Abomination

by E. E. Borton

  Under a full moon, he walked into the shack behind the house. He lit a small lantern inside the musty building. He reached down and pulled up plywood covering the dirt floor. Richard started digging the fourth hole located beside the three already occupied graves of his other victims. An overwhelming sense of guilt surged through him with every thrust of the shovel into the hard earth. There was little remorse while he selected, hunted, abducted, and drained the life out of his defenseless prey. The guilt and remorse didn’t manifest itself until after he satisfied his uncontrollable urge to feed.

  On the same day every six weeks, Richard Elliot would wake up shaking like a junkie needing a fix. No other emotion or craving would occupy his mind except the desire to taste human blood. Even the powerful daily quest for self-preservation escaped his thoughts as he focused on his addiction. It was an addiction he wasn’t born with or acquired a taste for over the years. It was an addiction created at the Michaels Laboratory and delivered to his brain stem by a manufactured virus.

  The brain cells associated with primordial survival instincts were manipulated and altered by a single session of DNA therapy. Along with the addiction, altered DNA making a soldier incapable of surrendering to an enemy or suicide was uploaded into each of the four hunted Marines. In spite of efforts by each soldier, they couldn’t suppress the urge to feed or succumb to the guilt associated with the killing of innocent women. They were incapable of ending their own lives. They were told the effects of the genetic mutations were irreversible.

  He finished digging the shallow grave and returned to the gruesome scene inside the house. Wrapping his victim carefully in a white sheet, Richard carried her out to the shack. He gently laid her in the fresh grave and quietly said a prayer. He asked for forgiveness for what he had done. He also asked God to take him and send him deep into Hell where he belonged. After the prayer, he placed the bucket he had filled with her blood at her feet, and began shoveling dirt over her body. He made quick work of the chore and returned to the house to clean his killing room. He wasn’t worried about leaving evidence behind proving he was a murderer. Richard simply didn’t want any reminders of what he did…again.

  As with Peter Arrington, Richard’s keen senses were dulled while engrossed in his bloodlust. During the phase, his ability to sense the presence of the other genetically altered Marines was greatly reduced. When he finally felt the tingling sensation alerting him to the unexpected visitor, the Marine almost invisible in his black camouflage had his gun sights dialed in to the space between Richard Elliot’s eyes.

  “Thank you, God,” whispered Richard less than a second before the large caliber bullet penetrated his skull, answering his prayer.

  Alex picked up the shell casing as he waited for Colonel Brown to answer his phone. “It’s done, sir.”

  “Excellent work, Marine. Is the girl there?”

  “I waited for him to finish burying her with the others.”

  “Good. God rest their poor souls. Stage the scene and get out of there quickly. I’ll give you a few minutes before I notify Scott Wilson. He’ll be bringing the feds, so it has to look like the real thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you picking up anything on the location of Derek or Joshua?”

  “Nothing yet. I still have the feeling they’re together, but I can’t seem to nail down their location. When I arrived, I sensed they’d been here recently, but I have no idea where they went after. I don’t know how they’re doing it, but they’re getting better at covering their tracks. They seem to be much stronger than the others.”

  “Don’t worry about it, son. We’ll let the FBI figure out where they are. Get yourself back up here as soon as possible.”

  *****

  “Michelle, it’s been almost three days,” said Ryan, stretching in his chair. “Please tell me you have something.”

  “I do,” she said, entering the room. “Trying to work under the radar and without Bureau resources is a pain in the ass.”

  “I know,” said Ryan, trying not to show his frustration. “So what did you find out?”

  “The two goons in Baltimore that tried to take Kristina are contract security employees for the Michaels Lab. The company is called Safeguards and the lab is their only contract. All of them are ex-military or police and all are handled by Colonel Marcus Brown. The two guys you and Dallas put in the dumpster were Army Intelligence prior to taking the civilian job.”

  “No surprise there,” said Ryan. “Any luck on tracing their last phone call?”

  “They must know the same guy you do,” answered Michelle. “I can tell you which cell towers the call hit in Maryland, but the number on the other side is untraceable.”

  “Shit,” sighed Ryan. “We’ve been in New Orleans four days, and all we know about the other players is that they’re connected to the lab.” He stood and walked around the table covered in folders and photos. “Are the guys on their way back?”

  “They should be here shortly,” said Michelle. “They left the bayou over an hour ago. In the last message I received from Dallas, he was whining about the mosquitoes. Tom’s probably ready to shoot him.”

  “Are we any closer to finding a lead on Elliot?” asked Ryan.

  “Tom said he put together a decent profile from the folks he talked with around his home town. He believes we need to start canvassing some of the closed off areas near the levees. They’re still basically ghost towns, and Elliot is very familiar with the Lower Ninth Ward. He spent a few summers with his uncle who owned a business and a couple of houses down there before the flood.”

  “That makes sense,” said Ryan. “We’ll head out there in the morning. Have you been over to check on Kristina?”

  “I told the team watching her to let me know if she needed anything, but they haven’t called. Do you want me to go over there?”

  “No, I’ll go. Besides, I’m sure Dallas would rather be greeted by you after his long trip instead of me.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Michelle, cocking her head.

  “You guys crack me up,” said Ryan, walking out of the room. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  Ryan called the team watching over Kristina to alert them he was heading their way. The group of professionals scanned the area to make sure nobody was tailing Ryan as he approached. He used the back door to avoid the illumination of the street lamp exposing the front yard. He was surprised to see his old friend who owned the security company sitting at the kitchen table.

  “Hey, Steve,” greeted Ryan. “What brings you out here and away from your big house on the river?”

  “Making sure my guys impress the feds,” said Steve Kramer. “It’s not every day I get to watch your back, Ryan.”

  “Once again, I can’t thank you enough for your help. I don’t know too many people who would send a jet to me in the middle of the night with no explanation, not to mention handing over one of your rental properties to hide a fugitive.”

  “Well, luckily, you only need to know one,” said Steve. “You pulled my ass out of the fire once or twice when we were overseas, so no need to thank me. How are things on your end?”

  “Confusing,” answered Ryan. “I’m no closer to finding Elliot than I was when we arrived. I still don’t know if my boss is a mole and I’m currently harboring a fugitive. Other than that, things are going well.”

  “You’ll work it out, buddy. Let me know if I can help in any of those areas.”

  “You’re doing plenty. Besides, you’re harboring a fugitive as well. Speaking of which, how’s she doing?”

  “All she has really asked for are books. She has her nose buried in one just about every time I see her. I have to admit she’s handling everything very well. She always greets me and my guys with a bright smile and pleasant conversation. I also have to admit she’s very easy on the eyes.”

  “No argument there,” said Ryan. “I’m going to check in on her. Is she in her room?”

  “Yep. Readin
g.”

  Ryan walked upstairs and lightly knocked on her door. Kristina greeted him with one of her bright smiles. He silently agreed with Steve again. She was very easy on the eyes.

  “Ryan, how are you?”

  “I’m supposed to be asking you that question.”

  “I’m doing okay. Please, come in and have a seat.”

  “I don’t want to interrupt your reading.”

  “At this point, any interruption is welcomed.”

  “So really, how are you doing?” asked Ryan.

  “Really, I’m okay,” she said, sitting on the corner of the bed. “I mean, going outside and feeling sunshine on my face would be nice, but I understand that’s not a good idea.”

  “I think that can be arranged. I’m sorry we’ve had to keep you in lockdown these past few days. Until I work out a couple of issues, it really is safer for you in here.”

  “The isolation is a bit unnerving, but I can handle it. Are you any closer to finding Richard?”

  “We have a few places we’re going to look over tomorrow morning. Tom and Dallas have spent the last couple of days walking through alligator infested swamps talking to his friends and family. We’ll find him soon.”

  “I hope you do,” said Kristina without a smile. “I can’t get the images of those girls from the files out of my head. Knowing three more might meet the same fate breaks my heart. I just wish I knew why.”

  “I’m working on that, too” said Ryan. “That’s the question keeping me up at night.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you,” she said with a disarming tone, “Not being able to trust anyone while you’re looking for those answers. And knowing if you don’t find them, more people could die. That’s an incredible amount of pressure.”

  “I need to know what happened to them,” said Ryan, leaning forward in his chair. “It should be impossible for me to look at them as victims, but I can’t help feeling in some way they are. I simply can’t accept they woke up one day wanting to be serial killers. How is that possible?”

  Kristina sat for a moment looking at Ryan who had his eyes turned down to the floor. She knew he had risked a great deal to find her in the hopes of getting those answers. She decided it was time to give them. She decided to trust him.

  “Not only is it possible, but probable,” said Kristina, immediately grabbing his attention.

  “Probable?”

  “I told you one of the reasons why I left the Didache Project was because Colonel Brown was pressuring us to bypass the rules. There was another reason.”

  “Please continue,” said Ryan. “Anything would help at this point.”

  “When I was asked to participate in the project, it was a scientist’s dream come true. The Michaels Lab has unlimited funding and is on the cutting edge of genetic research. They’re able to pick and choose the brightest minds in the field. That was the lure. After I accepted the position, I quickly discovered the reason why they had unlimited funding. They were under contract by the U.S. military to genetically enhance a soldier’s ability in the field. The lab had several departments that actually did research in other areas, but the military side, the Didache Project, was their bread and butter.”

  “That doesn’t sound very sinister,” said Ryan. “In fact, I can support efforts to make soldiers more capable in combat. If I had a squad of Arringtons, more of my men may have survived the war.”

  “I agree with you,” said Kristina. “I’m not opposed to making them faster, stronger, or even bulletproof. I’m not a bleeding heart liberal who believes all wars can be avoided by diplomatic intervention. What I am opposed to is genetically altering their behavior.”

  “You’re going to have to dumb that one down for me. Genetically altered behavior?”

  “How many of the men and women came back from the Gulf Wars clinically diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder? Most of those diagnosed never saw a day of combat or even fired their weapon at the enemy. They suffered from PTSD because of what they saw and felt. They didn’t know how to cope with the horrific images stamped into their memories of the aftermath. The burning bodies hanging out of tanks or laying on the side of the road. The women and children caught in the crossfire smoldering in each others’ arms. Do you remember a course at the academy that taught you how to deal with those situations?”

  “No,” said Ryan. “I don’t think anything can prepare you for those moments.”

  “But more importantly to the fat cats sitting thousands of miles away, what was the total cost of having to treat those soldiers with PTSD once it was recognized as a clinical illness?”

  “My guess would be billions in treatment as well as a ton of lost man hours,” offered Ryan.

  “Exactly, billions for just PTSD,” acknowledged Kristina. “Now, add the cost of all the psychological disorders recognized as a result of soldiers going into combat. And not only the diagnosed disorders, but the undiagnosed disorders. How many men did you know that suffered from depression, separation anxiety, loneliness, guilt, remorse, doubt, or even anger? How many did you know nearly paralyzed by fear? All those emotional factors are commonplace for the average soldier. All those emotional factors make a soldier less effective in the field.

  “We were working on making them physically stronger as warriors. Colonel Brown wanted us to work on making them mentally stronger as well. And not just mentally stronger, but incapable of suffering from those common emotional stresses associated with being human.”

  “He wanted you to build the perfect killing machines,” said Ryan. “A fearless warrior.”

  “No offense to your Marine background, but that’s what every branch tries to do starting on the first day of boot camp,” continued Kristina. “They want to tear you down emotionally and physically so they can rebuild and mold you into a killing machine that won’t hesitate in combat. But they also want to build servicemen and women who will follow orders from above without question or doubt. Imagine if they could accomplish that goal every single time with just one session of gene therapy.”

  “It would be a very valuable pill,” said Ryan.

  “That’s an understatement,” said Kristina. “It wouldn’t be as easy as giving them a pill, but you’re in the ballpark. All that would be needed is a sample of their DNA. We’d then introduce the altered DNA in the form of a virus that would target specific cells in the brain that are linked to specific behaviors. The transformation would start within hours and be completed within two weeks.”

  “How close were you to creating it?”

  “Uncomfortably close for me. I left the program a few weeks before the first round of trials.”

  “Human trials?”

  “No,” clarified Kristina. “We start the process on computer models. We had several programs designed to mimic human DNA and the reactions to any modifications. Once the models showed the desired result, we would upload the modified DNA into pigs. Believe it or not, they have the closest anatomy to a human of any animal, including primates.”

  “How do you modify the behavior of a pig?” asked Ryan.

  “That I don’t know. I left before they finished.”

  “How many other scientists were working on the Didache Project?”

  “There were close to thirty with varying levels of skill, but there were four of us that spearheaded the research. The others mainly acted as technicians building the live samples and uploading them into the virus.”

  “So the other three are still there?”

  “I believe they are, but Scott would know for sure,” answered Kristina. “All three had IQs off the charts and their first PhDs before their twentieth birthdays.”

  “When did you get yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I was a late bloomer. My first was at twenty-two. Ryan, those guys have the answers.”

  Ryan looked at his buzzing phone. “I’m sorry, I need to take this.” He stood up and walked into the hallway for privacy. It was Deputy Director
Donaldson. A few moments later he returned to Kristina’s room.

  “They found Richard Elliot in an abandoned house in the Ninth Ward. I’m sorry, Kristina. It looks like he committed suicide.”

  “Oh, my God,” whispered Kristina. “Ryan, we did that to him.”

  “No, Kristina, you didn’t,” said Ryan, trying to console her. “But I promise you I’m going to find out who did. I’ll be back soon.”

  “I’ll wait here,” she said with a forced smile.

  11

  Hard To Swallow

  Derek and Joshua were walking back to their hotel room when the familiar wave of nearly unbearable pain hit them simultaneously. When Ryan put the first bullets into Peter Arrington, the pain started in their ribcages. As each subsequent bullet entered their doomed comrade, they felt each penetration. Nineteen rounds went into Arrington before the headshot ended his life.

  They both ducked into an alleyway as the full force of the killing reached them. Joshua leaned against a brick wall to brace himself while Derek dropped to his hands and knees. They were both growling while clenching their teeth to keep from screaming in agony.

  When the agents killed Arrington, the episode lasted nearly a minute. When Alex Tifton killed Richard Elliot, the episode only lasted fifteen seconds. Derek received his wish that Richard would die quickly. As blood dripped onto the ground from their noses, both men looked at each other, puzzled.

  “It had to be Alex,” said Joshua. “The feds didn’t have time to mobilize their assault teams.”

  “How could he kill him?” asked Derek. “Those two were like brothers.”

  “They may have been like brothers, but the Colonel is more like Alex’s father,” explained Joshua. “That weak mind would do anything dear old dad told him to do.”

  “Alex just added himself to the list of people I’m going to kill slowly,” said Derek.