Kronos Rising_Kraken vol.1

by Max Hawthorne

  Bane clicked send, then leaned forward and wrapped her lips around her coffee cup’s rim. She sipped slowly, relishing the feeling of the near-scalding liquid as it flowed down her esophagus, warming her insides and filling her with that familiar jolt of caffeine that, at times, was the only thing keeping her going. She studied the old ceramic mug and grinned sadly. It was one of the few things Gary gave her that she hadn’t tossed, donated, or smashed over the course of their bitter divorce. It reminded her of him: hard, chipped, and worn around the edges, and badly in need of a good washing.

  She chuckled as she sat the heavy mug down. She missed him at times, but usually only when the mood struck her. And then, as was often the case, the randy old goat wasn’t around when she needed him. It was the story of their marriage.

  Thank God it was only a short story, and not some 600-page novel.

  Of course, nowadays, when she looked around and remembered where she was, she felt like she was in a novel – a horror novel. With a shrug, Bane opened her video log and cleared her throat as she prepared to record the day’s findings.

  “Dr. Kimberly Bane, research log entry dated November 20th. Follow-up from last night’s entry. After completing my review, I find myself with no alternative but to call into question the methodology and ethics of Dr. Stanley Wilkins, my peer and predecessor, here at Tartarus.”

  She glanced down at her tablet before continuing.

  “The CDC’s initial analysis and subsequent evaluation of ‘Cretaceous Cancer’ as multiple strains of pathogenic bacteria, versus the malignant neoplasm the media has made it out be, was accurate. In addition, a review of the control groups treated with the prototype serum GDT’s offsite pharmaceutical division developed from the barotrauma-induced antibodies found in the bloodstream of Specimen . . .” Bane stopped and grimaced. “Developed from Subject M-223, Jake J. Braddock, proved to be nearly 100% effective at neutralizing the invasive microbes, effectively containing their spread and reversing relative symptoms.”

  She hit the pause button and took a moment to gather her thoughts.

  “Preliminary assessment of test subjects treated with the first batch of antibiotics developed from the prototype serum – designate SMA-8996 – indicated high degrees of success. Recipients showed substantial systemic improvements, complete with reversals of primary and secondary symptoms.”

  “However, after accessing and reviewing portions of lab reports that Dr. Wilkins, for some reason, coded off limits, it became obvious that the improvements in the test subjects were greatly exaggerated. Microbial spread in all subjects was not reversed, but rather, forced into remission. Once antibiotic treatment was discontinued, per infusion protocols, the infection reemerged as a significantly more virulent version of itself, resulting in the untimely death of all host subjects.”

  Bane’s jaw tightened as she glanced off-screen at her notes. “It should be noted that both the reemergence of the pathogens, and the subsequent deaths of those treated, were redacted from both audio and video records. This includes those presented to both Grayson Defense Technology CEO Eric Grayson and the company’s Board of Directors. Molecular analysis of SMA-8996 points toward a watered-down derivative of the prototype serum, a design flaw that meant it could only suppress, versus treat, the infections. Given that the capacity to develop an efficient serum was readily available, logic indicates that the drug was deliberately engineered to slow the spread of the bacterium instead of killing it outright.”

  Bane licked her lips. “As is common with infections, failure to neutralize the invasive pathogens in their entirety can result in the surviving microbes becoming more resilient and eventually developing full-fledged immunity to the prescribed cure. Given the particularly virulent strains of primeval bacteria carried by extant pliosauridae, I can come to but one conclusion – that this was an anticipated result.”

  “Furthermore, my appraisal of serum SMA-8996’s results indicate the surviving pathogens not only grew stronger, per blood samples taken from subjects from both Okinawa and the Philippines, but also that, when permitted to reestablish themselves, they began to mutate rapidly inside their human hosts.”

  As her eyes scrolled across her notes, Bane mouthed a curse.

  “Additional serums, designates SMA-8997 and SMA-8998, were developed based on cultures derived from the aforementioned test subjects. Once again, the ‘cure’ that was mass produced and distributed was insufficient for the task, and the pathogens continued to mutate. Eventually, the disease became so virulent that infectees themselves began to suffer mutagenic effects. These mutations went far beyond the extreme inflammation, mental instability, and cerebral hemorrhaging that killed off the initial subjects from Paradise Cove.”

  “My investigation indicates that Dr. Wilkins was hands-on throughout the developmental process of all derivative serums, even to the extent of determining recommended dosages. An assessment of his personal notes points to him being, at best, guilty of extreme bungling, at worst, depraved indifference coupled with criminal intent. Furthermore, from an economics perspective, Wilkins’ ‘lapses in judgment’ have, in my opinion, left GDT vulnerable to class-action suits from the surviving families of all those who received inadequate treatment. Given the thousands of documented deaths to date, the scope of said suits could well bankrupt the company.”

  Bane hit the pause button with a trembling hand. She sat back in her seat, her eyes wide and her chest rising and falling. She was no fool. This was a boatload of dynamite she was handling: The kind that, if and when it blew up, resulted in you either testifying before a congressional subcommittee or spending the rest of your life rotting in solitary confinement in some off-the-grid prison.

  She summoned her courage and pressed “resume.”

  “Additionally, a more pressing problem exists in terms of current infectees. According to my calculations, with Cretaceous Cancer modifying itself at an ever-escalating pace, and given its high transmission rate, within the next twelve months the disease may become so resistant to existing treatments that it reaches pandemic proportions. Once that happens, it will be virtually impossible to curb.” She swallowed hard. Then her jaw tightened and she spoke directly into the camera. “The general population must be protected at all costs. I recommend immediate implementation of existing government omega-protocols, including emergency containment and/or neutralization procedures for any and all infectees.”

  “Lastly, based on my review of case subject Jake Braddock’s file, I have concluded that his acquired immunity to Cretaceous Cancer was compromised due to repeated exposure to systematically upgraded, mutated versions of pliosaur bacteria during R&D, ultimately resulting in his death. After--”

  Bane paused as her laptop froze up. An annoyed look came over her and she checked her tablet. It was locked up, too. She moved her cursor around on both screens, trying to free them up, then gasped aloud as both devices suddenly went black.

  Seconds later, she uttered a huge sigh of relief as her systems came back online. After a few moments spent confirming her settings were still in place, she resumed her log entry.

  “Well, that was annoying,” Bane muttered. “As I was saying . . . after reviewing Dr. Wilkins private logs, along with lab video files and records, I was able to confirm this. Jake was informed that he was solely receiving injections of the original bacteria in order to stimulate more antibody formation when, in actuality, he was being injected with high doses of mutant pathogens, derived from the bodies of victims that had already been treated with serums SMA-8997 and SMA-8998. It’s as if their sole purpose was to develop a pathogen too strong for his immune system to handle.” The epidemiologist’s upper lip curled up. “This goes far beyond questioning lab security protocols. We’re talking some serious Dr. Frankenstein shit.”

  Bane’s head lowered and her eyes drooped. When they lifted she wore a determined look. “Amara Braddock was my friend. Her death may have been an accident, but her husband’s certainly wasn’t. It is my profe
ssional opinion that my predecessor, GDT Senior Epidemiologist Dr. Stanley Wilkins, is guilty of an array of human rights violations, including multiple counts of murder, if not genocide. In an effort to facilitate his arrest, once formal charges are brought, I attempted to locate him. I was unsuccessful. The contact information we have on file is either incorrect or outdated and he appears to have no online footprint of any kind. Not on Facebook or Twitter, nor any other social media platform. Even Google has no information on him. It’s like he virtually scrubbed himself clean.”

  Bane folded her arms across her chest. “Derek and Garm Braddock, both members of GDT’s Board, lost their father because of Dr. Wilkins’ ‘research.’ I recommend the authorities be contacted forthwith and that full charges be brought against him. Regardless of the fallout, we need--”

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Bane stopped talking when she heard the knock. Actually, she thought, calling it a “knock” was an understatement. It was a loud banging, like someone was slamming a baseball bat against her lab’s heavy outer door.

  A quick glance at the video monitor showed nothing. In fact, her security cameras indicated the hallway outside was deserted.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Bane shook her head. Unless ghosts could knock, there was definitely someone pounding on her door.

  “One minute!” she yelled. With nimble fingers, she saved her video log entry and closed her laptop. Halfway to the door, she hesitated. The possibility dawned on her that it might be Dirk stopping by, unscheduled. She paused to check her look in a nearby mirror, then stopped and berated herself for being a horny, premenopausal bitch.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  “I said I’m coming!” she screamed. Stifling a curse, she put on her most intimidating scowl as she moved to the door. Smacking her hand hard against its pneumatic release, she watched as it whooshed open with a serpentine hiss.

  “What the hell is your--”

  Bane’s heart caught in her throat as she found herself staring up at two of Tartarus’s hulking, black-clad security guards. They were huge, at least half-a-head taller than she, and twice her weight. Far more worrisome; they radiated barely-contained malevolence, like a pair of junkyard dogs chewing their way through their tethers. The bigger of the duo – the one with the gap-teeth and freckles – glared coldly down at her.

  “Doctor Kimberly Bane?” he growled.

  “Uh . . . yes?”

  “We’d like a word with you,” he announced, pushing past her and entering the lab.

  As she sized up the two intruders, Bane’s mind started screaming silent alarms. She felt a powerful fight-or-flight response pulse through her. Instinct told her to run, to get the hell out of there, but one of them was standing in the doorway, barring her way.

  She was trapped.

  Bane’s mind ran a losing race against panic. She tried thinking of ways to bluff the guards, but she was too scared to move. Her world began to collapse inward and she experienced tunnel vision. At the end of that blurry, dark-bordered passageway, all she could make out was the freckle-faced guard’s stained teeth, bared in a sinister leer as his comrade closed and locked her lab door.

  * * *

  Oh my God, would you look at that . . . is she trying to kill me?

  As good as it was to take his tired mind off things and get a good pump on, the moment Natalya Dragunova walked into the gym, Dirk Braddock felt his already-elevated heart rate spike into the aneurism zone. Not wanting to get caught staring, he looked away as the voluptuous Russian sub commander headed for the nearby free weights. He pretended to catch his breath, resting his forearms on the sweat-streaked arms of the Mook Yan Jong he’d been vigorously practicing on.

  “Shit, who needs the gym . . . I could just watch her workout and I’m good,” Dirk whispered. “You know what I mean?” He grinned at the non-responsive wooden dummy, leaning on it and adding. “You know, I like you. You’re a good listener.”

  Drawing in a few more breaths, he resumed his Wing Chun training, practicing the offensive and defensive skills his dad taught him. Weaving rapidly between and in and out of the dummy’s arms, his lean hands moved like lightning fast blades, blocking imagined blows with quick movements and then retaliating with an assortment of strikes.

  Dirk loved kung fu. Ever the doting father, Jake Braddock had instructed both his sons on how to defend themselves, starting at age six. “It’s a man’s duty to not only be able to take care of himself,” he said, “but his loved ones, too.” Whereas Garm, with his size, strength, and natural aggressiveness, preferred the direct onslaught of boxing, Dirk gravitated to the circular sleekness of Wing Chun. It played to his strengths and offset his weaknesses.

  Peering through the dummy’s obscuring limbs, he gazed surreptitiously around the gym. There were dozens of employees either on break or off shift, squeezing in their routines. He spotted Garm’s second-in-command, Jayla Morgan, fifteen yards away. The buxom, dusky-hued South African’s biceps were popping like apples as she banged out an intense set of dumbbell curls, while facing a nearby mirror. A few yards further down, Ensign Ramirez, Gryphon’s sonar tech, was spotting helmswoman Connie Ho as she worked the bench press.

  Tartarus’s fitness center was huge, rivaling the scope and scale of many high-end health clubs, back on the mainland. The central training room alone was a full half-acre of resistance and cardio equipment, complete with dozens of the most advanced selectorized weight machines on the market, not to mention enough free weight plates, bars, and dumbbells to construct an old-fashioned M1-Abrams tank.

  Given that the base was technically a military facility, there was also an array of boxing and MMA equipment, including three heavy bags in assorted weight classes, a speed bag, top-and-bottom bag, and even a full-size boxing ring. Out of the corner of one eye, Dirk spotted two of the guards in there, sparring. From his vantage point, it looked like Security Chief Angus Dwyer and Lieutenant Jamal White going at it, with a third officer, most likely ex-heavyweight prospect Oleg Smirnov, overseeing things.

  White, as Dirk recalled, was the ex-cop-turned-drug-czar, and a one-time Golden Gloves light-heavyweight finalist. It was obvious from his superior hand speed as he moved around the ring, peppering his lumbering superior with jabs. Unfortunately for him, Dwyer shrugged off his blows like they were snowflakes and kept after him, throwing bombs every so often that, although telegraphed, landed with such force they echoed throughout the gym. Dirk could actually feel them through the floor.

  Of course, all the punching, taunting, and cheering faded into obscurity when Natalya started her routine.

  Dirk knew her on-site workout by heart. Once a week, she did a mixed martial arts routine, her powerful punches and kicks leaving permanent dents in the bags and, once, even shearing the speed bag from its platform. Another day, it was an upper body resistance and plyometrics regimen, the next, a full core and gymnastics routine. But today was his personal favorite: lower body.

  As he paused for breath and pretended he wasn’t ogling her in a nearby mirror, Antrodemus’s captain headed to a nearby squat rack. After a quick warm-up with “just” a 45-lb plate on each side of the Olympic bar, she proceeded to work her way up, slapping on more and more iron and doing high-rep sets with first 225, then 275, and finally 315 lbs.

  She usually stopped with three plates on each side. Not because she couldn’t lift more – for a woman, her strength was prodigious – but because she preferred high reps and a full range of motion. The first time he’d seen her squatting he had, strictly out of concern she might injure herself, spoken to her about her form. He remembered it well. It was the day before their lunch date in the cafeteria and the subsequent (and thoroughly emasculating) arm wrestling match that ensued. She’d explained, with her intoxicating accent, that, unlike many athletes, who did squats and stopped when their thighs were parallel to the floor, she preferred to go all the way down. It was most natural, she felt, and actually reduced the chances of knee injury or joint instability,
when done properly and consistently.

  Then or now, Dirk wasn’t about to argue with her. Dressed in a sleeveless, skin-hugging black catsuit, with her substantial chest jutting proudly out and her muscular arms looking like they should be gracing an anatomy chart, in his eyes, she was a Viking goddess, come to life. And when she actually did one of her thirty-rep sets, her legs spread apart and squatting down so low her incredible ass almost touched the floor, he got lightheaded.

  Probably because you keep forgetting to breathe, you idiot . . .

  Dirk whistled low as he snatched up his nearby water bottle and guzzled a third of it. He was tired of doing the wooden dummy. He’d noticed there was a suitable heavy bag open that he could work on. Unfortunately, as luck would have it, it was near the boxing ring, where those two troglodytes were sparring. But it was also ten feet from where Dragunova had paused between sets and was currently doing a straddle split on the rubberized weight room floor.

  Looks like I’m doing the bag! Dirk thought, nodding vigorously.

  As he headed that way, it occurred to him that he was basically lusting after his brother’s girlfriend like some hormonally-imbalanced adolescent. Of course, if Garm had been asked, he’d have denied the two of them were involved, let alone acknowledged that she was “his.” But that didn’t change things. Dirk realized now that Stacy Daniel’s assertion was spot-on. He was a love-sick puppy and there was no denying it. He didn’t want to hurt Stacy. She was fun and smart – a great girl – but he wasn’t in love with her. And he couldn’t make himself be. He had it for the six-foot-two Amazon he was drooling over, and bad.

  It was so infuriating! That big lunkhead Garm didn’t know what he had, and what he was, undoubtedly, taking for granted. Dirk snorted irritably. If they broke up and he was given the chance, he’d ask Dragunova for her hand and to have sixteen kids with him. But for now, he had to settle for casting furtive glances her way as she exercised that unbelievable body of hers.