Requiem (25 page)

'The first
stage of the assault begins in Corporate Zone One; where the
leading execs have built their empires. Once the poison has been
administered through the water supply of Corporate Zone One and the
leaders have been taken care of, the serum will be dispersed
through other means; namely aerial drops using their planes which
will be commandeered by the other cells when the time comes. I will
not divulge the exact numbers of the other cells but they are
strong and they are many and when the time comes they will
co-ordinate their strength alongside ours.'

The Warlord
considered, for a moment, what it might mean to explain every
intricacy of his final method to those who waited so quietly and
eagerly beneath him. To those who would die for humanity's one true
cause and the one man who would lead them there. He thought better
of it. They would know when it was necessary for them to know.

'This is not
what you were born to do,' he announced. 'You deserved so much
more. I can't provide that for you. I can only provide relief from
the life that has been inflicted upon you and to give you a
chance... a chance to save the others who have been dragged down
into this corruption and moral bankruptcy. We will free them from
the blindness which has befallen them. A blindness they deny,
behind their optical displays, polluted with advertisements for a
way of life that is truly a perversion of all that humanity should
be! The pain that has been brought upon this world has reached its
climax. We will see it climb no higher! We will not let it fall but
guide it gently towards oblivion, and with it, the memory of this
failed race.'

The Warlord
loosened his grip on the handrail. He took his gaze off the faces
of the young men and woman who were staring up at him, almost
reverently, their faces bright with purpose and the fervour of a
poorly directed shotgun blast. His breathing became steady again.
He continued with his final words.

'Our purpose is
removed of anger, revenge, and spite. You must purge these
intentions from your mind and let only mercy remain. You hold their
humanity in your hands and today we will return it to them.'

The beginnings
of applause and cheering rose from the crowd. The Warlord held out
his hand to stop them. He stepped back from the handrail and
descended the stairs. The crowd murmured as he walked past them
towards Daniels, who was standing by the door organising the last
details for the munitions. He checked the readiness of the other
cells before gathering the five others, including Daniels, that he
would take with him into the sewer lines for the first step of the
great leap.

No one spoke
from mouth or radio for the entire journey across the kilometres of
starving earth. Wind and dust and ash whipped at their faces
through the windowless face of the decapitated unimog. Cain and
Daniels sat upon the uncovered tray. Daniels' foot rested atop a
metal footlocker. He looked directly into the oncoming storm as if
its centre, its heart, were known only to him.

They passed
into the crumbled foundations on the outskirts of Corporate Zone
One. The previous borders of a city that retreated on a decadal
basis, slowly inward upon itself, shrinking from the encroaching
reality.

They entered
through the expired sewer system with the access codes given to
them by the insider, Habel – enigmatic, apparitional, unquantified
to all but one. The abandoned maintenance tunnel stretched below
the surface of the Earth, below the city's newest incarnation of
the great wall and into the sewer systems and water storage
outlets.

The torches
were flicked on. Their brightness cut through the darkness, rude
and unbidden. The Warlord led the way through the meanders and
turns of the tunnel. He walked down its centre, his head moving
just beneath the film of green scale that clung to its apex. Each
foot followed directly behind the other, sloshing through the
trough of foul, muddied water. The path, if it could be called
that, was known only to the Warlord. He walked with confidence, his
shoulders, knotted and scarred, still carried the unbearable weight
that had been laid upon them.

Without warning
the Warlord stopped. He looked up. He brushed his hand over the
scale and slime that had gathered there. Flakes of rust and metal
filings dusted through the torchlight. With his hand, the Warlord
exposed the round shape of the hatch that led out of the water
line. He knocked three times. There was a noise from the other
side. The Warlord knocked again. There was another noise, the sound
of metal scraping against metal, turning, more rust falling. The
Warlord still gazing upward, a statue embedded in filth.

A bleaching
light passed into the tunnel. The torches were turned off. The
Warlord placed his hands on either side of the opening and pulled
himself up. Habel was waiting inside.

'You're late,'
Habel said.

'Your clock is
wrong,' said the Warlord.

Habel said
nothing. Five other sewer rats crawled through the hole in the
floor. Cain was the last. He closed the hatch and followed the
others from the room and through the lower levels of the treatment
facility. The entire place dripped and corroded around them. The
air was cold, heavy, a welcome break from the dust bowl
outside.

They were led
between rows upon rows of tanks by Habel, with his shuffling feet
and awkward gait. He dragged his left foot behind the other. He
would pull it forwards barely fast enough to catch himself in time
to step off again. He moved quickly, trying to hide the
deformity.

The tanks stood
vertically, painted white, numbers and esoteric symbols painted on
their round bellies. They stared down at the intruders, threatening
with their cold, insolent humming, to discharge their acids, their
peroxides, their poisons through their own rusted joints if they
should feel threatened. The group ascended a metal staircase,
running up the wall above the tanks. Habel led them to a laboratory
in an adjoining room. The group gathered behind a large glass
screen on the laboratory's far wall that looked through to a lower
level. They were looking down at several enormous pipes, running
the length of the room and flush with the wall on either side which
they ran through.

Habel seemed to
be watching over the entire room at once, his features hardened in
concentration. Daniels watched him from the corner of his eye. He
could see Habel's hand shifting restlessly in his jacket
pocket.

'Why so
nervous?' asked Daniels.

Habel started
at the question then he settled. 'I should be asking you why you're
so calm.'

'Because my
conscience is clean,' Daniels replied.

Habel almost
said something but stopped himself. He turned back to the window.
'This way,' he said and headed down a stairwell which led down into
the room with the pipes. 'Dispersal Room' was printed in thick
black letters on the door.

The pipes were
larger than they looked from above, clearing the Warlord's head by
almost a metre. There was a flimsy metal ladder, rising from the
tiled floor across the face of the closest pipe and onto its top to
where a hatch was positioned. Daniels remained by Habel, standing
slightly behind him, watching his hands, watching his feet
shuffling awkwardly on the stained tiles.

'Where is the
serum?' the Warlord asked.

Habel did not
look at him. He was still for a moment as if he hadn't heard the
question, as if there were thoughts, gathering, massing within his
head, that, as hard as he tried to weigh them, would shift and
change beyond all measure.

The Warlord
watched him, waited. A pipe, somewhere, dripped with mechanical
precision. He could hear the water rushing through the thick plates
of metal. It was torrential, harsh but he found it somewhat
calming. This could be the rushing of blood through his own veins.
This could be his own heart which he was attempting to quell with
this very serum. The concrete floor was sweating beneath his
feet.

Habel turned
towards a door next to where the large pipes ran flush with the
wall. He opened the door and entered the small lab room. He moved
around in the darkened room, just out of sight. The Warlord watched
carefully, his fingers lingering at his side within reach of his
pistol. Habel continued to linger in the room, apparently refusing
to turn any light on. There was shuffling and glass clinking on
glass. Habel swore. The Warlord began to approach the door. He was
almost at the threshold when Habel emerged pushing a trolley with a
canister strapped to it. The Warlord and the others watched Habel
wheeling the trolley and its cargo with an almost excessive level
of caution towards the ladder that climbed the side of the first
pipe. He parked the trolley at the base of the ladder, looked at
his hands and wiped them on his trousers. He turned to address the
Warlord but jumped slightly at the sight of Daniels who was
standing directly behind him. Habel brushed a loose strand of hair
from his face with his finger, ignored Daniels and pointed at the
Warlord.

'Now, you have
to be very careful. If it comes in contact with the skin it will
kill you in less than a minute,' he warned.

The Warlord
nodded at Cain who immediately came to stand by Habel and Daniels.
He looked directly at the canister on the trolley. Habel carefully
tipped it off the edge of the trolley.

'Out of the
way,' said Daniels, pushing Habel aside.

Cain sat the
canister back in place and, without speaking, wrapped his fingers
around the hand grip on the cylinder head and turned it. Air and
vapour hissed from the cap as it unsealed. Habel was staring at the
canister now, one hand was shoved into his jacket pocket, the other
was held, fidgeting at his side. He looked across at the Warlord
who remained about five metres away.

'Is this really
necessary?' Habel asked. 'Do we really have time for quality
checks? This operation is already running behind time as it is.' He
looked at the time display in his own optics. 'The next shift
starts in fifteen minutes.'

The Warlord
held his hand up to Habel.

'You assume too
much, Habel. I trust you to design the serum and give us access to
the water...' he shrugged, 'and that's it. In a working
relationship such as ours the quality check is arguably the most
important step.' The Warlord started towards the open container. As
he reached into his pocket for something the room shook violently.
There was the muted sound of an explosion somewhere above the
facility. Cain stumbled back, his grip loosened, the container
rocked and crashed to the floor. Droplets of the serum splashed up.
Cain's screams pierced the silence. Three rifles were immediately
trained on Habel. He stared back at the gun barrels, his hands
raised and shaking but all eyes were focused on Cain screaming and
writhing on the floor.

He was
clutching at his throat, his fingers, locked in place by white,
ridged knuckles. The tendons in his neck rose like mountainous
ridges beneath the skin, threatening to snap beneath the strain.
His eyes rolled into the back of his head but the scream would not
diminish.

The serum was
pooling on the floor at Cain's feet but they kicked clear of it.
The Warlord glared down at Habel. Habel muttered the beginnings of
an explanation, gave up, shrugged, his eyes darted wildly from gun
barrel to gun barrel.

The scream
continued.

The Warlord
looked on in disgust. He turned again to see Habel backing away
from the guns.

'I... I told
them not to touch the serum! What have you done?!' said Habel.

The Warlord
discharged a bullet into Cain's head. The screaming stopped but it
would continue unabated through the minds of those who heard it.
The reacting skin upon his neck and hands cracked and oozed a pale
white discharge. It fused with the blood from the wounds into a
coagulated lump on the floor.

'They- they
weren't supposed to touch the serum,' Habel explained. He rubbed
the sleeve of his jacket across his forehead.

'You're saying
this is normal?' asked the Warlord as he turned to face him.

'Yes, to a
dosage of that concentration.'

Daniels trained
his gun on Habel. 'I fucking knew it! You lying piece of shit.'

The Warlord
raised his hand to calm Daniels.

'This is a
completely normal reaction to such a strong dosage,' said Habel
with his hands still raised and shaking.

'It was barely
a fucking drop,' said Daniels.

'You have ten
seconds to explain this,' said the Warlord.

Habel looked at
the body then at the open inlet into the water mains. 'It hasn't
been diluted by the water yet.'

'Diluted? Why
would that make a difference to the reaction?'

'It changes
it,' he said. 'It changes the chemical composition.'

'Bullshit,'
said Daniels.

The Warlord
stared at Cain on the floor. His breath rasped through the
breathing mechanism attached to his mask.

'Why would I
lie to you?' asked Habel.

'That was not a
good question to ask,' said the Warlord.

Habel had to
stop himself from asking why. He swallowed. 'Who are you going to
trust?' His hands were shaking and cold with sweat. 'A chemical
engineer or this... this fucking... baboon with his gun?'

The crackling
of the skin began to subside. The joints of Cain's corpse had
contracted. His arms and legs were bent and configured into an
origami of bone and boiled flesh.

'Where is the
real serum, doctor? The one used on the test subjects you showed
me.'

'This is the
real serum! This is how it is supposed to work. You just have
to-'

'Where is the
real serum?!'

Habel was
backed against the far wall. The Warlord and his men had enclosed
around him. The Warlord strode towards him. Habel left his hands at
his side, hoping to vindicate himself through submission.