Extinction Point (Book 4): Genesis

by Paul Antony Jones

Within a matter of minutes all remaining hatches were sealed and the engines of the submarine began to stir the water as it eased away from the dock and headed out to sea.

  Emily and her family watched until the Vengeance slipped beneath the waves, leaving nothing but a quickly dissipating wake to indicate it had ever been there at all.

  Emily walked across the beach, Adam cradled in the crook of her arm, Thor trotting happily ahead of her, his nose fixed to the ground. Her eyes stared out to sea, but they registered nothing. Her thoughts were entirely with her husband, deep beneath the rolling waves, travelling in what equated to little more than a glorified tin can, heading north on what would either be the beginning of a new dawn for mankind or a fool’s errand that would put a hard and heavy full stop next to the final chapter of the human race. Thor eyed the waves smashing into the beach; a gray-white froth of foam pushed up from the ocean with each new swell, almost a mirror of the storm gathering to the west. The sun was already low on the horizon, slowly being devoured by the angry clouds.

  She was not used to feeling this way, so . . . unfocused. Always the independent one, she knew she was more than capable of looking after herself, but now, in this moment, with Mac well on his way to Svalbard, she was feeling—what? Diluted, diminished? Yes, that was the best way to describe how she felt. It was as though a part of her, and a major part of her at that, had been lost, and she was less because of it. She was so used to having Mac chime in on her conversation, or share his opinion on one of the many problems she encountered on a daily basis. It was just too damn quiet without him around. And the worry—holy shit! The constant gnaw in her stomach made her want to vomit . . . all the time. It was worse than when she was pregnant.

  “At least I still have you two boys to look out for me.” She sat down on the sandy slope of a dune. Adam gurgled happily at her from between the folds of his bright-blue blanket. She placed her free arm around Thor’s neck. The malamute turned his head and licked her cheek, then dropped to all fours and placed his head across her feet. He gave a soft huff of expelled air and closed his eyes.

  The next couple of months were going to be hard, she knew that. She would just have to busy herself with as much work as possible to keep her mind off Mac and the rest of the Vengeance crew. But she had decided that she was going to allow herself one night of moping about like a lovesick teenager.

  That’s right, love, you just get it out of your system, she heard Mac’s voice say in her head.

  She smiled . . . and then came the tears.

  “Alright, that’s enough of that now,” she said after a few minutes, sniffling back the tears and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She canted her head back as far as she could and drew in a deep breath of the evening air. It held the promising smell of rain, but the clouds were still far enough out to sea that she did not have to worry about the three of them getting caught in a squall.

  I hope it pours.

  Although the submarine’s desalination units met the survivors’ drinking water needs, the Point Loma locals all liked to gather as much rainwater as they could. It was sweet and pure now, free of any pollutants. Might just as well have come straight from a spring.

  Emily allowed her eyes to drift across the concavity of the sky above her.

  There! She spotted the unmistakable arc of the glittering line she and Mac had seen only a couple of nights earlier. Except . . . now it was bigger, thicker. In fact, it looked as though it had tripled in width, maybe even quadrupled, and it seemed to be even brighter than she remembered. Before, it had been just an indistinct thread, now it was a solid slash of twinkling light stretching across the night sky, unmissable in the growing darkness.

  Emily got to her feet and followed the line of light across the sky with her eyes. She was sure it was in exactly the same location she and Mac had first seen it, which meant her husband had been correct in his observation that, whatever this new phenomenon was, it was fixed in place many kilometers above the ground. It was only the equivalent of a couple of human hairs in breadth at this distance, and while Emily had never been into astronomy, she was certain it had not been there before Earth fell to the aliens. It seemed logical to assume it could only be the handiwork of the Caretakers.

  “What the hell are you?” she wondered to the heavens.

  In the rush and chaos to get Mac on his way, neither had brought up the strange new addition to the night sky. She wondered if anyone else had seen it yet. Doubtful, she decided, because at night few people—and wisely so, she thought—ventured outside the fences that surrounded the camp. The perimeter security lights that kicked on just before dusk each night outshone anything in the sky, so no one was going to be able to see it from inside the compound either.

  Maybe she should drag Valentine out here and show her, but she doubted that even this would go far in convincing that woman. In fact, she was beginning to think that that woman was choosing not to be convinced. She felt a creeping suspicion that Valentine’s apparent dislike for her was an attempt to strengthen her position within the community by targeting the one person she could use to distract the rest of the survivors away from her own agenda.

  She was effectively pointing at Emily and yelling, “Witch!”

  Well, as long as Emily did not end up tied to a stake, she would be able to handle herself. Valentine did not pose much more than an annoyance to her at this point. She was just going to have to steer clear of the conniving bitch until Mac got back and then they could figure out how to deal with her and her cronies, if the need arose.

  She spent a few more minutes pondering the lights, but by the time she decided the air was becoming too chilled for little Adam, she was still none the wiser about what the implications of the Caretakers’ latest pet project might be. She knew that they never did anything without a purpose. This meant something, of that she was absolutely sure. Although God only knew what that might be.

  “Come on, guys,” she said as a cold gust of wind cut through her jacket. “Let’s go home.”

  It was quiet in the apartment without Mac. Too bloody quiet, to quote the man himself.

  So for the first few days after he left, Emily busied herself with anything and everything to help take her mind off his absence, but she found herself pausing during everyday tasks or conversations with others around the camp, waiting for one of his typical Mac one-liners, or—on a rare occasion, at least—a surprisingly deep insight. By day six of his first week away, she realized she was just not the same person without him around.

  The Vengeance was cruising deep and running silent. It would not surface until it reached Svalbard, and even then it would only be above the waves long enough to get Mac and his team off the boat before submerging again in the belief—or maybe it would be better described as hope, as no one had yet put the theory to the test—that the Caretakers would not or could not harm them as long as they stayed below the waves. So there would not even be the opportunity to speak to Mac on the satellite phone. She would know nothing about him until the submarine returned to Point Loma in eight to twelve weeks . . . if it returned.

  “Goddamn it,” she said to herself. “You have to stop thinking like that.” All in all, she was doing a pretty damn good job of dealing with his absence. That feeling of unease from the first few days had finally dimmed to a small burning spot in her stomach, but it would occasionally flare up and scorch her. But at least she was getting better at containing those sudden outbreaks of melancholy.

  Emily eased the door to Rhiannon’s bedroom open and peeked around. “Knock, knock,” she said. Rhiannon was sitting up in bed, reading an old hardback book that, if the tattered cover was anything to go by, had seen better days.

  “What’s the book?” Emily asked, sitting down on the edge of the creaking mattress.

  Rhiannon flashed her the cover: The Prisoner of Zenda.

  “Good choice,” Emily said with a smile. “You okay?”

  Rhiannon nodded, then after a second said, “They’ll
be okay, won’t they? They’ll come back, you promise?”

  “Of course they will, hon,” Emily said, surprised at how easily the half truth slipped off her tongue. “A few more weeks and they’ll be home. Don’t you worry.” Emily reached down and eased the book out of Rhiannon’s hands. “How about I read to you?”

  Rhiannon nodded. Emily began to read.

  Twenty minutes later and Rhiannon’s soft snores told Emily the girl was deeply asleep. She placed the closed book on the nightstand and pulled the sheets gently up to the girl’s chin, placed a light kiss on her forehead, then eased the door shut behind her as she stepped into the darkening corridor.

  Emily opened the door to her own bedroom and stepped across to the cot where Adam lay, also soundly asleep, his lips parted slightly, the silky tip of his blanket damp from his teething.

  “Good night, little man,” she whispered.

  She undressed quickly, leaving her clothes draped over the back of a chair, checked on her boy a final time, then climbed between the welcoming smoothness of the bedsheets.

  A current of cool air blew in through the open window, and, as Emily allowed sleep to take her, she imagined her husband could smell the same briny scent of the ocean the evening breeze carried to her.

  I am flying.

  She swooped down through the canopy, dropping quickly past the twisted branches before pulling up level with the ground, moving through the forest on diaphanous mother-of-pearl wings, their deep thrum pulsating through every muscle of her body as she darted between tree and over bush. It was dark here, with just the faintest hint of light seeping through the western edge of the forest. Dusk was coming.

  I am everything.

  The thought did not strike her as being the least bit incongruous; instead, it perfectly summed up her existence. A part of her brain—the human part, the distant echo of who she was, the part named Emily Baxter, the part that could never really accept what she was experiencing—still knew the statement made no sense, but that part of her no longer mattered.

  Her perception was a gradual expansion of her consciousness from the single point of her being outward into a sphere-filling bubble of awareness; she sensed the presence of billions of potential doorways, all just within reach. She felt . . . connected. She was a facet within a massive structure of world-spanning immensity—all she had to do was choose one and . . .

  I am colossus.

  It was bright daylight now. In the distance she saw an ocean, gray waves slowly swelling against a shoreline. She no longer saw with anything resembling human sight; instead, she felt the colors as though they were textures, sensed the tiny vibrations flowing through the air around her, caressing the outer skin of her monumental body as it rose inexorably skyward. And from this great height, towering over every entity within the rest of the red forest beneath her, she felt a warm, salty breeze moving past her, caressing her branches. Her roots were deep within the ground, seeking out the rivulets and pools of water that collected there, sourcing the nutrients that ensured she continued to grow, and thrive, and give back.

  I am leviathan.

  Frigid water washed over her now as she eased through the darkness of the deep ocean. Around her other creatures moved and swam, ever vigilant of her, careful not to move too close. Not afraid, but respectful of her power; they were aware of her position within the Grand Hierarchy at play around her.

  I am insignificant.

  Now she clung to a rock, her tiny red tendrils reaching out across the stark cold landscape, waiting for the sunlight to come again. She was small, inconsequential by human standards, but as aware of her irreplaceable position within the Grand Hierarchy of the world as any other part of the immense machine that was life on this small blue planet.

  I am here.

  And now she saw through almost human eyes again. An intense sense of inquisitiveness consumed her, flooding through every limb. She looked down at a tiny human figure sleeping peacefully beneath a blanket—a feeling of recognition pecked at her. She knew this being. The child moved, quietly repositioning itself within the crib. A powerful vitality flowed from the child, as though it was somehow able to amplify the natural energy surrounding it. An almost overwhelming mixture of desire, curiosity, and longing gripped her. It was an irresistible pull the likes of which she had never experienced before, not in the millennia of time she had existed. The tiny creature lying in the crib was fascinating.

  Long slender arms reached down toward the child, a single nimble digit extended and caressed its cheek—as if from a great depth the human facet began to struggle for control again—then the finger traced the outline of the infant’s ear, lifting the thin blond hair. Contact only fueled the feeling of curiosity, the pleasure of newness. A second stick-thin arm reached down, the hands extended and gently grasped the child—No! No! No! The human facet began to scream—lifting him from within his blanket cocoon. The child’s eyes opened and stared back at her—“Let him go!” the human facet screamed, forcing itself to the front.

  I am Emily Baxter.

  “Adam!”

  Emily crashed into consciousness covered in sweat, her son’s name echoing in her ears, the dream—No! she corrected herself, the nightmare—still burning in her forebrain as her mind tried to grasp which reality she now found herself in. Her heartbeat a syncopated rhythm to the panic that gripped her. She was sitting upright, she realized, one leg swung out of the bed, the crumpled sweat-soaked covers thrown aside as though she had been about to run somewhere. The bedroom window was open and a full moon filled the room with corpse-gray light, casting long shadows across the floor and the bed.

  She inhaled a deep breath of the now-cold night air, exhaling silently as she checked the time on her watch. It was just after two thirty in the morning.

  Emily freed her other leg from the tangled sheet and sat on the edge of the bed listening, waiting for her eyes to adjust fully to the darkness. Beyond her window, the camp was silent, the apartment quieter still. Across the room, Adam slept peacefully, the raised outline of his blanket barely visible through the bars of the crib. On the floor at the end of the bed Thor stirred, looking up for a moment before easing on to his side and drifting back into sleep.

  All was as it should be, but still . . .

  Emily stood up, trying to shake the remnants of the nightmare from her mind, but it refused to leave her, clinging to her with taloned claws. It had seemed so real. Normally she was able to recognize even the most vivid dream for what it was, but this . . . this felt as though she had been there, as though she had just been dropped unceremoniously back into her body; it had the weight of memory, not fantasy. She could still taste the briny saltiness of the sea sweeping though her gills, the feel of the air washing across her body.

  Emily exhaled a long sigh, trying to bring her thudding heart under control. There would be no rest for her until she checked on Adam, she knew. So, with a sigh of resignation, she stood and padded as quietly as possible across to the boy’s crib.

  There he was, sound asleep, outlined within the shadows of the crib’s interior. She paused for a moment, listening for his breathing, just to be sure . . . and heard nothing. Not a sound.

  “Adam?” she whispered, reaching toward the shape lying on the mattress. Pulling back the crumpled blanket revealed nothing but the mattress beneath it.

  “Adam!” she called out again, panic beginning to rise now as she snatched the blanket from the crib and dumped it on the floor. The crib was empty.

  “Oh shit!”

  Thor lifted himself from his spot on the floor between the baby’s crib and her bed and stretched, then trotted to her side. He cocked his head to the side and stared at Emily as if to say What’s wrong?

  Emily looked under the crib, then under her own bed. There was no sign of the child.

  The panic was a twisting knot in her stomach now, pulling the breath from her lungs.

  “Adam!” she said aloud. “Adam!”

  Thor sat and stared at hi
s mistress, then, recognizing the name of his other charge, pushed his nose through the bars of the crib and sniffed heavily. Then he sat again, with the same quizzical confused tilt to his head.

  Emily registered all of this as if from a distance. Thor seemed not the least bit panicked. That meant she must be the one missing something. What was it?

  A thought hit her mind, momentarily smothering the panic with relief: Rhiannon had him. Of course that was the only possibility. Emily knew she had been deeply asleep; Adam must have cried out and Rhiannon, asleep in the room on the opposite side of the wall, ever the alert and attentive aunt, had come in and taken him to her room to let Emily sleep. That had been translated into her dream as someone . . . some thing taking her child. Yes, that was it, of course that had to be it. She used that thought to quash the swirling fear collecting in her stomach like lava and rushed out of her bedroom to Rhiannon’s room next door. Easing open the door, she stepped inside. The room was pitch black, and she could hear Rhiannon’s steady breathing coming from her bed.

  She flicked the light on without hesitation.

  “Wha-What? Emily? What do you want? What’s going on?” Rhiannon’s voice was sleepy and confused as her face appeared from beneath the sheets, squinting hard at the light.

  Apart from Rhiannon this room, too, was empty.

  “Adam, where is he?” Emily demanded.

  Rhiannon sat upright. “He’s with you, in your bedroom. Where else would he be?”

  “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Emily felt the surge of panic and fear burst free now. It engulfed her and she found herself fighting back the urge to vomit. Her bones felt as if they had been hollowed out and filled with lead. She slumped hard against the frame of the door for support, drawing in several rapid deep panicky breaths before sliding slowly to the floor. Her panic was being consumed by fear now—gut-churning, vomit-inducing, pinned-to-the-floor-like-a-butterfly terror.

  Rhiannon was out of bed and by her side in an instant, a hand placed firmly on Emily’s back, the other taking her hand to steady her.