Where are you, Einar? What are they doing? I’m dead . . .
Hunched on the floor like a pile of rags, Michael believed in evil and monsters. Laina and Einar were right.
Thompson grabbed his chin. Michael clenched his jaw, angry but helpless. Clammy fingers pressed on his teeth. He stared into blood-shot eyes.
“Pay attention, Detective. Here’s the important point. We needed a second host, a carrier to absorb the mutagens. To use our revenant blood for eternal life, it must be filtered through a host that was bitten and survived. Rather like a human Petri dish. Except . . . you’re not human anymore. Twice bitten and survived is better. The resulting recombinant organism is the perfect host to complete the mutation. That, sir, is you.”
Donnie joined Thompson. “Say goodbye, cop. Your life’s over. Kait’s mine.”
Michael had no strength. He wished it done. Their words were madness.
Kill me. Don’t drag it out. At least Kait is safe.
They hoisted him onto the gurney. His whole body was in pain. Thompson pressed a palm to his forehead, pinning him as he secured a metal collar and tightened it around his neck. Donnie tied him down with leather straps. He struggled, eyes wide, jaw clenched. Beaten and trussed, he couldn’t fight them.
“Your blood is our most important ingredient.” Thompson looked down. “But you can’t join us when we distill the first batch. We can’t risk it.”
“I’ll take care of Kait.” Donnie prodded Michael’s shoulder.
Pain shot through him.
“She’ll never be lonely.”
Thompson glared. “How many times do I have to tell you to focus?” Then he turned back to Michael. “Those bites poisoned you, changed your chemistry. Mutated your DNA, rendering you inhuman. You can feel pain, be injured, mutilated . . . ”
Michael jerked forward. Metal scraped his throat.
Thompson put a hand on his forehead. “But you can’t die unless we behead you.”
Jesus Christ.
“Obviously,” Thompson shrugged with studied nonchalance, “after we drain you, we don’t need you. Beheading it is. Alas. Off with your head.”
Michael couldn’t move. Time was running out. His eyes darted back and forth. He’d gambled his life. And lost.
Donnie flipped on safety goggles and added the creature’s blood to the crucible. He turned the burner up. Blood steamed as it hit the hot liquid, a nauseating sweet smell permeating the lab. He let it bubble for a moment, then filled the syringe. Thompson stretched Michael’s left arm out and strapped it to the gurney, doing the same to the other. Michael tried to pull away, arm muscles contracting, but pain clouded his ability to focus.
Donnie disinfected his arm and tapped for a vein.
Michael closed his eyes. Thought of Kait. The four kids.
Please don’t let Kait or Einar find my fucking mutilated body. Spare them the horror.
Donnie inserted the needle. Pushed the plunger.
Blinding pain. Erasing humanity. He screamed, eyes watering, brain exploding. The dark substance entered his bloodstream. It lit every vein and artery on fire, nerve endings short-circuiting. Convulsions.
Darkness.
Thompson held him down. Donnie repeated the process. Then a third dose. He convulsed again. Then was still. His head lolled to the side, green eyes open and unseeing.
Donnie’s cell rang again. When he hung up, he turned to Thompson. “Police are here. Dad says move to the bunker.”
Thompson pointed to Michael. “His blood has to absorb the liquid and filter it through his system. Let’s grab what we need and go to ground. We’ll finish below.”
Donnie hesitated.
“Now, Donnie.” Thompson folded his arms. “There’s no time.”
Thomas closed his black case and locked it. They grabbed scalpels, tubing, stainless bowls and beakers and loaded them onto a utility cart. Donnie packed the crucible and remaining liquid, grabbed the burner and set them on the cart’s lower shelf. He pulled it to the last car in the compound, returned to the lab, undid the wheel locks on the gurney and pushed it to the back.
Thompson tapped his shoulder. “One other thing, Donnie. We discussed it. Eliminate your compound. Burn it down.”
“No! My life’s work!”
“Your work is our substance. We need time to succeed. Blow it up. Start in front.”
“But—”
Thompson laid his hands on Donnie’s shoulders. “You can start again. We’ll have all the time in the world. For now, destroy the evidence.”
Donnie protested meekly. Thompson was right.
*
Flashing lights roared into view, sirens screaming. Cop cars sped to the compound. Kait stumbled to the lights in the darkness. Anger, confusion, fear roiled in her head—she was terrified for Michael, understood the depths of their insanity. She fell, cut her hand, got up and started running, feet freezing and aching. She fought the urge to turn around and return to his side—he wanted her to escape.
Can’t believe he traded his life for me. Why, Michael?
She neared the road, lights blinding. Stuck her hands up.
Not taking chances. Don’t shoot me.
She squinted. Stumbled, lurched forward.
A familiar voice. Someone grabbed her.
“Christ, Kait,” Einar hugged her and pulled her to ground. “Thank God. What happened? Where’s Michael?” He knelt beside her. She squeezed his hand.
“They took him!” She yelled. “It was a trap. I was bait. They wanted him.” She pushed hair out of her eyes, a million dark thoughts circling. “Move fast. They’re crazy. They’ll kill him. It has to do with those bites.”
“Goddamn it. Told him not to go in alone.”
“Said I was worth the risk. He was in bad shape, removed his bandages. Thompson had a gun to my head. He traded himself . . . for me.”
“Christ, what a fucking romantic.” Einar put his arm around her. They scrambled behind the vehicles and SWAT teams. A swarm of uniform cops joined them.
“Where are they in the compound?” He yanked off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.
She pointed, explained the set up.
SWAT officers coordinated their plan. Two teams moved toward the first structure.
She grabbed his arm, pointing to the line of buildings. “The lab spaces. Be careful. That’s where they’re holding him. Guns, weapons, and shelves of unstable chemicals!”
“What about—”
Blinding light. Concussive booms.
An explosion tore through the first car. Smoke, flames. Shrapnel ripped through buildings and barriers. Lit the field in a firebomb’s glow. The second car exploded, then the third.
“No!” She bolted and ran toward the compound.
Einar sprang up after her. He tackled her, covered her body with his, shielding her from flying debris. He placed his hand over her head, not letting her look. She pushed against him, swearing. He held her down.
The compound went up in flames. They lay on the ground, feeling the heat and smelling the fire. He whispered in her ear, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. There’s nothing you could have done.” He closed his eyes.
Kait sobbed.
Fire spread and the pressurized containers of chlorine triflouride exploded. Sounded like an atomic bomb. A fireball lit the night, sending flames shooting into the sky. By the time fire companies arrived from throughout the county, the whole property was ablaze. Firefighters demanded everyone move back to a safer distance from the Hot Zone. Several muttered about the Litsos family and their compound of weird science.
Fire companies and police coordinated emergency procedures and blocked roads around the compound, allowing entry only to ambulances and the ME’s staff. The inferno was visible for miles. Firefighters told the cops and SWAT teams no one could have survived. The ME and her techs would be lucky to find hints of charred remains of the five people reported to have been on the premises. They shook their
heads at mentions of chlorine triflouride and those unstable chemicals—that stuff burned so fast and hot that human flesh would be vaporized. The emergency responders stood helpless, frustrated, waiting for the fire to cool down.
Thompson pushed the loaded cart, struggling to keep it headed in the right direction. Donnie gripped the rail of the gurney. They moved to the last building. Donnie’s parents met them in the entrance to the underground bunker, sealing off blast hatches behind them. His father took the rear, following procedures he’d established long ago.
The bunker was the Litsos family’s pride and joy, nurtured by scientific passion and Cold War paranoia. Donnie’s parents built it decades earlier in anticipation of nuclear holocaust. Dedicated survivalists since they’d met as engineers at Futura Atomic Labs pioneering nuclear research facility in the mid-1960s, both hired to work on secret naval projects deep underground, they believed the inevitable would happen. It’d been drilled into them as they developed nuclear propulsion weaponry to counter the Soviet threat.
They’d spent holidays and birthdays in the three-room concrete reinforced structure with their young son, getting him used to living in it, ensuring he wouldn’t be afraid when they had to go to ground for good. Because science was their life, they’d spared no expense to equip a decent lab in the bunker. Might as well have something constructive to do when it’s all over, Donnie’s father would say.
Alas, nuclear war never happened. Now Donnie’s dad was pleased they were able to use the bunker after so many years. They heard the explosions and felt vibrations above as they moved.
His mother gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat.
They reached the main chamber, his dad arriving last, sealing the tunnel behind them by pulling down panels that he’d built for the purpose. Coir bricks tumbled out and lined the passage. When firefighters sprayed chemicals and water to put out the fire, the bricks would expand, blocking the path to the bunker.
“How do we get out?” Thompson said. There appeared to be one way in and no way out.
“You’ll see,” Donnie smiled. “Dad’s a genius.”
The group stepped into the chamber. Donnie sealed the cam latches of the reinforced steel blast door. In the second room, the adjunct laboratory waited. Thompson rolled the gurney into place, smiled and locked its wheels. Donnie slipped on a pair of Kevlar gloves and fired up the burner, reheating the remaining liquid. Noxious fumes filled the bunker. Thompson pulled two jars of thick syrup from his case and opened them, adding them to the liquid. Donnie strolled to the gurney.
“I won.” Donnie prodded Michael. “Kait is mine, won’t remember you.” He picked up a large knife. “If someone ever finds your decapitated head . . . they won’t recognize your pretty face.” He stabbed Michael’s left temple, dragging the knife deep down the side of his face to the corner of his mouth and throat. Dark blood oozed like tar onto the table.
“Donnie.” Thompson halted the tantrum. “Focus. Don’t waste his blood. We need it. The mixture’s ready. Concentrate on the task. Get rid of his fingerprints.”
Donnie looked up, shrugged, dropped the knife and reached for rough sandpaper and bottle of acid. He yanked Michael’s hands, dipped his bloody fingers in the acid, held them there for a few moments and then sanded, hard.
“Almost ready, Donnie. Cut trenches. It’ll be quicker.”
He nodded. Grabbed Michael’s left arm and slashed deep gashes from upper arm to wrist. Thompson carried the liquid to the gurney and poured it in. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as it soaked into his destroyed bloodstream. Michael jerked. They repeated the process on his right arm. Thompson wrapped both arms in heavy natural fabric and laid them at his side. “Has to soak in for several minutes.”
Donnie’s mother entered. “How’s it coming, dear?” she said, as if he was baking a cake or making microwave popcorn.
“Well, mother,” Donnie replied. “I’m putting my expertise to work.” He gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.
She smiled. “We’re proud of you, dear.”
“Ready for your part of the operation?” Donnie asked.
“Yes, dear, your father and I are set.”
“Donnie. The final step . . . ” Thompson tilted the gurney with the foot pedal. Donnie grabbed the scalpel and disinfectant.
Thompson reached for a large deep stainless steel bowl. “I’ll give you the honors.”
Donnie poured disinfectant over Michael’s neck and throat.
Thompson lifted the bowl, balancing it under and against his jaw.
Donnie slit his throat.
Blood oozed into the bowl, dark and black, the consistency of thick syrup. His skin paled and took on a bluish cast, eyes still open.
They finished and pushed him off the gurney onto another tarp, rolled it and secured it with jute rope. Donnie whacked it with a shovel. “Take that, cop. You’ll never possess my woman.”
Thompson carried the bowl to a stainless table and poured the thick liquid into smaller bottles for traveling. He sealed and wrapped them, placed them in double-walled lead containers and packed them into an insulated bag.
Donnie gave his parents final instructions for disposing of the body. The group headed to the rear of the bunker. Donnie’s father pushed aside a thick plastic rug, removed a layer of metal sheeting, undid a heavy sealed door and lifted a wide panel from the floor, revealing a long staircase that plunged into the earth, bottom not visible in the darkness. Donnie turned to Thompson.
“You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”
“No,” Thompson said. “Quit stalling.” He grabbed the insulated bag and elbowed past Donnie’s parents. “Let’s go.”
They dumped Michael’s tarp-wrapped body down the hole. It hit with a thud. Donnie climbed the ladder first. Thompson followed carrying the precious liquid. Donnie’s parents came next, descending into a narrow subterranean tunnel lined with honeycombed aluminum substrate. As they went, his father undid the substrate behind them, allowing it to collapse into dirt.
The uncomfortable crawl in the tunnel exited under an old barn miles away from the destroyed compound. Two vehicles with Missouri license plates stood gassed and waiting. Donnie hugged his parents. His mother kissed him and they loaded the body in a truck. Donnie and Thompson got in the other vehicle and headed for the Canadian border.
*
Donnie’s father drove for hours before pulling into a deserted wildlife management area near Lake Champlain. He got out and stretched. His wife stepped out the other side. They lifted the truck’s hatch and dragged the tarp to the edge of the bed.
“Donnie was specific. Chop off his head,” his mother said, determined to follow her son’s instructions.
“You saw him, dear. Cop’s dead.”
Donnie’s mother sighed. She grabbed a saw from the truck bed. “Bob, we’re not finished.” She took a deep breath, worried about challenging her husband on corpse management. “Donnie gave me the hacksaw. Told me to cut the head off.” She waved it at her husband.
“Well,” he said, “decapitation is messy. Want to get your hands dirty? We’d have to chop off his head, roll it aside, and push his head and body into the swamp. And clean the saw.”
“I see you point, dear,” she said after a moment’s thought. “I’m not good with saws anyway.”
In truth, Donnie’s parents tended to laziness in their old age and had a distinct aversion to getting their hands dirty. Decades of work in nuclear laboratories and clean rooms had spoiled them. In giving directions, Donnie had forgotten to reinforce that they had to cut off the head for the cop to remain dead. With head attached, the body would reanimate.
“I have an idea.” Bob pulled on neoprene chest waders. He hauled cinderblocks from the truck and grabbed a pile of chain. “We’ll weight him down and throw him in the water. It’s going to be cold the next few days, like the Farmer’s Almanac said. Instant iceberg.”
“Excellent!”
They dragged Michael
from the truck, and wrapped him with chains. Bob dragged the whole mess into the swamp, stood in waist-deep water and gave it a shove, watching it sink. It disappeared, coming to rest on the mucky bottom.
Donnie’s father watched. “Dead and gone. Last we’ll see of him.”
CHAPTER 20
2014 Early February
He lay motionless, curled on his side, trying to reconnect name and past. Michael Lewis, he repeated, praying for it to merge into his consciousness.
Why can’t I remember? My life feels like a circular path to nowhere.
He opened his eyes and stared. Shadows of vague memories swirled on the wood-beamed ceiling. The house was silent, dog asleep. Unreality caught him off-guard. Or reality. How could he be in a warm bed? His life had been a chasm a month ago—the squalid conditions, getting high and wasted, fearing human contact. He’d been an animal, surviving on instinct.
By luck, life shoved him in a different direction. Einar saw through the wreckage and refused to release him into the urban wilds.
What happened? Think, Michael Lewis, think.
He shifted, restless, and brought his hands to his face. Moved his fingers. Yeah, they were real. He wasn’t dreaming. Odd images seeped into his mind, like fragments of wreckage drifting in eddies on the tide. Or on a river.
I’ve been assigned as partner to Einar Hannesson. I’m a detective. Wait. I remember Einar. Hate the name Mikey. Follow the west branch of the river. A green lizard crawls up my arm. Kait, it’s connected to Kait. Don’t act alone. What does this mess mean?
He sat up, blanket falling away. Arched his back against the pillows and leaned to the wall, feeling anchored to physical reality.
An unfamiliar sensation.
Deep in his addled brain a switch flipped on, saying ‘get up, start living.’ Wherever it came from, he was awake. Wasn’t crazy.
Well, not totally crazy.
For the first time since struggling with life in the margins, he wanted to claw his way back into the world.
He got up. Grabbed clothing off the pile Allison had gathered for him and dressed. He walked to the window. The glass was cold. It chilled his skin. The night was quiet and forest went on for miles. Why'd Einar live here, out of range of people? Through a break in spreading white pine branches the moon rose high in the sky. A voice murmured, ‘the forest, the river and wilds, you know them. Billy knew them.’ In a recess of memory, they were familiar. He wanted to remember, to understand. He stepped through the hall and went downstairs.