Orpheus

by DeWitt, Dan

  Dr. Vincent had barely begun to scream when he landed flat on his back on top of the room entrance, alive and mostly intact, but with no realistic chances of escaping the clutching hands below him.

  Cameron Holt wrapped his son in a bear hug.

  Everything slowed down when the new arrival thanked everyone profusely and said in a choked voice, "Mutt's dead. Mutt's dead." Holt released his boy and they sat down in silence.

  Rachel rested her head on Ethan's shoulder. “Sam, too.”

  Tim fussed over Lena. Fish buried his face in his hands, and Jen just looked at the hospital growing smaller in the distance.

  The roar of the rotors couldn't mask the quiet that descended over the cabin.

  They were safe, for now, at least.

  But they weren't whole.

  "Hey!" Jameson yelled over his shoulder. "Holt! Come on up here!"

  He moved his way forward, put on the headset, and sat in the co-pilot's seat. "What's up?"

  "You look like you can use some good news. Look over there."

  The first thing Holt saw was the pillar of smoke and the inferno that spawned it. The second thing he saw was the two figures on the neighboring roof waving wildly. He turned around and motioned for Ethan to join him. He pointed and yelled, "Friends of yours?"

  "Yeah! They might have more good news, too!"

  "Let's go get-" Holt began, but was thrown to the floor as Jameson yanked the stick sideways.

  "They weren't waving to us!" Jameson explained. "There was a Coast Guard chopper close!"

  "So?" Ethan yelled. "Those are my friends!"

  "They're about to get rescued! But the less people who know that we're all alive, the better!"

  Cameron Holt chewed his lower lip. "Can you get us out of here unnoticed?"

  Jameson nodded. "I know a place."

  "Take us there!" The helicopter banked away from the Coast Guard chopper, and one of the two final sights that Cameron Holt ever saw on Lost Whaler Island was Ethan's two friends climbing aboard and being taken to safety.

  The other was the entire island being engulfed in flame, one explosion at a time.

  He thought he might have heard jet engines.

  Chapter 26: Epilogues

  Dr. Vincent lived by inspiration and epiphany. Some others studied and researched as hard as he did, but what had always set him apart from his peers was his knack for getting the answer to pop into his head and the best possible time.

  Such as now.

  Here he was, on top of a roof, surrounded by zombies, broken ribs for sure, and no place to run.

  To anyone else, it would be hopeless, and they'd probably throw themselves off of the building, as it would be preferable to the alternatives.

  Dr. Vincent, on the other hand, took out his syringe, popped off the cap, and injected himself.

  He was certain it would work, and it shouldn't take long, to boot.

  As always, he was right. The zombies who only moments before had been climbing all over each other to get to him gradually became less animated until they just...milled around. He climbed down, ignoring the pain in his side, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with scores of maneaters. It was perfect. He'd find a way to communicate with the Company, they'd come to see what he'd accomplished and all would be forgiven. If not, Dr. Vincent would use his new army to kill them. Then there would be nothing that would prevent him from increasing his power base and eventually...he shivered with the possibilities.

  Then he heard the booms, and the building rattled underneath him.

  He laughed as the lower floors collapsed and took the roof, and everything on it, down.

  Thanatos. Figures.

  * * *

  Jameson set down in an open area within walking distance of a hotel. Orpheus, Ethan, Rachel, Fish, Jen and Trager got off; Harold and Jason stayed. Their transmission had been successful. They'd made contact with several truckers, spent a few minutes convincing them they were legitimate, and then the word about survivors of the Island Apocalypse spread like a brushfire.

  "Look," Trager was apologetic. "I'm sorry I threw him out of the helicopter, okay? Like you didn't want to?"

  Orpheus said, "Yeah, I did, but I would have waited until we got information from him. Now we have no leverage whatsoever. We can never see the light of day again."

  Lena clapped her hands and laughed.

  "Something funny?"

  She reached to the back of her head and started moving hair out of the way. She pinched something and gave it a hard yank. She took some hair with it, which stayed stuck to the tape that held the micro SD card in place. "I forgot about this in all of the excitement. On second thought, I'd be an awesome spy."

  "Gawd, I love you," Trager said. He fished through Dr. Vincent's bag and found his satellite phone. He redialed and put it to his ear. "Luthier? Who the Hell is Luthier? Piss off. Get me the boss. No, not your supervisor, fuckstick. The BOSS. Tell him it's the guy he's been screwing for a couple of months. Yeah, I'll hold." He covered the receiver and rolled his eyes. "Jen, is our hold music this annoying?"

  She nodded. "Pretty much, yeah."

  "Well remind me to change...yeah, I'm here. He said that? Well, you tell him that he'll be seeing me real soon. Now go screw your mother."

  "That's some fine phone etiquette there."

  Trager ignored Ethan's barb. "Lena, make copies of this and call some nerd friends you can trust. We need coverage on this. Jen!"

  Jen sat on a stump next to Fish, commiserating. Her head snapped up. "Yessir?"

  "You're familiar with Vincent's methods and research. Do you think you can recreate the serums?"

  "Um, maybe. I'd need equipment."

  "You'll have it. Can you do it? If that sounds like a challenge to you, that's because it is."

  She smiled. "I think so. I'll need blood samples."

  Trager held up an insulated pouch. "Like these?"

  "And mine," Rachel said.

  "Yeah, and hers. Can you?"

  "Yes."

  "Beautiful. You're hired. Aaaaand..." He looked at Fish. "I need a right-hand man, too. Someone who doesn't mind getting a little dirty sometimes."

  Fish resisted. "Uh, I dunno.."

  "Come on, it'll be fun. I'll let you take me out to dinner," Jen said.

  He looked her up and down, and a sly smile came to his lips. "When do I start?"

  "And what do I do?" Tim asked, looking at Trager.

  "You? You're getting a job."

  * * *

  Ethan and Rachel lagged behind the rest.

  Without breaking stride, Ethan said, "Marry me."

  Rachel seemed more relieved than surprised. "Yes."

  "Not right now...but soon enough."

  "I said yes."

  He kissed her, then quickened his pace to catch up with his father. "Hey," he said.

  "Hey."

  Ethan seemed to be struggling with something, and Holt believed he knew what it was. He felt the same way. He wrapped a fatigued arm around his son's shoulder and pulled him closer.

  "Dad, I tried to get to Mom. Me and Rach did everything we could..."

  "So did I." He swallowed hard. "So did I. It wasn't meant to be."

  They walked in silence for several paces before Ethan said, "Are you okay? That's a lot of blood."

  Holt looked down at his shirt. It was almost completely discolored from the cuts from Trent's knife and other incidental wounds. "They've all stopped. I'll live." He took a deep breath. "Ethan, I have to disappear for a bit. A few days, tops."

  "What? Why?"

  "I have to check some things out, make some preparations."

  "Can I-?"

  "No."

  Ethan nodded. "I, uh, I think I just got engaged."

  Cameron Holt turned and flashed a wide grin at his son. "Wow, that's romantic."

  * * *

  A silver-haired man carried a regal air as he stepped to the microphone and everyone fell silent. He smoothed out his prepared speech and beg
an. "Good morning. As you all know, earlier today, a Coast Guard helicopter rescued who we believe to be the last survivors of the besieged island we've all come to know as 'The Whale'. Out of respect for their ordeal, their identities will remain anonymous for the time being. With the information that they provided, Charon Biotics International, with the blessing and agreement of the United States government, determined that there are no more survivors. As a result, and in order to guard against the infection possibly mutating and getting off-island, we implemented the protocols designed for absolute eradication of the virus. Aerial photography has confirmed the effectiveness of these protocols, and soon sweeper teams will ensure that every inch of the island has been covered and secured. Though..." He flipped the top sheet and blanched. "Though, ummm...excuse me, I'm having a hard time reading my own handwriting..." There was a chuckle from the gallery.

  Because it's mine, Trager thought. He waved, and the speaker glared. Do I have your attention now?

  The speaker composed himself and continued. "Though we knew that this would always be a necessary step, it doesn't lessen the tragedy..." His words trailed off as Trager left his seat and waited for him in the hall.

  He didn't have to wait long. The speaker found him, and Trager said, "Mr. Director. Let's talk."

  The Director said nothing and led Trager to his office. He didn't offer Trager a chair, but Trager took the liberty and slid several sheets of paper and a data card across the desk.

  Lena's data had been more than enough to get the boss's personal attention. Trager waited while he reviewed what they had on him and his operation. He said nothing, but his nod betrayed his concern.

  "You can keep that," Trager teased. "We have others. We also have detailed personal accounts ready to go, just for funsies. I think that those will play the best on Dateline."

  "You're not amusing, Mr. Trager."

  "I'm not trying to be. Look at these people." He started slapping down pictures on the desk. "Take a good, long look."

  "Why?"

  "I want you to see all of the people who have everything they need to burn you to the ground. Every single one of them can do that. And those are just the starters; we have a deep bench, too."

  "What do you want?"

  Trager named a hefty number. "Each. Monthly. In perpetuity. Don't forget to adjust for inflation. You probably want to make sure that they stay healthy and happy, too."

  "I can't hide that money."

  "Puh-leeze. You hid that you murdered 30,000 people. You can hide this. Be creative."

  "Is that it? I suppose you want me to step down, too?"

  "Hell, no. You'll stay in that chair until I tell you otherwise. If you want to argue, you should know that I also have an informational package that will paint you as the biggest threat to this corporation's well-being. I wonder how the board would react to that." He slid another piece of paper across the desk. "But when I tell you to, here's your resignation letter."

  The Director read it. He didn't look up when he said, "Get out of my office."

  Trager slung Dr. Vincent's bag over his shoulder, spat on the desk, and said, "Eat me."

  Trager walked outside, down the street, and into the park where everyone was waiting.

  "How'd it go?" Tim asked.

  "You're all retired."

  "How much?" Rachel asked.

  "Enough for you to have that destination wedding you always wanted, princess. Excuse me for a sec."

  He dialed a number on his cell and walked away. Holt picked up on the second ring. Trager relayed the results of his meeting, a friendly tone on a very serious conversation.

  "Are we in any danger, Marty?"

  "Not any time soon, but I recommend that all of you relocate. If someone is ever stupid enough to come for you, I need time to react. But I laid it all out for him; I don't think it'll ever happen. Although a sick part of me hopes that fuckin' prick tries. No offense."

  "You know that I won't let this go forever."

  "I don't want you to, Holt, and neither will I, but I need you to be patient for a while. When the time's right, we'll napalm the whole Goddamn operation."

  "I have to be honest; I like this side of you."

  "You should see me at the horse track. How are things going, you know, on your end?"

  He heard a sigh. "I'm almost there."

  "Fingers crossed, Holt. Fingers crossed."

  * * *

  Cameron Holt (not Orpheus; he'd been laid to rest), walked down the street and tried to avoid getting his hopes up.

  Just after he'd sent Ethan away, and just before he went to find Trager, he stood toe-to-toe with Anders.

  The man slashed with the knife; Orpheus parried with the pipe.

  Slash, parry, slash, parry. Orpheus suffered a few superficial cuts, but he wouldn't allow anything fatal. Not at the hands of this man.

  Orpheus was patient, and Anders was anything but. He charged in, as Orpheus knew he would, and a downward strike of the pipe on his wrist succeed in both knocking the knife to the floor and rendering the hand that held it useless. Orpheus swung his weapon into the cowering man's ribs and felt a few give. He did it again, and was rewarded with a burst of blood from his mouth.

  Orpheus discarded the pipe and waded in with his fists. Anders was overmatched, and tried to defend himself, but there was no defense against the rage coming for him. Orpheus doubled him over with a knee to the stomach, then knocked him to the ground with another one to Anders' face. Orpheus pummeled him with powerful, precise fists. Anders began begging for his life, but Orpheus wasn't interested until Anders yelled out, "...your wife!"

  Orpheus wrapped a hand around Anders throat and pulled him closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"

  "...your wife...alive..."

  Orpheus' grip released and Anders head cracked against the floor. "What do you mean? You kidnapped her?"

  "Not as far as she knows...fuck, don't kill me..."

  "Tell me what you mean!"

  "Let me go, and I will."

  Orpheus considered the offer. An image flashed in his mind: the black trucks, filled with people, heading away from the epicenter of the outbreak. Orpheus hadn't gotten a good look at its occupants, but reasoned that, if they were soldiers sent to fight, they should have been heading toward it. It could have been an evacuation, he supposed, but how had they reacted so quickly?

  "No, thanks," he said, and wrapped his hands around Anders' throat.

  Anders forced out, "...haven't told you where she is..."

  "You already did," Orpheus said, hoping he was right. He couldn't abide the idea of Anders walking around. He would eventually look for revenge, and Orpheus would have to deal with him then. But even knowing all of the evil this man had done, Orpheus was having a hard time committing cold-blooded murder.

  He pushed off, retreated a few paces, and dropped to one knee, hand resting near his ankle. Anders gasped for breath. Orpheus said, "It's not going to be that easy for you, Ricky. Get up and let's go."

  Anders struggled to his knees. He raised his head, and Holt saw the look of a madman. He knew what Anders was thinking; he'd known it when he'd made the conscious decision to leave the knife well within Anders' reach.

  "Don't do it," Orpheus warned. "I'm giving you a choice."

  Anders made his decision and came for Orpheus, knife poised for the killing stroke.

  Orpheus responded by drawing his backup weapon from his ankle holster, and sending its only round into Anders' face, just above his upper lip. It took a few steps for Anders to realize that he was finished, that he was, for a short time, the walking dead.

  Ricardo Anders collapsed in a heap.

  Orpheus stared at the weapon in his hand. He discarded it without a second thought, and it clattered to the floor, having fulfilled an entirely different purpose than the one he had originally planned.

  He didn't need it anymore.

  Anders had said, "Not as far as she knows." She hadn't known she'd been kidnapped? How w
as that possible?

  Unless the kidnapping was the same as a rescue.

  Whoever had released the infection on the island wouldn't have been able to just cover it up, even with government involvement. But if they had dozens of witnesses to verify the randomness and the spread of the outbreak? With their cover story corroborated, and with their witnesses thinking that everyone else on the island was dead, they'd be free to do what they wanted to do.

  With that in mind, he made sure that everyone was good to go, then he hopped a plane to Ohio.

  A few hours and a cab ride later, he found himself at the home of the former Jackie Morelli's parents.

  He stepped onto the lawn and hoped.

  A furry killer saw him and began to bark at him on the other side of the living room picture window. A woman, wearing familiar sweatpants and a button-down shirt that was far too large for her was drawn to the noise. She scratched him behind the ears until she saw what Casey was barking at, then she stumbled against the couch before righting herself.

  "Hey, babe," Holt mouthed, slowly approaching.

  She burst through the screen door without unlatching it; cheap ruined hardware hung from the frame. She was in his arms before it closed again. "I knew you weren't dead!" she cried into his neck. "I never believed it!"

  "I'm here, I'm here. I'm never leaving again."

  She squeezed his head between her hands and alternated between staring and kissing. "I tried to get back! They wouldn't let anyone go back!"

  "I know. It's a long story." Casey jumped up and down on Holt's leg, wanting some of his master's attention. He bent over and gave the mutt a quick scratch on his back.

  "Ethan? Is he-"

  "He's fine, he's okay. He took Rachel to see her parents. I had to make sure first." Cameron Holt pulled out a cell phone. It picked up on the third ring and he said, "Ethan? Everything okay over there? No heart attacks? Good. Whenever you're done there, pack a bag and head to the airport. Two tickets will be waiting, if Rachel's up for a trip. It's time to come home, son."