Evolution of Angels

by Nathan Wall

  As if being dragged across asphalt, his skin sheared from his bones until finally he was plunged into a lake of fire. All around him people with blisters and sores grabbed onto one another, biting and defiling each other, taking what they wanted despite the screams and protests of the individuals they tormented. Their empty gazes found him. They slowly made their way his direction.

  His eyes opened. Once again he was back in the dark room, scanning for the source of faint light which projected a great shadow over him, as if the reset button had been pushed.

  “I see you’re up,” the soothing voice called out, creating a fuzzy and comfortable sensation inside Austin’s heart, lulling him into a false sense of security. He knew better. Again, his experiences told him so, but he couldn’t fight it. Again, Charon insisted. “Tell me, what do you know of us?”

  * * *

  Jarrod sat atop the mountain. Several helicopters soared over his head. The great blue sky didn’t have a single white patch hovering in it as the sun sat directly above, telling Jarrod’s suit that he should feel hot. A violent wind continued to rush over his back and shoulders, which he knew was a sign of the pending seasonal change.

  “We haven’t found anything.” Shah walked up to Jarrod, his clothes soaked with sweat. “We’ve scanned the area for a few days now. It’s possible the rift got everyone.”

  Jarrod just gave him a quick look and then jumped down the steep cliff. He flung his arms out and glided off out of view. Shah activated his comlink, opening up a line of communication with Elliot.

  “He’s wandered off again,” Shah said, waving at one of the many helicopters to land near his position. The tiny shrubs and loose grains of dirt swayed back and forth as the rotating blades lowered closer to the ground. “We’ve gone over this area with every resource we can spare, both human and machine. We didn’t find any trace of survivors from Hershiser’s squad. What should we do about Mr. Ryan?”

  “Let him work it out,” Elliot replied. “A hint of failure will probably do him some good.”

  Jarrod soared along the ridges, nose-diving and then spreading his arms as the pale blue aurascales formed a makeshift wingsuit, catching the wind that swirled through the many valleys and peaks to propel him back up into the lower stratosphere. Once the sounds of advanced technology were far enough from him, so far that not even the armor could decipher them, he glided gently to a ridge. Sliding across the gravel on the high slope, Jarrod overlooked one of the many small villages that lined the Afghanistan mountain range.

  This particular village was built along the foothills of the mountain he stood on. Several adobe buildings spread out in random directions and angles until finally they were stopped by green fields. He watched the children run along the fields. The men returned home riding on a truck with an extended flatbed in a scene that was both unique and oddly familiar to him.

  The women yelled for their children, waving them home in a frantic manner. The truck slid to a halt, kicking up a cloud of dirt. The dust settled and the several insurgents from the truck bed emerged with rifles and machine guns waving in the air. They let off a few shots when they entered into each house one at a time.

  Jarrod stepped backwards, sprung into a running start, and jumped off the edge of the steep slope. He jetted over the first building, soared straight up into the sky, and retracted the wingsuit. With his momentum still carrying him forward, he landed dead-center in the middle of four houses that formed a semicircle.

  The driver of the truck remained still, his eyes widening as his jaw dropped. He raised his hand to lay it on the horn, but Jarrod simply shook his head and the man returned his hand to his lap. Jarrod walked to the driver’s side door, tore his hand through the metal, and ripped the door from its hinges. He tossed the door to the side and snapped his fingers, pointing at the ground. The driver got out of the truck and knelt down, putting his hands behind his head.

  Two gunshots rang out from a house to Jarrod’s left. The blood-curdling moans of a woman quickly followed. Three men emerged from the home, dragging the limp body of a teenage boy by the hair. They discarded the body like the morning trash. A gooey red mesh on the back of the kid’s head marked the two entry wounds. The three armed men stood motionless as Jarrod walked toward them.

  The aurascales shifted along his back. Images were relayed into his vision. Jarrod turned and sidestepped as the driver from the truck stood and removed a handgun from underneath his clothes. The driver pulled the trigger, but the bullet entered and exited out one of his allies’ heads.

  In half a step, Jarrod skipped along the ground and bent the gunman’s arm inwards at the elbow. He wrapped his left arm around the insurgent’s neck and spun around to use his body as a shield as the two other gunman opened fire. Three more insurgents ran out from the homes they searched and joined the calamity.

  With machine gun fire raining down on him from all directions, Jarrod closed his eyes and allowed the senses of the aurascales to guide him. The armor took control, manipulating Jarrod’s body. He performed a series of fluid Capoeira kicks, springs, and flips in order to evade enemy fire. He didn’t know it, but the armor was imprinting more of itself into his subconscious, teaching Jarrod how to keep himself and it alive. Countless centuries’ worth of skills and disciplines taught to the human race were burned into his motor skills. Techniques he would carry forever.

  Quickly moving closer to the two men who killed the boy, he grabbed the first gunman’s rifle by the barrel and aimed it to the kill the other one. Swiping down on the man’s forearm, Jarrod flipped the rifle out of the insurgent’s grasp and pointed the barrel in the enemy’s face, pulling the trigger.

  Still in motion and evading the other shots, Jarrod sprang forward and wrapped the mother in his grasp. He moved around the side of her home to hide her from the firefight. He put an index finger up to her lips, calming her, and pointed for her to stay. He backed up two steps and jumped clear over her house.

  He landed in front of a gunman and drove the bottom of his foot into the man’s chest, sending him crashing into a stone wall nearly ten feet away. With the same foot still in the air, Jarrod spun and kicked the second insurgent in the face, knocking him out before finishing his spin along the ground to swipe the legs out from under the last gunman. He knelt over his final target and punched the insurgent’s face, knocking him out.

  The ruckus subsided and the villagers exited their homes. Many of them fell to their knees, bowing before Jarrod, certain that he was a savior sent by Allah. He turned and the armor rescinded from his face. He watched the mother mourn over her child’s body. Jarrod held back a triplet of sorrowful gasps, trying to separate himself from the scene, but he couldn’t. In front of him weren’t a mother and child. Instead, he saw himself sitting alone, laying over his own torn promises; his failure to help protect and rescue Lian and Austin.

  But he still wasn’t afraid.

  * * *

  With the sun beaming in through the wall of windows in his office, washing over him, Sanderson sat hunched over with his face resting in his palm. He’d lit a cigar and placed it on the ashtray in front of him, but hadn’t touched it since taking the first puff. The two ice cubes in his single malt had completely dissipated. His five o’clock shadow had grown into long salt and pepper whiskers.

  The jarring buzz of his phone pulled him out of his haze. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs and clearing his throat before slowly standing to make his way over to the phone. His hand hovered over it for a brief second before it buzzed again. He knew it was time to debrief, but going to a meeting without Lian was something he hadn’t had to do for quite some time.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” he grunted, quickly answering the phone and putting it back down.

  He walked over to his door and scanned his hand to unlock it, reserved on coming out of his self-imposed house arrest. The door slid open. Jackson was standing there. The two stared at each other for a few moments before Sanderson nodded, inviting him
in.

  “Scotch?” Sanderson asked, walking over to his mini-bar. Jackson wandered along the glass wall, not responding to the question, looking out over the vast flat desert that sat at the base of a mountain. Sanderson poured two glasses anyway, handing one to the agency’s finest soldier. “I know you don’t drink, but perhaps it’s a good time to start.”

  “I’m fading,” Jackson said, holding the glass in his hand while swirling the cube of ice around. “I can feel my grasp on things slip every time I wear the aurascales.”

  “Really?” Sanderson sat down, trying his best to sound surprised. He looked at Jackson’s skin, taking note of how several yellowish blotches were forming in random patterns. His glance then focused in on how Jackson’s natural tan pigment ran together like an estuary up his arms with his remade ivory skin tone. “Can you describe it?”

  “When I am here, not exerting myself, I begin to feel reenergized, though still not quite right. Sometimes I get headaches and sometimes I get this numb sensation along my body.” Jackson looked at Sanderson, breaking up his speech with a quick sip of scotch. He grimaced slightly while the liquid made its way down his throat. “But those things quickly come and go and leave me in peace. When I am out there and the suit is forcing me to act beyond normal capacity, it’s like it’s draining the parts of me that make me special… exploiting them. It seems to know I’m not the one who should be wearing it.”

  “Nonsense,” Sanderson chuckled as it that was nonsense, though he knew it wasn’t. He rolled his eyes for show and then leaned back to project an unconcerned look. “You’ve been the best to walk these halls. Two years I’ve seen you pour everything into this program. You’ve given every ounce of blood and sweat that you could spare. That’s eighteen months more than the next longest tenured individual. It’s probably stress-related. We’re all feeling it.”

  “What about this?” Jackson held his palms out, putting his skin on display. “I’m reverting, but everything I was has been wiped. What am I reverting to?”

  “We don’t know that you’re reverting.” Sanderson hoped that didn’t sound too much like a lie as he leaned forward and took hold of Jackson’s hand, squeezing. “Honestly, we haven’t been able to run a full gauntlet of tests on individuals this deep into the program to see what the repercussions are. As I said, you’ve been all sorts of firsts for us. But what I can say is that you’ve been stretching yourself thin. Perhaps it’s time you shelve yourself for a while until you recover. For all we know, this could all be stress-related.”

  “You really think stress could do this?”

  “Stress can do anything.” Sanderson finished off his glass of single malt and stood. “How many hairs are left on my head?”

  Jackson quickly glanced at Sanderson’s bald head.

  “So you see my point.” Sanderson laughed, patting Jackson on the back. “I have a debriefing to attend, but I assure you, after it’s done I’ll look into your situation. Until then, relax. Be a mentor to the remaining four Double-Helix Agents we’ve got left. They’re bound to end up going through the same thing you are.”

  “Bill, you’ve been the smartest man I’ve known for a long time.” Jackson sat on an arm of the sofa adjacent to the glass wall, staring at his glass of rusty brown colored liquid while he swirled it around. “But when are you going to realize that people can see when you’re full of crap?”

  “Listen, Jackson...” Sanderson turned around, not wanting to destroy Jackson’s hope, but the conversation went in an unexpected direction.

  “Save it.” Jackson finished the rest of the scotch and put the glass down on the table next to Sanderson’s still-burning cigar. “Jarrod’s not like the rest of us. We can all see it and your refusal to acknowledge it is a lot freakier than him being able to keep his own face, to be honest.”

  “I can’t fully explain that.”

  “Something tells me that you probably could if properly motivated.” Jackson leaned over, picked up the burning cigar, and inhaled. “Every one of us changed except him. The one guy you really didn’t want doing the program... Why? Were the ones you chose not the best suited, on purpose?”

  “No, you guys were perfectly suited for the program.” Sanderson sighed, nodding. “You were exactly the sort we needed. You see, you guys weren’t chosen at random and you weren’t chosen just because your genetic codes matched what we needed. You were chosen because you all had one thing in common.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Desperation.” Sanderson rubbed the back of his head and picked up the decanter of scotch. He walked back over to the coffee table and refilled his and Jackson’s glasses. “Of the some hundred and fifty men I tried to reform through the Double-Helix program, each and every one had nothing left to hold them back. They were either homeless, ostracized, had no family left, or were simply looking for a new beginning. Everyone except for him.”

  Jackson slowly inhaled and then exhaled through his nose, taking another sip of scotch. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slightly.

  “Now, if stress coupled with an inordinate amount of testosterone can make me go bald, imagine what desperation can do to you.” Sanderson finished his scotch and emphatically placed the glass on the coffee table. “I don’t know if that answers all your questions and I don’t know if I have all the answers you seek, but what I do know is that you, like all of the others, were called with a purpose. Chosen for a specific reason and yet you never really had a choice. You were in the belly of the whale until you relented and were given only one way out of your desperation. But not Jarrod. That is what I am more concerned about. What makes him tick? The one man with something to live for, the one man with choice, chooses your life. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to?” Sanderson whispered, rubbing his hand firmly on Jackson’s left shoulder. “Believe it or not, you’re probably the one person in his life right now who could get those answers out of him. He’ll listen to you. I am sure of it. Though you may not think so, you’re uniquely in a position to influence and guide him. He may have his own face, but he still doesn’t know what’s in store for him.”

  “I’m not a leader.” Jackson shook his head. “I never wanted to be.”

  “Given a real choice, I am sure you wouldn’t want this program, but here you are.” Sanderson nodded and walked away. “Like it or not, you’re in this position now. Only this time, you have a real choice. You can either lead or you can watch your sacrifice slowly fade away all for nothing. Because when we’re all dead and gone, no one is going to know about the things we did here. The only way to keep it going is to impart your wisdom onto the generation that follows. You’ve spent the past two years without any real direction of your own and now you’ve got the chance to forge one. Take it.”

  Sanderson headed for the door, but stopped briefly to say one last thing, looking at Jackson.

  “Find out what makes him tick. He may be the only person able to give you a life back. A way out of here and a chance to spit in the face of desperation.” Sanderson grinned. “Go ahead and finish the scotch while you think about it.”

  * * *

  Bullets littered the air and explosions echoed through the valleys. Behind Jarrod, scattered in a zigzagged line miles long, were the bleeding and dismembered corpses of the hundreds upon hundreds of insurgents, terrorists, and militant groups who had been terrorizing local villages for the better part of a decade.

  He held one enemy by the throat. The man’s thick black beard hung long down Jarrod’s right arm. He squeezed tighter around the militant’s throat, to the point where he could feel the trachea collapse, until the wildly swaying legs stopped kicking. He tossed the limp body to the side and stood solemnly as his tattered armor did its best to repair itself.

  With every person he killed, he felt an unrelenting rush of adrenaline surge through his veins. Though he didn’t particularly like the sensation, it somehow drove him to keep doing it. His bloodlus
t, however, wasn’t without its own sense of moral guide. For some reason, Jarrod could distinguish between those who deserved to die and those who deserved to live. But with each passing life he took, he began to feel weighed down and the moral compass of his bloodlust fell apart a little bit more each time.

  He looked at his hands noticing that several pieces of armor were missing. Looking with even more detail at the rest of his body, Jarrod could see the damage he incurred during his prolonged rampage. The billions of little blue aurascales were stretched thin and unable to cope any longer with the sustained fighting. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and a beam of light washed over him. When it dissipated, he stood atop the mountain trail clothed in his regular garb. For the first time in days, he could feel the sensation of the environment on his own skin and not just transmitted to his brain. The two wrist pads housing his long blades, com-link, and CPU systems were still snugly attached to his arms from his wrists to just below his elbows.

  As the sun set in the distance, the cold night slowly draped over him, bringing with it a flurry of dust in the wind. He entered into one of the many caves turned hideouts, grabbed one of the few blankets that weren’t soaked in blood, and wrapped it around his body and face. He began his trek down a path.

  Two hours into his journey, the full night sky made its appearance. Dancing on the black canvas were thousands of stars. He was reminded of home and laying in the grassy fields with Claire resting her head on his chest. As if able to recall every sensation of the memory, he slowly fell into a hypnotic trance. The feeling of pure serenity consumed him.

  The beeping of his right wrist pad pulled him from his daydream. He approached a city along the border of Pakistan. The city sat at the merging of two rivers in a valley between two mountain ridges. He looked at his left wrist pad and swiped a few times on the face of the tablet-like device. His location pulled up. Asadabad.