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(Author's note - okay now we have another change in direction in that the third book is being told from the pov of a third person narrator. I'm not sure if this is an improvement or not and would welcome your feedback - as always.)
Book Three – Paradox
He was floating above a body in a Fort uniform somebody, a woman was bending over the body, she was crying
– hiatus –
two men in brown robes carried his body through dark tunnels
– hiatus –
the same men were placing his body into a coffin, no a container, they were attached a clear tube to the back of his head. He felt a drawing sensation and realised he was being pulled towards the body – he screamed.
The man's eyes snapped open. He was, he was, who the hell was he? Desperately he tried to remember anything before his ‘death’. Any point of reference – his name? He was an obstinate ape-faced son of a bitch, no - that didn’t sound right. Might be better to concentrate on his more immediate situation. He was in a container of some kind, its lid appeared to be sealed shut. He placed both hands against it and pushed, it resisted. He pushed harder this time and it gave away with a sigh. Fresh air rushed in and the man tried to sit up. His head was held fast, he tugged and screamed as searing pain blinded him then receded quickly. He stepped out, fell to his knees, carefully he stood up. Shakily he took a step forward, sat down again and rested his back against his former last resting place. He had died but was alive – a contradiction, a paradox. Hmm – in lieu of his real name, Paradox was as good as anything.
Paradox felt strength returning to his legs and got to his feet. Slowly turning he moved past the other containers. They were still closed and he bent forward curiously to peer through the clear Perspex cover of the nearest coffin. Another man lay there, eyes closed, face partly covered with a grey, glutinous substance. There seemed to be an odd double image, probably a trick of the light he reasoned. As he raised a hand, the image mirrored his movement and Paradox knew he was watching himself. The man looked at his hand, still a hand but a radically changed one. The skin was metallic grey and seemed to change its shape as he flexed his fingers. He was still a human but unlike any that had ever existed before.
*****
“She’s killed them.” The boy spat, “I thought your guards were supposed to get her.” He sank onto his bed,
“I suppose I’ll have to do more now?”
“Father Wilson hopes you will expedite the production of more of God’s soldiers.” The brown robed brother murmured.
“What’s in it for me?”
“Anything that is in our power to get….”
“Well I want the bitch what killed my cybermites.”
`”I’m not sure…”
“She’s Wilson’s daughter isn’t she? Why can’t he get her to do what she’s told?”
“I’ll see to it immediately, Chosen One.”
The door closed softly and Edmund FitzGerald Brown muttered,
“Better do and all. Better not forget I’m the Chosen One.”
He dabbed at a nose-bleed, Chosen or not, he was finding the dreaming up of monsters, even small ones, more and more difficult just lately. The grey men had been his idea. Fed a diet of horror movies about zombies and shape-shifters had inspired him to produce the cybermites. Creatures hardly visible to the naked eye but together forming a grey mass with the appearance and properties of liquid. But unlike liquid, the cybermites had a rudimentary intelligence and as they reproduced and evolved, this intelligence was becoming something akin to a hive-mind, but far more astute and growing steadily. Edmund had intended to use them to reanimate dead bodies under his control but Cybermite was about to supplant humans, fearies and every other living creature on the planet. Edmund Brown was their creator and, unbeknownst to him, their host soon to become their first slave.
------
In five hundred years time, most of us will be forgotten dust. But Hitler will still be remembered, God loves irony.
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Fear book 3 - part 9
