Fallen

by Ann Simko

  An odd look crept across his features as the memories invaded. "But I just kept right on breathing. Finally, after I decided they weren't going to doing anything to help me, I pushed the bones back in myself. I should have died, but I didn't." He showed them the slight unnatural bend to his arm. "It never healed completely right. They broke it twice more like that. They told me I'm a quick healer." He gave Dakota a horrifying grin. "Lucky me."

  Dakota and Montana exchanged appalled glances. Ito's only reaction was to shift his weight to the other foot.

  "How did you get out, Michael?" Montana's use of Ricco's first name was the only indication to Dakota of how the boy's story had affected him.

  Ricco shook his head. "Just dumb luck. They usually sedated me before taking me to the medical facility. The times they didn't, I knew it's going to be bad."

  "Why's that?"

  Ricco met his eyes. "That was when they want to study my pain responses. They didn't sedate me that last time. I had stopped fighting them long ago, so they weren't very careful." He sighed. "They hadn't restrained me yet when the power went out."

  "And you ran," Montana concluded.

  "Hell yeah, I ran...sir. Honestly, I was hoping they would kill me. I sure never expected to get out of there alive. I never expected to get free."

  "But you did."

  Ricco closed his eyes in exhaustion or pain, Dakota wasn't sure which one. He opened then again before he spoke, and this time grief was evident in his voice. "And innocent people have died because of me."

  "Don't put that on yourself. It wasn't your fault."

  "They wouldn't be dead if I hadn't escaped. Don't know whose fault it would be but mine."

  "Try the ones who pulled the trigger."

  It was clear from the look on his face that Ricco wasn't buying it.

  Montana put a hand on his arm and looked him square in the eye. "Michael, you aren't alone anymore, and you aren't going back. That's the first thing you have to understand."

  Ricco looked back at the three of them and his expression showed he wanted to trust them. But he clearly wasn't sure he remembered how. "And what's the second, sir?"

  "The second, Private Ricco, is that if you ever draw a weapon on me again, there will be no second chances, understand?"

  Ricco lowered his eyes, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a small, embarrassed smile. "Yes, sir. I understand."

  Chapter 9

  He was known only as The General. His life was spent in the shadows, underground away from the glaring light and the prying eyes of those who would judge him. His world was one dominated by secrecy and the suffering of others. Suffering brought about by his word, his hand, his vision. That was how he thought of himself—a visionary, a humanitarian. He existed for only one purpose: to protect and maintain the Program.

  The General sat at a desk in the bunker they had hastily recommissioned. The paint on the walls may have been green at one time. Now it was chipped, flaking and gray. Cold and damp, it had the smell of disuse, mold, and neglect. The cramped quarters combined with the weak generator-driven light gave the space the haunted feeling of a mausoleum.

  He ignored all the discomforts while he reviewed the handwritten entries of his predecessors, lightly brushing his fingertips across the antiquated signatures as if they were religious icons. He smiled as he thought of that analogy.

  The program was very much like a religion. He, and the men who worked for him, operated on faith, with the belief that what they did benefited all of mankind. Those who suffered at his hands died for that belief. Yes, the General decided, the Program was a religion and he and those before him, were the ones who saw manifest destiny before them. He sighed, feeling he had let his brethren down with the escape of Private Ricco.

  The line of his predecessors went back more than a hundred years. No one knew their true names. Sometimes he almost forgot his own. Each General selected his replacement years before retirement, meticulously grooming and training him to take his place when the time came. From that point on, each was known only as the General.

  It was a position of power, of anonymity, and of great responsibility.

  The work they did was accomplished in secrecy because it would never be understood, but those who would condemn them had no moral or ethical dilemmas when it came to reaping the results the Program provided.

  Now everything they had accomplished, all the years of research and hard work, was in jeopardy.

  The General stood and kicked the chair back in a sudden explosion of anger. His fists clenched and unclenched as he paced the small room and struggled to control the rage that simmered just beneath the surface. Anger would accomplish nothing. He knew that. His life demanded control. He would accept nothing less from those under his command, so how could he accept less from himself? The fate of mankind was in his hands. What he and his predecessors had accomplished was vital to the survival of the species.

  "Human beings are such pathetically flawed creatures. They demand perfection, but are they willing to go to the lengths necessary to achieve it?" His words echoed off the naked walls.

  Receiving no answer empty room, he spun around and pointed an accusing finger at the wall behind him. "No, of course not, they are squeamish when it comes to the real work. No one wants to get their hands dirty. They play with words such as morals and ethics, decency and humanity, but are the first to demand a cure for whatever ails them!"

  He stopped circling the desk and stood still, willing the anger back inside. When he felt some measure of control, he smiled. He had no time for other people's idea of what was right and what was wrong. "What's a little blood compared to what you have been given? Ungrateful idiots!"

  He continued his pacing, but at a less manic pace, and reflected on the Program's many achievements: the cure for polio; the varicella vaccine; the discovery of HIV; the discovery of the first antibiotics and all the new classes of drugs needed almost daily to combat more virulent forms of viruses and bacteria. Add to that new surgical techniques and orthopedic procedures to repair injuries that used to demand amputation; organ transplants; pain control; and even the recent cadaver face transplants to benefit severe burn victims. The public bought the lies, that all the miraculous medical breakthroughs over the last several decades had been the result of research on lab animals and experiments with Petri dishes. Diligence and hard work had saved countless lives all right, but they didn't have a clue.

  He paused in the center of the room, righteous indignation burning in his gut. He was proud of the work the program had accomplished. As if the file folder on his desk could transmit his words to the world, he said, "You never understood. I am the gatekeeper, the guardian, the salvation of all mankind." His voice rose with every word. "If not for people like me, men would still be huddled in caves hiding from the thunder!"

  He realized he was yelling, and consciously lowered his voice. He knew it didn't matter that the credit was never given to the Program. It was enough to know that they were the true heroes... Most days it was enough. What was important was that medical advancements had been made decades sooner because of his work, because of the Program. "Surely the lives of a few dozen men are worth all that, don't you agree?"

  With no reply forthcoming, his attention turned to the ancient metal desk and Ricco's file once more. Private Michael John Ricco. That is where it had truly all started. Ricco was their prized possession. The Program's greatest achievements had come about as a direct result of the experiments performed on the boy.

  Private Ricco was unique. The records were unclear as to exactly what had happened, and his predecessors had never understood what they'd done, but Ricco's aging process had all but stopped.

  He did age, but at an extremely slow rate. How long he would live or how he would age was anyone's guess. More research needed to be done. Ricco's immune system fascinated the General. Either because of what they had done to him or despite it, his immune system had kicked into overdrive. He took everything they th
rew at him and always recovered.

  The General had once toyed with the idea of infecting Ricco with the Ebola virus to see what the boy would do with that, but the thought of losing his prize subject stayed his hand. Still, he mused, the knowledge they might have obtained would have been invaluable. Over the years, they had tried to kill Ricco any number of ways, just to see what his limitations were. He wasn't immortal, but his ability to heal himself was astounding.

  He opened the file and flipped through to where an old black and white photograph was clipped to a page. There were other more recent color photos, but this one was the General's personal favorite. It was the first photo taken of Ricco shortly after his acquisition. In it, Ricco looked directly into the camera. After all the years it had been handled, he could still see the fight in Ricco's eyes, the anger and indignation on his face. He allowed himself to touch the photograph with fondness, recalling the many years he had spent with the boy. In an odd way, he supposed he felt like a father to Ricco. He had nurtured and cared for him like a son, building an entire world around him and the experiments they conducted together. Only now, Ricco was gone. He could not have been more disappointed in the boy.

  Ricco was gone and the General's world was falling apart.

  The rage threatened once more as his thoughts returned to the present. Ricco's escape had put everything they had worked almost nine decades for at risk. Unless they got the boy back and took care of the collateral damage within a few hours, the Program would have to be scrubbed. One bunker had been abandoned already. There had been no time to dispose of the bodies properly, but he was confident they would never be discovered. But the situation was far from being contained.

  The General stared at Ricco's image, and the rage boiled over. "You knew the good you were doing. I tried to make you understand that sacrifices were necessary. You saved millions of lives. I told you that... I showed you.

  "What good was running away going to accomplish? Tell me that, Private Ricco. Good men have died because of you. This project has been put in jeopardy all because of you!" The General swept the file off the desk in one violent move. The century-old document scattered as it hit the floor, priceless information fluttering to rest in the dust of the cement the General stood on.

  "You have put everything at risk!" The General ground his heel into the image of Ricco's face, destroying the photograph beyond repair. His fists clenched tightly, well-manicured nails biting into the flesh of his palms, just as a knock on the door interrupted his tirade.

  He fought the rage back down. He needed to maintain calm in order to promote calm. He bent down once more to reclaim the ruined file. Fitting the pages together, he placed them between the covers and once again positioned it in the exact center of his desk. He closed his eyes and fought for control. It would not do to have his men see him like this. Control was strength. Strength was what separated him—and those who preceded him—from those they served.

  The people who benefited from the Project had no idea the strength it took to kill in the name of science, of progress, of survival. When he thought he had gained enough control he sat, placed his hand on the closed file. Fatigue clawed at the back of his brain. He had not slept in over twenty-four hours, and the stress alone gave him a headache that boiled behind his eyes. He sat up straighter. It wouldn't do for his subordinates to see weakness in him. "Enter."

  An older man entered. The general thought he looked nervous.

  "Sir, we lost Brinks." Captain's bars graced his shoulders. The rank was only for show, but these men needed some symbol of their former lives. They needed to feel important and necessary. The captain stood with his feet squared, his hands behind his back, and his gaze not settled on anything in particular.

  "Define lost." Under the desk, the General dug deeper into the bloody furrows he had created in his palm. The pain calmed him.

  "Brinks is dead, sir. The attempt at reacquiring Private Ricco has failed."

  "How is that possible, Captain? He is wounded and being held by civilians. What happened?" He kept his voice calm, in contrast to the barely restrained need to scream in rage. Failure was not an option. His people knew that well.

  "He had unexpected help, sir. Military from the way they operated. We weren't expecting them, sir." The captain swallowed hard.

  "Do we know where they are? Is he still retrievable?"

  The captain shifted uncomfortably. "We are working on that, sir."

  The General gripped his closed fist with his free hand and increased the pressure. The blood flowing from the wounds gave him strength. "Excuse me?"

  The captain licked his lips. "We lost them, sir, but we have a good idea of where they might have been headed."

  The General blinked once, and his brow creased with obvious displeasure. "Then I expect you to do your job, Captain, and bring Private Ricco home. Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir." The captain gave a smart salute and waited to be dismissed.

  "Captain..." The General stood without returning the salute, his bloody hand behind his back. "You do know what must happen if you can't bring him back."

  "If Private Ricco is unobtainable, then he will be eliminated, sir." The Captain stared straight ahead, holding the salute.

  "And your team?"

  The salute faltered just a little. "My team, sir?"

  "You will not be taken captive by their civilian authority, Captain. Do you understand? The future of this program depends on your success."

  "I understand, sir. If my team cannot return, then we will become collateral damage as well as Private Ricco, sir."

  The general returned the salute, letting his blood drip from his hand onto his face. "Very good, Captain. As long as we understand each other. I want no one else to be obtained by their civilian authority, and I want to give whoever Ricco talks to something else to worry about besides looking into his story. Am I making myself clear on that matter, Captain?"

  The captain stared for a moment. His eyes darted to left and right before he answered. "Very clear, sir."

  "You are dismissed." The General waved him away and waited until the door closed. How had it come to this? They had become lax. They had become complacent. He could blame no one but himself. In a perverse way, he supposed he had become attached to Ricco. They had all learned so much from him. The Program had advanced decades ahead of where anyone thought it would be by now because of him.

  Yes, he had to admit he was fond of the boy. This attachment had allowed him to become lenient when it came to following his own rules. Ricco should have been restrained whenever he was out of his cell. The boy's previous good behavior had influenced his judgment, and now a perverse attachment that he, as well as several of his predecessors were guilty of, might bring his whole world crashing down around him.

  Private Ricco was to be reacquired or killed. There were no other options. It was unfortunate. Ricco was truly unique, but the continuation of the program was what mattered. They might never duplicate what had made Ricco the way he was, but it was the research that mattered. There were always more Riccos out there waiting to be found. Miracles happened every day.

  * * * *

  The muted chiming of his cell phone woke Dakota from a deep sleep. He automatically reached down to his waistband and silenced it before it would wake anyone. He winced as he sat up. His back complained loudly and he realized he had fallen asleep in the chair across from the couch where Ricco still slept.

  Blinking sleep out of his eyes, Dakota focused on the small screen and recognized a hospital extension number. He walked outside, trying to work some of the stiffness out of his back along the way. A slap of cold desert night air greeted him as he stepped onto the porch, and he found himself engulfed in complete darkness. No streetlights, no traffic, only stars.

  He placed the phone next to his ear. "Yeah."

  "Hey, Dakota, it's Ivey. Can you talk?"

  "Yeah, what is it? What's wrong?" Dakota's mind jumped from one misbegotten assumption to the n
ext as to why she would be calling him at this hour. He glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch. Three in the morning.

  "Look, I don't have long. I'm on overtime doing nights and only have ten minutes left to my break. This is the first alone time I've had all night, and I need to warn you."

  "Wait a minute, slow down. You may be awake, but I'm just getting there, Okay?"

  "No, Listen to me. Cal is having a bird here. They found Tommy Lawson's body and two other people they think were camping out by Beaver Dam, along with ten military personnel, all of them dead. Murdered."

  "I know. Montana and I found them, too."

  "You know? What do you mean you know? Never mind, I don't want you to answer that. Dakota, I'm not sure about all the details, but according to hospital gossip, which can be extremely reliable, Cal and the Nevada State Police were out there all night, and the only evidence they found were fingerprints..." She paused. "Only two sets of fingerprints."

  Dakota was awake now. "Let me guess, they belong to Montana and me?"

  "They think you and your brother killed those people, and took Ricco to kill him too, so he couldn't give you up. There's a state-wide man hunt out for both of you."

  "What? That's ridiculous. Why the hell would I kill Ricco after I spent all of last night trying to keep him alive? You don't believe them, do you?"

  "Would I be calling you if I did? Look, wherever you are, just stay there, okay?"

  Montana had warned him the situation could get ugly, but Dakota had had no idea what that meant. It was one thing for him to put his career, maybe even his life on the line; that was his decision. But endangering the welfare of his staff was another matter altogether. "What about you? What about the rest of the staff who were there when we took him?"