by Alan Janney
He shrugs and says, “No rush.” His voice is thick and dusty. “Eat before you go. You look mighty thin.”
I’m about to reject the offer but my stomach rumbles. We both hear it, and he chuckles. “Eat a bologna sandwich, little lady. Then take off.”
I nod and he finishes loading his haul. His four-wheeler rests underneath brush outside the clearing. “Thank you.”
“You’re one of them,” he remarks. “Ain’t you.”
“Them?”
“The mutants.”
My heart accelerates to a higher R.P.M. Mutant. What an awful word. “Why do you ask?”
He closes the locker door and fastens it, rises with bread and a pack of meat in his left hand, and points with his right. “Your hair. The scars.”
“Scars?”
He watches me uncertainly, a simple man trying to figure a complex situation. He points again. “Scars. On your skull. And your arms. He gave you the disease.”
My hand trembles as I inspect my cranium. He says, “Other side.” There. A small gap in the fuzz. Scar tissue, and subcutaneous tenderness. I discover four healed incisions hidden by hair, two in the back near the mastoid region. And faint scars on each bicep and forearm. I stop searching, afraid I’ll find more. I’m breathing deeply, panic threatening to uncoil in my chest.
“You just wake up?”
I nod and wipe furiously at tears. My emotions are so powerful that I groan with the effort of controlling them.
“I read about his Chrysalises,” the man continues. “Nasty places.”
“What do you mean by Chrysalis?”
“Don’t you remember nothing?”
“I woke up in a hospital. I think.” I pause to fight back a sob. “That’s all I know.”
“A hospital,” he repeats. “That ain’t a Chrysalis.” Another long pause as we both grapple with incomprehension. He turns in a circle, glaring into the hidden parts of the forest. “Well. Better come inside, I guess.”
I sit on the edge of his bed, forehead resting in my hands. The man opens the cabin’s one window and makes a sandwich. He places the food next to me but I can’t touch it. Instead of insisting, he eats his own food with the table manners of a recluse, and then guzzles a half bottle of water. Finally he says, “He’s dead. You know that?”
“Who?”
The man replies, “The Chemist.” There is a swirl of colors and emotions in the front of my mind. The Father.
“How did he die?”
“The Outlaw killed him.”
Instead of a swirl, now there is a hurricane. Fireworks of feelings and passions. Unanswerable questions crash and leave me more confused. The Outlaw. I remember him. No, that’s not correct. I remember…memories of him. There are echoes of that man deep in my subconscious.
“Ain’t that why you all going crazy?”
“I don’t understand your question,” I sigh. “I don’t understand anything.”
From under the bed, he produces a portable television. He powers it on and fiddles with dials and a bizarre antenna. “This ain’t the Los Angeles news,” he explains. “The local tower is broadcasting San Fransisco’s news. Because LA doesn’t have news anymore.”
I watch in horror. The world is madness. Every major metropolis is erecting interstate checkpoints. Traffic backs for miles. Electrified fences are built as quickly as possible. Large farms take on refugees willing to work as armed security. So do important manufacturing plants. Los Angeles is abandoned. San Diego empties. Las Vegas burns. So do Houston and Oklahoma City. America’s military appears to be at war with itself. And on and on, for twenty minutes.
The screen switches to the Director General of the World Health Organization, a well-put-together woman wearing a suit and scarf. She reads a prepared statement.
“The emergency committee convened by the World Health Organization to address the epidemiological outbreak, nicknamed the Hyper Virus, has concluded its first day of meetings. Our work is just beginning, and we’re far too early in the discovery stages to declare conclusive recommendations. However, due to the inflammatory nature of the outbreak, the committee has voted for unusual transparency, and to release initial observations.
“Representatives and physicians from all affected NATO countries have presented their findings, and from this collective we note the following:
“The Hyper Virus is new to medicine. Next to nothing is understood about the disease despite months of research.
“The Virus, which may or may not be ultimately labeled as a true virus, is not inherently contagious. Little is known about the initial outbreak, other than Martin Patterson is believed to be the disease’s agent of communication, and following his death no literature or data has been found to aid in our research.
“To date we’ve found nothing to signify the disease has spread within the last sixty days. There are no indications that the disease is spreading by sexual transmission or blood transfusion. All contagion properties appear to be dormant. Only those individuals who underwent the surgical operation are infected.”
“Bah,” the man grunts. “They’re trying to stop the fear, but it won’t work. People think they’ll become a zombie or vampire or something. Hard to control mass terror.”
The woman drones on for several more minutes and while she speaks the news channel displays images of the chaos and hysteria. The WHO uses clinical terms to hide the sordid truth: the mutants are people manufactured into weapons. Supposed super soldiers gone berserk. I close my eyes when the images become too much, and I only listen. The Director refers to the mutants as experiments of a brilliant transhumanist, and she uses the nicknames Variants and Chosen. The Chosen were supposed to be the next phase in evolution, or something else equally grandiose, but it failed. Instead of a utopia full of Chosen super humans (the Chemist’s terminology), we got a dystopia full of Variant freaks (the medical field’s terminology). The creations weren’t peaceful. On screen, a map shows Variants running wild, radiating out primarily from Los Angeles but also from small stations called Chrysalises around the country. The Chrysalises are empty now, grisly warehouses in which half the patients died from infection.
On screen, the Variants break into a Publix supermarket for food and slaughter the law enforcement when a deputy fires his weapon. I watch this video footage. I can’t help myself. The entire Sheriff’s Office in Alpine, Utah is wiped out when they open fire on a Variant drinking water at a stream. The anchors repeat viewer discretion warnings as video after video plays of the mutants eliminating enemies.
The pattern is evident; Variants respond to violence with overwhelming force.
Small domestic counter-terrorism teams are forming, the news anchors announce, deploying electroshock and fire-based weapons to capture Variants, alive if possible because the President is paying a million dollars per living incarcerated mutant. The teams are called Herders.
I nearly vomit as the weapons are demonstrated. Instruments of pain, built just for me. Eventually he turns the set off.
“They all have the disease,” I say, numb from horror overload. “The Variants.”
“Yep,” he nods. “On account of a surgery. Man-made mutants. The Chemist brought on the apocalypse.”
Brought on the apocalypse? No. Not yet, I think.
He says, “You don’t have to worry about me. I ain’t turning you in. I don’t care about money. Besides, you don’t seem harmful.”
“I’m not like them.”
“Those are just the violent ones, I reckon. No one really knows for sure. The peaceful Variants still live downtown, but they won’t let anyone in.”
“Downtown?”
“Los Angeles. They haunt the towers. Like ghosts. Barely alive. You look familiar, you know. What’s your name?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I don’t…”
“Okay. Well. I think I seen you before. My name’s Cuddy.”
“I’m fairly certain I have their disease, Cuddy. Does that mean Herders will hunt me with those
…weapons?”
“Yeah. Probably. You fairly certain on account of the scars?”
“And other things.”
“Like what?”
“I can see in the dark. And my nails are…” I hold out my hand. Even in the dim light the tips are lethal penumbra.
“And you’re fast and strong?” he asks, and I nod. “There are others like you now and then. In the forest. Wandering. Should I be afraid of them?”
“Most likely.”
- Five -
I remain with the man two more days. His cabin is built near the intersection of Tuna, Topanga, and Malibu state parks, in an unattractive valley with no trails. He’s been here for two years without drawing attention. I regain some of my strength and some of my sanity. But none of my memories.
I cannot stay. Restlessness is an animal gaining strength in my limbs. I find an evergreen fig tree overlooking brown hills, and I climb it. Here is the peace and distance I’ve been craving, space to think and consider my options. A strong desire to find family tugs at my heart, tugs me north. But who is my family? And do they want me back? Los Angeles’s skyline rises prominently to the south. Variants live there. Like me. I’d be accepted. Maybe I’d find answers. But a future? No idea.
Behind the eastern mountains is war and madness. And Herders wielding electricity. My skin crawls. I hate them. Without trying, I’ve developed an affinity for the Variants. A solidarity with those being hunted and hurt by lightning. I want to hunt the hunters. Turn their own weapons against them. A suicidal mission, but possibly worth the risk.
Cuddy returns for dinner. He isn’t alone. He leads a scared little girl by the hand. “This is Becky,” he says.
On second glance, Becky isn’t so little. She’s eighteen or nineteen. She’s short and she’s crouched, and she has the disease. Her eyes latch onto me as she enters the clearing.
“Where’d you find Becky?”
“Two miles south. Poor thing’s about to starve.”
Cuddy leads Becky into the cabin, but her eyes never waver. She watches me like the pursuers did at Walmart. Fascinated. Expectant. Like she thinks I can help her.
I stalk the clearing, pacing back and forth with long legs getting stronger each day. All those faces at the Walmart…they were mutants. They didn’t appear mutated, though. Not distorted or grotesque. We need someone, the man said. Are you her?
That’s a really good question. Who the heck am I? For the hundredth time, I wish I hadn’t taken that hospital bracelet off.
Cuddy walks out and says, “Becky won’t eat.”
“Why is she like that?”
“Got no idea. Maybe you can help her? The Hyper Virus damages their brains, we know that much.”
Hyper Virus. Damaged brains. Causing memory loss?
Becky walks out of the cabin, holding an uneaten sandwich. She is dirty and small and she is crying. I ask, “What’s wrong with you?”
“I…I don’t know,” stammers Becky. “Help me please…”
“Eat your sandwich,” I snap, and Becky jumps and obeys, hungrily devouring the food. Hands on hips, I roll my eyes and groan. “This will be pleasant.”
* * *
I’m still awake at midnight. Every time I close my eyes I see violence. I see people like me being hurt on television. I see people like me hurting others. So I sit on the grass, my back resting against the cabin, and listen to Cuddy snore in his tent.
I hear…everything. I’m aware of a thousand nearby animals, and I can see deep into the pitch black forest, like night vision. Like I’m nocturnal. Earlier I Climbed Cuddy’s cabin using only the strength of my nails. I cannot escape the raw truth; I’m a science experiment. Specifically, a science experiment that failed. Or perhaps, I’m the only one that didn’t?
Now what? What do I do? Where do I go? Who is my family? Why did this happen to me? I don’t even know which direction to face.
The silent phone rests in my left hand, unused. I feel the familiar urge to check Instagram and SnapChat. To connect socially with my friends. Those networking websites and apps still function but I can’t get in. I don’t know my email. Or my name. Or my friends.
Becky sneaks out and watches me from the corner. She stands like a shadow for twenty minutes, until I relent and pat the ground beside me. Becky lowers next to me and takes hold of my hand, like she’s a toddler and I’m her mom. A long sigh escapes her lips and she falls instantly asleep, her head on my shoulder.
“We need to make plans, Becky,” I say, but she’s gone.
- Six -
I return to my evergreen fig tree the following day and stare in all directions. Time and again, my attention is caught by the glittering Pacific Ocean. Distant waves, and the gentle rising and falling of the entire body of water, drain tension from my neck and shoulders.
I’m staying near the ocean. I want to. If I have family, we’ll reunite later. Hopefully.
Becky sits at the foot of my tree, playing with pine needles. The little Variant needs a wash and fresh clothes, but she is functioning at a much higher level than yesterday. Beneath the mud and insecurity and timidity, there are signs of a girl who was once attractive and strong.
“More are coming,” Becky says. She stares south.
“More? Mutants like me?”
“No. Mutants like me.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You’re strong,” she says.
“So?”
“We’re drawn to you.”
“I don’t get it.”
She shrugs, a barely perceptible motion. “I feel better. You’re safe. I mean, you feel safe. You know?”
No, Becky. No I don’t. My fingers tremble slightly at the implications. Drawn to me. That explains the watchers at Walmart. But I don’t know why. I ask, “How do you know they’re coming?”
“I feel them.”
“Will more like you keep appearing the longer we stay here?”
“Yes.”
That settles the debate. It’s time to leave. Cuddy doesn’t need to be swarmed with failed science experiments like me, or Becky. Becky can barely take care of herself. She needs to wash. Then again, I do too.
She stands and moves aside as I descend the tree and stride into ankle-deep waters of a nearby brook. I sit in the stream and dunk my entire head. The water is like ice. I sputter from the chill, and scrub my scalp with fingers. I splash water on my neck and shoulders, and soon my entire body is rinsed. Becky watches, struck dumb by this ceremony, and it doesn’t occur to her that she also needs to wash. “Becky. You stink. Get in here.”
I stand in the sun and dry for ten minutes. Becky splashes in the water and does the same, as still as a statue. Eventually she says, “Time to go?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Towards the Pacific.”
“Good. I like the ocean.”
As we approach the cabin, alarms begin to ring in my mind. My body prepares for war, an involuntary response. The forest is calm. I spot the cabin’s roof through the foliage and it appears quiet. “Becky, do you feel that?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“They are here.”
The mutants she mentioned. Like her. Variants. There are traces of disease in the breeze. I fill my lungs with air through my nose. More than one is here. Different odors, different flavors of sweat.
Cuddy is dead. I know this before I see his body. We enter the clearing and four mutants exit the cabin. The muscular blond boy is back, and he tosses Cuddy onto the ground between us. Cuddy’s neck is broken. I examine the corpse with a detached sense of loss, of injustice, a waste of resources.
“Why did you do that?” I demand.
The attractive boy shrugs thick shoulders. “I step on ants too.”
“I was fond of him.”
“Even better.”
I’m unsettled by the sight of his death, and my outrage sharpens into purpose. I register the event coldly. Cuddy should not
have died, and someone will be held accountable. The muscular boy is violent without cause, and his type of mutant bring the Herders and their electricity.
His three-person Variant entourage fan out behind him. They stare fixedly at me with a mixture of emotion, including fear. Comets ready to attach themselves to whoever wins this crash of planets. They are in much better shape than Becky. They wash and eat and think.
The arrogant boy says, “You belong to me now.”
In my ear, Becky whispers, “His name is Nathan. He’s strong. But not like you.”
“Stay here,” I reply and I advance on the boy. He makes fists and his followers tense. I briefly consider arguing with him. Threatening him. Letting him leave. But…no.
“You’re strong,” he admits, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “But there are four of us. You belong to me now, chica. You and the runt both.”
“I woke up a few days ago, and I don’t know much about us yet,” I say, mostly for the benefit of his crew. “But I know we can’t kill innocent people for fun. That’s not how this works. We need a better way.”
“We—”
“You are sentenced to death for your violence and for your future crimes. An eye for an eye.”
“…what?”
I strike. He’s ready for it but his movements are sluggish. He blocks my right fist but I anticipated that. With the fingernails on my left hand, I open him from groin to ribcage, like unzipping a bodybag. My nails slice cleanly and deeply, and the boy fumbles at his abdomen in quiet astonishment. He is vulnerable and helpless, and I cut his throat with a quick slash motion. He falls neatly on top of Cuddy and doesn’t struggle.
I didn’t want to do that; I had to. My stomach doesn’t care, however, and I vomit into the grass. No one speaks while I wipe my mouth, careful of the dripping blood. I spit twice and tell the others, “Becky and I are going to the ocean. You can tag along.”
The tall pretty girl states, “We are definitely coming with you. You are awesome, and that guy was ew.” The two boys with her nod in agreement. They don’t even glance at their former leader, still warm.