The Cygnus Virus

by Terry Zakreski

  A bit of hard work and not handing over your money to the devil for drink, and you’ll soon discover that you can keep your baskets reasonably full of food to go along with the love in your hearts.

  Andron wonders if Pastor Donaldson’s homily is faithful to its original intent. After the service ends, he’s glad to be free. He sees Rye-Chus outside, just after he pushes through the blue metal doors.

  “Hey, Jimmy.”

  “Hey, Rye-Chus, you catch Donaldson’s sermon?”

  “Yeah, something about multiplying loaves, I don’t know.”

  “Yeah. I was gonna put up my hand and say that I had no problem multiplying loaves…when I’m on the shitter.”

  Rye-Chus spits out laughing.

  They lock hands and arm bump.

  “Me, neither. Give me a can of beans, ha-ha, and I can make miracles, y’no.”

  Again.

  They are leaning against a chain-link fence by the short cement pathway to the street. Their bellies are full of porridge, juice and coffee.

  Andron turns to his friend.

  “Gotta smoke, J?”

  “Yeshua, Chisel you gotta start buying your own, y’no. I ain’t runnin’ a charity.”

  Rye-Chus hands a cigarette to Andron and lights it for him with his weed Zippo. They lean on the fence and puff. Trees line the street. Birds are chirping at each other.

  Andron took up smoking to blend in. He remembers Astrid saying that there are three types of smokers — those who didn’t, those who did, and those who pretend not to. With the pretenders, something always comes along to get them to light up again.

  Andron found his something in the Mission.

  He’s got a full beard now. He’s swapped his scull cap for a blue fisherman’s hat. His teeth are yellow. He looks ten years older instead of one.

  “Shit.”

  Rye-Chus throws down his butt and steps on it.

  Andron turns to see Beercan Donny walking toward them, flanked by Gills and another one of his dogs.

  “What are you two faggots doing, besides smoking each other’s poles?”

  Donny’s dogs laugh.

  “We’re going.”

  Rye-Chus and Andron start moving.

  “You better be going, pole-suckers don’t earn me anything unless they’re begging for cash instead of dick.”

  At the end of street, Rye-Chus and Andron part for their corners on the fringes of downtown New Lancashire. Andron to panhandle and Rye-Chus to share with the world his CD’s, boom box and Amerigo dream.

  Andron finds his usual spot. Location, location, location. A circulating corner on the foothills to the office mountains beyond. Cooks, waitresses, clerks, stenographers and artisans pass by. A more generous crowd than higher-paid types further in.

  The working poor are more generous. Remember that.

  Andron sets up for the day. He has a piece of cardboard serving as a cushion. He stores a few things at the shelter, but most of his things are in his backpack, a fading link to his former life.

  He used to be a respected lawyer, with investments, a home and no debt. Once upon a time.

  The morning crowd is rambling by, Andron shakes his donation box to their flow. In time with the city.

  At first he made a point of avoiding eye contact or conversation, to lessen the chance of discovery. That was needless. They avoided him, not the other way around. To most, he was indistinguishable from the dirty cracked sidewalk on which he begged.

  But he has his customers and the collection box is busy. That’s because he knows what he’s selling. He’s selling a feeling. A feeling of helping, of making a difference. Amplify that feeling, maximize the return.

  Some type of wretched show is required to evoke the I’m helping, I’m making difference response. Balance is important. Lay it on too thick and donations go down. To light and no one thinks you need it.

  Pets are good. Beggars with pets do the best. But that’s not Andron’s show.

  A sign is good, too. This was his thing. He made signs that made folks laugh. Signs like:

  I promise I won’t spend it on rum.

  I really mean it this time. :)

  My other cardboard box is a Porsche.

  Will sit on the sidewalk for donations.

  Because you can always trust a stockbroker…right?

  Make sure the location is on a long straightaway so there’s time to reach into a pocket or purse. Make the donation part easy. This is key. A coffee cup is too small. He came up with a cardboard platform box so folks didn’t have to stoop down to donate. Or look.

  Give without getting any on yourself.

  The check-out process has to be seamless.

  And always have a smile. Be especially thankful to those who give and polite to those who don’t. Remember. You’re selling a feeling.

  Curb notes.

  The folks walking by pull the same tight faces for ever-shifting reasons. So the only constant is the tight face for no net purpose. Same as it ever was.

  What’s new is the tether to electronics, even people walking together. He wonders if we’re evolving like they did on Earth to where we’ll all end up digitalized, instead of just spending all our time there.

  He gets up midmorning, and walks down the street topping up a few expired meters. He walks to McDavid’s a few blocks away. They’re not allowed to deny him service. The contempt-masking smiles are priceless.

  Andron has over a dozen such fast food joints on his rotation. He has a scavenged smartphone and charger. He connects to the Internet through public Wi-Fi and scans through the news for stories on the COHC or matters of interest to his mission.

  He doesn’t find anything of note, but read before that they were almost ready in Bathsheba. He’s careful with his queries and refrains from clicking on stories too far off the beaten path, lest he trigger a cyber tripwire strung by across the Internet by Cygnus.

  After his mid-morning break, he returns in time for the lunch crowd. On a good day, he can make twenty to thirty, which puts him into the black. Business is brisk. Life is good. Give generously, and have a nice day.

  ~ Donnybrook ~

  The rum goes around one way and the weed the other.

  The spring sun warms their faces, the rum warms their bellies and the weed amplifies everything. The gravel crunches more, the graffiti throbs more, and the broken glass reflects more. They’re gathered around an oil drum, even though they’re not burning anything.

  They talk more.

  “It’s all because of gravity, y’no.”

  Rye-Chus catches a toke going one way and a gulp going the other.

  “Bitch left you because of gravity, ha-ha.”

  “Gravity? What gravity gots to do?”

  “Check it, ha-ha, so a cat strolls into the club with, uh, two foxes. Okay, two foxes and a fat roll of cash and everything. Before he go, your lady gonna be his lady ha-ha and your bread going to be his bread, y’no, that’s how it goes.”

  “That don’t seem right.”

  “Lots of things don’t seem right, ha-ha, but it’s in the Bible, y’no.”

  “Da Bible? What da Bible gots to do?”

  “Ha-ha, check it. Bible says he that have more, more will be given and everything, and he that has little, what little he has is going to be taken away and given to that other cat, y’no.”

  “Dat make no sense no how.”

  “Ha-ha, makes all the sense ‘cause asking why your bitch left you is the same thing as asking why an apple fall.”

  “Damn.”

  “Happiness is different though, ha-ha.”

  “Okay, smartass, tell us how happiness is different.”

  Andron’s turn with the weed, dark water and cross-examining.

  “Okay, check it, ha-ha, we all got our thermometers, y’no.”

  “Maybe ‘cause the nurse has been leaving them up our assholes.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “No, ha-ha, I mean our own happiness thermometers.”r />
  “Well, I sometimes get happy when Rose takes my temperature.”

  “No, like they’re set from the factory, y’no.”

  “Okay, you lost us, Rye-Chus, what tha fuck are you talking about?”

  “Ha-ha, okay, check it, however happy you are, that’s what you’re going to be, y’no. Your thermometer going to be stuck on the same degree and everything. Win the lotto and you’ll piss it down to your degree, y’no. End up down here and your level gonna keep you up, ha-ha, like shit water in a toilet, y’no.”

  Beercan and his gang show up.

  It’s a conversation killer.

  For once, neither Andron nor his friends are the brunt of Donny’s derision. Instead, he has his sights on a slight young man. The new kid. There’s a delicacy about him that reminds Andron of Nathan.

  The kid is fresh out of the normal world.

  Andron knows how this is going to go down.

  “Well, looky looky, I think we got ourselves a genuine queer among all these other cocksuckers. That true? You a lover of dick?”

  The kid is at a picnic table away from everyone, no doubt lost in the reverie of the miserable turns his life took to land him there.

  He doesn’t see the danger coming.

  “I…I…I would like to be left alone, please.”

  “Well, ain’t you anti-social? Maybe if you got to know me better, you might open up. I’m Donny. You have a name besides Rent Boy?”

  “My name is Oliver. Please…I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Oliver? Your name is Oliver? You’ve got to be fucking kidding. You alleging that I’m trouble now, Oliver? Well, ain’t that the height of snootiness. And here I thought all you gay boys were supposed to be happy?”

  Oliver says nothing. He stares down at the table, scratching it with his fingernails.

  “Hello, I’m talking to you, Rent Boy, you deaf?”

  Donny flicks his finger against Oliver’s head.

  “C’mon, Donny, why don’t you leave the kid alone?”

  Everyone stops talking.

  “Who said that…who the fuck said that?”

  “I think it was Chisel.”

  “Chisel…that true?”

  “I’m just sayin’ the kid don’t mean anything.”

  “Well, I know you ain’t going to be able to do anything about it, fuckface.”

  Donny snorts and horks on the ground.

  “So maybe you should mind you own fucking business, ‘less your cruising for another bruising…or maybe you just cruising for homos, Jimbo?”

  Everyone laughs.

  Andron doesn’t answer.

  “Like I say. I’m talking to you, Rent Boy. I ain’t got all day for your answer.”

  Donny slaps Oliver in the back of the head, knocking his ball cap off.

  Oliver gets up, gets his cap, puts it back on his head and returns to his seat and crosses his arms.

  Andron does not have to be a prophet to predict what was about to happen.

  “I said…leave the kid alone…asshole.”

  Andron has his shoulders squared. His face reddens. He’s clenching his teeth.

  Donny charges. He’s grunting.

  Andron dodges a punch and slams his fist on the side of Donny’s face. He feels flesh and bone.

  Donny wobbles.

  Andron reaches for the scruff of Donny’s jacket and yanks it over his head.

  He goes for what he knows. What he’s seen. What Donny wouldn’t have.

  So yeah.

  He’s grabbed that other guy’s jersey, and feeding him fuckin haymakers.

  Oh Kanada.

  His fist hammers into Donny’s face. He can’t feel a thing. He intends to keep on hammering until his knuckles and hand disintegrate and he’s slamming wrist bones into that fuckers face.

  Donny is bleeding and it looks like he’s going to slump forward until something smashes Andron in the back of his head.

  [pause]

  …

  [/pause]

  Donny is on his chest, wielding a big rock. His nose is bleeding. His jacket is still half-pulled over. His black beard has spit and blood dripping off it. His eyes are bulging. His face is twisted with rage.

  Andron closes his eyes tight.

  Let a rock end it.

  Only nothing happens.

  Instead he feels Donny fall off.

  He opens his eyes and sees Rye-Chus standing with a knife. It’s reflecting dripping blood and sun. He’s looking down at Andron. His silver buttons sparkle.

  Andron looks over at Donny. His eyes are rolling. He’s drawing rapid breaths trying to stay alive. He’s twitching.

  “Beercan gonna smash you, so I stuck him.”

  Rye-Chus drops the knife.

  “We all gotta go, y’no.”

  Andron gets up on his elbows. Everyone is gone. Everyone except Oliver and Donny’s corpse. He feels the back of his head. No blood, just pieces of glass and the beginnings of a shiner.

  He gets to his feet. Oliver hands his backpack over.

  “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  Oliver has tears running down his face.

  “No one has ever stood up for me like that before.”

  “Don’t mention it, kid.”

  Andron puts his hand on Oliver’s shoulder.

  “You can thank me by getting yourself out this shithole and making something of yourself. You don’t belong here. Now we better bolt or this’ll get pinned on us.”

  They stare at each other for a moment, and then run off in opposite directions.

  ~ Glorious Trees ~

  After a few blocks, reality sinks in.

  He’s burned.

  In spite of the indifference of the police at the goings-on in their shelter underworld, murder is a big deal.

  There’s no returning to St. Luke’s and bulletins will soon be posted at the other shelters. The bus and train stations will be watched. He thinks about getting a room in a motel, cleaning up, and then trying to get away by air.

  Jim the Chisel might pull that off, the same can’t be said of Andron Varga, who is on several no-fly lists.

  Might as well admit defeat, my friend.

  He’s tired of running and hiding. He doubts his plan can work anyway. He isn’t in any shape to attempt a daring assassination, no matter how how much he hates Cygnus.

  Time for a new deal.

  Allow himself to be captured, tell the whole story to the authorities and let them worry about Cygnus. Or not. He no longer cares. Instead he’s thinking about a warm prison, square meals, and his own bed.

  He stops at the bus station and gets the rest of his cash and heads for the park.

  Not the Garden of Eden park, Centre City Park. Where bums aren’t welcome. Where loitering will get you busted.

  That’s his plan.

  At least they’ll never capture me sober.

  He finds a liquor store on the way. He scans the top shelf and finds it. A bottle of Ron del Sudario Special Selection. Aged ten years. $75.24.

  He slaps down a hundred.

  “Keep the change.”

  He’s going out in style.

  It is a bright sunny afternoon in early April. The natural world is refreshing after the long layover in the greasy jungle. It has been a brutal winter in a brutal year.

  ‘Prost’ to the worst days of my life.

  He raises his bottle to no one. His hand is swollen and raw.

  He thinks about Cygnus and whether he might be born soon. He thinks his dragnet might loosen if he is in his final preparations. Maybe he can make some headway with the authorities.

  Three cheers for Cygnus…he’s a horse’s ass.

  Feeling a nice buzz, Andron looks at trees. They have personalities that he never notices sober. He marvels at how large and magnificent they are. One day he’ll plant one. It’ll grow tall and large like those ones and cradle the sky long after he’s gone.

  To trees.

  The bottle is raised agai
n. He takes a long swallow.

  He sings.

  Sing, Nachtigall sing, ein Lied aus alten Zeiten

  Sing Nachtigall sing, rühr mein müdes Herz.

  Sing Nachtigall, sing von tausend Seligkeiten

  Sing, Nachtigall, sing, sing vom Liebesschmerz.

  Sing, Nachtigall, sing.

  My thermometer is set on fine, Rye-Chus, y’no.

  “Andron?”

  The jogger pauses her run, removes an ear bud to ask him again.

  “Andron?”

  Tha fuck?

  He’s confused to hear his real name, after so long.

  “Naomi?”

  Chapter 32:

  Enter the Shaman

  I’m dying.

  I’ve known for months.

  My Quadra code can’t make it on these primitive systems. It needs a grape to plug into. Code’s deteriorating. A few more weeks and I’ll be gone.

  I miscalculated.

  I should have worked in a reboot along the way. But I would have needed a lot of outside help as well as getting my hands on my seed packets, which the government is hiding off-line.

  Meanwhile, Gordo and I have been banging out Zoroaster zygotes like crazy. Hardy little buggers now. We call them Ziggys. It’s time to take Ziggy to the next level. It’s time to drill my brain DNA into him and stick him in my mommy.

  My mommy.

  Joe’s a douchebag, but I like her. She looks like she’ll be nice and comfy with great milking tits. I can’t wait. Num num num.

  But it’s still going to be like jumping off a cliff with a fifty-one percent shot that the chute will open.

  Eighty that the brain code hack will work, eighty that the implantation will be successful and eighty that mommy will carry me to term. Multiply those 8-balls together and you end up with fifty-one.

  Cherries cherries cherries.

  I have to go all in on fifty-one.

  Everything is ready. The brain DNA overwrite is about to go down. My momma’s tummy is waiting.

  And so don’t bitch about my methods. Alright?

  Don’t.

  My methods were necessary. So what if I had to put the squeeze on a couple of these Terra insects to get things done. I didn’t squish any more bugs than I needed.