Sweet

by Emmy Laybourne

  Almstead’s eyes are moist. Jeez, Rich is good. He’s brought Almstead to tears.

  “Yes. All right, you’re on,” he says. “A posthumous interview. It’s very smart.”

  Rich nods, but ducks his eyes away. It feels wrong to pander to an old man who’s insane.

  But it’s what we’re going to do. To try to stay alive.

  “You can talk about your vision for the world,” Rich says. “A world with no shortcuts.”

  “All right, Rich, don’t sell past the close,” Almstead says.

  * * *

  Before we leave the bridge for Almstead’s suite, the guards shoot round after round of bullets into the navigational equipment.

  Sparks fly and tubes explode.

  “Our own fireworks show,” Almstead jokes.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Amos tells him.

  LAUREL

  DAY SIX

  AMOS, VINCE, AND ANOTHER MERCENARY, the skinny one with the scruffy beard, escort Almstead, Tom, Rich, and me back to Almstead’s suite.

  I can tell Amos doesn’t like this wrinkle in the plan.

  He must know that we’re stalling.

  Can we … Can we jump over the side? Can we get free somehow?

  As we exit the bridge, my mind is scrambling for ideas.

  I can tell Tom and Rich are thinking along the same lines.

  But we don’t come up with anything on the short walk down to the stairway and to Almstead’s suite on Deck 10.

  Through the glass doors, I can see the sky turning gold and apricot. A beautiful sunset.

  I wonder, Is this my last sunset?

  I feel strangely displaced from the sadness and fear I should feel.

  I am somehow floating above it all.

  * * *

  “Mr. Almstead, we’ll seat you here,” Rich says. “And, Tom, this is you.” He indicates the other chair.

  Tom and Almstead sit down.

  I stand next to Rich, who is manning the camera.

  In the suite, Rich has centered the shot on two beautiful wooden chairs, upholstered in glossy, jewel-toned silk. Behind them is a coffee table with a huge, slightly faded bouquet of flowers. Pollen from the heads of the drooping, yellowed lilies is scattered on the polished surface of the table. Translucent curtains dress the large porthole windows behind the table.

  You would never know about the shipwide apocalypse outside the doors.

  The scrawny mercenary next to me is trembling, I realize.

  I turn and look at him and I see what I missed before. He’s too thin. He’s on Solu. He doesn’t seem as far gone as the people on deck. Maybe he’s only had a few doses.

  Poor thing.

  “I think we are about ready to begin. Can you please clear the shot, Amos?” Rich says.

  Amos is standing between Tom and Almstead, maybe a few feet in back of them.

  Amos shakes his head. “Not safe,” he says.

  “What do you mean?” Almstead says. “What’s going to happen?”

  “He could jump you,” Amos says, indicating Tom with his chin.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, what’s he going to do?”

  “He’s a strong young guy,” Amos says. “He could do some damage to you. And quick.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like a very good interview if I have to have a bodyguard watching over me,” Almstead protests.

  Amos grumbles with irritation. Then he walks over to me, shouldering his machine gun, and withdraws a handgun from a holster under his arm. He grabs me by the hair and pulls up.

  Fire! It feels like my scalp is on fire and I cry out (though I didn’t mean to).

  “Then I’ll keep tabs on your girl,” Amos says to Tom. He lifts me until I’m on the tips of my toes. The barrel of his handgun pokes into my belly.

  “Leave her alone!” Tom says. “I’m not going to do anything.”

  “Not now, you’re not,” the marine counters. He keeps the gun pressed into my stomach.

  “Is that really necessary?” Almstead complains. “I like the girl.”

  “Me, too,” Amos grumbles, and he lets me down a bit, so my feet are resting on the ground. “But it is.”

  My scalp and neck are burning with pain.

  “Well, let’s do this, shall we?” Almstead chirps. “I’m not getting any younger!”

  Rich counts down. “Five, four, three, two…”

  (I am in a sick parody of a studio audience.)

  “I’m Tom Fiorelli and I’m here with Timothy Almstead, the CEO of Pipop and the man behind Solu.”

  “Hello, everyone,” Almstead says.

  “We are recording this interview on the evening of June twenty-sixth, less than six hours before Solu will be released across the country. And yet, you, the viewer, will not be seeing this until a time after Mr. Almstead’s death. Mr. Almstead has agreed to speak with me in order to set the record straight about Solu and his role in its creation and distribution.”

  “Well said, Tom. I like how seriously you’re taking this.”

  Almstead turns to the camera.

  “Howdy, folks. I imagine that a lot of you are angry at me. Maybe you think that Solu was a terrible mistake. That we got the formula wrong, something like that.

  “Nope. It was on purpose.

  “You see, as the CEO of Pipop, I’ve been under attack for years. Fat people blame me and my soft drinks for causing their fatness. People with no self-control whine about how addictive the drinks are.

  “And then some sicko hick tried to shoot me! All because his fat, lazy wife drank herself to death.

  “I got fed up with it, frankly!

  “When Elise Zhang told me her discovery … I saw a way. A way to teach you all a lesson! Why do we hate fat people, Tom?”

  “I don’t hate fat people,” Tom says.

  “Oh, you’re lying.” Almstead waves his hand like he’s shooing away a fly.

  “We hate them because they have no self-control. All of us regular, thin people have to watch what we eat and the oinkers of the world just gobble down whatever they feel like and it chafes at us. It’s not fair! What I say is…”

  Almstead looks right into the camera, a sneer of a smile on his face. He leans forward in his chair.

  “You want to be out of control? Really out of control? Have some Solu.”

  I shudder. Amos pokes me with the gun barrel.

  Almstead is insane.

  Even if Tom, Rich, and I die, making this tape is worth it. The world has to see him for who he is.

  “Mr. Almstead,” Tom says. “Can you tell us how you got Solu past the FDA?”

  “Lord, boy, didn’t you read your talking points? Solu is not a drug. It’s not regulated by the FDA. It’s a nutritional supplement.

  “As for the formulation, it was a happy accident. See, Solu’s made from a combination of plants. There’s something called bitter candyfruit that grows all over in Europe and some Indian herb called bacopa, naturally sweet, the both of them. Together, they made a pretty good sweetener.

  “Dr. Zhang brought it to me, first just as a sweetener. But when we tested it on rats, they dropped weight. Within days, they’d go from fat rats to skinny. To dead. And the rats couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

  “I knew we had something big on our hands.

  “And the great thing about Zhang was, she wasn’t attached to humanity, per se. I mean, she was much more interested in the effect of the formulation than anything else. You should have seen her on this cruise, ‘Mr. Almstead, the subjects are demanding more Solu!’ ‘Mr. Almstead, the subjects are losing their inhibitions!’ ‘Mr. Almstead, they’re raving mad!’

  “She kind of scared me, the way her eyes lit up when she was talking about ‘the subjects.’

  “She should be here with me now. I bought her her own island to live on—but she was out watching the rioting and a group of them caught up with her. Too bad.”

  Tom clears his throat.

  “Are you worried about
what will happen to the Pipop Corporation when people learn how dangerous and damaging Solu is?” Tom asks.

  Almstead leans back.

  “Pipop’s gonna go under. And I’m glad,” he says. “The godforsaken shareholders! They’re as bad as the customers. They wanted continual growth. ‘Conquer new markets. Create new products.’ But when the chips were down, when the politicians started legislating against our company, did they stick up for me? No! Did they use their Washington connections to fight back? No!

  “They’re fat and lazy, too! Just want more money, more money. Feeding on my daddy’s company. I’m hoping they’ll all go to jail!”

  He hoots with laughter.

  “That would show them!”

  It feels like this interview is coming to an end.

  Oh God. I glance around us. Amos still has his handgun pressed into my belly. The scruffy guard is to my right, next to Rich. The other one, Vince, is near the door.

  I need to come up with a plan!

  I need to think.

  Tom asks, “What do you see happening when the product hits the stores tonight?”

  “I see a whole lot of waddling oinkers lining up for an easy fix. And they’ll get a fix, all right.”

  Tom shifts in his seat.

  “But … Mr. Almstead, surely … surely you can’t believe that people deserve to die because they’re a little overweight. I mean, these are good people you’re talking about. They didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “How do we know they’re good? I mean, look at you and Laurel and Rich. You’re all smart, healthy young people—none of you took it. You didn’t fall for the trap because you’re not fat and lazy.”

  Tom is grinding his jaw. I can see the muscles in his jaw rippling.

  “Aha! I see your disapproval there, Fiorelli,” Almstead continues. “If anyone should feel bad, it’s me. I’m the one who’s going to be looked down on throughout history as some kind of a genocidal maniac. That contempt for me you have—everyone’s going to feel that way. But after a hundred years or so, they’re going to respect me and what I’m doing for the world. Solu is going to cleanse America of the fat and the lazy. Can you imagine it?”

  Tom starts to speak, but Almstead holds up his hand.

  “My father brought Pipop to the world. And I’m bringing Solu. He made a contribution and I’m making a contribution,” Almstead says. He snaps his fingers at the tattooed mercenary. “Vince, there’s a black metal briefcase in my closet. Bring it here.”

  Vince hustles off.

  “I want to show you something, Tom,” Almstead says.

  Vince returns with the case.

  Almstead snaps it open.

  The eyes of the scruffy guard next to me open wide. His nostrils flare.

  Inside, on a bed of foam, is one single can of soda. I bet I know what the sweetener is.

  “Take a look at this,” Almstead crows.

  He removes the soda. The design of the can is a play on the distinctive looping purple-and-white Pipop banner.

  This is Solu-pop.

  A can of Solu-pop.

  “See? Here’s the perfect marriage of my father’s contribution and mine. Solu-pop. It’s a prototype.

  “I know we’ll never get a chance to produce it, but I couldn’t resist. We had to make it pretty concentrated to be sweet enough. Probably ten doses in this little can.”

  Tom looks away in disgust.

  Our time is running out.

  Suddenly Almstead has a brainstorm. “Say, would anyone like to try it?”

  Tom scoffs in disbelief. Rich gestures at him to play it cool.

  The skinny guard next to me, he raises his hand slowly.

  I gasp.

  The guard looks to Amos, for permission.

  “Are you kidding, Jensen? You’ve seen what it does.”

  Jensen shrugs. “I feel … I don’t care. I want it.”

  Amos shrugs—his body language saying, “It’s your funeral.”

  Almstead holds the can out to the scruffy guy.

  His hands are shaking as he steps forward.

  This is my chance. This is my moment, and for a second, I am paralyzed.

  “WAIT!” I say.

  Everyone looks at me, surprised. (As if a floor lamp started speaking.)

  “You need a glass and ice,” I say. “You have to do it right.”

  They all boggle at me for a moment.

  “This is a historic moment, guys. We have to do it right.”

  Almstead beams at me.

  “Good idea!” he says. “Just like a lady to think of something like that! The goodities and niceties!”

  I bustle forward.

  “Tom, get the guard a chair,” I instruct. “And you should introduce him properly. We’re making television history here.”

  Tom is looking at me with a “What the hell are you doing?” look on his face.

  Almstead beams at me as I take the can from him.

  “Aren’t women wonderful? A different breed entirely!” he says.

  I cross behind the men, into the kitchen of his suite.

  I take a tall glass from the shelf.

  Tom introduces the guard, whose name is Jimmy Jensen.

  The fridge is dead, but I find some ice in a melting clump in the ice drawer.

  I need to be very careful.

  I pop the top on the can.

  In the other room, I hear the guard gasp.

  Jensen smells it.

  I pour the soda over the ice.

  I stop, my hands shaking. Maybe … maybe this is not going to work.

  I thought Jensen would jump up by now.

  Then I hear it. A sound like thunder. Thundering feet and screaming. The shrieking of the survivors on the ship.

  “What on earth are they going on about now?” Almstead says.

  I step back into the living room. Almstead, Tom, and the addict mercenary turn toward me.

  Jensen licks his lips.

  I step closer.

  The sounds from the hallway grow louder and louder.

  They smell it.

  I dump the soda and ice over Almstead’s head.

  “Hey!” he protests.

  Suddenly there’s a loud bang on the door.

  Voices screaming: “YOU HAVE IT. SOLUSOLUSOLU! GIVE IT TO US. LET US IN! LET US IIIINNNNN!”

  Addicts. At the door.

  They smelled the Solu.

  (I knew they would.)

  They smelled it through the door—through the hallways and corridors. Through the metal hull of the ship.

  The suite’s door explodes inward.

  Tom stands and Amos hits him on the head with the butt of his gun. Tom drops!

  Addicts swarm inside. First they hit the floor, licking and lapping. Then they smell it on Almstead.

  And they jump him. Lick him, suck his hair. They bite him.

  They tear at him.

  They’re pulling, trying to get him away from one another.

  They rip him apart.

  His screams are horrible.

  I’m pushed, thrown down to the floor.

  They’re stepping on me, crushing me.

  The smell is overwhelming. Blood and innards and bowels.

  Ragged, dirty skeletons. Shoving and shrieking and clawing their way to Almstead’s bloody bones and guts.

  “Tom!” I scream. “Rich!”

  I try to stand but I can’t get up. I can’t even get to my hands and knees.

  The swarm is kicking, shoving me back, and then I feel my back to the wall.

  I push with my arms and legs, pushing against the wall. I manage to get to my feet.

  Where is Tom?

  A sweating teenage boy in filthy underwear shoves against me to get forward.

  I have to get to Tom.

  TOM

  DAY SIX

  THERE’S A SNAP AND A ROAR of pain that brings me to my senses. My face is pressed to the ground and people are crawling over me.

  My ankle is
broken.

  People are swarming on top of me, scrambling over me, and my blasted ankle is broken.

  I look down, and oh God, the shape is wrong. There’s a lump of bone jutting out above my ankle bone. Not breaking the skin, but wrong wrong wrong.

  I retch; I can’t help it.

  It’s the pain and the sight of it. The agony is surging through me. Feels like a buzzing swarm of flies in my blood, lifting and settling.

  There’s a high heel embedded in my forearm.

  A scrawny, screaming harpy is standing on my arm and her heel is piercing my flesh.

  I have to get up. NOW.

  That a-hole hit me on the head with his gun. I remember.

  “Laurel!” I shout.

  God, she got Almstead. She killed him.

  I try to stand up. My ankle screeches STOP. But I can’t stop. I have to get up.

  I shove and elbow addicts off me. They’re feeding on a bloody, meaty something. A skeleton.

  I have to stand on my left leg. I use the muscles of my left leg to haul me up.

  I do a one-legged leg press for my frickin’ life.

  The pain rushes up and I’m going to pass out but I just lean to the side, into the mass of wriggling addicts.

  “Laurel!” I croak. The room is spinning.

  An electric pain flares and I look down to see an addict woman pressing the high-heel puncture wound on my arm.

  It’s Lorna Kreiger.

  Lorna Kreiger is digging her finger into the hole.

  “Get away!” I shout.

  She smells the blood on her fingers and grimaces, like she’s smelling bad milk. There’s no Solu in my blood—so she’s disappointed.

  I don’t see Laurel anywhere. I can’t find her.

  Then there’s machine-gun fire.

  It’s Amos. He’s firing into the crowd, into the addicts coming through the door.

  “OUT OF THE WAY!” he shouts.

  He is shooting his way through the crowd, trying to get out of the room.

  Now the screeching addicts turn on one another—drinking the blood of the fallen.

  This is hell. This is a living hell.

  Blue blips of light swoop and flock in my vision.

  I tell myself, You pass out, you die.

  And thank God, thank God, I hear Laurel’s voice.

  “Tom!” she sobs. “Tom!”

  She’s climbing over the addicts. She’s crawling over them; her arms reach out to me.