The Others

The Others

A bright and beautiful morning it was. One of those rare days that makes you smile soon as you open your eyes. It was summer, but not the big sweaty middle of summer; it had just started so it was warm but nice. At 8:30 in the am most folks were off on their way to work walking willy-nilly all over the sidewalk with no rhyme nor reason.
         I sat in the middle of all this on my little step, trying my best to preach to the deaf; Young folks, they just don’t wanna listen no more. Across from where I sit is this big old clock, a horrible lookin’ digital type thing that looks a mighty lot like my grandsons alarm clock. I saw the clock change its numbers to 8:31 in the am and then this god almighty roar filled my ears. I thought it was the little baby Jesus come to get me, I did.
I knew it weren’t Jesus when I saw the big fire ball in the sky, for some reason I didn’t think Jesus would come to get me and set a fire while he was at it. The roar stopped and there were a few seconds of silence, the most horrible silence I ever heard. Screaming started not long after that, blood curdling screams from both men and ladies. Then there was the wailing of the emergency folk as they made their way to the fire.
         It weren’t ‘till later that I found out some silly folks had done blown themselves up, I couldn’t believe it!. What kind of decent folk would go and blow themselves up like that? Not very decent folk at all! There must have been a few of them, at least four I think I heard, because they took the whole building with them when they went.
         Hundreds of folk were injured and killed, the worst thing they had seen since those them attacks on America back in 2003. The government decided, fools that they are, to test out some new fan-dangled medicine on them, but it didn’t really work out so good.
         First everything seemed fine and all the papers were saying that the government were saviours and had done the right thing. Humph, soon as I read that I knew they had stuffed up worse than ever. You don’t get to be as old as me and not understand that things don’t ever change. A leopard don’t change it’s spots, it just ain’t possible.
         Two days after the big emergency things started to go to Hades in a hand-basket. The special medicine they gave to all those people turned around and bit them in the you-know-what, yes sir it did.
All the people they brought back to us, they were changed.  They weren’t really human no more, more like animals. They caused a whole mess of trouble, walking around biting and attacking people. The next day there were more of them. It seemed that the folk they bit got some kind of infection and changed.
         My grandson, he says they are zombies. I tell him that they ain’t no zombies, they are just sick folk, and if we pray really hard the baby Jesus might come down and fix all those poor souls.
Yes sir, that’s what I say.

****** ****** ******





Seven months previous:  Wednesday 8:31 am

         Two men stand inside a dimly lit room. White floor tiles reach half way up the walls where they meet a wash of grainy light green paint. The air in the little room is perfect and still, broken only by the regular beeping of carefully placed metal. Clear plastic tubes filled with green and yellow goo run from the beeping machines into a mass of motionless fur lying in the middle of a steel bench.
         Both observers stand perfectly straight, the product of a lifetime of posture control. The taller of the two men is dressed in green; the other in white. They stand staring at the fur on the table as if trying to decide if the thing is real or not. After a few seconds of silence the tall man runs a rugged hand through a head of silver hair. Replacing his hat he turns towards his companion, forehead creased, the product of a lifetime of worry..
         “How long has it been for this one then Jacobs?” he asks,
“Oh, almost three days now Sir, the longest we have tried so far. The resurrection display starts in an hour or so, you’ll be able to see the results then. I am sure there will be no problems, the last one was down for two and half and she was fine.” Jacobs answers, self satisfaction in his voice,
“So, how long then?  I mean until we can use it on humans?”
“A year, maybe more. I am confident we could use it now with no complications, we have improved the ‘Jesus Juice’ immensely.”
“Did you say ‘Jesus Juice’?”
“Yes, that’s what we call it around here sir. The addition of oxygenated nano-bubbles combined with the electro pulse  nervous nano-particles has made the solution much more stable and promises to have a greater life expectancy. We have also started adding self-reproducing elements to both so if something unforseen should happen the subject should still pull through.
         “It’s just they make you jump through so many hoops! We have tested on six primates already and each came through with flying colours, now they say we must test on another five just to make sure. They aren’t as understanding as you are Sir. They don’t know how many lives this will save, they don’t understand the possibilities at hand.”
The taller man takes his hat off once again to run his fingers through his hair. “Jacobs, leave it to me. I think I can help you out. You’re right, they don’t understand how many lives this will save, if we ever have to send men to war again it will ensure our count doesn’t leave double digits. We will just let them see for themselves, this is too important right now. Leave it to me.” he says as he replaces his hat, “It must feel good Jacob’s” he says, suddenly staring at his companion, “What must Sir?”
“It must feel good to play God, to be able to save people who otherwise wouldn’t have a chance.” The tall man in green answers, a smile on his face,
“Ask me again when we save our first human, so far I am only experimenting on animals.” Jacobs answers, mimicking his boss’s smile.
         The two men stand and look at the fur again, then leave the room to its perfect air and rhythmic breathing.

****** ****** ******

Seven days later: Wednesday, 8:31 am

“Sonny, have you heard the word of God?” The old woman asks as she sits next to a handsome looking young man in a mediocre suite. The old woman, Florence Trassle or Mrs Trassle as most people call her, has been visiting this bus stop every day for the last fifteen years. She is eighty five years old but doesn’t look a day over sixty two and everyone who has ever caught a bus from this stop has likely met her at some time or another.
         “Pardon?” the handsome young man asks lifting his blue eyes from his paper and gazing at the old woman, “I said have you heard the word of god? ‘Cause if you aint heard the word of god I am more willing to share it with you sonny,” she replies, shooing a fly away with one aged but refined hand. “No, I have heard the word thank you.” He replies courteously, then looks back down at his paper as Mrs Trassle turns to survey the waiting group.
         . She turns from the group and struggles to stand then makes her way back down the street, muttering to herself, “There is something strange about them there folk, something mighty strange indeed. I just can’t right put my finger on it, no sir I can’t.”
         As the bus pulls up and the hydraulics hiss the waiting passengers merge into one ordered line. Florence looks back at them and notices that of all the passengers four look remarkably similar without looking similar at all. Amongst the slouching workers ready for home four stand straight and ridged, “Something mighty strange indeed.” She mutters again as she continues down the street.
         The good looking man climbs the bus steps first, taking the seat behind the driver. Looking out the window he can see the reflection of the other passengers walking past overlapping the vision of the dismal little bus stop in all its glass and metal glory. He notices at the very top of the backing glass someone has scrawled in black pen “You’re a martyr and a lamb of god”. The bus moves and the scenes change, the line running over and over again through his head. Only three others see the message at the bus stop, only three others understand what it means.

****** ****** ******

         

Seven days later: Wednesday, 8:25 am

         The road is lined with commuters on their way to various locations around the city. A big blue sky, unmarked by a single white cloud, stretches above their heads as the sun lazily warms the air with its invisible rays. McDonalds is open and is doing great business supplying breakfast and coffee to those in too much of a hurry to eat at home. The smell of eggs, bacon and coffee waft along the street attempting to seduce more hungry travellers from their rightful paths while suited men and women poor in and out of the newsagents, each coming out with the morning paper – “Jesus Juice on trial!” blazing across the front in bold black letters
         Morning sounds dance in the air – bus doors hissing open, taxi doors slamming shut, important chatter on mobile phones and polyphonic ring tones. There are four men; each dressed in the normal business attire. They follow one another into one of the smaller buildings, each taking a turn saying hello to the security guards and then splitting apart heading in separate directions. They are greeted by their co-workers and they smile politely back, wave and grin. Can’t stop for chit-chat, important business to attend to – their confident stride spells it out without the use of words.


8:30am
         Sweat beads form on his forehead as he again checks his watch. He is hiding in the executive toilets, door locked against any intrusion. For seven months he has worked in this office and he has come to know many of the people who surround his desk every day. A tinge of remorse displays itself in a nervous tic under his left eye. He removes a long plastic item from his pocket and takes one last look at his surroundings. Never did he think he would die in a light green and white tiled bathroom and just for a second he is glad that his body won’t ever be found. He looks at his watch again, 8:30 and 49 seconds.
         The time ticks down both fast and slow at the same time, taking an eternity in an instant.
10….His daughters first mumbling of daddy
9 …. His son’s first steps
8 …. He hopes his wife will understand
7 …. Her beautiful face peers at him from behind a veil
6 …. Their first Christmas all together
5 …. He is doing the right thing
4 …. His family will be alright now
3 …. He is doing his job
2 …. This is it
1
Push.                                                                                              Oblivion.



8:32 am

         The sound has stopped. That roaring, crumbling sound as everything falls away. Instead there is silence – the big calm. Flames flicker and crackle. Never has ten seconds seemed so long before, an eternity of nothing but quiet crackling. The horrible silence is broken by one long and loud scream which builds as more voices join in – the choir of hell. Three hundred people scream as one for five seconds before the panic starts to take hold. Most people run away as if running means it never happened. Others try and help but when they get there they know suddenly they are not prepared. Hell has broken through the crust of the earth, what other explanation can there be?
         One man thinks to himself “Is it an earth quake? Did it just collapse?” It’s about this time that the crying starts from under the rubble. Even though it was a small building, four floors at most, two hundred people worked in there. The people who were walking outside have all disappeared and the blast blew all the windows out on the entire street; glass rained down from the heavens, sharp tears.
Some of the people who turned at the noise saw a fireball fly high in the air; they later described it as almost like a second sun. The screams of the trapped and the dazed are now over powered by the wailing of the emergency vehicles; another layer of noise adding to the surrealness of it all. The people who are standing away from the blast zone turn like startled bunnies as the sirens scream past “Something is going on, “ and old man says to his wife as they turn back to towards the open shop doors.


****** ****** ******

Seven days later: Wednesday,  8:31 am
         From a distance it just looks like a woman, a lost and lonely woman looking for someone in a deserted city street. Her blonde hair shines in the sun as she wanders down the middle of the bitumen, stopping now and then to look around. She only has one shoe, one black office acceptable shoe that matches her black office acceptable blouse, but other than that she looks normal, fine.
         At closer inspection there is something a little strange about her though, she doesn’t stop to look, but stops to sniff the air. Red lipstick is smeared from her lips onto the surrounding skin, mascara drips running down her cheeks making her look more like a Goth in drag than an office worker.
         She stops again and sniffs the air. Her head snaps to the right as something catches her attention; there is movement beside the building across from her. She lets out a growl and turns her whole body in the direction of the offender. Another growl, a little louder than before, escapes from between clenched teeth and is echoed, deeper and louder, from a man wearing a dishevelled suit.
         They stare at each other; feet shoulder width apart and hands splayed by their sides. It’s a parody of a Mexican stand off, a modernised western of sorts. The growling gets louder as they run at each other, arms in front of them and fingers clawed. If it were a scene from a cartoon the two figures would be replaced by a scribbled cloud surrounded by lines to indicate movement.
         Clawing and biting ensues until one, the woman, howls in pain and runs away grabbing her arm. The man stands still watching her flee. He walks down the middle of the street, stopping now and then to sniff the air, until he is out of sight. Half an hour later he reappears, repeating his previous behaviour. He is on a loop, a spectre sentenced to a life time of repetition. From high above blue eyes watch his every move, fascinated and horrified from the other side of a glass divider. The dishevelled man doesn’t know the eyes watch him and continues on his way. When he turns the corner again the owner of the eyes hears his growls again; he has a fair idea of what’s going on.

         Seven months later the dishevelled man remembers nothing of his repetition as he sits behind his desk again, moving pieces of paper from one tray to another. High above an artificial eye looks down on his every move.