Cronix

by James Hider

  Fitch was summoned in the small hours from his trailer by the head nurse, Mrs Falkingham: one of the guinea pigs was having a seizure. Fitch, who had only been sleeping fitfully, pulled on his clothes and rushed to the dormitory.

  It was a long fiberglass pre-fab, shipped out in flat packs to this isolated African facility and erected by government contractors. By the time the guinea pigs had arrived, the place was deserted save for the security detail and a handful of high-security clearance medical overseers. The guinea pigs were all young, hand-picked volunteers from various US government services, keen to help but unaware exactly why they were out in the center of this vast continent. Most of them did not even know what country they were in, having been flown in from Jo'burg in small light aircraft helmed by South African bush pilots.

  To Fitch’s annoyance, the young man had been mildly sedated by the time he arrived. He was murmuring in his bed, a film of sweat on his brow. The other volunteers peered down the fluorescent lit corridor, puzzled and fearful. Mrs Falkingham, a blonde woman in her fifties whose husband had served in the military, ushered them back to their quarters. When she'd made sure all the doors were closed, she returned to the afflicted young man's room.

  “He just woke up screaming,” she said. “The duty nurse found him on the floor, absolutely hysterical, tangled up in his sheets. It woke the whole building.”

  The man’s breathing was shallow, the hysteria abated but far from gone. “Did he say anything? Any description of what he was experiencing?” Mrs Falkingham shook her head, and turned towards the door as Stiney stumbled in, plastic sandals sliding over plastic floor and belt still unbuckled.

  “What was it?” he panted, a look of expectation on face. “Did he speak?”

  Fitch shook his head. “He’s sedated. But maybe we can wake him up.” He ignored Mrs Falkingham’s disapproving frown. They weren’t out here for the health of these kids. They had been exposing them to Subject GK-154b’s memory banks for a week now, and getting only mixed results. He glanced at the chart on the young man’s bed, addressed him in a gentle voice.

  “Andrew? Andrew, can you hear me?” There was a murmur from the young man’s numbed lips. Fitch softly patted his cheek. “Andrew, I need you to wake up now. It’s all alright, come on now.”

  “Shit, what did you give him, a horse tranq?” hissed Stiney, glaring at the head nurse. She started to defend her decision, but Fitch motioned them both to be quiet. The young man’s eyes flickered open.

  “There were men with torches, flashlights. Out there, in the jungle. Hundreds of men. I was in there, I was….I was one of them. Something in my hand, like a stick…a club, I don’t know.” His eyes were more open now, though still lacking focus. “Everyone was armed, but crude stuff, knives and machetes and shit. Couple of men had guns. And they…we…were silent. Totally silent, just walking along this mud road. I could hear the insects so loud. And there was a church where we all stopped. Dark inside, but you could hear kids crying. Someone shouted for the people to come out, but they didn’t.”

  There was a quaver in the man’s voice. Fitch noticed with satisfaction that even though Stiney had forgotten to buckle his belt, he had brought a digital recorder, which he was holding close enough to catch the volunteer’s stuttered recollections.

  “What happened then?” Fitch pressed the pale man, drawing a nervous look from the nurse. Stiney leaned in closer, edging her slightly to one side.

  “I don’t know. Suddenly the church was on fire. There was a smell of gasoline, and the fire was spreading fast. Everyone moved back from the blaze, surrounding the door. Then it opened, and all these people poured out with the smoke. And we…we started hitting them. Cutting them. All of them. Old men, little kids, women…we sort of picked one each as they came out, though sometimes there were two men hitting one…I saw this girl, not even a teenager really. She ran towards me, trying to break away from the crowd. And she looked at me and I raised my club and hit her. I mean, really hit her. I broke her jaw. And it felt good. It felt really good. Almost…sexual. And I kept on hitting her and hitting her until she was just this pool of blood and pulp at my feet. And then I started screaming, and screaming until I thought I was going crazy, and Nurse Falkingham was there…”

  There were tears in the young man’s eyes, but still a lingering sense of wonder, the aftertaste of some forbidden, tantalizing horror. Fitch sneaked a glance at Stiney, transfixed by the account. He straightened up and nodded to the nurse. “Mrs Falkingham, I think we can help Andrew sleep now…”

  She moved towards a trolley in the corner of the room. As Fitch stood up, the young man feebly grasped him by the sleeve.

  “Mr Fitch. There was something…I don’t know exactly what. But I...I don’t think it was a dream. It was something far worse, more…more like a memory.”

  “That’s okay, son,” muttered Fitch, patting the young man’s hand and placing it back on the sheet that covered his chest, which was again starting to heaving with agitation. “It was just a dream. Just a bad jungle fever dream.”

  ***

  The voice again. Inside his head.

  Little man, it said.

  They are coming

  Oriente dropped his knife and fork on the breakfast plate and ran to the door. No one there. He went to the window but could see no sign of the strange voice.

  Sweet Jesus, he thought. This is it. Losing it at last. Unraveling.

  He was sweating profusely, and feared he might throw up his bacon and eggs.

  Just as he leaned over the sink, however, a huge noise ripped through the building, like a giant metal sheet clanging to the ground. The window jumped in its frame, but the glass did not break.

  The sound took Oriente by surprise: it was such a long time since he had heard an explosion that at first he thought it must have been a door slamming. He stepped into the corridor and saw nurses rushing towards the front of the building.

  “What was that?” he asked Nurse Shareen as she stomped down the hallway.

  “How the fuck should I know?” she shot back with her customary warmth. He followed her to reception, where people, both Eternals and Sapiens, were drifting into the street. It was a clear day, and the small crowd of onlookers were pointing at a cloud of black smoke rising in the sky, like a greasy jellyfish propelling itself slowly upwards.

  An ambulance tore out of the garage, siren wailing. A bearded local in overalls, some kid of delivery man, clambered in his truck to follow. Oriente stepped after him.

  “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Feel free,” the man said. As they drove over Lambeth Bridge, the man craned his neck to keep the pillar of grey smoke in sight.

  “It’s not too far away,” the driver said. “Looks like it must be over Knightsbridge way.”

  Oriente was relieved to be out. The breeze from the car window cooled his feverish sweat and for the first time weeks, he realized that no one knew actually where he was right now. Even he didn’t know where he was headed, as they left the river behind and bumped through cow pastures and clusters of horse chestnuts. They drove past Buckingham Palace, now the headquarters of both the London Council and the constabulary. Oriente saw officers setting up a cordon to keep vehicles away, while others checked the cars parked outside.

  There was little sign of any houses between the palace and Kensington. The Serpentine lake had burst its banks over the course of hundreds of wet seasons and was now home to a variety of migratory birds, some wading in its muddy waters, other still spiraling the treetops, still spooked by the explosion.

  The car emerged from a growth of oaks into an open commons grazed flat by sheep and cattle. The livestock had clustered near the tree line, as far as possible from the wreckage of a twisted chassis that was still belching black smoke.

  The driver whistled. “Will you look at that? They hit Kensington Palace.”

  “What's in the palace?” said Oriente. The driver looked at him like he was a simpleton.

  “DP
P headquarters, of course.”

  One whole wall of the building had been sheared off, leaving a gaping hole that resembled a wound in a skull. Dazed officials stumbled across the graveled forecourt, led by rescuers into the open fields where most collapsed in shock.

  A police woman stopped the car before it could get too close, and asked the men what they were doing there.

  “Came to see if we could help,” said the driver. She said they could go no further in the vehicle, so the driver turned and parked. Walking back, Oriente spotted a half dozen bodies lined up on the driveway, covered by blankets. Some had lost their shoes in the blast, and stockinged feet poked out from under the covers.

  Medics were treating the wounded. A man in a dust-covered business suit, his face caked in blood, was led out of the wrecked building by a rescue worker, stumbling over bricks and glass. Oriente mingled with the crowd of emergency workers, police and curious locals who were peering into the devastated interior.

  “Must have been the Muertes blew it up,” said the driver. “Priests are based here too. Fuck, they usually just blow up soul poles out in the woods. First time they've done something like this.”

  “You really think it was Muertes?” said Oriente.

  “Who else would do this? They’ve got a lot more support since all these Cronix started appearing, killing them kids and scaring the shit out of folk. I reckon we’ll be seeing more of this.”

  Oriente thought of the voice he had heard just seconds before the explosion. He nodded.

  One of the blood-caked victims in the middle of a group of suited and uniformed men looked familiar. Oriente worked his way a little closer and saw it was Hencock. The usually dapper DPP inspector was barely recognizable, his arm in a sling and his singed hair standing at a crazy angle. He was barking orders to his staff and briefing the police chief at the same time. Fortunately, he failed to spot Oriente: all the men’s heads abruptly swiveled in the opposite direction, towards a thunderous sound coming from beyond the bombed-out palace.

  The noise grew louder, before a squad of mounted Rangers burst round the far corner of the palace at a gallop. Huge, bearded men on giant horses, they swept round the front of the building and reined in just in front of Hencock’s group. The DPP staffers looked at them with something resembling awe: individually, the Rangers were striking figures. In a posse, they were positively frightening. While the Eternals were generally obsessed with looking as good as possible, the cult of the Rangers was the exact opposite. Fitted with genetically adapted skin that a bullet could only graze, the Rangers emphasized their toughness, their apartness, with elaborate facial tattoos and scars, metal studs embedded in the skin like rivets, and haircuts ranging from Mohawks to waist-length dreads. Some were dressed entirely in the worn-leather clothes of bushmen, while one had a bison hide slung over his bare shoulders. They were all draped with weapons, from crossbows to bowie knives and high-powered rifles, their saddle bags bulging with ammo, supplies and bivouac kits.

  There was an impromptu conference held on the gravel: the Rangers declined to dismount, but occasionally glanced at the cadavers that Hencock pointed to. Oriente could not hear what was being said, though the point was clear: the posse was to ride out immediately and hunt down the terrorists, who had no doubt fled back to their lair in the woods.

  Oriente recognized one of the gargantuan riders as a man who had patrolled near Dorking. He had sometimes spent the night at Oriente’s cabin on Box Hill, sharing his victuals and swapping tales over a bottle of moonshine. He had been an electronic goods salesman in his first life, before the Exodus: centuries later he had returned to Earth as seven-foot tall killing machine, naturalist and horseman, with the strength of a Neanderthal and capable of killing a Cronix with his bare hands.

  The briefing over, the head Ranger snapped a brief salute and wheeled his horse. The riders galloped off once to the south, into the woods.

  “That’s more Rangers than I’ve ever seen in one place,” the driver said. “Gotta be the entire London force. God, they’re ugly buggers. Never seen ‘em ride out together like that. Usually they just patrol in ones and twos.”

  Oriente looked back at Hencock and realized that this time, the chief inspector had spotted him. Their eyes locked and Oriente immediately excused himself from his companion. There was no pointing trying to avoid him now, so he walked over to the DPP chief.

  “Oriente, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m very sorry for your losses, inspector.” said Oriente. “Hope you’re not hurt badly.”

  His display of concern slightly softened Hencock's scowl. “I’m fine. We lost thirteen men though, eight of them Saps. They won’t be coming back. They got Demarra too. He’s just animated airside.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I heard the explosion from the clinic. Jumped in a car and headed up here, wanted to see if I could help.”

  “We have the situation under control,” said Hencock.

  Oriente remembered the voice he had heard just seconds before the explosion: They are coming, it said. Was it talking about the bombers? He wanted to mention it to the inspector, but worried he might take him for a crazy man. Hell, he was starting to take himself for a crazy man.

  Hencock beckoned one of his officers over. Oriente saw the inspector’s pale, manicured hands were crusted in dirt and blood.

  “Slade, this is Luis Oriente. He’s a guest at Lambeth hospital and will be needing an escort back there now. Please make sure he gets back safe and sound.”

  The officer nodded and put his hand on the hunter’s elbow. “This way please, sir.” Oriente nodded a goodbye to Hencock, who simply stared back and the hunter realized he had just been added to some new list in the inspector’s head.

  ***

  It was around seven-thirty, on a bright plains morning. But that day, the birdsong Glenn listened to every morning was drowned out by the rumble of engines. Cars. Several of them. It was a sound he had not heard for days. Pulling back the curtain, he saw a small cavalcade draw up outside the farmhouse.

  Glenn knew it must be Fitch. He dressed quickly and checked himself in the dresser mirror. He looked a mess, unshaven, hair sticking out at electrified angles. But there was no time to shave. He went to the stairs.

  There were men depositing heavy Samsonite cases and military-looking hold-alls in the hall. The first two men Glenn saw were huge, muscle-bound bodyguards. One of them, a dark-haired man with a smudge of beard on his chin, had a rough-hewn slab of a face, like a wooden icon carved by myopic primitives equipped only with blunt instruments. The other was better looking, weathered and over-muscled like a football star just past his prime. Both men looked up almost at once and stared at Glenn. He raised a hand weakly in greeting and walked down, the men’s eyes fixed upon him like attack dogs.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Glenn.” It sounded more like a question than an introduction. The unnerving men did not speak, and Glenn withdrew his outstretched hand. To his great relief, Laura stepped through the front door, carrying a small bag and followed by other two men, the older one with dark, blank eyes, the other a skinny, pale man in his late thirties with receding brown hair and bad skin. Laura put down the bag and smiled her no-shit smile.

  “I see you guys are getting to know each other already.” She pointed at the Easter Island head. “This is Kevin, and this is Rex,” she added, pointing at the blond. Glenn noticed the man had piercing blue eyes, like a husky. His demeanor suddenly changed. He shook Glenn by the hand.

  “Hey Glenn, good to meet you. Wasn’t sure who you were for a moment there. No offence, buddy.”

  Glenn smiled and shook his hand, relieved. “And this,” Laura continued, “is Doug, whose stellar performances you’ve been watching on TV…”

  “Nice to meet you Glenn,” grunted the man. Once again, Glenn reflexively proffered his hand, though there was nothing in the man’s posture that invited physical contact. “Listen, we’ve just arrived from a very long trip. We’re going to go
upstairs and freshen up, then you and I going to have to have a talk.” Glenn nodded automatically: the words were said without warmth, just a point being checked off a schedule that might stretch from here to infinity. The shark-eyed man picked up one of the hold–alls and headed upstairs, followed by Laura and the two muscle men.

  Glenn found himself alone with the younger man, who grinned enthusiastically, revealing tiny square teeth set wide apart in receding pink gums.

  “I’m Frank. Frank Stiney. Everyone calls me Stiney, don’t worry about the Frank. Welcome to the ant farm, Glenn.”

  Glenn smiled, grateful for some human interaction after his brush with the cold ocean current that was Doug Fitch. “The ant farm?”

  “Yeah, that’s what we call it. Don’t tell Doug though. Specially not now, he’s a grouch when he’s jet lagged, and right now his limbic system is still somewhere over the Azores. You ever have an ant farm when you were a kid?”

  Glenn shook his head.

  “Really?” said Stiney, with a look of disbelief. “Man, you really missed out. You must've had terrible parents.” He chuckled. “Well, you know what ant farms are, of course? Two panels of glass held a few inches apart, bunch of ants and tunnels and eggs and queens. It’s all about looking inside, seeing what those little crawly creatures are getting up to in the darkest recesses of their burrows. They think you can’t see them, but you can.”

  “And why do you call this place the ant farm?” Glenn asked, none the wiser.

  Stiney picked up two of the bags and headed for the stairs. “I guess that’s what Doug wants to talk to you about. Meanwhile, I’m gonna take an Ambien and get me the eight hours that Continental owes me. Nighty-night.” And he too disappeared upstairs.

  ***

  Mayor Lupo was livid. A normally phlegmatic man, he found it easy to rub along with just about anyone, Eternal or Sapien, with his amiable brand of small town politics and his limited list of duties: overseeing the maintenance of historic buildings, glad-handing delegations from the outlying villages, and coordinating with the authorities on the Orbiters, who were generally happy to leave him to run his community. He had even eschewed the Eternals’ habitual obsession with beauty, and had ordered himself a more down-to-earth face, the sort of face you could trust. Part Honest Abe Lincoln, part Thomas More standing up to Henry VIII, and by god, it hadn’t been easy to get those genes to work together. He was constantly being mistaken for a Sapien, something he like to brag about when dealing with his mortal colleagues on the council.