Intended Extinction (6 page)

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” asked Tara. “You have at least three cups for the month.”

“I’m good,” I said, watching people pass by through the window. Despite my concerns, today had been incredible. I could feel my body responding to the vaccine. I thought about life before Vax—just two days ago. Death, destruction, blood, gore. It was a stark contrast to how things were now.

As I gazed out the window, I soon began to be mesmerized into a memory. The sound of a beating electronic drum started to pound in my ear.

“Yes!” Patrick exclaimed, as he raised a fist into the air. His brown hair was dancing above the rims of his eyes.

“Settle down,
Patty
,” I retorted.

It was a warm night on the balcony of the Rissola hotel. The breeze tried to whisk me to other memories, but I fought it and stuck with this one.

More jeers and taunts egged us on as we laid down a few more cards. The game was taut. But he was about to break.
I had him.

“Come on Wenton, give it up,” he spat, ravening for the lust of money.

I merely smiled, and knew I had him beat. His bluff was ridiculous.

“Play that one, Patty!” said his mistress, trying to encourage him.

Just shut up,
I remembered thinking.

“Lucy, stop it, just stop it! Let me have some room.”

He was getting nervous. He knew the stakes were high.

He moved his arm and laid down his last card. That was it! I had him!
I smiled and followed suit in a triumphant manner.

“
No!
” he roared.

The crowd around us taunted him and cheered me. I gloatingly bore my teeth and tried not to laugh. I shoveled the chips my way as he glared. His woman tried to comfort him, but he remained motionless and annoyed.

At first I thought it was the wind. But when the earsplitting shriek came a second time, the music stopped. Everyone left the table and crowded around the threshold leading to the dance floor. More screaming erupted from inside followed by “somebody call 9-1-1!”

I didn’t move, though. I started pocketing my chips as fast as I could. The club could figure this out. Not me.

Right by my ear, another glass-shattering cry occurred, making me spill a load of chips onto the floor. I turned to see what was wrong and fell off my chair in disgust.

All at once, I jolted back to reality—back to Terra-Masou.

My arm was twitching underneath the table. I looked down at the convulsing flesh and wondered what the hell was happening. I flexed my forearm and gripped my wrist. The shaking stopped. Then I remembered.

My addiction. Adrenoprene. I licked my lips and hungered for the titillating energy. I subconsciously started to plot a way to have my fix.

Doctor Kipling’s
footsteps echoed down the long corridor. The off-white walls were making his bloodshot eyes swell and strain. The fear underneath his skin shuddered.

No one knows, though. Calm down, Peter!

He gripped his bloody stump of a hand and continued toward his destination. Axxiol was extremely quiet this time of night, which made things a lot worse. His feet were sopping wet from the incident and they made a distinct squishy noise with each footstep. He was mostly in shock; feeling only twinges of pain every other step.

His lab coat was ripped at various places and a huge red smear covered his right sleeve. There were specs of greenish ooze all over his coat, and a sole, dangling strand of pus on his shoulder blade. He twirled around every so often to see if anyone had followed him.
Did I clean everything up? Maybe I left a trace.
His paranoia surged as he went through the door at the end of the corridor.

He had to act fast. He charged toward some preparation labs and found the sink. As he was washing his stump, stifling the agony, footsteps and loud voices carried down the hallway near him. He quickly buried his stump in the sink and acted as if he were cleaning some instruments.

The voices reached their climax as two figures entered the laboratory. They briefly looked toward his direction and nodded. As fast as they came, they were gone.

Thank goodness.

He finished wrapping the stump in a thick bandage loaded with Medi-A. He found a new lab coat in the metal locker nearby, replacing his old one. In a matter of seconds, he was walking toward the exit, hand and stump tucked away in the pockets.

Back to austere hallways, his eyes watered with pain. He approached the Conference Station doors, leaned, and peeked inside. Everything looked clear. The amphitheater was empty.
Once I pass this I’m practically home free!

“Doctor Kipling . . .”

He stopped, expelling choppy breaths.

The Vice President stood behind him at the end of the hallway. “Where are you going?”

The light fixture’s buzzing bridged the silence.

“I—I was getting some instruments for—”

“There are no instruments in the Conference Station, you know that,” he said, stepping closer.

Peter swallowed. He could feel his fear bouncing off the walls.

“Doctor . . .” the wiry man spoke, “why is your pocket turning red?”

Kipling looked down, and to his horror, the blood from his stump was starting to escape the bandages.

The Vice President took another step, inches away. “Where are they, Doctor?”

Peter’s lips were quivering now. Images of his family filtered through his mind. He could feel traces of snot dripping out of his nose. “I tried. I
tried!
”

“Doctor . . . where
are
they?

“He—he told me to do it. He told me to release them.”

“Who told you?” The Doctor didn’t budge, crippled by his fear. The Vice President approached. “
Who told you?!
”

“S-Slate.”

The Vice President looked furious. He shook with anger. “So,” he said. “It’s begun.”

Doctor Kipling felt a searing pain enter his stomach. He looked down at the thick blade sticking out of his belly. His body locked up. Coughing and spitting blood, he fell to his knees.

The Vice President pushed the Doctor to the ground, turning the blade. “You
shouldn’t
have let them escape!”

Sweat dropped
off of my nose, creating a damp spot in my carpet. My muscles burned for the first time in five years. The pain filled me with exhilaration and ecstasy.

It was six o’ clock in the morning, four days after the night of the Vax announcement, and I was wide awake. Once I hit my fiftieth pushup, I dropped on the floor, breathing like a wild dog. I couldn’t believe I made it past twenty. My flabby flesh and brittle bones ached. I rolled onto my back and began a set of crunches.

Today marked the third day of my Volunteer service. I had a purpose. I had desire. And I had Tara. For the first time in five years, I was happy.

Tara and I had become quite the team. Our collection route worked without complications. Our small acquaintance had turned into a warm friendship. And best of all, I figured out that Kevin Bates was just a close friend. Triple score.

“Ow!” I groaned. “Damn it!” My abs howled. I must’ve pulled a muscle.

I started laughing, laying on the carpet with my hands stretched back. Each jolt of laughter made the pain worse, but it wasn’t Edge pain.

I was wrapped in a sphere of elation. Tara came to mind again. God, I was lucky. We got along great, we both had an unfavorable past, and we shared the same conceptions about, well, everything.

My phone buzzed on my dresser. I struggled into a sitting position. I could have sworn I had left my phone on my nightstand.

“Volunteer M-898, please return to the Turnmont apartment complex at five-thirty this evening. A GenoTec supervisor requests your presence. Volunteer . . .”

It wasn’t my phone. The voice was coming from the Collector.

I trained my ears to the repeating message.

What the hell was M-898?

Then my real phone rang. I hurried to my nightstand, scooped the glass device displaying Tara’s number, and dropped to the bed to accommodate my throbbing muscle.

“Please tell me you’re hearing what I’m hearing,” I said automatically.

“Um—
yeah
. What the hell?” Tara spoke. I could hear the same monotone voice coming from her Collector.

“I guess we . . . do what it says?”

“Ugh,” she moaned. I could tell the Collector had woken her up. “I’ll see you then.”

I tapped the phone and tossed it onto the covers. The angelic voice from my Collector kept playing until I had to shove it underneath two of my pillows.

It was three in the afternoon when I decided to head over to the Turnmont. I simply couldn’t wait any longer. Luckily, the Collector had stopped its ranting, allowing me to safely walk around town without drawing a crowd. Inside the hotel, I moved quietly over to Tara as she sat in a plush armchair within her favorite nook. She looked up as I entered.

“Boy, do I sure love wake up calls,” I said.

She sighed. “Hey. You’re a little early.”

I took a seat next to her. “Thought maybe we could investigate this.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, staring vacantly, “are we doing something wrong?”

“It couldn’t be. We’ve done everything it said.”

She twirled her Collector. “Did we miss a Vaxinator? Maybe it’s not sending correctly.”

“And
maybe
,” I said, “they’re coming to give you your trophy!”

She gave me a dead look. We pondered the strange summons for a moment, coming up with vague possibilities that only led to more questions.

“Does the Turnmont have computers we can access?” I asked.

“Why?”

I shrugged and stood up. “Maybe there’s something we can find out. If anything, I’m just curious about GenoTec. Last night I thought about how
little
I do know. And besides, we’re
Volunteers
now.”

“Whatever you say, detective.”

She brought us to the other side of the lobby where an entire room was dedicated to two rows of holographic monitors. We found a couple of empty stations and spoke commands to the computers.

“Are we looking for something in particular?” asked Tara.

“No, not really. Just let me know if you find something worthwhile.”

“Like?”

“Just—I dunno. Just look.”

Tara narrowed her eyes and said, “Something’s certainly gotten into you.”

I kept my eyes locked onto the web browser. “I’m just curious.”

She held her gaze for a minute, then started her own search.

The GenoTec website I was searching detailed nearly every aspect of the enigmatic company. Different tabs across the top labeled the varied departments. There was “Engineering”, “Communications”, and “Sterile Communities” to name a few. I tapped on “Sterile Communities” out of sheer curiosity and it brought up a screen-sized picture of the Ellis Island Community.

My investigation was cut short.

“Look at this, Mark,” said Tara, turning her screen toward me.

I turned to see a building hovering above the Hudson River, supported by thick posts. The blueprint showed a larger, central building, with five smaller structures placed in a symmetrical circle. All of the buildings were connected to each other by double-decker catwalk systems. It was the same building I had seen for years. It was Axxiol.

“They’re saying Vax was constructed here.” she asked, scrolling down a bit.

“I guess I never cared enough to know anything about it.”

She stopped on a body of text and read, “Axxiol, GenoTec’s offshore developmental research facility. Founded by Archturus Slate, Jonas Repik, Hamilton Maude, Kade Kragun, Geoff Ober, and Telerra Ashe. Prior to the outbreak of Edge in 2035, Axxiol was one of the world’s premier ecological research facilities, authorized and endorsed by President Boughman. The site finished construction in 2028. Currently, the facility is the epicenter of GenoTec’s Edge research. Around 130 pre-Edge researchers and scientists currently reside in Axxiol, working around the clock to develop a cure.”

“Wait,” I said, mentally stuck on the beginning of the paragraph, “click on this Repik guy. I’ve seen him a few times.” Tara immediately tapped on the highlighted name of Jonas Repik. The page briefly went white while loading the new content, and then another picture burst onto screen.

Staring back at us from the laptop was Slate’s right hand man. He was the one who had been with Slate during most of the interviews and speeches. His drooped nose and greasy, long brown hair accentuated the posh sneer he was wearing.

“I know Repik. He’s the Vice President,” said Tara.

“Yeah.”

I focused on the drowsy image of Repik for a few more seconds. His thick, dark eyebrows made him seem forever angry.

Tara and I continued searching for the rest of the afternoon, getting distracted by pre-Edge videos and humorous content. When five o’ clock rolled around, my eyes burned from staring at a screen for so long. Kevin Bates had come to say hi, discussing the weird Collector voice. I had to admit, Kevin was growing on me. He was kind of jealous of the time I was spending with Tara, but he wasn’t about to make a scene.

“Who do you think’ll show up?” Kevin asked. He sat with his arms over the backrest of the chair next to me.

“No clue,” I said, looking over his shoulder.

“Probably just some Volunteer,” said Tara.

Our conversation continued for another hour, and it seemed like GenoTec was going to forget about us. As I was telling a story from my construction days, Tara stopped smiling and looked past us, toward the lobby.

“Slate?!” she whispered.

Kevin and I spun around. Sure enough, Archturus Slate and two GenoTec bodyguards were conversing with one of the Turnmont Volunteers. Then, the Volunteer pointed in our direction and Slate turned, sending a shock down my spine.

“He’s really coming,” said Kevin, and the three of us got to our feet.

Slate walked over to our small nook and stood at the threshold.

“What is your name?” Slate asked Kevin.

“K-Kevin Bates.”

“Mr. Bates, will you give us a moment?” The metal reverb of his voice filled the room.

Kevin turned to us and then was escorted away by one of the bodyguards.

Slate took a few steps forward. Standing in front of me like a world champion wrestler, he inhaled. A few people in the lobby caught eye of the strange event and the Turnmont was buzzing in seconds.

“What’s going on?” I asked, like a child being confronted by an ominous monster.

“Mark and Tara?” he asked.

Seeing Slate up close and personal was extremely intimidating. His fire hydrant neck, massive dome shoulders, and boulder arms had me wondering how the hell he could have maintained such a physique. He was wearing a similar outfit from Battery Park—combat boots, noir drab, and an overcoat. The strange device covering his mouth and nose looked tarnished. His black hole eyes searched me.

I straightened and tried to act undeterred. “Yeah, that’s us.”

Slate didn’t speak another word for at least ten seconds. His gaze stood still.

What the hell was going on? Why wasn’t he saying anything?

Tara shifted her weight and wore a confused face.

Slate sighed heavily, with eyes that were far from entertained. His metallic voice cut the tension.

“Good luck.”

The entrance of the Turnmont exploded. Shards of glass, cement, tile, and metal rocketed in all directions. We tried running to the threshold of the computer room, but two more eruptions shook from behind. Riding a wave of black smoke, I flew a couple feet, sliding against the hard marble. I pawed at the ground, knocking away bits of debris, crying out for Tara. As I let words escape, smog entered my lungs and stripped them of oxygen. My eyes watered and stung as I retched, lying helpless on the floor.