End Times, Inc. (A Great & Continuous Malignity)

by David S. Wellhauser

  “They,” China continued as Matt’s psychic shock eased, “took her when she was born and would only let me see her when I was feeding.” All the while Leonor continued to hug, kiss, and cuddle with her father. “Once she was weaned I was not permitted to see her.” Tears were now rolling down China’s face. “When Leonor was old enough to understand she was told you had killed me—and that you intended to kill her. The only thing that would save her, she’d been told, was transformation.”

  Feargal’s body tightened, at this. Leonor looked up. “It’s okay papa, I know the truth now—and I won’t do anything they say ever again.”

  “No, honey...” China began.

  “Do whatever they say,” Matt said turning the child to face him, “and do not show you know the truth.”

  “But, papa...”

  “Listen to your father. If they know you do not believe them—or that you have met with us—then they may hurt you.” Matt supposed Zakara could do more than this, but locked the thought away where their child might not winkle it. Even without this knowledge Leonor’s face whitened and tears gathered. This was a knife in Matt’s heart and he pulled her tight as China knelt down before them to stroke her hair.

  That this was only happening in some psychic dream space did not matter to Feargal, it was real, and their daughter was under threat—what he intended to do to the Transhumanists now would stagger even Botrous. Yet, that was for later. Now that needed to be put aside; for the moment they needed to make certain she knew how to behave. Taking Leonor, gently, by the shoulders he pulled her from his chest to look at her. “Honey, you need to make certain you obey and do not give them any reason to think you know the truth.”

  “This is important Leonor,” her mother said stroking her hair, “you must make them believe you still think the way you did before meeting us. Okay?” The girl nodded wiping tears from her eyes; her mother took a tissue and wiped the rest of these away.

  As China wiped her tears Leonor went stiff and looked at her mother. Stopping the mother looked up and toward the door. Matt experienced no sensation, but recognised something was wrong by the way the girl stiffened in his arms. Before he could ask a question, China placed a hand on his arm. “Someone’s coming.”

  “Bad Metas.” Leonor said in a whisper, holding her father tightly. Not wanting to let her go, but having to, Matt cradled her into China’s arms and kissed both of them.

  “We’ll be in touch...” China began, but the vision tore itself apart and he was thrown first into unconsciousness; then a sudden, groggy awareness.

  He was on the ground being pummelled by boots and the butts of weapons. There was, after what seemed a very long and painful time, a shout; then a caesura. Feargal was conscious, but only just. “Fuckin’ human.” There was the Ferengi twist again.

  “That’s enough.”

  “Gotta be one of them townies!” The Ferengi twist shouted. “They killed David and Sheryl.”

  “Then he can tell us how to get passed the roadblock.” Though the voice appeared less than certain.

  “Not,” Matt groaned from beneath arms covering his face, “from Ferndale.”

  “Where are you from, then?” Matt looked up. There were six of them—all Metas. However, they were armed only with hunting rifles and pistols. This didn’t make a lot of sense if they were Transhumanists.

  “Nowhere, for a long time.” He got a boot in his ribs for the effort.

  “Stop that.” The older Meta, with a sweep of blue hair—now receding, and a reddish seam far more puckered than the others, spoke without much interest. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Lynden.”

  “You escaping the battle in Blaine?”

  “That’s over—the Transhumanists have been driven back across the border and the Canadian military are pushing them west or north—last I heard.” The beating resumed for a period of time he could not determine, but he had lost consciousness a couple of times, at least. Finally, the elder Meta stopped them to ask more questions.

  “What of Lynden Command; I heard they were there?”

  “Melissa and Thin Man?” The elder nodded with what seemed to be two heads.

  “Melissa’s dead and Thin Man’s been shot.” Taking another boot to the head the world again vanished. When this reassembled, he was being shaken by the elder.

  “Did you do this?” Matt knew better than to answer; he simply smiled, bloodily, up at the group. Another of these moved to strike him but the elder held out a hand. “He’ll be needed for interrogation.”

  ***

  Matt was having trouble remaining conscious once they moved him to the back of a van. He came to long enough to realise his wrists and ankles were being zap tied; there was the heavy smell of rancid seafood in this. They were either from the Northwest or had stolen the truck from someone who was. How long they drove he wasn’t sure as his sense of awareness tended towards inconsistency—at one moment they seemed to be arguing; then the next their forms became multi-coloured and translucent; finally all vanished in a brittle occlusion. The cycle repeated several times before he could hold onto sentience; then attempt to decipher what was being said. Mainly, the arguments appeared to shift between defeatism and rage. The general arc of the debate appeared to be about what to do next and where to go. He couldn’t be certain but Matt suspected they were heading back north.

  For the moment there was nothing he could do about this, but it was clear he needed to get away as quickly as possible. Ending up in Patrick Wilson’s hands—even if a dimensional flicker—would not go well for him or his family; with access to his DNA he no idea what Thin Man wouldn’t get up to, or what he might grow next. More importantly it wouldn’t help him get Leonor and China away from the Transhumanists. Eventually, though, the group had come to a tentative conclusion—the best place for them was Thin Man. The elder wasn’t as convinced, but went along with the others—perhaps because his hold on leadership was uncertain?

  With a sense of self emerging and the fog of the assault fading Feargal learnt more of the group. They had been from several different places along the West Coast—one as close as Seattle, but two others, Sheryl and David, from Chula Vista. Why they’d come this far north was a mystery, when they could much more simply have headed to Tijuana. Most of Mexico had now fallen excepting for the border towns which the US Forces were now holding as buffers. It was rumoured US and Mexican forces were preparing a counter-attack—much as had happened at Blaine—but such rumours were to be found everywhere online and off.

  Even if their choice of direction was poor, the reason for the move was clear enough. Many of their friends and family had been rounded up and placed in concentration camps—some were calling them reservations—in remote parts of North-western Utah and South-eastern Idaho. The argument had been this was temporary, until the border issues were stabilised, but in some cases this had been over a year now—with the government unwilling to give a firm date for release. This wasn’t unique to the US, however. Canada, the UK, China, Japan, and some few South American States, such as Brazil and Argentina—which remained politically viable—had created such camps as well—where they weren’t summarily shooting prisoners. Barbarism had crept into the conflict almost unremarked upon. Matt was of the opinion fear tended to do this.

  Somewhere within the discussion about the camps, Matt had again lost consciousness but this time he did not recover on his own. It was from somewhere deep in the absence the van was shaken by an explosion. At first Matt wasn’t sure whether this was a fevered dream, he was sure he had a fever of some kind, or an event beyond this. Then there was another blast and the van was pitched onto its side, but it kept going. Feargal counted at least two rolls, but these were almost in slow motion. When they came to rest it was difficult to tell what was happening. From beyond the van there was shouting and the occasional round was discharged. Following this the back doors were pried opened and he was pulled out.

  With a light flashed in his eyes there wa
s a shout. “Human prisoner.” And the zap straps were cut.

  “We’ve got a couple prisoners here.” A voice from what he took to be the road.

  “We don’t need them.” Two bursts followed; then silence. From here he remembered no more. “You...” the voice faded again. Only to return some unknown distance later. “...cannot.” This time the sound did not fade, but stopped on its own.

  “Where...am I.” A lower stutter of sound from Feargal’s mouth was followed by a shuffle of feet.

  “It’s okay, we got you from the freaks.” Freaks? Yes, he was with Archaics. At least he was safe, for the time.

  “Where are we?”

  “Concrete—about an hour from the coast.” Another voice.

  “Can you sit up?” A harsh light snapped on. Matt reacted by raising a hand toward his face, but stopped as pain flew down his right side. Squinting against the light he allowed the others to help him up.

  “Nothing is broken, but you probably have a concussion and some bruised ribs.” Same voice as before. Squinting against the light he looked at the voice. This belonged to a man maybe in his mid-60s, or older. He had shocking white hair, a lined face, and German-blue eyes—a crystalline blue which might have cut the glass of the most beautiful women when they were young. His hands were gentle and practiced.

  “You a doctor?”

  “Been the town GP for almost 40 years.” Matt smiled and looked about the room—it was a woodworking shop.

  “What is this place?” The doctor smiled.

  “The woodworking shop at the local high-school—we don’t have a hospital.” Matt nodded gingerly, but winced at the effort.

  ***

  “Now you’re awake,” the doctor began, “I want to check you out more thoroughly.” As they proceeded, Matt looked over the woodworking shop; then out the window. Craning his neck as the doctor checked his kidneys, he winced at the man’s touch. “How bad was the pain?”

  “Not really bad, but they’re tender.”

  “If you notice blood in your urine see a doctor immediately, or visit a clinic.”

  “When I get back with my people, I will.”

  “Who,” one of the men who pulled him from the van asked, “are your people?”

  “I’ve friends waiting for me in Portland. We were going to meet in Seattle but with all the DPs and concern Blaine may fall, we chose Portland.”

  “What were you doing up north?” The oldest of the rescue team asked as the doctor shone a light in his eyes.

  “I was coming back from Lynden, my girlfriend was supposed to be meeting me there. She wasn’t there and I’ve no idea where she is now.” It was a story he’d prepared some time ago, just in case. The others nodded, appearing satisfied.

  “Where did they catch you?” The elder seemed to be trying to put together the Metas’ movements.

  “Outside Ferndale. I’d taken shelter in an abandoned house when I was refused entrance to the city. They found me after being unable to break through the barricade—and were pissed.” Pointing to his face. His best defence was to be as honest as possible. Yet, he could not be completely honest with them. There were rumours of him, but there’d be no name to attach to these; if the name emerged there would be no end of trouble with the world governments—that much, if naught else, was a certainty.

  “You’ll need to take it easy for the next few days.” Putting his stethoscope away.

  “Once I get to Portland my friends will take care of me.”

  “Where are you coming from?” Feargal asked the team leader.

  “Blaine—but we were sent east along the mountains to sweep up any Metas that escaped and didn’t head back across the border.”

  “Now, though,” what appeared to be the youngest member of the team, “we’re heading home—Seattle and Portland.” The ginger kid hardly looked old enough to shave, but he was carrying a Steyr AUG. Matt had seen a few of these, but they weren’t what most of the militias were carrying. The bizarre design of the bull pup, with much of it pushed back into the stock, was weirdly futuristic while still dating it back to the ‘70s.

  Pulling his eyes from the weapon, before the kid became nervous, he asked the inevitable question. “What was Blaine like?”

  “I don’t know how to really explain it—or compare it to anything. It was the first engagement any of us had been in, excepting for skirmishes.”

  “I suppose what I really want to know” —this much was true, because it had been bothering Feargal for some time—“is what happened with that bright flash in the sky?”

  “The Meta-weapon?”

  “If that’s what it was?”

  “Yes. Thing is, it didn’t damage any structures in its vicinity. The only things affected were organic.”

  “All things organic—not just people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it a transformation weapon?”

  “No, we all thought that’s what it was, but once the medics and doctors got in there it turned out they were not transformations, but mutations.”

  “There is a difference?”

  “According to the doctors, the weapon did not rewrite DNA, creating a new organism, but twisted and mutated the existing structure. What we ended up with were some odd...”

  “Fucking terrifying!” The kid interrupted then, again, went silent. The others looked at him sympathetically, but said nothing. Something had happened to them, and they didn’t seem prepared to speak of that. Whatever had happened, Matt was unprepared to push for an answer.

  “Some of them were that.” The leader continued.

  “Like radiation burns?” Matt asked, attempting to determine what he might expect if it were to be used again. The whole team shook their heads.

  “No,” the elder continued, “the flesh was morphed and pushed askew with a lot of whorled flesh and, occasionally, fully functional organs being pushed out of the bodies.”

  “You mean blown out?”

  “No,” the ginger continued, looking down at the floor, and pushing some wood shavings around with the barrel of his Steyr, “the organs were still attached to the insides yet were on the skin—kind of fused to this. Still working, though. Things like lungs, kidneys, stomachs, bowels, spleens—you know, inside parts.”

  “Sometimes,” another member spoke from the back of the room, near the hallway door, “external parts got twisted about—ears, eyes, nose, mouth; arms and legs too.” Matt wanted a description of what this was exactly but didn’t feel this the best use of his time or what little credibility he’d acquired as a Meta prisoner.

  “What happened to Blaine?” There followed a silence. Eventually the silence became too much for the team leader and he answered.

  “What wasn’t destroyed in the conventional engagement was pretty much ruined by the weapon.”

  “But not the buildings?”

  “No, the people; those that were not rendered redundant by the weapon’s effects immediately were driven mad by what had been done to them—most of them, though some escaped south with other DPs.” Feargal was struck, not by the madness, but by the eccentric use of redundant. He understood what was meant, but the psychological implications were profound.

  “Will the Feds be sending any forces in?”

  “I don’t know,” the elder again, “there were some with us, but they claimed the regular troops were spread thin and a lot of these were still busy on the southern border. The Navy is busy with protecting the coasts, Hawaii, and the Aleutians.”

  “Too busy to take care of the West Coast? I understand they’ve occupied Tijuana, I heard this from the Metas that had me, but that leaves Northern California, Oregon, and Washington unprotected?”

  “There are the militias, of course,” the team leader continued, “but if we experience another push like Blaine they will not be enough.”

  “The Canadians have to get their shit together or we’ll have to occupy some of their border cities as well.” This didn’t surprise Matt, many Americans and
Congress, were calling for a buffer zone on their northern States. This hadn’t reached a peak yet, but if there were another incursion south this would almost certainly happen. Of course, Canada—as Mexico before them—could call foul in the UN, but that body had lost all authority with powerful nations. The US, then, would do whatever they saw to be in their best interests.

  The Americans, as well, had not lost sight of the fact the first cases of plague had occurred in Dilmun, Southern Ontario, only a couple of hours north of Buffalo and an hour west of Toronto. Putting the epicentre of the Pestis in Canada, even though this was quickly followed by global outbreaks, created a sense of apprehension in both electorate and government which was profoundly dangerous for the frosty democracy. Matt had been aware of that since the day the multi-national force pulled into Dilmun. Ostensibly, they had been there to protect the WHO, CDC, PAHO, and Health Canada scientists and bureaucrats, but a precedent had been set which boded ill for the sovereignty of weaker States.

  It was a precedent which had been followed through in China and its border states—very rapidly. The trouble did not come when the Chinese forces entered Thailand, North Korea, Cambodia, Laos, Viet Nam, and Myanmar. But when they’d refused to leave after the Transhumanist problem had been dealt with, this had triggered a minor, short-lived, conflict with India which had been particularly destructive to both States when there followed a limited nuclear exchange. Ultimately, everyone had to accept the Chinese would not be leaving eastern and south-eastern Asian States anytime soon. Most did, but this triggered a re-armament program in Japan which staggered the OECD world with its rapidity. In turn, the region was further destabilised—especially after the Japanese and Indians signed a mutual defence pact. The US was already too deeply concerned with stabilising the Americas and protecting their coasts to get involved in another Eurasian debacle.