by Gord Rollo
I thought I had the room sealed, I really did, but I suppose I’ve been kidding myself all along. Really, what was I thinking? There’s just no way to completely seal a room air tight enough to keep the nanobots out, not when all you have to work with is heavy plastic and a few rolls of duct tape. It was predictable right from the start that I’d be contaminated along with everyone else; I just managed to prolong things, I guess.
For the record, I’m not angry at anyone and I don’t blame the President of the World Council. Hell, he was just doing what he thought best. At least he, along with the rest of the council tried to save everyone and for that I am somewhat grateful. Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed off, but what can I do but accept things as they are? I have no idea what will become of the world or the new breed of human creatures that we are all becoming. If they have the capacity, maybe it will be one of them who finally ends up reading my account here on these pages. Who knows? All I am certain of is I have no desire to become one of them. I can’t stomach the thought of that. My body is metamorphosing at an incredible rate, the nanobots continuing to work their secret dark magic inside me as I write these last few lines, but while I’m still in control of my body and mind I’ve chosen to stop this nightmare before it reaches its inevitable conclusion. I know suicide is a coward’s way out, but I’m okay with that. Death is the only choice I have.
I won’t…I mean I can’t…become one of them.
Tim finished writing and closed up his journal. In his heart he knew it was a sadly inadequate collection of entries and didn’t come close to explaining the horror of what had happened outside of his walls but he’d done his best to try and make some future inhabitants of earth understand what had become of the human race. Tim sealed the book inside two zip-lock freezer bags and left the journal sitting in the center of the dining room table.
Standing on spindly red legs, he lurched his way over to the kitchen countertop and dug through a drawer of junk until he found what he was looking for: A real estate business card with a picture on it of a pretty blonde-haired women smiling up at him. Moving to the phone, Tim carefully punched in the phone number printed on the woman’s card and hoped she’d not only be home, but still be capable of picking up the receiver. Someone answered on the fourth ring, or at least knocked the handset off onto the floor. Tim could hear a series of wet clicking noises, and the sound of heavy, labored breathing.
“Wendy?” Tim asked, knowing she couldn’t answer him but refusing to die without at least trying to finally speak to the woman he’d fallen in love with from afar. This might not be the Wendy Harding he remembered and had desired all these years but Tim hoped there was enough humanity left in her she might somehow still understand his words. “It’s Timothy Meek from upstairs in apartment 412. I’ve never had the courage to tell you this but I’ve always thought you were the prettiest woman I’ve ever met. I know things are all screwed up now, but I was just wondering if there was anyway you’d consider coming upstairs to meet me. I don’t know why, but I think I’d like that a lot. What do you think?”
There was no response. Just more heavy breathing.
“Apartment 412, okay? Come up and say hi, Wendy. Please…”
Tim hung up the phone and went directly into the living room to start tearing off the semi-transparent sheets that had been all he’d seen of the world for so long. Within minutes he’d removed all his hard work and was just rolling the plastic into a big ball when suddenly there was a loud knock at the apartment door. The pounding, which was more of a thud-scrape-thud than a real knock, startled Tim but didn’t surprise him. Steeling his nerves, not knowing what he’d find but knowing this was how his life would end, Tim took a deep breath and opened up the door.
Outside the door, a massive five-foot-eight red bug stood looking in at him. This was the first time Tim had seen one of the creatures up close and it was only now he noticed the tiny flickering antennae on top of its head and realized what animal DNA the scientists had used to graft onto the nanobots. Unbelievable, but it all made perfect sense really. Everyone had always said they’d be the last creatures alive if the world was stupid enough to engage in Nuclear War. We’d escaped that particular end of days scenario, but somehow, through no real action of their own, these creatures had still managed to come out on top of the food chain after all.
Plain and simple: They were survivors.
The thing that had once been Wendy Harding shuffled into the room with teeth and claws ready, and as hideously deformed as she was Tim still found himself strangely attracted to her. Maybe it was the growing creature within him, or maybe he’d just finally gone completely crazy. Instead of running away or trying to protect himself Tim simply opened his arms and waited for her deadly embrace.
Fucking cockroaches…
STORY NOTES
I think we all have an idea or at least a best guess as to how the world as we know it might come to an end. Being a horror writer I happen to have many of those scenarios bouncing around in my skull and Timothy Meek is merely one of those possible endings. It’s a good one, though; one that doesn’t seem all that far-fetched to me if you think about the way diseases and germs can spread and everyone is so scared of the next SARS and Bird or Swine Flu to come along. It wouldn’t shock me at all to see some airborne bug mutate into existence or a deadly virus be released out of some government laboratory. I’m actually surprised it hasn’t happened yet, to be honest. Time will tell, I suppose.
Anyway, the genesis of this particular story was when I was listening to some Rush cd’s and thinking about the end of the world. At the end of the first song on their classic 2112 album the only lyrics on the track are…”And the meek shall inherit the earth.” Great tune and great album but it got me thinking. I was wondering if the meek really might inherit the world someday? Doubt it, but it could happen I suppose. And then I thought, well, what if it wasn’t all of the meek but maybe just one of them…Timothy Meek, to be exact. Maybe it will be just him who ends up inheriting the world as the last human left standing. Sure…why not? The plot of my story flowed naturally from there…
MARCELA TRANSMUTING
“Anger is a great force. If you control it, it can be transmuted
into a power which can move the whole world”
–William Shenstone
“Sweet is revenge–especially to women.”
–Francis Bacon
Marcela jogged along the Westside biking trail in the park, initially wishing Peter was with her. But he was packing his things at the apartment, their relationship over. She’d come back home unexpectedly early this afternoon and found Peter in their bed with another woman. She had no idea who the petite blonde was, but it didn’t matter. Bottom line was Marcela would be living alone now for the first time in seven years, since leaving her native Dominican Republic to attend school here in the City of Angels.
Marcela scoffed at the ridiculous nickname. Peter certainly hadn’t turned out to be an angel; that was for sure. Far from it!
Even though Marcela didn’t like to run by herself at night, she’d hoped it would be cooler this late, and she couldn’t really stand the sight of Peter. Besides, she asked herself with a flippant sense she didn’t really feel, what self-respecting low-life would be out here, now, in this absolutely sweltering sauna? Being from the Caribbean, heat never really bothered her, but she hated the humidity and stifling smog LA afternoons were famous for. And it was indeed muggy, regardless of the late hour: her light green tank top and shorts were soaked with perspiration already, and she hadn’t run a quarter mile yet.
Marcela sighed, speeding up slightly.
She didn’t need a man in her life right now, anyway. Not with the demands at the office–she was very close to being offered an associate position. She smiled wryly, thinking that maybe this would work out better for her, after all. She’d have more time to do work at home, instead of sitting around fretting about Peter, when he was out supposedly playing three-on-three basketball but
actually seeing a girlfriend. In any event, she was resigned to the decision. And really, the idea of being alone didn’t seem quite so frightening, now; Sandy was next door, if she needed company.
Maybe, I’m going through some kind of transformation here, Marcela told herself, wiping a wrist sweatband across her forehead. Yeah, finally growing up.
It seemed to suddenly grow darker as the trail curved away from 10th Avenue into the heart of the park. Scary–
That’s when she saw them ahead standing in the path, instantly realizing they were wrong, all three wearing black windbreakers in the muggy heat.
Marcela slowed to a walk, eyeing them warily.
As she got closer the three black teenage boys aggressively maintained their position, actually blocking her way on the bike path. Now she could see the funny caricature of a grinning skull on the breast of their jackets, and they were all wearing black satin bandannas on their heads, like defensive backs in the NFL. But she didn’t think these boys were playing a game. No indeed.
She came to a halt about ten feet from the three young men, reaching up and nervously stroking her good luck charm hanging around her neck: the tiny silver ball pendant, a smooth and shiny sphere with a hole drilled through the middle.
Well, Marcela thought with forced confidence, maybe those two nights a week studying karate at The Divine Wind will pay off, now. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that though. “Can I pass, please?” she asked, with fake bravado, trying to keep her voice from breaking.
“No, momma,” the biggest boy said, with a kind of half apologetic tone, shaking his head. “Go ‘head, tell her why, Silk.”
The smallest boy took a step forward, holding out his hand. “We collectin’ toll,” he said, an evil smirk on his face.
The big guy nodded at Marcela. “Tha’s right, momma. Hope ya’ll holdin’ somepin’ in tha’ little purse.” He pointed with his left hand at the blue waist purse that contained her apartment keys, a few dollars, and some change, his right hand unbuttoning his windbreaker, revealing a pistol stuffed in the front of his pants.
Oh, my God, she thought, her heart hammering her ribs as the grim reality of the situation began to fully register.
I’m going to be robbed!
The three of them edged closer.
It’s now or never, Marcela decided, trying to stave off her growing panic as she lashed out with a front kick, catching the leader a glancing blow with her foot in his upper thigh. She had intended to kick him in the crotch, but she was a trifle off because of her fear, and he was surprisingly quick for his size. He recovered easily, and before Marcela could cover up, he moved in a step or two and lashed out with a punch, smashing her squarely in the face.
Pinwheels of light went off in her head accompanied by sharp, shooting pains. From flat on her back Marcela groaned, fighting nausea, arms protecting her face, immediately knowing that her nose was broken.
Then, they were all over her, and she felt her purse being snatched from her waist…And even worse, hands were pulling down her shorts. She tried to scream once, but she was kicked in the side and pain exploded along her ribcage, fireworks again bursting in her head; and the cry for help stuck in her throat. She felt one of them on top of her, ripping off her tank top, hands roughly clutching her breasts–
Thankful blackness engulfed her as Marcela lost consciousness.
***
She was roused to partial awareness by something…an unusual but strangely familiar sound? Marcela was naked and lying on her side, curled up in a protective ball, hurting all over, one hand squeezed into a tight fist. She managed to lift her head slightly, blinking; but it was much too dark to see anything. She cocked her head, listening.
It was the steady background noise that had roused her–a constant monotonous drone. And the smothering smell of decay. All so familiar. And for a moment, despite the pain, she was flash-backed to last summer, the trip to Costa Rica with Peter, and hiking in the rain forest–the muggy nights in the Central American jungle and the constant background hum of a thousand or more insects.
Then she opened her clenched hand; she held the silver sphere they’d bought from a street vendor in San Jose, a spooky old lady with piercing black eyes. Marcela had apparently ripped the charm free of the necklace during the attack, hid it in her hand. She curled her fingers again around the pendant, remembering the old lady had claimed it contained magical protective and restorative powers.
Strange, but as she held the tiny metal ball, it seemed to move within her tight grasp, to expand and contract, pulsing ever so gently. It didn’t seem quite as round and smooth, either, her fingers seeking out and finding several small bumps and dents in its previously unblemished exterior.
She tried to move, tried to sit up to take a look but a sharp pain in her side overwhelmed her semi-conscious state, and she sank back down into the relief of cool blackness.
***
The darkness is good. It cools her naked skin and heightens her senses. She is hungry, thirsty too, but she waits patiently for the last few orange rays of light to disappear from the western sky before moving. Wait for it… almost gone… now!
She uncoils her muscular body, running at first for no other reason that to feel the power, experience the rush, relish the surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins as she shoots off into the thick green foliage of the rainforest.
Running, running, running…
Searching…
***
Three days later Marcela was released from the hospital after treatment for shock, a concussion, a broken nose, and two fractured ribs. The three days of lying on her back left her with little to do except think. By the time Peter picked her up in his black BMW and drove her back to the apartment, Marcela had experienced a major attitude change. The idea of living alone, of being a completely independent person, that she’d speculated on just before the rape, was now an accepted fact in her mind.
In the apartment, Marcela curled her feet under her on the couch and listened to Peter fumble. Of course he felt guilty, blamed himself for letting her run alone that night, which was ridiculous.
“I guess, I, ah, should unpack, you know,” he said, looking around kind of sheepishly at the cardboard boxes stacked in the front room, containing his tapes and books and sports memorabilia. He nodded to himself, as if agreeing. “I can probably get my deposit on the new place back if I explain–”
“Why do that, Peter?” Marcela interrupted, feeling a little impatient with the whole thing. Absently, her fingers played with the silver ball pendant, the bumps and dents that had marred its surface surely the result of her shocked mind playing tricks on her, because her fingers felt nothing but smoothness now. “You’re not staying, you know.”
“B-but I thought that…Well, you know,” he said, looking confused. “I just thought you’d want me to stay, at least for a little while. The doctors said–”
She forced a smile and shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be fine here by myself. Don’t worry about it.”
“But, you’ll be all alone.”
She nodded. “I know.” Her smile was sincere, now. “I’ve come to a remarkable realization, Peter: Alone isn’t the same thing as lonely. Besides, Sandy is just across the hall.”
“Yeah, but after what happened…” Peter looked embarrassed now. Although he’d visited her each day in the hospital, they’d never specifically discussed the rape, her feelings, his reactions in any detail. It was something she’d allowed him to avoid. “For christsakes, Mar, the doctor said it might take months for you to get over the fear, the anxiety attacks, the nightmares and you know, you heard him. Some women need extensive counseling, for years even.”
She knew all that.
But even that first night in the hospital, Marcela hadn’t been afraid. Maybe it was her Caribbean resiliency, the potent drugs or her Costa Rican pendant that she wore again on a new chain–probably a combination. She’d had a strange dream about running naked through
a rainforest, but awakened little more than slightly unsettled–not what she’d call overwhelmed with anxiety. In a way the rape seemed to have accelerated her attitude change. She wasn’t afraid or anxious, now, at the prospect of being completely on her own. She’d developed a kind of positive strength during the three days of contemplation in the hospital. She couldn’t really explain it. It was just a fact. And it wasn’t only about excluding Peter from her life, either. She didn’t even want a female roommate, although Sandy had volunteered to move in for a while. No, she had decided, she actually preferred being alone, and though she might be a little apprehensive at times, she knew that, for whatever reason, at least for now, she had become a solitary person. A completely independent being.
They argued for a few more minutes…
But Peter finally agreed that they would separate as planned, before the incident in the park.
Actually, Marcela thought, he’d probably put up only token resistance because he still felt guilty about letting her run alone that night. And the thought made her angry–an uncharacteristic response. Who the hell did he think he was, deciding anything about what she did?
When the final decision was actually spoken out loud and agreed upon, she could read the relief in Peter’s eyes. It was time to go their separate ways. And for Marcela, that meant by herself.
“Here,” he said, writing down something on a slip of paper beside the phone. “This is my new phone number. If you need me anytime, Mar, just call. Even, if it’s the middle of the night. You know, if you have a nightmare or something.”
She nodded, agreeing, humoring him. Anything to get him on his way.
