Reversion (The Narrows of Time Series Book 3)

by Jay J. Falconer

He nodded, running his hands through his red hair. He looked at her with soft, watery eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Sometimes, my temper gets the better of me. It’s something I’ve had to battle all my life—my inner demon.”

  “We all have those.”

  “Yeah, but still. There’s no excuse.”

  “It’s already forgotten. Just don’t do it again or else I’m leaving.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I promise, it won’t happen again.”

  “Now explain it to me. Calmly, please.”

  “You were correct earlier when you said some changes were to be expected. They were, but little things. Not important facts like Drew and me living in this complex. Several critical events took place here over the years that simply couldn’t have happened anywhere else, not without altering history in a major way. Since those events never happened, it means critical changes in the timeline have occurred. Fractures could be forming in the timeline ahead, and each could have a compounding effect on the next. I was planning on using my knowledge of what occurred the first time around so I knew exactly where and when to be. Now I don’t know anything.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, we may not have time to implement my plan to fix things. That’s assuming my plan is still valid. Something incredible was supposed to happen tonight.”

  “Is that bad or good?”

  “All depends on how you look at it. I’m pretty sure it has to happen in order for me to be standing here with you right now. So that tells me it does happen. The question is when. Now that things keep changing, the universe could have the event scheduled for ten minutes from now, sometime tomorrow, or next week.”

  “What about never?”

  “Never would be good, but I can’t see it working out that way. It rarely does. Not for me, anyway. It’s like some demented asshole wearing a hoodie is sitting at a desk in a secluded mountain cabin in northern Arizona, scripting out my life on a notepad, making sure nothing goes according to plan.”

  “We all feel like that from time to time. It’s called fate.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But for me, it’s a constant battle. Ever since I was born. I feel like a helpless puppet in some sick, twisted play. Someone out there gets off on torturing me every chance he gets.”

  “He?”

  “He, she, it. Not that it matters. It’s just an analogy. But still, I can’t shake the feeling he’s looking at me right now, just thinking of ways to fuck with my life.”

  “You know that sounds completely demented.”

  “I’m just trying to be honest and get in touch with my inner feelings. That’s what girls want, right?”

  “Yes, honesty is good. While we’re on the subject, tell me—are we in danger?”

  “See, that’s the point. I used to be able to answer that question with baseline certainty. Now, I’m in the dark about what’s coming, just like everyone else.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, if half of what happened the first time around occurs again and does so out of order, then we’re totally screwed. So is this planet.”

  18

  General Alvarez let his second-in-command, First Sergeant Thomas Church, finish latching the restraints around the first captive and apply a tourniquet to his arm before stepping forward to the medical table with the first injection in his hand. The other five prisoners were on their knees, hands behind their heads, fingers interlaced, being held at gunpoint by the rest of his loyal squad.

  A stack of six civilian Bushmaster AR-15 rifles were leaning against the wall in the back of the quarantine lab. Their thirty-round clips had been removed from the weapons’ magazine wells and were sitting in an organized pile on the floor next to them. None of the detainees were wounded, though four of them had a series of fresh bruises and cuts on their face.

  Alvarez held the Protocol 5 syringe in front of the man’s eyes, waving it from side to side, making sure the insurgent had a clear view of the neon-blue substance inside. The humane side of the general wanted the man to talk, while the other side of him—the sadist—hoped for the opposite. He couldn’t wait to see the new interrogation compound in action.

  The bound man stuck his chin out, shaking his head with conviction. “I’m not telling you shit.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The hostage didn’t respond.

  “I’m sure you’re thinking this is some form of truth agent such as sodium pentothal, sodium amytal, or possibly scopolamine. Under normal circumstances, you’d probably be correct,” Alvarez said, tugging at the scarred man’s skin-tight bodysuit. He admired the stretchy fabric’s tightly woven pattern of intricate gold lines.

  He continued, “While I don’t recognize your uniform, I have seen it before. Recently, as it turns out. However, that encounter didn’t end well for most of your compatriots, and let me assure you, it won’t end well for you, either, not unless you start telling me what I want to know. Now, I’m betting you and the rest of your assault team have had formal training to resist various interrogation techniques. However, I’d advise you to look around and factor in where you are at the moment. This may look like a typical biotech installation, but trust me when I say it’s not. Far from it. This is an off-book, black ops substance farm where exotic compounds are conceived by some of the most creative and ruthless scientists on the planet, all working toward the same end game—the end of terrorism. Of course, when you’re working with experimental pharmaceuticals, some will work as planned, while others will have disastrous, potentially lethal consequences. And just to be clear, I’m talking about the type of side effects you’ll never hear mentioned as a qualifier in a TV commercial, and certainly never disclosed in any medical journal. Some leaders might classify them as heinous, evil drugs. Something that should never be used under any circumstance. I am, thankfully, not one of those men.”

  The general paused, looking for a sign the captive might volunteer information, but the man only blinked. Alvarez continued his one-sided conversation as he tapped his prisoner’s right arm to raise the basilic vein, the inserted the hypodermic needle.

  The man’s upper body squirmed in a failed attempt to resist, but the intruder remained silent.

  Alvarez took a deep, silent breath and released the air slowly, allowing his adrenaline to cool. He pressed the plunger with even pressure, watching the blue liquid leave the barrel of the syringe and disappear into the subject’s arm.

  “You, my friend, have the honor and distinction of being the first live test subject—of the human variety. After thirty years of expensive research, we’re finally ready for deployment. The warm sensation you’re feeling coursing through your veins is a new multi-vectoring viral agent we call Protocol 5. The first four incarnations of this amazing invention failed to produce the anticipated level of command and control, but then batch number five was created. And from what I’ve been told, it’s magnificent.”

  Alvarez removed the syringe, unsnapped the tourniquet, and gave them both to Church, who tossed them into a waste bin sitting on the floor next to a worktable covered with instruments and equipment.

  “Now, before we get started, I’d like to offer you one last chance to cooperate because in less than two minutes, you’ll wish you had.” He leaned in close to the man’s ear and whispered, “I’m about to target the most sensitive nerve clusters in your body and set them on fire, from the inside out. It’ll ignite every one of your pain receptors to a level beyond imagination. All the while, your adrenal gland will be stimulated to work overtime, keeping you awake and alert through the entire process. So, it’s your call, asshole. What’s it going to be?”

  The man closed his eyes and sucked in a deep, uneven gulp of air, but didn’t respond.

  “The control unit,” Alvarez said to Church, who promptly handed him the ten-inch-long device. It looked like a thick, oversized TV remote control with a raised, rectangular area at the end of it. Alvarez checked for a power button
on the sides and on the back of the apparatus, but he didn’t see one.

  “The screen, sir. It’s probably touch sensitive,” Church told him.

  Alvarez ran his index finger across the four-inch-wide plasma display, swiping it from left to right. The screen lit up with power, then proceeded to run through a quick self-check diagnostic routine before displaying the word READY.

  “You can’t feel them, yet, but inside your cardiovascular system are millions of tiny bio-machines swirling around, looking for a target to attack. They are wrapped inside a viral delivery system that I control with this mechanism.”

  Alvarez pressed a few icons on the device, switching screens and settings until the display indicated it was set to one-quarter power. “If I hold it to your arm like this,” Alvarez said, aiming the device at the man’s left elbow, “and press start,” which he did, holding the button with his finger, “then the fun begins.”

  A pulsating white light emitted from the underside of the gadget, illuminating the skin on the prisoner’s elbow. The insurgent’s eyes lit up and he screamed at the top of his lungs, writhing in pain on the table. Alvarez expected the reaction to be intense, but even he was surprised at the explosive nature of the pain now invading the hostage’s body.

  Four seconds later, he released the button. Almost instantly, the prisoner’s body stopped convulsing and his deafening screams fell silent.

  “That, my friend, was a precursor to what’s to come. The pain you felt was from a swarm of microscopic devices joining together at your elbow joint to consume your cells, like an angry pack of piranhas.”

  The prisoner mumbled something, but the words were too weak for Alvarez to hear. “What was that? You want more?”

  “No, that’s not what I said,” the prisoner said, this time in a full voice. He opened his watery eyes and looked at Alvarez with fury-charged pupils.

  “Then, please, by all means, enlighten me.”

  “I said, it’s a school of piranhas, not a pack, you dumb son of a bitch.”

  The general’s face tightened as he glanced around the room, making eye contact with several members of his team. His temper fumed. “Do you hear that, men? We have ourselves a college boy, who thinks he’s smarter than all of us. Maybe it’s time we teach him a lesson on manners and what it means to be at the mercy of another. I wonder what would happen if I increased the power level from 25 percent to 50 percent.”

  He slid the digital power level control indicator to the halfway point, then pressed the start button. The pulsating light of the control unit doubled its intensity and speed. Again, the prisoner let out a blood-curdling scream, though this time his body shuddered with much more intensity than before. Alvarez wondered if the metal table and the leather restraints would hold as the man’s upper back, legs, and arms pounded at the surface underneath. Alvarez took a half step back but managed to keep the light focused on the target area.

  The skin under the glow rose up like a silver-dollar-size blister and started to bubble when its color changed to deep red. It looked like a swollen hickey ready to pop.

  “Stop this!” someone yelled from behind him.

  Alvarez turned. It was the bald prisoner, standing ten feet away.

  “You’re killing him!”

  The general looked at the hairless man. “I’ll stop when you tell me what I want to know. Who do you work for?”

  “We don’t work for anyone!”

  “Wrong answer,” Alvarez said, touching the controls again. This time, he slid the power level indicator to the right, increasing the setting to 75 percent. He held the engage button down with his finger and waited to see the results.

  As before, the pulsating light quickened its pace and became brighter. Almost instantly, the skin near the center point of the blistered area split open and out crawled countless flea-size, silver-colored orbs, spreading across the man’s arm like an army of ants. The amazing eating machines consumed the man’s flesh—blood and bone—cauterizing the ever-shortening stump with flashes of energy as they went.

  The general expected to see them grow in size after ingestion, or possibly discharge some type of organic waste product, but they didn’t. He realized the man’s tissue was being converted into pure energy to fuel their cannibalization efforts and to generate the electrical charge needed to seal the flesh. Within seconds, the entire arm was gone, devoured by the swift-moving horde of microscopic invaders. Alvarez released the button, telling the machines to discontinue their assault on the prisoner’s body.

  The victim’s screams stopped a moment later, then his head slumped down, pressing against his chest. His lungs sucked in one harsh breath after another as blood dripped from the corners of his mouth. He must have bitten his tongue.

  “Holy shit!” Church said from his position on the right.

  Alvarez smiled. “Starling’s men outdid themselves this time.”

  “That’s an understatement, sir. What power level did you use?”

  “That was 75 percent,” Alvarez said, holding the unit up for closer inspection. “I think it’s time to test full power.”

  “You might want to rethink that idea,” an unfamiliar voice said. Alvarez swung his head around. It was Dr. Starling. He was standing in the doorway, wearing a white lab coat, a faded, sweat-soaked New York Yankees baseball cap, and his legendary beard and handlebar mustache. He was holding a file folder in one hand and a black magic marker in the other, moving toward Alvarez with a severe limp in his right leg.

  “So, I see you decided to finally join us,” Alvarez quipped. “Can’t hide in your office forever.”

  Starling walked to the table that was restraining the hostage. “Using full power would most likely overload the MB’s communication array, causing a reset to default mode.”

  “MBs?” Church asked.

  “It’s short for microscopic bio-machines. It’s what we labeled them on the medical patent.”

  “Doesn’t look very medical to me,” Church said.

  “That’s the cover story—to target and eradicate cancer cells in the patient’s body.”

  “What’s their default mode?” Alvarez asked.

  “Self-preservation. Instead of focusing their efforts on the highlighted area, they’ll band together to form a climbing chain and attack the source of the light. To stop it from causing further damage to their internal systems.”

  “They’d consume the control unit,” Alvarez added, nodding his head.

  “Metal? Not just flesh and bone?” Church asked.

  “They’re designed to ingest their target, whatever that may be, and convert its molecules to pure energy.”

  “What happens if we don’t have a control unit?” Alvarez said.

  “We’d have a runaway situation.”

  “What about us?” Church asked.

  “We’d be converted to fuel, along with everything else.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m sure you’ve built more than one control unit as backup,” Alvarez said with certainty in his voice.

  “Eventually, we will. But the first priority was proof of concept. We needed to perfect this version of the product before allocating funds for deployment.”

  “So, that means no,” Church said.

  Starling didn’t answer.

  Church rolled his eyes. “There has to be another way to stop these things, if they ever got loose. What about an EMP?”

  “The MBs would detect the incoming electrical wave and transform themselves into a Faraday Cage to absorb and channel the energy around their internal systems. We built self-preservation safeguards into their base programming, allowing them to survive, among other things, a nuclear detonation in the atmosphere.”

  “Like cockroaches.”

  “We calculated an eighty-eight percent chance our enemy would try to use an EMP as the first line of defense against this new weapon.”

  “Or wait until they ran out of fuel and deactivated themselves,” Alvarez said.

&n
bsp; “That won’t happen, not until the entire planet has been processed.”

  Church shook his head. “Who thinks of something like this?”

  “We were asked to design a new type of interrogation protocol. Something untraceable that could be controlled and deployed with utmost efficiency and guarantee success. I’m sure you’d agree—we achieved the goals of this project.”

  “Untraceable?”

  Starling nodded. “The control unit has the ability to send a terminate signal. Once received, the MBs would instantly deactivate themselves, rendering them inert. The subject would then pass them through the urinary tract, leaving no residual trace behind.”

  Church stared at Alvarez. He looked dumbfounded.

  “Then seventy-five percent is the max,” Alvarez said, holding the device over the prisoner’s left thigh. “I wonder if there are any cancer cells in his leg?”

  “Stop! Stop! I’ll tell you what you want to know,” the bald insurgent said from his kneeling position behind the general.

  19

  Lucas studied the dirt, grime, and bug remains dotting the windshield of Rocket’s pickup, wondering how often Masago’s brother washed the mammoth truck. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t about failing to take care of a possession, but rather a result of living in the desert where dirt and dust are a constant problem. It wouldn’t make much sense to try to keep a vehicle clean, because the minute you took off after a wash, the truck would be dirty again.

  He rolled his head to the right, looking at Kleezebee’s taped-off apartment building and the safety barricades protecting the property. He scratched the skin on his neck just underneath the collar of the Smart Skin Suit hidden under his clothes.

  “You’re stalling,” Masago said in the driver’s seat next to him. “You need to make a decision. We can’t just sit here all day.”

  Lucas used his right hand to spin the paracord bracelet around on his left wrist like a number wheel at a carnival. “I’m not sure it’s worth the effort.”

  “It’ll only take a few minutes.”