Chronic Fear

by Nicholson, Scott

  Wallace Forsyth wasn’t bothered by the rifle pointed at his face.

  “Your heart ain’t in it,” Forsyth said.

  “What?” She had her gun on him but was staring out the front window, straining forward as if anticipating the sound of the next shot.

  “The gun. You wouldn’t kill me.”

  Her face twisted as if annoyed at the distraction. “I’m quite capable, Mr. Forsyth.”

  “You killed a man in the Monkey House. But you’re no murderer. That was Seethe working through you. The devil.”

  “My husband’s out there with bullets flying around, and you’re preaching? Don’t push it.”

  “We’ve changed, Dr. Morgan. All of us. For some, it’s been slow. But look at your husband. Did you see his face when he left the car? Something evil’s took hold of him.”

  She shook her head, but Forsyth could see the doubt and concern weighing on her. Sweat glistened above her eyebrows, and her bright blue eyes were as gray as a troubled sea before a storm.

  “He was happy,” Forsyth continued. “Like a kid running down to the drugstore for a soda pop and a comic book.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “These pills.” He shook the vial he’d been clutching since Mark had entered the woods. “All they do is release what’s already inside us. They let us be who we really are. And we’re all the devil’s tool.”

  She lowered the rifle until it was resting on her knee. It must have been heavy. Forsyth probably could have snatched it from her, or at least grabbed the barrel and forced it in another direction, but he saw no need. He could defeat her with the truth.

  The gospel according to Wallace Forsyth.

  “I thought I could control it,” Alexis said. “I could use it to help people.”

  “We will be judged by our works, and those not found in the Book of Life will be cast into the lake of fire.”

  “You said we’ve changed. But I haven’t.”

  He could see the doubt in her eyes. But the Lord taught mercy. “None of them understand what all this is about. We can do this, Dr. Morgan. We can save the world.”

  “What about the senator?”

  “Daniel was a good man. But in the past year, his heart’s been eaten up with rot and war. He’s become dangerous.”

  “Like you and your apocalyptic talk?”

  Forsyth balanced the approaching lie against the higher purpose. “Daniel is seeking power for himself.”

  “And you serve a higher power, right?”

  Forsyth smiled again. “I’ve changed, too.”

  Another shot rang out, this one more distant, and Alexis’s fingers clenched on the rifle. She shifted in her seat, barely listening to him.

  “We can do this,” he repeated. “We have Seethe now. And you can develop it, refine it. The world doesn’t need to know about Sebastian Briggs. Seethe can be all yours.”

  She was thinking about it, her tongue protruding slightly. Forsyth had guessed right. She had changed. The deep craving inside her was stronger than she realized, and her ambition owned her. She wasn’t willing to admit she had killed, but she was capable of killing.

  Oh, yes, she would kill for Seethe.

  Forsyth twisted the lid from the vial. “We can produce millions of these,” he said.

  He shook one out and held his palm toward her. “Become more like yourself, Dr. Morgan. No need to hold back any longer. We’re miles and miles from the world of morals and rules and civilization. Nobody to witness but God.”

  She leaned away from him, pressing against the driver’s-side door as if he were pushing a serpent at her. He was patient, though.

  “Seethe lets you be who you are running from,” Forsyth said. He moved his palm to his mouth and partook of the fiery dragon. The devil worked in this world, but God’s promise was one of ultimate victory, though the battles might be painful. “Become who you are.”

  As his teeth crunched into the pill and he swallowed the bitter chemicals, another shot rang out, closer, and Alexis spun, the barrel of the AR-15 knocking the vial to the floor and scattering pills across the carpet.

  “Mark,” she whispered, opening her door.

  “We don’t need him,” Forsyth said, already feeling the self-righteous rage course through his spirit. All of God’s warriors were justified in their actions, no matter how bloodthirsty.

  “I do,” she said. “And you can go to hell.”

  Alexis reached over the seat, grabbed her backpack, and jogged into the woods. After a moment, Forsyth stooped and began collecting the pills from the floorboard.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Roland’s head felt like a lump of liver mush shot through with Louisiana hot sauce.

  His cheek was pressed against sticky linoleum and his body was so heavy, he wondered if he’d ever move his limbs again. Voices came to him as if through a wall of water.

  As he sucked for breath, he let his memory rewind, because he wasn’t sure where he was, how he’d gotten here, or why his skull throbbed like a giant broken tooth.

  Wendy’s voice came to him first, and he made out the word “painting.”

  Roland opened his eyes, and the morning light hurled spears of electric torture deep inside him.

  “Roland?” Wendy was closer now, talking softly, which was good, because the voices had been clanging his eardrums like a plumber beating a cast-iron sewer pipe.

  He tried to speak but all he managed was an urrrk, which was just as well because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

  “Sorry,” she said as her shadow loomed over him. “You had a gun.”

  Another piece of the soggy jigsaw puzzle slid into place and Roland remembered the secret-agent guy who’d been hanging around. Whose side was he on? Whose side was Wendy on?

  “No buh,” he said, a strand of drool trailing out and linking his mouth to the floor.

  “No bullets,” said the man in the cabin. “The revolver’s empty.”

  Of course it was. Roland didn’t trust himself. He’d heard that crazy people never questioned the rightness of their bizarre beliefs, but he wasn’t sure about that. And when he’d caught himself plotting to kill Mark, Alexis, and Wendy, he knew that was exactly the kind of thing Seethe would tell him to do.

  The only way to prove Seethe didn’t make you crazy is to not do crazy shit.

  But the philosophical debate worsened his headache, and Wendy was gently stroking his hair, so he focused on her fingers and away from the hot, orange-red center of pain.

  “One of them’s down,” the man said, and Roland remembered his name was Gundersson. Or at least that was his fake secret-agent cover story.

  “Mark’s here,” Wendy said to him. “We’re surrounded by men with rifles.”

  “Am I shot?” Aside from his sodden head, he actually felt okay.

  “No, I…I hit you.”

  “Damn, honey. I thought we were past all that.”

  “I thought you were going to kill him, and we need him.”

  A sudden slew of bullets pierced the side window, shattering the glass and thwacking into the paneling above their heads. Wendy instinctively hunched over him.

  “They’re shooting wild,” Gundersson said. “That means they’re losing patience.”

  “Guess the floor is a good place to be,” Roland said.

  “I love you,” Wendy whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’d do anything for you.”

  “Love leaves you brainless.” He tried to smile but his face muscles were like barbed wire stitched into his skin.

  “Listen, Roland,” Gundersson said. “I’ve got backup on the way. But we need to hold out for two hours.”

  Gundersson made it sound like rescue would be a good thing. Which meant the backup could turn out to be the very people who’d started the whole hunt for Seethe and Halcyon. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Burchfield pulling the strings from a safe distance.

  Someone shouted from the forest, and Roland recognized Mark’s voice
. He had to strain to make out the words: “You okay in there?”

  “Don’t answer,” Gundersson said. “Let them keep guessing.”

  “But Mark’s on our side,” Wendy said. “He’s trying to save us.”

  Gundersson hobbled up the stairs without speaking, and Roland heard his boots drum across the loft. He lifted one hand and motioned Wendy closer.

  He whispered, “Gundersson wanted us all together. That’s why he had you call the Morgans.”

  Wendy shook her head as if Roland was being a silly, silly boy. “We need to get our heads together on this. The four of us.”

  “Where’s the painting?”

  “Oh, so you’re finally interested in my art?”

  “Yeah, the deeper meaning.”

  “It’s over there.” She waved toward somewhere in the room.

  Roland tried to turn in that direction but he was still too woozy. “Do you know what you’ve painted?”

  “The Monkey House,” she said. “The same thing I’ve been painting for the past year.”

  “You painted the formula for Seethe. If these bastards get that, they don’t need us alive anymore. Did you show Gundersson?”

  “He saw it but didn’t make a big deal of it,” she said. “I’ve not exactly had my shit together here for the last couple of days.”

  “Because Seethe is back. I don’t think it ever left.”

  Wendy shook her head in denial. “No. They couldn’t get us here. That’s why we hid away, remember?”

  “You can’t hide from what’s inside you.”

  Gundersson yelled from upstairs. “I don’t see anything, but keep on eye on the back side of the cabin.”

  Wendy crawled across the floor to the kitchen window as Roland rolled onto his side. He groaned as a wash of fresh hurt rolled over him, and he felt for the lump above his ear.

  If my skull cracked, maybe the Seethe poured out. And maybe I’m all better now.

  In the Monkey House, Mark had taught him that pain trumped rage, that pain brought clarity, that pain was the most basic human condition. Pain ruled the kingdom of the mind.

  “Keep that pretty head down, Wendy,” he said, just before the glass erupted above her head and showered her with sparkling shards.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Scagnelli pulled up behind the car he recognized from the Morgans’ driveway.

  He’d made good time, thanks to the two dumbass agents who’d stored the cabin’s address on the stolen laptop. He’d also learned a National Clandestine Service agent named Gundersson was monitoring the couple, but he didn’t have a way to check out whether Gundersson was in the loop. He’d lost reception since entering the mountains, one of the pitfalls of cheap, prepaid cell phones.

  So, while he expected the Morgans, he was not expecting the black SUV that was either official government or else trying damned hard to imitate it.

  Fucking CIA is making their play.

  Both vehicles were empty, and he had no idea how far the hike up the rutted road was. He debated pulling around and driving on to the cabin, but the first gunshot stopped him. He killed the engine and pulled the Heckler & Koch from the passenger seat. He’d intended to use the sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun, clearing the cabin with just a few rounds, but if a battle had already started, he couldn’t count on close-range work.

  Another shot came from the woods to the south, and he judged it to be from a couple hundred yards away, although the topography was tricky here, with ridges, rocky dells, and gullies pocked with thick undergrowth and high hardwood trees. He scanned the treetops just in case someone had the road under surveillance, and then checked the two vehicles. The front doors to the Morgans’ car were open, but he didn’t see anything of value and he didn’t have time to search.

  The black SUV was locked, and its interior was empty except for some rolls of vinyl that could have been tents or body bags.

  Someone was planning ahead.

  Scagnelli smiled. Maybe the mess would take care of itself, or at least he could let someone do half the dirty work before he moved in to mop up.

  But a flurry of shots inspired him to head for cover in the forest. Someone was using automatic weaponry, which meant professionals were taking care of business.

  Getting the job done. I like that.

  He stuck near the granite ledges that protruded from the ancient soil, choosing safety over speed, and nearly stumbled over the old man, who was sitting huddled in a gray, moss-covered cleft.

  “Mr. Forsyth,” Scagnelli said. “Sorry about what happened in Chapel Hill. I guess I’m not the only one who underestimated Mark Morgan.”

  Forsyth’s eyes glistened and he looked past Scagnelli to the gaps in the forest canopy. “Babylon has fallen, Mr. Scagnelli, and there’s an angel sitting on the sun. Do you see him?”

  The white-haired man’s hands shook, and the tremors radiated throughout his body. One of the hands was clenched into a tight fist.

  “Whatcha got there?” Scagnelli asked.

  Another shot sounded, this one farther away. The battle was spread out, which meant its scope was larger than he would be able to handle with a submachine gun.

  Forsyth didn’t react, so Scagnelli bent down and pried open the man’s fist.

  Pills.

  The vial was about a third full, but it was impossible to know how many pills it had originally contained. “What is it?” Scagnelli asked. “Doesn’t look like the speed you’ve been giving me.”

  “It’s the seventh vial.”

  “We’re not in church or in front of the cameras. Talk to me straight.”

  The old man’s eyelids twitched spasmodically. “Satan owns the world, Scagnelli, and he won’t be vanquished in this season. Not while Seethe lives.”

  “How many of these did you take?”

  “It is done,” he rasped.

  Forsyth slumped forward and Scagnelli caught him, gently pressing two fingers against the carotid artery in his neck. The man’s pulse was weak, firing out of rhythm before galloping toward the next lull of heartbeats.

  “So this is Seethe, huh?”

  Forsyth didn’t answer, foam appearing around his lips.

  “Damn, I’m tempted to try one myself, but you don’t make such a good advertisement for it,” Scagnelli said. He was turning away to head up the slope when the old man’s fingers wrapped talon-like around his wrist, nearly pulling him to the ground.

  “Those…are…mine,” Forsyth wheezed. “We have a…purpose.”

  Scagnelli didn’t want to waste a round and give away his position. Forsyth’s circulatory system couldn’t handle such a strain for much longer, anyway. This particular job was taking care of itself. Scagnelli bent back one of the wrinkled fingers until it snapped, and the vice-presidential candidate and former Congressman whimpered in pain but didn’t scream.

  “Burchfield said to tell you you’re off the team,” Scagnelli said.

  The old man’s eyes clarified and burned with such pure hatred that Scagnelli fought a surge of alarm. He had to break two more fingers before Forsyth let go, and then Scagnelli slunk away, expecting the crazed old man to scream or curse or damn his soul to the everlasting fire.

  Scagnelli wasn’t worried about the next life, because there would be dirty work waiting on the other side, too. People like him always had a job to do.

  And this job was shaping up nicely, because he had Seethe, and it looked like Forsyth had taken himself out of the running.

  I could book it with this shit and make my fortune, but, hey, I promised the senator five pelts. One down, four to go.

  Another burst of shots sounded, and he headed for the rocky ridge slightly north of them so he could look down on the valley and sort things out.

  Sweet. Maybe the CIA will finish the job for me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The automatic-weapons fire should have changed Mark’s tactics.

  In basic training, they’d mostly drilled in one-on-one confrontation, and
the instruction was geared toward safety and restraint instead of killing.

  But Mark didn’t give a damn about training, or Frady, or the little happy rule book. And he sure as shit had no use for restraint. The sickness surged through him, but it was also joy, the best high he’d ever felt. If this was what Alexis had been trying to bring into the world, he didn’t understand why he’d tried to stop her.

  The world needed Seethe. Or Halcyon. Or whatever the hell it was.

  Or maybe the two drugs were twins, the yin-yang of psychopathic biology, the Alice-down-the-rabbit-hole of the soul. One side makes you crazy and one side makes you stupid.

  He wanted to climb one of the protruding boulders and scream his rage and pleasure across the mountains. He’d never felt so alive, and if all he had was one moment of it, he’d take that. Gladly. No matter the price.

  But one face swam up from the sea of red, one beacon of purpose in the turbulent storm of sick self-indulgence.

  Alexis.

  She needs me. She needs Wendy and Roland. The original monkeys, together again.

  A burst of gunfire rippled across the hills. Soon the cops—the real cops—would be responding to reports of multiple gunshots. The area was remote, but the roads were passable enough.

  We need to get them and get out of here.

  Sweat painted his skin, even though the air was cool and dry. The base of his skull tingled as if someone were striking a small flint and hoping to spark a fire.

  He heard a gurgling and moved toward it, then saw a creek tumbling away across a sheet of rocks. He used the white noise to disguise his descent as he skidded in the moss and mud. His senses were heightened and time seemed suspended, and he was able to focus on each detail around him, his predator’s instinct sharpened to a keen edge.

  Mark spied the second black jumpsuit about a hundred feet from the cabin, the man wriggling on his belly under a dense stand of laurels. Mark’s impulse was to empty his clip in the man’s general direction, screaming as he did so, but the deeper predator instinct overruled.

  Mark waited until a shot sounded—this one emanating from the cabin—and hurried forward to level his pistol grip in the twisted crook of a limb. The man in the jumpsuit was blond, youngish, a guy who would have looked more at home on a soccer field than in paramilitary gear.