Eupocalypse Box Set

by Peri Dwyer Worrell

  But evidently not the end, for here he is.

  China? No way. He’s surely hurt too badly—and too freshly—to have come so far.

  He must be at the Chinese army base he’d been seeking when Abdullah and his men found him. Sheik Abdullah had been fleeing the murderous women of the New Islamic Caliphate during the vengeful, bloodthirsty rampage that marked the first days of their revolution. Just Li’s bad luck that the former had crossed his path while he, too, was evading the latter, hoping to spare himself the spur and scarab.

  And now, a small bevy of scrub-clad medical professionals file into the room and nod. They smile expectantly at him. A slender, serious woman with grey temples speaks to the group in Mandarin.

  “This is our wanderer from the desert. Found with massive knife laceration of the lumbar musculature, left kidney, left renal vein, nicking the renal artery, and multiple loops of jejunum. Exsanguination was severe. He took nineteen units of blood that night. We were surprised when he stabilized after surgery, and still more so when he appeared to be grossly neurologically intact.

  “Following decontamination, he was brought on base. Pending neurological examination, it’s safe to say he’s made a remarkable recovery. He first attempted to talk within forty-eight hours, and as you can see, he appears fully conscious now.”

  Li feels irritated that they’re talking about him as though he’s not there. “My name is Li. Hen Li.” Li’s trying to sit up.

  “Very good, Mr. Li. Please, remain in a resting position.”

  Twelve eyes are on him now, regarding him curiously. The woman steps up and lifts his right foot from the bed, taps his ankle with a rubber hammer, and smiles as his foot jumps slightly. She asks him, “Do you know where you are?”

  “A hospital. I’m guessing, the Chinese army base at Djibouti?”

  “Good guess! And correct,” she nods. “Do you know what year it is?”

  “Two years after…” he pauses. “But there’s plastic.” He falls silent.

  The technicians titter quietly.

  “Yes, Mr. Li. We have plastic here. The base is a sterile zone. We think it might be the only place in the world where the plastic corruption bacteria haven’t become established.”

  “Forgive me, but that seems impossible. So many people, and no contamination?”

  “We rarely leave the base. And we rarely permit anyone to enter. Our perimeter patrols live outside the base. When someone has to be brought in…like you…we have a series of decontamination protocols.”

  “So many questions.”

  Li’s fading again. He lays his head down and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he’s alone, and it’s deepest nighttime. He flexes his hands, and feels the spongy cushion of the pulse monitor adhere to the pad of his index finger. It’s sticky.

  ####

  It takes weeks for Li to bounce back from the assault. Drain tubes and dressings disappear frustratingly slowly. Bandages shrink and disappear, and sutures are sequentially removed, leaving permanent scars—some small and some large. He ruefully reflects that a man in his thirties doesn’t have the recovery stamina of a younger man. He thinks younger Li would have been up on his feet in no time.

  The nurses, doctors, and therapists diplomatically convey that it was remarkable that he even survived, and even more remarkable that he can move, breathe, and walk. He gathers that the fact he seems to have his full mental faculties is nothing short of a miracle. Most people who’ve lost so much blood, they tell him, are permanently brain-damaged.

  One day he’s walking the hallway accompanied by his therapist, Ming, a quiet young man from a good Harban family. Ming totes a stopwatch and uses a tablet to record Li’s progress. Li’s just broken a plateau on walking speed and distance, so both men feel cheerful.

  Ming says, “Not bad. Soon you’ll be able to walk uphill.”

  “Ha! How will I accomplish that? This base is flat as a pancake!” Li says.

  “Oh, did you think you would get to stay here forever?”

  “What do you mean? Are you planning to abandon me out in the desert?”

  Ming recoils slightly, and they stroll in silence for a short time. Then Ming ventures, “I guess I can tell you. You’re going to be assigned to a mission.”

  “A mission?” Li ponders this.

  He didn’t have the temperament to join the military when younger, and the People’s Republic law that required military service was, in pragmatic terms, applied more as a privilege than a universal mandate. Only the children of the rich or well-connected could bribe or threaten their way into the military, Before.

  “I suppose even at my age, a man has a duty to his country.”

  “Just so.” Ming seems relieved.

  “My country tortured me,” blurts Li. Ming stiffens. “When they released me, and then the pirates kidnapped me, I thought there was no more People’s Republic.”

  Ming’s eyes dart around in panic. “C-careful,” he stammers.

  Li forces his mind to return to the tracks on which a good Chinese citizen’s brain should run. “Of course. Sorry, it’s the shock. Maybe my injury affected my mental stability more than I realized.”

  “That can happen sometimes. I will make a note in your chart for the neurologist to reevaluate you next week.”

  “Thank you, friend.”

  In brief snippets of conversation like this, Li gleans that he’s to go north with an expeditionary force. He realizes his caregivers are also spies and minders, that there’s no demarcation between the two in this military environment—a sphere of discipline and paranoia. It’s a controlled regime, so strict that it’s managed to keep the plastic corruption at bay for over two years.

  As weeks turn into months, the conversations circle around to the topic of the Afar, Habesha, and Somali women, and their strange cult of New Islam.

  “And they really cut the men? Like they used to cut the women?” Ming asks one day.

  “Not just the same,” says Li matter-of-factly. “They put a bell-shaped cover on their dicks. They can take it off later. They call it a scarab.”

  “Hm. It’s attached with a, how? A clip?”

  “It’s sort of riveted in place. It’s a big deal to get it off.”

  “And when a man has an erection?” Ming colors in embarrassment, and Li decides to skip telling him about the spur that’s implanted at the base to stimulate the women’s clitorises better during sex.

  “I hear that it’s uncomfortable. They don’t sleep well until their bodies learn to stop doing that.”

  “Did they do it to you?” Ming’s eyes flick to Li’s crotch and away.

  “No, but they would have if I’d stayed any longer. That’s why I left the New Islam compound.”

  “Which compound?”

  “Is there more than one?”

  Ming gives a slight surprised gasp, changes the subject fast. “Let’s look at your numbers. Aren’t you getting tired? Let’s slow down so you can cool off. Good workout today!” He claps Li heartily on the back.

  The rest of Li’s afternoon is busy with bathing and meeting with various doctors and nurses, who all agree he’s coming along well. It’s not until later, when he has a few minutes’ privacy after he gets in bed, that he considers the implications of what he’s learned. Apparently, the New Islam, which he’d considered just a freak cult of a few women—a flash in the pan, group insanity generated by their trauma when they learned of Sheik Musa’s perverse hidden agenda in rescuing young girls—hasn’t burned out as Li expected. Instead, it must have spread.

  Li imagines what that must have been like. He wonders what role Meala—his Meala—might play in the new religion. He allows himself to drift into a reverie of Meala’s gleaming cheeks, her gentle hands, her arms rocking him in the surf when she pulled him from the stormy sea, the depth of her dark eyes which could pull a man under oh, so willingly. So young, but so wise at fifteen, a woman by Afar custom. Meala!

  His eyes fly open. Meala! If he’
s going towards the compound, he may be able to see her again, somehow. But the therapists and cardiologist keep dropping hints that he needs to be prepared to climb hills or mountains. Maybe he’s not going to the coastal area? He’s uncertain. He’ll have to keep probing for more tidbits of information.

  How glorious it would be to see Meala’s face again…

  IV.

  A Time for Every Purpose

  In a room encased by floor to ceiling plate-glass windows on two sides, Esther Barrington looked at Lou Stonegood and Gabe Zeno. Under the solid oak conference table, Esther tapped her foot expectantly. In his abstracted professorial way, Lou steepled his fingers, brow furrowed, smirking occasionally, deep in thought. Gabe drummed his inky pressman’s fingers on the table top. Ill at ease in his new, crisp, clean cotton shirt, he fidgeted and blinked frequently. Esther sat poised like a racehorse in the gate, ready for the bell.

  They all eyed the view over the sun-dappled valley beneath them through the plate-glass windows. They all savored the relief that they’d made it far enough south to reach somewhere with a summer; they had been so afraid the entire planet had been enveloped by a winter without end.

  A group of riders appeared on the compacted dirt trail that led up to the Mountain Breeze lodge and conference center. Three men and a woman, erect in their fine leather saddles, sat astride gleaming beasts. Despite their lack of equestrian knowledge, Esther, Lou, and Gabe could tell they were fine animals. The four people were as alike as peas in the pod: tall and blond, with skin creased and mottled by six decades in sun more intense than anything from the Hibernian climes of their ancestors. They wore simply tailored clothing of quality cloth, finely woven—though that wasn’t obvious from this distance. What was evident, and would have been so even if they’d been naked and on foot, was that these people were used to making things happen in this part of South Carolina.

  The riders decorously ascended the hill and looked around for someone to take their horses, but when nobody emerged, they tied them to the bicycle rack out front. Esther was on her feet, opening the door, greeting each of them by name.

  “You must be Mr. Earl Ferrell. Pleased to meet you,” with a charming smile, “and this must be your sister, Cornelia.” Esther had somehow lost her Italian Philly twang and acquired a high-country lilt that would attract bees. “Please, step right into the meeting room.”

  They did. Lou had risen, copied by Gabe a few moments later. Lou stepped forward, hand extended.

  The man spoke.

  “Harold Middlebrook. Good to meet you.”

  “I’m Esther Barrington. And you must be Elliott Sinclair.” She shook hands crisply, gestured each to a seat, and brought up the rear. She offered coffee and water, which were declined, and then took her seat across from Gabe and Lou. The Ferrells sat at the head of the oval table, with Harry and Elliott at the foot end.

  Beads of sweat stood out on Gabe’s forehead. Lou was at ease, but Esther was in her element, working her considerable charm. The four muckety-mucks of the local populace were tranquil and aloof.

  Esther began. “In front of you, you’ll find the latest printing of the Register, formerly the Highfield Register.”

  “Where’s Highfield again?” Cornelia fluttered as if confused, fooling no one.

  “Highfield’s in Pennsylvania,” said Lou. “When we left there in June, it was under three feet of snow.”

  “My! How dreadful for you!” said Cornelia. “Our winter seemed like it would never end here, either.”

  “Be that as it may,” Esther smoothly redirected, “if you will page through the Register, you will see that this is a paper of exceptional editorial quality, in addition to being esthetically pleasing. It’s a valuable asset to whatever community it serves.”

  Lou picked up the ball. “The people of Highfield made great personal sacrifices to transport the press and its accoutrements with them on their trek South. That’s because they knew the Register was something special. My associate,” he nodded at Gabe, who promptly stopped jittering his foot, “is one of the few men in Pennsylvania who can operate a press of this nature. I don’t have to tell you the value of people who know how to use older technology, since the loss of all plastic was catastrophic for mass communication.”

  Lou faltered as Earl looked out the window, as though he had somewhere else to be.

  Harold said, “Mr. Stonegood, I’m sure y’all have a very fine newspaper here. It reminds me of the way papers used to be when I was a boy. What I’m wondering is this: what can we do for each other?”

  “We need support for the citizens of Highfield,” blurted Lou.

  “There aren’t that many of you, but—not to put too fine a point on it—Highfield,” observed Elliott, “no longer exists. You’re carpetbaggers now.”

  Oblivious to the word’s connotations, Lou plowed ahead. “It’s true that we’re displaced. But we aren’t standing here with our hats in our hands. The President of the United States himself recognized the value of this paper. He tried to take it from us.” He puffed up. “Unsuccessfully, I might add.”

  He got a grudging nod of respect from the Southerners with that.

  “So, you’re asking for money. You’re asking us to support what’s left of your community with our limited resources?” Elliott.

  “We wouldn’t ask for charity!” Esther cut in diplomatically. “We offer editorial input in the Register in return!”

  “Hmm.” Earl turned his dispassionate blue eyes on them. “As Mark Twain said, it never hurts to have a friendship with a man—or woman—” exchanging nods with Esther, “who buys ink by the barrel. Last week, this would have sounded like a tempting offer.”

  “But this week,” said Cornelia. “—Oh!—I should test it now that we’re on the mountain!” She withdrew a small object from her pocket. Like a fossil trilobite cast in jello, it bore eight wriggling clear legs and glowing slender wires in a spiraling circuit-board pattern visible within. She prodded it with her index finger and spoke into it. “Calling Trudy. Can you hear me, Trudy?”

  A few moments passed, and then her face lit up. “She’s answering! She says she can’t hear me, but the text is coming through!”

  “As you can see, gentlemen,” to Esther, “Ma’am: we have a new development on our hands. Until we know what these ctenophores are capable of, we don’t want to make any commitments to older, possibly obsolete forms of communications.”

  Esther had seen Lou speechless only once before, and never with his clothes on. “Wh...what’s that?” he finally stammered out.

  “Something some traders from Mississipi brought with them. They call them ctenophores, but some say ‘trilobite’ too. They’re bioelectronics, something of that nature, whatever that means. They have to be set, or grown, to each other’s frequency as they call it, in colonies…”

  “—They’re actually alive?” Gabe burst out.

  Harold smiled. “In a manner of speaking. That is, they have mommas, grow from eggs and all. But the electronics, that’s something else entirely. It looks like they build it, or grow it themselves on the inside.”

  “But they communicate over long distances?” Lou asked.

  “Not too long. That’s why I wanted to try it out here,” said Cornelia. “We’re about half a mile away as the crow flies from the nearest member of the colony, but there’s a big ol’ mountain between us and them. I was wondering what the range was, and if it’s line-of-sight, like a radio or TV signal. It can be hard to pick up broadcast signals here in the hills.”

  “I guess the answer is no to the line-of sight, huh?” said Esther. The locals were gathering their belongings in preparation for leaving, not paying attention. “Sure I can’t get you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks, we’re fine, dear.” Cornelia rose first, then the men. Her brother held the door for her. “Hope you do alright up here in Mountain Breezes. The winters on the mountainside could be cold, Before, but if we have another winter like the last one…well, w
e don’t build for that kind of weather down here. They say it was a one-time thing, you know, from all the water vapor, but I don’t know.” She shook her head gently and swept through the door. The men shook hands all around and followed.

  The three sat in their chairs, dejectedly watching the local aristocrats who’d represented their big hope swing onto their animals and start away down the trail.

  “What the hell?” said Lou.

  “I was looking over her shoulder. That jellyfish thing had letters…in its skin!” Esther was back to her old self, rattling Philly consonants replacing the Southern vowels she’d been warbling out a few minutes earlier.

  “Ctenophores? Trilobites? Trilobites?” Gabe sputtered.

  “I didn’t think they’d really work with us anyway,” shrugged Esther.

  “You know what Gore Vidal said were the four most beautiful words in the English language, don’t you?” said Gabe, “‘I told you so.’”

  “No, I’m not being a smart aleck here. It’s just that these old Southern families trace their lines to before the Civil War, a lot of them. They remind me of the Sicilians on my mother’s side. My dad didn’t know what he was getting into when he married into that family, and from the stories I hear, he almost didn’t survive the hazing from my uncles. They don’t trust or negotiate with anyone whose grandparents weren’t friends with their grandparents.”

  Lou had his hands flat on the table atop the newspaper in front of him. His lips puckered into a frown. “It’s going to be a long, cold winter,” he said flatly.

  Outside, tucked into a fold of the hem of the woods, Colonel Birdwell glided quietly along, his hooded eyes alert, his pack ragged, his moccasin boots worn thin. He watched the four locals depart, standing calm and silent until they were well away, and then stepped across the roughened grass of what once had been a golf course, towards the building where the meeting took place.