The Rage Colony (The Colony Book 2)

by Shanon Hunt

  Those had been Stewart’s exact words, and James felt a wave of satisfaction as they elicited a roar of indignation from the entire room. He was winning. The council would vote down the early dissemination of the praefuro.

  “You’re setting up the program to fail by pushing it out so fast.”

  “We don’t even know all the questions, let alone the answers.”

  “You yourself just said they’re unpredictable. How do we know they won’t kill innocent people? Babies?”

  “Can’t babies can have proliferative diseases, too?”

  “And what about tracking and measuring? That’s not even been—”

  “All of them.”

  Despite the softness of his voice, all eyes swung to Li Jian. It was the first time James had heard him speak in the group; to be frank, he was surprised the man spoke English. During the few interactions he had with the Chinese team, he had significant trouble communicating with Li Jian.

  “Pardon me?” James asked.

  “Your question, Dr. Elliott. You asked which praefuro subjects we should send out into the world.”

  The hair on the back of James’s neck prickled as he waited helplessly for the man to repeat his inscrutable recommendation.

  “We send all of them.”

  46

  October 2022, China

  The entire council regarded Li Jian with incredulity. James studied Stewart, who didn’t appear shocked at all by Li Jian’s suggestion. James could’ve sworn the corners of Stewart’s mouth briefly quirked up.

  “With all due respect,” barked Jack Downs, “what the hell are you talking about?”

  Li Jian pushed his chair out and only partially stood to address the room. “The problems you are thinking about will be self-correcting. An unfavorable phenotype will not survive and therefore will not proliferate over generations.” He gave a slight bow to James and sat back down.

  No one spoke as they processed what he was saying.

  “Perhaps you could elaborate on that for our colleagues,” Stewart finally said.

  Li Jian assumed the same half-standing position. “We must release all the praefuro. All. The praefuro who are not fit by societal standards will not be allowed to continue in the society. They will be jailed or killed, therefore ending their genetic lineage. Those who meet societal standards will thrive and reproduce.” Again, he nodded at James and took his seat.

  All at once, the other council members unleashed their outrage on top of each other. James let it roll as he tried to grasp what was happening. He’d been crystal clear at the praefuro meeting earlier that month: There would be no sideline discussions about the praefuro model and its development. He needed to control the dialogue. Now it seemed the Chinese team had ignored his instruction and engaged Stewart in private conversations. He wasn’t entirely surprised. The Chinese government had been unapologetic about their disinterest in working with a global team, and there had certainly been long-standing trust issues between China and the other world powers.

  But this didn’t seem like China’s idea. He felt that Li Jian had just delivered a rehearsed dissension. Stewart was dipping Li Jian’s toe into the water to test it. The smug look on Stewart’s face was all the proof he needed.

  James couldn’t let the council be swayed. He knocked on the table. “Okay, okay, let’s take it down a notch. This is a council meeting, not reality television.” Not that Stewart would know the difference. “As the council, we’ll decide with a cohesive vision under what circumstances the praefuro field test will begin.”

  Heads nodded around the table; that did the trick. Now he could steer them around any rash moves. “I’d like to propose we establish a team to develop a staged field test protocol that will ensure the safety of both the general public and the praefuro subjects. And we’ll need a risk mitigation plan. I’ll take that as an action item, and we can reconvene on the topic next quarter. Stewart?”

  They couldn’t afford putting it to vote. James knew what the count would be, and he didn’t want to single out Li Jian and where China’s loyalties laid. That was a discussion to be had with Stewart—in private.

  Stewart plastered a smile on his face. “We’re in luck. I happen to have late-breaking footage from our early praefuro simulations that I’m sure you’ll find impressive—compelling enough to convince even James that it’s safe to accelerate the program to a sensible field release. I don’t see why we should allow slow administrative decision-making to impede our progress.”

  James felt the hot flush. Stewart threw a fucking wild card. Goddammit.

  “What kind of data?” General Harding asked.

  Stewart beamed. “I’ve invited Eva Ridel, a brilliant choreographer from Paris who’s been instrumental in sharpening our instruments, so to speak, to give us a virtual tour and allow you to see just how sharp we’ve become.”

  The room beamed at his clever word choice, but James was focused on stifling a verbal attack on Stewart. That snake.

  If Stewart had planned to impress the council with simulation footage, that meant he’d have already sifted through hours of scenes and hand-picked his favorites. He’d show them only their finest praefuro and the seamless kills, and that sure as hell wouldn’t be a representative sample. Learning how to stalk and eliminate a target took months of practice and training. They were far from that. Stewart would give them the false impression that it was all intuition, that the praefuro gene transplant could instantly transform an ordinary Joe into a fierce terminator.

  A loud buzz over the door indicated it was opening, and Eva pranced into the room. James contained an eye-roll.

  The next hour would be one of Stewart’s Disneyland treats, a wild ride through his latest amusement park, the Gallery. The wow-factor would quell any objections from the council members, and he’ll convince them that the Gallery is a robust Phase 1 study of the praefuro in the field. It’ll be just like Stewart’s virtual tour of the den, his cozy ski-lodge-style quarantine for his favorite pets, the phlegmatic praefuro—the predators. The council hadn’t seemed at all concerned about the eerie drug-like state in which those poor women lived day after day. Shit, they wouldn’t have minded a few weeks stay themselves.

  The den. By now Layla would have been well assimilated in that den.

  That familiar claw seized hold of his insides again as he imagined his beautiful girl sprawled across on the couch like a morphine addict.

  “…and this group here who just entered the Gallery, these are the praefuro. Notice how intent they are on identifying their targets. They can smell…”

  In a way, he hoped she’d succumbed to the bond, because maybe then she’d forget what he’d said that night she was found in the paddock, soaked in blood. Maybe she’d forget how he betrayed her, heartlessly walking away in the single most devastating moment of the only life she could remember, at the moment she needed him more than ever.

  “This here is Keisha, she’s one of our best. Even with all the chaos and noise around her, she’s laser focused. Now, look. She’s locked onto her prey. And … here she goes, in for the kill. Watch closely.”

  Maybe if his beautiful girl slept away the days in an opioid haze, she wouldn’t be cognizant enough to despise him, to shut him from her heart before he could snatch a free moment away from Stewart and come home to explain.

  Applause pulled James’s gaze from his lap, but his vision swam.

  He’d need a lot more than a moment, though. He’d need months to repair the damage he’d inflicted and earn her trust again. He discreetly swept a tear from his eye as the council remained mesmerized by Eva and her dog-and-pony show featuring Stewart’s newest party trick.

  He glanced at his phone to check the time. In a few hours, he’d be boarding his flight back to Mexico. He just wanted to go home. To be closer to Layla.

  47

  March 2024, Mexico

  Nick followed the group out of the dining hall but slowed down as they made their way to the lecture hall for the
day three afternoon agenda. The campus buzzed with people, robed in their white linen uniforms, moving from one building to the next. How many people lived here? What did they do all day?

  “I’m going to back to the room to hit the john. My digestive system’s been on overdrive since I got here.”

  “Weird flex, but okay.” Eddie jogged to catch up to Deseret and Deirdre, or as Nick called them, the Salty Dees, because they clearly didn’t like him.

  Okay, boomer, they’d say with an eye-roll every time he spoke. I’m not a boomer, he’d reply, I’m a millennial. But that’s a four-syllable word, and I wouldn’t expect you to know what it means. It hadn’t escaped Nick that no one else his age had come on the bus. Victor Beaumont’s ID said he was twenty-nine years old; the second oldest person there said she was twenty-four. The Salty Dees couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

  They’re using kids like pincushions. Every victim identified in Peter Malloy’s investigation had been in their twenties, according to Darcy and Jordan. Based on this alone, Nick assumed he wouldn’t be invited to stay after the three-day assessment. He usually had weeks to immerse himself in an undercover investigation, but now he had mere hours before the decisions would be made and the bus would be reloaded for the return trip.

  He needed to find out more about that underground hospital. He wanted pictures. He needed to get inside to look at documents. But thanks to Victor’s reputation as a douchebag, Warden Aroyo’s watchdogs weren’t letting him out of their sight. If he could get back into the security building, he might be able to poke around. Even a few minutes of being lectured by Aroyo would give him another look at the campus map. And with the slightest distraction or misdirection, he could swipe the dude’s iPad.

  Time to throw a curveball. “Yo, mall cops! I’m going back to my motel room to take a shit. Y’all coming along to watch?”

  Eddie and the Dees looked back over their shoulders to see what was going on.

  “Your self-esteem must be in the gutter to have taken a job following recruits around all day,” Nick continued. “How do you look at yourself in the mirror every morning?”

  Eddie backtracked toward him, his brows knitted as if Nick had gone off the rails. “Bro, step off.” What the fuck? he mouthed.

  The security guards still didn’t react. No change in facial expression, no physical stiffening.

  Nick pushed harder. “You could always put a bullet in your head to stop the agony of your useless existence—at least you could if those were real guns. What are they, like Airsoft?” He groped for the gun clipped to the nearest guard’s belt.

  Law enforcement personnel were trained to take immediate action if a civilian tried to disarm them, but these mall cops could see that Nick was a jackass and not a real threat. They’d probably wrestle him to the ground and cuff him—and among all the chaos, he’d swipe a badge from one of them. A security badge that could no doubt open any door.

  But he was wrong.

  The mall cop’s arm shot down in a martial arts sort of block. The ensuing flurry of spins and steps happened so fast Nick couldn’t process what had transpired.

  He was in a chokehold. There was a knife, hard against his trachea.

  “Fuck, bro, what the fuck?” Eddie was dancing around as if his feet were on fire.

  The second security guard stepped casually over to Eddie and the rest of the small group that had gathered. “I’m sorry you had to witness this. Sometimes we get a troublemaker coming through, but we have the situation under control. Please carry on with your day. Again, my apologies.”

  “Dumbass sped,” one of the Dees said to the other.

  Nick had no clue what a sped was, but as he stood paralyzed by the knife at his throat, he was quite sure she was right.

  The ninja cop released him and put away what looked like a five- or six-inch hunting knife. “Are you okay, sir? Did I break the skin?”

  Still stunned by the guard’s agility and even more by what sounded like genuine concern for his well-being, Nick reached up and brushed his fingertips against his throat. His fingers came away dry.

  “Fine,” he croaked.

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you back to our security center. We’ve been instructed to bring you in if you showed any signs of aggression.”

  He nodded. That had been his goal in the first place, after all. But mental note: He wouldn’t underestimate the Colony’s mall cops again.

  ***

  The interview room in the security center was barely large enough to seat one person on either side of the small rectangle table.

  “I want to speak with James Elliott,” Nick mewled. “I feel I’ve been treated unfairly and subjected to excessive force.”

  “I understand, sir,” his escort replied. “I’ll alert Mr. Aroyo, and someone will be with you shortly.”

  With that, Nick was left locked in the room. He scanned the corners and ran his hands under the tabletop. Nothing. No cameras, no listening devices. Only a one-way mirror, to which he eventually began talking, then berating, then attempting to smash with a chair, and finally beseeching.

  Because it was twenty-six hours and twenty-three minutes before the interview room door opened again.

  48

  October 2022, Mexico

  Layla could tell Isaac was worried about her. She hadn’t eaten anything in two days. It wasn’t an act of rebellion, and it wasn’t a depressive episode.

  Quite simply, she wanted to starve the fetus.

  It was irrational. The demon growing inside her would probably chew right through the amniotic sac and feed on her from the inside out, like the larva of a tarantula hawk. Still, she liked the feeling of control that denying it food gave her, the thrill of her stranglehold on the beast.

  Isaac was sitting with his back against the bars of her cell, sighing heavily and repeatedly. Next to him on the floor was a tray of something that looked and smelled absolutely delicious. Undercooked meat. Her stomach rumbled. It wasn’t healthy for humans to eat undercooked meat, and certainly for not a pregnant woman. Isaac had surely bribed someone in the kitchen to prepare it that way.

  He sighed again, and Layla glanced up from her iPad. “It’s not safe for you to be so close to my cell. I could eat you.”

  “Fine, if it means you’ll finally eat something.”

  She rolled her eyes and went back to her iPad. Unlike the choleric praefuro—the ragers, as they preferred to be called—she had no interest in eating people, and she knew Isaac knew that. They both realized the only reason she was there was that Dr. De Luca didn’t like her attitude. She wasn’t the first to be punished by that arrogant egomaniac.

  She scrolled idly through the apps. There were plenty of games to play, books to read, and even some world news to read, but every avenue of communication with anyone outside her cell had been blocked. She opened a word search game.

  “He’ll cure you,” Isaac said.

  “De Luca? Unlikely.”

  “James. James will cure you. He’s been working on it.”

  Lucinda yelled out from her cell down the hall. “Sure he has, been working on it for months. And I ain’t seen so much as a bottle of NyQuil to help us at least sleep away our shitty existence.”

  “I’ll put in another request,” Isaac called mildly.

  “Sure you will.”

  He leaned his head back against the bars and lowered his voice. “It’s called reversion therapy. I don’t know exactly how it works, but it’s supposed to reverse the mutation back to the wild type. It’s just that the low doses haven’t worked yet, and he’s being cautious about escalating to the high dose. He hasn’t found a subject he’s willing to take that kind of risk on, and it’s taking longer to test in monkeys, but—”

  “Shut up!” Layla surged to her feet and loomed over Isaac, who scooted away with wide eyes. “Let me explain something to you, Isaac, because you seem to be as delusional as all those crazies upstairs. Eugenesis is a greedy, heartless organizatio
n that doesn’t give a shit about you or me or anyone. We’re all enslaved here to be exploited and manipulated and … and hijacked so that they can become richer and more powerful.” She drove two thumbs into her round belly. “And the only thing they want at this moment is this genetic monstrosity. Why? Who knows? But I’ll tell you one thing. No one is going to cure any of us. In their minds, every last one of us is scrap salvage.”

  The fetus kicked her in the ribs. She punched it back.

  The words of that crazy bitch—Keisha, wasn’t it?—popped into her head. I could cut that baby right out of your belly with a butter knife and not even flinch if I accidentally slipped and sliced its head right off.

  Layla gritted her teeth. Where are you now, crazy bitch? I could use your help. Make sure you don’t miss the jugular.

  “But James is doing something else—”

  “Don’t ever speak that name to me again,” she hissed. “James is a selfish bastard, just like the rest of them. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself.” Least of all her. All of his promises, worthless lies. All of his kisses and loving gazes, some narcissistic perversion.

  She turned her back on Isaac and stared at the wall in front of her. After a minute or two, she heard him pick up her dinner tray and shuffle away.

  Her body temperature rose as the fury gathered like a tornado, building momentum, spinning out of control. It was impossible to tell these days who was regulating her autonomic system, herself or the fetus, but at that moment she welcomed the feeling. Rage. Even the word excited her. The storm inside her seemed to be condensing and constricting. She had the sensation of it gathering energy, forming a fireball in her chest.

  Instinctively, she squeezed her eyes and focused on the spot in the center of her forehead, her mind’s eye, as her old therapist, Dr. Jeannette, used to tell her to do.