It's Not the End

by Matt Moore

  Between them and him, messages informed him Canadian units were taking heavy losses.

  Smoke, exhaust fumes, and burnt rubber assaulted his nose.

  “Are you leaving?” someone asked.

  Emily: “Tell us what’s going on.”

  Smoke blotted the sky. Horns, sirens, the roar of traffic came from all directions. Sounds of the battle drifted from the east.

  “Everyone keep back!” Tessier yelled. To Paul: “Minister—”

  “One more second,” Paul said. Tapping his PDA, the heads-up display blinked out. To the crowd: “Listen, I know you’re scared. I’m scared. Laura, my wife, is out there someplace. I don’t know where. But standing out here isn’t going to do you any good.”

  “But where are you going?” someone asked.

  A question he could answer honestly: “I don’t know.”

  Another voice: “They’re coming, right?”

  “You should get back inside. Listen to the TV or radio for what to do.”

  “But you’re leaving, right?” Angry.

  Someone else: “Take me with you!”

  The black-clad girl: “Yeah, get us the fuck outta here! Get busses or some shit down here—”

  A pair of helicopters buzzed overhead.

  Tessier turned to Paul, his patience gone.

  “The TV and radio can tell—” Paul began.

  Sarah: “They’re going to kill us, Paul! Like Moncton!”

  Paul thought of what Eddie might say were he there—pulling no punches, wasting no words. Not deflecting, but being a leader. Paul ignored the realization that Eddie was probably dead. “Stay inside. Our troops are going to be moving through, so don’t be out here in their way. This isn’t going to be like Moncton. We got caught by surprise. We know who we’re fighting now. I’m in that fight. But I can’t fight from here on Ridgeline Crescent. I need to organize the counterattack. I need to get the Americans off their ‘neutral’ butts and in the fight. And I need to make sure we can get supplies to people who need it when the fight is over. Do you want me to stay here and hold your hand and tell you what to do? Or go kick some ass?” No one answered, but a few clapped. It made Paul feel ill.

  He descended the steps.

  “Make a hole,” Tessier commanded, leading Paul to the cruiser. As Paul got in, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  Tessier pulled the car in a U-turn and raced down the street, dodging around the smouldering wreck. More people stood out on their lawns, watching. Waiting. The car jerked to the right onto the sidewalk, Tessier hitting the siren as they passed a line of cars waiting to get into the intersection at the end of the street, then turned right onto a side street that ended in a cul-de-sac where a Griffon helicopter waited, bright lights pulsing, rotors kicking up a cloud of grit. A second chopper circled a few metres above the rooftops, the door gunner keeping watch.

  Paul got out of the car and ran for the helicopter, Tessier behind him. A door in its side opened, revealing Marcel—face pale, terrified—Caroline, and their two daughters, all in the weekend wear of shorts and T-shirts. A serviceman helped Paul aboard and into a seat next to Marcel. Tessier slid in next to him, his large bulk squeezing Paul against his mentor. The serviceman shut the door, helped Paul strap in and passed him a headset. Paul removed the commpiece and put the headset on.

  “Laura never made it, Paul,” Marcel said. “Is she . . . Is . . .”

  “I don’t know.” Paul grabbed the edge of his seat as the helicopter lifted off, inertia pressing him down. “Can you find her? Tell RCMP—”

  Marcel shook his head and reached for his wife’s hand. “Mon dieu. I don’t know what is happening.” Eyes wide, he stared out the window, lower lip trembling. “I cannot . . . cannot . . .” His wife patted Marcel’s hand. His daughters clung to each other.

  Rooftops fell away, the city spread out below them. Almost out of sight, on the horizon, distant specs raced toward each other. Larger specs circled in the air. Explosions erupted in and above the suburban neighbourhood that had become a battlefield.

  Laura . . .

  She’d be on the chopper if she hadn’t stopped for him. He saw her getting home, finding Emily there, telling her he’d left. The ground would be trembling by then as the enemy closed—

  Paul he reactivated the heads-up display. Five ministers were confirmed dead and the PMO was making new assignments. Paul had work to do.

  Outside, silhouettes of fighter planes raced across the sky and disappeared behind a cloud.

  Full Moon Hill

  Moonlight came and the prisoner fell forward. His metatarsals stretched, elongating his hands and feet. His philtrum and mandible pushed out, forming a snout. The leather muzzle holding his mouth shut snapped, freeing the scream it had held back. The skin around his belly pulled tight against his ribs and abdominal muscles. His waist narrowed. Hair sprouted all over.

  Rankin had her six-shooter drawn. Dr. Krantz simply watched, observing every detail. Philby wondered if the bars of this frontier sheriff’s prison cell were strong enough. Unlike the other two, he had never seen this before. He hoped their confidence was fuelled by experience and not pride.

  The thing that had been a man moments ago ripped free of its leather bonds and reared up, mouth skyward, and howled. Horses in the nearby stable whinnied in fear. The thing threw itself at the bars, hitting with such force that the entire structure shuddered.

  Philby stepped backwards, wonder transformed to fear.

  As the beast readied for another charge, Rankin levelled her gun and fired. Blood erupted from the thing’s chest and it collapsed. A moment later, it let out a dying rasp.

  “Amazing,” Philby said, breathless. He gathered himself and checked his watch. “Forty-two seconds. I thought it would take several minutes.”

  “Yeah, we had a breakthrough for powering the transformation,” Dr. Krantz boasted, turning off the “moonlight” generator. His task complete, his hands moved to emphasize his words. “Body heat? Just wasn’t enough. Then we thought: What if the nanites use nutrients in the stomach, intestines and fatty tissue? Like a pseudo-digestive process? Powers them and provides raw materials for the change. Much quicker.”

  “Makes the beasts hungry, too,” Rankin said, replacing the spent shell. “Adds to the effect.”

  Philby looked at the horrible, dead creature as its blood pooled around it. It was much more impressive than the robots they had presented to him six months ago. For an actual person to turn meant they no longer had to rely on the “What was that noise outside?” gambit to begin the story. Now, no one would know if the bartender, coachman, drunk in the gutter, or the guy across the table would turn. Who was staff, who was paying customer, and who was a monster waiting to emerge? With the moonlight generators surreptitiously hidden across the town, the game could begin at any time.

  “Extremely impressive,” Philby remarked, stepping to the bars for a closer look at the dead thing of nightmares. He was aware of, but ignored, the other eyes watching him. He turned to the project leader. “And it’s real silver?”

  “Yes,” Rankin replied. She snapped shut the gun’s cylinder and holstered it. “Course, you gotta find a silver bullet somewhere in town.”

  Philby moved to the batwing doors and looked over the boardwalk, the partially built saloon opposite, the hotel farther on, and several more frames for what would complete Full Moon Hill.

  If he decided to invest. The theme struck him as odd, but VIP polling supported an Old West theme. Gun slinging was one thing. Hunting a shape-shifter through the sand with just a six-shooter was another. Perhaps sometime he’d discuss the skin-walker legend with Rankin to add a variant to the game.

  “So, what do you think?” Rankin asked, leaning against the sheriff’s desk.

  “Tell me about recruitment,” Philby asked.

  Rankin looked to Dr. Krantz.

  “Texas and Florida are onboard,” Dr. Krantz said, polishing his glasses. “New York, with
its overcrowding, will come around. And there’s always those last few in Gitmo.”

  “So, question is,” Rankin asked. “Are you onboard?”

  Philby turned to the other cells, terrified eyes watching him. “Yes.”

  Dr. Krantz looked at Rankin, beaming.

  Philby walked toward one of the cells, its tied and muzzled occupant reminding him of the strung-out drug addict who had killed his sister thirty years ago. “But I think I would like to see the transformation one more time.”

  “Certainly,” Dr. Krantz said, stepping to the moonlight generator. He aimed its lens toward the cell. Its occupant tried to scream against the muzzle.

  Silverman’s Game

  I’m not prepared when the realtor takes us into the basement. The house doesn’t seem old enough for me to worry. New siding, new hardwood floors, completely redone kitchen—everything Samantha and I are looking for. But as we descend the steps, the smell hits me—that ancient, musty smell.

  Panic surges, pungent like I’m twelve years old again. My stomach heaves. I try to turn, run, escape. The world spins. I’m falling, arms pin wheeling—

  Strong hands brace my back. The realtor, standing behind me, says, “Whoa, easy. Take ’er easy.”

  Unable to reply, I wobble up the steps on rubber legs.

  Below me, Samantha explains, “He’s a bit claustrophobic.”

  I collapse on the steps of the wide, wraparound porch. Squinting in the warm afternoon sun, the memories overwhelm me.

  It started on a beautiful day, just like today. Greg—without knocking, as usual—barged into my room, looking cool in a Yankees T-shirt he’d cut the sleeves off of. “I was supposed to meet Jack this morning and there’s no way I’m going to miss it because Mom decided to switch to Fridays. So unless you want to explain to her why you’re home by yourself, you’re going to come with me.”

  A rush of excitement shot through me. I don’t remember what I’d been doing, but I remember thinking it was nothing next to being able to hang out with Greg and Jack.

  “But never, ever tell Mom or Dad about it,” Greg added. “You swear?”

  “Yeah, I swear.”

  Greg turned and thundered down the stairs. I followed him to the garage.

  I feared and adored my brother and had dreamed of being able to hang out with him. He listened to cooler music, had cooler friends and got to stay up later. He wore sleeveless shirts to show off his arms—he’d gotten a barbell set for Christmas—and Mom allowed him to get a crew cut that spring

  Of course, he wanted nothing to do with me. I was twelve and he’d just turned fifteen. Mom still picked my clothes and haircut. But with Mom working two mornings a week, Greg had to watch me. He hated it, but now I had a chance to prove I could be cool. If I could do that, he might let me hang out with him all the time.

  We hopped on our bikes and pedalled through the neighbourhood. Bugs hummed in the large suburban yards, grass yellowing in the July heat. A lawnmower roared someplace close. The warm, humid air hinted at the scorching afternoon to come.

  A few blocks away, we found Jack sitting on his bike, leaning casually to the side, a backpack hanging off his shoulder. If my brother was cool, Jack was ice cold. He always wore jeans with holes in the knees and rock band T-shirts with half-naked women or profanity emblazoned on them. Today’s shirt had a demon throwing a priest into the ocean. His blond hair reached his shoulders in that heavy metal singer kind of way.

  Greg motioned for me to keep my distance, and then went over to Jack.

  I couldn’t hear them, but didn’t need to.

  Jack pointed at me, and then flicked his hand. What’s he doing here? Tell him to fuck off.

  Greg pointed at himself, motioned to me and threw his hands in the air. It’s not my fault. I have to watch him. What else could I do?

  Jack pedalled over, stopping close enough that I could make out the black heads dotting his nose. “Can you be cool?”

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “I mean frozen, little man. Whatever you see or hear, you don’t tell nobody. Not your mom, not your friends. You and Greg don’t even talk about it.”

  Greg appeared next to Jack, giving me a hard look.

  “Yeah,” I repeated, trying to keep my voice from trembling in terror and exhilaration. “I can be cool.”

  “Then stay out of the way.” Jack gave me one last look, then took off, Greg following.

  They easily outpaced me, my brother shouting, “Keep up, asshole!” over his shoulder. I pedalled harder.

  We wound our way through the neighbourhood and out to Bayview Avenue. Mom told me to never go farther than that, but Jack and Greg kept going, passing Market Square and crossing Fuller Avenue into an older part of town. Houses were smaller here and spaced farther apart, sometimes separated by a stand of trees. Some were boarded up, grass growing long and wild. Of the few cars parked on the street, half had flat tires or smashed windows.

  We finally stopped across the street from a small, one-storey house. Dirty grey paint flaked off its clapboards. A bay window in a rotting frame was set between a small front porch and a rusted metal roll-up garage door. Thick stands of trees separated it from neighbouring houses, which looked abandoned. On our side of the street, waist-high grass and brush overgrew the curb and stretched down into a marsh. This place felt deserted. No cars passed. I could barely hear traffic on Fuller Avenue.

  Fear grew, pushing excitement aside.

  Jack turned to me and pointed at the house. “A kike named Silverman lives there. I wanna see how cool you are. Go knock on his door, then run away.”

  I looked at Greg, hoping he’d explain what was going on. Instead, Greg said, “He’s Jewish.”

  I wished I’d said something cool like “I know what ‘kike’ means, asshole.” Or even better: “When did you become a Nazi?”

  Instead, I did as I was told. I put down the kickstand, got off my bike and went up the broken, uneven concrete walkway, holding my breath. Climbing the three steps onto the porch, my bladder suddenly full. The floorboards groaned as I moved toward the door.

  Then I realized once I knocked, I would prove I was cool. Fear evaporated and I knocked three times. I turned, leapt off the porch and ran toward my brother and Jack. Greg waved me off with an unmistakable Don’t come toward us! look on his face. I altered course and, not thinking, ran through the woods beside the house and emerged on the street. Sucking air and grinning madly, I thought Greg and Jack would be right behind me. . . .

  “Where the fuck you going, faggot?” Jack screamed. I slowed and looked over my shoulder. Greg and Jack were still back by the house, straddling their bikes.

  “Gonna leave your bike behind?” Greg asked.

  I walked back to them, head bowed, trying to think of a cool or sarcastic comeback.

  “Looks like he ain’t home,” Jack said. “Go look in the windows to be sure.”

  Again I obeyed, slowly moving to the bay window. Through a layer of grime, I could make out some furniture in the dark room, but I didn’t see anyone. I looked back to Greg and shook my head.

  Jack circled his index finger in the air: Check the whole house.

  My confidence built with every window I peered into. No one was home, but cardboard boxes for televisions, stereos and VCRs filled one of the back bedrooms.

  I felt exhilarated when I reported back. I’d proved I wasn’t a pussy. They had to tell me I was cool.

  But Greg and Jack looked at each other, smiling. “Stuff’s still there,” Greg said, getting off his bike. He lowered it to the ground, hiding it in the tangle of grass and weeds.

  “Told ya,” Jack replied. He hopped off his bike, dropping it into the grass, and looked at me. “You stay here.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “None of your fucking business,” Jack said. He and Greg crossed the street.

  “I can help.”

  “Doubt it.” Jack didn’t look back, just dug for something in the backp
ack.

  Now across the street, Greg said, “He could be a look out.” They stopped at the bottom of the walkway. “If Silverman comes home early, he could let us know.”

  Jack paused, considering.

  “Beats having him stand out here,” Greg added.

  “Hide your bike,” Jack told me.

  I wheeled my bike off the road and into the grass, letting it fall, and ran to them, thrilled. My guts went cold when Jack pulled a small crowbar from his backpack. “What are you—?”

  Jack grabbed the back of my neck. “Just stay the fuck out of the way.”

  I swallowed my fear as we went around to a backdoor. I knew it was wrong, and dangerous, but also knew this was the final test.

  Jack worked at the doorframe. Old wood cracked and rusty nails pulled loose, then the door popped open and banged against a wall. We hurried into a small kitchen, shutting the door behind us. A leaky faucet beat a steady, hollow rhythm in the sink.

  We crossed into the living room, the dirty bay window casting enough light to make out a battered old couch facing a small TV. To the right, a narrow hallway led to the bedrooms.

  Jack grabbed the back of my neck and walked me to the window. “Stay here. You fucking see anybody, you scream like bitch getting her cherry popped.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I yanked myself free of Jack’s grip.

  He and Greg headed down the hall.

  I focused on the street, willing my eyes to work at a higher level. The leaky faucet kept up its beat and I tried to tune it out. What I saw was all that mattered. I even fought the need to blink. I was the look out and could not screw this up. They were counting on me to be cool.

  A hand—larger and stronger than Jack’s—seized my throat and pulled me backward. I couldn’t scream, only gasp and inhale the smell of aftershave and greasy take-out food. Something impossibly hard pushed at my temple.

  “I got the boy!” A baritone voice shouted. “Come on out of there.”

  Greg appeared at the mouth of the hallway, Jack behind him.