by Stu Jones
But taking back the station wasn’t the point. It wasn’t necessary for him to achieve the objectives that the darkness set out before him. What was important was that Kane and every last soul at the radio station had to die. This would enable Malak to realize his vision, his dream, and the final coming of the voice. This too could have occurred months ago, but the destruction of the Christians had become something of a game to Malak. It was a prize to be gained, a victory to plan and savor. In the end, he would hold this as his triumphant moment, an emblem of his arrival as the leader of the new world.
Malak sought to outdo the centuries of genocide experienced on the African continent. These pathetic, groveling maggots would get the opportunity to die in the name of what they believed. Any captive who did not believe as the Christians did would be offered a choice—join the Coyotes or die a slow and agonizing death. The choice for many would be simple. He would not rush this. He would not act until all the pieces had fallen into place.
“Malak,” one of the men called from behind, breaking the bandit leader’s train of thought.
“What is it?” Malak spoke without turning.
“There’s a big group out front. They’re armed, and they say they want to talk to the person in charge.”
Malak half turned. “Why?” he asked a snarl on his lips.
“Didn’t say.”
Malak nodded. “Round everyone up. Tell them to hold cover and wait for my order.”
The man acknowledged Malak’s command. Malak walked past the greasy, bearded thug into the hallway then entered the stairwell. He took the stairs two at a time, because it was easier for him, given his large form. He was not in any hurry. He knew what was happening. An example would have to be made.
At the bottom of the stairs, he crossed the trash-strewn common area and passed between two armed, masked bandits at the front entrance. He went down the steps and into the drive, his men murmuring in fear and parting like the Red Sea as he passed between them.
Malak stopped in front of the strangers, taking a moment to analyze the group, a sizable force of about forty men. In front stood what appeared to be their leader, a solidly built man with salt-and-pepper stubble and a long shock of thick, black hair. Two men flanked his left and right, both holding assault rifles. Behind them stood a group of about ten men. The man in charge must have had some military experience, as not all his forces stood in front of Malak. Armed groups assembled to his right and left, groups of ten or so each. A smaller group waited across the street, stationed on the roof of the trashed Marathon gas station, acting as overwatch.
“What do you want?” Malak growled in a disinterested tone, one so low that it was almost inaudible.
“I want to have a conversation.”
“You people…always with words. Words solve nothing.”
“You people?” the leader snapped. “What’s your problem?”
Malak smiled a sinister grin. “My problem is that I have a bunch of heavily armed paper tigers on my door step.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” the leader spat, as he reached into his waistband and pulled out a Kimber Ultra Covert handgun and clasped it in both hands in front of him. “You know, we were going to just come over here and have a little chat, seeing as we seem to be like-minded groups. But now that you’ve showed your fuckin’ ass, I’m not sure I want to do anything but burn all your stupid asses right here, right now.”
“Is that so?” Malak smirked, his scarred face hidden by the dark hood that fell in rumpled layers around his head and shoulders.
“Yeah, that’s so!”
“And who are you all supposed to be?” Malak said.
“I’m Cortez,” the leader barked, “and these are my regulators.” He held his handgun high in the air as his men howled their encouragement.
Malak laughed a throaty rumble of amusement. “That’s cute.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, how about this, big man? Right now we’ve got you outnumbered, outflanked, and outgunned. I could turn you into a dripping meat bag with the snap of my fuckin’ fingers.”
Malak said nothing. These regulators and their leader had no idea that Malak and his Coyotes outnumbered them three to one. Malak’s crew was poised behind cover in the openings of the building, ready to unleash hell on these unsuspecting guests. But Malak wouldn’t need the firepower of his men to end this. He took a step forward.
Cortez raised his weapon. “Whoa, whoa, big dog. One more step and I smoke a hole in your ugly face.”
“A gun? Is that your true power?” Malak said.
“Powerful enough.”
“Let me show you my true power.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Then shoot me.”
“What?” Cortez looked over his shoulder at his boys. “Are you guys hearing this? This guy’s bat-shit crazy!”
“Worship me or die. Those are your options.”
“What about option three? You suck my—”
Malak took another step forward, and with a crack, Cortez fired the gun in his face—only it didn’t matter. In Malak’s mind’s eye, Cortez was moving in slow motion, or Malak’s own body was moving faster than the speed of sound. Whichever the case, the bullet missed Malak’s face by what might as well have been a hundred yards. Malak sidestepped and wrapped his hands around Cortez’s skull. The man’s head came apart, popping like a boil. The blood and brain matter sprayed a splash of crimson into the air. Snatching away the remaining fragments of the man’s skull, Malak tore Cortez’s spine from the quivering body and flung it through the air.
The two men standing behind what remained of Cortez tried to raise their assault rifles, their faces frozen like masks of horror. With a raging snarl, Malak stooped low then swung his arms open, sending dark tentacles from his wrists that slashed through the men. The goon on the right was torn in half, his legs tossed into the air like broken twigs. The man on the left cried out just as the black tentacle tore his right arm from his body and cleaved his rifle in two. With a backward swipe, Malak knocked the thug’s head free from his body, sending another crimson jet spraying into the air. With a lunge, Malak slammed into the group of ten. Arms wheeling, his tentacles slashing, he tore through the group, eviscerating their helpless human forms in a shower of gore and flying body parts.
And as quick as it started, the destruction was done. Malak came to a stop and slowly pulled the hood of his cloak back from his head. Drops of blood, brain, and body clung to him, falling in a fine, pink mist around him. The wailing was deafening as the gravity of what had taken place landed on the shoulders of all who looked on. The entire event had lasted for less time than it takes a cobra to strike.
The regulators dropped their weapons and fell to the ground in terror. He flexed his massive shoulders under the blood-drenched cloak and marveled at his work. The remains of the slaughtered regulators were scattered in bloody perfection before him. In their arrogance, these men had not been willing to accept his command. As a result, Malak had shown them the power of the darkness. The rest of the visitors lay prostrate in fear at his feet.
No more sickness. No more weakness. Malak had been purged of all impurity and imperfection. All that remained was the clear and uncompromising sound of the voice as it drove him onward. It was quite simple. He had been defeated during his first encounter with the warrior Christians for a reason. He had underestimated them. His human weakness had handicapped him and kept him from becoming what he should have been. Since Malak had been set free and the owner of the voice had revealed himself, everything had begun to make sense.
Malak’s purpose was clear. He was to rule and enslave the new world, and in the process of this great upheaval, he was to strike down the high king of heaven from his lofty throne. The cost? His soul—a small price to pay to become a god. The time had come when every mouth that sang or whispered the name of God and every scrap of paper that taught his message should cease to exist. Those who carried God like a plague in their he
arts, spreading his disease, would be violated and savaged. In time no living soul would remember or even know the name of God. Those who claimed to have no faith would be forced to join Malak’s cause or die.
Malak’s purpose had never been too lofty. He just needed to be reminded of the dark power that flowed within his veins. This power had corrupted him so completely that he had lost the point where his own being ended and the dark power began. His was a true power, the power of the gods.
The ridiculous group at the station posed no real threat to him or his plan. They were like gnats that flew in the eyes and the nose, nothing more than a nuisance. But if Malak had been honest with himself, he would have seen that he had made things personal. He needed them to die—especially Kane—as slow and as painfully as possible. This was a necessity. They had opposed both him and the will of the voice. What’s more, Kane’s group had stolen a fuel tanker from him on Day Forty, one of the two he’d captured. The tanker remained at the radio station, and it might as well be filled with gold. Malak could use that fuel where he was going.
Taking the tanker and destroying the survivors wouldn’t be difficult. With the loss of his family and the murder of the girl, Kane had become demoralized; Malak could sense it as if it were a poison in the man’s soul. The dark giant was distracted with the care of the people at the station. And the Indian boy and his beast were all but aliens to the others. They were all weak and struggling to survive. When Malak’s growing army became strong once again, he would move in against them.
The Christians had achieved their insignificant victory over him. Now it was his turn, and in time, when the timing was right, Malak would show them his heart of darkness.
THREE
BEFORE
CANINE COGNITION AND BEHAVIOR LABS
COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA
The two scientists sat together in the stark-white, sparsely furnished concrete-block room. One monitored a computer screen, while the other scribbled in shorthand. The air vent above them whistled as it forced the recirculated air through the room.
The man taking notes stopped, looked up, and touched his face. His ID badge read Dr. Eric Glenn and included a picture of the man’s lean, confident smile and broad forehead. He squinted his eyes and peered through the one-sided mirrored glass in front of him, where a black-and-tan Rottweiler paced in a broad circle.
“Any change with that last one?” Glenn muttered almost to himself.
“Nah.” The other scientist sighed as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. “Just like all the others.”
Glenn cracked an indulgent smile. “Relax, Harper. We’re on the right track. Our patience will be rewarded. You’ll see.”
“Maybe, but there’s an infinite number of tonal combinations to explore. None that we’ve tried has elicited any response from Brutus. His ears have barely twitched.”
Cupping his hand over his mouth, Glenn propped his elbow on the table and leaned over to examine the computer screen. “I was so sure those last few, especially that D chain, would elicit a definitive response. Not sure why it didn’t. All my theories point to it.”
“Humph,” Harper said with a sigh, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “That’s why they’re called ‘theories,’ Dr. Glenn.”
Glenn, undaunted, ignored his cohort’s last statement. “I can’t help wonder if we’re in the right spectrum.”
“Everything we know about canines responding to tones depends on the tonal range that humans can’t hear. That’s how dog whistles were developed. It’s the right spectrum.”
“No, maybe that’s the problem. Everything we know comes from working with this spectrum, but where has that gotten us? Maybe we need to bring it down.”
“To what?”
“To the human spectrum.”
“Dr. Glenn, you need to get some sleep. Bringing the chain down into the human spectrum won’t alter how it affects the canine. This is basic—”
“But what if it did? We’ve fine-tuned the delivery down to a thousandth of a single note. What if it made no difference whether or not the human ear could hear it? What if it worked anyway?”
“That’s absurd. No one has ever tried that because—”
“Because they’re stuck in what others have done,” Glenn interrupted his face flushing with excitement over this realization. He stood and continued. “But I’m not interested in standing on their shoulders. I’m interested in success. Sometimes greatness requires thinking outside the box.”
“Yeah, fine.” Harper sighed again, exasperated. “So how do you want to do it?”
“Run the same chain again. Start from the bottom.”
“OK…” Harper said with a slight tone of irritation. He began to hack at the keyboard, plugging changes into the tonal formulas. After a few minutes, the computer gave a faint blip, signaling the conversion of the entire spectrum. He turned to Glenn. “We ready?”
Glenn pulled out his smartphone. It displayed a photo of him and a vibrant young woman, her arms encircling his waist, her long, flowing hair framing a smile that could warm the Arctic.
“My dear, Gabrielle,” he whispered to himself, “this is for you.” Glenn waved his hand at Harper without looking away from the photo before him—that slender, delicate frame; his engagement ring so natural on her finger. It had been the happiest day of his life. And then, like a cruel joke, the accident. He shook himself from the moment. “Go with it.”
“Going with the freeze command,” Harper responded, as he initiated the first sequence.
As the sequence of tones played over the speakers, Glenn watched, his pen at the ready. For an instant, he thought he saw a shudder of hesitation in the animal’s step as it paced, a momentary physical indicator of some cognitive process.
“Increase the volume and proceed.”
Harper nodded. “Volume up. Playing number two of seven.”
A second tune played over the speakers. Glenn straightened himself and dropped his notepad on the desk. His eyes widened. “There! He changed pace. He slowed. Did you see it?”
Harper nodded.
“Jump to four and initiate.”
Harper adjusted and pressed the “enter” key then immediately turned to watch the dog as the tune began to play.
In an instant the large dog became rigid. His muscles grew taut, and his neck extended as if he were a German shorthaired pointer locked on a covey of quail.
“Ha! Ha-ha!” Glenn yelled, throwing his arms into the air.
“I can’t believe it. You were right,” Harper muttered in disbelief.
“Of course I was! It was the D chain. I knew it would be. What did I tell you? You’ve got to think outside the box!”
The two men stood in disbelief, staring at the taut animal. They could just see the slight in and out of its rib cage as it continued to breathe, the only indication that it wasn’t a stuffed replica.
Glenn spun, putting his fingers to his lips as though trying to make some difficult internal decision. “I want to know. I want to see what else we can do.”
“Well, we’ll need to—”
“No, no. I don’t have time for all that protocol nonsense. I want to know now.”
“But…” Harper started as he watched Glenn move to the computer and access a restricted file. His fingers jabbed at the keyboard and a new window opened. Harper spoke the words to himself. “Meddleson Surge Systems. Is that like a power backup or something?”
“Hardly. This is a system I had installed back when this place was built. I’ve had to keep it under wraps. It’s…controversial.”
“So what is it?” Harper asked.
“The floor under Brutus, as well as a few others, have electrical conductors running beneath them. This program controls the electrical output of the conductors.”
“Wait, wait. Are you saying the floor in there is electrified?”
“Not right this second.”
“But it could be.”
“Of course.�
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A look of disgust appeared on Harper’s face. “Why the hell would you have something like that installed?”
“Because sometimes science requires testing the limits—even when it’s not popular to do so.”
“That’s not humane. PETA is one of our biggest contributors, for God’s sake.”
“PETA’s not going to know shit about it.”
“But Brutus—”
“Sacrifices must be made in the name of science.”
“I’m not going to be a part of this,” Harper said, beginning to stand. Glenn firmly pushed him back down into his chair. The air vent’s whistle seemed to grow louder given the deafening silence and penetrating gaze of Glenn.
“You’re already a part of it,” Glenn spoke, “and I can’t have you tearing my house down over some trivial notion of what’s humane—especially now that we’ve reached the cusp of greatness.”
“I—”
“You’ll do what you’re told, and you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut about the rest. I’m an ambitious man, Mr. Harper. Bad things happen to people who cross me.” Glenn smiled, relaxing a little, and patted Harper on the shoulder. “We’re onto something incredible, something that could change how man and animal interact. Don’t you want to be a part of that?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Good.” Glenn dismissed Harper’s last protest and moved back to the computer. “We’re about to find out what’s possible.”
Harper remained silent as Glenn adjusted the electrical current running in the floor under Brutus. The needle climbed: one thousand volts, five thousand volts, ten thousand volts. Brutus began to twitch just slightly, but his body remained rigid, locked in position as if he were under hypnosis. With a flick Glenn knocked the dial to thirty thousand volts, eliciting a shriek from the Rottweiler as it began to jump around the room, attempting in vain to escape from the stinging, electrical floor. The threshold had been broken. Harper sat back in mild horror as Glenn, moving faster now, activated the G set of tones.
