Elizabeth Hand: 12 Monkeys

Further on he came to a beautiful old beaux arts building extravagantly overgrown with ivy, its broken steps littered with bones and broken glass. The footprints led here, up the steps and inside a darkened archway. High up on the building’s rococo exterior an owl perched, its round, yellow gaze fixed upon the man below. Pale streamers of light washed across the entryway, the owl blinked at the rind of sunlight showing above the horizon. Then it spread its wings and lifted high into the air above the deserted city.

The footsteps led through a huge lobby overgrown with trees. From a broken skylight high above pale sun trickled. There were drifts of leaves everywhere, and an animal odor so pungent that Cole could smell it even through his visor. He passed massive columns entwined with vines, wide marble steps slick with ice and rotting vegetation. He climbed the stairs, panting a little now, until he reached the very top of the building. Wide doorways led out onto a viewing deck. Broken slates and glass were everywhere. Warily he followed the footsteps out there, trudging through the debris. There was a small coughing sound, like someone clearing his throat. Cole whirled.

On the wall behind him a circle was stenciled in red paint. Within it twelve monkeys danced and grinned above the same triumphant legend.

WE DID IT!!!

The coughing sound came again, louder this time. Cole lifted his head and saw up on the roof of the ornate building a silhouette, black against the sudden glory of sunrise. A lion, its mane a brilliant corona of gold as it threw its head back and roared until the air rang with the sound — sole ruler of a kingdom abandoned by men.

“Proceed.”

Freezing water roared from nozzles in the wall, pummeling Cole’s naked body. He shivered, trying not to cry out, and ducked as two hulking figures in decontamination suits stabbed at him with two long poles. The poles ended in stiff wire brushes. The figures poked at him mercilessly; every now and then he could glimpse one smiling through the suit’s smudged mask.

“Raise your arms above your head.”

Cole obeyed, wincing as the water was replaced by caustic chemicals that burned his skin. The suited figures began scrubbing at his armpits. Foul-smelling water sluiced around his ankles and whorled down the drain. From a grate overhead a voice commanded:

“Proceed.”

The two figures stepped away. Shuddering, Cole walked from the shower and down a narrow passage, still naked, every inch of him feeling raw. In the next room a three-legged stool stood beneath a single flickering light. Beside the stool was a small white plastic box. Cole grit his teeth to keep them from chattering and sat down.

“Proceed.”

The stool groaned beneath his weight as he reached for the white plastic box and withdrew an old-fashioned hypodermic needle. He made a fist, clumsily jabbing at his arm and watching blood move slowly up the syringe’s neck. When he glanced up he saw a single, nearly opaque window of thick plastic in the rusty iron wall. Behind it shadowy figures moved, watching him. When the syringe was full he replaced it gingerly in a compartment in the plastic box. In the narrow doorway two guards appeared, holding a prison uniform. Without waiting for the command Cole stood, walked over to them, and dressed.

When he was done, they escorted him along a walkway in the cavernous underground space. The uniform chafed painfully at his skin. The air smelled stale, but not as warm as it did in the prisoners’ quarters. He didn’t make the mistake of asking his guards where they were taking him. After some minutes, they stopped in front of a tall door that slid open silently.

“Go.” One of the guards shoved Cole forward.

He was inside a chamber where every conceivable surface was covered with print: walls and ceiling, even parts of the floor were papered with photographs, old newspapers, maps and charts, computer readouts, handbills. “CLOCK STILL TICKING!!! NO CURE YET!!!” one headline screamed. Warped bookshelves sank beneath the weight of moldering volumes, incomplete sets of encyclopedias. Against one wall stood a bank of computers, their screens blank and gray. There was a makeshift pyramid of televisions with broken screens, an ancient Motorola radio. In the center of all this stretched a long conference table littered with even more technological debris — computer circuitry, a few dozen television remote control units, a transistor radio. Around the table sat six men and women in stained white clothes that reminded Cole of surgical scrubs.

One of the guards cleared his throat. “James Cole. Cleared from quarantine,” he announced.

At the head of the table a man with delicate, rather jaded features and long pale hands nodded. He wore a pair of heavy dark square-framed glasses. “Thank you. You may wait outside,” he said to the guards. His dark glasses fixed on Cole appraisingly.

“He’s got a history, Doctor,” the other guard warned. “Violence. Antisocial Six, doing twenty-five to life.”

The scientist’s blank gaze remained on Cole. “I don’t think he’s going to hurt us. You’re not going to hurt us, are you, Mr. Cole?”

Cole shook his head imperceptibly. “No, sir.”

“Of course not. Prisoners are not in the habit of harming innocent microbiologists like myself.” He smiled coldly, then made a dismissive gesture at the guards. “You may go. Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Cole?”

There was an empty chair at the conference table. Cole glanced around at the others. They regarded him coolly, impersonally; one woman stifled a yawn.

“Mr. Cole?” the microbiologist urged softly. Cole sat.

The man made a temple of his fingers. For several minutes he said nothing. Then, “We want you to tell us about last night.”

Cole took a breath. “There’s not much to tell,” he began. “I—”

“No,” the microbiologist corrected him. His voice was light, menacing. “We will ask you questions. You will answer in as much detail as possible. So: when you first left the elevator, where did you find yourself?”

“In a sewer.”

“A sewer.” The microbiologist glanced at the woman next to him, who was scribbling earnestly on a torn bit of paper. “In what direction was the water flowing?”

Cole frowned. “In what—”

“No questions, Mr. Cole!” the microbiologist snapped, showing even, white teeth. “You must observe everything. Again, in what direction was the water flowing?”

“Uh… north,” Cole said, guessing. He felt sweat begin to pearl on his forehead.

“North,” the microbiologist repeated, adjusting his dark glasses. Several of the others nodded. “Very good. Now, did you notice anything in the water?”

It went on like that for an hour. Cole’s eyes watered from exhaustion; the acrid chemical taste coated his tongue. Another scientist handed him a blackboard and asked him to sketch a map.

“Sample number four. Where did you find that?”

Cole fidgeted in his seat. The room swam before his eyes; his fingers left damp smudges on the blackboard. “Uh…”

“It’s important to observe everything,” a woman broke in impatiently.

Cole swallowed. “I think it was… I’m sure it was Second Street.”

The scientists began to whisper excitedly among themselves. Cole started to yawn, clapped a hand over his mouth. He looked around the room, finally focusing on another headline.

“VIRUS MUTATING!!!”

Beside it was a faded newspaper photograph of an old man in a tweed jacket, an expression of resigned despair on his chiseled features.