ʺRelax, Mr. Melville. Isaiahʹs not going to run.ʺ The elegant man looked at him. ʺAre you?ʺ
Isaiah shook his head. And he wasnʹt. He had no intention of running. He had only stepped back because…. Why?
Because you were scared, Isaiah.
That was it. And not scared of death or imprisonment, either. When the elegant man spoke, a thrill of terror suddenly ran through Isaiah. This man, whoever he was, was dangerous. More than that.
Deadly.
Isaiah had met many men and women who were dangerous, and a few who were deadly. He had never feared them, because fear is just the mindʹs expression of concern that possessions–even abstract ones like love or family–may be lost. For someone like Isaiah, someone with no true possessions to speak of, fear was nearly impossible.
But when the man in this beautiful suit, this exquisite man spoke…Isaiah felt fear.
The man was smiling. Waiting as though he knew what Isaiah was thinking and willing to let him continue.
ʺWho are you?ʺ Isaiah finally said.
The man laughed. A genuine, heartfelt laugh. ʺI donʹt think Iʹll tell you, my friend.ʺ
ʺWhy not?ʺ
ʺBecause Iʹd rather not have you know my identity. After all, youʹre a dangerous man, Isaiah. And Iʹm not interested in dangerous men knowing too much about me. Still….ʺ The man pursed his lips. ʺAs weʹll be working together very soon, you may call me Mr. Dominic.ʺ
Isaiahʹs blood sped up in his veins. ʺWorking together?ʺ
ʺYes. Youʹre going to take a job for me.ʺ
Isaiah shook his head. ʺI donʹt know–ʺ
Dominic waved a hand. ʺSpare me, Isaiah. We both know that for the past seven years you have been a highly successful killer. Or do I have to go into the details of Donald Wilfred, Cary Wheeler, Don Begley?ʺ He stopped for a moment. ʺI could go on. There are several dozen. Do I need to name them all?ʺ
Isaiah shook his head. His blood thundered in his ears, and now he wasnʹt sure if it was fear or anger pushing his heart to beat like this. ʺIf you know so much, then you know I donʹt take just any jobs.ʺ
ʺYes, youʹre highly discerning.ʺ Dominic seemed to consider whether to laugh or not. He settled for a smile. ʺA persnickety hitman! Who would have thought?ʺ The smile faded. ʺStill, I think youʹll take this job. Itʹs right up your alley. Takes care of good people, gets rid of bad, blah, blah, blah.ʺ Dominic shrugged and rolled his eyes dismissively.
Isaiah snorted. ʺIʹd rather not.ʺ He held out his arms, wrists together and turned up. ʺI always knew this day would come. Letʹs just get it over with.ʺ
A shadow seemed to flit across Dominicʹs face, like a thundercloud inexplicably darkening a summer day. ʺIʹm not accustomed to people refusing me.ʺ
ʺIʹm not accustomed to caring about what people are accustomed to.ʺ
Dominic stared at him. He licked his lips. ʺWeʹre not interested in arresting you. Thatʹs not the alternative here.ʺ
Isaiah realized the three agents had drawn away a bit. And their guns were out again.
He shrugged. ʺFine. Get it over with.ʺ
Dominic looked confused for a moment, then understanding–or a dark mockery of it–washed over his features. ʺOh, I see. Goodness, Isaiah, weʹre not going to shoot you! Heavens, that wouldnʹt be very cultured of us. Or helpful, for that matter. No, we arenʹt going to shoot you. Simply persuade you.ʺ
Dominic nodded. Someone inside the SUV kicked open the side door.
Before, when Dominic had exited, the vehicle had remained dark. Now the dome light shone and all was illuminated. The light even pushed through the front windows, allowing Isaiah to see the silhouettes of the two men who sat there. Two men who were aiming guns at him, waiting for him to move.
He wasnʹt interested in the front though.
He was interested in the back. In the man sitting in the back seat. In the person he was holding. A partially slumped form. Long red hair that should have been lustrous and lovely but instead hung lank and listless.
The head was turned toward him. A dark gag wrapped around the mouth. But the eyes were visible.
One bright blue. The other clouded. Joy and despair. Pleasure and pain.
Isaiah started to scream.
IDLE HANDS…
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 2:52 AM
Subject: Two down
Iʹve received word that several of the carriers have been terminated. Maybe containment will actually be possible.
Where are we with the one youʹre currently most concerned about? Is the new asset in play?
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 3:03 AM
Subject: Status please
Answer, please. I canʹt sleep.
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 3:18 AM
Subject: ANSWER DAMMIT DO YOU KNOW WHO YOUʹRE TALKING TO [end msg]
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 3:25 AM
Subject: Sorry
Iʹm very sorry. Iʹm tired. And scared. Please forgive me for the last message. I need your help. Contact me when you can.
Please.
***
Serafinaʹs neck had transmuted from flesh and bone to something far stiffer and less helpful. Uneven ball bearings resting in a warped and rusted track.
She lay on the floor of the elevator and tried to look around, but it was hard. Sparks went off behind her eyes. She felt like….
Like she once had. Confused. Dazed.
Lost.
(ʺOnde está a minha filha?ʺ)
A pair of blobs swam lazily across her field of view. One slowly came to rest. A mass of dark fabric that she finally saw as what it was: a body. Blood pooling next to it. Holes in the back of its dark suit.
Not his dark suit. Its dark suit.
The other blob took longer to stabilize. Serafina realized that wasnʹt because it was madly dancing, but because the ball bearings in her neck had slid off their track. Her head wouldnʹt stop bobbing around.
I must look like a deranged chicken.
She fought the urge to giggle.
The other blob finally stopped moving. It fell to earth like an angel that had suffered a sudden heart attack and plummeted from Heaven to Hell in a strange damning death.
The other thing was a body as well. Like the first it lay in a pool of blood. But unlike the first it had no visible wounds. And the blood it lay in was concentrated around its head. The blood itself looked strange. Dark and thick.
There was a third person leaning over the second. This one was alive. Familiar.
John Doe.
He saved me.
The memories rushed back into a mind still rattled. Confusion left, not so much as a function of timeʹs healing as it was simply crowded out by a subconscious understanding that she didnʹt have time for leisurely recovery.
She stood and moved away from the bodies on the floor. As far as she could from the one laying in the weird, thick stuff around its head.
ʺWhatʹs that?ʺ she said, gesturing at that body. ʺWhatʹd you do?ʺ
John shook his head. ʺI didnʹt do that.ʺ
ʺWhatʹs…?ʺ She suddenly lost her voice. She licked her lips. Tried again. ʺWhatʹs going on?ʺ
John was staring at the second body as well. He looked from it to her. ʺI donʹt know.ʺ He looked back at the body. The elevator dinged as it passed a floor.
ʺWhere are we going?ʺ
ʺI donʹt know.ʺ
He lifted the right hand of the dead man he was staring at. ʺYou ever seen anything like this?ʺ he asked.
The hand was covered in….
She shook her head. She had to
repress a shudder. ʺWhat is that?ʺ she said.
He shook his head as well. ʺDonʹt know. Thatʹs why I asked you.ʺ He smiled. Even tamping down horror and the nausea that she knew was a normal aftereffect of a concussion, she noticed that he had a nice smile. ʺYouʹre the professional.ʺ
He helped her to her feet as the elevator dinged again.
ʺWe have to get out of here. There are probably more of them.ʺ
She nodded. The ball bearings were loosening. Maybe if she was a very good girl and prayed extra hard she would actually get the bones in her neck back.
If I have time before someone kills me.
That catapulted her mind to the two dead men.
To the hand of the second man.
She glanced at it. She couldnʹt help it.
He lay in a muck of his own making. A muck that, like his hand, she had never seen before. But it wasnʹt as fascinating or fearful as the limb.
His right hand had become something else. The fingers had somehow fused into one single digit. It was covered in a shiny substance that reminded her of a rhinoceros horn. A huge fingernail where four fingers had once been.
The thumb had undergone a similar metamorphosis, becoming a curved claw with no fleshy base. It sprouted, whole and uninterrupted, from the manʹs palm.
The palm and hand had also changed. They had elongated slightly. Not so much that it would have been obvious unless your eye was already drawn to it because of the change to the fingers. But easily seen when you looked.
More conspicuous was the flesh itself. The skin.
As with the fingers, the skin had been replaced. No longer soft and pink, now there was only…what? Scales?
Yes, that was the best word. But not small scales like you would find on a snake or lizard. These were overlapping plates the size of Serafinaʹs thumbnail. Mottled gray and green, the color of rot.
She looked away.
The elevator dinged again.
The doors opened.
John pushed her behind him.
Under any other circumstances she might have protested. She didnʹt see herself as some porcelain doll, to be put in a glass case for viewing only, no touching allowed.
Not that she allowed touching, either–at least, not without her permission.
She normally could take care of herself. After what had happened with her on the night her mother died, she had vowed that she would never be helpless again. She had kept that promise in innumerable ways.
But part of taking care of yourself was learning discretion. She had seen how John moved. She was a competent and careful person. He was actively dangerous. Standing in front of him would be like having a missile launcher on your keychain and insisting on keeping it in your purse while traveling through gang territory.
Or going to a crack house.
She tried to banish that thought. And, of course, failed. She always did.
The elevator doors were burnished steel. Slightly reflective, so it looked like you were staring at your own ghost if you looked at it long enough. She hoped that wasnʹt an omen.
The two ghosts disappeared as the doors slid aside.
She tensed, ready for more men who would attack. She heard John take a breath and let it out, a living weapon locked and loaded for the next fight.
No men in dark suits were waiting. Two old women. One had an oxygen tank in a small cart she held with a hand so delicate Serafina could almost see through it. The other was thick and sturdy-looking as a Midwest farm girl. Serafina recognized her as someone she had treated numerous times–a repeat cancer patient–though she couldnʹt remember her name.
Both women saw the bodies on the floor at once. The delicate one gave a little scream, then clapped a hand over her mouth as though the sound might be considered impolite.
The farm girl just tossed a concerned look at Serafina, then a challenging glare at John. ʺYou save her?ʺ she demanded.
ʺYes, maʹam. And she saved me,ʺ said John.
ʺYou have plans to hurt her later?ʺ
ʺNo, maʹam.ʺ
The fragile woman squeaked again. ʺShut up, Mert,ʺ said the farm girl. ʺNo chance Serafinaʹs a bad guy.ʺ She looked at the dead men. ʺThese the only ones?ʺ
ʺProbably not,ʺ said John.
The farm girl moved out of the way, and maneuvered the fragile woman to the side as well. ʺYou better get a move on then.ʺ
John nodded his thanks. Drew Serafina with him as he exited the elevator.
Farm girl grabbed her arm. ʺYou trust him?ʺ she said in a stage whisper.
Serafina looked at John. She didnʹt know him. He had saved her, and it was certain the men he had saved her from were violent and seemed to be up to no good. But that didnʹt mean he was on the up-and-up.
Still, he felt right.
She shrugged. ʺTime will tell.ʺ
The farm girl mulled that over for a split-second. ʺGood enough, I guess,ʺ she said. Then drew the fragile girl a bit farther away from John and Serafina. ʺCome on, Mert. Letʹs head to the staff kitchen. They keep all the good Jell-O there.ʺ
John pulled Serafina away.
Mert kept her hand over her mouth.
Farm girl winked at Serafina as they left. That made Serafina feel better.
She turned forward. John was pulling her along at a hurried but not ridiculous pace. The kind of motion that would not draw attention in most places. But here….
ʺYou better let go of me.ʺ
ʺWe have to move.ʺ
ʺI know. But people are going to wonder what a strange guy is doing hauling a nurse around. Plus unless you were listening while they carted you around in a coma I know my way around better than you do.ʺ
He glanced back. Smiled sheepishly, then let go of her. ʺWhere to?ʺ
ʺMy carʹs–ʺ
ʺNo.ʺ He cut her off sharply. ʺTheyʹll be on the lookout for your car soon, if they arenʹt already.ʺ
ʺWho is they?ʺ
ʺBeats me. Donʹt want to find out, either.ʺ
ʺOkay, then how do we get away from them if we donʹt know who they even are?ʺ
John snorted. ʺMakes for a tough game, huh.ʺ He looked around. ʺWe shouldnʹt go out the front. Is there a fire escape?ʺ
ʺNo, but the stairs at each corner of the wards have fire doors that lead outside to the different roof levels, and the roofs have stairs leading to ground level.ʺ
John was quiet a moment. ʺWeʹre on the second floor, right?ʺ She didnʹt answer, sensing he wasnʹt really asking, just working over logistics in his mind. He looked at her. ʺWhereʹs the ER?ʺ
ʺRight under us.ʺ
ʺGood. Can you take us to the roof exit closest to the ER?ʺ
ʺThereʹs actually one that exits on the ground near the ER.ʺ
He shook his head. ʺTheyʹll be watching ground exits.ʺ
ʺHe do you even know that?ʺ she demanded. Frustration welled up within her; terror not only of a hunted creature but of prey who did not understand its predator.
ʺBecause itʹs what I would do.ʺ He looked almost surprised at that statement.
And that reminded her of something.
ʺCome here,ʺ she said. This time it was her turn to grab him.
ʺWhere are we–?ʺ
ʺShut up.ʺ
She wasnʹt mad, and he smiled a bit, as though he knew she wasnʹt.
Not mad, but she had to know.
She looked into the rooms as they passed until they found one that was empty. She dragged John into it. Closed the door.
The room was an exam room. She gestured for him to hop up on the exam table. She didnʹt bother covering it with the tissue paper that was meant to provide a measure of sanitation. Infection was the least of their problems today.
ʺTake off your shirt,ʺ she said.
ʺWe donʹt have time.ʺ
ʺWeʹre making time. And Iʹm not telling you where to go until we do this.ʺ
ʺDo what?ʺ
She crossed her arms. ʺTake off your shirt.ʺ
> He pursed his lips. ʺYouʹre scary when youʹre mad.ʺ
ʺYou havenʹt seen me mad, buster.ʺ
He smiled. Took off his shirt. While he did she looked through the drawers built into the wall unit near the door. Found a pair of bandage scissors, some gauze rolls, some tape.
ʺWhatʹs that for?ʺ John said when she turned around.
ʺWe need to change your bandages before we do any more running.ʺ
It was a lie.
She had to know.
The bandages sheathed him from stomach to armpits. Stained red in several spots.
The blades of the scissors were bent at about a thirty degree angle, with a blunted edge so as to avoid the danger of cutting skin. They slipped easily between bandages and flesh at Johnʹs right clavicle. She cut down, making quick work of the gauze that encircled him.
She pulled it away, unveiling his wounds.
She gasped.
PACKET FULL OF POSIES
From: POTUS
To: 'X'
Sent: Friday, May 31 2:59 AM
Subject: WTF
ONE CARRIERʹS BODY STOLEN. WHAT OTHER ASSETS IN PLAY THAT YOUʹRE NOT TELLING ME ABOUT?
From: X
To: Dicky
Sent: Friday, May 31 2:59 AM
Subject: RE: [redacted]
This is an automatic message: I am away from my office right now, and busy with work that is more important than you are.
If this is Dicky, please take a moment and breathe. Remember who you are and what you stand for.
And get some sleep.
***
Isaiah stopped screaming. Dragged himself away from the sea of terror that threatened to drown him. A sea that was half crystal blue, half murky and dark. A sea that represented his great failure and his only chance at purpose.
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