by Godwin, Pam
Apparently, his command consisted of Malta’s mutated humans. The flicker of aphids meandered in and out of the dusty stone buildings that crumbled along the beach. The tide sloshed against the empty docks. No boats and no humans.
We bumped along the disintegrating road into the quiet bowels of the island. From the depths, another shoreline emerged. The doctor slowed before a monolithic stone wall. I sucked in a breath.
“This,” the Drone said, “is Fort Manoel. Once used as a military fortification, it has been standing since the eighteenth century.” Red veins webbed his eyes.
Towering walls rose out of the Mediterranean, mocking the whipping brine and the crashing tide. A fortress meant to keep out attackers. Would I find a dungeon within? A bleeding cave? I shuddered.
On the other side of the gate, my captors escorted me up winding stairs and through one of the many stone archways that encircled an expansive brick quadrangle. The full circumference of the island was visible from that height. Desolate streets weaved between crowded buildings. Stores, docks and cars were abandoned. Not a single watercraft in sight. Not even a jet ski.
I shivered despite the sultry island breeze. We were surrounded by water, trapped on an island with aphids.
The fort’s main tower eclipsed the stars. We entered the tower’s anteroom ornamented with marble pillars and tropical florae.
Fingers pressed in my arm, the doctor dragged me through massive double doors. Then he removed my gag and bindings and shoved me into the heart of a hall, enclosed by a living wall of aphids.
The Drone prowled around me, chilling my bones with his glacial mien, penetrating with even colder eyes.
I steeled my voice with an equally steeled posture. “Where’s the priest? I demand to see him.”
The Drone’s fist blurred. I dodged it, but not fast enough for the second punch. I wheeled back, void of weapons and tripping on the skirts of my gown. Blood filled my mouth. I spat, speckling the tile with crimson. The air sizzled with excited hunger. Huffing snarls and quivering limbs surrounded me, overwhelmed me.
“Foolish woman.” He rolled his upper lip, revealing human teeth unlike the incisors from my nightmares. A chill oozed from his syllables. “Can you not feel the vibrations of fifty thirsty mouths drumming for your blood?”
I hissed at the bugs and returned to their leader. “You fucking coward. You don’t need the priest. Release him.”
His laugh cracked through the room and stole the strength from my spine. “Bring the bait.”
The Imago appeared in the hall, directing four men with terse commands and a wave of his cigar. They skidded and stumbled with wide eyes and clenched fists. Bruises and gashes marked their naked bodies. Why weren’t they fighting back?
A brown skinned man spat at me in an indistinguishable language. An Asian man warded me off with a wave of trembling hands.
Holy hell. These men feared me. “Does anyone speak English?”
They panted and scooted away, heels scrubbing the tiles to speed up their retreat.
My stomach clenched. The mutants stirred. Their vibrations increased and their fragile control tipped. What was leashing them? How long could it hold?
An aphid burst from the blockade. In a blink, the Asian man hit the ground in a torsion of human and aphid limbs. I lunged onto his attacker’s back and wrestled an arm under its mandible. I hoped breathing was an aphid necessity and put all my strength into the choke hold.
Agonizing moments passed. Then the bug collapsed. Not dead, not from a choke hold.
I jumped back, ready for the next attack.
The Asian man moaned through distorted features. Blood bubbled from the puncture in his chest.
My nostrils flared at the metallic smell of his blood. The scent roused something within me, increasing my connection with the aphids. They smelled it, too. Hungered for it. The united resistance wouldn’t hold.
Another aphid jerked. I leapt from its path, rolled onto my shoulder, looked back.
The brown man coughed a wet, surprised gurgle. His gaze dropped to his chest where the mandible’s tusk erupted, skewering his heart to his ribs.
The aphid enclosure decomposed in a mass of spines and twitching green bodies. Another man went down. One remained, defending his ground with kicks and swinging arms.
Helplessness glued my feet to the floor. Our captors, who cared so little for human life, had Roark. What would they do to him? My heart gave a painful thump. Without weapons or allies, I’d been stripped of everything I needed to beat them. Everything except the compulsion to live.
The Drone kept watch from afar. When our eyes collided, he said, “Your speed, your agility…very aphid.”
A claw snapped toward me. I twisted, dodging it, and jumped on its back. We spun as I used its body as a shield against the others. It wrestled in my hold, turning to face me. We rolled to the ground and I landed with my legs squeezing its chest. I angled its mouth away and plunged my thumb into its eye. It bucked, but I kept my Jujitsu mount planted. With a hefty thrust, I pressed my hand further into its socket and met a barrier with my thumb. Its body went limp.
A vise clamped my shoulder, the sharp point of a mouth scraped my neck.
Pop.
The Imago lowered a dart gun. The aphid dropped with a thud. Smoke plumed from its pores. Its skin hissed, crackled. Then it burst in a gruesome rain, leaving a charred heap of black innards. The remaining aphids buzzed and backed away.
A hand caught my arm, yanked me to my feet. The doctor’s jet eyes narrowed. Not a strand of black hair out of place. He stabbed me with a hypodermic and lifted me to his chest. As the chemical cocktail robbed my vision, his voice stroked my ear. “Nannakola.”
Pain pounded my temples. Through slits, the room rotated, dipped clockwise then counter-clockwise. I gritted my teeth and waited for the sedative hangover to pass.
The room stopped rocking. I lay upon a bed bordered by three stone walls. Steel bars domed over my cell and made up the fourth wall, caging me from the rest of the chamber. A heavy-duty combination lock—like the one on my gun safe—fastened to the gate. The gate was open.
Polished golden rock stretched to the sky and surfaced the floor. Wind and sun dove through the arched open rafters. The apex of the main tower.
Outside my cage, the doctor sat in padmasana, a posture I’d seen used in Buddhist mediation. Ass on the floor, back of hands on bent knees, ankles on opposing thighs, eyes closed. Another man paced behind him. The pilot maybe?
Beside me, a tray sat on a table laden with bandages, ointments and papers. All useless. Bar the scissors. They didn’t know I was awake. If I moved fast enough—
I lunged for the scissors and heaved them full spin at the pacing man. They slipped between the bars of my cage and plunged his throat.
He pawed at them, his mouth working for air against the blood pooling out. Then he dislodged them, stared at them. He staggered, grabbed the back of a couch. The scissors clattered to the floor. So did he.
The doctor didn’t move, but his eyes bored into mine. I fumbled through the items on the tray, gripped a pen with metal casing.
Heart thumping, I concealed it lengthwise along my arm and approached the open gate. He remained motionless, his eyes never leaving mine.
Ten feet. I straightened my arm toward his chest with a snap. The pen slipped from my grasp and sped down the invisible horizontal level.
His body bleared, rolled and collided with mine.
I skidded across the floor in a tangle of gauzy skirts. He stood over me, arms to his side, face blank.
Mother fucker. I shook my hand as if something were amiss. “Where’s the priest?”
He stalked to the man heaped on the floor. “Not here yet.”
I pushed off the floor, launched to his side. “Touch Roark and I’ll turn your putrefied heart into a pincushion for your needle collection.”
Silky black hair fell over his brow as he examined the unconscious man.
I slammed
a fist toward his head. He snapped out his arm and redirected my hit inches from his face.
My pulse raced. I faked the same punch then sent a full speed kick to his groin. He flicked his wrist, intercepted my leg and used it to throw my balance. My ass hit the ground.
Fuck. I released a heavy breath and shoved the goddamn skirt out of the way.
The doctor looked up from checking the other man’s vitals. “Are you done?”
I scrambled to my feet. “Not quite. Where. Is. The. Priest?”
The air shifted a half-breath before he did. His palm hit my chest, knocked me back down. The gesture was slight, as if swatting a pesky gnat. Yet it left me wheezing on my knees.
He sat seiza-style before me and tilted his head. “Are you done?”
I took to my feet again and lobbed an arcing punch to his jaw. He floated up and caught my punch. With a twist of hips, he shot out a foot and swooped me to my butt. Agony jarred my joints.
He hovered inches from my face. “Are you done?”
I angled to the side and found my footing. Feet spread, toes pointed in the same direction, I poised my power hand at my jaw.
His arms lolled at his side, legs relaxed hip-width apart. His reflexes paralleled a martial artist, but didn’t demonstrate a specific style. And his eyes—caught between shades of black and more black—divulged nothing. His loose cotton pants and shirt couldn’t conceal his strapping physique. His attractiveness made me despise him more.
We stared at each other in a suspended moment. I acknowledged the Lakota for teaching me to appreciate tense silence.
Then he was on me. Arm under my neck, I gasped for air as he dragged me to the cell. The more I clawed, the more pressure he applied. White spots dappled my vision. My arms dropped.
He released me in the cell and locked the gate between us. Then he squatted next to the man. “You have questions. I have questions.” He hiked the body over his shoulder and turned to me. “So we’ll trade answers. Fair?”
No. My freedom would be fair, but I nodded, heat burning through my face. “Is that man dead?”
“Yes.” He opened the door. A staircase descended on the other side. An aphid bared its feral mouth from its guard position. The doctor dodged the snapping jaws and slammed the door.
I didn’t feel bad about killing that man. I planned to kill them all.
The doctor returned minutes later. He crossed his arms and leaned against the bars. “Who taught you to fight?”
A swallow lodged in my throat. Would that answer be used against me? I didn’t think so. “My husband.”
“Your priest is on a ship. About a day out. Guarded by men, not aphids. He will not be released. Do not ask it. But he will not be harmed as long as you cooperate.” A pause. “Where is your husband now?”
I raised my chin. “Given his skill set, I assume he’s sketching my escape and his revenge as we speak.”
“Is that how you want to play this game?”
Fists clenched at my sides. “My husband’s dead.”
He didn’t reward my honesty with a reaction.
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No. Did you have children?”
A burn penetrated my chest. “Yes.”
Questions crowded my mind. I needed to know as much as I could about the army. “What was in the dart that smoked the aphid in the hall?”
“Blood from a nymph.”
A slick sweat of unease glistened my skin. Don’t freak out. Keep him talking. I mirrored his casual stance. “Uh huh.”
“I assume you know a nymph is a partially transformed woman. One who didn’t fully mutate.”
“Yeah.”
“Her blood is poisonous to an aphid. The Imago uses it to control the army. One drop burns the aphid from the inside out and explodes the heart.”
Fuck. That explained the bursting body parts. Fear of it alone controlled them? But that was a human emotion.
His eyes probed me, unraveling my composure. “How did you know the Drone?”
Damn his questions. “I didn’t.”
“Recognition lit up your face when you saw him.” His glare hardened. “Lie to me again and I’ll take the answers through whatever means necessary.”
What, did he carry truth serum in those damn vials? Or would he just beat it out of me? Fuck it. “He visited me in dreams.” I leveled my eyes with his empty ones. “Explain the human bloodbath in the hall.”
“The Drone is Muslim and has a flair for theatrics. Hence, your ceremonial gown. Which reminds me…” He walked to a closet across the room and removed flowing blue garments. “He’ll have you veiled from now on.” He tossed a long skirt at me through the bars. “This is a daaman.” Next came a blouse. “Pirahan.” Something like a headscarf landed on top. “Hijab. Put them on.”
Was he kidding? “When you eat an aphid dick.”
He put his face between two bars. “You might be doing just that in the next demonstration if you’re not covered.”
Nausea waved through me. “You still haven’t explained the last demonstration.”
“The humans were a test to determine if you were infected. They were injected with antiandrogens.”
I met his hard stare and shook my head.
“Antiandrogens make aphids crazed with hunger. Even a nymph can’t resist it.” He shrugged. “But you did. So the Drone no longer considers you a threat.”
Good. Let him think that. The smell of the men’s blood in the hall did stir me. Maybe it was the antiandrogens. “So you let four innocent men die? The absence of a spear in my mouth didn’t provide enough evidence?”
He watched me through the bars, his body motionless. “Did the virus kill your children?”
“Yes, you unfeeling asshole.” Even as I derided him, I suspected he asked to satisfy a medical curiosity. He probably wondered if my children carried the same immunity as me. Still, I wanted to use my dagger to carve a permanent frown on the blank canvas that was his face. “Explain the mutation differences between nymphs and aphids.”
“There are two ways to become an aphid.” He uncrossed his arms and ticked them off on his fingers. “One. You’re a human bitten by a nymph or an aphid. Two. You’re the nymph that does the biting.”
“Wait. So a nymph can become an aphid?”
He nodded, eyes glinting. He fell so easily into that line of questioning, as if he’d forgotten I was his prisoner. I hadn’t forgotten.
“When the nymph feeds from a human, her blood merges with her victim’s and completes her mutation to aphid. She also releases a poisonous compound that mutates her victim into an aphid.”
So when a nymph feeds from a human, they both turn aphid. Which meant aphids came from men and women. Did they retain their gender? Could they reproduce? The questions piled up. How many more could I ask before he ended the game? Make them count. “Do aphids and nymphs feed from each other?”
“It’s not a common occurrence, but it happens. The result is death for both. Their blood is poisonous to each other, as is the compound they release.”
Too bad we couldn’t just lock them all up and let them kill each other. Except I didn’t want that for the nymph in the cabin. If she never fed from a human, she would never become an aphid. How did she avoid it? Did her reclusive home keep her suspended in transition? But I was there. She could’ve attacked me. She seemed more interested in protecting her dead children. “Do you think will alone could keep a nymph from attacking a human?”
“Don’t know. But we know nymphs are extremely rare. The Drone has sent his messengers across the planet looking for them. And women.” He studied my face. “You’re the only woman he’s found. Your blood test confirmed your high testosterone level, which has something to do with your immunity.”
I gripped the bars next to his face. “My blood test?”
He didn’t flinch. “Your aggression is a symptom of high testosterone. As is your muscle strength. I assume you also have a demanding sex-d
rive?”
“What blood test?”
“I took your blood on the plane when I changed your clothes.”
Tension racked my body. “What else have you discovered?”
“I’m still analyzing it.”
His monotone voice chaffed my skin. “What do you and the sadistic brothers want with me?”
“To study you.”
“What are your qualifications, Dr. Nealy?”
“I hold a medical degree and my expertise is in molecular biology and genetics. The Drone is a Biochemist. We want to learn about your survival and your connection to the aphid.”
“So I’m the lab rat? To help you control your mutant army?”
“How did you get the scar?” His gaze dropped to my chest.
My hand flew to my neckline, covered by the gown. My other hand shot through the bars, toward his jaw. His body bowed backwards. My fist punched air.
He stepped back. The door crashed open behind him.
“Why isn’t she dressed in proper attire?” the Drone shouted through the chamber.
“She refused.” The doctor’s unemphatic response.
“She refused? She is not allowed to refuse. You assured me you could handle this, Michio. If you are not able to accomplish even the simplest task—”
“I do not need handling,” I said. “And I decide what I wear.”
The Drone strolled over to the gate. “Open it.”
The doctor dialed in the combination and opened the gate.
A brass knuckle dagger appeared in the Drone’s fist. He handed it to the Imago, who stood behind him, and floated into the cell, sable cloak slapping at the bars. The sunlight seemed to twist and slide away to oblige his oily aura. The lock slammed in place.
I braced my feet and met his eyes, though every muscle in my body screamed at me to attack.
He pointed a finger at the hijab. “You will cover yourself. Now.”
The hellish wings and driveling incisors in my nightmares were my own imagining. I supposed him being human was a small relief. Still, a sinister overcast enshrouded him and aroused the hairs on my arms.
