by Shanon Hunt
He had nothing more to offer Slater.
The defense rests.
His eyes locked with Slater, looking for some sign of understanding, a glimmer of empathy. Nothing.
He stalked to the sweeping oversized window and gazed into pitch blackness, frustrated that he’d been unable to win Slater’s trust. Now another innocent mind would have to be wiped away, another sacrifice made for the vision of the Colony. The work was too—
Sacrifice. What have you ever sacrificed, James? Layla’s voice echoed in his head.
She was right. God, she’d been right. What had he ever given up? Maybe it was his turn to make a sacrifice.
His proposal tumbled from his lips before his brain could stop it. “If you need a story, if you can’t leave here without a fall guy for Peter Malloy, for the virus, you can have me. I’ll go on the record.”
Sheer surprise brought life back into Slater’s glassy eyes, and James could practically hear his mind racing with new headlines. “An Interview with the Voice Behind ‘A Desperate Warning to the World.’ ” Maybe it would be enough to protect Layla and her work.
At long last, Slater slouched back against his chair. His long hair flopped over his eyes, and as his hand swept it away, a corner of his mouth lifted. “Nah.”
James gaped at him. He was putting his own ass on the line. He was giving Slater the man behind the Warning. It was the story of a goddamn lifetime.
“No matter what spin you put on it now,” Slater said, “you’ll be leaving me to give the people only part of the picture.”
James searched his face. Had he broken through? Did Slater see how important this project really was?
“That makes this story unfinished.”
“But you and I both know that you’ve fought tooth and nail to keep this story alive for nearly half a decade now, and—”
Nick straightened and pushed back from the conference table. “And an unfinished story will never get me a prime time slot.”
83
March 2024, Mexico
Layla tossed her laptop beside her on the sofa when the front door opened.
James draped his sport coat over the kitchen chair and opened the liquor cabinet. He popped the cap off a bottle of Talisker and poured two glasses, then swallowed his antiretroviral preventive. Just in case you start to notice a hint of decay, he’d said. I can’t have you grimacing every time I step into the room.
He flopped onto the sofa next to her with a grunt, both drinks in hand. He looked utterly exhausted.
She took a sip of her Scotch, savoring the smoky flavor, and squirmed down to lay her head in his lap, her glass on her stomach.
Neither of them spoke.
She wouldn’t ask what he decided to do with the reporter. Despite her indignant rant earlier that evening, she trusted his judgment. He knew what was at stake, even though he would never fully understand her kind or why she was so passionate about her work.
Eugenesis, now led by General Harding, was fully on board with Project Phoenix, committed to finding and curing every praefuro that still wandered the earth.
But even after they’d been cured, the praefuro would never be normal humans. Their minds had evolved. They functioned as the collective, not a cluster of individuals, and they no longer identified as separate physical human beings. It was an ethos outsiders couldn’t grasp, let alone experience.
One thing James did appreciate was that the collective, as evolved as it was, had a pecking order, a hierarchy not unlike that of a wolf pack. Newly discovered praefuro had to establish their positions in the collective, and a miscalculation could send the collective spiraling out of control.
Her simulation was where they found their places. The Sin City microcosm allowed praefuro and outsiders to come together in close proximity while newcomers filled the void in the collective life force that had been waiting for them. The praefuro newcomer sensed both otherness from the outsiders and oneness within the collective and accepted this position, a puzzle piece sliding into its proper slot.
James understood that nothing was more important to her than reintegrating the tribe. She’d kill, though the thought repulsed her these days, before she’d allow anything to compromise her vision. She was the alpha, after all. It wasn’t a position she’d earned; it wasn’t a reward for dominant behavior. It just was. And it was her responsibility to protect the collective. Her family.
James would never let anyone or anything threaten her work.
She took another sip of Scotch and reached up to stroke his scratchy beard.
It had to be two in the morning. She had a long day ahead of her. The council wanted an update on the reversion dose regimen for the praefuro children. Madeline wanted to meet with her, Mia, and James to talk about adoptions of the sensus offspring. And much to her dismay, she’d promised to meet Isaac and Nicole for lunch in the Gallery as an evaluation of Nicole’s readiness to participate in simulations. She could already hear the old Nicole, now nearly back to her normal self and crowned with new teeth and hair. Oh, my god, Layla, look at me! Tell me I’m not the most beautiful woman in this … whole … restaurant!
But at that moment, she didn’t care about the day ahead. She only wanted to be with James.
“Wanna go out to the bench?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Make love under the stars?”
His face lit up with renewed energy, and he practically dropped his glass to slide out from under her and trot to the front door.
She hopped onto his back.
“Promise you won’t push me over the edge?” he asked.
“A furo can never make that promise.” She draped her arms over his shoulders as he hoisted her onto his hips.
“Hmm. I’ll take my chances.”
Epilogue
March 2024, Mexico
Nick grunted at the jabbing between his ribs.
“Got some ID?”
He peered up through one eye and squeezed them both tightly shut. The intensity of the sun was a fiery assault on his senses. God, his entire body felt as though it’d been crushed by a steamroller.
“How about a name?”
Christ almighty. What had he done to warrant such a hangover?
More jabbing. “Let’s go, buddy. Find another place to sleep it off, or I’ll haul you in and you can pay rent for a jail cell.”
Nick heard what the man was saying, but the situation wasn’t registering. He flopped onto his stomach with a snort.
“Drag him to the swine wagon.”
Hands grabbed him under the arms and tugged him into a vertical position. His legs sagged and his head fell forward. All he could do was moan in protest.
“Nicky!” a female voice called out. “Oh, my god, Nicky! Officer, he’s with me. My nephew. I’m so sorry. Please don’t take him. I’ll take care of him.”
“Found him sleeping on the sidewalk, resisting the orders of a police officer.”
“I’m so sorry, sir. I take full responsibility. Please don’t let us burden you. No one works harder than law enforcement. Thank you so much for your service. Phoenix’s finest.”
Nick’s head lolled to the left. He tried to get his brain to tell his neck to hold up his head, but the synapses didn’t seem to be firing.
“My late partner was at the DEA,” the female voice continued. “Peter Malloy? Killed in the line of duty.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am. Pete was a good man. Is that your place of business?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, it is.”
“Let’s help our friend here inside.”
Nick felt his bare heels drag along the pavement until he was out of the sun and lying on a cool cement floor.
“Thank you, officers. Thank you so much. Be safe out there today.”
“Make sure he gets some fluids in him, and not from the Guinness tap.”
She chuckled. “I certainly will.”
A door closed, and he was surrounded by cool, dark blessed silence.
But then that shrill
voice echoed through the room. “Nicky? Are you all right? What happened? Where have you been?”
He half covered his head with one elbow and squinted up at her. Her face was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. His brain seemed to have completely glitched out.
“Nicky?”
He opened his eyes a bit wider. To his right, bar stools lined up perfectly under a bar, where a Pictionary box jutted over the edge enough that he could read the title. To his left, he spotted a flashing neon Budweiser sign, a broom and a dustpan, and a cowbell hanging from the door handle. Straight over him stood a woman with short salt-and-pepper hair framing a slightly wrinkled, worried face.
“Drink this.” She shoved a glass at him, sloshing a few droplets of water onto his face.
He flinched, but the water made him realized just how thirsty he was. He rolled onto an elbow and managed to hoist himself up far enough to gulp down the entire glass of water in one breath.
She refilled the glass, sat cross-legged on the floor, and set it in front of him. Her forehead furrowed as worry shifted to annoyance. “You gonna tell me what’s going on? Where you’ve been?”
He opened his mouth to say I’m working on it, give me a minute, but the entire glass of water came back up, followed by a cringeworthy belch.
“Jesus Christ.” She rolled onto her feet.
“Sorry.” He coughed.
A second later, a bar towel hit him in the face.
“God, sometimes you remind me of Jay. When you get your shit together, I’ll be in the office.”
He wiped his sweat-covered face and sipped tentatively at the second glass of water. Then he told his brain to tell his legs to stand up. They didn’t, but he managed to get onto his hands and knees. He took a few more breaths and pulled himself up by the wooden legs of the barstool.
“Move,” he said to his feet, and by some act of god, they shuffled forward. He picked up a stack of bar napkins to wipe his dripping face again and inched toward a closet-sized room with the light on.
He collapsed into a folding chair next to her desk. His head throbbed at the very base of his skull. Every muscle ached. He couldn’t even get his fingers to make a fist. He wiped the slime off his lips with the back of his hand, closed his eyes in a long blink, and took a deep cleansing breath. He could almost hear his brain cells coming to life with a disgruntled groan.
She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. Darcy—so stubborn, but always there for him.
Might as well get it over with. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Ziploc bag, and held it out.
Her hand flew to her mouth to muffle a gasp. “How did you…?”
She pulled the wallet from the bag and plucked out a Department of Justice DEA ID card. She ran her finger over the unsmiling photo of Special Agent Peter Malloy, lifted the wallet to her nose, and inhaled.
Tears welled in her eyes.
“You did it,” she whispered. “You found them. You got the story.”
“No story. Just the truth.”
“What do you mean, no story?” She balled up her hands. “Nicky … You have to write the story. They have to pay for what they’ve done.”
He put his hand over hers and looked deeply into her eyes. He loved her with all his heart, and all he wanted was to make her happy again. He wanted to see her eyes sparkle like they did when Pete Malloy was still alive. But that peace was something she’d have to find within herself.
“I’m not the hero, Darce,” he said. “There is no hero or villain in this story.”
“But what about Pete? He died for this, Nicky. What about all those people who were victimized and tortured?” Her face contorted in grief.
“There’s more to it than we understood. It’s complicated.”
“Bullshit.” She pounded her fists on the desk. “You promised me. You told me that you’d find them and expose them and make them pay. And if you don’t do it, you’ll be just like them.”
“Pete’s fight was four years ago, and his death was unjust. But justice doesn’t always come in the shape of vengeance. Sometimes it comes in the shape of atonement.”
He looked into her biting glare once more and forced his wobbly legs to schlep him to the door.
It was an answer that would never satisfy her. She viewed life as a rigid dichotomy between good and bad, moral and immoral, legal and illegal. Good guys were rewarded, bad guys were punished, and no one was forgiven. One day, he hoped she would also understand that a better world in the future sometimes required the sacrifice of the innocent.
Meanwhile, all anyone could do is play the hand life dealt. No cheating. And no folding.
***
Nick stood on the porch a good three or four minutes before he drummed up the courage to actually reach for the doorbell. The exterior lighting flipped on, showcasing the impressive Spanish colonial house against the deepening twilight.
The door opened to a stony glower.
This was a terrible idea. He should turn and walk away, let bygones be bygones.
Or … Or he could try something new. Fides humanitati, as a wise man had recently told him. Faith in humanity.
He held out a six-pack of beer and a DVD.
Ed Slater took the DVD and studied the cover, his face as emotionless as ever. Game six of the 2001 World Series, Diamondbacks versus Yankees. One of the last happy moments of Nick’s relationship with his father. Every day for a week, they’d sat down together on a beat-up sofa in the basement with a bowl of popcorn and watched Arizona win the World Series.
It had taken Nick most of the day to find a copy. Full recordings were hard to come by these days. “Thought we could have a few beers and relive the good ol’ days.”
His dad pursed his lips and turned the DVD over. Finally, he looked back at Nick through narrowed eyes. “What, you couldn’t get game seven?”
“Pfft. Fuck you.”
And his dad wrapped his arms around him for the first time ever.
From the Author
Thanks for reading THE RAGE COLONY. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.
I’d be ever grateful if you would consider putting up some stars on the Amazon store page for THE RAGE COLONY. Reviews are the lifeblood of new independent authors, and your review would have a huge impact on my book’s visibility to other readers.
Just a quick acknowledgement…
Thank you with all my heart to my husband, Steve, for reading the dreadful first draft of Rage (“Well, it could be worse…”), and the second (“Rollicking good fun, but…”), and the third (“Nailed it.”). Or maybe he couldn’t swallow the thought of one more round.
I’m eternally grateful to my editorial team Lisa Poisso and Martha Hayes, who so skillfully reached into my soul and yanked out the story I was trying to tell, one narrative technique and one strong verb at a time. They’ve made me such a better writer.
Finally, feel free to visit my website (shanonhuntbooks.com), where you can sign up to be notified of my next book, friend me on Facebook (Shanon Hunt Books), or write to me at [email protected]. I answer every email.
DISCOVER THE COLONY
The Colony Book 1
A secret society of true believers will do whatever it takes to become Pure…
…unaware that they will soon be victims of the most chilling medical discovery in human history.
With Pain Comes Peace
A Companion Short Story to The Pain Colony
My name is Layla. Or so they tell me.
In no world could I be a Layla. Layla’s a feminine name. It’s for someone tall and graceful with flawless skin and thick silky hair. I’m five foot six with stringy hair and a round baby face. Slender but a little beefy in the thighs. Graceful? No. I walked right into a sliding glass door just this morning. I feel I’m more of a somewhat klutzy tomboy, more of a Charlie or an Alex.
I’ve been rescued and rehabilitated by a curious place called the Colony. Rescued from what, I don’t know. Possibly a life not worth living,
since I was found unconscious and bloody with a broken foot. Hiding from someone (or something) in a dirty dumpster alley in a bad part of Phoenix.
Or so the story goes.
Read Layla’s introduction into the Colony! Download the free book here: https://dl.bookfunnel.com/zlg4dr1w5c
About the Author
As a former pharmaceutical executive of 15 years, Shanon Hunt has firsthand experience with cutting edge medical advances. But it wasn’t until she took an interest in CRISPR and the near future implications of genetic engineering that she became inspired to write medical suspense thrillers.
When she’s not plotting her next story, she enjoys being tormented by her frisbee-obsessed Australian Shepherds, hiking the wilds of northern New Jersey, and canyoneering in southern Utah with her husband, Steve.
