Heir to the Nightmare

by J. J. Carlson

  “Thank you so much for coming,” said the president, a tall man in a pinstripe suit. “Why don’t you come inside and get out of the cold?”

  “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice,” the congressman replied.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” the president said, grinning. He glanced at Lukas. “Any friend of yours and Doctor Tenley’s is a friend of mine.”

  The Dean, an elegant woman with short gray hair and high cheekbones, was studying Lukas’s features, and after a long moment, she said, “I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

  Staring intently at the floor, Lukas shook his head. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. They had never met in person, but they had corresponded more than once on a broad spectrum of genetics research.

  “People say that all the time,” Lukas said, waving a hand. “I’m afraid I must have one of those faces.”

  She narrowed her eyes for a moment then shrugged. “Have you ever been to our campus before?”

  “No,” Lukas lied.

  “Then you must join me for a tour. Our facilities and equipment are unmatched. And so are our brilliant students.”

  “Thank you, that would be lovely.” Lukas’s face reddened. He was beginning to wonder if it had been wise to bring Congressman Costa along. He hadn’t planned on an extended meet-and-greet, much less a tour.

  A bright new future waited just a few floors down, and he refused to put it on hold. Not for a University President or a U.S. Congressman. Not even for Benjamin.

  “My apologies,” Lukas said, resting his palm against his chest. “But it has been a long drive, and I need to use the restroom. Could you tell me where to find one?”

  The Dean smiled. “Of course.” She pointed to the right, down a hallway. “Just head that way and take a left. The bathroom is the second door down.”

  “Thank you.” Lukas extracted himself from the group, ignoring Benjamin’s probing gaze. He rounded the corner and strode past the bathroom to a set of double doors that opened into a stairwell. He shuffled down the steps. Upon reaching the lowest level, he paused in front of an innocuous metal door and grasped the handle. It was locked, and he didn’t have a key, but he didn’t let go. After several seconds, a scanner hidden within the handle read his fingerprints, and the lock retracted.

  He glanced over his shoulder before stepping inside and shutting the door.

  A light clicked on automatically, revealing a well-organized supply room. Lukas crossed the room and stood in front of a tall cabinet laden with cleaning supplies. He opened the cabinet and held his thumb against the underside of the middle shelf. A small camera flipped into view from a hidden recess on the side panel. He cocked his head to stare into it, and the camera flashed red. He blinked and rubbed his eyes—he hated retinal scanners.

  The cabinet began to slide toward him, slowly and silently. He stepped aside and let it pass then stepped into the open space behind it. There was a dull humming noise, and he began to descend. The tiny lift that had been hidden beneath the cabinet was roughly a meter wide—more than large enough to accommodate his thin frame. But he always felt a cloying sense of claustrophobia when using the lift.

  Closing his eyes, he counted the seconds until he reached the bottom.

  “Doctor Woodfall?”

  He opened his eyes. A woman in her mid-thirties stood in the center of a narrow corridor. She held a large gun in her hands and was aiming it at the floor near her feet.

  “We weren’t expecting you. Is something wrong?”

  He smiled. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” He took a deep breath as if inhaling the scent of a rose. “I have decided to activate the device.”

  Her eyes widened, and her lips moved soundlessly for several seconds before she could find the words. “I…I never imagined it would happen so soon. A decade from now, maybe, but not today.” A gleam passed through her eyes. “Right this way, sir.”

  Jarrod awoke to the gentle rocking of the helicopter. Pain wracked his body, and a wet sucking noise accompanied every breath he took. He tried to sit forward, but a hand appeared on his shoulder and held him down.

  “Try not to move. You’re pretty chewed up right now.” It was Eugene’s voice.

  Jarrod nodded. He shifted his head slightly so he could observe the team leader. “Eli…did he…”

  Eugene frowned and shook his head. “No. Yuri stayed behind and kept working on him until the doctors arrived, but it was no use. Even the best medical technology in the world can’t put a man’s soul back into his body.” He sighed. “They called it a few minutes ago.”

  Jarrod swallowed. The pain in his body suddenly felt blunted, and it was joined by tightness in his chest. He could have saved Eli; he was sure of it. But his own body had been too damaged to reach him. His subconscious had given him a mission as clear as any he had ever received, and he had failed. But this sensation was something more than remorse or disappointment. He didn’t know how to describe it, but he knew it was the result of a simple fact: he would never speak to Eli again. The kind, intelligent, dedicated operative had been erased from his life.

  “I feel…” he started to say but stopped short.

  “Sad? Angry? Bitter? Maybe guilty?” Eugene shook his head. “It doesn’t matter—not right now. What happened on the roof was FUBAR, but it won’t stop Katharos from unleashing their weapon and wiping out mankind. If you want to get in touch with your softer side, do it later. Right now, I need the machine.”

  Jarrod tried to erase the strange, alien sensation in his chest, but he couldn’t. Still, he knew he could continue to function in combat once he had time to heal. “Alright. But I won’t be able to repair myself without water and food.”

  “Here,” Eugene reached into his pack and withdrew two large water bottles. He uncapped them and handed them to Jarrod.

  Jarrod drained both bottles in less than ten seconds then crushed the bottles and shoved them into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then shook his head. “I need more carbon nutrients and minerals.”

  Eugene broke into a crate of MRE’s and passed them, one by one, to Jarrod. He devoured them—plastic packaging, aluminum wrappers, phosphorous heater, and all.

  “Right,” Eugene said, grimacing and glancing out the window. “How long do you need to recover?”

  Jarrod pushed himself up onto one elbow and gauged the severity of his wounds. “Full recovery will take several days. Minimum combat effectiveness…maybe three hours.”

  Eugene shook his head. “We don’t have three hours. Do you think you can walk?”

  The helicopter descended; towering steel buildings appeared in the windows, gradually giving way to trees and lamp posts. The pilot set the bird down next to a bubbling fountain among the steel and concrete desert.

  Jarrod took a deep breath and nodded. “I will try.”

  Eugene watched the multi-billion dollar killing machine step out of the helicopter and collapse face-first onto the pavers. He jumped out after him, wincing as his injured ankle came in contact with the ground. “This isn’t good, Jarrod. I can’t walk for both of us.”

  Jarrod tried to push himself up, but his arms trembled, and he collapsed again. “I am sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. I’m just whining, that’s all.” He tapped his earpiece to switch frequencies then said, “Ops, can you patch me over to the asset?”

  Hank, the FNG, responded a moment later. “You can talk to him in person. He’s coming in from the east.”

  Eugene glanced over his right shoulder and saw a blue Chevy hatchback jump the curb. It jostled back and forth on its suspension as it plowed its way onto the open area beside the George Washington Memorial Fountain then came to a stop thirty feet from the helo.

  Eugene half jogged, half limped his way to the vehicle and appraised the man who stepped out. He wore name-brand, but not overly expensive clothes, and he was average height and well-built—somewhere around one hundred and ninety pounds, and lean. Eugene shook his hand. “Are compact cars st
andard issue for the CIA?”

  The man smiled, adjusted his baseball cap, then shrugged. “Budget cuts. You know how it is.” His voice was edged with concern, despite his easygoing demeanor. “Name’s Smith, but you can call me Smitty.”

  It wasn’t the man’s real name, but Eugene didn’t care. He nodded and said, “I’m Eugene, or Gene, if you’d like.” He spoke loud enough to be heard over the whining helicopter engine. “Do you think you can carry my friend?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.” Smitty nodded at the bloodstains on Jarrod’s clothing. “But are you sure it’s safe to move him?”

  “I’ll be…fine,” Jarrod grumbled.

  “He’ll be fine,” Eugene said.

  Smitty knelt beside Jarrod and pulled one arm over his shoulders. He grunted as he shifted Jarrod’s weight onto his back. “Holy balls,” he muttered as he staggered to his feet. “What the hell have you been feeding this guy?”

  Eugene shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  As the trio made their way to the hatchback, Smitty cocked his head. “I was told I’d be meeting an enhanced strike team. And I have to admit, you two aren’t exactly what I was expecting.”

  “We had a…confrontation before boarding the helicopter,” Eugene said. “You should see this guy when he’s in his prime.”

  Smitty nodded. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, despite the cool temperature, and he took short, shuffling steps under the burden of Jarrod’s weight. “He feels like he could get run over by a dump truck and walk away from it. Must have been a serious confrontation.”

  “You have no idea.” Eugene hurried forward, opened the hatchback door, and pushed the rear seats flat. Smitty let out a groan as he lowered Jarrod into the back of the car, then he stood and stretched his lower back.

  Jarrod bowed his head. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” Smitty wiped his forehead. “So, what should I call you?”

  Jarrod started to answer, but Eugene cut him off. “Boogeyman. Call him Boogeyman.”

  “Fair enough. I can respect the need for anonymity.” He sank into the driver’s seat, pulled his cap low over his eyes, and put the car into gear. Plastering an apologetic grin on his face, he navigated through the growing crowd of onlookers and made a right turn onto the street. The Brown Building was only a few blocks away, and Smitty tightened his grip on the wheel as they drew closer. “I’ve been told there may be armed friendlies mixed up with hostile targets. Is that true?”

  Eugene leaned forward to get a better view of the traffic-clogged streets. “Yes. We also don’t know how many hostiles will be guarding the enemy lab, or where the lab is.”

  Smitty cast a worried glance in his direction. “And…we’re supposed to just…figure this stuff out on the fly?”

  “No.” Eugene pointed into the back seat. “He will. You and I will have to take down the hostile agents while minimizing casualties among the security guards, students, and University staff. And we have to do it quietly—sidearms only.”

  Smitty’s brow furrowed. “Anything else?”

  “Well, it would be nice if we could take one or two of the enemy agents into custody.”

  “I hate to break this to you, but I’m pretty sure this is gonna be impossible.”

  “Not impossible.” Eugene shook his head. “Not when we have Boogeyman on the team.”

  Smitty adjusted his rearview mirror and studied the hulking, wounded figure in the back seat. “If you say so.”

  35

  The compact Chevy slowed to a crawl as it passed the Brown Building. Eugene studied the single-file line of people waiting to enter the building and frowned. “Looks like they’re searching everyone going in. That could be a problem.”

  Smitty kept his eyes on the road and gently pressed the accelerator. “That’s not our only problem. How are we supposed to get him through? I can’t just throw him over my shoulder and walk in.”

  Eugene looked at Jarrod, who shrugged in response.

  Eugene faced forward. He had hoped that Jarrod’s enhancements would allow him to heal by now. But it was simply asking too much—Janson had seriously messed him up. But if Jarrod couldn’t walk, what use would he be in a firefight?

  Something in his peripheral vision tripped his subconscious, and he turned his attention toward it. Ahead of them, trapped in traffic with everyone else, a van was waiting to make a right turn. On the back door, strapped to a custom-made rack, was a black wheelchair.

  “Follow that van.”

  Smitty followed his gaze and grimaced. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I know—I hate myself for even considering it. But we don’t have time for anything else. Katharos might be minutes away from unleashing the most devastating biological weapon in history.”

  Smitty shook his head. “We’re going to hell for this.”

  “We’re not stealing it, we’re borrowing it. You have any cash in here?”

  “In the lockbox under the seat. The code’s 3-3-1-3-4.”

  Eugene leaned forward and thumbed in the combination. The latch popped and the door on the tiny safe swung open. There was a pistol, a pair of passports, and a stack of cash inside.

  He didn’t bother counting. Grabbing the stack of cash, he said, “Let me out here. I’ll catch up on foot.”

  Smitty stopped the car and Eugene stepped out. He limped after the van, hoping he wouldn’t frighten the driver. When traffic ahead stopped, Eugene approached the driver’s window and tapped his knuckle against the glass.

  A young woman wearing scrubs looked out at him, her eyes bulging.

  “It’s okay,” Eugene assured her, “I—I just need your help. My friend is hurt, and I need to borrow your wheelchair.”

  She shook her head, and the look in her eyes told him she didn’t believe him.

  “I promise I’ll bring it back. And I can pay you.” He flattened the wad of cash against the window.

  She hesitated then lowered the window an inch. Eugene forced the money through the crack, and it fell into her lap.

  She sifted through it and glanced back at him. The worry on her face was gone, replaced by unbelief. “There has to be five grand here.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency.”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder at an elderly man. He nodded and said, “It’s alright, Vanessa. He can use the chair, and we’ll return the money to him when he is done.”

  The woman chewed her lip for a moment. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a key. “You’ll need this to unlock it. Let me give you my number so you can—”

  “Thanks,” Eugene said, taking the key. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  He hurried to the rear of the van, unlocked the wheelchair, and removed it from the rack. With three sharp movements, he snapped the chair open and popped the brakes, then he wheeled it back to the car.

  Smitty jumped out and circled the vehicle. He helped Eugene hoist Jarrod into the chair, which creaked under his weight. He draped his coat over Jarrod’s lap to hide the bloodstains, and Eugene did the same for his torso.

  “Hey!” A man in a reflective vest and hard hat called out from across the street. “You can’t park there!”

  “Tow it,” Eugene shouted in response. Lowering his head, he strode along the sidewalk toward the Brown Building. Smitty followed close behind, pushing the chair and mumbling apologies to everyone they passed.

  When they reached the line of students and staff waiting to be searched, Smitty nosed the wheelchair toward the front door. The men and women, who had already been inconvenienced by the unexpected security precautions, scowled at them, but no one spoke a word of protest.

  “Hello there,” Eugene said, smiling at the nearest guard. “Do you mind if we get through? We have an appointment to see Doctor Ross.”

  The guard’s face remained stoic. “That’s fine. But I’m afraid we’ll have to search you.”

  Eugene chewed his tongue for a split-second. “I don�
�t think that’s a good idea. He’s got hepatitis. And gonorrhea.”

  The guard frowned but didn’t budge. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves, and put them on. “Sorry. No exceptions.”

  Eugene leaned in close to Jarrod as if to explain the situation to a patient in his care. He whispered, “Are these guys in on it, or are they clean?”

  “Clean.”

  Eugene stood upright. “In that case, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He lashed out with a tight fist, striking the guard in the neck. The man bent over, gasping and clutching his throat. A few feet away, Smitty performed a similar maneuver on the second guard.

  Eugene continued the attack, ducking behind his quarry and wrapping one arm around his neck. He squeezed tight, cutting off the blood flow to the man’s brain. Within seconds, the man fell limp.

  The people in line had already begun to scatter when Eugene lowered the unconscious guard to the ground. Then, he drew the FNS-9 pistol concealed in his waistband fired two rounds into the air.

  Screams echoed through the street; the onlookers panicked and began to run. Eugene lowered the pistol and held an open palm toward the door. “Shall we?”

  “Sir, you should probably take a look at this.”

  Lukas was staring through a glass dome at a wide tray of agar—a bacterial cell-growth medium. The process of readying the contagion had begun, and in less than fifteen minutes, the bacterio-phages would number in the trillions. Then the weapon would be ready for deployment. He wished to watch his greatest creation until the moment it was unleashed, but there was an unmistakable concern in his soldier’s voice.

  “What is it?” he asked, turning toward her.

  She gestured at a holographic display. “There’s a disturbance upstairs. Three men have forced their way into the building. And, uh, one of them is in a wheelchair.”

  “A wheelchair?” Lukas frowned and walked over to the monitor. It displayed a live video feed of the building’s main entrance. He leaned in closer, studying the face of the man in the chair, and his blood ran cold.