Beginnings

by J. S. Frankel

  “But from what I read, whoever did it? They seem to have built in these stopgaps for Angela and CF. I couldn’t find anything about a time limit for me and Sandstorm. So maybe we’re safe and maybe not. If we don’t have an expiration period, I guess… I guess we’re not important enough to matter.”

  A certain quality of dullness had entered his voice as if he were calculating the odds and coming up short each time. “Would you…” Paul began. He was afraid to ask the question of how long, not just out of curiosity but also because of an overwhelming sadness that threatened to engulf him.

  Ooze’s expression never changed. “If you’re going to ask me how long my buddies have got, I figure six months or so for Angela and a lot less for CF. I based that number on the cell decay rate mentioned in the file, but it wasn’t complete there, either. In my case or Sandstorm’s case, if we do have a time limit”—he shivered—“I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Would it hurt?” It sounded like the dumbest question around, but it had to be asked. Cells rotting at light speed would have to hurt, sort of like a fire spreading out of control in your body and consuming you. The very thought made him shiver.

  If Ooze was angry at the question, he didn’t show it. He spoke in a very calm and somewhat subdued voice. “I don’t know. I guess it might, but I don’t have any pain receptors. I don’t feel anything except the water and air around me.”

  Angela had received a shock and she’d been stabbed. She could be hurt and therefore she could also feel pain. As for CF, would he even know? Ooze interrupted his thoughts by saying, “The files don’t say anything about pain. They don’t say when it will happen or even talk about the symptoms. I can’t even guess what they might be. If it happens fast, then, well…”

  In a stabbing motion, he shut off the computer. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to counteract the process. I’m good, but I’m not that good—not yet. Maybe some of the doctor’s download will click in later, but I’m not counting on it. From here on in, it’s all guesswork. I’m doing what I can to figure out a solution, but I’m not sure if I can get it right.”

  Ooze fiddled with his oversized fingers, a pensive look on his face. “If it ever happens to me, I’ll…” His voice caught. “I’ll break down in water. So if you can, get me to a nice lake or river before it does. I don’t want to go in my suit. I want to end up in nature somewhere. If you dump me in a river, maybe I’ll wind up in an ocean.”

  He turned away, but not before muttering, “I’ve never seen the ocean, just pictures.” A second later, he swiveled around with a haunted look in his eyes. The expression made Paul feel even worse than he did. “If you want me to tell her, I will. It’s not like we were ever alive to begin with.”

  What was life, anyway? If it was thought and movement, then this was life, as far as Paul was concerned. He nodded and walked over to the door. “I’ll tell her. And you’re alive to me.”

  Going upstairs to his room, along the way he passed by Angela’s room and after knocking gently, whispered, “Angela, are you up?”

  No answer came, so he tried the door and found it unlocked. She was asleep in bed, the covers drawn up around her chin. She’d been so angry before, so angry. Now, a half-smile was on her face and she looked at peace, as innocent as a baby.

  Tears started from his eyes. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t tell her. Gently, he closed the door and went to his own room, sat on the bed, and the outflow began in earnest. He couldn’t stop crying and didn’t want to.

  * * * *

  A knock came at his door a few hours later. It was night time, and he’d been lying in bed trying to think of some way to tell Angela about her condition and more importantly, how he felt about her. Endless combinations of words swirled in his head and a million excuses swirled along with them. None of them made any sense and none of them would make her feel better about what was going to happen.

  The knock came again, more insistently this time.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Me,” Angela’s voice answered. “Can I come in?”

  Opening the door, she stood in front of him wearing a jeans-blouse combo. She’d also put on makeup, a kind of flesh-colored tan, and it made her look almost like him, fair-skinned, but not overly white. Her eyes shone out a soft and mild blue, and she wore a tentative smile.

  “Uh, you look great,” he said and immediately clammed up not wishing to ruin the moment.

  “I thought we could go down to the creek,” she said in a hopeful manner. “CF is already down there, and we should keep an eye on him, don’t you think?”

  “What about the city?”

  Angela shook her head. “I don’t feel like going to the city tonight. I, um… I wanted to talk to you.”

  Talking was a positive sign, he felt. “Okay, we can go wherever you want.”

  “It’s pretty dark now,” she continued, her fingers twisting her hair, “and…not so many people will be out. I don’t think anyone will recognize me.”

  In his admittedly biased opinion, Angela looked better than great, but he realized that what was important wasn’t what he thought but what she did. “You look fine,” he finally managed to say. “Let me get my jacket.”

  A cold winter air blew against their faces as they made their way down the road. For a change, Angela wore a coat and they walked down the main street arms brushing against one another. The few people they did meet hurried by without anyone so much as giving them a second glance. “See,” Paul whispered, “no one’s staring at you and no one is interested. You’re just like everyone else.”

  Angela nodded, but said nothing until they reached the bottom of the hill and stood at the edge of the creek. CF was busy hauling out garbage and neatly stacking it by the side of the bank. He took no notice of them and continued to work with a single-minded purpose that Paul envied.

  With another stab of envy, he viewed the rushing water. It flowed by in a seemingly endless cycle of going downstream to be circulated upstream again and follow gravity. It brought consistency and he wanted that kind of that consistency. At the same time, though, the concept of shelf life came to the forefront of his mind. With it came the terrible decision whether to tell Angela or not.

  Two seconds later, he checked his thoughts as she asked, “What’s it like to be human? I know that sounds dumb, but I haven’t been around very long and download or not, I really don’t know.”

  Paul bit his lip and stared out at the moving water. He’d only been alive for seventeen years, and in all that time, he’d never really thought about what life consisted of. This wasn’t Philosophy 101. He hadn’t experienced much in his life and what he had experienced was only misery.

  “I don’t know,” he said after a time. “We’re born and we grow up and meet people…” He didn’t know what else to say except, “We get married—at least, most people do—then we die someday.”

  Angela turned her head toward the water. “I don’t know what it’s like to grow up. I was made like this.” She swept her hands down her body. “I was never a kid. I’m supposed to be around eighteen. All I am is a cell turned into something different.”

  She started to shake, and Paul clumsily put his arms around her. She stiffened against him, but he held her close and whispered, “You’re not so different. You can learn and make friends and do what everyone else can’t. I can’t fly. I’m not strong, but I’m here—with you.”

  Her shaking stopped and she rubbed her eyes. “So you like me, even though I can’t eat and I look like a china plate and…”

  “All of those things,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too sappy.

  Angela put her forehead against his. In spite of the weather, it was warm and her skin was soft. “You asked me before if you could kiss me. Do you want to kiss me now?”

  Paul looked into her eyes and saw a certain kind of moistness in them he’d never seen before, the want and the need. “Yeah, I do.”

  Hesitantly, he leaned over and planted
one on her lips, feeling their warmth. Angela’s eyes closed in a lazy, almost sensual, manner, and with a move too fast for him to follow, she wound her arms around him in a steely embrace.

  Immediately the air rushed out of his lungs. “You’re crushing me,” he gasped.

  Angela opened her eyes and released him. “Sorry,” she said and hurriedly put up her hands. A nervous giggle came out. “I didn’t know.”

  There’s always something new to learn. “It’s supposed to be gentle,” he said, slowing his breathing and hoping she hadn’t broken a rib.

  “Let me try it again.”

  This time, they held onto each other, but softly, almost reverently, and Paul felt tonight had to be the most perfect night in the history of the world. However, he suddenly shivered and figured they should go back. Breaking the clinch, he inclined his head in the direction of the path they’d taken. “Maybe we should, uh, get going.”

  “Okay.”

  At the house, Angela ran upstairs to divest herself of her boots, and Paul went down to the laboratory to see if Ooze had made any progress. From the doleful look on the water-bag’s face, it seemed as though he hadn’t. “I don’t know what it is,” he said, the frustration evident in his voice.

  Paul felt as though his heart would stop. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” he asked. “Angela’s cool, and—”

  “You couldn’t tell her, could you?”

  “No.”

  How could you tell someone you were into they wouldn’t be around too much longer? He tried to think of a logical, plausible excuse…and came up with less than nothing.

  An “ahem” broke his train of thought. Turning around, he saw Angela standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. “You heard?” he asked. “How long were you there?”

  With a few strides over to their position, she choked out, “Long enough to hear everything.”

  Tears laced every word she uttered with an ineffable sadness and Paul felt as if he were the one about to expire.

  Chapter Ten

  Lockdown

  An eternity passed in the few seconds between Ooze’s confession of imminent death, Paul feeling like his heart had been broken and Angela’s entrance. No one spoke. No one breathed. It was as if anyone had spoken, they’d have made the situation worse. How much worse could it get?

  The sound of dripping made everyone turn around. CF stood in the doorway, blank-eyed as usual. A swamp would have been cleaner. Water dripped from his body and reeds entangled his enormous legs. Mud caked his boots and hands. In his dim-witted state, he hadn’t realized his condition walking into the house. The vacuum cleaner he held looked tiny in his monstrous paws. “Can I clean in here?” he asked.

  “Not now!” Ooze snapped and pointed upward. “Man, not now. Get out and clean yourself off first.”

  A hurt look formed on the zombie’s face. He looked down at his filth-encrusted form and a spark briefly flared in his eyes. “I guess I’ll clean up. I’ll come back later.”

  Paul looked closely at him. His skin seemed to be rotting away faster than usual, especially on his hands, as shreds of flesh were peeling off and hung precariously from his fingertips. Maybe this was the precursor to the cell decay. A second later, the pinky finger on his right hand dropped off.

  Along with the flesh came the smell of rotting moss and it permeated the air. Usually it didn’t bother him too much, but right now it seemed more than a little noxious.

  “You’d better eat,” Paul suggested.

  The zombie looked down at his hands then at the floor. Something seemed to click as he picked up his fallen digit and placed it in his pocket.

  “I need something,” he agreed.

  After he lumbered off, Angela swiveled around with a look of fury on her face. Her makeup came off in her hand when she swiped at her face, leaving streaks of tan color painting her face like a Plains Indian. “That’s what’s probably going to happen to me, too. When were you going to tell me? Or were you going to tell me?”

  “I…” Paul began. A second later his throat closed up.

  Her hand chopped the air. “No, don’t say anything. You don’t have to be nice. You’re not the one who’s going to quick-rot. You’re not the one who’s going to die.” Her voice began to quiver. “You’re alive. I’m not. So it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Tears streamed down her face as her eyes, now the coldest blue around, caught and held Ooze in a vise so intense he actually winced. “And you knew all along and didn’t tell me, either. How long have I got?” When he didn’t respond immediately, she shouted, “How long?”

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “Bolson’s downloaded information in me didn’t account for this. He left a lot of things out. Maybe he didn’t know at the time. I’ve been trying to find a way to stabilize things…”

  “You stink,” she cut him off. “I trusted you, because we were made at the same time.”

  Lashing Paul with her eyes, she spoke sharper than a knife and sliced through his psyche. “And after what you told me, I trusted you, too. You said you liked me. You kissed me. And now…”

  She choked up and fled the lab, running upstairs. Ooze motioned at the door with his head. “I’ll see what I can do here,” he said, flicking his finger at the computer. “She needs you. Go.”

  Silently, Paul exited and tried to coax Angela out of her room. He knocked on her door and offered to talk things over, but after hearing her yell “Go away!” more times than he could count, he finally gave up.

  In frustration, he kicked the door—gently—and went downstairs, only to find Ooze sitting in front of the television. “I’m running a program on the computer,” he said. “It’s going to take some time.”

  CF had cleaned up although a few bits of mud still dotted his arms and shoulders. Four empty packets of food stuck out between his fingers, and his skin had begun to heal. The smell had also vanished and his pinky had regenerated…most of it.

  Making his way over, vacuum cleaner in hand, he asked in a childlike way, “Is it okay if I clean downstairs now?”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” Ooze answered. “Just be careful around the computer, will you?”

  The zombie turned to leave but twisted around long enough to ask, “Angela…is she mad at me?”

  Of all things, he’d have to ask that now, Paul thought, and realized CF meant well. “No, she’s not mad at you,” he said, forcing out a smile. He hated lying to anyone, particularly the only people he thought of as his friends. “She’s, uh… She’s having a bad day is all.”

  The massive zombie looked at the mud tracks, his shoes and he blinked, his mind seemingly making the connection. “We all have bad days sometimes.”

  Not long afterward, he left the room and Paul stared after him, realizing there were bad days and really bad days. This was a case of the latter. Things had gotten ultra-complicated and there was no easy answer to anything. He sat down on the couch, blowing out a deep breath. “What do I do now?”

  No answer came his way for a few moments. “I don’t know,” Ooze finally said, shaking his head. “I’ve been trying to figure things out and I…”

  Suddenly he put his hands to his head as if to shut out the noise and rocked back and forth on the sofa. “Oh…this is bad. This is really bad.”

  Increasing the volume, the sounds of a news flash came through. The New York City Police Commissioner, a middle-aged fat man with a florid complexion, stood in front of a bank of microphones at City Hall in downtown Manhattan.

  “This city is effectively in a state of lockdown,” he announced in an angry, strident tone. “I have just been informed that James Matthews who was attacked by this…creature…has passed away. Furthermore, I’ve been informed the gang members who were attacked by this same creature have all been hospitalized with severe, although not life-threatening, injuries.”

  Breathless, Paul spat out, “It wasn’t her fault! The guy was a whale. He had a bad heart. And the other scumbags were asking f
or it, too. Tell me I’m right.”

  “You are…but try telling him,” Ooze said while pointing a stubby finger at the television.

  The commissioner continued, “We will not tolerate any interference by anyone or anything. There will be patrols on the street, and we will not put up with flagrant abuses of the law. Whether the citizens of the city like it or not, we are imposing a curfew of eleven p.m. until such time as the perpetrators of this foul crime are caught. We are also putting more uniformed officers on the street in order to provide a strong police presence…”

  In disgust, Paul switched to another channel. A reporter stood in the middle of Times Square, interviewing people. “We got vampires. We got zombies, and the city’s doin’ nothing!” one person complained. She wore a shapeless dress and threadbare coat along with a floppy hat that barely concealed a head of unruly blonde hair. “I don’t feel safe anymore.”

  “I feel scared,” said a little girl, no older than six, as she clung to her mother’s arm.

  A young man in his twenties, large and powerfully built, stared at the camera and intoned, “This is why we should have more guns. We have a right to protect ourselves. No one needs vigilantes.” He hefted a baseball bat studded with nails. “I got this. If they come after me, I’m going down swinging…”

  Paul clicked off the television. “What about the rights of that girl?” he asked. “That jerk was practically raping her in front of everyone. Angela stopped him. What else was she supposed to do?”

  The sound of rustling dust interrupted his musings and a trail of sand wove its way downstairs from the second floor. A sand-hand formed out of the shapeless mass and pointed to the kitchen.

  Silently, Paul followed the shifting grains. Inside, away from the roar of the vacuum cleaner, Sandstorm gave his views. I was watching the news from the staircase. People are scared. They want protection. We can’t give it to them.