by Mike McCrary
Her stare carves through Murphy.
She holds her knife above her head, circling it in the air.
A crowd rushes out from behind her. Passes by the raven-haired woman as if she’s a stationary stone in a raging river. Armed with miscellaneous items, probably from the lab. A few hold surgical knives. Some wield pipes or table legs with jagged edges from where they were torn away. Most storm in with only wild eyes and hands bare. Zero fear of the guns in front of them.
Shots fire.
One of them drops.
Another pauses, for only a blink, absorbs the bullet, then keeps running toward the people in lab coats. The men and women spin, reaching for the door. Overrun before they can pull it open. Sounds of brutality test the tablet’s speakers. The attack is primal. Animalistic. Screams are cut short. Bones crunch. The sound of tearing flesh is clear even through tiny speakers. Murphy watches on, feeling the tug of war inside of him.
Part horrified.
Part impressed.
The woman, Lady Brubaker he assumes, stands perfectly still. Her eyes focused on the security camera. She never looks away, not once, not even as the shots fired. A man with his face decorated with sprays of blood hands her a gun. Lady Brubaker takes it, smiles, then gives the camera the finger.
Her gaze is like a funeral.
She fires the gun.
The screen goes blank.
Murphy exhales.
He sets the tablet down next to his gun then cracks open a water bottle that was sitting in the car door. The world blazes by the window as Thompson continues carving up the city in pursuit of an unknown location.
“They’re like this…” Murphy swallows. “They’re like this because they’ve been changed to be like me?”
Peyton glances back at Murphy. A mix of warmth and concern.
“When did this happen?” Murphy asks, shaking it off.
“We got it not long after you woke up in the first motel,” Peyton says.
“Good news is...” Thompson jams the breaks, then punches it again. “We’ve got eyes on Lady Brubaker as we speak and—”
“Then send in a team and take her out,” Murphy barks. “What the hell do you want me to do with this?”
“Don’t you think we tried that?” Thompson looks at him through the rearview mirror.
“We found her along with a handful of the others,” Dr. Peyton adds. “We sent in a team, like you said, and—”
“Lady Brubaker and her friends slaughtered them.” Thompson puts a period on the conversation. “All of them. An entire tactical team of highly trained badasses were eliminated in minutes. Those monsters carved through them like they were nothing. Then they disappeared into the wind.”
“Until now.” Dr. Peyton turns back to Murphy. “She’s been spotted.”
“How many are out there?” Murphy asks.
“Not completely sure,” Dr. Peyton says. Thompson begins to speak, but Dr. Peyton stops him. “Best we can tell, from the video you saw and other sources, there are at least seven out in the wild. Eight counting Brubaker. One died in the escape, another was wounded, but we don’t know exactly how many—”
“And you want me to do what?” Murphy asks. “Hunt them down? Kill ’em all?”
“Would you mind?” Thompson can’t help himself.
“No,” Peyton barks at Thompson. Resets, then turns back to Murphy. “That’s the last resort. We’d like to have all of them back alive, but even I realize that’s unrealistic given what we’ve seen. In your bag are multiple doses of a powerful sedative. We have loaded them into small injectors, size of a dime, but work as fast as a hypodermic. If you can get close enough, you can inject anywhere on their body and walk away.”
“We’ll clean up the mess,” Thompson says, “but make no mistake. Lethal force is completely authorized.”
“You don’t say.” Murphy closes his eyes.
“Encouraged, actually.”
“And if I don’t? If I’d rather not? You what?” Murphy asks. “You kill me? That the pitch?”
“That’s the fine print, yes.” Thompson doesn’t bother glancing in the rearview.
“You’ll have us.” Peyton tries to smooth things out. “We have access to some agent support. Not as much as we’d like, but some.”
“Considering the off-the-books nature of this,” Thompson adds.
“But we do have people,” Peyton says, firing eye-daggers at him.
“Impressive.”
“Look, man.” Thompson stares back. “You don’t have a whole helluva lot of leverage.”
Murphy raises his gun.
“What if I pop both of you?” Murphy looks to Dr. Peyton. “Seems there’s not a lot of folks that know about me. Most of the ones who did are already dead. I’m guessing anyone else out there either doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know, or they’re willing to deny they had any knowledge of this shitshow.”
“Murphy. Don’t,” Dr. Peyton pleads.
Dr. Peyton readies her tablet.
“Now, now.” Murphy presses the barrel to her head. “Don’t go tapping my mind into submission.”
“I’m not.” She turns the screen slowly to face him. “You need to see this.”
On screen is a simple application. A clock that is counting down. Ticking down one second at a time, thirty-five seconds left before reaching zero. At the bottom are a red button and a green one.
Childlike simplicity.
“This is tied to what’s been placed at the base of your skull. It has a signal to a satellite, along with everything else going on inside you.” Dr. Peyton’s tone is ice-cold. More chilling than Murphy’s witnessed from her. “It must be reset every day. Bio-recognition. We both have to check in once a day via a retinal eye scan. If we don’t—”
“Murphy’s brain goes boom-boom.”
“You’re fun.” Murphy grinds.
“When this is over, when the situation is secure.” Dr. Peyton holds her finger over the red button. “And when we feel you’ve balanced out psychologically—”
“You mean control me.”
“Yes,” Dr. Peyton continues. “That is exactly correct.”
Murphy removes his gun from Peyton’s face. He was fairly sure that would not work, but he felt he had to touch all the bases. Due diligence is always a good idea when dealing with people who are trying to get you killed. Murphy sets his gun back down on the seat beside him.
He hears a woman’s voice say something.
A single sentence plays inside his head.
You’re like a playground wrapped in barbed wire.
The voice is soft and kind, but Murphy doesn’t recognize the sound of her. Her tone is familiar, someone who knows or knew him. Whatever him means now. This combination of Murphy and Mr. Nice Guy. Seems like the woman’s voice is part of his past that he can’t put in a proper file.
“You okay?” Peyton asks.
Murphy waves her off.
On the floorboard is the metal suitcase from the hotel room. Popping it open, he sees that his clothes have been packed up nice and neat, along with his medications, a rubber band-bound roll of cash, and what he assumes are the dime-sized injectors Dr. Peyton was yammering about.
“You’ll have a few more things in the car,” Thompson says, pushing down the pedal.
Murphy hadn’t even noticed they’d reached the highway.
“Car?” Murphy asks.
Chapter 14
“What a hunk of shit,” Murphy says.
He, Dr. Peyton and Thompson stare into an open trunk that stinks of death and lost hope. Rusted holes decorate the bottom with various fast-food wrappers scattered about. Murphy has his gun tucked in the waist of his jeans with his T-shirt covering it. He holds the tablet Peyton gave him in one hand, suitcase in the other.
Thompson peels back what’s left of the trunk’s lining.
A silver trash bag is lumped inside the hole where the spare would normally live. Thompson holds his hand out inviting Murphy to give i
t a look.
“Presents?” Murphy asks.
“Your troubled past has been erased,” Peyton says. “The best we could at least.”
“What do you mean?” Murphy asks.
“She means all the terrible you’ve inflicted has been forgiven. All the shit out there about the horrific human being you truly are has been removed. A new profile has been spread out over the world. You may have noticed the car you jumped into at the hotel knew you.”
“Nicer car than this,” Murphy adds.
“We wanted to reset your footprint as much as we could. Tax records, the little you had, are gone. Fingerprint recognition, face identification, retinal scans have all been fitted with a new version of you.”
“And that is?”
“One that doesn’t murder everything moving,” Thompson says.
Murphy turns his attention back to the trunk.
Inside the bag are stacks of cash in various currencies, along with a clear plastic bag that contains what looks like are different forms of ID. Most are under the name Markus Murphy. There are also several fake driver’s licenses clipped to fake passports, with real credit cards that match the crap names on the IDs. There’s also another Glock, fully loaded magazines, spare boxes of high-velocity rounds, a classic .38 Special with an ankle holster and a tactical knife. A cold, clean blade made of military-grade steel. There are also three high-end black ski masks. Murphy’s best guess is he needs three in case the first two get soiled with blood and/or brain matter.
Thompson hands Murphy the fob to the forgettable 2017 Japanese sedan.
“Really?” Murphy asks. “Masters of the dark arts couldn’t get wheels from this decade?”
“Needed something nondescript.” Thompson fights a laugh. “Can’t have a five-star psycho roaming the countryside in a candy apple red Porsche full of cash and guns. That would be silly.”
Murphy can taste killing this man.
He folds down the liner, drops his steel suitcase into the trunk. Thompson motions to a car across the street. A similar nondescript sedan, but one from this year, starts up then pulls away from the curb. Murphy is pissed at himself for not noticing the car was there.
Needs to be sharper.
He blames this new guy sharing his head.
Mr. Nice Guy better not get me killed.
“Everything we have on Lady Brubaker is on that tablet,” Dr. Peyton says. “We’ll be monitoring as we always have been. We won’t see or hear everything.”
“But we’ll know enough. Play nice, Murphy.” Thompson slams the trunk down, stepping into Murphy’s face. “We will not hesitate to pop your top.”
“Oooohhh.” Murphy fake shudders. “Spooky former Agent Thompson.”
“Don’t press us on this.”
Murphy grins.
He plants a hard kiss on Thompson’s lips, holding the sides of his face tight in his hands.
Dr. Peyton grips her tablet tight with her free finger at the ready but has no idea what to do with this. Murphy knows she’ll not understand what mix of brain meds to release in this situation. The kiss is long, seems to last a lifetime. Thompson’s face flashes red, his eyes popping wide, thrashing side to side fighting to get away. Murphy’s grip is strong.
His eyes are closed.
Like you’re supposed to.
Murphy releases Thompson’s face, letting him stumble backward. Murphy winks, wiping his lips dry. He didn’t enjoy the smooch—didn’t hate it either—but he loves the fact Thompson and Peyton are constantly on edge with him.
Unpredictability is his only true friend in the world. Needs to keep these people off balance. Always off balance.
“Asshole,” Thompson barks.
Murphy snickers.
His laugh starts slow and low but builds. A rolling laughter that goes on and on. Funny at first, but turning to something else. Maniacal in tone. Hard laughs, almost to the point of choking. Peyton and Thompson look to one another. Murphy can feel a shift inside. Feelings blasting like a shotgun.
Thompson begins to say something, but Peyton stops him.
Murphy’s laughter stops as suddenly as it came on. Murphy straightens his back, takes a breath. Bounces on the balls of his feet with his eyes closed. He lets his mind drain clear. His emotions reach out to the corners of himself. Searching for what he needs to know. He knows little about the different parts of him. Nothing human, at least.
“Do I have a home?” Murphy asks.
“Yeah, sure.” Thompson shrugs. “Prison is your last known address.”
“No. Where am I from?” Murphy continues. “What school did I go to?”
“Murphy. We talked about this.” Peyton taps at her tablet. “There’s a lot you’re simply not going to know. Maybe we can give you more answers later, but you have to remember you’re working to reconcile two personalities. Two lives that are very different.”
“Do I have any family?” The gears in his mind are shifting hard. “I feel like I do.”
“What?” Thompson holds his arms out. “What is all this?”
“Mom, Dad, anything out there? Jesus, tell me there're no kids.”
“No children. You have a mother.” Dr. Peyton stands between him and Thompson trying to stop what might happen next. “Do you remember her?”
“No.” Murphy considers. “Me or the other guy?”
Peyton squints. “Not sure I know who you consider who.”
“There’s Murphy,” Murphy says, “and then there’s Mr. Nice Guy.”
“Fine,” Thompson concedes. “Murphy has a mother. No memories of her?”
“Not at all.”
“Good, she’s a complete bitch.” Thompson’s face is still red from the kiss.
“What are you, twelve?” Murphy turns to Peyton. “I want to talk to her.”
“Contact with her, that would be…” Dr. Peyton’s eyes drift. “That’s going to be hard.”
“Don’t really care about the level of difficulty.”
She thinks about it. “Maybe a phone call.”
“Maybe?”
Thompson jumps in. “Peyton, absolutely not.”
“Wow.” Murphy claps his hands loudly. “Really hope Lady Brubaker hasn’t burned down a children’s hospital since this crap conversation started.”
“Murphy, your mother…” Peyton considers. “She’s in prison.”
Of course she is.
Chapter 15
Murphy watches a house from across the street.
Seems moderately safe, at this distance.
Not sure who is in the house or what he should look for, but he knows this is the place. The house where the now infamous Lady Brubaker was last seen. Murphy has been sitting here ever since the sun went down. It hasn’t been long by stakeout standards, but it’s been long enough for a mind like Murphy’s to begin to wander.
Hard to find comfort when two sets of thoughts roam wild and free.
The massive yard creates a decent amount of space between him and the front door of the upscale home. The dark gives him some cover. But if someone was looking it wouldn’t be hard to pick out the eyesore of an automobile Thompson and Peyton gifted him. He toyed with the idea of parking a few blocks from the gated community at an abandoned grocery store then hoofing it to the house, but decided this piece of shit ride would pass as the hired help in this neighborhood.
These decisions are labored.
He used to think much faster.
This added layer. All the comings and goings of judgment and morality have created some speed bumps in Murphy’s lightning-like reaction time. Only hopes it doesn’t slow him down at the wrong time.
He is thinking more. No question. Analyzing the shoulds and should nots more than he ever did in the past. Memories have become more like rumors than visions. She said the chemicals inside of him needed to balance. He hasn’t had a chance to heal from psychological trauma.
Balance was tricky.
Your mind is a work in progress.
; “Jesus,” he whispers, wishing he still had that whiskey.
The same lights in the house have been on for quite some time. A possible sign of being left on intentionally. Some small way to keep people from looking at the house as a target. Time-proven tactic by homeowners to ward off the casual break-in. Or something far more sinister.
What if she’s in there?
What if Lady Brubaker has taken this house? Muscled control away from the owner to use it as some form of landing spot. A home base of sorts. She has amazing taste if that’s the case. If you’re going to invade a home, make it a good one.
But is she taking the time to leave the damn lights on?
From what Murphy’s seen—and it’s not much to be clear—she’s not one to give a shit about keeping the neighborhood watch happy. Doubt she’d be the type to set up an old-school timer or some kind of AI dimmer system to ward off exactly what Murphy is doing right now. Maybe she’s in there with some of her friends from camp. Camp Mind Fucker that the CIA pulled together in conjunction with a forced sponsorship from Dr. Peyton’s little company.
He has seen no one come or go.
No movement from the doorways. No shadows moving behind the curtains. No movement of any kind, really. Nothing happening around the garage or any other spot in the house. Has seen no sign of dogs or any pets.
Nothing.
He repeatedly looked over the files from the tablet Peyton gave him. There's not a lot to go on. His eyes ache from pouring over the escape video. Far too many times. Enough times to become even more concerned, even afraid, of what Lady Brubaker and her followers could be up to.
What’s even more terrifying to Murphy is the fact all these people are part of him. Or, more to the point, they have a part of him in them. It is the strangest sensation ever. A new type of relationship. One that has yet to be defined. Not friends. More like brothers and sisters, or shit cousins, but at the same time not even close. He's not sure what to do with it.
New ground he never asked to visit.
He looks over the massive lawn. Thompson and Peyton told him all about who owns this ridiculous, big-money home. An insanely successful hedge fund manager and a close friend to the wealthy. Alec Buckley’s fund has a minimum buy-in of over $100 million. A dominant 130-30 fund with superior performance that dwarfs the competition. This puts Buckley in a position to know a lot of people. A lot of insanely powerful, wealthy people.