by Jack Kilborn
“How far is Warren Streng’s place from here?”
Olen stayed silent. Logan poked him in the stomach with the knife, slipping the blade in an inch.
Olen flinched violently, letting out a scream.
“How far?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
Taylor and Logan exchanged a knowing look.
“You have ten minutes to get us there,” Logan said, “or I’ll feed you your own liver.”
As they got into the truck, the Chip initiated another thought in Taylor’s head. Call the others. He held open his plastic leggings and tugged the Multichannel Multipoint Distribution Service Communicator out of his front pocket. He slid back the cover on the MMDSC and held it to his head like a cell phone, speaking loudly to overcome the distortions of the gas mask.
“Head bird acquired. Stand by for directions to the nest.”
The Honey Wagon pulled out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, and Logan again poked Olen with the knife, for no particular reason. Taylor smiled; he wasn’t the only one aroused by the pain of others. He mentally ran through the next few objectives, and he closed his eyes and pictured the last one. The one that missions always ended with. Have fun.
All good soldiers got to partake in a little rest and relaxation when combat duties were finished. Sometimes R&R lasted for days before evac was called. He’d be free to indulge in whatever warped fantasies he could dream up. No rules. No laws. No repercussions. He hoped there would be a few survivors left for playtime. Maybe that sexy waitress, Fran. Taylor smiled. Her blood had been deliciously salty.
The Chip sensed the electrochemical changes in Taylor’s cerebral cortex and rebooted. Taylor dug out a Charge capsule and slipped it up under his gas mask.
The fumes took away the daydreams. But Taylor’s smile stayed.
Streng pulled into the Water Department parking lot and had his choice of spaces. He parked in the handicapped zone because it was closest to the front door.
Bernie had behaved for the remainder of the ride, sitting silently and staring straight ahead. Streng flipped on the interior light and turned around, studying his captive. Bernie’s face had swelled up even more, purple and red hues peeking though the dried blood. Streng noted the lump on his forehead where he’d introduced Bernie to his thirty-two-inch tires and didn’t feel a shred of pity. Though the killer was beaten, acting docile, and still had his hands tied behind him, Streng wouldn’t relax until he was locked in the drunk tank.
The sheriff considered his next move. He kept a spare gun in his office. Streng didn’t want to risk moving Bernie without being armed, but if he left him in the Jeep he could climb out the broken front window and run away. Streng decided he’d put Bernie’s seat belt on; it’d be impossible for him to escape without using his hands.
Streng kept his eyes on Bernie’s eyes and slowly reached for the belt. This required Streng to lean between the seats, exposing his face and neck to Bernie’s few remaining teeth. The farther he reached, the closer he got, until they were face to face. He smelled Bernie’s breath, metallic and hot. Bernie’s eyes were dark brown, almost black, and betrayed nothing. If eyes were the windows to the soul, this man had none.
What turns a person into a monster like this? Training? Some horrible event in his past? Genetics? How does a man lose his humanity?
Streng felt around Bernie’s hips for the seat belt but couldn’t find it. He’d have to lower his eyes to look. It would take only a second or two. What could happen in a second or two?
“Fuck that,” Streng said. He withdrew his hand, grabbed the Ka-Bar knife, and stepped out of the Jeep. Then he opened up the rear door and put the blade tight against Bernie’s throat, revealing a gnarled mass of pink scar tissue at his collar line.
“You move, you die,” he said.
He located the seat belt, pulled it around the pyro, and locked it in place.
“He burned me,” Bernie said, startling Streng. “Daddy did it, to make me stop playing with matches.”
Streng pulled away from him and said, “I really don’t care.”
Bernie went on. “He put my—my arm—on the stove, and he … held it there. I had to count, count to ten. I keep seeing it. I keep feeling it.”
Streng walked back to the front seat. He dug the office keys out of his glove compartment and picked up the McDonald’s bag full of Bernie’s belongings from the passenger-seat floor.
Bernie said, “I don’t, I really don’t, want to remember. Stop it, Daddy! Stop hurting me!” Bernie’s eyes pleaded with Streng. “Make it stop.” Then he began to shake and moan, tears forming ski trails in the blood on his cheeks.
“We can’t control what happens to us,” Streng said, recalling something his father used to say. “Only how we react to what happens.”
Dad had been a lumberjack. He’d been deep in the woods, scouting virgin forest, when a tree fell and pinned his leg. He had his hunting knife with him and spent two days drinking rainwater and hacking away at the tree and the ground. Neither one gave way. So on the third day he went to work on his leg. Streng remembered his father telling the story, about trying not to scream while he did it, for fear of attracting coyotes, and how the bone wouldn’t cut so he had to use a large rock to break it. He crawled three miles through the woods, during a terrible storm, and when he finally made it to safety the first thing out of his mouth was to ask for a beer.
Dad wasn’t bitter about it. In fact, as soon as he was well enough he went back to the tree and cut a section from it, from which he carved a wooden leg. Then he opened a bar in Safe Haven and named it Stumpy’s, which thrived until his death years ago.
If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Another of his father’s optimistic expressions. Dad was always quoting those. Streng didn’t know if he’d have the guts to do what his old man did, and then the bravery to carry on, but he hoped so. He also hoped he’d never have to find out.
Bernie, however, didn’t seem cut from the same cloth.
“CHARGE!” Bernie screamed, straining against the seat belt. “I NEED CHARGE! MAKE THE MEMORY GO AWAY!”
Streng took that as his cue to leave. The Water Department, like every other building he’d passed on the way over, had no electricity and was dark as death. Streng found one of Bernie’s lighters in the sack and flipped it on, using it to light his way. He opened the glass front door and limped past the secretary’s desk, down a tiled hall, to the unisex washroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror and wasn’t surprised to see he looked like hell. The orange light, and the flickering shadows, made Streng think of cavemen for some reason, primeval campfires from long ago.
Streng set the high-tech lighter on the sink with the catch depressed so it stayed on, and he unbuckled his holster and pants. Taking them off brought sparks of pain, sparks that became full-blown forest fires when he made himself urinate. The dark brown color reinforced Streng’s conviction that he needed to get to a hospital.
He flushed, then used the sink to splash water on his face and neck. He also washed his groin, ashamed he’d wet himself earlier. Part of him knew that it wasn’t his fault—any healthy young buck would have pissed having his kidney mangled. But a louder, meaner part told him to get used to it, because he was an old man who would soon be in diapers.
Streng told that louder, meaner part to shut up.
He picked up the torch and his stained pants and walked in underwear and socks to his office, two doors down. Streng tried the phone on his desk. Everything he dialed resulted in a busy signal. He had similar results with his cell.
The sheriff wasn’t surprised. Something big was happening, and if the bad guys didn’t kill the phone lines, there was a chance the good guys had done it to make sure no word of what was happening leaked out. Bless our government and their cover-your-ass policy.
In his closet he had an extra pair of slacks. No extra underwear, but he’d live with that. He stripped off his boxer shorts, set the dirty clothes on a shelf, and pulled on the
fresh khakis. On his desk was a bottle of Tylenol. He dry-swallowed three. Then he unlocked his desk drawer and removed a .357 Colt Python and a partial box of ammo. Streng knew it was loaded, but decades of being around firearms made him check anyway.
He also hunted for and found his Mini Fry stun gun in the drawer—the same size and shape as a pack of cigarettes, and it delivered 900,000 brain-scrambling volts. Streng flipped the side switch and the battery indicator glowed green.
Back at the closet, Streng strapped on a holster for the Colt and a nylon fanny pack that Sal bought him for his sixtieth birthday. Streng had refused to accept the gift, calling it a “man purse.” Sal insisted, saying that since Streng was now an old fart he needed something to carry all of his medication around. They laughed, drank too much, and Streng hung it in this closet and forgot about it. Now he snapped it onto his waist and thought about Sal as he filled it with the ammo, the Ka-Bar, the stun gun, Bernie’s lighters, Bernie’s container of Charge capsules, some matches, the Tylenol, and the electronic communicator thing, which vibrated just as Streng picked it up.
It reminded Streng of a Zippo, but slightly larger. A shell of black metal, no obvious buttons or switches, with an outlet in the bottom to plug in a cord. It vibrated again. A pager of some kind? Streng squeezed the top, tapped it on his desk, and pressed the sides. Nothing happened. Then he noticed a tiny seam along the back. He held the bottom, pulled the top, and the cover slid open, revealing a text message on a small green phosphorus screen.
Head bird acquired. Stand by for directions to the nest.
Streng felt a surge of anger. They must have found Wiley.
He played with the device for a few seconds, trying to retrieve older messages, but it didn’t seem to have that function. It didn’t have a keyboard, either, or any way to send text messages. Just a single button and a small speaker to talk into. Streng figured it translated speech into text, then sent it via microwave or some other high frequency. He tucked it into his man purse and zipped it closed.
Time to move Bernie.
He picked up the lighter, palmed the Mini Fry, and headed back to his Jeep. Bernie’s fit had ended and he sat quietly, staring straight ahead. Streng got into the back seat with him, wondering how a man so obviously crazy could be recruited by an elite commando unit. Something to do with those Charge capsules? Ultimately he didn’t care. Understanding Bernie was much less important than incapacitating him.
Streng didn’t fool around. He used the stun gun.
He held the device to Bernie’s neck, the two protruding metal prongs connecting with his skin, and pressed the button to discharge the weapon.
A crackling sound accompanied the white spark, and almost a million volts surged into Bernie’s body, disrupting the electrical impulses the nervous system sent to the muscles, causing them to rapidly contract.
Streng knew from experience how it worked—when he’d bought the device he tried it out on himself with the help of a coworker. A one-second burst brought blinding pain. A two-second burst brought extreme muscle spasms. Three seconds could knock a person down, rapidly converting blood sugar into lactic acid and causing instant energy loss. Four seconds brought dizziness and disorientation. Five seconds could pacify even the most determined attacker for up to a few minutes.
Streng hit Bernie with a five-second burst. Bernie jerked, shook for a bit, then flopped over. Streng gave him a hard slap on the cheek to see if he reacted. He didn’t. Streng kept the Mini Fry pressed to Bernie’s side in case he needed another jolt and used his free hand to unbuckle him. Then he half pulled/half coaxed Bernie out of the car and onto his feet. The killer weaved a bit. Streng grabbed on to the back of his collar to steady him.
“Electricity,” Bernie mumbled.
“That’s right. Keep moving, or you’ll get some more.”
They came to the front door. Streng held it open and shoved Bernie inside. Since he didn’t have three hands, he couldn’t also hold the lighter. The office was too dark to lead Bernie to the cell.
Bernie said, “I have a chip in my head.”
“Good for you.”
Streng needed light, but he wasn’t letting go of the pyro, and he wasn’t about to put down the stun gun. So he gave the man another jolt. Bernie dropped to his knees. Streng kept his hand on his collar and shoved the Mini Fry into his fanny pack, fishing around for the lighter.
“I think you rebooted it,” Bernie said.
Bernie bolted. Streng reached out with both hands to grab him, but Bernie’s momentum took him forward and he scurried down the hall, blending in with the darkness.
A millisecond later Streng had cleared leather on his holster and fired his Colt twice, the reports snapping in his ears and the muzzle flash making him blink. He flicked on the lighter and held it up. The hallway was empty. Did the building have a back entrance? Streng couldn’t picture it, but chances were it did. Bernie’s hands were still tied, so he’d have a tough time unlocking doors. He was probably crouching somewhere, ready to pounce.
Streng cursed himself for being sloppy. He swung out the cylinder—warm to the touch—and yanked the spent brass, feeding in two fresh bullets. Then he moved down the hall, slow and cautious. He led with the Colt but kept his arm bent and tight against his body so the weapon couldn’t be knocked away, reminding himself to aim for the head; Bernie’s body armor might stop Magnum rounds.
When he reached the first doorway—the comptroller’s office—Streng held his breath and paused, an ear turned to listen. Nothing. He brought the lighter forward, saw a desk, file cabinets, a bookcase, the closet door open and empty. Nowhere to hide.
Streng moved on to the washroom, opening the door in a single clean motion, pointing the gun upward. Empty again.
Four offices left, including Streng’s, plus a boardroom and the drunk tank. Streng didn’t feel nervous. He was a seasoned cop and a seasoned hunter. Scary as Bernie was, the man was cuffed and had no weapons. Streng simply needed to stay calm, cool, and methodical, and he’d get Bernie. Dead or alive.
A smell wafted up from the hallway. Smoke. Not the cordite from the Colt; something chemical and sharp. Streng’s nose led him past two doors, to the mayor’s temporary office. On the floor, near the desk, the plastic zip line Streng had used to tie Bernie’s hands. The ends were melted and still smoking.
Bernie was free.
Adrenaline spiked through Streng’s veins. He looked left, then right, not seeing Bernie, wondering how he could have gotten out of the room without Streng seeing it, realizing he couldn’t have so he must have thrown the zip tie in there, spinning around to see Bernie charging at him—
The Colt was shoved to the side just as Streng dropped the lighter, which winked out when it hit the ground. Bernie hit him full body, slamming Streng backward into the desk, driving the air from his lungs.
The sheriff held on to the gun, shoved it into Bernie’s stomach as the killer pounded him in the sides. He squeezed off a shot, point-blank. Bernie recoiled, slipping off of Streng, hitting the floor. Streng aimed where he guessed Bernie to be and fired three more rounds. He waited, trying to hear above the ringing in his ears. Nothing. He fumbled for his man purse, located another lighter.
Bernie lay on the floor, sprawled out and eyes closed. Streng’s kidney burned, and his gun hand shook, and along with the pain and the fear was a bubble of animal rage. One shot to the head and it would be over. Streng had killed before. In Vietnam. In the line of duty, during a liquor store robbery. But he’d never murdered anyone. The distinction was large. In one case, the person was shooting back. In the other, the person was unarmed.
Streng got down to one knee, aimed the barrel at Bernie. The man deserved this, and probably much more. But was it Streng’s job to judge? Even more important than the grayness of right and wrong, would Streng be able to live with himself afterward?
He fired.
The bullet hit its mark, not penetrating the body armor, but flattening out Bernie’s kneecap like a step
ped-on dog turd. Bernie’s eyes popped open and he howled, and Streng grabbed his collar and dragged him across the tile floor, to the cell room. Ignoring Bernie’s sobs of agony, he located the correct key, swung open the steel-barred door, and pulled him inside.
Streng didn’t feel any sort of vindication or swell of pride when the jail door clanged shut. He’d stood by his morals and hadn’t murdered a defenseless man, but that might not have been the right decision. Time would tell.
“Stop hurting me, Mommy!” Bernie wailed. “Please stop hurting me!”
Streng left the room.
Josh checked the rearview mirror and glanced at Dr. Stubin sitting in the back seat. Stubin was petting Woof—the dog had fallen asleep with his head on the doctor’s lap and was snoring softly.
Between Josh and Fran in the front seat, Duncan and Mathison also slept, each sitting with their heads back and their mouths open. Fran stared out her window as they drove, absently stroking her son’s hair.
“So how do we stop them?” Josh asked Stubin.
“The Red-ops?” Stubin rubbed his nose. “Well, we can assume they’re enhanced. Besides the chip implants they’ve probably had other body supplementations. Better vision. Better hearing. Quicker reflexes. Performance-enhancing drugs for bigger muscles and more endurance. I’m guessing they’re wearing the latest in body armor. And possibly, their dopamine and serotonin levels have been tweaked, giving them greater resistance to pain.”
“But they can die, right?”
Stubin flashed his crooked teeth. “Everything dies, Josh.”
Josh wasn’t convinced. “One of them, Ajax, is the biggest guy I’ve ever seen. Has to be seven feet tall.”
“Human growth hormone experimentation. I’ve studied that. Very difficult to pull off. You said there are four of them?”
“Four that we know about. Ajax, Santiago, Taylor, and Bernie.”
“A Red-ops unit in Wisconsin. Amazing.”
Josh didn’t care for the note of admiration in Stubin’s voice. “You think terrorism is amazing?”
