They're Among Us

by M. L. WILSON

  Bleeding profusely from both knees and his hand, Breer crawls over to Bishop in agony. He grabs Bishop by the pant leg and begins to do what Promelians are trained never to do: beg.

  “Detective, please. If I answer your questions, they will kill me.”

  Breer’s begging puzzles Bishop. He was warned about Promelian soldiers. Begging was the last thing he expected to hear.

  “I was told you Promelians were tough. But here you are begging for your life.” Bishop puts the gun to Breer’s forehead and suddenly realizes something. Breer is sweating profusely, shaking uncontrollably, and salivating. All the things he was told a Promelian would never do under this type of pressure.

  “No one would know the Promelians better than the Cereleans. I saw the damage done to Kevin Phipps. If they were able to eradicate an entire race, they must be as tough as advertised. So why are you begging?”

  “Please. Please don’t—”

  “You’re not Promelian, are you? You’re Cerelean.” Breer doesn’t answer. He just lowers his head in shame.

  “You snake!” Bishop says as he presses the barrel of his weapon harder to Breer’s forehead.

  “You betrayed your own people. Why?”

  “The...Promelians are far superior to us,” Breer says as he looks up at Bishop. “It...pays to be on the winning side!”

  “If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll kill you!” Bishop says as he puts the gun to Breer’s eye.

  “All right. All right. You and your girlfriend found something that you weren’t suppose to find. No one was suppose to know.”

  “That there are aliens among us.”

  “Yes. We have been here for centuries. The Promelians have been here for years. They came here to eradicate the rest of us.”

  “Why? What did they ever do to them?”

  “They hate us!” Breer angrily answers, spitting as he’s talking.

  “Sounds like you sympathize with them.”

  “We...created them, and then we turned our backs on them. Why shouldn’t I sympathize?”

  “So why us? Why Earth?”

  “Your planet has an abundance of resources. Not as much in years past, of course. Your race has abused this planet. The Promelians will use it to expand their empire, to expand their dominance.”

  “Tell me about these e-mails,” Bishop says as he dangles the printed e-mails in Breer’s face.

  “They’re...timetables. Plans for the invasion,” Breer says as he shakes his head and wonders how Bishop got hold of his e-mails. He underestimated Bishop. Maybe he and the Promelians underestimated humans.

  “And these coordinates. Is that where their ship is at?”

  “Yes. Deep in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.”

  “We’ll stop them.”

  Breer laughs at Bishop’s statement. “You have no idea what’s coming. Their technology is light years ahead of yours, Detective. They will eradicate your race overnight. The same way they did mine.”

  “You come from a race of pacifists; couldn’t fight your own wars so you created a race to do it for you. Humans are taught to defend what’s ours.”

  “Fight all you want, Detective. We will win in the end.”

  “Maybe,” Bishop says. “But you’ll never know.”

  Bishop holds up a syringe containing the yellow substance.

  “Found this in your bedroom. How many times did you use this on your own people?”

  “Don’t. Please…forgive me.”

  The sound of a single gunshot echoes through the house. The 9mm round penetrates between Breer’s eyes and leaves an exit wound in the back of his head the size of a baseball. Breer is dead before his head can hit the floor. Executed by one of New York’s finest.

  Bishop just stares at Breer’s lifeless body and watches the burgundy rug turn black with Agent Breer’s blood. He injects Breer with the yellow acid and watches, in horror, as Breer’s body is eaten away until there is nothing left.

  Kenneth Bishop, the detective.

  Kenneth Bishop, the executioner.

  CHAPTER 93

  IT’S TEN P.M.. at the top secret Infinity Genetic Research Center in Bethesda, Maryland. Not much traffic coming or going from the heavily guarded facility this time of night. Staff Sergeant Jeffery Bradenton sits quietly alone at the entrance gate to the facility. At age twenty-five, Bradenton longs for some kind of action. The only thing he fights this early in the morning is sleep.

  Join the Marines; a few good men; see the world; a life filled with excitement.

  This is what the recruiter sold him on. Jeffery bought it, hook, line, and sinker. Sitting inside a security building playing solitaire is not what he had in mind. He often wonders who he pissed off to get this assignment.

  Sergeant Bradenton sees headlights coming up the access road, heading his way. Very little traffic coming and going this time of night, but it’s not unusual. It’s actually a welcome change. The long, black limousine pulls up to the front gate and comes to a stop at Sergeant Bradenton’s direction. A limousine is a little unusual, but there have been politicians and dignitaries who have visited the facility in the past. Even the president has been here. Never at eleven o’clock at night, though.

  The driver puts down the window and presents an access badge.

  “Good evening, sir,” Sergeant Bradenton says. The driver doesn’t say anything. He knows his access badge gets his passenger full access to the entire facility.

  Sergeant Bradenton takes the red access badge that’s labeled TOP SECRET ACCESS. “One moment, please,” he says to the driver as he checks the name on the badge to his special access list.

  Robert Cartwright.

  Sergeant Bradenton doesn’t ask any questions. He’s under orders not to. Marines are trained to follow orders. Even though he doesn’t like his assigned post, Bradenton is a Marine, through and through.

  “Is Mr. Cartwright with you?” Sergeant Bradenton asks as he tries to look through the dark tinted passenger side window.

  “I am here, young man. Let me pass,” says Cartwright from the backseat of the limousine.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Welcome to the IGRC,” Sergeant Bradenton says as he hands the access badge back to the driver. The driver doesn’t respond. He just yawns and snatches the badge from Bradenton’s hand. Obviously, he would rather be at home in bed as well.

  CHAPTER 94

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, there doesn’t appear to be anything special about the Infinity Genetic Research Center. A simple five-story redbrick building with a large parking lot for its two hundred and twenty-six employees, nothing special. That’s the appearance that it’s supposed to give.

  Nothing special.

  Still, it has its conspiracy theorists. After all, why would such a supposedly innocuous building be heavily guarded by Marines? Most of the citizens in Bethesda don’t think twice about it, though. They just pass by it and carry on with their lives.

  But Infinity is a special place; a very special place to Cartwright. In fact, it’s the most important place in the world to him.

  The limousine pulls up to the front entrance. The driver gets out and opens the door for Cartwright. Cartwright doesn’t bother with a thank-you. Why say thank you to the help? He should be thankful to even have a job, right?

  Instead, Cartwright buttons the blazer to his ten-thousand-dollar Desmond Merrion suit. Putting his weight on his walking cane, he proceeds up the stairs to the glass, double-door entrance to the building. At age seventy-eight, he’s not in the best of health. He takes each step carefully.

  Even in his current health condition, Cartwright is still pompous and arrogant. Some would say it’s typical behavior of a billionaire. Born with the proverbial silver spoon. He’s learning the hard way, though, that money can’t buy you everything. Nothing that money can do about his failing health.

  His rheumatoid arthritis has slowed him over the years. Every step is painful and continues to worsen. But there is something inside the medical center
that could be worth all the money in the world.

  Something priceless.

  Something he and others are willing to kill to protect.

  The security guard Bernard Chance sees the limousine pull up and knows his duty. Anyone showing up in a limousine gets special treatment. They have carte blanche. Chance hates having his evening ritual interrupted—a ham-and-turkey sandwich on rye and back-to-back episodes of The Andy Griffith Show.

  He opens the door and waits as Cartwright takes his time. He’s used to Cartwright taking forever to get up the stairs. Every time he comes to the medical center, he wants to tell Cartwright to hurry the hell up. Of course, that would mean a one-way ticket to the unemployment line.

  Sweating and nearly out of breath, Cartwright finally makes it up to the entrance.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cartwright.”

  No answer. Cartwright just throws up his hand as part hello and part get-out-of-my-way. Chance is used to Cartwright’s rudeness. Even though he’s used to it, he still gets the overwhelming urge to slap him and the rest of the uppity billionaires who show up from time to time. Not a concern. Chance did what he was paid to do. He watches Cartwright walk to the elevators before he takes his seat. He’s already missed ten minutes of one of his favorite episodes.

  CHAPTER 95

  CARTWRIGHT WAITS IMPATIENTLY for the elevator. It’s only been seconds since he pushed the button to go down, but he has little patience for such things. He’s privileged. He’s not supposed to wait.

  The elevator finally arrives. Cartwright enters and puts the palm of his right hand to a glass control panel. A scanner reads his hand from top to bottom.

  “Access Granted. Welcome, Mr. Cartwright,” says the feminine automated voice, giving him access to the underground top-secret levels of the building. Access that only the privileged have. It’s all about access.

  The elevator proceeds down to the sublevels of the building where the real work is performed. The area that’s completely unknown to the public. Everyone who works at Infinity knows about the lower levels, but very few have the access to go down there.

  The conspiracy theorists are right about Infinity Genetic Research Center.

  Cartwright steps off the elevator at the lowest level at the end of a corridor, nearly a thousand feet below ground. There is very little activity this time of night, but there are those who are tasked with working on a special project around the clock.

  The walls in the lower levels are plain white, no pictures or decorations of any kind. Just plain white walls. There are prison cells on each side of the corridor that run the length of the corridor. Each cell is empty, but if all goes as planned, they won’t be empty for long.

  Cartwright makes his way down the corridor to the laboratory. The sound of his cane hitting the floor echoes throughout the corridor as he slowly, cautiously makes his way to his destination.

  CHAPTER 96

  DR. JEREMIAH NICHOLS is considered an outcast in the medical community. He’s been called brilliant at times, but his unorthodox and often unethical and immoral approaches to medical treatments has left him with a tarnished reputation.

  He’s been called Dr. Mengele by some of his peers, Dr. Frankenstein by others. All the great ones were criticized. Nichols believes it comes with the territory, comes with being a genius.

  He hears the ding of the elevator door opening and sees Cartwright exit. Nichols is always nervous when Cartwright shows up unexpectedly. Unexpected usually means there’s a problem.

  Nichols has been a doctor for over thirty years, specializing in genetic research. At age seventy-one, he expected to be retired by now. Spending his days on the golf course, traveling the world with his wife.

  But when Cartwright approached him with an unusual offer, he couldn’t refuse. An offer to change the world as we know it. An offer of the highest secrecy. Nichols considers it the opportunity of a lifetime. It was a no-brainer for him to accept. The ten million dollars he is being paid helped also.

  The long hours are starting to take their toll on him, though. It’s taking a toll on his marriage also. The deal he made with his wife, Barbara, was to retire and see the world. When he came home and told her about the proverbial offer he couldn’t refuse, she reminded him of his promise.

  After several days of discussion, she reluctantly went along with it. She knows how much medical research means to him. But the promise has been broken.

  Every year it’s the same excuse: we’re close to a breakthrough.

  Every year, they’re close to a breakthrough. Five years worth of near breakthroughs is long enough.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cartwright. We weren’t expecting you.”

  “No, I suppose you weren’t,” Cartwright sarcastically replies. “Are we on schedule?”

  “Yes, Mr. Cartwright. This one looks promising. Unlike the other three, he is responding very well to the treatment. There are several more tests I would like to run before I go into stage two of the project.”

  “Run all the tests you need to, Doctor. We are paying you quite handsomely. I expect perfection. No setbacks. What have you done with the others?”

  “The bodies were disposed of as you instructed.”

  Cartwright doesn’t reply. No pat on the back. No well done. Too much can go wrong to bother with celebrations. Too much has gone wrong already. They still have a long way to go.

  Cartwright steps forward and stares through the window of an operating room where two doctors review medical charts and computer display screens. The charts and data are information on the man on the operating table.

  The young man appears to be in his upper twenties. Wearing only a pair of boxers, he has several monitoring devices hooked to him.

  Cartwright stares into the room with the anticipation of a child staring at presents under a Christmas tree. The future of mankind is in that room. The evolution of the human race. His salvation.

  “We must step up our deadline,” Cartwright orders.

  “Step up the deadline, sir?”

  “Yes. The agents have failed to kill the police officer and his friends. This is presenting a bigger problem than we had anticipated.”

  “Mr. Cartwright, sir. With all due respect, this is very delicate work. Speeding things up increases the risk of—”

  “Dr. Nichols, I represent a consortium that is very interested in this project. More interested than you can possibly imagine. We work very hard to keep it a secret even from the highest government agencies. We are paying you a small fortune. For that, I expect you to remain flexible. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Cartwright.”

  Cartwright walks away without another word.

  CHAPTER 97

  MR. CARTWRIGHT ENTERS the foyer of his twelve-bedroom mansion. A huge chandelier hangs overhead and reflects off the Italian white marble floor. He is instantly greeted by his butler, Bernard. Bernard has been working for Mr. Cartwright for nearly twenty years. Cartwright has more trust in him than he does for most people.

  Bernard is content in his role as servant. Over the years, he has come to know Cartwright. More importantly, he understands him. Cartwright is cantankerous, but he understands why. Most people don’t. Most people don’t know that he wasn’t always that way.

  “Hello, sir. May I take your coat?” Bernard asks.

  “Thank you.”

  “Shall I make you some tea? Earl Grey, perhaps?”

  “Not tonight, Bernard. Thank you.”

  “Very good sir. Have a good evening.”

  After nearly twenty years of service to Cartwright, Bernard knows when his services are not needed. He retreats to his room to make a cup of hot tea for himself before turning in.

  Cartwright struggles to make his way to what used to be his study. It has since been converted to a two-person bedroom, of sorts. Cartwright has abandoned the upstairs long ago. In his feeble condition, there is no way he can constantly go up and down those stairs. And he’s too proud to get a chair lift for
the stairs. He opens the double doors to the room and, as usual, is saddened by the first sight that greets him.

  His wife, Martha, has been in a vegetative state since she had the stroke nearly three years ago. It breaks his heart to see her lying motionless in her hospital bed.

  Everyone that knows about his involvement in the project believes the research is for him, to cure his ailments.

  They’re wrong. It’s not for him. It was never for him.

  All of his work is for his beloved Martha. He will do anything to get her back. Even kill two police officers and a doctor who threaten to expose their plans.

  To hell with the law, with morals and ethics. To hell with humanity. He knows there is hope; hope that the vaccine will cure him and her. Hope that his marriage, his life will be revitalized.

  The others in his consortium are seeing the billions of dollars in profits. Money isn’t everything. Cartwright would gladly give up his billions in exchange for a nice long walk in the park with Martha.

  “I’m home, Martha,” he says as he gently caresses her head. “We’re close. We’re very close to finding a cure. A cure for us both.”

  Cartwright adjusts the breathing tube in her mouth and checks the monitors that she’s attached to, to make sure all is normal. His doctor told him what to look for. He had to. Cartwright refused to admit her into the hospital, refused to have her away from his side.

  “Hang on, Martha,” he says as tears start running down his cheeks. “Please don’t leave me.”

  He gives her a kiss on the forehead and caresses her cheek. She can’t hear him; she can’t feel his touch. Cartwright has never been one to throw in the towel. The experiment is a long shot, but it’s still a chance. It’s the only chance.