Chapter 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 radi-ation 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. Al- though 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 progres- sion 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 scav-enging 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, remind- ing himself that it was in the past. Besides, he'd only done what was necessary. Griffith walked back inside, smoothing his wind- blown 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 forget- ting 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 nucleocap- sid'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 build- ing. 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 sur-vive. . .
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 un- trained 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 num- ber 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 be- havior 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 con- firmed 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 uncontrolla- ble, 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 pa- thetic 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 deacti- vate 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 light- house, 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 ma- chines, 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 pad- ded 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'dfelt 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 micro- graph. . . 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. Kin- neson 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 cre- ation, a gift to the world. A chance for man to become strong again, a peaceful death for all the Louis Thur- mans 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, pre- paring himself for the cleansing. Tomorrow at sunrise Dr. Griffith would give his gift to the wind.