Eden Green

by Fiona van Dahl

  The hell with it. I need to go home. I need a shower and a change of clothes and about fourteen hours of non-heroin-induced sleep. Might as well call in. I fish my phone out of my pocket and speed-dial my boss.

  He picks up on the third ring. “Are you okay?”

  “Er. Yeah. I just need to call in. I’m not feeling good—”

  “Oh, my God,” he whispers. “You haven’t seen the news.”

  Ice water pours down my back and pools in my stomach. “What news?” I blurt, trying much too hard to sound calm.

  “Check the news. I’ll call you the moment we know what we’re doing. Jesus, when we didn’t hear from you, we thought you might have been there. I’ll call you.” Boop boop boop.

  I change lanes and pull over into a gas station parking lot. The moment I’m in ‘park’, I pull up my news app. I start to skip the front page in favor of local, then freeze. My city’s name is on the national front page.

  MASSIVE EXPLOSION IN GOTHIC, AR

  Dept. of Emergency Mgmt spokesman: ‘Four city blocks leveled overnight’

  Cont’d.: ‘Situation under control, investigation under-way’

  Area cordoned off, HAZMAT teams spotted

  I have to read the article top-to-bottom three times before it all begins to register: At the same time Ron and Tedrin and I were fighting the giraffe, another monster or twenty appeared out of nowhere closer to the heart of the city, on a gentrified block that had been turned into shops and offices, including that of my employer. In the resulting chaos, all buildings on that block were destroyed. (There goes my ironic kitten-a-day calendar.)

  Five found dead, seventeen injured, an unknown number missing. Speculation that if ‘the attack’ had come during the day, the death toll would already be in the hundreds. Government spooks everywhere. All first-hand witnesses quarantined. Rumors that the military was brought in to quell ‘the attack’. Shrieks about al Qaeda and fracking and God punishing us for having more than two flavors of yogurt and alien abductions and there’s a YouTube link and I’m afraid to click it, but I see ‘1,049,449 views’ and ‘uploaded 6 hours ago’ and my finger moves by itself and there’s a giraffe darting from alley to alley and picking up screaming bystanders in its hooked maw, and behind it something unspeakably gigantic writhes in the shadows—

  I turn off my phone’s screen and begin quietly repeating to myself, “This is my life now.”

  Every few seconds for the entire rest of the drive home: “This is my life now.”

  Shuffling through my key ring to find the one for my apartment door: “This is my life now.”

  Stripping on the way from door to shower, pulling off shirt and pants and bra and panties and socks, all of them speckled or soaked through with my blood: “This is my life now.”

  Standing under the shower stream, gently tapping my forehead against the glass stall door: “This is my life now.”

  Brushing my long, brown hair in front of the mirror: I pause, staring at my reflection. There’s something subtly off about my face. There are tiny furrows in my skin, full of needle-flesh. My face is being reconstructed. There’s already no sign of how smashed and bloodied it was only a few hours before. Anyone I meet on the street will think I’m still human, made of harmless little round cells. Hell, most of me still is.

  I lean in close, until my nose is almost pressing against the mirror, and I turn on the little decorative lamp I keep on the sink. In the extra light, I can see nigh-microscopic pine needles forming patterns in the skin of my upper lip. They’re mesmerizing.

  I pick up the lamp, unplug it, and ram it against the mirror as hard as I can.

  A small dent appears in the middle.

  I scream incoherently and hit it again, and this time it shatters. Shards fly everywhere, though all avoid me. I keep smashing, knocking pieces out of the frame, then busting apart the frame. Then I throw the lamp against the wall and shriek at the pieces.

  Now I’m standing in the middle of my living room, hands in my wet hair, dressed only in a towel.

  Why the hell did I warn Tedrin that I’d be trying to figure out how to kill him? I’d just gotten done telling him that if he’d been more subtle, used more lies, he’d have fooled me into being on his side. And then thirty seconds later I threw away the chance to be part of his inner circle, always within stabbing distance of his back. Stupid!

  Is it too late to text him — I’d have to get his number from Ron — and say I’ve changed my mind, I must have been hormonal, tee hee, golly I’d sure love to be a team player — I can already picture him rolling those psycho eyes. Even if he bought it, I’m not sure I could keep up the pretense when the thought of him makes my skin crawl.

  He could be coming to kill me right now. Of course, it’d look bad; Ron would have to get suspicious if I turned up dead in my apartment right after swearing a blood oath against her boyfriend.

  But I keep forgetting: I can’t be killed.

  Slowly, I lower my hands from my hair.

  Of course, I’d like to remain as human as possible for as long as possible. But, assuming Tedrin was telling the truth and I can actually survive complete destruction of my own brain . . .

  Holy balls, I’m immortal.

  Questions start spinning through my head. Will I age? Is my sensation of pain diminished — or heightened? How much strength, stamina, and speed will I gain as I become more needle-y? Do the needles only spread when I’m injured, or are they even now taking over my body? If so, at what rate? Can I consciously manipulate the needles? Tedrin must, to make his fingers long and pointed, and to constrict his eyes. How much control is theoretically possible? Is he capable of more and just hasn’t shown us?

  Okay, biology. Am I sterile? If I were impregnated, would the needles take over the embryo, or form some sort of human-needle hybrid? Hell, not that I’ve ever had an interest, but can I still have sex? Or would micro-needles inside me tear my partner to shreds? Now there’s a wince-worthy thought. Then I realize that, if that’s true, my only choices in sexual partner are Tedrin or any man I care to infect. Now there’s a nauseating thought.

  For the first time, I inspect my left arm, curious about why the thorns branched down there. I find a shallow gouge in the skin of my wrist, the size of a quarter, angry red like the fresh scars across Ron’s stomach. Squinting, I can see little needles in the surface of the wound. But how did I— Oh. When I shot the door open last night, a flying chunk of wood hit my arm. I barely noticed it at the time, but judging from the size of the wound, it must have bled. The thorns dutifully repaired it.

  My lip curls. I want to throw up.

  A few minutes later, I find myself sitting on a stool in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. Food still tastes the same, and I still need it. Honestly, that’s one thing I wish immortality would do away with. Preparing and consuming food has always been one of the most annoying parts of my existence.

  More and more questions are pouring into my head. I pull my magnetic whiteboard off the front of the refrigerator and start jotting them down in shorthand. Translated into proper English:

  Can I infect others? (Tedrin is ‘first-generation’, whereas the blood of ‘second-generation’ hosts like Ron and I might be too diluted.) Another factor: Do I have to be completely converted in order to infect others? (Just in case, I can never give blood again. I need to remove myself from the organ donor list.)

  How are these needles able to defy the laws of thermodynamics? (I’m assuming the cells are basically tiny needles that self-replicate to mimic host flesh. Added to shopping list: Compound microscope, blank slides, eyedroppers . . .) Where do they get the material to create new cells, and how can they construct new structures so quickly? If they’re absorbing energy from my body, why don’t I have a ravenous appetite and signs of dehydration and exhaustion? (Ah, but Tedrin mentioned drinking lots of water . . .)

  How was Ron able to repeatedly destroy her hands and feet with barely a wince? Is her pain threshold really that much hig
her than mine? Or is it possible to cut off pain altogether?

  I need to check pet stores for lab mice and get three, and experiment with exposure to the needles. That’s assuming any mammal can be a vector, maybe even any living organism, but mice are a good start. I’d keep one as a control, expose one to my saliva, and expose the other to my blood. Once one becomes infected, monitor its behavior. Does conversion cause sociopathic tendencies? Experiment with damaging its body — amputation, severe burning, shooting it point-blank with my shotgun—

  I firmly place the mouse torture scenarios on a back burner and write the central goal at the top of the board in big letters: ‘KILL TED’, with a little skull to cheer myself up.

  Come to think of it, why are giraffes and spiders and whatever baddies we’ll inevitably face — why are they mortal but Tedrin is the goddamn Terminator? Is there a biological reason — nervous system? — or does God just not like me?

  Facebook dings on my phone somewhere in the living room. I leave my empty cereal bowl in the sink and tote the whiteboard along with me. I find my jeans near the front door and dig through the pockets to find my phone.

  Ron has messaged me: ‘look at the news’.

  I send back, ‘saw, at least I don’t have to go to work’.

  ‘no, look now’.

  My stomach tingles. Phone in one hand, whiteboard in the other, still wearing only a towel, I sit down at my PC and bring it out of hibernation. Then I load up my news source of choice. Top story:

  BREAKING: ONGOING TERRORIST ATTACK IN GOTHIC, ARKANSAS

  State of emergency declared, residents ordered to remain indoors

  17 confirmed dead

  North side evacuation in progress

  Never before have I been glad to live on the south side. I pull up Facebook in another tab and find Ron’s chat window already open.

  ‘the hell is going on?’ I type, and then pile on ‘???????’ at the end.

  ‘T says its escalation & wants to hunt tonite’.

  And then, to my horror, she adds him to the chat. They’re Facebook friends. Tedrin has a Facebook account. I want to throw something. Also, I didn’t know you could make an account with no last name, but he managed.

  While he’s busy typing an entire paragraph of bullshit (judging from how long the ‘...’ floats on-screen), I take a peek at his profile. He has it locked-down; I can’t even see his profile picture unless I ‘friend’ him. Five bucks says it’s a selfie with his hair in his eyes, trying to look mysterious, filters galore. Everything is marked ‘posted via mobile’, so I know he’s limited to his phone.

  Some perverse voice in my head wants me to send him a friend request. I could mark our relationship status as ‘It’s Complicated Ever Since He Killed Me’. I could add him to the group ‘Psychopaths Who Should Be Obliterated’, right after I create it.

  The chat window finally bloops, and I was right: A goddamn novel appears.

  ‘I’ve suspected for some time that this would happen. Whatever mechanism or force is putting these monsters in our world, it’s escalating. Good thing it started right as I gained two team-mates :) We need to go on a hunt ASAP and get to the bottom of this. We’ll have to be careful, as the entire north side is no-doubt crawling with military and FBI. If there’s a real-life MIB, we’ll see them in the next few days. Luckily, they don’t seem to have caught on that the problem is city-wide; if we stick to the south side, we should still be able to find anomalous activity.’

  I roll my eyes and type, ‘pretty sure the MIB wouldn’t let us see them, if they exist’. I notice that Ron has used that annoying ‘Suggest Friends’ feature to pair me with him. I hit ‘no’ and ‘I don’t know this person’. Burrrrrrn.

  I glance at my whiteboard of questions and contemplate dropping a few in the chat. Really, before I go refusing friend requests, maybe I should settle on a strategy here. He might have some useful profile information. Should I attempt subterfuge and pretend to be on their team until I find a way to kill—

  Ron suddenly chats, ‘LOKK AT THE NEWS’.

  A second later, ‘LOOK*’.

  And then, ‘oh right you don’t have TV but find a live video! it’s a warzone!!!!!’.

  I switch back to my news aggregator and click on the first site that promises live video. Now I’m on the front page of a major news network; the corner feed buffers for a moment, then starts playing.

  We don’t chat for a while. We just watch, them in Ron’s apartment and me alone in mine.

  At one point, I mute the computer and step out on my apartment building’s second-floor landing. At a building down the street, there’s an old man standing with his hands on his porch rail, staring northward. I cup my ears and hear a soft boom — boom boom boom boomboomboom.

  The old man presses a hand to his mouth for a moment, then goes back inside and shuts the door behind him.

  Ron lives closer to the east side; they can probably hear those beats of war from inside her living room. I wonder how they’re reacting to dust clouds spreading, flashes of violence, neighbors dying.

  Ron’s tough — she has to be, to have gone through all she has since I’ve known her — but she also gets attached. That’s always been the ultimate difference between us: She jumps in, while I stand on the sidelines and watch uncomfortably. So as much as this destruction hurts to watch and hear, as much as every accidentally-aired, accidentally-seen fatality is like a sharp poke in the ribs — I can’t imagine what she’s going through.

  I remember why I spoke to Tedrin in the parking lot in the first place: I wanted to thank him for not rejecting Ron. It would have made my life a lot easier if he’d abandoned her, but the truth is, no matter how much of a scumbag he is, she’d have hurt all the same. Instead, she has someone to hold her while she watches this apocalypse on TV and hears it shaking her windows. She has someone to tell her she can help make it better — I’d rather it wasn’t him, but it’s still a comforting thought.

  I hate when I don’t make sense to myself, and it’s happening more often.

  At last, my phone starts ringing — I tear my eyes from the building blocking my view to the north and see that it’s Ron. Part of me wants to reject the call and stand unspeaking, marinating in this bile-tasting emotion I can’t easily label — regret or confusion or dull rage or exhaustion.

  “Hey,” I answer softly as I go back inside.

  “Hey.” Her voice is raw, and she’s breathing carefully. “You know we have to do something.”

  I sit down at my computer and watch the footage for a minute. “Military has things under control.”

  She makes a pissed-off noise. “No, they don’t. They have no idea what they’re up against.”

  “And we’re experts? Even Tedrin sounds like he’s pulling this stuff out of his ass.”

  “We have a moral obligation to do something.”

  “And get maimed, or killed, or caught by the military, or—”

  There’s a fumbling noise with the phone, and I hear Tedrin whispering, “Let me talk to her. Just let me. Trust me.” A moment later, he’s on the line. “I understand, and I don’t hold it against you. It was stupid of me to expect you to want to work with us after what we— after what I forced on you.”

  “Oh, that’s cute, skipping around actually admitting you broke my fucking neck—”

  “Listen to me!” he almost shouts. “What’s done is done. I regret it. You were right, I should have done things very differently. I can’t change that now.” He pauses, and I imagine he’s looking at Ron’s TV, at whatever news network they’re seeing this through. “You think I’m evil, and I haven’t done much to disabuse you of that. But I see suffering, I see the beginning of the end, and I know that it is right to use these powers to help. Veronica agrees with me. I know you’re a good person; you would have to be, to have supported her this long. So I ask you: Would a good person stand by and do n—”

  I hang up.

  I sit there and stare at the video feed.

/>   My phone rings. I reject the call without looking at it.

  I just sit there staring at people as they die.

  I’m being played. He’s playing me by sounding reasonable and appealing to my deep-seated need to help. That bastard.

  I squeeze my phone hard, though my eyes don’t leave the video.

  He knew Ron craves acceptance, so he gave it to her. He knows that, deep down, I need order and rationality and purpose and control . . . so he’s offering it to me.

  I reach out for the mouse and close the news page. I instantly feel like I’ve committed a crime by refusing to watch any longer, but I continue closing windows until I’m at the desktop. I turn off the monitor.

  The towel is getting clammy, so I get dressed. I gather up my blood-splattered clothes and decide that the jeans can be saved, but the shirt and underwear are too soaked through with blood and sweat and unmentionable fluids. I bundle them in a plastic bag and stuff them down deep in my kitchen trash.

  I find myself back at the computer with the whiteboard in my lap, tracing my eyes over the scribbled questions. I’m just so tired.

  Facebook dings on my phone. I glance at the chat and find that Ron has sent a single message: ‘7pm behind circuit city, come if u like’. I assume she means the abandoned building near my apartment.

  Before I can really think about the invitation, I notice that the call I rejected earlier was not from Ron, but from my parents. I hurriedly call them back.

  Mom picks up on the first ring and whispers breathlessly, “Are you okay?”

  “It’s miles and miles from here. Nobody’s worried.”

  “Are you sure? We don’t even live in town and we’re already loading up the car! Do you want to come with us, out of state?”

  “Jesus, you guys are leaving town?” I stare out the windows, and the words ‘this isn’t such a big deal’ die on my tongue. I briefly contemplate telling her just how involved I am, but what would be the point? There’s nothing she can do.