Intended Extinction

by Hanks, Greg

  I examined the chasms between the tall monsters that were once esteemed, high-class skyscrapers. I wondered if the world would ever know those days again. Any shred of optimism had all but vanished from our minds. Everything this world once knew had been taken away. I was never going to see happiness again.

  A loud engine roared to my right. In mere seconds, a bright sports car, colored like a ripe strawberry, zoomed past me leaving a cloud of concrete dust and gravel particles. Before I could register the chaos, the car was already a mile away, weaving in and out of deserted vehicles.

  Of course, Edge hadn’t prohibited all activity.

  I thought back to the first days of widespread infection. People had lost all sense of decency. Riots, raids, looting, and intense mayhem. The sports car reminded me of the certain people who still retained a part of that diluted civility.

  Idiots.

  Eventually everyone, like me, would come to understand that we lost the fight long ago. We just needed to accept death.

  The foul smell of a musty carport entered into my nostrils once again. It was home. I tore off my sweater and dropped to the couch that had so humbly accepted my carcass all those years. I told my Fuse to initiate, and began to indulge in another rousing match of “Mark versus the television.” I craned my neck at a sharp twitch that had nicked my shoulder. As the Fuse trumpeted its message, adrenaline started to pour into my system like the floodgates had been opened.

  Oh, hell.

  Without invitation as usual, an electric shock ran down my spine, and I toppled to the floor. I yelped in agony as the virus coursed through my veins and ravaged my body. Convulsions came, and my left pointer finger burst. Blood spurted out, covering my wrist and arm in dark blood. I swore out of pain, and clenched my hand, rubbing it sorely.

  Edge scorched me, searing up and down, left and right, and any other direction possible. My body started to expire, my eyes began to blur. I sensed death waiting outside my door. He was knocking and I was this close from opening.

  My eyelids flickered. My body shook. I jumped back into reality and started to crawl toward my island counter top. Every inch I moved unleashed a handful of piranhas to mutilate my carcass. I reached the ledge and flung my unscathed hand onto the surface. I pulled my lead heap to the counter and steadied myself.

  As my eyes produced a slimy film, I felt around for the Miracle Medpod—GenoTec’s only successful attempt for a cure. I caught a glimpse of the silvery, peanut-shaped inhaler, mocking me from the other side. I wobbled on the counter’s edge and felt like I was going to explode. Every breath I took came with sharp pains. A foot away from where the Medpod laid, I lunged. I hit the counter top, knocked the ‘pod off, and watched it sail to the floor.

  I cursed loud enough that people two doors down could hear. My hand kept bleeding and my eyes waned in and out of clarity. I didn’t know where to start or what to do. I began to panic. I lost my balance and crashed to the floor. Lying there on the grimy tile, I wished that things would go away. I wished that life might float like a cloud, disappearing into nothingness. Was there something worth living for? What might keep me from making this moment my last?

  Something growled within my soul.

  I found strength again. Inside of my deteriorating, cynical being, I thought I felt the warmth of crackling embers. The enkindling motivated me to stay alive. For some reason, I was forbidden to give up—no matter how hard I fought the urge.

  By now, my eyes were out of commission. My other four senses had to do the work. Waving my hands across the dirty floor must have looked silly. I groped the crevices of my kitchen, picking up particles of old food, dust, and cobwebs with my sticky hand.

  Finally, I hit something hard and metallic. I grasped the metal container and brought it to my lips. I activated the capsule and felt a rush of frigid air run down my throat. My blood crystalized, and then defrosted. I blinked and rubbed my eyes thoroughly. The slime gave way and I could see once more.

  4

  Overwhelming relief enveloped me. I rested my back against the cupboards below my sink and let out a giant sigh. I sat there for what seemed like an hour. It felt so good to be safe again—to evade death. Endorphins coursed through me, soothing my nerves, calming my passion for suicide.

  I pondered the courageous sensations that caused me to stay alive. They were unusual and foreign. I despised them. I guess some part of me really wanted to survive.

  After a few minutes of lethargic, medicated recovery, I climbed the cupboards and teetered at the edge of the sink. A slew of ever-pallid dishes, my favorite broken mug, and the top of the sandwich maker I hadn’t cleaned for weeks stared back at me. I began to wash my wound. The warm water from the faucet cradled my gnarled nail bed in a film-like blanket. The blood was stymied after moment of crushing pressure with a dirtied rag.

  Attacks this close apart usually signaled a red flag. But it wasn’t the first time I’d been racked twice in a row.

  I started rummaged through my top cupboard, hands still wet. Behind some old freeze dried packs of food, I caught a glint of my treasure and pulled it out. I ripped open the package of Medi-A with my teeth and, like a tube of toothpaste, squeezed the gelatinous contents onto my finger. The burning sensation was normal and much better than anything Edge produced.

  While I fidgeted with the package, I recalled to memory the origin of Medi-A. One year before the outbreak—2034—scientists developed the first over-the-counter “quick-heal” substance. The news became revolutionary and a Nobel Prize fell into their laps. Using micro-manipulators within the gelatin, the body’s fibrin output quadrupled, helping wounds heal in seconds. Once Edge took hold of the world, GenoTec began controlling the manufacture of Medi-A. Without it, this planet would be seeing a lot more red.

  This was my life.

  Every now and then a painful viral attack rocked my skeleton to exhaustion. After so much infection, one would think we would be used to it by now. But each time I endured Edge, my body grew weaker. The splintering of my bones told me so.

  Edge is like a deteriorating acid. It is a deadly scorpion bred to snip and pinch and sting. The virus is highly contagious and can seep through rudimentary quarantine barriers. Edge attacks the vascular system, expanding vessels beyond their limits, forcing blood out of the body, and making blood cells cancerous. People start to develop necrotic patches on their body where the virus has redirected blood supply to other regions. When the immune system cannot take anymore vessel expansion, it resorts to expulsion. Some people can put up quite the battle, while others aren’t so lucky—young children and the elderly.

  A whole year passed before Edge reached global status. The only downfall to the potency of the virus is the fact that it doesn’t take long for symptoms to arise. Thoughts of pride scoured the globe—we assumed everything was under control. Multiple sources claimed they had cures in development. But when five months passed with no sign of relief, hope started to dwindle. Containment became much more difficult as time went by. Panic spread. Anarchy reigned. Billions died.

  Yet here I am.

  Like a devious card game, the hand dealt can be good or bad. Some people live two days, some two years. Then there are people like me, still surviving since day one, never sure when death will come.

  I walked around my counter, struggling to keep my eyes open. I yearned for sleep, but my bed seemed years away.

  My apartment confirmed my disgusting lifestyle. Shaped like an “L”, it began with a sofa, a Fuse, and a corner kitchen. The big window was accompanied by two glass cabinets—holding some personal items—a bookcase, and an armchair. The en suite bedroom had clothes and garbage strewn throughout the floor, and I didn’t want to think about how my bathroom looked. Everything was out of date—except for my Fuse—and I could easily pass as someone living in the twenties.

  As I fought my body’s exhaustion, the battle ended when I reached the bedroom and collapsed on the worn, bruised bed. The only true way out of this life came with sl
eep. There’s no wonder why I slept so much.

  I awoke to the sound of television voices.

  “As you can see, Dr. Jackson Gorm—one of the men responsible for the Miracle Medpod—is in ‘yellow cuffs’ today. He is accused of testing new antidotes and formulas on live humans, all of which proved to be unsuccessful. All of his victims perished under the intense scrutiny. Luckily, a former colleague helped turn him in. Mason Hendricks is here with us to tell us about what happened.”

  What was GenoTec doing handcuffing someone?

  I yawned and propped myself up, rubbing my face. Still trying to get a grip on reality, I hobbled out of bed and padded over to my cupboards to find some oatmeal packets.

  “He told me everything was for the ‘betterment of mankind.’ He mutilated those people. When I found out, he tried to kill me. And when I saw a Seraph in one of his lockers, I knew he had truly gone insane.”

  The term “Seraph” had been used for those who were immune to Edge. They lived among us, usually working with GenoTec as Volunteers. Conditions between the infected and the Seraphs had the reputation of being difficult, but why would this man experiment on them? All the possible tests had already been done. There was no hope within the immune.

  “Thank you, Mason. We will have more on this story at—”

  The Fuse flickered off and the power went out.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said aloud.

  I whirled around to my window, leaving an opened packet of oatmeal spilt upon the countertop. I peered outside to check the adjacent skyscrapers. The blackout seemed to be far reaching.

  The day had begun its descent into night. I hadn’t seen Manhattan this dim since the city-wide blackouts when Edge went global. As I overlooked the streets below, I saw people moving toward Broadway. My heart started to quicken and a nameless sensation stirred within me.

  Nothing even remotely exciting had ever happened since Edge. I tried to think back to the last time I had something other than bloated blood coursing through my veins. No, this feeling was adrenaline. It was . . . anticipation.

  With nothing else to do, I decided I better at least figure out what caused the blackout. I knew I needed to rest after my little episode, but this jittery desire to act overtook me. Before I did anything, I moved to my glass cabinet and pulled out a syringe and a vial. I held the vial to the remaining natural light and my arm began to salivate.

  Adrenoprene. This stimulant helped me relax and reenergize after one of my attacks. Prior to Edge, the substance had been banned, being considered an illegal steroid. But now, the drug traded faster than food.

  I grabbed the elastic strap needed to bring out the brighter side of my vein and slung it around my bicep. Everything else was routine. I didn’t even shudder anymore. Thankfully, the remaining light helped me stay precise. I enjoyed the rush of adrenaline flooding my veins. I let out a soft breath of ecstasy and almost thought Edge had been exterminated. The energy twirled around inside of me and my focus magnified.

  Then I remembered the electricity.

  I put everything back and shook my arm out, walking to the door. I yanked my slim windbreaker from the coffee table, stopping only to see my reflection in the mirror next to my couch. I looked like some poor, homeless guy—which wasn’t far from true. Stone-cut nose, ever-angry eyebrows, and five o’ clock shadow. I had a bad case of bed head, impervious to repair. I matched my plain look with black jeans, ending with my tattered, ashen canvas sneakers. I glared back at my dusky blue eyes and took a deep breath.

  Who are you? Are you still Mark Wenton?

  I grabbed a flashlight and glanced one last time around my apartment. I held onto the doorknob with an uneasy grip. Leaving like this struck me with a baseball bat of memory. I saw my sister Savannah, standing in the materialized version of the home in which we grew up. I tried blinking away her face, but she never stopped staring. It had been three years, and I still couldn’t get her to stop haunting me.

  I slammed the door on my way out.

  I pushed the touch pad on the cylindrical illuminator in my hand and a large light beam shattered the deep. I jumped at the sight of the human body standing before me. A stark white arm shielded his face from my blinding rays.

  “I was hoping someone would have one of those,” he said, as I lowered the flashlight.

  I’d never seen this guy before. I racked my brain trying to figure out who he was, but nothing arrived. I wasn’t surprised. There wasn’t much socializing going on here. Ever.

  He was a tall, lanky creature that wore a tainted orange shirt. His denim jeans had stains of blood, most likely. This must’ve been the first time he had come outside of his apartment, because his pale skin reflected light like the moon. In fact, I couldn’t help but mentally label him as “The Ghost.”

  “Sorry, man,” I said. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “No, probably not,” he said in a small, nervous voice. “I usually stick to my room.”

  “I don’t blame you. I’m Mark.” I stuck out my hand. My inference of his social activity was confirmed when his grip felt like a dead fish.

  “Evan Belliston.” His red hair absorbed the light, as greasy as could be. Freckles dotted the exposed portions of his body.

  “Well, I assume you’re off to see why the power’s out?” I asked.

  He tilted his head in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  Before I could answer his intriguing question, something at the end of the hallway dinged, and a voice emerged from the blackness. “Whoa, what the hell?”

  Evan and I turned around. The elevator doors opened with an eerie golden ray. Someone stood in the glow, clearly as dumbstruck.

  “D’you guys see this?” he asked as we shuffled down toward him.

  Short and stocky like a beef cow, the man had caramel swirled hair and a scraggly beard. He was the guy from 56, though I had forgotten his name.

  Evan quivered, shifting his head. “Maybe we should just take the stairs?”

  “Nah, this has to be part of it,” said the chunky man, stepping into the bright cubicle. “It came up on its own, so someone must’ve ridden it down ‘er somethin’.”

  I was leery of the whole situation, but figured if the elevator worked, why not?

  “Whatever, I guess,” sighed Evan, joining us in the small box.

  Before the doors shut, the lights flickered, sending a little jolt of fear down each of our spines. The cage began to descend with the three of us locked inside.

  “So what’s going on?” I asked. “Apparently I didn’t get the memo.”

  Evan turned. “Well, maybe it’s best we just wait and see. I didn’t hear much about it to tell you the truth.”

  Again, the lights shuddered.

  “Not even a hint?”

  “Well—”

  His answer broke apart when the lights shut down for a good five seconds. We tilted and rocked as the floor shifted angles. The elevator became a giant metal prison, encasing our awkward bodies trying to keep balance. It smashed against the other wall, then continued down the shaft at a slow, scraping pace. My bicep collided with Evan’s elbow, the other man’s knee came out of nowhere and whipped my shin, and the three of us continued to jostle into each other.

  Finally, in the midst of the strobe-light confusion, everything came to a shredding halt. We were pressed against each other like three guys who desperately needed warmth.

  “What the hell?!” grunted the man from 56. He shoved Evan’s lightweight mass to the side.

  “Watch it!” retaliated Evan, grabbing the railing behind us.

  “Well, at least we can crawl out,” continued Pork Chop.

  He was right. I peered across to see that the elevator had stopped a quarter of the way down, allowing us a triangle-shaped opening.

  Evan coughed from the musty air. “I should never have left my apartment.”

  I told myself the same thing, watching the portly fellow squeeze his way out of the elevator. His body hit th
e carpeted flooring below, followed by a gluttonous guffaw. Evan was next. He tried to keep his balance as he scraped his way through. Light from the outside level gave us bearing. It was a misty twilight—better than complete darkness.

  After The Ghost’s skinny body slid out like a sausage, I wiggled my legs through. Bruises were starting to form from our bumpy ride, triggering as I slithered through the triangle. Edge didn’t leave much room for resilience. I hit the ground hard, my legs buckling underneath me.

  “Well, he must’ve been in a rush then,” said The Ghost.

  We were on the upper landing of the lobby, with a great view of the entrance. The man from 56 trotted happily out of the front doors, joined by numerous others.

  What in the world was going on?

  The Ghost helped me up and asked, “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, dusting off my pants. “Let’s go.”

  “I still can’t believe you didn’t hear anything about this.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m pretty sure it all starts with Geno and ends with Tec.”

  5

  A cool, dousing wind enveloped Evan and I as we cleared the threshold to our apartment complex. Monstrous as swelling waves, crowds of people bombarded their way down the street toward Battery Park. I was no longer perplexed by the situation. This had Edge written all over it.

  “That’s . . . a lot of people,” said Evan, staring blankly into the vibrating mass.

  I shook myself a little, overcome with memories laced with gore. The crowds reminded me of the outbreak. Screaming, pushing, shoving, and killing. It was the way people looked at you, like you were standing in their way of living.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon.” The Ghost left my side and fell in line with the conglomerate of people. I took a deep breath and followed.

  As we shuffled along the street, we passed the last remaining skyscrapers on the edge of lower Manhattan. I became fascinated with the idea of the unknown, feeling it surge through me, linking arms with my adrenaline. The excitement from before resurfaced. But these feelings were usually fleeting, so I didn’t want to feed them too much.