Afraid

by Jack Kilborn

  Stubin shifted, pushing Woof off to the side.

  “You have to understand, Josh. Pure research doesn’t exist anymore. You need to have funding. There are the pharmaceutical companies, but they only dump money into drugs. Charities and philanthropists are trying to cure cancer and AIDS. The only group willing to pay for cutting-edge research is the military, and only if it is applicable to some aspect of warfare. But this research has farther-reaching applications. Think of a world without learning disabilities. Where brain disorders are things of the past. Where people could be programmed to know right from wrong and criminal impulses could be controlled.”

  “And what about freedom of choice?” Fran asked.

  Stubin leaned forward. “Do you really believe that freedom of choice exists? India still has a caste system. Most of the Middle East treats women as inferiors and those who practice other religions as enemies. China regulates how many children couples can have, genocide abounds in South America and Africa, Malaysia has a booming underage sex trade, and the list goes on and on. All around the world the people in power abuse it and human rights are ignored. But what if we were incapable of hurting our fellow man? What if our core impulse was to help each other rather than control each other? The human race is destructive. This research could fix it. Purify it.”

  “I remember another historical figure trying to purify the human race,” Josh said. “It didn’t work out so well.”

  Stubin sneered. “Hitler was a fool. You can’t breed perfection out of an imperfect species. Genetics are the problem, not the answer.”

  Josh looked at Fran and saw she was thinking the same thing he was: Stubin had a few loose screws. But the army must have brought him here for a reason other than lectures.

  “So what’s your function in this?” Josh asked.

  “I’m here in an advisory capacity. But unless I can contact the military, my role here is pretty much useless. When I tried to get close, they shot at me.”

  “And why did you bring the monkey?”

  “If I leave Mathison home alone, he gets bored, drinks all the beer, and breaks things. Or maybe he does it out of revenge. When I teach him sign language someday, that’s the first thing I’ll ask him. Where are we going, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “The roadblock won’t let us get to the hospital, so we’re visiting a local doctor to patch up Duncan and Fran.”

  “Is the doctor nearby? I noticed we just turned onto Old Mason Road.”

  Josh raised an eyebrow. “He lives off Old Mason, at the end of Duck Bill. Are you familiar with the area?”

  “I memorized the maps while taking the helicopter here.”

  “The helicopter. That was the explosion earlier?”

  “Unfortunately. They landed at the Red-ops crash site. Apparently it had been booby-trapped.”

  Josh had searched the crash site thoroughly but hadn’t seen any traps or explosives. He must have gotten lucky and not triggered any.

  They drove for another ten minutes. Josh kept glancing over at Fran, checking on her, and twice he caught her looking back at him. If they got through this, when they got through this, Josh wanted to see as much of Fran as he could. He hoped she felt the same. They had a lot of lost time to make up for.

  He turned off of Old Mason, onto a sand and gravel road surrounded by forest.

  “This is Duck Bill?” Stubin asked. “Why hasn’t it been paved?”

  “That comes up every few years at the town meeting. The residents here say they like their roads rustic and old-fashioned and want to keep them that way. I think it’s because they don’t like change.”

  “Change is inevitable,” Stubin said. “You can’t ignore technology.”

  “Ignoring it and choosing not to embrace it are two different things, I think,” Josh said. “Here we are.”

  He parked the Roadmaster on the grass next to Doc Wainwright’s house and touched Fran’s shoulder. “I’m going to see if he’s home. Do you and Duncan want to come in with me?”

  “Duncan’s asleep. I don’t want to wake him up.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  Fran met his eyes. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Josh let his hand linger for longer than necessary, then nodded and exited the vehicle. The general practitioner lived in a ranch, on the west shore of Big Lake McDonald, surrounded by trees. His electricity seemed to be out, just like everyone else’s. Josh had visited him once at his office in town to have a large splinter removed from his palm. He found Wainwright’s bedside manner excellent and his skill with a scalpel and tweezers adequate at best. The quintessential country doctor.

  He approached the front door warily, as if something might pop out at him at any moment. The woods—a source of tranquility for Josh as long as he could remember—no longer seemed safe or familiar. Josh stopped and studied a shadow on the porch, judged it to be a lawn chair, and continued onward. He knocked three times, waited, and knocked again.

  “Doc? It’s Josh VanCamp, from the fire department. I have some people here that need medical attention.”

  Josh waited and knocked once more. No sounds of life from inside the house. The doctor was either a heavy sleeper or he’d been lured into town by the promise of lottery riches. On impulse, Josh tried the doorknob. Unlocked, just like most houses in the Northwoods.

  “I’m going to check if he’s home!” Josh shouted back to Fran.

  He wondered whether she and Duncan would be okay with Dr. Stubin and decided to chance it. Even with everything that had happened to her, Fran seemed able to take care of herself just fine. When they were dating, Fran had told him she suffered from panic attacks. He’d even seen it happen once, during a Tilt-a-Whirl ride at a carnival he’d taken her and Duncan to. Fran froze up when the ride ended, and it took Josh and two carnies to pry her hands off the safety bar and remove her from the car. Perhaps she’d since conquered her demons.

  Josh entered the house cautiously. He was breaking and entering, and if Wainwright was waiting in the darkness with a shotgun he’d have every right to blow Josh’s head off. But Josh was willing to risk it. Even if the doctor wasn’t in he probably had medical supplies. God only knew when they’d get Fran to a hospital. At the very least she needed antibiotics.

  “Doc! You home? Anyone here?”

  No answer.

  He tried the light switch on the wall, which didn’t work, and made his way into the kitchen by feel. People kept flashlights in easy-to-reach places, like drawers, or atop the refrigerator. The latter is where Josh found a Maglite, one of the models that used half a dozen D batteries, making it a weapon, as well. He spotted Wainwright’s phone. A busy signal. Then he searched cabinets, discovering only dishes and canned goods.

  Moving on, Josh located Wainwright’s office and quickly found a medical cabinet stuffed with equipment. Josh filled a pillowcase with free samples of Cipro, a vial of lidocaine hydrochloride, a can of aerosol antiseptic spray, two sealed syringes, some acetaminophen samples, forceps, hydrogen peroxide, and a sealed suture needle package.

  Outside he heard Woof bark.

  Not a friendly bark. A warning bark.

  Something was happening. Something bad.

  Josh rushed out of the office, through the front door, just in time to see the Roadmaster pulling away down Duck Bill Lane.

  • • •

  Taylor noted that Olen had begun wheezing. While the gas mask protected the man from inhaling hydrogen cyanide, the chemical had soaked into his clothing and subsequently his skin. From there, it bonded with every cell it could, preventing them from getting oxygen. Taylor figured he had perhaps five minutes left to live. Because of this he took over the driving. They were currently on a rarely used dirt road and had to slow down to navigate the sharp turns.

  “How far are we?” Logan asked, poking Olen with the knife. Olen was bleeding from a dozen or so previous pokes.

  “We’re … cl
ose. Feel … sick …”

  Then he puked in his gas mask and fell forward, banging his head onto the dashboard.

  Logan stabbed him again. Olen didn’t flinch.

  “He’s dead,” Logan said.

  Taylor hit the brakes. He and Logan tugged Olen out of the Honey Wagon and left him on the side of the road. Then they took off their masks and protective plastic garments and tossed them into the trees. Taylor opened the MMDSC and pressed the talk button.

  “Location 1.6 kilometers east on Deer Tick Road. Attempting to locate nest.”

  Logan spat. “Now we have to search for him. You could have given the guy some of your Charge.”

  “You could have given him some of yours,” Taylor snapped back. “This road is a dead end. If Warren Streng lives anywhere on it, we’ll find him.” Taylor scanned the tree line and saw a rusty sign nailed to a tree that read “Private Property, Trespassers Will Be Shot.”

  “Besides,” he said. “I think we’re close.”

  When the perimeter alarm went off, Warren “Wiley” Streng switched the video monitor feed to his plasma-screen TV and sat in his lounger, watching the Honey Wagon approach. It stopped, and two people in gas masks pulled a third out of the truck.

  The camera used night vision technology, so everything glowed green. But even though it cost a fortune, it wasn’t high-definition like the monitor, and the figures were blurry. Wiley used the remote to zoom in and, from the dirty clothing, recognized Olen Porrell as the dead man.

  The two others moved quickly and efficiently. Soldiers. No. Special Forces. Their black uniforms were somewhat stiff. Body armor, probably that new liquid kind he’d read about on the Net. One of them used some sort of device to call for backup, then stared at the No Trespassing sign for so long that Wiley was sure he spotted the hidden camera. But the moment passed, and they climbed back into the truck and continued up the road.

  They found me, Wiley thought. After more than thirty years, they finally found me.

  He pulled himself out of the chair and began to prepare for the attack.

  • • •

  It happened so fast Fran didn’t have time to react. Woof barked, and then the car doors were open and men were climbing into the Roadmaster. One of them was tall and thin, and the other was enormous. The giant got into the back seat, tossed Woof out of the vehicle, and placed a huge hand on Fran’s scalp, his fingers draping down over her face.

  “If you move, he’ll twist your head off,” said the thin man, his accent foreign and heavy. Fran guessed him to be Santiago, and the large one, Ajax. “Then we’ll do the same to your boy.”

  Fran stayed stock-still. Santiago started the car and fishtailed on the lawn, heading back up Duck Bill Lane. Duncan opened his eyes, looking confused, then terrified. He hugged Fran, and she hugged him back.

  “You took your time.” Stubin removed something small and black from his pocket. “I’ve had this thing on for ten minutes.”

  Santiago frowned. “You might have helped us by saying the address.”

  “I didn’t know the address.”

  Fran watched Santiago check the rearview mirror. He touched his ear, which was crusted with dried blood. “That firefighter cabrón, I have to settle something with him.”

  “It can wait.” Stubin squinted at the communicator. “Taylor and Logan have almost located Warren. They’re on Deer Tick Road. Take the next left you see.”

  It was tough for Fran to find her voice with her skull being palmed like a basketball, but Duncan reached over and grabbed her hand, giving her strength.

  “You found Warren. You can let us go.”

  Stubin scrutinized her as if she were something he’d stepped in. “I suppose people only see what they want to see and ignore everything else. That’s why you trusted me. That’s why the U.S. military trusted me.”

  Fran let the implications of that last line run through her head.

  “The Red-ops team isn’t from Canada,” she stated.

  “Of course not. They’re ours.”

  The roadblock made a lot more sense now.

  “They’re U.S., but the military didn’t order this,” Fran guessed. “They’re going to be angry with you.”

  “They think I died in that helicopter explosion. Besides, they’re so busy making sure that no stories leak out that they aren’t even looking for us. Wouldn’t CNN just eat this up? U.S. terrorist cell destroys Wisconsin town. They’ll nuke Safe Haven before they let the word get out.”

  “Let Duncan go.” Fran pursed her lips, keeping her tears at bay. “Please.”

  Stubin gave an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t get it. You’re still useful to us.”

  “Why?”

  Santiago laughed. “Doesn’t this dumb puta know Warren is her father?”

  Fran didn’t know what to say, how to react. She’d grown up the only child of a single mother who told Fran that her dad died in Vietnam. Mom got married when Fran was seven, and her stepfather adopted her. She hadn’t thought about her birth father in over two decades.

  “It gets even better.” Stubin smiled, obviously enjoying this. “I’ve been looking for Warren for a long time. You couldn’t imagine the amount of research it took. The paper trail led me to Safe Haven. When we ran your car off the road a few years ago, we were hoping Warren would come out of hiding to visit you at the hospital or attend the funeral. He didn’t. Not exactly father-of-the-year material. Maybe he’ll show a bit more affection when we’re cutting off his grandson’s fingers outside his front door.”

  Fran felt a panic attack coming on. The increased heartbeat. The sweaty palms. The hyperventilating. She thought back to the crash, to being trapped in the car, and flinched at the knowledge that it wasn’t an accident at all, that it was intentional. Her life, and Duncan’s, and Charles’s, shattered because some madman used her family as a tool to find a father she didn’t even know she had.

  Fran began to shake. She felt a scream welling up, and she was ready to completely lose her grip on reality when Duncan whispered to her, “I’m afraid, Mom.”

  And Fran knew she couldn’t afford to lose control. She had to remain calm, to look for escape opportunities, to be ready to act. For Duncan’s sake. So she stared the panic attack square in the eye and ordered it to go away.

  Not this time. Not ever again.

  The tremors left, and her heartbeat slowed, and her breathing became steady.

  “Don’t be afraid of these assholes,” she told her son. “I’m not.”

  Then she held Duncan tight to her chest and tried to be strong enough for both of them.

  • • •

  Sheriff Streng stopped the Jeep before turning onto Deer Tick Road. He opened the fuse box and used the little plastic pair of tweezers inside to pull out fuses for the brake lights, parking lights, headlights, and interior lights. When he got behind the wheel again he drove completely dark, navigating by feel and by the orange hunter’s moon.

  En route, the communicator vibrated again, and Streng read a rambling message that he figured out was a live transcript of a conversation. A roadblock was mentioned, along with taking Fran and Duncan to see a doctor. It had to be Josh talking. Streng knew Josh took one of these communicators off of Ajax and wondered if he’d learned how it worked. If so, he needed to be careful; he was giving away his position.

  Deer Tick was less a road and more a trail. It wound around the southernmost tip of Little Lake McDonald, but rather than hug the shoreline where the prime real estate was, it went the opposite way into the woods. Streng knew of only a few residences on Deer Tick: displaced trailers and shacks made of corrugated steel, long rusted out. Homes for the poor, the hopeless, and the crazy.

  Wiley was one of the crazies.

  He’d been that way since they were children. If there was a thimbleful of trouble to be found in all of Ashburn County, Wiley found it, and usually compounded it. He started young, breaking windows with slingshots, skipping school, stealing candy bars and comics
from local businesses. That led to teen years marked by hot-wiring cars and boats for joy rides, running away from home for weeks at a time, selling drugs.

  Streng had done his share of stupid things as a youngster, but he was more of a casual participant. Wiley was an instigator. Nowadays people like him were known as adrenaline junkies, and they BASE jumped and rode their bikes down mountainsides and went snorkeling with sharks. Back then he was simply known as a juvenile delinquent and probably would have spent his life behind bars if it hadn’t been for the draft lottery.

  It wasn’t Wiley that had been drafted. It was Streng. He had his number called in July of 1972. Wiley enlisted to keep an eye on his little brother.

  That plan didn’t work out for either of them—right after basic training they were sent to different locations. Streng went to the Second Platoon, Company B, First Battalion, Fourteenth Infantry, in the Chu Pa Region. Wiley went to the Kontum Province and the Fifty-second Aviation Battalion, where he became a helicopter door gunner and one of the most successful black-market traders of the region.

  Streng scowled. He hadn’t spoken to Wiley in over thirty years and felt it was still too soon. But this had to be done, and there was no one else to do it.

  The sand road was in such a state of disuse that grass and weeds grew in the center section between the tire treads. Streng heard them scrape against his undercarriage, a soft sound punctuated by an occasional thump when he ran over a fallen tree branch. He hit the brakes when he saw a familiar shape lying in the brush.

  The sheriff kept the Jeep running and stepped out to investigate, holding one of Bernie’s lighters. Olen Porrell, on his back, a gas mask on his face caked with vomit. Streng had no idea why his friend wore the gas mask, but it apparently wasn’t enough to protect him. He didn’t want to get too close, so he watched to see if Olen moved or breathed. Olen did neither. Streng took a shallow sniff of air, trying to sense any off odors. He smelled the woods and nothing else.

  Wiley liked booby traps. He’d liked them as a kid and really learned to like them in Vietnam, picking up many ideas from the Cong. But gas in an open area dissipated too quickly. Streng decided that this wasn’t one of his brother’s devices. Olen must have been exposed elsewhere, which also accounted for the missing Honey Wagon.