Anti-Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  “Dude,” Gran says, “that’s nothing. You should see his version of cats playing poker.”

  “I can’t imagine that being worse.”

  “It’s strip poker.”

  I blanch. Over from behind a stack of boxes, Felicity makes gagging noises.

  The storage room containing Mercurio’s possessions is surprisingly cramped and gloomy for Area 51. Instead of the sterile scrubbed feel it smells musty and damp. Brown cardboard boxes are stacked to the low ceiling in a mad confusion. Gran and I huddle in one small clearing. Felicity has clambered over to another.

  “It’s weird,” I say, yanking a pile of relatively safe looking scientific journals out of a fresh box. “I figured if he was a plant guy that he’d be more into… I don’t know. Cat nip, rather than cats.”

  Gran nods. “Love is a funny thing, man.”

  “Yeah,” I nod. Though I’d really rather not think of Mercurio’s feelings as being ones of love. Strong affection is really as far as I am comfortable considering.

  “Speaking of,” Felicity says, “you and Tabitha seem to have hit it off.”

  Gran nods, grinning. “She’s groovy, yeah. Bit early maybe for the big L word. But, you know—” He grins, sheepish and roguish all at once.

  “She just came out of a fairly tumultuous relationship.” Felicity is doing that thing where she sounds like someone’s mother. It’s probably wrong that I find that kind of sexy.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Gran nods sagely. “Working with her to kill the ex, so… aware of the whole minefield thing. But, you know, the healing power of love and all that. Kind of near and dear to my personal philosophy.”

  He looks at us both, the laconic stoner look suddenly slipping away.

  “And,” he says, the word pregnant, “I’m not, like, the only dude who’s, erm, fraternizing and such with a co-worker.”

  Felicity looks at him sharply. One of her eyebrows is raised. While our relationship is not exactly a touchy subject—we have been quite open about our status—Felicity is not one to suffer having her decisions challenged lightly.

  “No, man,” Gran holds up his hands defensively. “Not judging. Love is a beautiful thing. Fill the world with it, I say. Cats and dogs living together. Total harmony.” He holds up his fingers in the classic peace sign.

  “So,” I say, shooting for subtext, “we’ll smile and be happy for you and Tabitha.”

  “But I’ll gut you if you hurt her,” Felicity adds. “I protect my own, Agent Gran.” And there is no room left in her voice for any doubt.

  Gran is shaking his head. “No, no, no, dudes. Totally all over the making Tabitha happy thing. Very into that actually. Like… well, you don’t want details.”

  I momentarily thank all that is holy that he stopped there. This job is hard enough without having to deal with hysterical blindness.

  “It was actually the whole protecting-your-own thing I wanted to focus on for a moment.”

  The defensive look is back in Felicity’s eyes. It’s probably in mine too. Either that or the guilty look, because I think I know where this is going.

  “Look, dudes,” Gran says. “I love that you guys have clearly got the groovalicious thing for each other bad.”

  And here it comes…

  “But—”

  There it is.

  “—you know, in the field, it’s like getting to feel a little dangerous when you have my back, man.” Gran’s laugh is awkward. His usual affableness diminished. “Like I dig that Felicity is your first priority and vice versa, but, man, there’s quite a decent chunk of prioritizing going on with that, it seems, you know.” He shrugs awkwardly.

  Shit. Because he has a point. Love doesn’t belong out in the field. That’s essentially what he’s saying. It puts every other life out there at risk.

  I look at Felicity. And how can I not? How can I not protect her?

  “Are you saying that our relationship is affecting our efficacy in the field?” Felicity has gone very stiff.

  “Oh man,” Gran pushes his hands through his hair. “I hate this shit. Look, I’m not doing anything formal here. Just having a chat with some groovy people. That’s all.”

  I look at Felicity. Because if I look at Gran he might want me to meet his eye, and I don’t know if I can right now.

  “We…” I start.

  “I look after my own,” Felicity snaps. At Gran. At me too. There is unexpected tension in her voice. And I know she doesn’t like to be challenged, but this seems beyond that point. “I keep my own safe. All of my own. And that includes you, Agent Gran. Everyone is safe on my watch. Do you understand?”

  And with that she storms out of the room.

  Gran looks miserable. And maybe it confirms Gran’s argument but he is still not my first priority. I hurry after Felicity.

  SEVERAL CORRIDORS AWAY

  I catch up with Felicity, put a hand on her shoulder. She wheels on me.

  “Hey!” I say, almost raising a hand to fend her off. And then I see the streaks of make-up in the corners of her eyes. “Hey,” I say again, but softer now. I reach out to her. “Are you OK?”

  She wipes at her eyes furiously. “Yes,” she snaps. “Of course.”

  I regard her for a moment. In the hopes that she stops taking me for a fool.

  She seems to concede that fact. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

  “Come on,” I say. “I’m a part of this too.” Which might be a bit presumptive of me, but I am an increasing fan of the pronoun “us,” and would like to help shoulder some of the pain.

  She regards me, jaw working hard. And I feel so sad for her in that moment. Gran, without meaning to, has hit a structural weakness in her steel foundations. And I don’t know exactly what it is, but I am so sad to discover it was there at all.

  “Is this about your sister?” I ask as gently as I can. It is the only thing I can guess at.

  Felicity clenches her jaw for a moment. “I protect my own,” she whispers fiercely.

  In the end, that sounds a lot like, “yes.”

  “I know you do,” I say. Because I genuinely believe her. Because when she has my back, I believe down to the bone that my back is fine.

  Felicity draws a breath, holds it for a moment, and then releases it the same way a kettle releases steam. I’m half surprised she doesn’t whistle.

  She shakes herself. “I’m being ridiculous,” she says.

  “No,” I say, because Felicity is stronger than that, because she doesn’t need denial. “You’re recognizing the danger we’re up against. You’re—”

  “No,” she says, “I’m not.” She shakes her head. “I know exactly how dangerous this is. That’s why…” She hesitates, and seems to retreat from whatever went unspoken.

  “Why what?” I want so much to understand, to help her bear this weight.

  “You said,” she says, not meeting my eye, “that you worried that if you saved me at the expense of the greater good I wouldn’t forgive you.”

  I nod. I sort of remember that fairly well. “And you reassured me,” I say, “that I’ll make the right call.”

  “I know,” she says. “And I still believe that.”

  “There you go, then,” I say. QED, and logic, and all the things Clyde used to reference.

  “No.” She shakes her head, looking very sad indeed. “I think you would. But I don’t know if I would make the right call, Arthur.”

  “While I find that hard to believe,” I tell her, “I would still be there for you. I would very easily be able to forgive you.”

  “Yes,” she says. “But I would never be able to forgive myself.”

  “Oh.”

  And I feel her pain so sharply in my own chest. I pull her to me, and she comes, wraps her arms around me.

  “I swore never again, Arthur. No one under my watch. No one. I swore.”

  “I know. I know. But we’ll be OK,” I tell her. “We’ll make the right decisions. We’ll make them together.” And, God,
I wish I had more than platitudes for her now. I wish I had certainty. But that has never been my gift to give.

  Felicity pulls away from me. Rubs at her eyes once more, a look of self-recrimination on her face. “I know. We will. Of course.” She sniffs. “I’m being ridiculous.”

  But she’s not, and as we head up through the corridors of Area 51, I don’t think either of us are reassured.

  31

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  We regroup for a lunch meeting. Sandwiches and wraps are laid out in a room labeled Epsilon-3. Considering how much the CIA love their nomenclature, I assume the epsilon signifies that this is a floor for dysfunctional visiting groups

  The Clyde versions take up a large portion of one wall of the lab. Tabitha has angled her laptop so her back is to them. I sit next to Felicity, who has still not entirely recovered her calm and won’t look at Gran.

  A couple of men and women we don’t know—all with ponytails, I note—sit at the far end of the lab, looking uncomfortable.

  I remember Felicity’s desire for us to appear competent and pleasant and decide to break the ice as best I can. “So, how’s it all going?” I ask as jovially as the atmosphere will allow.

  “Awful,” Tabitha says at the exact same moment that the Clyde versions chime, “Great.”

  “Fuck off.” Tabitha gives the versions the finger over her shoulder.

  I smile and try to muscle through. “Work out anything about what happened with Mercurio?”

  Tabitha grunts. “Yeah. Found two things.”

  “Oh?” I brighten.

  “Diddly and shit.”

  “Oh.” I readjust my brightness to its earlier levels, try Gran instead. “You find anything in Mercurio’s effects suggesting at the larger plan?”

  “No, dude.” Gran shrugs. “All the personal notes are on the same shit. Rampant growth of ground cover, yadda, yadda. Weaponized fungus, et cetera, et cetera.”

  Weaponized fungus. Jesus. Still, maybe the obvious is staring us in the face. “Is there anything in there,” I say, “about how this could be scaled? How big an area could he affect with this?”

  “Well, it’d be the standard limitations,” offers a Clyde version. “Power source related. The more electricity he has the larger the area he can affect.”

  My teenage self would disown me, but, God, I hate magic.

  I force my gray matter to chug and whir. “Wasn’t there something in the files Version 2.0 originally looked at? Before we came on the case. Something to do with infrastructure. With the power lines or something?”

  “Yes.” The three Clydes nod in unison.

  “So,” I say, “theoretically he could hack into the US power grid, and turn plants on people over a massive area. Like the entire US.”

  “Shit,” Felicity and Tabitha say in unison.

  Gran’s eyes go wide. And then he shakes his head. “Nah, man. Our infrastructure is, like, for shit. Total disaster. No way you could go in and just digitally rejigger the thing. Wouldn’t work.”

  “Clyde zombies,” Tabitha says.

  It takes me a moment, but I realize this is what we’re now calling the recently mind-wiped.

  I glance at the Clyde versions, and none of them look happy about the term, but none of them look willing to nay-say Tabitha either.

  “There would need to be, like, hundreds of them,” Gran says, still back on Tabitha’s Clyde zombies theory. “All over the country.”

  “Yes,” Tabitha agrees.

  “Shit,” Gran says. His calm is definitely being disturbed here. “Jesus, could we even spot them?”

  “Oh!” says a Clyde. “Burn pattern.”

  Despite herself Tabitha suddenly sits up very straight.

  “Burn what?” I ask, looking at her. I still prefer to deal with flesh and blood folk than the versions.

  “Mercurio’s head,” she says. “His brain. Burned neurons where Clyde went in. A distinct pattern. Would show up on MRI.”

  While this seems like good news to me, Gran’s head slumps to hit the table. “God,” he says. “Now I have to MRI everyone touching the power grid. Like, I wasn’t unpopular enough already.”

  It is probably not as good a sign as I would like that this causes Felicity to smile.

  “Ahem.”

  Our eyes all snap to the doorway. Kensington, the pompous little man who greeted us to Area 51 and who made some ugly insinuations about Kayla’s injury yesterday, is standing there.

  “Yes?” Felicity asks him, which is definitely more polite than what I was going to say.

  He gives us all the most perfunctory of smiles. “I was sitting in my office and I realized that I had never given you the full tour of Area 51.”

  “Gran—” I start.

  “An official tour,” Kensington rides over me, “from the deputy liaison—” There’s emphasis on the title. “I think you’ll all be surprised by how advanced we are here compared to what you’re used to.” He unconsciously smooths his hair. “Probably some things you’re not really used to seeing back in a, err… more parochial outfit.”

  Whether it’s a conscious effort to be insulting or not, I don’t know. Either way I think he’s got about six seconds before I punch him in the throat.

  Then something on the wall behind him catches my eye. A better alternative. “Wait,” I say cutting him off, “is that mold?”

  I point to a dark patch I’ve spotted on the pristine gray wall behind him. A black stain, almost like a blob of dripping spray paint.

  For a moment Kensington seems unable to speak. I don’t think I could have insulted him more had I chosen to kick a baby in front of him. There is at least a mild chance his head is going to detonate.

  Gran stands, peers past Kensington. “Dude,” he says by way of confirmation.

  “No,” Kensington manages. “No.” He remains with his back firmly to the mold, unable to acknowledge it.

  It’s petty of me, but I am quietly proud of the fact that while it may be shoddy, and run-down, and underfunded, and have a really neglected air, and be in desperate need of some really basic amenities, and… well, I am quietly proud MI37 isn’t moldy.

  “Dude,” Gran says again. He sounds far more concerned this time. Then a third time. “Dude!” Recoiling. Disgusted and alarmed.

  As he pulls back I see the stain again. It’s bigger now. And getting bigger. It bubbles through the wall, an uneven smear of black and purple. The wall beneath almost boils, layers of plastic peeling back, sloughing away. Something beneath, furry and dark, pushing out. An odor like rotten eggs.

  “The hell?” I say.

  “Back,” Felicity barks. “Down.”

  “No,” says Kensington again. Finally turning. The sight seems to rock him back on his feet. “It can’t be.”

  He steps forward toward the thing, a bulbous column of dark purple fur.

  And then it explodes.

  A spray of a fine dark powder. Like a breath exhaled. The black fungal structure already collapsing upon itself, sagging down.

  The spores billow in the air, about Kensington. He coughs, splutters, spits. He claws at his mouth, his nose.

  “Jesus!” I manage, as eloquent as ever in my shock.

  “Back!” Felicity barks again. And I comply. Hell, do I comply. All of MI37 does. We know that tone.

  But Gran doesn’t. “Kensington?” he says, the concern over-riding the disgust. “Dude? You OK?” His hand is on the deputy liaison’s shoulder.

  Kensington still hacks and coughs, down on his knees, his back to us. The exhalations become thicker, wetter. I hear something splatter against the floor with each cough.

  “Urrrr,” Kensington rumbles.

  That doesn’t sound good.

  “Urrr,” Kensington rumbles again. And with that he staggers to his feet. His motions are jerky, something off with the gross motor functions. Some joints too loose, others too stiff. His back is still to us. And then he turns.

  His eyes are black. Totally black.
His mouth too. His lips the darkest purple. The stain leaks from the corners of his eyes, down his cheeks, like sodden mascara. It’s on his chin, like a meal sloppily eaten.

  “Urrr.” He grabs Gran by the collar and buries a fist in the CIA agent’s face. His nails are purple too.

  “Shit!” Felicity’s gun is in her hands before I can track the movement.

  “Wait!” Tabitha shouts. Kensington is dangerously close to Gran. But then the shot is fired.

  Kensington’s head detonates like rotten fruit. He tumbles to the floor. Cranium scatters everywhere. A great spray of blood. Black blood. Bits of brain mashed against the floor. Half of them covered in black fur.

  My gorge rises.

  “Shit, man,” Gran is saying. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  He and I are rather on the same page. I go with, “What the hell?”

  It’s Tabitha who answers, voice numb. “Fungus,” she says. “Alien, mind-controlling fungus. Fungi from Shug-Yoggoth. Fuck. Clyde is trying to kill us in the nerdiest way possible.”

  32

  It takes me a moment before I realize. She’s right. This is it. This is the attack.

  Jesus. We were going to MRI the world. Wasn’t that the plan about eight seconds ago? We were going to do it before Version 2.0 had time to sort everything out.

  Except he has.

  This is it.

  This is the attack.

  Shit. My sword. It’s back in the sleeping cube this morning. I left it there after… Kayla.

  “No.” Gran is shaking his head. “We can’t be under attack. We can’t.” He sounds like Kensington looking at the mold.

  Kensington. The dead man on the floor. I point to him. “I think we have some pretty good evidence to the contrary.” Panic can make me a smart mouth.

  Gran shakes his head again. Except there are screams now coming from further down the hall.

  And then another, “Urrr,” from much closer.

  We spin. Look down the lab. At the other researchers having lunch here. The ponytail crowd. God, I hadn’t even…

  Fungus wilts against the wall behind them. I see the dark spores staining the laptops they were using. I see their black eyes and purple lips. Something black, viscous, and ugly leaking out of one of their noses.