Нэнси Кресс - The End Is Nigh

Philips cleared his throat. “Over time they lead to complete failure of the cerebrum. This particular prion leaves a victim essentially brain dead. The subjects we observed have no higher brain function at all—no thoughts. Their inner lives are replaced completely with animal drives. Hunger. The need for sleep. Fight or flight reflexes.”

“That’s why they attack anyone they see?”

“Yes,” Philips answered. “Yes, that’s… that’s why.”

“How do we cure this? Or even treat it?”

“We can’t,” Philips said. “There’s nothing we can do for them. Once the prion has replicated enough, the brain shuts down and we can’t stop it.”

The president shook his head. “What about detection? If we catch it early enough, can we help these poor people?”

“There’s no way to detect it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“There’s no test for prion infection. Nor are there any symptoms, until it’s far too late. The only way to tell if someone has this disease is to dissect their brain.” Philips tried a weak smile. “Post-mortem, of course.”

The President whispered something to one of his advisers. Then he turned to face Philips again. “How long does it take, from exposure to mental breakdown?”

“That… may be the worst part. Assuming this pathogen is similar to known prions, it could have an incubation phase of as long as twenty years.”

The President leaned forward. “You’re saying these… these subjects of yours might have gotten infected twenty years ago? That they could have been infecting other people the whole time? And we didn’t know about it until now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Chicago, IL

Whitman fumbled with the leather strap on the cop’s belt. He was so scared his fingers barely worked.

The subject took another step closer. Its eyes glowed like red lamps.

It bent over, its jaws snapping at Whitman’s face. Fell to its knees and crawled toward him.

The catch came loose. Whitman pulled the cop’s gun free and lifted it, surprised at how heavy it was. He’d never fired a gun before. He pointed it at the subject’s face and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. The subject crawled closer. In another second it was going to bite him. Whitman kicked at it but the subject just grabbed his ankle and leaned in to bite his leg.

Safety . The safety must be on. Whitman found a little lever on the side of the gun. Flipped it down.

The subject’s teeth were inches from Whitman’s flesh.

He blew its head off. Blood and brain tissue went everywhere, some of it flecking Whitman’s face. He clamped his mouth shut to keep any of it from getting inside.

Then he turned and faced the entrance to the stairway. More subjects were coming up.

He hoped he had enough bullets.

Washington, DC

“Let’s, uh, let’s move on to recommendations,” the President said, flipping through the thin dossier Philips had brought. “You say we can’t treat these infected people. We can’t even make them comfortable.”

Philips inhaled sharply. “No. The best course there is… euthanasia. I don’t say this lightly.”

“I’m sure you don’t. But what about the healthy population? How do we keep them safe?”

“The only measure available to us is quarantine. We need to look at everyone who has reached the brain death phase very carefully. We need to look into their lives and find everyone they’ve had contact with, everyone they’ve exchanged fluids with, over the last two decades. And we need to separate those people from the healthy population. This needs to be done immediately. We won’t be able to stop the prion from spreading, not altogether. But we need to minimize that spread.”

The President studied the documents in front of him for a long while without speaking. Finally he looked up. “Anybody they’ve exchanged fluids with. You’re talking about blood transfusions, shared needles, sexual contact—”

“Sir,” Philips interrupted, “This isn’t an STD. Even the slightest contact can lead to exposure. Even so little as an open mouth kiss.”

“Every single person these infected subjects have kissed.”

“And everyone who has kissed someone they have kissed.”

“Rounded up and put in quarantine. That’s got to be a lot people.”

Philips lowered his gaze. “We’ve done the math. The spread is exponential—if one person infects ten in those twenty years, and those ten go on to infect ten others, and so on—”

“Give me a number,” the President demanded.

“Perhaps twenty percent of the entire population of the country is at risk for testing positive for the prion disease,” Philips replied.

The president’s hands trembled as he set the dossier down on the table. “One in five people, rounded up and put in camps for… for what, for twenty years until we’re sure they’re safe? That’s logistically impossible. Not to mention unconscionable.”

“It’s necessary,” Philips told him. “If we don’t do it, this will be the end of the human race.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Wellington is the author of the Monster Island trilogy of zombie novels, the 13 Bullets series of vampire books, and most recently the Jim Chapel thrillers Chimera and The Hydra Protocol . “Agent Unknown” is a prequel to Positive , his forthcoming zombie epic. He lives and works in Brooklyn, New York.

The ancient subway car rattled toward me, its wheels squealing. An encircled “Q” glowed on the front of the driverless lead car. It was the express train, rolling without stopping on its way past the 29th Street station. I was standing near the end of the platform, next to the far wall. The squealing stopped as the train began to clear the station and accelerate back up to speed.

The lead car was almost at me, and I stepped onto the edge of the platform, staring at the empty driver’s seat of the subway car as it rushed closer.

“Hey, lady!” someone called out.

The train was now just feet away from me. I stepped toward the ledge and the empty space beyond.

“Lady, watch—”

The squealing began again, this time ear-shattering, but it was too late. I leaned in, feeling the train crash into me. There was no pain, just a flash of white before blackness descended.

One Year Earlier

I first met Michael at a “How Can I Believe?” church meeting on the Upper East Side, at the third in a series of presentations about coming to intellectual grips with the divine, of how to believe in miracles. The real miracle was that I managed to get out of the house. A gaping hole had opened in the fabric of my life, so there I was, hoping to find…

Something.

The scene that evening wasn’t inspiring, however: a collection of ill-fitting people clinging to jackets and mittens, asking if this seat or that was taken and sharing blank smiles. The woman beside me glanced my way, as if to start small talk, but I looked away. This was a mistake . Checking my phone, it was two minutes past eight. Yawning, I reminded myself that even Einstein believed in God.

It was hot in the church basement, and coming in from the cold outside I squirmed. Sweat pooled in the small of my back. Should I remove a layer? I’d taken off my winter coat, but still had on a shirt and sweater with a scarf wrapped around my neck. Watching bulges of fat spring free as the people around me stripped down, I decided against it.