by Tom Abrahams
The woman stood in the doorway, holding it ajar with a booted foot. She held a digital tablet in her hands. Lomas hadn’t seen one in a dozen years. He sat back in the chair, gripping his knees with his fingers.
“Lomas Ward,” the woman said in a husky voice that sounded devoid of femininity, “I’m Gwendolyn Sharp. Please come with me.” The woman’s facial expression didn’t change as she spoke.
“I thought I was meeting Dr. Morel,” he said, unmoved from his seat. “Dr. Morel told me—”
“I’m unaware of any arrangements you may have discussed with Dr. Morel,” said Gwendolyn Sharp, her boots shoulder width apart. She leaned her shoulder into the door. “I am aware, however, that you are to come with me. Now.”
She smiled in a way that told Lomas it wasn’t a smile at all. Her nostrils were pinched together in such an unnatural way he couldn’t imagine it was easy for her to breathe. Maybe that accounted for her acerbic demeanor. Lomas rubbed his knees with his palms and glanced at the large door through which he’d entered.
Sharp sighed. “Are you having second thoughts about your participation?”
Lomas swallowed hard and pressed his lips together. There wasn’t a correct answer here despite the woman offering what was clearly a rhetorical question. “No,” Lomas lied.
Sharp motioned with her head toward the space beyond the door. “Let’s go, then. We’ve things to do.”
Lomas pushed himself to his feet and moved past Sharp into a narrow hallway. It shared the same lighting as the waiting room. He walked with his eyes glued to the reflective glow emanating from the row of fixtures that ran along the center of the high ceiling. The hard linoleum floor clacked against Sharp’s shoes and squeaked underneath Lomas’s. It felt like a hospital, the antiseptic odor lingering in the air amplifying the sensation that he was about to strip and don a paper gown.
His eyes drifted to the doors that populated the freshly painted white concrete walls. They were white too, unmarked, and decorated with identical alphanumeric keypads. Lomas opened his mouth to ask Sharp what he’d find behind the doors, but decided against it.
When they reached the door at the end of the hallway, Sharp stood in front of the alphanumeric panel, shielded it with her body, and glanced over her shoulder at Lomas and punched five buttons. The door clicked and buzzed until Sharp rotated the handle and shouldered the door inward.
Lomas followed her past the doorway and into what looked like a doctor’s examination room. At its center was a large bed covered in disposable paper. There was a pillow affixed to the head of the table, and hanging from the ceiling above it was a moveable light.
On one side of the room were a sink and a cabinet. On the other were open shelves containing stacks of towels and boxes of powdered rubber gloves. Next to the shelf was a wall-mounted otoscope with various attachments.
“Please seat yourself on the table,” ordered Sharp. She tapped her computer tablet and dragged her finger across the screen.
Lomas stepped up onto a platform at the base of the examination table and swiveled around to sit on it. The paper crinkled under his weight and he tried adjusting it. Sharp nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Lomas tried to remember what Dr. Morel had told him. He tried to recall the step-by-step explanation as to what he could expect once he agreed to work with the doctor and his team. His mind was swimming with so many details he couldn’t remember which ones were real and which ones he’d imagined in his sleepless stupor. He didn’t recall sitting in an exam room as being part of the deal.
Lomas lay back on the table, resting his head on the pillow. He looked up at the overhead light and tried to clear his thoughts. Instead, his vision grew fuzzy from exhaustion. His mind drifted, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke, Dr. Morel was standing next to the table, gently shaking Lomas by his shoulder. “Lomas,” he said softly, “I need you to wake up. We have to get started.”
Lomas blinked his eyes open and yawned. “I’m sorry,” he said, the thick, sour taste of sleep in his mouth.
Dr. Morel smiled. His eyes narrowed with the grin, exposing his deep crow’s-feet. “It’s not a problem, Lomas. But if you could sit up, that would be very helpful.”
Lomas used the edges of the table to pull himself upright. His feet dangled off the end of the table. There were two other people in the room. Sharp and a man who’d been with Dr. Morel when Lomas had agreed to trade his sons’ lives for his freedom. That man, whose name Lomas didn’t know, was holding a syringe in one hand and a length of rubber tubing in the other. Lomas swallowed hard. An uncomfortable heat swelled in his cheeks and on the back of his neck.
“Could I have your arm, please?” Dr. Morel asked.
Lomas stared at the syringe. “What exactly is happening here? What are you doing to me?”
Dr. Morel cleared his throat. “Well,” he said in a tone laced with waning patience, “what’s happening is exactly what I told you would happen, and what we’re doing is what we told you we would do.”
Lomas shook his head, a wave of nausea welling in his gut. “You never said anything about needles.”
Dr. Morel rolled his eyes. “I guess that’s technically accurate, Lomas,” he said, “but I did tell you that you would be involved in a tactical effort aimed at lessening the burden on our natural resources. I did tell you there could be taxing elements that would test your endurance.”
Lomas shuddered, his hands trembling. “You told me I would be a secret hero, like an undercover agent. You told me I would make life better for my kids and their kids. You never talked about needles. I would remember if you talked about needles.”
Sharp stepped forward toward Dr. Morel. “Do we need the restraints?” she whispered into his ear loudly enough for Lomas to hear her.
Dr. Morel shook his head and looked Lomas in the eyes. His smile was gone. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Will it, Lomas?”
Lomas’s muscles tensed. His eyes darted from Morel to Sharp to the needle to the door and back to Morel. The man with the needle moved a step, blocking the door.
“Your boys are in good hands,” said Morel. “They are in good spirits and had a wonderful lunch. I think it was beef stew. When was the last time they had a hot meal, Lomas?”
Lomas’s shoulders slumped. He lowered his head, swallowed past the lump, bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying, and offered his arm to Dr. Morel.
Morel reached onto the shelf and pulled out a pair of gloves. He blew into the openings and slid them onto his hands. He stepped across the room and opened the cabinet next to him, withdrew a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, popped its flip top, and doused a circular cotton pad. “I need to clean the injection site,” he said to Lomas and wiped the cotton pad on a spot just below the crook of his elbow. “There. That’s good.”
The silent man standing at the door moved across the room to Dr. Morel. He offered the rubber tubing and the syringe. The doctor thanked the man, took the tubing, and wrapped it above Lomas’s elbow.
“Make a fist, please. Hold it.”
Lomas did as he was told. He balled his hand into a fist and squeezed. Morel then took the syringe and pushed the plunger enough for a drop of clear liquid to drip from the tip. Then he tapped a vein in Lomas’s arm and placed the needle against the skin.
“Why do you need my blood?” asked Lomas, his voice shaking. “What are you going to do with it?”
Morel chuckled, slid the needle into Lomas’s vein, and pushed the plunger. “Oh,” he said, “we’re not taking anything from you. We’re giving you something.”
CHAPTER 5
FEBRUARY 6, 2044, 5:09 PM
SCOURGE + 11 YEARS, 4 MONTHS
BAIRD, TEXAS
Rudy Gallardo stood on the front porch of his home, his shoulder against one of the tapered Craftsman-style posts that accented the wraparound decking that surrounded three sides of the farmhouse, his mutt named Fifty panting at his side. His arms were fol
ded across his chest expectantly, his legs crossed at the ankles. He looked bored, or irritated, or a little bit of both.
Marcus waved at Rudy and smiled weakly. “Hey,” he said, trudging up the long dirt path that led to the house. “Sorry I’m late. I lost track of time.”
Fifty licked his chops and wagged his tail. He bounded down the wooden porch steps with his oversized meaty paws and clomped his way to Marcus.
“Don’t apologize to me,” he said. “It’s Norma who cooked the food.”
Every Saturday for the past year, Rudy had hosted a big meal at his house. Marcus was always late. Without exception. He ran his hand along Fifty’s head and led the dog up the steps to the porch, his boots announcing his arrival on the old treated pine. He offered his hand to Rudy.
“How are you?” Marcus asked. “Good day?”
Rudy slapped Marcus on the back and pulled open the storm door, its hinges creaking. Marcus moved past him into the house with Fifty herding him along the hallway toward the large eat-in kitchen. He glanced back over his shoulder at Rudy and motioned to the door.
“You should get that fixed,” he said, as he’d told Rudy every Saturday night for the past year.
“Fresh out of WD-40,” said Rudy. “Plus it’s a nice alarm if people try to sneak into the house.” It was the same answer as the fifty before it. He called down the hall to the kitchen to announce Marcus’s arrival.
Norma stood at the butcher-block island, her hands on her hips. “Let me guess. You lost track of time.”
Marcus snorted. “You know me so well,” he said, crossing the room to hug his host. She planted a platonic air kiss on his cheek and shooed him to the table. Lou was sitting there petting Fifty. The dog focused his attention on her whenever she was around.
Marcus sidled up next to Lou and sat beside her on the bench that ran the length of one side of the long rectangular table. On the other side sat two of the women who’d been held captive with Norma in San Angelo. They were always quiet. Neither ever said much other than whispering to each other or asking for a helping of food. They lived with the Gallardos and, in exchange for a roof over their heads and at least two meals a day, helped work the farm.
At one end of the table, Rudy found his seat. Norma sat at the other end. She surveyed the table, her guests, her husband, and pointed at Lou. “Your turn to say grace.”
Lou lowered her chin. “I said it last week.”
Marcus shook his head. “Nope, I did.”
Lou frowned and clasped her hands together in prayer. “Fine. I’ll do it, but I’m not good at it.”
“Of course you are,” said Norma. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Lou took a deep breath and exhaled. She lowered her head and rested her forehead on her thumbs as she prayed. “For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is His love for those who fear Him. As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us. Thank you for our lives and for this food. Amen.”
Marcus glanced at Lou. “Psalms?”
Lou shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve heard you say it in your sleep. When you’re napping at work.”
“In my sleep?”
Lou nodded and reached for the bowl of carrots. She plucked a handful, dropped them onto her plate and passed the bowl to Marcus. “Yep, all the time. You mumble, you groan, you speak Bible.”
Marcus used a large spoon to shovel some carrots onto his plate and passed it to Rudy. “Huh. I had no idea.”
Lou slid a carrot into her mouth and snapped off a piece with her teeth. “Not true.” She chuckled. “I’ve told you that you talk in your sleep. I’ve asked you about some of the names you blurt out.”
Marcus shook his head. “No, that’s not what I mean. I had no idea I was quoting scripture.”
Lou’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “Scripture? That’s a new word. Never heard you use that.”
Norma picked up a bowl of broccoli, which she’d picked from the garden earlier that day. “There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said to Lou, her tone judgmental. “A little prayer never does anyone harm.”
“That’s not my point,” said Lou, taking the broccoli bowl from Norma. “I’m just saying it surprised me, that’s all. I didn’t know he was religious.”
Lou picked out a couple of florets with her hand and dropped them amongst the carrots, passing the bowl to Marcus. She picked a carrot up from her plate, broke it in half, and offered it to Fifty. The dog sniffed it but declined. Lou shrugged and popped the piece in her mouth.
“I don’t talk about it,” said Marcus. “That kind of thing is between a man and his God. Can we change the subject?”
“Excellent dinner,” Rudy said to his wife. “You’ve outdone yourself, as you always do.”
The table concurred with full mouths. The Saturday suppers were always good. Whatever was in season in the garden out back was on the table. It was fresh, sometimes cooked over burning mesquite, and always filling.
“I hope rattlesnake is okay,” said Norma. She had a plate of thinly stripped meat in her hands. “It’s the best I could do tonight. Haven’t seen too many varmints out there. Rabbits, possums, armadillos, they’re all tougher to come by these days.”
“Anything you made for us is fine,” said Lou. “The drought is doing a number on everyone. We get a day of rain and then another month passes.”
“What’s it been now?” asked Rudy, waving his fork as he spoke. “Three years? Four?”
Norma shook her head. “All I know is that if it weren’t for what’s left of the well, we’d have had to give up on this place a long time ago.”
Marcus stabbed at a piece of the snake on his plate. He twirled the utensil around in his hand, swirling the stringy meat on the plate, only vaguely aware of what he was doing. His mind was elsewhere.
“Something wrong, Marcus?” Norma asked.
Marcus blankly stirred the fork around the plate, spinning it as if the meat were spaghetti noodles. His eyes were open. He wasn’t blinking.
“This about the prayer thing?” asked Lou. “You pouting?”
The two women across the table snickered and whispered to each other. Neither of them had put food on their plates yet.
Marcus blinked. He looked at Lou and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m thinking.”
“About?” Rudy prompted.
Marcus laid the fork on the plate and pinched the bridge of his nose. He grimaced and eyed each person at the table. “I’m gonna quit.”
The room fell silent. Rudy’s face crinkled with concern. Norma’s jaw dropped. The two women across the table looked at each other with wide eyes. Lou scooted away from Marcus. She held her fork in her hand, her fingers blanching white as she tightened her grip.
“You took what I said out of context,” said Lou. “Or you twisted it somehow. You can’t quit. This town needs you. We need you.”
Rudy’s forehead creased more deeply. “What do you mean?” he asked, looking between Lou and Marcus. “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”
“I didn’t take anything out of context,” said Marcus. “I didn’t twist what you said, Lou. This is not about heroism. It’s about sanity and survival.”
Lou chuckled sarcastically. “Sanity? You gave that up long before we met. You’ve as much as admitted it. You used to name your guns and talk to ghosts.”
“That’s not fair,” said Marcus. “I—”
“What is going on here?” Rudy said again, his voice straining with confusion.
“You quitting isn’t fair,” said Lou. “You giving up isn’t fair.”
Rudy stood from his seat, pushing his chair away from the table with the backs of his legs. He slammed a fist down on the table. His face was red, his eyes narrowed with anger. “Answer my questions,” he demanded. “This is my house. You’re at my table. Answer me, or I swear to—”
“Rudy,” Norma said firmly, “calm down.”
Marcus raised his hands in surre
nder. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s fine. Rudy, I’ll answer you. I didn’t mean to cause an uproar.”
Rudy plopped down in his chair, his balled fists planted on the table. He nodded at Marcus. “Go ahead.”
“After the kid I killed a couple of days ago, I got to thinking,” Marcus said. “Lou mentioned something about not always needing to be the hero. She didn’t mean any harm by suggesting it, but she had a point.”
Lou threw up her hands. “I knew you took it out of context.”
Marcus shook his head. “No. I thought about my life. I was a warrior. I saw people killed. I killed people. Then I tried to escape it. The violence, I mean. I wanted a quiet, safe existence with my family. Life had other plans.”
“So?” said Lou. “What does that have to do with quitting now?”
“Sure,” said Marcus, “the Scourge brought with it more violence. I engaged, I killed, saw people killed. I retreated again. But that violence found me. Like Al Pacino said in The Godfather, ‘Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back.’”
“Mario Puzo wrote The Godfather,” said Lou. “I read it. There wasn’t anybody named Al Pacino.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Regardless. Violence keeps finding me. I’m sick of it. I’m getting old. I’m tired. I need out.”
“Why now?” asked Rudy. “Why tell us here at dinner?”
“The whole prayer thing,” said Marcus.
“I knew it,” said Lou.
“No,” Marcus said, “not you picking on me. I don’t give a flip about you making fun of me. That’s par for the course. It just got me thinking about Sylvia and all the praying I did. I don’t know that she’d like the man I am nowadays. Lola knew who I’d become. Sylvia and Wesson didn’t. I’ve come to a place where I want to be the man they’d be proud to have around.”
“So you’ll be a monk?” asked Lou. “You’ll live some solitary existence? Hello? You just said you’ve tried it and it didn’t work. You know insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, right?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Marcus said. “I’m staying here in Baird. But I don’t want to be the point person for death-dealing anymore. I want to slide into an uneasy peace.”