by David Beers
Two died face down at their desk. The other fell at a urinal, his skull cracking on the porcelain. Blood trickled onto the floor, the urinal above still flushing.
The 150 cars that had been outfitted with the gas ended up affecting over 900 employees, 63 emergency personnel, 159 contractors, and 43 children.
The death rate was 83%, with the emergency personnel pushing that number down, given their training. The highest rate of death was in the children’s population.
Throughout the building, people lay shivering and shaking on the carpeted floors. They drooled, urinated, and defecated on themselves as they lost all control over their bodily functions. They suffocated in large spasms, their bodies jerking as if some invisible force moved them at will.
By the time medical professionals arrived with the correct gear to help, there wasn’t much they could do, other than quarantine the area.
Even Director Alan Waverly was finally affected, the poison not limited by badges or secret elevators that only he could access. The alarm system started five minutes before he was infected, but at that point, no one knew exactly what was happening. Some medical professionals suspected—but no sarin experts had yet arrived, and the etiology of the attack had not yet been identified.
Waverly’s chest tightened, just as those of the employees below him. His nose ran. He felt his arms begin twitching, and then he collapsed on the floor. His assistant rushed to him, infecting herself as well, and before too long, she was lying next to her boss, both of their bodies doing the jitterbug.
THE PLANE FLEW over the midwest desert, its occupants heading for the east coast.
“Will you turn it off, please?”
Veronica did as Tommy asked, hitting the button on the remote and killing the television. It had been on the news and Tommy didn’t want to watch any more of it. Everything he needed was feeding into the computer on his lap, and listening to the talking heads go on and on about the attack did nothing for him.
“What happened to him last night?” Tommy whispered.
Christian sat across from Tommy, just as he had on the first plane ride across the desert. Now, though, his eyes were closed; he had retreated into his mansion, not offering any reason or motive. He simply sat down on the plane and closed his eyes. Even the plane’s take off hadn’t jolted him from wherever he had gone.
“Nothing. We talked a bit before bed, then I fell asleep.”
“You didn’t hear any of his conversation with Luke?”
Veronica shook her head.
No one had slept since Christian woke them, alerting them to Luke’s new threat. They had been preparing all morning, and in the end, no one ever had a chance. The death toll was rising by the minute, those that the sarin had poisoned but not killed dying in the hospital.
“Then what is this about?” Tommy said, glancing at Christian before returning his eyes back to Veronica.
“How do I know, Tommy? I’ve seen what you’ve seen. Nothing else.”
Tommy stared at her, his gaze that of old—a detective knowing he was being bullshitted.
“When we came out here,” he said, “your attitude had changed. I saw you 30 minutes before we left, and you were happy. By the time we boarded the plane, you were different. What happened in those 30 minutes, Veronica? Don’t lie to me again. You asked me to share with you, and I did. Now it’s your turn, because this is important.”
Veronica looked down at her own computer. Tears were in her eyes, but Tommy couldn’t wipe them away. He wouldn’t have, though. He would have let her cry until she spilled her guts.
“Veronica. What happened before the plane ride?”
She closed her eyes and a tear fell out. “He said I could tell you when the time was right, but it isn’t, Tommy. He isn’t going to do it.”
“Do what?”
She opened her eyes and Tommy saw fire in them. “Why? Why are you making me betray his trust?”
“Look at him. Do you think he’s okay right now? Whatever he told you, he’s kept it from Waverly, and more importantly, he’s kept it from me. No one, goddamn no one, has lost as much as I have. So for him to keep it from me is fucking nonsense. For you to keep it from me is nonsense. Whatever he’s hiding, it has material bearing on this case, doesn’t it?”
She said nothing.
“Doesn’t it?” Tommy asked with as much force as he could.
Veronica nodded.
“Exactly. Now tell me what he said.”
She stared for a few more seconds, but Tommy saw her walls crumbling. Whether it was from their conversation about black clouds and suicide, or his current plea, he didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Luke told him that if he killed us—you, me, and Waverly—that Luke would turn himself in. That all of this would stop if he killed us three.”
“Jesus Christ,” Tommy whispered, closing his own eyes. That’s why Christian went into his mansion, why he hadn’t said a word since everything happened this morning. Because he thought he could have stopped it, and all he needed to do was murder his friends. “Jesus Christ,” Tommy said again. The full weight finally hitting him.
“What are you going to do?”
Tommy was quiet for a long time.
“I don’t know yet.”
CHRISTIAN WATCHES Luke when Luke was but a boy.
A week has passed since the cathedral burnt nearly to the ground. The fire department arrived late, and their equipment wasn’t modern enough to put out the blaze.
The preacher man was admitted to the hospital, his lungs full of smoke.
Now it’s a week later, and he is standing on the cracked stoop of Luke’s house.
Luke is walking down the street. His book bag on his back, his brother walks to his left.
“Stop,” he says as he sees the preacher man. He’s pale and sickly looking, but there all the same. His brother listens to him, knowing that when Luke speaks, he’s never wrong. If Luke wants him to stop, then he best do it.
“Listen to me,” Luke says, his eyes not leaving the preacher man. “I want you to go back to school. Go and tell whoever is there that you need to study some more. I’ll come get you, but don’t come back home until I’m with you, okay?” He doesn’t look at his brother as he speaks.
“Okay, Luke … What’s wrong? Why’s Father Marquez at our house?”
“Just go, Mark,” Luke says. “I’ll come get you soon.”
His brother turns and leaves; Luke stands for a few minutes, letting Mark get further away. Whatever will happen, he doesn’t want his younger brother to see it. The preacher man doesn’t drop his gaze, but seems to understand what Luke is doing and is okay with it.
Finally, the priest nods. Luke doesn’t turn around; he knows what the preacher man is saying. It’s time.
And, so it is. Luke continues his walk up the street, turning right at the dirt driveway that contains no car.
“The wayward son,” the preacher man says as Luke approaches the stoop. “Returned home.”
Two men step out from behind Marquez. They’re large, Mexican and angry looking. They move to Luke without pausing, having obviously been waiting for him to arrive. Each grabs an arm, and although he is not resisting, they drag him up the steps. They simply want to be rough. The preacher man steps to the side, and they rush him into the house.
Christian watches Luke’s face as he sees his mother on the couch.
She’s hog-tied, her arms and legs fastened together. Blood is smeared across her cheeks. Her face is on the couch and her behind in the air.
Luke’s eyes widen at first, but he quickly gains control of himself. He knows surprise is what they want to see. Anger. Hatred. Fear. Pleading. Emotions that he will not give them, because Luke knows it won’t save his mother’s life. Even at this young age, Luke knows victims do not walk away from situations like these. Luke is certain his mother’s life is over, and his most likely, too.
“Sit him down,” the priest says.
The strong men do as
they’re told.
Marquez moves between Luke and his mother, cutting off the boy’s line of sight.
“You burnt my church down, son,” the preacher man says. One of the strong men moves away from Luke and grabs a chair from across the room. He pulls it over, placing it just behind Marquez. “Did you think there would be no consequences? Did you think you could do that and I would simply … what?” The preacher man looks around as if searching for an answer in the air. “Just go away?”
He sighs and looks back at Luke.
“No, son. No, no, no. Do you know how many years I’ve been in this town, collecting payments for people's souls? Forty-two years. I’m 64 years old, and one does not make it to this age by simply allowing any newcomer to shove them around.” He paused and looked at the strong man behind Luke, a smile on the priest’s face. “Though, I must admit, no one has tried doing it exactly as you have, nor for such foolish reasons. You burned down my church over what? A few thousand pesos each year?”
The priest spits on the ground and then looks back at Luke.
“A few thousand pesos. I piss that each morning. And now,” Marquez scoots his chair back, letting Luke see his mother. “Look at her. Look at what you’ve done. This is only the beginning, my son. Much more is to come. You’re going to watch. Then, you’re going to help build my church back up, brick by brick, and then you’re going to keep paying me the pesos, just as your mother did. Do you understand this? You’re going to make me whole, my son.”
Luke hears the words, his agile mind filing them away for later, but he cannot pull his eyes from his mother. He does not show any emotion, but it’s there, just below the surface. Finally, he looks at the priest.
“Let her go and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“No. That time has passed. A time for sowing and a time for reaping, that is what the good Lord tells us. You have sowed, and now you will reap.”
The priest stands and the strong man’s hands clamp down on Luke. He does not try to move, not until the other strong man yanks down his mother’s pants, leaving her naked bottom in the air.
Now Luke struggles. He struggles and spits and swears, all his strength focusing on freeing his mother. The strong man swats him down to the floor, his large hand leaving both a red print and blood on the boy’s face.
Forcing Luke to watch, the priest rapes the boy’s mother.
Luke tries to jump up, lunging for the priest, but the second strong man kicks him in the ribs, and he collapses to the ground. He spits blood through his broken teeth and the tears come then.
Luke doesn’t stop. He continues trying to attack the priest, though there is no hope.
The preacher man grows winded, collapsing on the couch. One of his men steps forward and shoots Luke’s mother in the face, spreading blood and bone across the floor.
Luke sees it all, and so does Christian.
THE TELEVISION SHUTS OFF, leaving Christian to sit with the other.
“He couldn’t save her,” Christian said.
“Nope. Sure couldn’t,” the other agreed.
“Is it connected, this and that?” Christian didn’t even realize he was talking to the other, bouncing ideas off him like a sounding board.
“You tell me. You’re the one that keeps coming back here, watching these ancient videos.”
Christian stood from the chair and turned around to look at Luke’s floor.
“He’s not going to stop unless I do what he wants. He’ll keep killing. Why does he want me to kill those I love? Does he somehow feel guilty for what happened to his mother? Does he feel like he killed her?”
Luke said his purpose was to create discord, to actively affront God. Was that a decoy, or simply a lie he told himself? Did something else drive Luke to do these things … was it guilt?
“You keep asking yourself what’s the reasoning behind all this, but does it matter? Isn’t the important question whether or not you’re going to acquiesce?”
Christian shook his head, but said nothing.
Action was secondary when it came to Luke. What mattered was the reasoning behind it; that was how Christian would stop him, through understanding.
Christian walked onto the floor. He moved through the lengthy maze, moving to the last time he had seen Luke—the last time before all of this started, at least. Venezuela. It was near the maze’s end, and he stopped once he arrived.
A large hologram shot down from the ceiling, creating a life sized simulation of what happened. Christian stepped into it, moving to his place. He walked right into his outline, standing where he had when he exited the van. He saw Luke in front of him, his face flashing to the approaching man on his right—halting him dead in his tracks.
Christian stepped out of his own outline and walked across the digital landscape. He moved past armed men, all of them with weapons pointing at Luke. He heard their shouts, telling Luke to “GET THE FUCK DOWN!” He paid them no mind. He’d been terrified when it happened, but that was all in the past. Nothing in this scene could hurt him.
He finally reached Luke just as Luke started staring at Christian—or the Christian from the past, but from where he now stood, the two looked at each other.
The scene stopped; Christian stood directly in front of his ex-partner.
The hard brown eyes that had seen more than most people could imagine. Eyes that had seen things which would break grown men, let alone children.
“What are you after, Luke? Why do I have to kill them to make you stop? Is that an affront to God?”
Luke only stared at him, no words exiting his mouth. If the scene started playing again, Christian would of course hear the previous conversation play out. It held no sway here, though. The answers Christian needed wouldn’t be found in Venezuela.
“I’m not going to kill them,” he said.
He heard blood dripping, knowing that the other stood next to him. He looked to his left, and sure enough, his negative image was there.
“I’m not,” he repeated, looking back at Luke.
“Thirty-nine children died,” the other said, knowing the number because Christian knew it. “Are another 39 worth your friends?”
Christian wanted to say yes, but no words came from his lips. Because … were his friends worth it? What would they even say? If they knew for certain that more and more people would continue dying if they continued living, would they keep on?
It’s not your decision to make. It’s not Luke’s decision to make. It’s not even their decision to make. They don’t get to kill themselves because a madman is loose. And you certainly don’t get to kill them for the same reason.
“Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s not,” the other said.
CHAPTER 19
C harles Twaller waddled up to the nurse’s station. He held a dozen roses in his right hand. His left was empty.
“Hi, ma’am. I’m looking for my mother’s room. She came in last night with all the other victims of that horrible attack. I just flew in from Atlanta.”
The nurse looked up from her computer. Her face was a picture of exhaustion. Bags hung from her eyes, and sharp lines created crow’s feet at the corners. Her face was pale and her brown eyes spoke of endless hours that she would never tell this fat man about, but his question—without doubt—was creating more exhaustion.
“Sir, that area is quarantined off. No one is allowed in.”
“You can’t be serious,” Charles said. “I just drove twelve hours from Atlanta.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to wait. There’s a room that way to your right.”
Charles looked down the hall, seeing a room full of people at the end.
“Do you have any idea when the quarantine will be over?” Charles said as he turned back to the nurse.
“No, sir. Not at the moment.” She was back to her computer, not even noticing him anymore.
“Thanks for your help.” Charles turned and waddled down the hallway, the conversation having served its purpose. T
he place was light on security, Charles imagining most of the D.C. police were still tied up with the gift he’d given the FBI office. If anyone had noticed him enter, however, they saw his little show with the nurse, and that would give him a few minutes.
He wanted to lay eyes on Christian Windsor and Tommy Phillips. He knew this was dangerous, but he didn’t care. He wanted to see them before he put his hands on them. They, of course, knew what he looked like, but Charles wasn’t too terribly worried about it.
The men that he’d put on them in Boston reported back that they were leaving. Charles hadn’t known where they were flying at first, but he made some phone calls and understood the FBI Director had been injured during the attack. So, he made a few more calls, becoming convinced that the two were heading to the Director’s hospital.
Charles’s men were sitting in the waiting room the nurse just motioned to, and had been for the past eight hours. He knew Phillips and Windsor had a little work station set up, the two of them running their division from the hospital. All of that was fine. Charles didn’t care.
He was here to teach them that they didn’t get to drop by his mother’s house without repercussions. That, and to teach Titan a few things as well.
Charles entered the waiting room, holding his flowers so that the petals faced the ceiling. The room was packed tightly, and Charles immediately saw the eight men he’d sent over here. They were spread throughout, some sitting in chairs, some leaning against walls. None were too close to each other, though all glanced up as he entered. That was just their training, though Charles saw recognition in their eyes as they saw him.
All this had been planned out over phone calls made the past 24 hours.
Charles waddled over to one of the only open spaces on the wall, turned around, and leaned into it. The people to his left and right adjusted some, making way for his short, fat body.
The two were here, just like his men had told him. The invalid and the genius, both sitting at a small make-shift table. They were staring at the genius’s computer, neither looking around nor noticing Charles’s entrance.
