As the Worm Turns

by Matthew Quinn Martin

  She swallowed the thought, bricking it up deep inside. She leaned over the hump of breathing fur that was Blood and flicked a bit of ash off of Jack’s shoulder. It left a slight white smear on the plaid fabric. “You look good, you know. Like you could be on a roll of paper towels.”

  Jack smiled slightly. It had been her idea to jettison his bevy of uniform disguises. He’d only owned uniforms when she’d met him. It had taken some time for him to look even remotely comfortable in civilian clothes, but he was coming around. She hoped that someday he’d also begin to relax into his own skin. And she wondered what that would be like for him, for them both.

  Over the past ten months, she’d learned a lot about how Jack’s weapons—also her weapons now—were constructed and maintained. She’d learned how to fashion auto-snares—devices that could decapitate with a simple flick of the wrist—out of wind-up alarm clocks and titanium fishing leader. She knew how to modify an ordinary paintball gun into one that could fire the magnesium and sodium silver-nitrate pellets that delivered instant death to those creatures.

  But of Jack Jackson—and of what lie beneath his battle-hardened, battle-scarred shell—she still knew very little. He was as blank as the hands he still routinely burned the fingerprints off of. The closest thing to human she ever saw in him was the fear and the pain he tried to hide from everyone, even her. Sometimes she’d catch glimpses of the man he must have been back then, the contented high school science teacher with dreams that scarcely stretched past his modest backyard.

  She looked at Jack’s face in the flickering light. She shifted her gaze to Blood, sitting obediently next to his master, panting in the August night. She could almost see herself in the picture, all three of them watching the flames crack firefly embers into the dark, where they would float high before winking into nothing. It was postcard-perfect. Just a man, a woman, and their happy, tail-wagging best friend.

  Beth was struck by the fundamental unfairness of it all. Why couldn’t this have been real? Why couldn’t they just be a couple with their dog, escaping the city’s oppressive heat for a cool evening out in the woods? Was this how it was going to be? Was she going to spend the rest of her life—however short that might turn out to be—like Jack? Like some medieval anchorite walled off from the rest of the world and given over to a life of nothing but sacrifice?

  And even as the question echoed in her head, she knew the answer. It was yes. It was yes because someone had to do it. As if he could read her mind, Jack laid one comforting hand on her shoulder. It was an unconscious gesture on his part but a much-needed one. Blood shook himself up and trotted off into the tent, where he would soon settle down, as usual, between Beth’s sleeping bag and Jack’s. “Think he’s telling us it’s bedtime.”

  “Not yet,” she said. “Let’s just watch the fire and pretend.”

  “Pretend what?”

  “Pretend that we’re not us.”

  “Okay.” Jack nodded. “Who are we, then?”

  “Anyone.” Beth drifted closer to Jack, tentative at first but finally allowing herself to lean against him. She felt his slow breathing against her skin, level as it always was. And she heard the faraway beat of his heart—thump-thump, thump-thump—and tried not to think about the nightmares to come.

  Three

  NEW HARBOR, CONNECTICUT

  Ashland Thorne did her best to keep from smacking face-first into the taxi’s Plexiglas partition. The car had turned off of one of the city’s smooth central roads and onto one that was more pothole than pavement.

  “Sure this is where you want to go, lady?” asked the cabbie. “This is the Docklands.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she answered as she smoothed down the front of her gray Dior skirt.

  They cruised by a couple of roughnecks sitting astride BMX bikes, passing a brown-bagged bottle between them. Thorne felt that the moment they’d passed from under the shadow of the last University building, they’d entered the Third World, and these were the checkpoint guards.

  She pushed back an errant wisp of baby-fine blond hair that had escaped her glossy bun. She flexed and admired the curve of one calf. She was peacock-proud of her figure, her legs especially. Many cocktails had been sent her way over the years by men in pursuit of a better glimpse at those legs. They’d guzzle their own drinks with abandon as they no doubt fantasized about how the silk-soft skin of her inner things would feel clasped tightly around their waists, the pleasure it would bring. Her pleasure came from watching those same men sullenly drink away the rest of the night when it finally dawned on them that they would never know.

  The car rolled by a row of abandoned factories sitting on dusty lots, their windows dark and empty. Graffiti marred nearly every paintable surface. Hard to believe such a place could exist just a few blocks from the opulence of the University. On their way here, they’d driven past the ivy-clad quads, most of which she’d gotten to know back when she herself had been a student.

  The campus stood deserted now, of course. All the students back home or summering on Martha’s Vineyard or Catalina Island or wherever it was fashionable for families who’d sent their legacies to the University to summer this year. And for the next three weeks, the campus belonged to the grounds crews, the sanitation workers, the maintenance teams, and the rest of the invisibles.

  “Look, lady. The Docklands are no joke,” the cabbie continued, undaunted. “War zone out here. Wouldn’t let my dog walk down this street without a police escort.”

  Thorne looked up and smiled. “Please stop talking.”

  The cabbie shot her a loathing glare in the rearview mirror. He opened his mouth, retort ready, but then just as quickly shut it. Grumbling, he hit a button, and the doors locked with an electric clack.

  Thorne was happy for the quiet. On the ride over, the cabbie had related some gossip about how a nightclub called Axis had collapsed into a heap of rubble the previous fall and how there was more to the story than you were going to get from the “lame-stream” media. It was the government, he’d said, and they were in it with the “towelheads,” adding “fuckin’ sand niggers” under his breath. Apparently, saying “towelhead” to a total stranger was hunky-dory in his book, but the man had to draw the line someplace, and “sand niggers” was where he’d decided to drag the chalk.

  Of course, the cabbie had a point, even if he didn’t realize it. There was more to that explosion than the official story. Why else would Thorne be here? Why else would the Division be here? The government, however, had nothing to do with it. The government had a hard enough time tying its collective shoelaces. Even her father would have admitted that, if only to his chummier Senate colleagues as they tossed back postsession bourbon derbies.

  The cab turned left down another deserted street. Through the fly-specked window, Thorne spotted a fleet of box trailers secured behind a fifteen-foot-high barricade of concertina wire-topped chain link. High-powered arc-sodium lamps hovered above everything, cranked up on telescoping towers.

  “Here,” she said.

  The cabbie pulled over, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. “What is this? Some kind of movie set?”

  Thorne paid the fare without answering. Let one more mystery rattle around the cabbie’s mental junk drawer along with whatever other conspiracies kept him up at night.

  She headed toward the compound, her heels digging decisive divots into the sandy earth. She’d made it almost all the way to the main gate before she was intercepted by a hulk of a man in a gray suit just a shade lighter than her own. His salt-and-pepper hair was a thick brush that looked as if it could have been used to polish shoes. Thorne pegged him for ex-military at a glance. “Sorry, ma’am. Restricted area.”

  “I’d hope so.” She flashed a stern smile and pulled out her Division ID. Stamped under her name and photo was a security clearance she guessed was more than a few levels higher than this man’s own.

  “Sorry, Agent Thorne.” Embarrassment bloomed crimson in both cheeks.

  �
�I’m surprised you weren’t told to expect me.”

  “We were.” The blush deepened to plum. It was almost charming. “We just weren’t expecting . . .” He gestured to her slim but curvy form, which her hand-tailored suit accentuated rather than hid. The meaning was clear. For a detail like this one, they were expecting a man. “Ashland,” he added, covering. “It’s one of those names, you know.”

  She did know. “It’s a family name.” She hoped that would spare them any more awkward chitchat. “My father was set on it no matter which type of genitalia came as standard equipment. Shall we?”

  He nodded, and they headed in through the gateway. A pillbox guard watched them with the relaxed detachment that only a trained sniper could pull off. “I’m Bruno, by the way.” Her escort offered his meaty hand to her. “Bruno Lamb.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Agent Lamb.” Thorne put just enough practiced stress on the word agent to let him know that if he was hoping for any extraprofessional activities, he’d best look elsewhere.

  “It’s a compact detail.” Lamb nodded to the various RV trailers and box trucks. “Twenty-five agents—twenty-six now that you’re here—most in a support capacity. Cover story is that we’re here working for a real estate development conglomerate. Not that we have to use the story much—not too many people come down to this part of town. Except to buy heroin.”

  Lamb grinned again, more embarrassment than charm in it this time. “That’s the mess over there. No set mealtimes. Just pop in when you’re hungry. And that’s the honey wagon.” He flicked a glance to a small trailer set far back on the lot. Next, he pointed to a pair of RVs. “Those are the general barracks. Of course, you’ve got one of the executive suites over on the other side of the compound. I’ll take you there now. I imagine you’d like to settle in.”

  “I’d prefer to report to Agent Ross first.”

  Lamb clapped a hand to his neck and rubbed as if he could loosen the right words. “Agent Ross gave orders that you are to be briefed at midnight.”

  “Midnight?” Thorne glanced at her Patek Philippe. It was 11:48 A.M.

  “I know,” Agent Lamb said. “I know. He’s been keeping odd hours.” He cocked his head slightly and took her gently by the elbow, close enough to speak sotto voce. “What have you heard about Agent Ross?”

  “Just that he’s the agent in command for this detail,” she lied. She’d heard a lot more than that he was the AIC. Basil Ross was a man whose reputation not only preceded him but practically laid waste to all others. If half the whispered rumors she’d heard were true, this might end up being her highest-profile assignment to date. Or her last.

  However, she wasn’t about to get into a round of water-cooler gossip with an ex-jarhead five clearance levels her junior. “Is that all?”

  Lamb offered a weary grin that told her he knew the name of this game. “Fair enough. Just . . .” He looked both ways, making sure they were alone. “Just don’t let him get inside your head, okay? He likes to do that. I think he lives for it, really.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement, Agent Lamb. Now, if you please, I believe I would like to settle in.”

  “Of course.” He nodded, turned briskly to his left, and continued on.

  As they strode past the general barracks, Thorne caught sight of a tented-over structure. Four agents stood around it, all armed with AR-15s hanging from three-point slings. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “That . . .” Again the neck rub. “Is where we found it.”

  A figure emerged from the Velcroed flap of the high silver dome. He was wearing an airtight isolation suit, oxygen tank strapped to his back to feed a breathing regulator. Thorne’s hand went reflexively to her throat. “Found what, exactly?”

  Lamb simply shrugged. “Sorry. Above my pay grade. You’ll have to let Ross explain it to you. Those are your quarters. Two down, then left.” He pointed to an RV trailer only distinguishable from the others by the number of doors on the side that faced them. And with that, Lamb left her.

  Four

  WEATHERFORD, KENTUCKY

  The veterinarian’s office was small, little more than a brick shack on the outskirts of what the locals overgenerously referred to as “town.” Jack had left the truck parked deep in the woods almost a mile down the road. Beth and Blood were back at the camp, breaking it down. She was, at least. By dawn, Weatherford would be history, but not before Jack took care of one last detail.

  The office’s front door was locked and alarmed, the windows all barred by steel grating. But the lone air-conditioning unit, the one at the back of the single-story building, had been secured with nothing more than four masonry bolts and two flimsy brackets screwed into a deck of cheap pressboard.

  Jack was inside in less than five minutes.

  He looked around. The stale air was rank with ammonia. He stifled a cough as he let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The moon was still up, and what light filtered through the windows would be adequate. No need to risk drawing the attention of any passing motorists with a flashlight.

  His hand brushed against the vial of venom tucked into the front pocket of his Carhartts. A tremor shuddered through his body. All night, all yesterday, the venom had called out to him. Whispering, I’m here now, Jack. Nothing left to fear. I’m here for you. I’ve always been here for you. Always, ever since that first night.

  “Liar.”

  Jack wasn’t sure if he’d spoken that aloud or if the word simply echoed emptily in his mind. He shook his head and stole past the steel-and-glass cabinet set against the back wall. Like the front door, it had been barred with a length of steel and secured with heavy padlocks at both hasps. Inside sat row after row of medicine bottles. Antibiotics, tranquilizers, painkillers, and so on.

  For just about any burglar, this stash would be the primary target. But Jack wasn’t here to stock up on pharmaceuticals. He walked past with little more than a cursory glance. His target was the small windowless room in the middle of the building, and he went right to it.

  He closed the door behind him. It latched with a soft click. A bank of fluorescents flickered to life above him at the flick of a switch. He sat down on the vinyl examination table and reached gently into his pocket. He gripped the venom tightly, waiting for the shaking to subside. It had been months since he’d danced with the creature’s beautiful-horrible neurotoxin. The shaking had started shortly after and only gotten worse.

  He knew the symptoms of withdrawal, even if—like addicts the world over—he’d denied them. Shakes, night sweats, chills, anxiety, nausea. The venom’s brief euphoria was counterbalanced by a harrowing paralysis so brutal he’d never imagined that coming off of it completely could possibly be any worse. But it had been—infinitely so.

  What little venom he’d had on him back in New Harbor, stretched thin and rationed, ran dry long ago. And last night, even as he put himself out as bait for the creature, a small part of him wished that the thing would manage a strike first. Foolishness, but the wish had been there just the same. He set the vial down on the steel table across from him. Reluctant to leave it there, he whispered, “Later.”

  The X-ray machine seemed simple enough, nothing but an articulated camera arm tethered to an unassuming flat-screen monitor by ganglia of gray cabling. He’d come prepared, already having read a download of the system’s operating manual. It would be easy enough. Anyone with an above-average level of reading comprehension could operate the thing, it seemed.

  He’d told Beth he needed to run a few tests. And while that was true, he’d let her assume that those tests would be on the venom—which was not true. It wasn’t exactly a lie, just an omission. So much of Jack’s life had been about making an end run around the truth, why should this time be any different? Perhaps after tonight, he’d reexamine that policy, but not now. Not here.

  Jack felt a pinch in his chest. It poked him square in the sternum like a reminding finger. He coughed, catching it with his fist, and then looked down to see his knuckles flecke
d with red. He could lie to the world. He could lie to Beth. He could even lie to himself most of the time. But his body had called his bluff. There was no ignoring what those flecks of red meant.

  He shook his head. Even back in New Harbor, he’d noticed his breath growing shorter. At the time, he’d chalked it up to aging. He was only thirty-seven, but over a decade of those years had been lived hard. He’d hoped the symptoms would disappear, but that same racking wheeze had clutched his chest more and more often as the months passed.

  Jack stripped off his shirt and let it drop to the floor. He lay down on the short industrial table, one not built for the human body, letting his legs dangle over the edge. Then he positioned the camera. It didn’t take long. Within minutes, he’d covered every possible angle. Soon, sooner than he would have wanted, he was looking at the monitor—and the inside of his chest.

  Strangely, his fear was gone. It was as if it had been replaced by the images themselves. Jack had always been a firm believer that the unknown was more terrifying than any knowledge could ever be—even if that knowledge meant that you were staring at your own death in grim black-and-white.

  Jack leaned closer to the screen. Trapped inside his rib cage were two spectral clusters, one on each side, one for each lung. They hovered there, trailing wispy vines and clumps of bright globules.

  Cancer.

  He’d always figured it would be one of the creatures that finally got him. That he’d die paralyzed by the neurotoxin he so craved while they fed on his lifeblood. Not that so ordinary a vampire as lung cancer would suck the life from him. And not that it would all be because of the snap-vial gas that he himself had helped create. The gas—it was the only answer. He’d been breathing the toxic chemicals for almost a decade. He’d relied on it to see through the creatures’ illusions. He’d needed it to fight them. And he’d been a fool to think there wouldn’t be a price to pay for that down the line. There was always a price to pay. He could almost laugh. The gas had saved his life many times over, only to now rip it from him one breath at a time.