Project Apex (8 page)

There would be no traumas to be found, no experiences which they could point to as the moment that sent him over the edge. In his mind’s eye, he smiled. In the blackness of his coffin, his physical body barely twitched. It was at this point   they would have to start accepting the truth that he wasn’t insane or defective or even a monster.

He was just superior.

He was twenty-three when he was first selected for the Apex Project. He was working in administration at the time, the army preferring to put his brain to use in keeping their mountains of paperwork in order rather than have him flexing his muscles on the battlefield (and he did have them. At school he played college football to a standard good enough to turn pro if he wanted to). His job was to monitor the applications for men willing to test the cure and present the suitable candidates to Dr. Genaro. Three weeks passed without a single response. It seemed nobody was willing to try an experimental drug, even if it could potentially save countless lives.

Volunteering himself seemed like the most natural thing in the world, and it certainly didn’t instil him with any fear. He knew well the advances in modern science and also had absolute and unconditional faith that god would protect him from any harm. Even so, confidence in principal was entirely different to confidence when actually faced with what he was about to do. His first meeting with Doctor Genaro was cordial, if tense. There were questions raised as to if Joshua was a little too intelligent to accurately represent their probable subjects, however with nobody else breaking down the doors to volunteer they went ahead. He was subjected to a number of physical and mental examinations measuring everything from height and weight to blood pressure and fitness. He recalled well that first meeting with Genaro as he was giving his blood sample. The scientist was incredibly thankful Joshua, at least, had enough faith in his work to volunteer his body. Genaro's words floated to him in the stifling dark of the coffin.

You will become a vessel Joshua, the carrier of something great which will represent the next stage in human evolution.

Joshua had said nothing, still firm in the belief that even evolution and the wonders of science were the work of God. How could they not be? Genaro had set the vial of Joshua’s blood aside and told him he was done for the day.

"I thought you said I was to become a vessel?"

"You will, Joshua. All in good time."

It was after a further two weeks before Genaro called him back. Joshua entered the small office, detecting the faintest hint of antiseptic lingering behind the smell of lavender air freshener. Genaro was barely able to contain his excitement as he set a syringe on the table which was half filled with a clear liquid.

"Is that it?" Joshua asked, his throat suddenly dry.

"It is."

"Is it time?"

Genaro nodded.

"I’m afraid." Joshua had said, for the first time considering the magnitude of what was about to happen and the consequences if it went wrong.

Genaro had smiled at him and walked around the table, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You have nothing to fear, Joshua. I wouldn’t be asking you to do this if I didn’t have absolute faith in the project’s success probability. This will make you into something nobody else can be, into someone who can make a real difference in this world. Of course, you are under no obligation to continue if you don’t want to. There is still time to back out."

He shook his head. His parents were so incredibly proud of what he was doing, and he couldn’t let them down. "No, I’m fine, it’s just nerves. Go ahead and do it."

Genaro picked up the syringe and jabbed it into Joshua’s shoulder, sending its contents into his bloodstream. He had waited for some kind of rush, some kind of euphoria. When nothing came, he stared at Genaro, who smiled at the confusion in Joshua’s eyes.

"I don’t feel any different." He mouthed the words again along with his memory as he lay in the darkness of his grave.

“You won’t, not yet at least. Soon you will. Believe it or not, as you sit here, you are a changed man."

"So what happens now?"

"You come back tomorrow and we give you another injection. We can’t do it all at once. It’s like building a magnificent structure, we have to do it one brick at a time."

For the next six week’s Joshua went to see Dr. Genaro. Usually on a Thursday morning, sometimes he would have to go again on a Monday. At first, he felt no different, and then, in the same way winter creeps up on summer and steals away the daylight, subtle changes were noticeable. His eyesight improved to the point where he could stop wearing his glasses. Asthma which had plagued him as a child was cured. He started to develop an incredible memory which was almost photogenic. New languages were learned in days. Like a sponge, he soaked up information. As his new bond with Genaro's medicine grew, the more he started to see the world with disdain. The more aware he became of the true possibilities which were inherent in the human body, the more it sickened him to see his fellow man throw away their precious existence. Worse, was the way they wantonly maimed the planet as if they owned it, rather than accepting their place in it like the parasites they were. Much like his time spent in his current underground solitude, those first months of bonding with the Apex virus seemed to change the way he perceived time. The more of it that passed, the more his hate for humanity grew.

It wasn’t long before it became absolutely clear to him what he had to do. To what lengths he would have to go to in order to save the human race from itself, even if it meant doing something so radical, so extreme that it would change things forever.

That thought process had led him to where he was now, half comatose in the blackest of black, comforted by the chill, caressed by the crushing pressure of earth all around his private haven. The deprivation of his senses had let the bond between virus and host grow even more. The strain on his body forcing Genaro’s medicine to work harder. Even though sight and sound were beyond him, he could sense the world, and within it his brothers, others like him, others who knew what had to be done. He could feel their presence, glowing entities out there in the world.

As he lay there, he imagined he could almost hear them marching towards him, coming to catch a glimpse of the father of the new world. Before he had entered his coffin, such a title was an idea, something he strived to be. But now after lying in the ground for... he hesitated.

How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Years? Perhaps even centuries? Maybe it had only been minutes and he still had a thousand lifetimes to wait.

No.

He didn’t think so. He could feel the change. He had entered the hole as a man with something inside him to which he was a host. Now he felt no distinction between the two. He was it, and it was he, and together they were growing stronger and morphing into something incredible. He heard them again, the marching feet of a thousand men, his kin. His brothers.

Only....

It wasn’t marching. The sound wasn't in his mind, it existed in the real world.

It was the sound of digging, of shovels scraping on the wood of the coffin. That revelation had only taken seconds to sink in when the black veil lifted, and for the first time in almost two weeks, he saw the world.

They had come for him.

Strong arms lifted him from his exile and set him gently on the ground next to the grave.

He lay unmoving, feeling his body slowly come back to life. Blood forced its way through starving veins, muscles which had atrophied started to twitch as his body repaired itself from the inside. He blinked, his vision swimming into focus. There in the dark, he could see his brothers. His disciples, the two now twelve. It should have been impossible, and the look on the faces of his loyal followers suggested they agreed. Declining assistance, he stood, taking a moment to steady himself. His sunken eyes and gaunt face stared at them, each, in turn, making sure they understood.

"I am born again," he whispered, then staggered, almost toppling back into the hole. They steadied him, taking his weight as they led him to their sanctuary.

CHAPTER SIX

YUCATAN JUNGLE

MEXICO

DRAVEN KNELT IN THE dirt, hunched over a small burrow in the ground. The sun was fierce against his back as he peered at the tiny ants scurrying around the jungle floor. Sweat gathered on the tip of his nose, which he wiped against the grubby sleeve of his t-shirt. As he knelt there with his knees and back screaming for mercy, Draven realised he wasn't a young man anymore. Or at least not quite as young. Years of exposure to the sun had turned his skin into a tough, leathery hide, and had bleached his hair into a not quite blonde, not quite brown mass which was wet with sweat and clinging to his face. Because of this, people thought he was older than he actually was and when he told them he was in his mid-thirties, eyebrows were raised in disbelief. He exhaled, trying to ignore the stifling humidity.

The Bullet ants went about their business, each inch long creature possessing a sting which delivered a potent neurotoxin which, in large enough dosage could cause paralysis and death. They were an aggressive species and the subject of Draven's current research. Until recently, they had only been known as native to Nicaragua and Paraguay, so to see them in the Yucatan was a surprise. 

He had seen the aftermath of stings from these ants. The Satere-Mawe tribe, an indigenous group who live deep in the Amazon rainforest, have a unique use for the ants, one which Draven witnessed for himself.  The rite of passage for a Satere-Mawe boy to become a man involves locating a bullet ant nest. Often they are found nesting at the base of trees (like the one Draven was currently observing), the ants swarming up into the tree in order to forage in the overhead leaves for small insects. Upon locating a nest, the Satere-Mawe use smoke to render the ants unconscious and remove them. The ants are woven into a leaf glove with their stingers facing inward. In order for a Satere-Mawe boy to become a man, he must wear the glove for ten minutes, enduring the hundreds of stings of the angry ants inside. After the ten excruciating minutes are up, the glove is removed, often as the poor wearer convulses or slips into paralysis. Usually within a week, the wearer will make a full recovery although in some cases death is the result of the bizarre and eye-watering initiation, which often has to be completed multiple times before the tribe accept the boy as a man. Draven himself had felt the sting of just one ant, more out of curiosity to see how it felt. The pain was excruciating to the point of incapacitating him for almost twenty-four hours. He lay in his bunk, arm throbbing, his insides on fire as the toxic venom ravaged his system.  It was for that reason he kept a respectful distance from the nest which he knew could contain literally thousands of ants. His primary interest in the creatures was in how they attacked. An aggressive species by nature, the bullet ant had an ability to attack any intruder en masse. He had learned   this was due to the first attacking ant releasing a pheromone to which all the other ants responded. Attacks on humans were often a case of a poor hiker accidentally kicking a nest open without realising it was there, only to find their legs covered with thousands of the tiny and aggressive creatures attacking in a frenzy.  His train of thought was broken by the humanoid shadow which fell across the floor in front of him.

He looked over his shoulder, squinting against the sun. "Can I help you?"

"Are you Richard Draven?" the woman said as she stepped closer, blocking out the glare of the sun, her blue eyes trained on him.

"Yes. Who are you?" He said, getting to his feet with a wince as his knees popped in protest.

"You're a difficult man to track down."

"People don't often come looking for me. What can I do for you?"

"You need to come with me."

"Am I under arrest?" he said, finding time to appreciate her good looks. Her hair, in particular, seemed to glow as it was lit by the sun.

"No, you're not under arrest. Even if you were, I wouldn’t have the power to do it."

“You still haven’t told me who you are,” Draven said, keeping a close eye on the ants nest to make sure they were keeping their distance.

“My name is Kate Goodall. I work for the government.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. Right now we have to leave.”

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't go anywhere. I'm busy here."

The woman scowled, pursing her thin lips and wiping a forearm against her forehead. There was a harshness about her which was both attractive and intimidating. He couldn't resist checking out the rest of her. Good figure, long legs poking out from khaki shorts.

"Homeland security sent me," she said, folding her arms.

Draven hesitated, glancing down at the Bullet ant nest. "You sure you have the right guy?"

"We don't make mistakes. You're definitely who we're looking for."

"That's nice to know," Draven said. "I'm still not going anywhere until you tell me what you want."

She sighed, planting her hands on hips. "I work as a special liaison for the United States government. I need you to come and consult us on a developing situation back on US soil.”

"I'm afraid my consulting days are behind me. There are much better-qualified people out there I'm sure."