S.W. Tanpepper's GAMELAND: Season Two Omnibus (Episodes 9-11) (152 page)

“You got through once,” she reminded him. “You should be able to get through again.”

“You'd think so,” he said. He sounded tired.

“Remind me who the pregnant one is?”

“Not funny.”

“It's all that rich, fatty cuisine you enjoyed while on the island.”

“Now you're just being cruel.”

The pressure in the back of her head came again, building rapidly. She bent her head down and blinked, but nothing seemed to help.

Behind her, Reggie groaned.

Jessie dropped her head to her hands and accidentally inhaled water. It was alarming how much more there was now. Only a couple minutes had passed. Ahead, the rain was still coming down hard.

“Reggie?” she forced herself to say. “Reg!”

She couldn't be sure he heard her. The noise in the tunnel seemed a lot louder than it was just a moment before.

“Reggie! You need to get through! Now!”

The water was lapping at her chin.

“
Reggie!
”

She could hear him crying out behind her, grunting. It sounded strange, almost like he was fighting. Then there was a gush of water. And another. And suddenly the tunnel was full and it was pushing her out. Her head hit the ceiling. She opened her mouth to cry out and the water rushed in and choked her.

A moment later, she was out, propelled onto the rocky shore by the force of the drainage. She looked back to find the opening a gush of muddy water.

“Reggie!”

“Right here.”

A hand rose from behind a rock further down, nearly at the water's edge. She crawled over and found him being sick into the surf. The pain in her head was starting to fade once more.

“Thank god for puking,” he said. He looked miserable.

“Funny thing to be thankful for.”

He gagged a couple more times, then wiped his mouth and rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes. After several long seconds had passed, he added, “If I hadn't started, I woulda still been stuck in there.”

* * *

On a clear night, they would've been able to see the lights of Manhattan in the distance, and it would've given them a guide by which to paddle. But as the last of the daylight leaked from the sooty sky, they had nothing but a vague impression of where the mainland might be. Not even their Links could offer any assistance.

The headaches came and went with increasing frequency and longer duration for the next two hours, and each time they did, they were certain it would be the final time and that they would never wake. Both vomited up what little remained in their stomachs, weakening them further until they could no longer lift the paddles to row. It felt like forever, but they finally drifted out past the mouth of Oyster Bay. Nothing but darkness and open water lay ahead.

Now they laid themselves back against the sides of the raft and allowed the current to take them where it may.

“Rain's stopped,” she said, realizing she could now see stars.

Shinji raised his head from her lap and whined. She tried to scratch him behind the ears, but she could barely lift her hand.

“I should've made you stay back there, old man,” she said. “You shouldn't have to be here.”

Reggie coughed weakly, then groaned. He sat up and looked around for a moment before collapsing.

“Maybe we'll end up somewhere across the ocean,” Jessie mused. “Someone'll find our bodies and then they'll know what's happened here.”

Reggie was silent for a long time. “I always wanted to go to Europe. I think we should go.”

Jessie smiled. “Another harebrained idea. Look where your last one got us.”

But he didn't answer.

Jessie turned her head to the side. She could see him sitting there. The tension in his neck and shoulders suggested he was thinking hard. She was amazed she could even see him, the darkness was that deep. But high above them, between milky patches of cloud, more and more stars twinkled into existence.

She sighed, and it was a sigh of relief and remorse. A sigh of regret. It was a forcing out of her body and mind all of the things she'd kept held deep inside. It was a cleansing sigh, a dying breath.

The pressure the final time was different. It was slower building, yet more intense, unwavering. It was the same exact sensation she remembered from the very first time, when they were on the shuttle beneath LaGuardia and trying to come home.

This is it. This is when we finally die.

Reggie hissed and leaned forward, but instead of squeezing his head, he stumbled toward the other end of the raft, rocking it so water splashed in.

“What are you doing?” Jessie asked. “Trying to drown us?”

“Your pack,” he answered, panting. “You still have your EM pistol?”

It took her a moment to realize what he was planning. They didn't have to suffer anymore. One shot, and they would die obliviously, without pain.

The black metal of the EM pistol reflected the distant starlight as he pulled it out. But he didn't shoot them right away. She could hear him fumbling in his own pack, his breath coming faster and faster as the pain grew.

“If you don't hurry—”

“Two shots,” he whimpered. “That's how Ash was able to inactivate the Player's implant.”

“What?”

He settled his back against the front of the raft and pointed both pistols at her, and then she realized what he really was going to do. He meant to shoot her twice. He was going to deactivate her implant so she could live. He would shoot her first, and then the two of them together.

She would live, and he would die.

“No,” she moaned. She didn't want to be the only one. She didn't want to wake up afterward, alone in a world where everyone else had died. She wanted to explain to him why she shouldn't be allowed to live, and that she should be the one to go, not him, but she was too weak. “I'm sorry,” was all she could manage.

“Goodbye, Jess.”

She turned her head to the side and watched the distant lights of Manhattan float out of the fog.

A moment later, the pain was gone, and the lights blinked out.

 

The first shot had been the easy one. One moment, her face was twisted in agony. The next, she relaxed and it was gone. Her body slumped against the gunwale of the raft, then slipped to the floor. The dog simply closed his eyes, his chin on her lap. They looked like they were sleeping.

Pain seared through Reggie's head then, ripping through him, shattering coherent thought. Both arms dropped to his sides, and he could do nothing but lie there paralyzed while his brain boiled. He couldn't even breathe.

Waves of agony passed through him, each one successively worse than the last, shredding him where he lay. His back arched once, as if the pain were electric, and held him like that for several seconds. He was only dimly aware of himself by then, of his surroundings.

The image of his body in the boat and the boat in the water somewhere between Long Island and the New York shore came to him. He felt like he was floating ten feet above himself. A hundred feet. A thousand.

But when the electric pain released him, the image flew away, and he crashed back into himself.

He was aware that he needed to finish what he'd started. He needed to shoot Jessie with the second pistol, the one he'd taken from Doctor White's pack. If he didn't, the activation order would still be executed. He needed to scramble the firmware.

But the guns were no longer in his hands, and his arms refused to obey his urgent pleas to find them. He was paralyzed.

The pain finally reached his eyes and blinded him. It was as if someone had taken a pair of knitting needles and heated them in a fire until they were nearly translucent, then pierced each eyeball with them.

He tried to close them, but he couldn't.

He tried to scream, but his body was no longer his own.

He tried—

He tried—

he tried

But he couldn't do a damn thing but stare up at the stars and watch them explode all at once.

 

FOR IMMEDIATE TRANSMISSION

FROM
: Qi Jacque Ma, Chairman and Founder, Abalila HG

TO
: Padraig Harrison, President, Arc Properties

DATE
: September 22, 2043

SUBJECT
: RE: Gameland   Long Island

Dear Mister Harrison;

I regret to inform you that we have determined that the codex and infrastructure owned by Arc Properties no longer has any intrinsic value, and so our board has voted to rescind its offer to acquire all assets. We demand that any moneys withdrawn from the escrow account funded by Abalila Holding Group be returned immediately.

(signed)

Qi Jacque Ma

Chairman and Founder

Abalila Holding Group, Xanghou, China

Larry Abrams glances up from the occupied stainless steel table before him and stares senselessly at Constipole for a moment. Neither man speaks. One waits for the other, while the other is still too numb to put thoughts to words. Finally, time seems to reassert itself as Abrams steps away from the draped body and gestures to a door labeled
MEDICAL EXAMINER'S OFFICE
.

After they step inside, Constipole carefully shuts the door behind them, blocking the former senator's view of the sterile room beyond. He takes a seat.

“We're getting our first casualty reports in, sir.”

Abrams doesn't respond. He just stares at the door, as if he might be able to see right through it if he just tried hard enough.

Constipole stretches his shoulders in a vain attempt to work some of the tension from them. It's been a long night, a rough night, and the stark light of the new day has only made what has become of New Merica that much more horrifying. “We can do this later if you want.”

“No!” Abrams snaps his gaze to the other man. He shakes his head once, quickly. “Let me hear it. I need to hear it.”

“The Southern States Air Force managed to deliver the pulse bombs to nearly the entire eastern seaboard. These coincided with the peak of the DR event. We also got units in the air in time to cover twenty-three of the thirty major metropolitan areas to the west.”

Abrams remains unimpressed. “Losses?” he asks. “Besides the codex, of course.”

“Twenty-six point eight. It's still a rough guess. We're extrapolating based on our early assessments, of course. At least they're numbers we can confirm. We're projecting somewhere in the vicinity of thirty million dead by the time the official count is done.” He lowers the computer tablet he's referencing and locks eyes with Abrams.

“Nearly thirty million souls lost in the past twelve hours.” The former senator rubs his face hard, and the rough calluses on his hands catch on the two-day-old bristles.

Constipole purses his lips, unsure if he should continue. Abrams is staring at the door again, clearly distracted by the body out there. Constipole can't blame him. “I just want you to know I'm terribly sorry, sir.”

Abrams's eyes glint gray, like lightning flashing on a stormy sea. “Don't be. It's for the best, I suppose.”

Constipole clears his throat uncomfortably. He hates to be the bearer of bad news, especially under the present circumstances. “Those whose implants were activated . . . .”

“What is it? Spit it out.”

“Sir, it seems that many of them turned.”

Abrams appears startled. “How?”

“Arc's new implants. They appear to have been spiked with virus, which was released by the activation.”

“Those god damn bastards.”

“We have new projections. The rates of infection increase geometrically. We're looking at just under ninety percent conversion within about six-months.”

“So, we've lost everything,” Abrams says. He stares at the door.

Finally, he glances at the large clock on the wall and stands up. His joints creak and he suddenly feels very old. “Well,” he says, surprising his aide. He gestures for him to accompany him back into the frigid room on the other side of the door. “I guess we better get this over with.”

They walk back out and their shoes squeak on the floor. There is so little color here, just the silver of the stainless steel equipment and the baby blue and white tiles, as well as the burgundy plastic sheet covering the body. This last can't help but draw the eye.

“I- I don't know, sir. Maybe you should let someone else—”

“Oh, don't be so squeamish.”

He pulls the sheet back, revealing the withered body of an old man on the table lying face down. His identity is obvious from the short-cropped hair and USMC tattoos on his burly arms.

Constipole's face turns a pale shade of green.

“He arrived yesterday,” Abrams says, “along with this.” He points to both the man's Link device and a computer tablet resting on the table.

“Sister Jane got out?”

The former senator nods.

“And the book?”

Abrams shakes his head.

He extracts a pair of latex gloves from a box, then tosses it over. “You can help me with the extraction.”

“Sir?”

“Of his implant.”

He inserts the tip of the scalpel into the very center of a tiny dimpled scar on the back of Ulysses Daniels's neck and deftly splits the skin. There is no bleeding. Whatever blood was present in the body has already been drained away.”

“Why are we—?”

“The key to reclaiming the codex, Constipole. It's inside this device.”

Constipole just stares. “W-what do you plan to do with it, sir?”

But Abrams doesn't answer right away. He reaches into the laceration with a forefinger and thumb and gently tweezes out the implant. He then snips the two wires as close to the skin as he can.

“I plan to destroy it,” he finally answers.

Constipole takes the delicate object from him and squints at it. After a moment, he places it into his pocket.