Dead City

by Sean Platt

  Then Ana asked to be excused to get ready for bed. She said she was tired. It was seven thirty.

  After that, Ian and Bridget sat opposite each other, both eyeing the table. An opening conversational salvo rolled around inside Ian’s head, going so far as to touch the tip of his tongue. He actually opened his mouth a few times to speak but quickly closed it each time.

  Bridget got up and went wordlessly into the living room. Ian cleared the table. Normally, dishes went into the sink for later, but he decided to load the dishwasher in the quiet kitchen. Why not? Ian could look out the window into the backyard — an evening-lit portal into the past, where nothing went wrong. There was no street this way, no black cars filled with watchers and danger. Ana’s swing set was out there. She didn’t play on it much these days, but it had been quite the hit once upon a time.

  A voice came from behind him, his hands slick with suds, wet to the wrists.

  “Who is she?”

  Ian turned.

  “Who?”

  “The woman you were with today.”

  “Bridge. You were just — ”

  “I know what I was just. Who is she, Ian?”

  Ian turned halfway back to the sink. He wasn’t sure what to say. The man on the phone still rang in his ears. What had happened seemed to be personal: because of Ian, directed at Bridget. He was being sent a message, but his wife — and, maybe, his daughter — were the leverage. Ian was too important to risk harming. His compliance was necessary, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Bridget’s being saved today was a Sure, that worked out nicely situation. If she’d been killed instead, it would have been “Oh well, you have to break eggs to make an omelet.”

  “She’s nobody.”

  “But worth skipping your morning’s work for.”

  “It was a work thing, Bridget.”

  “Is that why you won’t tell me who she is?”

  Not Alice Frank, that’s for sure. That much, Ian wouldn’t say, and Bridget had apparently been too far off to recognize the media personality without his help. If Ian told her that’s whom he’d met, she’d have follow-up questions. And given all that man on the phone seemed to know, Ian wasn’t confident that someone wouldn’t overhear the ensuing discussion. Someone who, having already shaken them once, might not mind breaking eggs the next time.

  “Is this really what you want to concentrate on? You were almost killed today.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I was. And do you know what I saw on my way to the mall? I saw that black car that I mentioned yesterday. It was following me. It and a minivan big enough to … I don’t know … hold the three things they set loose.”

  “And why were you following me?” Bridget was angry at him, sure, but he’d been calm and kind for too long. He couldn’t be selfless anymore. None if this was his goddamned fault, and he was tired of being painted as the undeserving bad guy.

  “Did you hear what I said, Ian? Someone set those things loose on purpose.”

  Ian turned fully, snatching a towel with malice, as if it had offended him. “And that doesn’t strike you as odd, given what you seem to be accusing me of? Make up your mind, Bridget. Are you saying I’m cheating, or that I’m dealing with murderers? Because I’ve got to say, that’s one hell of a fatal attraction if you’re combining them.”

  “I’m saying you’re not playing straight. You’re keeping secrets,” Bridget said, her anger somewhat blunted by his rebuke, now sliding closer to hurt. Seeing it made Ian guilty. It was as if he’d hit her, and now she was flinching back.

  “I have reasons.”

  “What’s going on, Ian?”

  “I just said I have reasons.”

  “The people in the car. Who are they?”

  “Dammit, Bridge. This doesn’t concern you. Leave it alone. Let me handle it.”

  Ian turned away. Bridget grabbed his discarded towel and threw it hard at his back as if it were heavy enough to hurt him.

  “It doesn’t concern me? I was almost killed today! You saw those things! How did they move that fast, Ian? It’s all over the Internet! People are coming out of the woodwork, saying they’ve seen others, too. Smaller outbreaks, mostly in the country or other cities. People are saying that something is happening. Like maybe the virus is changing. Or that Necrophage is weakening.”

  “Who’s saying that?”

  “People!”

  “And you believe it?” He said it with disbelief, dripping more with condescension than curiosity.

  “Why don’t you tell me something different then? Why have you been sneaking around so much? Working evenings, going out on weekends, getting calls from strange women … ”

  “It doesn’t make one goddamned bit of difference that she’s a woman. She just happens to be—”

  “Then who is she? Why won’t you tell me? She’s sure wanted to talk to you a lot, Ian. All those calls and emails and — ”

  “Emails?” Ian said, feeling a strange sensation rising up from somewhere deep.

  “Emails! Oh, she’s definitely been dying to talk to you, Ian.”

  “You’ve been reading my email?”

  Bridget looked caught. Ian wanted to keep prodding because as bothered as he felt, her own snooping should, if she thought for a second, unhinge her argument. She’d see what they were talking about and know it wasn’t an affair … except that most of the emails he’d exchanged with Alice had been vaguely worded requests and similarly vague rejections. Both of them seemed to know that email was insecure, that anyone might read them.

  But the look was only a flinch. Bridget went on the offensive rather than backing down.

  “What’s she been sending you that you’ve been deleting? If it’s not pictures of her with her tits out, then by all means please — ”

  “Christ, Bridge. Really?”

  “How can I know what you’re hiding? If you want to convince me it’s something else, just show me. You used to trust me.”

  Ian’s temperature was up, but the last sentence popped him like a balloon. Quieter, he said, “It’s not about trust.”

  “I used to trust you, too.”

  “This isn’t fair. There are things I can’t tell you, but not because I don’t want to. None of this is my choice.”

  Ian’s phone buzzed on the countertop. He looked toward it, but Bridget grabbed it.

  “‘Alice,’” she said, reading the display, her mouth twisted.

  Ian found himself wanting to tell her everything, safety be damned. Things had been good for the past few years, but their marriage had seen its troubled times, too. They’d pulled through it with honesty and love, and right now felt like neither. Maybe Hemisphere was the bad guy. Maybe they were all in danger. But right now, all Ian cared about was erasing that loathing, distrustful look from his wife’s face. He’d never loved anyone like he loved Bridget. Peril mattered little. He just wanted her back by his side, giving him a solid foundation from which he’d be able to fight whatever might be coming.

  She could connect the dots. Alice Frank was well known. Bridget hadn’t been close enough to see Alice properly at the mall before Alice had been taken away and Ian had been rather coincidentally freed, but she’d seen the basics: tall, thin, blonde, more no-nonsense attractive than strictly pretty. If Bridget’s mind cobbled the puzzle together now and asked him if he’d been chumming with Alice Frank, he’d confess it all. He’d tell her everything, hold nothing back.

  But Bridget’s green eyes were hard and accusing.

  The phone stopped vibrating and died. Alice didn’t leave a message. Maybe she couldn’t; maybe Ian’s lack of answer had wasted her one jailhouse phone call. Did they let you call from your cell? Ian had never been arrested. He had no idea.

  “She can’t be without you for a minute, can she?” Bridget slid the phone toward him.

  “I’d tell you if I could.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “If I could.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  But Alice, faili
ng to reach him, must have turned her call to the third member of their party because now Ian’s phone began to vibrate. Blocked Caller filled the screen.

  When Ian didn’t answer, declining the call and staring wordlessly at his wife, the Blocked Caller sent a text.

  From August Maughan. With an address and a time to meet, immediately.

  Bridget’s hands moved to her hips.

  “I have to go,” Ian said.

  “Of course you do.”

  “I don’t have a choice. I promise I’m doing this for all the right reasons.”

  “Reasons you won’t explain. Involving someone whose name I can’t know. Except that it’s Alice.”

  “Bridge … ”

  “Go, fine.” She turned to leave.

  “I’m doing this to protect you. And Ana.”

  Bridget turned back. Her eyes were angry, hurt, uncomprehending, crushed.

  “If you want to protect us,” she said, “then stay.”

  “I can’t. I have to … ”

  Bridget shook her head then left the kitchen, leaving Ian alone with his impossible choice.

  The best chance for keeping his family safe seemed to be to leave them defenseless, hating him for his abandonment.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  NEWS

  HOLLY TURNED AUGUST’S TV OFF, unable to take it anymore. She was no stranger to media manipulation; she’d been its subject (both from her managers’ perspectives and those of the media themselves) since before she’d become the darling she was today. But this was different. This felt like … like falsely modest news. There were sly-sounding reports surrounding the Grover Mall incident, but even though it looked like a cover-up, it was very much not. Video footage was being withheld, but Holly got the distinct impression that the withholding itself was supposed to convey a message:

  Yes, a group of ferals attacked and killed several people in the mall today, and yes, they were “something different” (maybe even “something alarming”) as far as ferals go. We all know it. But we’re holding back footage so you can use your imaginations … but no, nobody is denying anything. Wink-wink.

  Holly had felt increasingly insightful since beginning August’s Prestige drug, but her insights into the news reports went further. It was as if everything was glass, and she could see through it all.

  It all felt like one of her performances. Something meant to make a point, controlled and orchestrated from the get-go.

  That’s what the man whose voice she kept hearing seemed to feel, anyway.

  Holly blinked the idea away. August had explained that. Prestige did some magic juju on her brain that even the Stardom formulation didn’t — testament to the fact that Damon and Cyrus were wrong, and what Holly paid August was money well spent. He wasn’t just a genius; he’d begun his professional life side by side with Archibald Burgess. Hemisphere, August said, had wanted to upgrade the human brain, and that might just be what was happening with Holly. There were bound to be some growing pains. Like hearing her own voice as auditory hallucinations, thanks to her brain’s temporarily crossed wires.

  Never mind that the voice was a man’s.

  And never mind that there was that other voice too: new to the world, waking up, feeling (in Holly’s mind and apparently the unseen man’s) like a bright light in the darkness.

  Growing pains. That’s all it was.

  But Holly still stared at the dark screen for a few extra seconds, letting the news report settle. She let the feeling of transparency settle. She let the feeling that she could tell more about those reports than she was supposed to dissolve into nothing.

  She heard the sound of a door latch opening. She turned on the couch to see August enter, looking frazzled, carrying a box overstuffed with paraphernalia.

  “Iss late,” she said, her voice tending toward its old slur.

  “Okay, Mom,” August replied.

  Holly waited until August looked up. Then he said, “Sorry.”

  “I’s worried.”

  “I needed to pick up some supplies from my other place. I wanted to make sure nobody spotted me.”

  “Nod worried furyu.”

  August looked at her, and Holly moved her tongue inside her mouth, trying the strength of her lips. If she couldn’t control her mouth by force of will, how could she control the disconcerting sense of connection and chatter she seemed to sense in the air all around her?

  “I’m not worried for you,” she said, trying again.

  “Why? Have people come or called, looking for you?”

  Holly waved dismissively. The movement was still clumsy. She’d been lucky; Sherman Pope hadn’t given her much facial palsy, and her speech was now increasingly coming under control. But so much of her body was still dead and would be forever.

  “Nothing like that. I don’t even think anyone cares about us anymore.”

  August saw her glance at the television.

  “They’re talking about the mall.”

  “And others. Small outbreaks, from over the past weeks and months, somehow all very interesting now. There’s leaked video with some. Everyone is afraid.”

  “People are jaded, Holly. They’ll be fine.”

  But Holly knew that wasn’t true. People were afraid. She could feel it around her like mist. Yet another thing she had no business believing, another glitch in her increasingly cross-fused brain.

  She watched as August set the box on the kitchen countertop. “What is that stuff?” she asked.

  “A joke of a lab. All I have that’s portable.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re having company tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone from Hemisphere.” August looked like he might keep the next thing to himself, but then he said, “What happened in the mall was intentional. You know as well as anyone, ferals are supposed to be slow. Because they’re basically corpses. I have a theory about why the ones today were different, and it’s something that’s been bothering me for a while now. And after this, I’m afraid I might be right. Alice says this Hemisphere guy, Ian, has something I might need to hear, and I want to be prepared.” He nodded toward the box of glass, plastic, and electronics.

  “What do you think you might be right about?”

  “Let’s perform our due diligence before jumping to conclusions.”

  Holly watched August unpack the box, creating a miniature version of the lab in his other apartment. She wondered how long they’d be here. She wondered how much Prestige August had for her once her current supply of infusions ran dry, and if he’d be able to make more.

  She didn’t want to think about that, so she turned her attention to the bright, glowing light inside her mind. The awakening, for whatever it was worth.

  Holly saw a dark place, draped with cloth.

  She felt sadness, desperation, the eclipsing of a black cloud.

  And she heard three words:

  Danny, please hurry.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  THE MOON

  JORDACHE’S TEXT MESSAGE TOOK JUST sixteen letters, two spaces, a comma, and a period on Danny’s screen. But he stared as if it were a cancer diagnosis.

  Danny, please hurry.

  Danny’s thumbs moved quickly, stabbing out a reply. But halfway through typing, he wondered why he was being an asshole and made a call.

  “Who is it?” Her voice was hurried, edged with panic.

  “Danny. It’s Danny, Jordache.” Repeating what she’d already know, just by looking at her phone’s screen — the same screen she’d have touched to accept his call.

  “Danny. Thank God.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m hearing things. I’m hearing someone call. You, Danny. I can hear you calling.”

  Danny’s skin crawled. “I’m calling you right now.”

  “All day. All day I’ve heard you calling. I want you here again. Come back to me, Danny.”

  Danny looked around his car’s interior, littered with debris
and garbage, the shadow from a huge elm throwing the vehicle into shadow. It was late to still be at work — or, in Danny’s case, in the parking lot. It would be dark soon.

  “I can’t come over just yet.”

  Danny waited. He thought she’d ask why, and he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He’d promised to come over later. He couldn’t admit that he was still desperately hoping that Ian Keys would walk through that door, having pulled a later-than-usual shift. Because officially, as far as Jordache was concerned, Danny didn’t need to “hurry” to do anything other than return to her side. She had her PhageX, supposedly. It wasn’t something he’d lied to her about, and that he was now frantically chasing like a junkie after his habit.

  He looked at the doors, waiting for Ian. But Danny doubted he’d emerge. Ian was a Boy Scout when it came to work/life balance. They’d covered Ian’s unwillingness to burn the midnight oil the last time they’d spoken. So no, Ian wasn’t still in there, as much as Danny wanted to believe he was. The only conclusion was that for reasons unknown, Ian simply hadn’t shown up for work.

  But instead of asking Danny that tricky question, Jordache said something else.

  “We’ve been watching the moon,” she said.

  Danny looked up. It wasn’t dark yet.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Nobody’s here. When can you be here? I need you here.”

  “I — ”

  “I love you, Danny.”

  Danny stopped, unable to speak. She’d said that last in a slightly different voice, rushed, as if she’d forced it past her lips. He should respond in kind, but for the moment, he had no idea how.

  “I’ll be there soon.”

  “When?”

  “I just have another stop to make,” he said, already starting the engine. Fortunately, Ian’s old card still had enough mojo to have admitted Danny into his personnel file, and he’d already entered Ian’s address into his GPS. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but there was no other way. He’d have to go now, and hurry. Because he actually had two stops to make, and the second was back in the same lot he was now. The doors and dispensary wouldn’t care what time it was. Tomorrow, if anyone had a problem with Ian Keys entering and requisitioning stock after hours, Ian could deal with it.