Type 88

Part 2 - The Reaction, Chapter 5

5

Fifty-Nine Days until the Deadline

Melinda Shroud walked along the bank of the Potomac River in Washington, DC, trying to clear her head. She didn't do this often. She got where she was by naturally maintaining an objective direction along the path she was destined for. But tonight she felt a sense of overeagerness. She hoped that escaping the city's lights would bring her back to equilibrium.

It was late, and the night was warmer than usual for the time of year. Melinda bundled up well regardless. She wore a cap, leather gloves, and a heavy pea coat that drowned her compact frame. The path she walked was well populated, but Melinda didn't take notice of others.

She was thinking about the broadcast. The structure of the message. The tone was matter-of-fact for such a threat. The voice threatened the entire world and did so as if it were leaving a note on a car it had just dinged. It came across as apologetic, not ostentatious. The whole thing was only nine lines—sixty words. Her team had dissected each of them and so far had come away with nothing. No linguistic tip-off, no hint toward its origin. There was, however, one line that stood out to her: "There is nothing you can do to stop this."

The line either meant: "Go ahead—try to stop us. See what you can do," or "Please, don't do anything stupid." Melinda interpreted it as the latter at first, based on the rest of the paragraph's tone. But maybe it was both. Humanity didn't exactly carry a long history of going down without a fight. Either way, it was goading everyone on. Why include that line if not to get a rise out of everyone?

"There is nothing you can do to stop this." Nothing stops this.

Lost in her thoughts, Melinda entered a destitute part of town. She had actually intended to end up there, but it surprised her to reach it this quickly.

A well-put-together, middle-aged woman walking through an area such as this would usually turn heads. Since the broadcast, however, a diverse set of people was active at all hours and areas. Everyone blended together. Single parents stayed home with their children during the day and worked nights instead. Government officials stopped bothering with discreet high-profile escorts. Drug dealers did business with college kids in the open. Melinda would be fine.

Nonetheless, she was mindful of her surroundings. Groups of shadowed figures still held hidden surprises in the darkness. Mothers ushered their children home, keeping their heads down. Drunks searched for a spot to land. Nothing good happened here this time of night, broadcast or not.

She approached a pedestrian overpass and skipped the crosswalk in favor of the direct route underneath. She exited the walking path toward the underside of the bridge.

The path disappeared into a dark, wide corridor lined with concrete and spray paint. The landing smelled of must, reminding Melinda of the unfinished basement at her childhood farmhouse.

The homeless population had exploded through DC after the broadcast, and many congregated here. Warm nights like these made this a bustling hub of activity. Wrinkled blue tarps were scattered over the area, some pieces tied into lean-tos against the massive support beams of the bridge. Endless fire burned from discarded shipping barrels.

A man approached asking for some change or a blow job. She could pick. Another offered crack. Melinda avoided eye contact as best she could, kept her head down, and quickened her small strides to pull away from anyone trailing her.

Most of the homeless were gathered at the east side of the underpass, where Melinda had entered. The bridge was wide, and it took her a few minutes to cross its underbelly. As she reached the far end, the population was sparser, disappearing into the dark behind her. The comfort of the night trickled back in.

Near the exit, concealed by a support pillar, an elderly man leaned over the side of a toppled shopping cart. His feet were bare. His hair grew in long patches.

Melinda approached, examining him. "Sir?" she said, reaching out her hand.

The man didn't budge.

She nudged his shoulder. "Sir, are you OK?" she asked.

No movement.

Was he dead? Fuck. She looked around. They were alone. The corner had no light source. The area was still. She leaned in closer.

The man stirred.

Melinda stepped back, startled. "Thank God. Are you all by yourself?" she asked.

The man raised his head. Orange gunk had plastered one eye shut.

"You can fill your belly now, Walter," he said.

Melinda looked around again.

The man tried to get up but couldn't find a foundation to brace himself. Melinda backed away, keeping her hands in her pockets. He looked up at her with his one good eye.

Melinda reached down and choked the man, pressing with a steady firmness. She leaned in, lifting her heels off the ground, placing her center of gravity onto his neck. The man smelled like malt liquor.

"Nothing stops this," she whispered into his ear.

The man's plastered eye cracked open in surprise.

She let up her grip. As the man caught his breath, she again applied pressure, harder this time. "Nothing stops me," she said. She let up again.

The man raised his arms.

She twisted them back down. She again applied pressure, this time pushing her neon-pink nails deep into his esophagus. Something popped in his throat.

"Japan had what we needed, and we just let Shiro go. That fucking treaty. It worked too. Slowed my team down. Bureaucratic mess. Not gonna happen again," she said. Melinda was on her tiptoes, her heart drumming in her chest.

The man's eyes flickered, and then rolled back in his head.

"Nothing stops this now," she said.

The man's breath came in wider intervals.

Melinda's face grew hot. She dipped closer to his body and let up. She checked his pulse. Still alive. She dropped his body to the ground and looked around again, seeing no one. She pulled the collar of her coat over her face anyway.

The man made a strange twitching motion.

Melinda put her foot on his forehead, digging the back of her steel three-inch heel into his eye socket, looking for the soft spot underneath his brow.

The man opened his mouth in silent agony.

"They'll understand," she said. "Nothing"—stomp—"stops"—stomp, stomp, crunch—"this." Stomp.

Her foot hit the blacktop, obliterating half the man's head and snapping the heel off her shoe. The top of his mouth caved in, and some of his teeth scattered across the concrete. Melinda stayed in the moment with bated breath, her eyes closed. She floated six inches off the ground.

A soft padding interrupted her daze. She whipped around. A cat approached, appearing out of the corner. "Walter" was inscribed on its collar. The cat walked up to Melinda, keeping its gaze on her. It was old. Its coat was brownish-orange; it had probably been white at one point but was filthy now.

Once it was near Melinda's feet, it broke eye contact and walked toward the shopping cart.

Melinda noticed the cart had a package in it. She reached in and grabbed it. Cat food. Fill your belly now, Walter.

She walked to the edge of the platform, opened the package, and dumped the food into the river. She looked back at the old cat. It was examining what remained of its former owner's head.

"We all starve. Nothing stops this," she said. She approached the cat. It stayed in place, looking up at Melinda. She picked her broken heel out of the man's head and left the underpass, returning to the night.