by Shanon Hunt
The douchebag stepped in front of him. “I asked you a question.”
No, technically he hadn’t; he’d made a declarative insinuation. But Nick didn’t say so.
The guy mimed sign language and spoke in a hollow-sounding voice. “Are you lost, mister?”
Another round of giggles as his two buddies moved in, creating a tight group around him and blocking his path to the door. The Gucci sisters regarded the situation with looks of boredom from the edge of the bar, which implied this kind of scene was probably something that happened frequently. The latest form of violence wasn’t about race or sexual orientation; it was about financial status.
Nick took a step back and held his palms up. “Hey, sorry, fellas. My bad. Didn’t realize this was an exclusive bar. Let me buy y’all a round. Whaddaya say?”
He called over to Suzie Sunshine. “Ma’am? I’d like to buy a round for my friends here.” He pulled out his wallet and laid a hundred on the bar.
It was enough to stun them momentarily, and he wasn’t sure the bribe was going to work. Then the douchebag’s face spread into an evil grin. “Hear that, Vicky? Our friend here’s buying us a round. Grab that Johnnie Blue from the top shelf. I’ll have a double. Fact, make that five doubles.” He held his beady eyes on Nick as he spoke.
Prick. Nick pulled out two more large bills from his wallet and slowly laid them on the bar. “You have excellent taste, sir. Not surprised, given your outstanding taste in suit designers.” Nick sidled up to the guy and gently lifted his lapel to inspect the inside lining.
“The fuck?” The man backed away, slapping his hand.
“J.Crew, right? That’s some expensive shit.” He gave a knowing nod.
The douchebag glanced over at the women to see if they’d heard the compliment.
Nick used the half-second to push his way through them. “He’s a keeper,” he called out to the women. “Great to meet y’all, but I gotta run. Enjoy those drinks!”
He hustled out the door. Unbelievable. Twice in one day, he was running from thugs. He headed back toward Henderson, irritated that Lake Mead was now blown for him. Maybe the douchebag was right. The best place for a dregs piece of shit was back in the dregs.
He finally pulled into the parking lot of a city park. Homeless men, women, and children huddled in what little shade they had outside a sea of tents and cardboard houses in what once might’ve been a nice ball field. He pulled over and slipped the wallet out of his jacket pocket.
“Victor Beaumont.” He read off the driver’s license. “That’s the name of asshat douchebag if ever I did hear one.”
Smooth, Nicky, he heard his uncle say in his head. Excellent misdirection with jacket lapel.
“Aw, shucks. He was drunk. Easy mark.”
Okay, maybe his Uncle Jay wasn’t exactly a role model for moral excellence, but Nick had loved him. His own father’s moral compass had been rigidly pointed at true north. The man had never so much as run a red light, but he’d also never once told his son that he loved him. The chief hadn’t come to his high school graduation, where as class valedictorian, Nick had delivered a speech to four thousand students and parents. Uncle Jay had been there, though, sitting next to Aunt Darcy on the front row, screaming like a wild banshee: That’s my nephew! The chief didn’t believe in handouts. You want something, Nick, you work for it. It was Uncle Jay who’d tossed Nick the key to an old beat-up Volkswagen Jetta. A college kid needs to have a car. How else are you going to pick up beer for your dorm parties?
Heat crawled up Nick’s neck. He wasn’t sure why he was still pissed about the fishbowl scene at the Sun. He’d hated working for that asshole and was relieved to be done with him. Never should’ve taken the job in the first place. If Jay had been around at that desperate moment of a bad life choice, he would’ve mimed tying a noose around his neck and hanging himself, or maybe projectile vomiting until he lay spent over a toilet.
He opened Victor Beaumont’s billfold, removed three crisp Benjis from the stack, and put them in his own wallet. He lifted the rest over his head and released the bills into the wind. They drifted upward for a moment and then softly rained down on the ballpark. He grinned as the subdued microcosm below came to life, kids first, then adults hopping up from their cardboard beds to clutch the bills as they fluttered within reach. Whoever said money didn’t fall from the sky?
He kept the wallet, though. Victor’s hair was shorter than his and a bit lighter, but otherwise, they looked alike enough that this could pass for a fake ID. Might come in handy.
Nick looked down at his vibrating phone. Unlisted number. He accepted the call but didn’t speak.
“Yeah, hi. Uh, is this, uh, Nick Slater? The reporter?”
A corner of Nick’s mouth turned up as he recognized the voice. “Dr. Jennings. It’s good to hear your voice, man.”
“Yeah, sorry for that blow-off when you called earlier. It’s complicated.”
“What’s complicated?”
“They’re looking for me.”
Uh-oh. That was a bad sign. Jordan had been so paranoid after the death of the DEA cops that he hadn’t even wanted to answer a handful of questions. Whatever’s going on, I don’t want to end up with a bullet in my head like those guys. It had taken quite a bit of coercion to get him to talk, but even then, he’d felt Jordan was holding back. But that was a long time ago. Perhaps his anxiety was more mental than situational.
“Who’s looking for you?”
“The recruiters. If they discover the work I’ve been doing, I can promise you, I’ll no longer be a free agent.”
“What are you talking about? Who’s recruiting you?”
“Listen, I have something to show you. I know I sound a little manic, but I have some new data. Some really fucked-up data. It’s the story of the century.”
Music to any journalist’s ears—but Nick wasn’t working on a story about scientific data. He just wanted to find EGNX.
“Who’s after you?” he repeated.
“Can’t talk. If you want to know more, meet me in LA tomorrow afternoon, two p.m. in Union Station. I’ll be at the bagel shop next to Starbucks. Don’t say a word to anyone, and make sure you’re not followed or traced.”
“Wait, just tell me—”
But Jordan was gone.
Nick scowled at his phone. LA?
He propped his laptop open on the dashboard and read the notes from his interview with Jordan. Jordan had been working with the Phoenix DEA to identify the genetic composition of a drug found in the possession of one of the victims, LXR102016, a genetic modification of a pain gene—the Frankengene, Jordan had called it. This thing has been so CRISPRed up it no longer looks like anything in normal human DNA. And it’s got the highest uptake I’ve ever seen.
Nick hadn’t understood everything Jordan had told him then. The kid spewed out science babble like a second language, and not one Nick spoke. At the time, he hadn’t been interested in the science; he’d only been looking for clues into what happened to the DEA cops. This time, he scoured the transcribed page.
“It’s an illegal biohacking ring. They’re using kids like pincushions. Giving them inhuman genetic drugs to make them fearless. Make them feel no pain. It’s like a modern-day biotech practice of eugenics.”
Eugenics.
EGNX.
Shit. No way. He stared at the word until his vision blurred. It was dumb. Nothing but a case of pareidolia, seeing a pattern that wasn’t really there.
Or was it instinct, that characteristic his father had believed was nothing but a distraction to good investigative journalism?
That was all the push he needed. He turned his phone off and stashed it in the metal lockbox under the passenger seat. From his backpack, he unwrapped a second burner phone and activated it.
He opened a map page in Google. Drive time to LA was five hours.
19
October 2022, Mexico
Layla climbed into Michael’s minivan, whipping her head around to
throw him a dazzling smile.
“You’re a lifesaver. Normally, Will takes me over to my appointments, but he wasn’t around this afternoon.”
“Will, the executive driver? I didn’t realize you had that much corporate clout.”
She slapped him good-naturedly. Once she reached her third trimester, Michael had been kind enough to taxi her from building to building in her small part of the campus, but he’d never taken her out of the purification center. She didn’t want him asking questions.
“Is everything going okay with the pregnancy?” She could see genuine concern on his face as he pulled onto the empty dirt road.
“Yeah, it’s just a routine checkup.” They drove in silence for a minute. “Michael, do you remember that recruit I walked out on last Monday? I believe her name was Vanessa Sykes?”
He snorted. “How could I forget? She was furious. I convinced her it was your pregnancy hormones talking.”
She smiled and rolled her eyes. The crazy pregnant lady. “Did she say anything else about how she thought she knew me? That was so unsettling.”
“Nah. She just said she hopes you rot in hell.”
Layla winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “Seriously, though, I can’t imagine doing your job. Having to weed through some of these folks we bring in.”
She nodded.
They turned right onto another road, and Layla was reminded how big the campus was. Who had insisted the clusters be so far from one another? What were they trying to protect?
“You know we don’t have a choice, right?” Michael’s tone sounded apologetic. “We’re trained to bring anyone who wants to get on the bus, even if we haven’t actively recruited them, because if we don’t, they’ll take their resentment to the public. We can’t afford the exposure.”
She studied him. “Is that so?”
He softened his voice and smiled warmly. “ ‘If your heart is pure and you’re willing to release your poisoned life, you’re welcome to join us. Please help yourself to a sandwich and some fruit, and take a seat wherever you like.’ ”
How embarrassing. Despite the fact that she was in charge of recruiting, she had no idea how the field recruiters actually worked. It was another example of the silo culture James enforced. There was no communication at all between the recruit supply chain and induction and on into purification. She added this to the many grievances she planned to take up with James at some point.
They were approaching the gate. “Well, I’m sorry about that thing with Ms. Sykes,” Layla said. “I feel terrible about it. I hope she landed in another good program. I’ve thought about apologizing to her personally.”
He didn’t take the bait. Michael was a devoted member of the Colony, a true by-the-book rules follower. He knew as well as she did that assignments outside her purification program were confidential.
Michael held out his badge at the gate so the guard could scan it and leaned back as the guard dipped forward to inspect the car through Michael’s window. Layla was ready with her story, but he only gave her a respectful nod and said, “Good luck with your pregnancy, ma’am. Thank you for your service.”
Interesting.
“Here y’are.” Michael pulled up in front of a replica of the infirmary in her cluster. Down the walkway was a second-floor bridge to another building, likely a dining hall exactly like the one she ate lunch in every day. It was eerie.
“Thanks, Michael.”
“Do you want me to wait?”
“No, no. I’ll get someone there to take me or I’ll call you to come back. He’ll be doing some tests, and—well, I’ll spare you the gory details.”
“Whew. Thanks for that.” He left her standing in front of the door.
Instead of walking into the building, she turned toward the dining hall. She wasn’t interested in the infirmary. She was looking for a housing unit of sorts. If there had indeed been a hundred eighty implantations, as she read on James’s meeting agenda, they’d have to have some facility big enough to house many women. There would have to be a nursery with nurse-mothers, wouldn’t there?
The dining hall was quiet at that hour between lunch and dinner. She took a seat, careful to stay out of view of the upper physician’s loft in case Dr. De Luca was having an afternoon espresso, and pulled out the campus map. This cluster had eight buildings. Two of the buildings were long and narrow. Could be dorm-style residence halls. But they could also be research labs. A square building sat catty-corner to what she thought were the dorms. Possibly the nursery? Then there was the dining hall, the infirmary, and three L-shaped buildings. She’d start at the two rectangles. She wasn’t sure she’d have access—
“Sister Layla?”
She yelped and fumbled her map.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.” A young brunette flopped onto the chair opposite her. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Caitlyn Riggs—oops, I mean Caitlyn.” She closed her eyes and whispered. “I despise my poisoned life.”
Layla repressed a grin of pride.
“You did my intake a year and a half ago? I achieved purification last year. You facilitated my ceremony.”
Layla didn’t remember. She’d facilitated a ceremony every week until recently, and every one of them was a blur. “Of course! How are you?”
“Great. I just received my second implantation.”
Layla glanced down at Caitlyn’s flat stomach.
“Oh, well, I’m not showing yet. Three months. Are you a carrier, too?”
A hot blush crawled up her face. One of her own intakes was a carrier, one who’d already delivered a pure child. The girl looked to be barely twenty, and she knew more about the program than Layla did.
“Yes.” She smiled graciously. “I wanted to contribute to the vision of the Colony. It was a difficult decision, given my workload, but I felt it was important while I’m still young enough to carry a child.” It was sanctimonious bullshit, but she couldn’t resist.
“God, you’re amazing,” Caitlyn breathed.
And that’s when the idea hit her. “I was supposed to have a tour of the facility so I could provide a status report to the council, but it looks like my tour guide has had to cancel. I don’t suppose you might have some time this afternoon to show me around the campus?” Even if Caitlyn didn’t, she wouldn’t say no to a Colony leader. Respect for the hierarchy was the Colony’s greatest strength.
“Oh!” Caitlyn squealed and clapped her hands. “I’d be honored.”
Layla grinned. “I only have one request. We need to keep this tour on the down-low. No introductions or attention. I want to see the true carrier environment, just everyday life. Deal?”
Caitlyn positively blossomed under the implication of trust. “Deal.”
Layla followed Caitlyn down the stone path toward the residences, past a meditation group of six young women in various stages of pregnancy. They looked like teenagers. Layla felt so old. So tired. So behind.
“…recently repaved this path,” Caitlyn was saying. “One woman tripped and fell right onto her stomach. She was six months. Thank god the baby was fine, but you should have seen the panic among the medical personnel. She was practically a celebrity.”
“I’ll bet.” Given the reaction of the front gate guard, carriers seemed to be revered as heroes here. “What’s the current carrier count here at the moment? Do you know?”
Caitlyn looked to the heavens as she tried to mentally calculate. “I’m gonna say like sixty? During my first gestation, we had eighty or so. But the last few months, a whole bunch have been displaced.”
“Interesting.” Layla nodded a bit too emphatically as she recovered from the mental shock of that number. Eighty carriers. That was an awfully big secret for James to keep from her. Did he think she’d never find out?
They arrived at the first residence hall building, and Caitlyn keyed them in the front door. A female security guard—the first one Layla’d seen at the Colony—sat at a desk,
and Layla felt a rush of panic.
The guard looked up from her computer screen and gave them a wave. “Morning, ladies.”
They scooted to the right and down a hall.
“What do you mean,” Layla asked casually, “that they were displaced?”
“They didn’t pass the psychosocial testing sequence. It’s this new thing they’re doing.” Caitlyn opened a door and stepped aside. “Here’s my room.”
It was nothing like the inductee housing in the purification program, which was little more than a box with a twin bed and a toilet. This was a luxury suite in comparison. A state-of-the-art kitchenette with all the amenities waited comfortingly behind an overstuffed chair with a throw blanket folded over the arm. Along the opposite wall stretched a queen-size bed, a dresser, and—
“Wow, is that a Jacuzzi?” She instantly regretted her surprised tone.
“Yeah, but the water only goes to ninety-eight degrees.”
Layla herself didn’t have a Jacuzzi in her cabin. She stepped back into the hall to mask her envy, her mouth set in a hard line. “It looks like the program is treating you well. That’s great to see.”
Caitlyn’s face fell. “Oh, I didn’t mean … I’m not complaining about the water. I—”
Layla waited patiently while Caitlyn formed a proper apology.
“Sister Layla, believe me, I am so grateful every day to be here. All of us are. Our calling is the most important within the Colony—the whole world, really. Please forgive my insolence.” She dropped her gaze to the floor.
Layla allowed a moment to pass. “Of course. Now, you were telling me about the displaced carriers?” She continued down the hallway toward a back entrance.
“Oh, yeah. Well, we have these tests we gotta do every day. Personality tests, like inkblots and stuff like that. And intelligence tests. And once a week, we do the psychosocial tests. They’re the worst.”