by David Meyer
“You used a module to de-age your body. Can’t you do the opposite with the archaics?”
“We can physically age them. But there are certain things—motor skills, for instance—that only come with experience.” He paused. “Frankly, I would’ve preferred to take the route you’re suggesting. But we don’t have enough time to raise a whole new generation of archaic humans. We need them out in the wild as soon as possible, breeding and interacting with ecosystems.”
“If you’re not giving birth to them, then how …?” A jolt of electricity shot through Caplan’s heart. “You’re creating them from people. You’re transforming adult prisoners into adult archaics.”
“That’s correct.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now, we’re going to need lots of archaics to turn the tide. Far more than three thousand. Fortunately, plenty of survivor settlements, similar to Danter, still exist. We plan to, uh, recruit from their ranks.”
The truth crystalized in Caplan’s mind. Savage Station’s clinic, although gigantic, could only fit so many people at a time. However, the releasing of each archaic wave would free up space. Roberts and her soldiers could then fill that space with new prisoners, kidnapped from the various survivor communities.
Another jolt of electricity stung Caplan’s heart. “Amanda … is she an archaic?”
“Not yet. Archaic creation is more art than science. You see it’s one thing to alter the genome of a human embryo and create an archaic baby. It’s something else to alter the genome of a fully-formed adult human.”
He swallowed. “How long?”
“Weeks. Maybe months.” He swirled the ice in his glass. “We use the modules to, in effect, paste a complete set of genetic instructions over existing ones. Simple in theory, perhaps. But in practice, it takes a great deal of careful, personalized work. No transformation is the same and if we proceed too quickly, a pre-archaic could succumb from pain and shock.”
The more Caplan thought about it, the more it boggled his mind. “How is it even possible? It’s like …” His brain searched for a suitable analogy. “… like changing a pre-cooked meal by altering its recipe.”
“It’s more like changing a pre-cooked meal by altering the fabric of its ingredients.” He paused. “Consider me, for instance. Seventeen months ago, I was a physical wreck. Dr. Barden used a module to perform targeted edits to my DNA. The edits hardened my bones, increased my strength, and took a few physical years off my life. Now, take that concept and consider it on a much broader and deeper scale. That is, imagine similar editing on all of my genes. Then imagine that Dr. Barden used specialized germ-line engineering to ensure I passed those mutated genes on to future generations. And not just one or two generations. All generations. That is, in essence, what we’re doing here.”
“And it actually works?”
“Oh, yes. We’ve used modules to produce numerous test archaics at this and other facilities. The first few batches yielded horrific beasts. But with time, we’ve perfected our procedures.” He paused. “You see, nothing about the human body is set in stone. Nothing. Bones, for example, stop growing upon the fusing of their growth plates. But Dr. Barden and his assistants are able to dissolve that fusing and, with time, coax bones into growth again.”
Caplan arched an eyebrow. “It sounds painful.”
“It is. Fortunately, we’ve found ways to help our pre-archaics manage the pain. Recovery time between module sessions is, of course, essential.”
“Manage their pain?” Caplan’s ears nearly popped out of his head. “For the last few days, I’ve heard nothing but howls and screams coming from this floor.”
“Some pain is unavoidable.” He shrugged. “When a patient nears the end of genome transplantation, they’re brought down here. The final module sessions, for reasons we don’t fully understand, are the hardest to endure. Even the Wipe, unfortunately, offers no relief.”
“The Wipe?”
“In a physical sense, the pre-archaics become archaics after completing the genome transplantation. Neanderthal archaics, for instance, tend to gain strength as well as more robust builds. From a mental perspective, they’re largely archaic as well. But there’s still a human component that must ultimately be erased to complete the transformation.”
“You’re talking about their memories, their emotions.” Caplan exhaled. “Their sense of self.”
He nodded. “The entire first wave has undergone genome transplantation as well as the Wipe. Right now, they’re undergoing a period of painful rest, designed to cement the transformation. But they are, in every conceivable manner, archaics.”
“Yeah?” He turned his gaze to the far end of the room. A splotch of blood on the carpet outside the cage caught his eye. “Because I find it hard to believe the original archaics had that kind of bloodlust.”
“That bloodlust, as you call it, is a temporary condition. We deliberately don’t program it into the genomes. Instead, we artificially induce it via implanted microchips. I won’t bore you with the details. But in essence, we have the ability to plague our archaics with a horrible ringing noise that only subsides with the consumption of blood.”
“I don’t get it.” Caplan shook his head. “Why would you pit them against humanity? I thought you needed people to make more archaics.”
“We do. That’s why we’re releasing archaics into non-populated areas first.” He stroked his jaw. “The bloodlust is really more for the archaics’ protection than anything else. Once Stage Three is complete, we’ll simply stop issuing instructions to their microchips.”
“But in the meantime, they’ll kill any person they cross?”
“Not just people. They’ll attempt to kill any animal they meet out in the wild.”
“So, you’re turning people into archaics against their will. And you’re turning archaics into bloodthirsty monsters.” He shook his head. “How do you live with yourself?”
“Quite easily, actually.” He shrugged. “If I had done nothing, the Holocene extinction would’ve wiped out humanity along with practically every other species on Earth. This way, many of those species—including ours, I might add—may yet survive.”
Perhaps Corbotch’s heart was in the right place. But his methodology bothered Caplan. Surely, there must’ve been a way to end the extinction without so much death and misery.
“So, what’s the point of Stage Three?” he asked. “Filling the world with archaics? Or removing every single person not fortunate enough to live inside this station?”
“Both,” Corbotch replied. “As you know, animals similar to our colossi—or behemoths, as you call them—should’ve evolved millions of years ago. Our work shows they would’ve kept the Homo genus from evolving past the archaic stage. To recreate the world as it should exist, we need to replace ordinary humans with archaics.”
“Except for yourselves, right?”
“Correct.” He swirled the alcohol in his glass, then downed it. “Savage Station will remain in operation for the foreseeable future. Even after we reverse the Holocene extinction, we’ll need to keep a watchful eye on things.”
Caplan’s thoughts turned to Morgan. Then to Elliott, now living with the Danter colony. Could he save them from becoming archaics? And what about Mills and Toland? What did Corbotch plan to do with them?
Painfully, he swallowed his pride. “We can help you.”
Corbotch arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. Even if I was desperate for help, which I’m not, I could never trust you or your friends.”
A strange sort of hatred boiled up within Caplan’s soul. Corbotch had murdered billions of lives over the last seventeen months. Now, he was transforming the last dregs of humanity into bloodthirsty archaics. It was horrible and sickening.
And yet, Corbotch wasn’t doing it out of malevolence. Instead, he was trying to stop a mass extinction event. An event that would, if left unchecked, kill anything and everything in its path. From that perspective, couldn’t his actions be considered, well, righteous?
Re
gardless, the stakes were now clear. And Caplan wasn’t about to abandon Morgan to her fate. Very soon, he, Mills, and Toland would be taken to an unknown destination. Somehow they needed to return to Savage Station. They needed to rescue Morgan before she could be transformed into a full-fledged archaic.
And then what? he wondered.
Perhaps he could take his little group to some ultra-remote location. A place even more remote than the cabin. They could stay out of sight, live off the land. They could eke out a meager existence. But was that enough?
His old battle cry—forget thriving … just keep on surviving—came to mind. Did he really want to keep looking over his shoulder? Did he really want to deal with behemoths, reborn megafauna, and bloodthirsty archaics for the rest of his life?
An audacious plan came to mind. A crazy, impossible plan. A plan with near zero odds of success. And yet, the very thought of it made a thin smile curl across his lips.
He’d return to Savage Station. He’d rescue Morgan. And then he’d take Savage for himself.
That’s right. He’d conquer the station. Then he and his friends could ride out the rest of the apocalypse in relative safety and comfort. No more worrying, no more running.
Conquering Savage wouldn’t be easy, of course. He’d have to survive whatever Corbotch had planned for him. He’d have to fight his way back to the station. He’d have to deal with reborn megafauna, behemoths, and soldiers.
A realization crystalized in his head. The odds were too great to face alone, even with Mills and Toland at his side. Which meant just one thing.
He was going to need help.
Chapter 35
Date: November 30, 2017, 9:04 p.m.; Location: Savage Station, Vallerio Forest, NH
A fist pounded on one of the elephant doors.
Corbotch stood up. “Come in.”
The door opened and Roberts stepped into the frame. “It’s a few minutes past nine o’clock.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s time.”
“Time for what?” Caplan asked.
“For your little trip.” She snapped her fingers. Two soldiers strode into the room and began freeing Caplan from the chair. “Don’t worry about your friends,” she added. “They’re waiting for us upstairs.”
He inhaled through his nostrils. There was no use arguing. He had no bargaining chips, nothing to offer. “Where are we going?”
“Did your friends ever tell you how they arrived in the Vallerio?” Corbotch asked.
“They said you dumped them into a clearing full of sabers. They called it your killing ground.”
“The place you’re going is kind of like that.” He smiled. “Except on a much larger scale, of course.”
Chapter 36
Date: November 30, 2017, 9:28 p.m.; Location: Savage Station, Vallerio Forest, NH
Another killing ground? The very idea unnerved Caplan. He’d heard plenty of stories about the previous one. Mills, Toland, and Elliott had been taken there in a small group. They’d barely escaped with their lives. Not everyone had been so lucky.
At the top of the stairwell, he passed through an open door and into a giant space, illuminated by numerous wall-mounted lights. High above, an enormous metal hatch slid open. Moonlight, partially obscured by a light snow, flooded his eyes.
“Zach?” Mills called out.
A couple of soldiers dragged her and Toland across the floor at gunpoint. He wanted to rush forward, to hold her tight. But the restraints arrested his movement. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“We’re fine.” She glanced at Corbotch. “So, where are we going?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
A numbers of helicopters, heavily armed, sat on the concrete floor. One of the choppers started up, its rotors whipping in circles.
Corbotch walked to the rotorcraft. He wrenched the cabin door open and climbed into the interior.
A couple of soldiers waved their guns in menacing fashion. Grumbling under his breath, Toland shuffled to the helicopter. Two soldiers tossed him unceremoniously into the cabin. Two others then positioned Toland onto a metal bench and buckled his seatbelt.
“It’s your turn.” Roberts said.
Caplan hiked to the helicopter. The two soldiers heaved him through the open doorway. He landed hard on his side. Normally, he wouldn’t have felt it. But after the damage Roberts had done to his body, pretty much any impact came with agonizing pain.
The other two soldiers helped Caplan to the bench. Mills was last to arrive. The soldiers were a bit gentler with her, placing her into the interior rather than merely throwing her through the doorway.
Once all three of them were seated and belted, Roberts climbed into the cabin. She shut the door and sat down next to Corbotch.
As her fellow soldiers filled the remaining seats, Caplan turned his head. Thick wires and cables hung from the walls. Tool kits and bags were stored under the benches. A metal container, welded to the floor between the cockpit and the cabin, held parachutes and other gear.
In a netted sack next to the door, he spotted something that raised his eyebrows. It was Morgan’s duffel bag. Evidently, they were in the exact same helicopter that had flown them to Savage Station in the first place. Roberts’ soldiers must’ve forgotten to take the bag out after landing. What was inside it? Food? Water? Weapons?
Vibrating softly, the helicopter jerked upward. The rotors picked up speed, drowning out all other noise. The result was almost hypnotic.
Caplan glanced out his window. He watched the hatch close over, blocking off all access to Savage Station. Old buildings and a long road, covered with dead and dying vegetation, rested near the hatch. That must be Savage City, he thought.
They gained altitude. The details melted away and he started to notice giant swathes of crushed trees and flattened soil. It looked like bulldozers had run amok, forming curved trails through the dense forest.
He’d seen similar trails in the past. They’d been formed by behemoths venturing out of the Vallerio and into the world. Once upon a time, nature would’ve reclaimed these behemoth trails. But the continuing extinction had kept that from happening.
They gained more altitude and he started to notice familiar landmarks. He’d studied numerous maps of the Vallerio, both before and while working there. So, he was able to pinpoint Savage Station’s location as being within the remote Sector 214.
The helicopter flew south over the Vallerio. Seconds turned into minutes. The minutes started to add up and eventually, Caplan lost track of time.
He continued to stare out his window. The snowfall had stopped. The sky was free of clouds and the moon and stars shone brightly in the night. But Earth, free of artificial light, remained dark. What was it like down there? Were there any survivor communities in the vicinity, eking out an existence in the ice and rubble? If so, did they have any idea what was coming their way?
Caplan noticed Mills looking at him. Their eyes locked together and he found himself doing somersaults into that beautiful ocean-blue color. He ached for her and he could sense how much she ached for him. Even now, even after all that had happened. The world was indeed a nightmare and the sheer amount of death staggered him every time he thought about it. But the apocalypse had brought them together and for that, he was eternally thankful.
Maybe when this was over, when they had conquered Savage, they could be together. They could relive those few wonderful hours at the campground over and over again. The thought made him smile, a rare occurrence these days.
They flew over a large body of water that Caplan took to be the Atlantic Ocean. It sparkled in the moonlight and he could see every wave, every ripple. He wondered about the water, about the creatures that lived within it. Back in the old days, it had held a wide variety of life. Striped bass, bluefish, mackerel, blue and mako sharks, rock crabs, lobsters, sea urchins, whales. Had any of them survived the Holocene extinction?
The question intrigued him. After all, the blue whale was the largest animal of a
ll time. It was even longer and heavier than prehistoric giants like the megalodon. It was, in short, a behemoth. So maybe the oceans hadn’t needed Corbotch’s monsters. Maybe they were surviving the extinction just fine.
“We’re getting close,” Corbotch said.
Toland stared outside. Then he stiffened. He didn’t say so much as a single word. No flippant remarks, no smug insults, nothing. He was completely still, utterly silent.
“Oh, my God,” Mills said.
Caplan shifted his gaze. The city of Boston, smoldering and in ruins, lay before him. Apartment buildings and offices, once strong and tall, had been reduced to rubble. Cars and trucks, many of them pulverized, were scattered about the uprooted and snow-covered streets. Broken billboards, crumbled statues, and loads of windswept litter were everywhere.
They flew over the Back Bay neighborhood. Small fires raged in various places, adding light to the otherwise dark streets and buildings. Caplan’s eyes lingered on the city’s tallest structure, the 790-foot tall building once known as the John Hancock Tower. A massive Megalonyx jeffersonii, also known as a giant ground sloth, clung to the building’s once-smooth glass façade. It was almost one hundred feet from end to end and its heavy build made it look even larger. Its forelimbs featured three humongous claws apiece. They’d pierced the building’s glass panes and now clutched onto the steel frame.
They flew over the Financial District. A couple of boats, partially submerged, filled Boston Harbor. Inland, Caplan saw clusters of skyscrapers and high-rises, all over 400-feet tall. Fires raged in a few buildings, casting a thin smokescreen that obscured his view of the street. It was beautiful in a way, like staring down at a fantastical cloud city. A cloud city, unfortunately, that was populated by monsters.
Dozens of behemoths stalked the smoke-filled streets. A flat-headed peccary, some thirty-feet long, stabbed its tusks into the lower levels of an apartment building. A scimitar-toothed cat plunged its massive incisors into a section of sidewalk, reducing it to dust and rubble. A giant beaver, which could grow to a height of some seven feet back in the Pleistocene epoch, crushed a car beneath its seventy-foot tall frame. He saw other behemoths, too. A Harrington’s mountain goat, a saiga antelope, mastodons and mammoths, an American lion, an American cheetah, and many more.