Olsen remained cool, his face betraying nothing. “The questions come from us. You said, chosen. What is the chosen?”
Hansel said, “The Chosen are us, Joshua Olsen. Our kind.”
It was an extremely unsettling moment, both for the Shoreman, who had never heard a puck speak, and for Hansel and Gretel’s friends, who had never heard them refer to themselves as such.
Dr. Mitchell broke the silence, asking, “What of the boy?”
Before his father could think of anything that might shield his son, Billy spoke for himself. “I’m just like you. Vulnerable.”
Olsen nodded. “And the demons? Are they contagious then?”
Eliza was blasted with the children’s thoughts.
We should just kill them.
It would be easy. We can have the men with the guns shoot them and then shoot themselves.
And I’m hungry.
Yes, hungry.
Eliza blasted back, Stop it. Stop it now!
Olsen asked, “Is there a problem?” He leaned slightly back in his chair. “Are they contagious?”
Eliza cleared her throat, “The scientific term for these children is Homo-telepathus. We refer to them affectionately as pucks. Demon is a preposterous and derogatory label.”
“Is it?” asked Olsen.
She looked at the doctors instead. “They are the most remarkable example of sudden origin evolution known. Yes, they carry the disease, but it is considerably less virulent. It can only be spread via an injection of bodily fluids.”
“So if one bit me, I’d get it?” asked Olsen.
She let the thought lay for moment. “It’s likely.” She turned to the children. “Hansel & Gretel, why don’t you tell the Colonel about yourselves?”
Hansel spoke to Eliza in her mind. I’m going to make him feel pain in his stomach.
No, you will not. Use your words and speak to the man.
Hansel frowned, then looked at Olsen. “My name is Hansel. I do not have a last name. My friend Billy has lived with me for more than a year and he is not infected as you can see.”
Gretel said, “I am Gretel. You strike me as a sinister person, Joshua Olsen. We spent time with other people from this place you call The Shore, and most were sinister as well. Only our friend Tim Gallagher was good.”
The three Shoremen became slightly gobsmacked until Olsen stood, and the doctors joined him. Olsen said, “That will be enough for now. Later, that story we will want to hear also. Fed you will be. Clean up you will.”
The Shoremen filed out, leaving their guards to stand post.
The group washed up first. Not a full bath or shower but enough to feel refreshed. Not for a moment were they out of sight of the guards, who were replaced by two others after the captives settled into the dining room. A hearty stew with real bread had been left for them and they dove in without hesitating. It was a big pot, with potatoes, onions, and carrots with some type of fish in a heavy broth. They were silent as they ate, scraping the pot clean. When they were done, they moved back to the living room.
The guards had to constantly swivel their heads in order to keep a full eye on their charges; the unwieldy hazmat suits making it awkward to see a full 180 degrees. While they kept their guns at ease, their fingers weren’t far from the triggers.
As Dean and Nikki habitually assessed the soldiers for weaknesses, one of them put his hand to his ear and spoke quietly and unintelligibly into the mic inside his mask. The other guard seemed to be listening in and started slowly shaking his head, ejecting the magazine on his M-4 and staring at it for a brief moment before quickly slapping it back into the gun.
The captives shifted nervously with that. Dean nodded at the men. “What’s up, fellas? Why the nerves?”
Two more soldiers entered the house, the squeaking hinges announcing their arrival followed by the slam of the screen door. They also wore MOPP gear and stood in the wide double doorway that led into the living room. The new men seemed a bit uncertain themselves, their posture filled with nerves.
Nikki picked a flake of fish out of her teeth, trying to appear calm, while the muscles in her legs prepped themselves to spring. “Something wrong, guy’s?”
There was a pause, then the guard who had spoken into his mic said, “Everything’s fine, ma’am. Uh, feel free, you should, to talk amongst yourselves.”
She responded with a skeptical drawn out, “Okaaay,” then locked her eyes with Eliza’s while glancing several times at the twins.
Eliza reached out in her mind to Hansel and Gretel. It didn’t take but a blink. Guys, Nikki wants to talk with us all in private.
About time, mother.
Yes, Elizaandra, your rules about us staying out of people’s heads seems quite foolish at this moment.
Nikki felt the odd sensation of her mind filling with the presence of another, then Jon sort of jerked in surprise, which had the guards jerking in surprise.
Hansel flashed them with what he hoped was an innocent smile — actually, a terrifying view of a band of sharp white teeth.
Jon held up a hand to the guards. “Easy. Just a little indigestion.”
The guards posture returned to that of mere deep agitation.
Dean closed his eyes and said, I’m here.
Nikki thought, We have to make a move. We‘re only going to get one shot at this. We’re far too valuable for them to hurt us all, but we are each in a way redundant and therefore some of us are expendable. They’re going to try to separate us. They know that we will resist. They have badly miscalculated Hansel and Gretel’s abilities. While we can, and before they send in that drone, we need to take these men’s weapons. We need a hostage and we need to get out of here.
Dean agreed, but get out of here to where?
Billy thought, We’ll need to find a boat.
Dean smiled at his son with affection.
Eliza thought, What if they genuinely want to learn from us?
Jon thought, Nothing in their behavior says that these guys have our best interests in mind. They sent a ship full of infected to attack Martha’s Vineyard for fuck’s sakes.
Nikki glanced at the guards. It’s now or never.
The front door hinges squeaked again and the screen door slammed. Doctor Mitchell stepped into the room, this time wearing a gas mask. His right eye had a bit of twitch to it, which he pointlessly tried to smooth away with a brush of a finger against the plastic visor. “Well, then. How was lunch?”
Jon thought, One hostage on a platter.
Dean thought, OK, now!
The two pucks looked at the guards in turn. The men became stricken. They struggled with their bodies while at the same time offering up their guns to be taken. Dean, Nikki and Jon hesitantly stood and grabbed away the rifles.
Dr. Mitchell said, “Now wait just—“ He grasped at his throat, his mouth failing to draw in any air. The guards did the same, all of them fighting it for a minute or so, then becoming slump shouldered and falling to the floor.
Nikki said to Dean, “Your show, Captain. What next?”
Dean pointed at the doctor, “We tie a gun to his head, same with the guards and we walk out of here, demand a decent boat.”
“So far, so OK. And when they follow us?”
“We keep the hostages. When we get to a friendly shore we let them sail away.”
Hansel grabbed the fourth gun. Eliza held her hand out for it. “No way, buster. Hand it over. Besides, you’re far more deadly with that brain of yours.”
Hansel looked at the tool in his hands with longing and then reluctantly handed it to her, saying, “It’s very light, when you consider the damage it can do.”
Nikki hefted her own gun. “Shit.”
“What?” asked Jon.
She aimed at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. It harmlessly clicked. “Empty.”
Dean hefted the weight of his gun. Ejected the magazine and looked at the feeder slot of an empty clip. Jon and Eliza followed suit and found their’s empty as w
ell.
The front door hinges squeaked, followed by the slamming screen door. A heavy metal skittering echoed down the hall, mixed with creaking floorboards. The sentinel stepped into the living room doorway. Olsen’s voice came through the machine. “Proven my point, you have. Thank you for relieving me of any further ethical concerns. Enjoy your rest.”
The sound of high pressure gas emanated from a small port in the drone’s torso.
Dean tried to rip the gas mask off Dr. Mitchell’s face, then dropped to his knees and fell face down. The rest followed suit, their bodies dropping into awkward positions.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Approach
Full Face was surprised when Patch Of Blue came to change shifts with her. The big male had made it his new rule never to be alone with her. If they had sex, it was always as part of a group and never fully consummated. Her own solution to the problem was to continue to focus her lust on Extra One, who only occasionally gave in. Only once had she privately communicated with Patch Of Blue. It had been the day when they played the game with the giant spiders and Extra One had been so angry. They hadn’t privately shared their thoughts again. But the looks were there. Always the looks. She felt her heartbeat increase as she observed that he was alone. Her mouth was suddenly full of saliva and she wiped her chin as a bit of drool escaped her lips. The big Chosen had developed a limp over the past many days. All of them had been getting tired easily, but Patch Of Blue seemed especially down. She could tell without even feeling his thoughts that a rare opportunity for sex, just between the two of them, was once again not in the offering.
They are nearly here, thought Patch Of Blue. Can you feel it? Feel them?
Like all the Watchers, Full Face was acutely aware of the approaching army of their fellow Chosen. For more nights than she could remember, The Five and the many had been coming. Now, it was as if great waves of Chosen thoughts were descending upon the land. Like messengers carrying the news, vast flocks of birds had flown over for days, a harbinger for what was to come. The Watchers had feasted like never before. So many birds flew over that calling out a meal became as simple as picking shoots from the new saplings that were suddenly sprouting everywhere.
Patch Of Blue continued, It is very exciting. The ancestors are among them, and Fresh Ones too. We shall feast on the Fresh very soon. I hope they have newborns among them. I have not tasted a suckling since before leaving to come here.
I have never tasted a suckling, thought Full Face.
So soft. The squealing scream is one of the most exciting sounds.
She could see Patch Of Blue’s lips grow moist with hunger, and she thought she might get something out of the clear erection he began to display, but then his focus was grabbed by splashing sounds to the north. A huge heard of deer was charging into the water, climbing over each other to be first, to get out into the bay and swim toward the distant shore. Other smaller animals were among them, charging into the water as if the woods behind were ablaze, no other route for escape. Yet another huge flock of birds came flying overhead. The Chosen on the shore could feel the group-think of all the animals. It added up to one overriding thought — FLEE.
The Chosen leader known as Paul was deeply bored by the surroundings. The vast lands they had crossed had been full of novelties, things to be discovered and explored. The abandoned territory of the Fresh Ones provided endless curiosities, but enough was enough. He had not remotely considered the distance when he had convinced his tribe to set out. It amazed him that he and the rest of The Five had sent the Chosen to go to this faraway place without knowing at all what it would take to get here. That the Watchers had made it was remarkable. He wondered at the fortitude of his fellow Chosen who had been raised in this cold and desolate landscape.
Paul missed the green of home the most. It would be good to be quickly done with their business so they could return to the warmth of the jungle. Besides, many of his people were showing various symptoms of illness. This desolate land was full of the spirits that hated The Lamb. The Five were quite convinced that everywhere around them, evil lurked in the shadows and cast illness upon the Chosen. Now, mercifully, they were coming to the final edge of the frontier. His Watchers were not far away. He would stop soon and rest, take the time that was needed to pray to The Lamb for its healing powers. Then he would join the rest of the Chosen around the planet, and finish cleansing the world of the vile Fresh Ones; except for the youngest, which would be spared for breeding as labor and livestock.
A tally of the remaining Fresh slaves told him that they were nearly depleted. So many of the creatures had grown weak or become lame during the long trek. And while they never went to waste — keeping the hungry Chosen fed — the ones who remained were skinny with lousy meat on their bones. To make the meal even less appetizing, there was little fight left in them. These surviving Fresh Ones were going to their deaths with simple resignation or worse, embracing it. It would be good to feast on fat healthy frightened ones again. Paul shared the thought with Mary who smiled widely for him. Her belly was fairly bursting with their next child. She and the unborn needed a proper feast. They were marching toward more Fresh Ones than they had ever laid eyes on. His Watchers were not certain, but the best guess was that the land across the water was teeming with meat. Oh what a feast they would have.
Dr. Sampson Littlefield was exhausted beyond any ability of The Chosen to mentally reduce his pain and fatigue. The march north had been beyond grueling. Harsh weather, poor nutrition, and frequently poor shelter, had been collectively brutal. Perhaps worst of all were his and his fellow captive’s ruined, broken, and bloody feet. A trained podiatrist, Dr. Littlefield knew all too well the odd quirk of evolution that had caused Man to walk upright and use only two of his four limbs for locomotion. Human endurance was remarkable when they compared themselves to each other. It was pitiful when compared to that of nearly every other species. The Chosen, with their large feet and powerful hock-kneed legs, were everything that humans who had evolved for traveling on foot should be. He had managed to gain permission for himself and his fellow captives to scrounge for shoes as they wore out, but it did little to help the wreckage that was their feet. Dr. Littlefield and his fellow captives looked longingly at every disintegrating vehicle as they walked on their endless march, hoping for a chance for a sheltered rest or a quick hunt for some moldering shoes. Now, the Chosen seemed to be picking up their pace, which resulted in the humans falling further behind. With each day, their handlers were growing frustrated and even more cruel.
The ones who prodded them along had the ability to provide mercy. With the gift of entering another’s mind, they could reduce or even eliminate the pain the humans were suffering from, but this required an exhausting level of concentration. So rather than waste such precious energy, they did the opposite, using short bursts of pain to prod the humans forward. By sending sharp jolts of agony to the shoulders or buttocks of the wretched captives, they brought the equivalent of whips upon the masses. Many chose to lay down and die as a meal instead. So many so, that by the time the march had reached Northern Georgia, the Chosen occasionally lost the urge to eat. Paradoxically, the cupboard was becoming bare. The vast herd of cattle that traveled with them was dwindling just as quickly, and many of those that remained were in service, hauling the wagon train. To add to the burden, the Chosen insisted on bringing along their sacred parents (the infected Fiends, who in an orgy of constant copulation, had birthed the whole mess). It was to the Fiends that the surplus dying humans were thrown.
When the infected had had their fill, there remained enough victims left un-eaten that they became infected as well, swelling the ranks of the monsters. Once infected, an otherwise healthy but dying-from-exertion human would achieve a miraculous metabolic recovery. The newly born Fiend was able to stand once again and hungrily follow the pack.
Sampson Littlefield, shuffling along as best as he was able, was not going to go down that way. He had managed to emotionally wa
ll himself off. Unlike most of his fellow travelers, he had made the choice to befriend no one. His successful requests to search for shoes for all of the people, had been primarily self-serving. His self-preserving philosophy was simple: Like a good pair of shoes, a well protected mind was capable of maintaining the body well past the point of breakdown. As a one-time Army medic, Littlefield had witnessed the mental toll of comrades in arms absorbing the loss of friends. No bond on Earth was as unique nor perhaps as strong as one forged among brothers and sisters on a battlefield. In Littlefield’s mind, no torment was as great as the loss of such a bond in a combat death. During his overseas tours he vowed to himself that he would never suffer such a thing. So studiously focused on being a cold son-of-a-bitch, his moniker became Little Stone Cold. Though it had left him in a deeply, lonely position, it had served his psyche well in the Army in Africa, and again when his old unit had been called up to fight the infected. Now, once more, he found himself mentally stiff-arming any solicitation for comradeship. He did what he could for people medically, but he’d be damn if he gave a shit about them emotionally. Befriending people was the first step to failure.
With a keen eye for triage, the doctor could spot at a glance if someone was going down for the count. If a person was hopeless — man, woman, or child — he stepped right over them. If he could help, he would. So when a girl named Marlena Arleta tripped and fell hard right in front of him, he immediately stooped to help her up. The sixteen-year-old girl had been unwaveringly strong, doing everything she could to help her fellow humans. Like everyone else, she had been reduced to lean and bone — her clothes filthy and torn — yet the steel in her eyes was still there.
Marlena cried out in pain, a trip over a rusty stake causing the fall. As Littlefield helped her up, a nasty cut to the bone was revealed on her right shin. The girl observed it with disappointment more than fear. The Chosen who oversaw their section in the mass — a huge male brute — stepped close to inspect the meat. Littlefield sent it a powerful thought, The girl’s fine. I’ve got this.
A House Divided: Book 3 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga Page 17