by Sean Platt
For a second, Boricio felt so bad he wanted to vomit, but the bear inside him knew it was all bullshit. Will was making excuses. If Boricio knew something that Will needed to know, then he wouldn’t give a dozen undigested kernels worth of crap whether it was classified or not.
Boricio said, “What am I supposed to do with my day then, Will, huh? If I’m not heading into Level 7, then what in the hell am I doing? Why even be here? I might as well go to New Orleans and be a cook.”
“No need to be all dramatic, Son,” he shook his head, now standing beside Boricio. Will set his calm hands gently on Boricio’s shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. “This isn’t a forever decision. It’s temporary; difficult to make but the right thing to do. The downgrade is in effect immediately because I felt it was necessary. The second I no longer feel that way it will fade like a hangover. I promise.” Will smiled at Boricio. “Okay?”
Boricio didn’t say anything because he didn’t know what he could say. No, it wasn’t fucking okay. He was about to nod anyway when Will said, “There’s plenty to do, Boricio. Marshall needs all sorts of help on his lab work and filing. Wilson, too. Most of Level 5 in fact. There’s more than enough to keep you busy for now.”
Will suddenly brightened, as if only at that moment realizing the true abundance of available work.
Boricio wasn’t smiling.
“What in the hell are you saying, Will?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Will shook his head, suddenly flustered. “Except that there’s plenty of work to be done and that you don’t have to worry about having nothing to do.”
Boricio said, “Well, then maybe you can clarify. Because what it sounded like you said was that you wanted me to be an administrative assistant for all the Dilberts on Level 5. Did I misunderstand your message?”
Boricio’s shoulders felt like they’d grown three feet. Something inside him enjoyed watching Will retreating back to his side of the desk, and the way his pores were practically bleeding fear.
If Boricio couldn’t get the respect he deserved, he’d damned well settle for fear.
“Boricio,” Will said. “Be reasonable. I’m not asking you to leave. I’m asking you to be patient, and to trust me.” He leaned across the desk, either less afraid or swallowing his fear. “I promise, I’m only thinking of you. As much as you think you deserve my faith, and you do, Boricio, I deserve yours, too. And I asked for it first.” Will gave him a weak smile then said, “Please believe I know what’s best. At least this time.”
Boricio shook his head. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Because you don’t. You didn’t know what was best for Luca, and you don’t know what’s best for Rose.”
“Boricio … ”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Boricio breathed slowly in and out, barely keeping the snarl from his throat. He tore the badge hanging from the lanyard around his neck, threw it onto Will’s desk, then ripped a bright-pink Post-it from the top of a multicolored stack.
Boricio wrote I QUIT in black Sharpie, then said, “I’ve always hated the goddamned lighting in this place anyway. Fucking fluorescents.”
Boricio stormed from his father’s office, barely containing the swelling rage.
Twenty-Four
Charlie Wilkens
Black Mountain, Georgia
March 2012
FIVE MONTHS AFTER THE EVENT …
Charlie stared at the man standing in the yellow hazmat suit. Though he was bald, scarred, and wore an eye patch on his left eye, he looked exactly like the Boricio who sprang him and Adam from the weird-ass cult compound not too long ago.
Yet, judging from the lack of recognition in his eyes, he may as well have been a stranger.
Just as Charlie was about to say something about being Boricio, the Imaginary Boricio beside him finally spoke up.
“Wait! Don’t say anything, Charlie Brown. There’s something weird about this guy. Yeah, he looks like me, but there’s something . . . off.”
Imaginary Boricio looked closer, then turned to Charlie, “I haven’t been gone long enough to have a scar that faded. That isn’t me! Maybe he’s some long lost twin or somethin’!” He laughed. “My real daddy musta been a bad, bad man.”
Charlie looked the hazmat-suited man in the eye, “Who are you?”
“My name is Boricio Bishop,” he said. “And you’re at Black Mountain Research Facility.”
“Whoa,” Imaginary Boricio spun on his foot. “Looks like they’re slopping up the beer-battered bullshit in piles over here in the Twilight Zone Inn! Don’t say dick about him not knowing you, Chucky Fuckstick! There’s something about this shit that’s fishier than Fat Betty’s sloppy tuna. I say keep your mouth shut. Just the facts, ma’am, least until we figure this shit out.”
Imaginary Boricio paced the glass cell as the hazmat-suit Boricio continued to speak.
“Have you heard of Black Mountain?”
“No,” Charlie said.
“We’re pretty much all that remains of the United States government. There’s a few other facilities throughout the world, but we lost contact after The Event. Our job now is to try and return things to normal.”
Charlie wanted to snap, ask the one-eyed asshole if his idea of normal was killing innocent people, but instead he chose to ask a question since this was the first person he met — even if he was Boricio’s twin — who seemed to have some insight into whatever in the hell happened to the world on Oct. 15.
“What was The Event?”
Boricio looked down for a moment, then back up at Charlie. “That’s classified information. What I can tell you is that we’re trying to cure the outbreak. Which is what makes you a curious oddity.”
“What outbreak?” Charlie asked. “And why am I an oddity?”
“The outbreak is alien in nature. The aliens infect humans, like parasites, and eventually take over their hosts. Our tests say that you’re infected, and your blood work clearly shows infection. And judging from the way you laid my men out, I’d say you’re clearly not just human. Yet you show no signs of degeneration like the others. It’s as if the infection enhanced you, but has not taken over your system — suggesting a symbiotic relationship, which is either an anomaly or an evolution. We need to understand what’s happening with you.”
“I’m not infected!” Charlie said. “When did you take my blood?”
“While you were unconscious. It’s standard procedure. And yes, you are infected. Have you been bitten by an alien or infected human?”
Charlie tried to think back to his run-ins with the creatures. He couldn’t recall having been bitten. “No, I don’t think so,” he shook his head. “Scratched, maybe, but not bitten. Can you be infected through a scratch?”
“Possibly through any exchange of fluid, do you remember how long ago?”
“I dunno. A few days I guess. We were attacked by a guy who’d turned into one of those things. He might’ve scratched me, I can’t remember.”
Hazmat-suit Boricio said, “Hmm. Yeah, you should be showing more physical signs by now. Most of the infected begin to visibly mutate within 48 hours or so.”
“Is it possible that I’m a carrier and can’t catch it?”
“It’s not like a virus,” Boricio said. “They are parasites. If it’s in you, it’s in you. It’s not a matter of catching something. You are infected. Yet, it hasn’t advanced to later stages of the infection as we understand it. My scientists are speculating that perhaps there is something unique about your case or you that would explain this — something they may be able to use to develop a cure to drive out the parasites. Or reverse the mutation to restore an already infected person’s humanity. We’d like your help.”
Something was calming in this Boricio’s voice, which cast him as day to the other Boricio’s night. This Boricio seemed more intelligent and deliberate, calmer in his approach. Imaginary Boricio had momentarily vanished again, leaving Charlie alone to contemplate what he should say or do next.
He wanted to trust this new Boricio, but was still shaken by what the Guardsmen had done.
“Why should I trust you?” Charlie asked. “You have us locked in here like animals. And you burned a man alive in front of me!”
“You’re locked up here as a quarantine measure.”
“Is everyone here infected?” Charlie interrupted. “Is Callie?” He pointed at Callie, who was still sleeping in the next cell.
“No, she is not infected. Nor is everyone else. Some people are here because they’d volunteered to help us.”
“She didn’t volunteer!” Charlie said. “Your men in vans came and grabbed her. Just like they did me and my friend, Adam!”
Boricio looked over at Callie, then back at Charlie. “We did bring some people in from the outside, but I assure you, they’re better off here than out there. It’s dangerous out there. No one will survive long once these things colonize the planet. We need people to help us test. Not only to cure the infected, but to stop the aliens. To kill them.”
“So, you’re testing people against their will? You’re testing Callie against her will? What kinds of tests are these? Are you infecting people?”
Boricio sighed again. He was far more patient than the Boricio whom Charlie knew, who would have long ago smacked Charlie into obedience, saying something like, “You don’t like it, Charlie Cocksucker? Tough shit.” Then he would’ve given Charlie the finger and added, “Sit on this and rotate, Chuckie Fuckstick!”
This Boricio chose his words wisely, which made Charlie wonder why he was being so patient.
Wait . . . do I have some leverage to negotiate?
“Ding! Ding! Ding! Tell the boy what he’s won,” Imaginary Boricio suddenly chimed, appearing beside Charlie again. “These fuckers need what you’ve got in that body of yours! I’ll bet it feels good to finally not get handed a rock, eh, Charlie Brown?”
The real Boricio finally spoke, “Sometimes, our hands are forced to do things we’d rather not do, for the greater good. We must test a few to save the many.”
Charlie shook his head. “You’re killing people. Turning them into monsters!”
“It’s science,” Boricio snapped, his patience thinning. “We don’t have the luxury of fancy computer models or a supply of lab animals to work with now. These aliens are spreading, and we are this close to understanding the how’s and why’s and actually helping people. This close,” Boricio repeated, holding his yellow-gloved fingers about an inch apart. “Would you have us abandon our research and throw our hands up in defeat until every man, woman, and child left in this world is either infected or food? Because that’s what happens when we do nothing.”
Charlie shook his head, “No, I guess not.”
“We’re not the bad guys,” Boricio said.
“Then why did you burn that man? What had he done to deserve that?”
Boricio’s eye met Charlie’s. “We needed something to get you in line. To see that we mean business. That man was no innocent. When we found him, he’d been keeping a child in a cage — as a sex slave. So, I have few compunctions about experimenting on, or killing, a child rapist. How about you?”
“No,” Charlie shook his head. “But you guys killed an innocent child, too! One who wasn’t even infected!”
Boricio’s head titled ever so slightly, “What are you talking about? We don’t have any children as test subjects.”
“No, in the truck I was being transported in. There was a young boy with me. We were the only survivors. The men tested him, and he showed negative, or whatever you call it when someone’s not infected. So, they told him to come to the van with me, and when he started walking they shot him in the back of head. Pow! Just like that. Dead! How the fuck is that you being the good guys?!”
Boricio stared at Charlie like his eyes were lie detectors. After a long moment, he asked, “Which of my men did this?”
Charlie remembered the man’s name clearly on his badge. “Foster.”
Boricio pushed a button on the side of his helmet and instructed someone over the radio to send Foster to Level 9.
Moments later, Foster appeared, in his black uniform, gun holstered at his side. He wasn’t wearing a helmet like some of the other Guardsmen on the block.
“Yes, sir, you wanted to see me?” Foster said, looking at Boricio. If he’d noticed Charlie at all, he wasn’t showing it.
Boricio turned to Charlie, “Is this the man?”
Foster turned, meeting Charlie’s eyes. Charlie swallowed as the man’s steely gaze almost dared Charlie to say something. He wondered if Foster knew why he’d been called by Boricio — if he knew that Charlie had ratted him out.
Imaginary Boricio piped up, “Yeah, that’s the fucker, right there! Only a dick with no balls would be pussy enough to shoot a kid!”
Charlie nodded. “Yes. That’s him.”
“What?” Foster said, his facade cracking.
“Did you shoot a child in the back of the head?”
Foster swallowed, saying nothing at first.
“And don’t you dare lie to me. You know I can sniff your lies like shit in your crack,” hazmat-suit Boricio said.
Foster swallowed again, his eyes wide and unable to break from Boricio’s gaze.
“Yes, sir. But . . . ”
“No buts!” Boricio shouted, so loud Charlie leapt back involuntarily.
Foster zipped his lips.
“Give me your gun,” Boricio said.
“Why?” Foster asked.
“I said, GIVE ME YOUR GUN!” Boricio shouted, spittle flying from his mouth and coating the inside of his helmet.
Foster cowered. If Foster could have shrunk and run away, or melted into a puddle on the floor, Charlie was sure he would have. He handed Boricio his pistol, his hand trembling. Only when Charlie saw the trembling hand did he realize what was happening. Boricio wasn’t asking him to turn in his gun like a police chief would ask a cop to turn in his badge and gun.
“Why would you kill a child?” Boricio asked. “Who the fuck do you think you are to go around killing children?”
“I dunno, sir, I was just . . . ”
“No!” Boricio said as he pulled one of his bulky, yellow gloves from his hand. Beneath that glove he wore a slimmer, skintight black glove. Boricio took the gun, then checked the chamber.
“You are a Black Mountain Guardsman, not some mercenary thug! Am I clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Foster shouted like he was in boot camp.
Boricio stared at the man while Charlie wondered what was going to happen. The tension was a fog in the room, and his heart a machine gun emptying its clip.
Finally, Boricio said, “No, I don’t think you do understand, turn around.”
Foster cried, “Why?”
“I said, turn around!” Boricio snapped.
Foster turned, slowly, his whole body trembling, waiting, and unable to see what Boricio was going to do next.
“Leave,” Boricio said.
Foster’s eyes widened, though Charlie wasn’t sure if it was a sign of relief or a deepening fear as he began to walk away.
He made it six steps before Boricio took aim at the back of the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot crackled in the speakers above Charlie as Foster fell face first into the concrete ground, blood splattering on impact.
Charlie jumped, but held his scream inside.
Boricio looked back at Charlie. “There. Problem solved.”
“Fuck yeah!” Imaginary Boricio shouted, pumping his fist in the air and prancing around the cell. “I fucking LOVE this guy! Now THAT is how you handle personnel conflicts! That right there is the goddamned Robocop of human resources!”
Boricio leaned closer to Charlie, returning the yellow glove to his hand. “As I said, we’re not the bad guys. We’re here to help. And I won’t condone my men murdering anyone — especially children.”
“What do you need from me?” Charlie asked.
“Just work with us.
Allow us to take your blood, and don’t pull any more stunts like you did. I now understand your fear of the men you attacked, but I assure you that we’re not going to hurt you. We need to keep you alive. You might be our only hope.”
Charlie glanced at Imaginary Boricio, who was staring at the still-sleeping Callie in the next cell.
“I’ll help you under one condition,” Charlie said.
“What is it?”
“Nothing happens to her. No tests. No infection. Nothing.”
Boricio looked over at Callie, then back at Charlie. “Deal.”
“I can trust you?” Charlie asked.
“Yes. But can I trust you?” Boricio asked.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to believe you, Charlie. But I am having one problem.”
Charlie felt a knot in his gut as if the carpet — or illusion — of safety were about to be pulled from under him.
“What’s that?”
“I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me about the other Boricio — the one standing beside you.”
Twenty-Five
Mary Olson
Dunn, Georgia
Boricio’s Compound
March 29
Sometime after midnight …
Midnight was made for regret.
Even before the world had whispered itself to nothing, it was always in the bony middle of midnight when Mary found herself hating every wrong turn she’d ever made. Tonight it seemed especially easy to hate her latest: agreeing to stay at Boricio’s compound despite every alarm bell inside her ringing in unison.
It was another mistake, turning her back on her instincts, just like she had ignored them when surrendering to Desmond and Will by agreeing to stay at The Sanctuary.
Staying at The Prophet’s compound was the worst decision Mary had ever made, and she paid for that poor decision with her life, and the lives of her children, both Paola and the new life inside her. Luca had somehow brought them both back, but Desmond wasn’t so lucky. Desmond, the father of the baby growing inside her, was dead, and he was never coming back.
