Adaptation: Part 4

Adaptation ~ Part IV

By Jeremy Tyrrell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Jeremy Tyrrell

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This work was originally written in English in the Australian dialect but has since been converted to a North American dialect.

Dedication

For my guiding mother, moral compass and teacher, Christine.

Chapter 1

"Mercy is a sign of strength."

- Master Goodwill, Venice Chapter

Souls are thrust into this world on a regular basis, loosely tied to their carboniferous bodies, able to act upon the physical realm. They are also frequently removed from it, at times sedately, other times violently. The grace of dying quietly from old-age is bestowed on a select few. The rest of us are left to suffer the pain of cancers and diseases or be thrown under buses or fed to wild animals.

Then there are some souls whose torment is ongoing. Slowly or quickly, depending on their circumstance, the weight of the world crushes them. They slide down from the plane of sanity. They willingly visit dark places that holds food for their Sorrow. As the beast grows it consumes them, like a cancer, until it becomes part of their essence, part of their anima.

They cannot leave that world. Their anguish cannot be ignored or forgotten. They suffocate in their own, private Hell daily, unable to leave, relentlessly tortured by the flames of loss, of sorrow, and of anguish. Any hope of salvation comes in the glorious form of a fast moving nine-millimeter slug of lead.

Until it arrives, however, Hell continues until it is as much a part of their life as breathing and sleeping.

These poor spirits, lost to anything sane, have made their way into the raging bowels of Hades to the point where their redemption seems impossible. Impossible is such a strong word, so ill-used. For all souls are capable of redemption, no matter how bleak the circumstances may seem, no matter how deeply the soul has been wounded.

It takes strength. It takes persistence. Above all, it takes will.

In the edge town of Wheaton, bordering on the wastes, a drug manufacturing facility converted from an old Sports Center was in a state of red alert. There had been a breach, a serious one it would seem, and all staff had been ordered to evacuate immediately.

Not all of the souls had a chance to do so, because Agent Ottavio, blood-soaked and in the throes of Berserker, had demolished security, in every sense of the word, and murdered most of the staff on the ground level. Those that had managed to heed the warning early enough and escape his wrath had fled to the cold air outside, running for shelter in any shack, lean-to or crumpled building that could hide them.

They had witnessed the shocking carnage that lay about; the broken faces and bodies, the entrails, the limbs. Above all there was blood. Blood on the walls and floors and ceiling. Blood on the windows. Blood dripping down the drains.

As they fled, some recognized the crumpled bodies of their fallen comrades. Others were far too mutilated to be distinct. What was apparent, though, was the utter destruction that had been visited upon them and their facility.

Regrouping in huddles, white faced technicians and scientists stammered and yelled and gesticulated about what exactly they had seen. Some whimpered, vomiting and crying. Some wanted to go back inside and exact retribution, while others wanted to return to ensure that their friends had made it out, also. Prudence won out over anger and concern, which was for the best since the madman was still on the loose.

Until he emerged from the nightmare inside, carried out dead by the security team, they would not be safe.

He was, in fact, heading deeper. He had disposed of all who opposed him, and so many more of those who had not, and now found himself staring at the body of his latest victim: a woman, dark and serene. She was not moving. She was unconscious after being viciously slammed into the wall.

Kahira had fought to the best of her ability. Ottavio, exhausted and wounded, should have been a pushover for someone so skilled as her. Her kicks were coordinated, her punches equally so.

His adaptations, however, afforded his victory and she had succumbed to his powerful onslaught. There is only so much punishment an unmodified body can take, after all.

Ottavio stumbled off to the basement stairs, leaving Kahira lying peacefully in a pile of plaster and dust. He was wounded, winged by a few bullets, drained of energy and drenched horrifically with blood.

His mind was torn between heading further down to destroy the viral incubators and returning outside to come to Cassandra's aid.

She would have wanted him to come back for her, of course, but she was also practical. She would understand. She would tell him that the destruction of the virus was far more important than her wellbeing. Would she?

In his daze he fought with himself. Cassandra could not be saved, not now. She was already in the hands of the owner of the mysterious voice on his commlink. A Director. If he dared to approach him he could hurt her before he got close, and then he would be exposed and at the mercy of Houston. And he would lose everything.

He consoled himself that they would not wish to harm Cassandra. It was him they wanted, and if they hurt her they would have no leverage. He had to trust in that. He had to trust that the Directors were logical and sensible. If he had any chance of saving Cassandra, he, himself, would need some kind leverage in return.

Leverage? He looked back hazily from the stairs to Kahira's dark, unconscious figure. If the Directors placed any value on her life, they would have been scrambling now. The hum and clicks of the machinery, oblivious to the madness he had brought, confirmed his suspicions. She was expendable.

The virus. The virus was his leverage! They cared for it, that meant it was worth something, and if it was worth something, it may even be worth Cassandra's life.

Destroying it would save countless lives and deal a crushing blow to the Director's plans. He had to finish it. For Pan, that worthless, innocent soul. For Emily and Lucas. But they were dead, or as good as. Revenge meant nothing to them. They would remain dead, even if he could slaughter every last Director.

The living needed to be saved.

Downstairs. His salvation lay downstairs.

Cassandra would have to wait.

He screamed a loud, sorrowful scream and headed down the staircase.

A scientist, scrambling up, turned and fled back down at the sight of him, menacing and blood stained. No longer in the grip of Berserker's spell, Ottavio would have been content to let him pass but, in his haste to escape, the poor scientist rolled his ankle noisily and crashed to the bottom of the stairs in a heap, knocked out cold.

Ottavio reached the bottom and stepped over the unconscious form. It looked different to the dismembered and mangled corpses he had left in his wake upstairs. It looked pained, but peaceful. It was intact. It was all together, logically assembled and functional. Apart from the concussion and the swelling ankle, there was nothing really amiss.

On the floor was a human. It appeared as it should have appeared. It was not scattered around. It had not been dismembered, opened up or brutalized.

He felt ashamed. Or possibly guilty, he was not sure. He felt compelled to prop the body up in a more comfortable position against the wall. The scientist groaned a little and breathed heavily.

Footsteps sounded. He wheeled and caught sight of a lone laboratory assistant racing for all he was worth up the stairs. His blurred profile looked familiar. It was a face he had seen before, perhaps, or perhaps he was delirious from his exertions. The optical display placed a solid red square around the figure until it disappeared up and out of sight.

Confused, Ottavio started after him for a bit, but, remembering his mission, he let him flee.

Nobody else was about, and he was wasting time. He had to reach the containment facility.

The wounds he suffered were causing him to lose blood, making his head spin from lack of oxygen. His muscles were exhausted, as were the myoactuators appended to them, both having consumed so much of the free energy in his body. He needed a rest, and a feed, desperately.

His myoactuators were a blessing, giving him the ability to perform superhuman feats, but they were also a curse. They chewed through his glycogen reserves so quickly that he could, as now, be left in a state of weakness.

His head throbbed. The pain from the gunshot wounds in his neck and side were competing for attention with his ringing ears and complaining limbs. He watched as his optical display cycled information regarding his physical state. Somehow the percentage points, though quite accurate, did not reflect just how terrible he was feeling.

The virus. He shook his head to clear it. Even if he were to die in this building, he had to find it. It was all he had left. He had to find it, and fast.

He followed the signs to the incubation rooms. A sealed door blocked his path. Pushing his shoulder hard against the hinges produced no results. He tried the intercom.

Wilcox? Is that you? said a voice, full of trepidation, What's going on, dude?

Open up, there's some crazy stuff happening upstairs! Quickly, and seal the door behind me! Ottavio hushed to the intercom.

The door hissed and unsealed, swung on its hydraulics and allowed Ottavio access. Behind it stood a short, plump man hiding underneath a mop of messy hair and a large set of spectacles.

"OK, dude, quickly now... ah!" he screamed as he caught sight of the bloody mass before him.

Ottavio pushed him down and clapped his hand over his mouth.

Which incubator? he asked menacingly.

The door... Incubator? I-I don't know... he began, but changed his tune when Ottavio drew his combat knife, F-fuck! Come on, dude! Crap! Come on! They'll kill me!

Large eyes, looking much like a owl's due to the refraction of the thick glasses, stared at Ottavio, taking him in. His fierce features, blood soaked clothes and twitching cheek were more than enough to convince Jonathan Von Braun, the cowering figure squirming under Ottavio's weight, that whoever was on top of him was not in the mood for games.

OK! OK! Fine, it's, ah, b-b-back. Um. B-back there.

Which one? menaced Ottavio.

No! Mmm... N-Number eighteen, he squeaked, then burst out, Please don't k-kill me! I'm just a technician! I don't know what they want it for. They paid good. I'm just... hey! Dude! What are you doing?

Ottavio had taken explosives from his satchel and was examining them.

Are you lying to me? he menaced, Because if you are I'm going to strap these to you, and then you to the incubators, got it?

Jonathan turned a whiter shade of pale, Hey, look dude, I'm not lying, alright? I'm not lying! I'm just a tech, that's all. You want to blow this place up...

Shut up for a second! Ottavio barked, then calling on his commlink, Alright, you bastard. Whoever you are, I think we can strike a deal.

Are you talking to me? Who are you talking to, dude? Jonathan asked, perplexed.

Ottavio clamped Jonathan's mouth with the pit of his elbow and continued, Hey! Are you listening? You were pretty chatty before. Gone quiet? Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. I've got a couple of sticks on the viral incubator. I push the button, and it's gone.

Silence.

I've also got hold of your little patsy. Reckon he'll squeal?

The commlink remained silent. Ottavio's resolve started to waver. He had put everything on bargaining with the virus, but a silent opponent was hard to reason with.

You think I'm bluffing? he panted, grabbing a half-filled soda can from the bench and slamming down the contents.

Hey! That's mine! Jonathan cried, but stopped short with a glare from Ottavio, But, hey, it's yours now, dude. Oh, right, yeah, now you're going through my stash. What kind of psycho-nut are you?

I'm not bluffing, Ottavio said between mouthfuls of a chocolate bar, grateful for the energy hit, I'll blow this shit sky high. You listening?

The silence from his commlink was crystal. It was his call. He opened another soda and drank messily. The fluids and sugar cleared his mind.

If he could not bargain by destroying the virus, perhaps he could steal it and threaten to sell it, and its dirty little secret, to the media or the WHO.

Hey. Hey! How do I take the virus out of the incubator? he demanded.

You can't, dude, not until the cycle is complete. That's like twelve days.

Or what?

It'll shrivel up and die, dude.

Don't call me dude. Isn't there any way to extract it?

No! Jonathan said, It's already, like, past containment. You bust the seal, you lose the deal. Exposure will just, you know, destroy it.

Ottavio swore. Fine, if he could not procure it, at least he could rid the world of it.

Listen up, I'm blowing this crap sky high. This is your last chance.

Oh, crap! Jonathan whined as he watched Ottavio plant the charges, Are you going to blow us up?

No. Just the virus. You'd better get out of here, he huffed, inserting timed detonators into the plastic and packing the charge around the incubator, You've got two minutes.

He flicked the last one in place and hurried from the room, overtaking Jonathan who was already out of breath by the second landing. Exercise was clearly not his strong point, as evidenced by the loud wheezing. Ottavio moaned in frustration and went back for him.

Come on! Move it! he yelled, gripping Jonathan by the belt and hauling him along up the stairs.

They were nearing the top when Ottavio's optical display flashed a warning regarding high levels of combustible gases. Sensors inserted into his nostrils and cheeks were on alert.

He stopped and listened to the hissing upstairs.

Aw, shit! he hissed, "Shit! Go! Back down!"

He wasted no time doubling back down the stairs.

Where are we? I mean you... Jonathan puffed.

Shut up and run! Ottavio ordered, dragging him back down.

At the bottom he went back into the laboratory and looked about the room.

Is there another exit?

Over there, but...

Good. Run!

Jonathan went white, B-but the explosives!

We've still got a minute! Move!

They ran past the rows of incubators. The threat of the blinking timers did wonders for Jonathan's legs. At the other end, Ottavio practically tore the door off the wall and threw his associate through. On they ran, past one room to the next. Expensive analyzers, compounders, reconstructors and separators, blinking to nobody in particular, hummed as they whizzed past.

Ottavio burst through yet another door. A huddle of laboratory assistants tried in vain to hide behind a reconstructor.

Get out, you idiots! Ottavio yelled to them, Go on! Get out! Now! It's not a damn drill!

The huddle quickly dispersed in various directions. Ottavio kept up the pace, even with Jonathan holding desperately to his arm.

The ground shook beneath them, causing Ottavio and Jonathan to lose their step and crash, in a flurry of arms and legs, into the wall.

Jonathan moaned, You said two minutes! That wasn't two minutes!

Ottavio picked himself up, trying to keep some of the falling dust and smoke from getting into his eyes. That explosion wasn't mine!

Who else...?

"No time! Shut up and run!"

The walls were trembling. A high pitched whine squealed all around them. Above them an inferno was raging away, sucking in oxygen and fuel and spewing out red hot death. The air ducts filled with super-heated vapors and burst their contents into the rooms below. Jonathan cowered as a vent in the roof shot off, spraying the room with melted plastic.

On they ran, dodging a collapsing beam that smashed mere inches behind them.

Sprinklers came on, showering them in a futile mist of hot water that quickly turned to steam as it touched the walls. They disappeared in clouds of black mist.

A second explosion sounded behind them, feeble in comparison to the war raging above.

Yeah. That was mine, coughed Ottavio.

Jonathan's body had never seen so much exercise. He wheezed and gagged. Dribble cut lines through the dark gray dust coating his face. He was crying, partly from fear, partly because his eyes were coated in stinging particulate.

Ottavio helped him down a hallway and into a recess.

Wait there! Don't move! he commanded.

Jonathan did as he was asked, having no energy to do anything else but lie on the rumbling floor and gulp huge amounts of blackened air.

The noise was incredible. It sounded like a screeching, hissing, thrumming noise, a cacophony of an untrained symphony playing to a sadistic choir.

The heat was unbearable. Jonathan closed his eyes, wondering, in his scientifically inclined way, if his fat would render before it burned, or if his brain would melt before it charred.

Jonathan Von Braun, Technician extraordinaire, was to perish in the basement of a burning facility. He always thought his death would be less dramatic. If only he could post his situation on his web-page, then he could at least be remembered as the guy who died in a ball of fire. Instead, his body would be forgotten in the bottom of a burning building on the edges of civilization.

Come on! Move! Get up! yelled Ottavio, bursting back through the plume.

A life sprang into Jonathan's legs and he heaved himself back up.

I thought... you'd gone, wheezed Jonathan, following him past a wall of flame that singed his hairs.

Ottavio picked him up and lowered him down a manhole. It was a manhole that led, via a short ladder, to the very access tunnel Ottavio had used alongside Emily all those months ago.

He pulled the cover back over and dropped down next to Jonathan who had collapsed onto the metal grated floor.

Get up!

I want to rest!

No, we're not resting yet. Move! This way! he ordered, leading the way.

The emergency lights flickered, springing back to life one moment, cutting out altogether the next. The electrical cabling that had, up until now, served its purpose well, was being fried to oblivion. The charred plastic sheaths began to conduct and short, leaving the two men, stooping through the tunnel, in an underground ghost ride.

Jonathan stopped, gasping, I-I can't!

It's just a little further...

No! he puffed, Just go! Leave me!

If you can talk, you can breathe, so, oh hell!

Jonathan's eyes glazed over, he threw up and collapsed, gasping. It was not a pretty sight.

Mustering the very last of his strength, Ottavio gripped Jonathan's belt and heaved him along roughly. They passed the ladder that led to the maintenance shed. Although exhausted, he thought better of it and continued on to the manhole, preferring to emerge with a sky over him, rather than risk being caught inside a maintenance shed next to a raging inferno.

The door, however, would not move. The electrics that serviced it were all but shot, and it was now little more than a hunk of steel on a rusty track. Ottavio could feel the air on the back of his neck getting warmer, warmer than his already boiling skin.

He dropped Jonathan like a sack and scrabbled at the door, trying any which way to get a purchase. His deep-muscle myoactuators sapped at his exhausted glycogen reserves. His arms quivered under the effort. Slowly, surely, it yielded, groaning more than Ottavio. When the gap was large enough, he pushed his back against the wall and heaved with his legs and arms. It moved reluctantly. He squeezed Jonathan through, then jumped through himself and tried to push the door back.

Its hydraulics decided firmly that they had had enough and remained stubbornly open. Abandoning that, he turned his attention to the circular disc covering the manhole to freedom, wrenching it free.

In his haste he kicked off the magnet that Emily had glued on. Somewhere in the distance another alarm dutifully spluttered to life, joining in the chorus of chaos, only to be silenced a few seconds later as the flames swallowed the security station.

With Jonathan and himself out of the tunnel, Ottavio blindly ran, hauling his faltering, howling payload in tow, as the flames jumped higher.

The final death throes of the facility pelted them with burning debris as they stumbled on. He collapsed, finally, a good distance away in a pile of rubble, letting his lungs fill with what passed for fresh air. Jonathan groaned and spluttered, coughed and wheezed.

The blackened duo lay among the rubble, perfectly camouflaged, content for the moment to concentrate only upon living.

After ten minutes, ten long minutes of pain, Ottavio opened his eyes. Obligingly, his optical display came back to life, indicating in numerics pretty much everything he was feeling.

He was injured, he was exhausted, he was in need of blood and nutrients but he most certainly was alive.

With one hand he wiped the ash and dust from his eyes, with the other he hoisted himself up.

Jonathan was next to him, quietly wheezing. He gave him a poke.

Mrrmph... he moaned, rolling to one side.

A little annoyed, Ottavio poked him again.

Hey! Hey! You're out of there, alright? You're alive.

Doesn't feel like it.

Time to get moving.

Oh, just let me lie here, dude.

Like heck I will! I just risked my butt hauling yours from one end of the complex to the other, and you want a lie down?

I'm tired, dude! Come on!

Tired? I did all the running! We're leaving.

Jonathan suddenly opened his eyes, screaming, You blew it up! You're a maniac! You sick fuck! I can't believe you...

Ottavio slapped his hand firmly over Jonathan's mouth.

Just shut up for a second! I was only going to blow up the incubator for that strain of virus given to you, hushed Ottavio, Someone else rigged the whole place to blow. And that someone else did not care if you, or any of your buddies survived, do you understand? What's more, they could be somewhere around here, ready to finish what they started. So keep your damn voice down!

Jonathan nodded in compliance.

Ottavio relaxed his grip.

"But you're covered in blood! You've got a knife! And explosives! What kind of... mrmph!"

Ottavio had clamped his hand on Jonathan's trap again. He held it there, firmly, shaking his head very close to Jonathan's face. Slowly he released his grip again, waiting for any further outburst.

Jonathan whispered, Sorry, dude.

You good?

I'm good.

The two looked back to the charred and smoldering remains of the facility. The flaming wreckage writhed in spasms, consuming itself in an insane, hellish chaos. Jonathan could almost imagine demons within, dancing among the flames and celebrating the utter destruction of the earthen world without. A remaining sliver of a wall collapsed out of embarrassment, sending yet another plume of gray dust up with the thick black cloud.

What happens now? asked Jonathan, resting against a crumbling pillar.

Ottavio shrugged, wincing with pain, Get as far away from this as possible.

How many survived, do you think? he asked quietly.

Ottavio took out a protein bar from his satchel and began munching noisily.

No idea. But I can definitely count one, he said between bites, jabbing his finger at Jonathan.

Jonathan's face dropped. His body, not having far to go, followed shortly. Ottavio let him digest the news. He looked up, his face sick with grief.

I-I could have died in there. I thought I was dead, he whimpered, But you saved me! Who-who the heck are you, dude?

"Ottavio. And don't call me dude. Hey. Hey, calm down, alright?"

He blubbered for a bit, then wiped tears from his eyes, but only succeeded in getting more dust in them. They stung, creating more tears. He relaxed a little, regained his composure and looked up.

Hi. Um, I'm Jonathan. Ottavio, huh? You part of Houston?

Uh, yeah. Sort of. It's a long story. And, no, I'm not going to waste my breath telling it. There's too much other stuff to think about right now. Houston will be here shortly, and they're going to be pissed. And I mean really, really pissed.

It was him, wasn't it? The one who gave me the virus. It was them. Top secret research, they said. Top dollar paid for discretion, they said. So why did they sodding well blow up the facility if they wanted to grow the virus so bad?

Ottavio shook his head, I don't know.

"I mean, if they wanted to destroy the facility, they could have done it six months ago when it wasn't occupied. Or if they wanted to kill off the crew... Oh man! What, what if they actually wanted to kill me? he gasped, Am I a target? Is it the mob? I'm dealing with the mob, aren't I?"

A sense of danger, exciting and real, poked its head out from a shell, deep within Jonathan's chest. He bit his ash-covered fingers.

Ottavio shook his head, If that were the case they would have pulled out a gun and popped you when they first met up with you.

Oh. Right. I guess, he muttered, slightly disappointed.

The sensation burned a little, But now that they have destroyed the facility, and the virus, they've tied off loose ends, right? Huh? They think it's all destroyed. All gone.

Ottavio turned his attention from the scene to Jonathan.

What are you saying? he asked.

Well. That kid gave me the samples, right, and told me to stick around and make sure it got into the incubator. But, like, first thing we do, standard procedure, is to divide up any sample into smaller batches, put them into a cryo-lock. Spend ten to save twenty, you know. That way, if the incubator setting is wrong for whatever reason, we don't lose the entire batch. Also, it means we can segregate the incubator into sections and tweak each setting, to see what the most effective way... Ottavio's impatient stare cut him short, ..so, um, I did that.

And?

And sixteen divisions went into the incubator immediately. Well, most of them. Which is to say, one, um, didn't.

Where is it?

Jonathan fumbled around inside his pocket. He produced a thick glass capsule containing a tiny flax colored drop of liquid. Ottavio rolled his eyes.

It was going to go into the incubator, I just didn't have time.

He grinned sheepishly.

Bullshit.

Yeah, I know. I know. But, like, considering it's the last of it and, you know. So, um, is it worth anything to you? Jonathan asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

Ottavio was truly gobsmacked, I don't believe it! You should be dead! You should be thankful just to be alive and you're thinking about money?

Well, um. Um. A guy has got to make a living somehow, right? So, you know, how much? he asked again, I'm willing to bargain.

Ottavio's blood and soot encrusted face made his glare formidable.

He growled, Do you even know who you were messing around with?

Jonathan looked down, No. Who are they? A drug cartel? Is this some kind of drug producing virus? Some kind of new strain that, as a by-product, releases endorphins? Only because I remember a colleague of mine was doing his paper on something like that. You know, how when you catch something, you always feel terrible, he thought he could devise a way to make the virus make you feel good. Well, actually, he was working with bacteria, not viruses, or perhaps it was fungus, I don't remember exactly, um, but I guess the premise is the same.

Hey, what did you say your name was again?

Jonathan. Why?

Jonathan, I am going to say this once, Ottavio said, steadying himself on his feet, So listen very, very closely. These aren't the kind of people you want to screw around with. If I were you, take whatever they paid you and never speak of it again. As for this -

He snatched at the glass vial. Jonathan whisked his hand away, grinning.

"No deal, dude. Money first, then – ah!"

Ottavio had grabbed his wrist and squeezed. He crushed a little, just a little, until the bones rubbed against each other. Jonathan