by Platt, Sean
Rose came to his side, looking down at Boricio with a tentative smile. “Everything’s fine,” she said, running a hand through his hair.
Boricio flinched at her touch, his head pounding hard enough that her brush felt like a wallop.
“I’m sorry,” Rose said. “How are you feeling?”
“How’s it look like I’m feelin’?” he said, harsher than he meant. “I’m sorry. I’m just … so confused. What happened? Where the hell are we?”
“You were attacked by some police,” she said.
“Cuntstables did this shit to me? What the hell? Why?”
Boricio wondered if his past had been pursuing long enough to finally catch him. Had some cop linked him to any number of old murders, maybe an innocent from the old days, or more recently, from a fucker who was begging karma to claim him? He hoped not. The last thing he wanted was for Rose to know who the real Boricio was. She was an angel. The sweetest woman he’d ever known. There was no way someone so pure could stay with a monster like him.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“How did I wind up here? And … where the fuck am I?”
“One of the officers saved you, brought you to us at the hotel, but then left before we could ask any questions. You were in a coma, but we got you help. You’re recovering. As for where we are, we’re home, at a friend of mine’s. A writer named Arthur Morgan. He lives in the area and said we could stay here until you’re better. I’m afraid to fly you in this condition, not until we have another doctor check on you.”
“Why the hell am I in some dude’s house instead of a hospital?” Nothing made sense, and everything felt like a nail in his head.
Boricio cringed.
Rose went to the dresser and returned with a hypodermic.
“Here, this’ll make you better.”
“Whoa, whoa, what’s in there? And when did you become Florence Fucking Nightingale?”
Rose laughed. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of you, sweetie.”
She slid the needle into Boricio’s arm, though he couldn’t feel a thing, and pressed the plunger until whatever medicine Rose was administering entered his bloodstream.
“I’m so confused,” Boricio said. “Why are … ”
Words escaped him as a pleasant warmth spread through his head. Pain ebbed, replaced by a surging tide of emotions — joy, love, and happiness that his Rose was here taking care of him.
Sadness came next, and Boricio felt horrible for being a vegetable while she was forced to take care of him.
“I’m so sorry this happened,” he said, staring into her deep-green eyes.
“Don’t be silly. It wasn’t your fault. I don’t know why it happened.”
“Am I paralyzed?”
“Yes, but the doctor said it’s only temporary.”
“Really?” A wave of relief soothed his sorrow. Boricio broke into tears, thanking her more, feeling drunk like a fool but not giving a fuck.
Boricio felt like he was forgetting something, but his emotions were jumbled like shit in a hoarder’s closet, and he was so happy to be with Rose everything else seemed too small to matter.
Boricio remembered what he’d been wondering before Rose came into the room. “Where are Mary and Paola? Are they OK?”
“Yes,” she said. “They had to go home, but they send their love.”
“How long have I been … like this?”
“You really should get some sleep.” She leaned forward and kissed him.
Though Rose wasn’t wearing her usual perfume, she had a scent all her own. Boricio deeply inhaled as her hair fell across her cheek.
“Thank you, so much, sweetie,” he said. “I … ”
**
Boricio woke to darkness, with no memory of falling asleep.
He vaguely remembered Rose giving him some medicine and some jumbled words after that. But the world was still so confusing. Best he could tell, someone attacked him, and for some reason Rose was keeping him out of the hospital.
Boricio wondered if it had been an alien. He remembered some infected fuckers at the one hotel. Maybe some aliens infected the police. Why they wanted him, he had no idea. He tried to remember if he’d told Rose about the aliens, but couldn’t recall.
Maybe Mary had spilled the pintos, and that’s why they were living a fugitive’s life in some stranger’s house.
That still didn’t explain why Luca was with them.
Boricio looked at the clock beside his bed: 5:07 a.m. He longed for the morning sun and maybe some answers that would come when he could talk to Rose, or even Luca again.
More than answers, though, Boricio just wanted to see Rose again. He felt as if he’d been away from her forever. He wondered how long he’d been in a coma. How long he’d been paralyzed.
Boricio felt a horrible claustrophobia, unable to feel or move his limbs. The feeling felt oddly familiar, though that didn’t make any sense.
He wondered if this was karma paying him back for years lived as a murder machine. Boricio didn’t believe in karma, God, or any other hoodoo voodoo bullshit. That didn’t mean his past couldn’t have finally caught up. Ironic since now he was intent on doing the right thing. Had he gone his merry way, killing and fucking anything that crossed his path, karma might’ve kept lagging behind. Now, fixed by Luca and domesticated by Rose, Boricio was an easy target.
For the first time in Boricio’s life he had people to care for. People he loved — if such a thing were possible. Not just Rose, but Mary, Paola, and even the Boy Wonder. They were a part of his fucked-as-shit family. And as good as it was to have friends, for the first time in his life, as Boricio lay helpless in bed absolutely helpless, that reality made him anxious.
For the first time he also feel guilt and shame for his past. Not the murders so much as the rapes. He prayed that Rose would never find out, that Paola wouldn’t ever peek inside his mind and see what he’d really been. She knew he was a monster, but Boricio didn’t want her, or Mary, or Rose to know just how monstrous he’d been.
Hell, he even felt bad about some of the murders. Not all of them. Plenty of fuckers had deserved to die. But there were some, innocents who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He flashed on something — an image of a girl he’d beheaded.
Another flash — her father, finding Boricio, angry at him, wanting revenge.
What the hell? I don’t remember that.
Must be the drugs fucking with my head.
Lots of shit, still so fuzzy. Like he’d been dreaming for a long time and was awoken too early, still trying to untangle dream from reality.
He thought of Rose again and was so thankful that she was here with him, to help him through this. But even as he felt good, Boricio felt an unease he couldn’t explain — a fear that didn’t make sense.
Darkness is coming.
What the hell does that mean?
Love, for all the good it could do, was a weakness. And he was already weak enough, his body frozen in bed.
Boricio had to get better. Not just to get out off the fucking mattress, but so he could go back to protecting those he loved.
Yet, as he lay in the stillness of predawn, listening to the clock hum beside the bed and staring at its blue digital face, he couldn’t help but feel that love had somehow left him frail. Boricio wondered if now he wasn’t man enough to keep his family safe.
* * * *
CHAPTER 7 — MARINA HARMON
“How are you doing?” Father Acevedo asked from the bucket seat across from Marina in the back of the van as Luther drove north toward the final vial.
“OK.” She tried to smile, even though her ribs, jaw, and head were all throbbing, competing for which part of her body could claim the most pain.
“That should never have happened,” he said, not even trying to whisper.
Marina looked up to see Keenan meet her eyes in the rearview, then he looked straight, staring at the road and into the setti
ng sun.
“It’s OK,” she said, “we got the vial. And Keenan did beat the hell out of Max Torrino.”
Acevedo sighed. “Well at least one good thing came out of it.”
They’d been driving for about four hours, mostly in silence, neither she nor Acevedo happy to be hostages. Marina felt like the priest was hatching some plan. While she didn’t know him well, Marina was familiar enough with Acevedo to be reasonably sure he had no intent to surrender. He’d given in, telling the agents where the vials were to keep Marina from harm, but she knew a temporary arrangement when she saw one. Acevedo wasn’t going to let the agents take the vials.
Though the more Marina considered it, the better the idea seemed.
While Keenan had threatened to hurt her if they didn’t cooperate and she wasn’t about to add the agent to her Christmas card list, he had saved her from Torrino and had seemed personally offended that the movie star had hurt her. And it hadn’t seemed like some macho-man-defending-a-woman sorta thing. Maybe a little, but there was definitely something else, too. Keenan seemed as outraged by entitled assholes as Marina was, particularly ones who abuse their power. There also seemed to be a genuine kindness just under his gruff exterior. He seemed like someone who had spent a long slice of his life battling assholes.
Marina wasn’t sure how she could mine so much from their limited exchanges, yet could feel it nonetheless. Keenan wasn’t a bad guy, even if half the pain in her jaw was from his punch.
Luther, on the other hand, Marina had yet to get a feel for. He seemed all muscle and little brains, but it was tough to glean much from his silence.
She looked back up at Acevedo, who was staring down at his handcuffs as if trying to figure a way to break free.
They were both cuffed to bars at seat level on either side of the van. The black metal appeared impossible to break without special equipment. There was a lock, which Marina figured a better criminal mind than hers could probably pick. She wondered if Acevedo had fashioned some sort of MacGyver way out, and was merely waiting for the right moment to break free.
She wished they weren’t so close to the two agents. Any attempts at conversation would be easily overheard, otherwise she’d try to persuade the priest from his plot, whatever it might be. She’d tell him that maybe the government ought to have the vials, so they could fight these damned aliens in ways that they couldn’t.
Sure, the government couldn’t be trusted on most things, but what other options did they have? It wasn’t like she and Acevedo had a plan or the ability to save the world, despite her father’s ghost, or whatever it was, urging her to do so. Marina had nearly been beaten to death by a short, pampered movie star. What hope did she have of waging war against the infected, or the aliens lying in wait to swallow the world?
Acevedo kept staring, the dark circles under his eyes blending with the van’s shadows to give him an almost sinister appearance.
* * * *
CHAPTER 8 — EDWARD KEENAN
The last name on their list was a woman named Kerri Sampson, an impressionist painter who was semi-well known among art circles before retiring to run an RV camp along a lake at the foot of the Santa Lucia mountains.
Marina wasn’t sure how her father had known the woman — he’d never expressed an interest in paintings to her. Marina also didn’t recognize the woman as a church member. Nor did the agency dig up anything that might suggest why the woman might be trusted with the vials.
Keenan was also entering the situation blind, but it had to go better than securing the other vials had.
Luther exited the dark highway and made a left onto a darker dirt road where a sign read: New Moon Lake Recreational Vehicle Campgrounds.
The van jostled as they drove through the dark woods. Ed surveyed the area, seeing lights from a handful of RVs among the trees as they passed. A sign with an arrow pointing ahead read: OFFICE.
Ed hoped the office was still open and that’s where he’d find Sampson. If not, her address was listed at the camp site, but how the hell he’d find her among the forty or so campers spread out in the woods, Ed had no idea. He didn’t want to go door-to-door and risk someone alerting Sampson that the feds were looking for her. If the woman knew what she had in the vial, and it stood to reason that she knew it was something special even if not exactly what, then Sampson could become a ghost, impossible to track.
Keenan noticed a building ahead, the only permanent structure aside from a few pavilions and bathrooms. It was blue and wooden with the word OFFICE on a black sign over the front door. Beneath the sign, two windows and a light on inside.
“Pull up to the parking spot,” Keenan said, figuring the direct route was least suspicious.
“Wait here,” he said to Luther.
The woods were alive with a symphony of insects, birds, and frogs as Keenan hopped out of the van and stepped out into the cool night air.
An old Pepsi machine’s light flickered on and off promising liquid refreshment for a few quarters on his way to the office. He spotted a woman in her late fifties with an auburn bob and big brown glasses through the window, sitting at a desk, tapping away on a laptop.
He recognized the woman from her file’s driver’s license photo — Kerri Sampson.
So far, so good.
As Ed reached the front door, he saw Sampson look up from her desk, suspicious at this newcomer arriving after dark.
He opened the door, tinkling a bell as he entered.
“Good evening,” she said, standing, eying Ed up and down. He’d changed from the suit back to his Guardsman gear. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Edward Keenan, with Homeland Security. I need to talk to you about the vial given to you by J.L. Harmon.”
The door closed behind him, again tinkling the bell.
Ed saw the truth in her eyes: Sampson knew exactly what he was talking about.
“What about it?”
“I understand that Mr. Harmon trusted you to hold onto the vial. Did he tell you what it contained?”
“No, he just made me promise not to open it until the right time, and assured me that I’d know when that was.”
“So you’ve never opened it?”
“No,” Sampson said, concern clear on her face. She seemed so much easier to deal with than the prior two custodians. Ed was thankful that some people still believed in actually helping the authorities, rather than viewing them all as the bad guys.
“Good,” Ed said. “It’s a lethal material, and we need to get it from you.”
“Oh gosh, what is it?”
Ed noticed a small TV sitting on top of a filing cabinet, streaming CNN’s coverage of the school shooting.
He pointed at the screen. “You’ve been seeing all the recent violence on the news, right?”
“Yes. It’s so awful. So glad we’re here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yeah, this is a good place to be,” Ed agreed, hoping to foster a calm rapport. “Nice campgrounds.”
“Thank you. So, um, what does the vial have to do with the news?”
“Seems this isn’t the only vial. There are quite a few out there, and they’re causing horrible things to happen.”
“Oh my. Is it like some sort of toxin?”
“Worse than you can imagine.”
“Why would Mr. Harmon have them? Why would he want me to open it?”
“How did you know Mr. Harmon?”
Sampson looked down, her first bit of hesitancy.
“Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble, Ms. Sampson. We just need the vial, then we’ll be on our way. We’re trying to get as many as we can before things get worse.”
“Josh was a friend. We met in Narcotics Anonymous many years ago.”
Keenan nodded, letting her continue.
“We were friends … good friends, if you catch my meaning, for a while. It was great while it lasted, but then he got into that weird religious stuff.”
“So you weren’t a member of his church
?”
“Oh gosh, no,” she said. “I always knew Josh was a bit off, but who among us isn’t a little weird? But it got worse over time, and he started talking about all these dreams he was having, and this New Age pseudo-religious stuff. I tried not to be critical, and even let him try and convince me of what he was talking about, but I just couldn’t buy into it. And I think when you’re with someone you ought to be honest about everything. So I broke it off.”
“Ah,” Keenan nodded.
“A few years ago, Josh appeared on my doorstep. No call, nothing. He gave me the vial and said I was one of a few people he could truly trust. After all, I’d been honest with him rather than lie to maintain our relationship. So apparently, I had earned his trust. He wouldn’t tell me what was in the vial. He just made me promise not to open it until it was time. When I asked how I’d know when the time was, he said I wouldn’t have any doubt, then he left, promising to call so we could catch up soon. But Josh never called.”
Keenan nodded. “And you’re sure you never opened the vial?”
“Oh Lord, no,” Sampson said, seeming in no way insulted by Keenan repeating the query. “I didn’t know what it was. Part of me thought it was some figment of his religion — like holy water, or something Josh thought was important but wasn’t really. But I have to tell you, the longer I’ve had that thing, the weirder it’s felt. I even have dreams about it — like it wants me to open it. I thought maybe I was going nuts. I was tempted to throw it in the trash, but there was this little voice in the back of my head that remembered when Josh was a sweet, normal guy. Haunted by something, but sweet. I could never bring myself to toss it.”
“Where is it now?”
“It’s in my camper. Hold on, just let me save this document. I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you, Ms. Sampson. We appreciate your cooperation.”
Sampson saved her doc then led Ed out of the office.
“I’m a ways down the path,” she said. “I usually ride my bike to the office, but today I had a flat with no time to fix it. Would you like to walk with me, or — ?”