Science Evolution: Class S

Chapter Four.

I hate Sundays, no getting around it. I just hate them. Mainly because Sundays are my days for the pick me up shot.

An unpleasant mix of metabolic stabilisers, broad spectrum antibiotics and a special ingredient to raise your body temperature.

That’s the only thing I hate about the pick me up. I hate the feeling when my body’s on the brink of overheating but it just won’t go over. That expectant feeling, like your waiting for something bad to happen and it’s just a matter of time till it will.

I sometimes imagine that this is what a piece of clay feels like when it’s in the kiln. Baking into whatever shape it was selected to be. Stuck with so many others in that small, dark inferno.

I never miss my shot though; because then I’m stuck indoors for a week till my turn comes around again. It’s one of the rules we have.

Rule one: If you haven’t had your shot, you can’t go outside Haven.

Rule two: If in doubt, check rule one.

Yeah I know what you’re thinking, but humour is a little thin on the ground here in Haven. Being rebels tends to do that to you, that and the junkie blues.

I have my shot religiously, even though I mainly work indoors down in the basement lab, because you never know what you might need from out in the real world, and you can’t always rely upon the the guys that are out there to keep popping back with stuff we need. So we have the pick me up.

It’s the closest thing we have to a cure to Class S. I always questioned whether cure was the right word for the situation, but I must admit it does sound a hell of a lot better than solution doesn’t it. As my parents used to say “When dead on is a dream, close will do just fine.” Amazing how true that rings sometimes isn’t it?
Well I can tell you now, not everything my parents came up with is as good as that. It’s because of them that I’m stuck down in the basement most of the time. Surrounded by battery powered lamps and stolen lab equipment. Staring at these same dingy white walls day in, day out. Trying to undo every breakthrough my parents ever made. Trying to put things right.

The Dealers would have a field day if they knew we had half the stuff we do. They’d confiscate every last file and destroy all our samples; and we’re the unenlightened ones?

Thankfully our sources have kept us off of the Dealers’ radar. No one needs their kind of trouble, especially now that they’re coming down on us harder. All thanks to that squad three fiasco, we owe a lot to those boys.

Suddenly all I want to do is get out of this room, go to a bar and drink myself stupid. I’m sick of this, sick of trying so hard just to survive. I’m sick of having to drink bottled mineral water and save it up so that I can have a wash, because it’s too dangerous to have this place connected to the main water supply.

I feel trapped, they haven’t even caught me and I’m a prisoner. Makes you think doesn’t it? Damned if you do, damned if you don’t makes me wonder why should I bother?

Then again I was taught the difference between being dragged into the arena kicking and screaming, and walking in with my head held high. We fight because we have to fight, because if we don’t no one else will.

I have no delusions that we’ll find a cure, we work in an abandoned house where our lab is powered by batteries and lit by candles. Where we live in unending fear of being caught, where we fear every sound is the approach of cops or worse. I don’t hold out much hope but in the end what else have we got left?

I hold my arm out for the lab tech to give me the injection, a moment of pain followed by a rush of prolonged heat, I already feel shaky and weak.

There’s a commotion at the top of the stairs, the door bangs open and there is
Jimmy. A pale gangly lad, barely out of his teens but he’s still indispensable; it was him who came up with the shot.

As he rushes down the stairs I see that his face is stony but his eyes are filled with panic. His voice cracks and strains when he tells me we have a problem, and my blood runs cold.



Chapter Five.


Shawn sat despondent and helpless on the dingy barstool, the thin padding barely concealing the steel rim of the cushion cover.

He sipped distractedly at his warm beer, grimacing at the taste of it. He sat hunched over the bar, his face in a partial shadow thrown by an over head bar lamp with an ancient and yellowing bulb.

It had taken five hours to clean up the mess at the centre. And by the end of it no-one felt the same. Everything seemed to be on its head and nothing made sense. He relished the feel of the alcohol flooding his system, obliterating all sense of self and reason. He felt like a coward, fleeing into this oblivion, instead of facing the situation.

Five of the worst hours of his life had taken his will to fight. After being forced to witness gory scenes which would now remain etched into his memory, and probably many of his dreams. His first solution had been to turn to alcohol, the anaesthetic of a new generation all of them finding out that life was hopeless and sometimes horrible.

He couldn’t wrap his head around what had happened. The shear horror of it seemed to halt his comprehension. How could life do that to someone? This morning he knew what he was doing. He knew what he believed in, this morning he knew that right was right and wrong was wrong; but now nothing seemed to make sense.

The bartender sidled over polishing an already gleaming glass.

“You ok buddy? You look you’ve had a bad day.” The bartender leaned forward and Shawn could smell the woody scent of stale beer.

“Pal you don’t know what bad is.” Shawn was swaying in his seat slightly. “Today was beyond bad. Today was hell.”
Shawn took another swig of the warm beer, and looked the bartender in the eyes.

“Ok pal I’ll believe you, you want to explain how bad today was?” The barman pulled another bottle of beer from under the bar and removed the lid with a practised flick of the wrist. He slid the beer across the bar in front of Shawn.

Shawn swallowed the last of his beer before pushing it back towards the bartender. He closed his hand around the fresh cold beer and raised it to his lips. The cool liquid tasted sweet and fresh in his mouth.

“Have you ever seen anything so horrible that you’re sure it’ll stay with you forever? No matter what you do it’ll be there waiting for you to close your eyes before it reveals itself. Because that’s what I saw today, and what makes it worse is that it’s my fault.” He had finally said what he had been thinking for hours, this situation was his fault. He had ignored the tone in Arnold’s voice that wanted blood; hell he had practically handed Hawkins to old pig face on a silver platter.

“Jesus, don’t be too hard on yourself, you can’t predict these things. Stuff like this just seems to happen now-a-days. I blame the rebels; those toxins make ‘em crazy or so I’ve heard. Makes ‘em want to do stupid stuff like attack us good honest hardworking people, then if you believe me, they spout a load of horse manure about how Class S is bad for us. When all of us regular folks know that if it were bad for us they wouldn’t be giving it to us, am I right?” The barman assumed an air of superiority, as if he expected rebels to be listening to his every word. He gave the impression that he had practised this speech on more than one occasion, to anyone who would listen, whether they were interested or not.

Shawn took another swig of his beer, and let the barman’s words wash of him. He was use to hearing this opinion from people. Hell he even felt the same way himself, which was why he had joined the taskforce; because he believed in the work they did.

“I hear you buddy, two years ago I was out at work and a bunch of rebels broke into my sister’s house. Well the cops say it was a robbery gone wrong. I haven’t felt so bad since then.” He shook his head, trying to shake the images threatening to re-surface.

The bartender stood silently in front of Shawn. An expression of melancholy understanding etched into every line on his face.

Shawn slowly finished his beer, feeling the dizzying effects of the alcohol in his blood. He slid off of his bar stool, wobbling slightly on his feet.

“How much do I owe you?” It was then that he noticed how slurred his speech had become.

“Call it twenty and I’ll say we’re even.” The barman’s cherry voice was back.

Shawn fumbled his wallet out of his back pocket, prised out a twenty and slapped on the bar, before leaving on his slightly unsteady legs.

The warm air outside made him feel fuzzy and confused. As he meandered his way home, he had the disconcerting feeling. A mixture of images kept trying to surface, a picture of his niece and nephew’s distraught faces as he tried to explain why they couldn’t see their mum anymore.

He felt tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, the images wavered but wouldn’t fade; instead they changed.

Now he was standing panting by two large steel doors, everywhere seemed to be spattered with blood; two tangled bodies lay on the floor of the van. A barely discernable face that had once belonged to Chris Hawkins was now seemed nothing more than a piece of ground meat. Arnold lay next to him, his face and body smeared with blood, one eye already closing up due to swelling.

Then like a sudden flash of horror that made Shawn’s stomach turn, a single bloody hand print on the door. The fresh blood smearing its way down the bright white panels; ending several inches above Chris Hawkins’ outstretched hand.
The image burned again in Shawn’s beer soaked brain, a red brand stained on white. Searing itself into the backs of his eyes forever, haunting him; another addition to the collection of horrors that called his mind home.

Shawn stumbled bleary eyed across the street not much caring whether the traffic stopped or not, and approached the house he had come to call home. Its front garden over run with weeds and it looked as if the grass hadn’t been mowed in a while. The front of the house was covered in ivy and other climbing plants, so that any passerby could barely make out the windows in the gaps of creepers.

He fumbled his keys out of his pocket as he staggered up the neglected gravel driveway, even here weeds had began to take hold with patches of dandelions; the first out runners of nature taking back what was rightfully its. He slipped the key into the lock and turned it, moments later he was shuffling inside the old ivy covered house.

Shawn kicked off his shoes and made his way down the hall towards his bedroom, he slept on the ground floor; his room adjoining off of the kitchen. A small messy room, with his king-size bed against the far wall, the grimy windows let in a ghastly orange light that belonged to the street lamps outside. His socks didn’t make any noise on the wooden floor boards, as he crossed the three feet from his doorway to his bed. The room smelt of wood smoke, the little stove in the fire place kept this room warm enough during winter.

He divestes himself of his trousers and socks before flopping himself down on the pillows and pulling the quilt over him. He laced his fingers behind his head and waited for sleep to come.