by Guy James
“Milt,” Sven said, speaking slowly, “where is the virus?”
“I already hinted at that, Sven. I told you that it was all a part of my destiny, the way in which my life was structured.”
Sven moved after Milt again, but Milt kept out of reach.
“Where is it?” Sven growled.
Milt grinned. “It is in one our world’s most decadent and plentiful indulgences. It is in what I once believed to be the nectar of the gods…and now said nectar truly is of the gods. It bestows deity on those who are worthy, and returns order to the world.”
Sven narrowed his eyes. “Where?”
“Come now, dear Sven. Have I not made it plain enough? I feel that it is painfully so, transparent beyond measure.” Milt looked at Sven and sighed, his chest heaving. “Very well. One more clue for you: it is once again in a consumable product, but something more ubiquitous than soy. Although I have come to learn that soy is in just about everything in these times…so it may be that my statement lacks accuracy.” Milt shook his head. “That is no matter. I shall leave such details to the food scientists and historians, if any remain following the evolution.”
Sven stared and gestured at Milt with the machetes. Then his shoulders slumped. “It’s in the soda.”
“Bravo,” Milt squealed. “I believed you would get there with enough guidance, and sure as the virus now evolves mankind, you did.”
“But how? Where did you get the virus from?”
Milt grinned again, and the moonlight played off his teeth. “I am the virus now, Sven. You made me this way. The virus expresses itself through all of us. And I put it in Coca-Cola, because that was the next logical step in the progression.”
“How?”
“In the simplest way, of course. I took a job with national quality control for Coca-Cola. In my prior life I would have regarded such a position as beneath me, but that was before I understood my true reason for being. As the bringer of the evolution, no job is too lowly, no disguise too demeaning. I forged credentials, stupefied the executives with my knowledge, and, once I was hired, quickly made the rounds of the bottling facilities throughout the United States. The Coca-Cola contamination that I orchestrated...in furtherance of the epic overthrow of the human race…to call myself a mastermind would be the greatest understatement of all time.”
“I can’t believe you did this,” Sven said. “I can’t…” He shook his head. “I should have killed you when I had the chance. I’ll regret that as long as I live.”
Milt heaved another sigh from his body. “Sven, Sven, Sven, the one track record to put all other one track records to shame. I am sorry to hear that your feelings remain unchanged. If it is any consolation, I shall work to terminate your regret presently.”
Milt drew an improbable something from his back pocket and aimed it at Sven. It was a child’s squirt gun, green and simple, with no pump action. Sven understood it as the gun that Jane had warned him about. He backed away.
“Yes,” Milt said, “that is precisely correct. In this simple child’s toy is the magic of the altered virus—the virus’s and my collective magic.” Milt steadied the gun with both hands and approached Sven, who backed away until he was against the railing that separated the park from the East River.
Milt cackled. He looked like a wild, bloated beast in the night. “It appears that you have your back to the wall, dear contingency planner. So tell me, what is your contingency plan for this particular encounter?” Milt nodded. “You lack preparation for this, because you did not consider it a possibility. That is where you have failed, and that is where un-evolved people such as you shall always fail. You do not see all the possibilities, even when your proclaimed occupation is that of a contingency planner.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Sven said, his voice low and steady. “I planned for just this moment.”
Alarm flashed across Milt’s face.
Sven spun sideways along the rail.
Milt squeezed the trigger of the squirt gun.
Water laced with antifreeze and Milt’s blood squirted from the green muzzle. The spray had been aimed at Sven’s face, but it found nothing but chill air.
Milt began to turn toward Sven with the gun, bringing the muzzle of the gun upward, and—
Before Milt had turned all the way around to face Sven, Sven stabbed with both machetes.
The blade of one cut through the middle of the squirt gun and broke it in two. The virus-tinged water spilled out of it, splashing Milt’s hand and the ground.
The blade of the other machete tore into Milt’s belly. This knife experienced an amount of resistance that surprised Sven. He pushed harder.
Milt shrieked and looked down. His eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of the protruding knife handle. He squealed something indiscernible.
Sven twisted the knife in Milt’s belly, drawing another shriek from Milt, then let go of the knife, and, with his now free hand, grabbed Milt’s arm and pulled him against the railing.
The East River’s spray shot up at them.
Sven pulled with all of the strength he had left. He heard something—fabric, bone, or flesh, he wasn’t sure—tear, and he and Milt went over the railing.
A pinpoint of understanding ignited in Sven’s mind and expanded. This was it. Some primitive part of him had made this choice, and there was no going backward. The freezing water would be next, and then—
87
A hand—Sven’s hand—shot upward and grabbed one of the railing’s vertical support bars. Sven squeezed, feeling the muscles of his forearm pop and bulge. Ice unstuck from the bar close to Sven’s hand and fell. He felt something brushing past his legs, like something that was trying to grab hold of his feet.
Sven looked down and saw a screaming, falling Milt, his arms and legs flailing. Milt hit the water. His scream was reduced to a gurgle as he sank, and was then carried off by a gust of wind. A cluster of bubbles cropped up at the place where Milt had broken the surface. Sven looked up again and the full scope of his mind latched on to the cold, icy, and jagged possibility of survival that he had grasped. The sense that he was in his final moments had fled as quickly as it had come, replaced by a desperate will to survive.
He reached up with his other hand, which was still holding a machete, and threaded the knife through the bars supporting the railing. Sven turned the machete so that he could use the blade and handle as a support crossed against the bars.
The wind whipped and beat against Sven’s hanging body.
Sven pulled.
Willing his muscles to work beyond their breaking points, Sven hoisted himself over the railing and fell into the park. He stood up, tottering, and looked at the boar statue. The boar’s dim eyes seemed to stare back. Then Sven turned around and looked down into the river. His thoughts focused on the machete that he had planted in Milt’s stomach.
He heard a voice in his mind: “It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man, even an infected man who was trying to kill you. There’s power in it, invincibility, immortality…a truth beggaring description. But is he dead? Have you killed this man? How long until he…resurfaces?” It was a familiar voice, but Sven couldn’t place it.
The words echoed, then were replaced by a vision of the lost machete.
“Gone,” Sven said. “It’s gone.”
A wave of dizziness hit him. The ground seemed to move rapidly upward before suddenly decelerating and reversing course.
The dizziness was overcome by a desire to jump into the river, to retrieve the lost machete, or drown trying.
He ground his teeth and stared at the churning water. His hands gripped the railing, squeezing it and breaking small pieces of ice free of its surface.
The idea of death seemed to pale next to the weight of the loss.
Sven pushed himself away from the railing. The urge to dive into the East River had gone, and now all that Sven felt was disgust.
“I’ve lost my mind,” he muttered. “A knife…I’ve lost it.
”
He scanned the water for any sign of Milt.
Snowflakes glided down and settled on the patch of water where Milt had gone under. Sven searched the river, examining every rough patch.
He saw a small bubbling area of river surface and watched it until a piece of green squirt gun popped up out of the water. It began to float with the unsteady current.
Sven leaned on the ice-covered railing and strained to see more through the darkness. Milt didn’t resurface.
A vicious moan drifted through the park until a gust of wind met it and carried it off.
Sven turned. The infected were flowing back into Sutton Place, as if the ones that Jane had dispatched had called in reinforcements. Sven moved away from the river and jogged up the ramp leading out of the park.
At the top of the ramp was an elderly, frail, infected man. He moaned, and Sven was surprised by the moan’s fierce tenor.
One hack of Sven’s remaining machete and the top of the infected man’s head flew off. Sven kicked the semi-decapitated man out of the way and ran into his building.
Then he ran up the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door of his apartment.
“It’s me,” he said, panting. “It’s Sven.”
“Sven?” It was Jane’s voice.
There was the sound of the peephole clicking, then of locks opening in turn. The door opened, and Sven entered. Jane locked the door behind him.
They embraced.
“Lorie,” Sven said, with a look of panic on his face. “The Coke.”
“Here,” Jane said, taking his hand, “you’re frozen solid. Come inside, let me help you.”
Sven rushed past her into the den. He stopped in front of the monitor and typed an urgent post that Jane read over his shoulder:
Author: Sven
Topic: URGENT: SOURCE OF INFECTION: COCA-COLA
Body: THE SOURCE OF INFECTION IS CONTAMINATED COCA-COLA.
AVOID ALL COCA-COLA PRODUCTS, ALL CANNED AND BOTTLED SODA.
STAY INSIDE AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Sven posted it and knelt beneath the computer, exhausted.
“It’s in the Coke,” he said, panting. “Milt told me.”
Jane knelt next to Sven and began to rub his hands. He pulled his mask off. Jane saw Sven’s cracked, bleeding lips and ran to the kitchen. She filled two large cups with water and brought them back into the den, where Sven had propped himself up against a wall.
Sven gulped the water down, choking on one mouthful from the second cup. After he was done coughing, he drank the water that was left.
“Have you heard from Lorie?” Sven asked.
The color left Jane’s face. She began to answer, but then stopped herself.
Sven looked at her. “Jane, what is it?”
Jane took a ragged breath. “The safe rooms at Stuyvesant…they…we…we haven’t had any contact with them. No posts on the forum from them, and plenty from Stuyvesant parents looking for their kids…and…”
“Oh God,” Sven said.
“I…I think Lorie’s gonna be okay. We just have to wait it out, like we planned if we were separated.”
“We have to go find her.” Sven began to stand up. His legs gave out and he sat back down, hard.
“Sven,” Jane said, “listen. I’ve thought about all that already. I’ve gone over it a hundred times in my head. We can’t go after her. If we go after her, we’ll die. It’s too early…there are too many of…” Jane put her head on Sven’s shoulder.
He fought with himself for a minute not to say it, but then he did: “You think she’ll come back?”
“I know she will.” Jane put her arms around his middle and hugged him. “We can regroup later tonight, or in the morning. You need to rest. I’m afraid to ask what you went through to get back here from City Hall.” She looked at the floor for a moment. “Is there anything else you want me to post? Did Milt tell you anything else that would be useful?”
“Just that he did this by putting the virus in the Coke…to…evolve the world. He said the virus was everywhere now, not just in New York. Everywhere.”
“Yeah,” Jane said. She had a vacant look in her eyes. “Everywhere. Uncontainable.” She wiped her nose. “Do you think it’s true, what he said about the Coke?”
“Yeah, I do. I don’t see what he has to gain by tricking us and diverting our attention from something else. Like he said, there was nothing left for me at this point. I think he told me about the Coke just to see the anguish on my face, to know that I knew that no one I cared about could be safe.”
“We don’t keep any of that here.”
“Yeah,” Sven said, “we don’t.”
Neither of them said the obvious: that soft drinks were all over schools, that they were just about the only thing kids drank…and that even Lorie snuck the occasional can of soda in.
“What happened to him,” Jane said, “to Milt?”
“He’s gone now. Gone.” Sven rubbed his eyes. “We should keep up with what’s happening on the forum.” Sven began to stand up.
“No, you sit here and rest. I’m going to get you some more water, and then something hot to drink. Then I’ll take a look at what’s being posted. You need to keep your strength up.”
“Are the air filters doing okay?” Sven asked.
Jane nodded. “They’re good, and the seals are good, too. I’ve had my mask off in here for hours, and I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
Sven opened his mouth to say something about Lorie, but then he stopped himself. Instead, he put an arm around Jane and pulled her close to him. They sat, huddled against the wall of the den. After a time, Sven’s breathing settled, and so did Jane’s.
In the city around them, the infected who had taken over Manhattan staggered closer.
88
THE WOODS OF RURAL VIRGINIA
The vegan with the handlebar moustache picked up a thick, heavy branch. The branch was wet, and its bark was peeling off in thin, splotchy pieces that made the vegan think of a snake shedding its skin.
He stood it up beside him and kicked downward with a bare foot, breaking off the bottom of the branch and splintering its end.
Taking up his makeshift pike, the vegan strode into the darkness, his keen senses aware of the muffled crunch of wet leaves and twigs beneath his feet.
The moon and the glow of his cigarette illuminated his way.
He walked all through the night in the storm, smoking cigarette after cigarette until he was out of Lucky Strikes. The sun was rising when the vegan ran out, and he feared that his urges would become uncontrollable without the cigarettes. He considered trying to find more, but he had no idea where he was, only that he was in the forest, and that he was supposed to be there.
The snowstorm waned. The large snowflakes left the air and were replaced by flurries of small snowflakes that whirled around the vegan, seeming to urge him onward. It was as if the storm knew that the vegan didn’t need as much guidance now that he was well on his way to whatever was in the works for him.
The woods were thick around the vegan, and his only visible reference point was the rising sun. He knew by its position that he was walking west, and guessed that he had been all night. He thought that he was still in Virginia, but in what part, he wasn’t sure. He had crossed over several roads in the night, but there were no more in sight now, and no sounds of cars or people.
The vegan’s mind began to dwell on the inescapable circularity of human events. Events were made by particular energetic configurations, and those energetic configurations, which he liked to think of as God, persisted throughout time. They lived in the background, seeking expression, and always found it. He thought of his repeated run-in with his current situation: that of running out of cigarettes. The feelings associated with it were familiar and friendly. They gave way to the welcome ritual of purchasing more Lucky Strikes.
The vegan smiled and reached for his cross. That was the way of the world: repetition, rei
teration of the same events with slight variations in the details. It was a cycle not to be understood, but just to be felt and lived. He was in the cycle now, an integral part of it, and he appreciated it all. In all of his seeking, he never anticipated reaching this level of comprehension, and, though the events in which he found himself were perhaps horrible, they were natural. So he could do nothing to wipe the smile from his face as he continued his journey, led by a fate that he felt but didn’t grasp, and at peace with the notion that he might never grasp it.
89
TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK, NEW YORK, EARLY MORNING
The sun heaved itself upward through the sky, its rays struggling to bore through the dense storm clouds that veiled New York.
New York City bore a greater resemblance to a damned city than usual. There was no regular, orderly human movement as there would have been on a normal morning in Manhattan, no hands clutching steaming coffee cups, no eyes of those yet without their own coffee covetously glancing at the full cups held by others, no cheeks blushing in the cold winter air, not a single pudgy New Yorker dragging his sleepy body to the gym for another fruitless session on the elliptical.
The stench of the zombies was palpable through the bitter cold. It stood out in wisps and probed with tendrils that strained against the slow-moving molecules of the frigid air. Shrouded by their ensnaring odor, the zombies, most of whom had slipped and fallen on the ice and were reduced to crawling, hunted new prey. Sven’s forum alerts blinked and flickered down at them from massive display terminals on the sides of the buildings in and around the square. Little else was offered to the zombies on that morning, as most New Yorkers had already succumbed to the infection, and those few who had not were not budging from their hiding spots.
