It's Not the End

by Matt Moore

  With a wave from Dorfeuille, two officers dragged the corpse back down the hall, leaving a trail of black sludge like old motor oil from its wound.

  Everything tilted. That gunk had taken down more of Hooper’s men than the things themselves.

  The two officers disappeared through the heavy doors that led to the parking lot. Eyes in dead faces watched them go—some holding fear, others anger. The doors slammed shut.

  “Okay, everyone wait here,” Dorfeuille announced. “I’m going to make sure they’re set up.” He locked eyes with Hooper. “I don’t want any more incidents.” He had to lean into the fire door that led to the school’s gymnasium to get it to open. For a moment, Hooper caught a glimpse of terrified staffers—a mix of Canadians and locals—behind a registration table.

  Last time Hooper had been down here three years ago, he’d been trying to keep the peace after their presidential elections. Canadians, Poles, French—plenty of men and equipment but no will to use them as groups fought and burned and looted. He’d rotated home after three months.

  The virus had hit less than a year after that. Without an organized government to fight back, casualties on this island—and other unstable countries—had hit almost forty percent.

  When it was all over, the countries that were still standing decided that rather than sending peacekeepers and aid, the best way to deal with the chaos was absorb those countries. The American flag now had fifty-seven stars and Canada had four new provinces. New provinces where the “human rights” of these things needed to be protected.

  “You had no reason to . . .” the same voice that had called for calm began, now speaking unaccented English, “. . . kill Georges.” It emerged from the crowd of decaying bodies to stand before Hooper. Make-up, trying to hide what looked like a grenade’s shrapnel wounds on its face, cracked around its ruined jaw as it spoke.

  The wounds told Hooper why it looked familiar. Its name had been Jean-Henry Marcelin. A fringe politico in life, now it spoke for the things’ rights. Not just voting, but the right to marry, adopt kids, run for office. It had organized bus rides to voting stations all over the city. And when threats of violent protests had started, it had been the one to call for police protection.

  “It crossed the tape,” Hooper replied.

  “It was an . . . accident—”

  “What, you want more special treatment?” Hooper gripped his prod tighter. “Bad enough we got to let you in here.”

  The thing moved forward, feet dragging through the deadly black sludge, making Hooper’s guts clench. Didn’t matter that scientists—in their labs after it was all over—said ten seconds’ exposure to air killed all trace of the virus. A bite or scratch, even splatter in your eyes or mouth, would turn someone. The toes of the thing’s well-polished shoes stopped inches from the yellow tape. “The Canadian Supreme Court has . . . ruled that we have the same rights—”

  “They didn’t see what I saw.” Hooper’s head swum with the memory of three things yanking loops of guts from his partner’s clawed-open belly, still alive and screaming for a bullet in the head. “What your kind can do.”

  “We regret our actions in . . . the grip of the rage,” the thing said in French. The crowd muttered its agreement. “Yet we have committed . . . to nonviolence. You must have known Georges . . . was no threat.”

  Hooper felt the other officers’ eyes on him. In English, Hooper replied. “It knew the rules. It broke them.”

  “And what of the rules . . . protecting us? The courts declared les revives . . . equal and yet we are . . . segregated in camps . . . and denied jobs. In the countryside . . . we are hunted down and . . . executed. Where are you to enforce . . . your laws?”

  Hooper brought his prod across his chest. “You telling me how to do my job?”

  “Hoop,” Chen, to his left, said. “Stay cool, man.”

  “No, I’m not taking shit from one of these things.”

  “We commit to the . . . betterment of our home,” Marcelin said, again addressing the crowd. “Yet we are called ‘it’ and ‘things’ by . . . those sent to ensure our . . . safety. O Canada, indeed.”

  A few of the things sniggered—dry, hacking gasps.

  “I’m not here for you.” Hooper shoved the thing with his prod, knocking it back a step. “I’m here to keep the living from killing each other. A president leaves and you riot. You hold elections and riot again. You blame America, the UN, anybody but yourself.”

  The thing raised its skinless hands. “And now you assault me . . . violate my rights on . . . a day—”

  Hooper whipped the prod up, setting the butt against his shoulder and taking aim. “You want to see your rights violated?”

  “Hoop,” Chen warned, his tone communicating what he left unsaid—he didn’t have Hooper’s back.

  The think stepped back, moving out of the prod’s range. “I’m behind the line. You . . . have no right to threaten . . . me with lethal force.”

  Hooper advanced, stepping back in range. “Lethal? Lethal! You’re already dead.”

  Another officer: “Hooper, man, be cool.”

  Retreating back another step, it said: “You cannot—”

  Hooper followed. “Can’t? Can’t what?”

  “He talks,” another thing—right to Hooper’s left—said in thickly accented English. “Just talks.”

  Hooper glanced at it. At the things on either side of it. And behind it.

  He’d moved right into the middle of them.

  Fear snatched at him and he went with it. He dropped the prod, reached for the submachine gun—

  Chen: “Hoop, don’t!”

  Safety off—

  “Hoop—”

  Stock in shoulder, barrel up, finger—

  Two gunshots cracked. Something slammed into his chest, knocking him back. Stumbling, he squeezed the trigger, a burst of gunfire arcing up through the things and into the ceiling. Sparks flew. Pain blossomed in his chest under his body armor.

  The things scattered, panicked, knocking into him and bouncing off.

  “Hooper, drop the weapon!” Dorfeuille had his pistol aimed at Hooper.

  The son of a bitch had shot him.

  Hooper brought the gun up again, fired at the crowd of fleeing—

  His left leg collapsed and he hit the ground on his back. A white-hot sting shot through his thigh, hot warmth gushing down his leg. Panic spread above him, bodies moving, voices shouting in fear and confusion. Through scissoring legs, he glimpsed things on the floor, unmoving, holes in their skulls leaking black sludge.

  Looking behind him, he found a path clear of the poison to get against the wall. Shoving with his good leg, he left a smear of blood.

  Gun up, searching for a clean shot through—

  Pain seared through his wounded leg. A thing—jaw gone and sludge leaking from an empty eye socket—lay on its belly, twisting its finger into his leg. Hooper screamed in pain, hate, fury. He swung his gun around—

  Gloved hands snatched it. A boot on his chest pressed him flat. “It’s over Hooper!” Dorfeuille stood over him—on him—pistol trained on his head. Behind Dorfeuille, Chen slung Hooper’s submachine gun over his shoulder before yanking the thing away by its feet. Its finger popped out and Hooper screamed. Two more officers knelt, ripping open his pant leg. “Jesus, you nicked something, Captain,” one said. He pulled his radio from his vest and shouted 10-codes for a downed officer.

  With an order from Dorfeuille, the second officer took Hooper’s pistol and passed it to the captain. Dorfeuille removed his foot to let his men work. Hooper grit his teeth against the pain as the officers pressed their gloved hands to his wound. Blood seeped through their fingers. Chen appeared with an aid kid. Up and down the hall officers had the things up against the walls and under control. The thing that had jabbed him was on its feet, lined up with the others against a bank of lockers. It spotted Hooper, held up its finger—still smeared with Hooper’s blood—and pointed to its empty eye socket.
r />   Panic seized Hooper. He grabbed Dorfeuille’ ankle.

  Dorfeuille, who’d been telling Chen to check on the civilians in the gym, looked down at him. “Settle down, Hoop.”

  “Shoot me!”

  “Hoop—”

  “Shoot me, you numb fuck! I’m infected.” He waved a hand at the one-eyed thing. “You—” An officer at his leg poured pure agony into the wound. Hooper roared, hands balling into fists. “Shit! If you’re any kind of real cop you’ll take me out!”

  Dorfeuille glanced down at Hooper’s leg, at the thing against the wall. The other officers had gone quiet, watching.

  “Do it!” Hooper screamed. The exertion made him dizzy, his vision cloudy. He was running out of time. “Ain’t one of you cops man enough?”

  “I cannot do that,” Dorfeuille told him. “Regs say—”

  Hooper aimed a fist at Dorfeuille’ boot but missed, striking the floor. “I won’t be one of them!”

  From the crowd, the deep voice: “There’s a program to help with . . .” a wheeze “. . . the transformation.”

  “No—!”

  It continued: “We can help—”

  “You said you were nonviolent, you liar! Your follower killed me!”

  Doors burst open at the far end of the hall. Two local paramedics rushed in, a portable gurney clattering between them.

  “Over here,” Dorfeuille called. “Possible infection.” Dorfeuille stepped away to make room. Hooper reached after him, but Chen held him down.

  “Lie still,” one the medics told him as he began to work.

  “Shoot me, man,” Hooper begged Chen, spittle flecking against Chen’s face shield. “Do it!”

  “There’s jobs on the force,” Chen told him, hands on Hooper’s elbows. “You can still be a cop. Or take your pension—”

  “No!” Hooper wanted to tear out Chen’s throat with his teeth. He fought to jab a finger at Dorfeuille, strength waning. His eyes failed to focus. “If I come back, I’m coming”—he had to stop and take a breath—“for you. I’m gonna”—another breath into lungs that refused to fully inflate—“fucking feast on you.”

  “Wound is discoloured,” the paramedic said. A bright light shined in Hooper’s eyes. He tried to swat at it, but his arm just flopped across his chest. “Pupils not responding. He’s infected.” He said something in Creole to his colleague. Hooper caught enough to know it meant not to bother treating the wound on his leg.

  “Cut it off,” Hooper gasped. “Might be time.”

  “Book him,” Dorfeuille said, motioning to the one-eyed thing. “Aggravated assault on a cop.”

  “Assault?” Hooper managed to get out. “He’s killed . . .”

  “I am disappointed . . . in you, Max,” the deep voice—Hooper couldn’t remember its name—said.

  “You’re not going to die,” Chen told him. “It’ll be different, but it’s not the end.”

  “Can I borrow your cuffs and a gag?” the other medic asked of Chen. Chen reached for the equipment on his tactical belt.

  An arm free, Hooper tried to reach for him, but his arm merely twitched.

  Chen—fading to a blue blur—said: “You’ll get through this, Hoop.”

  Colour drained from the world as Hooper felt more than saw the medic fit restraints around his hands—which refused to obey Hooper’s commands to fight, punch, claw—like he was some perp. Then his feet. Fingers pried open his jaw for the gag and Hooper could smell the sweat on them. He tried to lunge and bite, but his jaw refused to move.

  He had to fight back. Fight something. Kill something.

  Consume something.

  Because those fingers . . . so close to his mouth . . . so hungry . . .

  Only at the End Do You See What Follows

  Arthur hadn’t set foot in his house in over three years. He knew what waited for him within.

  The closest he came was parking down the street in the shade of the oaks overhanging Ridgeline Crescent. From that anonymous distance, he’d watch his sister-in-law, Connie, meet the potential renters on the porch steps. She’d do her real estate agent thing—telling them the features of the house and how great the neighbourhood was before leading them inside. Connie had told him owners shouldn’t be at a showing, but he’d explained he just wanted a glimpse of the people who might end up living in the house where he and Jacqueline had spent seven years of marriage. And where Jacqueline had died. Connie had agreed to the compromise, admitting at least it got Arthur out of the small apartment where he lived now.

  But the truth, which he couldn’t tell Connie, was rather than waiting for her call, he wanted to see the reactions of the potential renters. The ones Jacqueline hadn’t named usually left with a shrug and handshake. But some stumbled down the steps, looking to one another and back at the house. One might be crying. Or screaming. Connie doing her best to console them.

  And, so far, the couples whom Jacqueline had named emerged all smiles and enthusiasm, gesturing excitedly at the house.

  Sweat trickling down his sides, Arthur now waited for Connie to come out with Bronwyn, the latest potential tenant.

  But it’s Bronwyn and Owen, Arthur told himself, not sure if he’d said it aloud or in his mind. “Bronwyn and Owen.” When Connie had called two days ago telling him a Bronwyn Lumley had moved to the city and wanted to see his house, he’d asked about a husband or boyfriend.

  “Nope,” Connie had replied. “Heigh-ho, the derry-o, the Bronwyn stands alone.” She’d verified Bronwyn had a good job, good credit, and good references, so no need to worry.

  But he did worry. It wasn’t just the five months without a tenant nearly depleting his modest savings. Each passing month without the appearance of “Bronwyn and Owen” shook his faith in what Jacqueline had told him. Put his future more and more in doubt. She’d named “Bronwyn and Owen” between “Lynette and Francis,” who’d moved out suddenly after only a month, and “Anna and Jorge.” If Jacqueline had said “Jennifer and Owen” or “Sarah and Owen,” he wouldn’t have been so worried by a single woman with that name wanting to see his house. Plenty of Sarahs in the world.

  So when the crimson Mercedes had pulled up and the forty-something woman in the stylish pantsuit and heels had emerged, he’d still expected a man to step out of the passenger door. Instead, the two women had gone inside.

  He knocked against the steering wheel, waiting. Even in the trees’ cool shadows, the bright summer morning baked the car. His own stink from not showering for three days mixed with fresh cut grass, the jasmine and wisteria erupting in the late summer’s heat and humidity. He checked his watch: fourteen minutes since Connie and Bronwyn had gone inside.

  A good sign, in its way. Those who weren’t interested didn’t stay more than ten minutes. The ones who left screaming lasted even less. Once they’d gone, Connie’s professional demeanor would fall away like a puppet’s strings being cut: head bowed and shoulders hunched, unbuttoning the jacket of her tailored suit. She’d stomp to Arthur’s car and explain what had happened. “They heard voices in the bedroom,” she’d told him after the first incident. Other problems had followed.

  Something about the place made them uneasy.

  The wife or girlfriend got a sudden, fierce headache.

  The husband or boyfriend smelled blood.

  After the third squabble, Connie had explained: “Our good, young netizens research homes. Check police records. Find if there’s been trouble. Then use it to try to negotiate the rent down. Sickos.”

  She’d asked him if it upset him and he’d replied he was fine, which was true. Jacqueline hadn’t named those people. They didn’t matter. Bronwyn and Owen did.

  So if Bronwyn—just Bronwyn—rented the house, what did that mean for everything that was to follow?

  A pair of joggers passed by on the sidewalk. Desperate to focus on something, he watched their outfits wink from vibrant to muted as they passed in and out of the trees’ deep shadows. A low aperture stop with a fast shutter would capture th
em mid-stride. He cast about for other shots. Something to fill the time. The wrought-iron railing of his front porch. Its intricate detailing that Jacqueline had loved. A higher stop, then, to preserve every angle and curve.

  But thoughts of picking up his camera again just reminded him of the three unheard voicemails from Reggie waiting on his phone. Maybe just letting Arthur know about some touch-up work heading his way, but no doubt Reggie wanted to know if Arthur had thought any more about partnering with him to buy the studio now that the boss was retiring. Reggie had raised 70% of the cost, so Arthur would buy in as a junior partner. That meant business decisions would rest with Reggie, but that suited Arthur fine. He’d never been one for responsibility.

  No more mindless anniversary and family portraits, Reggie had promised. A real studio and gallery, like they’d dreamed about for the ten years they’d worked together. Arthur just didn’t have the money. He could go to the bank, putting the equity in his house up as collateral, but if the business failed, he’d lose the house.

  Lose Jacqueline.

  And they were supposed to be together in the end.

  But if Jacqueline was mistaken about Bronwyn and Owen—

  The front door opened and Arthur leaned forward. Down the street, the two women emerged from the house. After shaking hands, Connie passed over an information slip and business card. Bronwyn strode to her Mercedes and drove off. Connie waved until the car turned the corner, then walked the half block to Arthur’s car.

  Arthur white-knuckle gripped the steering wheel.

  “She says she’ll think about,” Connie said, getting in the passenger seat. “But I don’t have a good feeling.”

  Arthur’s stomach dropped.

  “So,” Connie continued, “we’ve got some tough choices. The market tells people ‘buy,’ not ‘rent.’ We need to lower what we’re asking. Make it competitive.” She explained a lower rent would mean extending his mortgage’s amortization period and a likely penalty for renegotiating, but Arthur barely heard her. He’d follow any advice Connie offered.