by Sean Platt
The doc said he’d need to call Marina and ask her some questions, find out what he could about the machine. Mary had freaked, wanting to call Rose to tell her to call Marina and lie, but she couldn’t make a call without being discovered by one of the several staff members coming in and out of Paola’s room.
The doc came back and announced that he’d left a message but had yet to hear anything.
Following tests, X-Rays, and an MRI, none of which showed anything to explain Paola’s state, everyone was playing it by ear.
Mary sat at her daughter’s bedside feeling more alone than ever.
She kept flashing back to when Paola had nearly died at the Drury. How she was lying there, dead to the world, until Luca came to save her.
Mary always felt her daughter, like a spirit she could sense no matter where the girl was. The only times she had ever felt disconnected was at the Drury, and now. Both times she felt nothing: Paola might as well have been dead.
She couldn’t lose another child.
No, don’t think about it.
Mary had tried not to think about her miscarriage after returning to Earth. Tried not to think about losing Desmond’s child. No good could come from it. Just as no good could come from thinking about Desmond, or even Ryan for that matter. Thinking about things that could not be, that would not be, was holding court with ghosts and only attracting more death.
She stared at Paola, afraid that even thinking such things was somehow draining her child even as she thought them.
No, no, stop. Think of something happy. Something—
If the worst happened to Paola, Mary would join her.
She already decided. The only question left was how she’d do it. Pills, gunshot, or maybe something else?
She was too tired if fighting the inevitable. Too tired of trying to dim the pain.
A child’s death mocked logical order. A mother was supposed to precede her child’s passing, not be forced to adapt illogical reality. She was protector and provider, not a survivor … not over her child.
She brushed a thumb across her daughter’s too-cool skin. Mary felt lost and sad; fatigued, her thoughts cloudy. She had no idea what to do to pass the time, so did as she had been every few minutes since reaching the hospital.
Mary pulled the cell from her pocket, dialed Boricio, and again got his voice mail. Like every other time, she listened because it made her feel ever so slightly less awful:
“Howdy there, you’ve reached Boricio’s Center For Mental Fitness. Please listen to the following options: If you’re obsessive compulsive, press #1 over and over, 47 times or your mother will die. If you’re co-dependent, turn to the nearest asshole and ask them to press #2 for you. Multiple personalities, I will direct you to buttons #3, 4, 5, and 6. Press them all, one at a time. If you’re paranoid, we know who you are, and we will motherfucking find you. Delusionals press #7, then patiently wait for your transfer to Planet Zebot. Schizophrenics, listen for your inner assholes. Sufferers of short-term memory loss, try again later. And those afflicted with low self-esteem: Fuck you, no one wants to talk to you.”
She laughed, even after hearing it so many times. Only Boricio could leave such a long message which not only tested your patience but taunted you, daring you to hang up.
Mary ended the call and phoned Rose — still no answer — then grabbed the TV remote from a tray, aimed it at the room’s corner screen, knowing it was a mistake before the TV bled with color and filled the room with tragedy.
The nation’s news had been growing worse by the week.
The worst school shooting was followed by the worst mall shooting in U.S. History, as if the monsters committing the crimes were trying to outdo one another in gruesomeness. “Experts” were on TV blaming everyone from the president to the decline in morality and family values, to the lack of religion in schools, to bad parenting.
Mary wasn’t one to personalize the news. But it was impossible not to. Part of her could feel the truth, even before standing in the garage with Boricio, before their drive from Colorado, and — if Mary was being honest with her whisper — before the blade bit into her finger.
Something big was happening; a darkness gathering like pregnant clouds. Earth’s horizon was collapsing, reality turning into something terrible. Whatever had happened over there, was on its way here. Mary could feel it like she could often feel it was about to rain. This storm would be endless.
The world wasn’t prepared for such a flood.
Mary and the others had survived once, on the other Earth, again saved by Luca. But Luca wasn’t around to save them this time. And there was no safety net of an uninfected Earth waiting for their return. If Boricio was right, and the aliens had come here, this was it.
Mary didn’t know if she could make it this time — especially without Paola by her side. But so long as Paola was alive, Mary would have to be strong, would fight with everything she had left, tired or not.
That was her job.
While Sullivan hadn’t warned her of any specific dangers, Mary hadn’t felt safe since losing Ryan and then coming home. She could never allow herself to be in a position of weakness again, waiting for others to help her.
She had to be prepared for when shit hit the fan.
It was one of two reasons they had moved to Colorado. Paola’s art school was fantastic, and made selling the move easy for Mary, but the real reason she wanted to move to Colorado was because of the Boulder Outdoor Survival School: the world’s oldest and largest. One week into their new address, Mary was enrolled in her first course with many to follow, testing her skills — and sometimes Paola’s — everywhere from southern Colorado up into Utah. It was why Mary continued Desmond’s training without him, joining the Boulder Rifle Club and refining her excellent aim by the week.
She never would’ve imagined herself a survivalist type, but there was something comforting in being able to take care of yourself when things went to hell. Living through the nightmare that had happened on the other world opened Mary’s eyes to realities she could never close them to again. Even if the aliens weren’t a threat, they were living in an increasingly unstable global economy: Countries went bankrupt, terrorism was at an all time high, political tension hung like a fog over the planet. Races, religions, and classes were clashing, making the news nearly every night, well before and unrelated to — Mary was certain — the recent horrors.
It was easy to see that something was brewing.
The world was a pressure cooker, and it was only so long before something exploded. When it did, the unprepared would be punished as everything man-made started to fail. Mary had seen it happen on the other side already, how destruction was swept into horrifically tidy piles. Planes would crash, dams would burst, pipelines would blow, and grids would fail. Society was a luxury, and learned skills essential: Know-how requires no wires or batteries.
Despite her training, Mary didn’t feel ready yet.
She let Boricio take on three freaks while she hid behind a car. Mary tried to tell herself she was playing it smart. She was unarmed — a stupid error, by the way — but also, Boricio was so damned good at what he did. And he had told her to get back.
Still, Mary felt like she should’ve done more.
The weird thing was, that as they came under attack, the very thing that gave Mary strength — Paola — had weakened her. As she crouched behind the car, she found herself worrying what if she were killed? Who would take care of Paola?
The fear had paralyzed her.
She’d been fortunate that Boricio was there. But fortune didn’t usually favor the weak or unprepared. Next time, she had to act in spite of the fear.
She looked at her daughter again, wishing she could reach into the girl’s head and wake her.
“I’m still here, Honey,” she whispered. “We’re all waiting for you to wake up. Everything’s gonna be OK.”
As Mary promised that everything would be OK, two old, white men on the news were arguing over
whether there should be more guns, or less. They each used the same evidence to support their theories, citing the recent tragedies. Their explanations were so vapid, Mary had to kill the TV.
Paola didn’t need to hear that crap, assuming she could hear anything in her state.
“Everything’s going to be OK, Baby,” Mary said, squeezing her daughter’s hand gently.
Mary wondered what she had done to upset karma like she had, wondered why things couldn’t be normal for her or Paola — why her daughter couldn’t have a normal childhood filled with school, puberty, a reluctant boyfriend, or a stupid cover song posted to YouTube.
She leaned onto her daughter’s bed, resting her head against Paola’s side. As she settled, a shock of thunder sent her leaping up and out of her seat.
Mary had probably heard more gunshots than any greeting card artist in history, and knew the sudden thunder wasn’t a car backfiring or fireworks lighting the sky: six even shots, followed by thick silence garnished with screams after it settled.
She heard another pair of shots, closer, definitely in the hospital. They sounded right outside the hall. Mary couldn’t afford to panic, so she didn’t, thinking about her bag of guns in the Volvo — again unprepared! — knowing she couldn’t get them and abandon Paola to whatever danger lurked in the halls.
Mary dipped her hand into her purse, wrapped her fingers around the knife’s handle — Well, I’ve got this, at least — then closed her eyes, drew three successive breaths, and drew the blade from its sheath.
She went to the door, pulled it opened it a crack, then slipped her head through the opening. She looked left and saw nothing, then turned her head right, let out a scream as a zombie stumbled down the hall, toward her room.
Mary knew no other word for someone so vacant, drenched in blood with his mouth drooped open, more plasma oozing from his low-hanging lip. While his expression was empty, his eyes were not. They were entirely black, yet seemed to be focused on her. As the creature drew closer, he reached out for her.
Mary managed to scream, “HELP!” before slamming the door and planting her back against it, bracing for the worst as she looked over at Paola, still oblivious to the world, inert in her bed.
The zombie slammed into the door, the heavy thud followed by an inhuman growl. While Mary wouldn’t have been surprised to see bleakers, the all-black, alien things that had hunted them on the other world, or even an infected person who was part human, part alien like Ryan had been, she didn’t expect this — a deceased man so obviously walking, trying to break down the door.
Mary pushed her shoulder harder against the door, staring through the small window at the top, which reminded her — horribly — of the small window at the top of The Capacitor — and saw the dead man’s face in the window, mashing his cheek to the glass and smearing drool in a rainbow of red.
The lever that served as a doorknob lowered with no way to lock it.
Mary’s mind raced trying to decide how to handle the thing once he broke through and into the room if someone didn’t come and shoot him first. Might be best to open the door and let the creature spill into the room, carried by momentum and falling to the ground. Then she could stab him in the neck.
Mary was probably fast enough, but what if she wasn’t? Or what if the creature didn’t stumble and fall? What if he just broke through and stayed perfectly upright?
The thing on the other side slammed the door harder, managing to nudge Mary a few inches. Before thinking, she threw her body back at the door, forcing the creature away. He hit the door harder, opening it an inch — just enough for the dead man to jam his fingers inside. Mary threw her weight against the door and crunched the zombie’s fingers with a loud snapping.
The dead man cried out, sounding almost alive in his rage.
He slammed harder into the door, forcing Mary back an inch before she could manage to reclaim the loss in some sort of unholy tug-of-war.
She tried to hold steady, but her shoes slipped along the slick linoleum, slowly losing the battle.
She let go of the door and jumped back, managing to stay on her feet and put a few inches between herself and the dead man, waving her knife in arcs before her.
The creature, ignoring the knife, moved forward to attack.
Mary swung, aiming for his left hand, but before she could connect, two more gunshots echoed through the room.
The man still stood, slowed and stunned, but not yet dead, until three more shots sent him to the ground.
An officer stepped through the open doorway, waved his gun through the room, left to right before letting it fall and offering a hand to Mary. “Are you OK?”
“No,” she said. “What the hell is happening?”
Mary looked at the mess of a man, twitching as blood poured from his wounds.
“No idea, Ma’am,” the officer, a young man with piercing, green eyes, said as he stepped in front of the dead man, away from the pooling blood. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mary said, turning quickly to Paola to make sure she wasn’t shot by the officer.
She leaned close to Paola, looking her up and down, but saw no sign of injuries.
“It’s OK,” she said, leaning forward and kissing her daughter’s head. “Everything’s OK, Baby.”
Mary turned back to the cop, just in time to notice something black hanging in the air behind him, floating almost like smoke.
“What the?” she said, confused.
“What?” the cop said turning around and looking into the hallway.
The smoke moved fast, three ways at once — toward a second cop just behind the first, and then right and left down the hall.
Mary’s eyes were fixed on the second cop, watching as his face shifted — like a hundred bugs beneath the skin — then settled. His eyes drained until they looked as empty as the creature kissing blood on the floor. Before Mary could do anything to stop it — though she should have seen it coming — the hollow-eyed cop lifted his gun and fired twice at the one in front of her.
The officer fell to the already-bloody, sticky floor as his partner pulled the trigger again, blasting him in the face.
The possessed cop’s gun clicked three times, ammo empty, and Mary found both heartbeat and breath. She used it to scream on her way toward the door.
She jumped over the two dead men, slammed the door shut, then held her shoulder to it, again, muttering prayers, and begging any god from either world to hear her.
* * * *
CHAPTER 5 — Paola Olson
Paola was confused.
She woke in warmth, wondering how she got outside. Then, as her eyes adjusted, she realized she was no longer in Malibu. The streets, mansions, and oceanfront land had exploded in a million tiny pixels, then settled into endless miles of sand.
Something was wrong.
Why aren’t I awake yet?
Am I still in the machine? Still dreaming?
Paola turned in a circle searching for any sign of anything. She wanted to call out, “Hello?” But a cold chill ran through her, warning her of The Darkness still behind her.
Is it here, too?
Endless sky mirrored the sand below, not a single cloud to mar its blue.
Paola’s shoes had gone missing, warm sand slipped between her toes with a pleasant burn.
Not knowing what to do or where to go, she began walking, figuring things would make sense soon enough.
This is a dream, right? Things always work out.
Paola trudged through the desert, walking for what felt like hours before she saw something dot the horizon.
Luca!
She wasn’t sure how she knew it was him, but it had to be.
Paola pushed herself to walk faster, despite the heat bearing down hard enough to soak her shirt.
Luca will help me get out of here.
I have to catch up.
Paola smiled as she ran after Luca, burning her ankles as she closed the distance between them. She was surprised ho
w much of the gap she had managed to narrow in only a few minutes, and used the wonder to fuel herself faster.
Just as she was near enough to call for Luca, a second Luca appeared in front of her, bathed in brilliant light.
The Light looked less like the Luca trudging ahead, and felt more like the Luca who saved her the first time. He was an old man again.
He spoke in an almost musical hum, “No, Paola.”
She froze.
“He’s not who you’re looking for,” The Light told Paola what she suddenly already knew. “He’s an impostor.”
“I know, but what can I do?” Paola leaned into The Light, wanting its warmth, despite the hot blazing keeping them under its heel. “Can you help me?”
“You don’t need me, you need The Light.”
“But you are The Light!” Paola knew it was true because she saw it in her dreams.
“No,” The Light said. “You have misunderstood. Your dreams show you The Light, not where it shines.”
Paola knew what was coming; felt it inside her before The Light said it.
“You are The Light now, Paola, only you can shine for us all.”
The desert disappeared and took her with it.
Paola found herself on a dark street along the shoreline, though whether it was real or imagined she did not know. For some reason, everything was bathed in an odd and ugly red. She looked up and saw it was because of the moon.
A cold breeze forced her farther inland, near a cluster of houses. A light was on in one: a beacon for just her.
She raced forward, eager to reach it.
He’s in there. Waiting for you.
She wasn’t sure who he was, but the voice seemed more promise than threat.
Somewhere in the distance, a shriek — the all-too-familiar voice of a bleaker.
Paola picked up her pace and raced ahead, finally reaching the house. She saw that while the window was lit, there were black, iron bars over it. And several claw marks in the rotting wood around the window.
Shelter for someone: a survivor.
Paola walked up three stairs and knocked on the door, hoping she was making the right choice, and not walking into her enemy’s camp.
