The Blight

“You can't cheat the system! How many times do we have to go over this?”

He hated to shout. Embarrassed, he looked out from the boardroom window and tried to calm down. A muted yellow glow to the west caught his eye and reminded him night was coming; they should all be home by now.

“We never know until we try.” Cunningham urged. “And it isn't cheating. We're just--- manipulating factors in our favor.”

McKay hardly heard him. He was studying the grey faces of high rises and office buildings much like their own--- all sad monuments to man's futility. Five years since the Blight started those structures still stood defiant against the smog choked sky, over a city no longer alive with noise and commotion. Here and there a light flicked on in those sightless glass eyes though McKay was convinced those lights grew less every week. With the influx of refugees from the suburbs, there should be more.

It was like watching an old friend die.

"---less than a week!"

He caught the end of Roger's argument and forced himself away from the depressing view. Within the room it was no better; two years ago there were twenty of them packed around the table and now only nine. Fewer opinions did not make the job any easier.

"I agree with Roger." It was Sid Petry, who rarely agreed with anything. "Baxter left you in charge, but if the board votes to bend the rules--"

"I never wanted to be Director!" McKay's objection was nothing new. "Cunningham—Spencer—you all know that! But Bax put me here and I’ll be damned if we’re going to start fiddling with the rules now!”

“Gentlemen, please.” Miss Rawlings interrupted in a firm, calm voice. She was the only woman left in the group, and rarely spoke up. They quickly obliged her request with silence. “Thank you. It’s pointless to debate that now. Mr. Baxter knew what he was doing. He was still in his right mind when he appointed Mr. McKay. We’ve followed the rules every term and have managed to survive.”

“Some of us.” Petry muttered with a smirk. She ignored this and continued.

“And until such time as we are informed the contract is satisfied, we are left with a set of regulations open to interpretation.”’

“We’ve less than a week!” Cunningham repeated. “The lottery’s pointless—people have found their way around it, and unless there’s a volunteer, we’ll be in violation—”

“Don’t you think we know that?” McKay grumbled. “Look, we need to give this a little more thought—at least I do. It’s getting dark and we all have to get home. We’ll resume tomorrow. Spencer, can you have those updated lottery figures for us? Good. We’ll discuss options in the morning, when heads are clear and we start fresh. By the end of the day we’ll have something concrete.”

The meeting adjourned, everyone was quick to depart. The trams would stop running in an hour and the city would lock down for the night. Except for the police and the Crazies there wouldn’t be anyone on the streets. McKay turned his gaze back to the city one last time.

There were more lights in windows now, and he took some hope from that. Back before the whole insane business started the air would be full of voices, taxi horns, and music from a dozen directions. Members of the board and assorted Baxter employees would be heading to Dolan’s Pub or Bob’s Steakhouse to wind down, with a hundred theatre marquees lighting their way. That was before They made contact.

Now it was a frantic scramble to make a commute from work before dark set in. Spencer still had a car and there was a carpool of sorts if you got to the garage in time. It wasn’t so bad for McKay. He only had a few blocks to travel and a cozy little apartment waiting. He could just as easily stay at the office and sleep, now that Maria was gone.

They had been lucky to find that place when he was first transferred, back before anyone ever heard of the Blight. It was close to her favorite stores, and a stone’s throw from the office. He’d leave work every evening at five on the dot and hurry home to the woman he still adored after twenty years of marriage. They would each share news of their day, and how she was doing so well selling her paintings. Life may not have been perfect but it was good.

Ironic, really. The home they had shared and loved was little more than a tomb now, where he shut himself safely away from the world every night.

The phone beeped and drew him back to the present. Stanley, the security guard downstairs, had been looking over the sign out roster.

“Mr. McKay?”

With a sigh, the boss replied.

“I’m on my way.”

“Thank you, sir”

McKay stepped into the elevator and began the descent. Good old Stanley. Always the faithful watchman, the fellow had been with Baxter’s since anyone could remember. It was always some comfort to see that familiar toothy grin as they wished each other good night.

McKay heard the door lock behind him; three blocks and he’d be locked in as safe and sound as Stanley Ibford.

There was a chill in the air he didn’t expect. McKay pulled his collar tight, convinced it was the climate and not the dread of the city in twilight. He made the walk twice daily, but owing to the Board’s recent discussion, he was uneasy. They were truly down to the wire, with less than a week to devise a solution that would accommodate the other organizations in their jurisdiction. Getting their approval would eat up time. McKay rankled that this wasn’t done months ago.

He passed the places he and Maria used to frequent; Chelsea’s Café, the Bernard Gallery, Bateman’s Grocery--- even Club Ascot held its own bittersweet memories. They had all gone out of business. Owners were dying off, or afraid their establishments may be blamed for infections. Better to close up shop and hide until the Blight ran its course—or terms of the contract were fulfilled.

The Crazies were stirring now and McKay quickened his pace.

Alleys once lit by street traffic and business fronts became abysmal dark pits between boarded shops after sunset. He could hear mumbled voices, shuffling and less recognizable sounds as he passed each maw. One block left, he walked down the middle of the street to keep clear of surprises. The Crazies were not known to be aggressive—at least not often. It was more to prevent contagion that he took the precaution.

He arrived home wondering if something couldn’t be done for those poor shambling wrecks. For some of the infected, like his Maria, the Blight was mercifully quick. She died within days after catching the bug from old Mr. Ogilvy.

Maria had been caring for their neighbor while he was ill, and after the old man died she locked herself in their guest room to keep her husband safe and spare him the sight of her decline; mouth rot, loose and lost teeth, black and purple blotches around eyes, ears and…. other places. Like a rotting piece of fruit, the afflicted ended up resembling jack-o-lanterns left over from some long forgotten Halloween—hence the unofficial appellation ‘Blight’. People turned into decaying vegetables with brains softened and speech slurred beyond understanding.

He was inconsolable when the health department came in their biohazard suits to take her body away. He sealed off the guest room after that.

He hated to admit that Maria had been lucky. Not like those who wandered the streets babbling, drooling or even calling to loved ones. The Blight could take months to kill, longer if well meaning residents tossed scraps of food into the streets at nightfall. Every morning on his way to the office McKay would see the trucks and the teams of the white clad workmen collecting the victims that had succumbed during the night. It seemed to him there were fewer trucks and less workmen in recent months. Nobody was safe.

He was too restless to sleep, unable to turn off his brain after the board meeting. Two a.m. found McKay in his living room, flipping through photo albums to revisit happier times. Despite the smiles each image gave, he could not come to terms with the boardroom discussion.

Cunningham, Spencer and a few others claimed to have a solution to their dilemma. The contract clearly stated that Baxter’s and the other firms were to select a candidate every season to be sent to their Guests. These Guests had arrived uninvited and brought with them, intentionally or otherwise, the Blight that had devastated their hosts. Since that time They had secluded themselves—in the desert according to rumors.

Many claimed it was the government’s fault; some virus escaped a lab and They were a cover up.

A contract was offered the survivors stipulating that the candidate needed to fit a set criteria. Gender didn’t matter, but said individual must be in excellent health, well educated, of good character, no younger than twenty five years of age and no older than fifty. The ultimate purpose was never made clear, though it was thought by some that They were perfecting a vaccine to permit the two species safe co-existence.

It was the Blight that most concerned everyone, and that none of the candidates ever returned.

The answer had been sought first in volunteers and then later through a lottery. Both were less than effective and if the contract was not honored the surviving human race was promised reprisal. The Blight was bad enough; what else They had in store was as elusive as their original purpose—or their need for the seasonal sacrifice. McKay thought it was not unlike those mythic ancient Gods that extorted human lives in exchange for a good harvest.

Cunningham wanted to bend the rules more than a little. Along with some colleagues, he thought that they might acquire a candidate if they bought one.

“Everyone is struggling, and someone in a poorer section of town might meet at least some of the qualifications. If their family would benefit financially, they might be persuaded.”

McKay maintained it was unthinkable no matter how bizarre the contract and circumstances.

After a short nap, he woke in a much better frame of mind. He was convinced that the elusive answer was within reach. After a shower he dressed in his best suit and favorite tie, packed a photo in his briefcase that might grace his office, and grabbed his umbrella. The walk to work was no less dismal that usual but at least the sun was shining..

Stanley Ibford was still on duty, and commented that McKay was earlier than usual.

“Much to do today, Stanley. Best get an early start.”

He would only be in his office half an hour.

By the time Cunningham and the others arrived, all they found was the letter of intent.

“You can all rest easy, the problem is solved. I hereby resign my post, leaving you in the capable hands of Cunningham, who I recommend for the director's position. I am an intelligent man of forty seven, in perfect health as of my last physical. I believe you’ll find I match the qualifications as stipulated in the contract. I’ve a long walk ahead of me to the designated place of retrieval, and urge no one to follow and try to convince me otherwise. Truth is, I am happy to go, and with any luck by next season there will be no more need for a contract of any kind.”


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