Marek Huberath - Nest of Worlds

“I’m almost bald, it’s got so thin.”

“Then you’ll be my little Baldie. You’ll tan your head the color of your sweet face.”

“I’m not doing well. I can see what I look like. Below the neck”—with a gesture at her blouse—“I’m a fright. Thin, but my belly is swollen like a balloon. My breasts, they hang; they’ll reach my waist at this rate. They didn’t used to hang like that.”

“I’ll tie you to the wheelchair, so you won’t float away with your balloon.”

He pressed her head lightly with his fingertips. She liked that.

“Now let’s lower the voltage for our manul, so her little head won’t hurt… and so she won’t invent stupid things.”

“It’s the body that invents. The head only observes.”

“Let it stop observing.”

“Impossible. One look in the mirror, and it draws conclusions. And how can I not look?”

“Enough. Don’t borrow trouble. If there’s a problem, we’ll face it together. Don’t go banging yourself against things that aren’t there.” He tried to smile but couldn’t.

“You know that’s not it. If I could only give birth to the clawed thing, then maybe there would be peace. Then maybe I could give birth to someone else, for you. Meanwhile it gnaws inside and turns the world red.”

“What does Nott say?”

“She hasn’t called for three days.”

“She was going to operate.”

“For a while she called, and they brought medicine from her. Now nothing, silence. Everything’s stopped.”

“I’ll see to this.” He got up.

“What do you intend to do?”

“Call Thompson. Interrupt his triumphal march after the battle.”

“Are you crazy? The bastard will learn you’re still alive.”

“And? We have to eat. Someone has to come take away the bodies. And they have to cure you. They’ve turned me into David Death, and for that they owe me.”

“Gavein,” she said, “we managed to live through a terrible danger. Don’t tempt fate. David Death is a figment of Edda’s, which was taken up by that moron Medved and his paranoid investigation. One could just as easily argue that Medved was Death. Or Thompson, or some other character. Only the Names, the Names and nothing else, tell us about death.”

Ra Mahleiné’s words were balm to him: he didn’t want to believe that he was Death.

He came up to her from behind and put his hands in her hair.

“I’ll braid it for you, Little Manul. Would you like that?”

She didn’t answer but moved her head to a more comfortable position.

“Lorraine,” he said, turning. “Bring me a comb, but a clean one, not mucked up with anything.”

Lorraine didn’t move.

“Forgive me,” he said, embarrassed by his tone. “I didn’t mean to speak to you like a servant…”

“That’s all right,” Lorraine said. She got up and went in the house.

But she returned immediately, in tears. “The comb’s on the dresser under the mirror, Dave, but Mama’s lying on the floor and watching me. I can’t—” She wailed.

On the first floor he found furniture thrown over, broken stools, bloodstains everywhere. Edda was on the floor, brain showing in her split skull, eyes open, the fingers of her left hand crushed. Her outstretched right hand held a strip of cloth.

Massmoudieh lay on the kitchen sofa surrounded by dark blood. In the corners of his mouth was pink foam that had dried. His chest was a bloody, shredded mess; he must have been bayoneted a dozen times. The sofa had holes in many places, where the killer missed. Fatima sat in the armchair, her head to one side. A deep brownish red gash went from her right shoulder blade to her left hip, like the ribbon of some ghastly decoration for valor. Bullet holes riddled the armchair, and they seeped blood.

Gavein went upstairs. The door was open. Myrna lay on the floor. She had been shot eight times. Her dull eyes were fixed on the ceiling, her mouth open as if to scream. He walked around her carefully, not wanting to step in her blood. The mirror had been broken, but the dresser was in one piece. He took the comb from one of the shelves and put it in his pocket.

In the Wilcoxes’ room, there were empty vodka bottles. Brenda lay on the couch, curled into a ball. She had been shot repeatedly. The place reeked of alcohol.

Maybe that’s a good thing, he thought. She was probably unconscious when it happened. And they hadn’t raped her, either. In her sweaty, filthy clothes, stinking of alcohol, she had held no attraction for them.

The door to his apartment had been broken open. Anabel lay on the mattress, her legs apart, her head tilted back. He couldn’t see her face, only her nostrils. Her body was like a child’s, white and undamaged. He took a step closer. Around her neck was the belt from her housecoat.

Her face was terrifying: the eyes frozen and bloodshot, the skin blue-gray and swollen. Her tongue hung from her mouth. Under her left breast he saw the small oval wound of a bayonet thrust. One of her tormentors had cut short her suffering. The blow had been powerful, the blade passing through both her and the mattress.

Gavein went downstairs, turned on the television. On the screen was Thompson. He looked older; the light had gone out of his eyes, and the skin of his face hung from the cheekbones like wet laundry on a line.

He would make a good Death, Gavein thought. No, he is a good Death.

The commission appointed by me has taken the measures that needed to be taken to free Davabel from the horror that was David Death. I can guarantee you that this man no longer lives. We believe that, therefore, the epidemic will run its course. We do not know how many more will die, how many more came into contact with David Death. I also came into contact with the man. But I am confident now that this effect will not spread to anyone new. We have preserved our children. We have saved Davabel. Unfortunately the price that had to be paid was high. The Division of Science was completely demolished. Central Davabel is like a wasteland, uninhabited. We cannot blame any person who, wishing to save himself, left his place of residence. No such person will be prosecuted. But now that the danger has passed, our citizens will be assisted in the return to their homes. At the same time we ask everyone for patience and understanding, because the repopulation of these sections of the city will be possible only after all abandoned property has been secured by the Army and the National Guard. We must forestall incidents of looting. I would like to convey my special thanks to the leaders of the Guard and the soldiers of our Civil Defense forces: they played a major role in assuring the safety of our people during the evacuation as well as during the solution of the problem that was David Death…

This last statement infuriated Gavein. Thompson had gone too far. Gavein took out his handkerchief and picked up the blood-covered phone. He remembered the number. On the other end was someone with a throaty voice.

“I want to speak with Colonel Medved. This is important.”

“The colonel’s not here. He’s at the ministry. If you tell me what this concerns, I can relay your message to him when he returns. I am Lieutenant Adams.”

“Listen, Adams”—Gavein had learned how to speak to bureaucrats—”if you want to be sitting at your pitiful little desk tomorrow, you get Medved on the line now. Now. This is David Death speaking.”

There was silence at the other end, probably from a hand held over the receiver. Then the click, barely audible, of a recording device being turned on.

“Could you repeat that?” said Adams.

“You heard me. I’m waiting.”

The silence continued for a moment, a contest.