by C. J. Sears
Finch shrugged. “Looks that way. Not sure why an ex-Marine would join up with Conroy’s bunch. Could be untreated post-traumatic stress disorder. Personally, I bet he’s just an egotistical dick. And a lunatic.”
“A professional diagnosis if I’ve ever heard one.”
Herman had to be in either the barn or the junkyard. The light machine gun remained unaccounted for. The shooter was no less dangerous without the sniper rifle. Without sufficient cover, Finch would be dead in seconds from a single pull of the trigger.
He considered his options. The barn was enclosed, and he wasn’t sure he could take on a former Marine in close-quarters combat. The scrapyard was more exposed and littered with potential hiding places from where the shooter could strike. Finch doubted he and Kasey could go back to the car and leave; if his record was correct, Herman would’ve prepped for that outcome.
“Let’s head to the barn,” said Finch. “I’ve got a hunch he’s expecting us.”
Kasey shook her head. “You go. I think I’ll stay up here, get a lay of the land.”
“You said yourself that we shouldn’t separate.”
“I’ll be fine. Everything in this house creaks and groans when you walk on it; I’ll hear him coming.”
He didn’t like this idea one iota. “Kasey, this is stupid. We’d work better as a team.”
“And we will. Don’t forget, I have this,” she said, gesturing her thumb at the sniper rifle back on its mount. “I’ll provide support, but at a distance.”
“Have it your way,” Finch said, thinking this night was getting worse all the time, “but if I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.”
Still leery of the staircase, he took his sweet time getting down to the ground floor. If the grim reaper awaited him in the barn, he could damn well stew in his maggot-ridden juices for a while.
Outside, the stars had returned. The brief but vicious tempest that swept the Atlantic coast must be receding. In an hour, the sun would rise and the snow would melt. By daylight, even the gloomy Herman Homestead might look appealing.
Finch sidled along the wall of the barn. He tiptoed around the open door, Browning poised to fire at the slightest unexpected movement.
There were no tractors or combines. The barn was bereft of machinery and farming equipment except for the tool rack above the corroded table saw.
Finch examined the bloody pile of slush he’d seen earlier. It looked reasonably fresh. With the flashlight beam trained on it, he could see the thick black fur and torn skin from some kind of animal. He was relieved it wasn’t human, but it was disturbing nonetheless.
Memories surfaced that he wished he could suppress until the end of time:
That was what he sensed now: the stench of spoiled meat.
It grew stronger as they reached the bottom. Finch tried to breathe through his nose, but it was like fighting the ocean tide on a body board. Bile rose in his throat. He exhaled and let the smell wash over him. Ahead of him, Donahue and Mason did the same. They paused, attempted to acclimatize to it. The stench never went away, but it dulled enough for them to proceed.
The source became apparent as soon as they ventured inside the room. Strewn over the floor were animal carcasses in various states of decomposition.
A similar raw smell permeated the cool air of the barn. It wasn’t pleasing. What was the source?
He inspected the room further, spying the trio of cages in the corner. Beside them, three stainless food bowls marked “Sid”, “Nancy”, and “Cletus” contained half-eaten beef-steak.
A series of low growls emanated from the darkness. Finch cursed. He had let his guard down. Swiveling on his feet, he targeted the approaching intruders.
Three Rottweilers, mangy and unkempt, sniffed the ground of the barn. They barked when they saw him. Finch fingered the trigger. He didn’t like shooting animals, but their anger and distaste for him didn’t seem negotiable.
But the dogs weren’t alone. A clearly deranged, muscle-bound man wearing overalls and combat boots held their leash in his left hand. In his right, he had a double-barrel shotgun pointed directly at Finch’s head.
“Oh, shit.”
“That’s right, boy,” John Wesley Herman said in a thick Virginian accent, “you better start runnin’.”
In the split second before he decided, Finch knew he couldn’t kill them all. He was a sharpshooter in his own right, but even if he took out Herman before the psychopath blew his head off, the dogs would maul him.
Finch ran. There was nowhere else to go in the barn but the way he came in. Sprinting, he tucked his head and bashed his shoulder into Herman.
The former Marine howled as the impact knocked the shotgun free. Finch grabbed it, dropping his flashlight and gliding through the snow.
Herman loosed the dogs. Too fast. He had to slow them down. Finch fired the Browning one-handed, aiming high.
The icicle skewered the lead hound. The dog yelped in pain. His brethren didn’t stop, bounding after the federal agent while their owner checked the injured animal. It wouldn’t do Herman any good; the wound was fatal.
Finch couldn’t go back to the house. He needed to put as many obstacles between him and the dogs as possible. If he could get to the junkyard, he was guaranteed to find adequate cover or somewhere to hide.
The steady pitter-patter of paws spurred him on. Finch hoofed it, jumping hastily through the emergency exit of the ancient school bus.
He holstered the Browning. One of the dogs tried to hop in the bus, but couldn’t get traction and slumped backward. Finch went prone, readied the double-barrel.
“Pop your head up again, you ugly son of a bitch,” he said.
A sharp whistle interrupted their stand-off. The Rottweiler skulked away into the disappearing dark.
Finch stood up, but he didn’t lower the gun. Herman must’ve called his hounds back. What was the crazy bastard planning?
A gas-powered engine revved repeatedly. A lawnmower? The noise changed. Now it was an endless whirring sound, a buzzing uproar. A chainsaw.
The loathsome racket became deafening as Finch listened, getting closer with each passing second. Herman wanted to turn him into meat shavings.
“I know you’re in there,” the madman shrieked over the continuous roar of his cutting tool, “and that you’re all alone.”
No, not alone. But Kasey couldn’t take a shot at Herman from here, assuming she was watching. He prayed she was.
Finch peeked through a busted window. Herman lugged the purring chainsaw, looking straight at the bus. His two remaining dogs cowered behind him, frightened by their master’s weapon.
The double-barrel had lousy range, and he only had two shots. Finch didn’t have time to draw the Browning. He needed to lure Herman into the scrap maze. It was his only chance.
“What’s the matter, Herman? Too doggone upset to fight me like a man?”
The taunt worked. The chainsaw-wielding nut-job was furious.
“You son of a bitch. I’m gonna slice you into pieces and feed you to these pooches. You won’t be a smartass then.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got to catch me first,” Finch responded, slipping into the scrapyard unnoticed.
Without looking back, he ducked under a car frame and sped up. He hoped he wouldn’t smack his head on a drooping metal sign or trip, goring himself on a section of rebar.
Finch paused and caught his breath. The chainsaw wailed, reminding him that he needed to keep moving. But the junk troves were difficult to navigate and all of it smelled like burnt oil.
He needed a strategy. He couldn’t keep running and Herman’s dogs were still a threat. They might be afraid of the chainsaw but they weren’t scared of Finch.
“Damn it, Llewyn, think,” he said, reprimanding himself, “you survived Lone Oak. You fought parasite-infected hordes. You can fend off two hellhounds and a hillbilly reject.”
There was an overturned gasoline canister next to a defunct pump. That was it. If he masked his
scent, the dogs couldn’t track him. They might lose interest altogether. It was worth a shot.
He rattled the jug. Not a full load, but enough. Finch shut his eyes and poured the liquid over his hair. It trickled down his body, sticking to his clothes. Some of the vile taste seeped into his mouth. He spat it out. Disgusting.
“You ain’t gettin’ outta here,” said Herman, coming around the corner. He waved the chainsaw in front of him like a maniac. Swallowing vomit, Finch concealed himself behind the gas pump.
Herman walked in the opposite direction. Finch reached for the Browning.
He heard the loud woof of a Rottweiler to his right. The dogs lumbered into the junkyard, back turned to the federal agent. If Finch fired the double-barrel, Herman would hear it, but he was much slower than his hounds.
He lined up the shot. Exhaling, he squeezed the trigger twice.
The first dog’s head burst, a pulpy mass replacing the canine features. The second shot missed. The last dog whimpered and ran, abandoning her owner to his fate.
Finch felt like an asshole. It wasn’t the dog’s fault that the owner was psychotic. But this was about survival. Harsh decision-making was the rule.
Herman was on him faster than he anticipated. The ex-Marine swerved his chainsaw. Finch blocked it with the shotgun. It was all he could do to protect himself from the ferocity of the swing.
Sparks flew. The blade spun inches from his face. The man’s strength must’ve been almost superhuman to keep the chainsaw from bouncing back.
Finch kicked his assailant’s knee. Herman hissed and released his weapon. The chainsaw spiraled in the dirt, sputtered, and died.
Rolling away, Finch finally retrieved his Browning from its holster.
“Freeze,” he said, lining up the sights with Herman’s chest. They needed to bring him in alive, but Finch wouldn’t hesitate if the man decided not to come quietly.
Herman laughed and bent to reclaim the chainsaw.
A solitary shot echoed in the depot of twisted metal. Herman screamed, clutching his splintered right hand as he plummeted to the ground.
Finch glanced up and saw Kasey at the second floor window of the farmhouse. She flashed him a thumbs up.
His heartbeat slowed to its normal pace as he advanced toward his incapacitated opponent. Herman fainted from the blood loss and Finch covered the wound with his jacket.
A delightful orange film settled over the junkyard. Finch wiped the sweat and oil from his forehead. When they finished interrogating Herman, he was going to take a long, long shower.
P3RF3CTPUR1TY
Under the direct supervision of Samuel Rossiter, doctors from an undisclosed general hospital worked to fix Herman’s hand. The surgery required to repair the open fracture was meticulous, involving the strict placement of pins and screws. It would take time for the wound to mend.
The company showers were supposed to be top-of-the-line, but the water pressure sucked. Instead of feeling rejuvenated, Finch left soggy, dissatisfied, and not particularly clean. Kasey brought him his laundry, having run a few errands in the interim.
The gloomy hall that led from the elevator to Rossiter’s office bored and depressed Finch. It was dull, unassuming, and unremarkable. He wished the director would spring for some landscape paintings or a mural or something to brighten up the damn place.
He and Kasey sat in the office, biding their time until Rossiter returned with new instructions. With luck and persuasive belligerence, the crazed hillbilly gunman would spill the beans on Conroy and her organization.
Kasey and the director might be on familiar terms, but Finch could count the number of times he’d been to this office on one hand. Like the hallway, no personal effects or personality blemished the spotlessness. Rossiter and the late Sinclair couldn’t have been more different.
Sunlight glared through the window and shone bright on Finch. The meteorologists had called it wrong; the snowstorm wasn’t all that bad, and the streets were drying faster than a comedian’s wit.
“Think we’ll catch a break?” he asked Kasey, gazing at the ceiling.
She had more confidence than he did. “Herman will talk. It’s not like he gains anything by lying.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Hours ticked on the clock. Kasey reverted to being oddly quiet. In the cramped office, with nothing to look at and nothing to substitute as entertainment, Finch thought about the night before.
He had no inclination where he and Kasey stood. She claimed she was over it, that they were fine as partners, but her reticence suggested otherwise. He might not have seen her in five years, but he knew her better than she believed.
“Kasey,” he said, “about last night…”
She wasn’t having any of this discussion. “Save it. Look, you were right, okay? What we have isn’t love. It’s lust. Basic attraction. Nothing more.”
Finch noticed her reluctance to use the word “had” but said nothing.
It was noon when the director stepped into his office, his silvery mane neat and tidy, not a hair out of place. As usual, he wore sunglasses despite the soft lighting and the fact they were indoors. If Rossiter had any indication that he looked like a self-important jackass, he never acknowledged it.
The director sat at his desk, his hands clasped together. An annoying habit.
“Agent Finch, Agent Alexander,” he said in that even, indiscernible tone, “I have great news. You’re going on a little trip.”
What did he mean by that?
“What have we learned?” Kasey inquired.
“Mr. Herman—once he was lucid—delivered some interesting intel about Ms. Conroy. Evidently, she works in the public eye at the Fairvale Research Center for Biological Anomalies in Missouri.”
Fairvale was less than a hundred miles from Lone Oak. Not a coincidence.
“You think this has something to do with her private experiments?” asked Finch.
“Unquestionably,” Rossiter replied, his lips contorting into a miserable smirk. “The FRC is one of several lesser-known facilities involved in the prevention of biological and viral outbreaks. They work directly with the CDC.”
“Are you saying the CDC is involved?”
The director shook his head. “No. I doubt they have any insight into Conroy’s activities. Most likely, she is abusing her position as the head of the FRC to gain access to hazardous materials.”
“Like the Lone Oak parasite,” Kasey pointed out.
Rossiter nodded. “Exactly. Legally, there’s nothing that can be done. It’s all hearsay. We have no physical evidence to link her to any of her presumed crimes.”
“Did he say anything else? We already knew her name. We could’ve got that stuff about the FRC from a public database. Was it worth the trouble of tracking him down?” Finch asked, struggling to see the silver lining of having almost been chopped to bits for this paltry information.
“Absolutely. Herman claims Conroy’s personal assistants have recently met with unfortunate accidents. Because they were in charge of the lower level labs, there is now an opening. Conroy has been using unofficial channels to locate suitable replacements.”
“So what do you want us to do?”
“As I said, I have a trip in mind for the two of you.”
Finch could see where this was going. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m always serious,” said the director, perhaps with a twinkle in his eye. With the sunglasses it was difficult to tell.
“You want us to take a plane to Fairvale and do what? Pose as scientists, infiltrate the facility? Then what? Gather data? Maybe we do a little kidnapping of our own if Conroy’s there? Am I on the money?”
“You’re sharp as ever, Agent Finch,” Rossiter said, extracting two laminated identification badges from his suit pocket. “These should clear you through the Phase 3 labs. Conroy works in Phase 4 which has the highest security. It’s also where they keep the most dangerous specimens. You’ll have to work out the details
for yourselves, but I believe you’re capable.”
“And if we screw up and get caught? Are you going to bail us out again?”
“You’ll be deep-sixed.”
“Wonderful,” said Finch, sighing as he took the badge belonging to a fictional male scientist.
“What if we get contaminated or infected by something?” asked Kasey, grabbing hers.
Finch answered. “We won’t touch anything if we can help it. And if it’s black, pulsating, and looks like it wants to burrow into your skin—shoot it.”
*
An average flight from D. C. to southern Missouri took around two and a half hours. Government organizations were ridiculously paranoid. To preserve their new identities, Kasey and Finch were subjected to multiple layovers and connecting planes. As a result, both of them were numb by the time they arrived at their arranged hotel suite.
At least Finch was able to get some sleep; Kasey had to suffer through a crying baby on her last plane ride.
“I swear,” she said, throwing her luggage on the one queen-sized bed they would have to share, “I’m never having children. If I had to put up with that racket all day long, I’d go insane. Or stuff my head in an oven.”
“I don’t know. I imagine you tune it out, eventually. They’re kind of cute.”
Kasey rolled her eyes, unpacking a pair of dress shoes. “You better talk to your girlfriend about that. She’ll have to be the one to provide you with mini-Llewyn. I’m off the market.”
Sore subject. “You know, I’ve never thought about having a family before. Seems insane, given my lifestyle.”
“What lifestyle? You don’t drink or do drugs. It’s rare that you have casework. You’d be home most days. Corny as it sounds, you’d make an excellent father.”
Finch couldn’t help the blush that crept into his cheeks.
“I don’t know,” he said, lolling back on the stiff mattress, “these last few months have been pretty shitty. I’ve nearly died a dozen times. Four thousand people perished because I was rash. Maybe I’m supposed to dwell on it until it drives me to the loony bin. Some days I think that’s my penance, you know, for being such a pathetic loser.”
