Genus: Evolving

The boat ride to the facility was filled with staring, awkward silences, and cold ocean mist blowing in their faces. Just five miles in the open ocean, the facility came into view – large and standing high above, and presumably below, the ocean surface.

Michael docked the boat and the crew of three came on board the massive facility, NexGen’s brain child named Goliath. A door to the elevator was obvious, and the inside displayed a very helpful map of the facility. There was no helicopter at the heliport and no evacuation boats.

Loni expected it to be large, but not half a mile deep. Her father described it as a diagram of the flow of blood through the heart, and Loni could see it. She dreamt that her father would show it to her one day. She didn’t imagine she would come here looking for him, and maybe a scientist or two who might know why the victims of the globsters were displaying symptoms from a prion disease.

“Which floor?” Michael asked, looking at the directory and ready in the elevator.

“The 3rd floor,” Tim and Loni answered at the same time. Both were busy marveling at the directory map’s demonstration of the size of the facility.

They stood in yet another awkward silence while riding the elevator to the 3rd floor laboratory. The empty reception room was eerie, but there was still power. The doors were electronically locked requiring badge access. Michael used some handy knife to break the glass open.

Other than being empty, the laboratory was in pristine condition; all counter tops were clean, paperwork was neatly filed, offices were locked. It looked like all the humans just didn’t come back the next day. But the emergency protocols were activated, the lights were flashing and all the computers were off. Thankfully for everyone, all the active alarms were silent.

“We’re not going to get anywhere with all these computers on lockdown. We’ll have to find a way to get that deactivated,” Michael said.

“If everyone evacuated, then dad must have gotten out, too, right?” Tim asked.

“But he didn’t come home, or contact any of us…” Loni hesitated answering while she thought through the likelihood of his survival.

“Now hold on,” Michael interjected, “there are so many reasons he wouldn’t have been able to contact you guys. The evacuation might be local, and he’s just on another floor. Don’t assume the worst.”

He was right, of course, Loni knew that, but she was trying to be prepared for the worst while she was hoping for the best. She was also just trying to help Tim understand what they might learn while in this facility.

“You’re right,” Loni agreed. She’d worry about the rest later. “This facility is huge, and people could be literally anywhere else.”

“So… where should we start looking for people?”

“What are all survivors motivated by these days?”

They all reached the same conclusion at the same time, “The cafeteria.”

* * *

Deeper in the facility, the small pack of now wannabe heroes arrived at the cafeteria. The electricity in the entire place remained on – currently a very good sign. The meals were all generated by machines, and the full automation was active. Lastly, robots kept the place very clean.

“You want something to eat?” Loni asked Tim when she confirmed the machines were conveniently adding meals to a credit by a certain father’s password Loni happened to know.

“How about you?” she asked Michael.

“That’d be great, thanks,” he replied.

Loni made some portable selections and brought them to each guy. She only passively was annoyed that neither of them came and got their own food. But at least it was warm; it would be probably the best they had eaten in over two months. The group ate in yet another awkward silence, having Loni go back for seconds – and a coffee.

An amazing coffee.

“I took this for granted,” Michael admitted after sipping his coffee.

“Same running water,” Loni admitted sadly. “I thought COVID was bad…”

Michael chuckled sadly, “That’s an understatement.”

There was a loud crash from another room, and then a human voice exclaiming. Michael was at the ready with his firearm.

“Stay here,” he whispered, not bothering with any hand signals he couldn’t be sure either of the other two knew. He headed into the direction of the noise, moving slowly with the rifle leading the way.

He slowly opened the door to the room he followed the sound through, checking behind the door and in corners to make sure no one could out flank him. A small cleaning robot zoomed past him, following some trail of dirt.

But what dirt? No people should mean no dirt.

He followed the little robot as it cleaned the floor until more movement attracted Michael’s attention.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone, I’m looking for civilians; if you’re injured, I can help you,” Michael called.

“What the hell are you doing here then? This place was evacuated a long time ago…” a hidden man called out.

“If this place was evacuated, then why are you still here?” Tim asked, clearly having ignored Michael’s instruction for staying put.

“How many of you are there?” the mystery man called, his voice almost raspy from talking. His isolation made even minor interaction with people difficult.

“Three, there are three of us,” Loni answered.

“Can either of you take orders?” Michael asked.

“No,” they both replied.

Michael sighed, “Answer the kid’s question; why are you still here if everyone else evacuated?”

“I was… hungover… I didn’t make the boats. And there’s no cell signal in the ocean, oddly.

“We’re sorry to startle you; our dad worked here; Dr. Nathaniel Johnson. Do you know where we can find him, or his research, or something?”

“Dr. Johnson?” the man said. “Yeah, I knew him. I worked with him on his project… I thought he evacuated a long time ago. You must be Loni… and Tim. He talked about the two of you a lot.”

He emerged from behind a counter, and he looked like what one expected a hermit to look like with an unkempt appearance. His hair wasn’t combed, and he hadn’t shaved in a decent amount of time. His voice was strained and he acted like someone being exposed to light for the first time in years; he recoiled from speech instead of lights.

“I’m James Frost. I was a Research Associate here before… well… everything.”

“Can you help us figure out what happened? We need to know where our dad is… and if he knows anything about the globsters.”

“Is that what they’re called now? I always called them ‘Dumbass 3000’,” James replied with a chuckle.