“Let me get my things,” he said, even though he did not really have anything to bring along, save for a wrinkled captain’s sash that would not impress anyone.
MORT(E) SAT IN the middle of the rear seat, while Bonaparte drove and Wawa flipped through a stack of papers on her lap. The steering wheel had large indentations in it so that Bonaparte could rotate it with his hooves—a neat little innovation. Mort(e) had never visited the quarry before, though he had seen it detailed on a map: a hole in the ground right beside the highway, surrounded by a poster-laden wooden fence. A new mining project had begun there a month earlier.
They drove by people fixing up old homes. A crew of rodents painted a house at the end of the Martinis’ street. They had white droplets on their fur and wore polarized goggles to protect their light-sensitive eyes. They were probably all relatives, a family of rats who found employment that introduced them to the surface world, where they repaired the same houses they would have loved to gnaw apart before the Change.
Mort(e) asked Wawa where she was posted. She told him that most of her work these days involved civilian policing. There was not much to be done: a few minor disagreements over property lines, fender benders (due to the paucity of actual driving lessons), noise complaints (usually from people who lived next door to dogs). Wawa rolled her eyes as she talked about how canines often failed to control their howling. She seemed disappointed in her own kind for not rising to her level of discipline.
Public drunkenness, she explained, had shifted from an occasional oddity to a regular nuisance. Many new homeowners explored the mysterious liquor cabinets left behind by former occupants. Despite all the warnings the animals had received in the refugee camps, many decided that they were tough enough to experiment with a little Southern Comfort or Cabernet Sauvignon. The administrators at Mort(e)’s refugee camp even showed a prewar “viral” video of some teenage humans feeding beer to a dog and laughing maniacally while the poor animal stumbled into walls and down a flight of steps. It had reportedly been viewed over forty-seven million times.
Wawa began the story of a cow who had used a straw to slurp some Jack Daniels and then got her head stuck between a pair of fence posts. Here, Bonaparte let out a brief snort. At first Mort(e) thought that this was a sign of disgust. Then he noticed the smell, strong enough to make him sit upright in an effort to find pure air. But it was useless. The stench was everywhere. Wawa stopped talking and held her hands over her nose. It was the unmistakable scent of death and decay, the same that had filled the streets in the days after the attack on his old neighborhood. Daniel’s corpse must have contributed to it, along with Sheba’s.
“Is this what I was right about?” Mort(e) asked.
Wawa nodded, her eyes watering. A little whimper slipped out from her muzzle.
Two dog soldiers opened the gate to the quarry and let the Humvee enter. Inside, troops of every species lined the edge of the pit, staring into it, some shaking their heads. Many covered their snouts with scarves or some other fabric. Whatever was in the bottom of the quarry released a cloud so toxic that Mort(e) almost expected to see it.
An orange cat ran in front of the vehicle, frantically gesturing for Bonaparte to steer the vehicle to the right.
“You’re driving on the tracks, you pig!” the cat said.
Bonaparte parked the Humvee beside a row of trucks. As the vehicle turned, Mort(e) noticed why the cat was so excited: a trail of hoof prints, perhaps twenty feet wide, led straight into the pit.
When Mort(e) exited the Humvee, the stench enveloped him like a waxy second skin. He felt the urge to lick himself clean. Wawa kept her paw over her nose.
“Do you see him?” Bonaparte asked.
It was impossible to miss Culdesac looming over the others. As he approached his old friend, Mort(e) could not resist peeking into the pit. A trio of dogs let out mournful howls. Mort(e) was about to tell them to shut up. Then he peered over someone’s shoulder.
At the bottom of the quarry lay a herd of deer, all dead, piled like dolls, bristling with antlers. Their bodies had been elongated by the biological processes of the Change, while their bellies had swollen with the putrid gases building inside them. A black mist floated above them, and for a second Mort(e) supposed that this was the stink personified. It was instead a fluid swarm of flies gorging on the dead. The slightest breeze caused them to buzz away and then return, so that the scene resembled the snow on a television screen. Glistening, lifeless eyes stared at Mort(e) through the horde of insects, accusing, pleading, asking questions that could not be answered. The great accomplishment that took the ants millennia to achieve had thrown itself off a cliff.
To Mort(e)’s left, a rat began to vomit. His comrades laughed.
“I thought you’d be used to this!” someone said.
“It’s not the smell,” the rat said. “It’s the flies. I hate the flies.” He coughed and spat.
“It’s a good thing the Colony didn’t make the flies smart,” a dog said. “Then they might realize that they eat nothing but corpses and shit.”
Culdesac, Mort(e) noticed, had turned to see the commotion. The bobcat straightened up, recognizing his friend, his disciple, his apprentice. Mort(e) walked toward him. A cat was in the middle of asking the colonel a question, but stopped when she realized that he wasn’t listening. Culdesac extended his paw to Mort(e).
Mort(e) punched the colonel on the bridge of his nose. Culdesac had always told him, Don’t aim for the face. Aim for the back of the head. Imagine your fist going through your enemy’s brain, dragging the bone and flesh with it.
In less than a second, guns pointed at Mort(e) from every direction. Shiny barrels glinted inches from his face. He followed each of them to their owners: the slitted eyes of a cat, the beady eyes of a rodent, the soft, wet eyes of a dog.
“Lower your weapons,” Culdesac said. He scrunched his nose to confirm that it wasn’t broken. “Do it,” he said.
The rifles descended.
“That means you, Lieutenant,” Culdesac said.
Wawa holstered her gun. She didn’t seem to like that. Mort(e) understood—there had been a time when he would have ripped out the throat of anyone who failed to make proper eye contact with Culdesac.
“Don’t you all know who this is?” the colonel asked. “This is Mort(e). The hero of the Battle of the Alleghenies. The Mastermind of the Chesapeake Bridge Bombing. The crazy bastard who assassinated General Fitzpatrick in broad daylight. This choker was killing humans before some of you were born.”
For once, Mort(e) appreciated the choker comment. It lowered expectations for him.
“So you got my message,” Culdesac said, leaning in. “Congratulations. I didn’t call you the smartest for nothing.”
“Just tell me why you brought me here,” Mort(e) said.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Culdesac asked. “If memory serves me, I couldn’t stop you and Tiberius from snooping around a place like this.”
“Tiberius is dead, Colonel.”
Culdesac nodded. He scanned the soldiers until he picked out a dog who was taking photos of the deer. “Have you got all the pictures you need, Private?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Culdesac said. “All right, everyone, clean it up.”
Several lackeys began barking orders at their own lackeys, and within seconds the crowd buzzed with activity again. Flatbed trucks moved to the edge of the pit, while soldiers wearing hazmat suits rappelled into the quarry.
Culdesac motioned for Mort(e) and Wawa to walk with him. Mort(e) glanced at Bonaparte standing beside the Humvee, unaffected by the excitement. Grinning, the pig made a punching motion with his hoof.
The three made their way over to a hastily erected tent. Culdesac brought them over to a table covered with papers, each containing jargon that was of no interest to Mort(e). A mug of cold coffee acted as a paperweight. Most animals despised the stuff, especially those who had lived in the wild. It was said that they never
needed a stimulant because they so often lived in fear for their lives. But for whatever reason, Culdesac had acquired a taste for it. Perhaps he was finally slowing down and needed something to compensate.
Culdesac picked up one of the documents and spread it out on the table. It was a map of the area, marked up with red Xs and other notations.
“I didn’t call you the first time it happened,” Culdesac said. “Even though I knew then that something wasn’t right.”
“There have been other suicides?” Mort(e) asked.
“I wish they were only suicides.”
Suicide and murder were supposed to be relics of the past, such as wars, superstition, beauty magazines, reality television, and every other corrupt outgrowth of human civilization. The ants killed themselves only in service to the Colony, including, according to legend, the Queen’s own mother. But even sacrifices like that were rare nowadays.
“Lieutenant Wawa has been leading the investigation,” Culdesac said. He nodded to her, and she stepped forward.
The Red Sphinx had received reports of people exhibiting the physical symptoms of the virus, she said. So far, no one tested positive. Her unit was monitoring the situation, ordering blood tests for every neighborhood where symptoms had been found. But the cases of unusual behavior were even more alarming, and more unpredictable.
“There was a family of cats not too far from your house,” Wawa said, pointing to an X on the map. “They all hung themselves. There was also a mother rat who killed herself after drowning several of her children. These weren’t veterans who were traumatized by the war.” With this, she winced and said, “No offense.” Mort(e) asked her to continue. The parents had worked for the Bureau, she said, and the children were going to attend school later in the year.
“And then over here,” she continued, tracing a line on the map with her brown fingernail. “Murder-suicide. A dog—a sanitation worker—stabbed his next-door neighbor, poisoned his mate and two pups, then ate the poison himself.”
“You think these incidents and the reports of infection are related?”
“Yes,” she said. “I just can’t prove it.”
“So everyone isn’t as pleased with the big Change as they’re supposed to be,” Mort(e) said. “What does this have to do with me?”
“It all started when you moved into the neighborhood,” she said.
“I want you to be honest with me,” Culdesac said, “Has anything unusual happened since you came home?”
Before the bobcat even finished his question, the image of the graffiti appeared before Mort(e)’s eyes, throbbing with each beat of his heart.
“No,” he lied. “I’ve been fixing up the place, removing some of the human junk. I haven’t noticed anything.”
“Mort(e),” Culdesac said. “You realize the implications of this better than anyone.”
“Of course. But what did the Queen expect? She killed billions of people and turned everything upside down and then thought we would all be grateful for it.”
“We should be grateful,” Culdesac said. “We were slaves—”
“Oh, give it a rest,” Mort(e) said. “You don’t think we’re slaves now?”
“We are the masters of this planet—”
“If you need the Queen’s permission to be a master, then you’re really a slave.”
“If I may,” Wawa cut in. “Mort(e), everyone admires your work. But I know your story. The therapist in the camp said that you had unresolved issues from the Change. You’re in the same condition now as when the colonel found you. What was it you were doing at the time? Shouting a dead person’s name?”
“Oh, right,” Culdesac said. “Sheba. Have you heard from her lately?”
Mort(e) was about to say maybe, but thought better of it. “Well, if I’m such a basket case,” he said, “then why give me security clearance?”
“Wasn’t my decision,” Culdesac said. “The Colony gave the order.”
It was odd enough that the Colony had brought in Culdesac’s team. Now they were helping him micromanage personnel.
“Do you think they forgot your little stunt during the war?” Culdesac said. “Like you said, Tiberius is dead, and you’re the closest thing to an expert around here. They thought you could help. And that you would keep your mouth shut. And that you wouldn’t be surprised by what you saw.”
“I’m never surprised,” Mort(e) said.
“Maybe you’re right,” Culdesac said. “Maybe these anomalies are a reversion to the old ways. I’m hoping it’s a temporary phase as we sort things out.”
“Or it’s EMSAH,” Mort(e) said.
This struck a nerve with Culdesac. He squinted his bright eyes and said, “Be careful with how you use that word around here—”
“What, EMSAH?” Mort(e) said, louder this time.
“Officially, this is part of the standard security procedures for a new settlement,” Culdesac said. “Unofficially, I share the lieutenant’s concern. I have to. It’s my job.”
Mort(e) tried to think of how Tiberius would have handled this. He probably would have pointed out that EMSAH made people do, say, and believe illogical things, but that it was rare for the virus to drive someone to suicide before any other symptoms arose. If these deer had EMSAH, they would be in no position to organize and execute such a spectacle. But it also made sense that the virus would mutate, adapt, and attack in new, unheard-of ways. That was the nature of viruses.
“Relax, Colonel,” Mort(e) said. “We’d be quarantined by now if there were an outbreak.”
“We’ll be calling on you in a few days,” Wawa said. “But if you see anything, I want you to call me here.”
“Right,” Mort(e) said. “If you see something, say something.”
As she handed him a card with her information, a dog arrived at the entrance to the tent. She was a Labrador, too young to remember the war. Mort(e) could always tell with these young ones. Their eyes were innocent, and they didn’t keep their heads on a swivel. But there was something else. This soldier was clearly spooked by something. She panted, trying her best to keep her stupid tongue in her mouth. “Sir, I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said.
Culdesac and Wawa turned to the young recruit, who saluted diligently. “What is it?” Wawa asked.
“The envoy from the Colony is here.”
Culdesac rubbed his hands together and nodded. “Tell Bonaparte to get the device,” he said. The dog left, the flap of the tent swaying behind her.
“Well, Mort(e),” Culdesac said, “you get to see me kiss some abdomen again.”
They stepped outside. Standing before them were two Alpha soldiers, side by side, perfectly rigid. Even their antennae were still. And the compound eyes—half-globes protruding from their enormous heads—pointed in hundreds of directions. Mort(e) could never be sure that he was outside of their gaze.
At the foot of each soldier was a pool of swarming ants, the regular-sized ones, who gathered information about the terrain that the larger soldiers could miss. Ultimately, the Alphas’ orders came from the smaller sisters. Culdesac often compared the Alphas to giant remote-controlled robots. “Their brains might be a potato with wires attached to it,” he once said.
Bonaparte arrived with the device cradled in his short, plump arms. This model was more advanced than the one used by the Great Dane at the most recent Purge. The devices were so important—and so classified—that every unit had a designated soldier to guard it. This translator was basically a helmet made of some kind of organic material fashioned by the Colonial scientist guild. If it had been made from bits of dead Alpha soldiers who had willingly sacrificed themselves, Mort(e) would not have been surprised.
While the ants stood there like a pair of icons, Culdesac placed the device on his oversized head. It barely fit. The antenna poked into the sky. A mouthpiece hovered over his whiskers.
“Get back to work,” Wawa yelled to her soldiers. Most of them had stopped what they were doing to watch their great leader spea
k to the ants. It took months of training for an officer to use a translator. Only a well-prepared mind could interpret, store, and retrieve what was needed from the data stream without becoming like a teacup underneath a waterfall. Many animals aged prematurely and suffered immense physical pain and mental degradation by using the device. Even so, they were probably smarter now than any human who had ever lived.
Mort(e) tried to get closer so he could hear the alien voice coming through the speaker. Wawa’s paw on his arm stopped him.
“Leave them be,” she said, as protective as a mother canine. He figured that she must have been one of the old bobcat’s projects, as he had once been.
Apparently finished with the exchange, Culdesac got the attention of one of the sergeants, a dog wearing a surgical mask. The colonel twirled his finger, indicating that they should wrap things up. The sergeant nodded.
Suddenly the ants came to life. Moving in unison, they faced one another and touched antennae, their abdomens throbbing. With their smaller sisters surrounding them, the Alphas walked off, leaving Culdesac standing there. Bonaparte was already at his side to retrieve the translator.
“Ready to watch the future?” Culdesac asked Mort(e).
Moments later, the Alphas returned, this time with at least twenty more behind them. The procession made its way to the quarry in the same single-file formation the ants had used in the quarantined settlement years earlier. The sergeant frantically ordered the animals to stay clear. The soldiers who had rappelled into the pit scrambled up the rock face and scurried away as the ants arrived at the lip of the quarry. The creatures climbed down the side, their claws latching into the rock.
“Are they going to disinfect?” Mort(e) asked Culdesac.
“They’re recycling.”
Mort(e) let out a cynical snort.
“What?” Culdesac said. “You’ve seen this before. Do you want these corpses stinking up the place?”
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