by Sean Platt
Though Ed liked Bolton well enough, he couldn’t trust the man to honor old deals once Ed fulfilled his job’s duties. Which was why Ed played it safe and moved his family — Jade, Teagan, and Becca — into a safe house in upstate New York that nobody knew about.
Bolton stepped into the room in his crisp, black uniform, which, despite the man’s general ranking, bore no decorations and declared no honor: black and utilitarian, same as any other Guardsman.
“So, the shit’s hit the fan, eh, gentlemen?” Bolton said, taking a seat opposite them.
“Yes, Sir,” Sullivan said. “We have our first documented infection. We’re culling everything we have on Mrs. Flores to see if we can trace her point of contagion.”
“And her child? Husband?”
“Both were quarantined on Level Four, but neither shows signs of infection.”
“And the other women with her in the park?”
“Also quarantined, along with their families. We don’t expect any positives.”
Bolton sighed, “OK, the press is having a fucking field day, suggesting everything from biological attack to homegrown terror from a sleeper unit of soccer moms. We need to find this Boricio Bishop. Have we got any leads, at all?”
“No, Sir,” Sullivan said. “We’re monitoring all communications and all closed circuit television for any sign of him, but we’re at zero hits.”
“So he’s just out there infecting people and there’s nothing we can do about it?” Bolton asked.
“We’re doing everything we can,” Sullivan said. “And this is the first person that we know is infected. The other cases we worked showed no change to the bodies, so we had no actual proof linking Bishop to this.”
“Until now,” Bolton reminded him.
Ed sympathized, seeing Sullivan sitting empty handed beside a man used to commanding answers with a snapping finger. Ed had seen many men in Bolton’s position get petulant when their underlings didn’t stuff their hungry bellies with the answers they wanted yesterday. To Bolton’s credit, he was either managing his stress well and trapping his rising anger, or truly in charge of his emotions. While he was short with Sullivan, Ed had seen men like Bolton go completely unhinged, batshit ballistic.
While Bolton’s patience was a deeper well than other men’s, it wouldn’t be long before that well ran dry. Men like Bolton didn’t only expect answers, they also had to provide answers to someone higher up the food chain. And those people, in Ed’s experience, were far less patient.
Earth’s Black Island wasn’t the same agency as the other world’s. While this organization was also part of Homeland Security, it hadn’t benefited from the alien technology as it had in the other world. This Black Island was designed as a biowarfare research facility, with four levels rather than seven. Neither the facility nor its staff, comprised more of scientists than actual Guardsmen, were prepared for a full-scale alien invasion or outbreak of infected. The pressure was on Bolton to head this off before involving the military.
Once the military was involved, keeping the information secret would be impossible: The people of Earth would know there were aliens among them. Mass panic would tear society to pieces.
“OK,” Bolton said. “We picked up a communication last night on the computers, and I need you to follow up. Someone you both know: Brent Foster.”
Ed felt Bolton’s eyes on him, weighing his surprise.
Bolton punched his laptop’s keyboard, and played a recording 0f Brent speaking to someone Ed didn’t know. The men were discussing Black Island, the aliens, and someone Brent referenced as the 215ers. They were also discussing a man named Roman Rosetti, a former Air Force member who went on a shooting spree before being committed to a psychiatric hospital.
The recording ended, and Bolton’s eyes met Sullivan’s. “I thought you said we could trust these survivors to keep their mouths shut. This man sounds like he’s doing the opposite. Do I need to remind you of the mess this makes for us?”
“No, Sir,” Sullivan said.
“I need you two to take care of this,” Bolton said.
Ed swallowed, “Take care of?”
“I want you to find out what Brent Foster knows, then kill him. And the man he was talking to. Name’s Luis Torres.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Ed said, “I didn’t sign on to kill anyone.”
Ed looked at Sullivan, who seemed equally surprised by Bolton’s directive, but was silent.
Bolton responded, the first bit of anger tinging his voice, “We have a deal, Mr. Keenan, predicated on you helping us do whatever must be done to eradicate the threat. I don’t need to remind you that we secured your freedom from some fairly serious government charges, do I?”
“What part of not reminding me is this?” Ed asked. “I said I’d help, yes. That was before you had me killing innocents.”
“Please,” Bolton said, “don’t insult me by acting like a whore with last-minute scruples. You are a paid killer, Mr. Keenan, the only thing that’s changed is your master.”
Ed stood, “Excuse me? Master?”
“Sit down!” Bolton thundered, his face red.
Ah, there’s the anger. The well is shallow, after all.
Ed refused to sit.
Bolton glared at him, “Let’s not kid ourselves, Mr. Keenan. You’re here not out of the goodness of your heart, nor because we wiped your slate clean and made you a ‘free’ man. You’re here because we found you. And we found your family. And you’ve nowhere to run, do you? It would be a shame for something to happen to Jade, Teagan, and her baby.”
“Are you threatening my family?” Ed said, trying to throttle his own rising anger before he leaped across the table to see how tough Bolton actually was.
“I’m only telling you what you already know,” Bolton said. “You’ve seen how this works. Don’t make me the bad guy. Your time in the other world has made you soft if you can’t see Foster’s clear and present danger. I never wait for cracks in the foundation to worsen. I take care of them before they spread. We could roll in with a team of operatives and snatch all these people up, but I prefer discretion, and we’ll need you to find out what they know. You’re still good at that, right?”
Bolton didn’t wait for an answer. “So, you will do as instructed, then get the rest of them.”
“Rest?” Ed asked, swallowing.
“Yes, everyone who came back. I want you to find them, get whatever info they have, then kill them. Discreetly.”
“And if I say no?” Ed stared down at Bolton, his face settling back into its calm facade.
“We both know you won’t,” Bolton said.
The fucking bastard was right.
Eleven
Rose McCallister
The murder inside her head had been working for hours.
Rose didn’t want to meet Marina, even though it was the biggest opportunity she had ever had. Her head hurt too much. She wanted to crawl under the comforter and sleep for several more hours. Rose had begged Boricio for “just 15 more minutes.” He was hesitant, knowing her ways, but finally gave her the quarter hour, after she promised to be a good girl and get out of bed when it was time, but now, a full hour later, Rose was determined to prove that some promises were born to be broken.
“Time to rise, shine, and bring God your glory,” Boricio said, sitting at the edge of their hotel bed. “Kick those covers in the face, and give ‘em bloody noses. You’ve important people to meet today, and you’re running thin on seconds.”
“No,” Rose said, or moaned, then turned toward the window and pulled the comforter tighter around her body.
“Well, ring around the Rosie,” Boricio said, like he always did when trying to talk her into something she didn’t want to do. Except this time there was no talking after he started. Instead of finishing his sentence Boricio reached into bed, scooped Rose out from the comforter with a hand slithering up under her waist, then draped her over his shoulders like dry cleaning and carried her into the bathroom. Boricio
kept holding Rose like a sack as he started the water, then planted her on the ground and started undressing her, though not at all like he normally did.
Rose tried to fight, but only barely and mostly for fun since she and Boricio both loved the banter, and it usually gave her energy, which at the moment she needed more than anything else, besides a nuclear bomb to soften her head’s relentless pounding.
With her clothes in a puddle, and Boricio smiling and waiting, Rose stepped into the shower and let the hot water beat her into waking up enough to ignore the throbbing in her head.
“Another headache?” Boricio asked.
Rose couldn’t see his face through the shower curtain, but could picture it easily enough: his furrowed brow and twitching nose, bothered if not altogether angry that her headaches had been growing worse for a month without more than a few minutes of reprieve at a time. Rose didn’t want to admit it, especially an hour away from meeting Marina and the Maris Brothers at Marina’s home in Malibu, but most days Rose felt physically incapable of lying to Boricio.
“Yes, and this one’s especially bad. It’s just starting, but I can already tell I’m going to want to die in another hour, you know, right when I’m supposed to be at my charming best. How much will Veronica hate me if I reschedule?”
“You know you can’t do that,” Boricio said. “You can’t let this slip, Rose Red. You’ve gotta grab this fucker by the neck and choke it ‘til its eyeballs pop from its face and get all squishy.”
Rose shampooed her hair. “So violent this morning! It’s still early and you’re wanting me to give my covers bloody noses and choke the eyeballs from my opportunities.”
She laughed. Boricio was always so … colorful.
“Look, Rose, it’s simple,” Boricio peeled back the curtain, poked his head inside the shower, looked Rose up and down, from her big, pink nipples to her tiny toes, giving her a blush all over, then pulled his head back out and finished the thought. “Today is one of those days when anything can happen, and something sure as a big shit after a chili dog will. And what might happen in the hotel room ain’t near the same thing that’ll happen outside. Now I know your head hurts, sweet blooming Rose of mine, but you can’t stay in bed and sleep off this chance. You’ll hate yourself forever.”
Like always, Boricio was right. But that didn’t mean Rose was happy about it.
“And why won’t you come with me again? You know I feel better when you’re with me.”
“Well of course you do,” Boricio peeked his head back inside the curtain as Rose rinsed her hair, “but that’s because Boricio’s all special sauce. Still, special as I am, I’m also smart enough to know when I’m a use and when I’m a waste. Today is your show, and I’m in the way. They want to meet the woman who wrote The Billfold, and I had nothing to do with that. If anything, I was a distraction, sucking on your tiny toes like I do, distracting you from your writing.”
Rose pouted as she stepped out of the shower and towel dried her hair. “I know you just want me out of the hotel because you have some hot date coming in here while I’m away.”
Boricio laughed, then made one of his horribly off-color jokes: “Nah, baby, you know you’re the only woman who can satisfy me. I’d never cheat on you. But I can’t get away with murder with you watching, so I’m waiting for you to leave so I can go downstairs and find me a victim; waiting on you to leave so I can commit some truly unspeakable acts.”
Rose half laughed because she didn’t know what else to do when Boricio was so … odd. She pulled on her panties and a smart looking charcoal skirt, already laid out, then continued getting ready, staying topless for Boricio.
A second later her man was wearing that look, and sidled beside Rose at the mirror. “You look like you’re keeping Victoria’s secret in that skirt,” he said.
Rose laughed, knowing exactly what Boricio wanted. “Thanks.”
“Mind lifting it up for, oh I don’t know, four or five minutes? Maybe less.”
Rose said, “No,” even though she meant yes. She would happily lift her skirt, lower her panties, and let Boricio knock the migraines from inside her. But before she could play, her phone buzzed with a text. She picked it up, looked at the screen, then showed the text to Boricio. “Gotta go,” she said. “Veronica’s waiting downstairs.”
“OK,” Boricio shrugged. “Your loss. I was planning to lay my healin’ hands all over your sweet body, kill that headache.”
Rose laughed again, touched up her makeup, put on her bra and top, then quickly finished, kissed Boricio on the cheek, went downstairs and through the lobby, and climbed into Veronica’s silver Lexus, waiting outside just past the valets.
“Why so pale?” Veronica asked as Rose slammed the silver door shut.
“I feel like shit,” Rose admitted. “But I’m here to play ball, I promise. No one has to know I feel run down by a bus but you. Just tell me what to say and I’ll say it. This stuff all stresses me out so much, I just want it to be over. I don’t even care who makes the movie anymore.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Veronica said. “Of course you do. The Maris Brothers will knock this out of the park, then after they do, you can write whatever the hell you want forever, OK? Trust me.”
“I’m in the car, aren’t I?”
“That you are,” Veronica said, then pulled away from the hotel and drove the remainder of the way to Marina’s playing XM softly in the background and leaving Rose to nestle her pounding head against the soft, leather seat. Veronica spoke only through the commercial breaks, punctuating each with a fresh promise that all would be fine.
Rose tried rubbing the stress from her temples, trying to believe Veronica, telling herself that everything would be fine, and over soon. Marina lived in Malibu in what wasn’t just the biggest house Rose had ever seen, it was easily bigger than the next three piled together. Veronica’s Lexus was taken by a valet in front — how many visitors did she get? Then they were led into a large foyer and asked to wait. Rose expected a long pause, taking several minutes seemingly designed to feel the weight of Marina’s importance, but the interlude lasted only a minute. Marina met them almost immediately, took Rose’s hands in hers, and kissed her warmly on each cheek as if she’d known her forever and was grateful for their reunion.
Marina led the girls into a gorgeous study, with a long wall of glass looking out onto a tennis court, pool, and lush gardens — the Pacific must have been on the other side — then gestured for Rose to sit on a plush, white-leather sofa beside Veronica. Marina sat in an overstuffed chair across from them.
After a few minutes of shockingly natural small talk, Marina bluntly said, “So, Rose, the Brothers will be here shortly. In the meantime, I’d love for you to tell me what you think of Original Design.”
Rose was grateful that she’d refused Marina’s offer for a drink, surely she would have lost a swallow to spit. She didn’t know what to say, and had no idea how to answer. She only knew a little about the Church, or cult as Boricio insisted it was. She didn’t want to say anything false — Rose wasn’t wired to pretend — but also didn’t want to insult Marina, nor did she want to jeopardize what could be an amazing future, starting with the Maris Brothers.
“Honestly,” she looked directly into Marina’s eyes. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know much about the Church at all, other than the same rumors everyone’s heard, and I’m smart enough not to trust those. I have an open mind, and would love to learn more, but do have my own ideas about faith and spirituality — I’m sure you got at least some of that if you’ve read The Billfold — and am not really looking for anything to join or believe in.”
Marina gave Rose what looked like a well-practiced smile. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve not read The Billfold, yet. I only just heard about this meeting and didn’t want to scan it. I trust Veronica’s judgment completely, though, and I’m sure if she thinks it’s right for the Brothers, it is. I promise I’ll read it if things go well between us.” Marina uncrossed
her legs, shifted in her seat, then crossed them the opposite way. “I do want to make certain that you understand our religion isn’t a cult, and that it’s in no way ‘wacky.’ In fact, I would argue that even if we’re among the world’s smallest, our religion is the best because unlike so many others, we have science behind us.”
“Science?” Rose raised her eyebrows. She felt Veronica, nervous beside her.
“Yes, of course,” Marina nodded. “Science. You’ll never find the Church of Original Design’s true beliefs in the rumor rags. But it’s a fact: Our religion is founded on research that no one wants to discuss because it conflicts, rather violently, with so much of what western science chooses to believe, even though their beliefs have been proven wrong time and again.”
Rose tried to hold her smile as she shifted in her seat.
“Man is made up of mind and body, but no one outside of our Church seems interested in The Current — the force between the two. If you can understand The Current, then you can understand the Universe. Most Original Design funding is spent in understanding this, which is why our centers have some of the best brain and recovery research in the world.”
Rose’s head felt like it was about to burst; it was a melon beneath a hammer, and hurt enough before she started trying to hold a non-judgmental expression.
Marina laughed. “I can tell what you’re thinking, and I promise, it’s not bullshit. I don’t need to convince you, and I could talk all day about the science, but I won’t. I’m not trying to get you to join the Church, Rose, I simply want to prepare you. If the Brothers want to work with you, which it seems like they will, it’s in our best interests to give you some background so you’re not overwhelmed or weirded out. And what’s better than background?” Marina smiled, then answered herself. “Proof, Rose. Proof is better. I have no secrets, and love to share; if you have questions, I have answers. We still have a few minutes before the Brothers arrive, might I suggest using a few of those minutes for proof, and letting me help you?”
