by Siegel, Alex
"This is disappointing," she said. "I brought you out here so you could show off your skills, but you've shown me shit so far. Give me a reason to let you live."
He rolled onto his feet and launched himself at her with all the strength in his legs. The attack was utterly reckless and he paid the price. Blows fell like hammers on his head and torso, but he kept going and reached for her neck. He almost touched her chin before falling back to the ground in a heap.
"Better," she said. "You have some spirit at least. Come again."
Smythe's entire body was a throbbing mass of pain. He didn't think any bones were broken but he wasn't sure. He touched his sore nose.
Suddenly, her face was close to his. "I told you to attack. You're not really injured. Get up!" She stepped back.
He still couldn't believe how fast she moved, but he had seen it with his own eyes. Slowly, he picked up his knife and stood up. "Is this your sick idea of fun?"
"No, this is my idea of you wasting my valuable time. I'll give you one more chance to prove yourself worthy before I break your neck."
He didn't doubt she was serious.
He couldn't win this battle with mere strength, skill, or toughness. He had to use his brain instead. The only way he could beat her phenomenal speed was by anticipating instead of reacting. He mentally rehearsed the next sequence.
"Then go ahead and break my neck." He tightened his grip on his knife. "I'm done anyway."
She flew at him, and even though he was fully prepared, she was still almost too fast for him. He ducked down, twisted, and pointed the knife at her. To avoid being stabbed she had to push off his back, exactly as he had planned. He hooked her leg and sent her tumbling. She somersaulted to her feet with the grace of a gymnast, but at least he had made contact. All things considered, that was a pretty good outcome.
Aaron clapped his hands. "Bravo," he said. "Well done."
Marina nodded and smiled. "Nice move."
Ethel didn't attack again, and Smythe allowed himself to relax a little. Was the fight over?
Marina's strange fingernails caught his attention, and curiosity forced him to ask, "What's with the black nail polish?"
She raised her index finger, and a drop of clear liquid oozed from the sharp tip of the nail. "The black is natural."
"Is that what you injected into me?"
"I'm a living hypodermic needle."
"Hmm." Impossible. He looked at Aaron. "In the laboratory you shot some kind of acid at my gun."
Aaron spat at Smythe's shirt. The yellow liquid bubbled and the fabric dissolved immediately. Smythe tried to wipe the goo off, but he only spread it around and made a bigger hole. Even his plastic buttons disintegrated. His skin wasn't injured and there was no pain.
"I don't believe it," he said. "I'm hallucinating."
"No," Ethel said, "these are real miracles." She walked over and put a gray business card in his hand. "When you're ready to learn your true purpose, call us. Aaron, Marina, let's go."
The three of them went back to the car and drove off.
Smythe looked at the card, which only had a phone number printed on it. He thought about throwing the card away. He didn't need to join a freak club. He already had enough challenges in his life, insanity being one apparently. Maybe he had inhaled too many chemical fumes while working in the laboratory, or maybe it was accumulated stress and sleep deprivation. There was no rational explanation for what he had just experienced.
He kept seeing Ethel's dark eyes staring back at him from the shadows like a pair of sniper rifles. She was certainly real.
He stuffed the business card into his pocket. He would turn it over to the police at the next opportunity.
He found that his cell phone was missing. Of course, he thought. Calling a cab would be too easy. At least he had his wallet and money.
He went back to the road and started walking.
* * *
It took Smythe three hours to get back to Naperville. Even though he was bruised, dirty, and utterly exhausted, he went straight to the Green Vines Hotel. He and Mark Woods were going to have a very serious conversation about honor and trust.
Smythe called the military police fifteen minutes prior to his arrival so they would be there to arrest Woods. There would be no messing around this time.
A cab dropped Smythe off. The hotel was made of cinderblocks and concrete, painted dark blue. The "green vines" were just twisting lines of green paint on the walls. There was an actual vine on a trellis in front, but it was droopy and pale.
Two sergeants in green camouflage were standing on the sidewalk. They wore black "MP" bands on their arms and carried M-16's.
"I'm Captain Timothy Smythe," Smythe told them.
The expression on their faces bordered on insubordination, but he understood. He looked much more like a bum than a decorated officer of the United States Army. Not a good way to start.
The three of them went inside and found the manager, an elderly woman with blue hair and far too much makeup. She became frightened when she saw the automatic weapons and refused to participate in the arrest of Mark Woods. She handed over a master key and hid in her office.
Smythe led the MP's up to the fifth floor, where Woods was staying. One of the sergeants yelled a warning, waited a few seconds, and opened the door. Everybody went inside.
Smythe entered last. Immediately, he could tell from the neatly made bed that Woods had not slept in it. All the towels in the bathroom were still folded and dry. There was a suitcase on the floor. Smythe checked the luggage tags to confirm he was in the right room, and he was.
"He's not here, sir," one of the MP's said.
Smythe wanted to slap the man. "I can see that. Go back to the hospital and search for him there. Maybe the other laboratory technicians know where he is. I'll stay here in case he shows up."
"Sir?"
"Don't worry about me. I can handle one flabby, little civilian by myself. I'll hold him here until you come back."
"Yes, sir."
"Get moving," Smythe ordered. "Woods is a traitor. We can't let him get away."
The MPs left.
He sat on a chair. The room was warm and quiet, and he was extremely tired. His eyes kept drooping despite his best efforts to stay alert. He decided that if he didn't take a nap, he would pass out.
He kicked off his shoes and lay on the bed, still fully clothed. If Woods reappeared, the noise would definitely wake him up.
* * *
"Sir?" a voice said. "Captain Smythe? What are you doing in my room?"
Smythe found himself in a strange bed. He was groggy and confused. Slowly, memories returned, strange and disturbing memories. He recalled a pair of dark eyes full of death.
He sat up.
Seeing Woods made him wonder whether he was still sleeping. The technician wore a red suit with black velvet lapels. Red lipstick marked both cheeks.
"I was waiting for you."
"Why?" Woods replied in a nervous tone.
"Where were you all night? Wait, I can guess. They told me you were a degenerate gambler. You went straight to the nearest casino and lost every penny in that briefcase. Seventy grand, was it?"
Woods' eyes opened wide. He took a step backwards towards the door.
"No, you don't!" Smythe yelled.
He jumped off the bed and caught Woods by the wrist before he could escape. They scuffled as Smythe dragged the smaller man away from the door.
"I know everything!" Smythe said. "You sold secrets! You betrayed your country! You filthy traitor."
Woods grabbed a lamp and swung it violently. Smythe had to release him to dodge out of the way, but he made sure to block the escape route to the door.
"I didn't have a choice," Woods said. "They had me by the balls."
"There is no excuse for treason."
Woods backed up. He looked around and his gaze settled on a sliding door leading to a tiny balcony.
"We're on the fifth floor," Smythe said.
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"I won't go to prison."
"You're going to jump instead? That's suicide."
Woods opened the sliding door and looked out.
Smythe was so angry his blood was pounding in his temples. Woods represented everything wrong with the modern Army. He was weak and corrupt. Money was his only motivation. Men like that could destroy a proud nation.
"You're pathetic," Smythe said. "The cash didn't even last one night. Were you planning to earn more by selling more secrets? Is treachery your full-time job now?"
Woods climbed onto the balcony railing and threw his leg over.
"Go ahead and kill yourself," Smythe said. "Save everybody the trouble of giving you a fair trial. When they execute you, I hope it hurts."
Instead of throwing himself off the balcony, Woods started climbing down the other side. Smythe realized that he intended to drop onto the balcony below and escape that way. Woods wasn't committing suicide at all!
"No!" Smythe charged forward.
Woods panicked and fell back. Smythe ran over and looked down in time to see Woods hanging by his fingertips.
"Grab my hand!" Smythe reached down.
Woods tried, but his arm was too short and he only grasped air. His grip failed. Seemingly in slow motion, he plunged to a concrete patio below and struck head first. Blood and brains splattered in a crescent pattern. Smythe gasped.
A woman and two girls stood near enough to the impact to catch a bit of spray on their clothes. All three looked up and had a clear view of his face. The girls started screaming hysterically.
In a moment of terrible clarity, he realized he was screwed. The witnesses would report Smythe had pushed Woods off the balcony. The military police would report they had left Smythe in Woods' room, and Smythe had appeared emotionally disturbed at the time. It was a clear case of murder, and there was no evidence to prove otherwise.
He didn't doubt the Army would take this opportunity to crucify him. Certain high ranking generals still remembered the embarrassing Quryah incident. Word would filter down that the best prosecutors should be assigned to the case, and no plea bargain should be offered. After a perfunctory trial, Smythe would receive the maximum sentence.
He had to make a choice. If he followed the rules, he would go to prison for a crime he didn't commit. Salvaging his career and his reputation was impossible. If he fled now, he would never stop running.
He turned and ran.
Chapter Seven
"I only had a few hours to look at the files," Ramirez said, "and there are a lot of files, so this is just a very preliminary analysis. Take it with a grain of salt."
Ethel had called a meeting at a sushi restaurant in Naperville. She, Aaron, and Marina ate a late lunch while Ramirez delivered his report.
"The government doctors call the illness 'PRooFS,' for Progressive Respiratory Failure Syndrome."
"What do the O's stand for?" Aaron said.
Ramirez shrugged. "Nothing, I guess."
Aaron ate a piece of hamachi nigiri. The flavor was delicious and subtle, without a hint of fishiness. Ethel had chosen the best restaurant in the area, of course. She would never feed her team inferior food. Japanese instrumental music twanged in the background.
"The symptoms are specific and consistent," Ramirez said. "There is very slow disintegration of the muscle tissue in the chest cavity. After a month or two patients lose the ability to draw air into their lungs and need a respirator to survive. A few weeks later, their heart stops. Direct electrical stimulation can keep the heart beating for another week, but that's all."
"Is there any treatment?" Ethel asked.
"No, ma'am, and as far as I can tell, the doctors tried everything imaginable, even a complete heart-lung transplant. It gave the patient an extra month, but then the symptoms returned and the new heart failed. This disease is incredibly persistent."
Aaron yawned and rubbed his bleary eyes. He and Marina had slept during the morning, but it wasn't enough. He needed a full night in his own bed to feel right again.
"Can they test for it?" Ethel said.
Ramirez nodded. "The patients have distinct markers in their metabolites."
"Then they can screen everybody."
"Unfortunately, no, ma'am. The test is expensive and complicated, and most hospitals don't have the right equipment. I don't think the government wants to start a panic by screening for a new disease that can't be treated, either."
Aaron was thirsty and wanted more tea so he looked around for a waitress. The interior of the restaurant was decorated with bamboo screens, which provided a little privacy for each table. The screens were unnecessary now because there were no other customers. It wasn't a place where people came to eat a mid-afternoon meal. He spotted a waitress and held up his tea cup suggestively. She nodded.
"Still," Ethel said, "it sounds like the doctors are making progress."
"A little," Ramirez said, "but the outbreaks keep happening, each one bigger than the last. The only good news is that the illness doesn't spread like a regular disease. I keep coming back to Aaron's crazy theory that poison is the cause. It may be the least unlikely explanation."
"Then we have to find the source of the poison."
"What should we look for, ma'am? It could be a couple of psychotic biochemists in a pickup truck, or terrorists backed by a foreign government. Maybe industrial waste is leaking into the water supply. The source could even be a natural phenomenon. The disease progresses very slowly, which means the victims could've received a lethal dose weeks or months before showing the first symptoms."
The waitress arrived and refilled everybody's tea cups. Nobody spoke until she was gone.
"We have to start making assumptions," Ethel said, "or we'll be paralyzed by indecision. Let's just say a person or persons are responsible for PRooFS. Somehow, they are committing mass murder. What conclusions can we draw?"
"First," Aaron said, "the bad guys must be very smart, or they would've been caught by now. The government has spent millions of dollars and thousands of man-hours on this investigation. I'm sure no stone was left unturned."
"Smart and well organized," Marina said. "Hundreds of people across several states have died. Murder on that scale isn't easy to pull off."
"True," Ethel said, "and the method is still a mystery. The best medical minds can't figure it out."
"This kind of operation doesn't happen overnight, ma'am," Aaron said. "It takes years of work, a lot of money, and plenty of expertise. We're looking for a large organization with an insane agenda. I propose we let the government worry about the medical causes and effects. We should try to find the bad guys responsible, if they exist. After all, sniffing out homicidal organizations is what we do best."
She furrowed her brow. "Good thinking. Ramirez, go back to headquarters and work with Edward. Search the internet. Every nutcase has a website these days. You just need to find the right one."
"Yes, ma'am."
Ethel looked at Aaron and Marina. "You two will stay and talk to the locals. Somebody must've seen or heard something useful."
"Who should we talk to, ma'am?" Marina said.
"I'm hoping the bad guys made friends while they were here, and lunatics usually seek the company of other lunatics. It helps them feel normal."
"So, we want the fringe, paranoid, schizophrenic community of Naperville."
"Exactly." Ethel nodded.
* * *
Aaron spotted a mailbox with the number 5051 but no name. "That's it!" he pointed.
He and Marina were driving down a gravel road a few miles west of Naperville. It was farm country and there were more barns and silos than houses. The fall harvest had come and gone, so except for scattered hay, the land was bare dirt. They had passed several signs advertising Halloween pumpkins.
Aaron turned onto a rutted dirt driveway. His little sedan bounced around despite his best efforts at avoiding the deeper holes. He pulled up to a white, single-story house. A hand painted sign above the
front door had the words "SOLICITORS, TRESSPASSERS, SPIES, AND GOVERNMENT AGENTS WILL BE SHOT!"
"Friendly guy," Marina said. "You remember our cover story?"
She wore a beaded, green dress with silk tassels on the hems. A green clip with a fairy princess on it held back her red hair.
"Of course," Aaron said.
He had chosen a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots for this outing. The words "Fuck the Man" were printed across his chest, and there was a picture of a fist with the middle finger raised.
They stepped out into the chilly air. Aaron quickly put on a black, leather jacket but it wasn't quite warm enough. Marina had a green cloth coat that went down to her knees.
She hung back as he went to the front door and knocked.
A moment later, a male voice answered without opening the door. "Who are you?"
"Are you Stan Hyatt?" Aaron said.
"Depends."
"We're friends. We heard you knew the truth."
There was a pause. "I know some things."
"My girlfriend and I are tired of the lies. We're tired of a corrupt government, which uses space microwaves to block our sex. We're tired of a tax system that lines the pockets of the oligarchy while it crushes American freedoms. We're tired of leaders that use starvation and herpes to enslave the masses." Aaron glanced at Marina, and she nodded encouragingly.
The door opened a crack. A man with a long, gray beard and a patch over one eye peered out. He wore a World War II helmet.
"Friends?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Hyatt. Can I call you Stan? My name is Frank."
Marina smiled. "And I'm Moon Kitten. It's very nice to meet you. Can we come in? It's a little cold out here."
"You're not tax collectors," Stan said. "Are you?"
Aaron shook his head. "God, no. I haven't paid taxes in ten years."
Stan grunted and opened the door. He wore a revolver on his hip, but the weapon was in poor condition.
Aaron went inside. He was hoping for warmth but the temperature wasn't much different than outside. Marina followed him in, and she frowned.
