The Genesis Plague (2010)

by Michael Byrnes

  Ramirez’s shrill voice called out, ‘Keep going, you pussy … I’ll be right there!’

  Holt groaned in frustration. Overriding his inner alarm, he pressed onward.

  This isn’t smart. You’re being stupid. Turn around … he thought.

  The ground was tricky underfoot with lots of jagged edges that pushed upward like petrified fingers. Holt tried his best to dismiss any notion that they would suddenly come to life and grab at his boots.

  There are no such things as demons, he began repeating over and over again in his mind. That Kurd is whacko.There are no such things as demons …

  As the light rose and fell over the rough walls, Holt’s eyes began playing tricks with him, thanks to Ramirez shining the light right in his eyes. Circles of floating colours drifted like phantasms over his field of vision. He flicked his eyelids rapidly, hoping to make them go away. They didn’t.

  As he followed the bend, he raised his M-16 higher on his shoulder, stared down the muzzle. Whatever was making the noises, he was certain of one thing: there were no friendly targets in this godforsaken underworld. So if anything moved - anything at all - he would shoot first, ask questions later.

  The sounds intensified, throwing his senses into high gear.

  Definitely didn’t sound like a machine. Or terrorist, either.

  Ssssst.

  Chssst.

  Fffffsss.

  Ssssssssssst.

  He paused to crank his courage up a notch. Instead, his anxiety ballooned. The walls seemed to constrict around him as if he’d been swallowed by a gargantuan snake. His chest started heaving. He fought to catch his breath. He lowered his weapon and used his sleeve to blot more sweat from his spotty eyes.

  Something tapped his shoulder from behind and he let out a bloodcurdling scream. In the same instant, he whirled fiercely and tweaked his ankle. When he tried to bring the rifle up for a shot, the muzzle hit the wall hard enough to shatter the element in his light.

  ‘Whoa! Relax!’ Ramirez yelled out, holding out his hand. ‘Calm the fuck down. You scream like a girl. I’m not the Boogeyman.’

  ‘What the fuck!’ Holt screamed. ‘Why are you sneaking up on me like that!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Ramirez said. ‘Sorry. Geez, you sound like my niece when I take her on a roller coaster. Take the skirt off, Sally.’

  Holt took a few seconds to compose himself.

  Ramirez couldn’t help but laugh.

  Holt laughed too, and it felt good. ‘Scared the crap outta me, you—’

  The droning from deep within the tunnel suddenly whipped up like a raging tempest.

  Ramirez’s smile went flat. He took a step back and brought his rifle up high. ‘What the …’

  Before Holt could turn to see what was emerging from the shadows, he saw Ramirez’s eyes go wide with terror. ‘Holy shit! Get out of the way!’

  Fully panicked, Holt refused to look back. He scrambled towards Ramirez, clumsily barrelling into him when he tried to squeeze past. Both men went down.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Ramirez shouted, scrambling to his knees and reaching for his M-16.

  Holt’s frantic hands swept the ground, probing for his weapon. His fingers registered something. But it wasn’t steel - it was spongy. And it bit him. Then came another deep bite on his thigh. ‘Ahh!’

  Ramirez was back on his feet and shone the light on Holt. His blood went cold as thousands of eyes glared back at him.

  73

  Anxious to share his discovery of Lilith’s tomb with Shuster, Hazo made his way towards the cave’s centre and along the row of containers. Arranged side by side, two metres apart, the containers reminded him of railroad boxcars.

  Glancing into the interiors, he spotted Shuster milling about inside the fourth container. Best not to disturb him, Hazo thought.

  He waited outside.

  He aimed his light up the ventilation stack that rose directly above the fourth container straight through the cave’s lofty ceiling. He traced the light down the stack to a truck-sized motor housing mounted on a sturdy steel platform atop the fourth container, directly above the door. Round amber lights blinked on its control panel. Having heard the buzzing fan come to an abrupt stop a few minutes ago, he presumed that the system had gone into sleep mode. He noticed that other critical systems hardware had been installed on the platform too; clearly, the brain centre for the installation. Bolted alongside the container’s doorway was the platform’s access ladder.

  A shrill scream rang out and Hazo spun towards it, sweeping his light side to side.

  The corporal responded in an instant, bursting through the dangling plastic slats and bounding down the short ramp with his M-16 at the ready. ‘What the hell was that?’ he asked Hazo.

  ‘Back there.’ Hazo pointed to the cave’s rear.

  ‘Stay here,’ Shuster told him then bolted off to investigate.

  When the corporal disappeared around the container that sat at the end of the row, Hazo decided to climb up to the control platform for a better view. Gripping the ladder rungs, he began his ascent. Halfway to the top, he paused to catch his breath.

  Off in the distance, he heard Ramirez laughing; Holt joining in shortly thereafter.

  Must have been a false alarm, he guessed, continuing his ascent, slow and steady.

  The wheezing in his lungs had given way to something much worse. Suddenly something ruptured beneath his breastbone. Within seconds, he felt like he was drowning. He coughed violently and a hot viscous liquid swelled into the back of his throat, bringing with it the taste of copper.

  Blood.

  Fighting the dread that threatened to paralyse him, he spat out the vile phlegm and managed to catch his breath. Clambering topside, he was overtaken by a bout of dizziness that forced him to his hands and knees. He cleared his lungs again, spat up more blood. If he’d been sickened by the same disease that afflicted Al-Zahrani, he realized it wouldn’t be long before the lethargy would give way to complete immobility and delirium. And after that …

  Hazo remembered what Karsaz had told him at the restaurant: ‘Maybe it’s not so bad that you don’t have a family of your own. Less grief and worry.’ Death was far worse for those left behind. Hazo had learned that firsthand with the loss of his father, mother and brothers.

  He shone the light down at the bloody puddle glistening over the platform’s metal floor panel. Am I dying? he wondered.

  When Ramirez and Holt stopped laughing and began screaming again, Hazo came to his senses. Getting to his feet, he was able to clearly see shifting light coming out from the tunnel they’d gone into. But he could only see the top of the opening.

  ‘Get out of there!’ he heard Shuster yell.

  Hazo saw Ramirez’s helmet bob in and out of view, Holt’s next.

  Three seconds later, all hell broke loose as the cave filled with the deafening clack-clack-clack-clack of machine gun fire and strobing muzzle flash.

  Then Ramirez bolted zigzag up the path through the frames of violet light. His weapon was angled low, practically to the ground. He was yelling, ‘Get the fuck away from me, you motherfuckers!’

  Hazo leaned over the platform’s safety rail, trying to discern what he was shooting at. At first, he couldn’t spot the enemy.

  Then the threat became all too clear.

  An undulating black wave spilled out from the rear of the cave, curling, twisting, spreading fast over the ground, as if a colossal oil drum had been tipped over to flood the space. With it came unearthly squealing that filled the cave. In the darkness the pulsing crests twinkled with countless ruby specks that shimmered like sequins.

  Screaming bloody murder, Ramirez kept firing indiscriminately at the swell, but the bullets did nothing to hinder its advance. As the marine’s light traced wide arcs over the mass, Hazo’s skin crawled at what he was seeing from the top of the platform: a churning sea of eyes protruding from wedge-shaped heads; whiskered snouts; slithering, fleshy tails; rubbery bodies covered in black hair. Layers
upon layers of them, fighting to the top, swallowed beneath, rising again.

  Rats.

  Hazo gasped. Thousands upon thousands of black rats. Their incalculable numbers were increasing by the second.

  Hazo had seen plenty of vermin scavenging the waste dumps on the outskirts of his hometown, but none as large or aggressive as these. These rats seemed to be attacking Ramirez - mobilizing against him like an army.

  ‘Up here!’ Hazo screamed down to him. ‘Come!’ He coughed up more blood. ‘There is a ladder!’ But his weak scream was lost to the brood’s high-pitched squealing.

  In less than fifteen seconds, Ramirez’s ammo clip ran dry. Wasting no time with a pointless reload, he unclipped the light from the weapon’s muzzle and whipped the M-16 like a boomerang at the advancing horde. Then he broke into a sprint, whisked below Hazo, and headed for the entry tunnel. The determined rats weren’t far behind him. Hazo watched Ramirez’s light moving swiftly through the darkness. It looked as if Ramirez might outrun them.

  More screams came from the rear of the cave. Hazo hunted the darkness with his flashlight and spotted Holt knee-deep in the squirming black mass.

  74

  LAS VEGAS

  ‘Stop snooping around,’ a gruff voice whispered over Brooke’s shoulder.

  Caught red-handed, Brooke flinched. Her fingers lost their grip and the jar’s lid clattered back in place, fortunately not with enough force to cause any damage. Spinning around, she was face to face with Flaherty. He’d silently entered the room and was standing directly behind her.

  ‘Caught ya,’ he said, pointing a finger like a gun. ‘Hands up.’ He winked and flashed a mischievous smile.

  ‘Jesus, Tommy,’ she said, clutching her chest and letting out an anxious breath. She eyed his swollen nose, the bloodstains on his shirt collar. ‘You nearly scared me to death!’

  ‘You’re alone in a vault with a demon’s severed head, and I scare you?’

  She bared her teeth and curled her fingers like talons. ‘Oh, you are such a—’

  ‘Whoa, slow down.’ He held up his hands in surrender, saying, ‘Just thought I’d tell you that we can’t leave here until the infectious-disease folks come and scrub us down, prep Stokes for transport. We’ll all need to be quarantined. Then the FBI drones will swing by and have their way with us. So best get comfy.’

  ‘Great.’ Rolling her eyes, she huffed and turned her attention back to the jar.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he said, stepping up beside her.

  ‘This. It’s the jar Lilith was carrying just before she was executed. It’s supposed to have some kind of magical power.’

  ‘Spooky.’

  ‘I just thought I’d take a look … see what’s inside it,’ she confessed.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I haven’t gotten that far yet, thanks to you.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for? Let’s see if there’s a rabbit in the hat.’

  She shook her head. ‘This isn’t tampering with evidence, right?’

  ‘I’d say it’s gone through plenty of tampering already. I’m sure it’ll be okay if we take a peek.’

  ‘All right.’ She rubbed her fingertips together, then reached into the case for a second attempt at unveiling the jar’s interior.

  With utmost finesse, Brooke curled her fingertips around the lid’s thick rim. She lifted away the plate-like clay disc and gave it to Flaherty. ‘Hold this.’

  Hesitant, he said, ‘What if it’s cursed or something?’

  She shot him a chastising look. ‘For real? You’re a Catholic, not an occult freak.’

  ‘Fine.’ He begrudgingly took the lid from her and held it at his side like a discus.

  Brooke and Flaherty peered down at the uncovered jar.

  ‘Looks like one of those jumbo candles from Pottery Barn … without the wick,’ said Flaherty.

  ‘Kinda does,’ she agreed. Brooke tapped a fingernail on the solid glossy layer that levelled off just below the jar’s rim, and it made the clink-clink sound of glass.

  ‘I’m not seeing anything inside it,’ Flaherty said. ‘You?’

  ‘No.’ But her hopes weren’t dashed, because if the ancient Mesopotamians had preserved the jar’s contents employing the same method used on Lilith’s head, then deep inside the jar, something had been trapped inside a viscous substance that over the centuries had hardened like glass. They just couldn’t see it yet.

  ‘Maybe we can shine a light in there, or something,’ he suggested.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Closely studying the cut lines that split the circular rim into two equal arcs, Brooke could see paper-thin slivers of light squeezing through the fine gaps. ‘I don’t think this is glued.’

  ‘Oh. Well maybe we could …’

  Reaching in with both hands, she pinched the top of the rim at the middle of each half and applied gentle outward pressure on the opposing sides.

  ‘… crack it open, or something.’

  It was sticky at first. She bit her lip and put some more push behind her fingers. The pottery yielded with a gritty creak, yawned open along its front side from top to bottom like a giant pistachio. ‘Hah … there we go.’

  Flaherty tilted his head sideways for a better look, but refused to get any closer to the relic. With the bulbous core still masked in the jar’s shadows, he couldn’t yet decipher the contents.

  Thrilled, Brooke was grinning ear to ear. ‘Oh, this is amazing.’

  Flaherty’s eyes twinkled with admiration as he watched how she worked the pieces apart with patient dexterity. There was an endearing childlike innocence lurking beneath Brooke Thompson’s sophisticated exterior; that wide-eyed wonderment that seemed to exist only on Christmas morning. And in this intimate moment, her passion for archaeology and discovery burned like the sun.

  Brooke spread the pottery halves so that their crescent-shaped bottom surfaces slid out from under the solidified inner mass. The liberated core clunked down against the bottom of the display case. ‘My God, Tommy … look at this!’ she gasped

  Setting aside his irrational superstitions, he stepped up to the case and peered in at what she’d found. He cringed at the frightful sight. ‘Mother Mary.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Beautiful?’ Flaherty said. What had been inside the jar resembled a solid, honey-coloured crystal ball, much the same as the one containing Lilith’s ghastly head. And coiled up inside the opaque mass was a considerably large snake whose jaws were hinged open and frozen in place, as if it had been drowned. Like its beheaded charmer, the snake’s malevolent eyes were wide open in a threatening glare. Its hooked fangs were easily five centimetres long. The black, ropey body - thick as a beer can - was covered in scales the size of his thumbnail. He guessed that if he could stretch the thing out, it would be nearly two metres. ‘That’s a bizarre choice for a pet.’

  ‘Sure is,’ she said.

  ‘Think it was poisonous?’ he asked, fixated on the fangs.

  ‘Sure looks like it,’ Brooke said, slowly circling the case to see the snake from all angles.

  ‘Why the hell would she be carrying this thing around?’

  ‘I don’t know. But think about it, Tommy … a snake is one of the central figures in Creation mythology, just like in the story of Adam, Eve and Lilith.’ Then halfway around the case, she froze. ‘Wow, look here,’ she said, waving him over.

  Tommy stepped around to have a look. She was tapping on the glass to indicate a huge bulge in the snake’s wide midsection; something caught inside and ballooning the body outward.

  ‘Looks like the snake’s last meal wasn’t fully digested,’ Brooke said.

  ‘Not to change the subject of this fascinating discussion, but speaking of meal … I’m starving,’ Flaherty said. He checked his watch. ‘Seeing as we’re going to be here awhile, I’m thinking we should raid that vending machine out in the hall. You like chips? Pretzels? Candy bars? The sky’s the limit.’

  ‘I c
ould eat.’

  ‘You, uh, like the Celtics?’ Flaherty said with a polite cough.

  ‘Huh? What? Yeah, I love the Celtics,’ she said.

  You’re the woman of my dreams, he thought.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked.

  ‘Stokes has a big-screen TV in his office, rigged for satellite. Supposed to be a great game tonight - playing the Lakers. Starts in about ten minutes. You, ah, interested?’

  ‘Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Flaherty? I thought you were abstaining from gambling in Vegas.’

  He blushed. ‘Not sure if taking you into a room contaminated by anthrax, with a shot preacher lying on the floor, would qualify as romance. But I’m looking for a safe bet. So yeah, let’s call it a date.’

  75

  IRAQ

  Ramirez blazed like a thunderbolt through the cave, determined to return to the outside world in record time. Doing his best to keep the light directed towards the dodgy ground, he pumped his arms and legs like pistons, remembering how it felt to sprint the fifty at high school track meets. Normally he’d be looking over his shoulder for anyone sneaking up in his wake. For this race, however, he wasn’t looking back.

  He could barely stomach the idea of his niece’s caged gerbil, Felix. The hell with Felix. Felix was nothing but a pimped-out mouse.

  But rats? A cave full of huge, filthy rats? Repulsive. Made his nuts pull up into his stomach. And these rats seemed to be out for blood. The way they came at him like that? Pursued him? That couldn’t be normal. Rats didn’t eat live meat, did they? he wondered. But they sure liked the taste of Holt. The poor bastard was covered in the things. And there was nothing Ramirez could’ve done about it. It’s not like he could’ve swatted them away or shot them off Holt’s chest. There were so many of them.

  There was only one option: run … hard.

  Back in the cave, when he’d discarded his M-16, he’d barely glimpsed Hazo marooned on top of one those sadistic breeding kennels where some twisted psycho nurtured those flesh-eating-rodents-from-Hell. He’d be sure to send some guys with flamethrowers and grenades back inside to fry the critters and pull Hazo out - assuming he didn’t die from demon pestilence first.