Cuddles

by Dennis Fueyo

  “What, you don’t want me with you? I’m not good enough?”

  “No, dammit, I don’t want you to die.”

  Sam memorized Juan’s boyish features. He analyzed his introspective eyes and rock-hard brow. Two friends lost, he could not handle his last best friend taken from him. “I mean it, homey, you should hang back on this one.”

  Juan’s eyebrow cocked upward. “You think I’m not good enough to make it out alive? Damn, Sammy, that’s stupid.” He tugged Sam over to a serving table and plopped a mountain of hash browns and eggs on his plate. “Eat this, your brain needs food.”

  “Juan, I—”

  “Either you keep insulting me, or you trust I can handle myself, Sammy. You pick.”

  Sam stared at the Himalayan egg mass and asked, “You will share this with me, right?”

  Juan slapped Sam’s shoulder and laughed. “I knew you could trust me, man. And no, that’s your trough.”

  Sam and Juan met the others at a corner booth in the back of the restaurant. On his left sat Emelia and Juan, and on his right sat Lou Frasier and Tom. More patrons filed into the buffet line. Giddy conversational din about Hurricane Ben suppressed others from hearing the corner booth discussion.

  Tom folded his hands and asked, “So, Son, what is the plan?”

  Sam snarked, “Why are you asking me? This is your idea.”

  Lou leaned in and asked, “Aren’t you the master of planning, Sam? We figured you would assemble an infiltration plan for us. We serve the Divers, and you are master hunter. We’re following your lead.”

  “You are sorely mistaken if you think I lead this team, Lou. The Divers are dead. I am a master of no one, not a thing.”

  Lou looked at Emelia, his eyes filled with concern.

  “Sam,” Emelia said and cleared her throat, “I think you are considered more of an expert in covert operations than we are. Lou, Tom and I are scientists, not soldiers. Your advice would be helpful if you were willing to give it.”

  Sam rubbed her leg and feigned aplomb to match her confidence in him, but could not follow through with a valiant statement. He looked back into his food mute.

  Lou asked, “Anyone else want to pluck an idea from the dam? Juan? You’re a talented, seasoned soldier of sorts.”

  “I can lead you guys in, but I work alone during a fight. No good to toss an idea on the table unless you all want to take separate paths when the action starts.”

  “Doc? Any informative gems to share?”

  “Well,” Tom stammered, “uh, what do we know about the Atlantians?”

  Emelia shushed him. “Not too loud, ok?”

  “Christ,” Tom gruffed and tossed his napkin on the table. “Why am I even here? I mean, we are here to help you get information, Sammy. The Atlantians know something that will help you defeat the jackers. Raleigh will not fight with you. Hell, Jonathon Stone hates your guts.”

  “Right, but that does not mean I have to develop the plan, Dad. You are faster than me and have a Ph.D. Emelia has an MD and can make people do whatever she wants. Lou, also possessing a Ph.D., can bring the bulk of the animal kingdom to his attention. I got nothing.”

  “You have me, Sam,” Emelia said, finding his eyes. “Don’t forget which choice I made.”

  “Yeah.” Sam stared back down at the heap of food on his plate.

  “Please, can’t you put something on the table?”

  Sam stabbed at the pile of hash browns, mixing them in with his over-buttered eggs. He then perked up, pointed at her, and said, “Actually, you can.”

  Emelia blushed and asked, “What do you mean, I can put something on the table?”

  “You are on my side, Emelia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure in your choice?”

  “Don’t make me regret it, Sam.”

  Sam scooped up Emelia’s hand and asked, “What is the Stone strain?”

  Gabby patron conversations blared. Cups and plates clinked and clanked as staff donned in red aprons and black slacks shuttled piles of things in and out of the kitchen. Half-drunk coffee cups, whole pieces of fruit speckled with egg bits, and plates licked clean of syrup dirtied empty tables. Crashing dishware resonated from the kitchen, followed by curse words flowing between Spanish and English.

  Sunlight wrapped around the hotel igniting Charleston in a flame of orange, pink and purple. Rivers, once boulevards, white-capped in the early morning breeze.

  Sam gazed unflinchingly at her and repeated, “Emelia, what is the Stone strain?”

  “I understand. But first, you must tell everyone here how you feel about me.”

  “Why, should that be hard to say?”

  “I want them to hear you say it. Sam, it’s important to me.”

  Sam cleared his throat and rested both hands on the table. Crashing sounds of plates and morning contrails from the unbrushed mouths of buffet-stuffed guests whittled away, leaving only the piercing eyes of Emelia and Sam focused on each other.

  “I support you, your choices, and everything you do. And love you. I love you from deep within my heart. I see you every time I close my eyes. I feel your hair when I rest my hand, and I taste your lavender scent in everything I eat. I love you and cannot picture a world where you do not exist.”

  Streams of tears ran out Emelia’s eyes and down her cheeks, dripping off her chin. “What I am about to say will dishonor my grandfather’s memory, shame my father, and excise me from my family. Understand, Sam, that I do this for you.”

  Lou sat mouth gaping open. Tom’s eye began to twitch. Juan dabbed moisture from his own eye.

  Sam drew her hands in his and said, “I’ll be everything you want me to be. If you want me to try forming a plan, I need to know.”

  Emelia cleared her throat and spoke.

  Chapter 22

  “Fifteen years ago, Arnold Stone, my beloved Grandpapa, sold his pharmaceutical company. Publicly, they developed and marketed a drug that blocked most forms of breast and pancreatic cancer. It was delivered by a virus with a protein coat engineered to tag malignant cells. The company did not know he secretly tested a similar protein coat to target neurons. It could infect a neural cell based on how it folded en masse, allowing him to steer the virus to different parts of the brain. Then came the advent of CRISPR-CAS. Everything changed.

  “My grandfather could target specific cell types and change their genetic makeup without viral replication. See…he wanted more for humanity. He felt society’s laws were too entrenched to change, and felt something radical needed to take place to save our species. Aunt Eva went to work for him removing different silencing genes, trying to find those that expressed proteins other animals used.

  “It was always a trade-off. Seeing in infrared meant hearing loss. Increased thought processes stunted leg growth. Eva had to inject the host with thousands of different strains, activating one gene while suppressing the operating chain to maintain standard cyclical systems. It finally worked, but the formulation was crude.

  “She created the green pill and fed it to my family. And one family friend named Jack Harr, a detective from North Carolina. My grandfather needed him to help sleuth out information leaks in the manufacturing facility. Jack’s enhanced trait is hunting information. Better than Juan, Jack is the best at what he does.

  “Then, my grandfather found Lou and Tom. The idea of delivering a genetic derivative using mosquitos seemed superior to a pill. They randomized the delivery, and he could gather dozens of terabytes of information in weeks. Tom and Lou’s mosquitoes infected hosts randomly at a higher efficiency, versus one-tenth of the knowledge gained through varied formulations. Five years ago, my grandfather began introducing the Stone strain of mosquitos into environments devastated by the Wash.

  “When Grandpapa saw how the mutations contorted ecosystems, like when the muckbears began appearing, he braked on his research and focused his lenses, weighing the most beneficial mutations against their impact on habitats. The cost was astronomical, so he diverte
d emergency funds from areas devastated by Hurricane Kiersten. He finally had a breakthrough—he created the Atlantians.”

  Sam had experienced “Oh Crap” moments before, but none like this. Tom’s jaw hung loose in astonishment, Lou looked to be in a state of shock, and Juan uttered out one word: “damn.”

  Emelia continued, “In theory, Atlantians see things just like children of the green pill and have many mutations: cold resistance, gills, and they absorb radiation. I say theoretically because the original formulation included those traits. None have returned confirming them. That is all I know. After grandfather heard rumors of the Atlantians and Savannah, he changed the strain’s formulation again for smaller effects. Elongated teeth and appendages began showing up in other animals.”

  “What about the biggens?” Sam asked. “How could they be affected by the Stone strain?”

  “I don’t know. Would not be surprised if others tried copying my grandfather’s work. Or they might be a natural mutation. Even without my family’s interference, things were changing at a vastly accelerated rate.”

  Tom buried his face in his hands. “My God…”

  Emelia looked over her shoulder, then spoke in a lowered voice, saying, “Someone started shooting down delivery helicopters. Not random attacks, someone knew exactly where and when the deliveries were scheduled. I suspected it was my father, but Papa said San Francisco planned the drops. He had no knowledge of the logistics for spraying. My Aunt Eva, maybe, but she could sabotage the batches rendering them useless upon inoculation. She hated the world too much to stop the mutations.”

  Sam shifted and said, “Her son, Clark.”

  “I don’t know”—Emelia slunk in her seat—"but the Atlantians might. It wouldn’t make sense if Clark destroyed the drops, he manufactured the material. It doesn’t fit. I understand him wanting to usurp the water trade. He would control the lawless territories. If he indeed murdered my aunt, that would mean he influences the governments of both Canada and the U.S. And why race to the Atlantians? He has all the tools needed to recreate them.”

  “Because they learned how to create something Clark cannot,” Sam replied, poking at his pile of food. “Why risk mutating more humans if the ones already mutated are smarter than their creator, right? Clark has been destroying the shipments.”

  Emelia asked, “How do you know they have something that can beat Clark?”

  “I know not what it is, but obviously he will risk everything to get it. Think about it, flaunting himself in front of us was a bold, and idiotic, move.” Sam stroked the scruff of his chin. “He is desperate for something.”

  “Son, what are you thinking?” asked Tom plucking tendons in his own forearm.

  “Clark Stone owns the military and now controls the water trade. He has his own demented sentinel seeking to destroy us. My guess, it was not a coincidence the creature appeared. He called it his friend. So, why not usurp Savannah outright? Because attacking the region draws attention to something. Atlantians? Probably. Thus, they have something he wants, and he wants no one else to have it.”

  Sam suddenly banged on the table and said, “I got it! Follow me on this, ok? Clark finds out the Atlantians are an advanced race. He maintains a low-profile, destroying shipments to not advance them further but does not attack because they could beat his ass. Then, the Atlantians invent something he wants. But he still cannot wage war on them because he does not want to draw attention to whatever they invented. Then…he finds out Jonathon Stone ordered swamp stompers to go get the invention. Clark wants it, thinks he can conquer all of humanity with it, if only he had it.”

  Sam raised his palms to his nose and inhaled. “Ah, Clark’s smelling it, he can taste it, he wants it so bad. He manipulates the jackers to go deep in Carolina, out of West Virginia and across Virginia’s border where the military is waiting for them. He keeps the tribes hostile to each other, but the jackers still slow down.” Sam shook his head and laughed. “Nope, they’re not getting there in time.”

  Emelia slapped Sam’s shoulder, saying, “So he must either expose himself to poison strain deliveries and wipe out the Atlantians or mount an enormous assault on Savannah which, even worse, exposes his connections.”

  “Exactly”—Sam chuckled rubbing his shoulder—“but then Clark comes across this sentinel. He thinks this is the edge he needs, and the sentinel thinks Clark is an energy factory—look at all the innocent people ready to die by his command. He gets so confident that his fly-faced buddy can kill us, the dipshit announces himself as King of the Jackers at Topsail. Fucking asshole, and he called me cocky!”

  “So he fails,” said Juan hand in chin, marveling at Sam’s revelation. “Fails at least with killing us. Sammy, this Clark guy fully exposed himself like a flipped turtle after gaining more power than Cortez after conquering the New World. What the hell can be such a magnet?”

  “Whatever it is, we can use it to kill him. Guess we will find out what he wants so bad.”

  “If we survive,” Tom said, stabbing his fork into a slice of stiff, cold bacon.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Emelia Stone’s contact came in handy. After their meeting yesterday, the contact radioed to Jonathon Stone letting him know she was in good shape. Either he was elated at the news or terrified, but in either case he sent her a gift.

  Full from breakfast, Sam egressed to the hotel lobby in search of transportation. The plan was for the group to separate and find a working boat, skiff or jet skis, then reconvene and trace the coastline south to Hilton Head. Not Sam nor any of the others knew how to circumvent the Atlantian border, a wall of vegetation that ran the sound northwest, then due west to the Savannah River. Sam figured once they saw it up close, a strategy would materialize.

  In the hotel lobby, an attendant dressed perfectly for the region opened double pane doors for guests, careful not to let stagnating water into the lounge. His bellhop cap covered long, unwashed hair, and his gold-trimmed coat opened up the breast showing off a food-stained shirt. As he darted between patrons, his loose jeans made a rapid, swiffy noise. Like his shirt, he wore torn jeans stained with streaks of grime contraposed to freshly buffed shoes. “Emelia Stone?” he asked, “Are you Ms. Stone?”

  “I am,” she said more in the form of a question than response.

  Catching the exchange, Sam hailed the others and they congealed around the lobby attendant, who pointed outside as he spoke. “Ms. Stone…”

  “Doctor Stone,” clarified Sam. “Her name is Dr. Emelia Stone.”

  “Sorry…Dr. Stone, this craft was delivered an hour ago.”

  An HP109 Mud Hopper waited for her in the flooded hotel turnabout.

  “Four men brought it in,” the attendant said, “and left a note for you.”

  Emelia held the delicate note and read aloud, “Dear Mel, this will help you reach your destination. A warning to anyone tempted to borrow this craft who does not answer to Emelia Stone: you will be terminated.”

  “Well, Jonathon never did like abstract language,” Tom quipped.

  “Damn!” Juan exclaimed and waded out into the muck. He ran his fingers along the armored pontoon bladder. “Baby, where have you been all my life!”

  Sam followed him out, lifted in emotions vicariously expressed through Juan. The others were excited as well, exchanging fist bumps and shoulder pats with stretched grins.

  The giddy spotter asked, “Can I drive this? Come on, Sammy, you got to let me drive this baby. Please?”

  Sam’s days of master hunter felt so distant from Charleston. Juan’s question stirred annoyance in him, wishing he had no memory of Wilmington whatsoever. Worse, they expected him to formulate a plan. Preparing for things he did not understand had a poor track record.

  Yet, he was beginning to understand Clark Stone. Humans and animals shared many emotions; people weaved webs of confusion obfuscating most feelings, except one. They were incapable of hiding their response to a threat. Some creatures bore teeth, expressed intimidating sounds, or
puffed to distort size. Clark exaggerated the size of his strength using the cutters to trick Sam into thinking he was the target. The animal or human then chooses fight or flight. Clark elected to flee as Sam’s friends decimated jacker ships. If Sam cornered him again, the bastard son would cower. Easy pickings. He needed to find a button to press on Clark, one so powerful Clark would try digging under the smallest rock to escape.

  Sam wiped off his mental writing board and responded to Juan, “Do you know how to operate a Mud Hopper?”

  “Come on, man, I’ll figure it out.”

  “Dad?”

  “It’s not that hard,” Tom replied. “The craft requires two people to operate it, and Lou knows how to run the blower.”

  Lou leaped onto the stern and examined the controls. “No problem, Doc. I got this.”

  “Well, Mel and I have used the fifty caliber SAWs before, so I guess we have a craft.”

  “Yeah man,” Juan said, “a badass craft.” He flicked two switches firing up the roaring Mud Hopper engine, and spun a dial igniting the blower, then grinned and said, “Oh man, I’m in love.”

  Juan ferried the Mud Hopper onto the flooded boulevard, keeping airflow low to minimize wake. Charleston locals shuttled children, the elderly, and stacks of belongings on rowboats and kayaks maintaining a sense of routine. Years ago, the scene would equate desperation to survival. People shown on the news escaping through attic windows, crawling out splintered rubble, or squeezing through smashed car windows to avoid drowning in freezing filth. Some would free themselves only to be skinned alive by torrential currents. Others would tumble into a sludge of snapped pines and sheared appliances, later found in a heap of contorted joints and flies.

  No news cameras rolled that morning in Charleston. No struggle for survival or scramble to search moldy, forgotten homes. Hurricane Ben landed a Category 5 storm south of the city, dropped in pressure to a Category 3, and turned north up the coast. Then curving shores of the Outer Banks jettisoned the hurricane back into the Atlantic.

  Reaching the sound, Juan plowed the gas throttle, and Lou tightened the blower flaps rocketing the craft to 60 knots.