by Shanon Hunt
“Oh, there’s one of ’em right now.”
Stewart had also noticed Keisha, and he nudged Colonel Shaffer, whose face was locked in a permanent state of impassivity.
Although Stewart couldn’t see it, this DOD visit wasn’t about a sales pitch; it was an audit, and James was certain the colonel was significantly savvier than Stewart realized. They’re just a bunch o’ desk jockey bureaucrats, Stewart had said with an eye-roll, as he and James walked to the gate to greet them. But these men were here on orders from General Harding, and the general would never send out desk jockeys.
James eased closer to the group, who were drifting through the noisy casino following Keisha’s moves. Although the temperature in the Gallery was a perfect seventy-one degrees Fahrenheit, his armpits were damp. If Keisha made an error in judgment or was sloppy in any way, he didn’t doubt that the government would send in an army of inspectors for an extensive investigation. His reversion therapy research would be discovered.
Keisha paused at a craps table, resting one muscular glute on a barstool, her gaze following the roll of the dice.
“This is the prey phase,” Stewart said. “Unlike a wild animal, this furo’s cerebral cortex has been enhanced.”
“With a genetic drug,” Colonel Shaffer asked, “or infant cord tissue?”
Stewart nodded at James to take over.
Fine, but he’d do it his way. “This is Keisha. She came to us only a couple of weeks ago with a strong predisposition for violence. She was an interesting case because she sincerely wanted to change and start her life over. With only a few counseling sessions, we were able to rechannel her focus and help her see that she had a calling.”
“You didn’t make her … engineer her to be what she is?” asked the colonel.
“She willingly joined the praefuro community,” James replied, “and she’s proven to be more successful than those who did not join willingly. It’s an interesting dynamic to consider for the future, as we identify others who might be inclined toward violence. Psychology has taught us that success is driven by strong internal motivation.”
Stewart raised his eyebrows, and James read the message there: I know you’re passionate about your work, but don’t give them too much.
“But to answer your question, Keisha was one of the first to receive the praefuro offspring cord tissue transplant,” he continued. “As Stewart said, the benefit of the cord tissue is the intensified intuitiveness and laser focus, as well as a tendency toward a more thoughtful yet rapid elimination. We haven’t been able to get quite the same outcome from a genetic drug.”
He gestured the group to a tall bar table where they could observe Keisha’s next move.
Keisha was leaning into a guy at the craps table, whispering something in his ear. She gave a nod to the dealer, a signal that they’d be right back. She walked several feet to a curtained area, easing her arm behind him to pull him close and whisper again. A second later, he slumped into a chair, his head bowed. She slid the chair back a couple of inches and pulled the curtain around him. No one, other than the six of them, even glanced in that direction.
“These praefuro are not trained?” the colonel asked. “How do you manage to keep the eliminations discreet?”
James spoke just loud enough to be heard over the background noise. “We have an expansive team of insiders. In fact, only about thirty percent of the people you see here tonight are what we call guests, unaware of the experiment. Seventy percent are here to ensure nothing gets out of hand and to make the experience completely seamless. That includes disposal of the deceased. That’s the beauty of a heavily controlled environment.”
But no one knew how the praefuro would fare in the field without a support team. He changed the subject before the colonel could follow up. “One thing that makes our praefuro subjects unique is their ability to work covertly. They don’t operate like serial killers, who have a pattern to their target identification, and they don’t follow a chain of command like paid assassins. They’re not driven by emotion or money. They’re driven by instinct, much like you or I would drink water when we were thirsty.”
He had to fight to keep the sadness from creeping into his tone. Everything he said was true, but he held deep heartfelt sympathy for every one of the praefuro subjects, even Keisha, who had led a truly despicable life before arriving at the Colony. A praefuro lived a dark existence. One that one day he hoped to change with the brilliant science of mutation reversion and get his beautiful girl back.
Stewart jumped in. “Just think about how incisive we could be if we sent our furos into the world like soldiers onto the battlefield, waging a war against genetic inferiority.”
James turned his face away. Goddamn Stewart was going to blow it. He was giving them entirely the wrong impression.
He smoothed his expression and held up a finger. “Well, let’s be clear. Our intention has never been to discharge a mass force of praefuro soldiers. Our team is currently developing a deployment plan, and our goal is to start small and conservative.”
“Go on.” The colonel gave a curt nod.
“We’ll start with only a handful spread out across large urban areas. As we develop and test more subjects, we’ll release five or ten at a time. They’ll be observed and protected to the extent that we can, and over years, they’ll reproduce. Our genetic army, so to speak, will grow slowly and naturally. In this way, the praefuro will stay under the radar—and more importantly, we'll avoid inadvertently releasing a weapon of mass destruction.”
“Exactly.” Stewart nodded as if he and James had said the same thing. He rose and held out a hand, palm up, like goddamn Vanna White. “Let’s continue down the pedestrian mall. In a few minutes, we’ll be joined by our simulation director, who’ll give you the behind-the-scenes tour of the Gallery.”
Stewart led the way back to the pedestrian mall, launching into a story about the first time he’d walked into a casino in Vegas. James couldn’t repress a grin and a head shake. Stewart might have his faults, but James didn’t know anyone else who could make up a story on the spot with a grand finale that both punctuated the issue at hand and raised his credibility. It would come soon, something like That’s the moment I realized that the human race was the only thing left worth saving and I was the only one who could save it.
A piercing squeal of joy erupted from the casino below. He swung around.
And that’s when he saw her.
His shoulders sagged, and he felt his face soften in a dopey grin as if Cupid had shot him right in the ass. His mind flashed back to the first time he’d seen her, back when she was Allison Stevens, a grad student standing nervously in front of the podium to defend her grant proposal. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, the rest of the world had faded into pallid shadow. From that moment on, his world never brightened unless she was there in it.
Her hair was much longer than it had been back then, and it hung straight down her back. But here, in street clothes—and without the fetus—she looked exactly like Allison. She was his beautiful girl.
And he fell in love with her all over again.
If she’d been looking around, she might have seen him, but her gaze was fixed on a group of boisterous men stumbling into a restaurant. She tilted her head to one side and followed them inside with purposeful strides, disappearing into the crowded dining room.
And just like that, James’s world once again paled.
64
October 2022, Mexico
Her second target sat in a group of five guys in a booth at Buffalo Wild Wings. Like Blue Dress, Layla had been drawn to him by the sour smell of decomposing flesh. She now studied him from the kitchen, keeping her distance, staring at his black lips and the skin of his rotting face peeling off, threatening to fall into his plate of nachos. She wanted another minute to watch the corpse decay in front of her eyes. To smell the rot. It fueled her.
She felt invigorated after leaving the nightclub. Her senses seemed so sharp. She could
focus on single conversations among all the craziness around her. Her eyes were drawn to every potential weapon and hiding place. Her eagerness to find her next mark was so overpowering, she no longer cared whether Stewart was watching or how well she was performing for the demonstration.
The hunt was thrilling, but the predation itself was utterly electrifying. The longer she allowed herself to study the target and the environment, to predict the behaviors of the people in the room, and to envision a short vignette of her intervention, the greater her hunger. It was better than foreplay.
She snickered out loud.
Time to get to business. Eva would be watching, probably cursing her for losing her earpiece and ready to deliver a scolding if Layla took too long. Her plan for this target hadn’t come together just yet, though. She’d have to lure him out of the booth. With what? She moved closer. God, it was simply exhilarating.
At that very moment, the atmosphere changed. It was as if the oxygen had thinned, as though someone were breathing her air. Her eyes darted around the room and landed on the Wasp, who leaned against the hostess table. Her colleague’s gaze was fixed on Layla’s target.
Layla flushed with jealousy. I found him first. Move along to someone else.
The Wasp seemed to sense Layla’s presence as well. She looked Layla straight in the face, threw her a small nod, and spoke into her mind. All yours, then.
The Wasp turned on her heels and started out of the restaurant.
Wait, I need your help.
The woman froze for a moment and turned back to face her.
Goodie was the only word that echoed in Layla’s head.
Layla smirked. She was learning to like the mind talk.
I need a distraction. Layla held her arm out. And skin.
The Wasp gave her a lopsided grin and headed toward the booths, stopping at each table for a brief greeting: “How ya doin’?” or “Enjoying dinner?”
When she got to the table of five guys, she gave them a nod. “Any of you up for a game?” She pulled out three slightly bent cards from her back pocket and laid them face up on the table. Two kings and an ace.
“Oh yeah, I remember this game,” cried the guy at the end of the table. “Three card something, right?”
She gave him a nod. “You in? Got some funny money left over? Whaddaya say? Here ya go, first one’s on me. Watchin’ the ace?” She tossed the cards from one side to the other.
“There! Middle.”
“Yeah, man, you’re good at this. I better make it harder.” She played again.
“Left.”
She showed him he was right.
The target chimed in. “Dude, she’s gonna hustle you. She’s just making it easy right now. That’s how they get you.”
The Wasp looked hurt. “No, man, that’s not how I work. Come on. If your eyes can move as fast as my hands, you’ll win.”
The guy at the end of the booth pulled out a bill and waggled it over the table.
“Give it to your boomer buddy over there to hold.” She tossed her head in the direction of Layla’s target. “Trust. That’s what it’s all about, right?”
He handed the bill to his buddy, who leaned back to access his wallet.
“No, no, boomer, I gotta trust you too. Keep the bill above the table where I can see it. Come on, up-up.”
The target draped his elbow over the back of the booth, the bill dangling between his fingers.
Nice work.
Layla glided toward the restrooms, passing by the booth and the now exposed arm. Concealing her favorite knife against her palm, she reached out, giving him a short nick enough to drip blood, and kept walking.
He grabbed his arm. “Ah, fuck!”
Layla glanced back. He’d spun around and was examining an exposed wood staple next to a spindle on the booth.
“Damn it.”
“Ah, shit, man,” the Wasp said behind Layla. “Better go clean that up. You know … tetanus. That shit is real. My cousin—”
Layla snicked the door to the unisex bathroom closed without engaging the lock. She admired her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t see the schoolmarm that Keisha saw. She didn’t see flabby post-pregnancy Layla, either. She looked radiant. Powerful. Like a superhero. She hardened her expression, mimicking the woman on the cover of the Black Widow book.
Seconds later, her target stepped inside. “Oh, sorry.”
“No, no, I’m done. You can have it, I—whoa, are you okay? Is that blood?” She had to narrow her eyes to find the cut on his decaying arm.
“It’s fine, it was—uh, Sister Layla?”
Layla grinned. “Yeah. Hi there.”
“Oh, my god, it’s so great to see you again. You were such an inspiration. I mean…”
“Here, let me help you.” She pulled him to the sink and splashed water on the blood with one hand and turned the lock with the other.
In her head, she did the math. He was probably five feet ten or so, and his head was bowed over the sink. She’d have to swing downward.
She pulled the knife from her right pocket.
“…and god, those talks you gave. And that one time when you were leading the group meditation, when you told us how hard you’d worked to become pure. How much you’d sacrificed for the vision. How the Colony changed your life…”
No, the angle was wrong. She wouldn’t have the leverage. She had to get above him.
“…and ever since then, I’ve felt lucky and grateful every single day. You’re the reason I made it through induction.”
Her left elbow shot out and flipped the light switch. She curled one foot around his ankle and shoved him toward the porcelain sink. His head ricocheted off the mirror, then the sink, and he landed flat on his back.
“Ahh…”
She groped in the darkness until she found his throat and buried her knife in it. The room was too dark, and she wasn’t certain she’d hit the windpipe, so she stabbed him three more times.
She flipped on the light.
“Sacrifice,” she panted, as the oozing boils that had covered his head just seconds ago vanished.
Her eyes lingered on his face. Yeah, she did remember this guy.
“Sister Layla?”
“Yeah, hi. What’s up?”
He folded his arms, hunching forward. “I just wanted to ask you. Does it get better—the pain, I mean? Because sometimes I don’t think I’m going to make it. I’m afraid I’ll pass out or throw up. I just wondered if I’ll ever get used to it.”
“You will.” She hugged him, and his body shuddered with a repressed sob. She wondered if he had a mother who hugged him. “You’ll get past the pain, I promise. And you’ll be pure and perfect.”
Layla dragged the body to the other side of the toilet and slouched against the wall to catch her breath. She used the back of her hand to wipe away a tear that dripped down her cheek. His sacrifice was over, but she didn’t experience the same exhilaration this time.
She cleaned her knife and hands in the sink. “I am the shepherd. I must cull the unfit from my herd.” The words fell from her mouth, but she didn’t feel the importance behind them. She felt hollow. Vile.
She locked the door from the inside before she pulled it shut and returned to the restaurant. The table where the group had sat was empty, except for drink glasses and a note on the back of a paper placemat. “Going to the nightclub with the hustler. Catch up.”
Layla wadded up the placemat, tossed it into a bus tub, and strode out of the restaurant.
She paused in the pedestrian mall, circling slowly. Happy hollers and laughs echoed in the street. It was peculiar to be surrounded by so much elation. The Colony was a happy place, but in a quiet, subdued way. A contented way. She hadn’t seen people experience pure outward joy in this way. She wasn’t accustomed to a culture of work hard, play hard; her way was work hard, sleep quickly, and work hard again.
She kept her breath shallow, trying to avoid detecting a scent. Keisha had been right about tha
t, too, that she’d smell them before she would see them. But she didn’t want to purge again. She wasn’t ready for more death yet.
She turned away from the crowds and noise and headed toward the end of the long pedestrian walkway. It was significantly quieter at this end, with only a Chinese restaurant, a quiet lounge playing soft rock music, and a small art museum.
A wave of longing washed through her. If she’d been offered an enjoyable evening at the Gallery, she would have spent the whole night right here—after she and James stopped at Starbucks, that is, so she could surprise him with her new memory. They’d walk in, and she’d pretend to innocently look at the menu, and she’d rattle off her drink order. His face would register surprise for just a moment before his lip curled up in that dorky smile she loved.
You never stop impressing me, beautiful girl, he’d say.
But her daydream was in vain. She’d never be able to impress James with her silly drink order, nor would she be rewarded with an enjoyable evening. Her destiny was more work, purging the Gallery of the genetic impurities that were ruining the human race.
Like the boy she just killed. A young man who’d sacrificed everything for the Colony. And on the one night that he was given to celebrate, he had to die because something in his DNA told her he didn’t deserve life.
As deeply ingrained her praefuro instincts were, her human brain still recognized something wrong. Yet she would live this way until she died, alone and unloved. A heinous monster.
Why, James? Why am I here? Why did you abandon me?
It’s the only way I know how to protect you. That’s what he would have said. That’s what he always said when she questioned him.
And she would have fought back with her usual response: I don’t need your protection. I need you to let me go. Let me breathe. Because you’re suffocating me.
Maybe he’d finally given in. Maybe this was James letting her go. Letting her breathe.
She inhaled a deep breath and her brain registered a scent. Not the smell of decay, really, but something equally poisonous, like medicine or…
