Dead Earth

by Demers, Matt

  “Too late, jaundice James.” Wilcott took a wide stance. If these were better times, James would have stepped away in time. But these were sea-sick days, and his body didn’t react as quick as his mind told it to. James took a right hook to the solar plexus. Timmy didn’t like that. Timmy coiled itself in barbed wire and barreled down a flight of stone steps.

  James keeled over. He dropped to his knees. By the time the pain began to subside — about fifteen minutes — James felt a small hand on his shoulder. Wilcott was long gone.

  “Jamie?” Jade kneeled and placed a palm on his stubbly cheek. She wasn’t laughing at his pain this time. And she had called him Jamie.. Even Tweaky humans seemed to have a built-in radar to know the difference between funny pain and god it hurts pain. “Don’t go to John Hopping,” Jade added. “I need a new daddy.”

  ***

  James fed Jade a bowl of cereal. By the time he showered, shaved, clothed and strung his harness on, Jade was back in the beanbag chair, sleeping again. He hoped she only saw the pain, but hadn’t seen the punch.

  The pain from the punch had blown the proverbial breaker in James’ brain labeled anger, concerned instead with waiting the suffering out. He felt rage surging through him. This punk kid suckered him. The worst part was, with how sick he felt, James didn’t stand a chance. Not since the oncologist confirmed he had relapsed did James feel this frustrated. Worse even.

  James left the Heritage building and headed out to the production floor. The floor’s emergency lights gloomed just enough to make out the outline of vats and the Fleetmann propane forklift. James looked for a switch panel along the north wall, but stopped when the overhead lights whined as they charged up. The lights boomed a moment later and shocked the room with glow. James blinked at the staffroom doorway, where Kovac and Bondy stood.

  “You ready,” Bondy yelled from the opposite side of the room as he walked with Kovac. Slung barrels of their combat rifles poked out from their backs like sheathed swords. James followed them behind the copper vats where a barricade of aging oak drums, small fermenting tanks, and other equipment piled against the door.

  They moved everything one-by-one. James thought he kept straight face as he worked, and to Bondy he did, but Kovac gave him peek-a-boo glances of concern. The pills weren’t doing it anymore, no matter how many. He decided that if the Tweaks had never come, by now he would’ve checked into hospice. The realization zapped his body with panic.

  Bondy grabbed a jumble of keys from his pocket and unlocked the deadbolt. They stepped through a vestibule and out the exterior doors. An early sun lit a desolate parking lot full of gravel and weeds. At the opposite end, the bottling plant stood taller than the distillery, and wider still. Its red bricks appeared more cracked and faded than the other buildings. James guessed it might have been the original structure.

  They crunched their way across gravel without speaking. Crisp morning crosswind felt like a good primer for the task ahead. They stopped at the oak-doors of the bottling plant; James’ hand rested on the Bearcat’s grip as Kovac and Bondy loosened the slack on their rifle slings and swiveled the weapons face-forward.

  “Both of you are staying out here,” James demanded. “I shouldn’t have let you come this far, even.” No way would they be on his conscience, especially Kovac. Timmy was his problem, and his alone.

  Bondy grabbed for his keys. “We need these guns, anyway. Even if you and I never met, Kovac and I would still be standing here right now.”

  Kovac placed a hand on James’ forearm. “Trust us, James. I can talk Joseph into giving in without a fight.”

  “How?” James asked.

  “She knows Joey better than he knows himself.”

  “That seems to be the pattern,” James smirked at Kovac. She kept a tight lip — clearly not interested. “But if that’s true, why haven’t you done it already?”

  They ignored the question. Kovac nodded at Bondy and he turned the key in the brass deadbolt with a click.

  The heavy oak door whined as Bondy pressed the latch and pushed. James’ eyes adjusted to the dimness, revealing a warehouse floor, four sizes too big given the amount of empty space.

  The plant floor reminded James of the abandoned amusement park rides on Boblo Island — the spirals of bottling conveyers were roller coasters, the barrel troughs were the Grandview monorail, and the tool cribs were the exotic pet displays.

  Kovac pointed with her chin at the largest, orange colored crib on the opposite side, then at the well-lit conference room on the catwalk above it. The catwalk wrapped the building’s circumference. Two staircases ran up on opposite sides. James felt a tap on shoulder — Bondy signaled with the blade of his hand to advance toward the west stairs.

  As they shuffled slowly, James turned to see Kovac walking nonchalantly toward the crib. He spotted rows of black and silver weapons within; the only objects in the warehouse free of dust. “What the fuck is she doing in the open?” James hissed

  Bondy didn’t seem to care.

  Something hollow rang loudly from Kovac’s location. She had knocked over a glass bottle. It didn’t break, but it rolled loudly along the floor until clanking to a stop at the support leg of a conveyor.

  The three of them froze. Nothing stirred.

  James and Body began moving again. They stepped over a textbook: Abnormal Psychology and Clinical Trials.

  Written by Rashid Abdel-Shahid himself — aka Joey. They crouched by an unscathed cargo van aimed at a small bay door. Then a first-aid room with a bloodied doorknob, then several more doorways. As they advanced, a putrid smell grew.

  Shit, James thought. He meant it literally.

  The tickle of his gag reflex made his insides spasm. He sang into his microphone fist, clenched his mouth and pumped convulsions.

  Bondy turned to James wide-eyed. He shook his head violently, pleading mutely for James to hold it back. But James caught a glimpse the office door. Across it read the name of a Mary Shelly novel written in greenish-burgundy shit:

  The Last Man, the crap-lettering proclaimed and dancing flies testified to the proclamation —if that’s what it was —, tracing the air with figure-eights.

  The gears churned. Lava reeled from his stomach. Tunneled his throat. Filled his mouth. He held it with every muscle in his jaw and waited with a mouthful until the spasms stopped. One wincing gulp and the vile liquid retreated. James smiled at the stick of wrapped gum pinched between Bondy’s fingers. He took it.

  They slid along the wall to the stairs. Bondy held up a closed fist at the foot of the steps and stabbed at the conference room with a finger. Inside, a sickly, thin man hid his malnourished frame unsuccessfully in a wool overcoat. A large red hard hat teetered atop his skull as he scribbled wildly at something on the table.

  ***

  October 21st.

  Schizos are prone to delusions of grandeur, which is why I do not assume, as The Last Man, that divinity chose me for the Beacon of Hope. There is no Hope. Not without a fertile mate for procreation (unless I somehow decrypt human autogamy — a daunting if not impossible task).

  I realize the absurdity of this log, given there are no readers (the rare astute Tweak notwithstanding). Nonetheless, journals have cleansing benefits — a mandatory therapy given to all my clients. Not to mention, my written thoughts serve as torchbearer for my symptoms. Schizophrenia, you see, is a slippery fellow, disguising itself in layers of false reality. Often, I don’t even realize I suffer from it. It fools even me.

  But thank the Divine nonetheless! For the strength to wash Haldol down the basin. Back in the Distillery Days, the brain smudging side effects of that drug would have prevented me from spotting my comrade’s alarmingly quick yet subtle switch to the Away Team.

  Some of them are still in there. They have evolved somehow — become stronger, more intelligent. The blatant weakness that plagues all but a select few — palpable communication skills — has now redressed into a form of quantum telepathy (amongst each other). It renders r
ogue wanderers into a cooperating Death Squad.

  To observe is to know — their shadows silhouette the Heritage Site windows nightly — one mature yet unconventionally attractive female and at least five males. They patrol on a rotational basis (and with guns no less!), which is a defensive strategy requiring advanced communication. Since most Tweaks are mute, telepathy is the only way they could conduct such strategy. It chills me to think such intelligence lurks within most (rather than rare) Tweaks.

  I am inconclusive regarding Away Team’s ability to telepathically spy on the One Man Home Team. I remain self-aware of my schizoid-paranoia of such theories. Nonetheless, who is to say they cannot evolve further? There is no harm in precaution, and will continue to wear the Hard Hat, which is lined wi

  The clang of metal bolted Joey from his seat. The pen flew from his grasp and slid along the conference table. He looked down, grabbed the C-9 light machinegun from beneath the table, and raced to the window. The production floor appeared empty. Should he camp in this spot, wait out a shot? He remembered what Napoleon Bonaparte wrote about movement, that turtling in gave the enemy limitless opportunity to build numbers.

  Joey rammed the butt of his gun into the door latch; the door flew open. He brought the sights to eye level, scanning the warehouse frantically, anticipating a face peering through the skylights, a Tweak hanging from the overhead pipes, a hand clutching onto the catwalk’s ledge waiting for the right time to grasp an ankle — none of those things appeared.

  His boots clanked as he walked. At first, he thought the clank echoed back at him, but it was something else. There, down below. The pretty silver-haired female Tweak he’d seen in the heritage center’s windows. He vaguely recognized her from somewhere. The Distillery Days? It ran the barrel of its rifle along the armory cage. So they could fire weapons. Was the Hard Hat working or could they read his mind? Joey held his breath while he aimed.

  Not yet, Joe. Unwise with your aim, he said to himself.

  Their eyes met. He expected a mad blitz, but it only stared back indifferently.

  “I’m not afraid of you!” Joey screamed at the production floor, his C9 jittering from adrenaline. His proclamation echoed back.

  “Take your shot then,” it beckoned with a hard accent.

  It wants you to. Her death will signal the others.

  Joey descended the steps. His comb-over hung like the open lid of a baked bean can. He reached the floor and walked along the perimeter in inches, his gun now at his hip and growing heavier.

  “Why have you come?” Know your enemy.

  “Because I can’t live like this. Kill me.”

  Liar. Joey clinched his teeth and stabbed the C9 skyward.

  Rata-rata-rata-rata!

  Five caliber pelted the walkway’s grating and ricocheted off water pipes. Joey strafed again. A row of skylights shattered in a row. Glass daggers rained over the silver-haired Tweak. It shielded its head with its weapon, but slivers of glass stabbed its forearms and the top of the skull. The rest burst on the floor and skidded in all directions.

  The woman-Tweak smirked stubbornly, even as red ran down its forehead and across its lips. It threw its weapon aside. Napoleon Bonaparte never discussed, to Joey’s knowledge, the paradoxical nature of a defiant surrender. He clearly should have.

  “Look what you made me do, bitch,” Joey barked. His barrel glowed white from overheating and began to bow as it steamed. He threw the C9 to the floor and dug into the lining of his coat. Out came twin MP5 submachine guns. He swung them around until they slapped together. He gazed down double sights.

  “You want death? Here it comes. But not until I hear the truth.” Joe’s coarse voice was the sound of grinding metal. It pierced high and desperate.

  “There’s nothing else to tell. End me.” The blood seeped into its mouth as the Tweak spoke.

  Joey fired. Sparks flew off the armory cage. “Why are you here?!” Joey roared.

  “To die,” it repeated.

  “You think I don’t know you?! Tweaks don’t self-destruct. It defeats the purpose of their very...purpose!”

  He crept closer. The row of crates, only steps away, marked 200 feet from the crib. Comfortably in range. Joey hesitated.

  Look at it — no hint of self-preservation even as it bleeds. Maybe they will self-destruct after all, if it justifies the Away Team’s common good.

  Joey grinned. “You’ve got decoy written all over you, bitch. You want me in firing range of an ambush? Am I right?”

  Its defiant, upright posture sagged just enough to confirm his suspicions. Joey darted to his right flank. That’s when he felt it — an aura perhaps, a tingling static between his brows. A few of his patients with near-death experience called it a warning, a premonition. For Joey, it came too late.

  ***

  James and Bondy blitzed from the shadows of the mailroom and sprayed lead. James emptied all but one chamber of the Bearcat. Bondy zipped through a full magazine of auto-fire. Joey’s body was blasted into ground beef. His MP5s clanked on the floor. Before Bondy could reload his gun, James pointed the Bearcat at him. “Come with me, both of you,” James demanded. Kovac and Bondy were now his hostages.

  ***

  “What are you doing?” Kovac demanded. The white bandages wrapped around her forearms and forehead already seeped poke-o-dots of blood.

  “Just making sure you don’t pull that rope-a-dope shit again.”

  “I knew exactly what I was doing,” Kovac shot back.

  “Yet he almost killed you anyway. Look at you.” James aimed the Bearcat at Bondy and Kovac with one arm and swiped the keychain from his grip with the other. “Now, back in the med room you go, troops.”

  He closed the door on Kovac’s leering stare. James thumbed through Bondy’s keys until he found the one marked first-aid room. There wasn’t one labeled for the crib. “Bondy, where’s the key to the crib?”

  “Right where you deserve to dig for it,” his voice grumbled through the pine door.

  “Shit.” James turned to the mosaic of ground guts on the floor. Karaoke singing did no good this time and he abandoned yesterday’s dinner loudly.

  “Wuss,” Bondy’s voice mocked.

  “Just stay put..” After regaining control of his body, James went for it. He saw the glitter of keys on a hula-hoop of pink intestines.

  Rip!

  The sleeve of James’ shirt tore evenly from the shoulder seam. He grabbed the keys with it and wiped the gore off before tossing the sleeve aside. Now the arsenal awaited only him — James limped to it with a smirk.

  The crib door creaked open. It appeared the psychiatrist treated the munitions as if they had been his own patients. Everything appeared immaculate. Standard issue US Army rifles — either m16s or m14s, James couldn’t be sure — gleamed upright on the weapon rack. Open footlockers on the floor contained handguns, gun oil, combat knives, magazines, and the odd pocket pistol.

  “Times a wastin’, girls,” James said to the guns. “Time to fuck shit up.”

  James grabbed what he could carry:

  1 Spas-12 tactical shotgun.

  1 Combat Knife

  .22 ammo

  1 flashlight and extra Duracells.

  1 combat vest with magazine pouches and sidearm holster.

  James removed his body harness and swapped it for the vest, packed the .22 in his Bearcat and jammed what he could fit of the loose .22s in a magazine pouch. He hung the shotgun’s sling over his shoulder.

  By the time James reached the Chevy Express cargo van, the first-aid room’s hollow door was being blown apart by Bondy’s large combat boot. He found the right key before Kovac and Bondy could grab him.

  “I’ll shoot!” James threatened. They weren’t buying it now. James climbed into the driver’s seat. Bondy pounded against glass.

  “Relax, will ya? You hardly even know me.”

  “This is the only working vehicle we’ve got right now!” Bondy yelled.

  “Oh. Then I can see why
you’re upset.”

  “This hero bullshit isn’t just risking your own life, but your daughter’s too,” Kovac reminded.

  James felt a rush of guilt and stared down at the steering wheel as he turned the ignition. He had just risked both their lives and Bondy still thought Jade was cancer ridden.

  He noticed Bondy in his peripheral vision. Bondy took a step back, reading James’ guilt, it seemed, as if realizing that lies had been told, even if he didn’t know exactly what yet.

  Kovac smacked the window with her palm. “You could hardly walk this morning,” she reminded him.

  “Yeah, but I’m doubling up the double up.” James grabbed the bottle of pills from his shirt pocket, shook it and smiled. “No use dyin’ for some crippled American, anyway.”

  Bondy headed to the bay door and began pulling the chain. The morning light slid further into the plant with each pull. “Just let him go,” he said through the glass.

  “Keep an eye on Jade,” James told Kovac and drove out, guiding the Express into the open lot and down a side alley that lead to the same retractable gate he walked through when Jade and James initially arrived. James pushed the half-ejected disc into the CD player. Frank Sinatra crooned about dancing in the dark.

  Maybe it was the quadrupling, but James thought Sinatra never sounded so good. He cranked the volume, wondering fleetingly if the sound might attract unwanted attention, then smiled at his own indifference to the question. He kept smiling as the motion sensors blinked and the gate retracted and as he took Tecumseh Road south, straight for the hazy downtown skyline. He smiled because whether he lived or not, the end seemed so close he almost saw it. It probably smiled back, James supposed.

  #

  CHAPTER 11

  The “Cure”

  The roar of the engine brought Tweaks into the open as expected. James dropped the speedometer to 60 and steered around a greying chubby Tweak that stood naked except for grey tube socks. It pleasured himself above a one-armed blonde Tweak on the curb. She appeared indifferent to the fapping.