Fallen

by Ann Simko

  The General seemed genuinely bereaved. "His death wasn't necessary. Private Ricco put that bullet in his brain just as surely as if he had been the one to pull the trigger. We have disposed of their bodies, and they will not be found. So you see, any hopes you may have harbored of a rescue attempt, died along with them.

  "I am sorry, but there will be no eleventh-hour pardon, no rescue, and no trade. No one knows you are here, Doctor Thomas. You are mine, just like Ricco was mine, to do with as I please."

  Dakota almost giggled at the thought of Montana being bested by the General. "No." That just wasn't possible. "I don't believe you. You're lying."

  "I understand completely. This is difficult for you." The General softly stroked Dakota's cheek as if he were pet. "It will take a while to get used to the fact, but this is your home now. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be for you."

  Then the monster returned. He dug his fingers deep into Dakota's cheeks. "Your brother is dead, and you belong to me!"

  Your brother is dead. The words echoed through Dakota's mind like the slow tolling of a funeral bell. Your brother is dead...your brother is dead.

  As they faded, silence filled the room. Lying flat on his back in a dried puddle of his own vomit, with his face in the General's vice-like grip, he felt time seem to slow and come to a staggering halt.

  Through a blurred veil of tears the General's face morphed into visions of his childhood: He and Montana raising hell, causing trouble at every opportunity, with Montana, laughing and giving high fives for successful schemes and devious plots. How their hearts had raced as they ran from a bellowing Sheriff Tremont. He saw them hiding from their mother, hiding from the world, taking the blame for each other's sins, and then turning around and setting each other up for the fall; escaping into the desert for a taste of freedom. He heard them sharing secrets in little boy whispers with only the dark of night as a witness, remembered how he had vowed to make his serious older brother smile more and his pride that he was the only person able to do so. He still felt the unbreakable bond between confidants, conspirators, friends, brothers...his brother.

  Your brother is dead.

  The past dissolved, leaving only the present. As the General's face came into focus a mere six inches from his own, something primal snapped inside him. He felt no fear, no pain, no grief or self-pity. Only an empty, hollow numbness. His soul burned with more than just the fever raging inside him. It burned with a savage hatred.

  He ripped his face from the General's grip and struggled to sit up.

  The General cocked his head. "Now, see Doctor, that's the spirit. I was right. You will make—"

  From somewhere Dakota found the strength to swing a sweeping backhand at the General's face. The murdering bastard's arms pin wheeled as he fell backwards, to land hard on the cold cement floor.

  Bubba caught him as he fell back to his knees. "Jesus! Doc, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Dakota heard Bubba's voice through the buzzing in his head, and his vision grayed, but he wasn't done yet.

  The General was on his feet by then, rubbing his jaw. "Perhaps I have not given you enough credit, Doctor. I think you will make a fine replacement for Private Ricco."

  Dakota lurched out of Bubba's grasp and almost made it to his feet. "Fuck you! I'm not...you're not...oh, God." The room folded in around him and he collapsed.

  Carlson caught him and carefully laid him down on the mattress. As he assessed the damage Dakota's unexpected outburst had caused, the General looked on with a sense of admiration. "He is stronger than he looks."

  "Maybe, but he's at the end of his endurance. Sir, he needs the serum soon if he's going to survive."

  "What, exactly, was he infected with again, Sergeant?"

  "A version of Avian Influenza, sir. It was administered with the sedative when he was acquired. He'll die in the next few hours if we don't do something soon." It was as close to begging as Carlson would ever get.

  "Why, Sergeant, don't tell me you have developed an attachment to the good Doctor?"

  Carlson seemed insulted by the insinuation. "No, sir. I did what you instructed me to. He trusts me. He would believe anything I told him at this point...sir."

  The General noted his indignant tone with satisfaction. "Good. You have been giving him pain medication?"

  "Yes, sir. He thinks you don't know about it."

  "Very good." The General was impressed with the sergeant's ingenuity. He had obviously underestimated Carlson. "When do you think you can begin transfusion of the serum?"

  Carlson reestablished the IV Dakota had dislodged. "I'd like to get a couple liters of fluid into him first. At least get his blood pressure up, to give him a fighting chance. Maybe an hour."

  "Whatever you need to do Sergeant, you have the go-ahead. You take care of the Doctor..."

  The General turned to leave and said, more to himself than to the sergeant, "And I'll take care of his brother."

  Chapter 15

  It took Carlson longer than he thought to get the doc ready for the infusion. He hooked him up to a portable monitor, so he could keep a closer eye on his vitals, but he had a problem: the bunker was operating with a bare minimum of staff. All medical personnel had been moved to decrease the risk of discovery, and the remaining personnel were either spec-ops or tactical. Only Carlson had been kept on, because he knew Ricco, inside and out.

  The doc was not supposed to be there. They were not set up for this, but he had learned a long time ago to expect anything with the General.

  Carlson was in way over his head. He knew how to patch patients up and keep them alive, but his training only went so far. He had a critical patient infected with a level-3 biohazard, and he had an experimental serum.

  The General wanted the doc kept alive. Carlson always did what he was told, but he wasn't used to making the decisions on his own. He had already given him two liters of normal saline wide open. His blood pressure had responded, but it didn't stay up for long. To make matters worse, his lungs sounded terrible. All Carlson heard were wet respirations, and the fluid his patient desperately needed only compounded that fact.

  He didn't know what to do. If he infused the serum now, the doc was as good as dead. That would not please the General, and the General was a scary person when he was not pleased. The only thing Carlson knew for certain was what the doc needed—a Doctor.

  He'd managed to procure an actual bed and had it brought down to the holding area. His back had been killing him from getting up and down off the floor. He sat on the edge of the mattress and lightly slapped the doc's face until he opened his eyes.

  "Hey, Doc, you with me?"

  The doc's eyes were glazed with fever and unfocused, but he managed a smile. "Hey, Bubba. How you doing, man?"

  Bubba. Carlson couldn't help but grin at the name. He was developing a strong admiration for Dr. Thomas. He had seen men twice as tough give up at this point, but as hurt and sick as the doc was, he'd still taken a swing at the General. The doc had balls; Carlson had to give him that. He also looked a little more with it than the last time he was awake, but Carlson knew that was only temporary. The stuff inside of him was lethal, and he was as good as dead without Ricco's serum.

  "I'm fine. The question is, how you doing?"

  The doc coughed, a wet, congested cough that screwed his face up in pain. He struggled for breath until his airway cleared. "Oh, hell... I'm just peachy, Bubba."

  "Yeah, I know." When he closed his eyes, Carlson tapped his face again and got his attention. "Listen to me, Doc. I have a serious problem here, and I think you might be able to help me with it."

  Dakota blinked and tried to focus his eyes. "Do tell."

  "You see, I have this patient—high fever, septic, hypotensive..."

  Dakota understood where Bubba was going. "Ahh, I see. Well, Bubba..." He took a painful breath. "In my professional opinion, your patient needs fluids—lots of fluids. Slam them in until his pressure is stable." He close
d his eyes once more. The short conversation had taken more out of him than he bargained for.

  "That's my problem, Doc. I gave him two liters wide open, but as soon as it was in, his pressure bottomed out again."

  Dakota turned his head and strained to read the numbers on the monitor. The slight movement was exhausting, and the effort of focusing his eyes made his head ache. "Hell, Bubba. Your patient looks like crap."

  Bubba laughed softly. "Yes, sir, he does."

  Dakota opened his eyes and blinked a few times while he tried to figure out the puzzle. "What've you got in your pharmacopeia? Your patient needs some major antibiotics. Fluids can only compensate for so much."

  "No antibiotics, Doc. We haven't been at this facility in years, and the shelves are empty."

  Dakota sighed. "Then your patient's up shit creek in a barb-wire canoe with a tennis racket for a paddle."

  "Sir?"

  "He's screwed, Bubba...royally screwed." Dakota closed his eyes.

  Carlson started to say something, then hesitated, unsure of how the doc would react. However, time was running out, and he knew he didn't have a choice. It had to be done. He took a deep breath. "Doc?" He waited for the doc to open his eyes again. "There's something you should know."

  "What's that, Bubba?"

  Carlson licked his lips; now came the hard part. "Do you know how old Ricco is?"

  "Yeah, he told me."

  "Did you believe him?"

  The doc shrugged, and immediately winced. When he spoke again, his voice was noticeably weaker. "Yeah, I suppose. So what?"

  "We were always trying to figure out how he got that way, you know? Something to do with finding the gene that controls aging. I won't pretend to know anything about that, but anyway, we would take his blood from time to time. One of the doctors here, they developed a serum out of it."

  That got the doc's attention. His eyes, bright with fever but alert and questioning, turned in Carlson's direction. "A serum? They made a serum from Ricco's blood?"

  "Yes, sir." He held the doc's gaze for a moment, and then lowered his head in shame.

  "Bubba?" When Carlson didn't respond, the doc narrowed his eyes and peered closely at him. "Bubba, talk to me, man. What aren't you telling me?"

  Carlson slowly raised his head and looked the doc directly in the eye. "I'm sorry, Dr. Thomas, but...you were infected with a BH-3 at the time of acquisition."

  "Excuse me?"

  "A biological hazard, level three."

  Dakota stared past Bubba as his mind wrestled with the deadly revelation. "Jesus." He finally let his head sink down into the mattress. "Do you know which one?"

  "Avian influenza."

  "Fuck, Bubba." Dakota raised his right hand and placed it over his eyes. He knew enough about biological hazards to know that level fours, like the Ebola virus, had no cure. Level threes were fatal without treatment. Even with treatment, the survival rate was only about thirty percent.

  "You see my problem, Doc?"

  "Your problem?" Angered by the ludicrous question, Dakota grabbed a handful of Bubba's shirt; his anger giving him momentary strength. "Fuck you nine ways to Friday!"

  His outburst started another coughing fit. As he fought for air, Bubba pressed a hand on his chest, in an effort to ease the spasms.

  "Relax, Doc. You're only making it worse." He watched the monitor as Dakota fought to stop coughing. "You can't keep getting yourself all worked up like that."

  Dakota tried to speak, but his throat constricted and his chest burned as each breath ignited a new coughing fit. His lungs couldn't get the air they desperately needed. He let go of Bubba's shirt as his vision tunneled. Tears streamed down his face. All that mattered was taking that next precious breath.

  Finally the iron grip around his chest eased. He laid his head back and sucked in short, shallow breaths until he felt the fire back down. He knew he was burning up with fever, but he shivered as if he were freezing.

  The small room came back into focus, and he tried again to speak. "Tell me...the serum...what about Ricco's serum?" His voice was weak and barely audible, but Bubba must have understood him.

  He placed a calloused hand on Dakota's head. "It's never been used successfully, but Ricco has this amazing ability to heal himself. In theory, the serum should be able to do the same thing. The problem is, you're not stable enough for me to give it to you. It's got some really nasty side-effects."

  Dakota turned his head and focused on the vital signs scrolling across the monitor. "I won't get any more stable than this, pal. I'm going to die."

  Bubba sadly nodded his agreement. "Yes, sir."

  Dakota released a raspy sigh and resigned himself to whatever fate God had in store. "Okay. Slam the fluids in. Your patient can take the extra volume. Get his pressure up, and then give him the serum. Any side effects, just treat as they appear."

  "You sure about this, Doc?"

  "Well, I sure as hell don't want to die." He regretted the outburst and tried to catch his breath through the fluid building in his lungs. As he felt his consciousness slipping away, he made one final request. "You got me into this, Bubba... Now get me out."

  Carlson hooked up another bag of saline and gave a half-smile to his semi-conscious patient. "I'll do my best, Doc." Some days he really hated his job.

  He gently pushed a lock of sweat-soaked hair out of the doc's eyes, an expression of concern that caught him by surprise. His patient lay still and gave no indication of noticing.

  Serum or not, Carlson wondered if it was too late to save Dakota Thomas, but in his heart, he knew he would be damned if he didn't try. As the fluid ran into the doc's arm, he left the room and retrieved a five-hundred milliliter bag of yellow fluid from a refrigerated unit outside the holding area. Without a doubt, what he held in his hand was priceless...if it worked.

  He spiked the bag, and prepared to find out.

  Chapter 16

  Montana's associates had stocked the house with food and everything to make life in the middle of the desert bearable; Montana had stocked the armory. Accessible only through a trap door in the floor of one of the bedrooms was a mercenaries' wet dream.

  He descended the ladder and turned on the overhead light. His team followed one-by-one, and gazed about in awe. Assault and sniper rifles lined the walls—M-16s, AK-47s, a couple of new XM8s, M-40s, a pair of Dragunov SVDs, others. The shelves were stocked with a variety of handguns—Uzis, Desert Eagles, Glocks, and Berettas. Beneath those, the bad boys—M8 Rocket launchers, M-60 machine guns, and stacks of C-4, along with their detonators. Boxes of concussion and fragmentation grenades sat on the floor under the shelves, as well as boxes and belts of ammunition.

  Patrick grinned as he lovingly pulled his weapon of choice off the wall, a Barrett XM107, .50 caliber, long-range sniper rifle with IFR and night vision scope. He caressed the long, sleek barrel like a lover. Wrapping the strap around his arm, he hoisted the weapon to his shoulder and sighted it.

  Montana stepped up beside him. "Like it?"

  Never taking his eyes off the gun, Patrick gave a distracted nod. "It'll do."

  "Leave it."

  Patrick's head snapped around, and he looked at Montana as if he had asked him to give up his last piece of candy. "But, sir—"

  "Listen up, people. We're going underground. The bunker is concrete, with long, narrow hallways and very little room for cover. Choose your weapons accordingly. Concussion and flash-bang grenades only.

  "We don't know how many other prisoners might be down there, and we don't want to make soup out of any innocents." He pointed to a case of C4. "Ray, you load up. If we get the chance, I want this bunker returned to the earth from which it came. The rest of you, take what you need, but be quick. We leave in thirty minutes."

  Patrick still held the XM107, obviously reluctant to give it back.

  "Here, give me that." Montana took the sniper rifle and hung it back on the wall. "Let me show you something I picked up a couple of months ago." At the back of t
he room a black plastic rifle case leaned against the wall. "I haven't even tried it yet. Been too busy." He laid the case on the floor and unsnapped the latches, then smiled up at Patrick. "Can't think of anyone I'd rather have break it in for me." He lifted the lid.

  Patrick looked as surprised as he was capable of being. "Holy shit." He dropped to his knees. "An Alpine TPG-1...I don't believe it." His fingertips danced over the exotic weapon. "Custom molded, through-the-stock grip...full, integrally silenced barrel...ATN 16x65Z scope...I never thought I'd see one of these up close. Major, where did you get this beauty?"

  Montana just shrugged. He stood and slapped Patrick on the back. "Try not to drool on it, okay?"

  Montana watched Ricco as his team gathered their weapons of choice. The kid looked uncomfortable, if not a little out of place. He reached for a box of ammo.

  "Think you could help the private out a bit?" he asked Bobby.

  Bobby finished sighting his scope before glancing at Ricco. "Yes sir, I think I can do that."

  Montana pretended to sort through a box filled with ammo, but his attention was on Ricco as Bobby took something off a shelf and went to join him.

  "You know, if I were you, I wouldn't know what to make out of any of this." Bobby hooked a thumb toward the weapons stash. "I imagine you feel like you just entered a time warp."

  Ricco look almost relieved. "Yes sir, I was just thinking pretty much exactly that."

  "I'm not an officer, you don't have to call me sir."

  "What am I supposed to call you then?"

  "Bobby works. Here." He handed Ricco an item he had snagged off one of the shelves. "Why don't we start with this."

  Ricco took it and turned it over, obviously trying to make some sense of the strange device. It was clear he had no idea what it was he held.

  "Night vision goggles," Bobby said. When Ricco still didn't seem to comprehend, Bobby fitted the goggles over his head. "Watch this. Hey, Ito. Hit the lights." The room went completely dark.