The Rage Colony (The Colony Book 2)

by Shanon Hunt

  Whatever it was, was masked by a familiar perfume.

  She spun around to see Eva walking toward her … past her, toward a group of men just inside the art museum: Stewart, several men in military uniforms—and James. Layla’s stomach filled with butterflies, just as it used to years ago. She wanted to move closer, to catch his eye. To read his expression when he saw her.

  But instead, her legs staggered backward into the shadow of a red canopy over the Chinese restaurant entrance. Her eyes swam with tears.

  This was her new life. She was a furo now. She was no longer James’s beautiful girl.

  65

  March 2024, Mexico

  “No, never split sixes,” Nick said to Eddie. God, was it possible the kid didn’t know how to play blackjack? “You’ll end up with two sixteens. The dealer has a ten showing. You assume she has a twenty, so you have to take a hit.”

  Eddie, in his inebriated state, was good cover. He attracted all the attention, allowing Nick to study his surroundings. Mirrored dome cameras were abundant. In a real casino, where they played with real money, security cameras were necessary to watch for cheaters. The domes might have been there only as stage props, but Nick was certain they were live and manned behind the scenes.

  It wasn’t just the cameras, either. In this casino alone, he’d identified well over twenty armed secret security guards, pretending to be enjoying their night as a guest. If this was simply a social experiment or placement test, they wouldn’t need so many plants packing heat. What were they preparing for?

  “Hit!” Eddie said as he scooped up the cards.

  “Don’t touch the cards,” Nick and the dealer scolded him in unison.

  It was embarrassing, but Nick had to smile. Eddie was an okay guy. He reminded Nick of a slightly dumber, low-key version of himself ten years ago.

  “How many’s ’at?” Eddie wobbled on his stool.

  “Eighteen, sir,” the dealer said.

  He looked to Nick for advice.

  “He’ll stay.” Nick rolled his eyes. It was probably time to move on. Maybe Eddie would sober up a bit with some food in his stomach.

  Anyway, he’d seen enough in the casino. He wanted to move toward the perimeter to see if he could identify a door to the backstage. A set this elaborate would have to have an off-limits area with the security monitors, and possibly even a concealed observation deck.

  Nick doubled his bet. “Facedown.” He nodded to the dealer, who slid one card face down under his double-down bet.

  “Good luck, sir.”

  It was remarkable just how real this Fremont Street Experience was. The dealers were professional. The drinks were classic Vegas drinks: the Cosmo, the Vodka Red Bull, Jack and Coke. Drinks that kept you awake but made you stupid. That’s how Vegas had made its money until the virus dried up the desert oasis. Las Vegas had been one of the earliest, hardest-hit cities in the country, losing thousands in the span of weeks. The images on TV had been devastating.

  Nick took a sip from the Jack and Coke he’d been nursing for the last hour. No sense in reliving the past. Vegas would eventually rise again, once people could again trust their government to take care of them.

  Eddie made an announcement to the entire table. “Yo, I gotta take a piss.”

  Nick got up as well. As he spun to follow Eddie, he came face to throat with a hulking woman which he could only describe as a black Xena Warrior Princess. His eyes drew upward to her bulbous shaved head, glistening with sweat, which cocked to the right as her gray eyes studied him.

  Barely six inches away, she took up a wide stance like a point guard getting ready for a jump shot, and for some reason, her stare was so unsettling Nick couldn’t seem to utter the words excuse me.

  Her bulging biceps twitched. She parted her lips and whispered, “You.”

  Somewhere beyond her, Eddie called out, “Ouch! Motherfucker.”

  Eddie’s voice snapped Nick from his paralysis, and he eased past her, mumbling, “Pardon me. My buddy over there…”

  He picked up Eddie, who had fallen and only made it up as far as his knees. “Let’s get some food.”

  He turned back to look at her as they headed for the pedestrian walkway. Her expression had hardened, and the way she was looking at him with those laser eyes. It was as if she were trying to make him spontaneously combust.

  Chilled to the bone, he practically dragged Eddie out of the casino.

  66

  October 2022, Mexico

  James tried to keep Stewart and their guests in a tight group as they walked to the end of the street and into the art museum.

  “…my personal collection,” Stewart was bragging. “Each piece came from one of my six properties. But I see them so infrequently, I figured I might as well put them to good use. Here, check these out.”

  Something felt wrong. Stewart was giddier than usual, and Colonel Shaffer seemed skeptical of everything he was seeing. Maybe seeing Layla, knowing she was here as a praefuro, was messing with his mind.

  He gazed into every pair of eyes that turned in their direction, searching for the characteristic nystagmus, the eye tremors the praefuro described as signifying the point of no return, the electrical storm in their brains that sparked their deadly focus. His team had conducted numerous voltage imaging studies to detect the point at which the neural module in the amygdala responsible for initiating the pursuit of the target—the neurons that triggered the visual illusion of death and the olfactory illusion of rotting flesh—elicited an even bigger cluster of firing neurons, those responsible for the kill of the target. They’d not only been able to track the electrical chatter between the pursuit and kill modules, but they’d observed how the kill neurons silenced other functions of that region of the brain—specifically, emotion and motivation. The outcome: a resolute and tenacious terminator.

  Stewart was launching into yet another made-up story about a watercolor he found while visiting the China site when Eva arrived. James exhaled with relief. Eva not only knew the simulation like the back of her hand, but she also knew the hunting styles of her subjects. She’d certainly know if anything was wrong with any of the praefuro. Including Layla.

  “Ah, perfect timing,” Stewart said. “Gentlemen, this is Madame Eva Ridel, our simulation director. I will turn over the reins to her. She’s been working daily with our furos, training them to tap into their intuitive minds and work collectively. She’ll answer any additional questions you have.”

  The colonel spoke up instantly. “We’d like to know more about the mind-reading.”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Eva smiled warmly. “We believe it’s not mind reading, per se. It’s more of a deep intuitiveness, a sixth sense. The praefuro are uniquely in tune with each other’s body language, facial expressions, and movements, and the more they work together, the better they become at it. But it’s not innate. It must be trained. Practiced.”

  Bullshit, James thought. He’d seen the data. This was another one of Stewart’s protective lies. He was paranoid that his resources—specifically, his praefuro—would be reallocated to the global intelligence alliance.

  As Eva steered them back toward the Gallery entrance, Stewart put an arm around James and led him back into the pedestrian mall.

  “I know about the reversion program, James.”

  James’s blood ran cold, not because Stewart had discovered his research but because he’d chosen this moment to tell him. That meant he was planning to blackball him in front of the Department of Defense men, forcing him to admit he’d been working in secret. Stewart was a shrewd manipulator.

  “I know you hired the NIH to analyze the praefuro DNA because you didn’t have the talent inside,” Stewart said. “Your own team couldn’t figure out where the mutations were happening. And I know you’ve been running a night shift to develop and test a reversion therapy.”

  James waited for the punch line.

  “Did you really think you could keep this from me? Do you not know that I have eyes a
nd ears everywhere in the world?”

  James felt a fury boil up inside him. He could spend hours discussing the importance of developing a drug that would reverse the mutation. And if Stewart had spent even one minute in salvage, he might understand. But Stewart didn’t value individual human lives; ironically, he only valued the human race. However, right now was not the time for this conversation.

  “Why would you spend so much money and effort to undo everything we’ve created?”

  James held his silence as a moment of vulnerability flashed by. He had a long history with Stewart. They’d been partners—friends—since the beginning, both equally committed to the vision and fully dedicated to the program. Perhaps he should have tried harder to spin the reversion therapy as a precaution instead of keeping it a secret.

  Stewart’s expression hardened. “I’ll tell you why.” He grabbed James’s chin and jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant. Layla stood stiffly under the eave, watching.

  “She’s why. Because you knew from day one that she had the mutation. You knew long ago that she was showing the signs, isn’t that right? And when she was finally discovered as a furo, you tried to make me believe you didn’t care about her. You looked me in the eye and lied.”

  Stewart released his chin. James locked eyes with Layla. Even though her face held no expression, he could read the anguish and betrayal in her eyes. The sweet radiance that had permeated her being as long as he’d known her had dulled into a gray shadow.

  “You destroyed years of trust we built. And that’s a shame, a damn shame. But I understand. You love her. Love is what makes us human.” Stewart drew James closer and whispered in his ear. “But this is no place to be human.”

  James felt the pinch of the needle and reflexively threw up his arms. The syringe popped from Stewart’s hand and skittered across the pavement, rolling to a stop just a few yards from Layla’s feet.

  The two men locked eyes, breathing like bulls about to charge.

  No, Stewart wouldn’t do something so heinous. He was a lot of things, but not … no. James broke the spell and moved stiffly toward the syringe. He picked it up. The label on the side said Quantitative Synthetic Human immunodeficiency virus 1 (HIV-1) RNA ATCC-1 VR-3.

  He searched Stewart’s face. Why?

  Stewart swiped the palms of his hands down his pants legs. “Your reversion therapy is too late, James. I released the furos from the China site. All of them.”

  James gaped at his friend. His friend who had just turned Layla, the love of his life, into his mortal enemy.

  “They’re already out there, purifying our world. Too bad you won’t get to see it.”

  67

  October 2022, Mexico

  The noxious odor of viral poison burned her eyes long before Layla found where it was coming from. It had started in James’s right shoulder, and it was spreading through his veins like long black snakes, crawling down his torso, creating a wave of decay until his flesh hung from his bones.

  He is poison.

  No, not James. Please, god. No.

  He is the plague.

  Her fingers were slick with panicky sweat, but she instinctively reached into her pocket for the knife, gripping it tightly in her hand. Against her will, her legs carried her toward him. Tara came out of nowhere and moved in on her right. A man …

  Arvin

  …moved in on her left, completing the formation so there was no direction James could run.

  Stewart took three steps back, putting distance between himself and James. “It’s remarkable,” he said, his wide eyes lit up with excitement.

  Layla’s eyelids fell in a long blink as she forced herself to remember it was an illusion. But when she opened them, James’s face had decomposed to the point that he was no longer recognizable. His lidless blue eyes stared back with primordial terror.

  He must be purged.

  “It’s okay, Layla, do it.” That was James’s voice emanating from the corpse. “It’s all my fault. I turned you into this. I deserve it. Do it, my beautiful girl.”

  Arvin took three long steps toward him, a gesture to claim the target. He held a strap of leather wrapped in both hands.

  But James kept his gaze locked on Layla. “I just… I was just trying to protect you.”

  Layla lunged. She slammed both palms into Arvin’s chest and shoved him backward.

  What the fuck is your problem? He dropped the leather from one hand and caught his balance, his brows drawn together.

  She held up a shaky hand, struggling to keep her brain stem in check. “No! He’s not poison.” He is the plague. “Don’t touch him.” He must be purged.

  She closed half the distance to James, fighting the electrical charge in her brain, forcing the tension from her muscles, refusing to submit to her brainstem.

  She stepped right into James, pressed her head to his chest, and squeezed her eyes tightly as she wrapped her arms around him.

  The decaying corpse that she held close to her wasn’t real. It was an illusion. But even as she told herself that, she could feel his rotted flesh pulling away from the bone. His body felt warm and gelatinous, like the mucus that comes from your nose when you have a cold. The stench was unbearable. Her stomach rolled, and she gagged and gasped for fresh air, but she didn’t let go.

  When her gut settled enough for her to speak, the words came out like a guttural warble. “I’ll protect you now.”

  68

  March 2024, Mexico

  “Wake up, man.” Nick gave his friend a not-so-light slap on the cheek.

  “What? What? I’m awake, asshole.” Eddie had stalled out in the middle of the pedestrian walkway.

  “I need you to walk on your own. Fast.” Nick looked over his shoulder. Bald Xena was definitely following them, but she seemed to be purposely keeping some distance.

  “Why? I thought we were getting something to eat.”

  “We are.”

  All the way at the end. Best Peking Duck you ever had.

  “We are,” he repeated. “Chinese. Best thing for you when you’re drunk.”

  “Bro, slow down.”

  Nick swiveled his head again. The woman was moving in. Her eyes were even bigger and wider, and her lips were moving as if she were talking to an invisible friend. A security mic, no doubt. She somehow recognized him.

  Nick grabbed Eddie by the wrist and pulled him down the road.

  A knot of women stepped aside for them to pass. “Excuse you!” one of them snapped.

  “Yo, man, if you need to take a piss, you just passed the john!” someone yelled. He was rewarded with laughter.

  Nick paid no attention. His mind was on Bald Xena.

  “I do need to take a piss,” Eddie said, his voice a fraction soberer. “Did we do something illegal? What are we running from?”

  He eyed Eddie, considering. “It’s me they’re after, not you. I’m an investigative reporter. I’ve been working undercover.”

  Eddie’s eyes widened. “Sick.”

  “Listen, I want you to head into the Chinese restaurant. I’m gonna try to break through security somehow and find an emergency exit. There’s gotta be one at the back.”

  “Nah, bro, I’ll go with you.”

  It was a kind gesture, but Eddie would only slow him down. He could barely keep up speed walking.

  The restaurant sign protruded overhead.

  Buddaka

  Fine Asian Cuisine

  “Okay, here we are,” Nick said. “Head straight to the—”

  He halted so suddenly that Eddie didn’t notice until he was halfway into the restaurant.

  The world seemed to darken around Nick as he registered the scene before him. He lurched backward, tripped, and landed flat on his ass.

  The restaurant facade. Four pillars, three red lanterns.

  His eyes drifted upward. The red canopy hung slightly crooked.

  He rolled onto his hands and knees and inched toward the farthest left pillar.


  He blinked to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, but it was there, unmistakable. A crack at the base of the pillar that looked just like the Liberty Bell crack.

  He found ground zero.

  69

  October 2022, Mexico

  James froze in Layla’s embrace, waiting for her to bury the knife into his head, or his chest, or his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut for what seemed like an eternity. It wasn’t until Stewart spoke that he opened them.

  “Do it, Layla. This is your purpose.”

  James glanced down at Layla, whose arms wrapped around him so tightly they seemed glued to him. Her face was contorted as if she were in mortal agony. Her body shuttered and quaked, making her teeth chatter.

  His fear subsided as he was overcome by profound awe. Look at his Layla: She was fighting the demon inside her. The kill neurons were exploding in her brain, triggering the release of hormones in such a flood that she would inevitably rip him to shreds—and yet she didn’t. Fighting the instinct Eugenesis had spent so much time and so many billions of dollars to hone required every physical and mental fiber of her being.

  And she was winning.

  He had only a moment to appreciate her remarkable strength before Stewart spoke again.

  “Layla,” Stewart said. The gentleness was gone; now it was a warning. “We have a deal.”

  She released James slowly, tenderly—his beautiful girl—and spun savagely at Stewart. The impact of her leap slammed him into one of the pillars in front of the Asian restaurant. The faux stone column cracked with a crunch, and his eyes shot up to the overhanging canopy, certain it would come crashing down.

  It dropped a few inches, but Layla didn’t appear to notice as she grabbed Stewart by the shirt and swept her leg behind him and upward. He fell onto his back with a thud, and she dropped onto his stomach with all her weight. It must’ve knocked the wind out of him, because his head thunked back against the pavement as he lay gasping, unable to suck in air.