The Broken Ones (Book 3): The Broken City

by Jobe, David

  “Yer gonna have to be more specific, darlin’.” His smile stretched across his pale face. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Females mostly.” He took another step closer.

  “He worked at the CDC. Had some samples I think you needed.” Her eyes darted to the doorway, willing someone else to show up. Lanton had said he would send techs down to have a look.

  “Oh yes. Tall, lanky fellow. Had the misfortune of being a late worker. But I didn’t kill him. He killed himself.” He laughed like he was sharing an inside joke with her. “Guess the late hours got to him.” Another step.

  Carrie Anne hissed at him, followed by a string of Portuguese curse words that made no sense together.

  He laughed and moved in closer. Now he was only about a foot away from her. “You’ve got some fire in y-” His words cut short as his body flew across the room. He slammed like a rag doll into one of the doors to the vaults, denting it enough that it broke one of the hinges. There he slid down to the floor, back against the vaults with his legs splayed out before him. In the center of his chest, a baseball-sized hole smoked, the smell of roasted flesh overriding the man’s cologne bath. He looked down at the gaping wound, his lips moving but no words coming out. As he looked back up, his glasses remained at the tip of his nose, exposing eyes that resembled that of an animal. Green and grey, with vertical pupils that reminded Carrie Anne of a reptile of some sort.

  Staring into his eyes, she found that the colors seemed to spin in a dizzying pattern. Carrie Anne found herself drifting backward in her mind. Though she could register that the arm she had stolen from Miss Fire was now stretched out before her, the palm giving off a small wisp of white smoke, it felt like she was watching it all happen through a television screen. It was as if someone had made her a backseat passenger in her own mind. She tried to tell her arm to move. Her head. Her legs. Anything. But nothing responded. She stood there, still as a statue, staring into the man’s eyes.

  For a good long while they stayed like that, locked in each other’s gaze. Then the man gave a wet cough, spilling blood out of his mouth onto the sugar skull t-shirt. “Bitch.” The word came out in a bloody gurgle. Then his head dropped, and Carrie Anne felt control return to her body.

  Carrie Anne stood there, silent and shaking. Tears rolled down her face as she hugged herself. She did nothing to impede them this time, nor did she care about the ruination of her clothes. Looking down at herself, she could see the front of her lab coat covered in blood and ash. She raised a shaking hand to look at it. Her palm remained unblemished, though the backside of her hand had a fine mist of blood covering it. Blowback from the blast. “Thank you, Miss Givens.” She gave a shudder and looked over at the man.

  He still lay against the vaults, blood pooling around him. His head remained bowed, the sunglasses hanging precariously on the edge of his long nose.

  She leaned against one of the autopsy tables, her hand resting on the cool metal. Working on getting her breathing back in order, she started to try and assess the situation. Before, she had hoped someone would come, now she would need them not to. How would she explain a corpse with a wound like the one Miss Fire had been known to give out? Her eyes lingered back to the man. Was she sure he was a corpse? She growled and scooped up a scalpel, and she marched across the room. “My people worship Death.” She was speaking through clenched teeth. “The Isle of La Morte is nothing to be mocked.” She stabbed the man in the gut. Then lower. She rose up again to stab him in the chest.

  She kept stabbing until she was drawing ragged breaths.

  Throwing a quick glance at the door, afraid she might find some shocked forensic tech standing there, she was relieved to find she was still alone. “Have to get a hold of yourself.”

  She rose, setting aside the bloody scalpel. She knew the first thing she had to do was get the body on the table. No one would question a body if it was where they expected a body to be. First, she reached down and closed the man’s eyes without looking directly at them. “We will get to the bottom of that later.” She tossed the sunglasses on the floor and gave them a violent stomp.

  It took some struggling, but she managed to get the body on the table, though now she was covered in far more blood that she was comfortable with. Well, it was more whose blood than the amount. It wasn’t the first time she found herself covered in blood. Looking around, she started to take stock of the mess. She had no way to fix the broken drawer door, but she could claim that was there from the body thieves. The blood now coating the floor would be a different story. She went and got a mop and bucket, throwing the bloody lab coat into the bin for contaminated clothing. The cleaning crew would just incinerate it like they did all the rest. It wouldn’t be the first time they got a bloody lab coat from her. Hell, there was another one already in the bin from her normal work day.

  She mopped until the stench of bleach was more powerful than the odor of the dead man. The floors shone with renewed life. That done, she patted down the man, pulling a cell phone from his jeans pocket. Though smeared with blood, it appeared undamaged. Carrie Anne had no doubt that this man had just been someone’s lackey. He hadn’t been smart enough to be behind this kind of thing. It was probably his power that had made him a field agent. She cleaned off the phone and put it in her purse. That done, she locked the door to her office and hit the shower installed in the back corner.

  She put on a fresh set of clothes, though nothing as nice as what she had been wearing. Her stipend from the Isle had been impressive, but she respected that it needed careful moderation. She used her salary from the state to afford her tastes in clothes, and that did not allow for many throwaway niceties.

  Unlocking the door to her office, she stepped out and found a young man in a police uniform standing in the doorway. He looked at the body on the table and then to her. “Hello, Mrs. La Morte. I am Brandon from forensics. I understand that you had a…” He seemed to consider it. “A burglary?”

  She let out a breath that she didn’t realize she had been holding and gave a small laugh. “Bodysnatchers.”

  Brandon smiled and nodded. “I hear we have invasions of those every now and again. Are you okay if I start dusting for fingerprints?”

  She smiled what she hoped was a disarming smile. “Actually, I could use your help if you have a moment. We got another corpse in after the theft, and I want to get him over to the more secure labs downtown. Could you help me get this guy on a gurney?”

  “Of course.” He answered without hesitation. “Though the rumor is that the thieves broke in and stole that gun from there, so I am not sure how secure it is.”

  “They did?” That might be a clue as to who was doing this. It felt like a clue, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. “Well, I already told the office I would, so I have to keep my word.”

  Brandon nodded. “We are nothing without our word.” He grabbed a gurney from the corner and rolled it next to the table. He lifted the sheet covering the fake FBI man before Carrie Anne could object. “Good Lord in Heaven, what happened to this guy?”

  “He went looking for trouble.” She watched Brandon’s face, looking for any indication that he might be suspicious.

  “Guess he found more than he bargained for.” He shrugged and helped slide the body over to the gurney.

  “That he did.”

  “You going to be okay getting this guy to a bus? I could walk with you if you like.” His eyes drifted to the ring on her finger. A ring she had bought for herself, but that Eric had bought a wrap for as a fifth-anniversary gift.

  Her smile slipped, and her eyes narrowed. “I can handle myself, thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Reaching an Understanding

  Brian stood before the mirror, staring at the new eye that stared back at him. Though the gray was a different color than his original, he found himself liking the difference. Behind him, the door slid open with the telltale noise, and Dr. Patton walked in. “Good morning, Doctor. It is morning, right?”

 
Dr. Patton nodded, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “How is the new eye feeling?”

  “It’s not robotic, is it?”

  Dr. Patton shook his head. “No. We were able to find a suitable donor at the last minute and decided to go with that. If you find you do not like it, or for some reason your body rejects it, then we will put in the robotic one.”

  Brian gave a soft chuckle. “You wanted to test to see if my healing ability would allow me to take on a new eye.”

  “No. Transplants are a thing of modern times already. Your body accepting the eye will very likely have nothing to do with your abilities. Though, that being said, there is some interest in if your eye would heal if damaged but not removed like the last.” He moved to stand behind Brian. “I can see the concern on your face. I assure you, we will not be shooting you in the eye, or even attempting to damage it. At least not without your authorization. It’s a minor question where bigger ones have presented themselves. Our wisest course of action would be to focus on the bigger picture items. If at some time you decide that you want your cybernetic eye, then when we put you under we will do a damage test before we proceed. You do not need to be awake when the damage is done, or the test data collected. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

  “Um, yeah. I guess so. Though it does sound a little scary.” He turned to face Dr. Patton. “What is the first test you want to do on me?”

  Dr. Patton raised his wrist before him. The sleek black gauntlet that took up his entire forearm glowed with digital readouts that Brian couldn’t quite make out. The whole surface of the thing looked like a smartwatch’s screen. “I know you have signed on to be a member of the team, but before we finalize that, I want to show you a few things. I’ll not have you entering this flying blind if you’ll pardon the expression. Follow me.” He turned and began to walk away so quickly that Brian had to jog to catch up.

  Once outside his room, Brian marveled at the layout of the place. Beyond his domicile white hallways with lights along the edges spread out in various directions. It felt like he was walking inside the inner workings of a spaceship. As they walked by a closed door, the readout on the plaque next to it gave scrolling details in a language Brian couldn’t understand. The words floated out above the black surface about an inch away, glowing a soft blue. “That is cool.”

  Dr. Patton appeared not to hear him as they moved at a brisk pace down a series of hallways. After enough twists and turns to leave Brian disorientated, they stopped before another door. Dr. Patton pressed some of the floating words above the black plate, and the door slid open.

  Inside they were greeted by two people in lab coats sitting in front of a bank of machines. Above he could see a window into a room much like his. Brian gave a soft chuckle as he now confirmed that the mirror in his own room was a two-way mirror. Beyond the window, he could see a man lying half on half off a bed. Red haloed the man’s head and then left a trail down to the floor. In the hand opposite the blood, the man had a gun. “Did. Did that man kill himself?”

  Dr. Patton stood with his hands behind his back again, watching the room beyond. “Mr. Lockhart. I would like you to meet Mr. Tarot. Mr. Tarot is our longest standing guest at this facility. We believe him to be one of the first people affected by the outbreak of the Djinn Virus. Unfortunately, the negative effects proved too much for Mr. Tarot and not long after, he hung himself in his garage. It is the theory of the people that found him that Mr. Tarot had been hanging in that garage for the better part of a month.” He turned his gaze to look at Brian. “Mr. Tarot is like you, in that it appears he cannot die. What that means is Mr. Tarot was dead for three days, and then returned. I believe that each time he returned, he was immediately killed again by his own actions. He went through this vicious cycle until someone found him and cut him down. He woke up a day later in a morgue freezer, much to the horror of the attending coroner. It is my belief that this torturous cycle may have permanently damaged Mr. Tarot’s psyche. Ever since, he has been a ward of our facility, unable or unwilling to assist in his own rehabilitation and release.”

  “That’s horrible.” Brian stared at the dead man.

  “No. That is the consequence of an irrational mind acting without forethought. Though Mr. Tarot has the affliction, it is his weakness to the suicidal-tendency side effect that has put him here. The reason I brought you here is to see where the ideation of a self-inflicted end will likely lead. If you go down this road, I have no doubt you’ll never leave these halls, no matter how much I try to bring you back from the brink.” He turned back to gaze through the window. “Now, watch and observe, but remain silent until I say otherwise.”

  Brian opened his mouth but stopped. Closing it, he nodded and stood off to the side, waiting to see what happened but remaining out of the way. They stood in silence for what he guessed to be about ten minutes.

  Mr. Tarot stirred. First a twitch of an arm. Then a leg spasmed. Finally, the man shot upright, screaming loud enough to hurt Brian’s ears. Mr. Tarot stumbled across the open expanse of the room, his face a picture of fear and confusion. After a few moments of darting glances all around him, he fell to his knees and began to sob.

  Dr. Patton stepped forward, clicking a button on the array before him. “Welcome back, Mr. Tarot. Do you know where you are?”

  Mr. Tarot nodded, still sobbing.

  “Mr. Tarot. Can you tell me what you saw on the other side?” Dr. Patton clicked a few things on a nearby panel, and an overlay appeared over Mr. Tarot. Through it, Brian could see the man’s heart beating away. The readouts contained a wealth of information, though the unknown language made it confusing for Brian to make heads or tails of it.

  Mr. Tarot rose, taking his time to stand before the mirror. “There’s nothing on the other side.” Haunted eyes stared through the window at them.

  “Vitals show that he is lying.” One of the techs pointed at something on the overlay that made no sense to Brian.

  Dr. Patton nodded. He pressed the communication button again. “I know your only desire now is to die and stay dead Mr. Tarot. If you tell me what you saw on the other side, I believe I might be able to assist you in that regard.”

  Mr. Tarot stood there for a long while, just staring at what Brian could only guess was his reflection. Brian found himself wondering if the man was contemplating the Doctor’s offer, or just staring at himself.

  “Heart rate’s elevated,” the tech announced.

  “Think over what I am offering you. We can give each other answers, Mr. Tarot. Answers that we both want.” Dr. Patton scrolled through some data on the overlay, changing some readouts to look at more indecipherable words.

  Mr. Tarot turned and walked to a table that had been set up on the far side of the room. There he appeared to consider and then select something. He turned and walked back to face the mirror. He raised his chin in what looked like a gesture of defiance. Then in a slow and deliberate move, he slashed his own throat with a box cutter. Blood sprayed the mirror coating it in a red film that distorted the man beyond, leaving the overlay still crisp. For a moment the man stood upright, his blood spurting out in sickening waves. Brian imagined he could see the heart overlay start to spasm, probably no longer getting as much blood back as it was used to. Then the man dropped out of view onto the floor just beyond the window.

  Dr. Patton shook his head. “That was unfortunate, but not unexpected.” He turned to regard Brian. “You may speak.”

  Brian once again opened his mouth but remained silent, words escaping him. After a few moments, he managed to ask. “Are you just going to leave him there?”

  “When we are sure that Mr. Tarot is truly dead, techs will go in and clean off the window. The rest will be left for Mr. Tarot to clean up when he returns. I can tell by your face that you disagree with that. Mr. Lockhart, let me be clear. I’m not here to coddle you or Mr. Tarot. My deal was reasonable, and he refused. This is neither a daycare or the Ritz Carlton. You go along to get along. Am I clear?”


  Brian nodded, staring at the blood drying on the window. He resolved himself then and there that he would not be attempting to end his life. Not now, and definitely not here. “I think we understand each other clearly.”

  “I thought you a man of intellect, Mr. Lockhart. I’m glad to find I was not mistaken. But, this only one of two lessons for you today. Please, Follow me.” He swept past Brian out into the hallway again.

  Brian followed in a daze, no longer paying attention to the surroundings as they passed. Mr. Tarot’s suicide played over and over in his mind. He remembered getting on a wide elevator like those in hospitals and then descending for a time. When the doors opened, he found himself marching down a series of hallways that were not the pristine white. Instead, they were a clean yet damp concrete that made Brian wonder if he was being taken to a boiler room to meet a man with knives for fingers.

  A door slid open, and Brian found himself standing in a room dark room illuminated by a single light bulb in the center. Under it sat a man tied to a metal chair, hunched over but visibly breathing.