by Unknown
He reaches out to a tray of beakers. I dash the platter on the floor, spilling drink everywhere. He turns to me, blinks.
“Crazy,” he says, swaying side to side. “Crazy.” He falls over, a smile on his face.
Angela. I scan the room, but she's not there. I run down the stairs and head to the machine.
I'm no expert with the device, so I hit the stop button and take it from there. There's a long and complicated menu with lists of ingredients and templates. I find a search bar and start typing 'Nalox--'
Behind me, Angela speaks.
“It's concentrated pentobarbitol and ketamine. You can't save them.”
I turn around with great care. She's leaning on the counter. The rifle is there, not far from her hands.
“They'll all go out in perfect bliss, not like Vanessa with her brains blown out.”
“Is that what they wanted?”
“They wanted to be happy,” she says.
I keep my voice level. “Did you take any?”
Her eyes close, almost long enough for me to consider moving, then she snaps back to alertness. “I wanted to. I really did.” She leans back, brushes the barrel of the rifle with the tips of her fingers. “I knew you'd come.”
I nod. “So where do we go from here?”
“We're not going anywhere,” she says. She reaches behind, still looking at me, and takes hold of the rifle. She lets it hang down and away from her, looking like a little girl with a rag doll.
I hold my breath. She raises the weapon across her chest, then points it at me. Stock first.
“Do it,” she whispers. “I can't.”
I take a step toward her, just a small one. I'm a little surprised to be alive.
She licks her lips. The rifle trembles in her hands. I take another step, and another, then reach out and put my hands on the grip.
For an instant, she holds tight. Then it's mine.
Her voice goes up in pitch. “Do it. Don't make me wait, you heartless bitch!”
She grabs the muzzle and holds it to her chest, dead centre.
No one will judge me. In a few weeks, not even God will remember us. It's what she wants.
But she is not a Thing, one of the desperate survivors I have trained myself to see as less than human. She is a woman and I know her name. And though I hate her right now as much as I have ever hated anyone, I cannot pull the trigger and shoot her in the heart.
And for what she has done, she deserves to suffer.
I pull the gun away and step back. She drops to her knees, fingers pulling at her hair, a wordless moan escaping her open mouth.
I fill a flask from the printer's reservoir of euthanasia and make my way to the exit. The party is coming to an end: Men and women lie sprawled everywhere; their lips blue.
They are happy, at least. Perhaps it won't be so bad.
The car is gone, so I walk. The pain in my shins is bearable, but the injured calf muscle is really starting to hurt. Halfway there, I'm limping. When the park comes into view, I'm hallucinating again.
“Not far now,” he says, walking silently behind me.
Damn, my leg hurts.
“I've been having a think,” he says. “Maybe it's not a plan by all bacteria. Maybe they're fighting a war amongst themselves.”
“Then they're as stupid as we are,” I say.
“Not if they're ruthless and logical enough to destroy pretty much all life on Earth, including most of their own kind, as long as a seed colony survives somewhere. Then the survivors can take over the planet with no competition.”
“Pretty advanced tactics for microbes, don't you think?”
“Well, they have had a couple billion years to work it out.”
I arrive at the park. The bodies are where I left them. I had thought Matthew might be here, or he'd have buried Diana, but she's still lying there staring at the sky. Evaporation and wind will break up these cadavers, not the rot we used to enjoy.
Something smells putrid, though. I sniff the air, but can't locate the source.
I head for the trees. Below the knee, my leg is a solid block of agony.
“It's peaceful here,” he says when we reach a clearing. I sense him sit down. “Why don't you rest?”
I'm feeling light-headed from the pain. I take out the flask and feel the weight in my hands. As I sit, the smell of decay gets stronger and I realise it's coming from me.
I pull up the cloth and take off the dressing. Below the knee, my leg is swollen and dark, the skin crackly to the touch.
“Gas gangrene,” he says. “Clostridium perfringens, or something similar. Anaerobic, so it doesn't need oxygen. Looks like they think it’s safe to come out.”
The cap twists off in my hand.
“I hope they give dinosaurs another try,” I say.
He moves next to me. “So you believe me now?”
“I have to. Otherwise it’s our fault.”
The trees rustle in the wind, bare branches moving with gentle waves. The sky is clear blue.
I turn to look at him. I see his face clearly.
“Will you stay with me?” I ask.
He takes my hand. “Of course, my love.” I stare into his eyes. They are beautiful.
WILSON GEIGER
Tick
Wilson Geiger is a fantasy author who decided, at the ripe age of 41, that he’d better start taking this writing thing seriously. He is, of course, thankful that it happened before the great ending of us all. You can find more of Wilson’s works at wilsongeiger.com.
What does a man do when he realizes he’s made a grave error? Does he admit it? Ignore it? Hide it? Does he try to correct it? What makes a man, what defines him, are his answers to those very questions; often they may go beyond the personal dilemma, maybe resulting in dire consequences. In the following story, a young, promising scientist is forced to confront demons of his own creation, and the terrible answer he finds within. If that answer doesn't kill him first.
4. TICK
by Wilson Geiger
Brothers will fight
and kill each other,
sisters' children
will defile kinship.
It is harsh in the world,
whoredom rife
—an axe age, a sword age
—shields are riven—
a wind age, a wolf age—
before the world goes headlong.
No man will have
mercy on another.
-Poetic Edda
In the end, Ragnarok was nothing like the stories told to us by our Father’s Fathers. Yes, man fought man, the earth was torn asunder, but the Gods? They stayed out of it, content to watch us all die. There was no great serpent, no wolf Fenris, no Odin. Only men and fire.
And that, let it be said, was most certainly enough.
***
The viral strain had gone through extensive testing, reactive and passive, and it was deemed suitable for the next stage: live testing. The strain was tested initially on rats, with excellent results; spikes of 300% above normal hostile and aggressive response were documented. After the incubation period, which took several hours, the rats began to posture. After further observation, the subjects would lash out at any that came near them. In the third phase, they became aggressive to the point that the specimens attacked each other on sight.
The decision was made to fast-forward the process; testing moved to simians, with similar outcomes. The virus set family on family initially, until familial bonds were broken by the mutations; after that it was simple elimination of every individual.
The Confederation suits were very encouraged by the results.
***
James could not believe what he was seeing on the live feeds. Once he realized, it was almost too late.
Gunfire and screams had erupted down the hall, shattered the pristine image the designers had engineered for the complex. White clean walls, the streamlined structure of security doors, the lighting that had been fed through str
eaming chambers above and below; blood had spattered along the passages now, the smoke and screams of fighting and death had ruined the calming effect. James could almost imagine the designers’ sneers of contempt, their outrage at the pillage and anarchy that defaced their artistic vision.
James had told the remaining staff that he was going to notify security, and quickly escaped the administrative bay and its terrible video feeds. He had to find Major Thomsen; he had promised James protection and evacuation, if necessary. James told himself that Thomsen wouldn't have left him, he was far too important to be left behind with the regular staff. Maybe if he repeated it enough times, he would believe it.
James heard a scream behind him; they had reached the admin bay, broken the security doors. Alarms went off overhead, flooding the passageway with amber light and a low-pitched siren call. Terrified, he ran for the outer bay door, sealing it shut behind him, ignoring the shouts and curses that sounded from beyond it. He didn’t look back as they started pounding on the fortified doors, not even when gunfire erupted.
Down two flights of stairs, he jumped into the elevator; James quickly unlocked the elevator console with a flick of his imprint, frantically pushed the Vault button. With a whisper, the elevator doors slid shut and James plummeted down into the earth.
***
The first human trials, isolated examples, went almost too well. Within minutes the cooked virus had circulated with the air in the sealed chambers, and then quickly bypassed the body’s defensive systems. It slowly and methodically went to work on the subjects’ brain functions.
The subjects did not initially show any effects, and they tested at or below normal response limits for several hours. Symptoms began to show into day two; low levels of serotonin, along with virus mutations affecting the prefrontal cortex, changed the behavior patterns of almost every subject. Symptoms included raised tension levels, an outward hostility towards others, violent shows of anger and degraded memory function.
***
With a soft lurch the elevator stopped at the vault level, and James pushed his way through the doors, silently hoping that no one had heard him. He briskly walked, as quietly as he could, aiming for the bunker. As he moved, the alert sensors began to flash, rotating red lights that ran along the top of the walls in the corridor. He quickly decided that he was moving too slow, and he sprinted up to the bunker door, which was sealed shut; a flick of his security imprint and the vault door pushed outwards, allowing him entry. He breathed a sigh of thanks that his rank and office had given him clearance to the vault.
James was surprised to see that the bunker had not yet been claimed by any brass, or any other administrative staff. The displays that hung over the command console were all powered down, waiting for the override commands that would bring the console - and its sensor and command interfaces - to life. A small vault off to the side was closed, but James knew that food and water would be inside, likely enough to last him decades; the emergency rations were meant for more than one person.
With a short huff of relief, he used his imprint to seal the steel door behind him, and entered an additional encrypted security code to block external access. He was all alone.
***
Day three of human tests was the marker of the virus on infected men and women, most of whom were political prisoners with little inherent violent trends. Subjects manifested clear violent outbursts; they would attack, on sight, any person they could see, even if they could not physically get to them through the protective glass. The subjects would become so angry, so violent, that if they could not find an outlet they would inflict harm on themselves. We watched as subjects tore at their eyes, pulled out tongues, scratched their own flesh until only raw, bloody strips remained. Several subjects died on day three of human trials without ever touching another human being.
We allowed certain isolated subjects to confront one another, with obvious outcomes. It took several medical aides hours to clean up the mess that was left behind.
The viral strain worked perfectly. If it came to it, the enemies of the Confederation would have to deal with themselves, rather than our soldiers and weapons. Our armies wouldn’t need to fire a shot or kill another soul.
***
James watched from sensor-fed displays, his secure bunker several hundred feet below the surface. He had stopped crying several hours ago; a numbness had spread over him, almost a calmness, like he half-expected what was happening above to be nothing more than a dream he was sure to wake up from.
The displays blinked statistics, interspersed with videos. The compound had been overrun; the troops in place had initially resisted attacks from civilians and infected staff, but in the end it hadn’t mattered. After hours of exposure, everyone above broke and went after one another. The strain was spreading faster than even James had imagined it could.
The east coast had sank into outright chaos; entire military divisions had opened fire on civilians, trying to maintain control, before the virus had eaten through reason. They had turned on each other after that, missiles, bullets and fire turning communities, whole cities, into ash, smoke and death.
Humanity warred with each other, on a scale unheard of. Fires raged out of control; mobs of flesh and blood ran city streets, fought and slaughtered amongst themselves, turned on anything they came across. It wasn’t enough to defeat their foe, not when their foe was everyone else. Not when their mind told them that everyone, everything, was an enemy. Eventually it even told them, when there were no more enemies left to fight, that they had one left: themselves. The virus had become a vehicle of war, on an intimate, personal level.
Those that fled would spread the virus like a plague, and it would only be a matter of time before it would infect the continent, and then others. It would be impossible to stop.
That last thought gave James pause. Something stirred in the back of his mind, tried to tug its way loose. He frowned, struggled to remember, and when he couldn’t, James cursed his poor memory. Not like him at all to forget.
***
We had meetings with executives and military officials today, which were quite productive. After providing statistical outlays and a brief demonstration of our product in action, plans were put in motion to advance the research and production of the viral strain. The Confederation brass had several high priority targets that they had already considered as likely spots for live testing; we assured them that we could enter production at an aggressive rate.
The strain was codenamed in that meeting: Ragnarok.
***
James bypassed the security protocols, convinced that he was doing the right thing. Amber warning lights went off, and then dimmed once he had enacted the proper command codes. He entered the firing commands, clicking on approval sequences, and the countdown began. Numbers flashed on his display, and with each passing number, he recalled moments in his life; strange that every tick seemed to take minutes.
Twenty, the year he was accepted into the Advanced Sciences Division, and oh, how proud his Mom was at that. She had gushed to all her friends and family; James was embarrassed at first, but then it felt good to be noticed, to finally be really good at something. James knew, even then, that he would thrive at ASD.
Eighteen, the year he lost his virginity; what was her name again? Oh yes, Regina; she was a beauty, a fiery red-head with the temper to match. She had broken his heart two short months later, when she had run off with Bob Kane. James had never liked that guy anyway, come to think of it. A tinge of anger touched him then, but quickly passed with the next tick of the countdown.
Fifteen, his father’s funeral. He remembered crying for days afterward, his death a surreal dream until that moment when they buried him in the earth, when the shock of it finally hit James like a tidal wave. He was certain now that hole had never been fully repaired. The gap his father had left still marked him.
Where would everything be right now if he was still alive?
Tick.
***
<
br /> One of the subjects escaped on day four of trials. We aren’t sure how, but the complex guards were found in irreparable condition, to say the least. Retrieval units were sent immediately, but not before the damage was done. The subject was found eventually, but not before she had killed several citizens, and infected an unknown amount. Technicians and medical staff were trained to deal with contamination, of course, but outside personnel were not as prepared.
The entire region was quarantined, with suspected viral carriers placed in immediate lockdown and then euthanized as a precaution.
Two days later the FBC aired a report of Gard spies being captured in the area; I couldn’t determine the veracity of the report. Was it a cover, or truth?
I am not convinced that we are safe.
***
Twelve, his graduation party, his Uncle Isaiah coming in drunk, stinking of liquor. A fight had broken out between his father and Isaiah, blows struck and then a larger brawl as several family members and friends had jumped in to help. Which of course didn’t help at all; it never helped, it just meant more blood, more threads of anger and bitterness.
Eight, now, what had happened when he was eight? James’ memory had blurred again, and he couldn’t quite recall anything significant about that. Surely he should remember something? The timer hit seven before he even realized it.
Six, well, not much at all he could remember at that age, right? James was still stuck on eight, and he was getting a bit agitated that he couldn’t remember anything. He thought he had something, grasped it, then it disappeared again.
Four. What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t remember? He couldn’t even quite remember fifteen now, like it had happened so long ago that his memory eluded him. Or maybe it hadn’t happened at all. It was all starting to make James angry. It was like someone was tricking his brain, pushing and pulling memories and stories out of his head at will. He had vague impressions of things happening, but through it all was a common thread: anger. He was mad. He thought he had always been mad, at himself, at someone, anyone.
