Apocalyptic Fears II: Select Bestsellers: A Multi-Author Box Set

by Greg Dragon

  He started transferring the sorted piles into the box they’d come in, alternating orientations by ninety degrees so that they could be easily separated out again later.

  And that murder in Shanghai. It had been DeBryan’s idea, a bit of excitement to throw the woman off balance, render her emotionally vulnerable. Cheong had been opposed to the elaborate plan, thinking it needlessly complicated and too unpredictable. He also felt bad for manipulating her in such an underhanded way, especially given the traumatic circumstances of her parents’ death a few years back.

  “She’s seen worse since then,” DeBryan had assured him. “My murder will give her a reason to feel like she has a stake in this.”

  Cheong had acceded, but his concerns were very nearly realized when she almost caught the fake murderer in the garage. That had been unexpected and too damn close for his comfort. He told DeBryan that it had been careless of him hiring a drug-addicted homeless man to play the part, especially one who would turn out to have advanced lung cancer. But then again, no one noticed or cared when he ended up disappearing.

  Cheong wondered idly what DeBryan had done with the body. He knew it was better not to ask such questions.

  DeBryan. DeBryan. That wasn’t even the man’s real name. The thing was, Cheong wasn’t sure what the man’s real name was. Since 6X had paired them up nine months before, he’d known him only by the characters he played as he weaseled his way into peoples’ lives — Shawn Chesser, Armand Rosamilia, Mark Tufo, and a slew of equally improbable names — only to discover later that they were actual people, authors, in fact. The man had a penchant for horror novels, especially post-apocalyptic, which seemed apropos but also somewhat disconcerting. Cheong occasionally wondered if the man actually looked forward to the end of the world.

  “What’s next,” he muttered to himself, as he shut the flaps on the box. “Stephen King?”

  Too obvious.

  There was a knock at the door to his private cabin. He quickly donned his gloves, then unlocked it and invited Emily in.

  “We’re starting our descent, sir,” she quietly told him.

  She was a meek little thing, and despite his constant assurances to her that he appreciated her attention, she still couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. It saddened him that she had been so abused as a child, that her psyche had been so badly damaged. He had hoped to bring her out of her shell.

  If ever he’d possessed parental feelings for anyone, it was for her.

  “There’s tape there,” he told her. “Please seal that box up and make sure to hand deliver it to my hotel room. No one else is to touch it,” he added, though he knew it was an unnecessary stipulation. She knew his quirks and always followed his instructions to the letter. She was deathly afraid that he’d fire her, send her back out into a world to once more fend for herself. He would never do that, though. “Thank you, Emily.”

  A chime sounded and the pilot came over the intercom to tell them to prepare for landing. Cheong returned to his seat and belted himself in. Emily finished sealing the box, lifted it into her arms, and left him alone, shutting the door quietly behind her. It locked automatically.

  He sighed and closed his eyes. In an hour, he’d be in the de l’Enfantine estate on the outskirts of Lyon. He hoped that effort would prove more fruitful than his searches so far had been.

  As the jet descended to ten thousand feet, the pressure in Alvin Cheong’s head turned to a dull throb. In another half hour or so, the migraine would force the contents of his stomach, including approximately a thousand dollars’ worth of partially digested expensive scotch whiskey, back up his throat, soiling the floor of the car that was currently sitting in the plane’s hold beneath his feet.

  Chapter Forty Seven

  ”Slowly.”

  Once more with his hand on her shoulder and the pistol pointed at her head, the man led Angel across the room.

  “Open the door. Good. Coming out!” he shouted into the hallway, startling her. “ Now step out. Slowly!”

  She did as he said and, despite his assurances to her that it was all for show, she didn’t have to pretend at looking fearful. She entered the hallway, again feeling the weakness in her knees which threatened to drag her to the ground, and she immediately turned left beneath the firm guidance of his hand. The grip on her shoulder tightened slightly, slowing her, holding her back. She winced, but kept going.

  “One step at a time. No sudden movements. Do as I say if you know what’s good for you.”

  Jamie was sitting on the floor leaning against the door to her office, her wrists and ankles bound in front of her but not tied together. She stared slack jawed at an invisible spot on the opposite wall, breathing slowly and steadily. To Angel’s surprise, she didn’t appear to be in any distress at all. She wanted to ask what they did to her.

  “Everything okay?” the man guarding her asked. “You were in there a long time.”

  Angel was surprised to see that his anger was gone. Instead, he looked nearly as apprehensive as she felt. Was it because of those strange shapes beneath Jamie’s shirt? A quick glance confirmed that they had grown larger, and Angel realized with a start that her diagnosis was wrong yet again.

  But if not hernias, then what?

  She was at a loss to explain the girl’s condition.

  “Boss? Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine,” the man behind her replied. “We’re just going to draw a little blood from the girl.”

  “Blood?”

  Angel frowned at the man, but he wasn’t looking at her. He seemed to be staring instead over her right shoulder toward the other end of the hall.

  Something’s wrong. What is he looking at?

  The other man must have sensed it, too, because he shoved her down just as the gunshot rang out. Angel tumbled to her knees, landing close to Jamie. There was a second blast and the head of the man guarding her suddenly hinged backward, spraying blood and brains and bone from a gaping exit hole in the back of his skull. He stepped back, throwing his arms forward. Then his knees buckled beneath him. He toppled like a tree, spattering more blood and tissue onto the walls and carpet when he hit.

  Angel screamed. She panicked and scurried over to Jamie. She was aware that she was spouting gibberish — a mixture of French and English words — yet she seemed unable to stop herself. She pressed against the girl, who hadn’t flinched at the gunshots, hadn’t even blinked, and tried to make herself into a tiny ball.

  “Shut up!” screamed a high-pitched voice behind her. “I said shut the hell up, you stupid bitch!”

  She clamped a hand over her mouth and buried her face into Jamie’s shoulder, but she couldn’t stop the whimpering sounds from escaping. She expected to feel the pain of a slug slam into her at any moment, but it didn’t come.

  “Goddamn it, Norstrom! You were supposed to kill the bitch reporter. Instead, I find you sticking your nose into nobody’s business! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Angel turned her head around. The man—

  norstrom his name is norstrom he called him norstrom!

  —was sprawled out on the floor clutching his side and grunting in pain.

  Standing over him was an extremely obese man in an oversized tan business suit, one side of which was covered in blood droplets. He aimed his gun down and sneered.

  “I knew I couldn’t trust you.”

  “Aston,” Norstrom panted. “You . . . bastard. You lied about everything!”

  “Lied? Oh, that’s rich. Seems you lied to me about the women escaping and heading to Chifeng. You think I didn’t know you were up to something? You think I can’t read that stupid little poker face of yours? Huh? You’re not as smart as you think you are. You’re just some dumb, stupid grunt. You clean up other people’s shit!” He gave Norstrom a vicious kick, eliciting another groan from him and a scream from Angel.

  Norstrom pushed himself onto an elbow. The carpet beneath him was wet with his blood. “You said there would be n
o risk to my men. You infected those people with those things—“

  “Infected? No no no! You’ve got it all wrong, my friend.”

  “The . . . things you told me about,” he panted. “In the car. What you couldn’t tell me before.”

  “For your own good. But now you know, because you couldn’t keep your goddamned nose out of it. You’ve been trying to get unfettered access to this place since the day you arrived. Didn’t you think I’d get suspicious? And the way you ran off, saying you were going to Chifeng. I knew you were lying. I’d hoped I was wrong, but I guess I wasn’t.”

  “You . . . lied . . . to me.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I wanted to tell you the truth, believe me. I wanted to tell you everything, because then you’d understand, you’d see all the good we’re doing here, why we have to test and refine and test again. But I couldn’t. I was bound by my oath of secrecy. Besides, you wouldn’t have believed it anyway.”

  He leaned against his cane and laughed. The sound of it chilled Angel’s blood.

  Norstrom had worked his way over to the other side of the hall and was trying to prop himself up against the wall, but he kept sliding to the side. He was growing weaker by the moment. Blood leaked out through his fingers. His breathing had become alarmingly labored.

  “Should I put you out of your misery?” Aston asked. “A wound like that.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t look good.”

  Norstrom didn’t answer.

  Without warning, Aston fired the gun again, and a spurt of blood arced from Norstrom’s shoulder, splattering the wall behind him and sending droplets to the opposite wall. The dying man folded forward, slipping to the floor once more. His face went suddenly gray.

  Angel screamed, this time drawing Aston’s attention to her. He stepped over Norstrom’s legs, jabbing the tip of his walking stick into the injured man’s shoulder until he hissed in pain. As he lurched over to the two women, he picked up the dropped pistol. It had been sitting at Angel’s feet the whole time, just waiting for her to pick it up.

  “Don’t, please,” she pled, raising her hands. “I don’t know anything. Please.”

  Aston shook his head. “Why don’t I believe that? Isn’t it the job of a reporter to know things? To tell the world?”

  “She’s not . . . ,” Norstrom said. His voice was fading, but it was enough to make Aston stop. “She’s a doctor. Leave her alone.”

  Surprised flickered over Aston’s face. Then he smiled. “A doctor? How fortunate. Now move away from the girl,” he told her, jerking the gun to the side.

  “Why? She’s—“

  The gun exploded again, a blinding flash and an explosion. Angel screamed and pulled herself into a ball.

  “Shut the hell up with that goddamn screaming!” Aston shouted. He pulled her hair, dragging her away from Jamie.

  The pain was terrible, but it was nothing compared to the horror of seeing the gaping hole in Jamie’s lower leg. The flesh had been shredded by the force of the slug entering it. Angel moaned, unable to help herself, and it brought Aston’s fist crashing into her face, sending her reeling against the wall.

  “I told you to shut the goddamn hell up! See? It didn’t even hurt her! Look at her! She didn’t even feel it.” He aimed the gun at Jamie’s other leg.

  “No! Stop!”

  Incredibly, Jamie was still just sitting there, no expression on her face. No pain. No fear. Her leg had been blown half off at mid-calf and she just sat there like she was watching a movie.

  She’s in shock. The pain finally got to her. She’s not conscious. She can’t be!

  “I need you to do some surgery,” Aston said.

  “What?” Angel stared at the madman, trying to understand what he was saying.

  “I need you to do a job for me.”

  “W-what job?” She glanced over at Norstrom in fear. “I can’t stop the bleed—“

  “Get away from him!”

  Angel pulled back.

  “She’s not a part of this,” Norstrom said through gritted teeth. “Just leave her out of it.”

  “Are you still with us?” Aston said, whirling around. He raised the gun.

  “No!” Angel cried. “Enough shooting. I’ll do what you want.”

  Aston chuckled. “See? She’s smarter than you, Norstrom. She wants to be a part of this. Of course, she already was. She made herself a part simply by coming here in the first place.”

  He hobbled over to her and leaned down as much as his ample frame and cane allowed. “Here’s what I need you to do. That girl there, the American? See, she stole some intellectual property from my company. Oh, maybe steal is a bit disingenuous, since she came into possession of said property unknowingly and rather quite against her will. You might say it was an accident.”

  He snorted and turned around. “Quite the happy coincidence, that turn of phrase, don’t you think, Norstrom?” The smile slipped away, leaving the pale, waxy face of a ghoul.

  “Unfortunately, the company doesn’t care about semantics,” he growled at Angel. “It simply cannot tolerate anyone retaining unauthorized possession of its property, no matter how they came to have it.”

  “What property?” Angel asked, though she suspected she knew.

  “Our technology, of course. It’s very expensive to produce.”

  “What are they?” she asked. “What did you put inside those people? Viruses?”

  “No, not viruses. I’m not a scientist, so my understanding of the technology is rudimentary at best. They’re more like . . . cells. Well, they assume some of the functions of cells, anyway.” He gestured the gun at Jamie. “The ones inside of Miss Peters there, the ones that got inside of her from that piece of bone, they don’t belong to her. They’re not hers. So I will be needing them back.”

  “But how? They’re microscopic. They’re in her blood. I can’t just—“

  Aston shook his head. “The ones in her blood?” He shrugged. “No no. Not going to bother with them. I’m talking about the ones that made those . . . those—“ He pointed at Jamie’s abdomen, at the protrusions, and shivered in mock disgust.

  “What are they?” Angel whispered fearfully.

  “Why, they’re bones, of course,” Aston replied. “What else would they be?”

  Chapter Forty Eight

  He told Angel to remove the bindings then lift Jamie up and carry her into the lab and place her onto the examination table. It was a struggle for her, as she had no strength, but she somehow managed.

  Norstrom didn’t move as she stumbled passed him. She could see that he was still alive, though only barely by the looks of it. He lay on the floor against the wall with his eyes closed, one hand still clutching his side, the other against the wound on his upper chest. His face had gone from gray to an alarming white from the blood loss. And his breathing was fast and shallow.

  “What a mess this is,” Aston muttered, throwing her a box of latex gloves and ordering her to put them on. As to whether he was referring to the lab or the entire situation in general, she couldn’t tell. He pulled drawers open, searching for something, which he eventually found in one of the overhead cabinets along the back wall. He set the aluminum case onto the bench and opened it up, revealing a set of surgical instruments. “Start harvesting. You’ve got a half hour.”

  “But they’re not sterile,” Angel said. “None of this is sterile, not the gloves, the scalpel—“

  “Sterile?” Aston laughed. “That’s what you’re worried about? The poor girl won’t live long enough for that to be a problem.”

  “Then anesthesia. Please,” Angel begged. “Even if she’s going to die, give her something so she won’t suffer. Even you can’t be that cruel.”

  Aston limped over and stuck his cane into Angel’s belly, driving her backward into the wall. She nearly tripped and fell, and only the sudden certainty that he’d simply shoot her if she did fall and then expect her to continue with the surgery kept her on her feet. She fought the pull of gravi
ty and the weakness in her legs and somehow managed to remain upright,

  “Cruelty would be letting her live,” he growled. “Besides, she doesn’t feel a thing right now. None of them did.”

  Them?

  Angel’s eyes flicked over to the aluminum case, took in the gleaming instruments. Besides the scissors and scalpels, the hemostats and retractors, she noticed bone saws, several large-bore aspirating needles, scrapers. There were instruments that looked like metal nutcrackers. Instruments of torture, she thought. “What the hell did you do to these people?”

  He followed her gaze and nodded, seeing that she had guessed correctly. The kit was indeed part of their experimentation. “Well, it’s not like we just took their bones and tissues without making sure they’d grow back.”

  “What?” Angel gasped.

  He hobbled over to the bench and plucked the UNDIFFERENTIATED vial from the full box. “Pluripotent nanites,” he said, holding up the bottle. “Not cells, but like cells. Stem cells, to be more precise. That’s what the science boys tell me. The tech guys say they’re more like tiny little computers just waiting to be programmed.”

  He gave it a little shake and smiled at the black swirls. “Whatever they are, they’re beautiful, don’t you think?”

  Angel didn’t reply.

  “Aren’t you curious what they do? Not even a little?”

  He set the bottle back down and picked up the syringe she had filled earlier. “Inject them into the bloodstream and they spread out into the body, finding every single nook and cranny occupied by living cells. Yes, even the brain. Of course, getting them to cross the blood-brain barrier had been a technical challenge, but the scientists eventually figured it out. That was in Florida. You might recall the so-called bath salt incidents there a while back?” He chuckled. “Bath salts. The media will believe anything you tell them. More like faulty programming. Anyway, there were a few hitches in the early runs, but we got it all sorted out in the end.”