Crashing Tides

by Gwendolyn Marie

  The orchid’s pink hues and purple shades inspired her. Against all odds it stood. Alone surrounded by the dismal. However, if it grew against an array of colorful blossoms, its own singular beauty would be lost in oversight. It was vibrant partly because of its background, the forlorn despondency of the swamp. And yet it still bloomed.

  She was alone now. Her only companion was desolation. Her spirit and strength could persist, particularly because of the morose that surrounded her. If society still reigned, she would be the malignancy, caged as the rat. But in this apocalypse, she bloomed. She could never be unrestricted among the soldiers; their steps dictated where she would step. Their words upon her ears would shape and mold her. Their sights would dominate her own. And that was not who she was.

  As the sole orchid reached for the sky despite, and even because of, the bog, she did the same. Struggling at first to be released, she crawled from the suffocating mire.

  She stood. She stripped off her defiled clothes. These were badges of society, embroiled with filth. She sought for release once more. Nude. Unencumbered. As on the beach, when the feeling on her flesh was the wind alone and not the tapestries of man. The savagery of her mind shimmered; almost inhuman in its quality. For she was ‘something else’ as in the scientist’s prose. Not as the other humans were, but one uninhibited. One who was wild. One who was free. Even more so than the Chaots, for the disease did not control her, it did not infect her. Rather, it was her own biology. It was who she was, without influence.

  Again she ran. Albeit, this time not with rage suppressing her footfalls and not with sorrow dampening her soul. Rather she ran simply to run. She ran to feel the wind against her skin and through her hair. The peregrine falcon found her and flew besides her. This time not to hunt, but simply to fly.

  All that happened was a mirage of the thoughts, a reality that contained no real truth. It was in the mind where reality existed, transformed as we wish. And even in a thought, we can influence the heavens, in the quantum flux of the universe. And it was as she did, influence the heavens, influence the earth. Distant growls rang as melodies to her ears, those of the Chaots, those who had lost the essence of what it was to be human. As awe was found in a lion’s roar, and a child’s cry, it was now found in the unrepressed abandonment of the id. Her legacy.

  The Chaots were no longer the undesired, for they were a part of her. They came to be because of what she was. The only words written by the researcher that haunted her: procured and subsequently released. By whom?

  It did not matter now. Not when sorrow and freedom both tore in contrasting harmony within her soul.

  Still she ran.

  Running liberated her. Without stopping to catch her breath, she continued. Panting, she seemed to first die with exhaustion, then be reborn in her second wind. It was the only thing that clarified her mind with a precision of thought lacking both doubts and fears. Now she was bare, within and without. Her own abandon was what had saved her. Her own abandon was what damned her and all of humanity.

  Chapter Nineteen

  If not for her quick and unpredictable gait, the Chaots in the marshlands would have surrounded her. Running wild kept Nyx from being torn limb by limb by the lions of misfortune. Though they could not infect her because she was the carrier, they could still ravage her. The Chaots would not care that she was their creator. But one cannot catch the uncatchable—until it stops.

  And finally, she did stop.

  She approached an inlet of water, signaling hope that the ocean was close. The inlet also provided a cove for fishing. Hunger lurked as the shadowed meal darted beneath the rapids. Hunger akin to when she had first walked along the beach; hunger that, in light of her origins, stood for interpretation as much more than the simple need for a meal.

  Breaking a branch above, she fashioned it into a spear by sharpening the edge with her knife. She smiled as she did so, remembering the Fisherman, her muse in times such as these. Bringing her feet into the running waters, a chill crossed her spine while welcoming the revitalizing depth. She lowered herself and began to hunt among the fish. Did the Fisherman anticipate that his wisdom would be necessary in these moments. Not only had his words offered advice in fishing, his guidance often spread to realms beyond the hunt. She needed him, more than he knew. More than even she could have predicted.

  Especially now, for a Chaot was closing in around her unannounced, hunting in his own right. What she would never know was that others waited to see the outcome. The Chaots who had survived the encounter with the soldiers watched in the cover of the trees. And their leader, the bronze-eyed Pathfinder, stood among them. His eyes pierced the forest, looking out to observe.

  Underwater, she was unconcerned about what happened above. The current of the cove mimicked the winds as they invigorated her. The fish at first fled, but she presented no threat and they became unheedful of her. In that moment she lashed out, the spear piercing the scales in an unforgiving attack. She had neither the luxury of enjoying her victory nor savoring her meal, for as soon as she struck, so did the Chaot.

  Swift splashes interrupting the currents sent all the fish scattering. The brutal charge of the Chaot caused her to drop the spear. Emerging for a breath, she paused only for a second as she saw what disturbed the waters. Only one Chaot attacker, but she could not underestimate his threat. The infected male was tall and muscular. She went under again in hopes to retrieve her spear from the bottom in order to attack.

  She grabbed the submerged branch that formed her weapon. As she retrieved it, the Chaot attacked again under the water. He sank his teeth into her calf. Tremors of agony stabbed her; she dropped the spear in reaction and pried the Chaot from her. His bite loosened, and he distanced himself, preparing for another assault. She would not wait. The innocence and fear that hindered her in the caves dissipated; the abyss no longer frightened her. She knew who she was, the maker of the beast. And the creator can also destroy.

  She kicked the Chaot’s forehead, stopping the oncoming attack. His mouth opened in a momentary shock, releasing oxygen and thereby changing his motive from attacking to getting back to the surface to replenish his air. This gave her a crucial break. Swimming down, she grabbed her spear once more and turned to the Chaot. With fury he was diving down again. He did not meet his prey though, rather he encountered a predator. Nyx rammed the spear forth to hit the oncoming hulk, using his momentum against him. It impaled his eye and entered his skull. Instantaneously, the Chaot met death.

  Red tinted the cove’s water as she swam to the surface.

  The Pathfinder smiled from his perch above. Nyx proved worthy, and would serve well besides him. But before his claim could be made, the others came.

  In the last moments after her kill, Nyx remembered pulling herself to the marsh’s shore. Her calf bleeding from the assault. A dart flew from the distance, implanting itself in her side. A blurred haze replaced the acute pain. Black rolled across her sight, but before all went numb she saw the shadowed figures emerge from the forest. They came upon all sides of her sedated form, lifting her body from the marshes.

  Fighting unconsciousness, she saw the silhouette of the ones who took her. Even though sounds exploded around her, each gunshot refrained from touching her. Everything was dreamlike, as the veiled men engaged in battle with a small number of Chaots. But it was not a battle to the death, but one to capture her and then to flee.

  Before the darkness encased her mind, she saw her captors. She did not see the familiar faces of the Thalassic soldiers nor the decrepit stares of Chaots. Instead the features were expressionless, covered in black armor and respirators that hid their entire faces. She saw only eyeless, expressionless stares looking toward her.

  Then there was nothing.

  Nyx opened her eyes, letting in the light. Stark blank walls decorated with only a mirror surrounded her. Dressed in loose-fitting white pants and tunic, the only other cloth on her was a bandage wrapped around the Chaot’s bite on her leg. Several people
clothed in biological protective suits hovered in the room. They did not even look human, but simply an extension of the medical devices around her. A suited man stood near, checking the vitals marked on the machine besides her. He said nothing to the waking subject, rather he regarded her as a thing, jotting down notes before walking outside the room with the others.

  For now, her only company: her own reflection. She had never seen herself, other than the ripples the waves offered her of a distorted image. But now a mirror embedded in the wall cast back a clear portrait to her. She wrinkled her nose to see the response. The two dimensional depiction wrinkled its nose as well. She remembered the myth of Echo, who had been trapped and restricted to be only a voice resounding what she heard and nothing else. And now Nyx stared at another, trapped as well, only able to echo the images placed before it.

  She tried to get up, to leave this room of white. But as she moved, she found herself tethered to the small cot with padded chains. The range of movement only allowed her to sit and lie.

  The door locked and secured. The air trapped and inert. The ventilation self-contained in sterilization and purification. No wind came from within, nor from without of the room.

  When one catches the wind in a jug and cork, it is no longer the wind. It ceases to exist.

  Her soul screamed in desolation, but outwardly she remained silent. Her phobias surfaced in the confining walls. Not solely in the tangible but in memories. Not memories of the specific, but of familiarity. Though she would not let this be the end—she would not surrender to the whims of others. She coveted only the capricious impulses of her own hand and not in this prison of another’s will.

  She will fight. Timing though will dictate her rebellion.

  Hours passed. Only the phlegmatic beep of the surrounding apparatus sounded. In her sight the barren walls stood, decorated by the impassive. The mirror brought slight animation to the cell in its light reflections. One could not even envision if it were day or night. No window enlightened her, no understanding of the outside let in. But feel ... she opened herself up to discern slight undulations. They rocked in rise and fall all around.

  Before she could question the origin of the shifts, a loudspeaker echoed a monotone voice. Words without the face of humanity arose. Though the initial phrase held concern in meaning, it was with disdain in proclamation. “Alone in the woods? That is not safe considering what we have invested in you.”

  “Allow me to welcome you home to the Scipian,” he continued. “Do you remember me? I am Commander Triton.” The voice shaped a place: The Scipian, and seized a name: Triton. Yet the voice was merely a faceless ghost to her, playing god while hiding without spine enough to face her. “Tell me what you have done, for surely you did not succeed in what we set you out to do.”

  What did he set me out to do, she wondered, uncertain of the meaning behind his words. She could not remember having been here, but she could guess it was the same place that used her—those who had procured the prion. That had created the weapon which brutalized the world. These people must have taken the photograph of her found in the laboratory.

  “When I first laid eyes on you, I knew that you held the answers,” his voice, though still arrogant had sorrow in it. “Your genetics and what was dormant within you was an unstoppable prion. Perfect in every way. What we call Drakōn mund. What gave rise to the Chaots.”

  He spoke of her perfection, not as human but as an inanimate tool.

  “Why am I not like them?” she asked, though was unsure if she spoke of the Chaots or the humans.

  “Our scientists discovered that the prion is not fully dormant in your mind. Sections of your brain are under its infliction. You were spared from the full ramifications visible in the others, possibly since you have been exposed to the prion since in the womb and so your brain adapted, creating neural pathways that typically are not present,” he answered. “And it could be an adaptation of the prion, to facilitate its propagation and form a symbiotic relationship with you.”

  To have your deepest, clandestine questions of your soul ripped from you and answered, left Nyx silent. She had never spoken to anyone of her affinity for the Chaots. It was as if Triton dared to look too deep, raping her conscience as the folder’s contents had. All her questions were answered in such simplicity. Yet hints of truth still offered the romantic. He confirmed what the research compound had unearthed. She spawned the new race, the new era. The goddess, the creator of the Chaots, lay within her, chained by her remaining humanity. If that would shatter, what would be left?

  Triton also reasserted her part, pivotal to the genocide of a species. She brought the downfall of humanity. She was responsible for the fall of society and the death of many. How did she feel because of that? How could she feel? It was difficult to find the remorse. The scope was so grand and she was far removed from it. She could not feel sorrow for the deaths of those she never met, a society that she had never known. And even more so for a society who had abhorred her.

  “You would bring about the demise of a corrupt government, of a corrupt people.”

  “Why?” A question formed from puzzlement of how one would wish to devastate his own kind, though she said it not in horror but in curiosity. She spoke toward the mirror, the sole response her own reflection. Was there even another beyond the glass, or was it to hallucinations she spoke? The question asked to Triton, to herself, to everyone. To no one.

  “Ha! Why you ask?” he laughed, though as he continued his tone grew contemplative, as if she were a collaborator rather than a prisoner. “Would you not? To end the rules that another made, to end a society that is fundamentally flawed, to be able to start again and bring freedom rather than unrealized enslavement.”

  She could not disagree with his rationale, but despite him fulfilling his goals she still heard sadness. She felt the depths of his reasoning extended deeper than what he said. But she understood the surface of what he said. For even she would fight to destroy any rules imposed on her. Maybe this made her evil as he. The face from behind the mirror spoke, but yet the voice was not the ultimate foe. For it was her blood that had damned humanity, an antagonist to herself, written as if in a fantasy. In her death, salvation could be found. In her life, the living were condemned.

  All she could do now was let him talk, let him tell of his plans. Coil in silence as he did. Wait. And when the time dictates, then he will perish as the rest of them had.

  “However, if your prion, the Drakōn mund, worked as we expected, the attack would be self-contained. We did not expect the Chaots to survive this long. It was suppose to be a massive decimation. But not of everyone, just enough to get people to question the one world government. To fuel the Uprising’s goals so we would have a chance.”

  “The Chaots were expected to live long enough to fulfill the Uprising’s goal, to show the world of the Bavarian’s cruelty, but then die off,” Triton said though his voice faltered. “As with nature, we learned it is unpredictable. And nature always finds a way to prolong and propagate.”

  A weapon too virulent for containment. The uninhibited could not be inhibited.

  “You though, were unneeded after the era of Chaos began. Until recently.”

  Nyx sat in silence, letting him continue his story. Though, all the while she scanned the room. The enclosure shrank at every moment that passed.

  “Recently the last remnants of the Bavarian Coalition, an undersea establishment of Thalassic, came to the surface. I cannot have them bring the one world government back, for all of this would be in vain. It is impossible to infiltrate them because of their secure location under the Atlantic. The only way would be from the inside. This is why we decided to again put you to use.”

  “A walking time bomb. They would not be able to understand the threat you posed, for you function as a, more or less, capable human. And you would not be wary of your role, for we gave you a memory blocker. Once inside, sooner or later you were bound to scratch one’s hand, contaminate some fo
od or what not, and then no more Thalassic. That is another trait your prion has over Kuru and Mad Cow. It is virulent and unforgiving in its transmission. Just like CWD, the Chronic Wasting Disorder, from where it’s origins were traced. Even your salvia has the infectious prion within it.”

  “Yet you did not go into their society. This time, however, we will see.”

  This time. Again they planned to send her from the dragon’s mouth, a flame entrenched soul to inflict her danger to all. A Trojan horse, the innocence of her persona hiding the devastating finale of the aquatic society. And again her memories would most likely be erased, damned to lose all that she was. Though without the anchors of the past, she could again live in the moment. But she did not want that. For it would not be her choice to forgo the recollections of her friendships. Her fate would not be in her hands. Rather it was as if she was a puppet, a maddened scientist as her puppeteer. She would not allow Triton to pull the strings; she would sever them even if it meant to cut her own thread of life rather than allow the Fates to do so.

  But guarded and secure, she could do nothing away from the faceless eyes that discerned her every movement.

  “Why do this?” she asked. But he did not answer. In the silence was an emptiness that answered.

  Chapter Twenty: Triton

  Fifteen years previous: In the asylum

  Glaucus, a young boy of six, walked besides his dad, hand in hand, to see his mother. Blonde hair framed his rosy cheeks, red from the autumn chill. Every few months he would make the walk down the paths encircled by the pines, each time he would tremble in their shadowy confines. But not this time. He was older, he told himself, time to part with his childish ways.