The Wyrms of &alon

I ran down to the parking garage as quickly as I could, and got plenty of perturbed glances from passers-by in the process. A doctor running by in a panic, coattails flailing in the wind, mumbling like a man possessed often had that effect on people.

If only they knew.

They’d put me in Room C5, which was basically a hop, skip, and a jump from the Hall of Echoes, so I made good time.

I just hoped it would be enough.

The good news was that unlocking my car was as simple as swiping my hand over the handle on the driver’s side door. The vehicle automatically scanned my hand chip and then chirped in approval as it opened itself to me. The sound shot garage, bouncing off my footsteps’ still-fading echoes. I was in the driver’s seat in a heartbeat. Another swipe of my hand—this time, across the scanner by the console in the middle of the dashboard—started up the car. Society had done away with car keys back in my great-grandparents’ time.

An app on my PortaCon controlled car alarm settings and the like.

The control console blinked back to life, chiming like an eolian harp as it power up. Electricity thrummed.

In a single motion, with one hand on the steering wheel, I pushed my foot down on the accelerator while tapping my fingers. I didn’t even need to dial the house; I just tapped the Return Call button—and, oh, how many there were. I dreaded the thought of a face-to-face conversation with Pelbrum. The better she looked, the angrier she was. My wife loathed tardiness—she thought it was a sign of moral turpitude—and stress-grooming at her vanity was her way of passing the time.

It barely took any time at all to get out of the garage; it was almost half-empty.

Please, let there be no traffic. Please…

Hopefully, my luck would hold out all the way home.

The videophone call went through just as I pulled out of the garage and onto the street.

I was face-to-face with the two-thirds of the women of my life who weren’t my mother-in-law.

“Wow,” I said. “Pel, you look great! You, too, Jules.”

It was not the best thing for me to say, and it only made the situation worse for me. I tried my best not to visibly cringe at the sight of the result of what had to be one of the biggest marathon sessions of stress-grooming my wife had ever held—and I probably failed.

I swear, I could feel something curling up and dying inside of me. Like a spider. Like a dead spider.

Pel and Jules’ faces went from cross to downright crotchety.

Flumb me up the axe!

Those faces were never a good sign. It had been a while since I’d seen them last. My newest routine of regularly spaced “how-are-you-doing” calls to the house had done much to keep the crotchety faces at bay. But Gambler’s Ruin was an iron law: every winning streak eventually met its end.

And, oh, how it ended!

Jules was wearing mascara as she pouted at me. It looked absolutely wonderful on her. Without doubt, this was her mother’s doing. This was a dark omen. Whenever our fifteen-year-old asked about wearing mascara, Pel’s standard response was to insist Jules wasn’t mature enough to pull it off. So, the fact that there was a light, almost barely perceptible touch of mascara on our daughter’s face meant Pel must have moved on to grooming Jules after she’d run out of her own features to fuss over.

“Genneth,” Pel said, castigating me. “I’ve been worried sick!”

My shoulders tensed.

“You haven’t been responding to any of my calls!” she said.

My shoulders tensed even more. I was so ashamed, I was disgusted with myself.

I don’t know how my wife managed to pull off the mix of anger, disappointment, worry, and sorrow currently gracing her face. Rayph once told me I could do exactly the same thing, but… I didn’t quite buy it.

“And to think,” Jules said, with a dry smirk, “you were doing so well lately, Dad…”

I think I deserved that.

I shook my head. “Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I sat down to do some midday paperwork, and then… I passed out.”

“You passed out?”

“I missed all of my afternoon appointments,” I said. “The staff sent someone up to find me, but I wasn’t responsive, so they took me to urgent care, and then… I just woke up. And that was ten minutes ago.”

I turned at the intersection and made a beeline for the onramp to the Expressway. As usual, the weight of the g-forces made me breathe in deep and suck in air.

But my inhalation was cut short by a sputtering cough and a gasp.

Breathing felt… wrong. My thoughts flashed back to medical school—a dissection of a cadaver. Human lungs looked like someone had stuffed twin wads of chewed bubble gum into the thoracic cavity.

Something was terribly wrong.

I froze up. My hands slipped off the wheel, sending the car scudding to the left. I’d crossed two lanes over before I got the car back under control.

No… Please, no.

My feet twitched in my loafers. Sweat slicked my skin. My heart raced.

My lungs were dead. My. Lungs. Were. Dead.

I knew it was impossible. My medical training told me so. My lungs weren’t dead. They couldn’t be. I was still breathing; dead lungs don’t breathe.

But… they were dead. I was sure of it with every fiber of my being. My lungs were dead. It was a gut feeling, and it was as deep as they come. Every fiber of my being thrummed with surety. It was intuitive, instinctive and unquestionable as any other of the great truths of the world: the sky was blue; the sun rose in the morning; fire burns.

My lungs were dead. They were zombie flesh, putrescent, oozing, and rancid.

No no no no…

I passed through arches and waves of shadow they cast upon the mag-lev road. Gradually, the arches gave way to the barreled glass ceiling, alive with animated ads.

But it didn’t stop. The deadness spread.

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God…

First, my lungs. Now, my clavicle. My clavicle was dead. My instincts told me it wasn’t mine—that it didn’t belong. The certitude of death crawled across the skin on my chest, its travel slow but inexorable.

“What?” Pelbrum’s face immediately softened. Obviously, she saw the terror and worry writ large on my face. “Genneth… what happened?”

I recalled everything I’d seen. The office shooting, the Nalfar’s outbreak, the police arriving at the Elbocks’ house, and then, what happened with Merritt…

Seacrest Avenue came into view. A couple of minutes ago, the sight of the highway on the cliffside would have been a welcome relief. But now?

I wanted to cry. I wanted to roll down the window, jam my head out into buffeting winds and scream until I either felt safe or started coughing up blood—whichever came first.

But I couldn’t.

My family was watching.

I shook my head. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s just… stress…”

My hands twitched incessantly.

What if they saw? What if they knew?

I put on the falsest smile I’d ever worn. “I got lucky: traffic is light this evening. I should… I should be home soon. Maybe…”

My eyes watered. I shuddered and inhaled.

MY LUNGS ARE DEAD!

I bit my lip and adjusted the rear-view mirror for no reason.

“We might not be late after all,” I said.

Pelbrum nodded. She tried to hide the worry in her eyes by averting her gaze for a moment before ending the call.

But I saw it.

“I… I love you both,” I said.

I squeezed the steering wheel so hard, I was scared it would break.

“See you soon. Tonight is going to be—”

—The screen went black.

“—Great…”

My words filled the stillness in the air. I was alone once more.

Alone and dying.

Or so I thought.

A voice spoke. “Does Cat ever make it home?”

And there—as I die and breathe—in the seat beside me… there, sat Andalon.