The Rage Colony (The Colony Book 2)

by Shanon Hunt

  He slammed both hands on the table and circled it until he was behind her.

  He leaned down next to her ear and said softly and slowly, “I ask you one last time. What did you communicate to the offspring to make them react like that?”

  The fact was that Layla herself didn’t fully comprehend what had happened. She’d never heard anything like their stereophonic shrieking, nor did she believe that a child of that age could be capable of hurting itself. It had been truly unnerving. Yet she didn’t feel their outcries had been directed at her. No, they were reacting on her behalf, as an extension of herself, a metaphysical appendage, and their screams and self-harm were an expression of her own self-loathing in the only way a child could convey such an emotion. It was her fury that had unleashed their explosive behavior. She was the molten magma amassing deep in the earth, and they were the erupting volcanoes violently releasing the pressure.

  She was communicating through them.

  We are one.

  In some strange way, it was liberating.

  She could almost hear the tension in the doctor’s large muscle groups screeching with frustration, priming for discharge like the action of a handgun being cycled behind her. Her own body stiffened as she braced for the imminent release.

  It wasn’t a hit or slap to the side of the head, as she expected. Instead, he threaded his fingers through her long hair and yanked her head backward.

  The joints of her upper spine crackled in response, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of so much as a wince. She stared up at him, upside down, unintimidated. “Now who’s the one with the rage problem?”

  He shoved her head forward hard enough that her nose and forehead slammed against the table.

  The guards made no effort to defuse the physical assault or protect her. She wasn’t surprised. If she were still Sister Layla, they would’ve wrestled him to the ground and cuffed him. But now that she was Layla the killer, she no longer had any influence; she’d been stripped of all authority.

  But she had her dignity—for now, anyway. More importantly, she had something that Dr. De Luca very much wanted, something he’d never find by replaying the security tapes, no matter how carefully he studied them. And while that didn’t earn her the basic human rights that she was clearly being denied in this brutal interrogation, it was leverage.

  Blood dripped from her nose and over her lips, but she made no effort to wipe it.

  Dr. De Luca took his seat opposite her, seemingly having regained his composure.

  She leered at him. “You don’t know anything about us. You think your science can explain who we are, and you think you can predict how we’ll behave. But you’re very, very wrong.”

  She flew up so quickly that her chair toppled over behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the guards move in, but Dr. De Luca held up his hand.

  “I could kill you right now.” She leaned over the table and lowered her tone to a growl. “I could yank that black heart right from your chest and squeeze it until it was nothing but a flaccid pile of tissue. And then I could summon those demon children to feast on your dead body.” She wasn’t sure if it was the taste of her blood or the idea of killing the doctor that made her drool. She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “That’s the difference between your unevolved brain and mine. Your rage manifests as violence; mine, as slaughter.”

  She wiped her mouth with her thumb and sat back down, folding her arms across her chest.

  Dr. De Luca’s eyes bore into Layla as he slowly slid his clipboard and his voice recorder back in front of him. He pressed a button on the voice recorder and spoke, slowly and deliberately, as if an assistant would be transcribing his words.

  “Praefuro subject 01980. Upon identification of praefuro symptoms, subject was evaluated by Dr. James Elliott and Mr. Stewart Hammond, and it was suggested, based on the observation of a calculated predation and kill, the subject might be presenting a phlegmatic phenotype of the praefuro mutation. The subject was moved from the infirmary to the phlegmatic group housing known as the den. However, given the recent event that caused a significant disruption in the phlegmatic unit, it has been determined by the medical team that subject 01980 is a threat to the community and a risk to the psychosocial bond that exists there. Therefore, it is the recommendation of the medical team that the subject be relocated to the choleric unit in the salvage building to ensure she does not undermine the success of the program or put herself, the fetus, or others in danger.”

  They stared at each other, poker-faced, for another long minute. Layla smelled something new billowing from the doctor: fear. But it wasn’t fear of her. He was well protected in that small space. It was something else, something bigger.

  Layla had thrown a monkey wrench into his program. She’d done something he hadn’t seen before, and that didn’t just make her unpredictable. It made his entire praefuro program unpredictable. Once the council figured out that despite his impressive multisyllabic labels and pages of subject observations, he didn’t truly understand the praefuro, his reputation would be ruined, and he would no longer be essential.

  “Finito. Is that the word, Alessandro? Huh, bello?”

  At the wave of his hand, a guard on each side scooped her off the chair and roughly dragged her from the room.

  She kept her stare on the doctor until the door closed between them.

  43

  March 2024, Mexico

  Nick pulled on his navy blue linen tie pants and tunic, wiped the foggy bathroom mirror with his bath towel, and winked at his freshly shaved face and clean hair. He couldn’t remember a more refreshing shower, and he badly needed a bourbon nightcap and a good night of sleep. But that wouldn’t happen tonight. He had a story to find, and the best time to start looking was when everyone else slept.

  Eddie, who during room assignments had grabbed him by the arm like they were picking teams for kickball, wasn’t in the room when he exited the bathroom. Probably outside having a smoke. I’ve been wanting to quit anyway, Eddie had whispered when the infirmary intern told them to enjoy the next three days because, after that, it would be no smoking, no drugs, and no alcohol.

  Nick slipped under the covers and wanted to giggle with joy. He hadn’t slept on a real bed since before the virus, and he was certain he’d never experienced the miracle of a pillow-top mattress.

  He rolled over and shuffled through the booklets stacked on the bedside table. Addiction and Recovery in an Immersion Environment. Pain as a Positive Experience. Is the Colony a Cult? An Interview with James Elliott.

  He was opening the cult booklet just as Eddie came back inside. “Bro, you gotta stand outside and look at the sky. I’ve never seen stars like that. Think I saw the frying pan thing.”

  Nick grinned. “It’s called the Big Frying Pan. If we’re still here tomorrow night, I’ll show you how to find Polaris and the Little Frying Pan.”

  “Bet.” Eddie lay back on his bed with his head on his hands. “This is the best day I can remember. I never want to leave.”

  Peculiar that a kid as young as Eddie would want to give up on life to live in the desert in a cult. In fact, Nick had made an interesting observation over the day: Most of the people who traveled on the bus with them didn’t appear to be destitute. A few had emerged from the homeless camp, and he couldn’t figure out why a dozen or so had been delivered by prisoner transport, since Aroyo over in security had made it clear that they didn’t recruit criminals. Who was this racket’s target audience?

  He slid the booklet back on the nightstand. “Aren’t you a little nervous about this place at all? We all wear the same clothes, we have to follow their strict rules. We have to commit to five years—five years. That doesn’t scare you?”

  “Nah, bro. You know what scares me? Everything outside those huge cement walls. It’s a shitty world for a guy like me.”

  “But you’re so young. You have a whole life ahead of you. It’s all about having choices.” Nick cringed at his own words. H
e sounded like his father.

  “No choices for me. I have HIV.”

  Nick closed his eyes. Now he understood the paranoia.

  “My partner died the first week the virus hit LA,” Eddie said, “before anyone even knew what was happening. He was getting monthly IV treatments at AltaMed. The virus pretty much took out the whole unit. Timing’s everything, right?”

  “I’m sorry.” The virus was scary enough for a healthy young adult, but someone with HIV had to hide from the virus. Hide from the world. Eddie sure as hell would never get a job in times like these, when every employer required a DNA test.

  “Yeah, rip.”

  HIV okay, no addicts, the woman in LA had said, as if it was an ad for yard help. “What about your family?”

  “Pfft. They’re beat.” Eddie rolled over and faced the wall.

  He wished he hadn’t started the conversation. Eddie was all of maybe twenty years old, he’d already lost a loved one, and his family turned on him, maybe for being gay or maybe for contracting HIV. Nick could only partly relate. He had lost a mother, though not to death or, god forbid, the virus. His father was beat, as Eddie would say. But he did have a family. His aunt and uncle didn’t have much in this life and they didn’t always play by the rules, but they had always opened their hearts and home to him.

  He was about to go back to the cult booklet he started earlier when Eddie turned back to him.

  “You know, all my life I used to do that prayer, the one kids do,” Eddie said. “ ‘Now I lay me down to sleep.’ You know that one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I always thought it would protect me from monsters.” He snickered. “Then one day, the prayer just changed. And guess what it changed to?”

  Nick shrugged.

  “ ‘Today is October fourteenth, 2022.’ ” Eddie rolled back onto his back, intoning flatly toward the ceiling. “ ‘It is with great despair that I report a virus has been released from the Gansu Province in China and will soon enough spread across the globe. It is unlike anything the world has seen before. I have had firsthand experience with this virus. I’ve seen what it’s capable of, and I am sending this message as a warning to stay out of public places. Stay off the streets. Quarantine in your home with your loved ones. I’m begging you.’ ”

  Nick whispered “A Desperate Warning to the World” along with him. It was strange how that voice had affected so many people, how the words lived inside every mind as both a caution and a solace.

  “Thanks, bro,” Eddie said when they were finished. “Feels good to be here. I don’t care how long it takes to get a cure for my HIV, ’cause at least the virus won’t get me. Give me liberty or give me death, right? You know who said that?”

  Nick mumbled, “Patrick Henry,” but the image of ground zero, the Liberty Bell crack in the pillar, flashed into his head, and for the millionth time, his mind replayed his unanswered questions. Why was there a discrepancy between the two pictures? How did the crack get there? Could it have been a hair on the camera lens? Had he seen something that wasn’t real because he wanted to?

  He returned to the booklet. The inside cover featured a profile picture of James Elliott with a short bio: James Elliott earned a PhD in sociocultural anthropology and was awarded an honorary degree in clinical psychology from Stanford University for his rehabilitative work with the fifty-eight college students who were mentally and sexually abused in the Wake of God religious cult in California. He’s widely published under the pen name B. J. Elliott in cult behavior and cult societies. Dr. Elliott is the Chief Operating Officer of Eugenesis, Incorporated.

  Eugenesis. EGNX.

  Nick studied the face of James Elliott. He looked to be in his forties, with brown wavy hair, blue eyes, and glasses, but he didn’t have a professorial look, as his impressive credentials might lead one to assume. His eyes were gentle, and although he didn’t smile for the camera, his facial features were warm. He looked a bit like a modern-day Jesus Christ, and Nick had to believe that was deliberate.

  He flipped to a quotation from the man himself: “I had the extreme privilege of studying under the esteemed cult expert Rick Ross, who spent most of his life deprogramming cult followers. By his definition, the short answer to the question ‘Is the Colony a cult?’ is yes. Now, let me explain why I can say that with both honesty and pride, and why I submit that it is foundational both to our success and to the happiness of more than two hundred thousand members across all our colonies worldwide.”

  Two hundred thousand members—Holy Mary, mother of God. Nick’s scalp prickled for the umpteenth time that day.

  This entire experience was surreal. The good-natured welcome from the driver. The video of Allison Stevens, delivering a compelling introduction to being among those chosen to come to the Colony. The walking tour of the state-of-the-art residences, facilities, and medical center. The dining hall, nicer than most restaurants nowadays. Nick scrutinized everything he saw today as if he were searching for the killer in a whodunit movie. He never expected that recruits would be shown the torture chambers or three-headed genetically modified creatures, but they visited several credible doctors who talked openly about their genetic research: educators who emphasized the importance of human and societal evolution, mental health professionals trained in addiction, depression, and the psychological impact of the virus and the economic collapse, and physical therapists and trainers who’d dedicated their lives to the Colony’s mission of bettering the human race. And he saw hundreds of seemingly happy and productive members of this strange society who didn’t appear brainwashed, tortured, abused or neglected in any way.

  Sure, it had only been one day, but he hadn’t heard or seen one thing that gave him pause, other than the security guards that had been assigned to follow him because of his unpredictable temper. And now he was reading a full-on admission that this was indeed a cult society—all neatly packaged in a handy easy-to-read booklet in the rooms of the recruits.

  The transparency was unsettling, to say the least.

  “Bro, hit the light,” Eddie said in a sleepy voice.

  Nick switched off the light and stared upward into the pitch black. Where was the evil? What was he missing?

  Where were the guys who murdered Peter Malloy?

  There was one person who had his answers, one person who he knew had been there from the start. Allison Stevens. And come hell or high water, he would find her. He would find her and make her talk if he had to shake every word from her.

  He waited another couple of minutes until Eddie’s breathing grew into full-blown snores, quietly collected his Timberland boots from the closet, and crept out of his room.

  The sky was lit up by the stars, but he still had to walk slowly on the dark path to avoid tripping over the stones. The cool fresh air revived him, and for just a moment, before he berated himself for being a fucking wacko, he thought he might enjoy living at the most exclusive club on Earth.

  His mind wandered back to his momentary glimpse of the surveillance monitors. No doubt several of those monitors had captured him slipping from his apartment. He could only hope the night shift was asleep at the wheel.

  44

  March 2024, Mexico

  It had to be well after midnight, and the campus was dark and quiet except for one well-lit building elevated above the others, which must have been the security center. If Nick was going to find his story, discover what they’re really doing with all these kids, and expose Allison Stevens and EGNX, he certainly wouldn’t learn anything in Fairytale Land, where the recruits were housed.

  The map in Aroyo’s office had shown five sections to the campus. Nick couldn’t tell how far apart each cluster of buildings was, but given the size of the valley and the proximity of the hills and mountains, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of miles. He could jog that distance in twenty or thirty minutes.

  He skulked along the outside of his dormitory, creeping from building to building, until he came upon the imposing cement wal
ls that sequestered the Colony. This perimeter was taller than the one around the Vitapura facility in Arizona. Huh. Maybe that was to keep out the wolves he heard howling in the distance. It wasn’t something he’d be able to scale, but he noted several areas where animals had dug underneath, including several wide enough for a human to wriggle through, as long as he could hack through the brush first. Good to know.

  He turned along the wall. The lavish xeriscaping of the recruiting campus evaporated once he got off the main walkway, and he was left scrabbling through cactus and brush. Keeping the security center in sight to guide his progress, he scuffled along for a full fifty minutes before his journey was abruptly interrupted by a chain-link fence perpendicular to the wall, butted up so tightly that not even a coyote could have squeezed through. He followed it toward the campus interior, hoping for a weak spot in the chain links. Or better yet, a gate.

  Under his boots, the hard-packed clay terrain had softened. He squatted and scooped a handful of sandy soil. Something was different here. He moved onto to his hands and knees, squinting in the darkness, and felt around, careful to avoid the prickly pear plants. The vegetation here was sparse, younger. He found the nearly perfect straight edge of older dried clay surface.

  This area had been dug out and refilled, and fairly recently. From his crouch, he followed the sandy section, looking for another edge to no avail. He continued slogging through the sand, another twenty or thirty feet when the realization hit: He’d found a tunnel system—one part of it, anyway.

  And if they had tunnels, they had something to hide.

  The tunnel ran along the fence line, making it easy to follow until it turned sharply toward a cluster of buildings. He stepped onto neatly groomed grass in front of a six- or seven-story building and crept along the perimeter of the building until he could go no further. A cluster of juniper shrubs had been thoughtfully planted right next to the wall, and behind the shrubs, at the base of the building, a dim light glowed through the dense, scaly leaves.