Four hours later…
Caliban woke up inside a tent, feverish and nauseated. He felt intravenous wires attached to his arms, and he shook them off weakly. He blinked, wondering what had happened.
Stephen had gotten in at the behest of the military doctor assigned to his company. They were a few miles out of the farm with a hastily pitched up camp to allow the remaining werebeings to recuperate.
Caliban couldn’t sit up even if he wanted to. “Sir,” he said, weakly saluting.
“There’s no need for that, soldier,” Stephen told him, taking a seat beside the heavily injured weretiger. “Now, if you can still talk, tell me what happened.”
“I don’t remember…” Caliban began. “All I know was that I was on the ground; it was beyond painful for me. It was as if my insides were tearing apart…”
So, he remembered the pain, but not how the events transpired.
Stephen had read the reports from the surviving werebeings and humans. From thirty down to just twelve. The werebeings stuttered, relaying it to him. It was as if Ryker was to be feared. They just said it was X014’s touch that made Corporal X013 go weak; it made him un-shift. How was that even possible? A fellow werebeing made another un-shift? It was A129, he thought. Dr. Wallace had said the same as they held a conference call just a mere hour ago.
The tides had changed, he thought, instead of wanting A129 dead, they now wanted her alive again. Perhaps, it was a recent mutation brought about by stress or because she had been in constant companionship with a werebeing…whatever it was, Ryker was now a shoot-to-kill criminal. A129 was reprieved of her death sentence.
He had half a mind to call his brother to ask for more files about A129. What was it about her? She was just an escapee, just some failed lab experiment due to be put down if not for her escape and subsequent further possible mutations.
Stephen looked at Caliban’s face. He saw X013’s eyes, saw the seemingly unending confusion, saw that he wanted to focus and do his duties as a soldier.
“This mission will be pulled out. You will need to report back to the capital,” Stephen announced to him.
Caliban’s eyes widened. “You can’t do that, sir. We were so close. I won’t fail the next--"
Stephen held his hand up. “This is with strict orders.”
Caliban sat up with sudden strength, surprising Stephen. The doctor came running for his bed as his eyes blazed, poised to shift. All it took was one injection, and X013’s head fell back on the bed.
“I understand Dr. Wallace wants them in his lab again?” Dr. Bartholomew said, looking at Caliban’s unconscious body.
“He wants all the werebeings back in the lab for some reschooling,” Stephen said. “I hope the troops I’ve brought in are enough to keep them at bay?”
Dr. Bartholomew nodded, his nervousness apparent. “The rest have been sedated, too, Lt. Caledon. Whatever she did to him, it unnerved the rest of them.”
What did she do, anyway? A mere touch? He had to prove it was A129 who reverted Caliban back to his true form and not X014. He frowned as Dr. Bartholomew instructed a few other soldiers to move the werebeings who were knocked out. What else could it be? How could she change so quickly when she had been out of Sector 12 for a mere thirty days?
He knew subjects like A129 were sterile, so it couldn’t be hormonal changes. Their hormones were carefully screened, subjected to numerous experiments as well. Looks like all those years in Sector 12 wasn’t enough for her full abilities to surface…
There was little she could do out in the wilderness if they were in the wilderness. Stephen had established a pattern. X013 would have to leave her alone to feed or to look for food for them. She would be alone. It was just a matter of catching her. Bloodshed was unnecessary, but if Ryker put up a fight, Stephen knew he would personally have no qualms about killing the first werebear seen in so many years, unless his father had plans for him.
It was all about strengthening the country’s military force. It was all about showing the other countries who the true power was in terms of strength and economy. There was little he could do except follow the superiors, follow his father and his brother, and follow the generals who he wanted ousted if he ever got promoted.
He watched as the weresoldiers were cautiously wheeled out, their monitoring machines bleeping steadily. Dr. Bartholomew headed out first, leaving Stephen inside. Stephen looked around the tent; he walked for a table and began sifting through papers. He read reports of Corporal Thirteen and his men in hot pursuit of A129 and X014. It had been done only a day before, with their tactical team narrowing down on two farms, all within twenty miles of each other.
Apparently, they had gotten the correct farm but still failed. He wondered if there was existing footage left from the wreckage. He had been alert to quickly send out another ops team to pursue the test subjects, knowing they had stolen a government vehicle, a vehicle which he knew had a tracker in it. They had still kept it under wraps that their latest WereGames winner had betrayed them and had left with Sector 12’s hitherto favored test subject.
It was a probable catastrophe, a cause for dissent. There were minor rebellions that were immediately quashed last week; amongst them were werebeings, some as young as A129’s age. The rebels were using them as their own weresoldiers, and what bodies that were left were salvaged by Dr. Wallace to experiment on.
Dr. Wallace had always had this sadistic streak in him behind his warm smile and easygoing personality. The moment Wallace stepped inside Sector 12, his heartlessness would surface, but he still retained that smile. Sometimes, it sent shivers down Stephen’s spine. The doctor was a favorite of his father’s and had been so for the last twenty years.
Dr. Delaney had been his peer, but he treated her harshly, and Edith had never had the chance to prove herself as a good researcher, perhaps one of the best for Sector 12. They had found Dr. Delaney’s burnt body twenty-two hours after the fire had razed down that portion of the facility, her identification cards still intact. It was the only way they could identify the bodies. Some of the werebeings were buried immediately or incinerated to ash to completely shut down Sector 12.
State media circulated that it was a military munitions facility that had suffered some unfortunate short circuitry, killing a few soldiers. The facility’s blaze had killed a hundred, including soldiers, werebeings, and a few doctors. He hadn’t wanted Dr. Delaney to die. It was mentioned she practically raised A129 herself from childhood. There was a story there, some factual stories he knew he needed to know.
Secrets that were stacked with secrets built the country, and secrets included lies, lies he knew he committed, too. It was all for the glory of the country, and he couldn’t be prouder that his father helmed it. If his mother was still alive, would she have been proud of how he turned out? Would she have been an excellent first lady?
History books showed she was. She was considered a caring and intelligent woman with the looks to boot; only, her life had been cruelly snatched away by rebels who had bombed the White House. Werebeings were amongst those rebels who had taken away his mother’s life, and it was a life he wanted repaid. He couldn’t have her back, but he could have every mutineer’s life. It was a deep, if not dark, secret that he harbored. His older brother apparently didn’t feel the same. Sometimes, he wondered if his father had thoughts like this, too.
In a few weeks’ time, he was bound to be married, a likely liaison between a well moneyed young lady of reputable background. Her father was the owner of the biggest aircraft manufacturers in the country and one of the few private owners that did well with the government. The government always had a stake in every private entity, no matter how small. He knew he would be a member of the board soon.
His older brother did the same, and it was a loveless marriage, but it was civil. Their union produced no children, and their father had been hinting he needed his own sons to have heirs soon. It was a given, and arranged marriages between their social statuses had become the norm once more, all for the glory of the motherland.
She wasn’t too bad to look at, Jeanne Callaway. She was a bit thin (there were rumors she was bulimic or anorexic, but he didn’t care), plus she was well-mannered. In fact, they had a gala dinner tonight, one he knew he should have been heading to an hour ago.
Shaking his head, Stephen went out of the tent to signal his men to wrap up in twenty. There would be hell to pay, and it would start with Caliban’s failure.
*
Magnus Caledon II picked up all of his lapels, his medal of valor among many others. It gleamed as he placed these on his crisp, all navy blue suit. He heard footsteps but didn’t bother to look back.
“You ready?” Her voice was soft, like honey.
He turned to face his wife and nodded. He had been married to Vanessa for a little over two years now, but he had never found the capacity to love her romantically. They slept in the same bed together, but he hadn’t touched her in over a year. To him, it was a pleasant enough arrangement-at least they were friends. It seemed she was content as well and said nothing of their strange husband-wife arrangement.
The annual President’s Gala was held every December, and it was a glitzy affair with celebrities and top aides and those the government deemed worthy. Every attendant was screened, and the majority vocally pledged to support the president’s reign. He disliked mingling with people and preferred to do his job in the sidelines. Vanessa would deal with the small talk. Her parents were the largest manufacturers of steel in the country, and his father needed that.
He took a breath and walked the halls of the presidential house he’d grown up in. He had remembered every detail in this house, remembered how he used to run down this corridor as a child with his sibling, and the butler would reprimand them for their behavior. Those were the good days, he thought. He had no time for play anymore. He had been forced to mature the day his mother was killed…
He heard the music floating throughout the premises, and he knew the gala was in full swing. It was a celebration. The Second Civil War had ended on the December 24th. It was something that had been celebrated since his grandfather had become a teenager, but he did not feel festive like the rest of them who wanted to get into his father’s good graces.
The moment the doors to the grand ballroom opened, he was met with the blast of an orchestra playing an upbeat tempo along with a sea of people dancing and talking and holding those elegant flutes filled with expensive champagne. He took another deep breath and found himself smiling at Vanessa, as if to assure himself that her presence would make everything tolerable. He began scanning the room for Stephen, as the program included both of them standing beside their father while President Magnus gave his speech.
It took less than five minutes for Stephen to find his brother, dressed in his military finery. He estimated there was at least a thousand people in attendance tonight, the cream of the crop in the capital.
He excused himself as Vanessa spoke to a few guests. He made his way to Stephen, who was busy on his phone.
“Where were you? I’ve been waiting for you for three hours,” Magnus II said irritably.
“Ah, that,” Stephen began. “Can we talk about this after father’s speech? You know how he likes us on stage with him. Ever the dutiful sons.”
Magnus II shook his head. “Fine. I understand it did not go well, though.”
“I’m trying to fix it the best I can. This is where your help is needed, too.” Stephen lowered his voice further, smiling at the guests who greeted him inches away.
Moments later, the host announced President Magnus on stage. His two sons made their way beside their father, following in his footsteps for the gilded podium.
“Citizens of the United States, it has been a hundred and nine years since we declared independence once more from the infidels that endangered our future,” Magnus began.
Everyone listened in rapt attention. Here was a man who, in their eyes, could do no wrong. Here was a man who had led the country well, like his father before him. Magnus Caledon was a force to be reckoned with. He ruled with a steadfast spirit, and he worked tirelessly for everyone’s good. They nodded as Magnus continued his speech. He was charming, he was eloquent, and, best of all, he knew what he was doing.
Would things have been different if his great grandfather hadn’t claimed the presidency? Robert Caledon had to make a choice. After overthrowing the president, he ruled with an iron fist. Changes were necessary and not everyone agreed with them, but Robert had done the country right. His son and Magnus’ father, Donovan Caledon, had done the same. It was a heritage that shouldn’t have to die. Magnus went on to mention his son, Magnus II, and the crowd applauded, with JJ bowing a little to show his gratitude.
“This is a present that I wish to turn into a good future, not just for you, but for our children’s children and their children,” Magnus spoke on, looking at the finely dressed ladies and gentlemen. He liked beautiful things, and he liked order as well. Inside this room, he had full control over them; inside this room, he would sway them irrevocably to his cause.
“These werebeings are not to be feared. We can control them, as a people. We are their masters, and they…why, they are merely our servants, our soldiers. They can and will be the beings who will look up to us--"
The crowd erupted into loud applause with cheers and nods of approval engulfing the guests. It was going to be a wondrous night, President Magnus thought, and it would start with a glass of brandy and a few executions later on.
*
Ryker felt the car slow down considerably, despite stepping down on the accelerator. He saw the dashboard signal blink. They were out of gas, finally out of gas after nearly eighteen hours of driving. It was the dead of night, and everything was quiet. They were surrounded by tall trees, mostly covered with snow, in the middle of what was probably Nowhere, Idaho.
“I guess that’s it,” he muttered. “Get your stuff. I’ll try to find anything useful in this jeep.”
Alexia complied, wondering what they were going to do next. She didn’t mind walking. She had never been cooped up in a vehicle for so long. Ryker knew where he was going, of course. He had been talking to her about stars a couple of hours ago and how they told a person which part of the world they were in. It was fascinating to hear that he had adopted his parents’ customs and beliefs, even if he hadn’t been with them long.
Ryker rummaged in the back and found Meal Ready to Eat packs, which he took, even if they had provisions already. He found lightweight space jackets. They would be light and useful for Alexia when temperatures dropped. There were military grade flashlights (waterproof, he hoped), along with some knives. Well, those would come in handy, he surmised. He was happy he also found matches and a flare gun. He packed these in his already heavy backpack.
“Let’s go,” he said. He knew they were in Clearwater Forest, and it would take them another two weeks to get to Washington if they hiked. It was time they couldn’t afford to waste. That doctor in Washington could probably end up dead the moment they got there. He was worried that Dr. Delaney just sent them on a foolhardy escape, as the last month had been a test of character and willpower for him. He felt it ebbing away gradually, but every time he looked at Alexia, he would muster what courage and determination he had left.
“We need to get as far away from here as possible.”
That included crossing rivers and streams, all for the sake of losing their scent to those tracking them. He had done so when he drove, but he knew the jeep would most likely be found later on. A Humvee like that was hard to miss. They crossed a small stream and found a glen with a thick canopy of trees and thick bushes. He could build her a tent made out of wood and ferns, he thought. He set about doing it fast, a makeshift one that Philip had taught him to make as a child.
It wasn’t much, but Ryker knew it would keep her drier and warmer. He sat outside the crude tent, his head resting against a giant evergreen.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” Alexia suddenly spoke up, hugging herself as the silver blanket covered her back.
Ryker said nothing at first. He hadn’t thought she would open up this kind of conversation. The guilt must have wracked her so badly. She needn’t worry. He felt the same way. That blissful stay had to end sometime. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Maybe they followed me when I walked back. Caliban called them traitors; they were executed for keeping me in their house. They were nothing but kind-" she stopped, knowing that it would never bring them back. Sweet Lydia and warm John. She wasn’t comforted with the thought that they could finally be with their daughter…
“Well, they’re dead, Alexia. This is what happens if we stay too long-"
“I know I didn’t listen to you.” She fought back tears.
“A lot of times. Don’t cry,” Ryker said, almost harshly, opening his eyes and looking at the sky. There were few stars tonight, and stars comforted him. As a child, he enjoyed seeing his likeness in the skies. He was a bear, a bright star that ruled the skies. He didn’t feel like a star now; he hadn’t felt like a star since the moment he won the WereGames. He had wanted a quiet life, a quiet existence. He had been saving up for passage to the Soviet Republic, something he had worked on since Mr. Toretti had hired him…
He looked at Alexia, who was staring into nothing. “Will you listen to me now?” he asked her.
She took a breath. “This is the first time I’ve been free to make choices. Even if -- even if they died, I still made choices. It’s something I want to keep doing.”
“I’m taking that as a ‘no.’”
She shook her head. “You know best. I just want to be heard.”
“It isn’t a good idea out here,” Ryker retorted.
Alexia’s lips curled up, and she gave a little laugh. It was a laugh that Ryker liked to hear. She didn’t laugh much, maybe because he wasn’t such fun company…but he enjoyed seeing her little pockets of happiness anyway.
“I think it would be great if you laughed more often,” he said.
“You don’t. How do you expect me to laugh more often?”
“Someday…” he said, remembering their conversation inside the bedroom.
“I wanted to stay. I didn’t know this was what a home felt like…”
“We can have this,” Ryker told her, without giving it much thought.
Looking back, he was surprised how he found he felt it was genuine. He decided to change the topic, knowing he was getting uncomfortable. He had pushed that thought away since they’d stepped foot outside of the Jameson’s’ home. “What did you do earlier?”
Alexia frowned. “I don’t know.” She had expected him to ask that question, and he had probably waited for an opportune moment when he was sure they were safer.
“You know what happened,” Ryker insisted. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do that?”
“I don’t know what I did,” Alexia retorted. She hated that he swore she knew what she was doing. “I’m not hiding anything.” She hadn’t told him she’d dreamt of a little boy numerous times, and she was holding the little boy’s hand, soothing him of his fears as best she could. He was afraid of what he had become. Then, all of a sudden, he collapsed, and she looked behind her and saw a werebeing.... It was another weird dream probably implanted by Sector 12. Those couldn’t have been memories, could they?
“What did it feel like?” Ryker found himself asking. He had to know somehow; he could form theories while she slept. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight…
Alexia closed her eyes, vividly remembering how it felt. She felt weak yet strong at the same time. It felt like a jolt of electricity exited her fingers, effectively turning Caliban into a defenseless thing. “It wasn’t painful,” she said. “It just-it just happened.”
Ryker knew they needed to get to that doctor soon. He had to know about this condition, if it could kill her in the end…he shuddered at the idea. He hated the idea that she could die. “Get some sleep,” he said starkly.
He heard her shuffle under her makeshift roof, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. He looked back at the skies, and he could see it tinged with red, as if warning him of what wretchedness was to come.
Damned Merry Christmas to you, too, he thought bitterly.