BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  “The guards are not Irish, as I'm sure you noticed,” Brian told Sean. “They are ex-Israeli commandoes. The one on the right has a kinsman who will be competing in the Olympics next year. Wrestling, isn't it, Ciarán?”

  Ciarán glanced into the rear view mirror. “I believe so.”

  “When his competition days are over, we hope to recruit him, as well.”

  The gate closed behind them. Bogs lined both sides of the long road ahead. The rugged Twelve Bens mountain range to the north rose in the distance like sentinels.

  “You will find we have a rather eclectic ensemble. Our cooks are Cordon Bleu chefs from France, although, for variety, we have a few from Italy. The gardeners—Dr. Dunne still enjoys puttering with his flowers—are from Japan. The housekeepers are German. We have some Spanish and a few Greek laborers, but most are from the Netherlands. They seem to possess a superior work ethic. There are no blacks and no Chinese, and with the exception of Andrei Barinsokhov, no Russians.”

  “And there's only a handful of us Irishmen,” Ciarán put in.

  “Lazy sods that we are,” Brian quipped, and the two men exchanged a laugh.

  “In all, there are about three hundred inhabitants of Fuilghaoth.”

  “What about the Stalcaires?” Sean asked, clearing his throat to get rid of the rust of disuse.

  “He speaks!” Brian exclaimed, slapping a hand to his chest. He grinned at his son, but when Sean did not return the gesture, he rolled his eyes. “Lighten up, lad.”

  “What about the Stalcaires?” Sean repeated, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

  “They are Reapers,” Brian answered in a sober tone. “Therefore, they are of Gaelic extraction. Some Irish, some Scots, and one or two Welshmen.”

  Sean frowned. “Tym Cullen was—”

  Brian waved away the suggestion. “If he'd stayed here, he would have become one, given time. No, he was not a Reaper, otherwise Dorrie would not have been entrusted into his not-so-gentle care.”

  “Celtic killers,” Sean mumbled.

  “No worse that IRS hit men or Provisional bully boys,” the driver snorted.

  “Fuilghaoth,” Brian said, pointing to Sean's right.

  The building was larger than Sean expected. Made of a dark colored stone, it appeared to squat on the land like a feudal fortress, the Ballynahinch River flowing past as though it were a redirected moat. There were no windows on the front of the building, and the thick iron doors that opened to admit the limousine were the only break in the forbidding façade. Looking back as the wide doors closed behind them, Sean shuddered. The land disappeared with the shutting of those iron portals. Above, around, and beneath him was the mud-colored stone.

  Facing forward again, he saw a long tunnel lit with what looked like flickering torches. He frowned.

  “Dr. Dunne likes high drama,” Brian observed dryly. “He had the lights crafted to look like burning rushes. It lends a certain atmosphere to the place and rather sets a mood, don't you think?”

  “It's creepy as hell,” Sean grumbled.

  “I imagine the imagery is just what the architect Dillon Butler envisioned when he helped Dr. Dunne design it.” At Sean's look, Brian shrugged. “Remember what is written at the entrance to Hades in Dante's poem?”

  Ciarán laughed. “Fits, too, don't it, Doc?”

  Sean couldn't remember the tenth grade mythology he had learned in Mrs. Browne's English class.

  “'Abandon all hope ye who enter here,'” Brian reminded him. “You might say Ciarán, here, is our very own Charon, the boatman who ferries the souls of the dead across the River Styx.”

  “We even got what Dr. Dunne calls the Cerberus,” the driver joked.

  “Indeed we do. Just as the underworld had its three-headed dog to keep those who Charon rowed across the River Styx from leaving, we have three of the most lethal guards in the Stalcaires posted at the main entrance to Fuilghaoth. No one can get past them. Anyone attempting to leave the facility without permission is automatically exterminated.”

  “Tell him how, Doc,” Ciarán insisted.

  “Fuilghaoth can't take chances of letting those who have been implanted—either by choice or by chance—out amongst the general population. If someone tries to get out without permission, it is assumed they have been implanted. The Cerberus’ have flamethrowers and simply incinerate anyone trying to leave. No questions asked.”

  “Charming,” Sean commented. He began to wonder how long the passageway was and grew unsettled when he realized it was cantering downward as the limo crept over the fieldstone cobbles. He looked at Brian. “Are we going underground?”

  “Aye. There are five levels above us and two below. General offices are on the first floor. The living quarters, recreation areas, and dining halls are on the second floor. Third floor is the health center—sickbay, the gymnasium, sports complex, etc. The fourth floor is where the labs are located and the fifth floor belongs entirely to Dr. Dunne. The containment facilities are subterranean. Along with the parking garage and station workshops.”

  Sean shifted in his seat, the walls of the tunnel seeming to pulse toward him. “I don't like closed-in places.”

  “That is your parasite. I never had a problem with claustrophobia until I was implanted.”

  There was a bridge ahead of them with a gate blocking the way. A tall man, holding what could only be a state-of-the-art flamethrower, stood directly in front of the gate, the weapon held across his chest.

  “The first of our Cerberus,” Brian said. “There is another on the bridge and one at the other end.”

  “Reapers can't cross water, so that's the purpose of the bridge,” Ciarán said. “And the chances of them getting past even one of the Cerberus is slim to none, eh, Doc?”

  Brian chuckled. “Indeed.”

  Bringing the limo to a stop, Ciarán lowered his window. “Afternoon to you, Risteárd. Bringing Dr. O'Shea and his son into the facility.”

  The burly guard nodded. He stepped back, waved a hand to the guard at the other end of the bridge, and the gate began to lift.

  “Three-hundred amps of electricity are running through that gate,” Brian remarked. “Not enough to kill a Reaper, but enough to stun him long enough for one of the Cerberus to do his fire dance.”

  Sean gaped. “Not enough to kill him?”

  “Only complete incineration will kill a Reaper. I told you that already. You can decapitate one and kill the human body, but the revenant will survive and crawl out and look for another host. Might be animal, might be man, but the parasite will do all it can to stay alive.”

  Sean shuddered. “The more I hear, the worse it sounds.”

  Brian patted his knee. “It's not as bad as you're imagining, lad.”

  The bridge was made of corrugated metal, and the tires sang as the limo moved over the surface. Halfway across, Ciarán slowed down. “Afternoon, Angus,” he said as they passed the ugliest man Sean had ever seen. His face was a mass of scar tissue and puckered flesh.

  “Looks like someone put his face through a meat grinder, eh?” Brian laughed.

  “What happened to him?” Sean asked, turning to look at the man they'd passed.

  “Chemical burns. Happened when he was a mere child. He was making a bomb and it went off in his face.”

  “Too bad it didn't happen after he was implanted,” Ciarán declared.

  The driver braked before the second gate as the obstruction began to lift. A younger man stood guard at this final entry point.

  “That one's name is Myles O'Rourke,” Brian said in a low voice. “He has killed nineteen men who have tried to leave without permission.”

  “About as mean as one of your timber rattlers,” Ciarán quipped. He eased forward off the bridge, nodding instead of speaking to the guard as they passed. “Don't like to have nobody messing with him.”

  “You'd do best to stir clear of O'Rourke,” Brian suggested. “He's about as evil as they make ‘em.”

  Although the limousine windo
ws were darkly tinted, Sean had the feeling Myles O'Rourke was staring right into his eyes. Despite his dark good looks, O'Rourke gave off an aura of violence and fury that made Sean recoil against the seat.

  “Aye, he could see you, lad,” Brian told him. “He just memorized what you look like.”

  “Just in case he ever has to come lookin’ for you,” Ciarán said solemnly.

  Brian leaned over and whispered to Sean. “Reapers track their quarries through the generic makeup of the quarry's blood, through the DNA, but Ciarán doesn't need to know that.”

  The limo was passing under a low archway upon which was carved the words—Imeacht Gan Teacht Ort.

  “What does it mean?” Sean asked.

  “'May you leave without returning,'” Brian answered. “It is an old Celtic curse.”

  Ciarán chuckled. “In other words—Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”

  Sean had an impulse to open the limo door and flee, taking his chances with the guards.

  “You wouldn't get past O'Shay,” Brian said softly. “No one ever has.”

  Sighing deeply, Sean slumped in his seat, his body cold and numb as the limo cleared the archway and entered a brightly lit parking garage. He paid little attention to the fleet of limos nestled along the low granite walls, or the dozen or so black SUVs angled into slots close to a bank of elevators. Four military all-terrain vehicles, though, caught his eye.

  “Perimeter patrol,” Brian explained. “At any given moment, there are four such conveyances roaming the fence line.”

  Sean stared at the machine guns mounted on their passenger sides. He looked away, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.

  Stopping before the elevators, Ciarán put the car in park and got out, coming around to open Brian's door first. As soon as the older man stepped out, Ciarán ran around to open Sean's door. He smiled crookedly.

  “Thanks,” Sean said.

  “Go raibh an Ghaoth go brá ag do chúl,” Ciarán said with a salute.

  Sean nodded. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans, wondering what the Gaelic words meant.

  “One of the things you'll master is the language,” Brian said as he joined Sean.

  “What did he say?” Sean asked after Ciarán climbed into the limo and pulled away.

  “May the Wind be always at your back.”

  Brian pushed the button on the far right elevator. The door pinged and the stainless steel portals slid open with a soft rush of pneumatic air. The cage's interior was also stainless steel, polished to a high sheen. On the floor was thick black carpet. Overhead, a wide wire mesh covered the light.

  Brian pushed the first floor button. “We'll get you signed in, then I'll take you to meet Dr. Dunne.”

  “Can't it wait?” Sean complained, putting the tips of his fingers to his temples.

  “No, it can't. What's the matter?”

  “My head hurts.”

  “A headache?” Brian repeated, frowning. “When did that start?”

  “When we entered the elevator.”

  Brian's frown deepened. He stared at Sean and made no move to exit the elevator when the doors opened on the first floor. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough that all I want to do is lie down.” Sean squeezed his eyes shut, for the harsh overhead light was causing him acute pain.

  “You have to be signed in,” Brian insisted, taking Sean's arm. “I'll get you an aspirin while you're registering.”

  Leading Sean to a semicircular desk just to the left of the elevators, Brian reached into his breast pocket with his free hand and took out their passports. “Sean Daniel Cullen,” he told the man behind the desk.

  The man, dressed in a dark brown uniform, opened Sean's passport, looked at it, then walked into an office. In a moment, he returned with another man, clad in a green uniform.

  “Welcome home, Doctor,” the second man greeted Brian. “So this is your son?”

  “Aye,” Brian replied. “He's tired, so let's hurry this up.”

  “Understandable.” The man held out his hand. “This way, please, Mr. Cullen.”

  Sean followed him into the office.

  “Please have a seat.”

  Sean sat in a chair beside the desk.

  “We have several sets of papers for you to fill out.” At Sean's grown, he smiled apologetically. “Most you can worry about tomorrow, but I do require some information before you can be allowed upstairs.”

  Sean sighed as three pages were laid in front of him. He could barely see the writing his head hurt so much, but he took the pen extended toward him and began filling in the information. He looked up as Brian came in with a glass of water.

  “Here, take these,” Brian said, opening his palm.

  “What are you giving him?” the man behind the desk inquired.

  “Aspirin. Long flight and bright lights. Wicked combination.”

  The man nodded and wrote it down in a chart.

  It was all Sean could do to answer the questions on the three sheets, rubbing at the agony over his right brow as he wrote. When he finished, he slid the papers across the desk.

  The man scanned them briefly, then looked at Brian. “I've told him we can hold off on the in-depth questionnaires until he's rested.”

  “I appreciate that.” Brian laid a hand on Sean's shoulder. “Let's go, lad. Dr. Dunne is waiting upstairs.”

  Sean wearily pushed himself from the chair. He wobbled for a moment, grateful to Brian, who snaked out a hand to steady him.

  “I detest jet lag,” the man behind the desk commented.

  “It's a bitch,” Brian agreed.

  “His first plane ride, wasn't it?”

  “Aye.”

  “He'll get used to it.”

  “That he will.”

  “You might want to delay taking him in to see the Reaper until after you meet with Dr. Dunne,” the man suggested.

  “Aye, I think I will.” Brian laughed. “Don't want him puking on me, you know?”

  The elevator ride to the fifth floor was an excruciating experience. The higher the cage rose, the worse Sean's pain became. When the cage settled, he groaned and clutched his head as though it were about to explode. He sank to his knees on the dark carpet, bending over with the agony, just as the elevator doors opened.

  “When did this start?” a man demanded and stepped into the cage.

  “When he entered the elevator in the parking garage,” Brian replied.

  The stranger hunkered down beside Sean. “Son, I'm Dr. Lutz. Where does it hurt?”

  “Over my right eye,” Sean gasped, pressing his fingertips against the spot.

  “Have you had headaches like this before?”

  “N...no,” Sean whispered, swallowing the nausea that had suddenly bubbled up his throat.

  “Call down and get a hundred milligrams of tenerse sent up,” Lutz told Brian. “STAT!”

  Brian reached for the elevator's phone and punched in the sickbay's number.

  “Let's get you to a couch,” Lutz said, putting his arm around Sean and helping him to his feet. He staggered with Sean's heavier weight, but managed to walk him out of the elevator.

  “Lights, dim!” Lutz commanded, and the overhead lights lowered dramatically. Leading his charge to a long gray suede couch, he helped Sean to lie down. He glanced around as Brian joined them. “Did you take him to see the Reaper?”

  Brian shook his head. “As soon as he said he had a headache, I knew that wouldn't be a good idea.”

  “You're right,” Lutz agreed.

  “I want a full neurological workup done on him as soon as possible,” a new voice said.

  “Yes, sir,” Brian replied. He laid a hand on Sean's shoulder. “Sean, this is Dr. Daniel Dunne.”

  Sean tried to get up, but Lutz held him down. “Just rest, son.”

  “Call down and ask Helen how things are there,” Dunne told Lutz. He leaned over the sofa, one hand on the back and one on the arm. “Nice to meet you, Sean.”
<
br />   “Hello,” Sean mumbled, forcing himself to meet the doctor's gaze.

  Dunne straightened. “His pupils are dilated.”

  “I noticed,” Lutz responded as he took out his cell phone and punched in a number.

  When the elevator door opened, Brian walked over to take the syringe from the nurse. “Tell them to get one of the containment cells ready just in case.”

  The nurse flinched, looked past him, then spun on her heel, hurrying into the elevator as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her shoes.

  “Helen?” Lutz said into the phone, then glanced quickly at Dunne. “How bad?”

  “Get some Reapers up here,” Dunne said.

  “Yes, sir,” Brian acknowledged, then went to the phone on a nearby table.

  Lutz rang off and turned to Dunne. “She says there was minor agitation noted about thirty minutes ago. Five minutes later, there was a fluctuation in the readings, increasing steadily. It has changed dramatically within the last ten minutes. At the moment, there is a vast disturbance.”

  Dunne drew in a long breath. “Give him the tenerse and let's see what happens.”

  Sean hurt so badly he hardly noticed the alcohol being swabbed on his neck. Nor did the sting of the needle entering his carotid artery make much of an impression. But as the thick liquid began to spread through his artery, he gasped with the burn of it and slapped a hand over the area. “Mother of God!”

  “I know it hurts,” Brian said, squatting beside Sean, “but it will help, Seannie. Just hold on.”

  Sean stiffened as though someone had driven a steel rod through his spine, then sighed deeply as the drug took control of his system. He relaxed, his limbs loosing their rigidity. His lids fluttered, his eyes rolled, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  “I remember the first time I was given that stuff,” Brian stated. “It was like I was drifting on a cloud.”

  “It's a hundred times more potent than heroin,” Lutz said as he punched a number into his phone.

  “And just that much more addictive, too,” Brian said soberly.

  “Watch what you say,” Dunne cautioned in a low voice, though Brian knew Sean could not have heard his comment.