Immortality (56 page)

She looked up into the sky. The moon appeared dreamlike, wrapped in streamers of clouds. Lightning flashed soundlessly at the horizon. It was lightning, wasn’t it? For some reason, the flashes reminded her more of artillery explosions from some distant war. For an instant, she recalled memories of bomb diagrams with explanations of operation. These strange implanted memories had happened all through the drug-induced hours. She’d grown accustomed to them and now paid less attention. She noticed a praying mantis standing perfectly still amid the leaves. Light from the fire gave it a crimson tint. The insect’s small eyes glistened as the head turned slightly in one direction as if to stare at her.

Sarah found herself wondering: if mankind was reduced to a small band of survivors, what might inherit the earth in their place? Insects were immune to the plague, along with all the other animals. With the yoke of the top predator lifted, what was bettered suited to rule the world than insects? They had seen dinosaurs come and go. They had watched the rise of mammals and maybe they would watch their fall, too. This little creature looking at her was the top predator of all insects, a survivor of hundreds of millions of years: hail the new king.

Sarah recalled bits of information about the mantis out of nowhere. She didn’t think the memories were really hers. Had she read a book or seen it on television? She didn’t believe so. She recalled that the female mantis tears off the head of the male during mating. The elimination of its brain caused the male to copulate fanatically in a kind of spastic knee-jerk reaction. When the act was over, the female mantis then made a meal of her dead mate. Nature was so wonderfully efficient. Nothing was wasted. Sarah smiled thinking about what this said about the importance of male intellect. She looked at the plastic bag of psilocybin capsules, then rolled it up and stuffed it into a pants pocket.

The mantis was gone. Had it ever been there? Sarah got up and started to wander back toward her car with the blanket around her shoulders. She passed a minivan. The side-door was partly open. A campfire burned near the foot off it. The little girl was sleeping just inside. Her hair was short with small bangs hanging down over a little forehead. Sarah stared at her for a long time. The longer she stared, the more she felt reality being altered and funneled into a single crucial idea that was somehow relevant to this little girl. The force of the idea became like a whirlpool drawing her mind in. Sarah felt there was something important just beyond her reach. She moved nearer the child. She could see her small chest moving with each breath. Ideas violently flashed into Sarah’s mind and then disappeared too quickly to be retained. She wanted to touch the little girl’s face but was scared at what might happen. Her fingers hovered motionless close to the child. Suddenly the world became still and silent, and all that remained was a single memory that had not been hers until this moment. The memory was too complex for her to fully grasp it. She drew back her fingers. She felt like she was standing outside the passage of time. What she grasped was that a new world was starting around her, and she was part of this new world, and children were part of this new world. There was pain at the birth of everything new. None of this could be avoided. She thought about the CDC volunteer program. There was something at the CDC in Atlanta that was key to this new world, but it was not part of any research program. It was something else… maybe a person or event? She walked away from the little girl, leaving the red wool blanket on the ground where she’d stood.

Sarah started the engine. The dashboard clock read three-twenty. The Buick needed gas, but there was enough for at least a hundred miles. Ralph looked over at her as if she were crazy for being up at this time of night. He went back to sleep after making a harrumph kind of sound. The car’s single high-beam cut a swath through the darkness. Sarah drove out onto the highway, bounced across the grass median and then turned onto the eastbound lane. She saw a map in her mind with a course laid out on it. None of this seemed unusual to her – the implanted memories, her new direction, nothing. Through the haze of drugs, she was focusing only on action. She had a good eighty miles of backtracking to go before she could head south toward Atlanta.

Artie had no idea how long he’d held Suzy’s hand. He knew she was gone but hadn’t been able to let go. He just stood looking down at her still body. Tears had burned tracks down his face. His legs and feet were aching. Morning light was beginning to peek through shaded windows. He was faint but refused to sit.

Doctors came into the room. They spoke with him but he couldn’t understand them. He couldn’t concentrate on the words long enough to make sense of them. A woman put her hand on his shoulder. He collapsed into darkness before reaching the floor.

Artie awoke in a different hospital tent. He was in a bed just like Suzy’s bed. An intravenous line was running from his left arm to a bag of clear liquid. He was weak. He thought about Suzy’s funny little rules. He thought about her smile. He couldn’t go on, just couldn’t. He’d find a painless way to die and end this horror that was growing inside him. Why couldn’t he have died with Suzy? What kind of god created a nightmare like this?

A gentle looking older man came into the room. He was dressed in a wool shirt and blue jeans. His eyes found Artie. As he walked closer, his stare didn’t waver. He was recognizable as a doctor by the stethoscope which hung from a pocket.

“Hello Artie, my name’s Hal. I know there’s nothing I can say that will help you with the sorrow of losing your wife. There’s no pill that I can give you which will make you feel better. All I can offer you is the truth and a way you can help keep others from being hurt.”

“What truth?” asked Artie.

“You survived a kill zone while everyone around you did not. That makes you just a little different. The CDC is trying to find people like you. They can use your help in stopping this plague.”

“Are you’re saying I’ve got something in my blood that might be a cure?”

“It could be in your blood or in your genes. The CDC hasn’t figured that out yet, but there are a number of people who seem to be immune to kill zones. Some of them are already at the CDC and are helping with experiments. We ran some tests on your spinal fluid. You have the lethal bacteria in you and, based on everything we know, you should be dead. That’s the reason they need to see people like you.”

“I’m a carrier?”

“No. The bacterium isn’t communicable like that. One person can’t spread it to another.”

“I don’t understand. Why are there quarantine lines everywhere?”

“Originally government doctors thought the plague might be communicable and so quarantines were established. It made sense – and was prudent – at the time; but after awhile, it became obvious people were not infecting each other. Almost a week ago, the CDC notified us that the bacterium was not communicable and lifted their orders for quarantine.”

“A week ago! Why the hell are the lines still up?”

Hal looked troubled.

“That’s a very good question. I’ve heard that north of us, the lines have been removed; but in other places they’re still up. It’s always about politics. Anyway, I have information for you on the CDC program and an enrollment form. I know it’s hard to wrap your mind around this right now, but this program is a way you can turn your tragedy into something positive. Helping the living is the best way to honor those that are gone.”

Artie was unable to process any more. He kept thinking that if the bastards who controlled the I64 line had taken it down once they knew it served no purpose, then Suzy would still be alive. He picked up a glass of water and threw it across the room. The smashing sound felt good. She’d paid for their greed and stupidity with her life. They would pay for this... Politics… Justice… Someone had to be made accountable for all the pointless suffering and legalized murder.

The doctor was gone after ordering sedation which would be arriving soon. The CDC information and forms were in a folder on the makeshift nightstand. Artie was staring at a wet spot on the wall where the glass had smashed. He sat up in bed and yanked out the intravenous line. The stinging fed his anger. He looked at the contents of the folder including a copy of a fax dated almost a week ago rescinding the quarantine orders. A coversheet explained that the fax was part of a documentation package which might be required to cross any of the remaining quarantine lines during travel to the CDC in Atlanta. Another page explained the importance of survivors of kill zones helping the CDC find a cure by joining their research study. Artie crumpled the enrollment form and threw it on the floor. All the refugee hardship had been for nothing. The quarantines were a sham. The CDC was as much to blame as the bastards who ran the lines. These documents proved the son of bitches in Washington knew quarantines were pointless and they were doing nothing to stop it. There was a sharp pain in his head. He would fight the CDC and this corrupt government – he would hurt them anyway he could. What they were doing to their own citizens was wrong. It was criminal. His few remaining possessions were in a blue plastic bag next to his bed. He opened the top of the bag and looked inside. Along with his clothing and coat were his wallet and gun. Everything he’d arrived with was still there, including a half used pack of matches and a few coins.

Artie walked out of the medical tent. The gun was strapped to his side in its shoulder holster under his coat. He looked at the CDC fax rescinding the quarantine orders. His blood grew hotter. He started walking toward the I64 line which was about a mile away. A gust of wind tried to rip the fax from his fingers. He kept walking. He thought about the local police enforcing this line and his blood boiled.

Artie reached the highway that the quarantine ran along. He stood and stared. He touched the fence with his fingers, eighteen feet of razor wire and steel pipe. The wire felt wickedly sharp and dangerous. People were crowded all along the line as if it were a tourist destination. Less than fifty feet from him, a police car blew by on the other side of the double fence. Artie felt a buffet of air from the car’s passage. The bastards all knew the line was a sham.

“It’s a fucking lie,” said Artie.

“Excuse me,” said a large man standing next to him.

“The quarantine line’s a fucking lie,” said Artie. “They were ordered to take it down almost a week ago and it’s still up.”

“How do you know?” said a woman.

“He’s full of it,” said the same man.

Artie shoved the fax to within an inch of the man’s nose. He took the paper from Artie’s fingers and examined it. The woman moved closer to read the official looking paper.

“Son… of… a… bitch…” said the man.

Artie heard another police car approaching at very high speed. The sound was like an angry hornet. He reached into his coat and pulled the .357 magnum from his shoulder holster. As the car zoomed by, he took aim and fired four quick rounds into the cruiser. The gun bucked hard in his grip. Three rounds hit the driver’s door and window. The car skidded as the breaks were jammed to the floor. A trail of tire smoke was left behind to mark its path. The car went off the road through the first wall of razor wire and ended up on top of the steel and concrete obstacles meant to stop cars coming from the other side. The obstacles worked just fine in this direction too, thought Artie. The crowd erupted in cheers with scattered catcalls as if the home team had just scored. A small fire started from a ruptured gas tank and grew in size. People began picking up rocks and throwing them through the razor wire at the burning hulk.

Artie felt very much alive. He gazed up at a surveillance camera aimed at him and smiled. He reloaded and then seated the gun back into his shoulder holster. He looked at the guy who had been reading the fax. His eyes were as wide as coins. With a trembling hand, the man offered the fax back to Artie. There were sirens in the distance.

“When the bastards arrive,” said Artie. “Tell them the man who did this said his name was Alexander.”

He had no idea why he’d used a different name. The change just felt right. He was no longer the same man. He was someone else, someone who was alone, someone who had nothing left to be taken from him. The quarantine enforcers were the cause of too much suffering and they had to pay. They just had to pay.

The God-Machine

The effects of last night’s psilocybin were fading. Sarah hadn’t experienced any hallucinations for hours, but her thinking was fuzzy. She exited the highway and followed signs to a picnic area. The exit quickly turned into a secluded gravel roadbed. She drove the Buick toward some shaded picnic benches. Gravel spit up into the fender wells. She coasted to a stop and cut the engine. Ralph up looked at her.

“Come on, boy. Rest stop.”

She opened the door. He stared for a moment and then laid his muzzle back onto his paws.

“Traitor. Don’t you love me anymore?”

Ralph’s eyes looked at her for a moment; then closed. Sarah shut the door. There were no restrooms. She needed to pee. She hadn’t seen another car in hours, but the first spot she tried behind a row of trees still felt too exposed. She wandered back into a thicker part of the forest’s edge. She noticed the trees were greener than up north. A stringy moss hung from some of the branches. The sun peeked through in spots, sending shafts of light to the forest’s floor. Where she stood felt like the gallery of an earthen temple.

Sarah found a comfortable spot to hide as she peed and was relieved to be done with it. She stood and tucked in her shirt. A blue jay darted from one branch to another. Something was familiar about this place. She wandered a little farther into the woods. She was drawn by feelings of deja vu emerging from her hazy mind. The trees, the plants, even the air was familiar. An image came to her but then faded, yet bits of it remained like the afterglow of a photoflash. The lingering impressions were of water, maybe a pond? She climbed over a fallen log. Fungus grew from its bark in huge, half-mushroom shapes. The wood was damp. The air was heavy with a peat moss scent. After a few more minutes of walking, she got another impression, stronger this time. The image was of a rowboat pulled ashore with the name
American Heritage
written on its stern. Brambles scraped against her legs as she pushed through them. The trees looked thinner up ahead. She spied a slash of brownish-green between a pair of ancient weeping willows. There was a body of water up ahead.