Guinea Pig

by Curtis, Greg

  There was one thing more he noticed as he lay there, though he was sure it was his mind playing tricks on him. It did that so often lately. But there was someone out there in the street. Someone simply standing there, apparently completely unconcerned by the fiery missiles flying all around them. A figure he could make nothing out about. A man he couldn't quite see. When he looked through the distant gaps in the glass between the tables straight at him he wasn't there. But when he looked away sometimes he was. A man with long white hair.

  What that meant he didn't know. That his mind was starting to fracture under the stress. That he was seeing things. Or that there really was a white haired man out there that he couldn't quite see. But he was sure he didn't like it.

  They stayed down, sheltering under the desks, as far away from the store front as possible. They prayed because there was nothing else they could do. Especially when they could see on some of the monitors that there was a new volcano out in the sea just off shore. Apparently some of the patrons had been catching up on the news like him before all hell had broken loose. They couldn't hear what was being said by the reporters, but they didn't need to hear anything to understand that the conical mountain rising out of the water and spewing fire in all directions was a volcano. As they lay there they could also read some of the captions. Big bold words streaming across the bottoms of the screens that spoke of disaster and doom, and of course the fact that the experts had no clue as to how it could be happening. Until the power finally failed and the computers went dark. Maybe that was for the best.

  After that all they could do was huddle in the shop and pray. And though it seemed impossible somehow everything missed them. As the hours went by and the city was pounded relentlessly, not a single lava bomb smashed into them.

  Was that a miracle? He didn't know. And if it was what did that make the volcano rising up out of nowhere? Another miracle? Could there be both good and bad miracles?

  Will didn't have a clue. But he did know after the impacts had finally ceased for a good twenty minutes and they were finally ready to risk poking their heads above the ruins of their fort of desks and tables, that the city had just ended. Los Angeles had died.

  It wasn't the fire they could see burning across much of the city that had spelled its doom. It wasn't the new damage that the lava bombs had done. It wasn't even the massive numbers of people that would surely have been killed and injured. All of those things could be dealt with. People could recover from them. In fact while thousands, perhaps millions had fled after the ice storm, most had stuck it out thinking that they would recover. Hoping that things would come right.

  Now though that thought was gone. There was no hope. And that was what had just killed the city. Will knew it. He could see it in the faces of the others as they carefully looked around, all of them with the same question in the back of their minds. The same two terrible words trying to worm their way out of their mouths. What next?

  Sink holes, ice storms and now fire storms. No one had a clue what was happening, but they all knew that something was happening. And they all knew there was more coming.

  It was time to leave. To evacuate the city. To flee.

  Chapter Eleven.

  The lava bomb was huge. A ton or more of rock sitting in the middle of the road, making it all but impassable for traffic. It was still glowing. And it was hot, the tar seal around it still molten and in places burning. As Will carefully rode around it, trying to keep as far away from it and the flames as possible, he could feel the heat radiating off it. Just as he had with all the other lava bombs he'd ridden past. And the thing that amazed him still was that this thing had flown through the air. What sort of power did it take to hurl a rock this huge miles and miles through the air?

  Other people – and there were many others in the streets staring at the lava bomb and the ruins of their neighbourhood – were probably wondering exactly the same thing. The thing defied reason. Make that things. And every road he'd been on – every street – was filled with people staring at these things and sometimes battling the fires they'd caused.

  Still, after he had made his way past it and continued his slow trip home, the other question returned to bother him. How much more could the city take? Cycling home after the bombardment had finally run its course; that was the question that kept running through Will's mind. How much more?

  After four hours of bombardment the city was in ruins. Multi-story buildings were burning and some had actually toppled. Clouds of black smoke were rising into the air above the damaged city and Will was sure that in time they would blanket everything. They would cover the entire city and more besides. Much more.

  The outer suburbs had been hit hard as well. This had not been a targeted strike on the city and a few suburbs like the ice storm. It had been a massive all-out assault on the entire region.

  There were fires everywhere, most of them burning out of control. There were no fire services running any more. There were few roads left which could take a fire truck even if there had been some working and the crews to run them. The roads were mostly filled with craters from the ice missiles and the wreckage of cars. To get around after the ice storm the National Guard had had to resort to trying to bulldoze them clear. And they simply didn't have enough bulldozers. Now they would have to start all over again.

  The air was filled with smoke from the fires and the smell of sulphur was everywhere. It stung the eyes as Will rode through it and he was certain it couldn't be good for the lungs. Many of the survivors had clothes around their faces to filter it out and he was thinking that maybe he should do the same when he got back. But the strange thing was that there was no ash. He would have expected it during a major volcanic event.

  The power failure and telecommunications blackout had also grown in size. How wide the blackout was now he didn't know. All he did know was that about ninety minutes into the assault the power at the café had gone off. Quite frankly he was surprised it had lasted that long when the lava bombs were flying all around. And some of them had travelled a long way further than the ice missiles had. When it had finally ended and he'd left the café, he could see flames everywhere. They were far further inland and to the north and south of where the ice had struck.

  Many more people were dead of course. How many more he suspected they would never know. Anyone with any sense would have sought safety inside buildings as the lava bombs rained down on them. And maybe they would have provided a little protection. But not from a direct strike. Nothing would protect against that. The chances were that many of those houses that had been hit and caught fire were filled with the charred remains of those who'd sought shelter inside them.

  Many others would have burnt to death as well. Caught in the fires that had raged out of control. Fire was the immediate danger the city faced. If it wasn't stopped quickly the entire city would burn and millions would perish.

  The authorities had realised that and acted. In desperation FEMA had drafted every plane and helicopter with a bucket that they could lay their hands on and now the entire city was being bombarded with water and fire retardants. Without a working fire service it was the best that they could do as they tried to save what was left of the city. And at least it seemed to be working. If dozens of fires were still raging, dozens more had been put out. On the other hand it was noisy and every so often you ended up getting soaked just from being too near to a fire as a plane dropped another load.

  As to the cause, all he knew was that it was a volcano. A brand new one that had popped up just off shore without warning and then started bombarding the city. That was all anyone knew. He had asked the guardsmen he'd passed on his way home. They didn't know any more than that.

  It was impossible of course. All the experts on the computers had all agreed on that – before they'd been cut off. Volcanoes didn't just pop up like that. There should be ash clouds. There should have been warnings like tremors first. And it should have taken days. They'd all said that for a marine volcano to
just suddenly rise up out of nowhere and hurl lava bombs around was unheard of. Or they had before the power and the internet had failed. But then so too were hail stones the size of basket balls and sink holes that just opened up and swallowed small hospitals. In the end it was happening. Impossible didn't come into it any more.

  His view – and he was becoming more certain of it with every mile he rode – was that hell had arrived on Earth. And it was beginning by making itself at home in Los Angeles.

  The city looked like hell. Massive lumps of glowing rock were everywhere, buildings were on fire and people were out in the streets looking terrified and confused. Women were openly wailing, men too. And the smell was indescribable. And maybe it made sense in a way. After all, many had said that Los Angeles was one of the most sinful places on Earth. So where better for Satan to set up shop? All Will needed were the demons and their pitchforks to arrive and he would know he was right.

  In the morning he suspected the exodus would begin in earnest. Those who had remained behind after the ice storm would pack up and leave. They would do it on foot for the most part. There were no more working cars in the city and whatever roads might have been clear before were now surely wrecked. But they would do it. In the end while no one really knew what was happening, they knew the city was under attack. They also knew that there would be more attacks coming, even if they had no idea what they might be or who was launching them. They would flee.

  All that would remain behind would be a few people who held out. People who couldn't leave because they were too sick. Who wouldn't abandon their homes. And of course one man who was stuck here until he could finally make contact with his doctor.

  In short, him. He had to stay. If he fled he lost all hope of finding Doctor Millen, or of the doctor finding him – assuming he was actually looking. He threw away all hope of finding a cure or a treatment, or even of learning what was wrong with him.

  And he had so little to begin with. Just an email and a church. But maybe that was the paradox of hope? The less you had the more tightly you had to cling to it.

  He was trapped in hell.

  But at least he had a place to sleep. Turning the last corner, and making his way around another still glowing hunk of rock the size of a small car that had embedded itself in the footpath, he could see his flat ahead. Twenty houses down the street, he could see his roof covered with odd coloured patches of pink paint, but still standing there and still somehow in one piece. More or less.

  Suddenly there was hope too. Just a little bit. The hope of a bed to sleep in for the night – and more bad dreams.

  Chapter Twelve.

  A week had passed since the fire storm and Will had cycled back to the church. Again. He was desperate to learn if there had been any word from Doctor Millen. He knew the man was alive and in the city. He knew that because the day after the fire storm, after the mysterious email, he had cycled out and spoken to the pastor, and Pastor Franks had told him he'd seen him and passed his message on. That almost certainly meant that Doctor Millen had sent the email.

  But since then there had been nothing. The doctor hadn't visited him. And though Will no longer had an internet café anywhere nearby that he could use, he doubted that the doctor had one either. So that meant he couldn't have sent him any more emails.

  By now Will was becoming desperate. As his body continued to change, he was also becoming very scared.

  Of course he was far from alone. People everywhere were frightened. And they were fleeing the city in numbers. Grabbing their possessions and simply marching out. He didn't know how long it would be before Los Angeles was a ghost town. A ghost city if there was such a thing.

  But the church wasn't empty any longer. There were people in it, praying and chatting as if it were a normal Sunday. And Pastor Franks was there too, walking among them, giving comfort. But as Will waited to speak with him he doubted the pastor could bring him any comfort. He doubted the pastor had ever heard of anything like what was happening to him. He doubted anyone had.

  It was some time before the pastor was free. He was busy with his flock. But that was all right with Will as he sat out in the front yard and stared at the ruined city. It was quiet outside. Probably more quiet than it had ever been. There were birds chirping away happily. The sky was as usual a perfect blue with just a few wisps of white cotton wool clouds lazily making their way across it. And the sun was shining down on him as it always did.

  How in the midst of a disaster could things be so peaceful? So serene? He didn't know. But he knew it was. And he knew he should enjoy it while it lasted. Before the next disaster hit.

  So he made himself as comfortable as he could on the seat – it wasn't easy with his back so stiff and the growth on it getting larger and more inflexible – and waited. And to pass the time he chatted with the white haired people who he could see even though they weren't actually there. He did that a lot these days. After all even if they didn't answer him and he couldn't actually see them, they didn't tell him to stop. So really he supposed, he talked at them. But when the pastor finally came out and joined him, he forgot them as he cut loose.

  It was wrong of course and Will felt guilty for laying his problems on him. For complaining like a small child. The man didn't need his moaning. He had enough of his own problems to deal with. Besides, there were so many others who were so much worse off than he was. Who had greater reason to complain. People who had lost loved ones, suffered terrible injuries and been made homeless. In the overall scheme of things his were minor complaints. But the fear ruled him, despite his best intentions, and he couldn't stop himself.

  What made it worse of course was that as he moaned like a frightened child he was implying that the pastor was working against him in some way. That he knew more than he said. That he could perhaps contact Dr. Millen if only Will could persuade him strongly enough of his need. But he knew that none of that was true. Pastor Franks was a good man. He wouldn't do such a thing. But still the fear ruled him and Pastor Franks was the only link he had to Doctor Millen. Will just couldn't seem to stop himself.

  He even told him that he now knew the doctor had injected him with something other than what he should have. That he'd done it deliberately. Will laid it all out like a prosecution – all to make the pastor take his complaints more seriously. To get him on his side. And yet he knew there was no need. Pastor Franks would help him anyway. He was a priest not a mad scientist. But he still couldn't seem to hold himself back and the words just kept tumbling out of his mouth until there were none left.

  After that he found himself empty. He'd complained so much, voiced so much fear that there was nothing left for him to say. And Pastor Franks said very little as well. No doubt he'd heard a lot in his time as a pastor, but he would never have heard anything like this. No one would have. Eventually though, the pastor found some words.

  “William, I wish I could tell you that this is minor and that it'll all come right. But I can't do that, because I simply don't know what this is. But what I can tell you is that most things do come right in time. People do recover from most illnesses. What you need is time, less stress, a good diet, plenty of rest and a bit of faith. These will all help. And I know you think that since Reginald did this that he's the only one who can fix it, but you could be wrong. Maybe you should see another doctor.”

  “I mean the colour is odd but it could be some form of jaundice, and jaundice can be treated. And you mentioned testosterone. You could be right. But hormones can be replaced. Stomach upsets can be relieved as can rashes and sore backs. And with what you're going through and everything else that's happened, I'm not surprised that you're having bad dreams. They normally pass in time and until they do there are drugs. Even if what Reginald has done is unable to be fixed without him, it may still be able to be treated. You can recover.”

  “I'm sure it's not as terrible as you fear.”

  But was he saying that because he really believed it, Will wondered? Or because it was the s
ort of thing you were supposed to say to frightened people?

  “Honestly Pastor you wouldn't say that if you could feel what was happening inside my guts. I mean the eyes, the skin, the hair, the growth on my back and the other stuff I can live with. Even the stiffness and pain in my back is bearable. But whatever's going on in my guts is truly awful.”

  “I can't even go near a steak. The smell is unbearable and the churning in my stomach beyond belief. It’s the same with eggs and dairy. But I'm starving hungry, and eating things no one should eat. The other day I raided my neighbour's vegetable garden. He's long since fled so he won't mind. And by the time I'd finished there wasn't a potato, pea or a bean left. I ate them raw, the pods too. And I ate his lemons and watermelons the same way. I didn't even wash them off. I'm eating like a cow!”

  But what truly scared him was that as he'd gorged himself on raw vegetables he'd been thinking that they had tasted good. Eating a raw potato was one thing. You could do it if you were hungry enough – as he had been. But to imagine that it was tasty was something else entirely.