by Sean Platt
Beyond that, he didn’t know what they should do, where they should go, whether they should sit back and stay quiet, wait out the evil, or strap bombs to their chests and get the ticking to going.
Boricio reloaded his pipe, lit the bowl, and inhaled the skunky cloud into his lungs. He held it long enough to hurt, then blew the plume against the glass, losing himself to a laugh as he realized he was smoking in front of the window for all the world to see.
Fuck them, they can probably smell it out in the parking lot, too. I got glaucoma, bitches!
Boricio opened his window, took another puff, blew it out into the Malibu air, then collapsed on the bed, wondering if there was anything he could do about the dread he wasn’t used to feeling in his brain, like rats nesting in an attic. He lay in bed, breathing slowly in and out, circling idiot worries that would do him no good until his eyes finally grew heavy and he heard himself snore.
Boricio smiled, glad that sleep was finally coming.
He would rest, gather his strength, then after waking recovered, Boricio would start looking for Luca.
**
Behind black lids, Boricio’s world went suddenly white.
He blinked for minutes, searching for focus until his eyes were clear enough to see that there was nothing but sand all around him. High, white dunes and nothing else: no cacti, no water, no oasis in the desert, just endless miles of tiny grit, which for some reason made Boricio think of the countless stars peppering infinity and space.
Like the universe, Boricio could see but a wink of the desert, and knew it went on forever. And even though he knew he was dreaming, Boricio also knew he’d never be able to cross, or track his way through the expanse. Like the universe, the desert was endless, an infinite number of grains, each a bottomless pit of possibility, with limitless ways to die.
In the distance, Boricio saw a dot. He followed, chasing the dot until it grew larger after what felt like an hour of trudging; still tiny, but maybe twice its size. The sun grew hotter and dunes climbed higher as the dot ahead seemed to mock him by growing only farther in distance. Only after Boricio had been chasing the dot for too much of forever did he finally realize what it was:
Luca.
Boricio trudged harder, ignoring the pain in his legs and back, blinding himself to the torment in his shoulders as he pushed through the desert, lurching his body in pursuit of the boy.
“Wait!” he called. “You didn’t fix shit! You owe me a proper healing!”
But the dot kept going, Boricio moving behind it.
He followed for more of forever, until he felt someone or something behind him, quickly gaining, faster than he was gaining on the dot, which was closer now, enough for Boricio to see him clearly.
The boy wore a backpack, and a determined look, face shifting as if things were crawling beneath his skin, reordering muscles as he went from a small boy of maybe 8, to an old man near dying. His shirt was the constant: a husky, snout turned to the moon in a probably howl, though it was hard to see from behind its mask: Darth Vader, but white instead of black.
Boricio felt the something behind him closing in, but he could not turn around to see what it was. Not out of fear, but he just wasn’t able to turn. He didn’t know what it was, but knew with certainty that if it caught him, it would end him.
Boricio ran, losing his balance and spilling his body to the sand. He scrambled back to his feet and found himself back in his hotel room, which was now the size of a planet. He was still dreaming, running away from the bed and toward the door a thousand miles away.
The thing behind him came closer, its shadow draping Boricio, sending a cold chill through him as it grew larger. Boricio knew he could flee it if he could only wake up, open his eyes long enough to grab hold of the real world.
His phone suddenly rang, a shrill screech like screaming from the sky, loud but far enough to mock him.
He couldn’t wake up, or answer the phone.
That meant he couldn’t escape.
And if Boricio couldn’t escape — he knew because the scream inside him swore it was so — then he would surely die.
Then the world would follow: meek and wolves, no difference between them.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — Brent Foster
Brent returned the gun to the back of his waistband, pulled his shirt over it, and waited for the elevator to ding.
He’d spent the entire run from Stan’s place to his old one trying to come up with a pitch that Gina might buy. It was 3:35 p.m., so Brent figured he had a while until Jack came home to open the door that used to be his. Brent prayed that Gina was, in fact, in the apartment, and not out somewhere.
If Gina was gone, Brent wasn’t sure what he would do. It wasn’t like he could hang around and wait for her to come home. There was no telling how long it would be before Black Island would send reinforcements to finish what the first Guardsmen failed to complete; he was certain they were living on borrowed time.
The elevator parted, and Brent stepped through the doors into the hallway, approaching the lock his key no longer fit. He was now a tourist instead of a citizen, forced to knock like a stranger.
He rapped his knuckles on the wood, waiting for Gina, hoping she was there.
Moments later, he heard Ben on the other side. “Who is it?”
“It’s Daddy, Ben.”
Seconds later, Brent heard Gina. “I told you not to answer the door, Ben. Go watch TV.”
“It’s Daddy,” Ben said.
Brent couldn’t hear Gina’s response. He hoped she wasn’t telling him to go hide from Scary Daddy, or worse, calling 9-1-1.
“What do you want?” Gina asked, peephole going dark as she stared through it.
Brent hoped he didn’t look like someone running from the government, as his worst fears suggested. He tried to seem calm, but doubted he was coming anywhere close with his awkwardly plastered smile.
“I need to talk to you, can you please open the door?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Gina said. “I can hear you fine; say what you need to say.”
Brent shook his head. This wasn’t boding well for the remainder of their conversation. He had to see Gina face-to-face — it was impossible to convey the importance of his message through a closed door with a barely willing listener on the other side.
“Please, Gina,” Brent said. “I’m not going to cause any trouble. I just want to talk to you. It’s important.”
“Are you drunk again?”
“No,” he said, trying to hide his annoyance at her accusation.
Gina paused, as if deliberating — or maybe calling the police. Brent was screwed if arrested. Black Island would find out, send someone to spring him, then take him somewhere private to pull the trigger.
“Just say whatever you have to say,” Gina said, not opening the door, clearly growing impatient.
“OK, I didn’t want to say it through the door, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. You’re in danger, Gina.”
“What?” she said, her voice rising like it did — and always had — when she thought Brent was being ridiculous.
“Remember what I told you about Black Island? Well, they sent someone after me today. Me, and one of their own agents, a guy named Ed Keenan. They tried to kill us, Gina.”
He could hear her sigh from the other side. “Please, just stop.” A pause, then, “I really hate this part of you.”
“I’m telling the truth, Gina. They said they’re coming to kill you and Ben next.”
“Stop,” Gina repeated, raspy. There were a few seconds of silence, then Brent heard her start softly crying. “You’re sick, Brent. You need help. Please, just go away and leave us alone. I don’t want to call the cops.”
“Daddy?” Ben said, far off.
“Go,” Gina yelled at their son.
“I want to see Daddy,” Ben whined, then started to cry.
Gina yelled, “Are you happy, Brent? Is this what you want? You’re
upsetting your son! Please, just go.”
“Daddy!” Ben screamed, his voice shrill enough to shatter Brent’s heart into even smaller pieces than the shards he already carried.
“Dammit, Gina,” he yelled, louder than his intention. “Open the door!”
“Go away! I’m calling the cops, Brent!”
He heard her footsteps fading from the door, and with them Ben’s crying as she carried him away. Brent could picture her lifting their son like a sack of potatoes, removing him from the situation before he erupted in tears.
Brent’s blood boiled, frustration turning to panic. He couldn’t let Gina call the cops; he had to stop her.
Brent stepped back and kicked at the door, just below the knob.
Gina screamed, “I’m calling the cops!”
Ben screamed louder.
Brent backed up, took a run at the door, and kicked again, this time separating the door from its frame, popping it open.
Gina stood in the living room, holding her phone in one hand and Ben in the other. She was about to bring the phone to her ear when Brent surprised her.
He pulled the gun and aimed it straight at Gina. “Put the phone down.”
She stared at Brent, green eyes soaking wet beneath her dark bangs, body trembling. Ben reached out for his daddy, fingers opening and closing, wanting Brent to hold him.
Brent clarified his order, “Hang up and put down the phone.”
Gina obeyed, lowered her shaking hand, and set the phone on the couch as tears slowly fell from her eyes. “Please, don’t hurt us,” she said, her voice low as if she were afraid volume might set her intruder on a rampage.
Brent stepped toward them. “Let me hold my son.”
Gina set Ben down, slowly, and said, “Please, don’t hurt him.”
Brent scooped Ben up into one arm, hugging his crying boy as he moved the gun from Gina, hoping she wouldn’t do something stupid.
“It’s OK,” Brent said to Ben. “It’s OK, Daddy’s here.”
Ben kept crying as his small hands closed around the back of Brent’s neck. It felt wonderful to hold his son again. Ben looked so much older than the last time Brent saw him. So much time had slipped away, stolen by Gina. As he met his ex-wife’s eyes, Brent couldn’t hide his anger. A part of him — most of him — wanted to take Ben and run.
Screw her if she doesn’t believe me.
Let her and her fucking lover, Jack, deal with Black Island.
“What do you want, Brent?”
“I want you both to come with me. I want to protect you.”
“Protect us from whom?”
“Black Island Guard, they’re killing everyone who knows anything about The Event. They’re cleaning the mess.”
“Do you know how crazy this sounds?” Gina asked, her voice still low and eyes wide, like they would always get when she was trying to reason her way through one of their arguments.
“I know,” Brent said. “I don’t have time to make you believe me. They could be coming at any minute.”
“You said someone else was with you? Where is he now?”
“He had to go, to protect his own family,” Brent said.
“Of course,” Gina said, rolling her eyes.
Ben was finally starting to calm down, leaning against Brent and listening to his parents talk. Brent tried not to say anything that might scare his son, and kept his voice as calm as Gina’s.
“I’m not crazy, or making stuff up. I’m trying to save you both. This is real.”
“I don’t know what’s happening,” Gina said. “I’ve been seeing reports on the news about a bunch of people all over the place going nuts, doing horrible things. There’s gotta be something in the air, the food, the water, or something. You’re sick, Brent. You need help. No one is trying to hurt you.”
Brent shook his head, “Those people on the news, they’re infected.”
“Infected?” Gina repeated, as if he’d just told her he spent the weekend with Santa Claus and was now off to market to buy a fat pig and play poker with Jesus. “Infected with what?”
Brent laughed, knowing as he did so, it only made him look crazier. “Sorry, he said. But if I tell you, you’ll say I’m nuts.”
“Try me,” Gina said.
“Infected by aliens.”
“Aliens? Ah, of course, the aliens! The ones from the other Earth, right?” she asked sarcastically.
“Jesus, Gina, can’t you just … ”
He stopped talking when he noticed her attention shifting to something behind him.
Brent felt something in the small of his back, as a man’s voice inches behind him said, “Get on your knees and lower your weapon or we’ll shoot!”
We’ll?
Shit.
Police or Black Island?
Brent half-turned to see who he was dealing with as Ben returned to his tears.
The man shoved the gun — Brent presumed — harder into his back.
“On your knees, Sir, or we will shoot.”
And if they shoot me, they’ll hit Ben.
Shit.
Brent slowly kneeled, and set his gun on the ground, knowing he was surrendering his only defense if there were Black Island Guardsmen behind him.
Ben cried louder, and Gina came forward, ignoring the men with the guns, and pulled Ben from the monster, hugging him hard, crying, as she glared at Brent.
He felt his arms yanked behind him, hard, and seconds later, Brent’s wrists were in plastic restraints.
A man stepped from behind Brent, a tall, pale man with a face like a shovel, and a Black Island uniform.
“Where’s Keenan?” the man asked.
“I don’t know,” Brent said. “He told me I was on my own. I came here as fast as I could.”
The guard looked up and nodded to whoever was behind Brent.
Brent turned and saw a second guard start to close the door, as best he could with the broken frame.
Better to hide their actions from the neighbors.
They’re going to kill us.
Brent pleaded, “I swear, I don’t know anything about Ed. And I won’t say anything about Black Island! Please … ”
Gina’s eyes suddenly shifted from glaring at Brent to unbridled confusion, then to understanding, all in seconds.
“Who are you people?” she asked, her voice sharp, under the illusion that she had civil liberties.
Shovel Face turned to her and fired a single shot straight into her head.
* * * *
CHAPTER 6 — Marina Harmon
Marina was so distraught over what had happened to the girl that she had no idea what to think or do, didn’t even know how she should feel. Rose had left a few minutes earlier, leaving Marina at the house to wait for news.
There would be torture inside her until she heard something back.
It was awful, watching the girl thrash inside The Capacitor like she had. Marina had never seen anything like it, but worse, she had never even imagined something like that was possible.
The machine was supposed to be — and always had been — pleasant: It made you better when you left it than when you went in. Marina had never known, or heard of anything different. But that definitely wasn’t the case with the girl. The Capacitor had nearly killed her, and Marina had seen it with her own eyes.
More than that, it had also stolen years from her body, turning her from a woman into a girl. The mother, Mary, was hysterical.
Maybe that’s what she had been before.
Marina hadn’t considered the possibility that the premature aging was what was wrong — why mother and daughter had sought her help in the first place — until after the ambulance pulled out from the drive. But once she had, Marina wondered if something like that were really possible. She had heard of cases of Progeria before, from Daddy, of course. When you grew up with a man like J.L. Harmon, you — like him — tended to know a bit about this, that, and everything else.
Progeria was an extremely rare gene
tic disease that fascinated her father because he believed it held clues to the normal process of aging. He had even been involved in some clinical trials about 10 years back, trying to get kids suffering from Progeria — their average life expectancy was under 13 years — to elongate their life span through additional weight gain, improved hearing, and an increase in their blood vessels’ flexibility. Marina had seen plenty of pictures, but none looked like the girl — or woman — Paola. Progeria sufferers looked … not normal: usually hairless, with tiny faces and shallow jaws. Their skin was usually wrinkled, with larger heads compared to their bodies. If anything, the girl — woman — Paola was beautiful.
As horrible as it seemed and felt and looked to see her inside the machine, thrashing around as if attacked, if Paola had been a child — somehow, Progeria or not — then The Capacitor had corrected her Current and done what it was supposed to do, no matter the horrible cost.
They couldn’t be mad if they got what they wanted. Except, they hadn’t expected Paola to fall unconscious.
But that has to be a temporary thing, right?
Marina was only guessing, and until she heard from Rose, she would stay confused. She started to pace, flirting with the idea of pouring herself a stiff drink before deciding it was too early. She looked out the window, hoping there was some sort of answer hiding outside, saw nothing, then went to the sofa and collapsed onto the soft cushions, just as the door opened and Steven stepped into the room. He closed it gently behind him, and in his soft voice with his typical care said, “Are you okay?”
Marina turned to the door, feeling better like she always did when she saw Steven. She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I feel scared, mostly for those poor girls, but I’m also afraid because I don’t understand. Something tells me Dad wouldn’t even know what all of this means, even if he was here.”
Steven didn’t ask what it was that Marina didn’t understand. Instead, he sat across from her on the white sofa, propped her naked foot into his lap, kneaded Marina’s skin with the balls of his thumb and said, “Tell me what happened.”
