by Stark, Ken
Sarah took the man's hand in hers, saying sweetly, “She sounds like a good woman.”
Hansen started to pull away, but ultimately, he didn't. He simply sat there, content to share the touch of another.
“She was. She was a fine, fine woman. She and Rebecca were my whole world. They were my strength and my conscience.”
Mason's heart suddenly tightened, and he didn't have to wonder why. Hansen wasn't doing it deliberately, but he might just as well have been talking about three other people Mason knew rather intimately.
“I'm sorry,” he told the man, honestly. “I didn't know Barbara well, but she was a fine woman indeed. I'm very sorry for your loss.”
He'd gone too far. A man like Hansen was built for neither consolation nor maudlin displays of emotion, and Mason should have known it. The man pulled his hand free of Sarah's on the pretense of satisfying an itch behind his ear, and with that most tenuous of bonds broken, his entire demeanor changed. Gone was the misty-eyed widower, and back was the hard-assed Detective Sergeant Grab-'em-by-the-balls Hansen.
“Enough of this bullshit. Plan B is shot to shit, so we go with Plan C. Rebecca said an hour, but we won't last that long. So are we going to make a move on your monster truck, or do I have to do it myself?”
It was too much. Something else was eating away at the old man. Something beyond his daughter's life hanging in the balance, and even beyond the loss of his beloved wife. It was no one's business but his own, so Mason let it go, but he didn't let go of the other thing.
“We can't alter the plan now, Gary. Becks said an hour, so we go in an hour. They'll need that much time to barricade themselves in. Until then, we conserve our strength. We're going to need it.”
Hansen clearly wasn't happy with the judge's decision, but he conceded the point with a grudging nod. And now, confined in a library with one person he barely knew and another he outright despised, Hansen looked up at the rows of books, then to the floor, then he busied himself with picking the odd bits of lint off of a shirt already heavily stained with mud and blood and gore.
At last, when the silence became too awkward even for him, he chucked his chin toward Sarah and told her plainly, “That girl of yours is one tough little monkey.”
Sarah considered the statement with a sigh, allowing a semi-committal, “I guess.”
If Hansen had any scruples, he would've left it there. But he didn't. “I bet she saw something in that Beverly woman no one else was willing to see, am I right?”
Sarah's back stiffened. “As a matter of fact, that sweet little girl suggested just yesterday that we should cut Beverly loose.”
“Smart girl,” Hansen harrumphed.
“Then she suggested that maybe we should just shoot her.”
“Very smart girl,” Hansen harrumphed again.
“And today, she did just that. Just yesterday, that sweet little girl was playing with dolls, and now she's perfectly capable of putting a bullet in someone else's brain. So yes, Hansen, I guess she's become a tough little monkey. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Hansen looked her square in the eye. “As a matter of fact, yes! It means she's a survivor, and more to the point, it means that my girl's chances of surviving this shit just got marginally better with someone like that watching over her.”
“Someone like that?” Sarah snapped, but Hansen waved it off.
“Oh, I didn't mean it like that. You know what I mean. Hey, most people die in this world because they can't let go of what was and wrap their head around what is. Now, I'm an asshole from way back, so it was no big thing for me to go from 'me against the world' to 'me versus the world,' you know? But Rebecca doesn't think that way. She couldn't! Oh, she can finally take down a '50 if she has to, same as she might be able to take down a rabid dog. Under the right circumstances, she might even be able to do the same to a person, and I stress the word 'might'. But your daughter...”
Sarah skewered the man in place. “My daughter... what?”
“Oh, c'mon, Sarah. No offence and all. It's a compliment! All I'm saying is, Mackenzie is different. She's smart. She sees things the way they are, not how they were. In a strange way, I suppose the younger the kid, the easier time they'll have adjusting to the new paradigm.”
“And what paradigm is that?” Mason asked, already knowing the answer.
“Why, kill or be killed, of course,” Hansen said, just that simply.
“Survival at any cost?”
“Damn straight! Same as always. So the questions is, why did you keep that Beverly woman with you? I mean, really, if Mackenzie could see the signs, you would’ve too, right? You had to know she was... unstable.”
Ain't no psychiatrists in the 'poc'lypse... Mason thought to himself.
“That poor woman went through hell,” Sarah snarled. “She had her child ripped from her arms and thrown to the swarm, for Christ's sake!”
“Well, boo-fucking-hoo!” Hansen cut her off with a huff. “We’ve all been through the same shit, haven’t we? We’ve all lost someone, right? Hell, not a person left alive on this shitball of a planet who hasn't suffered a loss of some kind. So don't you dare excuse the fuck-up someone makes today because of whatever shit they went through before.”
Sarah looked about ready to explode, but Mason settled her down with a gentle hand on her shoulder.
All at once, he knew the burden Hansen carried, and he understood the nature of the dark cloud hanging over the man. Still, it was none of his business. It was Hansen's cloud, so it was entirely his decision whether or not to bring the rain. And after looking back to the books and to the floor and everywhere else but at Sarah, the old man finally did just that.
“I killed her,” the man hushed, more to himself than to anyone else. “I killed Barbara. My wife. The love of my life. She was counting on me to keep her safe. I was her husband, her protector, and I failed her. I'm a cop. I should've seen it coming, but I didn't. All of a sudden, the road was blocked and we had nowhere to go. Then, the '50s came. Twenty. Fifty. Dunno, maybe more. I backed off and tried to find a different way out of the mess, but it was the same everywhere.
“I kept trying, kept moving, but with Barbara screaming and Rebecca crying, all I could think was 'Get there! Get there!' I tried one way after another. Then, I took a wrong turn and came up against a massive roadblock, and before I could get turned around, the '50s came again. And then more. And then more. Before I knew it, they were piled so thick around the car, I couldn't budge the fucking thing. Then, one son of a bitch rammed the passenger window with his big fat head, and the window cracked. And with so many of the fuckers pressed up against both sides of the car, the glass finally shattered. They reached in and started to drag her out...”
A tear threatened the corner of his eye, but he willed it away before it could form and told the rest as if he was giving his testimony on the witness stand. “I couldn't stop them. I grabbed for her, but she was already gone. I fired a full clip and killed enough of the fuckers to open up a hole. And then I saw her... lying there on the ground... screaming and crying as more of those monsters tore into her. So, I loaded another clip and took down a dozen more, then I used the last round in the clip to end her pain. I murdered my wife as our child looked on. I shot her in the head and I saw her brains splatter, and I left her there in the middle of the road...”
Jesus Christ...
What was it that Becks had said? It was quick? Was that it? Well, apparently, not quick enough. And Becks must have seen it all. Every gruesome detail.
Not knowing what else to say, he said the first thing that came to mind.
“It was a mercy, Gary. You know that.”
“Of course it was,” Sarah cooed, taking Hansen's hand once again. “There was nothing you could have done.”
But again, it was too much. Hansen pulled away from Sarah and sneered the matter into nothingness.
“Oh, please! Spare me your sentimental Oprah bullshit. I fucked up, I watched the love of my life
torn apart, and I put a bullet in her head. I have to live with it for the rest of my life. But dwelling on that shit won't get me through this shit. When I can afford to mourn Barbara properly, I will, I promise you. When that time comes, I will bawl my eyes out like a tiny, little baby and be appropriately inconsolable. But now ain't that time!”
Mason couldn’t disagree with the sentiment, but it was too cold. Too callous. Too cruel. He knew it, and judging by the look on Sarah’s face, she knew it too. Deep down inside, even Hansen had to know it. But Gary Hard-ass Hansen could never be seen as just another man, could he? For all of his life, he'd had to be Dirty Harry, John McClane, and Robocop, all rolled into one. All grit, zero emotions. But those emotions were there, alright. He was carrying the weight of that horrible event like a millstone around his neck, and sure as shit, he felt every single damn ounce of it.
“And so I say again,” Hansen concluded, though with no enthusiasm at all, “that girl of yours is one tough little monkey...”
“It’s her world now.” Mason finally said aloud what he and Sarah had only ever hushed to each other when no one else was around. “Hers and Teddy’s and Diego’s and the rest of them. You’re right, Hansen. Kids adapt easier, and though I hate the idea of what they’ll have to become, and what kind of lives they'll have to lead... at least they will have a life.”
“And long ones at that.” Hansen nodded, adding the almost off-handed postscript, “Hopefully.”
Hopefully…? Mason scolded the old man inside his head. Don't you know about hope yet, Hansen? Trust me, when that bitch cuts, she cuts damn fucking deep.
CHAPTER XXI
The cover was stark white, with the letters JAMA written across the top in bold script. Beneath were the words The Journal of the American Medical Association.
Mason saw the thing sticking out of the back of Sarah's jeans, but it couldn't possibly be what she'd been looking for. It was too thin, too inconsequential. With all of the importance she'd put on finding it, he'd expected something akin to a sacred tome, not the latest issue of Harper's Bazaar. And now, as Sarah crouched around the corner to check that the doors were still secure, Hansen saw it too.
“Is that it?” he scoffed, turning up his nose. “Is that your damn book?”
“It is,” she said, leaving the thing where it was.
“And now that you've found it, would you mind telling me what was so damned important about finding it? Is there a secret incantation inside those pages that'll end all this? Are you gonna bring back pepperoni pizza and Monday Night Football, Sarah?”
Sarah said nothing, and as far as Mason was concerned, she didn't have to. Hansen's snarky tone aside, that report was her business and hers alone. If she wanted to share anything about it, she would. If not, so be it.
Sadly, Hansen was not so accommodating.
“Young lady, I'm no fool. You say that something is important to you, fine. As long as it doesn't put lives in danger, we will all go out of our way to help you acquire it. But don't give me that same tired old line about finding a way to stop this insanity in its tracks. Forgive me for saying so, Sarah, but you're just not that good! Nobody is! I'm sure you're as clever as all hell, but you're not going to come up with a cure for a global pandemic using spit and duct tape. So tell me, Sarah, what was so vitally important that you simply had to get your hands on that little white book?”
Again, she said nothing, and again, she didn't have to. Mason had known the reason right from the start – from the moment she'd brought to whole thing up – but it was none of his business. At last, though, Sarah pulled that too-thin magazine from the back of her jeans and collapsed cross-legged to the floor. Then, she took a deep breath, released it slowly, and handed the magazine to Hansen.
“I was at work when it all started,” she admitted to the man, however painful were the memories. “When I realized how bad it was, I should have left, but I didn't. Mack was home, and a good woman was looking after her. She'll be alright, I kept telling myself. Ain't nothing gonna hurt my little girl. But Mrs. Dobson was infected, and toward the end, she changed. Mack was able to get out of the apartment in time, but she couldn't escape the virus. She'd been infected, too, and that sweet, blind little thing had no other choice but to wander through the streets all on her own, trying to get to me.” She wiped away a single tear and continued. “Fortunately, Mason found her, and he protected her. He stayed with her even though she was already in stage one.”
To his credit, Hansen kept his snotty comebacks to himself. He simply looked from Sarah to Mason and back again, and kept his big trap shut.
“I expected her to turn at any minute.” Mason picked up the narrative, he too reliving the pain of those awful days. “I knew nothing about the disease, but I held on to the one thing I did know. With every virus, some people are immune, and some people can be infected and still get better. So, I clung on to that one possible future. I hoped that that little girl would live.”
Sarah reached out for Mason's hand, and he took it, gladly.
“And she did!” Sarah declared through a smile, though another tear broke loose and streaked her cheek. “She lived! She got better! Somehow, her immune system was able to fight off the virus!”
“But...” Hansen said, leaving the word hanging in the air.
“But I know from personal experience that not all recoveries are permanent. Some viruses return with a vengeance, and this was no ordinary virus to begin with. So I had to know. One way or the other.”
As it turned out, Hansen was human after all. Gone was Robocop, and in its place, a loving parent. He averted his eyes from Sarah and began flipping random pages in a magazine that he hadn't a hope of understanding.
“So, what does it say? Could the damn thing, uh... return with a vengeance?”
No one hung on Sarah's next words more than Mason. He held her hand as tightly as he ever had, and prepared himself for the worst. Tears welled up behind Sarah's eyes, and like a dam bursting, they began pouring down her cheeks. But just as Mason thought that his worst fears were realized, Sarah beamed the broadest grin the world had ever seen.
“No!” she gushed as she threw her arms around Mason, and they hugged as if they were all that tethered each of them to this world. “She's okay, Mace,” she cooed in his ear. “She's okay.”
“Oh, Sarah,” Mason hushed back. “Thank God... Thank God...”
Even Hansen wasn't entirely unaffected. Though he made a show of stoic indifference, Mason thought he caught the man hiding a sniffle as he stuck his nose between the pages.
“So, it's like the measles,” the old man stumbled through his words, “Supermeasles, I guess. One per customer. Well, good. Good for her.” He cleared his throat and plunged on. “But what else does this damned book say? Where did it come from? Was it terrorists? How do we fight it? And most importantly, can the rest of us still be infected?”
A full minute later, Sarah peeled herself away from Mason, but she didn’t let go of his hand. And in that darkened library, surrounded by the dead and the dying, and with a horde of barbarians quite literally at the gates, Sarah told them everything she knew about the end of the world.
“No, it wasn't terrorists. As a matter of fact, the virus was created as a cure, not a disease.”
“A cure?” Hansen scoffed. “A cure for what, life?”
Instead of answering, Sarah raised the open question, “Have either of you ever heard the word 'nanotechnology'?”
They both nodded.
“Little machines,” Mason said. “Micro-sized.”
“Yes.” Sarah gave his hand a squeeze. “Little machines. Micro-sized. Modern science theorized for decades about nanotech. Tiny, impossibly-small robots that might one day kill cancer cells, remove plaque from clogged arteries, repair damaged organs molecule by molecule... But the problem always was, how do you build a machine smaller than a human cell? Well, we've been getting better at making things smaller and smaller, so it looked like it was just a matter of ti
me. After all, think about the lowly transistor. Back in the days of vacuum tubes, radios were as big as a kitchen cabinet. Then came radios that you could carry around in your back pocket, thanks to a few transistors taking the place of those vacuum tubes.”
“I had one of those as a kid,” Hansen admitted, almost sheepishly.
“And later on, you had a smartphone. Those early radios had a whopping four transistors. Do you know how many transistors are... uh, I mean were in that smartphone of yours, Gary?”
Fortunately for Hansen, Sarah answered her own question.
“Three to four billion! That's billion with a 'b'! So okay, clearly, we were getting better at making things smaller. But there was another problem. One nanobot would never be enough. A single patient might require millions or billions of them, dedicated to a certain task in order to have any noticeable effect. So, how do you mass produce countless billions of microscopic machines? It seemed like it might not happen for another century or more, but then someone came up with a brilliant idea. Concentrate all of the money and technology and effort to build just one, then bond the tech to a virus. Well, a reovirus, actually.”
“Reovirus?” Hansen flipped the magazine's pages even more feverishly. “Reovirus? Whassat?”
“It’s called an orphan virus. One of several harmless viruses found in the human digestive system. They call it an orphan because it’s not associated with any known disease. Now, a virus isn’t alive, understand. It's just a package of genetic material wrapped in a protein shell. It reproduces by subverting a healthy cell and injecting it with its own DNA, and that cell then goes on to reproduce a few million copies of the virus. So the idea was, if they could create a single microscopic robot and somehow bond it to an orphan virus, maybe the body's own cells could become like tiny factories, churning out millions upon millions more microscopic robots.”
“Lunatics,” Hansen gruffed, “playing God.”
