The Genome Project

by Aaron Hodges

  A chill went through Chris at her words. He stared at her, noticing now the purple bruise on her cheek, the dried blood on her lip. His eyes travelled lower and found the swollen black skin beneath her collar. He shuddered. Her struggle had been far more real than his. He remembered the boy Joshua, guessed he was the one…

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Liz closed her eyes. “I didn’t mean…” She sucked in a breath, and her eyes flashed open. “I didn’t want to,” she growled.

  Chris nodded, leaning back against the concrete wall. “You did what you had to.”

  “He would have killed me,” she continued as though he had not spoken. “I had to do it. He left me no choice…”

  Chris felt a sudden urge to wrap his arms around the young woman, to hold her until the pain left her. This was a side of Liz he had not seen, a vulnerability beneath the armor she’d worn from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. Gone was the hardness, the distant air of superiority. The foulness of this place had consumed everything else, had reduced them both to shadows of their former selves.

  He could almost feel his humanity fading away, slipping through his fingers like grains of rice. With each fresh atrocity he witnessed, with every awful thing they forced him to do, he lost another part of himself, took one step closer to becoming the animal they thought him to be. One way or another, soon he would cease to exist. Nothing would remain of the boy his mother had raised.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Chris said. Liz looked up at his words, and he continued, his voice breaking. “Whether you killed him or not, only one of you was ever walking out of that room. After my…after William fell, he couldn’t stand, couldn’t defend himself. A doctor came. She executed him.”

  A sharp hiss of breath came from Liz, but it was a long time before she replied. “Who are these people?”

  Monsters, Chris thought, but did not speak the word.

  Across from him, Liz started to cough. A long, drawn-out series of wheezes and gasps rattled from her chest, going on and on, until her face was flushed red and her brow creased with pain. Finally, she leaned back against the wall, panting for breath.

  “Are you okay?” Chris whispered.

  Liz opened her eyes and stared at him. “Of course, city boy. I can take a beating.”

  Chris winced. His own anger rose but he bit back a curt reply. There was no point taking offense. He could see her pain, knew where the anger came from. He had not missed the coldness with which she addressed himself and their cellmates at times, her hesitation to join their conversations.

  Another rattle came from her chest as she laid her head back against the wall.

  “We’re not all bad, you know,” he said at last. “Not all rich, either. There are a lot of people who disagree with the government now, even in the cities. There have been protests…”

  “Protests?” Liz coughed, her voice wry. “Well, nice to hear you’re getting out.”

  Chris sighed. “I understand—”

  “You don't,” Liz said, cutting him off. “You think you do, but you don’t. You can’t. Because while you lived your cozy life in the city, I was forced onto the streets. Not because I wanted to, not because I had a choice, but because everyone I knew was dead. Slaughtered.”

  Shivering, Chris opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it.

  Liz eyed him for a moment before continuing: “I had nowhere to go, no one left to turn to. I thought the police would help, that they would protect me. But when they came, they looked at me like I was nothing, like I was an inconvenience to them. They would have arrested me, thrown me in some place like this if I hadn’t run.”

  Chris looked away from the pain in Liz’s eyes. He stared at his hands, the bruises on his knuckles. His stomach clenched with guilt.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered at last. “You shouldn’t have been treated that way. It’s not right.” He paused. “Was it a Chead?”

  Liz flinched at the word. When she did not reply, Chris went on. “Mom always said something needed to be done, that her father would have been ashamed with what’s happened since the war. We should never have let things get so bad.” He took a breath. “But that doesn’t change what I said. We’re not all evil, Liz. Some of us want to fix things, want the government to be held accountable.”

  “So I should just give all of you the benefit of the doubt? For decades you ignored the Chead, let them terrorize the countryside. You only cared when they came for you.” Liz snapped.

  “No,” Chris replied softly. “You should judge us by our own actions, not those of others.” He breathed out. “A long time ago, I might have hated you too, Liz. Feared you for being different, for speaking with a rural accent.”

  “But not now?”

  He shook his head. “No…” He trailed off, remembering a time long ago. “When I was younger, I was running late getting home from school. It was getting dark, and we don’t live in a good neighborhood. When I was nearly home, a man stepped out of an alleyway. He had a knife.”

  “Let me guess, he was from the country too?”

  Chris laughed softly. “No, he spoke like a normal person.” He couldn’t help but tease her for the assumption. “But I think he was an addict of some sort—his eyes were wild and his hands were shaking. Before I had a chance to reach for my bag, he swung the knife at me, caught me in the shoulder. I still have the scar…”

  Liz nodded. “I saw.”

  Chris glanced across at her, his cheeks warming. He remembered his embarrassment when they’d been forced to remove their clothes. Apparently, Liz had allowed her eyes to roam more than he had.

  “What does this have to do with anything, Chris?”

  Chris shrugged. “I think he would have killed me if someone else hadn’t come along.” He paused, looking across at Liz. “I don’t know where he came from, but suddenly there was a man standing between us. He spoke with a rural accent, told the mugger to leave. When the man didn’t listen, my rescuer took his knife away and sent him running.”

  “And this suddenly changed your mind about us?”

  Chris shrugged. “Not overnight, no. But the man walked me home, right to my front door. He even helped mom with my wound. He didn’t have to help me, could have left me to die, dismissed me as some spoiled brat who deserved it. But he chose to help me instead. Since then, I’ve tried to do the same. To give people a chance, whoever they are.”

  Liz let out a long sigh. “And you want the same from me now?” she asked. “Because some man from the country saved you from a mugger?”

  Chris chuckled. “It would be nice to start with a clean slate.”

  “After today, I’m not sure that’s possible for us, Chris. Joshua’s blood is on my hands…”

  “No,” Chris replied firmly. “It’s on theirs.”

  Liz nodded, but they both knew the words meant little. They might not have had a choice, but that did little to lessen the burden.

  “We’re all in this together now, aren’t we?” Liz repeated Ashley’s words from all those days ago, on the day they had arrived.

  Chris’s gut clenched as he realized that she and Sam still had not returned.

  On the other bed, Liz continued, her voice hesitant. “Okay, Chris,” she whispered. “I’ll give you a chance.”

  “Thank you,” he said after a while.

  Silence settled around them then. Chris stared up at the ceiling, struggling to resolve the emotions battling within him. William’s face drifted through his thoughts, his eyes wide and staring, but the guilt felt a little less now. Liz had faced the same question, given the same answer.

  Somehow, that made things just a little easier to bear.

  Long hours ticked past and the others did not return. Chris and Liz waited in the hushed stillness of the cell, listening to the thump of the guard’s boots outside, the whisper of voices from the other cells. Liz’s breath grew more ragged.

  Finally, the bang of the outer door announced the arrival of
newcomers. The soft tread of footsteps followed, moving down the corridor. Metal screeched as cell doors opened, and the footsteps continued on towards them.

  Chris sat up as shadows fell across the bars of their cell. Relief swelled in his chest when he saw Ashley and Sam standing outside. Hinges squeaked as the door opened and they stumbled inside. Sad smiles touched their faces as they saw Chris and Liz.

  “So,” Sam breathed. “You’re alive.”

  19

  Angela shoved the door to Halt’s office open without pausing to knock and strode inside. She glimpsed surprise on the harsh lines of her supervisor’s face as he looked up, though it vanished by the time the door slammed shut behind her. Anger took its place as Halt half-rose from his chair, fists clenched hard on his desk.

  “What—?”

  “You have no right!” Angela yelled, cutting him off.

  Halt straightened. “I have every right,” he said, his voice low, dangerous.

  Hands trembling, Angela approached his desk. “It’s not ready, Halt,” she hissed. “You can’t start those trials tomorrow. I need more time.”

  Rising, Halt walked around his desk, until he stood towering over her. Angela stared back, defiant, anger feeding her strength. She had just learned Halt planned to initiate the next phase of the project tomorrow. The same project she had dedicated the last five years of her life to.

  “The Director wants results, Doctor Fallow,” Halt said between clenched teeth, “and you’ve been stalling.”

  Angela refused to back down. “I’ve been doing my job,” she snapped, “and I’m telling you, the virus is not ready!”

  Halt smiled. “I’ve looked over your work, Fallow.” Angela shivered at his tone. “And I say it’s ready. After all, fortune favors the bold.”

  The words of the old Latin proverb curled around Angela’s mind as she stepped back. They reminded her of Halt during her early days. The government had sent him to her after she’d discovered the truth about the Chead, bringing her their new virus.

  Angela drew in a breath to steady herself. “There are still problems with the uptake,” she said. “You could kill them all with your recklessness.”

  “The alterations will work—”

  “Of course they will,” Angela interrupted. “Animal trials have shown us as much. It’s their immune response that concerns me. Their bodies will tear themselves apart fighting the virus.”

  Halt waved a hand as he moved back behind his desk. “Should that eventuate, we will administer immunosuppressants until the chromosomal changes have set.” He sat back at his desk, one eyebrow raised. “Is that all?”

  “Immunosuppressants?” Angela pressed her palms against the desk and leaned in. “We’ll have to move them to an isolation room, watch them around the clock. They wouldn’t last a day in the cells.”

  “Whatever it takes, Fallow.” Halt stared her down. “We can’t wait any longer. The President himself wants answers. We’ll be shut down if we don’t provide them soon. The attacks are growing worse. The authorities are desperate.”

  “What?”

  Halt leaned back in his chair. “We have underestimated the Chead for too long. The Director should have given us the funding we needed for this years ago. There was an attack in San Francisco yesterday. They’ve reached the capital, Fallow.”

  Doubt gnawed at Angela’s chest at his words. “You really think this is the answer?”

  “Of course.” Halt regarded her with a detached curiosity. “Do not lose focus now, Doctor Fallow. Not when we’re so close. This project will change everything. When we succeed, the Western Allied States will herald in a new era of human evolution. The Chead will be hunted down and eradicated, our enemies at home and abroad consigned to the pages of history.”

  Staring into her superior’s eyes, Angela shuddered. Naked greed lurked in their grey depths. For the first time, she allowed herself to look around, to take in the grisly display lining the walls of Halt’s office. The sight she had been doing her best to ignore.

  Halt’s office was lined with shelves, each holding dozens of jars filled with clear fluids. Suspended in the liquid within them were animals of every shape and size. Birds and lizards, cats and snakes and what looked like a platypus stared down at her, their eyes blank and dead. An opossum curled around its ringed tail on the shelf behind Halt’s head, while beside it a baby chimpanzee hugged its chest. With its eyes closed, it might have been sleeping.

  Angela looked away, struggling to hide her disgust from Halt.

  “Soon they will all be obsolete,” Halt commented, noticing her discomfort.

  “Yes.” She almost choked on the word.

  But at what cost? she added silently.

  Halt eyed her closely. “Was there anything else, Doctor Fallow?”

  Angela shook her head. She knew when she was defeated. Turning, she all but ran from the room. She closed the door carefully behind her, her anger spent. Once outside, she placed a hand against the wall, shivering with sudden fear. Events were accelerating now, slipping beyond her control, and it was all she could do to keep up.

  In her mind, she saw images of San Francisco, the steep roads teeming with life. She imagined the devastation a Chead would cause in such a place, the mindless slaughter. Bodies would pile up as police struggled to reach the scene through the traffic-clogged streets. How long might the Chead have run rampant?

  Straightening, Angela turned from Halt’s door and started down the corridor. Tomorrow, if they succeeded, the world would change. Humanity’s evolution would take one giant leap forward, and one way or another, there would be no going back.

  A sudden doubt rose within her, a fear for what was to come. What if they were wrong? What if they failed, and it was all for naught?

  And what if they succeeded? What then?

  Her skin tingled as she recalled Halt’s words, heard again his triumphant declaration.

  Our enemies, at home and abroad, will be consigned to the pages of history.

  20

  A cold breeze blew across Liz’s neck, rustling the branches above her head. She picked up the pace, eyeing the lengthening shadows. She was close to home now, the path familiar beneath her feet, but it was a steep climb and she had no wish to attempt it in the dark.

  The forest was eerily silent, the usual evening chorus of birds and insects mute. It put her on edge, and her eyes scanned the scraggly trees neighboring the path, seeking danger. Their dense branches shifted with the wind, but otherwise there was no sign of movement.

  She moved on.

  Behind her, the path wound down through the forest. The mountain on which their homestead perched stood alone amidst the Californian floodplains, looking out across their broad expanse. All around the rock were the lands of the Flores family—or at least the lands they managed. Once they’d been theirs, but no longer.

  Liz smiled as she approached the final bend in the track. The house was only a thirty-minute walk up the mountain, but she was glad to see the end of it. It had been a long journey from San Francisco.

  The trees opened out, revealing the homestead sitting at the trail’s end. Liz listened for the first shouts of welcome. Her family employed a dozen laborers on the property, and most were like family to her.

  Silence.

  Liz shivered as she closed on the homestead. Her eyes flickered around the collection of buildings, searching for movement, for signs of life.

  It was only then she saw the bodies.

  They lay strewn across the ground, torn and broken, their faces grey and dead. Blood splattered the walls nearby, streaked across the peeling paint. She looked over the bodies, lingering on their faces. There was Nancy, the old woman who had helped raise her, who had cooked meals while her mother helped in the fields. And there, Henry, the man her father thought of as a brother.

  Standing amidst the carnage, Liz turned to the building she called home. Without thinking, she started towards it. Her movements were jerky, her breath coming in des
perate sobs. Reaching the old wooden door, she pushed it open.

  It swung inwards without resistance, revealing the wreckage within. Swallowing a scream, Liz staggered inside, taking in the shattered plaster walls, the torn-up floorboards. Dust and rubble lay strewn across the floor, mingling with the blood pooling at the end of the corridor.

  Barely daring to breathe, Liz stepped inside the house. With cautious footsteps, she slid down the corridor, her eyes fixed on the blood. She winced at each soft thump of her boots, the sound impossibly loud in the silent house.

  The corner neared. In a sudden rush, Liz darted forward, desperate to see…

  Liz screamed and threw up her arms, tearing herself from the nightmare. Her eyes snapped open, but absolute darkness blanketed her, and she screamed again, thrashing against the tangle of covers wrapped around her. She rolled, slamming into the safety bar. It groaned and gave way, and suddenly Liz was falling, a final scream tearing from her throat…

  Thud.

  Agony lanced through her arms as she struck the concrete. The last tendrils of the dream fell away, plunging her back into reality—and the pain that went with it. She groaned, her throat burning as it pressed against the cold steel of her collar.

  “What?” a voice shouted, somewhere in the darkness.

  “Who’s there?” someone else yelled.

  “Liz?” She recognized Chris’s voice.

  Above her, Chris’s bunk rattled. Then hands were reaching for her, grasping her shoulder, pulling her up.

  “Are you alright?” Chris’s voice came again.

  Half in shock, Liz couldn’t manage more than a nod. Distantly, she was surprised at the tenderness in his words, his sudden concern. A second later, she realized he could not see her nod. Opening her mouth, she managed a croak: “Yes.”

  As sanity slowly returned, embarrassment swept through Liz. She closed her eyes, silently berating herself for her panic. It had been so long since she’d had the dream—months, maybe even a year. Why had it returned now, after all this time?