Brian Steele - 4POCALYPSE - Four Tales of a Dark Future

“You’re very young,” he said. “Too young to have come up with this information on your own. You knew someone. Someone who knew the project and me. Who was it?”

“I’ve got a better question,” I said, making my next move. “Why on earth did you send those people out into the public — even with the arsenal of immunodeficiency drugs you gave them — knowing they were going to die?”

“I didn’t know they were going to die,” he replied. Looking into his eyes, I almost believed him. “I had no idea that the nanobots would react the way they did. The subjects were already dispersed across the country when I received some blood work that led me to believe I had made a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Kel exclaimed. “You call genocide on a global scale a fucking mistake?”

“Yes, young man, I do.” Thyssen stood and kicked the metal stool across the tiled floor, sliding it neatly under one of the workbenches. “One I do not plan on making ever again. It’s about time I took my true place in history: not as a murderer, but as the savior of mankind. And, you two will be the first subjects to prove the validity of that boast.” He turned and walked toward the cooler full of syringes.

When Thyssen turned his back to us, retrieving syringes of whatever new serum he wanted to try out, Kel looked over at me and then down to his hand. His knuckles had collapsed in on themselves significantly and he was sliding his right hand from the straps. He was either double-jointed or he had just dislocated his thumb. He reached over and quickly released the strap on my left hand and then went to work on his opposite one. I had just unbuckled the second strap and released my hands when Thyssen turned back to us, eyes widening as I stood up to face him.

“Sneaky little bastards,” he said, placing the two syringes down on the counter and walking toward us. “I’ve been looking forward to something like this for years.”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” I asked, moving into a fighting stance, ready to knock this guy on his ass. I felt, more than saw, Kel stand up behind me.

“Exercise,” Thyssen replied. He moved so fast that he nearly caught me off guard. As he closed with me, I stepped left, bent low and threw a serious blow to his torso. He huffed but recovered instantly. He was tougher than he looked.

Kel flowed into a karate stance and swept out a kick at Thyssen, who leapt above it and returned a kick directly into Kel’s face, knocking him cold with the single blow. I was on my own.

“You ready for me?” he asked, the arrogance and fervor spilling from his voice.

“Let’s see.”

Within the first few moves, I realized I was probably outmatched. Thyssen had had some serious martial arts training and he was fluid in his movements, both attack and defense. It was another aspect of this man that confounded me. He was scientist, but fluent in martial arts. He saw his actions that ended with the near-decimation of the human race little more than a mistake. I was doubly convinced that this man was dangerous and very likely insane.

My foot swept out making contact with his knee and he finally let out a sound of pain. So far it had only been grunts of exertion from the both of us. I focused on the knee without hesitation, getting in two more solid strikes before Thyssen connected with my cheek and I saw stars. He was not much larger than I was, perhaps a couple of inches taller. Still, his weight was behind the punch and I felt it do its damage.

I took a step back and he performed a limping leap forward, closing quickly and I realized too late that he had swept up one of the syringes in his hand and he brought it into my shoulder with enough might to push me to my knees.

Even as the syringe drained its contents into my system, Thyssen struck out with his left hand and I fell into unconsciousness like a rock into pond. Darkness fell over me and memories encased me, swirling through my mind’s eye, twisting and tumbling. I heard my Dad’s voice in my ears. I was six years old again.

“How could you have not known?” my father asked into the telephone. His voice was controlled, but from my hiding place behind the sofa I could feel the swell of anger beneath his words. “We’ve got six pinpointed locations of outbreak. Each one corresponds to the home city of one of your unauthorized test subjects. That is not a coincidence, Thyssen.”

I scrunched down further in the space between the sofa and the thick curtains of the living room window. I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping, but he had come into the living room already speaking on the cell phone, while I was playing with my G.I. Joes, pretending they were caught in an ambush behind the sofa.

“Listen,” my dad said, his teeth almost clenched as he held back the anger, “Lisa is already sick. If this thing spreads, there is no way her immune system will stand a chance. The telomere virus will kill her. We only have a limited amount of time to contain this thing. It’s your responsibility. I run the operation, you run the lab. That was the deal. As of now, the op is shut down. I’ve already informed the Secretary of State.” He paused and I held my breath. Lisa was my mom’s name. Was he talking about her?

“You prick. If we let this get any farther, who knows what the end result will be. We’ve got to get these cities quarantined and under lockdown. Now. I don’t care whether you have a cure or not. Not that I believe you in the first place. Not after what you’ve done.”

Dad walked out of the living room toward the front door, which was open to the external screen door. I peeked out and saw him standing, staring out the screen door, and listening to the man on the phone. What did he call the man? Thyssen? What a weird name.

“If we don’t lock this down, any cure you have will not be able to catch up to the spread of the virus. The Telomere Project is dead. Let’s fix this before any more people follow suit.” I jumped when he slammed his hand against the doorjamb, slapping the phone shut. He whirled towards the kitchen, and caught me looking at him from the corner of the sofa. His demeanor shifted, relaxed. He smiled at me and cocked his head.

“No sneaking about, Rock. What’re you doing?”

“Playing soldiers,” I said, holding up the two dolls. He came over, sat on the sofa and motioned me to his lap.

“Who was winning?” he asked. “Good guys? Or, the bad guys?” He asked the questions innocently enough, but I saw something strange in his eyes and told him the truth.

“The bad guys. But, they don’t always win. Almost never.” He nodded and then hugged me tight.

“We should never let the bad guys win, huh, my little Rock?” he said. “But they still manage to every once in a while. So what do we do about it?”

“Never stop fighting,” I replied, repeating the advice my dad had given me so often I could never forget it.

“You got it.” He pulled me in for a gentle kiss on the forehead and said, “Let’s go upstairs and see if mommy’s cold is getting any better.”

I regained consciousness just as an older woman in white was pulling the needle from Kel’s arm. I tried to move, but I now had the straps back around my wrists, with additional points of constraint at my ankles. There were locks at each point. Wonderful, I thought. Let’s see Kel’s double-jointed ass get us out of this one.

“What’re you doing to him?” I asked, still groggy from Thyssen’s punch. The whole right side of my face felt like it was twice its original size and throbbing like a son of a bitch. Luckily, the pain seemed to be easing a bit with every passing minute. My left shoulder, just above my collar-bone, was aching as well. That must have been from the damned syringe with which Thyssen had attacked me.