The survivors had stepped from the fires of a nuclear holocaust and were taking their first steps down the road toward a true utopian existence.
But paradise, it was not.
When the bombs were detonating all those years ago, the animals had scattered. Many had escaped to the four corners of the inhabitable world, found places to hide, and remained there to this day.
They’d been hunted relentlessly, slaughtered by the thousands — by the millions—but the pestilence they represented had not yet been scrubbed from the face of the earth.
They’d been breeding, growing in number, plotting in their hiding places.
Striking from the shadows.
And then retreating, to fight another day.
They were smart, cunning. Incredibly resourceful.
They’d learned the secret — the Achilles’ heel. And they’d used that knowledge to kill many of his fellow survivors.
He knew there would never be a true peace, not until each and every one of the animals had been found and destroyed. Every last one of them.
But today, that wasn’t his concern.
Today was a time for the small one to explore. To learn.
The sky was a brilliant blue dome stretching from horizon to horizon. The peaks of the Andes Mountains — in what had once been called Argentina — stretched toward the sky, scraping the bottoms of the clouds.
“Can we go into the forest?”
They were at the foot of the Andes, on the edge of a huge old-growth forest.
It was safe here.
The animals had been cleared from this area years ago.
They could relax and enjoy the scenery, without having to be on guard.
It was okay.
“Yes. We can go.”
“Do you think we’ll find some bones? If we do, I want to keep them!”
“If we find some, you can keep a couple of them, but no more.” The small ones liked to keep the bones as trophies, reminders of a great victory.
The forests here were thick with the remains of the animals. Left to rot where they’d died. Or to be devoured by others of their kind.
He was sure they’d find some. Many had been killed here.
As they walked through the forest, the fallen twigs crunching under their feet, the small one asked, “Tell me again. Tell me about the war.”
“It was a long time ago, little one. Far away from here. The beasts fought us, tearing at us, ripping at us, but they couldn’t win. They couldn’t kill us all.”
“Because we were superior, right?”
“That’s right. We were — and still are — superior to them.”
His senses screamed an alarm. They were being watched.
From the right. From the left. In front. And behind.
Surrounded!
Together, they crouched low to the ground and raised their arms, feeling outward, trying to find them, to hurt them. To kill them.
But it wasn’t working.
The animals stepped from the trees. Advancing. Their boldness shocked him — and then, he could see why they’d been able to approach undetected.
They wore the shields. The damned helmets! Crafted from the one substance he couldn’t penetrate, the metal that rendered him, and the little one, helpless.
The first dart slid through the small one’s skull, piercing the organ that gave him his strength. He dropped to the ground, paralyzed. Still alive, but unable to move.
He watched one of the animals raise its blowgun. Its dart entered his skull right above his left eye, and pierced the organ in the center of his brain — the Achilles’ heel of his kind.
As he lay immobile on the forest floor, he could hear them coming for him. He watched the tuft of feathers tied to the end of the long, thin dart wave in the breeze. Above it, he saw the faces of the animals standing over him.
He could do nothing as one of the animals placed the killing herb into his mouth. And into the mouth of the little one.
The effects were immediate.
His vision began to blur.
He felt the little one slip away, their connection abruptly severed by his death.
And then, darkness.
They were dead.
The animals hacked at the bodies, tore them limb from limb.
They hung the pieces from branches.
It was a warning to any others who dared venture into this forest. This was their land now. It would never be taken from them again.
Two of the animals stood on a rock outcropping, looking below at the carnage they’d left in the trees.
Garrett removed his helmet, the hammered lead heavy in his hand.
Carolyn removed hers, as well.
They slipped back into the forest, disappearing like ghosts into the shadows.
They would emerge again, when the time was right.
To kill. And kill again. Until the creatures ruled no more.
Today, their tribe had sent a message.
The war was not over. It was only beginning.
And humanity — what was left of it — was on the prowl.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
So… who does a writer thank when it comes to producing a novel? As Goose said in Top Gun, the list is long and distinguished, but I’ll attempt to keep it brief.
First and foremost, many thanks to my wife, Nessa, without whom I’d have surely ended up living in a van down by the river. She’s my common sense, my gut check, my swift kick, my most honest critic and most fervent supporter, and the mother of our three kiddos — two beautiful daughters and an amazing son, whose hearts are all in the right place because she made sure of it. Most of all, though, she’s been my candle in the window since 1984… and it’s never dimmed.
To my mom, Jackie, who I’ll always remember sitting in front of an electric Royal in her cluttered writing room, clacking away at the keys and stamping her unique wisdom down on heavy bond paper. Every time I see a yellow rose or stand in a silent swirl of snowflakes on a quiet February night, I’ll know you’re near.
To my dad, Lieutenant Colonel James J. Grossart, USAF, for every single cherished moment. I wish there’d been more time.
To Bruce Allen, my creative writing teacher at Northglenn High, who was one of the first to open my eyes to the power and joy of the written word. I hope you get to read this and understand the impact you had.
To the team at 47North, what can I say? You picked The Gemini Effect over so many others as the winner of the 2014 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award for Science Fiction/Fantasy/Horror, and for that I’m eternally grateful. I count myself fortunate as well to have had my book land in the expert hands of Jason Kirk, my editor, who helped craft my self-published novel into what it is today. He taught me the meaning of “split infinitive” (apparently, it’s not some kind of spicy soup… who’da thunk it?), and I taught him the word Missileer. Thank you for your patience, Jason. To Ben Grossblatt, my copyeditor, who ensured each comma was in its proper place and called out every single instance where my “words by phonics” spelling style made an appearance, I say thank you, and I hope I didn’t make your eyes bleed too badly. Any guy with “Gross” in his last name is okay by me! To Scott Barrie of Cyanotype Book Architects, thank you for producing a cover that captures the story so well; the blending of the biohazard symbol, the DNA helix, and the Gemini symbol is simply amazing.
Finally, I want to thank you, my reader. May this novel be the start of a long and enjoyable relationship. You bring the popcorn, and I’ll bring the pages.
Chuck Grossart
Bellevue, Nebraska
March 1, 2015
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
