I wanted to slap her.
I really did.
I wanted to hit her until she didn’t believe this bullshit anymore. We stood there in a churchyard surrounded by the graves of five hundred suicides.
“You need help,” I said. “Everyone here does.”
“No we don’t. We’ve found what we need. We don’t require anything else but to be left alone to pray, to love each other, and to die.”
She nodded to the stun gun I held.
“You can use that on me. You can take me by force. No one here is going to try and stop you, and you probably have help somewhere close. So . . . sure, you can take me against my will. If you do, and if they manage to lock me away somewhere where I can’t escape or can’t take my life, it won’t change anything. I’ll still die. We all will. However you’ll die knowing that you robbed me of being happy before I died.” She stepped close to me and looked up into my eyes. “Is that what you want, Mr. Poe? Is that what you really think is best for me? Will taking me out of here actually keep me ‘safe’?”
-5-
I got home around eight that night.
Last night.
I let the other guys go. Told him that we’d drawn a blank. Told them I’d call when I had a fresh lead. It was all the same to them. They were day players.
At my apartment, I cracked a fresh beer and took it out to the deck to watch the sky.
The moon was up. Three-quarter moon.
I drank the beer. Got another. Drank that.
Sat with the moon until it was down.
I tried fifteen times to get Rosie Blum on the phone.
Fifteen.
Cell. Office. Home answering machine.
Finally someone picked up.
Not Rosie, though.
It was her roommate. Rachael Somethingorother. A junior astrophysicist.
“Hello—?”
There was something about the way she said it. Tentative and a little weary. Like she was afraid of a call. Or of another call.
“Rachael? It’s John Poe,” I said. “Is Rosie there? I’ve been trying to get her for days and she’s not picking up. I really need to talk to her. Is she there?”
She took too long to reply.
Too long.
“John . . . I’m so sorry,” she said.
So sorry.
“What happened?” I asked.
“It . . . it’s going to be in the papers. God, I’m sorry. I thought someone would have called you.”
“What’s going to be in the papers? What’s wrong? Where’s Rosie?”
“She’s gone . . . ,” she said. “I didn’t even know she had a gun. Oh god, there was so much blood . . . oh god, John . . . ”
I stared at the night. Listened to the voice on the phone.
“When . . . ?” I asked softly.
“Last night,” said Rachael. “When she and Dr. Marcus got back from Toronto. They came back from the airport and they went straight into her room without saying anything. I thought . . . well, I thought that maybe they were together now. That they’d hooked up in Toronto and, well, you know . . . ”
“What happened?”
“Like I said, I didn’t even know she had a gun until I heard the shots.”
“Shots?”
“Yes. Oh god, John . . . she shot him in the head and then put the gun in her . . . in her . . . ”
She may have said more. There must have been more to the story, but I didn’t hear it.
I dropped my hand into my lap, then let it fall down beside my deck chair. The phone landed hard and bounced away. Maybe it went over the rail. I don’t know. I haven’t looked for it.
I’m sitting here now, and I don’t know why I’m recording this. I mean . . . who the fuck am I leaving a record for?
I watched the news this morning.
Sixteen suicides. Eight of the speakers at the Toronto conference.
Eight others who were there.
Not counting Rosie and Dr. Marcus.
Eighteen.
All of them there to talk about Nibiru. To work out what kind of message to tell the world.
Eighteen.
I guess the message is pretty clear.
I’m going to leave this recorder here on the dashboard. Not sure what good it would do for someone else to find it.
Across the street I can see the wrought iron gates and the granite pillars. And beyond that the white stones in the green grass.
I can see Sister Light standing there, watching my car.
Watching me.
Waiting for me.
Smiling at me.
She lifts her hand.
A welcome gesture.
Okay, I tell myself.
Okay.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jonathan Maberry is a New York Times bestselling author, multiple Bram Stoker Award winner, and comic book writer. He’s the author of many novels including Code Zero, Fire & Ash, The Nightsiders, Dead of Night, and Rot & Ruin; and the editor of the V-Wars shared-world anthologies. His nonfiction books on topics ranging from martial arts to zombie pop-culture. Jonathan writes V-Wars and Rot & Ruin for IDW Comics, and Bad Blood for Dark Horse, as well as multiple projects for Marvel. Since 1978 he has sold more than 1200 magazine feature articles, 3000 columns, two plays, greeting cards, song lyrics, poetry, and textbooks. Jonathan continues to teach the celebrated Experimental Writing for Teens class, which he created. He founded the Writers Coffeehouse and co-founded The Liars Club; and is a frequent speaker at schools and libraries, as well as a keynote speaker and guest of honor at major writers and genre conferences. He lives in Del Mar, California. Find him online at jonathanmaberry.com.
AGENT UNKNOWN
David Wellington
Wilmington, DE
“Fucking animals,” Whitman hissed, as a gray hand reached for the cuff of his pant leg. He kicked it away. For a second he looked down into the man’s slack face. Nothing there. He looked lower and saw the hypodermic still plunged into the man’s arm. He tried to tell himself the junkie was just sick, a victim of a disease, but that metaphor had never really held water for him.
A field agent for the CDC, Whitman knew what diseases really were and knew that addiction was a very different kind of disorder.
He waved his flashlight around the room, looking for anyone conscious enough to tell him why he’d come here. He saw three people lounging on pieces of broken furniture or just slumped on the floor, all of them as wasted as the one who’d tried to grab him. Someone in this house had called the police to report violent behavior. The caller had reported that the violent individual was non-communicative and had bloodshot eyes. That had been enough of a red flag for the local cops to send for Whitman.
He’d been in Philadelphia two hours ago. The latest situation report said the cops had contained the suspect and would wait until he arrived before making an arrest. So far, so good—there might be a chance to get a live subject here, and that might make all the difference.
Whitman hadn’t known what he was getting into, though, when he hit the ground with his sampling gear. He’d had no idea he was walking into a shooting gallery.
He heard the crackle of a police radio and looked up. A uniformed cop waved him over, a big guy with a bristly mustache and dead eyes. “Sergeant Crispen,” he said, and shook Whitman’s hand.
“How many people are in this house?” Whitman asked.
Crispen shrugged. “Maybe a dozen. Normally we would’ve moved ’em out of here but your people said to sit on ’em instead, keep ’em here.”
Whitman nodded. “They’ll need to be quarantined, just in case. Where’s the subject?”
“Through here,” Crispen said. He flicked on his own flashlight—the house had no working lights—and gestured down a short hallway. Two more cops stood at its end, flanking a closed door.
“Do you know who called this in?” Whitman asked.
“One of the other junkies—he’s pretty messed up. We have him in the kitchen. B
ites and scrapes all over him; though with this sort… who knows—could be completely unrelated. We, uh, haven’t been able to get a statement yet.”
Whitman could well imagine. If the symptoms were bloodshot eyes and aphasia, probably everyone in the house was a potential subject. “Alright,” he said. “I’d better go in and take a look.”
“The one in there’s pretty psycho. I’m not sure it’s safe—”
Whitman cut him off by pulling the Taser out of his jacket. “I’ll be okay.”
The cop looked at the weapon in Whitman’s hand and just shrugged.
The door wasn’t locked. It looked like someone had kicked it open at one point and it had never been repaired. Whitman stepped inside the dark room and moved his flashlight carefully across the furniture. He saw a dresser with no drawers, a broken television set. On the far side of the room a pile of blankets had been heaped on the floor. It was moving. Just rising and falling slowly, as if someone was under there, breathing.
“What’s your name?” Whitman called out, in case this was a false lead. “I’m Whitman. I’m here to help. Can you speak to me? Can you tell me your name?”
There was no response. The pile of blankets kept breathing. Whitman took a step closer. “I need you to say something,” Whitman announced. “Can you come out of there? Are you sick?”
The idea of reaching into those blankets with his hands made Whitman’s blood run cold. Somebody had to make an assessment, though, and he’d drawn the short stick. He looked around for a piece of wood, for anything he could use to push the blankets back. For a second or two he moved the flashlight away from the blanket pile.
When he looked back the subject was up and running across the room, straight at him. In the flashlight beam the subject’s eyes were so red they glowed.
Whitman had a moment to register what was happening. Most of that time he spent thinking to himself, teeth, nails, open sores—the things you had to stay away from, the things that could get you contaminated.
He saw the teeth all right. They were yellow and broken and they snapped at the air and they were coming right for his throat.
He brought the Taser up but never had a chance to fire it. The subject lashed out with both arms, knocking Whitman’s hands away. His flashlight spun free of his grip and Whitman felt a hundred and twenty pounds of stinking flesh collide with his chest, knocking him down, spinning him sideways.
He felt those teeth meet around his gloved hand. Felt them press down.
There was a gunshot, incredibly loud and bright in the dark room, and then people were running and shouting and Whitman’s heart beat so loud in his ears he was sure it would burst. He recovered himself and scrambled to his feet, raced out the door, down the hall, following the back of one cop who was running away from him, running toward the front door of the house, and then they were outside in the blinding sunlight. He threw one arm over his eyes but kept running. Ahead of him the street sloped down a hill, cheap houses and check cashing stores on either side, high tension wires strung overhead. He saw the cops, all three of them, and then he saw the subject, for the first time getting a clear look.
It was a woman, no, a girl of no more than twenty, dressed in nothing but an open flannel shirt and a stained pair of panties. In the sunlight her eyes just looked bloodshot. She staggered down the hill, her legs not quite working properly, her face turning in one direction, then the other. Her hair was a dark thicket of tangles that barely moved as it swung around.
Crispen and his men had drawn their guns and were shouting for her to stop. Whitman cursed as he dashed past them. If she got away—if she ducked into an alley—they might never find her again. He didn’t waste his breath shouting at her. What was left of her brain wouldn’t be able to make sense of words. He got as close as he dared and lifted the Taser, pointed it at her back.
She started to turn, to look at him, and she was hissing. Ready to fight.
He pulled the trigger. The two tiny barbs went right through her shirt, and the Taser made its horrible clacking sound. She dropped to the pavement, twitching and kicking, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t make any sound at all.
Behind Whitman, Crispen came running up, his weapon held in both hands. “You got her,” he said, over and over again, “you got her,” and Whitman could hear the relief in the cop’s voice.
“This time,” Whitman said. “Yeah.”
• • • •
Atlanta, GA
Dan Philips watched from an observation suite as they brought Subject 13 in. She was alive—that was good. It was crucial.
Twelve bodies lay in a morgue deep inside the CDC complex that was Philips’ headquarters. Twelve bodies, or what was left of them. Bit by bit, organ by organ, they were being dismantled, their cells broken down in centrifuges, their bacterial and viral load analyzed by legions of technicians with scanning electron microscopes. But dead bodies could only tell you so much.
On his television screens Philips watched his field agent sign the new subject in. Nobody bothered to read her any rights or even give her any comforting words as she was shoved into a negative pressure room. Nobody touched her if they could help it. They’d bound her hands behind her back and put a plastic mask over her mouth. She was a known biter and the CDC didn’t mess around with those.
The room was kept at a slightly lower atmospheric pressure than the corridor outside, so that when the door was opened air flowed in rather than out—hopefully making sure any pathogens she carried stayed inside with her. No one was allowed into the room without wearing a level two biohazard suit. Cameras on the walls tracked her at all times, and other instruments monitored her body temperature, her heart rate, and her blood oxygen levels.
Director Philips had been a neurosurgeon, once, a long time ago. Now he had the perfect hair and twinkling eyes of a politician. He didn’t smile as Whitman stepped into the observation suite. For a long while they just watched the subject together.
Not that there was much to see. Once the suited technicians left the room, she seemed to simply collapse. With no one to bite or attack, she just crouched on the floor—ignoring the bed they’d provided for her—and rocked back and forth in what was obviously a self-comforting gesture.
Eventually, Philips cleared his throat. “You must have made record time.”
Whitman nodded. Of the twelve bodies in the morgue, not a single one had died of natural causes. Ever since they’d alerted the police networks to the new disease, Whitman was called in every time the cops found a potential subject. But it could take him hours, even days, to arrive after he got the call. The subjects were so violent the police usually had to shoot them to keep them from hurting anybody. Cops didn’t mess around with biters, either. “I was close by, and we had a helicopter ready to lift off. Everything kind of came together.”
“This is what we need,” Philips said, sighing in relief. “This is what we need to beat this thing, I know it.”
The disease that afflicted Subject 13 was definitely some kind of brain fever, they were sure of that. But that was almost the only thing they knew. When the cops had killed the previous twelve they’d ruined the best chance the CDC had to study this thing as it progressed. Subject 13 could be a very important catch.
Bringing her in alive also meant they could get some epidemiological data, too. They couldn’t question her—like all of the subjects, she was completely incapable of speech—but they could study her clothing for any trace of environmental toxins, look at her teeth to get an idea of her diet. The clue to identifying the pathogen could come from anywhere.
They definitely needed some kind of clue. 13, and the twelve bodies in the morgue, were just the tip of the iceberg, they were sure. There was no way to know how many other people had been infected with the pathogen, how many people they’d missed. Early cases might have been dismissed as PCP overdoses or just psychotic breaks. Subjects might have wandered out into traffic and gotten themselves killed before they were diagnosed.
If they were going to figure this thing out—isolate the pathogen and come up with a vaccine or at least some kind of treatment—they needed information, and that meant finding a live subject. Whitman had been given that duty because he was a senior field agent.
“What’s her name?” Philips asked.
Whitman blinked in surprise. “Sorry?”
“Her name,” the Director repeated. “She must have one.”
Whitman thought for a second but nothing came to him. “They told me but . . . I forgot. It’s in my report.” He rubbed his temples with his fingertips as if that would jog his memory. “It’s been a long day, Director, and if—”
Philips reached over and grabbed Whitman’s right hand.
Both of them looked at the two red dots on Whitman’s index finger, tiny bruises that were clearly the imprints of teeth.
Philips raised an eyebrow.
He didn’t need to ask aloud. Whitman knew what the question was. “She bit through my glove. Yeah. But she didn’t break the skin.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
Whitman looked away. “Absolutely.”
Philips wondered if his agent was telling the truth. He had a strong enough incentive to lie. If he had been infected, if there was any chance, well—Whitman would very quickly find himself in a negative pressure room of his own. But Philips knew he needed Whitman, still. He nodded and turned back to the monitors, back to watching 13 rock back and forth.
• • • •
Atlanta, GA
This was a bad one.
Whitman had been through some bad ones before. After washing out of med school with a biology degree, he’d joined the CDC just in time to get in on the circus that was SARS. He’d see outbreaks of cholera and TB in cities up and down the eastern seaboard, and of course the e. coli flare-ups that hit every time a restaurant tried to save some money by buying second-grade meat. As a field agent, he didn’t even have the luxury of looking at it all through a microscope or the plastic viewport of a containment suit. He’d been down in the streets with the panicking victims, often wearing no more than a surgical mask and a pair of latex gloves, covered in blood and much worse day after day. The bad ones left him with nightmares and a need to wash his hands every time he passed a sink.
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