by Darst, Matt
“So, if we’re already infected, how did we get it?”
“Again, I don’t know,” Heston says. “For instance, the disease could be airborne, infecting most people and hiding in the hypothalamus or in the nervous system like chicken pox or herpes.”
“So,” Wright concludes, “the disease might be biding its time, waiting for our immune system to grow weak, waiting for the early stages of death, to present itself.”
“It could, in theory. The process of reanimation might allow it to avoid competition from other pathogens, too. When a host dies, so do the pathogens within it. Maybe it is hardy enough to outlast them. This, too, might allow it to enter the brain, nullifying the barrier effect.” Heston nods to himself. This is an option he had not thought about before. “Again, a number of maybes. Unfortunately, there’s no way to prove or disprove any of these theories.”
“Strike three,” Wright mumbles.
But Heston is still talking. He’s frustrated. “There’s no known culture. So there’s no way to isolate the pathogen, no way to test blood or tissue. So we can’t even begin to treat or cure. And we never will as long as the church has its way.”
Oops. Heston realizes he’s said too much. He shouldn’t have said that last bit. He shouldn’t have criticized the church. The inquisitors use moles to ferret out independent thought. He should really be questioning Wright’s motives.
“But maybe we are simply witnessing God’s will,” Heston says, backing off. “I need not remind you God hasn’t been adverse to using the occasional plague to get His point across.”
Wright thinks Heston’s covering his ass. She’s right.
Heston doesn’t think it’s God’s will. But he also doesn’t believe the plague’s manifestation strictly supports Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. Evolution is more than that, especially on a cellular level. Evolution can be driven by cooperation, interaction, and shared benefit, too. To paraphrase Carl Sagan, life populated the globe less through combat and more through networking. But he says nothing of this to Wright.
“You know,” Heston says, “the Church concluded this is not a medical event—”
Wright interrupts. “Please don’t play coy, Doctor. I’m not a spy. If I was, I would have stopped talking to you an hour ago.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that you’re not a spy,” Heston says. “But did you stop to wonder if I am?”
Chapter Nine: Shopping Mall or Shopping Maul?
After lunch, Wright takes point. She thinks about Dr. Heston and their talk. She knows moles. Hell, Captain Richard King was probably a mole. Heston, however, is not an operative. But she gets his point.
Being a little cautious, being safe, isn’t necessarily a negative. She needs to be a little less eager and show some patience. Be smart, she thinks. Be safe.
Despite her desire to trust Ian and Heston, the truth is the only person here she can truly trust is herself. She needs to remember that, especially with the others.
Be safe.
Their conversation was anything but that. It didn’t just dance on the line of treason. It hurdled past it with all the grace and speed of a comet.
Still, be safe.
But if she is so committed to safety, why has she led the group out of the woods? She hadn’t even noticed that she had steered the party back, back toward the highway. The signs warn that the mall is just an exit away.
Their lives are in her hands. They head back into the woods.
**
As the billboard states, the Kecksburg Mall has everything—food courts, sporting goods, lingerie, watches, leather purses, luggage, high-heeled shoes, jewelry, DVDs, cell phones, televisions, memorabilia, comics—yes, everything…
And nothing. Nothing necessary. Nothing justifying the risk.
Wright hopes none of her troupe saw the sign. Otherwise, she’ll get questions. Why don’t we go there? Won’t there be food? Might there be survivors?
She doesn’t have to rehearse her responses. They would come in rapid fire succession. No. No. Hell, no.
The mall will be crawling with them if, as Wright suspects, the creatures are driven by memory and habit. In her experience, there is something more than instinct that drives these monsters. Her experiences were horrifying…
Within a week of the plague, a fledgling militia, locals armed to the teeth, rescued her and her family. They blasted their way out of Oldham County, burning everything in their wake. They moved quickly toward Louisville, picking up other random survivors like ticks on a deer.
The Macaroni Grill sat a mile outside of the city. That’s where she saw the state troopers. Twenty or more of them, along with a few former customers, all “turned sour,” as one of the rednecks said, like bad milk. All of them victims of the contagion, all trying to tear their way into the restaurant.
The Macaroni Grill wasn’t exactly Zagat rated, but one rule exists in life and death: cops always know where to get good food. And they had returned to their favorite restaurant, obsessed with filling their bloating bellies, not with pasta or filet mignon, but with the employees and patrons who had locked themselves inside.
The fighting was short but brutal. The militia rescued ten people that afternoon. They lost four. A net gain of six, plus some revolvers, shotguns, and ammo.
There are no survivors to save in the mall. There can’t be. There are likely hundreds, if not thousands, of revenants in and around the shopping center. So they will stick to the trees, safe in the knowledge that they will never truly know.
**
Jolene Heston yearns for a spa day.
Her husband wants to pet his dogs again, a Blue Tick named Oscar and a Golden Retriever named Brooke.
Anne pines for her mother’s homemade ice cream.
Now Anne prods Jessica. It’s her turn to tell those gathered around the campfire what she misses the most.
Jessica’s answer is easy: toilet paper.
“Me, too! Me, too!” Ms. Heston chimes. She holds her hand above her head and gives Jessica an awkward high-five. They laugh.
Dr. Heston stokes the fire. He says he remembers a time in his life, a time when he was a bachelor prior to meeting his wife, when a roll of toilet paper would last more than a day, more than an hour.
Ms. Heston rolls her eyes. She says that if he doesn’t watch it, she’ll see to it he has all the toilet paper he could ever need. They continue laughing.
Dr. Heston wants to change the subject. He looks to Burt for help. “What about you? What do you long for?”
Burt doesn’t hesitate. He grieves for his Spiderman 129, wherein the web-slinger fights the Punisher. If it hadn’t been blown from the plane, he would have traded it to a clandestine dealer on Padre Island, known only by the uninspired moniker “The Dealer,” for DC Comic’s Superman number 10. Superman 10 is a real prize. Only 200 copies were printed back in 1939. The Dealer has two.
Van yawns. They are all tired of hearing Burt carp about Spiderman 129. “Anything else?” Van asks.
Yes. Burt also misses his collection of graphic novels.
“Graphic novels?” Van asks dubiously. “Don’t you mean comics? Albeit, really long comics?”
Burt cracks a smile. “I guess I do.”
“Why comics?” asks Anne.
For Burt, comics, as well as science fiction and fantasy, are an escape. “They let me transport myself to a place where there’s something better, more freedom…” Burt hesitates. That sounded critical. He shifts gears. “They’re also an inspiration. There are still good people willing to do good things in the world.”
Jessica asks, “Who is your favorite superhero?”
“Easy,” says Burt, “Superman. He’s the best.”
“What?” Van demands. “The Man of Steel?” His voice drips with sarcasm. “I mean, the tights are bad enough. But the whole Superman premise is pretty cheesy. Batman, at least, was more realistic.”
“They are called superheroes, after all,” Burt defends. “Comics aren’
t meant to be entirely realistic.”
“Sure,” Van accepts, “but you can only suspend disbelief for so long. There should at least be some basic recognition of the laws of physics.”
“Plus, Superman’s kind of gay,” Dr. Heston chides.
“Neil!” Ms. Heston lectures, sternly.
“Well, he is,” Heston grumbles to himself.
Burt ignores Heston. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he likes men,” Heston replies.
There’s snickering about the fire.
“No,” Burt groans. “I was talking to Van.”
Van clarifies. “Well, for instance, Superman is incredibly ripped. In all the cartoons—”
“Comics,” Burt corrects.
“Yeah, right, comics,” Van continues. “In all of the comics, Superman is huge, a mountain of muscle.”
A confused Burt says, “A lot of superheroes are muscular.”
Van says, “Right, but they’re muscular because they work out. Superman was born with superhuman strength, so answer this: how does he get that big? Nothing could provide enough resistance. Really, he shouldn’t be any bigger than, say…Ian.”
Ian shakes his head. Van is such an ass.
But he’s not done. “What’s that planet he’s from again? Klingon?”
“Krypton,” Burt replies, flatly.
“Yeah, right, Krypton. And the gravity’s, like, what? Ten times our own?”
Burt thinks it’s seventeen. Seventeen-point-eight, to be exact.
“Okay,” Van allows, “seventeen. That means he’s got to be doing three hours of curls twice a day using freight trains as weight just to put on muscle, right? Wrong. He’s not, because that’s too conspicuous. Plus, his schedule’s not going to allow for it. The guy’s fighting bad guys all over the world—”
“And some off-world,” Ian adds.
“Right!” Van persists, “outer space baddies, too. And then he’s got this job reporting on stocks and restaurant closings and crap at least a couple hours a day, assuming he’s not a shitty reporter.”
“But this guy’s not winning any Pulitzer,” Ian inserts.
“No way,” Van maintains. “Not with all that gallivanting around. Let’s be honest, he can play the ‘exclusive interview with Superman’ angle only so long before it gets tired, or people figure out Peter Parker is actually Superman.”
“It’s Clark Kent,” Burt amends, peevishly. “Clark Kent is Superman’s alter ego.”
But Ian is talking over him. “It would be better if he worked for a television station.” To Van he says, “What if he had an interview show?”
Van agrees. “With cousins dating their pets and that stuff. That’s perfect. You know, I bet women would gobble that eye candy up, especially the 24- to 35-year-old bracket.”
“So would the gay demographic,” Dr. Heston quips.
“He’s not gay,” Burt sniffs to himself. He is outside the conversation. It has taken on a life of its own, and it carries on around him.
“Oh,” Ian exclaims, “here’s a story they should cover: Ghost Payroller on Staff at Daily Bugle.”
Burt shakes his head. It’s the Daily Planet. Spiderman worked for the Daily Bugle.
Ian is still talking. “Think of it. He clocks in and then disappears for hours to take care of his private affairs.”
“Since when is saving Earth a private affair?” a frustrated Burt inquires.
“It’s a private affair if he’s doing it on the company’s dime,” Ian scoffs. “Anyway, half the time he’s saving his chick from some danger of her own making.”
“Oh, yeah,” Dr. Heston says, “Barbara is always getting into trouble.”
Burt’s jaw clenches. Lois Lane. Not Barbara.
“At best,” Ian argues, “Superman is unethical. At worst, his behavior borders on the illegal. Think of the advertisers and readers he’s defrauding. How much of every paper sold is going to fund that?”
Van nods. “Talk about giving a whole new meaning to ‘Man of Steal!’ At least Batman does it with his own money.”
Burt leans back, dejected.
Wright realizes the sharks are circling and that this morale-building exercise has gone awry. She needs to put a stop to it.
More importantly, Wright realizes she, too, may soon find herself in an uncomfortable position. Soon the question will be posed to her: just what do you miss?
Family? A popular restaurant? A guilty pleasure? Shopping? What?
Wright would have to lie. How could she answer, “Nothing,” even if it’s the truth, even if she doesn’t miss a thing?
Or so she thinks.
Yet there is a tug at her subconscious. It says that “nothing” is not entirely accurate. She does miss something. She recognizes the void. But returning home will not fill it. It is a hole that can’t be filled with food, sex, alcohol, or money—although she has tried them in countless combinations. Her loss is something greater, intangible, but precious still.
Burt looks exhausted. So is Wright. “Okay, everyone, lights out. Time to extinguish the fire.”
Van protests. He didn’t get a turn to talk about what he misses. “Too bad. Lights out,” Wright repeats stiffly.
Good, Ian thinks. Ian misses something deeper too, but it’s something he’s been missing since he was little. Tonight he will dream about his father again as he does nearly every night.
Chapter Ten: History Derailed
It is a brisk November morning, eighteen years earlier. Peter Sumner blows into his hands. His breath lingers before him, specter-like, dancing about his fingers. He stamps his feet, looks toward the end of the Addison elevated platform. No train yet.
His morning routine: shower, kiss his wife and young son goodbye, and board the train. The Chicago Transit Authority picks him up less than a block from Wrigley Field. From there it submerges underground, and deposits him in the Jackson subway station, steps from his office.
The CTA is universally maligned. Riders complain that it is dirty, inconvenient, and, as a rule, late. But, with gas prices and parking taxes soaring, there is little choice for thousands but to take it.
The CTA is a monopoly. It has no competition. As such, commuters aren’t really customers. They are hostages, and their relationship with their captors is love/hate. It’s textbook Stockholm Syndrome.
Peter can relate to the CTA, though. He has been an attorney for the city for ten years, the Department of Revenue, no less. The only thing people can stomach less than a lawyer is a lawyer enforcing parking and tax codes. In terms of public sentiment, hatred towards Peter’s department easily surpasses the CTA, Hillary Clinton, and French émigrés combined.
There are stereotypes that befall most professions. Usually, those stereotypes can be summarized by a single question. For cops: “Have you ever shot anyone?” The question is as loaded as a cop’s revolver. It assumes not only that the use of force may be required, but also that there is a propensity toward it. For Peter, the question he is asked dozens of times from people as disparate as drunken Cubs fans to dignitaries: “Can you get me out of my parking tickets?”
The question offends Peter because it supposes that there is still corruption in Chicago, and that, as a public employee, he is inclined to partake in it. Also, it just plain lacks originality.
Peter does not believe Chicago government is a broken system managed by dysfunctional people. He works with too many bright people with innovative ideas and a genuine love for the city to ever think that. But he cannot deny that there are rotten apples. Even if they have not spoiled the bunch, the rotten apples seem to be the ones that residents consistently eat with distaste.
Peter wants to change perceptions, so he lobbies to do so and gets carte blanche. It isn’t hard. With scandal after scandal tracking across the covers of the papers like a sports ticker each day, the Mayor needs a win.
A bureaucratic monster stands ugly and glaring before him. He meets with various personnel, and is pummeled by excuses.
“We don’t make widgets.”
“We don’t have customers.”
“This is how we’ve always done it.” This last offered by Tommy Rails, a procurement manager. Rails is a rotten apple, lacking the skills to properly supervise and the intelligence to realize those skills are nonexistent.
But Peter is up for the challenge. Ninety-six percent of all problems result from breakdowns in processes. Peter studies processes like a boy with a magnifying glass, transforming them, filling in gaps, removing redundancies, and establishing best practices.
But four percent of problems are people, people like Rails. More and more, Peter’s magnifying glass sweeps over Rails and his cronies. It draws them into relief. Soon it will bring light, and with that, heat. Peter will fry them like the bugs they are.
But not today. Rails staged a protest, calling in sick. It is a coordinated strike. Nearly twenty percent of the staff called in as well. The absences trouble Peter. Several supervisors participate in Rails’ blue flu, including a few of Peter’s acolytes.