ʺSlow down,ʺ she said.
John snapped a glance at her. He kept his foot to the floorboards and screeched around another turn.
ʺSeriously, slow down.ʺ
ʺDonʹt worry, I wonʹt crash.ʺ
ʺI know. But people are noticing us.ʺ
John looked around. Seemed to notice the pedestrians; to notice their notice.
He eased up as he hit the next corner. When he came off the turn he was going above the speed limit, but not ridiculously so.
No one looked.
He took the next turn.
The next.
Serafina looked behind them.
No black sedan.
John pulled the BMW to the side of the road.
ʺWhat are we doing?ʺ Serafina looked around. She didnʹt recognize the area, but they sure werenʹt in Kansas, so she couldnʹt figure out why they had stopped here.
ʺGetting out. Come on.ʺ
He got out, leaving the engine running and the door open, then walked away.
She followed suit, though she closed her door. This wasnʹt a nice-looking part of the city.
ʺWhatʹs going on?ʺ
John walked into an alley, cutting between two buildings and heading toward another street–a smaller one–on the other side. ʺThe car probably has a GPS vehicle recovery system installed.ʺ
ʺLike a LoJack or something?ʺ
ʺOr something.ʺ He smiled. ʺWhoeverʹs after us has resources, we already established that. So we can assume theyʹll have noted the carʹs plate number, and theyʹll be scanning for it soon if they havenʹt already done so.ʺ
She nodded. ʺSo you drove to a crap part of town and left the motor running hoping that someone would steal it and be a decoy.ʺ
He smiled at her. ʺNice.ʺ
ʺNo.ʺ She frowned. ʺWhat if they kill whoever takes the car?ʺ
He sighed. ʺI sincerely hope that wonʹt happen. But we have to move. And no matter what, we have to get to….ʺ
He drifted off, and Serafina saw his eyes catch hold of something. He ran and she followed automatically, thinking they must be running for their lives again, at the same time aghast that her life could have shifted so radically that such a conclusion was the first thing to pop into her head.
But he wasnʹt running from something. Neither the men in suits nor the priest who she sensed was an even more dangerous threat.
No, he was running toward something. An old man.
The old man was stumbling, trying to catch his balance, failing. He careened into the side of a building, slamming his head into the wall, crying out but failing to stop his awkward, jittering fall.
John reached the man, then reached for him. His arms, which Serafina realized for the first time were well-muscled and strong, stretched for the stumbling man.
The other man screamed. Not in agony, but in rage. ʺGet away from me!ʺ he shouted. He fell to his knees. Blood flowed from his temple.
He coughed. Blood surged from his mouth and nose, and Serafina stepped forward automatically to see what she could do to help.
He whipped around to face her and snarled like a wounded beast. Nothing remotely human about the sound. Blood from his nose wrapped around his mouth like gore on the muzzle of a feeding beast. His eyes glittered.
That wasnʹt what made Serafina step back, though.
It was his head.
The spot where he had pitched into the wall was shiny with blood. And something else. It looked like tiny spines lay in the lacerated flesh. For the barest fraction of an instant Serafina wondered what was in the concrete and how it had gotten so deeply embedded in his skin. Then she realized the spines hadnʹt been inserted there, but had erupted from that spot.
They were growing out of him.
The man snarled again. ʺGet. Away. FROM. ME.ʺ He devolved into coughing. More blood spilled, thick and black.
It was dark so she couldnʹt be sure, but she thought she saw things crawling in the blood.
John took her hand.
They ran.
The night held them. The darkness held them fast.
interlude:
CORRUPTION
ON AXIS UNHINGED
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 3:51 AM
Subject: Media Blackout
We had to scrub a hospital. An ENTIRE HOSPITAL. So far weʹve got the surrounding area sealed by an army unit, calling it a possible act of domestic terrorism. No one in or out, but it canʹt stay quiet. If nothing else, some search engine satellite is going to provide some nosey ten-year-old with closeups of the hospital and the dead people and the complete lack of any blast damage and then weʹre screwed.
Things are moving fast. I donʹt know how weʹre going to be able to stop this from getting out.
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Friday, May 31 3:51 AM
Subject: RE: Media Blackout
Msg me the names of any journalists who are presenting problems. Iʹll have my associates visit them. They will comply with reasonable requests for cooperation, Iʹm quite sure.
***
Seymour hated his name. He hated his mother for giving him the stupid name. He hated the kids who had teased him about the name his entire life.
Most of all, he hated himself.
That was why he was in here again, in this stupid bar in this stupid neighborhood in this stupid city in this stupid world.
Nothing ever changed. Everyone bothered him, everyone made fun of him, he hated them all.
The bar was usually busy. Not full–it was too seedy a place for that–but busy. Always pervaded by quiet murmur, the sound of voices low and taut as men and women drank despair into oblivion.
Tonight, though, it was quiet. The only sound was the television in the corner over the bar, which was so low it was nearly muted. There was a news report on, the words ʺBREAKING NEWS!ʺ screaming across the screen every ten seconds, a good-looking anchor that Seymour hated because he was good-looking speaking through an appropriately tense expression.
Seymour only heard every few words. ʺHospital…cordoned off…no word yet…terrorism….ʺ
Downer.
He turned the channel. It was only another news report, this one showing a bunch of people lined up outside a health clinic or an ER or something. Hospital staff were handing out blue face masks. A few people–mostly gruff-looking men–refused to wear them.
ʺGood for you,ʺ said Seymour. He held up his glass to toast the American Spirit. Finished off the booze inside–he was no longer sure what he was drinking, and no longer cared–then chucked the glass at the TV.
At this point he shouldnʹt have been able to hit the widest side of the universe, he was so utterly slammed. But somehow the glass made its way through the air and planted itself right in the center of the television. There was a single flash, a whiff of burnt electronics, then the set went dark.
Seymour laughed. This was fun.
He looked at the front door. Still sort of expecting someone else to come in, in spite of the fact that heʹd flipped the ʺCLOSEDʺ sign face out some hours ago.
No one came in. Just him. Just him and the bartender.
He looked over the bar. The bartender was still back there.
ʺYou okay?ʺ
The bartender didnʹt answer. His mouth was covered in duct tape. And the top of his head was gone, which probably didnʹt help much either.
ʺWell, you let me know if you get uncomfortable.ʺ Seymour giggled. ʺDonʹt want you to get a cramp or nothinʹ.ʺ
He hated everything. Everyone.
His boss at the plant apparently hated him back, and gave Seymour a beautiful pink present to seal that hatred. Not even two weeksʹ notice, just clear out your shit and get the hell off the premises.
Seymour brooded about that for a few hours. Made him feel pretty bad. He seemed to be catching col
d, of course, and that made it all just that much worse.
And finally he did something about his anger. His hate.
He had a gun. Never shot it, barely knew how to use it. But heʹd bought it in a fit of need, a fit of desire that approached lust. A craving to hold power in his hands.
It was easy to buy. He had no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. He got a gun and even a smile from the guy at the counter. Though of course the smile wasnʹt really for Seymour but for the commission. Still, it was a smile.
Today Seymour remembered the gun. He got it out of his closet, out of the box he had bought for it. He wrapped it in a pillow because he saw that in a movie once. Secured the whole thing with duct tape–the same roll he later used on the bartender.
He knew where his boss lived. Everyone did. The boss invited them over for Christmas parties. Seymour went once and stayed for five minutes before he realized that he had only been invited as a joke and everyone there was making fun of him behind his back.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang and the boss opened it and had time to look angry and then surprised and then scared and then his face fell apart.
The pillow wasnʹt a great silencer, no matter what the movies said. The boom was very loud, and hurt Seymourʹs ears. He liked it.
Seymour had hated his boss. He liked watching the manʹs face do what it did. Not just the death part, but the other part: the part where the man who had always held himself so far above Seymour suddenly realized that he wasnʹt above, he wasnʹt better, he wasnʹt…wasnʹt…
…anything.
That was when Seymour had his great epiphany: that weʹre all nothing. That his hatred came because everyone around him wasnʹt even worthy of his impotent loathing. He should either destroy them all or leave the world himself.
The bossʹs wife came to the door, screamed. The scream stopped when a bullet tore her vocal cords away and left her drowning in her own blood.
Seymour went through the house. There were a few other people, small forms hiding in places they thought heʹd never look.
He didnʹt hate them. He didnʹt have to hate anymore. He was powerful. He was the king.
ʺBoom, boom, boom,ʺ he whispered. The bartender smiled behind the duct tape. Seymour knew he was smiling because he was, at last, a popular man. People smiled for popular men.
He coughed.
Damn cold.
He looked at the bartenderʹs body. ʺYou got any TheraFlu or something?ʺ
The bartender did not answer. He had not spoken for hours, since the last patron of the bar left and the bartender tried to tell Seymour to leave as well and Seymour made his head fall apart.
Seymour hated him a bit for his refusal to help. He had to remind himself that he was beyond that now. He was beyond hating. He didnʹt have to hate anymore, he could simply kill and be happy.
Except for the damn cold.
He tried to reload his gun, but his hands kept trembling. His cough was getting worse.
The bar was dark, and Seymour suddenly wished he hadnʹt thrown the glass through the TV screen. The light from the boob tube would have been welcome. The darkness started to press on him.
His euphoria disappeared. He no longer felt like a king.
He coughed, and something splattered on the bar.
What…?
He coughed again. More splatter, and something splashed against his chest. He rubbed it blindly.
His legs went out from under him.
That was kind of expected, given the gallons of booze heʹd probably drunk since last call. But this didnʹt feel like the beginning of an alcoholic blackout. It felt…different.
Seymour slumped to the floor beside the bar. He coughed on the way down, and fluid came out of his mouth. More of it flowed back into his throat as well, gagging him, drowning him on dry land.
He landed on his butt, hands limp at his sides, legs splayed in front of him. He felt like heʹd broken his neck. Everything below his upper lip seemed numb.
Then it wasnʹt numb. It was on fire.
Seymour tried to scream. Tried to shriek. The pain was so bad he somehow overcame the paralysis that had clenched him in a numbing vise and managed to look down.
He shrieked even louder.
He was covered in blood. Not the blood of the people heʹd killed tonight–heʹd been very careful about that. No, it was his blood.
But that was all right. Or if not all right, then at least normal. Understandable. Possible.
The rest of what he saw, though….
No. No, no, no, nononononono….
He was screaming the word in his mind. His mouth wasnʹt working the way he wanted it to. Wouldnʹt respond with anything but a raw, wretched shriek.
Nononononono….
His arms at first appeared to be covered with yarn, maybe even rope. Thick, fibrous lengths that curled tightly over him like someone had knit the weirdest sweater ever and used Seymour as a display mannequin.
But then the fibers moved. They writhed, each independently. Not fibers, not yarn or thread or rope. They were worms or snakes. Seymour hated snakes. Hated them even more than he hated people.
Snakes. Yes, thatʹs what they were, he saw them clearly now, each with the small, triangular head of a viper, ruby red eyes ablaze even in the darkness of the bar.
Then the snakes slithered away from one another, and he screamed even harder as he saw what lay beneath.
Him.
Yes, him, of course it was him. But the him he saw was also them. Also the snakes. Also the thing he loathed and feared. The snakes had sprouted directly from his body, each one rooted in his very flesh.
Seymourʹs screaming rose to an unbroken whistle, a trilling alarm with a chillingly fleshy tone. Then it dropped in tone and became a sibilant hiss. Terror on a new level gripped him as he wondered if his face was changing. What if snakes were growing from his head, his hair?
What was he becoming?
The vipers on his arms–and now on his legs, he saw–suddenly turned their faces down. They bit at the roots of their bodies, the flesh that was Seymour. Thousands of needle-teeth pierced him at the same instant. Thousands of bites injected venom that threw his body into paroxysms of pain.
He thought of his bossʹs face. How it had fallen away. He wondered what his face was doing right now.
His arms and legs were gone. They had disintegrated, become not four appendages but thousands of smaller ones. Tiny flagella that whipped back and forth and hissed angrily.
Seymour hissed as well. He tried to scream, but the hiss was all he could muster.
Something tinkled. The bell above the door to the bar.
Didnʹt I lock up?
It was his last rational thought.
Then he flopped on his belly and tried to crawl away, the gun forgotten, his vendetta against humanity forgotten. He only felt the thousands of snake-things that were his hands and feet and fingers and toes, gripping the floorboards with fang and tongue. Pulling him into deeper darkness.
ʺSo you are the first,ʺ said a voice. Deep, powerful. The kind of voice to be feared. And obeyed. ʺYou will do as my collector and keeper.ʺ
Seymour could not think, but he could feel. The voice scared him. He tried to run. Tried to crawl. Flight was all he wanted, to flee to the ends of the earth, to run from whoever had spoken, from the owner of that deep and powerful and awful voice.
Something came down on the back of his head. A heel. Strong, heavy. The weight of a world was on Seymourʹs neck. ʺYou cannot run,ʺ said the voice.
Seymour hissed. The snakes on his body hissed. But he stopped crawling. He had no choice. He still hated–more than ever–but he was powerless to defy the voice.
He had to obey.
Something circled his neck. A collar. Metal, and cold. So cold it circled the spectrum and became hot and burned him terribly. Seymour tried to scream, found his voice had somehow been stolen away.
ʺCome,ʺ said the voice of the one who had capt
ured him. The collar pulled, and Seymour had no choice but to follow. ʺWe have many to find, and much to do.ʺ
two:
FLIGHT
UNEXPECTED ANSWERINGS
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 5:15 AM
Subject:
The CDC is calling. What do I do?
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Friday, May 31 5:15 AM
Subject:
Tell them nothing.
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 5:16 AM
Subject:
How am I supposed to do that? Theyʹll go public. Theyʹll start conjecturing. And please for the love of GOD CAN I GET A PHONE NUMBER SO I CAN CALL YOU?
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Friday, May 31 5:16 AM
Subject:
You are the leader of the free world. Grow a pair and tell them to wait a few hours.
***
John knew he could run for twenty-four minutes, full sprint, before he had to slow down. But he doubted Serafina could do the same. And even if she could, that kind of thing would leave them exhausted and vulnerable.
So they had to either go to ground or find another vehicle.
Going to ground was a bad call. Not just because the area they had just left would end up being tracked at some point. Even if there had been no one following them, John would have had to move. There was still the mission. Still…whatever waited for them in Kansas.
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