by Jack Ketchum
McNichols studied the boy. "You don't believe me? The Academy told us to go to primary sources. I opened a book and found your name. Easy as that."
"Again, John—bullshit."
"All right. It wasn't easy. The book was written in Syriac. I had to go to Istanbul to get it translated. Turned out it was a book of poetry."
The boy was watching him closely, no longer blinking. "I don't recall anyone setting me down in verse."
"Then your memory's failing."
Brightening, the boy said, "Was it love poetry?"
"Sonnets."
"The nurse! I bet it was my little nightingale! Am I right, John?"
McNichols nodded and listened to the boy's long sigh of happy remembering.
"How could I have forgotten? I found her in a hospital tent in the Crimea, mopping up after amputations. So pretty among the screams. And so passionate. It was like death had girded her loins for love. We used to sneak into the field marshal's tent while he was out on operations and make love on his ermine cushions. I say love, but really I mean fucking. Good meaty fucking. She demanded nothing less." The boy's eyes had turned wistful. He blinked back into the present. "She wrote sonnets about me?"
"Yes."
"And used my name in them?"
"Yes."
"That was careless, giving her my name," he said. "But I was in love, John. They were reckless times. All that blood and fucking." He fell silent. His attention went to the rattlesnake in his lap. He stroked the brown arrowhead with his small forefinger.
McNichols reached into his coat pocket and produced a crumpled Polaroid. The movement got the boy's attention.
"What's that?"
"Photograph," McNichols said. "You might want to see it."
Interest lit the boy's face. He held out a hand. "Let me look."
"Put the snake down first."
He obliged, just like that. The snake went down on the rock with the others. The hand reached again.
"Let's see."
McNichols handed the photo across and the boy bent over it.
"What is it?" he said, after a long peer. "Is that a wall? What's the mess on the bricks?"
He looked up and McNichols nodded. "The wall's down an alleyway in Seattle. In Longyard, past the bridge. Nothing much to look at, is it? Sort of forgettable. One of those places folk pass every day without noticing."
The boy was frowning over the photo again.
"Is that a body there, John? Somebody die and you took their picture?"
"That's right," McNichols said.
"Not very sporting of you, John."
McNichols waited until he had the boy's attention again.
"It was your brother," he said, his voice carefully bland, his gaze steady. "Your twin brother. Turns out you're mewk after all."
The boy blinked, just once. Then he calmly set the photo aside among the snakes.
McNichols said, "I'm 62 years old. I've been following your scat and murders for 31 years. But you never once asked me what I did before you. Weren't you ever curious?"
The boy's eyes had hardened. "I'm thinking about it now, John. I guess I am now."
"I had another assignment. My first."
"Bullshit. Hunters get one job. I know that. Then you retire. One backbreaking job of killing. What makes you so special, John?"
The composure was splitting.
"The Academy saw my skills," he said. "You've seen the evidence. It's there in the photo. You're mewk. Killing your twin was like doing half a job. It meant you were still out there. The Academy sent me out again...for you, this time."
"I murdered your family, John."
"I've lived with that half a lifetime."
"We're both alone in the world."
"Except you've just found that out," McNichols said. "Tell me, how's it sinking in for you?"
The boy's eyes darkened. "Was hunting me worth all that grief, John?"
McNichols shrugged. "That grey taste in your mouth right now? That's grief. Maybe you can tell me."
The boy bowed his head and closed his eyes. It took McNichols a long time to realise he was crying. The tears dripped from his trembling chin and fell among the snakes. McNichols reached into his coat again and produced a box of matches and a can of lighter fluid. He placed the matches and the can on the rock by the boy's knee. One of the snakes shook a rattle at him. Coils tightened. But he wasn't bitten.
He watched the boy lift a snake and hold its coils against his neck, nuzzling it the way a real child might nuzzle a soft blanket or a stuffed toy.
"You didn't answer my question," the boy murmured. "I asked you if it was worth it."
McNichols looked at the place where the far mountains danced behind the heat.
"There's not an hour goes by I don't wish my family back again," he said. "Nothing's worth that. Not in this life. Not under this sun. The question is—can you stand it?"
With that McNichols turned around and walked away towards the mountains, leaving the boy to his grief. He knew he wouldn't get far before the heat brought him down. The idea didn't bother him unduly.
Later he heard the mellow boom and seethe of bursting flame. And, tangled up in that sound, the spit and hiss of burning snakes.
He didn't look back.
—Jeff Strand
Jeff Strand is the author of a bunch of books, including Pressure, Dweller, and Wolf Hunt. If the apocalypse ever happens, he probably won't go on a rampage of destruction, but he makes no promises. Visit his Gleefully Macabre website at http://www.jeffstrand.com
—The Apocalypse Ain't So Bad
By Jeff Strand
If you ask me, people are unnecessarily gloomy about the end of the world. And that starts with calling it "the end of the world." It's not like the planet exploded or cracked in half or melted or anything like that. The world itself is perfectly fine—it's just that almost everybody is dead.
Here's the thing: We all know that it was a devastating tragedy. Why keep bringing that up? Anybody you talk to, you literally can't have more than fifteen seconds of conversation before they've gotta switch the topic to the apocalypse. I'm not suggesting that it isn't a major news story; I'm just saying that it doesn't have to be the only news story. Know what I'm saying? It's been almost four months.
Believe me, I've got plenty to whine about. I'm pretty much on my own at this point. For a short while after humanity's 99.7% demise, I was traveling with a woman named Cyndi. Unfortunately, I sort of botched the timing on bringing up the whole "Hey, we've gotta repopulate the earth!" topic, and I found myself surviving on my own.
Sure, the mutants are a problem. (And, yes, they're mutants—it seems like some people want to call any non-verbal human with a messed-up face a "zombie.") But they go down pretty quick with a shot to the head, and c'mon, who among us thought we'd get the chance to open fire on real people without it being a felony?
Now, some survivors did have to defend themselves against mutated friends and/or family, and there's no question that it must've sucked. If you're one of them, you have the right to be mopey. That's not who I'm complaining about. It's the folks who had to shoot three or four mutant strangers, yet act like they had to drown their own mother in a bathtub. Three words: Get. Over. It.
Would I rather the plague not have claimed billions of lives? Of course. You'd have to be a fool or a psychotic to feel otherwise. But are those billions of people going to get right back up and return to their normal routines? No. (Especially because they're not zombies!) It happened, the streets are littered with corpses, so let's make the best of it.
Take Disney World, for example. The rides aren't working because there's no electricity. But admit it, haven't you always wanted to get out of the car in the Haunted Mansion and just take a look around on your own? I did that a couple of days ago, and it was an absolute blast. I even tore off a piece of the wallpaper as a souvenir. Could I have done that pre-apocalypse? No way! I would've been thrown out of the park. Hell, I even got to climb on the track of Space
Mountain, and there were no lines anywhere. You don't need some guy walking around in a Mickey Mouse costume to have a good time.
Food is a trade-off. I won't lie to you—I miss steak. On the other hand, last week I brought home an entire shopping cart filled with candy. That sucker was overflowing, and I left plenty on the shelves.
I guess I just don't understand people who always have a negative attitude. Life in a post-apocalyptic world isn't anywhere near as bad as movies want you to believe. It's actually kind of fun. Now I'm going to head over to Barnes & Noble and pick out any book I want.
***
I got bit by a mutant this morning. It was my fault; I should've been paying closer attention to my surroundings. Got me right on the arm. It hurt—oh, Christ, did it hurt. Still, my gun was within reach, and I've always been ambidextrous, so I took care of him before he was able to actually start chewing.
Infection is a concern, I'll admit, but it's not worth getting all bent out of shape over.
Trust me, I'm not taking a lackadaisical attitude toward the bite. I cleaned the wound (which did, unfortunately, break the skin) thoroughly with antiseptic, and then I covered it with a bandage. I cleaned it again every half hour after that. Yeah, it stung like crazy, but that means it's working, right? When life hands you lemons, you make lemonade, and even though the antiseptic burned worse than pouring lemon juice into the wound, I wasn't going to let it bum me out.
I knew a guy who got bit. You wouldn't believe how much he carried on, and how much of a "Pity me!" attitude he had about the whole thing. Know what he did? He said "I don't wanna become one of those things," shoved his revolver in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. Can you believe that? I mean, who kills himself over a mutant bite?
Me, I don't care if I become a shambling, oozing, moaning super-mutant, I'm not swallowing a bullet. That's the coward's way out. Screw that.
***
Well, it's been five days, and the bite is almost completely healed. That's how it works. When you have an upbeat attitude, your body chemistry and immune system respond accordingly. Mind over mutant.
A lot of people would've just holed themselves up in their home or apartment after being bitten like that. Not me. Know what I was doing when the pain was at its worst? I was smashing up an abandoned Volkswagen with an aluminum baseball bat. That's not something I could do before the plague, and don't try to act all high and mighty and pretend that the idea isn't appealing. In this new world, boys can be boys, and I love it!
***
I miss my family. There, I said it.
This feeling started while I was in a pottery store, breaking pottery. Though I was being cautious and staying out of the narrow aisles, I suddenly felt a hand grab my wrist and yank me away from the shelf. It was the nastiest-looking mutant I'd encountered thus far, and I mean both nasty as in "disgusting" and nasty as in "mean."
There were four other mutants with it. The fact that they were less nasty-looking than their counterpart wasn't much of a consolation.
I immediately opened fire, pumping a bullet into the first mutant's nose. As expected, its grip loosened and I yanked my wrist free. Another shot and the mutant was missing a goodly portion of its skull, including essential brain components. It fell to the floor.
The other four mutants lumbered toward me. They aren't exactly speedy creatures, but they aren't that slow. I mean, it's not like you'd feel like a schmuck and be embarrassed to tell people if one of them got you. So I quickly scooted back through the aisle until I was well out of arm's reach, and then started pumping bullets into those reeking brutes. (Have you smelled one of those things up close? Oh, man, imagine the worst case of festering halitosis you've ever inhaled and multiply it by eighteen or nineteen. Foul. Foul, foul, foul.)
I got the first one in the chest, which didn't do any good. I fired again and got it in the chest again, which continued to not do any good. But the third shot was the requisite head shot, and the mutant dropped.
Something grabbed me from behind.
I screamed and spun around, getting a damn good view of another mutant's jaws coming right at my face. I jerked my head back just in time to avoid the no-doubt unpleasant sensation of its teeth digging into my eye, then pushed the barrel of my gun against its chin and squeezed the trigger. Much splatter resulted.
I spun back around and fired at the other three mutants. I finished off the first one in line, pulled the trigger again, and heard the ever-disappointing click. Fortunately, I always carried two guns, plus a hunting knife and a grenade. I wasn't sure if it was a "blow things up" grenade or a smoke grenade (I'm not exactly a weapons specialist) but I kept it with me anyway, just in case.
I pulled the second gun out of its holster and fired, blowing a hole in the mutant's right hand and giving him an impromptu stigmata. Couldn't repeat that shot if I tried. I didn't try, because it was more important to kill them than impress myself. My next shot got rid of the mutant's ear. It howled in pain.
I took a few steps back, almost tripping over the dead mutant behind me but thankfully sparing myself that indignity. The two remaining mutants walked side-by-side down the aisle. They were both women, which sucked. There was a definite macho thrill to be found in blowing away ugly guy mutants, but shooting women—even grotesque mutated ones—made me feel like a jerk.
My next bullet shattered a pot. But my next two bullets after that got both of the female mutants in the head. Down they went. At least they weren't hot.
Then another mutant popped up behind me. How did I miss that they were having a frickin' mutant convention in the pottery shop?
Its teeth sank into my shoulder.
I immediately pulled away, which was a bad idea. A generous strip of flesh ripped off in the process. I fired four or five bullets into the mutant's skull before it hit the ground, and two more after.
I frantically peeked around the corner of the aisle, expecting to see a dozen more mutants coming at me with outstretched arms, but the store seemed to be empty now. My shoulder wound was bleeding profusely, and I plucked one of the mutant's teeth out of my flesh and flicked it onto the ground.
That's when I started to miss my family.
Sure, we had our little spats, but they never bit chunks out of me, and our quarrels never involved gunplay.
I pressed my hand against the injury, then quickly made my way out of the store and back home.
***
I'm a bit more cynical about the apocalypse these days. The bite really, really hurts when I use the antiseptic, and I'm seeing definite signs of infection.
I still think people complain too much about the whole situation, but the lack of qualified medical personnel is a pretty big downside. That said, I don't think that I'm going to become one of those creatures and I don't think I'm going to die. I do think that I'll be doing a lot of screaming for the next few days.
***
My shoulder looks like crap.
It never stops hurting. I've got aspirin but it's not doing any good. I've gone on several supply runs trying desperately to find something stronger, but those goddamn scavengers have cleared out all of the painkillers.
Not gonna die.
Might have to cut my arm off.
I don't think it's possible to saw off your own arm. I think you'd pass out from the pain, and then wake up with a hacksaw imbedded in your arm. If the infection gets worse, I'll need somebody else to do it.
Is there a tactful way to ask somebody to perform an amputation? How do you even bring up the subject? I guess you could always leave the bite uncovered, and keep the hacksaw in plain sight, and hope that they put two and two together and make an unsolicited offer.
Of course, the whole arm-removal thing is a last resort. Don't want to chop my arm off and then have some guy find me lying in a huge pool of my own blood and say "Oh, gosh, I've got a pill right here that would've cleared that up."
Think I'm gonna scream some more.
Yeah, that sounds like a good way to spend
the afternoon. Afterwards I'll open a can of spaghetti.
***
Wow, my social skills have taken a beating since the world ended. I went out looking for survivors with medicine (y'know, for the whole arm thing). Found a family of four. Started shouting like a crazy person. I don't even know what I was saying. I know what I was trying to say: "Hi there, folks, I've had a spot of trouble and was wondering if you could spare some antibiotics?" But as soon as I saw them I got so excited that I lost my ability to form a coherent sentence, and the father calmly suggested, with the aid of his shotgun, that I move along.
I tried to give him the whole "I mean you no harm" speech, but he fired into the air and looked really damn stern. So I left. Couldn't find anybody else all day.
I try to continually think happy thoughts about my shoulder, but it keeps looking worse and worse. It's hard to move my fingers and elbow.
But hey, it doesn't hurt as bad anymore! It's more numb than anything. That's a blessing, I guess.
***
I really think this arm has to go. Better than losing a leg. Can't walk very well with only one leg. You try to run away from those mutants with one leg, and you're almost guaranteed to fall on your face unless you've had a lot of practice hopping. Me, I'd rather lose an arm than a leg, any day.
I'll be an inspiration. How many people can survive in a post-apocalyptic world with only one arm? Not too many. Amputees have accomplished many great things throughout history, and I will proudly join their ranks.
After I do some more screaming.
***
Know what? I think it's looking a little better. Not a lot better, but a little. Can't expect it to heal right up overnight. That would be wacky talk.
Starting to get tired of all this candy. Wish I had some pork chops. Think a nice meal of pork chops, baked potato with sour cream and bacon bits, and steamed broccoli would make my shoulder feel better. I've got the broccoli, anyway, but not the steamer.