“Absolutely.” I make weigh-scale motions with my hands. “Enough for twelve, and I’m sure you’ll have no problems deciding amongst yourselves which of you should share it. Then, of course, there’s the fact that nobody even knows there are survivors out here. Killing me would only reinforce the military’s belief of this place being uninhabitable. Do you really want to wait until they arrive on their own?”
Skeptic narrows his eyes and lowers the revolver. “Alright then, Mr. Watts. Prove it.” He casually spits in the dirt. “We don’t know if that stuff is filled with taxo—whatchamacalit or not. How do we know it really works?”
This is it, the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
The fifth rule of product pitching?
Always have a demonstration.
I rub my hands together in anticipation. “Funny you should ask, sir. Just a second.”
I step away from the window and exit through the van’s back door. Outside of my chilled environment, the August heat feels like a blanket. “Everyone gather ‘round. You’re all about to witness a miracle of modern science.”
The crowd circles my position. “Please, nobody be alarmed. This is not for the faint of heart.” I take a deep breath, then roll up the legs of my dress pants.
All around me, there’s nothing but screaming and cursing. A man to my left crosses himself and recites the Lord’s prayer. A woman on my right vomits. But no matter what the reaction, they’re all staring at my legs: both are covered in tangles of thick, red veins, and patches of black, rotted flesh.
Skeptic once again raises his revolver to my chest and cocks the hammer.
“Whoa, Whoa. Easy there, sir.” I lift the bottom of my polo shirt, showing nothing but healthy skin underneath. “I’ve been this way nearly four months now. It’s not contagious.”
All around me, people are shouting, “He’s not sick!” or, “It really works!” And suddenly, I am a modern-day magic man. Lazarus, risen from the dead.
A woman grabs my shoulder. “Mr. Watts, those creatures claw at my door every night. I can’t sleep anymore, I don’t want to become one of them. Please, I’ll give you anything.”
“I’ve got jewelry.” A man waves his arms, trying to get my attention. “It was my wife’s. Might be worth a lot to the right person!”
“I’ve got green beans!”
“Saltines!”
“Canned tuna!”
“All of you, shut up!” Skeptic raises his revolver and fires a shot into the air. The blast jolts the crowd into a stunned silence, all except for the infant, who’s now howling louder than ever. Even I’m caught off guard, but I can’t let him spot the slightest tremble. Nothing shifts a bargaining position quite like fear.
But instead of his usual posturing, Skeptic tucks the gun inside the waistband of his faded jeans. “Mr. Watts,” he says, extending his hand, “Maybe I was wrong about you after all.” His lips twist into a thin smile. “You’re a hell of a salesman. We’ll take your cure, but on one condition.”
I shake his hand; give him that unit-moving smile. “Name it.”
“The first dose goes to my daughter. Emily, bring her up.”
Emily weaves through the crowd, the red blanket still bouncing, still buried against her chest. The infant wrapped inside has calmed to a gurgling coo.
For the first time in months I feel a twinge of guilt, but the deal is nearly sealed. It’s time for the closer. “Isn’t this incredible, folks?” I beam. “My friend, you’re the new breed of American hero. That’s exactly what you are. A man who has lost so much, but is still willing to sacrifice everything for his children. How old is she, sir?”
“Four months.”
“A little young for ice-cream, but we can make an exception just this once.”
I laugh, and the crowd gradually follows suit.
“May I?”
Skeptic nods. “Be my guest.
I wrap my arms around the bundle and gently lift it from Emily’s arms.
“Hello there, sweetheart,” I say, carefully turning the blanket around. “Aren’t you the prettiest girl in the entire—”
My words stick in my throat like rusty needles. I’ve rotated the bundle enough to see the face of the baby inside, but it’s not a baby anymore. Just a squirming mass of teeth, and veins, and rotten flesh. Before I can so much as scream, it lunges forward and bites down hard on my nose. I feel a flare of pain, hear the sickening scrunch of incisors against cartilage.
Instinctively, I hurl the creature to the ground. It thrashes around, mouth glistening with my blood, moaning like a dying animal.
“What the hell is wrong with you people!” I stagger back against the van and cup both hands against my face. “You’ve infected me!”
I instantly realize my mistake, but the entire crowd does too.
Skeptic cracks a wicked grin. “Thought you were immune, Mr. Watts.”
“Of course. I mean...” Faces are beginning to blur. “If I wasn’t already, I would be...” My head feels like it’s packed with cement. “You people keep...what the hell is...”
But I can’t finish. The world is drained of color, then sound, then light, and now I’m falling.
***
When I finally wake, I’m tied to the side of my van, wrapped in dozens of frayed extension cords that loop through the windows and stretch around the frame like the web of some exotic jungle spider. My arms and legs are outstretched and have lost circulation from the tightness of my bindings. I have a splitting headache. Blood oozes from my nose and drips onto my polo shirt. But above all else, I’m so unbelievably thirsty.
“About time you woke up, Mr. Watts.” Skeptic steps into view, absently twirling his revolver on one finger. “I gotta admit, you give a mean pitch. That leg gunk of yours was pretty convincing. Maybe even better than the last guy.”
On my left, there’s the faded green sign that says, ‘Welcome to Ashland.’ It takes me a moment to realize that we’re back on the border of town.
“Other guy?” I croak. My throat feels gritty as new sandpaper.
“Yep. Arrived about a month before you did. First human contact we had in forever. A real smooth-talker, just like you.”
I shouldn’t be so surprised. Once word of any successful business model gets out, knock-offs always spring up overnight.
A thick gob of blood drips past my lips. “He promised you a cure, too?”
Skeptic smirks. “That he did, Mr. Watts. Vaccines, military transport, safety. Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was reading from your script.”
For some reason, the notion is oddly amusing to me: some poor sap I’ve conned out of his last earthly possessions decides to muscle in on my market. Or perhaps I’m giving myself too much credit. There were pitchmen while civilization was on the rise, and they’ll be here while it crumbles down.
My feet feel like they’re being dangled over an open fire. I cough a mixture of blood and black chunks onto the road. “So you bought it, huh?”
“Hook, line, and sinker. Bastard drove away with half of our supplies and didn’t look back.”
In the distance, I can make out hazy figures moving towards us, red husks shambling across the blacktop. “Then why were your people so eager to buy from me?”
Skeptic shrugs. “Hope is a rare commodity these days. Maybe some folks just need to believe a magic man like you will come along and solve all their problems.”
He stops to watch the figures for a moment. “Friends of yours, Mr. Watts?”
I struggle briefly with my extension cord shackles but it’s no use. My wrists burn with every twist against the raw skin. “That thing, was it really your daughter?”
He kneels down to examine my bloody spew. “Nah. It wandered into Bobby’s yard a couple weeks ago. I’ve been keeping it caged ever since, waiting for the next con man with a miracle cure. Emily was the one who started babying the damn thing, but she ain’t been right ever since the twins passed.”
He shakes his head, then gets back to
his feet. “You’re coughing up dead tissue. Bad sign.”
There must be a dozen or more infected closing in, no more than a quarter-mile away now.
“Well, I’d better go and rally the troops. A different kind of monster will be visiting us soon. Try giving them your sales pitch, Mr. Watts. I bet they’d be interested in a cure.”
He starts walking away, back to town.
“Hey,” I yell. “You’re just going to leave me out here?”
“Should have paid more attention to my sign,” he calls over his shoulder. “But maybe you’ll help the next guy take a hint.”
As he disappears from view, I notice the van’s side panel is dripping with red paint. Using my last bit of strength, I crane my neck until I see Skeptic’s final message. Thick, smeared letters that read: NO SOLICITORS.
About the author:
Chris Lewis Carter was born and raised in Newfoundland, Canada, where he currently lives with his wife, Melissa. When he isn’t playing video games or listening to obscure podcasts, Chris will stare at his keyboard for hours on end. This usually means that he’s writing, but not always. His work has been published in the Cuffer Anthology: Volume Two, and he is currently working on his first novel. He can be reached at [email protected].
Time Minus Forever
by Bret Bass
It’s T minus 120 when I step out of the shower and pad over to the nightstand where the phone rests. This is usually when they ring. At T minus 120. Somewhere in the world, no matter where I am, it’s T minus 120. It’s always then when they call.
The phone rings. They’re two minutes behind. That surprises me.
“We’re leaving the window open,” the voice informs me. This too comes as a surprise.
“What about the static?” I ask.
“We’ve downgraded the risk.”
“The forecast calls for lightning. The satellite shows an anvil cloud within eight nautical miles of Missoula Command. It’s moving toward Anderson Hill. We’re launching from Anderson today.”
“We did not report that.”
“USA Today reported it. I have no reason to doubt their meteorologists any more than yours.”
“The Launch Weather Officer will not abort.”
And yet another surprise. “We’ve always scrubbed under these conditions.”
“We’re go at T minus 116 now.”
I want to argue more, but the line disconnects. I want to ask the voice, so full of androgyny and math and regulations, why it has no qualms about jeopardizing the mission or the safety of the crew. I want to ask where it comes from. What gender it belongs to. What small town shaped its timber and inflection. What university helped it develop that dispassionate but ironic affectation. But the voice, one of many in a choir that drones from the labyrinth of cubicles in Mission Control, never wants to talk of these things. It wants to recite codes, to chant the nomenclature of physics, to jangle with the tintinnabulation of utensils spilling onto the floor from turned-out drawers. It doesn’t want to talk to me.
In a moment, we’ll be T minus 114. And many moments after that, at T minus 9, I’ll be initiating the preliminary launch sequence and finalizing preparations. Mostly that means I’ll repeat the observations of the Ground Launch Sequencer until it hands off to the ship’s on-board Ascention Singularity Processor, which controls everything until the vessel reaches the high altitude point of 146,000 feet. It is in this moment that I first hand my life over to a series of machines. It is in this moment that I verify the computer’s protocols and subroutines to create the illusion of humanity for the spectators who see this as a human achievement. Who see me as something more than human. I want to tell them that I deserve no more praise than a bus driver. Sometimes I squelch the mic and bring myself close to broadcasting this revelation. But moments later, I think better of it. I always do.
If things go according to their plans, if today they buck convention, we’ll be T minus zero. A risky proposition. They should have closed the window. They should have held at T minus 120. There will be lightning at some point. I think the Launch Weather Officer is playing a dangerous game. It’s nothing to do with the ship, of course. The craft is constructed chiefly of conductive aluminum, which shields and protects the internal operating systems. If struck, we probably wouldn’t notice. The electricity would dissipate throughout the structure. And the ship is not electrically grounded. The problem comes from the plume of exhaust discharged during ascent. It attracts lightning and provides a direct path of current to the ground where the fuel tanks and chemical batteries sit. Where the spectators and the ground crews and the news people sit. Boom. T minus zero. Ground zero.
I’ve often wondered how I’d feel if that happened, roasting a hundred civilians alive in a fountain of flame. Sending them all to hell while the same fire propels me heavenward. Would I even know? From lift off to the first break in radio silence, it would already have happened. It would have taken only a moment. By the time the news reached me, analysis of the tragedy would have commenced across every television and radio in the world. I’d probably be close to breaching the thermosphere by then.
They should have aborted. But I knew this day would come again. It was inevitable.
***
“General Purpose Computer reporting status update, Captain.”
“Go, GPC.”
“Preparations for Stage One are complete. All quarters reporting in. Proceed with ship-wide announcement and SAINT control hand off. Acknowledge when ready.”
“Acknowledge, GPC. Hand off sequence initiated.”
“General Purpose Computer entering hibernation mode in 30 seconds.”
“Roger, GPC. Open bi-directional audio channels.”
“Audio activated, Captain. General Purpose Computer ending current transmission.”
“This is the Captain broadcasting over all frequencies. As you know, final preparations for Stage One are complete. Deployment will commence within the next two minutes. All systems will be routed to SAINT, and external communications will be suspended temporarily. However, shipboard emergency annunciators will remain on line. It will be difficult to comprehend what may happen once we enter the portal. No human has ever experienced an inter-time jump. Rest assured that medical staff will remain on alert with Navigation and Engineering crew members to assist civilians suffering any ill effects. Non-essential personnel have already been secured in their suspension pods. Personally, I want to remind you that what you’re doing here is courageous and unprecedented. Your efforts will not go in vain. Generations to come will remember all you have accomplished this day. I’ll leave you with the words of an old poet, someone you’ve probably never heard of. ‘We take up the task eternal, and the burden and the lesson, Pioneers! O pioneers!’ Godspeed, all. End transmission.”
“Engineering hailing. This is Miner, sir.”
“Acknowledge.”
“We’re go when you are.”
“Actuating. Prepare for transition in T minus 20 seconds. All systems transferring to SAINT.”
“Remember, stay calm and focused once SAINT spins up.”
“Roger that, Miner. Transfer complete.”
“Engineering locked in, Captain.”
“Deploy.”
***
Outside my bungalow, the moon stares down at me. This is the time when I find my way outside into the after-night, insomnia’s clime. There are no colors. I sleep through the world in color. Mine is a world in monochrome. White stars against a black sky. Street lamps offensive and gray like the skin of the dead, framed in black crape. A sky the color of a bruise. A confluence of cancer. At dawn, I will be shot up into it. A little pill in the system. A cure in search of a disease.
At T minus 90, I finish packing the few things I’ll bring. They’re always the same things. Throat lozenges, the silver lighter my grandfather left me, the matching flask, a digital music player, a penny minted in the year and place of my birth, and three photographs pressed into a story book w
ith my daughter’s favorite fairy tale. Before I leave the compound for the launch site, I’ll stop off and see her. I’ll bring a bouquet of peonies, her favorite flowers, and then I’ll read to her. It’s become part of the routine. It’s become part of me, because I exist within routines. They tether me to the few human moments I have left on this earth. When I pass beyond this atmosphere, routines will form my only connection to the sublunary existence I leave behind in larger pieces with each mission. Once off the ground, I will spend my days struggling against the flux of an incalculable and dynamic emptiness. I will be drawn back into the madness of this infinity, searching for an oasis I abandoned long ago in that desert, coming closer to the realization that the universe is made up of nothing more than unending boredom and longing.
2013: The Aftermath Page 6
