The Felix Chronicles: Five Days in January

by R. T. Lowe

  The TV went black for a second and Connie’s face appeared on the screen, paler than before. “I think that’s enough,” she said, one hand placed lightly over her mouth, her eyes moist with grief. She blew out a small breath and straightened herself, letting her hands rest on the news desk. “What you just witnessed, ladies and gentlemen, is the murder of Robby and Simon Cummings, brothers from Gresham, Oregon who went missing last fall. But it is much more than simply the senseless slaughter of two of our own.” Her eyes shifted slightly, no longer reading from the teleprompter, her grim gaze holding the camera. “It is, in my humble opinion, the demise of the rational world.” She turned slightly to greet a dark-haired spectacled man who had taken a seat next to her. “I’d like to introduce Dr. Singh, a globally renowned geneticist and author of the book: Cloning: Today’s Capabilities, Tomorrow’s Nightmare.”

  Felix stared at Allison and she stared back, both shaking their heads, their eyes speaking volumes. He remembered their conversation at the chapel last night. Allison had nailed it. Lofton wasn’t using a few rogue politicians to peck away at the establishment—he’d turned the whole system on its head in one swift stroke. The general’s letter had pointed the finger at the Democrats and the Republicans for creating the creatures and from what Felix understood about politics, he was fairly confident Lofton had just ruined the political careers of every politician in the country.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Caitlin murmured.

  “You’re not alone,” Lucas replied softly, glancing around the room.

  Students were crying, white-faced and in shock, consoling each other, trying to make sense of the impossible. More than a few had rushed for the bathrooms, nauseated from watching an apparently authentic video of monsters killing and eating two men.

  Pop-Pop-Pop-Pop.

  Felix cocked an ear and Allison straightened, catching Felix’s eye, though no one else seemed to hear it.

  “Now what?” Harper asked, her attention still on the TV. “What are we supposed to do with that? The President’s gotta say something about this, right?”

  Pop. Pop. Pop-Pop-Pop.

  The room quieted as several students ended their conversations, questioning one another with their expressions. Felix looked out the tall arching windows overlooking the Freshman Yard and Satler, the other all freshman dorm, in the distance. “You guys hear that?”

  “It sounded like…firecrackers,” Lucas said dimly, the video stunning him as much as everyone else. Then the confusion clouding his face lifted and he added thoughtfully, “That’s weird. That’s what Tanner told me. He said he knew it was a gun at the mall because it sounded like firecrackers. Firecrackers and popping sounds.”

  Pop. Pop-Pop.

  Felix felt a tug on his sleeve and Allison was off, plowing through the crowd, heading for the doors. Felix chased after her, following her out of the dorm. They sprinted for the center of the strangely quiet campus without a word between them, the path leading them past a rose garden encircled by crooked limbed maples and a small dormered maintenance cottage blanketed in ivy, and as the path climbed, the cupola topped lecture halls rose up before them, tall pillars of white, like rays of hope, against the gray sky. The path leveled off and they emerged from the shadows of the sheltering trees flanking the cobbled walkway, The Yard coming into view. Felix saw them at once. He was about to break the silence, but Allison beat him to it, whispering a single word, “Shit.”

  Chapter 12

  Internal Security

  “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d done your job!” the man’s voice yelled hoarsely through Bill’s phone. “You assured me you could find them. Well”—he paused, and Bill pictured his dad at the Stout family compound in Massachusetts reclined in a leather club chair staring at the TV in his dark paneled library, shaking his head furiously at a frozen image of the Numbered Ones shredding one of the Cummings boys—“looks like they found us.”

  Bill wanted to yell back, but arguing with the old man was tantamount to slamming his forehead into a concrete wall, and it wasn’t as if his dad’s accusations were completely baseless. Bill’s plan to eradicate the creatures in a single surgical strike had failed miserably. Felix had succeeded in killing only two, and now Lofton had unleashed the monsters—Numbered Ones, the media was calling them—on the world.

  The window in his office looked out at a sliver of Lofton Ashfield’s global headquarters, a path connecting to the other buildings in the complex and a stretch of dull winter grass and pine trees shivering in the wind. He glanced down at his phone, studying a moment in time. A man about to die, seconds removed from monsters devouring him, his eyes reflecting an unimaginable terror few could understand. Bill, however, understood perfectly. Only yesterday he’d been in that man’s shoes, confronting the Numbered Ones, watching helplessly as they tore into Felix. He shared the man’s fear, and knew he would have also shared his fate if Felix hadn’t been with him.

  His dad was still lecturing him. “The political fallout from this is going to smother the capital like a nuclear winter,” he complained, sounding more petulant than angry. “General Shale was one of the most influential men in Washington. He served multiple administrations as an independent and both parties at one time or another claimed him as their own. They literally fought over this guy to bolster their own agendas. Now it’s going to be a mad sprint to see who can distance themselves from him the fastest, but it won’t work. No one’s escaping unscathed. The establishment will deny knowledge of the Number Project, but the more fervently they deny it the guiltier they’ll appear. The capital will be in meltdown by the weekend. The public just watched these things eat people. They’re already screaming for blood and they won’t be satisfied until every politician in Washington is swinging from the gallows. Who do you think will fill the void? Who’s left when every Democrat and Republican is tainted by the Number Project?”

  “The ERA,” Bill answered.

  “Exactly! Do you want to tell me Lofton isn’t behind the miraculous ascendancy of that organization?”

  “I don’t recall you ever making the connection!” Bill snapped back, annoyed at the insinuation of foresight his father didn’t possess. The cold truth was neither of them saw it coming. Bill hadn’t had time to consider all the implications of the video’s dissemination, and he couldn’t decide if Lofton would publicly announce his support for the ERA or if he intended to call the shots from the sidelines. Perhaps it would be the latter, he thought, since the Cummings brothers were known to have been hunting in Ashfield Forest at the time of their disappearance and Lofton might try to distance himself from the unpleasant fact that the attack and the other disappearances had all occurred on his property.

  Bill’s flaring temper only silenced his dad for a moment. “Can you imagine what the next video will accomplish?”

  “It won’t be a video,” Bill said irritably, thinking his dad was failing to see the big picture. “Lofton’s no dummy. He’s already used the Numbered Ones to discredit the political establishment, so now—”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” his dad interrupted.

  “He’s got them on the ropes,” Bill continued, raising his voice. “The next blow won’t be a body shot. He’ll go for the head. It’ll be something much bigger and much more public than a couple of guys in the forest having a bad day.”

  His dad went quiet and cleared his throat, generally an indication of grudging agreement.

  Bill checked the time on his watch. No need to take a trip into the woods now, he realized. Logging trails and abandoned operations centers didn’t carry as much importance as before. The playing field had changed and his dad couldn’t seem to grasp the new reality. The digital imprint of the Numbered Ones had reached across the globe and Bill believed whatever the next phase of Lofton’s plan might be, it wouldn’t include confining the creatures to the forest.

  “Lofton’s escalating,” his dad said thickly, stating the obvious, one of his annoying habits. “
He’s moving much faster than we anticipated. We can either sit back and allow him to take control of the government or we can do something about it.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Bill asked hesitantly, knowing exactly what he was going to say next.

  “Is the boy…ready?”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Bill shouted almost before his dad had finished the question. “If you’re asking me if Felix is capable of killing Lofton, the answer is no. He almost died yesterday. Two of those things almost did him in. Pitting him against Lofton would only guarantee Felix’s death. Then where would we be?”

  “Do we have another choice?” his dad demanded. “Containment? That option was eliminated when you didn’t kill the creatures like you were supposed to. Don’t let your feelings for the boy—and his mother—cloud your judgment, William. He was made for this. Why don’t you take off the boy’s reins and let him do what he’s destined for?”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Someone’s here,” Bill said softly and ended the call, glad to be done with his dad. He was weary of these arguments. So many of them over the years and always they came round to the same basic conflict. His dad viewed every problem from 50,000 feet where the answers were simple: ‘just solve it. get it done.’ But when your boots are on the ground and you’re knee-deep in the weeds, you realize generalized edicts aren’t helpful. You couldn’t simply take Felix by the shoulders, point him in Lofton’s direction, and say, “go get him!” That would be akin to cutting Felix’s throat and leaving him on Lofton’s doorstep with a You’re Welcome! card pinned to his shirt. His dad viewed The Warning, like everything else, from ten miles up, so if the prophecy said Felix could stop Lofton then they should just wind the clock and let the hands turn—let fate unfold. His dad, however, failed to appreciate that fate favors the prepared, and Bill wasn’t about to send Felix to the slaughter. Bill had promised Felix’s mother on her death bed he would watch over him, and that was an oath he intended to keep. Felix still needed time. The only question was how much.

  Bill blew out a harsh sigh and pushed his chair back.

  The door swung open and a man in a dark suit stepped into the office. His hair was short and buzzed close at the ear, his neatly trimmed mustache not quite reaching the edges of his mouth. “William Stout,” the man said with a perfunctory glance at Bill, then he slipped his hands into his pockets and his eyes roamed over the office, slowly, professionally, finally fixing on the collection of framed diplomas on the wall behind the desk. “Call me Dalton.”

  “Can I help you?” Bill stood, suddenly on alert. The man was oddly self-possessed, carrying himself as if the office was his own. He was also heavily muscled through the shoulders and neck, his back wide and thick, bowing his arms out at the sides. Dalton was no accountant.

  “That’s a lot of schooling,” Dalton said and whistled, his sharp eyes moving from the diplomas to Bill. “Impressive. AshCorp is very fortunate to have acquired the services of a man with your credentials.” He glanced down at the desk and his upper lip lifted in a wolf smile, his eyes flitting back and forth, taking inventory of every item. “I can see your level three security clearance is clearly warranted.” He raised an eyebrow and gave him a knowing smile. “Access to highly confidential company information must be a requirement to do your job properly. I’m sure you need all that data you’ve accessed and downloaded over the years to help those poor obese secretaries understand that crying into an empty tub of ice cream every night just might be what’s making them fat.”

  “Who are you?” Bill gave him a measuring look. He wasn’t a cop. Not currently anyway, too brash and too rude for that. Probably retired law enforcement on somebody’s private payroll. A hired gun. But whose? “I don’t have you scheduled for an appointment.”

  “I don’t make appointments,” Dalton replied and chuckled. “I’m with Internal Security.”

  Bill felt as though time stood still. He had thought about this moment for years. Dreaded it. In his mind, he’d wondered how it would play out, the moment AshCorp realized he was more than the name printed on the diplomas displayed on his wall. Bill had been living a double life for nearly twenty years. Now AshCorp—and Lofton?—knew something about him that wasn’t part of his official profile. What though? What did they know?

  “Why on earth would Internal Security want to speak with me?” Bill said pleasantly and looked to the door, checking to see if Dalton had come alone. Internal Security operated separately from AshCorp’s regular security personnel—who went about the mundane business of screening visitors at building entrances and ensuring employees parked in their assigned spaces—acting as both AshCorp’s secret service, protecting senior executives on business trips to locations where kidnappings and ransoms were an accepted risk of doing business, and its private army, responsible for defending interests few people knew about and even fewer were willing to discuss. It was a job that suited its members well, all former military, and most, it was said, special ops. They weren’t the sort of people you wanted showing up in your office.

  “Well, William, it’s come to our attention you’re moonlighting across town.” Dalton frowned smugly, picking at a fingernail. “Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with a consultant like yourself taking on other jobs. But don’t you think it’s unusual a finely credentialed man like you”—his eyes flitted to the diplomas—“would be working at a college campus, not as a professor, but as a common laborer, a groundskeeper? Doesn’t that strike you as…strange?”

  There it was, Bill thought, feeling himself staring at the man, his heart thumping loudly in his temples. Confirmation. He supposed it was inevitable. He’d only hoped to delay it as long as he could, to keep his identity at PC a secret from those he worked and interacted with at AshCorp. But today, it seemed, was the day. He stepped around his desk and approached Dalton, glancing at the doorway again, seeing no movement. Dalton was only here to put him on notice, he decided. If AshCorp wanted to question him or take him off site, Dalton wouldn’t have come alone.

  “I enjoy gardening,” Bill answered smoothly, shrugging. “Isn’t what I do with my time my business?”

  “Not when you work for AshCorp.” Dalton laughed humorlessly, his expression hard and insolent. “And you’re a therapist. You don’t strike me as a man who likes to get his hands dirty.”

  Good, Bill thought. That’s right. I’m just a therapist. Keep thinking that. Bill nodded toward the open door, staring down at the shorter man. “Next time please make an appointment.”

  Dalton smiled at Bill, his gaze steady, not a hint of unease on his face. “See you around, William.” As he stepped out in the hall, he turned his head and added ominously, “We’ll be keeping our eyes on you.”

  Chapter 13

  The Growing Stain

  The first thing Felix noticed was their body armor. Helmets, vests, knee pads and shin guards, all battleship gray and conformed to wear like a second skin yet flexible enough to allow the two men to move without hindrance. Then he saw their guns. Assault rifles: deadly, compact, a dull matte black. They stood near the center of the great lawn, huddled together, looking down at one of their rifles. The taller of the two, whose weapon was slung across his back, shouted something, sounding angry, as the other man slapped his hand against the side of his gun, then he gave it a hard tug, attempting, it appeared, to extend the collapsible stock.

  “No bodies,” Allison whispered under her breath as they raced toward The Yard, a line of thick trees concealing them from the shooters.

  Felix nodded, eyes sweeping the horizon, a jolt of fear tightening his throat. The paths and steps to the buildings were clear, no students (and no bodies) in sight. “Call the cops?” Felix said.

  “Never make it in time,” Allison panted, sounding calm. “Dorms are packed. Still watching the news. There’s classes in Stamford, LaPine and some others. We can do this.”

  Felix knew enough about guns to realize two guys with assault rifle
s could kill dozens before the cops arrived, even if they were already on their way. During the recent shootings, the killers who’d armed themselves with automatics modeled after military weapons had left scores dead and wounded in just minutes.

  “Plan?” Felix asked.

  “Get to them before they get to the buildings,” Allison said bluntly. “And don’t get shot.”

  From fifty yards away, Felix heard a tiny click, then the shorter man nodded eagerly, raised the barrel and sprayed the façade of the Culver Building, shattering windows on the second floor and sending up puffs of fine brick powder into the air. Felix’s ears rang as the rat-tat-tat-tat rolled across the lawn, rising and falling, echoing back and forth from one side to the other. Felix had heard the discharge of a rifle before—he’d gone deer hunting with a friend a few years back and his buddy had bagged a nice five point—but it had sounded nothing like the savage relentless thump-thump-thump of the assault rifle, a terrifying roar of power and destruction more chilling than the death cries of a Numbered One. He slowed and looked to Allison, wondering if they should pause and take stock of the situation. His gut was twisting with doubt. Maybe they should hold back for a minute to devise a better plan?

  The shooters shared a few words and then broke away from each other, the taller man, his back still turned to Felix and Allison, jogging off toward the bullet riddled building, the other man starting for the path on the north side where a row of lecture halls looked out onto The Yard.

  “Move,” Felix hissed, snaring Allison’s arm and darting for cover behind the trunk of a big oak outside the Madras Building. They waited a beat, and then, peering around the tree, watched the man duck his head to avoid a long curving branch before turning down the path and jogging away at a brisk clip, his posture rigid, determined.