Dead City

by Sean Platt

  “I hear one voice above the others. Then another voice, somehow different, somehow important as if a light shines upon her, below that. And all around it I get this sense. Like a feeling, but something I can’t change or join, and can only listen to. They know something.”

  “Who knows something?”

  There was a knock on the door then Ian’s voice, hesitant. “Bridget? Can I come in?”

  “Just a minute!” she shouted back.

  “There’s a group of ferals like those that attacked you yesterday. I know they’re close. They’ll be at the picnic.”

  Bridget gripped Holly’s arm. Holly flinched then silently apologized, her look understanding.

  “You have to go,” she repeated.

  “None of us should go. Not if what you think is going to happen will actually happen.”

  “You have to. All of you do. August might understand why. Maybe even Bobby. But they might not, and they might call it off. But … ” Holly closed her eyes, seeming to reach for the best way to articulate what she was feeling. “It has to begin before it can end.”

  “No.”

  Another knock came on the door. This time, the voice was August’s.

  “Mrs. Keys? I’m sorry to bother you, but is Holly in there?”

  Bridget said the first thing she thought might make him go away, as bizarre as it was: “She’s helping me change.”

  “Please send her out when you’re done. We’re in a bit of a rush,” he said then retreated.

  “You can’t tell them, Bridget,” Holly said, her voice now hurried, still perfect, still giving no trace of her famous disease. “You have to let it happen. It can’t go the other way. Things will change on our terms or on theirs.”

  “Whose?”

  “They know something. The ferals I can hear in my head. I don’t know what they know, but it’s an ace. This can’t be stopped. But you have to know, so you can protect them when it’s time. Or direct Bobby’s people to protect them.”

  “Me?” It was a joke. She couldn’t protect anyone. She couldn’t even keep her shit together without her precious little pills. She liked her expensive tees. She had machines to clean for her and spent her days talking to her philandering neighbor, trading binocular-gleaned gossip.

  Another knock. Again, Ian.

  “Bridget?”

  To Holly: “Call it off.”

  “If you call it off, more people will die than have to.”

  Than have to. The words made Bridget’s skin go cold.

  “Bridget? We need to go somewhere. Can I talk to you?”

  “He wants you safe,” Holly said, “for reasons I’m not being told.”

  “Bridget?”

  “He says to tell Bobby and his people,” Holly continued, rising and moving backward to open the door, “to find a group of uninfected people at the picnic, and use them like a shield.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  KOJAK

  THERE WAS A SURPRISINGLY COMFORTABLE cot in Alice’s cell, so after making use of the rather public toilet beside it (which wasn’t terribly shabby so long as the room otherwise remained empty), Alice had decided to sleep. After lying down, she’d discovered something that didn’t seem prison-issue between her bed and the toilet: three bottles of water. She’d drunk one and slept surprisingly well, given the circumstances and the general mystery of it all.

  She awoke at a time that felt early, repeated the toilet act immediately in case she had morning visitors on the way, and drank another bottle. One remained. The fact that nobody had shown up with snacks felt like an annoying oversight, so hopefully at least more water was coming.

  There were no windows to the outside. She’d been steered past a bunch of clarifiers on her way into the room, but there had been many twists and turns to kill her orientation. She only knew that as much as this was about Hemisphere, Panacea was holding her. Which made sense, given Smyth’s supposed position between the two.

  Speaking of Smyth …

  Alice’s throat still felt hoarse from yelling after him last night. She couldn’t decide if he was friend or foe. When he’d appeared to discuss conspiracy, she’d assumed he’d spring her, or at least let her know when and how she might be sprung. But that hadn’t happened. Instead, he’d walked away and left her like a giant asshole.

  Her eyes went to the security camera, now plugged back in. She wanted to wave, but the door at the room’s far end opened before she could. A clean-cut man with a clarifier badge hanging from his belt walked briskly through then did a double-take as he saw Alice in her cell. He looked back before exiting the far end, eyes squinted as if trying to place her.

  Another man walked through.

  Then two women.

  Everyone seemed to wonder who Alice was and why the hell she was where she didn’t belong.

  In the rooms beyond this one, she became aware of voices and the hum of activity. Maybe food was on its way. Maybe someone would finally read Alice her rights. Maybe someone would finally tell her why in the hell she was being held, and what she’d supposedly done wrong. And maybe it was time to call some lawyers, and film some inflammatory blog content.

  The door opened again. This time, a short Hispanic woman with a stern expression walked in flanked by Big Old Asshole himself, the elusive Mr. Smyth.

  “Finally remembered I was here, huh?” said Alice from behind the bars.

  The woman, not Smyth, answered.

  “Alice Frank?”

  “Ah. You know my work.”

  “You’re free to go. We’re sorry for the mix-up.”

  The woman opened the door.

  Alice’s eyes went to Smyth, who was giving her a look. As much of the evening as she’d spent annoyed at her supposed co-conspirator, something told her to keep her mouth shut about him and any likely double-dealing.

  “That’s it?” said Alice, not exiting.

  “We regret any inconvenience we may have caused you.”

  Alice looked again at Smyth then the woman.

  “‘Inconvenience.’”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the woman.

  “Arresting me, if that’s what you did in bringing me here. Ignoring me all night for reasons unknown. Violating my civil rights to — ”

  “Our officers believed your case to be a matter of utmost security, which allows immediate intervention and the dismissal of certain protocols. We are permitted to hold you for twenty-four hours. Again, I’d like to offer my apologies.”

  Alice stepped out of the cell. “If I may ask, what danger did you think I was to … well, to anyone?”

  “I’m afraid that’s a matter of Panacea business.”

  “And why am I no longer a danger now?”

  “Same answer, ma’am. If you’ll follow me?”

  “Luisa,” Smyth interrupted. “I can take her. Go on ahead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’d like to extend Hemisphere’s apologies as well.”

  The cop — or whatever she was — shrugged. She left via the opposite door, leaving them alone.

  Smyth reached up and unplugged the camera again, but barely lowered his hand before Alice began hitting him.

  “Hey, relax!” he said, blocking.

  “‘Relax’? Fuck you, buddy! You just leave me here all night? No food? No word? And then you show up in the morning, and it’s just ‘we apologize for the inconvenience’ and I get to go? And I’m supposed to trust you? I’m just supposed to walk home?”

  “Will you stop for a second and listen to me?”

  “Oh. I’m through listening to you. Hints and double talk. Hiding while I do all the dirty work, then letting me rot in jail like a lowlife. Not so much as answering my questions, while I’ve run all over the place, risking my life, to — ”

  “I had to know why they let you make that phone call,” Smyth said. “Until I knew, I couldn’t risk upsetting things. Because officially, this—” he pointed back into the empty cell, “ — is where they should want y
ou to be. Once you’re out, you’re a huge problem, knowing what you know, same as August Maughan and Ian Keys. Hemisphere and Panacea. Panacea and Hemisphere. Two hairs in a braid, the pair of them. But instead of acting like Hemisphere’s partner, they brought you here and let you add your stamp of approval to the other two, to keep them on the case.”

  Alice’s eyes ticked toward the unplugged camera. “The cut video feed is a little conspicuous, don’t you think?”

  Smyth shook his head. “I think they know about me, too. At least partway. But I’m like Ian. They need me where I am, and they think they know what I’m saying to you right now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I imagine they think I’m telling you to rush back to August and Ian now that you’re free.”

  “But you’re not telling me that,” Alice said.

  “I am. But I’m telling you something else, too. I think I know now why they let you make the call.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “I told you about the ferals at the mall. How they were created, not natural.”

  “Yes.”

  Smyth’s head looked from one closed door to the other. His voice turned lower, more urgent. “They have others. Many others. Hemisphere knows about some of it because frankly a few smaller outbreaks here and there are good for business. But those outbreaks were controlled, with necrotics who’d gone feral naturally. This is new. People are used to too much, and fear sells. I had to pull strings to find out what I did. But right now, my best guess is that they let you call August in because they want him out of hiding, so he can announce his discovery. He’ll have to do it himself without your public platform. Him or Ian.”

  “But I’m out now. Free to go, apparently.”

  “It’s too late. Ian’s wife was followed. A group took her to Maughan’s second residence, and surveillance says they’re preparing to head into Hemisphere HQ right now.”

  “To HQ? Why?” A chill ran through Alice with a question. “Why did you mention the feral necrotics?”

  “August will use the lab. Ian is going to make some sort of public unveil. They think nobody knows, but Panacea does.” He swallowed. “As to the ferals? They’ve been planning a larger spectacle. This is a case of several birds and a single stone.”

  Alice shook her head. There were too many moving pieces. This wasn’t how you murdered someone or even shut them up. This wasn’t how you made an example. Smyth’s information, if he was telling her the truth, was probably correct. But his conclusions felt gossamer thin.

  It didn’t matter. Panacea was shooting; they could all ask questions later.

  “They’re going to release more ferals at the picnic.”

  Smyth nodded.

  “How many?”

  “At least fifty. The idea is to cause a public panic, but it’s icing on the cake if they can take Ian, August … or, hell, you. If they send that many and they’re sprinters like at the mall, the chances are even decent because they’ll gravitate toward uninfected people and it’s a necrotic-centric event. It’s not to keep you quiet anymore, though. Just to twist the knife: If this can happen to people of prominence, it can happen to anyone.” Smyth paused then tipped his head and said cynically, “But I guess it’s nothing a new and more expensive Necrophage won’t fix.”

  “When?”

  “The picnic is at ten.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “After eight.”

  “You said they’re getting ready to leave?”

  “I’m sure they’ve arrived. I had to play my part with Luisa between finding out and telling you. That information is over an hour old.”

  Alice tried to do the calculations. Assuming she could haul ass out of the building and grab a cab immediately, she could be at Hemisphere by eight thirty at the very earliest, probably closer to nine. The traffic, which took her out of town rather than into it, wouldn’t even be bad after the first few miles. It would be tight. But she could do it.

  But of course she couldn’t get a cab. Not now, not at rush hour.

  “Call them,” she blurted, obvious realization dawning. “Warn them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Bullshit! You had Ian and me call each other! You hacked our email and our texts!”

  “From a secure location,” he said, his falsely calm voice trying to counter her increasingly frantic one. “I can’t do that kind of thing from my cell. And if I call them direct, there will be a record that I did it.”

  Alice glared at Smyth. She wanted to shout at him, to hit him again, to swear and call him a coward. But doing so would be indulgent. The situation was nonnegotiable. Smyth had already proved the lengths he’d go to remain anonymous as a source because Hemisphere was, in his words, “Too big to fail.” Yelling would change nothing.

  “Then get me my phone.”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “Ask!”

  “You’d need to do it. It’s not my place to track down detainee belongings. It would raise eyebrows.”

  “You’re escorting me out!”

  “You don’t understand. I can’t raise suspicions, no matter what. It’s too fragile here, especially given what’s shaping up to happen today.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kojak! You’re one hell of a secret agent!”

  “I’ve told you all you need to know. It’s in your hands.”

  Alice wanted to shout, but she kept her mind on the ball. She had plenty of time to get there if she didn’t dally. And if she could find her phone, all the better. But Smyth had just said Panacea wanted the great Alice Frank covering this event, and that she might even be a target: the vanguard of necrotic rights ripped to shreds by those she wanted to help. Oh, the irony.

  She could ask around for her phone. But if Panacea was releasing her so she’d do something foolish like rush to Hemisphere, Alice doubted anyone would be able to find that phone. She also doubted anyone would know Ian’s office or mobile number, or one for anyone else who’d help. Not in enough time to make a difference.

  “I’ll never get a cab in time,” she told Smyth.

  Smyth dangled a set of keys in front of Alice’s eyes. “The agents who arrested you might have brought your car here and placed it in space A-7 by mistake.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  MAIL CALL

  JORDACHE WAS SITTING AT HER small table, listening, waiting for a sign.

  It wouldn’t be long now. There were only a handful of voices she was able to talk to without using her lips, but there were also untold millions she could hear like a hive of insects. Above the buzz was the sense of one group nestled within another. Maybe a hundred minds, maybe less, maybe more. Maybe a hundred who knew what they were supposed to do, yet planned something else entirely.

  “You feel better now,” Weasel said, sitting at the table across from her.

  Jordache didn’t answer. For one, it wasn’t truly a question. It was closer to a statement — and, she’d decided, a statement she was telling herself. She wasn’t talking to Weasel in the way she talked to the one who called himself Golem — a human name, in a way, despite it sounding distinctly inhuman. Golem was real, as was Holly Gaynor. Those were real people who were as close to Jordache, at times, as Weasel seemed now. But Weasel was only a figment. A part of herself that was speaking while a different part listened.

  “Better,” Jordache said.

  “Because you see.”

  “I see.”

  “But you still don’t understand it all. You’re better, but still can’t fully grip it.”

  Jordache stood. She was still nude. Her front was covered in blood. The mail had come early. The man had rung her bell, and Jordache had opened the door, naked like now, to ask him in. Once he’d been inside, she’d ripped the head from his shoulders. That head was on her bed now, upside down with the ragged neck pointing toward her ceiling. Normally, when you tore a man’s head off using your teeth, it stopped screaming. This one hadn’t. Instead, it had kept on, trying
to exact its bodiless revenge with its teeth. She’d beaten it until it had stopped moving. The sheets were a Christmas red. It was all very interesting.

  “I understand enough.”

  Weasel laughed. It annoyed Jordache, so she concentrated until he went away and she was alone in her trailer. Well, unless she counted the mailman’s body on her bed, along with all his various bits and chunky spatter.

  A noise came from the front room. Jordache felt like she could hear something before the noise began — like a shout coming to her through the air itself. But it was only her phone, ringing faithfully just once.

  The screen read, I’ll be there in a half hour with donuts.

  Jordache picked up the phone. It was hard to work through all the blood her thumbs painted onto the screen, but she managed to send her reply:

  Hurry. I’m hungry.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  JUST ANOTHER DAY ON THE JOB

  IAN COULDN’T HELP HIMSELF. HE looked around for Danny Almond when they arrived at Hemisphere.

  Bridget’s story was too bizarre. He didn’t precisely not believe it in the usual sense of the words, because as pissed off and agitated as she seemed, he didn’t think Bridget was delusional or lying. And besides, based on the description of Bobby’s people, the man who’d been stalking his bushes last night sure sounded like Danny. But why? And what of his story? Was it possible Danny really did “just need something” and that it was all somehow a mistake?

  Ian hated that he thought it might have been. It indicated denial so deep, you’d need a pressure suit to enter it. But really … Danny? Danny wasn’t a creep. Ian had risen through the ranks in college and at Hemisphere in large part due to his excellent eye for character. And while Danny might seem a little mischievous, he definitely hadn’t struck Ian as anything but a nice guy who’d ultimately do what was right. Or at least what was best, which was slightly different.