by Byrd, Daniel
Hamilton nodded. It was covered briefly in chemistry, but he'd had a little practice making solutions while he was working in Seattle. Still, he found himself reading the labels closely as he prepared. Hayter was faster than him, which prompted the next question from Hamilton.
“You've done this before?”
“I’ve worked as a mortician,” Hayter explained as he readied a hypodermic needle, “and basic anatomy and chemistry cover the materials.”
“Well I would tell you not to get in my way,” Hamilton told him, “but you seem capable of performing this at least.”
“I'm insulted, doctor. I’m here to prep the bodies for the work people like you do to turn them into war machines.”
Hamilton considered filling the guy with the mixture instead of the body.
Behave. He doesn’t know you hate being compared to the rest of the white coats.
“So you weren't in charge before I came?” Hamilton asked.
“Nope. That's der Nekromant.” Hamilton rolled his eyes as he mixed the solution of methanol and phenol with what he already had. Hayter grabbed his arm and shook to get his attention. “Use that dye too.”
“Dye?”
Hayter nodded, as if speaking to a slow student. “It’s to keep the skin-tone fair.”
This doesn’t make any fucking sense.
Hamilton agreed with himself as he filled the metal container with his mixture. He readied the trocar on the end of the tubing and inserted it into the body between the torn bandages. The body’s head tilted up a bit and addressed him.
“Thank you, Dr. Hamilton,” the man croaked. Hamilton tried not to meet the gaze of Ruthven split open before him as he continued to pump his chest full of embalming fluids.
***
Joel Blythe was forced into the chair before the cuffs were slapped on. He smirked at the guy on his left who was busy nursing a swelling eye. The assholes didn't expect him to fight back. The sad part was he angry he failed to gouge it out. They'd made the last few days for him a living hell, and he wasn't about to show any mercy or even give them the idea that he'd give up easily. The two guards left him alone in the room, where Joel sat in silence and examined the restraints. Unfortunately, they were rather new. He didn’t see any means of getting out.
The door opened back up not even a minute later, and in stepped a large man who was very familiar to him. The sword sheaths bounced against his legs with every step. He'd last seen him earlier beating the shit out of the new guy. Joel found himself hoping he wasn't in for the same treatment. He probably couldn’t have taken him even unrestrained, but just sitting stuck in the chair was enough to make Joel actually swallow his fury and hope for a simple interrogation. He’d never been through it before, but he knew the basic drill. Name, date of birth, and rank were the only things he was going to give to this guy.
“Sorry to drag you out of the cell, but I want Nagase to be alone with his thoughts for a while. He has a lot of guilt to sift through.” The big guy sat down on the opposite side of the table with a groan as he settled himself in. “You'd understand if you were in his place.”
Joel’s eyes found his own reflection on the metallic tabletop. This man had no idea what guilt was.
“So, you're the one who gave my people a lot of trouble up in London.” Joel was certain he was going to get beaten within an inch of his life. “Don't mistake that for anger. I'm thoroughly impressed. That’s why I would like to make a…proposition.”
Joel spat in his direction. “You must think I'm mad to take any offers from you.”
The big guy let out a chuckle as he leaned across the table towards Joel. Joel would’ve spit right in his face this time, but he remembered the other guy’s smashed-in mouth and decided against that. “Let me be more formal in my job offer. I'm Jackson Lewis, and I command the forces you beat the hell out of. You've got a lot of potential, and judging from the fact that you managed to kill some of my men, let alone survive the outbreak in Gravesend, I'm willing to bet you've got combat experience.”
Joel didn't feel the least bit sorry for what he did. If anything, he'd have loved to have killed more. Lewis gave him a curious look.
“Mind if I ask?”
“Joel Blythe. August-”
“No, no,” Lewis cut him off, “not that. I was going to ask about what the hell you’d been through. I see it in your face. Hell, your eyes. A lot of pain. It has to be. Am I right?” Joel didn't answer him, but Lewis was confident in his analysis of the man. “I’ve dealt with a lot of people like you. You're strong. Not just on the outside. Otherwise you wouldn't be fighting everyone who puts their hands on you.”
Joel tried his hardest to look more intimidating than he could in his restraints. Lewis didn’t seem to really care, as he just kept on talking. God, Joel wished he’d shut up.
“These men and women who work for me are from all over. Former soldiers from wars that span the globe. They wanted to make a difference, so they joined up with an organization called Tiamat Unbound. Heard of it?”
“Piss off.” Joel had heard of it. It was full of crooks and the kind of people that gave proper soldiers a bad name. After the war in the Middle East started they managed to get in every kind of trouble imaginable. That, and their terror attack in the U.S. a year ago didn't go unnoticed by the world. They’d stuck a bomb in the subway tunnel near the Stock Exchange, and the only reason it didn’t go south from there was some other crazed mercenary took them on. It was the final nail in the coffin for the organization.
Lewis let out a hearty laugh. “What’re you holding onto this hate for? Loyalty? Your army is probably in taters by now. You could still have a purpose here. It would be a shame to waste your skills and hand you over to the lab for you to be turned into a fucking cadaver.”
Joel growled and began tugging hard at his restraints, skin burning as it was pulled tight. He roared and cried out, but no one was going to help him here.
“Calm down. I'm not planning on that. I'm being generous by even allowing you to live, so the least you can do is hear me out.”
Joel jerked his chains again. “Why the hell do you care? My life is over. Just go ahead and kill me if you insist on babbling.”
Lewis leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head with a dramatic sigh. “I'm a man who has seen the same world you have. War has torn families apart, and made it hard for those who have experienced it to return home. No one who has suffered the hardships of seeing their fellow brothers and sisters in arms die wants to live in it. You don't anymore, do you?”
“Not after you bastards took my son! You took all I had left!”
Lewis revealed a bottle of water and unscrewed the cap. Joel turned his head away when it was offered up to his mouth.
“Drink up. Come on, it's not poisoned or anything.” He took a sip himself. “See?”
Joel shot him an inquisitive look before accepting it. The bottle was drained in a matter of seconds.
“Now, tell me what happened.” Joel . “There's some guilt in there. I’m a leader. I have to notice every little detail of my people, and you're no different than a lot of them.” Lewis leaned in closer. “I can read you like an open book.”
“You savages released the undead into the city. My son is dead because of what you did.”
Lewis scratched the back of his head as he looked down at the table. “Technically that was the work of someone else. Like I said, I just command the militia. If what you say is true, then you'll tell me about what's bothering you. I'm an understanding person. If that wasn't the case I would've had you executed already. So, talk to me.”
“Fuck you!” Joel barked.
Lewis shrugged his shoulders in defeat. “Not even a little?”
Joel considered the past few days and all of the shit he'd been through. Then it hit him. “Where's the woman I was with?”
“She's safe. Don't worry about her right now. I'm more concerned with you.”
Joel didn't know if h
e could trust this guy’s word, and he wasn't exactly inclined to. “And I'm concerned with murdering everyone here responsible for those monsters.”
Lewis smirked. “Then who would be the monster? Trust me, I've been called worse. You have two choices here, Mr. Joel…what was the last name again?”
“Piss off.”
“Well Mr. Piss Off. I'm assuming that's French? Anyhow, I'm not going to have a threat to my people stay here among us.” Lewis stood up and made his way behind Joel. Joel knew his death was near. So be it. He didn't want to exist in this world any longer.
“No,” Lewis spoke, “not yet. I think I have a better idea. I'll run it by der Nekromant, and then they will decide.”
They? Joel didn't even know anymore. He just wanted to kill everyone here, and these bindings were the only thing stopping that. Lewis came back to his front and leaned down.
“If you won't join us, then you can at least serve a purpose for the lab coats. Your fate isn't mine to decide. I truly only care about one man in this place, and you're not him.”
Lewis left Joel sitting alone and closed the door behind him. It didn't take long for three guards to come and escort Joel back to the passage with the holding cells. He was tossed into one a few doors down from the previous, alone and angry. That bastard didn't know anything. Joel wouldn't let him win.
“Mr. Nagase!” one of the guards shouted across the way. “Mr. Lewis has something special in mind for you!”
It was coming from the direction of his old cell he shared with the other guy. The guards taunted the inhabitant for another minute before they left him be. Joel felt sorry for the guy, but he didn't feel a damn bit of remorse for the people holding them here. He'd have his revenge, one way or the other.
***
Once Lewis was alone outside of the room, he detached his radio from his vest and keyed it. “Any luck?”
“Affirmative,” the woman’s voice responded. “We have eyes on the target. It’s just as intel said. It's going to be tricky, but it shouldn't be too much of a problem.”
Lewis smiled. “Just remember, stealth is the key to this operation. Maintain radio silence until your mission is complete. I have the utmost confidence in all of you. What you're doing is vital to everything. I have no doubt that you're all capable. Report once you've gotten possession.”
“Thank you, Abzu. Commencing Operation Redcrosse.”
Lewis smirked. “Cute name.”
“Shut up. Dragon’s Fang, out.”
Lewis reattached the radio and walked with pride. He knew his people could handle it. All he had to do was wait.
Chapter Twenty-One - Regroup
Night had fallen, but Davenport had still gotten a decent look at the remnants of the city before they were called back to base. The place was swamped with German forces sifting for survivors in the rubble, and there was nothing more for the American fighters to do there. The trip home was more solemn, and even Davenport managed to keep his mouth shut. That's why the radio transmission nearly scared the crap out of him.
“Loudmouth?”
It was Bartlett. Davenport sighed and kept quiet.
“Davenport?”
“What, Peacemaker?”
“You're quiet.”
“And?”
“I'm just worried.”
“Worry about yourself. I'm just eager to dish out some of the destruction rather than watch it be brought to others.”
“There's the Loudmouth I know.”
“Bartlett, let me fly in peace, all right?”
“Hey, Loudmouth,” McCall chimed in, “you going to be okay?”
“Yeah. Would you people all be happier if I just started yapping about how my ass hurts in this seat?”
McCall laughed. “No thank you, Davenport. We just missed the sound of your voice.”
“Well here it is, so enjoy and cherish, because we’ll be landing soon enough. Tower, are we clear?”
“Affirmative. Your debriefing will follow the landing process. Standby once you're on the ground.”
***
Houseman was running on coffee alone, and he was pretty sure that it was pumping through his veins now. He swore he could actually feel stomach ulcers starting to form. Hampton was busy elsewhere, but the other officers of different countries and ideas were all working together in this one room to isolate the location of the terrorists. Houseman folded the letter and tucked it into his coat, making note to talk to his major later. Apparently, the rebuilding in the U.S. was hitting more snags than anticipated. B83s could only do so much, and after Megacorpse there was still a considerable amount of the undead walking around the country. Civil unrest was still an issue, with more and more questions and riots pending by the day. Only time would tell if the destabilizing panic would encroach upon the well-being of the havens.
All of the monitors were currently displaying different video feeds of drones patrolling areas miles away from the base, with thermal vision active and green and black plastering the screens. Houseman was fine with letting these men do their jobs with their own superiors commanding them, but it was taking a lot not to demand answers as to how they hadn't turned up any evidence of the perpetrators of the incidences in Berlin and Oranienburg. Just the thought alone forced his blood pressure higher, so he stepped out into the hall to take a few deep breaths and find something else to occupy his mind. It wasn't that he didn't trust the aid from other nations, but he felt the plans they had from Project Preservation were certainly better than many of the measures he had seen undertaken by most of Europe. Then again, he had to remember that most of the U.S. was currently either uninhabitable, or inhabited by deadmen.
Houseman went for a walk and tossed the paper coffee cup into a nearby trash can, but not before crushing it a little harder than necessary. A lot of things weren't really fair in the world, but why had Loft chosen him to be in charge of the U.S. Army? He wasn't even much good from this particular base, minus throwing his rank around. Even then, he'd only be pissing others off. The only reason Loft sent him here was because of Hamilton, and even that seemed like something the CIA should have taken care of even beyond the drop off. Then again most of the agency not present were busy working back in Philadelphia, but they had nothing on their end to show. It was a scramble to the end of the world, and no one was winning.
“General Houseman!”
What now? Houseman stopped, shoulders drooping as he turned to face the man who had likely come to collect him and disperse him back into the fire.
“Sir, we've just received a message.”
“Let me guess,” Houseman rolled his eyes, “from the very people we’re trying to find?”
The lieutenant gave him a grave nod, and Houseman sighed as he trotted off back to the command room. Inside, the monitors were all displaying the same wave file playing, but Houseman had missed the beginning. The voice was distorted like before, but there was a slight change in the pitch. It didn't seem to be the same messenger.
“You were asked to clear the area of any hostile threats, yet I have plenty of intel that says two American Soldiers were present at the time of the exchange, among other interlopers. Now, I know what was asked of you must have been difficult, but you must bear in mind that agreements are agreements, and to break them is to tear a massive hole in relations. That brings me to my next topic: consequences. Rest assured that there will be retaliation for the transgression. Consider this an official declaration of war. May it be remembered in the texts of history. That is, assuming there’s anyone left to recount the events.
Houseman’s stomach knotted. The Air Force’s General Doe was absent, busy communing with other officers with the debriefing of the pilots sent to patrol the ruins of Oranienburg, while the ground forces surveyed the damage and searched for survivors. It would be a bit before he could discuss this dreadful development with him, but he had to contact Loft now.
“Any identity on the voice?”
“Working on that, sir!” a man belo
w responded. “The speaker did call himself der Nekromant!”
“I want that voice distortion undone!” Houseman barked. “I want available forces to step up security on the perimeter! We don’t have any ground operations yet, so get the task force mobilized on defense!”
“What's going on?”
A man had appeared on Houseman’s left in the midst of the conundrum. General Doe was quiet when he wanted to be. He was a dedicated officer of the Air Force, but carried an odd quirk that probably drew a lot of hell in his early career; the poor bastard tended to stutter when his excitement and stress mounted up. Houseman had been warned that bringing that up was the swiftest way to get on his bad side. He was skinnier than Houseman by quite a few pounds, but how he carried himself still displayed his commanding position.
“I'd recommend stepping up flight paths around the base,” Houseman suggested.
“I just spoke with the squadrons that came back. They're on standby now.”
“We may have to put the base on lockdown. We've received another message from-”
“I’ve gotten rid of the audio editing!”
Houseman and Doe directed their attention to an analyst who had just removed headphones and was working to get the file playing again. The voice was much different from the being who spoke to them back in Seattle.
“Fucking bullshit,” Doe muttered. After a rather dramatic groan, he informed Houseman of his plans to combat the threat. “I’ll have helicopters ready to take off and search the perimeter for any signs of danger. We need to get this back to the Chiefs of Staff.”
“I’ll be contacting President Loft soon. I’ll be sure to relay everything to him.”
“I miss the days when our problem was just a bunch of radical extremists in the Middle East,” Doe griped, “and now we have horror movie monsters ready to eat us like a fucking buffet.”
“I don't like this,” Houseman uttered, thoughts drifting back to the events three months prior, “Austin fell because a massive population was enclosed. How many people are here?”