“K,
As I type this, you are throwing up in your cell. You looked so small as we carried you inside. So helpless. I hope you regain your strength. I don’t want to remember you in your vulnerable state.
I’m sure you’ll deduce you’re at the RailTech White Plains Research Facility. This is a labyrinth of corridors and sealing doors, with armed guards and gas pacification systems in every room. Despite this, I know you’re going to try to escape. It’s ingrained in you. It’s your instinct. Above all else, you are a survivor and a free creature.
Our rules stand. I have no intention of letting you do so. It seems that only one of us will leave this complex alive. I will pull no punches. I like to assume that you will not either.
Since you are reading this, I guess it’s safe to say that you won. First of all, well done. I survived Africa and Russia and everything Germany could throw at me. Clearly you’re better than that. You’re a new breed of bad-evil, the likes of which the world has never seen before. It’s not ready for you. It’s your greatest strength. Use it.
Secondly, don’t give up. I might not know it all, but RailTech is clearly making plans. Whatever it is, it’s going to be big and it’s going to be bad. A lot of people are going to get hurt and while you may enjoy that, you’re directly in the line of fire. This is a warning. Get out, or get ready.
We always had our differences when it came to our urges. You let yours loose at the slightest provocation. I wrapped mine in legalities and the instructions of others. My urge to kill was no less legitimate than yours, nor was it any weaker. My will to control it was simply stronger. No matter how far you pushed me and no matter how far I went there was always a basic principle that divided us. I had rules.
You don’t. You never have and you never will. It fascinated me. It was always something I envied, from a safe distance. It makes you unpredictable beyond consideration. If anyone has the power to stop RailTech, it’s a devious, chaotic psychopath. It’s you. Understand their perspective. View things through their eyes. Take their position and burrow right up from below. It’s what you do best.
Good luck, K. We didn’t see eye to eye all the time, but it’s important that you know our time together was irreplaceable.
Thank you and, again, good luck.
Vincent
PS: you need to forget about the boy. I’ve wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but he does not exist. It’s all in your head. It’s just going to distract you and confuse you. Forget about the boy.”
I was staring through my screen rather than at it by now, losing focus in snatches. When I came back to the world, my hand was jittering and my right leg was bouncing up and down. I read it again.
The tone was so wildly distanced from anything I’d seen Vincent write, but it was deeply authentic. Vinscented. He wasn’t playing games or trying to screw with me. He was being frank and honest. This screwed with me more than anything.
I sat quietly for a long stretch of time before returning to my investigation. Something spoke to me in Vincent’s voice.
“View things through their eyes.”
I doubt it was a hint, or a secret message. It was a candid piece of advice. I decided to take heed.
The afternoon was spent sawing into the RailTech helmets. As I expected, they had a video feed. With signal, I assumed it provided a live stream. There were also small memory chips that kept the last few gigabytes of footage.
It was surreal to watch the deaths of nine people, through their own eyes. The victim on the floor looked up to see the hook swinging towards him. The camera was dislodged, and the rest of the footage was centred on a bleeding, twitching eye. First that eye jerked wildly in pain, but the struggles slowed down. Eventually it lost focus and just stared. I opened the next file.
I chuckled dryly at my first victim of the night, watching the jerk of his head and his collapse after entering Valerie’s bedroom. Silent and professional.
One found Valerie in the lab, at her computer. She crossed and extended her hands in submission. The field of vision tilted downwards and Valerie moved, blindingly fast. The camera tumbled and pitched. As it stared upwards, Valerie appeared. She had a whirring blade in her hands, and my screen filled with red. Good old Valerie. The bonesaw incident, all over again. I still had the scars.
The others died in similarly entertaining fashion. I watched myself gnaw on the barrel of a gun before the video slumped to the side. I watched an enraged Valerie burst into the Wasp Gallery and empty a round into my—no, his face. Another perspective watched both friends go down before trading blows. I came screaming out of the shadows, and the camera pitched and began to shudder. The thrashing intensified until the field of view rolled backwards completely. I guess I must have detached the head, which bounced a few times before landing on its side. I could hear Dante shouting at me, and his heavy slaps. I saw myself scramble back into vision towards Valerie and start screaming for morphine.
I stopped the footage. I really didn’t feel like re-living the final moments of that night. The picture froze, my mouth unappealingly open and snarling. One hand touched her head, the other was pointing off-screen. A set of hypno addicts set the scene, splayed out and immobile despite the carnage that surrounded them. Red dripped from their eyes. One of them had caught a bullet; dark red spurted over his chest. His friend reached her arm out to…
That can’t be right.
I leaned closer to my screen. Her eyes were unfocused, but her hand had lifted from the bean bag. I hit the spacebar to unpause, and tapped it again a few seconds later.
Convulsions. They were all shaking.
Rewind. Fast forward. Rewind. Fast forward. Rewind.
I snapped to another perspective, and a third.
Every hypno addict in the Midnight Hour was having a seizure. There was only one time I’d ever seen a hypno user suffer from a one. I reminded myself to breathe.
#0100
“I feel like I should be celebrating. I actually would be, but I expected your head to cave in before the champagne bottle did. Now look what you’ve made me do. I have to settle for some piss-grade wine while you get all the sparkly. Life just isn’t fair.”
24: Agent Startling
Clarice. Little, doleful Clarice. Blue-eyed, timid Clarice. Thrashing, gagging, bleeding-from-my-eyes-like-it’s-going-out-of-fashion Clarice.
She knew someone, someone important. Her dealer. Normal angel-rage did not trigger her symptoms when mixed with hypno, but at the Midnight Hour the very same signs were to be seen in the beanbag-hogging addicts. Repressed convulsions, gagging, possible damage to the nervous system. Finally, I had a link, a second point of entry: something to tie in with RailTech and whatever plans they had for me.
Despite her midnight proclivities, Clarice was shiny on the surface. Dante knew where she worked—as a coordinator in one of the larger gutterage-relief hostels for those displaced in 2012. Her home was well maintained. She even had a cat.
Creepy.
She hovered at her doorway for a moment, as if something was firing off alarm sirens in her head. It should have been. The briefest squeak was heard as her lights cut out and she felt the sharp point in the small of her back.
Frighten.
“Who are you?”
I remained silent, twisting the blade slowly. I felt the sudden drop in resistance as the tip pierced the skin, followed by a twitch from Clarice. She slowly raised her hands into the air; in the half-light, I could see that they were empty.
“It’s been a while, Clarice.”
Gears ticked, and she recognised my voice. Her arms descended, and her breathing slowed.
“I’m going to turn around, K.”
I withdrew the knife, which further relaxed her. As she turned, I could see a coy smile stretching over her face.
Reassure.
“Miss me? I’m sorry I left so abrup—”
I cut her off and shot for her throat, smashing her head against the hallway mirror.
Tendons struggled against my grip, and I could feel the jugular throb with fresh fear. Plaintive gasping abraded the next few seconds of silence.
One hundred and twenty-eight beats per minute.
“You have something I need to know. Clue me in, and I won’t sew your kitten into your chest cavity.”
One hundred and thirty beats per minute.
Dazed, she mumbled a few words.
“Don’t have a kitten.”
Of course, I knew this already.
One hundred and twenty-eight beats per minute. Control, check.
“I know. Now, the night you screwballed out on angel-rage and hypno. Three months ago. Remember that night?”
“Most of it.”
One hundred and thirty-two. Truth.
“I need to know who sold you the angel.”
She raised a tentative hand and tapped on my grip. I didn’t let go, but I eased up the pressure on her windpipe, and she started talking.
“I know a guy. Works at a pharmacy, dispensary. It’s drudgework for him; he’s an utter genius with a lot of spare equipment from twenty-twelve. He cooks most of his own stuff, as far as I can tell.”
One hundred and thirty. Truth.
“How long have you been using him?”
“Almost two years now.”
Truth.
“Where can I find him?”
“He works at a place on the embankment, by the square. Only pharmacy there. Can’t miss it. Lives right above the store.”
Truth.
“Lastly, is there anything unusual about this guy?”
“Unusual? Not that I know of.”
One hundred and fifty-two beats per minute. Lie.
I snapped her head into the broken mirror again before flinging her into the floor. Her head bounced off the linoleum once, twice, before she steadied herself with her forearms. Even in the dark, I could see the small blood splatter around the point of impact.
“Let’s try this again. One more lie, and I feed you your own eyeballs. Are we understood?”
She nodded.
“Now. What’s unusual about him, and why didn’t you tell me the first time?”
She coughed and spat up blood before continuing.
“A year ago, he wiped himself out. New name, new identity, new everything. Ditched all his customers except me, because I was sleeping with him on-off. Not for drugs, just for fun. He got ultra-paranoid, threatened to kill me if I told people who he used to be.” She drew out the ‘u’ in ‘ultra’.
“Well, look where that got you.”
“Funny. I don’t know why he changed, and who he was running from, but I do know his real name. He now operates under William Tell, but his real name was Rick Kuzner. That’s all I know, I swear.”
I had no means of checking her story; my heart-rate control bounced out the door as her head did the same to the floor. There was something plaintively open about her, though; something broken and scared and ultimately concerned with living.
“Goodnight, Clarice. Be a good girl, and if you want my advice, find a new dealer. I’ll be in touch.”
She hesitated, scared, and spoke.
“Is this about Valerie?”
“Valerie is just the start. Keep your head down, Clarice, or you might just lose it.”
***
In a breach of my usual methods, I moved directly to Rick Kuzner’s pharmacy. William Tell, the crossbowman of legend. Generally I would wait, but every moment was critical.
I levered a crowbar in a chink in the gate, bending and mangling the lock open. The glass door swung wide, with the sensor giving off a faint bing-bing as I walked through it. I lifted an energy bar from the aisle and chewed, quietly, as I searched for the door to the back. The shop-home combination had become exceedingly popular after 2012; most people took the opportunity to live as near to their livelihood as possible. Kuzner was no exception.
I bumped the lock to the office and stepped inside. One door led to the dispensary, the other led to a flight of stairs. I lifted some pills from the shelves first. If I had to make a quick exit, at least the trip wouldn’t be for nothing. I swallowed a few painkillers for kicks, and ascended to the apartment above.
The door swung open as I touched it.
Not locked. Caution.
I pulled my pistol out and checked that the clip was full and the silencer was tight. I tapped it to my shoulder, counting to three, and pushed. It swung open, the doorknob meeting the wall with a crisp click. I rolled one of the pill bottles across the floor.
The apartment was dark and silent for a single second, before the blast lifted me off my feet and threw me down the stairs. My head met the brickwork and I blacked out, briefly. I came to moments later, flames lapping at my coat. I patted them out clumsily and tried to get a bead on the situation.
Fire was exploring the shattered doorway, orange fingers probing around curiously. There was a splintering crack, and the roof collapsed into the store downstairs. I had to move.
I dusted myself off and rose up onto my haunches. Smoke clouded around my head, tasting bitter on my tongue. I pulled my lapel over my mouth and dashed forwards.
The pharmacy was in a bad state. Fire spilled from the hole, leaping onto the shelves and aisles. I was glad I’d visited the dispensary first. I vaulted fallen eaves and skidded on the rubble.
Oh shit.
A smouldering death-cluster of wood crashed in front of me. I lurched to a halt a second soon enough and threw myself to the left. A second explosion—maybe his gas?—sent a wave of fire over my head. I ducked under my arms until the heat receded from fire to frying-pan levels.
I made the final stretch at speed, almost losing my balance but steadying myself on the sensor stands. Bing-bing. The sound was lost as I burst into the open. I didn’t stop moving. They may have rigged the apartment for an automatic detonation, but that didn’t mean they weren’t watching. It would only be logical to post snipers around.
I made for the river, zig-zagging through the dark streets. Glass exploded to my right, killing the illumination from the streetlight and confirming my fears. The air burned as a second shot narrowly missed my head. I hit the edge of the river and jumped, grabbing the railing to pull my trajectory downwards.
The water was freezing. I gulped a breath before diving deep to throw off the possibility of getting shot. I resurfaced briefly and dived again, repeating this pattern until I was far downstream.
Once again, RailTech was a few steps ahead.
***
I emerged when I’d lost my snipers. My clothes clung to my skin, heavier than bodies. My phone was fucked. I hauled myself over the railing and shed my coat. It fell to the pavement with a pronounced slap. I rolled it up along the ground, wringing water out, and slung it around my neck. I’d dry my other clothes soon enough. I needed to find a place to bunker down. The Helix was too far away to consider safely.
I ended up settling in a quaint, cosy apartment a few blocks from my emerging point. Shockingly, the resident couple had recently caught a bad case of death. This made them clumsy—so clumsy that they accidentally fell out of their window into a dumpster, six blocks away. Tragic.
I shifted a chair to the same window and surveyed the street. An hour later, search beams broke the darkness. There were three lights: a 429 team. I slunk behind the glass, but there was no real risk of being spotted. I was high above their seeking eyes.
Once they passed, I retreated to the kitchen. The oven was open and on; my clothes were hung on chairs and spread around, drying slowly. I had taken a pair of jeans belonging to one of the owners. She didn’t need them anymore. They fitted me nicely. I scribbled notes on a piece of paper and tried to get a handle on the situation.
RailTech had gotten to Rick before me. I doubted that Clarice had given the game away; she wouldn’t have had the time. RailTech had probably gotten to him once I had escaped, to tie off loose ends. I wish I’d had some time in his apartment,
some time to look at his notes. Something was special about his designer drugs—his angel-rage. Maybe he’d done some work for RailTech, or maybe RailTech had just cruised in and laid a claim to his recipe. Either way, it had been in the air that night, driving the patrons into a psychotic frenzy. I should have known, I should have noticed. RailTech had gassed us with their special compound. I avoided angel-rage for the most part, but I should have recognised the feeling. The lack of satisfaction from the killing, the desperation in my movements. The burning fury, plastered on Valerie’s face. The only thing missing was the climax, the degeneration of the protein to light up all the pleasure centres in the brain.
“They love to test things, to experiment.”
Zachary’s voice echoed in memory. Was the attack on the Midnight Hour part-assault, part-experiment?
The open window. The air-conditioner.
My mind stepped even further back, to the murder-suicide. The window had been opened and closed by an unknown entity. I remembered the chill of the air-conditioner as I entered the hallway. How do you force someone to kill the person he loves? By dipping him head-first in a mental vat of pure, undiluted psychosis. Had they pulled the same trick on John Rourke? The rage burns through into a murder, RailTech waits for the come-down and appears at the doorway. Did this new angel-rage increase suggestibility? Had they told Rourke to kill himself, or was it a lethal case of Oh-God-What-Have-You-Done? Either way, case closed, all over the walls and ceiling. All they had to do was open a window and turn the air-conditioner on to full blast and whoosh, all evidence of their experiments disappeared. Were the NutCase impostors installing angel-rage canisters? Had Cartwright died because he was complaining too loudly about them?
The infinite kept condensing. I made a note to check the science reports again. Rourke certainly knew about the substance.
AEROAR.
It wasn’t Aeroar or AE-Roar. It was Aero-AR. Aero-Angel-Rage. Puzzle pieces fell into place. I threw pages of half-scrawled thoughts across the room. The dead couple had such a nice set of stationery. I flipped the laptop open—nice background picture of the pair—and went online. With something to search for, terms and phrases became obvious and RailTech’s science more understandable. It was making sense.
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