The bitch is stupid, all right. She goes so far as to smirk at me for a second, as if I don’t stand a chance of finding what I’m looking for. The joke’s on her—that’s not the information I’m interested in. I’m not even sure I want to see that video after reading the transcript a million times.
Time to up the ante, as they say.
I grab a grenade and show it to her. “Know what this is?” She tenses and physically shies away, yet does her best to hold her ground. “Course you do. Makes me wonder. You handle deadly viruses in your lab on a daily basis, but you’re afraid of this?” It’s a scare tactic, of course, but you wouldn’t believe how squeamish people can get once they are out of their comfort zone. The fact that she killed my brother with the very virus they both had been working on tells me she’s lost all fear of it. But brute force, or, better yet, bloody dismemberment from a simple tool as the small explosive in my hand? Yeah, that scares the living shit out of her.
A moan cuts through the otherwise silent atrium, immediately jump-starting the animal part of my brain. My mind wants to stay focused on the woman in front of me, but my instincts are dialed in to where I’ve heard that very sound before, and they won’t let anything else—even personal revenge—take priority now. My attention flips to where McManus and Jones have been brutalizing the vending machine. I can tell immediately that something is very wrong with Jones, but it makes no sense. He’s still standing; if something insane like sudden cardiac arrest or a stroke had affected him, he would at the very least have dropped onto the ground. I’m still considering this when he launches himself at McManus, all reason and humanity gone.
Fuck, but this is not anything I’ve planned for! Someone succumbing to the serum after getting shot—maybe. But this? I’ve had to put down my fair share of turned soldiers, but never like this.
I still call out to Jones as I race across the atrium, what little is left of my moral compass needing verification from up close—or close enough that I can execute him with a single shot. He doesn’t react, too busy savaging his victim with his teeth. It’s unusual that he resorts to that but not unheard of. I decide I’ve gotten as much confirmation as I’m likely to get—and miss on the first shot because the fucker twists away just as the bullet leaves my gun. The second one is a perfect hit, making both corpses hit the floor as Jones stops moving, half of his face gone. Not taking a chance, I shoot Jones once more, and McManus twice. Zilinsky and the rest of the guards are on high alert as they draw closer, the same unease visible on their expressions as I feel twisting in my gut. Whatever caused his sudden death aside, none of us is comfortable around shit like this happening. It’s one thing to know that’s in your future, but quite another to get a violent visual reminder.
Speaking of remembering…
I just realize I’ve left the damn grenade, unguarded, on the table when I hear Soudekis let out a thin, high keen. Of course she grabbed it—just my luck. And mistake. I immediately put her in my sight, ready to pull the trigger before she can hurl that damn thing at any one of us. Dolores, smart as she is, has backed away, looking panicked herself.
It takes me a few seconds to realize that she’s not staring at me, my gun, or my people, but instead at the dead bodies on the floor. Her eyes are wide, and her voice is close to a screech. That’s real fear I see—something that my words, presence, and threats haven’t been able to elicit. “I’m… I’m so sorry but I can’t do this anymore! It’s out there! That’s not a world I can live in anymore!” she screams.
“Easy there,” I tell her, about to drop my gun—but I don’t get as far as any pacifying gesture, because the bitch pulls the pin and sags down onto her knees, almost as if she’s praying.
“You know what’s out there, I know you do! And I know it, too!” That should be an accusation, I’m sure, but it sounds more like a statement, a fact. Unease that has nothing to do with the current danger and everything to do with what just happened to Jones twists around my gut. What the fuck is—
But before I can finish the thought—or utter it—she whispers, “I’m sorry—“ and the grenade reduces her to so much gore and bone shrapnel.
I did not see this coming.
And it’s entirely my fault for letting it happen.
Fuck.
She was the only one who had all the answers I’ve been seeking—but it’s not regret at never getting them that makes me curse under my breath. It’s her words that set my teeth on edge. I know she can’t be talking about the serum, because let’s be real—she must have known all about it to have been working on the antidote. So what instead was she talking about? It clearly must have scared her enough to make her commit suicide in a fast, sure, but utterly gruesome way.
What the fuck is going on?
I did not expect that watching a naked, bruised, and battered woman wash feces out of her hair would be the highlight of my day, but that’s my life now. And I can’t even bring myself to regret putting her in this situation.
It stands to reason that I shouldn’t trust her, or rely on her cooperation. I don’t think she fully understood the stakes when we were playing cat and mouse with each other—no question about the roles. Seeing recognition immediately followed by betrayal in her eyes when she saw me standing in the middle of the atrium, everyone busy around me, was a moment of distraction. Because that’s what she’s been for me for the past few weeks—a distraction, albeit a welcome one. After spending the last two years of my life trying to find out why my brother had to die—with focus that wasn’t just bordering on obsession but had taken over my every waking moment—having an outlet completely removed from my mission made it easier to keep a grip on myself. For her? I’m conceited enough to believe that she got plenty out of our liaison, but she’s not stupid; actually, her intelligence is the only reason she’s here tonight—including here, now, in this shower, doing a moderately bad job multitasking between cleaning herself up, having a meltdown, working through shock, and coming to grips with what must feel like the entire world is out to get her.
I don’t think she got what was at stake when I dragged her down from the roof and pushed her into the glass prison that has been her home for the past several hours. She didn’t understand why her former boss blew herself to smithereens—and letting that happen on my watch has, so far, been the biggest hitch of the operation. Seeing her distressed only as much as any civilian would be after watching an acquaintance commit violent suicide in front of them was more of a relief than I thought possible. It was that moment that cemented for me that she really wasn’t involved in the reason why I’m here today. The little Q-and-A session with her and Greene was for his benefit, not hers.
And, I must admit, if I’d planned to give her good motivation to cooperate with me, I couldn’t have pulled it off as perfectly as Greene inevitably ended up playing into my hands. Plus, Zilinsky obviously likes her now, which makes my life a million times easier. If there was a shred of decency left in me, I’d feel guilty for working that asshole over, and, consequently, putting Bree in her current position as well, I guess… but the latter I can’t find it in me to regret, and he likely had the former coming for a million reasons, anyway.
So this puts us into the questionable pleasure of our current situation.
I know that she hates me right now. She must know that I used her—and have actually only just started doing so. What I really want from her is yet to come. From what I’ve gleaned of the way her view of the world works, she must be blaming me for Greene coming after her—and rightly so. I wouldn’t have called her calculating from her past behavior, but she knows that it’s in her best interest to help me now. I’m curious who she detests more—me or Greene. I won’t ask because I need her focused on the here and now, not lost in thoughts of revenge. There’s a small chance the trauma and shock will make her shut down, but I doubt that will happen. I know that underneath all the smarts and fluff, there’s an iron will and spine in there, somewhere, or else she couldn’t have been working—for years—unde
r some of the most lethal conditions known to mankind. I think I caught a glimpse of that as we were pulling her off Greene’s bleeding, prone form, and just for a moment, she looked ready to continue with me. Amusing as that notion is, the fact that she managed to control herself immediately tells me she won’t have any problems going forward.
And, just maybe, that look of unadulterated fury and hatred in her eyes gave me a massive hard-on. But it’s not like that’s something I can concentrate on right now.
Of course there’s the chance that trauma like this might break her, but when I see her throw down the ratty towel I handed her earlier between us like she wants to hurl it in my face and strangle me with it, I know I needn’t worry. Yes, she’s scared, and very likely horrified to the very core now that she’s understanding that her life may very well be on the line, but she’s nowhere near ready to give up.
I get confirmation for that—again—when I step up to her and gently check the bones of her face, looking for possible fractures. She inhales sharply and her eyes go wide, but it isn’t fear that makes her nostrils flare. I feel like laughing at her when she casts me a guarded look as I explain that I need to check on her ribs as well, particularly the open scrapes she’s sustained in her fight with Greene. I’m not even offended at the allusion that I might have rape on my mind. She now knows what I’m capable of; it’s my turn to prove to her that she can trust me to respect her consent—at least where sexual matters are concerned. Her cooperation in general? Not so much, although I’d much prefer to use coercion over outright force.
Just to make sure that she knows exactly how narrow the leeway is that I will grant her, I’ve added the photo she keeps in her locker, right across the building from here, to the fresh scrubs and underwear that are waiting for her.
I watch her closely as she stares at it, naked, her hair still dripping onto tense shoulders.
Oh, I know exactly who you are, that photo says. I know where you live, and who you’ve loved; I know every fucking detail of your life, and I will use it all to get what I need. I’m well aware that I should feel bad about blackmail—particularly as I’m ninety-nine percent sure that it won’t be required—but I don’t. I’ve been in this too deep for far too long to go soft on her now. She still doesn’t know what’s at stake, but already her defenses are pretty much down. She’s going to help me, and not just out of sheer self-preservation, but also because there’s a smidgeon of trust established between us.
I give her fifteen minutes to ask me what she wants to know—and while I have no qualms about lying to her face, I soon realize that fucking her senseless in the past is actually playing into my hands. She may not trust me, but she’s open to letting me convince her that the image she has of me isn’t entirely wrong. It is, no doubt, but right now is not the time to dissuade her of that notion. No idea if we’ll ever get the time to find out if reality will get a chance to catch up to her.
Back outside with the others, I show her the blueprints and explain what exactly we are looking for—and it’s then that she finally makes the connection; realizes who I really am. I’m not quite sure how I feel about this—and that in and of itself is surprising. I’ve spent a hell of a lot of time building my reputation, and most people who shy away at the mere mention of my name don’t even know the half of it. I’m not proud of most of these accomplishments, but I’ve never felt guilty—with that one exception that isn’t my fault and, even now, I refuse to think about. But I suddenly can’t stand for Bree to speak my name, as if that makes it all true, somehow. She looks surprised but doesn’t protest.
I’m glad that as soon as we are heading down to the BSL-4 lab, she falls silent, her mind obviously occupied with something other than poking at my identity or possible motives. At first, I think she’s just nervous because of the nature of our undertaking, but as she keeps rambling her way through instructions as she preps the suits, I realize the real cause for it: panic because of how she last left these premises. I know the broad strokes of what happened because it’s noted in her employee file—apparently, she had a nervous breakdown and was forcefully removed from the hot zone by an observant coworker. She passed the mandatory psych eval to let her return to work the next week with flying colors, but never bothered to get recertified for level 3 and 4 clearance again. When first reading about this I’d wondered why the company hadn’t fired her, but apparently they’d needed someone as the pretty, naive face for the official parts of the projects that had become her work life for the past months. Knowing her as well as I do now, I’m almost offended for her. She’s a brilliant scientist with a sharp mind and exactly the mix of boundless enthusiasm and ruthlessness to do research that needs to be done—and that’s exactly why my brother hired her. On paper, the fact that she quit the high-profile work makes her look like a loser and a fake—and if I’m not terribly wrong, she chose to believe that narrative herself, which made her utterly depressed and oh so very susceptible to me inserting myself into her life. But at the same time, it’s a disservice to her potential. If I can do one good thing for her, here, tonight, it’s that I will prove to her that she was wrong to believe that bullshit.
While her voice remains chitter-y as we step through the airlock into the hot lab, it also takes on an air of confidence. Yes, she’s apprehensive, but now we are in her domain, and after spending the last hours miles out of her comfort zone, here she’s at home. She keeps insisting that there cannot be a secret lab hidden behind the very room where she did most of her work, but it’s mostly dejection rather than surprise that I get from her when I open the panel and we step through… into the space where my brother met his untimely end. I leave her to playing around with the console while I set up the portable server for Dolores, hoping she can do her thing as planned.
When suddenly my brother’s voice fills the room, I know I got what I came here for: the video he recorded of his last hours, after that bitch infected him. For just a moment, I feel trepidation well up inside of me; I don’t need to see this. I don’t want to see this, is more like it. But it’s the last and only connection I have to Raleigh, and I know that once she’s seen what’s on this video, Bree will help me accomplish what I’ve come here for. So rather than stop it, I join her at the terminal. She looks ready to bolt—does she really think I’d lash out and hurt her because of the shit that someone else did to my brother?—so I lightly touch her arm, and make the video resume where she stopped it.
It’s not often that I get sentimental, but hearing and watching my brother rant does the trick. To someone else, it would have seemed weird that he spends half the time telling Thecla Soudekis about me, but I know what this is—a not-so-hidden message to me. Now that she’s dead, I’ll never find out the truth, but my brother was convinced that she didn’t do it out of jealousy or personal reasons, even though his actual words may hint at that, and if Bree asks, I will confirm that bullshit to her. The fact that he brought me and my many accomplishments up can mean only one thing: it’s about the serum project. Either someone decided that the deal he struck with them was no longer valid, or, much more likely, he was on the cusp of a true breakthrough. My brother had to die because he could have saved me—that’s not something I’m happy to live with. I told that idiot time and time again that I’m not worth it, but did he listen?
I pause the video at what she must think is the actual end of it. I know what comes next, but I’m not sure she needs to see it. The less she knows, the better, I reason. She knows about the virus, and she knows that it kills—let that be the end of it.
Watching Bree watch the video is what gets me through it. Do I like subjecting her to the horror of it? No, but it’s necessary. And she hits all the social cues at all the right times, underscoring one more time that she really wasn’t in on any of this. A part of me—a very small part, but it still exists—is sorry for having dragged her into this in the first place. It’s nice to have her here with me, mostly for her expertise but also for company. But that in turn begs the q
uestion—is “nice” enough to ruin a woman’s life? I’m well aware that there’s no going back for her now—and I’m not sure she’s reached that conclusion yet. So far, the operation has unfolded better than could have been expected, but I have no illusions about how it will end. I have every single step planned down to the smallest detail—but I have no plan for tomorrow. Today, actually, since it’s the early hours of the morning, and all this will be over and dealt with before noon.
I don’t fucking care what happens to me after I’m done with this—but just as I’m repeating the sentence to myself as we slog back toward the airlock, I realize it’s no longer true. I do care—foremost about what will happen to her. Not in a sentimental way—I’m sure that, however much I involve her in my plans, she will have the option of getting away clean in the eyes of the law… provided the powers that be don’t decide that they are better off with her dead, or locked away in a deep, dark hole after they throw away the key. That’s what my future looks like—and I’d very much like to keep her out of it. But come tomorrow, she won’t have a job since the building won’t exist any longer. She might face weeks in custody until someone lets her go, only to find her life in shambles. It’s not just vanity that makes me guess that she won’t make an effort to keep up the farce of a relationship that she’s had for the past nine years; in fact, I think she was more than ready to break up with her girlfriend after our last tryst at the motel, when she spent the night. She might not have known it when she left home yesterday morning for work, but there’s nothing left she can return to. It stands to reason that I’d be doing her a favor if I offered her a way out, right? First-class, one-way tickets to a tropical destination without an extradition treaty to the US, maybe?
As much as that sounds like my dream ending, I’m not sure it would be the same for her.
But we’re not quite there yet; I still have a lot to wrap up and the entire phase three of this mission to pull off. The hard part’s over—we’ve extracted all the information, and I have no doubt that even if the mission tanks one minute from now, Dolores will already have sent the data off-site and someone else will wrap up for us. For me, it’s all about revenge, and with Thecla Soudekis dead, bringing down the building is a mere afterthought. For her and her activist group, it’s all about transparency; they won’t care whether we live or die, as long as their message goes out into the ether. The company secrets she is selling away right now will get our creditors off our backs—not that they will find me once I walk away from here, but it’s good to know I have only one group of lethal assholes after me. The rest, as they say, might as well be history.
Beyond Green Fields | Book 5 | Survive [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology] Page 2
