The shots ripped through the guy’s brainstem like it was made of putty. No opportunity to scream, or even be scared. A good kill.
And then Boris darted off in pursuit of the others. He cut another one down quick; she’d tripped, confused why everything had gone haywire.
She was almost relieved to see him, until she saw the assault rifle aimed down on her. Then she screamed, but only for a second; the bullets saw that this was done. Behind him, Boris could have sworn he heard some of the jungle life—feral cats, bigger game—rooting around the bodies he’d left.
There was no time for that, though. He reloaded on the run, listening for the crunch of branches. This wasn’t like hunting deer in a wide open field, but it was damn close; these were rank amateurs, and their fear was going to kill them.
Nine left; that wasn’t a bad day, back in the agency. Boris wasn’t quite a psychopath, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if some people thought he was. You needed a certain amount of craziness and moral lassitude to make money snuffing out other people.
Up ahead, he saw the glimpse of something large, upright. He unloaded a clip in the direction, but he only managed to wound his target—he could tell as much from the pained cries. What the hell—time to get a little creative, shake things up.
The grenade flew through the air, nipping at the man’s heels. It was a perfect throw; a quarterback couldn’t have put the ball on target better. The man was blown from his feet, only yards away from a clearing, from the river.
Boris had slowed to a crawl, watching as the forest heaved and absorbed the explosion. The man, though he was missing a leg, was still alive, blubbering about this and that. A single burst ended that concern, and Boris took a moment on the ridge to scan his surroundings.
He could pick up the faint strains of cracking brush, of footsteps, but they were radiating out in all directions. Eight left.
He would track them down, or he’d claim that he did. He wasn’t as trustworthy as his company days, since there wasn’t anyone cracking the whip behind him. The agency, they’d kill you over a screw-up. Here? Well, no one had to know, and he had four bodies that he could get clever with. Make it look like twelve.
He trotted off, gun slung over his shoulder, in the direction of some rustling. Yeah, four or five would do just fine. That sounded all right. A swig from a flask, a nice view—this was a hell of a place.
A hell of a place.
Silver was shaking. He didn’t know it, but a couple of the others were, too. They’d passed right over the woman’s body, breathed it in. They’d been exposed to the Ambrosia Virus, but they didn’t know what that meant.
None of them knew that the woman had been carrying the vial, planning to show it to Maverick, planning to impress him. She was young, ambitious, and those two facets were enemies of her natural intelligence. She’d gotten greedy, impatient, and, well, she’d unleashed a sort of monster.
Because what she hadn’t realized, in her cursory tests, was one thing: the Ambrosia Virus killed most people. It granted them super-human abilities and unheard of longevity, but only in certain genotypes. Rare ones—one in a hundred, one in a thousand. And that was only if you survived the virus’ brutal hold.
The first test, on some rhesus monkey or silly lab rat, had proven to be an astounding success. The thing not only had the health of a bull, but it was about as strong—once it stopped contorting like a puppet—with all of its functions cranking at uncharted levels.
But there was the problem: the outlier happened first, and that screwed up her instincts as a scientist. They were all scientists, the best of the best, but a funny thing happens when you’re at the top: you lose your identity, the essence of who you are. Trade it for fool’s gold.
But luck, it’s egalitarian. It came right back around, cut her down in the jungle, repaid her in kind and even let Pandora out of its cage. Into a bigger cage, since no one could get to and from The Hideaway with ease, but it was out there.
Silver hadn’t stopped vomiting.
But he hadn’t stopped moving, either.
He came to the windmill clearing. Above him, the giant metal blades beat a familiar, steady rhythm, drowning out the quiet tension of the jungle. Hair blown back by the force, Silver staggered onwards, across the field. The field was easier going than the jungle, even if it left him open to a shot.
They could kill him; the pain, the searing heat that was exploding from his insides, it was almost unbearable. Silver reached the edge of the field, staring into the jungle, then tumbled down into a ravine, branches and thorns slashing at his face.
He drifted from consciousness, his body landing at the bottom of the slope against a large tree.
Baxter was the one who found Silver, some two days later. He called out to the other six survivors and they hurried down the ravine. Silver’s breaths were shallow, but he was alive. With help from the others, Baxter draped his broken body over a shoulder, and carried him further into the jungle.
That day was the founding of Shadow Village, even if none of them realized it.
Baxter had only found the six—seven, if Silver made it—survivors. He watched as one of them succumbed to the virus, the red heat burning her alive from within. In the weeks that came, they’d find a few bodies, some shot, others twisted and contorted in pain from the virus.
The survivors, they’d managed to avoid contact with the virus.
And Silver, well, he was just a tough son-of-a-bitch who wanted revenge too much to die.
The group pieced the story together, just as they pieced Silver back into a vague picture of health: it could only be Maverick’s orders. He was the only one out there. The gunshots weren’t by accident; this was a cover-up. He would have gone to jail, or been ousted as CEO.
Better to kill the unsuccessful, unwitting Ambrosia Team, than to deal with that nightmare. Losing his company, his island, his adventures; that was worth a little blood.
Boris told Maverick that he’d gotten them all. Maverick was so shell-shocked that he didn’t even request proof. By the time that he thought of it, weeks later, the jungle animals—some of which had become fierce and powerful—had eliminated any trace of the bodies. It was like the people never existed, and since Maverick never caught wind of the Ambrosia Team, he didn’t seem to care.
When Maverick and Boris returned to the house that day sans the team, Josephine and Cole had questions. Maverick had just said it was an accident and left it at that. That’s all Josephine would ever know; Cole, on the other hand, was an apt cleaner—he’d have to be brought in on the ordeal.
Later that night, after drinks had been imbibed, Maverick told Cole the story, and the old man gave him the spin: the bodies would disappear in the jungle, but Boris had to go. Maverick protested, then thought better of it. What was one more death?
“Good boy,” Cole had said, laying a weathered hand on his shoulder, “a tough call, no doubt about it, but the right one.”
“Are we going to hell,” Maverick had mused, between sips of bourbon, “or somewhere else?”
“Don’t worry, boy,” Cole had reassured him with a lupine smile, “when the light goes out, that’s it.”
But Maverick wasn’t so sure.
A year later, Boris was found up to his dick in coke, booze and dead hookers. Cops ruled it a murder-suicide, but Cole, Maverick, they knew better: he’d been put out to pasture, just like all old guard dogs that live past their usefulness.
And so, the secret of The Hideaway was safe.
But greed and desire don’t die so easy, and it seemed that every step along the way, the lethal, dog-eat-dog culture of Maverick’s company was destined to bring it down.
Silver closed his eyes, remembering his origin story. Every good villain—or flawed man—has one, and that was his: born in an almost literal fire. A year ago, they’d been attacked by one of the jungle mutants�
��a tiger that was all sinew, muscles bulging from every bit of flesh. It’d taken hundreds of bullets to send the thing down, and when it died, the sound of its groan shook the damn ground.
This thing, it wasn’t natural, but neither was Silver. He’d turned into a freak, and while they’d first thought it was because of some weird jungle illness, soon enough the people of Shadow Village discovered the truth. Nature didn’t make things like this, even by accident.
Only man did.
They had.
And so, the plan was formed. Living out in the jungle, in a bitter group, it did funny things. The world ceased to exist, and getting comeuppance on it seemed like a concept born from a book, a dream, rather than the reality.
And the reality was, last time Silver phoned the mainland, he’d heard the screams. That’s what made him remember. It made him bite his tongue to the point where he could taste copper, but it wasn’t enough to get him to stop.
They were too far gone for that. He flicked the ashes of a dying cigar into the brush. If Amanda knew—if only she knew. She’d have killed them when she found them out here, hiding. All of them, if she knew the hatred, the vileness that sat deep in their bellies, fueled their every waking thought.
That opportunity, too, was far too gone. Even when you’re trying to be good, like she had been, it seemed to Silver that bad triumphed. The world was just like that. His world was like that.
The thing about Ambrosia, when you tried to steal it from the Gods, was this: you might live forever, sure. But they never told you how your existence would go. They didn’t tell you that you’d become less than human. That to become a God, you had to become less of a man.
He thought about this as he stared into the night. He hoped that, whatever else was out there, it would have mercy on Amanda’s soul when she bought it. It wasn’t her fault.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Except a sick world that had too long defied the laws of nature.
They were learning what happened when that defiance went too far. And Maverick would soon learn the same.
Part 3
9
Blowtorch
Amanda was worried.
Not because Jackson was streaming blood all over the jungle; no, it was because he hadn’t made a sound since they’d left the panic room. He’d lost half of his fingers on his right hand, but he was silent—beyond the initial scream, of course.
That still stuck in her ears.
The only noise was the soft, methodic padding of their shoes across the dense greenery.
He tagged behind, keeping pace with her dead run. They had to be quick; the animals would be out with the scent of weakness in the air. Amanda had found that out the hard way; slaughtered a couple animals one night on the farm, only to be beset by Bengals and Kodiaks.
Where the hell Maverick got these things from, she didn’t know; she didn’t want to know. But whatever they were, these mutants—fearsome enough in their vanilla forms—were crazy.
They’d stared her down, like they understood what she was going to do. As if they were letting her go, in exchange for the goats that lay bleeding out on the ground. It was bizarre; not to mention the size of the things. She knew that bears could weigh half a ton, but this one was twice that, at least.
Like a full-sized pickup, and about as fast—and sentient.
“Hurry up,” she said behind her, through gritted teeth. Amanda didn’t want to be a hard-ass, but the circumstances demanded it. They couldn’t be caught out here, not like this.
Jackson responded with an increased pace. The guy was a trooper, she’d give him that. But it wasn’t enough; her heart ran still, fear shooting through every nerve. This was it; they were going to die because of some fucking bears—or whatever other creations Maverick had dropped in.
She ran her hand through her ponytail, and that’s when she touched the RPG. Under normal circumstances, this would seem like overkill, but Silver had explained to her once how one of the mutated Bengals had attacked the camp, took dozens of clips to the body before dying.
It was like the damn thing was immortal—or at least the offspring of Hercules. No weak spots. Amanda slowed to a jog and dragged Jackson towards a ring of rocks. He cursed underneath his breath; she felt her hand wet with warm blood, and she relaxed her grip.
“Sorry.”
He just panted, and slid down the rock, face ashen.
“We have to bind that,” she said, “otherwise the whole jungle is going to be on us.”
“Now seems like a good day to die.”
“I don’t remember this nihilist streak,” she said, stripping her t-shirt off and tearing it into strips. Even in his haze of pain, Jackson could still remember the crushing weight of the steel doors on his fingers, grinding them to dust. It was like that, over and over. “Can you still fire a gun?” Amanda asked once she was done, snapping him back to reality.
“Not like I got a choice,” he said.
“Take this.” She jammed a large rifle into his chest. He grunted and loaded it with his good hand, propping it against the rock for support.
Jackson’s hand no longer looked like some sort of malfunctioning fountain, but it still hurt worse than hell. He’d have just as soon had her chop the damn thing off—if he thought that would have helped.
The crackles and steps of their stalker had gone silent. The creature was calculating its next move, thinking through its tactical options. Some of them—the ones who’d been close to Shadow Village when the tiger had tried to Rambo his way in—had learned about firearms.
None of the animals were quite sure how they worked—by magic, perhaps—but the humans, they could control them and rain fire down from the heavens at a moment’s notice. You had to be careful with humans; they were tricky, even when they seemed weak.
The beast circled, following the blood trail in a parallel line. Amanda still couldn’t tell what it was—bear, tiger or some other exotic critter that Maverick had brought in from the wilds for sport four years ago. He’d only done that once, before the disaster with Ambrosia Team. She didn’t know all the details, just enough to understand that something had gone wrong.
“You know,” Jackson said, “it feels like this thing’s trying to outwit us.”
“Shh.”
“Oh, it can hear us anyway,” Jackson said, waving his bandaged hand in the air. This cavalier gesture was a mistake; his fingertips—or, rather, where they should be—exploding in an aurora of pain. “Maverick told me about them, once. When he was real hammered.”
“What’d he say?”
“Something about creating a monster.”
“What?”
“Who knows?” Jackson stared down the rifle’s scope. Nothing; the dim morning light hovered above, knocking on the door of the treetops. Shade still ruled the landscape.
The beast was on the high ground now, having flanked his quarry. His striped paws glided across the terrain, as if they were made for this environ; they weren’t, of course, but he’d adapted well enough. He stared at the pair, blinking when the little hints of sun caught the burnished metal rods in their hands.
It’d be quick, the beast reckoned—in whatever its language might be—but the humans, they might be like the one at Shadow Village. Something more, with the strength of ten men. He sniffed the air; no, these were normal. The other one, he didn’t smell right.
Weak.
It tensed its legs; this would be easy.
A spattering of fire erupted, nipping at its gigantic feet like fire ants. The Bengal howled, more in annoyance than agony, and darted up a fallen tree a few hundred yards away. He’d have to find a new method of attack.
“Christ.” Jackson struggled with the large gun, but got it reloaded. “That thing’s wild.”
“No shit,” Amanda said, “it lives in the jungle.”
> “I meant that it’s smarter than most people.”
“Let’s hope it’s not smarter than us, then.” Amanda got up and started towards the green expanse before them. “Time to go.”
“What, we’re not going to kill it?”
“It’ll kill us long before that’ll happen. Our only chance is the homestead. It’s got an electric underground fence. They don’t come beyond that.”
Jackson shrugged and got to his feet, kicking the shell casings with the toe of his boot. Hell of a day, this. Tigers that could qualify for Mensa, and subterranean lairs filled with enough firearms to outfit a paramilitary uprising.
He began to see why Maverick called it The Hideaway. God, or whoever was playing him, must have hid all of his worst creations on this island.
The Bengal watched as the pair trotted off. He licked his wounds and wrinkled his nose at the taste of his own blood. It stung when he put weight on his forepaws, but nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days. For now, though, he’d be louder than he wanted.
No matter. This was a good meal, and it was an easy one—he just hoped that no one else would catch wind of it and vulture his good fortune.
Jackson gritted his teeth around the dirt-stained bandana, tasting sweat and soil as Amanda readied the welding torch. He cringed as she tested it, the blue flame sounding like an open faucet.
“You ready?”
“Yeah,” he said, words muffled by the rag stuffed in his mouth, “just do it.”
She couldn’t understand him, but she took this as a yes. Bottle of rye whiskey in one hand, torch in the other, she set to work. The rag wasn’t enough to stop his cries; ignoring them, Amanda continued to douse the wound in the firewater. It wasn’t quite medicinal grade, but it’d have to do. It worked in the Civil War—for those who didn’t get gangrene. They’d been so busy arming themselves that the pair hadn’t bothered to grab any first aid kits from Maverick’s secret panic room.
The last river of rye gone, Amanda waited a moment for it to drip-dry, before plunging Jackson’s ruined hand into a bucket of lukewarm water.
Paradise: An Apocalyptic Novel Page 8