Marek Huberath - Nest of Worlds

“Nothing. A complete group plop. It’s an epidemic of death, but each death in the epidemic has a rational explanation. The causes vary. This can’t be any disease. Nevertheless, only those die who have, in one way or another, crossed your path.”

Lorraine said, “I remember you, Dave, when you got off the plane. You weren’t like the other passengers. I mean, you were pale, tired, and, like everyone else from Lavath, all in gray, but your eyes… sharp, penetrating, they bore into me.”

“And the three on his passport helped,” Zef laughed.

“I thought of Ra Mahleiné the whole way,” Gavein said. “It might have been that in my eyes.”

Lorraine’s mother switched to the news. The list of victims was being read:

Early this morning, David Rottman, B, was killed, David Rao, B; David Kopecho, B; David Zolt, B. They all recently arrived from Lavath.

Then the announcer’s voice rose:

Only one remains… Now we know the identity of David Death! The man’s name is Throzz! David Throzz! And he lives on 5665 Avenue. Kill him, kill him! I’ve done it, I’ve saved Davabel!

Some violent commotion stopped the announcer, and the camera was blocked. The screen became a blank.

“The guy went nuts,” said Zef.

“He may have lost someone dear to him,” said Gavein.

“For inciting to murder on the air, he’ll go to jail.”

“You won’t be able to move now, Dave,” said Edda, standing in the doorway. “I was right from the beginning. And that newspaper article, which they tried to hide from me, it told the truth.”

Gavein, having his fill of this, went upstairs. But Puttkamel was waiting for him. Again the psychologist asked questions about people met, names, personal relationships—trying to squeeze out some new detail.

“I’ve told you everything twice over,” Gavein said, exasperated.

“We need specific, very specific information.” Puttkamel wiped the sweat from his forehead. “The whites who traveled with your wife are dying like flies, one after another.”

“I’m not surprised!” exclaimed Ra Mahleiné. “After years on the prison ship and then that quarantine, they were not people, they were ruins.”

“But only the ones Dave saw are dying. Miss Anabel de Grouvert remembers which camera he used. Unfortunately, it tallies: almost all the prisoners who were in the range of that camera are now dead. Whether by thallium poisoning or from the rigors of the voyage. Colonel Medved is swamped with work. That’s the reason he hasn’t called. They’ve put him in charge of the Register of Death. Rows of computers, a sea of data. The effect grows stronger…”

“They ought to kill me. That would solve the problem.”

Puttkamel threw him a quick glance.

“No, kill such a nice Death?” protested Ra Mahleiné. “Another Death, not as handsome, would only take his place. People must go on dying, after all. Isn’t it better to deal with the Death you know? Are you people that stupid?”

“Are you aware, Dave, that no one who was on the plane with you is alive now?”

Gavein said nothing.

“That announcer made a royal mess for us,” Puttkamel went on. “There is no more housing available on the outskirts.”

“Why are you saying these things? Why are you telling him all this?” Ra Mahleiné asked heatedly. “What do you want from him?”

“Me? Nothing. I am merely conveying information that is not in the papers or on television.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the shouts of men and the sound of glass breaking. Gavein ran out, grabbing his jacket, and Puttkamel followed, holding a fake-leather shoulder bag that bounced as he ran.

Several dozen people had gathered in the street, yelling threats. Stones rained, breaking windows.

“Scum,” Gavein said. “A bunch of thugs.”

The crowd grew more aggressive. A chant began:

“Come out, David!”

“Come out, Death!”

“Drive him out, and we’ll have peace!”

Several teenagers approached, one holding a can of solvent from a nearby paint shop. Gavein recognized Earthworm and Peter. They started making Molotov cocktails: rags were torn into strips and the ends stuffed into bottles as improvised wicks.

The first bottle, thrown with an unsteady hand, broke on the sidewalk, and a puddle of flame spread. The heat forced the attackers back.

It was then that two trucks full of armed soldiers, the Landal Guard, came around the corner. Someone had called them. The driver of the truck in front, seeing the crowd over his hood at the last minute, made a sharp left and hit a streetlamp. The truck rolled over and came to rest upside down, exactly in the center of the burning gasoline. Several of the assailants had been hit. The driver of the second truck swerved, barely missed the overturned vehicle, and plowed into the crowd standing beyond it. Scattering and crushing people, the truck smashed into the glass front of the flower shop on the other side of the street. There was a deafening noise, then an unnatural silence broken only by the groans of the wounded.

The next moment, the crowd and both trucks were engulfed in flames. A blast of air knocked Puttkamel over and threw Gavein against a wall. In the windows of the burning trucks, one could see the guards who had been unable to free themselves from the metal trap. One man, a running human torch, escaped the zone of fire only to fall to the pavement a few meters away.

Gavein’s first impulse was to run to help, but the heat was too intense; it seared his face, his eyes.

He went back inside. Ra Mahleiné had got out of bed and was about to leave the room. They fell into each other’s arms. She said something, sobbing.

“It appears that Death cannot be killed,” he said and told her briefly what had happened. “I’ll help Edda and the others. They were sitting in the front room. You stay here, you’re too weak.”

“Absolutely not.”

There were times when Ra Mahleiné couldn’t be argued with. She put on a sweater and a jacket and went down, leaning on him.

The blaze was abating. Gavein circled the smoking area. Several charred bodies lay here and there. There were no moans now. Those caught by the fire had died, and those who received lesser injuries had managed to flee. The wooden flower shop had ignited when the truck hit it, and the owners stood watching their livelihood turn to ashes. People had already called for help.

The front-room floor was covered with broken glass. The television was on full volume, a performance of some kind, modern ballerinas leaping wildly in time to discordant music. The occupants began crawling out from under the table, from behind the sofa, from various corners. No one was badly hurt. Alerted by the noise of the mob, they had had time to hide.

Lorraine went upstairs.

On the street, police sirens added their howl to those of the fire trucks and ambulances. What remained of the flower shop was soaked with water; the bodies were all collected. Two men in uniform entered the front room to write out their report and obtain statements from witnesses.

Lorraine came down, in tears.

“My father… He’s on the floor and won’t move. A stone hit his head. The bastards!”

“Where is he?” asked a policeman.

Lorraine’s mother ran down the stairs, pointing. The second policeman called for a stretcher. In a few minutes an unconscious Edgar was carried out with an IV in him. In the ambulance they gave him oxygen, tried to resuscitate him. The physician shook his head. Lorraine and a hysterical Myrna got into the ambulance with the medics and drove away.

Wilcox shuffled up. He didn’t seem to know what was going on. He reeked of vodka and old sweat. Leaning on a window frame, he babbled: “This whole thing… I did the same myself. Yes, it was done by someone like me, reading. I can’t take it anymore. But I can’t stop reading either…”