Enter the Apocalypse

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Enter the Apocalypse Page 25

by Gondolfi, Thomas


  "If he fails, we will kill the vehicle in space."

  "I don't think that will be necessary."

  Mitchell brimmed with remorse. It was important to him to spare his team and keep them isolated from this ugliness. Every procedure, policy, piece of equipment, and person around him was built to do one thing: bring the astronauts home. Now, no matter how perfectly his organization worked they were going to lose at least one.

  "You think we are doing a terrible thing, don't you?" asked Dennis.

  "I wonder," said Mitchell.

  "You shouldn't," said Dennis. "The absolute best case scenario is a controlled shift of wealth and power to a class of immortal women, provided they survive the destruction of every political, social, and religious power on this planet. We've never been very good at creating the preconditions for a best-case outcome.”

  "The worst?" asked Mitchell

  "The worst?" A crash of the planetary ecosystem after decades of increasing anarchy and warfare," said Dennis.

  "How can you be so sure?" asked Mitchell.

  "I can't be sure, but imagine fifty percent of the human race becoming immortal and you were in the wrong fifty percent?”

  "I've always thought the world would get along without us," said Mitchell.

  "In the long run, the Earth abides without us," said Dennis. "In the short run, the violence of our passing and the legacy of our abandoned achievements will have far reaching ecological implications."

  Mitchell thought of untended oil wells discharging into the oceans, wind-swept radioactive waste from molten reactor cores and cities turned to toxic cesspools.

  "What are the odds someone else could duplicate her research?" asked Mitchell.

  "She is a rare talent, in a class by herself. Now that we know what to look for we can suppress lines of research, violently if necessary," said Dennis. "It should buy us some time."

  ***

  Bill stood over Jessica. He flexed his aching right hand, the one he’d punched her with. He smiled just before he hit her, and to his surprise she didn't drop. A stunned, confused look seemed to flash across her face and then it turned to something closer to hatred. Without further thought, he punched her two more times till she fell unconscious against her workstation scattering her samples and slides. With help from the other two he dressed her out in her Mars-stained excursion suit and zip-tied her arms and legs together with nylon straps. They lowered her down two levels and dragged her through the airlock into the experimental greenhouse. The translucent fabric of the greenhouse fluttered in the moaning wind. He could smell the withered tomato plants.

  "Why," she asked when she woke up.

  "What did you do?" asked Bill. "Why won't Homeland Security let us come home unless we kill you?"

  "I don't know, Bill. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Why are you so healthy? Why are you back-dooring the CDC with gigabytes of data?" asked Bill. "They know, Jess. It works, doesn't it?"

  "Yes," said Jess admitting defeat.

  "Do you know what it would do to the world?" said Bill.

  "I know exactly what it would do," said Jess.

  "They're making me," said Bill as a weak attempt at apology.

  He looked at her broken bleeding nose. He had never hit a woman before in his life. He surprised himself with his desperate savagery against a colleague.

  "No one's making you do anything, Bill," said Jess. "This is all you."

  Bill reached and Ammad handed him the helmet. He put it over her head. The helmet latched with a metallic click and the external LED indicator on her data display indicated twenty-two minutes of oxygen remaining. They had run her suit all night.

  "Let's take her outside," said Bill.

  "What for?" said Landon. "It doesn't matter where she suffocates."

  "I don't want it to happen in our home." As much as he hated the ship he didn't want her to die in it.

  They put their helmets on and then Ammad and Landon grabbed Jess by her arms and lifted her from the greenhouse floor. .

  "Ammad, Landon, you don't have to do this. Bill, you could just leave me here with the lander. Give me a chance." Her voice was muffled and far away.

  He couldn't. She was too clever and their return launch window was two months away. She was capable of anything in that timespan. Bill reached and freed her intercom jack and plugged it into her own port bypassing the suit-to-suit radio. They wouldn't have to listen to any pleading over the radio circuit. They exited the dying greenhouse and took turns dragging her across the frigid Martian sand until the lander was out of sight. Then they dropped her.

  "You two go back," said Bill.

  Both men left.

  Bill knelt in the sand and unplugged her ICS jack and plugged in his own.

  "Jess, I'm sorry. I really am."

  "Bill, please don't do this."

  "I have to Jess. I need to get home," said Bill.

  "Bill, it's just the first phase—please, it was easier to make it work for myself. I can make it work for everyone."

  "I'm not sure I believe you, and it doesn't matter. They don't want your discovery, and they won't let us come home unless we do this. I'm sorry."

  He unplugged his jack and plugged her cord into her Comm system's ICS jack to short the system. No one would have to listen to her die. As he walked away he could hear her screams through the thin Martian air. He suspected it was more out of rage than fear.

  ***

  The cold seeped into her Mars excursion suit. She struggled against the nylon straps until her arms and legs burned with lactic acid fatigue. The five-minute warning chimed and the heads-up display icons turned red. She tried to slow her breathing and then gave in to the panic. She ranted and raved and cursed the men in her life: her alcoholic father who had slowly destroyed her mother until she took her own life, the high school boys that had humiliated the awkward teenager, the college professor who published one of her brilliant undergraduate papers under his own name and then groped her while making sweaty promises of repayment, the administrators and fellow scientists that grudgingly recognized her accomplishments, and now her astronaut colleagues that dragged her across the surface of an alien world to die. She measured her life by the men who had terrorized her, which of course was why she created the virus in the first place, to risk destroying the world in order to shatter the patriarchal institutions that had been built on the backs of its women—and if the women were too weak to claim their prize and survive then to hell with them also.

  The oxygen counter indexed to zero and her lungs drew upon empty air. Her heart raced and the world dimmed to a gray pinpoint.

  ***

  Bill left the ship alone with a shovel. It was nearly six hours since they had dragged her outside to die. He followed his carefully orchestrated script and made the appropriate reports. He followed the drag marks softened by the Martian wind.

  She was facedown. Sand had started to drift in the crooks of her arms and legs. Her suit was heavily scuffed and frayed far more than what he would have thought. It was in her nature to fight. He rolled her over and tried to avoid looking in her face. He couldn't.

  Her face was dark and mottled gray and dried blood laced her blue lips. Her eyes were sunk beneath gray blankets. He expected them to spring open and accuse him but they didn't. Dr. Jessica Harrison, inventor of female immortality, was dead. He dug a grave until he was overwhelmed with fatigue and dragged her to the edge.

  "I'm sorry," he said as he rolled her in. He filled the grave with soft Martian sand and stabbed the shovel in the ground as a marker.

  He fled all the way to Earth.

  ***

  Washington burned. An orange glow suffused the horizon, brighter in the center and tapering out to darkness. Pillars of smoke rose into the evening sky. He could see the first stars through the smoky haze layer. A siren howled in the distance.

  "I should have killed all of you," said Dennis Cole.

  "I know," said Bill. "You should
have." He took a long pull from his imported beer. There wouldn't be too many of those since international trade had all but collapsed in a futile attempt to stop the spread of immortality. He scratched the label from the bottle with his thumbnail.

  "Tell me what you know," said Dennis. He had hired Bill when it became clear that NASA projects would not be funded for the foreseeable future. The man had a keen analytical mind, military-level discipline, and a strong personal interest in the project.

  "I am not sure it matters anymore," said Bill.

  "Everything matters," said Dennis.

  "The virus is airborne and effectively uncontainable, as common as the cold and just as easy to catch. Declining estrogen associated with perimenopause is the apparent trigger for immortality in the female vector with the side benefit of reversing the symptoms of menopause itself. All humans function as natural reservoirs for the pathogen. Male hosts carry the disease as a subclinical infection and remain asymptomatic except for the pheromone lure component of the disease. It is fatal for approximately fourteen percent of males who contract the virus. This accounts for the current geo-political instabilities in the…ah…more traditional nations. We lost Ammad in the Indo-Pak nuclear exchanges."

  "Makes pretty sunsets," said Dennis. "Pity about Ammad, but you, Ammad, and Landon are pretty much irrelevant as vectors anymore. Goddamn that clever bitch. Outsmarted us all and destroyed the world."

  Jessica's design, the one fed into the CDC's whole human model, was a prototype, a ruse designed to ensure that even if she didn't make it back, her legacy would. Men who survived the virus did not become immortal, but instead, exuded a pheromone cocktail that was irresistible to an uninfected woman.

  "Landon is riding it out in his family's New Hampshire cabin," said Bill. He shifted in the deck chair. The bones in his back crackled. "I need to get home." He was lucky he had one. His wife had forgiven him his long string of affairs after his return and why not? She had forever.

  "I think I know why the stars are so quiet," said Bill.

  "The world will find a new equilibrium," said Dennis. Billions were being spent to design an equivalent virus for men, but Dr. Jessica Harrison's genius was a once-in-a-generation phenomenon. Under present conditions, the best outcome was a gradual shift of wealth and power to a class of immortal women.

  "Maybe this is how it works," said Bill. "My sons will never know what's out there, but maybe my daughters will. That's something at least." He looked up through the roiling clouds to the quiet stars. Something in the distance exploded and the sky flared yet again.

  "Doubt it," said Dennis.

  "Probably right," said Bill looking at the conflagration. “You are probably right.”

  Heatwave 1976

  Jonathan Cromack

  Editor: It is also brightest before the sunset.

  Thursday: 86 degrees Fahrenheit.

  It was just like this after Davie died. I remember being here beside the orange armchair, but back then, I didn't have my Evel Knievel stunt bike. I love my Evel Knievel; it looks just like the real thing. I used to turn a handle really quickly to rev-up and spin the back wheel, then I'd press a button, which let the bike go and it'd shoot across the kitchen—it's best on the slippery floor in there; but now I just push it around because it’s broken—something's snapped inside. When I grow up, I want a motorbike, and I'll have a crash helmet with stars and stripes on it just like Evel Knievel.

  Nobody's saying anything. Mum keeps bringing cups of tea and biscuits to Aunty Mable and Uncle Keith, and Dad's staring out of the window with his arms behind his back—his fingers are white and held together. I don't know what he's looking at because it's only the back garden and he knows what that looks like. Maybe he's looking at his roses—he's lived here since before I was born and that was ages ago. I'm seven now.

  "I feel there should be something we can do. There must be something," Aunty Mable says as if she's cross about something. She keeps fanning herself with one of Mum's magazines.

  "Like what?" my mum says. The armchair creaks beside me as Mum flops down on it. She talks like she does when she's telling me off.

  "We just have to sit and wait, and hope. That's all we can do, Mable," says my dad, still staring out of the window.

  I can't help but smile as I hear Aunty Mable swallowing her tea noisily. They can't see me here by the chair, otherwise I'd get told off. I can't help it though. There's another spell of nobody saying anything, that's when I'm most likely to laugh, so I put my hand over my mouth and concentrate on the brown zigzags on the wallpaper which can look like 3D if you stare at them in a funny way. Aunty Mable's swallowing seems even louder—like a cartoon frog gobbling up a big fly.

  "Martin. Try the TV again," Aunty Mable says to Dad.

  Dad turns away from the window and fiddles with the front of the TV set, making pinging noises as the buttons switch in and out.

  "I'm sure they interfere with the stations just to keep us in the dark," grumbles Aunty Mable.

  Dad shakes his head. "They're probably just working on something and have to shut down the TV wavelengths for some reason."

  He goes over to the mantle-piece and switches the radio on, stretching out the aerial, which I'm not allowed to touch. He turns the big silver knob on the top, which makes the sound crackle and then hiss and another station comes on; I hear a song I like. Mum said it's Heatwave—“Boogie Nights.” I've seen them on Top of the Pops—I like the singer's dancing and the flame pattern on his jumpsuit; I also hear KC and the Sunshine Band, but the radio crackles again and I'm disappointed because they all just want to listen to a man talking. The man talks about Russians but it's funny because he can't say the word properly but says “Vussians” instead. I keep listening out for that word and every time he says it, it makes me smile. Davie would've laughed at that too if he was here.

  “...it is imperative that Vussian leader Podgorny and the Soviet leadership cease their military support to the MPLA immediately. Since the crises in China and Angola explosively re-ignited earlier in the year, communication between the superpowers has been strained to say the least. There have been speculations that the Soviet Premiere has now rejected all further discourse with the West. The threatening deadline imposed by US President Ford with full backing from United States’ allies, however, remains firmly in place, despite the hugely unpopular and potentially unthinkable consequences. An official government speech was expected to have been made to the British media by Prime Minister Jim Callaghan from Downing Street approximately forty-five minutes ago. We are still waiting...”

  I don't understand grown-ups, they don't like to do fun things, and they just sit down, drink tea, and listen to people talking on the radio. I want to go for a wee but I don't want to disturb them by getting up when they're listening; Mum might shout at me if I disturb them now; she's always like that at times like this. I'm best off waiting and keeping out of the way.

  I'm bored today; I wish Mum had let me play out with Daniel—he lives opposite—he's older than me by four years and he's got a Raleigh Chopper. It's got gears with a big stick in front of the saddle and everything. I told him that I'm going to ride a motorbike when I'm older and do stunts. Daniel knew my brother Davie, even though Davie was older than him.

  Everybody leans forwards as the man on the radio slows down his talking. It goes quiet for a bit and I'm a bit scared—I don't make a sound either. We're all as still as statues.

  “The Prime Minister is at the front door here at Downing Street...I can hear him now...”

  Just hiss and crackle on the radio. The man’s not speaking. I look around the room to see if anyone's moved, but they haven't.

  “...Thank God...CODE AMBER. Podgorny has instructed the withdrawal of Soviet assistance to the MPLA in Africa...That's the official word—we are again re-classified at risk zone—CODE AMBER...If you've just tuned in—Britain is at CODE AMBER. Now back to the studio, it's just after three o'clock at BBC Radio...”

  Aunty Mab
le and Uncle Keith lean back into the sofa; they both breathe out loudly. Dad claps his hands together and looks across at Mum who smiles and gets up, takes the tray of tea things, asks if anyone wants another, then she walks past me, brushes my hair as she does. "Orange juice, Jimmy?" she says as she goes to the kitchen.

  Aunty Mable and Uncle Keith start to whisper to each other on the sofa and Dad kneels down next to me. He smiles and puts his arms out and says: "Come on, Jimmy, give your dad a hug."

  "I've been playing with Evel Knievel," I say. "Dad, when I'm older, will you buy me a motorbike for my birthday?"

  As he hugs me, his whiskers, the long ones that grow down in front of his ears, scratch my cheek. "Of course, son," he says. "That's a promise."

  Friday: 87 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Mum is taking me to school. I was hoping to have another day off, but Mum said I have to go back today “because everything's back to normal, after the scare.”

  It's already getting hot again this morning and the bright sun hurts my eyes. There're always lots of cars on the road when Mum takes me to school, but today it seems there's more than usual. All the cars are beeping their horns at each other but not nastily like when they get in each other’s way at the roundabout; it's friendlier “toot-tooting.”

  There was music playing from a window of the tall flats that we passed. I asked Mum what it was, and she said it was David Bowie—I've seen pictures of him in a magazine. Some of the boys at school say that he's from outer space—that's why he's got orange hair and his eyes are different colours.

  A man is painting a fence; the paint smells nice, like summer. He smiles and says hello as we pass.

  We're getting to the school gates and all the mums are in little groups talking to each other waving their arms around. As Mum leads me over the crossing by the lollipop-lady, an old man with a bottle comes around the corner where the shop is. He has short hair and no moustache, not like Dad at all.

  He looks at me as Mum stops to get past the other mums who are blocking our way. "Hey, son," he says. "Why're you going to school today? Why're you going to school at all?" He takes a swig from his bottle.

 

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