Different Paths

by Nat Kozinn

  Rocky hears it too. He stares off for just a second, and I use that second to shove him down and roll over onto my knees. I reroute the oxygen away from my organs and back to my muscles. I need to make one last push. I get to my feet right as Rocky plunges the spear into my side. It rips into my intestines, but hopefully it’s just a parting gift.

  I break into full sprint, heading towards the noise, but a wall of flames erupts in front of me. The Heater is back at it with his gasoline. I charge through the flames. What’s a few more burns?

  I see the green camouflaged helicopter in the distance. That’s my chance at life, and it’s only a couple miles away and getting closer. I pump up my adrenaline and try my best to squeeze every drop of strength I can from my weak, failing muscles.

  But it’s not enough. I feel hands on my back, and Rocky shoves me to the ground. He jumps on top of my chest and start pummeling me with his fists. I feel two of his knuckles break as he hammers away at my face. My brain hits the side of my skull and gets scrambled.

  He hits more and more, nothing I can do. Try to grab, but he pushes me off. I die.

  Then boom, and Rocky has hole in his chest.

  More booms. The chopper is shooting behind me, laying down cover. This is my chance.

  I signal my legs to stand, which they sort of do. I break into a limp-filled sprint, building up as much speed as I can. The chopper sees me coming and turns to the side. They open a door for me, a window to keep living.

  Now that I have hope, my muscles seem to find a little more life. Once I have a healthy bit of inertia, I dig my foot in deep and expand my quadriceps. I leap into the air, my life hanging in the balance. I come up short of the opening, but I manage to reach out and grab the metal bar at the bottom of the chopper.

  The flying vehicle dives and dips, but the pilot recovers before we all crash. I do a pull-up to lift myself inside the chopper. A few army guys help drag me in.

  “Jesus, are you okay?” one of them asks.

  “Karen is out there. You have to find her,” I say. Then I have to zone back into my internal world where nothing exists except careful management of my blood oxygen levels.

  8

  Mankind has chosen to embrace profits over piety, commercialization over compassion, and lewdness over love. I have given mankind enough chances. Though you are my children, and though it breaks my heart, I must turn my back on you. I renounce my stewardship over mankind; you are now my Forgotten Sons.

  Chosen Sons: 5

  The soldier’s blood tastes sweet, his meat tastes even sweeter. The Beast feels shame for enjoying his meal. This man took up arms against the Chosen Sons, he does not deserve salvation. But compromises must be made, The Beast is hungry and his injuries are mounting. He has to maintain his strength in order to do the Lord’s work. This is the fourth radio tower this week and countless dead soldiers. The Lord charges a high price for forgiveness. And provides rather specific instructions…

  The Beast finishes his snack, and then brings his fist down on the last of the dial covered consoles in the room, smashing the machine to bits. The Lord had chastised The Beast for not being complete enough in his earlier destruction. Confident he rendered the equipment inoperable, The Beast steps out of the building.

  The night explodes into light. Spotlights glare at The Beast, blinding the creature.

  “Open fire!” an unseen figure yells.

  The sensory explosion moves from sight to sound, to feeling, as a hail of deafening gunfire erupts. Before he can react, The Beast takes a least a dozen bullets. The machine gun fire tears deep into his muscles, but stops short of penetrating his organs. He leaps back into the communications building.

  The gunfire continues; tearing through the B-Crete walls like the building is made of paper. The Beast lays flat on the ground and covers his face with his arms. He takes a few ricocheted bullets, but no more direct hits. The gunfire continues for well over a minute, the soldiers outside pouring in as much metal as they can, in the hopes that they do not have to face The Beast directly.

  The gunfire halts and The Beast crawls over to a barely standing wall and peaks through one of the many holes. He can see green-uniformed soldiers scrambling to put some sort of weapon together. The Beast recalls an image from a movie he saw as a child. That is a bazooka.

  The Beast runs and jumps away from the wall just as the projectile connects. The explosion hurls him backward, knocking him off his feet while sending a bevy of blazing hot shrapnel into his body. The Beast lies there for a moment; trying to gather his senses. But there’s a loud crack, and then the roof of the building comes down on him, bruising and battering his already brutalized body.

  “Load another round,” a pathetic human voice yells.

  The Beast shakes the cobwebs out of his head. It’s difficult with a chunk of the concrete roof on top of him. He does not have time to let hundreds of pounds of debris stop him. If he does not move he will die, killed by pitiful creatures the Lord Himself has spurned.

  The Lord blessed The Beast with the strength to toss aside the weight pinning down his body. The speed to spring to his feet, and the fortitude to endure even as more gunshots riddle his back and another explosion rattles his brain.

  The Beast runs as hard and as fast as he can for a solid minute, away from the soldiers. He can hear the men chasing him, but their weak legs have no hope of keeping pace. Still, the Forgotten Sons will not be so easily deterred. While their bodies cannot keep up, they have machines that can. The Beast can hear an automobile chasing after him, its engines roaring.

  The Beast breaks back into a sprint, but his adrenaline is fading, and his injuries are taking a toll. He moves more slowly than his initial burst. It only takes a minute for the vehicle’s head lights to appear, bearing down on him.

  The humans open fire from a machine gun mounted on the military vehicle. The gun is massive and delivers high caliber bullets, three of which tear into The Beast, ripping off huge hunks of meat from his shoulder.

  The Beast stops in his tracks and turns left, using his maneuverability to his advantage. The jeep screeches its brakes and revs its engine to keep up. The machine gun opens fire again, putting a bullet in The Beast’s right hip, shattering the bone. He tumbles to the ground and rolls with a few heavy thuds.

  The vehicle’s momentum carries it beyond The Beast, and it comes to a screeching halt before reversing towards the creature. The Beast gets to his feet, or foot, as his right leg is incapable of carrying any weight.

  He drops to all fours, and runs like an animal, dangling his mangled leg while using his three working limbs. The truck opens fire again, pelting The Beast in the chest and putting a bullet through his lung. The Beast goes down again and struggles to breathe.

  Is this how it ends? Killed by a handful of pathetic Forgotten Sons.

  The truck, is heading straight toward him, but it doesn’t fire, it just keeps moving, past The Beast and still picking up speed. The vehicle makes no attempt to turn, swerve of break, as it crashes directly into the side of a hill, erupting in flames. Why didn’t the driver turn?

  >>>The Forgotten Sons have once again proven more resilient than anticipated. But fear not my child, I have spared you and I have devised a way for you to become the holy warrior I need.

  The Lord speaks directly into The Beast’s mind.

  9

  They broke the law, and criminals are handled by our justice system. Simple and straightforward and it made perfect sense thirty-five years ago. The FBI, or the Justice Department, or the Texas Rangers, are supremely capable organizations but they lack the equipment and training to handle this situation. This is exactly why we built up the National Guard, to help handle the new reality and the new threats that come along with it. We all hope for a peaceful resolution, but even if it is just for negotiation, the Differents will not come to the table if they have nothing to fear. The National Guard is the only option.

  “This is Why They Are Here” by Roberta Clemens,
Los Angeles Times

  My spoon sinks into the brown velvety substance. I pull it out, bringing a hefty bite to my mouth. I feel it on my taste buds, an exquisite mélange of fats and sugars, flavored with a healthy dose of cocoa powder. It is delightful.

  “This pudding almost makes it worth it,” I say to Karen.

  She’s lying in a hospital bed across from my own. Her leg is in a sling, her arm is in a cast, and she’s covered in bandages.

  I wouldn’t let them put any on me. I can manage to stave off the infection by myself, and the bandages would interfere with growing back my seared flesh. The process is already taking long enough as it is, I’ve never had to regrow so much of myself at once. Not even after The Beast gutted me.

  “Easy for you to say, you don’t feel pain. I’m going to need at least a hundred more cups to make up for it. They’ve got it too. They were the only thing left in most of the military rations after the Plagues,” she says as she licks her spoon clean.

  “So now the army relies on Manna too?”

  “Don’t we all?”

  Men with guns are coming towards us. I’ve had to get used to hearing that sound and not freaking out. This is National Guard field hospital after all. Still, these particular three men are heading directly towards our part of the giant canvas tent. One of the men has an extra bit of metal jingle, he’s decorated. An officer.

  Two of the men take position outside the opening to our section. The one with the jingle jangle walks into the room. His uniform is flawless, every crease, every fold. How does he get his clothes pressed out here? He takes off his helmet and reveals the only proof that he isn’t a robot made to be the perfect soldier -a bald head with graying hair on the sides.

  “Colonel Graves,” Karen says and nods to our guest.

  “You screwed me you rotten lying spook,” he says and shakes his head.

  “What are you talking about? Calm down,” she says waving her one good arm.

  “Calm down!? Calm down!? My career is over! Over!”

  “It wasn’t that bad. We can spin this,” she says.

  “Spin what? We got just enough satellite time to tell my sordid tale of woe to General Reeves. He didn’t know anything about any CIA plot and then he screamed at me like he was my momma. He called me a moron for believing you and accused me of cavorting with a suspected terrorist. The only reason he didn’t relieve me of my command was because the satellite moved out of position while he was still busy hollering. He is coming here personally to relieve me in a few days. In the meantime, he ordered me to arrest the both of you!” the Colonel screams.

  Karen shoots a stern look at me, stopping me before I do anything rash.

  “Colonel please. The Central Intelligence Agency does not require the approval of your General in order to conduct its operations. Our charter empowers us to take whatever steps are necessary in order to defend this nation from threats involving Differents. If you’ll let me call my commander; I can explain the situation and the right people will make the right calls and all will be forgotten. You did the right thing Adam. You’ll be cleared for all of this. I can ensure that your willingness to accept risks in order to help this nation will be properly recognized.”

  Colonel Graves rubs his face, exhales, and asks “Can you really do that?” His eyes are full of hope.

  He can’t really believe her, can he? But it looks like he does. I think he’d believe that she was Elvis if he thought that would somehow save his career.

  “I can and I will. Just let me make a call and this will all be rectified,” Karen says with authority.

  “Radios are still down and the satellite won’t be in position again for another 23.5 hours.”

  Karen shoots me another look to keep me quiet. “I can work with that. After I make my call, Reeves will cancel his trip down here, believe me. You won’t have anything to worry about.”

  “You might save my career but Reeves will still be here in three days. It’s not just about you, he wants that arms depot. He’s leading an incursion.”

  “How’s he going to do that? Gavin didn’t take out their Telepaths.”

  “That’s what we call a none of your business type situation. If you’re on the need to know list, I’m sure your bosses will fill you in. I’m going to go walk the perimeter and think about the world of hurt you put me in. If you need anything, Private Jackson will be stationed nearby, and when he needs to rest, someone will relieve him,” Colonel Graves says. He may have just arrested us a little.

  He turns and walks out of the room.

  “He can’t do that can he, take me off the mission? He’s just some Colonel. I’m here under order from the Commander-In-Chief,” I whisper to Karen.

  “I may have exaggerated our level of support from the Executive branch, as in he has no idea about us,” she says in a drawn out voice.

  “Then why the hell am I here?” I exclaim.

  “Because there are elements within the Government who believe that treating the situation with Nita like a schoolyard fight is foolhardy. That any violence will simply escalate the conflict, and it will likely end in the use of nuclear weaponry. I am not being glib when I say the fate of the country and maybe the planet is at stake here.”

  “So what, now that the peaceful side lost, the war mongering side is going to try to recruit me to kill her?”

  “No Gavin,” Karen says with a laugh and shake of her head. “No one thought you had the capabilities to take her out before, and now we’ve seen you in action. I was telling the truth when I said I wanted a peaceful end, because I think that’s the only solution that doesn’t leave us all dead. I hoped Nita would talk to you, and we could use you to negotiate terms with her. No more Cost of Living Obligations, less Section 26, break up Ultracorps; whatever it is there has to be a solution short of war. If she’s really as smart as everyone says, then she should know compromise is the best way to end this. I wanted you to help her see that.”

  “Then why did you take me here to “prove” myself? What does that have to do with negotiating with Nita?”

  “It had to do with you demonstrating your value, so that the President might actually listen to us and to you. But we lost that chance. Now we get to sit back and wait for the war that kills us all,” Karen says and shakes her head.

  “I’m not going to accept that.”

  “You heard him. The op is cancelled. You’re on the shelf. The Great General Reeves is coming down here to personally lead an assault where he can claim credit for a victory that will be won thanks to technology, not strategy.”

  “What are you talking about? What technology?”

  “There’s no point in leading an attack while their Telepaths are uncontained, they’ll just turn all the soldiers around or worse, turn them on each other. If Reeves is willing to risk coming down here himself, I can only assume that it is because the Cognitive Wave scrambler is ready for action.”

  “Is that from Star Trek?”

  “Har-har. It’s a device that emits radiation or something on the same frequency as Telepaths. It can’t control anybody or anything, but it can jam up the air waves so Telepaths can’t do their thing.”

  “So what, the arms depot is just a test run?” I ask.

  “Looks like it,” Karen says then closes her eyes and lays her head down on her pillow. “Saddle up Gavin, it might just be the end of the world.”

  #

  Fitting myself into the latrine is an interesting experience. I have to carefully navigate into the incredibly tight confines, all while being careful to avoid touching anything. It is a toilet after all. I know it’s kind of silly to be grossed out by such things, considering that I have The Beast’s blood flowing through my veins, but it’s the kind of aversion I’ve had since childhood and I find myself sticking to most of those things even if they don’t make any sense.

  I finish up in the latrine and carefully extricate myself from the disgusting temporary bathroom. I nod to Private Jackson and we make our w
ay back into the large, medical tent, keeping myself hunched over so I don’t knock the whole structure down. I pass a dozen injured soldiers who have finally gotten over the shock of seeing me, and head towards my section of the tent. I pull back the curtain that gives Karen and me some privacy.

  “I was just thinking…” I say before I realize I’m talking to an empty bed.

  Karen is gone. I was only out of the room for a second. How could she have gone anywhere? Her leg was in a sling.

  “She’s not here,” I say to Private Jackson.

  He peaks around the curtain then his eyes bug out of his head. “She’s gone.”

  “That’s what I told you. Could someone have moved her?”

  “Not without telling me. And where would they take her?”

  “She can’t have made it too far by herself. Help me look,” I say and head one way, he heads the other.

  His panic leaves him desperate so the Private listens to me like I’m a commanding officer.

  I clear the tent in short order and step outside. Most of the soldiers are digging holes, or filling sandbags, or whatever it is soldiers do while they wait for some action. A couple of guys carrying a crate walk by, but that’s about it. There is one more soldier, he’s walking slowly. In fact, he has a terrible limp. He’s not fit for duty, what is he doing? He’s barely using his left leg at all… Karen broke her left leg. Oh my God. I quickly overtake the fleeing man and step in front of him.

  “Can I help you sir?” the soldier asks.

  He looks like your average 19-year-old soldier, but he’s got long brown hair, tucked up into his green cap. Not an acceptable hair style for the army. It’s the same hair Karen Grant wore whom I now recognize is my old teacher, Larry Rosen. I haven’t seen him since he helped me train to use my new body after I combined myself with The Beast.

  “Your uniform is a little big and your hair is a little long. Otherwise, nice effort Larry,” I say.