FIVE
AS HE DID MOST MORNINGS SINCE BEGINNING
the experiment, Nicolas Griffith sat on the open
platform at the top of the lighthouse and watched the
sun rise over the sea. It was an awesome spectacle,
from beginning to end. First the black waves shading
to gray as the sky lightened, the craggy rocks that
lined his cove slowly taking form in the misty winds
that swept off the water. As the radiant star peered
over the side of the world, its first hesitant rays
stained the ocean a deep azure blue, painting the
pastel horizon with promises of renewal and a gentle,
nurturing acceptance of all that it touched.
It was a lie, of course. Within hours, the molten
giant would beat mercilessly against the shore, against
this half of the planet. Its early mildness was a
deception, a pretended ignorance of the seeping radiation
and withering heat that would follow...
... but no less spectacular for the lying. It can't be
blamed for a lack of self-awareness, after all; it is what
it is.
Griffith always watched until the sun cleared the
curving horizon before getting on with his day. Although
he appreciated the beauty of each glimmering
dawn, it was the routine that appealed to him, not
his, but that of the cosmos. Each sunrise was a
statement of fact, speaking to an inevitable progression
of time ... and a reminder that the world spun
eternally through its galactic paces, oblivious to the
dreams of the self-important beings that scurried
across its surface.
Beings such as myself, but for one very crucial
difference: I know just how much my dreams are
worth...
As the swollen orb lifted itself from the sea, Griffith
stood up and leaned against the platform railing, his
thoughts turning to the day ahead. Having finally
finished the blood work on the Leviathan series, he
was ready to work more extensively with the doctors.
All three had responded well to the change, and the
rate of cellular deterioration had fallen considerably
since he'd started with the enzyme injections. It was
time to concentrate on their situational behavior, the
final stage of the experiment. Within the week, he'd
be ready to expand beyond the confines of the facility.
Expansion. A cleansing.
A crisp, saline wind ruffled his gray hair, the hungry
cries of coasting gulls finally spurring him to action.
The Trisquads had to be brought in before the scavenging
birds moved inland. Several of the units had
already been horribly scarred, and he didn't want to
risk any more of them until he was finished. Once
they lost their eyes, they were useless on patrol.
Still, it's been so long... no one's coming. If Dr. Ammon
had succeeded, they'd have sent someone by
now. Too bad, really; he's probably still waiting...
The thought was an uncomfortable one, conjuring
hazy images of redness and heat, of prone bodies in
the manic summer sun and later, the thunder of waves
in the dark. He promptly buried the visions, reminding
himself that it was in the past. Besides, he'd only
done what was necessary.
Griffith walked back inside, smoothing his windblown
hair as he moved down the spiral staircase. His
shoes clattered against the metal steps, creating a
pleasant echo effect in the tall chamber. Having the
facility to himself made everything pleasant, and he'd
come to enjoy the little things—eating what he
wanted, when he wanted, working his own hours, his
mornings atop the lighthouse. Before, he'd been
crowded, forced to adhere to schedules that seemed
designed to undercut creativity. Meal times, work
times, sleep times ... how could a man breathe,
think, flourish in such conditions? He'd suffered for
so long, sat through endless meetings listening to the
small-minded drivel of his "colleagues" as they'd
raved over Birkin's T-Virus. They'd slaved to come
up with the Trisquads for Umbrella and had been
deliriously happy with the results, apparently forgetting
their failure with the Ma7s. They were unable to
see past their own arrogance to a bigger picture.
As if the Trisquads are anything more than bodies
with guns. Useful as guards, but hardly brilliant.
Hardly important.
Although he'd worked not to let it go to his head,
Griffith allowed himself a single moment of pride as
he reached the bottom of the stairs and started for the
exit. He'd seen the T-Virus for what it really was—a
crude but effective platform for something far greater.
He'd isolated the proteins, reorganized the nucleocapsid's
envelope to allow for variables in infective
capacity, and created an answer, the answer to the
blight that the human race had become. A solution
without violence or suffering.
Smiling, he stepped through the door into the cool
shadow of the lighthouse, the crash of breaking waves
at his back as he walked toward the dormitory building.
He'd already synthesized an airborne, and had
enough of it to infect most of North America. As the
virus spread, evolution would take its rightful place,
the weak of spirit falling beneath those of truer
instincts. And when it was over, the sun would rise
over a very different world, inhabited by peaceful
people of character and will.
Take away a man's ability to choose, his mind
becomes free, a blank, clean slate. With training, he
becomes a pet; without, he becomes an animal, as
harmless and serenely simple as a mouse. Cover the
world with such animals, and only the strong survive.
. .
He stepped into the dorm's rec room and turned on
the lights, still smiling. His doctors were right where
he'd left them, sitting at the meeting table, eyes
closed. Ideally, he'd run through the tests with untrained
subjects, but the three men would have to
suffice. They'd been infected with the strain he would
release, and were closest to what the world would
become in a few days.
My pets. My children.
Besides the research laboratory, the cove facility
was designed to train bio-weapons like the Trisquads
or Ma7s—but also to measure use of logic in the
humanoid subjects. In the bunkers there were a number
of items he could use, from the simplest of peg
tests to complex puzzles for those subjects capable of
higher functioning. He doubted his doctors would be
able to manage even the red series, but watching their
reactions would provide valuable insight, particularly
the tests where there was a pressure factor.
They think, but can't make decisions. They function,
but not without input. How will they fare, without my
guiding hand?
As he approached the table, Dr. Athens opened his
eyes, perhaps to see if there was a threat coming. Of
the three, Tom Athens was the strongest, the most
likely to survive on his own; he'd been one of the behavior
specialists. In fact, he'd come up with the
three-unit team idea, the Trisquad, insisting that the
infected units would work more efficiently in small
groups. He'd been right.
Doctors Thurman and Kinneson remained still
and Griffith noticed a foul smell coming from one of
them. Scowling, he looked down, his suspicion confirmed
by the wetness on Dr. Thurman's pants.
He shit himself. Again.
Griffith felt a sudden, almost overwhelming pity for
Thurman, but it was quickly replaced by irritated
disgust. Thurman had been an idiot before, a decent
enough biologist but as ridiculously narrow-minded
as the rest of them. He'd grown most of the Ma7s
himself, and when they turned out to be uncontrollable,
he laid blame on everyone but himself. If anyone
deserved to wallow in his own filth, it was Louis
Thurman. It was just too bad that the good doctor
wasn't capable of understanding how repulsively pathetic
he'd become.
Without me, he wouldn't have lasted a day.
Griffith sighed, stepping back from the table.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said.
In unison, the three men turned their heads to look
at him, their eyes as blank as their faces. As different
as they were physically, the slackness of their features
and slow, vapid gazes made them look like brothers.
"It seems that Dr. Thurman has evacuated his
bowels," Griffith said. "He's sitting in feces. That's
funny."
All three of them grinned widely. Dr. Kinneson
actually chuckled. He'd been the last to be infected, so
had suffered the least tissue deterioration. Given the
proper instructions, Alan could probably still pass for
human.
Griffith pulled the police whistle out of his pocket
and put it on the table in front of Athens.
"Dr. Athens, recall the Trisquads from duty. Tend to their
physical needs and send them to the cold room. When
you've finished, go to the cafeteria and wait."
Athens picked up the whistle as he stood, then
walked out of the room, down the hall toward the
dormitory's other entrance. The whistle would deactivate
the teams and call them in. There were four
Trisquads, twelve soldiers in all. They'd be roaming
the woods along the fence, or moving stealthily
around the bunkers, having been trained to stay away
from the northeast area of the compound, the lighthouse,
and dorm. Griffith had to admit, they were
quite effective at their purpose. Umbrella had wanted
soldiers that would kill without mercy, and fight until
they were literally blown to pieces. The T-Virus had
been good for that much, and since they'd sped up the
amplification time, they'd been able to turn out
subjects in hours, rather than days. Once trained with
weapons, the Trisquads had become killing machines,
although with the recent heat wave, he didn't
know how much longer they'd be viable...
Griffith turned his attention to Dr. Thurman, still
grinning and stinking like some bloated infant. He
even looked like a baby, pudgy and bald, his smile as
innocent and guileless as a child's.
"Dr. Thurman, go to your room and remove your
clothes. Shower and dress in clean clothes, then go to
the caves and feed the Ma7s. When you've finished,
go to the cafeteria and wait."
Thurman stood up, and Griffith saw that the padded
chair was wet and stained.
Christ.
"Take the chair with you," Griffith said, sighing.
"Leave it in your room."
After he'd gone, Griffith sat down across from Alan,
suddenly feeling tired. The anticipatory pride he'd
felt only moments before was gone, leaving a cold
emptiness in its place.
My children. My creation. . .
The virus was so beautiful, so perfectly engineered
that the first time he'd seen it, he'd wept. Months of
private research, of picking apart the T-Virus and
isolating effect, culminating in that first micrograph
.. . while the others had been gloating over
their war toys, he'd found the true path to a new
beginning.
And do they appreciate what I've done? Do any of
them know how crucial this is? Crapping himself like a
disgusting child, like a monkey, disgracing my work,
my life. . .
Griffith looked at Alan Kinneson, studying his
handsome features, his expressionless eyes. Dr. Kinneson
stared back, waiting to be told what to do. He'd
been a neurologist once. There were pictures in his
room of his wife and baby, a little boy with a bright,
beautiful smile. . .
Griffith's sanity shuddered suddenly, a terrible,
rending twist that made him dizzy, a thousand voices
screaming unintelligibly through the cracks of reality.
For just a second, he felt as if he was losing his mind.
How many will just starve to death, sitting in
puddles of filth, waiting? Millions? Billions?
"What if I'm wrong?" Griffith whispered. "Alan,
tell me I'm not wrong, that I'm doing this for the right
reasons ..."
"You're not wrong," Dr. Kinneson said calmly.
"You're doing this for the right reasons."
Griffith stared at him. "Tell me your wife's a
whore."
"My wife's a whore," Dr. Kinneson said. No pause.
No doubt.
Griffith smiled, and the fear melted away.
Look what I've accomplished. It's a gift, my creation,
a gift to the world. A chance for man to become
strong again, a peaceful death for all the Louis Thurmans
in existence, better than they deserve. . .
He'd been working too hard, tiring himself, and the
strain was getting to him. He was only human, after
all... but he couldn't afford to let the stress of his
body affect his mind again. There would be no more
tests. He'd spend the day getting ready instead, preparing
himself for the cleansing.
Tomorrow at sunrise Dr. Griffith would give his gift
to the wind.
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