by Platt, Sean
She looked down, as if embarrassed by her reaction, still letting tears flow, her fists in tight balls.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to protect you both, protect the island, and hell, the world, from these damned things. I just don’t want to see what happened over there happen here. And maybe I let that cloud my judgment.”
“Maybe?” Mary repeated, her tone dripping with accusation, keeping him backpedaling.
“OK, not maybe. Definitely. I definitely let it cloud my judgment. But I thought I could protect you, both of you.”
Desmond moved closer, his eyes wearing the sweetness she remembered so well. Hell, his expression was so genuine, she almost bought it. For the first time, Mary wondered if maybe Brent’s dream was wrong.
No. He told me about the Hammy the Hamster. I have to stay strong.
Desmond continued, his voice low and saccharine as he wrapped an arm around Mary, then found her chin with his hand.
“You and Paola are my family, Mary. I would never intentionally do anything to harm either of you. I thought I could protect you both, and I was wrong. I am so sorry, Mary. I wish I could bring Paola back. I wish I could take her place, please know that.”
Mary closed her eyes, his words seeming so genuine they cut through to her heart. She wished she could believe him, and that somehow that would bring him — the real Desmond — back. But at the same time believing him meant that Paola was dead, and that was a trade that Mary wasn’t willing to make.
Desmond pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips.
Fear, sadness, and rage coursed through her system, threatening to sever Mary’s tether to sanity. She wanted to scream. Wanted to tear into his flesh. Wanted to collapse.
I have to hold on. Have to be strong.
Mary closed her eyes, pretending that the man at her mouth was the same man who died. Pretending that the bastard wasn’t holding her daughter prisoner underground. Pretending that she didn’t plan to murder him the moment she could.
Mary wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer and deeper into the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you love us. And that you’re trying to do your best. I know that, baby.”
She looked in his eyes, surprised to find that he was crying, too.
If this was an act, Mary hated him all the more for his lack of heart and sickening guile.
How dare he use my daughter’s memory so manipulatively?
She reached up, wiping tears from his eyes. “I think we’re both just exhausted.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Can you nap with me?” she asked, “or do you need to get back to work?”
“Yeah, I can take a nap.”
Good.
**
Desmond was snoring.
They’d been lying down for half an hour when he seemed to finally sleep.
If they can.
It was now or never.
Mary got out of bed as she normally did on her way to the bathroom. Her feet hit the cold tile, then she softly closed the door behind her.
She waited a second at the door, her ear to the wood, heart pounding loud enough to hear it.
When Mary heard no sign of Desmond, she crouched low and opened the cabinet beneath the sink.
It was full of toilet paper, feminine products, and stuff that Desmond didn’t normally bother with so long as the dispenser held a roll.
She pulled away a box of feminine pads, then pulled out the second box beneath it where Mary kept the gun.
She grabbed the pistol, the very Glock she’d trained with for months. Mary had been a decent shot from the start, but training wasn’t about making your shots. It was about teaching your body to act reflexively and instinctively in tense situations. It was about removing all thoughts from the equation when you were most likely to tense into a mistake.
Mary still hated how she’d gotten scared when she and Boricio were attacked in the parking lot, how she’d stayed back while he battled the infected. She’d told herself countless times that she stayed back because Boricio had ordered her to, and that when push came to shove, you tended to listen to Boricio, especially when he was doing what he did best.
But ever since that moment, Mary had felt like she’d let him, and herself, down by not rising to the challenge.
She vowed to never let that happen again. While she hadn’t had time to train much since arriving at Black Island, Mary had rehearsed all that she’d been taught mentally on repeat, visualizing like an athlete before a big game.
Mary couldn’t doubt her instincts again.
She had to rely on her gut.
She’d ignored it when it told her they should leave the island, deferring to Desmond and her daughter.
No more. Never again.
She had to listen to her gut. Trust her training. Now it was time to act.
Mary looked down at the Glock. When she’d first started shooting, it had felt heavy in her hand.
Now it felt perfect.
She flushed the toilet, pretended to wash her hands, then stared in the mirror a final time to steel herself for what she needed to do.
You can do this.
Mary turned out the light, then returned to the bed with her right hand behind her back, watching Desmond’s shape in the light coming through the crack in the curtains.
She kneeled onto the bed, breathed in and out slowly and deliberately, then raised the pistol and aimed it at his head.
Desmond’s eyes opened, but didn’t seem the least bit surprised.
“You are going to take me to my daughter now, or I’ll blow your goddamned alien head off your fucking body. Nod if you understand me.”
The monster nodded.
* * * *
CHAPTER 17 — BORICIO WOLFE
Boricio stared down at Luca, pressing on his wound, watching as his chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.
Come on, man, don’t you die on me, too.
Even though this was another Luca, not the one who had “fixed” him, Boricio couldn’t help but feel an affection for the boy now trapped in a young man’s body. Bits of memory flitted by, of the other Boricio and the other Luca, how they’d been adopted brothers, raised by Will Bishop. Perhaps that was why the kid had risked his life to heal Boricio and bring back his memory.
Not many people put their own asses on the line for Boricio. That shit was meat on the grill and sauce on the pasta.
Boricio looked up the stairs at the chunks of Rose on the wall and felt more of his stomach sour. There was no way Luca could bring her back, even if he wasn’t hovering near death.
He turned back down to Luca.
Focus on the boy. Don’t look up there. Nothing there but regrets. Team Boricio don’t have time for fucking regrets.
Where the hell is Keenan?
Some prick yelled, “Hands in the air!”
Boricio looked down the stairs to see some government agent dressed like G.I. Fucking Joe aiming a shotgun at Boricio like he was Cobra Commander.
“Sorry, pal, I’m not putting my hands anywhere, or this kid’s gonna die.”
The agent, with his strong jaw, close-cropped red hair, and pockmarked face, didn’t look like he was used to hearing no.
“It’s OK,” Keenan said, finally appearing, “he’s with me. Are the paramedics here?”
“Is the place secure?” the agent asked.
“Yeah,” Keenan answered, “get someone in here for this young man.”
The agent went out the front door. Boricio glanced up to see Keenan holding a black metal box.
“Find what you’re looking for?” Boricio asked.
“Yeah,” Keenan said. “And you don’t know anything about the vials?”
“I don’t know shit about any vials. I was in a coma up until a couple of days ago. Seems that Rose, or whatever she’d become, had plans for me, but the Boy Wonder healed me and was going to help me get the fuck outta Dodge when this old fu
cker came in shooting the goddamned place to cheese.” He paused, then added, “I hope the vials were worth all this.”
“I’m sorry about Rose,” Keenan said. “But the old man, Acevedo, had already killed her, and she wasn’t coming back. The alien was trying to leave her mouth, likely looking to infect you next.”
Boricio said nothing. He could argue that Luca could’ve saved her, if they’d only had enough pieces left, but saw no point in arguing, particularly when he wasn’t even certain Luca would live.
A pair of paramedics rushed in with a stretcher, pushing Boricio aside. One of the medics, a young woman with brown hair in a tight ponytail, pulled the cloth back, checking Luca’s wound, then returned it, keeping pressure on it. She said something about a “GSW” into her radio while the other paramedic, an older bald man with giant hands, lifted Luca’s eyelids and flashed a light into them.
Luca gasped again, eyes wild as he looked around, trying to say something.
“It’s OK,” the woman said, trying to calm him.
They lifted Luca onto the stretcher and rushed him out of the house.
Boricio followed them out to a medical helicopter, but was pushed back by the woman.
“I need you to stay here,” she said.
“He’s my brother,” Boricio lied, yelling over the chopper’s whirring blades.
“I still need you to wait here.” The woman climbed into the copter and closed the door in Boricio’s face.
Keenan pulled Boricio back, as the chopper began to ascend. “Come on.”
Boricio turned on him, “Where the fuck they takin’ him?”
“To Mercy Memorial. He’s in good hands.”
“I want to go.”
“Why?” Keenan asked. “There’s nothing you can do for him. He’ll be under professional care, after which he’ll be brought to Black Island.”
“Black Island?”
“Yes,” Keenan said, “and I need you to come with me.”
“Um, I dunno about that, Boss Hog. This Duke’s got shit to do.”
Keenan put his hands on Boricio’s shoulders. “I’m giving you the courtesy of asking you to come with me, Boricio. My boss won’t be quite as courteous.”
“So what, you gonna arrest me?”
Keenan sighed. “Don’t you want to see Mary and Paola?”
“What? The Olson twins are there?”
“Yes,” Keenan said.
“Well, why the fuck didn’t you lead with that?”
A car pulled up to the house, and a familiar-looking woman with long blonde hair got out with another agent. They headed over to Keenan and Boricio.
“Did you stop him?” the woman asked.
“Not in time. He shot Luca and killed two other people.”
“Oh, God.” The woman’s hand found her cheek.
Boricio noticed that she was stealing glances at him as she spoke to Keenan. He was about to say something when she turned to him and asked, “Do we know each other?”
Boricio shook his head no even as memories from the other Boricio, an infected Boricio, swirled through his head. Her name was Marina Harmon, the rich bitch daughter of J.L. Harmon, that freaky cult leader.
As Keenan introduced them, Boricio feigned like he hadn’t seen her show already.
“We need to get to the airport,” Keenan said.
Boricio nodded, staring back at the house.
His Rosebud was gone, but at least he could still see Mary and her little lamb.
* * * *
CHAPTER 18 — BRENT FOSTER
“I want to go home,” Ben whined as they waited in the dilapidated stone house in the woods on the island’s west end. The old home’s furniture looked like it had been abandoned in the 1950s, the downstairs windows had been boarded over, and the floors were littered with dust and debris. The refugees were making do in the only clear spot they could find in what was once a kitchen area, sitting around a small table.
A wind-up lantern teased light into the room. Brent figured it was better to stay in the darkness than venture upstairs where morning sun illuminated the rooms, but the children might be more likely to wander in front of an open and uncovered window.
The plan was simple in the plotting stages, but the execution had holes. They were supposed to sit tight until Paola was able to send Brent another telepathic message, assuming she was still alive and that she and Mary weren’t killed by Desmond. But sitting tight with a two-year- old and a five-year-old was a lot simpler on paper than in practice.
The kids had been antsy all morning, and Brent couldn’t blame them. The trek through the woods as they searched for a place to hide out had been a bear, though Teagan had done her best to turn their misadventure into a game. They were, ostensibly, playing hide and seek with Mary and Paola.
But the ruse was thinning as they sat in the two-story house without power, running water, or a single creature comfort.
Teagan was doing surprisingly well managing both kids and pretending she wasn’t scared, even though Brent imagined that he could practically hear her pounding heart.
“We’ve got to wait for the girls to find us,” Teagan said, pinching Ben’s nose.
He giggled, like always, gobbling whatever attention Teagan was willing to give him. Sometimes Brent worried that his son was too competitive with Becca. But Teagan was doing an excellent job of managing Ben’s expectations, understanding that he’d only lost his mother a few weeks ago and was in an almost desperately needy time.
“I’m hungry,” Becca cried.
“Me, too,” Ben said.
Teagan’s smile looked like it hurt. “We’ll have lunch in a little bit.”
They’d packed enough snacks, water, and peanut butter sandwiches to last a few days, but boredom was likely to fuel their hunger.
Brent stood, pacing in front of the sink, trying not to show his creeping unease. He felt trapped in the house and wanted to go somewhere else even though they had nowhere to go.
Teagan reached into her bag and brought out a Piggie and Elephant book and handed it to Ben. “Why don’t you read to Becca? She likes when you do the elephant and pig voices.”
Ben was particularly proud of his reading ability and jumped on every chance to impress the girls.
“OK.” Ben smiled and sat beside Becca at the table.
As Ben read and Becca giggled, Teagan stood, joined Brent by the sink, and whispered, “Any word from Paola?”
He shook his head no.
“What if they start looking for us? I mean there’s not a lot of places on the island to hide.”
“I dunno,” Brent said. “I’ve got another idea, though I’m not sure if it’s a good one.”
“What?”
“I was thinking maybe I could swim to Paddock Island. If I can get there, I can call Ed and tell him what’s going on.”
“Do you know Ed’s number?” Teagan asked.
“Yeah, I memorized it. But … there’s a good chance they blocked his phone from receiving calls except for a few approved numbers. If that’s the case, I’m not sure what to do. Besides, I hate to leave you alone with the kids.”
“I’m not going to lie — I don’t want you to leave either. But if you decide to go, I’ll watch Ben like he was my own.”
“Thank you,” Brent said.
He paced, weighing his options. Brent wasn’t as worried about swimming toward the other island, even though the water would likely be freezing, as he was about abandoning Teagan and the kids. Not that his being on Black Island would make that big a difference. It wasn’t like he was a kick-ass warrior like Ed. But he did have a Glock, and was a decent shot, whereas Teagan was terrified to hold a gun, much less learn to use one. Brent figured he might be able to take out a solo Guardsman or two, but was no match for an entire unit if one was dispatched to bring them in.
He hated feeling helpless.
Hated waiting on someone else.
Hated not being able to help Mary execute her plan against Desmond
.
He wondered if she’d been able to do it, or if the monster had caught her. If so, she may be dead already. If that were the case, there was a damned good chance that Desmond was already searching for Brent, Teagan, and the kids.
His stomach churned and made him feel hollow.
Brent watched Ben reading to Becca and despite his nerves couldn’t help but smile at how his son ate every one of her giggles.
Look at them, happily oblivious to our danger.
The longer Brent stood there watching the children and feeling his helplessness grow, the more he wished he’d stayed at Mary’s and shot Desmond. Of course that wouldn’t have helped Mary get Paola back, but it might have meant his own child would be safe a while longer.
Ben laughed again and looked up to see if his daddy was watching him entertain Becca.
“Good job,” Brent said.
Ben returned to the page, and Brent had to leave the room before emotions claimed him.
He headed upstairs and into a room that looked out over a clearing to the east, the most likely place a search party, or assault team, would come from.
He watched the area, wondering how long they’d be safe for.
Brent spotted someone standing just beyond the tree line. The man, wearing a black Guardsman uniform, seemed to be staring straight at the house.
Brent fell to the ground beneath the window, heart hammering.
Did he see me?
Shit.
He debated whether he should peer out the window again, to be sure his eyes weren’t lying. Instead, Brent decided to run to another window, in a room to the right along the same wall, in case the man was watching the other window, waiting to see if his own eyes were telling the truth.
Brent slowly approached the open window, hands shaking as he crawled along the floor, wishing there were curtains to conceal him. He’d already told Teagan and the kids to stay away from the windows downstairs, and had left them in the kitchen, where windows had all been boarded long ago. And yet he might have stupidly allowed himself to get caught.
The Guardsman could already be on his radio calling for backup.