Intended Extinction (42 page)

“You think after all these years of preparation I’ve made a mistake?”

Something was wrong with my broken rib. All I could feel was a sharp, jabbing knife underneath the skin. I only managed to roll over and start again.

“You made your mistake by creating us,” I stammered.

Slate stared at my decaying body. He crouched beside me, as if talking to an old friend.

“Where were you before all of this, Mark?” he said.

My rib was mutilating my insides. Every breath he took made my skin ripple with sour hatred. I couldn’t stand, though. I could hardly move.

He continued, looking out to Manhattan. “You were nothing. Don’t you remember that? About to fade away, having accomplished so very little. The only time you’ve ever felt alive is with me. With Genesis. Isn’t that right?”

I remained still, bracing myself on my forearms. I choked on my phrase as it came out, “How did you get to be like this? How could you kill so many people?”

He interlocked his fingers, still crouched beside me. “After the first one, it’s not so hard. But you know all about that, right? They were all too weak. But that’s what will make my new world such a beautiful place. Only the strong ones will have survived. The world will be propelled into an age of unprecedented growth. You see, I am not trying to end the world, Mark. I am building a new one. And I am almost there.”

His monologue had given me enough time to rest. With dynamite in my legs, I exploded into him, taking him to the ground. We ripped at each other’s appendages, snarling and punching like feral dogs. I eventually straddled his torso and began to unleash a battery of fists into his skull. Blood started to come through the slits on his mask.

I was doing it. I was beating Slate. Each fist brought an image of Bollis, Celia, and Vexin. My family’s lives were imprinted upon every crippling blow.

I lifted my right fist for harder strike, but one of his hands wiggled free and snatched my wrist. This gave him leverage to release his other arm.

A sharp rod plunged into my hip. My breath left me. Without any time at all, the area around my hip began to burn and implode. I screamed, falling off of his body.

“What did you do?!” I yelped.

I watched as he withdrew a handgun-shaped device from my side, spilling blood upon the ground. The weapon had a thick syringe sticking out the front. Slate pulled my upper body up to his face as the rest of me struggled to keep sensation.

“I call it ‘Instant Infection,’” he said, and then moved even closer to my ear. The breathy, metallic voice licked my eardrum. “This is what I’m truly capable of.”

I writhed and tried to slide away, but this new pain was unbearable. Like serrated vines whipping my organs and flesh, the infection filtered throughout my abdomen.

“So sad to have come so close,” he said, his voice more distorted than ever, “just to watch everything wash away. Right. In front. Of your eyes.”

I managed to let a tiny laugh escape. “Too bad. You—the toxins. It’s over.”

Slate’s eyes flashed. They darted to the side. No matter how much Slate wanted to seem in control, he sure as hell didn’t want to die from his own doing.

“Hey!”

The voice came from afar. Slate jerked his head up, dropping my body just enough for a bullet to strike his shoulder. He fell backwards and I rolled away, losing perception.

Before my saviors could see where the bullet had hit, I dragged my body toward the injection gun and grasped it upside down. I slowly pulled myself up, wobbling like a marionette.

“Mark, get down!” shouted a familiar voice.

But I wasn’t going to stop. I obstructed their range and approached the rising body of Archturus Slate. He swung at me. The blow glanced off my chin. Disoriented, I powered my fist into his face, still holding the strange weapon. The thick needle tore at his jaw and pulled off a huge section of his mask. Gore, tissue, and metal flew away in a dazzling manner.

The two of us stood hunched over, balancing, about to expire. His shoulder spewed blood, half blown off from the high-powered, anti-personnel round. He coughed and spit crimson through his shattered filter.

I took one step forward. “To come so close,” I sputtered, through a gravelly sieve, “just to watch it all wash away. Right in front of your eyes.”

I mustered all the strength hidden deep within my heart and lunged forward, driving the syringe under his chin, through the back of his throat, and into his brain.

His back arched. His eyes were wide. Hot crimson sprayed from his neck and drained out from underneath his broken mask. He fell to his knees and I stepped away, almost falling with him. As a parting gift, his eyes never left mine. His hand daintily reached out and groped for me. Then a hailstorm of bullets pierced his chest and sent him to a crumpled heap upon the bubbling floor.

The storm above thundered and shook. The rain continued its cleanse. The floor vibrated. People were approaching, but I didn’t move. Slate was gone. It was over.

“Mark! You’re all right!” Tara skidded to a halt next to me, manually turning my chin. We embraced, tightly bound.

Dodge examined Slate’s body. “It’s done.”

“How did you—the toxins?” I managed to say.

“Justin!” she answered, and laughed through tears. “He figured a way around Slate’s sabotage!”

Justin. I owed him everything.

Dodge clapped me on the shoulder. “You made it.” His smile was heartfelt and brought a concluding comfort.

I swayed a little. My eyes blurred.

Tara steadied me. “Mark?”

I shook my head and tried to act calm. But the pain in my side had reached my entire trunk. I couldn’t feel anything below my chest and above my waist.

I coughed a little and asked, “What happens now?”

Dodge smiled. “We take over. Tell the truth. Expose all of Slate’s lies.”

I nodded. I wasn’t breathing normally. Each exhale seemed to hit three rungs of a ladder on its way out.

“We did it,” Tara said, looking at me with endearing, tear-filled eyes. “Slate’s gone.”

I collapsed.

“Mark!”

They flanked me.

“What’s wrong?!” asked Dodge.

The rain kept a steady force upon my face. Looking up into the breaking clouds, I felt the surging flames of pain reach my chest. A warm sensation flooded my eye sockets. My tongue started to shrivel.

While they were examining my body, Tara found the wound. Blood continued to drain out of the hole.

“No . . .” she muttered. “What did he do to you?!”

My lips were quivering now. Sharp needles impaled my spine. I reached an arm out to Tara and she grasped my hand and held it close.

“Dodge . . .” I said, wheezing. “You know your way around GenoTec. You have to change things for good.”

Dodge placed a hand on my shoulder. “Stop it. Mark, whatever he did to you, we can fix this.”

The blood tears began to fall down my temples. Tara cupped her mouth, trying to catch her breath. She sobbed into her hand.

“Tara,” I breathed. “I’m sorry. I failed.”

“No!” she stammered. “Please. Mark . . .”

“Remember your promise. Find her. Tell—” I groaned as the pain flooded my legs. “Tell Justin I’m sorry I couldn’t keep mine.”

She put a hand to my cheek. “
Don’t you leave me
.”

I grazed her face with my fingers, feeling her soft skin.

“I love you.”

Her head fell upon my chest as my eyes rolled away.

I smelled the rain. I heard the thunder crack once more. Then I felt wispy, as if one of the clouds had come to take me away. My body dissolved around me. Nothing hurt anymore. I was free. I saw my family. I saw Bollis. Vexin. Celia. Justin.

I saw Tara. And then it was dark.

EPILOGUE

JULY 2042

The crowds
were out of control. Cameras flashed like lightning, which annoyed the hell out of him. Questions became indistinguishable inside the Jersey City building lobby. Curtis Mundson squeezed past the throng and pressed through the front doors. The fresh air made him relax a little.

“Tell us what your plans are for a name?” came a question to his right.

“Where has Thomas Burke been for the last five days?” to his left.

“Is it true what they say about you?”

Curtis turned around, every news station on him like a vulture. “No name yet. Burke’s in Africa. And yes. It’s all true.”

He jumped into the waiting Jeep and told his driver to get moving.

“If I would have known how demanding this job is,” said Curtis, “there’s no way in
hell
I would have taken it.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, slumped in his chair.

Riley Fawson held the wheel steady and spit a sunflower seed out the window. “Tough day?”

Curtis sighed. “It’s nothing. I mean, why do these people want a
name
already?! We’re not GenoTec for cryin’ out loud.”

Riley relaxed in his chair. “Well, it’s been a year, Curt.”

“So?”

Riley shrugged. He knew when Curtis was in one of his moods. The best course of action was to keep quiet.

Curtis’ phone buzzed in his pocket. When he pulled it out, a picture of a black-haired girl showed on the screen.

He put the phone to his ear. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Where are you? You’re an hour late.”

“Look, I got held up. I’m sorry. I’ll be there in thirty.”

“Just meet me there. I’m going for a run.”

Curtis squinted out the window. “All right. See you soon.” He stared at the screen after hanging up.

“Something wrong?” Riley asked.

“She just seems distant lately.” Curtis stared blankly through the windshield. “She’s been . . . seeing things.”

Riley adjusted in his seat. “Seeing things?”

“We’re not stopping at the house anymore,” Curtis said. “We’ll meet her at the gravesite.”

——————

The evening drew a perfect orange and pale blue painting. Tara Tracer charged up the last hill. Her legs were on fire. Each step struck the ground with the beat of the song she was listening to. Her hair was cut very short, still as black as coal. Her young face carried many scars from a previous life, most of them visible. With a burst of speed, she cleared the last few feet of the hill and slowed down as the ground flattened out. The graveyard was just a few more minutes ahead.

She couldn’t believe a year had passed. So much had happened. Today marked the day that GenoTec fell. The anniversary of Archturus Slate’s destruction. The day that Mark died.

The sting of his death still haunted her. Not a single day had gone by where his face hadn’t crossed her mind. But she didn’t have much of anything left of him. Even memories were starting to fade. If it weren’t for Justin and nights like these, Tara wasn’t sure she’d be alive.

She jogged the rest of the way, passing abandoned homes, boarded up silos, and overgrown sheds. Lush green trees and flowing fields of tall grass blurred into a vivid mesh of growth and new life. Connecticut had been good to her. Being back home seemed like the best fit. It was certainly helping. The part that attracted her the most was the emptiness. Most everyone still lived in GenoTec epicenters. Even the Steriles stayed close by. But Tara was a loner. And she loved it.

She stopped for a minute to catch her breath. She stretched and watched a few birds fight for dominance in an old oak tree across the street. Her eyes moved down, finding little things to occupy herself before moving again. But then she stopped. Her hands fell to her sides.

Mark stood off to the side of the tree. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t waving. He just stood there, watching her. Still clothed in his Oversuit, cracked and mutilated. He was soaking wet. Blood tears flowed from his eyes.

She clenchd her eyes shut and counted to ten. A few deep breaths later, she started jogging again. No matter how focused her gaze was, she knew he was still behind her. Still watching her.

A few minutes later, she reached the gravesite. A short, poorly built rock fence outlined a small section of land at the end of the paved road. She passed the rusted gate and made her way to the grave. The path was rocky and full of divots. She hopped up a small hill and came to the base of an old tree. Underneath the boughs, two wooden posts stuck out of the ground with withered flowers and scattered stones adorning their individual mounds.

She stopped, knelt, and pulled out her headphones. She began to adjust the rocks. Some were painted with childish designs and colors. She smiled, lining them in rows.

Bright lights emerged from the road behind her. The Jeep lumbered to a halt at the gate’s edge and turned off. Tara raised her head and sighed.

The Jeep door slammed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Curtis trudging up the small rise. Riley stayed in the car.

Tara got to her feet and turned to greet him. He was wearing fitted gray slacks with a white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. His tie hung loosely to one side. His iconic blonde hair was a mess, as usual. He seemed thinner to Tara, more worn than before.

“Good to see you, Tar.” They held the embrace for a few moments. “How’ve you been?”

She exhaled, giving him a faint smile. “Fine. I’m okay.”

Curtis nodded. “How’s Justin?”

The boy materialized in her mind. “Better. I think the medicine’s helping.”

“Good. No more stomach aches?”

She hesitated. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Damn.” He looked at the ground. “Some things never heal, I guess.”

He led her back to the graves and they both contemplated the scene. Anniversaries were usually happier than this. Tara couldn’t help but shed a few tears.

Trying to avoid talking about the past, she asked, “How’s the business, Mr. Big Shot?”

Curtis laughed a little, then sighed. “Sucks. But it’s better than the alternative.”

She put a hand on his arm. “You’re doing great.”

He didn’t smile. “I just don’t want to stick with it. I can’t. I wanna leave all this behind. Go somewhere quiet. Find a girl.” He turned and smirked.

Celia emerged in their minds at the same time. Their eyes turned to the graves again.

“What was your brother’s name again?”

Tara crouched and adjusted the grave with the colored rocks. “Taylor.”

Curtis stooped with her. The sun started to set. A cool, summer breeze brought sounds of birds, clicking insects, and the brush of dancing leaves.

Tara couldn’t hold back any longer. “Each day it gets harder, Curt.”

Silence filled their secluded grove.

“I miss them too.” Curtis looked at Mark’s grave with a nostalgic upswing.

“I see him,” she said, barely audible. “It’s the same each time. The blood—the rain. Like I need to be reminded of the day he died. I . . .”

Curtis ran his hand across her back. “Hey. I’m always here for you. Always.”

Tara appreciated his simple answer. Too many times in the past he had tried to help her by giving mediocre answers and solutions that just weren’t available. She understood where he was coming from, though. And she could never be mad at him.

“I’m glad you’re in this with me,” she said, giving him a warm smile. “I don’t think I could do it alone.”

Curtis turned back to the graves. Truthfully, he wished Tara could move on with her life. Celia’s death was incredibly difficult to deal with, but he knew Celia would have wanted him to keep pressing forward. He wondered if Tara’s lack of training and time spent on the battlefield was working against her. There were definite signs of posttraumatic stress.

“Tara,” he began, “the reason Mark died is so we could live again. I believe we’re both honoring that the best we can.”

Tara thought for a minute. “I didn’t even know him that long,” she mused. “But it felt like so much longer. In that month or so, I saw what he had turned into. Curtis, he was just a simple guy before all this. He wasn’t devoted or strong. He wasn’t any kind of hero.” She stopped and sniffled. “And still he died for the world. Bollis, Vexin, Celia. They all died for people they didn’t even know.” Tara choked up.

“They
are
heroes. They’ll always be.” Curtis wrapped his arm around Tara and the two friends honored the memory of four individuals who helped change the world forever.

After a few minutes, he released her. He felt the satchel at his side screaming at him. He reached inside and withdrew a small leather notebook, wrinkled and watermarked. He held it in his hands, feeling the stained pages, chock-full of invaluable information.

“What’s that?” asked Tara, wiping her eyes.

“Look, I know this isn’t the best time to do this . . . but we found something.”

Tara narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“This . . . is Slate’s journal.”

Tara’s eyebrows rose. Her blue irises twitched.

“I—er—I want you to have it.” He held out the small book and she leaned back.

“Why me? Why would I want that?”

“Tara, we still haven’t found Repik. What if . . .”

“No.” Tara stood. “I’m not starting this again, Curt.”

“I’m not asking you to. Just see if you can find something helpful.”

She glowered, biting her lip.

“All right. I’ll hold on to it for a little while.” He stuffed it back into the satchel.

“I still haven’t found Savannah, Curtis,” she said. “I have to keep my promise.”

Curtis nodded. “I just . . . don’t want to forfeit everything they died for.”

Tara was quiet. Her eyes grew damp again.

“I’m not ready yet,” she said. “And even if I found Savannah, I don’t know if I will ever be.”

As the two surviving renegades found stirring embers within each other’s eyes, a group of men wearing facemasks stepped out onto the ledge of a Dustslum apartment.

One of the men raised his mask so he could see Manhattan in the faraway horizon. He had an agile nose, a mane of greasy brown hair, and drunken green eyes that captured the pain, loss, and rage of a man betrayed.

Another body stepped outside and approached their leader.

“Jonas,” he said, “we found Tracer and the boy.”

Repik grinned behind yellow teeth and said, “Then let’s get started.”