Genetic Abomination

by Dane Hatchell

  GENETIC ABOMINATION

  Dane Hatchell

  Copyright 2017 by Dane Hatchell

  Chapter 1

  Earth’s Future

  The mech-armor by the infirmary’s door waited for the human to bring it to life. The transmetal shell was of Skink design and retrofitted for his smaller body. He needed the armor to make him their equal. Humans were squishy bags of flesh with bones easily broken. Skinks averaged seven feet in height, with thick skin, and ropey muscles hardening their bodies like steel. If Mother Earth had blessed the reptiles as She had done evolving the mammals, the Skinks would certainly qualify as cousins.

  His name was Tarik. He was told his father was a recombinant mass of goo and his mother a petri dish. That was a strange answer to give a boy of four who had asked why he looked so different from everyone else, but it was the harsh truth. One of many harsh truths Tarik became aware of over the last twenty-five years. Life on Earth had changed drastically since the Skinks invaded and transformed humanity into a new species. Why had an alien race, after traveling hundreds of light years from their ancient planet, focused on genetic manipulation of the dominate species? It seemed that superior intelligence would have fostered benevolence, but the opposite was true.

  Now, humanity’s replacement, the Skinks referred to as Nu-Mans, were on a short path to extinction. Humankind’s replacement had a genetic time bomb ticking that would explode before the next generation. Tarik wasn’t one of the Nu-Mans. He was an anomaly and the last hope to save his home planet from an invading species.

  Hudson lay uncovered, with his eyes half-open, on a ten-foot-long bed. His hairy, wide feet jutted up like small tombstones right at the bed’s edge. The monitor to the side’s tiny speaker pulsed in a dull rhythm as jagged colored lines etched against the black screen. The dim light and stale air in the room choked the moment. The scene defined hopelessness. A death sentence with no chance of parole.

  “Tarik…” Hudson said weakly. His lips barely moved, and he continued to stare into the distance. The once sleek brown hair covering most of his body peppered now with gray, with coarse and matted patches like an animal in the wilderness.

  “I’m right here, Hud.” Tarik took a deep breath and lightly stepped toward his teacher, his friend. Did he have the right to call him his father? They were not blood-related. Their only connection shared DNA structures that all humanity had in common. Emphasis on had. Tarik was the last human on Earth, and Hudson was a Nu-Man.

  The Skinks designed the Nu-Mans to be a hardier version of primate, genetically splicing homo sapien DNA with that of the rare creature known as sasquatch. An endeavor that had failed miserably, but with little consequence to the Skinks. Altering human evolution was more of a source of entertainment than meeting some beneficial objective. The Skinks had what they wanted. A Planet still vibrant with life, water, and plenty of precious elements and minerals, unlike on their now dead home planet.

  “I’m sorry.” Hudson lifted his left hand to the side of the bed, with an open palm.

  Tarik took the invitation and placed a hand in Hudson’s hold. The Nu-Man’s gentle grip made him feel safe, despite the fact that if Hud made a fist, it would swallow Tarik’s hand entirely and fracture bones. “Sorry? You don’t have any reason to feel sorry for me. You’re the one suffering.”

  “Yeah. I’m suffering all right. There’s no way to sugar coat my condition,” Hudson said, sounding stronger as if Tarik’s touch commuted some of the human’s life force. “I’m sorry that you’re the only one. I can only imagine what it’s been like growing up without anyone else of your kind. Why, I remember the day you asked me when your body hair would start growing like mine.” A melancholy smile edged his lips.

  “I’ve grown to appreciate my exposed skin. A fast toweling after a shower and I’m dry.”

  “Hair hides a multitude of imperfections. It helps when attracting the ladies, too.”

  “That’s a problem I don’t have.” Tarik lowered his head.

  “I know, and it’s not like we didn’t try. The Skinks doomed us as a race after their refining of our genetics. Our only hope to one day retake Earth was to recreate the human species. It took thousands of tries to produce you. After that, we thought we had the process perfected. You know the rest of the story. After thousands of more failures, we finally gave up.”

  “It’s no more your fault that you failed than it was by your doing that I came to be. I’m just an accident, a genetic abomination.”

  “Maybe…” Hudson said. “I’ve thought a lot about that, and I’m reminded of something I once read. Look not at the things that are seen, but at the things that are not seen.”

  “More philosophy? Philosophy did nothing to preserve the human race. The Skinks didn’t care about human history or humanity’s eons old struggle. Didn’t give a damn about our Gods or revered men of history. The Skinks are so far advanced they have imposed themselves as Gods over us. You act as if fate owes mankind a chance to reclaim the planet.”

  “I am a scientist, as you well know. I trust in facts and not faith. Maybe my condition has softened my brain.” Hudson licked his lips. His chest slightly rose as he took a deep breath. “A little voice in my head refuses to give up hope. What if…What if you weren’t an accident? What if the Universe, in its inexplicable ways, intervened and created your birth?”

  “We’re back to the God argument now, aren’t we? Why would the Universe want us to retake the Earth? The Skinks are the superior race. Compared to them we’re no better than stupid animals. Don’t they deserve the Earth?”

  “All I know is that after the Big Bang every atom was set into motion. The path that each atom took determined the birth and death of the Universe. To me, our three-dimensional Universe is a book, and time turns the page.”

  “So everything that happens is destined to happen?” Tarik looked to the ceiling and smirked.

  “Maybe certain events, but other factors determine the outcomes.”

  “You mean individuals?”

  “Yes. There are two events occurring at the same time that are unique. Your birth, and the Skinks’ time manipulation machine that’s about to go online. We failed at recreating humankind, but we have you. If we can get you back in time before the Skinks’ exploratory probe sends back Earth’s data, we can prevent them from ever finding Earth.”

  Tarik didn’t believe in God, faith, angels, or demons. He only knew the realities of life. In his case, his experiences were few. The Skinks would have either killed him or something worse if they had known he existed. So, he was forced to view life from within the confines of four walls. Running through a forest or swimming in a lake was out of the question. Foamy waves of water splashing sandy beaches never touched his skin. Virtual reality computers were his only means of travel.

  Hudson’s words breached a barrier Tarik hid behind. A human hadn’t walked the Earth for generations until he was born. The Skinks had reached a new level in their evolution with the development of a time travel machine. The two events could just be an incredible coincidence, but the timing of it all gave him pause. Maybe Hudson’s delusion affected Tarik because of his love and trust of his old friend and mentor. Even if the situation was more than just random, Tarik’s odds of infiltrating the Skink compound and hijacking the time machine was a million-to-one.

  “Hud, you’ve taught and trained me to be prepared for anything. Though I always thought I’d be on the defensive side trying to preserve my life, I’m more than ready for combat. Frankly, I’m tired of living in confinement to the point I might choose death over life if you told me I had to continue to hide from the Skinks. It’s no different than being in prison. I’ll at least get that wish if storming the compound fails. There’s
just no way that after…” Tarik’s throat tightened, “that after you’re gone…and everyone else around me starts dying, life as I know it won’t have any meaning at all.”

  “I understand loneliness is like starving. You’ve suffered from it to some degree all of your life. But that has a chance to change,” Hudson’s drifting words had slowed near the end.

  The hills and valleys of the lines on the health monitor grew wider and farther apart. The dull beep slowed. A knowing grin curled on Hudson’s dry lips. “Tarik, time is turning the next page.” His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped in awe of invisible magnificence only he could see.

  The beep steadied into a monotone drone. The lines on the monitor fell and remained flat.

  Tarik’s nose stung, bringing tears to his eyes. Hudson’s comforting hold slipped as his hand fell to his side.

  BARMP! BARMP! BARMP!

  The alarm! Their compound had been breached!

  The door to the room swung open. It was Zax, a member of the squad and his best friend. His large brown eyes asked the obvious question.

  Tarik bit his bottom lip and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to get it in gear. The Skinks have found us. This is going to get messy.”

  Tarik briefly turned his head and told Hudson goodbye for the last time. The spirit of life had left him, though. The cooling body now looked like a dead husk of a stranger. Tarik would keep his teacher alive in his memories as long as the Universe allowed him to live.

  Chapter 2

  Earth’s Present

  Darkness wasn’t Cole Rainwater’s friend, but he was drawn to it like a junkie hooked on heroin.

  He was there again, hunting with his uncle in Owls Bend near Mark Twain National Forest. The fog was thick that morning. He could practically chew each breath of cold air. It tasted a bit like the funk of dried leaves and acid-resin pine needles. At least the mosquitos slept in for the morning. The cold did nothing to keep the spider’s under the covers, though.

  As usual, spiderwebs fanned across the trails in every direction. Cole hated spiders. There was something icky and flesh-crawling about those eight legs. With his rifle barrel in the lead, he cut through a silky arachnid’s net. It split in half and whisked to either side. He looked in time to see the web’s creator scurry from the edge onto a low-lying branch overhead. It was a Writing Spider, and it was huge! Had that beast been in the middle waiting to catch its breakfast, Cole would have found another trail to take. For a moment he thought about shooting it but knew better because Uncle George would get mad at him for scaring game away over a spider.

  Cole lowered his head and looked for Uncle George, who had stepped somewhere out front out of sight. No matter, the two of them had hunted the area together before and knew where to meet up. They were hunting squirrels and would be firing up into trees, so there was no danger of shooting each other.

  Déjà vu enlightened the moment. Cole had been here before. He had done all of this before. The spider web draped over his rifle barrel like strands of cotton candy and glistened in the morning sun. A quick wipe with his gloved hand cleaned it. Some chemical in the spider web could etch the bluing on the rifle’s barrel if he left in on there.

  Cole looked about, and an ominous feeling of dread held him in its clutches.

  A squirrel a few trees over started barking.

  The bad feeling evaporated as the thrill of his hunter instincts pushed it aside. Hunting was more than just something to do on a Saturday morning. There was something satisfying that words couldn’t describe when stalking prey. His heart beat faster. His hearing amplified and eyesight focused clearer.

  The squirrel chattered on. Nothing would enter its domain without getting a good tongue lashing and the threat of a whipping tail.

  Stepping carefully toward the tree, keeping his head low and approaching with obstacles shielding his advance, Cole made his way to get off an unobstructed shot.

  The squirrel was bad-ass enough to stand its ground. Good. It was a noble act but would soon lead to its death. Something that small should have been given enough sense not to provoke a larger animal. Cole knew that rats were smart and that squirrels were basically long-tail rats with a better publicist. But he couldn’t remember one time a rat ever stood its ground. It was always ‘head for the hills’ when discovered.

  A clear shot now opened before him. The squirrel’s tail fluttered like a squirmy red worm cut in half. It was almost daring him to shoot! Cole was happy to take the invitation.

  The rifle went up, and he carefully peered over the top until the front and rear sights aligned. He methodically pushed the button near the trigger, disabling the safety. As his finger reached for the trigger, the dreadful feeling returned and immobilized him.

  Cole had been here before. He had done all of this before.

  Then the smell wafted through the cool breeze, unleashing an avalanche of memories. A barnyard odor laced with other pungent notes that provoked primordial fears. The hairs felt prickly on the back of his neck, and his bum hole puckered a few times.

  Cole was scared to look at where he knew the monster watched. But look he would, just as he had done the first time.

  From a distance, it could have first appeared to be a tall, robust tree stump, rotting and without branches. Its form looked animal-like, though. Perhaps even like a bear standing tall to reach something good to eat from above. This was no bear because it was now obvious it was shaped like a man. A ‘man’ with long reddish-brown hair that covered its body, save for face and chest. Cole had watched enough of the Discovery Channel to know this creature could only be a bigfoot.

  The bigfoot stood with its large eyes peering into Cole’s very soul. He couldn’t tell if it was contemplating an attack or if maybe he was there for the squirrel too. Knowing the rules of mother nature of predator and prey, making a dash for safety might inspire the monster to give chase. He racked his brain and couldn’t remember ever hearing of bigfoot eating humans, but he was afraid to bolt and find out for himself.

  Still, he couldn’t just stand there and not do something. For a moment, his mind went down the path of pointing the gun at the creature and shooting to scare it away. But what if that didn’t work? His gun was a .22 caliber rifle and would be useless against a hulk like that.

  Fear had clouded his memory, but now the déjà vu returned.

  He pushed the rifle’s safety to ‘on’ and backed away. Soon, the bigfoot was out of sight. With no sign of pursuit, Cole turned and ran to find his Uncle George.

  “Good morning Salem, Missouri. Time to get up and shave, shower, and get in ship-shape to start the day. This is your ol’ pal Al on KQKY bringing you the best of Classic Rock of the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s. Guess what time it is? It’s time to get the lead out!”

  Cole reached over and slapped at the alarm clock until the music stopped playing. Hearing a Led Zeppelin song this early in the morning was too much even for him. Something like Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” would be better. As depressing as the lyrics were, it still was a soothing tune to wake up to and make the bed.

  The reoccurring nightmare over, the mire of sleep released Cole from its chains. He had encountered the bigfoot some four years ago when he was ten. Of course, no one believed his story. Reports of bigfoot in the region were rare but not unheard of, usually told by some drunk hunter. His father blamed his hallucination on sugary cereal. Cole loved Froot Loops with marshmallows. He had eaten them for years without a similar incident. Regardless of what people thought from that day on, Cole had delved headfirst into the world of the paranormal, aliens, and cryptozoology.

  He sat on the edge of his bed with his dangling feet hovering above the floor. The sheets were moist with sweat as was the hair on his neck. He ran his hand from the back of his head to the front of his high and tight haircut. Summer was coming, and he had let his dad talk him into getting a military-style haircut. At first, the short hair on his sandy-brown head made him look bald. But
in less than a week enough had grown for him to look more like his hero, the wrestling champion, John Cena.

  The floorboards felt cold as he slid from his bed. Socks were the first of the clothing to go on. Stepping into each one at a time, he stood before the mirror, with his elbows out and his fists near his belly button. Flexing in front of the mirror showed his time lifting weights was paying off. His pecs, deltoids, and biceps were coming along nicely. Although if he had to be honest with himself, his arms looked like toothpicks compared to John Cena’s.

  He imagined what he’d look like sporting Cena’s guns. As he flexed, he realized he’d look stupid with arms disproportional to the rest of his body. Adding Cena’s chest to his arms would make his head look three sizes too small. Plus, his legs would look like beanpoles. After a big sigh, he realized that it was going to take years and a lot of working out to look like Cena.

  Pants and shirt went on next, and then a quick trip to the washroom before heading to the kitchen for breakfast.

  The aroma of brewed coffee warmed the air as Cole went about his morning ritual. Grab a bowl and spoon and place them on the table. Get the cereal and drop it off while going to the fridge for the milk. Take the milk and pour it into the bowl until half-full, then put the milk back in the fridge. (His dad didn’t like the milk sitting out to get warm.) Then, dump the cereal out of the box until it nearly spilled over. This week his dad had bought him Cheerios, which wasn’t too bad for his liking. Of course, he hurriedly snuck in two spoons of sugar before his dad, who was in the washroom now, made his entrance.

  A few oat-rich Os paratrooped to the table as the spoon went into the bowl and then up to his mouth. The cereal crunched between his teeth, and the sound reminded him of a horse feeding from a trough. When he wasn’t able to slip extra sugar in bland cereal, he felt like he was eating horse food.

  Slippers scuffing the hall carried into the kitchen. His dad had on his pajama bottoms and a tee shirt. Robotically, his focus never left the coffee pot, where he grabbed a mug from a hook under the counter and poured a cup. He brought the mug to his nose, and his eyes magically showed signs of life. “Morning.” He shuffled over to the table and removed the sugar bowl top. Lifting the bowl, he sprinkled sugar into his coffee. Most of the sugar made it; some landed on the table.