Sweet (25 page)

“She should be here with me now. I bought her her own island to live on—but she was out watching the rioting and a group of them caught up with her. Too bad.”

Tom clears his throat.

“Are you worried about what will happen to the Pipop Corporation when people learn how dangerous and damaging Solu is?” Tom asks.

Almstead leans back.

“Pipop's gonna go under. And I'm glad,” he says. “The godforsaken shareholders! They're as bad as the customers. They wanted continual growth. ‘Conquer new markets. Create new products.' But when the chips were down, when the politicians started legislating against our company, did they stick up for me? No! Did they use their Washington connections to fight back? No!

“They're fat and lazy, too! Just want more money, more money. Feeding on my daddy's company. I'm hoping they'll all go to jail!”

He hoots with laughter.

“That would show them!”

It feels like this interview is coming to an end.

Oh God. I glance around us. Amos still has his handgun pressed into my belly. The scruffy guard is to my right, next to Rich. The other one, Vince, is near the door.

I need to come up with a
plan
!

I need to think.

Tom asks, “What do you see happening when the product hits the stores tonight?”

“I see a whole lot of waddling oinkers lining up for an easy fix. And they'll get a fix, all right.”

Tom shifts in his seat.

“But … Mr. Almstead, surely … surely you can't believe that people deserve to die because they're a little overweight. I mean, these are good people you're talking about. They didn't do anything wrong.”

“How do we know they're good? I mean, look at you and Laurel and Rich. You're all smart, healthy young people—none of you took it. You didn't fall for the trap because you're not fat and lazy.”

Tom is grinding his jaw. I can see the muscles in his jaw rippling.

“Aha! I see your disapproval there, Fiorelli,” Almstead continues. “If anyone should feel bad, it's me. I'm the one who's going to be looked down on throughout history as some kind of a genocidal maniac. That contempt for me you have—everyone's going to feel that way. But after a hundred years or so, they're going to respect me and what I'm doing for the world. Solu is going to cleanse America of the fat and the lazy. Can you imagine it?”

Tom starts to speak, but Almstead holds up his hand.

“My father brought Pipop to the world. And I'm bringing Solu. He made a contribution and I'm making a contribution,” Almstead says. He snaps his fingers at the tattooed mercenary. “Vince, there's a black metal briefcase in my closet. Bring it here.”

Vince hustles off.

“I want to show you something, Tom,” Almstead says.

Vince returns with the case.

Almstead snaps it open.

The eyes of the scruffy guard next to me open wide. His nostrils flare.

Inside, on a bed of foam, is one single can of soda. I bet I know what the sweetener is.

“Take a look at this,” Almstead crows.

He removes the soda. The design of the can is a play on the distinctive looping purple-and-white Pipop banner.

This is Solu-pop.

A can of Solu-pop.

“See? Here's the perfect marriage of my father's contribution and mine. Solu-pop. It's a prototype.

“I know we'll never get a chance to produce it, but I couldn't resist. We had to make it pretty concentrated to be sweet enough. Probably ten doses in this little can.”

Tom looks away in disgust.

Our time is running out.

Suddenly Almstead has a brainstorm. “Say, would anyone like to try it?”

Tom scoffs in disbelief. Rich gestures at him to play it cool.

The skinny guard next to me, he raises his hand slowly.

I gasp.

The guard looks to Amos, for permission.

“Are you kidding, Jensen? You've seen what it does.”

Jensen shrugs. “I feel … I don't care. I want it.”

Amos shrugs—his body language saying, “It's your funeral.”

Almstead holds the can out to the scruffy guy.

His hands are shaking as he steps forward.

This is my chance. This is my moment, and for a second, I am paralyzed.

“WAIT!” I say.

Everyone looks at me, surprised. (As if a floor lamp started speaking.)

“You need a glass and ice,” I say. “You have to do it right.”

They all boggle at me for a moment.

“This is a historic moment, guys. We have to do it right.”

Almstead beams at me.

“Good idea!” he says. “Just like a lady to think of something like that! The goodities and niceties!”

I bustle forward.

“Tom, get the guard a chair,” I instruct. “And you should introduce him properly. We're making television history here.”

Tom is looking at me with a “What the hell are you doing?” look on his face.

Almstead beams at me as I take the can from him.

“Aren't women wonderful? A different breed entirely!” he says.

I cross behind the men, into the kitchen of his suite.

I take a tall glass from the shelf.

Tom introduces the guard, whose name is Jimmy Jensen.

The fridge is dead, but I find some ice in a melting clump in the ice drawer.

I need to be very careful.

I pop the top on the can.

In the other room, I hear the guard gasp.

Jensen smells it.

I pour the soda over the ice.

I stop, my hands shaking. Maybe … maybe this is not going to work.

I thought Jensen would jump up by now.

Then I hear it. A sound like thunder. Thundering feet and screaming. The shrieking of the survivors on the ship.

“What on earth are they going on about now?” Almstead says.

I step back into the living room. Almstead, Tom, and the addict mercenary turn toward me.

Jensen licks his lips.

I step closer.

The sounds from the hallway grow louder and louder.

They smell it.

I dump the soda and ice over Almstead's head.

“Hey!” he protests.

Suddenly there's a loud
bang
on the door.

Voices screaming: “YOU HAVE IT. SOLUSOLUSOLU! GIVE IT TO US. LET US IN! LET US IIIINNNNN!”

Addicts. At the door.

They smelled the Solu.

(I knew they would.)

They smelled it through the door—through the hallways and corridors. Through the metal hull of the ship.

The suite's door explodes inward.

Tom stands and Amos hits him on the head with the butt of his gun. Tom drops!

Addicts swarm inside. First they hit the floor, licking and lapping. Then they smell it on Almstead.

And they jump him. Lick him, suck his hair. They bite him.

They tear at him.

They're pulling, trying to get him away from one another.

They rip him apart.

His screams are horrible.

I'm pushed, thrown down to the floor.

They're stepping on me, crushing me.

The smell is overwhelming. Blood and innards and bowels.

Ragged, dirty skeletons. Shoving and shrieking and clawing their way to Almstead's bloody bones and guts.

“Tom!” I scream. “Rich!”

I try to stand but I can't get up. I can't even get to my hands and knees.

The swarm is kicking, shoving me back, and then I feel my back to the wall.

I push with my arms and legs, pushing against the wall. I manage to get to my feet.

Where is Tom?

A sweating teenage boy in filthy underwear shoves against me to get forward.

I have to get to Tom.

 

TOM

DAY SIX

THERE'S A
SNAP
AND A
ROAR
of pain that brings me to my senses. My face is pressed to the ground and people are crawling over me.

My ankle is broken.

People are swarming on top of me, scrambling over me, and my blasted ankle is broken.

I look down, and oh God, the shape is wrong. There's a lump of bone jutting out above my ankle bone. Not breaking the skin, but wrong wrong wrong.

I retch; I can't help it.

It's the pain and the sight of it. The agony is surging through me. Feels like a buzzing swarm of flies in my blood, lifting and settling.

There's a high heel embedded in my forearm.

A scrawny, screaming harpy is standing on my arm and her heel is piercing my flesh.

I have to get up. NOW.

That a-hole hit me on the head with his gun. I remember.

“Laurel!” I shout.

God, she got Almstead. She killed him.

I try to stand up. My ankle screeches STOP. But I can't stop. I have to get up.

I shove and elbow addicts off me. They're feeding on a bloody, meaty something. A skeleton.

I have to stand on my left leg. I use the muscles of my left leg to haul me up.

I do a one-legged leg press for my frickin' life.

The pain rushes up and I'm going to pass out but I just lean to the side, into the mass of wriggling addicts.

“Laurel!” I croak. The room is spinning.

An electric pain flares and I look down to see an addict woman pressing the high-heel puncture wound on my arm.

It's Lorna Kreiger.

Lorna Kreiger is digging her finger into the hole.

“Get away!” I shout.

She smells the blood on her fingers and grimaces, like she's smelling bad milk. There's no Solu in my blood—so she's disappointed.

I don't see Laurel anywhere. I can't find her.

Then there's machine-gun fire.

It's Amos. He's firing into the crowd, into the addicts coming through the door.

“OUT OF THE WAY!” he shouts.

He is shooting his way through the crowd, trying to get out of the room.

Now the screeching addicts turn on one another—drinking the blood of the fallen.

This is hell. This is a living hell.

Blue blips of light swoop and flock in my vision.

I tell myself,
You pass out, you die.

And thank God, thank God, I hear Laurel's voice.

“Tom!” she sobs. “Tom!”

She's climbing over the addicts. She's crawling over them; her arms reach out to me.

“You did it!” I say. “Laurel, you did it.”

I pull her to me and she shoves and kicks her way down till her feet hit the floor.

I'm so happy to see her. So relieved she's all right. I want to hold her, but I can barely stay up. Only the press of addicts is keeping me upright.

Laurel wipes my face and I realize she's wiping away my puke. Once I would have been embarrassed. Now I'm just thankful we're both alive.

“Are you okay?” she shouts.

“My ankle's snapped,” I tell her.

She looks down.

“Oh, man,” she says.

Someone crashes into me and I try not to scream like a girl.

The insane, churning mill of addicts presses in on us from every side.

My ankle is screeching nonstop—like the pain is the sound made by bones rubbing together.

“We have to get out of this room!” Laurel yells.

I try to keep myself vertical, but they're all over us. They are thickest at the door, shoving and climbing over one another.

A skeleton draped in hanging folds of skin grabs my hair and tries to crawl over me. A naked woman covered in red marks—bite marks—puts her bare foot on Laurel's shoulder to push off. We're getting buried alive in bodies.

Then
RATATATATAT
.

Rich is holding a machine gun and firing into the ceiling.

“Everybody down!” he shouts. “Get down or die!”

They cower. They cower for a moment and Rich holds his hand out to Laurel.

“Come on, you two, let's get the hell out of here!”

Laurel kicks her way out and I follow the best I can, leaning on her and dragging my right leg. I can't hold it up high—the pain won't let me. It catches on people's limbs and I nearly black out over and over again.

The hallway is glutted, but with some more fire from Rich into the ceiling, we make it out of the press of bloodthirsty skeletons.

I lurch, falling facedown onto the floor. I'm not going to be able to get up. I'm not.

The floor is cool under my face and I close my eyes.

Laurel and Rich drop next to me.

“We made it,” Rich says. “We're alive. We're alive!”

“Tom broke his ankle,” Laurel tells Rich. “He can't walk.”

“I thought we were all going to die,” Rich continues. “Laurel, you were amazing! And I got you guys out of there! This gun is amazing!”

“Rich! Tom broke his ankle. Look!”

Only now does Rich look at me.

“Oh no, no, no. Is that his bone? That is disgusting.”

Face pressed against the floor, I glare at him.

“We'll get you some help,” Rich says. “Can you walk?”

“No,” I say.

Not “I'll try.” Not “maybe.”

Just no.

I just can't.

My whole body is starting to shake. And I'm cold, I realize. Very cold.

“Leave me,” I say.

“Not in a million years,” Laurel tells me.

“Not on your life,” Rich says simultaneously.

So they drag me.

Rich loops a piece of discarded clothing from the floor under my arms. He takes one sleeve, Laurel takes the other and they drag me down the hall.

Some addicts dodge past us, hoarding pieces of cloth. They snarl and dart at one another like wild dogs.

If they notice us, they don't show it.

*   *   *

The business center is on the same deck as Almstead's suite.

That's lucky.

Stairs would kill me.

Rich and Laurel drag me to the far hallway wall and leave me there, propped up against the wall. We can hear people, sane people, trying to break down the doors.