Chapter 24
The Trackers had destroyed half of the academy’s campus before air strikes took them out. By last count five Secret Service agents, twelve agents from the DAA, and thirty-four spectators were dead. The injured were too numerous to count.
The commissary had become a makeshift triage where Dr. Roth and his medibots, along with a handful of medical volunteers who had been sitting in the stands, applied bandages, set broken bones, and attempted surgical procedures without the necessary tools—including anesthesia.
Colt lay on a table looking up at Dr. Roth, but he could see Grandpa leaning against a pillar out of the corner of his eye. “Did they find Koenig?” he asked, nausea churning in his stomach.
“Not yet,” Grandpa said.
“What about Lily?”
“She’s a bit scared, but she’ll be fine.”
“I need you to stop talking,” Dr. Roth said through his surgical mask as he poked at the bite marks on Colt’s neck. “Does that hurt?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk,” Colt said through the pain.
“Answer the man,” Grandpa said.
“Yeah, it hurts. Is it infected or something?”
“The scans show increased activity in the part of your brain that controls aggression, and we think it’s due to a virus that was passed into your system when Koenig bit you.”
“What does that mean?” Colt said.
Dr. Roth looked over at Grandpa, who nodded. “I’m afraid the change is accelerating,” he said.
Colt felt the panic rise as he pictured four extra arms growing out of his back, not to mention a tail. He ran his tongue across his teeth to see if they were sharp, and he looked down at his hands and feet, wondering if his body was covered in scales.
“Relax,” Dr. Roth said.
“Relax? You’re not the one who’s turning into a monster.”
“I think I can help. That is, if you’ll let me.”
“How?”
“I’d like to introduce a mixture of interferon and some other viral agents that I believe will slow it down.”
Colt took a series of shallow breaths. His mouth was dry. “Fine,” he said. He didn’t want to play the part of the guinea pig, but he was even more scared of becoming a monster. Panic welled inside of him, threatening to burst like an overripe thundercloud. His jaw clenched so tight that it started to spasm, and he didn’t even realize that he had bit his own tongue. His mouth filled with the iron taste of blood. Distant thoughts, familiar yet strange, flooded his memory.
He was five years old, and he was in an examination room strapped to a table. Terror made his heart flutter like a hummingbird that had overdosed on sugar. He fought to break free, but the straps were too strong.
“It’s okay . . . we’re right here.” It was his mother, and though her words had been meant to reassure him, the fear in her voice had the opposite effect. He fought even harder, desperate to break free, and he was certain that his mother was crying, though she was trying to hide it.
“He’ll be fine,” Colt’s father said, trying to offer strength. Even his voice was laced with an uncertainty that Colt had never heard before.
Someone—a doctor, or maybe another lab technician—walked into view. The details of his face were obscured, but Colt would never forget that smile. It wasn’t kind, or genuine, for that matter. It was the kind of smile that a salesman offers when he knows he has tricked you into buying something you don’t need or want.
“Just relax,” the man had said. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
The cry of the wounded broke into his memories. Deep in his blood, the alien DNA had hold of him. The temptation to enjoy the sound of suffering was immense and sickening. The bile in his stomach threatened to crawl up his throat and out his mouth.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Was Colt meant to be the strength of his people, and of all the good and peaceful aliens who wanted to resist the Thule? What if all the hope the military had placed in him was for nothing? What if he failed, and all the people he cared about were lost?
What if he lost his soul in the stew of fury and rage that marked the Thule?
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
A sensation like fire burned through his veins, starting in his shoulder and traveling across his body. His fingers and toes went numb and his tongue started to swell, filling his mouth and making it impossible to swallow, much less breathe.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Images flashed in Colt’s head. His mom kissing him good night. The first time his dad took him surfing. Sitting in his grandfather’s lap as he read stories from the Bible. Fishing with Danielle when they were eleven. Playing Zombie Exterminator with Oz. Listening to Lily sing and play the guitar. Walking Stacy home the other night.
A feral scream exploded from Colt’s lips. He sat up, arms flexed and head thrown back as he suffered pain unlike anything he had experienced in his life. Fire blazed through his body and heat radiated through his skin. All he could do was cry out, though the bellow sounded foreign to his ears. It was like a wild beast gone mad. His muscles shrieked and flesh burned as shadowy figures rushed toward him.
Chaos. Pain. Hopelessness. Death had to be near. Humans weren’t made to suffer like this.
Colt wanted to apologize for failing them—for failing mankind. He was a fraud, not some savior. He’d known that all along. Why would God have chosen someone like him—someone so frail? Oz. He was the right choice. Or Grey or Stacy.
Colt felt his body go stiff and he fell back, struggling—gasping for each breath. He clutched the fabric of the thin sheet atop the table in his balled fists.
“What’s going on?” Was that his father? No, his father was dead. His grandfather was saying, “Get that medication into him before we lose him.”
Paddles were slammed against his chest. The steel felt cold against his burning skin as muddled thoughts gave way to clarity. Colt knew that he was going to die, and strange as it seemed, that was fine. No, it was wonderful. He knew that he had never belonged—that his time on earth was nothing more than a layover—a precursor to an eternity that promised a peace that this world could never know. There were no regrets. No longings. Only quiet contentment.
Electricity burst across the paddles and into his chest. His back arched and his body shook.
“Again! Get the antiviral ready.”
Another burst of pain. Colt’s eyes shot open and he gasped for breath.
“See there,” Dr. Roth said. “I knew the good Lord wasn’t ready to take you—not yet anyway. This war isn’t over.”