Live, From the End of the World Read online

  * * *

  My greasy photographer forces our cab to stop twice on the way uptown. The first is for a Happy Meal. The second is so he can unload a stomach full of fake meat onto the feet of school children making their way to class. The dark yellow of his vomit mixes quickly with the ash-grey snow.

  Our immigrant cabby watches the gallon of my shutterbug’s gut juice gloss the sidewalk. “Should get to hospital?”

  I say, “No. Keep going. We have to get to the office.”

  The cabby turns away from Declan and stares at me.

  I lean forward and crouch close to the Plexiglas that separated the front seat from the back. “We are fuckin journalists, and you had better get us to the fuckin newsroom.”

  Declan catches his breath.

  I snatch him up by the collar and haul him back into the cab. I bang the back of the driver’s seat.

  We shoot off.

  Declan’s pale. Flecks of puke cling to his lips. His eyes spin as the cab screeches uptown.

  I say to him, “Get yourself together, man. We have to see Schaffer and explain ourselves. I won’t let you fuck this up. Doctor later. Boss ripping us new assholes now. You need to tell the boss and everyone else what kind of danger you were in. You need to tell em Schneer attacked you. I am not going back to the bottom of the shit pile, you hear me?”

  I let go of Declan.

  He slumps to the cab’s crap-encrusted floor.

  I rub my temples. “We’re almost there. Just be cool.”

  Chapter 8:

  There Will Be Blood

  Schaffer says, “You can’t write this story.”

  My heart sinks. It’s a journalist’s nightmare.

  Schaffer eyeballs me from behind his desk. His fingers wrap around a cigar like tentacles. He has whiskey on his breath.

  He hefts an ashtray and hurls it at my face. I catch it.

  A heartbeat later he starts screaming. Mostly incoherent variations of how and why I should be assfucked with rusty razor blades.

  I can’t tell if he’s pissed about Schneer or not hitting me. Either is a possibility.

  He shouts. “You became the fuckin story. You can’t write it now.”

  Declan’s head bobs up and down a little. Like he’s nodding. He pats his stomach. He looks at me with what starts as a grin, but then slithers into a pained scowl.

  I drop the ashtray and light an American Spirit. “Listen, we can still do this.” I exhale. “I recorded everything with my datapad, and those photos—”

  “The interview doesn’t prove anything except that he was nuts. We already fuckin knew that he was nuts. The photos are a different story. They back you up. We’ll buy those, but you can’t write this.” Schaffer’s livid. Smoking. “Are you understanding me or are you mentally deficient? You’ve compromised, beyond any doubt, your ability to write a straight piece... And what the fuck is his problem?” My boss stands and flaps his hands at Declan.

  Declan sits back in the chair slack-jawed. He hasn’t said a word since I’d dragged him upstairs. He just watches Schaffer and rubs his wound weakly.

  Spittle flies from the editor’s mouth. “Is he fuckin stoned?”

  I purse my lips. Think for a second. “No, no. He’s been weird like that since Schneer bit him. But, uh, listen, I have an idea. What if... What if I wrote a companion piece to a main article that someone else helms? A column. Something in first person so I can ‘recount the events.’” I make rabbit ears in the air. “That way, we can get away with my being involved. ‘How I survived cannibal attack.’ Something like that. With the audio online and the photos I took, hey, y’know, nobody else is gonna have that.”

  I am not getting fired. I am not going back to being some over-worked grunt reporter covering floral shows in fuckin Queens.

  The boss sits down. Mulls it over. He snaps forward. Gnaws on his cigar. “All right, here’s the deal: You get a grand for all the photos. We choose the ones we want and we have exclusive first-print rights. They’re all gonna end up with the defense team anyway, but we’ll throw you some scratch too. We can use em as we like both online and in print. Consider yourself thrilled. We’ll be making public evidence of your innocence before the trial.”

  Fuck. A grand? Only a grand?

  Schaffer says, “And you write the column. But it’s only a sidebar to the real story. You give, let’s see, Anthony—you give Anthony all your info. You do not get a byline for the big story. I’ll give you a grand for the column.”

  He likes to barter. What are my options?

  I say, “I want two grand for the photos, with credit, and fifteen hundred for the column. Someone else would pay that. A cable network, maybe, that could run those shots and my story for hours on end.” I twist the American Spirit in my fingers.

  “You cunty little parasite. We paid for your release.” He taps his desk. “Eleven for the photos, no credit, same price for the column.”

  “The company paid, not you.” This guy is not my friend. “Thirteen for the photos, with credit.”

  By the time I realize I’ve accidentally accepted his terms for the column by not arguing em, the boss pounds his desk and raises a bottle of Jameson. “Done.”

  At least I get photo credit.

  Schaffer pours three fingers of whiskey into a tumbler. He drains it.

  I take a drag off my American Spirit.

  He leans toward me and motions to Declan. “There are a bunch of CDC nerds on the third floor, for the network, because of the roach thing. They’re here for airtime. Get that fuckin trauma case to one of them. You two are on lockdown. I don’t want you talking to anyone outside.” He hands my Asimov to an assistant who appears out of goddamn nowhere and scurries off with my datapad, presumably to give it to someone in legal. “Don’t even leave the building. Find someone who understands basic first aid and patch Declan up. You can get him to a hospital later.”

  What a guy.

  What a business.

  I tighten my fist. “I don’t babysit.”

  Schaffer hurls his glass at me and this time I do not catch the missile. He nails me in the brow. It begins to swell immediately. Which does nothing for my headache. Whiskey-smeared ice slides down my jacket and melts into my jeans.

  He snarls. “Do it.”

  I drop my cigarette on the boss’ carpet. “I’ll just leave my bag here.” I haul Declan up by the shoulder. “Come on you big load.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Declan says. “I’m... Whatever.”

  * * *

  The company’s third floor, the aforementioned network floor, where the talking head cable pricks live, can best be described as a hi-tech egg carton. There are tons of studios here. Each one soundproofed. Self-contained. And ready for broadcast or streaming online. They’re equipped with everything needed. Everything wanted.

  For convenience and equipment transport, each has a door that leads to an adjacent studio.

  Sadly, convenience isn’t on my menu. It’s busy as a bastard on Father’s Day here. There’s Schneer-news and the bug attack news to deal with in addition to everything else happening in the world. CDC folks in white lab coats are hurried from studio to studio by production assistants and interns.

  No time for talk. News is a business.

  Bad is good. Good is bad.

  It’s a jumble of harried humans. I guide Declan to help the same way an impatient father guides an idiot six-year-old through the mall for toys: Dragging him at arm’s length and hoping for the best. The main problem is Declan’s dripping wound.

  The rotten thing is pretty fuckin noticeable.

  Thirty feet in, there’s a CDC spokesman who claims to have no knowledge whatsoever about the workings of the human body. At fifty feet and one left turn is a young female doctor who, while she may have perked Declan up on a regular day, says she can’t possibly
inspect the shutterbug’s wound. She has to get ready for airtime. One hundred feet in is another female doctor in her late seventies who wouldn’t have perked anyone up under any circumstances. But she at least points us toward her protégé, Sean O’Bannon, in studio twelve.

  Declan burps. “Ye... Yeah, fantas... Fanzdk... Uh, All right.” Declan licks his lips. Smiles at the elderly doctor. “You, you’re delishous.” The bandage on his arm is soaked completely through. It’s spongy and dark maroon. I shrug him off to avoid getting anything on me.

  I salute the doctor. “Duty calls.”

  We get to studio twelve just as a young, sandy-haired white kid walks out the door. He’s wiping his glasses on his tie. Trying to collect himself.

  “You!” I shout. “Science man. I require you.”

  The young scientist jumps. “Sure, what’s—” He looks at Declan’s arm. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh. Oh-Bannon? Old lady lab coat back at studio seven says you can give him the once over. He was bitten by a crazed psychopath. Probably contagious. Likely infected.”

  The young scientist looks hesitant.

  I reassure him. “It’s okay. I’m a journalist.”

  “Yeah. I mean, I guess. I can’t really do anything here.” O’Bannon stares at Declan. “At least, not unless this building has some kind of medical bay and the equipment to go with it.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “If by ‘medical bay’ you mean ‘an empty studio’ and by ‘equipment’ you mean ‘whatever you can get your hands on,’ then yes.”

  Sean sighs. Rubs his glasses with his tie. He reaches out and gently probes Declan’s arm. I hear a squish, but Declan doesn’t wince. Sean’s fingers come back red. He brushes em against his sports coat then scrubs his hands with an antiseptic wipe.

  I’m disappointed that this scientist doesn’t have a white lab coat. The contrast of dirty, diseased red on fresh white would make a superb photo.

  Sean says, “Which studios would be empty right now?”

  “Uh.” I look around to see which studios don’t have people rushing through em. “Nineteen and twenty it looks like...I think. Far end of the floor. Doesn’t look like anyone’s over there.”

  “I’ll meet you in nineteen, then.” Sean pauses. “I need to round up some supplies, but I’ll be there in a few.” He glances at Declan. “Just lay him down on something soft and I’ll give him a look.”

  I nod to Sean. Pull Declan toward the empty set.

  Declan hollers. “What’s yer problem, man?”

  “You, douchejuice.” I open the door to nineteen and maneuver him onto a guest couch. The couch sits opposite the control booth and the cameras.

  Declan reclines without complaint and sets upon scratching at his aged bandage. “Look, I’m fine.”

  Since we got out of police custody, he’s developed this annoying habit of shifting between fully conscious asshole and semi-conscious moron. He keeps picking the bite.

  I say, “No, you’re not fine.”

  “I just need some, whatzit, penicillin or something.”

  “I can’t even deal with how stupid you are. Just wait until the doc gets back. He’ll have a look at you, and he’ll tell you if you’re ‘fine’ or not.”

  After twenty minutes of awkward silence and four cigarettes, Sean slips into the studio with us. He says, “Sorry.” Closes the door quietly. “I really wanted gloves.” He waves several latex pairs in the air. “For obvious reasons.” He has with him a small, overstuffed messenger bag.

  I ash my American Spirit. “Yeah, I don’t blame you.”

  Sean plops his bag down onto the studio desk. Stretches the gloves over his hands and sprays em with a brown liquid I assume is iodine. He rubs his fingers over one another. “It’s just to sterilize,” he says for no discernible reason as he glances at me and plucks a pair of scissors from his bag.

  They’re rusted slightly on one side. I didn’t really give a shit, but—

  I say, “Those are rusted.”

  “I know. Not much of a choice,” Sean says. He regards the scissors with disdain. “A secretary had them. Look, this is bizarre enough as it is. I’m not even really a doctor. I’m a biologist. Well, biology graduate student. I am taking a few med courses though.”

  I shrug.

  Sean says, “Yeah, I’m just kind of making this up as I go along... Now...” He glides the lower jaw of the scissors under Declan’s bandage. Cuts the gauze. Pushes bits of fabric away as he does so. The top layers stew with blood and sound like squishy Jell-O.

  The young scientist holds the bandage with one hand underneath and yanks it away when he finishes cutting. He drops the mass of congealed goo on the floor and recoils. “Gah! Jeez!” He swivels on his knees and turns away from Declan. “That smell.”

  I peer through cigarette smoke.

  Sean coughs at the floor.

  Declan looks down at the horror on his arm. He grunts. “Ugh. That’s not so good.”

  It stinks like rot.

  The Schneer bite is a crater of necrotic flesh. Arteries pulse at its center. They spit blood up and paint the couch. Farther out from the center of the wound, a layer of globular fat ripples with the diseased discharge. Along the rim of skin is a pale, pus-ridden wheel.

  It bubbles.

  It moves.

  Sean’s glasses tumble from his head. He snaps his gloves off and throws em in the trash. He picks his lenses back up and rubs em on his tie. Sean gasps without turning back to Declan. “That looks literally like a worst-case-scenario infection. Like a syphilitic lesion ignored for far too long and torn open and chewed on by chewing things. Maybe with gangrene thrown in for good measure. Holy shit.”

  I wander over and lean closer to Declan and bite the end of my cigarette. “Syphilis... Declan, did you fuck something you weren’t supposed to?”

  I long ago resigned myself to the fact that it is not the stars that mankind wants so desperately to see. It isn’t alien vistas on far-flung worlds that we seek. No. Humanity is on an endless journey to find new things to have sex with.

  Sean tugs at my jacket. “Hey, I just said it looks like it. But it can’t be. When did this happen? And don’t bullshit me.”

  Declan groans. “...Starving.”

  I say, “Yesterday.” I go over it in my head. Explain quickly, and in the most self-aggrandizing, innocence-proclaiming way, what had happened with Schneer. I leave out the whole murder-with-an-axe thing. Need-to-know basis, you understand. “The Bellevue docs thought Schneer might have some mutant strain of neurosyphilis. Or something.”

  Sean considers it for a second. “The average time for signs of syphilis to crop up is around three weeks, not twenty-four hours. And neurosyphilis usually takes hold of people who’ve had untreated syphilis for years.”

  Declan slips back into semi-conscious gibberish.

  “Okay.” Sean claps his thighs in exasperation. “Where is this guy, this Schneer? If I can get a look at him, we have a chance of knowing just what this is. It’s critically important, if this is infectious, which I think it very well might be, that we find patient zero. The original carrier.”

  I think back to the axe and the geyser of brain matter. I say, “He’s kinda dead. My fault.” Shrug.

  Anger flashes across Sean’s face. He wrinkles his nose. Then he frowns. “Listen, I have to get Beth—the older woman who told you to find me. She’ll know what to do.” He heads for the door.

  “Man, be hush-hush about it.”

  Sean shouts over his shoulder: “Don’t touch him.”

  I wouldn’t dream of it.

  * * *

  Declan snaps back into his energetic state when Beth and Sean enter. “You, the deelizhyus one!” he proclaims as Beth approaches.

  “Don’t get wet over him,” I tell the doc.

  She sneers at me and hunches ove
r Declan. The smell doesn’t seem to bother Beth. She reaches for Sean’s bag on the studio desk.

  The big television camera behind me starts to move. Scares the piss outta me.

  Sean’s playing with it. Panning it around. “I always wanted to work in the media when I was a kid.”

  “Fuck, why? It turns your brain into kitty litter.”

  Sean manages to turn the camera on. We can see Beth poke and prod Declan through the viewfinder.

  I drop my cynicism. “Ooh, neat.”

  We zoom in on Beth’s gloved hands. Then zoom out to see the full scene. Beth claims a set of over-sized tweezers from the makeshift medical bag. Then a bottle of that brown disinfectant. Some rubbing alcohol. A straight-edge razor. Some cotton balls.

  Declan sways between idiot and asshole as Beth works him over. She lifts up flaps of skin with the tweezers and uses puffed cotton balls to daub layers of flesh that are still erupting fluid.

  We zoom in on her face.

  She says to Declan, “Does any of this hurt?”

  We zoom out again.

  She reaches under his chin to check his heart rate.

  Declan goes sane for a second. “Not a bit.”

  Beth slices away two chunks of his skin with the razor. The first is from the pus-packed edges of the wound. The second piece she cuts from uninfected flesh. She digs into Sean’s bag and rolls her eyes. She holds up a roll of Saran Wrap. “Really, Sean?”

  Sean says nothing.

  Beth turns a few lengths of Saran Wrap into makeshift baggies. She places each skin sample in its own homemade plastic enclosure, which she tightly winds with more Wrap. After sealing em as best she can, Beth drops em into the bag. She leaves Declan’s side. Walks out of frame toward us.

  She slips her gloves off. “It looks like gangrene. Necrotic. Or...I don’t know...from the way he’s acting...It also looks parasitic. Like it’s just eating him up.” She looks to me. “You told Sean that this started yesterday?”