by Tim Curran
The alley was fairly dark and she made good time.
She carried her heels and went as fast as she could, ruining a good pair of nylons, but for once not really giving a shit. She was almost to the end when some old guy—dressed in sagging underwear and nothing else—decided it was time to take the garbage out. Under any other circumstances, it would have been hilarious. He stood there, Hefty bag swinging in his fist, underwear drooping down his ass, staring. It probably wasn’t every day he met some leggy brunette in an Anne Klein business suit cut to mid-thigh jogging up his alley.
Shawna muttered “Hello,” and kept going.
She saw her little Nissan waiting for her.
She took a few minutes and just watched, satisfying herself that there were no heavies hanging around waiting to grab her.
When she was behind the wheel, she had a cigarette and allowed herself to breathe.
“You’re going to walk away from this,” she said under her breath. “You’re going to walk away from whatever this mess is and you’re not going to look back. If you do that, you’ll live.”
It was the thing to do.
The only sane thing to do.
And it really was her intention until the patrol car pulled up next to her.
“Problems?” the cop said through his unrolled window. His white teeth gleamed like the grille of a Pontiac.
“No. Just leaving... something wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing at all. Have a good night.”
That was fucking weird.
The knot was back in her belly again as she drove away. She sensed, rather than knew, that that cop just hadn’t casually stopped by. Maybe he’d been sent. Regardless, he probably jotted down her license number.
Don’t be paranoid.
But was she being paranoid? Is that all it was? What she’d seen today and tonight would give anybody a healthy sense of paranoia. But she didn’t really believe that was it. There was an unfathomable gnawing dread in her belly and try as she might she just couldn’t dismiss it.
She didn’t want to know any more about this.
But she had a terrible feeling it wouldn’t be that easy.
CHICAGO, RIVER NORTH:
THE WAREHOUSE, 11:17 P.M.
The warehouse proved to be a perfect location for the Operations Center. There were general, low-containment areas such as living quarters for the teams, logistics and control, and computer sciences which allowed the teams to be linked-up with other operational teams as well as the Defense Department, and the data base at the Army’s bio-research center at Fort Detrick, Maryland. There were high containment laboratories, operating theaters, and dissection rooms. All of which were at P-4 containment status, the most physically secure available. It was the status at which deadly bioengineered pathogens were manipulated and studied. The Op Center was also equipped with state-of-the-art medical incinerators to dispose of contaminated and/or hazardous biological materials.
It was assembled from pre-fab materials in under eight hours.
After Cave, Stein, and McKenna had been thoroughly sterilized, they were assembled in a small, makeshift office with the Old Man. The atmosphere was tense, deadly with implication.
“Colonel Cave has told me that you men are unhappy in your work,” the Old Man said. “And I really can’t adequately tell you how that troubles me.”
Stein just sat there, studying his hands.
McKenna shrugged. “We weren’t briefed properly, sir. We went blindly into a situation. We could have all been killed by that thing.”
The Old Man rubbed his manicured fingers together. “Yes. Yes, that was an unfortunate situation.” He stared at McKenna, his icy blue eyes withering the other man until he looked away. “But now you know. You know what we’re dealing with here.”
“Not really, sir. We’re as confused as ever.”
And he was.
All he really knew was that they were assigned to remove certain members of the armed forces that had served in the Iraq War. That’s how it had started. They were told it was a matter of national security and nothing more. And now they were dealing with what appeared to be some sort of parasitic worm of all things.
When they got back from East Chi, they were stripped and showered and scrubbed with chemicals. Then there were blood samples, urine, feces, MRI scans. Their clothes went into biohazard bags for disposal. The bodies and assorted biological waste were taken from the refrigerated BCT van and put directly into the incinerator.
McKenna was at a loss. A total loss. “I feel like I’m living some nightmare. I wish somebody would wake me.”
Stein nodded to that. “Sir... what the hell is this about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that... being that you both wish to terminate your employ.”
McKenna was starting to sweat now.
He didn’t like the way the Old Man said that. In fact, he didn’t like any of this at all. But when you came right down to it, he wasn’t sure who scared him more—the worms or the Old Man. That something like the worms existed at all was beyond the realm of what he’d always considered reality. Things like that couldn’t be. But they were. Regardless, they were still just animals, creatures of an extremely disgusting variety, but just animals. The Old Man, on the other hand, was perhaps worse. McKenna truly wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He knew the Old Man too well to want to fuck with him. He ordered the deaths of others the way other men ordered shrimp as an appetizer.
That was the real scary part.
McKenna was no stranger to death and killing. But there was always a certain code, very ambiguous at times, but still a code. You killed the bad guys, you killed the targets which were assigned to you. Targets which generally were terrorists, enemy operatives, security risks within the establishment. But through all of it, you knew (or hoped) that you could trust those you worked for.
It was different with the Old Man.
He saw his people, all people for that matter, as tools. Mechanical contrivances performing a required task. And when they ceased to be useful... well, McKenna had a pretty good idea what happened then.
And that’s why he was scared shitless.
“Yes,” the Old Man went on, “this is a most unfortunate time for you gentlemen to be retired from service, now as we stand at the threshold of the ultimate evil. What we’re dealing with here is perhaps the most deadly threat this country has ever known. In fact, it goes beyond the perimeters of this country. The entire world, gentlemen, may be at risk.”
“Is it that bad?” Stein wanted to know.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Cave paced nervously back and forth. “What we dealt with tonight, guys, is bad. I agree. It was ugly and horrible. But now you know. So, if you don’t want to continue on through loyalty to me or the Company, then how about just for the country itself?”
“The world,” the Old Man added. “The future of mankind. Surely, gentlemen, you owe some loyalty to that?”
Stein said, “All right, I’ll stay.”
They all looked at McKenna now.
“What the hell.”
“Excellent.” The Old Man looked pleased. For, after all, if your screwdrivers or hammers didn’t work right anymore, you had to throw them away and get others.
Cave patted them both on the back. “You made the right choice, guys. For yourselves, for the country. You’ll both be taken care of very well after this.”
The Old Man attempted a smile. It was a dismal failure. “Oh, I can guarantee you of that.”
McKenna didn’t want any of this, but what choice did he have?
If Stein went for it, then he had to, too. That’s the way it worked. Even the worms were better than cyanide in his coffee or a bullet to the head or brain-scrubbing at The Resort. At least for now. This was all madness. He’d never thought anything like this could possibly happen, let alone to him. Sometimes, when other operatives had a pretty good load on, they’d tell stories out of class. Horror stories a
bout things they claimed to have witnessed or taken part in. McKenna always dismissed them. He never bought any of that crazy bullshit about mind control and alien bodies and genetically-engineered fungi that could swallow a man whole. Fantasy.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
He was starting to get a good look at the black belly of his country and he didn’t like what he saw. He didn’t like it at all. Political subversion, assassination, money laundering, mercenary armies—these were one thing and every civilized country played the game, good or bad. A way of life McKenna had long ago become accustomed to... but this…
The Old Man ordered sandwiches and coffee.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said carefully, “I’m going to tell you a tale you may wish you’d never had to hear. I’m going to tell you about Project BioGen...”
AUGUST 21
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI:
CORTEX DISTRICT, EN ROUTE
12:05 A.M.
Usually, the humming of the train and the muted click-clack of the trails was soporific to Miles Singer, an escape from the drudgery and long hours of selling office space to bioscience and tech startups. He rode the MetroLink home every night to his building in the Central West End and some nights were much later than others. There’d been a real hoo-hah at SLU to celebrate the merging of two biotech conglomerates that would easily funnel 10,000 jobs into the technology hub. It was all good and it was going to pay out in a big way.
It should have been one of the greatest days in his life, had Miles not felt like shit. He didn’t know what it was—the flu, a good cold—but it was coming on strong and had been for days, if not weeks. Problem was, with everything on the table, he just didn’t have the time to be sick and he certainly didn’t have the time to be sitting around in a doctor’s office. So he pushed forward even though it was hell just getting out of bed the last few mornings.
But tonight it caught up with him.
The drinks at SLU made him feel woozy, the appetizers turned his stomach, and the people, all those goddamn people, made him want to scream. So he bugged out early, walked the streets trying to clear his head, and now here he was two hours later feeling like he was going to die.
Everywhere, it seemed, crowds, crowds, crowds. There was some kind of street festival going on—Miles figured he should’ve known what it was, but his mind was too loopy—and people were spilled out on the sidewalks, drinking and eating and listening to bands. Christ, it was all too much.
He rode the train every night to prove it was safe, that there was nothing to be afraid of despite rumors to the contrary. MetroLink was an important part of the hub and he did everything he could to promote it when he could have easily taken a cab or his own car for that matter.
There were only about fifteen people in the car. No one was getting out of hand, being loud or rude, or paying the slightest attention to him. That was good. That was fine. Because tonight, he could barely stay upright in his seat.
For the past four days there’d been some awful stabbing pains in his guts and now he was suffering a headache that just wouldn’t quit. Every roll, thump, and lurch of the train made his skull feel like it was going to split open. Even his eyes hurt. He had thrown up three times today, suffering from a randomly spiking fever, hands that shook uncontrollably, and odd little hallucinations. He hadn’t felt this bad since he sampled some of the local cuisine in Iraq, five years previous.
The MetroLink trains had large windows on either side so riders could enjoy the view, but all Miles could see in the night was his own reflection. It was very clear, very detailed. Had he been in the right state of mind, he would have been frightened by the visage that looked back in him. But his mind, like his body, was undergoing extreme decline. Something in him had accepted it. It no longer fought. So the frozen, grotesque face that looked very much like the face he knew, did not scare him—not the yellow, mottled skin, the brilliantly red pinprick sores on his cheeks, nor the eyes which had gone the color of fresh blood.
But the others on the train were more than aware of the corpse-like man in the next section and they kept their distance. And when he bent over, face contorting in a primeval mask, body jerking, teeth chattering, and limbs shaking, they pulled that much farther away. But it wasn’t until he began making gurgling, grunting noises that they became really afraid and it wasn’t until his vomit splattered the floor that they began to get really alarmed.
The vomit came out of him like water from a high-pressure hose, practically gushing from his mouth and spreading out in a hot, sickening pool at his feet. It was not ordinary vomit by any means—it was red with blood and purple with chunks of sloughed tissue. Black tarry globs floated in it and something else, something like fish roe that was netted together by fibrous tendrils like pearls on a string. Several people swore later that things were moving in the viscous discharge, wriggling in it. One woman claimed they looked like tadpoles.
With a great bubbling cry, he fell from his seat, splashing into the pool of his own waste. Though his brain was still operating at a basal level, his mind was gone. He no longer knew who he was, what he was, or why he was. Everything inside him was dissolving with a morbid liquefaction—muscles and organs and connective tissue—as his primary function as a host reached its climax. Blood and bile and eggs poured out of every available orifice as he shuddered and kicked, his brain firing with rampant seizures. He writhed, spitting out teeth, eyes rolled back like juicy red cherries. His body drummed against the steel-plated flooring, thrashing and gyrating with amazing violence. Then there was a wet, tearing sound from inside him as what had come to term forced itself from his mouth along with great sections of rubbery, macerated intestine.
By then, the other riders were out of their minds as they pounded on the windows, screaming and crying for help and frantically pounding on the emergency call button.
The bloated, horridly pregnant thing was among them, seeking them out.
CHICAGO, W. MONTROSE AVE:
RAVENSWOOD
12:35 A.M.
Harry Niles did his best work at night.
Always had. For whatever reason, his creative juices really started to flow after midnight. He was drinking a Coke (but wanting a Vodka gimlet very badly) as he sat before his laptop trying to figure out whether a human being could really swallow live rats. And, if so, how many.
There was a sudden buzzing which meant somebody wanted to come up. No, he would ignore it. It was probably Arby Alheim from below. He often came home stewed to the gills—lucky boy—having forgotten his key and randomly thumbed buttons trying to find his own so his wife would let him come in. Which she often wouldn’t. Which meant he would keep thumbing buttons until the entire building was awake.
Harry cleared his throat. “If the average diameter of the human esophagus is one inch and your average sewer-dwelling Norway rat can squeeze his execrable bulk through a drainage pipe some one-and-a-half to two inches, is it feasible that—”
But it came again.
Shit.
The buzzing. If it was Arby, he was getting his ass kicked. Harry stepped away from his desk and thumbed the intercom. “Who in the fuck is it and what in the fuck do you want?”
Heavy breathing.
Intriguing.
“Harry,” said a voice. “It’s me. It’s Shawna.”
“Are you naked or would you like to become so?”
“Please, Harry.” Desperate. “Please let me in. I’m in trouble.”
Now there was a surprise.
“All right, my fine little minx,” he said, opening the door for her.
Not a full minute later: a knocking that became a pounding and then a hammering.
“I knew you’d stop by some night,” he said, opening the door, “but I was expecting you to be naked. That was our agreement.”
Shawna shoved by him and he could see she was in no mood for jokes.
Her hair was hanging over her face in wild loops. There was dirt streaked on her cheeks and hands. Her nylo
ns were torn and there were leaves clinging to her skirt and blazer.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked. “Who did this to you?”
She found his sofa and collapsed onto it. Immediately, she began to cry. She fought the tears as best she could, but they came regardless. And they kept coming as she trembled and shook. Harry went to her, holding her in his arms, realizing for maybe the first time that underneath it all she was very human, very vulnerable. And as he held her and soothed her, his mind filled with ugly images. Shawna being beaten. Shawna being robbed. Shawna being raped.
As it turned out, it was none of those.
When she’d gotten control of herself and Harry had made her a strong whiskey sour which she nearly inhaled, she told her tale.
“... and when I got to my place, I don’t know, I just knew something was wrong. I didn’t recognize those cars parked out front,” she told him, drained of emotion. “So, I parked up the street and waited. After a while, I drove to a phone booth and called my landlady, Jill. I was afraid to use my cell. They can track you with your cell. Jill…Jill said two men had been looking for me. She said they wore dark suits... said they were very nice, but she thought they were Feds. Jesus H. Christ, Harry, what the hell is going on here?”
Harry stroked his thinning hair as he always did when there was trouble. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
He knew Shawna.
Knew her as well as anyone probably. She didn’t run around making up crazy stories about conspiracies and strange men lurking about assaulting screwed-up war vets. He didn’t really know what to think. HAPPY VALLEY MEATS? Refrigerated trucks? Kidnappings? Men in what sounded like protective suits? Well, it was all way out there, wasn’t it? He wanted to tell her she had made some mistake, blown fairly innocent, unrelated circumstances out of proportion and strung them together on a string of coincidence.
But he couldn’t do that.
Cynical as he was, skeptical as he was, suspicious as he was about the human condition and its innate ability to spin lies, he believed her. And when was the last time he’d really, honestly believed in anything or anyone?
