Apocalypse's Prelude

by Carl Damen

  As the group fragmented, the whisper-pictures returned...

  The sound of boots echoed around the room, distorted by the space: real sounds, not in his head. Standing along one wall, about midway down the room, were the two men who had stood behind the chairs. Based on the angry buzz that came through the voices, the endless identical whisper-pictures, these men had stood behind many chairs... or at least many occupants.

  The shorter man took a step forward. "Greetings, everyone. My name is Allen. My colleague," he gestured at the other man, "is Ken. For now, those are our only names. And you," he looked around the room, locking gazes with every hate-filled pair of eyes in the room, "have been chosen to become the greatest weapons humankind has ever made. We live in a dangerous world, always on the edge of cataclysmic end. Everyone is always so ready to give offense. What we need is defense. You... you will be Defenders."

  For a moment there was silence. For a moment no sound, real or imagined, disrupted the sanctity of what the man—Allen—said.

  Then there was a yell, a single lungful of echoing noise, backed a thousand-fold by the voices. Someone leapt from the ground, rushed at Allen. The other man—Ken—twitched forward, an eagerness glinting from his eyes, but Allen was faster, intercepting the attacker, gripping him in a massive bear hug.

  And suddenly Jack found himself unable to breath, the cable-like muscles of Allen's arms holding him more firmly then the bed restraints ever had.

  "You," he whispered into Jack's ear. "You would have defended her if you could. I'm giving you that chance now."

  Jack grunted, let out a short gasp of air. He hoped desperately the others would follow him, rescue him, but he heard no sound of movement.

  Oh, they want to help you... I'm not letting them, though... It's better that way... Your time to lead them will come Jack...

  Jack. The shock of hearing his own name, the horror of knowing that the people here knew who he was, sent a wave of nausea rolling through him, and his legs gave way. Allen crouched, lowered him to the ground, laid him gently on the rough floor.

  Hey... A new voice. I thought we'd agreed, no more of this touchy-feely shit...

  The General agrees with my methods... What I do here, I do with authority...

  Allen stared back out at the crowd, his eyes lingering briefly on Jack. You're not supposed to hear that... But I need you to know that no matter what, we're on the same team... I'm just getting a head start on trust...

  As Allen's voice spoke into his mind, Jack was aware of the man's true voice, air and vocal-cords voice, echoing around the room. This man could speak silently while he also spoke aloud...

  And this man had just spoken silently into Jack's mind. The low voices, the whisper-pictures, had been vague and confusing, coming off a period of emotional stress and severe sickness. But this time he felt whole, felt rested, felt terrifyingly alert. And this man had just spoken into his mind.

  The nausea that had hit him when Allen used his name returned, in greater force, and the last remnants of what had been in the feeding tube sprayed in an arc over the concrete and Allen's boots.

  Don't worry yourself... I can get them clean later...

  Routine was once more becoming routine. Every day the lights would turn on, and Ken would walk into the room. He would lead his horde of prisoners through exercises, then combat kata, then walk amongst them as they sparred against each other. He would correct them if they performed an action poorly, give a cold nod of acknowledgement if they performed an action well. If any of his Defenders refused to fight, or chose to fight him, he would send them to the ground, twitching and writhing in psychic agony.

  Every day, this was Jack. Every day he would follow the exercises, would go through the motions of the combat forms, would test his mettle against one of his compatriots. Then, just as Ken passed by him, he would swing suddenly, try to catch Ken unawares, try to hurt him. Every day he would end up on his back, radiating hatred at Ken's smiling face.

  Every day, Ken would have the last word. "Goddamn, Dolad, how are you ever going to please that girlfriend of yours if you don't even have the balls to hit me?"

  Every day, Jack vowed revenge.

  After exercises there was food and water. The same bean-paste as before, but much more of it. They were encouraged to eat. Not just to eat, to gorge themselves. They would eat until they were almost ready to vomit, then the lights were dimmed and they were told to rest. For the first few days, there was nervous whispering, hurried plans to overwhelm the two men and escape. Within a week, all discussion stopped, and all rested.

  Nap time would end, and Allen would enter the room. In contrast to Ken, he always smiled, always greeted his horde by name. "Shara, you're looking fit today. Vince, glad to see that arm's healing." And always, a private word for Jack. I didn't mean for this to happen... Just give me a little while longer, and it will all make sense...

  They sat in loose rows before him, their legs folded, hands resting palms-up on knees. The first day they had been nervous, uncertain. Allen led them through breathing exercises, through meditation techniques. Many, those who had spoken throughout the nap period, had fallen asleep.

  Carefully opening one eye and looked around, Jack saw Allen stand, saw him approach one of those who slept. A young woman, honey-skinned with a round head and a flat nose. Jack flinched inside, already sympathetic to the pain this woman was about to endure.

  Allen slowly reached down and patted her bare shoulder. "Naomi? Wake up, girl, I'm afraid there's still work to do today."

  Her eyes snapped open and she looked around terrified. Those sitting closest to her edged away, unwilling to suffer Allen's wrath.

  Allen smiled, nodded in acknowledgement, and returned to the front of the room. "Now you all see the importance of rest before this exercise. If the mind can't stay awake while it is away from the body, it is useless..."

  As the weeks slowly passed, Allen's instruction became increasingly bizarre. Yet even as it raised so many questions about why they were there, why they had been kidnapped and tortured, it also answered other questions.

  Now, I know you all can hear me... I want to hear you... You've been doing it already, unconsciously... Now, I want you all to envision my mind, to seek it out, to speak purposefully to it...

  There was a confused babble from the voices, sudden flashes of whisper-pictures. But they were quieter this time, less, clear, as if they had been focused at one destination, as if less of the signal were getting lost.

  I hate you Allen... I hate you and Ken, and this place and your goddamned mysterious General...

  Allen smiled. "Very good, everyone; we've made progress. I think we'll end a little early today. Maybe tonight, while you're sleeping, you'll try to reach out and speak to someone with what I have shown you. I sincerely hope you do..." I'm not against you, Jack... I hate this place just as much as you do... This was not what I expected... Just give me time...

  After Allen there was more food. Food, feasting, sleep. They all lay curled in a mass in the middle of the room. For some reason, sleep always came easier to them after their time with Allen than their time with Ken.

  It was during this time, after a hard day of training, after the two men had left, that the Defenders talked.

  "You know," a short woman named Cyd said, "things might go better for you if you don't antagonize Ken."

  A girl, no more than 16—Melana—scoffed and said, "He's the only one who's wiling to do what we should all be doing. Just because it looks like we're stuck here doesn't mean we can't find a way out."

  "He keeps speaking to me..." Jack said. About ten others turned to stare at him. "Allen. In my mind. He keeps telling me that he's sorry this is all happening, that if we're patient, he'll get us all out of here."

  Cyd's eyes widened and she gestured at Jack. "Okay, then just keep your head down; he'll let us go. We just wait, and everything's fixed."

  "I'm sorry, how long have we been here?"

  Cyd didn't respo
nd.

  "How long were you held in a tiny room, being tortured, huh? I'd guess for me at least a month, maybe longer. I wouldn't know; I was too busy being mind-fucked. And then, you know what? I killed the one person who was there for me throughout that time, the one person who really needed me. Then I got infected with God only knows what. Did that happen to you too?"

  Cyd nodded.

  "And how long do you think Allen's known about that, huh? At least since I killed Suzanne?"

  "Harry..." Cyd muttered.

  "You think if maybe, maybe he was going to get us out of here, he would have done it before we were tortured, or before they turned us into fucking killers, huh? You think he might have done it while we were still human?" Jack was trembling now, breathing heavily. "If he was going to get us out of here, he should have done it by now. At this point, I don't want his help. I'll do whatever I need to to get out on my own."

  He glared at Cyd, waited for her to say something. She looked away. He sighed. His anger released, he fell back to the concrete, then turned on his side and tried to sleep.

  A few minutes later he felt warmth press up against his back, and a rough hand caressing his bare chest, moving lower.

  "You're right..." Cyd whispered.

  "Get away from me."

  The warmth was gone, and Jack tried to sleep.

  It continued like this nearly a year. Wake up, Ken, food, sleep, Allen, food, sleep, wake up, Ken. They grew stronger, faster, their bodies honed to perfection. Sparring was no longer a challenge, was merely a game of blocking each other's moves. Their minds also grew stronger, also neared perfection. They had long ago moved past speaking to each other through their minds, long ago moved past simple matter manipulation. They had all moved together, their minds linked, had passed through an entire human body, seen its intimate workings, had healed its maladies, had found a hundred thousand ways of killing it without ever leaving a mark. They had moved beyond thinking of themselves as single isolated humans, had now become something more.

  And then one night Allen spoke to them while they slept.

  There is nothing more I can teach you... Soon, others will come into this place, to test you, to use you... You will be asked to do terrible things... And now, I will ask you to do the most terrible thing of all... I will ask that you trust me...

  And with those words a dream began. The memory of being Allen entered all of their minds, and they were all corporals in the United States Army, standing in a sterile room, dressed in nothing but a thin paper gown.

  "You understand the risks of this?" an older man asked.

  "Sir, yes, sir, proud to risk my life for my country, sir!"

  "No need to be so gung-ho, Corporal Fendleton. The tests have been very effective with animals; your prognosis looks good."

  Fendleton nodded as a doctor led him to an examining table.

  The older man continued. "Fendleton, if this goes well... Well, not only do we have that promotion I mentioned, but also the possibility of training some others. It won't be immediate, mind you, we still need to find out what you're capable of, but if you meet our expectations, we're looking to increase the scope of the program, and..." He shrugged. "You'd be in on the ground floor."

  Allen laughed around a tongue depressor. "You' now all abou' tha', woun' ya, siw?"

  "Hmm?"

  The doctor removed the instrument.

  "I mean, I was an electrician on that building of yours."

  "Really? Well, it's not mine, per say. I'm just a major shareholder..."

  The scene faded, shifted, and now they all lay in familiar beds, with the familiar tension of restraints on their arms as familiar pain racked through their bodies.

  In the next bed over—the only other bed in the room—lay Ken.

  "Goddammit," he yelled, "this was a fucking mistake!"

  All Allen could do was groan agreement.

  The scene faded again. Now First Lieutenant Allen Fendleton stood before the desk of the older man, Colonel Loblen Mistaren. "You've done good, son. Much better than our initial estimates. Hell, all the chimps did was make the researchers give them bananas and get horny. Unfortunately, your prowess leaves us in a bit of a predicament."

  "Sir?"

  "I've already spoken this over with the president, and he agrees. Drawing volunteers for an augmented intelligence force is one thing, but for fucking superheroes? We can't have acknowledged people on our pay with those kinds of powers, not if we don't want the rest of the world to nuke us to hell and back. No, we're going completely black ops on this one. We're forcibly recruiting from the populace, doing this in such a way that no one can trace it back to us. Matter of fact, we've already started. Now, we just need you and Lieutenant Wendleferce to train the unfortunate motherfuckers."

  "Sir, I..." unease passed through the multitude that shared Allen's mind. "Sir, I have some reservations about that..."

  "Come on, now, Fendleton, where's that gung-ho spirit you used to have? We need it for this. You said you were willing to do anything for your country, yes? Well, we need you to do this..."

  And now they were back in the bright concrete cubes, hiding behind the prototype powered armor that the General had passed on. They stood silently next to Trent Forre, the program doctor, as Ken mercilessly beat one of the victims. The thin little man, freckled skin, mid-thirties—Harry—tried to stand, but Ken hit him again, cracking the skull, spraying blood over the woman in the room—Cyd.

  That's enough, Ken... You can't just kill them...

  Ken reached out and pinched a vessel in Cyd's brain; she collapsed into unconsciousness. Then he began pushing together the split side's of Harry's head, fusing the skull back together.

  Doesn't really matter, does it? One of them is going to die anyway...

  Allen felt a wave of revulsion, and marched out of the room.

  The scene faded, and now there was only darkness.

  I didn't want to do this, but... It was supposed to be for the best... You were supposed to be a first-line defense against global threats, but now I see that won't work... You're greater than a single nation, a single cause... You are gods among men, forces of a global scale, and you must defend all of humanity... You are strong now, I trust you now with what power you have...

  I ask now that you savor what power you have tasted, and stay with me as I feed you more... Stay here and learn all you can, become more powerful than you could ever have imagined, and together we will rise from this pit and ascend to a world in need of what we can offer... I asked you once to be Defenders... Now I ask you again... Forgive the unforgivable thing I have done, and use this power to truly defend the defenseless...

  And throughout the room, forty-nine freighted, desperate, hopeful mind answered Yes... And one mind answered No...

  The next morning lights turned on, and Ken strode into the room. He stopped, fell into a pose, performed a swift set of movements, stopped and watched as his students did the same. Then, another set. Both were movements taught long ago, returned to be fresh in the student's minds. More movements, his students following them all exactly. Then he walked amongst them, reaching out his arms to touch two, telling them to fight, touching another two, the same.

  He passed by Jack, sneered at him, just as he had every day.

  The fighting began, a fluid dance of twenty-five pairs swirling and striking, flowing around each other, never quite hitting. Ken continued to walk amongst them, to become a sudden third player in the dance, to move through and be gone. He passed by Jack, readied himself... but Jack ignored him. Jack continued to be engrossed by the tall, thick-limbed body of Merd the Soldier, continued to participate whole-heartedly in the dance.

  So Ken passed through them, confident that today there had been a change.

  The dance ended, small doors on either end of the room slid open, and bowls of food were passed through. Ken watched as his students stood, got their food, began to eat.

  Jack watched Ken. He kept track of the man—the m
onster—as he went to the wall, picked up a bowl, sat down with Cyd and Naomi to eat.

  Ken started towards a door. Jack picked up the bowl and poured its contents onto the floor.

  "The hell?"

  He stood, threw the bowl, held it in his mind and flung it at Ken, crashing it into the side of his face, spraying blood.

  "The hell?!"

  Jack leapt forward, all concentration on his hips and legs, sprinting unnaturally fast, reaching Ken in under two seconds, grabbing him, throwing him to the ground.