Karma City

by Gardener Browning

  Jameson slid to a halt, holding the others back, when he encountered roughly twenty people slouching in torpor against the walls. Some rocked back and forth, mumbling. Others stared at their feet, heads drooped between their knees. “This hall is filled with the infected. Get ready.”

  Burroughs slithered down the hall, touching the shoulders of the listless citizens as he passed. He looked back at Jameson with fiery eyes. “Like ravenous wolves!” At once, the infected sprang to their feet. Burroughs pointed at Jameson, Luna and Albert. “They are Lessers. Kill them!” he commanded.

  The Malady warped crowd charged down the hall with rage contorting their faces. Their cries for bloodshed echoed with the grind of an approaching train. Burroughs continued toward the subway platform.

  Shotgun clenched, Jameson rushed the attackers head-on. He unloaded with a menacing blast radius, dropping two men with deafening shots. The spraying blood misted on his forearms. A frenzied man trampled over the bodies then leapt for Jameson’s gun. Jameson swung the weapon around, clubbing the man in the mouth, caving in his jaw. Broken teeth became shrapnel, streaking out in all directions. Another hard hit to the throat collapsed the infected man, reducing him to a gurgling husk, frothing in a ball on the ground. Jameson pressed on, beating down several more of Undertown’s malady-crazed vagrants.

  The subway tunnel amplified the boom of Luna’s rifle, turning the fearsome thunderstorm of bullets into a seismic eruption. Her trigger finger showed no mercy. Skulls burst like balloons. Bodies fell in contorted piles, granting Jameson further passage toward the enemy.

  As Jameson chased Burroughs to the platform, the on-coming train’s headlights pushed away the darkness of the tunnel.

  Burroughs faced Jameson, his back to the tracks, fists like stone cudgels. The two stood mere steps from one another. Burroughs sniffed the air long and deep. “How strange,” he said. “You are not like the rest.”

  Dropping two cartridges into his shotgun, Jameson readied for the kill. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He aimed his weapon. “And I don’t really care.”

  Burroughs vaulted into a handspring, wheel-kicking the shotgun from Jameson’s grip. Jameson staggered from the force of the blow. Burroughs lunged onto Jameson’s back, wrapping his arms around his throat. “You are not Lesser,” snarled Burroughs, choking away Jameson’s breath. “But you are not greater. Die!”

  Jameson fought to peel this mysterious creature from his back. The boney arms clamping over his neck felt like iron bars. His head throbbed, darkening his vision. He fell to his knees, feeling his consciousness slipping away.

  The subway screeched to a halt. The doors burst open. Men and women in long red coats swarmed the platform with pistols drawn. Jameson looked on, eyes blurring in and out of focus.

  The apparent leader, a bald man in black sunglasses, pointed at Burroughs and ordered his men, “Shoot him!”

  Gunfire broke out, illuminating the subway dock with bright flashes. A bullet ripped through Burroughs’ coat sleeve, tearing his arm and breaking his grip on Jameson. Burroughs snarled and dove behind a support pillar. Jameson wheezed for air, watching Burroughs climb the pillar like a spider to the vaulted ceiling. What the hell is he?

  The gunmen in red switched on flashlights, panning the cluttered apex of conduit, cables, ducts and pipes knotting overhead. Burroughs disappeared among the darkness of the underground.

  “He’s gone, sir,” called one of the women. “But I hit him.”

  “Son of a bitch!” cursed the leader.

  Jameson rubbed his throat. The gunfire had ended and Jameson watched Luna and the group of scarlet-clad soldiers scanning the defeated mob for movement; all were dead, but Albert emerged from the corridor, face white-washed from fear. Blood staining his clothes.

  Luna took to Jameson’s side and turned her rifle on the lead soldier in red. “Who are you?”

  The man holstered his pistol and removed his sunglasses. “I’m Kurt Auger.” He pointed to the four women and three men behind him. “This is my team of urban hunters.”

  Jameson rolled his eyes. Another band of Malady hunters that will only end up dead like all the rest. He’d encountered many of this kind as a young drifter hiking Route 88, the single highway stretching east and west across the Void Lands, disappearing over each horizon. Much like the railroad of the Iron Tribe, Route 88 served as the unbreakable thread holding the tapestry of fallen cities, deteriorated towns and ramshackle camps together throughout the Void Lands. “The Strange Highway,” as Void Landers called it, became his guide as he searched for any clues about his missing father. The only thing to be found was Malady in all forms and in all the people of the Void Lands. Teams of hunters, prospectors, scavengers and raiders crossed Jameson’s path more times than he could count and, because of his rough and merciless appearance, they seldom accosted him and often invited him to share their journey. He’d accept, seeing it more as an opportunity to learn of new dangers to avoid, new resources to obtain and most importantly, new places where his father might have gone.

  The unions never lasted. The raiders would strike a camp of infected and go crazy from the worm. The scavengers would find an abandoned general store filled with contaminated goods and they’d go mad with Malady. The prospectors would swear that their maps had led them to ‘the spot,’ usually a forgotten suburb off the highway with extravagant homes filled with valuables left behind by Malady infected families. The parasite waited and it claimed them all. All but Jameson.

  “Hunters, huh,” said Jameson, his flat tone conveying his indifference. “Looks like we’re after the same game. Glad you and your crew showed up when you did.” He introduced himself and the others. “What do you know about Elliot Burroughs?”

  “You’re chasing this monster uneducated?” Kurt’s forehead wrinkled in surprise.

  “We’re,” he paused to cough, “learning as we go.”

  “First off,” said Kurt, “That’s not Elliot Burroughs. Not anymore. The thing that nearly killed you is the product of Dr. Marcus Graves’ undisclosed genetic experiment, Project GEMNI. And that’s what it calls itself—Gemni.”

  The subway chimed, indicating that the doors were about to close. Kurt signaled his crew to get back on. He put on his sunglasses and handed Jameson a white card with an address stamped in black ink. “Listen up, Shoals. If you plan to continue your pursuit of Gemni, I suggest you visit Professor Anthony Crimm at his home in Karma’s lower east side. Tell the professor that his sons sent you.”

  Jameson watched the group in dark red trench coats board the subway train. The commuter pulled away, rattling along its electric rails and vanishing into the black tunnel.

  Luna nudged Jameson. “Don’t leave your shotgun lying around.”

  “Right.” He returned to the area of his struggle with Burroughs and picked up his fallen weapon. A glimmer on the floor caught his eye. Blood, and not mine. Has to be Gemni’s. “Hey doc, take a look.”

  Albert joined Jameson and stooped over the blood drops. He opened his satchel, put on some gloves, and produced a vial of what Jameson thought was blue ink. Albert dabbed at the blood with a cotton ball and administered a few drops of the liquid to the sample. The ink-like solution immediately effervesced and steamed. He threw the sample to the ground and took a quick step back.

  Jameson rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. “What did you just do, and am I going to regret that I asked?”

  “To answer your first question, I just applied a chemical agent, formulated by myself I’d like to add, that reacts to the presence of Malady in all stages of its lifecycle.”

  “That’s damn impressive.”

  “As for your second question, while I don’t know you well enough yet, your behavioral patterns indicate that what I’m about to tell you may...well, piss you off.”

  “Great,” grumbled Jameson. “Just tell me what’s wrong with that freak’s blood.”

  Albert cleared his throat. “When we consider prote
in signatures, the baseline of detection directly correlates to—”

  Jameson put up his hand. “Spare me the scientific presentation. Talk straight.”

  “Sorry. Here’s the thing, my agent is only supposed to fizz. It nearly caught fire when I applied it to the sample. Whatever foreign body is in this blood is very potent. It’s almost as if it’s more than Malady.” Albert dabbed another blood drop. He slipped the sample into a small plastic bag and tucked it in his satchel.

  “If it’s more than Malady, it’s worse than Malady,” asserted Jameson.

  Luna put her hand on Jameson’s shoulder to ground him. “Albert, have you heard of Project GEMNI?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Jameson took another look at Kurt Auger’s business card, and then stuffed it in his pocket. “You said you have a place in Undertown. Is it safe?”

  “My medical center has clean beds, hot showers, and a cabinet stocked with munchies if that’s what you’re looking for?”

  “Good. Let’s get some rest and then we’ll see what we can learn from this Professor Crimm guy.”

  ***

  Sitting at his kitchen table, Jack stirred his coffee while proof-reading his newest article.

  Donna sat across from him, carefully painting chocolate icing onto a cake. “I don’t want you cutting into this until your birthday.”

  Jack didn’t respond.

  “Hello?”

  He looked up from his notebook. “Oh, sorry. The cake looks delicious, Donna. Thank you!” He reached his index finger toward the rim of icing. Donna slapped it away.

  “Not until your birthday!”

  Jack gave a playful pout and went back to reading his article.

  “Checking the Future”

  By: Jack Halligan

  Extraordinary news for the uninfected population! To strengthen Malady awareness, Dr. Carmen Victoria, of Oasis Hospital, has created what she simply calls “Checkers.” A Checker is a small baggie that comes with a dropper filled with a tasteless agent and a tiny pouch of powder, no bigger than a salt packet. I had the pleasure of meeting with Dr. Victoria to discuss this breakthrough. She had this to say, “Test your food with the powder and drinks with the dropper. Any effervescence indicates parasitic contamination. I’ve devoted an entire wing of the Oasis Campus to the production and distribution of these consumables.”

  Being able to screen food and drink is a landmark turn for the better for residents of Karma City and parts beyond. Dr. Victoria’s commitment to the people remains unshakable, and her personal struggles remain her guide. Here’s a look into her past.

  Dr. Carmen Victoria and her late husband, Wolfgang, were the leading scientists of Oasis Hospital specializing in methods for early detection and prevention. Dr. Marcus Graves’ mastery of genetic sciences led him to join the Victoria’s. The three doctors formulated the first temporary inoculation against Malady, The Victory Vaccine. This inoculation was only partially effective, but Karma City clung to hope; many believed the three doctors were close to a cure.

  Goals and motivations collided. Graves felt that if they perfected the vaccine, it should be given only to deserving individuals to better society. The Victoria’s felt everyone should receive it. Graves decided to further his work independently. Wolfgang and Graves fought over two specimen vials and during the struggle, Wolfgang became infected. Graves severed his relationship with the Victoria’s and shortly after, Wolfgang died from his infection.

  Graves took ownership of a black high-rise on the western side of the city and named it Sable Tower. There, he established Graves Enterprises and formulated “Quell,” the only drug of its kind capable of quieting the adverse effects of Malady. With the sick finally able to find respite, Dr. Marcus Graves had achieved what many have called a miracle.

  Today, Oasis Hospital is still dedicated to wellness, prevention and sciences against Malady. Dr. Victoria’s final comment for this article is, “If you aren’t sick, visit Oasis and receive your temporary inoculation. Use the time it provides to move away from crowded places and establish a clean lifestyle. Stock up on Checkers and be safe.”

  Donna opened Jack’s refrigerator, then slammed it shut. “I’ll keep your cake fresh at the diner until your birthday.”

  Jack laughed. “Good idea.”

  “How’s the article, Hun?”

  “Not bad. I just want people to understand what this city can and can’t offer. I really wish I could have written about how addicting Quell is and how half the city is dependent on it. Editor warned against it.”

  “Graves Enterprises is helping families, Jack. People get a shot at living normal lives on Quell. There’s a positive side to everything.”

  “Graves has Karma City in the palm of his hand. He owns the entire west side, collects monthly dues from registered Quell users citywide, and he’s even got the Iron Tribe moving his medicine into the Void Lands by freight train. Let’s not forget that massive vessel anchored off shore that no one seems to know anything about. It’s a shame that good people suffering with infection have to sell their souls to Graves Enterprises for a batch of pills that don’t even kill the parasite.”

  “I understand your point, Hun. But imagine how much worse this city would be if we didn’t have Quell to manage the symptoms. Karma City couldn’t last. At the very least, think of the kids. Many of them take Quell with their morning vitamins. Without it, they’d be...well...”

  “You know, just last week I saw a bunch of kids peddling the stuff. Quell has become a form of currency in some sections of town. What frustrates me is that Marcus Graves is a genius. If he can manipulate the condition of the Malady parasite, then he’s got to know how to kill it. I believe he’s keeping people sick to keep them well. And through addiction, the people of Karma belong to him.”

  You should worry about yourself, Jack.

  Jack locked his eyes on Donna’s. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I thought I heard you say I should worry about myself.”

  “I wouldn’t say a thing like that.”

  “I know you wouldn’t.” He shook his head and reached for his mug of coffee but accidently knocked it over. The hot drink spilled across his papers, splashed on his shirt and poured onto his lap. “Son of a—”

  Donna snatched a dish towel and swooped in. “I’ve got this. Leave your papers and go clean up. I’ll fix another cup for you when you get back.”

  Jack entered the small bathroom and peeled off his shirt. He closed the door and pulled a pair of dry pants from a hanging rack. As he changed out of his coffee-soaked clothes, a knock drummed against the door. “Be right out,” called Jack.

  “Take your time,” replied a grainy, male voice.

  Who the hell? Shirtless and with pants open, Jack barreled out of the bathroom. There was no one there. He called to the kitchen. “Donna, do we have company?”

  “No one here but you and I.” Donna came around the corner. Her concern made a row of wrinkles above her brow. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Jack paused and took a slow look around the apartment. He smelled the unmistakable soapy-clean, musky cinnamon of his father’s cologne. “Do you smell that?”

  “Coffee. It’s brewing now.”

  “No. Not the coffee.”

  “Jack, you’re worrying me.”

  He took a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s probably my Malady acting up.”

  “Or a wild imagination.” Donna caressed his face and kissed him. “Writers are funny like that.”

  Donna returned to the kitchen. Jack hustled down the hall quietly, not wanting to further alarm Donna, and slipped into the bedroom. In the top draw of his dresser, a small gray pistol rested in a black holster. The gun felt cold in his hand. If someone was sneaking around his apartment, he’d be ready. He checked it...loaded.

  “What’s that for?”

  Jack spun around and nearly fainted. Across the bedroom stood his father, but he did not look as
he did in Jack’s frequent dreams. The man wore a tattered flight suit and tall black boots. Various aviation patches adorned the shoulders and lapels. Half the rotting tissue of his face was missing, leaving only bands of dried muscle and exposed bone. Thin strands of straw-like gray hair stuck up from the top of his head. His colorless eyes shimmered with a coating of cloudy film and his lips flaked around his sagging jaw. It’s a corpse, thought Jack. It’s my father’s corpse standing in my bedroom! The hand holding the pistol bounced in fear. Jack managed a few words. “What the fuck is going on?”

  The corpse frowned. “Watch your mouth. You know better than to use language like that.”

  The room rolled around Jack. Nausea struck him, quaking his knees. He swallowed his rising vomit. This is all just a hallucination. But he is so real! There is grave dirt all over my carpet for God’s sake! Get a grip. You’re sick, Jack. It’s Malady. Close your eyes real tight and take a deep breath. Deal with this. Jack straightened and addressed the ghoulish visitor. “Listen up, Corpse-Dad. You’re not real. But I’m going to treat you like you are until you go away.”

  Corpse-Dad’s purple lips formed a ridiculous grin. “Glad to see you’re feeling better. I thought you were going to puke for a minute there.” He laughed. Dust blew from tears in his throat.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just paying my son a visit. I thought you’d be glad to see me. It’s been a long time.”

  “You’ve been dead for nearly two decades.”

  “Which is why we shouldn’t miss out on any more quality time.” Corpse-Dad stepped closer to Jack with his arms outstretched. “How about a hug?”

  Jack aimed the pistol. “That’s close enough.” His heart knocked in his chest. “I want you to go away. You hear me? I said get the hell out of here!”

  “But, Jack, I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  “Leave or I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

  “Please, listen! I’m just trying to help you.”

  Jack closed his eyes and pulled back the hammer with his thumb.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing! DON’T SHOOT!”