“What is this, some kind of flying Shade?” Schaeffer said.
Hendrix moved on to the next slide and gave them a clearer view of what they would face. It wasn’t handsome. It was a Shade, there was no doubt about it, too, but it was unlike anything they’d ever encountered before.
There was no trace of humanity in the creature — its face transcended mere bestiality, with a macabre setting of prominence and furrows in deep folds. The Shade was white, very ashen like snow, but it was also covered with gore — it seemed to have dipped into a man’s blood. The creature’s skin was scaly, like a snake or a lizard and the arms were exaggeratedly long. Its fingers ended in claws — real claws, the kind that should belong to a bear or a tiger.
“Man, this is bullshit,” Knight muttered.
“Hey, if you had ever told me the world would end up thanks to the meat eaters we used to watch on TV, I’d belch noisily and get another beer,” Devereaux said, “Now, well, who am I to judge the nerds? Boss, what are the other rules?”
“This is our hopping demon,” Hendrix explained. “The designation for the new type is Whiskey Delta, the White Dead. As we all know, the Shades are evolving into better killers and looks like some of them evolved a little faster in South America. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know and I don’t care — what worry me are their abilities. They are stronger, faster and smarter than the usual Shade — as if this war wasn’t frightening enough. We have no idea how many of these there may be in Brazil but don’t be surprised, we’ll spend a lot of ordnance to kill these bastards.”
Schaeffer had both his hand and his eyebrows raised. “When you say that ‘we have no idea’ you mean…?”
“It means that I don’t know if we are going to find a thousand Deltas or a million of them,” Hendrix shifted the slide, clearing his throat. “The meeting will happen on a beach in the city of São Sebastião; Immunity One’s job is just to wait for the girl and the boy to show up and then extract them safely to the Obama. Depending on how the situation progress, gentlemen, remember that the main targets are the kid and the pack; the girl is expendable.”
Nobody argued with that part, not even Desmond. They all had their own moral principles, but they had also been forced to make difficult decisions in the past — this time would be no different.
Hendrix nodded at Captain Kiersey. The old sailor inspected the men with eyes adjusted by years of sea warfare, being the kind of man that had never smiled in his entire life.
“The Obama, call sign Sickbay Zero, will keep contact with Immunity One at every three hours, and we will provide drone surveillance as long as we can. We don’t know how long it will take for the maid to appear, but I — in a manifestation of love and grace — decided to give you 36 hours to get back to the submarine. If you are late or miss two consecutive calls, Mr. Devon and Immunity Two will take action.”
The SEAL just nodded, pleased that the captain had not referred to him and his comrades as “team B”. The captain went on for another ten minutes, but Desmond didn’t pay attention. Of course, he had seen that video before boarding the submarine — that and many others — and, once more, he wondered why he had agreed to go on that mission. Oh, yeah, he wasn’t a volunteer!
God, if you make me come back in one piece, I promise that I will have an honorable life and stay in the path of light — after killing my boss, of course.
“Questions?” Hendrix said as Kiersey finished talking.
“Yes,” said Schaeffer, “If we are talking about the possible cure of all evils, why not send a dropship to get us out? I mean, no offense, but it would all be easier and faster if we had some birds available instead of a submarine.”
“We’re in crisis, with no resources,” Hendrix said briefly. “Anything else?”
Silence. Hendrix looked into each man’s eyes. What more could be said? The rules of the game were defined, and now it was time for the players to enter the field.
At last, Hendrix turned to Kazuo Reznik, who as always was soundless in the shadows. “You’re very quiet today, Reznik…”
It was almost a joke, as the large and slender ex-Delta Force with East Asian features and short long hair hardly spoke. Reznik was from Brooklyn, but his parents were immigrants from China and he was always very attached to the culture of his ancestors, always believing that it was better to listen than to speak. He had started his military career in the Army, but, after a bloody season in Venezuela, he joined the D-Boys and became a deadly and silent operator, who only spoke or make question of any kind only when really necessary.
Reznik lifted his livid, somber face to Hendrix and stared at him with a pair of deep, icy eyes. “If we can get this kid,” he said with a dry voice, “what next?”
All eyes returned to Desmond, and he felt that same anxiety when questioned by President Jameson and General Walker.
A SMALL VICTORY ON A VERY UNPLEASANT DAY
It took them some time to get rid of the monsters.
It wasn’t easy, with the creatures always a few steps behind. Asimov really thought they would die. But then, as the rain came down harder, it became easier to get away from the pack, to the point where they managed to get into a building and hide in an apartment.
The rain should have hidden their scent. If that was really the case — and it seemed to be — Asimov needed to kneel down and thank the Almighty. He kept watch from one of the residence windows, but the creatures were gone for now — a small victory on a very unpleasant day.
Watching the street, he massaged his temples, feeling as if his skull would implode. The apartment where they were hiding was in one of the few buildings facing the beach. Outside, the rain whipped the world hard, shifting sunlight from gold to dark gray. In the distance, one of the monsters roared suddenly. Asimov made an instinctive movement toward the rifle. For the time being there were no monsters lurking in the area, as far as his eye could see, but he wasn’t peaceful at all.
He was far away from that.
“They usually go hunting at night,” said the girl, “or when it’s cloudy enough.”
“What are those things?” Asimov asked, not taking his eyes off the window.
“Really?” she muttered. Asimov cast a quick glance at her, noticing a strange light blinking in her cold gray eyes. She was sitting on a couch, the boy with his head resting on her lap, dozing. The kid’s backpack was at her feet, half open, and Asimov saw the tip of a cylindrical object inside, like a thermos.
After realizing where his eyes had landed, the girl closed the backpack and hid behind her, her face sending the clear message that, whatever was that thing, it was none of his business. Her shirt was red from a shoulder injury. He took a look and made a bandage; the bullet had been scraped and she’d be fine, for now.
Asimov closed the curtain and sat in the chair, facing her.
“What is your name?”
The girl hesitated for a moment before answering. “Olivia...” she said and then stopped, thinking for a moment, as if she couldn’t remember the rest, “Arraes. Olivia Arraes.”
“Olivia, I am...” he paused. “I am Asimov. Now, I need to ask a few questions. At first, some won’t make sense to you, but I need you to respond anyway, okay?”
“Right,” Olivia mumbled, sounding unconvinced.
Asimov looked at the closed curtains of the window. On the other side was a scene of destruction and carnage, a scene from which he understood nothing and where monsters were real.
“What happened here?” he asked. When the girl looked at him like he was really crazy, he added, “With all this... What happened?”
“I don’t know where to start.” Olivia drawled.
“Let’s start with those... those things, right?”
The girl looked at him curiously from where she was sitting.
“You really don’t know?” she asked.
Trying to hide his discomfort, Asimov said, “Answering a question with another question isn’t very productive.”
She sighed out loud, “It was a disease, some kind of virus, I think... It kills people — a lot of people — until it wasn’t killing anymore. The infected, they were changing, becoming...” she paused for a moment and swallowed. “When we have finally understood, it was already here — it was already everywhere.”
Asimov tried to assimilate what she was trying to tell him. His mind flashed with an alert and he asked quickly, “You mean those monsters — those things — are people?”
“Yes,” Olivia answered without delay or hesitation, “They were, once.”
This is crazy, Asimov thought, blinking in surprise. “And what are they now?” he asked.
“You said it yourself; they are monsters.” Olivia rubbed her cheek and then added, “The Americans called them Shades.”
Shades... God, what happened to us?
Asimov carefully measured about that. Those things looked like people because they were people. He felt a tightening in his throat, the desire to deny what the girl was saying, but he couldn’t do that — he has no rights to raise his voice and say it was bullshit or a lie.
“You said it was a disease, how do you catch it?
“All sorts of away; first it’s in the air, but also can be transmitted by body fluids, like AIDS.”
“Airborne?”
“Yes, but not everyone gets sick that way. Fluids are different. If those things bite you…”
“I got that. And it’s too bad?”
“Sorry? Have you looked through the fucking window?” She almost laughed as if he had made a joke, and Asimov shifted uneasily. “We’re screwed, man! Almost everyone died or became one of them....”
They went silent for an instant. There was too much emotion in the air. Asimov looked back down, thinking, making his sums, trying to use the answers to put the puzzle together. He sighed and finally asked, “How long ago was that?”
Now Olivia blinked in surprise. Who was that guy?
She shrugged, “Just over a month.”
“What? Are you telling me that all this happened in a month?” Asimov pointed to the window and the shattered world outside, to which Olivia just shrugged. “And we didn’t do anything?”
“It was too fast. The police still tried to control the situation, shooting first and asking later; I think they killed more innocents in those days than in the last twenty years,” Olivia shook her head and said in a low voice, “But you know what Brazil is like. When the government realized that they had to do something — like calling the Army — it was already too late.”
Asimov shook his head at that. Even with amnesia, it was still hard to know that the country where he lived had been swept away by some apocalyptic plague. Poorly run, Brazil was far from paradise, but it wasn’t hell. Now it had become one — its problems of corruption, violence, and poverty, which were no strangers to any first world country, now no longer existed because the country itself no longer existed.
Asimov didn’t believe he was a nationalistic man — to the masses, the only concern is to get their paycheck and bring food home — but it was still hard to recognize it. Even a man with no memory of his past life could feel a chill down his spine when he learned that his homeland had become a dead land.
“What about Rio?” he asked as a final point.
Olivia was about to mock his question, but something in his face stopped her. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke she kept her voice controlled and as respectful as possible. “Rio... Rio was the first state to report an outbreak,” she added, “Sorry.”
Just for a fraction of a second Olivia saw the runoff of the man’s physical weakness sparkle like gold. After that she didn’t see anymore because he laid his hands on his head, shaking it in denial. Asimov took a deep breath, thinking of the repercussions of what she was telling him.
In fact, should he be surprised? He should have seen it coming from far away. Then why was he sweating cold? What was Rio to him, if not another city on a map? Would he find answers there, answers that he couldn’t find elsewhere? Nonsense!
“You are a cop?”
The boy’s whispered voice brought him back from the realm of unreality in which he had sunk.
“Uh?” Asimov looked up. The boy, awakened from sleep, was staring at him with two blue eyes full of something close to fascination. His nose had been put back in place — not without a small cry of pain, it must be said — and the blood washed with a little rainwater.
Seeing him closely, Asimov realized that the kid was small for his age —he was older than Asimov had judged — and, of course, the boy wasn’t related to the girl — the girl was black and the boy so white and pale to the point of remembering a ghost. His accent was heavy, a Portuguese clearly spoken by someone who wasn’t native to the country. His voice was very dry, and Asimov could tell by the marks in his eyes that he had seen too many things since that hell began.
“Your uniform,” the boy went on, his blond hair messed up in every direction as he scratched his head. “The drawing of the skull... I saw it in a movie. You are a cop?”
“I am...” Asimov hesitated. “Or I was, I guess.”
Asimov noticed how Olivia’s arm was in front of the boy, rigid. It wasn’t a gesture of friendliness but a signal of protection — protection against him. Even after saving both of their lives, the girl still thought he could hurt them? Apparently, yes. Asimov tried not to think about it too much. After all, who knows what she’s been through the past few days. If trust a stranger wasn’t a thing very clever in the civilized past, what could be said now...
“And you,” he asked the boy. “What’s your name?”
“Thomas, with ‘H’,” the answer came enthusiastically. “Thomas Polansky.”
“Thomas,” Asimov repeated the name. “And where are you from?”
“San Francisco.” The words slipped out of Thomas’s mouth before Olivia could stop it, and Asimov saw her hand tighten the boy’s leg, asking him to shut up. It was a subtle gesture, but his eyes still noticed it, along with the sudden stiffness in her face. Apparently, there was a secret there. He didn’t push it — for now, Asimov wasn’t so curious to know what it was.
“How long have you been a cop?” Thomas shot another question. Asimov gave a small smile that betrayed his own affliction — he had no idea.
How long, my God? How many years of service?
He felt safe to say that he had served in the corporation for many years. Maybe more than it would be healthy. He ran his hand through the rifle in his lap, remembering the men he had killed less than one hour ago. Murder wasn’t strange to him — how many times did he have to shoot someone while on duty? How long had the old war against organized crime lasted? Because, yes, in the end, it was a war, having to climb the hills and enter the favelas, where every citizen could have a weapon hidden under their clothes...
He closed his eyes, attacked by another headache. In spite of this, he smiled — this time, a genuine smile, because he was remembering things. It was still hard to see the whole picture, but the memories were coming back.
“Hey, you okay?” the boy said, seeing that he was slow to answer his question.
“Yes, yes,” Asimov nodded, rubbing his head, “Just a little tired...”
“Thomas, don’t upset him with your questions, okay?” Olivia said although it was obvious that she just wanted the boy to keep quiet and not say anything else. Asimov gritted his teeth and kept his eyes closed, the smile fading from his face as he felt the pain only increasing.
Actually, it was rising terribly, and he moaned softly.
When the pain subsided and he opened his eyes, he knew without more ado that something had changed — something on the environment. His eyes scanned the room. It seemed all the same at first — the dusty furniture of the residence remained in the same place, Thomas and Olivia were still sitting on the sofa in front of him, staring at him...
Wait.
He sensed a movement, a silhouette, a ghost, coming out of the room and going
into the hall. It was more a shadow than a person, like a specter — in a second it was there and then it was gone. It was so fast that the only thing he did notice was the blond hair.
It’s her!
Asimov jumped to his feet, scaring Olivia and Thomas with the sudden movement. She also got up, putting herself in front of the boy.
“What?” Olivia asked, but he didn’t respond, his attention totally turned toward the hall. When he finally looked back at Olivia and Thomas, he realized that they feared he had seen one of the monsters.
“It’s nothing, just—” he stopped, thinking what he could say and feeling embarrassed to have scared them. “You can sit back; it’s okay, just... Excuse me for a moment, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Olivia didn’t seem at all convinced, but Asimov followed the shadow anyway. He was already passing by the door of the room when the boy suddenly said, “We’re going to Ilha Bela.”
“Thomas!”
Olivia tried to shut him up, but the boy pushed her arms away and went on, “There’s a ship waiting for us from the Navy,” Thomas spat the words, “Do you want to come with us?”
The offer caught Asimov off guard. He exchanged glances with the boy and then with Olivia. While Thomas had a clear expectation that he’d say “yes,” it was very unambiguous that Olivia wasn’t comfortable with his presence.
“I think—” Asimov began but stopped, looking at Olivia. “No... It wouldn’t be a good idea.”
And with that he left the room, leaving the two of them alone.
CONCEPT OF REALITY
“You’re breathless.”
“It wasn’t easy to climb all those stairs.”
“That... you’re right.”
“Where have you been? I searched for you…”
“I was in the area.”
“Who are you? What are you?”
“You still don’t remember.”
“You’re not real, are you?”
The War Within #1: Victims Page 6