by Brian Parker
He sighed heavily. “Why are you doing this? I’ve given you what you wanted,” he cried. “I just want to see them again.”
“Do what I say and you will,” she said, releasing her grip.
“What else is to be done?”
“Return to your home and await further instructions,” she repeated her order from earlier. “I may have a need of developing a vaccine to prevent the spread of your little illness.”
“A vaccine? Against that,” he pointed weakly at the two men who eyed the tiny movements of the women carefully. He wondered how much mental capacity they retained with the high temperatures burning away at their brains. These two didn’t seem like they were planning to beat their brains against the glass like their previous companion had at least.
“Yes. We will eventually need to leave the prisons that we’ve made of our countries, so I want a vaccine to protect against what they can do.”
“We don’t know what they’re capable of,” he admitted.
“We will determine that at Site 53. In the meantime, begin computer modeling on how you can combat this perfect killer that you’ve designed.”
She pulled her hand from his shirt and strode to the control panel. Reaching out, her hand hovered over the interior door release for a moment. “Don’t ever question me again. Do you understand, Dr. Sanjay?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Her hand position changed and she press the button to change the glass from clear to opaque. “Your women will be returned to captivity—for now. Enjoy Atlanta while you’re there.”
Then, she walked out the door to the waiting duo of guards and shut it behind herself without further comment.
For the thousandth—no, the millionth—time, Sanjay wondered what special hell awaited him when he finally passed beyond.
Pong Jae-Sun looked sheepishly around the corner and watched the retreating bodyguard prod the two women back toward Nampoo Yi’s bedchamber. Pong had cleaned the man’s room many times, seen the naked women chained to the bed. He’d even fondled one of them once when they were in a drugged stupor. He knew they didn’t have much longer left to live in their current state. They’d given up hope and no longer ate.
Pity, he thought as he stuck his hand into the oversized pocket of his coveralls. The bulky plastic he felt there reassured him. He was ready to do this. It was the ultimate betrayal to the Supreme Leader, but the man no longer held power in the DPRK. The real power broker was the Iranian woman, Kasra Amol.
The idea that a foreign woman was in charge of his country was too much for Pong and others from the inner circle. He was a member of the disillusioned political elite—which simply meant that his great grandfather had fought alongside the Great Leader during the revolution. As a reward for their loyalty, his family was allowed to live in Pyongyang, even if he was only a lowly janitor.
He’d learned over the years that there were many people like him, the disillusioned. His fellows wanted to return to the old ways of isolationism and self-sufficiency, instead of joining the global economy as the Republic had done recently. The disillusioned men and women had remained secretive, not even trusting that their spouses would keep their secrets.
Until now.
The evil spirits in the next room would ruin his beloved nation. They were an abomination against nature, brought here by the foreign scientists and people like Kasra Amol. The bucket was almost full. If they waited any longer, it would spill over and there would be no way to stop the overflow. They had to act, which meant someone had to get evidence of the foreigners’ work.
The clunky device in his pocket would record the proof needed to stop them once they got it out of the country. Pong needn’t worry about the journey to the South, though. That was for other members of his group. He had one mission to perform: film the creatures in the next room and get the tape to his contact.
A door opened at the far end of the hallway. The woman and the Indian scientist who spoke funny emerged from the observation room. They walked directly toward him, the man speaking rapidly while Kasra pointedly ignored him.
“There is a mess in the room,” she said in heavily accented Korean as she walked by him. “Find the sergeant of the guard for backup before you go inside to clean it. Understand?”
“Yes, Mistress,” Pong replied, bowing his head. He waited for her to go before raising his head. He had no intentions of letting the guards know he was going into the room. This was his chance. He’d watched from the shadows, ignored like only maintenance people can be ignored, and seen that all who’d gone in had come out. The observation chamber was empty.
When she was gone, Pong rushed over to the doorway and slipped inside. The glass there was transparent and the creatures inside could see him as well as he could see them. It was the best place to record their reaction to him.
The two things in the room reacted to him immediately. They were human once, employees at this very facility, but Pong didn’t know what they were considered now. Mutated freaks were the only words that came to mind.
The creatures bounded across the empty room, slamming into the wall. Both of them vomited a bloody string of mucus onto the glass, partially muddying his view. The thuds of their bodies hitting the window inches from his face reminded him why he was there. He didn’t have much time.
Pong removed the battered fabric case from his pocket. It was a video recording device called a Sony Betamovie. He was told that it was cutting edge technology—whatever that meant. On the side of the device, the faded lines of color underneath black letters in a language he didn’t recognize reminded him of the wildflowers that grew outside of the city. Yellow, orange, red, and purple, the flowers tasted bitter when eaten raw, but their true flavors were released when added to a soup.
He powered on the Sony Betamovie and pressed the button with the red dot to begin recording. Pong knew that his unaccompanied access anywhere in the facility was the sole reason he’d been included in the group’s inner circle, but he didn’t care. Being a member of the inner circle granted him two handfuls of rice a day—more food than his family usually saw in a week.
The creatures inside the room seemed to tire quickly and they stopped beating on the glass. They settled down, staring toward him with their shoulders slumped, defeated. Bloody handprints covered the glass in front of him, obscuring the Sony Betamovie’s view, so he shifted to the side. His movement sent the creatures into a frenzy once more and now he understood. They hunted by sight. When they couldn’t see him, they lost interest.
He walked up and down the length of the glass, stopping before he got to the door. The creatures followed, their fingers and teeth bashing into the ballistic glass in an attempt to get to him. More of the fluid poured from their mouths as they attempted to spit it onto him.
When he was satisfied that he’d gotten enough footage, he turned off the Sony Betamovie and slid it into the hidden pocket inside his coveralls. He slipped into the hallway, directly into a guard.
“You!” the man hissed. “What are you doing in there?”
Pong panicked. What was he supposed to do? If they caught him, he’d be experimented upon like the others. Fear rose up inside of him, threatening to overtake him.
He forced the terror back down into his gut where it originated and said, “Ms. Amol told me to clean up a mess in the observation room so I went to see what it is.”
“And?” The guard fingered the safety lever on the side of his rifle.
“There is a body, and blood everywhere inside the glass. I cannot clean it without subduing the crea—” He stopped. “I cannot clean it without help. The test subjects have to be restrained.”
The guard eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded, shouldering his rifle. “This way,” he said, beckoning. “The control room has a switch that will flood the room with gas. The test subjects will fall asleep and we can strap them down.”
He stopped and looked Pong up and down before pulling a handheld radio from his belt. “Co
mmander,” he said into the radio. “This is Private Ong. I need assistance at the observation room. Ms. Amol told one of the janitors to clean it, but the Cursed need to be subdued.”
The guard held the radio to his ear, so Pong could not hear what the commander said. He pulled it down, placing the device in front of his mouth once more. “No, sir. He is a weak, pathetic janitor. He will not be able to help me with them.”
Once more the radio went to his ear, muffling the response. “Understood,” the guard replied. “I’ll wait here with him.”
The radio went back onto the man’s belt and he pointed contemptuously toward the control room. “Go on. I wouldn’t trust you to watch my back in that room if the commander held a gun to the back of my head. We’ll wait for my squad to get here.”
Pong nodded and sank down onto his heels. Crouching, he could feel the bulky Sony Betamovie inside his coveralls. He hated the idea of waiting until the end of his normal shift, but to leave early would invite an investigation into his actions. He couldn’t afford to let that happen.
For now, the only thing he could do was wait for more soldiers to arrive.
FIVE
* * *
WASHINGTON, DC
ONE MONTH BEFORE THE OUTBREAK
Grady Harper stared at himself in the mirror, noting several dark brown scars on his skin from battles long forgotten—some of them anyway. The narrowness of his eyes and skin tone were the only indicators that he was a quarter Vietnamese. Otherwise, the unknown ethnicities of his grandfather and mother had risen to prominence in the overabundance of reddish brown hair and large frame that easily packed on muscle while keeping him naturally trim.
He was still in extremely good shape, but his age was creeping up on him. The most telling sign of his increasing age was in his face. Where he’d once had smooth skin, now small wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes and there was a slight puffiness underneath them that wouldn’t go away. He also had permanent lines along his forehead that he usually kept covered with a baseball cap. Underneath his graying beard, the skin in his neck was beginning to sag as well, which was as good a reason as any to keep from shaving.
He sighed and flipped off the light before walking into his apartment’s living room. The place was only about 700 square feet, but it was just him so it was more than enough. He had a living room, a dining area attached to the small galley kitchen, a bedroom, and even a small office area where he kept his gun safe, so he was happy with the arrangement. The only thing missing from his midlife crisis was a dog, but Grady’s lifestyle didn’t lend itself to pets; they’d get awful lonely in the kennel with him out of the country for work all the time.
After a quick meal of sautéed chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and brown rice, he washed the dishes and picked up his tablet. Slumping into his recliner, he tapped the screen a few times until the sound of ringing emitted from the device’s small speakers.
“Hewwo, Daddy!” a voice that melted his heart said before the connection went through and his daughter’s face appeared on the tablet’s screen.
“Hello, Lucy Lou.”
“That’s not my name!”
“Yes it is, sweetheart. If I say it is, then that’s your name. That’s how daddies work. We make the rules.”
“Mommy makes the wules,” she refuted.
“Well, that’s true. But Daddy helps her make the rules.”
His four-year-old daughter, Lucy, was the product of an on-again, off-again relationship to his ex-fiancé, Kim. She’d been a bartender when they met and began dating, and then eventually had a child together. The nature of his job had always been a point of contention between them. Oftentimes, Kim accused him of visiting hookers and having girlfriends in foreign lands—things that simply weren’t true. Then, two years ago, Kim decided to move back with her parents in Texas while he was in Thailand and turned off their relationship completely.
Grady had no idea that it would hurt so much not being able to see his daughter every day when he wasn’t deployed.
He talked with Lucy for about twenty minutes, discussing her friends at pre-school, her new favorite stuffed animal, and even how her mother was doing. She had a new “special friend” which meant that Kim was dating someone long term. It was depressing, but not unexpected, even if he had secretly held the belief that they’d get back together one day for the sake of their child.
After he disconnected the call, he was feeling disheartened and needed a drink—more than a few drinks, to be honest. He stood up and looked down at what he wore. Olive green cargo pants and a black t-shirt with The Havoc Group’s logo on the left breast were good enough for the Farmhouse, he decided as he picked up his wallet and keys from the counter and walked out the door.
Grady looked up at the converted rowhome and smiled. As much as the Washington, DC neighborhood of Petworth seemed like home to him after almost twenty years of living there, the Farmhouse might as well have been his actual home. It was his favorite bar because of the low-key atmosphere and the turnover of the crowd. Besides a few regulars and the staff, he usually didn’t see the same person twice—an important desire for someone in his line of work.
Not that he was a spy or anything stupid like that, but as a security contractor, oftentimes for the CIA, he’d been responsible for some serious shit over the years that the various governments and agencies that Havoc dealt with wanted to keep secret. He’d operated on every continent except Antarctica and Australia, but he had spent plenty of time in East Timor during the troubling occupation of the tiny nation by Indonesia. Hell, he’d fought on both sides during that campaign; it just depended on who was paying the bills each month. Havoc liked to keep little details like that from reaching their board members, so the fewer people that their contractors became friendly with, the better.
He said hello to the doorman and waved at the woman behind the bar as he entered. Just because he wasn’t trying to make any new friends didn’t mean he had to be a dick all the time. The downstairs was busy for a Monday night, which gave him pause. Why was it so crowded? There wasn’t a— Ah, there it is, he thought. A hockey game was on the televisions behind the bar.
He liked hockey well enough and had even tried to follow the Capitals over the years since he moved to DC, but the regular season dragged on for so long that it was hard to get into it. There were so many games that an individual win or loss didn’t really mean anything. He’d watch it if it was on above the bar, but he certainly wouldn’t seek it out.
The press of bodies on the first floor was too claustrophobic for Grady’s tastes. Ever since the Gulf War he’d had a problem with large groups of people that he didn’t know and it only seemed to get worse each time he returned from a mission—which had been a major issue during his and Kim’s relationship.
Grady took the steps to the second floor. The bar area there was not quite as crowded as the main floor, and there even seemed to be an open seat at the bar. He considered taking the seat until the bartender stood up from where he’d been crouched at the refrigerator. It was Sean. Grady always got the feeling that something was off with Sean and tried to avoid him whenever possible.
“Balcony it is then,” he mumbled aloud, not even trying to hide the fact that he’d just spoken to himself.
The stairs spilled out onto a rooftop bar. At one time the entire stretch of businesses along the street below had been rowhomes, occupied by families, government bureaucrats, and starving artists. Then the area was rezoned and one-by-one the houses were converted into businesses as the landlords refused to renew leases in favor of the more lucrative business rentals. Now, on this street alone there were three bars, a high-class restaurant that he’d never been in, two law offices, a deli, a coffee shop that wasn’t a Starbucks or a Cosi, and a travel agency that somehow managed to stay in business despite online travel websites.
The weather was a warm, low fifty-something in the chill February night and there was a fire pit off in one corner of the roof surrounded by out
door furniture. Signs on the wall behind the pit told patrons that they would be removed from the premises immediately if they attempted to adjust the fire in any way or threw anything into the flames. Four people sat in the chairs, two couples, each leaning forward to talk directly to one another without disturbing the other couple. That left one empty chair between them, so Grady decided that was where he’d sit initially. That way he could stare into the fire and reminisce about all the bad shit he’d done.
Or at least that’s what the shrink at The Havoc Group told him he should do, reminisce and shit. It would help him put his demons to rest, the man had assured him, but there were some memories that he’d prefer to repress for the rest of his life.
He walked up to the bar, which was a gorgeous mix of hardwood and metals that had taken on the patina of weathered brass. Rachel was behind the bar and her smile brought an even wider one to his face.
“Hey, Grady,” she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss the bare skin above his bearded cheek. “Been a couple of weeks. Where you been?”
“Around,” he deflected. “Actually, I was in last Sunday—downstairs because it was raining.”
“Oh yeah. I was at the Skins game. It was miserable because of that rain.”
He nodded. The Redskins were in the hunt for the NFL Playoffs again this year and Super Bowl mania was in the air as fans compared the current quarterback to Joe Thiesmann, Sammy Baugh, and Sonny Jurgensen. It was a pipe dream to think the Skins would ever make it to the playoffs, let alone go beyond the first round, but their fans were a dedicated bunch who still remembered the franchise’s glory days.
Turning to the matter at hand, Grady thought about what he wanted to drink. He craved something sweeter than his normal Glenlivet 18-Year single malt scotch and decided that the chill also warranted a warm drink, so he asked for an Irish coffee, with only half of the whipped cream. He and Rachel made the small talk of two people who didn’t really know each other, but were comfortable enough to let their guards down just a hair, as she made his drink. When she finished she set it in front of him along with a menu.