by Sam Kates
* * * * *
Zach Trent went to Vietnam a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, bursting with vigour and ideals. He returned three years later, his body whole but his spirit in shreds. Mumbling and aloof to strangers, a stranger to his family and friends, he shunned society and was shunned by it. For five years he trod the back roads and railway sidings, doing odd-jobs for farmers and ranchers, enough to keep him fed and in liquor, moving on before they asked him to leave. Always moving.
He learned of his parents’ deaths through a discarded newspaper he found in the gutter. As he glanced through it by the flickering light of the fire, numbed by cheap bourbon and almost ready to pass out, his gaze snagged on his name.
Zacharias Abraham Trent read the advert. Contact the below-mentioned attorneys-at-law to learn something to your advantage.
A grainy reproduction of his high school graduation photograph appeared below the address and telephone number of a firm of lawyers in Michigan. He no longer recognised the youthful figure in the photograph.
When he awoke from a fitful, alcohol-fuelled slumber hours later, he was still clutching the newspaper. Later that day, he used the last few coins in his pocket to call the number in the advert from a payphone in a gas station at the edge of some town.
The efficient woman who answered the call informed him that he needed to speak to Mr Benton. Zach waited patiently to be put through. He had nothing better to do. A man’s voice came on the line, sounding brusque yet a little wary.
“Yes, hello? Who am I speaking to, please?”
“Um,” said Zach. He was suddenly uncertain whether he wanted to know whatever it was these people wanted to tell him badly enough to take out a newspaper ad. “I saw my name. In a newspaper. It said to call this number.”
“And your name is?”
“Zach . . . er, Zacharias Trent. Zacharias Abraham Trent.”
“You’re about the tenth caller I’ve had claiming the same thing,” said Mr Benton. “What’s your date of birth, please?”
Zach told him.
“And your social security number?”
“Um . . . I don’t know. No, wait. . . .” Zach thrust his hand into a chest pocket of his faded denim jacket. The payslip remained where he had shoved it in disgust after remonstrating with the workshop owner about why tax had been deducted from his few hours’ earnings. The owner had muttered something about the IRS and had refused to budge. Zach had moved on and the payslip was still there, crumpled but legible. He read out the number printed at the bottom next to ‘Employee ID’.
There was a short silence. When the lawyer spoke again, the note of wariness had gone from his voice. It had been replaced by something else. Pity?
“Mr Trent. One last question, if you don’t mind. What were your parents’ names?”
Zach told him. Then: “What do you mean were?”
Mr Benton let out a long breath before replying. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr Trent.”
It turned out that his parents, whom he had not seen or been in contact with for over four years, had been travelling home in their car from a fund-raising function for Vietnam vets when a truck skidded on black ice, shedding its load. The load—pine and spruce and cedar trunks headed for the sawmill—bounced across the two-lane blacktop and squashed his parents’ car, and his parents, as flat as roadkill.
Zach took the news with detachment, as though watching a movie where some down-and-out, some dirty hobo, is given bad news during a phone call. He watched as the hobo made arrangements with the fancy-pants lawyer on the other end of the line to collect a ticket in town—the hobo had to holler to the gas station owner to find out the town’s name—to catch a Greyhound to Indianapolis and from there to Lansing in Michigan. The lawyer also arranged at the hobo’s request—his wheedling request, thought Zach, as he watched with disgust—for the hobo to collect fifty dollars in cash from the town’s bank. Before the call ended, the hobo asked one last question.
“The funeral. When’s their funeral?”
Mr Benton let out another long breath. “I’m sorry, Mr Trent, it took place yesterday.”
Zach used some of the lawyer’s money to get himself a meal and a pint of cheap bourbon. He could have afforded the expensive stuff—fifty dollars went a long way in the mid seventies—but old habits die hard. Besides, he liked the way cheap liquor seared his throat; it was how he imagined napalm would taste.
He sipped the bourbon as he sat on the Greyhound and stared out of the window, trying unsuccessfully to picture his parents’ faces. The next day, in Indianapolis, he bought another pint. It was almost gone by the time the bus pulled into Lansing.
Mr Benton was tall and gaunt. He looked down his long, bony nose at Zach and wrinkled it.
“I was your parents’ attorney for many years,” he said. “You might not believe it or even care, but they loved you dearly. Their only child.” He wrinkled his nose again. “Cheap whisky. Dirty clothes. Unshaven. Unwashed. You’re what, twenty-six? You look forty-six.” He sighed. “Knowing what you’ve been through, don’t suppose I can blame you for what you’ve become.” He lowered his head a little so that he could peer at Zach over his wire-framed spectacles. “Hard liquor’s not the answer, though.”
Zach reached into his pocket and withdrew the bottle of bourbon in its brown paper wrapping. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a deliberate swig. “’ll do me,” he muttered. “B’sides, how can you know what I’ve been through, sitting here in your swanky office and hundred-dollar suit.” Zach sniffed and took another sip, savouring the burn as the liquor traced a fiery path to his gullet.
“Oh, I know,” said Mr Benton. “Did two tours of duty myself. In Korea. Volunteered.” He snorted as though the notion now amused or disgusted him. “Hit the bottle, too, for a while.”
Zach sat straighter, sudden curiosity driving away a little of the alcoholic stupor. For a moment, he forgot to be angry at the world. “Why? Why’d you stop drinking?”
Mr Benton continued to regard Zach over his spectacles, his gaze as intent as a hawk’s. “We drink to banish the demons, right? The demons with their reminders of the jungles and the stench of death and the screaming of children. Spreading those memories around like rat poison, under our noses, in our ears, burrowing into our brains until it seems they must burst. So we drink, and the demons recede for a while. But they come back.”
Zach nodded slowly.
“I realised,” continued Mr Benton, “that alcohol wasn’t banishing the demons, but making them stronger. They were feeding on it. It was getting to the point that I would have to drink myself to insanity or death. Lucky for me, I retained sufficient clarity to see the truth. And I stopped drinking. I threw myself into the law. Passed the state bar exams. Got myself into private practice. Eventually started my own firm.”
“And the demons?” Zach’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“Oh, they never go away entirely. But each time they return now, they’re a little weaker. Less strident. Less insistent. I have no trouble keeping them at arm’s length. Course, you’ll have your own way of keeping them at bay. The law was my answer. You’ll need to find your own. Just believe me when I tell you that you won’t find it in no bottle.”
Thirty minutes later, Zach walked out of Mr Benton’s office a wealthy man. He had known his parents were comfortable financially, but hadn’t realised the full extent of their riches. After state and federal taxes, probate and administration costs, and Mr Benton’s fees, Zach as the sole heir would receive more money than he could imagine ever spending.
A block from the lawyer’s office, Zach upended the bottle, ignoring the disapproving glances of passersby, and poured the last dregs of fiery bourbon down his throat. He dropped the bottle into the next litter bin that he passed.
He never bought another.
* * * * *
Tom watched the woman wolfing down food. Her fair hair was tied back in a ponytail, emphasising the gauntness of her features. Her chee
kbones poked against her skin in much the same way his had done when he had awoken from his bout of the Millennium Bug. But no outward signs of her injuries remained. No scabs; no yellowing bruises; no wheezing. When she had crossed the hotel lobby to the bar, she had done so gingerly but with no hint of a limp. Tom found it difficult to believe. She had been battered and broken only weeks before, surely on the brink of death. Now she sat before them, pale and weak but otherwise healthy-looking. It should have taken her months to recover fully from the injuries she had suffered. Years even.
If she was discomfited by his frank regard, she didn’t show it. When she glanced in his direction, her expression gave no hint of what she was feeling. Tom suspected that she would make a good poker player.
He shifted a little on his stool and glanced at Ceri. She, too, was watching the woman eat, but her expression was also neutral, giving Tom no clue as to whether she felt as uncomfortable as he to be in this woman’s presence.
Peter busied himself preparing more food. He had asked Tom and Ceri to allow her to eat in peace, to build up some strength, before subjecting her to the barrage of questions that no doubt they wished to ask following her doom-laden pronouncement. Ceri had readily acquiesced; Tom more reluctantly.
The woman—Tom could not yet bring himself to think of her by name—cleared the plate of fried meat and potatoes. By the flickering light of the paraffin lamps, Tom could see that some colour had already returned to her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said, addressing Peter. “I feel a little stronger.” Her accent was mild, but unmistakably American.
“There’s another plateful to come,” said Peter. “That’ll help some more.”
“It might just.” She half-turned on her stool to face Tom and Ceri. “I guess you folks have a few things you want to get off of your chests.”
“You could say that,” said Tom. He sat straighter and folded his arms. “Like why you tried to kill us.”
The woman’s expression didn’t change, as if guardedly neutral was its permanent state. “You mean the virus . . .?”
“No. Peter’s told us about that. Though I’d like to hear your version. Peter’s sounded like some fairy tale.” Tom paused to take a deep breath. He was determined to remain calm, to hear what the woman had to say. “I mean when you were in the helicopter.”
The woman blinked. “I didn’t try to kill you.”
“Excuse me.” Ceri spoke for the first time. “The bullet you fired hit the wall of the cottage above my head.”
“Oh, that.” The woman spoke in the same tone she might use to discuss the weather. “I only took the shot to make Bishop quit his whining. I didn’t even aim at you.”
“Oh, that’s all right, then,” said Ceri. “Just so long as you weren’t aiming at us.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm and Tom was surprised to note the high spots of colour in her cheeks, like blusher applied by a three-year-old.
The woman shrugged and Tom sensed Ceri stiffen. He brought one hand across and gave her forearm a squeeze.
“Easy, Cer,” he said. “You’re the one who said we weren’t going to do anything, remember? That she’d saved our lives.”
“I know,” said Ceri. “But now that she’s sitting in front of us, acting so bloody indifferent, I want to scratch her eyes out.”
“You’re right,” said the woman. “I am indifferent. Or was. . . .” She frowned as though unsure quite what she meant.
Peter placed another dinner plate piled high with food in front of the woman. “Diane, eat this.” He looked at Tom and Ceri. “She did save our lives. Try to remember that.”
The woman offered Peter a thin smile and started to eat.
“Er . . . Diane,” said Tom. “Can we carry on talking while you eat?”
Diane did not look up, but nodded.
“Okay,” said Tom. “Maybe you can explain why you came after us with that man—Bishop, was it?—but ended up saving us.”
Diane seemed deep in thought as she finished her mouthful. She took a drink from the glass of cola Peter had also given her. Only then did she look at Tom.
“Honest answer? I’m not sure. I saw a glimpse of you and the woman during the Commune. I saw that Peter protected you. That bugged me a little. Any drones that survived the virus in England were to come to London to help clear up.”
“We weren’t in England,” said Ceri, her voice still containing an edge. “We were in Wales. And we’re in Scotland now. It’s Britain, but it’s not England.”
Diane shrugged again. “England. Britain. Same thing.” She turned her attention back to the food.
“No, it’s bloody well not!” Ceri spoke through gritted teeth and it came out in a hiss.
Tom placed his hand once more on Ceri’s forearm. “Steady, Tiger. She’s American. Many of them say England when they mean Britain. It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”
Ceri turned to look at him and he was surprised to see her eyes glinting with moisture. “Well, what does matter now, Tom?” Her voice rose and she shrugged off his hand. “Art? Politics? Religion? Sport? All gone. The most important thing to me was my family and they’ve gone, too. To see her sitting there stuffing her face when she’s one of the ones who killed them. . . .” Ceri took a deep breath and Tom could see that she was struggling to keep herself under control. “So tell me, Tom, what matters? Because if the answer’s that nothing matters, we might as well step off the harbour wall and let the sea finish what she and her kind started.”
Ceri stared at him, eyes glistening.
“You’re right,” he said slowly. “None of that stuff matters any more. But maybe . . . maybe we matter. We survived. Others might have, too. Maybe what’s really important is that we carry on surviving.”
Ceri snorted. “After what she said earlier?” She turned towards Peter, who stood behind the bar watching them, a concerned frown wrinkling his brow. “Please will you pour me a vodka and orange. A large one.”
She lit a cigarette and faced forward.
Diane hadn’t looked up. She continued to work at the food on the plate, which was almost empty.
Tom cleared his throat.
“I’d still like to know why you saved us from Bishop,” he said. “Diane?”
She chewed and swallowed.
“Bishop was a prize jerk,” she said. “An arrogant, overbearing jerk.”
“He was more than that,” said Peter. He handed Ceri her drink and she sipped at it while she smoked, staring fixedly ahead. “He probed me when you were chasing us. Before I threw him out, I caught a glimpse of the real person. Twisted, cruel, ruthless. I think he used to torture and kill humans for pleasure.”
Diane nodded. “That wouldn’t surprise me. He was passionate about killing you, Peter. And these two.” She nodded towards Tom and Ceri.
“Okay,” said Tom. “I get that he wasn’t nice. But it wasn’t only him who set out to kill us, Diane. You still haven’t explained why you changed your mind.”
“I had never decided to help him kill you,” said Diane. “I’m not sure why, but even before we left London I took steps to make his task difficult.”
“How?” asked Tom.
“I made it so that his Uzi wouldn’t fire,” she said. She frowned. “He was also carrying a handgun. He always kept it on him so I had no opportunity to interfere with it. I don’t know why he didn’t use that on you. Or on me.” She shrugged. “He must have lost it when the chopper crashed.”
“But why did you help us?” insisted Tom. The answer seemed important.
Diane shrugged again. The gesture was now starting to irritate Tom. It was as well that Ceri wasn’t watching, though no doubt she was listening. Diane looked at Peter.
“Do you know why?” she asked. “You must have taken a peek when I was unconscious.”
“Yes,” said Peter, “I did. Your memories were intact, but shrouded. I think because your injuries were so severe. Your motives for behaving as you did were cloudy, though I don’t believe that
had anything to do with your injuries.” He glanced at Tom. “She’s not lying when she says that she doesn’t know why she saved us.”
Tom fell silent for a moment. Diane turned back to her plate to finish the last of the food. She no longer looked pale or frail. Tom glanced at Ceri. She had almost finished her drink and had lit another cigarette.
“Cer? You okay?”
She nodded. “Tickety boo,” she said. “Though I doubt I will be when she answers the next question.”
Tom suspected she was correct, but asked the question anyway.
“Diane, what did you mean when you said mankind’s time is up?”
Diane had cleared the plate for the second time and pushed it away.
“Thank you, Peter,” she said. “I feel a lot stronger already.” She inclined her head towards Tom. “You haven’t told them, then?”
Peter shook his head.
“Um, Peter?” said Tom. “Haven’t told us what?”
Peter raised his eyebrows at Diane. She gave a curt nod.
“Okay,” said Peter.
Ceri turned on her stool and stared at Peter, her jaw set firmly as though expecting the worst. Tom felt his stomach lurch and swallowed hard.
“I’ve told you,” said Peter, “about the plan to eradicate the vast majority of the human race. But not the entire human race, though we could have had we wanted to. The virus—so quaintly nicknamed the Millennium Bug—”
“Hate to interrupt you, Peter,” said Ceri, “but there was nothing quaint about it.”
Tom thought back to the condition of his mother when he had found her lying in her own waste, unable to open her eyes through the crust that had formed over both lids, each tortured breath seemingly her last, until it was. He grunted his agreement with Ceri.
“You’re right,” said Peter. “And I apologise. It wasn’t my intention to make light of what has happened. Anyway, the virus was specifically designed to kill almost everybody, but not quite.”
Tom could feel his hackles rising once more. “So you could have killed us all but chose not to,” he said. “Fucking big of you.”
