by Jeff DeMarco
He shrugged, frustrated. “My parenting experience ends at about age six.”
“Think about when you were a kid, Dustin. You never did anything to piss off your parents?”
“Sure.” He smiled. “Go out and drink beer with Ed, get in fights, talk to girls, come home late. Nothing like this.”
“Such a boy.” She shook her head. “Back in Israel, I’d come home for leave maybe twice a year…”
He stared at her, his eyes exploring hers.
“Each time when I’d leave, my father and I, we’d get in a fight. Nothing serious, just get irritated with one another. Made saying goodbye each time much easier.”
“But you still called him dad…” He grimaced. “And she’s not going anywhere.”
She rolled her eyes. “You ever go to an amusement park?”
“… Yea.” He looked at her cockeyed. “Why?”
“Know when the ride operator comes around, tugs on your harness… What’s the first thing you do?”
His brow furrowed.
“…You tug and pull on it…. Know why?” She looked at his vacant stare and thought it best to continue. “You don’t pull on it hoping that it’ll come loose; you test it to make sure it’s going to hold. She’s testing you, seeing if you’re strong enough to hold on for the ride.”
He shook his head. “Real fair…”
“Our relationship is… Different than yours.” Her gaze held his fragile spirit, as did her arms.
“Still,” he said. “I can’t tolerate it. What sort of example does it set for the other civilians?”
She put her hand on his cheek. “Think like a father, not a commander.”
He sighed.
“Erica will be alright, she’s strong, smart, but deep down she’s a scared little girl that needs her father’s love and support.” She kissed his forehead. “Try not to come off like such an asshole, maybe… ok?”
His mouth, his eyes all rolled into a frown.
CHAPTER 9
“To the roots of the mountains I sank down; the earth beneath barred me in forever.” Demetri babbled consistently throughout the day, every day, for as long as he had been held captive. “But You have brought up my life from the pit, O Lord my God. While I was fainting away, I remembered the Lord, And my prayer came to You, Into Your holy temple.” More often than not, his babblings would be straight from the Bible. “I see everything inside of me, the strings of my existence inside of my cells through to the evolutionary path of my people, of its people, but I cannot see out of this box. Release me!” But sometimes not… He stopped his incessant babbling only when reading, asleep or being fed, at which times he was oddly normal.
Demetri was near godhood in the confines of his eight by eight cell of the underground facility in New Mexico. Outside, he was powerless. Twenty years old now, he had not seen a human in well over six months. The technicians responsible for feeding him refrained from looking in on him. It was said that he could possess your body; a rumor that had started when he was young and was indeed true, until they increased the amperage on his cell walls.
When Demetri would look at them through the port of the 6” by 6” window, they would see his bloodshot green eyes, pale white skin and long brown hair, gaunt sinuous features. They would at times refuse to feed him until he backed away from the window. If he refused, they would electrify the floor until he complied. They had since automated the feeding process.
He had prescribed reading material, religiously based propaganda, setting the Order as God’s chosen people. He read with the fervor of a saint. The story of Samson his favorite. They had given Demetri scissors for which to cut his own hair. He declined the task and kept it long.
Director Flynn had raised him, through a slat in the faraday cage, the lattice of charged conduit and concrete that was Demetri’s prison, only a bed, toilet and shower within. Books lined the edges of his cell. Before his death, the Director would visit four times a year, at least. Before the children had moved to southern California, the two had talked daily. He would always bring new books, and not always prescribed propaganda. Director Flynn wasn’t a Philistine, like those that held Sampson captive, or a politician, both of which he identified as evil, although Flynn seemed to work for them.
Flynn had explained the world to him as best he could; the decline of civilization into a debauched cesspool of self-gratification. The morality of old destroyed, men sought money and control over one another, voluntary slaves to their own wicked desires. Flynn told him the reason for his captivity the last time they had met. The politician, he called her, would seek to control Demetri to her own unholy end. Demetri would send the world crashing down on them, as Samson did in the Bible, if only he could get outside his box.
The slat below his window slid open for the first time in months. “Hello Demetri,” a new, sharp voice said, outside of the box. He sat in a leather armchair poised outside the cell, a reading table beside; ‘Rrap.. rrap..’ His fingers rapped compulsively on the table.
Demetri pressed his face to the window. “Who is he?” he whispered. It wasn’t Flynn’s face, this man had dark hair with wisps of grey at the temples, sharp features, strange dark multicolored clothes, much different than Flynn’s suit and tie. A sharp nose and chin, chiseled jawline. His eyes were piercing, but no more than Demetri’s eyes, save for the strained redness brought on by permanent captivity. “Are you a… Philistine?”
The man eyed him through the window. “I’m a Christian… and an American.”
“Through Christ,” he whispered to himself. “What about a… politician?”
“I’m an Airman,” he said. “A warrior of sorts. My name is Colonel… um, Director Petersen.”
“Where’s Director Flynn?” He turned his head to the side, whispering to himself, “He’s dead, now isn’t he?”
“We’ve lost contact with him.” Petersen looked down, half acting, half earnest. “He’s presumed dead. I’m sorry… he was my friend.”
Demetri wept unabashedly, not familiar with the practice of suppressing one’s emotions. “Can I trust you?”
“Of course,” Petersen said. “But there’s something I need you to do so that I can trust you.” He slid a black metal collar through the feeding portal. “Put it on, get used to it. We’ll need to work on your self-control before I can activate it, otherwise it’ll hurt you.”
Demetri picked it up, examined it. His lower lip quivered at the thought of Flynn’s death, the word ‘control,’ rang in his mind. “What is it?” he whispered.
“Your path to freedom,” Petersen said. “You want to be free, don’t you?”
Demetri nodded faintly, staring down at the two black halves. He pressed it to his neck slowly, collapsing the two halves together at the hinge. They shot out of his grasp, both ends sealing with a metallic ‘ting.’ He tugged, thrashing about his cell.
“Demetri! Stop it!”
He continued to pull and prod in a fury, his breath heavy with panic.
“Stop it, damnit!” Petersen pulled a remote from his pocket, activating the collar. He depressed the shock until Demetri was still. “I’m going to deactivate it; don’t do that again.”
Demetri glared silently through the window.
“Do you understand?” Petersen asked. “Nod if you understand.”
The rage in Demetri’s bloodshot eyes dug at Petersen. He nodded slightly.
“See you tomorrow.” His words abrupt, Petersen slid the slat shut.
Colonel Petersen perused the various containments kept on level seven, along with Demetri, the ‘Zoo’ as they called it. All manner of creatures were kept here, all with some deadly gift. A new wave of creature had been spearheaded at the facility, nanorobotic cybernetics; carbon-based tissue[WU11], grown with microscopic builders, assembling silicon-based bone structure and musculature, carbon-based organs and tissue. Flynn had found just the man for the project, Dr. Fa Zhu, a Chinese-American and leader in the field of nanorobotics. With near unlimited f
unding from the Order, he had created this new life.
Equipped with the blueprints of a hybridized animal, the nanorobotic builders would set to work on a blank embryo, constructing from raw materials fully integrated with the flesh. It would start as a small mass of cells in a vat of organic material, pellets of silicon and titanium sifted to the bottom.
The builders would assemble living cells in all manner of construction, prodding the cells to divide and assimilate non-biological components; The creatures’ bones and muscles stronger, teeth and claws larger, sharper, its joints more flexible. Its brain was designed to be resistant to external manipulation; a specialized organ designed from a parasitoid wasp.
Petersen climbed three flights of stairs to the observation deck of one such creation, through the clear polycarbonate ceiling of its enclosure. A round black aperture on its neck blinked red, the creature activated. Its chemiluminescent skin, adapted from that of a cuttlefish, shifted from a fiery red to black at the vibration of his footsteps; it was so black that it absorbed the light around it. It hugged the corner above where he was standing, creating the illusion of a void in the cell, its sleek body poised for attack. The single line of thick poison quills pressed in, along its back. Its shank-like tail curled along the ground into a wicked point.
He depressed a button on the console, releasing a stray dog into the pen; its kind eyes and gentle smile, beautiful golden coat. It walked inside, sniffing at its new surroundings, the scent of stale blood lingered, its bright eyes scanning along the stained concrete ground. The creature crept silently behind it, mirroring its skin to the reflected ultraviolet light and gunmetal grey back walls. It rose behind the dog, its long formless body bristling.
The hint of sickly-sweet musk in the air, the dog spun and let out a panicked “woof.” The creature shot downward, inches from the dog’s face, its massive skull larger than the dog’s entire body, sniffing through its open nasal cavities. The dog sprawled out, tail wagging, its hind end in the air. It chuffed, then shuffled to the left, then right, prodding the creature to play.
The creature’s head cocked, confused by the display. The dog dashed around its side, poking the creature with its muzzle. The creature spun, let out a hollow shriek, now sprawled out, waiting to counter the dog’s next move.
Petersen looked on, confounded by the animals. He stared at the control panel, looking for the problem. His eyes widened at the error. He flipped the toggle switch from passive to active.
The creature’s body rigid, it shot up, then down, slicing into the dog’s back with its blade-like jaw, snapping its hind end from the rest of its body. The dog bellowed, then squealed… a faint whimper, before the creature impaled the skull with its tail.
It ripped at the midsection, pulling the entrails, whipping them in its beak to remove the effluence. Its head tilted back, sliding the sustenance down its spiked gullet. It dug into the tiny morsel, eating the dog from the inside out, scraping the meat from bone, the heart, liver, lungs, brain devoured. All that remained was bone and scraps of yellow fur, stained red.
Petersen’s stomach turned at the sight.
“Leviathan,” Dr. Zhu said, his aching knees climbing the final steps. “My finest creation.”
“Is it ready…” Petersen turn, grabbed Dr. Zhu under the arm. “I mean is it stable… controllable?”
“Of course.” He shifted his hands to his knees, popping his back into place. “I’ve grown a failsafe, in all of my children… an explosive charge at the base of their skull. Bariac would have been wise to do the same.”
“Hmm.” Petersen pursed his lips.
“Wouldn’t be in this position if he had.”
“You’ve released them?”
“The Stalkers…” Dr. Zhu said. “Seven of them, in all directions.”
“And their locations?”
Dr. Zhu looked down, dreading the descent back down the stairs. “Come with me.”
Dr. Zhu sat down on a stool, rubbed out the ache in his joints. “I borrowed an organ.” He pulled up a cross-section of an amorphous, wrinkled tissue. “Part of an ear, to be specific… from a horseshoe bat. Uses echo-location to find prey. In the case of the Stalkers, it’s not searching for prey, so much as locating a specific frequency, generated by the children.”
“And if they choose not to transmit?” He looked closely at the screen.
“They[WU12] stay hidden.” He pulled up a separate screen, a U.S. map. A graphic overlay, concentric rings spread out from the center of the U.S.
Petersen stared at it. “What is that?”
“I’ve gone through some of Dr. Bariac’s work.” Zhu cleared the overlay from the screen. “Seems he was concerned with the destruction of his children; a single high-altitude nuclear detonation would render them powerless.”
“How?”
“Their spinal cord is particularly sensitive. Similar to an electrical system, an electromagnetic pulse would fry their central nervous system.” Zhu applied an active graphic to the map.
Petersen held his hand up. “Fresh out of those, Doc.“
Zhu shrugged. “Seems we have two moving due-west, one moving northwest. Three moving east and northeast.” He zoomed in to an icon. “And one in Oklahoma… stationary.”
Petersen pressed in, ‘Rrap.. rrap..’ his fingers pounding annoyingly on the table.
“Hold on.” Dr. Zhu clicked the icon, bringing up a menu. He scrolled down to vision – The image blurry, obscured by a dark line along the left side. The Stalker looked to be suspended off the ground. “Respiration is low.” He pointed to a set of red numbers along the bottom of the screen. “Same as blood pressure.”
Colonel Petersen squinted, shook his head, unsure what to make of it.
Movement on the video feed. A screech echoed through the creature’s ears, then through the computer speakers.
“Blow it,” Petersen said.
“Wait.” Dr. Zhu looked back at him. “It’s there for a reason… Likely one of the children.” He flipped screens, back to the map. “I’m diverting another Stalker to that location.”
Petersen watched, as hunters climbed the surrounding trees, leapt out to the Stalker. Its movements rapid as they tore into it – its levels peaking low to high, its claws slashing out at them.
A bright red line blinked at the bottom of the screen. “Pain,” Dr. Zhu whispered. “It’s dying.”
CHAPTER 10
The aircraft ‘low fuel’ warning kicked on. Jacob looked down at the crushing waves below. A line in the distance, a hint of land. He pressed on, the threat of a watery death imminent.
He crossed from water to land and as luck would have it, a landing strip was visible within eyeshot. He landed in the northwest corner of Spain, a city called Santiago de Compostela. He had never flown a plane before, much less a luxury airliner, but he had learned; a skill acquired from Cole, his… subordinate, friend, family… he didn’t know. ‘What were they to me? And I to them?’ he wondered. It didn’t matter now, he had abandoned them, ‘or had they abandoned me?’ he wondered. It didn’t matter either way.
His immediate thought was for sleep, though it was daylight. Jetlag he supposed. He couldn’t feel the presence of any humans or otherwise, so he lay down on the aisleway of the aircraft and nodded off.
His eyes opened within the void. Abnormal, he wasn’t at ease here; his sight felt off. It wasn’t white and blank, but cloudy. Images flashed before him like a movie, innocuous at first but as he walked closer to the image, the faces became familiar. He stepped into the first image - Director Flynn.
They were in his office in San Diego. Jacob, six years old, the words - “I actually sort of… admire you,” issued involuntarily from his mouth. He remembered the Director’s response, genuine surprise, but it was different this time.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to just kill me?” Flynn edged closer in his chair. “Take my gun and shoot the man that’s loved you, as a father loves a son?”
“I… I….
” Jacob’s breath escaped him. ‘I don’t remember this,’ he thought.
Flynn pulled the pistol from its holster, racked the slide back and slid it across the table. “Go ahead… what’re you waiting for?” He grabbed Jacob’s hand and put the grip in it. “Do it!” He forced the barrel up to his head. “What’re you waiting for, Jacob? Pull the trigger!”
Tears fell from Jacob’s eyes, as his finger involuntarily pulled the trigger and…he was jolted from the image.
He was 15 now, tall and athletic. He lay in his bunk, his shoes kicked up on the crossbar, his hands beneath his head. He searching through space. His mind was in Washington D.C. He latched on to her like a tick: Vivian Kreuson, now Vice President. He watched her every move but lacked sufficient power to fully control her. He could look, but not touch. She sat down in her office, opening her laptop.
Kristen walked down the boys’ side of the barracks. She hung at the foot of the top bunk. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m going to kill everyone.” He put his hands over his mouth, unable to stop himself.
Kristen responded with an apathetic, “Hmh.” She looked off in the distance. “I’m genuinely attracted to you. I may even be in love with you, though you being a sociopath and all, scares the hell out of me.”
His blood pressure rose as words began to echo from his mouth. “Despite being unable to love anyone but myself, I think I love you too. I don’t though, since I’ll abandon you in the hands of the enemy and leave you for dead. You’ll be tortured and used, in ways that I can only imagine.”
Her glance shot down at him with a contemptuous snarl. “You’re weak, Jacob. Too weak to lead us, too weak to lead anyone. We all hate you, we all wish you were dead.”
His mouth hung open, with a slight twitch; a pain was growing in his chest, like the weight of an elephant sitting on it. His breath grew short as his vision faded into mist.
There was a girl inside the mist of red haze – like that of the crimson sky, though not Kristin, not anyone he had ever met. She smiled through the fog, her strawberry blonde hair, her green eyes fixed on him, her beautiful angelic face. “I’m going to kill you,” she whispered in a soft, serene voice.