BZRK

fasciitis itself, the true shit, into the ocular orb, behind a man’s eye. Oh, you don’t know that term, that neat Latin? Does the phrase “flesh-eating bacteria” ring any bells for you?
    Cut it open – the sac – and dump it out, and it goes right to work. It eats into the eye and into the nerves and into the brain, and you haven’t really seen God’s true handiwork until you’ve seen those little staph balls, down there, down in the meat –they look about as big as cats, maybe, you know? And they’re fuzzy. But no eyes or face, just these soulless rugby balls covered in bumps. And man, you should see them work.
    See them turn healthy cells into goo.
    See them eat right through the meat, explode cells, grow; double, double toil and trouble, again and again, and eat all the while, those bumpy little balls, and by the time the guy feels the pain it’s way too late.
    Yeah. You want to see the face of God the Artist? Get down in the nano, watch a sea of healthy flesh overrun by those microscopic hordes, like murdering Huns.
    They’ll eat their way through to sunlight eventually. Through a nose, a cheek, an eye, a skull.
    Praise the Lord: the Great and Crazy Artist.
    END OF TRANSCRIPT

FIVE
    Vincent was also visiting London, but miles away from Noah and Nijinsky.
    Vincent was twentysomething, a trim, average-size guy with carefully barbered brown hair and a downturned mouth and eyes that were brown but with no sense of warmth in them. He had a slightly curved nose and nostrils that flared and a faint scar that extended half an inch above and half an inch below his lips.
    He held himself like a guy who wanted to avoid attention, but he didn’t have the gift of disappearing in a crowd. He had the curse of being noticed, no matter how careful he was to keep his eyes down and his face impassive. People still noticed him because there was just an air about Vincent that suggested tamped-down emotion and volatility barely disguised by his careful movements and his soft, almost inaudible voice.
    He was at dinner, sitting at a dark table in a nice but not stuffy Indian restaurant on Charlotte Street, picking at a
poppadom
. The target sat across the room at one of the larger, brighter, noisier tables.
    There were five people at that table and the target—Liselotte Osborne—was not the richest or most powerful, so she didn’t sit at the head, she sat halfway down on one side, with her back to Vincent.
    Nevertheless, Vincent had an excellent view of her eye. The left one.
    A part of Vincent’s mind was in the room, hearing without focusing on conversation punctuated by sudden bursts of laughter, seeing the reflection of yellow overhead lights in standard restaurant-grade wine glasses, wondering abstractedly about the choice of art on the papered walls.
    Another part of Vincent’s mind was across the room, perched on Liselotte Osborne’s left lower eyelid. From that vantage point Vincent saw thick-trunked trees that grew in impossibly long curves from spongy, damp pink tissue. These trees had no branches; they were like rough-barked brown palm trees, bending away to disappear out of view behind him. The bark was then glopped in uneven patches by a black tarry substance, like someone had thrown big handfuls of tar at the lashes.
    Eyelashes.
    Eyelashes with mascara.
    Vincent’s spidery legs stepped over a pair of demodex, like crocodiles with the blank faces of soulless felines. Reptilian tails of demodex babies protruded from the base of the eyelash. They wiggled.
    From his perch between two rough-barked, gooey, drooping eyelashes Vincent saw the vast, wet plain of white stretched out to the horizon, a sea of milk beneath a taut wet membrane. Within that milky sea were jagged red rivers. When he tuned his eyes to look close, he could make out the surge and pause, surge and pause of Frisbee-shaped red blood cells and the occasional spongy lymphocyte.
    He was looking out across the white of Liselotte’s eyeball—an eyeball shot through with the red capillaries of a woman who’d had too little sleep, rimmed with black tar, home to microfauna he could see and, of course, a multitude of lifeforms too small even for a biot to make out.
    Vincent felt a rush of wind and saw a barrier rushing toward him at terrifying speed. It was an endless, faintly curved wall of pink-gray that appeared to be maybe ten feet tall. It came rushing across the eyeball like a storm front, swift, irresistible. Jutting far out from that