This Plague of Days (Omnibus): Seasons 1-3

by Robert Chazz Chute

  “And when they die off, Hong Kong belongs to me. Fine. How accurate are these estimates?”

  “Given the difficulty of travel in a war zone, it could be off by a factor of five.”

  “Sixty-two percent sounded specific.”

  “The reports are based on aerial observation with infra-red. We took hot bodies per square mile and extrapolated. We commandeered a C-130 with excellent tech for the job, in addition to a few drones. Brother Lee is confident in the model.”

  “Has Lee contracted Sutr-A? Are there more like me among our ranks?”

  “No. Just you.”

  “Fine. What else?”

  “No calls on the satellite phone from your ex-fiancee, Dear Sister.”

  Shiva caressed her belly as the baby kicked. “The good doctor will. That should make for a delicious house call. Move on.”

  “I’ve found an obstetrician for you. Would you like me to schedule an ultrasound?”

  Shiva smiled. “What’s the matter? Worried the baby will have fangs? You think the baby will eat its way out of me? What if it's a breech birth and the baby snacks in the wrong direction, chewing up through my chest cavity and clawing its way out of my neck? You’ll have to decapitate me to deliver my precious bundle, Lijon.”

  Lijon’s stomach turned over and she swallowed hard. “I’m concerned for your health, Dear Sister. You and the baby were exposed to the radiation when New York — ”

  “And since your family was exposed in the Bikini Atoll, you think I’m doomed to the same cancerous fate?”

  “Shiva…I-I don’t know what to say. You’ve always been a confident woman. You know that’s one of the things I admire about you. But since you got sick and recovered…can we please just take precautions?”

  “A baby of mine, surrounded by humans,” Shiva mused. “Do you think she’ll be able to enter a house without being invited? Maybe I’ll have to kill every resident of Bermuda so I’ll own all the houses, hm?”

  Lijon didn't know how to respond to the grim joke so she turned to scan the sky. No plane yet. She wanted to be gone before the emissaries arrived.

  Last night, the boy had come to her in a dream, warning her to be careful. Lijon was too frightened to kill Shiva. He seemed to understand. It was not he who wanted her to assassinate her leader. “The Way of Things will get it done,” he said, “but perhaps not before she kills you and many more.”

  Lijon hated that boy for his demands, but she feared Shiva more.

  As if reading her thoughts, Shiva asked if the boy had revisited her in her dreams.

  “No.”

  Shiva pointed to Lijon’s bare legs. “I’ve never seen you wear shorts. Your Desmoid tumors are gone, I see.”

  “Completely! As you predicted, Dear Sister.”

  Shiva smiled wide. “Three strikes, you’re out, Little Sister. I've had enough of your lies.”

  The play is on the stage

  The helicopter gunship alit like a shiny, black bug on the overgrown lawn by the Manitoba Disease Research Centre’s reflecting pool. Two men in gas masks and camouflage carrying M-16s leapt out just before the machine touched the ground. They were followed by a short, thin woman in a wrinkled khaki uniform. Stepping from the helo, her big, black sunglasses made her look vaguely insectile, as if the helicopter had given birth.

  Private Kennefic didn’t recognize the tan uniform, but he knew what the bird pins at the officer’s collar meant. He gave a sharp salute. “Colonel!”

  “Where is everybody, Private?”

  Kennefic looked confused.

  “Where is the rest of your security team? Any Canadian Forces snipers lurking anywhere, for insurance?”

  “Our host country’s forces are spread a bit thin on the ground, sir. You could fit ’em all in one big hockey arena, so I’m it, sir. After the Brickyard attack, someone told me to take Dr. Merritt to the next available lab. This is it, sir.”

  “Don’t be afraid, Private. But they really didn’t think to provide Dr. Merritt with more security?”

  Kennefic looked like he was trying to do advanced math in his head.

  The colonel sighed. “You have permission to speak freely, Private.”

  “Things were…in disarray in Indianapolis, sir. We were lucky to get a helo. I don’t think the officer in charge thought Dr. Merritt would survive the flight so — ”

  “I got it, Private. No need for your life story.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Where’s Merritt and his team?”

  “In the lab, sir. It’s Dr. Harper you probably want to talk to, though.”

  “I’ll talk to whomever I want.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The men accompanying the colonel looked at each other. Kennefic couldn’t see their faces — even the thick lenses were tinted dark. He imagined that, under those gas masks, they were grinning at the show their ball-buster-in-command put on. They irritated Kennefic so he decided to show some spine.

  “Whomever shall I say is coming to call, sir?”

  “Colonel Dabnitz. NWO.”

  “NWO, sir? Never heard — ”

  “Private, before the fall of my beloved United States and the rest of the world, we had more than 3,300 alphabet agencies devoted to our security. Are you familiar with all 3,300 and more of those agencies?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, here we are and the expiry date on the usefulness of the box that is your head has just passed. Take me to your civilian, Private.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kennefic hadn’t marched in a long time, but he showed the colonel the way. He ushered them past five locked doors using his key card. His voice ID got them past the sixth lock to the lowest level, the dangerous bio-hazard lab.

  “I’ll tell them you’re here, sir.”

  “No need. We’ll announce ourselves.”

  The colonel yanked the .45 from Kennefic’s holster before the private could guess anything was wrong. His first clue was the butt of a rifle cracking the bone in his forehead. His legs went loose and boneless beneath him. Kennefic collapsed against the cold wall. Helpless, he stared up as the men removed their head gear. Both of them had bright white eyes. The one who crouched over him scared him most. His breath smelled of meat and an odd metallic odor. Blood.

  “Missed you in Indianapolis, Private.”

  It was the smile that made Kennefic think he might lose control of his bladder. Unlike the other man, this one’s canine teeth were slightly longer. Through the fog of his concussion, Kennefic took a moment to process what he was seeing. Those weren’t fake, Halloween fangs. They looked sharp.

  “NWO,” the colonel said, “stands for New World Order, idiot. Can I eat him now, Misericordia?”

  “Save your appetite for the docs.”

  The intruders’ eyes burned bright, more animal than man. A snippet of a half-forgotten poem heard in childhood swam to Private Tristan Kennefic just before the blood from his brain hemorrhage drowned all thought in his skull.

  …Tiger, tiger, burning bright…in the forests of the night…

  That's what makes the choir sing

  Aboard the icebreaker, the Amundsen, the first mate mentioned over dinner that he’d spotted a spout astern.

  Aastha Vermer peered up at the ruddy man’s face. “What’s a spout about?”

  “Whale sign.”

  “Oh, I want to see the whale!”

  The adults smiled at the youngest passenger’s eager look, but Aastha’s older sister looked serious. “There’s more than one out there,” Aasa said. “Many more. And they’re here for a purpose.”

  The adults shifted in their seats, glancing to each other, unsure what to say. Since witnessing her father become infected with Sutr-Z in Reykjavik, Aasa had grown quiet and remote, talking to herself more and more in furtive whispers. She spoke to Dayo and Desi less and less.

  The Irish policeman cleared his throat. “The joke you’re searching for,” Desi Walsh s
aid, “is that they’re here for a porpoise.”

  Aastha laughed heartily, sobered and said, “I don’t get it.”

  Everyone laughed but Aasa. “The whales are part of the plan,” she said. “They’re going to die.”

  * * *

  At morning light, it was clear a large pod followed the Amundsen closely.

  One whale surfaced close to the ship and blew mist high in the air. Aastha squealed in delight and wrinkled her nose. “Ew! Smells bad!”

  Sinjin-Smythe nodded. “Smells like dead fish to me, but the mate told me that smell is a form of diphtheria.”

  Catching Aastha’s puzzled look, the doctor tried again. “There’s bacteria in their respiratory tract that…” He sighed. “They have bad breath because they’re living with a sickness.”

  “Like my Dad,” Aastha said.

  Sinjin-Smythe and Aastha startled when Aasa spoke behind them. “In a world that allows even the whales to get sick, what chance did we have? They aren’t so different from us, you know. We’re living with sickness.”

  “How do you mean, Aasa?” the virologist asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s just something I dreamed up.”

  Sinjin-Smythe attempted a weak smile which faded quickly when Aasa said, “You won’t find the cure for Sutr. The disease is the cure. You’re not fighting the right war yet, Doctor.”

  He’d heard that warning before. He assumed the little girl had heard it from Jaimie Spencer. Sinjin-Smythe was wrong about that, too.

  * * *

  Aasa watched the adults at mealtime.

  They’re still sorting out who they are, Aasa thought. Poor things. But The Way of Things knows.

  The Way of Things told Aasa many things she didn’t understand, but she believed every word. The Way of Things spoke in a warm voice that was both male and female. Last night, the voices told her that each life is a story. “When each character is seen as an archetype, each person will align in thought, word and deed and all problems will be solved.”

  Aasa told The Way of Things that It couldn’t talk to little kids any more clearly than Dr. Sinjin-Smythe could.

  The Way of Things laughed and said all humans were children, but all would be made clear when she looked backward on her story. Aasa asked what good that was and The Way of Things answered, “The greater good. The whales, for instance. Their contribution is coming soon. They’ve been on a long journey from their inception. Their purpose will be fulfilled. Ours is a long view. It may seem a small thing, but without their existence now, the war would surely be lost. With them, you’ll have a fighting chance. It’ll make your life a stranger, better story.”

  “So we’ll win the war? For sure?”

  “Nothing is sure. There are only probabilities and potentials to be fulfilled or failed. There is a path to the future, but if Sinjin-Smythe were to fail — that’s just one instance — a new path into the future would form.”

  “Can’t you just make good things happen and make us safe?” Aasa was only seven, but anger won over tears.

  “Good is relative. Good for you is bad for someone else. Winning and losing…there is no such thing. You’re on a journey. The journey is the point. The conclusion is just an afterthought. We are not attached to outcomes, but We do wish to witness your story.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  “The meaning of life is a life of meaning.”

  “What?”

  “In the end, you’ll have to decide what your journey meant. Only you can give it value.”

  “My dad is dead. What was the point of that story?”

  “Each person has to decide for themselves, but Aadi Vermer would probably say the point of his story is you and your sister still live. Like most humans — until recently — your father was a conduit to the future. You’re the future. If the potentialities work in your favor, you will survive.”

  “But without my dad and mom!”

  “Yes. They aren’t coming back. Nobody really comes back.”

  Aasa wept.

  * * *

  In the ship’s mess — which, Aasa noted, was never a mess — Dayo hovered over her and Aastha. It was as if Dayo believed that constantly touching Aasa and Aastha’s heads and hands could bring their father back.

  Their father had looked at Aasa from the dock with such cold, hungry eyes, she knew the thing eating the soldier wasn’t her father anymore. A demon had possessed Aadi Vermer. Aasa had heard of demons in stories, but she hadn’t believed in them since she was her younger sister’s age. Since Iceland, she believed again.

  Before she died, Aasa’s mother told her daughters stories of demons and dragons and heroic princesses.

  Instead of saying, “Once upon a time,” like she was supposed to do, Riya Vermer would say, “I’ll tell you a tale…”

  Her mother’s bedtime stories always ended with the demon sent away (but never actually killed). The princess always won with the help of a friendly dragon. At the end of the story, Riya Vermer was supposed to say, “And they all lived happily ever after.” Instead, in her mother’s stories, the princess would ride the dragon to a castle.

  “What do princesses do after? Once the battles are done?” Aastha asked.

  “They fly kites, of course. Remember that big box kite we lost that day in the spring? Your father said it was too windy.”

  “He was right,” Aasa said.

  “We laughed about it later.”

  “Much later.”

  “Are they friends forever, Mama?” Aastha asked.

  “Who?”

  “The princess and the dragon.”

  “The dragon visits for tea on Thursday afternoons and gives the princess rides into the sky. They keep on guard against the demon’s return, but mostly they look for lost kites.”

  “But the dragon doesn’t live in the castle with the princess?”

  “Dragons belong in caves, darling. Don’t invite dragons into your castle. They’ll burn the drapes and poop on the floor.”

  Aasa and her sister giggled at that.

  “Always remember, you can’t live with dragons, girls. Stay on good terms and be friendly, but don’t expect too much of a dragon. Choose your friends more wisely. Make sure you never try to befriend everyone. They aren't all worth your time and effort.”

  Looking around the ship’s galley as she chewed a dry biscuit, Aasa longed for a dragon to ride up into the sky, far away.

  Dayo sat between Aasa and her little sister. No one said so, but Aasa guessed that Dayo spent more time with Aastha because her sister was a year younger. Dayo spent a lot of time trying to cheer the little girl. Aasa could be made to laugh, but then she’d remember her father and retreat into gloom.

  Aasa once heard Dayo tell Desi, “Aastha is a bottomless well, and haunted, too. Her heart’s too big by half, and broken. She asks wonderful questions and I often don't have answers for her. Aasa is the strong one. Since Iceland…she’s different. Older than her years all of a sudden.”

  Her sister’s fear and sadness made Aasa feel a bit more grown up. But mostly, it was The Way of Things speaking to her in her sleep that ushered in changes.

  Dayo was changing, too. She looked thinner, but her big bosoms were like pillows, and oddly more reassuring than her father’s bony embraces had been.

  Mr. Walsh — “Call me Desi, kids,” — had changed a little, too. He acted more friendly and often tried to make the Vermer girls laugh. He'd tried to shield their eyes when their father killed the soldier, too. But they saw enough to carry the memory forever.

  Enough to maybe even wipe out all the good memories, Aasa thought.

  Her dad, Aadi Vermer, was a zombie, like the stories on television she hadn’t been allowed to watch. She knew he wasn’t a real zombie, of course. The demon virus made him sick: still alive, but dead inside. The demon had taken her father’s heart.

  Aasa wanted to call Desi “Irish Walsh,” like her father had whispered behind the big policeman’s back. But he had a
gun. Maybe he is a dragon walking around like a man, like the white-eyed ones. Aasa decided to stay friendly with Desi, but not friends.

  The doctor, Craig Sinjin-Smythe, played with his food. That was especially stupid since the cook said there wasn’t much to spare until they “made Newfoundland.”

  Aasa assumed “Newfoundland” must be some kind of soup. From her mother, she knew that soup makes food last longer, especially when there isn’t much left in the cupboard.

  The Amundsen’s crew kept to themselves and when they didn’t think she could hear them, the men complained about their passengers. The men wanted to go home. Rescuing “the damn Europeans” from the zombie attack in Reykjavik had diverted the ship from heading straight home to Halifax.

  Mornings aboard the ship were the worst. At each breakfast, tension hung in the air until someone broke it with the daily question. “Did Dream Boy come to you last night?”

  Sometimes, as with most dreams, the details were forgotten. If the boy in the dreams merely slipped in and out of their sleep, each refugee would shrug. “It was a check-in night.”

  “Like he’s watching over us?” Aastha asked.

  “Like he's seeing if we’re still alive,” Aasa told her sister.

  After that, Dayo had taken Aasa aside to tell her not to be so honest around her little sister.

  “I’m not supposed to lie,” Aasa replied.

  “If you won’t do it for your little sister, do it for me,” Dayo said. “When you tell the truth like that, it creeps me out.”

  The other passengers told the truth when they thought Aasa wasn’t listening. Aasa was seven, almost eight. Being invisible to the adults would have irritated her except it was useful to find out what they were thinking.

  Dr. Sinjin-Smythe wanted his baby back, even though the baby wasn’t born yet. “The lady in red has the baby stuffed up her vagina,” Aasa explained to Aastha.

  “Why won’t she poop it out?” her little sister asked.

  “It’s not ready yet. You took a long time to come out, too. I waited for, like, years. Daddy said babies have to cook a long time.”