The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Seattle
Page 6
He grabbed Thursday out of his wheelchair and carried him back to the window. Thursday pounded on Resh’s chest and clawed at his hair when he saw where his possessed friend was taking him.
Even Resh wasn’t sure what the parasite had in mind, but every attempt to resist was met with unimaginable pain. He could only watch as he thrust Thursday out through the gap between metal plates and lowered him by the hands.
Thursday was screaming now, whether at the terror of being dropped, or at the approaching cloud of microscopic machines.
Resh let go of his wrists and watched Thursday slide down the vertical face of the building, through the narrow space between building and sidewalk, and into the water of Lake Union.
Resh’s last sight before leaping through the window, was the pitch black swarm flashing toward him.
He sucked in some water as he emerged from beneath its frigid confines.
Whatever parts of his brain the parasite had tapped into, it was not his sense of pain and discomfort. If it had, it surely would have sensed the water in his mouth and nose and at least allowed him a cough.
Thursday appeared unharmed. He had his arms wrapped around a pylon supporting the street above.
Resh reached out to take his arm, but he resisted only for a moment before allowing Resh to pull him along through the water beneath the street.
He dragged the semi-limp body of Thursday onto the same floating sidewalk they’d washed up on before. The life preserver still lay where they’d left it.
Behind them, screams echoed inside the walls of the building, and there was a grinding sound like a saw on wood. He could barely see the building through the black cloud, but it appeared to be disintegrating before his eyes.
“Who are you?” Thursday asked.
Resh sat beside Thursday, but when he opened his mouth to answer, another voice emerged.
“I-I have nothing like a nname,” said his possessor. As it spoke, the voice became clearer, less affected. The parasite had learned the appropriate workings of his diaphragm and vocal cords with such rapidity, Resh wondered just how old and knowledgeable it was. It answered that unspoken question. “I have had many hosts. I am ancient by your standards. Unlike the others of my kind, I was not ready to be born again and lose the memories that took me hundreds of years to collect. I did not disperse. I stayed in my host’s head until it died from suffocation in the submerged ship. I then shed my moisture and encysted into its brain, a method my kind uses to enter a state of suspended animation. I regained consciousness in the mind of a human. It took me many months to map its connections, so different was it from my former host’s.”
Resh remembered the scene vividly. Headman Stiles had taken the alien brain and eaten it like an oversized walnut. The whole time, he had smiled at Resh and the others in the room, as if he would soon possess a knowledge none of them could fathom. In a way, he had been right. He had consumed the knowledge and wisdom of the alien race, but it was a living thing of its own, vying for space in the narrow gap between his brain and skull.
“Before this host killed him,” the parasite said through him. “As he fought the guards outside his room, I compelled him to take up his canteen, and then I dispersed. It was a risk, but when I regained awareness, I was in this new host, mostly intact.”
If he could have gagged, he would have. He remembered the look of Stiles, pale, drooling, and dazed. Resh thought he was drunk, but the canteen had only tasted of stale water. He’d guzzled the contents of it almost immediately after slaying the former Headsman, so exhausted was he from the fight. Hooked to his belt was the canteen in question.
The parasite must have been thinking of it too, for it unclipped the canteen and held it up as if to admire the brass finish.
Thursday propped himself up on his elbows. Water dripped from his hair and from the tip of his nose. He looked at the canteen warily.
“I will make you this bargain. I will cure you of this sickness and provide you guidance in your quest. I know much of these beings you call aliens. I will not interfere as I have done with this host, unless you threaten my kind. In return, you must promise to experience, to explore. We are not malevolent beings, just curious. We seek only to learn.”
If possible, Thursday paled even more.
“Why? Why do you want me? Why should I trust you?”
“This host fights my urgings to explore. But you still have a long journey ahead of you.” At Thursday’s sustained look of horror, the parasite continued. “The doctor was wrong about my kind. The curiosity we stimulate, that is what drove our previous hosts into space, but we did not condone their violence. We interfere only to protect ourselves. Humanity would do the same, though some of the exceptions I’ve seen amaze me. My host for example. Why did he help you after you lost the travel guide? He owed you nothing, but still he acted for you without thoughts of himself. I wish I could see into that part of his mind. Perhaps humanity has a lot to teach us.”
Thursday looked at the canteen, then again into Resh’s eyes.
Resh wished he could speak, but didn’t know what he’d say. As much as he wanted this parasite out of him, he didn’t want it in Thursday either, a man he now considered one of his few friends.
Thursday gave a small nod.
The parasite stirred within his mind once again, and gooseflesh rose along Resh’s spine.
Both of his hands wrapped around the canteen, and strangely, lifted it to cover his nose.
Then, all the muscles in his body locked into place, and Resh could barely breathe.
His nose instantly felt stuffy, and then began to run, first a drop at a time, and then a veritable torrent. His pulse thudded in his ears, and he imagined every vein on his head was standing out. Then it was over, and Resh coughed and gagged.
It took a moment for Resh to realize he could move again, and when he did, he looked down into the canteen. By all appearances, it was a slightly hazy water.
The parasite had dispersed. He was free.
Thursday looked like he was going to be sick.
His immediate inclination was to throw the thing into the lake, let it diffuse in the wide waters of Lake Union, never to assemble again, but a bandaged hand came to rest over his.
Resh swallowed, and handed the canteen to Thursday, who looked into it with uncertainty.
“Are you sure about this?” Resh asked, and silently rejoiced at the freedom to move his own tongue and lips. “We can kill it. There might be a cure in the building still.” But as he said it, he realized the building was nearly gone, reduced to dust. A thin layer of pulverized concrete and brick was drifting out over the water.
“It’s this or die. They said they had agents out there, right? With the blue stuff that makes the parasite disperse? Maybe I’ll find one, or one will find me, and I’ll be free of it eventually. But right now, this is the only hope I have. If it can help me find a way to control the swarm, I must use it.”
Resh nodded.
“Then good luck. I can’t say I envy you.”
“I’m sorry about the travelogue; after all you’ve done—”
Resh waved him to silence.
“I’m not leaving.”
Seattle was his home and would always be. Without that thing in his head, urging him to leave, he would do what Kyli had wanted of him. He loved this city, and he was going to be the one to conquer it.
END
About the Author
Emerging novelist, Philip Kramer, is a research scientist with many published articles and reviews to his name. After obtaining his doctorate in Biomedical Research, he strove to incorporate science into his writing in an effort to bring more realism to modern fiction, sci-fi, and fantasy. He has three completed and as-of-yet unpublished novels with many more in development. He is currently a resident of Seattle, Washington.
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Philip Kramer, The Post-Apocalyptic Tourist’s Guide to Seattle