The End Came With a Kiss (4 page)

"They kept it going longer than I thought they would."

I look down at an open can of ravioli on the coffee table. "I see you managed to find some food."

She looks over her shoulder at it. "Yeah. The basement was pitch black. I found that in the back of a kitchen cabinet."

"Well, you’re welcome to anything in the house. We also have hot water if you’d like to take a shower." As I say it, I can’t help but notice that her hair looks shiny and vibrant, her youthful face free of smears.

"I took one yesterday, actually. It was horribly cold, but the water was clean."

"Where’d you find that?"

"The police station," she says, absentmindedly dragging her fingers through her gentle red waves. "I was hoping they had water heaters." She frowns. "Turns out they don’t."

"Have you been wandering around by yourself?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

"What happened to your family?"

"They changed."

I nod somberly. "I’m sorry to hear that."

"I’m not."

I feel my face scrunch. "You’re not?"

"I’ve been thinking. Maybe they’re not dead. Maybe they're turning into something else."

Her words startle me, and a memory rises to the surface:

He came with the promise of eternal life.

If he hadn’t entered the boardroom with Devon Prescott, the CEO of the company, we would have had security see him to the door. After a more-than-awkward transition, a thirty-year-old slide projector was put in place at the end of the conference table, and a black and white photo appeared on the screen at the other end. It depicted two men with shovels standing in front of a gold mine.

Our presenter, Jeremiah Cartwright, walked along the row of shaded windows on the other side of the table in his odd trousers, vintage vest and curly moustache. His chin lifted proud. His posture refined. "Ladies and gentlemen," I remember him saying, in his thick drawl, "the man on the left side of this here photo is me."

This caused every eye to snap back to the screen. There was a strong resemblance, but the man in this picture was a decade older and more haggard. Jeremiah Cartwright was a lean athletic man in his late twenties. There was no way these two were the same person. Besides the fact that the photo looked like it had been taken in the 1800s, Cartwright would have had to drop more than ten years off his life to be the same man.

A few of the board members were unable to contain their amusement, but for Mr. Prescott’s sake, the majority of us remained respectful.

Then he said something like, "I know what you're thinking. You’re thinking this guy’s crazier than a sack of weasels." That was how he spoke, like he was an old miner forty niner trapped in the body of a young man.

The screen flickered and another black and white photo appeared. It looked like it came from some political archive. In the background was a group of gruff and hairy diplomats. In the foreground were two men standing as though they were statues. One of them was, unmistakably, Jeremiah Cartwright.

He explained that this was him in 1898 with President William McKinley, then quickly flipped to the next photo. There he was again. This time holding the evening edition of the Boston Globe. It said, "Sox Win Championship," and in small letters at the top, "SEPTEMBER 11, 1918."

One by one the photos flicked by. There were two constants. In each there was undeniable proof that the photo was taken in the past, and there was Jeremiah Cartwright. Same goofy smile. Same goofy mustache. When he finished, there wasn’t a person in the room who could hide their skepticism.

"Obviously the photos are doctored," said one of my colleagues, mirroring my thoughts.

"Any kid with a desktop and Photoshop could do this," was another prevailing thought.

Cartwright stood at the end of the table as the lights were brought back up. His face was stalwart. His posture confident. None of us could have ever been prepared for what came next. He drew a knife from his pocket, opened it, and ran the blade down his right cheek. Silence engulfed the room like a suffocating cloud.

He placed the bloody knife onto the conference table, but that wasn’t enough for him, and it wouldn’t have been enough for us. He had to peel the wound apart to demonstrate how deep the cut actually was. I imagined I could see clear into his mouth, and turned away with a gag.

Prescott handed him a wet cloth, and as he tended the wound on his cheek, he proceeded to explain that he and his partner had found something in the mine that day, something extraordinary that he had kept a secret for almost two centuries. He claimed that it didn’t just stop aging, but reversed it. It changed you. If you put it on your skin, it changed your skin. If you put it in your belly, it worked its way into every part. Within a few short minutes, he removed the cloth and displayed his cheek. We sat in stunned silence. There was no trace of the wound.

Not everyone was convinced, however. There was one skeptic left. But Jeremiah Cartwright made short work of her. He picked up the pocket knife and rounded the table to where she sat, looking prune like. That was a normal state for Helen. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something like, "Lass. How ‘bout you take this here pocket knife and you cut a hole anywhere in my body. I’ll let you put your finger in it for good measure."

Helen’s face soured. She still didn’t believe him, but she didn’t have the belly to prove him wrong. Cartwright put the knife back in his pocket and proceeded to wipe more of the blood off his cheek as he made his proposal. In his estimation, the world wasn’t ready to hear all of what his product could do, and it wouldn’t be profitable to give it to them all at once. Instead, he proposed a rollout. Beauty creams, health supplements, cold elixirs—as he put it. With each product the company would get richer, and the world would slowly accept the possibility of becoming something new. Something more than human.

But what my company created did not have the same effect as the original organic substance. What we created did not bring eternal life. It brought eternal death.

My eyes refocus on Ashlyn. "They’re not turning into something else. The change is done. They just can’t die—you know—completely."

She tilts her head. "What do you mean?"

I pause, but only for a second. I know where this questioning is going. But there is no sense in hiding what I know or my involvement in all this. She’s going to find out anyway. It’s best to rip the Bandaid off quickly.

"Your observation is impressive," I say, choosing my words. "Most people think this is a disease. You’re the first person I’ve seen who recognizes that it’s much more."

"You make it sound like you know what’s going on."

"Sadly, I do. My company created this."

As the words leave my mouth, I fully expect disgust to appear on the face of my guest. After all, it disgusts me what I’ve done. How many people have suffered and died because of my short-sighted meddling. But there is no response in her countenance. Does she not believe me? No. There would be doubt in her eyes. Maybe she’s in shock.

"Wow," she says at last, snapping her head back. "I don’t know what to do with that."

"Yeah," I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "I don’t know what to do with it either."

"So what are we talking about here? I mean, cause, like, you don’t look like an evil mastermind. So what… Did you stumble onto this or something?"

"The lab I work for is mostly R&D for a major pharmaceutical company. We monetize developments in science."

"So all this is like a beauty cream gone wrong?"

"That’s a pretty precise guess," I say. Not hiding my suspicion.

She looks at me as if I have bugs on my face. "Hello? Have you looked around? They’re all pinups."

Her teasing expression makes me laugh. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to grill you."

"Is there a lot of espionage in your line of work?"

"We do tend to keep our guard up."

She got to her feet. "Well if anyone should be suspicious, it should be me. Here I thought you were just some guy in a parking garage, and now I find out you're the one who turned everyone into veg heads."

"Not single handedly," I point out.

"Still," she says, leaning back against the wall, folding her arms. "You were involved."

"Yeah. I was involved."

"So, are you going to, like, fix this?"

"We’re hoping."

"We?"

"Yeah. Me and the others."

"A bunch of you survived?" She rolls her eyes. "Of course you did. You made this thing."

"Only three of us survived, that I know of."

She turned her head. "Sorry."

"No. It’s no problem." It is my intent to keep going, to apologize for my role in all that has happened, but I’m interrupted by the distant squawk of my ham radio. I turn and head through the kitchen.

"What is it?" she says, following.

"It’s the radio." I flick on the light as I head down into the basement.

I hear her voice behind me. "Whoa! Looks like you were prepared." Her wide eyes scan the room when she gets to the bottom.

"This house belonged to a friend of mine. He was a bit of a nut. He was always talking about the end of the world. That’s why he built this. It’s reinforced with steel and has an air filtration system in the wall."

"He has everything," she says, picking up a package of batteries from one of the shelves lining the wall. "Food. Guns. Ammo."

"A lot of good it did him," I say, as I sit down in front of the ham radio on the other side of the room. "When he heard people were dying, he knew he was already infected. Everyone suspected that the beauty thing was connected to the deaths, and he’d seen the changes in himself. So instead of using all this, he hung himself."

There is no wince or gasp from Ashlyn. She has probably seen enough horror to sear her heart for a lifetime. Instead she asks, "Where?"

"From the rafter in his bedroom."

"Is he still there? Is he alive?"

"Yeah, he’s there, but he might as well be gone. He wasn’t able to loop at all, and they can’t recover from that. I think it melts what’s left of their brain. That must be why they get so agitated when their loops are threatened. On some level, they must know that what’s left of their life is at stake." I flick a couple switches. "Hold on a sec, okay?" An undulating squeal cycles. "Lau? You there?" I say into the microphone on the makeshift desk.

The line opens and we hear hysterical screaming. "Ben! Ben, you have to get back here!"

I grip the mic. "What’s going on?"

The sound of squelched screaming fills the speakers again. "Ben! Get back here before there isn’t a here to get back to!"

5

Ashlyn is surprisingly quiet most of the way into the city. I’m happy to drive in silence. It’s getting dark, and I need to keep my eyes peeled for broken loopers. They can be erratic and it is not unheard of to have one attack a passing car out of sheer confusion.

"So," she says, staring out her window. " Is she dead?"

I look over at her dim silhouette. "Who?"

"Your wife. Is that why you didn’t want me to go with you?"

The question stings. I‘ve not allowed myself to see her like that.

"Yes," I say, quietly gripping the steering wheel. "She’s dead. But I’ll bring her back."

Ashlyn sits up. "If what you say is true, and all that’s keeping her going is this thing you guys created, won’t giving her a cure kill her all the way?"

"We’re not trying to find a way to remove it. We’re trying to find a way to fix it so that it works the way it was intended to work."

"And how is that?"

"It’s supposed to be a restorative agent. The greater the quantity, the greater the healing. We never imagined it could cause death. Even when we realized there was a containment breach, we weren’t concerned about public safety. We wanted it contained so we wouldn’t lose billions of dollars."

"What if this is how it’s supposed to work? What if it only looks like people are dying?"

I lift a brow, not that she can see it in the dark interior of the car. "You said this before. Is there something you’re not telling me?"

Her jaw snaps shut.

"Did someone you know come back to life?"

"No. I just don’t think this is the end. How could the end be so beautiful?"

An interesting perspective. Flawed. But interesting. "Well, if I have anything to say about it, it’s not going to be the end."

She crosses her arms again, and I wonder what’s going on inside that teenage head of hers. It’s probably a coping mechanism of some kind. If she believes people are changing into something better, she has a measure of hope to cling to. We are not so dissimilar. After all, I’ve convinced myself we will find a cure.

The building where I work is dark, save for three windows on the 27th floor. That’s where we’re going. Fortunately, the parking garage will get us to the tenth floor so we'll only have to climb the last seventeen flights.