Morte (11 page)

“Mort(e),” Tiberius said. Mort(e) did not answer.

The double doors were ajar. Mort(e) swung them open. Inside, motionless forms clung to the floor and leaned against the walls. Tiberius patted the wall for a switch. The fluorescent lights snapped to life, flooding the room with a sharp white glow.

“Oh, no,” Tiberius said.

Just as they thought: the townsfolk were lying in rows or propped against the wall in awkward sitting poses. All dead. All bleeding from the eyes and noses, a coagulated brown stain clinging to their fur. All torn apart by the telltale lesions that burst from the skin.

There was nowhere to walk. Every square inch of the floor yielded a corpse. At the front of the room, on a stage probably used for school plays and public debates, a dog slouched before a podium. His mouth hung open in a perpetual yawn. A piece of paper had fallen from his lap to the floor. Maybe he had been giving them instructions on how to die.

Whatever petty differences existed between the species seemed to have vanished in this room. A glass-eyed kitten rested her head in the lap of an old dog. A wolf cradled a bloody raccoon, both their dried tongues sticking out. Mort(e) searched the bodies for Sheba’s white fur. He detected blotches peeking out from under limbs and torsos. But none of it was hers. Or all of it was hers, forming a patchwork among the dead.

“What kind of hospital is this?” Tiberius said.

“It—it’s not,” Mort(e) stammered. “It’s not a hospital.”

“They waited here to die, then?”

“Our people used to do it that way,” Mort(e) said.

“But not like this.”

“Maybe they quarantined themselves.”

“Or maybe the EMSAH made them crazy.”

“Maybe,” Mort(e) said, adjusting his gloves. “Do you still want to do an autopsy?”

“Yes,” Tiberius said. “I want to see—”

“Do you need my help?”

“Uh … no. I could just—”

“Good,” Mort(e) said. He steadied himself and headed for the exit.

“Don’t you want to see it?”

“Yell if you need me,” Mort(e) said.

As he exited, he caught sight of a rope pulled taut. There was a young fox—or half fox, half dog; one never knew with these canines. The fox had been leashed, an unheard-of practice, an abomination. But there the animal was, a collar around its swollen neck. The tether resembled the one Tristan had used on Sheba. The fox’s eyes were closed while its mouth gaped open, a wound unto itself. Someone did not want this little one to get away. Someone had gone through the trouble of treating it like a pet. And apparently no one in the room objected.

Inside the meeting hall, Mort(e) could hear Tiberius moving a body, preparing to slice it open from its neck to its crotch.

Some time passed before Tiberius stepped outside, a stain smeared across the chest of his suit. The blood was blue in the darkness. He was about to start talking about what he had found. Mort(e) told him to save it for later.

They walked to the fence and continued into the forest. In a small clearing, far from both the camp and the town, Mort(e) said that they should take off their suits. They gathered sticks and started a fire. When the flames were high enough, they stripped off their suits and tossed them in, releasing plumes of smoke. Then they stamped out the embers and continued on to the camp.

“Did you see the leash?” Tiberius asked.

“Yes.”

“Maybe gathering in that hall wasn’t a result of the final stages,” Tiberius said, “but a leash sure as hell was. Pure crazy.”

“Could have been something else,” Mort(e) said. “Maybe they weren’t driven insane from the EMSAH. Maybe they went crazy because they just couldn’t handle it. Like humans.”

“I hope not.”

There was the sound of twigs breaking ahead of them. They stopped in time to hear more sticks snapping behind them, along with gravel crunching underfoot. Cats emerged upright from the tree line, all wearing protective white suits and helmets. The muzzles of their guns became shiny circles in the firelight.

It took only a second to spot Culdesac. His helmet was so large it resembled the front of a car. “You had to see it, didn’t you?” Culdesac said, his voice muffled.

He ordered the soldiers to stay away so that he could talk to the two insubordinates by himself. There was more rustling of leaves and sticks as the cats formed a perimeter.

“Why did you do it?” Culdesac asked.

“We had to know, sir,” Tiberius said.

“Then tell me what you know.”

Mort(e) nudged Tiberius. Though hesitant at first, Tiberius was soon blathering away. He probably thought that it would keep him alive. He explained that the victims had discoloration in the fingernails and teeth, along with polyps in the throat and on the tongue. If he was right, then these symptoms arose early, allowing for faster diagnosis and more efficient quarantine, at least until an accurate blood test could be devised. Miriam was still working on that.

Culdesac asked if Mort(e) had anything to add.

“None of this is going to work,” Mort(e) said.

“Socks says that we’re closer to a cure.”

“I don’t mean EMSAH,” Mort(e) said. “I mean
this
. All of this. We’re going to become just like the humans.”

Culdesac was not one to allow a non sequitur to throw him off. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I want to know why they locked themselves in that barn,” Mort(e) said.

“They set up a quarantine. They’re heroes. We should honor their memory.”

“No,” Mort(e) said. “The disease brought out the worst in them. There was a dog at the front of the room, giving them some kind of pep talk while they were dying. Or else he was keeping them there.”

“We don’t know that,” Tiberius said.

“What did you expect to find?” Culdesac said. “A big party? They were dying.”

“There was a fox chained with a leash,” Mort(e) said. “Like an animal.”

Culdesac leaned toward Mort(e). “You better tell me what’s gotten into you,” he said.

Mort(e) did not know where to start. His mind was still locked on the image of the dead.

Culdesac slapped him in the face, turning his head toward Tiberius, who remained still, facing straight ahead. If Culdesac’s claws had not been encased in a thick glove, Mort(e)’s snout would have flopped on the ground, bloody at Tiberius’s feet.

And then it spilled from him, all of it: Sheba, Daniel, the square of sunlight, the bucket of squealing puppies. Shouting out Sheba’s name for no reason. Wondering what he could have done differently. Wondering why he was alive and she was gone. Wondering why others had gotten over their past so easily, while he couldn’t leave his behind. For Tiberius, the past was something to shrug off, to laugh about over drinks and a card game. For Culdesac, it was a badge of honor, the foundation for his bravery and ruthlessness. For Mort(e), it was all bad memories and regret, weighing him down, poisoning the present. As if he were a human.

“You hardly knew Sheba,” Culdesac said.

“I knew her well enough.”

Culdesac told Mort(e) that he was still compromised by human outlooks on the world. He needed to let go of them if he truly wanted to be free. Mort(e) disagreed. He simply missed his friend. There was only one cure for that.

“She’s only good to you now as a reason to hate,” Culdesac said. “Cherish that.”

“A lot of animals experience this,” Tiberius interrupted. “It’s called Regressive Defense Mechanism. RDM. They hold onto some memory. Sometimes they even miss their old masters and cry themselves—”

“Shut up, Socks!” Culdesac said.

Tiberius shut up.

“I can’t tell you how to live,” Culdesac said. “I can only ask
you to die. If you miss some aspects of your slave life, go ahead and complain about it. But I won’t tolerate this nonsense about us becoming like them. Do I need to explain why?”

“No, sir.”

“I need you to be at my side,” Culdesac said. “Are you still with me?”

“Yes, sir.” Mort(e) wasn’t even sure if he was lying.

“So now you’ve seen it,” Culdesac said. “You know almost as much as Miriam herself.”

He allowed for more awkward stillness before rendering his verdict.

“I can’t kill both of you,” he said at last, folding his arms. “And it might be good to have you telling people what you saw. It beats rumors spreading. Or doubts.”

He paced. “Stay here for three days,” he said. “If you’re still asymptomatic, come join us at Camp Delta. If you are symptomatic, then kill yourselves. Or kill the other one, and then kill yourself. Plenty of options there.”

Culdesac stepped away and signaled to his troops to follow him into the woods. “Looking forward to the full report.”

The Red Sphinx scattered into the forest.

Mort(e) was drained, wobbly. He was grateful when Tiberius, overcome with emotion, began to weep. For some reason, it kept Mort(e) from doing the same.

THEY STAYED FOR
five days, just to be sure.

On the second day, an ant mound rose on the outskirts of town. It started as a dimple but soon resembled a small volcano. The next day, the Alphas began pouring out. From a sloping hill, Mort(e) and Tiberius watched the ants dismantle the town, removing every trace, converting all the inhabitants into nutrients. Mort(e) imagined white blood cells acting in the same way
to repel viruses and bacteria. EMSAH had cleansed the town. The Colony would now clear out the EMSAH.

After a while, Mort(e) was glad that they were not close enough to get any real detail. In their jaws, the Alphas carried the victims out of the main hall in pieces: bleeding slabs of flesh dragged along in the insects’ mechanical mouths. There was no attempt to catalogue the names, to maintain some level of dignity. Even in death, these people would be punished for their terrible luck in life.

Mort(e) was too far away to see the little fox on its leash.

The Colony had calculated exactly how many Alphas it would take to remove all the bodies in one sweep. These vulture ants marched in a line to the new mound, while the others went about the business of toppling the buildings one at a time. The structures collapsed in neatly executed implosions, like the splashes from pebbles dropped into still water. The ants carted off the lumber and then plowed up the dirt. By nightfall, only a muddy patch remained, in the shape of an equilateral hexagon. The Queen had blotted out the past, proving once again that nothing lasted forever. She alone could decide what remained and what would be discarded.

Mort(e) and Tiberius examined each other’s eyes for burst blood vessels. They gazed into each other’s open mouths, searching for purple lumps that would turn into lesions. They quizzed each other on basic things, using a recommended list of questions that Miriam had devised:
What was your slave name? What was the name of your master? What was the first word you could read? What was the first word you could speak? Who is your enemy?
It was Tiberius’s job to know the answers for each member of the Red Sphinx. The answer to the last question was the same for everyone and, after what they had seen in the town, was easier than ever. The humans were the enemy. Now and for all eternity.

They experienced no symptoms, not even a headache or fatigue. Thus they rejoined the Red Sphinx at Camp Delta. The camp was a wooden structure, also shaped like a hexagon, with walls made of forest logs and watchtowers at three of its six points. A scout spotted them and alerted the others. The entire Red Sphinx greeted them at the gate, cheering wildly. The two invincible cats had cheated death once again. They were living symbols of the pending victory over humanity.

When Mort(e) spotted Culdesac, the bobcat tipped his head, a signal that Mort(e) should enjoy this while he could. There would be work to do later. Culdesac had played the entire episode to his advantage. As far as anyone else knew, he had sent Mort(e) and Tiberius on a suicide mission, and their loyalty was so absolute that they agreed immediately. Some human traits, such as duplicity, came in handy every once in a while.

MORT(E) DID NOT
talk about Sheba again for a long time.

He managed to survive a few more years of war. And thanks to the increasing need for EMSAH experts in the field, he and Tiberius became minor celebrities, important assets in the Queen’s experiment. The Red Sphinx could not stop at a base or settlement without some officer from the regular army asking questions about the quarantine. Under Culdesac’s orders, they downplayed the disturbing late-stage behavior of the victims, focusing instead on detection and diagnosis of the physical traits. Tiberius was invited to vivisect other animals, and he often asked Mort(e) to join him. Whether he wanted to or not, Mort(e) was auditing a medical education.

Tiberius died still believing he would find a cure. It happened during a raid on an underground bunker, which the Red Sphinx tried to infiltrate by crawling through a ventilation shaft. The humans detected them and began firing. Tiberius couldn’t run
away. Mort(e) screamed his name over the noise but heard no answer.

After the humans were overrun and the bunker secured, Culdesac personally executed the survivors. The Red Sphinx buried Tiberius near a river and placed rocks on the ground in the shape of a medical cross. Afterward, Mort(e) began to accept that they were no closer to finding a cure, despite the constant news of victories on the frontier.

One day, the Red Sphinx passed through another settlement. Mort(e) was the only one who refrained from remarking bitterly about how good these civilians had it. He wanted what they had. He wanted to find a house and wait for Sheba to return, or else continue his search for her. He would explore life rather than death. There was nothing more for him to learn about the latter. There had to be some justice in the universe that would bring her back after the enormous price he had paid. But this was human thinking. The universe owed him nothing.

With the new settlements cropping up, there was talk of the war shifting into a “transition period,” when life would finally proceed as planned. The ants, speaking through their chosen animal ambassadors, assured everyone that their needs would be met while things were returned to normal. Accustomed to taking orders and living only for sustenance, the animals fell in line.