7 Sykos

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “It’s dangerous in there.”

  “I know.”

  “But less scary than minding me?”

  “Not less scary. More important, though. I don’t think you’re up to any trouble. I want to be where I’m needed.”

  “I know the feeling,” Fallon said. “Best of luck in there, Specialist. Come back to me in one piece.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “I know you will.”

  He brought the vehicle—­not much more than a glorified golf cart, painted in a camo design—­to a halt by the door. The lab building set up for her also contained her living quarters—­a bedroom, a bathroom with a functional toilet, sink, and shower, and a tiny kitchen area. She’d spend a little more time getting to know the new instrumentation setup, then call it a night. She felt like maybe she should hug Briggs before he left on what was surely a very risky duty. But taking risks was part of a soldier’s job, wasn’t it? And he probably had somebody to hug who meant much more to him.

  Although whoever that was likely didn’t know where he was, or where he was going, given the nature of the assignment. She could use a hug herself—­especially one from Jason, whose little arms held on so gloriously tight.

  She wondered if she would ever get another one, or even see her son again. She’d been trying to keep worst-­case scenarios out of her head, but even the best-­case ones looked pretty bad. Given what she knew so far, she put the odds of human survival at somewhere south of fifty-­fifty. Maybe twenty-­eighty, if she was feeling optimistic.

  And she didn’t see much grounds for optimism. As she climbed out of the cart, she leaned over, put a hand on Briggs’s shoulder, and squeezed.

  “You be safe out there,” she said, hoping it didn’t sound as cold in his ears as it did in hers.

  CHAPTER 12

  70 hours

  Fallon had only intended to spend an hour or two at most familiarizing herself with all the new equipment, but a scientific appreciation for the state-­of-­the-­art machines and their sheer power compared to anything in her old lab—­­coupled with a decidedly less scientific love of new gadgets—­got the better of her, and before she knew it, midnight had come and gone.

  A long, uncontrollable stretch and a yawn that popped her jaw convinced her that it was time for some shut-­eye. After all, the instruments would all still be there in the morning, and she’d be spending pretty much all her time with them soon enough.

  She got up from her chair, rubbing the small of her back and making a mental note to ask someone to requisition a lumbar roll. Then she crossed over to the door that led to her quarters and was just reaching to flip the lights off when the lab’s outer door opened.

  Thurman walked in, glancing quickly around the lab until he located her.

  “Sorry, I saw the lights were still on and figured you’d want to hear the news.”

  Fallon’s fatigue evaporated in an instant.

  What news? Had Briggs been hurt? Had the virus escaped quarantine?

  Had something happened to her son?

  Thurman shook his head at her barrage of questions.

  “No, sorry, nothing like that,” he said apologetically. “I should have phrased it better. No, Book spoke to me about some of your concerns, so I did a little arm-­twisting, and they’re going to let you call home.”

  Fallon liked his use of the word “they,” as if he weren’t one of them, when he so obviously was. A small cog in the behemoth Military-­Industrial Complex, to be sure, but a part of it all the same. Then again, she’d gladly taken government funds for her own research, so she was probably an even smaller cog herself. And yet none of that mattered.

  They’re going to let me speak to my son.

  Well, no, not at this hour. She’d be surprised if Mark even answered the phone—­she was the one who always handled late-­night calls because they were always for her.

  “When?” she asked, hoping Thurman would say that was up to her.

  “Now,” he replied, crushing that hope in the same offhand way a chain smoker stubs out one cigarette before reaching for another. “And it’ll be monitored. If you say anything that can be construed as an attempt to let your family know what’s going on here or to warn them to flee, the call will be cut off, and you won’t be allowed to make another one.”

  Fallon nodded, trying not to let her disappointment show.

  “I understand.”

  Thurman produced a satellite phone and handed it to her. Fallon quickly punched in her home number and held the phone to her ear, listening to it ring.

  And ring, and ring.

  Mark didn’t believe in answering machines or voice mail—­he only had a cell phone because she insisted on it, in case he was ever somewhere with Jason and needed help in a hurry, but even then, he left the thing off half the time. She was up to forty-­two rings and counting when Thurman cleared his throat. Fallon held a finger up, not looking at him, not wanting him to see the mix of desperation and mounting fury on her face. She’d give it fifty rings, and then she knew she’d have to give him the phone back. She wouldn’t have a choice.

  Come on, Mark. Answer the damned phone!

  On forty-­nine, a groggy voice sounded in her ear.

  “Hello?”

  Thank God.

  “Mark, it’s me.”

  “Yeah?”

  Her lips thinned of their own accord. “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay.”

  “I didn’t have any reason to think you weren’t,” he replied, his voice tinged with confusion and annoyance. She couldn’t argue with that—­she often worked late and seldom bothered to call.

  “I know, I just . . .” She trailed off, knowing she was treading dangerously close to the line, and whoever was listening in could end the call at any moment. “Is Jason up?”

  “What? No, of course not, Fallon.” A pause and the sound of fabric shifting. “It’s almost two in the morning. What’s wrong with you?”

  If he’d said it with any true concern, she might have told him everything right then and there, national security be damned. But instead he was irritated, and he made no effort to hide it. And knowing that she would have been just as pissed—­if not more so—­had their roles been reversed did nothing to alleviate the sudden sharp pain in her chest that made it momentarily hard to breathe.

  They don’t need me. They never did.

  “Nothing. Just tired, I guess. Sorry for calling so late; I lost track of time,” she said when she could speak again, fighting to keep her tone even. “Anyway, I’m not going to be home for a few days—­big deadline at the lab.”

  “Yeah, I know. Some guy from your office called earlier to say the same thing.”

  “Right.” She’d forgotten that. “Sorry. I just wanted to remind you to tell Jason I love him.”

  “I will. You know I always do,” he said. Even when you don’t say it. The unspoken words echoed loudly in her head.

  “I know. Thank you.”

  Thurman cleared his throat; she needed to wrap it up.

  “Okay, I have to go. Just . . . promise me you’ll keep Jason safe?”

  She never heard his answer; the call cut off like it had been severed with a guillotine. She handed the phone back to Thurman, who was frowning.

  “That was pushing it, Fallon. Any more of that, they won’t let you call home again.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, shrugging to mask her sorrow. “I said all I needed to.”

  And so, she thought, had Mark.

  Her cot could have been prison issue—­a thin mattress over a metal frame, with a lumpy pillow and a scratchy blanket that she suspected was a wool blend. Not usually a smart choice for summer in Phoenix, but the instruments in the lab had to be kept cool, so the air-­conditioning was set in the sixties, and Fallon found herself wishing for a f
ew more of the rough coverings as she tossed and turned through what remained of the wee hours.

  She was up before six, the sounds of the camp around her filtering into her consciousness through the metal walls, like the fabled Taos Hum on steroids. She hadn’t bothered to change her clothes before falling into bed—­hadn’t even considered whether or not anyone had thought to provide her with any.

  There was no closet in her living quarters, but there was a military footlocker at the base of her bed. She opened it and was pleasantly surprised to discover the extra sets of clothing she kept at the lab for nights when she wound up sleeping there, folded far more neatly than she would have done. There were even a few new pieces, in the same sizes and styles as the rest. Book’s doing, she imagined—­he seemed like one of the few ­people here who really saw her as a person and not just a walking psychopath detector.

  She grabbed the set on top, a pair of sturdy khakis and a light blue button-­down shirt, along with a no-­frills white bra and panties. Then she straightened and headed for the bathroom.

  As she expected after finding her clothes in the footlocker, her toiletries had also been transported from the old lab and were arranged neatly on the shelves above the toilet, along with some towels and a few rolls of toilet paper. One-­ply, she was sure.

  Fallon quickly stripped off her sweat-­stained clothes and stepped into the shower stall. The water was immediately hot—­it didn’t really come in any other flavor in Phoenix, at least not until September or so. She stood under it for a few moments, allowing the pressurized stream to pound against the muscles in her back. Then she washed with soap from a handy dispenser, shampooed and conditioned with the vaguely rose-­scented products from the two other dispensers, turned the water off, and stepped out to dry. The whole process had taken five minutes, if that.

  A few more minutes to dry off, brush her teeth, comb her hair, dress, and apply the tiniest bit of eyeliner so she looked like she’d gotten six hours of sleep instead of three. Judging the reflection in the mirror to be adequate, she headed for the kitchenette, where an automatic coffeemaker had already been preprogrammed to start brewing at five-­thirty. She loved coffee, the darker the better—­especially when she was operating on amounts of sleep that could as easily be calculated in minutes as hours. An obscure Austrian study had shown a strong link between a fondness for bitter tastes—­coffee was the example used—­and what they called “malevolent personality traits.” Those traits included narcissism, sadism, and taking pleasure in manipulating and hurting others. Your garden-­variety psychopath, in other words. After a big cup of Army-­issue java, Fallon finally felt like she might be ready to face the day.

  She headed back to the bedroom to make up her bunk out of habit and stopped when she saw the framed picture sitting on the metal side table. Her knees went suddenly weak, and she sank down onto the bed, looking at the photo.

  It was the picture she kept on her desk at her lab. One of the few of her and Jason, from when he was just learning to walk. They’d been at some park, the three of them, having a picnic. Mark had been trying to get Jason to walk to him, and Fallon had managed to get a few shots of their little guy taking a single step before falling back on his diapered behind. They’d given up, deciding he just wasn’t ready yet, and focused on getting their lunch ready.

  Fallon had been so intent on taking things out of the picnic basket and arranging them just so on their clichéd little red-­and-­white checked blanket that she hadn’t noticed when Jason had used the big wicker container to pull himself up. But some mother’s instinct had made her look up just as he let go and took one step toward her, and then another, and another. She’d held her arms out to him, tears sparkling in her eyes, the delighted smile on her face reflected perfectly on his.

  Mark had snapped the picture just as Jason had held his arms up for her to catch him. The twin smiles, the fingers—­one set long and slender and the other kissably pudgy—­reaching out but not quite touching, the milestone moment caught forever on a digital canvas, just before Jason had lost his balance and toppled toward her, laughing and trusting as she caught him up in a fierce hug.

  It was one of the only times she could remember being truly happy.

  Fallon blinked, swallowed, then abruptly stood and finished making the bed. She deserved more of those moments. So did Jason—­that’s why she’d been using the prototype on herself—­and she resolved to do everything within her power to make sure he got them. That they both did.

  Determination squaring her jaw, she turned smartly from the bed and the photograph and headed toward the lab.

  Time to make it happen.

  CHAPTER 13

  69 hours

  This time when she entered the lab, the lights were already on, and there were two armed guards—­one by the door to her quarters and one by the door leading outside. Fallon wasn’t sure if they were a result of her near-­lapse on the phone last night, or if she would have woken to find them babysitting her regardless of how circumspect she’d been. She supposed it didn’t really matter; they were here now. So she might as well put them to good use.

  “You,” she said to the soldier by the far door. “What’s your name?”

  “Davidson, ma’am.”

  “Davidson. Can you poke your head outside and ask your counterpart on the other side of the door to have Hank Light brought here? I need to run his scans.” Davidson looked a little nonplussed, as if being ordered about by a civilian was something he wasn’t entirely used to. Which was going to have to change in a big hurry if he was going to be assigned to watch her. She was shorthanded, and no one got to just stand around in her lab, gun or no gun. “Oh, and make sure he’s cuffed with zip ties—­nothing metal. I’m going to need to do an MRI, and I’m sure none of us wants him loose for that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, likely responding more to her assumption of authority than to any orders he might have been issued to put himself at her disposal while on guard duty. Fallon didn’t much care why he listened; she was just glad he did.

  As he stuck his head out the door and conversed in low tones with someone Fallon couldn’t see, she turned to the other guard.

  “And you?”

  “Ma’am?” This one was older than Davidson, probably no green recruit. Though she doubted anyone who was truly that inexperienced would get called in for the task of cordoning off a major U.S. city. She was pretty sure there was no—­what had Briggs called it? MOS?—­for that particular task.

  And it wasn’t as if even the high-­ranking officers would have seen action quite like this before. ­Coupled with the fact that the military was all-­volunteer now, and maybe green was as good as it got.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Romero, ma’am.”

  “Okay, Romero, I don’t know if they’re going to send guards over with Light or if they’re going to expect you and Davidson to pull double duty, watching him and me, but if it comes down to it, and you have to choose one of us to shoot? Just make sure it’s him.”

  Romero was no scarlet-­clad bearskin-­wearing British guard; he actually cracked a smile.

  “I’ll take it under advisement, ma’am,” he said, and Fallon nodded. That was probably the best she was likely to get. She’d take it.

  As she waited for Light to be brought over from the infield garages, or wherever Robbins might have him stowed now, she got the MRI scanner up and running. She’d fired it up last night, just to make sure she could handle it on her own since it was a much newer machine than the one in her old lab, and the help Robbins had promised her had thus far failed to materialize.

  Not that she needed them. She wasn’t generally the one who ran the tests—­that fell to one of many research assistants—­but she prided herself on being able to use every piece of equipment under her roof, and if someone was out sick or on vacation, she didn’t hesitate to step in. Elliott had
often joked she was a one-­woman lab, and only needed the rest of them for more grant money—­the bigger the lab, the bigger the check. But considering what Elliott had done with the fruits of the research that money had paid for, she sometimes wished she really had been doing all the work alone. At least then she wouldn’t have to worry about a renegade partner running around doing God knew what with their only prototype.

  Satisfied that she’d be able to get Light’s scans even without any help, Fallon sat back in the chair on the other side of the RF-­shielded window, marveling at how quickly the Army had managed to put together the MRI room. Magnetic Resonance Imaging units not only employed a strong magnetic field but also a specific radio frequency that transmitted the images to the computer on her side of the window. An MRI enclosure had to be constructed so that not only was there no magnetic material inside the room, but also so that no outside radio signals could get in to interfere with the signal from the unit. Fallon knew it usually involved copper and plastic and concrete, though she didn’t see how they could have used concrete this time around, since it wouldn’t have had enough time to cure.

  But whatever they’d used, she had to assume it was up to specs. All she really knew was that she had a state-­of-­the-­art fMRI machine at her disposal, and she sure as hell wasn’t complaining.

  Well, not about that, anyway.

  The door opened, and Light entered, followed by another armed soldier, who nudged the former EMT along with the barrel of his M4, and not gently.

  Fallon spun her chair all the way around so she was facing them.

  “Good morning, Mr. Light, and congratulations.”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “For what?”

  Fallon smiled.

  “You get to be my first guinea pig.”

  Light scoffed, and Fallon raised her eyebrows, then shrugged.

  “Or lab rat, if you prefer. Either way, you’re about to get strapped down and shoved into a metal tube, so I can take pictures of your brain. I hope you’re not claustrophobic.” Her smile widened a bit at the thought. She knew she should be playing the dispassionate scientist, but she didn’t like Light, and she felt no particular urge to hide the fact. Every time she looked at him, she saw the woman and child he’d run down with that ambulance, and her own face, and Jason’s, superimposed over theirs.