The Evolution Trigger (Evolution Trigger Trilogy Book 1)

by C. S. Won

  “Thank God you’re okay, Jae. I thought we had lost you,” Han said.

  “My boy is too strong to be taken by some fire,” their father said, face brightening. He looked around. “Where’s your mother? Is she okay?”

  Jae looked at his father, lips quivering.

  “Jae?”

  He buried his face in his father’s shoulder, crying until the morning light crept up over the horizon. In the distance, sirens wailed.

  Chapter 1

  Awakened by faint, rhythmic beeping, Jae stirred.

  He opened his eyes, or at least tried to, but the task proved more difficult than he would have thought. Puzzled, he tried to hoist himself up, but his body refused, disobeying his command. He pursed his lips together to speak, but his tongue and throat failed in their duty to produce intelligible sound.

  “Ngh,” he managed to spit out, straining his muscles to do even that. He settled back into his bed, drained by his efforts to wake. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, softening the metrical beeping by his side.

  “Jae?”

  His ears perked up, enticed by the sound of his own name.

  “Jae?” Breathless, the voice came again. It reached a higher octave, almost a squeal. The energy in that voice renewed him with newfound potency, his skin crackling with life. He lifted his eyelids, pushing through the sleepy weight, but the gift of sight was a tarnished one. Colors and shapes came to him in a blotted and unfocused mess. What the hell? He moaned, fearing something was wrong.

  “Jae? It’s okay. I’m here.” The voice again. Such a soothing sound. He turned toward it, but only saw an unfamiliar image swimming in the murky fog of his world. He felt a hand wrap around his, soft and delicate, filling him with warmth. It motivated him. Get up. With teeth clenched, he dragged his arm to his side, and used it as a crutch to lift his body into an upright position. The effort left him sucking for breath. Why is it so hard to move? Is something wrong with my body?

  He heard choked whimpering and then an abrupt cough of laughter. “You’re awake. I can’t believe it. You’re actually awake!” The inflection, the enthusiasm, the rise in that voice, he knew who it belonged to, now. Madeline. He smiled, and just as he was about to call out to her, he felt a great weight fall into him. Hair rubbed against his chin. The faint trace of perfume tickled his nose. Tears and kisses moistened his neck. Two arms slid around him and held him tight.

  He cleared his throat. “Madeline?” His voice sounded like sandpaper grinding against stone. Thirsty . . . so thirsty. He ran his tongue inside his mouth in an attempt to lubricate his voice. “Madeline?” Still unrefined, but his voice came out clearer this time, and she stirred at the utterance of her name, pulling away from him. By then, his vision had recovered, and though it was still a little blurry, it had cleared enough to alarm Jae.

  Madeline’s frame was smaller than he remembered. Absent was the fiery and voluminous shine her hair used to possess; now, it was nothing more than a dull, insensible red, knotted up in tattered bun at the top of her head. Her complexion had wilted, pale and almost lifeless, skin sagging underneath her eyes, lines sunk into her face.

  “Mad? Why do you—” His words faltered when he saw the needle hooked into his hand. A thin plastic tube jutted out of it, looping over to the side and then snaking its way to an IV bag hanging just over his left shoulder. Behind that, a machine beeped, steady and consistent. A small display measured his pulsing heartbeat in sharp peaks and valleys, or measured what he assumed was his heartbeat. “What the hell is this?” He reached over to touch the needle, but Madeline’s hand quickly came into view and stopped him.

  “Don’t, honey. You’re at the hospital. There was an accident,” she said.

  “The hospital?” He looked at her like she was crazy. “The hospital?” He repeated it to make sure he was hearing things correctly.

  “Yes.” She appeared almost apologetic as she said it.

  He looked around. The bed was not his. The mattress felt flat and hard against his back, the blanket as thin and flimsy as starched paper. Unfamiliar white walls surrounded him, clean and bare, lacking decoration and personal adornment; only a small TV in the corner of the ceiling broke up the monotony. There was a chill in the room, and as he looked at the window to his right, he saw that summer was no more. The sun hid behind a sea of pallid clouds. The touch of winter frosted the horizon, the faint outline of skyscrapers, trees, and winding streets dusted in a dull plume of white and grey.

  “No.” He could feel a sweat breaking out. Madeline reached over and cupped his brow, pulling the hair away from his eyes. “What, I mean, why—”

  “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re fine now; don’t be alarmed,” she said.

  “How . . . ,” Jae shook his head. “how long?”

  “Six months,” Madeline said, wiping away bubbling tears.

  It felt as though someone had just punched him in the stomach. “Six months? Are you serious? I was out for that long?”

  She nodded.

  “What month is it, then? November? December?”

  She pursed her lips. “January.”

  Another punch to the gut. “What . . . ?” He didn’t even know where to begin.

  She shifted in her chair, visibly uncomfortable. “You were in a coma.” Her voice was small.

  “Coma?” The world tilted on its axis. A tinge of nausea washed over him. He groaned into his hand, rubbing at his eyes. “Coma?” He said again, almost having to force the word out. “I don’t understand. How?”

  “You don’t remember what happened?”

  Jae looked at the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts, but every attempt to recollect was met with an empty void where his memories should have been. Was I hit by a car? Was there an accident at work? No, I was at home, right? Wait, I wasn’t . . . I was . . . where the hell was I? What was I doing? He pulled at his brow, hoping a massage could cajole the flow of memories into his mind. Nothing substantial appeared, but he did see an image of Madeline glimmering in the darkness, dim and translucent but still visible, a beacon in an ocean of black. He saw his own hands reaching out to her, with something pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Whatever he held was invisible to him, as the fog over his memories shrouded the object. But whatever he presented seemed to have had quite an impact, as he saw only stunned silence on Madeline’s face. Where was this? Why was I with Mad? He turned to look at her, hopeful for some answers. “I think I was with you, right?”

  She gripped his hand, squeezing it tight. “Yes, that’s right. We were at the park. Do you remember that?”

  Jae tried to remember being at the park with her, but nothing came to him. He shook his head.

  “We were there because you were going to propo . . . ,” she stopped and cleared her throat, “. . . we were there for a picnic, but a storm came. We tried to make a run for it, but it was difficult to move because of how powerful the storm was, so we were basically pinned down where we were.” She sucked in a breath. “Then you suddenly pushed me away. When I looked back to see what you were doing . . . that’s when I saw you getting struck by lightning.”

  Jae looked at her, waiting to see if this was one big joke, but the punchline never came. Her expression remaining subdued. “Oh, Christ.” He placed his head back on the bedpost, swallowing down the vomit creeping up his throat. Why couldn’t he remember any of this? Getting blasted by lightning sounded like something he should have remembered, but every effort to will the memory of it proved fruitless. How could he not recall such an event?

  He looked at his hands. What was even stranger, was the fact that he didn’t feel any pain. It may have been six months but he was sure a lightning strike would cause long-term symptoms. In fact, it was a miracle that he was even alive. A lightning strike should have killed him outright, and yet, other than the initial dullness he felt when he first woke up, he was doing just fine. A quick assessment of his arms revealed no sign of injury. He peeled the collar of his gown forward and examined his t
orso, but all he saw was a clean, unmarked body. There’s nothing to indicate I was even struck.

  “Where are my injuries?” He looked up at Madeline. “There are no marks on my body: no bandages, no scars, nothing. Did I heal during the coma?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. After the storm passed, I looked you over, but I didn’t see any visible signs of injury. Most of your clothes were burned off, but that was it. You looked okay. Unconscious, but okay.”

  While he wasn’t familiar with lightning strikes, he knew enough to know that he should not have come out of that unscathed. Did he get lucky? Was such a thing possible? He ran a hand through his scalp. Did his hair even burn off? In terms of texture, length, and thickness, it felt the same. While it was possible that his hair could have simply grown back after the lightning burned it away, he didn’t think it likely because his hair never grew quickly. If his hair was singed close to the scalp, then there was no way it could have grown to the exact same way prior to getting hit, even after six months.

  “None of this makes sense. I don’t feel like I’ve been struck by lightning. I don’t feel like I’ve been in a coma. If anything, I feel . . .” He snapped his fingers, trying to formulate the right word. “I don’t know—stimulated. I know for a fact that I shouldn’t feel this good after getting hit. This can’t be normal.”

  Madeline smiled. “Stimulated, you say?” She leaned forward and kissed him, taking him by surprise. It was not the response he was expecting. “How stimulated would you say you feel?”

  With the application of one simple kiss, all his concerns, questions, and confusion seemed to flitter away, like dust caught in the wind. They became a mere triviality, an expenditure Jae could no longer afford to devote his time to. Sex became the forefront of thought, and his body ached for something that it had been deprived of for so long—a woman’s touch. While it may not have felt like six months in his mind, his body still felt that slow passage of time, and it was all too eager to indulge in the pleasures only a woman could provide. Everything about Madeline became magnified—her scent, her warmth, her presence. He felt like a virile young teenager again, high on raging hormones and ready to go.

  “I’d say I feel really stimulated, Ms. Ewing.” He grabbed her hips and pulled her in. She giggled and gasped all at once, sliding a knee onto his bed. He ran his hands underneath her sweater, fingers savoring every curve of her body. She moaned through pursed lips, closing her eyes as his hands did their good work. He grabbed a handful of her sweater and pulled it up slowly, kissing every inch of her torso until it was finally off. He came face-to-face with her pink brassiere, and the sight of it riled him up even more.

  “Let me,” Jae said, smiling. He sat up and reached around her with one hand, fingers finding the latch, and with a pull and a tug her bra loosened. She pulled the straps off one by one and then dropped the bra down around her waist in a neat clump. A coy smile drew across her face, and she looked at him with eyes that implied invitation. The sight of her should have enticed him even further, turning him into a whirlwind of lust and passion, but he could only stare at her body, noting the many changes that it had gone through. She had thinned out considerably. Not to the point where he could label her as emaciated, but it was clear something was awry. Her skin hung loose off her frame. Her arms were skinnier than he remembered, elbows protruding out sharply whenever she bent her arms. Her stomach had a notably concave shape to it, curving inward as if she was taking in a deep breath. The rest of her body matched the pale complexion of her face, giving her an almost ghostly appearance; although, he wondered if that was due more to the lack of sun and the winter cold than anything she’d willingly done on her own.

  “Madeline . . . ,” he began. She was always a slender, fit woman, but she was never this skinny. What happened?

  The smile died from her lips. He knew the look he gave her conveyed clearly what he was thinking. It didn’t take a mind reader to know what his thoughts were. She folded her arms over her breasts and looked away.

  “I haven’t been taking care of myself,” she said. A far away sadness scrawled across her face. “These past few months have been difficult. I couldn’t eat or sleep. The only thing I did with any sort of regularity was cry. I cried during lonely dinners. I cried during meetings. I cried when I took showers. Whenever I woke up and found that cold, empty space next to me in bed, I cried.” Her hands fell into her lap. “Each day that passed I feared the worst, thinking that maybe you’d never wake. I feared you’d die before I got to say a proper goodbye. I tried my best to make—”

  Jae grabbed her wrist and pulled her in until their lips met, her words disappearing into his mouth. When they were finished, she pulled away sighing, eyes closed and cheeks flushed. He cupped one side of her face and stroked it with a soft brush of his thumb. “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. One little coma isn’t going to stop me,” he said. She chuckled into his hand, a sad sort of smile on her face. “And you’re still beautiful,” he added.

  Someone knocked at the door. Madeline spun around, gasping, and jumped off the bed, nearly falling on her face when her feet caught on the sheets. She grabbed her sweater and hastily tried to pull it on, but it snagged midway over her face. The door opened with a loud click, and a middle-aged doctor with greying hair walked in, eyes glued to his clipboard.

  “I’m afraid visiting hours are over, Ms. Ewing. I’ll need you to say goodbye while we prep—” The doctor looked up from his clipboard. “Ms. Ewing, what are you doing?”

  She stammered something inaudible, grunting as she tried to squeeze an arm through a sleeve. Embarrassment masked her face in a bright shade of red. “I’m sorry, doctor, I’ll be right out.”

  “Were you fraternizing with my patient?” The doctor pivoted toward Jae. “He’s unconscious for God’s . . .” His eyes became as wide as baseballs. The clipboard clattered to the ground. “You’re awake?”

  “Sleeping beauty has awoken,” Jae said.

  The doctor rushed over. “I can’t believe it.” He checked the machines around Jae, fussing with several different buttons and reading what the meters and numbers were telling him. “I can’t believe it,” he repeated. “When did you wake?”

  “He woke a little while ago. I was in the room when it happened,” Madeline said, straightening out her sweater.

  The doctor pulled up a seat and sat down. He looked awed, as if he was staring at a pile of gold. “How do you feel, Mr. Yeon?” He pulled out a pen light and shined it into one of Jae’s eyes. Jae flinched away from it.

  “Like I’ve been reborn. I’ve never felt better,” Jae said.

  “Truly?” The doctor blinked at him. “Are you aware of what happened to you?”

  “I’ve been given a summary of events.”

  “And you don’t feel any pain? You’re not confused as to where you are?”

  “When I woke up, I was delirious. I didn’t know what was happening and I couldn’t really see anything. I couldn’t move either. But now, other than a shoddy memory, I feel great. My vision quickly returned, as did my strength.”

  The doctor turned to look at a display on a nearby machine. “I want you to follow the path of my finger, Mr. Yeon.” He lifted an index finger and positioned it in front of his face. He shifted it to the left, and Jae followed. The index finger shifted to the right, and again he followed. It moved up and down and then in diagonal lines. Jae followed it all without hesitation or failure. The doctor put his finger down and checked the display again. Without a word, he reached over and took hold of Jae’s wrist, placing two fingers on his pulse, eyebrows furrowed, eyes staring at the ground. After a moment, the doctor pulled away and studied the EKG machine, focused intently on what the display showed him.

  “Your pulse is steady, as is your heart rate. Your reaction and timing seem on point, and based on the clarity of your speech you seem to be in a lucid state of mind. You’re cognizant.”

  “Great,” Jae said.

  �
�Indeed it is, Mr. Yeon.”

  “Does that mean I can leave?”

  “Not yet. While on the surface you may feel and appear fine, we still need to conduct a battery of tests. Complications may still arise.”

  “I see.”

  “Recovery from a coma is a slow process. It’s not like how it is in the movies, where coma patients regain full awareness and functionality almost immediately after they wake. That is a rare occurrence. In reality, reacquiring even the most basic of functions—such as speech or mobility—can take several days, weeks, or maybe even months depending on the patient and the severity of the coma.” The doctor shook his head. “But judging by these preliminary results and what I’m witnessing with my own two eyes, you may have beaten those odds. You turned out to be that movie star, and that’s on top of being struck by lightning.”

  So, Jae was right. There was no way he should have recovered so quickly. He should have been a vegetable, or close to it, but for one reason or another fortune had smiled upon him and spared him of such a fate. But why? Was it just dumb luck? Or was it something else entirely?

  “Truthfully, I hesitate to even call it a coma. You hardly displayed any of the usual symptoms coma patients exhibit,” the doctor said.

  Jae looked up at Madeline, then at the doctor. “I didn’t?”

  “Coma patients are in a powered-down state. They’re helpless, so they need assistance to do even the most basic tasks, such as breathing, which they do through a ventilator. You, however, were breathing just fine on your own. Brain activity is also minimized, to the point of being dormant, but when we performed a CAT scan, your brain was lit up with activity.” The doctor cupped his chin. “Really, about the only things we had to do for you was feed you through a tube, wash you, and change your sheets.”