by Shanon Hunt
And with that, James was alone in the car.
What was happening? What was he missing?
He’d just reached for the door handle when the opposite door opened, and the young man who’d snapped the pictures of Layla slid into the seat next to him.
“Sir, my name is Sergeant Albert Larsen. I’ve been ordered to take a statement from you.”
“What? What kind of statement?”
“A warning, sir, to the American people. I work in military communications, and I liaise with the media.”
“You’re going to leak a warning to the media? You’ll be discharged or—”
“Understood, sir.” He nodded, his face sober. “My loyalty is to the good people of the United States of America. I took an oath the serve and protect against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”
Oh, Jesus. He was the sacrificial lamb.
James dropped his eyes to his notes on his phone. The words blurred. If he was going to have a prayer of protecting this young sergeant, he would have to choose his words much more carefully. No US involvement, no genetic research.
“I’m ready when you are, sir.” The kid held his phone out in front of James, the voice recorder superimposed over the open image of Layla astride Stewart’s bloody corpse.
James swallowed a sob.
“The colonel suggested that sending the image as a backdrop to your warning will send a strong message. Given the restaurant in the background, the American people will believe it was taken in Jiuquan.”
His beautiful girl would forever be the poster child of the predatory killers, the face of the furos, just as she’d said. If he hadn’t done enough damage to the only woman he’d ever loved, this would certainly secure his position in hell.
He cleared his throat several times, but he couldn’t wipe the anguish from his voice.
“Sir,” the sergeant urged.
Time was of the essence.
He nodded and looked down at his notes. Then he began speaking.
“Today is October fourteenth, 2022. It is with great despair that I report a virus has been released from the Gansu Province in China and will soon enough spread across the globe. It is unlike anything the world has seen before. I have had firsthand experience with this virus. I’ve seen what it’s capable of, and I am sending this message as a warning to stay out of public places. Stay off the streets. Quarantine in your home with your loved ones.”
He looked away. “I’m begging you.”
74
March 2024, Mexico
To Nick’s relief, Eddie was frozen right where he left him, paralyzed with fear. His knees folded inward, and his hands firmly covered his crotch. As Nick approached, the unmistakable smell of urine wafted up.
Bald Xena neither attacked nor retreated, perhaps because several onlookers circled them as if watching a street performer.
Virus rule number five: The virus is a stealthy killer. It protects itself by not being discovered.
This was why the virus still hadn’t been eradicated. Even now, a full seventeen months since the release of the virus from the Gansu Province of China and "A Desperate Warning to the World" hit the media, so many of them still crawled the earth. Not all of them behaved like rabid zombies. Some, the stealthy ones, could just sneak up on you and drive a dagger into your chest without even breaking stride, blending right into the crowd like well-trained pickpockets. He’d seen plenty of security surveillance footage.
The moment Nick returned to Eddie’s side, the virus stiffened, its eyes blazing with anger.
“You,” it said, taking two steps forward. “You don’t belong here.”
Adrenaline surged in Nick’s head. The virus wasn’t interested in Eddie, not unless it was playing some sort of game. It was talking to him.
“You’re an imposter.”
Nick widened his stance and adjusted his grip on the knife behind his back.
It inched toward him, tilting its head slightly. Its brow furrowed as if it were about to ask a question. “He doesn’t belong here. He’s a fake. A liar.”
Its black eyes bore into him, and he almost forgot what he was doing.
Eddie’s voice broke the spell. “Oh, god, I pissed myself, bro. I pissed my pants.”
Nick held up the knife, pointed at the virus’s chest. “Don’t come any closer.”
75
October 2022, Mexico
James struggled to steady his voice. A man with a tremulous voice wouldn’t be taken seriously. He had to sound authoritative. He wanted to sound presidential.
“Unlike pandemics we’ve seen in the past,” he continued, “this is not an invisible enemy. No, this deadly virus takes the shape of human beings, young men and women of all colors and nationalities whose brains have been altered, compelling them to destroy, to brutally kill. The virus will come first for the weakest of society, those who are ill or have a terminal disease. But it won’t stop there. Like all viruses, it will continue to evolve and mutate until it’s accomplished what it’s been hardwired to do: to eradicate the existing human race.”
Sergeant Larsen crossed himself reverently.
“I implore you, do not humanize this virus. They’re not normal human beings. They cannot be threatened, bribed, or negotiated with. Do not allow yourself to be tricked into thinking it is anything more than an infectious disease with one goal: to feed on its host. Stay inside. Protect your family. Lock your doors to outsiders. This is not the time to be a hero. This is not a war we can win. Those who live to see the end of this virus will be those who’ve had the wisdom to hide from it.”
His voice caught, and he couldn’t continue. He wanted to tell people not to panic. He wanted to remind them that like any virus, it would burn out eventually. It would be taken down by authorities and the military.
But the words wouldn’t come before the door opened and the sergeant stepped out of the vehicle.
The colonel sat back down. “My men and I have a plane to catch. I expect there will be classified discussion, and the military will go on high alert.” He reached across James, pulled the door handle, and pushed the door open. “Our audit here will be filed and buried behind higher priorities. Finish your cure, Dr. Elliott. Godspeed.”
James stepped numbly from the car and watched the red taillights disappear into the night. He stood alone in the dark, quiet desert long after they’d gone, miles from the main campus. No light or sound escaped the Gallery behind him, a world within itself. He was alone with the incessant chirping of the crickets.
He had a major cleanup on his hands, not to mention an elaborate story to weave to calm the few colonists who’d been exposed to the carnage before the cleaners stepped in. Yet all he wanted to do was run inside and find Layla, cradle her in his arms, and carry her away. He wanted to keep running until they were far away from the Colony, hidden from the whole world, which was about to see more death and destruction than anyone had witnessed since the Holocaust.
What little energy he had left seemed to drain from him, and he fell to hands and knees. The sharp gravel bore into his shins, and he leaned back onto his heels in the traditional heel-sit position he’d taught his young inductees for years. Take a deep breath and release the pain. He’d believed the words then as he did to this day. Once you succumbed to the pain, you were free from the weight of impurity, closer to a future without concern over anything outside the Colony walls. But to get there, you had to suffer the pain.
All that pain they’d endured. For purification. For saving the human race. For the propagation of purity across the earth.
He needed that sense of freedom right now. He needed to release the pain of the poisoned world. He folded his hands over his lap and breathed deeply and slowly.
“With pain comes peace.”
A voice came from up the path. “And with gratitude comes the Father’s love.”
76
October 2022, Mexico
James was only a silhouette in the starlight, too shadowy for Layla
to tell if he was real or if he was the decomposing remains of what once was her true love. But she didn’t trust herself to move in any closer than she was. Electricity surged through her brain, inducing flashes of lightning behind her eyes. Her teeth chattered, and she couldn’t seem to unclench her fists. Her neck muscles ached.
She could tell by James’s posture that he had bigger concerns than her ability to leash the killer inside her. She’d never once seen him on his knees or in any position of weakness. That wasn’t how James worked.
He lifted his chin and spoke clearly so she could hear him from that distance. “Allison Cassidy Stevens. You were born on December seventh, 1990. That makes you thirty-one years old.”
He must be purged. The earth must be purified.
“You probably already know that. But I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”
The crickets chirped louder, and she was straining to hear him, but she refused to take even one step toward him. It was too risky.
“When you were twenty-three, your appendix ruptured. You had to be rushed to the emergency room. There were complications, and you were moved to intensive care. Austin Harris, your significant other, was traveling, and he couldn’t be there for you. But I was worried about you, so I posed as a doctor and sneaked into your room. I thought you were sleeping when I sat beside your bed, but you opened your eyes and asked me to please call your mother, please ask her to come.”
He bent forward and shifted his weight slightly. His legs were probably numb. She almost smiled; the feeling of pins and needles surely was unfamiliar to him.
“Rachel Cassidy is your mother’s name, and I called her. I explained that you were in critical condition. But…” He lowered his head. “But she wouldn’t come, even after I told her I’d pay for her airplane ticket. She said she had higher priorities.”
Layla closed her eyes remembering the image she’d seen on James’s computer. The woman with short brown hair who’d held her hand at her father’s funeral. What kind of a mother had she been? What could have gone so wrong that she didn’t want to see her own daughter?
James had been right all along. Her poisoned life had been filled with sadness.
… purified …
“The next day, I visited you again. I told you that your mother had come, but hospital policy wouldn’t let her into the intensive care unit. I gave you a small vase of flowers, daisies with those little purple flowers sprinkled in. It was the only thing they had in the gift shop besides puzzles and books. I said, ‘Your mother brought these for you.’”
His next words came out choked. “You shifted in your bed just a little, and you took the flowers, vase and all, under your covers. You laid the flowers down on the pillow beside you. Then you rested your head on the flowers and put your arm over the vase, and you whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Mommy. I’ll be a better daughter from now on, I promise.’”
Layla felt a tear run down her cheek.
James sniffled and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Days later, when you were well again and back home, you told Austin a story about some asshole doctor who promised to call your mom but never did. I was some crazy psychopath.”
… purged …
Tears dripped off her chin, but she didn’t move to wipe them. She couldn’t. Every muscle in her body was locked. Her teeth were no longer chattering because her jaw had clamped down so fiercely that her breath sounded like angry hisses. Her arms had gone stiff at her sides, hands fisted, and her feet felt glued to the ground.
James pushed himself up to a wobbly standing position. Layla wanted to run and put a supportive arm around him until the blood flow returned to his legs, as he had done countless times for her.
He steadied himself. “Since the first moment I laid eyes on you, I knew I’d do anything, even lie outright like ‘some crazy psychopath,’ to avoid seeing you hurt. To avoid the sadness and disappointment that I read on your face that night. I’m sorry, Layla. I’m sorry for everything.”
He took two steps toward her, and her muscles finally heeded her brain. She took two stiff steps backward and defensively held her arms in front of her.
He stopped. “Lay?”
She spoke through clenched teeth. “Don’t come closer.”
He didn’t move.
Her vocal cords were as stiff as her body, and she coughed to loosen them, but her words still came out choked. “I know about the reversion.”
“Layla—”
“Isaac. He said you need a subject for the highest dose, for the cure. Choose me.”
“Oh no, baby, listen, it’s still risky. We still have—”
“Choose me!” She didn’t mean to shout, but she couldn’t control her tone. She was struggling to even put together an intelligent sentence. Her mind and body were turning against her, betraying her because she continued to deprive it of what it needed.
He must be purged. The earth must be purified.
“I cannot be a killer. This is not who I am.” She sucked in a stuttered breath. “If you love me, you’ll give me a chance to be me again. Not a furo, not Allison Stevens, just Layla. Your beautiful girl.”
The beam of a flashlight bounced around them, landing briefly on James, then Layla.
“Layla, honey?” A familiar French accent. “Come on. Let’s get you back with the others.”
Layla focused on forming words one last time. “Please. Please, James.”
Two security guards materialized from the darkness and took her arms, tugging her toward the Gallery.
But her gaze remained on James until he vanished within the night.
77
March 2024, Mexico
The lights in the Gallery dimmed, and a flashing blue and red police light strobed across the back wall. Nick nearly dropped the knife. He clutched it with both hands for security, but the lights distracted him long enough that his assailant pirouetted out of his range.
He’d underestimated Xena the Bald Warrior Bitch. The virus.
It stepped back in with one long leg, which it set down firmly a foot in front of him. His mind registered its next move: It’s going to kick me in the balls. He twisted to the left, both hands diving down to protect his groin. But instead of the kick, its right elbow connected with his cheekbone. Unsurprisingly, his head whipped backward, throwing him off balance, and he landed on his tailbone for the second time that night.
Stars flashed behind his eyelids, and the knife flew from his hands and skittered across the floor.
Over the siren, Eddie was yelling, “Vic! Get up, bro. Get up. Get up!” as if he were watching a boxing match and about to lose his moneyline bet.
Nick tried to roll to a standing position, but just as he reached his knees, a blast of heat struck him between the shoulder blades. Every muscle in his body stiffened like a board, and his brain screamed, stop, stop, stop! The clicking noise that lit up every nerve fiber of his body felt like it would never end. When it finally stopped, he toppled over, landing face first on the floor.
“Fuuuck you,” he moaned. His vision swam, and he heard more clicking. He wrapped his arms around his head and curled into the fetal position, bracing for another round.
The clicking got louder and then slowed.
Shoes.
A woman’s voice called out, “What the hell’s going on? Keisha, what’s happening?”
The virus repeated its mantra. “He doesn’t belong here. He’s an imposter.”
“What?”
More clicking. High heels approaching.
The virus spoke again. “He’s undercover. An investigator, like a reporter or a cop. That’s not even his real name.”
“Turn off that damn alarm!” High Heels bellowed.
The alarm stopped and the world fell blessedly silent, except for Nick’s hammering heart, which he was ever grateful was still beating.
Then the virus said something truly shocking. “He thinks I’m the virus.”
What the fuck? Could the virus deny being the virus? An
unsolicited headline flashed through his mind: “The Virus are Self-Aware!”
He finally opened his eyes and rolled onto his back as the house lights came back up. He squinted up at the voices, shielding his eyes with his hand.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my training facility?” High Heels bent at the waist to get a closer look at him. Her bobbed bleach-blond hair hung toward him, framing her face. His eyes flashed down her trim but curvy body—he honestly couldn’t help it, she was dressed in all black leather plus the sexiest boots he’d ever seen—and right back to her scowling face.
It was her. She was a bit older than her Quandary Therapeutics badge picture, the same one that had accompanied the APB issued by the FBI when Agent Vincent Wang was found stabbed outside her apartment. She’d cut her hair, and somewhere along the line she’d apparently acquired the body of Catwoman, but it was her, all right.
“Allison Stevens,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
78
March 2024, Mexico
Layla peeled off her leather tights and yanked a sensible knee-length skirt off the hanger.
“I’m trying to understand why you’re even entertaining this ridiculous discussion,” she called to James in the kitchen as she pulled up the zipper and clasped the annoying little hook behind her.
It was late, nearly midnight, and the appearance of the reporter who’d infiltrated the Colony—the first ever—had forced her to shut down the Vegas simulation early, much to the dismay of the participants. James wanted her to accompany him to question the intruder, but she was tired and irritable and had no interest in talking with whatever asshole had just ruined her sim. James, who still hadn’t dressed down after his long workday, was sprawled at the kitchen table squinting over the images Mr. Aroyo had sent over, security camera shots of the devious reporter who had, as the story went, outsmarted Aroyo himself.
