Project Pallid

by Christopher Hoskins

  I pause long enough to consider the options at my disposal, but they’re few. As confusing as it all is, Mr. Laverdier’s here, alone with me, and he alone has the answers I need. No matter what, I have to go to him. “Fine!” I yell out. “But I’m not putting down my weapons. In fact, I’m arming myself even more, right now. And if you say anything I don’t want to hear, I’ll slice your throat open without thinking twice about it,” I declare.

  “I can agree to that, Damian,” he says, still flush with the ground ahead.

  “Throw your weapons this way, or I’m not moving anywhere!” I yell.

  “I’m unarmed.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Damian, I’m unarmed. I’ve got nothing. Please. Believe me. I’ll do you no more harm.”

  A tough spot’s even tougher when it comes to having faith in someone who’s entirely faithless. How am I supposed to believe this isn’t just some ploy of his to get me in the open so he can blow my chest wide-open, and at pointblank range? “I don’t believe you!” I yell. “Stand up! Show me!”

  Without hesitation or added delay, he does. Hands in the air, he turns a slow circle and stops to face my direction. He gives himself a pat down, too, but that doesn’t mean whatever weapons he had before aren’t laying and waiting in the grass below.

  “Fine! But I still don’t believe you!” I yell. “One wrong move, and my next knife goes right between your eyes!”

  “Very well, Damian. I understand the terms.” His words sound more and more like someone who’s grown tired of a nonsensical back and forth, so, as much as it pains me to, I believe him. Against my better judgment, I step from behind my tree—my stake in one hand, and a long kitchen knife in the other—and begin slow steps toward him. “Don’t you move until I get there!” I order.

  “I’m waiting right here, Damian.” He speaks with his hands held high, in a symbolic show of submission. “Just relax. Try and take it easy.”

  “Take it easy, my ass,” I mumble, more for me than aloud for him. “I’m going to relax when this is done and you’re dead.”

  Bushes and branches claw at my legs and arms. They reach to hold me back as I push through the remaining underbrush to reach him. On autopilot, I don’t think, and I don’t feel. Doing either might stop me from making this bold move toward a man who I was scared to even make eye contact with, just months before. Now I’ve got mine trained on his like heat seeking missiles. One wrong move, and it’ll be his end.

  I stop a few steps shy of him, shadowed by his towering frame as it eclipses the sun. Its rays cast a light around his head and it gives him an ethereal glow that’s entirely misplaced and wasted on his vile countenance.

  “Speak while you still can.” I’ve dropped my knife, and I’ve got my white-tipped spear just inches from his throat. If he makes one misstep, I’ll jab it through to the light.

  “Damian, your stick isn’t necessary. I’m of no threat to you. You and I are on the same side now.”

  “You and I will never be on the same side, asshole!” I can’t help but scream as I lean forward to graze his throat with the jagged point of my weapon.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Damian. There’s a lot you still don’t know. There’s a lot that’s happened that you couldn’t possibly begin to understand on your own.”

  “Well, start talking! Where’s Catee!? Where’s my Mom!?”

  “If you’ll just put down your weapon, I’ll begin, my boy.”

  “I’m not your boy.” The white tip pushes forward and dimples his throat, but he stands firm. “I’m nobody’s boy anymore. You took my mom … you killed my dad … and as soon as I get what I need out of you, you’ll pay for it. I promise, you’ll pay.”

  “That’s all fine and good, Damian. And I can understand your resentment towards me. Believe me, I can. But I can’t go back and change the things that have been done. All I can do now is try and stop this from going any further.”

  “Any further? Any further?! Look around, Pastor Dave. What’s left?! Nothing! Nobody!! You took it all away, you crazy asshole!!”

  “The language is unnecessary, Damian.” He speaks calmly, almost soothingly, and he seems totally unfazed that a single thrust of my stake could end his existence. “And as I said before, things are a lot different now than you might’ve imagined. And yes, things can and things are going to get much worse if we can’t stop it, and if I can’t retrieve the cure.”

  “So there is a cure?” My spirit lightens with his words and the prospect that I might still be able to stop the pallor from consuming me, too.

  “Yes, there’s a cure. And based on the look of that bite,” he gestures toward my shoulder and to the droplets of blood that form through my shirt. “I’d say you might need to get to it even more than me.”

  “Where is it? The camp?? Let’s go! Move!!” I flick my head to the other side of the clearing, and to the continuation of woods behind him that eventually end at his lakeside camp.

  “I just came from there, Damian. There’s nothing left.”

  “Nothing left! What do you mean, Nothing left? What happened to them? Where are they? Where is it??” My questions are infinite.

  In spite of all the things I’d learned since resurfacing, I’d learned nothing concrete about Catee’s dad or about any of the others who’d survived because of their allegiance to him.

  “There’s a lot to tell, Damian,” he says. And with a quick step back and sideways, he easily dodges the desperate lunge I make to cut through his throat.

  His towering frame has blocked more than the sun. It’s been shielding an upturned mound of dirt, and a large rock, too. My weapon drops when I read its inscription:

  CATEE (2000-2014)

  DOER OF GOOD.

  DAUGHTER OF GOD.

  “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! HOW COULD YOU!?” Blinded by rage, my knife’s in my hand, and its foot-long blade glistens in the sun as I charge at him. “I’M GONNA KILL YOU!!!” The swirling colors behind my eyes could make me black out if rage weren’t fueling me forward. I swing it back and forth, and I lose all words to guttural cries as I move in on my kill. He takes short trots back, but doesn’t flee. He’s bigger, stronger, and he thinks he can handle me, but he’s wrong.

  “ARRGHHHHH!!!!!” I lash forward to stick the blade in his stomach and to slice him up and open like a deer, but he sidesteps again, and his mammoth hands grasp onto my own. “Drop the knife, Damian. It’s not what you think! It’s a lie. A rouse! To throw them. She’s alive! Catee’s not dead!” His dark eyes are penetrating.

  “Liar!”

  One hand clasps my bitten shoulder, and it squeezes until I drop my weapon.

  But I drive my knee forward, instead, to nail him square in the junk and send him hunched forward. I punch out, but the pulsating pain of contact rips through my wounded shoulder and reels me back in a torturous pain of my own.

  “Damian,” he says, and tries to collect himself. “I’m telling you the truth. We weren’t safe anymore. I had to do it. She—

  BANG!

  The deafening explosion rips through him, and my hands cover my ears as I drop to the ground. I can’t hear anything, but I can see clear through the gapping hole that’s been left in his body. Three … four … no … five others, all dressed in the same camouflaged outfits as he is … or was … rush at us through the thin woods that had veiled us from the road.

  I hear them yelling, but I can’t distinguish the words that are blanketed by the ring in my ears, even as Mr. Laverdier falls to his knees and his lifeless body digs into the ground in front of me.

  May 11th: Sometime, P.M.

  I’m blindfolded, and there’s a sock in my mouth. My aching shoulder throbs and my arms stretch behind me. Tied together in thick, bristly rope, they’re bound to my ankles, and my skin chaffs more and more with each wiggle I make to set myself free. I imagine I’m in the back of an SUV because I can hear them talking in the front—five voices. They speak softly as we bounce along and over what I can only assu
me are bodies of the fallen. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. The tires thud as they part and reconnect with pavement, and I’m tossed around the back.

  BKONK-BKONK. BKNOK-BKONK. A walkie-talkie sounds out over the resounding orchestra of my abduction.

  “Grab it!”

  “Where?”

  “There. On the floor. Answer it!”

  BKONK-BKONK. BKNOK-BKONK.

  “I don’t see it!”

  “Under your seat!” A third voice jumps to help.

  BKONK-BKONK. BKNOK-BKONK.

  “This is James,” the second one finds it and answers.

  “How’d it go?” A man’s gristled voice responds from its other side.

  “Just like she said it would.”

  “You found them there?”

  “Yup, found ‘em both—just outside the camp. We took care of him, but something else got to her first. No worries, they’ve been taken care of. They won’t be a problem anymore.”

  “Excellent.” Their handler’s voice crackles in the static of a bad connection. “Did you find anything on him?”

  “Nope. If there’s anything back there, he didn’t get to it. We checked out the place, too—pretty empty inside.”

  “Pretty empty isn’t good enough!” The curious voice, business-like before, turns hostile. “Did you inspect it? Tear it apart? Turn it upside down!?”

  “Give me that thing.” The first voice—presumably the driver—interjects. I try to stay as motionless as possible, and I crane my ear toward the front of the vehicle to capture every word while I’m thrashed over bumps in the road.

  “Hey, Matthew. Ronny here.”

  “Good to hear your voice, Ronny,” Matthew’s voice softens some from the other side of the walkie.

  “Listen, Matthew, you’ve got no worries about the Laverdier place. It was totally empty. We tore it to pieces and lit it up before we took off. It’s a pile of ash now. If there was anything left, it’s gone now. Problem solved.”

  “Excellent. Glad to hear it, Ronny. That’s why we selected you for this assignment. You’ll be going places with the organization—brains and brawn, that’s what we need to move forward with the Stage II.”

  Stage II? What are they talking about, Stage II? If The Whitening was Stage I, what’s left? Where do you go when there’s nothing left at all? And what’s going to happen to me? Was Mr. Laverdier telling the truth about Catee? What was he going to tell me? What plan did he have to stop whatever this is from going any further? Can I do it without him? Was he right? Did I actually need him?

  “Hey, Matthew,” Ronny continues. “We’ve got a little surprise here that we’re bringing back with us.” At this, all five of the thugs break into laughter at my expense. “Didn’t plan on it, but it’s funny what turns-up in the woods.” Their laughter continues, perplexing Matthew and prompting him to question what they had up their sleeves.

  “You just wait and see. I think the boss will be plenty surprised,” Ronny assured.

  “And if not, I’ll put him down like the animal he’s about to become!” a fourth, fresh voice shouts from the seat in front of me.

  “Well, now I’m intrigued,” Matthew crackles over a bad connection. “We look forward to your arrival back, Soldiers.”

  “Should be there in less than an hour now.”

  “Excellent. Over and out.”

  “Over and out.”

  “What do you think they’ll do with him?” A new and oddly familiar voice asks the others. I want to put a face to it, but my head’s clouded with infection, and I can hardly think straight.

  “Not our problem. Not our concern. Couldn’t just leave him out there, though.”

  “We could’ve just shot him, too!” James yelps from the passenger seat.

  “Can you imagine how that would’ve gone over if word ever got out? Not a chance, man,” Ronny says. “We did the right thing. We bring him back there, and we let them decide what to do with him.”

  I can barely fathom what sick, sadistic things they’ve got planned for me, and as much as it horrifies me to become one of them—one of those things that kept me trapped in the dark for so long—I just want it to happen already. Here and now. In the back of whatever this is I’m being banged around in. I want to swap-over and gnaw their faces to bone.

  Whoever this hillbilly brigade is, and wherever they came from, they stole my only chance to fix the wrongs that have been done. And as much as I try to hold it back, to preserve whatever persona of strength I’ve got left, I fall completely apart. My chest heaves in and out. My throat convulses. And the sobbing begins: soft at first, then louder and louder, to the point that I’m bawling behind my spit-soaked gag. My blindfold, wet with tears, plasters against my face.

  I can’t hear them anymore, and I’m lost in my own self-despair.

  Broken.

  Grieving.

  Infected.

  Alone.

  I just want the pain to end.

  May 11th: Sometime Later, P.M.

  I must’ve cried the entire way here—until we’re turning from the main road and winding our way around and around, in what feels like circles. I can feel the tilt of the vehicle as it travels on an incline, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say we’re moving up and around a parking garage. The curiosity of it stops me abruptly, mid-sob, and I do my best to move to a seated position, but I end up awkwardly pinned against the SUV’s side, and at an agonizing angle that only adds more stress to my shoulder. I need them to stop. I need them to let me out: NOW. I can’t take it anymore.

  And after what feels like a dozen more circles, they do. At a jarring stop, I lurch forward, then back, and bang off the seat.

  “We’ve arrived.” Ronny’s voice announces from the front and all the doors open. The truck lifts on its suspension with their exiting weight, and the door at my feet opens to fill the its back with the cool air of surrounding concrete.

  Hands grab me by the ankles. They drag me far enough out to separate them from my wrists, and I kick out for faceless voices that stand outside the door.

  “Mmmffphh! Mmffffphh!! Mmmmpf!” I thrust my still-bound legs wildly. I want to shatter a nose, but I’ll settle for anything else that might get their grimy hands off me.

  “Stop messing around! Get him out here!” a voice yells, and the hands tighten around my ankles to forcefully drag me the rest of the way out.

  For a minute, I don’t think they’ll stop. My legs pass out the opening, and then my hips. My back slides across the carpet, my shirt rides up, and my back burns on the carpet below. My shoulders approach the ledge too fast, and I brace for the inevitable crash to the ground by pulling my head to my chest to keep my skull from cracking against pavement and splitting wide open. But the guy stops. Just at the edge, and close enough to put the fear of it in me, two sets of hands reach out to grab my shoulders, and to stand me upright again.

  The muzzle of a gun jabs hard into my spine and the foul odor of plaque and decay hisses by my ear and assaults my nose. “Make one wrong move, kid, and it’s all over. Do like we say, and you might make it out of this in one piece.”

  I still can’t talk, and I know I can’t fight, so I nod my head in quick approval as another fidgets at my ankles and undoes the rope, so they can walk me to whatever demise they’ve got conjured up.

  “Then again,” the foul breath returns, “maybe we should just put you out of your misery, here and now. Might be better than just waiting for the change to happen. Might be safer for everybody.”

  “What are you saying to that kid?” Ronny speaks from a few feet ahead, presumably moving toward wherever I’d be forced to follow.

  “Just letting him know how happy everyone’s going to be to see him. Letting him know everything’s going to be alight.”

  “The two of you, knock it off. Get moving! Get him inside. NOW.”

  And with my feet freed and the gun jabbed deeper into my spine—so forcefully that I can feel my skin as it sinks into the hol
low tip—my two captors motion me forward and toward the three shuffling sets of feet ahead. Still cramped from my bonds and disoriented from my restricted senses, I stumble awkwardly until they move to my sides and grab my armpits, instead. The gun jabs into my side, and they nearly lift me off the ground as we move forward at a pace that catches us fast with the rest of the group. I skim along on the tips of toes, resigning to drift helplessly across the ground.

  “About time you two dim-wits got it together,” James says, more authoritative than he sounded back in the SUV, when he lost the walkie and podium to Ronny, his more empowered counterpart.

  “Whatever, man,” a voice to my left says. “Where’re we taking him?”

  “Infirmary,” James responds.

  Infirmary? What’s this? The infirmary? Like, a hospital infirmary? Were these guys going to fix me, somehow?Perform some sick experiment on me? I can’t wrap my brain around it, and I’ve got no idea what to do. Should I fight? Kick? Scream?

  “MMMPPHHHH!!!! MMMPPPPHHHH!!!!!! MMMMMPPPHHHH!!!!!!”

  My legs kick madly as we pass through what I imagine is a set of doors. I can’t see, but I feel a distinct change in the air. There’s a greater stillness to wherever we are now, and then there’s the Ding of an elevator button as its pushed, nearby—Electricity??

  “MMMPPHHHH!!!! MMMPPPPHHHH!!!!!! MMMMMPPPHHHH!!!!!!”

  My legs spin furiously as I fight. I bang my torso back and forth between my captors. Arms bound, it’s better to risk being shot than whatever these goons have planned for me.

  “Enough of this crap! We don’t have time for it! Grab his legs!!” Ronny commands. His voice echoes, and he’s already inside the elevator when James and the nameless fourth join my handlers to lift me by elbows and legs. The pain in my shoulder is excruciating now, and it, above all else, makes me scream louder in muffled agony, as I’m carried into the steel box. Its door closes behind us with a Ding.

  I flop like a fish on a dock, suspended between the four men, as the elevator travels down—three, four, maybe more floors—until its doors open with the same cheerful sound that’s completely ambivalent to my situation.