The Chaos Function

by Jack Skillingstead

  Olivia stood back, bumping into Brian. “Mr. Javadi?”

  “Leave now, or I summon the police.”

  “My name is Olivia Nikitas. I’m a friend of Helen Fischer’s. She told you about me.”

  The voice went quiet. Olivia and Brian looked at each other. The voice spoke again: “Helen didn’t say anything about there being two of you.”

  “She didn’t know.”

  Silence. It went on for two full minutes.

  “If you don’t open up,” Olivia said, “I’m going force the door. I know you won’t call the police. Nobody knows you’re here, and that’s how you want to keep it, right?”

  Nothing.

  Olivia started working the tapered end of the lug wrench between the door and jamb. Brian grabbed hold and helped her.

  “For God’s sake, stop,” the voice said.

  “Let us in and we will.”

  After another silence, Javadi said, “I need proof you’re who you say you are. Hold up some ID to the camera behind the light.”

  Olivia produced her driver’s license and showed it to the camera.

  “Not so close.”

  She pulled it back a little. A minute went by. “Well?”

  “Please wait.”

  A few minutes passed. Inside the shed, something clanked, and clanked again. After another minute, the door buzzed, the sound of an electric lock disengaging. Olivia handed the lug wrench to Brian and pulled the door open. Inside was . . . another door. The second door was set in a standing metal box about the size of a construction site’s chemical toilet. Dull amber light gleamed on steel plates lining the walls of the otherwise empty shed.

  “This place was built to take a serious hit,” Brian said.

  “I think it’s a bomb shelter. I mean underground, under our feet. That’s why no one sees him coming or going. The shelter is probably well provisioned.”

  The second door presented a handle with no moving parts and with a key pad and biometric thumbprint reader. Olivia reached for the handle . . . and stopped. On the floor was a small box, like the box an expensive pen would come in. She picked it up, removed the top. Inside was a disposable syringe, already loaded, a sealed packet containing a sterile swab, and two Band-Aids.

  “That the vaccine?” Brian said.

  “It must be.” She gripped the handle on the second door and pulled. The handle might as well have been welded to a wall. “Goddamn it.”

  “We’ve got the vaccine,” Brian said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Bri, there’s only one syringe, one dose.”

  “Oh. Shit.”

  Olivia looked up. She didn’t see another speaker grille, but she said, “Hello?”

  The steel-lined walls absorbed her voice. She yanked the lug wrench out of Brian’s hand and rapped on the metal door. “Hello?”

  Brian pulled on her arm. “Too loud. Jesus.”

  “Bri, one dose means only one of us gets vaccinated.”

  “Yeah, I get it. I’m not as dumb as I look.”

  She looked at her feet and back up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  “We both need sleep.”

  “And vaccine.” She stepped past him and out of the shed. He followed, and the door fell shut behind him. The lock engaged with a smart clack. “Hey.” Olivia waved at the camera. “Mr. Javadi. There’s two of us. We need two doses.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any more.”

  “Call Helen.”

  “I can’t do that, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Olivia stopped breathing. Her strength deserted her and she wanted to lean on something. Brian was handy. Instead, she braced her hand against the wall.

  “You didn’t know,” Javadi said.

  “She left me a vid. I’m not—I’m not surprised.”

  After a moment, Javadi said, “I only have enough left for my brother and his wife. They’re still in Charleston but are coming soon. I’d give you more if I could.”

  Next door, backyard floodlights came on.

  “Let’s go,” Brian said.

  “If you expose me,” Javadi said, “it won’t do you any good. You won’t get any more vaccine. I promise you that.”

  Olivia chewed her lip, trying to think.

  Javadi said, “Administer the shot intramuscularly. Do you know how to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Use multiple pricks to administer. At least four.”

  “I understand.”

  “Goodbye, then.”

  Olivia looked at the box in her left hand.

  “Liv?”

  “All right, all right.”

  They skulked back through the neighborhood and managed to reach Brian’s car unseen. Inside, Olivia removed the disposable syringe from the box. “We’re doing this right now.”

  “Great,” Brian said. “Where do I poke you?”

  Olivia shook her head. “Nope. You’re getting the shot.”

  “No.”

  “Bri—”

  “It’s not an option,” Brian said.

  “It’s me that got you into this mess in the first place. We’re not going to argue about it.”

  “You’re right,” Brian said. “We’re not going to argue about it. You’re taking the shot.” She started to interrupt him, and he held his hand up. “Just listen, okay? For one minute?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What if it’s all true, all that stuff about probability streams, everything you said that happened to you? You believe it, don’t you?”

  “You don’t.”

  “But you do.”

  “Brian, I don’t know what I believe.”

  “Yes you do. And not wanting to believe something isn’t the same as not believing it.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “So if it’s true, you have to take the shot. Because if I die, it’s no big deal. I mean in the grand scheme of things. But if you die, it’s bad for everybody on the planet. Right? So roll your sleeve up.”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes. “You just want to be a stud and save me. You think I hallucinated half the stuff I told you.”

  “So what? It’s not what I believe, it’s what you believe.”

  “Goddamn it, Bri.”

  “Well?”

  “You don’t get to talk me into sacrificing you.”

  Brian rolled his eyes. “God, you’re stubborn.” He reached over and grabbed the key fob. “But I am, too. We’re not going anywhere until I give you the shot.”

  “That’s infantile.”

  Brian stuffed the fob in his pocket. “So what?”

  Olivia sighed. “All right. Okay.  You’re making sense, as much as I hate to admit it.” She handed him the sealed packet. “Swab me first.”

  When he started to tear the packet open, Olivia yanked the sleeve of his T-shirt up to his shoulder and quickly jabbed the syringe four times into the thick deltoid muscle.

  “Ow.” Brian pulled away, rubbed his shoulder. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “Neither is contracting variola. Give me the swab.” He glared at her, and she plucked it out of his hand, wiped the four red dots on his arm, and covered them with a Band-Aid. As soon as she was done, Brian pulled his sleeve down like he wanted to rip it off.

  “Seat belt,” she said. “We’re going.”

  “Going where?”

  “To fix this mess.”

  * * *

  Olivia drove them out of Elmhurst, into the urban sprawl.

  Helen was dead.

  Olivia had already known that was probably true, but having Javadi confirm it—that made the reality sink in. She had known Helen for years, worked closely with her, argued with her, respected her. And Helen, even while dying, had tried to save Olivia by sending her to the vaccine. Olivia wanted to believe the end had been swift and not too painful, but she knew it hadn’t been. If reports and social media posts were reliable, this fully weaponized variola was hemorrha
gic, with close to a one hundred percent fatality rate. Helen’s death had likely been horrific.

  Grief expanded against Olivia’s barriers, like threatening floodwaters. She held it back, but there was seepage.

  A 7-Eleven came into view. Olivia wiped her eyes and pulled into the parking lot.

  “What now?” Brian asked, and she could hear how angry and hurt he was.

  “Brian, I had to do that. I had to give you the shot.”

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “I’m not going to watch you die. I can’t. I did once, but I can’t again. It’s not going to be my fault that you die twice. Do you understand?”

  Brian took a deep breath, closed his eyes a moment, and opened them. “It doesn’t matter if I understand. It’s done. By the way, I’m not thrilled about watching you die, either.” He pointed at the convenience store, but his face remained stony. “What are we doing here?”

  “I need wine. Cannabis would be better, but we don’t have time to find a shop.”

  “You want to get high? Now?”

  “In the tent, Alvaro gave me these narcotic leaves to chew. It’s part of the process for accessing the probability machine. Letting down natural barriers, something like that.”

  “Makes perfect sense.”

  She gave him a measuring look. “How long do you plan to be mad at me?”

  “I’m not mad at you.”

  “You are. And if you’re waiting for my repair attempt, forget it.”

  Brian made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You’re a lunatic.”

  “Anyway, I’ll be right back.” She started to climb out of the car.

  Brian put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get it. You need to stay away from people.”

  “All right.”

  He opened his door. “For the record, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself for not taking the syringe away from you when I should have known you’d jab me with it.” He got out, threw his door shut, entered the store. Taken it away from her? And he thought she was delusional.

  Olivia drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Brian returned to the car with two bottles of wine.

  “I got one white and one red.”

  Olivia pushed the ignition button. “You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Find us a motel, okay? I’m going to save the world.”

  Brian produced his phone and said, “Motels.”  Tiny glowing signs and logos sprouted like neon flowers in a palm-sized garden. He finger-flicked one. “Three Bells. About half a mile toward the city, right on this road.”

  Olivia cocked her elbow over the seat to look out the rear window and started to back up. Across the street, a battered Toyota pickup sat in front of a dollar store, grille facing the street, parking lights on. Olivia stepped on the brake.

  Brian looked out the rear window to see what she saw. “What’s wrong?”

  “That pickup.”

  “Is it them?”

  They both looked harder, trying to figure out if it was indeed Dee and Alvaro.

  Traffic intervened. A metro bus lumbered between them and the dollar store, and when it passed, the Toyota was gone.

  Olivia got off the main road and threaded through a series of back streets and alleys. She never caught another glimpse of the pickup.

  “Are you sure it was them?” Brian asked.

  “No, but I’m not taking chances.”

  Half of a red neon vacancy sign blinked in front of the Three Bells Motel: ANCY. A stone planter with some scraggly, weed-looking things sat in front of the office. Olivia parked and turned to Brian. “Classy.” Across the street was Big Jones Tires. A giant cutout of Big Jones himself stood on the roof, his arms in a muscleman pose, truck tires hanging from his biceps.

  “You didn’t say anything about quality.  Wait here. I’ll check us in.”

  “Brian? I’m going to fix this.”

  He nodded. “You keep saying that.”

  A few minutes later, Brian came out of the office with another man, probably the manager. He was short and almost perfectly round, a beach ball with arms and legs, a pair of suspenders, and a scraggly beard. The manager looked at Olivia and turned to go back into the office. Brian shrugged and followed him. The next time he came out, he was alone and holding a key.

  * * *

  Twin beds with a nightstand separating them. A Rorschach blot of indeterminate origin—coffee, blood, semen?—stained the bedspread on the mattress nearer the bathroom. Olivia looked at it and saw a squirrel. On the wall behind the beds hung a framed black-and-white photograph of a Chicago street scene out of the 1920s, everybody in the shot wearing a hat. Trapped under the glass of the cheap picture frame, a flattened bug looked like a cartoon bullet hole, its legs the radiating cracks.

  “I need to call my parents,” Brian said.

  “Don’t tell them where you are. I mean, not specifically.”

  “Why not?”

  “In case somebody’s listening.”

  Brian slipped his phone out. “You mean somebody besides the usual suspects, like Homeland Security?”

  “Yes.”

  Brian stood by the dresser, turning the phone in his hands. “Maybe you should call your people, too.”

  She looked up. “My people?”

  “I know you don’t want to call Rohana, but you must have other relatives, cousins, aunts and uncles.”

  “There are some cousins. I haven’t kept up.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Bri, I need to concentrate on what I’m about to do.” Olivia didn’t like being reminded of her fundamental disconnectedness from family. Rohana lived on the other side of the earth. It was so easy to make excuses for not seeing her that Olivia could fool herself into believing they weren’t excuses at all. At least, she could fool herself some of the time. The cousins, the aunts and uncles on the East Coast—she simply ignored them. Most of them she hadn’t seen since childhood, anyway. And she was so busy with the Disaster, who could expect her to maintain relationships with people she barely remembered?

  “Sure,” Brian said. “Okay.”

  Olivia retrieved a plastic cup from the bathroom and stripped away the clean-guarantee paper wrapper. Sitting on the bed nearest the window, she twisted the screw cap off the white wine and poured the plastic cup three-quarters full. Brian, still holding his phone, watched her. “Do you really need to get drunk first?”

  “Not drunk. Loose. I’m trying for something like what those leaves did to me.”

  “Like a narcotic that messes with your brain?”

  “Sort of.”

  He pointed at the bottle. “It’s probably going to take something fancier than Barefoot Cellars Chardonnay.”

  “It’s what I’ve got.”

  Olivia finished the wine in her cup and filled it again.

  Brian shifted his feet restlessly, looking unhappy. “You want me to be quiet while you . . . fix things?”

  “I don’t know. Yes. It’ll probably take a few minutes to get in the mode.” She sipped her second cup of wine, looked at it, and put the cup down. “Maybe that’s enough. Could you turn off that overhead light? But leave the lamp on.”

  Brian killed the overhead. Olivia lay back on the bed, folded her hands over her stomach, and closed her eyes. At once, despite her agitation, the exhaustion of more than thirty hours on the road swept through her. She yawned.

  After a while, Brian said, “How are you doing?”

  “Good, I’m good.” She toed off her shoes. One of them thumped on the floor. She pushed the other shoe with her foot but never heard it drop. She was so tired. Olivia found herself drifting down, like a diver in dark water, toward a murky light. Power emanations rippled through her. Olivia’s fear awoke, and she began to struggle, push back. But the light drew her down, grew sharper and more intense: a white ring of power.

  The halo.

  Eighteen

  Light overwhelmed her. Bri
lliant spokes radiated from a hub. The spokes glimmered, like a pre-migraine aura. She concentrated on Aleppo, the Old City, and saw the ancient buildings reduced to rubble by time and war. The crisis point. Olivia felt the power of the probability machine, the power of the halo. Besides being a crisis point, Aleppo was the epicenter of the world’s everyday Disaster. What if she used the probability machine to fix that—to nullify the Disaster? Fix things so that there’d be no civil war, hundreds of thousands would live, untold numbers of children would not be orphaned, treasured artifacts of the ancient world would avoid wanton destruction.

  Olivia trembled on the brink of godlike choices.

  And she pulled back from the staggering complexity. Even tracing to its origin a single aspect of the war would be like attempting to trace a single thread through an intricate tapestry.  The Disaster was too big for backtracking solutions. She could see that the Alvaro and Dee faction of the Society had this one aspect right: The power of the probability machine had to be restricted to immediate crisis points. As much as she might want to, she couldn’t surrender to the impulse to tinker with the daily Disaster. One manipulation would trigger who knew how many unintended consequences. She could make the Disaster worse than it already was.

  From the center of the halo, she concentrated: variola.

  And the halo zeroed in, like the objective lens of a microscope focusing on a drop of pond water. Numberless lives squirmed in the drop, a city’s population.

  The focus grew tighter.

  A dark, stone-walled room rose around her—the torture chamber beneath the madrassa in the Old City where Brian had died. But Brian wasn’t present now. This was before. Kerosene lanterns lighted the room, two of the lanterns on the floor. A clean-shaven man in Western clothes, jeans and a blue work shirt, held a third lantern in his fist, illuminating the old man stretched out on the table. Three other men stood around the periphery, and on the walls, their shadows pantomimed a conference of grotesques. They were all young, early twenties, except for one; that one, a slightly older man, had a scar like a trend line bisecting his eyebrow. Very distinctly, the scarred man said, “I won’t allow this.” He spoke with authority, and the others paid attention.