by Pike, JJ
Of course there’s that long-shot chance that the people who created MELT-plus are in hiding and will come out once it has raged around the world and, with nothing left to eat, petered out. Doesn’t seem very likely, but Michael likes to play the percentages.
The other long-shot is that there’s a cure. I’d laugh if it weren’t so galling. We always knew it was a race against the clock. We didn’t know that was a literal race with us in the spotlight. They brought us here because we survived. They kept us here because we’re each infected with different strains of MELT. We’re valuable to them.
Here we are at the end of the world (pun intended) being studied by third-rate scientists for a first-rate cause. Baxter is so compromised by what she’s done (knowingly taking us into danger; knowingly experimenting on us) that I don’t trust a word that comes out of her mouth. All she cares about is her precious General. He’s doing as well as can be expected. The neural damage is permanent, albeit minor, she says but the tilapia skins have changed the trajectory of his infection.
From what I can piece together, they airlifted him and his people out at the same time as us; they just took them to a different facility. They haven’t told me who made it and who has died. I’m not an insider anymore.
They did tell me that they have my dog. (I guess to keep my morale up.) Maggie-loo is with the military evacuees. She must be confused. I miss her so much.
SO FRIGGIN’ MUCH.
And before you take me to task: OF COURSE I MISS MY CHILDREN, TOO. What do you take me for? A MONSTER?
It’s just that when I think about my family a hole opens up inside me, the size of…I was going to say the Lincoln Tunnel, but that doesn’t exist. It fell into the ocean. No, the ocean fell into it. Filled it up. Washed all the commuters away. No more going to Manhattan. No more zipping to New Jersey. That’s over now. Nothing exists. It’s all falling away. Unless we (they…I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not part of “we”), unless THEY come up with a solution the world will be consumed by MELT. And us with it.
It’s not imaginable. How do you think about EVERYTHING not being here? What would it look like?
Manhattan disappearing? That, I get.
New England? Okay, harder to contemplate, but still within the realm of “that doesn’t exist.”
The eastern seaboard? This is where I stop understanding.
I can’t wrap my head around it.
I need to stop whining. It does no good and brings me down.
Okay. Concentrate on the positive? What can we hold on to? What am I, now that I’m not an executive bringing a world-changing product to market (the irony does NOT escape me; we changed the world, ridding it of plastic, but not in the way any of us thought it would happen). I’m not a mother (how can I be? I left them to fend for themselves). I’m not a wife (will he ever forgive me?). Thank goodness I don’t have to see Stephen McKan. I know he’s in the facility somewhere but being in lockdown means I’m at least spared that source of shame.
So, what am I?
I’m a subject. A fish-person like Angelina but with a less robust immune system than an eight-year-old (but possibly less plastic in my system). Growing up poor—in Guatemala, where there was no fast food or microwaveable dinners or supermarkets full of pre-packaged goods—means I have consumed less plastic than most of my peers. I did that right.
But…
I’ve done so much wrong. I’ve…
Ugh.
Can I do this? Can I make an inventory of my faults and failings? Now, when death is upon us and the chance for redemption (I can’t begin to hope for forgiveness; I’ve done too much harm)?
Well, the big one is failing to save my family. I plunged into the woods, determined to go to Indian Point, for ONE REASON:TO MAKE THE WORLD SAFE FOR THEM.
And I FAILED.
FAILED.
I shouldn’t complain about the scientists. At least they’re DOING something. I’m having things done to me, which is in no way satisfying.
“Doing your bit for the cause” sounds hollow when all you’re doing is letting them experiment on you.
I said I was going to keep a log of our progress. I’ve failed in that, too. This has become a sob-fest diary; the LAST thing I wanted to write.
So. Back on track, Mrs. Everlee. What is happening and how might this record help?
Record the data, analyze later.
I’m inspected three times a week. I’m escorted to the medical facility, stripped, checked, my wounds measured (fish skins left on if they haven’t curled at the edges), and given a new set of scrubs. I have no idea how long this protocol can last. They need a LOT of tilapia skins to keep MELT from morphing and spreading. Are they farming the fish here? They have to be. It’s a science facility. They have the people to do it. And the space. They could have rejiggered the greenhouse or knocked down the sauna or library. There are plenty of things no one needs at the end of the world. The luxuries. Things that aren’t life-and-death important.
**Reading over what I’ve written I realize there are people who are culpable, and on whom Michael might wreak his revenge: Us. Me.
Too depressing.
MARCH 23, 2022
They didn’t ask me where I was in December. I’d write it all down but I don’t want anyone to pry into my personal life (and, in any case, I’d just tear the pages out tomorrow), so I’m going to try (once again) to stick to the FACTS.
To keep myself occupied, I recreated my chart as an homage to the brave (foolish) men and women who walked into danger for their fellow man. It’s not complete, but it’s getting there.
I just read over what I wrote yesterday. This stood out: We’re valuable to them.
WE ARE VALUABLE TO THEM. Without us, they have no chance (zero) of beating MELT.
So that’s the plan. If I want to be taken seriously I have to bargain with the only thing they care about: Me.
I AM DATA. I, ONE OF THE INFECTED, AM PART OF THE CURE.
If I hold that in abeyance I can get them to listen. Add us back into the team. Give us real jobs.
I’m going to leverage myself.
And not just me, the others, too.
All I have to do now is get messages to Michael, Jo, and…
Well, Michael and Jo. I don’t know if Jan van Karpel is infected. Or Stephen McKan. Oh, shoot. I just realized. That’s why they scooped Stephen up along with the rest of us. If there IS a genetic component to resistance (which Christine postulated a hundred years ago), she wants to study HIM.
How do I get messages to them?
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
OMG, it’s too funny.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha hahahahahahaha. Hahahahahahaaaaaa.
I’ve cracked it.
All those times they laughed at me for coding my messages. They thought I was nuts. Bill and I had “mutant pineapple,” but there’s no one in my circle who doesn’t know that I have an alert system.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
All that preparedness falling through. All my efforts NOT bearing fruit, but here we are. I have a plan. I can do this. I will do this. I’m going to get us back in the game.
They came to collect me, my hazmat angels, at 1700 as always. I chatted the whole way to the sick bay and all the way back. Told them stories. Asked them questions. It’s going to take time, but they’ll break down. They’re only human. It’s impossible to ignore someone who’s talking to you FOR DAYS ON END. They don’t have the training. They’ll cave. And once they do, I’ll win.
MARCH 24
What did I talk about today as I was escorted to my appointment? How I prefer the fried potatoes to the mash; how much I’d like to see the Galley and choose my own food; how dull it is to eat the same meal, day in, day out. How I can hear my neighbors through the walls. How good it would be to have another group meeting. Raise spirits. Keep us on side. I said all of this (and more) to my outbound guard, my doctor, and my return escort, driving home the point that we
need HUMAN CONTACT.
MARCH 25
Same. I keep hammering away. WE NEED HUMAN CONTACT. We’re going to go insane. You’re going to lose us. You can’t lose us. We’re valuable stock.
MARCH 26
The doctor talked back. VICTORY. She said she’d put a good word in for me.
MARCH 27
We’re going to be allowed to assemble. No touching. We don’t want to cross-contaminate. We’re each carrying a different version of MELT. (Or so they say. Why would they tell us the truth about that?)
NAME
G
A
RK
JOB
CHARACTERISTIC
IN
D/D
Cause
Gen. Hoyt
M
60s
Traitor
Slow
Y
Prof. Baxter
F
50s
Traitor
See: Hoyt
Y
Michael Rayton
M
48?
Patient Zero
Fast/fit
Y
Gail Hawes
F
25?
Food/hunt
Fast/fit
N
35
AWOL
Seamus Dower
M
~20
Food/hunt
Fast/fit
Y
32
M?
Bob Devlin
M
19
Food/hunt
Fast/fit
N
Alec Sanderson
M
22?
Front guard
Fast/fit
N
35
AWOL
Felix Justin
M
~20
Front guard
Obese
N
14
FF
Richardson
M
~20
Rear guard
Slow
?
35
AWOL
Bobbie Wallace
M
35+
Rear guard
Slow
?
Emily Klyon
F
25
Water
Fast/fit
Y
32
M?
Gina Jeffries
F
23
Water
Fast/fit
N
Stuart Keppler
M
19
Water
Fast/fit
N
35
AWOL
Loma
M
19
Water
So-so/med
Y
32
M?*
Kazaowski (sp?)
M
~20
Fire/wood
Fast/fit
Y
Rabbits
Doore
M
25+
Fire/wood
Fast/fit
Y
32
M?
Silverstein
F
~20
Fire/wood
Fast/fit
Y
M
Libbie
F
25+
Cook
Med
N
35
AWOL
Andrews
M
30+
Cook
Fast/fit
N
Choco
M
30+
Cook
Slow
N
Bubs
M
38
Cook
Slow
N
35
AWOL
Mikey
M
~20
Build/strike
Fast/fit
Y
32
M?
Stew
M
25+
Build/strike
Fast/fit
?
35
AWOL
Powers
M
25+
Build/strike
Fast/fit
?
Larson
F
28
Doc (ex. nurse)
Fit
N
Mac Hanzlik
M
30+
Nurse (medic)
Fit
N
AWOL
Godeao
F
35+
Nurse (medic)
Fit
Y
32
M?*
Mitzy Truman
F
22
No clue
Lazy
?
Jubjub
M
35+
No clue
?
?
MARCH 28
Michael is my target. He has the training and will understand I’m sending coded messages, but he’s so sullen he remains at the end of the conference room on his own. I want to smack him. NO TOUCHING.
Next time: Jo.
MARCH 29
“Isolation is good,” I said. “Isolation is a kind of power.”
I hope to God she understood.
MARCH 30
I think I’m getting through. Michael perked up when I mentioned the fire that took down Klean & Pure’s Headquarters. It sounded like I was reminiscing. “Processing the trauma” is what I called it.
“If only we’d had real firewalls like they do here. Physical firewalls. As in, walls that keep fire from spreading. All of this could have been avoided. If we’d sealed and shuttered the lab at Klean & Pure the fire would have raged, but MELT would not have been released into the world.”
If my colleagues have done their homework they will have taken the video tours of the Station which is on Channel 1 on our televisions. They’ll know there’s a detachable unit behind a three hour firewall. It’s fully stocked—food, water, clothing, cots—and ready to house us. Once the doors are closed, we’re safe. It’s the ultimate escape pod. Get there and seal the doors and the rest of the Station can burn to the ground. Safe. We’re going to be SAFE.
“Just think: if we’d known what we were handling—if we’d understood how lethal MELT was—we would have created a panic room and sealed ourselves inside that until the firefighters came to get us…”
That was pushing it a bit, but both Michael and Jo listened carefully.
Van Karpel was literal. He talked about the cost. Said it was impossible to retrofit a building in Manhattan to those specifications. I don’t think he knew it, but he recounted exactly what I needed: The specification for the three-hour firewall here at Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station.
I didn’t look at Stephen. I can’t. Ever. It’s too hard. I look at him and I see Bill’s face, closing, folding, refusing to accept the truth. No, if I looked at the twins’ biological father the guilt would eat me whole. If he’s listening, so be it. If he isn’t, well, he’ll miss the fun.
I use the word “fun” very loosely here.
MARCH 31
Today’s the day. Here’s hoping they understand the plan and follow my lead.
MARCH 31. Late afternoon. Inside the freaking pod. We made it. WE ACTUALLY MADE IT. I’m recording as much as I can, in case it’s useful later.
But, glory halleluiah.
It worked.
We’re behind the three-hour firewall. There’s no fire, but they don’t know that. I sounded the alarm and the three of us ran like hell. Michael and Jo had been listening. They understood. The guards didn’t want to touch us (we are death, I get it) so we made
it all the way here without any impediments.
I hope I’m right about this.
I hope we’re valuable enough to the research that they’ll listen.
All I want is a chance to DO SOMETHING. I want to HELP. I want to MAKE A DIFFERENCE.
APRIL 1 (let it not be April Fool’s Day today; let the fools flee and the wise men and women remain).
It was messy. The negotiation. Baxter was hysterical. I was calm and calculating. I told her I’d rather die than stay on the sidelines a day longer.
She said she had to “run it up the chain” and “see what the powers that be have to say about this” and told me (repeatedly) how “juvenile and disappointing” this behavior was “from someone who understands that there are sacrifices that have to be made in the name of science.”
I told her I was willing to make any number of sacrifices but that unless we were added back into the team and brought up to speed, Michael Rayton, Jo Morgan, and I were going to leave the base and walk into the ice cold nothing out there. (I doubt they’d follow me that far, but I had to make a BIG threat so Christine would get it. She doesn’t DO subtlety. She needs to be banged over the head with WHAT I WANT and WHAT I AM WILLING TO DO TO GET IT.)
Jo peeled a tilapia skin off her arm and threw it at the camera saying she’d “refuse further treatment” if our demands weren’t met which was VERY effective.
Baxter RAN out of the comms office as fast as her legs could carry her.
APRIL 2
I got what I wanted. We’re back in. We have to suit up and stay away from the rest of the team, but we’ve been admitted into the inner sanctum.
