World-Mart

by Leigh Lane

  “Virginia!” George called again from the distance.

  Virginia continued down the path, falling to the ground with a loud cry as she ran straight into Shelley.

  Shelley went down with her, and she quickly scrambled to her feet. “What the hell is your—” Shelley fell silent as she recognized Virginia’s face. Shelly began to shake, eyeing the glittery business card in Virginia’s hand and the expensive Corporate coat now soiled with mud.

  Virginia gasped, and then took a strained breath. “My baby?” Tears streamed down her cheeks and a relieved smile fell across her face. “I thought I’d never see you again!” she cried, horrified at the bruise disseminating around Shelley’s eye. She got to her feet, dropping the business card, oblivious to the glitter that remained on her fingers.

  Shelley backed away from her. Her throat knotted up so tightly that she was afraid she might stop breathing. “You’re dead!” she gasped.

  “They lied,” Virginia said, carefully matching Shelley’s steps, desperate for Shelley to know the truth.

  Shelley quickly dug into her bag and pulled out the knife. She held it up, pointing it at Virginia. “You’re lying!” She forced in another heart-wrenching gasp, crying out, fighting to breathe. “Stop haunting me!”

  “It’s me,” Virginia cried. She held her hands up in the air. “Put down the knife, sweetie!”

  They made eye contact, but they only held it for a moment. Shelley gave her a sideways glance, visibly disgusted by the sight of her deviant-blue eyes.

  “Tell me who sent you!” Shelley demanded, waving the knife wildly in front of her, prompting Virginia to flinch back. “Tell me where you came from!”

  “I got lost!” Virginia cried. “You have to believe me!”

  “Imposter!” Shelley screamed. “My mother is dead!”

  “I’m right here!” Virginia cried.

  “No!” Shelley bellowed, falling to her knees and covering her ears with her hands. Her body shook violently, then shrieked in horror as Virginia tried to close the gap between them.

  “Virginia!” George called from somewhere in the distance.

  “George!” Virginia called back. She quickly turned back to Shelley, startled by the blank expression that suddenly covered her daughter’s face. “Shelley, you need to listen to me,” she said as calmly as she could.

  “I don’t think so,” Shelley said, her voice suddenly equally as calm.

  A shiver ran down Virginia’s spine as she searched the cold eyes staring back at her for some hint of the daughter she had left behind. “I’m still me,” she said, fighting another onset of tears.

  Shelley glanced down at Virginia’s hands, and then stared back up into her pale eyes. “I don’t know who you are!”

  “How can you say that?” Virginia cried aloud.

  Shelly scurried to her feet as Virginia rushed up to her. She tried to push the knife out of the way and embrace Shelley—just to hold her and tell her everything would be okay—and she shrieked as the blade went into her side with one quick, hot jab.

  Shelley backed away, crying out at the sight of Virginia’s blood on her hands. Virginia grabbed the knife and attempted to pull it out, coughing and moaning as the blade held deep inside her. The fur all along her arms and in the front of the coat became red and matted.

  Virginia looked at Shelley, her eyes filled with anguish and horror. “My baby!” she whispered, her face cold with tears, as she dizzily stumbled to her knees.

  “Virginia!” George called from just around a bend.

  Shelley continued to back away.

  “Shelley!” Virginia cried. “Please don’t leave me here!”

  Shelley turned and ran, and then disappeared from the trail into the overgrowth. She attained a small amount of distance between her and the path, and then she stopped to hide and listen.

  George spotted Virginia and rushed over to her. “Virginia?”

  Virginia allowed George to take her into his arms, crying softly as she fought to remain conscious. He looked at the knife, afraid to touch it, gagging at the sight of so much blood. He held her head to his chest, closing his eyes for a moment, kissing her soft, sweet hair.

  “I’m so sorry!” she cried, brushing her hand against his cheek.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said, trying to sound as calm as possible. He lifted her up and began to carry her down the path. “Just hold on! I’ll find some help!”

  “It was Shelley!” Virginia wailed. “Is Kurt here too?”

  “The kids are safe at home,” George said.

  Virginia shook her head.

  George did his best to quiet her. “Stay still—it’s going to be okay! Everything’s going to be okay!” A small crowd amassed as he staggered to the pavilion. He fell to his knees, cradling her in his shaking arms. “I need a doctor! Someone!”

  Virginia stared up at him, tears continuing to stream down her cheeks. “I can’t believe you came,” she said, and then her eyes rolled back, her eyelids fluttering and her body seizing for a moment before she fell still. The sheen in her eyes went dull and lifeless, and George held her close, shamelessly crying aloud.

  He burned Virginia’s body before he left, but first he knotted up a lock of her silky hair and cut it off. He brought the lock up to his nose and smelled it, closing his eyes, and then he gently slid it into his shirt pocket. He covered Virginia’s body with piles of dried grass, taking the better part of the night to clear a large enough area, find enough dry material, and arrange it all just so. He finished as the late night slowly moved toward early morning, and then he left her, promising that he would be back soon to finish the job.

  He tried not to think too much as he worked through the bitter task, a strange numbness having taken over shortly after he had begun. Every once in a while, the pain would creep its way back and George would have to take a moment to compose himself, but he knew what he had to do. This was the one last gift he could give his wife: cremation, so her soul might rest with human dignity. Only deviants buried their dead, and only rats rotted out in the fields; Virginia was far better than either.

  George backtracked to the market, and then crossed to a path leading east. The entire shantytown was asleep, but cinders still glowed within the large fire pits. George found a long, clean piece of wood in a small woodpile, and then held it in the cinders of a nearby fire pit long enough to catch the far end. He hurried back, the raging flame nothing more than a smoldering ember by the time he finally returned to the body. He hugged the pyre, cursing the world, and then stepped back and touched the embers against the dry grass. It caught quickly, and George backed even further as the entire mound went up in flames.

  He watched the giant fire for a short time, and then forced himself to begin the long walk back home. He had already gained some distance from the site when a small gust of wind threw part of the fire into the open field. The fire exploded across the broad area, burping up great masses of steam and black smoke as the remaining clusters of snow melted and made worthy attempts at stifling the blaze. The fire continued to grow, however, the wind slowly moving it toward the Market and the adjacent shantytowns.

  George continued, oblivious as the wind picked up and beat against his weary body. He persisted, pushing through the slushy, muddy remnants of the snow, ignoring his misery, praying that he might somehow find a way to preserve both his job and his family’s home.

  All he had left were Kurt and Shelley. If it hadn’t been for the two of them, he would have simply stayed by Virginia’s side until the elements carried him to her and the pain became no more. He knew, however, that his children needed him, and he pictured their faces in his mind to keep him going.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  SHELLEY wandered through the empty field, turning to spot the fire in the distance as the sudden smell of smoke hit her. She prayed silently that the fire would wipe out every last deviant in the district.

  Disturbing images tore through her mind, and the bloods
tains across her jacket paid as a reminder of her horrifying recent encounter. She knew that there was no way that thing she had stabbed could have been her mother, and yet it had sounded so much like her and behaved as if it really had thought it was her. It had seemed almost . . . distraught over Shelley’s refusal to buy into its ruse. The image of the deviant with its hands in the air, the blue glitter slipping from its fingers, flashed in her mind, and Shelley reaffirmed in her mind that she had done the right thing by stabbing it.

  Still, she couldn’t push the images from her mind. Her emotions ran high, as if she were reliving the event repeatedly in one endless, hellish loop. Kurt’s cold face made an unexpected visit among the other images, sending her into random fits of despair. She continued on, however, eating small patches of remaining snow to keep from dehydrating and reciting her favorite poetry as loudly as she could in an attempt to drown out all of her other thoughts.

  She slowed as she reached a narrow trail carved between the field and a sea of makeshift houses. The shantytown consisted mostly of small plywood buildings that connected like cubicles in a giant workroom. There were fire pits situated strategically between the structures, each placed just far enough from the cheap, rotting shacks to keep them from catching and turning the entire town into one giant bonfire. Large boiling pots and skewered rats sizzled over the flames beside jars of stagnant water and stacks of rotten firewood.

  Shelley quietly moved across the outskirts of the squalid town, observing the dirty, ignorant-eyed people as she passed them. They took turns staring over at her, whispering about her among one another as they huddled together and carefully watched to make sure she was not accompanied by a gang. Their eyes told her that she was unwelcome there, but she kept her distance and no one moved to run her off.

  She kept a straight face, biding her time, holding her hungry stomach. She wondered what thoughts might be going though their simple, little minds, wondering if they had it in them to guess the hateful, vindictive thoughts that ran through hers. The longer she stared at them, the more the deviants looked like the vermin that ran through their dirt paths and roasted over their fires. Shelley smiled. Walking on the edge of the shantytown, seeing these people in their element, Shelley could finally see them for what they were: senseless, feral animals that did nothing but create a wake of filth and disease wherever they went.

  Shelley scowled as a few of the deviants had the audacity to laugh at her, whispering amongst themselves and staring her down. What did they have to laugh about? Were they proud to be such lowly creatures? Didn’t they know how much better she was than they? Suddenly she couldn’t help but laugh back, picturing them as the filthy, giant rats they were, chattering off about nothing but their own stupidity.

  She kept to the far edge of the path, holding her bag ready in case any of them decided to become hostile, laughing and pointing back as she passed the group. Had their numbers been fewer she would have crushed in each of their skulls without hesitation, but she knew there were too many for her to take them on all at once. She glanced behind her as she reached the edge of town, her heart speeding up as she realized that the entire field behind her was on fire. She heard screams in the distance.

  From where she stood, the giant flame looked like the head of a demon, ravenously swallowing up all in its path, and Shelley knew that everything there would soon be black and dead. She ran as fast as she could through the tall grass, the fire quickly spreading behind her. She heard continuing screams and intermittent hisses as the deviants tried to douse the inferno with their last rations of water. The thought of it made her giddy.

  She felt a hot gust, then the heavy rush of smoke as she raced the flames to a nearby hill. Excitement turned to panic as she realized that the flames were suddenly upon her. Her eyes began to sting and she began to choke as the air all around her grew thick with smoke. She dropped her backpack, unwilling to carry the weight any longer, but still the fire gained on her. Just a little louder . . . just a little darker . . . just a little hotter every second . . . until finally there was nowhere left to run and the searing black hell engulfed her screaming, writhing body.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  IT TOOK George the better part of two days to find his way home. He persisted, forcing himself to keep moving despite the intense malady and fever the HD-1 virus caused him. He felt as thought he might collapse at any time from the drain of the long walk combined with his rising fever. By the time George got to the main shuttle garages, he was too distracted to notice that the halls were unusually empty and only a handful of the shuttles were running. He passed only a handful of people, including a lone Security Associate, as he entered his building and began up the stairs. None looked well.

  George slowly moved down the hall, his body stiff and sore from the exhausting journey. He slowed as he reached his apartment. Relieved that his key still fit, he opened the door. The apartment was cold and dark, and he entered apprehensively. He closed the door behind him and turned on the kitchen light.

  He stumbled back as he saw the writing on the kitchen wall. At first, he thought that his apartment had fallen victim to some random vandal, gasping at the hateful black words smudged across the flat whitewash. When he saw Shelley’s signature at the bottom, near the floor, his body shuddered and his heart sank.

  “Shelley? Kurt?” he called out.

  He searched the apartment. There were dirty dishes in the sink, crusted with old tomato sauce and dried spaghetti. Kurt’s school bag was missing and Shelley’s room looked like it had been searched, but there were no other clues to help him determine what had happened or how long the apartment had been vacant. Perhaps Family-Corp had stepped in after he had been missing for a day or two and Shelley and Kurt were back at Safe House, waiting for him to return.

  George turned on the wall heater and sat down for a moment, ready to pass out. He sweated profusely, although a cold chill ran endlessly up and down his achy back. The room began to spin, forcing him to close his eyes. He got to his feet and made his way to the sink. The water was cold, and it felt good against his face. He cupped a small amount in his hands and swallowed one sweet, refreshing sip, knowing his sour stomach would not likely accept much more.

  He went back to the heater and sat down, his body shivering, although fatigue called him to his bed. He took off his jacket, tossing it to the back of another chair, his heart stopping for a moment as he saw just how much blood had soaked into the thick material. The warmth against his back did nothing to ease the wet chill that moved through his body. He decided to go to the bedroom to put on a dry change of clothes and lie down for a while.

  He froze as he entered the room, spotting the box that had been told held Virginia’s remains, and suddenly the sight of the phony keepsake sent him fuming. He grabbed the box and hurled it across the room, and ash erupted out of it in a thick cloud as it hit the wall and broke open.

  George rifled through his clean clothes, then slowly peeled away the layers he had worn for the past several days. As he hit the last layer, he realized that he was in desperate need of a shower, and he grabbed his clean clothes and hurried into the bathroom.

  He turned on the click-light and started the shower, then turned to look at his shaggy face in the mirror. Much to his surprise, his eye color was in the process of changing. The very center of his iris was still brown, but the rest of it had become ice blue. He stared at the terrifying marvel for a moment, then forced himself to turn away. He showered and dressed as if nothing were wrong, then went to bed with Virginia’s pillow in his arms and waited for the fever to render him senseless.

  George woke with a start, shivering in the darkness, realizing that the wall heater had gone cold. He looked around the apartment, feeling disoriented in the unbroken darkness. He felt his way to the front door and slowly opened it. To his surprise, the hallway was also dark.

  He made his way to the shuttle hall, and then stood motionless as he opened the door and peered in. The fluorescent lights overh
ead buzzed and flickered, seemingly struggling to stay on. All else was silent and still. A light stench permeated the air. George struggled to remain standing as he surveyed the bodies.

  His eyes went wide, a sudden panic taking over. “Hello? Anyone?” he called as loudly as his tight throat would allow.

  He passed over the body of a young woman who stared wide-eyed into oblivion. She had pale deviant eyes, and yet she wore an Education-Corp uniform. Confused, George moved away from the body. He passed another open-eyed corpse, noticing that it, too, posed a mixture of deviant eyes and higher-class attire. He began to scan all of the nearby bodies, finding all of them to be deviants.

  He glanced up at the central air unit, noticing that intermittent gusts of glittery powder trickled from them, slowly settling to the ground. He looked down, realizing that the ground was covered with both blue and green dust.

  “Hello?” he yelled, but no one replied.

  He hurried back to his apartment. He made his way to the bathroom and turned on the click-light, his weary body shaking and sweating. A terrified whimper escaped his lips as he huddled in the corner of the small room, beneath the imagined safety of the dim, battery-powered light. He closed his eyes, hoping he might open them back up to find that this was all some twisted nightmare, that he might awaken, refreshed and renewed, to the realization that the world as he knew it would continue.

  His eyes snapped back open, but to his horror, the grim reality remained.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Leigh M. Lane lives with her husband, a philosopher and secular humanist, and their two cats. Leigh writes in numerous genres under different names, all of which explore the human condition (in all of its beauty and horror) through the deceptively simple guise of speculative fiction.

  For more about Leigh M. Lane and her other works, visit her website at http://www.cerebralwriter.com.