by Paul Seiple
"You're driving, Marshall."
"I multi-task, Emily," he said, tweaking the dial on the scanner.
Keep media at least 100 feet away from the scene.
"You're not getting close. You can't flash your celebrity status card and get in."
Emily smiled. "I don't need to get close. I just need to eavesdrop. People talk, Marshall. You know that."
The van eased to a crawl at a stop sign. Just above a hill, red and blue lights lit up the vinyl siding of an apartment building like fireworks.
"What do you want to do?" Marshall asked.
"Get as close as you can. Maybe they won’t think we’re the media. At least, at first."
The van was plain white. Marshall referred to it as the White Shadow. There was no news media insignia anywhere. Boring. But that was how Emily wanted it. She thought about wrapping the van with a fake logo, maybe a plumbing business, but even though many viewed Emily as "media scum," she still had ethics. Keeping the van white worked surprisingly well at getting Emily into places she wasn't wanted.
"You know what, park here," Emily said, changing her mind.
"Want to maintain the White Shadow's secret identity, huh," Marshall said.
Emily ran a hairbrush through her shoulder-length blonde hair and opened the door. "Something like that. Stay here for now. I'm sure a six-four stud with a camera will draw unwanted attention."
Not seconds after Emily's heels hit the pavement, she drew attention from two cops.
"No, no, no," a chubby cop said, waving his finger as if he were scolding a child. "I know who you are."
"I'm flattered," Emily said, adjusting her left heel.
"Look, this is bad enough. We don't need you making it worse," the other much skinnier cop said.
"Shut it, Jacobs. She doesn't need to know anything going on here," the overweight cop said.
"Bad? What's so bad…" Emily asked, squinting to see the cop's badge. "…Officer Russell?"
Russell didn't answer. He pointed to the van and motioned for Emily to return to it.
"This is much further than one hundred feet. Can I at least go to the media pool?"
"No, you'll cause a scene," Officer Russell said. "You can get back in that van and get the hell out of here, though."
"Believe me, I wish I could get the hell out of here," Officer Jacobs said.
"Why?" Emily asked.
"Jacobs, go back to the scene. And you, go back to the your nice van and leave." Officer Russell turned his back to Emily.
"But…"
"I'm not telling you again," Officer Russell said, walking away.
Marshall popped the door open from inside the van. "Celebrity card revoked, huh?"
Emily rolled her eyes, kicked off her heels, and tossed them to the back of the van, barely missing Marshall's shoulder. She sat down. A deep breath escaped as she fell back onto the seat.
"What now?" Marshall asked.
Emily wedged herself between the seats and grabbed a pair of Nike running shoes with socks balled up in them. She slid a sock over her bare foot. "The skinny cop has loose lips."
"So you're going to ask him to go running with you?"
Emily rolled her eyes again and put on the other sock. "No, the heels are too loud."
"Why not go out in your slippers?"
"It rained, genius. They're not waterproof. OK, I need you to get the tubby one's attention."
"How do you want me to do that?"
"Take the camera, got to the media pool, and just be yourself."
"What does that mean?"
"Ask questions. You're a very inquisitive boy."
"Whatever. And what are you going to do?"
"Become the skinny cop's shadow. Something will slip out. Now go."
"Yes, ma'am."
Emily waited until Marshall blended in with the media and worked his way toward Officer Russell. She laughed and hopped out of the van. She looked ridiculous——a crimson Vera Wang dress and bright green and grey tennis shoes. She didn't care. There was a story at the Huntington Hills Apartments. The cops were trying to keep it hidden. Emily was going to find it. She crouched and moved along the backside of a row of hedges to an oak tree. She was too far away to hear anything. Emily sprinted for a group of dumpsters. She rested her back against the metal and tried to catch her breath. The stench was so foul that Emily continued to take quick, shallow breaths. Her throat burned with what she hoped wasn't the remnants of lunch. Her mouth watered. Don't you dare puke, Emily thought as she closed her eyes.
"I've never seen anything like that. A foot here, hand over there. His bones were snapped like twigs."
Emily opened her eyes. She knew the voice. It was Officer Loose Lips. She fought back the need to vomit.
"I'm glad I didn't go in there."
"I'll never get the image out of my mind. His guts were everywhere. His arms and chest picked clean to the bone. It looked like the poor bastard fell into a school of piranha."
"You really think a person did that to him?"
"Hard to believe, but they kicked us out. CDC is on the way."
Holy shit, Emily thought. This is huge.
"Jacobs. Andrews. Get your asses over here."
Emily knew that voice too. Officer Tubby. She peered around the dumpster. A whiff of rotten eggs smacked her face, causing her eyes to water. She blinked fast. After a few seconds, her vision cleared, but the smell was lodged deep in her nostrils. The burning in her throat returned. She coughed under her breath and hoped it wouldn't be followed by a rush of undigested avocado toast. The sight of four black SUVs blocking the media pool made Emily forget about the nausea. Reporters were being ushered back to their vehicles by men in expensive suits. This wasn't the CDC. This was the FBI. Emily caught sight of Marshall being escorted by two agents back to the van.
"What the hell is happening here?" Emily said before tracing her path back to the van.
The agents were hanging close to the van making sure Marshall didn't try to return to the scene. Emily lifted the handle and eased the door open.
"This is X-Files type shit," Marshall said. "It's at least twenty FBI agents out there. They ran the cops off."
"It's not X-Files. It's Day of the Dead type shit."
"What?"
"The victim was eaten," Emily said.
"Excuse me?"
"I can't put it any clearer. Someone ate him."
Ten
"Sir, we've been notified of another incident in North Carolina," Press Secretary Chuck O'Connell said.
President McClain stood at a window in the Oval Office and gazed at the peaceful sky. A brilliant hue of blue accented with only a few white clouds. The sky hid the oncoming storm, but, then again, it wasn't weather related. Mother Nature had a way of turning a blind eye to man's mistakes in hopes he would wake up before it was too late. President McClain feared it was too late.
"How bad?" President McClain asked.
"A twenty-eight-year-old investment banker in Charlotte was…" O'Connell's face contorted as he tried to convince himself that what he was about to say was true. "…he was eaten by his girlfriend."
McClain faced O'Connell but didn't speak.
"There's no video, but I've seen photos. He was eaten," O'Connell said.
"It's spreading. We must inform the public. When is Q expected back?"
"He's not coming back," FBI Director Turner said, walking into the office. He held the door and motioned for O'Connell to leave.
O'Connell waited for President McClain's orders.
"Give me a few minutes with James, Chuck, and then we will figure out how we are going to tell the public."
O'Connell nodded and left. FBI Director Turner shut the door.
"We're not telling the public, Bob. This is small. It's containable. Mass hysteria is not."
"This makes the fifth incident since Black Dog."
"That's only five in seven months," Turner said.
"You can't be serious, James. One incident i
s too many. We need to warn the public. We need to get the CDC on this. We need to find out what the hell this is and how to contain it. What happened to Q?"
Turner walked by President McClain and gazed out the window.
"Well?"
"Dickson and his team encountered hostiles," Turner said.
"Hostiles?"
"Knox informed me they weren't alone."
"Knox? This wouldn't be Richard Knox, would it? The man who nearly drowned in controversy after the Somalian incident," President McClain said.
"Knox was a scapegoat. He had nothing to do with supplying the rebels with those guns."
"What happened in Black Dog?" President McClain asked, choosing not to debate Richard Knox's ethics.
"Hendricks's computers were destroyed. The hard drives were stolen. Knox said they were ambushed. Dickson and Warren took gunfire. Neither made it."
"But Knox did, right?"
Turner hesitated, thinking back to a video streamed to his phone. The unforgettable image of Knox’s eyes turning milky white as he spoke into his phone detailing Dickson attacking him. "Knox succumbed to injuries also."
"Not until he gave you all the details though?" President McClain asked.
"Look, Bob, I don't care if you question my ethics. It's my responsibility to keep people safe, and that's what I'm doing."
"How do you decide which people are worthy of being saved, James? Do you take me for a fool? I don't believe for one second Dickson and Q were ambushed by hostiles, as you put it. What did you find in Black Dog?"
Turner flashbacked to the video again. Minutes before Knox lost the ability to speak, he said Q found one of Hendricks's bombs. "The only thing we found is that someone else is interesting in Hendricks's work."
"Here's what's going to happen, James." President McClain looked at his watch. "In about two minutes, I'm going to call Chuck in here, and we are going to map out a plan to warn the people about this…" He paused to find the right wording. "…infection, and you are going to be held by secret service until it's over. So, that gives you…" McClain looked at his watch again. "…about a minute and a half to come clean."
Turner walked by McClain, brushing against the president. Turner sat on the corner of the McClain's desk. "I didn't want it to come to this, Bob. I really hoped we could work together. We have the same goals to make America safe and feared at the same time."
"You have forty-five seconds, James."
"If only you would have jumped aboard the train."
"What the hell are you talking about?" President McClain asked.
"Instability in the Middle East. Terrorists. North Korea. ARMA had the answer for all threats." Tuner tossed his wallet onto the president's desk and pointed to an owl stamped into the leather. "The owl is fascinating creature. It represents Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom, knowledge, strategy, and war."
"In Native American mythology, the owl was a symbol of death," President McClain said.
"Present day, it's the symbol of ARMA," Turner said.
"You were in with Hendricks?"
"He had the same goals as me…" Turner smiled. "…to make America safe and feared at the same time. Unfortunately, there are times when sacrifice is the only way to ensure safety. Hendricks sacrificed himself. In a way, Dickson and Dr. Warren sacrificed themselves."
"No. You killed them to keep your secret. Have you ever heard of Milton Blahyi?"
Turner glanced at his watch. "It's been longer than two minutes, Bob."
McClain wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead. "I figure I only have five to ten minutes left, depending on the substance you rubbed on me, so I want to give you a history lesson." Pain cinched McClain's chest muscles.
"So humanitarian of you, Bob."
McClain coughed and struggled to breathe as sweat drenched the collar of his shirt. "Blahyi was a rebel commander in Liberia. He regularly sacrificed children and ate them to appease the Devil. Does that sound like sacrifice for the greater good of man?"
Turner smiled and reached for his wrist. He peeled away something that resembled flesh and tossed it in a trashcan beside the president's desk. "Second Skin. Not the best name, but who really cares what something is called when it saves your life? See, Bob, ARMA had many of these projects in the works. Second Skin works as…well…a second skin. Lightweight. Impenetrable against all nerve agents. It can dilute the potency of all agents in a matter of minutes. I could lick that skin right now and not feel a thing."
"Try it." McClain laughed. It turned into a coughing fit, causing him to fall back onto a chair.
"I'm really sorry it had to come to this, Bob."
"I bet you say that to all the friends you kill."
"I'm in awe of your ability to maintain a sense of humor," Turner said.
"Don't get the wrong impression. There's nothing funny about what you've done, James. I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of seeing fear in me."
"I'm hurt, Bob. You make me sound like a sadist."
"You've created the apocalypse. You seem happy about it. If that's not a sadist…"
"I haven't created anything. There is a minor problem that will soon be contained. Don't judge my sarcasm, Bob. I'm not going to show you my fear."
President McClain found it harder to breathe. So much so, he could no longer speak. His heart slowed. He closed his eyes, slumped over, and fell out of the chair.
"I'm sorry, Bob." Turner hopped off the corner of the desk and took a seat in the president's chair. "Your sacrifice isn't wasted. The VBC agent works as advertised."
Turner spent a few minutes switching between shuffling papers on McClain's desk and watching the president's body for any movement. When Turner was sure McClain was dead, he leaned over the body to check for a pulse. Turner needed to make sure McClain was gone before announcing the president succumbed to heart attack due to the stressful situation. He placed two fingers on McClain's neck. No pulse. He left his fingers there and counted to ten. At the count of eight, McClain’s eyes opened, and he grabbed Turner's forearm and sank his teeth into Turner's arm. McClain peeled flesh away from Turner's wrist just as the FBI director did with his demonstration of Second Skin. McClain tore completely through, snapping his teeth against bone.
"Get away from me." Turner shoved McClain. A good portion of the skin on Turner's hand ripped away as McClain fell back. Turner reached for his gun with his shredded right hand. He couldn't move his fingers. The nerves were too damaged to work. He reached across his body with his left hand, freeing the 9mm from its holster. He fumbled with the gun before it dropped to the floor.
McClain latched on to Turner's calf, kneading at the flesh and muscle with his teeth.
Turner kicked McClain's head again and again with his free leg, but it only made the damage worse.
"Oh my god," Chuck O'Connell said, opening the door.
"Get help," Turner said.
"What the…"
"Get this bastard off me,” Turner said.
McClain released Turner's leg. He set his eyes on Chuck. McClain's face was hidden under a thick crimson mask, but his eyes, covered in a thin milky film, gave away his intentions. Chuck was slightly overweight, meatier than Turner. More flesh to satiate the hunger.
Chuck froze in the doorway as Turner kept screaming for him to get help. McClain tossed Turner's leg aside and got to his feet. It was just enough time for Turner to grab his pistol and fire a shot into the back of McClain's head. Blood and gray matter splattered against Chuck's face.
"I…can't…"
Turner fired again. The bullet cut Chuck's words as it hit him in the forehead. Turner placed the warm barrel underneath his own chin.
"Sacrifice is necessary for the safety of the ARMA."
Turner pulled the trigger.
Eleven
Q didn't notice they were no longer in North Carolina. He spent most of the drive with his face buried in Grish's backpack, rifling through several Field Notes notebooks. The last thing he rememb
ered was ditching the SUV for a dark green 1978 Pacer with woodgrain accents.
“So, you say a guy came out of the woods and gave you that pot of gold, just like a leprechaun,” Nick said.
“Well, since you put it that way, yeah, I guess so.” Q flipped through one of the notebooks. Most of the ink had been smeared.
"Anything good?" Nick asked, swiping through static on the turn dial on the radio.
"Hope so." Q pulled one of the missing hard drives from the bag. "These are important enough to kill for." Q grabbed another hard drive. "They are from the computers in Black Dog."
"Juicy," Nick said, still flipping the dial.
"You're not going to find a station. I'm surprised that radio still works."
The sound of Peabo Bryson's "If Ever I'm in Your Arms Again" faded in and out between the static. Nick slowed his fingers. He steadied the dial as the static disappeared, leaving only Peabo's voice.
"You just gotta have faith." Nick smiled.
Nick Preston had always been considered eccentric, so his choice of car didn't come as much of a surprise to Q. His only worry was would the Pacer last long enough to get them to safety. Nick assured Q it was a non-issue because he’d changed the car's oil. Nick came across as aloof, but everything he did was calculating. He chose the Pacer for the reason no one would look for it.
"All right, what happened back there?" Nick asked as the static returned.
"I'm not really sure. I think I saw a zombie, though." Q pulled one of the notebooks from the bag. He wasn't a fan of reading and riding. A hint of the protein bar he ate hours earlier tickled his throat as he flipped through the pages.
"And I bought this car from Santa Claus." Nick said.
Q gave up on reading and tossed the book back into the bag. "How did you know they were sending me to Black Dog?"
Nick turned off the highway onto a dirt road. "Let's talk about it when we get to the cabin."
"Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything, Nick?"
The static on the radio faded into "How Much I Feel" by Ambrosia. The Pacer hit a hole in the road. Q slammed against the passenger side door.
