Cain's Blood: A Novel

by Girard, Geoffrey

  Every scientist in the room turned to Stanforth, who just smiled. “The same,” he confirmed. “You saved our ass, Castillo. No doubt about it. Knew you would. So, now let’s all figure out how to get out of this.”

  “OK. How?”

  “That’s almost entirely up to you. I can reassure you that there are some men at the Pentagon who are quite taken with you currently. We can probably still work this whole thing out.”

  “If I can just ignore all the dead kids. The state-sanctioned abuse, molestation. The murder of employees. The development and testing of illicit chemical weapons.”

  “Yeah,” Stanforth said. “Something like that.”

  “Was it really worth it?” Castillo asked.

  “All this,” Stanforth agreed. “No fucking way. But Jacobson hit us all with a worst case, didn’t he? Otherwise, the upshot always justified the risk.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Imagine the power to turn rioting mobs into sheep. Or super soldiers.” He nodded to the dark-skinned killer. “Designed specifically to sniff out murderous terrorists and kill them.”

  “Imagine,” Castillo added, “a bioweapon designed to infect an entire city with murderous rage.”

  “And all the cures the Cain project brought us? Is it fair to ignore those? I would think you, of all people, would appreciate the work these men have accomplished, specifically in the area of treating PTSD. This company has five different medications in clinical testing as we stand here. Several more tests are already scheduled to eliminate the affliction.”

  “Drugs can’t solve that. And even if they could,” Castillo glared, “it wouldn’t justify the things we’ve done. These were children. You . . .” He turned to Erdman again. “You did this to children. We did.”

  “Only twenty percent of American combat infantry were willing to kill the enemy in World War Two,” Stanforth said. “By Korea, it’d risen to fifty percent. Vietnam, ninety. Iraq?”

  “One hundred percent,” Castillo answered.

  “Hooah.” Stanforth nodded. One of his bodyguards nodded to Castillo. It was a look that said, Come on, brother. You’re still one of us. It was also a look that said, I’ll kill you the second he gives the word. “Because we trained them, trained you, to kill. Added a month to basic training specifically geared toward teaching our guys that gooks or haji or skinnies are inhuman things to be stepped on.”

  “Yeah, you did. Had us train on moving human-shaped targets, as opposed to those little bull’s-eyes our grandfathers trained with.”

  “And hard as hell to turn that off when you get home.”

  “Yes,” Castillo breathed deeply. “It is.”

  Stanforth held out his hands as if a miracle had just happened. “Well, we’ve got something in the works that’ll put that killer instinct in our men just long enough to win a war, and then take it right back out again. We won’t nurture them into becoming killers over a few months. We’ll let nature do it for us in minutes. And when the fighting’s over, we just take that part of their nature right out again as if it had never been there at all.”

  Castillo shook his head.

  “It works,” Erdman said from across the room.

  “Think of the suffering we could eradicate,” Stanforth argued. “The drinking and drugs, spousal abuse, suicides, shootings. How many good men have come back unable to let go of that terrible rage?”

  “Most,” Castillo agreed.

  “Then let’s end this the right way. Let these guys do what they do best, and you and I can do what we do best.”

  Castillo closed his eyes, breathed in again.

  A man may trust his brothers when a mighty contest should arise.

  “Right. ‘Freedom ain’t free’ and all that. So, tell me: How many kids and adoptive parents did you kill these last two weeks alone to help clean up the mess your new toys have caused?” Castillo eyed the crouched “Dark Man,” dressed in black fatigues and mask, who shifted at Castillo’s attention. He could feel the freak’s hate, tangible and hot, from across the room.

  “We’ve closed shop on the whole Cain project,” said Stanforth. “Obviously, it was too risky, and we already had most of what was needed. Taking out these guys, and Jacobson’s clone, was the last piece. This ends today.” He added, “Once DNA testing confirms what you’ve told us about last night,” he added.

  “Well, fuck. Whole compound got torched, Boss.”

  “Yeah, we heard it was quite a show. Not a problem,” Stanforth said, stepping closer. “I’m sure we’ll be able to determine what happened there. Whether or not young Jeffrey Jacobson’s DNA is found out there. And if we don’t find him there, then—”

  Castillo fired.

  The first shot hit Kapellas in his vested chest, the next struck the Ranger’s exposed shoulder as the man pitched backward off his feet in a shower of bone and blood that sprinkled over the computer monitors and microscopes behind.

  Neff moved like a big guy; too slow.

  Castillo shot him too.

  • • •

  Jeff waited with Ox in a van outside the gate.

  There were twelve kids in the van with them. Most sprawled out like bodies in a crypt. Between them, a duffel bag stuffed with plastic bottles found in one of the rooms. Bottles filled with blue pills. Pills that looked exactly like Jeff’s “allergy medication.”

  Ox and his man stood, automatic rifles aimed at DSTI as if they would shoot down the whole building if necessary.

  “Five minutes,” he told Jeff.

  Jeff got him to wait ten.

  • • •

  Colonel Stanforth had not yet gotten his sidearm free.

  “Don’t,” Castillo told him.

  “You damn fool,” Stanforth raged, pulling his hand away. “You goddamned fool.”

  Castillo eyed the dark man, the only other real threat in the room. Neff clutched his shattered leg, while Kapellas squirmed on the floor, blood seeping from his shoulder wound. The others, the scientists, were already crouched behind tables and chairs. The dark man, however, had not yet moved from its spot. And he seemed to be smiling with a childish curiosity, Castillo decided. Waiting to see how things might go. Castillo could literally feel this thought, its thoughts filled with unimaginable bloodlust. Waiting to strike. To kill, though no decision as to whom to kill had been made quite yet.

  “Toss the guns,” Castillo told Stanforth and the two wounded soldiers. “All of them.” He waved his gun at the pistol hidden and holstered on Neff’s leg for emphasis.

  “You gonna kill me, kiddo?” Stanforth asked.

  “Probably.” Castillo pointed his pistol at one of the scientists he didn’t know by name. “You there. Collect all the guns.”

  Castillo knew the black-skinned science project wouldn’t wait much longer to strike. He’d watched the man’s eyes linger over this one doctor a second longer than the others.

  “They were right about you.” Stanforth handed his holstered pistol to the scientist. “Kristin was right about you. You’ve lost your mind.”

  “No,” Castillo said. He moved deeper into the room, directed the scientist to collect the weapons of the two downed soldiers. “Bring it all over here.” He’d never taken his eyes off Stanforth. “I’m quite sane, actually. That’s the funny thing. So much money and so many deaths to isolate what? This? This urge to kill?” He grabbed hold of the scientist, pulled him close. “To kill. Is it deliberate or arbitrary? Anger or apathy? It’s not under some damned microscope. What’s your name, Doc?”

  “B-b-b-b . . . ,” the man stammered.

  Castillo pulled him closer and read the name on his ID badge. “Feinberg. I’m gonna open this door, and you’re gonna put all these nasty guns just outside. Got it? You do anything else, I shoot you in the head. Sure you got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” Castillo pushed the door open with his right hand and watched as the scientist did what he was told. The guns safely outside, Castillo pulled the door shut ag
ain. “Feinberg, how long you worked for DSTI? Hmm? Long enough for that thing to know you, looks to me. See how he watches you?”

  “I . . . I don’t. Please. I didn’t . . .”

  Castillo wrenched the man around and brought the 9mm against his head.

  He fired.

  Feinberg’s ear vanished in a crimson mist of blood and hair. The mutilated hole scorched black. Blood streamed down his neck as a large flap of skin fluttered against the side of his cheek. His screams filled the room.

  Castillo shoved him forward toward the Dark Man.

  It sprang onto Feinberg and the two collapsed to the floor as one, while long nails dug into the scientist’s shoulders and neck and the DSTI doctor thrashed and wailed in agony. The black stunted head dipped into the spouting wound.

  Started feeding. Tearing away the left side of Feinberg’s face.

  Alive still, the doctor roared, his words garbled and wet and lost beneath his own blood.

  Castillo stepped over them both and fired. Emptied his gun into the back of the thing’s head. The bullets pierced the dark head, vanished in mushrooming splotches. The scientist just beneath quivered in shock.

  “Is it self-destruction?” Castillo asked, stepping away, moving to the door. “Yes. And see, a lot of time saved. No need to isolate anything at all. No need to breed and destroy children.”

  He shot the controls that’d open the door.

  Fat Dr. Mohlenbrock was crying, clinging to the legs of the closest table.

  Castillo pointed the pistol at Stanforth. “And,” he asked, “is it maybe just a little fun?”

  “What now, Castillo?” Stanforth asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Castillo released the clip from his gun and thumbed out the last three bullets. Charged the chambered bullet free. Tossed the empty pistol across the room.

  Listening to the others cowering, whimpering, dragging themselves across the floor behind him. He’d let Neff keep his knife.

  The evil within. We can never cure or destroy it.

  Because we are all Cain.

  He moved for the canister on the table.

  And we are all Abel.

  “Don’t,” Erdman asked. “Please . . .”

  Stanforth took a step back. “Shawn . . .”

  Castillo held up the canister for the whole room to see.

  “Let’s find out what we’re all really made of,” he said.

  And then he opened it.

  CASTILLO ALONE

  JUNE 16, THURSDAY—RADNOR, PA

  The room filled with gas.

  The toxic vapors coated the tall Plexiglas windows in greasy miasma.

  Castillo could barely breathe. The synthetic stench of burning plastic filled his nose and throat.

  His mind filling with a hundred thoughts. Such terrible thoughts.

  Everything hazy.

  Other bodies moved about the room.

  Screaming. Thrashing.

  And he could hear sounds. Such terrible sounds.

  Someone moved toward him, and he pushed the body away. Could see it moving toward another figure.

  He wanted to kill.

  He wiped his burning eyes, breathed deeply. Focused.

  I will endure it, having in my breast a heart that endures affliction.

  He thought of the men lost.

  Those who’d died beside him. Wissinger. Koster.

  He wanted to kill.

  He collapsed to the floor, choking.

  I want to kill.

  He pictured the boy, Shaya. Heard his musical laughter over the screams on the other side of the room.

  He thought of his father.

  Blood, someone’s blood, splashed across his face.

  He turned his head. Pressed it against the cool Plexiglas.

  He wanted to kill.

  For ere this I have suffered much and toiled much amid the waves and in war . . . Let this also be added unto that.

  His whole body trembling with the blood of Cain.

  More violent wet sounds from across the room.

  He thought of Kristin.

  And the boy.

  Jeff.

  He knew she would care for the boy as she’d promised. That she would “fix” Jeff as much as she could. He knew she would do that. That she was, even now, feeding the press information about dead employees, illegal experimentations.

  And he knew they would be safe.

  He could almost see the boy on the other side of the glass.

  A heart that endures . . .

  He closed his eyes again.

  And then nothing.

  ONGOING INVESTIGATION

  DEATH TOLL RISES IN WORKPLACE RAMPAGE

  BY JACOB HEUKER (JUNE 19)

  Police officials have confirmed the removal of a tenth body from the burned wreckage of Dynamic Solutions Technology Institute (DSTI), a pharmaceutical research facility in suburban Radnor, Pennsylvania, fifteen miles north of Philadelphia.

  On Friday, officials report, a former employee opened fire with multiple assault rifles and pistols and then set the two-story primary research building on fire using homemade explosives.

  Yesterday, officials identified the gunman as Shawn Castillo, a recently retired captain in the United States Army who had been honorably discharged for medical reasons related to post-traumatic stress disorder a year before the incident.

  Other casualties include Chief Executive Officer Thomas Rolich, 53, and the company’s director of research, Gregory Jacobson, 61. The bodies of geneticists Theodore Erdman, 46, Robert Feinberg, 33, and Martin Dechovitz, 37, and lab technician Catherine Callahan, 51, were identified earlier this week.

  Three bodies, including the one recovered this morning, have not yet been identified by officials.

  Castillo had been hired as a security guard at the institute six weeks prior to the shooting. Police officials are still unsure of the gunman’s motive.

  Castillo killed himself on-site following the incident and was one of the burned bodies recovered at the scene.

  A spokeswoman for DSTI, Terry Maley, said today at a news conference outside the facility that the company would not comment on its security procedures, nor would she confirm whether there were any disciplinary or grievance issues involving Mr. Castillo.

  Maley did say that officials “were aware of Mr. Castillo’s mental history when he was hired but were not made aware of any violent tendencies or history.”

  Captain Kristin Romano, the Veteran Affairs specialist who’d treated Castillo at the Walter Reed Medical Center in D.C. for his PTSD a year prior to his medical discharge, stated the event was a “tragic reminder for this country to remain committed to advance the clinical care and social welfare of its veterans” and declined further comment.

  Castillo was a decorated soldier who served in both Afghanistan and Iraq. No further information was made available concerning his military duties or record.

  DSTI is a private biotechnology company with two hundred employees that specializes in the development of therapeutic, pharmaceutical, and cell-based therapies. The company had operated the Massey Institute as a hands-on charitable foundation that worked toward the mental health of teens and children.

  Both the private boys’ school and medical facility on the grounds were closed at the time of the attack, and no students were harmed.

  The day of the attack, the company and its parent corporation, Goodwin Bio-Med, also faced national federal and media questioning following a critical Philadelphia Inquirer article detailing misappropriated government funds, the development and testing of prohibited biological contaminants, and the still-disputed circumstances surrounding the deaths of several DSTI employees.

  Any correlation between the Inquirer reports and the shooting are unknown at this time. Radnor’s police chief, Leonard Kerry, said at a news conference that the investigation was ongoing.

  SOUTHWEST OF EDEN

  OCTOBER 8, SUNDAY—ALABAMA

  Jeff tossed
another stone into the dark waters of the small lake, and it skipped twice before vanishing into the blackness beneath. A small sunfish jumped briefly behind the splash as the setting October sun draped golden lace upon the opposite shore, framed in flushing treetops and spike-rush. His new book lay open facedown in the grass. The cold fall wind ruffled its pages at the corners and swept back his shaggy blond hair as he righted the Senators hat Ox had given him.

  In the distance, he could still hear the laughter and shouts of some of the other guys tossing a football. Castillo had been right about this too: Ox’s friends had enough room and supplies for all of them. For as long as they needed.

  And also for any other boys Castillo and Jeff managed to collect along the way.

  It was a good place. Not a single scientist for a hundred miles in any direction.

  He was thinking of his father again.

  For a week, the news channels had reported on the killing spree at a small research facility in Pennsylvania. About his father’s death. And Castillo’s. All of it lies, of course. And then another week passed—a month, three months—and everything, even the lies, just kind of went away. Almost as if none of it had ever happened. Almost.

  He watched Castillo cross the field toward him.

  He’d just driven Kristin back to the airport. She tried to visit every couple weeks. To talk with him and the other boys. She was good at that. Talking. It was nice.

  Ox and his friends worked to make sure she and Castillo were never followed when she visited. Not that they were too worried about what would happen if they were. It was Kristin who’d worked with one of Castillo’s old war buddies, some guy named Pete, and gotten special information to the papers. Enough of the truth to scare away DSTI and the government forever. Enough of a taste for what the full report would look like if anything ever happened to Castillo, or Kristin, or Ox, or any of them. Or me.

  Castillo came up beside him.

  How he’d survived the IRAX11, how he’d walked away from . . . from that, Jeff did not yet fully understand. But he suspected.

  Since it was something in all of us.

  Thank God, Jeff thought, looking up.

  Castillo noticed the opened book and shook his head warmly.