44
Blades of grass. Crickets chirping. Dull pressure. Pain.
One by one, Jarrod’s senses restarted. He flicked each finger and wiggled each toe, then pushed himself off the ground. On his knees, he ran an internal diagnostic. He wasn’t hurt. Not even a scratch. He glanced over his shoulder—Eugene Carver was kneeling over Agent Janson, treating her wounds. Beside them, Agent Ford lay motionless. Deceased. Cause of death: decapitation.
The memories came flooding back like a blowtorch inside his skull. Jarrod gripped his head. What have I done?
His chin jerked left, turning his ear toward the house. Inside, Deedee was crying. Santiago Torres was trying to comfort her and—
“No!” Jarrod shot to his feet and charged straight through the door. He rushed into the living room and slid to a halt.
San was holding onto Deedee while she fought to get past him.
“Daddy! Daddy, no!” she wailed.
Jarrod was at his father’s side in an instant. He placed a hand on his chest, confirming what he already knew to be true.
“Get away from him! Get away from my father, you monster!”
“I—I can help him.” Jarrod stammered. “I think I can help him.” He poked a pin-sized hole in his father’s chest and fed millions of machines inside. There was so little time—he entered the coronary arteries and surrounded the pericardium, then began destroying blockages and repairing connective tissue. After sealing up the microscopic incisions, he stimulated the nerves directly, forcing the heart to beat.
Adam Hawkins twitched.
“You’re killing him!” Deedee screamed. “Stop! You’re killing him.”
The command hit Jarrod like a sledgehammer, but he fought past it. “I have to. He—he needs my help. He’s broken; I can fix him.”
But the heart didn’t respond. Without Jarrod stimulating the nerves artificially, it was completely lifeless.
Eventually, Jarrod gave up. He withdrew the machines and stitched his father shut.
Deedee’s shouts had faded to soft whimpers. She repeated, “You killed him,” over and over again.
Jarrod reached toward her with an open hand. “Deedee, please…I didn’t mean to…”
“No!” she shouted. “Stay back! I thought you were my brother, but you’re not. I never want to see you again, so just—just stay away from me.”
There were footsteps in the hallway. Thomas Ward stepped into view, his face drawn and pale.
Deedee broke away from San and ran to him. “Thomas…Thomas, he killed Daddy.”
Ward pulled her head into his chest and stared at Jarrod with wide eyes.
“No—I would never do that. I mean, I didn’t want to—I couldn’t control it.”
Ward cleared his throat and spoke very clearly. “Jarrod, I’m taking her somewhere safe. Please, don’t follow us.” He led her away, leaving Jarrod alone with San.
San placed a hand on the human weapon’s shoulder. “Jarrod, God only knows what you’re going through, but you can come back from this. You don’t have to be this way anymore. Please, come with me to Hillcrest, and we’ll help you.”
Jarrod pinched his eyes shut, and tears rolled down his cheeks. “Go. Just go, before I hurt you, too.”
“Jarrod—”
“Go!” The command shook the room.
San lowered his head, then gave a stiff nod. “Alright.” He walked away, and as he left the house, he whispered, “I’m sorry, Jarrod. For everything.”
Jarrod listened to the SUV doors slam shut. He gazed at his father’s face, then took a deep breath, threw his head back, and screamed. The lights above his head trembled, then shattered. In the kitchen, dinnerware clinked together. One by one, the windows on the main floor began to crack. Capillaries inside Jarrod’s throat broke from the exertion. But still he screamed, blowing vapors of silvery blood into the air.
Buchanan leaned forward. He watched the SUV’s execute U-turns and speed down the road. When they appeared to be at a safe distance. He closed his eyes and said, “Is Four-Seven-Charlie still in the house?”
The drone operator’s voice came through his headset. “Yessir.”
Buchanan nodded. “Bring it down. I repeat, engage the target with Hellfire missiles.”
On the monitor, four bright lights streaked toward the house. Then a cloud of fire and debris erupted, slowly unfurling as if reaching out toward the Reaper.
“Target destroyed.”
45
September 8th
Baltimore, Maryland
San followed the convoluted instructions for nearly three hours. It was like a scavenger hunt built entirely around his daily routine. When he arrived at work and checked his email in his above-ground office, he had a message from the office manager to go downstairs. Once in the Operations Center, he found another, encrypted email. It told him that he was needed at a private meeting, though it didn’t mention where, when, or with whom. He expected to receive another email with more details, but none came. When he left work for the day, the radio station he normally listened to on the drive home suddenly cut out and gave him the location of a dead drop. He was told to visit the grocery store where he normally bought milk and produce, and after buying a few items, he would find the next message beneath his windshield wiper. But when he pulled out his wallet to pay for his groceries, he found a note hidden inside. He had stared dumbfounded at the note for a long time, wondering how someone could have slipped it into his pocket without him knowing. When he reached his car, there was nothing on the windshield, so he followed the directions of the wallet-note.
His journey wound through the city, eventually leading him to a parking garage in Annapolis, which he had been to several times when visiting the harbor with his family. There, a man approached him and placed a business card against the window. It identified him as the owner and manager of an automotive shop that San knew to be a front company for a CIA safe house. The man motioned for San to follow, leading him to a pickup truck with tinted windows.
With the stranger at the wheel, San went on a tour of Central Maryland that culminated with a visit to a secluded forest preserve.
San exited the vehicle, and when he asked for further instructions, the man just pointed to a wooden bench. Not knowing what else to do, San sat at the edge of the bench and waited. Minutes later, a familiar voice behind him said, “I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger routine, but we had to make sure you weren’t followed.”
San looked up. “Director Buchanan? What’s this all about? And why didn’t you just meet me in Baltimore?”
Buchanan settled in next to him and let out a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to visit your facility anymore. And there is no need to call me ‘Director.’ I resigned from my position a few hours ago.”
San’s eyes bulged. “What? Why?”
Buchanan leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. “I denied any involvement with the events of the past ninety-six hours and the mysterious assassin. But whether or not anyone can prove I was part of a larger conspiracy, a senator was killed on my watch. Resigning was the right thing to do—I fell on the sword to deflect attention away from DARPA and Hillcrest. The average citizen is much happier believing that the man who infiltrated the capitol was a spy, and not a government experiment gone wrong.”
He took a deep breath and continued, “Thankfully, the funding for Hillcrest is buried beneath layers of confidentiality and split up between thirty-seven different bills. You and your people will continue to fight from within the shadows. And we need you now more than ever. It’s why I brought you here today.”
San wiped away the sweat gathering at the edge of his forehead. Something about Buchanan’s tone bothered him. It was like the spymaster had given up hope.
“Right now, the fallout from Four-Seven-Charlie’s attacks are the least of my concerns. On the larger scale, they are meaningless.” Buchanan shifted so he could read San’s expression. “What have you heard about the incident
in Albany?”
“Albany?” San frowned. “I heard it was a prank—a bunch of kids trying to scare people while New York was being attacked.”
“It was more than a prank. More, in fact, than a mere terrorist attack. It was a test of a new biological weapon, one that has the potential to permanently alter the human race. Or bring about its extinction.”
Buchanan pulled back the sleeve covering his left arm. “Approximately twelve hours after the fires started, people started reporting strange marks on their skin, here.” He pointed at a pair of black lines on his wrist. “The Infection Control Unit in Albany took blood samples and had them analyzed. They were worried the marks were symptomatic of a new disease—some sort of bio-engineered contagion.”
San’s eyebrows shot up. “And?”
“And they were right. Everyone with the marks tested positive for an unidentified virus. They sent samples to Atlanta for further testing, and so far, they believe the virus is harmless. Other than the dark stripes, it has no effect on the human body. That’s when an old friend of mine stepped in and performed her own tests. She specializes in genetics and is a member of a top-secret biological weapons development team. She’s calling the contagion an ‘accelerated gene-drive.’ The stripes aren’t a symptom of the virus at all—they’re the result of the host’s DNA.”
He took a deep breath and locked eyes with San. “We found a note hidden beneath a chair overlooking the scene of the attack. It had one word on the front: Checkmate. We tested it, and found traces of Audrey Stoke’s DNA.”
He swallowed, then continued on. “Do you understand what I’m telling you? Katharos has the capability to alter the human genome on a massive scale. The stripes were a test of the delivery mechanism, and they’ve been reported by more than fifty thousand people.”
Buchanan’s words echoed in San’s ears like they’d been spoken through a tunnel. San sank against the bench backrest, his mind racing. With a weaponized gene drive, the possibilities were endless. The next batch of viruses might be symptomless or delayed. They could spread any number of genetic alterations throughout the global population before anyone knew they existed. The weapon could manifest as a harmless change in eye color or a fatal heart defect. The stripes weren’t just a test, they were a taunt—Katharos had the power to change the world.
46
September 9th
Ellicott City, Maryland
Eugene bounded up the steps and went inside without knocking. He paused for a moment, waiting to be acknowledged, then sighed and said, “Oh, hey, Gene, nice to see you. How are you doing? That’s great to hear. Please, come in, have a seat. Would you like cream and sugar in your coffee?”
Philip Torres was reclining on the sofa with his Converse sneakers on the cushions. He didn’t look up from his handheld gaming console as he mumbled, “Hey, Eugene. Dad’s in the kitchen.”
“Video games are for dorks,” Eugene murmured.
“What?”
“Nothing. Carry on, Phil.” Eugene crossed the living room and took a seat at the dining room table across from San. He frowned at the sight of his friend. “You don’t look so good. You, uh, holding up okay?”
San shook his head, then leaned back and called out to Philip. “Son, head upstairs for a few minutes.”
Philip sensed the gravity in his father’s voice and obeyed without argument.
Eugene studied San’s eyes. “Is this about Ford? Do you need help with the funeral arrangements?”
“No, that’s all taken care of. This is…well, it might be easier if I just showed you.” San pulled back his sleeve and adjusted his watch, revealing two black stripes on his khaki skin.
Eugene cocked an eyebrow. “That’s weird.” He held up his arm to show identical marks with pinkish inflammation around the edges. “Mine showed up a few hours ago. Any idea what they are?”
San lowered his voice. “The Mark of Katharos. Proof that we’ve been infected, and our genotypes have been altered by viral gene editors.”
“Seriously? That’s a thing?”
“It is. It’s not a new technique, but someone in Katharos has improved upon it. Unofficially, the CDC is calling it an accelerated gene drive, and they’ve labeled this version ‘MC-X,’ because it affects melanocortin receptors that influence skin pigmentation.”
Eugene grimaced. “Is it…dangerous?”
“No. Not this version. But the weapon’s precision and infection rates are beyond anything we’re prepared for. They could target any gene, or perhaps dozens of them, and permanently change our species.”
Eugene stroked his chin. After a long moment, he said, “Could we develop a cure and deliver it the same way they spread the weapon?”
“Possibly. But not until we know which genetic information they plan to alter. By then, it might be too late.” San rested his forehead in his palms. “My children are infected, Gene. And if I can’t protect them from MC-X, how will I protect them from what comes next?”
Eugene glanced at the stairway, and his jaw tightened. “You can’t.”
San looked up, confused.
“Which is why we have to stop Katharos before they release the next weapon, or get a sample of it so we can start working on a cure before it spreads.”
“How? We have no idea where they are. It took us weeks to track down Audrey Stokes the last time, and we haven’t found a trace of her since.”
“That’s true. But now, we know how they plan to attack. Trust me, tracking down cutting-edge bio-weapons will be easier than finding a few terrorists.”
“I don’t know,” San said ruefully. “They hid the Siberian base from us for years.”
Eugene shook his head. “You can’t think like that. We have to take this one step at a time—focus on winning the battles, not the war. There’s hope in small victories.”
San wouldn’t be cheered up so easily. “We don’t have time for that. The sophistication of MC-X proves they’re ready for a full-scale attack. And with Ford gone, Janson wounded, and Jarrod…” He took a deep breath. “We’re losing this fight. My children will have to grow up in a world shaped by Katharos.”
“Stop it. Giving up is the only way to guarantee they win. It sucks that Janson is hurt. It sucks worse that Ford is dead. But now isn’t the time to feel sorry for ourselves; it’s time to get pissed. The rest of the assault team will be combat-ready within a week, which means we need to find out where and how to hit Katharos so they never get back up.”
“But they have some of the most advanced weapons and defense systems on the planet. We don’t stand a chance without—”
The doorbell rang, interrupting his pessimistic rant. San stood, ran his fingers through his hair, and said, “Wait here a moment.”
He took deep breaths as he made his way to the front door, trying to calm his frayed nerves. He turned the knob and pulled, then jerked back in surprise. He’d been expecting one of the neighbor's children, or perhaps a postal carrier. Instead, he found a bald man with a burned and disfigured face.
“Oh—I’m sorry,” San stammered. “I didn’t mean to—that is, you frightened me, but not because—”
“Please,” the man interjected. “I need your help.”
San’s blood froze in his veins at the sound of the voice. His jaw trembled for several seconds as the name struggled to escape his lips. “Jarrod?”
47
Eugene leaned against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. As he studied Jarrod’s mutilated face, his emotions roiled like crashing waves. Anger and loathing ebbed, giving way to pity before surging forward as hatred again. He envied San, who appeared to be filled with compassion and nothing else.
“Does it hurt?” San asked, running his fingertips along the side of Jarrod’s face. Pale sutures cut across his face at random angles, as if Jarrod had been sewn together like Frankenstein’s monster. His skin was hairless and warped with scars. His ears were gone, as was his nose, and his lower jaw didn’t line up properly with his up
per jaw.
“Yes. I have never known pain like this before.”
San winced with sympathy. “I could get you some sedatives if you’d like.”
Jarrod shook his head. “That’s not what I mean.” He held his hand close to his face and made a circular motion. “The sensations coming from my nerves are simply messages. I can ignore them as I choose. The pain is deeper than that. It is in my mind, and I cannot ignore it or erase it.”
“I see.” San folded his hands on the table. “Jarrod, I think what you’re experiencing is emotional trauma. When you were…changed, you weren’t supposed to have the capability to feel emotions. But, since you left before the final phase of the program, a tiny seed was left behind. That seed has been growing, making you feel again. It started with rage, then anger, then sorrow. And now…I think you’re feeling regret. Think of it this way: if you could go back in time and change the past, would you?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, and what would you change, if you could? Maybe stop yourself from attacking Agent Ford, or avoid entering Project Nerium?”
Jarrod stared down at his palms. “No. I would stop my mother and father from ever meeting, so they could not conceive me.”
San swallowed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, then patted Jarrod gently on the knee. “Lots of people wish for that once in a while. But you can’t know, objectively, how your life has changed the world.”
“My wife and son died because of me.” His voice began to rise. “My father died because of me. Agent Ford died because of me. Thirty-two thousand, three hundred and ninety-four people have died because of me. All I do is hurt people. I was born to hurt people.”
“That’s not true!” San rose to his feet and jabbed the table with his index finger. “No one is born to inflict pain. But no one is born perfect, either. The world is full of sickness and evil, but also love and hope. Sometimes, people do terrible things for selfish reasons. Sometimes people do terrible things for the right reasons. And sometimes, people do terrible things because they are unwell. You, Jarrod, are not well. I think you try to do things for the right reasons, but you’re also sick. If you give me a chance, I will help you get better. Sure, you might still hurt people—because like it or not, we are at war—but when you do, it will be because you choose to, not because you were programmed to.”
Summon the Nightmare Page 24
