The Last Mutation Page 5

  REJOICE IN THE FLESH!

  For it is the life. For the strong, it is a means to continue, and to keep us from having to venture out onto the seas where those twisted, bastardised things dwell. This is the way, this is the light, and this is how we are to survive. This world is no longer ours to rule, we no longer sit on top of the food chain.

  BASTARDISATION

  There are new masters of this planet, twisted, mutated things that prowl the black seas in search of blood and flesh. No longer must we abide by the rules of society, no longer must we pretend to be civil to our fellow man. The flesh is food, and food is survival. We will build a new world from the bones of the dead and call it home.

  This is the way of the new world. This is the way of the future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The rain had been falling all night and most of the day, and as a result, the Collector felt dirty. It was a stagnant, greasy substance, and left a slimy sheen on the skin; its taste was also bitter and oily, tinged with the ash-like sulphur taste as always. With nowhere to shelter, the Collector walked on, trudging through the mud down the road which he hoped would eventually lead him to the ocean. McCarthy’s kindness had not been easy to forget. In a world of cruelty, such selflessness was impossible to ignore. He stopped, hands on hips and stared at the horizon. In the distance, he could see the town he had been warned about, the white, low buildings, formless and without any semblance of life from such a distance. A little further down the road, the stacked cars were exactly where McCarthy had said they would be, by the side of the road, beyond which the dead forest waited. He stared at the trees, the new growths of leaves twisted and changed into bulbous shapes which were inedible. This he had noticed more of late. Some trees from the old world remained dead and barren, others took on new life. He wondered if they were that way because they were drinking the same water he was collecting to consume later. It wasn’t something worth thinking about, nor were the consequences if proved true, and so he focused on the task at hand and what he intended to do next. He approached the stacked cars, the rusted shells as dead and broken as the rest of the world. He stopped beside them, their mass giving him a brief respite from the horrific weather conditions. The trail was barely visible snaking into the trees. It would be easy to miss had he not known to look for it. He glanced again towards the town and remembered McCarthy’s words about the kind of people who lived there. People he most definitely wanted to avoid. Decision made, he peeled off into the dead tangle of trees.

  TWO

  The forest was absolutely silent now that the rain had stopped. No birds had sung within those trees for years, just as no animals existed to make their home there anymore. Now it was a cold, haunting place, the only sound the brittle snap of long-dead branches on the ground as the Collector stepped on them. The trail wound itself parallel to the road, snaking downhill and keeping him hidden from view of the town, which was somewhere to his right. After the rain had stopped, a light mist had formed and was hanging around his feet as he made his way deeper through the trees, his every sense alive and attuned to his surroundings. Something caught his eye, something pinned to a tree, its corner flapping when it caught the breeze. The words on it were printed in block capitals as if the person who wrote it wanted to ensure his point was listened to. The Collector walked towards the poster pinned to the tree and stared at the words, letting them sink in.

  FROM THE FIRES OF HELL THEY CAME! TWISTED THINGS, AMALGAMATIONS OF THE LORDS BEAUTIFUL CREATIONS TWISTED INTO TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE THINGS.

  DEMONS!

  DEMONS FROM THE DEEP. I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES, AND I KNEW THAT NO PRAYERS WOULD BE LOUD ENOUGH, NO FAITH WOULD BE STRONG ENOUGH. I SAW THE DEVIL. I SAW IT PULL THOSE POOR PEOPLE OFF THE DOCK.

  ABOMINATION!

  NEVER HAVE I SEEN SUCH A FREAK OF NATURE. NEVER HAVE I WITNESSED SOMETHING TO TWISTED AND SO DISFIGURED. I SAW ITS EYES, AND PRAISE JESUS I SAW ITS MAW, RINGED WITH FANGS, WHICH WAS ENOUGH TO MAKE MY BLOOD RUN COLD. THAT CREATURE SPITS IN THE FACE OF ALL THAT HIS HOLY.

  THE END HAS COME!

  THE END HAS COME AND WE WILL ALL ANSWER TO OUR MAKER!

  WE WILL ALL BURN, WE WILL ALL SUFFER. WE WILL ALL FACE JUDGEMENT. THE DEMONS FROM THE DEEP WILL SEE TO THAT!

  PRAY TO THEM, PRAY TO THEM AND BEG FOR MERCY. BEG FOR FORGIVENESS. BEG FOR OUR LORD TO GRANT US PASSAGE TO HEAVEN. BEG FOR HIS MERCY FROM THE ABOMINATIONS OF THE DEEP. PRAY FOR HIS LOVE TO GUIDE US INTO THE LIGHT AND THE WARMTH OF THE SUN.

  PRAY!

  FOR IF YOU DO NOT THEN THOSE THINGS WILL TAKE YOU AND DRAG YOU DOWN TO THE HELL FROM WHERE THEY CAME. PRAY WITH ME, PEOPLE. PRAY FOR THE SUN TO BRING LIFE BACK TO THE EARTH. PRAY FOR FORGIVENESS AND THE WARMTH OF HIS LIGHT. SPREAD THE WORD TO ALL WHO MIGHT LISTEN.

  PRAY!

  He read it twice, then a third time. The words tied into the story McCarthy had told him about the man he had met on the road, and the giant tooth he had been shown. For the first time, the Collector was having second thoughts about going to the ocean. For so long it had been his goal, his dream, something that kept him going, that kept him trying to survive. If such things could exist, and if they were more than just stories, then it might be better for him to forget the idea completely. A second thought came to him that he could at least go and see it, that even if such things did exist, they couldn’t harm him from the land. He could at least go and see the ocean, to see if it was like the postcard he had found. That, at least he could do. A distant snap of laughter rolled to him through the trees, breaking his train of thought. He dropped to one knee, staring through the tangle of long-dead wood, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. More voices now, snatches of words echoing towards him from the direction of the road. He put his bag on the ground and crouched, keeping low and cautious as he inched closer to take a look.

  There were two men on the road walking from the direction of the town. They looked like everyone else. Dirty, wretched, desperate. One of them had a machete, the blade dirty and covered with blood. The Collector pushed himself against the ground, wishing he hadn’t moved so close to the road. The men walked passed his position, none of them glancing in his direction. He waited until they were gone, then scrambled back towards the trail. He put his backpack on and continued on his way, desperate now to get the town behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder, aware that anyone could be sneaking up on him and he would have no idea until it was too late. He had grown used to being alone in the world and knew he had to start considering the other people who existed within it and what they might do. It was as he had that thought that he stepped in the trap. Triggered by his weight, the snare tightened around his ankle and pulled him into the air, leaving him hanging upside down by one leg, his bag spilling its contents onto the ground underneath him. Panic set in as the snare dug into his ankle. He took a breath, watching his upside-down world twist and spin. It was then that they appeared, the men from the road. One was bald, a huge, filthy, ginger beard hanging down to his chest. One eye was pointed inwards towards his nose, the other glaring hard. His machete-wielding friend was just watching, enjoying watching the Collector spin and twist.

  “Looks like we caught us a little somethin’, Eric,” he said, walking closer.

  The Collector said nothing, watching and unable to take his eyes from the machete. Its owner saw him looking and smiled. “Don’t worry about this little thing; it won’t hurt you unless you piss me off.”

  The Collector flailed and tried to squirm free as the man swung the machete at the wire holding him in the air. He crumbled to the ground, landing on the head, the impact knocking him unconscious.

  INTERLUDE THREE:

  NOT ENOUGH TIME IN THE WORLD

  He wasn’t going to make it.

  Jansen knew it, but was determined to try all the same. He swerved in and out of traffic, the silver Mercedes oblivious to the irritated honking of other drivers. He carved in and around them, questionable manoeuvre after questionable manoeuvre as he desperately tried to reach hom
e in time.

  It was rush hour, and the city was alive with lights and activity. People were finishing work and looking forward to the weekends, the bars and restaurants already filling up. It was impossible to warn them, impossible to help them or tell them those things would never happen. A glance at the clock on the radio display said it was a little after five in the evening. He calculated how long he had, the answer terrifying him.

  It wasn’t enough. Not even close.

  Determined not to give up, he pushed the accelerator harder to the floor.

  His normal thirty-minute journey was completed in twelve minutes. His home was in the Los Angeles hills, a sprawling glass-and-steel structure with a pool and hot tub. It was expensive, but he could afford it. The job had paid him well and was one he had never considered the implications of until everything went wrong just over an hour ago. He skidded to a halt, leaving the engine running and racing for the house, Italian shoes crunching on gravel as he threw open the door.

  “Sarah? Mikey?”

  “In here.”

  He followed the sound of his wife’s voice to the main sitting room. It was a large open space, crème furniture and red rugs, two of the three walls floor-to-ceiling glass, giving a stunning view of the Los Angeles skyline, which glittered far below them. He glanced at it, knowing what was coming and feeling the pressure of time with each passing second.

  His wife, Sarah, sat with their two children. Ten-year-old Mikey, who was playing Xbox, and their nine-month-old daughter, Skye.

  Sarah immediately saw it on his face. The despair. The fear.

  “What is it, what happened? Why are you home so early?” she asked.

  We have to go, right now,” he snapped.

  Both of them were looking at him, and he knew how he must look and sound.

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Move, now, go get in the car.”

  “What’s happening? Where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer, not because he didn’t want to, but because he had couldn’t. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run where they would be safe. He had never told her the specifics of his job, in part because it was classified, but also because he knew she would look at him differently if she knew what he actually did. He had no time to explain, no time to sit her down and go into detail about what had happened and about how every wasted second brought them all closer to death. He took a breath and tried to keep calm.

  “Just move. Now, Mikey, come on.

  “Shall I pack a bag?” Sarah asked, eyes wide and filled with questions as she stood and moved the baby to the opposite arm.

  Jansen shook his head. “No, we don’t have time. In the car now, move it, we have to –”

  A shrill alarm carried up the hillside from the heart of the city and stopped him mid-sentence.

  “Jansen, What is it? What’s going on?” Sarah asked.

  He didn’t answer her. All the fight, all the urgency had gone out of him. He walked over to the large windows, and looked down over his three-million-dollar view. All those people. All those lives about to end.

  “It’s too late,” he muttered.

  “What is? What are you talking about?”

  He tried to look for the lab, his place of work that had afforded him the lifestyle, the house and would ultimately end it. He couldn’t see specific details amid the glow of the streetlights, but knew roughly where it was in the sprawling mass of buildings below. He waited for it.

  “It’s too late,” he muttered, his face now inches from the glass.

  “What is? What are you talking about late? Too late for who?”

  “Everyone,” he whispered.

  That was when it happened. A pinprick of light, soundless and growing from the lab, a soundless explosion of energy which he knew would go on indefinitely. The light grew brighter, and a high-pitched whine filled the air. Skye began to cry. For her at least, there would be blissful ignorance about what was to come.

  Jansen sensed Sarah beside him. He reached out and took her hand in his and waited as the light came closer.

  He closed his eyes and silently wept as it grew more intense. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “It won’t hurt.”

  Then, there was darkness.

  Then, there was silence.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was the smell he noticed first. A sour, ammonia stench. The Collector coughed and opened his eyes, blinking through the gloom. He was in a cage, wire mesh and filthy. He rolled over onto his side, staring at the hazy figure who sat on a wooden chair, staring at him. It took a few seconds for his brain to unscramble itself and figure out what he was looking at. He looked at the man, and the man looked back, leaning closer so that the shadows moved from his features and allowed a closer view of his face.

  The Collector sat up, blinking and unable to believe what he was seeing.

  McCarthy grinned. “They always have that look,” he said.

  The pleasant tone from his voice was gone. Unlike earlier, there was no hospitality, no kindness. This, the Collector realised, was the real McCarthy. Behind him stood the two men who had passed on the road. Now that they were all standing together, the resemblance was impossible to ignore. The two men shared similar features to their father, the same eyes and hooked nose.

  McCarthy sat patiently, letting the Collector figure it all out. “Don’t worry about it, son,” he said, unleashing his wicked grin. “You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  The Collector shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Hit your head pretty good, didn’t ye?” the old man chuckled, then leaned closer, propping his elbows on his knees. “My boys did good, just like they always do. Before we go any further, I reckon I ought to at least be straight with you.”

  He reached behind him and held out a scrawny hand. The bigger of McCarthy’s sons, the one called Eric, handed his father the map. McCarthy unfolded it, and showed it to the Collector.

  “Remember this?”

  The Collector looked at it and said nothing. Of course he remembered.

  “You’re the seventeenth person to be brought to us by this map. You people are too gullible, that’s the problem. Seems to me like whatever it was that killed the world left a lot of stupid people behind. Just know this is nothin’ personal, son. It’s just circumstances. Just know that you’ll die to make sure my family and me can go on. Look at it this way, you have a purpose in life at least that isn’t some stupid idea of finding the sea.” McCarthy chuckled as he said it and sat up straight.

  “Please, I didn’t do anything to you,” the Collector said.

  “No, you didn’t,” McCarthy said. He looked almost apologetic behind the cruel exterior. “And for that, I’m sorry. But this world ain’t what it once was. We gotta survive anyway we can.”

  He pointed a finger, the slight shift in position throwing shadows back across this face. “The weak have to go first. It’s as simple as that. If you’d have been strong, if you’d have been wise, you would have killed me up at the church. Now, like the rest, you’ll have to pay the price.”

  “Please…”

  “No, don’t try and talk your way out of it. I gave you every chance to off me up there. Showed you my back, gave you an advantage, but you didn’t take it. You trusted me. Ain’t no place for behaving like that in this world. None at all. The weak defer to the strong. That’s the way it’s always been, that’s how it will go on. Now you and the rest will finally serve a purpose. You’ll finally have your place.”

  “The others?” the Collector repeated, confused.

  McCarthy grinned again, the sat upright. “Boys, open the shutters for our guest. Let him see the rest of his new home.”

  Eric and his sibling each moved off into the shadows, peeling away from McCarthy, who kept his eyes on the Collector. A grind of metal as unoiled chains were pulled and shutters lifted, spilling light into the room.

  The Collector blin
ked and looked around the room. It was a warehouse filled with mouldy boxes which would never be distributed. There were four other cages like his. Two of them were empty, the others contained people, one man, and one woman. The Collector looked at them and saw his future. They were afraid and filthy, cowering in the corner of their respective cages and sitting in their own filth. They didn’t make eye contact with their captors, and the Collector could see that they had been beaten into submission, both mentally and physically. The man, who looked to be somewhere in his forties, was overweight. Empty bean cans like the one McCarthy had given to the Collector littered the floor of his cage. McCarthy saw him looking and chuckled.

  “See him? He’s fattening up nicely. Was skinny as a rake when he got here, a lot like you are now. We’ll soon fix that though.”

  “I don’t understand,” the Collector said again, glancing from his fellow captives to McCarthy.

  “That might be for the best, son. Startin’ today, you’re on five meals a day. Only beans I’m sorry to say. It’s pretty much all this place had when we found it. Tins of the damn things in the thousands. You behave yourself and do as you’re told, we’ll all get along fine. You step out of line, then I’ll have to get Eric and Glynn here to beat some humility into you.”

  Glynn, the one only known to the Collector as the man wielding the machete, approached and shoved an open can of beans between the bars. “Make sure you eat all of that. Every bit.”

  The Collector took the can, holding on to it and still trying to figure out what to do.

  “Alright,” McCarthy said, standing and stretching. “I have to get back to the church. Don’t let me hear about you steppin’ out of line. You’re a nice kid; I’d hate to have something happen to you.”