by Tim Waggoner
“I want to find my wife,” he called out into the darkness. “Tell me where she is!”
Nothing happened at first, and David feared that Simon had tricked him. But then he saw a faint pinprick of light in the distance, no larger than a snowflake, he judged. Unlike a snowflake, it remained at a fixed point. It was joined by another several feet away, then by a second, and a third, and within seconds the void had been replaced by what resembled a night sky filled with a vast expanse of stars. Except the lights glowed too brightly to be stars, and the darkness that surrounded them remained untouched by their illumination, as bleak and impenetrable as before. Perhaps more so, due to the contrast with the pinpoints of light. David looked for recognizable patterns, starting with Orion’s Belt, but he found none. Further confirmation these weren’t stars. At least, none that he was familiar with.
A spark leaped between two pinpoints, appearing and dying away so fast that he wasn’t sure he had seen it at all. But it was followed by more—dozens, hundreds, thousands—flashing and sparking like electrical charges jumping from one terminal to another. It was a spectacular show, and for a few moments David could only stand and watch, mesmerized.
But then the lights—firing synapses, he thought—started to mean something to him. They didn’t change their appearance in any way, but he nevertheless began to see patterns in their erratic flashing, and he understood that he was looking at a map. A map of Lockwood. He saw and recognized every street and building, even if he’d never been there before or hadn’t known of its existence. He saw his house—make that his former house—his apartment, Country Time Buffet, Briarwood Elementary, the University, the hospital and so many more places. But the map showed more than just the town’s roads and structures.
It showed its people too. They numbered far fewer than he expected, and where the lights for the buildings were blue-white, these were yellow-tinged. There were other colors too. The crimson lights were clustered in one place, the high school, and David guessed that these represented demons.
But one pinprick of light was different from all the others. It was a bright violet—Sarah’s favorite color—and it rested next to the high school, so close it was practically on top of it. This was Sarah. In his mind, he caught an image of a wooden shed, but just as fast as it came, the image was gone. That was okay, though. The image was seared into his mind, and he knew that no matter how bad his memory had become, he would never forget it.
For an instant, he wondered where he really was, and another image flashed through his mind. In this one, he stood on a rooftop, facing east, watching the first rays of dawn pink the horizon. But then the image was yanked away from his mind, as if someone had reached inside his head and ripped it out. He returned to the dark, surrounded by tiny glowing lights, arcs of electricity racing between them so fast that he could no longer make sense of their patterns.
But that didn’t matter because he’d gotten what he’d come for. He knew were Sarah was. He started to turn back toward the elevator, but then a voice—Simon’s voice—echoed from the darkness, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
You’re not finished yet. There’s one more thing you have to see.
The lights winked out and unbroken darkness rushed in to fill David’s vision once more. But it didn’t stay that way for long. An incalculably vast multicolored swirl of lights appeared, rotating slowly around a mammoth yawning emptiness that David instinctively knew was a mouth. He’d seen images like it before—in books and magazines, on TV, in movies, on the web—but he couldn’t make his battered memory recall where. Then it came to him—he was looking at a black hole.
Not a black hole—the black hole. This is the Gyre. It lays at the heart of the Omniverse, devouring all space and time, its endless feast accompanied by the death screams of eternity. This is the ultimate meaning of life, David, the true purpose of existence. God is Hunger, and All is Food.
David could not remove his gaze from the hideous site before him. The slowly spiraling colors were hypnotic, the darkness they flowed into deeper and blacker than anything he had ever conceived of. The absence of light he’d experienced with his family inside the cave had been nothing compared to this, for this darkness was alive and ever ravenous.
He remembered what Simon had told him when he’d asked what was beyond hunger: more hunger. Now he understood what the boy had meant, and he wished to Christ he didn’t.
He had no idea how long he stood like that, watching the Gyre spin, but eventually it faded from view, leaving him in the dark once more. But this dark was almost comforting, compared to what lay at the Gyre’s black heart. Then he heard the sound of a door sliding open, and a narrow corridor of light spilled over him. He turned to see Simon standing in the elevator, holding the door open.
“Going down?” he asked.
Simon said nothing as the elevator descended, and David was grateful for that. Seeing the Gyre had shaken him to the core of his being, all the more so because he could sense deep within himself that the revelation he had received was true.
When they reached the Sacral level, the door slid open, and Simon gestured for David to precede him. David hesitated for a moment, not recognizing Simon’s gesture for what it was. But then he shuffled forward, dragging his bad foot, Simon following after. As they stepped into the Emergency reception area—which was just as crowded as before—David saw Dr. Buttram coming toward them. His once pristine lab coat was covered with blood, as were his face and hands. He carried a small brown bag, its bottom discolored with what looked like grease. David knew it wasn’t, though.
Buttram stopped when he reached them.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, Mr. Croft, but your daughter’s injuries were too severe. There was nothing we could do. But I hope your grief will be alleviated in some small measure by knowing that we were able to harvest her organs for donation.” He paused to lick his bloody lips. “Here, we saved you some.” He held out the bag—a little reluctantly, it seemed—for David to take.
David stared at the bag, thinking of the Gyre’s slow spin.
His hand lashed out fast as a striking snake. He wrapped his fingers around Buttram’s neck, gave a vicious twist, and was rewarded with a sharp crack as the man’s neck broke. Buttram’s eyes went wide in surprise, and when David released his grip, the doctor’s body slumped to the floor like the dead weight it had become. Buttram was still alive, however, and his eyes blazed with anger.
“I understand that you’re upset, Mr. Croft, but that’s no excuse for such behavior!”
The patients and staff in the waiting area fell silent and turned to look in their direction, gazes intense and nostrils flaring as they drank in the scent of fresh meat.
In a flat tone David said, “Dinner is served.”
A howl of delight burst forth from the crowd, and they leaped up from chairs and vaulted over counters and raced toward Buttram. Before the first of them could reach the doctor, David bent down and took the brown bag from his hand. He then stepped away so he wouldn’t get knocked down by the cannibalistic mob, and perhaps end up as an addition to their meal.
Dr. Buttram screamed as the feast began, but David didn’t look back. Instead, he started toward the exit.
Simon kept pace with him. “Now what?”
“I’m going to get Sarah. She’s all that I have left in this fucked-up nightmare of a world, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to fail her like I failed our children.”
“It won’t be easy,” Simon said.
“I know. She’s being held next to some kind of demon stronghold. There’s no way I can get her by myself.”
“So how are you going to do it?”
“I’m going to get help.” The smell of Buttram’s blood and organs hit him then, and pain lanced through his gut like a white-hot buzz saw. “And I’m taking my daughter, or at least what’s left of her, with me.”
He opened the bag, withdrew a red, wet morsel, and popped it in his mouth.
The door to the ER slid open at their approach, and David—chewing contentedly—stepped out onto the hospital grounds, Simon at his side. He had work to do, and in a strange way, he was actually looking forward to it.
Chapter Eleven
Kate dozed off reading Marie’s book, and when she woke, she was disappointed to find her new lover absent. To make matters worse, she had a headache and felt out of sorts. She’d had strange dreams last night, the details of which she couldn’t fully recall. She’d been at a hospital, she remembered that much, and there was something about lights swirling around a horrible vast emptiness…but other than that, nothing. And as seconds passed, even those few details began to fade.
Kate was just about to start getting dressed when Marie returned with breakfast for them both—a couple energy bars and two cups of the watery ink that passed for coffee in this not-so Brave New World. Kate’s headache improved, as did her attitude, and after eating, they made love again, and then went downstairs to the cafeteria.
Ruth Meyers, a member of the Council, approached Kate. She had been scheduled to go on a supply run with Nicholas—all the Rangers were going out more often these days in order to stock up for the coming winter—but with Joe dead, the Council had canceled all excursions. They were mindful of how death, any death, affected the survivors, and they didn’t want to risk anyone else’s life right now. And Joe hadn’t just been anyone. He’d been, well, Joe.
Ruth—a woman in her fifties who’d been a dispatcher before Blacktide, and was now the only member of Lockwood’s finest still alive—asked Kate if she’d speak at Joe’s memorial service, which was scheduled for noon. The services weren’t elaborate affairs, but Kate had never been asked to speak at one before.
There had been a number of services since the survivors had moved into the high school. Some had been for Rangers killed during patrols or supply runs, while some had been for people who’d died of natural causes because they no longer had access to the medical care they needed. One of these had died of complications from diabetes and another from congestive heart failure. But the majority of services had been for people who’d chosen to commit suicide rather than continuing to live through the nightmare the world had become.
Wrist slitting was the most popular form of self-annihilation, followed by jumping off the roof of the school. The former was a more efficient, if messier, way of offing one’s self. The high school wasn’t that tall, and some of the jumpers survived—for a few excruciatingly painful days, anyway. If Kate ever felt the need to check out for good, she’d do it when she was outside on a run. That way, zombies would find her corpse, pick it clean, break apart her skeleton and carry the bones away to munch on. No one would ever know what she’d done, and her suicide wouldn’t serve to depress the other survivors.
Not for the first time, Kate wished a therapist had survived Blacktide. They sure as hell could’ve used one.
She agreed to speak at Joe’s service, although she didn’t want to and had no idea what she would say. Ruth smiled, nodded once, and went off to attend to whatever business was on the Council’s agenda for the day. Probably discussing who would take Joe’s place among them in the coming days.
Kate got a second cup of coffee, while Marie passed. They sat together at a table in the corner of the cafeteria, watching the others while Kate sipped her coffee. Some were crying and being consoled by friends, while others talked in low tones, sometimes shooting dark glances their way. It was clear they blamed Kate and Marie for Joe’s death. After all, if they hadn’t gone out last night, Joe wouldn’t have felt compelled to go after them. Most just sat quietly, faces blank, gazes dead. They’d endured too much loss since Blacktide hit, and they’d long since become numb to it.
After a time, Marie spoke. “What did you think of Dr. Rothschild’s book?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah. The parts of it I read were interesting, but I have to be honest—it seemed kind of far out to me.”
“More far out than living in a world full of zombies?” Marie countered.
Kate smiled. “Touché. But I just don’t see how we’re going to think our way out of the cesspit the world’s become.”
“Well, if we thought our way into it…”
She broke off as Nicholas entered the cafeteria, saw them and headed for their table. People gave him dirty looks too, although not as many as had given them to Kate and Marie. Nicholas had been Joe’s guide and bodyguard. It had been his job to bring Joe back alive, and he’d failed.
Nicholas stopped at their table but didn’t sit down. There was sadness in his gaze, and when he spoke, his manner was subdued. Joe and Nicholas hadn’t been friends—Nicholas, like many survivors, tended to keep people at a distance emotionally—but it was clear Joe’s death had affected him.
“How are you two doing?” he asked.
A hell of lot better than Joe, Kate wanted to say. “All right. How about yourself?”
“The same. Trying to ignore the psychic daggers everyone’s sending my way.”
He sounded sincere, but there was a slight edge of mockery in his tone that made her think that, at least on some level, he found the survivors’ anger amusing.
“It’s not your fault that Joe died,” she said, mostly because it was what she was supposed to say.
“I may not have killed him with my own hands, but I still feel as if I’m responsible, at least in part.”
There it was again—that edge, as if he was enjoying some sort of secret joke. She told herself that it was just her imagination, and, besides, grief and trauma made people act in all kinds of strange ways. She’d once witnessed a woman—whose husband, a Ranger, had died during a supply run—try to break all of her fingers with a hammer as tears streamed down her face. The woman had managed to break four before Kate stopped her.
Still, there was something about Nicholas’s manner that made her feel cold and empty inside. She thought of multicolored lights slowly swirling around a blackness deeper and darker than any she’d ever thought possible. Looking at Nicholas now, she felt the same way she had looking at…at…
The Gyre.
“Did Ruth ask you to speak at Joe’s service?” he asked. It took her a moment to shake off her strange feeling, but then she nodded. He said, “Me too. Although given the way people feel about me right now, I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”
Marie had been watching Nicholas up to this point, her expression unreadable to Kate. But now she spoke. “That’s why she wants you to. Kate too. She wants people to see that you’re both genuinely sorry Joe died. She’s hoping that will help make them stop blaming you.” She glanced at Kate. “Those that do blame you, I mean. Not everyone does.”
Enough of them do, Kate thought. And she numbered herself among them.
“Since our supply run has been canceled, what are you going to do until the service?” Nicholas asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask the Council if I can go through Joe’s possessions. It has to be done, and maybe it’ll give me some ideas what to say later.” When a survivor died, his or her possessions were divvied up among the others almost immediately. These days, survival always took precedence over sentiment. Besides, Kate felt that by volunteering for the duty she’d be doing penance, at least in some small way. “You?”
He shrugged. “I thought I’d check over the supply list again, see if there’s anything we should add to it.”
“Good idea.” She turned to Marie. “You want to come help me?”
“I don’t think so. I want to do some more research about—” she glanced at Nicholas, “—the stuff we were talking about earlier.”
Kate understood that Marie might be uncomfortable with going through Joe’s things so soon after his death—especially given how he’d felt about her. Kate thought Marie was wasting her time pursuing weird New Age theories about Blacktide’s origin. But it was her time to waste, and if it helped keep her mind off Joe’s death, it would be worth it for that reason alone.
“Okay. I
’ll be back before the service starts.” She couldn’t decide whether to give Marie a goodbye kiss—after all, they hadn’t even been together for a whole day yet—but Marie took the decision out of her hands when she leaned forward and kissed her. Nicholas raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn’t comment.
Kate got up from the table and headed out of the cafeteria, giving Marie and Nicholas a farewell wave. She felt the stares of the other survivors on her as she departed, and she carried them with her as she went.
Marie experienced an uncomfortable mix of emotions as she watched Kate leave. On one hand, she was worried how going through Joe’s things would affect her. She felt guilty for not going along to provide moral support, but she didn’t think she could handle it right now.
On the other hand, she felt the giddy thrill of having found new love. She’d been attracted to Kate for months, almost since she’d first met her, but she’d figured the woman was out of her league. She was smart, tough, confident and together. Older too, and while the age difference hadn’t bothered her, she’d feared she’d seem too immature to Kate. Besides, she knew how weird she seemed to everyone, a girl obsessed with zombies in a post-holocaust world. And how many times had Kate had to leave the high school in search of her after she’d sneaked out to perform one of her experiments? Kate could kick ass with the best of them, but every time she left the school, she was risking her life, and Marie knew it. Kate should’ve seen her as nothing but a gigantic pain in the ass, and if she had, Marie wouldn’t have blamed her for it.
She couldn’t quite believe that last night—and this morning—had really happened. She had no idea if the two of them would stay together. Permanence was something that belonged to the world before Blacktide, and those who’d survived took each day, each moment, as it came and tried not to wish for more. Even so, she hoped that what they’d started last night would continue for as long as it could.