Toxic (3 page)

The sun approached quickly and Jave distinguished an architectural complex which stuck up clearly. Shining arrows rose up above the carpet of dust.

“Dubai. A former economic center of great importance, but now it’s my planetary capital.”

Before landing, Naakrit was keen to make note of his territory. “I command one hundred and thirty-two troopers of eight different species, all highly-qualified. I know them all. The majority of them have been working for me for several octans.”

“My role is limited to observing and bringing back information,” Jave recalled. “Still, I’m asking for your complete material cooperation in the understanding of the phenomenon that preoccupies us.”

“That goes without saying. I just wanted to clarify an essential point.”

Since the start of the mission, one element had not ceased to fascinate him. A hundred or so mercenaries had dominated a civilization of billions of individuals. This was worth consideration. The T-J slowed in front of a sea of dunes and turned in the direction of the city. The vessel passed neighborhoods engulfed in sand and scraped the top of many gutted buildings. The city had undergone combat. He took note of the large number of demolished buildings. Others, left bare, revealed an interlacing of beams. You could even see through them. From the sky, the impact of heavy artillery speckled the broken pavement. At the bottom of the highest tower, there were ten or so white domes aligned along a scorching plaza. They spiraled towards the summit and set down on a landing strip. Three T-Js occupied the neighboring spots. Naakrit got off first. The scathing wind whipped against the collar of his black biosuit. Jave followed in his footsteps in the direction of the elevator tube whose access was marked by a fluorescent rectangle on the other side of the platform.

“We’re going to start with the control center.”

The Primark played his role as guide perfectly. He recounted how they had expanded the buildings built to accommodate humans, whose standard size was inferior to that of the size of the species under his command. The emissary himself stood at the equivalent of two meters according to the earthling’s decimal system. From the main room, which expanded across three floors, Naakrit ran his tiny empire. More precisely, he hunted down what he called products. Jave glanced at the holographic demi-spheres, all occupied by mercenaries.

“Logistics,” Naakrit resumed, “remains our strategy. I spent three octans preparing the details of this operation.”

That hadn't stopped him from failing.

Two Sybarian females, with long necks topped off with a smooth, blue skinned head, compiled information coming from hundreds of drones. He made out their fine faces underneath the layer of information. They glanced at the newcomer by slowly stirring their spiny tails. Capable of releasing poison, these limbs were a formidable natural weapon. Beside them, the gestural ballet of an Arthrosian in purple armor drew his attention. His four upper limbs darted about rhythmically across the interfaces. On his right, a reptilian supervised the activities. The insignia on his biosuit indicated his rank of officer.

A mosaic of images which two mercenaries were concentrating on caught his attention. The reptilian worked alongside a massive furry biped. The representatives of this species reached two and a half meters, a natural size which inspired the respect of any adversary. He turned his large head in his direction.

“They are taking care of merchandise,” Naakrit indicated.

The drones detected healthy humans that were then targeted with sonic weapons, which sufficed to knock them out without affecting their value. Other robots collected them and then stocked them in the power holding domes which he had seen on arrival. The mercenaries avoided contact with the products as much as possible. Respect for sanitary norms prevailed.

“We keep them at a temperature of eighteen degrees before processing them.”

“For how long?”

“Two octo-diems. The packaging line moves slowly.”

“Of course,” said Jave, approaching the mosaic. He gazed at the crowds of haggard humans. The exhausted faces all resembled each other. These fragile creatures stood up with their backs hunched over or sat down. Others walked around in circles, trying to find a possible meaning for their condition. Their path stopped here, a space with a grey airlock at the bottom of the milky wall that was their horizon. The start of the manufacturing chain. The beginning of the end.

Naakrit interrupted his virtual voyeurism session.

“You should take a look at that.”

The melodious voice of one of the Sybarian females commented on the scene projected in the middle of the room.

“A group of hunters attacked a boat in the Gulf of Mexico. Three healthy products captured. According to information, they were fleeing from an island which one of our swarms had just scanned. We counted two hundred and seventeen non-infected units, and double that in spoiled ones.”

“What a waste! It's time to intervene,” ordered the Primark.

Jave paid little notice to the incident. He looked at the images coming from the power holding domes. He moved his hand.

“Would it be possible for me to go in?”

His request was met with a stunned silence. Naakrit approached him, a little stiff, he noted.

“We can't introduce external elements into a product stocking area. There are risks and we must make sure to respect sanitary regulations. No exceptions; the rule applies to everyone.”

“I understand. I'll go through decontamination first. You have the adequate installations available, I presume.”

“What are you looking for?”

The reptilian didn't take this surprise very well. He managed a troupe of around a hundred troopers by supporting himself on two pillars which were dear to smugglers: discipline and logistics. That was how he built his career. And his reputation for efficiency.

“Answers.”

Jave requested to get prepared. Naakrit assigned the second Sybarian to him, who led him towards the lower levels.

T
he access channel was feasible, but Elaine, imitating the shipwrecked people, standing upright and with her hand at her forehead as a visor, cautiously observed the shady masses which blocked off the entrance to the port at Key West. She made out the chimneys at the top of the superstructures whose bottoms were underwater.

“Those are cruise ships,” she heard behind her. “Most of them stopped here on the route through the Caribbean.”

Hector maintained course while keeping an eye on them. He didn't put down his shotgun, she remarked, sitting back down. She propped her chin up with her legs. Her humid rags, which she could no longer stand, stuck to her skin. She dreamed of a shower and dry clothing. Her belongings were now resting at the bottom of the ocean. Still alive, she hadn't come off so bad after such a nightmare of a night. She asked herself what had happened to the people who had stayed on the infested island. Maybe it was better not to think about it. She redefined her priorities: set foot on solid ground, find a place to recover her strength. And personal hygiene.

The exhausted faces around her expressed more or less the same wishes. Waiting for the approach, she looked over the railing, followed the curve of the deck up until the scarlet stain near the ladder. She had had no other choice but to shoot. In front of her, a man of about fifty observed her. He agreed in silence. Did he want to thank her? Pay his respects to her? Tell her that she had done the right thing? She didn't want to know. Her head swung back and she closed her eyes.

“You could say that they sunk,” declared a female voice coming from behind.

“Yeah. They’re blocking access to the harbor.”

From close up, the black boats, once striking and luxurious, displayed their wounds. Black marks riddled their awe-inspiring sides, followed by rows of exploded windows. These gaping skylights exposed glamorous interiors gone up in smoke. Here and there, she saw incinerated furniture and burnt hangings which swayed in the sea breeze. And above all, there was the smell. That of rotting flesh. Ships such as these transported thousands of passengers. Elaine tore off a ring of the sleeve of her sweater and covered her nose with it. All of a sudden, getting off here didn't seem like a very wise decision. Maybe they were jumping into the lion's den.

Their savior seemed either confident or in a hurry to get rid of his unwelcome guests. Carefully, he dodged the reefs and maneuvered his boat which glided between the colossal metal structures. He made way between the stern and the prow of two abandoned sea giants. On the other side, the basin represented an even less welcoming scene. Morning's piercing light revealed floating corpses. On board, people offered no comment. The nauseating puffs, brought by an irregular wind, replaced all conversation. A familiar smell rose up from the calm, flat surface of the water, which was exhaling a fetid breath.

Hector found a section of the quay free of debris and wreckage. In an expert movement, he tilted the helm to the right. He wasn't planning to re-evaluate the nurse's suggestion to leave them here. He responded to the dirty faces addressing him with a silent message by looking away. He was conscious of leaving them in hell, and maybe even happy to have ended up getting out of helping as fast as possible, she measured.

The stern slid softly against an old tire attached to the wharf. The hull pivoted to line up with it. The Colombian maintained the motors so that they could reach the ladder. Elaine left the back of the line to talk to Hector. He reminded her loud and clear that this was her request, and that he had kept his part of the bargain. She bit her lips.

“Thanks for your help, Hector, but I don't wish you good luck.”

The Colombian gave hint of a slight annoyance. Latinos were often fervent believers. He was surely aware that he was committing a crime or even a sin. Maybe he didn't give a damn about getting into paradise, given that he found himself in purgatory among the squalid dregs of humanity. Elaine walked forward and grabbed a slippery rail.

The quay was testimony to the panic which must have reigned there. Rows of remains of dozens of vehicles aroused the memory of a former battlefield. Its brothers in arms resembled the dazed civilians en route to Bassorah, erring between the cars and trucks torn to shreds by the bombs. Debris stretched across the expanse like a carpet which everyone would have wanted to avoid trampling. In front of them, one of the men in the group said to stop. Behind him, intrigued by a noise which she though was a product of her imagination; Elaine stopped, and then joined the improvised meeting in the middle of their exposed disembarkment.

The man, around thirty years old, proposed that they go to the administrative buildings visible from the other side of the basin. The quay, bordered by workshops and warehouses, would lead them there. It was just a question of following it. Seen from there, she recognized that the building did have its advantages. The upper floors offered additional security if they could find a way to block access to them. There was only the problem that they would have to cross over one kilometer on foot. In their state of fatigue, it seemed more reasonable to make a pit stop in a neighboring warehouse. Elaine expressed her opinion. The young leader didn't hesitate to rebuke her in an accusatory tone. “If we get it there, it's your fault.”

Elaine sat on a red suitcase, strangely intact, assuring them that she wasn't going to move without a moment of rest. Without exception, her companions followed their new leader. Even the fifty-something year old. He looked at her more than once, as if trying to convince her to not stay behind alone. She sighed with disappointment and went back. The boat was already moving away from the pier. Hector wasn't planning to gather dust in this land of perdition. At once, she bitterly regretted her decision to have disembarked.

The same metallic sound resounded, clear and distinct this time. It came from one of the warehouses. The residential neighborhoods stretched along the other side of the fencing which encircled the port. She knew that this wouldn’t be sufficient protection against a horde excited by fresh flesh. In front of her, the group continued to follow the quay, single file. She straightened up and adventured in the direction of the double doors.

It was a mechanic's workshop, she thought, circulating between the frames and engine parts. On top of the workbench in shambles, she noticed m-screens, a wide array of tools, wallets and even printed photos. She grabbed one: a couple in front of a house. She smiled. They had a dog, a Jack Russell terrier. Once again, the noise resounded. It was coming from behind her.

She grabbed an iron rod and walked past a truck with a bed. The source was located on the other side of the service access, a large door open into an alley.

“Anybody there?”

She was standing in place when she heard the whines and grunts in response to her question. The litany of lost souls. The words came back to her as a memory, but not their author. Shadows were drawn on the wild vegetation which covered the concrete slabs. The infected were gathering in hordes without there being any explanation for this “social” behavior. Alone, she had no chance. She took up the path in the direction of the quay once again, determined to re-join the others to warn them of the danger. She didn't have time. A hand pressed against her mouth, she shouted and felt herself being lifted up and dragged across the dusty floor. The black man had a salt and pepper beard, a hat, and measured around six feet, she estimated instinctively.