by James Somers
“Why?”
“I’m hoping to do orthopedics for my residency,” he explains. “They say it’s a lot like shop class.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to explain,” I manage, feeling a little queasy at the thought of my arm going through what I’ve seen in a real shop class.
Hu laughs. “Sorry, about that. No problem.”
We come into another room, this one with many stretchers parked in curtained stalls. There is a lot of equipment around, monitors showing vital signs and stuff. Hu parks me in an empty stall and is joined by a nurse in brightly colored scrubs.
“Hi, Jonathan,” the nurse says. “My name is Janice. I’m going to be taking care of you and getting you ready for surgery. Do you know what Dr. Schultz is going to do for you today?”
“Fix my broken arm?” I guess.
Janice nods, marking something on my chart.
“Now, your foster parents have already signed the consent with Dr. Schultz,” she explains.
“Where are they?” I ask. Naturally, I expected they would come to see me before anything like this is done.
Janice leans closer. “I think the police officers wanted to speak to them in one of the consultation rooms. Don’t worry. They said to go ahead, and they will see you afterward.”
I don’t like that bit of news, but I nod and settle back while Janice and Hu hook me up to the monitors with cold sticky pads on my chest. A blood pressure cuff is placed on the same arm and, within seconds, my vitals are displayed upon the monitor over my head.
Janice pulls a cart up to the bed, as Hu waves and tells me he might see me later after I wake up. He wants to take a look at my arm. I guess, as a future orthopedic surgeon, he wants to make sure the job gets done right. Give it his personal stamp of approval.
A rubber strap is fastened around my right arm and an IV placed in my hand. My right arm gets all of the abuse in this case, since nothing can be applied to my left. I’m just glad they’re leaving it alone. The arm has grown more and more numb. I can only assume this is normal, having never broken my arm before. It feels almost like things are moving around in there.
After the IV is in my arm, I have the joy of answering a bunch of health questions. I answer ‘no’ to all of them. I have never had any other health problems. Then another nurse, wearing scrub clothes and a surgical bonnet on her head with a mask around her neck, comes to my bed and talks with me. She tells me she is administering some I don’t care medicine. Everything starts to get fuzzy then.
I’m feeling good now, but sleep keeps taking me away from the moment. I notice things only sporadically at this point. Hu wheels me down the corridor again along with two other people wearing masks. Bright surgical lights and people in blue paper gowns and masks and gloves. A table of instruments on one side.
They talk to each other, but it’s mumbled and muffled for me. I’m pretty sure my arm is laid out on the table. It doesn’t hurt now. Must be some great medicine they’ve given me.
I hear a beep that reminds me of the x-ray machine. I see my bones on the monitor again. This time they are back together. My arm looks perfectly normal.
I probably should be asleep by now, but someone is yelling. I get the impression it is my doctor.
“Is this some kind of joke? There’s nothing wrong with this boy’s arm!”
Another man argues with him. The image on the screen shifts from the one of my arm broken to this new one with it all back together. None of it makes much sense to me. My mind is totally gone at this point. I let sleep wash over me and take me away from the ensuing noise that follows.
I wake in a bed that is not inside a surgical suite. There are no monitors beeping, no IV in my arm anymore. This room is actually quite plain, but the door is closed, and there is a man in a suit standing at the end of my bed.
I look at him, my eyes blinking a few times as I try to get my bearings and figure out where I am. I move my left arm, bringing it over my chest to stare at it. It isn’t numb any longer. Moreover, there is no cast like I expected to find. Yet, the arm is straight and true, as though it had never been broken at all.
“Hello, Jonathan,” the man says. His suit is gray, his eyes a bright blue. His haircut is neat but thinning. My immediate impression is this guy looks like Agent Smith from the Matrix Trilogy.
Struggling through my drug induced haze, I ask, “Are you a policeman?”
“Not exactly,” he replies. “I’m with the Secret Intelligence Service.”
I sit up at this. “Where are my parents?”
“Deceased, I was told,” the agent says.
I sigh. “Harold and Jeanette. My foster parents.”
“Ah, the Lemons,” he says. “Their custodial service has been terminated. You are once again in the custody of the state.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t do that!” Even as I say these words, I realize what a stupid statement it is. Of course, he can. This is the government, after all. I’ve seen plenty of movies—enough to know governments can basically do whatever they want to, especially in a situation like mine—no birth parents, no family.
The agent only smiles. He sees it on my face. We both know my rights are basically what they tell me. Governments have a way of changing the rules to suit their desires. The game just changed. That still leaves one question.
“Why?” I ask. “I didn’t do anything. Tom attacked me.”
The agent allows a puzzled look to cross his face for a moment. “Oh, the Kennedy boy? This has nothing to do with your fight—at least, not directly.”
Now it’s my turn to look dumbfounded. “Then what?”
“Your arm,” he replies. “Haven’t you noticed it’s not broken anymore?”
“I was in surgery. Dr. Schultz fixed my arm.”
He shakes his head with a grin as I finish my statement. “Then where’s your cast, Jonathan?”
He’s right. I have already wondered about that myself.
“What are you saying? What’s this all about?”
“Some people are born with certain gifts, Jonathan,” he explains. “You’re not the only one, though these gifts are certainly rare. You may have already noticed things like this that are different about you. Maybe you’re faster, stronger, smarter than others your own age. Maybe you heal exceptionally fast?”
I don’t say anything in response to this. My expression probably gives me away already. I have noticed some things. Others have noticed my strength. It isn’t a big deal. No one else ever made anything more of it.
“We have a special program we would like you to be a part of.”
Somehow, I don’t like the sound of that.
“We can help you tap into your true potential, become more than you ever thought possible.”
I sit there for a long moment. The door is closed. Unless I miss my guess, this guy isn’t the only agent the government has sent for me. I consider screaming my head off, calling for help. We appear to still be in the hospital.
Who am I kidding? Are doctors and nurses going to stand in the way of British Intelligence? Not hardly. For all I know, they are the ones who have called them on me.
I flex my left arm in front of me, wondering at how I feel no pain at all despite the recent fracture. This doesn’t make any sense. It’s the stuff of fiction.
I look up at the agent, staring at him. “What’s your name?”
“Special Agent Devine,” he replies producing a black wallet with his credentials inside. He tosses it onto the bed so it lands in my lap.
I pick it up and examine his identification. It looks authentic, but I honestly have no way to tell between a fake and a real one. He might be totally bogus. I have no way of knowing.
“What if I refuse to go with you, Agent Devine?” I ask. “What happens then?”
He smiles, stepping over to retrieve his wallet from me. “We can do this the easy way, Jonathan, or we can do this the hard way.”
Something about the way he bares his teet
h when he says that makes me wonder if he doesn’t prefer the hard way.
Flight of the Valkyrie
9 Hours Earlier
His flight from Moscow is uneventful. However, the chatter about events unfolding in London is incessant and growing more panicked by the minute. Vladimir could have piloted the Gulfstream G650 himself—he is a pilot after all in addition to his other talents—but he prefers to have the time to relax.
Still, there isn’t as much time as he might like. With a high altitude cruising speed of Mach 0.90, the 65 million dollar G650 brings him across 1,500 miles to London in just under two and one half hours. His pilot, one assigned by Ivanovich, lands the plane at Heathrow under a military identity in order to keep prying eyes away and allow them to land during a time of crisis when normal passenger and cargo flights are halted.
Vladimir watches news reports during the trip. Matters in London appear to be getting out of hand. The military has been brought in, with the hope they might be able to contain what even the Armed Response police units could not.
He can not help but be reminded of similar fictional news reports he saw during American disaster movies portraying the end of the world by plagues and natural disasters. This feels eerily the same. Still, the world has faced plagues before. Those were overcome without the technology available today.
Millions died across Europe during the Black Plague. Vladimir imagines such cleansings are merely a part of the natural selection process. The strong will survive, purifying the race once again.
The Gulfstream taxies from the runway to terminal five. The pilot stops the plane and powers down the engine. By the time the door opens and Vladimir steps down to the tarmac, a black Cadillac Escalade sits twenty feet away with the engine running and the driver standing outside holding the door open.
Vladimir nods and enters the vehicle on the driver’s side and closes the door. The suited but unnamed agent who drove it out for him, nods and then steps away, entering the Gulfstream in his place. He will remain there with the pilot and the plane until Vladimir returns with the boy.
Everything proceeds according to plan, just like clockwork. Vladimir opens a single black briefcase that sits upon the passenger seat. Inside, a white lab coat lies folded with a standard issue ID badge encoded for the SIS building and the Tombs laboratory beneath. The name is American, but the picture is his own. The encoded microchip embedded within the badge matches the badge worn by their operative in MI6. People in the building will see his face and Charles Smith on the nametag. The computer will display the name of their operative.
The case also contains a small handheld Tazer. If the boy gives him any problems, this will incapacitate him enough to get him out of the building and into his vehicle. After all, there are a number of emergency exits at SIS that provide no locks or handles to get inside with, but only security coded and guarded entry points.
Vladimir picks up an ear bud that waits for him on the console as he leaves the tarmac. “Valkyrie checking in,” he says.
The ear bud catches his voice, relaying his words to a satellite miles above the Earth. The reply comes by a separate pathway from SVR headquarters. He does not recognize the voice on the other end, but it doesn’t matter. He is used to working with disembodied voices and suits with no names attached. It’s all part of the game, just like his codename: Valkyrie.
According to Norse mythology, the Valkyrie were females characters who chose which soldiers would live or die and be whisked away to Odin in Valhalla. He doesn’t mind the feminine aspects of it, so much as he likes the idea of choosing who lives and dies on the battlefield. This is often his role in the game, carrying out the matter of life and death.
Of course, this mission is a bit different. He doesn’t have a target to eliminate on this occasion. Neither is this a rescue. Vladimir was never given the task of taking a teenager into custody.
He will have to play this a little differently—not to mention the other mission parameters in play. London descends steadily into panic. He can use that kind of chaos to mask his movements. In that regard, it is perfect. Any and all available law enforcement officers are preoccupied. Even the military are involved now. He has a free pass through London and into the Tombs lab where the boy is held.
At most, he will have to deal with a few scientists busily working their fingers to the bone on a cure. It is to this possibility Ivanovich directs his attention now.
Ivanovich’s voice is steady and calm. “Make sure our operative sends all of the available research they have on the boy and this outbreak,” the Operations Chief says. “We can start from scratch, if we have to, but time is of the essence in a situation like this. We cannot assume the infection will be confined to London. Our virologists feel London will only be the beginning.”
“Yes, sir,” Vladimir replies, turning the wheel of the SUV on his way out of Heathrow’s Tunnel Rd, merging onto London’s M4 motorway, heading east.
“It goes without saying,” Ivanovich continues, “you should have as little contact with the general population as possible. If anyone stands in your way, terminate them.”
“Understood, sir,” Vladimir confirms. “I’ll let you know when I’m back in the air again with the boy.”
“Very good. We’re counting on you,” Ivanovich says and then signs off.
With that statement, the fate of his nation is laid upon his shoulders. Vladimir sighs. He has toppled regimes, stopped drug lords making inroads into Russia, and delivered valuable secrets from nations all over world. Yet, this is the first time the risk of failure feels so palpable.
Vladimir increases his speed. Strangely, this side of the motorway has little traffic at the moment. The westbound side, however, is packed to capacity with people trying to flee the city.
He can’t say he is terribly surprised. The twenty-four hour news channels bring every event to the public in real time. The fact all of this plays out over the airwaves and internet like a zombie plague of biblical proportions isn’t helping the situation in London.
Rather than stoicism in the face of such threats, modern society sits on the precipice of panic, expecting imminent danger at any moment like a flock of pigeons waiting to take flight at the first sign of danger. Their is a perception the fiction barely veils a horrible reality that can take place at any time. As far as anyone knows, now is that time. And they are right.
Vladimir presses the accelerator closer to the floorboard. The Vortec V8 engine growls, and the vehicle surges forward even harder. He intends to merge with the A4 then the A2 until he reaches Vauxhall Bridge. Here he will cross over the Thames to the mighty SIS building waiting on the southern bank.
However, according to news reports coming over the in-dash display, the problems in the city appear to be focused, for the moment, in central London and Kensington in particular. It is this area he will pass through in order to reach the bridge and cross the Thames.
Helicopters, both civilian police and military, dot the sky. No doubt, they’re trying to keep track of current infected attacks and help to rein in new areas before they get out of control. One police helicopter passes by close overhead. Vladimir plainly sees a sniper buckled into a harness at the open side door. This way the man can lean out and aim with both hands without having to hold on to anything.
Are they already shooting civilians? Nothing is mentioned about this on the news. Of course, that means nothing. All manner of atrocities might be in play on the ground without the general public being told what is happening.
The M4 merges with the A2, traveling through town instead of over it. He comes into Central London now. The road is littered with abandoned cars. Vladimir slows his pace in order to dodge abandoned vehicles.
A woman runs into the street with another person chasing her. It is one of the hideous looking people Vladimir had seen on the news reports—one of the infected he heard about. There is no time to pull his weapon, so he uses the SUV instead. Swerving across adjacent lane, he passes just beh
ind the woman running in terror and clips the thing chasing after her.
It appears to be a middle-aged man with a bloody face and hands, blood soaked into the front of his stained work shirt. Vladimir hits him with the passenger’s side of the Escalade, smashing him dead on with the left headlight. Glass and plastic explode as the infected man spins away into the air. Vladimir spins the wheel to keep the SUV under control without losing too much speed.
He grins. That’s his good deed for the day in London. Coming fast out of his peripheral vision, a red double-decker bus shoots towards him, plowing into the Escalade at the intersection of Queensgate and Cromwell. Vladimir curses as his head whips sideways. Glass explodes around him immediately prior to the vehicle’s airbags bursting from the steering wheel, dash and around the windows.
The Escalade spins across Cromwell Road into the oncoming lanes and is struck again by another car. Vladimir strains against the sudden G-forces exerting influence upon his body. After what seems an eternity of twisting metal and shattering glass, his vehicle comes to rest in the far lane against the curb. There are no sounds now, other than the steamy hiss of his engine as it gasps its dying breath.
Action and Consequence
A wise man is cautious, a fool gets eaten—Jonathan Parks
Those three words just happen to be the very last words I want to hear at this moment. Three words that can change your life forever, and they aren’t, ‘I love you.’
“You’ve been bitten,” Holly says again, when I just stand there with a blank expression.
“It all happened so fast,” I say, not knowing what else to say. My mind reels with the implications of this bite mark. I spot a mirror on one wall and run to look at the wound.
Exposing the area across the top of my back, I see a vaguely circular pattern of teeth imprints. They are bloody and smeared, but definitely pierced my skin. Holly stands near the rear door with the gun in her hand, staring at me.