Extreme Makeover

  “You heard it, too,” said Alan.

  “It’s a banshee,” Brendan spat. “Death is here for someone.”

  Alan shook his head. “You know that’s just old stories.”

  “And you know they’re true.”

  Alan didn’t answer. Brendan had always been superstitious, leaving shamrocks on the door frames and leaves of ivy soaked in water. Alan didn’t have time for it, with the farm failing and the family nearly bankrupt. He peered into the night. “Did you hear where it came from?”

  “North,” said Brendan, pointing, “by the barns.”

  “Someone’s rustling the animals.”

  “Or being trampled by them.” Brendan started walking, not north but northeast, and Alan hurried to catch up.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The barns.”

  Alan scowled. “The barn is that way. You’re headed straight for the irrigation ditch.”

  “Aye. And there’ll be water in it,” said Brendan. “Crossing running water wards off evil spirits.”

  “You’re a damn fool,” said Alan, but the scream sounded again, long and wailing this time, and Alan shivered despite his heavy coat. He could hear it better now, and it was different than he’d thought it was; stranger and darker. It wasn’t the cry of someone hurt or dying, and the silence between each scream meant it wasn’t desperation. Someone was screaming, a woman, he thought, loud and terrible and for no reason he could think of. Sadness, maybe, or fear. A loss of hope, or a lament for death.

  Maybe it was a banshee.

  “Across the canal, then,” said Alan, turning on his flashlight, “but hurry. I don’t want Cassie to hear it.” If you didn’t hear the banshee, then it wasn’t your death that made her cry.

  They crossed the yard and passed through the gate, latching it tight behind them, then trudged through the mud and snow across the field to the ditch. A pair of footprints had already come and gone this way, bouncing in and out of the beam of Alan’s flashlight.

  “These are yours?” asked Alan.

  “Aye,” said Brendan, “when I opened the gates for the water.”

  That eased Alan’s mind, but only some. The darkness screamed again when Alan was halfway across the walk that spanned the ditch, and he gripped the rails for support. The flashlight slipped from his hand and disappeared into water with a gulp; the light diffused through the liquid like a ghost, then guttered and died.

  “The second barn,” said Brendan. “By the pigs.”

  “We should never have crossed the ditch,” said Alan. “It doesn’t do any good to keep the spirits from following, if we’re walking right toward one.”

  “Maybe there were more,” said Brendan.

  “And maybe we’ve wasted time and lost a light just to approach the barns from the back side.”

  They crept forward, ears pricked up for any sound in the darkness. The pigs were squealing now, riled by something, and Alan heard the creaks and thuds as they butted against the boards of their enclosure.

  “They’ll be trampling each other soon,” said Brendan.

  “Then we hurry,” said Alan, and walked more quickly around the side of the barn. Someone in the barn screamed, unformed and inarticulate, and pigs squealed and stamped and bit, and Alan ran the last few steps to the door and flung it open. The pigpen roiled in the darkness, fat shadows running and tumbling and fleeing madly from everything and nothing. Alan clicked the light switch, and the bulbs above exploded with a blinding flash and ear-bursting pop. Sparks showered down, and Alan’s eyes were seared with a single frame of vision: hairy pink shapes and blood-streaked snouts and wide white eyes.

  “The light!” Alan cried. “There’s someone in there, find the light!” Brendan pushed past him through the door and fumbled on the workbench for another flashlight. He found it, and swept the light across the pen: pig after pig, snouts and hooves and tails. The scream came again, mingling with the squeals and filling the barn like a wraith. Alan ran to the edge of the fence but he didn’t climb in, didn’t dare wade through that field of gnashing, trampling flesh. The battered planks shook beneath his hands. The screams came faster now, formless and terrified and horribly, painfully human amid the bawling of the pigs, and all Alan could think was It knows we’re here, and it was all he could do not to turn around and run. The narrow light darted back and forth, across the chaos, searching for the screamer, and when it passed across a human face Alan cried aloud and staggered back. It shone in his mind like the afterimage of a flash, bright white in the light beam, eyes wide with terror, mouth open and screaming, nose flat and thick and brutish. A snout.

  Brendan swore and crossed himself, and brought the light back slowly, almost unwillingly, to shine again on the screaming face. It was a human, yet not a human; it was a pig, yet not completely. Wide and misshapen, sitting up on haunches a pig would never have, wires of black hair bristling up above a face both human and pig and profoundly neither. One pig ear flopped on the left, while a curled human ear pressed against the other side like a squashed pink cabbage. Its mouth held human teeth and porcine tusks; its snout dripped strings of mucus; blue eyes peered out in abject terror. It raised its foreleg, two jointed, human fingers probing helplessly beside a deformed hoof. The pigs around it swirled in a frenzy, goaded to madness by the beast’s endless, awful screaming.

  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.”
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  “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?”

  “Were you not listening just now?” asked Cynthia.

  “They’ll come back for everyone,” said Lyle. “They’ll take all of us, and we’ll be fine, and we won’t need our food. And since we can’t take it with us anyway, let’s give it away. It’ll buy us some good will, at the very least.”

  “And who’s going to give it to them,” asked Ira/Moore. “You? Do you really want to walk out to that fence and hope they don’t stone you to death?”

  “Half of them are Lyles,” said Lyle. “I’m practically one of them.”

  “Unless they put it together that the Lyle on the inside of the fence might be the real one who got us all into this mess in the first place,” said Ira/Moore. “They’d tear the bars apart with their teeth just to get to you.”

  “It’s too late anyway,” said Lilly, and they all looked to the window. Three rioters had already climbed the fence, only to be shot down by the soldiers inside, but more were coming, scaling the bars, swarming over the top, and shooting them would mean shooting into the backdrop of thousands of civilians. The soldiers hesitated, and it was all the time the rioters needed. The locks were snapped open, the chains broken, the gates opened, and the mob flooded in.

  “Get upstairs,” said Ira/Moore. “Everybody go, now!” He didn’t wait to see if they followed him, but bolted out into the hallway. Cynthia grabbed Lyle firmly by the arm and dragged him out with her, Lilly running close behind.

  Lyle shook Cynthia’s hand away as they reached the elevator. Ira/Moore was frantically pressing the button.

  “They said they locked the elevators,” said Lilly.

  “I can hear the motors running,” said Ira/Moore.

  “I think they only locked the bottom floors,” said Lyle.

  “I can hear the motors running,” Ira/Moore repeated. “The elevator cars are moving, just be patient.”

  “We should take the stairs,” said Lilly.

  “It’s thirty-nine floors,” said Cynthia, “and we’re on the fifth. We’ll never make it in time.”

  “Have you ever actually taken stairs?” asked Lilly. “It doesn’t take two minutes per floor.”

  “The elevator’s going to come,” said Ira/Moore, but the longer they waited, the more nervous Lyle got. He shifted on his feet, looking at the door to the stairway, listening for the sounds of the mob. The building was almost eerily quiet.

  Cynthia folded and unfolded her arms, pausing every few seconds to push the up button again. Ira/Moore pressed his head against the metal doors. Lilly played with the cuff of her sleeve until she’d twisted it so tight Lyle thought her hand would turn blue.

  Lyle opened the door to the staircase.

  “It’s going to come,” Ira/Moore insisted.

  “Quiet,” said Lyle, “I’m listening,” and stuck his head into the stairwell, holding his breath, listening for voices. For footsteps. There they are. “There’s someone in the stairwell.”

  Lilly paled. “Chad said they locked the bottom floors!”

  “Locks are easy to break,” said Lyle.

  “It’s probably just people on other floors,” said Cynthia, “giving up on the elevators and running.”

  “Probably,” said Lyle. “That doesn’t mean they’re on our side.”

  The four of them looked at each other. Lilly slipped off her heels. “Let’s go.”

  They ran through the door, bounding up the stairs, clutching the railing as they rounded each corner. Other voices and footsteps echoed around them, but they couldn’t tell if they were coming from above them or below them. The tenth floor, the fifteenth floor, the eighteenth floor. They were slowing down. Lilly paused and Lyle pushed her forward, gasping for breath. Ira/Moore ran ahead without waiting, up and up and up. Cynthia clung to Lyle’s side like a remora.

  “I need a rest,” said Lyle.

  “You can rest at the top,” Cynthia hissed.

  The twentieth floor. The twenty-fifth. The thirtieth. Now even Lilly, in better shape then either of them, seemed winded and faltering. She paused again, panting, and this time Lyle stopped with her. Cynthia wheezed in behind them, her teeth gritted.

  “Eight steps per flight,” Lyle wheezed. “Two flights per floor. A hundred and forty-four steps to go.”

  “A hundred and sixty,” said Lilly. “We have to reach the roof, not the top floor.”

  “Whatever we’re hearing is definitely below us,” said Cynthia. “It’s getting closer.”

  Lyle could hear it now, as well, closer now, almost on top of them. He looked around for a weapon, but there was nothing. They dragged themselves up another sixteen steps. Another thirty-two. Another 112. When they reached the top floor they were greeted with a wall of rifle barrels aimed straight at Lyle’s face, but the soldiers lowered their weapons when they recognized the women with him.

  “I told you they were coming,” said Ira/Moore. The soldiers hustle
d them out onto the roof, where a cold wind stung them. Nearly a hundred people were huddled together for warmth, delegates and staff and service workers, all waiting for the helicopters. None of them had a coat.

  “We can’t raise anyone on the radio,” said Chad. “It should only be another twenty minutes.”

  “Have you heard from General Blauwitz?” asked Cynthia.

  “Not since we lost the fence,” said Tanzania. “He’s either captured or too busy to talk.”

  “Or dead,” said Estonia.

  The roof was narrow and cramped, even without the people—most of it was taken up with satellite dishes, radio antennas, and other bits of scaffolding. The entire perimeter was ringed with a screen, like a fake wall, and Lyle was glad there was essentially no chance of falling off the edge. The helicopters, he assumed, would try to land on the roof of the elevator housing, which rose above the rest of the rooftop like a miniature warehouse in the middle. He didn’t know how sturdy it was, but it was the only place wide enough and flat enough to work.

  “This just keeps getting better,” said Cynthia. “Can we see anything?”

  “Nothing in the air,” said Chad. “The UN grounds are swarming with rioters, and most of the streets outside.”

  “Send the women back inside,” said Mexico. “The soldiers can hold at one floor down, and keep at least some of us warm.” They repositioned the guards, and urged the women back into the stairwell, packed tightly in the limited space. Lilly cast a last glance at Lyle before she disappeared.

  Lyle almost offered her his spot on the first helicopter.

  Almost.

  Cynthia kept an iron grip on Lyle’s arm, returning every suggestion to wait inside with a glare icier than the air. They left her alone, and watched the skies for helicopters.

  The hour mark came and went.

  “Give it time,” said Chad. “Getting them here at all was a logistical miracle; getting them on time is asking a little much.”