by J. D. Weston
The SUV lodged into the wall blocked the guard’s exit. Scrambling, the terrified man found his partner’s rifle lying dormant on the floor. He turned and fired.
But it was too late.
The ruined beast of a man collided with the guard, pinning him to the front of the car. He reached for his prize, gripped the man’s head in both hands, and smashed his skull into the bonnet until it broke with a sickening crack.
Stunned by the events, Harvey began to move away. He rose to his feet with no sudden movements and stepped backward, creeping further into the building. But, as if enhanced senses alerted the ruined man, his head snapped around to face the corridor. His tongue, half-chewed, licked his lips. And his eyes, wild and red with blood, met Harvey’s.
Harvey returned the stare.
The blood-soaked creature took a step towards Harvey.
Staring through a pair of double doors, Kane grinned as Doctor Farrow dropped the remains of Zulu-one and set his deranged sights on Harvey Stone, who was backing away along the corridor.
“Now we’ll see the real power of SFS,” said Kane. “Even if it is just the prototype.”
The doors rattled as Stone tried to pull them open. But Jones slid his MP-5 through the handles, blocking his escape. Stone’s angered face appeared at the small window then vanished behind a fog of breath. As the condensation faded, something hard and heavy slammed into the doors, and loud, feverish grunts accompanied the dull thuds of viscous beating.
“How long do you think he’ll last?” asked Jones, standing beside Kane and watching with the same enthused awe as Harvey Stone and the drug-fuelled remains of Doctor Farrow rolled away from the doors along the corridor, locked in battle.
“I’m surprised he’s lasted this long,” replied Kane.
Harvey rolled on top and forced his thumb into Farrow’s eye socket. But the move only antagonised the doctor. A surge of power threw Stone to one side, where he rolled to his feet in time for Farrow to launch another attack. The pair slammed against the glass wall of an observation room. From Kane’s viewpoint behind the safety doors, he saw the glass panel flex with their weight. The two men, locked in a wrestle, pulled each other to the floor, grappling for control.
Farrow found himself on top.
The punches came hard and fast with no clarity as to which was Farrow’s leading arm and which was his trailing follow-up punch. Each blow rocked Stone’s head from side to side, and with each hit, he weakened a little more.
But there was more to the man who, over the last two days, had taken down Kane’s Army one by one. There was a resilience uncommon in any man Kane had ever seen before. He had a tenacity so pure and raw, Kane couldn’t help but admire him as he watched the battle play out.
“He won’t get up,” said Jones. “Nobody can withstand that.”
But from their viewpoint, they saw calmness come over Stone. He no longer appeared to fight back. Instead, he absorbed the blows, either waiting for death to take him or his opponent to tire.
“That’s it,” said Jones.
Stone lay motionless on the bloodied floor, and Farrow rose, searching for a new victim. His eyes fell on Kane and Jones staring at him through the two small windows in the doors.
“Stone is done,” said Kane.
“We have a much bigger problem,” said Jones.
Farrow’s eyes remained fixed on Kane’s. His ruined body pulsed as the muscles beneath his flesh tensed and relaxed with the high volume of SFS. A flap of skin hung from Farrow’s face. Tiny shards of glass were embedded into the wound and his fractured skull revealed a sickening sight.
“Farrow’s tiring,” said Jones, re-securing his MP-5 in the door handles. “The SFS must be wearing off. We need to get to the bunker.”
“No,” replied Kane, his eyes wide with both disappointment and admiration. “Look at him, Jones.”
But Jones was backing away from the doors, pulling his handgun from the holster fixed to his chest. “Move away, sir,” he said. “If Farrow comes through, I’ll take him down.”
The tiny round window in the door darkened with Farrow’s shadow. His face appeared at the glass. Torn skin revealed his rear teeth through what was once his cheek. His caved forehead seeped dark, red blood in thick gloops that hung from his brow. And his eyes, redder than any eyes Kane had ever seen, stared deep into his own.
Farrow’s hand appeared in the second window pane. The doctor’s once soft, gentle skin was now stained with blood. His once slender, precise fingers, the instruments of his profession, were curled, gnarled and tense, and ready to crush anything they gripped.
“Sir, move back,” called Jones. “I can take him from here.”
But Kane was in awe. He approached the window, stopping inches from Farrow’s face, holding his gaze with wonder and fascination. Kane raised his hand, laying it flat against the glass and meeting Farrow’s tensed, splayed fingers one for one.
“Sir, don’t do it,” said Jones. “He’s wild. Move back. Let me take him out.”
“No,” said Kane, snatching his head to face Jones, whose face dropped at the sudden anger. “Lower your weapon, Jones.”
But Jones remained with his weapon aimed at the glass.
“I said lower your weapon, Jones,” said Kane. “That’s an order.”
He turned to face Farrow once more, who offered Jones a spiteful glare then returned to meet Kane’s eyes, and softened. His head cocked to one side, and his face grimaced as he forced his tense hand flat against the glass, connecting it with Kane’s.
With his free hand, Kane reached into his pocket, retrieved the small vial of prototype SFS, and held it up for Farrow to see. The effect was immediate. Farrow’s unblinking eyes widened further. A snort fogged the glass and he began scratching at the door, pushing the wood until it bowed.
“Open the door, Jones,” said Kane.
“Absolutely not, sir,” replied Jones. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“I said open the damn door,” replied Kane, and pulled his weapon on Jones. “Now.”
Jones glanced at the wall switch that released the electromagnetic doors, then at Farrow, whose ruined face pressed against the glass watching Jones’ every move, and then back to Kane, who held his weapon high with a finger poised over the trigger.
A battle seemed to take place inside Jones’ mind as he fought between what he knew was right and everything he’d been taught about respect, trust and loyalty. He took a breath and raised his arm to hit the switch. But at the last minute, he turned his weapon on Kane.
“Sir, I respectfully decline,” said Jones, holding his head high.
“You’ll open that door if it’s the last thing you do,” said Kane.
Farrow banged against the glass window.
“Sir, I cannot.”
Kane shifted his aim from Jones’ chest to his head.
Farrow banged against the door.
“Last chance, Jones.”
The doors cracked as Farrow slammed against them; the wood bowed and flexed with his weight.
“Sir, you’ve lost your mind.”
Both men opposed each other, fingers teasing the triggers, in a silent battle of courage until, at last, Jones lowered his weapon.
“For a moment there, I thought you’d forgotten who you were talking to,” said Kane. “Drop it.”
Jones tossed the handgun to the floor.
“Now open the damn door,” said Kane.
Jones stepped forward to the doors, staring at Farrow eye to eye through the glass. He slid the MP-5 from between the handles, pulled the cocking lever, and flicked the safety off.
Bloodshot eyes tracked Jones to the emergency release button on the wall.
The doors flexed as Farrow pressed against the wood.
“Go on, Jones,” said Kane.
With the MP-5 raised against Jones’ shoulder, he nudged the door release with his elbow.
The doors crashed open and slammed into the walls. Jones stepped back, finger fixed to the trigger, and Doc
tor Farrow stepped through, sniffing at the air. Soft grunts came from his throat with each rapid breath. His eyes twitched and the muscles on his lean body tensed then relaxed as if on a perpetual cycle. He eyed Jones and took a step forward.
“That’s it, Farrow,” said Jones, taking a step back. “One more step and I’ll put you down like a dog.”
But instead of rushing Jones as Kane thought he would, Farrow turned his head sideways, studying the greying man who stood before him.
Farrow let out a cry, opening his mouth as far as his ruined jaw would allow.
Standing his ground, Kane reached into his pocket and removed the little vial of red liquid once more.
Farrow silenced.
“You want this?” asked Kane. Farrow snatched at the vial. But Kane saw the move coming and snapped his hand away. “Now, now, Doctor Farrow, remember your manners.”
Farrow retracted his hand like a child, but followed the vial with his eyes like a dog with the promise of a bone.
“Farrow,” said Kane, pointing to his own face. “Eyes up here.”
Farrow tore his eyes from the vial.
“You want this?” said Kane.
Farrow grunted in confirmation, his jaw muscles so tense, they allowed for no articulation of pronounced words.
Kane glanced across at Jones who was frozen in horror, and then back at Farrow.
“Kill,” said Kane.
13
Dazed and Confused
Frozen with fear and facing death, Gabriella lay curled on the passenger seat with her feet against the dashboard as a deranged guard clung to the bonnet and tried to force his way through the windscreen. Harvey aimed the car at the building. Her eyes wandered to Harvey, and somehow in all the chaos she admired his control and tenacity. She reached out a hand and rested it on his shoulder, pushing the sickness to one side as the anticipation of feeding her hunger grew.
But the chance of satiating her thirst and her focus faded when the engine suddenly roared and Harvey pushed himself back into the seat. Then came a sense of weightlessness, a peace where time slowed and nothing mattered, until the front of the car smashed through the wall and chaos ensued.
Even as bricks and glass showered down onto the car, Harvey forced an entry through the row of lab benches, pushing further into the building despite the grinding, smoke and strong smell of fuel.
“We need to go,” said Harvey. He raised his leg to kick the remains of the windscreen out from its frame. “Now, Gabriella. Move.”
She feigned sickness, exaggerating her incapacitation by curling into a ball and closing her eyes.
“Stay here,” said Harvey, and climbed through the space where the windscreen had been.
Harvey hadn’t even hit the floor before gunshots sang out in the corridor ahead. Gabriella pushed the chair back and climbed into the rear of the car. She lay out of sight, peering through the rear window at the carnage in the laboratory.
Furniture had been toppled and dozens of vials had smashed onto the floor, forming a puddle in the middle of the room.
Her stomach twisted at the sight as if some monstrous hand squeezed her insides.
She scanned the wreckage for something. Anything. And gasped when her eyes found what she’d been looking for.
Glass shattered in the corridor in front of the car and the grunts and groans of men fighting, furniture being destroyed, and tempers flaring masked the heavy click of Gabriella opening the rear door.
But the sickness still lingered. Despite the thoughts of replenishing her body with another dose, and the joy as she pondered the feeling of it running through her veins, her legs failed to carry her weight.
Inch by inch, Gabriella crawled across broken glass, her body aching and sleep tugging at her consciousness, pulling her mind from the tray of syringes ahead and the single unbroken vial. She reached out, stretching as far as her weakened body would allow, feeling the taut muscles in her stomach pull. The weight of her arm was too heavy to hold. Her fingers fumbled for the tray but pushed it further away. One more shuffle across the floor and she reached it, tipping the tray over to spill its contents onto the floor.
Gabriella lay on her side. Her weak and shaking hands caused the plastic hygiene wrapper to slip through her fingers. She tore at it with her teeth then spat the plastic away.
A scream, wild and savage, echoed from the corridor as she pulled the protective tip from the needle and plunged it into the vial. Nothing else existed as she watched the red liquid fill the syringe chamber.
Something huge crashed into the front of the car. Gabriella’s heart jumped into gear as more agonised screams illustrated the scene in the corridor.
A vein, thick and blue, stuck out from her arm as if her body craved the offering, presenting itself to the needle. Her hands, weak and uncontrollable, fumbled with the syringe, and her eyes, laden with the weight of revenge, used every ounce of her energy to remain open.
The needle pierced the skin. The hot feeling as it found the vein and worked its way inside brought a grimace to Gabriella’s numb face.
But the warm, tingling sensation as the drug worked its way into her bloodstream raised a sigh of relief from Gabriella’s throat. It travelled to the far end of her toes and fingers. Almost immediately, the pain in her side subsided, the dull ache of her huge bruise faded, and her muscles found a new source of life.
Another scream came from the corridor. Heavy pounding like fists on wood. As Gabriella’s senses recovered, an image formed of the scene.
A wave of nausea washed over her as she stood, and a rush of blood filled her head with blinding effect. She grasped for the support of a nearby bench, but misjudged her reach and fell to the floor, dizzied.
Climbing to her knees, she rose, slow and steady, controlling the movement, and stepped over to the middle of the room. Through the open rear door of the car in the corridor, she saw Doctor Farrow, enraged and pinning Harvey to the floor. An endless barrage of fists rose and fell, causing dull, hard thumps of bone on bone. Harvey was powerless.
As if sensing her observation, Harvey raised his head. His cold eyes found hers and, for a brief moment, there was an understanding. Then the doctor’s fist came down once more and slammed Harvey’s head to the floor.
For a second, her body reacted. Her heart began to race. She stepped forward as if she might reach him in time.
But she stopped.
And as the punches rained down on Harvey’s body and SFS flowed through her veins bringing a renewed strength to her tired muscles, the darkness outside beckoned.
She whispered a silent thank you to Harvey and stepped outside into the rain.
An electronic buzzer announced the opening of doors followed by a tiny click as the electromagnet locked them into place. Then came a hiss as the air stabilised and finally an extractor kicked into life.
Harvey moved his leg, wincing at the wound that Gabriella had dressed as the dried blood ripped from the material of his pants. His tongue slipped between his lips but found only split skin beneath a layer of dried and crusted blood. Breathing through his nose was close to impossible due to the sharp ends of broken bone that pierced his flesh.
A glass-walled room enclosed Harvey. It was featureless save for the single solid wall with a glass observation window.
Slow footsteps clicked on the linoleum floor.
Harvey opened his eyes, expecting to find himself bound to the gurney he was lying on by ropes or handcuffs. But only the pain in his bruised body stopped him from jumping up and throttling the old man who stepped into view. The man held his hands behind his back with his head upturned as if pondering where to begin.
Kane stared down at Harvey, smiling with inquisitiveness, as a cruel child might when pulling the wings off an insect.
Rolling his neck to one side, Harvey waited for the satisfying click. But his bruised shoulders complained. Even his breathing, which was extremely shallow, hurt like never before.
“Good evening, Mr Stone,” said
Kane. His voice was clear but dulled by the sound control built into the room.
Harvey didn’t reply.
“You’re quite the fighter. Most men would have given up with a beating like that. But I am glad you decided to drop by. And I’m glad you decided not to give up on life just yet, Harvey. Can I call you Harvey?” said Kane, leaving no gap for a reply. “You’ve become quite the thorn in my side.”
“You haven't exactly brightened my day, Kane,” Harvey mumbled painfully.
“Well, before you get any good ideas, I might remind you that it’s feeding time for Doctor Farrow.” Kane leaned in closer to Harvey and lowered his voice. Then he opened his hand to reveal a vial of red liquid identical to Gabriella’s. “He’ll do anything for a fix.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“Do you know what this is?” asked Kane, as he stepped over to the glass wall and peered at the wreckage outside.
“I’ve seen what it does,” said Harvey, and gestured at Farrow.
“Why don’t we start from the beginning? I’m assuming Miss DuBois put you up to this?” said Kane, ignoring Harvey’s flippancy.
Harvey didn’t reply. Instead, he locked onto Kane’s stare, watching every move, twitch and gesture.
“Would you like something for the pain, Harvey?” said Kane with a smile. “I’ve got just the thing.”
“I don’t need anything.”
Harvey swung his legs from the gurney and looked around the room.
“Such strength,” mused Kane, turning his back to stare back through the glass wall. It was a power move to assure Harvey that Farrow would prevent any attack he was planning. “A man like you would be unstoppable with a little help from me. I could make you rich, you know?”
“I don’t want your money,” said Harvey, finding his lips dry and his throat scratched with thirst.
“We all have our price, Harvey. There isn’t a man I’ve met in all my years on this earth who wouldn’t break his moral code for a fee.”
“You haven’t met me before.”
“My loss, Mr Stone. But I’m sure we’ll make up for lost time,” said Kane, and offered Harvey a wink in his reflection. “So, where were we? Oh yes. Am I right in assuming that you were coerced into this little enterprise by our friend Miss DuBois?”