Stone Army

by J. D. Weston

  “Break me?” said Farrow.

  Kane pulled down the dial for the oxygen feed.

  “The next syringe, if you please, Doctor Farrow.”

  7

  Learning To Fly

  “How do you feel?” asked Jones, as Gabriella removed the needle from her arm. “Are you ready to walk?”

  She stared back at him, her mind clouded with foggy memories of the previous day and uncertainty along whichever path she chose.

  “Like I just woke up,” replied Gabriella. Then she raised the gun at Jones as he took a step towards her. “No closer.”

  “You got what you want. Tell me where the vial is,” said Jones.

  “I’ll tell you where the vial is when I’m somewhere safe, or you’ll shoot me here and leave my body for the rodents.”

  “So let’s walk.” Jones pointed with his gun in the direction of the police station. “Ladies first.”

  “Are you going to shoot me in the back?” said Gabriella, as she made her way out of the forest, feeling the drug flow through her bloodstream and bringing with it a new lease of life.

  “Not yet,” said Jones, following her. “You try anything and I will.”

  “And the missing vial?”

  “I’ll take my chances with that one.”

  “So tell me,” said Gabriella. “If you’re so smart, why do you work for Cassius Kane? I mean, the way I see it, the men all report to you. You’re the one they respect. You’re the one they follow. Not him. He’s just a paycheck. Am I right?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied Jones. “Keep walking.”

  “I’m just making small talk. But I guess you don’t really have what it takes, do you? You don’t have that vision. All leaders have a vision, you know?”

  “I’ve got a vision alright. I’ve got a vision of you lying face down in this forest with a hole in the back of your head big enough to put my fist in.”

  “And there it is. That, right there, is why you will never be the boss.”

  “I can lead. I’ve got a vision.”

  “Yes. But to Kane, you’re just a hired hand. To Kane, you’re dispensable,” said Gabriella.

  She stepped across the stream she had jumped earlier when she had been running from the man she’d killed. The familiarity of the place, however fleetingly she had passed through it, came back to her with clarity. It was like she was walking a path she had walked a thousand times.

  “You don’t know Kane like I do,” replied Jones. “With what he’s got planned, we will be rich men. Our names will be cleared. Sure, I could start my own firm. I could take my men with me. They’re loyal enough. But why would I do that when Kane can offer such a bright future?”

  Ducking beneath some low hanging branches, Gabriella emerged and waited for Jones to follow. He came through behind her with the gun raised. In the distance, she heard the faint rumble of a lorry passing along the quiet beach road.

  “Because you’re weak,” said Gabriella.

  “Stop right there,” said Jones. He stepped closer, ramming the muzzle of the handgun under her chin and forcing Gabriella’s head back.

  “I know what you’re doing. I know what you did to Doctor Goldsborough. You won’t get me with your mind tricks. No more talking, or I’ll cut your tongue from your pretty little mouth. Do you understand me?”

  “So much emotion,’ said Gabriella. “Just do it. Just pull the trigger.”

  “No more talking.”

  Gabriella laughed as Jones shoved her away.

  “You need me alive. You’re weak, Mr Jones.”

  “Move,” said Jones.

  “There’s no need for the gun,” said Gabriella. “I’ve got what I want for now.”

  “Just walk.”

  “I’m walking. I’m walking,” said Gabriella, as she ducked beneath another low branch, pushing it forward out of her way. She took a breath and waited for the perfect moment.

  “And stop talking,” said Jones, as he followed her through the gap.

  With the gun raised once more, he came through the trees and stood up straight just as Gabriella let go of the branch.

  The thick bough pinged back at exactly the right height, catching him square in the face and triggering the adrenaline that Gabriella had been teasing into play. Once more, her feet and legs no longer felt like her own. The strides she took seemed long and endless. Jones’ shot, which sang out behind her, ricocheted off the trees. The clarity with which the path lay out before her was a stark contrast to the blur she experienced from withdrawal on the way into the forest.

  The white police building showed through the trees on her left, and to her right, the road beside the forest was as clear as day. She leapt a final ditch before breaking from the trees and landing with both feet on the tarmac road.

  A screech of tyres to her right. Then the silence that ensues before impact.

  Her instincts ablaze with sensitivity, she stepped sideways, turned, and braced for the blow.

  But it was too late.

  The small coastal town of Saint-Pierre was a maze of back streets that encircled a small marina, which provided berthing for the wealthy to moor their yachts and enjoy the fine restaurants and bars. To one side of the marina was a small fishing port where local fishermen could unload their catch to sell in the famous Saint-Pierre fish market. The rush of traffic in comparison to Harvey’s sleepy village was enough for Harvey to consider turning back.

  But there was nowhere for him to go.

  An image of the smouldering ruins of his house clung to the forefront of his mind and a familiar feeling stirred inside him, in the very pit of his stomach.

  He pulled over beside a café where a few locals enjoyed coffee and cigarettes at small tables placed in a long row on the footpath. He raised his visor and caught the attention of an old man.

  “Hospital?” he said, and shrugged, the international gesture for not knowing.

  “Anglais?” said the old man. Then he mumbled some French with accompanying hand signs to indicate that Harvey should turn right, and shouldn’t ask any more questions.

  Harvey nodded his thanks, pulled his visor down and entered the traffic. A set of lights had created a small tailback, but Harvey weaved through the cars then sped to the front of the queue on the wrong side of the street. Seeing a gap in the traffic, he kicked down into second gear and tore up the road.

  Harvey slowed for a junction and his heart sank.

  In the traffic on the opposite side of the road, two men stared at him from inside a black SUV.

  It jumped into life as the driver pulled a U-turn. The junction ahead was blocked with cars so Harvey made his way along the outside on the wrong side of the road. The SUV driver followed, spanning the centre line and causing the oncoming cars to swerve out of its way.

  They were closing in fast when Harvey ducked into the traffic, weaving at a crawl between the cars waiting for the lights to change.

  The SUV driver’s window opened and a spray of automatic fire whistled through the air above Harvey’s head. He opened the throttle, revving the engine loudly. With cars either side of him just inches from his hands on the handlebars, he forged a path between the two lines of traffic.

  The SUV followed on the opposite side of the road, creating havoc as cars swerved and honked their horns. The man with the gun continued to lay down fire in bursts of three, stopping only to change magazines when needed. At the front of the queue of traffic was a busy junction with the marina on Harvey’s left and another turn on the right. The SUV drew up level with him. The automatic fire stopped; another magazine change.

  Harvey chanced his luck. He tore across the front of the SUV into the right turn and merged with the stream of oncoming traffic. Wheels spun as the SUV followed. A glance in Harvey’s mirror showed the huge SUV towering above the small European cars, swerving between them like a raging bull.

  A maze of narrow alleyways cut through the rows of small, white-washed houses. Harvey
dropped his knee, leaned into the turn, and accelerated into an alley. He put as much distance as he could between his bike and the SUV. But they followed. The driver sent the car sideways to make the turn. Then it straightened and stormed into the alley behind Harvey, knocking over garbage bins, smashing through anything that stood in its way, and leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

  Sirens sounded close by. As Harvey burst from the alleyway, across a road, and into the next alley, he caught the flash off blue light on the road parallel to his right. He slowed. At a cross junction of alleyways, he took the next left. It was a dead end.

  Behind him, the roar of the SUV’s engine grew louder.

  Around him, the whine of police cars grew closer.

  With high walls to his left and right and a chain link fence in front of him, Harvey turned the bike, dropped one leg to the ground and pulled the handgun from his waist.

  The SUV skidded to a halt, blocking Harvey’s exit.

  The first shot Harvey let off hit the front left tyre. The second smashed the side window. And as the passenger fought to change magazines, Harvey planted the third shot into his neck. The driver crunched the car into reverse and spun the wheels, leaving a trail of thick tyre smoke. Dogs barked, disturbed by the action, and a German Shepherd jumped at the fence to Harvey’s left, teeth bared. It snarled at Harvey, barked once, and then offered a low growl that diminished along with its anger. The dog returned to all fours then sat on its haunches and cocked its head, waiting for Harvey to respond.

  Instead, Harvey kicked the bike into first. As the road ahead cleared of tyre smoke, he burst through, firing at the car as he passed. But despite the punctured tyre, the driver gave chase. The SUV filled Harvey’s side mirror, slewing from side to side and filling the alleyway with its mass.

  The exit to the road was ahead. But as Harvey kicked down into third to speed across into the next alleyway, two police cars skidded to a stop and blocked the exit. With the SUV picking up speed behind him and the road ahead jammed, Harvey was trapped.

  He slowed then stopped twenty yards from the police. He heard the SUV slow behind him as the bare alloy rim scraped against the concrete track.

  Behind him, a car door opened and a heavy boot stepped down from the SUV. But Harvey kept his eyes on the police ahead who were climbing from two small Peugeots, guns in hands.

  Scenarios played out in Harvey’s mind. The driver of the SUV had an automatic weapon, drove as if he’d been trained to drive, and wore military issue boots just like the intruder, Freddie. The two policemen each had a handgun, were overweight, and couldn’t hit the side of a bus if it was parked beside them.

  “Stone,” called the driver of the SUV. Harvey put the distance at thirty yards and recognised the accent as English. But he didn’t turn. “You have something of ours. Let me have it and you can go.”

  Harvey didn’t reply.

  “Don't do anything stupid,” said the driver.

  His voice was nearer now, as if he was closing the gap.

  Harvey revved the engine. As expected, the two policemen cowered behind their cars and re-aimed their weapons.

  “Put the gun down,” said the SUV driver, his voice even closer.

  Harvey dropped the gun to the ground.

  “That’s it. Put your hands in the air. Nice and slow.”

  Harvey raised his hands then rolled his head to the left. He felt the click of his joints, and then did the same to the right. Taking a deep breath, he waited. His eyes gazed past the cops and he saw, in the distance, a single building taller than the rest of the town. The hospital.

  The moment the man’s hand grabbed Harvey’s wrist, he sprang into action. Twisting the man’s arm backwards with one hand, Harvey whipped his knife from his belt with the other and slashed across the man’s gut.

  He stepped back in shock at the speed of which Harvey had attacked him. One hand on his stomach held the two flaps of skin together as blood seeped out across his arm. The other raised the automatic rifle at Harvey. The man’s mouth was open, aghast at the wound. The rifle began to shake and even as he dropped to one knee, he fought his trembling hand, trying to squeeze the trigger. He fell forward onto his face and a three-round burst fire dotted the two police cars, sending the policemen diving to the ground for cover.

  Harvey jumped back onto his bike, revved the engine once, kicked it into first, and shot into the next alley, leaving the two policemen cowering on the ground and the man in black fighting for his life.

  “The last syringe, if you will, Doctor Farrow,” said Kane, as he watched the doctor pacing the room.

  The doctor ignored his request. He lifted one of the two gurneys into the air and slammed it into the glass wall with little effect. Then he staggered backwards, drunk on adrenaline and fuelled by his own creation.

  “Come now, Doctor. Just a little more medicine and it’ll all be over,” said Kane.

  Through the speakers built into the control panel, the raspy breathing of Doctor Farrow could be heard as the oxygen ran low. The doctor staggered forward then dropped to his knees, one hand clutching his throat, the other feeling the thick, blue vein protruding from the side of his head.

  “I need air,” said Farrow.

  “And I need results, Doctor Farrow,” said Kane, his tone sharp and his impatience evident. “The last syringe, Doctor Farrow. Then I’ll give you all the air you want.”

  A shaky hand reached onto the stainless steel tray and felt for the last remaining syringe.

  “That-a-boy, Doctor Farrow,” said Kane. He dropped his feet from the control panel and sat forward with interest.

  But the doctor’s shaking hand failed to grasp the syringe. His fingers fumbled and the syringe fell to the floor, where, on his hands and knees, the doctor searched for it. He moved his head from side to side as if only the very centre of his vision provided the clarity he needed to see; his peripheral was a mass of blur.

  “A little to the left, Doctor.” Kane watched as Farrow found the syringe and worked his elbow to produce a vein. “There you go. Nice and slow.”

  With a practiced hand, the doctor arranged the syringe. He searched for Kane through the window, but his eyes, blackened and dilated by the drug, failed to focus on anything beyond the sheen of the glass.

  “In it goes,” said Kane, like he was convincing a child to eat the last of his greens.

  But the doctor, panting for breath, sat with his knees splayed, all willingness to live gone from his eyes. Shifting the air control slider forward a fraction of an inch, Kane teased the doctor with a blast of cool air then pulled it back and heard the fans slow to a stop.

  “That’s all for now,” said Kane. Then he turned to the doorway as Jones stepped into view. “You’re just in time for the show.”

  Jones glanced into the control room. He saw the upturned gurneys and the suffocating doctor poised with the syringe held above his arm.

  “It’s time, Farrow,” said Kane, and he released the MIC button.

  “It’s time for what?” asked Jones.

  “You’ll see,” replied Kane, without removing his eyes from the doctor. Farrow touched the needle to his skin and pushed the tip onto his vein, making a new hole beside four others.

  “Squeeze,” Kane whispered. “Show me what you’ve got, Doctor Farrow.”

  In just a few seconds, the plunger reached the bottom of the chamber. Weakened by the lack of oxygen and control over his body, Farrow fumbled to pull the needle out.

  “How many?” asked Jones.

  “That was number five,” said Kane, who continued to watch as the doctor got to his feet.

  “What’s happening to him?” asked Jones, wide-eyed.

  The doctor staggered to his feet with his mouth open and pointed to the vents high in the walls.

  “There’s an energy inside him like you never thought possible, Jones,” said Kane. “He’s had so much of the prototype that he no longer needs adrenaline to trigger its effects. Communication to his mind
from his limbs and organs are numbed. He’ll feel no pain. He’s lost control of his senses, including the ability to talk, hear, smell and, as far as I can tell, see.”

  “He looks drunk,” said Jones.

  “It’s similar, Jones. Right now, the drug is searching for any usable energy inside his body. His internal organs are being eaten and his blood is thick with the most intoxicating drug known to mankind.”

  “Adrenaline?” said Jones.

  “That’s right. Let’s give him some air, shall we?” Kane slid the slider forward to full. Above him, the fans kicked into life and the doctor raised his arms in welcome at the cool breeze.

  “Tell me about the girl, Jones,” said Kane. “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  “Like I told you over the radio, she was hit by a bus. I stayed until the ambulance took her away.”

  “And do we have a problem?” asked Kane.

  “No,” said Jones, captivated by the doctor, who was shuffling across the floor towards the control room window. “No, she won’t be a problem anymore. I radioed Sierra team to pay the hospital a visit to make sure she doesn’t get a second wind.”

  “I was referring to the missing vial.”

  Jones was silent. He stammered then quietened once more.

  “Jones?” said Kane. “Where is the vial?”

  “Gone.”

  Kane turned to face his number two.

  “Gone? How can it be gone?”

  “She said she hid it somewhere.”

  A loud bang against the glass caught both men’s attention.

  “Where did she hide it, Jones?” said Kane, eying Farrow.

  Another bang. The doctor peered into the control room. His dark eyes searched the room, and his tongue hung from his open mouth, dry and lifeless. He slammed his forehead into the window. Then he stared at Kane with his eyes an inch from the reinforced glass.

  “She said she gave it to some guy for safekeeping.”

  Another bang on the glass. A web of angry, red arteries had begun to form on the doctor’s forehead.