The Last Words

by Marcus Caine

  “Dr. Peter Neworth, a professor of linguistics at Oxford, and an expert on runology. I found numerous articles about him and even scholarly papers by him on various language related subjects. He had an impressive resume to say the least; ancient Greek, Hebrew, Latin, Aramaic, just a few of the ancient languages he had studied and translated into English for scholarly discussion. He’d delved into rituals like the Dionysian Mysteries, Templar writings, and other esoteric areas. But I kept coming back to the runes, feeling like maybe this meant something.”

  “And?” Jude asked, taking notes in his journal. I’d found him wandering the halls this morning, terrified, not having any idea what was going on. I calmed him down and got him to read his journal to catch up and I must say; he is taking the end of the world pretty well.

  “Well, I don’t know what it means, really. What I’m thinking is completely illogical, nothing I would normally put stock in but…well, let me give you exhibit B first. The Pattern.”

  “Pattern?”

  “Yes, from the news reports it looks like he was the first to… act out, to succumb. Then more at Oxford, Cambridge, Harvard, Cornell.”

  “Universities.”

  “Yes. At first. Then it was students, young people. Most of the reports the second and third day were of younger people — an engineer, a programmer, college students — then the riots broke out and the news became so scattered, the violence so widespread, it became hard to follow the pattern.”

  “What about today?”

  “Today? Today I haven’t found any news. No official reports, no blog updates, no tweets. At least not in English.”

  “Not in English?”

  “No, but there are some in French, German, Spanish. I know a little Spanish and can tell from the pictures that they were reporting about killings and riots in their own countries. And more reports in Arabic, Chinese, etc. that appeared to be about what was happening in the US, but I didn’t see any pictures indicating that it was going on there, yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “It is, I would assume, only a matter of time. It’s probably starting already.”

  “So, where are you going with this?”

  “Well, at first I thought virus or some other communicable disease. Then maybe toxins, some sort of weapon or terrorist attack.”

  “You saw reports in Arabic and Chinese, maybe it was one of them, terrorism or an act of war.”

  “No, it’s so widespread, it doesn’t fit the pattern of diseases. And attacks, why start with universities? No, there was a report from China the first day, I suspect that the government there has simply cracked down on any other reports.”

  “Then the middle east? Iran?”

  “No, I have another theory, one which maybe doesn’t even make as much sense as a biological or chemical weapon, but, well, here it is. There is this phrase.”

  “Yeah, it was in my journal, worm milk…”

  “Stop! Don’t repeat it. And, I must urge you, if you have written it down, scratch out most of it. Save the first few words, just so you can recognize it.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how long the whole phrase is, or if any of us have heard or seen the whole thing, but I urge you to make sure you don’t have it written down anywhere. So scratch most of it out, and leave just the first couple of words.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “OK, come look at this.”

  I took him to the nurses’ station and sat down by the computer. Then I brought up the video I had saved, the video of the President, addressing a nation in turmoil.

  “My… fellow Americans. We are facing…”

  He paused, he seemed to be struggling.

  “Our darkest hour.”

  He was visibly sweating.

  “A threat, a crisis, like no other we as a nation… worm.”

  He whispered it.

  “Or as a world, have ever… milk”

  This time was louder.

  “My heart, in my chest, these words from my mouth. This wound from this sea of violence…”

  He wasn’t making sense. Someone in the crowd started chanting. There was a commotion and a secret service person opened fire on what I assumed were reporters and on the Presidents face, instead of shock, we saw rage. Then it was over, the camera turned off.

  “Fucking shit.”

  “You heard it, yes?”

  “The words? Of course. But I don’t understand.”

  “I think… I think it is something like a virus.”

  “But you said…”

  “A computer virus.”

  “What?”

  “A virus that spreads through information, through language, and infects the mind. Like a virus would infect a computer’s software.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “It’s not. It shouldn’t be. But that is what I believe.”

  “Then, everything is gone? The President…”

  “The government, society, at least here, collapsed, yes, gone. From everything I can tell.”

  “How come we aren’t?”

  “Well, that’s another part of why I believe my theory is correct. The professor at Oxford, he was the first day. Then there were more the second day. Maybe it takes a while to set in. And you, perhaps you simply can’t remember it long enough for it to affect you.”

  Jude was silent, thinking, so I continued.

  “And Timothy, perhaps it is that he cannot understand it, so it doesn’t affect him. Same with some of the other patients who are, well, less responsive. And Cassie, well, her paranoia about computers and TV and radio, might actually have protected her.”

  “What about you, Doc? And Eric, and the rest?”

  “I don’t know, Jude, I don’t know. Perhaps, being somewhat isolated here, we haven’t been fully exposed. Like I said, I don’t even know if I have seen or heard the whole phrase. Or, maybe, it is too late for us, maybe it is only a matter of time.”

  “So what do we do with you?”

  From the journal of Timothy Lorne

  12/24/2012

  They were trying so hard to tell me something, but for the life of me I just couldn’t figure out what.

  The Doctor was pointing at himself and holding his thumbs up, all cheerful looking, then he crouched down and tried to look mean, and made a stabbing motion. I knew, I knew they were trying to tell me something serious, something important, but I just couldn’t help it, I laughed.

  He looked flustered. I apologized and asked them what they were trying to say, at least I’m pretty sure I did. You know, when I open my mouth to talk it sounds like gibberish to me, just now it sounded like I said “Garble es mumfies, and waller like a make a lot.” but I know what I’m trying to say, I’m thinking the words, and people seem to understand me, so I’m pretty sure it comes out like I think it should.

  Joe took over. He didn’t try to act it out or anything, he just pointed with his thumb at the others, then at himself and me, then made a throat cut motion. Very serious.

  “Who do we need to kill?” I asked. I didn’t understand.

  He shook his head no, pointed around again, and made a motion like they were coming here, then again, pointed at himself and made the throat slit motion.

  “Oh,” I think I understood, “who is going to try to kill us?”

  Yes, he shook his head.

  OK, I knew what they meant, but I didn’t want that responsibility. They knew I knew when someone went bad, when they started glazing, and their fingers started twitching. And there were little, I don’t know, flashes, that you could barely see on their faces, this micro second of rage, then back to normal, blink of any eye, but I saw it. I can’t understand people’s words, so I have to understand their meaning. You know?

  “You aren’t going to kill them are you?”

  They both shook their head, no. And Joe held up his keys. I understood.

  “OK. Hoss, Julia Roberts, Too Tall, and Danny Boy.”

  The D
octor told Joe who I meant. He knew what nicknames I used for people. Then they talked to each other, debating something and came to some agreement and then made an announcement. There was some yelling but no one got locked up so I’m really not sure what was going on.

  From the journal of Dr. Montgomery Gates

  12/24/2012

  Today was much less eventful, giving me time to study and think about our current predicament. And, time to observe the affected on our floor. The previous residents who are still with us, save for c5, all seem to be affected. At times we can hear them chanting in a low mumble in their rooms, but when we approach and they hear us they start attacking the doors, screaming and sometimes chanting the phrase until we get away, and then it takes them a while before they settle down.

  This makes it difficult, of course, to observe them, but they do appear to settle down and eventually sleep, giving me a chance to look inside their rooms, which is a terrifying enough sight by itself without them slamming their heads into the door. They seem to have forgotten how to use the toilet and have even smeared feces on the walls of their rooms. But, even more disturbing, they appear to be mutilating themselves and pulling their own hair out, perhaps acting out their rage on the only victim that is available to them. Or maybe all the affected will start doing this, still an unknown at this time. Most of them have gone partially bald, chewed their fingers almost to the bone, and one appears to have torn his own cheeks, giving him a rather terrifying grimace, much like the famed Glasgow grin. And at least one has written the phrase in blood, over and over, on his wall.

  Interesting, that they can still remember these words, when they don’t seem to be capable of any other speech.

  After a great deal of debate I assured my fellow survivors that we needed to keep them alive, to watch them and learn more about the nature of this affliction. To see if, perhaps, it would subside, given time, if they aren’t subjected to the phrase again. After all, if this phrase, or some variant of it, is truly what the ancient Norse berserkers or the maenads of Greece used (two of my current theories), then it was possible it would pass. The berserker rage of the Norse warriors and ecstatic madness of the maenads, who tore animals apart during their worship of Dionysus, eventually wore off and they came to their senses. Would these affected? Or was this phrase a different animal all together? Of course, it was also quite possible that my theory was completely off and it had nothing to do with either of those cultural oddities. After all, there are similar rampages known in other cultures around the world; the gris siknis and the amok of the Philippines, the increasing number of knife attacks in China on school children, our own “going postal”. With no way to truly study this, with no more resources or colleagues, would I ever understand what this is? Doesn’t’ matter — I am a scientist, first and foremost, and until I die or succumb, I will not give up trying to figure out and cure this heinous ailment.

  From the journal of Jude Guerrero

  12/24/2012

  Tim-Tom tapped my shoulder as I was writing in my journal and whispered, “Billy Bob’s going. And I think Mickey too.” He pointed and I knew who he was talking about. I guess Nolan did look a bit like Mickey Rourke. I should have known this was coming.

  Of course, the Doctor and I tried to reason with them, which worked with John, but not Nolan.

  “Nolan, this is just a precaution. We’ll keep you fed and bring you water. We just want to be sure you’re safe.”

  “You mean that you’re safe. You’re not doing this for me.”

  “No, it’s for your safety because if you turn I will cut your throat.”

  Everyone was silent.

  “Now, you’re going to go in that room one way or another.”

  “Oh, and what about the rest of us? Who the hell are you that you get to decide who gets locked up and who doesn’t?” Eric wasn’t helping one bit. “And how the hell would you know if he’s affected?”

  “We just know.”

  I didn’t want to tell them that Tim Tom can tell. It might make him a target.

  “Oh, is it you Dr. Gates? You think your PhD means you can read minds?”

  Great, I didn’t want the Doctor to be a target either.

  “I can tell.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, back when I was a SEAL I did a bit of interrogating.”

  I was lying.

  “I was trained to see these kinds of things. Read body language and facial expressions.”

  Total bullshit.

  “So stop being a little bitch and let us do what we need to to keep your ass safe or I’ll lock you up too.”

  After he took Nolan to his room Dr. Gates talked to me.

  “We can’t just threaten to lock people up because they disagree with us, Jude.”

  He was right.

  “You’re right. I just lost my temper.”

  As soon as I got back to Tim Tom I pointed at Eric, trying not to draw attention and made the universal “crazy” finger motion at my temple.

  “Nope,” Tim Tom said. “He’s just an asshole.”

  Later the Doctor asked me, “Do you think Timothy is right about John and Nolan?”

  “I guess time will tell won’t it?”

  “True, very true.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  From the journal of Dr. Montgomery Gates

  12/24/2012

  It wasn’t long before I was able to verify Timothy’s ability to weed out who was affected and who wasn’t. It was John that went first, surprising me as I was expecting Nolan.

  Before locking them in I had thoroughly checked the room, making sure the phrase had not been written anywhere in there, and he was at our end of the ward, away from the other affected, unable to hear them. But within an hour I could hear a murmur coming from his cell and when I went to check on him he went mad, screaming at me at the top of his lungs.

  “Get me out of here, you piece of shit! I will fucking kill you! Fuck you fuck you fuck you! I will kill you and eat you! Worm shit, milk, fucker fuck, kill you!”

  So now I knew, even as the madness was setting in, he was still able to think and communicate to some degree. This would explain how some of the early reports indicated a high level of reasoning and an ability to operate guns and cars in the earliest perpetrators. Now I just had to wait to see how long it would be before he lost his ability to reason and became the animal we had seen of the others.

  From the journal of Jude Guerrero

  12/24/2012

  After Tim Tom and I got back from another food run I spent a while writing then rereading my journal, putting cliff notes on the sides of the really important things so I could be sure to “remember” them. I also found a marker that I could write on my arms with, to be sure I would continue to understand what was going on. I couldn’t let myself drift off and suddenly have no idea what was going on and why angry people were yelling outside. A lot of people were depending on me to keep it together, to not forget. Plus, I wasn’t crazy about the idea of suddenly coming to and discovering that the world had ended all over again. I didn’t know how well I was going to take it, learning about it but not remembering. Would I even believe it? If I hadn’t seen it today, if I wasn’t still riding on the constant reminders today, would I believe that the world, everything I knew and loved, everyone I knew and loved, my Dad, my brother, were all gone? Tomorrow morning was going to be rough. At least Mom wasn’t here to see this shit. And who knows? Dad had a boat; maybe he took James and got the hell out when it all went to shit. Maybe, just maybe. I had loved that boat growing up, the old sailboat that he had restored by hand, all by himself. We had “helped” but I’m sure we had just been in the way. He had taken us out and talked about how his grandfather was a fisherman and how he had taught him to sail, how to fish, how to find and keep track of good spots, how never to tell others about his spots. Maybe he was on there now, catching snapper, him and James. Goddammit I wish I was on that boat with them right now.

  It’s why I had joined
the Navy in the first place, I had just loved the ocean. And I loved the idea of being on a big ass boat, going all over the world. I hadn’t even started out looking to be a SEAL. I just wanted to be on the boat. At first I was a gunner but they had moved me inside pretty quick, a little work in navigation, then on missiles, learning how to direct them. What can I say, I’m a smart guy, good at math and languages, which ended up being my downfall. When I had picked up a little Arabic during leave they suddenly started talking bud school, SEAL training. Made sense; I was fit, I was smart, once they had me studying I was picking up Arabic pretty fast, like I had English when I was young and Italian later.

  And of course I was flattered, proud as hell in fact. So I went all out, dove right in, whatever, knew I was going to make my dad proud. And I made it and now, thanks to that, I was brain damaged. Of course, if I wasn’t brain damaged and in a hospital, I would probably be insane or dead by now. Funny how things work out.

  I stopped writing for a while and looked out the window at the world. New York was burning. Here and there smoke was billowing, obscuring the skyline. With no one to fight them, the fires would probably spread. I went to the other side of the ward and it was burning over there too. If the fires got bigger, if they shifted, it could come here, or we could get smoked out, at the very least. We couldn’t stay here forever. Tim Tom was suddenly at my side.

  “Yep, Queens is burning. Brooklyn too, Manhattan, it’s all burning.”

  Now the Doctor was there. Looking down at the packs of affected roaming around. That’s the best way to describe them, packs, wandering around Wards Park like they were hunting. Some even seemed to have leaders, alphas, and they skirmished with other packs, but not to the death, not like with us unaffected. I saw what appeared to be three unaffected running but they were quickly overrun by a pack. I think they started tearing them to pieces, but I didn’t watch long. I wish I had turned away sooner.