by Tim Waggoner
“Goddamn butterfly guy shot me!” he said. “Where are they?”
“What?” Ginger said. “Merlin?” She turned to Merlin for an explanation, but he wasn’t there. She quickly scanned the arena, but she saw no sign of him. Her heart sank as she faced Jack once more.
“They’ve gone dark,” she said. She paused, then added in a softer voice, “All of them.”
“Gone rogue, you mean,” Jack snarled. “Harry’s sick in the head. We can’t trust them with this! People are gonna die!”
He took off running, but Ginger didn’t follow him right away. She’d noticed something written in the dust on a nearby handrail. Two words: TRUST ME.
She looked at the words for several moments before wiping them away with her hand and heading after Jack.
* * *
Fox and General McCoy stood next to the president at the Oval Office window, looking down at a mass of protesters on the White House lawn. From the slogans on their signs, Fox could sort them into two basic groups: pro-legalization and anti-legalization.
“Look at them all. Pretty soon half of ’em are gonna be happy, and the other half history.” The president chortled. “Damn, politics has never been so easy.”
McCoy laughed. Fox felt sick.
The president took a seat behind his desk and looked toward the wall-screen TV on which a newscast was running. Fox and General McCoy took up positions behind him on either side and watched with him. Fox had been doing her best since the crisis broke to maintain her composure, but as the news worsened, the harder it became for her to keep up a veneer of professionalism.
On the screen was a video of a huge domed stadium. Outside, uniformed soldiers escorted hundreds of people infected with the blue rash inside, while a reporter spoke about how sufferers of what was now being called the “Dancing Disease” were being taken to specially equipped field hospitals set up by the federal government in similar facilities across the country. He urged anyone who was afflicted to locate the facility closest to them and go there immediately to seek help. A 1-800 number and a website address where viewers could obtain more information crawled beneath him as he spoke.
The president was receiving good press from around the world for his “swift humanitarian response” to the crisis. But Fox knew the truth, and that knowledge turned her stomach. Inside the dome—and others like it—the infected were locked in cramped cages and stacked one on top of another like livestock. They would receive no medical treatment. Hell, there weren’t even any doctors on the premises. They were to be kept away from the public eye until the disease ran its course and they died.
The president grinned. “Let the junkie scum go down in flames!”
“Congratulations, sir,” General McCoy said.
“Normally, I don’t indulge,” the president said, “but this deserves a toast.”
He rose from his desk, stepped over to the liquor cabinet, and began pouring whiskey into a trio of tumblers.
Fox couldn’t take her gaze from the screen. She imagined the people inside the dome, locked away in the dark, wondering when someone was going to come help them, realizing eventually that no one was.
“This is totally unethical, sir,” she said, unable to hold her tongue any longer.
The president handed the general a drink before giving one to her.
“Fox… shut up.”
He returned to his desk as the words MILITARY DECLARES MARTIAL LAW appeared below the reporter’s image.
Fox downed her drink in a single gulp.
The president looked over at Fox, and the man did a double-take.
“Jesus, Fox!”
He was looking at her as if she’d just climbed on top of the Resolute desk, hiked up her skirt, and taken a massive shit.
“What?” Fox said, and then caught sight of her hands. The skin was dotted with patches of blue rash. Fox felt a cold, watery sensation in her guts. “Shit! Sir, like I said, this affects all people, from all backgrounds…”
The president looked at Fox, eyes flashing with anger and betrayal. The general’s lips pursed in distaste.
“I’m disappointed, Fox,” the president said. “Disappointed and… disgusted.”
Fox’s first thought was, Dear Christ, please don’t let him tweet about this!
Her words came out in a rush. “Mr President, I routinely work twenty-hour days for you. Seven days a week. Maybe some can do that without chemical help, but—Sir, I’m a good person. Like the millions of others you’re allowing to die.”
The president was quiet for several seconds, and Fox hoped she’d gotten through to the man. But then he said, “Well, the good news is you’ll never work a twenty-hour day again.”
He walked to his desk, sat in his plush leather chair, and picked up the phone.
“Security? Escort Fox to the nearest field hospital.”
* * *
Poppy’s virus continued making its worldwide debut.
In the street outside a hospital ER in Chicago, a mass of people with the blue rash pushed, shoved, kicked, and punched one another in wild desperation as they fought to get inside, all in the meager hope that doctors there could do something, anything to save their lives. Variations on the scene were repeated outside medical facilities and physicians’ offices around the world.
In London, a broadcast news reporter covered with the blue rash informed viewers of the latest developments.
“…exhibiting stage-one symptoms of the biologically engineered virus. Authorities are urging victims to remain calm.” He paused, then frowned. “Excuse me.” He touched his earpiece and listened for a moment as his producer spoke to him. “What?” He looked at his hands, which were almost entirely blue, and tears began to slide down his cheeks. He began sobbing. “Oh dear god…”
Jamal and Liam were watching the news in their flat when Jamal noticed the first patches of blue rash dotting his friend’s skin. “Bruv, you got it!” Jamal said. “I told you not to do that shit!” Liam raised his hands to inspect them, and his eyes widened with horror.
Within the space of a few hours, there was almost no one on earth who either wasn’t infected or who didn’t know and love someone who was.
And in the Oval Office, the president sat alone at his desk and brainstormed ideas for re-election campaign slogans.
Make America… what? he mused silently.
Chapter Ten
Harry and Eggsy stood in the entrance of an empty hangar at a small Singapore airport, the night sky above them cloudless, the stars bright and lovely. Eggsy had no time to appreciate such things, though. While Harry’s plan to get intel from Boris Batko about Poppy’s operation appeared to have been successful, Eggsy felt more tense than ever. He was achingly aware that with each passing second, more people around the planet became infected with Poppy’s virus. Surely some had contracted it a while ago, which meant they were in the late stages of the infection by now, or had already died. And here they were, fucking around on an airfield in goddamned Singapore, after having allied themselves with a drug lord. He supposed it was possible this mission could get more batshit insane, but he honestly didn’t see how. And the longer it went on, the more he feared Harry’s brain was going to blow a gasket sooner or later.
He’d witnessed what Harry was capable of when he wasn’t in his right mind. He’d been watching the visual feed from Harry’s glasses when he’d killed all those people in the South Glade Mission Church. That Harry had been stripped of all empathy, inhibition, and self-control by Valentine’s tech. He’d been a monster, pure and simple, and if he became like that once more, how could Eggsy hope to stop him short of putting a bullet through his head—again? For the first time since Harry’s miraculous resurrection, Eggsy thought it might’ve been better if he’d died that day outside the church. It shamed him to think that way, but that didn’t mean he was wrong.
“What the fuck are we doing here, Harry? At a fucking airfield in the middle of nowhere and there’s no plane! Now what?”
/> They never should’ve contacted Batko, never should’ve come to Singapore in the first place. Hell, he should’ve forced Harry to get on the Statesman jet back in Italy. If he had, Harry would be in Ginger’s lab right now being seen to, and he’d be free to search for Poppy on his own.
“Relax,” Harry said calmly.
Eggsy was about to reply, but his phone pinged. He was delighted to see he’d received a text from Tilde. He needed to talk to her now more than ever. He quickly read the text, frowned, and then reread it.
HAPPY CLOUD HAT, FROG BUNS! GOT
SOME NICE WATERED-DOWN DRINKS
FROM AMAZON?
What the fuck?
A second later his phone rang. It was Tilde.
Eggsy held up an index finger to indicate to Harry that he would just be a moment. Harry nodded, and Eggsy walked a dozen feet away so he could speak with Tilde privately.
“Baby!” he said as he answered her call. “You okay? What’s with the weird message?”
Silence for a moment, and then in a suspicious tone Tilde asked, “Who is this?”
“What? You called me… Tilde?”
The call abruptly ended. He felt a cold pit open in his stomach, and he quickly called her back, this time placing a video call. Even before she answered, he knew what he would see. She was covered in the blue rash.
She bared her teeth in a grotesque parody of a smile, and when she spoke, she was almost maniacally cheerful.
“Hello! Are you the banana man?”
“Oh no, no! Tilde!”
A hand snatched the phone away from her, and an instant later her father appeared on Eggsy’s screen. He was angry, and his eyes were red and puffy, as if he’d been crying.
“She’s in stage two,” the king said. “Maybe if you hadn’t broken her heart, she—”
The king abruptly stopped speaking. The image on Eggsy’s phone spun wildly, and then came to a jarring stop, and Eggsy realized the king had tossed the phone onto Tilde’s bed. The device had landed at just the right angle to provide Eggsy with a partial view of Tilde. She stood in her bedroom, her father and mother near. Her left arm was frozen in an awkward position, and then the paralysis spread across her body until she was completely immobile. Her eyes shone with horror as she realized she couldn’t move, and the pug puppy she’d bought for Eggsy ran across the bed and in front of the screen. The dog started barking frantically. Before Eggsy had time to react, the king snatched up the phone and ended the call.
Eggsy stared at the blank phone screen for several seconds, devastated by what had happened to the woman he loved. He whirled around and sprinted back to Harry, furious and desperate.
“I’m done with this bollocks, Harry! People are gonna die! And you and me ain’t gonna be able to do jack shit about it without help!” Once more, he looked across the airfield. “And still no fucking plane?”
“Patience, Eggsy,” Harry said, seemingly unaffected by Eggsy’s outburst. He continued looking seaward, body relaxed, manner calm.
Eggsy stood next to him, silently fretting about poor Tilde. How long did someone have left after they reached stage three? Days? Hours? However much time remained to her, he feared it wouldn’t be enough for him to save her.
I’m sorry, babe, he thought. I’m so, so sorry…
Eggsy heard the sound of a plane engine, and as he watched, the Statesman jet rolled across the tarmac and pulled up to the hangar. He turned to Harry.
“You called Statesman?”
Harry didn’t reply. The jet stopped and a moment later the cabin door opened to reveal Merlin.
Eggsy smiled at Harry, and Harry smiled back.
As Eggsy and Harry climbed aboard, Harry said, “Merlin, you have my permission to loop Ginger in now. Whether I’m right or wrong about Statesman, we’ll get there first. And if anything happens to us, the world’s buggered anyway.”
Merlin nodded, looking relieved.
* * *
Ginger sat in front of Champ’s desk. The Statesman leader was, to put it mildly, in a mood. He downed a shot of whiskey, poured another, reconsidered, made it a double, and then downed that too.
“I trust him, Champ,” she said. “Merlin wouldn’t have done this without good reason. He knows there are lives at stake. And we’re running out of time.”
Champ slammed his empty glass down. “He took one of our planes! Weapons! And equipment! High-end equipment!”
Ginger shrugged. “You said they could use our resources…”
“You thinkin’ straight, Ginger? Maybe you should take a nap in that brain-fixin’ machine of yours. Dismissed.”
Frustrated, Ginger rose and started for the door, but her phone pinged. She checked it and smiled with relief.
“It’s Merlin. He’s sent the coordinates for Poppy’s HQ.”
Champ calmed. “I apologize, Ginger. I shouldn’a doubted you. You always did have the sharpest instincts in this whole goddamn place. Send Jack to back ’em up.” He frowned. “And tell him not to make this personal.”
Ginger nodded, but Jack was a man of strong feelings, to put it mildly, and Harry had shot him in the head. She wasn’t sure Jack could not make it personal.
* * *
Poppy sat at a booth in her diner, Charlie next to her, across from her a balding man wearing a very expensive suit. He had a laptop open in front of him, and resting on the tabletop next to it was a thick bound document.
“So there’s no way he can back out of this?” Poppy asked.
“No way,” her lawyer said. “Once the president countersigns this document, it becomes an Executive Decree. Rock solid.”
Poppy smiled. “Good. Get him on the line.”
The lawyer tapped a few keys, then turned the computer so it was facing Poppy. A few seconds later a chat window popped up, and there he was—the man who was going to give her everything she’d ever wanted.
“Good evening, Ms Adams,” the president said.
Poppy nodded to him. “Mr President. The document is signed. My lawyer will be returning it to you in person for countersignature.”
As if Poppy had given him a command, the lawyer stood, gathered the bound agreement, and headed for the diner’s exit. Poppy turned the computer so its camera could track the lawyer.
“Look: there he goes now.” She turned the laptop to face her once again. “The moment that’s done, I’ll release the antidote.”
The president hesitated a moment before speaking once more. “I, uh… Ms Adams, can you give me any assurance that you can get it out there in time? Where it’s going to come from? How long it’ll take to distribute? I’m just concerned it could come… too late.”
Poppy raised an eyebrow. You didn’t rise to the top of the world’s drug trade without having a highly sensitive and finely tuned bullshit detector.
“If you’re thinking of looking for my stockpiles, don’t bother. They’re hidden and secure.”
The president leaned forward slightly, probably without being aware he did so, Poppy thought. Some poker face the man had! And he was always bragging about what a fantastic dealmaker he was.
“You have more than one?” he asked, a bit too eagerly.
Signing the agreement had put her in a good mood, and so she decided to toss him a bone.
“One in every major city worldwide,” she said. “Unfortunately, our lab is… unable to produce more supplies. But there’s plenty to go around.”
“And… distribution?” he asked.
What a nervous Nellie! Poppy lifted a red briefcase off the seat next to her, put it on the table, and opened it to reveal an electronic security device.
“When I enter the access code, all stockpiles unlock remotely, and my fleet of drones will distribute the antidote automatically. So… chop chop! Time’s running out.”
* * *
Eggsy and Harry sat in the jet’s passenger cabin while Merlin flew the plane. Eggsy stared straight ahead, brooding.
After a time, Harry asked, “Are you
all right? What was that phone call you got?”
“Let’s not, Harry. I don’t think you’d sympathize. And I ain’t in the mood for a lecture.”
Harry walked over to the bar. “How about a martini? For old times’ sake?”
Eggsy debated with himself for a moment and finally said, “Yeah, all right.”
He joined Harry at the bar and watched as he mixed the drinks. When he finished, he handed Eggsy’s to him, they toasted, and drank. Perfect, Eggsy thought. As always.
“I had a girlfriend,” Eggsy said. “I lost her. And it broke me. And now… if this mission fails… she’s gonna die. I know it’s against Kingsman rules. Having a relationship.”
Harry was quiet for several moments before speaking again.
“When I was shot, can you guess what the last thing was that flashed through my mind? It was… absolutely nothing. I had no ties. No bittersweet memories. I was leaving nothing behind. I’ve never experienced companionship. Never been in love. In that moment, all I felt was loneliness. And regret.”
“I’m sorry,” Eggsy said.
“Don’t be. Just know that having something to lose is… what makes life worth living.”
They finished their drinks, and then Harry smiled and patted Eggsy on the shoulder.
“Now… let’s go save your girl.”
It was at that moment that Eggsy knew his friend had truly returned, and he hugged him, grateful for his kind words.
“I missed you, Harry,” he said.
Merlin stepped out of the cockpit and cleared his throat to get their attention.
“Gentlemen, I hate to break up the party, but the autopilot’s activated and we’re nearly there. I suggest we get ready. Follow me.”
* * *
Merlin led them to the pool table and pressed the button that caused the tabletop to flip over and reveal the jet’s weapons cache.
