Xenofreak Nation, Book Two: Mad Eye

by Melissa Conway

  “Hey,” Scott said. “I recognize you. You’re a Mad Eye.”

  Agent Alton sent Scott a jaunty salute. “No flies on you.”

  Bryn knew about the Mad Eye gang - everyone did. They were the chief rivals of the XBestia, the xenofreak gang Scott had infiltrated to get to Dr. Fournier.

  “Agent Alton will escort Bryn to the facility,” Shasta said, “and guard her twenty-four seven.”

  “Why not me?” Scott asked at the same time Bryn burst out with, “For how long?”

  Shasta pointed at Scott. “Because Padme is clearly trying to contact you. When you didn’t go looking for her, she started in on Bryn to more effectively get your attention. Agent Alton’s xenograft wasn’t done by Fournier and it’s not functional - he doesn’t have nanoneurons so she can’t get to him.”

  Shasta turned to Bryn. “In answer to your question: for as long as it takes. You don’t really want it to happen again, do you?”

  Bryn felt her stomach clench at the very thought. “No.”

  Shasta placed her hands on the desk and pushed her chair back. “This is the only way to protect you.”

  She stood, and Scott and Bryn followed suit.

  “Agent Alton,” Shasta said, “You have your orders. Agent Harding, I’m not done with you.”

  Agent Alton went to the door and opened it, looking at Bryn expectantly. She leaned towards Scott and reached out for his hand. He clasped her fingers briefly, turning what she’d intended as a goodbye gesture into an impersonal handshake.

  He’d been distant these last few weeks, just when she’d thought they were getting closer. She’d attributed it to the stress of work - and she’d probably been right - except it now seemed the nature of his work wasn’t what she’d thought it was.

  As she walked out the door, she wondered if she would ever really know Scott Harding.

  Chapter Three

  Scott watched them leave, frustrated that he couldn’t properly say goodbye. Bryn had looked at him like he’d suddenly become a stranger. He wanted to reassure her, but even if he could honestly tell her everything would be alright, he wasn’t about to get sentimental in front of Shasta and Alton.

  When the door clicked closed, Shasta sat back down in her chair, but Scott was too wired. He barely stopped himself from pacing back and forth in the little office.

  “The incident in the courthouse the other day,” he said. “From the masks, I assume it had something to do with the typhoid?”

  Before answering, Shasta tapped a holokey again and said, “Send in Dr. Padilla.”

  Then she reactivated her holo monitor. “Do you recognize this man?”

  The hologram had been taken from a downward angle, but the subject’s face was turned upward directly facing the camera. His head was shaved completely bald, but from the slight shadow of regrown stubble around his ears, Scott could tell the man would have been mostly bald anyway. The subject had a large, doughy nose and a low brow.

  “Never seen him before.”

  “This is a still from a security camera at the courthouse, taken three days ago. As we speak, four civilians and six county employees are in quarantine at Middleborough Hospital, every one of them apparently in the last stages of this damned super typhoid. We can verify this man, identified as Robert Cruise, had contact with seven of them. Witnesses said he had a xenograft on his forearm.”

  Scott wished the holo was clear enough to see the subject’s eyes better. Did the guy know he was a living, breathing bioweapon?

  Shasta unwittingly answered Scott’s unvoiced question. “Witnesses also said he was coughing - a lot - without covering his mouth. Not genuine coughing, though. More than one witness said he seemed to be faking it. It looks like he deliberately took every opportunity to spread this thing.”

  Someone rapped on the door and Scott opened it, stepping aside as a petite woman with black hair pulled back into a loose bun entered. She was Asian, seemed to be in her mid-to-late twenties, and quite beautiful. From her flawless skin to her bee-stung lips, she reminded Scott of the antique porcelain figurines lining his grandmother’s shelves.

  She looked at him and did what most people did when they first saw his face: her dark eyes followed the line of the scar that sliced through his eyebrow, broke off at his eye socket and started again on his cheek, ending in a pucker on his upper lip. From the question in her eyes, he figured she was wondering why he’d kept such a disfigurement when it was so easy in this day and age to erase scars. She then took in the fact that his brown hair was pulled back into a short ponytail, all but the hair from the top of his ears down, which had been shaved. He knew her impression would be that he was a punk - that’s what she was supposed to think.

  Shasta stood. “Dr. Padilla, thank you for coming. This is Agent Scott Harding. He’ll be working with your team.”

  Scott held his hand out, but Dr. Padilla only looked at it, her doll-like face frozen in a look of wary fascination. Scott curled his fingers into a loose fist and dropped his hand. Shasta cleared her throat, effectively disrupting the awkward moment. “Dr. Padilla is with the CDC. She’s an expert on infectious bacteria.”

  Dr. Padilla’s slight smile looked forced. “It’s ironic, given my profession, but I’m a bit of a germophobe. Nothing personal.”

  Scott shrugged. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been snubbed. He’d long since stopped trying to explain why he’d gotten his xenoalteration. It didn’t matter that his motivation had been selfless; some people simply could not understand why he’d chosen to essentially mutilate himself.

  Shasta sat back down. “Alright. To bring you up to speed, Doctor, the man in this holo is the suspected carrier. He’s been identified as Robert Cruise, a xeno with a few arrests on his record, but nothing more serious than a misdemeanor. Agent Harding will be going out to Cruise’s last known address this morning to bring him in for questioning.”

  “I’d like to come along,” Dr. Padilla said. “If this man is sick, we’ll need to get him isolated as soon as possible.”

  “I’m afraid that would be too dangerous for you. From what we know, Cruise is deliberately infecting people. Agent Harding’s xenograft protects him from exposure.”

  Dr. Padilla’s arched eyebrows rose. “The CDC has found no evidence to support the hypothesis that xenografts boost human immunity.”

  “Have they looked? For evidence?” Scott asked. “Because I haven’t been sick a day since I got these.” He held his hands up.

  “While it’s true the bacterium that causes typhoid doesn’t produce symptoms in animals,” her eyes slid to Scott’s hands, “just because you’ve been hale and hearty, and just because the XIA has identified one xeno who might be a healthy carrier of this disease, doesn’t guarantee anything.”

  “Actually, not only have we identified two carriers now, both xeno, but not one of the victims has been a xeno.” Shasta smiled like a person who’d made a chess move and declared, “Check.”

  Dr. Padilla shook her head impatiently. “Which could easily be attributed to statistics; the xeno population makes up only a small percentage of people worldwide. The odds of one of the forty-four identified victims thus far being a xeno are unlikely. What’s more relevant to this investigation is how the typhoid is being transmitted.”

  “It’s airborne,” Shasta said decisively.

  “That’s beyond unlikely. The disease is transmitted through contact with infected feces or urine. These particular bacteria reside in the human intestinal tract, not the respiratory system. We’ve done cultures on every single victim and haven’t found a thing to support an airborne mode of transmission.”

  Shasta threw her hands in the air. “Because it doesn’t spread through the victims!”

  “That I will concede to,” Dr. Padilla responded. “As far as we can tell, none of the victims have infected anyone they’ve been in contact with. Which is unusual, but given the rapid onset and severity of the disease, could be explained by the patients not having had ti
me to spread it before it immobilized them.”

  “I understand the CDC has also conceded that the bacteria have mutated?” Scott recognized Shasta’s ‘patient’ voice when he heard it.

  Dr. Padilla sighed. “Bacterial mutation is more common than people think. It’s a survival adaptation. We’ve sequenced the genome of this sample and, yes, it’s different from the known varieties, but not significantly so. In fact, it closely resembles one particular multi-drug-resistant strain that many undeveloped nations have been dealing with for the last twenty years.”

  “Resembles how?” Scott asked. “Under the microscope or from the symptoms?”

  Dr. Padilla licked her lips, a nervous gesture that told Scott she was headed into territory she was less sure of. “Not the symptoms. Normally, secondary infection arising from typhoid is rare, but in one-hundred percent of the patients thus far, it’s developed into a deadly form of bacterial meningitis. This strain multiplies explosively, much more quickly than has ever been documented before.”

  “What about immunization?” Shasta asked. “Four of the victims have a history of travel outside the U.S. and their medical records show they were inoculated against typhoid.”

  Dr. Padilla slowly nodded. “Vaccination may help. We’ll have to see if those patients do better than the others. Otherwise, the vaccine may not be effective against this strain.”

  Shasta cleared her throat again. “I don’t agree with this, but for the time being, our respective directors have decided against warning the public and causing a potential panic. When and if another incident occurs, Agent Harding will accompany your team to the site. I’m sure I don’t need to remind either of you of the sensitive nature of this assignment.”

  Scott nodded, but Dr. Padilla just stared at Shasta.

  “I want you to know,” Shasta said, staring back, “that regardless of the CDC’s stance on it, we have solid intel indicating that xenos are immune. Intel from the source; the man who first identified the pathogen: Dr. Fournier.”

  Dr. Padilla’s eyes widened. “I’d heard a rumor he was behind this. What I don’t understand is why he would send his people out to deliberately infect the public.”

  “There’s been some educated speculation as to why,” Shasta said, “but that’s need-to-know. The important thing is to contain this thing before anyone else dies.”

  “And before word gets out,” Scott said.

  “Exactly.” Shasta dimmed her monitor again. “It will be impossible to suppress it for much longer as it is, and once John Q. Public hears about it, there will be panic, not to mention demands for retribution from a lot of innocent xenos, and we all know what that means.”

  Scott flexed his claws, ignoring the badly disguised look of revulsion that crossed Dr. Padilla’s face.

  “Bloodbath time,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  Bryn cracked the window and held her hand to her face, but even though she surreptitiously blocked her nostrils and breathed out of her mouth, Agent Alton’s pungent body odor was overwhelming. It was patently clear from his brusque attitude that he didn’t want this assignment and resented being pulled from his last one. She wondered if he’d deliberately not taken a shower in order to punish her.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eyes as he drove in what she could only interpret as a brooding silence. Under the grime, he had a surprisingly nice profile. His nose was straight and his jawline firm - what she could see of it under the scruffy beard. He’d taken off his filthy pea coat, revealing an equally filthy t-shirt. His lean, muscular arms were covered with scrolling black tats that extended up his wrists and disappeared under his short sleeved shirt. She didn’t see a xenograft, but assumed he had one somewhere.

  When they’d first gotten into the beat up old truck, she’d asked him where they were going and he’d responded curtly, “Were you listening to Agent Fox?”

  After about ten minutes, she’d asked what she was supposed to wear, and he’d told her there was a bag for her in the back of the truck.

  She almost asked what was in the bag. Had they sent someone over to Carla’s to get her own things while she’d waited for him to take care of some unfinished XIA business, or was she stuck wearing generic XIA clothing for the next who-knows-how-long? But it was clear Agent Alton didn’t want to talk. She continued watching him as he drove, noting the occasional slight movement of his lips, as if he was arguing with someone internally.

  The answers to her questions could wait. As much as she didn’t want to walk away from her life and go into hiding, she was grateful the XIA had finally decided to protect her. Two days ago she would have been outraged at the suddenness, but not after last night.

  She pulled her holophone from her purse and popped the earbugs out of their compartment. She’d just put them in her ears and accessed her playlist when Agent Alton reached over and snatched the phone out of her hand. To her astonishment, he tossed it out the window onto the freeway.

  She turned to him, her mouth open wide in indignation. “What the-?”

  “It can be traced. Do you have any other electronics in there?” He gestured to the purse.

  Bryn sighed and handed him the earbugs. He tossed them, too, and continued driving without further comment.

  Every time they went uphill, the truck engine growled and sputtered and filled the cab with a noxious combination of exhaust and gasoline that competed with Agent Alton’s funk. It reminded her of the Warehouse, with its strange, overpowering chemical smell. She doubted the truck was up to EPA standards. On the dash, none of the gauges seemed to be working. There was no clock, so she was forced to estimate how long they’d been travelling. About an hour out of the city, they exited near the Come and Shop outlet mall. From there, Agent Alton drove into the hills through an upscale housing development and beyond that to a country road that wound on and on. He turned several times, each road getting narrower and bumpier. He finally drove down a dirt path, where a low concrete building squatted in the center of an overgrown field.

  He shut off the engine, which turned over a few more times as if gasping in protest. Dust from the road hung around them in the stillness of the morning.

  “Home, sweet home,” he said.

  Shasta had said it was a converted missile silo, but somehow Bryn had expected the ‘house’ part of ‘safe house’ to apply. This place was as rundown and scary as the Warehouse had been.

  Agent Alton took a long, narrow bag out from behind the seats and got out. He reached into the bed of the truck and slung two more bags over his shoulder, then leaned into the cab and asked, “What are you waiting for? I’m not the bellboy. You carry your own.”

  Bryn scrambled out of the truck. She recognized the battered gym bag he handed her as coming from the back of Carla’s bedroom closet and sighed in relief. Having her own stuff would help.

  “What about those?” She pointed to several cardboard boxes.

  “Food. Supplies. I’ll bring that in later.”

  There was no sign of a path, so they forged ahead through the underbrush around to the back of the building. Mounted on the wall next to a large green-painted steel door was a standard holoscanner. Agent Alton held his palm under it and a moment later there was a dull clang from somewhere inside. He leaned on the door handle, which gave under his weight, but not easily. The entire structure had been built generations ago - built to withstand a nuclear attack. Bryn hoped it was strong enough to withstand an attack from Padme.

  It was pitch black inside. Agent Alton stopped a few feet in and said, “Hold the door.”

  Bryn placed her foot against the bottom of the heavy door, but found she had to lean her whole body into it to keep it from closing. He went in, trailing a hand along the wall. Seconds later, a line of bare bulbs running down the center of the low concrete ceiling lit up, revealing a long tunnel. She’d never been claustrophobic, but as the door closed on the brightness of the day, she felt as if she’d been entombed.

  Halfway down t
he tunnel, there was a deep booming sound that she felt as a pressure change in her ears more than heard. “That’s the ventilation system kicking in,” he said. “We triggered it when we entered, so it should get warmer in here.”

  At the end of the tunnel, a studded metal door led to a stairwell that was also lit with bare bulbs, one per level. The spiral staircase had white-painted mesh steps that were worn down to the metal along the path countless feet had trod over the last half century. Shasta had said the facility was two hundred feet deep, and as Bryn leaned over the rail to look down, she felt a wave of vertigo that prompted her to pull back and focus on Agent Alton’s back. It was cold in the stairwell, and got colder with every clanging step of their descent. A faint breeze blew upward.

  At the first level, there was a metal platform with a door set in the concrete. Agent Alton stopped, but instead of opening it right away, he lifted his chin and his nostrils flared. “You smell that?”

  Bryn had a hard time keeping her face neutral. “I smell you.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, alright.”

  He opened the door and flipped another switch. Light bloomed from a modest chandelier hanging over a dining room table. He went further in and switched on two floor lamps and a table lamp next to a large beige sectional couch. To Bryn’s surprise, the interior did indeed look like a house; albeit a sterile one. There were walls and doors and furniture. No windows, of course, but several paintings hung on the walls; bright landscapes that seemed to have been picked deliberately to offset the lack of a real view. Other than the paintings, the decor was utilitarian, just like the XIA safe house she’d stayed in with Scott.

  She didn’t want to think of Scott and the night he’d held her in his arms. The night she’d been willing to give him anything he wanted. He hadn’t felt the same way then, and it looked like he still didn’t. She wondered what she was to him - a friend? A responsibility?

  Agent Alton pointed to one of four doors, the one furthest to the left. “That’s your room.”