Humanity's Edge- The Complete Trilogy

by Paul B. Kohler

  Marcia’s looked grim. Lane took several steps back, trying to find anything else to look at.

  “Do either of you have an explanation? Do either of you want to confess that you could have been responsible for my death? That’s murder, ladies,” Jacobs continued, crunching through the glass.

  “Cliff was an asshole, anyway. He got into the nanites! He didn’t know what he was doing,” Marcia argued.

  “Are you saying it’s better that he died?” Jacobs asked, his eyes bulging. “Because I don’t think that’s very ethical. Do you, Marcia? Lane?”

  No one spoke for a moment. Clay reached for his pants, hanging from a lab chair. He stepped into them quickly, cinching them closed at his waist. The scientists turned toward him, almost shocked to see another face in the room.

  “You need to stop fighting. Now,” Clay said, his voice firm. He straightened up, towering a full six inches over Jacobs, and ten or twelve over the women. He dwarfed them. “It doesn’t matter what happened in the past, in Carterville. Trust me. I wish we could go back and fix all the mistakes we made back there. But we can’t. And now, my life completely and totally depends on whether or not you three can fix this nanite and radiation debacle in my body. Because if you decide to squabble for the rest of our time here—on Earth, not just in this lab—then I’ll surely die.”

  The scientists didn’t speak, didn’t even have the strength to argue. He turned his attention to his naked toes, wondering what the future—all their futures—held.

  “Am I going to turn into one of them?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Just tell me.”

  After a long moment of silence, Lane stepped forward. She pulled her glasses from her nose, blinking rapidly. “We’re not sure. We’re really not, Clay. So, you have to trust us, okay? We’re all going to have to figure this out together.”

  “As far as we know,” Jacobs said, “you’re the only living, breathing human being that hasn’t succumbed to the ravages of the nanites.” He reached for a broom, and began to clean the aftermath of his outburst, sweeping the glass shards into a dustbin. They glinted beneath the bright, laboratory light.

  “It’s actually quite the opposite,” Lane said, pointing at the computer screen as if it explained everything. “The nanites seem to be rebuilding you. From the inside out. We don’t really know why, or how. But you’re alive, Clay. You have to thank your lucky stars for that.”

  “Ha,” Clay blurted.

  “That’s why you’re feeling stronger all the time,” Lane said, talking over his sarcasm. “You said that. It’s real, Clay. This is unforeseen science. And it’s changing everything we thought we knew.”

  Clay was silent for a moment. “Do you think I should take any kind of medicine?” he asked. “Anything to slow the nanite production?”

  “I propose we leave them for a while,” Jacobs said. “We’ll monitor your status, of course. We’ll make sure nothing changes, and that you maintain this health. For all we know, it could turn on a dime.”

  “Right,” Clay said. He was facing the truth, head-on. He couldn’t look weak. Then, something that Marcia said came back to him. “What about these devices? The neutralizing thing? How can they help us?”

  “The devices were used to control the soldiers during the early experiments, when we still had control of the nanites,” Marcia explained. “There’s a possibility that we can adapt these neutralizers and use them to stop the crazed entirely.”

  “But that’s a long, long time from now,” Lane said looking hesitant. “We haven’t even used them since the outbreak. Or experimented with them since those initial trials.”

  “But in theory, it would work like this,” Marcia said, leaning forward. “The nanites still appear to have their radio frequencies activated. Using a modified version of the neutralizers, we should be able to change the nanites. Destroy them. Kill the crazed from the inside, out.”

  “Shit. So, that’s why you took them from the storage locker?” Jacobs asked, incredulous. “I didn’t see any of this. But now—it’s so clear—” He leaned back, clearly deep in thought. “The radio waves . . .”

  “Right. Precisely,” Lane said. “The neutralizers use radio waves, and can ultimately stop the nanites in their tracks, thus destroying the monsters.”

  “Can’t we just use the neutralizers to stop the nanites in my body, then?” Clay asked hopefully. “I’m clearly overriding them, or is the other way around? Anyway, they haven’t affected me the way they affected the others, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, that’s right. But there’s no way to be sure just how the neutralizer will affect you,” Marcia said. “From what we’ve learned, these nanites—the ones that have mutated somehow—they take over the human host in a way we haven’t quite grasped. Stopping them now could potentially kill you.”

  Clay considered that, realizing that the single thing that could help restore humanity was the very thing that could destroy him. He shifted his weight, his stomach churning with panic, wanting to revolt against the biscuits and gravy.

  “This means I shouldn’t even be around the device if it’s activated?” Clay asked.

  The scientists all looked thoughtful. Lane began to shake her head vehemently at Jacobs. But he ignored her. “Not necessarily,” he said. “I think we can adapt the transmitter to filter out the unique signature of your strain. As the nanites enter the human host, they take on and adapt to the host. It’s almost like they create their own DNA strand, really. And we should be able to filter your particular DNA out of the broadcast, allowing you to personally pull the trigger on the device. Safely. The crazed should drop without affecting you. Theoretically.”

  Silence fell. Clay’s mind raced with all the things that could go wrong if the neutralizer didn’t work correctly. Would he feel the nanites dying, before he, too, went down? Should he just give up? He remembered the defeat in Ralph’s eyes, and he understood it now.

  Lane gripped his shoulder, her eyes wide. “You have to believe we’ll do everything in our power to keep you alive, Clay. It’s remarkable you’re even still here with us.”

  “And I think the first step,” said Marcia, “is to find a host to test the neutralizer on, before testing it on Clay. Someone is going to have to head out, grab a crazed, and bring it back here. And we need to do it soon.”

  Clay turned on his heel and walked barefoot into the next room, where his friends were. Alayna was watching listlessly as Ralph and Brandon continued to bond. She assessed Clay nervously. They’d all had showers since they’d come back, and they looked like new people, freshly born.

  Clay stood beside her, his arms at his sides. He wanted to tell her he could die, he wanted to tell her it might be over soon, and that she’d have to lead the charge. But instead, he just enjoyed the soft scent of her skin, remembering the intimate moments they’d shared. He’d betrayed Valerie, but at least he’d been alive. He’d been happy. He’d felt things. Wasn’t that all this world was for?

  Chapter 15

  As the days crept by, the survivors grew more accustomed to Helen. They walked down the streets, fearless, their guns holstered and untouched, knowing that the crazed had been shipped off. This was their sanctuary. More and more, it was feeling like home.

  The neutralizers had been completely reprogrammed, with Lane, Marcia, and Leland working tirelessly in their morbid laboratory. Clay eyed them nervously as they worked, wondering if they’d gotten his DNA correct. If they’d miscalculated at all, Clay’s death was inevitable.

  Finding a crazed to test on was proving difficult, especially given that the survivors had taken such a liking to the town, to regular meals, and to resting their feet.

  The day before they were going to leave Helen and expand their hunt for a crazed, Ralph awoke, suddenly unable to remember where he was. He eased his feet over the side of the bed, listening to his knees creak. He tried to push off the bed and stand, but his right hand was missing, and he fell back to the bed.

 
It was a sudden, horrible reminder of everything that had happened. Connie no longer slept beside him. He had just one hand, and countless bruises and cuts, all from this horrible End of Times. He should have listened to Connie and gone to church more often. But now he didn’t feel the depths of any “soul” within him. He just felt tired.

  And he needed a drink, dammit. It had been too long.

  As he dressed into the same clothes he’d been wearing for what seemed like years, he eyed Brandon’s sleeping form near the corner. His heart softened. Brandon was the one good thing to come out of all of this: a boy that was quickly turning into a young man, who’d shown compassion toward an old asshole like him. The kid didn’t have a father, a mother, or a sister anymore, and in a way, Ralph was his only family.

  Should he wake him up? Ralph wondered. Should he tell him he was going for a walk, that he needed company? Brandon looked peaceful, his eyes moving behind the lids, dreaming. If Ralph had ever had a son, he imagined he would be like Brandon. Silly at times, but with a good head on his shoulders.

  Ralph slipped his boots on before retreating through the laboratory, past the stinking corpses and into the brightly lit candy shop. He grabbed a few gummies, along with a grenade for protection, as he left, chewing on the gummies ravenously. In this new life, he was always hungry. He skulked through the empty streets, watching the sun began to rise, casting long shadows on the pavement.

  Ralph passed the café, rounding the corner toward a local bar called Mel’s. He’d heard of it, oddly enough. It was a place his own uncle had frequented; he’d become a drunk and died a drunk in Helen.

  The door was open, and Ralph entered casually, like it was his living room. The place was dim and shadowy, several half-full glasses still littering the bar. Cash had been left beneath some of them, showing that people hadn’t been here since before they understood that the world was ending and that money made no difference.

  Ralph sauntered up to the bar, saying gruffly, “Hey there, Mel.” He pulled the dollar bills from beneath the glasses. “It’s a busy night in here, isn’t it?”

  He stretched them out, making eye contact with a stoic George Washington, and then tucked them into his back pocket. He went behind the bar, impressed with the immense selection of whiskey, scotch, and rum. He poured himself a glass of fifty-year-old scotch, leaning heavily against the bar top and sipping. “Mel. You’ve done some of your best work with this drink,” he murmured. The scotch was fire, warming his insides and making his throat sting. But he couldn’t care about his organs, his body. Not now. He was just a sack of bones, losing more weight every day. And he wanted to drink himself into a stupor. For old time’s sake.

  He continued to drink, taking up residence at the bar and occasionally talking to the bartender, and sometimes with Connie. They’d always bickered at their local joint, becoming the couple that everyone came out to watch tear each other to shreds. But God, he’d really loved her. Her flashing tongue, her sultry eyes. She became so much more than who she was when he met her, when she was a girl.

  And what had he become? Just the straggler in a tired band of survivors. A drunk who hadn’t had a drink in weeks.

  He poured himself another, and then another, enjoying the buzz that started behind his ears and grew around his forehead, his cheeks, his throat. He looked out through the dirty, cigarette-tinged lace curtains from bygone days, and realized it had to be close to noon already. What were the others thinking? he wondered. Would they hunt for him, as they’d hunted for the crazed? Or would they dismiss him as another lost soul in a sea of them?

  As he tipped back his sixth drink, he suddenly remembered Brandon. He had to return, soon, if only for the boy’s sake. Leaving Brandon alone with the likes of Daniels, that asshole cop Clay, and that prissy lesbian Alayna, didn’t sit right with him. He scooted off his stool and grabbed a full bottle of whiskey, thinking he could take sips of it in private, just to take the edge off.

  That would help him for a while. It would help him sleep at night.

  He stepped out and onto the road, feeling drunk. His eyes stung from the sudden onslaught of sunlight. He turned toward the candy store, unsurprised to see that none of the other survivors were out calling his name. No one really cared about him, right? He’d always known that. He’d been able to lie to himself, for a while. But he wasn’t a fool.

  He rounded the corner and turned on to Main Street. He stopped to sip whiskey straight from the bottle, noting that someone was standing outside the candy shop, his hands on his slim hips, his eyes scanning the street.

  It was the kid. It was Brandon out looking for him.

  He stumbled forward, anxious to be reunited with his friend. But as he shuffled forward, a large, huffing man appeared in the doorway of an old apartment building. The monster lunged forward, crashing into Ralph, and forcing him to the ground. Ralph’s whiskey bottle went flying and shattered against the pavement. He shrieked like a wild animal, realizing the crazed had him. He had his massive hands around Ralph’s neck. And his rotting teeth were mere inches from his scalp.

  “BRANDON!” Ralph cried. “BRANDON!”

  But before he could call out again, the crazed had latched onto his neck, licking at the blood as it began to gush. Ralph’s eyes nearly leaped from his head with panic. He watched, feeling almost outside of his body, as Brandon began to run toward him, drawing his gun.

  The chewing grew more insistent. Ralph knew then that it was too late. He was going to succumb to this death. The crazed’s tongue was lashing his neck and upper chest, feeling grotesque and snake-like.

  Then Ralph remembered. He’d grabbed a grenade from Daniels’ vest on the way out of the candy store, just in case. Jesus. He reached down, feeling for it in his pocket.

  Before Brandon got to him, he cried out, “NO, STOP! DON’T COME ANY CLOSER, KID!”

  Brandon was almost twenty feet away, but Ralph could see his helpless tears.

  “IT’S BETTER THIS WAY,” Ralph shrieked. “JUST TRUST ME, KID!”

  He ripped the pin from the grenade and within seconds exploded into gory shrapnel, arms and legs and blood and organs splattering across the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. The blood was bright red, stark and strange against the blue sky above.

  Brandon sank to his knees, feeling the spray of Ralph’s blood on his cheeks. He wiped them off with the back of his sleeve. And then he wailed, his voice echoing against the buildings.

  Chapter 16

  Clay was deep in thought on his lower bunk when Brandon reentered the laboratory, splattered with crimson. His face was sullen and his lips turned down. Without speaking, he collapsed in a chair near his bed, ripping his shirt off, then wiping it across his face to rid it of gunk.

  “Jesus, Brandon. What happened?” Clay jumped up.

  Brandon began to shake. His eyes darted around the room, unable to focus.

  “Brandon,” Clay said, placing his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders. “You’re going to need to tell me what happened out there. It’s no use being catatonic. Let me help you.”

  Brandon gave him a dark look, a look Clay had seen on Maia’s face when he’d demanded she tell him what she was up to. “It’s Ralph,” he said. “He’s fucking dead.”

  Clay was stunned. Despite all the previous deaths, this still rattled him to the bone. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I couldn’t find him all morning,” Brandon said. “And I was worried, because we had plans today. We were going to walk along the edge of town. Near the dump. Searching for crazed, sure, but also rooting around for stuff people might have left behind. Ralph figured there was going to be a resurgence, in time, when gold and silver would mean everything. We wanted to be billionaires when the tide turned.”

  This sounded like typical Ralph talk, but Clay held his tongue.

  “He was on his way back. On the corner, down the road. And one of them got him. He blew himself up with a grenade. And now I have his blood all over me,” Brandon whispered. �
�Jesus. I know we’re all going to die, Clay, but this is too fucking much.”

  “We’re not going to die,” Clay insisted. “Ralph . . . must have just made a stupid mistake. He knows better than to be out there by himself.”

  “I should have had his back,” Brandon said, beginning to sob. “I was the only person who cared about him. I should have told him that, every day. It think he wanted this to happen. It feels like—”

  “You have to stop dwelling on it,” Clay said, his voice gruff. “You have to find a way to move on, Brandon. This is a new reality. There are new rules. You can’t die out there just because you see no reason to live.”

  “You don’t see a reason,” Brandon spat at him, snot starting to run. “Without your wife. Without your daughter. I see you, Clay. You’re less of a man because of it. We all see it.”

  “Yeah, but I’m fighting to live. Every single second, every single hour. I know that they’re out there waiting for me, somewhere. And son, I know your family’s gone. But you have to find another reason to go on. Your friends from Carterville. You know some of them are still alive. You know they’re wondering about you. You know you’re not forgotten.”

  Brandon looked up to where Alayna stood in the doorway. After a long, tension-filled pause, Alayna put her hand on Clay’s shoulder, making him jump.

  “Clay,” she murmured. “Maybe let him be for a bit.”

  Clay spun toward her and was startled by her face. Her eyes were tinged with red, as if she cried blood of her own. The others were together in the next room, waiting quietly for details about Ralph’s death.

  They needed Clay’s words to console them.

  Clay nodded silently then joined the others. He cleared his throat and then suggested they reconvene next door, at the diner, where they could discuss their next steps.