Sneak Peek: Alpha Unit

         

Here is an excerpt from my newest novel, Alpha Unit. Alpha Unit is Book Two in the Zombie Unit Series, and it takes place in South Texas just after the point where Book 1 ended.  This excerpt covers the first fifty pages of the rough draft. 

Chapter 1

              They were going to blow up a factory.

              Tom Martinez had no idea what kind of factory. He didn’t know where the factory was. If he were to be completely honest, he couldn’t even confidently assert that any factory existed.

 He led a dazed gay painter through a prison corridor, trying to ignore the horrendously loud siren and the pulsing lights. The love of his life followed behind, minus one arm. He’d just discovered the uncouth truth that the human being he’d been feeding off of for an undefined period of time had actually been alive- or something resembling such a state- the entire time Tom had been slicing off hunks of flesh and eating it. To top it all off, the doctor leading them out of the macabre prison to blow shit up had been watching him cannibalize corpses and stab people with fibulas.

Maybe it was an obscure fetish. Watching people eat other people alive.

Dr. Octavio Ramirez walked fast. His pace seemed martial, more of a march than a brisk stride. Something about the man seemed to imply a military background. Tom followed along behind the man, trying to keep himself alert. Tom felt frustrated. He had to keep looking back at the vacant man who stymied his progress. Tom’s palm was slick with sweat, yet his grip remained firm. Part of him wanted to dwell on exactly what it was that compelled him to almost literally drag this man through the inferno. Mike offered no strength, nothing of value, not in his current state.

Something caught his eye.

Tom turned to look. He paused.

Looking into a large dayroom similar to the one he’d just vacated with his comrades and the nefarious doctor, he saw a large group of people huddled in front of a large monitor. Their faces were awash in the blue glow emanating from the device. Eyes glazed, the unisex, uniformed body seemed absorbed in whatever it was displayed on the screen. They seemed sucked into a collective consciousness.

As one, they suddenly looked up. Their bloodshot eyes seemed to stare through him. A cold and obscene apathy, almost as ugly as the clammy touch of a corpse, afflicted Tom. He withered under the force of it.

None of them seemed terribly different. Other than the fact that they all wore suits of thin, pale white flesh and blonde hair, and that their eyes were red, nothing seemed off about their general appearance. It was their eyes. The vapid, vast emptiness.

They began walking slowly towards the door.

“What the hell?” Tom muttered. He stayed rooted in place, however, eyes wide. He watched as the people toddled towards the door, saliva glistening on the edges of their faces as it drew a thin bead down from the corners of their mouths.

“Come on.”

Tom felt a tug at his arm. He turned. His heart raced. He saw that Dr. Octavio had backtracked to come and hurry him along. Tom wanted to resist. The desire to rebel, to balk asserted itself deep inside. It possessed its own powerful force, that seeming compulsion to act contrary to the wishes of his party’s guide. After all, just not that long ago, Dr. Octavio had been complicit in watching them as they were dismembered, mind raped, and left to die an ignominious and interminable death. Trying to kill you ranks pretty high on the general list of reasons not to fucking trust someone.

“What’s up with them?” Tom asked. He strained his voice, trying to scream over the sirens. He glanced behind, making sure his cohort was following. He still gripped Mike’s hand in his own.

They walked down a tight corridor. The walls were lined with pocked white bricks. A faded red line led to somewhere on the ugly blue-green floor. Lights encased in silver wire mesh wall mounts pulsed with a garish red light. The shadows between the flashes seemed to distort the length and shape of the hallway.

“Those patients were being tested for psychological conditioning.” Octavio said.

“Patients?!” Tom asked, incredulous. The word stung. He realized after a moment that he’d begun unconsciously gripping Mike’s hand. He relaxed a bit. He felt the tension in his neck and chest, however. Considering those captives “patients,” made Tom angry. Almost like calling eugenics a social science.

Glancing back, Tom flinched. A couple of people, blood crusted on their snarling faces, meandered down the hallway, trailing them. One person, a bearded man with bits of brain matter flecking his crimson mass of facial hair, wheeled himself in a wheelchair. That one led the pack, and was gaining ground quicker than the others. In the small span of time that encompasses a solitary glance, Tom thought he had seen someone crawling, too.

“Delilah! Hurry.” Tom shouted. His voice felt hoarse. His eyes weighed a ton. He wanted to fall into a deep and prolonged slumber and forget any of this had ever happened.

Pulling hard on Mike, Tom picked up the pace. He caught up with the fast-walking doctor. His body shook. His nerves tingled.

A large blue metal door stood in front of them. Doctor Octavio paused, bending down. The man seemed to stumble as he fiddled through a large and complicated jumble of keys and square plastic laminated cards hanging from a red-and-black lanyard. The man in the wheelchair was gaining on them.

Tom looked back, trying to fight the hot wave of panic assaulting his senses. He felt his vision going black along the peripheries. His body seemed hot, febrile. Thoughts did a Persian knife dance in his head. He watched with rising horror as the hirsute man with the bulging biceps wheeled himself closer and closer by the second. When Tom looked into the eyes of the man, he caught a glimpse of Hell. The inferno of homicidal madness that raged in those malevolent eyes was enough to scorch one’s marrow.

“Hurry.” Tom pleaded.

Doctor Octavio didn’t seem to care. He appeared oblivious. The steady equanimity of the academic fuck was starting to get on Tom’s nerves. If this zombie-like “patient,” managed to get close enough, they were all going to die. As far as Tom knew, death might simply be a gruesome beginning.

“Hurry.” Tom said, raising his voice.

He walked back a few steps. Each time he raised his foot, he felt as if what he were doing was the most burdensome, difficult thing possible. His legs were weighted marble statues.  But, the urge to place himself between the viscous horde descending upon them and Delilah overcame all of the myriad internal forces trying to knock him the fuck out. It was instinctual. He wanted to protect her.

Maybe he even needed to.

Delilah was perhaps the only thing left to remind him of what it meant to be human.

Chapter 2

The doctor pulled out a gun.

Tom flinched. He jumped. Trying to shield both Delilah and Mike, he maneuvered himself so that he would be in the path of Octavio’s gun, should the man with the macabre interests decide to turn it upon them. He smirked. It felt a bit foolish, to be making such futile gestures under the circumstances. But, in a way, it also seemed instinctual. Right. He’d never considered himself much of a moral person, and he’d always followed the dictum that experience and awareness are subjective entities. The whole cannibalism thing seemed to be awakening some sense of goodness.

Tom thought about irony while the bad doctor fired three shots into a disabled man.

Or, maybe a disabled zombie?

Tom startled with each loud report. A distinctively bitter odor filled the air in front of his face. The noisome, noxious cloud seemed to draw his breath away.

The former reporter lost all desire to ponder the vagaries and vicissitudes of his life. He wanted to get the fuck out of Dodge.

Doctor Octavio again began rifling through his seemingly endless array of keys.

Looking back, he saw that the death of their wheel-chair bound leader had done little to dampen their resolve. Or their hunger. Tom wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, that motivated these… people? These demonic creatures sheathed in a disarming suit of human flesh. Their grossly distorted visages and lethargic movements appeared at first blush almost exaggerated. For a brief moment, Tom wanted to dissolve into a fit of raging laughter. The old hysteria threatened to undo any semblance of sanity he had recouped in the days and weeks of barely existing on the fringes of consciousness in a cell. Tom had the fleeting thought that maybe all of this was just some sick joke.

He half-expected the zombies and everyone just to stop mid-stride and yell: “surprise.”

But, they didn’t.

Instead, they just kept coming.

The tediously long approach seemed like something pulled straight from a bad B-grade horror script. Tom cast aside the queasy qualms and the querulous questions that clamored in his fatigue-soaked mind. He took the opportunity, as he waited for the doctor to somehow finally find the fucking key to salvation, to analyze the entities ambling towards him. The piercing shrieks of the alarm still made it hard to focus, but he wanted to see. To see. Knowledge is power. Tom had been trained over the course of his life that observation was fundamental to the acquisition of knowledge.

One of the zombies, if that were the correct term, possessed a lithe body. The torn jumpsuit she wore exposed pale freckled flesh and the outlines of what once might have been attractive, supple breasts. A long, ugly red rash crossed the tender flesh at the base of her neck. Several more rashes, some with raised or broken skin intermixed, covered various other exposed appendages. Peering closer, Tom saw that a few of them were almost purple in hue.

This woman possessed orange eyes devoid of emotion. Apathy might have described them. Or Misanthropy. There was a steel edge behind those eyes.

An epiphany seemed to be forming. Tom felt on the verge of what might be an important revelation when something tugged at his arm. Swinging violently to confront the mysterious force pulling on him, he blinked and paled when he realized that it was only the doctor.

“Come on. Hurry.” Octavio said.

Tom inhaled. He began walking. Thankfully after a few steps, he remembered to check to make sure his fellow survivors from Unit 9 were still with him. They, of course, were not. He rushed back and snatched the hand of Mike. “Delilah. We need to go.” Tom said. It seemed silly, to be saying that in the current context. But, hey. Sometimes you have to state the obvious.

Walking through the door, Tom made sure the other two had actually gotten past the threshold before slamming the doors shut. Turning, he saw that the doctor had already proceeded, and was several feet away. “Hey, doc! These doors going to stay locked?” Tom yelled.

The emergency alarm did not seem as terrible here. The floor was tiled, and several hallways branched out from the main one here. A large control room loomed overhead here, similar to the one he’d observed in Unit 9. Tom shrugged, not wanting to wait around to find out the answer through trial-and-error. Marching forward, he caught up with Octavio. “At some point, you’re going to have to give me some answers.” Tom said, out of breath.

The doctor laughed.

A noise. A noise broke through the barriers of his senses and caught Tom’s attention. He slowed down and began looking around. Glancing upwards, he noticed a vague dark silhouette standing in the control tower above, obscured and protected by the thick and blackened glass. “Doc. Hey, doc!” Tom pointed at the shape when Octavio turned back.

“Hurry up!” the doctor yelled. “They might use the gas soon.” he said.

“CODE Z. ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL. WE HAVE A BREACH. SECURE YOUR STATIONS AND PREPARE FOR EVACTUATION. CODE Z. ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL. WE HAVE A BREACH. SECURE YOUR STATIONS AND PREPARE FOR EVACTUATION. CODE Z. ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL. WE HAVE A BREACH…”

“Securing their stations means killing you guys for not being in your station.” Octavio said. He rushed up and elbowed Tom.

“But, if we were IN our stations, we’d die.” Tom reflected.

“Exactly.” Octavio said.

Chapter 3

Tom stabbed a guard dog.

As Octavio once again struggled and scrabbled for an elusive key, Tom panicked. He smelled the fear. He imagined he could even taste it. Sour, stale, vaguely redolent of hot onions and expired cat food, the stench of desperation and despoiled dreams seemed to infect his mind with a dangerous virus. Degeneracy reigned in this pseudo-asylum. And it was about to devour him. Tom sensed it closing in. His chest was tight and it felt hard to breathe.

In the midst of this, Octavio tossed him a knife.

Tom took a moment to escape from the macabre reverie to ponder the man’s seemingly endless capacity to retrieve weapons like some supervillain in a cheesy made-for-cable-t.v. production. The swarthy man wore jeans and a lab coat. How the hell did he have knives and guns… and how had he managed to smuggle all of that into a prison. Tom just wished the man could find a fucking key for once. Then maybe they wouldn’t need to shoot or stab anything.

Almost as if according to some fucked-up script, Tom heard a noise. He held the long, serrated blade by the black leather handle, his arms trembling. He tried to summon the courage and rage he’d felt not long ago. The vortex of swirling madness that had impelled him to craft weapons from the very bodies of others, the distinct thing that had driven him to cold-blooded murder. But it seemed that he did not possess such an in-dwelt capacity for brute violence.

If he were to describe what he felt, it was tired. Tom didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want any of this.

Yet, his mind registered the reality that he was here. And the sound he’d heard: a door popping open.

Through that door emerged a large mottled canine, its incisors on full display as it barreled forward.

Tom saw the thick strands of saliva. His mind captured the snarl in slow motion. The nefarious creatures long pink tongue flapped with each step. A German Shepherd, the bristly brown fur stood at attention as it raced forward. He thought he heard it bark, but he couldn’t be sure.

The canine lunged. Tom watched it. He experienced an odd sense of disassociation. He seemed to hover his own body and look down from above.

He saw himself thrust the knife he held forward. Tom’s other, disembodied self observed the dog falling.

Blood spurted from the beast. Tom shook. He went into violent paroxysms, his body controlled by the quaking and the blind anxiety that pulsed inside of him. He felt it. He felt the moment when he returned from the weird out-of-body experience.

And he dropped the knife to the floor.

Then he began to cry.

Chapter 4

              Fresh air.

              A blast of fresh, unfiltered air punched him in the face. The effect was so strong, it threatened to knock Tom off of his feet. It had been so long since he’d breathed in oxygen that had not been re-circulated. He greedily sucked in, turning to face the breeze.

              It took a moment for Tom, the former El Paso Gazette reporter, to register that the doctor stood in the open doorway, motioning for him to proceed. Tom blinked. He looked around, suddenly overwhelmed by the force and fury of his fatigue. The desire to fade into a deep sleep felt powerful. He resisted it. He looked down, nodding to himself. He saw that somehow, during the process of stabbing a canine and the subsequent emotional tsunami, he had re-gained the hand of his seemingly brain-dead companion. Delilah stood there, swaying slightly, her mouth open, a thin trickle of saliva appearing there.

              “Come on, D.” Tom said. It was the first time he’d ever shortened her name in this way. It felt… refreshing. To do so. He could not communicate why he experienced that sensation of calm comfort at such a trivial thing, but he did. And perhaps it was good that he had, for the brief glimpse into a life that was gave him hope for a life that could be.

              Gripping a littler harder, he began guiding Mike the painter towards the door. The fresh air smelled wonderful. A hint of summer whispered to him.

              Tom saw a tall silver gate outside. Heavy rows of barbed wire offered a glimpse of their menacing miens as they coiled around and off into the distance. The sum glinted off the metal. A large green boxy guardhouse sat next to the first gate. As he noticed the building there, he registered that there were actually two gates there. He wondered how they were supposed to get through both.

              “Come on.” Octavio said. He began marching forward.

              Something moved inside the guardhouse. Tom wanted to stop and enjoy the breeze. The clarion call of the sirens seemed diluted out here; the silence was a beautiful melody that he wanted to savor. The respite from the angry howls of the machine-generated screeching just a few feet behind felt wonderful. But, he reminded himself of how dire the circumstances were. Tom glanced back at Delilah to make sure she’d followed along. He saw that the door to the prison remained open.

The sunshine seemed incredibly brilliant, and it hurt his eyes. He bent his head to avoid the martinet’s stare of the hectoring sun. But, he kept going. He saw that the movement inside of the guardhouse came from a human. Or some sort of creature. Tom wasn’t sure what was what, after all he’d seen in the living nightmare he’d been forced to endure over the last few… hours? Days? The concept of time seemed abstract and distant.

Catching up with Dr. Octavio, Tom kept his eyes fixed on the small structure guarding their escape route. Two small windows faced the pathway their small cohort used to approach the exit. The structure, which appeared to be made of bricks that had been painted green, sat behind and a few feet away from the gates. A small space existed between the two fences. Littered with rocks and dirt, Tom saw that where the fence curved around, there were rows of barbed wire in between the fences, as well.

He briefly wondered where the dog had come from.

A fat man with a large belly and dark yellow sweat stains at the arm pits of his brown short-sleeved shirt emerged from the tiny building. He wore black glasses. A short growth of coarse black stubble dotted his ruddy cheeks. He gripped a pump shotgun with two hands.

The officer pointed it at them.

“Hey, no need for that Dave.” Doctor Octavio said. He put his hands up, palms facing outwards, in the universal gesture of non-aggression.

“Orders are that no one leaves.” The officer said. He wore a gold-plated name badge at a jaunty angle on the right side of his chest. His hands did not shake.

Tom looked at the man. The sight of him seemed vaguely familiar, though he could not pin exactly why that was. He felt strongly that he had encountered this man at some point before. The rotund correctional officer had thin, slicked-back black hair that sat a ways back on his head. Brown liver spots marred his flabby face, as well as what appeared to be deep pock marks left over from a particularly bad case of adolescent acne.

“You can come with us.” Octavio said. The doctor kept his voice level, calm. He kept moving forward, though he’d slowed his approach to a near-crawl, making each footstep drawn-out and deliberate.

“No, I can’t. I have orders.” The officer said.

“Dave…”

“Officer David Work.”

“Dave, come on. Be reasonable.” Octavio said.

“I have orders, Doc.” Dale said. He waved the gun in the general direction of Tom and his two companions. “What’s up with them? They were…” the man gulped. “They were in there?” he asked. Officer David Work shook his head. “No. No. Doc, I can’t let them through.”

“Okay. Okay, Dave. I’ll send them back inside. But, just open the first gate. Okay?” Octavio said.

“I can’t.” the officer stated. But he sounded hesitant, uncertain.

“If we’re going to be formal and use our titles, then you have to call me Major Octavio Ramirez. I need to get to Fort Sam Houston, Dave.” Octavio said. “Look around you. What do you see? What do you hear? Where’s your guard dog?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I sent it in after you.” Dave said.

“Yeah. And the zombies got it, Dave. Come on, put the gun down.” Octavio said.

“I have orders.”

“Do you think these patients just got this far because everyone is inside, running an orderly show? Unit 9 has been breached. The zombies are out. I’m trying to get to the Army Medical Command to stop this from spreading.” Octavio said.

“I. have. orders.” Officer David Work said.

“The Captain is dead. The Warden is dead.” Octavio said.

“You’ll send those…” the officer nodded in their direction. His distaste and disregard for Tom and his friends was written plainly on his face.

“I’ll send them back inside. I just need you to open this gate so we can talk. You don’t need to open the second gate. Just this one.” Octavio said.

“Al…alright. I’ll do it. But, I can’t let you take them out there. They’re infected. They have to be.” he said.

              Fumbling with his keys, the large officer finally managed to unlock the small rusted padlock to get back to the guardhouse. After several moments, the front gate began to whirr. It shook a bit before moving lethargically along.

              Tom jumped.

              Behind him, he heard a crash. He turned around, but everything seemed fine. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. At least, under the circumstances.

              Octavio went through the gap. Tom rushed to follow. Mike didn’t immediately move to follow, and Tom was jerked back when he started forward. Grunting, he pulled on the painter’s arm and proceeded. “Come on, Delilah.” he said.

              Turning back, he widened his eyes. “Oh, fuck.” Tom said.

              Trying to signal the doctor, he pivoted, and almost burst out laughing. The fat officer lay face-down on the pavement. Octavio was bent down, going through his pockets and keys. “Hey, doc. We have company.” Tom said.

              Octavio glanced up, nodded, then returned to his search. He found the keys and thankfully got the small door leading to the guardhouse open relatively quickly.

              Tom felt relieved about that. After a series of bumbling exits, it seemed like now was the time for a little more urgency.

              The sun shone brightly. The breeze mitigated the intense heat of the summer’s day. Tom looked up at the American flag flapping lightly under the wind. Next to it, he could see the blue square and single white star of the Texas state flag fluttering. The second gate began whirring open.

              Tom didn’t wait for the doctor. “Delilah!” he said, making his voice stern and stentorian as he yanked on Mike’s arm. He didn’t want to hurt the guy, but he had to boogey.

              He heard the snarls of the creatures rapidly approaching. They were the red-eyed ones. Walking on all fours like bizarre quadrupeds, they raced towards the gate. Octavio squeezed through the second gate even as it was shaking and reversing its course. Tom felt unable to turn away. He stood just outside the second gates, looking through the diamond-shaped metal units of the fence. The pale blonde zombies bumbled forward, their backs arched and their heads down low to the ground.

              Tom blinked. He startled. The sound of the second gate jarring closed jarred him.

              He stared. He couldn’t help it. He felt unable to resist.

              He stared as the quadrupedal creatures, once human, entered the small space between the first and second gates and began consuming the guard who lay unconscious on the ground.

          Chapter 5

              They snarled.

              They snarled as they tore into the officer’s flesh. The sharp, angry sound of bones snapping mixed itself into the evil vortex of macabre sounds. Tom stared. He felt transfixed. He wanted to look away. His stomach churned and his body felt weak, unsteady. There were five of them. They huddled around the fallen guard, dipping their heads down to bite, often twisting their heads as they fought to rip meat off of the corpse.

              Shreds of brown fabric flew into the air with bits of hair and flesh. A mist of red would occasionally erupt as the creatures frantically fed. They moved around as they ate, almost in a coordinated fashion. Tom never heard them talking. They just seemed to walk, on all fours, in a counter-clockwise garish assembly line from Hell. The only noise they made was the guttural growl-like sounds that seemed both simultaneously happy and predatory.

              One of them looked up at him.

              The movement was so sudden, Tom had no time to look away. His heart raced.

              He stared into the deep red eyes of a zombie. The creature was emaciated. Long and thin, with a wan baby face and purplish bags under its eyes, the blonde-haired lab-created monster appeared to be male. If there were such a thing as a leader of the pack- and that’s how Tom saw them- then this one was it. A dangerous, howling, palpable rage emanated from the lingering gaze of the creature.

              The feeling of anger and hate ran its clammy hands over his body. It stopped on his throat, closing slowly, wanting to him tremble in the agonized anticipation of a long, slow death. The zombie wanted to torture him with its gaze.

              Tom jumped. He screamed.

              Something pulled him.

              Flailing, Tom pivoted, ready to fight. But, he blinked and began breathing. He smiled. Nervous laughter escaped his lips. “Sorry.” Tom muttered. He ran his sweaty hands over his dirty, blood-stained jumpsuit. He looked at Octavio.

              Octavio nodded. “We have to go.” he said.

              And then he resumed his forward march. Octavio brushed past Delilah, whom remained ambulatory, but vacant. Mike was still worthless. Tom wondered again if it were even worth it to bring him along. But, he grabbed Mike’s hand and followed the doctor. He resisted the urge to look back.

              “Where are we going?” Tom called out.

              “To the parking lot. Or, would you prefer to walk to San Antonio?” Octavio asked.

              “San Antonio?” Tom asked. He was breathing heavily. The adrenaline rush of the past hour or so still tingled through his body, and he felt tired again. But, he kept moving, his bare feet crunching with each foot on the hard brown parched earth. The ground seemed vaguely hot, but Tom wasn’t totally sure if his mind weren’t just playing tricks on him to try to get him to slow down. He was aware of the sound of the flags flapping in the light breeze.

              “Yes, San Antonio.” Octavio said. He quickened his pace as he entered the parking lot. He paused at the edge, looking around, head moving from side to side. He grunted, turned slightly, and began walking again. There weren’t many cars in the lot. It appeared almost empty. Many of the vehicles that were present were trucks and sports utility vehicles.

              Tom noticed a dearth of bumper stickers on the cars he passed. For some reason, that struck him as significant. He licked his cracked lips, suddenly aware of an intense thirst.

              A drone hovered overhead. Tom first caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. The small black speck wavered in the sky, an unobtrusive witness. Putting a hand up to shield his eyes, Tom looked upward. “Hey, doc.” he said.

              Octavio turned, a scowl mangling his mien, contorting it into an ugly picture of martial anger. He followed Tom’s finger, and his expression transformed in an instant. His frown became pensive. Then his eyes focused and he snapped his fingers. “Hurry.” he said.

              “It’s almost like that’s the only word of English he knows.” Tom muttered.

              “I heard that. Car’s up here.” Octavio said. He’d broken into a trot. He stopped at a dark green Ford Escape. Reaching into his pocket, he emerged with a small oblong fob and pointed it at the vehicle. The back lights flashed. Octavio swung open the driver’s side door, and stepped in.

              Tom experienced a moment of panic. He looked at the car. His heart again did its tribal war dance in his chest. He envisioned the doctor hurrying off, escaping, just leaving them there to face the hideous horde.

          Chapter 6

              They escaped.

              Or did they?

              Tom wondered that as he sat in the back seat, watching the shaking brown hands of the doctor as they gripped the wheel. He noticed a golden ring on one finger, and wondered how such a man could have a wife. He tried to think about that, but his mind felt weak and weary now that he’d finally been given an opportunity to rest for a minute. Leaning against the tinted window, he idly watched the tediously long countryside as it sped past.

              An almond-like odor, vaguely nutty emanated from Delilah’s arm. The proximity to her in addition to the closed-off air, exacerbated the sensation the odor induced. Tom tried to keep himself form breathing through his nose as he sat there, staring blankly out into the distance. Octavio hummed to himself lightly as he drummed his long thing fingers on the steering wheel. The fact that the evil doctor could hum at a moment like this almost resurrected the dark laughter that now was almost his only sentient friend.

              “You’re going to blow something up at Fort Sam Houston?” Tom asked. He looked upwards. He spoke partly because the idea of the man humming seemed offensive to him.

              “That’s the plan.” Octavio said.

              “So, you’re a major?” Tom asked.

              “What’s with all of the questions?” Octavio asked, smirking as he glanced back to look at his interlocutor.

              “I’m trying not to focus on the fetid limb of my traveling companion. And, you know, the fucking zombies.” Tom laughed, a cold, cynical laugh without mirth that seemed to linger in the air like a stale fart. “I did just wake up to a buffet of human flesh.”

              “Pseudomonas.” Octavio said.

              Tom raised one eyebrow. “Wait, what?” he asked. He licked his lips. The car jumped, and the movement jolted something in his stomach. He fought the urge to vomit.

              “Oh.” Octavio chuckled. “Sorry about that. I used to work with a lot of wounds. Pseudomonas is one of the bacteria that often exudes an almond-like scent.”

              “Scent.” Tom remarked wryly. He chuckled. “More like odor.” Tom looked outside. He saw more houses now. The monotony of the vast landscape of seemingly endless pasture land was now disrupted by the occasional house. “We must be getting closer to town.” he said.

              “Yeah.” Octavio said.

              “So, back to the whole zombie apocalypse thing.” Tom said.

              “Do you have someplace to go? Once we get to San Antonio?” the doctor asked.

              Tom reflected on that for a moment. He didn’t have a ready answer. He bit his lower lip. The man’s ability to avoid reality was unnerving. But, maybe that was a great coping mechanism. At some point, Tom had to get back to the dirty business of trying to survive in a world that had already left him for dead once. “Will there be anyplace to go to? Will it be worth it?” he asked.

              Then a thought struck him. “Hey, are you going to help me with these guys?” Tom asked.

              “That’s a lot of questions to unpack. You’re pretty good at this. You must have been fairly good at your job. You answer questions with your own, and you’re tenacious as hell.” Octavio said.

              Tom huffed. He gazed out the window. A buzzard, or at least he thought it was a buzzard, perched on a telephone wire. Perhaps there was a metaphor there, but he felt too fatigued to care.

              “Okay. Okay. Yes, I can help you with your friends. I think. It should just be a matter of a few pills and some nourishment for your one friend. The gal, well, that might require a little more TLC. But, it seems you two have the hots for each other so that shouldn’t be much of a problem.” Octavio said. He cleared his throat. He slowed the car down.

              Tom tensed. He looked around. He didn’t see a stop sign out front, and his mind immediately began to race with a thousand unwanted thoughts. But the vehicle began moving almost as quickly as it had paused, and the cause for alarm seemed to subside.

              “I can’t tell you whether it would be ‘worth it.’ That’s something you’ll have to decide. If you’re alive, there is always someplace to go, though I’ve found, at least in my own experiences, that it matters much more what you do when you actually get there. But, there are plenty of people who are focused on the journey. As if they are immersed with traveling instead of reaching some sort of goal.” Octavio smiled. “I’m very cerebral at times. Gives me a bit of a… disconnect, sometimes. You know, with humanity? Yeah. It can be difficult, when you’re intelligent. To really grasp the human element. To empathize.”

              “You sound like a fucking sociopath.” Tom said.

              “Well, that’s because I am one. The Army tends to help that process along.” Octavio chuckled. “No, that’s not totally fair. I was one long before the Army.” he said. “I need gas. You hungry? You should probably get some real food, something to drink.”

              Tom laughed. “Sure thing, doc. Just give me a healthy dose of chicken.” Tom looked out the window. He saw a truck stop in the distance. “Don’t you want to know what it tastes like?” he asked.

              A curious silence filled the capacious interior of the vehicle as the progressed towards the fuel station.

              Octavio pulled up and got out, pumping the gas as if he didn’t really care if Tom escaped. Returning briefly to the car, he bent inside and reached across to the passenger side to push open the glove compartment. His wallet, a bulging black leather thing, had been stored in there all along. Octavio resumed his annoying humming as he retreated, heading towards the transparent glass door. We love the Mustangs was stenciled in pink and blue glitter paint on one of the large windows, with a frosted football helmet and a logo of a horse on either side of it. Behind the window, a fat woman wearing a blue apron with hennaed hair idly chewed hum and watched Octavio as he cruised through the aisles.

              Tom figured the Mustangs were a local high school team. He felt curious about them. Was the quarterback some coddled stud who would inevitably find his way onto a major team, where his life would continue to be handed to him by a flock of adoring predators all driven by their lust for every last red cent they could extract from his body? Tom pondered the cryptic and evasive non-answers of the evil doctor who’d spared him for some reason.

              He wondered what that quarterback, what those Mustangs would do when the apocalypse came roaring onto their doorstep.

              Lost in thoughts of hubris and aggression, guns and guts and glory, Tom didn’t see Octavio returning. He blinked and jumped when the car door slammed shut. He found a large white plastic container being thrust at him, perspiration sliding down in thick beads on the side.

              “Big Sip?” Octavio asked.

              “When are you going to start answering my fucking questions?” Tom asked. He looked at the thin red line on the edge of the plastic straw for a few seconds, hesitating. Then he took a sip. He squeezed his face into a sour moue, he stuck his tongue out.

              Octavio glanced back in the rearview mirror at just that moment, and laughed out loud.

              “It’s not funny.” Tom said, wiping the back of one hand over his mouth. “It was way too sweet.” he said.

              “It might take some time.” Octavio said. He put the vehicle into gear and began moving back towards the highway.

Several trucks lined a narrow strip next to a large lot overgrown with wild grasses. Tom couldn’t help but reflect on the world moving around him. He seemed to see it differently now. “Is there going to be any? Time? Will there even be soda? What the fuck is happening?” Tom asked.

The car stopped suddenly. Tom’s head jolted back and bounced off of the faux leather headrest. Octavio had an angry glint in his eyes. Tom felt his body growing warmer. His heart slammed its foot onto the gas pedal, and a trickle of sweat seemed to form instantaneously under his arms. He watched the doctor as he tensed his jaw muscles and gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles blanched.

“Tomorrow, I plan on blowing up a secret laboratory in the Army Medical Command building. That lab contains a particularly virulent strain of the rabies virus which can be transmitted by air. That lab also contains large quantities of scopolamine, tetrodotoxin, and alpha-PVP. Among other things. Normally, some of that stuff would be strictly contained in a much more secure environment in the labs in Maryland, but we’ve been doing tests…”

“What about all of the people who were cut in half? The people chained to the walls?” Tom asked. He felt somehow distant, separated from the conversation. His body shuddered, and he felt as if he might begin convulsing at any moment. The screams. The blood.

It was hard to erase the indelible horror from his mind.

“You were on a unit where the main goal was to test a modified version of tetrodotoxin. Normally, you would have been transferred to Unit 7, but… instead, here we are. Potentially drawing attention to ourselves.” Octavio said.

“That… doesn’t explain anything.” Tom said.

“Look, we really do need to get moving. Day after tomorrow, a few million people could be infected with rabies within a few days, maybe even hours. Very few of them will know it, because the symptoms don’t show up immediately- though this is an aggressive form, so it’s probably be around 9 days. Many will certainly fall prey to a high from alpha-PVP, and that should happen quickly. The people closest to the blast will be impacted the most. Have you ever been to San Antonio?” Octavio asked. He turned and looked at Tom.

Tom could only shake his head. He felt trapped in a fugue state.

Should he try to stop the man?

Why would he want to?

“Fort Sam Houston is very close to a number of populated areas, not to mention military bases. A concert is happening nearby at an arena tomorrow. People will be at the zoo. So, around a hundred thousand people, many of them active-duty military personnel with access to some of the most devastating weaponry known to man, will suddenly devolve into an insatiable rage. That’s what is probably going to happen tomorrow.” Octavio said.

“But…that’s it? Why risk breaking me out of prison, or whatever… that was?” Tom asked.

“I’m still experimenting, if I’m honest. I probably won’t get to observe the results. But… in some ways, I admire you. I don’t care much about your friends. You have something… something encoded in your very genetic makeup that makes you… different. The “tet offensive,” that’s what the guards called it, had morphed into a study to find what made people resistant to our new strains. One in a thousand would eventually emerge from the cocoon of their paralysis, and we estimated it to around one in a million who would actually survive to walk and function somewhat normally again.”

They remained stalled in the middle of the short, winding road that led back to the freeway. No one was waiting behind them, so it didn’t seem to be much of an issue, though if the goal were to remain circumspect, it didn’t seem like sitting here, in the middle of a road, would be the way to achieve it. Tom looked out at the sky, noting the few puffy white clouds that sauntered by. It was getting darker. He could see the moon’s silver silhouette.

“What would have normally happened? And why cut people in half?” Tom asked. He felt confused. He blinked his eyes hard rapidly. Inserting the straw into his mouth, he took a nervous sip.

“Vivisections. Yes. Well, I can understand why the sight of… such things would be troubling. No one, none of the patients or the general public, was ever intended to see such things.” Octavio said, his voice hollow as it trailed off. He put the car back into gear and started driving again.

“So, what happened to all of the anomalies. What was Unit 7?” Tom asked.

“Do you remember the zombie who ate the guard?” Octavio asked.

Tom shuddered. He took another sip. His mouth suddenly seemed parched. He nodded, a knot forming in his throat. It felt as if a bull mastiff had decided to take a nap on his chest. It was hard to breath.

The traumatic memory flowed into his consciousness like thick, molten lava. It seared every synapse it came into contact with as it oozed into the forefront of his brain. It hurt, physically hurt, to remember. He saw the quadrupedal creatures ravenously feasting on the overweight brown-shirted guard. He heard the macabre melody of their gnashing teeth and smelled the breeze as it traipsed by, seemingly oblivious to the rank horror and defilement occurring under its nose.

“Unit 7 involved a lot of things. We had been at Kenedy for around fifteen years, after it got transferred to private ownership. Started out as a noble plan to run tests on sex offenders, find out what makes them tick, if there are genetic markers, et cetera. I wasn’t there then, of course. After a while, we got into aggression. Scientists wanted to study aggression, particularly female aggression, though we were looking at violence in males, too. Lots of stuff. Anyway, Unit 7 had always been the mind control unit.” Octavio said.

This lecture was starting to bore Tom, but he listened on anyway. He leaned his head back against the window and looked out.

“You would have been transferred to Unit 7. Unit 7… is for the elites. There were only two patients who ever survived Unit 9, to my knowledge, and they ended up there. We train them to become the monsters we can’t allow ourselves to become.”

“Why? How?” Tom asked. He scratched his temple.

“Nanobots, computer chips, subliminal messaging, psychological conditioning, narcotics. It’s pretty intense for the first year of so. Why? Because people are motivated by fear, Thomas. Because sometimes doing horrible things can actually be for the greater good.”

Chapter 7

              Tom pondered the practical benefits of evil.

              Octavio was humming again. Tom tried to ignore it, but occasionally the sound would begin bothering him anew. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, so he merely forced his mind to wander to other things. Outside of the vehicle, the grasslands again dominated the landscape. Endless vistas seemed to lead to the edge of the earth. Sometimes there’d be a smattering of trees, but the countryside appeared to be nothing more than grass. Mostly brown, but often green.

              Off in the distance, he spied a lake. Or some sort of body of water. Tom tried to focus on that, to visualize happy people sitting at the water’s edge, shoes off, laughing as they held perspiring glass bottles of beer and shared stories of simpler times. It felt wrong. Deep down, Tom knew he’d been corrupted. Fundamentally altered. An evil existed inside of him, gnawing at him, begging to be made manifest for the world to see. The El Paso Gazette had stolen his innocence, and the detached doctor had purloined his morality.

              He could never again casually sit by the placid water and reminisce.

              Tom realized something, as he listened to the obnoxious sound of Octavio humming and the steady drone of the Ford’s engine as it rolled through the unmitigated flatness of the south Texas terrain. It was a profound epiphany. And it had almost been gifted to him by the nefarious medical practitioner who’d both wounded him and saved him. He realized as he sat in the car that he had to harness that evil that was festering inside of him.

              By embracing it, he could rid the world of those who would operate under the guise of civility, only to gradually undermine it. He could harness it to motivate him, to empower him. Tom hated that he loved the simplicity of it all.

              It felt as if something he’d been struggling with internally for so long had just been reconciled.

              For many years, he’d dedicated himself to reporting the truth. He’d taken his mission as a journalist seriously. Seeing it as a vocation rather than a job, he had departed college with the sense of profundity and purpose that had been carefully inculcated into him. But, over time, the rampant, rank cynicism and cronyism had caused a dichotomy. He’d wanted for so long to speak out. But, aside from practical concerns, he’d… held out hope for change. He’d been chasing a mirage.

              Only an evil far greater could defeat the rot that had infected society.

              Tom nodded to himself. He smiled. And for the first time since fleeing Unit 9, he relaxed.

              He fell asleep.

              He jumped. Moving his head violently back and forth, he trembled. He looked around, trying to find the threat. A thick, wet wad of saliva slid down his cheek. Tom’s mouth felt dry.

              Octavio stood over him. The door was open. A sultry breeze circulated through the interior of the car, flowing over and past Tom.

              “What the fuck, man?” Tom asked.

              “I need you to get in the back. We need to hide you.” Octavio said.

              Tom looked past the doctor. He saw more flat earth and some trees. The sun pummeled his eyes when he glanced at the sky. He blinked. “What are you talking about? I was finally asleep.” he muttered.

              His stomach growled. Tom felt queasy. He suddenly felt a violent urge to vomit.

              Something in his coloration or demeanor must have caught the doctor’s attention, because Octavio grabbed Tom and helped him out of the vehicle. There was a slight drop off, since the sports utility vehicle was a bit off of the ground. Tom stumbled and fought to find his footing.

              Once out of the car, Tom vomited. A thick, yellowish-brown chunky liquid flowed out of his mouth. Before he’d even bent over, the emesis overcame him. The stuff appeared to have the consistency of a sick thick gravy. It smelled like what a vulture’s guts would taste like. The flavor of the rank retching induced a fresh wave of barfing.

              Tears came into his eyes. He shook. Tom honestly thought in that moment that he might die.

              The doctor wiped Tom’s face with a silken white handkerchief.

              When Tom looked up, leaning on the evil doctor’s arm, thick vile bile staining his shirt, he saw something that made him want to cry. He felt the disorienting confusion once again. He laughed. For a few long moments, it was the hysterical laughter that always held the potential to totally derail him.

              “You… are… a complex character.” Tom said. He felt a little better. He waved Octavio away, and tried to stand on his own. After a few seconds of swaying but staying upright without support, the doctor relaxed and gave Tom a few feet of space, stepping back. The dry breeze wheezed as it stumbled past, a senile man on his way to brunch.

              “Why do you need… to hide me?” He asked. He was short of breath. His chest felt tight. Tom’s vision seemed to blur around the edges. He swayed, and his footing seemed unstable. But, he remained upright. The fresh air and the sense of freedom that accompanied this wide expanse of open terrain helped him remain on his feet. He blinked repeatedly, and he felt his jaw muscles twitching involuntarily.

              “For such a smart man, you can be pretty dense sometimes.” Octavio said, chuckling. He looked around, placing his hands in his pockets. He stood there for several seconds, appearing as if he were about to unburden his soul of a dense and depraved secret. When he again locked eyes with his fugitive interlocutor, there was… something there. A glint, perhaps, of emotion. Real, raw emotion. Maybe it could even be mistaken for compassion.

              Tom was the first to look away in their little game of eyeball chicken. Whatever it was he saw, or thought he saw, hurt him. Or maybe it just awakened something inside that he wanted to suppress. He felt a volatile mix of confusion and fear as he again wanted to succumb to the mad laughter that seemed an apt metaphor for everything he’d endured up to this point. Why it was manic mirth that would help him escape the pain of a hectoring reality seemed a trivial point.

              He took a breath. Tom looked down at his feet. He scratched a lazy figure eight with the point of one toe.

              “We need to hide you, Thomas, because your face was recently plastered all over the news. Not just in Texas, but all over the country. A mass shooter, at an LGBT art gallery, and you got away from the scene of the crime. Now, I’m not saying you actually were the shooter. I’m pretty sure you weren’t. But, people think you were. Perception can be reality. So, Thomas. That’s why we need to hide you. Unless you want to go back to Unit 9. I’d imagine it’s not a terribly pleasant place at the moment.” Octavio said.

              Tom nodded. It made sense, at least. He flashed back briefly to the time when he’d been cowering behind the bar with his two new friends. He smiled. He did laugh then, and the mirth flowed over him, almost its own distinct, living entity. He relished the sensation of surrendering control to something other than the incredible pain.

              After maybe a minute of this, he calmed down. Tears glistened in his eyes. He reached up and wiped at his face, blushing. He felt mild embarrassment at having laughed like that. But, then he remembered all that the evil/good doctor had seen. A little spontaneous laughter shouldn’t be noteworthy, in context.

              “Okay. O…okay. So, how are we going to do this?” he asked. “Don’t they have tight security or something?” Tom wondered aloud.

              “Sometimes. When they need to. Why do they need to? Why in the world would an officer and a respected member of the medical profession bring an escaped mass murderer onto a military base?” Octavio asked, raising an eyebrow.

              “Hopefully you’ll tell me why it is you’re doing this.” Tom said. “I kind of want to know.” He muttered, moving towards the back of the vehicle.

              Octavio chuckled. “Yeah. So, we’ll just put you in the back. We’re about maybe twenty minutes away. Pretty soon, we’ll start hitting some heavier traffic. Just lay down, put the blanket over you. I’m going to stop at a store, get some supplies and put them on top and around you.” he said.

              “Why wouldn’t I just get out and run away?” Tom asked. He blinked. He couldn’t really believe he’d actually uttered the words.

              Octavio shifted his weight. A hard, ugly look flashed in his eyes. But it subsided so quickly, it might have been a mere figment of one’s imagination. “Where would you go?” he asked. Octavio smiled. “Look, we do need to hurry. We can talk more this evening. You won’t just run because you can’t. You’ve got two friends who need your help. You’re sick. You really want to know who or what I am. You want revenge. I don’t know against whom, or why. I doubt you’d tell me. But, I can see it. I heard it.” he said.

              “You heard it?” Tom asked.

              “We watched you. You fell into a prolonged and acute delirium that lasted over 47 days. You would wake up, make small movements, then seemingly fall back asleep. But, if I waited, after you’d appeared to have fallen into the darkness, I could listen to you mumbling. You repeated the word Johnson many times.”

              Tom winced. Johnson.

Chapter 8

              He relived his rape.

              Tom shuddered. He felt himself go pale. He felt weak, and he leaned against the side of the vehicle with one arm. His stomach threatened to induce a fresh wave of emesis as the fear and adrenaline collided in his gut.

              The need for revenge swirled in the cauldron of his soul. Its noisome vapors rose up and tainted his being. The noxious, toxic potion consumed him as he trembled. Rage and anticipation tingled through him, pulsing as it flowed freely in his veins. He stirred the witch’s brew.

              Taking several deep breaths, he recovered. He stood. Looking past Octavio, he stared at the cerulean heavens as they stretched out towards the horizon. A few puffy clouds sauntered through the celestial promenade. He could see the moon in the daytime sky. For some reason, that fact made him smile.

              “What?” Octavio asked. His voice was gentle.

              “Nothing. Let’s get this over with.” Tom said.

              He got into the back. The area was quite roomy. A large, thick black mat with a fuzzy surface rested on the floor, and Tom laid down. He curled his legs in and assumed what was almost a fetal position. He grunted when his legs scraped something sharp that jutted from the floorboards.

              “You comfortable?” Octavio asked.

              Tom chuckled. “Do I look comfortable?” he asked.

              Octavio stared at Tom for a long second, then smiled and shook his head. He reached up and slammed the door shut.

              Tom jumped at the loud report of the hatch slamming.

              He felt acutely aware of the silence. He waited for the car to start. It seemed like it was taking forever. Tom wanted to get up, to peek out through the oblong tinted rear window to see just what it was that the complex doctor was doing. As he sat there, fear and anxiety again renewed their vigorous assault on his insides.

              He tried to think. He heard footsteps, and then Octavio got into the car. They sat for a few minutes without moving. Tom’s mind raced, a thousand thousand dueling thoughts competing for his finite attention. It seemed tight and closed-off, down here on the floor of a Ford Escape that belonged to a fucking human rights violator.

              Tom attempted to fathom his fate. It seemed odd, that the world he’d inhabited for so many decades had been reduced to this small, ignominious space. All of his life, he’d dedicated himself to truth and intellectual freedom, and he was not trapped in the back of an evil doctor’s vehicle, waiting to be complicit in mass murder, consumed by an indelible rage, a fugitive who could barely discern truth from lies, fiction from reality.

              He heard the car start. Tom felt the large-ish vehicle lurch, then it began moving. He idly wondered what the delay had been about. As the consistent mechanical humming of the car’s forward momentum lulled him into a relaxed state, Tom immersed himself in thought. He vaguely recalled something, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. It just seemed important. The thought was a gnat, and he swatted at it. Something about a guy he’d met in jail…

              Joker.

              Tom laughed. He remembered the man taking his potato chips after a dumb bet. The former reporter used his keen observational skills and ability for recall to draw a portrait in his mind of that time. It was hard to admit that a jail intake unit could be considered simpler times. But, considering Tom had not long ago stabbed a peace officer with a fibula and consumed someone’s flesh meat for an undefined period of time, maybe sitting in jail on trumped-up charges was an example of simpler times.

              He recalled the doctor asking him if he had anywhere to go. Octavio was going to let him go. It seemed like that was the case, anyway. What the man said made sense. Who would he go to? Who could he tell? Tom posed little threat to the evil doctor. Yet, why just let Tom go? He couldn’t shake that eerie feeling that there was something more to this unfolding drama. He always wanted to know the full story. Perhaps it was that that had gotten him in this predicament to begin with. Maybe it could even be considered a personality flaw.

              Tom chuckled. “If…” he whispered. His lips felt dry. They hit a bump in the road, and Tom’s body lifted up. His leg scraped the sharp point again, and he winced. “Fuck.” he said.

              Reflecting on things, he realized that maybe this could work out for the better. It was a hell of a silver lining, considering the circumstances, but if he hadn’t been put in this predicament, he would never have met Delilah. Or Mike. The savage plans of Octavio probably would have unfolded regardless, and then Tom would have just died a bitter, lonely, underpaid reporter who’d been turned into a mouth whore for a disgusting fat pig of a boss.

              The car stopped. Tom tensed. He looked towards the door. He felt vulnerable. If someone were to just open that door, he would be easy prey. Weakened by whatever disease he’d been infected with or medical experiments he’d been subjected to, he’d endured some interminable period of near-starvation and dehydration. His legs were numb and he possessed nothing to defend himself with.

              It started back up.

              Tom perked up. He crawled a bit closer to the back and listened. He could hear other cars. They were in traffic.

              He tried to get a grasp on time. How long had it been since they’d left the prison? He honestly couldn’t say. It seemed like everything was a ghoulish blur in his mind, an endless macabre montage on a slow march towards death.

              Settling down, he commanded his heart to be still and he focused his mind. It was hard to do. He wanted to think about so many things. He felt the need to worry about myriad things, but he realized so few of them were in his direct control. He needed to just sit back and wait. To trust Octavio.

              The latter proved easier said than done. Every time the evil doctor did something to make Tom want to trust him, he revealed some crazy detail, such as the fact he watched him as he nearly died in a cell without making any effort to intervene. It was a little hard to let down his guard with a man that was about to turn a few million people into raving, murderous lunatics.

              Tom went back to one thing. The doctor had said he’d help cure them. He’d help ensure their relative safety.

              Octavio hadn’t sugar-coated things. He’d shot it straight and told him bluntly that he couldn’t really say what the future held. Which only forced Tom to want to go off on another tangent, because, even now, after all he’d endured, he still could just not comprehend why someone would do something like this. There had to be some powerful underlying motivation. Something was driving the doctor to do this.

              And something had driven him to save Tom.

              Tom was going to make it his personal mission to find out just what that something was.

             

          Chapter 9

              They stopped.

              Tom groaned. He wanted to get up and get to. To stretch his tired, tingling limbs. Every moment that passed reawakened a terrible fear of imprisonment. He felt trapped. Vulnerable. He tried to make light of it as he trembled on the floor, occasionally twitching or moving his body to try to keep some of the blood flowing. The silence in the vehicle seemed deafening.

              The car shook when Octavio got out. Tom’s heart galloped through the verdant meadows of his chest. If things had seemed bad before, he realized they felt worse now. His only tangible relief from the exposed state he was in was the evil doctor. And he had just left. Tom tried to breathe. He focused on the stale air as it went into his lungs, then as it exited. The exercise proved somewhat calming.

              “What the fuck.” he muttered.

              Tom inched forward. He heard something outside, and he wanted to investigate. Some sort of scratching noise. It came from somewhere close to the back of the S.U.V. Tom could feel a dry, desiccated breeze as it wheezed in from underneath that doors. He could see a glint of light through the crack at the bottom.

              He heard a woman’s voice. She seemed to be cooing. He chuckled. The sound had been a woman wheeling her cart to a nearby vehicle, where she was unloading groceries or whatever while distracting her child. A young one, from the sound of it. Probably a newborn.

              Imaging this proximate pair of humans, Tom smiled. He could picture them there, oblivious. Perhaps the mother was rushed. He assumed she was the mother, of course. He saw the woman as mid-height, maybe 5’7” with long brown hair. He could see her wearing leggings or jeans with holes at the knees. Golden bangles? Tom nodded his head. That seemed to fit.

              Hearing the adjacent car start up, he felt a momentary sense of sadness. With them gone, he could no longer play the game of guess-what-they-look-like. He collapsed back into a sad and anxious anticipation. He wanted Octavio to hurry up.

              “Delilah.” he said. “Delilah!”

              Tom grunted. He kicked the seat. He groaned when he received no audible response. A solitary tear escaped from one corner of his eye. He felt it as it trailed down his cheek. The silence was an angry pit bull that locked its jaws onto his throat.

              It accused him.

              Thinking back, he tried to think if there were anything he could have done. Part of him felt overwhelmed with a sense of guilt. I am responsible, he thought. As the cavity that was the silence grew, he could only think. And perhaps it was no wonder that most of his thoughts were negative. Tom had brought these people, Delilah and Mike, into a world of ineradicable pain and turmoil. They hadn’t chosen this.

              Even worse, it had probably been his phone which had led the police to Delilah’s home. They’d been so close. They’d just been talking about making a hasty retreat. Delilah’s father had all sorts of money…

              Tom harkened back to that, and his heart skipped a beat. A smile broke out over his face. He giggled. Something akin to hope blossomed inside of him.

              He jumped.

              A key jingled just outside the door. Something beeped. A loud POP burst through the quiet. When the hatch opened, the light filtering past and around Octavio forced Tom to blink.

              “Lay down.” Octavio said, obvious strain in his voice.

              Tom wanted to protest, but he did as he was told. He laid back, assuming the near-fetal position as bags were piled on top of him. The weight of them hurt, but he forced himself to not vocalize the pain. The door was slammed shut. Within short order, Octavio was back in the driver’s seat and the vehicle was moving again.

              Tom heard more traffic. Something from one of the bags oozed out. A gelatinous, cold substance slid down his arm. He shivered. He smelled fried chicken. He hadn’t been certain he could feel normal hunger again. He thought of the meat, and the idea helped alleviate any nascent appetite that had been developing.

              He idly wondered if he could manage going vegan during the zombie apocalypse. Tom laughed. The sound of the car progressing through traffic diluted the sound.

              They stopped and started more now. He could hear horns blaring. Sometimes the sounds and reverberations of loud music assaulted him. Tom wondered if his senses were heightened because of the relative lack of sight, or if things were just louder in Texas. He didn’t remember anything like this in El Paso, per se. The Ford Escape owned by the evil doctor turned.

              When they slowed way down to an almost crawl, Tom took note. He tensed. He guessed they were at or near the base now. Tom tried to listen closer, to pick up any extra clues. They stopped.

The sound of traffic was distant now. The air even seemed to smell different, if that were possible. He sniffed. Yes. There was a hint of… oil? He couldn’t quite say what it was, but the odor displayed something distinctly different from what he’d encountered along the way there. Maybe it was rain or some slight change in the weather, but for some vague reason, Tom didn’t think so.

“Yes, sir. Major Octavio Ramirez.”

Tom listened. His body tightened. He didn’t want to be the reason they got stopped or held up. Adrenaline pulsed in his veins and he fought the urge to fidget. Nervous energy seemed to radiate off of his skin and he gritted his teeth and did his best to eavesdrop.

“No, sir. They’re patients. I actually just helped them get out of an abusive situation. I have their identification in my house, I think.” Octavio said. He paused. “Yes. Yes, I live here on base. Yes, you’ve seen me before.”

A pregnant silence ensued. “Uh, no, no problem. She’s Raven Williams and he’s Dylan Thomas.” Octavio said.

“Yeah. That was my first thought, too. It does sound kind of familiar.” Octavio said, chuckling.

Tom felt vulnerable. He had a hard time catching his breath. He wanted out. He needed air. His body ached and his mind felt as if it might implode at any minute under the pressure of his anxiety. It seemed inevitable as the sunrise that the evil doctor would soon pull out a gun and begin mindlessly firing into the bodies of the unfortunate guards.

A tense pause filled the void, and Tom idly wondered as he lay buried under a heap of groceries if this was how he’d meet his end. He suppressed a laugh. If it were, then it was a funny way to go. Tom felt amused.

After what seemed like several long minutes, Tom heard muted mumbling, and then the car lurched as it began moving forward. Their pace was considerably slower now. They took several turns, and with each one, Tom felt his body pulled in a different direction. One of the plastic bags disgorged its contents onto him. A can of cream of broccoli soup rolled and bounced on its way into a corner. Tom stared at the silver aluminum bottom of the can, watching it with some trepidation. If this were how he was going to go, he didn’t want it to be with cheap calories stuck to his face.

He sighed. Tom realized with a slight smile that there was little he could if that were in the cards. All he could do is try to stay calm and get through this. Whatever this, in fact, was.

He still wasn’t fully sure if he had all the details straight on that score.

They stopped.

Tom strained his neck looking up with tense anticipation. He wanted to escape this backseat as badly as a hyperactive Millennial wants to get out of a business meeting. Yet, just as with those damned meetings, it seemed like something, someone just had to prolong the thing. He waited. He began to sweat. He felt himself shaking. All of his energy and focus in that moment seemed tied to his desire to get up and moving. Perhaps it wasn’t unreasonable, under the circumstances. Given his recent imprisonment, perhaps he should feel fear of being trapped and immobile while in the trunk of a mad scientist’s vehicle.

The hatch opened. Fresh air assaulted Tom’s senses. He blinked as he looked upward. The sky had grown shades darker in the short time since he’d last seen it through the tinted window. Tom gulped in air as if he’d been deprived of oxygen for some prolonged period.

Octavio stood there, looking down at him, a curious smile etched into his face. “Well, are you going to get up?” he asked.

“Kind of hard, with all of this crap on me.” Tom said.

Octavio laughed. “True enough.” he said. He picked up a few bags, lacing his brown liver-spotted hands through the white handles, the sound of the plastic rubbing together mildly offensive. Turning, the mysterious madman walked up a short paved path to what appeared to be his house. Or, at least the house where he stayed.

Tom watched the man’s back. He noticed how Octavio walked. The man walked with a certain quiet confidence. For some reason, that made Tom mad. How dare he? he thought. He moved one arm, and felt it tingle. He realized he might need help getting up and hobbling out of the car. He waited, gritting his teeth, reflecting on the cruel irony that the escape he’d longed for so badly was right in his face. Literally right in his face, and he could do nothing about it.

Octavio returned. He was humming again. He looked down and saw something in Tom’s face, for he took a step back and began frowning. “What?” he asked, eyes wide.

Tom took a deep breath. “Can you just please help me out of this car? I need to get some blood flowing.” he said.

“You’re not going to go all psycho on me, are you?” Octavio asked.

Tom laughed. He fought the urge to collapse into the insensible hysteria. Perhaps that would be his only companion on whatever journey lie ahead. The ugly and uncontrollable urge to laugh until he nearly went blind. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes. He could feel the moisture there. “No.” Tom said. He spoke simply, because it was all he could say. Words eluded him in this bizarre moment.

As he felt himself pulled forward by the surprising strength of the relatively thin doctor, he wondered again if the man were clueless in some ways. Some sort of idiot savant. He tried to get up on his own when the doctor let go, but he found he could not. He breathed hard and tried again. Then again. Sighing, on the verge of tears, his lachrymal glands working overtime to make up for all the years when they went unemployed, Tom pled for help.

“Just lean on me, then.” Octavio said. They walked slowly together, Tom limping and relying on the stabilizing strength of his unusual traveling companion as he made his way into the home. A large beige archway towered over the small cracked stone porch. The house appeared almost as if it had been plucked from a history textbook’s photos of an old colonial Catholic Mission.

Inside, Tom smelled cinnamon. It was a faint but fragrant scent that seemed to linger in the air, offering some sort of seductive promise. Octavio guided him wordlessly to a long black leather couch and helped him down, then left without saying anything.

Tom sat there for several moments, immersed in the surreal sense that this was the mad doctor’s home. An electric fireplace sat under a tiled arch in one wall across the room. He looked at it, intrigued. He idly wondered if it could heat a room as large as this. Tom scratched his face, feeling the coarse stubble. He smiled. For some reason, the presence of facial hair made him happy. He’d always avoided trying to grow a beard because his hair always grew in in patches. His Apache side. Returning to the fireplace, he considered it. It seemed so… out of place, in some weird way. Here they were in South Texas, and the military man had a fireplace. The home had to have heating.

Footsteps broke through his reverie. Tom sat up on one elbow and looked towards the door. He winced. The sudden movement hurt his shoulder. He slumped back down. He sighed. The couch turned out to be quite comfortable. Then again, a sack of turtle turds would probably be comfortable when compared to what he’d gone through just to get to this point.

Octavio walked in, holding Delilah’s good arm as he guided her towards a black leather recliner stationed at an angle across from where Tom lay. He watched the doctor as he helped steer her down into the seat. There was something inherently tender in his movements that reassured Tom. He once again was struck by the dichotomies of this strange savior. “You’re going to save them?” he asked. He blinked. When the words came out, he was surprised to hear that his voice had gone hoarse. His throat hurt. Tom coughed into a fist and looked away, avoiding the doctor’s stern gaze.

“Save? I don’t know. I think that might be more of your job. Will I help them recover to something more resembling normality? Yes, I hope to do that. It’s what I promised you, isn’t it?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.

Tom chuckled. He couldn’t help it. “Doc, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not, at this point.” he said.

Octavio patted him on the shoulder in an avuncular way as he retreated back outside.

Peering at Delilah, he tried to penetrate the fog of her trauma and paralysis. “Delilah.” he said. His smile quickly turned into a frown when he saw that she didn’t respond. “How did we get here?” he asked. Something about the quiet disturbed him. He was tired of it. Maybe there was some part of the woman who sat across from him that could understand… something. If not the words themselves, perhaps the tone. She was in there, somewhere.

He had to believe that.

Scraping sounds. Tom turned again, flexing his jaw muscles and gritting his teeth. He winced at the pain that shot up his neck. What was that about? Seeing that the doctor was escorting the painter into the residence, Tom relaxed. He rested his head on the edge of the couch and closed his eyes. He felt tired. Profoundly tired. Weary would cover it, if it encompassed feeling so utterly fatigued that he almost prayed for the darkness to take him so he could fall into an eternal slumber.

Mike was dumped unceremoniously into a wicker chair that rested near the decorative fireplace. Octavio stood, stretching, hands on his hips, moving his torso from side to side. He took several deep breaths, then walked towards the sitting area where Tom rested, one eye open. On the way, Octavio slammed the front door.

The violent report of the door colliding with the jamb caused Tom to startle. He sat up quickly, looking around, eyes wide. He frowned when he saw Octavio smiling, looking at him from his seat on the other recliner. “It’s not fucking funny.” Tom muttered.

“I didn’t say it was.” Octavio said. “Would you like some tea?” he asked.

“I’d like to get the fuck out of here.” Tom responded.

Chapter 10

              “You’re always free to go.” Octavio said.

              “Am I?” Tom asked. He chortled. Looking away, he smirked. His eyes strayed towards the fireplace again. “Does it get cold in here? You don’t have heat?” he asked.

              “I didn’t design the place, Thomas. Yes, it can get cold, I suppose. Yes, we have heat.” Octavio said.

              “Where’s your wife?” Tom asked.

              “Always so full of questions. I don’t know. Probably fucking some E-4.” Octavio said.

              “What’s an E-4?” Tom asked.

              “A Private. Someone fairly low in rank.”

              “Oh. You think she cheats on you?” Tom asked. He felt thirsty. “Maybe I will have some tea. Do you have anything without caffeine? I… would like to sleep at some point, if I’m able.” he said.

              “Now that I’m here, I’ll sit for a minute, if you don’t mind. Things have been a bit hectic lately, wouldn’t you say? Feels nice to just sit and relax.” Octavio responded.

              Tom chuckled. He couldn’t help it. Things have been hectic… That got a nomination for understatement of the century. He resumed his survey of the large room. On top of the fireplace’s mantle were a couple of photos. None of them contained Octavio. “Are those the pictures that came with the frames?” Tom asked.

              “Yes.” Octavio said. “I don’t have many family photos. I’m not exactly the sentimental type.” Octavio said.

              Again, Tom laughed. It was an involuntary response that the doctor seemed to have an uncanny knack for provoking. He just said things like that deadpan. Tom wasn’t sure what to make of the man, honestly. He still felt a little uneasy, and he thought that’s how the scientist wanted it. Fear and uncertainty can make people much easier to manipulate.

              “You seem to care about us.” Tom pointed out.

              “Speaking of which, I guess I need to start heating up the water. I also need to get the medication for your friends here.” Octavio said. He got up, groaning a little as he did so. “Joints don’t make it any easier, do they?” he asked rhetorically as he walked away.

              Tom shook his head. He wasn’t sure what to think anymore. He scanned a bookshelf that rested on one wall near the chair the enigmatic man had been sitting in. Several medical journals and thick leather-bound tomes. Squinting, he scanned some of the titles. It appeared that Octavio had written some of the books that rested there on the shelf. In addition, there were a few journals that elicited a chortle from the former reporter for the El Paso Gazette. Experiments in Fluids, International Journal of Control, and Pain were just a few of the esoteric-sounding publications gracing the finite space allotted by the evil doctor.

              Visualizing the odd older man sitting in that dark recliner and perusing an obscure medical treatise exploring fluids, Tom chuckled again.

              “What are you laughing about?” Octavio said, striding into the room. He held a steaming white ceramic mug with two hands. He bent his head slightly, stopping to inhale the rich aromas of the tea. “Ahhh.” he said. “It’s a special blend of oolong. We call it Phoenix, I believe. It comes from Guangdong Province in China.” he said.

              “Be careful. It’s hot.” the doctor said. He handed the cup to Tom.

              Taking it, Tom gingerly sniffed the liquid. Widening his eyes, he inhaled the delicious aromas of the exotic beverage. It smelled redolent of…fresh oranges. “Did you put orange juice or something in this?” Tom asked. He took a sip, careful to only indulge in a small amount at first to avoid burning his lips or tongue. His natural instinct in response to the luxurious scent was to gulp the drink and beg for more. If such a thing as ambrosia existed, this might be part of the meal.

              Octavio smiled. He stood there, looking down, and the glint in his eyes seemed to indicate he took some sort of peculiar pride in the tea. “No. That’s part of what makes it special.” he said. His voice had changed a bit, lowering perhaps.

              The fact that tea would make this man proud seemed… vaguely offensive to Tom, though he wanted to focus more on the warmth and aromas of the beverage in his hands. It was so mundane, so trivial, that Tom almost equated the sense of annoyance he experienced with the doctor’s humming. There was just something inappropriate, perhaps, about that. Turning the mug in his hands, he read the mug. It said: “World’s Greatest Doctor.” Tom chuckled. “What’s up with the weird journals? Fluids?” Tom asked. He took another sip.

              “It relates to my work.” Octavio said. He turned his head slightly, nodded at some internal, invisible prompt, and then retreated back into the kitchen without a word.

              Tom sat there, relishing the moment. He seemed to feel the warm brew as it slid down his gullet and began flowing through his bloodstream. His pulse jumped a few beats and his body grew a little hotter. He wanted to be angry that the man had served him something with caffeine against his express wishes, but it was just so good that he decided not to care.

              When death and societal collapse seems imminent, sometimes it is better not to sweat the small stuff.

              Octavio returned, sitting back down in what appeared to be his favored recliner. There was no television in the room, which struck Tom as somewhat noteworthy. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed that in the beginning. The focal point of many living rooms is often a television, and yet, here in this stark, relatively spartan household, the absence of one seemed… normal.

              “How do fluids relate to your work?” Tom asked. Another sip. He looked over at Delilah and Mike. He blinked. He frowned. He’d almost forgotten entirely about his two companions.

              “This is good tea, isn’t it?” Octavio asked.

              “Yeah. It is.” Tom agreed.

              “I only drink it on rare, special occasions.” Octavio said. He sniffed his drink before he sipped. “It is fairly hard to come by, I’m told, especially outside of China. I tried once trying to find this online, but was unable to do so.” Octavio smiled. “Of course, that may just because I’m inept with things like the internet sometimes. I’m a bit older.” He shrugged and went through his ritual of inhale-then-sip.

              “What’s the special occasion?” Tom asked. Since he didn’t seem to be able to get a straight answer to any of his questions, he figured he’d play along.

              Octavio tensed. He placed his mug on a nearby wooden table. A frown was etched onto his mien. “You asked about fluids.” he said.

              Tom could only nod. He gripped his mug tighter in an unconscious reaction, as if afraid that the man would now try to take his tea away.

              “A lot of my career was devoted to blood. In a way.” Octavio said. His voice almost sounded wistful. The evil doctor looked towards the ceiling. “I worked for a number of years at Walter Reed. That’s where most Army Medical Corps people end up.” Octavio picked up his drink again. He took a drink without lingering over the robust aroma. “The big thing in the military is blood. You can lose a lot of blood during trauma, especially the sorts commonly encountered in armed conflict. That, and lost limbs.” he said.

              Octavio laughed. It was a low, cynical laugh. The sound came so abruptly and seemed so out of place that Tom looked over to see if the man might have finally collapsed into permanent psychosis. Octavio waved a hand in the air dismissively.

              “Sorry.” He took a drink of tea. He issued an audible sigh. “You asked about liquids. And you asked about the ‘special occasion.’” He smiled ruefully. “Do you know where rabies comes from?” he asked.

              Tom shook his head. Of all the many things he’d devoted time to studying in his life, rabies wasn’t one of them.

              “A lot of people don’t, I suppose.” Octavio’s eyes became distant, and a tense, expectant silence loitered between them as Tom sat forward. “Fluid. It’s a fluid. Rabies comes from saliva.” Octavio said. The Major gripped a fistful of the chair’s arm’s leather. He turned pale for a moment. Then it passed. “I’m about to go even further down a path I can’t really come back from.” he said, idly. Then he chuckled. “I’m not supposed to ever tell anyone this, of course. Anyway, that’s the connection. We spent many years modifying the rabies virus. But, then we wanted to see if we could make it airborne. It would be just one more great chemical agent if we could, and we did.”

              “Why is it ‘great?’” Tom asked.

              “It takes a while for symptoms to develop. It’s not easily detectable. There is no noxious gas cloud, et cetera. Plus, scientists don’t acknowledge that rabies can be spread through the air, because, scientifically, it can’t.” Octavio said. He smiled.

              “It can’t be scientifically spread through the air, and yet you can spread it through the air.” Tom repeated, blinking.

              “Precisely.” Octavio said. Then he chuckled again. This one seemed a self-congratulatory laugh.

              “So, we had to do extensive testing. But, the long and short of it all is that we have a sort of concentrate. Soak the fluid into maltodextrin and you now have a powder form of a highly contagious, deadly virus that is hard to detect.” Octavio said.

              “But, there are still weaknesses.” he said.

              Tom was suddenly fascinated. Part of it probably was the fact that he wanted to have some idea of what had happened to him. He wanted to create some meaning for his experience. To have an explanation. He’d done things during his prolonged period of near-delirium that he could probably never forget. Even beginning to remember them inflicted a sort of trauma on him. But, it was also more than that. Here he was talking to a man that was part of creating what might be the newest weapon of mass destruction, but it was an invisible weapon few could ever plan for or see coming. This mad genius was literally altering the entire history of the planet, and he made maybe a hundred grand a year doing so.

              “The virus might not infect people? You might not be able to control some of the symptoms?” Tom asked.

              Octavio shook his head. “No. The virus we have here is extremely effective. Very few people exposed to it directly will be resistant. Rabies is almost always lethal in humans once symptoms appear. But,” He held up one warning finger. “But, and this is a big but, rabies is also exceedingly rare in humans. In America, it is usually from dogs or bats. It comes from canines in most of the world.”

              “Why is that a weakness?” Tom interrupted.

              “Well, if you’d let me finish.” Octavio said, smiling. His eyes had a doleful sheen to them. “It’s a weakness because if we just infected a populace with rabies, then people would know. Once they knew, the Russians, the Chinese, hell, everyone would not only develop the same thing, if they haven’t already, but then they’d use it. It’s a brutally effective weapon that we essentially could never use. It’s not nearly as efficient as a nuclear bomb. And, we have nuclear weapons mostly as a deterrent. No one, including the United States government, ever wants to actually use nuclear weapons.”

              “How would people know?” Tom asked. “I thought that was the point. That they have delayed symptoms.” Tom said.

              “You are such a smart man. But, why ask me stupid questions?” Octavio said. He got an impatient, almost avuncular set to his face as he gave a silent admonition to his interlocutor. “It’s exceedingly rare. I covered that, right? There would be almost no way even twenty people would get rabies in a single area, and it would be truly unique and unprecedented for even a small number of people to contract the virus without being bitten. If thousands or hundreds of thousands of people suddenly came down with rabies, it would be a problem, of course. But, by itself, it could be contained fairly quickly, one could assume.”

              “So, what’s the fucking point of developing a weapon you can never use?” Tom asked.

              “That, my friend, is the question.” Octavio said. Then he cackled.

              Then the phone penetrated the ensuing silence.

              Tom jumped. They both looked towards the device. A slim black cordless device, the lights glowed a greenish-yellow. The ringtone sounded high-pitched and angry, like the squawk of some distressed bird. He looked at it, smiling impishly. He wondered just how many people in the modern era still had landline phones.

              Octavio got up. There was something in his body language that indicated he did not like this development. He approached the phone cautiously, as if it might explode upon contact. His shoulders appears tight and one of his fists was clenched at his side. The doctor reached down with a quick, jerky movement and picked up the receiver.

              “Hello?” he answered.

          Chapter 11

             

              “How did you get this number?” Octavio asked.

              He turned slightly. Glaring at Tom, he took the phone into the other room.

              Tom tensed. He felt his heart rate jamming a finger against the eject button.

              Sliding out of his seat, his eyes darted furtively around. He felt the hair standing up on his arms. Tom allowed his gaze to linger briefly on Delilah. She seemed to be so peaceful, resting there in her seat. A protective urge overcame him, and it added to his resolve to make it out of this situation. He wanted to see what was next. He knew he probably wouldn’t like it. He understood it would probably be ugly. But, Delilah provided an extra dose of inspiration for moving forward into the shadows and dust of anarchy. Tom tried to sneak over to eavesdrop on the conversation Octavio was trying to exclude him from.

              “Shit.” Tom said, raising one hand to his mouth to stifle the expletive-laced exclamation. He tensed his jaw. He stood there for a few seconds, trying to calm his heartbeat. Silently chastising himself for his bumbling idiocy, he looked down at his feet in quiet admonition. He tried to communicate his exigent need to his feet, as if by sheer force of will he could induce them to act.

              He almost laughed at himself. Standing there, swaying slightly and staring down at his feet. But then he looked ahead. He needed to move.

              Tom crept forward towards the arched entryway. He could hear the doctor’s voice, though at his current position, he couldn’t decipher any of the individual words. The evil scientist’s tone sounded hushed and somber, and this was enough to cause Tom some concern. Octavio always seemed to be in control, and maybe Tom had gotten used to that fact. Maybe he had even started to rely on that. He frowned as he took yet another small step forward. Relying totally on the Major was a recipe for disaster.

              Inching closer, he controlled his breathing. Every sense seemed heightened. He could feel the tightness in his chest. His legs throbbed and his arms quivered from the instant shot of adrenaline that flowed through his veins. Fear was a corsair eyeing the treasures of his sanity with avaricious interest as it approached through the murky waters of his veins. He paused. Placing his back against the stucco wall, he listened.

              “You want me to surrender this man? I still don’t understand why.” Octavio said.

              There was a lengthy pause.

              The lapse in conversation was the last thing Tom needed. His sense of calm that he’d somehow plucked from the depths of his soul threatened to collapse on itself as he pondered the import of the little bit he’d already heard. That man Octavio referenced… it almost certainly wasn’t Mike. What would anyone want with Mike? He was a brilliant painter, but he barely had a following. He was a poor, almost homeless gay artist living in El Paso. Tom loved the man, and would put his own safety at risk to try to protect him. But, objectively, no one really gave a shit about him. Which meant that Tom was that man.

              He perked up. His muscles tensed. Octavio had resumed talking.

              “So, this man has secrets you want to keep. I guess I can understand that. But, you know things about me. And you say you have my wife. Why should I trust you? You are blackmailing me to try to get the man who could blackmail you. Do you see my dilemma?” Octavio said.

              Tom sank to the floor. His lachrymal glands began their work. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He wanted to run, but there was nowhere he could run to. And that fact, that horrible sense of helpless vulnerability crushed him in that moment.

              It hurt worse knowing he’d somehow dragged others into this mess. Innocent people inadvertently shared in his pain and torture for no other reason than their association with him. The fact that all of them had made the conscious decision to help, fully cognizant of the risks to themselves, eluded the former reporter in that moment.

              “Okay. Fine. He’s not that important to me. As you said, my mission is more important. If you can pledge that amount of money and the considerable media resources you have at your disposal, I will bring him. We can meet at the old cathedral. Mm-hmm. Yes.” Another pause. “See you in one hour.”

              Ocatvio chuckled. “No. Of course I will not call the police.” he said.

              Stumbling, the doctor tripped on Tom’s leg when he rounded the corner. He stopped. He looked down at Tom. Malevolent contempt shined in his eyes. “Get up.” he commanded. Octavio towered over the former newspaper writer. He clenched one of his fists.

              “We have to go. Get up.” Octavio said, clenching his jaw, carefully enunciating the words as he spoke slowly.

              Tom leaned on one arm and slowly maneuvered himself into a standing position with the help of the wall. He stood there, trying to avoid the intense stare of the martinet across from him. The oxygen seemed to have been sucked from the small space. Tom’s chest heaved as he fought to breathe.

              “You heard everything?” Octavio asked. He raised one eyebrow. Something in him visibly relaxed, as if he had relinquished any hope of getting Tom to move quicker through sternness and anger.

              Tom nodded. His eyes felt moist. He looked up and into the brown eyes of his interlocutor and apologized silently a thousand times for the unspoken crime.

              “Okay.” Octavio took a deep breath. “Okay. Well… okay.” Octavio chuckled. He looked away for a second. Then he turned and moved forward with the conversation. “Apparently the some of the people you were investigating are still following you. They had drones or something that captured at least some of what was going on at the prison in Kenedy. They know you escaped.”

              “And you’re going to turn me in.” Tom said, his voice quavering. His knees trembled. His heart thrashed and howled from inside its prison walls. His mouth felt dry. He wanted to be anywhere but here. He against experienced the cloying dread and the impending sense of helpless captivity. Vivid memories of the night when he could have escaped Delilah’s backyard danced just behind his eyes.

              Shivering, Tom blinked. He focused and looked up at Octavio. The doctor had clapped a firm hand on his shoulder.

              “I’m going to pretend. That’s it.” he said.

              “Wha…” Tom muttered, licking his lips. He shied away from any continued touch.

              “I can’t let them live after telling me what they know.” he said.

              Tom sank down to the floor. He collapsed into tears. He sobbed, the agony and doleful weariness strafing the last remaining garrisons tasked with defending his soul. “Wh,wh,why…” he said. He tried to think. He balled his fists up and hit himself on the side of the head as he rocked back and forth, thick globs of snot welling up under his nose and making it difficult for him to breathe.

              “Why…why do I always get stuck in the middle of this? No…no one ever gives a shit about ME!” he said, again wracked by sobs and an inconsolable rage.

              Octavio waited.

              Gradually, Tom calmed down. He always calmed down. And he felt ashamed. He knew he would just get up and allow himself to be led by this treacherous madman. He would do whatever the nefarious doctor said, because he felt trapped. He was trapped. He had no other viable option. And that fact threatened to throw him over the edge once again into the gully of insanity.

              But he somehow plucked himself from the malicious, noisome maw of that cruel beast.

              Fetid madness would someday reign, Tom sensed. But it would not be today. He took the proffered hand and stood. He swayed on his feet. “What do I do?” Tom asked. He wiped the slick snot from his face with the back of one hand. He looked idly at his hand for a second, holding it close to his face. Then he chuckled and wiped it on his dirty jumpsuit.

              “How the hell did we even manage to get this far?” Tom wondered aloud.

              “That is a great question.” Octavio said.

          Chapter 12

              “Fuck those pricks.” The strange man in the backseat said.

              They were driving down the nearly deserted freeway, the faint jaundiced glow of the passing lights interrupted by the black buzzing clouds of insects. The moon sang its silent, solemn hymns from its celestial pulpit. The breeze felt good as it rushed by. Tom could smell rain coming. He also picked up the heavy odors of industry. Oil and grease and pent-up rancor.

              Swerving over violently, Octavio took Exit 84E and they found themselves suddenly catapulted into a vast labyrinthine warren of shifting shadows. The wind took on a different inflection here, surrounded as they were by large buildings. Tom rolled his window up and looked around, trying to still his trembling nerves. He hands shook and his eyes seemed to twitch. Several of the old, rusted edifices seemed to take on their own menacing personalities, the soft glow from the cracked and dusty windows like the light from their infernal eyes and the blackened gaps the cavities of the blue-collar smile.

              The man in the back cracked his knuckles. “Let me out here.” he said.

              The vehicle screeched to an abrupt halt. The sturdy man wearing all black got out unceremoniously, merging with the night shortly after slamming the door shut.

              The violent ricochet reverberated through the tight confines of the vehicle’s interior. Tom jumped. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw that he’d blanched and grown a dangerous shade of pale, and, somehow, this made him feel angry. He was tired of startling.

              “You remember the plan?” Octavio asked, keeping his voice low and even.

              Tom took a deep breath. He had to hand it to the doc. The man knew how to maintain control of a difficult situation. He also seemed to have a knack for extracting value from the oddest situations. “I… yeah. I mean, I’m just going to stand there, basically.” he said.

              Which was, strictly speaking, accurate. Tom was supposed to go in acting terrified. That wouldn’t be so hard, given the fact that, well, he was. Other than that, he was to lay low and wait for the shooting to start. The unnamed man who’d accompanied them on this mission was going to snipe the main targets, helping Octavio secure his wife before they swept the area. If anyone was left alive, they were going to take them back to the now-crowded house, where Octavio would interrogate them.

              Tom still wasn’t sure how the doctor planned to interrogate the people AND unleash the zombie apocalypse, but he wasn’t going to bother asking too many questions. If he were being totally honest, he didn’t really care. As long as he got any tools and help he might need to help he and his friends survive long enough to get the fuck out of town, he could care less about any of the small details. He was in no real mood to think coherently at the moment, anyway.

Octavio eased his foot onto the gas and resumed their steady encroachment into the demesne of the dense, dark shadows. They drove slower now. The doctor seemed to be tense, more alert. He hunched forward a bit, and his eyes scanned the deserted street for any signs of movement. Or traps. The pugnacious stench of blood lust filled the air.

Tom wanted to vomit. He felt afraid.

Sitting there, buckled up in the passenger seat of the sports utility vehicle that was steadily moving towards danger, Tom reflected on the smells of imminent death and depravity. It probably would sound crazy, but he had gotten frequent whiffs of that heinous odor over the course of the last several… weeks? Months? He wondered now about all of those years when people had described dogs sensing fear. The endocrinological and physiological responses of the human body created a bevy of unpleasant sensations, and the desire to cause others harm, the brutal hunger to inflict rank violence… it made Tom want to throw up.

Every. Single. Time.

The car stopped.

“What’s…”

“Shhh…” Octavio said. He put a thin finger up to his plump lips and turned to look at his cohort. They waited. The silence that loitered was an angry dissident. It conspired to cause them harm as it patiently plotted the right moment to act.

Looking out of the tinted window of the vehicle, he saw a large building. An old church. They were in a heavily industrial area, and there seemed something profane about the existence of the historical sanctuary residing here, amongst the abandoned factories. Edifices constructed to fulfil base human desires and rank avarice. A light glowed softly inside the building. It had a sort of stone bell tower that rose up into the night, offering silent paens to the silver lunar saint that offered her soft light to any and all who sought her refuge.

A golden dome revealed itself. Tom studied the building, transfixed by its historicity and beauty. Such a simple, elegant testament to the power and resiliency of the human spirit.

“Get out.” Octavio said.

Careful to shut the door softly so as not to disturb the sanctity and stillness of the night, Tom looked around. He felt calm. He noted this, and wondered what had changed. Not long ago, he’d been terrified. He was not a man of mystery. He’d been a journalist for so long, committed to non-violence. He’d never been in any dangerous situations prior to the discovery of the disruptive secrets that had landed him here.

Yet it was those secrets that had led him down this dark path. Tom could even say that it was the knowledge of those secrets that had changed him. His adversaries had broken him. But, in breaking him, they had turned him into a man. A dangerous man. A man without anything left to lose. A man without fear of consequences. They had condemned him to die. And the evil doctor accompanying him into the demesne of the dense shadows had helped rescue him. Plucked from the malignant maw of death, Tom had only one desire: to kill those who sought to do him harm.

Tom startled.

The doctor was next to him. Leaning close, Octavio gripped his shoulder hard. Tom winced. He tried to ease out of the tight grasp, but Octavio held them there. A reminder that the man possessed both mental and physical strength. Tom saw a brief flash of memory and shuddered. Turning slightly to look at the swarthy enigma, he realized perhaps for the first time just how dangerous he was. The idea that it only had just struck him threatened to make him laugh. And it was not an appropriate time for mirth.

Octavio’s breath was warm and vaguely redolent of gas station hot dogs. “We’re going to go in over there.” he said, his voice low. He pointed with one of his long, thin fingers. Tom followed along with his eyes, still wondering when the doctor would release his shoulder. “Once we get inside, you have to try to be aware of everything around you. Okay?” the doctor asked.

Tom nodded. It was all he could think to do. Of course I’m going to pay attention to everything around me. How could I not? Tom thought. He shifted his weight, and almost fell when his traveling companion, the evil doctor, suddenly relinquished his vise grip. Stumbling, he accused Octavio with his glare, but recovered quicker than he thought he might normally do. He straightened, then saw how the doctor had adopted a sort of crouch as he slowly progressed. There was something vaguely predatory in that posture.

Following the man’s lead, Tom proceeded towards the large church. The sultry night air whispered seductively as it sauntered by. Lights could be seen in the far distance to the left. He fought the urge to stop and stare. No longer was he the poet-journalist. Life was about to change. Dramatically. He was locked in a dangerous game of predator-versus-prey, and Tom Martinez was tired of being the weak victim. Somehow, this line of thought captured his attention. Helped him focus.

He remembered a man named Johnson from El Paso.

Fists clenched and heart racing, Tom closed the slight gap between himself and the doctor. Octavio held up a hand and paused for a brief second.

“Keep some space between us.”  the doctor said in a near-whisper.

They got to the doorway. A certain awe seemed to have been absorbed into the hallowed ground of the historical landmark. This old church, with its colorful stained-glass windows and spires, had borne witness to many of the land’s bloodiest and darkest secrets. Tom wondered what it was going to see tonight.

Octavio bent down and inspected the doorway for several seconds before tentatively proceeding. He eased the thick wooden door open. The stood there for a minute or two, waiting. During that time, as Tom tried to quell the rising panic inside and still his rebellious heart, they both acclimated their eyes to the low light inside. Outside in the desert air, the moon and streetlamps, as well as the agglomeration of a million peoples’ electric crutches, penetrated the darkness. In the hushed interior of this cathedral, the light was notably vacant.

They stepped inside.

Dust dominated every surface. The floor creaked when they stepped on it. Tom looked up. The ceiling seemed to rise to infinity. He couldn’t make out the paintings adorning it, but he saw some of the outlines from the narrow shaft of light allowed inside from the open door. A dirty Sawzall rested on the ground. “Watch out for nails.” Octavio said, turning and getting close to him. Tom fought the urge to grimace at the stench of the man’s breath. He nodded to let the leader of their odd little pack know he understood.

They must have been doing some sort of renovation or something. As they moved deeper into the interior of the building, Tom encountered more tools. Some of the walls had holes in them, with exposed piping and other material. Realizing that this could be an opportunity to help hone the sense of awareness he needed, Tom tried to keep his eyes peeled.

Every sense stood on edge as they moved at a snail’s pace. Tom possessed no clue as to where they were headed. He barely thought he knew why they were here. He realized once again just how much he’d come to rely on and even trust this doctor escorting him through the darkness. The irony was not lost on him, though he forced himself to file it away for later.  

Tom heard something.

He stopped.

Every hair on his body seemed to stand up. His body tingled. His nerves stood at attention. Tom looked around, allowing his eyes to strafe the many nooks and crannies of the capacious interior of the old religious sanctuary. He tried to stifle the obscene sense of foreboding that permeated his being. He felt as if he were somehow violating the sanctity of this place with his mere presence, and he said a silent prayer.

Tom Martinez had never been a religious man. In fact, he’d developed a thick carapace of anti-religious fervor over the many years of his professional career. He saw spirituality as a load of crap, a cover for the avarice and hollow wanton lust for power that dominated so many segments of human society. Yet, as he stood there, trembling and trying to decipher the shadows’ secrets in the hushed demesne of the unseen forces said to govern Earthly affairs, he felt… something. Something that could even be called an awakening. An epiphany. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be a humble believer or an ardent adherent of any faith, but if he escaped this newest adventure with his life, Tom might just begin accepting the notion that there was, in fact, a deity out there.

“Hello.”

Tom jumped. He stifled a squeal only by jamming one hand over his mouth with a quick, jerky motion.

“Hi.” Octavio said.

Octavio appeared calm. He had stopped, but he wasn’t shaking. His voice was even when he spoke. Nothing about his demeanor seemed to indicate that he was in the presence of danger. He had one hand in his pants pocket as he stood in the middle of the open area, dusty pews off to his left.

Glancing around, Tom tried to find any places where he could hide. He turned briefly and glanced reluctantly towards the path leading to the outside world. Escape. A terrible sense of déjà vu enveloped him, and he had to fight his way through it. Once before he’d had the chance to run, and he hadn’t taken it.

He’d ended up in a cell afterwards. Eating his cellmate.

“I have your wife.” the other man said.

Tom didn’t recognize the voice. The other person, who’d summoned them by threat, stood in the darkness, partly concealed. It seemed as if he had some sort of mask on as well.

“I can see that. So you told me.” Octavio said.

The man who would have Tom executed for his knowledge stepped forward, emerging from the shadows. He had one large arm around a woman’s neck. Tears streamed down her face, sending black greasy streaks down her cheeks.

Octavio shot her.

The sound of the gun firing reverberated through the hallowed space. It hurt Tom’s ears. They rang so hard, and he reached up to cover them even as he ducked and crawled towards the nearby wooden pews. He felt as if he were choking on the dust that seemed to linger on every surface.

He mewled. He didn’t realize it at first, but when he uncovered his ears, he realized he was sobbing in a pitiful display of his former self. He tried to stop, but felt as if he couldn’t. What the fuck just happened? he wondered.

Tom hadn’t even seen the doctor move. He was transfixed by the wife. Standing there looking at her while also trying to divine the identity of the inimical presence holding her hostage, Tom had been an inadvertent witness to her murder. He blinked. His heart raced. He tried to focus. He heard voices.

              “Holy fucking shit! What…”

              “I need you to be calm, okay?” Octavio said.

              “Be calm? Be calm?” the other man asked, incredulous, his voice high.

              Tom almost smiled. He liked that the other person was afraid. Yet, that fear came at the expense of someone’s life. The singed air bore testament to that fact. He sniffed, wiping a hand over his nose. The stench of gunfire… there was something vaguely primal and alluring to it. Tom didn’t want to admit liking it, but he kind of did.

              “Yes, I need you to be calm.” Octavio repeated.

              Tom peeked around the edge of the pew. He saw that the evil doctor was approaching the other man.

              “Stay the fuck AWAY from me, man.” the masked hostage-taker-without-a-hostage exclaimed.

              “Now, watch your language. We’re in a church.” Octavio said, continuing his slow approach towards the gunman.

              “Don’t you know I have a fucking gun?” the man asked. His voice was shrill.

              “Don’t you know I don’t care?” Octavio asked. He paused. Looked up and around. “My friend, if you so much as look at me wrong, I have someone with a very powerful gun trained on you. Now, they are a very good shot. And, perhaps unfortunately, they developed a certain… affinity? Yes, an affinity. They developed an affinity for killing while serving the wonderful United States of America. Sometimes old habits die hard.” Octavio chuckled. Then he began walking forward again.

              The other man raised his dominant hand, pointing the small silver revolver at Octavio.

              Tom blinked. When he opened his eyes and looked up, he saw the man on the ground in the fetal position. He was mumbling to himself as sobs wracked his body. He trembled as if caught up in paroxysms. Tom looked around. He hadn’t even heard the shot. He tried to see where the hidden accomplice laid. The shadows, however, retained their protective powers, successfully concealing the shooter from view.

              Tom stood. He tip-toed over towards Octavio, who was crouched next to the man.

Octavio dug through the bloody gentleman’s pockets, retrieving what appeared to be a bulging black leather wallet. “Amil… do you pronounce that ah-meel? A-mil?” Octavio asked, his voice low. He made a sound, sort of a what-do-you-know sigh. The doctor stood. “Kind of name is that, Amil?”

“You fucking shot me!” the man said.

Octavio knelt back down. He removed the black cotton mask from the man’s face, peeling it back to reveal what lay beneath. “I did not shoot you.” Octavio reached over and picked up Amil’s revolver. He ran one finger over it with seeming admiration. “You ever used one of these, Amil?” he asked. He smiled.

Standing again, the doctor looked towards Tom. “You okay?” he asked.

Tom nodded.

“Amil, I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I’m going to need you to come with me. We’re going to ask you some questions, and you’re going to answer them truthfully. In which case, I’ll kill you quickly. If you try to not answer my questions or lie to me, well…” Octavio fired one shot from the revolver into the air.

Tom jumped. Amil screamed.

“You never fired a gun, did you? How in the fuck did you manage to get my wife hostage?” he asked rhetorically.

“I was fucking her.” Amil shouted, his face contorted with rage, the muscles corded and bulging in his neck, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth.

Octavio laughed. “At least somebody was. She really was a toxic bitch.” he said. “Get up.” He commanded.

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Amil shrieked.

Octavio pivoted, moving quicker than Tom thought he could. He closed the short distance between them in less than a second, putting his face in front of the other man’s. He bit the man’s nose. Hard. Twisting, he tore Amil’s tender flesh. He spat a chunk of the wounded man’s nose into his face. Then he stood. He took two steps, then again swiftly turned. He began kicking Amil. Each blow landed with a soft, ugly thud that echoed through the cavernous interior of the cathedral.

The doctor’s victim doubled over, resuming his earlier fetal pose. He mewled, strings of incoherent gibberish escaping his lips in the universal language of the vanquished.

“Thomas, you think you can help me carry Mr. Amil here back to the car?” Octavio asked.

 Chapter 13

              “We’re going to have to hide you in the back again.”

              Octavio spoke without taking his eyes from the road.

The afternoon sun blushed as it flirted with the voluptuous lunar orb playing hard to get from across the sky. The harsh light cast by the bright orange ball of light forced Tom to blink. He looked back towards the cluttered back of the vehicle. He didn’t want to sit next to that man. The stench of fear nauseated Tom, and Amil positively reeked of it. The stale, sour, cloying odor emanated from the wounded creature.

“What are we going to do to him?” Tom asked.

“We? You’re not going to do anything. You’re going to think about what you’re going to do, where your going to go tomorrow. You should probably think more about getting some rest and getting some food. You seem to be able to hold food down okay, which kind of surprised me, honestly.” Octavio laughed. “Your whole situation surprises me. You…you’re an anomaly.”

“You’re still experimenting on me, aren’t you?” Tom asked.

Octavio tightened his grip on the wheel. It was a brief, almost imperceptible gesture that lasted no longer than a few seconds. Then he smiled. His gleaming, even white teeth showed. Turning, he fixed his stern, emotionless brown eyes on Tom. “Don’t be too smart for your own good.” he said. Though his lips were turned up, displaying the universal gesture of happiness and warmth, in a broad and open smile, the words offered a chilling rebuke. It was a warning. A threat.

Tom blinked. He looked away. He felt his heart flutter. Something seemed to be ringing in his ears suddenly, growing progressively louder. Clearing his throat, the angry sound slowly subsided. He wanted to be done with all of this. To move on. A part of him even wanted to just slink away and die.

“Just tell me when to get in the back.” Tom said meekly. His lips moved without any sound escaping. He wanted to resist. On the side close to the door, hidden from the mad doctor’s view, Tom clenched and unclenched his fist several times. He could feel the veins in his neck pulsing and his muscles twitching. But, he knew. He knew that resistance was futile. He thought of Delilah.

Octavio kept his gaze fixed on Tom for several moments after he’d reluctantly asserted his desire to comply. They continued to moved through the nearly deserted night streets. Finally, he focused back on the road in front of them. Looking out the window towards the sky, he saw it starting to show signs of waking up.

The lethal silent companion that stalked the shadows as a soldier for hire sat behind Tom. He snored softly, his head tilted back against the soft black oblong headrest of his seat. Tom tried to ignore the sound, but there was something shockingly obscene about it. It reminded him of Octavio’s humming.

Flashing back to the things he’d already seen and endured, Tom wondered. He wondered just what it would take for him to finally find a moment of peace and rest from the myriad evils afflicting this world. Terrible terrors trembled through his body, and he started to sweat. He gripped the edge of his seat. He began having trouble breathing, and for a moment, he wished that he would just fade away.

His body febrile and his chest tight, he wanted to ask Octavio to stop. He almost laughed out loud, the maniacal mirth that had become his only traveling companion through the desolate wasteland known as planet Earth, when the realization struck him that he literally feared the doctor more than he did death.

He began to relax. The pain and viscerality of the memories that haunted the attic of his mind ebbed. However, the nagging doubts remained. They seemed to be whispering deep, melodic secrets to his subconscious as they patiently waited for the right time to strike. He felt tired. The sort of fatigue that accompanies severe stress.

The car stopped. Opening his eyes wide, Tom looked around. A small sound escaped his lips. They sat in a crowded parking lot. Morning sunshine glinted off the hood of the car, obstructing his vision. Reaching up, he covered his eyes. After the incisive reminder from the celestial martinet, he wiped at the crust that had formed in his lashes. His mouth felt dry, as if he’d been munching on stale cat litter for a few hours. He’d fallen asleep.

The commotion of a cart scratching across the hot San Antonio pavement forced him to turn to confront the ugly noise. Tom turned to look at the intrusive noise. The anonymous hired gun farted, the flatulence emulating the sound of pants ripping. He turned up his nose, raising his dirty shirt to cover his nostrils. It smelled horrible, like rotten eggs. “Jeez.” Tom said. Focusing on the racket that had trespassed on the idyllic refuge of his dreams, Tom saw a stooped-over gaunt old man with leathery brown wrinkled skin and a wild patch of pure white hair struggling to load a cardboard box into the back of his rusted little car. A boxy thing pulled straight from the 80’s, the vehicle brought on a wave of nostalgia in Tom.

He’d had many good times in an AMC Pacer, which looked somewhat close to the bug-shaped automobile in the adjacent parking spot.

“Should we help him?” Tom asked. He turned and saw that Octavio was not in the driver’s seat. For some reason, this made the former journalist want to panic. He took several deep breaths and fought the dark urge. Slowly, the adrenaline stopped its assault on his body and his heart rate slowed. As he struggled with the odd notion that his captor and protector was not there to lord over him and control him, Tom simultaneously felt compelled to get out of the car. He wanted to help this man.

Opening the door, he stepped down. His body felt weak. He’d been slumped over in the doctor’s personal vehicle for who knew how long, and his joints felt stiff. “Can I help you?” Tom asked.

The geriatric gentleman startled, then slowly turned around. He had liver spots on his hands. He squinted and looked up at Tom. There was something… shocking in his reaction. The man’s lips quivered and he sniffed. He almost fell back, but caught himself before the process got to the point of no return. “No, thanks.” the man finally said.

Tom nodded. It was the only thing he could think to do. He stood there under the hot, hectoring sun, his jaw slack, his mind numb, and stared.

As the man returned to the arduous task unaided, Tom pivoted and faced himself in the small oblong rearview mirror. OBJECTS MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR. It was written in small black block letters on the bottom of the reflective surface. Tom stared. He didn’t recognize himself.

He’d lost a lot of weight. A patchy mass of black hair covered much of his face. That fact seemed odd. It didn’t itch. Tom honestly hadn’t realized it was there. He’d never really ever been able to grow much of a beard, and on the rare occasion when he’d thought to try for whatever reason, it had been so embarrassingly evident that it was a failure that he’d been reluctant to try again for interminable periods. His Apache side. His rank, rumpled clothes were smeared with dark crusty streaks and globs. Torn in places, he appeared as if he’d just escaped an asylum for the criminally insane: something which wasn’t exactly far from the truth.

His unknown traveling companion gently but firmly guided Tom back to the vehicle, pushing him inside the front seat and shutting the locked door behind him. Before Tom even had a chance to turn to look back and confront the man, he was there, his nasty breath hot and humid in his face. The man’s green eyes seemed wild. “Do NOT do that again?” he said.

“Or what?” Tom asked. He blanched as soon as the words escaped his lips. He smiled, but then immediately became somber. He inched backwards, retreating, trying to create some physical separation between himself and the mean mercenary. Mendacious thoughts raced through his mind, trying to deploy their guile in an effort to make him believe the manic lie that he could take back some control of the situation. Even though his heart raced and fear was a corsair slicing through the choppy waters of his veins, Tom couldn’t help but feel a little proud that he’d somehow summoned, even at the basest, most subconscious of levels, the verve to utter such words of resistance.

The paid assassin chuckled. He sat back in his seat. “What does he see in you?” he asked. He waved a large hairy hand. “Don’t fuckin’ answer that. It’s rhetorical.”

“What’s he see in you?” Tom asked. He gulped. His mouth felt dry. “What’s your name, anyway? I have to call you something.”

The man cocked his head to the side. He had a sort of boxy face, vaguely Eastern European. Coarse black hair covered his exposed massive forearms. His green eyes appeared both alert and stern. They possessed an almost bizarre dichotomy, seeming both intelligent and dull at the same time. Reaching up with one of his big hands, he scratched at the stubble growing on his block chin.

“Call me Jake.” he said.

Jake twisted his head, then got out of the car with no more than three fluid movements. The rapidity with which he moved was unnerving. It was scary and unnatural.

Tom tried to follow the man’s progress as he went around the back of the vehicle. Then he heard the driver’s side door open. Looking over, he saw Octavio there.

The doctor moved his lips as if to speak, but was stopped by Jake. Giving his attention to the swift mercenary, he bent down to confer in hushed tones with his murderous associate. After a few seconds, it became apparent the two were talking about Tom. The doctor’s jaw became set, and his posture tensed. Turning, he fixed his cold brown eyes on the former journalist. A simmering, barely restrained anger gleamed just beneath the surface, and it sent a shiver up Tom’s spine.

Octavio nodded his head. The two split up, both of them heading around the side of the vehicle towards the back. Tom turned, twisting to try and watch them as they walked through the parking lot. Motion caught his eye. Distracted, he focused on the intrusive movement with a grunt. One of those tall flappy things you see at used car lots, bright red, with a simpering smile plastered on its plastic face, waved its long arms under the hectoring guidance of a strategically placed fan. Fireworks. The gimmicky display was drawing attention to a small fireworks stand stationed near the exit of the large parking lot. The banner above the wooden booth screamed with all its might that they had discount pyrotechnics to serve every American’s need. Yellow, with red letters, the flashy advert seemed both cheesy and traditional.

Octavio got into the driver’s side. He slammed the door behind him. Sitting there for several seconds, hands gripping the wheel with carefully controlled rage, the doctor stared forward silently. The reverberating effect of his gesture lingered, enhanced by the solemnity with which he sat there. When he turned, a frown was etched onto his face. An almost doleful downturn of his lips. “You can’t ever do anything like that again.” he said.

Words jostled against each other in his muddled brain. He wanted to say so many things, the thoughts playing bumper cars in the carnival of his mind, none of them quite sequential. Tom felt aware that he’d opened his mouth, but he just moved it dumbly without uttering a sound. He smelled the other man when he got into the car. Vaguely onion-like, the odor of stale sweat and dirty clothing. “You’re just going to let me go tomorrow.” Tom said.

Octavio nodded. “Very good point. But, you do remember the teensy, weensy little detail about, oh, the chemical cloud that will cause millions to erupt into spontaneous violence?” he said. It was a mouthful.

Something about the words pricked his antennae and made them stand up. He sounded and even appeared calm, as usual, but… teensy, weensy? That didn’t sound like something the refined Army Officer and research scientist would normally say. What would have caused such an anomaly? Such a rare divergence from established norms? Part of Tom wanted to pick at that, see if there were something there which could give him even the… teensiest, weensiest bit of leverage. He smiled as he sat there.

“What are you smiling about?” Octavio asked. He was frowning.

A car honked behind them. Both Octavio and Tom jumped. Tom thought he saw the other man blush.

Trying hard to wipe the smirk off of his face, he remembered that he needed to maintain the façade. He had a role to play. And a lot depended on his ability to continue acting according to expectations.

He still had to save Delilah.

“I was just thinking about how you just walked right up to that… guy in back. You’re… smart and brave. It’s a rare combination. I never mastered the whole bravery thing.” Tom said. He hoped he sold that one. It was complete bullshit, unctuousness as its finest. He leaned against the car door, trying to keep the position of the door handle in his mind’s eye.

Octavio turned, giving him a look. He nodded. Turning the key in the ignition, he chuckled at his own private joke. Shaking his head, he focused on the parking lot.

              The glaring Texas sun bullied them with insolent madness. The car had been resting in a swath of shade, and the minute they backed up, the interior of the vehicle grew warmer by several degrees. Tom felt his dirty shirt clinging to his skin. Rivulets of sweat poured down his side. He looked around, suddenly thirsty. He saw a bottle of water on the floor of the backseat behind him. “May I have that?” he asked, nodding towards the small plastic bottle with the blue label.

              Jake smirked. He hesitated, just long enough to communicate the message that he could refuse to help the escaped convict out. Then he shrugged, unbuckled his seat belt, and grabbed the bottle, tossing it in one smooth motion to Tom.

              Tom almost didn’t catch it. He bobbled the pass, but ultimately succeeded in avoiding an embarrassing miss. He twisted the white cap and drank the stale water. It didn’t taste good or even really quench his thirst, but at least he was a little hydrated. Looking out the window, he watched as the many cars passed by in a slow blur. They rounded the corner and merged into the mass of traffic immersed in its morning commute. Octavio turned on the radio, flipping through channels until finally settling on some Mexican-style music.

              “Why?” Tom said. He hadn’t meant to speak the word. He almost raised a hand to cover his mouth when he realized he actually had.

              Octavio turned slightly and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. He waited.

              “Why what?” he finally asked.

              Tom scratched his chin. He hunched his shoulders and tried to focus on the bright skyline of the bustling heart of south Texas. Soon, all of this would be… desolation. He wondered about that. He tried to visualize it, but garish images of amputate bodies and that person jumping off of the balcony….

              “Why are you doing all of this? The… whatever it is you’re going to do with the rabies?”

              “Do you really want to know? Would it make things easier for you?” Octavio asked. He sounded genuinely curious.

              “I don’t know.” Tom replied. “I’m not sure anything can make what I’ve already been through easier. It’d be nice to have Delilah and Mike back. Delilah especially. But, part of me feels guilty. Not just for dragging them into this whole situation, but even… healing them may not be best.” Tom said. He laughed. “Did you know her dad apparently has a whole lot of money. As in billions, with a B?” Tom asked.

              “I know.” Octavio said.

              “What was the point of taking her arm off, anyway?” Tom asked.

              “See how she reacted.” Octavio said.

              They were stuck in a slow line of traffic that barely moved. The enthusiastic man on the radio was droning on about politics, lambasting the current president with a creative harangue that bordered on the comically insane. Octavio reached out and turned the volume down, though he did not change the station. “The roads won’t be usable. Or safe.” He remarked idly, eyes ahead.

              “Huh?” Tom asked.

              “Oh.” Octavio chuckled. “I was… tomorrow, the roads probably won’t be usable.”

              “So, what sort of reactions were you expecting? I mean, you said you dealt with amputees a lot, right? As part of your research or whatever?” Tom persisted.

              “Yeah. The Army sees a lot of missing limbs. We deal with that and bleeding. Probably the two biggest things. Missing limbs are much more significant outside of combat zones, of course. People didn’t generally bleed much when I actually saw them.” Octavio said.

              “Do you like it? Hurting people? Killing?” Tom asked.

              “Yes.” Octavio responded.

              That one gave Tom chills. “Jesus.” He muttered.

              “I was not alone, Thomas. I was acting under orders. We wanted to see if the drug had any impact on things like recovery times. We were checking sleep deprivation, etc. One of the primary things we were wanting to see was epidemiology. We still don’t understand how exactly it spreads. We have a number of modified genomes. It took quite a bit of work to effectively transmit the virus through the air. That’s a lot of saliva.” He chuckled. “Adsorption is also a problem. Anyway, we were at least partly trying to determine the how the virus could be spread from original hosts, and how long the symptoms would take to develop.”

              “I thought you said symptoms show up in 9 days.” Tom said.

              “They usually do. But, what happens after the symptoms show? What happens while they are infected?” Octavio asked rhetorically.

              “Did you learn the answers?” Tom asked.

              “Not fully.” Octavio answered.

              Then they heard a scream.

Chapter 14

              Their hostage was awake.

              “Helpppp!” he screamed.

              “Tranquilizers must have worn off.” Octavio said. “When we get to fifteenth, we’ll pull over. Can you take sure of him, Jake?” Octavio asked. He glanced in the rearview mirror and raised one eyebrow.

              “Happily.” Jake responded.

              Tom leaned his head against the warm glass, sweat still slithering down his spine, and wondered if this would ever end. Life seemed like a garish tableau. An endless game of ever-inventive mind fucks designed to drive him as close to, but not over, the berm of insanity as possible. He listened to the overly enthusiastic radio announcer and drifted away into a sea of his own noxious thought.

              Looking outside at the world slowly passing by, he saw shopping centers and moms with strollers. People with bare feet in sandals smiling and walking along as if they didn’t have a care in the world. All sorts of festive red-white-and-blue banners adorned the walls and windows of the various establishments. The grocery stores advertised hot dogs and soda at half price, trying to get people off their phones and in the door.

              Last Independence Day, Tom had been in Denver. He’d been deep into the investigative journey that would prove to be his ultimate downfall. Looking into corrupt editors at the nation’s largest newspapers, trying to ferret out the evidence that corroborated what he already knew. Tom wanted to feel guilty, sorry for the man wailing in the back. He probably had kids. The guy almost certainly maintained the righteous self-assuredness that is the hallmark characteristic of the smug assholes who run much of the media. At one point or another, he’d probably even done some really good things and helped some truly unfortunate souls.

              Yet, the man had been sent here for one specific reason: to get Tom. Tom wasn’t sure if the man himself was supposed to be the one to kill him, but there could be no doubt that the nefarious forces in power wanted him dead. They’d gone to great lengths to frame him for mass murder, so it was obvious what lengths they would go to to maintain their secrets and protect their cabal.

              They had set up a shooting at an art gallery, for God’s sake.

              These people were willing to do anything.

              These meandering musings lead Tom to a question he didn’t quite want to face, but knew he had to. And soon. If the people wielding their power as if they were appointed arbiters by divine decree were so evil, why, then, would it be so bad if they lost that power?

              Tom looked outside. He didn’t feel sorry for the schmuck in the back of the SUV. He couldn’t. But, he did feel sympathy for the pawns walking around outside, blissfully unaware in the dry Texas heat. Not even sympathy. Empathy. He was a pawn, too. He was used to being used.

              His only solace, as he glanced over at the relaxed posture of the evil doctor who’d made him an accomplice to mass murder, was that soon, he could do the using.

              They pulled over into an abandoned Valero station. The faded white walls of the small station had been covered in layers of competing blue and red graffiti. There were pitchforks and stars, names written in ornate cursive, lots of numbers. Tom looked at the boarded windows, the sad beige slats of wood a testament to the entropy that assails us all over time. A greasy fast food wrapper did cartwheels across the dusty black pavement, finally collapsing next to a patch of mangy-looking brown grass by the edge of the busy road. Tom could see a few used condoms on the asphalt, as well as what appeared to be a syringe.

              Jake got out, leaving the back passenger-side door open as he walked calmly around to the back of the vehicle. He opened the hatch. A quick, ugly thud, like the sound of meat being tenderized, and the piercing screams that had torn through Tom’s curious conversation with the mad scientist were stifled. Having quiet restored seemed odd, after several minutes of trying to block out the horrid wailing of their hostage. Tom turned to look, and saw the enigmatic mercenary rummaging through a small bag. The assassin plucked out a small syringe. He inserted the needle, then plunged it into the soft skin of the hogtied man in the back.

              “All set. Should be good for another hour, at least.” Jake said, returning to his seat.

              They merged back into traffic, Octavio humming a familiar tune. He drummed his academic’s fingers on the steering wheel as he bobbed his head with the poor tune.

              Tom tried to ignore it. He looked outside at the passing buildings. The sun glinted in his eyes. Blinking, he turned and tried to focus on the weird announcer on the radio. “May I change the station?” Tom finally asked, his voice hesitant. He avoided looking at Octavio.

              “Sure. Just no rock music, please. I’m not a fan. Get’s my blood pressure up.” Octavio said.

              Tom laughed. He couldn’t help it. He rocked forward, spit flying out of his mouth. He made an involuntary movement with both hands, as if trying in vain to catch the minute droplets ejected out of his oral orifice. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He tried to stop, but a new fit of laughter followed directly on the heels of the first one. He fought to catch his breath.

              “What’s so funny?” Octavio asked, a thin, stern frown slicing across his austere face.

              The irony of the brilliant doctor not understanding… the irony of the moment only served to elicit a new wave of mirth. Tom reached out and grabbed his belly. He was moving from side to side, his body wracking with the force of his gales.

              It was only after he remembered the time just outside the diner, after the shooting that had helped instigate this bizarre expedition, that Tom was able to gain some marginal amount of control over himself. He focused on his inhalations. Counting in his head, he got to six sets of breaths before he thought he had some capacity to speak without relapsing. The laughter seemed to be a dangerous drug. Tom needed to be as sober-minded as possible at the moment.

              “I just… remembered something.” Tom said. He tried to hide the smile that wanted to play upon his lips.

              “Care to share what that something was?” Octavio asked.

              “Not really, if that’s okay.” Tom said.

              Octavio grunted. “Fine. Just no rock.” He said.

              Tom tuned the station to classical, something which the doctor seemed to like. Octavio nodded his head and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Tom sat back against the seat, tense. He felt an acute awareness of the dangerous, even lethal presence behind him. Tom closed his eyes. His stomach was in knots. Everything in his body felt overwhelmed.

              They turned. Tom opened his eyes and looked out. The heavy traffic and commercial buildings gave way to a long line of quaint ranch-style houses. Puffy white clouds hovered listlessly in the cerulean sea above. It seemed like such a relaxed, homely neighborhood. Almost the quintessential picture of America domesticity. Bikes sat in the manicured front yards. Garages remained open, revealing men working on cars or with tools inside. A few women sat on a wooden bench, talking with smiles on their faces as kids played a few feet away.

              Tom reflected on this. These people, they couldn’t know the horrible evil that would befall them shortly. Their imminent demise rested in his hands. Tom realized something as he sat there watching them as they faded away into the triptych, the blurred tableau of his recent past: he kind of liked having that sort of power.

              Even if it came by proxy. He knew he, in the end, didn’t have any significant power. Not when compared to the mental strength of the doctor of the physical prowess of the assassin sitting behind him. Yet, the knowledge he carried within himself was of sufficient strength that it could ruin lives.

              Tom smiled. He closed his eyes again. The man in the back had traveled all of this way, just to get him for the things he knew. But, the things he’d learned since their first unsuccessful attempt to destroy him had given him the sanctuary he needed to survive. He began to understand that his power seemed to be in ferreting out information from the powerful. It was a dangerous game, but it was one he needed to start consciously playing to win.

              They’d already proven what lengths they were willing to go to.

              No more journalistic integrity. Would there even be journalism after the apocalypse? Tom followed this tangent as he again drifted off into a sort of semi-sleep state.

              He woke up when a hand weighed down on his shoulder. “Get up. Get in the back.” Octavio said.

              Tom shook his head. His eyelids felt heavy. He looked back towards the hatch. Then, without a word, he exited the vehicle, going around, accompanied by Jake, to the desired location. He assumed the fetal position once on the floor, lying next to the defiled, unconscious man. A long, chunky wave of dried vomit sat on the square of black carpet on the floor.

              The door slammed shut and darkness reigned.

              Trying to retrace his steps in his mind’s eye, Tom recalled that he’d been forced into the back at what appeared to be the end of a narrow cul-de-sac. He obviously had just woken up and hadn’t had much time to allow his gaze to longer. Nonetheless, he’d seen a broad patch of high, wilted grass behind him as he was practically marched to his hiding spot in the brief moment of time he’d been given. He reflected on that. Why would they stop in a residential area to unload him into his place of concealment? Tom went through a list of probable option in his mind. It took him a few minutes of deep pondering to compile the mental list, given his lack of knowledge of criminal affairs. He’d never really hidden anything in his life. His mother had always told him he’d been horrible at keeping secrets.

              He smiled when he settled on an answer. It felt like a small victory. An epiphany, perhaps. They’d done the deed there because of the paucity of cameras.

              Tom’s giddiness at his own growing capacity for cunning evaporated into a hissing mist fast, however. For on its heels came the realization that he wouldn’t be able to ask Octavio to confirm his hypothesis.

              The car bounced on the road. It must have hit a pothole. Tom grunted, landing back on the rough floor, his face scraping the frayed fabric of the black carpet. His mouth felt dry. He was suddenly thirsty. His heart flew through his chest as if it had been gifted a new jetpack for the holidays. He could feel himself starting to panic, and he tried to breathe.

              The prisoner beside him shifted. Tom squealed, an involuntary expulsion of sound that ricocheted throughout the tight confines of the back seat.

              A thick blanket covered him. It trapped the heat emanating from his body and made Tom feel claustrophobic. He wanted to sit up, to yell. A dark desire to pummel this man with his fists until he died descended upon him, and Tom stared with baleful eyes at the inert creature proximate to him. It’s all your fault. Tom thought.

              Sliding over, he reached one hand out and felt around on the man’s soiled jeans. The guy had crapped himself. Tom didn’t smell it, but when he felt the heaviness bundled inside the man’s soiled jeans, he gagged. He felt himself go pale. After a few seconds, he wrestled his revulsion into a choke hold and got it to submit. Returning to his investigation, hindered by circumstance, he nonetheless soon discovered a tell-tale bump in one back pocket.

              Extracting the item, he saw that it was, as suspected, a wallet. Thin brown leather with the letters GUM burned into the material, it was laden with stuff. Tom opened it. Inside, he found a wad of money, mostly small bills, but a few hundreds as well. Tom wasn’t interested in that. He plucked the thick plastic laminated identification card from its slot. Gerald Umberto Martinez. He fought the urge to chuckle. What a weird name. Tom thought.

              The name didn’t exactly ring any alarms at first. But, yet, it seemed vaguely familiar. Like the lingering scent of a high-school romance gone awry.

              They hit another bump.

              That ended Tom’s fascination with the man’s identity. His anxiety levels rose to such a high degree that he collapsed onto the floor, trying to get his face as close as he could to the back hatch. He gulped in stale air. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself far away. He slowly calmed down.

              The car slowed to a near halt. The sounds swirling around the exterior of the vehicle were different. Tom opened his eyes. He thought they were back at the base, which meant he should be getting out from under this blanket soon. Tom fought the urge to move or say anything. Sensing the imminence of his release, Tom got excited again. Though this was a different sort of tension, it still wreaked havoc on his over-stimulated consciousness. His body threatened to revolt, and he once again closed his eyes, picturing a distant, idyllic landscape.

              It was at this moment, concealed under a blanket with a criminal sent to kill him, that Tom realized the setting he pictured in his mind’s eye to entice the calm was from the painting created by his new and unlikely friend: Mike.

              He heard muffled voices. None of them sounded angry or agitated. Just normal people doing their business. Even so, it seemed like the exchange took an inordinately long time. What are they waiting on?! Tom wondered. The man beside him, Gerald, began to mutter. The hostage’s legs twitched. He appeared as if he were waking up, as if the effects of whatever narcotic drug he’d been administered were waning.

              Tom couldn’t panic. He told himself not to panic.

              But he panicked anyway.

              His heart fluttered like the wings of a distressed pigeon. His vision blurred at the edges. His body felt clammy and overcome by a thick, slick sweat that covered him like an oozing, living coat of evil chainmail.

He suffocated the nascent scream that bounced against the walls of his throat, desperately trying to make its escape. Tom trembled. He clenched his eyes shut so hard, tears again streamed down his face. He clenched his fists and held them tight against his mouth, biting down at one point on them hard enough to draw blood.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the car slowly lurched forward and began moving into the base. Towards the residence of the Major who would soon unleash all manner of unspeakable evil upon the world.

Chapter 15

              Their hostage was awake.

              He screamed when they pulled him from the back of the vehicle. Jake slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the screams, looking anxiously about as he carried the front half of the man towards the open door. The long line of houses seemed bereft of people. The peaceful quiet and calm that seemed to permeate even the air in these environs was undisturbed by this momentary breach.

              Tom took several minutes getting out of the car. His limbs felt stiff. He got up, but his back hurt. Painful pulses of pain rippled through him. It felt like tiny daggers were stabbing his legs. He grunted and groaned for an audience of none as he got up and hobbled out of the vehicle. Seeing no one else around, he reached up and slammed the hatch shut.

              He went inside. Delilah and Mike still remained in the same respective positions on the couches. Perhaps Mike had a little more saliva on his chin, but other than that, they really did look blissfully oblivious to the external reality around them. Seeing that his nefarious companions were not in the room, Tom shut the front door and went to Delilah. He bent down low, listening to her steady, shallow breathing. She was alive.

              He heaved a sigh of relief. That was perhaps the best news he could hope for under these bizarre circumstances. Creeping over to Mike, as if somehow he might disturb their catatonia, he leaned forward. He grimaced. The man’s breath smelled horrible. Like he’d been munching on prolapsed hobbit buttholes as part of some new fad diet.

              But, Mike was alive.

              Tom looked around. The house was quiet. That kind of disturbed him. He didn’t want the residence to be quiet. He wanted there to be terrified, agonized appeals for divine mercy, for terror and outrage to echo through the halls and shake the foundations of the edifice. But, instead, life went on with the same banality. Everything looked the same, except Tom knew different.

              Walking into the kitchen, he opened a few wooden cupboards until he found a glass tumbler. He opened up the faucet and poured himself a glass of cold water. Drinking, he felt relieved. Tom couldn’t remember water ever tasting so good. He looked around. Seeing a speck of dirt on the white tiled floor leading into the hallway, Tom figured that this was a clue. The doctor had everything else in the hacienda-style home in careful order. Octavio possessed all of the classic hallmarks of a control freak. Thus, this tiny bit of dirt seemed quite out of place.

              Walking slowly on the balls of his feet, Tom tingled with anticipation. He didn’t know what he would find, but he expected dangers lurking around every corner. With each step, he paused. Down the hallway, there were a few doors. One of them remained partially open. Going to it, Tom nudged the thick wooden door with one foot. It opened with a slight creak. A set of rickety, frail old wooden stairs led down into a well of darkness.

              Tom hesitated on the threshold. Did he really want to go down? He swayed as he stood staring into the seemingly impenetrable sea of blackness that swallowed the stairs.

He heard something. Tensing, he looked around. His pulse pounded in his head. The sound emanating from the dark abyss below disturbed him. Yet, Tom couldn’t tell exactly why.

A mix between mewling and incoherent groveling, almost. Tom allowed his gaze to linger on the entryway leading back into the relative safety and quiet of the living room. He wanted to retreat. He desperately desired to cover his ears and flee the oppressive noise drifting up from the moist air below. The sound… reminded him of something.

Tom defied his better judgement, betraying the clarion clamoring in the back of his brain. He moved forward in a crouch, holding one hand out as if his trembling fingers would somehow help him ward off any invisible foes. He hesitated, shaking, his eyes jittery and his body slick with sweat. Then he reached past the doorway, finding a thin, narrow wooden railing. He gripped it. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, he stepped onto the stairway’s landing.