State of Decay

by James Knapp

  Pulling some of the threads out of my hair, I held them up to my face. They were the same thin white wires. My heart was beating faster. Was this another dream? I hoped it was another dream.

  “Calm down,” the woman said. “Don’t try to pull off the electrodes; you’ll get shocked if you do.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. Skin was flaking off her lips, and her eye sockets were dark and hollow.

  “Anna,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Zoe.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “No, where?” I said, and she looked like she might cry.

  “I was asking you.”

  I rubbed my eyes and found that my face was all sweaty and my hands were shaking really badly. The side of my neck itched, and as I scratched at it, I remembered the needle poking me there.

  “Are you sick?” she asked.

  I hated that question. Even in the situation I was in, I hated it. People always looked at me like I was a hobo or a cancer patient or something, always with this look like they were either grossed out by me or felt sorry for me. Asking someone who wasn’t sick if they were sick was such an insult.

  “Zoe?”

  When I tried to swallow, though, my throat was totally dry and my stomach turned over. Maybe this time I really was.

  Either way, I needed time to think. Peeking through the hole in the cardboard, I focused on the woman in the cage next to mine until the lights got bright and the glow appeared around her head. After a second I could see it rippling with deep shades of blue, with small flares of red licking out. The patterns were all of sadness and depression and despair, worse than I’d ever seen before. I meant to push and try to make her feel a little better, when I noticed something else: a thin white band, like a little halo circling her head.

  “Hey, my next-door neighbor had one of those,” I said without thinking. It was faint, like the ring of a planet, and when I concentrated on it, I felt a kind of resistance. It pushed me back gently, not allowing me to get any closer and not letting me change the other colors.

  The woman wiped her eyes.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” she said.

  “Do what?” I asked, guilty.

  “What you just did. They’re watching.”

  “Watching?”

  She pointed to the electrodes stuck to her head. My brain was moving in slow motion, but I was starting to understand her.

  “Wait, you felt that?” I asked.

  “I can do it too, Zoe,” she said. “It’s why I’m here. It’s why we’re all here.”

  “Other people can do it?”

  She gave me a pitying look then, and it was a look I knew well. “Yes,” she said.

  “Then my next-door neighbor could do it too the whole time?” I asked myself out loud. “Why was he—”

  “Maybe they were getting ready to contact you,” she said, looking away. “Maybe they just wanted to keep an eye on you.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Coming in,” a man’s voice said from somewhere nearby. The woman’s eyelids drooped.

  “Don’t fight them,” she said.

  “Turning on the light,” the voice said, and there was a loud snap that made me jump as a bright light flooded the room from above. Everything went white and hurt my eyes, making my stomach flip.

  “When they start,” she said, holding up the thin white electrode wires while still staring into space, “the person on the other end of these wires is going to try to take control of you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because they’re like us,” she said. “Because they can. Because they’re in even deeper trouble than we are, and they need help. They’re desperate.”

  “What?”

  Heavy footsteps came closer until a shadow fell over me and I saw two men standing in front of my cell.

  “Try to remember that,” Anna said.

  “You’re awake,” one of them said. I didn’t recognize either of them, but I could tell right away that they were both revivors, just like the woman Nico brought me to see. They were like dead men or robots or something, with no thoughts to read or influence.

  “We’re ready to begin,” one said to the other.

  “Begin? Begin what?” I asked. What the hell was going on? What was I doing there?

  Please let this be another dream. Please, please let this be another dream. . . .

  “The new Patient Nine is awake. Has the template been arranged?” the other one said into a walkie-talkie. It let out a pop of static, and another voice came out of it.

  “The probes are in place,” it said. “We’re recording.”

  “Open the gate,” the one with the radio said.

  “Get ready,” Anna muttered from behind the plastic.

  “Get ready for wh—”

  The words stuck in my mouth, and I found out.

  Faye Dasalia—Factory Entrance

  A GPS appeared in front of my eyes. The floating image jittered at the edges, and a point began to flash. Impulses cracked down the length of my spine. A low electric hum rattled through my brain. It urged me to move toward the point on the map. I’d managed my way back up to street level, where I walked forward blindly.

  Is Nico alive? I asked.

  I had felt Nico’s presence inside my head. He’d dug down in my mind, deeper and deeper, when something else intruded. The other presence reached in and took control.

  Answer me, I urged.

  The other presence was still there—I sensed it, though it hadn’t responded. It had referred to itself as Samuel Fawkes. Samuel Fawkes had forced me to kill Nico.

  I could still feel Nico’s chest beneath my palm. His skin had been so warm and so full of life. I never meant to do it. Something triggered the blade, and the warmth seeped out. It gushed through my fingers and over my hand. He fell back, spilling onto the concrete floor. Blood bloomed through his white shirt until it turned red. The vibration in my chest grew more urgent. I wanted to go to him. Instead I rifled through each of his pockets. I found the keys that would free me from the chain. With the padlocks undone, I stood and left him.

  Please tell me, is he alive? I asked again, but the presence was silent.

  The snow had gotten heavy. Flakes sprayed over my face and my mostly bare body. I was still wearing only a button-up shirt that reached the tops of my thighs, but I didn’t feel cold. A man stared as I trudged barefoot down the street, a passenger inside my own body.

  This was a mistake, I said. Shanks looked down and shook his head.

  No, it wasn’t.

  It was.

  His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in very close. The warm brown of both his eyes was blotted out as his pupils dilated.

  No, it wasn’t, he growled.

  The anxiety left me, bleeding away. In its place, I felt relaxed. Happy, even.

  This never happened, he said, no longer looking at me. I left you at the door and I never came inside. I have never been inside your apartment.

  Those memories weren’t real, I was certain of it. Other memories referenced them as just a dream. I’d shared those dreams with the department psych rep. I was sure that they weren’t real. When Shanks came up to my apartment that night, it had been for the first time.

  That man sitting next to you is not your friend. . . .

  I shook my head, scattering cold drops and snow. More people were watching me, pointing at me. . . . I began to walk faster, and then I ran. I darted down a side street. One foot plunged into a puddle of water, splashing slush and flakes of ice. I ran through the dark maze of streets and alleys.

  As I ran, I tore frantically through my thoughts, through the gaps in my corrupted memories. Inside so many of them was Doyle Shanks, saying and doing things he had never done.

  I should have been terrified. What happened when that blade went into my chest? Between the time my life slipped away from me and the time the warmth first came, what was it, exactly, that I had become? Though I kne
w my identity was the same, something had changed when I fell into that darkness. I should have felt something, anything, but I did not.

  Snow covered everything now. People and cars fell off; then I was alone. I didn’t know where I was. I’d come out in a wide, open drift of snow. Dark structures loomed through the haze in the distance. The GPS point was somewhere up ahead.

  I saw a squat, blocky shape some ways away. It poked up from out of the expanse of white. I moved toward it, dragging my feet through the snow. It was a small guard station. The door lay open, and the glass was all smashed. An old, rusted breaker box had been torn down. A shopping cart lay on its side next to it. Just beyond, a ramp descended underground.

  Squinting through the snow, I made out a figure. There was a man at the ramp. He wore a long, dark coat, with the hood up over his head.

  You . . .

  A thrumming began to swell in the distance. It came from up above me. I turned and shielded my eyes against the snow. There were several black shapes hanging in the air. As they came closer, the thrumming grew louder. It was a formation of helicopters.

  Quickly. The message floated there in the stark, gray air.

  I turned back to the man who stood at the ramp. He gestured for me to come.

  They’ve found us. Come quickly.

  I recognized the man’s face. He was the one who had pushed the blade through me. It was the killer I had chased for so long. Somehow he was there, waiting.

  Don’t you mean that they’ve found you?

  There is no difference between us now. Not as far as they’re concerned. They won’t rescue you; they’ll shoot you on sight.

  The group of helicopters drew closer. As they did, they spread into formation.

  Come on, he said. They’ll fire on you from the air. Come with me. I will explain.

  The vibration filled my head, urging me on. As the helicopters closed in behind me, I staggered through the last length of snow to him. He held a blanket and wrapped it around me.

  “You killed my friend,” I told him, “and you killed me.”

  He wrapped the blanket tight around my shoulders. His cold, electric eyes stared and met my own.

  “I killed your shadow,” he said, “and I didn’t kill you. I freed you.”

  Nico Wachalowski—New Amsterdam, Warehouse District

  She wasn’t much on social graces, but I admit I had taken an immediate liking to Calliope Flax, despite her foul mouth and the frank hatred of authority that included my own. It wasn’t just that she came back to check on me, which she didn’t have to do. Most people would have called us even by that point, but she was still taking point for a ride that could put her closer to trouble instead of the other way around. She had guts.

  When we got back up to street level, the snow was coming down hard. We got on the bike and headed for Zoe’s apartment, but we didn’t get two blocks before I spotted the first military patrol. The armored vehicle was moving slowly down the main street, a soldier sweeping a spotlight across the building fronts and down the side roads. Another soldier on the back of the truck held an automatic rifle, keeping watch with an infrared scope. Further on I could see another beam scanning the street while a group of three uniformed revivors marched down the sidewalk, rifles slung over their shoulders as they crunched through the snow. It seemed like whole sections of the city had come under occupation.

  Sean, talk to me. What’s going on?

  Your civilian is gone, Nico.

  What do you mean “gone”?

  The units that showed up at her place found one dead, one injured, and no sign of Zoe Ott.

  Show me.

  Images from Zoe’s apartment appeared in my field of view. The feed from the officer scanned the inside of the place, shining a flashlight through the dark. The place was filthy, spiral-bound notebooks arranged in skewed stacks along the walls and leaning against the furniture. Trash, dust, and grime seemed to cover everything.

  Do the officers have a lead on her?

  Not yet, but they’re saying abduction, not murder, at least for now. Any idea why they’d take her?

  No.

  A struggle took place in there; that was clear. Some of the many empty liquor bottles had been toppled and smashed, and notebooks, papers, and pieces of glass were scattered across the floor.

  Near the front door was a man’s body, lying in a wide pool of blood with what looked like his guts spilled out in front of him.

  Who’s the victim?

  Next-door neighbor.

  The older man, the one she didn’t get along with. Maybe he tried to help her out and got more than he bargained for.

  What about the survivor?

  Downstairs neighbor.

  Karen. Did she see anything?

  According to her, she missed the whole thing. Zoe was gone when she got there.

  She missed the whole thing?

  That’s what she says.

  Sean, how did she step over a dead man and get hit by the attacker if she missed the whole thing?

  I’m just telling you what she said.

  They’d dose her to be sure, but I had a feeling it wasn’t going to matter. I had a feeling she didn’t miss the whole thing, but Zoe had influenced her otherwise.

  She doesn’t know anything, Sean said.

  You don’t think she’s lying?

  I think she believes what she’s saying.

  A shot rang out off to my left up ahead, and I saw a muzzle flash light up the concrete wall of the building. I felt Calliope jump in the seat in front of me, but she kept us steady. As we passed, I looked between the buildings and saw a luxury vehicle idling there on the side street, one wheel up on the curb of the walk. The driver’s-side door hung open and two revivor soldiers stood there, one holding its rifle with the barrel still drifting smoke. It moved to one side to let the other one in as it pointed a short weapon with a large, tubelike barrel into the vehicle. A gas-powered thud came from the street behind us as we passed.

  “Cal, stop the bike!” I yelled, but she kept going.

  “Calliope, stop the bike!”

  “Fuck you. I’m not going near those things!”

  The bike veered, fishtailing for a second on a patch of ice as Calliope took us down a side street to avoid a patrol up ahead where flames were shooting out of a storefront. Garbage and debris littered the sidewalks and the intersection where the soldiers were standing.

  Sean, what’s going on out here?

  They authorized a troop increase to help keep order.

  Because of the explosion at the arena?

  Where have you been? After the garage bomb, two more went off, one in a mall and one in a nightclub.

  Calliope took the bike into an alley, then scooted by a Dumpster through a narrow passageway. The vibrations from the engine were making my chest throb from the inside out and I was freezing, but I had to admit we would never have gotten as far as we even had if I’d tried to take the car. Whole blocks were closed to traffic and there were checkpoints everywhere. Every face we passed looked terrified; the presence of the revivors on the street had stirred up a primal fear in people. Bombs or no, it was a mistake to deploy them.

  Sean, what’s the protocol on the PH soldiers? What are their orders?

  Containment and suppression only. Why?

  Nothing lethal? For any circumstances?

  Sean paused for a moment.

  No. Did you see something?

  I’m not sure. I think so. Does any of the deployment include the use of Leichenesser canisters?

  Why would a revivor be issued Leichenesser?

  Sean, yes or no?

  No.

  The substance was used primarily for medical reasons and to destroy revivors, but it would consume any dead flesh. It was also handy for cleaning up messes. For making things disappear. Where had they gotten it?

  Look, there’s something else you should know, Sean said.

  What do you mean?

  There’s another problem
. Some of the revivors, the ones deployed with the troops, they stopped checking in.

  What does that mean, “they stopped checking in”?

  Isolated pockets of them broke off from their assigned groups. Some turned up not long after and acted like it was a malfunction in the command network. Some are still unaccounted for.

  Another update came over the connection I was monitoring.

  Database synchronization pending.

  Updating . . .

  Header mismatch: Mullvue, Horace. Murder.

  Header mismatch: Vesco, William. Murder.

  Header mismatch: Hibiki, Fran. Murder.

  Header mismatch: Phang, Shin. Murder.

  Removing . . .

  Removing . . .

  Removing . . .

  Removing . . .

  The names continued to peel off. This was a much larger change than the ones I had witnessed before; at least fifteen names were removed.

  What do you mean “some are still unaccounted for”? How many?

  Seventy-two and counting.

  Fawkes was behind this. He had to be. He knew revivor technology intimately; he would know how to infect the command matrix. Whatever he was up to, this was part of it.

  That connection trace—

  One step ahead of you. I followed it back to a site called Fioplex right here in the city. It’s an underground factory that used to produce optical cable, but it’s been shut down now for almost a decade.

  You’re sure?

  Yes. Once we pinpointed the site, we did a satellite scan and detected electrical activity down there, way too much to be noise. Someone’s using a lot of juice. You think whoever’s been bringing in the illegal revivors and tapping into Heinlein’s system is also directing the rogue PH soldiers?

  He’s not doing it on his own.

  The question remained, though: why? Samuel Fawkes might have the knowledge to take control of a large group of revivors—he’d already demonstrated he could take control of one—but he wouldn’t do it for nothing. If that was his intent all along and he just needed more revivors than he could bring in illegally, then the purpose of the attacks leading up to this point might have been to pressure the authorities into doing exactly what they did: deploy the National Guard with a compliment of PH soldiers. It would be one of the only set of circumstances under which anyone would ever see so many revivors out of stasis on American soil. Was this what he wanted all along?