The Infected [Books 1-6]

by P. S. Power

“It's safe occasionally, but we try to save those uses for when it's really needed. Now why do you think you tried to kill yourself?”

  Analyzing it without emotion left him feeling oddly clear about the whole thing. Why had he done it? Thinking for a minute first, a picture came together. Lady Glory had hit him over and over again with her power, probably stressing the neuropeptide production of both compassion and love chemicals in his brain. Self-sacrifice, his first mode, required some of the same brain chemicals to function properly. It left him empty after a while, his brain forcing itself into overdrive. Along with the events and the incredible stress he'd been under the last months, torturous things by anyone's standards, connections had been formed internally, linking the ultimate in self-sacrifice with the solution to all the problems being faced at the moment.

  Depression also played a role, an imbalance created by half a dozen factors, most directly stress, but also Lady Glory, Karen, and the repeated assaults on his mind.

  The doctor's eyes went wide.

  “That's... insightful. Some of the science is a little off, but not that far. What we have to do is restore the balance. Unfortunately that's going to take time, about a week, and during that time, we can't treat you with Dipherial, the drug you're on right now. It's probably not going to be a lot of fun for you, in fact... well, it has to be done. On the good side, the Dipherial in your system right now will build a backlog for the next fourteen hours or so, which will give you something to work with as far as the needed brain chemicals are concerned.”

  She went over what would have to be done, that it would be hard, uncomfortable, and possibly deadly. That he'd have to be in restraints at first, and probably feel suicidal. She covered the medical portions, the I.V.'s to keep him fed and hydrated, the catheters.

  Then she left. Sleep came, for a while, then pain. Inside, the world, everything he knew, collapsed in on him. She'd said suicidal, but that didn't cover it by half. Unable to move, he tried to will himself to death. That didn't work, so he tried to chew through his own tongue so he'd bleed until he died. He thought he was alone, but someone had been watching, because he woke up with a plastic piece in his mouth, or at least it appeared and he didn't remember anyone putting it there. He let the saliva pool in his mouth for an hour and inhaled it, but they came and saved him again then too.

  It went on for days, sleep followed by trying to die. The doctor had said it would be about a week, but that proved optimistic. After a week he still wanted to die and felt helpless and incompetent after failing so many times. Didn't they understand? He was dead anyway. The police wouldn't let him live. They'd keep coming after him until they were all dead or he was and there were hundreds of thousands of them and only one of him. He couldn't kill them all.

  On day ten he had his first visitor. People had come in each day, doctors and nurses, once a janitor, a kind older man that talked to him as he pushed around a broom and mop, telling stories about his family, how his grandson was about to graduate from high school and had been accepted into a state college and his granddaughter had won a school art contest. It made Brian cry, so the man left early, not understanding why. Brian was just happy for the man, having people that loved him and to love. Something he'd never have. Not now. But then he never had.

  The first person to visit surprised him.

  He'd expected one of his teammates first, Marcia or Mark, Christian not really seeming to care for him that much. Penny... she wouldn't come, he knew, which hurt, but was just the way of the world. None of them came at all. He'd thought that Lancaster or even Doctor Tull maybe, would come and try to prop him up for a while, if only because he could prove useful in the future and it overlapped with their jobs. Or the Director, because it might be politically advantageous.

  After that... maybe Bridget? She didn't seem to hate him, or she hadn't before. He had kind of beat up Karen. And her dad. Again. None of which made him look very good. Thinking of that made him want to die, so he pulled away from the thought. None of them came at all.

  The first person that did come was Dharma, the emo-goth he'd met that one time in the gym. Not able to talk, his mouth stuffed with plastic, a tongue protector and tubes to make sure he breathed and didn't choke, he had to listen. Her grin looked wicked as she needled him.

  “Oooh, boo-hoo. Little Bri-bri doesn't feel wuved...” She started, pacing around the room. “Seriously, stop being a little bitch-dude. You'll feel better soon. Being loved is overrated and that's not your deal anyway. Remember, it's all about saving those people. Keep thinking about that. Focus on it... And don't make me look bad. I came to cheer you up, so snap the fuck out of your funk and get with it.” Snapping her fingers she chuckled darkly.

  “If you don't I'll have to kick your ass. I think I can take you right now, all things considered.”

  She walked out, the door moving silently when she passed through it. A few minutes later the door opened again and a nurse came in to check on him, the door far noisier when she worked it.

  This particular nurse didn't seem to care about him at all, always being rough, pulling on the catheter tube when checking it, the same with the tubes in his nose and throat. It wasn't needed, he knew, others managed without causing discomfort. The lady just seemed angry all the time, like her job weighed on her so much that taking it out on him only made sense.

  Each day after that Dharma came back, usually with the same basic message, stop being a dweeb and snap out of it. Sometimes she added a barb about his looks, just to keep things interesting. No one else came in to visit at all. It made him wonder if Dharma had lost the drawing of straws to see who had to bother with him.

  They'd probably forgotten about him, or just didn't care at all. Fair enough... But if they didn't care, why bother keeping him alive? After a while he decided it must be habit. Medical professionals saved lives, they didn't spend a lot of time reflecting on the value of a given life. They didn't have that luxury. Save this one, move to the next, and repeat.

  Brian shrugged a little, limbs aching from being immobilized for so long, even though a man came every day and stretched his arms and legs for him, one at a time. That hurt too, but it felt better later, so he put up with it. Plus, tied down like he was, he didn't get much of a say in the matter.

  When he woke up on the fifteenth day, at least he thought it might have been that long, the doctor – the woman who'd first talked to him – came in and asked him if he felt ready to get out of all this, gesturing to the restraints and tubes. He thought about it carefully. Would he kill himself if he were freed? He didn't think so. After all, he really didn't need too, others would do it for him soon enough. Nodding a tiny fraction, he tried to let her know it would be safe.

  She took the tubes out and the plastic thing from his mouth first and sat with him, waiting and offering him sips of water through a straw, his throat left raw and dusty from lack. He'd had a drip, but without drinking or eating, he felt pretty bad. They talked for a long time, and he tried to be honest with her about how he felt, knowing that he probably still wouldn't be right in the head for a while.

  Even when he told her about not needing to kill himself and why he felt that way, she decided to let him loose and finally undid all the straps. He moved his limbs, aching and weak-feeling and then tried to get up.

  His legs failed him, letting him fall to the floor, the doctor didn't move to help him up, watching instead as he struggled to stand. He made it after five tries. It left him leaning over the bed to stay kind of upright.

  “Good! Will to live restored and a bit of fight left in you even. A harsh test, but you'd be surprised how many people just fall down and lay there, defeated, even if they haven't gone through all you have. Keep fighting...”

  They moved him, within the hour, to floor seven, one of the rooms he'd been in before, he noticed. That he could tell the difference between identical hospital rooms made him a bit sad. This one had holes in the wall from where Prime's TV had been mounted. Shaking his head, Brian de
cided to follow that advice he'd gotten.

  Stop being a little bitch.

  Not gentle, that Dharma girl, but effective. All he had left was the will to fight, so he had to cultivate that. Too many people would die if he just gave up, innocent people that needed him, even if they didn't care about him. Even if they reviled him. Brian would help them if he could.

  Not even Dharma came to see him the first day, which was fine, he decided. Spending his time by his bed, exercising as he could, slowly and carefully, trying to regain the strength he'd lost being immobilized. It came back quickly and by the end of the day he could walk to the bathroom himself. Small victories and all, but something to strive for.

  The next day they let him go back to his room. He had to wear a monitor and check in once a day, but he'd passed some test or another it seemed. As he walked back to his room alone, he realized something; he felt incredibly embarrassed. Everyone would think he was weak – weaker – and look down on him now.

  Trying to kill himself...

  Taking a deep breath he just walked down the hall. People would think what they wanted, they didn't want to bother with him anyway, did it really matter what they thought? Head dropping and eyes closing tightly as he walked, he knew it did. Oh, well. Couldn't change it now.

  Brian showered and then decided to go work out, dressing slowly. In the hall he thought he heard a voice, but figured it would be residual from the last weeks. He didn't remember everything clearly, but he knew that not everything had seemed normal the whole time.

  Walking, slowly at first, he ignored that everyone stared at him, some looks felt more than a little hostile, which just meant he needed to get back into fighting shape faster, not that he'd really ever been there. If people were going to attack him, or betray him again, he'd try to be ready.

  No one explained to him why Lady Glory had done it to him, or if it was on purpose or not, just that she had. They even talked around that, pointing out how his own life had kind of set the field for everything.

  True he figured, but the real problem had been her. Karen. Well... and his own weakness. He should have resisted harder, he should have fought for control and not given up. Losing that control... That's what had really cost him in the long run. He couldn't let that happen again.

  Not ever.

  Brian would keep fighting, no matter what, until he couldn't any more. It was that simple.

  Slowly, he started to run, shocked to find that he still had some endurance left. Laps fell aside, grinding away, sweat pouring from him. After a few hours Brian moved to the weight machines, lifting small weights, but as many times as he could, then did sit-ups, back extensions and then every other exercise his body would do, until he couldn't move anymore. Brian rested, his back on the floor, feeling vulnerable as people stared at him. So he got up and made himself run more.

  At lunch he went and made himself a sandwich, not talking to Mark much. When he offered to make it for him, Brian just shook his head. He'd do it himself, he told the other man, not wanting to put anyone out.

  After that he went back to the gym and practiced every move he could remember, unarmed first, until he could hardly move, then armed, knife and stick, waving the practice weapons around in a way that felt comical to him. No one laughed though, not that he saw. Having no other clue as to what he should do, he followed his old pattern and went to the gun range outside.

  It occurred to him as he walked that, given everything, no one would probably want him to have access to powerful firearms. He didn't care. They could stop him if they wanted, but if not, he needed to get better. Selecting three handguns, all different types, he loaded them carefully and took twenty extra clips for each, already loaded.

  Firing carefully, aiming each time, he fired round after round, right hand going numb, he switched to his left, sucking badly enough that even the fixed black, man-shaped target barely got touched. Working without pause, he emptied each magazine, it being well after dark by the time he finished. He debated doing more, but hunger gnawed at him.

  Going to the back of the armory, he dug out some military rations from the back room and ate one that claimed to have some relation to noodles with beef. He could almost see it, if he really tried. Mushy noodles with stringy brown fibers that might have been part of an animal at one time. Disposing of the package when done, he kept the little pack of condiments and napkins, wiping his hands on his sweat pants instead. Then he pulled out an old M-16 and practiced rifle work for a while, until he almost couldn't keep his eyes open any more.

  He pulled another handgun from the armory, a nine millimeter, and carried it back to his room, keeping it near him as he slept.

  The next day he repeated this, no one talking to him except Mark. He didn't even see the others, he realized with a shrug. Not important enough to bother with, he guessed. They were probably avoiding him.

  On day six Lancaster came and watched him for a while at the range. He'd been trying to shoot with both hands at one time, his wrists aching from the damage the police had done months ago, but not enough to really keep him from trying.

  “Tight group for simultaneous shooting. Have you worked moving targets?” The agent asked casually, almost sounding bored, or like he wanted to come across as really relaxed.

  Brian shook his head. “Not good enough for that yet. I'm hoping that by next week I can start. My left hand is still weak, about half as good as the right.”

  The man didn't say any more, so Brian kept practicing, forcing himself to reload as fast as he could, his fingers stiff and clumsy on the bullets, but knowing that loading a clip could be as important as firing accurately at times. He worked until he ran out of bullets, looking up to find Lancaster still there.

  He stopped and blinked a few time, deciding he'd been being rude, the man had obviously come for a reason.

  “Sorry. I've been spending a lot of time alone lately. Guess I forgot my manners... Can I help you with something?” He made his voice polite, which actually worked for once, not sounding like a veiled threat or instruction to back off.

  Lancaster shrugged. “Yeah. I set up some training for you, if you think you're up to it. Hard core stuff. Not easy... but not stuff just anyone gets either. I mean no one. I had to beg more than a little bit to get this for you. Interested?”

  Brian shrugged – why not? Then for the first time in weeks, he smiled. It wasn't a real smile, but his lips moved. Better than nothing, right? He swallowed hard and looked down. Lancaster told him they'd leave at oh-nine-hundred the next day, gear would be provided, all he had to do was show up out front if he wanted to go.

  Not knowing what else to say, he started putting things away, so he could get to bed early. Lancaster left without saying goodbye.

  Brian wondered what the training would be, and guessed he'd find out soon enough. It would probably involve him being beaten and driven into the ground, but hey, wasn't that everything?

  Chapter eight

  The plane flight took most of a day, which didn't seem too bad given the private jet they rode in. The seats were still big and comfortable, more so this time than the last, because he wasn't nearly as beaten up. His tongue had some sore spots, but almost everything else had healed while he'd been strapped down to the bed on floor eight, and even more so in the week that followed. It felt nice to just sit for a change, to let things go and relax.

  Chewing on his upper lip a little, Brian wondered if that meant his ability to enjoy things might come back someday, maybe it had already started to even? He accepting a bottle of filtered water from the attendant – this time a man that smiled with his lips, but had eyes that looked dead and far away – who wore tan fatigues so highly starched they shone in places. Brian thanked the fellow, trying not to sound listless and uncaring. The guy helped him out by getting him water, he could at least try to not be a jerk in return.

  The bottle felt damp under his hand, a thin film of condensation forming over the blue and white label, colors probably meant to fool
his subconscious mind into thinking the water was extra pure or something. It probably worked, water in a brown-labeled bottle didn't seem nearly as pleasant when he tried to imagine it. When the water was gone Brian got up and immediately placed the container in a small closed bin labeled “recycling”. The green plastic container with black felt tip writing on it seemed out of place on the expensive aircraft, but the idea seemed nice. Help save the world and all.

  After a couple hours, Lancaster – the only other person on the flight – looked up from the papers and folders he worked on. Setting them aside on the seat next to him, he pulled one out of the pile and handed it to Brian who sat across from him, so that they could talk if the need arose. It hadn't yet, because whatever the job of being an IPB agent was, it seemed to include a lot of reading.

  Without thinking about it, Brian put his hand out and took the manila folder. It had black smudges on the outside and looked like either someone had read it over and over again, or that it had passed through hundreds of hands. The agent didn't tell him what it might be about or even ask him to read it. He just looked at Brian, expressionless, until he opened it and started to go through the documents.

  At first Brian felt a little surprised, the whole thing being about him. Most of it had to do with the fights he'd had, the problems, the beatings by the police, almost everything. There were even three pages about him having stopped talking to Penny, but no one could figure out why. It was considered important, because so far he'd been the only person to manage it at all.

  There were psychological reports on him, most of them more favorable than he'd have thought, given the events of the last few months. The pages looked slick at the corners from being turned so often, a few having a lot more of this than the others, including one page which spoke of his increasing isolation and suggested several potential courses of action.

  Another page caught his interest a lot more than the others, a list of suggestions that could, potentially, extend his life span. His breathing stopped for a few moments and he went still. Someone thought he could possibly live? A bit longer at least? Now that took him by surprise. It meant increased training, specialized gear, and keeping him psychologically healthy, but it could possibly work. The document was initialed M.T. and summarized that this would only work if he made it happen himself.