“We’re better off getting rid of him,” Dolores said quietly, gesturing a thumb to Hal.
Hal’s face tightened and he made a move for her, but a look from Frank stopped him.
“Drop it,” said Frank. “If you want to blame someone, blame me. I should have explained the virus more thoroughly.”
“You should have done a lot of things more thoroughly,” said Hal. “Like telling us why we had to hide in the woods.” He looked Frank up and down with disgust. “You big-shot doctors are all the same, you know that? Think you can order people around like cattle, treat everybody like a bunch of schoolkids because you got a college degree and we don’t. We’re all just a bunch of knuckle-dragging Neanderthals, is that it? Just a bunch of stupid apes. Can’t stop and explain things to us because we’re too ignorant to understand.”
“There wasn’t time,” said Frank.
Hal brushed the words aside with a wave of his hand and got right up to Frank’s face. “I’m not taking a lead from you anymore. You got that? You want to go back to the BH-whatever, you go right ahead. I don’t give a bunny turd where you go. As for me, I go where I choose. When I choose.”
Frank didn’t blink. “You’ll stick with the rest of us. That’s your only choice.”
Hal sagged his shoulders as if relenting, then gut-punched Frank with a hard clenched fist. The blow caught Frank right where the bottom staples were positioned on his scar, and he felt the metal pierce deeper into his abdomen. The pain was overwhelming and he buckled, dropping the gun.
Hal was on him instantly, pinning him to the ground and throwing more punches, all aimed at Frank’s chest, where his wound lay.
“Stop!” said Monica.
Byron moved closer to intervene, but Hal scooped up the gun and aimed it at him, stopping Byron cold.
Frank took advantage of the momentary distraction. He reached with one hand, found a pressure point in Hal’s arm, and chopped with the other hand. The gun flew ten feet away. Hal howled, and Frank shifted his weight, rolled, and knocked Hal off of him. Hal might be strong—and likely able to hold his own in a street fight—but he wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t trained in hand-to-hand combat.
Rather than make for the gun, Frank twisted Hal into a wrestler’s grip and rolled with him farther away from the gun. Better to incapacitate Hal with tactical maneuvering than to risk Hal’s getting the gun again and using it.
Hal kicked and twisted as Frank rolled him. But then Frank pinned him, and Hal couldn’t move.
It would have been the end of the confrontation had the gun not gone off.
Frank and Hal stopped struggling and looked behind them. A bleary-eyed Nick was holding it heavenward, the faintest hint of smoke escaping from the barrel. He lowered the gun and pointed it at both of them. “Stop. Stop fighting.”
Frank released Hal and slowly got to his feet. Something was wrong with Nick. He looked confused, flustered, as if he had just woken from a deep sleep. “Give me the gun, Nick,” he said calmly.
“Don’t give it to him,” said Hal. “He’s doing us wrong, don’t you see? He’s not letting us go to the police. He’s not letting us get help.”
“Shut up!” Nick screamed, his voice shrill and harsh.
The kid’s about to snap, Frank thought, if he hasn’t already.
“Put the gun down, Nick,” Byron said, gesturing slowly with his hands.
Nick whirled around, the gun moving with him wildly, as if he hadn’t known that Byron was there. Byron immediately put his hands up and backed off.
“Stay back,” Nick said. “Everybody stay back.” He was frantic now, confused.
Monica had Wyatt behind her, slinking slowly toward the trees over her shoulder. Dolores was less subtle. She dropped the suit coat she had been wringing out and bolted for the bushes. Nick’s eyes and aim followed her, but to Frank’s relief, he didn’t fire.
“Give me the gun, Nick,” Frank said.
Nick whirled back, his eyes wild, breathing heavily. “I’m sick.”
Frank took a step closer. “I know, Nick. I can see that you’re sick. I want to help.”
Nick blinked, looked away, and seemed lost in thought a moment, his aim slowly sagging. Frank considered making a break for the gun but Nick snapped back and pointed his arms straight again, holding a steadier bead on Frank. “Jonathan’s dead. Okay? They killed him.” Tears were coming out of his eyes.
Frank took another step toward him. “If you give me the gun, Nick—”
“Shoot him!” Hal said suddenly.
Both Frank and Nick were startled, and Nick jerked the gun momentarily to Hal. “Not me,” said Hal. “Him. He tried to kill me. Shoot him.”
Hal pointed it back at Frank again, frantic.
“Don’t!” said Byron. “Nick, listen to me.”
Frank held up a hand to Byron. “Don’t all talk to him at once.” He lowered his voice. “Nick, you have to believe me. I want to help you.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Hal. “He only cares about himself. You saw him try to take the boat. He was getting it for himself.”
“I want help,” Nick said.
“And I want to help you, Nick,” said Frank. “Just give me the gun in your hand.”
Nick looked at his hands and saw the gun. He turned it sideways in his palm, lowering his aim. “It’s so heavy,” he said absently.
Hal and Frank both had the same idea, but Frank was closer. He charged, grabbed the gun from Nick, and turned it on Hal. Hal came to a stop, the gun inches from his nose.
“Back off,” said Frank.
Hal paled and slowly shuffled backward.
Nick’s knees wobbled and Frank put an arm under him to keep him upright. Monica was at his side in an instant. She put a hand to Nick’s forehead. “He’s burning up. He needs medication. All of you do.”
“We can’t stay here,” said Frank. “Wherever that fisherman was headed, he may alert the police. They might come looking for us.”
“He has a high fever,” said Monica. “He’s in no condition to move. Look at him. He can hardly stand.”
It was true. Nick was leaning on Monica now. His eyes were open, but he was only partially coherent.
“I can carry him,” said Byron.
Frank looked at him. “You sure?”
“You got a better idea?”
Frank didn’t. Byron gently lifted Nick in the cradle position. “He’s actually not that heavy. I can do this.”
“Hold him still,” said Monica. She removed a syringe and a bottle of medication from her pack. “Roll his sleeve back.” Frank did, and Monica administered the shot. “He needs to rest,” she said.
Frank nodded, then turned to Dolores, who stood nearby, shivering. “You can’t stay in those wet clothes.” He looked at Hal. “Neither of you can. Not in this cold. We’ll have to find someplace warm where you can dry out.
“I better carry that,” said Frank, motioning to the dart gun hanging over Byron’s shoulder.
Byron didn’t object. He glanced at Hal, and Frank knew he understood implicitly. If Frank was holding all the weapons, the chances of Hal getting hold of any were less.
Frank draped the strap over his shoulder and gripped the pistol in his hand. “All right, Hal. You lead. Straight down the trail until I tell you to stop.”
Lichen made no effort to avoid the low-hanging branches on the trail. They whipped at his face and neck as he ran by them, tearing at his cheeks and sometimes cutting him deeply. Blood seeped from the cuts and dripped back toward his ears until the cuts sealed themselves and became smooth flesh again.
It pleased Lichen to know that the prophet’s gift of healing was inside him. He wished he had a mirror so he could see the healings as they took place. They were testimonies, after all, visible evidence that the prophet was indeed the harbinger of a higher species, the Great Key, the way of becoming.
Lichen had not been blessed with the same gifts Stone possessed. The prophet had not given Lichen the in
ability to feel pain. Pain was still a part of Lichen’s being. And yet, despite the pain, Lichen didn’t flinch at the branches and the cuts they gave him. The sweet sting was a welcome blessing. Pain reminded Lichen that the prophet had made him unique.
“Instead of no pain, I give you speed, Lichen,” the prophet had said. “Let your feet be a weapon of wonder in quickening that work which will cure a troubled world.”
It had sounded like poetry to Lichen at the time, and he had accepted graciously. Combined with healing and strength, speed would make him a worthy servant. He knew his legs would not move faster, of course. This was impossible. But the prophet had strengthened his legs so that they would never tire. While other Healers’ legs gave out from overexertion, Lichen’s legs would continue to keep a quick and steady pace.
There had been times, of course, when Lichen wished he did have no pain.
Jonathan’s death was one such instance. It had been pain that had caused Lichen to release his grip on the boy and allowed Jonathan to reach the road. Without pain, the sharp rock that Jonathan swung would have smashed the cartilage of Lichen’s ear without Lichen’s feeling it or caring.
And Jonathan would still be alive.
Lichen looked over his shoulder as he ran down the trail now. The other Healers were still nowhere in sight, although he was certain they couldn’t be too far behind. They had had time to mobilize now, and his speed would have encouraged them to push the level of their own endurance and stay at their maximum pace.
A distant gunshot rang through the air, and Lichen stopped in his tracks to listen. It was the second shot he had heard, and this one was much closer. He scrambled up a tall sturdy tree and looked down over the treetops to the lake below.
There on the bank of the lake below him were the prophet’s vessels. He could only barely make out their figures at this distance, but he was certain it was them. They seemed to be arguing.
Lichen remained in the tree and watched them until they left the lake and continued down the trail. He wanted to be certain he knew which direction they were headed.
By the time he descended the tree, the other Healers had caught up with him.
“They’re down by the lake, heading east,” he said.
Pine sniffed the air. “How far?”
“Close enough to catch,” Lichen said, and turned on his heels and led them down the hillside, his cape billowing once again behind him.
28
PROPHET
The barn door opened with a rusty squeak, and Frank stopped inside. Cobwebs and rotted timbers hung from the rafters, and the air was thick with dust. A few rusty farming tools hung on nails in the corner, and a beam of sunlight shined through a wide hole in the roof. Frank guessed it had been deserted years ago, maybe decades.
“It’s not much, but it’ll get us out of the wind for a while.”
The others came in behind him. Dolores waved her hand in front of her face. “Smells awful.”
“Animals used to crap in here,” said Hal. “What do you expect?”
Nick was asleep in Byron’s arms, and Monica led them to a soft spot of ground in one of the stalls. Byron set Nick down without waking him, and Monica made sure Nick was comfortable.
“I’m starving,” said Dolores.
Byron dug into his pack and found a few granola bars they had taken from the storage closet. He passed them out and Dolores devoured hers. Wyatt graciously took one and lay down to eat it but fell asleep before taking a bite. Everyone else looked just as exhausted.
Byron then passed around the water bottle, and it was quickly emptied.
Minutes later, Monica came out of the stall with her medical bag.
“How is he?” asked Frank.
“Stable. He needs to rest. I’d like his fever to go down before we move again.”
“In case anyone’s forgotten,” said Hal, “it’s very possible that these Healers are out looking for us. I suggest we don’t wait around.”
“We’re off the trail,” said Frank. “And we were careful to hide our tracks when we left it. I think we can safely rest for a few minutes.”
“All we do is rest,” said Hal.
“You’re just as tired as the rest of us,” said Dolores. “Don’t be pretending you ain’t.”
“What I ain’t is talking to you, so keep your comments to yourself.”
Monica began preparing more syringes.
“No way,” said Hal. “I don’t care what it is. I’m not getting another shot from her. Period.”
“They’re antirejection drugs,” said Monica. “I told you. Your body needs them. I should have given them to you hours ago.”
“And if I was a sucker,” said Hal, “I’d believe you. How do I know that’s not some sleeping medicine you’re trying to slip us? You all saw her. She gave the same stuff to Nick. Now look at him. He’s out like a light. How do we know she isn’t trying to knock us all out?” He looked at Monica. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Get us all drugged up and sleepy. Then you and the kid could slip away without anybody being the wiser.”
“You have got to be the most paranoid person I’ve ever met,” said Byron.
“She’s not one of them,” said Dolores. “She’s proven that. The only person nobody trusts around here is you.”
Hal smiled. “All right, then. If you’re so trusting, you go first. Let her stick that arm of yours. We’ll all sit here and watch. And if you don’t pass out or keel over, we’ll know it’s legit.”
Dolores looked hesitant. “Why do I have to go first?”
Hal buckled over laughing. “Stupid and a hypocrite. I love it.”
“I’ll do it,” said Frank, rolling up his sleeve. “I’ll go first.”
Hal stopped laughing.
“And if I keel over, you can go on without me and do with the doctor as you please.”
“And if you don’t?” asked Dolores.
“Wait a minute,” said Hal, “I like this option.”
“If I don’t, then you all take the shot.” Frank waited for objections, but none came. He held his arm out, and Monica swabbed the area gently, then administered the shot. Dolores winced when the needle broke the skin.
When Monica pulled the needle out, Frank watched as the tiny wound sealed and became flawless skin again.
Dolores motioned for an explanation. “Well? How do you feel?”
Frank shrugged. “Fine.” Then he blinked. “No, wait. I have a strange sensation.” He put his hand to head, closed his eyes, and began teetering from side to side, moaning softly.
Dolores was too spooked to scream but not enough to keep still. Frantic, she scrambled back toward the barn door and only stopped because Frank became still and smiled. It wasn’t until Byron started laughing that it dawned on her. “You’re joking?” she said angrily.
Hal laughed, too. “Good one.”
Dolores put her hands on her hips. “You think this is the time to be playing around? Woman has a new lung inside her and you want to scare her silly.”
Frank’s smile remained. “You’re right. Sorry. The medication is fine, Dolores. You should take it. I feel better already.”
It was true. Frank could feel his energy returning and the aching in his muscles subsiding.
The others took the shot without further objection.
“Now get some sleep,” said Frank. “We’ll stay here for an hour or so, and move again when Nick is better.”
They each took a spot on the ground and lay down to rest. Frank went to Monica and asked her to speak with him outside. They moved out into the sunlight. Frank kept the barn door open and one eye on Hal.
“How is Nick, really?” said Frank.
Monica sighed. “I’m not sure. His fever is pushing a hundred and four. That’s dangerously high. He wasn’t very coherent even before he fell asleep.”
“Heatstroke?”
She shrugged. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. He’s not showing the right symptoms for it.”
“Will he be able to walk? We can’t continue to carry him.”
She looked doubtful. “You saw him. He could barely stand earlier.”
“It came upon him so suddenly. He seemed to be moving just as well as the rest of us.”
“He’s had a transplant in the past forty-eight hours. Let’s not forget that. He shouldn’t have been able to run at all.”
They stood there in silence. Then Monica said, “There’s something else you should know. I didn’t want to tell the others and frighten them, but you should know, at least. About the chip.”
Frank faced her, waiting.
“I’ve told you what the chip contains. Galen’s files, video, journals; and I’ve told you about the software Yoshida developed to anticipate Galen’s decisions and thoughts. But what I haven’t told you is how it’s triggered and supposedly works together.”
Go on.
“A few years ago this Dr. Kouichi Yoshida made some fairly significant advances in memory replication, trying to help amnesia patients regain their lost long-term memories. I assume you’re familiar with genetic memory, Doctor.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Memories form when neurons in a circuit increase the strength of their connections. For long-term memories to develop, for example, the connection must be permanently strengthened. This is all instigated by genes inside the neuron’s nucleus, which produce synapse-strengthening proteins.”
“You’re losing me.”
“Basically, Yoshida’s theory was that by manipulating neural genes, one could control the output of proteins and in turn control how they were diffused through the cell and which of the cell’s thousands of synapses were strengthened. In other words, one could control which memories were formed and which were discarded, which circuits remained and which would suddenly become inactive.”
“Hardwiring the brain.”
“On a small scale, yes. What Galen hoped to accomplish, however, was much bigger, a universal alteration in the entire circuitry, turning billions of inactive neurons on and turning all currently active neurons off. In other words, if we only use ten percent of our brains, Galen wanted to switch off that ten percent and use another ten percent instead, a ten percent that he could define.”
Invasive Procedures Page 27
