Crashing Tides

by Gwendolyn Marie

Hector said nothing as he opened another folder out of the stack. Though this time, he did not toss it aside. ​“Nyx,” he said, his voice containing an uncertainty she had never heard from him. He held out the folder; bare in contents except for several papers. Before she could look at it, Megaira came up behind Hector and wrenched the document away. Eyes scanned the paperwork. Her face changed as she read, not to confusion but to an anger so menacing, so uncontained. ​“I knew it. She came here to destroy us!” ​The document turned in her hands to show Nyx what the folder contained. It was as if looking to a mirror. A black and white faxed photo portrayed her dressed in sterile white. A number displayed around her neck, not of a prisoner, but of a patient, or more correctly, a lab rat. An experiment.

his aim did not follow Megaira’s path to focus on Nyx. Instead, it was on his comrade. ​“You will take aim off her now.” Not a request, a command growled from between his lips. ​“Are you crazy? She is behind this! Listen to what it says,” Megaira said.

“It has been merely months since the prion has struck this planet, but already our population has succumbed to the plague. The contagion originated overseas in the Mediterranean due to the initial attack, and has grown into a pandemic due to subsequent attacks worldwide and our inability to quarantine the infection. It continues to become out of control, spreading rapidly. Death comes to some, the prion seeking the brain to destroy it. Unfortunately, most survive; however, not in a favorable light.” ​“We have few details at this time,” she continued reading, “but we do know that the cerebrum is impaired and all higher functions degraded. The purpose of the host human is to attack others, and thereby propagate the disease. Uninhibited hunger, rage and lust left unchecked. The surviving infected do not suffer death, rather the fate of madness.

“The equations and genetic code delivered with the photograph confirm that she is the origin of the prion; she naturally deviates from the human genome to be something else. Within her lays a previously undiscovered prion that either sporadically mutated or by familial inheritance came to be. From what we can tell, Patient Zero demonstrates no apparent signs of the disease; she serves as its creator and host in a near symbiotic relationship. The prion itself was procured from the host for use as a bioweapon and subsequently released.”

We still believe the prion of Patient Zero to be a mutated form, but the origins are clearer. It seems to have many similarities to CWD, the Chronic Wasting Disease that has been previously contained in deer and elk in some areas of North America. Unlike other prions, this disease has yet to be found in the human population, however initial studies demonstrated the potential it has to cross species and infect primates. Unlike Kuru and CJD, the misfolded prions of the lesser known CWD are also found in salvia, urine and feces, causing the infection to be more virulent.” ​“Despite this discovery, we did not have enough time to use the genome sent to us of Patient Zero to find a vaccine, if even there was one to be found. This facility’s security was breached. I now am the sole survivor amongst the scientists stationed here; I fear though my exposure will be imminent. My fate is one doomed to become the monster that now stalks this planet. To prevent this, I take my life in hopes that it will save my soul. If ever this is read, bode well. For we did not.”

Henceforth, the death of a species stained forever on her soul—but also the rise of a new race. A new race of the unrestrained, of those unbridled by moral implications. The Chaots. The wild. Evolution from one species to the next, the fit surviving.

“Meg! Move away!” Hector yelled, again shooting the Chaots who were coming up from behind her. He shot a second; it fell. But then Megaira turned to face the third Chaot right as Hector fired again. ​It was not the Chaot who fell. Rather, Megaira had unexpectedly put herself between Hector and the Chaot. The bullet had found her chest. Blood trickled down the sides of her mouth before spilling with even more tenacity, draining her life. ​Hector’s face grew blank, emotions drained.

the walls started to fall apart, the sound of the gunfire inciting more of the Chaots. The living id began to swarm within the research compound. Cries of insanity, thirst for flesh, intensifying in the Chaots as their prey came in eye shot. Mouths raving as if Hector and Nyx had already become their feast.

Her kinship with the Chaots was understood in basic science, not as she thought it would be. She fantasized that mystical, esoteric and primal philosophies explained her affinity with the Chaots. To have her spiritual realities replaced by simple biological mechanics tore at her deeply. But what dug deeper, tearing her apart, was a voice: ​If I die because of you, I will be honored. ​Hector had said this once. But she did not bring honor, only damnation. She had lost Hector, unsure if he lived or died. There was no honor in that. Even if indirectly, she had made Dio into something that no longer bore resemblance to the cheerful bloke. Leander left. Megaira was killed because of her. She caused the Armageddon; all died because of what she was.

“This is it, live together, but we do not die alone. Die together, while carving the enemy’s tombstone,” he said. “Got it?” ​“Yes sir!”

He would jump last. Knife clearly defined on his lower calf, if anything should happen to his brothers-in-arm, such as a faulty chute, he would have to be the last to be able to dive to them through the air. ​They jumped. So did he. ​The blast of cool shot up around him. The metal surface was replaced with nothing. Sweat steamed from his face, as he looked out through night vision goggles to account for all of his platoon. The parachutes pulled open in sync; olive clouds amidst the green glare. All accounted for. All ready for the war below. ​They were called the Pathfinders, they would fulfill their namesake and lead the rest to victory.

The Bavarian Coalition had decided to use Commander Triton’s biological research, and needed to be assured it would meet their needs and end the Uprising. Not a far jump for Jason: from assessing the situation of the foe to now the supposed friend. What he found out was that the friend was by far the worst of the two threats.

As Triton approached to stand next to him, Jason could see the change in her. The fear that became present. ​The other spoke to him; his voice was cunning. “She is intriguing, is she not?” ​They both knew he was in a restricted area, that need not be said. They both also knew what would happen; but, that would come later. ​“Not for the reason you see, Commander Triton.”

Your research jeopardizes civilization. If what you are working on ever breached the hull ...” he paused, knowing specifics would not have to be spelled out. Triton knew clear well what would happen. “I cannot allow you to continue. You should soon be receiving the orders to terminate your work.” ​“I chose you. A Pathfinder for the Army. I hoped that meant you could see beyond what others could not and be the first to support this world altering cure. But ... well, I am disappointed in you, Pathfinder.

Jason knew Triton did not need protection. He knew the man’s background: Naval Special Warfare Command Unit, highly respected among his peers, many battles under his belt. Older now, but he could see he was still a force to be respected. Jason knew what would come, but was powerless to stop it. Even so, he fought. The cigar fell from his hands. Grabbing his weapon, he fired at Triton. ​No bullet discharged. The leader of the Scipian did not fall. ​“Did you truly believe it would be that easy, Pathfinder?” Triton laughed,

“I am sorry. But you should have never undermined my operation.” ​Triton looked on from above. Jason felt nothing, not even the cold floor underneath his cheek that was smashed against it. He could only hear and see as if a powerless bystander from inside a shell he no longer had control of ... and one he feared he would never again have control of. ​“Though you do have it right. I do not make a weapon to help end the war. I make one to begin a new kind of one. With exposure to the Drakōn mund prion that we procured, the prefrontal cortex will not die, it will transform. Death of the Uprising will not come as the Bavarian Coalition wanted; instead, the contagion will fuel the Uprising’s cause and end the one world government’s regime.”

Jason could guess what it was and what Triton meant to do. He did not plea or threaten him. He accepted fate. ​“Unlike the pathogen that was constructed, which needed to be in vapor form, you will be able to experience it unmodified. Pure.”

The metal syringe sunk into his neck. The red injected into his own bloodstream, leaving the container only with a tinge of what was left. His limbs may have been immobilized, his movements limited, but pain still came. He felt blood trickle down his face. Down his nose. His eyes watered of red tears. His last sight was of the woman forcing herself against the door that had been compromised during the fight. Trying to reach him. ​It felt as if he stood again on the plane before the jump. What lay down this road was unknown, but he would face it—even embrace it—and come out leading the rest. He was the one ordered to always go first. And now he was the first to be transformed by this pathogen. ​Even though tranquilized, the torture he had previously faced was nothing compared to this. The only thing he could compare the pain to was an antiquated reference: the mummification process of the Egyptians. The hook sliding within the nasal cavity, the rod pressing against the brain, hooking it and yanking it out. This was what it must have felt like if the process was done alive, and surely a few misdiagnosed souls had underwent it in ancient times. Having their brain scrambled and then ripped out alive. Only that could define the pain he felt. ​His body convulsed. His mind tore away as if a witness to his transformation. Though still everything was seen through a red glare, reminding him it was not over. Triton took several steps back, wishing to part himself from the risk of con...

He was still aboard the ship, he felt the sway below his feet. But no longer locked in a cell. How long had he been caged away? Weeks ... months ... years? Time seemed an inescapable prison in itself, but when walls and solitude are added it became insurmountable. Yet here he was, finally free. ​A body lay in his grasp, intestines strewn down his lips in feast. ​He continued. He could not stop. ​He was hungry. Hunger that could never be satisfied. ​Screams abounded from around.

Catch the sand that falls away. Plea the wind to come, to bring it back. Falling from the skies, falling from sanity. ​One grain came back. One grain remained: You are the Pathfinder. You will lead. ​He dropped the arm and looked out. ​Two lay dead in his wake. But he needed to kill one more. ​And then he would lead. As he had always done, as he had been trained before. As what ran through his bloodstream as potent as the contagion itself. He would lead.

Again she ran. Albeit, this time not with rage suppressing her footfalls and not with sorrow dampening her soul. Rather she ran simply to run. She ran to feel the wind against her skin and through her hair. The peregrine falcon found her and flew besides her. This time not to hunt, but simply to fly.