FORTY

 

 

WESTON SQUATTED ON his toes, elbows resting on knees. He appeared to have reverted back to some sort of savage state, the kind you see in 1970s caveman movies—hairy hippies dressed in cloth diapers and smelling of raw meat. The one flaw to his caveman appearance was his thick glasses that enlarged his blue eyes.

Sara found the man’s scent repulsive and focused on breathing through her mouth instead of her nose.

“Don’t suppose you could untie us?” King asked, squirming to get comfortable.

Weston frowned. “I’m sorry, but we’ve learned to not trust people from the outside world.”

“There were three of us,” King said, knowing the statement would ask the question he’d been wondering since his hood was removed: Where was Queen?

“Your friend aptly demonstrated why we trust you so little,” Weston said, his frown becoming a scowl.

“She escaped?” Sara asked.

“Indeed,” Weston said. “Just after killing one of our guards and nearly killing a little girl. She’ll be found soon enough, though. And if the others can keep themselves from exacting their revenge, she’ll be joining you here.”

Hearing Queen had escaped and was still at large was good news, but knowing Weston was overestimating his odds of capturing her a second time was excellent. He had no idea whom he was pursuing.

King looked Weston over. The man had a friendly face and demeanor, but he’d seen dangerous men put on a good show before. “You’re American?”

“Once upon a time, that’s what I called myself, yes.”

“But not anymore?”

“You seem very confident for a man who’s tied up,” Weston said with a smile.

King grinned. “This isn’t the first time.”

Weston laughed and stretched out his arms as though to embrace the air. “And yet, here you are! Very good . . . very good . . . Do you mind me asking why it is you are here?”

King didn’t speak. Sara followed his lead when Weston looked to her for the answer.

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Weston said. “I’m not a soldier.”

The silence continued.

“Perhaps something is not right in the world?” Weston asked. “Perhaps you thought the solution could be found here? In the Annamites. We have listened to the Vietnamese soldiers. Heard them talking about a cure for something that originated here. And you are here for the same reason.”

King directed a cold stare at Weston.

“Tell me,” Weston said. “Which one of you is the scientist?”

Weston looked at King, amused by his harsh glare. “Certainly not you.” He looked at Sara and shuffled over, never rising from his squat, like a lazy gorilla. He squeezed her arm gently.

Sara pulled away. “Get the hell away from me.”

Weston laughed and hobbled back to his place by the crackling fire. “You’re the scientist. Too soft and delicate for a soldier.”

King never flinched and his voice held its typical cool tone. “What do you know about the Brugada syndrome?”

Weston’s eyebrows rose and he smiled widely. “Is that what they’re calling it? Sounds ominous.”

“It is ominous,” King said. There was obviously no reason to hold back. Weston knew something and it seemed only total honesty would pry it free.

Weston rocked on his feet. “How many are dead?”

King tried to shrug but his bound arms barely moved. “Not many.”

“We became aware of it at an early stage,” Sara chimed in.

Weston looked confused. “I’m not sure I understand. A few people die and the U.S. Special Forces invades a foreign country for the cure?”

“One of the first people to contract the disease is a public figure,” Sara said.

“Is a public figure? Not was? This person survived?” Weston leaned forward, his interest rising. “Who was it?”

“The president,” King said.

Weston nearly fell over with surprise. “Of the United States?”

King nodded. “Which is why we’re here.”

“Of course, it makes sense now.” Weston calmed and said, “But how did it reach the president? Surely he doesn’t moonlight in the jungles of Vietnam.”

“Brugada has been weaponized,” King said. “Someone tried to assassinate him.”

“And it’s contagious, piggybacking on a bird flu,” Sara added. “We managed to contain the outbreak by quarantining hundreds of people, including the president and most of the White House staff. But next time we might not catch it in time.”

“You know what it is, don’t you?” King asked.

Weston looked at the stone floor of the cave and rubbed his bare foot across it. “People have been dying from the sudden death in this region for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. It kills villagers every year. And it wiped out the male population of the Nguoi Rung. The old mothers are all that are left.” He looked up. “What makes you think there is a cure?”

“We know the original strain of Brugada originated in this area. The new strain most likely did, too. Who are the Nguoi Rung?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. What about this new strain?” Weston asked.

“The original strain is a genetic defect passed down through generations,” Sara explained. “Thanks to a mutation, it is now contagious and death comes within a week. It could wipe out the entire human population on Earth. Including you. And whoever else lives here with you.”

Weston pounded a fist against his chest, displaying his virility. “And yet, here I am. Exposed at the source, and alive and well. Perhaps you’ve come to the wrong place?”

Sara glared at him. “This is the right place, and you know that, don’t you?”

Weston’s smile faded some. “You may not understand my position. To you, I’m a freak. My people are monsters—animals you wouldn’t think twice about destroying. Abominations. I see the fear in human eyes when they see them. And I am all that stands between them and the outside world. Between a culture older than humanity and destruction. You may be seeking to save human civilization, but I’m trying to save my . . .” His voice quivered with true emotion. “. . . my family. My children.” He stood and walked behind a large rock. He bent down and came back up holding Sara’s backpack.

She gasped.

Weston sat down and opened the backpack. He pulled out the laptop and set it down on the stone floor between himself and the fire. Then he removed the vial of blood and placed it next to the laptop. He opened the computer and pushed the power button. “You know, the laptop I brought must have weighed ten pounds. This can’t be more than two. Technology is amazing, isn’t it?”

“How long have you been here?” King asked.

“I arrived in 1995,” Weston replied. Sara’s eyes widened. “Fifteen years.” The screen blinked on and chimed as the operating system resumed operations where they had been when the laptop had been closed. “Cute penguin.” Weston spun the laptop around to Sara. “You were testing the blood?”

Sara ignored his question and looked at the test results. She did her best to show no reaction to what she was seeing. She scanned down the list of virus antibodies found in the woman’s blood. The new strain of bird flu had been detected. That blood was their best chance at a cure.

“There’s nothing there,” Sara said.

Weston raised an eyebrow. “I was a cryptozoologist before finding my place here. I’m no fool. In fact, I know more about your Brugada syndrome than you do.”

With a casual flick of the wrist, Weston tossed the vial into the fire. It shattered, sending a geyser of steam to the cave ceiling fifteen feet above. A breeze from deeper inside the cave carried the steam and smoke across the ceiling, removing all traces of the blood, and hope, with it.

Sara fought back a gag as she realized she smelled cooked human blood, but her repulsion became replaced by rage. “Why did you do that?” she shouted, fighting with her bonds, desperate to lunge at Weston and strangle the life from him.

“Because,” King said, “he already has the cure.”

Weston stood, picked up the laptop, and hurled it violently against the wall, shattering it. After its plastic body rattled to the stone floor, Weston calmly took his position by the fire.

His lack of denial was all the confirmation Sara needed. “Why don’t you give it to us and let us go! With so much at stake how can you—”

“You have no idea what’s at stake!” Weston shouted, his eyes wide and face reddening. “The civilization of the Nguoi Rung, the ancestors of my children, found refuge from humanity here. My children find refuge here. I cannot allow word of their existence to leave the jungle.” His voice calmed. “It is an awful thing. I know. But I have done awful things to protect this hidden treasure and I will again if need be. You must remain here, with us. Whether you live among us or remain a prisoner is your choice, but you will not leave.”

He rubbed his temple, closed his eyes, and sighed. “The rest of the world will just have to find a cure another way.”

“And the VPLA,” King said. “What will you do with them?”

“They will not leave the jungle, either.” He met King’s eyes. “I have done awful things, soldier. You of all people should understand that killing to protect your people, your home, is—”

“Noble,” King said.

Weston smiled slightly. “Yes, noble.”

“And the name is King.”

A smirk returned to Weston’s face. He picked up a stick and poked the fire. Sparks flew toward the ceiling. “Agent Orange, you’ve heard of it, yes?”

“An herbicide used in the Vietnam War to clear the forest,” King said.

“It’s still used as a defoliant for cotton before it’s harvested,” Sara added. “Traces of it can be found in cottonseed oil, which is ludicrous, considering it causes—”

Sara’s eyes widened.

King snapped his head toward her. “Causes what?”

Sara met his eyes and then looked back at Weston. “Genetic mutation . . . soft tissue sarcoma, Hodgkin’s disease, non-Hodgkin lymphoma, chronic lymphocytic leukemia . . . It’s a carcinogen. Highly mutagenic.”

“Impressive,” Weston said. “It took me a few years to put all that together. Took another few to figure out why the children and I were immune.”

“You experimented on the villagers,” King said.

“Heavens, no. I observed them. Their deaths revealed the mechanisms the plague used to spread and how long it took to kill. The flu swept through the village. Days later, the sudden death claimed its first victim. Then a wave of death spread through the village. I watched as sometimes one man an hour would simply fall over dead.

“I hiked to a village to the north of here and spoke to them about what was happening. To my surprise this wasn’t the first time. The village elder, an old man I had encountered several times in the jungle, told me about a time, thirty years ago, when a man in his home village, perhaps a carrier of Brugada, got very ill. They treated him with an herb found in the jungle, an herb I now know is resistant to the effects of Agent Orange, but retains traces of Agent Orange in its roots. Trace amounts of Agent Orange are still found in most local food sources, but they used a large amount of the highly contaminated herb, including its roots. They ground it up, boiled it, and gave it to the man as a broth. That’s when things changed. A few days later the sudden death claimed him. Brugada and the flu had joined forces, so to speak. The flu continued spreading and the villagers began dying. The old man’s mother wisely fled before she and her family caught the infection, but the majority of the village was wiped out. Somehow, the flu survived, perhaps in the local monkey population not affected by Brugada, and eventually reemerged in Anh Dung. I watched it all happen, exactly as the old man described it, the way I first observed the Ngoui Rung.”

King fought with his bonds. He could kill Weston with his bare hands. Hell, he could do it with one hand. He growled as he spoke. “Everyone on the planet could die. Will you just observe that as well?”

Weston stood above King, a large stone suddenly in his hand. He raised the stone slowly, preparing to bring it down on King’s head. “Sometimes a species goes extinct to make way for something better. It’s been that way for millions of years.”

“What race?” King shouted. “There won’t be anyone left!”

“Oh my God,” Sara said.

King stopped fighting his bonds and looked at her. So did Weston.

Sara’s mind recalled the creatures at Anh Dung. Their inhuman captors. She’d sensed their bodies. She’d thought they weren’t human. Now she realized the truth—they were half human. “His children,” she whispered. “You might not be causing the extinction of the human race, but you don’t mind it.”

“Death is a repulsive thing. If the human race cannot find a cure for this awful disease then nature has deemed humanity unfit. It is the natural way of things. I’m sorry. I truly am. But we seek to preserve two civilizations at odds with each other.” Weston’s face brightened some. “That’s right. I haven’t introduced you yet!”

Weston put a hand to his mouth and called out in his best Ricky Ricardo impression, “Oh, Lucy!” He looked back at King and Sara. “I love doing that.”

Lucy stepped into the room. King blinked at the sight of her, thinking the firelight was playing tricks with his vision. His face became as stone, frozen and unmoving, when he realized the half-human creature standing before him was real.

Sara gasped and shuffled back as best she could. For all of Lucy’s attractive features—the face of a child and bright eyes—her more feral side—dirt-soiled hair on her face, back, lower torso, forearms, and lower legs coupled with long and dirty fingernails and toenails—revealed something ancient. Something children fear at night. Lucy smiled, revealing her inch-long canines.

“Lucy,” Weston said as he motioned to King. “This is King and . . .” He motioned to Sara.

Sara sat still like a nervous rabbit, her heart beating wildly.

“Pawn,” King answered. “She’s Pawn.”

“Chess pieces,” Weston said, nodding. “How original. And here I thought you just had an enormous ego.”

“Have that, too,” King said, though his confidence was more an act now than ever.

“King and Pawn,” Weston said, “this is my great-great-granddaughter Lucy. She is the most favored of all my children. My Neanderthal princess. The next generation of Nguoi Rung.” He shook the hair on her head. Weston pulled away though Lucy seemed to want more.

Neanderthal? Sara’s mind flashed to her earlier conversation with King. Plasticity. Genetic assimilation. Lucy seemed the likely product of both theories, but Weston had called her his granddaughter. A blood relation.

If Lucy is half human, Sara thought, what does her mother look like? She had seen the fossil remains of more than a handful of Neanderthals and Lucy looked more primitive. Thicker. Stronger. More predatory. Reconstructions of Neanderthals looked hunched and hairy, but overall not too dissimilar from modern man. Save for the keen eyes and language skills, Weston’s granddaughter was a brute.

“How many?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“How many . . . grandchildren do you have here?”

“Last time we counted, fifteen hundred.” Weston rubbed his chin. “But that was three years ago. With the birth rate, taking into account the high infant mortality rate, we’re probably close to two thousand now.”

“Two thousand.” Sara was astonished, but managed one more question. “From how many sets of parents?”

“Thirty Neanderthal mothers. One human father.”

Sara fought the urge to place her hand over her mouth. Weston was the father of an entirely new species of primate—neither human nor Neanderthal. Hybrids, she thought.

Weston turned to Lucy. “I have an important task for you.”

She brightened and clapped her hands.

Weston motioned to King. “Take him to a room. Watch over him and do not let him leave. But do not harm him . . .” He looked at King, a twinkle of menace hidden beneath the intelligence in his eyes. “. . . yet.”

Lucy hopped over to King.

“Stay away from me—” King grunted as he was flipped over. She took him by the waist of his pants and picked him up as though he were a briefcase. Then she was off, carrying him through the caves, hooting all the way.

Sara watched in renewed fear. In the hands of this child, King was helpless.