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Last Supper of Humanity - Tamara Wilhite - 4th Tie

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Last Supper of Humanity

Tamara Wilhite

"My research paper is on the size of dinner plates as it correlated to obesity levels over time," I announced.

My study adviser didn't laugh as my roommates had. A long and lanky fellow, even into his old years, remained healthy enough into his old age to work, exempting him from Obama- care injections for those whose quality of life didn't meet the standard. "How did you determine those values?" he asked.

"Plate size can be determined for the past 3,000 years from those recovered from archeological sites," I said.

"Those may be ceremonial ones, not those in actual use."

"The plate size of those in burials correlates to the size of plates depicted in art."

"Can you name several reference works for your paper?" he asked.

"The Last Supper," I said. He flinched at the reminder to his last scheduled "time away". He had done in for his physical exam, not sure he met the criteria. If his pain quotient was too high or his dependency level too low, he would have been put to sleep to save money on pain killers and medical costs.

I couldn't help but think of the painting though, since he'd referred to his last meeting with me, the night before he went for that morning visit, as "his personal last supper." I’d worried he wouldn’t meet the computer’s latest values and not be alive to be around today. That really would have screwed up my study course, if the only available advisor wasn’t there to say that I passed. "There are other Renaissance paintings and medieval works. I've referenced their database numbers from those paintings."

"How did you reference obesity levels?" he asked me. The words were heavy. He knew it was nearly a taboo subject. No one was "fat," only suffering from various levels of BMI. His BMI was probably too low, but he was still alive. Mine was…average, though average crept up over time. Your BMI could be any level if you could work, accepting kids and your medical resource usage was acceptably low.

"I referenced both depictions in historical paintings and in analysis of the dead."

"Did you find anything unusual?" my supervisor asked.

"The analysis of the depictions stored in the database gave a higher average BMI than the analysis of the dead." 

The archeology and historical department had long combined into this one man. No one else had seemed to care about the past. There was only today. Me, I wondered about things, like where there might not be a tomorrow. This old man had seen my questions about the future and led me to learn about the past as well, in the hope of understanding the future. "Why do you think that is?" he asked me, keen in interest.

"I don't know," I admitted.

"Don't you have any guesses?" he pressed.

"I ran the correlation. I don't have any logical reasons for it."

He sighed softly. "I shouldn't be angry. You're studying history. You're the only one studying it today, per student registrations. I suppose demanding logic from you would be too much."  He sighed again. "There are several possibilities. First, you may be denied access to images of very thin people."

"Starvation?" I asked. I’d only heard about it from him.

"Well, yes, of the starving. That information has an emotional content level higher than you're allowed. You may also not be allowed to see pictures of people so thin because it can affect self-esteem. And those images may simply have been deleted from the database, as they have slowly faded from collective memory."

"Or they may not exist," I offered.

"That would fall under deletion," the adviser stated.

"The people may have died from lack of food, lack of BMI, and their pictures were not taken."

"Not that many people died of starvation. And many of those dead you used in your correlations died middle aged -- and not from lack of BMI. People, on average, used to be thinner." I looked at him, wondering if he classified as thinner. "The average BMI used to be much lower."

"I know it moves up over time."

"Why is that?" he asked.

"Because the government changes the average."

"Or we're just, collectively, getting fatter." I winced at the curse word he had used. If we weren't in the history department, a place with no people and little technology, he'd likely have been reported and issued a fine on the spot. "What is the correlated increase of plate size you found?" he asked.

"It has increased by 2/3," I said.

"Give me a decimal value for a percentage," he said.

"60% to 70%, roughly." Roughly was a good word. It was called the smidgen factor. It was like fuzzy math, but sounded  more professional to use, unlike “somewhere thereabouts I think…”

My adviser frowned. "Give me a more specific value," he said. "More specific numbers."

"I'm not in math," I said. “I’m studying history.”

"I can wait while you run it through the computer."

"66%," I finally announced. His patience was reassuring, as was his lack of frustration. It was one reason why I spent any time with him. Maybe studying time gone by made it easier for him to wait. "I rounded it to 66%, but the computer said 66.666% bigger plates over the past 3,000 years."

"When is the last data point on plate size?" he asked.

"December, 2012. When President Obama won for the last time and started passing new initiatives after the courts confirmed he won the November 2012 elections, despite the enemy stating he stole the election."

"Ah, yes. That's probably when Lady Michelle began issuing health decrees and self esteem initiatives."

"Everyone knows THAT history. It's mandatory study." He said he’s studied that time, but wasn’t allowed to anymore. I had opened many history books I had had since childhood to teach him. That was how we had started discussing the past -- and I eventually taught him -- and he started to teach me. He said most people just called him wrong or worse and left. I actually tried to talk and convince myself to hear another side. Most people, he said, were programmed to not listen to that which is in disagreement with the mainstream media  and didn’t know anything other than what it said.

"And our collective fat asses got even fatter...and we couldn't even admit it ..." The advisor stopped himself. He had to do that a lot. "Can you get the computer to agree that smaller plates correlate to lower BMI?"

"Yes," I said.

"Could you then say that if you ate on smaller plates, that one could then have a lower BMI?" the adviser asked.

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, couldn't this historical analysis be applied to keeping average BMI flat - or even lower?" he began to get excited as he asked.

"For what?"

"Health benefits!" my adviser yelled at me. He knew I cared about health benefits and people not given final advisement because they lacked requisite health standards. My parents had failed advisement within a year of each other, about two years ago. I was smart and was already in college. I ended up being given a dorm bed at school and told to keep going to classes and learning, that’s what my parents and the government had wanted.    

"Do you think lower average BMI would mean more health?" I asked, pretty sure I sounded professional and technical.

"Yes. Follow the logical answer of the correlation."

I couldn't think of anything. "Smaller plates equal smaller BMI numbers. To lower the average BMI, you need smaller plates."

"So the solution is smaller plates, like in the Last Supper?"

"Yes."

"But doesn't that have religious connotations?"

"Only if you state The Last Supper. You could reference history instead. And historically, it was called portion control. Smaller plates will lead to smaller BMI, better health for all – and fewer people put down and away for bad health as you said you wanted to do. So get a smaller plate to begin getting a lower BMI."

"But my government issued insta-meals won't fit on it!" I told him. “So then what would you have me do?”

“Have less food on your plate. Don’t eat it all. Eat less.”

“It’s issued as a balanced whole for nutrition, so I can’t not eat what I’m given. That’s wrong.” And it all tasted good, so who wouldn’t want to eat it all.

"We're doomed," my supervisor said. His face scrunched up like a child not allowed dessert for punishment.

“So do I pass?” I asked, sensing that he wasn’t going to make it through another day if he was crying in public over something so abstract.

“Oh, God! Don’t you understand? After a whole year of trying to explain this, don’t you understand?” He’d used the G-word. Now I knew he was going to be put in jail. Even here the sensors and censors would pick this up and report it.

“Please, pass me. I want my doctorate now. Make me a doctor. Pass me before you’re gone. Please pass me before they take you away.”

My adviser put his head in his hands and began to cry. He repeated the same words over and over again before he was taken away. "We're doomed."

Low BMI or not, he completely failed a sanity health check. Fortunately, upon further review, I was found to be completely sane as well as competent in the material. Given the removal of the only head of department and the only person to have completed any course work in the department area, I was given his job. I was even given security clearance now as my doctoral paper was made classified by the government.

My only limitation was to not analyze history after December 21, 2012, since that was written only by the Presidential History department and all records at that time were under his control. That was the date of his massive court victory and formal beginning of his reign, the solstice after his second and final victory. I was asked not to write anything negative about the One, unless it passed their review and was approved. I asked if they wanted to review what I wrote.

The Presidential History department approved that request, and the school agreed immediately. I'd subsequently received a budgeted salary higher than my predecessor’s since I helped make the past agree with the present. I would be paid to read history all day, for the rest of my life. I also made sure to get rid of the old plates we had in storage and sent them to recycling. Who would wonder about a “green initiative” that also freed up space? If it made the people who gave me a paycheck happy, wasn’t that all the better?

My standard issue meals got better, too. That was one of the benefits of a job, one of the big reasons everyone was supposed to want one. “If you don’t work, you don’t eat,” the history professor said the rules used to state. I wondered sometimes if the old history professor had been so skinny because the old rules applied to him. Now, no one went hungry, but the good stuff went to those who contributed. I ate the government issued rations and enjoyed my life even more. I made sure I wouldn’t go crazy from a low BMI as the one I had replaced. Maybe low BMI and insanity had a strong correlation? I emailed the Presidential History department my outline.

Once approved, I started looking for history texts that showed crazy, skinny people. Sorting through the papers in the history department took a lot of time. I ended up sending them forward for recycling in the next green initiative. After that, all research had to be done online.

*

Then came a day, just like that, the research references for which I lived have been wiped out. In a short span of time, history ceased to exist because all history that wasn’t digital had long since been recycled into the ever-present narrative.

The future, too, was lost with a Gaia-worshipping NGO’s series of Electromagnetic Pulse weapons. All computers, network databases, technological gadgets, electronic communications have ceased to exist as more than just paperweights in a world that was mostly bereft of paper. With the fat and lazy left to die in the dark, like my mother, only the few from the uncivilized corners of the world were left to survive as humanity reverted back to the Dark Ages.

So here I scribe using the sparsely remaining leftover notepads and ink utensils; good old fashioned pen and paper; how primitive! I wonder, sometimes, whether her predecessor was my father. The man she’d accidentally condemned to his death for political correctness. A man I saw more as my father than any person that flowed in and out of the endless social life; a man I’d learned about from reading his paper notes and books as they were taken away for recycling. The history he sought to teach taught me only because of my curiosity of what was being taken away, knowing that it was a novelty no one else could share. Education was merely an unpleasant side effect.

Had I not fled the literally growing senescence of the “civilized” world, I, too, would have died. I had few students whom I tried to teach because the little history I knew was too politically dangerous. Now it is deemed irrelevant when all efforts focused on immediate survival. According to all past references and tribes dating back to the Sumerians and Mayans, all the way to Nostradamus and modern day historians, history for everyone began and ended at 12/21/2012.

...I may be the last person who knows about other civilizations. Even those here now hardly understood the history before the EMP bombs laced the power lines with lightning and all gadgets died in a glorious array of fireworks. But they knew that date, the end of the big world they never joined. Worse yet, it was the beginning of the world they had often wanted to improve never getting better. 

Everyday life as we once knew it has vanquished. Day to day goals have changed from “moral and immoral” to “victims of fate and survivors of another day.” No longer do we try to build a future, but scavenge off the remains of our past for scraps.

The face of our humanity has drastically changed, resorting to cannibalism to cure their hunger, for anything organic is now fair game and considered consumption.

My frustrations at the decisions of our collective past have been sharpened by my hunger. That hunger is so easily the end all and be all of the world. An ever-present reminder of how we got here and how we may never leave it. So here I wallow in the dark shadows of abandoned places, looking for ways to sustain my own basic day-to- day survival in a corner of the world that would have been civilized if it had been more hospitable to people. I only knew that because it was necessary to flee to escape the consequences of my own questions about history. I asked too many questions and my mother’s drive to see me safe had led me to field work far from home. It wasn’t a punishment at all.

Across from me is a large and wholesome cockroach skittering about, flicking its long antennae in the air as if it sensed danger: my hunger. Thank God, it’s one of the bigger ones I caught; the size of those mythical dinner plates. Small portion sizes really do lead to smaller body size. It’s roiling in my stomach, but it takes the edge off the hunger.  I’m glad I can eat it, having read about bugs as food long ago. Others don’t know what other foods and animals they can eat.

I’m writing now as I hear the hunters’ drums around me. There are shouts and screams as they hunt, getting incredibly loud when they catch one. I know what species it is. It is stupid to seek anything but prey for the lean, hungry predators with families to feed.

I’ve always been small, having chosen ancient ideals of health and appearance over the modern ones. I can hear the shouts of the hunters as they seek the weak ones still hiding in the town. It’s really, really loud now. Have to stop writing for a bit.

I’m back. The butchers were so crazed that they didn’t even notice my hiding place. It was so loud because the idiot tried to fight back, despite being surrounded by a dozen hunters with sharp pieces of metal. We’ve all gone from fat and lazy to just scared and soft.

I learned from the books that humans evolved not from the hunters but from scavengers, taking bones and breaking out marrow from the kills and eating what other animals couldn’t or wouldn't.

I hate having food that I cannot eat. And the mess this leg bone made in my hiding place. I’ll wipe the blood off the diary later. For now I have the victory of a meal inside me for the day.

They found the broken bone and are following the blood trail back to me. And I have no way out of this hiding place.

*

Tamara Wilhite blends an awesome combination of horror and Sci-Fi in her writing. She has been published 3x in SNM as well as numerous other ezines and anthologies, including the original Bonded By Blood anthology. Her appearances date all the way back to when SNM started back in May of 2008. She is also the author of two published novels: Humanity's Edge and Sirat: Through Fires of Hell. By day she's an accountant, but by night she is a technical Sci-Fi writer. We have always been a fan of her work and were glad to see a return appearance from her. In fact, we approached her on this story idea and she delivered! Tamara lives in the heartland of Texas with her adoring family. More information is available on her website about her writing.

http://wilhite.homeip.net/

Tamara Wilhite 

 The New Plague

Jade Eckert

Dave and Marcy O’Conner were planning on a dinner/breakfast at Denny’s. It was something that they did every Thursday. Dave would pick up his paycheck before leaving the office, deposit it on the way home and walk in the front door and yell, “Wanna go to Denny’s?” Marcy would call back, “Denny’s!” It was their thing; dinner once a week at Denny’s. Some weeks they would splurge and see a movie after. This week wasn’t one of those weeks. Marcy had an early day the next morning so they would eat, come home, make love and sleep. They were still madly in love after being married ten years. No children, but neither was overly upset about their inability to have them.

Marcy was sitting at the kitchen table when he walked in. She had on a light green floral print summer dress that he loved. She looked so young. He kissed her and walked toward their bedroom.

“Let me change into some jeans and I’ll be ready to go,” he said.

“Ten-four. I’m ready whenever you are.”

He laughed as he walked down the hall. She was a funny gal. He felt blessed they remained as close as they had through the trials of marriage. There had been hard times, but the good outweighed the bad. He used the toilet and changed into his jeans. Mary was at the front door when he returned.

“What the hell is that?”

She was looking out the glass in the front door.

“What, babe?”

She turned and looked at him. Worry lines crossed her forehead.

He stepped up behind her and looked out the window. A pile of something white, gray and red was in the front yard.

“Jesus, I think it’s a dog. Go back in the kitchen and I’ll go take care of it. It must have been hit by a car.”

“Oh God, oh babe, that’s bad.”

Marcy had lost a beloved dog when she was a child. They would discuss things when they were just going off to sleep. The dog story had been the worst she’d told him. The dog had been struck and not killed immediately. It had suffered while she waited for her dad to get home. Her mother refused to leave the house and offer assistance and the woman who had hit the dog never stopped. Marcy was forced to spend over an hour with the dog until her dad came home and shot it. It had left scars on her, not visible ones, but deep, dark, closet ones.

“Go babe, I’ll take care of it. Go on now.” He shoved her gently toward the kitchen. She went and he opened the front door.

The dog was lying on the corner of their yard. As he neared he was sure it was a dog. A large, fluffy white tail was spread out behind it. It was lying with its head tucked under its chest, its legs weren’t visible. It was as if someone had dropped it from above and it just crumpled. He found himself glancing up. Did he expect to see a plane circling overhead dropping out white fluffy dogs? He shook his head and knelt by the animal. There were no obvious injuries one would expect when flesh met metal.

 Its fur was covered by patches of blood and dark gray. Puzzled, he leaned over closer to get a better look at the patches. It appeared as if the fur was moving. The fact that the dog was covered by mosquito’s entered his brain the same moment the dog lifted its head.

“Jesus CHRIST!”  He fell back landing with his arms behind him. He began to crawl backward as quickly as possible, never taking his eyes off the dog. The dog seemed to smile. A lone mosquito flew from its mouth.

“What the hell?” he asked aloud as he continued to backpedal across the yard. The dog stood and shook like you’d expect a dog to do fresh from a bath or swimming hole. Mosquito’s rose in a cloud. The dog took a step toward him and then fell. Dave saw the cloud come together and head towards him. There was something very wrong here. Dogs can’t smile, and they sure the hell couldn’t stand up, shake and take a step once dead. He got to his feet as the mosquitoes neared. He could hear the buzzing, but to him it almost sounded like voices.

“No way, you little shits, no way!” He took off running toward the house. If there was one pest that drove him nuts more than the common housefly, it was the mosquito. They lived near a lake and it never failed they would plan a nice outside activity and the mosquitoes would come in swarms. They tried just about everything to get rid of them: sprays, candles, it didn’t matter. They really pissed him off. He ran up on the porch and turned to see where they were.

The cloud was half way between the dog and him. He could see some were still around the dog, but the majority was headed his way. He burst into the house and slammed the door.

“Dave? What is it?”

Sweat was dripping down his chest. He could feel the wetness under his arms and across his back. He took a deep breath and wiped his face. Marcy came out of the kitchen, a look of concern on her face. When she saw him, she stopped.

“What is it? Is the dog still alive? Is it hurt bad? What should we do?” The questions came like rapid fire, one after the other with no time for him answer.

He didn’t try. What the hell could he say to her to explain this? He turned and looked out the glass in the front door. The dog continued to stagger down the middle of the street. He couldn’t see if the swarm was with it.

“The dog is fine and is on the way down the street.”

“What? It was dead!”

“No kidding.”

“It must have just been stunned. It’s almost got to the Cooper’s and was still going strong.”

This was true. The dog’s gait had improved as it went down the street. It was going at a quick jog. He watched as it paused and lifted its nose in the air. The dog turned and seemed to look at his house before continuing down the street and around the corner. When he lost sight of the animal he turned to Marcy.

“Something weird, though.”

She came up behind him and peered over his shoulder.

“What’s that?”

“It was covered with mosquitoes.”

“Mosquitoes?” He could hear the doubt in her voice.

“Seriously, mosquitoes. I have no idea where they came from but the dog was covered. I ran back so they wouldn’t get on me.” He left out the dog scaring the shit out of him by raising its head and taking a step toward him. He had to save face after all.

“Why in the hell would they be on a dog like that? That many I mean?”

“I have no idea, but let’s go ahead and go, I’m really hungry.”

She backed away from the door, “Sure it’s safe to go out?”

“I don’t see the problem. It’s not like the mosquitoes know we’re hiding and are waiting around the corner. Really, Marcy.”

“Don’t make me sound stupid. It’s just weird. It’s too early for mosquitoes, that’s all.”

It wasn’t the bugs she was worried about, she didn’t have to say it; it was all over her face. It was the dog that was on her mind.

“It’ll be okay. Let’s go.” He opened the door and looked around. Everything was as it should be. Marcy followed him to the car and soon they were on the way to Denny’s. Dave would turn left onto Main, straight for six blocks and then left on Gilbert. The same route every week and he damn near drove it without thinking. He was in traffic, ready to turn left onto Gilbert when Marcy gasped and he heard her window purr up.

“What the hell, Marcy?”

“There was a mosquito. It looked like the damn thing was checking me out. I didn’t want it to get in the car.”

“It was checking you out? Like trying to look down your shirt?”

She jabbed him in the ribs.

“Don’t be a smart ass, I’m serious.”

The turn light finally turned green and he waited for the Mustang full of teenagers to burn around the corner before he followed.

“Kids today, I swear.” He turned to ask Marcy what she thought about the car full of teens and saw her close the vent on her side of the car. She reached the middle vent and shut it.

“Close your vent, Dave.”

He did as she asked without question; Marcy was a woman with her head on straight. If she said close the vent, there was a reason for it.

Denny’s came into view and he turned in the lot and parked.

“What’s going on?”

She was pale. He could see a fine row of sweat along her brow where she had her bangs pulled back.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

He gave her his bullshit look; eyebrows scowled, forehead wrinkled, mouth turned down.

“Never happen,” he replied.

She cleared her throat, “While we were sitting at the light about a dozen mosquitoes landed on the hood by the antenna and went into the crack in the hood. They were going in the engine compartment and the only thing I could think of was that they were getting under there to get in the vent system,” she paused, “so they could get in here and get us.”

He didn’t think she was crazy, not even for one second. He thought she was right. His stomach felt like it was trying to exit through his feet. He nodded to her and looked out the window. Night was falling and the sodium arc lights in the Denny’s lot were coming on. He could see swarms of mosquitoes circling in the spray of light. The thought of going out into that was more than he could take.

“What do you think we should do?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. . . I’m not very hungry for the Grand Slam now.”

He smiled, “I’m not either. Do you think it’s in our heads?”

“I don’t think so, something is going on.”

Sirens rose in the distance and Dave turned his head toward the street and saw first a fire truck blast by followed by an ambulance and three police cars pulling up the rear.

“I want to go home,” Marcy said.

“I think that’s a good idea. Problem is, tomorrow is grocery day. I think we should run by the store and see what we can get from there. We’ll need the basics at the very least.”

She nodded, “I need tampons, and I only have one left. We have to get those as soon as possible.”

He started the car. While pulling out of the lot he noticed traffic had become almost non-existent the few minutes they had spent parked.

It was a weeknight and on a usual night the streets would have been busy with families coming home from a dinner at a restaurant, soccer practice car pools and men home late from the office. None of that was taking place tonight. One light gray Chevy van was swerving down the street. Dave watched as the blond woman behind the wheel batted at her head. At first he thought she was pulling her hair out and until she was right in front of him did he realize she was slapping at something.

“They got her,” Marcy said. “Did you see her? They got her.” There was no uncertainty in her voice. She made up her mind there were rogue killer mosquitoes on the loose and her and her man could be in jeopardy. She kicked into immediate survival mode.

“Let’s get the hell out of here. Go to the market on Swan Avenue. It’s closer to the outside of town. Maybe they haven’t gotten that far.”

Dave was half-listening and half-watching the spectacle up the street. A man was running through the intersection in the same direction the van had come from; the same direction as their home. The man was naked and waving his arms over his head. As he watched the man fell onto the curb a block away. He was immediately covered with a pelt of moving insects.

“Jesus Christ.” He pulled out of the lot quickly before Marcy caught sight of the naked man. He headed for Swan Avenue. The rescue units had been heading toward the man. Dave was hoping the swarm was coming from that way and not all over town. They could stop at the store, get what they needed and then decide if an unplanned vacation was in order. He had credit cards and if the swarm hadn’t spread they could go just about anywhere. Tampons and staying alive were the top priorities for the moment. 

The streets were deserted of cars. It wasn’t until three blocks up that they met traffic. It seemed things were as they should be on the South side of town. Excellent. They could get Marcy’s tampons and stock up and go to a hotel out of town for the night.

“The radio!”

Her sudden burst scared him and the wheel spun in his hands. He recovered but his heart was seriously pounding.

“Honey, I love you to death, but Jesus, easy on the sudden bursts of energy, okay? I about put the car onto the curb and for some reason a dead car is not sounding like a good idea tonight.”

She wasn’t listening to him; she was spinning the dial through static.

“There’s nothing on. How can there be nothing?”

Sweat popped out on his forehead. No broadcast in Los Angeles County? No way. There were countless stations coming from Los Angeles and the surrounding counties. It had to be the airwaves. The mosquitoes were somehow interrupting the signal.

The stations couldn’t be off air because there was something wrong with the people. His brain couldn’t wrap around that. Millions of people lived here. Millions. You couldn’t simply wipe out millions of people with just mosquitoes. It was absurd.

“It’s the airwaves, not the stations. They’ve been interrupted, that’s all.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

He drove without incident to the intersection of Gilbert and Swan. Across the street the market was lit and people were going in and out.

“Well everything looks okay over there. Let’s get in and out as quick as possible,” he told her.

“We aren’t going home, are we?”

She must have figured out which way the swarm was coming from, just as he had done.

“Probably not the best decision. We’ll just stay in a hotel or something further inland. Hell, maybe go to Vegas.”

“I have a case in the morning! I can’t leave town. No way am I missing it. Fern will not suffer at the hands of that son-of-a-bitch again! I’ll see him in prison for what he did to her, or die trying.”

Fern was Marcy’s latest case. She worked as a social worker for the county and Fern was one of the worst cases of spousal abuse she’s seen in her ten years with social services. Marcy would fight the good fight.

“I know it means a lot to you, but we’re just going to have to see how things pan out. If they come this far, we’re going to have to keep moving.”

“The little fuckers!” She slammed her hand on the dashboard.

The light changed and traffic began to move. Dave was in the lane that would carry him through the intersection and into the parking lot of the market.

Two cars were in front of him, none behind. He eased on the gas and began to pull through the intersection when lights shone in his rearview mirror. The lights behind him were on high beam. He flipped the little switch on the bottom of the rearview mirror to dim the lights behind him as he pulled into the intersection. The lights didn’t dim much and he looked into the mirror. The car was coming up on them fast, too fast to be approaching an intersection. It was swerving. Flashes of the blond woman swerving down the road came to mind and he began to honk at the car in front of him.

“What the hell are you doing?” Marcy asked.

“Move, move, move, MOVE!” he yelled at the car in front of him. “Brace, Marcy!” he yelled to his wife.

She stuck her feet straight out and high onto the floorboard and braced her arms against the dash. The car behind was less than a block away and the car in front had just passed through the intersection and going into the market parking lot. Dave knew that unless the driver behind him made the turn, he and Mary were in serious trouble. He put the gas on and was half in the lot of the market when the car behind him came screaming into the intersection. It happened too fast for him to see who was behind the wheel. No matter, whoever it was, they weren’t going to make the turn.

The driver tried to make it, Dave gave him or her that. He heard the tires growling and smoke came from behind the car as it began to slide. His eyes were glued to his rearview mirror as his car bounced into the lot. The car behind began to tip.

“SHIT, SHIT!”

The car in front of him hadn’t gotten far enough in the lot to be out of his way and Dave ended up banging into its bumper. He didn’t look from the mirror even as his car was recoiling from the car in front of him.

“Dave?”

The car behind teetered for a moment before losing the battle with gravity and tipped on its side. It slid across the intersection and into the back of Dave’s car.

The force of the crash forced his car deeper into the trunk of the car ahead of him, pinning the two together. Marcy’s head bounced off the seat rest when they were hit, but both their seat belts held strong. The car died.

Marcy began to cry.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was shaky.

“I’m scared, not hurt. What the hell is going on?”

He looked around. “I have no idea.”

Neither one of them got out of the car to assess the other people involved and the damage as they would have on any other day. Dave unfastened his seatbelt and turned around in his seat. The hood of the car behind him was crushed against his trunk. His back windshield was intact. He couldn’t see any cracks, relieved her turned back around. An overweight, older woman dressed in jeans and a sleeveless red blouse got out of the car in front of them.

“She shouldn’t be doing that.” Marcy waved at the woman to get back in her car. The woman was scowling and walking toward their car when she suddenly stopped and slapped her face.

“Uh-oh.” Marcy uttered from beside him. He didn’t bother to respond, he was waving frantically at the woman hoping she would see him and get back in her car before it was too late. He watched as the woman slapped her face again.

“She’s in some serious shit here. What are we going to do?”

“Nothing. We stay in the car. Do not open your door.” He was serious. He would love to help the woman but there was no way he was going to risk Marcy or his own skin. They would stay right where they were windows up and vents closed, thank you very much.

The woman was looking into the street behind their car. Dave glanced in the rear view mirror but all he could see was the crushed trunk and the hood of the car that had hit them. He looked back at the woman. She was lifting her arm and pointing toward the street.

Mosquitoes dotted her face and arms. She didn’t try to bat them away, whatever was in the street had her full attention. Dave’s hand went to the door handle unconsciously. He was going to get out and see what the hell was going on. Marcy’s hand on his thigh stopped him.

“Don’t go out there. There’s nothing we can do. Neither one of us have any kind of medical knowledge. We can’t help.”

She was right and his hand fell from the door handle. Whatever was going on was going to have to go on without him. The woman from the car in front of them was wiping at her face and spitting.

“Jesus, they’re in her mouth.”

The woman panicked and began to run for the market. She made it half way across the lot before the gray cloud engulfed her. The huge cloud of millions of writhing mosquitoes had come from behind their car and Marcy began to scream. Dave grabbed her and hid her face on his chest. She didn’t need to see this, but Dave found himself unable to look away.

The woman was covered with the bugs. She went to her knees first before falling over and trying to crawl toward the market. Dave shut his eyes as Marcy cried into his shirt. When he opened his eyes the majority of the cloud was gone. The woman was face down on the ground covered with feeding insects.

He leaned forward to see if he could get a better angle and Marcy whimpered. He sat back and closed his eyes. They were in some serious trouble if help didn’t come soon. They had no food or water. He’d heard somewhere the human body needed a half a gallon of water a day to survive. He wasn’t sure how accurate it was, but it sounded about right. Hell, humans were mostly water.

“Babe, do you have any water?” he asked.

Marcy sat up and got her bag off the floor. She pulled out a bottle less than half full. She handed it to him and took a tissue out of her purse and wiped her face.

“Do you have any food?”

She stopped wiping her eyes and looked at him.

“What are you trying to say? We’re going to be in here for a long time? No way, Dave. No fucking way.”

He looked around. Apart from the woman on the ground, no other people had been by. He turned and craned his neck to try and see if there were any cars on the street. He could just make out a corner of the street around the wreckage. Nothing was moving.

“Nothing is moving. No one has come out of the store since the accident. I imagine they have the doors blocked by now. I would. There’s no one on the street that I can see. We may be here awhile until help comes.”

“How long is a while?”

Marcy was fact oriented. If he told her he would mow the yard soon, she wasn’t satisfied, she wanted a day and time she could count on him sweating with the push mower in the front yard. ‘Maybes’ and ‘I don’t knows’ weren’t in her vocabulary.

“I don’t know, babe.” He took her hand in his, hers was cold, his hot. He closed his eyes and thought about it. There was nothing else he could tell her. He didn’t know. How in the hell had this happened? Thoughts were tumbling through his mind. They were going to die because of mosquitoes? The woman in the red sleeveless shirt won’t be going home with dinner for her family because of mosquitoes? Just where in the hell had the mosquitoes come from anyway? Sure, there were lakes around but the number of mosquitoes that had just passed by defied reason. Was this some sort of attack from someone else? A biological warfare experiment dropped from a plane into fresh surface water where the secret deadly mosquito eggs had grown and flourished and then had waited for the signal to attack?

“Dave?”

Or maybe it was our government. Maybe they decided to do a little spring cleaning. Instead of using mustard gas and torture like Hussein, use something they couldn’t be blamed for.

“Dave?”

It would be just like the government to do something like this. He wondered how many cities were going through the same crises.

“Dave?” her voice loud in his ear. He opened his eyes.

“Just woolgathering, babe.”

“Dave, the woman, look at the woman.”

He did. In the time it had taken him to try and figure out how the world, or at least greater Los Angeles, was going to become a memory, the woman in the red sleeveless shirt had stood up and walked to the door of the market.

“Jesus! I thought she was dead!”

“I know, it took her a while to get to her feet and make it that far. She’s better than she was when she first got up. Stronger somehow.”

“Just like the dog.”

The woman was merrily banging on the door of the market as if someone inside was going to be stupid enough to open it. As he watched, incredibly, someone did just that. The door opened enough for the woman to slip through.

“Maybe we can get in there! There’s food, water and everything we need! We have to wait for the troops to arrive!” Marcy hollered in his ear.

Dave hadn’t taken his eyes off the front of the market. The door remained closed and as he watched splashes of red wash over the door.

“Dave! Let’s go!”

He turned toward Marcy, shaking his head.

“Honey, no,” he said quietly.

“Why not?”

He took her face gently in his right hand and turned her head toward the market. The red was outlined on the door by the inside light of the supermarket. It was unmistakable what had happened. The woman had gone in and mayhem ensued. They wouldn’t be going into the market.

“Oh shit,” was all Marcy had to say.

Mosquitoes were visible in the lights of the parking lot. Dave wondered how the driver of the car behind them fared. Most likely not well; not from the impact of the crash, but by what had driven the driver to cause the crash in the first place. He craned his neck around to see if he could see anyone else. Marcy gasped and he turned back to the market. The doors were wide open and people were spilling out. One old woman still held her purse over one arm and her market basket over the other. She was shoved aside by a large man in jeans and a chambray shirt. The old woman went down on one knee and was shoved over and trampled by the remaining people trying to get out.

“No, oh no, no, no. . .”

He didn’t respond. He shoved Marcy’s head down and squished down as far as he could to be out of sight. The people, in a panic, could try and get in the car, leaving them vulnerable to the mosquitoes. Dave locked the doors. If people saw them alive and safe in the car, they may rush over and try to get in. Marcy’s frantic breathing was in his ear.

“It’s okay, babe. I just want to stay out of sight.”

He stayed crouched over for more than a minute before he couldn’t stand it anymore and had to look. He lifted his head and peeked over the dashboard. Most of the people from the market hadn’t made it far.

The man in the jeans that had knocked over the old woman was about ten feet from where Dave sat. The man was face down. Mosquitoes circled over him, landing, drinking their fill and leaving. The old woman that had been knocked over was getting to her feet. Dave watched as she picked up her purse and limped back into the market, leaving the door open behind her.

“What’s going on?”

“The man that knocked over the old woman is the closest. He’s covered. The old woman got back up and went into the market, but she’d left the door open. There were several more people from the market in the parking lot. No one but the old woman has moved.”

“Shit! What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m really hungry. It’s stupid thinking that, but I am. I have a few mints in the bottom of my purse, want one?”

“No, babe, you go ahead.”

He heard her rustling around. He was watching the market. If they could somehow get in there and hide in the cooler then they might be safe. Mosquitoes weren’t out in the winter after all. They didn’t like the cold. If they could make it in there, they could grab food, water, Marcy’s tampons, everything they would need to hole up for awhile. Plus, the cooler would be airtight.

He thought about all the people in houses with a torn screen, a small crack in the bottom of the door, a forgotten open window in the basement. Mosquitoes were so small and wiry! It would be impossible to think of everything, every place that one could get in. The market was a good idea but nothing more than a fantasy. The old woman was in there and God knew how many more people she was busy infecting, or killing, or whatever the hell she was in there doing.

“Water, water everywhere. . .”

Dave turned his head.

“What?”

“You know that line, when the people were stuck in a boat on the ocean and they were so thirsty and yet there was water everywhere but they couldn’t drink? I’m just thinking of the market. There’s everything we need in there, but we can’t go in. It’s right there!” Marcy said, motioning to the market.

“I know, I know. I’m thinking.”

“We should have stayed at Denny’s.”

He couldn’t argue with her, she was right. They would have been indoors and able to hide, but what about the cracks between the doors or windows? Mosquitoes would have no problem squeezing through the cracks, or a hundred if they took their time and went in an orderly fashion, and Dave thought that’s just what these mosquitoes would do.

It was clear this was some kind of planned event. Someone, somewhere was sitting in a nice room waiting as the nightmare unfolded. Were they laughing, knowing that people were dying and the ones inside were sitting ducks because ‘the infected’ were killing those that were not?

The man closest to the car lifted his head. Dave ducked and as he did so he forced Marcy down.

“What? What, Dave?”

“Shh, the man just woke up. I don’t want him to see us.”

They sat in silence until the knock came. Dave’s stomach dropped. He had expected it, but it still surprised him when it came. Dave lifted his head and saw the large man standing next to the window.

“Hey, buddy. Open up.”

Dave shook his head.

The man smiled and slammed his hand against the glass. Marcy began to whimper. The glass held.

“Stop. We’re not coming out. My wife is hurt and we’re waiting for help.”

The man crouched down and looked in the window. Marcy leaned over and clutched her stomach. Dave looked at the man’s eyes. They were lifeless. Whoever the man had been, he was no longer. The man opened his mouth to speak and as he did so a mosquito flew out and batted itself against the glass.

“There’s no help coming. Look the fuck around. Everyone’s dead, now let me in or I’m going to come in anyway. Either way, it’s your choice.”

He waved his hand at Marcy; she needed to be quiet so he could think. He sat there staring straight ahead as the man circled in front of the car, sliding over the hood to Marcy’s side. The man punched his hand against Marcy’s side. A fine crack appeared in the glass and she started to scream.

Instinct took over and Dave started the car. It was a good American car and started on the first turn of the key. Dave rammed it into drive and floored it while blowing the horn. The man by the car screamed, held his hands over his ears and exploded into a cloud of mosquitoes. The mosquitoes fell to the macadam dead. The tires were screaming as the woman’s car they had hit began to move.

The car shook with the effort and he let up on the gas and put the car in reverse. He eased back into the car that had hit them from behind. The car slid. Now they were getting somewhere! Dave put the car into drive and pushed against the car in front. They were going to get out of here! A couple more pushes and he could go around the cars and out into the street and out of this damn parking lot. He put the car in reverse and pushed the car behind them out of the way. Free of both cars he pulled the car into drive and looked at Marcy.

“We have three quarters of a tank...” he stopped. There on Marcy’s right cheek was a mosquito. A small one, light gray in color, feeding on his wife. It was high on her cheek, where he liked to kiss her. He didn’t know how it had got into the car; the crack in the window was so small! But there it was, on the face of the most important person in the world to him. In that one moment all he had to live for was gone.

He blew the horn and the mosquito fell dead onto the front of her light green floral summer dress that was his favorite; its source of attraction aroused by her menstrual state as it flew onto her lap.

“What, Dave? Why’d you stop? Let’s get out of here!”

He watched as she rubbed her cheek. She didn’t know what he knew. She didn’t feel it bite and pour its poison into her.

He turned off the car.

“Dave?”

“Let’s just sit here a moment.”

Let’s get the hell out of here! Why’d you turn off the car?”

“I just want to tell you how much I love you.”

A mosquito crawled out of her hair and rooted itself on her forehead.

“I love you, too. Now can we go?”

"We'll go in just a few..."

Her eyes were slowly starting to close.

“Dave? I don’t feel so well.” She fell forward onto his shoulder and he pulled her close to him and began to cry. He kissed her forehead and talked to her about the good times they’d had as he rolled down the window.

  *         

Jade Eckert is no stranger to SNM...Mag that is. This marks her third SNM published work. She too dates back to our early roots and appeared in our debut issue in May of 2008. Jade was also featured in SNM's original Bonded By Blood Anthology and has since published her debut novel "Blackness," by Mystic Moon Press. She hails from Los Angeles, California with her husband and daughter. It's good to see Jade returning to her roots with another story. More information is on her Myspace.

www.myspace.com/jadeeckert

Jade Eckert

A Safe Place

Draven Ames

Joe’s feet were blistered by the time a seat opened up but he gave it to his daughter. Cassia was only eight years old and was usually full of spunk and excitement, but today she looked exhausted. It was to be expected though. It had been a long day.

First, a virus broke out across America. Soon it was everywhere. It was a new strain of the flu that left very few deaths but still became a pandemic. The world was amazed when scientists had immunization made and ready within months. Unfortunately, viruses mutate.

The second strain showed up a couple weeks before now and almost half of the nation was dropping like flies. The President had died only days ago, right before the trains were shuttling off those who were immune. They were being taken to a colony where the top minds in the world would work around the clock for a cure. The outlook for the world was not one of hope.

Computer generated simulations showed seventy-five percent of the world could be dead within a week—ninety-five percent within a month. The human race would be lucky to survive.

Joe and Cassia had been among the second wave of people tested at the hospital in Coal Beach, Washington for the virus now being labeled as ‘G2O2’.

The enormity of the global sickness finally seemed all too real when Joe’s wife died. He would have gladly taken her place, but now he had to focus on his daughter’s safety. Cassia had been crying so much that Joe spent most of his time comforting her; there was no time to mourn. Cassia didn’t talk much the last few days, which had Joe very worried until she started speaking again this morning. Joe wondered if his daughter knew how lost he felt or how scared he would be if she died, too.

Cassia looked like she could fall asleep -- even if for a moment while they waited in the crowded train depot. They had been ushered from one place to another for the last day and a half, poked and prodded with little bedside manner at all. The air was stale in the depot; not unpleasant, just odd.

Joe wasn’t sure how many doctors there were scurrying around in white lab coats between the trains and civilians, but they were everywhere. A flood of humans in the gravel parking lot surrounded the large brown and white building. It looked old and worn, like it belonged on the back of a 1950’s post card.

Long rows of metal benches stretched out across the grassy area in front, but there was little green to be seen among the sea of faces. Sweat hung in the air and refused to be swept away by the easy breeze. Some slept, others had their arms crossed and most looked tired—drained by emotions and fatigue. The depot was a claustrophobic’s nightmare.

Cassia looked up from her spot on the bench between an old frail lady and a young man in a gray business suit. “Daddy, I’m cold,” she said.

Joe leaned down, brushing hair out of his face, and put his coat over her thin jacket. Somehow they lost Cassia’s jacket between hospitals and he had to trade his father’s watch for a thin jean jacket, two sizes too small.

“I know Cas. Here.” He gave her cheeks a light pinch, “Didn’t know we’d be gone this long. Guess we should’ve brought blankets. I’m not cold anyway,” he lied, zipping up the front while smiling at how silly she looked. Joe put his hands in his pockets. “Better?”

Cassia returned the smile. Her eyes were wide and her forehead wrinkled. “Much,” she replied. “Are we going on the train soon? I’m tired.”

“Soon, I think. You’ll be able to sleep all you want then, I promise. It’s going to be a long trip so we’ll get plenty of sleep on the train,” he said. He watched the boarding process every time since they arrived. Joe comforted her by running his hand through her soft hair. He gazed at Cassia as if he saw something that wasn’t there. She looked so much like her mother, it was uncanny.

“I miss Mommy,” Cassia said, as if on cue.

“Me too, baby. Me too.”

A train filled with passengers, their names being checked off of lists held by a swarm of white lab coats. Joe watched as people were led inside and went to lay down on the beds in their cabin. He watched once again as the gray mist descended and the train roared to life, suddenly lurching forward. The grating howls of metal slowed until it became a rhythmic beat. Soon the tracks passed like a snake’s loud rattle and disappeared down the tracks to God knew where. Another train rolled into place and screeched to a furious halt.

“Are all these people going to the safe place too, Daddy?” Cassia asked as she tugged shirt.

Joe forced another smile for Cassia, “Of course, baby. We all are.” He wished his wife could be there. He moved close to his daughter’s side, wishing he could go with Cassia too—but he was sure his little secret would be found out. “Here, lean on me. Get some sleep, hun. Lot of trains still in cue before it’s our turn.”

The sickness started to hit Joe when they were getting off the bus from the hospital. The busses came faster than the trains could fill and the depot swelled and spilled into the streets as far as the eye could see. It wasn’t hard to blend in but the simple flu-like symptoms would become terrifyingly worse very soon. How long Joe had he didn’t know—twenty-four hours at most— until the lab coat saviors couldn’t be fooled. How he passed their tests, he wasn’t sure -- and that bothered him.

Gazing around he noticed a man in a suit who seemed to be listening. Joe wrote onto the back of a small discarded piece of paper he found and woke his daughter gently, handing it to her. She looked at it and gave it back, tears welling up in her eyes. Joe placed a finger to his lips.

Joe grabbed his daughter in a sweet embrace and whispered quickly in her ear. “I won’t leave you, Cas. I’ll keep you safe,” he said choking back sorrow. He riffled her hair again but Cassia didn’t react. An idea struck him and he leaned his forehead into his daughters—a lipless kiss—and said, “Be strong, Cassia. Don’t tell,” he placed his finger over her lips now, holding the note, “when you see me, pretend you don’t know me.”

Joe stood and cracked his neck from side to side; the corner of his eyes scanning for listeners. He crumpled the paper up and, not trusting the trash, ate it. Giving his daughters hand one last squeeze Joe made his move through the crowd; hands in his sweater pockets. The stale air swooshed past him like a warm, foul breath as he bobbed and weaved through the unassailable jungle of the fortunate.

Joe pushed the huge wooden double doors open  with sweat beading under his shoulder length hair as he looked around the congested station. White coats were scurrying around like fish in a net that paid him no heed when he made a b-line for the bathroom. Soft florescent lights flickered with the building, outdated and strained by the passage of time. They shook and moaned in upheaval at the long forgotten struggle to stay intact through the coming and going of trains. The inside of the depot had been turned into a makeshift underground railroad for the salvation of humanity.

For a moment Joe questioned his plan, but he had a promise to keep.

The bathroom was caked in filth, rust and the aroma of moldy bread mixed with ammonia. Long white urinals with brownish stains streaking downward hung along the length of the far wall like horse troughs. Two stalls stood to Joe’s left and he darted into the furthest one and waited. He looked at the seat with longing, his feet were begging for mercy, but it was covered in piss and murky water that would frighten away the sturdiest stomach. Doctors or scientists, he couldn’t be sure, went in and out for at least fifteen minutes before a window of opportunity opened.

Joe watched through the crack between the door and stall as he was finally left alone with one of the depot’s men. The sound of the faucet was like a roaring jacuzzi in Joe’s ear and his chest pounded with anticipation. Unsure if he would have the chance again, he popped the front door open and walked toward a man in white. The man looked at him and Joe nodded, trying to smile. Satisfied, the guy reached for a paper towel.

Joe’s left hand then went over the guy’s mouth and his right reached around his neck, choking with one quick movement. The man tried to yell but only a muffled “mmmm, mm mmm,” sound came out. The doctor grabbed at the sink but Joe kicked hard against the wall with both feet, knocking them backward into the bathroom stall and onto the urinal. He caught the man’s arm with his right just as a large hypodermic needle nearly found its mark. A small gurgle came from the scientist’s mouth before he slumped into Joe’s arms at last, the needle protruding from his chest.

Joe was sure that the needle was some kind of anesthesia. It was a little scary, though—he didn’t know if he injected the wrong spot. He wasn’t a doctor, so it was all guesswork to him. Joe frowned at the body with his hands on his hips. He shook his head and closed his eyes, “What the fuck?”

Joe locked the door to the stall from inside, positioning the man with pants around his ankles as he crawled out from underneath. He looked at himself in the mirror as another white coat had entered who was noticeably lacking sleep. Joe washed his hands, slicked back his hair, and left. He tried not to look around too much. Just look down and move on, no one will notice me, he thought. The depot was a tangled wall of white coats.

Joe waited for the lady at the counter to get busy and when she looked enthralled by a handsome fellow—giggling like a school girl—he took his chance. He kept stock of the lady’s name tag as he walked to the counter, near the front of the depot. Joe picked up a clipboard and marched with a livened pace to the double doors. He didn’t understand the clipboard; it was littered with doctor’s jargon or some scientific slang.

He stopped in his tracks. Cassia was talking to a man with a clipboard and she was crying. She stood at the front of a line to one of the trains many cabins. Joe didn’t wait to find out the problem before jumping in. He only wanted to make sure his daughter made it on the train and that he could stay with her.

“…without your father.” The man stated, turning his paper over and reading the back. “Where is he, darlin’?” the man’s tone was impatient at best.

“I told you, I don’t know.” Cassia returned. Her hands were crossing her chest and she looked remarkably mature for her age. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth stood out like duck lips. Cassia’s face lit up when she saw her father and she pointed to him. “There’s…”

“There’s no time,” Joe said, squinting to read the man’s nametag, “Charon, right? I’ve got your post. Mrs. Hamilton wanted you. Inside.” Joe tilted his head toward the depot. He turned towards Cassia, “Where’s your father, young lady?”

Mr. Charon looked confused, “She said he went off somewhere and she hasn’t… Are you sure? Mrs. Hamilton?” He looked at Joe as if half-hoping that he would say no.

“Yes, yes. Mrs. Hamilton,” he replied. Joe looked through his notes, not knowing what it was he was looking at. He looked back up to Mr. Charon with impatience, “Go. Hurry back, I’ve got a lot to do.”

The man lifted one eyebrow, looked to the side and dropped his clipboard to his side. “Fuck. I’ll be back,” he said, then walked off with his head down.

He went down on one knee and put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I told you. I won’t leave you. I’ll be here the whole time.” Joe looked around and saw the other lines were closing; the train was near capacity. “Now get inside before that guy gets back.”

He peeked inside where 12 people were in the closed chamber to the left but only seven to his right. Joe turned to the people in line and motioned for more to come forward. “Come on, come on, come on. Trains about to leave. Five more. I need…” He patted each person on the back and pushed lightly toward the open entry. “One, two…” he counted off five when a sixth pushed inside. Joe didn’t want to cause a scene so he just blocked off his entrance with a chain and closed his door.

The cabins were all outfitted with small, foldout green cots. A metal box with speaker holes was next to the door with a large white button affixed at the bottom. Joe hesitated to gather his thoughts before pushing both. “I need you all to lay down on your cots please. If there’s not enough, please share. The train will be leaving soon.” Joe flashed a smile to his daughter and pressed the speak button once more, “We’re going to the safe place.”

His daughter looked calm as she found her bed, like most of the others in the cabin. Most laid back with their arms placed lightly over their chests, hands woven together. Next to Joe were two large red cylinders with hoses leading under the doors and a large metal valve connected between them.

Somewhere above him a booming, baritone voice spoke with a slow casual tone as the trains engines roared to life and its whistle screamed out their impending departure. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Please sit back and relax. Soon, you can all sleep.”

Joe could see the landscape moving faster as they approached a tunnel. Gray mist was funneling through the cabins across from him as another doctor turned a valve’s small wheel. Joey began to turn his too, not wanting to be seen as a phony. Dark clouds fell from the ceiling in his daughter’s depot and drifted out like an uncontrollable mist.

“Please do not scream. Please remain calm. You are going to a better place. A place where you cannot bring what it is you carry. It’s the only way, I’m afraid,” the voice dragged on.

The train went dark as it was eclipsed by a hole dug deep into the mountainside. It lit only briefly to the tune of lights along the covered passageway. Joe wretched at the valve, trying to stop its flow as he heard screams and terrible cat like calls. It was a lightning storm of cruel malice as Joe saw his daughter’s face twist in the violent throws of a seizure. Another passenger in a spasm hit the back of their head against the window with a loud thud before sliding down. Joe pulled on the doors but they wouldn’t open. He saw people clawing and raking at one another, trying desperately to get out of their cage of death.

Joe stopped, knowingly helpless, and stared at his daughter like she was the last thing on earth. Cassia sat in the corner of her cabin, her hands wrapped around her legs while she was screaming. Her face was contorted in some inhuman cry of torture and her eyes were filled with sadness—like she had been betrayed. It might have been just his imagination, but to him seeming was everything.

The doctor on the other side, holding his arms up to each side of the cabin, smiled; his head bobbing with the train—his eyes peering into the depths of madness. Flashing brilliance sent still-framed moments in waves before retreating into darkness. Joe screamed, “I can’t turn it off! They’re dying!” He ran up to the man and shook him by the collar. “What’s happening? I thought it was a safe place! I thought it was safe!”

The man hung in his grip, shrugging. “The dead are safe, Mac. It’s you n’ me who have ta worry ‘bout the bodies.” A sad, nasal laugh escaped him as he swayed in Joe’s grasp.

“But they’re all immune!” Joe protested. His face lit up like a Halloween lantern as he pointed at the people writhing on the floor of their cabin. “They’ve been tested!”

“You got it all backwards, Jack,” the man said. Then the doctor suddenly seemed to have understood. The smile he had bled away from his bobble head. “Ah, your one of them, eh? You’re ‘sposed to think that. ‘Es sir... Dead don’t get sick.” He pulled out a needle from his jacket pocket as Joe let go and fell back in disbelief. “Dead is safe. Dead’s safe for us who are immune. Can’t mutate with no host. Yep, dead’s real safe.”

Joe crawled away from the man, backwards—a crabwalk-like motion. His back bumped against a cabin window. The bodies no longer cried, terror no longer rung out.

 I led her here. I promised to take her to safety, I promised.

The Man stood above him. Joe could only focus on the needle glinting with passing lights—ripples of radiance flew across the man’s glasses.

“No use fightin it, Jack.” He sniffed and spat to the side. “Dead’s safe…” That crazy laugh again, a desensitized laugh! no…use.” “Don’t cry, not now, love,” he said as he shook his head, amused by his specimen. “There really is…

Joe cried out between sobs but he didn’t try to stop the man. He wanted to see his daughter.

“This won’t hurt a bit.”

He wanted to see his wife.

“You’ll feel a slight pinch.”

He wanted to be in that safe place.

*

Draven Ames makes a memorable debut here at SNM Mag. He is a military veteran who spends his time reading all the books he can get his hands on. He recently finished a novel and is writing short stories to gain exposure. Draven is 30 years old and lives in Oregon with his wife and kids. He hopes to find himself a literary agent with good connections in the publishing community and a strong list of current clients. Draven is open for any projects and has plans in mind for his next three novels. Readers may contact him by email or sign the SNM Guestbook.

nester66@aol.com

Draven Ames 

The Burden

Laurie Doyle

We've all seen them, those dark shapes that hover over us. They drift behind us like tendrils of smoke in the night, but they never disperse. Instead they grow.

I know I have one; it sits upon my back and pulls me down. I've known of it since before others would admit they could see them.

Everyone carries a burden, but some are heavier than others.

I walked down the monochrome street with stilted steps. My body was wrapped in a thick overcoat and fuzzy scarf; my head capped by a low, black hat. My appearance was not out of the ordinary anymore, but a chill still ran through me as I saw my former friends and colleagues in similar dress. What made my blood run cold were the figures that sat upon them. I felt fear not for their sake. I'm scared for myself because those creatures they carry reflect my burden.

The creatures were hardly a surprise to me when I first saw them. I believe I had always been able to see them, just not in such malleable form. They grew from a tiny spot that was stuck to everyone's back – no more than a speck, so small it could hardly be seen. They grew out of the darkness that came from within people and flowed out. A human body can hold only so much blackness, so much hate, anger, fear, envy and murderous intent. Then it spills out.

Everyone had seen it before: television, newspapers, internet, radio carried the stories, those horror tales of murderers, gangs and robbers. They were the products of the overspill back when it could still have been contained.

No longer.

It happened suddenly. At an indistinct time and place the first was spotted. People crowded around it, so amazed by its darkness, its peculiar allure. They took pictures; it made the news. The creature was everywhere at all times on the tip of everyone's collective tongue.

Only then did the epidemic begin.

I pushed forward, even though my burden was crushing me. It wanted me to stop, to turn back, but I wouldn’t. I know that the monster on my back is me and so I know just how to stop it.

I am not the first to try to rid myself of the haunting shape, nor will I be the last. But I wouldn't go down without a fight like those others who were consumed and destroyed by the darkness.

I would not destroy myself.

Buildings closed down, sections of town were off limits. The sound of crying, wailing, roaring became too much for people to bear. Not because they pitied those who were consumed, not because they cared for them. They found the cries too much a reflection of themselves and could not bear it.

And so they let the epidemic sweep the world.

The darkness rested its hands upon mine. It stopped me from pulling the cellphone from my pocket, from eating  or drinking. I was going mad walking down the endless road. I sometimes forgot that it led to my salvation and want to turn back. But my body remembered even if my mind did not.

I pushed on. My feet were leaden; heavy. The darkness added too much weight and I fell. I tried to rise to my feet but as I looked back. I saw they were no longer there. My feet were merely pools of blackness.

I swallowed my fear, my hate, my anger, and crawled onward.

When the water supply was cut off, the world went mad.

I remember clearly. I stood on my balcony and stared with horror at the hordes of frantic, murderous people that charged forwards. They broke the police barrier, crushed them against the barricades behind them, and heaved the water tower to the ground. The precious liquid spilled across the street and, as one, they bent to lick it up.

I remember my neighbors, who stood next to me and held my hand as tears coursed from our eyes. We weren't crying for the people; those monsters below. We cried for ourselves and we saw what we would become.

They say now that no amount of water could clean the world of what it has done. I believed them, those faceless people – for people they must be – who taunted us from their secure refuges so high above. The only safety was found in the sky where the air is pure and the darkness is banished by light. I could not reach it, it was too far away.

The light didn't reach the ground anymore; and so the darkness grew.

I could not see. I could not speak. I was only touch, smell and sound. Still, I pressed on. My time was running out and my hourglass was the stiffening; the weakening of my limbs. Soon I would not be able to move and then I would have failed.

I could see my goal clearly in my mind: the ball of light that touches the horizon every evening. If I could reach that, I could save myself.

Don't think. Don't move. Stop.

The voice was like a feather brushing the surface of an ice cold lake. It lulled me and pulled me in. I wanted to obey its unthinkable commands. If I stopped, I knew I would die.

It is that thought that made me drag my legless body forwards.

Concrete was ripped up; thrown into the sky. Below, the hundreds of thousands of rats and mice crawled up and coated the streets.

The darkness had its own reason to call those small, forgotten creatures to it: it needed to feed.

I watched the people, the monsters, gather the tiny mice, the larger rats and stuff them whole and live into their gaping jaws. I watched them crush the life out of the innocent creatures that had been so damned by humanity.

My neighbors had long since left me, but I did not watch the carnage alone. My darkness curved my lips into a painful smirk, pushed my brows low. I felt my eyes become hard and cold like glass.

It was then I knew I had to be saved.

There! The light began its descent. It trailed across the sky as the speakers scattered through town that blasted reassuring messages.

“A cure will soon be found. Please remain where you are. Do not try to leave the mainland or we will have to open fire.”

The pitiful survivors disguised their hidden fears behind calm, mechanical voices and empty threats. Guns couldn't kill the darkness. They would only make it grow.

My heart was pounding weakly in the empty cavern of my chest. It struggled with my mind to keep me moving forward.

I could see others surrounding me, but they were still pools of blackness like tar; like oil. Only they used to be human.

Stop. Give up. Lie down.

I choked back a sob as the words made my arms weak. I pulled myself along by my nails, now ripped and torn from the journey. The darkness was scared, fearful of what I could do to it. That gave me strength enough to quiet its persistent voice.

The sun touched the horizon. My time was almost up.

As I watched the soldiers gun down the remaining few left who still retained their humanity, I remembered a story I had heard as a child.

It was about a boy who wanted to light a lamp for his dying mother but he could find no fire. The sun was setting as he rushed about the small town and begged people for flames. But no one would aid him.

He walked back to his small house, but as he went to open the door, he saw the sun reflected in the glass. It was then he knew what he had to do.

He worked fast, building a ladder from the felled tree branches of the last storm. He worked until his hands bled from the effort but at last the ladder was complete.

The boy hooked the lamp over his arm and tilted the ladder which was three times as large as the tallest of trees. He smiled as he felt it touch something high above in the sky. Then he began to climb.

He climbed and climbed while his body grew colder. Despite being so close to the sun he felt as if he were in the midst of winter. Still, he went on with the image of his poor mother at the forefront of his mind.

The sun grew larger and paler, but the boy could hardly see it, for he was too exhausted. Head bowed, his arms and legs moved like clockwork. His mind soon became blank and dark and he could no longer see the image of his smiling mother's face. All that was left was for him to keep moving toward the light.

At long last he felt his hand reach the top rung of the ladder and he laughed aloud with relief. However, when he looked up, he saw only a pale rock, large and round. He gaped in horror at the moon before him. In his haste to fulfill his mother's wish, he had looked to the moon instead of the sun. He looked back down the ladder at the world far below and suddenly he smiled. He smiled for he could see he had achieved so much, he had tried so hard. That he failed did not matter to him. He had tried his best.

The last man had fallen under the gunfire of the soldiers and the world had become silent. I looked up at the sky, knowing what I had to do to save myself.

I screeched with pain as the darkness on my back became a fire that scorched my flesh. I felt it inside me, grating against my core. It held my heart in icy claws to stop it from beating. It knew I could not win.

The sun had almost completed its descent and the sky was a deep, blood red; the clouds purple wounds. I could see it, but not through my eyes. I could see the world with a tint of maliciousness that glazed the view of the darkness. My time was nearly up.

I had watched the darkness grow from that small spot in the middle of my back. I studied it in the mirror of my small room with the sick fascination of the dying watching an incurable disease spread through them.

And like a cancer, it spread all over my body until I could see clearly the details of a face – a malicious, sneering grin – shoulders and stick-like arms then clawed fingers that clutched me to keep from becoming separated.

Then the self-destructive force began to reach inside me and turn my body to ice.

My arms were leaden and no longer moved for me. My heart stopped beating long ago, crushed by the grip of the darkness.

Yet deep within the black pool of hate, sorrow and anger I remained. Like a match lit in the depths of night, my life burned furiously; desperately.

The sun had sunk until only the very outer rays touched the earth. It was oblivious to my plight to the destruction of humanity it oversaw -- and could prevent. But I suppose it was no different from the people who had seen the darkness and said nothing, done nothing, become nothing.

I felt it then, the darkness smothering my remaining light. I was angry; hateful. I despised those like myself for their inaction. I hated them. I hated myself.

They could have saved me, they could have saved everyone. I could have saved the world. Yet I had done nothing.

At the very end, I could not smile like that boy who had tried so hard. He had failed in his task to bring his dying mother light, but the darkness had not consumed him. While he had remained pure and true, I had become the darkness.

Now the darkness of humanity had consumed its very source.

I am darkness -- the black “whole” of nothingness lain to rest.

I am the Nothing of Nevermore.

*

Laurie Doyle was born in 1992 in Bristol, UK where she still resides. Laurie has aspired to become a published novelist for many years, focusing mainly on a young adult audience. She writes a range of fiction alongside full time education at City of Bristol College. She's previously had a short horror screenplay developed from her ideas which was filmed by the Watershed organization. Her interests are graphic novels, horror films and A-level in English Literature, in which she studied the Gothic genre that has influenced many aspects of her writing. At only 18 years old, we couldn't be more impressed with her writing/ story telling ability, making her the youngest published author here at SNM. We strongly suggest that she stick with her craft! We were impressed with her debut and awestruck with this one

 Laurie Doyle