by H. L. Murphy
If I spent the next hundred years trying to describe what I saw behind those shades, it still wouldn't come close to the truth. Maybe because I lack the talent to convey so complex a sight from the imperfect vessel of my memory to the imperfect perceptions of mortal beings, or maybe because there are no words in all the surviving languages of man to fully explain it. Either way, here's the best I can do.
First of all, Silky had cat’s eyes. I mean the irises were like those of a cat. Incredibly creepy.
Second, the color of Silky’s eyes. They were no color at all, and every color all at once, glittering, shimmering, and pearlescent. They were matte, and glossy. I could see each known color separately as I looked into those impossible eyes, all while seeing them together. I told you, words fail to adequately impress the awesomeness, the terror, the compassion, and the intense sensation that if Silky felt like it he could eat me alive and not bat an eye while doing it.
We broke eye contact when Silky’s head twitched to the right, and he sucked on his teeth while clucking his tongue. With that done, Silky dropped the car into drive and we motored away.
“So, impress upon the location you wish to arrive at,” Silky stated in his easy going tone. His vocal cadence reminded me entirely too much of how a stalking cat will languidly circle an area, getting the lay of the land before suddenly pouncing.
That was a stumping point. I hadn't considered much beyond getting out of the water. Water? I wasn't in the water. I had been hanging out in a trailer park, with caricature virus bug greasers with far too much pom-aid worked into a duck’s ass haircut, but I hadn't been in the water.
Had I? I couldn't remember. I looked down at myself again, and realized my rifle, my pistol, and my as far from snazzy as it was possible to get tactical vest had vanished. What the serious fuck? I needed those things. Needed them like I needed air. They were the only things that could get me out of Stuart and back to my family. Without them, provided I wasn't spinning my wheels in purgatory, I wasn't going anywhere. Wait, didn't Maxwell live in Stuart? If anybody in the entire goddamn world survived this horror show, it had to be Maxwell.
“Can you take me to Maxwell Wyse’s house?” I asked. For the better part of a decade, Maxwell Wyse and I had worked together until his transfer to first shift about six months back. He was the only man I knew with more weapons than me, and with greater ability with each of them than I possessed. If he was alive, he wouldn't leave me hanging in the breeze.
“Absolutely, my friend. Monsieur Maxwell has long been an acquaintance of mine,” Silky continued to spin his particular form of conversation. “The man does tend to react negatively to unannounced visitations, though. Just to let you know. One can only experience betrayal of the worst kind so many times before the soul hardens, the spirit calcifies, and generosity withers and dies on the vine like fruit left unpicked too long. Putrefaction, my friend, that's what it is. Putrefaction of the soul.”
As he spoke, Silky slipped a hand into his coat to withdraw a silver cigarette case. Though it wasn't a cigarette he slipped between his lips. Even though my eyes never left him, I never saw him light the smoke. He just started puffing on the hand rolled cigarette and smoke of an iridescent nature wafted into the air. After one enormous inhalation, Silky blew shimmering smoke through his nostrils giving him the air of a dragon.
“Putrefaction of the soul,”’Silky repeated. “It leads people to commit the most heinous of actions against their own kind, against other kind, and against life itself. Only through cultivation of the spirit can such enmity be combatted. At least, until the circumlocutions of all the players involved reach a critical juncture, then may those of righteous intention at last cleanse those of pernicious origin from the fabric of the universe.”
Whatever the serious fuck Silky was smoking was being absorbed into my bloodstream because his constant barrage of nonsense was beginning to fall into logic patterns. Yet, even as logical mental patterns formed the hallucinogenic substance permeating the atmosphere inside the Lincoln twisted the audio visual input so totally out of shape I was back to not understanding a fucking thing Silky was trying to say.
“Do you understand what I'm saying, my friend?”
Silky turned his gaze, his spectrum engulfing eyes, upon me, and I said the first thing that came to mind.
“Nope, not a fucking word,” I coughed, holding the handkerchief to my face. “Whatever your smoking…”
“Oh, I'm sorry,” Silky announced suddenly, cutting me off. “How terribly rude of me. It's just me so much of the time I forget my manners.”
Then Silky shoved the cigarette like object in my mouth, just as I was drawing breath to speak. Yeah, that was a mistake. If my world had been off the deep end confusing before, now I was on a psychedelic journey of galactic proportions. Time slowed to halt then accelerated to light speed, I melted away to nothing before rising as a god. I crushed ravening hordes of barbarians before throwing off the shackles of servitude and laying waste to the empires I had just built up. I watched as people aged in reverse, observed my bloodline running backwards. Their deeds, misdeeds, tragedies, triumphs, losses, and victories until at last I could no longer recognize my species in those before my eyes.
“Wow,” escaped my lips with a minor puff of smoke. Silky broke out laughing as he plucked the powerful substance from my lips.
“Wow, indeed,” he proclaimed, and sucked hard on the cigarette. “However, it may be best if you limited yourself to single hit, since there's no telling what you'll see next and your mind has more than enough before it as it stands.”
“What did I just witness?” I breathed. Shaking from the influx of images, sensations, and pure, frightening knowledge.
“Just everything that has every happened to your bloodline from here to its beginning. Truly, I'm shocked, shocked I tell you, to see you recovering so quickly. That much all at once has broken many a mind before yours,” that slow, impossibly wide smile makes another appearance and I got the feeling that if I hadn’t recovered, Silky would have enjoyed me for dinner. I want to ask why backwards, and not forwards but something clicks in the mush that passes for my brain right now and the words Genetic Memory play across my vision. The idea we carry memories from our predecessors in our very DNA. You scoff, but scientists are warming up to the idea more and more.
“Oh, is that all?” I quip while trying to keep the contents of my stomach in my stomach. Should be simple, but my visions went back quite a long time. A long time during which my ancestors were not always the most genteel of people. Everyone has their share of bastards in their family, but they rarely get to meet them all at once in living color and surround sound.
“I certainly hope you enjoyed your trip down memory lane, my new friend,” Silky smirked, it was an improvement on the smile,”because we have arrived. Give my regards to Maxwell.”
Chapter Twelve
I can't remember leaving Silky’s hallucinogenic inspired Lincoln, but I must have at some point because I found myself standing in a tastefully decorated living room that had seen better days. Now it looked more like a bad Saturday night in Beirut. Without a light source, aside from the moonlight weakly pouring through the windows, details were difficult to impossible to make out, but it very much appeared that the floor was covered in spent brass. In the far corner, behind an overturned table, sat a dead Maxwell Wyse. A massive stain on his chest told the end of his story, though not the sporty parts leading up to it.
“Aw, Max, what happened?”’I said as I knelt next to my late friend. It had obviously been a while since he died, but he still clutched an artillery piece of a revolver. Given how much Maxwell had loved making things go bang, I guessed it was something up in the fifty calibre range. I shifted to come closer and felt my knee brush against something. Glancing down what should I spy, but another fucking Glock wonder nine. This one, however, was sporting a thirty-three round magazine. Not that it mattered since the slide was locked to the rear. I would have tossed the polymer POS
, but I caught the engraving down the side.
Glock 18.
My hand shook as I warred internally. I was holding a Glock, the symbol of all I despised in the wonder nine movement, but I was holding a Glock 18, fully automatic pistol guaranteed to give the user a singular shooting experience. Oh, pernicious Fate, why are torturing me this way?
At length, I released the slide and shoved the pistol into my waist and at the small of my back. If I was lucky, there would be more ammunition in the house.
“Fucking hell, Max,” I whispered, my voice now completely bereft of slurring. “What have you been up to?”
I turned to face the front door and the picture shaped up. Behind the overturned table I could see where a rifle had been cast aside amongst a stack of empty magazines, mounds of spent rifle casings spoke volumes, and the bullet holes at head height along the drywall suggested zombies at the very least. Except that Maxwell had bee shot, not devoured, and zombies didn't carry guns.
As far as you know, they don't. You have been out of action for a while.
Shut up. I don't need that picture in my head.
Just playing devils advocate. No need to get your panties in a bunch.
Devil’s advocate? My friend is dead, goddamn it.
A lot of people are dead. Crying about it won't change anything.
You coldblooded son of a bitch…
If you ever want to see your wife and daughter again, you need to compartmentalize your feelings and push on. Yeah, just like that.
“Alright, that's it,” I said aloud, my voice hard and dangerous. “What the fuck are you? And don't give me any of that I'm you bullshit, ‘cause I'm not buying any of it.”
There is no need to speak aloud, we can communicate just fine silently.
“Get fucked,” I responded hotly. “Answer my question.”
The truth is I AM a part of you. At least, I am now.
That isn't telling me who you are.
I am a personality construct, an interface based entirely on your core personality.
An interface? What exactly do you interface with?
You. I thought I made that abundantly clear.
Point to you. What are you an interface for. What do you represent?
Well, that's a little harder to explain.
Try.
Think back to the start of this outbreak, to the moments before you were infected.
So I am infected.
Yes, but not in the manner you are thinking. Think back, do you remember the seconds before the delivery vessel injected you?
Vaguely. I was fucking terrified and riding the adrenaline express. I watched Pee Wee go down under Depao and…then I felt something sting my neck. Didn't think much of it at the time.
Understandable. The sting you experienced was actually a hypodermic dart, which filled your bloodstream with an unknown substance.
Unknown substance? Are you saying that because you don't know what it was or because you don't want to tell me what it was?
I don't know what it was because you don't know what it was. I am only a reflection of you, your experience, your knowledge, and nothing more. If your mind has seen a thing, I can access it.
Then I need to read more.
Not a bad idea. Even if you don't grasp the fundamentals, I can continue to work the subject over in your subconscious mind.
That sounds pretty fucking awesome, but I think we've strayed from the topic at hand.
True enough. The substance in your blood attacked the virus as soon as you became infected. In response to the substances influence, several more recently added proteins were annihilated and you were left with the virus in its original form, or as close to as makes no difference.
Wait, are you saying the goddamn zombie virus was originally some kind of super soldier serum? Because that's a quick way to get sued by the King Rat in Orlando.
Not exactly. While there would clearly be military applications for such a thing, it's original purpose was likely as a medical treatment. Since all the virus truly does is hyper accelerate your bodies immune system, super soldier is stretching a bit far.
And that's how I've survived the unsurvivable? Because I was injected with what I'm assuming to be an extraterrestrial fucking first aid kit?
Sounds about right to me, but I'm just a lowly personality construct.
How do I know that I'm not still hallucinating?
You don't. As far as you know, you're still tripping the light fantastic with Silky in the technicolor dream machine. You could be, but you're not. This is as real as it gets.
How do I know?
Take a real long look at yourself.
It's pitch black, I can barely even see Maxwell and he's in the middle of that creepy ass beam of moonlight. Seriously, do you see a flashlight or something, because that moon lit nightmare fuel image has got to go.
Maybe on the other side of the chair, in that patch of absolute black.
Goddamn it. This just keeps getting better and better. Oh, hey, what do you know, there is a flashlight. Nice one too. One of those burn your eyes out tactical lights people were going crazy over before Outbreak Day.
I clicked the light on and my breath caught at what I saw. I was covered in sludge and soaking wet, with what smelled like freshly bottled skunk ass. My skin was pale and showed signs of being water logged. I had been in the river, and I had been there for some time. Unable to stand my state of being I rushed down hallway after hallway until I found a shower stall. Not caring about hot or cold water I turned the water on and scrubbed my watery grave from myself and my clothes. Fifteen, twenty minutes later, when I had stripped my clothes off and scrubbed myself a healthy, glowing red, I toweled off. Securing the towel around my waist, I laid my clothes and boots out to dry. A detail examination showed me I would need to pick up fresh clothes sooner rather than later. Carrying the Glock along for company I began a thorough search of Maxwells pad. From the décor I figured Maxwell had come to manhood during the sixties, but not the tie dyed, hippy free love sixties. And maybe not in the United States. Still, I ran across a few boxes of nine millimeter stacked on a bookshelf next to the Age of Innocence. Talk about depressing material. What the hell? Were the bullets there in case Maxwell was overwhelmed by the soul destroying agony of the novel? Whatever the reason, I ripped open a box of shells and reloaded the spent magazine. Facing a city full of undead cannibals and paid killers seemed entirely more doable with a loaded pistol. Still bare foot, I stomped back into the living room to collect any other of the wonderful thirty-three round fun sticks. A flurry of activity and I stood wrapped in a towel and armed with a machine pistol and two spare magazines. I was practically naked, armed, and slowly coming to terms with my new reality.
The rifle behind what I discovered was an armor plated table turned out to be an FAL, a venerable battle rifle used all over the world long before the ubiquitous M16 made its appearance. Time and monetary constraints always prevented me from acquiring one so I knew relatively little about operating one, but I figured it would function significantly better if the short stroke piston hadn't shattered.
“Son of a bitch on toast,” I muttered and turned the tactical light towards the door. Three dead men lay around the gaping front door. Covering the presumed dead men with the Glock 18, I moved closer to examine them. Judging by the football sized exit wounds these weirdos suffered, I'd have to conclude they were the last to die by Maxwell’s hand cannon. Looking closer at the men I was surprised to note they were all wearing makeshift armor composed of street signs and old tires.
“What the fuck? What post apocalyptic shithole did you assholes crawl out of?”
In all likelihood these are, or rather were, locals who escaped both the horde and the depredations of the remaining law enforcement element.
Yeah, I get that, but they look like rejects from the Road Warrior. Steel belted radials cut to fit like armor plates, street signs pounded into breast plates. It all looks a little too bizarre.
Says the naked man holding a machine pistol while examining a dead body.
That only gets weird if I should exhibit signs of sexual arousal, which I promise you will not be forth coming.
The only thing of value to be found among the dead was a shotgun, Mossberg twelve gauge pump. The weapon only held two shells, but the dead man carried another six in his pants pocket. Retrieving those rounds wasn't the most disgusting thing I'd ever done, but it was close enough I had to stifle a dry heave reaction.
My prize in hand I continued my search of the house. As conspiracy theorist, survivalist, and paranoid as Maxwell had been in life I couldn't believe the man didn't possess a boner inspiring stash of weapons somewhere in the house. A great many negative feelings were amassing as I tore through the little house like a tornado, but as I had told myself to I was compartmentalizing anything that might inhibit the success of my mission.
In the smallest room at the back of the house I struck pay dirt.
Somehow the petite size of the room didn’t match up with what my mind said should be there. Comparing that room with the small room on the other side of the hallway seemed to indicate work had been done to hide a significant space. Thirty minutes of destructive behavior uncovered a hidden door to a remarkable collection of weapons. Incredibly awesome Maxwell had stowed away a series of the choicest collectible bolt action rifles ever made along with antique pistols and revolvers I had never heard of, but the real prize of his collection, in my opinion, lay in the Colt M1917, .45 ACP revolver and the drop dead gorgeous Czech ZK-383 submachine gun. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't about to part with the Glock 18, not for a revolver that might not function. Hell, no. No, the revolver would join the Glock in saving my ass from the slings and arrows of outrageous private military killers and mindless cannibal eating machines. In short order I had a belt slung around the towel at my waist with the revolver holstered, with a pair of small pouches holding half moon clips of ammunition. My towel was now a redneck kilt.
