Operation Blackout

by J. L. Middleton

  “As you can see, we’ve set up quite the feast,” Jack continued in his gentlemanly manner, this time addressing Orion directly, and Connor took the opportunity to steal a look at his partner. Nothing about Orion’s manner implied he recognized the stranger, but he couldn’t miss the family resemblance and the younger man’s brow was beaded with sweat despite holding his ground.

  “Your sister gave us an idea of what you might like.” The quality of Jack’s smile transformed from hospitable to benevolent. “I’m not as savage as my reputation suggests,” he asserted, prompting Connor to question the man’s identity. It was clear from the kidnapping and warehouse arrangements that the man was a professional criminal, but he would have recognized his face if he’d been on the evening news. “In your case, I believe a final meal is appropriate.”

  Connor turned to his partner in disbelief. “You knew it was a trap,” he deduced, and suddenly, his reluctance to formulate an appropriate plan made sense. However, Orion shook his head fervently; the sudden look of fear on his face indicated that he had been just as unaware of their captor’s final plan for the evening.

  “Ah, no, he did not,” Jack interjected, “and I apologize, Agent Connor. I didn’t know you would be joining us tonight, or I would have accounted for you as well.” He bowed his head in regret, and Connor felt a twinge of fear, as if the handsome man’s metaphysical gravity had intensified and his simple words had contained a cryptic threat. “Pity, since our arrangement was only just beginning to bear fruit…”

  Now it was Orion’s turn to regard his partner with dread. “What are you going on about?” Connor demanded. His mind swirled with an overabundance of questions that this interaction had raised: Why had a hallucination conjured the image of a real person? Did anything else that he’d seen have any bearing on reality? Why did this man seem to know who he was? What insight skulked in the shadows of his own mind?

  He did not have long to ponder these alarming thoughts, as Jack continued seamlessly and with elegance, as if Connor had never interrupted him. “Now, now, there’s no point in standing on ceremony at this juncture,” he said, striding toward the set table; the reluctant waiter automatically pulled out a chair, his face revealing the apprehensive respect that he had for his boss. “The two of you will be dead soon, and I doubt you want to spend your last minutes gaping at one another. This food is quite sumptuous, and I’d hate to see it wasted on this lot.” He briefly gestured toward his underlings and his contempt for them had crept into his voice with this last comment, but it was easy to overlook due to the congenial demeanor he employed. “So please, have a seat, and enjoy yourselves.”

  Orion swallowed; he was surprisingly resolute as he spoke, drawing on that same hidden reserve. “I only came for my sister. I’d like to see her.”

  “Yes, of course, but we don’t have to get down to business just yet,” Jack suggested affably. “I’m sure neither of you have eaten, knowing your schedules, and a short delay won’t affect the proceedings.” He shook his head regretfully. “I didn’t take your sister into account either, but that omission was by design.”

  “Please,” Orion replied firmly, though Connor detected a slight tremble.

  Jack nodded affably. “As you wish,” he conceded with a dash of disappointment. “Graves,” he bellowed. Seconds later, Cassie was led out by a dour-faced man who kept his meaty fingers lodged in her shoulder. She was wan, her eyes were downcast, and though she perked up when she laid her eyes on her brother, melancholy still clung to her. Her eyes flitted toward Connor, pleading with him to act, to interfere, and when he appeared unable to help, she chewed her lower lip as her mind turned to devising its own plan.

  “Cassie!” Orion shouted, smiling for her benefit. “Don’t worry,” he added reassuringly. She shook her head, seemingly as a warning, but she spoke only his name in response, forcibly remaining with her guard.

  “As you can see, the girl is alive and mostly unharmed,” the handsome man stated, closing the distance between them again. The lanky man holding Connor took a step back, dragging him with him, and Jack shed a kind smile as he stood toe to toe with Orion. “All that is required for her to remain that way is one little thing from you…” He reached upward, seizing the younger man by the throat, and squeezed it like he intended to wring blood from a stone. Orion grasped the man’s forearm with both fists, clawing at them as he tried to pry open his grip. The air moved around them, darkening distinctly as its flow circled Orion like water caught in a whirlpool, and then it surged toward his assailant, who seemed to absorb the strange breeze through his pores as it streamed around him and disappeared. “Don’t struggle,” Jack told him in his charming voice. “It’ll only hurt more if you do, and this needn’t be messier than required.”

  Cassie screamed in furious grief, reaching toward her brother, and Graves dug his fingers deeper into her shoulder, splitting the space between her clavicle and her rib cage. She gritted her teeth and grabbed his hand as she appeared to consider fighting, only to reassess her options at the last moment.

  The plastic slats hanging far above them splintered, freeing the heat and light of the filaments within, and they converged on one point—the grapple at the center of the warehouse. With independent illumination gone and his eyes slowly adjusting to the now dim conditions, Connor found it difficult to follow the ensuing action. While the plasma appeared to strike true, there was no subsequent inferno to confirm success; rather, the flames snuffed out, leaving them in abject darkness, and Cassie screamed again, this time emitting an overwrought wail.

  Connor’s guard was disoriented by his lack of sight, but he, having learned his lesson, did not try to attack his captor directly. Instead, he wrenched in such an angle that his guard’s unprepared hand could not keep its rigid grip, and he ducked before the lanky man’s blind pawing could capture him again. Connor had little time to formulate a plan and, knowing from the aches in his body that he could not put up another fight while disarmed, he did the one thing he thought would help. He reached into his pocket, retrieving the small Zippo lighter that had resided there since he’d first met the Starrs, and he snapped the flint wheel, giving its sparks life. The fueled flame grew, bursting from the eyelet like a newborn sun, and encircled the warehouse like a hungry wolf stalking its prey before its final strike. He could feel the flames licking his skin and the heat flashing across his face, but as the fire engulfed their captors, he felt no pain nor even sympathy as he heard their panicked cries in the dancing light.

  - - -

  Orion was engulfed in incomprehensible pain; he could feel the necrosis of his cells as some intangible part of their cores was being torn from them. He tried to resist the attack, reaching deep inside himself to hasten cell division to replenish the deceased ones and to monitor the replacements for detrimental mutations. While this stemmed the tide, his strength would not last; the agony grew with each evaporated bond.

  He heard his sister scream, and her expressed pain bolstered his resolve; he was the only family she had left, so he had to survive to protect her. He was cognizant of his own essence at the cellular level and could normally sense those around him. Now locked in a deadly dance, he’d become isolated from the others but not Jack Everest: As the older man used his ability to detach Orion from the world, forcing a disturbing intimacy between them, he also exposed himself to easier biological manipulation, and while Orion might not comprehend the reality of what was happening to him, he could still defend himself.

  His connection to his ability was intensified by the isolation, and with it, he reached deep inside Jack’s body, passing through his flesh and veins to his heart. The vital organ was sturdy, beating like a war drum, and Orion arrested its electrical impulses so that the muscle would remain in contraction, but the heart resisted and continued on like a coursing river. He tried again, this time weakening a tiny section of the aortic wall to allow it to bulg
e and eventually burst from arterial pressure, but his victory was again denied: The wall repaired itself, returning to normal as if he’d made no incursion.

  He felt the kiss of scorching heat, and a flicker of bright light flashed across his distant vision, but his mind was focused elsewhere and was soon distracted by pinpricks joining the subjugation of his cells, making him feel like he was composed of static and white noise. None of this mattered as he probed desperately for a weakness in the notable hardiness of his foe.

  Jack’s constant barrage eroded Orion’s strength and stripped him of his life; his body mass had decreased by nearly a quarter, consumed like the outer layers of a star being siphoned by a black hole. Despite his resolve to survive for his sister’s sake, he knew that he would not last much longer, and his determination to wreak revenge deepened.

  If he could not attack the cells, perhaps he could turn them against their master; he redirected his efforts to smaller dimensions, diving deep into Jack’s bone marrow. Being the blueprint of the body, DNA was resistant to direct alteration, with the exception of the faulty copies made during cell division. It was here that Orion focused, attempting to short-circuit the hematopoiesis process by speeding up cell reproduction and increasing the chances of a malignant error occurring during duplication. It was a difficult task to complete successfully, but the result should synergize with his attacker’s extraordinary ability and ultimately destabilize the healing process.

  As Orion felt the last of his consciousness buckle under the onslaught, he was blessed by one final bright point: His leukemic cells were being accepted by Jack’s body, and the cancerous agents had been released into his bloodstream. Jack’s inhuman regeneration, recognizing the dangers the insidious cells posed, attempted to attack them while producing faulty replacements. Knowing this chain would cascade out of control now that the metastatic process had commenced, Orion relinquished his willpower and let the last of his substance be absorbed.

  - - -

  A single column of white-hot flame burning as brightly as the sun was the sole source of illumination now that the fixtures had been shattered, and stillness had descended on the warehouse. The other men had died from various degrees of burns, save for the one presently burning like a candle, and Connor sought to end his misery with a bullet. He picked up a discarded weapon—it might have been his, but it could just as easily have been one of theirs—and shot squarely into the glowing pillar at approximately chest level. The intense heat was a shield, destroying the bullet before it penetrated the outer layer, but the inferno soon died, and Graves’ corpse toppled to the ground. He was not blackened as Connor expected; rather, he was covered in a disgusting, thick, semitransparent substance that dissolved once the column dissipated. The man’s nose and mouth were scorched, and some sort of dried white substance dotted the latter; these were the only outward signs of his demise.

  Connor initially spared no thought for Cassie, as the girl had demonstrated remarkable resilience in the past, but he knew that assumptions would only lead to catastrophe, and he could afford a second to check on her. He was immediately glad that he did, noting her pale face and wide eyes. She did not move, except to sink to her knees and whisper silently to herself. He patted her gently, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly, and then her allotted time ended. He could not comfort her when her brother was still in danger.

  Muted light shrouded the murky scene and prevented Connor from taking precise aim. He could make out the white of Orion’s teeth, bared like those of a cornered animal and its stretched width advancing toward rictus proportions. The younger man shriveled, becoming even thinner—almost emaciated—and the shadows continued to eddy around them. Connor acted decisively, aiming for center mass, and emptied his magazine into the dark. He disregarded bystander safety, certain that Orion could heal their wounds, but he was disappointed to hear the sharp ping of ricocheted bullets skipping off distant metal.

  Connor might as well not have tried to interfere, as Jack casually discarded Orion’s newly desiccated corpse, dropping it at his feet as if it were no more than a disposable wrapper. Connor felt nauseous; he could not even recognize his partner. The dangerous blond grinned devilishly as he turned his attention to his remaining audience. He regarded the scattered corpses of his deceased gang impassively, as if their deaths were no more than an irksome inconvenience. “What a waste,” he observed, his charming veneer reestablished by his urbane mannerisms. “Graves and Javier had such useful talents.” He shook his head regretfully. “Ah, well. That’s what I get for trying to have my cake and eat it, too.” He chuckled politely, as if the joke had been told at a society dinner rather than at the scene of mass death.

  Jack stole a glance at Cassie, noting her dispirited form crumpled in front of Graves’ untouched body. She had not moved since Connor had checked on her, and she seemed no closer to cognizance of their present situation. The blond turned back to Connor, asking brightly, “Which of you would like to be next?” His eyes slipped down to Connor’s hands, and though he would have bluffed, the empty slide locked to the rear denounced him before he had a chance. Jack looked back up, meeting Connor’s gaze meaningfully. “You or the girl? I’m afraid I cannot let…”

  He trailed off, suddenly losing his staunch footing, and he wobbled slightly as a new shadow formed over his features. He inhaled deeply, clutched his chest momentarily, and then reclaimed his civility and charismatic smile. “Pardon me. Perhaps it’s indigestion,” he continued, making light of the situation despite being faintly unnerved. “As I was saying, I’m afraid—” This time, he could not disguise his distress as a wave of unexpected exhaustion spread over him, and he stumbled, finally taking a dignified knee, as he addressed his inner turmoil. Abnormal masses bubbled to the surface, manifesting as tiny, irregular growths, and they spread through his veins like metastasizing vessels. Jack cringed as he tried to regain his footing, placing the majority of his weight on his supporting leg, but he did not move, instead becoming sheet white as the effort drained the blood from his formerly handsome face. Lurching forward, he made another attempt that ended in disappointment and a violent coughing fit. Despite his determination, Jack could not make it to his feet, but though he fell prone, he did not surrender. His pain seemed to fuel his willpower, bolstering his effort, and he crawled toward Connor.

  Whatever malady afflicted Jack, its uncontrolled proliferation fed on his insides and birthed its offspring as identifiable tumors. The agent watched him, mesmerized by horror, as he inched forward. Instinctual desire to avoid disease broke the spell over Connor, and he retreated prudently, keeping an adequate distance between himself and the suffering man. The invasion swallowed healthy skin, warping and converting its surface until Jack Everest became unrecognizable. It sapped his strength, for he no longer made any meaningful progress, and when he fell, he did not raise his head again. He convulsed briefly and then lay still, expelling his last breath in a rasping croak.

  Connor watched the fallen man for several minutes, telling himself that he was confirming his inertness, and then he roused himself to action. Claiming a new pistol from one of the other goons, he approached the corpse cautiously and emptied the entire magazine into the back of Jack’s skull, hoping that this time, it would make a difference. The bone shattered, splattering blood and hair, and he heard a satisfying, solid impact with flesh and the floor beneath it. He didn’t know what had occurred previously— there were no entry or exit wounds in Jack’s torso—but he knew that he couldn’t have missed that many shots. He tossed the useless weapon aside, letting it clatter to the cement, and moved to his next task unenthusiastically.

  He knelt beside Orion’s crumpled form. His resolve faltered, his mind treacherously evoking ancient memories he’d rather remained buried, but he forged ahead, angrily banishing thoughts of Stern’s death and any associated emotions. He needed to focus now. Though his partner’s flesh felt like parchment, Conn
or optimistically felt for a pulse. But there was nothing—not even a feeble beat. He rested on his haunches, sighed deeply, and closed his eyes. Perhaps the miraculous resurrection at Primrose had been only an illusion caused by high emotions, but he nevertheless prayed for an encore.

  - - -

  This time, there was no lingering in the mist. Orion’s sister led him gently yet firmly down the now familiar path toward Bay Ridge, and he was not disturbed to see its dark profile take shape and its gray stone steps appear beneath his feet. Nevertheless, its entrance was foreboding, and he used every ounce of his sister’s reassurance to enter its dark mouth.

  The atmosphere of his former home was dark and oppressive, and he struggled to find the light switch, only to realize that muscle memory was dictating its position as far higher than it was in reality. Once he recognized that he was an adult and not a toddler, it was easy to locate the toggle, and the overhead fixture illuminated the living room, although it did not lift the mood.

  Orion’s heart stopped, and he froze as he beheld his otherworldly apparition in full light. The young woman couldn’t be much older than he was now, but the copious blood that obscured her recently hardened features accumulated in the dirty lines of her face and attempted to give it new contours. Her ear had been sliced away, attached by only a thin layer of skin that had been filleted from her skull. He could see now that she had defensive wounds on her forearms and hands—chunks of flesh that had been raked by a cleaver or other sharp implement—and she was entirely naked, as if she’d disrobed willingly. Her exposed body was not yet bony, the streets having only begun to work their famine on her, and it revealed stretch marks and scars that hinted at her personal history. One eye was swollen, attempting to protect itself from her shattered cheekbone, while the other possessed a profound sadness.