Profusion

by Stan C. Smith

  Twenty-two hours seemed like a long time. How many more people would die in that time? Bobby considered trying to sleep, but he was hyped up from talking about and reliving the last few days. Besides, there was something he needed to do.

  He woke Carlos up. This wasn’t easy, because Carlos could sleep through an earthquake, tornado, and plague of locusts all at the same time. It took quite a bit of shaking.

  “Bobby, damn.” Carlos stretched and wiped his mouth like he was checking for drool.

  “Long time no see, Carlos.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d you get your parents to let you come?”

  Carlos wiped his mouth again and rubbed his eyes. “Well, he tried.” He nodded over toward Jonathan. “And I tried. Not much luck. I got pissed and told them I was going to bed. Then I climbed out my bedroom window. I was in his car when he came out.”

  Bobby stared at him. Carlos wasn’t kidding. “Your parents are going to hate me now.”

  “Not if we save the world. That’s what you said we had to do, right?”

  “I’ll probably be charged with kidnapping,” Jonathan said. “But I understood that time was crucial. Bobby, we could have taken you to Missouri to see Carlos, but by my calculations that would have cost at least three additional hours.”

  Of course they had done the right thing. But Bobby had no idea how long it would take to finish what they needed to do in Papua, and Carlos’s parents would be getting more worried and mad by the minute. Bobby unzipped his duffel bag and hefted the lump of Lamotelokhai clay into his lap. Kembalimo symbols appeared before his eyes, but he ignored them, and they quickly went away.

  Carlos squinted at the clay, his eyes still puffy from sleep. “What is that?”

  “Exactly what it looks like—part of the Lamotelokhai.”

  Carlos stared at it. “Okay, this is starting to freak me out.”

  “Nothing wrong with being scared. If everyone was as scared of the Lamotelokhai as they should be, we wouldn’t be trying to save the world right now.” Bobby tried to smile. “By the way, I died again today. A messed up copy of me did, anyway. Or maybe I’m the copy, I don’t know. But it was the third time I’ve died—that I know of.”

  Carlos tried to smile too. “Well, you’ve got me beat by one, I guess.”

  “Yeah, now I’m tied with Ashley.” He glanced over at her, but she was still sleeping.

  Jonathan spoke up. “Jesus, you kids have been through hell, but you’re able to joke about it?”

  Bobby picked up the clay and held it out so Carlos could reach it.

  Carlos looked like he wanted to back away from it. “What?”

  “You’re going to have to trust me. This is the whole reason we had to pick you up and bring you here. There’s some information in you—a data packet—that needs to be downloaded into this thing. Can you put your hand on it? I swear it won’t hurt. I’ve done it. And Ashley has.”

  Carlos just stared at it.

  “Come on, man, it’s getting heavy.”

  Carlos exhaled, but it was more like a growl. He put his hand on it. He blinked and shook his head. “Damn Kembalimo symbols. I never did learn to play.”

  “Kembalimo’s not a game. Ignore them and keep your hand there.” Bobby closed his eyes and spoke with his thoughts. “Carlos has another packet of your information in him. I want to download it from his body into yours. Can you do that?” He opened his eyes.

  Carlos frowned. But then he smiled a little. “It tickles.”

  “Just let it go from your head down to your arm, and don’t let go until it goes out your hand into the clay.”

  About a minute later, Carlos pulled his hand away. “Done.”

  New symbols appeared in Bobby’s vision. “More knowledge now. More help.”

  Bobby spoke silently. “What can you do to help now that you couldn’t do before?”

  The symbols changed. “Please talk different.”

  Bobby sighed. He was too tired for this. He put the clay back in the bag and zipped it. He looked across at Carlos. “I know there’s stuff we need to talk about.” He turned to Jonathan. “Us too. But do you guys think it could wait? I’ve had a bad day, and I’d just like to sleep now if that’s okay.”

  Carlos immediately closed his eyes. “Good with me.”

  Jonathan said, “I understand, Bobby.”

  Bobby fumbled with the controls on his seat until he got it to lean back a little. He put his knees up in the seat and turned on his side, facing Ashley. He gazed at her, thinking of a moment on a different flight they’d been on eight months ago, when Ashley had kissed him for the first and only time. He then realized her eyes were open. She was looking back at him. She extended a hand and held it out halfway across the narrow aisle. She opened and closed her fingers twice.

  Bobby wasn’t sure, but it seemed like an invitation. He reached out and took her hand. She squeezed and didn’t let go. Her eyes closed again.

  Bobby tried to stay awake, to gaze at their enmeshed fingers. Because it was one good thing in a whole world of bad things.

  Twenty-one

  As the light peeking in through the small window above the door slowly faded, so did the sounds of many of the creatures outside the trailer. Apparently these creatures preferred sunlight. But the fading of these sounds provided little respite for Peter’s frazzled nerves, as the night brought new sounds of things that thrived in darkness. On more than one occasion, large unidentified creatures had sniffed at the corners of their door. Apparently detecting their presence, the beasts had then clawed and even pummeled the door for what seemed like an eternity before giving up. It had been hours since he and Georgia had heard anything resembling a human voice, although they had heard numerous helicopters and jets flying over Salinas.

  They were trapped. The tiny room had no toilet, and there was no food or water. Luckily, the truck’s diesel engine was still running, providing power to the lights and air conditioning unit. Otherwise, the room would have been pitch black and stifling.

  Peter had a slight need to urinate, but Georgia was on the verge of agony. She had resorted to pacing back and forth. Four short steps in one direction, four back. Finally she stopped and said, “To hell with this. Please turn the other way.”

  Peter faced the back end of the room. He listened to her fumble with her skirt and hose. He then heard her pee splashing on the floor. When he finally turned around, she was trying to push the liquid out under the door with her foot, but the two-inch heel on her red pump made this nearly impossible. She gave up and sat on the lower bunk.

  She said, “I have imagined someday meeting you, but this is not how I thought it would be.”

  He smiled. “Well, this should at least make you feel less alone in your misery. Please look the other way.” He got up and relieved himself, adding to her puddle. He used his mostly-intact right shoe to squeegee some of it out. Suddenly something hit the door, sending him stumbling back. Whatever was outside let out a long grunt, somewhere between a hog’s snort and the underwater cry of a whale. It pressed its weight against the door, which creaked and popped, threatening to burst from its frame. There were no weapons in the room, not even a loose piece of furniture to swing at whatever might come through the door. So Peter sat down on the bunk next to Georgia.

  The creature rammed the door again. Georgia shifted closer to Peter. They stared silently at the door, hardly breathing, until the creature gave up. It let out another whale-snort as it wandered off.

  Georgia shifted a few inches away from him. “I won’t die in this trailer. I won’t.”

  “Nor will I. It’s a safe place. We just need to stay here until help arrives.”

  “Yes, until help arrives.” But then she shook her head, as if she couldn’t convince herself this was a good idea.

  Something skittered across the roof. They watched the ceiling until the sound was gone.

  Peter stood up. “We might as well try to rest.” They had already searched the dr
awers and cabinets of the two storage units bolted to the wall, as well as a hatched opening beneath the lower bunk. They had found nothing, not even sheets or pillows. “I’ll take the top bunk.” He climbed the ladder fastened to one end of the bunks and wormed his way into the tight space between the mattress and ceiling.

  Georgia sighed. She got up and switched off the light. Seconds later she turned it back on. “No. I’m sorry, but I must have the light.” She sat on the bunk, and her pumps clattered onto the floor. The bed creaked as she lay down.

  Peter stared at the ceiling just above his face. He had never been prone to claustrophobia, but this situation was starting to reveal the boundaries of his tolerance. Perhaps it would help to talk. “Don’t worry, they’ll come for us. I’m sure they’re putting together rescue parties as we speak. There will be others—people locked in closets and basements. There will be survivors.”

  “Yes. I hope so.”

  Did she even feel like talking? “What do you do, Georgia? Professionally.”

  “Lawyer. Domestic violence, divorce. In Guayama. Twelve miles east.”

  Peter could have guessed this—her clothes, her house, the way she talked. He waited to see if she would expand on the subject.

  Somewhere outside, a disturbance erupted. It went on for at least a minute, two creatures snarling and screeching as if they were both losing a deadly struggle. Then it abruptly stopped.

  “May I call you Peter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like to come down here with me, Peter?”

  He stared at the ceiling. “Are you frightened?”

  “Who wouldn’t be? But that is not the only reason I ask.”

  Peter wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t move.

  “You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She huffed out a brief laugh. “Yes, of course you are. I apologize.”

  “Her name is Rose. I think you would like her. She’s tough. The toughest person I know.”

  Georgia remained quiet for a moment. “I’m sure she’s worried about you.”

  “Probably.”

  She shifted her weight, like she was turning on her side. “Could you tell me about her? Perhaps how you met? I would like to hear your story.”

  Peter considered this. His was a story unlike any other. Georgia might not even believe it to be true. But he wanted someone to talk to, and perhaps she did too. So he started at the beginning—actually his second beginning, when he had been only forty-one, which had been over forty years ago.

  ∞

  Peter was awakened by a thunderous roar. His eyes flew open. All he could see was the ceiling inches above him. Another roar passed over the trailer. Military jets.

  Suddenly his senses were barraged by chaos. The bed jolted, nearly throwing him against the ceiling, and the roar of jets was replaced by sound waves so powerful the only response he could bear was to cover his ears. Ground tremors continued for seconds afterwards, like the trailer was sitting at the epicenter of an earthquake.

  Before it got quiet, the chaos started all over again. Georgia’s face appeared next to Peter’s bunk, wide-eyed and terrified. She had to grip the bunk’s frame to keep from falling. Her mouth moved, but Peter could hear only the lingering rumbles of massive explosions. Finally the noise faded away enough that they could talk.

  “They’re bombing us!” Georgia said. “Why would they do that?”

  Peter rolled off the bed and dropped to his feet. This caused only a small twinge in his left foot, which was nearly healed. He looked up at the ceiling, listening to the last of the rumbles and the jets flying over. “They must be trying to kill the creatures, to contain the situation.”

  “¡Noña es! How can it be so bad they would do this?”

  Peter didn’t reply. He continued looking up, trying to grasp the implications. The explosions had been close, no more than a few miles away. They must have bombed the area where it had started. Maybe Helmich’s compound, or even the village where Robert had been killed.

  Georgia grabbed his arm. “If they’re trying to contain it, they’ll have to drop bombs here. Do you think they will?”

  She was right. The epidemic had started less than twenty-four hours ago, and someone had decided it was serious enough to bomb a populated area, even though there had to be survivors hiding out in vehicles and houses. Those in charge were smart enough to realize that the horror and death could spread over the entire island. Perhaps even beyond.

  “Peter?” She shook his arm. “We have to get out of here.”

  He looked at her. “Try your cell phone. If it works, let someone know where we are.” He turned and faced the door, his mind working furiously to come up with a plan.

  “Still no service,” she said. “And my phone is nearly dead.”

  How far had the truck rolled before coming to a stop? Were they still in front of Georgia’s house? “Okay. We have to break the door to get out. And then we run straight for your car. Do you have your keys with you?”

  She shook her head. “They’re in the house.”

  Peter cursed silently. “Then we go to your house first, get the keys, then to your car.” He glanced at her and then hesitated. Her mascara had run down her face from crying, and her hair was disheveled. Her red business suit was creased and dislodged, looking uncomfortable. Her red pumps were on the floor. Could she run fast enough with only hose on her feet? Those shoes would certainly be awkward, even if she broke the heels off. She was trembling. And so was he.

  “Georgia, it has been a pleasure sharing this fine room with you.”

  She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t talk like we’re going to die.”

  He nodded and tried to smile. “Get ready to run.” He turned back to the door and kicked it hard with his right foot.

  It didn’t budge.

  He tried again, and then again. He kept trying until his foot and ankle throbbed.

  “We can take this off, maybe. Use it to break the door.” Georgia was at the back of the room, inspecting the wardrobe cabinet that was bolted to the wall. It was about four feet tall by two feet wide, and it sat atop a cube-shaped storage unit with two drawers.

  Peter pulled on the cabinet, and it jiggled a bit. It was made of particle board, so even if he couldn’t break the bolts, perhaps he could break the wood. He pushed it back and forth and managed to work it loose enough to get his fingers between the cabinet and wall. It was more solid than it looked—he couldn’t pull it free. He needed leverage, but there was nothing here to use. He stepped back and took a deep breath. Another round of jets roared by overhead.

  Georgia pushed him aside and opened the wardrobe’s door. She then hooked her fingers over the top of the door. It broke off before she had put all her weight on it. She took the broken door, slid into the lower bunk where she could approach the cabinet from the side, and wedged one end of the door behind the wardrobe. Peter leaned in beside her, and they pulled out on the door and pried the cabinet loose. Together they carried it four steps to the locked door. Standing on either side, they pulled back and slammed it into the door.

  The door didn’t break, but the impact rattled it more than Peter had been able to by kicking. They slammed it again. On the third try, the door’s hinges started coming loose. Once more might do it.

  “Wait,” Georgia said, and she held the cabinet back before Peter could swing it again. “Those animals may have been drawn here by the noise we’ve made. Should we wait—give them a chance to lose interest?”

  This was a good point. But how long before someone made the call to bomb Salinas too? They stared at each other, breathing hard from the effort and listening for danger.

  “I don’t think we should wait,” he said. He gazed at her until their eyes met. “Directly to your house for the keys, yes?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “On the count of three, then.”

  They took a step back from the door to get ready.
Peter counted aloud to three, and they swung the cabinet forward in a wide arc, smashing it against the door.

  The hinges broke. The door flew open and then dangled askew by a padlock the soldiers had used to lock them in. The room was flooded with early-morning sunlight. They dropped the cabinet and Peter rushed to the doorway. The stairs had been retracted back under the trailer. No problem, they could jump four feet to the street.

  But then Peter froze. The ground was swarming with creatures. Many of them appeared to be insects—crickets, beetles, roaches, and some that defied categorization. But there were also spiders as large as mice. And centipedes. Several fat toads hopped about, lazily snatching up the insects. And lizards darted back and forth, gorging themselves. A turkey-like creature without feathers was slowly strolling by, pecking at the bugs and swallowing them whole.

  “Are they dangerous?” Georgia whispered. She was standing beside him, looking at the ground.

  “I think we should assume everything moving is dangerous.” Peter looked over at Georgia’s house. It was seventy meters away. Too far.

  Something came walking around the far side of her house. It was huge, with dark fur and a thick tail that dragged on the ground. It couldn’t be anything other than a giant ground sloth. It approached a low tree in Georgia’s yard. It lifted itself upright, using its tail as a third leg for stability. It reached for one of the lower tree limbs with one of its forelegs, raking it into its mouth with long, sickle-like claws. After taking one bite, the creature shook its head and released the limb, as if the leaves were distasteful. That’s when Peter saw that the distal tips of the limb were moving, squirming about like tentacles.

  Something buzzed past Peter’s ear. Georgia ducked back into the room, grabbed the loose cabinet door, and held it up like a baseball bat. A four-inch wasp rattled against the ceiling, perhaps disoriented by the dark, confined space. Suddenly, it swooped down toward her. She grunted and swung. Peter heard the wasp’s exoskeleton crack and barely ducked his head in time as it rocketed out the door in several pieces.