by Ian McCain
Gideon nods.
-- It is the only, but it isn’t the first. The first Farm was at best barbaric, the beginning step towards a system that could work. Inhumane. But the goal could be made nobler, or at least justified. You can set out as a principled man and find very quickly the flexibility that you have with your ethics when faced with the reality of challenge and adversity.
--Yes, great things are built on a foundation of death. I’ve read that half the buildings in the city generated double and triple-digit death tolls just in the process of erecting the monuments to mankind’s progress.
--Exactly. It was the endgame, the final goal that I concerned myself with. At first I fought the concept, thought that we could exist without the Farm, but it was impossible. The only hope we could have was to mitigate the damage of this curse. I did my part and learned what we needed to progress, how to progress, how to improve conditions and ensure that so many more would be viable and able to survive in a painless existence.
Ernie shakes his head in agreement. Reality is harsh, bad things happen, life is difficult—whether you end up a single parent raising more kids than you can handle, battling some sort of life-ending and crippling disease or some vegetative former gangbanger in the Farm. Life is hard. No one gets out without their bumps and bruises. No one makes it unscathed. Ernie continues.
--So what happens now?
--It depends, really.
--On what?
--Your eyes. I have seen those eyes before. Very few in the Organization have and fewer still know what they mean. I’d prefer to ensure that the narrative given to them stays unchanged. I will expect your cooperation with this.
--What about my eyes?
--Ernie, do not take me for a fool. I don’t know how… but I suspect that you are not just infected now, but are a carrier. You are contagious. A hair’s breath away from loosing the demon. There have been very few that I know of who are carriers.
--What? Like Jules and Chucky?
Gideon eyes Ernie suspiciously, and lets out a reluctant nod.
--Few as the number may be, there have been others, peppered throughout time. If I were forced to connect the dots I’d say something happened that pushed the Virus to shift from stable to seeking a new host. Then you fed, passing the infection on to your meal.
Ernie isn’t certain how to respond to the painfully accurate retelling of the events leading up to this conversation. And he definitely feels conflicted about bringing up the other farm… So many eyes like mine.
--You said that how we proceed depends. What does it depend on?
--On whether or not you locate the boy. The one eating half the city.
Ernie nods. Not sure he fully understands how Gideon can know so much. Ernie swallows the uncomfortable small talk brewing in his head.
--OK. I’ll find him.
--I know it goes without saying, but in case you were wondering, my generosity toward your daughter can just as easily become scorn, and no one wants that. So to be certain we are all on the same page, let’s set a timetable on this. Bring me the boy, or what remains of him, by the end of the week.
--That gives me less than two days.
--Yes, it does. Come, I imagine you’d like to get started.
Ernie and Gideon make their way out of the Farm. Gideon presses several buttons on the security panel and the doors close slowly behind him. Gideon grabs something from his pocket and presents it to Ernie. It is a larger twenty-dram vial of product.
--In case you need it. We don’t need more infected out there. Keep it in check.
Ernie nods, maneuvers back through the foul scent of intake, where Gideon lets him back into the main building. Ernie quickly heads down to the garage to start his efforts to find the infected punk out killing the city.
***
With the sun now filling the sky, spilling its light on the city below, Ernie knows full well that his ability to locate the boy is more than hampered. At best he might be able to sneak through the subways, but to where? To what end? Where will he even start his search?
Back to Morris Heights. Which will undoubtedly be crawling with police and dogs and all sorts of other organized people looking for the same thing Ernie is, only most of them will be errantly looking for an animal. Not a person. It will probably take several hours before the coroner will identify that the bite marks on all the victims come from a human mouth. And longer still for them to even begin to grasp what could be out on the streets. Some will think it was some crazy kid hopped up on bath salts, or maybe a dog gone rabid, but certainly no one will expect the truth. So, hard as it is to stomach, Ernie is going to have to use what little time he has to his advantage to track down this newly infected punk before the kid really starts to figure out what is going on. Whatever it’s worth, this is the best time and best chance for him to gain some ground in his search.
After leaving the Organization’s main building Ernie heads toward the closest subway intake. It’s more than a block away, but thanks to a small piece of luck the sky is overcast. The light diffuses slightly through puffy grey clouds holding onto rain, waiting to empty their contents on to the ground below. Still, even with the filter of rain clouds in the sky the light coming through burns like fire. So Ernie does his best to stick under the awnings of the building and tuck tight against walls of storefronts and apartment walk-ups. His pace is determined, fast enough to be a little remarkable but not so quick as to draw overwhelming attention—well, any more than an aging, intensely photophobic person would do. Once again he finds himself thankful that he lives in a town where eye contact is almost always avoided.
As he ducks down into the entry for the Number 5 Lexington Express Line heading north to the Bronx, he realizes that the chances of him being successful in tracking down this rogue are at best unlikely. He tries to think on how all these revelations may well be intertwined: the other infected in the city, Gideon’s candid awareness of Ernie’s predicament.
As the train pulls into the station Ernie’s visage has returned to its handsome prime, though the effects of the sun are starting to stir his need to feed. He can feel the first tingle of pressure from the Virus, its gentle nudge for him to take in more blood. The sun always seems to burn through the product more than injury does. Ernie can mangle several bones in his body and be good with just a few drams, but staying in the light, it takes more out of you.
The amount Gideon set him up with is more than enough to last him over a week, but he will need to meter out its usage. It’s a dangerous game for him to go without, and he is still not aware of what will happen if his hunger pangs go beyond a simple nudge. He decides that he will shoot up before getting all the way into the city, but his needles are still at the house and his emergency spare was destroyed when he drained the banger last night.
The easiest thing to do is to locate some needle chucked somewhere by some dopehead. Years ago this would have been a much easier prospect, but now that New York has taken a vested interest in making the subways more family-friendly he will have to do some foraging to locate anything.
The best place to look is near the ends of the subway station loading area. City workers are notorious for taking shortcuts with their cleanup and he is not the least bit surprised when he quickly identifies a needle sticking out from some trash that has just been swept down on to the tracks. He waits for the platform to clear out a little and quickly and inconspicuously drops down onto the tracks. He grabs the needle and pulls himself back up onto the platform in a feat of amazing acrobatics.
As he looks at the needle he is sickened by what he sees. It is rusted and bent, the lingering contents of God only knows what congealed and hugging on to the interior plastic walls of the barrel and plunger. Only a crazy person would stick something so disgusting into their arm. But Ernie knows full well that there is nothing he can throw at the Virus that it can’t kill. He can empty a syringe full of Ebola straight into his bloodstream and the Virus will devour it a moment later.
/> So with this in mind he tucks under one of the sections of stairs—most have been encircled in chain link, but he quickly finds one that has an opening. He settles into the space and tears off a piece of caution tape that has at some point blown into the gate to tie off. He draws out a few ccs into the needle, looks around to ensure that no one is watching and eyeballs the dirty plastic full of crimson.
Addicts will often talk about a love affair with the needle. That the greatest point of anticipation comes from loading up their needle and finding a vein, as if the pinprick of pain is the toll that they pay for the euphoria of its substance. That the rush begins not with the drugs hitting but with that brief moment of anxiety right before the drugs kick in. Ernie is no different. He may be a man incapable of catching a traditional high anymore, but he has always been an addict in one sense or another, be it booze or this new master. He finds a vein, presses the slightly deformed needle into his arm and pushes down on the plunger.
Typically, using again so soon would simply mean that there is no bliss, only the enlivening sense of vitality and the expansion of senses. Since his brush with the Rage however he finds himself not in a state of bliss, but convulsing in pain, with only faint wisps of the bliss nipping at him. It’s as if the Virus is telling him that it needs more, that more would mean that he would be rewarded with the bliss. The pain is so intense though that he doesn’t dare go for a second dose.
His mind is bombarded with senses, a very strong expansion of his already intense consciousness of the world around him. Heartbeats, conversations, footsteps, car engines, music, scents of food and garbage and urine. A vast world of input stops his thoughts, filling him up with sense memories and rendering the world around him inside his mind. He tries to swallow down his awareness, to focus on what is nearby, to block out the disharmony of noises and smells and tastes filling his awareness.
With the Virus sated and the pain subsided, he scoots back out from under the stairs and heads over to the platform to board the next train. A pretty girl stands at the station thirty or so feet from him, smiling at him coyly. He returns the look, almost out of obligation. Her pulse flutters at his smile as she tucks her hair behind her ear. He can sense her visceral reaction to his subtle flirting. Hear her swallow down her excitement. Smell the musk of her body as it fills the air with pheromones and bombards her system with oxytocin. See her irises expand and contract in excitement. He is more aware of her body’s reaction than she is.
The girl returns to listening to the music on her iPod, some sort of electronica that Ernie can hear in his head as if he were the one wearing headphones. She continues to steal looks at Ernie. However, he has no interest in continuing the demure advances.
Ernie steps up to board the train when he hears it rumbling into the station but it is a solid two minutes before it actually arrives. Ernie, unfamiliar with his heightened senses, believed it to be far closer than it actually was. The train’s squeal nearly deafens him as it approaches.
He forces himself onboard and leans on the handrail on the opposite door, doing well trying to go into his own mind to block out his senses. Mapping out what he believes could have transpired the previous night. What may have happened after Ernie dripped polluted blood on some unsuspecting banger. What he doesn’t understand is how and why the kid would have gone berserk like that so quickly. The urge to feed wouldn’t manifest itself for a while, and certainly there would have been no reason for the boy to go into a Rage. Assuming of course that what Ernie knows of the Rage is in fact accurate, which is seeming more and more likely to not be the case.
***
The trek into Morris Heights moves much quicker than Ernie expects and before he knows it he is in the heart of the Bronx. The Bronx is primarily a black neighborhood, and Ernie notes that the passengers have been getting darker with each stop and quickly Ernie is a rare commodity on the train. As the train makes its way out of open cuts in the underground line into the above ground passages Ernie is forced to tuck back into the train near the pass-through door. Even with the light being diffused by the overcast sky, it still makes his skin burn. Had he taken the time to prepare, thrown on a long-sleeved jacket and hoodie, it would be a bit easier to make it through these sections. As the train nears its final stop Ernie is tapped on the shoulder by a homeless man making his rounds through the train.
--Hey, gimme dolla.
The foul scent from the man is appalling to Ernie, and mixed with the scent of halitosis, booze and urine is some sort of blood infection. Sepsis? This man is sick and Ernie can smell it seeping out of his pores. The pain of the light is harsh but tolerable. He isn’t certain of the impact it is having on him, but his recent re-up on the product was definitely a good call. He grabs a twenty from his pocket and gives it to the beggar. Partly out of a sense of obligation to his kindred, but mostly so that the man will just go away.
Finally the train rolls into the Morris Park station. The doors open onto an exterior station platform, with entrances leading into the old concrete building. The entire space was originally designed to interact with the heavy steam trains of the early 1910s, and even with all the modifications done in the last few decades you can see the ghosts of the original concrete mission-style façade and architecture. The north end of the station is in a tunnel while the south end is an embankment with arched windows cut into the stationhouse.
Ernie exits the train, taking cover in the shade of the crossover. Already he has been getting glances from the locals, puzzled looks wondering why this white punk is in this area, or perhaps why this old white man is wearing young hipster kid clothes. He doesn’t know for sure that his appearance is holding up and at this point doesn’t really care.
He eyes his surroundings, trying to figure out the next step of his plan. He knows that it will be impossible to simply locate this banger without using his senses and trying to think how this kid will react to the discoveries of his new abilities and limitations. The first few weeks with the infection are all about wrapping your head around the changes. For Ernie they were all drastic: mental clarity, healthy body, no more getting drunk. Who knows what the change will feel like to someone who is already healthy?
Ernie focuses on his sense of smell, trying to isolate the scent of the Virus. Like a six-foot-tall bloodhound, he sniffs at the air, trying to lock onto any hint of it. It’s a long shot but about the only one he has right now. With the sun up he can’t just scour the streets, not without eventually causing a scene, and that much time under direct sunlight is gonna cause a major Virus problem.
As he sniffs the air he imagines what the boy would have thought when he awoke with the evidence of all those horrors on his hands. Probably doesn’t even give a shit. But he most certainly would become aware of the sunlight.
Based on the path of destruction, it seems like the majority of the action happened around this area. Ernie can hear people in the distance talking about the rabid animal in the streets, so he knows he is at least close to the scene.
He plays out the situation from the perspective of the boy. You live in a shithole town, have a shithole life and are totally familiar with death and violence. You think you have killed some guy in the street but then find yourself attacked by the same guy, only now he is leaking blood from his mouth all over you. The same bizarre monster sticks a needle in your arm and drains out blood, and then injects himself and passes out. As you run for help or to hide, you see that all your friends are beaten or dead and so you just run. You run into the street, but can’t go toward the familiar corner, ’cause it’s likely got the police there now. So you run where? To someplace you feel safe, to someplace you feel like you can protect yourself. A gang headquarters?
He thinks of how the boy would respond to finding himself compelled by something terrible, something uncontrollable that drives you to feed on people. Once the first drop hits your tongue you are in a haze of joy and carnage. Time has no meaning, your actions have no consequence, you lose your ability to conscious
ly control your intentions, you only retain some vague connection to your humanity, as if you are watching from a distance as your body does what it is driven to do. In Ernie’s case the only time he found himself in a bloodlust was when he overused his small stash. Had he been on the streets and been tempted to tap a vein in some passerby, he would be in the same situation as this punk. Perhaps that is the important component of Gideon’s Farm. It does prevent killing.
Ernie is thinking about where the banger might go when the sun came up, certain that the sting of the sunlight would shake him from the bliss and push him to instinctually find shelter, when he catches it. His scent, but not from him. It’s the same but different. The way a mother animal can smell its cub. He knows the smell, and knows that it is somehow a part of him. It retains some small lingering essence of Ernie, but it is also changed. In movies they would call it the sire bond. The link between progeny and master. Considering that most everything related to the lore though is at best half-truths and at most just a bunch of made-up bullshit, Ernie doesn’t give the realization much reverence.
Once he has the smell in his nose he is able to focus down on it, filter out everything else but the Virus. As he does he again begins to see the ghost of the vapor trail, the lingering particles of the Virus hanging in the air. His eyes begin to spill over to black as he strains. The faint mist of molecules seems to spill into the subway line.
No. They spill out from the subway line.
--Of course.
Ernie shakes his head. Back into the tunnels, that’s where he would go, only a small fence to keep him from gaining access, no doors. That’s where the punk would run. Chances are also good that he is wide awake, aware, having come to terms with the changes. The only question is whether or not he understands what is happening to him. Does he realize that he is infected with something dangerous, or does he just revel in the amazing feeling of youth and strength?
