by James Somers
“So it’s true,” Garth says, narrowing his eyes.
A noise comes to them from the smoky haze. Holly emerges, holding the automatic rifle she procured from the army checkpoint earlier. She has the weapon aimed in their direction.
“Put away your weapon,” she says.
Both men turn to each other with a grin of satisfaction.
“You heard her,” Garth says to Nesky.
Nesky begins to bring his pistol around slowly. “No, you heard her—drop the sword.”
Both men glare at each other momentarily before turning back to Holly.
“A little clarification might be good, Agent Tavers,” Nesky says. “Explain your position to him.”
Holly’s eyes narrow. “My position, Vladimir, is that we have a large group of infected persons closing on this location.” She looks at Garth. His shoulders have slumped a little. “I hope you’ll at least give me an opportunity to explain myself, Garth…please?”
He looks stricken. Clearly, Jonathan was right about Nesky. What the boy did not realize, but may have suspected, is that Holly is also working with this Russian spy in some way. Garth’s desire to run Nesky through the neck is immense, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He would force Holly into responding in a way he hopes she doesn’t want to.
Garth lowers his katana, slowly replacing it in the scabbard on his back. Nesky raises his pistol, but Holly also raises her submachine gun in warning.
“Don’t, Vladimir,” she says. “Put it away. We all need to talk and figure out what’s going on—decide where we go from here.”
Nesky glares at her, but gradually relents, replacing his pistol in the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “Fine,” he says coldly, “what now?”
“We’ll go out the other side of the station,” she says. “Once these zombies discover the bodies in here, they’ll be too preoccupied to bother with us.”
Ice cold, Garth thinks when she says this. A lump gathers in his throat as he stares at Holly. She’s not the woman he had hoped, after all. Still, if she wants to talk about it, he’ll give her the opportunity. At the moment, he can’t bear thinking about his alternatives. The time might come soon when he’ll be forced to kill Holly Tavers.
Solitary and Confined
If you’ve got food, water, and a safe place to hide, you’re living in the lap of luxury—Jonathan Parks
I wake with my tongue feeling like a piece of cardboard that’s glued to the roof of my mouth. For a moment, I have no idea where I am. My surroundings remind me of the Tombs—some kind of laboratory. A clear circular wall has me incased like a bug inside of a jar. There is light coming from above—some sort of fluorescent panel. I am illuminated—put on display—but those who placed me here are safe in the darkness beyond my prison.
My clothes have been replaced with a jumpsuit similar to the one I was issued at the Tombs. This one is dark blue, but it’s more of the same. They want to have easy access to me—to my blood. Just as I was in the Tombs, I’ve become a specimen again.
I remember the British soldiers on the roof of the Battersea Power Station surrounded by Russian soldiers. A Russian helicopter of immense size hovered overhead, its rotor wash buffeting us on the roof like a hurricane. Feeling I could not trust these men, I went for my weapon, hoping to keep them at bay.
One of them shot me first with something—a Tazer I think. My muscles went rigid all at once. Then I lost consciousness. I never saw what happened to Cassie. I hope she’s all right, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone around to ask. Still, I’m not stupid enough to believe my captors aren’t watching my every move.
My cage does feature a back wall, so it’s not entirely cylindrical. There is a fold down cot to sleep on and a privy with a curtain on a little ceiling-mounted rail for some laughable attempt at privacy. My anger grows as I survey my accommodations. I’m tired of this kind of treatment. If they want my help they should at least ask—not treat me like a lab rat.
“Where am I?” I ask, knowing someone can hear me.
I wait a full minute with no reply. There is no discernable movement beyond my cell wall, though I do notice some red LED lights here and there. Probably some kind of monitoring equipment. They are here somewhere. Their unwillingness to respond and offer me the least courtesy only enrages me more.
“I know you can hear me,” I say. “I know you’re watching. If you want any cooperation then you had better respond to me.”
Nothing.
I hate these games people play. They can hear me and see me, but they want to see what I’ll do. It’s all a bunch of psychological garbage. I’m done playing games. If they want a response out of me then I’ll give them more than they expected. At least, that’s what I have in mind.
Approaching the clear cylindrical wall of my prison, I place my hands on its surface. They’ll wonder what I’m going to do, probably. Do I have some power like Cassie? Will I melt this barrier and walk out?
I close my eyes for effect. Funny thing is, I can feel the barrier when I concentrate. I can discern its strength in some way compared to my own. A slight grin crosses my lips. I think this could be doable.
Leaving the barrier, I open my eyes again and cross to the back wall. I place my hands on the wall here, as well. Same deal—I close my eyes and feel the wall, discerning its depth and strength. This side is too solid for me. There’s no way I can breach it here. There’s concrete on the other side. How do I know? Honestly, I have no idea. I just know.
I adjust my feet and legs and begin to press on the back wall over my fold out cot. I look like I’m bracing myself against the wall, trying maybe to push it. That’s not what I’m doing, but the appearance is the same.
I breathe deeply, sucking in air and pushing it out deliberately. The muscles in my arms and legs cord up beneath my blue jumper. My hope is to place as much static tension as possible on my body, so that muscle recruitment approaches maximum potential.
Suddenly, I turn and spring away toward the clear Plexiglas barrier, running at it like a blur. At the last moment I plant my feet and push all of my forward momentum through my balled fists, raising them over my head and then bring them down like a hammer. I slam them into the barrier, believing I can do this—I can break this thing.
The blow sends a wave of pain shooting up my arms and down my legs. I so wanted this to work. I wanted to show them that I wouldn’t be treated like a caged animal for their experiments any longer.
The barrier shatters.
I’m startled by the realization that it actually shattered. I believed I could do it, but the part of my mind called common sense still has trouble with the actual event. I push all doubts and amazement aside, marshalling my energies. No way am I going to just walk away unmolested. They—whoever they are—will come for me.
Two men in uniforms move toward me from the darkness in the room beyond the cell. I see weapons—pistols holstered on their belts. But, hey, I’m their lab rat. They want a cure. They can’t shoot me, can they?
Emboldened by the high value I seem to have—everyone and their mother appears to be looking for me in order to obtain this lauded cure—I rush the guards. I pummel the two men with a shoulder block that catches them off guard. The men reel away, and I keep on going.
An alarm begins to sound. I hear muffled commands filtering through an overhead paging system to persons beyond this room. Of course, they were watching. They know I’m loose. They’ll attempt to restrain me, but I can’t allow it. I know that if they catch me, they will devise a prison from which I cannot escape.
My alternatives are limited—extremely limited. There is one reinforced steel door ahead of me with a code key required to access it. Again, I can discern the strength of it, which I’m finding quite brilliant. On the other hand, the walls of the room are basic sheet rock fastened over an aluminum frame.
The guards attempt to recover their wits, crawling on the floor. I’ve dealt them a heavy blow. I’m not the least bit sorry for it, e
ither. They mean to keep me captive for their experiments, but I’m not having it. This ends now.
Dr. Scott Bishop sits inside a locked interrogation room. On the other side of a simple wooden table sits Cassie Monroe. He stares at her. She stares at the table top. Neither of them speaks. Bishop isn’t used to being in a position where he must confront prisoners. Cassie simply knows enough to understand she cannot trust the people who are now holding her and Jonathan captive in this place.
“I was surprised, of course, to see you getting off of that helicopter,” Bishop says.
Cassie’s eyes come up from the table, meeting his gaze with a stony glare. “Were you?” she asks. “I would have thought you knew exactly who was there. After all, you came right to our location.”
“Mind telling me how you got there in the first place?”
“You first,” she replies coolly. “Tell me how your men found us there, and I’ll be happy to tell you what happened to us after the Tombs…and, while you’re at it, you can explain why there were Russian soldiers there too.”
Bishop sighs wearily. “First of all, Cassie, they aren’t my men. You know me. I’m a scientist, not a soldier. They rescued me from the Tombs after it was overrun. I’m not actually in charge here.”
“How did they find us?”
“You happened to be in the company of a Russian spy, young lady,” Bishop replies, resting his folded arms on the table before him.
“What are you talking about? Jonathan is no spy.”
“Not Jonathan,” Bishop explains. “I’m talking about the agent you picked up in the Tombs. Agent Smith is actually Vladimir Nesky. I’m told he is an agent of Russia’s Secret Intelligence and possibly the deadliest assassin in the world.”
Cassie does not reply, though her stunned expression tells Bishop everything. The girl had not known. Normally, her ignorance would be to her advantage—might even see her released from custody. However, neither she nor Jonathan is going anywhere now. They are too important to this situation.
“The Russians track their agents constantly,” Bishop continues. “It was his implant that allowed the Russians to locate him. We hoped you and Jonathan and the others would still be alive and still be with Nesky when we found him.”
Cassie remained silent for only a moment longer before replying. “Which would mean you were working with them—the Russians.”
Bishop doesn’t bother denying it. “We were desperate to find Jonathan,” he says. “It was all we had.”
Cassie glares at him unsympathetically.
Bishop leans back in his seat. “In case you’ve failed to notice, the world is circling the loo. London is essentially a total loss, at this point. All our military can do is fall back by degrees as this plague continues to spread. It’s already being reported in France and Ireland. They used the channel tunnels. A woman changed onboard a ferry leaving Dover and then proceeded to kill or infect everyone else. This is very bad.”
“You don’t think I realize that?” Cassie answers angrily. “I’ve just spent the past week running for my life from these things. We were nearly killed several times just today.”
“So, you should be sympathetic,” Bishop argues. “Our cause is your cause, Cassie. We have to have Jonathan in order to have a cure!”
“And what about Jonathan?” she asks. “What about what he wants?”
Bishop’s gaze narrows. “This isn’t about what Jonathan wants. It’s not about what I want or you want, or anyone else. This is about what the world needs. And, if that means we have to work with and make concessions to a country that can help give us what we need, then so be it.”
“That country being Russia?”
“In this case, yes.”
“Then why did your helicopter shoot down the big Russian helicopter?” Cassie asks.
Bishop stares at her aghast and uncomprehending.
“I mean, if we’re all in this together—spirit of cooperation and such—then why kill them?” she asks. When Bishop still fails to answer, Cassie continues. “Or didn’t you notice a lack of any Russian soldiers coming here with us? Did you honestly believe they just allowed Jonathan to be brought back here without any reservations or concerns? Maybe you didn’t know, but others here had to.”
“I didn’t know, actually,” Bishop mutters.
“Then pardon my saying so, Dr. Bishop, but you are either very naïve or very stupid,” Cassie remarks. “You honestly expect me to trust these people—to trust you? Backstabbing murderers as far as the eye can see, and we’re expected to let you do whatever you please with us?”
An alarm crying overhead interrupts their heart to heart chat. Bishop instantly regains some of his composure, standing to go. “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this later,” he says.
“What’s happening?”
“Not to worry,” Bishop says unconvincingly. “I’ll return in a bit.”
“I’m not going to stay locked away in here for long!” Cassie cries as Bishop’s coded badge swipes the locking mechanism.
In a flash he’s out the door into the corridor beyond. The girl’s further protestations are instantly silenced as the security door closes behind him. He’s not trying to be rude, but she’ll just have to keep here while he investigates.
Already, he knows why the alarm is sounding. Jonathan has had time, by now, to wake from the sedative administered at the power station where Jonathan and Cassie were taken into custody. Bingham has been remanded to the care of the onsite infirmary and its resident physician for multiple contusions and lacerations sustained while at Battersea.
Six hours have passed since Jonathan’s arrival by helicopter—a British helicopter that had not originated from this facility. Bishop considers Cassie’s tale of betrayal. Can it be true? Did Sayers order them killed—shot out of the sky as the girl professed?
It’s not a savory thought, but Bishop can’t quite bring himself to denying its possibility. This is part of British Secret Intelligence. People are killed in the name of government security more regularly than he would like to think. Everyone knows—they just don’t want to talk about it.
Should he confront Sayers with the allegation? What would she say? He believes that probably the Director would not deny it. In fact, she might coolly reject the very notion that there was anything wrong with the decision. “The ends justify the means,” she would say.
Moreover, Bishop finds that, in the face of such an argument, he would be hard pressed to deny it. By whatever means, Sayers produced results. They require Patient Zero in order to continue development of a cure. Jonathan Parks is now in their custody. It’s hard to argue with it.
Of course, this is not the first dealings he has had with a clandestine organization. He was a part of Dr. Albert’s Tombs Program for years. As a virologist, it was like a dream come true. He got to work with many and varied dangerous organisms that he might not have the opportunity to study otherwise.
He had already pushed aside any misgivings about keeping people like Cassie and Jonathan in custody, justifying such practices as being for the greater good. True, he didn’t have direct dealings with Cassie and Garth in Sector Four, but he knew they were there.
Bishop shakes his head in frustration. He has no time for second guessing their methods now. The alarm is calling soldiers to the laboratory annex. This is the room where Sayers oversaw the construction of a special cell to hold Patient Zero, once he came into their care. Whatever is happening it can’t be good.
Passing through several checkpoints, Bishop falls into pace with nearly a dozen soldiers heading in the same direction. Though they are armed with pistols, as a matter of standard protocol, these men are carrying what can essentially be called cattle prods. In the event they have to confront Patient Zero, it is well understood that he cannot be killed. They must work to keep him restrained so that he doesn’t become a danger to himself or others.
Finally, the group of armed men convene outside the room where Jonathan’s cell is
housed. The door is still locked, and another dozen soldiers are waiting outside. Major Bingham is not present due to his injuries sustained at Battersea. However, another man, a Sergeant Preston, is speaking via communication headset with the War Room.
“Dr. Bishop?” he says when Bishop enters with the soldiers. “Director Sayers has an eye on our target in the other room. He’s incapacitated the two guards inside with him.”
“What’s your plan?” Bishop asks, looking nervously at the soldiers as they prepare to take on Jonathan Parks. “It is essential that he not be harmed.”
“Understood, sir,” Preston replies. “However, we’ll probably have to light him up in order to get him under control.”
Bishop nods, still unsure about this. However, he recognizes that they have little choice. The boy is crucial to humanity’s survival, but he is also quite dangerous. He supposes that this many men should be able to overwhelm one fifteen-year-old boy easily enough. If they can just hold him down then drugs can be administered that will keep Jonathan sedated and safe.
He wonders where his colleagues have gotten to. Ange and Carnegie might already be with Sayers in the War Room. Bishop then reconsiders his own presence. Why did he come down here in the midst of a police action? He should be watching this stuff from a monitor in a safe place, not standing here where bad things might happen. After all, he’s a scientist not a soldier.
Demetri Rostov is sitting in a holding cell one floor down. Sayers had him arrested right out of the lab while he and the Russian scientist were studying the behavioral patterns of their case subject, Rollins. It seems an unnecessary step, considering Rostov was only here as a matter of science. He apparently had no knowledge of Minsk’s plan to take Jonathan Parks and attempt to flee Great Britain.
