by Tara Ellis
“Oh, she got the antivirus,” Tucker assures him. “That part worked just the same on her as everyone else, by destroying the proteins of the Nephi Virus. But then it went on to deliver the therapeutic proteins to her own DNA, which took longer to complete and is likely still progressing.”
“That’s why my eyes have changed and I’m getting more sensitive to the Shiners?” I ask, absently touching my eyes as I sit back down. Chris also backs off and returns to his seat, but Baxter stays at my side, leaning against my legs.
“Yes. But as I said, Hassan had to have had a way to study and create this gene therapy for a long time. Which means he had to have had your co-operation, or at least your parents. Were you taken to the doctors often? Given a lot of shots or had your blood drawn?”
“Alex never went to the Doctor!” Jacob says angrily. “She never got sick either, even though Dad wouldn’t let her get any vaccines.” Crossing his arms across his chest for emphasis, it’s apparent that my little brother is very upset at my being accused. He’s sitting next to Chris, who I can tell is doing his best not to console him in front of everyone. Baxter whines and leaves me to go try and minister to his other friend.
Something Jake said gets my attention though. The vaccines. “You know, several years ago when I was going into first grade, I think, the school wanted proof of my shots. I had never gotten them. Mom wanted me vaccinated, but Dad was adamant about it. It was one of the few times that they ever argued about something. That’s why I remember it. The school eventually demanded that I either get the vaccines, or show proof of being immune to a couple of the diseases, because there had been some recent cases. I don’t know what it was, maybe the measles.
“Anyway, I remember the day that Dad took me to a special lab for it in Seattle. I was only seven, but I was so scared that I‘d never forget it. I had never had a shot before or even been to a doctor, so the thought of having all my blood sucked out of me was terrifying. The building was so big, with all these hallways and glass walls. The lab was enormous and a man with a funny suit met us out front, and escorted us through a bunch of rooms. I was surprised when we finally got to the doctor, because I imagined him being this Frankenstein-like figure. Except he wasn’t at all. He was funny, and had this big nose and bushy black beard, and made me laugh so that I didn’t even notice-” I pause, the image of this man coalescing in my mind into a current, older version.
“Professor Hassan,” Seth supplies. I look up at him, nodding silently.
“I think so,” I confirm. “It might have been. So you mean, this whole time, my Dad knew this about me? He was working with Hassan to make this happen?” Covering my face with my hands, I struggle to come to terms with this. I know my dad loved me like his own daughter, and would never do anything to hurt me, but so much has happened these past few months that I question what reality is anymore.
“That would make sense,” Tucker says, writing Hassan’s name, mine, and age 7 underneath it. I chuckle at this and I sound a little crazy, even to me.
“No,” I counter. “Nothing really makes any sense.”
“Do you think the raid that your Grandpa led, when they found you as a baby, was planned all along so they could take you?” Seth suddenly asks me, leaning forward on the table eagerly. “Maybe the Khufu Bast knew that you were different, and that’s why you’re so important to both them and the Mudameere.”
“There are legends,” Benuk interrupts, his voice easily drowning out any other chatter in the room. He has everyone’s attention. “Every known society has legends. But with the Nephilim, theirs span tens of thousands of years so have become muddied and confused. Because of this, they aren’t given a lot of merit, but there is one in particular I think you should hear.
“It tells the story of a leader, one that is different from all others. You know that the Nephilim have obtained their perfect health and lifespans due to genetic manipulation, so it only makes sense that this mythic leader is said to be born with a mutation: one that will enable them to lead the people out of darkness, every twenty-thousand years.
“Nephilim history speaks of episodic times of illness, famine, and death that seem to correlate with this timeframe, but most theologians say it is only a myth born of this coincidence.”
“Oh please!” Kyle barks after a long, drawn-out silence. “You really aren’t trying to tell us that Alex is some mutated, prophesized leader of the Nephilim?”
“I’m not saying any such thing,” Benuk replies calmly. “But I think we need to consider the possibility that the Khufu Bast and Mudameere believe that she is.”
SEVENTEEN
It’s been nearly a week since I discovered that I’m essentially not human. At least, not according to my DNA. I can’t quite wrap my brain around this, and it’s obvious that my friends can’t either. They’ve been trying to treat me the same as always, but it’s been strained. Missy is really the only one who doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by it. What did she say? Once things get back to normal, you’ll probably be famous! They’ll start calling you super girl or something and base a TV series off you.
It was late at night, that first night after the meeting. We were talking to each other from our small, army-issued beds, a pale strip of moonlight painting the room from our only window. I was feeling like my world was pretty much ending, but Missy somehow has the ability to put everything in order for me. It was difficult when we got back to the barracks and had to try to explain it all to our mothers. They were supportive, of course, but extremely worried about what it all meant.
I’ve since been subjected to multiple blood tests, personality questionnaires, and a battery of physical exams. They are obsessed with my eyes. I think someone in the medical department has a pool going on why they’re so uniquely colored. They’ve lost all hint of blue now, and are completely silver, other than the ring of violet on the edges. I found a couple of empty eye exam places, but no colored lenses. Occasionally, when I catch my reflection, I don’t recognize myself. It’s for this reason that I continue to avoid mirrors.
The rifle in my hands reverberates, and the paper target one hundred meters away is shredded. I’ve come to look forward to these late-afternoon range sessions. There’s something about firing my AR that helps clear my head, and gives me room to think. The only issue is the crowd that always gathers before my scheduled training time. It’s not only military personnel either, but civilians. Apparently, they think I’m here to put on a free show for them, rather than train. My instructor quickly tried to intervene by establishing a set distance, marked by cones that all spectators must stay behind, but they still show up to see the alien girl shoot her gun.
Zane has amped up our schedule these last couple of days, based on new reports coming in from our scouts. They managed to get two motorcycles running, and have been using them for recon. It seems that the new Shiners are getting more organized in their attacks. Some of the antiviral meds were distributed to isolated communities, but we have to widen our range if we are to have any chance of getting ahead of the next phase. What that is, is still up for debate. I agree with Zane’s assessment, that it will mirror what happened with the Holocene virus: the purging of any uninfected. At some point, it becomes easier for them to just kill the rest of us, rather than attack and try to infect us. It won’t be long, given the stories now pouring in from around the country, before the Mudameere have the numbers they need to tip the balance. That’s where we come in, and it might be sooner than later.
I discharge my spent cartridge and slam home a fresh one, deciding to completely eliminate all signs of the distant target. I’m feeling a bit caged today. I need to go for a run. They’ve cut out the cardio portion of our training to make room for more classroom and tactical. But I need to run.
I was on my High Schools cross-country team, and would have gone to state this year. It seems surreal, even thinking about that. I long to get out where there’s nothing but an open trail in front of me, and although I’m likely one
of the most physically agile people on the planet right now, I know instinctually that I still need to work to better myself. I plan to get out this evening after dinner, when it’s cooler and I have some free time.
Maybe Missy will even go with me. It turns out that I didn’t need to be concerned about my friend and her potential as a soldier. She’s attacked this challenge just as she does everything else that’s thrown at her; with a vengeance. Once she gained some confidence with her abilities on the mats, she excelled at hand-to-hand. I’ll never forget Kyle’s expression, the first time she pinned him. He tried to laugh it off, but I could tell that he didn’t ‘let’ her get the upper hand. Missy’s also a wiz at working with electronics, and while she’ll never pin me, she has me beat there.
I can hear hollering from Nate and Kyle, even through my earplugs. As I line up with the target, I pause, listening. Yeah, that was definitely Nate that time. Pulling at the strings attached to my hearing protection, I secure my rifle and push up off the ground, turning towards the voices behind me.
When I see a small crowd surrounding the mats, I groan inwardly. Chris talked Doc Paul into clearing him a couple days early for physical combat training. I have no doubt about what I’m going to see as I start towards them, based on the emotions emanating from Chris. I usually avoid trying to sense anything from him, even though Zane, Paul, and Tucker have all urged me to explore it. I know I’ll have to do something about it soon, but I haven’t processed this enough yet to face it.
“Come on Chris, kick his ass!” Kyle yells, and my fears are confirmed. Facing each other on the padding are Chris and Seth. They’ve both removed their shirts, as is common for the men, but somehow with them it just makes it seem more threatening. It’s unusually hot today, even for Montana, and they are both glistening with sweat. I try to avoid being distracted by their muscular physiques, and instead focus on their faces. I wish I hadn’t.
I understand and even to a degree, share Chris’s obvious dislike of Seth. Despite his help since finding Nator, his part in everything up to that point can’t be forgotten. However, the pure fury and hatred in Chris’s eyes is shocking. Seth’s normally neutral demeanor is now that of a dangerous predator, and the contrast of cold apathy on his face is even more chilling.
Someone has to stop this. I quickly locate our instructor on the sidelines and make my way to him. The guys continue to circle each other, looking for a weakness.
“Why are you letting them do this?” I ask when I have his attention.
Raising his eyebrows at me, he doesn’t seem to share my concern. “What do you mean? They’re going through the same maneuvers that you’ve all been practicing. Chris was cleared by Doctor Paul this morning.”
I struggle to counter his logic. I need to explain my reasoning without causing him to question any of us, or our motives for being here. “They have history,” I say lamely.
Tilting his head slightly, he regards me for a moment and then slowly smiles. “Sometimes the best way to settle a dispute is to have it out in a safe environment such as this. I should also remind you, as was discussed in orientation, any romantic involvement among troops will likely lead to discord.”
Blushing, I consider correcting his assumption, but then decide to let it rest. Nothing I say is going to persuade him to intervene. If anything, I probably just made it worse, since he clearly believes them beating each other up is somehow therapeutic. The sound of fist on flesh pulls my attention back to the fight and I grimace at the blood trickling from the corner of Chris’s mouth. I vaguely wonder if my rush of emotion distracted him, leaving him open for the punch.
Chris looks my way as I contemplate this, and I can tell by his expression just before he’s hit again, that I’m definitely influencing him. Infuriated, I slam a mental wall into place and try with all my will to block him out.
“Stop it, Seth!” I order, balling my hands into fists.
“Sorry, doll,” he answers, waiting for Chris to get back on his feet. “I’m not a Shiner. You can’t control me so easily.”
Suddenly, Chris explodes off the mat, catching Seth off-guard when he slams up into his chest, lifting him clear off his feet. Both of them are big and well built and were a pretty even match before, although Seth is a couple inches taller. But it’s obvious now, that with the physical enhancements of the virus, Chris is more agile and likely stronger.
With a loud smack, they both hit the ground, Chris on top. Seth tries to wrap him up with a wrestling move, but Chris isn’t having any of it. Easily breaking his attempted hold, he pushes off to allow space to deliver a solid blow to Seth’s jaw. Lining up to strike him again, the ref steps in and clasps his fist to stop him.
For a moment, as Chris yanks his hand away and spins on the other man, I’m afraid he’s about to attack him. Blinking rapidly, he appears to realize who grabbed him and why, and his muscles visibly relax as he steps back. He has yet to cut his hair, and it’s come loose of its tie to frame his face, accentuating his Native American features. He reminds me of a warrior, and I realize that maybe that’s exactly what he is now.
Looking back down at Seth’s prone form, Chris shakes out his shoulders and then reaches out to help the other man to his feet. It was a knockout punch, but Seth took it better than most. Taking the help up, he then rubs at his jaw and grinning, slowly reaches out, and makes a come-and-get-me gesture.
Chris accepts the invitation and after a brief scuffle, regains control by sweeping Seth’s legs and following through with another blow to his face. The crowd collectively moans at the sound of Seth’s cheekbone being reshaped. But he won’t give in. After being separated, Seth squares off again with his opponent. He’s no longer smiling.
Unable to watch, I make my way over to the tall figure of Benuk. He looks at me sympathetically, but then turns back in time to see Seth connect a kick to Chris’s ribs. “Would you please make them stop?” I ask him, cringing as Chris recovers from the kick and then throws himself at Seth, both of them falling to the mat.
“I doubt that at this point they will listen to anyone,” he answers, still watching the fight. “Did you know that it has been a part of many cultures for men to work out their differences in this manner?”
Exasperated, I turn away from the scene that is starting to get bloody, and stare out at the open plains beyond. “Sure, Benuk. I know what you’re getting at, and it might have some merit, but do you really think that this has anything to do with culture? No! It’s just two guys that want to beat the crap out each other, and they both happen to be my friends. I can’t watch this.”
“Yes, they are both your friends, Alex,” he agrees, turning his attention to me now. I forget what an imposing figure he is as his blue eyes focus on me, flashing in the sunlight. “And if they are to fight beside each other on the battlefield, then they need to come to terms with that. It may be that the only way they can do that, is to draw blood now. Sometimes this is the only language that two men can share.”
Shaking my head, I decide to just admit defeat in understanding it. I trust Benuk, and know that he’s the only one of my friends that wouldn’t want to see either one of them beat to a pulp. Keeping my back to the carnal scene, I start to walk away. The sound of Nate, Kyle and Missy cheering Chris on follows me, and I do my best to keep the wall around my emotions in place.
EIGHTEEN
It’s nearly an hour later before there’s a soft knock at my door. I know that it’s Chris, because I felt his emotional turmoil when he was still at a distance down the hallway. Hesitating, I continue to stare at the dust motes. They’re floating slowing in the late afternoon sunlight that’s streaking through the hot room, much like the moonlight was the other night. I’m transfixed by the way they sparkle, and think of how my life is similar to the random, out-of-control manner in which they spin and tumble through the air.
There’s a more insistent knock on the metal door and I take a deep breath, settling as far back as I can on the small bed, with my legs pull
ed under me. “You can come in,” I call out, sounding a little more perturbed than I meant to.
The door doesn’t open immediately. I imagine he’s considering my tone and whether he should leave or not. I already intentionally blocked him out as soon as I felt him approaching, so I can’t say for certain what his thoughts are now. Tempted to reach out a little, the knob turns before I make up my mind. Quickly retreating within myself again, I transfer my attention from the dust to my dirty fingernails resting in my lap.
“Alex,” Chris says from the open doorway. “Can I come in and talk to you? Please?”
Shrugging my shoulders, I refuse to look up at his bruised and bloodied face. I know it’s bloody without looking, because the room is now full of the coppery smell. Mingling with it is sweat and something I can’t quite define, but it’s making me nauseous. I jump gracefully from the bed and open the small window, happy for the distraction. Even though the air outside is warmer than in here, due to it being a concrete building, anything fresh is an improvement. Maybe if I stand in front of it, I won’t gag. If I had to list one enhancement that I would happily give up, it would be my bloodhound nose.
“Alex,” Chris says to my back. “We really need to talk, and I would rather do it face-to-face.”
I realize that I’m close to acting like a child, and check to make sure that my bottom lip isn’t sticking out. I used to do that when I was younger, and my dad called it my pouty face. If Chris were to laugh at me right now, I’m not sure what I would do. Assured that my lips are normal, and even sucked in a little, I turn to face him.
Yup. Just like I thought. His bottom lip is split open, his right eye is swelling shut, there is a nice cut on his forehead that’s still oozing, and his nose has dried blood in it. Hunching slightly at the waist, he’s holding his ribs, which I’m sure are nicely bruised. I’m tempted to feel sympathy for him, but my overriding emotion is contempt. The surge of feelings is strong enough to break over my wall, and I see him wince as it washes over him.
