Changers

By SD Logan

A faction of fringe military scientists develop a new formula NXY-314 to make an ordinary soldier into a superhuman, killing machine

What can go wrong?

NXY-314 has mutated into a virus, and it is spreading from one person to another. The end result: the infected changes into strange creatures that are both intelligient and fierce fighters.

There is, however, hope for survival in small pockets of uninfected areas called Safe Zones. And for many, including ex-Marine, Fletcher McBride and his family, traveling to one of these Safe Zones is a perilous road.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SD Logan
• Release date: Dec 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223646815

SD Logan

SD Logan emigrated to the United States from the Island of Jamaica at the age of ten. She realized her love for writing while in high school and enjoyed filling her summer days reading romance and Science Fiction novels. Currently, SD lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and two children.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

A DEATH OF THIRDS

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Year, 2040

The Aleutian Islands, Alaska

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0358 Hours.

The moon was piercing against the black sky over the Pacific Ocean. Wild and wintry waves lapped against the shores of the small Aleutian Island in the Alaskan Range, where Fort Atlas lay. It was like death lingering, despite the fort’s girth of concrete and steel, for the wind was cold and noxious, with the stench of volcanic gasses, as it bellowed and stormed up Mount Neacola, blanketed with age-old pines.

Inside, Major Alexander Knox—a stock of man dressed in US military uniform, covered with a white hazmat suit—stood behind a med-tech, also donned in a white hazmat suit, inside a small hazmat vault. At the same time, two men armed with M-4s waited on the other side. He watched intently; sweat glimmered on his weathered skin, his grey brows furrowed in worry, green eyes wet with fear, as the med-tech carefully loaded vials, one by one, of the most dangerous bio-chemicals humanity had ever seen into a cryogenic chamber.

He paced impatiently, back and forth, checking the time on his wristcom—0400 Hours.

Let’s quicken the pace, he ordered the nervous tech, knowing that if even one vial was dropped, he, too, would change into something unimaginable. Furthermore, time was not on their side. The evidence had to be hidden but not destroyed; that was the mandate. The world could never know who was responsible for unleashing the worst catastrophe that had ever befallen the earth—the transmutation of human DNA.

Hurry it up, Knox said. Otherwise, we’ll both be trapped on this godforsaken island.

A Black Hawk helicopter was waiting to take them to a small submarine just a few miles into the Pacific. But before that, he had to tie up all loose ends.

The med-tech turned around to face Knox. That was the final one, he said with a half-cocked smile behind his head visor.

Great job, Knox replied, reaching for his 10 mm service pistol from its holster strapped around his hips. He pointed it directly at the med-tech, who, by now, had feared the worst, knowing that the day would come when he would have to sacrifice his life for the order.

Unfortunately, this is the day. Aeternum Fidelis, Knox said.

The med-tech firmed his body, his arms pressed against his sides, and agreed, Faithful to Eternity, resigned to die for the cause.

Knox fired one bullet squarely on the center of the tech’s forehead, killing him at once. The tech fell forward, his blood stark against sterile white floors.

Knox exited the room, empty of any remorse or gratitude. He’d only felt a sense of accomplishment and relished his own brutality.

Get that cleaned up inside, he ordered the guards while removing the hazmat, exposing his US Military uniform.

Yes, Sir, they said with their bodies at full attention, M-4s upright with their butts on the ground at their left, right hands at full salute.

Knox was determined to complete his directive. He proceeded to the control room, where the controls for all systems, including security details, were housed. Knox pressed his index finger onto a fingerprint identifier. Next, he initiated the voice command identifier. Agent 146, he said, and was allowed access into the primary computer system where he pulled up the virtual monitor.

His breath was quick as he entered the code to trip the self-destruction sequence. If there happened to be any unauthorized entry into the facility, death would be quick, erasing all evidence of any bio-engineered chemicals they’d produced.

Shortly after, Knox, holding a black briefcase in his hand, his two security officers slightly behind, braced the cold and the winds as they walked up an incline to meet the Hawk. He stopped momentarily, admiring the various reds and oranges of the sun rising on the horizon. He sucked in a breath of air, turned around, and shot his security detail; both men fell to the ground, not knowing what had happened. This was the second death.

Sorry, guys, Knox said, walking towards the Hawk. We all have a job to do.

The third death was more unexpected. And Knox had not seen it coming.

He felt relieved, knowing he’d accomplished what he was directed to do: evidence of NXY-314 had been locked away indefinitely; the witnesses eliminated; the fort, boobytrapped. By all accounts, he’d succeeded.

He slid the door of the Hawk open, threw in his briefcase, and stepped into the pilot’s seat. Before he’d even had a chance to start the engine, his bird was hit by a ground source rocket, hurling it down the mountain in a ball of fire.

His was the third death. But it would not be the final.

CHAPTER ONE

NIGHT WATCH

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July 4, Year-2050,

ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

There had been another sighting in Changer territory, and the Marines, Special Forces, Restoration 89, with their commanding officer, Sergeant Linsey Ohio, had their orders to go out and terminate the damn Changers. This was their new normal: to live in constant fear, to kill, to survive, repeat.

The troops were fully armed, wearing camouflaged CBRN uniforms, UVDs on their faces, M-4s, and grenades secured to their utility belts, when Ohio led his squadron to the Black Hawk waiting, blades whirling, engines roaring, on the airfield outside the Safe Zone.

Lock and load, men, he ordered, exhilaration and dread flowing through him at once, for he knew what they were up against; they were going to war with the devil, or, at least, something like it.

They boarded the Hawk, piloted by Captain Marianna October, a young, petite African-American woman passionate about flying.

Welcome aboard, men, she said, smiling, as the squad boarded the Hawk. Her smile, however, was just a cover for the guttural feeling she had about something going wrong. This was her one-hundredth combat flight into Changer’s territory, and every time, just before take-off, she had the same feeling. But that was not unique to her. They all had the same sense, and that feeling had often been realized. Many deaths. Loved ones abandoned and widowed.

Ooh-Rah, some men roared, buying into her optimism, knowing they may not all make it back alive. One thing was certain: they would fight hard, giving all they had to their last breath.

Let’s go bag us some Changers, Ohio said loudly as he took his place on the cargo cabin floor, between the doors, with his legs out and his M-4 at the ready.

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0200 HOURS

Allentown, Pennsylvania

Darkness was the enemy, and it was pitch-black when Fletcher McBride settled down to begin his watch.

The silence screamed, echoing a drumbeat of fear in his heart, racing to the rhythm of this unusual quietness in this town.

He’d become accustomed to the sounds of terror—the sudden pops of gunfire, many times followed by screams, somewhere off in the distance, though often, they’d also been too close for his comfort.

Something is coming; I can feel it wrenching at my nerves.

He sighed and peered into the dark woods for any signs of life—human or Changers, squinting to ease the burn in his eyes. He’d continued to look hard for any strange or sudden movements as exhaustion tugged at his body.

He fought to stay awake, having only slept for a few hours during the day. He fought to sit straight on the gravely ground, his M-4 rifle, which he’d affectionately named Razer, simply for its ability and reliability in cutting down the enemy, resting on his knees.

I cannot fall asleep.

He leaned back against his rucksack, filled with provisions he’d managed to source—MREs, cans of tuna, sardines, and crackers. Whatever he could find. And then he slid back against the concrete foundation where a house had once stood. Evidence of its destruction surrounding him with a plethora of rubble and remnants—a charred bedframe, a half-melted doll, cooking pots, and many more pieces of things lost—things that had once belonged to an unfortunate family before Special Forces—Restoration-89—had fire-bombed their home.

He surveyed his surroundings for the hundredth time, clutching Razer tightly in his hands with its butt resting on his water canteen.

A waft of cool air had passed him, feathering his blonde hair wildly. He inhaled deeply, wishing life could be good and different, and that monsters—human and otherwise—did not exist. But they did live in his world. In his world, normality meant fighting each day just to stay alive.

He rested his head against the wall, taking a momentary respite from all the chaos and death waiting at every corner. It weighed heavily on him. It aged him. At only thirty-eight, he had looked more like fifty, with prominent crows-feet stretching from the outside corners of his eyes and various other age lines pressing deeply into his olive skin, his beard beginning to grey.

He looked up at the star-lit summer skies, bringing light to all the darkness, and whispered, God, do you see us? Is this the only life we will ever have? Each day. Each minute. Running. Constantly looking over our shoulders for who or what will try to kill us? Is this all there is?

He felt his eyes becoming heavy, wet with tears. He felt his life’s burdens, heavy on all the fibers of his parts, and clutched his fingers tighter around his weapon, forcing himself to stay awake. He had to stay awake for Isabel, his wife, and his two children, Thomas and Shian; they’d been asleep inside amongst all the ruin.

The children were little. Only six years old, Thomas was a carbon copy of Fletcher, with his light blonde hair, deep, mesmerizing blue eyes, and crooked smile. Shian, on the other hand, was the oldest, at eight years old. She had Isabel’s attributes—a woman of color. Her hair was long, woolen, and brown, matching her deep-set brown eyes.

Nevertheless, Fletcher had lost his battle to stay awake. At times, his head bobbed up and down, jerking him awake, though it was short-lived because his mind had drifted back to sleep.

He flinched at the thunderous sounds of bullets and grenades crashing around him while he slept. It was a recall dream, a memory, bringing him back to his last tour of duty, the last of six, where, in 2049, Afghanistan, he’d led a squadron of eight Marines. They had been hot in a firefight with a Taliban unit, and he would make it. He was going to survive and