Intended Extinction (5 page)

The piercing
rattle
of my phone split my sleep in two. I shot up like a bolt of lightning, hitting my shin on the coffee table. I wrestled the phone into my hand and tried to sound awake.

“Hello?”

“Mark?”

“Y-Yes, who is this?”

“This is Mark Wenton?”

“Yes? What?”

“Sorry, I—Mark, this is Tara, from last night. How are you?”

I racked my brain. My head felt like a nuclear testing ground.

“Tara?” I asked. Then I remembered. Black hair. Blue eyes. “Of course, Tara. I’m—er—good, how are you?”

“Well . . . look, the reason I even have your number—well, I got a package today.”

I furrowed my brow and said, “Excuse me?”

“It’s got both of our names on it.”

“Wait, what?” I sat up and rubbed my face.

“I received a package today addressed to both of us,” she repeated. “You said you’re Mark
Wenton
, right? Well, you have to be, it came with your number.”

I remained silent for a few seconds. “Why would it be addressed to both of us?”

“It’s probably about last night,” she said. “You know, the vials.”

I scratched my head. “Did you want me to come by?”

“Well, it’s from GenoTec, so I think you ought to. I’m sorry this is so random.”

“Where do you live?” I reached over the armrest and foraged through my end table for a pen.

“Do you know where the Turnmont is?”

I stopped with my hand deep in miscellaneous papers. “Yes. Give me thirty minutes.”

“Great! Talk to you soon.”

The Turnmont. I couldn’t help but grin.

After showering and getting dressed, I left my apartment with excitement. I never thought I’d actually see Tara again. I took the stairs this time, though. I didn’t like elevators anymore.

Outside, the world sang with praise. Banners were strung, music rang from open windows, and even The Cuts seemed active and happy. As I made the short walk to the Turnmont, GenoTec came to mind.

Why would they send us both a package? Of course, the only connection was Vax. We caught the first vials.
That
made sense, but the package didn’t. Did they find something from the test that they ran? No, they only took blood pressure. What was it then? Why couldn’t they have just sent it to both of us? I maneuvered around a hung-over body on the sidewalk. I guess I would find out soon enough.

I crossed the Broadway-Beaver intersection and continued down Broadway. The Turnmont used to be one of New York’s most prestigious hotels. I always linked it with posh accents and snooty, upturned noses. After the outbreak, GenoTec turned most of the hotels into apartment complexes. It was easier to keep people together that way. Of all the housing in the city, the Turnmont had to be the most luxurious. I mean the thing practically
bled
gold. I had always kicked myself for not grabbing a room fast enough, but it had filled up pretty quick.

Jutting 100 stories above me, the Turnmont stood tall and powerful. Its tan plating and opaque windows shimmered in the rising light, half concealed by the shadow of another skyscraper.

I rounded the corner and pushed one of the mirrored doors aside. I groaned, feeling sorry for myself. The lobby sparkled with white marble and crystal glass, opening to a huge, polished commons. A magnificent chandelier hung from the high, gilded ceiling. Four large columns supported the lobby’s lounge area, each designed in a colonial theme. The commons was decorated in expensive furniture, paintings, and bright flowers. Two ballroom-ish staircases arched on either side of the lobby with obnoxious banisters just
asking
to be ridden. Where the stairs met, a waterfall cascaded below into a small pool.

When it came down to it, I could only smirk. My place sucked compared to this godly castle.

“I take it you like the place?” said a familiar voice.

“Tara!” I said, startled.

She walked up to me and smiled, her black hair let down, hanging over her shoulders, sleek as silk. She wore a red shirt with a faded gray design, blue jeans, and calf-high boots that fit snugly.

“I’m glad you made it. I didn’t know if you thought I was crazy or something.”

I sort of laughed. “It was good for me to get out of my apartment.”

She smiled again. “Well, why don’t we see what’s in that package.”

Where was her little boyfriend?

She turned heel and led me toward the commons, where tons of couches, chairs, and coffee tables were placed. I followed her to an annexed room and saw a package the size of a microwave resting on a glass table.

“So you haven’t opened it yet?” I asked.

“No, I wanted to wait for you.”

Tara carefully spread the two panels apart. She scrunched her face and then looked at me.

“What is it?” I asked, standing to get a better view as she tilted the box toward me.

Inside GenoTec’s package laid two, cylindrical devices, colored like cherry blossoms. They were placed in a squishy, porous material that cupped the cylinders perfectly. In the middle of the contraptions, a VisoNote was tucked into another cutout. VisoNote’s had pretty much replaced paper. Each Note was a thin, transparent, foldable message, able to store gigabits of information. The contents were accessed through touch, being able to shrink, expand, or process the text in any way.

“What in the world does this have to do with Vax?” I said, glued to the devices.

“Maybe this Note will tell us.” She reached inside and plucked the data sheet out of its place and started to unravel it. Once the material smoothed automatically, the Note illuminated and we read it together.

Mark Wenton and Tara Tracer, we congratulate you on being the first in Manhattan to sample a dosage of Vax. You are very lucky to have had the experience of being pioneers in this great undertaking to stop the dominion of Edge. To advance this new development in that process, we have taken steps to speed up the production of finding the last and final cure. One of those ways is what we call ‘collecting.’ Collecting is a very simple, easy way for us to take information regarding Vax and the population, and use it to make new discoveries about Edge.

In the coming days, there will be machines placed all over Manhattan. These machines are called ‘Vaxinators.’ The Vaxinators are the means by which people can retrieve their weekly dosage of Vax in an orderly fashion. What we are asking you two to accomplish for the next few months is a very simple task. In a sense, we are inviting you to become Temporary Volunteers. Every week, we would like you to gather information via the Vaxinators. You will use the devices, or Collectors, to receive the data, and the Collectors will send the data back to GenoTec for the furthering of our research.

We hope you will accept this responsibility to help the world become free from the chains of Edge once and for all. We ask that you read the directions within this Note, detailing how a Collector is used, where your stations will be, and what you can do if you have any problems. Join the effort and help us with the cleanse. Thank you, and remember, here at GenoTec, we are always coming up with better ways to save your life.

Archturus Slate, CEO

There was a long pause after we finished. I kept replaying the words in my mind, trying to satisfy my confusion. Tara scrolled down, revealing the directions.

“So we’re Volunteers now?” I asked. “Is this how they recruit?”

“It’s kind of exciting.” She reached into the box and pulled out a Collector.

“This seems like a job GenoTec could do from within the—” I looked at the Note again, “—
Vaxinators
anyways. It’s like they’re keeping tabs on us or something.”

She furrowed her brow, and then smiled. “Are you serious?”

“Never mind, I know it sounds stupid.”

She studied me. “I know it’s all come so fast,” she said, “and maybe we’ve all just been slaves to Edge so long that we can’t understand when GenoTec finally has something concrete.”

“No, it’s . . . never mind. I guess they already have tabs on us.” I looked over the directions one more time, completely embarrassed and a little mad.

Tara continued to look at me with her icy blue eyes, smiling curiously as if she wanted to unlock the vault to my soul. I realized then that we hadn’t really gotten to know each other. It was all business. Maybe that would change.

For the next while, we went over the directions. We were to collect together, never to use another Vaxinator that wasn’t on our list—to keep things “orderly.” We would place the nozzle of the Collector into the specified socket on the Vaxinator and it would claim the data. After that, the info would be automatically sent to GenoTec. Then, to reset it for the next station, there was a glyph on the touch screen.

Our places to visit were labeled with a corresponding mini-map. We were asked to collect from the Turnmont, a restaurant called Brankas, and two other prestigious high-rises: the Excelsior and the Constitution. Just as the letter described, we were to collect every week. The last paragraph detailed what we should do if something went wrong.

“If you are experiencing difficulties with your Collector,” I read aloud, “if it gets broken or lost, please contact a GenoTec Support Volunteer to help you resolve the matter.”

There was a small, square icon with a picture of a phone behind a “G.” They were just one tap away.

“I wonder what problems they might have, it seems pretty simple to me,” said Tara, pulling out the other Collector and setting it on the table before me. I lowered the data sheet and grabbed the cylindrical device. I handled it carefully, feeling the intricate nozzle, the sleek metal, and the crystal touch screen.

The Vaxinators hadn’t arrived yet, and I had a beautiful woman standing next me—who I was supposed to stick with for the next few months. I think it was time I laid some groundwork.

“So where you from, Tara?” I said, setting down the Collector.

“My hometown? Hartford. I left for Manhattan when I was about ten,” she looked sad for some reason. “I’ve been here ever since.”

We talked for what seemed like hours. Our conversation felt easy and comfortable. We were about to become collecting buddies, so we ought to know last names, at least. Her story was simple, yet compelling. Tragically, her parents both died when she was young, which was the reason she had said she left Connecticut. The pain and sorrow associated with an event like that would have thrown me overboard. But she held strong. She was a fighter.

“I can still remember the place where I used to play,” she reminisced. “Back behind my home there was this huge tree—probably dead by now. It overlooked this beautiful valley—I wish I could visit for a day or two.”

Hearing her talk of her childhood only brought stained images of mine. But somehow I was captured by her voice, her cute laugh, and her love of the world.

After the death of her parents, she went to live with her aunt in Manhattan, who was almost nonexistent—too busy being an alcoholic and a drug addict. For that reason, her sister Olivia took up the reins of raising her and her brother, Taylor. When Olivia turned eighteen, they moved in with a friend from school. It was a million times better, Tara said, then being constantly disregarded and looked upon as if she were a pile of vomit on the floor.

After the move, things started looking up. She found new life through school, friends, and a healthy environment. She eventually found work as a journalist. I smirked and envisioned a stereotypical Hollywood reporter.

“So you were uncovering all the big scandals?” I asked.

“If new Broadway plays and temperature ratings were scandals, then yes, all the big scandals.”

I laughed and felt something flush within my body. It was warm and mimicked a rollercoaster dip.

“I’ve told you my story, Wenton, now let’s hear yours,” she said, gazing at me.

“Wait . . . your brother and sister . . . are they—”

“No,” she said, her smile fading into a frown, “no, they’re gone.”

Living in a world where death had become nonchalant, there wasn’t much of an awkward silence. I too had lost my family to Edge; it wasn’t something new.

I sort of smiled, but in a sympathetic way. “Edge took my family, too. They’re all gone.”

Tara shifted in her chair and said, “Edge didn’t take my sister, though.”

My eyebrows creased inward. “What do you mean?”

“It was an accident,” she said. “A year before Edge went worldwide; there was an explosion at one of GenoTec’s branches in Long Island. It killed a hundred and fifty people.”

Before I could answer, commotion from the entryway grabbed our attention.

“They’re here!”
someone shouted. “They’re here!”

It happened like clockwork. Vax had arrived.

Tara beckoned me and we rushed toward the exit, passing numerous people heading to the same goal. We breached the magnificent doors and the cool, May air licked our skin. I peered down the street to find at least eight semi-trucks, taking their places like automated machinery. Crowds started to form around the trucks, sucked in by tractor beams.

Tara became giddy as we reached the crowd of excited survivors. Her attitude toward becoming part-time GenoTec servants might have been a little more eccentric than mine.

“Do you think Slate will award us with anything?”

“Yeah, a big trophy with your name on it,” I chuckled. “In
big
letters.”

“Wait, here come some men. There it is! The
Vaxiniminator!
Or wait . . .” She stopped and double-checked the instructions again, while I laughed.

The two men down the road carried a large metal cube with engravings near the top. They hoisted it on their shoulders and began their march toward the Turnmont.

“
GenoTec Corporation
,” I read, “
coming up with better ways to save your life
.”

We followed them all the way into the lobby. They set the cube down with a metallic clank. By now, crowds of people were gathering around the assemblers. I felt around in my back pocket for the Collector.

With four beeps and a whoosh, the metal cube opened and the two tree trunks grasped and lifted the contraption. Every eye was on the Vaxinator.

Then it hit me.

Vax was a cure. It was real.

I don’t know why it took me so long, but the idea struck me harder than ever. With GenoTec delivering these to every part of the world, we could punch a hole through this thing. I started to get antsy.

I watched as the Volunteers brought the symmetrical, slot machine mechanism to one of the walls in the lobby. Once they suctioned the box, the silvery words “Vaxinator” spread across the top. One guy ran his gloved hand on the sleek “life-giver” and smiled to his partner. He pressed a few more things on a touchpad, and the crisp voice of a man erupted.

“Welcome and behold. You are now a proud user of Vax. Can you feel the power? If you are new to this machine, step up to the touch screen and tap your ID card. Then press the orange button below and you will be verified to acquire Vax. Vax will need to be administered every week, for optimal results. To collect your own vial of Vax, simply touch the glyph on the side of the dispenser and it will slide out of the tube below. We at GenoTec hope that this is the beginning of a new age. A new age of cure.”

The angelic voice reverberated, and smiles spread all across the room. This was without doubt, the greatest moment in Edge history. Perhaps in
any
history.

A rush of people formed a line. The process went surprisingly quick; the dispenser spit out vials like a vending machine. We decided to wait for everyone to finish before we collected. We had no clue how long it was
actually
going to take us. It could turn into one of those “how many people does it take to change a light bulb” things.

“What kind of info do you think we’re collecting?” Tara asked, folding her arms.

I thought about it for a moment. I watched the next person carefully, and realized they hardly touched anything. Just two times—one for the ID and then the orange button. What information could we extract from
that
?

“Maybe . . . it’s the number of people who come here each week? I know it sounds simple, but who knows.”

“No, that sounds right,” she said. “Maybe my view of this task was a little too high.”

“Don’t worry,” I smirked, “you’ll still get that trophy.”

After we finished collecting the quota for the Turnmont, which took over four times to figure out, we decided to get some lunch at the next location, Brankas. It was one of the few authentic restaurants left. Even with GenoTec fulfilling our needs, this wasn’t exactly buffet town.

In fact, to maintain order and equality, GenoTec had come up with a detailed system—an economy of their own, you could say. A ten-digit ID number had been issued out to all of the survivors wanting to cooperate with GenoTec. That ID number was imprinted onto a small card, like the ones we used to use as credit cards. Once you had your number, you could be allowed or denied access to food, shelter, entertainment, and now Vax. With the current rate of goods being produced, a free-for-all was out of the question.

If you decided to go against that principle, you would find yourself living alone. If it came to violence—a lot of these cases did—they wouldn’t think twice about silencing you. Our world needs builders, not hoarders.

There had to be limits. Once you had your apartment secured, you couldn’t just go out and claim another. Those wanting more could find run down pieces of filth located in the Rift or the Dustlsum—the abandoned places of New York and its surroundings. You couldn’t acquire more food than was allowed each month. We were tallied meticulously for every item. About the only thing we weren’t tabbed on were the scrap shops—the pawn dens.

Nevertheless, this was how it had to be. It was either every man for himself—anarchy—or let GenoTec step in and manage things. I was extremely grateful, but I had this feeling that one day I’d have to own up and pay my dues. It also didn’t help that people would have a hard time once things started getting back to normal. We had become extremely reliant.

On our way to Brankas, we were helpless to the bombardment of Vax propaganda. It was on every television station and every page of the Internet. It was painted across the town in massive sheets hanging from skyscrapers, banners fitted with pictures of Slate, and jubilant crowds.

“Look!” said a scruffy man, approaching us. He lifted his shirt to show us his flabby stomach, healing from a recent splotch. “It’s going away!”

Tara half laughed. Before I could say anything, he dashed away, running like a naked man, free in the wild.

I turned back to Tara and said, “I’m starting to like Vax more and more.”

“There it is,” she said, leading me past a few more abandoned shops until we reached it.

Brankas was a Volunteer operated establishment, created for the sole purpose of trying to replicate a pre-Edge restaurant experience. GenoTec allowed two chances to eat here in a month, which meant Tara and I hadn’t broken our limit. Come to think of it, I hadn’t been to a restaurant in a year or so. It made me even more depressed about my already dysfunctional life.

That thought struck a different chord. Vax meant more than physical healing. This cure was emotional triage. It was a lighthouse, leading our infinitely misled ships back to the safe harbor of sanity, hope, and life. Vax was mending more than just wounds.

Brankas smelled like heaven—a cloud of lightly burnt barbeque, butter glazed bread, and spices of every combination. It was a party of aromas, and it was making me salivate. A waiter passed by with a truckload of pies, creams, and little chocolate cakes. My stomach growled, trying to rip through my skin.

We approached the kiosk, manned by a burly Volunteer. The behemoth took our ID cards and scanned them on a square device, then handed them back, giving off a heavy vibe of “hey, I hate what I got myself into, now get out of my sight.”

“It’ll be a few minutes before we can seat you,” he said in a dull voice.

Tara turned to me and said, “Come on, we can collect while we wait.”

Subdued for the moment, we passed a few tables to reach the newly placed Vaxinator. An elderly woman was trying to receive her dose of Vax, but “technology wasn’t what it used to be these days.” I looked at her frail body, covered in green, decaying skin. She should have been one of the first in line.

After I helped her on her way, Tara had already finished collecting, and we set off for the waiting lounge.

The feathered bucket seats accommodated my lust for relaxation.

“Tired already?” she smirked, waiting for my retaliation.

“I think its Vax,” I said listlessly, feeling more comfortable with Tara as each moment passed.

“So, Wenton,” she began, “I never got to hear your story.”

I straightened, glancing at her. “No, I suppose you didn’t, did you . . .”

She smiled, waiting for an exhilarating story. But there wasn’t going to be one. I wished something would happen again, sparing Tara the boring life and times of Mark Wenton. It wasn’t like I had some deep dark secret. Okay, maybe I had a few secrets, but they weren’t deep or dark. Truthfully, I just hated sharing “my story.”

However, I owed Tara. I tried to convey my lack of excitement in simple terms. I grew up in Maine, moved to Manhattan when I was eight, and went into the construction business when I was old enough to have a driver’s license.

Whoopee.

When Tara asked about my family, I hesitated. Memories of Savannah and Carly flashed. Carly’s little blonde curls danced in front of my eyes. Sav’s crying face haunted me. Just like the few people I came in contact with, I decided to not tell Tara about Savannah. I don’t know why I had to keep it inside. I guess I was too ashamed.

“I only had one little sister,” I lied. “Her name was Carly.”

“What was she like?” asked Tara with genuine interest.

“She was . . . young.” At least
that
was true. The last memory I had of Carly was seeing her in my arms as she died from Edge. Her little round face, button nose, and chapped lips. At least she died early, before exposure could really set in. We celebrated her sixth birthday only a week prior.

However, I knew Sav was somewhere glaring at me. I swear her acidic eyes followed me everywhere.

Tara understood the subject was dead, so she moved on.

Ten minutes later, we finally got called back, only to be kept waiting another twenty. Once we received the limited menu, we both decided on heavy items. Tara went with the country style meal: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, thick gravy, and a meager helping of corn. It looked as mouthwatering as it smelled. As for me, I got the steak. A nice, juicy, fall-off-the-bone sirloin, grilled to perfection. Needless to say, it was a much-deserved meal.

“Can I ask you something?” said Tara, wiping her mouth.

I choked down the last portion of my steak and coughed up my next sentence. “Go for it.”

“What’s your take on the whole ‘Volunteer’ thing?”

Her eyes darted between passing GenoTec Volunteers, garbed in yellow.

I took her question into consideration, and realized it was her turn to play the skeptic.

“What do you mean? Wait a second, weren’t you happy to be considered one of them just an hour ago?”

“I know, I know,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking about it ever since it happened. Haven’t you ever noticed them? I mean,
really
noticed them?”

“I don’t understand.”

Tara moved in closer, putting down her silverware.

“Whenever I’m around them, I’ve never seen them cough or have bandages over their fingers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one struggling at all.”

I thought for a moment. Had I never watched a Volunteer for more than a few seconds? I turned to glance at the nearest one: clean-shaven, recently trimmed hair, and no sign of blood. Then I came up with a satisfying answer.

“Aren’t most of them Seraphs?”

She nodded. “I guess. Don’t get me wrong; we couldn’t live without their help. But I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. Why are we doing this?”

She was really running with this. My own thoughts reflected from her comments. Seeing it in this light made me reconsider some of my theories.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “But my stomach’s full. I’m alive. And Tara,” I sent a beam to her blue eyes, “if I became healthier every time I
didn’t
know something about GenoTec, I’d be cured three years ago.”

She sighed at my answer, clearly unwelcome. She wasn’t satisfied.

“No, you’re right,” she started, playing with her potatoes.

I gulped some watery milk. “Right now I guess I’m just glad I can feel blood returning to my body.”

After consuming the entire restaurant—or so it felt—we decided to burn some time before our next stop at the Constitution Hotel. We entered a small shop called “Terra-Masou”, a Volunteer-operated coffee store, with a rocky terrain theme. It was a unique place with lots of odds and ends stacked and shelved. I remembered passing the store a few times, but it almost seemed too trendy and lacked the necessary elements of a post-apocalyptic establishment. I mean, we’re all about to die, right? So, I wasn’t about to stop off and grab a cappuccino.

There went my cynicism again. Another reason why I’m not making a difference in the world.

The smell of coffee filled the basin of my nostrils and I started to breathe in from my mouth only. I hated the aroma, let alone the taste, but apparently Tara loved the place. We found a tall table in the back corner facing a large window and sat down.