by Michael Bray
"You know your problem don't ya Stanhope?" Parker hissed with a smile as the rest of the group struggled to hold them apart. "You're still pissed off I knobbed that bird of yours."
They lunged for each other, individual insults lost in the noise as the two men tried to get to each other.
"What the hell's going on in here?"
The men as one stopped and snapped to attention where they stood, Stanhope and Parker breathing heavily as Staff Sergeant Mills entered the room. His salt and pepper hair was as always impeccably parted at the side, his grey eyes soaking in every detail of the room.
He strode towards Stanhope and Parker, glaring at Trig who stood in the middle, just about holding the two apart. He glared at each in turn, his face twisted into a scowl.
"New orders have come in,” he barked. “Team of five needed. You three seem to be full of energy, so count yourselves in. Brigs and Johnson, you too."
"Yes Sir," Johnson and Briggs said in unison as Mills turned back to Stanhope and co.
"Since it seems you three have so much energy to spend, you can all go out and patrol until morning. First thing tomorrow I want you in my office for a briefing on the mission."
Stanhope opened his mouth, then closed it, remembering the stories of Mills which were well documented. By all accounts, he was a man not to be crossed.
Mills looked from one to the other, pausing at Parker.
"Parker, you are aware this is the British army, yes?"
"Yes, Sir" barked Parker, quick as a flash.
"And being a part of the British army implies you are representing your queen and country?"
"Yes Sir," said Parker, again robot like.
"Then why do you look like some kind of homeless vagrant?”
“I don’t know sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Get rid of it. Have a little respect for your position and pride in your appearance."
"Yes Sir," said Parker.
Mills glared at him for a moment more. "Go on then, do it now!"
Parker saluted, then left, heading out into the cold towards the barracks to shave.
"As for you two," Mills said, pivoting towards them. "Gear up and get out there."
In unison, they saluted. "Yes, Sir."
Mills stood for a moment, glaring at the two men. "Dismissed" he barked, pivoting on his heel and leaving the rec room.
"He's a fuckin wanker, that Mills" grumbled Stanhope, falling back into his seat. "Double fuckin duty. Parker's to blame, his fault for winding me up."
"Fuck it mate," said Trig, trying to diffuse the situation. "Let's just get out there and get it over with eh?"
"Suppose so," grumbled Stanhope. "What do you reckon these new orders are?"
"Dunno, can't be any worse than freezing our bollocks off in this shithole, though."
"True."
"Come on then," Trig said, grabbing his boots. "Sooner we start, sooner we can get finished."
II
It was sensory deprivation at its most extreme. A black void of absolute silence. With nothing to stimulate the senses, a person could go crazy. Joshua had been buried alive for almost two weeks now. Much like an animal in hibernation, he had slowed his vital functions down almost to a stop. He floated in an infinite inky limbo, straddling the line between sleep and consciousness, life and death, and for all he knew, heaven and hell. Time had stopped having any meaning the second he closed the lid of the coffin and the steady sound of dirt landing on the wood inches from his face became too quiet to hear as his grave was filled. Seconds felt like days, minutes like weeks, and hours like months. It was a virtual lifetime to contemplate not only the life he had lived to date but to think about the life he would lead when he was reborn.
The first half of his life had been uneventful. He was sure in time, people would compare him to Hitler or others who they deemed as vile beings who had committed awful deeds. If those people looked into his past expecting to find a troubled upbringing which would perhaps explain his actions, they would be sorely disappointed. There would be no eureka moments, no glaring entries in his history which psychologists could write papers on as to how violence was a product of upbringing. They would find he grew up as an only child of a father who was a preacher and a mother who worked as a clerk. They would dig for dirt, searching for evidence of abuse, and would find only examples of the love they showered onto him. His parents had brought him up well, taught him the value of manners, of respecting his elders. He was raised to believe in the good grace of God and the idea that by leading a good life he would one day be accepted into heaven. Somehow, Joshua thought his normal upbringing would probably be more disturbing to those who would look into his past than if they found what they had expected to. They would look in search of the next Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy, and would find instead an all-American boy who excelled at school and was the apple of his parent’s eye. They might skip on past his early years, hoping to find a trigger point later in life. They would see how he joined the army at eighteen, not because he had to, but because he wanted to serve his country and to protect it.
There would be no traumas to be found, no experiences which they could point to as the moment that sent him over the edge. In his mind’s eye, he smiled. In the blackness of his coffin, his physical body barely twitched. It was at this point they would have to start accepting the truth that he wasn’t insane or defective or even a monster.
He was just superior.
He was twenty-three when he was first selected for the Apex Project. He was working in administration at the time, the army preferring to put his brain to use in keeping their mountains of paperwork in order rather than have him flexing his muscles on the battlefield (and he did have them. At school he played college football to a standard good enough to turn pro if he wanted to). His job was to monitor the applications for men willing to test the cure and present the suitable candidates to Dr. Genaro. Three weeks passed without a single response. It seemed nobody was willing to try an experimental drug, even if it could potentially save countless lives.
Volunteering himself seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and it certainly didn’t instil him with any fear. He knew well the advances in modern science and also had absolute and unconditional faith that god would protect him from any harm. Even so, confidence in principal was entirely different to confidence when actually faced with what he was about to do. His first meeting with Doctor Genaro was cordial, if tense. There were questions raised as to if Joshua was a little too intelligent to accurately represent their probable subjects, however with nobody else breaking down the doors to volunteer they went ahead. He was subjected to a number of physical and mental examinations measuring everything from height and weight to blood pressure and fitness. He recalled well that first meeting with Genaro as he was giving his blood sample. The scientist was incredibly thankful Joshua, at least, had enough faith in his work to volunteer his body. Genaro's words floated to him in the stifling dark of the coffin.
You will become a vessel Joshua, the carrier of something great which will represent the next stage in human evolution.
Joshua had said nothing, still firm in the belief that even evolution and the wonders of science were the work of God. How could they not be? Genaro had set the vial of Joshua’s blood aside and told him he was done for the day.
"I thought you said I was to become a vessel?"
"You will, Joshua. All in good time."
It was after a further two weeks before Genaro called him back. Joshua entered the small office, detecting the faintest hint of antiseptic lingering behind the smell of lavender air freshener. Genaro was barely able to contain his excitement as he set a syringe on the table which was half filled with a clear liquid.
"Is that it?" Joshua asked, his throat suddenly dry.
"It is."
"Is it time?"
Genaro nodded.
"I’m afraid." Joshua had said, for the first time considering the magnitude of what was about to happen and t
he consequences if it went wrong.
Genaro had smiled at him and walked around the table, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You have nothing to fear, Joshua. I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I didn’t have absolute faith in the project’s success probability. This will make you into something nobody else can be, into someone who can make a real difference in this world. Of course, you are under no obligation to continue if you don’t want to. There is still time to back out."
He shook his head. His parents were so incredibly proud of what he was doing, and he couldn’t let them down. "No, I’m fine, it’s just nerves. Go ahead and do it."
Genaro picked up the syringe and jabbed it into Joshua’s shoulder, sending its contents into his bloodstream. He had waited for some kind of rush, some kind of euphoria. When nothing came, he stared at Genaro, who smiled at the confusion in Joshua’s eyes.
"I don’t feel any different." He mouthed the words again along with his memory as he lay in the darkness of his grave.
“You won’t, not yet at least. Soon you will. Believe it or not, as you sit here, you are a changed man."
"So what happens now?"
"You come back tomorrow and we give you another injection. We can’t do it all at once. It’s like building a magnificent structure, we have to do it one brick at a time."
For the next six week’s Joshua went to see Dr. Genaro. Usually on a Thursday morning, sometimes he would have to go again on a Monday. At first, he felt no different, and then, in the same way winter creeps up on summer and steals away the daylight, subtle changes were noticeable. His eyesight improved to the point where he could stop wearing his glasses. Asthma which had plagued him as a child was cured. He started to develop an incredible memory which was almost photogenic. New languages were learned in days. Like a sponge, he soaked up information. As his new bond with Genaro's medicine grew, the more he started to see the world with disdain. The more aware he became of the true possibilities which were inherent in the human body, the more it sickened him to see his fellow man throw away their precious existence. Worse, was the way they wantonly maimed the planet as if they owned it, rather than accepting their place in it like the parasites they were. Much like his time spent in his current underground solitude, those first months of bonding with the Apex virus seemed to change the way he perceived time. The more of it that passed, the more his hate for humanity grew.
It wasn’t long before it became absolutely clear to him what he had to do. To what lengths he would have to go to in order to save the human race from itself, even if it meant doing something so radical, so extreme that it would change things forever.
That thought process had led him to where he was now, half comatose in the blackest of black, comforted by the chill, caressed by the crushing pressure of earth all around his private haven. The deprivation of his senses had let the bond between virus and host grow even more. The strain on his body forcing Genaro’s medicine to work harder. Even though sight and sound were beyond him, he could sense the world, and within it his brothers, others like him, others who knew what had to be done. He could feel their presence, glowing entities out there in the world.
As he lay there, he imagined he could almost hear them marching towards him, coming to catch a glimpse of the father of the new world. Before he had entered his coffin, such a title was an idea, something he strived to be. But now after lying in the ground for... he hesitated.
How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Years? Perhaps even centuries? Maybe it had only been minutes and he still had a thousand lifetimes to wait.
No.
He didn’t think so. He could feel the change. He had entered the hole as a man with something inside him to which he was a host. Now he felt no distinction between the two. He was it, and it was he, and together they were growing stronger and morphing into something incredible. He heard them again, the marching feet of a thousand men, his kin. His brothers.
Only....
It wasn’t marching. The sound wasn't in his mind, it existed in the real world.
It was the sound of digging, of shovels scraping on the wood of the coffin. That revelation had only taken seconds to sink in when the black veil lifted, and for the first time in almost two weeks, he saw the world.
They had come for him.
Strong arms lifted him from his exile and set him gently on the ground next to the grave.
He lay unmoving, feeling his body slowly come back to life. Blood forced its way through starving veins, muscles which had atrophied started to twitch as his body repaired itself from the inside. He blinked, his vision swimming into focus. There in the dark, he could see his brothers. His disciples, the two now twelve. It should have been impossible, and the look on the faces of his loyal followers suggested they agreed. Declining assistance, he stood, taking a moment to steady himself. His sunken eyes and gaunt face stared at them, each, in turn, making sure they understood.
"I am born again," he whispered, then staggered, almost toppling back into the hole. They steadied him, taking his weight as they led him to their sanctuary.
CHAPTER SIX
YUCATAN JUNGLE
MEXICO
DRAVEN KNELT IN THE dirt, hunched over a small burrow in the ground. The sun was fierce against his back as he peered at the tiny ants scurrying around the jungle floor. Sweat gathered on the tip of his nose, which he wiped against the grubby sleeve of his t-shirt. As he knelt there with his knees and back screaming for mercy, Draven realised he wasn't a young man anymore. Or at least not quite as young. Years of exposure to the sun had turned his skin into a tough, leathery hide, and had bleached his hair into a not quite blonde, not quite brown mass which was wet with sweat and clinging to his face. Because of this, people thought he was older than he actually was and when he told them he was in his mid-thirties, eyebrows were raised in disbelief. He exhaled, trying to ignore the stifling humidity.
The Bullet ants went about their business, each inch long creature possessing a sting which delivered a potent neurotoxin which, in large enough dosage could cause paralysis and death. They were an aggressive species and the subject of Draven's current research. Until recently, they had only been known as native to Nicaragua and Paraguay, so to see them in the Yucatan was a surprise.
He had seen the aftermath of stings from these ants. The Satere-Mawe tribe, an indigenous group who live deep in the Amazon rainforest, have a unique use for the ants, one which Draven witnessed for himself. The rite of passage for a Satere-Mawe boy to become a man involves locating a bullet ant nest. Often they are found nesting at the base of trees (like the one Draven was currently observing), the ants swarming up into the tree in order to forage in the overhead leaves for small insects. Upon locating a nest, the Satere-Mawe use smoke to render the ants unconscious and remove them. The ants are woven into a leaf glove with their stingers facing inward. In order for a Satere-Mawe boy to become a man, he must wear the glove for ten minutes, enduring the hundreds of stings of the angry ants inside. After the ten excruciating minutes are up, the glove is removed, often as the poor wearer convulses or slips into paralysis. Usually within a week, the wearer will make a full recovery although in some cases death is the result of the bizarre and eye-watering initiation, which often has to be completed multiple times before the tribe accept the boy as a man. Draven himself had felt the sting of just one ant, more out of curiosity to see how it felt. The pain was excruciating to the point of incapacitating him for almost twenty-four hours. He lay in his bunk, arm throbbing, his insides on fire as the toxic venom ravaged his system. It was for that reason he kept a respectful distance from the nest which he knew could contain literally thousands of ants. His primary interest in the creatures was in how they attacked. An aggressive species by nature, the bullet ant had an ability to attack any intruder en masse. He had learned this was due to the first attacking ant releasing a pheromone to which all the other ants responded. Attacks on humans were often a case of a poor hiker accidentally kicking a nest open
without realising it was there, only to find their legs covered with thousands of the tiny and aggressive creatures attacking in a frenzy. His train of thought was broken by the humanoid shadow which fell across the floor in front of him.
He looked over his shoulder, squinting against the sun. "Can I help you?"
"Are you Richard Draven?" the woman said as she stepped closer, blocking out the glare of the sun, her blue eyes trained on him.
"Yes. Who are you?" He said, getting to his feet with a wince as his knees popped in protest.
"You're a difficult man to track down."
"People don't often come looking for me. What can I do for you?"
"You need to come with me."
"Am I under arrest?" he said, finding time to appreciate her good looks. Her hair, in particular, seemed to glow as it was lit by the sun.
"No, you're not under arrest. Even if you were, I wouldn’t have the power to do it."
“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Draven said, keeping a close eye on the ants nest to make sure they were keeping their distance.
“My name is Kate Goodall. I work for the government.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“I’ll tell you on the way. Right now we have to leave.”
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't go anywhere. I'm busy here."
The woman scowled, pursing her thin lips and wiping a forearm against her forehead. There was a harshness about her which was both attractive and intimidating. He couldn't resist checking out the rest of her. Good figure, long legs poking out from khaki shorts.
"Homeland security sent me," she said, folding her arms.
Draven hesitated, glancing down at the Bullet ant nest. "You sure you have the right guy?"
"We don't make mistakes. You're definitely who we're looking for."
"That's nice to know," Draven said. "I'm still not going anywhere until you tell me what you want."
