Variance - Book 1, Issue #14

Park Ridge, IL

Four months after The Rise

   The survivors lingered around the Variant’s body longer than any of them had wanted.  Annie was the only one who didn’t.  She rested against the splintered picket fence hugging her legs against her chest.  Tear tracks were visible along her dust-stained face.

   Martin knelt next to the Variant’s body and opened one of its eyelids.  The pupil was small and black and the iris was a supple green.  There was, however, a thin, discolored red ring around the pupil.  Martin released the eyelid and opened his pack, producing a syringe and a tubular vial.  He stuck the needle in the Variant’s neck, just below the jaw, and extracted a small sample of blood.  Martin held the vial to the sky.  Against the late morning sun, the blood seemed to shimmer, the vial almost glowing.  When Martin pulled it away the blood transformed back into the dark, rich matter so often seen when someone pricks their finger or skins their knee.

   Out of the light, the blood looked completely normal.

   But why shouldn’t it?  Annie thought.

   Because it’s a Variant, the other side of her brain countered.  It’s a rotten Variant that doesn’t deserve the same blood as a human.  It deserves black in its veins.  Dirty black blood.  As black as oil.  Black to accompany its black beating heart.  Black like the--

   “Did you say something?” Martin asked.  

   Annie looked up, startled.  Had she said something?  No, no, surely not.  “No,” she said.  “I didn’t say anything.”

   Martin nodded, but kept his unsure eyes on her.  “Let’s get going, we’ve been here too long.”

   Without a word of protest, the others gathered up their packs and headed east along Birchwood Avenue.  They would be to Chicago in a matter of hours and the sun would not wait for them.

The Man & The Voice - A Conversation

A phone rings.  A man answers.

“Hello?”

“In the time that it took you to mow your lawn today I fucked your wife,” a voice says.

“What?”

“In the time that it took you to mow your lawn today I fucked your wife.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s the man who fucked your wife,” the voice says, irritated.

“What?”

“Did you not hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“So how—
“—I’m not married,” interrupts the man.

A pause.

“What?” asks the voice.

“I’m not married,” the man says again.

“Is this 310-422-1882?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this Roger Donnell?”

“Yes.”

“And do you live at 5843 North Gregory Ave?”

“No.”

“What?”

“I said ‘I don’t live there.’”

“You don’t?”

“I live at 5843 South Gregory Ave.  Not North.”

“Oh…” says the voice.

“Yeah…”

Another pause.

“And you’re not married?”

“I’m not.  You got the wrong Roger Donnell.”

“What are the odds?” the voice asks.

“Gotta be up there.”

“Yeah…”  The voice coughs and asks, “Do you know the Roger Donnell who does live at 5843 Gregory Ave?”

“No.  Sorry.”

The voice coughs again.  “I fucked his wife, you know.”

“Yeah,” says the man.  “You told me.”

Another pause.

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m gonna go, man.”

“Cool.”

“Keep livin’ the dream.”

“Done!” the voice declares.
The voice hangs up.  The man goes and mows his lawn.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #13

Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL

Day 18 of The Rise

   It would not be the commotion that would startle Annie Walker awake.  She had fallen asleep an hour before sundown.  The rest of the hut was still milling about, but exhaustion finally took her.  There were no dreams to speak of, no night terrors, just darkness.  The darkness, though, was interrupted when she felt a hot, putrid breath tickling the side of her face.  She opened her eyes, curious of the source.

   When her eyes adjusted, she saw the demonic gaze of Crowley staring down at her.  His fingers were caked in blood, with continuing splotches on his neck and chest.  There was no longer any warmth in his eyes.  He looked as though somebody had replaced his heart with a couple of double A batteries.

   “Crowley?” she said.  But the Crowley she had met on that Humvee was no longer there.

   The sound of her voice set him off like a branded horse.  He yanked at her arms and lifted her from the cot in one swift motion.

   She let out a shrill scream and he slammed the back of her head against the wall.  The room spun and a steady stream of blood ran down the back of her neck.  The haze from her eyes lifted and she saw, behind Crowley, two dozen dead bodies scattered throughout the hut.  Some victims had limbs that were torn clean off.  Others were missing throats, chins, and eyeballs.   Near the door, Annie saw Crowley’s daughter, Lauren, lying amongst the corpses.  Her eyes were closed and her hands were resting on her chest.  Death came quickly for her.

   Next to her was Porter.  He had not been as lucky.  His right arm had been ripped from its socket and his jawbone was lying eighteen inches in front of him.  He looked like some ghastly painting that had not yet been finished.  

   Always Ready, Always There?  Sadly, no more, Mr. National Guard.

   Though it was missing three of its fingers, there was a CB radio still clutched in Porter’s left hand.

   “Crowley, what did you do?” 

   He grunted and slammed her against the wall again.  He let out a long, deep gasp of air and Annie felt the stink of it.  She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed hold of her chin and snatched her back, gazing at her with curious eyes.  Crowley somehow seemed different now, almost inquisitive.  It was as if he had just been asked a riddle and couldn’t construct an answer.

   Two coins add up to twenty-five cents.  One of them is not a nickel.  What are these two coins?

   He tilted his head to the right, didn’t like what he saw, then tilted his head to the left.  His curiosity went on for days.  

   Two coins add up to twenty-five cents, damn it, and one of those coins is not a nickel.  What are these two coins?  WHAT ARE THESE TWO COINS, YOU SON OF A BITCH?

   “Crowley, listen, I don’t know what you did—“

   He hit her across the face, splitting her lower lip.  The blood was minimal, but it hurt like hell.  He hit her again, this time just for good measure.  

   Don’t interrupt me while I’m trying to solve you, his eyes screamed.  WHAT ARE THESE TWO COINS?

   In Annie’s back pocket she could feel the stiff cardboard of her son’s birthday card pressing against her buttocks.  She slid her hand behind her, hoping Crowley wouldn’t notice.  He didn’t.  His eyes were unblinking on hers.  She slipped the card out of her pocket.

   “What are you?” Crowley finally asked.  His words were staggered, but clear.  “What…Are…You?”

   She stared back at him uncomprehendingly.

   What am I?  She hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant.  He seemed repulsed by her, yet, strangely captivated. 

   “Air strike commencing in thirty seconds.  Porter, you get those people out of there?  Copy?”  The words echoed out of Porter’s CB radio with such a graveness Annie momentarily forgot about the birthday card in her hand.

   “Twenty-five seconds!  Porter, status?”

   Annie squeezed the card with her thumb against the base of her index finger and raised it up.  Crowley didn’t notice, his attention was fixed on her eyes.

   “What are you?” he demanded.  “What are you?  What are you?  What are you?”  Crowley was screaming.  He blinked and Annie saw two red rings form around his eyes.

   “Air strike in twenty seconds,” the voice boomed. 

   Annie swung the birthday card through the air.  The corner of it sliced through Crowley’s right eye producing a quick squishing sound.  

   SPPPPPLOSCH!  Crowley’s red-ringed eye screamed.

   He fell back, tripping over one of the bodies.  Though, he didn’t screamed.  He clutched his socket as the sclera dissolved into a mixture of blood and puss.  Crowley writhed on the ground, kicking his feet against one of the bodies, but, still, he didn’t scream.  

   “Ten seconds.”  The voice turned ominous.  “Porter, do you read me?”

   Annie jumped over Crowley, the birthday card dripping blood.  He reached for her, but the laces of her untied shoes slipped through his fingers.  

   “Five seconds!”

   She looked back in time to see Crowley getting to his feet.  What are the coins, for the love of God?  His eyes were desperate, longing for answers.  But Crowley made no move to run after her, he only stood there, stoic and calm.

   “Three, two…”

   Annie threw open the door and heard the jets fly over.  There was the quick surge of air as the missiles disengaged and shot through the night sky.  Then, the hut caved in around her like a dying star.  Its brittle beams thudded against the fragile sheetrock and her last thought was of Crowley.  She imagined the roof as it turned him into splatters of gore.  She thought of the way he looked at her with such child-like curiosity.  She thought of the frustration in his eyes. 

   A nickel and a dime, she thought as the darkness consumed her.  

   A nickel and a dime.

   When she would wake, four months later, Annie would be met by the panicked eyes of Enrique Valenzuela, Captain Richard Blake, Lara Holliday, and Martin Knight.

   The Variants would chase them into the clearing all wondering the same question.  What are you, Ms. Walker.  What. Are. You?

Lost - A Short

   They were lost.  That much was true.  They had been lost for some time, but neither of them spoke of it.  The woods were dark and they were deep, but they were far from lovely.  Night had come on quickly, and the pleasantries of day seemed like a distant memory.  There was no longer the warmth of the sun or the inviting summer breeze to keep them company.  Now they were stuck in a blanket of black, wrapped up like prisoners in broken trails, clicking branches, and howling beasts.

   The first to realize they were lost was the tall man.  He was slim and clean, save for the smarmy pencil-mustache on his upper lip.  The second man was short, squat, round, and red-faced.  Only out in all that cold and all that dark, his skin turned exceptionally pale, and his bloated, red face became sick and ghostly.

   Night had been lasting for centuries.  The food was gone and they hadn’t come across fresh water for hours.  All that was left were a few measly drops at the bottom of the canteen.  Their tent had been damaged in the storm the night before and their sleeping bags were still soaked.  Their legs were tired and weary and their minds were beginning to play tricks on them.  They had lost the map.  They had lost the compass.  But one thing was true: they still had the gun.

   “I never should have let you talk me into this,” groused the round man.

   “Just keep moving,” the tall man said.

   “I’m freezing!”

   “We’re both freezing.”

   The tall man could hear the round man’s feet shuffling behind him, dragging across the dirt with his short, fat strokes.  This was beginning to irritate the tall man.  He hurried on ahead and the round man watched his lanky outline disappear in the dark.  The round man tried to keep up, but soon he could no longer hear the tall man’s footsteps.  He stopped, surveying the dark.  In the silence he could hear a stream nearby.

   “Hey!” the round man called up ahead.

   But there came no answer.

   “Hey!” he called again.  “I hear fresh water.”

   No answer.

   “It’s over here!”

   Silence.

   The round man cut through a cluster of branches and emerged into a wooded glen.  Cutting through the glen was a slowly moving stream.  The round man uncapped the canteen and dunked it in the water.  He splashed a handful on his face and rubbed the nape of his neck.  The water was cold, but somehow it seemed to warm him.  He tipped back the canteen and swallowed three large mouthfuls that did nothing but cramp his stomach.  He fought the pain away and took another gluttonous sip.

   A branch cracked behind him and the round man jumped to his feet.  He peered through the darkness, but could barely see the cluster of branches he had cut through.

   “Is that you?” the round man asked.

   Another branch clicked.

   “Quit screwing around,” he called.  “I found water.”

   A gunshot rang out and the round man froze.  He heard the bullet strike the rocks behind him.  His knees went weak and he dropped to ground.  It didn’t take long for him to notice the bullet hole in his chest.  The round man stared curiously at the patch of red that expanded on his grey thermal.  Even in the moonless night, the blood seemed to be shimmering.  He was still holding the canteen and saw the bullet had pierced it, too.  Water poured out of the ends like a double-sided spout.

   The round man looked up and saw the tall man emerge into the glen, the pistol held firmly in his hand.

   “What are you doing?” the round man asked.

   The tall man fired a second shot, catching the round man in the gut.  He toppled over, falling back into the stream.  The water surrounded him as he struggled to his feet.

The tall man stepped forward and pushed the round man’s face under the water.  He thrashed and he gurgled, but soon became still.  The tall man let go of the round man’s face and he watched the stream carry him away.  As he watched the body disappear he said again--this time to no one in particular--“We’re both freezing.”

   A branch clicked behind the tall man and he spun around, gun still in hand.  “Who’s there?”  A second branch broke, this time to the tall man’s left.  He turned, but saw nothing.  A third branch cracked on the other side of him.  The tall man was spinning in circles.  “Come out!” he called.  “Come out, whoever you are!”

   A dozen more branches snapped around him.  The tall man squinted up the stream and saw a pair of eyes staring back at him.  The eyes were fierce and glaring.  He turned back toward the clearing and saw three more sets of eyes--all with the same vivid yellow hue--emerge from the dark.

   “Get back!” the tall man shouted.  He fired a shot at those horrible, yellow eyes.  The sound echoed through the valley and hung in the air.  That’s when he heard the growling.  More growls came from behind him--then more eyes.  Outlines began to form and he heard the crunching of leaves under their paws.  The outlines became more pronounced and the tall man no longer needed to squint.  He could see the wolves just fine.

   He fired the gun until the hopeless click of the hammer was all he heard.  And then the wolves descended on him.

The Woman Across The Way - A Short

   There is a woman across the way who watches me from her window.  She tries to move about her apartment stealthily, but her actions are clumsy and uncoordinated.  Occasionally I’ll see the burning end of her cigarette as she watches me in the dark.  When I see this, I, too, light a cigarette and kill the lights.

   My apartment is modest in size, style, class, and just about everything else you can imagine.  There is nothing remarkable about it, but nothing offensive either.  It’s a studio of 500 square feet and provides just enough space to read my words and drink my drinks.  

   The woman’s apartment (though I’ve never seen it, of course) appears much larger.  She has two balconies, one on the east side of her building, the other on the north.  But, if memory serves me correctly, she has never utilized either.  She only watches me from her window, the east one, as her north window looks out on the river and all there is to see are brook trout and shipping vessels. 

   In the mornings, after the fog has lifted, I can see her silhouette in the window.  She stands there for hours.  I always expect to see her getting ready, throwing on some pressed skirt and strapping up her heels for work.  But I never do.  All I see is her outline and the cigarettes and those poor, unused balconies.

   In the afternoons she drops her Venetian blinds and disappears into places only she knows.  The sun beats on her building and turns the brick gold and I watch that personless window solemnly. 

   In the evenings, after the coffeepot has been cleared and the first cocktail has been downed, I see the Venetian blinds come up and the first of many cigarettes begin to burn.  As the day fades away, she’ll move about that apartment with those awkward intentions, disappearing within the shadows or hiding behind her Oriental dressing screen.  

   On one particular evening I let down my blinds before the day was gone.  But, after a fair amount of pacing, I peeked through its slits and I still saw that outline and I still saw that cigarette, but the woman seemed so far away.

   When the clock strikes eleven the woman disappears.  Her apartment turns black, chasing away those shadows, and I can no longer see that cigarette-smoking outline.  The wind rattles my windows and my blinds tap against the glass, and the night becomes so cold and so dark, and I wait for the sun to come up again.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #12

   Annie, Crowley, Laura, and the National Guard soldiers arrived at base camp 45 minutes after Veverka had dropped dead.  The scene was dismal and bleak: four nomadic huts had been set up just inside the Potawatomi Woods.  They were the size of old schoolhouses, but could be be put up and taken down in less than an hour.  Soldiers had used them in the Middle East, and now the National Guard was using them to defend against the Variants. 

   The Humvee parked in front of the second hut.  Annie noticed four National Guard soldiers standing in a semi-circle near a poorly engineered fire pit.  All but one were smoking.  The one who wasn’t smoking was a sickly-looking boy, no more than 19 years old.  He looked terribly pale and shell-shocked.  Annie could sympathize.  Jesus, wouldn’t anyone?

   “Everybody off,” the man on the Humvee ordered.

   Annie helped Crowley and Laura down from the be and led them inside the hut.

   “My god…” Crowley muttered upon entering.

   The hut was crammed with dozens of survivors.  It looked like a refugee hut, packed to the gills with broken, disparaged souls.  Mothers held their children while fathers paced feverishly next to them.  Some of the survivors had dried blood stained across their clothes.  Others seemed to be in a catatonic state, rocking back and forth like laughing maniacs.

   “This looks like a cattle cage,” Crowley remarked.  He picked up Laura and propped her on the inside of his elbow.  

   “Who are these people, Daddy?” she asked.

   “These are people who need help, sweetie.”

   “Do we need help, Daddy?” she asked.

   Crowley looked at his daughter and cupped her left hand in his.  He kissed her little fingers as tears formed on the inside of his eyes.  “No, sweetie, we’re okay,” he told her.

   “Is Mommy meeting us here?” Laura asked.

   Annie saw the tears that had welled in the pits of his eyes fall down his cheeks.  It broke her heart.  Crowley couldn’t formulate a response, all he could do was bury his face in his daughter’s neck and cry.

   “I’m going to find out what’s going on,” Annie said.  “Try and find a place where she can rest.”

   Crowley nodded, wiped the tears from his eyes, and went off with Laura.

   Outside, Annie saw the man on the Humvee speaking to the four soldiers by the fire pit.  He, too, was smoking a cigarette, and, as she approached them, she could see the burning white stick quivering in his hand.  

   “Excuse me,” Annie said.

   The man on the Humvee turned to her, a grim look in his eyes.  “Yes, ma’am?”  She could tell the man’s patience was fading, and probably had been for some time.  He tried to put on his best reassuring smile, but all that came out was a slight part of the lips and a gap where she could see his bottom teeth.

   “I was wondering if somebody could tell me what’s going on.”

   The man inhaled, but said nothing.

   “Please, I’d really like to know what’s happening.”

   “So would I,” the man said.

   “These people need information,” said Annie.  “They deserve information.”

   The man looked at the four other soldiers, all of whom gave him the same noncommittal grunt.

   “Look, I just saw you gun down my neighbor in the place I call home—“

   “—Called home,” one of them interrupted.

   “Shut your yap,” the man snapped.  He turned back to Annie.  “Nobody knows what the hell is going on, sister.  It’s like some outbreak.  Only nobody can figure it out.”

   “Is there anything they do know?”  She took a step closer to him and dropped her tone.

   “Listen, you shouldn’t worry,” he told her.  “The best thing you can do now is to go back inside and try and help out with the others.”

   “You’re not getting rid of me until you start giving me some answers, Mr…”

   The man smiled.  He placed the cigarette at the corner of his mouth and held out his hand.  “Name’s Porter,” he said.  “Pleasure.”  He looked around at their surroundings and shrugged.  “Well, I guess it’s only sort of a pleasure.”

   She took his hand in hers. “Annie Walker.”  Then she, too, looked around and shrugged.  “Now please, Mr. Porter, I’d really like to know what’s going on.”

   He sighed.  She thought he might tell her to scram or get lost, but was surprised when he put his arm inside her elbow and led her away from the others.  He stuffed out his cigarette and leaned so close to Annie she could smell the terrible smokiness on his breath.  “The CDC is denying any sort of outbreak or epidemic.  When all this started, they did a few atmospheric tests but didn’t find any irregularities.”

   “When did this all start?” she asked.

   “On the record, a week ago.  Off the record?  Who fucking knows?  All we do know is, people started dying—and people started dying fast.  The murders caught CDC’s eye first, but what they’re not telling the public is that there has been a tremendous spike in aneurism deaths ever since the attacks started.  They’re not sure how the aneurisms and the attacks are related, but they do know they are related.  That’s what they’re trying to weed through now.”

   “So they’re still working on it?  Is there a cure?”

   Porter took another cigarette from his pack and she saw that his hands were still quivering.  He went to put the smoke in his mouth, but it fell from his fingers and hit the ground.  “I don’t know, Ms. Walker.  And that’s the god’s-honest-truth.”

   Annie glanced back at the huts.  “So what now?”

   “We wait for the military to tell us what to do.  Or the DOD.  Or the CDC.  Hell, we’ll listen to just about anybody at this point.  Frankly, Ms. Walker, everybody’s scared shitless.  We’ve never seen anything of this magnitude and nobody knows how we can fix it.”  He bent down and picked up his cigarette.  “One thing's for sure though: things are fixin' to get a lot worse, before they get better.  I ain't never been so god damn scared.”

   She looked deep into his eyes, but saw only small, black marbles staring back at her.  The Hell Porter had seen over the last hour had snatched the soul from his body.  He lit the cigarette with those awful, trembling hands.  

   If the cigarettes didn’t get him, Annie thought, the Hell surely would.

   The cigarettes would be of little concern, however, because Porter and the other Potawatomi survivors would be dead by nightfall.

   And on and on it goes…

We Don't Ever Fully End Up Becoming Ourselves - A Short

   There is a place beyond the maples, tucked away in a clearing of lilac and raspberry bushes.  The place I speak of is a large home built on stilts due to the property’s marshy soil.  The home is painted a drab sort of blue with pockets of bubbles where the contractor never went back and fixed it.  The only thing remarkable about the place beyond the maples is its size.  There are six bedrooms, a den, a family room, a kitchen that could house a family of ten, a parlor, and a deck that looks out on the clearing.  A hundred yards from the home is a pond filled with sunfish and crappies, many of which have already been eaten by two bears living amongst the maples.  These bears would stand on the edge of the shoreline, staring at the pond like pages of a good book, waiting for something only they knew.  Then, when the time was right, they would wade out into the water and scoop up a handful of crappies.  They would wade back to the shore and eat their catch with large, wet chomps.  On foggy mornings the bears would look almost majestic, regal, cutting through the haze with an unspoken elegance.

   There were three full-time occupants of the home: a gay couple who had been together eleven years and Her.  Or She.  Or The Girl.  I do not speak Her name not for lack of memory, but because I feel my tongue would catch fire.  The memory of Her is haunting enough, I’d hate to make Her more horrifying by uttering Her name.

   I remember the driveway well, a winding dirt road that always seemed to have puddles no matter what the climate.  Had anyone seen the road from its opening, it might have been assumed the drive led nowhere.  And, oh, how right they would have been.

   I made my way up the driveway with ease.  I needed to rent a car since She was unable to pick me up from the airport; something about a meeting that ran late or an appointment She forgot.  It was yet another excuse I chose to blindly ignore.  The car rocked and rattled and clanked, but eventually it made its way around the last cluster of maples and up the long finishing neck of the driveway.

   I parked in the spot farthest from the house and carried my bags the rest of the way. Even before I made it to the door I could hear a loud display of music coming from the front parlor.  It was the old-timey stuff.  The kind of music Sinatra or Sammy would drink to.  I liked it.  I liked it very much.

   I opened the front door and stepped into my destiny of nothingness.

   The first thing I saw were the boxes.  There were three of them as best I can recall.  They were those banker boxes made of cheap cardboard, painted white, and aptly labeled: Banker’s Boxes.  I tried to convince myself that the boxes were meant for somebody else, but I knew, deep down, that those were my boxes.  With my things.  And with our memories.

   I set down my bags and waited to be greeted.  For even in the darkest of days and direst of situations, one must be greeted.  After all, it’s only common courtesy.

   But there came no greeting.  Apart from that droning parlor music, the home was perfectly still.

   I waited for some time before the gay couple finally appeared.  They walked toward me with identical apprehensions.  Ryan was the taller of the two.  Gary was the shorter.  That’s pretty much all I remember of the gay couple that lived with Her.  They were perfectly genial, but horribly forgettable.

   “How are you?” Gary asked with a weak heart.  They spoke to me as if they just found out I had cancer.  It was depressing.

   “Fine.”

   “Are you sure?”

   “…Yeah…”

   Ryan hesitated and motioned toward the floor.  “I see you found your boxes.”

   “Found?” I asked.

   “I mean…you know…”

   But I didn’t know.  I had no idea what they meant.  I meant things all the time.  But what did this mean? 

   But before anyone had a chance to speak, She came around the corner with the last of the banker boxes.  This one was overfilled, as if She knew She couldn’t stand the thought of packing another and just wanted to get the whole thing over with.  There were no tears in Her eyes.  That fascinated me.

   “Oh…” She said upon seeing me.

   “I rented a car,” I said for some ungodly reason.

   “Do you want us to let you two talk?” Gary or Ryan asked.  I wasn’t sure who and couldn’t have cared less.

   “Talk about what?” I asked.  All I could do was look at those banker boxes.  Those ludicrous constructs of flimsy cardboard and interconnecting cutoffs.  So many memories can be tucked away in the most unassuming of objects.  When things are over there is no poetry, no poignance.  When things are over they fit into a cardboard box.

   “We’ll let you two talk,” one of them said.  They disappeared, though I didn’t watch them go.

   “I just wanted to make sure everything was ready,” She said.

   “Ready?”

   “I’ve got to tell you something; something that’s going to be very hard for me to say.  It’s something I’ve felt for a very long time, and I haven’t had the courage to say it.  You have meant so much to me…so much over these past months.”  She suddenly stopped and sighed.  “Hell, I guess it’s been years.  And I know I’ve always told you about marriage—“

The word crippled me.  The boxes on the floor no longer existed.  There was only the possibility of marriage.  The improbable prospect of spending the rest of my days with Her.  I pictured Her walking down the aisle.  I thought of the toasts.  The booze.  The dancing.  The food.  The honeymoon.  It was all a true impossibility that somehow seemed real.

   But she continued talking and I would have given anything for a roll of duct tape.  She had a way of wasting words, letting bad news linger like some festering disease.  “I just don’t see marriage as a possibility anymore, you know?  At least…Oh, hell…I think it might be best if you just left.”  And then I realized She was no longer wasting Her words.  She was abrupt and simple and I felt sick.  I thought She might kiss me, one last kiss we both could remember even when we walked down the aisle with somebody else.  Surely a hug was in order.  One doesn’t walk away from twenty-nine months of unconditional love without a measly hug.  Do they?

   But she turned down the hall and disappeared. 

   Perhaps She was getting one last box, a care package to take with me on my journey into dark.  Perhaps She was retrieving a memento we had shared during one of our “happy times.”  

   But She never came back.

   I stood in the entryway fiddling with my hands and stealing glances at the sobering, sympathetic gay couple watching from their parlor.  Occasionally they would whisper senseless secrets to one another and look back at me with sad eyes that offered little comfort.

   “I think it best if you go,” one of them called.

   “Huh?”
   “You’d better go.  We can help you with your boxes if you’d like.”

   “No.”  I picked up one of the boxes.  “She’s not coming back then?”

   “Doesn’t look like it.”  I still didn’t know who was talking.

   I carried the box outside, down the steps, and to the trunk of my rental car.  It had begun to rain, a fine mist that turned into vengeful, indiscriminate sheets.  I was soaked in a matter of minutes.  I set the box inside the trunk, but didn’t close it.  The cardboard became wet and wrinkled and flaccid.  Whatever the contents may have been surely would be ruined.  Pages of my poetry, perhaps.  It didn’t matter.  Words were meaningless.  

   The box withered under the weight of the rain and crumpled in on itself.  It seemed like a mirage.

   I looked up at the home, convinced the rain would crumble the structure away just as it had done to the box.  But no such luck came my way.

I threw the keys in the trunk and closed it.  Maybe I’d walk the thousand miles back home, that seemed pretty hunky-dory to me.

   I stared off at the pond.  Fine ripples of water splashed against each other as the rain pounded the surface.  My feet sunk into the ground and I felt mud seep into my shoes. 

   All at once, the rain stopped.

   I felt the urge to get in my car and drive away, but the pond was calling somehow.  I trudged across the clearing toward the black water.  A fish leapt into the air, curled its body, and fell back into the pond with a magnificent splash.  Another fish jumped, grabbing a mouthful of bugs that foolishly came to fly once the rain had stopped.  A third fish jumped and swallowed down a cloud of gnats.

   I came to the edge of the pond and stepped in until the water came to my ankles.  It felt strangely warm.  I waded out farther until the water came to my thighs.  I turned back to the house and saw Her staring out Her bedroom window.  Even from the distance, I could see She was chewing Her fingernails.  I’d hoped it was because She was wondering if She had made the right decision—letting me go and all—but I figured it was because She had no clue why I hadn’t gotten the hell out of there.

   Deep into the clearing I saw a shadow cutting through the misty clouds.  It was monstrous, approaching me from the wood with slow and plodding affect.  Then I saw a second shadow, not quite as large, but just as plodding, just as deliberate.  The fog suddenly broke and I saw the two bears; massive, evil beasts that lumbered toward me.  They were ready to go fishing, ready to gather up those flopping bastards that had swallowed those flies and gnats.

   I stood frozen in the water, watching the bears move across the clearing, their paws smacking the muddy pasture like great drums of bass.

   The bears came to the shore and looked at me with this profound sadness—especially the small one. 

   I looked back at Her window and saw She was still there, but had stopped chewing Her fingernails.  She was watching me as if watching the closing credits of a movie.  There was no emotion, no regret, She was simply waiting for it to be over.

   The flies continued to fly and the fish continued to feed.  The bears stepped into the water, surrounded me, and mauled me to death.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #11

Buffalo Grove, IL
Day 18 of The Rise

   Crime had tripled in the last ten days.  Karl Rose, a father of three, walked into Ace Hardware and shot the cashier.  

   So it goes…

   Neighbors were breaking and entering each other’s homes, not to rob, but to kill.  Carl Bard woke to find his neighbor Aaron Kohn standing over him as he slept.  Before he had a chance to ask Aaron what he was doing, Aaron stabbed him in the chest with a gardening spade.  Carl’s wife woke, saw the horror, and screamed so loud it’s a miracle her lungs didn’t explode.  Aaron Kohn wrapped his hands around Mrs. Bard’s throat and crushed her larynx with his fingers.  She drowned a dry death less than a minute later.

   So it goes…

   There was a heat wave that week.  And, during so many heat waves, news anchors and journalists chalked the recent behavior up to “extreme reactions to heat stroke.”  This was nonsense.  There are always signs of change, one just had to be patient enough to recognize them.  One thing was true: the world was becoming a startling place.   

   Annie Walker woke on the 18th Day of The Rise to the sound of a Cardinal outside her window.  It danced on the sill and pecked lightly on the glass.  She had had the air conditioner on and Annie supposed the bird felt the cool of the window and was hoping to stop in.  Just to say hi, perhaps, or maybe steal a glass of lemonade.  It was, after all, that sort of day.

   She awoke that day, like so many days, a minute before her alarm was set to go off.  She hadn’t slept well for many nights, and she supposed her diagnosis had been the culprit.  Her diagnosis came three weeks after her husband left; left and took her son with him.  It was an aggressive form of cancer that started in her Lymph nodes and eventually spread to her breasts, stomach, liver, and pancreas.  The doctors were optimistic (they gave her six weeks).  Though, in her heart of hearts, she knew she wouldn’t make it to the end of the month.  If she made it to her son’s birthday, she'd be happy; content to leave the world celebrating his birth.

   So it goes…   

   Annie threw the covers off her legs and got out of bed.  Her abdomen felt cramped and tender, the vomiting had kept her up most of the night.

   The C word hadn’t come up with anyone else in her life.  She kept her illness private and if she ever felt the need to upchuck at work, she would politely excuse herself, yack, and return to the grind.  Yack!  She sounded like her son.  “A kid at school yacked all over his Pumas today, Mom!” he announced one afternoon.  “Actually, he yacked all over Jenny Malloy’s desk.  It just dripped down on his shoes…hers too!  It was wild!”  Annie smiled at the memory of her son.  She longed for a touch of that energy now.  Just a nip of energy to take the edge off, right?

   Cancer.  The word was dirty and tainted.  Of course it was tainted.  It was, after all, Cancer.  Cancer with a capital “C.”  But it was more than that.  It was her life now.  And, soon, it would be her death.

   So it goes…

   She had spoken to her husband a few times since he left and they were amicable enough, though there was an emptiness in his voice; a sort of vacancy that seemed eager to get off the phone as soon as they started talking.  In all of their conversations, Annie couldn’t muster the courage to say those three little words: “I. Have. Cancer.”  Her first thought was that he would blame her; blame her for not taking care of herself or blame her for not getting checked.  He played the blame game and she was always the loser.  Her ex-husband wasn’t a bad man, just a selfish one.  And a selfish man surely would do no good for a long lasting marriage.  He was, however, a key player in their short-lived one.

   Her alarm went off while she was staring out the window.  It was set to 94.7 WLS-FM Detroit.  The Detroit morning guy was named Dave Cash, and even though Annie found him a trifle obnoxious, his voice was soothing enough.  When Dave had moved from Chicago to Detroit, Annie had even gone out and bought one of those nifty universal radios just so she could retain her audible relationship with Mr. Cash.  

   She used to joke with her friends that Dave was more suited for 100.3 The Wave, where people call in and dedicate love songs.  100.3 was DJ’d by a woman named Michon Harris.  Her voice was a calming, emblematic purr with a subtle note of sexiness.  “This song goes out to Jonathan.  Jonathan, Olivia says she can’t stop thinking about you, and she wants you to know she’s truly found her best friend and soul mate.  If you can find it in your heart to forgive her, she’ll spend the rest of her life making you happy.  Jonathan, if you’re out there, this one’s for you.”  Usually it was the same trite dedication that made you roll your eyes, but, after a while, Annie would find herself invested in these invisible characters.  “Are you kidding me?  She doesn’t love you!  She cheated on you,” she would yell while pounding on her steering wheel.  Most mornings, though, Annie dedicated to Dave Cash.

   “Good morning all you 94 FM super fans!  And what a beautiful morning it is.  It’s a balmy 92 degrees out there in downtown Detroit, but the sun is shining and the lake’s a calling, so get on out there and enjoy your beautiful Friday morning!” 

   Annie turned down the radio’s volume and switched on the television; the local news was wrapping up.  Oren Hill and Sasha Guitierez sat next to each other, the Channel 11 logo displayed proudly behind them.

   While they spoke, Annie went to her nightstand and opened the top shelf.  Inside, tucked inside the flap of a red envelope, was a birthday card.  A cartoon boy with a football shaped head smiled up at her.  Fireworks exploded behind him.

   “We thank you for joining us this morning on Channel 11 Chicago,” said Oren Hill.  

   “We hope to see you back here again, tomorrow,” Sasha Guitierez said.

   The television anchors faded away and an episode of “General Hospital” started.  Some woman had just gotten facial reconstruction surgery and when they took off the bandages she looked exactly like the doctor’s wife who had died in a fiery car crash two episodes earlier.  But she was in love with his brother…who had been dead for ten years!!!

   So it goes…

   Annie took a seat at the edge of the bed and opened the card.  She held the eraser end of the pencil to her lips and furrowed her brow.  The words were not coming to her.  How could they?  She hadn’t seen her son in seven weeks and, even then, it was transient and soulless.  He had kept his iPod on and his expressions were unrecognizable to her.  He seemed annoyed, bitter.  She couldn’t blame him.  The divorce had been difficult on him, much more than the separation.  With the separation, there was at least the small hope of reconciliation.  But the word ‘divorce’ offered nothing but absolute finality.

   She wrote the first word:

KYLE

   The word hung on the page.  She wrote the letters, all in caps and regretted it as soon as she did.  Now she would have to write the entire card in caps otherwise his name would look positively silly.  She continued:

KYLE

YOU HAVE BEEN MY SPECIAL GUY SINCE DAY ONE.  YOR FATHER AND I LOVE YOU VERY MUCH, AND WE'RE SO PROUD OF THE BOY YOU TURNED OUT TO BE.  I'VE STRUGGLED WITH HOW I SHOULD TELL YOU THIS, AND I'M SORRY IT HAS TO BE THIS WAY, BUT I'M AFRAID I DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME LEFT.  I HAVE CANCER.  AND IT'S THE KIND OF CANCER THAT DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER.  IT'S THE KIND THAT HAS NO RHYME OR REASON IN LIFE.  I WISH, SO MUCH, I COULD BE AROUND TO LOVE AND PROTECT YOU FOREVER, BUT 

   The words suddenly stopped.  There were so many things she wanted to see him do: get his driver’s license, come back from his first date, scold him for breaking curfew, graduate from high school, get his first college acceptance letter.  Her heart felt ready to burst.  

   Annie stared at the words on the left side of the card.  Particularly, the C word.  That muddy, muddy word surround by a block of text she hoped Kyle would get through before tossing it in the trash.  Kyle didn’t like to read much, he was one of those “postmodern babies” you hear the old folk whine about.  The kids who spent most of their days with earbuds in and most of their nights downloading porn.

   The television flickered and “General Hospital” suddenly disappeared.  A quick “Breaking News” graphic flashed on the screen and then Oren Hill and Sasha Guitierez returned.  While they both shared a look of mutual stress, Sasha Guitierez looked genuinely frightened.  While Oren spoke, it appeared as though she was looking over her shoulder or glancing at the nearest exits.

   “Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your currently scheduled program to bring you this breaking news report: The National Guard is ordering citizens of Chicago and nearby cities to be evacuated immediately.  There have been terrible incidents at Northwestern Memorial and Children’s Memorial hospitals.  We’re still getting details on what is actually happening.  Whether it’s an outbreak or a terrorist attack, we’re not exactly sure.  But, for now, citizens of Chicago, Lincolnwood, North Shore, Buffalo Grove, Oak Park, please follow the National Guard and evacuate!”  Oren Hill’s speech was unwavering, but rushed.  “I repeat, there has been some sort of attack on local hospitals that is spreading to the outer city limits and we need to evacuate immediately!”  He was shouting now, and, in the background of the studio, a loud pounding was audible.  It sounded as if somebody was slamming a sledgehammer against brass metal door.

   Sasha Guitierez screamed and a loud commotion ripped through the studio.

   “Ladies and gentlemen, get out now!  Get out now!”  Oren was removing his microphone around the same time a Variant entered frame and ripped his throat from his neck.  There was an explosion of blood that sprayed over the news desk and Oren Hill fell flat on his face, his body slumping in front of Sasha Guitierez.

   Her scream curdled the blood of listeners all over the Chicagoland area.  There were splotches of red on her dress and face.  Her bladder let loose.

   A Variant, teeth gritted and eyes wild, ran up behind her and twisted her neck clear around.  The microphone, still attached to her dress, produced a dreadful crunch.   

   The camera tipped over and the image disappeared into a cloudy grey screen followed by:

We are experiencing technical difficulties.

Please standby.

   It had all happened so fast.  Annie hadn’t moved.  She watched the horror unfold, believing, at first, it was some sort of grotesque prank. 

   Annie grabbed the phone, but there was no dial tone.  The service was busy.  No outgoing calls.  No incoming calls.  

   “Ladies and gentlemen, please evacuate!” a voice came from the street, resonating over a megaphone.

   Annie ran to the window and saw a man standing on the back of a Humvee, the National Guard decal stuck to the driver’s side door.  “Always Ready, Always There” the insignia read. 

   “Please evacuate now.  We are here to help!”

   Across the street, Annie watched as her neighbor, Mr. Veverka, ran out of his house.  Even from her distance she could see the crazy in his eyes.  Veverka wore a blood-stained undershirt that hung loosely from his hefty exterior and was holding a nine inch butcher knife in his left hand.  He ran at the Humvee with such purpose—as if his only goal in life was chasing that vehicle down.

   The man on the back of the Humvee removed his sidearm and fired a single shot into Veverka’s head.  Mr. Veverka, a man who had come by so many time to shovel off Annie’s sidewalk, or help mow her lawn, was suddenly dead.

   The man on the back of the Humvee returned the sidearm to his holster and brought the megaphone back to his mouth, genuinely unfazed.  Veverka was gone and he hadn’t batted an eyelash. 

   “Please, ladies and gentlemen, you are not safe.  You must leave your homes.  We are here to help!”

   Annie was out the door before she had time to lace her shoes.

   “Here!  Over here!” Annie called.

   The man in the Humvee turned around, the megaphone still pushed against his lips.

   “Stop!” he yelled to the driver.  “Hurry!” He called back to her.  “They’re coming.”

   Annie glanced over her shoulder and saw a herd of people running up the street.  It was a surreal and menacing sight.  She didn’t know which ones were bad and which ones were good.  But, more importantly, she didn’t care.

   The man on the Humvee helped her into the back, pounded on the roof, and the vehicle sped away.     The figures behind her grew smaller and smaller.  The man on the Humvee continued to call people out of their homes, but realized his attempts were lost when a man named Crowley and his daughter, Laura, were the only other survivors they managed to pick up.  After a while, he put the megaphone down and took a seat next to Annie.

   “That’s it,” he called up to the driver.  “Head back to camp.”  He dropped his head in his hands.     Sweat dripped from his greasy black hair.  When he finally looked up at them he managed a small smile, but it slowly faded and she never saw it again.

   Crowley held his daughter close.  She began to cry over the roar of the Humvee’s engine.

   Annie looked down at her hands and noticed she still had her son’s birthday card clutched between her fingers.  She hadn’t taken a jacket, she hadn’t taken a sweater, she hadn’t taken a phone, but she had taken the birthday card.

   She leaned back against the Humvee’s metal frame and closed her eyes.  The world has gone mad, she thought, the world has gone completely mad. 

   So it goes…

Variance - Book 1, Issue #10

Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL

Four months after The Rise

   Lara found a decent sized backpack in the bottom drawer of the cottage’s armoire.  She also found a pair of pants, two shirts, and a .38 revolver.  She took everything unabashedly and stuffed the contents into Annie’s arms.  Lara moved off with a disgruntled grunt.

   “Ready?” Captain Blake asked the cottage.

   “Just about,” Martin said.  He opened Annie’s pack, placed the contents inside, and strapped the bag around her shoulders.  “You okay?”

   She nodded, but was shaking.

   “Okay,” he said.  “Let’s move out. 

   They headed southeast through the woods.  By the time Annie finally looked back, the cottage was nothing but a distant speck, a fading memory she would never return to again.  Four corpses had been left inside.  Maybe the wolves would get them, maybe they wouldn’t.  Either way, things were different now.  Nobody rested in peace.  

   “You’re quiet,” Martin said. 

   She shrugged.  “This all feels like a bad dream.”

   “That feeling never goes away,” he said.  And judging by the weariness in his eyes, she assumed he was right.

   “If I’m one of those things—a Variant—then why wouldn’t I just kill all of you?”  She asked the question with such simplicity Martin nearly lost his breath.  It was so frank, yet so warranted. 

   “I’m not sure.”

   “Clearly.”

   Martin drew a long, methodical breath.  “The simplest way I can put it is: Variants come in all shapes and sizes.  They vary in personality, behavior, mood, everything.  Some can be aggressive, while others are sneaky…like hunters.  No two Variants are exactly alike.”

   “Do you think I’m a ‘hunter?’” she asked.

   “Frankly, Miss Walker, we have no idea what you are.  It’s quite possible that you’re like us.  But until we can get some place where I can administer The Test…”

   (The Test)

“…we’re all going to have to live in the dark a little while longer.”

   Annie stuffed her hands in her pockets and slumped her shoulders.  “So how did you all come about?”

   “Well…” he sighed, “…That’s a long story.”

   “It’s a good thing we’ve both got time.”

   Martin smiled.  “I happened upon Captain Blake, Enrique, and Lara some time in Wisconsin.  Got them out of a pickle.”

   “How do you mean?”

   “Their plane crashed,” he said, glancing up at his three companions.  “I just happened to be there.”

   "Just you?" she asked.

   He looked at her solemnly.  "Yeah..." he said.  "At that point I was the only one left."

   Annie didn’t know what to say, but she spoke anyway, clumsily, “Well, that wasn’t too long of a story.”  He sighed and wiped the sleep from his eyes.  “Come on,” he told her.  “We should catch up with the others.”  He quickened his pace and walked on ahead.

   They continued on their way, reaching Park Ridge by midday.  The neighborhood was the poster child of suburbia.  A never-ending sea of ramblers lined the abandoned blocks.  Windows were broken in and some houses were now only broken trusses and old ash, casualties of some horrific fire and blast.  

   The morning was hot and the air was thick.  Fatigue was setting in even though they hadn’t walked more than ten miles.

   “Can we take a break?” Annie asked.

   “Sure, princess!” Lara quipped.

   “Break would be good,” said Martin.  

   They stopped near a small, green house.  Modest, but nice.  Paint peeled from its siding and a dozen or so shingles were scattered on the front lawn.  The roof was a skeleton of itself.  The white picket fence in the back had lost nearly half its planks, making it look like scattered matchsticks standing on end.

   “What’s happened here?” Annie asked scanning the neighborhood’s broken homes.  It was a suburban graveyard, shells of what used to be.

   He handed her a bottle of water.  “A few weeks back, the President ordered airstrikes.  He said it was so they could ‘contain the problem.’”

   “Created a god damn panic, that’s what it did!” Captain Blake shouted.  “President’s why we’re in this damn mess!”

   “Oh, get off it old man,” Enrique muttered.

   “Air strikes!  What kind of a god damn fool thinks that’ll solve anything?  Killed some of the only survivors we had left!”

   “They just killed everyone?” Annie asked.

   “A couple days after the strike they said that civilian casualties were at a minimum,” Martin said taking a sip of water.  “Though there’s really no way of knowing.  We lost radio contact eighteen hours later.  Ever since…nothing but static.”

   “Thirty-eight stations of pure white noise,” Captain Blake said.  He took out his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco.  There wasn’t a droplet of sweat on him, and while the others gasped for air, he inhaled a smooth stream of smoke as though it were fresh oxygen.

   “You haven’t gotten in touch with anybody?” she asked.

   The others shook their heads.  It was a miserable reminder to their current predicament.  They hung their heads and drank silently for the next several minutes.

   “Everyone finish up.  If we keep our pace we can be to the United Center by sundown,” said Martin, tightening the cap on his water.

   “If we don’t, we’re as good as dead!” added Captain Blake, a bit more cheerful than the others would have liked.  

   They were all busy securing their packs and finishing their waters that Annie was the only one to spot the fast approaching Variant.  She originally thought she’d seen one of the matchstick fence posts move.  But that was impossible.  Another pocket of movement between the two posts.  She got to her feet, her eyes never breaking from the posts.

   “Christ, sweetie, whatcho lookin’ at?” Captain Blake asked as she pushed past him.

   Annie offered no recognition she had heard him.  She stepped toward the posts, her eyes stern and transfixed.

   “Um…Doc…” Captain Blake said. 

   Martin looked up and saw a hypnotized Annie floating toward the broken fence.

   “Annie?” Martin called to her.

   But the world was drowned out.  

   “Annie, we need to stay together!” Martin shouted, louder this time.

   A plank suddenly exploded off the fence as a Variant erupted through its opening.  The Variant, seven feet tall with pulsating muscles, charged at Annie.  Its mouth was foaming and its eyes bulged with encompassed rage.  

   Annie tried to move out of the way but the Variant shoulder checked her across the sternum.  She toppled over, an intense ripple of pressure crossing across her ribs. 

   The Variant reached down to grab her but suddenly went still as the sound of a gunshot vibrated through the air.  A bullet hole blasted through the Variant’s torso and blood spattered across Annie’s chest and neck.  

   The Variant turned to face its assailant.  Lara stood there, poised and pleased, her .357 wafting smoke.

   “You fu—“ Lara started, but the Variant lashed out at her.  His beefy arm caught her throat and she flew backward as if yanked by a string.

   The Variant lowered its head and charged.  Lara brought her hands to her face, refusing to witness the horror that was about to reign down on her.  The Variant let out a wail, a thunderous howl that undulated through the empty streets.  The others fumbled with their weapons.  The Variant reached for Lara’s arm when a single gunshot cracked through the madness.  It was just one shot at first, followed by five consecutive bursts.

   The Variant wavered, its legs unsteady and fleeting.  The others watched as blood seeped through its weathered grey shirt, the small bullet holes looking like indentations in a soda can.  The Variant turned, its massive chest heaving, a glazed look in its eye.  It stumbled backward and then fell over.  When it fell, the ground shook  and Captain Blake could have sworn the wooden fence rattled from its vibration.  The Variant was dead.

   The others turned around to see the last whiffs of smoke curling out of Annie’s .38.  Though they were shaking, the gun was still clasped in her hands.  She dropped the gun and her shoulders sunk.  

Martin was the first to go to her and take her in his arms.  He hugged her and she began to cry.  It was a quiet, whimpering cry. 

   When he pulled away she wiped the tracks from her cheeks and steadied her quivering lip.

   “You okay?” Martin asked.

   She nodded fervently.  She was okay.  A combination of shock, adrenaline, and relief surged through her heart and she felt nothing but exhilaration.  The Variant was dead, and the others were safe.  That was all that mattered.  And that was all that would matter from there on out.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #9

Potawatomi Woods, Wheeling, IL

Four months after The Rise

   Annie Walker’s eyes opened as a ray of morning light shone through the cottage’s eastern window.  She had slept through the night, remembering very little of her dreams.  The creaking of the wood floors roused her, though she moved very little upon waking, still consumed by fatigue.

   “How can we trust her?” she heard Lara’s whispering voice ask.

   Annie made a move to roll over, but braced her body when the severity of the words sunk in.  They were talking about her.  They were questioning her.  She remained motionless, praying her thumping heart would fall on deaf ears. 

   “What do you mean ‘can we trust her?’” she heard Martin ask.

   “Are you dense?” Lara hissed.  “We find this woman who claims she’s been sleeping for what, four months?  Underground no less!  And you just buy it?”

   “You gotta admit, Doc, what ain’t sittin' right with us ain’t sittin’ right with you either,” Captain Blake said.

   Now it was Enrique’s turn to chime in: “Maybe you should just give her The Test.”

   Annie blinked.  The Test?

   “And where do you suggest I do that?”  Martin asked.  “Here?  Is that what you’re saying, Enrique?  Maybe there’s a microscope in the armoire or slides in the cellar.” 

   “We all did it, Martin.  We all took The Test.  There ain’t a reason in the world why she should have to, too.”

   “She’s already been through a lot,” Martin said.

   “We’ve all been through a lot!” 

   “We’re not getting anywhere,” Captain Blake snapped.

   Silence filled the room before Enrique said, “Can we just agree that when we get to Chicago, if there’s a facility there, you’ll test her?”

   It took Martin a long time to respond.  Annie could hear him sigh.  She could almost feel the eyes on him, the eyes that were looking through him.  “Fine,” he said.  “When we get to Chicago I’ll administer The Test.”  She heard Martin stand and leave the cabin, his heavy boots dragging across the floor as he went.

   After he left, the others continued to speak, but only in muddled whispers too quiet for Annie to hear.  Outside, she heard Martin pacing along the porch, a torturous wave of discontent prodding away at his thoughts.

Variance - Book 1, Issue #8

Savannah, Georgia
Day 21 of The Rise

   
   The room was listless and dark.  Captain Blake could hear the gentle hum of a fluorescent light above him.  

   Why is it dark, he thought? 

   And then he remembered: his eyes.  

   He felt his hands were numb, the way they are so many mornings, as he fumbled for the bandages over his eyes.  He patted the gauze and felt a soft stinging in his eyes.  He wondered whether it was safe to remove them.  How long had it been since the operation?  His mind tried tallying off the days, but he got lost along the way.  His concept of time was lost, but, hopefully, his sight had not met the same fate.

   “Hello?” Captain Blake called.  

   Hmmmmmm, said the fluorescent light.  

   “Hello?” he called again, this time a little more urgently.

   Hmmmmmm, responded the fluorescent light again.

   Captain Blake’s tongue was dry and parched.  He licked his cracked lips and felt a brief tinge of pain sear the outside of his mouth.  His throat was so arid he suspected he must have been bedridden for days, maybe even weeks.  He tried to swallow, but only the uninvited rush of hot, stale air clung to his larynx.

   “Can anybody hear me?” he called.

   He knew he was in a hospital, so shouldn’t there be traffic in the halls, or a nurse to check on him, or, at the very least, an occasional whir of an ambulance siren?  But there was only his breathing and that torturous fluorescent light.

   Captain Blake reached up and carefully removed the first layer of bandage, but no light came.

   How much god damn gauze did they wrap me up in? he thought, a bit annoyed.

   He discarded the first layer of gauze then pulled another away.  Then another.  And, finally, there it was: a soft hue of white streaming through the remaining bandages.  The excitement swelled up in his heart and he pulled with greater urgency.  He clenched his eyes shut, wanting to savor the first time he saw the world—at least the first time in twenty years.  The gauze around his head loosened.  The time was close.  

   Captain Blake felt the bandages give.  The smell of dried blood passed by his nose as the gauze fell.  He snapped open his eyes and was met by a ray of brilliant white.  But then the white morphed into flashing colors, bombarding his psyche like a violent lava lamp.  The flashing colors quickly subsided and he was nestled in a blanket of black.  Though, this was no ordinary blanket.  This one left him lonely and helpless.  

   “Hello?” his voice cracked.  “Is anybody there?”

   Hmmmmm, the fluorescent light replied mockingly.

   His heart sank.  Was nobody coming for him?  Was he left to die blind and dumb?

   But the darkness began to dissipate.  The thick black transformed into a subtle grey.  Ten more seconds and the grey became a mundane yellow.  The yellow expanded, then contracted.  And then, all at once, he could see.  He could see that listless room he was in.  He could see the dull wallpaper peeling from the walls.  He could see the window in the corner, and the streak of yellow along the horizon, the morning sun returning to its post.  And it was positively brilliant.

   “Well ain’t that gorgeous?” he murmured.  “Ain’t that gorgeous indeed?”

* * *

   By the time Captain Blake sat up in bed the sun was already hanging proudly in the sky.  His sight had completely returned, apart from a slight blur in his peripherals.  He swung his legs around the side of the bed and pushed up off the mattress.  His bones creaked, but he managed to straighten his back and stand upright.  

   “Helen?” he called, hoping his wife would return his query.

   His last memory of Helen was faint and dream-like.  He remembered her holding his hand as he was wheeled into surgery.  She hung over him like this wandering angel and told him she’d be there when he got out.

   “Helen?” Captain Blake called again, working his way toward the door.  But, still, there was no answer.

   He felt along the side of the bed, blindly reaching for the nurse’s button.  He stopped and laughed heartily.  He could see for Christ’s sake!  The need to feel around a room, carefully maneuvering along sidewalks, searching for hand railings, none of it was necessary anymore.

   There, at the edge of the bed, hung a fantastically vivid red remote.  Captain Blake snatched it up and pressed the round, white button.  Above his bed, a small red light began to blink.

   He waited.  

   Nobody came.

   “What’n the hell’s goin’ on?” he muttered.

   Only silence responded.

   Captain Blake pushed aside the thin blue curtain separating the two beds and made his way to the door.  When he pushed on it, though, the thing barely budged.  It felt as if somebody had welded it shut.

   “God damn it,” he cursed.  He slammed against the door again, but it had little effect.  Perspiration was seeping through his hospital gown making him feel sour and old. 

   Captain Blake went back to his hospital bed and wheeled it around so it faced the door.  After a few deep breaths and silent Hail Mary’s, he produced a running start and crashed into the door.  The hinges gave as screws ripped from the wall, wood particles dissipating into the air.  On the other side of the door, three hospital beds, stacked one on top of the other, crashed to the floor.  The ringing of metal on tile rippled through the empty hallway.

   Captain Blake climbed over the hospital beds to find a hallway cloaked in black, save for two flickering fluorescent lights at its far end.  There were no doctors, no nurses, no patients, there was only Captain Blake.  The floors were littered with empty prescription bottles, blank script pads, bedpans, bed sheets, and blood.  Deep, dark brown patches of dried blood smeared across the floor in zig-zagging patterns.  But, as far as Captain Blake could tell, there wasn’t a single corpse in sight.  There were no limbs, no organs, no heads; absolutely zero sign of death, apart from the faint smell of decay.

   Captain Blake looked around.  Where the hell was everybody?  This was, after all, a hospital, was it not?  And who, for that matter, had barricaded him in his room?  And more importantly: why?

   At the end of the hall, Captain Blake could see the red outline of the Exit sign hanging from the ceiling.  The letters were a hazy blur, but it was unmistakable.

   He started for it with lumbering steps.  The first three steps were of no significance, but the fourth made him yearn for blindness.  Along the east corridor, stretching for several yards, were the bodies; dozens and dozens of them.  Fifty or so, Captain Blake guessed, though the severed limbs and pools of blood made it difficult to be sure.  Nurses, doctors, patients, visitors, stacked on top of one another just as the hospital beds had been.  They were young, old, black, white, their killer working without discrimination or remorse.  Captain Blake had a strong stomach, he always had had, but the sight before him churned his insides like fresh butter.   

   “Christ.”  The word hung in the air, but Christ provided little support.

   Boom!  The exit at the far end of the hall slammed shut.  Captain Blake looked up, but saw nothing through the darkness.

   “Is somebody there?” he asked.  His voice cracked, having not done so since the age of thirteen.         But there he stood, a sixty-two year old man, stripped down to his skivvies, ready to shit himself.

   “Hello?” he asked the darkness. 

   And then the footsteps came.  Slow at first, as if the thing at the end of the hall was playing its own game of red light/green light.

   “Who’s there?” 

   The footsteps stopped.  

   Captain Blake squinted through the black and saw the outline of a shadow standing under the Exit sign.  He could hear its quick, rasping breaths.

   “Please, I need your help.  These people…they’re dead…”

   Breathing.

   “…Say something, god damn it!”

   But the thing said nothing.  There were only the short, feverish breaths.

   Captain Blake reached over the counter into the nurse’s station and caught hold of a stainless-steel letter opener.  It had an orange rubber handle with a smooth, rounded tip. 

   “Stay away from me!  I’ve got a…” Captain Blake considered the object, “…knife!”

   More breathing and then the thing at the end of the hall started toward him.  The sound of its feet skipped across the tile at a tremendous rate.  Captain Blake had never heard anything move so fast.  It sounded more like a puma than a person.  There was a flash of the thing’s face as it passed under the first fluorescent light, but Captain Blake only remembered the eyes, maniacal and deranged.  

   He gripped the letter opener with white knuckles.

   The thing passed under the second fluorescent.  The eyes.  Those wild, demented eyes appeared again and, this time, Captain Blake noticed random, jagged streaks of blood running up and down the thing’s face—the face of a human.  Or so it seemed.  The thing appeared to be a man, no more than thirty years old, dressed in tattered slacks and a stained polo.  But its face was not that of a civilized man.  Its face was soulless and possessed.

   “Stay back!” Captain Blake threatened again.

   The thing leapt, arms outstretched, ready to strike, ready to pull arms from sockets and eyes from cavities.  It wailed and howled and struck Captain Blake in the sternum.  They stumbled backward.  The letter opener nearly slipped from his hand, but he managed to hold tight.  They landed on tile with a thud, the thing thrashing with wild ferocity.

   He brought the letter opener up in one swift motion, jabbing it into the thing’s jugular.  Blood exploded from its neck.  He twisted the orange rubber handle and pulled down on the opener.  The thing’s throat opened up, swaying back and forth like a mud flap on a big rig.  Blood sprayed on Captain Blake in a shower of red.  The thing gurgled a final breath before falling over into a motionless heap.

   Captain Blake sat up and spotted a drinking fountain just down the hall.  He got to his feet, legs wobbling, and wandered over to it.  He splashed a handful of water on his face and blood ran down the drain in a river of pink. 

   A psychopath had snapped and killed nearly fifty people, Captain Blake thought as he headed toward the exit.  

   But the logic of that theory didn’t sit well with him.  He hadn’t witnessed a horror like that since his days in the jungle of Khe Sanh.  But this was beyond the reason of war.  

   This was something else entirely.