Wheels screamed across the tarmac, the harsh sound meshing with the dull roar of the engine, carving into the morning’s usual empty silence. The van picked up pace as it rumbled through a deserted estate, tracked by the eyeless heads of its inhabitants.
Their screams seeped through the speakers into the van’s interior, where Hector was sitting with four dead men.
“Kygo.” He muttered.
He admired their suits again as a gentle thumping began to reverberate around his head, echoed into the spherical helmets the corpses wore. A sudden movement caught his eye, as the nearest one began to twitch its fingers rhythmically. Another’s head jerked with the most miniscule of movements, and the equaliser display on its torso flickered. Vocals trickled through the speakers around the van, drowning what was left of the creatures’ screams. Hector found he was tapping his foot, and smiled to himself. His fingers beat a tattoo into the stock of his weapon, and he closed his eyes. For a few minutes he soaked up the music, letting the calming tremors wash over him. Briefly, he pictured that sunrise again.
“Goldroom.”

No light. No memories. No knowledge. Just the beat of the drum, nudging him closer to consciousness. It is simple, uncomplicated. A blank canvas, ready to be painted with the colours that will give him purpose. He cannot feel the needles driven deep under his skin, nor the constrictive suit which locks him upright. He is unaware of the speakers lodged in his skull, and the thread sewing his mouth shut. He feels no pain. No fear. Nothing.
Only the drum.
It grows in volume and pace, reaching a steady peak. Vague sensations. The tapping of fingers.
He opens his eyes.
Darkness fades as abstract colours melt into each other, twisting into obscure shapes. A distant light pulses drowsily. He raises a hand, its outline dulled by the light emitting from his palm, matching the pulses from across the van.
The key elements register in his synthetic brain. Room. Hand. Weapon. Pulses. And the all-encompassing sound – the drum that thumps in the half-light, guiding him like a lighthouse in a fog. Tangible, reassuring. It drowns every thought, stifles every fear, and governs every action.  Other sounds ooze into it, meshing seamlessly with the beat. Strings twang and he sees blue – a calm ocean, and a pale sunrise.

Hector was rocked forward by the van’s sudden stop, and his gun almost escaped his grasp. The screeches of metal mixed with the screams of the creatures, as they raked their claws across the van’s reinforced armour. He forgot the music as his training kicked in. He unbuckled his seatbelt, thumping his fist three times on the driver’s cabin.
“Knife Party!”
He expertly inserted a magazine into his weapon, eyes never leaving the doors. Slivers of daylight perforated the darkness as the creatures pierced the metal. They had maybe sixty seconds.

The sunrise blinks out of existence, obliterated by a blinding flash of light that kills the drums and wracks his entire body, leaving nothing but blackness. For a second he is lost, afraid – like a motherless child on a crowded street. The foundations of the drumbeat are gone, and the darkness is overwhelming in the silence. He feels as if he is falling – falling down a dark, endless chasm. His imaginary hands seize upon a lifeline as a dull thumping begins in his chest. The interior of the truck snaps into focus before slowly sliding out again as the drugs permeate his system. A quiet hiss begins in his head. His limbs are a dead weight, emitting a low hum as a dormant current of electricity flows through them.
Synthesisers fade into his consciousness, bleeding into the hissing. He is floating up and out of the chasm, back to the realm of the familiar. They grow louder, and he is lifted with them as they propel him towards a new level of awareness. Lighter than air, his arms drift into his field of vision. They are poised, ready. A higher voltage. A single melody begins amongst the synthesisers, looping over and over. Finally, the drums join it, blending into a fusion that builds to a swirling crescendo, holding his enraptured body as if he were a puppet on a string.
Then – silence.

 

The creatures tore through the doors, and Hector pulled the trigger as there was a burst of pounding bass and the Revived sprang to life. Electronic melodies and thumping basslines mingled with the shrill cries of the creatures as they piled into the van. One launched itself straight at Hector, blindly slashing at him. It was caught by one of the Revived, who slammed to the floor by its ankle as another swiftly crushed its head. A chatter of gunfire joined the cacophony, forcing the creatures back as the Revived swept out of the van. The creatures scattered as the dead men fired at them in controlled bursts.
Hector followed cautiously, marvelling at their co-ordination. Their movements were perfectly synced, like the drums that pounded through their hybrid heads. Lights flashed from their feedback displays, and they moved with the grace of dancers. Each action and reaction was communicated, calculated and executed instantly, as if they were all arms of a single deadly organism. Hector watched as a Revived soldier caught an attacking creature by the throat, his genetically engineered muscles throwing the screaming animal high above him. Another spun, shooting the creature in mid-air with surgical precision. The squad were already moving before it hit the ground.


He runs with them, following the paths they predict, supporting and being supported in turn. His vision is augmented a chemically induced synaesthesia, rendering his world in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours. His synthetic heart hammers in his chest, matching the drum beat for beat as he keeps his corner, maintaining his part of a deadly sphere of outward fire. The music is their shield. Their shroud. An impenetrable cloak that protects and supports them as they strike out at a dark mass of unknown stimuli.
He can feel his brothers – palpable voices flickering and echoing amongst the swathes of the music. Their neural patterns tap along the length of his spine, and he answers them, co-ordinating his fluid movements with theirs in a practised choreography of violence. They share a single universal language, inhabiting a universe of their making, in which every action has a meaning.
Overarching everything is the beat of the drum.


Hector lowered his weapon, happy to let the Revived cleave their way through the streets. He was careful not to break pace with them as he reached for the radio at his belt.
“This is Hector.” He yelled, above the crackle of gunfire. “We’re nearing the Nest.”
He listened to the response.
“No survivors yet. There might not be any. We’ll find out when we hit the centre.”
He waited again. The corners of his mouth curled in a confident half-smile.
“Well, let’s just hope they don’t hear us coming.”