The Killing Floor

other.

Travis believes it may be inevitable. One day, the Infected will migrate out of the cities. They will discover this complex. The electrified fence will not stop them. Human security systems provide deterrence based on an assumption of interest in self-preservation. The carriers of Wildfire do not understand that concept. Only the Wildfire Agent itself does, and it is all too happy—another homocentrism, as it does not feel anything—to sacrifice any of its hosts, like pawns, to win its never-ending game of dominance and survival.

The question is whether Wildfire has Mind. Is it intelligent, or just blind programming? Another thought that keeps him up at night.

The public address system bleats a muffled message about the cafeteria being open to second shift. The noise startles him, making him forget his fears and focus again on following the woman. A different cheerful automated voice announces the monorail is approaching the station.

The woman walks away from the crowd, stepping onto the track platform and turning so he can see her face. Just as he remembered, she is a stunning creature, tall and frail and beautiful.

Travis pauses, feeling breathless, wondering what he is going to say. How does one apologize for what happened to her? Perhaps that is all he should say: Forgive me.

She stares straight at him, mouthing words he cannot hear but his brain translates as, Save me. Travis watches in horror as the monorail approaches. She spreads her arms as the train’s lights bathe her in white glare, swooning exactly as he remembered her standing in the door of the helicopter, just before the Secret Service agent shoved her into the crowd.

A scream catches in Travis’s throat.

The train passes through the woman, who disappears as if she were a ghost.

¦

The bulletin board is plastered with orange public notices advising the denizens of the Special Facility on everything from dormitory schedules to daycare options to personal hygiene to general propaganda.

Travis scans the notices hungrily, searching for psychiatric help.

He has a choice. The Special Facility offers individual counseling for claustrophobia and depression as well as group grief counseling. He writes down the exchange number for both, hedging his bets. It doesn’t matter whether claustrophobia or loneliness or survivor’s guilt is driving him mad; he is seeing ghosts. He needs as much help as he can get.

This task done, he hurries off to work. He is not afraid of being late, as nobody cares about his hours. The fact is he spends far more time at work than he does in his overcrowded dormitory. Work takes his mind off things, steadies him.

His office building is set up like a Russian nesting doll, with various levels of workers authorized access to certain floors or zones. As an assistant director with the Office of Science and Technology Policy, Travis is Level Seven, enjoying broad access to both his office building and a special Biosafety Level 4 laboratory in another building buried farther west.

That’s where the scientists keep the specimens and experiment on them in ways that would make the Nazis blush. Travis has to remind himself the Infected are not people anymore. In any case, it’s the end of the world. If ever was a time when the ends justified the means, he reasons, this would be it. Recently, the scientists received a shipment of bodies of strange monsters for autopsy, sending rumors buzzing throughout Area B. Travis, of course, knows about these strange creatures that recently started to appear, as he now specializes in studying them. He has seen photos of the bodies, shaky video from the field. He has read countless reports, most of which sounded like folklore. He personally has not yet seen one of the creatures. Perhaps today he will take the time to enter the Lab and view the bodies up close. It is difficult to believe they are real. In the photos, they look like Photoshopped monsters from an Internet hoax. It feels like he is studying the Loch Ness Monster. Looking for a cure to Bigfoot.

In particular, he hopes one day they can catch the big monster commonly called the Screamer, King Monster, Rex, Godzilla, Demon. This rare and powerful beast shows up frequently in reports but has rarely been seen and as far as he knows has never been killed or captured. He believes the Demon has some sort of special role in the monsters’ ecosystem, but he does not know what it is. Many of the monsters appear to be sickly and struggling to survive. They eat constantly but exhibit signs of starvation. Entire species born just days ago seem to be dying out already. The survivors are adapting, however. Growing stronger. The Demon is one of these survivors. Another fact that keeps Travis up at night.

He runs his ID card through another access control, glaring at the door as it pauses for the usual three seconds before opening with a loud beep, as if reminding him that it alone decides whether he is allowed to enter. He remembers when he used to consider this kind of thing exciting. Just a few weeks ago, he craved access. Now each entry feels like walking deeper into a prison.

The ID card reads, THE PERSON DESCRIBED ON THIS CARD HAS ESSENTIAL EMERGENCY DUTIES WITH THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT.

The officials constituting what is left of the Office of Science and Technology Policy work in tiny offices ringing a room where a clerical pool works a reception desk around the clock. This is where Travis Price, PhD, an atomic scientist specializing in nonproliferation, came to study monsters. Scientific and policy journals and texts fill shelving against one of the walls. A soldier, helmetless in bulky black body armor, sits on the edge of the desk, flirting with the secretaries. Travis blinks at this uncommon sight, but has no energy for questions.

The soldier stares at him with cold gray eyes and says, “You don’t remember me, do you, Doc?”

The woman fought the Secret Service agent, only to be tossed like a doll at the desperate crowd screaming into the powerful wash of the rotors. Sitting on the helicopter sobbing into his hands, Travis looked up and met Fielding’s glare with his own.

That’s right, I did it, he thought. And I’d do it again. I’m alive.

Fielding nodded slightly as Travis turned away to regard the city they were abandoning. Without its government, Washington seemed drained of its power, an empty shell.

There is no right or wrong anymore, he thought. There is only living and dead.

The flashback dissipates, leaving Travis feeling exhausted.

“Fielding,” he says. “You’re Fielding. So you’re a soldier now?”

“Something like that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Most of the Secret Service was lost during the evacuation. The President, the Cabinet, the Supreme Court, the Congress; everyone wants a security detail. I’m ex-military. I was recruited.”

“So the government has a paramilitary organization now.”

“We’re more like the Praetorian Guard, Doc.”

The secretaries pointedly ignore the exchange, sensing the tension between the men. Travis hears one of them typing randomly.

“Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” he wonders aloud. Who will guard us from the guards?

Fielding laughs. “Who indeed?”

Travis is already tired of the sparring. A few weeks ago, he would have been terrified of a man like Fielding, and in fact was at their first meeting. Now Travis has real problems that make Fielding seem like small fish.

“So why are you here?”

“I’m here for you.”

“Let’s go into my office, then. Do you want some coffee?”

Fielding gets off the desk and stands erect, an imposing figure. “No time, Doc,” he says. “Do you still have your suit? The one you wore the day you came here?”

The suit is neatly folded in Travis’s locker. It still smells like fear.

“What’s this about?”

“Doc,” Fielding says, grinning, “you’re going to meet the President of the United States.”

¦

Travis remembers the first time he entered the White House. He tingled as he presented his credentials. A young, attractive aide led him to where he would be working. He glanced into private offices as he followed the