This Rapturous Blooming

When I am done, the entire planet will sing the name Dr. Fiona Evanston. Biological warfare has nearly destroyed us, but my work shall carry us into a new age. Unlike my short-sighted colleagues at the Regenerative Center, I’m the one who has a cure for humanity’s infertility. They’re fixated on theories that have yet to produce a single result, but I’m the one who’s unstable?

I’m proving them wrong, though disgrace has had its challenges. The laboratory downtown is still closed to me, forcing me to hide in a crumbling shopping center at the heart of an abandoned suburb. The chemical fallout has left little uncontaminated.

But true science can never be denied.

I walk up the metal spines of the escalator, my fingers gripping the brittle rubber handrail for balance. Even after ten years, I wish the escalator would move. Troy is waiting for me, the only one who ever believed in my findings. I wrote paper after paper trying to convince the others, peer-reviewed by him. Now, he’s here to see me finally succeed.

Above me, copper-speckled vines tendril through the cracked windows and slither over the skylights. I dip a coupe glass into the makeshift pond in a display case. Irises lift their purple heads into the dusty air, roots thick as knucklebones, purifying the water into something drinkable. After so many long nights, I’d give almost anything for a cup of coffee, if only I could risk hunting for supplies outside the shopping center.

But there’s no time—I’m too close to saving the human race. In a porcelain serving bowl, the moonglow lichen is finally accepting the algae. It’s a delicate courtship. The contents glitter like a cosmos turned liquid, palest silver streaked with iridescent blue, thanks to their light-capturing molecules called chromophores.

I always knew the answer lay in saprophytes, microorganisms I selected for their ability to feed on decaying organic matter. The algae blooms and nourishes the fungi, while the fungi gather moisture to protect the algae.

Despite occasional power outages, I’ve kept him viable in a beverage fridge in the old food court . Moss and lichen are tucked into the cavities of his body. Filaments of hyphae fill his lungs and run through his veins. He is fallow, gathering strength, waiting to fulfill his purpose.

His skin is mottled gray and green, gleaming faintly blue in places. Tiny red stems of bonfire moss lift from his head, replacing the hair that has long since gone. I run a finger along the feathery surface, willing them to recognize me.

“You will be the salvation.” I study his green-hued cheek, swollen and spongy with life. Last night, I brushed his gums with algae, testing whether they would be able to survive.

As I part his lips, there is the final proof I’ve known would come. His gums are turning reddish, tessellating into beautiful patterns. My breath catches as the color shifts, brightening to pink in the newfound light.

He’s finally ready.

I reach for the bowl and hold it to his lips. The shimmering contents spill into his mouth and ooze down his esophagus. In his body are hundreds of reciprocal species of moss and lichen, an entire universe of fungi waiting for this alchemical substance.

“Wake up,” I whisper.

I have no doubt the lichen will thread his neural pathways, find their kindred in his body and wake his brain from the dark. Forming colonies, they will become something new and wondrous, my belief made manifest. Restore our fertility and allow us to live in our shattered ecosystem. Most of my colleagues thought otherwise—that the algae and fungi would devour us until we no longer existed.

Troy’s eyes flutter open, utterly black, but turning green as he blinks. His expression is slack, no hint of intelligence. He rises unsteadily, sitting up, pulling his legs over the edge of the fridge like he’s remembering how to move.

He manages to stand but I can see he has so much to learn again. He lifts one hand, staring in wonder. Sinew and veins ripple blue under the surface of his skin. Whole cities coming to life inside.

I step closer, my pulse thudding in my ears and goosebumps prickling my arms. “Hello Troy.”

His eyebrows furrow and his mouth opens, revealing a gray mushroom unfurling its gills. He isn’t much of a talker, but I knew that was a possibility. The blow to the back of his head may have done more damage than I thought. I’ve suspected that they’d need a conscious host with intelligence enough to form the beating heart of our shared species.

They need me.

I hand him a coupe glass filled with water. He presses it to his mouth, slurping greedily as a child. When he’s done, he drops the glass and it shatters on the linoleum floor. His eyes open wide and then he leans down, reaching for the shards.

“Stop,” I say.

Whether he understands the word or my voice is a novelty, he does stop. He stares at me, head tilted, nostrils flared. Tiny glimmers of gold bloom in his eyes, coruscating like light refractured. The terrain of his skin is already soaking in the water, turning sea green.

His eyes search my face and he presses his fingers into my throat and jaw. He leaves an oil-slick residue on my skin, tightening my pores like a beauty mask. I wait, resting a hand against his chest. Is there enough of him left?

His breath smells sharp as ozone, moss-purified as it leaves his nostrils. Come on, you know how to do this. And then he reaches for me, pulls me close. His lips brush mine and the first kiss is bitter as iron. Bile rises in my throat, but I force myself to let whatever I’ve made begin its work. Let it remake me and the entire human race.

As we kiss, strands of light fill my chest and my body shudders in his arms, every nerve-ending screaming. As we kiss, the bonfire moss starts blooming, sending our spores out across the rusted landscape.

* * *

Ⓒ Faith Allington