The screaming of a human throat inside a monster’s body.
57
Monday, December 10
12:44 P.M.
United Nations, Manhattan
4 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Lyle stood by the window and watched the mob outside. Soldiers lined up along the perimeter, well back from the fence in case the crowd had weapons. General Blauwitz shouted over a megaphone, telling the crowd to disperse, but they chanted back and drowned him out, demanding food and water and justice.
“That one has both genders,” said Lyle, pointing to a screaming, naked body at the front of the crowd. It was furiously cold, but the person screamed and chanted along with the others, waving his/her body like a piece of damning evidence. Inside the building, lined up next to Lyle, a dozen other people turned their heads to see where he was pointing.
“I didn’t realize you made transsexual formulas,” said Lilly.
“We didn’t,” said Cynthia. “That’s someone halfway through transition.”
“Or permanently stuck in transition,” said Lyle. “Conflicting genomes constantly overwriting each other. The secondary sexual characteristics might even come and go over time.”
“Some of them look like zombies,” said Ira/Moore. “It can’t raise the dead … right?”
“They’re probably just sick,” said Lyle. “If there’s really not enough food in the city, their bodies can’t provide enough materials to feed the changes. They’ll end up with stunted growth, deformations—all the problems we associate with a lifetime of malnutrition, but condensed into four weeks.” He winced involuntarily, watching the gaunt, misshapen bodies stagger almost blindly in the background. Some of them were probably literally blind. It wasn’t this bad in the rest of the country, they knew that from the news, but it was still bad. Even with the military helping, there weren’t enough relief workers to get supplies where they needed to go. And there weren’t enough supplies anyway.
Chad walked into the room, pressing himself against the window for a long look outside before finally speaking. “Blauwitz and his men have barricaded the bottom floors. All the stairs are sealed at the third floor, and the elevators are locked. They’re blocking all the ground-floor windows, as well, but that’s just a stalling tactic. We can’t actually keep them out of the building.”
“And how soon do we leave?” demanded Cynthia.
“Choppers should be here within the hour,” said Chad. “Delegates in the first wave, then any other politicians, then women, then men. They can’t land anything big up there, so it’ll take at least four waves, maybe five, and you can’t take anything with you.”
“I don’t have anything anyway,” said Lilly.
“Where are they taking us?” asked Lyle, trying to keep a cheerful outlook. By the priority Chad had outlined, Lyle would be in the last chopper out—not a death sentence, by any means, but raising his chances significantly that something could go wrong.
“Virginia,” said Chad. “It’s the only seaport we still have significant control over, and the airport’s still ours, as well. We can get the delegates home—those that still have homes—and the rest of us will just … hunker down.” He paused. “We’ll wait.”
“Virginia is the safest place for it,” said Ira/Moore. “The military will be everywhere.”
“That’s where the president is?” asked Lilly, but Chad laughed drily.
“We haven’t had a president in weeks. There is substantial information that he’d been replaced.” Chad winced at a sudden realization. “Obviously that’s classified.”
“How about whoever turned up the evidence of his replacement?” asked Ira/Moore. “Is there any evidence that he’d been replaced?”
“That’s a long, dark spiral of second guesses you’re getting into,” said Chad. “The short answer is ‘we’re doing our best.’”
“The short answer does not inspire me with trust,” said Cynthia. She turned to Chad. “I want out in the first wave.”
“You’re in the third.”
“Then make me a delegate,” said Cynthia. “Lyle and I both—you can’t afford to lose us.”
“What do you have?” asked Chad. “You gave your information, and it was worthless. We’re no closer to a solution than we were before you came.”
“But we taught you how to make more,” said Cynthia. “We opened entire new avenues of possibility!”
“He did,” said Chad. “All you did was help us find him. Lyle will go in the first wave,” said Chad, “and you will follow—in the third wave.” He looked outside again. “The mob’ll be over the fence before the choppers even get here. This is going to get tense.” He turned and walked out the room, calling a final instruction over his shoulder. “Everyone’s gathering on the top floor. Show up late, and we leave without you.”
Cynthia glowered after him, with a look that could melt steel. “I’ll have his head,” she snarled. “The third wave—why doesn’t he just throw me to the wolves himself?”
“I’m in the third wave, too,” said Lilly.
“There’s not going to be a third wave,” said Cynthia. “They’ll evacuate the delegates, they’ll come back for the senator and the State Department, and they’ll leave the rest of us to rot.”
Lilly looked out the window; the mob was throwing rocks now. “Really?”
“We’re all getting out,” said Ira/Moore.
Cynthia sneered. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“We should give them our food,” said Lyle.
“What?” Everyone in the room looked confused, and Lyle wasn’t sure which one had asked it.
“The mob,” said Lyle, “we should give them everything we have. We’re leaving in an hour anyway, right?”
