Wormwood

The suspicion deepened. “Oh yeah? What about?”

6

As morning peaked and fell toward afternoon, Rudy found himself sitting in front of the computer in his den, scanning the day’s headlines and finding them curiously lacking, as if someone had been busy deleting the day’s events before he had a chance to sit down.

After last night’s video he expected something jarring: cities in smoke and ruin, panic and martial law, photographs of dead, gray faces. The lead story, however, was preoccupied with a highly publicized double- homicide in San Francisco: a striking brunette by the name of Patricia Brooks accused of waiting in her BMW outside a trendy bistro, then running down her husband and his mistress in front of dozens of shocked onlookers.

The story didn’t mention either of the victims coming back from the dead to devour Mrs. Brooks, nor was there any mention of Wormwood in the next story: a utilities fraud investigation in Colorado.

Frowning, Rudy scrolled up and checked the time signatures on the headlines and was surprised to find they were almost two days old. He clicked Refresh and the same page appeared, right down to the decimal point in the day’s stock market numbers.

Of course they’re the same, he thought to himself, refreshing the page yet again. It’s a Saturday. The markets are closed. Yet he was willing to bet he wasn’t seeing Friday’s closing figures; the news site had simply stopped updating sometime after 1:47 on Thursday afternoon.

A sudden image popped into his head: a computer terminal splashed with blood, the operator dead and gone off in search of his coworkers; the news no longer important. The news evident to anyone with two good eyes and a window.

He tried another site and was rewarded with something a bit more current. Chicago was deep in the grip of the plague. There were also reports coming from Minneapolis, St. Louis, and Toronto.

Slowly but surely it was spreading westward, moving like a great black curtain across the continent, dividing the land of the living from the land of the dead.

There was a photo that had been intentionally blurred, pixilated into a mildly abstract pattern of blues and grays. A note beside the link to enlarge the photograph warned of explicit content.

Rudy found that his hand was trembling on the mouse. It took him three tries to enlarge the photograph.

A dead face gazed back at him through the new window, a face that, despite its decayed and mangled features, looked quite a bit like Frank Sinatra. The caption below the photo read: “Unidentified plague victim roams the streets of Philadelphia”.

What the caption failed to mention, however, but was perfectly obvious, was that most of the man’s guts, including a long rope of soiled intestine, were dragging on the smoky thoroughfare behind him, begging to be stepped on or run over by the next passing car.

Rudy stared at the former Mr. Sinatra (unidentified) for a long moment, a stark, icy horror settling over him like rigor mortis.

He closed the window but the face stayed with him, hovering just out of reach, photographed with digital clarity in the stark light of day, roaming the smoky streets of Philadelphia, making its way steadily westward.

Yellowseed. Wormwood.

It stood in the doorway behind him, dragging its burden down the hall.

This thing wearing Sinatra’s ruined face.

7

The plague made the national news again, though now the coverage was more distant, the footage taken from the air, out the sides of helicopters as they overflew badly-infected neighborhoods. Pieces of the United States were breaking away, crumbling to ruin in the lands east of the Mississippi, the disease spreading much faster now, faster than anyone anticipated. Smoke from burning cities rose in black plumes over the Atlantic, perfectly visible in satellite photographs. By night, the fires themselves were visible. The largest, in Mobile, roared over twenty square blocks. It looked like a vengeful star fallen to Earth.

The sights had a sobering effect on Rudy’s guests. Larry contended that the satellite shots were fakes, computer-generated and therefore prone to manipulation, but even he shut up when one of the helicopters overflew a military base in North Carolina. There was a small, incredibly desperate war going on along its perimeter, hundreds (or perhaps thousands) of the infected massing outside its tall gates, creating breaches to pour through and spark sudden flashpoints.

The men of Quail Street sat in the Cheng’s rec room, cans of soda or glasses of lemonade forgotten in their hands, and watched a company of infantrymen gun down scores of civilians before they were overrun and torn to pieces by the blood-frenzied mob. The cameraman, circling above this scene, began to break down into sobs, his lens zooming down, picking out gruesome details, trembling as he tried to lock on a small drama involving a wounded soldier trapped on top of a utility shed. Eventually the shed collapsed and the soldier disappeared, though his blood surfaced in places, like a blossom in the water above a shark attack.

When they’d seen enough, Rudy switched off the set.

“Good Christ Almighty,” Keith Sturling swore, rubbing his eyes as if the images wouldn’t go away. As if they were burned in with phosphor, glowing even in the dark. He was a lieutenant in the National Guard and the sight of a base collapsing like wet cardboard had shaken him badly.

Larry looked numb, shell-shocked, the ice in his lemonade melting against his palms.

Bud was gazing at the darkened television, as if he were still receiving a signal from North Carolina, or perhaps having trouble disconnecting himself from what was happening there.

Don Navaro, who Rudy hadn’t met until that day, took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. He reached for his lighter, realized he was in someone else’s house, then tucked the cigarette away.

“Go ahead and smoke;” Rudy told him, “at least unless no one else minds. My wife may have something to say about it later, but I’d rather that everyone was at ease here, focused on the problems we’ll likely be facing.” He paused, pacing from the bookcase to the fireplace. “I think what we just witnessed is on its way here. It may show up tomorrow, or next week, or perhaps a month from now, but it’s coming.”

“Bullshit,” Larry growled, setting down his glass as Don set fire to the tip of his Winston.

“Go ahead, Larry,” Rudy invited, giving him an encouraging gesture. “I didn’t call this meeting to ram my views down everyone’s throat. I want to hear what you have to say.”

“This is all just a hoax!” Larry asserted, rising to his feet. “It has to be! There is no plague!”

“We just got through watching a massacre on the fucking television,” Keith Sturling frowned. “How the hell can you stand there and say it’s a hoax?”

Larry turned, the high red marks blazing on his cheeks again. “How many people have you seen killed on television? You don’t believe they’re actually dead, do you?”

“This is the news were talking about, man; not the fucking movies!” Keith shot back, his voice rising. “Pull your head out of your ass!”

“It’s the same process!” Larry contended, shouting right back. “Just because Dan Rather reads it off a teleprompter doesn’t mean it’s the truth!”

Keith opened his mouth to return another salvo but Bud got up from his chair, stepping between them. “Let’s just discuss these things calmly now, shall we, and not forget we’re guests in this house.” He smoothed back a lock of iron-gray hair that had fallen over his brow. “I’m sure we’ll all get a chance to air our views. Now,” he exhaled, turning toward Larry, “let’s start with the basic assumption that what the news is showing us