by James Moore
“You are my brother. You get that, right? You are my brother.” Hank’s voice sounded strangely soft and almost tender, which was unusual for him. “I never had a brother before, Gene. I want to keep you now that I have you.”
Gene’s face grew slack for a second as he considered the words. Then he closed his mouth, uncertain how to respond.
Kyrie turned her head away. She had brothers and sisters and a mother and a father and she wanted to get back to them. Her heart pounded in her chest and she bit her lip to avoid making a noise. Homesickness washed over her like a tidal wave.
And as the wave of longing drew back, the darkness came for her as it had again and again since the first time she heard Joe call out to wake up the thing that hid inside her.
Not-Kyrie was waking up, and Kyrie was too tired to care, too tired to stop her. Let her come. Maybe she can fix all of this.
And a moment later, Kyrie was gone.
Not-Kyrie opened her eyes and looked around, examining the restraints that held her, turning toward Gene where he lay strapped in place, staring at her with wide eyes. Cute kid, but a coward through and through. She didn’t much like him. Cute didn’t mean a thing if he didn’t have the guts to live his life.
“What the hell are you staring at?” She couldn’t keep the contempt out of her voice.
Gene flinched as surely as if she’d slapped him.
Hank cleared his throat and she looked his way, shocked by how pale he was, how drenched in his own perspiration.
“He’s looking at you,” Hank told her. “He’s freaked out because he just watched you change for the first time. Takes a little getting used to.”
Not-Kyrie stared at him for a long moment, but before she could think of anything to say, the oversized brute closed his eyes and drifted into a feverish slumber.
She looked away from him and back toward Gene. He was looking at his reflection in the mirror that faced them all, his lips pressed together into an angry slit. His chest heaved with each deep breath he took and she thought for a moment that he would surely break into tears. The very idea filled her with contempt. Boys were supposed to be stronger than girls, and here he was, ready to cry like a baby.
No. Her bad. He wasn’t about to cry, he was about to change. She stared as his body grew rigid.
“No. Don’t want this.” His voice was strained and his eyes grew wide and very frightened. “Let me stay.”
Gene’s body thrashed hard against the restraints and Not-Kyrie watched, excited. She wanted to know this, to see this, to understand what happened to her own body when the change came around. Gene’s muscles shifted fluidly, growing larger all at once, swelling as the bones beneath them expanded in length and thickness both. His hair grew longer, his face broadened, his skin became two shades darker, as if he’d been tanning at the pool for a couple of days.
On one side of her, Hank looked almost as oversized as a shaved gorilla, massive and distorted. In comparison to that, Sam seemed almost tiny but still much larger than Gene had been. He grew a full six inches in height and easily as much in width. He changed. That was all there was to it. When he was Gene, he looked like a fifteen-year-old boy. When he was Sam, he looked like a fifteen-year-old boy who’d spent his entire life working out hard and heavy on a daily basis. He was bigger, harder, more vital. Gene could be ignored. Sam could not.
Sam looked at her for a moment, then at the restraints on his wrists and ankles. He grunted once, then started thrashing, pulling and twisting in an effort to get free from his bonds.
“Who the hell did this?” His words were a demand for knowledge, not merely a question.
He got nowhere with his restraints, and rather than answer him, she decided to show him how it was done. Not-Kyrie slammed her body forward and back in an effort to get away from her examination table, with absolutely no luck.
Next to her, Hank let out a low moan and slumped back into a fitful sleep.
Not-Kyrie let out a scream of frustration. This, this was not what she wanted from the world, and she was so tired of being patient. She wanted to be free once and for all, like Joe had promised. Instead she was held captive more than ever before.
Someone would pay dearly.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cody Laurel
THE FEVER DISTORTED EVERYTHING. Cody felt his skin shiver, his muscles twitch.
What’s happening to me? He asked the question only to himself.
Us. What’s happening to us. Hank’s voice answered him. At least he thought it was Hank’s. They hadn’t really met before.
Whatever. What’s happening?
We’re dying.
I don’t want to die.
Neither do I, Hank replied.
I was kind of looking forward to getting to know you. I was hoping we could be friends.
Me too. I don’t need enemies in my life. There are enough of those already, aren’t there?
Yeah. It was weird to think that the two of them could talk, and maybe they weren’t as different as he’d expected. Say, did you break Hank Chadbourne’s arm and Glenn Wagner’s wrist?
Of course.
Why?
They were douches. They needed to be taught a lesson. Well, thanks then. I mean it.
It’s all good, man.
He couldn’t think of anything to say after that, and he felt the pain again, a rolling agony that twisted flesh and meat and bone and nerves into new shapes that danced with tortured strain.
On the other hand, I don’t know if I can take this much longer. My heart—our heart—feels like it’s gonna explode. Hank’s voice was much more rational than he’d actually expected.
So what do we do about it?
There was a long silence.
I guess we need to work together.
How?
Well, that’s the challenge, isn’t it? We aren’t designed for this.
They were both quiet for a while.
Finally, Hank spoke to him again. I think I have an idea.
Well, don’t keep me in suspense here.
On the examination table their shared body bucked and shivered, and their teeth gnashed down and shredded their lips as their body seized and twitched, oblivious to the two other forms in the room.
And then the most glorious thing happened . . .
Chapter Thirty-Four
Joe Bronx
JOE OPENED HIS EYES after resting as best he could in the restraints. His body was sore. He felt the needles that pumped drugs into his body and had to hold back his desire to howl his anger to the universe.
Anger was a tool, and losing his temper for no purpose achieved exactly nothing. Still, he wanted to rage.
He looked at the heavy bonds on his wrists and shook his head. Surely they were strong enough to hold him. Surely they had been made for that exact reason. Bobby’s mother would never make a mistake about a thing like that, would she?
Of course, he’d broken free before, hadn’t he?
Joe calmed his breathing and stared at his reflection. Maybe it was true that he was a monster. Maybe he was a vicious killer, and he knew full well that Evelyn thought it of him. Maybe he was all of that and more, but all he saw in the reflective wall was the same thing he always saw—the hero of the story.
His story.
No one else mattered, not really. He was the only one who meant anything when you got right down to it. It was probably that way for everyone, wasn’t it? Why would anyone want to be the sidekick in their own lives?
And if he was the hero of his story, he would have to come to his own rescue.
He forced his body to relax, then focused on his right arm, slowly, carefully straining against the cuff that pinned his wrist in place. He could feel the muscles in his forearm clenching and pulling, could feel where the cuff cut into his skin despite the attempted protection offered by the heavy padding.
Bones groaned beneath his flesh, and the table he rested on made a soft noise of protest.
He di
d not make a sound, but merely breathed softly again as he continued to focus his strength. In the long run, it came down to a simple matter: Who was stronger?
“I am.”
He spoke with absolute conviction. Nothing would stop him.
Nothing.
His brow was covered with sweat and his muscles shook—shivered—still, he pushed himself. Still he strained with just the one arm against the cuff that held him.
The bones beneath his flesh groaned, and so did the table he pulled against.
One of them would give. It was just a question of which one.
Joe’s teeth ground together and his jaw clenched against the growing pain in his arm. The bones were not meant to withstand this sort of pressure. He was beginning to think he understood his own limitations.
“No. Screw that. No limits, you little wimp.” He mumbled the words, but spoke them with venom just the same. He would not fail, not now. Not ever.
Something hot flared and popped in his wrist. The pain was like a lightning bolt through his nervous system.
Several profanities escaped his lips and he pulled all the harder. Beneath him, the table let out a groan of pain that matched his own and Joe pulled harder still, every muscle in his arm strained and his entire torso reddened by the blood that wanted to move into his muscles and give him extra strength.
“Not going to let you win, you bitch.” The words weren’t for him this time. They were for Evelyn. How had he thought he could ever reason with her? How could he have believed for even a second that she was rational and would help him get free from the son she loved and missed? The son she loved, while she hated him.
Anger fueled him, fed the burning hatred that he was using for motivation.
Anger was a tool.
He knew how to use the tools at his disposal.
The next sound wasn’t of something threatening to break. It was the sound of something shattering.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Evelyn Hope
EVELYN WAS IN JOSH’S office when George found her. She needed to get her work done, and that meant she needed a computer. The only person in the company with the same clearance as her was Josh, so she took over when he went home for the day.
George cleared his throat and waited for her to acknowledge him. That was wise. She was already in a mood.
“Spill it, George. What’s wrong?” She didn’t bother looking up from the screen and her fingers kept typing.
“Subject Seven is trying to break free.”
She looked at George over the edge of the computer monitor. “That’s like telling me that the newborn baby pooped his diapers. Did he escape?”
“No. But he’s working very hard at it.”
“Have him sedated again.”
George nodded, but stayed where he was.
“What else, George?”
“The others that were with him have all changed. They’ve gone into their aggressive modes.” George tried to keep up with the jargon, but inevitably failed.
“They’re called Doppelgangers, George.”
“They’re big and mean and they’ve all changed. Beyond that, I know nothing.”
“Fair enough. See about having them all sedated. We don’t want any incidents.”
He nodded and headed back toward the hallway. She almost called him back but changed her mind at the last moment. She needed time to think, to be alone with her memories and her anxieties.
She needed time to be just a little afraid.
Then she’d go about making everything all right. She’d see to Gabby and Bobby and—
No. Evelyn’s lips pressed together and she shook her head. She couldn’t allow herself to think like that. Bobby wasn’t back. Not yet and maybe not ever. That was what she had to figure out, wasn’t it?
Could she keep her son and get rid of the monster inside of him? She didn’t know, but she’d find out. If there was any chance at all, she’d take it.
And if there wasn’t any chance, then she had to be ready for that too, didn’t she? There might not be a way to fix this. There might not be any way at all to have her son back without Seven coming along for the ride. If Subject Seven was a part of the equation—if he was a permanent fixture—she’d have to kill him. That was all there was to it. He was too dangerous.
The computer screen in front of her broke apart, fractured into a million flares of light as tears started forming in her eyes.
“No. Absolutely not.” She angrily wiped the tears away. She’d said her goodbyes to Bobby a long time ago. She kept his memories alive in her heart, but that didn’t mean she had to have him alive and with her any more than she had to have Tom back in her life.
If Bobby could not be kept alive without Subject Seven, then she would accept that her son was dead. It was the way the world had to be. There had to be reason before everything else, especially when it came to Seven. He was a monster. He was too dangerous to be left intact.
She’d have to let someone else perform the autopsy, of course. She wasn’t quite strong enough to handle that part herself, not this time. She’d handled the autopsies in the past, but none of them had been her son. None of them had been the one she adopted into her life. Not one of them had been Bobby.
Still, there was always a possibility, wasn’t there? That was why she was looking over all of the notes herself and double checking all of the figures on the blood tests and the examinations of both Seven’s skull and Bobby’s.
One last chance to have her son back. Or one final chance to have revenge on the nightmare that killed her husband and stole her son once and for all. She’d have one or the other. She had earned that much satisfaction from the world, even if the world did not completely agree with her on the subject.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Theresa
“YOU REALLY DON’T GET it, do you?” Theresa spoke and Warburton listened, but only because he was a captive audience. “See, you think this is all about your little soldiers. But me? I think it’s all about what I want. The difference is, your soldiers aren’t here and I am, so I guess that makes me right and you wrong.” Warburton looked her way for a moment and tried to repress a shiver.
He was scared, not least because she’d never driven a car before and her skills left a bit to be desired. The lanes didn’t seem nearly as wide when she was behind the wheel. She wasn’t scared. She knew she wasn’t going to wreck. On the other hand, it wasn’t her expensive car she was driving, either.
“Tell me when to turn,” she said.
“There’s absolutely no way you can break into the compound without being stopped.” He was no fun at all.
“You keep sayin’ that, and I keep thinking you’re wrong, and we’re not gonna agree on this one, tubs, so you might as well just tell me where to turn.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell you; I’m just trying to warn you.”
“Consider me warned. Keep on telling me, though, because I’m still just fine with killing the wife and the kids.”
He clammed up and pointed to the right at the next intersection.
She turned and slowed down as the road rolled into a large parking lot. “See? That wasn’t so rough.” Her words trailed off as she looked around. “So, where’s this compound?”
When he didn’t answer, Theresa turned to face him and got a brutal elbow to her face. Her head snapped back and the man struck her again and again and a fourth time, sending the back of her head into the tempered glass on the driver’s side. Her nose took a hard strike and started bleeding. Her lips got mashed hard into her teeth.
As Josh Warburton was reaching to hit her once more, Theresa kicked him in his chest and took all the fight out of him.
She angled the rearview mirror to look at her face and saw the spots where her skin was already busted or swelling. Then she looked back at the moron who’d tried to hurt her.
Warburton was gasping, his arms wrapped around his stomach as he doubled over and moaned.
Ther
esa caught his face in her hand and pulled him across the seat until he was close to her. “How damn stupid are you?” She pushed him backward until his head smacked against the window. She didn’t speak—she screamed at him, her face reddened by anger and blood-tainted spittle spraying from her busted lips. “I’ll find the place one way or another. You keep making me look, I’ll find it without you. If I find it without you, it’ll be because you’re dead and your family is dead, do you get me?”
He didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to breathe.
But the voice inside her skull was clear. Don’t kill him. He might have pass codes or a security key that you’ll need.
She frowned. The voice wasn’t what she expected. It wasn’t Joe’s. She was sure of that now. Still, it made sense to listen to this one too. Because it was . . . well, because it was right.
Warburton opened his mouth to say something again and Theresa shook her finger. “Just keep your fat mouth shut. Only thing I wanna hear from you is driving directions.”
He stared at her for a long moment, and she could see him playing it over again in his head. He’d hit her hard four times, and she was barely fazed. She’d kicked him once and had probably broken a rib or two.
He finally pointed in the direction they’d come from. Before she started driving, she spat blood on the car floor and glared at him. “Last chance, little piggy. You do me wrong again, I’ll kill all of them. Your family, your friends and then you.”
Twenty minutes passed with little more than an occasional gesture between them before he finally directed her to a medical center not far from the local hospital.
She parked the car and took the keys from the ignition, sliding them into her jeans pocket. “Get out of the car. You’re coming with.”
“I won’t help you get in there.” He shook his head.
“Two choices. We go in. Or I go say hi to the wifey.” She opened the truck and pulled out her bag of goodies. Considering how much she’d paid, it didn’t seem like much.