by Hanks, Greg
When the final skyscraper peeled away, a blinding white light took its place. The strange glow. Huge floodlights jutted upwards at least twenty feet into the air, cascading the areas below with clear exposure. The concert-sized section of Battery Park was as bright as noonday.
The crowd picked up pace, and in the confusion I lost Evan. I swerved around, only to be pushed by more, sweaty infected people. I felt like a cow being herded into our corral—a cesspool of eager spirits, desperate to do anything for their own benefit. I tried to find a glimpse of The Ghost, but it was no use.
After passing the massive Park trees, my mind took a nosedive. In front of the sea of flesh, a long, six-foot high stage fitted with a glass podium supported a few milling Volunteers. Colossal pillars lined the sides of the stage, adorned with brazen “G” ornaments. Similar letters dotted the entire presentation.
The crowds conversed and murmured. Frustrated with my range of sight, I stood on my toes and tried to plot a path to the stage, thirty yards away. People pressed up against me, filling in the gaps. I searched the crowd, spotting people I had seen from my building, a few I recognized from the city. I smirked as I found The Ghost, chatting with someone, far from my position.
“Good evening everyone,” said a youthful voice, muffled by the microphone.
I weaved through the barricade of bodies, getting a better view. A gap opened between two heads, and I saw him. A regular looking man stood at the podium, with short, coffee-drenched hair, styled upward in the front. He was wearing the generic GenoTec uniform: a bumblebee yellow jumpsuit, separated by a thick belt. Across the chest and each leg were black, strap-like bands, crossed in an “X.” They always wore the same dark boots, rising mid-calf, and gloves that fit perfectly to the figure of their hands.
The uniform caused my mind to unlatch a memory. Yellow cuffs. I contemplated the accompanying story.
“Thank you for coming tonight, we are very pleased to have all of you here. In a few short moments, we will be privileged to hear from an amazing man—someone who has done more for this world than words can describe. He has been the brains behind everything we have accomplished thus far. He is optimistic of the future of this planet and is willing to go to great lengths to achieve victory over Edge. Tonight, we are going to unveil a product that will change the world. It’s going change everything. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the CEO of GenoTec, Archturus Slate!”
The crowd shuffled and mumbled in a low reverberating tone. As the thin man stepped out of the floodlights’ reach, another person emerged. People started to whisper, creating an overcast of uneasiness and anticipation. Once I caught hold of this new person, a sudden spark of fear ran down my spine and filtered throughout my body. My gut wrenched. I completely froze.
“It’s him,” I overheard someone saying near me.
The microphone picked up the hollow, ominous footsteps as the CEO approached the podium. Standing there, delaying his speech to look over the crowd, was the most interesting—and possibly menacing—man the world would ever see. His bald head shined, accentuating the bold, veiny tattoo wrapping its way down the side of his skull and down his neck. He had a pair of fuzzy caterpillars, sitting above his abyssal eyes. The black holes searched the crowd as he placed his hands upon the podium.
His choice of clothing came off as casual military. He wore a thick, tanned leather jacket that drowned his body, past his waist. The collar stuck up, almost reaching his jaw line. Although the coat was opened—baring his chest—he must have been sweating like crazy, because it was the middle of May. Underneath the leathery coat, a hardened, plastic-metal material braced his chest and abdomen. Colored a dark gray, it looked somewhat like flexible armor—but the thought sounded silly to me. His pants were olive, stuffed into his military style boots. Overall, he was a tank. Even from where I was standing, I could tell he definitely consumed his share of protein.
The most intricate and terrifying thing about Slate wasn’t the fact that he still hadn’t said anything yet. It was the glinting chrome contraption encased the lower half of his face. It was thin on the sides and back, but as it reached his mouth and nose, it grew into a bulbous, polygonal vent-like thing. Markings and indentations arrayed the mask, glaring under the floodlights.
Then he breathed. Everyone could hear the metallic, raspy vibration that emitted from the speakers. It sounded like he was using a megaphone. That sound—it rebounded throughout my entire frame.
The tension broke when his words pierced the evening air.
“Edge,” he pronounced, the word echoing over the Park. His voice was pitchy, but not by design. It was that thing on his face. “That is the reason we are all here.”
He scanned the arena, scrutinizing the thousands of people in his grasp. It was as quiet as a museum at midnight. Only the soft, almost inaudible sloshing of the Hudson found traction. Slate shifted his weight and adjusted the microphone.
“You are probably wondering why we summoned you here by way of darkness. I know some of you are a little annoyed.” There was something about his voice, something deep and dark, without caution or care. “Well,” he breathed, “after tonight, your lives will never be the same.”
I peered over to the people next to me, finding shifty eyes and uncertain, impatient looks. I just knew what all of us were thinking. But it couldn’t be true. I tried to keep an open mind.
“Well, it’s very simple really,” he continued. “We’ll skip the pleasantries this time. Let me explain.” He stood there, waiting for something, still staring into the crowd. A second later, a man in GenoTec garments came waddling toward him carrying a tray. “Baldy” took a small, metal vial from his henchman and raised his eyebrows. The vial was partially covered by glass on one side, letting everyone see a shimmering orange liquid.
“This, ladies and gentleman,” he held up the small tube, “this is what you have all been waiting for. This,” he glanced around one last time before he said, “is a cure.”
The crowd erupted into whispers, gasps, and confused looks.
What did he just say?
A huge burst of energy pulsed through me like a fireball and I decided I needed a better view. I didn’t make it far, though. I was dealing with thousands of desperate victims. No one was going to give up their spot.
Slate motioned for silence. “I know what you’re thinking. I know exactly what is going through your minds.” He looked at the tiny bottle and then returned his gaze. “Would I pull all of you here just to fail you?” His voice cracked a little.
“This better not be more ‘pods, Slate!” shouted someone from the crowd.
“Let ‘im talk!”
“Shut up and let him talk!”
“Yeah! Those Medpods suck!”
“So we finally get the same perks as the Sterile’s?” sprayed another member of the now unruly collection.
Slate raised one eyebrow and unscrewed the vial. He pressed a button on his mask and it released a valve on the left side of his “mouth.” He put the vial up against the valve and it drained into the mask. His Adams apple jolted.
The crowd fell silent.
All eyes focused on the CEO. He took a sweeping glance over the crowd, then discarded his coat to the ground. The armor-like plate only covered his chest and abdomen, exposing two rock solid arms. On one of his bowling ball-sized shoulders lived an algae colored, crusty splotch. It consumed most of his deltoid, and trickled down his tricep. He looked at it, smiling underneath the mask, waiting for something to happen.
After about three minutes, we saw the splotch start to change color. Green turned to faint amber, and then a bluish hue. Ten seconds later, he wiped away some of the brittle growth, and I watched as the flakes sprinkled like snow.
No way. That’s blood!
Blood was seeping back into the patch of dead life, and it almost looked . . . normal. Normal. I instinctively felt for one of the scabs on my chest. Is this really happening? The crowd exchanged skeptical looks for half a second
.
Then the tumult broke. People turned into animals: pushing, shoving, and clawing to get to the podium. I found myself hammering my way amongst them, keeping my eyes on Slate. He let the crowd fight toward the stage; he had to be grinning underneath that mask.
He grew tired of the game and stepped back to the microphone, taking a long, deep breath. He reminded me of an old movie my parents used to love; some guy in a black helmet, breathing similarly.
He motioned for the crowd to settle down, and we did, like trained pets.
“This vaccine finds the largest blood deprived area in your body and restores genuine flow to your vessels. This is the first step to complete and total inoculation. And now that you’ve seen its magic, who wants to be the first to try it on themselves?” He stood back as his bodyguard handed him two vials filled with the orange liquid.
I was too busy groping for a vial; I didn’t realize how cruel these games were.
The crowd continued to sustain their screams. Some people even tried to climb the stage, but were pushed back by the Volunteers. I could tell the bald man was getting impatient with us. He looked back and shrugged to his assistants, stepped up to the edge of the stage, and lobbed both of the vials into the air.
Chaos ensued. People were throwing themselves. One after another they fell on their faces, lunging for their survival. I couldn’t blame them though. I mean, a cure? The word alone was taboo, too holy to be spoken without flickering eyes or turned heads.
Finally, there was an eruption of screams as a girl with a black ponytail grasped the first vial. She held it up in the light and grinned. I looked around for the second one, but couldn’t find it anywhere. Suddenly, I noticed everyone was looking . . . at me.
I doubled over as an awfully hard object hit me square in the head. I rubbed my scalp gingerly, realizing that the tube had been coated with Vinciglass—the strongest glass material on the planet. And how I hated it right now. The first thing I heard was the tang of the vial hitting the asphalt. Then, within that same moment, a fist the size of a grapefruit found its way to my face.
My head jerked to one side, and I felt like my skin would separate from my bone. Holy hell, I hadn’t been punched in ten years. The pain seemed incredibly authentic, more real than anything Edge could produce. It didn’t take long for the Adrenoprene to overshadow the surging nerves.
“It’s mine!” But the voice was muffled as another punch took him down. I heard the tinkling of metal again, but I was too dizzy to see anything. People were pushing me, knocking me back. I held on to my head, trying to stabilize myself, but it was no use.
“Aha!” said another male voice. I attempted to look up, my vision slowly returning.
I shook my head until I could see again. A dog pile of men and women, all different ages, struggled in front of me, trying to get their hands on the vial. A tussle broke out on the left of the mound; two people were wrestling, fighting for something in a clenched palm.
Out of the two struggling people came the small, silver vial. It rolled gently through their legs and stopped at the tip of someone’s shoe.
My shoe.
I froze. The people surrounding me drew back a little—these folks were the frail ones, or otherwise timid. The fighters were preoccupied; all I had to do was bend over and take it for myself.
There was no remorse. I swooped down, clutched the vial, unscrewed the cap, and guzzled the liquid. I didn’t care at all. The rage, the infection, and the excitement that lived within me did not care.
After the strangely sweet liquid drained down my throat, I lowered my hand, still grasping the metal container. The fighters were surprised and angry. The depressed ones stood with hopeful eyes and feeble strength. Then I saw a child, pressed up against her mother’s leg, watching me vigilantly. I looked down at the vial.
There had to be more of it, right?
“Well?!” shouted a nearby fighter, enraged that his mouth hadn’t graced the tube of life.
I lifted my sleeve, finding the familiar splotch that looked somewhat like Greenland, planted on my forearm. It was quiet around me, except for the occasional grunt and pant of the recent combatants. Everyone was watching—watching me.
To my far left, a huge group of people erupted into cheers and hollers. I was the only one still looking at my arm. My eyes burned, anticipating any sign of recovery.
Come on. Come on!
“Look!” someone shouted, pointing a finger toward me.
I looked up at them, then down at my arm, feeling a hyper rush shoot through me. I saw it. The fresh, gooey blood started to release itself underneath my skin. The hues drastically changed. Like autumns offspring, my retched skin began to mend. An uncontrolled tear—a real tear—rolled down my cheek. I watched five years of crusty, unforgiving detritus heal itself into something manageable. Something . . . whole.
I gasped tearfully, looking up at the others. Despite my selfish actions, they knew what this moment meant—even if it wasn’t them in the limelight. This was much bigger than two people becoming free from Edge, it was a statement. A banner to the world that the curse of Edge could and would be eradicated.
Tonight that other girl and I became the new Adam and Eve.
With the sight of two people feeling the effects of this newfound development, the crowd accepted GenoTec’s newest “band-aid.”
“Hope,” said Slate. “Isn’t that what this is about? Tonight, GenoTec gives you hope. Hope to fight another day. Hope to find yourselves. Hope that one day . . . we will all be free!” He scanned the crowd, taking in the approving looks, the cheering population. His eye’s watered for a moment, then his demeanor changed.
“Now,” he said, “this . . . this is only a temporary cure.”
The crowd dropped their gleeful attitude and started to turn sour.
What? But I saw it happen?
“Please,” Slate heeled, “please.” He brandished another metal-coated vial. “It is called Vax. Vax is the beginning. Take this every week, and you can feel healthy, strong, and avoid the fear of unwarranted attacks. Blood will return. Bodies will be cleansed. As Vax works within us, GenoTec will have enough time to produce the final cure. Vax is the gateway. It is our destiny.”
I was confused at first, but I wasn’t about to question the demonstration. I looked down at my arm and still, the evil that had once had claim over my flesh was indeed gone. I glanced back at Slate, seeing his protruding muscles, his vein-stricken neck, and his monstrous presence.
“Put your trust in us—in GenoTec. Not because of this display, but because you genuinely feel that this is truth.” He raised his arms like a giant bird of prey. “After all, who has sustained the nation’s economy during the crisis? Who made sure that life would continue to grow and prosper, even in a time of death and destruction? My dear citizens, I must be off to other regions around the country—Vax must be spread. But know this: GenoTec has not failed you and will not fail you in times to come. There will be a cure. There will be redemption. And there will be no Edge!”
My ears were flooded with the crashing sounds of screaming, electrified people. Although I didn’t raise my voice in praise as Slate lingered on stage, I guess I agreed. The cynical side of me tried to complain, but not today. Not this time. Maybe I’d hit the Volunteer kiosk tomorrow. I was feeling impulsive.
I kept staring at my arm. I caressed the soft skin, tracing the recovering veins. My eyes were still wet from astonishment, and as I blinked the blurriness away, another person approached the podium.
“To receive further instructions on Vax, please come to the north side of the stage. Please follow the Volunteers. We, as always, appreciate your patience.”
I was hardly listening.
The sea of people started moving. I remembered the punch and felt my lips gingerly. The bleeding had stopped, and I wiped the excess with my sleeve. I could tell it was going to swell. At least it wasn’t coming out of my eyes.
Eventually, curiosity got the best of me and
I stepped in line.
I took another peek at the stage and noticed Slate had vanished. Only a few remaining GenoTec Volunteers were conversing behind the podium, while nearly twenty more helped the crowd get to where they needed to be, ushering, directing, and leading.
The line of people came to a halt.
I started to scan the surrounding area, checking to see if I knew anyone. Finding someone to celebrate with would be a little better than bottling it in. As my eyes crossed to the other end of the stage, I spotted a GenoTec garbed man. He turned away and told something to his partner.
Was he . . . staring at me?
I stepped completely out of the line and craned my neck to get a better view. The man continued to speak with his Volunteer friend, as if discussing the event. He turned again and looked directly at me. Then he put an arm around his partner and they disappeared.
“Excuse me?” said a voice from behind.
I ignored it, taking a few confused steps away from the line. The voice repeated.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and jumped.
“Hi, I’m Tara.”
6
My mind was still clinging to the image of the mysterious Volunteer. Nevertheless, I noticed the girl standing before me was none other than “Eve”, the first vial owner.
“Mark Wenton,” I said, with a little skepticism. I turned my head back, checking one more time. He was gone.
“You okay?” she asked.
I snapped back. “I—yeah.”
I’m not sure if it was my lustful, society-deprived mind, but this girl was beautiful. From what I could tell, she was in her mid-twenties. She had ink black hair that shimmered in the overhead light. It was done up in a ponytail, with flat bangs and longer tendrils hanging over her temples. Her Caribbean blue eyes were engaging, with a smoky attractiveness that had me mesmerized. Underneath, cute crease lines formed every time she smiled. She was fair skinned, thin, with two black and brown Edge spots on her arms. She looked like the type of girl who actually knew fashion; something I had no knowledge of at all. She wore tight black jeans and a white t-shirt with the insignia of a band imprinted on it. The way her body curved made my testosterone levels reach an all-time high.
