by Arthur Stone
For no reason in particular, they decided to drive around the tractor, then towards the village with the grain elevator, claiming to seek medical help—when in fact they were, as Boiler had suggested, checking out his story.
That was fine, apart from one all-permeating problem, a threat obvious to him yet quite unknown to the newcomers. According to a snippet of conversation he remembered from Nimbler, plus some odds and ends here and there, few were immune to this mysterious infection. Only a handful. The bulk of humanity became those carnivorous infecteds. Boiler didn’t know whether this could be delayed or prevented. In his case, the transition had been immediate, from his perspective. He spent a few hours of the night unconscious, due to that blow to his head, and during that time everyone had become ghouls, wandering or crawling the Earth. Soon afterward he had encountered the zombies who could make quick, short leaps. No runners had been about yet, but some mature, highly-developed beasts had been attracted by the promise of meat from a fresh cluster.
Most new immunes likely perished on their first day here, succumbing to ignorance of this new world around them. The stupid empties, meanwhile, either became food for the advanced zombeasts or managed to find enough food to advance themselves. The cluster would thus continually die out until no one was left but a few strong predators, eating the last of the weaklings or even each other. Each cluster became like the village they would soon enter, an open graveyard with none but a few dangerous infected predators in the whole neighborhood. All the rest either ended up in somebody’s belly or left to seek a wealthy stable cluster. Not a bad place to look for spores and peas—and a few scars and bruises. And perhaps some fatally memorable adventures.
Boiler had taken out three ghouls there, but there was at least one raffler left, crippled but still alive. It was certainly weaker than the one that had almost eaten him in the city, but still dangerous as hell. Boiler had dealt it significant damage, but that was little comfort. The beast had, after all, subsequently feasted on a rich portion of delicious food: the fresh flesh of an immune.
He wondered how quickly the raffler could recover from his wounds. Just over an hour had passed, which seemed like a short time. But who knew what these ghouls’ regeneration could do? Boiler felt like a new man after a couple of sips of lifejuice. And in the rear-view mirror, he could see that the brutal abrasions he had received yesterday had vanished, and his scabs had already begun to flake off, revealing a healthy pinkish skin underneath. That was too fast. He had never seen anything heal like that.
Even the pain in his leg was almost gone. A rusty piece of metal had stuck deep in his leg, in filthy water, but now it showed no redness, no swelling—it even looked like his skin was growing back together without the need for stitches.
So immunes, like infecteds, were not the same as before. Too bad Nimbler and he had needed to split up so quickly. He possessed too many questions, the answers difficult to unravel on his own, and his “godfather” had overflowed with information.
That reminded him of another question, one not so important, but still intriguing: What was with the cat? Why was he chewing on that spore? And then why’d he give it back? Was he trying to hint to Boiler that the man should share the life-giving nectar with his pet now and then? Far too smart for an animal. Or perhaps he was also an immune, and that was heightening his reasoning abilities.
After all, some kinds of animals could become infecteds. Nimbler has mentioned that. So why wouldn’t cats be among them? He was very healthy, well over twenty pounds heavy. Surely that was extraordinary for a cat, right? Unless he really was just of a giant breed. He was, incidentally, the only cat Boiler had encountered these past couple of days. Once he had thought he saw a pair of dogs run across a hill in the distance, but he wasn’t sure. There were certainly no goats, no cows, and no other mammals around, just birds, bugs, and some lizards.
The car hit another pothole. Boiler squinted out the window and saw a familiar spot. He sneered. “The road’s about to change. Right in the middle of this field, it’ll suddenly become brand new pavement, even though the street you’re on has all these cracks and holes and weeds claiming it. But you’ll still act like everything is normal, since that’s more convenient.”
“Will you ever shut up about that?” the captain replied, wearily.
“What? It’s my favorite topic of conversation, as you already know. Especially since it’s all true. Come on, just look around and think about it! Admit to yourself that you’ll never see the hospital or your home again.”
“We’ll see how your tune changes once we reach that village,” the young man said with a chuckle, as he drove around a big crack in the roadway and then hit the gas. The car began whizzing along, smoothly, almost noiselessly, with no potholes whatsoever. Even if they had blindfolded him, Boiler would have noticed they were no longer in the stable.
He warned them. “You might see lots of new things in this village, so keep your guns at the ready. They probably won’t help, but you never know.”
“We don’t need a lesson from you on how to hold our arms,” said the young man, but not aggressively. Perhaps the sudden change in the pavement had made him reconsider his prisoner’s story.
* * *
Soon they reached the very same wall along which Boiler had experienced all of those unforgettable adventures. From a distance, he saw the ghoul’s body sitting untouched and could not help but smirk. “Looks like we’ll stay alive for now. That dead man over there hasn’t been eaten yet, so there must not be many of the beasts around.”
“Dead man? Did you kill him?” asked captain in a strange tone of voice.
“Yeah. I admit it. You can take my signed confession if you want. But first let’s go look at the scene of the crime.”
The cat sprang out of the car, parked himself three paces away from the corpse, and began to diligently lick himself clean. Boiler waited for the man with the mustache to approach before he began.
“Alright then, here you see the victim of my heinous crime. I hereby officially confess that I killed this person with my own hands, without the help of any accomplices, with an ax as my weapon. The deceased has been lying here, dead, for over an hour now. Observe, if you please, that this is a rather large village in the middle of the day, but no crowds of onlookers or bustling policemen are on the scene. How could this have happened? You will, of course, point out that no one has been traveling this particular road, as there were no cars or pedestrians seen on the way. And suggest that the residents of these houses have not yet looked out their windows. And claim that the guard of that grain elevator is napping, and the workers are all on strike. But now take a closer look at this fine citizen. Doesn’t he look unusual to you? Above his belt, we see a dirty jacket and shirt, but below his belt, we see nothing at all. You might assume that this is a homeless person without a place of residence, but how often have you seen a homeless person roaming the street with his ass bared, and with such poor hygiene?”
“This is no joking matter,” said the captain, squatting down in front of the corpse.
“I’m not the one who started the conversation. If you want a serious conversation, then start taking what I say seriously.”
“Alright, let’s hear these fables of yours.”
“Infecteds lose their human appearance over time and have no need for good hygiene. But their bodies still function. They still need food, and they still eliminate waste, but they find that pulling down their pants is a major problem. Why should they bother? They don’t have time for such things. So all of that good stuff ends up crammed in you-know-where, and eventually, once the weight inside is heavy enough, the item in question comes off, belt or no belt. The creature steps out of the discarded pants and continues its newly unencumbered wandering. That’s what happened here.”
“Yeah, the bottom of his shirt is all stained,” said the young policeman in disgust.
Boiler crouched down by the captain and pointed at the beast’s head. “One more thi
ng. Have you ever seen the back of a man’s head look like that?”
“It looks like a tumor,” the captain offered.
“Yes, it does,” Boiler agreed. “The locals call these ‘spore sacs.’ This one is currently empty and dry. You can touch it if you want—it doesn’t bite. Over there, back behind those lilac bushes, you’ll find fresh human bones from the guy I borrowed that rifle and sawed-off from. He was too distracted by his attempts to shoot me, and one of these creatures, though a much more dangerous one, crept up behind him and tore into him with its teeth. Teeth which are sharper than tiger teeth. They severed an artery on the first bite.
“Look at this corpse. See his nails? They’re like tiny pointed shovels. If I hadn’t have killed him today, this thing would’ve matured and gotten more and more beastlike. His nails would have turned gradually into claws, and his old teeth would have fallen out and new, meat-ripping teeth would have appeared. Those new teeth would be unable to fit in his normal jaw, so his jaw would expand. His digestive system would transform into one capable of processing large quantities of meat at once. His speed, reaction time, wits, and strength would improve, and heavy armor plates would grow over his vital organs, even as his other bones grew larger and much stronger. All of these changes would have, over time, made him look less and less human. The most dangerous of these creatures have no resemblance to us whatsoever. I’m glad I haven’t encountered them yet, since few have hope of surviving such an introduction.
“There’s only one beast in this village right now, one of the weaker ones. I managed to give it a good beating, but I’m not sure how badly it’ll be wounded by this point. It could be watching us from the brush right now, planning how it’s going to kill us. It’s a gluttonous beast. Needs a lot of meat. The creatures will eat any kind of meat, but immunes or people who haven’t succumbed to the infection yet are a delicacy to them, so if I were you, I’d get out of here, and fast.”
“This guy’s delirious,” said the young man, shaking his head sadly.
“Fine! If you don’t feel like living, take a stroll through the village,” Boiler suggested. “You’ll see a couple of corpses just like this one and piles of bones from the people who used to live here. It won’t take long. They’re all over the place.”
“Let’s skip the tour. I believe you,” the captain said, her voice much different than before.
“What?” Her partner couldn’t believe it.
“I believe him.”
“Not you, too! Is his insanity catching?”
“Did you see the sign just before the turn? How far have we gone, do you think? Maybe twenty, thirty kilometers. I have never heard of the towns named there, and I’ve lived here all my life. So where are we?”
The mustached man shook his head. “There’s something familiar about the place, but you’re right, it’s not our area.”
“This felt like something paranormal even without these corpses, but with them—Boiler, or whatever you call yourself, could you please tell us the whole story again, in detail?”
“I’ve told it ten times by now! My jaw is tiring.”
“Well, one last time, from the beginning. In order, omitting no details, no skipping ahead and no getting distracted. Just tell us everything you’ve seen. No jokes, just explanations—otherwise at the end I may still be the only one who believes you, and only in part.”
* * *
“Are you sure, Captain?” asked the young officer.
After a moment’s hesitation, the woman nodded. “I have a lot of experience, and my intuition tells me this will be best for everyone.”
The young man sighed and turned the key. The cuffs released Boiler’s hands, and he rubbed them contentedly in gratitude to his former captors. “I appreciate your understanding.”
“Why the hell did you set him free?” the old man cried out as he emerged from the car, where he had been busying himself with the wounded woman.
“In a situation like this, another set of hands could stand us in good stead. Uncuffed hands. These are dangerous places,” the captain explained.
“I suppose you’re going to arm this bandit, too?” protested the man, looking ready to explode.
“Not a bad idea,” said Boiler in agreement.
The officer shook her head. “You’ll make do.”
“Then what use is my ‘set of hands?’ I’m not exactly a mountain of a man, going around crushing skulls with my bare fingers.”
“Well, sir,” the young man said sarcastically, “just say the word and I’ll give him my pistol.”
“This is not the time for jokes, Lieutenant. Boiler, you weren’t just out on a joyride. You were riding that bike somewhere, with some goal in mind. What was it?”
“Doesn’t matter now.”
“It might.”
“Remember that place with the ruined pavement and the rusted-out tractor sitting across the road? Where we met.”
“What of it?”
“Places like that are called stables. Not for horses—it’s short for ‘stable clusters.’ This entire place is divided up into sectors, like honeycomb, or like those hex war games you might have played as a kid. They’re not uniform in shape and size, though, unlike those games. But those are just details. You get the basic idea.”
“We want to hear the details, too.”
“Look, I’m trying to retell all the snippets I’ve heard here and there since yesterday. Unless I keep things simple, we will all end up confused. Alright. One of these cells is called a ‘cluster.’ Your cluster happened to reset while you were located inside of it, so you ended up here. Later it will reset again, and more people will end up here. It’s a sort of trap. If you had been even a foot outside of that cluster when the reset happened, you would’ve been fine. You just got unlucky.”
The young officer was shaking his head yet again. “If this was true, everybody would know about it. You can’t just cover up mass disappearances. It’s not just people, either—our car came with us, and other vehicles, too. And these houses, roads, and a grain elevator.”
Boiler didn’t want to complicate the discussion with abstract concepts like the multiverse theory and the infinite multiplicity of worlds, so he came up with something simpler.
“Some people believe we are not really ourselves but copies of ourselves, and of course we would have no idea that that was the case. Inanimate objects are copied as well, meaning that nothing disappears, so no one notices anything disappearing. Every once in a while, a particular section of the surface of the earth and everything in it at that moment is copied, so every unstable cluster is re-populated now and then. Most people are consumed by older, mature infecteds, since they come in unready and everything happens so suddenly. The luckiest immunes survive, and the luckiest infecteds, assuming they find enough food, become mature beasts over time.”
“So what do that pavement and that rusted tractor have to do with any of this?” the captain said, confused.
“There are some clusters that never reset—or they reset so rarely that no one living remembers the last time. The locals call them stable clusters, or just stables. Everything within these clusters has been around for decades or longer, so you see buildings decaying, pavement breaking up, and vehicles rusting. Whenever you see roads filled with potholes and no sign of fresh footprints, you’re probably in a stable. Things you leave there won’t disappear in a reset before you get back. It’s a small island of stability in this sea of madness.”
“So what if a person stays in a cluster when it resets?” the captain asked. “Will he go back home?”
“I thought the same thing.”
“And you asked someone?”
“Yes. In short, no, you would stay here. Worse, resets are dangerous for living beings like us, and you should avoid being inside them or you’ll experience no end of consequences. But I’ve also heard there are sizable, populous stables out to the west. Clusters where you can build homes, take shelter from the beasts, even tend fields i
f you want to, and the things you build there won’t be lost in the next month or two since those clusters don't reset.”
“Do these places have hospitals?” the man with the mustache asked brusquely.
Boiler shrugged. “I don’t know, but surely they have some kind of medicine. Supply and demand.”
“Doctors are always in demand,” nodded the captain. “Do you know how to get to these stables?”
“How should I know?”
“You said you’ve talked with people who know.”
“I didn’t ask where they were, though. I’ve just been blindly pedaling my way out west, with no information to guide me, investigating and exploring when I see signs of a stable. So far I haven't seen any large stables—they have all been smaller than a half mile across. The one where we ran into each other was the largest, but it seems empty.”
“Are you sure?”
“I struck out left and right of the road whenever possible, and always ran into a noticeable border with cultivated fields on one side and really tall weeds on the other. Seems like this stable just runs along that road and has little room on either side of it.”
“Got it.”
“So the only option I see is going West and continuing the search. We should find someone sooner or later.”
“Almost everyone who comes here is infected, right?”
“I don’t know that for sure; I’m trying to put the pieces together here. But I didn’t see any other newcomers in my cluster. Perhaps things really are that bad.”
“We've got four people, and none of us looks like these zombies of yours.”
“So you either have luck on your side or the infection hasn’t taken hold yet. How are you feeling?”
