, Kermit plunged his knife deep into its throat as it came around the front of the Stryker. The abrupt collision between it and Kermit’s blade forced it to its knees. Blood spurted and splattered as the creature tried frantically to hold back the squirting crimson flow. It convulsed and grabbed at its neck, trying to dislodge the weapon.
With the butt end of his M4, Kermit struck the frenzied creature in the head, sending it crashing to the ground. On its back it thrashed about, still trying to pull the knife from its throat. Kermit came down heavy on the creature’s face with his right boot. The creature released the knife and grabbed onto Kermit’s leg, allowing Kermit to quickly extract the knife then finish the job by slitting its throat from ear to ear. It took only a moment for the creature to bleed out. Kermit never spoke a word; he just wiped the bloodied instrument on his victim, looked up at me for a split second, and resumed position.
Our prisoners were shaken. One pissed himself. My headache was becoming more intense, but I had to concentrate.
I checked Ryan’s condition. He was ill, and should have been in bed resting. He was blistered, and the blisters were leaking a clear fluid––not the blisters of a human in transformation, but the painful condition of shingles.
“Amigo. Estara bien. Aún no hay huesos rotos, solamente—solamente… hinchazón y… magulladuras… No te preocupes. Tengo la medicina para las—las… am—ampollas.”
A painful reply came, “Why do you keep speaking to me in Spanish? I’m not Spanish.”
“Oh, sorry. You look Spanish. But I guess that wouldn’t make sense, would it? If you were Spanish you probably wouldn’t be here.”
“Why is that?” he asked, grimacing.
“Because I don’t think too many Spanish are immune.”
He looked at me with confusion and puzzlement, wondering I how knew this. He wanted me to elaborate. “I don’t understand.”
“What’s your ancestry?”
“Sicilian and Scottish.”
“That’s why you didn’t turn into the living dead, you’re Scottish.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“We can talk about it later. I need to get you back to the hospital. You’ll be okay once we get you some medication.” I could feel the onset of a headache.
“Hospital? What’s wrong with me?” he asked, as I buttoned his shirt.
“Shingles,” I informed him, trying to ignore my swelling pain.
“What?”
“The second coming of chicken pox. Usually brought on by stress and a low immune system,” I informed him in a calm voice.
“NO!” came a resounding contradiction to my medical diagnosis from one of the captured. “He’s turning into one of those crazy things!”
“Shut your hole, before I plug it,” Kermit ordered, moving forward and pointing the rifle at the man’s head.
I stood up, machine gun in hand, and walked over to the man. I was outraged at his total lack of humanity. “What would make you do this? Why would you tie this man to a tree?”
“I told you, he’s one of those crazies. Look at the sores!”
“Those crazies we call half-mutes, and he’s not stricken with that disease. He’s got shingles.”
“Chicken pox, my ass,” the other snidely commented. “He’s turning and we have the right to kill the son-of-a-bitch any way we want.”
I became livid. I pulled out my pistol and pressed it against his forehead. My headache was gaining in severity and my ears were beginning to ring.
“Listen Dumb, Dumber and…” I looked at the man who had wet himself. “Sponge Slob Piss Pants. I don’t have time to argue with stupidity. The patient is coming with us.”
“What gives you the right?” Dumber defiantly responded.
“You see this rank!? You see this medical patch? You hear my commanding tone? That’s what gives me the right. Now get your asses up and run back to your shit hole, before I put one in you,” I warned.
“Sergeant Renquist isn’t going to like that,” Dumber responded.
“Is Renquist your leader? He military?”
“Yes,” Dumb said, as Piss Pants said, “No.”
“What is it? Or would you like my master sergeant to extract the information? Master Sergeant Brown,” I called.
“Yes, sir.”
“I need your extraction expertise.”
“Sir. Yes, sir,” Kermit said in a pleased tone, and with a wide grin on his face. He retrieved his knife from its sheath.
“He’s a prison guard,” Piss Pants quickly said.
“Don’t tell him anything,” another warned, but the man refused to listen to them.
“He told us he was a corrections officer at Rikers. But I think he was really an inmate. I’m not part of this. I was—”
“Shut up,” I ordered, slapping him, cutting his sentence short. “Renquist is a Russian name, and the odds of a Russian being immune would be slim-to-none. So go tell that pretend sergeant of yours that if I ever see anyone doing what you’re doing again, we’ll shoot them on sight. Now get the hell outta here.”
Dumb demanded to know, “Who are you to dictate?”
I was tempted to re
move my sunglasses, as I looked him straight in the eyes, but Sun Tzu once said, “The enlightened ruler is heedful, and the good general full of caution.” I heeded the Chinese general’s advice and kept them on.
I took my carbine and slapped him upside the head with it. “Do you understand, now?”
“I do,” replied the urine-soaked man, acknowledging my authority in hopes of not getting a gun butt to the head like his companion had received.
“Then go!” I ordered, hoping to end the confrontation before my head exploded.
“You can’t make us walk without weapons,” Dumb said. “There’s more of those crazies out there, and it’ll be dark before we can get back.”
“You better hurry.”
Dumber asked, “What about our truck?”
“It’s not going anywhere; it’s got a flat,” I responded.
“Flat? Flat where?” Dumb replied, questioning my assessment of the vehicle’s condition.
“Master Sergeant. Please show these men exactly where the flat tires are located.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
Kermit pulled out his knife once again.
“Right here.” He plunged the knife into the front and deflated it. He then moved to the rear and did the same. “And right here.”
“See. Two flat tires. Master Sergeant, if these men have not vacated the area in thirty seconds they are to be considered hostile and are to be engaged with extreme prejudice. Is that clear?” I was having fun playing commander, even though it felt has if I were about to pass out.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Kermit confirmed. He aimed his weapon at the three.
The three decided to immediately run, and as they fled I collapsed to my knees. The pain was overwhelming and I was on the verge of another change, mostly likely a severe change.
“J.D., are you all right?” asked a concerned David coming to my aid, followed by Kermit.
“No,” was my anguished response. “I have one of those headaches, and my hands are on fire. Something is going to happen… get Ryan out of here.” I was losing my train of thought. “Don’t touch his sores. And… and you need… you need to give him Famvir as an antiviral and Hydrocodone for pain. See the doc… and… and warm Epsom salt baths. I gotta go.”
I stumbled to the Humvee.
“Take Max with you,” I told them, as I struggled to get into the vehicle. “And give Otter a bath.”
I closed the door and backed up, and then sped away, leaving everyone behind. Marisol had no idea what was going on until I had gone. As I rushed up 4th Avenue heading toward Union Square I heard Marisol’s frantic, concerned calls over the radio, but I could not respond; I did not want to respond. I needed to get away from them and there was only one place I could go: home—home to sanctuary, home to comfort, home to safety.
I hung a right on 12th Street out of habit, not even thinking it didn’t matter if I went the opposite direction on 13th Street. As I turned left onto 3rd Avenue I swerved and lost control of the Humvee. I slammed into the front of a parked car, bounced over the curb, and passed over a metal bicycle parking rack, flattening it. I stopped just before crashing into the buildings. Bellows of steam poured out from under the vehicle’s hood. I damaged the radiator, which was very bad. The motor sputtered, clunked, and went dead. There was no point in trying to restart it. I was only a few buildings from the street corner, and around the corner was my home. I picked up my rifle and fell out of the driver’s seat as I opened the door.
I crawled a few feet before I was able to pull myself up with the help of the wrecked Humvee. I staggered and stumbled around the corner to my doorstep. I fumbled for my keys, which were in my pant leg pocket.
Old habits die hard. My house keys were a link to my previous life, one I couldn’t give up. My keys gave me comfort and the promise that I could, one day, at anytime, choose to go home. I was glad for my unwillingness to leave my keys at the armory, for if I was to shoot open the front door it might attract the unwelcome and provide less protection.
I stumbled into the hallway. Jimmy Pugliese lived on the first level. He was a musician who toured with Philip Glass, and when he wasn’t doing that, he taught music and played in his own jazz group. I could barely make it up the steps to the first floor. My fingers burned and a searing pain ran up my spine.
I lived on the third floor; Kolin Smith lived on the second. There were only three apartments in the building, and no ground level floor. The mortgage was expensive, but the rooms were large; after all, it was a whole floor I occupied. As a paramedic for St. Vincent’s I was paid well, but not well enough to afford to pay for a townhouse on my own. Before my parents moved to Arizona, they set up a trust fund as part of my inheritance, which I could modestly draw from on a monthly basis. This supplemented my income and allowed me the lavish lifestyle I once had, a large East Village apartment.
I knew Kol best. We were close friends. He had two wire-haired terriers, brother and sister, Elvis and Clover. We had exchanged apartment keys and looked after each other’s dogs when we were out of town. It was mainly Kol that went away. He was a photographer and went out of town on shoots several times a month. I was happy to take care of his dogs and so was Max, who loved playtime and walk-time with Elvis and Clover.
I was in. I stumbled to the bedroom and fell upon my bed. My fingers felt like someone had secured my hands in a vise grip and was trying to tear out my nails with searing hot needle-nose pliers. Abruptly my spine flared with pain. An excruciating sensation ripped through my head. My ears rang with an intensity I had never experienced before, like someone had jabbed an ice pick in each one. Everything went white.
VIII. Buddha, Me and Plastic Jesus
Luci came to me. I was one of them, a full-fledged transmute. We copulated again and again, tearing at one another’s flesh and biting each other repeatedly, screeching as we mated in a frenzied ritual.
I awoke; I did not know what day or time it was. But how could I? I was a transmute, the concept of time was no longer known to me. But how could I know this? I tried to sit up. My clothes remained on my body. They had not been shredded. I was still dressed in my army fatigues and body armor. Had I dreamt it all? It had been so vivid, and the pain had been so prolonged and wrenching. What changes had occurred?
My hands had burned with that too familiar pain. They had changed, specifically my fingers. My nail and nail beds had been covered with dense skin. My fingers appeared to be the same length they always had been, but the tips were covered with dark, soft and still moist scabs. It appeared the skin was decaying. I didn’t feel any pain.
I needed to get a better look at my hands. I stood up, approached the windows, and drew back the red curtains of the bedroom to reveal the setting sun through the heavy-duty slats of the window guards. Had it been only a few hours since I lost consciousness, or a few days? I opened the windows to air out the fowl, stale smell, which I didn’t notice upon my arrival. I knew what it was; the refrigerator. It needed to be cleaned. I shut the curtains. Darkness would soon replace the remaining daylight and it was time to prepare for night.
As a New Yorker I was prepared for just about any emergency situation. I always had plenty of bottled water and food supplies stocked up, enough for a month. I also had several portable solar generators and camping equipment in the hall closet: lanterns, a two-burner propane cooking unit, extra blankets, sleeping bags and other gear. I was also fully stocked with batteries, candles, matches, lighters, two solar powered flashlights, and most importantly, soap and toilet paper. Best of all, I lived on the third floor. This meant that water would still be running. The city’s vast underground network of delivery pipes are sloped at an angle from its upstate source which gives enough natural pressure to reach a fifth floor apartment without the need of added artificial pressure. As long as there was pressure from the street I could flush the toilet and wash dishes, though I would not cook with the current water supply.
I didn’t remember crashing into things when I stumb
led into the apartment, but my home looked like it had been trashed. My Yamaha Arranger Workstation was overturned. Items from my long, low-end coffee table were on the floor and the table itself had been pushed away from the sofa at an odd angle. My Mac laptop was on the floor; if it was broken it didn’t matter much. There was no way of surfing the web or receiving emails. My Buddha incense burner was on the wrong side of the living room, with ash dust and stubs of incense spread across the cranberry colored carpet.
As I cleaned up the mess, I picked up a brochure from the floor that was for the Lightship 87, the Ambrose, which was on display at the South Street Seaport on Pier 17.
Though I did frequent the South Street Seaport on a semi-regular basis, I never toured any of the ships. I had acquired the brochure from a manger of the South Street Seaport Museum after Siyab and I had responded to a call; a man had collapsed on the pier suffering from dehydration. It had been a hot summer’s day and the fifty-three-year-old, who had been trying to see as much as possible, forgot to drink plenty of fluids. I was sure he’d never forget again, not only because of his trip to hospital, but for giving his wife such a fright. She appeared to be a woman who was going to remind him constantly.
The night came and went, then another. I ate, I crapped, I showered, and I waited for another change. Another day came and went, but no other major changes had come. The dead flesh on my fingertips sloughed off and revealed curved talons. They were cumbersome and were going to be an annoyance and hindrance until I learned to compensate, especially while trying to accomplish anything that needed superior manual dexterity. I took a pair of Max’s nail-clippers and trimmed them back.
There had been one other alteration I hadn’t noticed until I showered, and that was the skin on my back. Along my spine, from my upper cervix to my lower lumber region along the vertebrae, my skin had changed from its pinky white tone to the familiar grayish blue color of a transmute. It was barely wider than my spinal column, but I had a distinctive stripe of newly formed, protective flesh down my back; still, I was mostly human.