by Sean Platt
Now it felt perfect.
She flushed the toilet, pretended to wash her hands, then stared in the mirror a final time to steel herself for what she needed to do.
You can do this.
Mary turned out the light, then returned to the bed with her right hand behind her back, watching Desmond’s shape in the light coming through the crack in the curtains.
She kneeled onto the bed, breathed in and out slowly and deliberately, then raised the pistol and aimed it at his head.
Desmond’s eyes opened, but didn’t seem the least bit surprised.
“You are going to take me to my daughter now, or I’ll blow your goddamned alien head off your fucking body. Nod if you understand me.”
The monster nodded.
Seventy-Five
Boricio Wolfe
Boricio stared down at Luca, pressing on his wound, watching as his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.
Come on, man, don’t you die on me, too.
Even though this was another Luca, not the one who had “fixed” him, Boricio couldn’t help but feel an affection for the boy now trapped in a young man’s body. Bits of memory flitted by, of the other Boricio and the other Luca, how they’d been adopted brothers, raised by Will Bishop. Perhaps that was why the kid had risked his life to heal Boricio and bring back his memory.
Not many people put their own asses on the line for Boricio. That shit was meat on the grill and sauce on the pasta.
Boricio looked up the stairs at the chunks of Rose on the wall and felt more of his stomach sour. There was no way Luca could bring her back, even if he wasn’t hovering near death.
He turned back down to Luca.
Focus on the boy. Don’t look up there. Nothing there but regrets. Team Boricio don’t have time for fucking regrets.
Where the hell is Keenan?
Some prick yelled, “Hands in the air!”
Boricio looked down the stairs to see some government agent dressed like G.I. Fucking Joe aiming a shotgun at Boricio like he was Cobra Commander.
“Sorry, pal, I’m not putting my hands anywhere, or this kid’s gonna die.”
The agent, with his strong jaw, close-cropped red hair, and pockmarked face, didn’t look like he was used to hearing no.
“It’s OK,” Keenan said, finally appearing, “he’s with me. Are the paramedics here?”
“Is the place secure?” the agent asked.
“Yeah,” Keenan answered, “get someone in here for this young man.”
The agent went out the front door. Boricio glanced up to see Keenan holding a black metal box.
“Find what you’re looking for?” Boricio asked.
“Yeah,” Keenan said. “And you don’t know anything about the vials?”
“I don’t know shit about any vials. I was in a coma up until a couple of days ago. Seems that Rose, or whatever she’d become, had plans for me, but the Boy Wonder healed me and was going to help me get the fuck outta Dodge when this old fucker came in shooting the goddamned place to cheese.” He paused, then added, “I hope the vials were worth all this.”
“I’m sorry about Rose,” Keenan said. “But the old man, Acevedo, had already killed her, and she wasn’t coming back. The alien was trying to leave her mouth, likely looking to infect you next.”
Boricio said nothing. He could argue that Luca could’ve saved her, if they’d only had enough pieces left, but saw no point in arguing, particularly when he wasn’t even certain Luca would live.
A pair of paramedics rushed in with a stretcher, pushing Boricio aside. One of the medics, a young woman with brown hair in a tight ponytail, pulled the cloth back, checking Luca’s wound, then returned it, keeping pressure on it. She said something about a “GSW” into her radio while the other paramedic, an older bald man with giant hands, lifted Luca’s eyelids and flashed a light into them.
Luca gasped again, eyes wild as he looked around, trying to say something.
“It’s OK,” the woman said, trying to calm him.
They lifted Luca onto the stretcher and rushed him out of the house.
Boricio followed them out to a medical helicopter, but was pushed back by the woman.
“I need you to stay here,” she said.
“He’s my brother,” Boricio lied, yelling over the chopper’s whirring blades.
“I still need you to wait here.” The woman climbed into the copter and closed the door in Boricio’s face.
Keenan pulled Boricio back, as the chopper began to ascend. “Come on.”
Boricio turned on him, “Where the fuck they takin’ him?”
“To Mercy Memorial. He’s in good hands.”
“I want to go.”
“Why?” Keenan asked. “There’s nothing you can do for him. He’ll be under professional care, after which he’ll be brought to Black Island.”
“Black Island?”
“Yes,” Keenan said, “and I need you to come with me.”
“Um, I dunno about that, Boss Hog. This Duke’s got shit to do.”
Keenan put his hands on Boricio’s shoulders. “I’m giving you the courtesy of asking you to come with me, Boricio. My boss won’t be quite as courteous.”
“So what, you gonna arrest me?”
Keenan sighed. “Don’t you want to see Mary and Paola?”
“What? The Olson twins are there?”
“Yes,” Keenan said.
“Well, why the fuck didn’t you lead with that?”
A car pulled up to the house, and a familiar-looking woman with long blonde hair got out with another agent. They headed over to Keenan and Boricio.
“Did you stop him?” the woman asked.
“Not in time. He shot Luca and killed two other people.”
“Oh, God.” The woman’s hand found her cheek.
Boricio noticed that she was stealing glances at him as she spoke to Keenan. He was about to say something when she turned to him and asked, “Do we know each other?”
Boricio shook his head no even as memories from the other Boricio, an infected Boricio, swirled through his head. Her name was Marina Harmon, the rich bitch daughter of J.L. Harmon, that freaky cult leader.
As Keenan introduced them, Boricio feigned like he hadn’t seen her show already.
“We need to get to the airport,” Keenan said.
Boricio nodded, staring back at the house.
His Rosebud was gone, but at least he could still see Mary and her little lamb.
Seventy-Six
Brent Foster
“I want to go home,” Ben whined as they waited in the dilapidated stone house in the woods on the island’s west end. The old home’s furniture looked like it had been abandoned in the 1950s, the downstairs windows had been boarded over, and the floors were littered with dust and debris. The refugees were making do in the only clear spot they could find in what was once a kitchen area, sitting around a small table.
A wind-up lantern teased light into the room. Brent figured it was better to stay in the darkness than venture upstairs where morning sun illuminated the rooms, but the children might be more likely to wander in front of an open and uncovered window.
The plan was simple in the plotting stages, but the execution had holes. They were supposed to sit tight until Paola was able to send Brent another telepathic message, assuming she was still alive and that she and Mary weren’t killed by Desmond. But sitting tight with a two-year- old and a five-year-old was a lot simpler on paper than in practice.
The kids had been antsy all morning, and Brent couldn’t blame them. The trek through the woods as they searched for a place to hide out had been a bear, though Teagan had done her best to turn their misadventure into a game. They were, ostensibly, playing hide and seek with Mary and Paola.
But the ruse was thinning as they sat in the two-story house without power, running water, or a single creature comfort.
Teagan was doing surprisingly well managing both kids and pretending she wasn’t scared, even thou
gh Brent imagined that he could practically hear her pounding heart.
“We’ve got to wait for the girls to find us,” Teagan said, pinching Ben’s nose.
He giggled, like always, gobbling whatever attention Teagan was willing to give him. Sometimes Brent worried that his son was too competitive with Becca. But Teagan was doing an excellent job of managing Ben’s expectations, understanding that he’d only lost his mother a few weeks ago and was in an almost desperately needy time.
“I’m hungry,” Becca cried.
“Me, too,” Ben said.
Teagan’s smile looked like it hurt. “We’ll have lunch in a little bit.”
They’d packed enough snacks, water, and peanut butter sandwiches to last a few days, but boredom was likely to fuel their hunger.
Brent stood, pacing in front of the sink, trying not to show his creeping unease. He felt trapped in the house and wanted to go somewhere else even though they had nowhere to go.
Teagan reached into her bag and brought out a Piggie and Elephant book and handed it to Ben. “Why don’t you read to Becca? She likes when you do the elephant and pig voices.”
Ben was particularly proud of his reading ability and jumped on every chance to impress the girls.
“OK.” Ben smiled and sat beside Becca at the table.
As Ben read and Becca giggled, Teagan stood, joined Brent by the sink, and whispered, “Any word from Paola?”
He shook his head no.
“What if they start looking for us? I mean there’s not a lot of places on the island to hide.”
“I dunno,” Brent said. “I’ve got another idea, though I’m not sure if it’s a good one.”
“What?”
“I was thinking maybe I could swim to Paddock Island. If I can get there, I can call Ed and tell him what’s going on.”
“Do you know Ed’s number?” Teagan asked.
“Yeah, I memorized it. But … there’s a good chance they blocked his phone from receiving calls except for a few approved numbers. If that’s the case, I’m not sure what to do. Besides, I hate to leave you alone with the kids.”
“I’m not going to lie — I don’t want you to leave either. But if you decide to go, I’ll watch Ben like he was my own.”
“Thank you,” Brent said.
He paced, weighing his options. Brent wasn’t as worried about swimming toward the other island, even though the water would likely be freezing, as he was about abandoning Teagan and the kids. Not that his being on Black Island would make that big a difference. It wasn’t like he was a kick-ass warrior like Ed. But he did have a Glock, and was a decent shot, whereas Teagan was terrified to hold a gun, much less learn to use one. Brent figured he might be able to take out a solo Guardsman or two, but was no match for an entire unit if one was dispatched to bring them in.
He hated feeling helpless.
Hated waiting on someone else.
Hated not being able to help Mary execute her plan against Desmond.
He wondered if she’d been able to do it, or if the monster had caught her. If so, she may be dead already. If that were the case, there was a damned good chance that Desmond was already searching for Brent, Teagan, and the kids.
His stomach churned and made him feel hollow.
Brent watched Ben reading to Becca and despite his nerves couldn’t help but smile at how his son ate every one of her giggles.
Look at them, happily oblivious to our danger.
The longer Brent stood there watching the children and feeling his helplessness grow, the more he wished he’d stayed at Mary’s and shot Desmond. Of course that wouldn’t have helped Mary get Paola back, but it might have meant his own child would be safe a while longer.
Ben laughed again and looked up to see if his daddy was watching him entertain Becca.
“Good job,” Brent said.
Ben returned to the page, and Brent had to leave the room before emotions claimed him.
He headed upstairs and into a room that looked out over a clearing to the east, the most likely place a search party, or assault team, would come from.
He watched the area, wondering how long they’d be safe for.
Brent spotted someone standing just beyond the tree line. The man, wearing a black Guardsman uniform, seemed to be staring straight at the house.
Brent fell to the ground beneath the window, heart hammering.
Did he see me?
Shit.
He debated whether he should peer out the window again, to be sure his eyes weren’t lying. Instead, Brent decided to run to another window, in a room to the right along the same wall, in case the man was watching the other window, waiting to see if his own eyes were telling the truth.
Brent slowly approached the open window, hands shaking as he crawled along the floor, wishing there were curtains to conceal him. He’d already told Teagan and the kids to stay away from the windows downstairs, and had left them in the kitchen, where windows had all been boarded long ago. And yet he might have stupidly allowed himself to get caught.
The Guardsman could already be on his radio calling for backup.
Brent rose just high enough to peek over the windowsill.
He saw The Guardsman still standing and staring at the house.
He had to do something.
Seventy-Seven
Mary Olson
Desmond was surprisingly cooperative as Mary led him into the facility with a gun at his back.
“You might want to hide that thing as we approach the elevator,” he said. “There are cameras all over this place, and I can’t be responsible if someone else sees you as a threat to eliminate.”
“I bet you’d like that.” Mary shoved the gun inside her jacket pocket, then thrust it into the small of Desmond’s back.
“I’m not your enemy, Mary. No more than Paola is your enemy.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked as they stepped into the elevator.
“I just find it interesting that you all refer to Paola as having ‘The Light’ inside her, when in fact it is an alien, no different than myself. Yet you are no doubt thinking of me as ‘infected with The Darkness,’ am I correct?”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what anyone calls anything. I just want my daughter back, so stop stalling and bring me to her.”
Desmond placed his palm on the elevator’s security panel. The elevator bumped then descended. Mary kept the gun trained on him from inside her jacket pocket.
Desmond stared at her, as a parent might stare at an unruly child.
“What are you looking at so smugly?”
“Just wondering what’s going on in that tiny little brain of yours. What do you plan to do with me once you get Paola? Shoot me? Report me to the superiors? What is it you hope to gain with this little stunt?”
“I just want my daughter back,” Mary repeated, “now shut the hell up. I’m tired of your lying mouth.”
“Fair enough.” Desmond crossed his arms and leaned against the elevator wall. When the box stopped, he pressed his fingers on the seven and zero buttons. The elevator lowered another floor then Desmond placed his palm against the panel again, and the doors slid open.
“More guards ahead,” he whispered, “act like you’re happy to be with me.”
Mary pushed him forward through the doors and plastered a fake smile onto her angry face.
One of the guards looked at Mary and seemed like he was about to say something or perhaps ask for credentials, but must’ve thought twice, due either to Desmond’s rank or the rage in her eyes.
Or maybe they’re infected, too.
How the hell am I going to get out of here?
Mary couldn’t afford to consider that now. If she lingered too long, doubt would settle, and she was sure the alien would use it against her.
Desmond led her through more doors, down hallways to a final doorway.
“She’s in here,” he said stopping outside of it. “But before I let you in, I need you to conside
r an offer.”
“Fuck you; open the door.”
“OK,” Desmond said with faux exasperation, like a game show host warning a contestant not to choose door number three. She had no time for alien head games.
Mary’s pulse quickened as she stepped inside the huge room and saw two rows of four glass chambers along walls to her left and right. A light was on in the last chamber, where she saw her daughter lying on a cot.
The door closed behind them.
Paola looked up, eyes wide at the sight of her mother. Her mouth opened to say “Mom,” though Mary heard no sound.
“Open her door.” Mary pulled the gun from her jacket and aimed it at Desmond.
“OK,” Desmond said. “Computer. Cut the oxygen to cell four, and drain the remaining amount.”
Mary’s stomach dropped.
What?
She looked at Paola in her cell as the girl looked up at the ceiling.
Desmond turned to Mary. “You have exactly one minute before all the oxygen is sucked from Paola’s chamber. And then, depending on her lungs, maybe another minute, minute and a half before she runs out of air and drops dead to the floor.”
Mary shoved the gun in his face.
“Let her out!”
Desmond smiled, “Ah, Mary, Mary, do you really think your gun scares me? Shoot me, and I’ll trade this form for yours.” He looked her up and down, “And it is quite a nice form to be inside.”
“Open the door!” Mary shouted.
She looked back at Paola’s cell. Her daughter was gasping for air, eyes wide and scared.
“Ah, she really should’ve grabbed a good lungful before,” Desmond said. “Maybe she won’t last another minute.”
Mary swallowed.
“Open the fucking door!” Mary screamed and shot him in the chest.
Desmond fell back against the wall, still smiling, but not mortally wounded.
Mary yelled and motioned for Paola to get down to the ground.
Paola did as instructed.
She turned and fired a shot, then another at the glass.
