by Sean Platt
Bullets ricocheted off the glass, whizzing around the room, one getting lost in the far wall, then another coming back at her, hitting and chipping the floor about four feet to her right.
Paola looked up at her mother, crying out, though Mary couldn’t hear her.
But in her head, Paola’s voice suddenly cried out, “Kill him. Shoot him in the head.”
Mary turned the gun on Desmond, aiming straight at the alien’s face, pistol shaking in her hand.
“Your choice, Mary, but only my voice will open the door and return the air to your daughter’s room.”
Mary looked back at Paola, shaking her head and continuing to scream inside Mary’s mind, “Kill him! Kill him now!”
Mary’s finger circled tighter around the trigger, the gun shaking wildly in her hand. “Open the door!”
Desmond kept smiling. “Put down the gun, Mary, or your daughter will die. I will take your body, become you, then go kill Brent, Teagan, and the children. Five seconds.”
“Five.”
Paola’s voice screamed in her ear, “Kill him, Mom, kill him!”
“Four.”
Mary shoved the gun hard against his head and growled in his face. “Open it!”
“Three.”
“Open it, you cocksucker!”
Desmond said, “Computer. Speakers on.”
The sound of Paola’s gasping filled the chamber.
“Two. Do you really want to hear your daughter die?”
Mary looked back to see Paola’s face turning crimson through her gasps. She looked, bug eyed, at her mother, shaking her head no.
Mary looked at Desmond. His mouth opened to say “One.”
She handed him the gun. “Turn on the air!”
“Computer. Turn the oxygen back on.”
Paola gasped, drawing deep breaths as she collapsed against the glass, momentarily saved.
Desmond turned to Mary, said, “About time you started thinking smart,” then took the pistol’s butt and hit her hard across the head.
Seventy-Eight
Brent Foster
Brent pulled his shirt over the gun holster as he went downstairs and whispered into Teagan’s ear. “Keep the kids quiet. I’m going to check on something.”
“What is it?” she whispered back.
“Don’t worry.” Brent didn’t want to alarm her and thus unintentionally scare the kids. The last thing he needed was crying children with a Guardsman right outside the house.
“I’m going to make a phone call; I’ll be right back.” Brent kissed Ben on the head.
“I want to go outside,” Ben whined.
“Me too,” Becca joined in.
Shit. I really don’t need this.
“We can all go out later. Right now, I need to make a call, and I promise we’ll go outside later, OK?”
Teagan stepped in. “Who wants some pudding?”
“I do, I do!” Ben yelled.
Brent cringed as he imagined his son’s voice traveling toward the tree line and alerting the suspicious Guardsman who may or may not have already seen Brent in the window.
Teagan seemed to notice the fear on his face.
“OK,” Teagan said, “let’s play the quiet game, and I’ll give you each a pudding cup.”
“OK!” Ben yelled, possibly louder.
Teagan pressed a finger to her lips.
“OK,” Ben whispered.
“Thank you,” Brent said to Teagan.
She was surprisingly adept at this parenting thing for such a young girl. Sometimes Teagan seemed better equipped than Brent, at least when it came to keeping Ben from a meltdown. Caught by emotion, Brent gave her a hug and immediately felt awkwardly emotional, hoping he wasn’t broadcasting his fear that they’d been discovered.
She smiled. “Sure thing.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He turned from Teagan and went outside, almost expecting the Guardsman, or even multiple Guardsmen, to be waiting to take them in — or kill them.
Brent was relieved to see no one outside. He grabbed his gun and headed toward the home’s rear where he’d seen the man just outside the clearing.
As Brent made his way toward the back yard, it dawned on him that he had no idea what the hell he’d do once he found the Guardsman. Would he shoot the man? Brent had no idea if the Guardsman was even compromised or sleeping with the enemy. He might be a regular guy earning his paycheck, clueless he was working for an alien. Maybe he hadn’t even seen Brent in the window. Perhaps he was working a regular patrol and not looking for anyone.
Or, Brent feared, he could be part of a squad, already informed about the man in the window.
Brent couldn’t just sit in the house. He was sick of doing nothing, of having his hands tied by circumstance or his child, unable to help anyone. He wondered what Ed Keenan would’ve done earlier that morning with Mary. Would he have agreed to let her handle the situation herself? Hell, no. Keenan would’ve taken over. He would’ve waited for Desmond to come home, put a gun in the guy’s mouth, and demanded that Dez bring him to Paola right now, dammit.
But Brent hadn’t done that.
He’d let Mary convince him to get the kids away from the house, to tuck his tail between his legs and hide.
He’d agreed at the time because he was thinking about the kids’ safety as well as Teagan’s. Mary had made a good argument that the kids’ welfare was priority one, and that Mary was well trained and could handle herself just fine with Desmond. But now Brent wondered if he, Teagan, and the kids were really any safer hiding out in some abandoned house like rats waiting for Guardsmen to stomp them. Even if they were, that did nothing to protect Mary or Paola.
Brent was sick of waiting for the bad guys to win.
He’d played it safe his entire life, and look where it led him. A day didn’t pass without Brent wishing he’d done more to convince Gina that he wasn’t nuts, and that the events of October 15 had actually happened.
Things had gotten out of hand and ugly. He lost his temper, rather than finding a smart way to prove his sanity. If he’d been smarter or bolder, Gina might still be alive. Brent might have his entire family still with him.
But no, he’d allowed fear to push him into stupid decisions — Allowed the fear that he’d get locked up and never see them again to keep him from them.
What good had that fear done?
Gina was dead, and he was on some godforsaken island with an alien intent on destroying the world.
It was time to stop being afraid.
Time to take action and do what he could to seize victory, secure the safety of Teagan and the kids. They were counting on him, and he couldn’t let them down.
Brent spotted the Guardsman still standing just past the tree line. The brown-haired man, tall, thin, and in his early thirties, wasn’t wearing a helmet, just a Guardsman’s black beret. He had a pistol in a belt holster, and a flashlight that doubled as a baton on the other side of his belt.
The man had yet to spot Brent outside.
What the hell is he doing out here?
The Guardsman was standing still, staring at his tablet. Had he already called reinforcements? Was he studying blueprints of the old house and planning an attack?
Brent had to move fast.
He decided to cut through the woods and flank the man, hoping he was alone as he appeared. Brent raced as fast as he dared until he drew close enough for his footfalls to reach the Guardsman, then slowed down until he saw the man about ninety yards ahead.
Brent drew the gun, taking aim, and slowly approached from behind, his heart slamming against the walls of his chest.
He walked slowly, carefully, avoiding branches and dead leaves as best he could, pistol trained on the back of the man’s head as he went.
Brent misstepped and cracked a branch.
The Guardsman spun around and dropped the tablet, hand reaching for his gun.
“No!” Brent yelled, firing a shot that echoed through the wood
s.
He hoped the kids didn’t hear it, but couldn’t imagine that they hadn’t. He hoped Teagan could keep them calm, keep Ben from freaking out, having flashbacks of his mother shot dead in front of his eyes.
The Guardsman froze, hand inches from his gun.
“Hands up!” Brent said.
“OK, OK, no need to shoot,” the man said, voice calm.
“What are you doing out here?” Brent asked.
“A survey of the property, that’s all. Who are you? You living here?”
“I’m asking the questions,” Brent said sharply. Better to show no fear with the Guardsman. “Give me your radio, and the tablet … and your gun.”
“You’re making a big mistake.” The man bent down to retrieve his tablet.
“Keep your fingers away from the screen!” Brent demanded with his gun.
The Guardsman put the radio, and the weapon, on top of the tablet and shakily started to hand them to Brent.
Brent’s heart raced faster as he looked up from the man’s shaking hand to his eyes: cold, calculated, fearless. The man was planning something.
Brent backed away, now holding his gun with both hands. “No, put them on the ground, slowly, and back away.”
The man did as instructed, eyes on Brent the entire time as if he controlled the situation. His cocky look made Brent want to squeeze the trigger.
“Who else knows you’re here?”
“Everyone. I’m part of a four-man unit surveying the island’s neighboring properties. If I don’t meet up with them, they’ll come looking for me. Why don’t you let me go, and I’ll pretend I never saw you.”
Instead of responding to the offer, Brent ordered the man to back up, then went and picked up his radio, gun, and tablet. Brent put the man’s gun in his own holster, shoved the tablet under his arm, then looked at the radio. It was a phone radio, similar to the one Brent had before he ditched it earlier to avoid tracking. He wondered if the communications of this one was also limited to the island.
He decided to call Ed.
“What are you doing?” the Guardsman asked.
“Shut up,” Brent said, dialing.
He listened as the phone rang.
Hope swelled in his chest as the phone continued to ring. If he could reach Ed, tell him what was going on, he’d feel a million times better about their odds of safely fleeing the island. As the phone continued to ring, Brent was faced with a new quandary — should he tell Ed about Jade?
Ed needed to know, and Brent had wanted to tell him since the moment the man’s daughter was killed. But might that knowledge cloud his thinking? Make him less likely to help them defeat Desmond?
The phone continued to ring.
A new fear crept into his mind. What if they’d taken care of Ed already?
The line then went dead.
Brent dialed again, to be certain he called the right number, then waited through too many rings.
The Guardsman stared at Brent with that icy glare that made Brent want to shoot him in the face.
The ring again fell into silence. Brent sighed.
Dammit.
If Ed’s dead, we’re screwed.
Brent wondered if he should try to call Mary, see if there was any update on her situation. But if he called her, especially from this Guardsman’s phone, and she hadn’t yet acted, and Desmond picked up the phone, the jig would be up.
The Guardsman continued to glare at Brent as Brent racked his brain trying to figure out what to do next. He couldn’t take this Guardsman hostage, could he? And if not, what were his options? Kill him? The man had done nothing to him, and didn’t seem infected.
Everything inside Brent felt tight as the world narrowed around him, thinning his choices, and chances to do the right thing.
“Dammit!”
“You OK?” the Guardsman asked.
Brent looked up at the man to see his same infuriating expression of calm.
“No, I’m not OK.”
“I’m not sure what’s wrong, but you ought to consider coming with me to the facility. We can get you some help, sir.”
“No,” Brent said, “we’re not going anywhere.”
“You can’t hold me forever. And if you shoot me, they’ll find you. Our uniforms are fitted with a biometric system that pings headquarters if something happens to me, or … if you attempt to circumvent it.”
Shit.
Brent hadn’t considered that. In his efforts to try and take matters into his own hands, he’d screwed himself, Teagan, and the kids.
Brent suddenly had an idea he was surprised he’d not thought of before. Yes, Desmond was infected, but he wasn’t in charge of the island.
“Get me Director Bolton on the radio.”
Incredulous, the Guardsman said, “What? Why?”
“We’re all in danger. Are you familiar with the alien infection?”
“Of course.”
“One of your top men is infected,” Brent said. “I need to tell the director. Do you have a direct line? Not to his office, but to him?”
“Yes,” the man said.
“OK, I want you to call him. And don’t say anything about where you are or who you’re with.”
“I don’t even know your name, sir.”
Brent returned the Guardsman’s radio and waited while he dialed. “Director Bolton? I’ve got someone who needs to speak with you.”
Brent kept his pistol on the man as he took the phone and put it to his ear. “Hello, Director?”
“Yes?” Bolton asked, “Who is this?”
“My name is Brent Foster. I’m one of the people brought in by Desmond Armstrong, along with Ed Keenan to help you all.”
“OK,” the director said, clearly perturbed by the interruption. “How can I help you?”
“I need to tell you about an infection in your ranks.”
“What are you talking about?”
Brent wasn’t sure if he should tell him now or ask to see him in person. If he told him now, there was a chance it could get to Desmond.
“Well?” Director Bolton pushed Brent to spill it.
“Desmond Armstrong is infected with The Darkness. He’s kidnapped a child and is holding her on the facility’s eighth level.”
“Armstrong is infected? How do you know this? Do you have proof?”
“Yes,” Brent lied, “but I need to meet with you. I’m not sure if he’s infected anyone else, but you could have a coup on your hands, sir. You need to be careful who you trust.”
“Where can I pick you up?”
“It has to be you and someone you can trust.” Brent handed the radio to the Guardsman to tell Bolton the coordinates.
The Guardsman hung up. “Armstrong’s infected?”
Brent looked at the man, uncertain if he could be trusted. Desmond could have infected him. Brent held onto his radio, tablet, and weapon. For now, the man was his prisoner.
“Come on.” Brent ignored the Guardsman’s question and led him at gunpoint to the house.
A black van arrived outside in less than twenty minutes.
Brent stood by the second-story window, watching as the passenger-side door opened and Director Bolton stepped out.
Brent turned to the hostage Guardsman and pointed his gun. “Looks like our ride is here.”
They headed downstairs where Teagan and the kids were waiting. Brent kept the gun behind him, so the kids wouldn’t see it.
He said, “OK, we ready to go for a ride?”
“Where are we going?” Ben asked.
“I told you, we’re going to meet with a man.”
“So are we done playing hide and seek with Mary and Paola?” Ben asked.
“For now.” Brent couldn’t meet his son’s eyes.
Ben ran up to Brent. “Pick me up, Daddy.”
“Not now,” Brent couldn’t risk dropping his guard just in case his captive turned out to be infected.
“Will you hold Becca’s hand?” Teagan stepped in to save the
day.
“OK,” Ben said, smiling.
They headed outside, the Guardsman in front.
Director Bolton approached, wearing a charcoal suit, offering his hand, “Mr. Foster?”
Brent shifted the gun from his right hand to his left behind his back, then reached forward and shook Bolton’s hand.
“Yes, good to meet you, Mr. Bolton.” Though Brent had seen the man a few times in person, they’d never talked.
The van’s driver’s side door opened, and a Guardsman stepped out, wearing a thick, full black uniform and dark-visored helmet, carrying a black duffel and a shotgun — likely Bolton’s driver and security.
Brent felt anxious as the man approached.
“Don’t worry, he’s just going to collect your guns, a security precaution.”
“You sure you can trust him?” Brent asked.
“I’ve had the same inner core for years,” Bolton said. “We’ve had two breaches, Sullivan and now Desmond Armstrong, both from that damned other world. But my inner core, four people, have never been alone with Sullivan or Armstrong. I believe we’re safe.”
Brent hoped so as he retrieved both his gun and the one he liberated from the Guardsman and dropped them into the duffle.
The helmeted Guardsman took the bag back to the van and climbed into the driver’s side. Bolton led the rest of them to the van.
As the Guardsman attempted to get in first, Bolton put a hand on his shoulder. “Your unit will come get you.”
“Can I at least get my stuff back, sir?”
“Sorry, I put your gun in the duffle bag.” Brent handed the man his radio and tablet.
“I’ll see to it that your gun is returned, son,” Bolton said. “Go ahead and finish whatever you were doing here.”
“Yes, sir.” The Guardsman turned and headed toward the backyard, carrying his tablet.
“After you.” Bolton smiled and waved a hand toward the van’s open side panel.
Teagan, Becca, and Ben climbed into the van’s rear. Brent followed, sitting in the middle row of seats with the kids between himself and Teagan.
Bolton slid the side door closed then climbed into the front passenger side.
Nobody spoke as the van cut through the woods, not even the kids, who were looking nervously up front.
