Missing

by Sharon Sala

“I’ll get the ice and pop,” Charlie offered. “What’s your poison?”

  Ally grinned. “Anything brown. I’m not a big fan of the lemony-lime tastes.”

  Charlie hurried to run the errand as Wes kissed her goodbye, then, when he would have walked away, turned and kissed her again. Ally sighed with contentment. Despite having lost her home, if there could be good news about her brothers, she would consider her life about perfect.

  “Wes?”

  “What, honey?”

  “You promise to let me know immediately if there’s news?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good or bad…I still want to know.”

  “It’s a promise.”

  Charlie returned with two Cokes, a bucket of ice and three candy bars.

  “Three?” Ally asked, as he dumped a Snickers bar, a Milky Way bar and a Butterfinger in her lap.

  “Better too many than not enough,” he said.

  Ally grinned. “Bringing a woman chocolate in bed is dangerous stuff.”

  Wes grabbed Charlie by the arm. “Let’s go before I have to fight you for my woman.”

  Laughter followed the two men out of the room. Ally settled back against the pillows with a cold can of pop and reached for the remote. After she’d chosen a station, she laid the remote aside and picked up the Milky Way.

  “He called me his woman,” she said, and then stifled a giggle. “I think this calls for a celebration.” She tore the wrapper from the candy bar and took a big bite as The Price Is Right came back on air after a commercial and Bob Barker called for another contestant to “Come on down.”

  Once outside, Wes’s demeanor changed. Charlie frowned.

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” Wes said.

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Then get in,” Wes said, pointing to the van that was waiting near the office.

  As they drove through Blue Creek, Charlie talked, and Wes mostly just listened. Everything Charlie was talking about was no longer as pertinent to Wes’s world as it had once been. The politics of the military and war were understood best by those who’d lived it, and while he understood that life, he wanted no more of it. But there were things Charlie could tell him that he desperately wanted to know. He knew nothing of the days after the bombing, things that he needed to know.

  As the driver crossed the bridge over Blue Creek, the planks rattled beneath the tires, and once again the sound reminded Wes of machine-gun fire. Unconsciously, his fingers curled around the edges of the seat as sweat broke out across his forehead. He made himself focus on the black burn scar on the mountain.

  Charlie didn’t know what had just happened, but he saw the change in Wes’s expression and knew he was in trouble.

  “Wes?”

  Wes’s gaze was fixed, his senses tuning out everything as images of the past threatened his hold on the present.

  Charlie frowned, grabbing Wes’s arm.

  “Wes! Hey! Where did you go?”

  Wes flinched, then shuddered as Charlie’s insistence finally soaked through. He blinked, then took a slow, deep breath as he turned his gaze to his friend.

  “What did you say?”

  Charlie groaned. “Man, you’re still battling it, aren’t you?”

  Wes had to think about what Charlie meant before he could answer.

  “You mean the flashbacks? Hell, yes.”

  Suddenly all the crap Charlie had been rattling on about seemed trivial.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. It’s just that you looked so good standing there in that motel room that I forgot looks can be deceiving.”

  Wes shrugged. “It’s all right. Mostly I do okay, but once in a while, something will trigger a memory and I lose it.”

  “Do you remember much about being taken prisoner?”

  Wes’s lips thinned as he looked away. “Enough.”

  “Sorry. End of questions, okay?”

  “I’ve got some for you,” Wes said.

  “Shoot,” Charlie said, and then grinned. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”

  “Where did they bury Margie and Michael?”

  Again Charlie felt like a heel. He kept making jokes, and Wes kept breaking his heart.

  “Margie’s parents claimed the bodies. They buried them in the family plot in Savannah,” Charlie said.

  Wes thought it obscene that the only way to refer to his wife and child was in the past tense.

  “That’s good. Margie would have liked that,” he said, and swallowed past the knot in his throat. “Did you go…? To the services, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Wes said, as the knot continued to tighten. “It’s been over a year, and that had been bothering me…not knowing where—” Suddenly he stopped talking and shoved his hands through his hair to keep from hitting the back of the seat with his fist. God, but he hated this feeling of being out of control.

  “So tell me about Ally,” Charlie said. “She’s really different…. From Margie, I mean.”

  “She makes me feel.”

  Charlie frowned. “Feel what, buddy?”

  Wes looked at Charlie, surprised that he didn’t understand.

  “Anything…everything. There was a time when I couldn’t.” Then he changed the subject as they drove past the Monroe property. “That’s where she and her family used to live.”

  The only things left were the concrete foundation and the steps that had led up to the porch. The rest was a pile of charred and smoking embers.

  “Damn shame,” Charlie said.

  A couple of miles later, Wes realized that Uncle Dooley’s house was still standing, but only because the walls were concrete and the roof was metal. The vines were all gone, but they would grow back. Ally would be glad to know the little house had survived.

  “That’s where I was living,” Wes said, pointing to the little house.

  Charlie smiled. “Sort of looks like a toadstool.”

  “It belonged to Ally’s uncle, Dooley Brown. I’m thinking that he had a pretty good sense of humor.”

  “How so?” Charlie asked.

  “Take a look at the house. What does it remind you of?”

  Charlie glanced over his shoulder for one last look as they passed it by.

  “Oh…I don’t know…sort of like something from a Disney movie, or some miniature silo.”

  “Dooley Brown was a dwarf.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “No. First two nights I stayed in that house, I kept bumping my chin on my knees when I tried to get out of bed. Everything is normal-size, but lower to the ground.”

  Charlie just shook his head. “Yeah, I get what you mean about the sense of humor.”

  At that point, the transmission in the van began to pull as the grade steepened.

  “Heck of a long way up here,” Charlie said.

  “Not far enough,” Wes said, as he thought of the evil and destruction Roland Storm had wrought.

  When they finally reached the end of the road, it became obvious where the fire had started.

  Storm’s house was gone, as were the drying sheds and the barn. The field was a mass of charred stalks, with a burned-out tractor and trailer in the middle, like a bad metal sculpture on a plot of destruction.

  “Lord…this looks like a war zone,” Charlie muttered.

  Wes got out without commenting. There was little to be added to the truth. Then he saw Hurley coming and braced himself for bad news.

  “Mr. Holden, thank you for coming,” Hurley said.

  “This is my friend, Colonel Charlie Frame,” Wes said, then frowned when he realized the DEA were in regular clothes. “No spook suits?” he asked, referring to the containment clothing the CDC often wore in zones hot with infectious diseases.

  “Shero says it’s not necessary. His people have only dressed out because they’re taking samples all over the place. He also told us not to touch anything, which makes investigations hell.”

 
“Then why am I here?” Wes asked.

  Hurley pointed to Shero, who was sitting on the bumper of a van, reading what appeared to be a small book.

  “To talk to him.”

  Wes walked over to the doctor.

  “Must be a bestseller,” he said.

  Christopher Shero looked up, but there was no smile on his face.

  “We found this in a metal box in what was left of Storm’s lab.”

  “So what was he doing?”

  Shero shook his head, then let the notebook fall shut.

  “Ordinarily, I might try being a smart-ass and say he was trying to play God. But that’s not exactly the case here.”

  “What is?” Wes asked.

  “I don’t quite know what to say,” Shero said, then shivered. “My grandmother’s favorite saying was ‘Playing with fire will get you burned.’ I’m not sure whether Storm knew what he was doing or if he created a monster he couldn’t control.”

  Wes was beginning to get a sick feeling that had nothing to do with PTSD.

  “For God’s sake, Doctor, I’m not big on guessing games.”

  “And I’m not in the habit of playing them,” Shero said. “But the scope of this is almost beyond me. However, the proof, I guess, is in the pudding, or in this case, his lab notes. From what I can tell, I think he started out trying to grow some kind of high-tech, addictive hybrid plant. Hurley tells me that Storm was a master geneticist, so I’m thinking he was playing around with DNA and it mutated on him. Initially, he writes about the drug as if once used, it would forever hook the user, thereby assuring him of a never-ending market for his crop. But the last dozen pages indicate that something happened he didn’t expect. The notes are scattershot, and his writing’s messy, like he was distracted or upset. He says that the drug never dissipates from the body. It does all kinds of nasty things before the user dies a rather horrible death.”

  Wes didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “So how dangerous are we talking?”

  “Let’s just say it’s good that everything up here was burned, or I’d need to be updating my will.”

  “Christ,” Wes said, thinking of Danny and Porter. “What about the crop itself…I mean, before it was dried, or whatever the hell Storm did to it to make it marketable? What about someone who was hired to harvest the crop?”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Hurley said.

  “Ally’s brothers…what can you tell me?” Wes asked.

  “If they’re not dead already, they will be soon,” Shero said.

  “Tell me why,” Wes said.

  “The monster Storm created was more powerful than even he expected. The worst of the drug was in the sap…the juice in the stalks.”

  Wes felt sick. “Ally’s brothers were hired to harvest the crop.”

  “Did they wear protective clothing?” Shero asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Wes said. “Remember Ally saying how crazy they acted about their clothing when they came home…not wanting her to touch it, before or after it was cleaned?”

  “Then if Storm’s notes are correct, there’s no hope for them. Even if they survive the fire, which isn’t likely, not only will they die, but they’ll go mad in the process.”

  Wes thought of his own flashbacks and knew what it felt like to go mad.

  “Mad…as in not knowing who they are…that kind of thing?”

  “Well, according to Storm, the lab rats tried to kill one another, but since they were in separate cages, all they managed to do was chew off one another’s paws.”

  Wes flinched, as if he’d just been punched in the gut.

  “We’ve got to find them,” Wes said.

  “I have search teams out right now,” Hurley said. “We should know—” Suddenly, his two-way crackled with static. “Agent Hurley…sir…this is Vernon. You need to come now.”

  Hurley keyed his two-way. “What’s your location?”

  “The edge of the field…south of the burned machinery.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  “Sir…bring the doctor.”

  “Will do,” Hurley said.

  “Oh, and sir…hurry. For God’s sake, hurry.”

  It had to be the brothers. Wes bolted past Hurley and started to run.

  “Holden! Wait!”

  “He isn’t the waiting kind,” Charlie said, and started after him.

  Hurley waved some of his men forward as they hurried to Vernon’s aid. Whatever was going on, it had sounded as if Vernon was rattled, and it took a lot to rattle the DEA.

  The smell of the fire was still strong in the air. Wes knew it would take weeks, maybe months, and some good soaking rains before the land would even begin to heal. As he reached the field, he saw a group of men on the far side and headed for them at a lope.

  He was less than thirty feet away when the group suddenly parted and Wes saw something on the ground between them. It took a few seconds for him to realize it was a man.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, and abruptly stopped.

  Hurley and his men ran past more slowly, Wes followed. Upon his arrival, all the men in the circle began to talk at once. Wes wanted to look away but was transfixed by the horror.

  Suddenly Charlie appeared and grabbed at Wes’s arm.

  “Son of a—Who is that, and what the hell happened to him?” Charlie asked.

  Hurley turned toward Wes. “Is it one of them?”

  “It can’t be,” Wes said.

  “Damn it, man…we’ve got to know one way or the other.”

  Wes shuddered, then moved a step closer. As he did, the man looked straight up into the sun and then started to scream. When one of the agents reached for him, Shero grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t touch him,” Shero ordered.

  “There’s so much blood on him, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from,” Vernon said.

  “I don’t think it’s his,” Shero said.

  “That’s Porter Monroe,” Wes said.

  “Are you sure?” Hurley asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Poor devil,” Shero mumbled.

  “Why isn’t he dead?” Hurley asked.

  “Basically, he is. His heart just hasn’t stopped beating,” Shero said.

  Wes squatted down beside Porter’s body.

  “Don’t touch him!” Shero yelled.

  Wes flinched, then glared up at the doctor.

  “You need to shut the hell up. You don’t know what he’s hearing or thinking.”

  “According to Storm’s notes, he shouldn’t even be alive,” Shero said.

  Wes pointed at Porter. “But he is, isn’t he? Which means Storm was wrong…at least in part. We’re still missing a brother, and I’d like to know what happened to him, too, before I go back to Ally.”

  Shero glared.

  Wes looked back at Porter and kept thinking about the rats in Storm’s lab that had chewed off their paws. He’d never seen this much blood on a man who was still alive, and with Danny missing, the thought of where it might have come from was making him sick.

  “Porter…can you hear me? It’s Wes Holden.”

  Porter lifted his hand up in front of his face and began slowly moving his fingers, as if he didn’t know what they were.

  Wes gritted his teeth. “Porter! Where’s Danny? We can’t find Danny.”

  Porter blinked slowly. His fingers stopped moving, although his arm was still up in the air.

  “Porter, I need to find Danny. Where’s Danny?”

  “The deer…got Daddy a deer. Venison…likes venison.”

  Wes wanted to weep with relief. The blood. It must have come from the deer.

  “Did Danny go hunting?” Wes asked. “Tell me, Porter. Was Danny with you?”

  “Lost,” Porter whispered. “Little brother lost.” Then his eyes rolled back in his head. Breath rattled at the back of his throat, and then he was gone.

  Wes stood as Hurley fired a question at Vernon.

  “Where did this man come fr
om?” he asked.

  Vernon was trying not to gag. “We just found him here,” he said.

  Wes was already searching the ground for blood splatters when Hurley realized what he was doing.

  “I’ve got people for that,” he said. “You’re going to mess up the trail.”

  “You don’t have any people better than Wes,” Charlie said. “Or me, for that matter. Uncle Sam trained us well. Let us help.”

  “Fine, but I’m still in charge, and if I say stop, then somebody better be hitting the brakes.”

  Charlie strode off after Wes, leaving the rest of them to sort out who was boss and bring up the rear.

  As Wes moved, it was easy to see where Porter had come from. There was blood all over the place. Unfortunately for Wes, Porter’s trail was as confused as his mind. It appeared that he had stumbled often, fallen repeatedly and doubled back on himself countless times. But Wes didn’t think it was to throw anyone off the track. It was nothing more than an echo of the random chaos in his mind.

  Charlie caught up with Wes, and without speaking, they spread out and began backtracking along Porter’s trail.

  As they started down the hill into the woods opposite the path the fire had taken, Charlie suddenly stopped.

  “Whoa,” he muttered.

  “What did you find?” Wes asked.

  “Dead raccoon.”

  “Don’t touch it,” Wes said. “Remember what Shero told us.”

  Charlie gave it a wide berth and resumed the search.

  A short distance away, Wes came upon a dead deer. Some of the points on the deer’s antlers were broken off. He found them embedded in a tree.

  As they continued to track, they could hear Hurley and his men coming down behind them. When the agents came upon the dead animals, Wes heard Hurley key up his two-way. The CDC was going to have their work cut out for them now.

  “Here,” Wes said, pointing toward a path through a thicket. “I’ve got blood on the brush, and broken branches.”

  Charlie nodded and shifted his path a bit to the right, as did Wes.

  Minutes turned into a half hour and Wes was of the opinion that Porter would not have been physically able to go any farther, when he heard the sound.

  He stopped, then held up his fist. Charlie saw the signal to stop and paused, then he heard it, too. He looked at Wes and frowned.

  “Bees?”