A Cold Black Wave

Chapter 1

Instructor Marshall Wangai walked the dimly lit corridor, a massively built soldier of Kenyan blood, genetically blessed both mentally and physically, but the debilitating effects of the disease had already broken him down.  He arrived outside the confinement door alongside Private Harman before the cell guard let him inside a small and brightly lit room.  Elsewhere on the ship, the citizens of the UNC Westbound were preparing to hear the President’s address.

The cell smelled of unwashed skin and stale air.  There was nothing in there that was not bolted down save for the teenager in the corner of the suicide room.  Josh Tedesco, a fifteen year old student of the Academy, hammered out pushups in the corner as sweat fell from his face and shaven head, his feet up against the wall at an incline.  Josh was supremely fit, ignoring Instructor Wangai as he stood waiting in the doorway.

 The time he had spent in this room did no favors to his mind in recollecting his life and the chain of events that led him here.  His earliest memories were of his mother reading him bedtime stories and cupping his cheeks before kissing him goodnight.  Then he was taken, as all children were at a young age aboard the Westbound, to be permanently admitted into the Academy.

The memories formed in that place, devoid of love, were ones he wished he could erase.  He had found only one answer to that problem and he had failed at it, and was subsequently locked away.  He had been in here a year, maybe two, he couldn’t recall.  It had become a place where time no longer mattered, where the past becomes the future and the future doesn’t exist.  The day before is the day after, a hall of mirrors that reflects and magnifies ones greatest desires and worst fears.

“Tedesco,” Marshall barked.

Josh finished his set and stood, almost reaching six feet but only coming up to Instructor Marshall’s shoulders.  He wore a thin shirt and loose sweatpants which seemed almost too small for his muscular body.  His frame was carved of thick bone and fitted with muscles that were formed from years of brutal physical training administered by the Academy and its instructors, Marshall Wangai being one that had haunted Josh since an early age.

“You have to come with us now,” Marshall suppressed a cough.

"Fuck you,” Josh said flatly as he wiped his face.  Josh stared at him with his hazelnut eyes that sat in his sockets with accusing defiance, daring Marshall to try at him again.

“Of all the goddamn students that could be immune, you’re one of them.  Do you believe in God?”

“Believe, or have faith?”  Josh asked.

“Either,” Marshall said, unmoving in the doorway.

“Even the demons believe,” Josh replied accusingly.  He leaned against the wall, pulling his shirt up to wipe more sweat off his face.  “I imagine people of faith don’t often find themselves in a place such as this.  Do they Marshall?”

“They do.”  Marshall let out a lung rattling cough.  “The difference between them and you, however, is where you’re going.”

Josh took a few sudden steps towards him, “Don’t talk to me about God, Marshall.  Because you better pray there isn’t one for your fucking sake, you piece of shit.  Goddamn hypocrite.”  He spat.

“Where you are going you will need more than your genetically flawed mind and underdeveloped muscles.”

“I don’t think you can take me where I want to go.”

Marshall turned to walk away, “We don’t have much time.  Follow me.”

With no choice but to obey, Josh held a suspicious look on Marshall as he followed him out of the room. Anywhere was better than being in there another day.  Private Harman, being one of a dwindling number of healthy security forces, dutifully waited for them in the hallway.