by Nick Thacker
“Patient 84, please take the scalpel from Dr. Prichard.”
Dr. Prichard balked. “But I’m not even holding a —”
“Enough,” Garza said. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a medical scalpel, its metal razor-sharp edge gleaming. He handed it to Prichard. “Patient 84, please take the scalpel.”
With a shaking hand, patient 84 took the knife from Prichard’s hand. She held it out in front of her, over her chest, the tip pointing upward. If there was any idea in her eyes that she knew what she was holding, Garza couldn’t see it.
“Patient 84,” Garza continued, “please sit up.”
The woman complied immediately.
“Dr. Prichard, this is remarkable.”
“Y — yes, sir. The serum is from your own discovery, the borrachero.”
Garza nodded. The Columbian plant borrachero, which, when processed a certain way, produced a drug similar to scopolamine called "buradanga." It caused short-term amnesia, hallucinations, and — if a high enough dosage was administered — a loss of free will. By mixing in a few additives as well, including the plant datura stramonium, or “Jimson weed,” Garza’s team had created a serum that he was hoping could produce an almost zombie-like state of robotic compliance in his subjects.
“Very good. Patient 84,” Garza said, “please turn the scalpel around and place the tip of it on your wrist.”
“Garza,” Prichard said. “The complete dosage is not —”
“Do it.”
The woman’s eyes seemed to grow, a fiery rage behind them, but she did as she was told. He watched the tip of the blade descend onto the tired, weathered flesh of the old woman’s wrist, and she naturally turned her palms over as it fell. The blade landed on her forearm, between the radius and ulna bones.
Garza did not hesitate. “Patient 84, please use the scalpel to cut a line from the bottom of your palm to your elbow. Do it now.”
The patient looked up at Garza, her eyes pleading. But her hand was already in motion, the scalpel ripping through flesh as if it were a chef’s knife falling through a piece of fresh meat. Blood seeped out the newly formed crack, at first slowly, then increasing in volume until the woman’s arm was completely covered in crimson.
Garza watched, fascinated. He had always had an interest in medical procedures and human anatomy, but he had never spent the time to learn either craft. Still, he was riveted to the scene.
“Garza?”
Garza held a finger up to his lips, silencing his employee.
The woman began breathing heavily, her internal emotions fighting against the chemical brain damage that had consumed her consciousness. Her eyes fell to her arm, and Garza could see she was unable to process what was happening. Her environment was completely foreign to her, and her facial expression now reflected that.
Garza watched, in a trance, as Patient 84 slowly and painfully bled out, her rising heart rate and internal temperature swing causing Dr. Prichard’s monitor to beep. The incessant noise finally got the best of Garza and he turned, exiting the room.
“Get a janitorial crew out here that can clean this up,” Garza said, over his shoulder as he reentered the pristine-white hallway.
8
Julie
“What do you think?” She asked Ben. Julie was sitting across from him on one of the white folding chairs that was still under the wedding tent. She was fidgeting, trying to get the short dress to lay properly across her legs. This is why I don’t dress up, she thought.
“I don’t want to think about it at all,” Ben said, lifting his glass to his mouth and taking a sip. “We just got married, Jules. Can’t we just enjoy the evening?”
Reggie and Sarah walked over, and Julie could tell they were going to sit near them.
She smiled. “Yeah, I know. It’s just — “ she leaned in close to Ben and whispered. “This could be our chance, Ben.”
“We had a chance to kill him, four times already. We failed.”
“No, I’m talking about the Hall of Records.”
“You really think it’s there?”
“I think something’s there,” she said. Reggie pulled up a chair for Sarah, then another for himself. His prosthetic arm was in a cast, apparently offering him a bit of relief from the strain. “Garza may not know about it, but you and Victoria came to the same conclusion — the Temple of Solomon, the pillars — it’s all right there.”
Ben nodded. “Still, it’s in the heart of Ravenshadow’s base. If they’re still there, they’ll kill us. And you remember the —”
“The giants,” Reggie said. “Yeah, those assholes were something else.”
When they had been in Peru, they’d discovered that Garza had been working on something sinister: recreating the Biblical Nephilim, ancient giants that once roamed the earth. By severing a bone, then healing it and resetting it with the addition of a strain of yeast, the bone would grow far more rapidly than previously possible.
It had led to the creation of a small army of grotesque, massive soldiers — men from the Ravenshadow group that had volunteered.
Or, like Reggie, had been volunteered.
“They were sick and dying,” Julie said. “Their bone structure couldn’t handle their own weight. Garza said so himself, remember? There’s a good chance they’ll all be gone when we get there.”
“Or there’s a chance he’s got a hundred of them now.”
Sarah was quiet, but she looked at Reggie. They locked eyes for a moment, then Reggie turned back to Ben and Julie. “I don’t think it’s smart, Julie,” he said.
Julie felt her stomach drop. Reggie was a trained soldier, an ex-Army sniper who had seen his fair share of fighting and bloodshed. There was no one besides Ben she trusted her life to more, and if he felt the mission was dangerous, she knew she would be wise to heed his advice.
“With my arm,” he continued, “and our… history, it seems like we’d be better off waiting it out. See if he surfaces again.”
“We may not have time,” Julie said, realizing that her voice had risen and was carrying throughout the tent. People were mingling about — a handful of workers they’d hired for waiting tables and cleaning, her parents, Mrs. E, wheeling her husband around on the television screen. Her mom looked over with a concerned look on her face. Julie gave her a thumbs-up sign and turned back to the conversation.
“I get it,” she said. “He’s stronger than us. More prepared. But isn’t this exactly what we’re supposed to be doing? Isn’t the Civilian Special Operations a group that’s supposed to take on the projects that are deemed too dangerous for small-time law enforcement and too risky or politically driven for government?”
“Julie,” Ben said, “this is different. We’re talking about a guy who’s been building an army. Possibly one with dudes who are twice our size. And he’s well-funded. The Catholic Church backs him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got the governments of a few third-world countries in the palm of his hand, too.” He paused. Took a drink. “I just don’t see how we’d be able to do anything. Not by ourselves.”
“We’ve got four, maybe four-and-a-half people willing to fight,” Reggie said.
She and Ben looked at Reggie, who just shrugged and held up his prosthetic.
“So what do we do?” Julie asked. “You told Victoria that we were definitely going to do something.”
“I did,” Ben sighed. “But it was partly because I wanted to enjoy this — the wedding. And partly because, in my book, calling someone else to handle it is doing something.”
“Who would you call?” Julie asked.
“I don’t know — Mr. E’s got connections with the Joint Chiefs. Maybe they’ll be able to pull some strings with the different branches, and —”
“You know damn well the US military isn’t going to fly to Peru to rout out a mercenary-for-hire. Not for no reason.”
“So we give them a reason,” Ben said. “We tell them, uh, the Hall of Records is there, but we’re afraid it’s
being guarded.”
“…and they’ll call the Peruvian government, who’ll just send out a small team to investigate. Do you think for a minute Garza hasn’t already prepared for that outcome?”
Ben stood up. “Jules, what you’re talking about — what you’re recommending… it’s insane. We went down there once already, to get these guys back. We almost got killed six ways to Sunday. Going back? It’s a death sentence.”
Reggie nodded. “I’m sorry, Julie,” he said. “I’d have to agree.”
“What are we agreeing about?” Julie heard a voice say. She looked up and saw Archibald Quinones, walking over from behind Ben.
Reggie quickly filled him in. The older man, still wearing his Jesuit priest’s robe and collar, nodded along. When he finished, he leaned in to the group.
“Well, if it helps one way or another, I may have some information.”
They all stared at Archie.
“Victoria Reyes pulled me aside about an hour ago. She said she had already spoken with you, Harvey.”
Ben nodded.
“She said you would not join her.”
“Join her?”
Archie nodded. “Yes. She told me she is going back to Peru. To find her father, and to try to talk him into letting her examine the mountain where she believes the Hall of Records lies. She invited me along, for my ‘historic expertise’ of the area.”
Julie’s mouth fell open.
“And she said she is leaving tomorrow morning, first thing, with or without me.”
9
Ben
“She’s leaving?” Ben asked. “For Peru?”
“Tomorrow, yes,” Archie said.
“Is she serious?”
“She seemed quite serious, Harvey.”
Reggie stood up as well and faced Archie. “She’ll get killed, man. Why didn’t you try to stop her?”
“I do not think that is true,” he said. “Perhaps, but I find it more likely her father will have mercy.”
“Mercy?” Julie asked. “For Vicente Garza? He’ll torture her.”
The group sat in silence for a moment, until Ben spoke again. “We can’t go,” he said. “It’s still a suicide mission.”
“We went for Reggie and Sarah last time,” Julie said. “Are you saying we —”
“She made her decision!” Ben said, nearly shouting. “If she dies, my hands are clean.”
Julie glared at him, but Ben didn’t back down. It’s the truth, he told himself. It’s not my fault.
“Harvey,” Archie said. “There is more.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I was sent this article — it pertains to a Peruvian village situated very closely to our land, the land Garza was on.”
He pulled up the article on his phone and held it out for Ben and the others to see. Ben read the headline silently, then waited for Archie to translate it from Spanish.
“It says ’20 Villagers Missing Near Chachapoyas Valley,’”
“And that’s related to Garza or Ravenshadow?” Ben asked.
“The article says that a farmer who often traded with this village, visited them to find that they had all mysteriously vanished. There was food left on tables, smoking fire pits, even a laptop open with a half-charged battery.
“The farmer told the police, claiming it was El Muki, due to the close proximity of the mountain range, and —”
“El Muki?” Reggie asked.
“It is a Peruvian legend, a superstition. A light-skinned man with reddish features and a white beard that lives in the mines of the Andes. He lures people into his mine to work for him, promising great riches. They never reappear.”
“Well,” Julie said. “That sounds realistic.”
“However it may sound,” Archie said, “the farmer who believed it died the following day.”
“Seriously?” Reggie asked.
“He complained of heart pain, went to a friend who was a doctor, and died in the doctor’s arms.”
“Poison?” Ben asked.
“Most likely, though the authorities in that region are not releasing any other details. It does seem likely that whatever this man knew, someone did not want him telling anyone about it.”
Ben stretched, then swirled his drink. “It’s an interesting story, but it’s still just a legend. We don’t know that —”
“We know Garza’s there,” Julie said. “Why can’t this be his doing?”
“Because we don’t know,” Ben said. “We’re not just going to assume he’s behind every crime in Peru. Kidnapping a whole village, killing an old farmer? Come on, Jules. It’s ridiculous.”
“What if it’s not?”
Ben didn’t have an answer for that. In truth, he wanted it to be true. He wanted a reason to go back, to finish what they’d started in Philadelphia. They’d crossed paths with “The Hawk” in The Bahamas, then again in Egypt, and finally in Peru, where they’d nearly all been killed. Ben wanted nothing more than to put a bullet through the man’s skull for what he’d done to him, but mostly for what he’d done to Julie.
He looked at her, his bride. Juliette Alexandria Bennett. It sounded weird in his mind. He was sure it would get easier with time, but for now it seemed foreign. She met his eyes, and he suddenly realized something.
Oh, Julie.
“You okay?” he asked. He felt the gazes of Reggie, Sarah, and Archie on him. It was a strange question to ask, but it was important.
“I’m fine, why?”
“I just — I want to make sure you’re —”
“I’m fine, Ben.”
“Okay.” He put his hands up. “Sorry. It’s been a crazy few days, and with all this — it’s just a lot, that’s all.”
“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. What… what did you mean? Why’d you ask me that?”
Ben looked around at his friends, his team. Reggie had been there. Archie and Sarah had gotten the stories from either him or Ben. Together it was a shared memory, one they’d all tried to suppress.
But they knew there would come a time. They knew Julie would eventually remember, too.
“Jules,” Ben said. “Why do you want to go to Peru? Why do you need to finish this with Garza?”
She bit her lip.
“Julie, you can say it.” He saw a tear forming in her eye, but his own eyes were beginning to blur. He wiped them, then grabbed her hands in his. “I love you. I — we’re — all here for you.”
She looked at him, then took a deep breath. “I remember. I remember what he did to me.”
10
Edmund
Father Edmund Canisius tightened his collar and examined himself in the mirror. His nose and cheeks were liver-spotted, but he brushed a respectable amount of base from the tiny makeup kit over them and reexamined. He needed to look the part — confident, young, expert.
He was confident, and quite an expert, but his youth had left him around thirty years ago. It didn’t matter. The dealers at this convention preferred experience, wisdom, and mutual respect far more than they did youthful zealousness. He would make an impact, if for no other reason than his name.
It was true: he had already heard of a few online news sources claiming that he would be in attendance at the Conferencia Episcopal Peruana Internacional — the Peruvian International Episcopal Conference. A week-long celebration of Peruvian Catholicism, the latest in Church thinking, and a gathering of some of the top South American Catholic voices. It was a yearly convention, and usually brought together the most vocal and popular speakers and Catholics from around the continent.
But it rarely brought attendees all the way from the Vatican. Father Edmund Canisius was an Italian-born Jesuit who had climbed the ranks of the Catholic Church and found himself a part of the Holy See’s administrative and legislative team. He was an authoritative figure, both respected and feared, but his brethren often sought him out for his experience and knowledge of both worldly and sacred
matters.
His job in Peru was simple: meet with the head of Orland Group, a private defense contractor that would be exhibiting in the country for another convention that coincided with the CEPI. Hand over the offer to purchase their latest development, as soon as it was ready.
The problem was that he had no idea what he was buying. No one from his office had felt it necessary to brief him on what exactly they were purchasing.
He practiced his pitch: introduce himself, shake hands, smile in a way that was confident yet not arrogant. Hold his head high, chin up, but not condescendingly.
His task was not the difficult part; the challenge would be in negotiating with Orland without knowing exactly what it was on offer. Worse, the Orland Group was a secretive bunch. They tended to be quite cloak-and-dagger; certainly when it came to new contacts.
Canisius was concerned that their relationship might begin on the wrong foot. He hoped his superiors had called ahead and made the initial contacts and exchanges. Things would be much easier if they had, but there was no telling what his office would do; the Church was about as secretive about their work as Orland Group.
He knew this deal was massive, he could see that much in the amount of money they were allowing him to move around. What he didn’t know — what he would never know — is what the actual exchange would be. Money for… what? His research into the Orland Group had turned up only vague answers, corporate speak and language geared toward shareholders. It was the typical canned information he could expect from any major conglomeration’s public-facing page: total dollars’ worth of revenue, general R&D amounts, technical roadblocks.
But his job wasn’t to know. It was to broker the deal and come home. They needed him because it fit the narrative: a Vatican priest on a work-related vacation in Peru, attending a Catholic convention. It would be sensationalized, of course: many locals would have a hard time understanding why a high-level priest such as he would spend his time at a regional conference. Those cover stories had already been written and prepared.
