Aegis League series Boxed Set

by S. S. Segran

  “What do you mean, you’re not able to do anything? My husband’s barely fifty-five! Look at him!”

  Gareth and Deverell swapped inquisitive looks before tiptoeing to the door and poking their heads out into the hallway. A woman dressed in a bright red coat was screaming deliriously at a doctor a few doors down from them. The poor man winced, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

  “She sure is tampin’-fumin’-ragin’,” Gareth whispered. “Wonder what’s got her all riled up.”

  He looked at his brother, who winked at him knowingly.

  “We’ll be back soon,” Deverell promised their uncle.

  The old man waved his hand at them. “Go on, you two. Always were meddlesome . . .”

  The twins waited until the woman and the doctor disappeared into the room, presumably that of the ailing husband, before slinking down the hall. They stopped at the open door and peeped in.

  The woman pointed at the bed, but she was blocking their view of the patient. “Does this look right to you?” she demanded, crying now. “Does this look normal?”

  The doctor pinched his nose. “I am so sorry. This is unlike anything we’ve ever dealt with before.”

  “He’s been in your care for nearly a week!” she shrieked. “And all you can do is apologize?”

  She spun around and walked to the corner of the room, hands covering her face, not bothering to hide the sounds of her sobbing. The brothers were left agape at the sight that met them.

  Lying on the bed was an emaciated man with pale, sagging skin; there was hardly a trace of fat or muscle on him. He was mostly bald with liver spots inked on his head, and deep wrinkles engraved on his face. If anything, he resembled a gaunt and sickly octogenarian.

  Deverell stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Did you say he’s fifty-five?”

  The doctor’s head snapped up. “Sir, I must ask you to leave—”

  “Yes!” The woman ran up to the twins, eyes red with tears. “He was in peak health only a few weeks ago. They’ve run test after test but the bloody doctors can’t tell me what’s wrong!”

  “Hey, now, look here,” the doctor began to protest before stopping himself and facing the brothers. “I need you two to leave right now, alright? This doesn’t concern you.”

  Deverell and Gareth complied and retreated to their uncle’s room. He’d been dozing but sat up attentively when they closed the door behind them. “Satisfied your curiosity?”

  Deverell flopped down on one of the chairs. “Not even close.”

  “What is it, Dev?”

  His nephew shuddered. “There is a patient in one of the rooms down the hall. He looks like a corpse, Uncle. Just skin and bones. And terribly aged.”

  “He’s just fifty-five,” Gareth said, hushed. “According to the wife, he was perfectly fit just a few weeks ago. It’s as if he aged years in mere days.”

  The old man frowned. “That sounds terrible. Could it be some kind of a disease?”

  “Entirely possible. Like progeria, where premature aging occurs. But—”

  “—those who do have that disorder rarely live past their teens,” Deverell said. “In fact, the oldest known progeria sufferers were—”

  “—a fellow from South Africa who only lived to be twenty-six, and an American woman who lived until twenty-nine. The bloke in the other room is in his fifties and it’s only now affecting him. It’s completely unheard of.”

  “How awful. Just . . . so, so awful.” The old man rested his head back on the pillow. “It’s times like these when I can’t help but think of how unfair this world is, how buzzing it is.”

  “It’s not all that bad,” Gareth lied, adjusting the pillow for his uncle.

  “Are you touched in the head? Don’t you see what’s happened to the world in the last few months?”

  The twins went quiet.

  “War has broken out! China and India have gone after Russia! People around the world are dying of starvation because of the bloody crop destruction! We still more or less continue on with our lives because we weren’t affected too badly, but we’re only pretending that we aren’t really surrounded by hellfire!” The old man’s voice shook. “As I said, lads, the world is buzzing.”

  The brothers looked down at their feet.

  Their uncle sighed wearily. “I’ve ruined a perfectly good visit. I’m sorry.”

  Deverell managed a smile. “It’s alright. We’re just worried you’ve tired yourself out more than you should’ve.”

  “I did. That was foolish of me.” The old man coughed. “Go, the both o’ you.”

  “Are you sure?” Gareth asked, biting his lip.

  “Very. I feel a nap stalking me and I doubt you’d want to be around when I start snoring.”

  The pair reluctantly hugged him. “Take care, Uncle,” Deverell said as they headed out. “We’ll make sure Dad visits tomorrow.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  As soon as they exited the elevator on the ground floor, they heard hysterical shouting coming from the reception area next to the Emergency Room. They sprinted down the hallway to where a young couple was confronting the receptionists, both of them weeping.

  “Please,” the husband begged, “please! Get us a doctor! We need help!”

  The brothers came to a grinding halt, the blood draining from their faces when they saw the bundle in the woman’s arms. Something looked out at them, but they couldn’t call it a baby. With deep lines across its face, it looked so haggard, so sickly . . . so old.

  Gareth was unable to take his eyes off the child as a doctor rushed to examine it. He felt Deverell grip his arm tightly. “That’s not right,” his brother said. “That’s not right at all. He looks just like the man in the room, Dev. This can’t be a coincidence.”

  Gareth turned his back to the family. “There’s something wrong about all this,” he murmured. “And with all that we’ve learned these past few months . . .” He glanced over his shoulder at the baby, fear trickling into him. “. . . We should look into this. If it’s more than a rare disease, we’ll have to contact the League.”

  5

  My name is Tony Cross. That rotting corpse crawling toward me isn’t real. Neither is that cobra. I’m—come on, keep it together. Keep it together. Where was I? Right . . . my name is Tony Cross. That rotting corpse crawling toward me isn’t real . . .

  The blaring death metal was certainly real enough, though. The speakers in the opposite corner of the tiny, cramped room were small, mobile, and packed a punch, but with one arm cuffed to the steel bedframe, Tony couldn’t reach them. He would kill for five minutes of silence.

  He stared up at the ceiling through bloodshot eyes and licked his dry, cracking lips. The grinning face of the Cheshire cat stared back down at him. He closed his eyes.

  Not real. Obviously.

  Using sleep deprivation as one of several interrogation tactics was a smart move on his captor’s part, but Tony wouldn’t fold. Though physically on the smaller side, he was resilient, and ferociously loyal to his leader.

  The holding cell he’d been living in for the past while—weeks, months, who knew—looked like a windowless storage room. He assumed he was being kept in a warehouse, most likely an abandoned one from the brief glimpses he got whenever his interrogator opened the door to enter or leave.

  The interrogator, strangely, was treating him decently enough in some aspects. A travel-sized porta potty was just within his reach. A musty mattress lay on the bed. He received food twice a day sometimes, although it was hard to figure the passage of time while being holed up in a room continuously lit by a single incandescent bulb.

  He’d tried asking what had happened to his team; they’d all been locked in a shipping container on the Sanchez farm in Kansas, but after being blindfolded and moved to this new place, Tony had found himself alone. The only answer he’d gotten was that the interrogator had seen to it that his men were now behind bars—which didn’t entirely surprise h
im, given their long rap sheets.

  His ears pricked when he heard the door click open and swing outward. Interrogation session number . . . I don’t know anymore. He’d long since given up trying to figure out the interrogator’s routine and now just went along with it.

  A man entered, slipping a car remote into the pocket of his parka, and hung the coat on a nail in the wall beside the door. A black balaclava covered all but his hazel eyes, and the hood of his sweatshirt was pulled over his head. He turned off the music and the newfound quiet rang in Tony’s ears just as loudly as the pounding death metal.

  Tony raised his head and sneered, tongue resting between his teeth. “You just can’t keep away, can you?”

  The man twirled the silver rings he wore on his middle fingers as he looked down at him. The unpredictability in those intense eyes was disconcerting. “You know the deal.” The voice was toneless and husky. “You give me what I need to know, I let you go. It’s that simple.”

  “And you know my deal,” Tony replied evenly. “You answer my questions and perhaps I just might comply.”

  “You’re more delusional than I thought. You’re not in a position to negotiate.” The man cocked an eyebrow at Tony’s handcuffs. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Really? Because you’ve been doling out this interrogation for a while now. I’m sure you could spare a few minutes.”

  The man slowly crouched in front of him, not once breaking eye contact. Tony’s sneer wavered slightly.

  “You know something?” the interrogator murmured. “I think I just may have a cure for your delusion.” He turned to the open door and let out a whistle. A canine form stalked into the room, the silver-gray fur on its shoulders and back bristling. Tony instinctively moved away from the wolfish beast as it licked its chops at him.

  “Where is your boss?” the interrogator asked.

  “Bite me,” Tony spat.

  “I’m sure Chief here would love to.”

  The animal lunged forward, jaws snapping inches from Tony’s nose. He recoiled, tousled, blond hair falling into his face. He yelled and tried to kick the creature away but weeks of being inert rendered his muscles nearly useless. “I’m not talking!”

  “Back, Chief,” the interrogator said calmly. The animal obeyed its master and retreated from the room, growling deep in its throat.

  “You can try to threaten me,” Tony said, breathing heavily, “but you haven’t hurt me as much as you could have. Either you have some kind of a personal code or you’re under orders not to seriously harm me.”

  The man ignored him and turned the music back on. Tony shuddered involuntarily at the sudden discharge of throaty screaming over raucous guitar riffs. He watched as his interrogator grabbed his coat from the wall, slipped it on, and exited the room, shutting the door behind him. This had been one of the calmer and shorter sessions. Still, Tony tugged angrily on the handcuff, trying for the thousandth time to break free, but he was locked in. Bruises around his left wrist taunted him about his previous failed attempts.

  With great effort he climbed onto the stale-smelling mattress and lay askew, one leg off the side. It wasn’t so much the fact that he was captured that annoyed him, but rather that he was unable to be at his leader’s beck and call.

  Of course, having been caught is embarrassing. I’m probably the laughing stock of the Inner Circle.

  A barely perceptible glint at the far end of the bed pulled him away from his self-pity. He stretched out, pushing two fingers into the hole in the mattress until he felt something thin and smooth against his fingertips. Pinching the object, he raised his hand to inspect it. To his surprise, it was an old paperclip.

  How come I’ve never noticed that before? he wondered, confused. But his confusion grew into cautious delight. This could be his ticket out.

  He straightened the clip, stuck it into the lock of his handcuff, bent it until it was the right shape then turned it, working the end back and forth. There was a small, distinctive click and the cuff opened. He slid his hand free, tenderly touching his bruises, thrilled that he could finally move and stretch. Despite the disgusting music that made his skull throb, he was much more at ease.

  And he had a plan.

  * * *

  It felt like hours before the interrogator returned. Tony was already positioned to look as though he was still cuffed as the door opened. “Hey, big fella,” he greeted as the man turned the music off. “Thought I’d never see you again.”

  Though only the interrogator’s eyes were visible, his gaze conveyed a scathing smirk well enough. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on the nail.

  Tony counted the man’s steps as he approached. When he was a couple of feet away, he launched himself at the masked figure, throwing him off balance and into a wall. With the interrogator momentarily stunned and winded, he grabbed the man’s coat and ran out of the room, bare feet making no sound on the dirty concrete. His legs protested at the sudden exercise but he pushed on. Though the building was dark, he saw stars through a skylight in the high ceiling. Frigid gusts of wind billowed through broken windows. Fading light outlined a single ill-fitting door.

  It’s a warehouse, alright. Looks like it’s been out of commission for ages.

  From the darkness, his interrogator’s voice thundered through the building. “Chief! On him!”

  A howl echoed inside the warehouse. Unable to pinpoint where it was coming from, Tony sprinted and hit the door, which opened into cold outside air. He rounded the edifice, frantically clicking buttons on the car remote. A blaring alarm went off and he followed the sound to the front of the warehouse where an old, dirty red pickup hailed him. As he hobbled over, the sound of breaking glass made him look back.

  The muscular, wolf-like creature had crashed through a window and was making a beeline for him. He jumped for the truck, slamming the door just as the dog leapt onto the hood. He fumbled the key into the ignition and the vehicle roared to life. Speeding away from the warehouse in reverse, he did a one-eighty. The animal held on for a few seconds before being shaken loose.

  Shifting gears, he tore down a dirt road past other decrepit buildings. Graffiti defaced the brick and stone walls. He was driving too fast to make out most of them, but one stood out starkly: NO GREEDY CORPS. NO CORRUPT GOVT. BURN THEM ALL DOWN.

  A layer of frost on the dirt and grass reflected under the truck’s headlights. There were no streetlamps until he approached a main road where the crumbling industrial zone gave way to residential buildings. He kept checking his rearview mirror. Though he could see no indication of pursuit, paranoia drove him to step on the gas.

  More signs of life appeared. A handful of cars came and went. He peered around for street signs but couldn’t make out names in the dimness. Where am I?

  Another check in his rearview mirror caused his heartrate to shoot up. A pair of headlights had materialized some distance away. Is he following me? Or is that a local heading somewhere?

  Either way, he wasn’t keen to find out and floored it.

  The truck roared as it picked up speed and barreled straight through a four-way stop sign. Bright light suddenly flooded into the vehicle from Tony’s right. He spun the wheel but couldn’t stop and the truck smashed into the side of a small car. He jolted forward, smacking his head on the steering wheel. Groaning, he pushed through the pain and made sure the pickup was still functioning, then backed up and sped away from the scene. A middle-aged woman who had staggered out of the car screamed at him.

  Oh, shut up. At least you’re alive.

  The truck’s headlights lit up a large green sign by a freeway ramp—Edmonton 400 km. Tony’s eyes stretched wide.

  “Edmonton . . . Canada?” he exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  He entered the freeway, which seemed almost devoid of other cars. Something dripped down the bridge of his nose. He wiped it with his hand and crimson colored his palm. Grumbling, he pressed his arm against his forehead so his sleeve could soak up the b
lood. The cut hadn’t looked too bad in the mirror.

  He eyed the gas gauge. Full tank. Good, ’cause I don’t have my wallet or phone. I need to figure something out, fast.

  The pickup’s dash clock read just after 10 p.m., which meant it was 9 p.m. in California. He knew a man there who could help him with his situation, who was most likely working late in Phoenix Corporation’s office.

  He checked his mirrors and did a double take. Was that the same pair of headlights from earlier? Making a split-second decision, he took an exit into a gas station to see if the vehicle would follow, but the black Dodge truck cruised past without slowing. Tony let go of the wheel and leaned back, swallowing in relief.

  Okay. It’s okay. I’m good.

  He parked the pickup and scoured for loose change, and was about to step out when he realized he was still barefoot. He dug around behind the driver’s seat, finding a pair of old work boots. Then, with his head down, he slunk to a payphone to make a collect call. As he waited to be connected, he examined the newspaper stand outside the door of the gas station. ‘Food riots continue across province’? Really? In Canada?

  A man on the other end of the line answered, business-like. “Hello?”

  “Adrian. It’s Tony.”

  There was the slightest pause. “Tony who?”

  “Tony Cross.”

  A longer pause. Tony sighed and supplied a few nonsensical phrases to give the man on the other end time to electronically verify his voice.

  “Tony! What in the—how? What happened? Where are you?”

  “I’m two hundred and fifty miles from freakin’ Edmonton, Adrian.”

  “Canada?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But what . . . who—”

  “Listen to me. I get it, you have a lot of questions, but I need to talk to the Boss right away. I’m not on a secure line and I need you to patch me through, scramble my call.”

  “I . . . yeah, sure. Will do. Standby.”

  Tony drummed his fingers on the payphone box. Without warning, a voice spoke in his ear, almost metallic from the effect of a digital voice modulator. “Anthony Evander Cross.”