Quake

by Andy Remic

  He drank the water to quench his terrible raging thirst, and staring down at himself he was deeply confused. He remembered with a shudder the insects in his mouth, but then he also remembered long dreams of corridors and fires and Slater shooting ice bullets into his face.

  He rinsed his mouth with water, but still the metal taste would not leave him.

  And then a wave of nausea convulsed his body and he dropped to one knee, vomiting the recently imbibed water onto the stone floor. His athletic frame heaved, and heaved again ... his stomach disgorged bile until there was nothing left. But still the nausea swamped him and he continued to heave until his muscles screamed at him and he thought that his stomach would tear itself physically apart...

  Then it was over.

  On his knees, panting, drooling saliva, sweat beading on his forehead, soaking his hair, Jam stared down at his shrivelled penis and flat stomach bathed in a sheen of sweat. He was trembling violently, and cursed his lack of clothing ...

  Is this just another form of fucking torture? raged his mind.

  An insane anger filled him.

  A true need to kill...

  He stumbled towards the door, raised his hand to knock and sensed rather than heard or saw figures outside - looking in on him, anonymous. He smashed his fist against the door, then recoiled in horror as he felt the bones of his fingers crack and splinter within the padded flesh of his fist. A gasp escaped his cold blue-tinged lips, more shock than the sudden pain that flared from the six broken bones and he whirled ... but felt his ankle snap and dislocate and compress. He stumbled, fell, felt his left leg shatter within his flesh and lifted his gaze to the ceiling, screaming as he collapsed onto the stone.

  Outside, Durell said, ‘The pain has begun.’

  Mace nodded, deep in thought. ‘It will not be long before the imago is complete.’

  The room had thick plush carpets and a roaring fire in the hearth. Gol stood in front of the weaving flames, warming himself and staring at the painting above the immense stone fireplace - The Education of the Virgin by the Austrian artist Franz Anton Maulbertsch. Gol traced the fine strokes of oil on canvas, his gaze absorbing the flying angels and almost demonic use of blacks and reds above this seemingly pure act of instruction. The fire crackled, an aural background to Gol’s calm, and he turned to warm his back as he swirled the brandy in the glass thoughtfully.

  He took a gentle sip of the 1794 Hennessy, and the spirit burned his mouth and warmed its way to his belly like liquid fire. Gol sucked in air and surveyed the room.

  Small single-pane leaded windows looked out over a heavy rain-filled valley under deep veils of darkness. The walls were panelled ceiling to floor in oak, and lined with many bookshelves sporting dusty old tomes. Furniture was period, in keeping with the fine theme of the room -and of either Austrian or Swiss lineage.

  Rain rattled against the windows and a savage night wind howled outside, driving down with animal fury from the mountains.

  Gol sipped the brandy again, its mellowness soothing him. He looked up as a huge heavy oak door swung silently inwards and Durell moved forward at a slow pace. He stared at the fire for a while, then turned towards Gol.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Gol asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Durell softly. ‘It is too warm in here.’

  Gol nodded. ‘Thought I’d light a fire ... is that OK?’

  ‘I do not like the warmth; it makes me itch.’

  ‘I can have it put out...’

  ‘No, no.’ Durell held up a hand. The cloth fell away to reveal something black, crusted and glistening. Gol swallowed hard, staring into the depths of the hood that hid the slitted and almost feline copper eyes.

  ‘Is it working? With Jam?’

  ‘We think so. But due to such high previous failure rates we are keeping a very close eye on him. He just has the nominal pain and metamorphosis to complete and then Durell smiled ‘- then he will be one of us. No other specimen has reached this far.’

  Durell moved to a large table and it seemed to ignite, to glow, as the surface became digitally alive. Durell and Gol stared down at the glowing map and Durell pointed.

  Gol nodded. ‘Have the Foundation Stones for Core3 been initiated?’

  ‘Shortly,’ said Durell.

  ‘Then we are close?’ asked Gol, sipping once more at his brandy.

  ‘Yes. We are close.’

  Jam dreamed a hard bad dream. He was falling, through a long dark tunnel that seemed to lead downwards for ever. Wind ruffled his hair and the world was filled with a complete silence. Jam shifted in the slipstream, fear a distant echo, pain a distant dream ... The walls around him were fashioned from glistening black rock, speckled with frost, glimmering with ice, and suddenly a ledge loomed out of nowhere - a jagged, rocky extrusion with which Jam collided, grunting in pain, spinning off with stars fluttering in his mind to career from the opposite wall of this vertical tunnel—

  Down.

  He could taste blood - and something else.

  And then he saw it. Just as he thought that the fall would be eternal and he could drift lazily in the cold air currents for a blissful eternity, he saw the water spread wide and the tunnel disappeared above him, sucked away into blackness. Jam could make out distant glittering waves. The sea was an oil, a dark obsidian mercury, and he sped down towards its cooling enveloping embrace ...

  He saw it shift.

  Move.

  Squirm ...

  And he realised that it was alive. Crawling and alive.

  He flowed towards the sea of insects and fear suddenly struck him with a cold left hook. He could feel it, panic bubbling in his throat, and then he realised that the feeling was the skittering of tiny legs on his body and tongue and teeth. His mouth was filled with cockroaches frantically squirming to break free of this teeth-barred organic cell.

  He could feel their panic.

  Their will to survive.

  He bit down, crushing some of their bodies, and felt their blood run down his throat, a flood filled with torn legs and tiny pieces of carapace. And then the scorpion moved up his throat and Jam felt vomit heaving within him. The sea rushed towards him, and engulfed him and darkness flooded his world. He smashed through the crust of crawling insects and into an oil which burned his flesh and stung him. He realised with horror that it was a toxin, a thick and swirling poison and he was finally able to scream out a verbal ejaculation of spewing wriggling insects—

  Jam sat up, sweat pouring from his brow. He screamed, fingers scrabbling at his mouth, and he looked down in the gloom. He could see something that had crawled up from his ankles and shins, covering his lower legs with a sheen of glistening black, and had then halted around his knees, merging with his pink flesh, twisting between strands of shredded skin and muscle ...

  This cannot be happening to me, he thought.

  This cannot be real.

  Nicky ... Nicky ...

  He pictured her sweet face, hair tied back, eyes twinkling—

  He pictured her moving towards him, mouth parting slightly, sweet breath tickling his lips, his eyes closing as her kiss taunted him and lust surged through his body like a drug—

  He pictured her dying, screaming with insects in her hair like tiny black blossoms, squirming.

  ‘No ...’

  He sat up, hands moving down to the hard skin of his lower legs. What is it? Just what the fuck is it?

  Pain welled inside him, and he suddenly noticed a swelling in his groin, to either side of his testicles. The skin there was inflamed, puckered with tiny spikes of black. Jam arched his back as he felt the spikes prick his skin under his questing fingers and he screamed, screamed and screamed and screamed until there was no more breath and no more light. And no more hope.

  Jam awoke on his side, curled into a ball. He felt strange. There was no pain.

  He rolled onto his hands and knees, and looked down curiously at the backs of his forearms. Merged with his brown skin was a series of thick black marks
with tiny spikes poking free. He rocked back onto his heels with a clack of chitinous armour and flexed his forearms. Spikes sprang free, rippling up his arms and glinting eerily in the gloom.

  Jam breathed deeply.

  His mind settled.

  He blinked lazily.

  There came a sound at the door and his head jerked left, spikes erecting along his forearms, eyes compressing to narrow copper slits. The door opened, flooding the chamber with light, and Jam recoiled with a hiss, armoured feet clacking across the stone—

  Durell stepped in.

  ‘Welcome,’ he crooned, throwing back his hood.

  Jam rose to his full height, spine crackling softly, and he could feel saliva pool from his twisted jaws. His head swung left, then right, and he could smell the scent of fear.

  ‘Follow me.’

  Durell left the cell and Jam stooped, armour scraping the stonework as he followed Durell down a series of long stone corridors. They came to some steps and Jam leapt lithely down them, landing heavily and cracking a stone flag. They travelled on down stone ramps under the dim glow of electric bulbs into the depths of the castle.

  Not once during the journey did Durell turn round.

  And Jam found himself surveying the dark expanse of Durell’s back. His head swayed from one side to the other, eyes fixed on that broad back and strange metallic thoughts flickering through his brain Kill

  Kill

  Rip flesh burn and turn and flee

  Master

  Control...

  Master

  Durell led Jam into a huge stone chamber decorated with tapestries and burning brands in iron brackets. Set in the floor, scooped from the rock was a large sunken pit lined with huge blocks of rectangular stone, measuring maybe ten metres by ten. There were intricate old weathered carvings set roughly in some of the blocks lining the pit; the floor was criss-crossed with grooves and gutters leading to wider channels feeding off around the edges.

  Gol stepped into the chamber and Jam’s copper eyes locked onto the large grey-bearded man. Jam saw Gol swallow, hard, and walk tentatively around him to reach Durell’s side.

  ‘Is he safe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I fucking hope so ...’

  ‘I will show you.’

  Across the chamber, through a narrow stone arch, came Kattenheim. He held a man by the arm, a man who seemed deflated, beaten, withdrawn. As they walked his head came up and his stare widened in horror as he saw Jam—

  ‘Fuck, no,’ he gasped.

  Kattenheim heaved the man into the pit, where he landed heavily before scrambling to his feet, pushing his back against the stone of the wall. His gaze roved wildly searching for an avenue of escape. Kattenheim lifted a huge-bladed axe and tossed it into the pit where it clattered with a shower of sparks against the stone. The man scrambled forward, lifting the weapon. He understood the game.

  ‘This is Scarlet, a former captain of the Australian SAS and latterly of Spiral, DemolSquad 142. We captured him and a few others of his ilk in Tibet on a mission that went badly wrong.’ Durell reached out, patted Gol’s shoulder, smiled a hidden smile. ‘Don’t worry. Watch.’

  ‘Come on, you fuckers,’ Scarlet was screaming, anger firing him into action, brandishing the large-headed axe in both hands and readying himself for battle.

  ‘Kill him,’ said Durell softly.

  Jam’s triangular head tilted, dark copper eyes fixing on Durell. Then, with a hiss, he leapt into the pit and strode towards the man swinging the axe. The axe whirled, then smashed down.

  Jam spun, ducking low under the sweep of the heavy blade, and powered a right hook straight against Scarlet’s jaw that sent the man spinning to the ground to lie stunned. The axe clattered uselessly against stone. Silence suddenly reigned.

  Jam paced up and down, seemingly unsure. Then he leapt into the air, both armoured feet coming down with a heavy crunch on Scarlet’s head. The Spiral man’s skull cracked open, spilling liquid pulped brains into the kill channels. Jam’s face lifted questioningly to Durell.

  ‘Athletic,’ said Kattenheim softly, red eyes watching the proceedings with interest. ‘Much faster than the other Scorp.’

  ‘Summon the Nex.’

  Three Nex warriors were called and they arrived, wearing their tight black suits and thin boots, and carrying Armalite X sub-machine guns. They stood silently, waiting, copper-eyed stares fixed on Durell. Gol forced himself not to take a step back. He set his face in the cold stone mask of the stoic.

  ‘You are unsure?’ asked Durell.

  ‘Let us see,’ said Gol softly.

  ‘Kill it,’ snapped Durell, pointing at Jam.

  The three Nex moved swiftly apart, Armalite X guns lifting and opening fire. Dozens of 5.62mm rounds screamed across the chamber, striking sparks from stone. Jam leapt high into the air, bullets spinning and whining beneath him. He twisted in mid-flight, kicked off from one bare stone wall and landed suddenly among the Nex—

  The Armalites ceased firing.

  Jam punched left, then right - he flexed his arms and spikes rippled upright. He slashed them across the first Nex - ripping its face clean off. It fell, screaming, to one knee, blood pumping between its fingers. More bullets spat from muzzles. Jam whirled low, kicking the legs from under a retreating Nex and then slamming his fist through its back to explode in a slurry of purple from its chest. His free hand plucked the Armalite X from its twitching fingers, and with his fist still embedded in its ribcage and with bullets skimming past his head Jam fired off the magazine’s contents into the third Nex’s face. He watched emotionlessly as it collapsed into a smoking heap.

  Cordite smoke drifted lazily.

  Jam withdrew his fist with a slurping noise from the still-twitching Nex and it collapsed, spewing blood that ran down the walls into the kill trough and along the channels designed to carry away the detritus of slaughter.

  Jam calmly found a fresh mag from the Nex’s ammo belt and moved towards the Nex without a face. It was making a low keening sound and rocking on its knees. Jam filled its head full of scything metal and then allowed the Armalite X to clatter to the stone floor, his eyes lifting to stare at Durell and a snarl flickering across lips that had once been human.

  ‘Well done, my child,’ said Durell softly.

  ‘I thought they were supposed to fight inside the kill trough?’ said Gol, having felt the passing of bullets and looking at the blood on his boots and lower trousers.

  ‘Jam improvised,’ said Durell. ‘What think you, Kattenheim?’

  The German ex-para nodded in appreciation. ‘Strength, speed, agility, improvisation, lack of mercy. Ideal. A beautiful weapon to turn against Spiral...’

  ‘And the DemolSquads,’ said Gol softly.

  ‘One final test.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Durell.

  Kattenheim disappeared, then returned with a small group of Nex soldiers. Between them they dragged a woman and three children - and without breaking stride they tossed them into the kill trough. Durell watched with amusement as two of the children became hysterical upon seeing streams of blood down the wall and the split-skulled corpse of Scarlet. The woman cradled them to her, covering their faces. She glared up at the small gathering with hatred across her face.

  ‘An innocent family, how sweet. A positive example of what the human race can achieve - pinnacles of organic evolution,’ said Durell softly, smiling sardonically. ‘Jam - kill them.’

  ‘But...’ hissed Gol, his head turning—

  Jam leapt forward into the pit and, arms glistening with human and Nex blood and gore and brains, moved towards the cowering family. His dark eyes surveyed them, head swaying a little, and tiny spikes sprang up along one heavily muscled and armoured forearm.

  ‘Is this necessary, Durell?’

  Durell’s slitted eyes gleamed. ‘Death is always necessary,’ he said, his words forming sombre lyrics to the music of anguished screams and gurgles that foll
owed.

  Gol sat in the room which he used for meditation. The castle in which Durell now based his operations was huge. Built of grey stone many hundreds of years previously, and modified by Durell to certain very specific details, it held an ancient feel; the walls were thick and designed to repel invaders, and much of the decor - oil paintings, tapestries, Swiss and Austrian furniture, thick German rugs scattered throughout the many stone corridors and rooms - was original. Huge black iron brackets lined the walls. Windows were edged with lead and rattled in high winds.

  Gol was seated on the large bed, naked, legs crossed, eyes closed. Rain howled against the windows, but he was switched off from the current reality; in his meditation he relived his past—

  Running, running ... pursued by the Nex. He could hear the sweep of the Comanche’s rotors overhead, hear the whine of its LHTec engines, feel the presence of the Nex and their submachine guns close behind his sprinting form - with his arms pumping, fist holding the precious silver disk with the schematics for the QIII processor. He had done the honourable thing, done the only thing he could to protect the information and give Spiral a chance of winning the war—

  Sacrifice ...

  He leapt from the clifftop. Into the narrow chasm with the glittering river far below.

  A Nex ran over the cliff behind him, not because of any programmed response but through a lack of ability to kill its speed.

  Gol fell, wind tearing through his beard and hair— Tears flowed across his cheeks and were snatched away by the wind of his fall—

  Something hit him in the back of the head, and twisting mid-fall Gol saw the Nex trying to lift its sub-machine gun, copper-eyed stare fixed impassively on his face and its single focused intent obvious—

  It would not let him live.

  It wanted to place a bullet in his face - as extra security in case the impact following the fall didn’t kill him.

  Free-falling, the glittering river speeding close, Gol lifted back his mighty fist and delivered a thundering left hook. Blood spurted from the Nex’s mouth, along with a tooth, and Gol hit it again - and again. Bullets suddenly howled as the Nex pulled the trigger. Gol reached out, grabbing the hot barrel. It scorched his flesh and bullets flashed off over his left shoulder, cutting lines in the stone walls of the flashing, speeding canyon—