Evolution Z

by Everist J Miller

  Ray braced, arms covering his face, as the volunteer closed the gap between them.

  The door suddenly burst open. Ray swivelled in hope. Mike appeared. He pointed a rifle at the volunteer, only to have it stolen out of his grasp by Doug standing beside him.

  "What are you doing?" Mike asked Doug.

  "Not yet, my friend," Doug said. "We are going to need another volunteer."

  "No," Ray said. "No," he repeated. He was dumbfounded. All of this had happened quickly. He felt a presence. A monster. Turned around.

  No. Oh God no. The volunteer lurched, pointing its head to bite Ray's neck. Ray blocked it with his arm. The volunteer sank its razor sharp canines into Ray's forearm.

  The pain stung him. Its jaw was stuck to him. "Get it off! Get it off!" He screamed. Oh God. He was flailing as if on fire.

  Bang. Ray's ears rang. The volunteer's grip fell away as most of its skull disintegrated, spraying grizzle into Ray's face. All that remained of its head was a lone sharp tooth embedded in Ray's arm and covered in his blood.

  Ray sank to the ground. It was the... worst. All of his nightmares suddenly a reality.

  He heard Doug's voice in the distance of his terror. "This is just the beginning, my friend," Doug said. "I hope I have found a way to start the new war."

  ###

  This is it, Mike thought. That crazy fuck has finally caused a catastrophe. Why did I hire him? Why did I keep him? Of course this would happen. What the fuck was I thinking?

  "Help!" Ray shrieked, snapping Mike's attention back to him. He was slumped against a wall, clutching his right forearm. Fresh blood circled his fingers. His face was ghostly white. His eyes were squeezed shut. "Call... an... ambulance," he said gasping.

  "What's the point?" Doug asked in a low voice.

  Mike turned to see Doug's vacant indifference. Mike assumed the comment was directed at him. Ray, in his agony, would not have heard. As if in answer to a question, Doug said, "You know I'm right., my friend If anyone finds him we are all dead."

  Mike stared with bulging eyes, mouth agape. "What have you done?" he asked. "What the fuck have you done, okay?" After a pause, he said, "I hope someone finds him. I'm going to tell them exactly what's happened. I'm not the one who's dead here Doug. It's all on you, okay. You're the one who's in deep shit."

  "I say we shackle him," Doug said, his expression unchanged.

  What the fuck?

  "Now wait a minute," Mike said, his eyes wide with panic. "I told you. I'm not getting involved. I'm going to my office to call an ambulance, okay. Then I'm going to tell them what happened."

  "You're such a pussy Mike," Doug said with a look of disgust. "You think they will believe you? On their scale, this is a worst-case scenario, my friend. What do you think they will do? Oh thank you, Mr Beeson," he said, "We'll take him to the hospital straight away. Post haste." After a moment, he said with a mocking tone, "Of course not. First thing they'll do my friend is press the panic button. Call the army. They won't care whose fault it is. They'll have to get rid of every trace of it as if it never happened. That includes you, my friend. You're as dead as I am."

  That wasn't true. I'm innocent, Mike thought. "You're fucking crazy Doug. I'm not going to be an accessory, okay."

  "You already are an accessory, my friend," Doug said. His tone was threatening.

  "No," Mike said pointing. "This is all on you Doug, okay. It's all on you." It was on Doug.

  "Someone help me," Ray squealed in the background.

  "I'm not doing anything to help him my friend," Doug said coldly. "I'm going to lock him up until he's ready. By the size of him it will be reasonably quick as you know. He'll be done by morning. Then we'll have what we need. A replacement volunteer. And no one will find out."

  "Lucky he's not a little kid," Doug continued. "They turn quickly, my friend. Snap and they would be after me. I had to watch out for them." He winked. Mike felt the contents of his stomach rising into his throat. He could taste the burning sour acid. His four-year-old brother with short charcoal black hair and a cute naughty grin had turned before his eyes. It was sudden. In a brief moment he had become an ugly gruesome rabid creature of death.

  "I liked it after a while," Doug said. "I made it a game. I would try to shoot them just before they turned. I would time it in my mind. I made some calculations in my free time after I had some experience with them. I had scales. I counted the seconds and weighed the dead ones. I figured out the pattern. It was fun. Better than just target practice. It was a challenge, my friend. I want that challenge back. I want to hunt them again but I need them to be clever, to make it a sport." There was an edge to his voice as if he was determined to make it happen. "That headset might be the key," he said pointing at the headset he had ripped from the volunteer's head.

  Mike stared in stunned silence. The part about the headset didn't register with him as it should have. He was too caught up. I didn't do anything, he said to himself. If I go along with this, I'll be an accessory, he realised. Then they'll have a reason to execute me. He shook his head. "I'm calling an ambulance," he said.

  Doug shrugged, staring. "An ambulance? For what? He's not ill, my friend. He's dead. The only thing an ambulance will do is call the police. Then it will be laid out. We will both be executed. You are just as guilty as me, my friend."

  No I'm not, Mike thought. I'm not. I'm innocent.

  Doug strolled towards Mike. He held his chest out. His arms swung at his sides like a gorilla.

  Mike backed away as Doug closed in on him. Doug continued forward until he pinned Mike against a wall. Doug was shorter than Mike but he lifted his head to eye level and gazed into Mike's eyes. His stare was piercing. Mike tried to look away but Doug grabbed him by the throat and forced his attention. Mike could smell Doug's sour breath and salty sweat. He winced as Doug applied pressure to his throat. His heart galloped as his adrenaline surged.

  "I could kill you right now my friend," Doug said grinning. "Your life is in my hands." He put his other hand across Mike's nose and mouth and pressed Mike's head against the wall.

  Mike couldn't breathe. Doug's hand had a pungent smell like that of underwear after an intense work out. Mike could taste Doug's sweat in his mouth.

  With his breath cut off, it was like a tap had been turned off. His head swelled. He struggled to find relief. He was caught in a kind of suspended animation.

  "Now, I'm going to give you one chance," Doug said in a forced whisper. "Only one." He paused. Then he said, "Now repeat what I say." Pause. "We are.."

  Mike couldn't get air in or out. His world suspended. He saw stars.

  "Oh, I'm sorry, my friend," Doug said. "I should let you speak." He withdrew one hand from Mike's face but his other hand remained firmly on Mike's throat, albeit he loosened his grip enough for Mike to speak. Throughout he wore a sardonic grin.

  Mike felt immediate relief. That horrid odour has increased his heart rate and blood pressure and he felt nauseated. It was a struggle, but he sipped a breath. He coughed and panted.

  "Repeat," Doug said, his voice forceful, his grin replaced with a scowl. "We are..."

  Mike was still struggling to recover. He sucked in air feverishly and at once spat it out. Panic led to hyperventilation. He clasped Doug's hand to remove it from his neck. He couldn't. It was a feeble attempt. Doug's arm was thick and his hand chubby and wide. Doug increased the pressure, forcing Mike to make a garbled, gasping sound. His throat stung but he could breathe.

  "Repeat," Doug said. "We are..." He nodded as a cue for Mike to speak.

  "We...are.." Mike snorted struggling to breathe.

  "In this..." Doug said.

  "In this..." Mike repeated.

  "Together," Doug said.

  "Together," Mike exhaled.

  Doug released him. Mike's head dropped, his hand moved to comfort his injured neck, and he swallowed. It felt like a razor blade was lodged in his throat. He winced.

  "See," Doug said, his voice jovial, "That wasn
't so bad. We can work together. Can't we my friend?" The sardonic grin returned.

  Mike nodded vigorously, still massaging his throat and coughing.

  Mike turned to look at Ray squatting in a corner on the other side of the room. That idiot had ruined everything. That paranoid freak. Malfunctioned. Mal-fucking-functioned.

  "I know what you are thinking my friend," Doug said to Mike. "What do we do with him?" He paused. "Chain him up. Lock him up overnight and, like I said before, he'll be ready in the morning."

  Like making jelly, Mike thought. He'll set overnight and then we'll all be part of our new family. God, what was happening?

  Mike's heart dropped. "What about..." Mike's voice trailed off into a loud cough. "... the operator?" he finished.

  "People disappear all the time," Doug said. "All the time, my friend," he emphasised. "Cops can't chase them all down. Anyway, the cops aren't interested. They work for the wealthy now." After a pause he said, "I know. If it helps you feel better, make a record that you sacked him. Everyone knows that's a sentence to the Shit Belt. There you go," he said as if comforting a child. "Now you don't have to worry anymore. The dead volunteer no longer exists. Ray will replace it. You can record dismissing Ray too. Easy."

  Mike eyed Doug accusingly as if Doug had blasphemed. They couldn't rely on disinterest. Not when their lives were at stake.

  "The cops have to eat too," Doug said raising his eyebrows. "Why shouldn't they find work where the money is?" He paused to make the point. "All the rich care about is the volunteers, my friend. They think they're going to rebuild this crappy city." He pointed to the surrounds of the room. "It won't interest them that an operator on a work-site mysteriously disappeared, most likely to the Shit Belt." He broke into a chuckle. "He's nothing. You can replace him." After a moment he said, patting Mike on the shoulder, "And that suits me, my friend." Doug pointed to Ray. "Same with him. The only one they'll miss is the volunteer I put to rest and we have a replacement for him, so they'll never know. They all look the same. The only difference is the serial number, and that is on the headset."

  That's if it all goes smoothly, Mike thought. How blind to the obvious Doug was. The police and, even worse, the army would sure as hell want to know if a volunteer went rogue and savagely killed an operator. Not to mention that a volunteer was being manufactured in the wild by a crazy psychopath. Doug looked at everything so simplistically.

  Yes, the security of the volunteers was everything. Everyone had to be convinced of it, like it or not. It controlled language. No one could use the 'z' word. It was a crime. The sole purpose of the army, apart from pillaging like the police, was to guard against rogue volunteers. To prevent another war. It was the source of their power. They could massacre the government, the people or the police.

  No doubt it would be trite to kill him and Doug. What had he got himself into? He felt the urge to cry. To bawl, like a distressed child. His head was heavy. Clouds of darkness enveloped him. What was the point of going on?

  "I say we put him in the second cell," Doug said pointing at Ray. "Chain him. Wrap him up in that dead volunteer's skin suit when he's cooked. You can replace the broken parts or see them together if you like." Then he pointed at the operator and said, "We'll feed his carcass to the volunteers."

  "What about the dead volunteer?" Mike asked, his head bowed. His voice was shallow.

  "He's nothing," Doug growled. "We can crush him in the pit. Then burn him."

  Mike wasn't convinced. He lifted the dead weight of his head and glimpsed Ray's agony. Ray's eyes were wide. He was standing, clutching his arm, edging to the door. He had better not get away, or they'd all be dead. That fucking idiot.

  Doug followed Mike's glare, launched into action and blocked Ray's passage.

  "Let me out," Ray demanded, his voice crackling, sweat trickling down his face. But it wasn't just sweat. There were tears too. His lower lip wobbled.

  Ray and Doug were face to face. Doug eyed Ray with a cold-blooded unblinking stare. Mike noticed that Doug had picked up his rifle on the way over to Ray. Ray was about to speak again when Doug hit him behind the ear with the butt of the rifle. Ray was limp before he hit the ground.

  Mike stared in shock.

  "Don't worry, my friend," Doug said. "He's not too damaged. He'll still make a good volunteer." He winked. After a pause he said, "I have to run an errand my friend, so we will have to make this quick. You go and lock him up and I'll take care of this." He pointed to the mess of blood and gore.

  Why? Mike thought. It was unlike Doug to do menial jobs. But then, Doug probably liked death.

  Mike's mouth was agape. How had this happened? How had he fallen into this trap?

  Doug grinned. "No mal-fucking functions," he said. He waved Mike out of the room and slammed the door in Mike's face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARCIA WAS PERPETUALLY running against the clock. Despite sticking to a saintly routine, she constantly brushed against defeat from circumstances beyond her control. Case in point - traffic. She needed to get to work early that morning, but her car stood rigid in the traffic.

  Marcia couldn't believe it. "Why?" she shrieked. After all, only the privileged had cars. There weren't many. Marcia had counted herself lucky at first, but she had grown accustomed to the thought that she was entitled. It wasn't because she was overconfident. Quite the opposite. She wasn't confident enough.

  Trapped in the still traffic, Marcia became anxious about being late for her meeting. There was a digital clock on the dashboard always within eyesight. Her eyes were drawn to that stupid clock and, every time she looked at it, the stress would boil. Then she would shriek, and the process would repeat.

  Today the traffic was worse than normal and Marcia needed to calm herself. She focused on her technical skills. She was an engineer. A talented engineer. There aren't many people like me, she thought. I'm safe.

  She held on to that thought. She was important, not like the ones that were unskilled; that lived in poverty. Not like them. They didn't have jobs. They weren't needed. The volunteers could do their work and had replaced them.

  Better not be late for your meeting, a voice inside her whispered. She felt flustered. Her eyes had gravitated to the clock. Again. The stubborn clock that just wouldn't give her a break.

  The traffic crawled away from the desolate grey melted buildings towards the core of the new city. Ironic there was traffic given few had cars, but there weren't many roads. It freaked Marcia out to think that even the needed and valued like herself had to travel single file in procession. Cars were too valuable to drive on the prehistoric, overgrown, torn up roads from the old city.

  Still, Marcia didn't have to always be on the cusp of being late. The unfairness of her situation triggered anger that caused her mind to drift briefly from the dashboard clock.

  She recalled the stressful start to the day. Up at 5.30am. Made breakfast. Packed Andrew's lunch. Showered. Got dressed. Stole a sip of coffee. Tried to wake Andrew. That's when the chaos began. A predictable chaos, but chaos all the same.

  It started with "wake up sweetie" in a strained attempt at a gentle voice. She hoped it would lure her son into cooperation.

  Marcia was back in five minutes. Andrew had pulled the covers over his head. "Okay, time to get up now," Marcia had said in a rising tone. She tore the covers from his body causing him to jolt.

  "It's cold," he complained.

  "Get dressed," Marcia said.

  Marcia had allowed herself a brief glimpse of a breakfast news program. Another few gulps of coffee. Back into his room. No surprises. Why couldn't he grow up? Be responsible? "Andrew, I told you to get up twenty minutes ago, now get up!" Ripped off his sheets leaving his dozing body exposed. Switched on his bright bedroom light. Satisfaction of seeing him squint. That'll get him up.

  Fourteen years' old and she had to wait on him.

  He rolled over and covered his face in his hands. "Turn it off. It's too bright," he said.

  "Hav
e you packed your lunch?" He shook his head in a careless pose. "For God's sake why not?"

  "Why are you so angry mom?"

  "Because I have to do everything for you. Why can't you take responsibility for yourself? I have to do everything for you. You're not a baby anymore. You've got an alarm. Set it and get up when it goes off. I'm going to be late. You haven't started your shower yet. We've only got half an hour left."

  That didn't move him. He just sulked, and that slowed him down. "Wish you wouldn't take it out on me," he mumbled. "I don't see you all day and the rest of the time you're in a bad mood."

  "I'm sorry," Marcia said, but the tone of her voice betrayed her annoyance. "You know I have no help. What am I supposed to do? I've got to get to work on time. Do you want me to lose my job? Is that what you want? Because then we'd have nothing."

  Andrew sat up, stretched in a lazy pose and slid to a standing position. Ambled away. "Andrew, I'm leaving in half an hour, ready or not." She knew it was an empty threat. What was she going to do? He had to go to school.

  It was impossible to get him out the door. Forgot his mobile. Had to go back for his jacket. The final straw - he figured out in the car he left his goddamn bag just behind the front door of their unit.

  "Fuck," she shouted, left him in the car and raced to the lift. Shit, it was two floors up and rising. Change of plan. She skipped the lift and raced up the internal fire stairs to the front door, opened it, grabbed the bag and dragged it down the fire stairs. Back to the car, she threw it in the back seat. She felt the purest form of rage.

  Sitting in the traffic, after dropping him off, the same indignation concentrated in her throat. She strained to compress it, but that only made it more determined to grow until it boiled over and vented as heat through her temples. She never had a chance; always alone, trying to cope with work, money, Andrew, without a thought of her own needs. Having many masters pulling her in different directions.