Project Aquarius (The Sensitives Series Book 1) (15 page)

     “Focus on driving,” he told himself as he cruised down the Mass Pike. Though he couldn’t go very fast, the drive was somewhat pleasant on the now abandoned interstate. At least he didn’t have to worry about traffic. Slowly, Cyril slalomed back and forth across the highway, avoiding the pileups in the center lane.

Cyril was pleased by how efficient the blasts had been. His last minute order to increase the number of EMP machines in the Northeast had caused thorough wipeouts. Boston, for one, was a ghost town. The loss of human life was many times greater than Master Shin had anticipated. It was exactly the total cleanse Cyril had hoped for.

Early data showed Zero Hour might have eliminated up to 95 percent of the United States population, far greater than Master Shin’s prediction of 70 percent. Infrared reports showed that D.C. was gone, successfully eliminating organized government. Substations as far away as L.A. were reporting minimal signs of life. Certainly, Master Shin would come around to see the advantages of increasing the blast magnitude to eliminate a greater percentage of extraneous population.

Overall, the simultaneous electromagnetic blasts had been successful in 49 out of 50 states. The exception was Colorado. Some sort of fluke had spared the entire Denver metropolis. It was a gigantic costly mistake. Thankfully though, Denver wasn’t in Cyril’s territory.

What was Cyril’s problem, however, was the lack of response from the nearby Worcester, Massachusetts substation. They hadn’t answered a single call from Project Aquarius Headquarters since the blast the week before.  Master Shin had deployed Cyril on a shakedown mission. And as an added headache, the Master had also requested pictures of survivor activity en route. Recon was the part that Cyril knew was impossible. His mathematical alteration made it unlikely that there were any survivors to observe.

Cyril felt the panic creep in. What if the Master didn’t approve of his decision after all? Focus. Focus. Breathe. That’s what his therapist had taught him. Deep breathing. Increase oxygen.

Master Shin would inevitably figure out Cyril had altered the math and either laud his ingenuity or vilify him. Cyril couldn’t afford to lose Master Shin’s validation. He so desperately wanted to be recognized. The world needed to know his name.

***

Behind the highway fences, gabled roofs and backyard gazebos dotted the landscape in manicured yards that belonged in magazines. For the first time in his life, Cyril appreciated the springtime New England charm that budded all along the roadside. It was all so precious and wholesome. And it was all his now.

    He rolled the windows down and felt the air rush in his lungs. It was cleaner than he remembered. Now that it was quiet, now that the detritus had been removed from the world, Cyril could finally enjoy it. The deep breathing had helped. Boston was cleansed now, free from the pollutants of commuters and big business. Cyril was finally free.

    Slowly, the landscape changed from perfect suburbs to worn out mill towns–– crumbling brick factories mixed with renovated artist lofts.

Minutes later, Cyril was so lost in pleasant fantasy he almost blew right by his destination. The unmarked GenetiCorp building was just off the Pike— inconspicuous and industrial just like the rest of the Worcester landscape. At the last moment, he took a hard right off the exit, van tipping on its two right-side wheels with a horrible screech.

He pulled into the half-full lot and parked the over-sized company vehicle diagonal across two spaces. No need for formalities in the new world. He could take up as much room as he wanted.

Compulsively, Cyril looked in the rearview mirror to check himself. He was the image of Project Aquarius now and therefore the image of the Master—so he needed to look his best. As he expected, there was a hint of dark shadow creeping across his dome. Cyril spat into his hand and obsessively tried to shine it off. After a close shave, his hair always grew fastest on the top. It was a cruel irony for someone who chose to be bald. He rubbed until his skin shone in an irritated red color.

Satisfied, Cyril exited the van. He approached the back entrance of the huge brick building and knocked three times on the gray metal door. No answer. He knocked louder.

Still no response. Where was William?

Cyril decided to try the knob. The rusted metal groaned open without much effort. He walked into the cavernous space and called, “Hello?” his voice echoing off the distant walls.

The warehouse stretched on endlessly in a sea of gray scale. Large clunky mill machines stood still, where they had been abandoned decades before. Cyril had heard the building used to be some sort of fabrication plant back when Worcester was in its prime. GenetiCorp had retrofitted the plant into a research facility a few years back and the main warehouse room on the top floor had been left in a state of decay as a cover. The company didn’t want to advertise that their expensive research equipment was stored underground due to enormous electromagnetic energy fields.

“William?” Cyril’s voice called, full of uncertainty. “Hello?”

There was a clang at the far end of the space, a metallic sound.

“William?” he repeated.

“Be right there,” came a distant reply.

A short fellow, with a classic nerd look, poked his head out from behind one of the rusted machines.  William was an unassuming man— 5’4” with a pair of thick bottle glasses. Despite his appearance, Cyril sort of respected the guy. He was smart and Cyril valued intelligence above all else.

William approached cautiously. His glasses were askew and his hair looked greasy. He hobbled forward with a gait that revealed he hadn’t slept in days. Immediately, Cyril’s anxiety grew.

“Cyril, good to see you,” William said with no sincerity in his voice. The man extended his hand in a formality, but kept his gaze averted. Cyril did not return the shake.

“Where’s security? I was able to walk right in.”

“I know, I’m sorry…” the man bumbled, “there is no security.”

“Master Shin won’t be happy. Protocol states—”

“— I know protocol. The thing is protocol was shot to hell on Monday,” William said rapidly, his voice shaking.

“But the machines reported an effective blast.”

“Yes, that’s true… We… we followed your instructions to increase the frequency range and voltage and… well it… um…”

Cyril was starting to get frustrated with stammering William. He was hiding something. And Cyril didn’t like being lied to.

“Do we have a problem, William?” Cyril asked, leaning his body weight forward. Master Shin had taught Cyril how to be intimidating. The more he felt threatened, the more he was supposed to threaten others. Kill or be killed.

William swayed back and forth stuttering and sputtering, “We… well, well. We… the thing is… we…”

Cyril felt the anger surge up inside him like a volcano. His arms shot out in the first eruption, grabbed William by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

“Spit it out, William!” Slam. “You were already paid for your work. Why aren’t you doing your job?” Another slam. “Where is security, William?” Double slam. A cracking sound emanated from the man’s puny body.

“Why didn’t you answer the door?” Cyril roared.

“STOP!” William spat in Cyril’s face with the force of the word. “Just stop. I’ll show you.”

Finally, an answer. Violence always worked. It was the nature of man. Cyril released his grip on the pathetic scientist. William slumped with a whimper.

“Show me. Now!” Cyril barked. He cracked his knuckles and straightened his shirt in satisfaction. What a rush.

The dejected man led Cyril to the far end of the building and out a set of gray metallic double doors onto a loading dock. A large black box sat on the edge of the ramp.

“Wait, is this it?” Cyril asked with excitement.

William nodded.

Cyril touched the device gingerly with his toe as if it could bite. He had seen footage of the EMPs a thousand times and he had contributed to the prototype plan, but he had never touched one of the real live finished machines. It was so innocuous looking— no bigger than a dishwasher. The hard plastic case made the thing look more like a roadie’s amp than a magnetic death machine. And the Made In China stamp on the side added an extra ironic flair.

“It’s inert now?” Cyril questioned.

William nodded again. Amazing to think that a few hundred of these machines had rendered an entire country disabled.

Next to the EMP, Cyril noticed there a few wheelbarrows parked on the concrete. “What are these for?” he questioned. Wheelbarrows weren’t part of the plan and Cyril sensed that they were related to William’s secrecy.

Without speaking, William hopped down onto the pavement and pointed toward the far end of the parking lot. He led Cyril out past the perimeter of the property.

Cyril followed, his anger churning below the surface. It was obvious he was no longer in control of the situation. And he hated surprises.

“Where are we going?” he asked as they slogged through knee-high brush.

“It’s not much further,” William replied.

Not far past the brush perimeter, there was a small clearing with an enormous mound of dirt in the middle, easily eight feet high.

“What is this?”

William pointed at a deep hole that was partially hidden behind the dirt pile. “I just finished digging it this morning.”

Cyril peered in. Six feet deep and ten feet wide, the trench was enormous.

And it held an equally enormous problem. The bottom of the pit was lined in bodies, two deep in some places. Most of them were wearing GenetiCorp lab coats. Cyril sucked air bitterly through his teeth.

“I’m the only one left,” William admitted as he released a pent-up sigh.

“Oh. What happened?” Cyril asked with no emotion in his voice. Though, he already had a feeling he knew the answer.

“I don’t know. I was the only one in the control room. Everyone else was at his or her assigned posts. The blast went off at the scheduled time. But I think it was stronger than anticipated. Everyone underground was supposed to be okay… They weren’t okay… It’s not okay…” William burst into tears.

The wheelbarrows finally made sense to Cyril. Impressive feat. But, Cyril felt nothing for the man. It was just an unforeseen sacrifice in the line of duty. The soldier had done what he had to do.

Cyril took out his digital camera and snapped a picture of the bodies in the grave. If the Master wanted proof of survivor activity, this was it. There was only one survivor here and the rest were corpses.

But GenetiCorp employees were not supposed to die from The Pulse. They were carefully selected Sensitives, important to the repopulation of the world. Cyril and William would both pay for this mistake.

“Go get in the van,” Cyril ordered William, his eyes cold and unfeeling.

The scientist shuffled slowly toward the parking lot, head hung low. His shoulders drooped and he made pathetic whimpering noises as he walked. He moved like a man burdened by the weight of shame.

Cyril had an afterthought. “Stop. Turn around,” he barked. He felt hot in his core. Like he had to do something. His hands were wild with suppressed rage.

“I said turn around.”

William obeyed. Tears leaked from the man’s eyes. He was shamefully weak looking.

“Stand over here,” Cyril ordered. He pointed to the edge of the hole. Underneath the surface, Cyril’s volcano rumbled.

William didn’t move.

“Just do it!”

“Please, no,” William pleaded as inched toward the edge of the mass grave.

“Face the hole,” Cyril commanded.

William did.

“But my family…” the weak man begged. His voice was even softer now. He was a scared and obedient slave and Cyril was his master.

“Project Aquarius is your family now.”

Cyril tasted pennies in his mouth. That happened before an eruption. He swallowed the metallic taste and forced his hands to do what needed to be done, snapping the plastic zip-tie over William’s shaking wrists. The man’s breath quickened. Zip. Cyril spun his prisoner around and snapped a pic with the digital camera. The look of terror on William’s face turned Cyril on.

Finally, the only survivor for miles was under his control.

***

As soon as Cyril merged back onto the Pike, he regretted it. The highway carnage was far worse heading toward the city. The Pulse had gone off at the peak of rush hour leaving a permanent traffic jam. He needed to get off the highway.

Cyril snaked along the breakdown lane toward the nearest exit. The van’s tires crunched over glass and metal as he wound his way down the off ramp of the unfamiliar exit into the fancy-pants suburb.

It was the same hell as everywhere else, covered in scattered vehicles and bodies. Wealth hadn’t saved them in the end. As he watched the flies swarm, Cyril wondered who was going to clean up the mess.

He decided to slow down and take his time heading back to Cambridge, staying on the back roads for the rest of the drive. Might as well get some pleasure out of it. He could use this opportunity to savor his triumph.

He turned left, then right, and then left again, weaving his way across Middlesex County. The adrenaline flow allowed Cyril to really appreciate the suburbs, all the white picket fences standing stark against the spring green landscape. Driving the van, leaning into the curves, it was actually quite relaxing. The woodsy road conjured images of his childhood summer camp.