Evolution Z

by Everist J Miller

  Yes, it had been worth it, she decided. She had made them work to get her here.

  She tried to avoid the tentacle of odour by holding her breath every time she sensed an acceleration of the breeze, but it made things worse. The lack of oxygen caused her to gasp after each pause, and she sucked in the rotten air to the point of choking on it.

  Cynthia must have got fed up with standing. She pushed Marcia aside, opened the door and sat half in half out of the Jeep, legs poking out and feet almost touching the ground.

  What a bitch. She thinks I deserve it, I suppose, Marcia thought. Because of my violent behaviour. Cynthia was stripped of her external charm.

  Marcia found that she was still too sensitive; tears welling as she rubbed the site of the pressure from Cynthia's push.

  "Where is he?" Cynthia asked.

  There was a sudden thunderous clap. Marcia startled. She jolted. The engine of the Jeep had backfired, she reasoned. Had they kept the engine running to escape in haste if they needed to?

  But how could it have been the Jeep backfiring? The noise was from a distance.

  Another blast. A weight on her chest suddenly suffocated. It annoyed her at first. She couldn't breathe. Dumb security guard was way too close. What the hell? She tried to raise her arms to push him back.

  She tried to speak, but her lungs were crushed. She couldn't step back because she was right up against the solid body of the Jeep. Panic triggered a surge of adrenalin. "Get off me," she croaked. Then, instead of pushing forward, she squeezed to the side.

  Another explosion. She finally recognised it. It should have been familiar from the V-Crisis. An ambivalent sound, signalling both fear and hope. Now only terror.

  Marcia forced her way around the guard, getting a face full of his shirt. It was wet. Sweat no doubt. Marcia felt nauseated. Dumb fuck. She was going to give him a piece of her mind. The sweat smelled odd though. Like rusted iron. There was also the smell of sulfur.

  Finally free, Marcia hunched over and gasped for breath. Her face was dripping with that idiot's sweat. She wiped it off in disgust without delay. It was warm and sticky. She looked at her hands and screamed. Bright red blood. Looking back she saw the guard sliding to the ground, lifeless, his eyes bulging. She noticed a growing, uneven patch on his back. It was visible on his white shirt. A grisly crimson hue.

  A cold realisation crawled through Marcia. Oh my God, she thought. He's been... Shot. The sound. A gun.

  She leaped away from him and let him slump. Looking to the side she saw the other guard sitting in a pool of his own growing scarlet puddle.

  Then Marcia caught a glimpse inside the passenger door. She saw Cynthia lying face down across the passenger seats. Cynthia was frozen. She's dead, Marcia thought.

  But what now? Was Marcia about to be shot?

  She froze. Her body refused to move. She grimaced, her eyes fixed on the dead guards. She shook. She was waiting for an impact hoping it wouldn't be painful. Please be instant like the others, she thought.

  After a long, silent pause, Marcia heard an engine approaching. She wanted to turn to see what or who it was but she couldn't. Turn around, she said to herself. Move. Run. But paralysing fear dominated. Her body was stubbornly immobile.

  She had gone soft. She ran from volunteers when she had to during the V-Crisis. Ran. Hid. Let others die because she was more important. Rarely. She had been protected most of the time. She had been valuable. The army needed engineers. She never felt safe of course. Volunteers could kill anyone randomly. Those in authority decided who to spare. Life was cheap. But she had survived.

  Run like before, she thought. But running from volunteers was a good strategy because they didn't have guns. Running from bullets would be impossible. Especially from someone with such an accurate aim. Fleeing now? Impossible.

  The engine ceased. A door opened and shut. Footsteps approached, crunching the gravel beneath them.

  A male voice chuckled. "Why don't you turn around, my friend?" He said to Marcia. The voice was familiar. The voice on the speaker phone. Doug. Oh God, it was him. He had killed them.

  Marcia felt a hand on her shoulder and startled. Winced. Then a set of focused, piercing blue eyes were upon her. She hadn't notice he was turning to face her.

  Ugly, is all she could think. A fat balding head with focussed piercing eyes lumped on an oval spinning-top frame; a face wearing a look of amusement. A horrible body odour.

  Marcia looked over his shoulder to avoid those eyes and noticed the truck behind him. It had a small cabin with an open tray on the back. It was a pure gleaming white, like the shirts on the guards. In the tray of the truck there were four figures. Three were silent, motionless volunteers. Reluctantly? Marcia caught herself giving them human characteristics. What were they doing there?

  One of them must be wearing the prototype headset, Marcia said to herself. I suppose he thinks he can camouflage it with the other two. Stupid, Marcia thought smugly. I'll know which one it is.

  The fourth figure was human. Must have been. No skin suit. Face covered with a blindfold. She could tell the difference between that and a volunteer's mask. Short hair. Probably male. Thick hair so probably young. He was bound. A hostage.

  "I am Doug, my friend," Doug said. "You are the technician." After a pause he said, "You will come with me, my friend, so we can sort this whole thing out." He smirked. "But first," he continued, "I need to ask Cynthia for some special equipment because I know that she is the one that would hold on to it." He pointed at the back seat of the Jeep.

  How did he know she was 'the technician'? Good luck to him. Cynthia was dead. Having shot her, what did he expect?

  "I have been watching you," Doug said to Marcia as if he had anticipated her questions. "I have listened in. It's obvious anyway who you both are." After a pause, he directed his attention to the Jeep. "You can come out now Cynthia," he said. His voice was playful, like he was playing a game of hide and seek. "Come out, my friend. I'm not going to shoot you."

  Marcia was confused. He'd already shot Cynthia. There was a third shot and Cynthia was motionless. She was dead. He had miscalculated. But he didn't seem the type to plan things out hastily.

  "She's dead," Marcia said in a strained whisper. She immediately regretted speaking. She had meant to express it as a thought or maybe say it to herself, but it had come out louder than she expected. Oh my God, she thought. He's going to kill me now.

  Doug turned to her and grinned. He looked like an evil clown. He chuckled. "No," he said. "She's just a coward."

  "Doug?" a muffled voice asked as if on cue. It was Cynthia. She was alive. Her voice even.

  Doug's eyes peered over Marcia's shoulder. "Yes," he said.

  But how? Was Cynthia merely wounded? Then Marcia noticed something had shattered the driver's tinted window. The third bullet. Doug must have fired the shot just in case. There was no separate driver. There were only the two guards that were now dead.

  "Why did you kill my guards?" Cynthia asked. Marcia turned to see her. Then she stepped back a little, realising she was closer to Doug. Cynthia remained in the car, only popping her head out to speak.

  Marcia was surprised at how calm Cynthia was and how she was able to convey an accusing tone to a man who threatened their lives. They no longer had the protection of the guards.

  Doug chuckled. "Why did you bring them?" he asked pointing at the slumped, lifeless bodies.

  "We're in the Shit Belt," Cynthia said. Her voice laboured as she slid outside of the Jeep. "It's not safe around here." Then she flinched, her eyes directed at something behind Marcia and Doug. The truck, no doubt.

  "I see you you've noticed I've brought a few friends," Doug said to Cynthia.

  Cynthia stared. Said nothing.

  Doug folded his arms and grinned.

  Where's the gun? Marcia asked herself. Maybe it was concealed. Maybe he had left it in his truck. She hoped it was the latter.

  Cynthia finally said something. "Why did you bring t
hree volunteers?" She put her hands on her hips. "You said you only had one prototype headset."

  Silence. Doug merely grinned.

  "What have you got planned?" Cynthia asked. This time her voice wavered.

  "Please don't worry, my friend," Doug said. "We are all in this together." But he was looking away, eyes scanning the Jeep. After a pause, he continued, "First things first. Let's not forget why we are here. Let me have a look at the headset and HUD. After that we will talk about what comes next."

  Cynthia shook her head. "I'm not giving you anything until you tell me what your intentions are. I'm not naïve you know."

  "Your guards are dead," Doug said retracting his grin. He looked menacing.

  Cynthia stepped back. She was flush with the Jeep. "Tell me what's going on," she said.

  Doug walked towards Cynthia, slowly, each of his steps heavy and deliberate. "Your guards are dead," he repeated.

  Cynthia adjusted her position and peeked down. Then she hastened. Knelt to the ground. Her hand reached into a dead guard's jacket.

  Doug sprinted. He closed the distance. He was fast for such a large frame. He grabbed Cynthia's neck with one hand and shoved her away from the guard with the other. Then he grasped her wrist on the arm that had reached into the jacket and examined it. It was empty. He dragged her away from the Jeep.

  Doug let Cynthia drop to the ground, let go of her then stepped on her; his heavy, industrial black boot covered her wrist and hand.

  Cynthia screamed. It was blood curdling. Reminded Marcia of similar sounds in the V-Crisis. "Get it off," Cynthia pleaded.

  There was unexpected rustling in the truck that caught Marcia's attention. She saw the human writhing around.

  "Don't try to help him," Doug threatened. Marcia startled. She had attracted Doug's attention. It terrified her. "Do not move, my friend," Doug added.

  Marcia didn't dare move.

  Doug turned his attention back to Cynthia. Cynthia was squeezing her eyes shut, tears welling and spilling over, mouth grimaced. Close to submission, Marcia reasoned.

  It wouldn't take much for Doug to turn on me, Marcia thought. She couldn't risk it. She didn't even try to turn an eye to the truck, despite her concern for what Doug intended for the volunteers and the human.

  Marcia heard Cynthia grunt as if her lungs emptied all of a sudden. It wrenched her back to reality. Doug was sitting on Cynthia's chest. She was struggling, arms flailing.

  Marcia tried to imagine how suffocating it would be to have Doug's sweaty seething weight on her, but she found herself ambivalent to Cynthia. A shiver crept through her as she felt keen to see Cynthia unravel; her composure disintegrate; her neat, plaid hair tangle. Marcia wanted to see her cry, scream, beg. Somewhat like Ken's demise. That perfect poise needed to crumple.

  "Get off," Cynthia squealed struggling for breath. Her tone was pleading. There was an unstable edge to her voice.

  Cynthia bridged, turned and slid through the space she had created between her and Doug. She slipped free after getting a face full of Doug's armpit. How disgusting, Marcia thought.

  Doug chuckled. "Well done," he said in a condescending tone.

  Cynthia got up, swayed precariously, regained her balance and broke into a sprint. Where would she go? Marcia thought. It probably didn't matter. Cynthia was likely running on adrenaline and not forethought. It had been the same during the V-Crisis. Pointless escapes only to be mauled seconds later.

  Cynthia gained distance. Maybe not so pointless after all. Maybe I should run, Marcia thought, especially while he is distracted. She was so tempted. A fire of adrenaline flushed her with heat.

  Cynthia tripped, sprawling to the ground. Here we go, Marcia thought. The inevitable. She was thankful she hadn't tried to escape.

  Cynthia squealed as Doug caught up with her. As she struggled to get to her knees Doug wrestled her down.

  Marcia felt empty, deeply sad at what she was witnessing. But at the same time she felt... satisfied. Cynthia's hard shell had been fractured and was being peeled off in front of Marcia's eyes. Her prison warden, the one who had kept her from saving Andrew, was on the cusp of her demise.

  "You'll kill me if I give you that headset," Cynthia whined.

  "How about I break each of your fingers, one by one if you don't," Doug said with a chuckle. "Or slowly pull all of your teeth out. The crack just before a tooth comes loose is a sound you will enjoy, my friend."

  Marcia was nauseated.

  Cynthia's face was smeared with dirt from being rubbed into the ground. "Please don't kill me, " she said wheezing.

  "Okay, my friend," Doug said. "If you cooperate with me, I won't kill you."

  Cynthia paused and furrowed her brows. She licked her dry lips. There was a glint in her eyes.

  Marcia heard a rustling behind her. Seeing that Doug was occupied with Cynthia, she took a risk and turned around to face the truck. It was less scary than trying to run after all.

  The bound figure's eyes fixed on Marci. He (she assumed it was male) was struggling for her attention. She didn't dare help him.

  But there was something odd about his movements. It was like he was vying for attention... to be recognised. There was a muffled sound of attempted communication coming from his gagged mouth.

  A shriek suddenly caught Marcia's attention. She swivelled to find that Doug's knee was digging into Cynthia's ribs, his hands clamping around one of her fingers. Doug was obviously focussed on hurrying Cynthia's capitulation. It must have been excruciating. Then Marcia saw he was bending the finger backwards at its base. Marcia winced as if it was her finger. It was like she was readying herself, expecting that she was next. Except that she would not resist. She had spent the V-Crisis avoiding pain, and she planned to continue with that strategy.

  "No, " Cynthia screamed. "I'll show you. I'll show you," she said, wheezing, her voice breathless. "Please... stop. Stop!!"

  Doug relented. He got off her and stood up. Placed his hands on his hips. He gestured for her to show him. Cynthia tried to stand. Doug extended his hand, and she took it. He helped her up. "See what happens when you cooperate?" he said.

  Cynthia stumbled back to the Jeep. Doug kept close behind her. Cynthia opened the back door of the Jeep. Doug took the door from her hand and held it open.

  Marcia squinted to see Cynthia unlock and remove the facade to the inside of the door. She excised a small pouch that Marcia immediately recognised. Inside the pouch, the prototype headset and a pair of black-rimmed glasses they had only just engineered.

  The glasses were a new HUD, also a prototype invisible as a HUD. Not only was the signal encrypted but the true nature of the HUD was also disguised. It was a shame they couldn't fit the circuitry on a lens but this was good enough in the time available. Marcia was proud of that achievement.

  The plan had been for the guards to retrain Doug, or kill him if necessary. Marcia would operate the HUD that would protect her from any volunteer with the prototype headset. The other prototype would come in handy to fix Doug's. Nice plan, Marcia thought. Pity they had underestimated Doug.

  Cynthia surrendered the headset and glasses to Doug. He examined them. "Is this a HUD?" he asked, holding up the glasses.

  "Yes," Cynthia whispered. She swallowed.

  "I believe you, my friend, " Doug said. Cynthia sighed, her shoulders slumped. She folded to a sitting position on the ground in the opening of the door.

  Doug's expression changed. He looked deeply into Cynthia's eyes like he was making love to her. She backed away but there wasn't much space. She leaned her head back. It rested against the bare unpolished metal cavity into which the door frame closes.

  Without warning, Doug slammed the Jeep door into Cynthia's head. She screamed in terror immediately after the impact. Doug slammed the door a second time. Cynthia squealed. Then went quiet. Doug continued. When his actions had finally ceased, Cynthia slumped to the ground, her eyes wide open and Doug still staring into them. Her jaw was loose, hanging at an a
ngle by a thread of muscle. Her hair was matted with deep red crevices. Her brain was oozing through them.

  Marcia screamed. She had never got used to the theatre of death.

  My God. Powerful, commanding Cynthia now cold and dead. Was this a dream? It was all so sudden.

  Doug sighed. "Pity," he said.

  Then he turned to Marcia.

  Oh God, she thought. I'm alone. With him.

  "We have some work to do, my friend," Doug said.

  ###

  When Doug approached Marcia, she was ready to tell him everything he wanted to know, in one breath. She was terrified, in the same way as Cynthia, that he would kill her after he had extracted the information, but she had no plan.

  She shook; her lips trembled. She recognised a primal fear. She had not felt safe in her job, always tiptoeing on the edge of a precipice. But now she knew what it really meant not to be safe. Like the screaming passenger on a plane plummeting to the ground, she knew her life would be over and focussed only on whether she would die in agony. Her vision was consumed with the oozing mush from Cynthia's damaged skull and how it would feel to suffer such a horrific injury.

  The panic she had endured worrying about losing her job resided in her chest and sometimes in an exasperated dizziness. But the present distress took over her whole body.

  She had heard that a person facing immediate death sees their life flash before them. All she could think of, if you could call it thinking, was: pain; excruciating pain and how it would feel.

  "How do I use this HUD, my friend? " Doug asked examining the special glasses.

  Maybe if I cooperate with him right away, he'll spare me, Marcia thought. At that the words spilled out of her. She explained how it had the same controls as an ordinary HUD other than an extra screen to create code simulating a charge to destroy the black box. On detecting the code the black box would annihilate the volunteer's brain.

  Afterwards, Marcia looked at Doug in a pleading pose trying to appeal to any sympathy she might wring out of him. It was desperate, but it was all she had.

  Doug's eyes focussed on hers as they had on Cynthia's whilst he had killed her. Marcia broke into tears.