Intended Extinction (3 page)

A cool,
dousing wind enveloped Evan and I as we cleared the threshold to our apartment complex. Monstrous as swelling waves, crowds of people bombarded their way down the street toward Battery Park. I was no longer perplexed by the situation. This had Edge written all over it.

“That’s . . . a lot of people,” said Evan, staring blankly into the vibrating mass.

I shook myself a little, overcome with memories laced with gore. The crowds reminded me of the outbreak. Screaming, pushing, shoving, and killing. It was the way people looked at you, like you were standing in their way of living.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon.” The Ghost left my side and fell in line with the conglomerate of people. I took a deep breath and followed.

As we shuffled along the street, we passed the last remaining skyscrapers on the edge of lower Manhattan. I became fascinated with the idea of the unknown, feeling it surge through me, linking arms with my adrenaline. The excitement from before resurfaced. But these feelings were usually fleeting, so I didn’t want to feed them too much.

When the final skyscraper peeled away, a blinding white light took its place. The strange glow. Huge floodlights jutted upwards at least twenty feet into the air, cascading the areas below with clear exposure. The concert-sized section of Battery Park was as bright as noonday.

The crowd picked up pace, and in the confusion I lost Evan. I swerved around, only to be pushed by more, sweaty infected people. I felt like a cow being herded into our corral—a cesspool of eager spirits, desperate to do
anything
for their own benefit. I tried to find a glimpse of The Ghost, but it was no use.

After passing the massive Park trees, my mind took a nosedive. In front of the sea of flesh, a long, six-foot high stage fitted with a glass podium supported a few milling Volunteers. Colossal pillars lined the sides of the stage, adorned with brazen “G” ornaments. Similar letters dotted the entire presentation.

The crowds conversed and murmured. Frustrated with my range of sight, I stood on my toes and tried to plot a path to the stage, thirty yards away. People pressed up against me, filling in the gaps. I searched the crowd, spotting people I had seen from my building, a few I recognized from the city. I smirked as I found The Ghost, chatting with someone, far from my position.

“Good evening everyone,” said a youthful voice, muffled by the microphone.

I weaved through the barricade of bodies, getting a better view. A gap opened between two heads, and I saw him. A regular looking man stood at the podium, with short, coffee-drenched hair, styled upward in the front. He was wearing the generic GenoTec uniform: a bumblebee yellow jumpsuit, separated by a thick belt. Across the chest and each leg were black, strap-like bands, crossed in an “X.” They always wore the same dark boots, rising mid-calf, and gloves that fit perfectly to the figure of their hands.

The uniform caused my mind to unlatch a memory. Yellow cuffs. I contemplated the accompanying story.

“Thank you for coming tonight, we are very pleased to have all of you here. In a few short moments, we will be privileged to hear from an amazing man—someone who has done more for this world than words can describe. He has been the brains behind everything we have accomplished thus far. He is optimistic of the future of this planet and is willing to go to great lengths to achieve victory over Edge. Tonight, we are going to unveil a product that will change the world. It’s going change everything. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the CEO of GenoTec, Archturus Slate!”

The crowd shuffled and mumbled in a low reverberating tone. As the thin man stepped out of the floodlights’ reach, another person emerged. People started to whisper, creating an overcast of uneasiness and anticipation. Once I caught hold of this new person, a sudden spark of fear ran down my spine and filtered throughout my body. My gut wrenched. I completely froze.

“It’s him,” I overheard someone saying near me.

The microphone picked up the hollow, ominous footsteps as the CEO approached the podium. Standing there, delaying his speech to look over the crowd, was the most interesting—and possibly menacing—man the world would ever see. His bald head shined, accentuating the bold, veiny tattoo wrapping its way down the side of his skull and down his neck. He had a pair of fuzzy caterpillars, sitting above his abyssal eyes. The black holes searched the crowd as he placed his hands upon the podium.

His choice of clothing came off as casual military. He wore a thick, tanned leather jacket that drowned his body, past his waist. The collar stuck up, almost reaching his jaw line. Although the coat was opened—baring his chest—he must have been sweating like crazy, because it was the middle of May. Underneath the leathery coat, a hardened, plastic-metal material braced his chest and abdomen. Colored a dark gray, it looked somewhat like flexible armor—but the thought sounded silly to me. His pants were olive, stuffed into his military style boots. Overall, he was a tank. Even from where I was standing, I could tell he definitely consumed his share of protein.

The most intricate and terrifying thing about Slate wasn’t the fact that he still hadn’t said anything yet. It was the glinting chrome contraption encased the lower half of his face. It was thin on the sides and back, but as it reached his mouth and nose, it grew into a bulbous, polygonal vent-like thing. Markings and indentations arrayed the mask, glaring under the floodlights.

Then he breathed. Everyone could hear the metallic, raspy vibration that emitted from the speakers. It sounded like he was using a megaphone. That sound—it rebounded throughout my entire frame.

The tension broke when his words pierced the evening air.

“Edge,” he pronounced, the word echoing over the Park. His voice was pitchy, but not by design. It was that thing on his face. “That is the reason we are all here.”

He scanned the arena, scrutinizing the thousands of people in his grasp. It was as quiet as a museum at midnight. Only the soft, almost inaudible sloshing of the Hudson found traction. Slate shifted his weight and adjusted the microphone.

“You are probably wondering why we summoned you here by way of darkness. I know some of you are a little annoyed.” There was something about his voice, something deep and dark, without caution or care. “Well,” he breathed, “after tonight, your lives will never be the same.”

I peered over to the people next to me, finding shifty eyes and uncertain, impatient looks. I just
knew
what all of us were thinking. But it couldn’t be true. I tried to keep an open mind.

“Well, it’s very simple really,” he continued. “We’ll skip the pleasantries this time. Let me explain.” He stood there, waiting for something, still staring into the crowd. A second later, a man in GenoTec garments came waddling toward him carrying a tray. “Baldy” took a small, metal vial from his henchman and raised his eyebrows. The vial was partially covered by glass on one side, letting everyone see a shimmering orange liquid.

“
This
, ladies and gentleman,” he held up the small tube, “
this
is what you have all been waiting for.
This
,” he glanced around one last time before he said, “is a
cure
.”

The crowd erupted into whispers, gasps, and confused looks.

What did he just say?

A huge burst of energy pulsed through me like a fireball and I decided I needed a better view. I didn’t make it far, though. I was dealing with thousands of desperate victims. No one was going to give up their spot.

Slate motioned for silence. “I know what you’re thinking. I know exactly what is going through your minds.” He looked at the tiny bottle and then returned his gaze. “Would I pull all of you here just to fail you?” His voice cracked a little.

“This better not be more ‘pods, Slate!” shouted someone from the crowd.

“Let ‘im talk!”

“Shut up and let him talk!”

“Yeah! Those Medpods suck!”

“So we finally get the same perks as the Sterile’s?” sprayed another member of the now unruly collection.

Slate raised one eyebrow and unscrewed the vial. He pressed a button on his mask and it released a valve on the left side of his “mouth.” He put the vial up against the valve and it drained into the mask. His Adams apple jolted.

The crowd fell silent.

All eyes focused on the CEO. He took a sweeping glance over the crowd, then discarded his coat to the ground. The armor-like plate only covered his chest and abdomen, exposing two rock solid arms. On one of his bowling ball-sized shoulders lived an algae colored, crusty splotch. It consumed most of his deltoid, and trickled down his tricep. He looked at it, smiling underneath the mask, waiting for something to happen.

After about three minutes, we saw the splotch start to change color. Green turned to faint amber, and then a bluish hue. Ten seconds later, he wiped away some of the brittle growth, and I watched as the flakes sprinkled like snow.

No way. That’s blood!

Blood was seeping back into the patch of dead life, and it almost looked . . . normal.
Normal.
I instinctively felt for one of the scabs on my chest. Is this really happening? The crowd exchanged skeptical looks for half a second.

Then the tumult broke. People turned into animals: pushing, shoving, and clawing to get to the podium. I found myself hammering my way amongst them, keeping my eyes on Slate. He let the crowd fight toward the stage; he
had
to be grinning underneath that mask.

He grew tired of the game and stepped back to the microphone, taking a long, deep breath. He reminded me of an old movie my parents used to love; some guy in a black helmet, breathing similarly.

He motioned for the crowd to settle down, and we did, like trained pets.

“This vaccine finds the largest blood deprived area in your body and restores genuine flow to your vessels. This is the first step to complete and total inoculation. And now that you’ve seen its magic, who wants to be the first to try it on themselves?” He stood back as his bodyguard handed him two vials filled with the orange liquid.

I was too busy groping for a vial; I didn’t realize how cruel these games were.

The crowd continued to sustain their screams. Some people even tried to climb the stage, but were pushed back by the Volunteers. I could tell the bald man was getting impatient with us. He looked back and shrugged to his assistants, stepped up to the edge of the stage, and lobbed both of the vials into the air.

Chaos ensued. People were throwing themselves. One after another they fell on their faces, lunging for their survival. I couldn’t blame them though. I mean, a
cure
? The word alone was taboo, too holy to be spoken without flickering eyes or turned heads.

Finally, there was an eruption of screams as a girl with a black ponytail grasped the first vial. She held it up in the light and grinned. I looked around for the second one, but couldn’t find it anywhere. Suddenly, I noticed everyone was looking . . . at
me
.

I doubled over as an awfully hard object hit me square in the head. I rubbed my scalp gingerly, realizing that the tube had been coated with Vinciglass—the strongest glass material on the planet. And how I hated it right now. The first thing I heard was the tang of the vial hitting the asphalt. Then, within that same moment, a fist the size of a grapefruit found its way to my face.

My head jerked to one side, and I felt like my skin would separate from my bone. Holy hell, I hadn’t been punched in ten years. The pain seemed incredibly authentic, more real than anything Edge could produce. It didn’t take long for the Adrenoprene to overshadow the surging nerves.

“It’s mine!” But the voice was muffled as another punch took him down. I heard the tinkling of metal again, but I was too dizzy to see anything. People were pushing me, knocking me back. I held on to my head, trying to stabilize myself, but it was no use.

“Aha!” said another male voice. I attempted to look up, my vision slowly returning.

I shook my head until I could see again. A dog pile of men and women, all different ages, struggled in front of me, trying to get their hands on the vial. A tussle broke out on the left of the mound; two people were wrestling, fighting for something in a clenched palm.

Out of the two struggling people came the small, silver vial. It rolled gently through their legs and stopped at the tip of someone’s shoe.

My
shoe.

I froze. The people surrounding me drew back a little—these folks were the frail ones, or otherwise timid. The fighters were preoccupied; all I had to do was bend over and take it for myself.

There was no remorse. I swooped down, clutched the vial, unscrewed the cap, and guzzled the liquid. I didn’t care at all. The rage, the infection, and the excitement that lived within me did not care.

After the strangely sweet liquid drained down my throat, I lowered my hand, still grasping the metal container. The fighters were surprised and angry. The depressed ones stood with hopeful eyes and feeble strength. Then I saw a child, pressed up against her mother’s leg, watching me vigilantly. I looked down at the vial.

There had to be more of it, right?