Bestial (27 page)

For some reason, she wanted to see the back garden one more time before she started her new life. Stepping around the lawn, she walked through the rosebushes, stopped, and smelled a few of them. When she reached the garden shed, she saw the doors that had been ripped from their moorings, tossed across a bed of perennials. A dark,
musky odor emerged from the shed, the scent of what had once been her husband.

It appeared as if he had gone straight for the doors. The interior of the shed remained orderly. A small table of tools, coffee cans filled with various nails and screws. A small pile of firewood, stacked neatly. Her bike, leaning against the wall. Touching the seat, she couldn’t recall the last time she had taken a ride.

Something in the house cracked. Leaning against the shed, Cathy watched as the flames approached the windows. Some of them began licking at the outside of the house, and she knew it would only be a matter of hours before the entire structure collapsed.

A hand touched her shoulder, dripping blood, and she turned to see her next-door neighbor, Marla Atcheson, of the New York Atchesons. The woman was still in her nightgown, one breast revealed through a gaping hole that had been ripped in the silk. Her eyes were rimmed in red, and her wrists had been sliced crudely open. The amount of blood was staggering.

“Oh God, Marla—what did you do?”

The woman held her hands toward Cathy, shredded wrists pointed upward.

“I killed them … killed them all,” the woman said, and when she smiled, Cathy thought she could see the madness that hovered behind her carefully assumed façade, the wolf hidden behind her skin. “I woke up today, and little Jackie and Frannie were dead … eaten … Mike is gone. I … I didn’t know what to do. . . . I know I killed them … or he did. They were … they were my fucking children, Cathy. I … I ate my fucking children!”

“We need to get those wrists bandaged,” Cathy said, taking charge of the situation.

Marla shook her head, a sad smile crossing her face. “No … I want to die. I did it, don’t you see? I murdered them. This is my absolution. I need to die. I want to die. I need to die.”

“Come on,” Cathy said, grabbing one of the woman’s oozing wrists and leading her through the garden to the house next door. “I can’t let you bleed to death.”

“But it’s what I want. You fool … you stupid woman! You think burning down your house will make it all better? Nothing … Christ. Nothing will be better again.”

“I just know we need to get you fixed up.”

Marla Atcheson pulled her hand out of Cathy’s, rubbing the wrist, opening the wounds wider. She began to lick at the blood.

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, Cathy,” she said through crimson-smeared lips. “You haven’t done what I’ve done. I’ve … killed … murdered … my own goddamn babies. I have to live with that.”

“That’s right,” Cathy said. “You have to live with it.”

Marla shook her head. “That’s the problem, see? I can’t live with it. That’s why I took that soup can lid from the trash. I cut and I cut and I fucking cut. It … it only hurt a little bit. And once I bleed out, I can be with Jackie and Frannie again. I’ll have paid my debt. I need to pay that debt.”

“You’re not yourself, Marla.”

“Goddamn right, I’m not. I saw myself last night … in a mirror. I saw the teeth and the fur and the … the death buzzing all around me. I … I can’t see that again. I suppose you can, um … you can deal with it. You’ve always been good at … you know … dealing with shit, Cathy. I’ve—oh God—I’ve admired you for that. God … damn … hurts …”

“Ummm … thanks, but I don’t think I’m all that strong.”

“Hell … you’re not—oh. Oh!”

With her soft exclamation, Marla fell to her knees. She tried to stop herself with her hands, but her bloody palms slid on the grass, and she fell face-first into the lawn. She remained that way, her bleeding wrists held above her head.

“Marla,” Cathy cried. “Oh, no, Marla. Get up!”

As Cathy tried to pull her neighbor to her feet, Marla lashed out at her, snarling, “Don’t you touch me! Don’t … don’t you fucking touch me! I’m … I’m almost gone.”

“I know I can stop the bleeding.”

“If you so much as try, I’ll tear your … your … goddamn throat
out.” Marla was amazingly coherent. The beast hidden inside of her seemed to be speaking, all guttural snarls and whines. “Tear … your … throat. …”

Marla slumped to the ground. Her eyes rolled back into her head, exposing the whites. She was dead.

Cathy moved away from her neighbor, away from her burning home, her torched life. She stepped out of her front gate.

Into a new, cruel world.

SEPTEMBER 18, 9:05 A.M.

“S
o I’ve never claimed to be a very smart man …,” Rick said, climbing the stairs of the Bio-Gen building.

Chesya snorted. “No kidding, Sherlock.”

“. . . but let me try to get all this bacteria crap straight. It was inside this dude Andrei’s blood, could only be passed to his children, then to their children, because their blood was, what—special?”

“I guess so,” Christian said. “Like, that family … that bloodline … didn’t have some defense mechanism. Apparently the rest of the world has one. Their white blood cells—”

“Phagocytes,” Chesya said.

Rick giggled. “Ha! Fag-o-cytes!”

She shook her head. “Please tell me you don’t find that funny.”

“Hey, I’m just a twelve-year-old boy at heart.”

“Thank you, Beavis,” Christian said, although he, too, was grinning.

Rick laughed like Butthead’s sidekick.

Chesya said, “For God’s sake, don’t encourage him. Go on about the white blood cells.”

“Well, I think everyone else was immune to this, except for Andrei’s family. When the scientists started screwing around with the bacteria, it somehow mutated into a variant strain.”

“You know,” Rick said, “you don’t talk like a teenager.”

“Sleep with a scientist for two months and see if
you
don’t pick up some of the lingo,” Christian said. “So, anyway, they mess it up—how’s that?”

“Even a poor, ignorant moron like myself can understand,” Rick said.

“And it gets loose,” Christian continued. “They take it home with them, spread it through the air … like it went airborne.”

Rick nudged Chesya. “Didn’t I suggest the same thing? And we’re immune to it.”

“Yeah,” Christian said, “we’re immune. But most people aren’t. Just like any disease. Some people get it, other people don’t. In this case, just about everyone got infected except a few lucky bastards. The virus will run its course through the three days of the full moon. Then, well … we’ll have to see.”

“It could start up again the next full moon, huh?” Chesya asked.

“That’s what I think will happen. But that’s almost a month away. In that month … who knows. Maybe this serum Jean made can actually immunize people against the new strain. In any case, it looks like we have another night to get through before we can even think about curing anybody.”

As they reached the top of the stairs, Chesya added, “If there’s anyone left to cure. Is there a television or radio up here anywhere?”

Christian shrugged. “Maybe you can look for one, find out what’s happening out there … if anyone’s left but the crazies in the streets.”

She nodded. “Sounds good. What about you?”

“I need to go feed Andrei,” Christian replied, “see what kind of shape he’s in. Maybe I can find something else. You know, something like the journal.”

“I’ll go with you,” Rick said. “Never met a Russian before. You’ll stay close—right, Chesya?”

“I swear I’m not going any farther than a door or two down.”

“Well, stay within yelling distance.”

Christian led Rick into the laboratory. Naked, Andrei slept on his cot behind the Plexiglas, snoring loudly, his hairy arm thrown over his eyes. The furniture in his cell must have been expertly nailed to the floor, as the arrangement had not changed.

The laboratory, however, was another story.

Christian muttered, “Man, this is way worse than it was yesterday. Those creatures had a field day in here.”

“Maybe I’m getting used to it,” Rick said.

Every file cabinet had been dropped onto its side, the contents opened and torn. Christian couldn’t see the tile through all the paper. Broken glass clinked beneath their heels as they entered the room.

“Christ, it’s like they threw a wild bachelor party in here,” Rick said. “If there ever really was a serum, there’s no way it survived this shit storm.”

“We have to try to find it,” Christian said. He seemed to have aged twenty years, lines etched painfully in his face, his eyes encircled with dark ellipses. The kid looked older than Rick, but a determination shone behind his exhaustion. “If we can find the serum, we can see if it works on Andrei, and we can put a stop to this once and for all.”

“Listen, kid, I—”

“Don’t talk down to me. Don’t you ever … fucking … talk down to me. I might be younger than you, but I survived two nights of bullshit you wouldn’t believe to get here … to get to this point. Please, just help me look for the beaker. He called it Serum A, so it’s probably labeled that way.”

“Jesus, sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“You can be a real pain in the ass, Rick. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“It has been said.”

Christian got down on his hands and knees and started searching through the trash. After a moment, Rick joined him. He stuck his hand in a pile of excrement.

Andrei laughed.

Startled, Rick and Christian glanced over at him; they hadn’t noticed the Siberian wake up.

Rick said, “I’m glad you find it so damn funny.”

“Hehe … is funny. A good joke, no?”

“Are you hungry?” Christian asked.

“I am starving. I need food. You get some for me?”

As Andrei stood and stretched, Rick found himself face-to-face with the Siberian’s shriveled penis, separated only by the layer of Plexiglas. Rolling his eyes, he said, “Get some clothes for the poor bastard, too.”

“The clothes are not really needed,” said Andrei, stretching and flexing. “I will be okay without. I need food, though. Very hungry.”

“Well, I don’t like him standing there waving his dick at me.”

Christian started for the door. He said, “Feeling a little inadequate?”

“No, feeling a little embarrassed. Jeez … whatever. Just get him his fuckin’ food. Maybe get something for me while you’re at it.”

Christian walked into the hallway, searching for a candy machine, a cafeteria,
anything
; he was hungry too. In a small alcove near the end of the hallway, he discovered a little kitchen with a sink, a built-in refrigerator, and a coffee machine that had somehow survived the night. The refrigerator contained a few cans of coffee, bread, lunch meat, and assorted yogurts and bag lunches. The food smelled rotten after two days without power. Christian pulled out the bread. He also found a bag of potato chips, half-eaten, and a box of cheese crackers. He shoved a handful of the crackers into his mouth. The taste was heavenly. He snatched a tomato from the crisper and began to make his way back to the lab.

Near the sink, he spotted a cell phone. Someone had plugged it in to recharge. It seemed too much to hope that, out of all the phones he’d tested, this one would function. Still, he had to try.

Setting down his refrigerator booty, he picked up the phone.

He couldn’t think of anyone else to contact, could remember no number except that of his parents. They had hurt him so much, but … could they still be alive? Could they start over?

Placing the phone to his ear, he held his breath, said a silent prayer, and pressed the “talk” button. Behind a shimmer of static, he heard a dial tone, and he exhaled. Immediately, his fingers flew over the numbers. He only received a busy signal. The phones must still be out.

He redialed, entering the seven digits of his father’s cell phone. This time, it rang.

“Oh my God,” he said.

Chesya walked around the corner. “I found a TV,” she said. “It’s just inside—”

Christian shushed her and waved his hands. “I got a ring. I can hear it ringing.”

After an eternity, he heard a click, and the ringing suddenly ceased. Through the mist of the heavy static, he recognized his mother’s familiar greeting.

“Yes, hello?”

“Mom?” he shouted, and the tears started to flow from his eyes. He hadn’t thought he would be so moved by her voice.

SEPTEMBER 18, 10:25 A.M.

C
athy nearly dropped the phone when it rang. She did scream, and she looked around her neighborhood to make sure nobody heard her. She had walked only a few blocks away from her burning house. The beautiful neighborhood had been corrupted during the night. Fires burned, valuables were left out in the open, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen walking. She wondered if they were all dead or, perhaps, hiding.

Placing her hand to her pounding heart, she exhaled in relief. Either nobody had heard her, or nobody cared anymore. The streets had been so very full of shrieks during the night.

Reaching down for the cell phone in her jacket pocket, she opened the lid. The battery was low, and she could barely see the caller’s number, even though gathering rain clouds blocked the glare of the sun. She pressed the “talk” button and spoke into the dainty receiver.

“Yes, hello?” The words seemed ineffectual, clueless. They seemed hollow.

“Mom?”

The single word brought such an onrush of emotions—shame, elation, terror—that Cathy had to balance herself against a street lamp. Her knees quivered, and her pulse immediately jumped.

“Oh God, Chris? Is that you sweetheart?”

His voice was instantly recognizable, even through the static. Despite the chaos around her, Cathy found herself smiling, pressing the phone to her ear.

“Mom,” he said. “I don’t think I have much time. The battery’s gonna die soon.”

“I’m just so happy you’re alive. I knew you were, somehow. I just … I knew you were.”

“Mom, shut up a minute. This is important.” The static escalated, and she lost some of what he was saying. “. . . in the Bio-Gen building. Do you know where that is?”