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Krugman pours himself another shot. He swirls the whisky in his hand, seeming not to notice the few drops that spill out. “What if, indeed? We shall never know. The financiers got cold feet and pulled the plug on the whole operation. But one fringe fanatic member of the Ceylonites, a twenty-seven-year-old man by the name of Ashane Alagaratnam, was obsessed with the experiments; even after financing fell through and the lab shut down, he stole supplies and equipment from the compound. Disavowed by the Ceylonite leadership, Alagaratnam continued his research in his hideaway, makeshift lab. The fool.
“The authorities eventually caught on, arrested all those involved. Except for Alagaratnam. By that time, he was on the lam, had gone dark, was off the grid. We know scant little about what happened over the next few years. But what we do know: he eventually ran out of money until he didn’t have enough finances to purchase even test mice. And so he used the only test mouse he could afford.”
“He used himself,” I whisper.
Krugman nods. “Something went wrong. Horribly wrong. Only he didn’t know it. The changes being wrought in him, they gestated under his skin, hidden from view. So he kept on experimenting on himself, oblivious to what he was unleashing inside. When the symptoms broke out, they did so slowly at first. Heightened sensitivity to sunlight, a growing disdain for vegetables coupled with a newfound relish for all meats, the rarer and bloodier the better. Then one day…”
“His symptoms became more obvious,” Sissy ventures.
Krugman laughs, his eyes briefly clenching shut. “To say they became more obvious … that’s putting it mildly. Cataclysmic is more like it. Alagaratnam kept a video journal, now a preserved historical artifact. You can see his rapid disintegration on-screen. The symptoms gushed out over the course of only a few hours. What started out as a zit-sized mark on his face, ended up a … cataclysmic explosion of nightmarish proportions mere hours later.” He takes another swig, chugs it.
“The saving grace was that this all took place on the small island nation of Sri Lanka. Obviously, that island nation was devastated, the whole population transmuted within a week. But at least the outbreak was contained. Outbound planes were immediately shot down, boats easily sunk. And that’s all we had to do to contain it. Watch the skies, monitor the seas. Let the sunlight kill the hideously transformed. Eventually, the transmuted people ventured outside only after dusk. That’s how they got their name, duskers. These weren’t zombie savages incapable of reflection and self-awareness, or brutes filled with hedonistic, prurient tendencies. But for their lust for human blood and flesh, they were otherwise … civil. Intelligent. They knew who they were, spoke and thought with self-reflection. When food whittled away—when there were no more humans, no more animals to feed on—they didn’t turn to cannibalism. They simply starved to death. Or ran, in group suicidal pacts, into the blazing sun.”
“And so that’s how it ended?” I ask.
Krugman’s eyes squeeze shut again, and his whole body starts jiggling up and down. No sound escapes his mouth. A line of tears streaks out, coursing down his chubby cheeks. The strands of hair on his mole lick up the tears.
“Really? That’s how it ended? I mean, really? Then how did all those duskers end up out there? Then why are we, centuries later, still dealing with them?” His laughter suddenly stops on a dime. “You can’t stop a contagion,” he says, his voice beginning to slur.
“What happened next?” Sissy asks.
“To this day,” he says, wiping at his tears, “we don’t know how the contagion leaked. Not with certainty, anyway. Some have speculated that a bird—with a smidgen of dusker saliva on its feathers—must have flown undetected from Sri Lanka to India. And then perhaps a kindhearted child picked up the wounded bird, and the dot of saliva rubbed against … a paper cut? Who knows?”
He runs his finger along the rim of the tumbler. “Things looked desperate for a while. Whole continents were taken over by the duskers, the world population left huddling in forgotten corners of the globe. The South Pole, with its twenty-four hours of sunlight, was initially very popular. That is, until the summer ended and the season of unceasing night began.” His lips press together. “All over the world, these were very dark times. When the demise of humankind seemed inevitable and imminent.”
“What happened then?” I say. “To humankind.”
“A miracle. Historical accounts are sketchy, but a game changer came out of nowhere.”
“A game changer?” I say.
“Actually, more like a destiny changer. Felt that way, anyway. On this little island off the coast of China called Cheung Chau. A young woman by the name of Jenny Shen, working alone and hidden in an otherwise abandoned island village, heroically found an antidote. I don’t have time to go into the details, but suffice it to say that the antidote was successful. Over the course of many decades, the tide turned. Eventually, we had the duskers on the run. Ultimately, ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent of the duskers were wiped out.”
“What about the remaining hundredth of one percent?” Sissy asks.
Krugman pauses. “They were immune to the antidote. For whatever reason, instead of killing them, the antidote only made the few stronger, stouter. Faster. Scarier. But this pesky group was small enough in number that we were eventually able to round them all up, encage them. They were about two weeks from orders of extermination when bleeding-heart liberals and the religious right joined hands.” He spits out the next few words. “They made strange bedfellows, let me tell you. With a unified, formidable voice, they urged that if humans were indeed the more enlightened species, then we could not subject duskers to execution. The liberal left championed the duskers’ inalienable rights. The evangelical right claimed that the duskers possessed souls capable of redemption, souls that could be saved. Blah, blah, blah. The fools, both camps. And the general public, too, for buying into it.
“The short end of it all is that the remaining duskers—two hundred and seventy-three of them—had their executions commuted and were instead sentenced to exile. After some debate, the international tribunals elected to throw the duskers into the desert. Into an abandoned city in the desert, to be exact, a perfect prison with already-constructed homes and hotels and buildings sitting empty. We erased their memories, then threw them out there. Gave them some raw materials to work with. We felt certain that the hundreds of miles of desert under a scorching sun made for an uncrossable buffer between them and us. And it has: it’s proven to be the thickest prison bar, the securest prison facility ever. A veritable moat of acid, an impassable galaxy between us and them.”
His tongue snakes out, licking his blubbery lips. “The only problem was we didn’t anticipate them being so…” He sighs, heavily, spittle spraying off his lips. “We sent them out there to eventually go extinct, to die on their own terms in their own time, in a way that didn’t upset the bleeding hearts or religious right. But we didn’t know how resilient these duskers would be. Ultimately, they’re plucky at heart, resourceful survivors, and that’s what they’ve done. Survive. Actually, over the centuries, they’ve done more than survive. They’ve thrived. They’ve perpetuated their own species. Like a pack of rats. Built up a whole metropolis, developed their own technology. To the extent that now all we can do is keep an eye on them, and stay completely out of sight. Those duskers catch a whiff of us, they get the slightest inkling, and they’ll be crossing the desert to devour us, come hell or sunlight.”
Krugman stares down at the tumbler. He sets it down, picks up the whisky bottle, and drinks straight out of it. His eyes flush watery and bloodshot. “And that, my ladies and gentlemen, is why we’re here. Why the Mission is here. To be the watchful eyes of humanity. An outpost to keep a lookout for duskers. Because these duskers are frisky as a pack of dogs in heat, let me tell you. Now, centuries later, there’re close to five million of them, if our estimations are anywhere near accurate. And so we keep watch over them. Make sure they aren’t developing technology that would enable them t
o traverse the desert.” He sniffs. “You should be happy to know that after centuries of observation, it appears the duskers don’t have the slightest inclination to stray. They really do hate the sunlight.”
I glance over at Sissy. Like me, she’s shocked, barely able to register this deluge of information. Her mouth slack, her skin pale, she turns her head. Our eyes meet like arms reaching out, clasping.
I speak, my voice wrung out. “Tell me how Elder Joseph fits into all this.”
Krugman pauses for a long time. I think he’s going to end the meeting; he’s tottering with indecision. Then he speaks, softly, as to himself. “He was a brilliant scientist, one of the keenest minds I’ve ever worked with. Young, brash, prodigious. We enjoyed a level of simpatico, he and I, in the early years.”
“The early years?” I say.
“Before he…” Krugman shakes his head. “Before he went off the deep end. Although even back then, there were signs of his instability. He worked obsessively in his laboratory, with a dedication that bordered on obsession. He came to believe that a cure could be derived for duskers. Some kind of curative concoction that would reverse—yes, reverse—the mutations in the dusker genetic code sequence. Something he called the Origin.” Krugman’s eyes flash toward us for a second. “But the Scientist needed to better understand the physiology of the duskers, had to collect samples. And so he arrived at a conclusion that proved to be his eventual undoing: that he needed to go into the duskers’ metropolis.
“It was a ludicrous notion, of course, and I think deep down he knew it. For years, he stalled, trying to find some other way to concoct the Origin. But in the end, he realized there was no other option. He needed to venture into the duskers’ metropolis. And not alone. He’d have to collect a ton of samples; he’d have to take a team in with him. Sounds crazy, sounds like no one would sign up for it. But he had a way with words, and a charisma that dripped and oozed. He played on their religious sentiment, arguing that it was our spiritual duty to do this. That it was all for the good of the duskers’ souls. Before long, he convinced a group of about thirty—thirty!—to go with him. Across the desert and into the hornets’ nest.”
“When?”
“What, two, three decades ago? They snuck into the dusker city, intending to stay for a couple of weeks at most. But they severely underestimated the … tenacity of the duskers. The unimaginable happened. Or the utterly predictable, depends how you see it, I suppose. Our people got separated, then devoured within days, if not hours. Communication lines were completely compromised, transportation channels destroyed. They were pushed into hiding and when food resources ran out, they were left with only one option: infiltrate and merge into society, pretend to be a dusker. And years, decades passed, without a word from them. Frankly, we thought they were all dead.
“And then, a few years ago, Elder Joseph came back. Like a phantom made flesh and blood again. Walked right out of those woods, through the gates, and into the Mission. A miracle dropped from the skies. Or a curse. Because he was a broken man, eyes wild, given to fanciful notions. He insisted on staying here at the outpost, on continuing his research in the laboratory. He declined every offer to be honorably discharged and returned to the Civilization.”
Sissy’s head cocks right at this. “Wait,” she says. “What do you mean?”
Krugman is puzzled. “He wanted to stay. What option—”
“No, no,” Sissy says, shaking her head. “The part about returning to civilization.”
“Well,” Krugman says, confused, “this isn’t the Civilization. The Mission is just an outpost, like I said. Haven’t you been listening? There’s a whole wide world out there, ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine-nine percent of the rest of the globe, filled with our people, our cities, our civilization. We’ve had to rebuild ever since the dusker uprising, and we’re not anywhere close to our pre-dusker days, but we’re slowly getting there.”
Sissy and I stand dumbfounded.
“What did you think was out there?” he asks. His face is brittle with bewilderment, his glassy eyes probing us.
“I thought the earth was filled with peop—with duskers,” I say. “I didn’t think there were many of us left, perhaps only a scattering in isolated pockets.” In fact, until three weeks ago, I’d thought I was the last of our kind. Until, that is, I encountered the group in the Dome. Until Ashley June revealed herself. Until the Director disclosed—perhaps inadvertently—the existence of hundreds more like us imprisoned like cattle at the Ruler’s Palace.
Krugman stares wide-eyed at us. “Come here,” he says, beckoning with his arm. Whisky spills out of the bottle. “Come to the window. Let me show you something.”
He jabs the window. “Over there,” he says, “in the distance. Just off the ridgeline, there where the land drops into the deep ravine.”
We see it. A double-leaf bascule bridge, the two lifted halves standing sky-high and upright like sentries posted on opposite sides of the deep ravine. “About once a fortnight,” Krugman says, “our supplies arrive. By train. Food, furniture, crops, medicine. That’s what you wanted to know, isn’t it? It all comes by train. We lower the halves of the bridge. The train crosses. We unload it at the station. Then we send the train back, takes about four days each way. A little shorter on the way back to the Civilization on account of the steep descent from the mountain. The train positively flies down. And it’s all self-automated. Quite a marvel how simple it is: push a few buttons, and away it goes, the bridge lowering, the train disappearing down the mountain. Doors remain locked until they reach the destination points, be it here or the Civilization. Usually, we send the train back with a list of any supply needs beyond the usual requirements. And, on special occasions, the train leaves here with a passenger. Or two.”
Sissy and I turn to look at him.
He nods, a dull glint in his eyes. “For those who have served well, those who have been commendable in their service of the Mission, a reward awaits them in the form of an honorable discharge. For the select few, they get to ride the train back to the Civilization, where they will be opulently compensated with a government stipend to last them for the rest of their lives. But it has to be earned.”
“With Merit Marks,” I say, realizing.
Krugman, with an expression of mild surprise and faint respect, nods. “You don’t miss much. Yes, Merit Marks. Earn five Merit Marks, and you’ve earned your ticket back to the Civilization. Mind you, it usually takes at least a decade of service.”
“How do you get one of these Merit Marks?” I ask.
“Oh, many are the ways, I suppose. Unflinching adherence to the bylaws, love for the eldership and citizenry of the Mission, giving birth to a healthy child. Demonstrated diligence to daily duties over a decade of service. That sort of thing.”
“And what about a Demerit Designation?” I ask. “How do you get one of those?”
The room falls quiet. “Ah, yes. Demerit Designations. Quite simply, disobedience to the bylaws will earn you a Demerit Designation. Or two. Depends on the level of transgression. But come now, that is not what we’re about here at the Mission. We’d much rather focus on the positives, the Merit Marks—”
“Let me guess,” I say, recalling the girls with brandings and tattoos on their left and right arms. “One Demerit Designation subtracts against the total Merit Marks. One branding scar nullifies one smiley face. Makes it that much more difficult to get to five.” And what happens when you get to five Demerit Designations? I’m thinking to ask when Krugman interrupts my thoughts.
“Subtraction, I suppose, yes. But we here at the Mission prefer to see it as addition by subtraction. Keeps enthusiasm up, morale up, incentivizes the citizenry.” Krugman smiles, puts his hands on my shoulders, squeezes reassuringly. “I can see what this is about. You’re worried about”—he flicks his chin at Sissy—“your girl here. About her many transgressions. Look, don’t worry. We’re not going to hold it against her. In fact, don’t even worry about Demerit Desi
gnations or Merit Marks. You’ve all been fast-tracked. You’re not going to have to wait: not a decade, not a year, not a month or a fortnight, even. See, a train is scheduled to arrive here later tonight. It’ll take us several hours to unload the supplies. And then, if all goes well, all six of you will embark the train late tomorrow and journey to the Civilization. To your well-deserved oasis.”
Sissy puts her fingers on the window, presses her palm against it. She shakes her head. “Sorry, this is all coming at us so fast.”
“I understand.”
For a minute, we stare at the bridge, trying to digest all this paradigm-shattering information. “Why have you decided to fast-track us?” Sissy asks.
Krugman laughs, shoots a knowing glance at the other elders. “As if I have a say in it!” He opens a drawer in his desk, takes out an envelope, a thick royal red wax seal broken across the opening. He slips out a single piece of paper with embossed letterhead and hands it to me. “A letter from the headquarters in the Civilization. Go ahead, read it for her.”
I don’t bother to correct Krugman’s misassumption that Sissy is illiterate. Instead, I unfold the paper, stare at the cursive handwriting. Sissy leans in to read.
The Civilization has recently received credible intelligence that a group of six young people, ranging between the ages of five and seventeen, have escaped from dusker imprisonment. Our agents have informed us that they are likely headed toward the Mission. Should they reach said destination, they are to be treated with the utmost care and hospitality. They are to board the very next train and be brought back to the Civilization. It is imperative that they return with “the Origin.”
Yours, the Civilization.
“We received that letter only a few weeks ago,” Krugman says. “That’s why we weren’t completely astonished when you appeared at our doorstep. We were expecting you, see.”
