Titus

by Caleb Byrnand

  Marta obliges. “Our sweep of the entire facility is complete and there are no signs of any more explosives or collaborators. We’re getting ready to get back out there, but since we’ve been down we’ve lost control over many global regions.”

  “Which regions?” Dumachus asks.

  Marta hesitates. “All of them. Two thousand two hundred and thirty-eight zones. There are currently over two million Guardians unaccounted for, and only half of our missionaries have checked in.” The three women look nervously at each other while Dumachus ponders.

  “Why is this happening?”

  Decia’s turn to cover this topic, “The first few Guardian test subjects were unable to distinguish reality from the effects of being in Hell. During the autopsy we found the hypothalamus was hyper inflamed and an inactive paracingulate culcus in the pre-frontal cortex. So now Mother constantly monitors and adjusts their brain chemistry to keep them compliant. And if for any reason that would fail, we calculated that a telepathic bond with the two brothers would keep them in line. Now that one brother has gone rogue and the link to Mother has been cut, there is nothing stopping a large majority of Guardians returning to their natural state of disorder and chaos. It seems the only Guardians still loyal to us are the ones in your proximity.”

  There was a moment, years ago, when they wondered if they were rushing into it. The generational race to be the ones that solve the four-thousand-year-old riddle and be the ones to see through the prophecy was a strong motivator for many Antarcticans.

  Dumachus is still in many ways playing catch-up on the last two thousand years. “What do we do to restore this?”

  Nina is happy to cover this one as she would much rather be the bearer of the lesser of bad news. “We’re manually re-orientating every Guardian we can. Asides from waiting till Mother comes back online we need you out there. This is the final resistance, the last war. Those that you can’t subdue and realign will have to be destroyed.”

  Dumachus has sat in the chair only minutes and is ready to leave the heaviness of conversation. “Anything else?”

  “The people are fighting back as well. Military, civilian, those that received the mark, everyone.” Decia lowers her head. Her optimism can’t penetrate through this racket.

  Dumachus stands and head towards the door. He’s heard enough. “A proper shit-storm then?”

  “As it was written.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Major Winters

  She took the last shift keeping the fire alive. Any wood that wasn’t drenched by the wave has been pulled from the walls and floors to feed the fire. The nights are beginning to get cold and the tower doesn’t provide much in the way of cover. Now that the stars are concealed and the hover planes have stopped flying, she ranks boredom a close second to the cold. A faint glow of the sun appears over the water horizon, the feel of natural light on her face soothing.

  An aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the air as the saucepan on the fire begins to boil. Just briefly, with her eyes closed, everything is back to normal. Glen and Raythe begin to wake up and stretch out the cold joints exacerbated by the hard floor, groaning and yawning obnoxiously.

  “Morning you two. Breakfast?”

  Two heads with squinting eyes pop up and smell the air. “Yes ma’am.” They sit up and shuffle closer towards the fire, warming their hands and knees. “Slow night?”

  Winters pours the three cups of coffee without spilling a drop. “You could say. Not one plane.”

  “That could be an indication that they were successful.” Glen takes his coffee, nodding thanks to the major as he takes his first careful sip. As he looks outside the window his eyes begin to adjust, and way off in the distance a hover plane becomes visible. “So that hover plane heading towards us now could be them then?” Leaving their coffees, all three rush to window to confirm. Raythe and Glen start to cheer. They have had an awesome morning.

  Winters is not one sold so easily. “Just in case, hide the non-coms with the Antarctican in the weapons cache, and return with something that goes off with a bang. Just in case.”

  Just in case they were caught, interrogated and led here.

  ❖

  The water has cleared from the tarmac and the hover plane drops down for a gentle landing. The tinted windshield makes it impossible to identify who is flying. Glen is crossing both fingers quietly chanting “Show me the money, show me the money, show me the money…”

  The door finally opens and three heads peek out to see. A large clone exits first, wearing similar clothes but they can’t see his face. Their hopes are rising. Next is another large clone, and two men who definitely are not Noah and Jason. Deflated. Their mission failed. Everybody ducks down and hopes they just go away. One of the Guardians heads in the direction of the hidden weapons cache.

  Oh no.

  The two corporals are looking to the major for leadership. The second Guardian approaching the tower means they are not going away, and action is needed to be taken.

  Glen and Raythe stand on either side of the entry door while Winters stayed low but in view. With the sound of heavy footsteps rising in elevation and dynamics, Winters raises her firearm and positions the entry in the targeting sight. She steadies her breathing, relaxes her shoulders and readies to shoot. Glen and Raythe are both wide eyed and still, waiting for their cue. The ambient light from the stairwell fades suddenly and her grip tightens. She exhales, squeezes the trigger and waits those final seconds for him to show. The footsteps climbing the stairs stops, the light remains unchanged.

  They’ve found us. Winters grabs a grenade, pulls the pin and allows it cook for a few long seconds. To Glen and Raythe’s relief she throws the grenade into the stairwell and dives out of the way. The explosion sends thousands of shards of wood through the entry and shakes the already unsteady building. She jumps up and runs up to the smoke filled stairwell and begins firing her gun. Glen and Raythe join in and all three blindly unload their clips before taking cover. When only a second ago Glen was screaming his war cry and firing his weapon, now he is whispering, “Think we got him?” There is no way to tell through the smoke and they are left to guess.

  A minute passes and there’s no sign of him. Now that the smoke has dissipated enough Winters quickly sticks her head out. There’s no sign of him, just lots of bullet hole sized beams of light catching the particulates in the air. She ducks down and looks towards the tarmac for the hover plane.

  Still there. What’s going on?

  She doesn’t have time to ponder on it long. An explosion from the weapons cache sends out a shockwave that knocks and splinters the supporting beams and the tenuous control tower falls to the ground.

  The major comes to slowly, buried under debris of tin and wood. One of her ear drums has ruptured and her vision is terribly disrupted. She tries to move but a pain telling her to stop streaks up her spine. The sound of a man screaming for dear life weaves its way through the muffled fog of what’s left of her hearing. Raythe perhaps. As she begins to free herself something warm with the viscosity of syrup warm sprays on her face and body. The screams abruptly ends and the sound of dismembered flesh and guts splat on the ground around her.

  She feels something grab her body, her legs and arms. The breath she was holding onto is squeezed out as the grip tightens. Her body is wrenched out from the debris and thrown on to the tarmac. A blurred outline of a man walks towards her and yells in her face, “Where is he?” He thrusts his palm over her forehead and initiates a psychic connection. Luckily for her the concussive blast scrambled all recent memories, hiding the fact that she set a very large bomb to a timer.

  Finished with another inconclusive mind read, the Guardian pushes her head away, knocking her down. The followers and Guardians begin arguing about something but she can’t make anything out. A moment later a Guardian returns and she feels the purchase of a similar grip over her body. A man approaching continues their argument, but to no effect. Her body is lifted into the air, arms open
ing up and body straightening. She closes her eyes and accepts her fate.

  This is why the sailors didn’t hang around.

  Her arms begin to be pulled out of her sockets as the device she set before they landed counts down. 3, 2, 1…

  The force and flames spew out too fast for anyone to react.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Noah

  Waking up, staring at the ceiling, tucked tightly into my bed. Smells like a hospital. Better than a prison. Or death. He looks around his windowless room but sees no decoration, nothing to indicate where he is or what time it is. The memories of the last few days are faded. Damage from the repeated aggressive mind reads.

  The door opens and in walks Jason wearing a big smile and holding a large bouquet of flowers. “Good. You’re awake.” He extends the flowers as an offering, Noah is a little puzzled by the gesture but reaches for it all the same.

  “What’s this…” Before he can finish his sentence the sheet is pulled away from his extension revealing his prosthetic left arm. “What’s this! What did they do to me?”

  “I was going to say get well soon but we don’t really have that over here.” Noah isn’t seeing the funny side. “They gave you new limbs on account of the old ones not existing anymore. You could’ve got real ones but I think this is meant to be your punishment. For trying to destroy us ‘n all.”

  “I got it, thanks.” Noah pulls back the sheet and inspects his new leg; Osseointegration, an engineered limb grafted onto his thigh bone with simple sensory information transferred from the nanotech to the nerves. The metallic looking prosthetic looks slow and cumbersome. Jason is still standing at the end of the bed, giddy with excitement so Noah asks, “What is it?”

  Jason still smiling unloads, “I don’t know. But whatever you and Titus did worked. It’ll be at least another week till we’re back online, and all sorts of hell is breaking loose out there. Guardians are going rogue and the people are starting to revolt.”

  This seems to be a lot of intelligence Jason is gifting for no apparent reason. “Why are you tell me this, your prisoner?”

  “This is the prophesied final resistance, the last war. And you initiated it. You did!”

  Bad news served with a grin. There’s nothing worse. “I hate you.” Noah meant it, but Jason isn’t going to let anything dampen his spirit.

  “We both played major roles in earth changing prophecies. How are you not even a little excited about it? And side note, you’re not a prisoner here. You have the mark. We have no prisons, no judges or lawyers. You know this.”

  “So I can just walk out of here? Now?”

  Jason shakes his head. It was presumptuous to ask in first place. He places the flowers on the bed and gives Noah a two finger salute. “Thank you for saving my life. I mean it. Just think, maybe one day soon we’ll take to the skies again.”

  Noah has put up with his bullshit long enough, “I used to think your delirium was idiosyncratic, now I realise it’s psychotic. Get out Jason.” Jason pauses for a moment before deciding not to open his mouth and leaves with his tail between his legs.

  ❖

  Scratching a phantom itch on the arm of a prosthetic is frustrating. House arrest is especially boring if you’re not even in your house.

  This sux. He hates to admit it but the flowers Jason brought really liven the place up.

  He sleeps but doesn’t dream. This carries on for days. He hasn’t consumed any solids or liquids this whole time.

  Shouldn’t I have died of dehydration? The realisation that the nanotech in his system is keeping his body alive is unnerving.

  The door opens and a Guardian holding a plate of food and drink enter. “Feeling better?”

  Noah responding on autopilot once seeing the food says, “Yes, much better thanks.”

  The Guardian puts the tray of food down on the counter and when Noah steps forward to reach it the Guardian sucker punches him, knocking him to the ground fracturing his cheekbone and knocking his food all over the floor. Noah gets up and swings his heavy left arm, telegraphing the punch from miles away. The Guardian catches him and throws his body against the wall, cracking a few ribs and making him see stars. Noah gets to his feet but is wobbling all over the place. The Guardian drops his guard and points Noah to the terminal’s built in scanner. The pain is starting to set in, his body beginning to seize, the vignette is growing larger and a loss of consciousness is now a real possibility. He manages to slap his hand on the scanner and right away his contusions, bruises and breaks begin to heal.

  Sweet relief.

  Short lived. A second later his body is being flung around like a rag doll, bashed against the walls and floor. Noah just prays this will not be going on too long.

  And hopes that there’s something left to eat at the end of it.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Titus

  The incoming tide washes the built-up sand off a body lying face down on the beach. The next wave reaches his face, revealing that the beached flotsam is Titus. His breath making ripples in the small pools of seawater, the waves proving to be a useful wake up call. He opens his sand crusted eyes, breathes in and with enormous effort pushes himself up. Another wave comes crashing in and knocks him forward a few feet. He is losing a race against the tide. On all fours he crawls to higher ground. Once he is finally off the sand he slumps on his back and catches his breath.

  ❖

  Back in Argentina. The ragged sky is dark with ash in the stratosphere and the sun is reduced to a mere glow. Titus is limping down the highway into a small ghost town. He is void of any strength and is running on fumes. There are several collapsed buildings and obvious signs of water damage.

  A house just off the main road still stands strong, and is an inviting place for Titus to find some reprieve. A place to heal.

  He climbs the three creaky stairs to the front porch. Still no signs of life. Titus grabs the door handle and gives it a slight turn when he senses something and recoils. The door explodes open from a shotgun blast and even with a force field up Titus is pushed back several feet. He kneels down and reaches forwards and concentrates. A second later a shotgun flies through the air, through the hole in the door and into his hands. He bends the barrel and tosses the gun. When he stands up he waves his hand and the door is torn from its hinges. He takes a step forward and stands in the doorway.

  “I require assistance.”

  “Fuck off freak!” yells a voice from the back room. Titus stands in the doorway and ponders his next decision. Leaving isn’t really a choice. Neither is killing his attacker.

  He reluctantly enters the house.

  CHAPTER IX

  Elias

  Matias runs ahead and gathers their scattered companions while Gloria stays behind as Elias gathers his things. She helps him with his bags as neither want to hang around the dead body of a Guardian for very long. “Where are you heading?” he asks. Elias already has a home to get back to, but it’s two days’ march away at the least.

  “An estate, about twenty miles out of town near Lobos. Used to be controlled by the revolutionaries during the ‘Dirty War’. It’s part of the tunnel system that sheltered and protected hundreds of political dissidents from the Triple A. Now it is run by my uncle. Not sure which one is scarier.”

  This was along the way. Maybe travelling with these people will work for now.

  “Sure. Thank you…” he says fishing for her name.

  “Gloria. Sorry, Gloria Vergara.”

  Elias smile and holds out his hand. “Elias, and this is Seth.”

  Gloria shakes his hand with her firm grip. “Such a lovely name. Evil will always attempt to rid the world of good, but there is always a Seth to replace an Abel.”

  Elias smiles at the sentiment. “His mother would have liked that.” Gloria gives him a reassuring smile. She is only a few years older than him, but she has the effect of someone much older in years.

  There are nine people in their troop, led by Gloria. Her right hand
man Matias and their surrogate adult son, Alejandro. That much he has learnt. That, and Alejandro is giving him a rather cold reception. Considering Elias saved his life, this feels off. The two other couples, Sarah and Jorge (the elder ones) and Lucia and Julián with their two children, no older than twelve. Everyone is carrying with them everything they have left in the world. Everything they could grab before their houses fell. He gets the impression that she knows none of these people, but her drive to help save as many as she can is strong. Admirable.

  They approach the encampment in the speedway grounds on the edge of town. The spotlight has been turned off the smell of food is replaced with the stench of burning canvas and plastic. Elias is shocked to see how quickly it had transformed.

  “Nobody think about scavenging for supplies there.” Gloria is right. The place screams it’s a trap.

  “But look at all that stuff. It’s a goldmine.” Alejandro is also right, but the risk is too great. Gloria insists on carrying on, much to Alejandro’s objection. They have dodged enough bullets for a lifetime and she isn’t going to invite anymore.

  The sun slowly starts to peer over the horizon under a shroud of circulating ash and any camouflage offered by the dark is now consumed by sunlight. At least now they will make better time.

  Gloria addresses her bunch with her morning glorification, “With everything that has happened in the last few days, the sun still rises in the east.”

  “In the west. The sun rises in the west now.” Matias holds out his compass and shows her.