Dead World 1, page 2
This is how it should be.
How it will be again.
Soon.
The sensory overload sends my body into an unexpected orgasm. I shudder as my essence spills onto the ground, mingling with that of my beloved Lisa’s.
I’m sorry we didn’t get to consummate our relationship, but under the circumstances, it’s probably for the best. I brush a claw over what’s left of her face, then greedily eat more.
Momentarily sated, I ponder the question that has been running through my mind for months. Tonight, I finally have an answer.
Lisa does taste as good as she looks.
2
Gina “Red” Santiago jackknifed up in her rest pad, her body drenched in sweat. Her heartbeat thundered in her head as she snatched her laser pistol off her side table. Red’s hand jerked wildly as she searched the darkness for an immediate threat.
Shadows leapt from the corners of the room, menacing her befuddled mind. It took a few seconds for her to focus. Home. She was at home. On her rest pad. Alone.
“Dung! Not again.” Red dropped back onto her pillows, the sound of her ragged breathing, echoing off the sterile white walls of her living quarters.
She set the gun back on the metal side table with a clank and shot a quick glance at the clock. Three in the morning. She’d only been asleep a few hours. What had woken her up this time? Nothing obvious.
Red punched her pillow and re-adjusted the mat on top of her rest pad to try to get comfortable, then turned to face the wall. Her feet came together with a heavy thump.
She glanced down, but didn’t trust what her ears were telling her.
“Lights on.” Artificial Intelligence (A.I.) complied, bathing the dormitory room in a cadmium florescent glow.
Red looked around the space, taking in the two-seater gray couch, her clothes locker, and personal food-dispensing unit. A flat-panel blank screen blotted one wall like a blemish on a baby’s face. The viewer was off, just like she’d left it. The twenty-by-twenty area wasn’t big enough for anyone to hide. She was alone, but still she hesitated. Afraid of what she might find.
She took a deep breath and with trembling fingers lifted the covers until she could see her feet. Why was she wearing her combat boots? She shifted to get a better look and sent red clay onto the sheets. Confused, she whipped the bedding off and gaped in disbelief.
When had she gotten dressed?
Her tattered clothes looked as if she’d been fed through a meat grinder. Scratches and cuts marred her golden brown flesh and her muscles ached from overuse. Panic gripped her.
Red replayed the previous evening in her mind. She remembered filing tactical reports, watching the republic news, eating protein-enriched synth-noodles, then getting ready for bed.
The rest of the night was a blank, an endless void in the darkness without beginning or end. Red had assumed she’d spent it in deep REM sleep, but now...
She looked down at her clothes once more. Dried blood dotted her T-shirt. Red frantically pulled the cotton material away from her stomach, then yanked it over her head and tossed it on the floor.
Pressing a splayed hand against her abdomen, she examined her skin. Nothing. No cuts. No scratches. No gunshot wounds. Red stripped out of the rest of her clothes, adding them to the pile destined for the incinerator.
“Mirror!” she commanded.
A full-length mirror appeared on the far wall.
She scanned the rest of her body. There were no obvious signs of injuries. Just dried blood. Lots and lots of blood. Naked and confused, Red swallowed a lump of fear, feeling its icy tendrils claw their way down her throat.
“Identify blood source.” There was a rush of wind that rifled her hair and lifted the clothes off the floor as the A.I. began its analysis. Just as quickly as it started, the unnatural breeze stopped.
“Unknown,” the A.I. said.
She felt the color drain from her face. That wasn’t possible. Everyone and everything had been sampled and catalogued.
“Check again,” Red demanded.
There was a pause. “Unknown,” the A.I. repeated.
Her legs trembled, threatening to give out. Red staggered to her rest pad and pulled her knees against her chest, hugging herself as tremors wracked her body.
She didn’t understand what was happening. Where had she been? She strained to remember, but no answers were forthcoming. Red’s gaze strayed back to the crimson mosaic coloring her discarded shirt.
If the blood wasn’t hers, then whose was it?
3
The vidcom chirped disturbing Morgan Hunter’s erotic dream. Go away. He pulled the pillow over his head and groaned, trying to ignore the call and get back to the dark-haired woman he’d been about to fuck senseless.
He couldn’t quite make out his dream woman’s face, but he’d know her body anywhere. His hips moved restlessly against the covers, caressing his erection as he sought the comfort of her moist warmth.
The vidcom chirped again, this time louder, more insistent. The dream slowly dissipated.
Morgan snarled under his breath, then blindly reached out and pressed a button on a control panel near his bed. If there wasn’t a beautiful woman on the other end of the line begging him for his body, someone was going to get an earful.
“This better be important,” he snapped without looking at the screen.
“Sheriff, we have a problem,” Jim Thornton said, his voice low, secretive.
Why was the director of the dissecting lab calling? And why was he whispering?
“Can’t it wait until morning, Jim?” Morgan removed the pillow, before glancing blurry-eyed at the screen. The image of the red-haired bespectacled man wavered before him. Damn radioactive storms. Morgan smacked the monitor twice and the picture cleared.
“No, it can’t.” Jim’s gaze darted from side to side, then he leaned into the viewer until all Morgan could see was two magnified eyes, a bulbous nose, and a thick-lipped mouth. “You’re going to want to see this right away.”
“What’s wrong? You look ...” He squinted. “Scared.” The last of Morgan’s sleep haze faded from his mind.
“I can’t tell you over the vidcom. Come down to the lab immediately.” Jim’s pudgy face paled. “We have a serious problem on our hands.”
The hair at the nape of Morgan’s neck bristled. All thoughts of his dream woman were forgotten. What the hell was going on?
“I’ll be there in fifteen.” He glanced at the clock on his side table. The number three glared back petulantly. “Better make that twenty.”
“Hurry.” Jim abruptly severed the link.
Morgan threw back the covers and sat up, scrubbing his hands over his stubbled face and through his hair before glancing around. The air filtering system hummed in the background, the rhythm comforting like a heartbeat in the womb.
No other noise penetrated his living space thanks to the added thickness of the reinforced tinted glass windows and concrete walls. Those same materials also protected his home from assault. Not that there’d been much need these days with the IPTT, International Police Tactical Team, patrolling the world.
Even in the darkness, Morgan could still easily make out his home’s Spartan furnishings, a table, two chairs, and a couch.
Standard republic issue.
Morgan stood and scratched his ass, then trudged naked across the concrete floor to the cleansing room, stroking his erection as he went. The slabs were warm against his bare feet, despite the built-in cooling system.
He stepped into the chemical shower stall and pressed the clean button. A harsh lemon spray rained down upon his shaggy head. Morgan wrinkled his nose and nearly gagged from the odor, but continued to stroke himself until he reached completion, then hit the off button.
He despised the new A.I. cleansing units with their built-in biomonitors that constantly checked his brainwaves. He didn’t need a goddamned machine deciding when he should wake up and when he should sleep.
He was quite capable of making those decisions on his own. He missed the days when he could just take a plain old shower.
Morgan dried quickly and then threw on a pair of black utility pants and a matching shirt. He tugged on his boots, grabbing his gun and badge on the way out the door.
Seconds later he climbed into his vehicle. He placed his hand on the scanner to the right of the wheel. A low-level growl came from the engine. He always loved the sound a hydrogen motor made, when it came to life.
“Welcome, Morgan Hunter,” the onboard A.I. said. “Where would you like to go?”
Morgan flipped a toggle switch to manual and eased onto the accelerator. The growl turned to a roar. He smiled to himself and flattened the pedal. The power of the car threw him back in his seat as the turbo kicked in.
At this time of the morning, if you could call the middle of the night morning, Morgan could set the car at max velocity without attracting heavy tolls from the Republic of Arizona’s automated speed control system.
Once he joined the main road that led into town, he pressed the button to roll down the window. The glass descended with a pressurized hiss, allowing the desert air inside. The warmth brushed over his face and sifted through his hair, clearing his head.
Morgan imagined various scenarios as he drove to Nuria, but none that he could think of warranted immediate attention nor would any of them explain Jim’s frightened appearance.
The small dusty town Morgan called home came into view as he rounded the final hill. The lights winked at the sky, flirting shamelessly with the night.
From this distance, everything looked new. It was only when he drew closer that Morgan could see how the buildings sank their stony fingers into the ground to keep from being blown away.
Morgan’s gut soured as he neared the dissecting lab. He pulled into a parking space. With his thumb pressed to the scanner, Morgan set the doors to lock and the engines to shut off in five seconds, then climbed out of the vehicle.
Jim waited at the door of the dissection lab with a banned smoke stick protruding from his mouth. He puffed heavily on the stick causing wisps of smoke to swirl around his head, before reluctantly tossing it on the ground and snuffing its flame with the toe of his shoe.
“I saw that,” Morgan chided, glancing at the crushed remains.
“Who’s trying to hide?” Jim shuffled from foot to foot impatiently. “Took you long enough.”
The man’s nervousness sent adrenaline surging through Morgan’s body. His shoulders tensed and he looked around suddenly uneasy. Normally, Jim was the epitome of laid back. Nothing ruffled him. He’d seen more in his tenure as the director of the dissecting lab than most biodweller directors see in a lifetime.
Morgan took a deep breath and released it. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until morning? And why couldn’t you tell me over the vidcom?”
He’d just finished a twelve-hour shift and had finally managed to fall asleep. Not to mention the world-class dream sex he’d missed out on. Morgan didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
“Sorry.” Jim wiped his beefy hands on his dissecting apron. “But the situation required an immediate response and a healthy dose of discretion.” He glanced around the deserted streets, his eyes searching the darkness for unwanted attention.
Morgan automatically followed Jim’s gaze without understanding what they were looking for. “Jim?”
The director held his hand up, stilling Morgan’s questions. “Once you see it, you’ll understand the need for secrecy.” The ominous words sent a trickle of fear down Morgan’s spine.
He followed Jim inside. The odor of mint-scented disinfectant smacked Morgan in the face as they entered the lead-lined dissecting lab, causing his eyes to water. Bright lights spotlighted several gurneys, illuminating death in a kind of macabre showcase.
In the center of the room, three stainless-steel tables held bodies in various stages of dismemberment for the recycling of parts.
Disposal shoots lined one wall, while cabinets containing dissecting equipment and disinfectants took up another. Ten large drains dotted the floors to catch recyclable fluids that escaped during the dissecting process.
Humans made up seventy percent of the liquid mulch used for plant growth in the industrial hydroponic chambers scattered throughout the world.
Burials no longer occurred, the practice considered too antiquated and wasteful in a world where survival hinged on the ability to conserve.
Morgan missed the old days. There was something to be said for standing over a grave and paying your respects. The names of the fallen were a blur in his mind. The years had sanded down Morgan’s memories of the war until only the faces of the men under his old command remained.
He’d buried the last soldier killed in action a lifetime ago, then burned his captain’s uniform and walked away. Morgan hadn’t looked back since...until now.
He inhaled. The cold air did little to mask the smell of death.
Morgan scanned the row of bodies, but nothing seemed out of place until he spotted the one at the very end of the room. Instead of being exposed like the others, it lay covered beneath a white medical tarp.
Jim never kept the bodies covered. He said the dead weren’t concerned about modesty and it only slowed his dissecting speed down.
“Put these on.” Jim handed Morgan lab gear.
Morgan donned the protective headgear and gloves, then followed Jim, who hadn’t bothered to suit up, to the table at the far end.
“I found her when I was out doing a routine scan of the electro-magnetic boundary area for Unknowns. You know I like to get to them while they’re still fresh. She’s been dead for about a week, maybe longer,” he said, feathering the ends of the tarp through his fingers.
“We have a lot of Unknowns turning up dead. That’s nothing new.” Crossing the boundary was dangerous. The harsh elements and the predators took those who didn’t die at the fence out.
Morgan hated the boundary. The electromagnetic barbed fence stretched across the southern half of the North American continent, bisecting what used to be California, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and Louisiana in order to keep down illegal crossings from ‘No Man’s Land’ to the republics and keep unregistered individuals—Unknowns—out.
He never agreed with the reasoning behind its construction or the separation it stood for. The division between countries, religions, and men had been what started the war in the first place.
Everyone had been so busy pointing out their differences that they forgot how much they were alike. Morgan shook his head and looked at the tarp in disgust.
Just because a person refused to be tagged with a computer chip didn’t make him a criminal. At least not in his mind, but it wasn’t his job to create the laws, only to enforce them.
“She’s not an Unknown.” Jim’s statement gut-checked him.
“She’s one of ours?” Morgan asked.
Jim nodded. “She’s registered with the Republic of Arizona, but she’s not one of us.”
Morgan stared at the white tarp unable to bring himself to touch it. “Who?” He forced himself to ask.
“It’s Renee Forrester.”
Oh, hell. He’d dated Renee the year before. They’d split amicably after a few months, their itch thoroughly scratched. She was kind, a tad on the shy side, but well liked. Morgan couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to harm her.
“Are you sure?” Heaviness settled in his chest as the loss sank in deeper.
“I’m sorry, Morgan, but I’ve made a positive ID.”
Morgan took a couple of deep breaths, then pulled the tarp back. The condition of Renee’s body punched the air out of his lungs, leaving him dizzy.
He’d seen more than his fair share of dead bodies and learned there were a lot of ways a man could die. Yet he’d never seen anything quite like this. Renee had been brutalized. No more than that, she’d been savaged.
His stomach gurgled as he stared at the body, threatening to toss the remnants of last night’s dinner onto the floor. “What the hell happened to her? Where are her eyes?”
Morgan swallowed hard to fight the rising bile in his throat. The smell of decomp was stronger now, cloying as it insisted upon entering his protective headgear.
“She’s been eaten. Her eyes were torn out of their sockets,” Jim said without inflection.
“Eaten? This isn’t eaten. Renee’s been ripped apart.” Morgan stepped back. Attacks happened. He knew that. It was a fact of life near the boundary. But this was different. This was someone he knew. Someone he’d been intimate with. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“You know I wouldn’t say anything if I wasn’t sure,” Jim hedged. “I checked every weapon on record twice, before moving onto other possibilities. Nothing was a match. Not until ... ”
It couldn’t be happening again. No one was that stupid. Desperation clawed at Morgan’s chest, leaving him raw and exposed. Jim had to be wrong.
“No! You need to check again.” There had to be a logical explanation. Anything but that. “The zoos never caught everything that escaped. Food’s scarce. The predators have gotten a lot more aggressive lately. The upticks in calls from the ranchers confirm it.”
Jim’s shoulders slumped. “Take a closer look at the injuries. Pay particular attention to the area near her carotid artery. Knives are serrated, smooth or a combination of both. They don’t leave this kind of wound pattern.” He pointed to a nasty hole on her slender neck. “You have no idea how I wish I was wrong.”
Morgan stared at Renee. Her left arm was missing, along with her beautiful eyes and half her lovely face. Blonde hair matted with dried blood hung stiffly next to her remaining ear. Her intestines spilled from her abdomen like someone dropped synth-noodles on the floor.
He gulped, then bent to examine the area Jim indicated. “Tell me that’s not a tooth indentation.”
“Wish I could, but I’ve measured the damned thing from four different angles and ruled out everything else. There’s no mistaking the weapon. It’s definitely a fang.”
