Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

Another rib broke with a muffled crack . And a third. Zachry had no breath left to cry out with. Red flashes pin-wheeled through the thickening black before his eyes. Would this crazy bastard never let go?

Something soft burst inside of Lou Zachry. He felt it go with a sickening sense of doom. His abdominal cavity began to fill.

Abruptly, Eddie Gault released his hold. Zachry folded to the floor like a half-filled bag of laundry. After ten seconds that seemed an eternity, he managed to pull in a tiny breath. The broken ribs stabbed him like flaming arrows. The soft thing that had burst inside him was loose.

Eddie turned slowly one way, then the other. His leaking eyes searched the room.

Zachry bit into and through his lower lip to keep from screaming as he dragged himself six inches at a time across the bare floor toward the bookcase. Six inches. Six more. Six more. Now he almost had it.

Eddie saw him.

With mucus and blood dribbling from his mouth, Eddie stumbled toward the fallen man. Zachry made an agonized lunge for the gun. Eddie dropped to his knees and grabbed his arm just above the wrist.

While Zachry writhed in wordless agony, Eddie squeezed the arm. The radius bone snapped under the madman’s grip, then the ulna. Zachry’s hand flopped on his wrist like a dying fish.

With an effort that blinded him for a second, Zachry twisted his body around. While Eddie still squeezed the useless right arm, he lunged with his left hand for the gun. The tips of his fingers grazed the gnurled grip, his nails dug in, the pistol clattered to the hardwood floor.

With Eddie intent on mashing his shattered bones, Zachry scooped up the pistol with his left hand. He jammed the muzzle into the oozing face and pulled the trigger. The explosion was muffled by the bloated flesh. Zachry continued to pull the trigger until all five bullets carried by the Chief’s Special had blasted into the sick man’s brain.

Incredibly, it took several more seconds for Eddie’s grip to loosen. Finally, he let go and toppled sideways, slowly, as though lying down for sleep. And at last he was still.

Lou Zachry sat panting in shallow breaths, each one bringing a crunch from his shattered ribs. He tossed the empty gun at Eddie. It thumped to the floor and lay there, dead as the man. Zachry folded his one working arm across his stomach, trying to hold himself together. He felt his in-sides coming up, and there was nothing he could do about it. The bloody vomit spewed out of him, and he fell forward into blackness alongside Eddie Gault.

The sunlight flowed in through the window of Dena Falkner’s room in the Appleton Physicians Hospital. She stretched luxuriously, then suddenly sat up in bed and blinked at Corey Macklin, who sat in a chair by the bed eating an apple.

“About time you woke up,” he said.

“How long have I been asleep?”

Corey looked at his watch. “Three days. Ever since they gave you the brain-eater antidote.”

“Of course, the antidote. Then it … worked?”

“You don’t have a headache, do you?”

“No. God, I never want to hear headache again.”

“While you were out, they took a sample of your blood. Pure as a mountain spring. The only reason you’re in bed is because you worked yourself into exhaustion at Biotron.”

“We almost had it, you know. The antidote. The formula turned out to be ridiculously simple. In a few more days …” She smiled ruefully. “But then that would have been too late for some of us, wouldn’t it.”

“It’s great stuff,” Corey said. “Cures anybody who’s got the things in his bloodstream and gives everybody permanent immunity. It works orally, the way you took it, and it’s effective sprayed from the air. That’s how they immunized Russia when the government dumped the project over there.”

“Sprayed,” Dena repeated.

“Uh-huh. Helicopters have been up for two days over all populated areas. They’ll keep it up until there isn’t a square foot of the country where the brain eaters can live. Kind of ironic, considering that’s the way they got loose in the first place.”

Dena reached out, and Corey took her hand. In a near whisper she said, “How many people …?” and could not finish.

“A lot,” Corey said. “The estimate is four million. It was bad, but in just a few more days it could have been so much worse.”

“What about the rest of the world?”

“Believe it or not, the U.S. and Russia are working together to make the antidote available to everybody.”

“Wouldn’t it be strange if the brain eaters were responsible for finally bringing world peace.”

“It would,” Corey agreed, “but I’ll lay odds we find something else to fight about soon.”

“Still the same old cynic,” Dena said.

He squeezed her hand. “Not quite the same one. I have, as they say, reordered my priorities.”

“That so? Am I included in any of them?”

“All of them.”

A nurse, rosy-cheeked and plump, peeked into the room. “You’re awake,” she observed. “I have a couple more visitors for you.”

Through the door came Frederich Kitzmiller and Anton Kuryakin. Kitzmiller’s expression was set in its usual stern lines. Kuryakin’s eyes betrayed a twinkle.

“So you are feeling all right,” said Kitzmiller.

“Good as new.”

“And why would it be otherwise?” said Kuryakin. “The antidote is a hundred percent effective when the brain tissue has not been damaged.”

“Go ahead and take your bows,” Kitzmiller said. “My people almost had it.”

Kuryakin rolled his eyes. “As we say in Russia, ‘Almost butters no potatoes.’”

Kitzmiller looked pained, but he could not quite keep the trace of a smile from showing. “I suggested that our friend stay here where he could work in an atmosphere of freedom. There are many institutions that would reward him handsomely.”

“Why would I stay here among strange capitalists?” Kuryakin said. “Russia is my country. She may have her faults, but I love her. I am most anxious to return.”

“I suppose now that you’re an international hero, it would be too embarrassing to send you to Siberia.”

Kuryakin beamed. “What can one do with a hard-line cold warrior like this?” He pulled a worn pocket watch from his vest and peered at it. “Now I must say good-bye. My countrymen will be waiting for me at the airport.”

“Do we have time for a farewell drink?” Kitzmiller said, not quite meeting the Russian’s eye.

“I am sure we do,” said Kuryakin.

“Then it’s on me,” said Kitzmiller. “Bourbon.”

“Fine,” said Kuryakin. “And on me is vodka.”

Dena and Corey exchanged a smile as the two scientists walked out of the room together.

Outside, a helicopter hammered overhead. Dena looked up toward the sound.

“I know they’re doing all they can,” she said, “but I can’t help but worry about the people who they’ll miss.”

“There are bound to be some,” Corey said. “But not many. Every operating newspaper and all TV and radio stations are repeating the message that the copters are carrying the antidote. You’d have to be somewhere pretty remote not to know.”

Roanne Tesla huddled under the shelter she had built by leaning branches against a boulder. She was safe now. The second day after she had left the house and headed into the forest, she had heard the helicopters far behind her. She could only guess what kind of poison they were spraying into the air this time. Whatever it was, it was not going to get her. She would stay there in the forest and live off the land as long as she had to.

Roanne hugged herself and shivered. Up until that day she had felt pretty good except for the cut on her face where Eddie had hit her. Now she seemed to be coming down with the flu.