by Platt, Sean
Boricio stared out across the water, quiet for a moment, then said, “That’s a ripping yarn, Father. But I don’t see how it has anything to do with me?”
“You young people, everything has to be about you or it doesn’t mean anything,” The Prophet said.
“Not what I’m saying, Padre,” Boricio said. The man had not yet called him The Prophet, and seemed as though he went out of his way to call him everything but his title. Like most people, he probably found it hard to acknowledge something greater than himself. The idea of God’s Eternal Love or visions of the Rapture likely scared the man.
“The point of the story,” The Prophet said, turning his eyes from Boricio back to the lake, “is that there was a time, not too long ago, when people would stand together and fight for what they believed. I hate to say it, but I’m sure if some company tried something like that today, the good folks here would just roll right over, and let it happen like it didn’t even matter. Too many people have surrendered their rights, handing them gift wrapped to politicians and companies, either too afraid or too apathetic, or hell, just too plain busy to fight back.” The Prophet shook his head. “It’s a day worth mourning when people turn their eyes from what’s right to cast them on what’s easy.”
Boricio was quiet, still staring at the lake, probably trying to figure where The Prophet was going with his sermon.
“So,” The Prophet said, “why did you give up?”
Boricio blinked, then turned to The Prophet and sighed. “Really?” he said. “You’re trying to draw a line between what’s happening inside my head and a bunch of apathetic losers getting bent over and butt tickled by The Man?” He shook his head. “I expected more from you, Preacher Man, especially after dragging me out of my room so early this morning.”
“You think you’re any different from these so-called apathetic losers?” The Pastor said. “Sorry, Son, but you don’t seem all that different from most people I see — drowning in misery, self-delusion, and ultimately, their own self-destruction. How long are you gonna bury yourself in a squalid motel drinking yourself into oblivion?”
“Until my bank account runs dry or I’m ready to move on. I don’t see how it’s your concern, Padre,” Boricio snapped, anger flashing in his eyes as he turned to face The Prophet.
“I don’t believe you,” The Prophet said. “I think the real reason you haven’t left is that you’re searching for something. Salvation, perhaps?”
Boricio laughed, turned to the lake and stared, breathing heavily before he turned back to The Prophet, “Salvation? You think I’m seeking salvation? I don’t know what you think you know about me, but let me just explain one thing to you, simple so you understand it — I’m not seeking salvation. I’m not some wretched sinner like the rest of the white trash losers you get waltzing into your church every day ending in Y. I don’t need the snake oil you’re selling or the crutch you’re offering.”
Boricio stepped forward, inches from The Prophet’s face, eyes narrowed in menace, as he said growled through his gritted teeth, “I don’t need you to wave your magic fucking wand and make all my bad karma go bye-bye. So save your talk of salvation for the suckers willing to drop their hard earned dough into your collection box, Prophet. Or is that Profit with an F?”
Boricio turned from The Prophet and began to walk back up the trail.
The Prophet had clearly erred in his persuasion. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Boricio stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn.
The Prophet said, “I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just that I can see your heavy heart sinking from guilt, and I want you to understand that God forgives. Everything.”
Boricio turned and stared at The Prophet for a moment, as his eyes filled with water. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. “I was trying to save her,” he said. “I thought I knew the right treatment. I thought I knew what to do to save her, but I only made it worse.”
The Prophet wanted to know what Boricio was talking about, and was inches from asking, but he didn’t want to make another mistake by interrupting the man in the midst of confession and risk him shutting down.
As Boricio told the story of his girlfriend, Rose, the woman he wanted to marry, and the car accident that had killed their unborn child along with their future together, The Prophet walked to him and found his eyes drifting past the man, settling on the black bag Boricio had yet to let out of his sight.
Something was in the bag — something more valuable than money.
Something which beckoned The Prophet as sure as the Good Lord Himself had been whispering his name since as long as he could remember.
Boricio continued, “My Dad wanted us to go with one course of treatment, but I went over his head, reached out to another doctor, and asked him to try an experimental procedure. It was supposed to have worked, but . . . it didn’t.” His voice was right at the edge of cracking. “Rose died, and I killed her,” he said.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” The Prophet shook his head. He was going to tell Boricio that Rose was in a better place, as was their unborn baby. But he knew that doing so would lose Boricio for good. Instead, he said, “You did what you thought was right. Correct?”
“Yes,” Boricio said.
“And you feel like maybe you were arrogant to go over your father’s head, right?”
Boricio met his eyes in a moment of challenge, then looked to the dirt, nodding.
“Let me ask you this, Boricio: Did you act out of love? Did you try to save Rose from a life in pain and endless misery?”
“Yes,” Boricio said, trying not to cry.
“Then you did right by her, and by The Lord.” The Prophet said. “He knows you did right, and He forgives you. Now, you must realize you did the right thing too. You must forgive yourself.”
Boricio said nothing. He turned and followed The Prophet back to the truck, but then left him standing by the open driver’s side door as he kept walking back down the road they’d taken to the lake.
“Where are you going?” The Prophet asked.
“Back.”
“That’s a long walk, Son. Do you even know where you’re going?”
“I’ll find my way,” Boricio said as he continued to walk, taking the bag and its mystery away from The Prophet.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — Ryan Olson Part 1
Black Mountain, Georgia
March 31, 2012
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT…
Ryan’s head ached as he woke, feeling like he’d had way too much to drink, even though he couldn’t remember the last time he had.
He vaguely recalled a nightmare — one he didn’t want to think about now.
Mary was sleeping in bed beside him. He felt the cool breeze blowing in through the open window and watched as she breathed, her breasts rising and falling along with the soft white comforter that half covered them. He stretched out, feeling the softness of the sheets, happy beneath their comfort and warmth.
I don’t ever want to leave this bed.
Every morning should be like this.
Nowhere to go, no rush to wake up.
He reached out and touched Mary’s shoulder — soft and warm — then traced his fingertips along her neck until she opened her eyes and looked at him.
“Hi, Baby,” she said.
“Hi.”
“What do you wanna do today?” she asked.
“Would it be horribly rude if I said ‘you’?”
“Ha, ha. Didn’t you get enough last night?”
Somewhere in his brain, a memory stirred from the nightmare — something hideous, chasing him.
No, don’t think about the dream. This is reality.
Don’t think about what happened.
Mary reached up and ran her palm over Ryan’s face, then through his hair as he closed his eyes and luxuriated in the delight of her touch.
“I had the weirdest dream,” she said, causing him to open his eyes and look at her.
&nb
sp; “You had a weird dream? So did I? What was yours about?”
“I woke up and the whole world was gone.”
“I had the same dream,” he said. “That is so weird.” He sat up in bed. “I was looking for you, and . . .”
Another vision from his dream flashed in his memory — a black creature with soaking wet flesh; bright light beaming beneath its skin and rows of rotting teeth plaguing its misshapen mouth.
Ryan closed his eyes trying to shake the vision from his mind before it took over.
Oh God, I’m dreaming now. No. No. I don’t want to wake up.
Stop thinking about the monsters.
I’m here, in bed with Mary. We’re in Warson Woods, where everything is perfect.
He opened his eyes, and Mary smiled, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about dreams. I want to—” he didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he leaned toward her, cupped her soft face in his hands, and took in her scent.
No, this isn’t a dream. You don’t dream the scent of your wife.
He kissed her neck and she sighed, filling his ear with her warm breath.
He felt his cock stiffen beneath the covers.
“God, I love you,” he said, leaning closer and running his open hand under the covers, over her stomach and up to her breasts, cupping the bottom of her left breast and slowly closing his fingers over her nipple which hardened at his touch.
“I love you too,” she said, reaching over and under the sheets to pull him closer.
Their moment was shattered by a scream.
He opened his eyes, startled, as she crawled frantically backward in the bed, trying to get away from him as fast as she could, her eyes wide in horror.
“What?!” was all she could gasp, staring down at him.
What’s wrong?
He looked down, figuring maybe she’d seen a giant bug beneath the covers, but then he saw the source of her horror — not a bug, but his lower half, a mutated, twisted, monstrosity, with wet luminescent black skin, twisted limbs, and something gnarled and malformed where his cock should have been.
“What are you?!” she screamed.
Ryan woke up sobbing, his heart torn by cruel reality yet again.
**
Ryan had been awake for an hour or so when he felt something horribly wrong.
He had sensed something weird the day before, but wasn’t sure what it was. The scientists had administered a serum, supposedly with cells from the kid, Charlie, who had somehow managed to resist the same mutation, even with infection.
It seemed like a shot in the dark — the sort of fringe science Ryan didn’t understand or particularly have much faith in. But he had nothing to lose. He was all alone, in constant pain, and had been turned into some kind of half-human/half-alien monster. All Ryan had when they found him was the promise that death might end his misery.
Now, perhaps they’d given him a new gift — hope for a normal life. A cure.
Ryan felt nothing following the injections, though he’d been waiting eagerly to feel something — anything — different. He longed for some measurable change, for better or worse. Something to let him know for certain that things were shifting inside him.
But Ryan felt nothing, at least not until last night, when the first flush of odd started slowly flooding through his system. It was nothing he could explain, but it was definitely new, and he felt certain it had something to do with the injections.
Either way, Ryan hoped it was a good sign.
That ended this morning, an hour after waking when he suddenly found himself seeing through someone else’s eyes and feeling their thoughts.
It was Charlie.
He was standing in his cell watching an old, fat, naked man in the cell next to him. Something about the old man terrified Charlie. Ryan knew because he felt Charlie’s fear no differently than if he’d felt it himself.
He saw the dark thing that had once been inside the old man — the Darkness Ryan sensed spreading through the world. It was a part of the creatures that had infected him. He could feel its echoes in his blood. This Darkness was different, though, perhaps even its leader.
The Darkness flowed from the old man, into a guard, and then into Charlie.
Oh God.
Charlie’s mind was then a prisoner of the Darkness, walking through the cell, carrying the guard It had momentarily possessed to the elevator. It pressed the guard’s hand to the touch pad, then set Itself free.
The Darkness murdered the first guard it met, ripping the head clean from his body. A second guard charged the Darkness, but It opened Charlie’s mouth and spewed out a part of itself into the air, then onto the Guardsman’s face and down his throat, until It started to spread inside that man too.
Ryan felt a horrible cracking inside his mind, a mental fissure from too many perspectives. He cradled his head in his hands, then dropped to his knees, screaming through the pain of his three sudden perspectives: A terrified Charlie witnessing the horror before him, the Darkness inside Charlie, and the stewing Darkness inside the Guardsman.
The Darkness continued to seep through the halls, in search of an exit. It wanted to follow Callie and Boricio so It could find someone — a child It wanted to kill.
As It met resistance, Its compromised Guardsman trailed beside It, shooting anyone trying to stop them. The Darkness and the Guardsman quickly made their way into the civilian sector, where they infected or murdered everyone in sight.
“Oh God,” Ryan cried, helplessly watching from the horror in his mind.
He pounded on his cell, screaming for someone to free him so he could help.
“Open the cell! Let me out!”
No one answered.
Ryan fell to the floor, screaming and helpless.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — Boricio Wolfe Part 1
Dunn, Georgia
March 31, 2012
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT…
Boricio leapt from his bed and threw a wad of covers onto the floor, then bolted to his window, tore a handful of curtains to the side, and peered out and into the empty yard below.
Boricio was certain he’d see something outside, sitting there like danger waiting to hatch. But the yard was empty, unlike Boricio’s overburdened mind.
He’d had another beer-battered bullshit of a dream; fucked up beyond all reason, this one with him marching over every end of the impossible. He’d spent his last few hours sleeping lost in a never-ending eternity of demons in hell, and Monopoly games with Rip Van Creepy, except Van Creepy was a little kid again. And the dreams were weirder for how real they seemed, as if he weren’t just dreaming — he was seeing something yet to come.
He went into the bathroom, took a shit, then threw on his shoes and returned to the window, shook off the haze of déjà vu and stared outside at all the empty he wasn’t expecting to see.
Boricio wondered why he couldn’t shake the weird feeling. Maybe it was a scent in the air that most of his mind was too stupid to understand but some other part of him picked up on and was filtering forward and telling him, “Hey, pay attention, fucker!”
As he’d been telling Paola while trying to show the girl how to shoot straight, some shit you knew faster than you thought. That sorta crazy shit happened in nature all the time. It was people that ignored it. Boricio read about how some botanists at some college infected a group of tobacco plants with a virus. Within days, another group of plants near the infected ones sensed the danger, and produced a chemical in their leaves to protect themselves.
That was crazy shit. And this shit was like that shit, though Boricio didn’t quite know how, or what he was sniffing. Because he didn’t understand the scent in the air, he didn’t know what to do. He took a final look outside before turning from the window.
It was probably just the unease of sleeping without anyone in the house able to stand guard. Boricio hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since back when he was
bunking with Charlie and the rest of the boys. If he couldn’t relax enough to get some decent shut eye, it meant he was either always awake, or haunted by nightmares.
He was majorly on edge, still a bit drunk from his late night shooting the shit with Mary, and just a little fucking exhausted. Ever since he’d healed Luca and aged a decade, he’d yet to feel the same kind of energy he had just a month ago.
But at least he wasn’t hungover. Boricio didn’t get hangovers. No matter how much he drank, Boricio couldn’t remember a single time where he had felt fucked up the following day. Level of consumption made no matter. Boricio could drink himself anywhere from tipsy to totally fuckered, then wake up the next morning with a fanny cleaver fat enough to fuck the remainder of the day.
Frequency of drink didn’t mean dick either. Whether Boricio got himself drunk three times a week or three times in one day, inebriation faded equally fast. He would collapse into bed drunk, then wake eight or so hours later, hungry as fuck. But this morning, Boricio was suffering from a helluva dry mouth, a slight headache that threatened to start pounding, and a flash of irritability at how shit in his head was messier than a murder scene.
Boricio grabbed his knife and gun, then shoved them both into his pants before leaving his bedroom and heading downstairs.
Boricio could smell the pancakes. They had 800 or so giant bags of pancake mix, and an equal amount of syrup which Charlie and the crew had grabbed up a while ago from a Costco, excited as if they’d hit the lottery. Unfortunately, pancakes didn’t have the protein Boricio was constantly craving, and preferred first thing in the morning. Judging from the speed at which they were shoving forkfuls into their mouths yesterday, Paola and Luca seemed to be loving them like stupid kids usually did.
