by David Beers
Briten stood, not moving, and waited—searching his own head for any clues about what happened. He found none. Everything that once decorated the inside of his head was gone: the library, the creature glancing over all his own thoughts. Empty, except for memories created by a dead body.
He saw her eventually—her green carrying her through the air. Even now, with this stress weighing down on him, his heart filled at seeing her. It didn't matter the distance, she would come. Always.
She landed and they embraced, briefly, before Briten pulled back. "He's gone. The boy."
"Which one?"
"The one inside me."
Morena's mouth opened slightly, the shock he felt transferring to her.
"And you're here? You're not dead?" she asked.
“No … I don't know. Should I be?" He smiled at her question—as if he should understand what happened when the human left. As if this wasn't all completely new.
"Yes," Morena said, not smiling back. "When I was with them, if they died, I died." She reached up and touched his face, moving her head closer as well. "You're here. That's all that matters." She leaned her forehead to his, closing her eyes, and he understood how worried she had been—even if only for a moment, that he might die right here in front of her.
After a moment she pulled away.
"Where did he go, do you know?"
Briten shook his head. "No. I woke up, and he wasn't here. Just me."
Neither spoke for a few seconds.
"I want to show you something," she said. "I want you to see it while it's happening."
"You're not worried about this?"
"I just want you to see this before it's too late. We'll find him if we need to, but if we don't, we may not get another chance to watch."
Briten went with this wife into the air, leaving the question of Michael and survival back on the ground—as she would always come, he would always follow.
"Look at him."
Morena's eyes shone bright as they looked down at the world below. It took them time to get here, and neither spoke during their flight. Morena normally didn't process new information for long, and while this might take longer than usual, she didn't pull him away because of it. She truly wanted Briten to see this, to see the son that he never had doing what he was bred to do. Briten was alive—sick, but alive—and she could be okay with that right now. Just for a bit, while they watched.
She didn't know the name of the city they hovered above, looking down as if they were The Makers. The name of the city wasn't important, only what Junior did below.
Fire roared beneath, covering buildings that reached to a hundred feet from them. He wasn't flying, but walking, a mere speck except for his pale blue aura that consumed all around him almost like the flames. People tried to oppose him briefly, but then they fled, all of them running for a safety they would never find. Not from him; not from Bynimian. Her son ruled down there, and if Morena ever doubted Bynimian's ability to conquer this planet, it faded as she watched him.
Morena wouldn't go closer though. She wouldn't venture down to where Junior walked.
She would watch from this vantage point, but to go closer? To watch the things he did from an arm's length distance? Even from here, she saw the difference in Junior. The same one that Briten spoke about. Morena did things that were cruel; she understood that, but she hadn't done them out of cruelty. Junior …
He was frightening.
She couldn't think of any other word to describe it. His actions …
She watched as his aura grabbed multiple people by their heads, picking them up as if he had ten hands, and launched them into burning buildings. She couldn't hear their shrieks, but she knew down there where he walked, their pain blasted as if on loudspeakers. Their skin burned like paper, their raw flesh dying under the hellish heat. He hadn't needed to do that, to throw them into burning buildings, but he did it as naturally as he breathed.
He could have let them run. They still would have died eventually, but perhaps less gruesomely.
Yet still, even with the cruelty, Morena felt pride. Her son was making way for his brethren, for his mother.
"It's beautiful," Briten said from her side, her aura supporting him. She looked at him and saw that his eyes were alive. Whatever thoughts troubled him on the ground—all were cast to the side now. Below was what he had been born to do, and he saw it for the first time, what should have been him. He felt none of the fear Morena did; because Junior and he both breathed the same air, all of it filled with death and smelling wonderful.
"I wanted you to see it," she said, not looking away from him.
"Thank you …," he whispered, his eyes staring down.
29
Present Day
Water dripped from Helos' body as if she just walked from beneath a waterfall. The white wrapped around her as Helos shivered. She knelt down, feeling the soft sand beneath her palms. She didn't try to dig in, though, because she didn't have the strength.
Her mouth hung open, and her lungs heaved in the air that they hadn't been able to find in the ocean. Her aura sustained her, but it hadn't been enough, not nearly.
Even breathing normally, she couldn't find enough oxygen, and fell to her side, curling up, her aura circling tighter.
Too much. Too much was happening here. Death shrieked from all around, yet not a single being inhabited the beach. Screams filled her mind like blind, flying insects—hitting everything and each other, becoming more frantic with each touch.
Air. She needed it, needed the cold to stop. Warmth.
And yet the pain around her—not Bynums, but other creatures—and why could she hear them? Why wouldn't they stop? Where were they all, if not here next to her?
She wrapped her arms around her legs, her body a tiny ball.
Helos died long ago, and then awoke. And now, on a distant planet, in a galaxy she couldn't even name, she would die again. On this beach, hearing the manic screams of creatures she didn't understand. Why? Why had this been done?
She understood none of it, but knew that to go on, to even get up, wasn't possible.
Death.
That's all she could hope for.
Helos closed her eyes, begging the fate that comes for all to take her.
It didn't, though. Time came and went, but fate stayed at a distance. Perhaps not a far one, but its fingers never touched Helos, and eventually she opened her eyes. Still cold, but no longer shivering. The voices rang in her head, but the intensity was diminished. Dampened.
She sat up, slowly, her aura not venturing far from her. She looked at the white of her skin, the white of her aura, all of it still so new. Helos, but yet not. Helos, but now she heard screams from some distant species—sounds that she never heard before, not even with her own kind. She looked at the beach stretching out into oblivion. No structures, no plant life, just beach as far as she could see.
Yet, Morena was here, on this planet somewhere. And the screams? They stemmed from her.
Helos struggled to her feet, her legs shaking but possessing enough strength to finally hoist her up.
She was brought here because of the echoes in her head. Because her daughter had to be stopped, if those echoes weren't to expand across the universe.
More were born every few hours, their capsules opening from the top and their bodies freed to the world. Bynums rooting from the white strands that had already wreaked so much havoc. Groups like these would continue to grow and birth as long as the strands expanded across the world.
The early ones, though, were nearing a different stage.
They were almost awake—their minds finally building to the point where they understood the world around them. Slowly, each one of them—at different times, but all within minutes of each other—started functioning at the level they were supposed to.
The strands beneath their feet communicated to them what they needed to know about their mother, about the one who helped evolve them—Junior—and about their place in t
his world.
The first group of Bynums recognized from the moment they awoke that this world meant to kill them. That even as they stood here amongst each other in peace, their Var was at war, and her first born was fighting it. This planet hated them and their kind, wanted to kill them all.
Peace lined their DNA, and as this knowledge passed through them—one by one—a physical reaction occurred. Their auras spread, high, low, and flowed out like an animal puffing up its body to scare predators. The reaction was automatic, something built out of fear, out of a need to protect themselves.
Protection.
They needed it.
Their mother needed it.
Their entire species needed it.
Just as fear ran through their body, a deep anger spread next, slowly overtaking the fear—and as it did, their auras retreated, wrapping around their bodies like armor.
War had come to all Bynums, and the first group alive prepared to fight.
This is a long fucking walk.
Will stood in the middle of a small circle, with a perimeter of about five feet. He looked back at the path he had taken, but nothing remained of it. Nothing as far as he could see. This growth was resilient and fast. Nearly as soon as he and his suit of cold passed through them, they began growing again—spreading back over their lost space.
Will was thirsty. Hunger hadn't yet crept up on him, but he knew it would soon. He had supplies in his backpack but wasn't ready to start on them yet. Too many miles lay ahead.
Yet, at this pace, he would never make it to Grayson. The GPS in his backpack told him he was in North Carolina, and to make it down into Georgia would take at least a couple more days. Which he didn't know if they had, nor did he know any way to find out.
He and Knox hadn't thought this shit out at all. They simply saw the boogeyman in the cage next to Will and let Will loose, hoping that somehow he could get all the lights turned on in the house so that the boogeyman would disappear. Will made his choice to come down here, and was fine with it, but now he hated himself for rushing. Because what was he going to do? Keep walking in this endless white desert, hoping his water didn't run out?
He looked through the plastic helmet at the west horizon, seeing the sun going down. Luckily, he wouldn't have anything to trip over in the night, as the strands had created a mostly even platform.
"There's got to be a better way," he said, though that way remained hidden.
"Will." The voice filled up both his ears and helmet.
He jumped, his feet moving close to the circle's edge before he gained control of himself. The holes on either side of his suit were already dumping out ice slush.
"Will, it's me—Knox." And the voice was Knox's, somehow directly in his helmet. "You there? You have to be; I'd know if you were dead."
"What the fuck is going on?" Will said, taking a step back toward the center of his cleared circle.
"The suit, it's connected to us in the bunker. We set up comms in them."
"Christ, one more thing we forgot to discuss?"
"I suppose so," Knox said, "but there isn't time to worry about it. Where are you?"
"You can't track me with the suit?"
"There's no time, Will. Just give me some answers."
"About ten miles into North Carolina," Will said.
No noise came through the helmet for a few seconds.
"I know," Will said. "It's going to take too long."
"Yeah, it is."
"You can't bring a car through this; it'll latch onto the wheels the first chance it gets, and take the whole thing under. Unless you have a chopper that can come pick me up, I'm not sure what else to do," Will said. A few more seconds passed in silence, Knox clearly thinking about what to do because he had hoped Will made more progress. "Why did you call?" Will asked after a few seconds.
"Marks is out, and in near complete control."
"What's he doing?"
Knox sighed before talking. "He's got an idea, and I think it might work. He wants to infect the white strands with a virus, basically one that will freeze them, and thus kill them. Only, once he backs it up into Grayson, I imagine his tune is going to change, and by then, no one will be able to not listen to him."
Will fell silent, letting the words wash over his mind like cyanide.
"I think they're going to start it first thing in the morning, if not sooner. It just depends when the scientists can fully understand what he's telling them to do. And the west, it's not even a battle. Every country in the world it seems like is bombing America, and not a single bomb is stopping that thing out there."
Will heard the defeat underpinning his words.
He had called, though.
He hadn't given up. And hell, Will was down here in the midst of this.
"It can't be over," he said, maybe to himself, maybe to Knox.
"I'm going to get you a chopper. I don't know how yet, but I'm going to get it to you," Knox said. "Keep walking, and I'll let you know when it's on the way."
Will waited a few more seconds. No click. No 'over', just the dead silence of him and the empty space all around. Knox was gone and Will alone again.
He looked down at his feet and started walking, the strands falling back from the tiny defense his suit created around him.
No one left the bunker, for any reason. Kenneth Marks was in charge of the operation, but apparently the rule about leaving was handed down from God. Kenneth Marks would have challenged it and won if this all had been about gaining or showing power. It wasn't though—far from it. He would stay in the bunker as long as necessary, except he would be the one deciding what necessary meant.
They brought the scientists to him, from all over the world. They shuttled them across the globe at the fastest speeds possible, because they believed Kenneth Marks would be their savior. And, he would be. For a time.
Four scientists, five if you included the American, though she wasn't on the same level as the foreigners.
"Hi, everyone," Kenneth Marks said. "I hope the flights weren't too awful, though I imagine you had the planes all to yourselves. Everyone fluent in English?"
All confirmed, either through nods or a simple yes.
"Great, that'll make this a lot easier. Behind you is your laboratory. I've walked through it, and though I'm not nearly as smart as you five, it appears to have everything you'll need. You've been briefed on what we're about to do?"
Another round of confirmations.
"What we need to do first then is to make sure you all understand the compounds we're creating. There are similar ones in existence already, but this has to be specific." He pulled the small piece of plastic from his pocket. It still contained the white strands, though dead now, cut off from their heat source for far too long. The small bulb was no longer filled with any color, but one could look straight through it. "We're going to dissect this, and create our compound based on what will kill it."
"Everyone ready?"
More confirmations.
The hours stretched on, but Kenneth Marks didn't tire. Apparently neither did these scientists, including the American—which surprised him a bit, given how woefully inadequate Americans had become at any problem containing a number or symbol. Kenneth Marks blamed it on the parents, not the public schools or the lack of funding, but education reform wasn't his battle to fight.
Kenneth Marks stayed away from the actual work, letting them pull apart the strand, then run it through the machines that attempted to explain the DNA structure. None of it, of course, had ever been seen on Earth before, but that didn't mean they couldn't figure out how to kill it.
The key was, which Kenneth Marks explained to them in great detail, that cold temperatures destroyed some piece of this thing's DNA—maybe multiple pieces—and they needed to understand which piece, so then they could tailor this poison.
He read the reports the machines spat out. He understood them well enough, and his mind was rapidly expanding to understand them on the same level as t
hese scientists. Still, they all were necessary right now. They would move quicker than Kenneth Marks in the beginning, and ten hands could always get more done than two.
The rest of the world was concerned about time. Indeed, Trone came down hourly to inquire about their progress. Kenneth Marks gave him nothing. He simply kept looking at the scientists, or reading whatever report was new. The President was a non-factor now, and Kenneth Marks wouldn't let Trone disturb his creation. Kenneth Marks didn't care in the slightest about time. What mattered was getting this right, for multiple reasons. He would only have one chance. If the strands didn't die, then Kenneth Marks would—at Trone's command, most likely. It didn't matter to him at all if the strands devoured the rest of the world; a long time would pass before they found these tunnels—and if he had the antidote ready?
All that mattered was getting it right, which Kenneth Marks planned on doing.
"How long, Marks?" Trone said, standing behind him in the open doorway.
The tone in his voice had changed, and Kenneth Marks read the strain in each word. He turned around, understanding Trone was nearing a breaking point. The man had proven extremely resilient up until now—actually impressing Kenneth Marks.
"I'm going to put you back in the cage if you don't start answering me."
The two stared at each other. Kenneth Marks read every piece of Trone's physical reactions, processing them for likelihood of either breakdown or him actually following through with his threat. The man was a better actor than Kenneth Marks realized; the president's voice had thrown him. The acting came from a lifetime of politicking. He wasn't breaking, though Kenneth Marks thought Trone might put him back in the cage. Not forever, but for a time, to prove who was actually in charge.
Which wouldn't have bothered Kenneth Marks at all, under normal circumstances. Certainly not six hours ago. Now, things were a bit different. These scientists could continue the work, at least for a while, which might give Trone confidence they could finish it. They couldn't, of course, because Kenneth Marks was holding another card he hadn't laid down yet.
