The War Within #1: Victims

by Rodham Perry, Marcus

  “Your Grace,” he said, “I don’t think I even introduced myself. Victor Paes, at your service; I’m the closest thing to a doctor around here. Oh, and you are clean, kid.”

  “So I’m not infected?”

  “Nope, and I don’t have any candy to give to you, sorry to say, but I think they’re serving soup in the cafeteria.” Victor motioned to the woman. “Polly will show you the way. And don’t worry; soon you’ll see your friend.”

  “I thought you didn’t speak English.”

  “Ha, and do you think doctors don’t lie too?”

  “What about my backpack?” Thomas remembered suddenly, and then his eyes got wide, “My backpack! I need it! I want it, now. Now!”

  His hysterical and all of a sudden attack seemed tremendously incomprehensible to the adults. Thomas wanted to elucidate what the backpack meant to him, what was so important inside her, but the thought refused to come out in words. HIs only hope was for them to listen to him and consent to his desire.

  “Okay, okay,” the woman said, wanting to calm him down. “Let’s get your things. Don’t worry.”

  A little calm, the boy let the woman escorted him out of the room. Victor watched the door close in silence.

  Ok… That’s a little out of the ordinary, he thought.

  When he heard the click of the latch, he stopped smiling and turned to the blood sample with intrigue engraved on his face.

  SO MUCH FOR THE GHOST TOWN THEORY

  “You know,” Hendrix said. “I met your brother, once.”

  Desmond looked away from the tablet.

  “Could you repeat that?”

  “It’s true,” Hendrix took the lighter and lit his cigarette. “Raymond was still far from being a colonel, of course. It was in Venezuela. I was already one of the SEALs, and he was just a jarhead. He and his company were trapped in a building, surrounded by insurgents, a real bloodbath. My team and I were returning to the FOB when we saw the skirmish. Your brother was the only one we saved.”

  He stopped talking and stared into oblivion, his face half hidden by the smoke of his cigar. Desmond paused for a moment, trying to piece together what Hendrix had said with what he knew about his brother’s military career.

  “The first medal he received,” Desmond finally said. “He never said much that medal. In fact, he never said anything about Venezuela.”

  “Veterans hardly like to talk about the war,” Hendrix said, gently tapping the ash of his cigarette, “Much less a dirty one like that…” He looked at Desmond questioningly and seemed to smile. “What about you? Why did you decide to work for the CIA? Your family shouldn’t have liked it very much...”

  Desmond hesitated before answering the statement. “In fact,” he said. “My old man didn’t like it. It was to be expected, I think. My father served in the Army, my grandfather in the Navy... My uncles and aunts were all police or military officers. My mother’s family wasn’t much different.”

  “But you wanted to do something different.”

  “I wanted to do something good.”

  “Fighting for your country wasn’t good enough?”

  If there was any finger pointing in Hendrix’s voice, the man didn’t let it show. Desmond realized, however, that Knight had shifted in his place, paying attention to his next words. Desmond cleared his throat, “I don’t think anything good can be defined by the colors of a flag, that’s all.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  The finger pointing in Knight’s voice, on the contrary, was quite evident. Desmond looked at him and continued, “Invading Venezuela was a mistake,” he said, “and a waste of lives and resources. Venezuela was a country dominated by a fascist party too dumb to be able to clean their own ass. I wasn’t going to be manipulated by misinformation and lies to be enlisted.”

  “Unlike your brother,” Hendrix said dryly. “He had a love for his country and was willing to die for it. But how did you get into the CIA?”

  Desmond shrugged. “It’s not because that I didn’t want to enlist that I didn’t do it. Familiar pressure, you know… Already at the end of the training, I ended up breaking a guy’s chin. They said he had to make surgery.”

  “And who was he?” Knight asked, “Any partner who said bad things about the Venezuelans?”

  “He was my instructor.”

  “What? And they left you just walk away from there?”

  “I didn’t say that. The other instructors got together and gave me such a big spanking that I thought I’d never walk again. After that, I was excluded. A few weeks after later, a guy approached me. He said I would have more chances if I worked for the Company. I’ve been thinking about it all day. At night, I went out to the movies theater to think and, when the movie ended, I decided to accept the offer. My parents weren’t very happy, of course. My father never spoke to me after my dishonorable discharge.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Hendrix said, “Send the guy to surgery, eh? Who would say an analyst could punch that strong…”

  Knight chuckled and then they went silent for a few minutes. Desmond glanced at the gun beside him, an M7A1 carbine. The workhorse of the Army for the last ten years, it was a rugged and sturdy weapon, with sharp lines and angles, designed for the toughest situations. The Special Forces favored the Heckler & Koch 700, which has a more skeletal look and longest effective range that the standard-issue assault rifle.

  The last time he held this weapon... well, it was a long time ago. In theory he still remembered how to use it; in practice, Desmond knew he’d be lucky to be able to hit something.

  At least wearing the EAOCS exoskeleton wasn’t so bad. Desmond was pretty sure that, if things get bad, he could run away from the fight in a blink. Or maybe he’d try a macho thing and use that damn rifle. Would he be able to shoot? To pull the trigger when the time comes?

  Calm down, if all goes well, you will not even have to use it, he thought, and that idea put a sarcastic smile on his face. Yeah, right, because you are a very blessed man, don’t you?

  Hendrix was about to ask why the analyst was laughing when Devereaux called on the radio, “Chief, take a look southeast.”

  Hendrix reached for the binoculars. It didn’t take long and he saw it: humanoid figures, galloping on the all fours on the street.

  Five Shades.

  So much for the ghost town theory...

  “You want me to ghost them?” Devereaux requested.

  Hendrix pressed the radio button to give the order but stopped. “Wait,” he said at last, “There is something wrong.”

  Prior to enlist on the Navy and dream to become a SEAL, Hendrix used to go hunting with his father. From an early age, he knew how to recognize an animal that it’s being hunted — its behavior, the way of running and acting. And those Shades showed that same behavior — they were fleeing, but from what?

  The answer came only a second later when, all of a sudden, just behind an old truck, two figures emerged. In Hendrix’s eyes they seemed literally to come out of nowhere, like a magic trick.

  They were camouflaged, he deduced, and then swallowed. The enhanced Shades, the Deltas — it was them. Even from this distance, Hendrix could see that they were larger, with muscles more prominent and powerful.

  In a fraction of a second, the two newcomers hurled themselves over the other Shades, their forms interlacing for a moment, squirming. Red sprays of blood exploded in the air and there were five bodies on the ground. It happened so fast that if Hendrix had blinked he wouldn’t have seen anything.

  The five smaller Shades were dead. With astonishing speed, the larger ones ran away, jumping a five-foot wall as if in a race of obstacles, disappearing in the rain and leaving behind a mass of flesh and bones.

  Devereaux’s voice hummed into Hendrix’s earpiece.

  “Boss, um... what the hell was that?”

  “Dogs facing wolves...”

  “That puts us as sheep, I suppose.”

  “Sheep with big guns.”

&
nbsp; “They didn’t take the bodies, they simply killed them. This wasn’t a hunt, it was a murder, and planned. Are we seeing a possible Shade civil war?”

  “Maybe, but don’t ever say it out loud again.”

  “For the reason that…?”

  “It’s too stupid. Keep an eye. If you find any of them too close to our position, put it down.”

  Hendrix moved away from the window and signaled to Knight — it was his turn to stay on watch. Hendrix sat up and took off his helmet, running his hand through his hair.

  Yeah, well, at least I found the Shades.

  ♦♦♦

  Schaeffer and Archer returned soon after. They had “parked” their new cars in front of the building. It was already something. Archer took the watch post soon after, and Schaeffer and Knight exchanged friendly amenities. Desmond picked up his tablet and continued to do his work; he was trying to locate the current position of Olivia’s phone, but the bad weather was not making things easier.

  Time passed slowly. The men traded shifts, and every now and then Devereaux called on the radio, pointing to Shades in the vicinity. Thank goodness the monsters were far away and at no point did he need to fire the gun.

  With only a few minutes to 14:00, Knight nudged Desmond’s shoulder. “What’s up?”

  Desmond looked the man up and down, and then bent down and removed from his kit a satellite phone that was smaller than the Smartphone he used back home. He realized that everyone was staring at him.

  “She should call now,” he told them, “Then we hit the details.”

  Desmond took the phone with both hands. At that moment, time become something like torture. The minutes didn’t seem to just stretch — in fact, it seemed to walk backwards. He looked at his watch, and they kept waiting in silence.

  It was 14:00 and nothing happened. Hendrix stared at Desmond, who just shrugged in response.

  “Give her time,” the analyst said.

  They keep waiting for more a few minutes.

  14:10…

  14:15…

  14: 20…

  As times passes, the men began to straighten up. Schaeffer, who was looking out the window, turned his attention to the analyst. Hendrix approached Desmond, his face an expressionless mask. It didn’t take a genius to know they weren’t happy at all.

  “This is normal?” Hendrix asked, finally.

  No, it’s not.

  VICTORY OVER DEATH

  In a rational world, where the most atrocious crimes can only be committed by the scourge of society, that story wouldn’t even serve as an appetizer. However, in a world where people were transformed into bloodthirsty predators, the concept of probability demanded that sometimes even the worst of stories can be legitimate — it was untainted arithmetic.

  When it was over, Cássio stared thoughtfully at Asimov, arms crossed over his broad chest. He had moved very little, his gaze fixed on Asimov’s face, filtering the answers and evaluating the data. While he didn’t seem totally convinced, he didn’t look skeptical either.

  “Okay,” he said after a long pause, and stood up. “I’ll get you some clothes...”

  Asimov blinked in surprise. “Wait a minute,” he said, “you believe me? Just like that?”

  Cássio shrugged. “You have the face of a desperate man. Your story is so weak that it would hardly makes a good book, but it seems to be true. Believe me; I know when people are lying.”

  Asimov reflected on that. He wasn’t mad to begin discussing how easily he had convinced the man, because he hadn’t convinced anyone. He had told Cássio everything —with the exception of the nameless woman — but he could see in Cássio’s eyes that the man was giving him a chance to prove if he was trustworthy.

  “The world has changed, Mr. Asimov,” Cássio went on, “More than half of the people I met were death of turned by this plague,” he scratched his chin and said, “On the plus side, our prison population has never been so small and the same can be said about the organized crime,” Cássio laughed dryly, then became serious, “The fact is: I can’t go out killing any survivors I bump into, but I can’t give anyone a second chance either...”

  Asimov nodded. The message was solid and the warning was clear. Cássio left the room and returned with clothes in one hand and the keys of the handcuff in the other.

  “Here, I think a man in black is supposed to wear black. I’ll wait for you outside,” he said, dropping the items to Asimov, and leaving the room again. Asimov broke free of his handcuff and glanced at the clothes. It wasn’t a big deal: a black social shirt, a pair of pants and a blouse, all in black.

  Just dressing was a torment. When he finished, he searched for his boots and saw that it were under the bed. Inside one of the boots, he noticed that someone had placed his BOPE badge rubber, and also the book I, Robot. Asimov removed the two items and stared at the BOPE emblem, the skull with the knife jammed at the top.

  Knife in the skull, victory over death…

  I was a bit ironic, since he almost died that morning. He thought about throwing it away, but then changed his mind and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. After that he looked at the book. The leaves were soaking wet from the rain and he could barely read anything. Like the badge, he couldn’t just throw it away — that book belonged to his son, it was a reminder of his family. Asimov shuddered, wondering where his son would be, or what would have happened to him...

  Asimov put the book inside his pocket and put on his boots, making a grimace of pain — it seemed that his back was being torn as he moved. With a groan of pain, he stood and left the room, get in a narrow corridor. Cássio was there, accompanied by two other men carrying standard IA3 assault rifles close to their chests. There was no need to think too hard to know why those men were there.

  “Come on,” Cássio said, walking on. “I’ll show you the place.”

  Asimov looks at the guards behind him as they pass through empty rooms — serious faces, typical of guards, but not necessarily hostile. The way they held their rifles indicated men who knew what they were doing.

  “So…?” Cássio said.

  “So what?”

  “Quid pro quo, I think you have more questions for me now.”

  “Some yes...”

  “Very well, ask at will.”

  “First, where are we?”

  “An old condo now turned on a small refugee camp. It was the best we could find, but, hey, who am I to complain? The houses aren’t uncomfortable and the walls are high. For the time being we didn’t have to test them against the Critters; it is better to stay in the shadows and not call attention.”

  “Critters? Do you mean the Shades?”

  “Shades?”

  “It’s how the American is calling them.”

  “Hmmm... A little too pompous for me, but whatever, at least nobody is calling them ‘zombies’ yet...”

  “Are we still in Caraguatatuba?” Asimov went on.

  “Yes.”

  “And how did you find me? Elaborate.”

  “We were looking for supplies. Usually we don’t go that far, but today... Well, let’s just say you’re a lucky bastard. We found the boy and he took us to you.”

  “I see, and how did you survive all this time?”

  “Like I said, with big walls and heads down; the Critters can’t kill you if they didn’t find you. The exit is this way.” Cássio led him into the hallway and proceeded to a door. When he opened it, Asimov imagined a bright sun flooding the hallway with his light, blinding him as the heat hit his body.

  Instead, what he saw was a dark world with a very ugly storm rolling in the sky. It clearly didn’t appear to be just close to 15:00 — it seemed the end of the day already, almost night.

  “Damn weather, that’s a real storm,” Cássio muttered.

  The condo was no big deal but also wasn’t the smaller thing ever constructed, with two dozen houses and small streets and alleys separating them. There was a narrower road cutting through the center of the pr
operty, acting like the main street and the only way to get in and out of the place. One could see from far afield that the main gate had been fortified, and watchtowers had been installed on the roofs of the houses around the walls. Most of the houses also had a wall separating them, but here and there were some that escaped the rule.

  It was easy for him to know which residences were being occupied by the survivors and which were empty. Here and there, lights were visible in some windows, provided by lamps or lanterns. And, despite being a condominium, there wasn’t anything gracious in attendance. Although some of the residences looked a bit luxurious, it was all dirty and battered, and the survivors had placed boards on windows and doors in an attempt to fortify them.

  The dirt reminded him of the favelas in Rio. Over the last ten years, the situation had worsened until the entire state became a zone of unresolved conflict. The poorer neighborhoods were naturally most affected, and the resulting scenario was similar to what he saw now — other than a little drier. The favelas were never an elegant place, and the new wave of violence had wrested away whatever generosity the environment might possess.

  At least I’m remembering something.

  Cássio appeared with umbrellas and handed one to Asimov. They walked down the street in silence, passing by more armed men, some wearing raincoats, others ignorant to the cold water. Asimov couldn’t help but notice that, despite their beaten appearance, they were all carrying guns as if they were professional, and some even had bulletproof vests. “Are they MPs?” he asked Cássio.

  “Most,” the man replied, “but a few are from the Army.”

  Most of the street was empty, with the exception of a few guards and small children running in the rain, their worried and tired parents chasing after them. Those children, so young to understand the new reality, to recognize that there were very bad things outside those walls...

  They passed a group that greeted Cássio with a nod, while they gave Asimov a suspicious look. “I suppose you weren’t kidding about that talk of killing me.”