The Two That Remained

by Mauldin, J Fitzpatrick

  “This fun game,” Emily said, grinning with her eyes.

  “Here’s the game. Don’t touch anything to win. Okay, Emme? If you do that, we’ll have some candy afterwards.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Candy? I can have candy?”

  “Yes, yes, after this.”

  He approached the most logical workstation first, marked with a microscope that had a tiny Hello Kitty sticker on the side. His heart palpitated at the sight of it.

  “Kitty?” Emily asked, reaching for a sample tray on an adjacent countertop.

  He coolly pushed her hands back to herself. “Sure is. How many kitties do you see right here?”

  “One. Three. Five?”

  “Two, kitties. One. Two.”

  “Okay.” She considered this.

  “What color are they?” He inspected the countertop, first checking for anything immediately dangerous to Emily.

  “White.”

  “Very good. They have white faces.”

  Sheets of paper littered the space between the sample dishes, gel ink having run to leave palm or finger prints on many of the pages. He flipped through the notes and all he saw were numbers beside a few random words: Radiation. Cell wall rupture. Mitochondrial damage. The deeper he delved into the stacks the more he saw one statement repeated again and again. A statement he had already seen, and had a feeling was at the core of their research into the impending Event:

  Correlation does not equal causation.

  It was written in his wife’s block letters. He pursed his lips and handed one of the cream colored notes to Emily.

  “What color is this paper?”

  “Yellow?”

  “I’ll accept that answer. Can you hold this? It’s a note Mama wrote.”

  She nodded and slid it into a pocket.

  He left Lillian’s station and tip-toed around the room, checking other piles of notes. Nothing but numbers and words which summoned no mental references. This was beyond his understanding, nowhere near his field of academic study. He needed a summary report, and he had a good feeling he knew where to get it.

  They closed the door and went back into the hall, carefully removing their gloves and masks, tossing them back into Micro. The foam sanitizer mounted beside the doorframe still worked. Their hands were washed.

  “Gel in, gel out,” he mumbled.

  Ryan produced a sucker from his pocket and Emily squealed.

  “You earned it,” he told her, ruffling her hair.

  They searched each room on the second floor, none of them were Peter’s office. Emily rattled off colors with a raised finger, blue and yellow and orange signs. Most of the time she was right. They checked the third floor, nothing but administration and empty rooms. There was so much wasted space, Ryan was starting to wonder why they’d moved into a building so large.

  On the fourth floor, they came upon a series of rooms filled with inactive servers and enough air conditioning, if they’d had power, to hang raw meat. Past the server farm was a single door, a corner office with the name “Peter Kilgore” engraved on its plaque. The door had a mag lock. Ryan wound up the flashlight and pushed the kick plate with the toe of his boot. The door swung open with an agonized squeak.

  “It’s dark,” Emily told him, her arms wrapped around his leg.

  “Yeah. Sure is.”

  He flicked the flashlight on and went inside.

  Ryan was expecting to find a corner office like in the movies. A place where executives would have lounge chairs and chases, a mini bar, and a cigar humidor. Here, Peter le Douche would sit with other men of power, smoking and drinking, laughing about their future. Laughing about how the world was their oyster, their pussy, and how they would eat it all. And as they fed upon one another's toxic dreams and ambitions, thousands would go underpaid and overworked. Stock prices would soar and they’d pop open a bottle of champagne, patting one another on the back. Prices would crash, and twenty percent of their staff, people who relied on this place to make a living, would be without work just to save a couple points on their dividends next quarter. They would drink aged whiskey and tell each other they’d done the best they could, then laugh about the matter after many glasses were downed.

  “It’s just business,” they would justify to one another. “And I’ll be damned if we aren’t number one. You have to make sacrifices to be on top. That’s right. Sacrifices.”

  That was what Ryan had expected to find in here, but was sorely disappointed at the reality. Instead, he found a cramped office not much larger than a closet. Though the room was dark, without a single window, he could tell that the aluminum desk was old and worn, the chair behind it made of fabric and metal with casters, not fine, Italian leather. A computer monitor lay on its side. Before the desk were two plain chairs, wood and vinyl, that matched the rest of the executive’s thrift store decor.

  He covered his nose. “What’s that smell?”

  The pool of light cast by his flashlight panned around the room, catching sight of the words, Causation does not equal correlation, written several dozen times along the walls in red ink. The light wandered onto the desk to reveal a half-inch stack of papers. Project Sunshine.

  Ryan drug one of the thrift store chairs out into the hall where he could see better. Emily hopped in his lap.

  “Read?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  ****

  Project Sunshine

  Summary Report - Part 16

  Unified Biological Laboratories, Inc.

  Confidential

  Prepared by Steven Long

  Sample sets donated by hospitals, St. Mary’s, Barnes, SSM and Kindred, have yielded the following results. Solar activity tracked by our colleagues at JPL, coronal mass ejection events (CME) ranging X in intensity or higher, are linked to an exponential uptick in the following areas of health concern:

  15% Increase in new types of cancer, see page 43.

  22% Increase in autism, see page 22. Empirical evidence indicates it is not the result of

  vaccinations, despite public opinion.

  15% Increase in cases of neurological divergence, see page 50.

  41% Increase in cases of severe allergies, see page 9.

  66% Increase in patients reporting cardiac issues, see page 33. Many cases lead to the

  hardening of cardiac muscles due to an unknown, overproduction of collagen.

  37% Increase in cases of depression and social anxiety, see page 26. Still undetermined

  if this is related to CME events or globalization.

  With each CME event between the intensities of X11 and X33, the above percentage points increase, multiplied two to three times against the previous numbers after each event, dating back to as early as 1859 (though our ability to track intensity of CME and other solar activity was not available until 1971).

  It is my opinion that the solar events are the direct causes of this change, not another related factor. The sun is only becoming more active with time, the gap between events (henceforth known as SE-ZEROES) decreasing. A visual side effect that may soon be seen is the increased frequency and size of the aurora borealis. The more often these events occur, the higher the chance of an extinction event.

  Evidence suggests that the sun is rewriting our genetic code, damaging humankind in a predictable way beyond mere radiation poisoning.

  I believe, that when three more events have passed, if the model is tracking correctly, humanity will experience widespread cardiac failure. Everyone on Earth will be struck with a severe heart attack the result of cardiac muscles, specifically the aorta, hardening like concrete. All evidence points to this outcome. The sun is going to murder us.

  I know my colleagues at UBL disagree, especially my esteemed partner, Mrs. Lillian Sharpe, stating vehemently that the sun is not the cause, but exacerbating some other issue such as bacterial or viral mutation triggered by the CME events. We have not taken the time to properly prove or disprove this
hypothesis. It seems unlikely, given the rapid nature of the changes.

  Nevertheless, it is my recommendation that the only way to survive is for a rich genetic pool to be taken into an underground bunker, wherein they will be shielded from the sun’s radiation. Over time, it is my hope that the solar activity will abate. Even if a mutated micro-biotic organism is the cause, this should slow or stop its progress. There is some evidence to indicate that cells shielded from these intense, IMF events from ejections, are less affected.

  It is regrettable that all government agencies shown this information have decided to ignore it, despite the fact that hundreds of satellites have been destroyed or disabled as a result. What is most important to note of our findings, is that evidence suggests not everyone will die. There will be survivors. There is a small quantity of this pool who have not been affected in any measurable way, perhaps one tenth of one percent.

  And so again, not everyone will die.

  ****

  One day, for reasons unknown, yet relating to the sun, everyone in the world had stopped living, their hearts turning to stone. But that wasn’t the most important takeaway. Sure, Ryan was curious why it had happened, and he knew something wasn’t right because of the Auroral activity, but there was a small chance they weren’t alone. Not everyone will die.

  The remainder of the report made little sense to Ryan. Biology wasn’t his field of study, micro or otherwise. But if he was guessing, humanity had been reprogrammed by some mysterious, outside force. The tiny organisms in their bodies which made things happen—digested food, repaired damage, maintained musculature—were set to different tasks. And with the flip of a switch, the hearts of almost everyone on Earth had been set to OFF.

  He blinked at the papers glued to his hands. He read the last line several more times. “Not everyone will die.” What a terrifying sight to behold for that minority. To be talking to someone and just see them slump over, cars crash into one another, planes fall from the sky. To see them just stop.

  But what did it mean? What did it really mean? Did it mean there truly are survivors? Was it referring to Emily and him? Had Lillian gotten approval to put them in the cryo stasis unit? He flipped through the papers to find any mention of the CSU. There was none.

  “Fuck, what’s that smell?” Ryan’s stomach churned.

  Emily covered her nose and spat the word, “Fuck.”

  Ryan popped her on the leg, making an audible snap. “You don’t say words like that,” he growled. “Those are for adults.”

  She poked her lip out and started to cry.

  “Not everyone will die,” he mouthed. Focused solely on this idea. Was there really a chance they were not alone? He wasn’t sure how to feel.

  As he stood, he tried to leave Emily in the chair. She clung to him even though she was slapping his arm. “Sit down. Now.” The words came out of him hard as steel. “Do you hear me?”

  “No. Mean, Dada.”

  “Do you want me to pop you again? Sit. Down. Now!”

  He twisted free of her grip, wound the flashlight and went back into the dark office. It only took a moment for him to find what he suspected might have been there all along. Beside a cracked leather sofa on the left wall were the nearly decomposed remains of a man in a silver Armani suit. The man’s skull had been bashed in, blood stains covering the floor beside a glass award, broken, mounted to a marble stand. “Best New Research Startup.” Behind the desk was a bloody lab coat with a familiar name tag. It all made sense.

  “Peter found out and wasn’t happy about it. She—“ Ryan’s eyes fixed on the corpse of Peter le Douche. “—did it for us,” he mumbled, then stepped out of the room, pulling the door shut with a click. Emily was curled up against the wall, hands over her face, sobbing.

  The world became distant, sense retreating from him. His wife had murdered a man to keep them safe. That was the truth. He—

  Ryan took a deep breath, picked Emily up and went back down to the second floor. He found an empty cardboard box by the reception desk. It would have to be enough.

  “Dada, I sorry.” Emily’s hands pawed at his shirt, seeking forgiveness for a crime she did not understand.

  “Shh.”

  “No like.”

  “Shh,” his voice turned harder.

  The cryo-stasis room, where they had emerged into this alien world, was dark even with the flashlight set on lantern mode in its center. The power would have to last until he was done.

  “Stay here, Emme,” he said, putting a sippy cup in her hands. The door closed.

  Emily banged against the metal, screaming, “Dada, me out! Dada! No hide. No like.”

  There was no controlling the quivering of his bottom lip. His wife had murdered a man to protect them from certain death. That was why she had cracked. She’d felt such guilt, on a level he could never comprehend.

  “She did it for us,” he mumbled. “I must do this for her.”

  He hefted the hammer and went into the break room, knelt, hummed to himself, and began the work.

  Once, the hammer came down and shattered Lillian’s kneecap, bone dust peppering the floor. The hollow banging of Emily’s fists on metal redoubled. Twice, he severed her other knee, freeing both femurs from the pelvis. His eyes were burning. He choked on his own breath. Three times, he brought the steel head down, missing, then snapping the humerus free from the shoulder bones. Sweat soaked his t-shirt. The hammer vibrated in his grip.

  She still wasn’t small enough. What was left of the body wouldn’t fit through the door without help.

  He raised the hammer and brought it down again, Emily’s muted screams echoing through the hall. Blood began to stream from a deep gash on his right hand, making a shiny, slick spot on the floor. He dismembered Lillian’s skeleton one joint at a time: carpals, metacarpals, phalanges, ulmas, radius, capitulum. With each hammer blow he recognized less and less of what he’d learned in high school anatomy. Elbow. Sacrum. A rib? All were nearly dust.

  He gathered up the pieces and put them into the plain brown box along with her clothes. The CSU door opened. Emily’s eyes were red with tears. She climbed into his arms, but he didn’t hold her tight. He wobbled down the hall, the weight of his child on his hip, pushing the box forward with the toe of his boot.

  Lillian was heavier than he’d expected.

  His right hand hung loose from exhaustion, throbbing to the beat of his heart. In the mirror beside the front desk he caught a glimpse of himself. Bright blood painted the right half of his face from forehead to cheek. His dark eyes were black as pitch, pupils the size of marbles.

  Emotion had fled from him.

  There was nothing to be said. One more thing to be done.

  Chapter 44

  “Lillian? Hey, what’s up, why are you here?” Ryan was standing in the doorway of his dorm room. He was exhausted and feeling sketchy. He was in his twenties, and yet afflicted with a childhood sickness.

  She lifted a paper sack and grinned sheepishly, her home-made Beck t-shirt barely visible over the edge. “I thought I wouldn’t hear from or see you again after the other night. Melanie made such an ass of herself, not to mention, she was the carrier, sad to say. I wanted to make up for it since I invited her to the party to begin with.”

  Ryan was wary about coming any closer. “Have you had it before?” His arms itched where the massive pox had made their temporary homes. Don’t scratch or it will scar, he reminded himself. He scratched anyways, fingernails tracing around the pox.

  “Chickenpox? Yes I have. A really, and I mean REALLY, good time when I was a kid.” She shuffled the load in her arms. “This bag is kind of heavy, can I at least come inside and set it down?”

  “Sure. What’s in it?”

  “Chicken soup. Hot cocoa. Calamine lotion. A little whiskey I had left over—don’t tell anyone.” She set the bag down on his counter, reached inside and took out a deck of extra special cards. “And, of course, a little Magic: The Gathering to pass the time.”

>   His face lit up, heart thumping in his chest. He needed to sit down. “You play Magic, too?”

  “Sure do. Thought you might could use some company since your roommate vacated. Besides, I have to make it up to you.”

  “You have nothing to make up to me.”

  “Sure, it’s the least I can do.” She plopped down in a cushy bean bag chair and smiled. “Now come on, let’s heat up some soup and play. I have a killer green deck I’d love to try out on you.”

  “Is that so?” Ryan reached into a drawer and found his own deck. “Nothing beats my red and white.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 45

  It was the largest fire Ryan had ever made, and yet he hoped it was enough. They stood silent as her remains burned, wood crackling, flames casting embers skyward.

  The cardboard box went black as the bones tumbled out, white turning grey then pitch, then red, reducing their calcified structures to charcoal. Lillian was gone, nothing but ash and memory. He would never forget her, but he had to move on. Emily needed a strong father, not someone wistful of a past long gone. They had a future to make. They had other people to find.

  As the sun began to lean toward the horizon, a cool breeze blew up off the Mississippi. He felt a chill in his heart and gripped his daughter’s hand.

  “Hey, Emme,” he whispered.

  She looked up at him, puzzled. “Dada?” Her eyes were so big, so understanding. Children know more than you ever think possible. They see the hearts of people, not just their actions. It’s too bad we grow out of it.

  “Let’s go to the park,” he suggested, holding back tears.

  “I wuv you, Dada.” Her arms latched onto his leg and he looked away, mussing her hair and drawing her close.

  Chapter 46

  Two days passed before they made it back home. Ryan was tapped both physically and emotionally after what had to be done. He took every opportunity on their journey back to rest and recollect his thoughts. Too much had happened for him to properly process. What was left of his wife now resided in an aluminum Hello Kitty lunch box, carefully bundled in black cloth at the bottom of his backpack. On the good/bad scale, these days had easily sunk to a four point five. He was looking forward to better days. Holding on to the seed of hope this trip had given them.