by Jeb Bohn
Andre had shuddered when he told the story, goose bumps covering his arms.
That’s not the worst of it, not even close. Without taking his eyes off me he started screaming. Man, I can’t unhear that scream anymore than I can unsee those eyes. You remember when we were comin’ up and that gator hunter got his arm ripped off, the sounds that came out of him? When Wilbur opened his mouth, the first thing I thought about was that hunter dragging himself up out of the swamp with that bloody stump. I tell you I thought I was gonna piss my damned pants.
Then he just stopped and stood there; blood coming out his nose, dead eyed, and silent. Calm as a cucumber he strolls over to the microwave and yanks it off the counter, tore the damned cable right out the back, and starts smashing it into his face. Blood was dripping all over the place, but no one tried to help him. We were all in shock; no one knew what to do. People were crying, somebody puked in the trash can, but not one soul went to Wilbur.
He musta rammed his head into that thing seven or eight times, I don’t know. By that point it was like watching a movie. The last time he drew it back, he slipped in the blood and fell backwards. His head slammed against the floor and that goddamned microwave landed square on his face. I swear I heard his skull crack, Ambroise. You believe that? After that, he just laid there.
By the time anyone thought to check on him, a first aid crew busted in. They moved the microwave, loaded him on a gurney, and that was that. I’ll be damned if I know how long I sat there, but I know when I walked out all I could see was blood. There were pieces of his teeth in it and half his tongue. The man bit his tongue clean in half, and I just sat there and watched.
He died that evening at the hospital. The official story was that he had suffered a gran mal seizure, but nobody believed it.
The very next week a contractor who was working on an HVAC unit threw himself off of the roof. The bosses said that he had gotten careless and fell. The dozen or so employees who heard his rapid footsteps knew better. They didn’t know the ‘why’ but they sure as hell knew the ‘what,’ and it didn’t jive with what they were told.
Wilbur had been followed by the contractor who, in turn, was followed by three other plant employees, all five in less than a month. Despite the dire state of the family business and need for outside income, Andre had quit. Ambroise didn’t blame him. How could he, given the absurd pall that had fallen over the place?
To bring in some money, Andre had moved on to doing odd jobs around town: maintenance, landscaping, whatever someone needed done, he would do. He had started to complain of severe headaches accompanied by nosebleeds within two weeks of leaving his job at the plant, but he hadn’t let it hold him back.
He spent most of that summer painting houses for a local real estate company. It paid well but the heat and humidity had been taking its toll on him. On one sweltering Thursday, Andre headed home early to rest up and regain his vigor. He walked in, poured a glass of cold lemonade, and popped a bowl of leftover jambalaya in the microwave.
Ambroise arrived at the house at a quarter past eight that night and headed into the kitchen for something to eat. He found Andre sprawled out on the floor, congealed streams of blood coming from his ears and nose. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, staring sightlessly to the heavens.
Almost two years later, the pain was still fresh enough to tear at Ambroise’s guts. He had spent a year and half trying to drink himself to death while the family business fell further into a financial abyss. Everything was spiraling downward. There was no hope. There was no joy.
Then, as had become customary in his life, things changed.
A man arrived at his doorstep, telling tales about the company that his late brother had worked for. This man spoke of human experiments, mind control, hit squads. The stranger went on to mention a project that he had been a part of, some undisclosed adjuvant that had been intended for a water supply in Florida.
Ambroise had been too hung-over to take any of it seriously, up until the man described what happened to unsuspecting test subjects who were exposed to certain frequencies. Everything he said fit Andre’s death to a tee. The same was true for Wilbur and the violent end that he had met. If this man was doing more than just shoveling a load of horseshit, then the people responsible for Andre’s death had left a trail of bodies in their wake.
With the light drizzle of precipitation beginning to intensify, Ambroise turned and headed back into the house. He thought about that first meeting with Greg Schultz and how it had lit a fire in him and given him a sense of purpose. Even knowing that Schultz had been a part of the company that had killed his brother, Ambroise would have followed him into hell. That was solidified the minute that Schultz told him what had happened to his own family. Ambroise saw the anguish in his eyes; it was the same look he had seen countless times in his own.
Ambroise was a man of strong faith, a fact that had prevented him from taking his own life. This resolute conviction also enabled him to make peace with where he was in life. He knew that joining up with this small army could very well lead him to his demise, and that was something that he accepted without qualm. He had absolute trust in Schultz, even knowing the man’s history with the company that had killed his brother.
Then again, maybe that was part of the trust, the fact that he had been so forthcoming with the information. He refused to shirk responsibility for the part that he had played. Ambroise could sense a deep guilt in Schultz, coupled with a desire to do everything he could to make things right, even if it cost him his own life. How could Ambroise not line up to fight with a leader like that?
There was, however, one thing that Ambroise did question, and that was Schultz’s insistence on bringing in outside help. He could understand that man in the trench coat since a few of the other guys in the crew spoke of him in the type of hushed tones typically reserved for urban legends. No one seemed to know much about the man other than the fact that he was a hired gun and a damned good one; maybe the best.
Then Schultz proceeded to tell everyone that this enigmatic man had taken down the operation in Bermuda. No one doubted it. All of that made the drafting of this wraith a smart decision, hands down.
The other man that Schultz recruited is the decision that stuck in Ambroise’s craw. A journalist by trade, Ambroise failed to see the value that he brought to the cause. While he knew that this reporter had played a significant role in exposing the true nature of what had gone on, he questioned Schultz’s thought process behind the choice. As far as Ambroise was concerned, vengeance and justice were the only things that mattered. They didn’t need PR; they needed to finish their mission. If the public couldn’t see the righteousness in what they were doing then they were just too far-gone.
Despite his self-assurance, there was a cold, hard pit deep in his stomach and it was growing. When he first heard about the grisly fate that both Irbe and Hayward had met, Ambroise swallowed his fear, thereby planting the seed that was now taking root in his gut. Its dark and sinewy tendrils were tearing their way through him, splitting his psyche in two.
We’re going to drive these bombs straight up their motherfucking asses, he would tell himself in one instant. In the next, the doubt would wrap its abhorrent hands around his heart and squeeze.
You don’t stand a chance, you simple-minded tool. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!
Ambroise was so engrossed in his thoughts that when a hand clapped gently down on his shoulder he jumped.
“Whoa, now. Everything okay out here?”
It was Schultz.
Relieved, Ambroise turned to face him.
“Yeah, yeah. I was just daydreaming, thinking of days gone by.”
Schultz offered a reluctant smile. “Good memories?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“You need to talk about anything in particular?”
The big man shook his head. “Nah, just retracing the steps that led me back here.”
He glanced off into the distance, looking at nothing in pa
rticular. When his spoke again, his strong demeanor failed to match the fragility in his voice. “I’m good.”
Greg thought about pressing the issue but he knew Ambroise would talk if he really needed to. He was a man who valued his personal space and pressing him would only cause him to close himself off more.
“Fair enough, Ambroise.”
“So what’s going on with our recruits?”
“Funny you should ask. I just call, looks like they’ll be hitting the road some time tonight, should be here around lunchtime tomorrow.”
Ambroise whistled. “So they’re driving? What the hell for?”
A sly grin turned up on Greg’s face. “Seems that neither of them likes to fly.”
Ambroise chuckled and Greg followed suit.
“Look Ambroise, I know you’re on the fence about bringing them in. I understand your reasoning and I respect it, but I wouldn’t do it unless I believed that it was the right thing to do.”
“Hey man, look, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you. The way I see it, you trust them and I trust you, so we’re good.”
Greg again placed his hand on Ambroise’s shoulder.
“You’re a good man, Ambroise.”
Greg turned and headed back into the house, leaving a slightly relieved Ambroise to his thoughts.
Once inside, Greg headed upstairs to the bedroom he had adopted, pulled the covers back, and laid down. He had barely slept over the past two weeks and his body was demanding it. His eyelids fluttered and closed as his breathing slowed. He was slipping towards the edge of a deep sleep when a chill ran a relay from the base of his spine to the top of his skull and back again.
“Daddy?”
Greg’s heart began pounding violently, every ounce of fatigue burned away at once.
“Daddy, is it you?”
The bed was vibrating, the headboard tapping a crazed rhythm against the wall. As he sat up, Greg realized that he was trembling. His mind was a volatile mix of terror and a melancholy so deep that it seemed capable of swallowing everything around him.
Standing three feet from the bed was Evan, his eight year-old son.
Greg knew that it wasn’t really his son; his grip on reality hadn’t loosened that far. No, his son had perished in the house fire that had also taken his wife and daughter.
Just the same, he saw his boy standing there, eyeing his father with a distrustful look. His dark brown hair was parted to the left, same as always. He was wearing his favorite shirt, one emblazoned with characters from some internet cartoon whose name always escaped Greg.
“Why didn’t you save us daddy?”
Greg tried to speak. All of his faculties were overridden by waves of howling sobs. Sweaty and shivering, he grabbed the sheets and pulled them in tight around him, desperate to insulate himself from what was going on.
“Why did you let us die?”
Greg watched with an intensifying horror as flames punched their way through his son’s skin. The boy’s thick, shiny hair became a molten wreck, clinging to his head like the painted coif of a cheap toy. His flesh turned black and split open, releasing torrents of steaming blood and pus.
As awful as all that was, the razor that slit open Greg’s heart was coming.
The boy began to scream, smoke billowing out of every orifice of his head. Something was dripping down his cheeks.
It was his eyes. They were melting.
Greg threw his head back, slamming it against the headboard repeatedly.
As the grotesque vision of his son continued to wail, Greg threw his head back and joined in with his own mournful roar.
The macabre duet continued until Greg blacked out.
◆◆◆
Flickering neon lights illuminated the empty parking lot of a flophouse just off of interstate 27 in Plainview, Texas. A stray cat, full off a meal consisting of fast food scraps, sauntered across the asphalt in search of a place to rest. Opting for the lone car in sight, the orange tabby leapt onto the vehicle’s hood, curled up, and relished in the warmth radiating up from the engine.
Ten feet from the lethargic tomcat stood a door with pink paint that was faded and chipped. A set of crooked numbers identified the unit as room 104. It was exactly what you would expect given the exterior of the place: there was a small, circular table with two chairs, a queen size bed, and a short dresser with a dusty TV set resting on top.
An assortment of maps was splayed across the bed, complimenting the stacks of paperwork and photographs that rested on top of the table. Hunched in one of the chairs was Michael Conacher, contemplating the clutter with the keen eye of a sniper who was following a target through a crowded street from a distant rooftop.
“Where are you?” The question was broadcast across the far-reaching lands that were depicted on the maps. “Where are you going next?”
He sat back, taking a swig from a can of Pepsi.
There were two squads stationed at each of the six remaining facilities; one a mile or so out to observe and report, the second embedded deeper to act as interceptors. This formation is what had led to the New Mexico situation being neutralized and Michael had been there because his gut had told him that was where the action would be.
In keeping with tradition, he sat back and looked at the remaining locations and listened for his intuition to speak to him:
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Mason City, Iowa
Greencastle, Pennsylvania
Brawley, California
Metairie, Louisiana
Levelland, Texas
The plant in Levelland, some seventy miles southwest of his current location, was his initial thought due to its proximity to the previous target.
Of course, that could just as easily serve as a deterrent. The lack of unusual activity supported that conclusion.
He threw his empty soda can into the trash and sat forward, resting his face against his hand: index finger running up the side, thumb under the chin, and middle finger crossing his lips.
Texas makes sense if you assume that the slaughter of their scouts didn’t scare them into hiding. You also have to assume that the rest of the team had been nearby, and that’s a bet I’m not willing to take. Not yet.
The Louisiana site was 850 miles east. Sioux Falls was almost exactly the same distance to the North. The California and Iowa stations were closer to a thousand; Pennsylvania was fifteen hundred.
The numbers ticked over in his head.
Where’s the pattern? Where’s the detail you missed that’ll show me your hand?
He rose from the chair, bare feet pacing across the thinning orange carpet before he made his way to the door. Thrusting his hands into his pockets to check for change, he headed outside towards a ramshackle drink machine. He plunked a few quarters into the rusty slot and brought his palm down on the button.
The relative silence of the evening was temporarily broken by the satisfying thunk of the can dropping into the receptacle. The pop and fizz of the can opening brought a smile to Michael’s face. He lifted the can to his mouth, taking two large swallows. The soda was unexpectedly fresh and cold, given the state of the machine it had been come from.
“Thank God for small miracles.” He smacked his lips and wiped the can across his forehead.
Using his free hand, he pulled his phone out and called his employer. He didn’t know the man’s name, nor did he care to. The money that was promised him up front had promptly shown up in his account and that was word enough for him. He knew what was expected of him and he was afforded the resources to ensure that he succeeded.
“Mister Conacher.” The voice was smooth and confident, the type that belonged to a man who knew he could buy his way out of any trouble.
“I have formulated a new plan of attack.”
“You do understand that your job lies along the lines of defense, don’t you Mr. Conacher?”
“Yeah, well you know what they say the best defense is.”
“Indeed I do. What do
you need?”
“Three teams; one at the South Dakota site, one in California.”
“And the third?”
“Probably best I don’t share that just yet. It’s a little off the grid, but I believe it’ll pay dividends. Just have them call me when they’re ready to head out, I’ll square them up.”
“Very well. What about you?”
“I’m going to stay put for the time being. I’m not wholly convinced that they’ll stray too far just yet.”
The voice came back with a tinge of doubt. “You plan to monitor the plant alone?”
“I’ll be fine. They’ll stick to their M.O., and I’ll be able to spot their scouts. Once I do, I’ll call in reinforcements and we’ll take out the lot of ‘em.”
“See that you do. My employees are going to need all the resources that they have left once the injunction is lifted.”
“That’s no concern of mine.”
“No, nor should it be. What should be of concern to you, however, is the fact that every one of our facilities that gets destroyed is money not due you.”
Michael rubbed his temples and sighed before restating a question that had gone unanswered from an earlier conversation. “Why haven’t the feds gotten involved in this? I mean, seems like they’d be interested.”
“It’s been made clear to them that it wouldn’t be in their best interests to become involved.”
“I’ve had about enough of this talking in riddles horse shit, just see that the teams I asked for get to the locations I specified.”
He ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket. Taking another sip of his drink, he walked back to his room and began folding the maps and placing them in his briefcase; the documents from the table followed.
Without pulling the covers back, he lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, using it as a canvas for his own mental map. They had hit Colorado before moving on to New Mexico, the next closest facility.
A series of questions ran through his mind:
Are they based in Colorado?