Clean World
Charlie Fish
When Lainie woke up, everybody was dead.
She didn’t know, at first. She didn’t know anything. She woke with tubes coming out of her, things tied to her, rhythmic beeping, an antiseptic smell, and she couldn’t even remember her own name. No-one came to check on her, so she allowed herself to sink back into unconsciousness.
The next thing she knew was pain. She tried to think, but her head pulsed and surged like hurricane waves. Every minute or so, the crashing white noise in her skull would recede for a few seconds. During one of these lulls, she tried to move. During another, she tried to call for help.
Gradually, she remembered. She had been on location in Uganda, Unit Production Manager for a documentary about a local filmmaker. The shoot wrapped, and she was due to return to London. But what happened after?
There was a wrap party. Had she gone? She remembered complaining of a headache. She remembered concerned colleagues. She remembered that she needed to get up early on Monday. What day was it today?
It might have been hours or days that Lainie lay in that hospital bed – time passed like a foxtrot, quick quick slow slow. Then, as if her hard drive had finished rebooting, she was suddenly alert. She sat up. Thirsty. She found an emergency call button; pressed it. She saw her medical chart clipped to the end of her bed; pulled it free.
The chart said: Lainie Idris. Viral encephalitis, possible contagion, induced coma, quarantine. St. Thomas’ Hospital. So, she was in London. How could that be? How could she have got from Kampala to London without remembering? She felt nauseous, panicked. A precipice.
She tried to slow her breathing. She needed to call someone. A doctor, her partner, her boss, her mother. She pulled out the tubes from her mouth and nose. Tested her bare feet on the cold floor. Drew open the white plastic curtain. She was in a kind of isolation chamber – the only window was set into the door, and it had a biohazard sticker on it like from a cheap zombie film.
Through the window she could see –
Bodies.
The door didn’t open when she pushed it, but she found an emergency release button. The ward was large, with maybe two dozen beds, all occupied. Between the beds, more people on the floor. Some of the people wore paper robes, like her, some wore normal clothes. And some wore hospital scrubs – doctors and nurses.
Everybody was dead. She could tell from the purple skin blotches; the contorted expressions; the stillness. Above all, she could tell from the garbage-juice smell. She retched.
Had she caused this? Had she brought back some catastrophic virus?
Heaving, she shuffled through the makeshift mortuary and out into the corridor. More bodies. Sitting against the wall. Slumped over a desk. Lying across the stairs.
Her throat hurt. She stopped at a water cooler and helped herself to a paper cup, studying the morbid diorama before her. The water was so cold her teeth stung. She listened. The bubbling water cooler. Distant beeping. An electronic hum. And nothing else. She held the wall to steady herself.
The ward receptionist was still at his desk, phone off the hook. Lainie, trying not to touch the man’s body, picked up the phone. She reset the dial tone, and dialled the only number she remembered. Alice. A honeyed voice told her to please dial 7 for an outside line. She wiped tears from her cheek and, shaking, tried again.
Lainie and Alice had got married – technically a civil partnership – last year. They had a small ceremony, to save money, and a honeymoon in the Hebrides. They had decided to get the dog first, then a house, then a child. Maybe two children. Rock paper scissors to decide who would carry. Alice hated when Lainie had to travel for work, but the time apart kept the relationship fresh. Lainie had named the dog Amanda, after her favourite poet – the dog was male, but since it had been neutered they figured it didn’t matter.
After about thirty rings, the phone cut out.
Lainie considered dialling 999, looked around, and put the phone down, trembling.
Her throat hurt. Her legs felt weak. There was a coat rack in the reception area – she took a very handsome greatcoat, and put it on over her paper robe. And she followed the signs for Exit.
By the time she reached the outside she was limping, almost staggering. Was there something in the air? At the front of the hospital was a garden with an oversize statue of Mary Seacole. At the foot of the statue, more dead people. Until today, she had never seen a real dead body, and now she had seen hundreds. There were bodies huddled on public benches, lying in the street, sitting in cars.
Was this a virus? Was this her fault?
She hobbled to the roadside, feeling the rough concrete pavement at her feet, looking for any signs of life. Wafts of rot teased her senses. She walked along Westminster Bridge towards the Houses of Parliament, stopping to watch the Thames flow upstream in the brilliant sunshine.
The Thames is a tidal river, she thought, that’s why it seems to be flowing in the wrong direction. It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream.
It’s not a dream.
Her legs gave way beneath her. For a moment, she blacked out. A seizure? Her throat itched so badly she wanted to turn it inside out and scour it with a scrubbing brush. She moaned, surprised by the sound of her voice. Everything else was outer-space silent. She stared up at marshmallow clouds. There were odd golden-brown streaks across the sky, like perverse aurora borealis.
There was poison in the air. She could not have been the cause of that.
Lainie listened to the silence, straining to hear something. Anything. Yes! There! Birdsong. Only for a second, but definitely, beautifully, birdsong. A sparrow, maybe, or a starling. And then a cataclysmic sound that made Lainie’s heart jump. It was Big Ben cheerfully chiming the quarter-hour. She curled up against the stentorian, incomprehensible din-din-din-din.
When the bell finally fell silent, Lainie tried to stand. But she could not. Her muscles twitched and cramped. She sat – and saw something move.
There was a person. A living, walking miracle! Wearing what looked like a yellow spacesuit. A biohazard suit, perhaps. Walking towards her, along the bridge. Thank god, she thought. Thank god! She had never put much stock in god, but couldn’t help thanking him now.
The figure walked slowly, as if the suit was heavy. Through the mask, she could see his face: crow’s feet around gentle brown eyes, a confident jawline. He was coming. He would save her. He would make things right.
“Help,” she called out, her voice breaking.
He kneeled next to her. “What’s your name?” he asked in a soothing baritone.
“Lainie… Idris,” she responded, breathless.
“How did you survive, Lainie?”
“What… happened?”
“A cleansing, many years in the planning.”
“What’s in… the sky?”
“Manufactured biotoxins. An unimaginably vast quantity, distributed globally using sophisticated aerosol nanotech. My own design. 99.97% coverage, according to my instruments.”
“My… throat. I can’t… move.”
“The fact you’re still talking suggests the concentration of toxin has greatly reduced.”
“Is that… good news?”
“Well, it means my instruments are probably correct.”
“I was… sick. Woke up… in hospital… in quarantine.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“How many others… are dead?”
“Hm. Probably not everyone, not yet. Another couple of weeks. Then, no more noise and fuss. A clean world.”
Lainie sobbed. “That’s – tragic.”
“For whom?” said the man. “If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one left to hear it…”
She gasped for breath. Looked into his warm brown eyes. “You. Why. You did this.”
“And I’ll finish.”
He leant over her and pressed his thumbs into her throat, pushing and pushing until –
Charlie Fish
When Lainie woke up, everybody was dead.
She didn’t know, at first. She didn’t know anything. She woke with tubes coming out of her, things tied to her, rhythmic beeping, an antiseptic smell, and she couldn’t even remember her own name. No-one came to check on her, so she allowed herself to sink back into unconsciousness.
The next thing she knew was pain. She tried to think, but her head pulsed and surged like hurricane waves. Every minute or so, the crashing white noise in her skull would recede for a few seconds. During one of these lulls, she tried to move. During another, she tried to call for help.
Gradually, she remembered. She had been on location in Uganda, Unit Production Manager for a documentary about a local filmmaker. The shoot wrapped, and she was due to return to London. But what happened after?
There was a wrap party. Had she gone? She remembered complaining of a headache. She remembered concerned colleagues. She remembered that she needed to get up early on Monday. What day was it today?
It might have been hours or days that Lainie lay in that hospital bed – time passed like a foxtrot, quick quick slow slow. Then, as if her hard drive had finished rebooting, she was suddenly alert. She sat up. Thirsty. She found an emergency call button; pressed it. She saw her medical chart clipped to the end of her bed; pulled it free.
The chart said: Lainie Idris. Viral encephalitis, possible contagion, induced coma, quarantine. St. Thomas’ Hospital. So, she was in London. How could that be? How could she have got from Kampala to London without remembering? She felt nauseous, panicked. A precipice.
She tried to slow her breathing. She needed to call someone. A doctor, her partner, her boss, her mother. She pulled out the tubes from her mouth and nose. Tested her bare feet on the cold floor. Drew open the white plastic curtain. She was in a kind of isolation chamber – the only window was set into the door, and it had a biohazard sticker on it like from a cheap zombie film.
Through the window she could see –
Bodies.
The door didn’t open when she pushed it, but she found an emergency release button. The ward was large, with maybe two dozen beds, all occupied. Between the beds, more people on the floor. Some of the people wore paper robes, like her, some wore normal clothes. And some wore hospital scrubs – doctors and nurses.
Everybody was dead. She could tell from the purple skin blotches; the contorted expressions; the stillness. Above all, she could tell from the garbage-juice smell. She retched.
Had she caused this? Had she brought back some catastrophic virus?
Heaving, she shuffled through the makeshift mortuary and out into the corridor. More bodies. Sitting against the wall. Slumped over a desk. Lying across the stairs.
Her throat hurt. She stopped at a water cooler and helped herself to a paper cup, studying the morbid diorama before her. The water was so cold her teeth stung. She listened. The bubbling water cooler. Distant beeping. An electronic hum. And nothing else. She held the wall to steady herself.
The ward receptionist was still at his desk, phone off the hook. Lainie, trying not to touch the man’s body, picked up the phone. She reset the dial tone, and dialled the only number she remembered. Alice. A honeyed voice told her to please dial 7 for an outside line. She wiped tears from her cheek and, shaking, tried again.
Lainie and Alice had got married – technically a civil partnership – last year. They had a small ceremony, to save money, and a honeymoon in the Hebrides. They had decided to get the dog first, then a house, then a child. Maybe two children. Rock paper scissors to decide who would carry. Alice hated when Lainie had to travel for work, but the time apart kept the relationship fresh. Lainie had named the dog Amanda, after her favourite poet – the dog was male, but since it had been neutered they figured it didn’t matter.
After about thirty rings, the phone cut out.
Lainie considered dialling 999, looked around, and put the phone down, trembling.
Her throat hurt. Her legs felt weak. There was a coat rack in the reception area – she took a very handsome greatcoat, and put it on over her paper robe. And she followed the signs for Exit.
By the time she reached the outside she was limping, almost staggering. Was there something in the air? At the front of the hospital was a garden with an oversize statue of Mary Seacole. At the foot of the statue, more dead people. Until today, she had never seen a real dead body, and now she had seen hundreds. There were bodies huddled on public benches, lying in the street, sitting in cars.
Was this a virus? Was this her fault?
She hobbled to the roadside, feeling the rough concrete pavement at her feet, looking for any signs of life. Wafts of rot teased her senses. She walked along Westminster Bridge towards the Houses of Parliament, stopping to watch the Thames flow upstream in the brilliant sunshine.
The Thames is a tidal river, she thought, that’s why it seems to be flowing in the wrong direction. It’s not a dream. It’s not a dream.
It’s not a dream.
Her legs gave way beneath her. For a moment, she blacked out. A seizure? Her throat itched so badly she wanted to turn it inside out and scour it with a scrubbing brush. She moaned, surprised by the sound of her voice. Everything else was outer-space silent. She stared up at marshmallow clouds. There were odd golden-brown streaks across the sky, like perverse aurora borealis.
There was poison in the air. She could not have been the cause of that.
Lainie listened to the silence, straining to hear something. Anything. Yes! There! Birdsong. Only for a second, but definitely, beautifully, birdsong. A sparrow, maybe, or a starling. And then a cataclysmic sound that made Lainie’s heart jump. It was Big Ben cheerfully chiming the quarter-hour. She curled up against the stentorian, incomprehensible din-din-din-din.
When the bell finally fell silent, Lainie tried to stand. But she could not. Her muscles twitched and cramped. She sat – and saw something move.
There was a person. A living, walking miracle! Wearing what looked like a yellow spacesuit. A biohazard suit, perhaps. Walking towards her, along the bridge. Thank god, she thought. Thank god! She had never put much stock in god, but couldn’t help thanking him now.
The figure walked slowly, as if the suit was heavy. Through the mask, she could see his face: crow’s feet around gentle brown eyes, a confident jawline. He was coming. He would save her. He would make things right.
“Help,” she called out, her voice breaking.
He kneeled next to her. “What’s your name?” he asked in a soothing baritone.
“Lainie… Idris,” she responded, breathless.
“How did you survive, Lainie?”
“What… happened?”
“A cleansing, many years in the planning.”
“What’s in… the sky?”
“Manufactured biotoxins. An unimaginably vast quantity, distributed globally using sophisticated aerosol nanotech. My own design. 99.97% coverage, according to my instruments.”
“My… throat. I can’t… move.”
“The fact you’re still talking suggests the concentration of toxin has greatly reduced.”
“Is that… good news?”
“Well, it means my instruments are probably correct.”
“I was… sick. Woke up… in hospital… in quarantine.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
“How many others… are dead?”
“Hm. Probably not everyone, not yet. Another couple of weeks. Then, no more noise and fuss. A clean world.”
Lainie sobbed. “That’s – tragic.”
“For whom?” said the man. “If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one left to hear it…”
She gasped for breath. Looked into his warm brown eyes. “You. Why. You did this.”
“And I’ll finish.”
He leant over her and pressed his thumbs into her throat, pushing and pushing until –
