It hadn’t, after all, always been ten percent that were infected. It had, of course, started quite small. Indeed, in its infancy, the sleepless prion had been little more than a boutique disease. A fringe illness known as fatal familial insomnia. The name tells you all you need to know about its quaint beginnings.
Familial.
For virtually all of the 245-odd years of its recorded history, FFI had restricted itself to less than a handful of genetic lines. How and why it widened its scope so terribly and suddenly was, you’ll understand, a subject greatly debated.
To be more precise, the sleepless prion was not the same as the FFI prion. For better or worse, FFI offered a much quicker, and therefore, many would say, more merciful death.
SLP was something else.
SLP.
Sleepless.
Or, to the kids,
A slang variation playing off the chemical designation used in the patent for the only known treatment for the symptoms of SLP.
Commercial name: Dreamer.
Chemical designate: DR33M3R.
A wholly fortuitous alphanumeric, speaking in terms of marketing, that is. So serendipitous, so instantly obvious to even the most slack-jawed account exec, that one could almost be made suspicious.
If one were of a suspicious mind.
I am suspicious of very little, having, in my sixty years, been assured time and again that people are an utter waste and capable of anything when contemplating their own fortune and well-being. With such a worldview, there is little need for suspicion. Easier to simply assume the bastards are screwing everyone else, out for their own good.
Indeed, I was living proof of my own thesis, sitting there in my final generation Cadillac, listening to Gounod, my brow chilled by the cold air coming from the vents, reaping the benefits of a diseased population’s need for distraction as manifested in the continued availability of broadband wireless service in the L.A. basin.
Humanity endures.
Excelsior.
I was so at peace with the world and myself that when the shockingly sinewy vegan in the Mercedes 300 plastered with biodiesel stickers got out of her car and started rapping on my window, screaming at me that I was “killing the planet and the children,” I almost didn’t roll down that window and point at her face the Beretta Tomcat I’d pulled from my ankle holster.
The Tomcat is a stunningly slight weapon, its 2.4-inch barrel virtually useless beyond the length of one’s arm. In appearance, when wielded, it is often mistaken for a toy or tool of some kind. The nubbin of barrel poking from the fist doesn’t appear to be a serious threat at all.
But it feels serious when crammed under your chin. And it sounds serious when the hammer is thumbed back. And in case she was in any doubt, I made certain she knew that both I and the gun were quite serious.
“You are going to die in front of dozens of witnesses, and none of them will do a thing to help you or avenge you. Because they know exactly what you know: The world is ending. The difference being, they have surrendered and are willing to watch it pass away as long as they can do it in relative comfort. You, on the other hand, are squandering what few resources of personal will and energy you have left by trying to stop an avalanche. Give up. Things are as bad as you fear they are. People are as self-serving as you fear they are. The universe does not care. And neither do you. Not really. Go find a warm body you can huddle against for animal comfort. Go get in your car and don’t look at me again. I’m getting bored of talking now. Go away before I get bored of not pulling the trigger and not watching your brains fountain out the top of your head.”
She made a noise deep in her throat, and then she walked away, eyes fixed at a level just above the roofs of the cars, in a gait that could be taken for sleepless but was merely despair.
And I touched a button, a button the engineers at GM, before going bankrupt, had considerately designed so that I did not need to hold it down while the window rolled up, and was sealed again in the perfect cool dimness of what the brochure had described as the car’s cockpit, pressing the thumblike barrel of the Tomcat into the hollow below my jaw.
But even with the perfect lyric accompaniment, this was not the moment.
So, as the traffic began, mystically, to flow, all of it parting around the stalled Mercedes containing the sobbing woman, I slipped the gun back into its moleskin holster, and was carried smoothly on the pitted road, past the location shoot (an artfully reproduced scene of a traffic accident), wondering at the noise she had made, how in perfect dissonance with di Stefano’s diminuendo on the high C in “Salut! Demeure” it had been:
I greet you, home chaste and pure,I greet you, home chaste and pure,Where is manifested the presenceOf a soul, innocent and divine!I greet you, home chaste and pure.
PARK WAS HAVING trouble breathing.
It wasn’t just the fact of the bag over his head, it was the fact that he was far from the first prisoner to have worn it. Stiff with old sweat, crusted at the open end with dry vomit, the black canvas sack stifled more than just air.
And his knees hurt.
He’d already learned not to try to lower his buttocks to his ankles for relief. Having done so once and received a truncheon blow across his shoulder blades.
And he’d lost feeling in his fingers.
That was a concern, but a far greater concern was that he’d started not to feel the zip-strip where it dug into his wrists. Losing circulation to the fingers was one thing, having it cut off from his hands entirely was more disquieting.
The man to his right moaned something in Spanish.
Boots crossed the tile room, echoing, and a nightstick bounced off a skull.
“Shut the fuck up!”
Park felt the man tumble against him and struggled to somehow catch him, leaning his body far backward, trying to support the man’s weight against his torso. The muscles in his thighs, already trembling, gave out, and they both fell to the floor.
“Up! Get the fuck up!”
Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair through the bag and hauled him back up to his knees.
“Stay up! Up, asshole!”
A lazy fist caught him across the ear.
“Fucking shoot your ass now.”
A loud buzz shocked the room, vibrating the rank air, a bolt slammed back into its socket, and a door opened, letting in a draft of fresher air that Park could just feel on his upper arms.
Sneakers squeaked on the tiles. Some papers rustled.
“Adam, three, three, zero, hotel, dash, four, dash, four, zero.”
His arms were jerked as someone tried to get a look at the plastic bracelet fastened around his wrist.
“Yeah, that’s this asshole.”
The truncheon dug into his ribs.
“Up, asshole.”
He tried to unfold his legs and rise but only succeeded in falling over again.
“Fucking.”
The shaft of the truncheon crossed his throat, and he was dragged choking to his feet, stumbling, almost falling again, and caught under the arms.
“I got him.”
“Yeah, well, fucking enjoy. And try not to leave too many marks.”
Blind and lurching, led out into a quiet hallway where the air, only a couple of degrees cooler, felt like a spring breeze. Tripping over his own numb feet, saved again and again from falling, and then leaned against a wall.
“Can you hold yourself up for a second?”
He nodded but didn’t know if it could be seen through the hood.
His voice cracked like his dry lips.
“I think so.”
The hands left him, and he kept his feet.
Keys were jingled, one fitted to a lock, and another door opened.
“In here.”
The hands took him again, not carrying him as much as guiding him this time, feeling coming back into his legs and feet.
“Sit.”
A chair.
“Lean forward.”
He leaned, found a table, and rested his head on it, his eyes sliding shut, almost instantly asleep. And brought back in seconds as the zip-strip was clipped from his wrists and blood rushed into his hands, filling them with needles.