by Byrd, Daniel
Hamilton had made short work of the woman in such a small time frame. Hampton didn't understand the procedure. “Couldn't you just use an MRI of the thing's head? Why did you have to go to this extent?”
Hamilton stopped typing and glared at the Major. “An MRI? On a zombie? Are you mad?"
Hampton thought the question seemed a little ironic. "We have all of this expensive equipment in this building, and you're playing with a literal head in a jar."
"There is no blood flow to introduce the contrast agent into the body. Plus, do you realize how difficult it would be to tell a rabid corpse to stop moving and stop gurgling and groaning in an enclosed space? That's why I couldn't do that for living. Telling kids to keep still would be daunting enough."
Hampton chuckled, imagining a person like Dr. Hamilton being responsible for children. “Kids aren't like zombies."
Hamilton shook his head as he finished inserting the last instrument. “No, but they can be zombies."
Hampton drooped his head. The doctor had a way of being morbid at times. Other times he was just downright depressing.
"Major Hampton, I have a favor to ask of you."
Hampton's mind came back to the lab. “Yes?"
"Would you mind watching this room momentarily while I grab a smoke?"
"Uh...I-"
"Thanks," Hamilton said as he breezed past him and went out the door.
Hampton kept stumbling over his words as the door closed behind the doctor, and so he surrendered to his new house-sitting duty. He was alone with the head in the jar, and the eyes were fixated on him. The image of a brain on Hamilton’s screen kept lighting up, but Hampton didn’t understand why. He took the time to walk by some of the tables and study the doctor's work. Most of the scribblings on the papers that lined the surfaces didn't make sense to him, but the parts that he did understand still baffled him. Many of the documents were Hamilton’s own notes on Tuefel's subjects back at the Emmerich Research Facility. One in particular caught his eye. It was the one nearest the terminal Hamilton was standing in front of moments before. The data was on Julia Adler. Nothing on the sheet made sense to him. There was something about 'pitch' and another mention of vocal cord deterioration.
"She was an alpha."
Hampton spun around to see Hamilton standing near the first set of tables. He hadn't even heard him enter.
"Alpha?" Hampton repeated.
"It's what Tuefel called this breed. The ‘Alpha Strain.’ Much like how the alpha of a wolf pack communicates with the rest of the pack with vocal sounds, so too did she with the other undead."
"Is that even possible?"
"I wouldn't say so, but seeing it firsthand silenced my skepticism."
Hampton picked up one of the sheets. It was a drawing of the human anatomy, and the rest of the page was filled with nonsense to him with a mixture of arrows and notes to specific parts of the body. Certain organs were marked as ‘unneeded’ or ‘questionable functionality,’ so he could only imagine what Hamilton was doing to all of his allowed subjects. Still, he knew Hamilton’s research was the only thing keeping the world somewhat together at the moment. "Christ...and those bastards want this information for themselves?"
"Yes, and that's rather unfortunate,” Hamilton replied dully. He seemed a little bothered by the thought as he continued to speak, “I'd love to tamper with it beforehand, but I'm assuming these terrorists are not stupid. I'd only be endangering myself, and as selfish as that sounds, I need to be alive in their company."
"No, I understand. If you die then the entire world is in danger."
Hamilton was puzzled. "No, I just meant that I have to be alive to finish what I've started here. The world is already fucked beyond repair. The best that I could do is keep casualties to a minimum…maybe only a few million. I just need to finish crushing Tuefel’s little legacy he's left behind. That’s my endgame here.”
The Major sighed. “And here I thought you were being selfless. Aren't you even the least bit nervous? I mean, you're going to be handed over to your enemies, and probably forced to do their bidding."
"Here I am," Hamilton responded casually. Both men actually shared a laugh, but Hampton wasn't convinced that Hamilton was as placid as he appeared.
"I saw the reports on Frank's other experiments. What kinds of other plans did he have?"
Hamilton actually looked a little nostalgic. “He had quite a few monstrosities. The armor-plated skulls of some of his creations, the canister wielders, and the real Frankenstein's monster were a few among them.”
"I didn't hear about that one," Hampton asked, intrigued by the very concept. What the hell had Hamilton faced back in that facility?
Hamilton grunted, remembering the giant man who had been turned into a walking weapon of mass destruction. The being hadn't even fully turned, and that was the only saving grace Hamilton had been blessed with during the entire endeavor. Of course, when a blessing bursts into flames and kills your only friend, it loses a bit of the definition. “Probably best you didn't." He grabbed a syringe from the table and walked around it to one of the tarps. Pulling it away, he approached the man strapped to the gurney. The man didn't appear turned, but there was no doubt that he was unconscious. Hampton noticed the missing flesh on his bicep and understood, but still felt uneasy. Hamilton motioned for the Major to come closer. Hampton was mortified, and Hamilton was growing impatient. “Would you please come here?"
Hampton wasn't stupid. He knew of the fates of the two military personnel assigned to Hamilton before back at Groom Lake three months prior. They were technically the only real murders Hamilton had on his records, but they proved that the doctor wasn’t against using others for his own means. Hampton stared at the syringe in the doctor's possession and froze. “This man is going to kill me…”
"Major?"
"N-nothing. I'll...this is something you should have personnel for," he replied, trying to appear inconspicuous as he reached for the grip of his M9.
"They're incompetent. At least you're not criticizing my methods."
“Not yet…maybe you should-”
"I don't have the time to wait for more trained monkeys to waddle about in here and hinder my work. Please assist me."
Hampton swallowed the knot in his throat and began to close the distance between himself and the doctor, one hesitant step at a time. When he was within the doctor's reach, his senses went on full alert. He watched Hamilton's hands closely, waiting for the attack as his hand tensed up on the pistol in his holster. Hamilton's hand came up, and to Hampton's surprise, the doctor offered him the syringe. Hampton was stricken with insurmountable confusion.
"Wha-"
"I need to move this body. Hold on to that for a moment, won't you?"
"Uh...sure?"
Hamilton wheeled the gurney across the floor and through another tarp entrance. Hampton stood in place and stared at the syringe in his hand. The contents were a clear-green, and the sight sent a chill down Hampton's spine. He hated needles; a lot more than flying.
"Major, could you bring me that, please?" Hamilton called out from inside the tarp enclosure.
"Y-yeah!" Hampton hurried over and pushed the tarp away to reveal a medical setup that placed him ill at ease. "What is this?"
Hamilton was hurriedly attaching strange cables to the man's body. “My next experiment. If I'm right," he said as Hampton cautiously handed him the syringe, "this should be the right concoction."
"For what?"
"This man is still alive. Luckily for me, that means his heart still works."
Hamilton inserted the needle into the man's arm. Within seconds, the strange fluid was seeping through his veins underneath the skin and out of sight. Hamilton pulled the needle out and set the syringe aside, staring at the man, eagerly anticipating the results.
"Doctor?"
"Hush!" Hamilton demanded. Hampton's eyes went from the doctor to the man on the gurney. Nothing appeared to be happening.
"It will be a
while, but the transition should be much swifter than it would have been. I estimate about three minutes until the full conversion."
"Three minutes! That's too fast! How are we-"
"Never mind that," Hamilton interjected, "this is more important."
"How-"
"One more question, and you're out," Hamilton said sternly. Hampton dropped his assault of questions and waited for science to do its job. It didn't take long at all. The man's body convulsed, and soon, he was awake…unfortunately.
"Can't you do something?!" Hampton questioned as the man cried out in pain.
"It wouldn't matter,” Hamilton said impassively while the screams continued, “I gave him some anesthetics before inducing the conversion. Anything else now wouldn't affect him. I'm not a monster, you know."
Hampton was beginning to challenge that when the screaming man fell silent. His head fell back onto the gurney, and his vitals were gone.
"Now?" Hampton asked.
Hamilton glared, but answered anyway, "Now we wait."
They quietly watched the body. Hampton was reminded of the boring comparison of watching paint dry, but this was a tad bit more tenebrous. Hamilton kept checking his watch every now and then, but minutes passed before there was any motion from the man. First, his finger twitched, and then his right arm spasmed. Soon, he was swinging his head back and forth in vain, trying to get to the two men observing him. Hamilton felt déjà vu set in, but Hampton was busy formulating more questions. "I don't understand," he started, "is this-"
"If you don't shut up, I'm feeding you to him," Hamilton interrupted. Hampton wasn't willing to test that threat. Something about this infected individual had Hamilton's full attention, and Hampton wanted to know why. Finally, the deadman stopped straining, and took in a breath of air. It was like watching a vacuum take in everything it could as if it's life depended on it, and the intake lasted for what felt like too long as Hampton and the doctor looked on in anticipation. What happened next caused Hampton to instinctively reach for his sidearm, pulling it a few inches out of the holster before he was forced to use his hands to protect his ears. The creature wailed, sending the sound reverberating throughout the dark lab. The haunting noise made Hampton grit his teeth as he squinted at the doctor. Hamilton had a finger in each ear, and looked beyond dismayed.
“Major, could you silence this failure?!” the doctor asked aloud. Hampton couldn't justify shooting the creature indoors while it didn't pose a direct threat, but Hamilton may have only asked out of courtesy. The doctor removed his fingers from his ears as the turned man wailed. Hampton looked on in horror as Hamilton grabbed a blade from the nearby table and swiftly inserted it into the man’s temple. Over and over, Hamilton repeated the process until the sounds stopped, and the thing stopped moving. Hamilton stood back from the gurney, his coat splattered with blood and breathing heavily.
"Doctor...what was that?” Hampton managed to ask. “What was-”
"Another failure to recreate the very mutation Tuefel venerated," Hamilton replied dully, "and the very mutation that the World to Come wants.”
"Dr. Hamilton, you're one man. You need a team! You need-”
“More time,” Hamilton spat as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Well, I’m an anatomist, not an engineer. It took Frank, Edward, and Julia to even get it right the first time, and I only got lucky that Frank kept notes on how to recreate it in the first place. This was the fifth attempt of my own. This specific strain doesn't mutate when passed on, so it's a guarantee that anyone infected would develop Tuefel’s desired trait. I had to use the blood of an infected individual to even form a platform to experiment on, and with Tuefel’s mutations that has proven rather difficult…”
"See?!" Hampton exclaimed. The expression on Hamilton's face indicated that he understood, but there was something troubling him about the results. Hampton grabbed his shoulder and shook. "Doctor?"
"Right…but there's much to be done before tomorrow comes. I have to leave instructions behind, I need to select a new team to continue my work...I'm going to need more coffee and cigarettes…”
Hampton didn't understand. "Hamilton, what are you planning, exactly?" Hamilton rushed back to his setup at the front of the lab and began to scribble on a notepad. Hampton was becoming agitated at the doctor's habit of ignoring what he thought to be important questions. "Doctor, what can I do to help you?”
Without looking up, he answered, "Fetch me the greatest minds this Haven has to offer. In fact, send for anyone capable in Pennsylvania. Allow me to brief them on my findings and instruct them on what I need for them to do in my absence. I'm leaving all of my data here. They'll find more use for it than I will overseas. I won't be able to continue to look into anything while in enemy hands, but I can at least leave some hope behind that someone can solve this."
"Solve what?" Hampton asked. Hamilton looked at him and indicated with his hands that Hampton should be following him.
"This virus. Something, a cure, a vaccine. Someone should be able to figure this out. Given a few more months I'm sure I could, but my time is almost up."
"You say that like you don't expect to live much longer."
Hamilton raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I will?"
"What?"
Hamilton went back to frantically writing whatever thoughts were bursting from his mind. Hampton followed him around the lab as the doctor took in his data so far. He could only wonder what Hamilton was planning.
"Major?" Hamilton said, stopping suddenly. Hampton had to step back to avoid walking into him.
"What?"
"Tell Houseman that I'm ready to hear him out on the basics of my role in the operation."
Hampton nodded. "He'll brief you in on the way to Pennsylvania, don't worry about that."
"That will do. Please, attend to the matter of the much needed brains of the Havens. I want biologists, anatomists, chemists, anyone with a Ph.D. in science! Actually...leave out the geologists-"
"-Hamilton, it will be done.” Hampton assured him. “Right now, you should focus on what they should be informed of."
"Yes, yes, I understand. There's much to be done. Ah...I need a smoke."
"You just-"
Hamilton walked right past him, hurrying out into the hallway. Hampton shook his head, praying to God that this world had a future in the hands of someone like Hamilton.
***
That scene was all too haunting. The wailing subject made him far too uncomfortable, and since Major Hampton hadn't done anything to fix the situation, Hamilton had to take up the work himself. The blood on his coat wasn't anything scarring, but the noise kept echoing in his head. Hamilton pulled the pack of cigarettes out and slipped one into his mouth as he walked out of the door of the University of Washington's Medical Center. After passing the clinic, he stood on the shore of the Portage Bay. The view was marvelous, even in the face of the impending apocalypse. It was also eerie on this cold winter evening.
Still afraid of large bodies of water?
“I don't like the unknown it hides. You know that.”
Ironic, don't you think?
Hamilton chose to ignore himself, and focus on something else. There was a lot of history here, Hamilton thought. Then his thoughts drifted to the bombings across the country. He thought about all of the history lost. It was a scar on the face of the Earth, and on the face of humanity. And you’re indirectly responsible.
"I'm well aware, so you don't have to keep reminding me."
You don't have a conscience to do it, so I assumed it was up to me.
"I smoke because of you."
America is smoking because of you.
Hamilton coughed a plume of smoke, then proceeded to curse himself, "Even my own damned mind is against me. It's strange; after killing Frank, Henry, Edward and Julia, I thought I had left my past behind me. Now it's exploding before me."
Like the cities that-
"Quit it! You're annoying me so much. To have a mind that
only thinks and thinks and thinks, and not even half of the thoughts are my own!" Hamilton tossed the butt onto the ground and stepped on it. Just as he extinguished the embers of the remainder of the cigarette, so too was his sanity being crushed by the never-ending flood of mistakes he was becoming more and more aware of. He sat on the bank of the bay and looked out across the water while fishing out another cigarette.
"Is this what it's like to feel remorse?"
It's what it's like to feel like shit. Enjoying the view?
Hamilton grinned, clenching the cigarette between his teeth. "While I can."
"Me too."
Hamilton snapped his head to the right and froze. The cigarette fell from his mouth and burned his hand, but he barely reacted to that due to his incredulous eyes studying the sight before him. Sitting beside him, white dress up to her knees to allow her to place her feet in the water, was the figure of Julia Adler. She looked at him, cocking her head to the side and smiling. "Something wrong?"
Hamilton blinked, and she was gone. He knew he'd seen her. She was right there.
"Yes…something is."
Chapter Eight - Vendetta
Roman was listening to the radio broadcast in the driver's seat of Mikhail's truck while going through the files Mikhail had retrieved before they departed from his home in Warsaw. Mikhail himself had stepped out to pump gas and to take a call before the news of the ultimate fate of London came through. The bombing campaign had finished an hour ago, and most of the city had been reduced to rubble. The area had been designated a kill zone, meaning that anything that survived the bombs was to be exterminated. Roman wondered how that differed from the original orders, but he also actually applauded the English; they had a plan.
He flipped through a few more pages before he found what he was looking for. Major Vladimir Rhyzov, the man who had his father imprisoned, was indeed at one point a high-ranking GRU Operative. His missions spanned all across Europe, and even included two in the States. All were successful. The man had proven to be one of the USSR's greatest assets at one point during the Cold War, but his defection shed light on many of the operations GRU had under wraps, and to the KGB it was a wish come true. They were always competing for funding, but because of Rhyzov's successful campaigns they were often overshadowed. To Roman, it seemed as if Rhyzov was one of the reasons the USSR began to cave to the U.S. as the information wars became heated following his defection and the incident with the virus files. No one from either side could catch him, and the one man that came close was KGB, and his failure scarred the organization due to the discovery of classified documents on his person as well; no doubt a setup by Rhyzov. If what Roman had told him was true, then this old Cold War villain was still somehow getting around in the world and playing a dangerous game of cards.
