7 Sykos

by Marsheila Rockwell

  After they watched from the minimum safe distance as Phoenix got nuked out of existence.

  But the mosquito reminded her that she needed to talk to Book, so she tried to raise him on the two-­way, hoping the young analyst wasn’t yet asleep.

  “Hey, Book,” she said softly. “You up?”

  “I’m here,” he replied quickly.

  “Any luck with Carmen or Elliott?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to look into it yet; sorry. Robbins has me doing nonessential stuff like following your progress, monitoring hundreds of security cameras across the valley, and following the video feed from a dozen drones.” If Fallon had been talking to him face-­to-­face, the sarcasm would have splashed her, it dripped so heavily off his words.

  “Down boy,” she said dryly. “I get the picture. But, please, if you have a spare moment—­it really is important.”

  “Is that all you called about?”

  Book’s tone was faintly scolding, as if Fallon were a child in need of reprimand. She tried not to bristle, knowing what prompted it.

  “No, it’s not,” she answered calmly. “I called to see if I could talk to Timothy. Everyone else is asleep, it’s quiet here, seemed like a good time. And I may not get another, so . . .”

  “Hold on. I’ll see if I can get him up here.”

  While she waited for Briggs, Fallon found an overturned patio chair and righted it, easing herself into it with a sigh. It seemed like it had been forever since she’d relaxed. Which was probably because it had been forever—­even before Crazy 8s turned her lab and her life upside down, she was prone to stress headaches, and her shoulders were one giant knot of tension. One of the few luxuries she allowed herself was a monthly visit to Massage Envy, but even those trips had come further and further apart as they got the prototype in working order.

  And then, of course, Elliott had stolen it, and Fallon hadn’t relaxed since.

  She wasn’t feeling so great, either. She hoped it wasn’t a summer cold—­those were the worst. Touching a hand to her forehead, it felt hot, as did her cheeks. A fever, or maybe a hot flash? She was a little young for menopause, but common wisdom said it happened for daughters at the same age as it had happened for their mothers. Not that that information was particularly useful, since that wasn’t the sort of thing she and her mother had ever discussed, or were ever likely to. If Fallon came off as cold, her mother was the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

  Then another thought struck her, and Fallon’s chill returned.

  What if it wasn’t anything so mundane? She’d gotten scratched on the cheek by an Infected earlier, so what if they were all wrong, and she wasn’t really immune? Would she get redder and redder, eventually turning on her companions and trying to eat their brains?

  No. She’d put a bullet in her own head before that happened.

  Which, she supposed, was her ultimate assessment of the likelihood of their mission succeeding or of a cure being found even if they did. But what else could any of them do? They had to try.

  Fallon tried to remember that quote by Byron. What was it, again? Oh, yeah: “They never fail who die in a great cause.” Funny how it was only ­people who weren’t in any danger of dying who thought that.

  Well, either way—­by her own hand or that of an Infected—­she’d keep going as long as she could, and when she couldn’t, she’d take as many of them as possible with her.

  But even that resolution wasn’t enough to keep her from touching her cheek, then looking down at her gun, wondering.

  Book followed Briggs into his ersatz control room. The specialist stopped inside the doorway, looked at all the monitors and computer equipment, and let out a low whistle.

  “This is some setup!”

  “Yup. Spared no expense.” Book’s lips twisted as he moved up next to Briggs. “Well, you know, in Army terms.”

  Briggs laughed, a short, unpleasant sound. “I’m familiar,” he said, then pointed at one of the monitors. “That Fallon?”

  He was indicating Fallon’s monitor, which showed a view of the Mesa night sky, full of stars that could actually be seen now that there were fewer ­people turning on fewer lights.

  “That’s her. She’s got first watch.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “Sure,” Book said. He gestured to his seat. “Go ahead and sit there. You can talk into the microphone and she’ll hear you, and her voice will come through the speakers so you can hear her.”

  “Yeah, I understand the general concept, thanks,” Briggs said as he brushed past Book and took his seat. Book was taken aback by the specialist’s attitude. He’d never seen Briggs in such a foul mood. He supposed he couldn’t blame the soldier, though—­if he’d had to kill brothers-­in-­arms who’d turned into brothers-­wanting-­brains, all the while knowing the fact that he hadn’t developed a hunger for grey matter meant there was something seriously wrong with him . . . well, Book imagined he’d be kind of an asshole at first, too. It was a lot of information to process, very little of it good.

  “Okay, then,” he said, walking up behind Briggs and leaning past him to hit a ­couple of keys on the keyboard. He didn’t miss how the specialist stiffened, one hand going instinctively to the holster on his hip. He straightened quickly. “You’re good to go.”

  “Are you there, Dr. O’Meara?” Briggs asked into the microphone, his tone quite a bit more respectful now than it had been a moment ago.

  “I am, Timothy. Book told me what happened. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Normally, when Book spoke to Fallon, he was wearing a headset so no one else could hear her, but he needed to be able to hear—­and record—­what was said between her and Briggs. He recorded all his own conversations with her, and everything he heard and saw through her implant, under direct orders from Billings. It was all a matter of national security, so it all had to be studied, dissected, and analyzed by a contingent of other nerds like himself who were safe in their various non-­virus-­threatened cubicles around the country and to whom the situation in Phoenix was all academic.

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. Book said you had some questions for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. About . . . about being a psychopath.” Briggs’s voice broke on the last syllable. Book couldn’t see his face, but he thought the other man might be crying. And once again, Book couldn’t blame him. Who knew how he’d respond in a similar situation?

  Well, he knew. He’d either be dead or Infected, because he wouldn’t have been able to fight off three virus-­crazed soldiers, especially friends. He didn’t have the stomach for it, or the skill, and he thought maybe he might be blubbering the entire time. Briggs’s stoicism was a testament to his Army training. And probably to residual shock.

  “Timothy, what you’ve been through—­what all soldiers who see combat go through, particularly those who live it, day in and day out for months—­is sometimes enough to rewire the circuits in your brain, especially when you’re young. Unlike most of our bodies, our brains aren’t really fully developed until we’re well into our twenties—­which goes a long way toward explaining why teenagers make such stupid decisions. And even when we’re older, the things we experience can create new neural pathways and destroy others. Alzheimer’s is a good example. Genetics, lifestyle, experiences—­all those things contribute to our brain structure over the course of our entire lives. Sometimes it means you start to forget who you are when you get older. And sometimes it means you become immune to a space-­borne virus that’s ravaging the country’s sixth largest city. Me, I’d rather have the immunity.”

  “But being immune means you’re a psychopath. A cold-­blooded killer. Or that you’ll become one, anyway.” Timothy’s voice was so full of distress and despair, it was all Book could do to keep from laying a comforting hand on the other man’s shoulder. But he was also so on edge that h
e’d probably shoot Book before he realized who was touching him.

  “No! No, it doesn’t, Timothy. Haven’t you been listening? It takes more than structural changes or rewiring to make someone a psychopath. I have that brain structure, but I’ve never killed anyone.” There was an uncomfortable pause. “Well, not a human, anyway. And not in cold blood.”

  “But that’s you, Dr. O’Meara. You know how to fix yourself. I don’t. There’s nothing to stop me from becoming just like that human waste you’re traveling with, from preying on the very ­people I joined the Army to protect.”

  “Timothy, part of my job is researching a cure, and—­”

  “There’s no cure for evil, Doctor.”

  Book wondered why Fallon hadn’t mentioned the prototype she’d been working on. If it worked, she could use it on Briggs when she got back with the meteor, and he’d be back to his old, cheerful self. But then he didn’t have time to wonder about anything because he saw Briggs’s arm moving toward his hip. Heard the specialist tell Fallon goodbye and good luck. Started toward him, trying to stop him, but too late.

  He was two steps away when a loud boom echoed through the room, and the back of Briggs’s head exploded outward, covering Book in hot red goop, pelting him with pieces of skull and chunks of brain. He’d had his mouth open, screaming “No!” Now he closed it, but not before blood splattered his tongue and he breathed a fine pink mist into his lungs.

  “Briggs? Book? What the hell was that? Are you guys okay?” Fallon’s voice seemed distant, distorted, and Book didn’t know if it was because the report had left him momentarily deaf or because he was in shock, or both.

  “He . . . he . . . oh my God, Fallon, he killed himself. Right here in my chair. Stuck the barrel of his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I’m covered in his blood. God, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Jesus. It’s all right Book—­it’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known, and you couldn’t have stopped him.” She paused, then spoke again so softly he wasn’t sure he was actually hearing her or if he was just imagining he could. “I could have, maybe, if I’d told him.”

  Then the door opened and ­people were pointing guns at him and yelling at him to lie on the floor. And as he complied, the tears he’d only thought he might shed began coursing down his cheeks, disappearing one by one into the bright red pool of Briggs’s blood.

  Fallon was glad she was already sitting down. She couldn’t believe what she’s just heard.

  He killed himself . . . stuck the barrel of his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. . .

  Jesus. Poor Briggs.

  I don’t know what to do.

  Poor Book.

  And it was probably all her fault. If she’d told Briggs about the prototype, how close they were to being able to “cure” psychopathy—­or at least some of the brain issues that helped cause it—­maybe that knowledge would have given him the hope he needed to keep from eating his gun.

  Or maybe not. A lot of soldiers suffered from depression and other mental illnesses, usually brought on or exacerbated by the things they saw and had to do in ser­vice to their country. Briggs had no doubt been depressed after having had to kill his friends and discovering he had the potential to turn into something he loathed. And the main hallmark of depression wasn’t necessarily overt sadness or apathy but rather that the sufferer’s brain lied to them, told them things that in a different state of mind they would realize were untrue.

  You’re fat, ugly, friendless, a failure. You’re never going to amount to anything. You’re worthless—­a waste of space and oxygen.

  Your son doesn’t need you.

  Fallon shook the thought away, but the tears and guilt weren’t so easily dismissed.

  I’m so sorry, she thought, though she wasn’t entirely sure whom she was apologizing to anymore.

  A distant, bloodcurdling scream split the night open like a chestburster, bringing Fallon out of her reverie.

  One more life lost to this damned virus, she thought. She was determined to make sure there weren’t any more on her watch.

  Speaking of which, it was Sansome’s turn to stare out into the darkness and contemplate his mortality. She gave the night sky one last, searching look, then turned and went inside to get him.

  CHAPTER 32

  24 hours

  After Antonetti had come out, grumbling, to relieve him and start the fourth and final night shift, Light headed toward the front office.

  “Where’re you going?” the smaller man said suspiciously. “Not to go shoot up more Infecteds, I hope.”

  “Not unless I have to,” Light replied, laughing at Antonetti’s fear. It was an emotion he wasn’t all that familiar with, and it amused him to see its expression in others. Especially when they were craven to begin with. “I’m actually headed for the kitchen, to see if I can rustle up some breakfast for us. I don’t know about you, but some of us haven’t eaten in close to twenty-­four hours. Even your scrawny ass is starting to look good, especially with enough ketchup.”

  Antonetti scowled.

  “Fine. Go. But if Fallon asks where you went, I’m not covering for you.”

  “Never for a moment imagined you would.”

  Light walked back to the lobby, its lights still blazing. He didn’t really like the idea of being so exposed, but there didn’t appear to be another way in to where the kitchen was except through those big glass doors.

  He peered into the night, made darker and more ominous in contrast to the brightly lit lobby. Nothing moved.

  So why was the hair on the back of his neck standing up, then?

  A sudden stiff breeze that tasted of rain ruffled his bangs. That’s what it must be—­a biological response to air-­pressure changes. Not anything as blatantly human as simple nerves.

  With a shrug, he purposefully turned his back on the darkness and went into the lobby. Before, they’d only ventured far enough for Fallon to find the keys, but this time, Light went the other way, into the breakfast nook, which was lit only by the glow from the fluorescent lobby lights. A dozen square wooden tables, each surrounded by four chairs, had been placed in a precise three-­by-­four grid pattern that told Light either the hotel manager or one of the janitorial staff likely suffered from OCD.

  Well, had suffered. It was doubtful anyone with an uncontrollable need for neatness would survive long in this new, chaotic world.

  One wall was all windows; on the opposite side, a counter held a toaster, waffle iron, pastry case, a juice dispenser that offered orange, apple, and cranberry, and a built-­in trough where warm things could be kept warm and cold things cold. And next to that, a metal swinging door—­the exact thing Light had been looking for.

  He listened at the door for a few moments, trying to ascertain if there might be some Infecteds inside looking for a midnight snack, but once again, he heard nothing. He pushed through the door into a smallish kitchen with an industrial-­sized grill, a large fridge/freezer combination, a double sink and racks for drying dishes, and a walk-­in pantry.

  Light saw no one, so he walked cautiously into the room, making his way around the grill. No Infecteds and no bodies, but there was blood. A trail of it led to the pantry, but bloody footprints told him he wasn’t the first to follow it.

  He drew his gun, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.

  A body lay on the floor inside, its head bashed in—­a nearby dented and bloody can of corn the likely weapon—­its brain, predictably missing. Face down and wearing a baggy white chef’s uniform, the body could belong to a woman or a man, with no way to tell but by turning it over. Light was going to take a pass on that, but he did step over one sprawled leg to grab a six-­pack of cartons holding dehydrated hash browns.

  As he was surveying the other nonperishable items, wondering what else he could use to make breakfast, he heard a noise behind him. He whirled
, gun up, finger on the trigger.

  There was no one there.

  Light frowned.

  He heard the noise again, this time at his feet. Looking down, he saw a rather fat rat chewing on the chef’s calf. Chuckling to himself in relief, he raised his foot and brought it down on the rodent’s back as hard as he could. The rat’s spine broke with an audible snap, and it shuddered once, then lay still.

  “Sorry, little guy,” he said, though he really wasn’t. While he held no belief in an afterlife, and the dead held very little interest for him except when he was helping ­people to achieve that state, he nevertheless felt like the rat’s flagrant feasting on someone who’d been human was a desecration. And even if he hadn’t, he was one of those psychopaths for whom the largely discredited “homicidal triad” was actually true. He had wet his bed well into his grade-­school years, earning himself a beating by his father every time. He’d liked to set fires, though he’d never progressed to arson, and he’d eventually outgrown it, as he had the nocturnal enuresis. But he still derived pleasure from snuffing out the lives of small animals whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  Which he supposed gave the lie to his putting patients out of their misery for their benefit as opposed to his own. But that was a secret that didn’t need sharing with his fellow Sykos, who he was sure all had secrets of their own. Especially Fallon. In fact, he suspected she had more than the rest of them combined, and he intended to find out what a few of them were before this was all over. But for now, breakfast.

  He added some hot water to the hash browns to soften them up, then went searching for other morning fare, like bacon and eggs, or maybe cinnamon rolls. Just the thought of them made his mouth water.

  There were eggs in the fridge, and a quick float test proved most of them edible. The fruit was a wash, and he was hesitant about the milk even though it was only a few days past its expiration date. He did find some precooked bacon that just needed heating in a microwave, which he spied over on a counter he’d missed in his initial perusal.