The War Within #1: Victims

by Rodham Perry, Marcus

  “I told you I’m wasn’t kidding.”

  “And what would it take for me to receive such a sentence?”

  “It’s not that difficult, you just have to be a threat to me or to my group. Nowadays, this almost always means that you would be some sort of ally to the Critters.”

  “A collaborator? To those monsters?” Asimov spat on the floor. “How can anyone work for those things?”

  “Actually I can understand why,” Cássio confessed, “Its History. The weak will always bend to the stronger ones, even if it means to butcher their own kind. Even so, I’m still going to gut these guys alive, Human Rights that go to hell.”

  They stopped in front of one that was different from the others — there was more activity here, with people coming and going all the time. The windows were open, and Asimov smelled food. Inside, a soup was being served. Cássio got in line and Asimov followed, noticing the amount of people. There weren’t many, but certainly more than he had seen all morning. He noticed several glances directed at him and Cássio, always the same combination: suspicion for one and deference for the other.

  “How many people do you have around here?”

  “Enough to obey me, but not enough to make me feel safe.”

  They get in the line and Cássio explained that feeding everyone was always a challenging prospect, with their only food coming from their scavenge missions, but that that eventually that would run out and they would need a better plan. Asimov barely listened to him, fascinated by the smell of the cooking that filled the place.

  When it was their turn, Cássio said to the girl, “A double portion for my friend, Karla, can it be?”

  “Yeah, like we have plenty left,” the woman muttered, but complied. The bowl was warm in Asimov’s hands, but he barely noticed, practically bewitched by the smell of the meal. He had no doubt that it wouldn’t be the tastiest soup he had ever taken, but at that moment would probably be the food of the gods.

  The two men moved to one of the rooms in the back of the house, where a table with several benches had been set up.

  “Call the others, will you? And bring Polly in,” Cássio told one of the guards as he sat down. The man accepted the order with a nod and disappeared from sight. Asimov barely paid attention, his eyes on the soup. It was cabbage. Did he like cabbage? He shrugged and continued to eat.

  After a moment Cássio asked. “You said this girl—”

  “Olivia,” Asimov corrected, “Her name was Olivia.”

  “Right, Olivia. You said she talked about a ship...”

  “Yes,” Asimov confirmed, not taking his eyes off the bowl, seeing that most of the soup was already gone. “The Navy is stationed on Ilha Bela.”

  “Asimov, there is no ship there. I know this because our wonderful Navy left the country days ago. The military abandoned the country faster than our president.”

  Asimov’s mouth was open and empty. He closed it, gathering his thoughts. There was, indeed, something strange in that story. But Olivia had been emphatic about going to Ilha Bela. “Well, there’s something on Ilha Bela,” he said. “Otherwise she wouldn’t want to go there with so much hurry.”

  Cássio scratched his beard. “She might want to go there just because it’s an island. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve heard people wanting to go there. I can see the logic, an isolated place, few inhabitants...” He made a gesture with his hand as if he were literally discarding the idea and throwing it in the trash.” It doesn’t do much good if everyone there has become infected.”

  Before Asimov could think of anything to say, there was a knock on the door and four people entered the room. They were all strangers to him, but in the middle of that group a woman caught his attention. It wasn’t really the woman — not that she wasn’t pretty, tall and slender — but the boy that was with her. Thomas. And he was carrying his backpack. The boy looked at him and smiled, sitting down beside him. Asimov smiled back.

  After that Cássio introduced the others. Asimov didn’t save any name except the woman’s. Her name was Polly. Polly Maia. Asimov was too old to be drooling over her, but apparently Thomas wasn’t.

  “Polly, did you see Victor?” Cássio asked.

  “Oh, he must be in his ‘clinic’, you know whom the doctor is.”

  Two men expressed amusement at the remark. Cássio didn’t.

  “Okay,” he snorted. “What about the blood tests?”

  “They are clean, but… Cássio, was this really necessary? I mean, look at the two of them. They are far from being infected, for me. Besides, if they are infected, we are already dead.”

  “We agreed on this for a reason, Polly,” Cássio said. “We don’t need another Arthur in our midst.”

  Polly’s smile died on her lips and a sour air settled into the room. Asimov had no idea what they were talking about, and apparently no one was willing to explain what it was.

  One of the men cleared his throat. “Well, but I think in this case we can dismiss the test,” he said. “And I must say, because of you, Cássio. I mean, with all due respect.” He turned to Asimov and then turned his attention to Cássio.

  “That’s not the point,” Cássio cut in. “The point is, Victor had four hours to tell me the result. Four hours, dammit, and I had to go and see with my own eyes if this unfortunate man had made the Turn, I...” He paused, taking a deep breath. “We discussed it later. Now,” he turned to Asimov, “these illustrious people represent the little order that we have tried to establish here, and it is them who will decide whether or not you are welcome to join our club.”

  Asimov opened his mouth to speak, but Cássio ignored him, turning to his little advice. “The man here,” he pointed to Asimov, “is indeed a member of the Battalion of Special Police Operations of the State of Rio de Janeiro. Despite being ugly as an infected, I think it would be nice to have a man in black in the group.”

  “Yes, I don’t see why not,” agreed a man. The guy next to him just nodded.

  “Cássio, we’re running low, man,” said the third. “I don’t like being against, but we can barely feed our people. Two more mouths...” He stopped and looked at the boy. “Okay, a mouth and a half. I don’t know...” He stopped and sighed. “But damn it, its yes.”

  “Yes,” Polly said.

  “Very well,” Cássio said. “Asimov, you’re welcome to stay, if you like.” Something in Asimov’s expression made him grind his teeth. “I see you need some time to think about the proposal. All right, we’ll leave you alone to think.”

  Cássio signaled to the others and they left the room. Polly was the last. She shared a look with Thomas and then with Asimov, and next she was gone.

  “Olivia,” Thomas said when they are alone, almost too low for Asimov to hear.

  “I... I couldn’t save her, Thomas,” Asimov confessed. “When I arrived, I—”

  “Did she suffer much?”

  What kind of child would ask such questions? Asimov asked himself. But again there it was the clear answer: that boy was far from being an ordinary kid. There was something singular about him, something imperative, Asimov could feel it; he was convinced of this fact every second he spoke with the boy.

  “No,” Asimov lied. “It was fast.”

  If Thomas noticed that it was a deceit, he didn’t say anything. Instead, the boy rested his face on the table. “It’s my fault,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  “IT’S MY FAULT!” Thomas exploded, turning his head back to Asimov. His face was wet, the tears coming down the red cheeks, the sadness and the mourning suddenly bursting out, coming up like an erupting volcano. “She died, and it’s my fault! The monster was trying to get into the bathroom, and I… I...” he hid his face in her hands, “I couldn’t shoot! It’s my fault!” The boy moaned, shaking his head, enraged with himself. “I tried, but the gun didn’t fire! So the thing got me and... and…”

  Thomas began to collapse, and Asimov couldn’t say when he hugged him. Suddenly he pressed the b
oy to his chest, letting him cry.

  WARLORD

  The submarine was sailing mere twenty meters above the seabed, near the port of São Sebastião. In layman terms, it wasn’t a very nice place to be, as the port had become a sort of cemetery of large and medium-sized fishing boats, along with some ferries and even an oil tanker. Abandoned by their owners, those vessels found themselves in the hands of some storms and ended up drifting or below sea level. The feeling was of crossing an asteroid belt, but it had its advantages there — to begin with, they were close enough to the coast for a very quick extraction of their personnel.

  Captain Kiersey glanced at his pocket watch, a relic of his family. For the crew of the USS Obama, the second in the new Washington class of ballistic submarines — the biggest subs ever fabricate by the Navy —, the time had other value. The sun and the moon mean nothing when a person spends most of his life underwater. In order not to lose track of time, the clocks were lined by the average time in Greenwich. However, if someone forgot to look at the watch, it could appear that time had stopped completely.

  It was in this environment that Kiersey subsisted. Many might say that the captain was the living archetype of solidity: tall, large, evil-faced, and with a very ugly scar across his face — the foundation of many legends among the crew —, he had more in common with a warlord than a protector of liberty — God knew that he spoke as one and he was a cynical bastard at least.

  Kiersey was a man habituated to jeopardy, a man whose years of experience allowed him to deal with all situations without losing his calm. Because of that, his crew idolized him; the loyalty of the men and women under his command was absolute. The Obama was launched in the sea only one year before Ground Zero, during a time where humanity big problems were only other people. During that year, Kiersey and his crew found themselves fighting both the Chinese and the Russian vessels. His men bled for him, and in return he took them out of many situations that were “complicated”, to say the least.

  That didn’t mean, of course, that they hadn’t their opinions — their closest officers kept the people in line, but Kiersey knew very well what the men are talking: Why were they there? What business they have in Brazil, while their homeland was bleeding, mutilated? And why were they working with the CIA?

  For all the questions there was an answer, Kiersey knew this better than anyone else — but that doesn’t mean he liked them. To begin with, they were there because General Walker himself ordered them to be there. And when the general barks all that a captain can do was act as he was told, though Kiersey didn’t like the orders.

  Walker put them at the disposition of the CIA — the CIA! As if there was something left for the Agency at the end of the world! It looked like a military power waste, but Kiersey understood the reasons for the general: simple put, the Obama was the closest vessel to the country.

  It should have been a simple extraction of two civilians, but now the plot was getting convoluted. A few minutes ago Hendrix contacted the captain, saying that the target hadn’t appeared at the rendezvous point. As if that weren’t enough, they had lost contact with the target and were now following to their last known location, in the nearby town, Caraguatatuba.

  Kiersey could only wait and watch the situation unfold on the radio. He walked slowly around the periscope at the control center of his ballistic submarine when one of crewman approached him.

  “We got a message,” the man said, “its General Walker, sir.”

  “What that dog wants now?”

  “He’s gone, sir,” the non-commissioned officer continued, visibly pale. “There was an incident at Command. According to the grapevine, General Walker and all his staff had been killed.”

  “What? Damn, how?” Kiersey stammered, and then, “Who’s in charge now?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It happened just now. We’re still waiting to see if there’s any survivor.”

  Kiersey closed his eyes, holding his breath, trying to remain calm. He opened his eyes and exhaled very slowly. “What about COG?” he asked. “Do we have any new orders from President Jameson? The Navy?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “So we stayed here until this—”

  “Captain!” called the sonar technician, turning his head. “We’re catching something a little further down the aft.”

  Before Kiersey could issue any orders, the technician’s eyes doubled in size and he almost jumped from his station. “Torpedoes!” he said loudly and clearly, “Torpedoes in the water!”

  ♦♦♦

  Five seconds later, two gigantic geysers of sea water rose to the sky. Captain Chang, from the CNS Jiàn, didn’t need his binoculars to see it was a good shot.

  “Sir,” said an auxiliary, “the sonar confirmed. The engines of the submarine ceased activity and the depth increases.”

  Captain Chang nodded his head. “Excellent, inform the admiral about our progress,” he turned to the man on his left. Chang was a big man, but this guy was at least two heads taller than him. And yet, for all his size, he seemed to be a swift rather than bulky man, whose obsequious eyes seemed to be watching everything.

  “It’s up to you now, Major,” Chang said. The Major just nodded — he was a man of action, not words. He put his gas mask, left the bridge and joined his troop.

  In a few minutes, they were trotting toward the dropship, all armed and dressed for war, ready for the greatest hunt of all: the Bellerophon, the key to defeating the Plague. With this, under the wise command of Admiral Takami, they would be immortal.

  And out of the ashes, an empire would rise.

  THE SYNTHESIS OF INEVITABILITY

  Vanessa Alves climbed to the top of a building under construction, from where she had a panoramic view of the condo. The search cost them all day, but they found the place. It was luckier than anything else, and if she were a believer, she’d surely thank the heavens. With a clear view of the walls and the interior of the place, she took her binoculars to study the houses and the armed men.

  The attack would be madness, but it would be better than to go back to the Prince empty-handed — that would be suicide. Their time was running out, and it would be now or never. Vanessa saw children and young people in the place, but she felt nothing for them — if the Prince didn’t get the young ones, then she and her people would end like Bruno.

  Many times she wondered if it would be better to just run away. Hell, until now there were people talking about it. There always was. But like her, the staff just spoke and dreamed — no one would run away, not out of love or loyalty, but out of fear, the awareness that there was simply nowhere to run. The world had changed, the human race wasn’t longer at the top of the food chain and those who wanted to survive longer had to learn their place in the new system.

  Vanessa knew that such thing didn’t make her a good person. Far from it, History didn’t remember well about those who betrayed their people to aid an invading force. On the other hand, History was written by the winners and, unlike the Nazi Germany, that new Reich came to stay and it was up to each one to make his choice: run and die or serve and live. For Vanessa, her decision was just the synthesis of inevitability, loyalty obtained through fear.

  In a way it was even easy for her — yes, she, who at the age of sixteen was already earning her dirty money on the streets of São Paulo; she, who had killed for first time at the age of the seventeen; she, who had grown up to become the wife of one of the bosses of organized crime. The decision to take someone’s life wasn’t something strange or complicated. Vanessa had no illusions about what she was, much less about how far she’d go to survive.

  She replaced the gas mask over her face as she walked back inside the building. Vanessa gathered the commanders of her subunits and began to organize the attack. It was so dark they could barely make out the silhouettes of others, just the outline of their faces. Some of the boys had night-vision goggles, but most only had only flashlights. But, although they could barely see each other, the darkness wou
ld also be their only advantage once the bullets began to fly.

  She had little more than fifty fighters — if she could use that word for that bunch of anemic idiots. Six had been sent back to inform the Prince about the place — an attempt to appease the demon if they couldn’t catch the young kids in time — and, from those who remained, only nine had ever fired a rifle.

  “Okay, we’ll do it like this...” she explained the “plan” but didn’t go on long before she was interrupted.

  “Van, this will never work!” someone said, and it was more than enough to make the room be filled with the mumble of the men.

  “He’s right!”

  “What are we doing, bro?”

  “They’re going to kill us.”

  “I say we’d better get out while we still can.”

  “True, we are far from the Prince, it’s now or never!”

  “I’m not going to give any more children to that thing…”

  “Enough!” Vanessa roared, silencing they all, “Everyone here can get away now. If you want to go, then go! But first, try to remember why you chose to kiss the ass of these monsters in the first place. We can do that now or die tomorrow. It may be by the hands of the Prince or a rival pack, but you will all die, and you all know it!”

  The group was soundless, some of them bowing their heads in shame, but knowing it was the truth. Everyone was afraid to die, but they would rather face a tank than the Prince.

  “So,” she said, “are we going to do this or not?”

  She finished explaining her plan, and ten minutes later they were on the move, rushing through the darkness with their flashlights off, the rain reducing visibility but also absorbing all the sounds they made. The ones with night-vision goggles would be in the vanguard. They would use one of the oldest war tactics ever developed by man: surprise.

  Some were young and thin, others bulky and middle-aged, wearing dark or colored shirts, shorts or jeans, boots or even slippers. A few had bulletproof vests and walkie-talkies. Six had RPG-41s. All of them wore the white handkerchief strapped to the right arm.