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

by David S. Wellhauser

  What was it reminiscent of? Sandalwood, perhaps? Rosemary—but fresh, not the desiccated plant served up in bottles as seasoning. He never thought much of those, and that wild herb garden Shea kept in their backyard only reinforced the sentiment. The garden represented more than a simple source of fresh herbs, but the place where he and China bonded over her transformation. Shea’s garden had become a metaphor for their relationship and the violence which Zakara and his agents were willing and capable of bringing into their lives. If this had been meant to break Matt or China, however, the act transformation had bound them together irrevocably. Though their love and commitment had been stretched and, upon occasion, deformed by the change and the intrigues of those about them, it could not be broken.

  Again and again the pair was drawn back together—stronger and more determined to destroy all whom kept them and Leonor apart.

  This was what Feargal breathed in; this was the air which, if only as rhetorical flourish, bound him to purpose—again and again. Each breath filled his lungs, ran through his blood, exploded giddily up his spine. Nothing would stop him; stop them urged the niggle at the base of his spine. Nothing will stop us—we will destroy Shaitan. Feargal did not often use the supposed identity of the homunculus, but here and now the word filled him with loathing. With this he opened his eyes and the light drilled down into his soul—at least into his bowels—and a roil of antipathy filled him.

  Wanting to scream—bellow his rage over the valley below the mountain side he now stood upon—Matt, instead, stuffed a hand into his mouth, bit down, and covered this hand with his other. Pushing down and strangling the rage while blood leaked from the corner of his mouth—the pain from the wound continued and deepened as his clenched jaw squeezed tighter to pierce the padded flesh of his palm. Several minutes passed as the rage broke and rose again and again over the man. Eventually the fit passed and Feargal, spent, sunk to his knees and wept uncontrollably as any man utterly alone and bereft of hope.

  In time this too passed, leaving him empty, but in the emptying there was a cathartic purge. Of course, the poison still remained and the future would require another leeching. That worried Matt as he dressed and bandaged his hand. What if the rage or the hopeless, self-pitying tears took him again in the middle of a battle? Surely that would kill him. For the moment death—annihilation—did not seem such a poor end. At least the pain would stop.

  No! The same niggle. Not a voice, but the impression of a voice rose in him—yet this time not simply from the medulla; this time it welled-up from his bones. There was a brace in the commitment of the word. This was not rage, but steely determination. In this he repacked his bag—stripped his clothes and long-johns; then dressed again. For a moment he thought of repacking the thermals but instead tossed them behind a bush out of the way of anyone looking for signs of his passing. That done he heaved the pack back on, after putting on the vest, and stepped out for a better look at where he’d landed.

  Now he understood the origin and cause of the painful light. The sky was a full summer affair with a powerful cerulean blue, peppered with cotton candy clouds of white, dappled by a light grey. The mountains weren’t just on his side of the expanse, but circled around to the other. Perhaps this was a box canyon. Below was a wide valley dotted by what looked to be farms and small clusters of houses situated near cross roads. Nearest his end of the valley was a heavy, dark, and brambled forest which he’d no personal experience of but rose from the constructions he put together from the folktales he read as a child.

  Shea could never be bothered with reading him to sleep. All he got from her was a bedtime dvd of his favourite animation. When old enough he had to get up and turn the TV off, but when young he supposed he would have to lie there watching the blue screen. Soon enough he had taught himself to read, as a matter of self-defence, and took to the Brothers Grimm enthusiastically. It was also at this time he discovered the efficacy of the dictionary. From this he supposed came his love of books. Even now he’d a small tablet tucked away in his pack with a portable solar charger. Laughing he turned left, where a small path led away down the mountainside lined with what appeared to be cypress trees.

  Stepping onto the path, and just before the view of the valley was block by the cypress, Matt turned back to look down at the valley. In front of the forest, with its tangled nest of Grimm-esque undergrowth and its creepers of knotted roots virtually undulating out into the verdant trimmed expanse of the valley, he could only gape. In the middle of a large coombe was an ample pond or small lake—lake would be better because it had several small sailing craft on it of an antique—alien—design. The sails were pretty standard, but the design of the hulls seemed off—too deep and wide. From what he could see of these craft, though, they appeared very beautiful, if inelegant by way of design for cutting through the water.

  Around the lake cantered several Houyhnhnms and a variety of Metahumans. There were some carriages, but these were being drawn by some variant of the Llama, only larger and with longer necks—necks verging on the giraffe. Some of the carriage drivers were having trouble with maintaining control of these to the amusement of the Houyhnhnms. Matt assumed they would have some disagreeable notions about any animal being enslaved by humanoids—the carriages, the open ones, were filled with traditional Metahumans—but there seemed no aggravation in their expressions. The Llamas appeared to have been spooked by darting small quadrupeds with long necks and bobbling heads that appeared ill-at-ease with one another—on more than one occasion, while Feargal watched, they snapped and spat at one another. One of these, while contending with its partnered head, lost it footing and rolled beneath the feet of a pair of Llamas. The creature was first trampled; then crushed beneath the frail looking wheels of the carriage.

  The scene stopped being funny for one of the Houyhnhnms, at this point, and it charged forward and reared at the Llama driven open carriage. One of the Llamas caught a hoof, from what appeared almost a Clydesdale, and dropped dead at its feet. The Meta driver was having any of that and drew what appeared a handheld weapon of some type. There was a burst of energy, but this missed the Houyhnhnm and continued as a balloon of spidery effervescence toward the sky, where is slowly dissipated. The scene became quiet as everyone slowly figured out their afternoon outing—it appeared to be mid-afternoon—was taking an unpleasant turn which could rapidly become deadly. At this time the equines began to circle the carriage; the woman in this rose and broke into a piercing, hysterical scream.

  Even on the mountainside Matt felt an uncomfortable pricking of his nervous system. On the valley floor, however, the effect was comprehensive. Everyone within a dozen or more metres fell to the ground clutching their ears. The equines were not capable of this, but they still collapsed screaming in pain. Once the scene had been pacified the woman closed a large, gaping mouth, sat, and straightened her dress. The driver upon recovery cut the dead Llama loose and led the woman, in her carriage, away—back toward the village at the distant edge of the valley. There was, beyond the obvious Steampunk particulars, something utterly constructed and bourgeois about the scene. This could not be the new world; not if what he saw of the Cinn was true. This had to be some pleasantly constructed fiction to sell the trolls which pledged themselves to Zakara’s cause. Had to be something like that, but there was no way to be certain.

  ***

  Turning from the valley Matt headed down the path and the scene was soon lost behind a screen of trees.

  Although the weather was still close, without the thermals, however, Matt was enjoying the walk as the floral bouquet of the mountain’s wild flowers filled his senses and had a calming effect after the tortuous twist of emotions Feargal had just survived. As he walked Matt began to notice that woven in amongst the cypress trees were thick, short, and multi-coloured wild flowers. Picking some of these he crushed the petals and cupping his hands breathed in. There was a sharp cinnamon top note with a softer floral bouquet beneath this. The cinnamon was so powerful he pulled h
is nose back and sneezed. Doing so there was a rustle of laughter behind him. Turning there was only silence again—excepting the call and answer of birdsong. Feargal was certain these would be as odd as the birds he’d seen and heard in The Wood.

  Turning back from the woods that climbed up the gentle slope of the mountainside he continued down the path. Within 10 minutes, as best he could reckon time, the wildflowers—some were those he had picked, but many other varieties as well—began to creep out across the path and then covered this entirely. The only sign he had there was still a path any more were the cypress bordering this. The scent of cinnamon became heavier as he proceeded, crushing the petals beneath his boots. From this distance the smell was pleasant and invigorating. Then, to his left, the guide of trees gave way to a small glen surrounded by large multi-leafed, thick stalk plants that were topped with flowers reminiscent of lilacs—the sort that China had tattooed on her neck. The colours went far beyond anything Matt had any experience of in the human spectrum. How he could tell the colours were not what he should be able to see troubled him, but there they were.

  Behind these plants were more cypress trees and before them the glen was covered with the same wild flowers he’d seen on the blanketed path. Then he became aware that the plants, against the stolid backdrop of trees, were vaguely swaying. Stepping into the glen the towering flowers—approximately 220cm—stilled and turned in his direction.

  ***

  The movement wasn’t rapid, but noticeable. Stopping several metres from these, he did not want to go deep into the glen because the lilacs covered the eaves of the wood in a semicircle. If these were Meta-flora he did not want to be at a disadvantage. Even as he considered bringing the Bullpup into firing position he gave up on the idea. If they had any internal organs this might be useful, but if they had gone far into the plant kingdom there seemed little likelihood that he could inflict enough damage to halt them before they caught him—and did what? Whether they could move that fast was another issue, he thought not, but didn’t wish to test the hypothesis. Hence, he kept his distance.

  As they moved, mostly their flowered heads—heads because when the first of these, rather haltingly, turned the flower to look at him he noticed several elements had been tampered with. The stamens, surrounded by the gently curling and uncurling petals, seemed to be topped not with anther but flat, lilac coloured eyes—six in all. These eyes were not human or mammalian, but rather suggested compound constructions—relatives of the Insectoids? He’d rather not consider that. Odder still was the style, topped with a stigma, wasn’t simply a part of the plants reproductive system—though it may have been doubling for this. It was not purely a stigma because it was from this that it spoke.

  “You are he?” Elliptical, but provocative—how often is one addressed by a plant? The absurdity, bordering on the ridiculous—if not the pathetically trite, was plain enough—but his life had been threatened by this over and again for going on six years. Lowering the Bullpup, allowing this to dangle on the straps, Matt turned to the tallest of the flowers which had addressed him.

  “I am Matt Feargal.” There was a murmur of stigma voices and the scent of lilacs became heavy in the air.

  “You are the saviour, if you are the father of the girl.”

  “Leonor is here?”

  “No,” the tallest answered, “she is not—not that we have heard.” This was more than should be hoped for. The child would have to be in Monterrey now—and the ritual could not be far off.

  “What is happening here?”

  “This place is part prison and part resort.” The tallest again. “If you behave and support the program you get to live the good life in town and get full use of the valley. If you do not...”

  “This.” Gesturing toward the lilacs.

  “Or worse.” Another answered.

  “You mean the Insectoids?”

  “Or down in the forest, at the far end of the valley—there are plenty of failures in there.” Failures? But he did not have time. Outside events were speeding up.

  “Did Thin Man do this?” They’d no idea who he was. They recognised the type of Metahuman, but the name meant nothing. There was frustration in this but there was no surprise.

  “What is going on down there?”

  “In the town there is a R&D complex where they are attempting to fuse Cinn and Archaic technologies.” Interestingly enough the lilac did not say magic and that he wanted to remember. There was a lot more hope if this was simply an alternate form of tech.

  “Are there defences?”

  “Not so much now you are through the barrier, but there is some place down there which is generating a protective field—you’ll need to destroy that for the Archaics to destroy this place.”

  “You are being very helpful.”

  “Look at us! Transformation is one thing, but this is obscene—and just because we questioned the end goals of Master Botrous and the Cinn.”

  “What can I do to help you?”

  “Destroy this bubble of Cinn Space and you will destroy us—that’s what we want.”

  ***

  The lilacs had been very helpful, and Feargal could understand their point of view. What had been done to them was obscene. But as he came out of the path, into the valley, he looked toward the forest—if that was where the failures went he was almost afraid to think what they might be. If he were lucky and could destroy the power plant which produced the energy for what shielded the valley and created the Cinn Space then whatever was in there would be destroyed, if the lilacs could be believed—and if they were correct. In turn, whatever was in that forest would go up as well—in theory. That would be necessary, essential, because there was no way he wanted the Cinn’s rejects wandering about the Midwest—the place had always been freaky enough without that.

  Turning left as he entered the valley he wanted to keep as far from the lake, the centre of interest for everyone, as possible. There were still plenty of Houyhnhnms, Metahumans, and those odd quadruped Metas that seemed to be causing so much trouble—on behalf of the equines. He supposed the Houyhnhnm, if they were built on Swift’s mythos, must be very bitter about their marginal role in this new world order Zakara was piecing, rather slapdash, together. Whatever the case he needed to keep away from then, and luckily a screen of trees, this time oak and maple in appearance, ran along the valley were it met the foot of the mountains which embraced the valley.

  As he entered the trees he discovered the woods were much deeper and more complex than appeared from the mountainside—which was all to the good; here, at least, he would be hidden from whatever was out there. But they hid more than the man. Matt had not gone more than half a kilometre before he ran into a group of Metahumans and what appeared to be Archaics. Both looked much the worse for wear—ragged, filthy, lousy, and terrified.

  Pulling the pup forward he aimed for the centre mass of the leader. None of them moved, nor spoke a word. It was apparent that if he pulled the trigger the whole valley would know that an Archaic had snuck in and that would be it for him—if he was taken alive and found out, as he would have to be, then this would be it. Zakara would have him killed; Leonor would die; finally, there’d be little point in maintaining China. There were other issues that should have concerned him—but didn’t. Namely, what would happen to the planet and what species were left behind? Still, beyond his family it was difficult for him to see—or care. What could he do? Then the first of the Metas spoke.

  “We’re not going to harm you—or call out.” He, Matt was certain, had taken notice of the way the man glanced nervously toward the valley. For all his efforts, Feargal still had difficulty controlling his emotions and disguising his fear.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Depends on why you’re here.” A human female voice from somewhere in the back of the party.

  “I was told, by others up the mountain...”

  “Those things!” An older man nearly spat the last.

  “What d
o you mean?”

  “You met the plants with the purple heads?” The first Meta again.

  “Yes, they told me about the town; the R&D; the power plant; the experiments.” Matt’s voice dropped on the last.

  “They didn’t tell you what they do?” A young Metahuman female bit on Feargal’s comment.

  “What is it they do?” Time was short, but if he came back this way it might be important to know what he was confronting. An uncomfortable silence followed the question, and the Metas and Archaics look from one to the other. There was something which needed saying, but there was an uncertainty about how to do this. “I have to get going—if you’ve something to say than please do.” A Meta-woman, more girl, stepped forward. She was about 140cm tall, a little on the stout side of big-boned, frazzled hair, similar to Carla’s, hooked nails which spoke to a lupin ancestry, and yellow-gold eyes. Down her face she bore the ubiquitous Meta seam, but on the left hand side was a twist of damaged and healed skin. The injury suggested a chemical burn that had occurred a year or more ago. The girl appeared to notice the glance toward this and spoke.

  “This,” pointing to her face, “was done to me by those things up there.” With the same hand she pointed up the path. If it had not been for Bernard and Caitlin, pointing to a couple near the back of the group, who’d been hunting further in the forest beyond the glen, then I would have been killed.”

  “Why? Did you do something?” The girl shook her head. “Then why?”

  “Food.” The leader again. “They are carnivores.” It was not without precedent, but disturbing.

  “Then why would they let me...”

  “You are the Deliverer.” The girl continued. “But I would not go back that way.”

  “Why?”

  “If,” the leader again, “you fail to destroy this place then you are not the Deliverer and if you do, but they do not die, then they are condemned to continue on as they are. They will hate you for that.”