"My name is Margo. That's who I am." Her voice takes on a haunted quality. "That's who I was...before."
I blink, a poor substitute for a nod. What do you do here? I mouth the question once, twice, three times before she responds.
"I'm the closest thing they have to a doctor." Her bony shoulders twitch up and down. "I was a nuclear engineer, but I also studied genetics, and I had some medical training. It's the only reason I'm still alive. All of the rest are—"
Her head jerks suddenly as the light on her collar flares brightly. She falls back a step but steadies herself with a hand on the footboard of the bed, her eyes wide in their deep-set sockets. She whimpers involuntarily and hangs her head as the light on her collar fades, returning to a steady pulse.
The room must be bugged, as Samson calls it. Willard or his men are listening in, perhaps through the collar itself. Why have they fitted her with one? She's no daemon, no threat at all by the looks of her.
She shuffles away, into shadows beyond the reach of the fluorescent light above me. I attempt to clear my throat, to release a word or two into the silence. Another moan is the best I'm able to manage. It sounds pitiful. I close my eyes and try to move my arms, my legs. Nothing, not even a tingle of energy through the muscles. My body's useless. How long will these drugs maintain their hold on me?
My gaze wanders past the shackle scars on my wrist to my ravaged fingers. Am I returning to the way I was before, a normal human again—a natural child of God? I didn't ask to be gifted by the spirits of the earth, and at first my claws filled me with a certain degree of horror. It took some time to come to accept them, but I did. They became a part of me as I embraced my gift.
A flash of recent memory tears through my mind: Perch with pliers in hand, removing pieces of me against my will, ripping them away and sending them to the floor. They were supernatural, beyond comprehension, a sign of intervention by a higher power on our behalf. Cast aside like so much garbage.
Seething with anger, I stare at the ceiling and take a breath to steady myself, to shut out any thoughts of vengeance. The Creator would not be pleased. Vengeance is Mine... As difficult as it is to believe right now, He has extended the same second chance at life to Willard's people as He has to the rest of us. There must be a way for us to coexist. Otherwise, we'll destroy each other. And that can't be His will.
How have they avoided the physiological transformations bestowed upon us by the spirits? If Willard's people have never been in contact with the new earth, that could explain it. And it could also explain why I haven't been able to sense the spirits' presence since we entered this underground city. Perhaps their influence doesn't extend this far beneath so much concrete and steel.
I stare into the shadows beyond the foot of my bed. Why has this woman been collared? The only female I've seen among these Eden Guards, and she's obviously been beaten, starved, controlled remotely—to what end? What did she try to tell me before she was cut short?
A door creaks open from off to the left, behind my line of sight. White light washes inside before the door slides shut with a solid thud. But in that moment, the shadows beyond the foot of my bed are illuminated, and I see Margo cowering in the corner, her face hidden behind a curtain of matted hair.
"How's our favorite patient?" Willard drags a stool toward my bedside and grins, glancing at the hose between my legs. "Yikes. Be glad you can't feel that one." He chuckles and swivels toward the shadows. "Get up," he barks. "Get over here. I want him to be able to talk some—not a lot, mind you. Just enough for us to have a little conversation."
Her feet shuffle out of the dark as she moves toward the steel cart. She keeps her head down as she removes a hand-held instrument and inserts a cartridge of some kind into its base. Willard watches her closely, his small eyes full of contempt, tracking her every move. She hesitates, standing frozen.
"Give it to 'im already!" he startles her.
She comes around the other side of the bed and applies her instrument to my throat. I feel nothing. Willard fishes a protein pack from his pocket and tosses it into the shadows.
"Eat," he tells her. She drops the instrument onto the cart and dives after her meal. She tears it open and chews noisily, gasping between each bite. "Try to talk a little," he tells me. "Start with a whisper. Your vocal cords have been asleep most of the day now. Don't stress 'em out too much."
I swallow, then attempt, "Where are my friends?" Relief pours through me as a voice similar to my own hoarsely emerges.
Willard shakes his head. "You've got a one-track mind, I'll give you that. Didn't I tell you not to worry about them? You have more than enough going on right here, Luther."
"Who is she?" I turn my eyes to the shadows.
"None of your concern." His expression hardens. "For now she's your doctor, and she's going to fix you up. That's all you need to know."
"What have you done to her?"
"You name it. She's a real animal in the sack, and that's a fact." He chuckles but seems to catch himself, sobering instantly. "We're taking your seed, Luther. Your sperm cells."
I stare at him.
"Figured you'd want to know what that's for." He shrugs and gestures at my groin. "The others are for blood work, making sure everything checks out. We don't want you to have a relapse or anything." He winks. "Then we'd have to put you down for good."
I swallow again. "Why...my sperm cells?"
"C'mon now. Use that staggering intellect God gave you. Can't you put the pieces together here?" He sighs, squeezing between his eyes. "All right, all right. You've been through a lot today, so I'll go easy on you. Here's the situation: we're fresh out of seed around here. The government bigwigs made sure of it before they sent us below. We're all out of eggs, to boot, so we're stocking up on those as well. We've got all the facilities we need for cold storage, and with her expertise—" He jerks a thumb toward the dark corner. "—we should be able to whip up a batch or two of test-tube babies in no time." He laughs out loud at my expression. "Pretty neat, huh?"
I'm going to be sick.
"So what do you think, Luther my man? Up for becoming Father Abraham to Eden's next generation?"
Are Samson and Shechara in rooms like this one? Has the time finally come for us to fulfill our life's purpose of repopulating the earth—against our will? I close my eyes, unable to look at this man's hideous grin without wanting to tear it off his face. What am I going to do? What can I? I'm completely at his mercy.
"It's a lot to wrap your head around, I'm sure. But believe me, you're doing a good thing here. The survival of the human race—"
"How do you know," I manage in a whisper, "that this generation you plan on creating will not exhibit the same physiological transformations you seem to despise so much?"
"Now that's using the ol' noggin. I knew you had it in you." He nods, grinning. "Of course, you're right. We don't know yet. This is the first major step we've been able to take in months. We tried with the mutos, but they're all messed up. You wouldn't believe it. No chance they'll ever be able to reproduce anything but snot. You're the first virile specimens we've come across, so you have the distinction of being our guinea pigs, if you know what I mean." He winks and leans in. "That's what all these tests are for. We're checking every cell to make sure none of 'em are infected."
Is that how he perceives our gifts? "And you, your men… How have you been able to avoid this infection?"
He leans back. "Easy. Just stay off the surface, that's the ticket. The demon-dust can't get us down here. We've got the air filtered and purified, pumping throughout all of Eden, and we never need to go topside. The dogs bring down everything we need from the ruins." He catches himself. "Though now we've got a hundred less of 'em, thanks to you and your buddies."
"Dogs?" Does he mean the collared daemons we encountered in the tunnel?
"That's what we call 'em. Because they fetch what we need from any storehouses still intact."
"How have you managed to collar so many?"
"I've got a very special helper."
"Like Margo?"
His expression hardens. "That's not who she is anymore."
Have I struck a nerve? "It's her name."
"No. It's not. It hasn't been for a long time now."
I glance at the shadows. "She's infected?"
He clenches his jaw, and a large vein in his temple twitches. For once, he has nothing to say.
"You were unable to reverse her physiological—"
He stands. "Let's hope you're a success, Luther. I don't think you'd much like the alternative."
"You control her...and you abuse her." Is there any humanity left in this man? "Her name is Margo, and she's one of your own. A child of God."
"She's an animal." His eyes bulge, the muscles in his neck expanding as he screams, "Nothing more!"
He leaves the room, slamming the door shut behind him. But before it closes, exterior light invades the darkness for a fraction of a second, illuminating the far corner. She crouches on the floor, licking the wrapper of a devoured protein pack, oblivious as shadows consume her.
There's something about her history with Willard, something in their past that caused him to lose control of himself just now. It may be a weakness I can exploit in the future. A very trivial victory in the grand scheme of things, but lying paralyzed in this bed, I can't help but find some measure of satisfaction in getting under his skin for the first time.
Does he feel guilt for what he's done to this woman? If there remains any good in him at all, he would have to. Some part of him must know his treatment of her is demented and wrong. She's no animal.
Or is she? Are we all—those who've been changed by the spirits—more like animals than not? We're more than merely human; that can't be denied.
I glance at my mutilated fingers. What will the tests show? Have I become as I once was, as Willard and his men are: humans left untouched by the spirits? Or will I remain changed on a cellular level and be exterminated because of it? Or worse: will I be collared as one of Willard's dogs, forced to do his bidding?
How I wish we'd never come here, that Daiyna had never heard from the spirits in the first place. Why did they lead us to Eden? What was their purpose in all of this?
"You haven't asked how long you've been here."
I look up sharply to find Margo standing over me. I didn't hear her approach.
"Does it matter?" my voice croaks.
Her frail shoulders lift and fall. "They usually ask that, when they come to."
"They?"
"The other subjects. The big man did. And the two women."
Only Shechara was with Samson. "Two women?" My heart races. Did they find Daiyna?
She leans forward, adjusting the tubes and hoses attached to me.
"Are they all right?"
She gives me a direct look and touches her collar. "I can't tell you anything. I need to check your samples." Then she mouths silently: They're alive. She turns away and faces the machines beside me, her hands moving across each apparatus with familiarity.
What about Milton? Was he too fast for Willard's men? Did he abandon us, or is he even now planning a rescue? A foolish thought. From the moment I first met him, I saw that he cared only for himself. More than likely, he's brushed the dust of the city ruins from the soles of his boots and is racing across the scorched earth on his own, come what may. Very little could possibly harm him, due to his gift.
Daiyna said the spirits of the earth wanted him. For what exactly, she didn't know. Those who spoke to her simply told her she must save him, and they showed her how to do so in a dream.
I too dreamt of Milton. While Perch performed his sadistic extractions, my mind escaped from that violent reality, returning to my family's lake house in the Preserve. I was running along one of the forest roads through the rain, and Milton appeared and warned me of something...
His image is vivid now in my mind, but why can't I remember what he said?
"Everything's looking good. I think we can risk bringing your muscles back to life, as long as you promise to behave. You don't want one of these, trust me." She touches the collar again.
"Agreed." My voice cracks, struggling to return full-strength.
She retrieves the same instrument from the cart and fills it with a fresh cartridge. Hesitating a moment, she surveys my body, perhaps waiting to see if her collar shocks her into a different course of action. Then she moves along my arms and torso, applying the instrument at intervals. Injections of some sort, but I feel nothing.
Without warning, a sudden tingle spreads through my muscles, blossoming into a prickling heat similar to what I've experienced after a limb hasn't received adequate circulation.
"Might feel a little weird at first. You'll probably want to jump out of your skin."
That would be an understatement. I grit my teeth as the sensation crawls through me.
"Don't move around or try to get up yet. You might hurt yourself. You haven't been up and around for a couple days now."
So that's how long I've been here. I jerk involuntarily, tugging against the hoses.
"These can go now. We've got plenty of...what we need." She removes each of the plastic tubes. The one at my groin occupies her longer than the others. "You may notice some discoloration here, bruising. It will fade in time."
Is this the same pitiful creature I saw cowering in the corner? How can it be? Now she displays all the poise and detached expertise of a doctor. My muscles shudder spastically, and I shiver with cold. She quickly unfolds a sheet and covers me in a single movement.
"This has a heating element in it. Should help with the shock of your re-entry."
I nod, now that I'm able. "Thank you."
"Just doing my job. Don't you go and get a crush on me or anything."
I catch her eye and mouth the words, Where are they?
She looks down, then meets my gaze briefly. Next door, her silent lips reply.
I must see them.
She looks away, shaking her head as she tucks the sheet around me. "Give this a few minutes, and then we'll try propping you up."
Warmth oozes across my skin, and my muscles begin to relax. The prickling sensation gradually fades. She removes my right arm from beneath the sheet and holds my hand cupped in her open palms.
"Try wiggling your fingers." She looks at my ravaged fingertips, her expression vacant.
I must see them, I mouth the words again.
"Nothing, huh?" She shakes her head.
I focus on my hand, and eventually my fingers twitch in her grasp.
"Good. Now I'm going to ask you to flex your claws for me."
What? Doesn't she know? "They…they're gone."
"We have to be sure. Do whatever it is you do to make them appear."
Are they all right? I watch her lips.
She massages my fingertips, one at a time. They've been cleaned, no longer bloody. But the skin looks wrinkled, like the aftermath of an amputation. She doesn't answer me.
Have my friends' gifts been removed as well? What have Willard and Perch done to them?
"I'm waiting." She sounds like a physical therapist.
I grit my teeth and flex my fingers, willing them to move. They respond, stretching outward in five directions. The tendons on the back of my hand rise to the surface. But that's all. It's merely the hand of a natural man.
"Very good," she says quietly. She replaces my arm under the sheet and moves around to the other side of the bed where we repeat the same exercise with my left hand. "Captain Willard will be pleased."
"Oh, I'm sure he will be." The sarcasm in my tone isn't lost on her. She gives me a cautionary glance—the only expression I've seen from her yet.
"Now let's get you sitting up." She reaches under the bed to flip a switch, and the entire frame hums to life. The mattress inclines slowly, propping my torso upright. "How's that?"
A slight vertigo swims through me, but it passes. What's been done to them? I mouth the
words, but she looks away. "How soon before you let me out of here?" I stretch both my arms out in front of me and clench my fists. It's wonderful to have feeling in them again.
"That will be up to the captain to decide. And of course, it'll depend on your behavior." She fixes me with her blank stare.
What have they done to my friends?
This time, she reads my entire question and shakes her head slowly. You don't want to know, she mouths.
A heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach. Willard will pay dearly if they've been harmed in any way.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and cast aside the sheet. "Give me something to wear." I glance down at my exposed genitals and wince at the bruising.
"I can't help you!" she hisses, then jerks involuntarily, her hands curling inward. "He's coming back!" she chokes out before collapsing to the floor in convulsions. The red light on her collar flashes angrily.
I push myself off the bed and land on legs that wobble, sending me careening against the machines as I do my best to head straight for the door. I right myself quickly and reach for the handle. Unlocked. I shove it to the side and am met with a blast of white light. I raise an arm to shield my eyes and find that I'm on one of the suspended catwalks along the dome's interior. On the concrete floor below, Willard stands with a dozen of his armed soldiers, their rifles aimed at my head.
"I'll give you an A for effort, Luther. You've got some real cojones—a little blue, from the looks of 'em, but I'm sure that'll pass." He chuckles, and his men echo, nodding to each other.
"I want to see my friends." I keep my voice level and pray for strength to quell the fury raging within me. "I don't want any trouble."
"Right." Willard nods and smoothes his thin mustache with one hand. Then he cocks his head to one side and points next to me. "You'll find one of 'em in there. The big one." He grins, and the others nod knowingly. "What's left of him, that is."
Spirits of the Earth: The Complete Series: (A Post-Apocalyptic Series Box Set: Books 1-3) Page 29
