Hybrid (2 page)

Response: [email protected]
Sent: March 7, 2012, 0403 MST
To: [email protected]

I appreciate that you contacted the local health authorities, but it’s frankly not enough. They are not equipped to evaluate this threat. You are. Trust your institutional bias.

You were wrong about what happened down in Honduras. I was not sick when the marines arrived. They made that assumption, an honest mistake, but one that was propagated down the line until it became viewed as fact. My memories were not affected in any way. If your records show that all the deaths occurred due to EDH1, then they are either incorrect or have been altered, for whatever reason. I am not some conspiracy nut. Things were incredibly chaotic, and for now, I choose to believe that the soldiers saw what they were told to expect. Certainly, they recovered the remains of my team, didn’t they? They did take their bodies home?

Amanda Flynn

Response: [email protected]
Sent: March 7, 2012, 0612 EST
To: [email protected]

Apparently, I’ve caught you awake. I’m not in the habit of exchanging e-mails back and forth like some adolescent, but for you I’ll make an exception.

Without something concrete, I’ve done all I can. I do not have the authority or inclination to demand that the Colorado Department of Health do any more. You have given me nothing but unsupported recollections and statistical anomalies. I can’t commit resources based on that.

Just so you know—the bodies of your Red Cross team were destroyed on site. We did not have the ability to bring them home. For that I am sorry.

I’ve read your file many times and know that you’ve experienced more than your share of tragedy, but I have a responsibility to the health and welfare of the citizens of this country. If you are right, and EDH1 has found its way into the population, we need to see you now more than ever, not only to identify your unique resistance, but because YOU are the only natural reservoir for this virus. If there’s an outbreak, it is because you have chosen to remain at large. I regret that I have to take such a hard line, but if I can’t persuade you to come in voluntarily, I will contact the FBI before the end of today.

N. Martin

Response: [email protected]
Sent: March 7, 2012, 0419 MST
To: [email protected]

Call them.

Amanda Flynn

Phil watched the tiny bead of sweat slowly track down Dana’s cleavage as she leaned in to refill his coffee cup. He knew he should be repulsed; sweat was a bodily secretion composed of oils, sloughed skin, and bacteria, but he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like on the tip of his tongue. For an instant, he could actually feel the heat of her breasts on his cheeks, the tiny blonde hairs tickling his skin, and the taste of salt. Then it was gone. He filled his mind with white noise to banish the invading hallucination and its attendant disgust. He was getting so bad that even eating lunch posed a risk.

Dana had paused, coffee pot suspended between them, as Phil went rigid, his knuckles whitening on the fork and his face turning a dark shade of red. Control re-established, he felt her hesitation and consciously relaxed his grip, mechanically returning the fork to the counter. He glanced up slightly and found her studying him. She gave him a playful, disapproving smile; Phil wasn’t the first man she’d caught looking down her blouse. Then she whisked away, her smile broadening with the realization that Phil was human after all.

He waited until she was a safe distance away and then quietly, slowly, exhaled. His heart hammered in his ears and he had trouble breathing. His vision began to narrow, and he broke out into a cold sweat. He had violated the rules of their relationship, and she had caught him. He tried to clear his mind, but it was filled with shame. It was a familiar feeling, and one of the few he could fully appreciate.

He wanted to flee, to jump from his stool and run to some dark place where he could be alone in his madness, but that would only make matters worse. He still had enough control to know that he had to finish his Tuesday Lunch Special. It really wasn’t anything special; in fact, it was just north of edible, but it had to be done. The Routine had to be maintained; any deviation was an invitation to Chaos. His mistake with Dana may have already taken him to the edge, and he could ill afford another.

It took him two minutes and thirty seconds to finish; a little fast, and he would probably pay for it later, but he was now free to leave. He carefully reached for his wallet, moving slowly so as not to disturb either of the men sitting next to him. The physical contact, while disagreeable, would be relatively harmless as he still wore his coat, but the obligatory conversation that followed would be another impediment to his return to Sonny’s Café. He extracted a new ten-dollar bill, placed it face up immediately in front of his now clean plate, and waited for Dana to retrieve it. Phil stared straight ahead, focusing on his distorted reflection in the stainless steel panel that lined the kitchen. He identified with the warped image of himself and in some strange way was comforted by it. Parts of him were stretched to absurd proportions, while others were pinched together, but it still managed to remain a discrete entity—at least for now.

A minute passed, and Dana hadn’t collected the money. The man to Phil’s right slid off his stool, tossed a number of crumpled bills onto his dirty plate, and left without a thought. Phil didn’t move. He sat frozen to his stool, looking neither left nor right, taking up a minimum amount of space, waiting for Dana to dismiss him just as she had done nearly every workday for the last four years. Only today, she had missed her cue. He could hear her down the counter fending off the clumsy advances of some construction worker. He listened for her approach, not daring to glance lest she misinterpret his need to leave for something else. A minute passed, and he felt it go. The clock in front of him began to accelerate. Phil glanced down at the bill and confirmed it was where it should be. Two more minutes passed, and now he couldn’t even hear her.
She must be mad
, he reasoned. Three minutes passed, and the world began to collapse in on him. Heat began to build in his chest, and he started to count. He was at forty-eight when Dana blew by, snatched the bill despite an armload of dishes, and disappeared into the kitchen. Phil climbed off his stool and left as fast as the busy restaurant would allow. No change would be coming. He refused to have money in his wallet that had passed through countless hands.

Phil popped out of Sonny’s door in such a rush that a couple of thirty-somethings had to jump out of the way. He ignored their sarcastic “excuse me” and hurried into the dwindling snowstorm. Fortunately, the sidewalks were nearly deserted: the majority of the workforce heeding the National Weather Service’s warning of a late winter snowstorm. Up to eighteen inches were expected, but only a paltry three inches had fallen before the fast-moving storm had pushed off to the east. Still feeling the aftereffects of his encounter with Dana, Phil lengthened his stride. He glanced at his watch: 12:52— eight minutes to make it to the office. The possibility of being late suddenly flashed through his mind, and his heart raced even faster.

You don’t need to be ruled by fear
, said a small voice in his head.
It really doesn’t matter if you’re late. Nothing is going
to happen, so just relax and enjoy the world around you
. The small voice was little more than a whisper, but it seemed to magically resonant in his mind, weakening his will, and in an unexpected moment of independence, especially considering what had just happened, Phil obeyed. He shortened his steps, and for a long, wonderful second he was the master of his own mind. A thrill rushed through him as he intentionally ignored the growing panic that screamed at him to hurry. He drew a long luxuriant breath, and almost, almost felt relaxed.

“Pardon me,” a voice said gruffly as he was bumped first by one and then by another person as the human traffic began to stream past him. A wave of fear drowned out the small voice. The moment of normality forgotten, he looked at his watch again: 12:54. Six minutes to do four blocks. He could just make it with a brisk walk; he wouldn’t have to start running, yet. He lengthened his stride, brushing people as he passed them.
It
can’t be helped
, he thought. Besides, he hadn’t actually made physical contact with anyone. Three blocks: 12:55:25. If he kept this pace, he’d make it. He allowed himself to anticipate the relief he’d feel after making it to the office safe and on time. No pounding in his chest, no roaring in his ears, his mind free to focus on something less trivial than getting back from lunch on time.

The small voice returned:
You live the life of a coward
,
afraid and small
. Phil ignored it. He especially hated this voice; it was new and dangerous. It whispered, unlike the others, which raged. He’d learned to deal with the rages, but whispers were harder to ignore.

Admit it, you don’t want to live like this, and the truth is
that you don’t have to. Find the courage to free yourself.
Phil intentionally walked faster. He’d have to find a way to silence this small, seductive voice. It came at him sideways, not like the usual monsters that preferred a more direct and violent approach. It was so much cleverer than the others, playing on his deepest desires, softly speaking of things like enjoyment, spontaneity, choice—the components of a normal life. A life free of The Routine. Only Phil knew that would never be possible. He could never have a normal life, because he wasn’t normal.

One block to go—ninety seconds left. Phil stepped into the last crosswalk just as the traffic lights changed.
Perfectly
timed
, he told himself, and with this tiny victory, some of his anxiety began to ease.

It’s sad that such a trivial thing can make you feel better.
Life doesn’t have to be this inconsequential, and you know it.
The small voice again.

If you continue, I’ll
—

You’ll what? Start to count? Maybe some derivatives? How
about some cube roots? Let’s try the cube root of 7,315,393,542
,
shall we? And the answer is 1941.24, give or take a few decimal
points. Math isn’t going to work. You’re going to have to deal
with what I say!

The small voice wasn’t so small anymore. Phil knew it was never a good idea to respond to a voice directly; all he had done was empower it.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a man passed Phil on his left and reached the opposite curb a fraction of a second before him. Startled, Phil sidestepped to avoid contact, but the abnormally tall man continued down the sidewalk without taking notice of their near collision. Phil chastised himself. It had been a long time since an internal debate had distracted him to the point of inattention. He resumed his hurried pace, but the tall man was faster. Dressed entirely in black—hat, overcoat, slacks, shoes—he stood at least six foot five and had a stride to match. On an average day, Phil would have found him unusual, but today the clock was ticking, and he still had half a block to go. The video store, the dry cleaner, the bakery, and then the office.